Grade/
Unit
Text Title
Author/Source
Notes
Page
Numbers
12.1*
The Canterbury Tales
“Prologue”
Geoffrey Chaucer
Remaining
selections in Holt
Text Book
--
12.1
“The Clothier’s Delight”
The Life Death and Afterlife of Geoffrey Chaucer
“The Pardoner’s Tale and the Canterbury Tales as a
Death Warrant”
“The Canterbury Tales: Chaucer’s Respectful Critique
of Church Officials and Their Abuse of Power”
Anonymous
3–5
Robin Wharton
6–7
Lauren Day
8 – 18
12.1
Guilds in the Middle Ages
Georges Renard
12.1
“Chaucer”
Jane Eyre
Passage from Chapter 7
The Hero with a Thousand Faces
Excerpt and Part I: “The Adventure of the Hero”
Lee Patterson
19 – 25
Charlotte Bronte
26 – 31
Joseph Campbell
32 – 33
12.1
12.1
12.1
12.2
12.2*
12.2*
12.2
12.2
12.2
Beowulf
Chapters 19-25, and 29-41
Le Morte d’Arthur
Book 1, Chapters I – VII, Book III, Chapter I, Book
XI, Chapters I-II, and Book XVIII, Chapters I-II
The Once and Future King
Chapters 5, 8, 13, and 18
The Perfect Storm
“Into the Abyss”
Into Thin Air
Chapters 1 and 15
Sir Thomas Mallory
T.H. White
Sebastian Junger
John Krakauer
Not Included
Excessive Length
--
Remaining
selections in Holt
Text Book
--
Not Included
--
Copyright Issues
Not Included
No Link
Not Include
No Link
Not Included
Copyright Issues
Not Included
Excessive Length
Not Included
----
12.2
“Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics”
J.R.R. Tolkien
12.3
Hamlet
William Shakespeare
12.3
“New Words in Hamlet?”
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
Excerpts from Act I and II
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
“The Lady of Shalott”
“The Real or Assumed Madness of Hamlet”
The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer (Excerpt)
“Hamlet and His Problems”
Ophelia
Ophelia
The Lady of Shalott
Hamlet (2000)
Selected Scenes
Hamlet (1996)
Selected Scenes
Hamlet (1990)
Selected Scenes
“Teaching and Acting Hamlet”
Selected Scenes
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
Selected Scenes
“The Cask of Amontillado”
The Turn of the Screw
Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus
“Paradise Lost”
Book IX
Karen Kay
34 – 35
Tom Stoppard
36 – 41
12.3
12.3
12.3*
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.3
12.4
12.4
12.4*
T.S. Eliot
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Simon Blackmore
Arthur Schopenhauer
T.S. Eliot
John Everett Millais
Henrietta Rae
John William Waterhouse
Michael Almereyda
Kenneth Branagh
Franco Zefirelli
Folger Library
1
Not Included
Not Included
Not Included
Not Included
Non-Print
Not Included
Non-Print
Not Included
Non-Print
Not Included
Non-Print
Not Included
Non-Print
Not Included
Edgar Allan Poe
Henry James
Mary Shelley
Not Included
Not Included
John Milton
Not Included
---
42 – 45
-46 – 50
51
52 – 56
--------57 - 64
----
Grade/
Unit
12.4
12.4
12.4
12.4
12.4
12.4
12.4
12.4
12.4
12.5
12.5
12.5
12.5
12.5
Text Title
Author/Source
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Chapter 10
“The Yellow Wallpaper”
“William Wilson”
Gothic fiction tells us the truth about our divided
nature: Doppelganger tales undermine the modern idea
of the self as invulnerable and in control of passions
Our Monsters, Ourselves
Monsters & Tyranny of Normality: How do Biologists
Interpret Anomalous Forms?
L’Ange du Foyer
“The Dead Man Walking”
“A Rose for Emily”
“Politics and the English Language” from All Art is
Propaganda
The American Language
Chapter One
Democracy in America
Volume I, Chapter XVI: How American Democracy
Has Modified the English Language
“Babel or Babble?”
Notes
Page
Numbers
Robert Louis Stevenson
65 – 73
Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Edgar Allen Poe
74 – 85
86 – 96
Allison Milbank (The
Guardian)
97 – 99
Timothy Beal
100 – 103
Douglass Allchin
Not Included
--
Max Ernest
Thomas Hardy
William Faulkner
Not Included
-104 – 105
106 – 111
George Orwell
112 – 119
H.L. Mencken
120 – 122
Alexis de Tocqueville
123 – 126
127 – 129
The Economist
Website
Not Included
--
“Words that Shouldn’t Be?: Sez Who?”
PBS.org
Oxford English Dictionary
Online
130 – 131
Connie Eble
132 – 135
12.6
“Aspects of English”
“Cockney”
“Sociolinguistics Basics” from Do You Speak
American?
The Professor and the Madman
Chapter 4
Pygmalion
Preface and Act I
The Importance of Being Earnest
Act I
My Fair Lady
Selected Scenes
Gulliver’s Travels
“A Modest Proposal”
Animal Farm
Chapter Two
“Modern Satire Loses Its Bite”
12.6
“Why I Blog”
12.6
“The Devil’s Dictionary”
Ambrose Bierce
12.6
Gulliver’s Travels (1996)
Charles Sturridge
12.6
Gulliver’s Travels (2010)
Rob Letterman
12.6
“A Gut Visible All the Way From the 18th Century”
A.O. Scott (The New York
Times)
12.6
“Should Animals Be Doing More for the Animal
Rights Movement”
The Onion (online)
12.5
12.5
12.5
12.5
12.5
12.5
12.6*
12.6
12.6
Esther Lombardi
--
George Bernard Shaw
136 – 146
Oscar Wilde
147 – 161
George Cukor
Jonathan Swift
Jonathan Swift
2
Not Included
Non-Print
Not Included
Not Included
--162 – 166
George Orwell
167 – 170
Nicholas Swisher
Andrew Sullivan (The
Atlantic)
171 – 172
173 – 180
Website
Not Included
Non-Print
Not Included
Non-Print
Not Included
---181 – 182
Non-Print
Not Included
--
Clothier’s Delight
OR, The Rich Mens Joy, and the Poor Mens Sorrow.
Wherein is exprest the craftiness and subtilty of many Clothiers in England, by beating down their Workn Combers, Weavers, and Spinners, for little gains,
Doth Earn their money by taking of hard pains.
To the Tune of, Jenny come tye me, etc. Packingtons Pound, Or, Monk hath confounded, etc.
With Allowance, Ro. LEstrange. By T. Lanfiere.
OF all sorts of callings that in England be,
There is none that liveth so gallant as we;
Our Trading maintains us as brave as a Knight,
We live at our pleasure, and taketh delight:
We heapeth up riches and treasure great store,
Which we get by griping and grinding the poor,
And this is a way for to fill up our purse,
Although we do get it with many a Curse.
Throughout the whole Kingdom in Country and Town:
There is no danger of our Trade going down,
So long as the Comber can work with his Comb,
And also the Weaver weave in his Lomb:
The Tucker and Spinner that spins all the year,
We will make them to earn their wages full dear;
and this is the way, etc.
In former ages we usd to give,
So that our Work-folks like Farmers did live;
But the times are altered, we will make them know,
All we can for to bring them all under our Bow:
We will make them ta work hard for Six-pence a day,
Though a shilling they deserve if they had their just pay:
and this is the way, etc.
And first for the Combers we will bring them down,
From Eight-groats a score unto Half a Crown:
I at all they murmer, and say tis too small,
We bid them chose whether they will work at all.
Wel make them believe that Trading is bad,
We care not a pin, though they are ner so sad:
and this is the way, etc.
Wel make the poor Weavers work at a low rate,
Wel find fault wheres no fault, and so we will bate:
If Trading grows dead we will presently shew it,
But if it grows good they shall never know it:
Wel tell them that Cloath beyond-Sea will not go,
We care not whether we keep cloathing or no:
3
and this is the way, etc.
Then next for the Spinners we shall ensue,
Wel make them spin three pound instead of two;
When they bring home their work unto us, they complain
And say that their wages will not them maintain:
But if that an Ounce of weight th[ey] do lack,
Then for to bate three pence we will not be slack:
and this is he way, etc.
But if it holds weight, then their wages they crave,
We have got no money, and whats that youd have?
We have Bread and Bacon, and Butter thats good,
With Out-meal and Salt that is wholesome for food;
We have Sope and Candles whereby to give light,
That you may work by them so long as you have sight:
and this is the way, etc.
We will make the Tucker and Shereman understand,
That they with their wages shall never buy Land:
Though heretofore they have been lofty and high,
Yet now we will make them submit humbly;
We will lighten their wages as low as may be,
We will keep them under in every degree:
and this is the way, etc.
When we go to Market our work-men are glad,
But when we come home then we do look sad,
We sit in the corner as if our hearts did ake,
We tell them tis not a penny we can take:
We plead poverty before we have need,
And thus we do coaks them most bravely indeed:
and this is the way, etc.
But if to an Ale-house they Customers be,
Then presently with the Ale-wife we agree,
When we come to a reckoning, then we do crave
Two-pence on a Shilling, and that we will have;
By such cunning ways we our treasure do get,
For it is all Fish that doth come to our Net:
and this is the way, etc.
And thus we do gain all our Wealth and Estate,
By many poor men that works early and late;
If it were not for those that do labour full hard,
We might go and hang our selves without regard:
The Combers, and Weavers, and Tuckers also,
With the Spinners that worketh for Wages full low:
4
By these peoples labours we fill up our purse, etc.
Then hey for the Cloathing-trade, it goes on brave,
We scorn for to toyl and moyl, nor yet to slave;
Our Work-men do work hard, but we live at ease,
We go when we will, and come when we please:
We hoard up our bags of silver and Gold,
But conscience and charity with us is cold:
By poor peoples labour we fill up our purse,
Although we do get it with many a curse.
FINIS.
Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clarke
5
The Pardoner’s Tale and the Canterbury Tales as a Death Warrant
The Pardoner as a Greedy Salesman
In medieval times it was common practice for members of the church, known as “pardoners”, to sell
indulgences for anything from forgiveness of someone’s sins to salvation from eternal damnation. In the
Canterbury Tales, Chaucer presents the Pardoner as having fashionable long blonde hair, wearing nice
robes, and carrying with him all sorts of gaudy relics. This represents a departure from the traditional
image of a pious and poor monk with a shaved head wearing modest robes. Instead, the Pardoner is
presented, to quote our professor, as a “ladies man.”
Before the Pardoner begins his tale of morality, he prefaces it by freely admitting that he is a fraud. He
proudly exclaims that he is only in the pardoning business for the money and that he is guilty of extreme
greed. He even reveals that his relics, which are supposedly Saints’ relics certified by the Pope, are really
rags and animal bones. Chaucer presents him as a snake oil salesman corrupted by greed, yet he is the
man that the host asks to tell a tale of morality.
The Pardoner’s Tale of Morality
The Pardoner tells us a tale of three young men who spend all of their time drinking, swearing,
gambling, and indulging in excess. It is here that the Pardoner interrupts the tale to, somewhat
ironically, tell the group why all of these things are terrible sins forbidden by God in the Bible. The three
young men find out that one of their friends has been slain by Death, and in their drunkenness decide
that they shall find death and slay him as revenge. While wandering the road looking for Death, they
meet an old man who says that he had left death under an oak tree and points them towards a grove.
Under the tree they find several sacks of gold and decide to wait until nightfall to carry them away so as
not to arouse suspicion. While one of the young men goes to get bread and wine the other two plot to
kill him upon his return so that they only have to split the gold two ways. Meanwhile, the man on his
own poisons two of the three wine bottles so that he can keep the gold all to himself. Upon his return he
is stabbed by his two friends and they drink the poisoned wine in celebration and die as well.
In truth the old man really did leave death under the oak tree by leaving the gold. This tale
demonstrates that greed will only lead to your own demise and that it brings out the worst in people.
Although this is a great classic tale of morality it also begs the question of whether who is telling the
story affects it’s validity. The Pardoner is practically the embodiment of greed and intoxication so is it
possible for him to tell a tale of morality and be taken seriously? I personally think that the tale would
lose a lot of its effectiveness since it is being told by someone who is living the life of luxury and is
essentially given permission by the church itself to be greedy. The Pardoner has yet to pay for his greed
and the tale is all about greed leading to only treachery and death. Here Chaucer presents a stark
comparison between the idealized tales of the day and the reality of how life really works.
Thomas Arundel’s Reaction to the Canterbury Tales
Throughout our readings in Terry Jones’ book we have covered the history and culture of Chaucer’s time
but this week we got into the “whodunit” portion of Jones’ argument. Chaucer was already on Henry
IV’s bad list because of how heavily he was tied to the culture of Richard II’s court. To make things
worse, Thomas Arundel came back into power as the archbishop and as we discussed in previous weeks
Arundel was not a nice guy. He was one of the foremost opponents of John Wyclif and wanted to stamp
out dissent and heresy wherever possible by the most brutal of means. It is especially fitting that we
6
read the Pardoner’s tale this week because it is one of Chaucer’s most blatant criticisms of the Church
and his opinion on it’s corruption. The Pardoner is presented as a fraud, but not necessarily as a
fraudulent pardoner. There is nothing to indicate that the Pardoner has fake letters of authority. So not
only is Chaucer casting a bad light on a man of the Church, he is implying that the Pardoner’s fraud is
endorsed by the Church. Another detail that wouldn’t escape Arundel’s notice is the fact that the
Pardoner’s writ of authority would be signed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, at the time Thomas
Arundel himself.
It is debatable as to whether Chaucer was intentionally using the Canterbury Tales to blatantly criticize
the Church or whether he was trying to simply give an honest view of the way the world actually
worked; either way Thomas Arundel would not have been happy about it. Not only did Chaucer have the
audacity to point out corruption and hypocrisy within the Church, he did so in English so anyone literate
could understand it. Arundel was all about the control of information; it’s one of the reasons he pushed
so hard to get rid of English translations of the Bible. Even though he might have agreed with some of
the criticisms of the Church, his number one goal was to prevent the airing of the Church’s dirty laundry
to the common people. His power came from people’s faith that the Church was an uncorrupt
institution that could help them attain eternal salvation for their soul. As we previously discussed in
class, the peasant’s revolt was enabled by education of the common people. Education led to
disillusionment and threatened Arundel’s very source of power.
It is clear that Thomas Arundel would have considered Geoffrey Chaucer an undesirable and that the
Canterbury Tales would be seen by him as dangerous, but so far Jones has only presented us with
motive. One of his main arguments is that for a man so famous to have simply fallen off the pages of
history that it had to have been a cover up by someone in power. While he makes a good argument, it is
all circumstantial; it is also possible that Chaucer caught a case of pneumonia and died of natural causes
and that we have simply lost the records of it happening in the 600 years since his death. I think that his
thesis that Arundel had Chaucer murdered is very interesting but I hope that he can present us with a
little bit more solid evidence in the rest of the book.
Questions to Ponder
Does a tale of morality still ring true and have credibility when told by someone corrupt?
Did Arundel have Chaucer murdered for his writings?
How can we apply lessons learned from 14th century history to the present and why is it not always a
good idea to do so?
7
The Canterbury Tales: Chaucer's Respectful Critique of Church Officials and Their Abuse of Power
By Lauren Day
Leaders and politicians in positions of power have a duty to the people that they serve to
examine and constructively criticize the institutions shaping their society. In fourteenth-century England,
Geoffrey Chaucer played his public diplomatic role perfectly as well as, later in life, publishing, The
Canterbury Tales, a harsh critique of certain aspects of the Catholic Church. Because of Chaucer's
position at court, and his training as a diplomat, he was able to frame a work that revealed and implicitly
condemned the corrupt practices of many church officials with impunity.
Chaucer was born in about 1341, and “[f]rom the age of fourteen until the very end of his life,
he remained in royal service. He was a familiar and indispensable part of the court, and acted as a royal
servant for three kings and two princes” (Ackroyd xvi). By the time he was twenty-four, Chaucer was
being given important and “perhaps clandestine” diplomatic missions (29). He became known as
“familia” of the king, which meant that his person was protected under order of the king (24). Because
of his role at court, Chaucer, “was in the best possible position to observe and to understand the social
changes... taking place all around him” (29). Chaucer's work The Canterbury Tales is a prime example of
his close observation and subtle understanding of the institution of the Church.
It is important to remember that Chaucer, “was not a poet who happened to be a diplomat and
government official; he was a government official and diplomat who, in his spare time, happened to
write poetry...” (67). This gives weight to his examination of the Church from the point of view of
someone uniquely qualified to judge it. Chaucer displayed “evident skill in difficult negotiations” (50)
time and time again, and what could be more difficult than critiquing the most powerful institution in his
country? His ability to survive two separate regime changes demonstrates the power of his diplomatic
skill. These shifts of power were accompanied by replacements of many court officials, both when
Richard II came to the throne, and when the throne was later usurped by Henry IV. Chaucer maintained
his position as royal diplomat regardless of the sovereign in power. (68). This fact gives testament to his
indispensable worth to the court, an institution second only to one other in fourteenth-century
England.
Religion, specifically the practices of the Catholic Church, would have had a major influence on
Chaucer's life. “An apt symbol for the Catholic culture of fourteenth-century London might be found in
the fact that there were ninety-nine churches, and ninety-five inns, within the walls” (8). Common
greetings of the day consisted of, “God save you,” “God give you grace,” and “God's speed” (7). “The
overseeing presence of the medieval Church could be compared to the air that was breathed” (Cullen
23). It should come as no surprise then that Chaucer's poetry should be “suffused with religious practice
and religious personages” (Ackroyd 9). Though Chaucer was steeped in the religion of his day, it is clear
from his work that he felt an urgent need to critique certain church officials and their practices:
More emotionally personified as Holy Mother and Bride of Christ, the Church was also called the
Guardian of the Scriptures, the Teacher of Morality, the Refuge of the Poor, the Fulfillment of
the Synagogue and the Light of the Gentiles. Small wonder that those who cared most deeply
about such an ideal were dissatisfied with the medieval clergy! (Ames 25)
Throughout his Canterbury Tales, “On the one hand, Chaucer often shows the institutional practices of
the surrounding culture compromising the values they were originally designed to uphold. On the other,
he seems to respect those institutions however flawed their practices” (Condren 1). Chaucer was not
criticizing the entire institution of the Catholic Church, but merely some of its officials.
8
Throughout The Canterbury Tales as a whole, Chaucer employs various narrative techniques in
order to separate himself, as poet, from the commentary within his poems. His use of a many-layered
narrative serves to provide stories within stories and characters invented by characters to such a degree
as to render the source of the artistry blameless. Chaucer could defend his tales and their harsh and
often crude critique of the Church by pointing to his characters as the source of the idea. “He shifts the
blame, if that is the right word, upon his characters in The Canterbury Tales” (Ackroyd 39). His characters
are not himself and by the same logic, his characters' stories are doubly separated from him, the writer.
“Chaucer the poet, then, is outside the poem” (Cullen 21). Despite the possibility of this claim, it is clear
that Chaucer is merely using these layers as a device in anticipation of the event of a negative reaction
to his work.
Chaucer also appears as a character in his own tales which adds another, and important layer to
his narrative. “He adds a personal touch and complexity by having his alter ego perform as the actual
teller of all the tales, and doubly significant (perhaps doubly challenging), he includes stories inspired
from inside of himself” (21). Almost every character on the pilgrimage serves as a satire for some aspect
of Chaucer's culture, even himself. In the Man of Law's Prologue, the Man of Law ridicules Chaucer, the
character, and his inability to ryhme, “Chaucer, clumsy as he is at times / In metre and the cunning use
of rhymes” (Coghill 138). Chaucer does not spare writers in his criticism and the fact that he even
satirizes his own passion counteracts the harshness of his critique without lessening its impact.
The crude humor present in a number of the tales, such as “The Summoner's Tale” has led critics
to classify them as fabliaux, which are bawdy tales that originated in France. “Obscenity has almost
always been seen as intrinsic to the definition of the fabliuax” (Cobby 39-40). Chaucer uses this type of
tale because of its extraordinary popularity. “The fabliaux have, from the start, also appealed to a
popular audience” (33). Everyone loved this genre of writing and Chaucer, seeing this, used it as a device
in his tales. “Chaucer was generally less polemical than Dante and less prophetic then Langland, and his
attack on vice is usually more indirect and considerably funnier than theirs” (Ames 29). The idea was to
keep people laughing so that they would take to the criticism more willingly.
The tales that manifest Chaucer's critique the most effectively are “The Friar's Tale,” “The
Summoner's Tale,” and “The Pardoner's Tale.” In all three of these stories the characters are corrupt
church officials revealing their true natures and their greed by taking advantage of the common folk
they are bound to serve. These tales display, “religion made a business,” (Condren 1) the distortion of
the institution of the Church that Chaucer was strongly condemning.
“The Friar's Tale,” told by the Friar, relates the story of a corrupt summoner, while conversely,
“The Summoner's Tale,” told by the Summoner, tells the story of a corrupt friar:
The Friar creates in his tale a somonour who acts with all the naked greed and hardhearted
tenacity that often characterized summoners in Chaucer's day, only to be answered by the
Summoner's creation of a frere who relies first on strained textual interpretations and later, in
frustration, on tenacious greed, in the manner of many a late-fourteenthcentury friar. (113)
Chaucer uses “The Friar's Tale” and “The Summoner's Tale,” as back-to-back satirical commentary on
the Church and its officials. He lightens the accusation by having the two characters insult each other's
positions in the Church. By creating a rivalry between the two, he adds comic relief to a harsh view of
corrupt church authorities.
In “The Friar's Tale,” a summoner is going about his religious duties which he performs in such a
way as to make them nothing short of black mail and extortion. He accuses certain people of sins they
have not committed and they bribe him in order to keep him from summoning them before the
ecclesiastical courts. Out on business one day he meets a fiend from Hell who he believes is a yeoman.
He describes his trade to the alleged yeoman but lies, “'Why then you are a bailiff?' 'Yes,' said he. / He
9
did not dare, for very filth and shame, / Say that he was a summoner,” (312). He then asks the stranger
to tell him what he does for a living. The stranger informs him that he does exactly what the summoner
does. Chaucer boldly makes a direct comparison between a church official and a fiend from Hell:
I am a fiend, my dwelling is in Hell.
I ride on business and have so far thriven
By taking anything that I am given.
That is the sum of all my revenue.
You seem to have the same objective too,
You're out for wealth, acquired no matter how,
And so with me. (313)
The fiend tells the summoner that he has the ability to take whatever or whoever people curse. After he
relates this strange power, a woman becomes angry with the summoner for wrongly accusing her of sin
and exclaims, “ 'The devil,' she said, 'can carry him away' ” (318). The fiend then takes the summoner to
Hell, “And on the word this foul fiend made a swoop / And dragged him, body and soul, to join the
troupe / In Hell, where summoners have their special shelf” (318). Chaucer's description of this
despicable character is humorous but also thoroughly negative. “He was a thief, a summoner, and a
pimp” (311). The summoner is compared to the lowest members of society, and also to the lowest of
the otherworldly creatures, a fiend from Hell. Chaucer's point is quite clear: this was not how a
summoner was intended by the Church to act.
The Summoner, not to be outdone by the Friar, in his narrative, “The Summoner's Tale,” tells an
equally appalling story about a friar who abuses his authority over the common people. He begins in his
prologue by describing the designated place for friars in Hell as Satan's “arse”:
“Satan,” the angel said, “has got a tail
As broad or broader than a carrack sail.
Hold up thy tail, thou Satan!” then said he,
“Show forth thine arse and let the friar see
The nest ordained for friars in this place!”
Ere the tail rose a furlong into space
From underneath it there began to drive,
Much as if bees were swarming from a hive,
Some twenty thousand friars in a rout
And swarmed all over Hell and round about,
And then came back as fast as they could run
And crept into his arse again, each one. (320)
This prologue, while crude in nature is a humorous attack on the character of friars as a group. It serves
to succinctly make Chaucer's point clear while keeping his readers laughing simultaneously:
As Thomas Speght, one of Chaucer's first editors and biographers, put it,
the tales exemplify 'the state of the Church, the Court and the Country,
with such arte and cunning, that although none could deny himself to be
touched, yet none durst complaine that he was wronged'. (Ackroyd 157)
This off color humor is one technique of Chaucer for distancing himself from his critique. It allowed
Chaucer to critique friars in general without necessarily offending them personally.
10
“In the story which follows, the Summoner, with the subtle cunning of Chaucer, gives friars high
marks for zeal, business acumen, hypocrisy, vainglory, and manipulation of women” (Ames 45). After his
brief tirade in the prologue, the Summoner launches into his longer tale in which he describes a friar in
Yorkshire selling, for personal gain, trentals which were “ an office of thirty masses for the souls of those
in Purgatory” (Coghill 515). The friar would give a sermon, and after he had effectively fired up the
congregation, he would exploit their emotions in order to make money. “When he had preached in
church, and cast his spell / With one main object, far above the rest, / To fire his congregation with a
zest / For buying trentals, and for Jesu's sake / To give the wherewithal for friars to make / Their holy
houses” (320-321) he would ask them for donations to save their dearly departed friends from
Purgatory, and then he would pocket their money. “What especially irked Chaucer was that the worldly
success of the friars was ensured by their hypocritical protestations of imitating the unworldliness of
their founder. He portrays them preying on the gullible piety of the laity and glorying in the status which
they disclaim” (Ames 45).
Once the friar has exploited this group of people, he then goes through the town begging for
food. He writes down the names of the people who feed him promising to pray for them to thank them
for their kindness, but “Once out of doors again and business done / He used to plane the names out,
every one, / That he had written on his ivory tables. / He'd served them all with fairy-tales and fables....”
(Coghill 322). Next, the friar attempts to take advantage of a sick man for his own monetary gain. During
this part of the tale, the friar's hypocrisy is made particularly clear to the reader:
Whoever prays must fast, he must keep clean,
Fatten his soul and make his body lean.
We follow the Apostle; clothes and food
Suffice us though they may be rough and rude,
Our purity and fasting have sufficed
To make our prayers acceptable to Christ. (325)
He has just been begging for food from the townsfolk, not fasting, and he has not yet truly prayed for
anyone.
The sick man, Thomas, sees through the friar's act and becomes angry. He tells the friar that he
does have something he can have but he must promise to share his gains with the other friars, twelve in
all. The friar agrees straightaway expecting a large sum of money. Thomas tells the friar that he has
hidden the money with him in the bed, and when the friar reaches under him to get it the man farts in
his hand. “When the sick man could feel him here and there / Groping about his fundament with care, /
Into that friar's hand he blew a fart” (332). The friar has been characterized in such a way that the
reader feels this action is warranted. Later on in the tale, the friar attempts to get revenge and merely
makes himself look the fool by publicizing the incident:
In delightfully, and convincingly, extending the story beyond the private joke, Chaucer amplifies
its satiric impact. The joke on the friar becomes progressively more social as each of his listeners
hears and responds to the story of the 'odious meschief' perpetrated by 'this false
blasphemour'. (Grudin 174)
Chaucer has masterfully created a corrupt friar and a corrupt summoner that in their rivalry convey
point for point the corruption and misuse of their duties and roles as church officials.
“The Pardoner's Tale,” while still a critique of a church official, takes on a different structure.
The Pardoner himself is the character being satirized, not any of the characters within his narrative. In
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his prologue, he tells his fellow riders on the pilgrimage how and why he takes money from
unsuspecting commoners:
But let me briefly make my purpose plain;
I preach for nothing but for greed of gain
And use the same old text, as bold as brass,
Radix malorum est cupiditas.
And thus I preach against the very vice
I make my living out of—avarice. (Coghill 259)
He has had too much to drink and so he reveals the secrets of his trade. His act is much the same as the
friar's in “The Summoner's Tale” as he also uses the people's emotions against them, works them into a
fervor, and then takes their money in return for fake relics or the pardoning of all their sins.
The Pardoner, unlike the Friar and the Summoner, does not seem to feel defensive about his
corruption. To some degree the Friar and Summoner attempt to deny that they are greedy and taking
advantage of their congregations. They both become angry with each other for their
nsulting stories and do not want to admit that there is any truth to the tales. The Pardoner, however,
comes off as egotistical and almost proud of the tricks that he manages to play on the unsuspecting
commoners. Power has completely corrupted him and he revels in it. For this reason he is the worst of
the three, and is satirized the most harshly. It is one thing to have a fellow pilgrim insult one's position in
the church, but quite another to bring disgust upon oneself by getting caught up in avarice and power.
What seems to be a lapse in consciousness by the Pardoner in revealing his methods, may in fact be a
further critique of church authorities who boast about their greed. The Pardoner thinks that he is
superior to the other pilgrims because of the power his church position gives him. He does not believe
that he needs to fear punishment, and he is probably correct. To Chaucer it seems, the only thing
possibly worse than a corrupt church official is a corrupt church official that does not even try to
pretend that what he is doing is corrupt.
“The Pardoner's Tale,” is about three rioters who make a drunken boast that they are not afraid
of Death and vow to find and kill him. “'Here, chaps! The three of us together now, / Hold up your
hands, like me, and we'll be brothers / In this affair, and each defend the others, / And we will kill this
traitor Death, I say!'” (267). They go off to find Death and instead find a poor, elderly man. They accuse
him of being Death's spy and he tells them that they will find Death at the top of the next hill. When
they arrive, they find a pile of gold, “No longer was it Death those fellows sought, / For they were all so
thrilled to see the sight, / The florins were so beautiful and bright, / That down they sat beside the
precious pile” (269). The boys then began to plot against each other. One agrees to run to town to get
food and drink while the other two remain behind. The two with the gold decide to kill the third boy
when he returns. Meanwhile, the boy in town has poisoned the wine he is bringing for the other two.
When he returns, they kill him, drink from the poisoned wine, and die. In this way Death wins the battle
against the three.
“The Pardoner's Tale,” is a sermon about greed that serves to instill fear in his listeners that
Death will come for them and they will not have repented of all of their sins. Once the Pardoner has
given his sermon he asks his audience for money in return for forgiveness. “Dearly beloved, God forgive
your sin / And keep you from the vice of avarice! / My holy pardon frees you all of this, / Provided that
you make the right approaches, / That is with sterling, rings, or silver brooches” (272). This time,
however, he forgets that his audience is the very group of pilgrims that he has already told his trade
secret to, “'For though I am a wholly vicious man / Don't think I can't tell moral tales. I can! / Here's one I
often preach when out for winning; / Now please be quiet. Here is the beginning'” (260). Chaucer uses
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one less level of the narrative in this instance for his critique. He is using the Pardoner on the pilgrimage
and not a persona in his character's story to satirize the office of pardoner:
No logic-chopping can save face for the two most shameful characters in The Canterbury Tales,
the Summoner and the Pardoner, and Chaucer suggests no ideal type for them. Whatever
Christian values were connected originally with their jobs apparently no longer seemed viable to
Chaucer—or to anybody else we still read. (Ames 55)
“The Pardoner's Tale,” along with “The Friar's Tale” and “The Summoner's Tale.” are a clear outpouring
of Chaucer's frustration at an institution that was no longer functioning in the best interest of the
people.
Chaucer was able to create this strong satire and critique of certain aspects of the Church
because he was himself religious and well-known at court. He was not merely an outsider looking in and
passing judgment on others' beliefs, but a believer seeking to effect change in an institution that was as
large a part of his life as the royalty and the court. “The liturgy is in his pages because it was part of the
way of life” (Boyd 1). Chaucer was writing from his personal experience observing the despicable
corruption of the one institution that should have been above even the possibility of such corruption.
But Chaucer had not entirely despaired of the Church. He clearly shows how he believed church
authorities and religious believers should act in some of his other tales, which abound in religious
references. Chaucer's personal religious experience would have been specific to England during his
lifetime, and therefore his references would reflect this.
The specific liturgies of certain regions under the Roman Church differed during Chaucer's
lifetime, but “England had its own derived rites. The most important one in Chaucer's time was the Use
of Salisbury, better known as the Use of Sarum” (3). This particular set of liturgical traditions is the most
valuable in analyzing his religious references, as they are the rituals he would have been most familiar
with. “In a study of Chaucer's saints (1952)... Gordan Hall Gerould shows that most of those mentioned
in the poet's works... appear on the calendar of the famous missal of Nicholas Lytlington, Abbot of
Westminster 1362-86” (22). Westminster Abbey is the church of the kings of England so Chaucer as a
frequent visitor to court would have been more than familiar with the customs of the abbey. The
pervasive nature of religion in fourteenth-century England accounts for the numerous and various
religious references in The Canterbury Tales.
Chaucer uses the term Host to refer to Harry Bailey, the man who was leading the pilgrimage,
because of the term's religious connotations. The Host in Catholicism is the Body of Christ, and therefore
Christ is symbolically leading the pilgrimage to Canterbury:
the character in the Canterbury Tales, that we know as the Host, is the covert personification of
this Eucharistic Host, as he leads the pilgrims who—as in the procession described above—are
dignitaries, religious, and guild members. (Cullen 24)
Chaucer is giving religious authority to his claims by using the symbol of the Eucharist as the basis and
backbone of his entire narrative. The implication being that Christ would have been just as if not more
disgusted by the corruption in the Church as Chaucer was. To readers in the modern world, this uniquely
Christian reference might pass by without a second thought, but to the people of Chaucer's day, the
term Host would have brought with it a myriad of images and meanings having to do with both
Catholicism and the ritual of mass. “The multiple connotations of host, the ambiguity the word contains,
enriches the poem's possibilities” (24). Chaucer was creating a satire of a powerful institution and
therefore none of his points are overtly outlined in the narrative, but rather, they are implicitly
embedded in the tales of his characters.
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“The Man of Law's Tale,” is preceded by an introduction where the Host calls on the Man of Law
to tell his story, the man agrees, and begins to speak. He first bemoans that he has nothing left to say
because Chaucer has already written it all:
I can't recall a pithy tale just now;
But Chaucer, clumsy as he is at times
In metre and the cunning use of rhymes,
Has told them in such English, I suppose,
As he commands; for everybody knows
That if he has not told them, my dear brother,
In one book, he has told them in another.
He has told more of lovers up and down
Then even Ovid honoured with renown
In his Epistles, which are very old.
Why tell them all again since they've been told? (Coghill 138)
This is yet another device employed by Chaucer in his tales. He creates a persona Chaucer who is on the
pilgrimage to Canterbury, separate from himself the poet, Chaucer. With this device, he simultaneously
brings himself closer to the subject matter by becoming a character in his own narrative while retaining
the right to claim that the Chaucer in the work is a character and not himself.
The narration of “The Man of Law's Tale,” is composed of three distinct parts. In the first part a
group of Syrian merchants travels to Rome where they chance to meet the Emperor's daughter,
Constance. When they returned to Syria and told the Sultan of Constance's beauty he became
determined to marry her. “Her features filled his fancy and invention / Till all the passion of his heart
was cast / On loving her as long as life should last” (142). He and all of his court are baptized as
Christians so that differences in religion will not keep him from marrying his beloved. Constance,
however, is not as pleased with the match. She is distressed at having to leave her home, her family, and
her friends, but she bows to her father's wishes and the will of God, and goes with the Sultan. In the last
stanzas of Part One, the reader learns of the Sultan's mother. Up until now she has refused to be
baptized, but she decides at the end to pretend to convert in order to be allowed at the wedding, where
she is plotting harm to Constance and her wedding party.
In Part Two of the tale, the mother and her group of soldiers kills all of the Christians at the
wedding, and any Syrians who stand to protect them. She then sends Constance out to sea in a
rudderless boat to float where she will. Throughout the tale, Constance suffers greatly, but never loses
faith in her God. When she is set out on the ship to starve or drown, she prays:
She crossed herself and with a piteous falter
Of voice, addressed the cross of Christ and said:
'Holiest cross, O rich and shining altar
Bright with the blood of pity the Lamb bled
To wash the world's iniquity, O shed
Protection from the Fiend upon me! Keep
My soul the day I drown upon the deep!
Victorious Tree, protection of the true,
Thou that wert only worthy to up-rear
The King of Heaven in His wounds all new,
That whitest Lamb, hurt with the cruel spear,
O blessed cross, that puts the fiend in fear
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Of man or woman that is signed with thee,
Help me amend my life, and succour me!' (150)
In this prayer, the reason behind the name chosen by Chaucer for this character becomes clear.
Constance is constant in her devotion to God and even now when she thinks that she will die, her faith
does not falter. A believer according to Chaucer would not fear death, and would remain faithful even in
the face of extreme hardship and suffering.
For three years Constance is said to have been tossed about on the sea in her boat. Chaucer
makes it clear that she only survived by the grace of God, and as God saved Daniel from the lion's den,
so he saved Constance from the murderous wrath of the Sultan's mother. She lands in Northumberland
and is taken in by the Constable and his wife, Hermengild. Constance manages to convert the wife to
Christianity, “And Constance made so long a sojourn there, / Giving herself to weeping and to prayer, /
That Jesus brought conversion, of His grace, / To Hermengild the lady of the place” (152). Later on the
husband with the influence of both Constance and his wife converts as well. Chaucer clearly believes in
the power of Catholicism to inspire faith in others.
The most significant aspect of the second part of the tale, is that Constance is married to the
King and becomes Queen. Unfortunately, yet again an evil mother is plotting against Constance. On her
wedding night, Constance became pregnant and months later, while her husband was away, she gave
birth to a boy. The mother of the King intercepted the letter sent by Constance to inform the King of the
birth of their son, and told him that his wife had given birth to a fiend from Hell. The King replies that
the child should be kept alive until he can see it for himself, but the mother again intercepts the letter
and tells Constance that the King desires her and her child to be set out to sea.
In Part Three of the narrative, the King returns and discovers what his mother has done. He puts
his mother to death and grieves for Constance, who drifts at sea for five long years. Finally, she meets
another ship, which just happens to have her father, the Emperor of Rome, at the helm. He does not
recognize Constance at first but takes care of her. When they return to Rome, the King is there seeking
penance from the Pope. He sees his son and immediately recognizes both him and Constance. After this,
Constance reveals herself to the Emperor and everything is at last resolved. It is clear that the moral of
the tale is if one trusts in God above all else He will rescue and protect you.
Chaucer makes many religious references throughout this story. When in the course of her
wanderings Constance is almost raped by a thief, she is somehow able to force him out of her boat. She
is compared to Judith, a biblical figure who against all odds but with the help of God was able to defeat
her mighty enemy, Holofernes:
Judith was left alone in the tent with Holofernes, who lay prostrate on his bed, for he was
sodden with wine. She had ordered her maid to stand outside...When all had departed, and no
one, small or great, was left in the bedroom, Judith stood by Holofernes' bed and...Then with all
her might she struck him twice in the neck and cut off his head. (Senior 565-566)
Constance is compared to this extraordinary Hebrew woman who is willing to risk her life to save her
people from the murderous wrath of Holofernes. It is clear that the reader is meant to see Constance as
a model Catholic; one that they could learn and gain inspiration from.
Constance is similarly compared to David, another biblical figure who also defeats a great enemy
against overwhelming odds:
A champion named Goliath of Gath came out from the Philistine camp; he was six and a half feet
tall...The Philistine then moved to meet David at close quarters, while David ran quickly toward
the battle line in the direction of the Philistine. David put his hand into the bag and took out
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a stone, hurled it with the sling, and struck the Philistine on the forehead. The stone embedded
itself in his brow, and he fell prostrate on the ground. [Thus David overcame the Philistine with
sling and stone; he struck the Philistine mortally, and did it without a sword.] Then David ran
and stood over him; with the Philistine's own sword [which he drew from its sheath] he
dispatched him and cut off his head. (323-325)
Constance is compared to two extraordinary heroes in the course of her story, and it is clear from this
that Chaucer holds her character in high esteem. Judith and David are both strong and fearless figures
who triumph over evil, hardship, and suffering to win victories. As Constance in Chaucer's narrative,
Judith and David in the Bible win their battles with the help of God. Constance shows an extraordinary
trust in God and it is made clear throughout the narrative that her many narrow escapes are the work of
God miraculously intervening in her life. The religious nature of this tale is a testament to Chaucer's own
faith. “The Man of Law's Tale” is only the beginning, and there are many other tales that contain similar
religious tones and themes.
“The Parson's Tale,” is a narrative in which Chaucer's personal religious views become even
clearer to the reader. The only religious character in the work that is not satirized or critiqued in any way
is the Parson. “In the person of the good Parson, Chaucer has given us a standard by which to judge all
the rest” (Ames 32). It is important to note that he is the lowest in the church hierarchy of the pilgrims
traveling to Canterbury. Chaucer is implying that the higher up in the hierarchy the church official, the
more likely he is to be corrupt:
Ten of the twenty-nine Canterbury pilgrims are either members of the clergy or minor
functionaries in the Church, and another cleric briefly joins the party en route. Only four of
these, the Parson, the Clerk, the Nun's Priest, and the Second Nun, pass without criticism, the
last two not being described at all in the General Prologue. Further, the priests, monks, friars,
and clerks who figure in the tales told by the pilgrims are a notoriously sinful group; indeed, in
these stories there are more good pagans than good clerics. And yet, to judge from these
charcters [sic], Chaucer was neither an atheist nor a heretic, but a Catholic who desired the
reform of the Church in an orthodox way. (30)
Chaucer understood the effects of power on human nature from both his observations of the church
and the people of the court and was able to use this understanding to create realistic personages for his
pilgrimage narrative.
“The Parson's Tale” is a sermon in prose about penitence, its meaning, its actions, and its
various types. The sermon in its discussion of sin also describes the cardinal sins and the correct means
for confessing them:
On the literal plane of meaning it seems to be offered as an appropriate ending to a pilgrimage
before the Saint's shrine is reached. On the allegorical plane, referred to by the Parson when
first called upon for a story, it may be deemed a preparation for a last confession to be made on
'that perfect, glorious pilgrimage' that is called the celestial, to the Heavenly Jerusalem. (Coghill
503)
Chaucer displays a vast knowledge of Catholic doctrine through this sermon and clearly demonstrates
his respect for the church officials who do not abuse their positions. It seems that he agreed with the
Parson, that sin is much worse if it is committed by one of religion (Ames 30). “In his sermon-tale, the
Parson calls simony, the selling of Church office, the greatest sin because it places in the Church thieves
who steal souls from Jesus Christ; simony sells the souls of sheep, he says, to the wolf that strangles
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them” (30). It is clear from his satire that Chaucer believed the higher up in the hierarchy the church
official, the worse it was if they gave in to greed and became corrupt, but also that the lower church
officials could be extremely pious and kind people.
The final portion of The Canterbury Tales is “Chaucer's Prayer” or “Chaucer's Retraction”. In this
last word to the reader Chaucer seems to be asking forgiveness for the offensive nature of some of his
works, while simultaneously thanking God for his ability to write whichever tales the reader finds worthy
of praise. To some critics this retraction poses a major problem to their understanding of the work.
However, this final say of Chaucer simply reiterates the point he has continuously made throughout the
poem. Chaucer is again attempting to separate himself, as a poet, from the critique obvious in his work,
while at the same time showing the reader his devout nature.
It is clear from the Retraction that Chaucer felt the need to seek forgiveness for the crude
humor and harsh subject matter of his tales, if his many attempts to separate himself from his critique
through literary devices failed. As a diplomat, Chaucer must have been in the habit of using discretion in
his conversations and correspondences. “He chooses to hide behind words. Or, rather, he allows his
personality to be dissolved within them” (Ackroyd 38-39). It is unlikely that he would have been able to
separate this habit, acquired from years of important and covert diplomatic missions, from his writing.
By the time he was writing The Canterbury Tales, it was late in his career and it would have been even
more difficult for him to set aside his discreet manner at this point in his life than earlier, especially since
the subject matter in his tales was controversial in many ways.
The main frustration that some readers have is that the “Retraction” does not seem to provide
the closure that they wish for at the end of the narrative. Chaucer is apparently not attempting to shirk
his responsibilities as a writer in not providing a satisfying ending, but rather is trying to create a
dialogue with his work that will transcend his work and perhaps effect change in his society:
The [Retraction] is at once a bow to conventional expectation and an escape from it. In thus
asking the audience to complete the text, Chaucer again evades structural closure in favor of a
continuing process that involves listener as well as speaker, reader as well as writer. (Grudin
180)
Also it is important for the reader to remember that the idea of narrative closure as a necessity in
literature is a relatively modern idea that is both “culturally and historically contingent” (166). It is “a
response to 'a modern intellectual climate characterized by decenteredness, isolation and absence of
meaning...'” (166). Chaucer and his contemporary audience would not have been disturbed by an open
ended conclusion. He may have in fact been using this lack of closure to make a point about the human
experience:
Conventional closure implies that discourse can settle some vivid issues of human experience—
the result dreamed of in philosophy and politics generally. By refusing to supply such a closure,
Chaucer focuses our interest instead on the processes of communication, on the dynamics of
discourse as social interaction itself. (164)
Chaucer is artfully imitating reality by refusing to provide artificial closure to his narrative (168). In real
human experience, closure is not a guarantee and Chaucer is always true to human nature and reality in
his works. Also, by leaving the ending ambiguous in this way he is leaving his work open to discussion
and interpretation that would in all likelihood further his goal of effecting change in the institution of
the church.
Geoffrey Chaucer died in 1400 leaving The Canterbury Tales unfinished. While incomplete in
narrative, the work is in fact complete in theme and scope:
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He (Chaucer) must have been a man of a most wonderful comprehensive nature because, as it
has been truly observed of him, he has taken into the compass of his Canterbury Tales the
various manners and humours (as we now call them) of the whole English nation, in his age.
(Ames vii)
Chaucer was in the midst of creating a masterpiece of literature and his untimely death does not change
the impact of his work. While “it is clear from the whole body of his poetry that Chaucer's Catholicism
was an integral part of his outlook, an operative force in his thinking about his fellowman, the world,
and the universe” (xi), it is also clear that he was intentionally creating a scathing critique of the Catholic
Church at a time when it was more than necessary to do so. “Chaucer...wished to change the institution
by changing the people in it” (61). Because of his position at court and his favor with the royal family, he
was able to use his position in order to effect change in the institutions around him. In fourteenthcentury England, a poetdiplomat was the perfect combination of insider and objective observer to form
a narrative critique of an all powerful institution.
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Chaucer
Prof. Lee Patterson
I want to start with a methodological remark about this lecture, so you will know the kind of
lecture you're going to be listening to and the reasons why I'm giving this kind of lecture rather than
some other kind. For the next forty minutes or so I will be discussing the economic, the social, and the
political conditions of the last half of the fourteenth century in England, Chaucer's place in this world,
and the relation of this to Chaucer's poetry. I will be offering, in other words, what is known in literary
criticism as an historicist account. By this I mean not simply an account that seeks to understand
Chaucer's poetry in terms of history per se, since there are many kinds of history. I will not talk, for
example, about literary history, the kinds of sources that Chaucer used, the writers who provided him
with inspiration, and so on. I also won't talk -- except in passing -- about cultural history. This would
include the kind of art that was produced during his time, the kinds of books that were read, the forms
by which the religious feelings of the time were expressed, the kinds of public rituals that were
practiced, and so on. Instead, I will discuss what could be called the material conditions of Chaucer's
world. With this phrase -- material conditions -- I mean to designate all of those elements of life that
determine people's economic, social, and physical situation. These elements include, for example, the
economic conditions of the time, the social structure, the political practices, the vocational
opportunities or lack of them -- in other words, all of those elements of life that condition -- condition,
not determine -- a person's place in the world and his or her life choices.
As you probably know, this form of literary analysis is deeply antipathetic to the AngloAmerican tradition of literary criticism. The reason is because this tradition has always privileged the
individual over history: the record of English and American literature is typically thought of as a
sequence of geniuses, one remarkable man (or, occasionally, woman) followed by another. This kind of
understanding is usually called humanist, or liberal humanist: it places the individual above history, and
esteems the human capacity not to be made by but to make history. An excellent example of this way of
thinking is this very course, English 125, which traces the route marked out by great geniuses: Chaucer,
Spenser, Donne, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Eliot. It is not an accident that this course has been a
cornerstone of the English Department curriculum since the 1920s. Because it is a this course celebrates,
by its very nature, something that is at the very heart of American life, and that is individualism. By this I
mean the transcendence of the individual -- and especially the remarkable individual -- over historical
circumstances. For Americans, success or failure in life is characteristically understood as a matter of
individual choice. For instance, this individualism tends to dominate our political discourse, in which
social problems are typically understood in terms of individual choices. We have a drug problem
because individual teenagers just won't say no; we have a crime problem because individual wrongdoers
are not being incarcerated often enough or long enough; we have a welfare problem because individuals
behave irresponsibly and have children they cannot support. And so on.
My point is not to make a political speech but simply to indicate to you that (1) the natural way
we think of human life is in terms of individuals who stand apart from the material conditions of their
lives; and (2) that English 125 is a course that is structured in terms of this natural way of thinking. Now
there is a third point that is relevant. The reason we start this course with Chaucer is because he is the
most readable of medieval English poets -- by which we mean the most like us, the most modern and
the least medieval. His contemporaries -- Langland, Gower, the so-called Pearl-poet, Lydgate, Hoccleve,
and others -- are didactic, moralistic, pious, and intensely interested in local political questions. Chaucer
is none of these things, and what's more -- what makes him not just the initial figure for this course but
for the whole of English literature, so that in 1700 Dryden called him the Father of English Poetry, a title
he has never lost -- what's more is that Chaucer is not only not interested in the drearily medieval topics
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of his contemporaries but he is interested in the topic that has become, for us, the quintessential and
defining mark of the modern. In literary terms we call this topic character; philosophically and politically
we call it individualism. It is important to stress just how profound is Chaucer's focus on the individual.
The great innovation of the Canterbury Tales is that our attention in reading the tales is always drawn to
the tellers: the meaning of each tale cannot only not be divorced from the teller but is both initially and
finally referred back to him or her. It is fair to say, then, that none of the tales (with the exception of the
Parson's Tale) can stand alone from its teller -- it must be read as told, in the light of the consciousness
that creates it and that it creates. In a very real sense, the subject of the Canterbury Tales is the subject - by which I mean subjectivity itself. Or think of the General Prologue. There Chaucer defines each
pilgrim in terms of his estate, by which he means his social role: we have a knight, a squire, a prioress, a
friar, a merchant -- and so on. But in virtually every instance his focus in the descriptions is not upon the
pilgrim's social role -- his or her function in society -- but upon the character -- the individualism -- that
inhabits, often uncomfortably, that role. So, for instance, the Monk's passion for hunting, and the erotic
energy that drives it, may make him a poor monk, but his failure as a monk, and any social
consequences that it might have, is given very little attention.
Now it would be wrong to say that Chaucer is the first person in the Middle Ages to attend
above all to character. But the precedents for his interest are really quite limited. The fact is that
Chaucer's innovation is truly innovative. He is an original, and so is rightly taken as an origin -- the Father
of English Poetry. And the fact that his originality consists in celebrating the individual makes him the
perfect origin for a critical and political tradition that celebrates individualism.
So to conclude this methodological introduction, this lecture is going to be go against the grain
of both this course and this poet. I am going to offer you a social analysis of Chaucer's interest in
individualism. I won't pretend that this analysis will explain that interest, but I can hope that it can clarify
the conditions that made it possible. And if you want a label to identify the kind of literary criticism I'm
going to practice, perhaps the most accurate is to call it materialist, in that it focuses on the material
conditions within which art emerges.
Now: let me sketch very briefly the economic, social, and political conditions of Chaucer's world,
and then describe his relation to them. Chaucer was born in 1340 or so, and the most important event
that occurred during his lifetime was the plague of 1348-50. Known as the Black Death or just "the
Death," this was the highly infectious disease now known as the bubonic plague; it's caused by a bacillus
carried by fleas which infest certain kinds of rodents -- including the prairie dogs of the American
southwest. In its first pass through Europe it killed about one-third of the population -- and in some
places as much as one-half; it returned to England, albeit in much less devastating fashion, two or three
other times in the fourteenth century, and didn't finally disappear until after the so-called Great Plague
that devastated London in 1665. The demographic effects of the plague were tremendous. Although
exactness is difficult to achieve in this area, it is generally agreed that England did not return to its preplague population level until around the seventeenth century. The cultural effects of the plague are
much more very difficult to determine -- there is little in English artistic or literary production of the
second half of the century that can be attributed with any confidence to the plague. There seems to
have been nothing like the immense psychic disruption that accompanied the two great plagues of our
century, the First and Second World Wars -- and especially the First, which transformed the way in
which Europeans thought about themselves and their collective future.
But the economic and social consequences of the fourteenth-century plague were enormous
and well documented. Prior to 1348 medieval Europe was beginning to suffer from a Malthusian crisis -an imbalance, that is, between population and food production. There were recurrent famines in the
first half of the century, especially in 1314-1320, there was little land available for new cultivation, and
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the traditional feudal structures of lordship and obedience were under strain. The plague shifted the
balance of power dramatically and hastened the end of feudalism as a social and economic system.
Before the plague land and food were scarce while labor was abundant and demand was voracious;
after the plague the situation was exactly the opposite: there was lots of land, far fewer mouths to feed
with a now plentiful agricultural crop, and a severe shortage of labor. This situation empowered both
the unlanded laborer and the tenant, both of whom could now negotiate with their landlords for better
terms; and it threatened the incomes of those landlords, who were of course the ruling class of
medieval England.
Their response was to pass restrictive legislation. As early as 1349 Parliament enacted the
Ordinance of Labourers, and followed it up in 1351 with the Statute of Labourers. This legislation
restricted the right of a tenant to leave his manor, compelled him to accept work when it was offered to
him, forbade employers from offering wages higher than those in force before the plague, codified the
wages of artisans in the towns, and fixed the prices of agricultural goods. It is a matter of dispute among
historians whether these laws achieved their purpose; but everybody agrees that the effort to enforce
them resulted in exacerbating the social friction -- or let's be blunt and call it by its rightful name, class
warfare -- that had always marked the relation of landlord to tenant under feudalism. Perhaps the best
way to describe the situation in England is like this: the plague was a demographic catastrophe but for
the vast majority an economic bonanza; it created bright prospects and rising expectations among the
poorer and especially middling members of society; the repressive legislation passed by the ruling
classes frustrated those expectations; and the result was an explosion. This explosion occurred in 1381
with the so-called Peasants' Revolt, better known as the Rising of 1381 -- an extraordinary event that
had little lasting political effect but that traumatized the ruling class. The Rising had a short but complex
history. Its most intense moments were a march into London by rebels from Essex and Kent on June 13
(which was, not coincidentally, Corpus Christi Day -- a day usually set aside for processions and rituals
organized by the town's most powerful members in order to celebrate the order of the community), the
burning of the London palace of the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt; and the beheading of (among
others) the Archbishop of Canterbury. The rebels were also particularly concerned to burn legal records
that could be used to enforce serfdom and, where possible, to kill lawyers.
The best illustration I can give of the flavor and meaning of this extraordinary event is a very
brief account of the events of the rising in St. Albans, a huge and very prosperous manor just northwest
of London owned by the Benedictine abbey there. The relations between the monks and the tenants of
St. Albans had always been fractious, to say the least. One of the tenants' most bitter grievances had to
do with milling: like all feudal landlords, the Abbot of St. Albans required his tenants to have their grain
ground at large mills owned by the abbey -- and to pay for the privilege (multure). The tenants
periodically circumvented this requirement by building their own handmills and hiding them in their
houses. At least as early as 1274 there are records of the Abbot seizing handmills. About fifty years later,
in 1327, the tenants laid siege to the Abbey and won the concession to have their own mills. But over
the next ten years this concession was canceled, and the people were forced to surrender their
millstones. The Abbot - - a man named Richard -- then had these millstones cemented into the floor of
his parlor -- a peculiarly uncharitable and taunting way of commemorating his victory.
But this isn't the end of the story. For during the rising of 1381 -- in other words, another fifty
years later, which says something about the persistence of their sense of grievance - - the tenants again
laid siege to the Abbey and actually broke in. What they then did was described by the abbey chronicler:
Some ribald people [he says], breaking their way into the Abbey cloisters, took up from the floor
of the parlour doorway the millstones which had been put there in the time of Abbot Richard as a
remembrance and memorial of the ancient dispute between the Abbey and the townsmen. They took
21
the stones outside and handed them over to the commons, breaking them into little pieces and giving a
piece to each person, just as the consecrated bread used to be broken and distributed on Sundays in the
parish churches, so that the people, seeing these pieces, would know themselves avenged against the
Abbey in that cause.
In this extraordinary scene the peasants create a political ritual that replaces and parodies the
central religious ritual -- the Mass -- enacted by the ecclesiastical establishment that had so oppressed
them. It is also relevant to note that the leader of the rebels at St. Albans was a man named William
Grindcobbe, a name that implies -- even if it cannot be used to prove -- that he was himself a miller. The
chronicler also records Grindcobbe's moving words when he was under indictment for his part in the
Rising:
Fellow citizens [he said], for whom a little liberty has now relieved the long years of oppression,
stand firm while you can and do not be afraid because of my persecution. For if it should happen that I
die in the cause of seeking to acquire liberty, I will count myself happy to end my life as such as such a
martyr.
The use of the religious word "martyr" to describe a political rebel is surely significant.
Grindcobbe was indeed executed; as a contemporary verse put it, "The stool was hard, the ax was
scharp / The iiii yere of kyng Richard."
What has this to do with Chaucer? Probably nothing personally: he was living in London at the
time, and doubtless witnessed the invasion of the city by the rebels -- an event to which he refers in the
Nun's Priest's Tale in a tone that is pretty much unreadable. But much more important is the role that he
grants to his miller in the Canterbury Tales. For Chaucer's Miller is not only allowed to interrupt a monk
without retribution -- unlike the martyred William Grindcobbe -- but is also allowed to tell a tale that is a
scathing and very funny parody of the Knight's Tale. In other words, the Canterbury Tales seems to begin
with a kind of literary Rising -- and it would be nice to know what this might mean.
But before I offer you one possible answer to that question I must first say a few more things
about the historical situation and Chaucer's place in it. The Rising of 1381 was part of what we can
appropriately call a crisis of governance that afflicted England in the late fourteenth century. The trauma
of the Rising made visible even to the most complacent observer that profound changes were
transforming English society, but there are other dimensions to the crisis as well. One was the dramatic
decline in England's fortunes in the war with France, the so-called Hundred Years War. This war began in
1337 when Edward III asserted a claim to the throne of France -- a highly dubious claim, incidentally. The
early decades of the war went brilliantly for the English: in 1346 Edward won a decisive victory over the
French at Cr�cy; then in 1356 his son, Edward, the Black Prince, won an even more spectacular victory
at Poitiers, capturing not only many French nobles but even King John of France himself. Apart from
making the knighthood of England feel good about itself, the effect of these successes was to provide
them with very valuable hostages. When King John was finally ransomed by his fellow citizens, it was for
the immense sum of 3,000,000 gold crowns.
The French war, in other words, was in its early years an economic success for the ruling class,
and tended to compensate them for the loss of revenues from their estates due to the shift in economic
power accomplished by the plague. But of course these successes didn't continue. In 1367 the Black
Prince invaded Spain and won a victory over the French at Najera that was all too costly. For the
campaign ruined his health, he fell into a slow, agonizing decline and died in 1376. Meanwhile his father,
Edward III, had also fallen into his dotage, and the French took advantage of this lack of leadership to
reconquer virtually all the territory they had originally lost. So when Edward III died in 1377, the great
22
victories in France were already long past; and he was succeeded not by his heroic son the Black Prince,
who was by then dead, but by his grandson, Richard II, a boy of ten years old.
There is a biblical verse that medieval political theorists were fond of quoting: "Woe to the land
that has a child as king." Certainly the truth of this warning was demonstrated in England. For four years
the government was controlled by Richard's uncle, John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, who was
immensely unpopular and did nothing to revive English fortunes in the war. Then when Richard himself
took over -- right after the Rising of 1381, when he was 15 -- he demonstrated even less capacity for the
chivalric leadership and military success that were so important to legitimizing the authority of the
medieval monarchy.
We come now to a third aspect of the crisis of governance, and the one that most affected
Chaucer personally. This was the struggle that went on from 1384 to 1389 between Richard and the
most powerful members of the English nobility. It is important to realize that a medieval monarch, and
especially in England, could not rule without the support of the most powerful magnates of his country.
This fact had been vividly demonstrated in England a half century earlier, in 1327, when Edward II had
been deposed and murdered. For a variety of reasons -- which I'm going to have skip over -- Richard
quickly lost the support of the magnates: in 1387 he was virtually deposed from the throne (with a
warning that what had happened to his great-grandfather Edward II was about to happen to him), and in
1388 several of his servants and supporters were executed by what came to be known as the Merciless
Parliament. Due to its own ineptness, however, the cabal of nobles who led this revolt (a cabal known as
the Lords Appellant, and including Henry Bolingbroke) fell apart in 1389, and Richard regained power.
Apparently peace was made among the feuding parties, but in 1397 Richard struck back at his old
enemies, executing and murdering several of them -- with the ultimate result that in 1399 John of
Gaunt's son, Henry Bolingbroke, deposed and murdered Richard and became Henry IV.
These Mafia-like machinations were immediately relevant to Chaucer. What was Chaucer's
place in this world? He was the son of a vintner, a wealthy wholesaler of wine in London. Like many
wealthy merchants, Chaucer's father sent his son to be brought up in a noble household -- a kind of
prep-school, a medieval version of Eton or Harrow. Chaucer was first a page in the household of the
countess of Ulster, and was then in the service of Edward III, John of Gaunt, and finally Richard II. It is
not easy to know exactly what Chaucer's social position was, a social undefinability that is itself
interesting. He would certainly not have been considered a member of the nobility, although he does
seem to have had a coat of arms. In 1374 Edward appointed him Controller of the Customs. This was an
important job: he had to make sure that the huge customs duties levied on the export of wool and cloth
were accurately computed and honestly collected. This was money that was crucial to the king, and that
he could not afford to be siphoned off in corruption. But important as the job may have been, it was not
of a high status: Chaucer was required to keep the records in his own hand, and any form of manual
labor was considered demeaning -- and certainly beneath the dignity of an aristocrat. Indeed, prior to
Chaucer all the holders of this office had been clerics: he was the first layman to hold the job. But it was,
as one historian of the customs has rather woundingly put it, a "modest office for modest men."
Moreover, Chaucer lacked the wealth -- and especially the landed wealth -- to be considered a member
of the ruling class. He married one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting, who was a foreigner and brought
with her no significant dowry. Finally, the various other tasks he performed for Edward and Richard,
while by no means unimportant, were exactly comparable to those provided by other merchant sons
who entered noble service; and his remuneration from the monarch -- the various grants and annuities - was also entirely typical for a person of his background. In other words, there is no evidence that
Chaucer was particularly close to the centers of power, and -- more striking -- no evidence that he was
ever rewarded or even recognized by the king for his literary work. We have about 100 documents that
23
pertain to Chaucer's official life -- a very large number -- and not one of them mentions the fact that he
was a poet.
Having said this, there is one moment when Chaucer's service to Richard was of special
importance. This was in 1386, when he was selected to represent Kent in Parliament. This was a crucial
Parliament, in which Richard was trying to head off the magnates who were out to get him. Chaucer was
almost certainly present in this Parliament as an agent of the king: Richard was later accused of having
tried to pack this Parliament, and Chaucer seems to have been one of the men he shoe-horned in. But
Richard's strategy failed, his noble opponents took control of the government and then instituted a
purge. It was at this point that Chaucer resigned from the Controllership -- and again, there is
considerable evidence to suggest that he resigned before he was fired, or perhaps even that he was
fired. There is also evidence that at this time Chaucer was also engaged in diplomatic work for Richard -specifically, initiating secret peace negotiations with the French -- that would have made him highly
vulnerable to the king's opponents.
Let me sum this up and try to draw some conclusions. The first is about Chaucer's social
position. He was the son of a merchant, lived most of his life in London, and as Controller of Customs
dealt with merchants and trade every day. He was also, however, a royal servant, a member of the
households of Edward III and Richard II (although he seems not to have lived for any extended period in
the household), was entrusted with important diplomatic missions and put himself in danger to serve
the king in the prominent position of a member of Parliament. Finally, he was a layman who nonetheless
was capable of performing tasks usually assigned to clerics, he knew Latin, French, and Italian well, and
he was widely if not very deeply read -- in fourteenth-century terms, he would certainly have been
considered as learned as many clerks. This is what I mean by Chaucer's social undefinability: to specify
his social identity -- his precise status and role -- seems impossible. For what the evidence reveals is a
Chaucer on the boundary between several distinctive social formations. He's not bourgeois, he's not
noble, and he's not clerical -- yet he participates in all three of these groupings. Perhaps this lack of
precise social definition can help us to understand -- although of course it cannot be said to cause -Chaucer's interest in individuality -- an interest in what I would call a socially undetermined subjectivity,
a concern with psychological specificity and inwardness, that is everywhere present in his poetry.
My second conclusion is about the genesis and meaning of the Canterbury Tales. Prior to the
writing of the Canterbury Tales, all of Chaucer's poetry -- with one possible exception, the strange and
brilliant poem called the House of Fame -- all of Chaucer's poetry can be accurately characterized as
courtly. This is not to say that it was written for the court, since we really know very little about his
audience. But it is certainly written within the ideological and cultural context of the aristocratic world.
This is, however, not true of the Canterbury Tales: in fact, the only one of the 24 tales that is without
question aristocratic is the Knight's Tale. Now: what is interesting about the Knight's Tale is its context.
First, by being placed in the Canterbury Tales at all it is defined not as a work by Geoffrey Chaucer but
explicitly as a tale told by a knight. Unlike all of his previous poetry, this poem is presented not as
Chaucer's view of the world but rather as that of a typical member of the ruling class of fourteenthcentury England. Second, the theme of the Knight's Tale is precisely a crisis in governance: it tells the
story of how the Athenian man of reason -- Theseus -- tries to control and discipline -- to govern -- two
Theban men of blood, Arcite and Palamon. More than this, however, the Knight's Tale bespeaks a crisis
of governance in the way it is told: the Knight is continually anxious about organizing, controlling,
structuring, and disciplining -- about governing -- his own narrative. In my view, both Theseus and the
Knight fail in their efforts: the tale does not in fact describe a world governed by a benign rationality but
one tormented by random accident and malignant vengefulness. Third, as soon as the Knight tells his
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tale he is immediately challenged -- as I've already said -- by a drunken Miller, who has a very different
view of the world and insists that it be given attention.
What does this mean? Does it mean that the events of the late 1380s turned Chaucer into a
political radical? I don't think so, and the fact that the Miller's Tale opens the door to the embittered
and dangerous Reeve and then the disgusting Cook suggests that Chaucer had second thoughts -- or at
least that he wants us to. But I do think that the events of the 1380s shook Chaucer loose from an
aristocratic culture that he was already finding less and less satisfactory as a context for both artistic
production and for life. And the result -- to our great benefit -- was the Canterbury Tales. But the
Canterbury Tales are not a radical political document; they promote no consistent political position, nor
do they comment in any direct way on any contemporary problems. Certainly they are non-aristocratic,
but they do not propose any alternative social vision to that of the aristocratic world. On the contrary,
they escape from politics entirely by focusing their attention upon individuals, upon character. The
Canterbury Tales, in other words, respond to their time largely by withdrawing from it. Whether this
represents political cowardice or simple prudence on Chaucer's part is an open question. But what
cannot be disputed is that Chaucer's response to the material conditions of his life resulted in a work
that twentieth-century Americans have found both politically congenial and aesthetically irresistible.
25
Jane Eyre
Charlotte Bronte
Chapter 7
My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the golden age either; it comprised an
irksome struggle with difficulties in habituating myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The fear of
failure in these points harassed me worse than the physical hardships of my lot; though these were no
trifles.
During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and, after their melting, the
almost impassable roads, prevented our stirring beyond the garden walls, except to go to church; but
within these limits we had to pass an hour every day in the open air. Our clothing was insufficient to
protect us from the severe cold: we had no boots, the snow got into our shoes and melted there: our
ungloved hands became numbed and covered with chilblains, as were our feet: I remember well the
distracting irritation I endured from this cause every evening, when my feet inflamed; and the torture of
thrusting the swelled, raw, and stiff toes into my shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of food
was distressing: with the keen appetites of growing children, we had scarcely sufficient to keep alive a
delicate invalid. From this deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse, which pressed hardly on the
younger pupils: whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity, they would coax or menace the
little ones out of their portion. Many a time I have shared between two claimants the precious morsel of
brown bread distributed at tea-time; and after relinquishing to a third half the contents of my mug of
coffee, I have swallowed the remainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by the
exigency of hunger.
Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles to Brocklebridge
Church, where our patron officiated. We set out cold, we arrived at church colder: during the morning
service we became almost paralysed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold meat
and bread, in the same penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals, was served round
between the services.
At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and hilly road, where the bitter
winter wind, blowing over a range of snowy summits to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces.
I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our drooping line, her plaid cloak,
which the frosty wind fluttered, gathered close about her, and encouraging us, by precept and example,
to keep up our spirits, and march forward, as she said, "like stalwart soldiers." The other teachers, poor
things, were generally themselves too much dejected to attempt the task of cheering others.
How we longed for the light and heat of a blazing fire when we got back! But, to the little ones
at least, this was denied: each hearth in the schoolroom was immediately surrounded by a double row
of great girls, and behind them the younger children crouched in groups, wrapping their starved arms in
their pinafores.
A little solace came at tea-time, in the shape of a double ration of bread--a whole, instead of a
half, slice--with the delicious addition of a thin scrape of butter: it was the hebdomadal treat to which
we all looked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I generally contrived to reserve a moiety of this
bounteous repast for myself; but the remainder I was invariably obliged to part with.
The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the Church Catechism, and the fifth, sixth,
and seventh chapters of St. Matthew; and in listening to a long sermon, read by Miss Miller, whose
irrepressible yawns attested her weariness. A frequent interlude of these performances was the
26
enactment of the part of Eutychus by some half-dozen of little girls, who, overpowered with sleep,
would fall down, if not out of the third loft, yet off the fourth form, and be taken up half dead. The
remedy was, to thrust them forward into the centre of the schoolroom, and oblige them to stand there
till the sermon was finished. Sometimes their feet failed them, and they sank together in a heap; they
were then propped up with the monitors' high stools.
I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brocklehurst; and indeed that gentleman was from
home during the greater part of the first month after my arrival; perhaps prolonging his stay with his
friend the archdeacon: his absence was a relief to me. I need not say that I had my own reasons for
dreading his coming: but come he did at last.
One afternoon (I had then been three weeks at Lowood), as I was sitting with a slate in my hand,
puzzling over a sum in long division, my eyes, raised in abstraction to the window, caught sight of a
figure just passing: I recognised almost instinctively that gaunt outline; and when, two minutes after, all
the school, teachers included, rose en masse, it was not necessary for me to look up in order to
ascertain whose entrance they thus greeted. A long stride measured the schoolroom, and presently
beside Miss Temple, who herself had risen, stood the same black column which had frowned on me so
ominously from the hearthrug of Gateshead. I now glanced sideways at this piece of architecture. Yes, I
was right: it was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a surtout, and looking longer, narrower, and more
rigid than ever.
I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this apparition; too well I remembered the
perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my disposition, &c.; the promise pledged by Mr. Brocklehurst
to apprise Miss Temple and the teachers of my vicious nature. All along I had been dreading the
fulfilment of this promise,--I had been looking out daily for the "Coming Man," whose information
respecting my past life and conversation was to brand me as a bad child for ever: now there he was.
He stood at Miss Temple's side; he was speaking low in her ear: I did not doubt he was making
disclosures of my villainy; and I watched her eye with painful anxiety, expecting every moment to see its
dark orb turn on me a glance of repugnance and contempt. I listened too; and as I happened to be
seated quite at the top of the room, I caught most of what he said: its import relieved me from
immediate apprehension.
"I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton will do; it struck me that it would be just
of the quality for the calico chemises, and I sorted the needles to match. You may tell Miss Smith that I
forgot to make a memorandum of the darning needles, but she shall have some papers sent in next
week; and she is not, on any account, to give out more than one at a time to each pupil: if they have
more, they are apt to be careless and lose them. And, O ma'am! I wish the woollen stockings were
better looked to!--when I was here last, I went into the kitchen-garden and examined the clothes drying
on the line; there was a quantity of black hose in a very bad state of repair: from the size of the holes in
them I was sure they had not been well mended from time to time."
He paused.
"Your directions shall be attended to, sir," said Miss Temple.
"And, ma'am," he continued, "the laundress tells me some of the girls have two clean tuckers in
the week: it is too much; the rules limit them to one."
"I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes and Catherine Johnstone were invited to take
tea with some friends at Lowton last Thursday, and I gave them leave to put on clean tuckers for the
occasion."
27
Mr. Brocklehurst nodded.
"Well, for once it may pass; but please not to let the circumstance occur too often. And there is
another thing which surprised me; I find, in settling accounts with the housekeeper, that a lunch,
consisting of bread and cheese, has twice been served out to the girls during the past fortnight. How is
this? I looked over the regulations, and I find no such meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this
innovation? and by what authority?"
"I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir," replied Miss Temple: "the breakfast was so ill
prepared that the pupils could not possibly eat it; and I dared not allow them to remain fasting till
dinner-time."
"Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan in bringing up these girls is, not to
accustom them to habits of luxury and indulgence, but to render them hardy, patient, self-denying.
Should any little accidental disappointment of the appetite occur, such as the spoiling of a meal, the
under or the over dressing of a dish, the incident ought not to be neutralised by replacing with
something more delicate the comfort lost, thus pampering the body and obviating the aim of this
institution; it ought to be improved to the spiritual edification of the pupils, by encouraging them to
evince fortitude under temporary privation. A brief address on those occasions would not be mistimed,
wherein a judicious instructor would take the opportunity of referring to the sufferings of the primitive
Christians; to the torments of martyrs; to the exhortations of our blessed Lord Himself, calling upon His
disciples to take up their cross and follow Him; to His warnings that man shall not live by bread alone,
but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God; to His divine consolations, "If ye suffer
hunger or thirst for My sake, happy are ye." Oh, madam, when you put bread and cheese, instead of
burnt porridge, into these children's mouths, you may indeed feed their vile bodies, but you little think
how you starve their immortal souls!"
Mr. Brocklehurst again paused--perhaps overcome by his feelings. Miss Temple had looked
down when he first began to speak to her; but she now gazed straight before her, and her face, naturally
pale as marble, appeared to be assuming also the coldness and fixity of that material; especially her
mouth, closed as if it would have required a sculptor's chisel to open it, and her brow settled gradually
into petrified severity.
Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands behind his back, majestically
surveyed the whole school. Suddenly his eye gave a blink, as if it had met something that either dazzled
or shocked its pupil; turning, he said in more rapid accents than he had hitherto used "Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what--WHAT is that girl with curled hair? Red hair, ma'am, curled-curled all over?" And extending his cane he pointed to the awful object, his hand shaking as he did so.
"It is Julia Severn," replied Miss Temple, very quietly.
"Julia Severn, ma'am! And why has she, or any other, curled hair? Why, in defiance of every
precept and principle of this house, does she conform to the world so openly--here in an evangelical,
charitable establishment--as to wear her hair one mass of curls?"
"Julia's hair curls naturally," returned Miss Temple, still more quietly.
"Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature; I wish these girls to be the children of
Grace: and why that abundance? I have again and again intimated that I desire the hair to be arranged
closely, modestly, plainly. Miss Temple, that girl's hair must be cut off entirely; I will send a barber tomorrow: and I see others who have far too much of the excrescence--that tall girl, tell her to turn round.
Tell all the first form to rise up and direct their faces to the wall."
28
Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to smooth away the involuntary smile that
curled them; she gave the order, however, and when the first class could take in what was required of
them, they obeyed. Leaning a little back on my bench, I could see the looks and grimaces with which
they commented on this manoeuvre: it was a pity Mr. Brocklehurst could not see them too; he would
perhaps have felt that, whatever he might do with the outside of the cup and platter, the inside was
further beyond his interference than he imagined.
He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes, then pronounced sentence.
These words fell like the knell of doom "All those top-knots must be cut off."
Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate.
"Madam," he pursued, "I have a Master to serve whose kingdom is not of this world: my mission
is to mortify in these girls the lusts of the flesh; to teach them to clothe themselves with shamefacedness and sobriety, not with braided hair and costly apparel; and each of the young persons before
us has a string of hair twisted in plaits which vanity itself might have woven; these, I repeat, must be cut
off; think of the time wasted, of--"
Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies, now entered the room. They
ought to have come a little sooner to have heard his lecture on dress, for they were splendidly attired in
velvet, silk, and furs. The two younger of the trio (fine girls of sixteen and seventeen) had grey beaver
hats, then in fashion, shaded with ostrich plumes, and from under the brim of this graceful head-dress
fell a profusion of light tresses, elaborately curled; the elder lady was enveloped in a costly velvet shawl,
trimmed with ermine, and she wore a false front of French curls.
These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple, as Mrs. and the Misses Brocklehurst,
and conducted to seats of honour at the top of the room. It seems they had come in the carriage with
their reverend relative, and had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of the room upstairs, while he
transacted business with the housekeeper, questioned the laundress, and lectured the superintendent.
They now proceeded to address divers remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith, who was charged with the
care of the linen and the inspection of the dormitories: but I had no time to listen to what they said;
other matters called off and enchanted my attention.
Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst and Miss Temple, I had not, at
the same time, neglected precautions to secure my personal safety; which I thought would be effected,
if I could only elude observation. To this end, I had sat well back on the form, and while seeming to be
busy with my sum, had held my slate in such a manner as to conceal my face: I might have escaped
notice, had not my treacherous slate somehow happened to slip from my hand, and falling with an
obtrusive crash, directly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it was all over now, and, as I stooped to pick
up the two fragments of slate, I rallied my forces for the worst. It came.
"A careless girl!" said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately after--"It is the new pupil, I perceive."
And before I could draw breath, "I must not forget I have a word to say respecting her." Then aloud:
how loud it seemed to me! "Let the child who broke her slate come forward!"
Of my own accord I could not have stirred; I was paralysed: but the two great girls who sit on
each side of me, set me on my legs and pushed me towards the dread judge, and then Miss Temple
gently assisted me to his very feet, and I caught her whispered counsel "Don't be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you shall not be punished."
The kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger.
29
"Another minute, and she will despise me for a hypocrite," thought I; and an impulse of fury
against Reed, Brocklehurst, and Co. bounded in my pulses at the conviction. I was no Helen Burns.
"Fetch that stool," said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one from which a monitor had
just risen: it was brought.
"Place the child upon it."
And I was placed there, by whom I don't know: I was in no condition to note particulars; I was
only aware that they had hoisted me up to the height of Mr. Brocklehurst's nose, that he was within a
yard of me, and that a spread of shot orange and purple silk pelisses and a cloud of silvery plumage
extended and waved below me.
Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed.
"Ladies," said he, turning to his family, "Miss Temple, teachers, and children, you all see this
girl?"
Of course they did; for I felt their eyes directed like burning- glasses against my scorched skin.
"You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the ordinary form of childhood; God has
graciously given her the shape that He has given to all of us; no signal deformity points her out as a
marked character. Who would think that the Evil One had already found a servant and agent in her? Yet
such, I grieve to say, is the case."
A pause--in which I began to steady the palsy of my nerves, and to feel that the Rubicon was
passed; and that the trial, no longer to be shirked, must be firmly sustained.
"My dear children," pursued the black marble clergyman, with pathos, "this is a sad, a
melancholy occasion; for it becomes my duty to warn you, that this girl, who might be one of God's own
lambs, is a little castaway: not a member of the true flock, but evidently an interloper and an alien. You
must be on your guard against her; you must shun her example; if necessary, avoid her company,
exclude her from your sports, and shut her out from your converse. Teachers, you must watch her: keep
your eyes on her movements, weigh well her words, scrutinise her actions, punish her body to save her
soul: if, indeed, such salvation be possible, for (my tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, this child, the
native of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen who says its prayers to Brahma and kneels
before Juggernaut--this girl is--a liar!"
Now came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in perfect possession of my wits,
observed all the female Brocklehursts produce their pocket-handkerchiefs and apply them to their
optics, while the elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger ones whispered, "How
shocking!" Mr. Brocklehurst resumed.
"This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and charitable lady who adopted her in
her orphan state, reared her as her own daughter, and whose kindness, whose generosity the unhappy
girl repaid by an ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that at last her excellent patroness was obliged to
separate her from her own young ones, fearful lest her vicious example should contaminate their purity:
she has sent her here to be healed, even as the Jews of old sent their diseased to the troubled pool of
Bethesda; and, teachers, superintendent, I beg of you not to allow the waters to stagnate round her."
With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the top button of his surtout, muttered
something to his family, who rose, bowed to Miss Temple, and then all the great people sailed in state
from the room. Turning at the door, my judge said -
30
"Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool, and let no one speak to her during the
remainder of the day."
There was I, then, mounted aloft; I, who had said I could not bear the shame of standing on my
natural feet in the middle of the room, was now exposed to general view on a pedestal of infamy. What
my sensations were no language can describe; but just as they all rose, stifling my breath and
constricting my throat, a girl came up and passed me: in passing, she lifted her eyes. What a strange
light inspired them! What an extraordinary sensation that ray sent through me! How the new feeling
bore me up! It was as if a martyr, a hero, had passed a slave or victim, and imparted strength in the
transit. I mastered the rising hysteria, lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen Burns
asked some slight question about her work of Miss Smith, was chidden for the triviality of the inquiry,
returned to her place, and smiled at me as she again went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and I
know that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it lit up her marked lineaments, her thin
face, her sunken grey eye, like a reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen Burns
wore on her arm "the untidy badge;" scarcely an hour ago I had heard her condemned by Miss
Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow because she had blotted an exercise in copying
it out. Such is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet; and
eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only see those minute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of the
orb.
31
Excerpts from The Hero with a Thousand Faces
by Joseph Campbell
The happy ending of the fairy tale, the myth, and the divine comedy of the soul is to be read, not
as a contradiction, but as a transcendence of the universal tragedy of man. The objective world remains
what it was, but because of a shift of emphasis within the subject, is beheld as though transformed.
Where formerly life and death contended, now enduring being is made manifest – as indifferent to the
accidents of time as water boiling in a pot is to the destiny of a bubble, or as the cosmos to the
appearance and disappearance of a galaxy of stars. Tragedy is the shattering of the forms and of our
attachment to the forms; comedy, the wild and careless, inexhaustible joy of life invincible. Thus the two
are the terms of a single mythological theme and experience which includes them both and which they
bound: the down-going and the up-coming (kathodos and anodos), which together constitute the
totality of the revelation that is life, and which the individual must know and love if he is to be purged
(katharsis=purgatorio) of the contagion of sin (disobedience to the divine will) and death (identification
with the mortal form). (21)
***
The standard path of the mythological adventure of the hero is a magnification of the formula
represented in the rites of passage: separation – initiation – return: which might be named the nuclear
unit of the monomyth (23).
***
Typically, the hero of the fairy tale achieves a domestic, microcosmic triumph, and the hero of myth a
world-historical, macrocosmic triumph. Whereas the former – the youngest or despised child who
becomes the master of extraordinary powers – prevails over his personal oppressors, the latter brings
back from his adventure the means for the regeneration of his society as a whole. Tribal or local heroes,
such as emperor Huang Ti, Moses, or the Aztec Tezcatlipoca, commit their boons to a single folk;
universal heroes – Mohammed, Jesus, Gautama Buddha – bring a message for the entire world.
Whether the hero be ridiculous or sublime, Greek or barbarian, gentile or Jew, his journey varies
little in essential plan. Popular tales represent the heroic action as physical; the higher religions show
the deed to be moral; nevertheless, there will be found astonishingly little variation in the morphology
of the adventure, the character roles involved, the victories gained. If one or another of the basic
elements of the archetypal pattern is omitted from a given fairy tale, legend, ritual, or myth, it is bound
to be somehow or other implied – and the omission itself can speak volumes for the history and
pathology of the example. . . (30)
***
The cosmogonic cycle is presented with astonishing consistency in the sacred writings of all the
continents, and it gives to the adventure of the hero a new and interesting turn; for now it appears that
the perilous journey was a labor not of attainment but of reattainment, not discovery but rediscovery.
The godly powers sought and dangerously won are revealed to have been within the heart of the hero
all the time. He is “the king’s son” who has come to know who he is and therewith has entered into the
exercise of his proper power – “God’s son,” who has learned to know how much that title means. From
this point of view the hero is symbolical of that divine creative and redemptive image which is hidden
within us all, only waiting to be known and rendered into life. (30-31)
32
***
The two – the hero and his ultimate god, the seeker and the found – are thus understood as the outside
and inside of a single, self-mirrored mystery, which is identical with the mystery of the manifest world.
The great deed of the supreme hero is to come to the knowledge of this unity in multiplicity and then to
make it known (31).
***
The effect of the successful adventure of the hero is the unlocking and release again of the flow of life
into the body of the world. The miracle of this flow may be represented in physical terms as a circulation
of food substance, dynamically as a streaming of energy, or spiritually as a manifestation of grace. Such
varieties of image alternate easily, representing three degrees of condensation of the one life force. An
abundant harvest is the sign of God’s grace; God’s grace is the food of the soul; the lightning bolt is the
harbinger of fertilizing rain, and at the same time the manifestation of the released energy of God.
Grace, food substance, energy: these pour into the living world and wherever they fail, life decomposes
into death. (32)
***
For those who have not refused the call, the first encounter of the hero-journey is with a
protective figure (often a little old crone or old man) who provides the adventurer with amulets against
the dragon forces he is about to pass (57).
***
What such a figure [the old crone or old man] represents is the benign, protecting power of
destiny. The fantasy is a reassurance – a promise that the peace of Paradise, which was known first with
the mother womb, is not to be lost; that it supports the present and stands in the future as well as in the
past (is omega as well as alpha); that though omnipotence may seem to be endangered by the threshold
passages and life awakenings, protective power is always and ever present within the sanctuary of the
heart and even immanent within, or just behind, the unfamiliar features of the world. One has only to
know and trust, and the ageless guardians will appear. Having responded to his own call, and continuing
to follow courageously as the consequences unfold, the hero finds all the forces of the unconscious at
his side. Mother Nature herself supports the mighty task. And in so far as the hero’s act coincides with
that for which his society itself is ready, he seems to ride on the great rhythm of the historical process. “I
feel myself,” said Napoloeon at the opening of his Russian campaign, “driven towards an end that I do
not know. As soon as I shall have reached it, as soon as I shall become unnecessary, an atom will suffice
to shatter me. Till then, not all the forces of mankind can do anything against me.” (59)
33
New Words in Hamlet?
It is often said that Shakespeare’s use of language in Hamlet is particularly rich and innovative. A frequently
quoted remark is that, in writing Hamlet, Shakespeare introduced ‘over six hundred’ new words into the
English language. Internet sources, particularly, tend to repeat this information. However, while Shakespeare
did employ a wide vocabulary in the writing of Hamlet, the figure of ‘over six hundred’ refers to words that,
according to Alfred Hart (1943), Shakespeare had not previously used in any of his plays. Hart called these
‘fresh’ words. [1] His research involved putting the plays into chronological order, [2] and counting the words,
then arriving at the number of fresh words used in any given play. That meant that, in Shakespeare’s first play,
all of the words were fresh, since he had not used them before. This is not the same thing as words that are
new to the English language. Both G. R. Hibbard and Stephen Greenblatt correctly state that Shakespeare
employed over 600 words that were new to him in Hamlet, Hibbard citing Hart’s work directly. [3] These
sources have sometimes been misunderstood, and the mistake has arisen.
What Hart did say was that a hundred and seventy words in Hamlet were new to the English language. [4] He
cites the Oxford English Dictionary, or OED, in his articles, and this is one possible source for his information.
However, determining when words were first used in Elizabethan English is no easy matter. There are no
audio recordings that would allow us to listen to speech, and thus our understanding is confined to what we
read in texts. We can never be certain that what we think is the first appearance of a word in our literature is
really the very first; all we can say is that no earlier use has yet been discovered. In addition, we do not know
how long a word or expression may have been used in the spoken language, before being written down. So
we cannot be sure, even if a trusted source like the OED cites Hamlet as the first instance of a word being
used, that it had never been written or spoken before.
Also, we must think about what counts as a ‘word’. Are ‘believe’, ‘believed’, ‘believing’, ‘believer’ and ‘belief’
all different words, or forms of the same word? And what about the part of speech a word belongs to? ‘Cool’
may be a verb or an adjective, and may be used literally, or metaphorically, as in ‘Upon the heat and flame of
thy distemper/ Sprinkle cool patience’ (Ham. 3.4.119-20). [5] The OED records first instances of different
forms and meanings of words. Some of these are archaic, so even if Shakespeare uses a word we recognise, he
may be using it in an unfamiliar way. Hamlet contains many words that we use today that were then used as
different parts of speech, or with other meanings, such as ‘emulate’ (used as an adjective, 1.1.82) and
‘unimproved’ (according to the OED, meaning ‘not reproved’, and according to the Arden Shakespeare,
meaning ‘untried’, 1.1.95). [6] Issues like these mean that every scholar may arrive at a different conclusion
when deciding which words and usages appeared for the first time in any given work of literature. [7]
The online edition of the OED gives a number of words that make their first appearance in the English
language in Hamlet. [8] These include such colourful words as ‘avouch’ (1.1.56), ‘blastments’ (1.3.41), ‘fanged’
(3.4.201), ‘gibber’ (1.1.115) and ‘strewments’ (5.1.222), as well as the more ordinary ‘defeated’ (1.2.10),
‘reword’ (3.4.142), ‘survivor’ (1.2.90), and ‘unpolluted’ (5.1.228). Shakespeare uses ‘cudgel’ in I Hen. IV with
the literal meaning ‘to beat with a cudgel’, but in Hamlet it has the figurative meaning of racking one’s brain:
‘cudgel thy brains no more about it’ (5.1.52). Expressions include ‘Gods bodkin’, (2.2.467), an oath meaning
‘God’s dear body!’, and the melodramatic ‘Unhand me, gentlemen’ (1.4.84).
Many critics agree that Hamlet is notable for linguistic inventiveness and variety. According to Auden, in
Hamlet Shakespeare was ‘developing a more flexible verse’, but also using prose innovatively: Hamlet speaks
verse in passionate scenes and soliloquies, and prose conversationally. [9] For Frank Kermode, the language of
Hamlet is characterised by ‘limitless variation’. [10] Paired words and expressions, Kermode finds, are
particularly characteristic of Hamlet. They can be oppositional, as ‘spirit of health, or goblin damned’ (1.4.40),
or express similar ideas, as in ‘whips and scorns of time’ (3.1.69), ‘dead waste and middle of the night’
(1.2.197), or ‘the trappings and the suits of woe’ (1.2.86). [11] Also notable are oxymorons, like ‘crafty
34
madness’ (3.1.8) and ‘defeated joy’ (1.2.10), as well as repetition of adjectives, and indeed of sounds, as in
‘bloody, bawdy villain,/ Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain’ (2.2.515-16). [12] We can see
why, for Alfred Hart, ‘Hamlet is the supreme example of Shakespeare’s delight in and command of fresh and
forceful words’. [13]
Karen Kay
1. Alfred Hart, ‘The Growth of Shakespeare’s Vocabulary’, Review of English Studies, 19, no. 75 (July 1943), pp. 24254 (p. 249). Hart counted 606 ‘fresh’ words in Hamlet, of which 396 were not used in any of Shakespeare’s other
plays.
2. Hart faced some difficulty here, because the dates when the plays were written are frequently disputed. Cf. Hart,
‘Growth’, p. 246.
3. Cf. William Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. by G. R. Hibbard, The Oxford Shakespeare (Oxford: Clarendon, 1987), p. 30,
and Stephen Greenblatt, Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare (London: Cape, 2004), pp. 307-8.
4. Alfred Hart, ‘Vocabularies of Shakespeare’s Plays’, Review of English Studies, 19, no. 74 (April 1943), pp. 128-40
(p. 135).
5. All quotations follow the spellings and the act, scene and line numbers of William Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. by
Ann Thompson and Neil Taylor, The Arden Shakespeare, 3rd Series (London: Thomson Learning, 2006). These are
often different from the quotations as cited in the online OED.
6. Cf. Hamlet, p. 157, n. 95.
7. Cf. Hart, ‘Vocabularies’, pp. 129-30, for an explanation of his word-counting methods. For example, he writes, ‘I
counted as one word a noun used adjectivally, an adjective used as a noun or an adverb, an adverb used as a
preposition, or a preposition used as a conjunction or adverb. [...] In general, I did not count inflected forms of a
verb, e.g., present participle, past participle or gerund, as distinct from the parent verb. If a participle had acquired
a specialized sense or represented a substantive with the addition of –ed or –ing, it was reckoned as a distinct
word’ (p. 129). Also cf. N. F. Blake, Shakespeare’s Language: An Introduction (London: Macmillan, 1983), pp. 41-2,
for a discussion of lexical innovation in Hamlet and contemporary literature.
8. For those who have access to the OED online, http://dictionary.oed.com/ a list of 121 entries was found using
Advanced search, and entering Shakes. in the first cited author field and Ham. in the quotation work field.
However, this search may yield instances, as with ‘crimeful’ and ‘defeat’, where Shakespeare uses the word first in
another play. Searches with Shakes. in first cited author and Ham. in first cited work, or with Shakes. in quotation
author and Ham. in first cited work, yield only 96 entries. However, the word ‘cool’ in an adjectival, figurative
sense, ‘cool patience’, whose first instance is given as Hamlet, appears in none of these search results, so all may be
incomplete. The search facility appears to be sensitive to the exact forms of the author and title, which are
frequently abbreviated, so entering Shakespeare and Hamlet will not bring up a full list.
9. W. H. Auden, Lectures on Shakespeare, ed. by Arthur Kirsch (London: Faber, 2000), p. 160.
10. Frank Kermode, Shakespeare’s Language (New York: Farrar, 2000), p. 97.
11. Kermode, pp. 104-15.
12. Kermode, pp. 103, 114-5.
13. Hart, ‘Growth’, p. 254.
35
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
By Tom Stoppard
ACT ONE (Excerpt)
Two ELIZABETHANS passing time in a place without any visible character. They are well-dressed - hats,
cloaks, sticks and all. Each of them has a large leather money bag. Guildenstern's bag is nearly empty.
Rosencrantz's bag is nearly full. The reason being: they are betting on the toss of a coin, in the following
manner: Guildenstern (hereafter 'GUIL') takes a coin out of his bag, spins it, letting it fall. Rosencrantz
(hereafter 'ROS') studies it, announces it as "heads" (as it happens) and puts it into his own bag. Then
they repeat the process. They have apparently been doing it for some time. The run of "heads" is
impossible, yet ROS betrays no surprise at all - he feels none. However he is nice enough to feel a little
embarrassed attaking so much money off his friend. Let that be his character note. GUIL is well alive to
the oddity of it. He is not worried about the money, but he is worried by the implications; aware but not
going to panic about it - his character note.
GUIL sits. ROS stands (he does the moving, retrieving coins).
GUIL spins. ROS studies coin.
ROS: Heads.
(He picks it up and puts it in his money bag. The process is repeated.)
Heads.
(Again.)
ROS: Heads.
(Again.)
Heads.
(Again.)
Heads.
GUIL (flipping a coin): There is an art to the building up of suspense.
ROS: Heads.
GUIL (flipping another): Though it can be done by luck alone.
ROS: Heads.
GUIL: If that's the word I'm after.
ROS (raises his head at GUIL): Seventy-six love.
(GUIL gets up but has nowhere to go. He spins another coin over his shoulder without looking at it, his
attention being directed at his environment or lack of it.)
Heads.
36
GUIL: A weaker man might be moved to re-examine his faith, if in nothing else at least in the law of
probability.
(He slips a coin over his shoulder as he goes to look upstage.)
ROS: Heads.
(GUIL, examining the confines of the stage, flips over two more coins, as he does so, one by one of
course. ROS announces each of them as "heads".)
GUIL (musing): The law of probability, as it has been oddly asserted, is something to do with the
proposition that if six monkeys (he has surprised himself)... if six monkeys were...
ROS: Game?
GUIL: Were they?
ROS: Are you?
GUIL (understanding): Games. (Flips a coin.) The law of averages, if I have got this right, means that if six
monkeys were thrown up in the air for long enough they would land on their tails about as often as they
would land on their ROS: Heads. (He picks up the coin.)
GUIL: Which at first glance does not strike one as a particularly rewarding speculation, in either sense,
even without the monkeys. I mean you wouldn't bet on it. I mean I would, but you wouldn't... (As he
flips a coin.)
ROS: Heads.
GUIL: Would you? (Flips a coin.)
ROS: Heads.
(Repeat.)
Heads. (He looks up at GUIL - embarrassed laugh.) Getting a bit of a bore, isn't it?
GUIL (coldly): A bore?
ROS: Well...
GUIL: What about suspense?
ROS (innocently): What suspense?
(Small pause.)
GUIL: It must be the law of diminishing returns... I feel the spell about to be broken. (Energising himself
somewhat.)
(He takes out a coin, spins it high, catches it, turns it over on to the back of his other hand, studies the
coin – and tosses it to ROS. His energy deflates and he sits.)
Well, it was a even chance... if my calculations are correct.
ROS: Eighty-five in a row - beaten the record!
GUIL: Don't be absurd.
ROS: Easily!
37
GUIL (angry): Is the it, then? Is that all?
ROS: What?
GUIL: A new record? Is that as far as you prepared to go?
ROS: Well...
GUIL: No questions? Not even a pause?
ROS: You spun it yourself.
GUIL: Not a flicker of doubt?
ROS (aggrieved, aggressive): Well, I won - didn't I?
GUIL (approaches him - quieter): And if you'd lost? If they'd come down against you, eighty -five times,
one after another, just like that?
ROS (dumbly): Eighty-five in a row? Tails?
GUIL: Yes! What would you think?
ROS (doubtfully): Well... (Jocularly.) Well, I'd have a good look at your coins for a start!
GUIL (retiring): I'm relieved. At least we can still count on self-interest as a predictable factor... I suppose
it's the last to go. Your capacity for trust made me wonder if perhaps... you, alone...
(He turns on him suddenly, reaches out a hand.) Touch.
(ROS claps his hand. GUIL pulls him up to him.)
(More intensely): We have been spinning coins together since - (He releases him almost as violently.)
This is not the first time we spun coins!
ROS: Oh no - we've been spinning coins for as long as I remember.
GUIL: How long is that?
ROS: I forget. Mind you - eighty-five times!
GUIL: Yes?
ROS: It'll take some time beating, I imagine.
GUIL: Is that what you imagine? Is that it? No fear?
ROS: Fear?
GUIL (in fury - flings a coin on the ground): Fear! The crack that might flood your brain with light!
ROS: Heads... (He puts it in his bag.)
(GUIL sits despondently. He takes a coin, spins it, lets it fall between his feet. He looks at it, picks it up;
throws it to ROS, who puts it in his bag.)
(GUIL takes another coin, spins it, catches it, turns it over on to his other hand, looks at it, and throws it
to ROS who puts it in his bag.)
(GUIL tales a third coin, spins it, catches it in his right hand, turns it over on to his loft wrist, lobs it in the
air, catches it with his left hand, raises his left leg, throws the coin up under it, catches it and turns it
over on to the top of his head, where it sits. ROS comes, looks at it, puts it in his bag.)
38
ROS: I'm afraid GUIL: So am I.
ROS: I'm afraid it isn't your day.
GUIL: I'm afraid it is.
(Small pause.)
ROS: Eighty-nine.
GUIL: It must be indicative of something, besides the redistribution of wealth. (He muses.) List of
possible explanations. One: I'm willing it. Inside where nothing shows, I'm the essence of a man spinning
double-headed coins, and betting against himself in private atonement for an unremembered past. (He
spins a coin at ROS.)
ROS: Heads.
GUIL: Two: time has stopped dead, and a single experience of one coin being spun once has been
repeated ninety times... (He flips a coin, looks at it, tosses it to ROS.) On the whole, doubtful. Three:
divine intervention, that is to say, a good turn from above concerning him, cf. children of Israel, or
retribution from above concerning me, cf. Lot's wife. Four: a spectacular vindication of the principle that
each individual coin spun individually (he spins one) is as likely to come down heads as tails and
therefore should cause no surprise that each individual time it does. (It does. He tosses it to ROS.)
ROS: I've never known anything like it!
GUIL: And syllogism: One, he has never known anything like it. Two: he has never known anything to
write home about. Three, it's nothing to write home about... Home... What's the first thing you
remember?
ROS: Oh, let's see...The first thing that comes into my head, you mean?
GUIL: No - the first thing you remember.
ROS: Ah. (Pause.) No, it's no good, it's gone. It was a long time ago.
GUIL (patient but edged): You don't get my meaning. What is the first thing after all the things you've
forgotten?
ROS: Oh. I see. (Pause.) I've forgotten the question.
GUIL: How long have you suffered from a bad memory?
ROS: I can't remember.
ACT TWO (Excerpt)
HAMLET, ROS and GUIL talking, the continuation of the previous scene. Their conversation, on the
move, is indecipherable at first. The first illegible line is HAMLET's, coming at the end of a short speech See Shakespeare Act II, scene ii.
HAMLET: S'blood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could take it out.
(A flourish from the TRAGEDIANS' band.)
GUIL: There are the players.
39
HAMLET: Gentlemen, you are welcome in Elsinore. Your hands, come then. (He takes their hands.) The
appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent
to the players (which I tell you must show fairly outwards) should more appear like entertainment than
yours. You are welcome. (About to leave.) But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.
GUIL: In what, my dear lord?
HAMLET: I am but mad north north-west; when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.
(POLUNIUS enters, as GUIL turns away.)
POLONIUS: Well be you gentlemen.
HAMLET (to ROS): Mark you, Guildenstern (uncertainly to GUIL) and you too; at each ear a hearer. That
great baby you see there is not yet out of swaddling clouts... (He takes ROS upstage with him, talking
together.)
POLONIUS: My Lord! I have news to tell you.
HAMLET (releasing ROS and mimicking): My lord, I have news to tell you... When Rocius was an actor in
Rome...
(ROS comes down to re-join GUIL.)
POLONIUS (as he follows HAMLET out): The actors are come hither my lord.
HAMLET: Buzz, buzz.
(Exeunt HAMLET and POLONIUS.)
(ROS and GUIL ponder. Each reluctant to speak first.)
GUIL: Hm?
ROS: Yes?
GUIL: What?
ROS: I thought you...
GUIL: No.
ROS: Ah.
(Pause.)
GUIL: I think we can say we made some headway.
ROS: You think so?
GUIL: I think we can say that.
ROS: I think we can say he made us look ridiculous.
GUIL: We played it close to the chest of course.
ROS (derisively): "Question and answer. Old ways are the best ways"! He was scoring off us all down the
line.
GUIL: He caught us on the wrong foot once or twice, perhaps, but I thought we gained some ground.
ROS (simply): He murdered us.
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GUIL: He might have had the edge.
ROS (roused): Twenty-seven - three, and you think he might have had the edge?! He murdered us.
GUIL: What about our evasions?
ROS: Oh, our evasions were lovely. "Were you sent for?" he says. "My lord, we were sent for..." I didn't
where to put myself.
GUIL: He had six rhetoricals ROS: It was question and answer, all right. Twenty-seven questions he got out in ten minutes, and
answered three. I was waiting for you to delve. "When is he going to start delving?" I asked myself.
GUIL: - And two repetitions.
ROS: Hardly a leading question between us.
GUIL: We got his symptoms, didn't we?
ROS: Half of what he said meant something else, and the other half didn't mean anything at all.
GUIL: Thwarted ambition - a sense of grievance, that's my diagnosis.
ROS: Six rhetorical and two repetitions, leaving nineteen of which we answered fifteen. And what did we
get in return? He's depressed!... Denmark's a prison and he'd rather live in a nutshell; some shadow-play
about the nature of ambition, which never got down to cases, and finally one direct question which
might have led somewhere, and led in fact to his illuminating claim to tell a hawk from a handsaw.
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The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
By T.S. Eliot
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
10
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
20
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
42
30
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
40
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
50
60
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
43
70
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
90
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
110
. . . . .
44
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
120
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
[1915]
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130
THE REAL OR ASSUMED MADNESS OF HAMLET
By: Simon Augustine Blackmore
The following article was originally published in The Riddles of Hamlet and The Newest
Answers. Simon Augustine Blackmore. Boston: Stratford Company, 1917.
The mooted question of the Prince's sanity has divided the readers of Shakespeare into two opposing
schools; the one defending a feigned, and the other an unfeigned madness. The problem arises from the
Poet's unrivalled genius in the creation of characters. So vivid were his conceptions of his ideal creations
that, actually living and acting in them, he gives them an objective existence in which they seem living
realities, or persons walking among us, endowed with our human emotions and passions, and subject to
the vicissitudes of our common mortality. The confounding of this ideal with the real has given rise to
two divergent schools. The critics of the one, unmindful of the fact that Hamlet is wholly an ideal
existence, are accustomed to look upon him as real and actual as the men they daily meet in social
intercourse, and accordingly judge him as they would a man in ordinary life. The other school, ignoring
the different impersonations of Hamlet upon the public stage, considers him only as an ideal existence,
and places the solution of the problem in the discovery of the dramatist's intention in the creation of the
character.
The Poet with consummate art has so portrayed the abnormal actions of a demented mind, and so truly
pictured all the traits of genuine madness, even in its minutest symptoms, that a real madman could not
enact the character more perfectly. Conscious of his skill in this portrayal so true to life, he has in
consequence depicted the court of Claudius divided in opinion on Hamlet's feigned or unfeigned
madness, just as the Shakespearean world is divided today. To say that the Queen, and Polonius, and
others thought him mad, is no proof of his real madness; but only that by his perfect impersonation he
succeeded in creating this belief; and that such was his purpose is clear from the play. If the court firmly
believed in the dementia of the Prince, Claudius, who was of a deeper and more penetrating mind and
an adept in crafty cunning, stood firm in his doubt from the first. The consciousness of his guilt made
him alert and, like a criminal ever fearing detection, he suspected the concealment of some evil design
under Hamlet's mimic madness. If today we find eminent physicians standing with Polonius and the
Queen in the belief of Hamlet's real madness, we see on the opposite side others with the astute king
and an overwhelming majority of Shakespeare's readers. That many physicians should deem the Prince's
madness a reality is nothing surprising. Well known are the celebrated legal cases in which medical
specialists of the highest rank were divided in judgment on the sanity or insanity of the man on trial.
Let a man mimic madness as perfectly as Hamlet, and be summoned to court on trial of his sanity. If it
be shown by judicial evidence, that before beginning to enact the role of madman, he had never
throughout his life exhibited the least symptom of dementia, but, on the contrary, was known as a man
of a sound and strong mind; if it be shown that before assuming the antics of a madman, he had actually
summoned his trusted friends, informed them of his purpose, cautioned them against betrayal, and
even sworn them to secrecy; if it be proved that on every occasion, when moving among his intimate
friends, he is consistently sane, and feigns madness only in the presence of those who, he fears, will
thwart his secret design; and if it be shown on reputable testimony that he entered upon his course of
dementia to guard an incommunicable secret, and to shield himself in the pursuit of a specified end,
difficult and dangerous of attainment; such a man on such evidence would in open court be declared
beyond all doubt sane and sound of mind by the unanimous verdict of any specially impanelled jury.
The mad role that Hamlet plays to perfection, is certainly a proof of Shakespeare's genius, but by no
means a surety of the insanity of the Prince, unless we be prepared to maintain that no one save a
madman can simulate dimentia. If, as Lowell has well remarked, Shakespeare himself without being
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mad, could so observe and remember all the abnormal symptoms of insanity as to reproduce them, why
should it be beyond the power of an ideal Hamlet, born into dramatic life, to reproduce them in himself
any more than the many tragedians, who, since Shakespeare's day, have so successfully mimicked the
madness of the Prince upon the public stage?
The perfect portrayal of Hamlet's mad role has been ascribed to the unaided genius of Shakespeare. The
character, it is thought, is nothing more than the outward expression of the Poet's subjective and purely
mental creation. Such a notion, while highly magnifying the powers of the artist, is, however, contrary to
psychological facts. Our ideas are mental images of things perceived by the senses. They depend upon
their objective realities no less than does an image upon the thing which it images. The dictum of
Aristotle: "There are no ideas in our intellect which we have not derived from sense perception," has
become an axiom of rational philosophy. If then all natural knowledge originates in sense perception,
Shakespeare's perfect knowledge of the symptoms of insanity was not the product of his imagination
alone, but was due to his observation of these symptoms existing in real human beings. His portrayal is
admittedly true to nature, and it is true to nature because a reflex or reproduction of what he himself
had witnessed in demented unfortunates. This fact has been placed beyond reasonable doubt by a legal
document which was recently discovered in the Roll's Office, London. [The document is a record of a
lawsuit of a Huguenot family with whom Shakespeare boarded, and in whose interest he appeared
several times as a sworn witness in court.] From it we learn that Shakespeare lived on Muggleton Street,
directly opposite a medical college near which was an insane asylum. Here, by studying the antics of the
inmates, he had every opportunity to draw from nature, when engaged in the creation of his mad
characters. It is therefore more reasonable to infer that his accurate knowledge of traits which are
common to the demented was not solely the product of his imagination, but rather the result of his
studied observations of individual cases.
Since Hamlet then on the testimony of medical experts exhibits accurately all the symptoms of
dementia, the question of his real or pretended madness can be solved only by ascertaining the
intention of the Poet. We may safely assume that a dramatist so renowned in his art has not left us in
darkness concerning a factor most important in this drama. In our doubt we may turn for light to other
dramas wherein he portrays demented characters with equal skill. Nowhere can we find more striking
elements of contrast and resemblance than in Lear and Ophelia. The grandeur of Lear in his sublime
outbursts of a mighty passion, differs surprisingly from the pathetic inanities of the gentle Ophelia; yet
Shakespeare leaves no doubt of the genuine madness of the one and the other. In Lear, supreme
ingratitude, blighting the affections of a fond and over-confiding parent, has wrecked his noble mind; in
Ophelia, the loss of a father by the hand of a lover, whose "noble and most sovereign reason" she has
seemingly blasted by rejecting his importunate suit, has over-powered her feelings, and left her "divided
from herself and her fair judgment, without the which we're pictures, or mere beasts." Both Lear and
Ophelia are portrayed as genuinely mad, and nevertheless, unlike Hamlet, they disclose no purpose nor
design in their madness, nor seek to conceal the cause of their distress. On the contrary they always
have on their lips utterances which directly or indirectly reveal the reason of their mental malady.
Far otherwise is it with Edgar and with Hamlet. Hence, a comparison of the nature of their madness may
be a flash of light in darkness. Both are pictured as feigning madness. If Edgar, the victim of a brother's
treachery, enacts in his banishment the role of a fool with a perfection which eludes discovery; so does
Hamlet, the victim of his uncle's treachery, deceive by his mimic madness all but the crafty King. Both,
unlike Lear and Ophelia, enter upon their feigned madness for an expressed specific purpose, and both,
far from revealing the real cause of their grief, are ever on the alert to conceal it; because its discovery
would frustrate the object of their pursuit. As in the drama of Lear, the Poet has left no possible doubt
of the real madness of the king, and of the feigned insanity of Edgar, so also we may reasonably expect
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to find in his Tragedy of Hamlet, not only clear proofs of Ophelia's madness, but also, sufficient
indications of the Prince's feigned dementia.
The first of these indications is the fact that the assumed madness of Hamlet is in conformity with the
original story, as told in the old runic rhymes of the Norsemen. Considering moreover the exigencies of
the plot and counterplots, the role of madman seems evidently forced upon him. As soon as he had
recovered from the terrible and overpowering agitation of mind and feelings with which the ghostly
revelation had afflicted him, he realized that the world had changed about him; that he himself had
changed, and that he could no longer comport himself as before at the court of Claudius. This change,
he feels he cannot fully conceal, and, therefore, welcomes the thought of hiding his real self behind the
mask of a madman. But he must play his role, not indifferently, but with such perfection of truthful
reality as to deceive the whole court, and above all, if possible, his arch-enemy, the astute and cunning
King. With this in view, the dramatist had of necessity to portray the hero's madness with all the traits of
a real affliction; for, if the court could discover Hamlet's madness to be unreal, his design and purpose
would be thereby defeated.
It seems evident that the Poet in the very concept of the plot and its development, intended, in the
portrayal of Hamlet's antic disposition, to produce the impression of insanity, and, nevertheless, by a
flashlight here and there, to expose to us the truth as known alone to himself and to Hamlet's initiated
friends. Throughout the first Act, wherein the Prince is pictured in acute mental grief at the loss of his
loved father and the shameful conduct of his mother, there is nothing even to suggest the notion of
dementia. It is only after the appalling revelations of the ghost, which exposed the secret criminals and
his own horrid situation that he resolved to wear the mask of a madman in the furtherance of his
suddenly formed plan of "revenge." Hence, at once confiding his purpose to his two trusted friends and
swearing them to secrecy, he begins to play the part and to impress upon the court the notion of his
lunacy.
Had Shakespeare failed to shed this strong light upon Hamlet's purpose, he would certainly have left
room for doubt; but not satisfied with this, he scatters through the drama other luminous marks, to
guide our dubious path. A strong mark is found in the many soliloquies in which the Prince, giving way to
the intensity of his feelings, expresses the inmost thoughts of his heart; in them were surely offered
ample opportunities to expose, here and there, some trace of his supposed affliction. But it is
remarkably strange that never, like the insane, does he lapse in his frequent monologues into irrelevant
and incoherent speech, nor use incongruous and inane words. Another luminous index is Hamlet's
intercourse with his school-fellow and sole bosom friend, the scholarly Horatio. The Prince throughout
takes him into his confidence, and Horatio, therefore, surely knew his mental condition; yet in mutual
converse, whether in public or in private, he always supposes his friend to be rational, and never, by any
sign or word, does he manifest friendly sentiments of sorrow or of sympathy, as he naturally would, if
ignorant of the feigned madness of Hamlet. Horatio is well aware that everyone assumes his friend to be
demented, and, nevertheless, because true to him and to his sworn promise of secrecy, he does nothing
to dispel, but rather lends himself to sustain the common delusion. Another striking indication is the
Prince's treatment of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. After worming out their secret mission from the
King, Hamlet partly lifts the veil for us in the words:
HAMLET: But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.
GUILDENSTERN: In what my dear lord?
HAMLET: I am but mad north-northwest; when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Again, Hamlet's instruction to the players, his cautious direction to Horatio, as well as his skillful
intermittent play of madness when in the same scene he addresses Horatio, Ophelia, the King, and
48
Polonius, display, not only a sane, but also a master mind, versatile in wit, and ready to meet cunning
subterfuge with artifice at every point. If he were really mad, he could never have preserved such
perfect consistency in word and action towards so many people under rapid change of circumstances;
always sane in dealing with his friends, and always simulating madness in presence of those whom he
mistrusted. Once he was obliged to raise his vizor in presence of his mother. It was in the formal
interview, when she sought to shelter herself against his merciless moral onslaught by asserting his
madness. But by unmasking himself he baffled her, and proceeded in a terrible but righteous wrath to
lacerate her dormant conscience, till he awakened her to the shameful sense of her criminal state and to
manifest contrition.
An objection to Hamlet's sanity is sometimes seen in his own alleged confessions of madness. He seeks
pardon, they say, from Laertes for his violence against him on the plea of madness. This objection is
rather an argument to the contrary; for insane persons are never known to plead insanity in selfexculpation. The objection, moreover, is not valid, because it is based upon a misinterpretation of the
word madness. The madness of which Hamlet speaks in the present instance and which he pleads in
excuse, is not a fixed mental malady, but what in common parlance is a madness synonymous with a
sudden outburst of anger, in which self-control is lost for the moment. Such was the madness of Hamlet,
when in sudden anger he slew Polonius, and again, when at Ophelia's grave, his mighty grief was roused
to wrathful expression by the unseemly and exaggerated show of Laertes.
All these indications scattered through the drama are intermittent flashes, which, amid the darkness of
doubt, illumine the objective truth of Hamlet's feigned madness. But there is still another and
independent truth which, though already alluded to by a few eminent critics, merits here a fuller
consideration. This truth grows to supreme importance when viewed in relation to Shakespeare and his
dramatic art. A little reflection on the nature and principles of art will engender a repugnance to any
theory of Hamlet's real madness. Art is the expression of the beautiful, and dramatic poetry is a work of
art, and like every other art it has its canons and its principles. If poetry be the language of passion of
enlivened imagination; if its purpose be to afford intellectual pleasure by the excitement of agreeable
and elevated, and pathetic emotions; this certainly is not accomplished by holding up to view the
vagaries of a mind stricken with dementia. The prime object of tragic poetry is to expose some lofty and
solemn theme so graphically that its very portrayal will awaken in our moral nature a love of virtue and
a detestation of vice. This verily is not effected by delineating the mad antics of some unfortunate
whose disordered mind leaves him helpless to the mercy of the shifting winds of circumstances, and
irresponsible to the moral laws of human life. No spectator can discover in the portrayal of the irrational
actions of a madman an expression of the beautiful. It gives no intellectual pleasure, stirs no pleasing
emotion, and engenders no love of virtue and hatred of vice.
Nothing, it is true, may be so abhorrent to our world of existences, but may, in some form or other, be
brought under the domain of art. "Men's evil passions have given tragedy to art; crime is beautified by
being linked to an avenging Nemesis; ugliness is clothed with a special form of art in the grotesque."
Even pain and suffering become attractive in the light of heroism which endures them in the cause of
truth and justice. In consequence, the dramatist enjoys the privilege of portraying characters of every
hue, of mingling the ignoble with the noble, and of picturing life in all its varied forms, with the view that
the contemplation of such characters will excite pleasure or displeasure, and moral admiration or
aversion in every healthy mind. This is true only when these characters are not pitiable mental wrecks,
but agents free, rational, and responsible. A healthy mind can find nothing but displeasure and revulsion
of feeling at the sorry sight of a fellow-being whose reason is dethroned, and who as a mere automaton
concentrates in his mental malady the chief elements of the tragedy and its development of plot. A
drama so constructed is intellectually and morally repugnant to human nature. Rob the hero of
49
intelligence and consciousness of moral responsibility, and you make the work devoid of human interest
and leave it wholly meaningless. Such an unfortunate should not be paraded before the public gaze in
defiance of the common feelings of humanity; but in all kindness, be relegated to the charitable care of
some home or refuge.
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The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer,
By Arthur Schopenhauer
The delight in mischief, as I have said, takes the place which pity ought to take. Envy, on the
contrary, finds a place only where there is no inducement to pity, or rather an inducement to its
opposite; and it is just as this opposite that envy arises in the human breast; and so far, therefore, it may
still be reckoned a human sentiment. Nay, I am afraid that no one will be found to be entirely free from
it. For a man should feel his own lack of things more bitterly at the sight of another’s delight in the
enjoyment of tem, is natural; nay, it is inevitable; but this should not rouse his hatred of the man who is
happier than himself. It is just this hatred, however, in which true envy consists. Least of all should a
man be envious, when it is a question, not the gifts of fortune, or chance, or another’s favour, but of the
gifts of nature; because everything that is innate in a man rests on a metaphysical basis, and possesses
justification of a higher kind; it is, so to speak, given him by Divine grace. But, unhappily, it is just in the
case of personal advantages that envy is most irreconcilable. Thus it is that intelligence, or even genius,
cannot get on in the world without begging pardon for its existence, wherever it is not in a position to be
able, proudly and boldly, to despise the world.
In other words, if envy is aroused only by wealth, rank, or power, it is often kept down by
egoism, which perceives that, on occasion, assistance, enjoyment, support, protection, advancement,
and so on, may be hoped for from the object of envy or that at least by intercourse with him a man may
himself win honour from the reflected light of his superiority; and here, too, there is the hope of one
day attaining all those advantages himself. On the other hand, in the envy that is directed to natural
gifts and personal advantages, like beauty in women, or intelligence in men, there is no consolation or
hope of one kind or the other; so that nothing remains but to indulge a bitter and irreconcilable hatred
of the person who possesses these privileges; and hence the only remaining desire is to take
venegeance on him.”
Schopenhauer, Arthur. Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer,. Montana: Kessinger, 2010. Print
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“Hamlet and His Problems”
By T.S. Eliot
FEW critics have even admitted that Hamlet the play is the primary problem, and Hamlet the
character only secondary. And Hamlet the character has had an especial temptation for that
most dangerous type of critic: the critic with a mind which is naturally of the creative order,
but which through some weakness in creative power exercises itself in criticism instead.
These minds often find in Hamlet a vicarious existence for their own artistic realization. Such
a mind had Goethe, who made of Hamlet a Werther; and such had Coleridge, who made of
Hamlet a Coleridge; and probably neither of these men in writing about Hamlet remembered
that his first business was to study a work of art. The kind of criticism that Goethe and
Coleridge produced, in writing of Hamlet, is the most misleading kind possible. For they
both possessed unquestionable critical insight, and both make their critical aberrations the
more plausible by the substitution—of their own Hamlet for Shakespeare's—which their
creative gift effects. We should be thankful that Walter Pater did not fix his attention on this
play.
Two recent writers, Mr. J. M. Robertson and Professor Stoll of the University of Minnesota,
have issued small books which can be praised for moving in the other direction. Mr. Stoll
performs a service in recalling to our attention the labours of the critics of the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries, observing that
they knew less about psychology than more recent Hamlet critics, but they were
nearer in spirit to Shakespeare's art; and as they insisted on the importance of the
effect of the whole rather than on the importance of the leading character, they were
nearer, in their old-fashioned way, to the secret of dramatic art in general.
Qua work of art, the work of art cannot be interpreted; there is nothing to interpret; we can
only criticize it according to standards, in comparison to other works of art; and for
"interpretation" the chief task is the presentation of relevant historical facts which the reader
is not assumed to know. Mr. Robertson points out, very pertinently, how critics have failed in
their "interpretation" of Hamlet by ignoring what ought to be very obvious: that Hamlet is a
stratification, that it represents the efforts of a series of men, each making what he could out
of the work of his predecessors. The Hamlet of Shakespeare will appear to us very differently
if, instead of treating the whole action of the play as due to Shakespeare's design, we
perceive his Hamlet to be superposed upon much cruder material which persists even in the
final form.
52
We know that there was an older play by Thomas Kyd, that extraordinary dramatic (if not
poetic) genius who was in all probability the author of two plays so dissimilar as the Spanish
Tragedy and Arden of Feversham; and what this play was like we can guess from three clues:
from the Spanish Tragedy itself, from the tale of Belleforest upon which Kyd's Hamlet must
have been based, and from a version acted in Germany in Shakespeare's lifetime which bears
strong evidence of having been adapted from the earlier, not from the later, play. From these
three sources it is clear that in the earlier play the motive was a revenge-motive simply; that
the action or delay is caused, as in the Spanish Tragedy, solely by the difficulty of
assassinating a monarch surrounded by guards; and that the "madness" of Hamlet was
feigned in order to escape suspicion, and successfully. In the final play of Shakespeare, on
the other hand, there is a motive which is more important than that of revenge, and which
explicitly "blunts" the latter; the delay in revenge is unexplained on grounds of necessity or
expediency; and the effect of the "madness" is not to lull but to arouse the king's suspicion.
The alteration is not complete enough, however, to be convincing. Furthermore, there are
verbal parallels so close to the Spanish Tragedy as to leave no doubt that in places
Shakespeare was merely revising the text of Kyd. And finally there are unexplained scenes—
the Polonius-Laertes and the Polonius-Reynaldo scenes—for which there is little excuse;
these scenes are not in the verse style of Kyd, and not beyond doubt in the style of
Shakespeare. These Mr. Robertson believes to be scenes in the original play of Kyd reworked
by a third hand, perhaps Chapman, before Shakespeare touched the play. And he concludes,
with very strong show of reason, that the original play of Kyd was, like certain other revenge
plays, in two parts of five acts each. The upshot of Mr. Robertson's examination is, we
believe, irrefragable: that Shakespeare's Hamlet, so far as it is Shakespeare's, is a play dealing
with the effect of a mother's guilt upon her son, and that Shakespeare was unable to impose
this motive successfully upon the "intractable" material of the old play.
53
Of the intractability there can be no doubt. So far from being Shakespeare's masterpiece, the
play is most certainly an artistic failure. In several ways the play is puzzling, and disquieting
as is none of the others. Of all the plays it is the longest and is possibly the one on which
Shakespeare spent most pains; and yet he has left in it superfluous and inconsistent scenes
which even hasty revision should have noticed. The versification is variable. Lines like
Look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill,
are of the Shakespeare of Romeo and Juliet. The lines in Act v. sc. ii.,
Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting
That would not let me sleep...
Up from my cabin,
My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark
Grop'd I to find out them: had my desire;
Finger'd their packet;
are of his quite mature. Both workmanship and thought are in an unstable condition. We are
surely justified in attributing the play, with that other profoundly interesting play of
"intractable" material and astonishing versification, Measure for Measure, to a period of
crisis, after which follow the tragic successes which culminate in Coriolanus. Coriolanus
may be not as "interesting" as Hamlet, but it is, with Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare's
most assured artistic success. And probably more people have thought Hamlet a work of art
because they found it interesting, than have found it interesting because it is a work of art. It
is the "Mona Lisa" of literature.
54
The grounds of Hamlet's failure are not immediately obvious. Mr. Robertson is undoubtedly
correct in concluding that the essential emotion of the play is the feeling of a son towards a
guilty mother:
[Hamlet's] tone is that of one who has suffered tortures on the score of his mother's
degradation.... The guilt of a mother is an almost intolerable motive for drama, but it had to
be maintained and emphasized to supply a psychological solution, or rather a hint of one.
This, however, is by no means the whole story. It is not merely the "guilt of a mother" that
cannot be handled as Shakespeare handled the suspicion of Othello, the infatuation of
Antony, or the pride of Coriolanus. The subject might conceivably have expanded into a
tragedy like these, intelligible, self-complete, in the sunlight. Hamlet, like the sonnets, is full
of some stuff that the writer could not drag to light, contemplate, or manipulate into art. And
when we search for this feeling, we find it, as in the sonnets, very difficult to localize. You
cannot point to it in the speeches; indeed, if you examine the two famous soliloquies you see
the versification of Shakespeare, but a content which might be claimed by another, perhaps
by the author of the Revenge of Bussy d' Ambois, Act v. sc. i. We find Shakespeare's Hamlet
not in the action, not in any quotations that we might select, so much as in an unmistakable
tone which is unmistakably not in the earlier play.
The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective
correlative"; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the
formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate
in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked. If you examine any of
Shakespeare's more successful tragedies, you will find this exact equivalence; you will find
that the state of mind of Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep has been communicated to you
by a skilful accumulation of imagined sensory impressions; the words of Macbeth on hearing
of his wife's death strike us as if, given the sequence of events, these words were
automatically released by the last event in the series. The artistic "inevitability" lies in this
complete adequacy of the external to the emotion; and this is precisely what is deficient in
Hamlet. Hamlet (the man) is dominated by an emotion which is inexpressible, because it is in
excess of the facts as they appear. And the supposed identity of Hamlet with his author is
genuine to this point: that Hamlet's bafflement at the absence of objective equivalent to his
feelings is a prolongation of the bafflement of his creator in the face of his artistic problem.
Hamlet is up against the difficulty that his disgust is occasioned by his mother, but that his
mother is not an adequate equivalent for it; his disgust envelops and exceeds her. It is thus a
feeling which he cannot understand; he cannot objectify it, and it therefore remains to poison
life and obstruct action. None of the possible actions can satisfy it; and nothing that
Shakespeare can do with the plot can express Hamlet for him. And it must be noticed that the
very nature of the données of the problem precludes objective equivalence. To have
heightened the criminality of Gertrude would have been to provide the formula for a totally
different emotion in Hamlet; it is just because her character is so negative and insignificant
that she arouses in Hamlet the feeling which she is incapable of representing.
55
The "madness" of Hamlet lay to Shakespeare's hand; in the earlier play a simple ruse, and to
the end, we may presume, understood as a ruse by the audience. For Shakespeare it is less
than madness and more than feigned. The levity of Hamlet, his repetition of phrase, his puns,
are not part of a deliberate plan of dissimulation, but a form of emotional relief. In the
character Hamlet it is the buffoonery of an emotion which can find no outlet in action; in the
dramatist it is the buffoonery of an emotion which he cannot express in art. The intense
feeling, ecstatic or terrible, without an object or exceeding its object, is something which
every person of sensibility has known; it is doubtless a study to pathologists. It often occurs
in adolescence: the ordinary person puts these feelings to sleep, or trims down his feeling to
fit the business world; the artist keeps it alive by his ability to intensify the world to his
emotions. The Hamlet of Laforgue is an adolescent; the Hamlet of Shakespeare is not, he has
not that explanation and excuse. We must simply admit that here Shakespeare tackled a
problem which proved too much for him. Why he attempted it at all is an insoluble puzzle;
under compulsion of what experience he attempted to express the inexpressibly horrible, we
cannot ever know. We need a great many facts in his biography; and we should like to know
whether, and when, and after or at the same time as what personal experience, he read
Montaigne, II. xii., Apologie de Raimond Sebond. We should have, finally, to know
something which is by hypothesis unknowable, for we assume it to be an experience which,
in the manner indicated, exceeded the facts. We should have to understand things which
Shakespeare did not understand himself.
56
“Ophelia”
By John Everett Millais
57
“Ophelia”
By Henrietta Rae
58
“The Lady of Shalott”
By John William Waterhouse
59
“The Cask of Amontillado”
By Edgar Allan Poe
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I
vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave
utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled—
but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish,
but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally
unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will.
I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the
thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards he was a man to be respected and
even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit.
For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity—to
practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like
his countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not
differ from him materially: I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and
bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered
my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore
motley. He had on a tightfitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and
bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him: “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But
I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”
“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!”
“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without
consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.”
“Amontillado!”
“I have my doubts.”
“Amontillado!”
“And I must satisfy them.”
“Amontillado!”
“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me—”
“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”
“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”
“Come, let us go.”
“Whither?”
“To your vaults.”
“My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi—”
60
“I have no engagement;—come.”
“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The
vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.”
“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as
for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.”
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a
roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told
them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the
house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all,
as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites
of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting
him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on
the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
“The pipe?” said he.
“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls.”
He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of
intoxication.
“Nitre?” he asked, at length.
“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!”
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
“It is nothing,” he said, at last.
“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired,
beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go
back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi——”
“Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”
“True—true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily; but you should
use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the
mould.
“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”
“And I to your long life.”
61
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”
“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”
“I forget your arms.”
“A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are
imbedded in the heel.”
“And the motto?”
“Nemo me impune lacessit.”
“Good!” he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had
passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses
of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by
an arm above the elbow.
“The nitre!” I said; “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s bed.
The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere
it is too late. Your cough——”
“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.”
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce
light. He laughed and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement—a grotesque one.
“You do not comprehend?” he said.
“Not I,” I replied.
“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”
“How?”
“You are not of the masons.”
“Yes, yes,” I said; “yes, yes.”
“You? Impossible! A mason?”
“A mason,” I replied.
“A sign,” he said.
“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the Amontillado.”
“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it
heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches,
descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the
foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
62
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with
human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides
of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the
bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of
some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior
recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been
constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal
supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid
granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its
termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi——”
“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed
immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his
progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him
to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally.
From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist,
it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing
the key I stepped back from the recess.
“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once
more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all
the little attentions in my power.”
“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing
them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the
aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had
in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth
of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the
second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise
lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased
my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and
finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a
level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few
feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed
to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began
to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I
placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I
replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in volume and in
strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.
63
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the
tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be
fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now
there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a
sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said—
“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh
about it at the palazzo—he! he! he!—over our wine—he! he! he!”
“The Amontillado!” I said.
“He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us
at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”
“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”
“For the love of God, Montresor!”
“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud:
“Fortunato!”
No answer. I called again:
“Fortunato!”
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in
reply only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick—on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I
hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against
the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has
disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
64
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
By Robert Louis Stevenson
Chapter 10
I was born in the year 18— to a large fortune, endowed besides with excellent parts, inclined by nature
to industry, fond of the respect of the wise and good among my fellow-men, and thus, as might have
been supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished future. And indeed the worst
of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety of disposition, such as has made the happiness of many, but
such as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my head high, and wear a more
than commonly grave countenance before the public. Hence it came about that I concealed my
pleasures; and that when I reached years of reflection, and began to look round me and take stock of my
progress and position in the world, I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a
man would have even blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high views that I had
set before me, I regarded and hid them with an almost morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the
exacting nature of my aspirations than any particular degradation in my faults, that made me what I was
and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men, severed in me those provinces of good and
ill which divide and compound man’s dual nature. In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply and
inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at the root of religion and is one of the most plentiful
springs of distress. Though so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides of me
were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and plunged in shame, than when
I laboured, in the eye of day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and suffering. And
it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies, which led wholly toward the mystic and the
transcendental, re-acted and shed a strong light on this consciousness of the perennial war among my
members. With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thus
drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful
shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two. I say two, because the state of my own knowledge
does not pass beyond that point. Others will follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I
hazard the guess that man will be ultimately known for a mere polity of multifarious, incongruous, and
independent denizens. I, for my part, from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction and
in one direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned to recognise the
thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my
consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both; and
from an early date, even before the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most
naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell with pleasure, as a beloved day-dream, on the
thought of the separation of these elements. If each, I told myself, could but be housed in separate
identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the unjust delivered from the aspirations
might go his way, and remorse of his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely
on his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his pleasure, and no longer exposed to
disgrace and penitence by the hands of this extraneous evil. It was the curse of mankind that these
incongruous fagots were thus bound together that in the agonised womb of consciousness, these polar
twins should be continuously struggling. How, then, were they dissociated?
I was so far in my reflections when, as I have said, a side-light began to shine upon the subject from the
laboratory table. I began to perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling
immateriality, the mist-like transience of this seemingly so solid body in which we walk attired. Certain
agents I found to have the power to shake and to pluck back that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might
toss the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not enter deeply into this scientific branch of
65
my confession. First, because I have been made to learn that the doom and burthen of our life is bound
for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the attempt is made to cast it off, it but returns upon us with
more unfamiliar and more awful pressure. Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas! too
evident, my discoveries were incomplete. Enough, then, that I not only recognised my natural body for
the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to
compound a drug by which these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form
and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me because they were the expression, and bore
the stamp, of lower elements in my soul.
I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I knew well that I risked death; for any
drug that so potently controlled and shook the very fortress of identity, might by the least scruple of an
overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition, utterly blot out that immaterial
tabernacle which I looked to it to change. But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound, at
last overcame the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my tincture; I purchased at once, from
a firm of wholesale chemists, a large quantity of a particular salt which I knew, from my experiments, to
be the last ingredient required; and late one accursed night, I compounded the elements, watched them
boil and smoke together in the glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with a strong glow of
courage, drank off the potion.
The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit
that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and
I came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something strange in my sensations, something
indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in body;
within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of disordered sensual images running like a
mill-race in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent freedom of
the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold
a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine. I
stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these sensations; and in the act, I was suddenly
aware that I had lost in stature.
There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside me as I write, was brought
there later on and for the very purpose of these transformations. The night, however, was far gone into
the morning — the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the conception of the day — the
inmates of my house were locked in the most rigorous hours of slumber; and I determined, flushed as I
was with hope and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. I crossed the yard,
wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the first creature
of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through the corridors, a
stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward
Hyde.
I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but that which I suppose to be most
probable. The evil side of my nature, to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less
robust and less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in the course of my life, which
had been, after all, nine-tenths a life of effort, virtue, and control, it had been much less exercised and
much less exhausted. And hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde was so much smaller,
slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as good shone upon the countenance of the one, evil was
written broadly and plainly on the face of the other. Evil besides (which I must still believe to be the
lethal side of man) had left on that body an imprint of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon
that ugly idol in the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of welcome. This, too, was
myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyes it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more
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express and single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto accustomed to call
mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have observed that when I wore the semblance of Edward
Hyde, none could come near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it, was
because all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde,
alone in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil.
I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive experiment had yet to be attempted;
it yet remained to be seen if I had lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight
from a house that was no longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once more prepared and
drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of dissolution, and came to myself once more with the
character, the stature, and the face of Henry Jekyll.
That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. Had I approached my discovery in a more noble spirit,
had I risked the experiment while under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been
otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth an angel instead of a fiend. The
drug had no discriminating action; it was neither diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the
prison-house of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that which stood within ran forth. At
that time my virtue slumbered; my evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and swift to seize the
occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward Hyde. Hence, although I had now two characters
as well as two appearances, one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that
incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already learned to despair. The
movement was thus wholly toward the worse.
Even at that time, I had not yet conquered my aversion to the dryness of a life of study. I would still be
merrily disposed at times; and as my pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I was not only
well known and highly considered, but growing toward the elderly man, this incoherency of my life was
daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this side that my new power tempted me until I fell in slavery.
I had but to drink the cup, to doff at once the body of the noted professor, and to assume, like a thick
cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the notion; it seemed to me at the time to be humorous; and I
made my preparations with the most studious care. I took and furnished that house in Soho, to which
Hyde was tracked by the police; and engaged as housekeeper a creature whom I well knew to be silent
and unscrupulous. On the other side, I announced to my servants that a Mr. Hyde (whom I described)
was to have full liberty and power about my house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and
made myself a familiar object, in my second character. I next drew up that will to which you so much
objected; so that if anything befell me in the person of Dr. Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward Hyde
without pecuniary loss. And thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I began to profit by the strange
immunities of my position.
Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own person and reputation sat under
shelter. I was the first that ever did so for his pleasures. I was the first that could thus plod in the public
eye with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a schoolboy, strip off these lendings and
spring headlong into the sea of liberty. But for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was complete.
Think of it — I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my laboratory door, give me but a second or
two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standing ready; and whatever he had done,
Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath upon a mirror; and there in his stead, quietly at
home, trimming the midnight lamp in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be
Henry Jekyll.
The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce
use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous.
When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my
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vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good
pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centred on self;
drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another; relentless like a man of
stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart
from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde
alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired;
he would even make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And thus his
conscience slumbered.
Into the details of the infamy at which I thus connived (for even now I can scarce grant that I committed
it) I have no design of entering; I mean but to point out the warnings and the successive steps with
which my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it brought on no consequence, I
shall no more than mention. An act of cruelty to a child aroused against me the anger of a passer-by,
whom I recognised the other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctor and the child’s family joined
him; there were moments when I feared for my life; and at last, in order to pacify their too just
resentment, Edward Hyde had to bring them to the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in the name
of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was easily eliminated from the future, by opening an account at another
bank in the name of Edward Hyde himself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied
my double with a signature, I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate.
Some two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out for one of my adventures, had
returned at a late hour, and woke the next day in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was in vain I
looked about me; in vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room in the square; in
vain that I recognised the pattern of the bed-curtains and the design of the mahogany frame; something
still kept insisting that I was not where I was, that I had not wakened where I seemed to be, but in the
little room in Soho where I was accustomed to sleep in the body of Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself,
and, in my psychological way began lazily to inquire into the elements of this illusion, occasionally, even
as I did so, dropping back into a comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my
more wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you have often
remarked) was professional in shape and size: it was large, firm, white, and comely. But the hand which I
now saw, clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the bed-clothes,
was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the
hand of Edward Hyde.
I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in the mere stupidity of wonder, before
terror woke up in my breast as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed,
I rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was changed into something exquisitely
thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be
explained? I asked myself, and then, with another bound of terror — how was it to be remedied? It was
well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my drugs were in the cabinet — a long journey down
two pairs of stairs, through the back passage, across the open court and through the anatomical theatre,
from where I was then standing horror-struck. It might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what
use was that, when I was unable to conceal the alteration in my stature? And then with an
overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back upon my mind that the servants were already used to
the coming and going of my second self. I had soon dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of my own
size: had soon passed through the house, where Bradshaw stared and drew back at seeing Mr. Hyde at
such an hour and in such a strange array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape
and was sitting down, with a darkened brow, to make a feint of breakfasting.
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Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal of my previous experience,
seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the wall, to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I
began to reflect more seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities of my double existence.
That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had lately been much exercised and nourished; it
had seemed to me of late as though the body of Edward Hyde had grown in stature, as though (when I
wore that form) I were conscious of a more generous tide of blood; and I began to spy a danger that, if
this were much prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently overthrown, the power of
voluntary change be forfeited, and the character of Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power
of the drug had not been always equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed
me; since then I had been obliged on more than one occasion to double, and once, with infinite risk of
death, to treble the amount; and these rare uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my
contentment. Now, however, and in the light of that morning’s accident, I was led to remark that
whereas, in the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw off the body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually
but decidedly transferred itself to the other side. All things therefore seemed to point to this: that I was
slowly losing hold of my original and better self, and becoming slowly incorporated with my second and
worse.
Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had memory in common, but all other
faculties were most unequally shared between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most
sensitive apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasures and
adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or but remembered him as the mountain bandit
remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father’s
interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot with Jekyll, was to die to those
appetites which I had long secretly indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde,
was to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become, at a blow and for ever, despised and
friendless. The bargain might appear unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scales; for
while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde would be not even conscious of all
that he had lost. Strange as my circumstances were, the terms of this debate are as old and
commonplace as man; much the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any tempted and
trembling sinner; and it fell out with me, as it falls with so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the
better part and was found wanting in the strength to keep to it.
Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by friends and cherishing honest
hopes; and bade a resolute farewell to the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping
impulses and secret pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I made this choice perhaps
with some unconscious reservation, for I neither gave up the house in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes
of Edward Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet. For two months, however, I was true to my
determination; for two months I led a life of such severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyed
the compensations of an approving conscience. But time began at last to obliterate the freshness of my
alarm; the praises of conscience began to grow into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes
and longings, as of Hyde struggling after freedom; and at last, in an hour of moral weakness, I once again
compounded and swallowed the transforming draught.
I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his vice, he is once out of five
hundred times affected by the dangers that he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither
had I, long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the complete moral insensibility
and insensate readiness to evil, which were the leading characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these
that I was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was conscious, even when I
took the draught, of a more unbridled, a more furious propensity to ill. It must have been this, I suppose,
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that stirred in my soul that tempest of impatience with which I listened to the civilities of my unhappy
victim; I declare, at least, before God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so
pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable spirit than that in which a sick child may
break a plaything. But I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even the
worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations; and in my case, to be
tempted, however slightly, was to fall.
Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged. With a transport of glee, I mauled the unresisting
body, tasting delight from every blow; and it was not till weariness had begun to succeed, that I was
suddenly, in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a cold thrill of terror. A mist
dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit; and fled from the scene of these excesses, at once glorying and
trembling, my lust of evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life screwed to the topmost peg. I ran to
the house in Soho, and (to make assurance doubly sure) destroyed my papers; thence I set out through
the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of mind, gloating on my crime, light-headedly devising
others in the future, and yet still hastening and still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger.
Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the draught, and as he drank it, pledged the dead
man. The pangs of transformation had not done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears
of gratitude and remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped hands to God. The veil of selfindulgence was rent from head to foot, I saw my life as a whole: I followed it up from the days of
childhood, when I had walked with my father’s hand, and through the self-denying toils of my
professional life, to arrive again and again, with the same sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of
the evening. I could have screamed aloud; I sought with tears and prayers to smother down the crowd
of hideous images and sounds with which my memory swarmed against me; and still, between the
petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this remorse began to die
away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was solved. Hyde was thenceforth
impossible; whether I would or not, I was now confined to the better part of my existence; and oh, how I
rejoiced to think it! with what willing humility, I embraced anew the restrictions of natural life! with
what sincere renunciation, I locked the door by which I had so often gone and come, and ground the key
under my heel!
The next day, came the news that the murder had been overlooked, that the guilt of Hyde was patent to
the world, and that the victim was a man high in public estimation. It was not only a crime, it had been a
tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have my better impulses thus buttressed
and guarded by the terrors of the scaffold. Jekyll was now my city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an
instant, and the hands of all men would be raised to take and slay him.
I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was
fruitful of some good. You know yourself how earnestly in the last months of last year, I laboured to
relieve suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the days passed quietly, almost
happily for myself. Nor can I truly say that I wearied of this beneficent and innocent life; I think instead
that I daily enjoyed it more completely; but I was still cursed with my duality of purpose; and as the first
edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chained down, began
to growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; the bare idea of that would startle me to
frenzy: no, it was in my own person, that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it
was as an ordinary secret sinner, that I at last fell before the assaults of temptation.
There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled at last; and this brief
condescension to evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall
seemed natural, like a return to the old days before I had made discovery. It was a fine, clear, January
day, wet under foot where the frost had melted, but cloudless overhead; and the Regent’s Park was full
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of winter chirrupings and sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me
licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little, drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but
not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing
myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the
very moment of that vain-glorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the most deadly
shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; and then as in its turn the faintness subsided, I began
to be aware of a change in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a
solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs;
the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I
had been safe of all men’s respect, wealthy, beloved — the cloth laying for me in the dining-room at
home; and now I was the common quarry of mankind, hunted, houseless, a known murderer, thrall to
the gallows.
My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than once observed that, in my second
character, my faculties seemed sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came
about that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the importance of the moment.
My drugs were in one of the presses of my cabinet; how was I to reach them? That was the problem that
(crushing my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve. The laboratory door I had closed. If I sought to
enter by the house, my own servants would consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ another
hand, and thought of Lanyon. How was he to be reached? how persuaded? Supposing that I escaped
capture in the streets, how was I to make my way into his presence? and how should I, an unknown and
displeasing visitor, prevail on the famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague, Dr. Jekyll? Then I
remembered that of my original character, one part remained to me: I could write my own hand; and
once I had conceived that kindling spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from end to end.
Thereupon, I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a passing hansom, drove to an hotel
in Portland Street, the name of which I chanced to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed
comical enough, however tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver could not conceal his mirth. I
gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of devilish fury; and the smile withered from his face — happily
for him — yet more happily for myself, for in another instant I had certainly dragged him from his perch.
At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so black a countenance as made the attendants tremble;
not a look did they exchange in my presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a private
room, and brought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of his life was a creature new to me;
shaken with inordinate anger, strung to the pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature was
astute; mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed his two important letters, one to
Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he might receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out
with directions that they should be registered.
Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in the private room, gnawing his nails; there he dined, sitting
alone with his fears, the waiter visibly quailing before his eye; and thence, when the night was fully
come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and fro about the streets of the city.
He, I say — I cannot say, I. That child of Hell had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear and
hatred. And when at last, thinking the driver had begun to grow suspicious, he discharged the cab and
ventured on foot, attired in his misfitting clothes, an object marked out for observation, into the midst
of the nocturnal passengers, these two base passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked fast,
hunted by his fears, chattering to himself, skulking through the less-frequented thoroughfares, counting
the minutes that still divided him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box of
lights. He smote her in the face, and she fled.
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When I came to myself at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat: I do not
know; it was at least but a drop in the sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours.
A change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it was the horror of being Hyde
that racked me. I received Lanyon’s condemnation partly in a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came
home to my own house and got into bed. I slept after the prostration of the day, with a stringent and
profound slumber which not even the nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. I awoke in the
morning shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought of the brute that slept
within me, and I had not of course forgotten the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once
more at home, in my own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape shone so strong in
my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness of hope.
I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking the chill of the air with pleasure, when I
was seized again with those indescribable sensations that heralded the change; and I had but the time
to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging and freezing with the passions of Hyde.
It took on this occasion a double dose to recall me to myself; and alas! Six hours after, as I sat looking
sadly in the fire, the pangs returned, and the drug had to be re-administered. In short, from that day
forth it seemed only by a great effort as of gymnastics, and only under the immediate stimulation of the
drug, that I was able to wear the countenance of Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would be
taken with the premonitory shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair, it was
always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain of this continually-impending doom and by the
sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I
became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and
mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when the
virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost without transition (for the pangs of transformation
grew daily less marked) into the possession of a fancy brimming with images of terror, a soul boiling
with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to contain the raging energies of life.
The powers of Hyde seemed to have grown with the sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now
divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it was a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen the full
deformity of that creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was coheir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which in themselves made the most
poignant part of his distress, he thought of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only
hellish but inorganic. This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and
voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should
usurp the offices of life. And this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife,
closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at
every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against him and deposed him out
of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll, was of a different order. His tenor of the gallows drove him
continually to commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part instead of a
person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and
he resented the dislike with which he was himself regarded. Hence the ape-like tricks that he would play
me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the pages of my books, burning the letters and
destroying the portrait of my father; and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he would long ago
have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But his love of life is wonderful; I go further: I,
who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of this
attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide, I find it in my heart to
pity him.
It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this description; no one has ever suffered such
torments, let that suffice; and yet even to these, habit brought — no, not alleviation — but a certain
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callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment might have gone on for years,
but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and which has finally severed me from my own face and
nature. My provision of the salt, which had never been renewed since the date of the first experiment,
began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply, and mixed the draught; the ebullition followed, and the
first change of colour, not the second; I drank it and it was without efficiency. You will learn from Poole
how I have had London ransacked; it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply was
impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy to the draught.
About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under the influence of the last of the
old powders. This, then, is the last time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts
or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay too long to bring my writing
to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped destruction, it has been by a combination of great
prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me in the act of writing it, Hyde will
tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness and
Circumscription to the moment will probably save it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. And
indeed the doom that is closing on us both, has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from
now, when I shall again and for ever re-induce that hated personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering
and weeping in my chair, or continue, with the most strained and fear-struck ecstasy of listening, to
pace up and down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde
die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am
careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here then, as
I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to
an end.
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THE YELLOW WALLPAPER
By Charlotte Perkins Gilman
It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.
A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic
felicity—but that would be asking too much of fate!
Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.
Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted?
John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he
scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.
John is a physician, and PERHAPS—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper
and a great relief to my mind)—PERHAPS that is one reason I do not get well faster.
You see he does not believe I am sick!
And what can one do?
If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really
nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is
one to do?
My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing.
So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and
am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again.
Personally, I disagree with their ideas.
Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.
But what is one to do?
I did write for a while in spite of them; but it DOES exhaust me a good deal—having to be so sly about it,
or else meet with heavy opposition.
I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus—but John
says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel
bad.
So I will let it alone and talk about the house.
The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the
village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates
that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people.
There is a DELICIOUS garden! I never saw such a garden—large and shady, full of box-bordered paths,
and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them.
There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.
There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and coheirs; anyhow, the place has
been empty for years.
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That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't care—there is something strange about the house—I
can feel it.
I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt was a DRAUGHT, and shut the
window.
I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I'm sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due
to this nervous condition.
But John says if I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control myself—before him,
at least, and that makes me very tired.
I don't like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the
window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it.
He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took
another.
He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction.
I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely
ungrateful not to value it more.
He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I could get.
"Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear," said he, "and your food somewhat on your appetite;
but air you can absorb all the time." So we took the nursery at the top of the house.
It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine
galore. It was nursery first and then playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are
barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.
The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches
all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the
room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.
One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.
It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke
study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit
suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.
The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slowturning sunlight.
It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.
No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.
There comes John, and I must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word.
We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before, since that first day.
I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing
as much as I please, save lack of strength.
John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.
I am glad my case is not serious!
75
But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.
John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no REASON to suffer, and that satisfies
him.
Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way!
I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative burden
already!
Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able,—to dress and entertain, and order
things.
It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!
And yet I CANNOT be with him, it makes me so nervous.
I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wall-paper!
At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better of me,
and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.
He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred
windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on.
"You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I don't care to renovate the house
just for a three months' rental."
"Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms there."
Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down to the
cellar, if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.
But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.
It is an airy and comfortable room as any one need wish, and, of course, I would not be so silly as to
make him uncomfortable just for a whim.
I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper.
Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deepshaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned
flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.
Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a
beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these
numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says
that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making, a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead
to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check the tendency.
So I try.
I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve the press of ideas and
rest me.
But I find I get pretty tired when I try.
It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work. When I get really well,
John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put
fireworks in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now.
76
I wish I could get well faster.
But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it KNEW what a vicious influence it had!
There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you
upside down.
I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways
they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths
didn't match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher than the other.
I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much expression
they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and terror out of blank walls and
plain furniture than most children could find in a toy store.
I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big, old bureau used to have, and there was one chair
that always seemed like a strong friend.
I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that chair and be
safe.
The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for we had to bring it all from
downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to take the nursery things out, and no
wonder! I never saw such ravages as the children have made here.
The wall-paper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother—they must
have had perseverance as well as hatred.
Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out here and there, and
this great heavy bed which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had been through the wars.
But I don't mind it a bit—only the paper.
There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her find me
writing.
She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I verily believe she
thinks it is the writing which made me sick!
But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows.
There is one that commands the road, a lovely shaded winding road, and one that just looks off over the
country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows.
This wall-paper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can
only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then.
But in the places where it isn't faded and where the sun is just so—I can see a strange, provoking,
formless sort of figure, that seems to skulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design.
There's sister on the stairs!
Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are gone and I am tired out. John thought it might do me
good to see a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a week.
Of course I didn't do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.
But it tired me all the same.
77
John says if I don't pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall.
But I don't want to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and she says he is just like
John and my brother, only more so!
Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.
I don't feel as if it was worth while to turn my hand over for anything, and I'm getting dreadfully fretful
and querulous.
I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time.
Of course I don't when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.
And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in town very often by serious cases, and Jennie is good
and lets me alone when I want her to.
So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane, sit on the porch under the roses, and lie down
up here a good deal.
I'm getting really fond of the room in spite of the wall-paper. Perhaps BECAUSE of the wall-paper.
It dwells in my mind so!
I lie here on this great immovable bed—it is nailed down, I believe—and follow that pattern about by
the hour. It is as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we'll say, at the bottom, down in the corner
over there where it has not been touched, and I determine for the thousandth time that I WILL follow
that pointless pattern to some sort of a conclusion.
I know a little of the principle of design, and I know this thing was not arranged on any laws of radiation,
or alternation, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else that I ever heard of.
It is repeated, of course, by the breadths, but not otherwise.
Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes—a kind of "debased
Romanesque" with delirium tremens—go waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity.
But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting
waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.
The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish
the order of its going in that direction.
They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion.
There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the crosslights fade and the low
sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all,—the interminable grotesques seem to
form around a common centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction.
It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap I guess.
I don't know why I should write this.
I don't want to.
I don't feel able.
And I know John would think it absurd. But I MUST say what I feel and think in some way—it is such a
relief!
78
But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.
Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much.
John says I musn't lose my strength, and has me take cod liver oil and lots of tonics and things, to say
nothing of ale and wine and rare meat.
Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a real earnest reasonable
talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry
and Julia.
But he said I wasn't able to go, nor able to stand it after I got there; and I did not make out a very good
case for myself, for I was crying before I had finished.
It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness I suppose.
And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat
by me and read to me till it tired my head.
He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself for his sake,
and keep well.
He says no one but myself can help me out of it, that I must use my will and self-control and not let any
silly fancies run away with me.
There's one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and does not have to occupy this nursery with the
horrid wall-paper.
If we had not used it, that blessed child would have! What a fortunate escape! Why, I wouldn't have a
child of mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a room for worlds.
I never thought of it before, but it is lucky that John kept me here after all, I can stand it so much easier
than a baby, you see.
Of course I never mention it to them any more—I am too wise,—but I keep watch of it all the same.
There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.
Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day.
It is always the same shape, only very numerous.
And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don't like it a bit. I
wonder—I begin to think—I wish John would take me away from here!
It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me so.
But I tried it last night.
It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around just as the sun does.
I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one window or another.
John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that undulating
wall-paper till I felt creepy.
The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get out.
I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paper DID move, and when I came back John was awake.
"What is it, little girl?" he said. "Don't go walking about like that—you'll get cold."
79
I though it was a good time to talk, so I told him that I really was not gaining here, and that I wished he
would take me away.
"Why darling!" said he, "our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can't see how to leave before.
"The repairs are not done at home, and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of course if you were in
any danger, I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether you can see it or not. I am a
doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh and color, your appetite is better, I feel really much
easier about you."
"I don't weigh a bit more," said I, "nor as much; and my appetite may be better in the evening when you
are here, but it is worse in the morning when you are away!"
"Bless her little heart!" said he with a big hug, "she shall be as sick as she pleases! But now let's improve
the shining hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the morning!"
"And you won't go away?" I asked gloomily.
"Why, how can I, dear? It is only three weeks more and then we will take a nice little trip of a few days
while Jennie is getting the house ready. Really dear you are better!"
"Better in body perhaps—" I began, and stopped short, for he sat up straight and looked at me with such
a stern, reproachful look that I could not say another word.
"My darling," said he, "I beg of you, for my sake and for our child's sake, as well as for your own, that
you will never for one instant let that idea enter your mind! There is nothing so dangerous, so
fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a
physician when I tell you so?"
So of course I said no more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He thought I was asleep
first, but I wasn't, and lay there for hours trying to decide whether that front pattern and the back
pattern really did move together or separately.
On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant
to a normal mind.
The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing.
You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well underway in following, it turns a backsomersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like
a bad dream.
The outside pattern is a florid arabesque, reminding one of a fungus. If you can imagine a toadstool in
joints, an interminable string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in endless convolutions—why, that is
something like it.
That is, sometimes!
There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself, and that is
that it changes as the light changes.
When the sun shoots in through the east window—I always watch for that first long, straight ray—it
changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it.
That is why I watch it always.
By moonlight—the moon shines in all night when there is a moon—I wouldn't know it was the same
paper.
80
At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candle light, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes
bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be.
I didn't realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind, that dim sub-pattern, but now I
am quite sure it is a woman.
By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It keeps
me quiet by the hour.
I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can.
Indeed he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal.
It is a very bad habit I am convinced, for you see I don't sleep.
And that cultivates deceit, for I don't tell them I'm awake—O no!
The fact is I am getting a little afraid of John.
He seems very queer sometimes, and even Jennie has an inexplicable look.
It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis,—that perhaps it is the paper!
I have watched John when he did not know I was looking, and come into the room suddenly on the most
innocent excuses, and I've caught him several times LOOKING AT THE PAPER! And Jennie too. I caught
Jennie with her hand on it once.
She didn't know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most
restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper—she turned around as if she had been
caught stealing, and looked quite angry—asked me why I should frighten her so!
Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she had found yellow smooches on all
my clothes and John's, and she wished we would be more careful!
Did not that sound innocent? But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am determined that
nobody shall find it out but myself!
Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. You see I have something more to expect, to look
forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet than I was.
John is so pleased to see me improve! He laughed a little the other day, and said I seemed to be
flourishing in spite of my wall-paper.
I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was BECAUSE of the wall-paper—he would
make fun of me. He might even want to take me away.
I don't want to leave now until I have found it out. There is a week more, and I think that will be enough.
I'm feeling ever so much better! I don't sleep much at night, for it is so interesting to watch
developments; but I sleep a good deal in the daytime.
In the daytime it is tiresome and perplexing.
There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new shades of yellow all over it. I cannot keep count of
them, though I have tried conscientiously.
It is the strangest yellow, that wall-paper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw—not
beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things.
81
But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the
room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and
whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here.
It creeps all over the house.
I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the
stairs.
It gets into my hair.
Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell!
Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like.
It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met.
In this damp weather it is awful, I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me.
It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell.
But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the COLOR of the paper! A yellow
smell.
There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs round the
room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a long, straight, even SMOOCH, as if it had
been rubbed over and over.
I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they did it for. Round and round and round—round
and round and round—it makes me dizzy!
I really have discovered something at last.
Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out.
The front pattern DOES move—and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it!
Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls
around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over.
Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars
and shakes them hard.
And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern—it
strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads.
They get through, and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside down, and makes their
eyes white!
If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be half so bad.
I think that woman gets out in the daytime!
And I'll tell you why—privately—I've seen her!
I can see her out of every one of my windows!
It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight.
I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes she hides under
the blackberry vines.
82
I don't blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight!
I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can't do it at night, for I know John would suspect
something at once.
And John is so queer now, that I don't want to irritate him. I wish he would take another room! Besides,
I don't want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself.
I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.
But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.
And though I always see her, she MAY be able to creep faster than I can turn!
I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high
wind.
If only that top pattern could be gotten off from the under one! I mean to try it, little by little.
I have found out another funny thing, but I shan't tell it this time! It does not do to trust people too
much.
There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning to notice. I don't like
the look in his eyes.
And I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to give.
She said I slept a good deal in the daytime.
John knows I don't sleep very well at night, for all I'm so quiet!
He asked me all sorts of questions, too, and pretended to be very loving and kind.
As if I couldn't see through him!
Still, I don't wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months.
It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jennie are secretly affected by it.
Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John is to stay in town over night, and won't be out until
this evening.
Jennie wanted to sleep with me—the sly thing! but I told her I should undoubtedly rest better for a night
all alone.
That was clever, for really I wasn't alone a bit! As soon as it was moonlight and that poor thing began to
crawl and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her.
I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that
paper.
A strip about as high as my head and half around the room.
And then when the sun came and that awful pattern began to laugh at me, I declared I would finish it today!
We go away to-morrow, and they are moving all my furniture down again to leave things as they were
before.
Jennie looked at the wall in amazement, but I told her merrily that I did it out of pure spite at the vicious
thing.
83
She laughed and said she wouldn't mind doing it herself, but I must not get tired.
How she betrayed herself that time!
But I am here, and no person touches this paper but me—not ALIVE!
She tried to get me out of the room—it was too patent! But I said it was so quiet and empty and clean
now that I believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could; and not to wake me even for dinner—I
would call when I woke.
So now she is gone, and the servants are gone, and the things are gone, and there is nothing left but
that great bedstead nailed down, with the canvas mattress we found on it.
We shall sleep downstairs to-night, and take the boat home to-morrow.
I quite enjoy the room, now it is bare again.
How those children did tear about here!
This bedstead is fairly gnawed!
But I must get to work.
I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path.
I don't want to go out, and I don't want to have anybody come in, till John comes.
I want to astonish him.
I've got a rope up here that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out, and tries to get away, I
can tie her!
But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to stand on!
This bed will NOT move!
I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece at one corner—but
it hurt my teeth.
Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly and the pattern just
enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling fungus growths just shriek with
derision!
I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable
exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try.
Besides I wouldn't do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and might be
misconstrued.
I don't like to LOOK out of the windows even—there are so many of those creeping women, and they
creep so fast.
I wonder if they all come out of that wall-paper as I did?
But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope—you don't get ME out in the road there!
I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard!
It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please!
I don't want to go outside. I won't, even if Jennie asks me to.
84
For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow.
But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the
wall, so I cannot lose my way.
Why there's John at the door!
It is no use, young man, you can't open it!
How he does call and pound!
Now he's crying for an axe.
It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door!
"John dear!" said I in the gentlest voice, "the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!"
That silenced him for a few moments.
Then he said—very quietly indeed, "Open the door, my darling!"
"I can't," said I. "The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!"
And then I said it again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and
see, and he got it of course, and came in. He stopped short by the door.
"What is the matter?" he cried. "For God's sake, what are you doing!"
I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.
"I've got out at last," said I, "in spite of you and Jane. And I've pulled off most of the paper, so you can't
put me back!"
Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had
to creep over him every time!
85
WILLIAM WILSON
by Edgar Allan Poe (1839)
What say of it? what say (of) CONSCIENCE grim, That spectre in my path?
-----Chamberlayne's Pharronida.
LET me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need not be
sullied with my real appellation. This has been already too much an object for the scorn --for the horror -for the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds
bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned! --to the earth art thou not
forever dead? to its honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations? --and a cloud, dense, dismal, and
limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven?
I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later years of unspeakable misery, and
unpardonable crime. This epoch --these later years --took unto themselves a sudden elevation in
turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign. Men usually grow base by degrees.
From me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial wickedness I
passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance --what
one event brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches; and the
shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through
the dim valley, for the sympathy --I had nearly said for the pity --of my fellow men. I would fain have
them believe that I have been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. I
would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I am about to give, some little oasis of fatality amid a
wilderness of error. I would have them allow --what they cannot refrain from allowing --that, although
temptation may have erewhile existed as great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before -certainly, never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus suffered? Have I not indeed been
living in a dream? And am I not now dying a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest of all
sublunary visions?
I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable temperament has at all times
rendered them remarkable; and, in my earliest infancy, I gave evidence of having fully inherited the
family character. As I advanced in years it was more strongly developed; becoming, for many reasons, a
cause of serious disquietude to my friends, and of positive injury to myself. I grew self-willed, addicted
to the wildest caprices, and a prey to the most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset with
constitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but little to check the evil propensities
which distinguished me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts resulted in complete failure on their part,
and, of course, in total triumph on mine. Thenceforward my voice was a household law; and at an age
when few children have abandoned their leading-strings, I was left to the guidance of my own will, and
became, in all but name, the master of my own actions.
My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with a large, rambling, Elizabethan house, in a
misty-looking village of England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees, and where all
the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that
venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness of its deeply-shadowed
avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at
the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the
stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay imbedded and asleep.
It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any manner experience, to dwell upon minute
recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am --misery, alas! only too real --I
shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling
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details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves, assume, to my fancy,
adventitious importance, as connected with a period and a locality when and where I recognise the first
ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so fully overshadowed me. Let me then
remember.
The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were extensive, and a high and solid brick
wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like rampart
formed the limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week --once every Saturday afternoon,
when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a body through some of the
neighbouring fields --and twice during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to
the morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church the principal of our
school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our
remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverend man,
with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so
minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast, ---could this be he who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy
habiliments, administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian laws of the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox, too
utterly monstrous for solution!
At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate. It was riveted and studded with iron
bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it inspire! It was
never opened save for the three periodical egressions and ingressions already mentioned; then, in every
creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery --a world of matter for solemn remark, or for
more solemn meditation.
The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many capacious recesses. Of these, three or four
of the largest constituted the play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well
remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor anything similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the
house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other shrubs; but through this sacred division
we passed only upon rare occasions indeed --such as a first advent to school or final departure thence,
or perhaps, when a parent or friend having called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the
Christmas or Midsummer holy-days.
But the house! --how quaint an old building was this! --to me how veritably a palace of enchantment!
There was really no end to its windings --to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult, at any
given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two stories one happened to be. From each room to
every other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or descent. Then the lateral
branches were innumerable --inconceivable --and so returning in upon themselves, that our most exact
ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far different from those with which we pondered
upon infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I was never able to ascertain with precision, in
what remote locality lay the little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or twenty
other scholars.
The school-room was the largest in the house --I could not help thinking, in the world. It was very long,
narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a celling of oak. In a remote and terrorinspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, "during hours," of
our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy door, sooner than open
which in the absence of the "Dominic," we would all have willingly perished by the peine forte et dure.
In other angles were two other similar boxes, far less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of
awe. One of these was the pulpit of the "classical" usher, one of the "English and mathematical."
Interspersed about the room, crossing and recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches
and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with much-bethumbed books, and so
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beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts of the
knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original form might have been their portion in days long
departed. A huge bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous
dimensions at the other.
Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the
years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of
incident to occupy or amuse it; and the apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with more
intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury, or my full manhood from crime. Yet I
must believe that my first mental development had in it much of the uncommon --even much of the
outre. Upon mankind at large the events of very early existence rarely leave in mature age any definite
impression. All is gray shadow --a weak and irregular remembrance --an indistinct regathering of feeble
pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the
energy of a man what I now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as the
exergues of the Carthaginian medals.
Yet in fact --in the fact of the world's view --how little was there to remember! The morning's
awakening, the nightly summons to bed; the connings, the recitations; the periodical half-holidays, and
perambulations; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes, its intrigues; --these, by a mental sorcery
long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, an universe of
varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring. "Oh, le bon temps, que ce siecle
de fer!"
In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my disposition, soon rendered me a
marked character among my schoolmates, and by slow, but natural gradations, gave me an ascendancy
over all not greatly older than myself; --over all with a single exception. This exception was found in the
person of a scholar, who, although no relation, bore the same Christian and surname as myself; --a
circumstance, in fact, little remarkable; for, notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those
everyday appellations which seem, by prescriptive right, to have been, time out of mind, the common
property of the mob. In this narrative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson, --a fictitious
title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake alone, of those who in school phraseology constituted
"our set," presumed to compete with me in the studies of the class --in the sports and broils of the playground --to refuse implicit belief in my assertions, and submission to my will --indeed, to interfere with
my arbitrary dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there is on earth a supreme and unqualified
despotism, it is the despotism of a master mind in boyhood over the less energetic spirits of its
companions.
Wilson's rebellion was to me a source of the greatest embarrassment; --the more so as, in spite of the
bravado with which in public I made a point of treating him and his pretensions, I secretly felt that I
feared him, and could not help thinking the equality which he maintained so easily with myself, a proof
of his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a perpetual struggle. Yet this superiority --even
this equality --was in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associates, by some unaccountable
blindness, seemed not even to suspect it. Indeed, his competition, his resistance, and especially his
impertinent and dogged interference with my purposes, were not more pointed than private. He
appeared to be destitute alike of the ambition which urged, and of the passionate energy of mind which
enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he might have been supposed actuated solely by a whimsical desire to
thwart, astonish, or mortify myself; although there were times when I could not help observing, with a
feeling made up of wonder, abasement, and pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, or his
contradictions, a certain most inappropriate, and assuredly most unwelcome affectionateness of
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manner. I could only conceive this singular behavior to arise from a consummate self-conceit assuming
the vulgar airs of patronage and protection.
Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson's conduct, conjoined with our identity of name, and the mere
accident of our having entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the notion that we were
brothers, among the senior classes in the academy. These do not usually inquire with much strictness
into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have said, that Wilson was not, in the most
remote degree, connected with my family. But assuredly if we had been brothers we must have been
twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby's, I casually learned that my namesake was born on the nineteenth
of January, 1813 --and this is a somewhat remarkable coincidence; for the day is precisely that of my
own nativity.
It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, and his
intolerable spirit of contradiction, I could not bring myself to hate him altogether. We had, to be sure,
nearly every day a quarrel in which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some manner,
contrived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved it; yet a sense of pride on my part, and a
veritable dignity on his own, kept us always upon what are called "speaking terms," while there were
many points of strong congeniality in our tempers, operating to awake me in a sentiment which our
position alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into friendship. It is difficult, indeed, to define,or even
to describe, my real feelings towards him. They formed a motley and heterogeneous admixture; --some
petulant animosity, which was not yet hatred, some esteem, more respect, much fear, with a world of
uneasy curiosity. To the moralist it will be unnecessary to say, in addition, that Wilson and myself were
the most inseparable of companions.
It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between us, which turned all my attacks upon
him, (and they were many, either open or covert) into the channel of banter or practical joke (giving
pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather than into a more serious and determined hostility.
But my endeavours on this head were by no means uniformly successful, even when my plans were the
most wittily concocted; for my namesake had much about him, in character, of that unassuming and
quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and
absolutely refuses to be laughed at. I could find, indeed, but one vulnerable point, and that, lying in a
personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from constitutional disease, would have been spared by any
antagonist less at his wit's end than myself; --my rival had a weakness in the faucal or guttural organs,
which precluded him from raising his voice at any time above a very low whisper. Of this defect I did not
fall to take what poor advantage lay in my power.
Wilson's retaliations in kind were many; and there was one form of his practical wit that disturbed me
beyond measure. How his sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex me, is a
question I never could solve; but, having discovered, he habitually practised the annoyance. I had always
felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if not plebeian praenomen. The words
were venom in my ears; and when, upon the day of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the
academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly disgusted with the name because a
stranger bore it, who would be the cause of its twofold repetition, who would be constantly in my
presence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the school business, must inevitably, on
account of the detestable coincidence, be often confounded with my own.
The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every circumstance tending to show
resemblance, moral or physical, between my rival and myself. I had not then discovered the remarkable
fact that we were of the same age; but I saw that we were of the same height, and I perceived that we
were even singularly alike in general contour of person and outline of feature. I was galled, too, by the
rumor touching a relationship, which had grown current in the upper forms. In a word, nothing could
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more seriously disturb me, although I scrupulously concealed such disturbance,) than any allusion to a
similarity of mind, person, or condition existing between us. But, in truth, I had no reason to believe that
(with the exception of the matter of relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself,) this similarity had
ever been made a subject of comment, or even observed at all by our schoolfellows. That he observed it
in all its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was apparent; but that he could discover in such circumstances so
fruitful a field of annoyance, can only be attributed, as I said before, to his more than ordinary
penetration.
His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in words and in actions; and most
admirably did he play his part. My dress it was an easy matter to copy; my gait and general manner
were, without difficulty, appropriated; in spite of his constitutional defect, even my voice did not escape
him. My louder tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key, it was identical; and his singular
whisper, it grew the very echo of my own.
How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it could not justly be termed a caricature,)
I will not now venture to describe. I had but one consolation --in the fact that the imitation, apparently,
was noticed by myself alone, and that I had to endure only the knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles of
my namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in my bosom the intended effect, he seemed to
chuckle in secret over the sting he had inflicted, and was characteristically disregardful of the public
applause which the success of his witty endeavours might have so easily elicited. That the school,
indeed, did not feel his design, perceive its accomplishment, and participate in his sneer, was, for many
anxious months, a riddle I could not resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so readily
perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed my security to the master air of the copyist, who, disdaining the
letter, (which in a painting is all the obtuse can see,) gave but the full spirit of his original for my
individual contemplation and chagrin.
I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of patronage which he assumed toward me,
and of his frequent officious interference withy my will. This interference often took the ungracious
character of advice; advice not openly given, but hinted or insinuated. I received it with a repugnance
which gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let me do him the simple justice to
acknowledge that I can recall no occasion when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of those
errors or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming inexperience; that his moral sense, at least, if
not his general talents and worldly wisdom, was far keener than my own; and that I might, to-day, have
been a better, and thus a happier man, had I less frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those
meaning whispers which I then but too cordially hated and too bitterly despised.
As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his distasteful supervision, and daily resented
more and more openly what I considered his intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in the first years of
our connexion as schoolmates, my feelings in regard to him might have been easily ripened into
friendship: but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy, although the intrusion of his
ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, in some measure, abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar
proportion, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw this, I think, and
afterwards avoided, or made a show of avoiding me.
It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an altercation of violence with him, in which
he was more than usually thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an openness of demeanor
rather foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied I discovered, in his accent, his air, and general
appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply interested me, by bringing to mind dim
visions of my earliest infancy --wild, confused and thronging memories of a time when memory herself
was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation which oppressed me than by saying that I could
with difficulty shake off the belief of my having been acquainted with the being who stood before me, at
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some epoch very long ago --some point of the past even infinitely remote. The delusion, however, faded
rapidly as it came; and I mention it at all but to define the day of the last conversation I there held with
my singular namesake.
The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several large chambers communicating with
each other, where slept the greater number of the students. There were, however, (as must necessarily
happen in a building so awkwardly planned,) many little nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of the
structure; and these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted up as dormitories; although,
being the merest closets, they were capable of accommodating but a single individual. One of these
small apartments was occupied by Wilson.
One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and immediately after the altercation just
mentioned, finding every one wrapped in sleep, I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole through a
wilderness of narrow passages from my own bedroom to that of my rival. I had long been plotting one
of those ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had hitherto been so uniformly
unsuccessful. It was my intention, now, to put my scheme in operation, and I resolved to make him feel
the whole extent of the malice with which I was imbued. Having reached his closet, I noiselessly
entered, leaving the lamp, with a shade over it, on the outside. I advanced a step, and listened to the
sound of his tranquil breathing. Assured of his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again
approached the bed. Close curtains were around it, which, in the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and
quietly withdrew, when the bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes, at the same moment,
upon his countenance. I looked; --and a numbness, an iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame.
My breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole spirit became possessed with an objectless yet
intolerable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer proximity to the face. Were
these --these the lineaments of William Wilson? I saw, indeed, that they were his, but I shook as if with a
fit of the ague in fancying they were not. What was there about them to confound me in this manner? I
gazed; --while my brain reeled with a multitude of incoherent thoughts. Not thus he appeared -assuredly not thus --in the vivacity of his waking hours. The same name! the same contour of person!
the same day of arrival at the academy! And then his dogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my
voice, my habits, and my manner! Was it, in truth, within the bounds of human possibility, that what I
now saw was the result, merely, of the habitual practice of this sarcastic imitation? Awe-stricken, and
with a creeping shudder, I extinguished the lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left, at once,
the halls of that old academy, never to enter them again.
After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found myself a student at Eton. The
brief interval had been sufficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr. Bransby's, or at least
to effect a material change in the nature of the feelings with which I remembered them. The truth --the
tragedy --of the drama was no more. I could now find room to doubt the evidence of my senses; and
seldom called up the subject at all but with wonder at extent of human credulity, and a smile at the vivid
force of the imagination which I hereditarily possessed. Neither was this species of scepticism likely to
be diminished by the character of the life I led at Eton. The vortex of thoughtless folly into which I there
so immediately and so recklessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my past hours, engulfed at
once every solid or serious impression, and left to memory only the veriest levities of a former
existence.
I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable profligacy here --a profligacy which set at
defiance the laws, while it eluded the vigilance of the institution. Three years of folly, passed without
profit, had but given me rooted habits of vice, and added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to my bodily
stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a small party of the most dissolute students
to a secret carousal in my chambers. We met at a late hour of the night; for our debaucheries were to
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be faithfully protracted until morning. The wine flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and
perhaps more dangerous seductions; so that the gray dawn had already faintly appeared in the east,
while our delirious extravagance was at its height. Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I was in
the act of insisting upon a toast of more than wonted profanity, when my attention was suddenly
diverted by the violent, although partial unclosing of the door of the apartment, and by the eager voice
of a servant from without. He said that some person, apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with
me in the hall.
Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather delighted than surprised me. I staggered
forward at once, and a few steps brought me to the vestibule of the building. In this low and small room
there hung no lamp; and now no light at all was admitted, save that of the exceedingly feeble dawn
which made its way through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over the threshold, I became
aware of the figure of a youth about my own height, and habited in a white kerseymere morning frock,
cut in the novel fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This the faint light enabled me to
perceive; but the features of his face I could not distinguish. Upon my entering he strode hurriedly up to
me, and, seizing me by. the arm with a gesture of petulant impatience, whispered the words "William
Wilson!" in my ear.
I grew perfectly sober in an instant. There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the tremulous
shake of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my eyes and the light, which filled me with unqualified
amazement; but it was not this which had so violently moved me. It was the pregnancy of solemn
admonition in the singular, low, hissing utterance; and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the key,
of those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered syllables, which came with a thousand thronging
memories of bygone days, and struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could
recover the use of my senses he was gone.
Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my disordered imagination, yet was it evanescent as
vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped in a cloud of morbid
speculation. I did not pretend to disguise from my perception the identity of the singular individual who
thus perseveringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me with his insinuated counsel. But who and
what was this Wilson? --and whence came he? --and what were his purposes? Upon neither of these
points could I be satisfied; merely ascertaining, in regard to him, that a sudden accident in his family had
caused his removal from Dr. Bransby's academy on the afternoon of the day in which I myself had
eloped. But in a brief period I ceased to think upon the subject; my attention being all absorbed in a
contemplated departure for Oxford. Thither I soon went; the uncalculating vanity of my parents
furnishing me with an outfit and annual establishment, which would enable me to indulge at will in the
luxury already so dear to my heart, --to vie in profuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of
the wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain.
Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional temperament broke forth with redoubled ardor,
and I spurned even the common restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it were
absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. Let it suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-Heroded
Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added no brief appendix to the long
catalogue of vices then usual in the most dissolute university of Europe.
It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly
estate, as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession, and, having become an
adept in his despicable science, to practise it habitually as a means of increasing my already enormous
income at the expense of the weak-minded among my fellow-collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the
fact. And the very enormity of this offence against all manly and honourable sentiment proved, beyond
doubt, the main if not the sole reason of the impunity with which it was committed. Who, indeed,
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among my most abandoned associates, would not rather have disputed the clearest evidence of his
senses, than have suspected of such courses, the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson --the
noblest and most commoner at Oxford --him whose follies (said his parasites) were but the follies of
youth and unbridled fancy --whose errors but inimitable whim --whose darkest vice but a careless and
dashing extravagance?
I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when there came to the university a young
parvenu nobleman, Glendinning --rich, said report, as Herodes Atticus --his riches, too, as easily
acquired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and, of course, marked him as a fitting subject for my skill. I
frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler's usual art, to let him win considerable
sums, the more effectually to entangle him in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I met him
(with the full intention that this meeting should be final and decisive) at the chambers of a fellowcommoner, (Mr. Preston,) equally intimate with both, but who, to do him Justice, entertained not even
a remote suspicion of my design. To give to this a better colouring, I had contrived to have assembled a
party of some eight or ten, and was solicitously careful that the introduction of cards should appear
accidental, and originate in the proposal of my contemplated dupe himself. To be brief upon a vile topic,
none of the low finesse was omitted, so customary upon similar occasions that it is a just matter for
wonder how any are still found so besotted as to fall its victim.
We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at length effected the manoeuvre of getting
Glendinning as my sole antagonist. The game, too, was my favorite ecarte!. The rest of the company,
interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned their own cards, and were standing around us as
spectators. The parvenu, who had been induced by my artifices in the early part of the evening, to drink
deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played, with a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I
thought, might partially, but could not altogether account. In a very short period he had become my
debtor to a large amount, when, having taken a long draught of port, he did precisely what I had been
coolly anticipating --he proposed to double our already extravagant stakes. With a well-feigned show of
reluctance, and not until after my repeated refusal had seduced him into some angry words which gave
a color of pique to my compliance, did I finally comply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely
the prey was in my toils; in less than an hour he had quadrupled his debt. For some time his
countenance had been losing the florid tinge lent it by the wine; but now, to my astonishment, I
perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say to my astonishment. Glendinning had been
represented to my eager inquiries as immeasurably wealthy; and the sums which he had as yet lost,
although in themselves vast, could not, I supposed, very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect
him. That he was overcome by the wine just swallowed, was the idea which most readily presented
itself; and, rather with a view to the preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates, than
from any less interested motive, I was about to insist, peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play,
when some expressions at my elbow from among the company, and an ejaculation evincing utter
despair on the part of Glendinning, gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin under
circumstances which, rendering him an object for the pity of all, should have protected him from the ill
offices even of a fiend.
What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The pitiable condition of my dupe had
thrown an air of embarrassed gloom over all; and, for some moments, a profound silence was
maintained, during which I could not help feeling my cheeks tingle with the many burning glances of
scorn or reproach cast upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even own that an intolerable
weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted from my bosom by the sudden and extraordinary
interruption which ensued. The wide, heavy folding doors of the apartment were all at once thrown
open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and rushing impetuosity that extinguished, as if by magic,
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every candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to perceive that a stranger had entered,
about my own height, and closely muffled in a cloak. The darkness, however, was now total; and we
could only feel that he was standing in our midst. Before any one of us could recover from the extreme
astonishment into which this rudeness had thrown all, we heard the voice of the intruder.
"Gentlemen," he said, in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the very
marrow of my bones, "Gentlemen, I make no apology for this behaviour, because in thus behaving, I am
but fulfilling a duty. You are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of the person who has tonight won at ecarte a large sum of money from Lord Glendinning. I will therefore put you upon an
expeditious and decisive plan of obtaining this very necessary information. Please to examine, at your
leisure, the inner linings of the cuff of his left sleeve, and the several little packages which may be found
in the somewhat capacious pockets of his embroidered morning wrapper."
While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have heard a pin drop upon the floor. In
ceasing, he departed at once, and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I --shall I describe my sensations? -must I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned? Most assuredly I had little time given for reflection.
Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were immediately reprocured. A search
ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were found all the court cards essential in ecarte, and, in the pockets
of my wrapper, a number of packs, facsimiles of those used at our sittings, with the single exception that
mine were of the species called, technically, arrondees; the honours being slightly convex at the ends,
the lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the
length of the pack, will invariably find that he cuts his antagonist an honor; while the gambler, cutting at
the breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing for his victim which may count in the records of the game.
Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected me less than the silent contempt, or
the sarcastic composure, with which it was received.
"Mr. Wilson," said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his feet an exceedingly luxurious cloak of
rare furs, "Mr. Wilson, this is your property." (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting my own room, I
had thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper, putting it off upon reaching the scene of play.) "I
presume it is supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the folds of the garment with a bitter smile) for any
farther evidence of your skill. Indeed, we have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of quitting
Oxford --at all events, of quitting instantly my chambers."
Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I should have resented this galling
language by immediate personal violence, had not my whole attention been at the moment arrested by
a fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I had worn was of a rare description of fur; how
rare, how extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, too, was of my own fantastic
invention; for I was fastidious to an absurd degree of coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous nature.
When, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had picked up upon the floor, and near the
folding doors of the apartment, it was with an astonishment nearly bordering upon terror, that I
perceived my own already hanging on my arm, (where I had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) and that
the one presented me was but its exact counterpart in every, in even the minutest possible particular.
The singular being who had so disastrously exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a cloak;
and none had been worn at all by any of the members of our party with the exception of myself.
Retaining some presence of mind, I took the one offered me by Preston; placed it, unnoticed, over my
own; left the apartment with a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next morning ere dawn of day,
commenced a hurried journey from Oxford to the continent, in a perfect agony of horror and of shame.
I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation, and proved, indeed, that the exercise of its
mysterious dominion had as yet only begun. Scarcely had I set foot in Paris ere I had fresh evidence of
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the detestable interest taken by this Wilson in my concerns. Years flew, while I experienced no relief.
Villain! --at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an officiousness, stepped he in between me
and my ambition! At Vienna, too --at Berlin --and at Moscow! Where, in truth, had I not bitter cause to
curse him within my heart? From his inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a
pestilence; and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain.
And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit, would I demand the questions "Who is
he? --whence came he? --and what are his objects?" But no answer was there found. And then I
scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods, and the leading traits of his impertinent
supervision. But even here there was very little upon which to base a conjecture. It was noticeable,
indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he so
crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those actions, which, if fully carried out,
might have resulted in bitter mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for an authority so imperiously
assumed! Poor indemnity for natural rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied!
I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period of time, (while scrupulously
and with miraculous dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with myself,) had so
contrived it, in the execution of his varied interference with my will, that I saw not, at any moment, the
features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least, was but the veriest of affectation, or of folly.
Could he, for an instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton --in the destroyer of my honor at
Oxford, --in him who thwarted my ambition at Rome, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples,
or what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt, --that in this, my arch-enemy and evil genius, could fall to
recognise the William Wilson of my school boy days, --the namesake, the companion, the rival, --the
hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby's? Impossible! --But let me hasten to the last eventful scene of
the drama.
Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination. The sentiment of deep awe with which
I habitually regarded the elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent omnipresence and
omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of even terror, with which certain other traits in his nature
and assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me with an idea of my own utter
weakness and helplessness, and to suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to his
arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up entirely to wine; and its maddening influence upon
my hereditary temper rendered me more and more impatient of control. I began to murmur, --to
hesitate, --to resist. And was it only fancy which induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own
firmness, that of my tormentor underwent a proportional diminution? Be this as it may, I now began to
feel the inspiration of a burning hope, and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and
desperate resolution that I would submit no longer to be enslaved.
It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18--, that I attended a masquerade in the palazzo of the
Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine-table; and
now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond endurance. The difficulty,
too, of forcing my way through the mazes of the company contributed not a little to the ruffling of my
temper; for I was anxiously seeking, (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay, the
beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too unscrupulous confidence she had previously
communicated to me the secret of the costume in which she would be habited, and now, having caught
a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my way into her presence. --At this moment I felt a light
hand placed upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable whisper within my ear.
In an absolute phrenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who had thus interrupted me, and seized
him violently by tile collar. He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether similar to my own;
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wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A
mask of black silk entirely covered his face.
"Scoundrel!" I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my
fury, "scoundrel! impostor! accursed villain! you shall not --you shall not dog me unto death! Follow me,
or I stab you where you stand!" --and I broke my way from the ball-room into a small ante-chamber
adjoining --dragging him unresistingly with me as I went.
Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered against the wall, while I closed the door
with an oath, and commanded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant; then, with a slight sigh,
drew in silence, and put himself upon his defence.
The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild excitement, and felt within my
single arm the energy and power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer strength against
the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly
through and through his bosom.
At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then
immediately returned to my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately portray that
astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the spectacle then presented to view? The brief
moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the
arrangements at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror, --so at first it seemed to me in my
confusion --now stood where none had been perceptible before; and, as I stepped up to it in extremity
of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me with a
feeble and tottering gait.
Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist --it was Wilson, who then stood before me in
the agonies of his dissolution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon the floor. Not a
thread in all his raiment --not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not,
even in the most absolute identity, mine own!
It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have fancied that I myself was speaking
while he said:
"You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also dead --dead to the World, to Heaven
and to Hope! In me didst thou exist --and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how
utterly thou hast murdered thyself."
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Gothic fiction tells us the truth about our divided nature: Doppelganger tales undermine the modern
idea of the self as invulnerable and in control of passions
By Allison Milbank (The Guardian)
Frankenstein (Benedict Cumberbatch) and his Creature (Jonny Lee Miller) at the National Theatre in
February. Photograph: Tristram Kenton
As a scholar of Gothic fiction I research tales about vampires, ghosts and doppelgangers, and incestuous
maniacs pursuing maidens down underground passages. What possible "truth" could such fictions offer?
And even if they have truths to tell, what possible relevance could such discoveries have for a Christian
audience? Many of my fellow critics would doubt that they have any but a negative truth to tell to
religion. The taste for Gothic fiction begins in the Enlightenment period, when the truth claims of
religion were being questioned. Maidens fleeing from the rapacious hands of murderous monks in the
novels of Ann Radcliffe or Matthew Lewis represent for many the attempt to escape from the
constrictions of Christian belief and its oppressive institutions into secular freedom. Encounters with
ghostly figures are taken as Kantian attempts to test the limits of reason itself.
But in the 19th century, attention moves to the horrors that lurk in our own psyche. The unconscious
comes to be a subject of attention and exploration in stories such as the celebrated Strange Case of Dr
Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.
Although the haunting by a second self may appear to confirm the existence of the supernatural, ever
since Freud this apparition has been understood not as a true spiritual presence but as a figure of
repression. The eeriness of two selves where there should only be one is, Freud argued, an irruption of
disquiet caused by our separation from our origin in our mother's womb. Uncanny is unheimlich in
German, or "unhomely", and Freud claims it is the home that we refuse to acknowledge and from which
we are estranged which causes the double among other eerie manifestations. Freud's theory is used to
account for the plethora of double figures from Frankenstein and his Creature, Poe's William Wilson,
Dorian Gray and his portrait, and the tortured protagonists of the Tales of Hoffman, all of whom play out
the horror of duality, of a subjectivity rendered uncanny.
In discussing these tales as critiques, Gothic scholars tend to stress their revelation of "cultural
anxieties", and the way in which they undermine the moral and religious status quo. Dr Jekyll, for
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example, is a highly respected physician, who lives in a large and handsome house, and moves in
elevated professional circles, in which his own reputation stands high. There is, however, a shady back
door to his house, out of which the apish, squat figure of Hyde emerges, to act out violent assaults with
monstrous malice. He contradicts the moral behaviour of Dr Jekyll and questions the integrity of his
social persona, just as the Gothic scholar aims to lift the veil on Victorian hypocrisy.
What allows this kind of critique is the development of a particular form of subjectivity, which the
philosopher Charles Taylor in A Secular Age calls the "buffered self". In his extensive study of how the
secular emerged in the modern world, Taylor locates the heart of the change in a seismic shift from the
"porous" to the "buffered" self. In pre-modern societies, people inhabit a divinely created cosmos, full of
spirits, good and bad, fairies, angels and natural forces, which are seen also to have agency as "acts of
God". Even inanimate objects, such as holy relics, can have power over us. Similarly, all levels of social
organisation, from realm to parish and guild, are liturgically ordered and are grounded in a higher
reality. The self in all this is open to the world, vulnerable and easily affected and possessed by outside
forces, natural or supernatural, although the distinction itself is not easily made, since only gradually
does an actual "natural" evolve.
Following Max Weber, Taylor uses the term, "disenchantment" to describe the dismantling of this social
imaginary, by science and the Enlightenment, industrialisation and so on. In the process the self
becomes "buffered", no longer vulnerable to the power of forces beyond the self. He no longer fears
demons and thunderstorms and, more radically, they no longer exist for him. He possesses his own
selfhood: even God is displaced as he becomes his own centre, with boundaries, social and
metaphysical. Self-consciously, we are aware of the magical past, and we count ourselves lucky to have
won through. We call the past "backward" and assume we have progressed.
In this account, the modern self is a secular one, deriving causation from scientific accounts, which are
intelligible to the mind, which therefore, in a sense, remains emperor of its own experience.
This modern, buffered self is precisely the subjectivity the Gothic tale of the doppelganger seeks to
question, showing that the buffers do not work. Taylor even argues that the buffered self deals with the
power of desires and passions by denying them the religious meaning they once enjoyed, so that they
are reduced to the status of bodily functions to be dealt with rather than being daimonic. It is his desires
for forbidden pleasures that lead Jekyll to create Mr Hyde and thus deal surgically with an
inconvenience.
This is not a religious conception of identity. For Augustine of Hippo in his fifth-century Confessions,
desires need to be ordered but potentially desire itself leads to God, as in the famous line: "Our hearts
are restless until they rest in Thee." Only a divine object can satisfy the power of desire.
The language of singularity, of "wholeness", only appears in the most recent liturgy, as an index of
Christian decadence. Traditionally, the Christian self was a conflicted and dynamic subjectivity, and
expressed in relation to a communal, wholly "porous" reality. St Paul is the architect of the flesh/spirit
distinction, which is not, as is often assumed, a body/spirit dualism. The "flesh" Paul speaks of is not the
body but the pull of all that enmeshes us in our selfish ego: anger and envy and ambition as well as
sexual desires. "My sin," says Dorothy Sayers's Eve in one of her festival plays, "was intellectual".
Sin is being subject to forces within and without: it is a bad form of relationality and the answer is the
society of the virtues, in which Christ clothes the self. The medieval play Everyman presents a kind of
psychomachia, that is a play about the internal struggle of the soul. But it does so in terms of societies
and characters who influence and accompany the soul for good or ill: beauty, good deeds and
fellowship. In medieval Christianity the seven deadly sins and their opposing virtues were characters to
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put on and be lived. To be a Christian was to "put on" Christ, to dress up in his garments and share in his
persona.
Nor, in the tradition, are Christians merely dual: saint and sinner. Their soul, Augustine believed, was a
vestige of the Trinity, in its triple powers of memory, understanding and will. These derive from their
Creator, and the long journey of the Confessions is the tale of the prodigal son, in which memory,
ordered through the understanding, leads the will of Augustine to conversion in a story which is that of
every believer. Augustine's understanding of the soul as vestige of the Trinity was hugely influential
throughout the Middle Ages. Potentially, therefore, Christianity has an understanding of the self as dual
or triple, or multiple, a relational subjectivity, which finds its selfhood in union with Christ and his body
the church. Human beings are works in progress, and sites of a divine drama, wholly relational and
porous.
While we live we shall always be self-divided. As St Paul wrote: "For the good that I would I do not: but
the evil that I would not, that I do." And in showing us the darkness of the double self the Gothic, for all
its horror and terror, tells us the truth: we are all Cain and Abel: "the whole seed of Adam, not divided/
But fearfully joined in the darkness of the double self". But this duality is our hope and not our despair.
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“Our Monsters, Ourselves”
By Timothy K. Beal
Before September 11, we seemed to be in the midst of a great revival of famous monsters. In addition to
recent cinematic revamps of Dracula and Godzilla, we had seen the successful box-office return of The
Exorcist and aggressively marketed video re-releases of Universal's "Classic Monster Collection,"
including Frankenstein, The Bride of Frankenstein, The Creature From the Black Lagoon, The Wolf Man,
and Dracula. There had been two movies about the making of classic monster movies: Bill Condon's
Gods and Monsters, based on Christopher Bram's novel about James Whale, the father of the
Frankenstein movies; and E. Elias Merhige's Shadow of the Vampire, a behind-the-scenes fantasy about
the 1922 film Nosferatu that gives new meaning to the term monstre sacré, suggesting that its
monstrous star, Max Schreck, is actually an aging vampire playing an actor playing a vampire.
Our hunger for monster tales by such authors as Clive Barker, Stephen King, and Anne Rice was
insatiable, and mainstream interest in early-20th-century weird tales such as those of H.P. Lovecraft was
growing. Television shows like The X-Files and Xena: Warrior Princess were constantly culling traditional
mythologies for monsters to bring onto their sets. Disney/Pixar was ramping up its marketing for
Monsters, Inc. And you can hardly turn two pages in any Harry Potter book without encountering a
dragon, a hippogriff, a basilisk, or an undead Hogwarts alum. There seemed to be no end to the
conjuring of monsters.
In the immediate wake of the September 11 tragedies, however, I wondered whether the monsters
might go into hiding along with irony. Americans were holing up in their homes with friends and family.
Most foreboding for the monsters was the fact that romantic comedies were topping the home-video
rental charts. If there's anything that can scare away monsters, it's romantic comedy. Perhaps the
immense weight of existence in the wake of such senseless death and destruction had most of us
longing nostalgically for the innocence, fresh beginnings, and prosperity that these films seemed to
recall. At any rate, prospects for monsters this fall were not looking good.
But here it is November, and monster season appears to be in full swing. Thirteen Ghosts was a top
seller during the weekend of October 26-28, grossing more than $15-million in its first three days, while
the top movie for the previous weekend was From Hell, which made nearly $21-million in its first 10
days. Among the hottest-selling books are Stephen King's and Peter Straub's Black House, released
September 15, and Anne Rice's Blood and Gold, the seventh in her Vampire Chronicles series, released
October 16. Monsters, Inc. is everywhere, and the most common complaint is that its monsters are too
cuddly. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone is opening with great fanfare, and there's no desire to tone
down the unspeakable horror of its evil Lord Voldemort.
While the popularity of the formula slasher movie is waning, our dread fascination with the monsters of
supernatural horror will not relent. The reawakening of the monstrous continues. These days more than
ever it seems you can't keep a good monster down. Perhaps not just vampires but all monsters are
undead. No matter how many times we exorcize them, blow them to bits, or banish them to outer
space, they keep coming back for more.
Our monsters are always trying to show us something, if we would only pay attention. The word
"monster" itself goes back to the Latin verb monstrare, "show" or "reveal." Monsters are inherently
demonstrative. So what are they trying to show us now?
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Perhaps they are simply showing us how much we want to get back to the usual routine, to follow the
president's advice and carry on with our lives as we normally would. Eat in restaurants. Travel in
airplanes. Go to Disney World. And around Halloween time, watch scary movies and read scary books.
Because that's what we normally do during this time of year.
On another level, our continued interest in monsters undoubtedly reveals our desire to find a scapegoat
for our fears and anxieties. Monsters put a face on our otherwise vague sense of impending doom. In
this light, the typical Hollywood monster movie serves as a vehicle for a public rite of exorcism in which
our looming sense of unease is projected in the form of a monster and then blown away. Although there
will be some collateral damage before the battle is over, in the end the monster will be vanquished and
the nation will be safe once again. In this way such monster movies literally scare the hell out of us. And
in an insecure time such as this one, they give us a sense of closure. For the time being, anyway.
But our monsters are more than seasonal consumer items, and more than scapegoats for our menacing
unease. Our monsters reveal the edges of secure knowledge, the limits of conscious reach, the
boundaries of human expansion. Think of those ancient maps on which unknown territories were
indicated by images of fantastic monsters accompanied by warnings, the most famous being the Lenox
Globe's hic sunt dracones, "here be dragons." The monstrous figures on those ancient maps occupied
the edges of unknowing, simultaneously forbidding and enticing would-be adventurers to draw near.
So too when it comes to the monsters that lurk on the edges of our personal and cultural landscapes.
They mark our own unknown territories, the places where our well-established sense of the order of
things touches chaos, where our toes curl over the edge of the abyss. We meet monsters at those points
where our boundlessly confident, ever-expanding consciousness shudders and freezes in its tracks.
Last spring I taught a new course called "Religion and Horror." The basic idea was to see what we could
learn about the religious traditions of Judaism and Christianity by approaching them through their
monsters (the biblical Leviathan and Behemoth, for example), and to see what we could learn about the
monsters of contemporary horror by looking into their religious backgrounds. You might say that we
were exploring religion as horror and horror as religion.
Horror as religion? Granted, most of us don't go to monster movies or read Gothic horror novels to get
religion. Nonetheless, the popular culture of horror often provides an alternative venue for religious
reflection. Supernatural horror literature and movies frequently explore how gods and monsters relate - change places, even -- in culture and in our imaginations. Throughout Mary Shelley's novel and James
Whale's movies, for example, Frankenstein's monster pushes the question, Who is more monstrous, the
Creature who must live through this vale of tears or the Creator who put him here? And films like
Nosferatu and Shadow of the Vampire present the monster as a revelation of dreadful yet fascinating
religious otherness, a radically heterodox image of the divine. Whereas the Frankenstein stories ask
whether God is a monster, Nosferatu and Shadow ask whether the monster is a god.
That there is a slippery slope between gods and monsters is not a new idea. As personifications of
radical otherness, the monsters of supernatural horror are often identified with the divine, especially
with its more dreadful, maleficent aspects. And the experience of horror in the face of the monstrous is
akin in many respects to religious experience: Both are often represented as encounters with mysterious
otherness that elicit a vertigo-like combination of dread and fascination -- a feeling captured in the older
spelling of "aweful," which retains its sense of awe. Indeed, in his classic 1917 essay on religious
experience, The Idea of the Holy (Das Heilige), Rudolph Otto went so far as to describe the monstrous as
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an apt expression of the holy in all its aspects of overwhelming awe, wonder, and dread -- what he
called the mysterium tremendum. You might say that the monstrous, for Otto, was a kind of monstrum
tremendum, an aweful envoy of the holy.
Many of the students in "Religion and Horror" were aficionados of the monstrous as much as they were
scholars of religion. And for them, the idea of horror as religion was not new. In fact, their critical
engagements of horror culture often seemed to be driven by religious questions and interests that were
not being entertained in mainstream religious venues.
Sometimes, as in discussions of Bram Stoker's Dracula or Rice's Interview With the Vampire, the
questions they raised would have been just as appropriate in a theology course. If everything comes
from God, is God not the author of evil as well as good, chaos as well as order? Is immortality always
desirable? Is redemption always possible? Are some, like Dracula or Grendel, chosen for curse and
others for blessing? If so, might we sympathize with these monsters as tragic figures, cursed to live
within the created order as abominations against it? Although such questions are indeed staples of
Jewish and Christian biblical tradition (think of Cain, Job, and Judas), horror films and literature often
draw attention to them in ways that undermine their traditional answers. Horror tends to amplify
theological problems over theological solutions.
Drawing from Freud's idea of the unheimlich, or "unhomely," one student proposed that the religious
function of horror is to bring to the surface those unheimlich elements that exist within a particular
religious tradition but are largely repressed by it. In her final paper, for example, she argued that the
function of contemporary apocalyptic horror films, such as last year's Lost Souls, is to render
inconclusive any assertion of a final triumph of cosmos against chaos or good against evil.
In other cases, the religious interests of students in the monstrous were more strongly countercultural.
Just as certain religious practices can serve as a means of transcending self, society, and world, several
students confessed that they saw identifying with the monstrous as a means of breaking out of an
ossified mainstream corporate culture in which religion is reduced to status-quo morality.
In our discussions about people who identify with the monstrous, the conversation often came around
to Marilyn Manson, that monstrous darling of MTV who frequently rails against moralistic Christianity.
Most students were well aware that Manson grew up in a conservative Christian family and that his
monstrous self-image is in many respects an expression of his desire to resist the reduction of religion to
a moral code. In fact, his autobiography begins with a quote from Nietzsche and is organized like Dante's
Inferno, rendering his life as a kind of spiritual quest aimed at getting beyond good and evil. One student
suggested that Manson is not so much "anti-Christian" as he is "alter-Christian." She concluded her final
paper about him with this impassioned biblical charge for us to be more open and self-reflective about
our monsters: "If we open our front door and see Marilyn Manson on our welcome mat, most of us will
close the door in his face and lock the deadbolt. Maybe we should, however, 'not forget to entertain
strangers, for by doing so some have unwittingly entertained angels' (Hebrews 13:2)." Earlier in the
semester, noting how angels invariably terrify the biblical characters they visit, she wondered whether
we might consider angels as monsters. Here she invites us to consider this monster of popular culture as
an angel.
The juxtaposition of religion and horror in this course attracted a group of remarkably insightful and
astute cultural interpreters. But what struck me most about them was the way their interpretations
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mixed critical analysis with self-reflection. As is clear from the examples given here, their interests in
horror were often explicitly religious.
In light of all this, I wonder whether the latest great reawakening of monsters in popular culture -- and in
its various countercultures -- reveals, among other things, a kind of religious reawakening, kin in many
ways to the recent explosion of popular interest in "spirituality" but oriented toward the darker, more
unnerving aspects of religious thought and experience that the spiritual mainstream largely represses.
While this spirituality focuses on elements of peace, harmony, and self-affirmation from various
religious traditions, supernatural horror dwells on elements of rupture, fragmentation, and insecurity.
The import of the spiritual mainstream is holistic and "cosmic," speaking to our desire for grounding and
orientation within a meaningfully integrated and interconnected whole. The monsters of contemporary
horror, on the other hand, often remind us of the more chaotic, disorienting, and ungrounding
dimensions of religion, envisioning an everyday life that is not without fear and trembling.
Our monsters open spaces in popular culture for negotiating ultimate questions, questions that resonate
with a new and undeniable depth in this time of war and terror. Why do the innocent suffer? What is
evil, and where does it come from? Is it, as Van Helsing says in Dracula, rooted deep in all good? Are the
monsters we fight also the monsters we have made? Does one who fights monsters inevitably become a
monster?
In the aftermath of September 11, Americans are all too familiar with the ways religious discourse can
serve political rhetoric in making monsters out of others, imbuing them with diabolical power and
construing our war against them as a holy war of absolute good against absolute evil. The questions
raised by horror culture can introduce ambiguity into this cultural mix, undermining attempts to boil
things down to a battle between us versus them, good versus evil. They invite us to discover our
monsters in ourselves and ourselves in our monsters.
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“The Dead Man Walking”
By Thomas Hardy
They hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ....
— A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
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Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;
And when my Love's heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
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A Rose for Emily
by William Faulkner
WHEN Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of
respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her
house, which no one save an old man-servant--a combined gardener and cook--had seen in at least ten
years.
It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and
scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most
select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of
that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the
cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps-an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to
join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among
the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.
Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town,
dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro
woman should appear on the streets without an apron-remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from
the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel
Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town,
which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris'
generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.
When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this
arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice.
February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's
office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car
for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded
ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.
They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the
door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten
years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into
still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse--a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor.
It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window,
they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about
their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace
stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.
They rose when she entered--a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist
and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small
and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in
her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her
eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of
dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.
She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to
a stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.
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Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps
one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves."
"But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by
him?"
"I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff . . . I have no taxes in
Jefferson."
"But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see We must go by the--"
"See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson."
"But, Miss Emily--"
"See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson.
Tobe!" The Negro appeared. "Show these gentlemen out."
II
So SHE vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before
about the smell.
That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart--the one we believed
would marry her --had deserted her. After her father's death she went out very little; after her
sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but
were not received, and the only sign of life about the place was the Negro man--a young man then-going in and out with a market basket.
"Just as if a man--any man--could keep a kitchen properly, "the ladies said; so they were not surprised
when the smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teeming world and the high and
mighty Griersons.
A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eighty years old.
"But what will you have me do about it, madam?" he said.
"Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said. "Isn't there a law? "
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said. "It's probably just a snake or a rat that nigger of
hers killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it."
The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who came in diffident deprecation. "We
really must do something about it, Judge. I'd be the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we've
got to do something." That night the Board of Aldermen met--three graybeards and one younger man, a
member of the rising generation.
"It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do
it in, and if she don't. .."
"Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?"
So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily's lawn and slunk about the house like
burglars, sniffing along the base of the brickwork and at the cellar openings while one of them
performed a regular sowing motion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They broke
open the cellar door and sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. As they recrossed the lawn, a
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window that had been dark was lighted and Miss Emily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright
torso motionless as that of an idol. They crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of the locusts
that lined the street. After a week or two the smell went away.
That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remembering how old
lady Wyatt, her great-aunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held
themselves a little too high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough
for Miss Emily and such. We had long thought of them as a tableau, Miss Emily a slender figure in white
in the background, her father a spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a
horsewhip, the two of them framed by the back-flung front door. So when she got to be thirty and was
still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't
have turned down all of her chances if they had really materialized.
When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left to her; and in a way, people were
glad. At last they could pity Miss Emily. Being left alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now
she too would know the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less.
The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolence and aid, as is
our custom Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face.
She told them that her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers calling on
her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to
resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly.
We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men
her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which
had robbed her, as people will.
III
SHE WAS SICK for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl,
with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows--sort of tragic and serene.
The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death
they began the work. The construction company came with riggers and mules and machinery, and a
foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee--a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than
his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the riggers, and the riggers singing in
time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of
laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we
began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the
matched team of bays from the livery stable.
At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a
Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older
people, who said that even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige- without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had
some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady
Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not
even been represented at the funeral.
And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?"
they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could . . ." This behind their hands; rustling of
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craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clopclop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily."
She carried her head high enough--even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she
demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that
touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic.
That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were
visiting her.
"I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though
thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the
temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want
some poison," she said.
"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom--"
"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."
The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is--"
"Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?"
"Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want--"
"I want arsenic."
The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of
course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going
to use it for."
Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away
and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the
druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under
the skull and bones: "For rats."
IV
So THE NEXT day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had
first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, "She will marry him." Then we said, "She will
persuade him yet," because Homer himself had remarked--he liked men, and it was known that he
drank with the younger men in the Elks' Club--that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor
Emily" behind the jalousies as they passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with
her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow
glove.
Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young
people. The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister--Miss Emily's
people were Episcopal-- to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview,
but he refused to go back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following
day the minister's wife wrote to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama.
So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back to watch developments. At first nothing
happened. Then we were sure that they were to be married. We learned that Miss Emily had been to
the jeweler's and ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H. B. on each piece. Two days later
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we learned that she had bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said,
"They are married." We were really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more
Grierson than Miss Emily had ever been.
So we were not surprised when Homer Barron--the streets had been finished some time since--was
gone. We were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he had
gone on to prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to give her a chance to get rid of the cousins. (By that
time it was a cabal, and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough,
after another week they departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron
was back in town. A neighbor saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening.
And that was the last we saw of Homer Barron. And of Miss Emily for some time. The Negro man went
in and out with the market basket, but the front door remained closed. Now and then we would see her
at a window for a moment, as the men did that night when they sprinkled the lime, but for almost six
months she did not appear on the streets. Then we knew that this was to be expected too; as if that
quality of her father which had thwarted her woman's life so many times had been too virulent and too
furious to die.
When we next saw Miss Emily, she had grown fat and her hair was turning gray. During the next few
years it grew grayer and grayer until it attained an even pepper-and-salt iron-gray, when it ceased
turning. Up to the day of her death at seventy-four it was still that vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an
active man.
From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was
about forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting. She fitted up a studio in one of the
downstairs rooms, where the daughters and granddaughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were
sent to her with the same regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays
with a twenty-five-cent piece for the collection plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted.
Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils
grew up and fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and
pictures cut from the ladies' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed
for good. When the town got free postal delivery, Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal
numbers above her door and attach a mailbox to it. She would not listen to them.
Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and more stooped, going in and out with the
market basket. Each December we sent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a
week later, unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairs windows--she had
evidently shut up the top floor of the house--like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not
looking at us, we could never tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation--dear,
inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse.
And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a doddering Negro man to
wait on her. We did not even know she was sick; we had long since given up trying to get any
information from the Negro
He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.
She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped
on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.
V
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THE NEGRO met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant
voices and their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and
out the back and was not seen again.
The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming
to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing
profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men --some in their
brushed Confederate uniforms--on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a
contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing
time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but,
instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow
bottle-neck of the most recent decade of years.
Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty
years, and which would have to be forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground
before they opened it.
The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervading dust. A thin, acrid pall
as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the
valance curtains of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the
delicate array of crystal and the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that
the monogram was obscured. Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which,
lifted, left upon the surface a pale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded;
beneath it the two mute shoes and the discarded socks.
The man himself lay in the bed.
For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had
apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that
conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was
left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the
pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.
Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something
from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long
strand of iron-gray hair.
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“Politics and the English Language”
By George Orwell
Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way,
but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is
decadent and our language — so the argument runs — must inevitably share in the general collapse. It
follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles
to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious belief that
language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes.
Now, it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately have political and economic causes: it is
not due simply to the bad influence of this or that individual writer. But an effect can become a cause,
reinforcing the original cause and producing the same effect in an intensified form, and so on
indefinitely. A man may take to drink because he feels himself to be a failure, and then fail all the more
completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. It
becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language
makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts. The point is that the process is reversible. Modern
English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation and which can be
avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. If one gets rid of these habits one can think more
clearly, and to think clearly is a necessary first step toward political regeneration: so that the fight
against bad English is not frivolous and is not the exclusive concern of professional writers. I will come
back to this presently, and I hope that by that time the meaning of what I have said here will have
become clearer. Meanwhile, here are five specimens of the English language as it is now habitually
written.
These five passages have not been picked out because they are especially bad — I could have quoted far
worse if I had chosen — but because they illustrate various of the mental vices from which we now
suffer. They are a little below the average, but are fairly representative examples. I number them so that
I can refer back to them when necessary:
1. I am not, indeed, sure whether it is not true to say that the Milton who once seemed not unlike a
seventeenth-century Shelley had not become, out of an experience ever more bitter in each year, more
alien [sic] to the founder of that Jesuit sect which nothing could induce him to tolerate.
Professor Harold Laski (Essay in Freedom of Expression)
2. Above all, we cannot play ducks and drakes with a native battery of idioms which prescribes egregious
collocations of vocables as the Basic put up with for tolerate, or put at a loss for bewilder.
Professor Lancelot Hogben (Interglossia)
3. On the one side we have the free personality: by definition it is not neurotic, for it has neither conflict
nor dream. Its desires, such as they are, are transparent, for they are just what institutional approval
keeps in the forefront of consciousness; another institutional pattern would alter their number and
intensity; there is little in them that is natural, irreducible, or culturally dangerous. But on the other side,
the social bond itself is nothing but the mutual reflection of these self-secure integrities. Recall the
definition of love. Is not this the very picture of a small academic? Where is there a place in this hall of
mirrors for either personality or fraternity?
112
Essay on psychology in Politics (New York)
4. All the ‘best people’ from the gentlemen's clubs, and all the frantic fascist captains, united in common
hatred of Socialism and bestial horror at the rising tide of the mass revolutionary movement, have turned
to acts of provocation, to foul incendiarism, to medieval legends of poisoned wells, to legalize their own
destruction of proletarian organizations, and rouse the agitated petty-bourgeoise to chauvinistic fervor on
behalf of the fight against the revolutionary way out of the crisis.
Communist pamphlet
5. If a new spirit is to be infused into this old country, there is one thorny and contentious reform which
must be tackled, and that is the humanization and galvanization of the B.B.C. Timidity here will bespeak
canker and atrophy of the soul. The heart of Britain may be sound and of strong beat, for instance, but the
British lion's roar at present is like that of Bottom in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream — as
gentle as any sucking dove. A virile new Britain cannot continue indefinitely to be traduced in the eyes or
rather ears, of the world by the effete languors of Langham Place, brazenly masquerading as ‘standard
English’. When the Voice of Britain is heard at nine o'clock, better far and infinitely less ludicrous to hear
aitches honestly dropped than the present priggish, inflated, inhibited, school-ma'amish arch braying of
blameless bashful mewing maidens!
Letter in Tribune
Each of these passages has faults of its own, but, quite apart from avoidable ugliness, two qualities are
common to all of them. The first is staleness of imagery; the other is lack of precision. The writer either
has a meaning and cannot express it, or he inadvertently says something else, or he is almost indifferent
as to whether his words mean anything or not. This mixture of vagueness and sheer incompetence is the
most marked characteristic of modern English prose, and especially of any kind of political writing. As
soon as certain topics are raised, the concrete melts into the abstract and no one seems able to think of
turns of speech that are not hackneyed: prose consists less and less of words chosen for the sake of their
meaning, and more and more of phrases tacked together like the sections of a prefabricated hen-house.
I list below, with notes and examples, various of the tricks by means of which the work of proseconstruction is habitually dodged.
DYING METAPHORS. A newly invented metaphor assists thought by evoking a visual image, while on the
other hand a metaphor which is technically ‘dead’ (e. g. iron resolution) has in effect reverted to being
an ordinary word and can generally be used without loss of vividness. But in between these two classes
there is a huge dump of worn-out metaphors which have lost all evocative power and are merely used
because they save people the trouble of inventing phrases for themselves. Examples are: Ring the
changes on, take up the cudgel for, toe the line, ride roughshod over, stand shoulder to shoulder with,
play into the hands of, no axe to grind, grist to the mill, fishing in troubled waters, on the order of the
day, Achilles’ heel, swan song, hotbed. Many of these are used without knowledge of their meaning
(what is a ‘rift’, for instance?), and incompatible metaphors are frequently mixed, a sure sign that the
writer is not interested in what he is saying. Some metaphors now current have been twisted out of
their original meaning without those who use them even being aware of the fact. For example, toe the
line is sometimes written as tow the line. Another example is the hammer and the anvil, now always
used with the implication that the anvil gets the worst of it. In real life it is always the anvil that breaks
the hammer, never the other way about: a writer who stopped to think what he was saying would avoid
perverting the original phrase.
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OPERATORS OR VERBAL FALSE LIMBS. These save the trouble of picking out appropriate verbs and
nouns, and at the same time pad each sentence with extra syllables which give it an appearance of
symmetry. Characteristic phrases are render inoperative, militate against, make contact with, be
subjected to, give rise to, give grounds for, have the effect of, play a leading part (role) in, make itself
felt, take effect, exhibit a tendency to, serve the purpose of, etc., etc. The keynote is the elimination of
simple verbs. Instead of being a single word, such as break, stop, spoil, mend, kill, a verb becomes a
phrase, made up of a noun or adjective tacked on to some general-purpose verb such as prove, serve,
form, play, render. In addition, the passive voice is wherever possible used in preference to the active,
and noun constructions are used instead of gerunds (by examination of instead of by examining). The
range of verbs is further cut down by means of the -ize and de- formations, and the banal statements
are given an appearance of profundity by means of the not un- formation. Simple conjunctions and
prepositions are replaced by such phrases as with respect to, having regard to, the fact that, by dint of,
in view of, in the interests of, on the hypothesis that; and the ends of sentences are saved by anticlimax
by such resounding commonplaces as greatly to be desired, cannot be left out of account, a development
to be expected in the near future, deserving of serious consideration, brought to a satisfactory
conclusion, and so on and so forth.
PRETENTIOUS DICTION. Words like phenomenon, element, individual (as noun), objective, categorical,
effective, virtual, basic, primary, promote, constitute, exhibit, exploit, utilize, eliminate, liquidate, are
used to dress up a simple statement and give an air of scientific impartiality to biased judgements.
Adjectives like epoch-making, epic, historic, unforgettable, triumphant, age-old, inevitable, inexorable,
veritable, are used to dignify the sordid process of international politics, while writing that aims at
glorifying war usually takes on an archaic colour, its characteristic words being: realm, throne, chariot,
mailed fist, trident, sword, shield, buckler, banner, jackboot, clarion. Foreign words and expressions such
as cul de sac, ancien regime, deus ex machina, mutatis mutandis, status quo, gleichschaltung,
weltanschauung, are used to give an air of culture and elegance. Except for the useful abbreviations i. e.,
e. g. and etc., there is no real need for any of the hundreds of foreign phrases now current in the English
language. Bad writers, and especially scientific, political, and sociological writers, are nearly always
haunted by the notion that Latin or Greek words are grander than Saxon ones, and unnecessary words
like expedite, ameliorate, predict, extraneous, deracinated, clandestine, subaqueous, and hundreds of
others constantly gain ground from their Anglo-Saxon numbers(1). The jargon peculiar to Marxist writing
(hyena, hangman, cannibal, petty bourgeois, these gentry, lackey, flunkey, mad dog, White Guard, etc.)
consists largely of words translated from Russian, German, or French; but the normal way of coining a
new word is to use Latin or Greek root with the appropriate affix and, where necessary, the size
formation. It is often easier to make up words of this kind (deregionalize, impermissible, extramarital,
non-fragmentary and so forth) than to think up the English words that will cover one's meaning. The
result, in general, is an increase in slovenliness and vagueness.
MEANINGLESS WORDS. In certain kinds of writing, particularly in art criticism and literary criticism, it is
normal to come across long passages which are almost completely lacking in meaning(2). Words like
romantic, plastic, values, human, dead, sentimental, natural, vitality, as used in art criticism, are strictly
meaningless, in the sense that they not only do not point to any discoverable object, but are hardly ever
expected to do so by the reader. When one critic writes, ‘The outstanding feature of Mr. X's work is its
living quality’, while another writes, ‘The immediately striking thing about Mr. X's work is its peculiar
deadness’, the reader accepts this as a simple difference opinion. If words like black and white were
involved, instead of the jargon words dead and living, he would see at once that language was being
used in an improper way. Many political words are similarly abused. The word Fascism has now no
meaning except in so far as it signifies ‘something not desirable’. The words democracy, socialism,
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freedom, patriotic, realistic, justice have each of them several different meanings which cannot be
reconciled with one another. In the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed
definition, but the attempt to make one is resisted from all sides. It is almost universally felt that when
we call a country democratic we are praising it: consequently the defenders of every kind of regime
claim that it is a democracy, and fear that they might have to stop using that word if it were tied down
to any one meaning. Words of this kind are often used in a consciously dishonest way. That is, the
person who uses them has his own private definition, but allows his hearer to think he means something
quite different. Statements like Marshal Petain was a true patriot, The Soviet press is the freest in the
world, The Catholic Church is opposed to persecution, are almost always made with intent to deceive.
Other words used in variable meanings, in most cases more or less dishonestly, are: class, totalitarian,
science, progressive, reactionary, bourgeois, equality.
Now that I have made this catalogue of swindles and perversions, let me give another example of the
kind of writing that they lead to. This time it must of its nature be an imaginary one. I am going to
translate a passage of good English into modern English of the worst sort. Here is a well-known verse
from Ecclesiastes:
I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet
bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and
chance happeneth to them all.
Here it is in modern English:
Objective considerations of contemporary phenomena compel the conclusion that success or failure in
competitive activities exhibits no tendency to be commensurate with innate capacity, but that a
considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken into account.
This is a parody, but not a very gross one. Exhibit (3) above, for instance, contains several patches of the
same kind of English. It will be seen that I have not made a full translation. The beginning and ending of
the sentence follow the original meaning fairly closely, but in the middle the concrete illustrations —
race, battle, bread — dissolve into the vague phrases ‘success or failure in competitive activities’. This
had to be so, because no modern writer of the kind I am discussing — no one capable of using phrases
like ‘objective considerations of contemporary phenomena’ — would ever tabulate his thoughts in that
precise and detailed way. The whole tendency of modern prose is away from concreteness. Now analyze
these two sentences a little more closely. The first contains forty-nine words but only sixty syllables, and
all its words are those of everyday life. The second contains thirty-eight words of ninety syllables:
eighteen of those words are from Latin roots, and one from Greek. The first sentence contains six vivid
images, and only one phrase (‘time and chance’) that could be called vague. The second contains not a
single fresh, arresting phrase, and in spite of its ninety syllables it gives only a shortened version of the
meaning contained in the first. Yet without a doubt it is the second kind of sentence that is gaining
ground in modern English. I do not want to exaggerate. This kind of writing is not yet universal, and
outcrops of simplicity will occur here and there in the worst-written page. Still, if you or I were told to
write a few lines on the uncertainty of human fortunes, we should probably come much nearer to my
imaginary sentence than to the one from Ecclesiastes.
As I have tried to show, modern writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the sake of
their meaning and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It consists in gumming
together long strips of words which have already been set in order by someone else, and making the
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results presentable by sheer humbug. The attraction of this way of writing is that it is easy. It is easier —
even quicker, once you have the habit — to say In my opinion it is not an unjustifiable assumption that
than to say I think. If you use ready-made phrases, you not only don't have to hunt about for the words;
you also don't have to bother with the rhythms of your sentences since these phrases are generally so
arranged as to be more or less euphonious. When you are composing in a hurry — when you are
dictating to a stenographer, for instance, or making a public speech — it is natural to fall into a
pretentious, Latinized style. Tags like a consideration which we should do well to bear in mind or a
conclusion to which all of us would readily assent will save many a sentence from coming down with a
bump. By using stale metaphors, similes, and idioms, you save much mental effort, at the cost of leaving
your meaning vague, not only for your reader but for yourself. This is the significance of mixed
metaphors. The sole aim of a metaphor is to call up a visual image. When these images clash — as in The
Fascist octopus has sung its swan song, the jackboot is thrown into the melting pot — it can be taken as
certain that the writer is not seeing a mental image of the objects he is naming; in other words he is not
really thinking. Look again at the examples I gave at the beginning of this essay. Professor Laski (1) uses
five negatives in fifty three words. One of these is superfluous, making nonsense of the whole passage,
and in addition there is the slip — alien for akin — making further nonsense, and several avoidable
pieces of clumsiness which increase the general vagueness. Professor Hogben (2) plays ducks and drakes
with a battery which is able to write prescriptions, and, while disapproving of the everyday phrase put
up with, is unwilling to look egregious up in the dictionary and see what it means; (3), if one takes an
uncharitable attitude towards it, is simply meaningless: probably one could work out its intended
meaning by reading the whole of the article in which it occurs. In (4), the writer knows more or less what
he wants to say, but an accumulation of stale phrases chokes him like tea leaves blocking a sink. In (5),
words and meaning have almost parted company. People who write in this manner usually have a
general emotional meaning — they dislike one thing and want to express solidarity with another — but
they are not interested in the detail of what they are saying. A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that
he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus: What am I trying to say? What words will express
it? What image or idiom will make it clearer? Is this image fresh enough to have an effect? And he will
probably ask himself two more: Could I put it more shortly? Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly?
But you are not obliged to go to all this trouble. You can shirk it by simply throwing your mind open and
letting the ready-made phrases come crowding in. The will construct your sentences for you — even
think your thoughts for you, to a certain extent — and at need they will perform the important service
of partially concealing your meaning even from yourself. It is at this point that the special connection
between politics and the debasement of language becomes clear.
In our time it is broadly true that political writing is bad writing. Where it is not true, it will generally be
found that the writer is some kind of rebel, expressing his private opinions and not a ‘party line’.
Orthodoxy, of whatever colour, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style. The political dialects to be
found in pamphlets, leading articles, manifestos, White papers and the speeches of undersecretaries do,
of course, vary from party to party, but they are all alike in that one almost never finds in them a fresh,
vivid, homemade turn of speech. When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically
repeating the familiar phrases — bestial, atrocities, iron heel, bloodstained tyranny, free peoples of the
world, stand shoulder to shoulder — one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live
human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when
the light catches the speaker's spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes
behind them. And this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone
some distance toward turning himself into a machine. The appropriate noises are coming out of his
larynx, but his brain is not involved, as it would be if he were choosing his words for himself. If the
speech he is making is one that he is accustomed to make over and over again, he may be almost
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unconscious of what he is saying, as one is when one utters the responses in church. And this reduced
state of consciousness, if not indispensable, is at any rate favourable to political conformity.
In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defence of the indefensible. Things like the
continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and deportations, the dropping of the atom
bombs on Japan, can indeed be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people
to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of the political parties. Thus political language
has to consist largely of euphemism, question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness. Defenceless villages
are bombarded from the air, the inhabitants driven out into the countryside, the cattle machinegunned, the huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called pacification. Millions of peasants are
robbed of their farms and sent trudging along the roads with no more than they can carry: this is called
transfer of population or rectification of frontiers. People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot
in the back of the neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps: this is called elimination of
unreliable elements. Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental
pictures of them. Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian
totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, ‘I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good
results by doing so’. Probably, therefore, he will say something like this:
‘While freely conceding that the Soviet regime exhibits certain features which the humanitarian may be
inclined to deplore, we must, I think, agree that a certain curtailment of the right to political opposition is
an unavoidable concomitant of transitional periods, and that the rigors which the Russian people have
been called upon to undergo have been amply justified in the sphere of concrete achievement.’
The inflated style itself is a kind of euphemism. A mass of Latin words falls upon the facts like soft snow,
blurring the outline and covering up all the details. The great enemy of clear language is insincerity.
When there is a gap between one's real and one's declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to
long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink. In our age there is no such thing as
‘keeping out of politics’. All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly,
hatred, and schizophrenia. When the general atmosphere is bad, language must suffer. I should expect
to find — this is a guess which I have not sufficient knowledge to verify — that the German, Russian and
Italian languages have all deteriorated in the last ten or fifteen years, as a result of dictatorship.
But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought. A bad usage can spread by
tradition and imitation even among people who should and do know better. The debased language that
I have been discussing is in some ways very convenient. Phrases like a not unjustifiable assumption,
leaves much to be desired, would serve no good purpose, a consideration which we should do well to
bear in mind, are a continuous temptation, a packet of aspirins always at one's elbow. Look back
through this essay, and for certain you will find that I have again and again committed the very faults I
am protesting against. By this morning's post I have received a pamphlet dealing with conditions in
Germany. The author tells me that he ‘felt impelled’ to write it. I open it at random, and here is almost
the first sentence I see: ‘[The Allies] have an opportunity not only of achieving a radical transformation
of Germany's social and political structure in such a way as to avoid a nationalistic reaction in Germany
itself, but at the same time of laying the foundations of a co-operative and unified Europe.’ You see, he
‘feels impelled’ to write — feels, presumably, that he has something new to say — and yet his words,
like cavalry horses answering the bugle, group themselves automatically into the familiar dreary pattern.
This invasion of one's mind by ready-made phrases (lay the foundations, achieve a radical
transformation) can only be prevented if one is constantly on guard against them, and every such phrase
anaesthetizes a portion of one's brain.
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I said earlier that the decadence of our language is probably curable. Those who deny this would argue,
if they produced an argument at all, that language merely reflects existing social conditions, and that we
cannot influence its development by any direct tinkering with words and constructions. So far as the
general tone or spirit of a language goes, this may be true, but it is not true in detail. Silly words and
expressions have often disappeared, not through any evolutionary process but owing to the conscious
action of a minority. Two recent examples were explore every avenue and leave no stone unturned,
which were killed by the jeers of a few journalists. There is a long list of flyblown metaphors which could
similarly be got rid of if enough people would interest themselves in the job; and it should also be
possible to laugh the not un- formation out of existence(3), to reduce the amount of Latin and Greek in
the average sentence, to drive out foreign phrases and strayed scientific words, and, in general, to make
pretentiousness unfashionable. But all these are minor points. The defence of the English language
implies more than this, and perhaps it is best to start by saying what it does not imply.
To begin with it has nothing to do with archaism, with the salvaging of obsolete words and turns of
speech, or with the setting up of a ‘standard English’ which must never be departed from. On the
contrary, it is especially concerned with the scrapping of every word or idiom which has outworn its
usefulness. It has nothing to do with correct grammar and syntax, which are of no importance so long as
one makes one's meaning clear, or with the avoidance of Americanisms, or with having what is called a
‘good prose style’. On the other hand, it is not concerned with fake simplicity and the attempt to make
written English colloquial. Nor does it even imply in every case preferring the Saxon word to the Latin
one, though it does imply using the fewest and shortest words that will cover one's meaning. What is
above all needed is to let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way around. In prose, the
worst thing one can do with words is surrender to them. When you think of a concrete object, you think
wordlessly, and then, if you want to describe the thing you have been visualising you probably hunt
about until you find the exact words that seem to fit it. When you think of something abstract you are
more inclined to use words from the start, and unless you make a conscious effort to prevent it, the
existing dialect will come rushing in and do the job for you, at the expense of blurring or even changing
your meaning. Probably it is better to put off using words as long as possible and get one's meaning as
clear as one can through pictures and sensations. Afterward one can choose — not simply accept — the
phrases that will best cover the meaning, and then switch round and decide what impressions one's
words are likely to make on another person. This last effort of the mind cuts out all stale or mixed
images, all prefabricated phrases, needless repetitions, and humbug and vagueness generally. But one
can often be in doubt about the effect of a word or a phrase, and one needs rules that one can rely on
when instinct fails. I think the following rules will cover most cases:
1.
Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2.
Never use a long word where a short one will do.
3.
If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4.
Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5.
Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
6.
Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.
These rules sound elementary, and so they are, but they demand a deep change of attitude in anyone
who has grown used to writing in the style now fashionable. One could keep all of them and still write
bad English, but one could not write the kind of stuff that I quoted in those five specimens at the
beginning of this article.
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I have not here been considering the literary use of language, but merely language as an instrument for
expressing and not for concealing or preventing thought. Stuart Chase and others have come near to
claiming that all abstract words are meaningless, and have used this as a pretext for advocating a kind of
political quietism. Since you don't know what Fascism is, how can you struggle against Fascism? One
need not swallow such absurdities as this, but one ought to recognise that the present political chaos is
connected with the decay of language, and that one can probably bring about some improvement by
starting at the verbal end. If you simplify your English, you are freed from the worst follies of orthodoxy.
You cannot speak any of the necessary dialects, and when you make a stupid remark its stupidity will be
obvious, even to yourself. Political language — and with variations this is true of all political parties,
from Conservatives to Anarchists — is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and
to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind. One cannot change this all in a moment, but one can at
least change one's own habits, and from time to time one can even, if one jeers loudly enough, send
some worn-out and useless phrase — some jackboot, Achilles’ heel, hotbed, melting pot, acid test,
veritable inferno, or other lump of verbal refuse — into the dustbin where it belongs.
1946
_____
1) An interesting illustration of this is the way in which the English flower names which were in use till
very recently are being ousted by Greek ones, snapdragon becoming antirrhinum, forget-me-not
becoming myosotis, etc. It is hard to see any practical reason for this change of fashion: it is probably
due to an instinctive turning-awayfrom the more homely word and a vague feeling that the Greek word
is scientific.
2) Example: ‘Comfort's catholicity of perception and image, strangely Whitmanesque in range, almost
the exact opposite in aesthetic compulsion, continues to evoke that trembling atmospheric
accumulative hinting at a cruel, an inexorably serene timelessness... Wrey Gardiner scores by aiming at
simple bull's-eyes with precision. Only they are not so simple, and through this contented sadness runs
more than the surface bitter-sweet of resignation’. (Poetry Quarterly.)
3) One can cure oneself of the not un- formation by memorizing this sentence: A not unblack dog was
chasing a not unsmall rabbit across a not ungreen field.
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The American Language
By H.L. Mencken
1
Thomas Jefferson, with his usual prevision, saw clearly more than a century ago that the
American people, as they increased in numbers and in the diversity of their national interests
and racial strains, would make changes in their mother tongue, as they had already made
changes in the political institutions of their inheritance. “The new circumstances under which we
are placed,” he wrote to John Waldo from Monticello on August 16, 1813, “call for new words,
new phrases, and for the transfer of old words to new objects. An American dialect will
therefore be formed.”
Nearly a quarter of a century before this, another great American, and one with an expertness 2
in the matter that the too versatile Jefferson could not muster, had ventured upon a prophecy
even more bold and specific. He was Noah Webster, then at the beginning of his stormy career
as a lexicographer. In his little volume of “Dissertations on the English Language,” printed in
1789 and dedicated to “His Excellency, Benjamin Franklin, Esq., LL.D., F.R.S., late President of the
Commonwealth of Pennsylvania,” Webster argued that the time for regarding English usage and
submitting to English authority had already passed, and that “a future separation of the
American tongue from the English” was “necessary and unavoidable.” “Numerous local causes,”
he continued, “such as a new country, new associations of people, new combinations of ideas in
arts and sciences, and some intercourse with tribes wholly unknown in Europe, will introduce
new words into the American tongue. These causes will produce, in a course of time, a language
in North America as different from the future language of England as the modern Dutch, Danish
and Swedish are from the German, or from one another.” 1
Neither Jefferson nor Webster put a term upon his prophecy. They may have been thinking,
3
one or both, of a remote era, not yet come to dawn, or they may have been thinking, with the
facile imagination of those days, of a period even earlier than our own. In the latter case they
allowed far too little (and particularly Webster) for factors that have worked powerfully against
the influences they saw so clearly in operation about them. One of these factors, obviously, has
been the vast improvement in communications across the ocean, a change scarcely in vision a
century ago. It has brought New York relatively nearer to London today than it was to Boston, or
even to Philadelphia, during Jefferson’s presidency, and that greater proximity has produced a
steady interchange of ideas, opinions, news and mere gossip. We latter-day Americans know a
great deal more about the everyday affairs of England than the early Americans did, for we read
more English books, and find more about the English in our newspapers, and meet more
Englishmen, and go to England much oftener. The effects of this ceaseless traffic in ideas and
impressions, so plainly visible in politics, in ethics and æsthetics, and even in the minutiæ of
social intercourse, are also to be seen in the language. On the one hand there is a swift exchange
of new inventions on both sides, so that many of our American neologisms quickly pass to
London and the latest English fashions in pronunciation are almost instantaneously imitated, at
least by a minority, in New York; and, on the other hand, the English, by so constantly having the
floor, force upon us, out of their firmer resolution and certitude, and no less out of the authority
that goes with their mere cultural seniority, a somewhat sneaking respect for their own greater
conservatism of speech, so that our professors of the language, in the overwhelming main,
combat all signs of differentiation with the utmost diligence, and safeguard the doctrine that the
standards of English are the only reputable standards of American.
120
This doctrine, of course, is not supported by the known laws of language, nor has it prevented
4
the large divergences that we shall presently examine, but all the same it has worked steadily
toward a highly artificial formalism, and as steadily against the investigation of the actual
national speech. Such grammar, so-called, as is taught in our schools and colleges, is a grammar
standing four-legged upon the theorizings and false inferences of English Latinists of a past
generation, 2 eager only to break the wild tongue of Shakespeare to a rule; and its frank aim is to
create in us a high respect for a book language which few of us ever actually speak and not many
of us even learn to write. That language, elaborately artificial though it may be, undoubtedly has
merits. It shows a sonority and a stateliness that you must go to the Latin of the Golden Age to
match; its “highly charged and heavy-shotted” periods, in Matthew Arnold’s phrase, serve
admirably the obscurantist purposes of American pedagogy and of English parliamentary oratory
and leader-writing; it is something for the literary artists of both countries to prove their skill
upon by flouting it. But to the average American, bent upon expressing his ideas, not
stupendously but merely clearly, it must always remain something vague and remote, like Greek
history or the properties of the parabola, for he never speaks it or hears it spoken, and seldom
encounters it in his everyday reading. If he learns to write it, which is not often, it is with a rather
depressing sense of its artificiality. He may master it as a Korean, bred in the colloquial Onmun,
may master the literary Korean-Chinese, but he never thinks in it or quite feels it.
This fact, I daresay, is largely responsible for the notorious failure of our schools and colleges to 5
turn out pupils who can put their ideas into words with simplicity and intelligibility. What their
professors try to teach is not their mother-tongue at all, but a dialect that stands quite outside
their common experience, and into which they have to translate their thoughts, consciously and
painfully. Bad writing consists in making the attempt, and failing through lack of practise. Good
writing consists, as in the case of Howells, in deliberately throwing overboard the principles so
elaborately inculcated, or, as in the case of Lincoln, in standing unaware of them. Thus the study
of the language he is supposed to use, to the average American, takes on a sort of bilingual
character. On the one hand, he is grounded abominably in a grammar and syntax that have
always been largely artificial, even in the country where they are supposed to prevail, and on the
other hand he has to pick up the essentials of his actual speech as best he may. “Literary
English,” says Van Wyck Brooks, 3 “with us is a tradition, just as Anglo-Saxon law with us is a
tradition. They persist, not as the normal expressions of a race,… but through prestige and
precedent and the will and habit of a dominating class largely out of touch with a national fabric
unconsciously taking form out of school.” What thus goes on out of school does not interest
most of the guardians of our linguistic morals. Now and then a Charters takes a somewhat
alarmed peep into the materials of the vulgar speech, and now and then a Krapp investigates the
pronunciation of actual Americans, but in the main there is little save a tedious repetition of
nonsense. In no department are American universities weaker than in the department of
English. The æsthetic opinion that they disseminate is flabby and childish, and their philological
work in the national language is extraordinarily lacking in enterprise. No attempt to deduce the
principles of vulgar American grammar from the everyday speech of the people has ever been
made by an American philologist. There is no scientific study, general and comprehensive in
scope, of the American vocabulary, or of the influences lying at the root of American wordformation. No professor, so far as I know, has ever deigned to give the same sober attention to
the sermo plebeius of his country that his colleagues habitually give to the pronunciation of
Latin, or to the irregular verbs in French.
Note 1. Pp. 22–23.
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Note 2. Most latter-day English grammarians, of course, (e.g Sweet) ground their work upon the
spoken language. But inasmuch as this obviously differs from American English, the American
pedagogues remain faithful to the grammarians of the era before phonology became a science,
and imitate them in most of their absurdities. For a discussion of the evil effects of this stupidity
see O. Jespersen: Growth and Structure of the English Language, 3rd ed.; Leipzig, 1919, p. 125 et
seq. See also The English Language in America, by Harry Morgan Ayres, in The Cambridge History of
American Literature, vol. iv; New York, 1921.
Note 3. America’s Coming of Age; New York, 1915, p. 15. See also the preface to Every-Day
English, by Richard Grant White; Boston, 1881, p. xviii.
122
Democracy in America
By Alexis de Tocqueville
Chapter XVI
HOW AMERICAN DEMOCRACY HAS MODIFIED
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
IF the reader has rightly understood what I have already said on the subject of literature in general, he
will have no difficulty in understanding that species of influence which a democratic social condition and
democratic institutions may exercise over language itself, which is the chief instrument of thought.
American authors may truly be said to live rather in England than in their own country, since they
constantly study the English writers and take them every day for their models. But it is not so with the
bulk of the population, which is more immediately subjected to the peculiar causes acting upon the
United States. It is not, then, to the written, but to the spoken language that attention must be paid if
we would detect the changes which the idiom of an aristocratic people may undergo when it becomes
the language of a democracy.
Englishmen of education, and more competent judges than I can be of the nicer shades of expression,
have frequently assured me that the language of the educated classes in the United States is notably
different from that of the educated classes in Great Britain. They complain, not only that the Americans
have brought into use a number of new words ( the difference and the distance between the two
countries might suffice to explain that much), but that these new words are more especially taken from
the jargon of parties, the mechanical arts, or the language of trade. In addition to this, they assert that
old English words are often used by the Americans in new acceptations; and lastly, that the inhabitants
of the United States frequently intermingle phraseology in the strangest manner, and sometimes place
words together which are always kept apart in the language of the mother country. These remarks,
which were made to me at various times by persons who appeared to be worthy of credit, led me to
reflect upon the subject; and my reflections brought me, by theoretical reasoning, to the same point at
which my informants had arrived by practical observation.
In aristocracies language must naturally partake of that state of repose in which everything remains.
Few new words are coined because few new things are made; and even if new things were made, they
would be designated by known words, whose meaning had been determined by tradition. If it happens
that the human mind bestirs itself at length or is roused by light breaking in from without, the novel
expressions that are introduced have a learned, intellectual, and philosophical character, showing that
they do not originate in a democracy. After the fall of Constantinople had turned the tide of science and
letters towards the west, the French language was almost immediately invaded by a multitude of new
words, which all had Greek and Latin roots. An erudite neologism then sprang up in France, which was
confined to the educated classes, and which produced no sensible effect, or at least a very gradual one,
upon the people.
All the nations of Europe successively exhibited the same change. Milton alone introduced more than six
hundred words into the English language, almost all derived from the Latin, the Greek, or the Hebrew.
The constant agitation that prevails in a democratic community tends unceasingly, on the contrary, to
change the character of the language, as it does the aspect of affairs. In the midst of this general stir and
competition of minds, many new ideas are formed, old ideas are lost, or reappear, or are subdivided
into an infinite variety of minor shades. The consequence is that many words must fall into desuetude,
and others must be brought into use.
123
Besides, democratic nations love change for its own sake, and this is seen in their language as much as in
their politics. Even when they have no need to change words, they sometimes have the desire.
The genius of a democratic people is not only shown by the great number of words they bring into use,
but also by the nature of the ideas these new words represent. Among such a people the majority lays
down the law in language as well as in everything else; its prevailing spirit is as manifest in this as in
other respects. But the majority is more engaged in business than in study, in political and commercial
interests than in philosophical speculation or literary pursuits. Most of the words coined or adopted for
its use will bear the mark of these habits; they will mainly serve to express the wants of business, the
passions of party, or the details of the public administration. In these departments the language will
constantly grow, while it will gradually lose ground in metaphysics and theology.
As to the source from which democratic nations are accustomed to derive their new expressions and the
manner in which they coin them, both may easily be described. Men living in democratic countries know
but little of the language that was spoken at Athens or at Rome, and they do not care to dive into the
lore of antiquity to find the expression that they want. If they sometimes have recourse to learned
etymologies, vanity will induce them to search for roots from the dead languages, but erudition does
not naturally furnish them its resources. The most ignorant, it sometimes happens, will use them most.
The eminently democratic desire to get above their own sphere will often lead them to seek to dignify a
vulgar profession by a Greek or Latin name. The lower the calling is and the more remote from learning,
the more pompous and erudite is its appellation. Thus the French rope-dancers have transformed
themselves into acrobates and funambules.
Having little knowledge of the dead languages, democratic nations are apt to borrow words from living
tongues, for they have constant mutual intercourse, and the inhabitants of different countries imitate
each other the more readily as they grow more like each other every day.
But it is principally upon their own languages that democratic nations attempt to make innovations.
From time to time they resume and restore to use forgotten expressions in their vocabulary, or they
borrow from some particular class of the community a term peculiar to it, which they introduce with a
figurative meaning into the language of daily life. Many expressions which originally belonged to the
technical language of a profession or a party are thus drawn into general circulation.
The most common expedient employed by democratic nations to make an innovation in language
consists in giving an unwonted meaning to an expression already in use. This method is very simple,
prompt, and convenient; no learning is required to use it correctly and ignorance itself rather facilitates
the practice; but that practice is most dangerous to the language. When a democratic people double the
meaning of a word in this way, they sometimes render the meaning which it retains as ambiguous as
that which it acquires. An author begins by a slight deflection of a known expression from its primitive
meaning, and he adapts it, thus modified, as well as he can to his subject. A second writer twists the
sense of the expression in another way; a third takes possession of it for another purpose; and as there
is no common appeal to the sentence of a permanent tribunal that may definitively settle the meaning
of the word, it remains in an unsettled condition. The consequence is that writers hardly ever appear to
dwell upon a single thought, but they always seem to aim at a group of ideas, leaving the reader to
judge which of them has been hit.
This is a deplorable consequence of democracy. I had rather that the language should be made hideous
with words imported from the Chinese, the Tatars, or the Hurons than that the meaning of a word in our
own language should become indeterminate. Harmony and uniformity are only secondary beauties in
composition: many of these things are conventional, and, strictly speaking, it is possible to do without
them; but without clear phraseology there is no good language.
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The principle of equality necessarily introduces several other changes into language.
In aristocratic ages, when each nation tends to stand aloof from all others and likes to have a
physiognomy of its own, it often happens that several communities which have a common origin
become nevertheless strangers to each other; so that, without ceasing to understand the same
language, they no longer all speak it in the same manner. In these ages each nation is divided into a
certain number of classes, which see but little of each other and do not intermingle. Each of these
classes contracts and invariably retains habits of mind peculiar to itself and adopts by choice certain
terms which afterwards pass from generation to generation, like their estates. The same idiom then
comprises a language of the poor and a language of the rich, a language of the commoner and a
language of the nobility, a learned language and a colloquial one. The deeper the divisions and the more
impassable the barriers of society become, the more must this be the case. I would lay a wager that
among the castes of India there are amazing variations of language, and that there is almost as much
difference between the language of a pariah and that of a Brahmin as there is in their dress.
When, on the contrary, men, being no longer restrained by ranks, meet on terms of constant
intercourse, when castes are destroyed and the classes of society are recruited from and intermixed
with each other, all the words of a language are mingled. Those which are unsuitable to the greater
number perish; the remainder form a common store, whence everyone chooses pretty nearly at
random. Almost all the different dialects that divided the idioms of European nations are manifestly
declining; there is no patois in the New World, and it is disappearing every day from the old countries.
The influence of this revolution in social condition is as much felt in style as it is in language. Not only
does everyone use the same words, but a habit springs up of using them without discrimination. The
rules which style had set up are almost abolished: the line ceases to be drawn between expressions
which seem by their very nature vulgar and others which appear to be refined. Persons springing from
different ranks of society carry with them the terms and expressions they are accustomed to use into
whatever circumstances they may enter; thus the origin of words is lost like the origin of individuals, and
there is as much confusion in language as there is in society.
I am aware that in the classification of words there are rules which do not belong to one form of society
any more than to another, but which are derived from the nature of things. Some expressions and
phrases are vulgar because the ideas they are meant to express are low in themselves; others are of a
higher character because the objects they are intended to designate are naturally lofty. No intermixture
of ranks will ever efface these differences. But the principle of equality cannot fail to root out whatever
is merely conventional and arbitrary in the forms of thought. Perhaps the necessary classification that I
have just pointed out will always be less respected by a democratic people than by any other, because
among such a people there are no men who are permanently disposed, by education, culture, and
leisure, to study the natural laws of language and who cause those laws to be respected by their own
observance of them.
l shall not leave this topic without touching on a feature of democratic languages that is, perhaps, more
characteristic of them than any other. It has already been shown that democratic nations have a taste
and sometimes a passion for general ideas, and that this arises from their peculiar merits and defects.
This liking for general ideas is displayed in democratic languages by the continual use of generic terms or
abstract expressions and by the manner in which they are employed. This is the great merit and the
great imperfection of these languages.
Democratic nations are passionately addicted to generic terms and abstract expressions because these
modes of speech enlarge thought and assist the operations of the mind by enabling it to include many
objects in a small compass. A democratic writer will be apt to speak of capacities in the abstract for men
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of capacity and without specifying the objects to which their capacity is applied; he will talk about
actualities to designate in one word the things passing before his eyes at the moment; and, in French, he
will comprehend under the term eventualites whatever may happen in the universe, dating from the
moment at which he speaks. Democratic writers are perpetually coining abstract words of this kind, in
which they sublimate into further abstraction the abstract terms of the language. Moreover, to render
their mode of speech more succinct, they personify the object of these abstract terms and make it act
like a real person. Thus they would say in French: La force des choses veut que les capacites gouvernent.
I cannot better illustrate what I mean than by my own example. I have frequently used the word
equality in an absolute sense; nay, I have personified equality in several places; thus I have said that
equality does such and such things or refrains from doing others. It may be affirmed that the writers of
the age of Louis XIV would not have spoken in this manner; they would never have thought of using the
word equality without applying it to some particular thing; and they would rather have renounced the
term altogether than have consented to make it a living personage.
These abstract terms which abound in democratic languages, and which are used on every occasion
without attaching them to any particular fact, enlarge and obscure the thoughts they are intended to
convey; they render the mode of speech more succinct and the idea contained in it less clear. But with
regard to language, democratic nations prefer obscurity to labor.
I do not know, indeed, whether this loose style has not some secret charm for those who speak and
write among these nations. As the men who live there are frequently left to the efforts of their
individual powers of mind, they are almost always a prey to doubt; and as their situation in life is forever
changing, they are never held fast to any of their opinions by the immobility of their fortunes. Men living
in democratic countries, then, are apt to entertain unsettled ideas, and they require loose expressions
to convey them. As they never know whether the idea they express today will be appropriate to the new
position they may occupy tomorrow, they naturally acquire a liking for abstract terms. An abstract term
is like a box with a false bottom; you may put in it what ideas you please, and take them out again
without being observed.
Among all nations generic and abstract terms form the basis of language. I do not, therefore, pretend
that these terms are found only in democratic languages; I say only that men have a special tendency in
the ages of democracy to multiply words of this kind, to take them always by themselves in their most
abstract acceptation, and to use them on all occasions, even when the nature of the discourse does not
require them.
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Babel or babble?
Languages all have their roots in the same part of the world. But they are not as similar to each other
as was once thought
The Economist
WHERE do languages come from? That is a question as old as human beings' ability to pose it. But it has
two sorts of answer. The first is evolutionary: when and where human banter was first heard. The
second is ontological: how an individual human acquires the power of speech and understanding. This
week, by a neat coincidence, has seen the publication of papers addressing both of these conundrums.
Quentin Atkinson, of the University of Auckland, in New Zealand, has been looking at the evolutionary
issue, trying to locate the birthplace of the first language. Michael Dunn, of the Max Planck Institute for
Psycholinguistics in the Netherlands, has been examining ontology. Fittingly, they have published their
results in the two greatest rivals of scientific journalism. Dr Atkinson's paper appears in Science, Dr
Dunn's in Nature.
Travellers' tales
The obvious place to look for the evolutionary origin of language is the cradle of humanity, Africa. And,
to cut a long story short, it is to Africa that Dr Atkinson does trace things. In doing so, he knocks on the
head any lingering suggestion that language originated more than once.
One of the lines of evidence which show humanity's African origins is that the farther you get from that
continent, the less diverse, genetically speaking, people are. Being descended from small groups of
relatively recent migrants, they are more inbred than their African forebears.
Dr Atkinson wondered whether the same might be true of languages. To find out, he looked not at
genes but at phonemes. These are the smallest sounds which differentiate meaning (like the “th” in thin;
replace it with “f” or “s” and the result is a different word). It has been known for a while that the less
widely spoken a language is, the fewer the phonemes it has. So, as groups of people ventured ever
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farther from their African homeland, their phonemic repertoires should have dwindled, just as their
genetic ones did.
To check whether this is the case, Dr Atkinson took 504 languages and plotted the number of phonemes
in each (corrected for recent population growth, when significant) against the distance between the
place where the language is spoken and 2,500 putative points of origin, scattered across the world. The
relationship that emerges suggests the actual point of origin is in central or southern Africa (see chart),
and that all modern languages do, indeed, have a common root.
That fits nicely with the idea that being able to speak and be spoken to is a specific adaptation—a virtual
organ, if you like—that is humanity's killer app in the struggle for biological dominance. Once it arose,
Homo sapiens really could go forth and multiply and fill the Earth.
The details of this virtual organ are the subject of Dr Dunn's paper. Confusingly, though, for this neat
story of human imperialism, his result challenges the leading hypothesis about the nature of the
language organ itself.
Grammar or just rhetoric?
The originator of that hypothesis is Noam Chomsky, a linguist at the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology. Dr Chomsky argues that the human brain comes equipped with a hard-wired universal
grammar—a language instinct, in the elegant phrase of his one-time colleague Steven Pinker. This would
explain why children learn to speak almost effortlessly.
The problem with the idea of a language instinct is that languages differ not just in their vocabularies,
which are learned, but in their grammatical rules, which are the sort of thing that might be expected to
be instinctive. Dr Chomsky's response is that this diversity, like the diversity of vocabulary, is superficial.
In his opinion grammar is a collection of modules, each containing assorted features. Switching on a
module activates all these features at a stroke. You cannot pick and choose within a module.
For instance, languages in which verbs precede objects will always have relative clauses after nouns; a
language cannot have one but not the other. A lot of similar examples were collected by Joseph
Greenberg, a linguist based at Stanford, who died in 2001. And, though Greenberg himself attributed his
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findings to general constraints on human thought rather than to language-specific switches in the brain,
his findings also agree with the Chomskyan view of the world. Truly testing that view, though, is hard.
The human brain cannot easily handle the connections that need to be made to do so. Dr Dunn
therefore offered the task to a computer. And what he found surprised him.
Place your bets
To find out which linguistic features travel together, and might thus be parts of Chomskyan modules,
means drawing up a reliable linguistic family tree. That is tricky. Unlike biologists, linguists do not have
fossils to guide them through the past (apart from a few thousand years of records from the few
tongues spoken by literate societies). Also, languages can crossbreed in a way that species do not.
English, for example, is famously a muddle of German, Norse and medieval French. As a result, linguists
often disagree about which tongues belong to a particular family.
To leap this hurdle, Dr Dunn began by collecting basic vocabulary terms—words for body parts, kinship,
simple verbs and the like—for four large language families that all linguists agree are real. These are
Indo-European, Bantu, Austronesian (from South-East Asia and the Pacific) and Uto-Aztecan (the native
vernaculars of the Americas). These four groups account for more than a third of the 7,000 or so
tongues spoken around the world today.
For each family, Dr Dunn and his team identified sets of cognates. These are etymologically related
words that pop up in different languages. One set, for example, contains words like “night”, “Nacht” and
“nuit”. Another includes “milk” and “Milch”, but not “lait”. The result is a multidimensional Venn
diagram that records the overlaps between languages.
Which is fine for the present, but not much use for the past. To substitute for fossils, and thus
reconstruct the ancient branches of the tree as well as the modern-day leaves, Dr Dunn used
mathematically informed guesswork. The maths in question is called the Markov chain Monte Carlo
(MCMC) method. As its name suggests, this spins the software equivalent of a roulette wheel to
generate a random tree, then examines how snugly the branches of that tree fit the modern foliage. It
then spins the wheel again, to tweak the first tree ever so slightly, at random. If the new tree is a better
fit for the leaves, it is taken as the starting point for the next spin. If not, the process takes a step back to
the previous best fit. The wheel whirrs millions of times until such random tweaking has no discernible
effect on the outcome.
When Dr Dunn fed the languages he had chosen into the MCMC casino, the result was several hundred
equally probable family trees. Next, he threw eight grammatical features, all related to word order, into
the mix, and ran the game again.
The results were unexpected. Not one correlation persisted across all language families, and only two
were found in more than one family. It looks, then, as if the correlations between grammatical features
noticed by previous researchers are actually fossilised coincidences passed down the generations as part
of linguistic culture. Nurture, in other words, rather than nature. If Dr Dunn is correct, that leaves Dr
Chomsky's ideas in tatters, and raises questions about the very existence of a language organ. You may
be sure, though, that the Chomskyan heavy artillery will be making its first ranging shots in reply, even
as you read this article. Watch this space for further developments.
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“Aspects of English: Cockney”
Oxford English Dictionary
Cockney’s not a language it is only a slang
And was originated inna England
The first place it was used was over East London…
Smiley Culture, ‘Cockney Translation’ (1984)
The British rapper Smiley Culture, whose lyrics compared the differing if synonymous languages of black
and white East Enders—and which today have been conflated in the new lexis known as Multi-Ethnic
London English—was only partially correct. Cockney may not be a fully-fledged language, although it
certainly boasts a proportion of the ‘rules’ of grammar and spelling (albeit phonetically) that underpin
such linguistic formations, but for all that it is so heavily identified with slang, and especially that tourist
delight, Cockney rhyming slang, it is if anything a dialect. London’s own.
What is Cockney?
The word cockney has resolutely resisted any simple etymology. It is first noted in 1362, when it meant a
‘cock’s egg’—that is, a defective one. However there was an alternative use, first recorded in Chaucer
and defined in the second edition of the OED (1989) as ‘a mother’s darling’; a cockered child, pet,
minion; ‘a child tenderly brought up’; hence, a squeamish or effeminate fellow, ‘a milksop’. Hence the
equation, presumably coined by self-aggrandizing countrymen, of the weakling with the townsman, a
use initially recorded in 1521. And from the general to the specific: in 1600 appeared the first such
usage, in which the reference is not merely to the working-class Londoner, with which it would
henceforth be allied, but to a Bow-bell Cockney.
What is a Cockney? One who has been born within the sound of Bow bells, a reference not, as often
believed, to the eastern suburb of Bow, but to the church of Saint Mary le Bow, Cheapside, in the City of
London. Further to a study carried out in 2000 to see how far the Bow Bells could be heard, it was
estimated that they would have been audible six miles to the east, five to the north, three to the south,
and four to the west, an area that covers Bethnal Green, Whitechapel, Spitalfields, Stepney, Wapping,
Limehouse, Poplar, Millwall, Hackney, Hoxton, Shoreditch, Bow, and Mile End, as well as Bermondsey,
south of the River Thames. Given the post-war emigration of many Cockneys to Essex, that area can now
be seen as substantially larger. Nor were the original Cockneys invariably working class. All sorts of
individuals would once have spoken the London dialect, even if the great push for linguistic ‘purity’
during the seventeenth and eighteenth century prohibited such ‘vulgarisms’ from the aspirant middle
class.
The OED‘s first recorded use of Cockney language is dated 1776. But it has been suggested that a
Cockney style of speech is much older, with Matthews offering examples from the sixteenth century
onwards (William Matthews, Cockney Past and Present, 1938). Shakespeare is among those he quotes,
although his Cockneyisms are far from East Enders. Indeed, early Cockney is primarily a matter of
pronunciation, as reverse-engineered from the recorded spelling of words such as frust (thrust), farding
(farthing), anoder (another), and so on.
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The nineteenth century saw the first wholesale attempt to record Cockney as it was spoken. The low-life
episodes of Pierce Egan’s Life in London (1821) take his heroes deep into the East End and its speech.
London’s great chronicler Charles Dickens, notably with Sam Weller and his father, is unsurprisingly keen
on setting down the sound of Cockney speech, most obviously in the substitution of ‘v’ for ‘w’ and vice
versa. The pioneering sociologist Henry Mayhew recorded his impoverished or criminal interviewees in
much the same style. Dickens at least offers an implied moral judgement on those who drop their
aitches and reverse their v’s and w’s: irrespective of their background ‘virtuous’ characters, such as
Oliver Twist and Nancy, never stray from standard English. It is left to Sykes and the Dodger to display
the author’s underworld knowledge. Yet ‘Dickensian’ Cockney was short-lived. By the century’s end a
new school of Cockney novelists—notably William Pett Ridge, Edwin Pugh, and Arthur Morrison—had
emerged. It is ‘their’ Cockneyisms that are far more like what one hears today. At much the same time
London’s music hall was dominated by stars such as Albert Chevalier, Gus Elen, Marie Lloyd or Bessie
Bellwood, all of whom promoted themselves as embodying the lives of the Cockneys who made up their
audiences. Moreover they did so with songs imbued with that audience’s home-grown language.
Back to top
Rhyming slang
If there is a stereotype of what the world sees as ‘typically Cockney’ then it is undoubtedly rhyming
slang. While the creation myths of that lexis differ, it was certainly popular among the early nineteenthcentury Cockney costermongers.
The original rhyming slang, which was a conscious attempt to mystify the uninitiated, depended on the
omission of the rhyming element, for example: ‘Barnet fair’ / ‘hair’ (1857) to barnet (1931); ‘china plate’
/ ‘mate’ (1880) to china (1925); ‘Hampstead Heath’ / ‘teeth’ (1887) to Hampsteads (1932); and ‘Sweeney
Todd’ / ‘flying squad’ (1938) to Sweeney (1967). However this was by no means a rule, and there exist a
number of terms in which the entire compound is pronounced — hence Adam-and-Eve / ‘believe’
(1925), cocoa / ‘say so’ (1936), or tea-leaf / ‘thief’ (1903). Rhyming slang persists today, though how
‘Cockney’ such artificial constructs as ‘Posh and Becks: sex’ or ‘Germaine Greer: beer’ may be is at best
debatable. Like Routemaster buses and black cabs, it is an essential part of London’s tourist-orientated
image.
Cockney survives, but not without change. If one can elicit a single pattern then it is the movement
beyond purely working-class speech. Mockney (1989) has been adopted by a growing spectrum of the
otherwise middle-class and reasonably well-heeled young, As an accent it resembles the more formal
concept of Estuary English which was first recorded in 1984 and defined by the OED as ‘a type of accent
identified as spreading outwards from London, mainly into the south-east of England, and containing
features of both received pronunciation and such regional accents as Cockney’. And since then, at least
among the under-thirties, both working- and middle-class, there is Multi-Ethnic London English, a dialect
that reflects the city’s multicultural makeup, and blends terms from mainstream slang, the Caribbean
and American rap, and of course London’s own Cockney.
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“Sociolinguistics Basics”
Do You Speak American
By Connie Eble
Language is basic to social interactions, affecting them and being affected by them. Connie Eble of the
University of North Carolina explains how the field of sociolinguistics analyzes the many ways in which
language and society intersect.
Read Summary.
Sociolinguistics is the study of how language serves and is shaped by the social nature of human beings.
In its broadest conception, sociolinguistics analyzes the many and diverse ways in which language and
society entwine. This vast field of inquiry requires and combines insights from a number of disciplines,
including linguistics, sociology, psychology and anthropology.
Sociolinguistics examines the interplay of language and society, with language as the starting point.
Variation is the key concept, applied to language itself and to its use. The basic premise of
sociolinguistics is that language is variable and changing. As a result, language is not homogeneous —
not for the individual user and not within or among groups of speakers who use the same language.
By studying written records, sociolinguists also examine how language and society have interacted in the
past. For example, they have tabulated the frequency of the singular pronoun thou and its replacement
you in dated hand-written or printed documents and correlated changes in frequency with changes in
class structure in 16th and 17th century England. This is historical sociolinguistics: the study of
relationship between changes in society and changes in language over a period of time.
What is dialect?
Sociolinguists also study dialect — any regional, social or ethnic variety of a language. By that definition,
the English taught in school as correct and used in non-personal writing is only one dialect of
contemporary American English. Usually called Standard American English or Edited American English, it
is the dialect used in this essay.
Scholars are currently using a sociolinguistic perspective to answer some intriguing questions about
language in the United States, including these:
Which speakers in urban areas of the North are changing the pronunciation of vowels in a systematic
way? For instance, some speakers in Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit and Chicago pronounce bat so that it
sounds like bet and bet so that it sounds like but. Linguists call these patterned alterations the Northern
Cities Vowel Shift.
Which features of African American Vernacular English (AAVE) grammar are used by middle-class white
teen-agers who admire contemporary African-American music, entertainment and clothing? For
instance, white adolescents might speak approvingly of the style of a peer by saying she money or he be
jammin’ — sentence structures associated with African Americans.
Which stereotypical local pronunciations are exaggerated to show local allegiance? Such language
behavior has been pointed out recently for Pittsburgh, New Orleans and the barrier islands off North
Carolina known as the Outer Banks. At the end of the 20th century, connections between the isolated
Outer Banks and the greater world increased. This changed the local seafood industry and made the
Outer Banks a destination for a growing number of tourists. Using the typical way that the natives
pronounce the vowel in the words high and tide, these North Carolinians are called Hoi Toiders. They
continue to use this distinctive vowel even though in other ways their dialect is becoming more like
other American dialects.
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What will be the linguistic impact of the impending loss of monolingual French speakers in the Acadian,
or Cajun, region of southern Louisiana? What are the traces of French in Cajun Vernacular English, the
dialect of monolingual speakers of English who consider themselves Cajun? Will these French features
be sustained?
What slang terms do students use to show affiliation with subgroups of their peers and to distinguish
themselves from their parents’ generation? In 2002, for example, university students in North Carolina
described things that were great, pleasing or favorable as cool, hype, money, phat, tight or sweet — but
definitely not swell.
Variation in language is not helter-skelter. It is systematic. For instance, a speaker may sometimes
pronounce the word mind to sound just like mine through a process called consonant cluster reduction.
Pronunciation of the final –nd consonant cluster as –n tends to occur before consonants; i.e., the
speaker’s choice of saying mine instead of mind is conditioned by a feature of the language itself
(whether or not a consonant sound follows the word).For instance, a speaker is likely to say “I wouldn’t
mind owning a BMW” (with both n and d pronounced before o), but “I wouldn’t mine borrowing your
BMW” (with nd reduced to n before b).
Variation also correlates with social factors outside of language. For example, Appalachian working-class
speakers reduce consonant clusters more often than northern Anglo-American working class speakers
and working-class African Americans, regardless of their region, reduce consonant clusters more
frequently than do other working-class speakers. Thus, the occurrence of final consonant cluster
reduction is conditioned internally by its position in the speech stream and externally by the social
factors of socioeconomic class and ethnicity.
Another example of an internal linguistic variable is the pronunciation of the words spelled pen, ten and
Ben so that they sound as if they were spelled pin, tin and bin. This variable correlates with being
Southern, regardless of age, gender, socio-economic class or ethnicity. However, among Southerners,
the pronunciation of ask as if it were spelled ax correlates with ethnicity, because the pronunciation is
used most often (but not exclusively) by African Americans.
Another pronunciation variant that correlates with a social category is heard in New Orleans. In workingclass neighborhoods, words spelled with oi are often pronounced as if spelled er. For these speakers,
then, the word point rhymes with weren’t. Age is another social variable. In North Carolina, elderly
speakers often pronounce duke, stupid and newspaper with a y-sound before the vowel. Instead of the
common pronunciations dook, stoopid, and nooz for these words, they say dyuke, styupid, and nyuz.
(This is basically the difference all English speakers make between the words food and feud; feud has a
y-sound before the vowel.) Speakers born after World War II seldom use this pronunciation.
The examples above have all concerned pronunciation, but language also varies in vocabulary, grammar
and use.
Vocabulary sometimes varies by region
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Vocabulary sometimes varies by region. The expression lost bread to refer to French toast is a
translation of French pain perdu, part of the vocabulary of southern Louisiana. Other vocabulary is not
regional but rather is old-fashioned, such as frock for ‘a woman’s dress’ or tarry for ‘wait.’ Some
vocabulary may vary by degree of formality, as in the choice among the words barf, upchuck, vomit and
regurgitate.
Grammatical constructions also vary. In the Midland region of the United States, speakers use a
construction called positive anymore, as in “Anymore you see round bales of hay in the fields.” In other
regions, speakers would say, “Nowadays you see round bales of hay in the field.” A grammatical
variation associated with AAVE omits the verb be, as in “The teacher in the classroom.” Another
variation that is widespread in spoken American English is the double negative, as in “We don’t want no
more construction on this road.” Such sentences are not Standard American English.
Putting It in Context
Considerations other than grammatical correctness often govern speaker choices. For example, Sign this
paper is a grammatically correct imperative sentence. However, a student approaching a teacher to
obtain permission to drop a course, for reasons having nothing to do with grammar,will probably avoid
the imperative — expressing the request instead as a statement or a question, such as I need to get your
signature on this paper or Will you please sign this drop form?
Some social factors are attributes of the speaker — for example, age, gender, socio-economic class,
ethnicity and educational level. Many studies have shown that these factors commonly correlate both
with variation within the language itself (such as the pronunciation of final consonant clusters) and with
variation in the use of language (such as the use of more or less formal vocabulary, depending on the
audience). These findings match our everyday experience; most people are well aware that men and
women use the language differently, that poor people often speak differently from rich people, and that
educated people use language differently from uneducated people.
People adjust the way they talk to their social situation
It is common knowledge that people also adjust the way they talk to their social situation. Sociosituational variation, sometimes called register, depends on the subject matter, the occasion and the
relationship between participants — in addition to the previously mentioned attributes of region,
ethnicity, socioeconomic status, age and gender. Here are some examples.
Constraints on subject matter vary from culture to culture. In American English, it is fine to ask a child or
a medical patient, “Have you had a bowel movement today?” However, the same question to an
acquaintance might be coarse. Even a good friend would find it at the least peculiar. American English
speakers must approach other subjects with care. They wouldn’t dare ask, for example, “Are you too fat
for one plane seat?” “What’s your take-home pay?” “Are you sure you’re only 50?” “Do you have a
personal relationship with Christ?”
Any of these questions posed at a cocktail party might draw a prompt “None of your business” — or
something less polite. However, in other situations, between other participants, those same questions
might be appropriate. A public-health official encouraging Americans to lose weight might well ask a
general audience, “Are you too fat to fit in one plane seat?” A financial planner speaking to a client
certainly should ask, “What is your take-home pay?”
Contact
Contact is an important concept in sociolinguistics — social contact and language contact. Language
change spreads through networks of people who talk with one another. Tight-knit groupsthat keep to
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themselves tend not to promote change. Networks whose members also belong to other networks tend
to promote change. People can live next door to one another and not participate in the same network.
In the segregated South, blacks and whites often lived on the same piece of land; blacks worked in the
homes of whites. The physical distance was minimal, but the great social distance led to different
varieties of American English.
Contact between languages brings about variation and change. Situations of language contact are
usually socially complex, making them of interest to sociolinguists. When speakers of different
languages come together, the results are determined in large part by the economic and political power
of the speakers of each language. In the United States, English became the popular language from coast
to coast, largely replacing colonial French and Spanish and the languages of Native Americans. In the
Caribbean and perhaps in British North America where slavery was practiced, Africans learned the
English of their masters as best they could, creating a language for immediate and limited
communication called a pidgin. When Africans forgot or were forbidden to use their African languages
to communicate with one another, they developed their English pidgin into their native tongue. A
language that develops from a pidgin into a native language is called a creole. African American
Vernacular English may have developed this way.
Bilingualism is another response to language contact. In the United States, large numbers of non-English
speaking immigrants arrived in the late 19th and early 20th century. Typically, their children were
bilingual and their grandchildren were monolingual speakers of English. When the two languages are not
kept separate in function, speakers can intersperse phrases from one into the other, which is called code
switching. Speakers may also develop a dialect of one language that is heavily influenced by features of
the other language, such as the contemporary American dialect Chicano English.
Sociolinguists: Subjects and Leaders
Sociolinguists study many other issues, among them the values that hearers place on variations in
language, the regulation of linguistic behavior, language standardization, and educational and
governmental policies concerning language.
The term sociolinguistics is associated with William Labov and his quantitative methodology. Around the
world, many linguists study the intersection of language and social factors from other perspectives. The
most prominent is M. A. K. Halliday, whose approach is called systemic-functionalist linguistics. Some
other prominent sociolinguists are Guy Bailey, John Baugh, Jack Chambers, Penelope Eckert, Lesley
Milroy, John Rickford, Suzanne Romaine, Roger Shuy, Deborah Tannen, Peter Trudgill, and Walt
Wolfram.
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Pygmalion
By George Bernard Shaw
PREFACE TO PYGMALION.
A Professor of Phonetics.
As will be seen later on, Pygmalion needs, not a preface, but a sequel, which I have supplied in its due
place. The English have no respect for their language, and will not teach their children to speak it. They
spell it so abominably that no man can teach himself what it sounds like. It is impossible for an
Englishman to open his mouth without making some other Englishman hate or despise him. German and
Spanish are accessible to foreigners: English is not accessible even to Englishmen. The reformer England
needs today is an energetic phonetic enthusiast: that is why I have made such a one the hero of a
popular play. There have been heroes of that kind crying in the wilderness for many years past. When I
became interested in the subject towards the end of the eighteen-seventies, Melville Bell was dead; but
Alexander J. Ellis was still a living patriarch, with an impressive head always covered by a velvet skull cap,
for which he would apologize to public meetings in a very courtly manner. He and Tito Pagliardini,
another phonetic veteran, were men whom it was impossible to dislike. Henry Sweet, then a young
man, lacked their sweetness of character: he was about as conciliatory to conventional mortals as Ibsen
or Samuel Butler. His great ability as a phonetician (he was, I think, the best of them all at his job) would
have entitled him to high official recognition, and perhaps enabled him to popularize his subject, but for
his Satanic contempt for all academic dignitaries and persons in general who thought more of Greek
than of phonetics. Once, in the days when the Imperial Institute rose in South Kensington, and Joseph
Chamberlain was booming the Empire, I induced the editor of a leading monthly review to commission
an article from Sweet on the imperial importance of his subject. When it arrived, it contained nothing
but a savagely derisive attack on a professor of language and literature whose chair Sweet regarded as
proper to a phonetic expert only. The article, being libelous, had to be returned as impossible; and I had
to renounce my dream of dragging its author into the limelight. When I met him afterwards, for the first
time for many years, I found to my astonishment that he, who had been a quite tolerably presentable
young man, had actually managed by sheer scorn to alter his personal appearance until he had become
a sort of walking repudiation of Oxford and all its traditions. It must have been largely in his own despite
that he was squeezed into something called a Readership of phonetics there. The future of phonetics
rests probably with his pupils, who all swore by him; but nothing could bring the man himself into any
sort of compliance with the university, to which he nevertheless clung by divine right in an intensely
Oxonian way. I daresay his papers, if he has left any, include some satires that may be published without
too destructive results fifty years hence. He was, I believe, not in the least an ill-natured man: very much
the opposite, I should say; but he would not suffer fools gladly.
Those who knew him will recognize in my third act the allusion to the patent Shorthand in which he
used to write postcards, and which may be acquired from a four and six-penny manual published by the
Clarendon Press. The postcards which Mrs. Higgins describes are such as I have received from Sweet. I
would decipher a sound which a cockney would represent by zerr, and a Frenchman by seu, and then
write demanding with some heat what on earth it meant. Sweet, with boundless contempt for my
stupidity, would reply that it not only meant but obviously was the word Result, as no other Word
containing that sound, and capable of making sense with the context, existed in any language spoken on
earth. That less expert mortals should require fuller indications was beyond Sweet's patience. Therefore,
though the whole point of his "Current Shorthand" is that it can express every sound in the language
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perfectly, vowels as well as consonants, and that your hand has to make no stroke except the easy and
current ones with which you write m, n, and u, l, p, and q, scribbling them at whatever angle comes
easiest to you, his unfortunate determination to make this remarkable and quite legible script serve also
as a Shorthand reduced it in his own practice to the most inscrutable of cryptograms. His true objective
was the provision of a full, accurate, legible script for our noble but ill-dressed language; but he was led
past that by his contempt for the popular Pitman system of Shorthand, which he called the Pitfall
system. The triumph of Pitman was a triumph of business organization: there was a weekly paper to
persuade you to learn Pitman: there were cheap textbooks and exercise books and transcripts of
speeches for you to copy, and schools where experienced teachers coached you up to the necessary
proficiency. Sweet could not organize his market in that fashion. He might as well have been the Sybil
who tore up the leaves of prophecy that nobody would attend to. The four and six-penny manual,
mostly in his lithographed handwriting, that was never vulgarly advertized, may perhaps some day be
taken up by a syndicate and pushed upon the public as The Times pushed the Encyclopaedia Britannica;
but until then it will certainly not prevail against Pitman. I have bought three copies of it during my
lifetime; and I am informed by the publishers that its cloistered existence is still a steady and healthy
one. I actually learned the system two several times; and yet the shorthand in which I am writing these
lines is Pitman's. And the reason is, that my secretary cannot transcribe Sweet, having been perforce
taught in the schools of Pitman. Therefore, Sweet railed at Pitman as vainly as Thersites railed at Ajax:
his raillery, however it may have eased his soul, gave no popular vogue to Current Shorthand. Pygmalion
Higgins is not a portrait of Sweet, to whom the adventure of Eliza Doolittle would have been impossible;
still, as will be seen, there are touches of Sweet in the play. With Higgins's physique and temperament
Sweet might have set the Thames on fire. As it was, he impressed himself professionally on Europe to an
extent that made his comparative personal obscurity, and the failure of Oxford to do justice to his
eminence, a puzzle to foreign specialists in his subject. I do not blame Oxford, because I think Oxford is
quite right in demanding a certain social amenity from its nurslings (heaven knows it is not exorbitant in
its requirements!); for although I well know how hard it is for a man of genius with a seriously
underrated subject to maintain serene and kindly relations with the men who underrate it, and who
keep all the best places for less important subjects which they profess without originality and sometimes
without much capacity for them, still, if he overwhelms them with wrath and disdain, he cannot expect
them to heap honors on him.
Of the later generations of phoneticians I know little. Among them towers the Poet Laureate, to whom
perhaps Higgins may owe his Miltonic sympathies, though here again I must disclaim all portraiture. But
if the play makes the public aware that there are such people as phoneticians, and that they are among
the most important people in England at present, it will serve its turn.
I wish to boast that Pygmalion has been an extremely successful play all over Europe and North America
as well as at home. It is so intensely and deliberately didactic, and its subject is esteemed so
dry, that I delight in throwing it at the heads of the wiseacres who repeat the parrot cry that art should
never be didactic. It goes to prove my contention that art should never be anything else.
Finally, and for the encouragement of people troubled with accents that cut them off from all high
employment, I may add that the change wrought by Professor Higgins in the flower girl is neither
impossible nor uncommon. The modern concierge's daughter who fulfils her ambition by playing the
Queen of Spain in Ruy Blas at the Theatre Francais is only one of many thousands of men and women
who have sloughed off their native dialects and acquired a new tongue. But the thing has to be done
scientifically, or the last state of the aspirant may be worse than the first. An honest and natural slum
dialect is more tolerable than the attempt of a phonetically untaught person to imitate the vulgar dialect
137
of the golf club; and I am sorry to say that in spite of the efforts of our Academy of Dramatic Art, there is
still too much sham golfing English on our stage, and too little of the noble English of Forbes Robertson.
ACT I
Covent Garden at 11.15 p.m. Torrents of heavy summer rain. Cab whistles blowing frantically in all
directions. Pedestrians running for shelter into the market and under the portico of St. Paul's Church,
where there are already several people, among them a lady and her daughter in evening dress. They are
all peering out gloomily at the rain, except one man with his back turned to the rest, who seems wholly
preoccupied with a notebook in which he is writing busily.
The church clock strikes the first quarter.
THE DAUGHTER [in the space between the central pillars, close to the one on her left] I'm getting chilled
to the bone. What can Freddy be doing all this time? He's been gone twenty minutes.
THE MOTHER [on her daughter's right] Not so long. But he ought to have got us a cab by this.
A BYSTANDER [on the lady's right] He won't get no cab not until half-past eleven, missus, when they
come back after dropping their theatre fares.
THE MOTHER. But we must have a cab. We can't stand here until half-past eleven. It's too bad.
THE BYSTANDER. Well, it ain't my fault, missus.
THE DAUGHTER. If Freddy had a bit of gumption, he would have got one at the theatre door.
THE MOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy?
THE DAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Why couldn't he?
Freddy rushes in out of the rain from the Southampton Street side, and comes between them closing a
dripping umbrella. He is a young man of twenty, in evening dress, very wet around the ankles.
THE DAUGHTER. Well, haven't you got a cab?
FREDDY. There's not one to be had for love or money.
THE MOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. You can't have tried.
THE DAUGHTER. It's too tiresome. Do you expect us to go and get one ourselves?
FREDDY. I tell you they're all engaged. The rain was so sudden: nobody was prepared; and everybody
had to take a cab. I've been to Charing Cross one way and nearly to Ludgate Circus the other; and they
were all engaged.
THE MOTHER. Did you try Trafalgar Square?
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FREDDY. There wasn't one at Trafalgar Square.
THE DAUGHTER. Did you try?
FREDDY. I tried as far as Charing Cross Station. Did you expect me to walk to Hammersmith?
THE DAUGHTER. You haven't tried at all.
THE MOTHER. You really are very helpless, Freddy. Go again; and don't come back until you have found
a cab.
FREDDY. I shall simply get soaked for nothing.
THE DAUGHTER. And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in this draught, with next to nothing
on. You selfish pig-FREDDY. Oh, very well: I'll go, I'll go. [He opens his umbrella and dashes off Strandwards, but comes into
collision with a flower girl, who is hurrying in for shelter, knocking her basket out of her hands. A
blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a rattling peal of thunder, orchestrates the incident]
THE FLOWER GIRL. Nah then, Freddy: look wh' y' gowin, deah.
FREDDY. Sorry [he rushes off].
THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up her scattered flowers and replacing them in the basket] There's menners
f' yer! Te-oo banches o voylets trod into the mad. [She sits down on the plinth of the column, sorting her
flowers, on the lady's right. She is not at all an attractive person. She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps
twenty, hardly older. She wears a little sailor hat of black straw that has long been exposed to the dust
and soot of London and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washing rather badly: its
mousy color can hardly be natural. She wears a shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her knees and
is shaped to her waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarse apron. Her boots are much the worse for
wear. She is no doubt as clean as she can afford to be; but compared to the ladies she is very dirty. Her
features are no worse than theirs; but their condition leaves something to be desired; and she needs the
services of a dentist].
THE MOTHER. How do you know that my son's name is Freddy, pray?
THE FLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y' de-ooty bawmz a mather should, eed now
bettern to spawl a pore gel's flahrzn than ran awy atbaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f'them? [Here, with
apologies, this desperate attempt to represent her dialect without a phonetic alphabet must be
abandoned as unintelligible outside London.]
THE DAUGHTER. Do nothing of the sort, mother. The idea!
THE MOTHER. Please allow me, Clara. Have you any pennies?
THE DAUGHTER. No. I've nothing smaller than sixpence.
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THE FLOWER GIRL [hopefully] I can give you change for a tanner, kind lady.
THE MOTHER [to Clara] Give it to me. [Clara parts reluctantly]. Now [to the girl] This is for your flowers.
THE FLOWER GIRL. Thank you kindly, lady.
THE DAUGHTER. Make her give you the change. These things are only a penny a bunch.
THE MOTHER. Do hold your tongue, Clara. [To the girl]. You can keep the change.
THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady.
THE MOTHER. Now tell me how you know that young gentleman's name.
THE FLOWER GIRL. I didn't.
THE MOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Don't try to deceive me.
THE FLOWER GIRL [protesting] Who's trying to deceive you? I called him Freddy or Charlie same as you
might yourself if you was talking to a stranger and wished to be pleasant. [She sits down beside her
basket].
THE DAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really, mamma, you might have spared Freddy that. [She
retreats in disgust behind the pillar].
An elderly gentleman of the amiable military type rushes into shelter, and closes a dripping umbrella. He
is in the same plight as Freddy, very wet about the ankles. He is in evening dress, with a light overcoat.
He takes the place left vacant by the daughter's retirement.
THE GENTLEMAN. Phew!
THE MOTHER [to the gentleman] Oh, sir, is there any sign of its stopping?
THE GENTLEMAN. I'm afraid not. It started worse than ever about two minutes ago. [He goes to the
plinth beside the flower girl; puts up his foot on it; and stoops to turn down his trouser ends].
THE MOTHER. Oh, dear! [She retires sadly and joins her daughter].
THE FLOWER GIRL [taking advantage of the military gentleman's proximity to establish friendly relations
with him]. If it's worse it's a sign it's nearly over. So cheer up, Captain; and buy a flower off a poor girl.
THE GENTLEMAN. I'm sorry, I haven't any change.
THE FLOWER GIRL. I can give you change, Captain,
THE GENTLEMEN. For a sovereign? I've nothing less.
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THE FLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower off me, Captain. I can change half-a-crown. Take this for
tuppence.
THE GENTLEMAN. Now don't be troublesome: there's a good girl. [Trying his pockets] I really haven't any
change--Stop: here's three hapence, if that's any use to you [he retreats to the other pillar].
THE FLOWER GIRL [disappointed, but thinking three halfpence better than nothing] Thank you, sir.
THE BYSTANDER [to the girl] You be careful: give him a flower for it. There's a bloke here behind taking
down every blessed word you're saying. [All turn to the man who is taking notes].
THE FLOWER GIRL [springing up terrified] I ain't done nothing wrong by speaking to the gentleman. I've
a right to sell flowers if I keep off the kerb. [Hysterically] I'm a respectable girl: so help me, I never
spoke to him except to ask him to buy a flower off me. [General hubbub, mostly sympathetic to the
flower girl, but deprecating her excessive sensibility. Cries of Don't start hollerin. Who's hurting you?
Nobody's going to touch you. What's the good of fussing? Steady on. Easy, easy, etc., come from the
elderly staid spectators, who pat her comfortingly. Less patient ones bid her shut her head, or ask her
roughly what is wrong with her. A remoter group, not knowing what the matter is, crowd in and increase
the noise with question and answer: What's the row? What she do? Where is he? A tec taking her down.
What! him? Yes: him over there: Took money off the gentleman, etc. The flower girl, distraught and
mobbed, breaks through them to the gentleman, crying mildly] Oh, sir, don't let him charge me. You
dunno what it means to me. They'll take away my character and drive me on the streets for speaking to
gentlemen. They-THE NOTE TAKER [coming forward on her right, the rest crowding after him] There, there, there, there!
Who's hurting you, you silly girl? What do you take me for?
THE BYSTANDER. It's all right: he's a gentleman: look at his boots. [Explaining to the note taker] She
thought you was a copper's nark, sir.
THE NOTE TAKER [with quick interest] What's a copper's nark?
THE BYSTANDER [inept at definition] It's a--well, it's a copper's nark, as you might say. What else would
you call it? A sort of informer.
THE FLOWER GIRL [still hysterical] I take my Bible oath I never said a word-THE NOTE TAKER [overbearing but good-humored] Oh, shut up, shut up. Do I look like a policeman?
THE FLOWER GIRL [far from reassured] Then what did you take down my words for? How do I know
whether you took me down right? You just show me what you've wrote about me. [The note taker
opens his book and holds it steadily under her nose, though the pressure of the mob trying to read it
over his shoulders would upset a weaker man]. What's that? That ain't proper writing. I can't read that.
THE NOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing her pronunciation exactly] "Cheer ap, Keptin; n' haw ya
flahr orf a pore gel."
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THE FLOWER GIRL [much distressed] It's because I called him Captain. I meant no harm. [To the
gentleman] Oh, sir, don't let him lay a charge agen me for a word like that. You-THE GENTLEMAN. Charge! I make no charge. [To the note taker] Really, sir, if you are a detective, you
need not begin protecting me against molestation by young women until I ask you. Anybody could see
that the girl meant no harm.
THE BYSTANDERS GENERALLY [demonstrating against police espionage] Course they could. What
business is it of yours? You mind your own affairs. He wants promotion, he does. Taking down people's
words! Girl never said a word to him. What harm if she did? Nice thing a girl can't shelter from the rain
without being insulted, etc., etc., etc. [She is conducted by the more sympathetic demonstrators back to
her plinth, where she resumes her seat and struggles with her emotion].
THE BYSTANDER. He ain't a tec. He's a blooming busybody: that's what he is. I tell you, look at his boots.
THE NOTE TAKER [turning on him genially] And how are all your people down at Selsey?
THE BYSTANDER [suspiciously] Who told you my people come from Selsey?
THE NOTE TAKER. Never you mind. They did. [To the girl] How do you come to be up so far east? You
were born in Lisson Grove.
THE FLOWER GIRL [appalled] Oh, what harm is there in my leaving Lisson Grove? It wasn't fit for a pig to
live in; and I had to pay four-and-six a week. [In tears] Oh, boo--hoo--oo-THE NOTE TAKER. Live where you like; but stop that noise.
THE GENTLEMAN [to the girl] Come, come! he can't touch you: you have a right to live where you
please.
A SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [thrusting himself between the note taker and the gentleman] Park Lane, for
instance. I'd like to go into the Housing Question with you, I would.
THE FLOWER GIRL [subsiding into a brooding melancholy over her basket, and talking very low-spiritedly
to herself] I'm a good girl, I am.
THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [not attending to her] Do you know where _I_ come from?
THE NOTE TAKER [promptly] Hoxton.
Titterings. Popular interest in the note taker's performance increases.
THE SARCASTIC ONE [amazed] Well, who said I didn't? Bly me! You know everything, you do.
THE FLOWER GIRL [still nursing her sense of injury] Ain't no call to meddle with me, he ain't.
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THE BYSTANDER [to her] Of course he ain't. Don't you stand it from him. [To the note taker] See here:
what call have you to know about people what never offered to meddle with you? Where's your
warrant?
SEVERAL BYSTANDERS [encouraged by this seeming point of law] Yes: where's your warrant?
THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him say what he likes. I don't want to have no truck with him.
THE BYSTANDER. You take us for dirt under your feet, don't you? Catch you taking liberties with a
gentleman!
THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. Yes: tell HIM where he come from if you want to go fortune-telling.
THE NOTE TAKER. Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge, and India.
THE GENTLEMAN. Quite right. [Great laughter. Reaction in the note taker's favor. Exclamations of He
knows all about it. Told him proper. Hear him tell the toff where he come from? etc.]. May I ask, sir, do
you do this for your living at a music hall?
THE NOTE TAKER. I've thought of that. Perhaps I shall some day.
The rain has stopped; and the persons on the outside of the crowd begin to drop off.
THE FLOWER GIRL [resenting the reaction] He's no gentleman, he ain't, to interfere with a poor girl.
THE DAUGHTER [out of patience, pushing her way rudely to the front and displacing the gentleman, who
politely retires to the other side of the pillar] What on earth is Freddy doing? I shall get pneumonia if I
stay in this draught any longer.
THE NOTE TAKER [to himself, hastily making a note of her pronunciation of "monia"] Earlscourt.
THE DAUGHTER [violently] Will you please keep your impertinent remarks to yourself?
THE NOTE TAKER. Did I say that out loud? I didn't mean to. I beg your pardon. Your mother's Epsom,
unmistakeably.
THE MOTHER [advancing between her daughter and the note taker] How very curious! I was brought up
in Largelady Park, near Epsom.
THE NOTE TAKER [uproariously amused] Ha! ha! What a devil of a name! Excuse me. [To the daughter]
You want a cab, do you?
THE DAUGHTER. Don't dare speak to me.
THE MOTHER. Oh, please, please Clara. [Her daughter repudiates her with an angry shrug and retires
haughtily.] We should be so grateful to you, sir, if you found us a cab. [The note taker produces a
whistle]. Oh, thank you. [She joins her daughter]. The note taker blows a piercing blast.
143
THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. There! I knowed he was a plain-clothes copper.
THE BYSTANDER. That ain't a police whistle: that's a sporting whistle.
THE FLOWER GIRL [still preoccupied with her wounded feelings] He's no right to take away my
character. My character is the same to me as any lady's.
THE NOTE TAKER. I don't know whether you've noticed it; but the rain stopped about two minutes ago.
THE BYSTANDER. So it has. Why didn't you say so before? and us losing our time listening to your
silliness. [He walks off towards the Strand].
THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. I can tell where you come from. You come from Anwell. Go back there.
THE NOTE TAKER [helpfully] _H_anwell.
THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [affecting great distinction of speech] Thenk you, teacher. Haw haw! So long
[he touches his hat with mock respect and strolls off].
THE FLOWER GIRL. Frightening people like that! How would he like it himself.
THE MOTHER. It's quite fine now, Clara. We can walk to a motor bus. Come. [She gathers her skirts
above her ankles and hurries off towards the Strand].
THE DAUGHTER. But the cab--[her mother is out of hearing]. Oh, how tiresome! [She follows angrily].
All the rest have gone except the note taker, the gentleman, and the flower girl, who sits arranging her
basket, and still pitying herself in murmurs.
THE FLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for her to live without being worrited and chivied.
THE GENTLEMAN [returning to his former place on the note taker's left] How do you do it, if I may ask?
THE NOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The science of speech. That's my profession; also my hobby. Happy
is the man who can make a living by his hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his
brogue. I can place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles in London. Sometimes
within two streets.
THE FLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of himself, unmanly coward!
THE GENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that?
THE NOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This is an age of upstarts. Men begin in Kentish Town with 80
pounds a year, and end in Park Lane with a hundred thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town; but
they give themselves away every time they open their mouths. Now I can teach them-THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own business and leave a poor girl--
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THE NOTE TAKER [explosively] Woman: cease this detestable boohooing instantly; or else seek the
shelter of some other place of worship.
THE FLOWER GIRL [with feeble defiance] I've a right to be here if I like, same as you.
THE NOTE TAKER. A woman who utters such depressing and disgusting sounds has no right to be
anywhere--no right to live. Remember that you are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of
articulate speech: that your native language is the language of Shakespear and Milton and The Bible;
and don't sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon.
THE FLOWER GIRL [quite overwhelmed, and looking up at him in mingled wonder and deprecation
without daring to raise her head] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo!
THE NOTE TAKER [whipping out his book] Heavens! what a sound! [He writes; then holds out the book
and reads, reproducing her vowels exactly] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--ow--oo!
THE FLOWER GIRL [tickled by the performance, and laughing in spite of herself] Garn!
THE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: the English that will keep her in the
gutter to the end of her days. Well, sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an
ambassador's garden party. I could even get her a place as lady's maid or shop assistant, which requires
better English. That's the sort of thing I do for commercial millionaires. And on the profits of it I do
genuine scientific work in phonetics, and a little as a poet on Miltonic lines.
THE GENTLEMAN. I am myself a student of Indian dialects; and-THE NOTE TAKER [eagerly] Are you? Do you know Colonel Pickering, the author of Spoken Sanscrit?
THE GENTLEMAN. I am Colonel Pickering. Who are you?
THE NOTE TAKER. Henry Higgins, author of Higgins's Universal Alphabet.
PICKERING [with enthusiasm] I came from India to meet you.
HIGGINS. I was going to India to meet you.
PICKERING. Where do you live?
HIGGINS. 27A Wimpole Street. Come and see me tomorrow.
PICKERING. I'm at the Carlton. Come with me now and let's have a jaw over some supper.
HIGGINS. Right you are.
THE FLOWER GIRL [to Pickering, as he passes her] Buy a flower, kind gentleman. I'm short for my
lodging.
PICKERING. I really haven't any change. I'm sorry [he goes away].
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HIGGINS [shocked at girl's mendacity] Liar. You said you could change half-a-crown.
THE FLOWER GIRL [rising in desperation] You ought to be stuffed with nails, you ought. [Flinging the
basket at his feet] Take the whole blooming basket for sixpence.
The church clock strikes the second quarter.
HIGGINS [hearing in it the voice of God, rebuking him for his Pharisaic want of charity to the poor girl] A
reminder. [He raises his hat solemnly; then throws a handful of money into the basket and follows
Pickering].
THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up a half-crown] Ah--ow--ooh! [Picking up a couple of florins] Aaah--ow--ooh!
[Picking up several coins] Aaaaaah--ow--ooh! [Picking up a half-sovereign] Aasaaaaaaaaah--ow--ooh!!!
FREDDY [springing out of a taxicab] Got one at last. Hallo! [To the girl] Where are the two ladies that
were here?
THE FLOWER GIRL. They walked to the bus when the rain stopped.
FREDDY. And left me with a cab on my hands. Damnation!
THE FLOWER GIRL [with grandeur] Never you mind, young man. I'm going home in a taxi. [She sails off to
the cab. The driver puts his hand behind him and holds the door firmly shut against her. Quite
understanding his mistrust, she shows him her handful of money]. Eightpence ain't no object to me,
Charlie. [He grins and opens the door]. Angel Court, Drury Lane, round the corner of Micklejohn's oil
shop. Let's see how fast you can make her hop it. [She gets in and pulls the door to with a slam as the
taxicab starts].
FREDDY. Well, I'm dashed!
146
The Importance of Being Earnest: A Trivial Comedy for Serious People
By Oscar Wilde
Act One
Morning-room in Algernon’s flat in Half-Moon Street. The room is luxuriously and artistically furnished.
The sound of a piano is heard in the adjoining room.
[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has ceased, Algernon enters.]
Algernon. Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?
Lane. I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir.
Algernon. I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t play accurately—any one can play accurately—but I
play with wonderful expression. As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I keep science
for Life.
Lane. Yes, sir.
Algernon. And, speaking of the science of Life, have you got the cucumber sandwiches cut for Lady
Bracknell?
Lane. Yes, sir. [Hands them on a salver.]
Algernon. [Inspects them, takes two, and sits down on the sofa.] Oh! . . . by the way, Lane, I see from
your book that on Thursday night, when Lord Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining with me, eight
bottles of champagne are entered as having been consumed.
Lane. Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint.
Algernon. Why is it that at a bachelor’s establishment the servants invariably drink the champagne? I
ask merely for information.
Lane. I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I have often observed that in married
households the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand.
Algernon. Good heavens! Is marriage so demoralising as that?
Lane. I believe it is a very pleasant state, sir. I have had very little experience of it myself up to the
present. I have only been married once. That was in consequence of a misunderstanding between
myself and a young person.
Algernon. [Languidly.] I don’t know that I am much interested in your family life, Lane.
Lane. No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think of it myself.
Algernon. Very natural, I am sure. That will do, Lane, thank you.
Lane. Thank you, sir. [Lane goes out.]
Algernon. Lane’s views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if the lower orders don’t set us a good
example, what on earth is the use of them? They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral
responsibility.
[Enter Lane.]
Lane. Mr. Ernest Worthing.
[Enter Jack.]
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[Lane goes out.]
Algernon. How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town?
Jack. Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere? Eating as usual, I see, Algy!
Algernon. [Stiffly.] I believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at five
o’clock. Where have you been since last Thursday?
Jack. [Sitting down on the sofa.] In the country.
Algernon. What on earth do you do there?
Jack. [Pulling off his gloves.] When one is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in the country one
amuses other people. It is excessively boring.
Algernon. And who are the people you amuse?
Jack. [Airily.] Oh, neighbours, neighbours.
Algernon. Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?
Jack. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.
Algernon. How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and takes sandwich.] By the way,
Shropshire is your county, is it not?
Jack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why cucumber sandwiches? Why
such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who is coming to tea?
Algernon. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.
Jack. How perfectly delightful!
Algernon. Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won’t quite approve of your being
here.
Jack. May I ask why?
Algernon. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. It is almost as bad
as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.
Jack. I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly to propose to her.
Algernon. I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I call that business.
Jack. How utterly unromantic you are!
Algernon. I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be in love. But there
is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe.
Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married, I’ll
certainly try to forget the fact.
Jack. I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was specially invented for people whose
memories are so curiously constituted.
Algernon. Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are made in Heaven—[Jack puts out
his hand to take a sandwich. Algernon at once interferes.] Please don’t touch the cucumber
sandwiches. They are ordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]
Jack. Well, you have been eating them all the time.
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Algernon. That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate from below.] Have some bread
and butter. The bread and butter is for Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.
Jack. [Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread and butter it is too.
Algernon. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to eat it all. You behave as if you
were married to her already. You are not married to her already, and I don’t think you ever will be.
Jack. Why on earth do you say that?
Algernon. Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girls don’t think it right.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!
Algernon. It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the extraordinary number of bachelors that one
sees all over the place. In the second place, I don’t give my consent.
Jack. Your consent!
Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before I allow you to marry her, you will
have to clear up the whole question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]
Jack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by Cecily! I don’t know any one of
the name of Cecily.
[Enter Lane.]
Algernon. Bring me that cigarette case Mr. Worthing left in the smoking-room the last time he dined
here.
Lane. Yes, sir. [Lane goes out.]
Jack. Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? I wish to goodness you had let
me know. I have been writing frantic letters to Scotland Yard about it. I was very nearly offering a large
reward.
Algernon. Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more than usually hard up.
Jack. There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is found.
[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon takes it at once. Lane goes out.]
Algernon. I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [Opens case and examines it.]
However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look at the inscription inside, I find that the thing isn’t
yours after all.
Jack. Of course it’s mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it a hundred times, and you have no
right whatsoever to read what is written inside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private
cigarette case.
Algernon. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one
shouldn’t. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn’t read.
Jack. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don’t propose to discuss modern culture. It isn’t the sort of
thing one should talk of in private. I simply want my cigarette case back.
Algernon. Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case. This cigarette case is a present from some one of the
name of Cecily, and you said you didn’t know any one of that name.
Jack. Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.
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Algernon. Your aunt!
Jack. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells. Just give it back to me, Algy.
Algernon. [Retreating to back of sofa.] But why does she call herself little Cecily if she is your aunt and
lives at Tunbridge Wells? [Reading.] ‘From little Cecily with her fondest love.’
Jack. [Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] My dear fellow, what on earth is there in that? Some aunts
are tall, some aunts are not tall. That is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide for
herself. You seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your aunt! That is absurd! For
Heaven’s sake give me back my cigarette case. [Follows Algernon round the room.]
Algernon. Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? ‘From little Cecily, with her fondest love to
her dear Uncle Jack.’ There is no objection, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, no
matter what her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, I can’t quite make out. Besides,
your name isn’t Jack at all; it is Ernest.
Jack. It isn’t Ernest; it’s Jack.
Algernon. You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced you to every one as Ernest. You
answer to the name of Ernest. You look as if your name was Ernest. You are the most earnest-looking
person I ever saw in my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn’t Ernest. It’s on your
cards. Here is one of them. [Taking it from case.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany.’ I’ll keep this
as a proof that your name is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny it to me, or to Gwendolen, or to any one
else. [Puts the card in his pocket.]
Jack. Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and the cigarette case was given to me in
the country.
Algernon. Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small Aunt Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge
Wells, calls you her dear uncle. Come, old boy, you had much better have the thing out at once.
Jack. My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It is very vulgar to talk like a dentist when
one isn’t a dentist. It produces a false impression.
Algernon. Well, that is exactly what dentists always do. Now, go on! Tell me the whole thing. I may
mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite
sure of it now.
Jack. Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?
Algernon. I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you are kind
enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in the country.
Jack. Well, produce my cigarette case first.
Algernon. Here it is. [Hands cigarette case.] Now produce your explanation, and pray make it
improbable. [Sits on sofa.]
Jack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. In fact it’s perfectly
ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will
guardian to his grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from
motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the
charge of her admirable governess, Miss Prism.
Algernon. Where is that place in the country, by the way?
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Jack. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited . . . I may tell you candidly that
the place is not in Shropshire.
Algernon. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire on two separate
occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town and Jack in the country?
Jack. My dear Algy, I don’t know whether you will be able to understand my real motives. You are
hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high
moral tone on all subjects. It’s one’s duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to
conduce very much to either one’s health or one’s happiness, in order to get up to town I have always
pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the
most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and simple.
Algernon. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either,
and modern literature a complete impossibility!
Jack. That wouldn’t be at all a bad thing.
Algernon. Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should leave that to
people who haven’t been at a University. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is a
Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced
Bunburyists I know.
Jack. What on earth do you mean?
Algernon. You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order that you may be able
to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called
Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is
perfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn’t be able
to dine with you at Willis’s to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a
week.
Jack. I haven’t asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night.
Algernon. I know. You are absurdly careless about sending out invitations. It is very foolish of you.
Nothing annoys people so much as not receiving invitations.
Jack. You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta.
Algernon. I haven’t the smallest intention of doing anything of the kind. To begin with, I dined there on
Monday, and once a week is quite enough to dine with one’s own relations. In the second place,
whenever I do dine there I am always treated as a member of the family, and sent down with either no
woman at all, or two. In the third place, I know perfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night.
She will place me next Mary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the dinner-table.
That is not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even decent . . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the
increase. The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It
looks so bad. It is simply washing one’s clean linen in public. Besides, now that I know you to be a
confirmed Bunburyist I naturally want to talk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you the rules.
Jack. I’m not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolen accepts me, I am going to kill my brother, indeed I think
I’ll kill him in any case. Cecily is a little too much interested in him. It is rather a bore. So I am going to
get rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise you to do the same with Mr. . . . with your invalid friend who has
the absurd name.
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Algernon. Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me
extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know Bunbury. A man who marries without knowing
Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.
Jack. That is nonsense. If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen, and she is the only girl I ever saw in
my life that I would marry, I certainly won’t want to know Bunbury.
Algernon. Then your wife will. You don’t seem to realise, that in married life three is company and two
is none.
Jack. [Sententiously.] That, my dear young friend, is the theory that the corrupt French Drama has been
propounding for the last fifty years.
Algernon. Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half the time.
Jack. For heaven’s sake, don’t try to be cynical. It’s perfectly easy to be cynical.
Algernon. My dear fellow, it isn’t easy to be anything nowadays. There’s such a lot of beastly
competition about. [The sound of an electric bell is heard.] Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Only
relatives, or creditors, ever ring in that Wagnerian manner. Now, if I get her out of the way for ten
minutes, so that you can have an opportunity for proposing to Gwendolen, may I dine with you to-night
at Willis’s?
Jack. I suppose so, if you want to.
Algernon. Yes, but you must be serious about it. I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so
shallow of them.
[Enter Lane.]
Lane. Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.
[Algernon goes forward to meet them. Enter Lady Bracknell and Gwendolen.]
Lady Bracknell. Good afternoon, dear Algernon, I hope you are behaving very well.
Algernon. I’m feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.
Lady Bracknell. That’s not quite the same thing. In fact the two things rarely go together. [Sees Jack
and bows to him with icy coldness.]
Algernon. [To Gwendolen.] Dear me, you are smart!
Gwendolen. I am always smart! Am I not, Mr. Worthing?
Jack. You’re quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.
Gwendolen. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for developments, and I intend to
develop in many directions. [Gwendolen and Jack sit down together in the corner.]
Lady Bracknell. I’m sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but I was obliged to call on dear Lady Harbury.
I hadn’t been there since her poor husband’s death. I never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite
twenty years younger. And now I’ll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches you
promised me.
Algernon. Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goes over to tea-table.]
Lady Bracknell. Won’t you come and sit here, Gwendolen?
Gwendolen. Thanks, mamma, I’m quite comfortable where I am.
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Algernon. [Picking up empty plate in horror.] Good heavens! Lane! Why are there no cucumber
sandwiches? I ordered them specially.
Lane. [Gravely.] There were no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir. I went down twice.
Algernon. No cucumbers!
Lane. No, sir. Not even for ready money.
Algernon. That will do, Lane, thank you.
Lane. Thank you, sir. [Goes out.]
Algernon. I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about there being no cucumbers, not even for ready
money.
Lady Bracknell. It really makes no matter, Algernon. I had some crumpets with Lady Harbury, who
seems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now.
Algernon. I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief.
Lady Bracknell. It certainly has changed its colour. From what cause I, of course, cannot say. [Algernon
crosses and hands tea.] Thank you. I’ve quite a treat for you to-night, Algernon. I am going to send you
down with Mary Farquhar. She is such a nice woman, and so attentive to her husband. It’s delightful to
watch them.
Algernon. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up the pleasure of dining with you to-night
after all.
Lady Bracknell. [Frowning.] I hope not, Algernon. It would put my table completely out. Your uncle
would have to dine upstairs. Fortunately he is accustomed to that.
Algernon. It is a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible disappointment to me, but the fact is I
have just had a telegram to say that my poor friend Bunbury is very ill again. [Exchanges glances with
Jack.] They seem to think I should be with him.
Lady Bracknell. It is very strange. This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health.
Algernon. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.
Lady Bracknell. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time that Mr. Bunbury made up his
mind whether he was going to live or to die. This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd. Nor do I in
any way approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is
hardly a thing to be encouraged in others. Health is the primary duty of life. I am always telling that to
your poor uncle, but he never seems to take much notice . . . as far as any improvement in his ailment
goes. I should be much obliged if you would ask Mr. Bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a
relapse on Saturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music for me. It is my last reception, and one wants
something that will encourage conversation, particularly at the end of the season when every one has
practically said whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much.
Algernon. I’ll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious, and I think I can promise you he’ll
be all right by Saturday. Of course the music is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music,
people don’t listen, and if one plays bad music people don’t talk. But I’ll run over the programme I’ve
drawn out, if you will kindly come into the next room for a moment.
Lady Bracknell. Thank you, Algernon. It is very thoughtful of you. [Rising, and following Algernon.] I’m
sure the programme will be delightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannot possibly allow.
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People always seem to think that they are improper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh,
which is worse. But German sounds a thoroughly respectable language, and indeed, I believe is so.
Gwendolen, you will accompany me.
Gwendolen. Certainly, mamma.
[Lady Bracknell and Algernon go into the music-room, Gwendolen remains behind.]
Jack. Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.
Gwendolen. Pray don’t talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me
about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me so
nervous.
Jack. I do mean something else.
Gwendolen. I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong.
Jack. And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Lady Bracknell’s temporary absence . . .
Gwendolen. I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way of coming back suddenly into a
room that I have often had to speak to her about.
Jack. [Nervously.] Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admired you more than any girl . . . I have
ever met since . . . I met you.
Gwendolen. Yes, I am quite well aware of the fact. And I often wish that in public, at any rate, you had
been more demonstrative. For me you have always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met
you I was far from indifferent to you. [Jack looks at her in amazement.] We live, as I hope you know,
Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly
magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits, I am told; and my ideal has always been to love some
one of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The
moment Algernon first mentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love
you.
Jack. You really love me, Gwendolen?
Gwendolen. Passionately!
Jack. Darling! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.
Gwendolen. My own Ernest!
Jack. But you don’t really mean to say that you couldn’t love me if my name wasn’t Ernest?
Gwendolen. But your name is Ernest.
Jack. Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean to say you couldn’t love me
then?
Gwendolen. [Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like most metaphysical
speculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them.
Jack. Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don’t much care about the name of Ernest . . . I don’t
think the name suits me at all.
Gwendolen. It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music of its own. It produces vibrations.
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Jack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think
Jack, for instance, a charming name.
Gwendolen. Jack? . . . No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does not
thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations . . . I have known several Jacks, and they all, without
exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity
any woman who is married to a man called John. She would probably never be allowed to know the
entrancing pleasure of a single moment’s solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.
Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once—I mean we must get married at once. There is no time
to be lost.
Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?
Jack. [Astounded.] Well . . . surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax,
that you were not absolutely indifferent to me.
Gwendolen. I adore you. But you haven’t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said at all about
marriage. The subject has not even been touched on.
Jack. Well . . . may I propose to you now?
Gwendolen. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possible
disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly before-hand that I am fully
determined to accept you.
Jack. Gwendolen!
Gwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?
Jack. You know what I have got to say to you.
Gwendolen. Yes, but you don’t say it.
Jack. Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]
Gwendolen. Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it! I am afraid you have had very
little experience in how to propose.
Jack. My own one, I have never loved any one in the world but you.
Gwendolen. Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brother Gerald does. All my girlfriends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite, quite, blue. I hope
you will always look at me just like that, especially when there are other people present. [Enter Lady
Bracknell.]
Lady Bracknell. Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.
Gwendolen. Mamma! [He tries to rise; she restrains him.] I must beg you to retire. This is no place for
you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has not quite finished yet.
Lady Bracknell. Finished what, may I ask?
Gwendolen. I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, mamma. [They rise together.]
Lady Bracknell. Pardon me, you are not engaged to any one. When you do become engaged to some
one, I, or your father, should his health permit him, will inform you of the fact. An engagement should
come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It is hardly a matter that
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she could be allowed to arrange for herself . . . And now I have a few questions to put to you, Mr.
Worthing. While I am making these inquiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for me below in the carriage.
Gwendolen. [Reproachfully.] Mamma!
Lady Bracknell. In the carriage, Gwendolen! [Gwendolen goes to the door. She and Jack blow kisses to
each other behind Lady Bracknell’s back. Lady Bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not
understand what the noise was. Finally turns round.] Gwendolen, the carriage!
Gwendolen. Yes, mamma. [Goes out, looking back at Jack.]
Lady Bracknell. [Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.
[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]
Jack. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.
Lady Bracknell. [Pencil and note-book in hand.] I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my
list of eligible young men, although I have the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We work
together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really
affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?
Jack. Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.
Lady Bracknell. I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are
far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?
Jack. Twenty-nine.
Lady Bracknell. A very good age to be married at. I have always been of opinion that a man who desires
to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?
Jack. [After some hesitation.] I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.
Lady Bracknell. I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural
ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of
modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no
effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to
acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?
Jack. Between seven and eight thousand a year.
Lady Bracknell. [Makes a note in her book.] In land, or in investments?
Jack. In investments, chiefly.
Lady Bracknell. That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one during one’s lifetime,
and the duties exacted from one after one’s death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It
gives one position, and prevents one from keeping it up. That’s all that can be said about land.
Jack. I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I
believe; but I don’t depend on that for my real income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers
are the only people who make anything out of it.
Lady Bracknell. A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up
afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen,
could hardly be expected to reside in the country.
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Jack. Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can
get it back whenever I like, at six months’ notice.
Lady Bracknell. Lady Bloxham? I don’t know her.
Jack. Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably advanced in years.
Lady Bracknell. Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of character. What number in
Belgrave Square?
Jack. 149.
Lady Bracknell. [Shaking her head.] The unfashionable side. I thought there was something. However,
that could easily be altered.
Jack. Do you mean the fashion, or the side?
Lady Bracknell. [Sternly.] Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your politics?
Jack. Well, I am afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.
Lady Bracknell. Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in the evening, at any rate. Now
to minor matters. Are your parents living?
Jack. I have lost both my parents.
Lady Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks
like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what
the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?
Jack. I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be
nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me . . . I don’t actually know who I am by
birth. I was . . . well, I was found.
Lady Bracknell. Found!
Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found
me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing
in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.
Lady Bracknell. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort
find you?
Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.
Lady Bracknell. A hand-bag?
Jack. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag—a somewhat large, black leather handbag, with handles to it—an ordinary hand-bag in fact.
Lady Bracknell. In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary handbag?
Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.
Lady Bracknell. The cloak-room at Victoria Station?
Jack. Yes. The Brighton line.
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Lady Bracknell. The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you
have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems
to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst
excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to?
As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might
serve to conceal a social indiscretion—has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now—
but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society.
Jack. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the
world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.
Lady Bracknell. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as
possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the
season is quite over.
Jack. Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag at any
moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.
Lady Bracknell. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell
would dream of allowing our only daughter—a girl brought up with the utmost care—to marry into a
cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!
[Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.]
Jack. Good morning! [Algernon, from the other room, strikes up the Wedding March. Jack looks
perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] For goodness’ sake don’t play that ghastly tune, Algy. How
idiotic you are!
[The music stops and Algernon enters cheerily.]
Algernon. Didn’t it go off all right, old boy? You don’t mean to say Gwendolen refused you? I know it is
a way she has. She is always refusing people. I think it is most ill-natured of her.
Jack. Oh, Gwendolen is as right as a trivet. As far as she is concerned, we are engaged. Her mother is
perfectly unbearable. Never met such a Gorgon . . . I don’t really know what a Gorgon is like, but I am
quite sure that Lady Bracknell is one. In any case, she is a monster, without being a myth, which is
rather unfair . . . I beg your pardon, Algy, I suppose I shouldn’t talk about your own aunt in that way
before you.
Algernon. My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused. It is the only thing that makes me put up
with them at all. Relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t got the remotest
knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!
Algernon. It isn’t!
Jack. Well, I won’t argue about the matter. You always want to argue about things.
Algernon. That is exactly what things were originally made for.
Jack. Upon my word, if I thought that, I’d shoot myself . . . [A pause.] You don’t think there is any
chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother in about a hundred and fifty years, do you, Algy?
Algernon. All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.
Jack. Is that clever?
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Algernon. It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation in civilised life should be.
Jack. I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You can’t go anywhere without
meeting clever people. The thing has become an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a
few fools left.
Algernon. We have.
Jack. I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about?
Algernon. The fools? Oh! about the clever people, of course.
Jack. What fools!
Algernon. By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your being Ernest in town, and Jack in the
country?
Jack. [In a very patronising manner.] My dear fellow, the truth isn’t quite the sort of thing one tells to a
nice, sweet, refined girl. What extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!
Algernon. The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if she is pretty, and to some one
else, if she is plain.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense.
Algernon. What about your brother? What about the profligate Ernest?
Jack. Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I’ll say he died in Paris of apoplexy.
Lots of people die of apoplexy, quite suddenly, don’t they?
Algernon. Yes, but it’s hereditary, my dear fellow. It’s a sort of thing that runs in families. You had
much better say a severe chill.
Jack. You are sure a severe chill isn’t hereditary, or anything of that kind?
Algernon. Of course it isn’t!
Jack. Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest to carried off suddenly, in Paris, by a severe chill. That
gets rid of him.
Algernon. But I thought you said that . . . Miss Cardew was a little too much interested in your poor
brother Ernest? Won’t she feel his loss a good deal?
Jack. Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I am glad to say. She has got a capital
appetite, goes long walks, and pays no attention at all to her lessons.
Algernon. I would rather like to see Cecily.
Jack. I will take very good care you never do. She is excessively pretty, and she is only just eighteen.
Algernon. Have you told Gwendolen yet that you have an excessively pretty ward who is only just
eighteen?
Jack. Oh! one doesn’t blurt these things out to people. Cecily and Gwendolen are perfectly certain to
be extremely great friends. I’ll bet you anything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will
be calling each other sister.
Algernon. Women only do that when they have called each other a lot of other things first. Now, my
dear boy, if we want to get a good table at Willis’s, we really must go and dress. Do you know it is nearly
seven?
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Jack. [Irritably.] Oh! It always is nearly seven.
Algernon. Well, I’m hungry.
Jack. I never knew you when you weren’t . . .
Algernon. What shall we do after dinner? Go to a theatre?
Jack. Oh no! I loathe listening.
Algernon. Well, let us go to the Club?
Jack. Oh, no! I hate talking.
Algernon. Well, we might trot round to the Empire at ten?
Jack. Oh, no! I can’t bear looking at things. It is so silly.
Algernon. Well, what shall we do?
Jack. Nothing!
Algernon. It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don’t mind hard work where there is no
definite object of any kind.
[Enter Lane.]
Lane. Miss Fairfax.
[Enter Gwendolen. Lane goes out.]
Algernon. Gwendolen, upon my word!
Gwendolen. Algy, kindly turn your back. I have something very particular to say to Mr. Worthing.
Algernon. Really, Gwendolen, I don’t think I can allow this at all.
Gwendolen. Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards life. You are not quite old
enough to do that. [Algernon retires to the fireplace.]
Jack. My own darling!
Gwendolen. Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on mamma’s face I fear we never
shall. Few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their children say to them. The old-fashioned
respect for the young is fast dying out. Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, I lost at the age of
three. But although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and I may marry some one else,
and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.
Jack. Dear Gwendolen!
Gwendolen. The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma, with unpleasing comments,
has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature. Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination.
The simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to me. Your town address at
the Albany I have. What is your address in the country?
Jack. The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.
[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff.
Then picks up the Railway Guide.]
Gwendolen. There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be necessary to do something desperate.
That of course will require serious consideration. I will communicate with you daily.
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Jack. My own one!
Gwendolen. How long do you remain in town?
Jack. Till Monday.
Gwendolen. Good! Algy, you may turn round now.
Algernon. Thanks, I’ve turned round already.
Gwendolen. You may also ring the bell.
Jack. You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?
Gwendolen. Certainly.
Jack. [To Lane, who now enters.] I will see Miss Fairfax out.
Lane. Yes, sir. [Jack and Gwendolen go off.]
[Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon. It is to be surmised that they are bills, as
Algernon, after looking at the envelopes, tears them up.]
Algernon. A glass of sherry, Lane.
Lane. Yes, sir.
Algernon. To-morrow, Lane, I’m going Bunburying.
Lane. Yes, sir.
Algernon. I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my dress clothes, my smoking
jacket, and all the Bunbury suits . . .
Lane. Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.]
Algernon. I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Lane.
Lane. It never is, sir.
Algernon. Lane, you’re a perfect pessimist.
Lane. I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.
[Enter Jack. Lane goes off.]
Jack. There’s a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever cared for in my life. [Algernon is laughing
immoderately.] What on earth are you so amused at?
Algernon. Oh, I’m a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all.
Jack. If you don’t take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into a serious scrape some day.
Algernon. I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never serious.
Jack. Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but nonsense.
Algernon. Nobody ever does.
[Jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. Algernon lights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and
smiles.]
ACT DROP
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“A Modest Proposal”
By Jonathan Swift
IT IS A MELANCHOLY OBJECT to those who walk through this great town or travel in the country, when
they see the streets, the roads, and cabin doors, crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by
three, four, or six children, all in rags and importuning every passenger for an alms. These mothers,
instead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in strolling
to beg sustenance for their helpless infants, who, as they grow up, either turn thieves for want of work,
or leave their dear native country to fight for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the
Barbadoes.
I think it is agreed by all parties that this prodigious number of children in the arms, or on the backs, or
at the heels of their mothers, and frequently of their fathers, is in the present deplorable state of the
kingdom a very great additional grievance; and therefore whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and easy
method of making these children sound, useful members of the commonwealth would deserve so well
of the public as to have his statue set up for a preserver of the nation.
But my intention is very far from being confined to provide only for the children of professed beggars; it
is of a much greater extent, and shall take in the whole number of infants at a certain age who are born
of parents in effect as little able to support them as those who demand our charity in the streets.
As to my own part, having turned my thoughts for many years upon this important subject, and
maturely weighed the several schemes of other projectors, I have always found them grossly mistaken
in their computation. It is true, a child just dropped from its dam may be supported by her milk for a
solar year, with little other nourishment; at most not above the value of two shillings, which the mother
may certainly get, or the value in scraps, by her lawful occupation of begging; and it is exactly at one
year old that I propose to provide for them in such a manner as instead of being a charge upon their
parents or the parish, or wanting food and raiment for the rest of their lives, they shall on the contrary
contribute to the feeding, and partly to the clothing, of many thousands.
There is likewise another great advantage in my scheme, that it will prevent those voluntary abortions,
and that horrid practice of women murdering their bastard children, alas, too frequent among us,
sacrificing the poor innocent babes, I doubt, more to avoid the expense than the shame, which would
move tears and pity in the most savage and inhuman breast.
The number of souls in this kingdom* being usually reckoned one million and a half, of these I calculate
there may be about two hundred thousand couple whose wives are breeders; from which number I
subtract thirty thousand couples who are able to maintain their own children, although I apprehend
there cannot be so many under th present distress of the kingdom; but this being granted, thre will
remain an hundred seventy thousand breeders. I again subtract fifty thousand for those women who
miscarry, or whose children die by accident or disease within the year. There only remain an hundred
and twenty thousand children of poor parents annually born. The question therefore is, how this
nubmer shall be reared and provided for, which, as I have already said, under the present situation of
affairs, is utterly impossible by all the methods hitherto proposed. For we can neither employ them in
handicraft or agriculture; we neither build houses (I mean in the country) nor cultivate land. They can
very seldom pick up a livelihood by stealing till they arrive at six years old, except where they are of
towardly parts; although I confess they learn the rudiments much earlier, during which time they can
however be looked upon only as probationers, as I have been informed by a principal gentleman
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in the county of Cavan, who protested to me that he never knew above one or two instances under the
age of six, even in a part of the kingdom so renowned for the quickest proficiency in that art.
I am assured by our merchants that a boy or a girl before twelve years old is no salable commodity; and
even when they come to this age they will not yield above three pounds, or three pounds and half a
crown at most on the Exchange; which cannot turn to account either to the parents or the kingdom, the
charge of nutriment and rags having been at least four times that value.
I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least
objection.
I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy
child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed,
roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout*.
I do therefore humbly offer it to public consideration that of the hundred and twenty thousand children,
already computed, twenty thousand may be reserved for breed, whereof only one fourth part to be
males, which is more than we allow to sheep, black cattle, or swine; and my reason is that these children
are seldom the fuits of marriage, a circumstance not much reagarded by our savages, therefore one
male will be sufficient to serve four females. That the remaining hundred thousand may at a year old be
offered in sale to the persons of quality and fortune through the kingdom, always advising the mother to
let them suck plentifully in the last month, so as to render them plump and fat for a good table. A child
will make two dishes at an entertainment for friends; and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind
quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt will be very good boilded
on the fourth day, especially in winter.
I have reckoned upon a medium that a child just born will weigh twelve pounds, and a solar year if
tolerably nursed increaseth to twenty-eight pounds.
I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have
already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children.
Infant’s flesh will be in season throughout the year, but more plentiful in March, and a little before and
after. For we are told by a grave author, an eminent French physician [François Rabelais], that fish being
a prolific diet, there are more children born in Roman Catholic countries about nine months after Lent
than at any other season; therefore, reckoning a year after Lent, the markets will be more glutted than
usual, because the number of popish infants is at least three to one in this kingdom; and therefore it will
have one other collateral advantage, by lessening the number of Papists among us.
I have already computed the charge of nursing a beggar’s child (in which list I reckon all cottagers,
laborers, and four fifths of the farmers) to be about two shillings per annum, rags included; and I believe
no gentleman would repine to give ten shillings for the carcass of a good fat child, which, as I have said,
will make four dishes of excellent nutritive meat, when he hath only some particular friend or his own
family to dine with him. Thus the squire will learn to be a good landlord, and grow popular among the
tenants; the mother will have eight shillings net profit, and be fit for work till she produces another
child.
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Those who are more thrifty (as I must confess the times require) may flay the carcass; the skin of which
artificially dressed* will make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer boots for fine gentlemen.
As to our city of Dublin, shanbles** may be appointed for this purpose in the most convenient parts of
it, and butchers we may be assured will not be wanting; although I rather recommend buying the
children alive, and dressing them hot from the knife as we do roasting pigs.
A very worthy person, a true lover of his courntry, and whose virtues I highly esteem, was lately pleased
in discoursing on this matter to offer a refinement upon my scheme. He said that many gentlemen of
this kingdom, having of late destroyed their deer, he conceived that the want of venison might be well
supplied by the bodies of young lads and maidens, not exceeding fourteen years of age nor under
twelve, so great a number of both sexes in every county being now ready to starve for want of work and
service; and these to be disposed of by their parents, if alive, or otherwise by their nearest relations. But
with due deference to so excellent a friend and so deserving a patriot, I cannot be altogether in his
sentiments; for as to the males, my American acquainteance assured me from frequent experience
that their flesh was generally tough and lean, like that of our schoolboys, by continiual exercise, and
their taste disagreeable; and to fatten them would not answer the charge. Then as to the females, it
would, I think with humble submission, be a loss to the public, because they soon would become
breeders themselves: and besides, it is not improbable that some scrupulous people might be apt to
censure such a practice (although indeed very unjustly) as a little bordering upon cruelty; which, I
confess, hath always been with me the strongest objection against any project, how well soever
intended.
But in order to justify my friend, he confessed that this expedient was put into his head by the famous
Psalmanazar*, a native of the island Formosa, who cme from thence to London above twenty years ago,
and in conversation told my friend that in his country when any young person happened to be put to
death, the executioner sold the carcass to persons of quality as a prime dainty; and that in his time the
body of a plump girl of fifteen, who was crucified for an attempt to poison the emperor, was sold to his
Imperial Majesty’s prime minister of state, and other great mandarins of the court, in joints from the
gibbet, at four hundred crowns. Neither indeed can I deny tht if the same use were made of several
plump young girls in this town, who without a chair, and appear at the playhouse and assemblies in
foreign fineries which they never will pay for, the kingdom would not be worse.
Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern about that vast number of poor people who
are aged, diseased, or maimed, and I have been desired to employ my thoughts what course may be
taken to ease the nation of so grievous an encumbrance. But I am not in the least pain upon that matter,
because it is very well known tht they are every day dying and rotting by cold and famine, and filth and
vermin, as fast as can be reasonably expected. And as to the younger laborers, they are now in almost as
hopeful a condition. They cannot get work, and consequently pine away for want of nourishment to a
degree that if at any time they are accidentlally hired to common labor, they have not strength to
perform it; and thus the country and themselves are happily delivered fromt he evils to come.
I have too long digressed, and therefore shall return to my subject. I think the advantages by the
proposal which I have made are obvious and many, as well as of the highest importance.
For first, as I have already observed, it would greatly lessen the number of Papists, with whom we are
yearly overrun, being the principal breeders of the nation as well as our most dangerous enemies; and
who stay at home on purpose to deliver the kingdom to the Pretender*, hoping to take their advantage
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by the absence of so many good Protestants, who have chosen rather to leave their country than stay at
home and pay tithes against their conscience to an Episcopal curate.
Secondly, the poorer tenants will have something valuable of their own, which by law may be made
liable to distress [legal action taken by seizing property for debts], and help to pay their landlord’s rent,
their corn and cattle being already seized and money a thing unknown.
Thirdly, whereas the maintenance of an hundred thousand children, from two years old and upwards,
cannot be computed at less than ten shillings a piece per annum, the nation’s stock will be thereby
increased fifty thousand pounds per annum, besides the profit of a new dish introduced to the tables of
all gentlemen of fortune in the kingdom who have any refinement in taste. And the money will circulate
among ourselves, the goods being entirely of our own growth and manufacture.
Fourthly, the constant breeders, besides the gain of eight shillings sterling per annum by the sale of their
children, will be rid of the charge of maintaining them after the first year.
Fifthly, this food would likewise bring great custom to taverns, where the vintners will certainly be so
prudent as to procure the best receipts for dressing it to perfection, and consequently have their houses
frequented by all the fine gentlemen, who justly value themselves upon their knowledge in good eating;
and a skillful cook, who understands how to oblige his guests, will contrive to make it as expensive as
they please.
Sixthly, this would be a great inducement to marriage, which all wise nations have either encouraged by
rewards or enforced by laws and penalties. It would increase the care and tenderness of mothers
toward their children, when they were sure of a settlement for life to the poor babes, provided in some
sort by thepublic, to their annual profit instead of expense. We should see an honest emulation among
the married women, which of them could bring the fattest child to the market. Men would become as
fond of their wives during the time of their pregnancy as they are now of their mares in foal, their cows
in calf, or sows when they are ready to farrow; nor offer to beat or kick them (as is too frequent a
practice) for fear of a miscarriage.
Many other advantages might be enumerated. For instance, the addition of some thousand carcasses in
our exportation of barreled beef, the propagation of swine’s flesh, and improvement in the art of
making good bacon, so much wanted among us by the great destruction of pigs, too frequent at our
tables, which are no way comparable in taste or magnificence to a well-grown, fat, yearling child, which
roasted whole will make a considerable figure at a lord mayor’s feast or any other public entertainment.
But this and many others I omit, being studious of brevity.
Supposing that one thousand families in this city would be constant customers for infants’ flesh, besides
others who might have it at merry meetings, particularly weddings and christenings, I compute that
Dublin would take off annually about twenty thousand carcasses, and the rest of the kingdom (where
probably they will be sold somewhat cheaper) the remaining eighty thousand.
I can think of no one objection that will possibly be raised against this proposal, unless it should be
urged that the number of people will be thereby much lessened in the kingdom. This I freely own, and it
was indeed one principal design in offering it to the world. I desire the reader will observe, that I
calculate my remedy for this one individual kingdom of Ireland and for no other that ever was, is, or I
think ever can be upon earth. Therefore let no man talk to me of other expedients: of taxing our
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absentees at five shillings a pound: of using neither clothes nor household furniture except what is of
our own growth and manufacture: of utterly rejecting the materials and instruments that promote
foreign luxury: of curing the expensiveness of pride, vanity, idleness, and gaming in our women: of
introducing a vein of parsimony, prudence, and temperance: of learning to love our country, in the want
of which we differ even from Laplanders and the inhabitants of Topinamboo: of quitting our animosities
and factions, nor acting any longer like the Jews, who were murdering one another at the very moment
their city was taken*: of being a little cautious not to sell our country and conscience for nothing: of
teaching landlords to have at least one degree of mercy toward their teneants: lastly, of putting a spirit
of honesty, industry, and skill into our shopkeepers; who, if a resolution could now be taken to buy only
our native goods, would immediately unite to cheat and exact upon us in the price, the neasure, and the
goodness, nor could ever yet be brought to make one fair proposal of just dealing, though often and
ernestly invited to it.**
Therefore I repeat, let no man talk to me of these and the like expedients, till he hath at least some
glimpse of hope that there will ever be some hearty and sincere attempt to put them in practice.
But as to myself, having been wearied out for many years with offering vain, idle, visionary thoughts,
and at legnth utterly despairing of success, I fortunately fell upon this proposal, which, as it is wholly
new, so it hath something solid and real, of no expense and little trouble, full in our own power, and
whereby we can incur no danger in disobliging England. For this kind of commodity will not bear
exportation, the flesh being of too tender a consistence in salt, although perhaps I could name a country
which would be glad to eat up our whole nation without it.
After all, i am not so violently bent upon my own opinion as to reject any offer proposed by wise men,
which shall be found equally innocent, cheap, easy, and effectual. But before somehting of that kind
shall be advanced in contradiction to my scheme, and offering a better, I desire the author or authors
will be pleased maturely to consider two points. First, as things now stand, how they will be able to find
food and raiment for an hundred thousand useless mouths and backs. And secondly, there being a
round million of creatures in human figure throughout this kingdom, whose sole subsistence put into a
common stock would leave them in debt two millions of pounds sterling, adding those who are beggars
by profession to the bulk of farmers, cottagers, and laborers, with their wives and children who are
beggars in effect; I desire those politicians who dislike my overture, and may perhaps be so bold to
attempt an answer, that they will first ask the parents of these mortals whether they would not at this
day think it a great happiness to have been sold for food at a year old in the manner I prescribe, and
thereby have avoided such a perpetual scene of misfortunes as they have since gone through by the
oppression of landlords, the common sustenance, with neither house nor clothes to cover them from
the inclemencies of the weather, and the most inevitable prospect of entailing the like or greater
miseries upon their breed forever.
I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least personal interest in endeavoring to
promote this necessary work, having no other motive than the public good of my country, by giving
some pleasure to the rich. I have no children by which I can propose to get a single penny; the youngest
being nine years old, and my wife past childbearing.
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Animal Farm: Chapter 2
By George Orwell
Three nights later old Major died peacefully in his sleep. His body was buried at the foot of the orchard.
This was early in March. During the next three months there was much secret activity. Major’s speech
had given to the more intelligent animals on the farm a completely new outlook on life. They did not
know when the Rebellion predicted by Major would take place, they had no reason for thinking that it
would be within their own lifetime, but they saw clearly that it was their duty to prepare for it. The work
of teaching and organising the others fell naturally upon the pigs, who were generally recognised as
being the cleverest of the animals. Pre-eminent among the pigs were two young boars named Snowball
and Napoleon, whom Mr. Jones was breeding up for sale. Napoleon was a large, rather fierce-looking
Berkshire boar, the only Berkshire on the farm, not much of a talker, but with a reputation for getting his
own way. Snowball was a more vivacious pig than Napoleon, quicker in speech and more inventive, but
was not considered to have the same depth of character. All the other male pigs on the farm were
porkers. The best known among them was a small fat pig named Squealer, with very round cheeks,
twinkling eyes, nimble movements, and a shrill voice. He was a brilliant talker, and when he was arguing
some difficult point he had a way of skipping from side to side and whisking his tail which was somehow
very persuasive. The others said of Squealer that he could turn black into white.
These three had elaborated old Major’s teachings into a complete system of thought, to which they
gave the name of Animalism. Several nights a week, after Mr. Jones was asleep, they held secret
meetings in the barn and expounded the principles of Animalism to the others. At the beginning they
met with much stupidity and apathy. Some of the animals talked of the duty of loyalty to Mr. Jones,
whom they referred to as “Master,” or made elementary remarks such as “Mr. Jones feeds us. If he
were gone, we should starve to death.” Others asked such questions as “Why should we care what
happens after we are dead?” or “If this Rebellion is to happen anyway, what difference does it make
whether we work for it or not?”, and the pigs had great difficulty in making them see that this was
contrary to the spirit of Animalism. The stupidest questions of all were asked by Mollie, the white mare.
The very first question she asked Snowball was: “Will there still be sugar after the Rebellion?”
“No,” said Snowball firmly. “We have no means of making sugar on this farm. Besides, you do not need
sugar. You will have all the oats and hay you want.”
“And shall I still be allowed to wear ribbons in my mane?” asked Mollie.
“Comrade,” said Snowball, “those ribbons that you are so devoted to are the badge of slavery. Can you
not understand that liberty is worth more than ribbons?”
Mollie agreed, but she did not sound very convinced.
The pigs had an even harder struggle to counteract the lies put about by Moses, the tame raven. Moses,
who was Mr. Jones’s especial pet, was a spy and a tale-bearer, but he was also a clever talker. He
claimed to know of the existence of a mysterious country called Sugarcandy Mountain, to which all
animals went when they died. It was situated somewhere up in the sky, a little distance beyond the
clouds, Moses said. In Sugarcandy Mountain it was Sunday seven days a week, clover was in season all
the year round, and lump sugar and linseed cake grew on the hedges. The animals hated Moses because
he told tales and did no work, but some of them believed in Sugarcandy Mountain, and the pigs had to
argue very hard to persuade them that there was no such place.
Their most faithful disciples were the two cart-horses, Boxer and Clover. These two had great difficulty
in thinking anything out for themselves, but having once accepted the pigs as their teachers, they
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absorbed everything that they were told, and passed it on to the other animals by simple arguments.
They were unfailing in their attendance at the secret meetings in the barn, and led the singing of ‘Beasts
of England’, with which the meetings always ended.
Now, as it turned out, the Rebellion was achieved much earlier and more easily than anyone had
expected. In past years Mr. Jones, although a hard master, had been a capable farmer, but of late he
had fallen on evil days. He had become much disheartened after losing money in a lawsuit, and had
taken to drinking more than was good for him. For whole days at a time he would lounge in his Windsor
chair in the kitchen, reading the newspapers, drinking, and occasionally feeding Moses on crusts of
bread soaked in beer. His men were idle and dishonest, the fields were full of weeds, the buildings
wanted roofing, the hedges were neglected, and the animals were underfed.
June came and the hay was almost ready for cutting. On Midsummer’s Eve, which was a Saturday, Mr.
Jones went into Willingdon and got so drunk at the Red Lion that he did not come back till midday on
Sunday. The men had milked the cows in the early morning and then had gone out rabbiting, without
bothering to feed the animals. When Mr. Jones got back he immediately went to sleep on the drawingroom sofa with the News of the World over his face, so that when evening came, the animals were still
unfed. At last they could stand it no longer. One of the cows broke in the door of the store-shed with her
horn and all the animals began to help themselves from the bins. It was just then that Mr. Jones woke
up. The next moment he and his four men were in the store-shed with whips in their hands, lashing out
in all directions. This was more than the hungry animals could bear. With one accord, though nothing of
the kind had been planned beforehand, they flung themselves upon their tormentors. Jones and his men
suddenly found themselves being butted and kicked from all sides. The situation was quite out of their
control. They had never seen animals behave like this before, and this sudden uprising of creatures
whom they were used to thrashing and maltreating just as they chose, frightened them almost out of
their wits. After only a moment or two they gave up trying to defend themselves and took to their heels.
A minute later all five of them were in full flight down the cart-track that led to the main road, with the
animals pursuing them in triumph.
Mrs. Jones looked out of the bedroom window, saw what was happening, hurriedly flung a few
possessions into a carpet bag, and slipped out of the farm by another way. Moses sprang off his perch
and flapped after her, croaking loudly. Meanwhile the animals had chased Jones and his men out on to
the road and slammed the five-barred gate behind them. And so, almost before they knew what was
happening, the Rebellion had been successfully carried through: Jones was expelled, and the Manor
Farm was theirs.
For the first few minutes the animals could hardly believe in their good fortune. Their first act was to
gallop in a body right round the boundaries of the farm, as though to make quite sure that no human
being was hiding anywhere upon it; then they raced back to the farm buildings to wipe out the last
traces of Jones’s hated reign. The harness-room at the end of the stables was broken open; the bits, the
nose-rings, the dog-chains, the cruel knives with which Mr. Jones had been used to castrate the pigs and
lambs, were all flung down the well. The reins, the halters, the blinkers, the degrading nosebags, were
thrown on to the rubbish fire which was burning in the yard. So were the whips. All the animals capered
with joy when they saw the whips going up in flames. Snowball also threw on to the fire the ribbons
with which the horses’ manes and tails had usually been decorated on market days.
“Ribbons,” he said, “should be considered as clothes, which are the mark of a human being. All animals
should go naked.”
When Boxer heard this he fetched the small straw hat which he wore in summer to keep the flies out of
his ears, and flung it on to the fire with the rest.
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In a very little while the animals had destroyed everything that reminded them of Mr. Jones. Napoleon
then led them back to the store-shed and served out a double ration of corn to everybody, with two
biscuits for each dog. Then they sang ‘Beasts of England’ from end to end seven times running, and after
that they settled down for the night and slept as they had never slept before.
But they woke at dawn as usual, and suddenly remembering the glorious thing that had happened, they
all raced out into the pasture together. A little way down the pasture there was a knoll that commanded
a view of most of the farm. The animals rushed to the top of it and gazed round them in the clear
morning light. Yes, it was theirs — everything that they could see was theirs! In the ecstasy of that
thought they gambolled round and round, they hurled themselves into the air in great leaps of
excitement. They rolled in the dew, they cropped mouthfuls of the sweet summer grass, they kicked up
clods of the black earth and snuffed its rich scent. Then they made a tour of inspection of the whole
farm and surveyed with speechless admiration the ploughland, the hayfield, the orchard, the pool, the
spinney. It was as though they had never seen these things before, and even now they could hardly
believe that it was all their own.
Then they filed back to the farm buildings and halted in silence outside the door of the farmhouse. That
was theirs too, but they were frightened to go inside. After a moment, however, Snowball and Napoleon
butted the door open with their shoulders and the animals entered in single file, walking with the
utmost care for fear of disturbing anything. They tiptoed from room to room, afraid to speak above a
whisper and gazing with a kind of awe at the unbelievable luxury, at the beds with their feather
mattresses, the looking-glasses, the horsehair sofa, the Brussels carpet, the lithograph of Queen Victoria
over the drawing-room mantelpiece. They were lust coming down the stairs when Mollie was
discovered to be missing. Going back, the others found that she had remained behind in the best
bedroom. She had taken a piece of blue ribbon from Mrs. Jones’s dressing-table, and was holding it
against her shoulder and admiring herself in the glass in a very foolish manner. The others reproached
her sharply, and they went outside. Some hams hanging in the kitchen were taken out for burial, and the
barrel of beer in the scullery was stove in with a kick from Boxer’s hoof, otherwise nothing in the house
was touched. A unanimous resolution was passed on the spot that the farmhouse should be preserved
as a museum. All were agreed that no animal must ever live there.
The animals had their breakfast, and then Snowball and Napoleon called them together again.
“Comrades,” said Snowball, “it is half-past six and we have a long day before us. Today we begin the hay
harvest. But there is another matter that must be attended to first.”
The pigs now revealed that during the past three months they had taught themselves to read and write
from an old spelling book which had belonged to Mr. Jones’s children and which had been thrown on
the rubbish heap. Napoleon sent for pots of black and white paint and led the way down to the fivebarred gate that gave on to the main road. Then Snowball (for it was Snowball who was best at writing)
took a brush between the two knuckles of his trotter, painted out MANOR FARM from the top bar of the
gate and in its place painted ANIMAL FARM. This was to be the name of the farm from now onwards.
After this they went back to the farm buildings, where Snowball and Napoleon sent for a ladder which
they caused to be set against the end wall of the big barn. They explained that by their studies of the
past three months the pigs had succeeded in reducing the principles of Animalism to Seven
Commandments. These Seven Commandments would now be inscribed on the wall; they would form an
unalterable law by which all the animals on Animal Farm must live for ever after. With some difficulty
(for it is not easy for a pig to balance himself on a ladder) Snowball climbed up and set to work, with
Squealer a few rungs below him holding the paint-pot. The Commandments were written on the tarred
wall in great white letters that could be read thirty yards away. They ran thus:
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THE SEVEN COMMANDMENTS
1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy.
2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend.
3. No animal shall wear clothes.
4. No animal shall sleep in a bed.
5. No animal shall drink alcohol.
6. No animal shall kill any other animal.
7. All animals are equal.
It was very neatly written, and except that “friend” was written “freind” and one of the “S’s” was the
wrong way round, the spelling was correct all the way through. Snowball read it aloud for the benefit of
the others. All the animals nodded in complete agreement, and the cleverer ones at once began to learn
the Commandments by heart.
“Now, comrades,” cried Snowball, throwing down the paint-brush, “to the hayfield! Let us make it a
point of honour to get in the harvest more quickly than Jones and his men could do.”
But at this moment the three cows, who had seemed uneasy for some time past, set up a loud lowing.
They had not been milked for twenty-four hours, and their udders were almost bursting. After a little
thought, the pigs sent for buckets and milked the cows fairly successfully, their trotters being well
adapted to this task. Soon there were five buckets of frothing creamy milk at which many of the animals
looked with considerable interest.
“What is going to happen to all that milk?” said someone.
“Jones used sometimes to mix some of it in our mash,” said one of the hens.
“Never mind the milk, comrades!” cried Napoleon, placing himself in front of the buckets. “That will be
attended to. The harvest is more important. Comrade Snowball will lead the way. I shall follow in a few
minutes. Forward, comrades! The hay is waiting.”
So the animals trooped down to the hayfield to begin the harvest, and when they came back in the
evening it was noticed that the milk had disappeared.
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“Modern Satire Loses Its Bite”
By Nicholas Swisher
By the end of his short life, Lenny Bruce’s stage show was the stuff of legend. Equal parts obscene,
profound and rebellious, the comedian’s groundbreaking act entertained thousands of fans while
concurrently piquing the interest of the FBI. In the years leading up to Bruce’s death in 1966, the FBI
accrued a hefty criminal file detailing the comedian’s many charges of public obscenity.
Are pioneering satirists like Lenny Bruce still viable in 2005? Is anything shocking to Americans anymore?
Are there any more boundaries for satirists to push?
If we consider recent history, such boundaries do still exist. Wal-Mart recently banned the New York
Times bestseller “America,” written by Jon Stewart and the writers of Comedy Central’s The Daily Show,
citing the book’s “pornographic imagery.” ABC rushed to make a public apology for a scandalous
opening segment to Monday Night Football featuring a near-naked Nicollette Sheridan jumping into the
arms of Eagles wide receiver Terrell Owens. And certainly we still feel the effects of Janet Jackson’s
“Nipple-gate.” Intolerance for the taboo continues to thrive.
Americans still find some things patently offensive – and their sensibilities seem decidedly sillier than
they did in the 60s. Why, then, has no one stepped up to take the throne of Lenny Bruce? Why are no
satirists ruffling feathers and warranting FBI files? Why is modern satire so toothless that it barely has
any effect on the status quo?
In the early 1960s, Mad Magazine was growing fast in popularity among teenagers. The underground
magazine circulated high schools, being read as an adolescent rite of passage. Despite Mad’s popularity,
publisher William Gaines rejected all advertising proposals for his satire magazine. He wanted to avoid a
conflict of interest if he ever felt the urge to poke fun at one of his potential advertisers.
However, Gaines’ death in 1992 heralded a decade of declining sales until, in 2001, Mad finally accepted
advertisements. For the first time in its 50-year run, Mad has glossy, colorful, ad-filled pages instead of
their standard pulpy black-and-white. It now lacks the intelligent satirical edge it once possessed, opting
instead for uninspired gross-out humor in 150-color DPI.
Today, advertisements for T-Mobile, AOL and Toyota line the website of The Onion, the popular New
York-based satiric newspaper. By accepting ads, The Onion inherently minimizes its ability to effectively
satirize. Could they lampoon those companies without losing ad revenue?
Corporate advertising is not the only thing legitimating satire these days. A trend of politicians profiting
from satire’s popularity is also emerging. For much of the past five years, “The Daily Show with Jon
Stewart” has stood as an example of successful, intelligent satire. Nightly, Jon Stewart sat behind his
desk and wryly criticized political hypocrisy and media bias. Comedy Central gave the writers nearcomplete creative control.
In the past two years, however, a troublesome trend has arisen. Beginning with Sen. John Edwards
announcing his Presidential candidacy on The Daily Show, Stewart’s guests are now comprised primarily
of political bigwigs. In the last six months, Stewart has interviewed Sen. John Kerry, Sen. John McCain,
former President Bill Clinton, former Secretary of State Madeline Albright, Republican National
Committee Chairman Ed Gillespie and White House Communications Director Dan Bartlett. Politicians
are itching to show that “they’re in on the joke.”
As with Mad Magazine, “The Daily Show” writers now face a conflict of interest. On one hand,
prominent political guests bring higher ratings, more ad revenue, and higher sales rates for their book,
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the aforementioned “America.” On the other, how can Stewart effectively skewer a politician sitting on
the couch adjacent to him during an interview?
During a recent appearance on CNN’s “Crossfire,” host Tucker Carlson attacked Stewart for softquestioning Senator Kerry during the candidate’s Daily Show interview. “Why not ask him a real
question, instead of just suck up to him?” asked the bow-tied Republican pundit Carlson. He concluded
by referring to Stewart as Kerry’s “butt-boy.” While I lack a critique as tasteful and professional as
Carlson’s, he has a point. By hosting such prominent guests, “The Daily Show”‘s ability to satirize is
highly diminished. Though his show is billed as “Fake News,” Jon Stewart now has the responsibility of a
network anchor.
Once considered acceptable only on the fringes of society, modern satire has become completely
legitimate and mainstream. For satire, legitimacy is the kiss of death.
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“Why I Blog”
By Andrew Sullivan
THE WORD blog is a conflation of two words: Web and log. It contains in its four letters a concise and
accurate self-description: it is a log of thoughts and writing posted publicly on the World Wide Web. In
the monosyllabic vernacular of the Internet, Web log soon became the word blog.
This form of instant and global self-publishing, made possible by technology widely available only for the
past decade or so, allows for no retroactive editing (apart from fixing minor typos or small glitches) and
removes from the act of writing any considered or lengthy review. It is the spontaneous expression of
instant thought—impermanent beyond even the ephemera of daily journalism. It is accountable in
immediate and unavoidable ways to readers and other bloggers, and linked via hypertext to
continuously multiplying references and sources. Unlike any single piece of print journalism, its borders
are extremely porous and its truth inherently transitory. The consequences of this for the act of writing
are still sinking in.
A ship’s log owes its name to a small wooden board, often weighted with lead, that was for centuries
attached to a line and thrown over the stern. The weight of the log would keep it in the same place in
the water, like a provisional anchor, while the ship moved away. By measuring the length of line used up
in a set period of time, mariners could calculate the speed of their journey (the rope itself was marked
by equidistant “knots” for easy measurement). As a ship’s voyage progressed, the course came to be
marked down in a book that was called a log.
In journeys at sea that took place before radio or radar or satellites or sonar, these logs were an
indispensable source for recording what actually happened. They helped navigators surmise where they
were and how far they had traveled and how much longer they had to stay at sea. They provided
accountability to a ship’s owners and traders. They were designed to be as immune to faking as possible.
Away from land, there was usually no reliable corroboration of events apart from the crew’s own
account in the middle of an expanse of blue and gray and green; and in long journeys, memories always
blur and facts disperse. A log provided as accurate an account as could be gleaned in real time.
As you read a log, you have the curious sense of moving backward in time as you move forward in
pages—the opposite of a book. As you piece together a narrative that was never intended as one, it
seems—and is—more truthful. Logs, in this sense, were a form of human self-correction. They amended
for hindsight, for the ways in which human beings order and tidy and construct the story of their lives as
they look back on them. Logs require a letting-go of narrative because they do not allow for a
knowledge of the ending. So they have plot as well as dramatic irony—the reader will know the ending
before the writer did.
Anyone who has blogged his thoughts for an extended time will recognize this world. We bloggers have
scant opportunity to collect our thoughts, to wait until events have settled and a clear pattern emerges.
We blog now—as news reaches us, as facts emerge. This is partly true for all journalism, which is, as its
etymology suggests, daily writing, always subject to subsequent revision. And a good columnist will
adjust position and judgment and even political loyalty over time, depending on events. But a blog is not
so much daily writing as hourly writing. And with that level of timeliness, the provisionality of every
word is even more pressing—and the risk of error or the thrill of prescience that much greater.
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No columnist or reporter or novelist will have his minute shifts or constant small contradictions exposed
as mercilessly as a blogger’s are. A columnist can ignore or duck a subject less noticeably than a blogger
committing thoughts to pixels several times a day. A reporter can wait—must wait—until every source
has confirmed. A novelist can spend months or years before committing words to the world. For
bloggers, the deadline is always now. Blogging is therefore to writing what extreme sports are to
athletics: more free-form, more accident-prone, less formal, more alive. It is, in many ways, writing out
loud.
You end up writing about yourself, since you are a relatively fixed point in this constant interaction with
the ideas and facts of the exterior world. And in this sense, the historic form closest to blogs is the diary.
But with this difference: a diary is almost always a private matter. Its raw honesty, its dedication to
marking life as it happens and remembering life as it was, makes it a terrestrial log. A few diaries are
meant to be read by others, of course, just as correspondence could be—but usually posthumously, or
as a way to compile facts for a more considered autobiographical rendering. But a blog, unlike a diary, is
instantly public. It transforms this most personal and retrospective of forms into a painfully public and
immediate one. It combines the confessional genre with the log form and exposes the author in a
manner no author has ever been exposed before.
I remember first grappling with what to put on my blog. It was the spring of 2000 and, like many a
freelance writer at the time, I had some vague notion that I needed to have a presence “online.” I had
no clear idea of what to do, but a friend who ran a Web-design company offered to create a site for me,
and, since I was technologically clueless, he also agreed to post various essays and columns as I wrote
them. Before too long, this became a chore for him, and he called me one day to say he’d found an
online platform that was so simple I could henceforth post all my writing myself. The platform was
called Blogger.
As I used it to post columns or links to books or old essays, it occurred to me that I could also post new
writing—writing that could even be exclusive to the blog. But what? Like any new form, blogging did not
start from nothing. It evolved from various journalistic traditions. In my case, I drew on my mainstreammedia experience to navigate the virgin sea. I had a few early inspirations: the old Notebook section of
The New Republic, a magazine that, under the editorial guidance of Michael Kinsley, had introduced a
more English style of crisp, short commentary into what had been a more high-minded genre of
American opinion writing. The New Republic had also pioneered a Diarist feature on the last page, which
was designed to be a more personal, essayistic, first-person form of journalism. Mixing the two genres, I
did what I had been trained to do—and improvised.
I’d previously written online as well, contributing to a listserv for gay writers and helping Kinsley initiate
a more discursive form of online writing for Slate, the first magazine published exclusively on the Web.
As soon as I began writing this way, I realized that the online form rewarded a colloquial, unfinished
tone. In one of my early Kinsley-guided experiments, he urged me not to think too hard before writing.
So I wrote as I’d write an e-mail—with only a mite more circumspection. This is hazardous, of course, as
anyone who has ever clicked Send in a fit of anger or hurt will testify. But blogging requires an embrace
of such hazards, a willingness to fall off the trapeze rather than fail to make the leap.
From the first few days of using the form, I was hooked. The simple experience of being able to directly
broadcast my own words to readers was an exhilarating literary liberation. Unlike the current generation
of writers, who have only ever blogged, I knew firsthand what the alternative meant. I’d edited a weekly
print magazine, The New Republic, for five years, and written countless columns and essays for a variety
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of traditional outlets. And in all this, I’d often chafed, as most writers do, at the endless delays, revisions,
office politics, editorial fights, and last-minute cuts for space that dead-tree publishing entails.
Blogging—even to an audience of a few hundred in the early days—was intoxicatingly free in
comparison. Like taking a narcotic.
It was obvious from the start that it was revolutionary. Every writer since the printing press has longed
for a means to publish himself and reach—instantly—any reader on Earth. Every professional writer has
paid some dues waiting for an editor’s nod, or enduring a publisher’s incompetence, or being ground to
literary dust by a legion of fact-checkers and copy editors. If you added up the time a writer once had to
spend finding an outlet, impressing editors, sucking up to proprietors, and proofreading edits, you’d find
another lifetime buried in the interstices. But with one click of the Publish Now button, all these
troubles evaporated.
Alas, as I soon discovered, this sudden freedom from above was immediately replaced by insurrection
from below. Within minutes of my posting something, even in the earliest days, readers responded. Email seemed to unleash their inner beast. They were more brutal than any editor, more persnickety than
any copy editor, and more emotionally unstable than any colleague.
Again, it’s hard to overrate how different this is. Writers can be sensitive, vain souls, requiring gentle
nurturing from editors, and oddly susceptible to the blows delivered by reviewers. They survive, for the
most part, but the thinness of their skins is legendary. Moreover, before the blogosphere, reporters and
columnists were largely shielded from this kind of direct hazing. Yes, letters to the editor would arrive in
due course and subscriptions would be canceled. But reporters and columnists tended to operate in a
relative sanctuary, answerable mainly to their editors, not readers. For a long time, columns were
essentially monologues published to applause, muffled murmurs, silence, or a distant heckle. I’d gotten
blowback from pieces before—but in an amorphous, time-delayed, distant way. Now the feedback was
instant, personal, and brutal.
And so blogging found its own answer to the defensive counterblast from the journalistic establishment.
To the charges of inaccuracy and unprofessionalism, bloggers could point to the fierce, immediate
scrutiny of their readers. Unlike newspapers, which would eventually publish corrections in a box of
printed spinach far from the original error, bloggers had to walk the walk of self-correction in the same
space and in the same format as the original screwup. The form was more accountable, not less,
because there is nothing more conducive to professionalism than being publicly humiliated for
sloppiness. Of course, a blogger could ignore an error or simply refuse to acknowledge mistakes. But if
he persisted, he would be razzed by competitors and assailed by commenters and abandoned by
readers. In an era when the traditional media found itself beset by scandals as disparate as Stephen
Glass, Jayson Blair, and Dan Rather, bloggers survived the first assault on their worth. In time, in fact, the
high standards expected of well-trafficked bloggers spilled over into greater accountability,
transparency, and punctiliousness among the media powers that were. Even New York Times columnists
were forced to admit when they had been wrong.
The blog remained a superficial medium, of course. By superficial, I mean simply that blogging rewards
brevity and immediacy. No one wants to read a 9,000-word treatise online. On the Web, one-sentence
links are as legitimate as thousand-word diatribes—in fact, they are often valued more. And, as Matt
Drudge told me when I sought advice from the master in 2001, the key to understanding a blog is to
realize that it’s a broadcast, not a publication. If it stops moving, it dies. If it stops paddling, it sinks.
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But the superficiality masked considerable depth—greater depth, from one perspective, than the
traditional media could offer. The reason was a single technological innovation: the hyperlink. An oldschool columnist can write 800 brilliant words analyzing or commenting on, say, a new think-tank report
or scientific survey. But in reading it on paper, you have to take the columnist’s presentation of the
material on faith, or be convinced by a brief quotation (which can always be misleading out of context).
Online, a hyperlink to the original source transforms the experience. Yes, a few sentences of bloggy spin
may not be as satisfying as a full column, but the ability to read the primary material instantly—in as
careful or shallow a fashion as you choose—can add much greater context than anything on paper. Even
a blogger’s chosen pull quote, unlike a columnist’s, can be effortlessly checked against the original. Now
this innovation, pre-dating blogs but popularized by them, is increasingly central to mainstream
journalism.
A blog, therefore, bobs on the surface of the ocean but has its anchorage in waters deeper than those
print media is technologically able to exploit. It disempowers the writer to that extent, of course. The
blogger can get away with less and afford fewer pretensions of authority. He is—more than any writer
of the past—a node among other nodes, connected but unfinished without the links and the comments
and the track-backs that make the blogosphere, at its best, a conversation, rather than a production.
A writer fully aware of and at ease with the provisionality of his own work is nothing new. For centuries,
writers have experimented with forms that suggest the imperfection of human thought, the inconstancy
of human affairs, and the humbling, chastening passage of time. If you compare the meandering,
questioning, unresolved dialogues of Plato with the definitive, logical treatises of Aristotle, you see the
difference between a skeptic’s spirit translated into writing and a spirit that seeks to bring some finality
to the argument. Perhaps the greatest single piece of Christian apologetics, Pascal’s Pensées, is a series
of meandering, short, and incomplete stabs at arguments, observations, insights. Their lack of finish is
what makes them so compelling—arguably more compelling than a polished treatise by Aquinas.
Or take the brilliant polemics of Karl Kraus, the publisher of and main writer for Die Fackel, who
delighted in constantly twitting authority with slashing aphorisms and rapid-fire bursts of invective.
Kraus had something rare in his day: the financial wherewithal to self-publish. It gave him a fearlessness
that is now available to anyone who can afford a computer and an Internet connection.
But perhaps the quintessential blogger avant la lettre was Montaigne. His essays were published in
three major editions, each one longer and more complex than the previous. A passionate skeptic,
Montaigne amended, added to, and amplified the essays for each edition, making them threedimensional through time. In the best modern translations, each essay is annotated, sentence by
sentence, paragraph by paragraph, by small letters (A, B, and C) for each major edition, helping the
reader see how each rewrite added to or subverted, emphasized or ironized, the version before.
Montaigne was living his skepticism, daring to show how a writer evolves, changes his mind, learns new
things, shifts perspectives, grows older—and that this, far from being something that needs to be
hidden behind a veneer of unchanging authority, can become a virtue, a new way of looking at the
pretensions of authorship and text and truth. Montaigne, for good measure, also peppered his essays
with myriads of what bloggers would call external links. His own thoughts are strewn with and
complicated by the aphorisms and anecdotes of others. Scholars of the sources note that many of these
“money quotes” were deliberately taken out of context, adding layers of irony to writing that was
already saturated in empirical doubt.
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To blog is therefore to let go of your writing in a way, to hold it at arm’s length, open it to scrutiny, allow
it to float in the ether for a while, and to let others, as Montaigne did, pivot you toward relative truth. A
blogger will notice this almost immediately upon starting. Some e-mailers, unsurprisingly, know more
about a subject than the blogger does. They will send links, stories, and facts, challenging the blogger’s
view of the world, sometimes outright refuting it, but more frequently adding context and nuance and
complexity to an idea. The role of a blogger is not to defend against this but to embrace it. He is similar
in this way to the host of a dinner party. He can provoke discussion or take a position, even passionately,
but he also must create an atmosphere in which others want to participate.
That atmosphere will inevitably be formed by the blogger’s personality. The blogosphere may, in fact, be
the least veiled of any forum in which a writer dares to express himself. Even the most careful and selfaware blogger will reveal more about himself than he wants to in a few unguarded sentences and
publish them before he has the sense to hit Delete. The wise panic that can paralyze a writer—the fear
that he will be exposed, undone, humiliated—is not available to a blogger. You can’t have blogger’s
block. You have to express yourself now, while your emotions roil, while your temper flares, while your
humor lasts. You can try to hide yourself from real scrutiny, and the exposure it demands, but it’s hard.
And that’s what makes blogging as a form stand out: it is rich in personality. The faux intimacy of the
Web experience, the closeness of the e-mail and the instant message, seeps through. You feel as if you
know bloggers as they go through their lives, experience the same things you are experiencing, and
share the moment. When readers of my blog bump into me in person, they invariably address me as
Andrew. Print readers don’t do that. It’s Mr. Sullivan to them.
On my blog, my readers and I experienced 9/11 together, in real time. I can look back and see not just
how I responded to the event, but how I responded to it at 3:47 that afternoon. And at 9:46 that night.
There is a vividness to this immediacy that cannot be rivaled by print. The same goes for the 2000
recount, the Iraq War, the revelations of Abu Ghraib, the death of John Paul II, or any of the other
history-making events of the past decade. There is simply no way to write about them in real time
without revealing a huge amount about yourself. And the intimate bond this creates with readers is
unlike the bond that the The Times, say, develops with its readers through the same events. Alone in
front of a computer, at any moment, are two people: a blogger and a reader. The proximity is palpable,
the moment human—whatever authority a blogger has is derived not from the institution he works for
but from the humanness he conveys. This is writing with emotion not just under but always breaking
through the surface. It renders a writer and a reader not just connected but linked in a visceral, personal
way. The only term that really describes this is friendship. And it is a relatively new thing to write for
thousands and thousands of friends.
These friends, moreover, are an integral part of the blog itself—sources of solace, company,
provocation, hurt, and correction. If I were to do an inventory of the material that appears on my blog,
I’d estimate that a good third of it is reader-generated, and a good third of my time is spent absorbing
readers’ views, comments, and tips. Readers tell me of breaking stories, new perspectives, and
counterarguments to prevailing assumptions. And this is what blogging, in turn, does to reporting. The
traditional method involves a journalist searching for key sources, nurturing them, and sequestering
them from his rivals. A blogger splashes gamely into a subject and dares the sources to come to him.
Some of this material—e-mails from soldiers on the front lines, from scientists explaining new research,
from dissident Washington writers too scared to say what they think in their own partisan redoubts—
might never have seen the light of day before the blogosphere. And some of it, of course, is dubious
stuff. Bloggers can be spun and misled as easily as traditional writers—and the rigorous source
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assessment that good reporters do can’t be done by e-mail. But you’d be surprised by what comes
unsolicited into the in-box, and how helpful it often is.
Not all of it is mere information. Much of it is also opinion and scholarship, a knowledge base that
exceeds the research department of any newspaper. A good blog is your own private Wikipedia. Indeed,
the most pleasant surprise of blogging has been the number of people working in law or government or
academia or rearing kids at home who have real literary talent and real knowledge, and who had no
outlet—until now. There is a distinction here, of course, between the edited use of e-mailed sources by
a careful blogger and the often mercurial cacophony on an unmediated comments section. But the truth
is out there—and the miracle of e-mail allows it to come to you.
Fellow bloggers are always expanding this knowledge base. Eight years ago, the blogosphere felt like a
handful of individual cranks fighting with one another. Today, it feels like a universe of cranks, with vast,
pulsating readerships, fighting with one another. To the neophyte reader, or blogger, it can seem
overwhelming. But there is a connection between the intimacy of the early years and the industry it has
become today. And the connection is human individuality.
The pioneers of online journalism—Slate and Salon—are still very popular, and successful. But the more
memorable stars of the Internet—even within those two sites—are all personally branded. Daily Kos, for
example, is written by hundreds of bloggers, and amended by thousands of commenters. But it is named
after Markos Moulitsas, who started it, and his own prose still provides a backbone to the front-page
blog. The biggest news-aggregator site in the world, the Drudge Report, is named after its founder, Matt
Drudge, who somehow conveys a unified sensibility through his selection of links, images, and stories.
The vast, expanding universe of The Huffington Post still finds some semblance of coherence in the
Cambridge-Greek twang of Arianna; the entire world of online celebrity gossip circles the drain of Perez
Hilton; and the investigative journalism, reviewing, and commentary of Talking Points Memo is still tied
together by the tone of Josh Marshall. Even Slate is unimaginable without Mickey Kaus’s voice.
What endures is a human brand. Readers have encountered this phenomenon before—I.F. Stone’s
Weekly comes to mind—but not to this extent. It stems, I think, from the conversational style that
blogging rewards. What you want in a conversationalist is as much character as authority. And if you
think of blogging as more like talk radio or cable news than opinion magazines or daily newspapers, then
this personalized emphasis is less surprising. People have a voice for radio and a face for television. For
blogging, they have a sensibility.
But writing in this new form is a collective enterprise as much as it is an individual one—and the
connections between bloggers are as important as the content on the blogs. The links not only drive
conversation, they drive readers. The more you link, the more others will link to you, and the more
traffic and readers you will get. The zero-sum game of old media—in which Time benefits from
Newsweek’s decline and vice versa—becomes win-win. It’s great for Time to be linked to by Newsweek
and the other way round. One of the most prized statistics in the blogosphere is therefore not the total
number of readers or page views, but the “authority” you get by being linked to by other blogs. It’s an
indication of how central you are to the online conversation of humankind.
The reason this open-source market of thinking and writing has such potential is that the always
adjusting and evolving collective mind can rapidly filter out bad arguments and bad ideas. The flip side,
of course, is that bloggers are also human beings. Reason is not the only fuel in the tank. In a world
where no distinction is made between good traffic and bad traffic, and where emotion often rules, some
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will always raise their voice to dominate the conversation; others will pander shamelessly to their
readers’ prejudices; others will start online brawls for the fun of it. Sensationalism, dirt, and the ease of
formulaic talking points always beckon. You can disappear into the partisan blogosphere and never
stumble onto a site you disagree with.
But linkage mitigates this. A Democratic blog will, for example, be forced to link to Republican ones, if
only to attack and mock. And it’s in the interests of both camps to generate shared traffic. This
encourages polarized slugfests. But online, at least you see both sides. Reading The Nation or National
Review before the Internet existed allowed for more cocooning than the wide-open online sluice gates
do now. If there’s more incivility, there’s also more fluidity. Rudeness, in any case, isn’t the worst thing
that can happen to a blogger. Being ignored is. Perhaps the nastiest thing one can do to a fellow blogger
is to rip him apart and fail to provide a link.
A successful blog therefore has to balance itself between a writer’s own take on the world and others.
Some bloggers collect, or “aggregate,” other bloggers’ posts with dozens of quick links and minimalist
opinion topspin: Glenn Reynolds at Instapundit does this for the right-of-center; Duncan Black at
Eschaton does it for the left. Others are more eclectic, or aggregate links in a particular niche, or cater to
a settled and knowledgeable reader base. A “blogroll” is an indicator of whom you respect enough to
keep in your galaxy. For many years, I kept my reading and linking habits to a relatively small coterie of
fellow political bloggers. In today’s blogosphere, to do this is to embrace marginality. I’ve since added
links to religious blogs and literary ones and scientific ones and just plain weird ones. As the blogosphere
has expanded beyond anyone’s capacity to absorb it, I’ve needed an assistant and interns to scour the
Web for links and stories and photographs to respond to and think about. It’s a difficult balance,
between your own interests and obsessions, and the knowledge, insight, and wit of others—but an
immensely rich one. There are times, in fact, when a blogger feels less like a writer than an online disc
jockey, mixing samples of tunes and generating new melodies through mashups while also making his
own music. He is both artist and producer—and the beat always goes on.
If all this sounds postmodern, that’s because it is. And blogging suffers from the same flaws as
postmodernism: a failure to provide stable truth or a permanent perspective. A traditional writer is
valued by readers precisely because they trust him to have thought long and hard about a subject, given
it time to evolve in his head, and composed a piece of writing that is worth their time to read at length
and to ponder. Bloggers don’t do this and cannot do this—and that limits them far more than it does
traditional long-form writing.
A blogger will air a variety of thoughts or facts on any subject in no particular order other than that
dictated by the passing of time. A writer will instead use time, synthesizing these thoughts, ordering
them, weighing which points count more than others, seeing how his views evolved in the writing
process itself, and responding to an editor’s perusal of a draft or two. The result is almost always more
measured, more satisfying, and more enduring than a blizzard of posts. The triumphalist notion that
blogging should somehow replace traditional writing is as foolish as it is pernicious. In some ways,
blogging’s gifts to our discourse make the skills of a good traditional writer much more valuable, not
less. The torrent of blogospheric insights, ideas, and arguments places a greater premium on the person
who can finally make sense of it all, turning it into something more solid, and lasting, and rewarding.
The points of this essay, for example, have appeared in shards and fragments on my blog for years. But
being forced to order them in my head and think about them for a longer stretch has helped me
understand them better, and perhaps express them more clearly. Each week, after a few hundred posts,
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I also write an actual newspaper column. It invariably turns out to be more considered, balanced, and
evenhanded than the blog. But the blog will always inform and enrich the column, and often serve as a
kind of free-form, free-associative research. And an essay like this will spawn discussion best handled on
a blog. The conversation, in other words, is the point, and the different idioms used by the
conversationalists all contribute something of value to it. And so, if the defenders of the old media once
viscerally regarded blogging as some kind of threat, they are starting to see it more as a portal, and a
spur.
There is, after all, something simply irreplaceable about reading a piece of writing at length on paper, in
a chair or on a couch or in bed. To use an obvious analogy, jazz entered our civilization much later than
composed, formal music. But it hasn’t replaced it; and no jazz musician would ever claim that it could.
Jazz merely demands a different way of playing and listening, just as blogging requires a different mode
of writing and reading. Jazz and blogging are intimate, improvisational, and individual—but also
inherently collective. And the audience talks over both.
The reason they talk while listening, and comment or link while reading, is that they understand that this
is a kind of music that needs to be engaged rather than merely absorbed. To listen to jazz as one would
listen to an aria is to miss the point. Reading at a monitor, at a desk, or on an iPhone provokes a
querulous, impatient, distracted attitude, a demand for instant, usable information, that is simply not
conducive to opening a novel or a favorite magazine on the couch. Reading on paper evokes a more
relaxed and meditative response. The message dictates the medium. And each medium has its place—as
long as one is not mistaken for the other.
In fact, for all the intense gloom surrounding the news-paper and magazine business, this is actually a
golden era for journalism. The blogosphere has added a whole new idiom to the act of writing and has
introduced an entirely new generation to nonfiction. It has enabled writers to write out loud in ways
never seen or understood before. And yet it has exposed a hunger and need for traditional writing that,
in the age of television’s dominance, had seemed on the wane.
Words, of all sorts, have never seemed so now.
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A Gut Visible All the Way From the 18th Century
By A.O. Scott, The New York Times
Esteemed Sir:
On my return from the recent shewing of “Gulliver’s Travels,” whereat I was sufficiently fortunate to
pass a choice moment on the Red Carpet in the charming Company of Miss Emily Blunt, I find it politick
to communicate with yourself on the topick of this Motion Picture. Surely I state what can only be
apparent to any man not a Jackass when I observe that it bears little relation to my original Work.
Perhaps you construe that my intent in this epistle is to thunder against a grievous misappropriation of
my Book, but please be assured that I have no such complaint. An Apple is but an Apple, while an
Orange is some other thing.
Apples, it should be noted, figure prominently among the Products attractively displayed in the course
of this Entertainment, which passes, if you will permit me to say so, Swiftly enough — not unlike a small,
unvexing Kidney Stone. Much display is also made of other Intellectual Properties belonging, like
“Gulliver’s Travels,” to The News Corporation, at whose Fox News Channel I have vainly sought a berth
for many years, believing that my publick embrace of Conservative Principles and my long service to the
Church might find preferment there. But no. Apparently I am viewed in those quarters as a Tory in Name
Only, and an Elitist to boot. Nor have Mr. Colbert’s people replied to my earnest entreaties.
But such unhappy Matters need not detain us here. Indulge, rather, my views on “Gulliver’s Travels,”
which somewhat cleverly converts my great Satire into a gaudy, puerile Toy. My avowed purpose in
composing that text, as any swot who has suffered the Duty and Dullness rampant in our Schools must
know, was to employ my modest pen as a scourge against human Folly and the vanities of the Age.
Having deemed itself unable to defeat those foes, this rendition of “Gulliver’s Travels” chuses rather to
join them.
The purveyors of the Amusement have superadded to the Spectacle a third dimension, the main Effect
of which is to expand the already extensive Belly and Buttocks of Mr. Jack Black, a rotund Clown charged
with the task of impersonating Lemuel Gulliver. My storied Voyager is thus converted to yet another
fellow of slack Ambition and ample Gut, toiling at a Loser Job and pining for his Stella (or Darcy, as she is
here called), a woman of quick Intellect and slender Frame, in whose League he is so totally not. Though
of course we never are permitted to doubt that this Stella will smile upon him in the end, and do so
moreover with the glorious and gleaming Teeth of Miss Amanda Peet.
Only a few of the true Gulliver’s journeys, to Lilliput and, briefly, to the land of the Brobdingnags, fall
within the narrow Compass of this Narrative, which has been transported from my Time to yours.
Withal, the Lilliputians are, in some wise, much as I had envisioned them — tiny creatures, indeed, but
also proud and ingenious. They are ruled by the noted comickal personage Billy Connolly, whose
daughter the Princess is portrayed by the fetching Miss Blunt, upon whom your correspondent must
confess he has no inconsiderable Crush. So too, and more to the point of the tale, do the arrogant
Soldier embodied by Chris O’Dowd and a local fellow of slack Ambition, etc., etc., performed by Jason
Segel. Perhaps you wish to venture a prophecy as to which of them will, at the last, receive the favor of
the Princess.
Now, my good Sir, I hope I do not err in venturing a Comparison. Perhaps you are familiar with “Night at
the Museum”? Indeed, I observe that you have offered learned Commentary on its second Episode,
“Battle of the Smithsonian” — though I confess that I was unable to discern from your Prose whether it
met with your full Approbation. To put the matter briefly: This is more or less like That (which also
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issued from the mighty hand of The News Corporation) insofar as it offers agreeable Novelties and
inoffensive jests.
For myself, I was but seldom inspired to peals of true laughter, though I did relish that part when Mr.
Black, confronting a fire raging in the Palace of Lilliput, douses the blaze through heroic use of such
means as Nature has provided him. This was, indeed, the only moment at which it seemed that the
temperament of the Picture corresponded, in some degree, to my own.
To grumble further would be, as the saying goes, akin to pointing my Water toward the Wind. I note that
Mr. Black has, in other endeavors, proved himself a Mocker after my own heart, but I can hardly
begrudge him the greater emolument that issues from cavorting in the mildly naughty manner of an
overgrown tot. I can further suppose that a Child of average Wit or even moderate Dullness — a boy of
Nine, let us say, who can be coaxed away from the Wii of a Christmas afternoon — might pass a pleasant
interval chuckling at the absurd incongruities that arise when something very large is placed beside
something very small. Nor will this notional child’s elder companion be subject to inordinate Anguish,
much as he might wish himself in the place of those unencumbered souls thronging the adjacent Room
to see “True Grit.”
As for your correspondent, since a further encounter with the charming Miss Blunt seems altogether
improbable, I will decline to undertake a second voyage to “Gulliver’s Travels,” chusing instead to
devote myself to the preparation of my customary Holiday Feast, a delectable Stew made from the flesh
of Irish Babies. (JK! ROTFL!)
I remain, Sir, your most hmble & obdt svt,J. Swift.
Post Scriptum: It is suggested that children attend this Motion Picture under the Guidance of Parents, as
a few mild oaths are uttered, and the humor is at moments more Salty than Sweet.
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