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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Colas Breugnon: Récit bourguignon
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Title: Colas Breugnon: Récit bourguignon
Author: Romain Rolland
Release date: January 20, 2009 [eBook #27854]
Language: French
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and http://www.ebooksgratuits.com
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLAS BREUGNON: RÉCIT BOURGUIGNON ***
Produced by Chuck Greif and http://www.ebooksgratuits.com
Romain Rolland
COLAS BREUGNON
Récit bourguignon
ALBIN MICHEL
1919
Table des matières
PRÉFACE D'APRÈS-GUERRE.
AVERTISSEMENT AU LECTEUR.
I L'ALOUETTE DE LA CHANDELEUR.
II LE SIÈGE OU LE BERGER, LE LOUP ET L'AGNEAU.
III LE CURÉ DE BRÈVES.
IV LE FLÂNEUR OU UNE JOURNÉE DE PRINTEMPS.
V BELETTE.
VI LES OISEAUX DE PASSAGE OU LA SÉRÉNADE À ASNOIS.
VII LA PESTE.
VIII LA MORT DE LA VIEILLE.
IX LA MAISON BRÛLÉE.
X L'ÉMEUTE.
XI LA NIQUE AU DUC.
XII LA MAISON DES AUTRES.
XIII LA LECTURE DE PLUTARQUE.
XIV LE ROI BOIT.
_À SAINT MARTIN DES GAULES_
_Patron de Clamecy_
_Saint Martin boit le bon vin_
_Et laisse l'eau courre au molin._
(Proverbe du XVIe siècle.)
PRÉFACE D'APRÈS-GUERRE
_Ce livre était entièrement imprimé, prêt à paraître avant la guerre, et
je n'y change rien. La sanglante épopée dont les petits-fils de Colas
Breugnon viennent d'être les héros et les victimes s'est chargée de
prouver au monde que «Bonhomme vit encore»._
_Et les peuples d'Europe glorieux et moulus, en se frottant les côtes,
trouveront, je crois, quelque bon sens dans les réflexions que fait un
«agneau de chez nous, entre le loup et le berger»._
R. R.
_Novembre 1918._
AVERTISSEMENT AU LECTEUR
_Les lecteurs de_ Jean-Christophe _ne s'attendent sûrement point à ce
livre nouveau. Il ne les surprendra pas plus que moi._
_Je préparais d'autres oeuvres,_--_un drame et un roman sur des sujets
contemporains et dans l'atmosphère un peu tragique de_ Jean-Christophe.
_Il m'a fallu brusquement laisser toutes les notes prises, les scènes
préparées pour cette oeuvre insouciante, à laquelle je ne songeais point,
le jour d'avant..._
_Elle est une réaction contre la contrainte de dix ans dans l'armure de_
Jean-Christophe, _qui, d'abord faite à ma mesure, avait fini par me
devenir trop étroite. J'ai senti un besoin invincible de libre gaieté
gauloise, oui, jusqu'à l'irrévérence. En même temps, un retour au sol
natal, que je n'avais pas revu depuis ma jeunesse, m'a fait reprendre
contact avec ma terre de Bourgogne nivernaise, a réveillé en moi un
passé que je croyais endormi pour toujours, tous les Colas Breugnon que
je porte en ma peau. Il m'a fallu parler pour eux. Ces sacrés bavards
n'avaient pas encore assez parlé, de leur vivant! Ils ont profité de ce
qu'un de leurs petits-fils avait l'heureux privilège d'écrire (ils l'ont
souvent envié!) pour me prendre comme secrétaire. J'ai eu beau me
défendre:_
_--Enfin, grand-papa, vous avez eu votre temps! laissez-moi parler.
Chacun son tour!_
_Ils répliquaient:_
_--Petit, tu parleras lorsque j'aurai parlé. D'abord, tu n'as rien de
plus intéressant à raconter. Assieds-toi là, écoute et n'en perds pas un
mot... Allons, mon petit gars, fais cela pour ton vieux! Tu verras plus
tard, quand tu seras où nous sommes... Ce qu'il y a de plus pénible,
dans la mort, vois-tu, c'est le silence..._
_Que faire? J'ai dû céder, j'ai écrit sous la dictée._
_À présent, c'est fini, et me revoici libre (du moins je le suppose). Je
vais reprendre la suite de mes propres pensées_, _si toutefois un de mes
vieux bavards ne s'avise encore de ressortir de sa tombe, pour me dicter
ses lettres à la postérité._
_Je n'ose croire que la compagnie de mon Colas Breugnon divertira autant
les lecteurs que l'auteur. Qu'ils prennent du moins ce livre comme il
est, tout franc, tout rond, sans prétention de transformer le monde, ni
de l'expliquer, sans politique, sans métaphysique, un livre à la «bonne
françoise», qui rit de la vie, parce qu'il la trouve bonne, et qu'il se
porte bien. Bref, comme dit la Pucelle (il était inévitable que son nom
fût invoqué, en tête d'un récit gaulois), ami,_ «prenez en gré»...
_ROMAIN ROLLAND_
_Mai 1914._
I
L'ALOUETTE DE LA CHANDELEUR
2 février.
Saint Martin soit béni! Les affaires ne vont plus. Inutile de
s'éreinter. J'ai assez travaillé dans ma vie. Prenons un peu de bon
temps. Me voici à ma table, un pot de vin à ma droite, l'encrier à ma
gauche; un beau cahier tout neuf, devant moi, m'ouvre ses bras. À ta
santé, mon fils, et causons! En bas, ma femme tempête. Dehors, souffle
la bise, et la guerre menace. Laissons faire. Quelle joie de se
retrouver, mon mignon, mon bedon, face à face tous deux!... (C'est à toi
que je parle, trogne belle en couleurs, trogne curieuse, rieuse, au long
nez bourguignon et planté de travers, comme chapeau sur l'oreille...)
Mais dis-moi, je te prie, quel singulier plaisir j'éprouve à te revoir,
à me pencher, seul à seul, sur ma vieille figure, à me promener gaiement
à travers ses sillons, et, comme au fond d'un puits (foin d'un puits!)
de ma cave, à boire dans mon coeur une lampée de vieux souvenirs? Passe
encore de rêver, mais écrire ce qu'on rêve!... Rêver, que dis-je? J'ai
les yeux bien ouverts, larges, plissés aux tempes, placides et
railleurs; à d'autres les songes creux! Je conte ce que j'ai vu, ce que
j'ai dit et fait... N'est-ce pas grande folle? Pour qui est-ce que
j'écris? Certes pas pour la gloire; je ne suis pas une bête, je sais ce
que je vaux, Dieu merci!... Pour mes petits-enfants? De toutes mes
paperasses, que restera dans dix ans? Ma vieille en est jalouse, elle
brûle ce qu'elle trouve... Pour qui donc?--Eh! pour moi. Pour notre bon
plaisir. Je crève si je n'écris. Je ne suis pas pour rien le petit-fils
du grand-père qui n'eût pu s'endormir avant d'avoir noté, au seuil de
l'oreiller, le nombre de pots qu'il avait bus et rendus. J'ai besoin de
causer; et dans mon Clamecy, aux joutes de la langue, je n'en ai tout
mon soûl. Il faut que je me débonde, comme cet autre qui faisait le poil
au roi Midas. J'ai la langue un peu trop longue; si l'on venait à
m'entendre, je risque le fagot. Mais tant pire, ma foi! Si l'on ne
risquait rien, on étoufferait d'ennui. J'aime, comme nos grands boeufs
blancs, à remâcher le soir le manger de ma journée. Qu'il est bon de
tâter, palper et peloter tout ce qu'on a pensé, observé, ramassé, de
savourer du bec, de goûter, regoûter, laisser fondre sur sa langue,
déglutiner lentement en se le racontant, ce qu'on n'a pas eu le temps de
déguster en paix, tandis qu'on se hâtait de l'attraper au vol! Qu'il est
bon de faire le tour de son petit univers, de se dire: «Il est à moi.
Ici, je suis maître et seigneur. Ni froidure ni gelées n'ont de prise
sur lui. Ni roi, ni pape, ni guerres. Ni ma vieille grondeuse...»
Or çà, que je fasse un peu le compte de cet univers!
* * *
En premier lieu, je m'ai,--c'est le meilleur de l'affaire,--j'ai moi,
Colas Breugnon, bon garçon, Bourguignon, rond de façons et du bedon,
plus de la première jeunesse, cinquante ans bien sonnés, mais râblé, les
dents saines, l'oeil frais comme un gardon, et le poil qui tient dru au
cuir, quoique grison. Je ne vous dirai pas que je ne l'aimerais mieux
blond, ni que si vous m'offriez de revenir de vingt ans, ou de trente,
en arrière je ferais le dégoûté. Mais après tout, dix lustres, c'est une
belle chose! Moquez-vous, jouvenceaux. N'y arrive pas qui veut. Croyez
que ce n'est rien d'avoir promené sa peau, sur les chemins de France,
cinquante ans, par ce temps... Dieu! qu'il en est tombé sur notre dos,
m'amie, de soleil et de pluie! Avons-nous été cuits, recuits et relavés!
Dans ce vieux sac tanné, avons-nous fait entrer des plaisirs et des
peines, des malices, facéties, expériences et folies, de la paille et du
foin, des figues et du raisin, des fruits verts, des fruits doux, des
roses et des gratte-culs, des choses vues et lues, et sues, et eues,
vécues! Tout cela, entassé dans notre carnassière, pêle-mêle! Quel
amusement de fouiller là-dedans!... Halte-là, mon Colas! nous
fouillerons demain. Si je commence aujourd'hui, je n'en ai pas fini...
Pour le moment, dressons l'inventaire sommaire de toutes les
marchandises dont je suis propriétaire.
Je possède une maison, une femme, quatre garçons, une fille, mariée
(Dieu soit loué!), un gendre (il le faut bien!), dix-huit
petits-enfants, un âne gris, un chien, six poules et un cochon. Çà, que
je suis riche! Ajustons nos besicles, afin de regarder de plus près nos
trésors. Des derniers, à vrai dire, je ne parle que pour mémoire. Les
guerres ont passé, les soldats, les ennemis, et les amis aussi. Le
cochon est salé, l'âne fourbu, la cave bue, le poulailler plumé.
Mais la femme, je l'ai, ventredieu, je l'ai bien! Écoutez-la brailler.
Impossible d'oublier mon bonheur: c'est à moi, le bel oiseau, j'en suis
le possesseur! Cré coquin de Breugnon! Tout le monde t'envie...
Messieurs, vous n'avez qu'à dire. Si quelqu'un veut la prendre!... Une
femme économe, active, sobre, honnête, enfin pleine de vertus (cela ne
la nourrit guère, et, je l'avoue, pécheur, mieux que sept vertus maigres
j'aime un péché dodu... Allons soyons vertueux, faute de mieux, Dieu le
veut). Hai! comme elle se démène, notre Marie-manque-de-grâce,
remplissant la maison de son corps efflanqué, furetant, grimpant,
grinchant, grommelant, grognant, grondant, de la cave au grenier,
pourchassant la poussière et la tranquillité! Voici près de trente ans
que nous sommes mariés. Le diable sait pourquoi! Moi, j'en aimais une
autre, qui se moquait de moi; et elle, voulait de moi, qui ne voulais
point d'elle. C'était en ce temps-là une petite brune blême, dont les
dures prunelles m'auraient mangé tout vif et brûlaient comme deux
gouttes de l'eau qui ronge l'acier. Elle m'aimait, m'aimait, à l'en
faire périr. À force de me poursuivre (que les hommes sont bêtes!) un
peu par pitié, un peu par vanité, beaucoup par lassitude, afin (joli
moyen!) de me débarrasser de cette obsession, je devins (Jean de Vrie,
qui se met dans l'eau pour la pluie), je devins son mari. Et elle, elle
se venge, la douce créature. De quoi? De m'avoir aimé. Elle me fait
enrager; elle le voudrait, du moins; mais n'y a point de risque: j'aime
trop mon repos, et je ne suis pas si sot de me faire pour des mots un
sol de mélancolie. Quand il pleut, je laisse pleuvoir. Quand il tonne,
je barytone. Et quand elle crie, je ris. Pourquoi ne crierait-elle pas?
Aurais-je la prétention de l'en empêcher, cette femme? Je ne veux pas sa
mort. Où femme il y a, silence n'y a. Qu'elle chante sa chanson, moi je
chante la mienne. Pourquoi qu'elle ne s'avise pas de me clore le bec (et
elle s'en garde bien, elle sait trop ce qu'il en coûte), le sien peut
ramager: chacun a sa musique.
Au reste, que nos instruments soient accordés ou non, nous n'en avons
pas moins exécuté, avec, d'assez jolis morceaux: une fille et quatre
gars. Tous solides, bien membrés: je n'ai point ménagé l'étoffe et le
métier. Pourtant, de la couvée, le seul où je reconnaisse ma graine tout
à fait, c'est ma coquine Martine, ma fille, la mâtine! m'a-t-elle donné
du mal à passer sans naufrage jusqu'au port du mariage! Ouf! la voilà
calmée!... Il ne faut pas trop s'y fier; mais ce n'est plus mon affaire.
Elle m'a fait assez veiller, trotter. À mon gendre! c'est son tour.
Florimond, le pâtissier, qu'il veille sur son four!... Nous disputons
toujours, chaque fois que nous nous voyons; mais avec aucun autre, si
bien ne nous entendons. Brave fille, avisée jusque dans ses folies, et
honnête, pourvu que l'honnêteté rie: car pour elle, le pire des vices,
c'est ce qui ennuie. Elle ne craint point la peine: la peine, c'est de
la lutte; la lutte, c'est du plaisir. Et elle aime la vie; elle sait ce
qui est bon; comme moi: c'est mon sang. J'en fus trop généreux,
seulement, en la faisant.
Je n'ai pas aussi bien réussi les garçons. La mère y a mis du sien, et
la pâte a tourné: sur quatre, deux sont bigots, comme elle, et, par
surcroît, de deux bigoteries ennemies. L'un est toujours fourré parmi
les jupons noirs, les curés, les cafards; et l'autre est huguenot. Je me
demande comment j'ai couvé ces canards. Le troisième est soldat, fait la
guerre, vagabonde, je ne sais pas trop où. Et quant au quatrième, il
n'est rien, rien du tout: un petit boutiquier, effacé, moutonnier; je
bâille, rien que d'y penser. Je ne retrouve ma race que la fourchette au
poing, quand nous sommes assis, les six, autour de ma table. À table,
nul ne dort, chacun y est bien d'accord; et c'est un beau spectacle de
nous voir, tous six, manoeuvrer des mâchoires, abattre pain à deux mains,
et descendre le vin sans corde ni poulain.
Après le mobilier, parlons de la maison. Elle aussi, est ma fille. Je
l'ai bâtie, pièce par pièce, et plutôt trois fois qu'une, sur le bord du
Beuvron indolent, gras et vert, bien nourri d'herbe, de terre et de
merde, à l'entrée du faubourg, de l'autre côté du pont, ce basset
accroupi dont l'eau mouille le ventre. Juste en face se dresse, fière et
légère, la tour de Saint-Martin à la jupe brodée, et le portail fleuri
où montent les marches noires et raides de Vieille-Rome, ainsi qu'au
paradis. Ma coque, ma bicoque, est sise en dehors des murs: ce qui fait
qu'à chaque fois que de la tour on voit dans la plaine un ennemi, la
ville ferme ses portes et l'ennemi vient chez moi. Bien que j'aime à
causer, ce sont là des visites dont je saurais me passer. Le plus
souvent, je m'en vais, je laisse sous la porte la clef. Mais lorsque je
retourne, il advient que je ne retrouve ni la clef ni la porte: il reste
les quatre murs. Alors, je rebâtis. On me dit:
--Abruti! tu travailles pour l'ennemi. Laisse ta taupinière, et
viens-t'en dans l'enceinte. Tu seras à l'abri.
Je réponds:
--Landeri! Je suis bien où je suis. Je sais que derrière un gros mur, je
serais mieux garanti. Mais derrière un gros mur, que verrais-je? Le mur.
J'en sécherais d'ennui. Je veux mes coudées franches. Je veux pouvoir
m'étaler au bord de mon Beuvron, et, quand je ne travaille point, de mon
petit jardin, regarder les reflets découpés dans l'eau calme, les ronds
qu'à la surface y rotent les poissons, les herbes chevelues qui se
remuent au fond, y pêcher à la ligne, y laver mes guenilles et y vider
mon pot. Et puis, quoi! mal ou bien, j'y ai toujours été; il est trop
tard pour changer. Il ne peut m'arriver pire que ce qui m'est arrivé. La
maison, une fois de plus, dites-vous, sera détruite? c'est possible.
Bonnes gens, je ne prétends édifier pour l'éternité. Mais d'où je suis
incrusté, il ne sera pas facile, bon sang! de m'arracher. Je l'ai
refaite deux fois, je la referai bien dix. Ce n'est pas que cela me
divertisse. Mais cela m'ennuierait dix fois plus d'en changer. Je serais
comme un corps sans peau. Vous m'en offrez une autre, plus belle, plus
blanche, plus neuve? Elle goderait sur moi, ou je la ferais claquer.
Nenni, j'aime la mienne...
Çà, récapitulons: femme, enfants et maison; ai-je bien fait le tour de
mes propriétés?... Il me reste le meilleur, je le garde pour la bonne
bouche, il me reste mon métier. Je suis de la confrérie de Sainte-Anne,
menuisier. Je porte dans les convois et dans les processions le bâton
décoré du compas sur la lyre, sur lequel la grand-mère du bon Dieu
apprend à lire à sa fille toute petiote, Marie pleine de grâce, pas plus
haute qu'une botte. Armé du hacheret, du bédane et de la gouge, la
varlope à la main, je règne, à mon établi, sur le chêne noueux et
le noyer poli. Qu'en ferai-je sortir? c'est selon mon plaisir... et
l'argent des clients. Combien de formes dorment, tapies et tassées
là-dedans! Pour réveiller la Belle au bois dormant, il ne faut, comme
son amant, qu'entrer au fond du bois. Mais la beauté que, moi, je trouve
sous mon rabot, n'est pas une mijaurée. Mieux qu'une Diane efflanquée,
sans derrière ni devant, d'un de ces Italiens, j'aime un meuble de
Bourgogne à la patine bronzée, vigoureux, abondant, chargé de fruits
comme une vigne, un beau bahut pansu, une armoire sculptée, dans la rude
fantaisie de maître Hugues Sambin. J'habille les maisons de panneaux, de
moulures. Je déroule les anneaux des escaliers tournants; et, comme d'un
espalier des pommes, je fais sortir des murs les meubles amples et
robustes faits pour la place juste où je les ai entés. Mais le régal,
c'est quand je puis noter sur mon feuillet ce qui rit en ma fantaisie,
un mouvement, un geste, une échine qui se creuse, une gorge qui se
gonfle, des volutes fleuries, une guirlande, des grotesques, ou que
j'attrape au vol et je cloue sur ma planche le museau d'un passant.
C'est moi qui ai sculpté (cela, c'est mon chef-d'oeuvre) pour ma
délectation et celle du curé, dans le choeur de l'église de Montréal, ces
Stalles, où l'on voit deux bourgeois qui se rigolent et trinquent, à
table, autour d'un broc, et deux lions qui braillent en s'arrachant un
os.
Travailler après boire, boire après travailler, quelle belle
existence!... Je vois autour de moi des maladroits qui grognent. Ils
disent que je choisis bien le moment pour chanter, que c'est une triste
époque... Il n'y a pas de triste époque, il n'y a que de tristes gens.
Je n'en suis pas, Dieu merci. On se pille? on s'étrille? Ce sera
toujours ainsi. Je mets ma main au feu que dans quatre cents ans nos
arrière-petits-neveux seront aussi enragés à se carder le poil et se
manger le nez. Je ne dis pas qu'ils ne sauront quarante façons nouvelles
de le faire mieux que nous. Mais je réponds qu'ils n'auront trouvé façon
nouvelle de boire, et je les défie de le savoir mieux que moi... Qui
sait ce qu'ils feront, ces drôles, dans quatre cents ans? Peut-être que,
grâce à l'herbe du curé de Meudon, le mirifique Pantagruelion, ils
pourront visiter les régions de la Lune, l'officine des foudres et les
bondes des pluies, prendre logis dans les cieux, pinter avec les
dieux... Bon, j'irai avec eux. Sont-ils pas ma semence et sortis de ma
panse? Essaimez, mes mignons! Mais où je suis, c'est plus sûr. Qui me
dit, dans quatre siècles, que le vin sera aussi bon?
Ma femme me reproche d'aimer trop la ribote. Je ne dédaigne rien. J'aime
tout ce qui est bon, la bonne chère, le bon vin, les belles joies
charnues, et celles à la peau plus tendre, douces et duvetées, que l'on
goûte en rêvant, le divin ne-rien-faire où l'on fait tant de
choses!--(on est maître du monde, jeune, beau, conquérant, on transforme
la terre, on entend pousser l'herbe, on cause avec les arbres, les bêtes
et les dieux)--et toi, vieux compagnon, toi qui ne trahis pas, mon ami,
mon Achate, mon travail!... Qu'il est plaisant de se trouver, son outil
dans les mains, devant son établi, sciant, coupant, rabotant, rognant,
chantournant, chevillant, limant, tripotant, triturant la matière belle
et ferme qui se révolte et plie, le bois de noyer doux et gras, qui
palpite sous la main comme un râble de fée, les corps roses et blonds,
les corps bruns et dorés des nymphes de nos bois, dépouillés de leurs
voiles, par la cognée tranchés! Joie de la main exacte, des doigts
intelligents, les gros doigts d'où l'on voit sortir la fragile oeuvre
d'art! Joie de l'esprit qui commande aux forces de la terre, qui inscrit
dans le bois, dans le fer ou la pierre, le caprice ordonné de sa noble
fantaisie! Je me sens le monarque d'un royaume de chimère. Mon champ me
donne sa chair, et ma vigne son sang. Les esprits de la sève font
croître, pour mon art, allongent, engraissent, étirent et polissent au
tour les beaux membres des arbres que je vais caresser. Mes mains sont
des ouvriers dociles que dirige mon maître compagnon, mon vieux cerveau,
lequel m'étant soumis lui-même, organise le jeu qui plaît à ma rêverie.
Qui jamais fut mieux servi que moi? Oh! quel beau petit roi! Ai-je pas
bien le droit de boire à ma santé? Et n'oublions pas celle (je ne suis
pas un ingrat) de mes braves sujets. Que béni soit le jour où je suis
venu au monde! Que de glorieuses choses sur la machine ronde, riantes à
regarder, suaves à savourer! Grand Dieu! que la vie est bonne! J'ai beau
m'en empiffrer, j'ai toujours faim, j'en bave; je dois être malade: à
quelque heure du jour, l'eau me vient aux babines, devant la table mise
de la terre et du soleil...
* * *
Mais je me vante, compère: le soleil est défunt; il gèle en mon univers.
Ce sacripant d'hiver est entré dans la chambre. La plume entre mes
doigts gourds trébuche. Dieu me pardonne! un glaçon se forme dans mon
verre, et mon nez a blêmi: exécrable couleur, livrée de cimetière! j'ai
le pâle en horreur. Holà! secouons-nous! Les cloches de Saint-Martin
tintent et carillonnent. C'est aujourd'hui la Chandeleur... _«l'hiver se
passe, ou prend vigueur...»_ Le scélérat! il prend vigueur. Eh bien,
faisons comme lui! Allons sur la grand-route, l'affronter face à face...
Le beau froid! un cent d'aiguilles me picotent les joues. Embusquée au
détour de la rue, la bise m'empoigne la barbe. Je cuis. Loué soit Dieu!
mon teint reprend son lustre... J'aime entendre sous mes pas la terre
durcie qui sonne. Je me sens tout gaillard. Qu'ont donc tous ces
gens-là, l'air piteux, maugracieux?...
--«Allons! gai, gai! voisine, à qui en avez-vous? À ce vent polisson qui
vous trousse les cottes? il fait bien, il est jeune; que ne le suis-je
aussi! Il mord au bon endroit, le mâtin, le friand, il sait les fins
morceaux. Patience, ma commère, il faut que chacun vive... Et où
courez-vous donc, avec le diable au cul? À la messe? _Laus Deo!_ Il aura
la victoire toujours sur le Malin. Rira celui qui pleure, et le gelé
cuira... Bon, vous riez déjà? Tout va bien... Où je cours, moi aussi?
Comme vous, à la messe. Mais non celle du curé. À la messe des champs.»
Je passe d'abord chez ma fille, pour prendre ma petite Glodie. Nous
faisons tous les jours notre promenade ensemble. C'est ma meilleure
amie, ma petite brebiette, ma grenouille qui gazouille. Elle a cinq ans
passés, plus éveillée qu'un rat et plus fine que moutarde. Dès qu'elle
me voit, elle accourt. Elle sait que j'ai toujours ma hotte pleine
d'histoires; elle les aime autant que moi. Je la prends par la main.
--Viens, petite, nous allons au-devant de l'alouette.
--L'alouette?
--C'est la Chandeleur. Tu ne sais pas qu'aujourd'hui elle nous revient
des cieux?
--Qu'est-ce qu'elle y a été faire?
--Chercher pour nous le feu.
--Le feu?
--Le feu qui fait soleil, le feu qui fait bouillir la marmite de la
terre.
--Il était donc parti?
--Mais oui, à la Toussaint. Chaque année, en novembre, il s'en va
réchauffer les étoiles du ciel.
--Comment est-ce qu'il revient?
--Les trois petits oiseaux sont allés le chercher.
--Raconte...
Elle trottine sur la route. Chaudement enveloppée d'un tricot de laine
blanche, coiffée d'une capuche bleue, elle a l'air d'une mésange. Elle
ne craint pas le froid; mais ses rondes pommettes sont rouges comme
apis, et son trognon de nez coule comme fontaine...
--Çà, moucheron, mouchons, souffle chandelles! Est-ce pour la
Chandeleur? La lampe s'allume au ciel.
--Raconte, père-grand, les trois petits oiseaux...
(J'aime à me faire prier.)
--Les trois petits oiseaux sont partis en voyage. Les trois hardis
compères: Roitelet, Rouge-Gorge et l'amie l'Alouette. Le premier,
Roitelet, toujours vif et remuant comme un petit Poucet, et fier comme
Artaban, aperçoit dans les airs le beau feu, tel un grain de millet, qui
roulait. Il fond sur lui, criant: «c'est moi! je l'ai. C'est moi!» Et
les autres crient: «Moi! Moi! Moi!» Mais déjà le Roitelet l'a happé au
passage et descend comme un trait... «Au feu! au feu! il brûle!» Telle
bouillie bouillante, Roitelet le promène d'un coin de bec à l'autre; il
n'en peut plus, il bâille, et la langue lui pèle; il le crache, il le
cache sous ses petites ailes... «Ahi! Ahi! Au feu!» Les petites ailes
flambent... (As-tu bien remarqué ses taches de roussi et ses plumes
frisées?...) Rouge-Gorge aussitôt accourt à son secours. Il pique le
grain de feu et le pose dévotement en son douillet gilet. Voilà le beau
gilet qui devient rouge, rouge, et Rouge-Gorge crie: «J'en ai assez,
assez! mon habit est brûlé!» Alors Alouette arrive, la brave petite
m'amie, elle rattrape au vol la flamme qui se sauvait pour remonter au
ciel, et preste, prompte, précise comme une flèche, sur la terre elle
tombe, et du bec enfouit dans nos sillons glacés le beau grain de soleil
qui les fait pâmer d'aise...
J'ai fini mon histoire. Glodie caquette, à son tour. Au sortir de la
ville, je l'ai mise sur mon dos, pour monter la colline. Le ciel est
gris, la neige craque sous les sabots. Les buissons et les arbres
chétifs aux os menus sont matelassés de blanc. La fumée des chaumines
monte droite, lente et bleue. On n'entend aucun bruit que ma petite
grenouille. Nous arrivons au haut. À mes pieds est ma ville, que l'Yonne
paresseuse et le Beuvron baguenaudant ceignent de leurs rubans. Toute
coiffée de neige, toute transie qu'elle est, frileuse et grelottante,
elle me fait chaud au coeur chaque fois que je la vois...
Ville des beaux reflets et des souples collines... Autour de toi,
tressées, comme les pailles d'un nid, s'enroulent les lignes douces des
coteaux labourés. Les vagues allongées des montagnes boisées, par cinq
ou six rangées, ondulant, mollement; elles bleuissent au loin; on dirait
une mer. Mais celle-ci n'a rien de l'élément perfide qui secoua
l'Ithacien Ulysse et son escadre. Pas d'orages. Pas d'embûches. Tout est
calme. À peine çà et là un souffle paraît gonfler le sein d'une colline.
D'une croupe de vagues à l'autre, les chemins vont tout droit, sans se
presser, laissant comme un sillage de barque. Sur la crête des flots, au
loin, la Madeleine de Vézelay dresse ses mâts. Et tout près, au détour
de l'Yonne sinueuse, les roches de Basserville pointent entre les
fourrés leurs dents de sangliers. Au creux du cercle des collines, la
ville, négligente et parée, penche au bord de ses eaux ses jardins, ses
masures, ses haillons, ses joyeux, la crasse et l'harmonie de son corps
allongé, et sa tête coiffée de sa tour ajourée...
Ainsi j'admire la coque dont je suis le limaçon. Les cloches de mon
église montent dans la vallée; leur voix pure se répand comme flot
cristallin dans l'air fin et gelé. Tandis que je m'épanouis, en humant
leur musique, voici qu'une raie de soleil fend la grise enveloppe qui
tenait le ciel caché. Et juste à ce moment, ma Glodie bat des mains et
crie:
--Père-grand, je l'entends! L'alouette, l'alouette!...
Alors, moi, que sa petite voix fraîche, de bonheur faisait rire, je
l'embrasse et je dis:
--Moi aussi, je l'entends. Alouette du printemps...
II
LE SIÈGE OU LE BERGER, LE LOUP ET L'AGNEAU
«_Agneau de Chamoux,_
_N'en faut que trois pour étrangler un loup.»_
Mi-février.
Ma cave sera bientôt vide. Les soldats que M. de Nevers, notre duc, nous
envoya pour nous défendre, viennent de mettre en perce ma dernière
feuillette. Ne perdons pas de temps, allons boire avec eux! Me ruiner,
je veux bien; mais me ruiner gaiement. Ce n'est pas la première fois!
S'il plaît à la bonté divine, ce ne sera pas la dernière.
Bons garçons! ils sont plus affligés que moi, lorsque je leur apprends
que le liquide baisse... Je sais de mes voisins qui le prennent au
tragique. Je ne peux plus, je suis blasé: j'ai été trop souvent au
théâtre, en ma vie, je ne prends plus les pitres au sérieux. En ai-je vu
de ces masques, depuis que je suis au monde, des Suisses, des Allemands,
des Gascons, des Lorrains, des animaux de guerre, le harnois sur le dos
et les armes au poing, avaleurs de pois gris, lévriers affamés, jamais
las de manger le bonhomme! Qui jamais put savoir pour quelle cause ils
se battent? Hier, c'est pour le Roi, aujourd'hui pour la Ligue. Tantôt
ce sont les cafards, tantôt les huguenots. Tous les partis se valent; le
meilleur ne vaut pas le cordeau pour le pendre. Que nous fait que ce
soit ce larron ou cet autre, qui friponne à la cour? Et quant à leur
prétention de mêler Dieu à leurs affaires... ventre d'un petit poisson!
bonnes gens, laissez faire à Dieu! Il est homme d'âge. Si le cuir vous
démange, étrillez-vous tout seuls, Dieu n'a pas besoin de vous. N'est
manchot, que je sache. Se grattera, s'il lui plaît...
Le pire est qu'ils prétendent me forcer, moi aussi, à lui faire la
barbe!... Seigneur, je vous honore, et crois, sans me vanter, que nous
nous rencontrons plus d'une fois par jour, si le dicton est vrai, le bon
dicton gaulois: _Qui bon vin boit, Dieu voit._ Mais il ne me viendrait
jamais à la pensée de dire, comme ces cagots, que je vous connais bien,
que vous êtes mon cousin, que vous m'avez confié vos trente-six
volontés. Vous me rendrez cette justice que je vous laisse en paix; et
tout ce que je vous demande, c'est que vous me laissiez de même. Nous
avons assez à faire tous les deux de mettre l'ordre dans notre maison,
vous dans votre univers, moi dans le petit mien. Seigneur, tu m'as fait
libre. Je te rends la pareille. Mais ne voilà-t-il pas que ces faquins
prétendent que j'administre tes affaires, que je parle pour toi, que je
dise comment tu veux que l'on te mange, et que qui te mange autrement je
le déclare ton ennemi et le mien!... Le mien? nenni! Je n'en ai point.
Tous les hommes sont mes amis. S'ils se battent, c'est leur plaisir. Je
tire, quant à moi, mon épingle du jeu... Oui, si je peux. Mais c'est
qu'ils ne veulent point, ces gueux. Si je ne suis l'ennemi d'un, j'aurai
les deux comme ennemis. Eh bien donc, puisque entre deux camps, je dois
toujours être battu, battons aussi! Je l'aime autant. Plutôt qu'enclume,
enclume, enclume, soyons enclume et puis marteau.
Mais qui me dira pourquoi ont été mis sur terre tous ces animaux-là,
tous ces genpillehommes, ces politiques, ces grands seigneurs, qui de
notre France sont saigneurs, et, de sa gloire toujours chantant, vident
ses poches proprement, qui, non rassasiés de ronger nos deniers,
prétendent dévorer les greniers étrangers, menacent l'Allemagne,
convoitent l'Italie, et dans le gynécée du grand Turc fourrent leur nez,
qui voudraient absorber la moitié de la terre, et qui ne sauraient pas
même y planter des choux!... Allons, paix, mon ami, ne te fais point de
bile! Tout est bien comme il est... en attendant qu'un jour nous le
fassions meilleur (ce sera le plus tôt qu'il nous sera possible). Il
n'est si triste bête qui ne puisse servir. J'ai oui raconter qu'une
fois, le bon Dieu (mais, Seigneur, je ne parle aujourd'hui que de vous!)
avec Pierre se promenant, vit dans le faubourg de Béyant[1], sur le
seuil de sa porte, assise, une femme se morfondant. Elle s'ennuyait tant
que notre Père, cherchant dans sa bonté de coeur, de sa poche, dit-on,
tira un cent de poux, les lui jeta, et dit: «Prenez, ma fille,
amusez-vous!» Lors la femme, se réveillant, partit en chasse; et chaque
fois qu'elle agrippait une bestiole, elle riait de contentement. C'est
même charité, sans doute, si le Ciel nous a gratifiés, afin de nous
distraire, de ces bêtes à deux pieds qui nous rognent la laine. Soyons
donc gais, ô gué! Vermine est, paraît-il, indice de santé. (Vermine, ce
sont nos maîtres.) Réjouissons-nous, mes frères: car personne, en ce
cas, n'est mieux portant que nous... Et puis, je vous dirai (à
l'oreille): «Patience! nous tenons le bon bout. La froidure, les gelées,
la canaille des camps et celle de la cour n'ont qu'un temps, s'en iront.
La bonne terre reste, et nous pour l'engrosser. D'une seule ventrée,
elle aura réparé... En attendant, buvons le fond de ma feuillette! Il
faut faire la place aux vendanges à venir.»
Ma fille Martine me dit:
--Tu es un fanfaron. À t'entendre, on croirait que tu ne fais jamais
oeuvre que du gosier: badauder, bavarder comme battant de cloche, bâiller
de soif et bayer aux corneilles, que tu ne vis que pour faire bombance,
que tu boirais Rome et Thome; et tu ne peux rester un jour sans
travailler. Tu voudrais qu'on te crût hanneton, étourdi, prodigue,
désordonné, qui ne sait ce qui entre en ton escarcelle ni ce qui s'en va
d'elle; et tu serais malade, si tout dans ta journée n'était, heure par
heure, exactement sonné, ainsi qu'horloge à carillon; tu sais, à un sol
près, tout ce que tu as dépensé depuis Pâques de l'an passé, et nul n'a
encore vu celui qui t'a roulé... Innocent, tête folle! Ardez le bel
agneau!... Agneau de Chamoux, n'en faut que trois pour étrangler un
loup...
Je ris, je ne réponds à madame bon bec. Elle a raison, l'enfant!... Elle
a tort de le dire. Mais une femme ne cèle que ce qu'elle ne sait pas. Et
elle me connaît, car c'est moi qui l'ai faite... Allons, Colas Breugnon,
conviens-en, mon garçon: tu as beau faire des folies, tu ne seras jamais
un fol tout à fait. Parbleu! comme chacun, tu as un fol en ta manche, tu
le montres quand tu veux; mais tu l'y fais rentrer, quand il faut tes
mains libres et tête saine pour ouvrer. Comme tous les Français, tu as
en ta caboche si bien l'instinct de l'ordre et la raison ancrés que tu
peux t'amuser à faire l'extravagant: il n'est de risques (pauvres
niais!) que pour les gens qui te regardent bouche bée et voudraient
t'imiter. De beaux discours, des vers ronflants, des projets
tranche-montagne, sont chose détectable: on s'exalte, on prend feu. Mais
nous ne consumons que notre margotin; et nous gardons notre gros bois,
bien rangé, dans notre bûcher. Ma fantaisie s'égaie et donne le
spectacle à ma raison qui la regarde, assise confortablement. Tout est
pour mon amusement. J'ai pour théâtre l'univers, et, sans bouger, de mon
fauteuil, je suis la comédie; j'applaudis Matamore ou bien Francatrippa;
je jouis des tournois et des pompes royales, je crie _bis_ à ces gens
qui se cassent la tête. C'est pour notre plaisir! Afin de le doubler, je
feins de me mêler à la farce et d'y croire. Mais je n'ai garde, ohé!
j'en crois tout juste ce qu'il faut pour m'amuser. C'est ainsi que
j'écoute les histoires de fées... Pas seulement de fées! Il est un gros
monsieur, là-haut, dans l'Empyrée... Nous le respectons fort; quand il
passe en nos rues, la croix en tête et la bannière, avec ses _Oremus_,
nous habillons de nos draps blancs les murs de nos maisons. Mais entre
nous... Bavard, mange ta langue! Cela sent le fagot... Seigneur, je n'ai
rien dit! Je vous tire mon chapeau...
* * *
Fin février.
L'âne, ayant tondu le pré, a dit qu'il n'était plus besoin de le garder,
et est allé manger (garder, veux-je dire) quelque autre pré voisin. La
garnison de M. de Nevers est partie, ce matin. Faisaient plaisir à voir,
gras comme lard à pois. J'étais fier de notre cuisine. Nous nous sommes
quittés, coeur en bouche, bouche en coeur. Ils ont fait mille voeux
gracieux et courtois pour que nos blés soient beaux, que nos vignes ne
gèlent pas.
--Travaille bien, mon oncle, m'a dit Fiacre Bolacre, mon hôte le
sergent. (C'est le nom qu'il me donne et que j'ai bien gagné: _Celui est
bien mon oncle qui le ventre me comble.)_ Ne ménage point ta peine et va
tailler ta vigne. À la Saint-Martin, nous reviendrons la boire.
Bons enfants, toujours prêts à venir au secours d'un honnête homme, à
table, aux prises avec son broc!
On se sent plus léger, depuis qu'ils sont partis. Les voisins prudemment
débloquent leurs cachettes. Ceux qui, les jours derniers, montraient des
faces de carême, et geignaient de famine, comme s'ils eussent porté un
loup dedans leur panse, sous la paille du grenier ou la terre du
cellier, dénichent à présent de quoi nourrir la bête. Il n'est si gueux
qui n'ait trouvé moyen, en gémissant très bien qu'il ne lui restait
rien, de garder quelque part le meilleur de son vin. Moi-même (je ne
sais comment cela se fit), l'hôte Fiacre Bolacre à peine était parti (je
l'avais reconduit jusqu'au bout du faubourg de Judée) que je me
rappelai, en me frappant le front, un petit fût de Chablis, oublié par
mégarde sous le fumier des chevaux afin qu'il fût au chaud. J'en fus
très contristé, ainsi qu'on peut le croire; mais quand le mal est fait,
il est fait et bien fait, faut s'en accommoder. Je m'en accommode bien.
Bolacre, mon neveu, ah! qu'avez-vous perdu! quel nectar, quel
bouquet!... Mais vous n'en perdrez rien, mon ami, mon ami, mais vous
n'en perdrez rien: c'est à votre santé!
On s'en va voisiner d'une à l'autre maison. On se montre les trouvailles
qu'on a faites en sa cave; et, comme les augures, on se cligne de l'oeil,
en se congratulant. On se raconte aussi les dommages et les dams (les
dames et leurs dommages). Ceux des voisins amusent et distraient des
siens. On s'informe de la santé de la femme de Vincent Pluviaut. Après
chaque passage de troupes dans la ville, par hasard singulier, cette
vaillante Gauloise élargit sa ceinture. On félicite le père, on admire
la vertu de ses reins prolifiques, dans l'épreuve publique; et
gentiment, pour rire, sans mauvaise pensée, je tape sur la bedaine du
fortuné coquin, dont la maison est seule, dis-je, à montrer ventre
plein, quand les autres l'ont vide. Tous de rire, comme de juste, et
bien discrètement, ainsi qu'oisons débridés, de l'une oreille à l'autre.
Mais Pluviaut prend mal nos compliments, et dit que je ferais mieux de
veiller sur ma femme. À quoi j'ai répondu que, quant à celle-là, son
heureux possesseur pouvait sur les deux oreilles dormir, sans redouter
qu'on lui prît son trésor. Tous ont été d'accord.
* * *
Mais voici les jours gras. Si mal armés qu'on soit, on doit leur faire
honneur. Le renom de la ville, le nôtre sont engagés. Que dirait-on de
Clamecy, gloire des andouillettes, si Carême-prenant nous trouvait sans
moutarde? On entend frire les poêles; une suave odeur de graisse imbibe
l'air des rues. Saute, crêpe! plus haut! saute, pour ma Glodie!...
Un ra-pla-pla de tambour, un lus-tu-flu de flûte. Des rires et des
huées... Ce sont MM. de Judée[2], qui viennent sur leur char rendre
visite à Rome.
Marchent en tête la musique et les hallebardiers, qui fendent la foule
avec leurs nez. Nez en trompes, nez en lances, nez en cors de chasse,
nez sarbacanes, nez hérissés d'épines, ainsi que des châtaignes, ou sur
le bout desquels des oiseaux sont plantés. Ils bousculent les badauds,
ils farfouillent les cottes des filles qui glapissent. Mais tout
s'écarte et fuit devant le roi des nez, qui fond comme un bélier, et
telle une bombarde, roule sur un affût à roulettes son nez.
Suit le char de Carême, empereur des mangeurs de merluches. Des figures
blêmes, vertes, décharnées, enfroquées, renfrognées, grelottantes sous
des capuchons, ou coiffées en têtes de poissons. Que de poissons!
Celui-ci tient en chaque poing une perche ou un carpillon; l'autre
brandit, à une fourche, une brochette de goujons; un troisième nous
exhibe pour chef une tête de brochet, du bec duquel sort un gardon, et
qui s'accouche avec une scie, s'ouvrant le ventre plein de poissons.
J'en ai une indigestion... D'autres, la gueule ouverte, y enfonçant
leurs doigts afin de l'élargir, s'étouffent en poussant dans leur gosier
_(À bouère!)_ des oeufs qui ne veulent point passer. À gauche, à droite,
du haut du char, masques de chevêches, robes de frocards, des pêcheurs à
la ligne pêchent, au bout d'un fil, les galopins qui sautent comme des
cabris, le bec en l'air pour attraper et croquer, croque, croque au vol,
les dragées ou les crottes dans le sucre roulées. Et par-derrière, un
diable danse, habillé en cuisinier; il agite une casserole et une
cuiller à pot; d'une infâme ratatouille, il enfourne la becquée à six
damnés nu-pieds, attachés à la queueleuleu, qui, par les barreaux d'une
échelle, passent leur tête grimaçante, casquée d'un bonnet de coton.
Mais voici les triomphateurs, les héros de la journée! Sur un trône de
jambons, sous un dôme de langues fumées, paraît la reine des Andouilles,
couronnée de cervelas, le cou orné d'un chapelet de saucisses enfilées,
dont elle joue coquettement avec ses doigts boudinés; escortée de ses
estafiers, boudins blancs et boudins noirs, andouillettes de Clamecy,
que Riflandouille, le colonel, conduit à la victoire. Armés de broches
et de lardoires, ils ont grand air, gras et luisants. Et j'aime aussi
ces dignitaires, dont le ventre est une marmite, ou le corps un pâté en
croûte, et qui portent, tels les rois mages, qui une hure de cochon, qui
un flacon de vin morillon, qui la moutarde de Dijon. Au bruit des
cuivres, des cymbales, des écumoires, des lèchefrites, arrive au milieu
des risées, sur son âne, le roi des cocus, l'ami Pluviaut. Vincent,
c'est lui, il est élu! Assis à rebrousse-poil, coiffé d'un haut turban,
un gobelet en main, il écoute sa garde de flotteurs, diables cornus,
qui, la gaffe ou la gaule sur l'épaule, dégoisent à voix claire, en
bonne langue franche et françoise, sans voiles, son histoire et sa
gloire. En sage, il n'en montre pas d'indiscrète fierté; indifférent, il
boit, il fouette une lampée; mais quand il passe au pied d'un logis
illustré par la même fortune, il crie, levant son verre: «Hohé,
confrère, à ta santé!»
Enfin, pour clore le cortège, vient la jolie saison nouvelle. Une
fraîche fille, rose et riante, au lisse front, aux cheveux blonds, avec
des petits frisons, couronnée de primevères, jaunes et claires, et
portant en bandoulière, autour des petits seins ronds, de verts chatons,
pris aux noisetiers des buissons. À sa ceinture, une escarcelle sonnante
et pleine, et dans ses mains, une corbeille, elle chante, ses sourcils
pâles relevés, écarquillant les yeux d'un bleu d'azur léger, la bouche
ouverte comme un O sur ses nacottes aiguisées tels des couteaux, elle
chante, d'une voix grêle, l'hirondelle, qui reviendra bientôt. À ses
côtés, sur le chariot, que traînent quatre grands boeufs blancs, des
mignonnes en bon point, bien à point, belles gaillardes au corps
gracieux et rebondi et des fillettes à l'âge ingrat, qui comme de jeunes
arbrisseaux ont poussé de-ci, de-là. À chacune il manque un morceau;
mais du reste le loup ferait un bon repas... Les laiderons jolis! Elles
portent dans des cages des oiseaux de passage, ou puisant dans la
corbeille de la reine du printemps, elles jettent aux badauds des
gâteaux, des surprises, des papillotes, où l'on trouve bonnets et
cottes, des pralinés, son sort écrit, des vers d'amour,--ou bien les
cornes.
Arrivées au bas du marché, près de la tour, les pucelles sautent du
char, et sur la grand-place dansent avec les clercs et les commis.
Cependant que Mardi gras, Carême et le roi des cocus poursuivent leur
marche triomphale, en s'arrêtant tous les vingt pas, pour dire aux gens
leurs vérités, ou la chercher au fond du verre...
_À bouère! À bouère! À bouère!_
_Nous quitterons-nous sans bouère?_
_Non!_
_Les Bourguignons ne sont pas si fous_
_D'se quitter sans boire un coup!_
* * *
Mais à trop l'arroser, la langue s'épaissit et la verve se mouille. Je
laisse l'ami Vincent faire avec son escorte une station nouvelle, à
l'ombre d'un bouchon. La journée est trop belle pour rester encagé.
Allons prendre l'air des champs!
Mon vieil ami le curé Chamaille, qui est venu de son village, dans sa
charrette à âne, banqueter chez monsieur l'archiprêtre de Saint-Martin,
m'invite à le reconduire, un bout de chemin. J'emmène ma Glodie. Nous
montons dans le tape-cul. Fouette, bourrique!... Elle est si petite que
je propose de la mettre dans le char, entre Glodie et moi... La route
blanche s'allonge. Le soleil vieillot somnole; il se chauffe, au coin de
son feu, plus qu'il ne nous réchauffe. L'âne s'endort aussi et s'arrête,
à penser. Le curé l'interpelle, indigné, de sa voix de gros bourdon:
--Madelon!
L'âne tressaute, tricote de ses fuseaux, zigzague entre deux ornières,
et de nouveau s'arrête et médite, insensible à nos objurgations:
--Ah! maudite, sans le signe de croix que tu portes sur le dos, gronde
Chamaille, qui lui larde les fesses du bout de son bâton, comme je te
casserais ma trique sur l'échine!
Afin de nous reposer, nous faisons une halte, à la première auberge, au
détour du chemin, qui de là redescend vers le blanc village d'Armes,
dans le clair de son eau mirant son fin museau. Au milieu d'un champ
voisin, autour d'un grand noyer qui se carre, dressant dans le ciel
enfariné ses bras noirs et sa fière carcasse dépouillée, des filles font
une ronde. Allons danser!... Elles ont été porter la crêpe du Mardi gras
à commère la pie.
--Aga, Glodie, aga Margot l'agasse[3], avec son gilet blanc sur le bord
de son nid, tout là-haut, tout là-haut, qui se penche pour voir! La
curieuse! Afin que rien n'échappe à son petit oeil rond et à sa langue
bavarde, elle a fait sa maison sans porte ni fenêtres, tout au faîte des
branches, ouverte à tous les vents. Elle est glacée, trempée,
qu'importe? Elle peut tout voir. Elle est de mauvaise humeur, elle a
l'air de nous dire: «Qu'ai-je à faire de vos dons? Manants,
remportez-les! Croyez-vous que si j'avais envie de votre crêpe, je ne
serais pas capable d'aller la prendre chez vous? À manger ce qu'on vous
donne, il n'y a pas de plaisir. Je n'ai faim que de ce que je vole.»
--Alors, pourquoi, père-grand, lui donne-t-on la crêpe avec ces beaux
rubans? Pourquoi souhaiter sa fête à cette larronnette?
--Parce que, dans la vie, vois-tu, c'est plus prudent d'être bien que
d'être mal avec les méchants.
--Eh bien, Colas Breugnon, tu lui en apprends de belles! gronde le curé
Chamaille.
--Je ne lui dis pas que c'est beau, je lui dis que c'est ce que chacun
fait, toi, curé, tout le premier. Tu peux rouler des yeux. Lorsque tu as
affaire à une de tes dévotes qui voient tout, qui savent tout, qui
mettent leur nez partout, qui ont la bouche ainsi qu'un sac plein de
malices, ose prétendre un peu que, pour les faire taire, tu ne leur
bourrerais pas le bec avec des crêpes!
--Ah! Dieu, si cela suffisait! s'exclame le curé.
--J'ai calomnié Margot, elle vaut mieux qu'une femme. Au moins sa langue
est bonne parfois à quelque chose.
--Et à quoi donc, grand-père?
--Quand le loup vient, elle crie...
Or, voilà qu'à ces mots, l'agasse se met à crier. Elle jure, elle sacre,
elle bat des ailes, elle vole, elle couvre d'invectives je ne sais qui,
je ne sais quoi, qui est dans la vallée d'Armes. À la lisière du bois,
ses compères emplumés, le geai Charlot et Colas le corbeau, lui
répondent sur le même ton aigre et irrité. Les gens rient, les gens
crient: «Au loup!» Personne n'y croit. On n'en va pas moins voir (croire
est bon, voir vaut mieux)... Et que voit-on?... Nom d'un petit bonhomme!
Une bande de gens armés, qui montent la côte au trot. Nous les
reconnaissons. Ce sont ces sacripants, les troupes de Vézelay, qui,
sachant notre ville démunie de sa garde, s'imaginaient trouver la pie
(mais non celle-ci) au nid!...
Je vous prie de penser que nous ne nous attardons pas à les considérer!
Chacun crie: sauve qui peut! On se pousse, on se rue. On détale à toutes
jambes, sur la route, par les champs, celui-ci ventre à terre, celui-là
sur l'autre versant de son individu. Nous trois nous sautons dans la
voiture à âne. Comme si elle comprenait, Madelon part comme une flèche,
fouettée à tour de bras par le curé Chamaille, qui a, dans son émoi,
perdu tout souvenir des égards que l'on doit à l'échine d'un baudet
marqué du signe de croix. Nous roulons au milieu d'un flot de gens qui
poussent des cris de merlusine, et, couverts de poussière et de gloire,
nous entrons à Clamecy, bons premiers, ayant sur nos talons le reste des
fuyards. Et toujours au galop, la charrette sautant, Madelon ne touchant
plus terre, le curé fouettant, nous traversons le faubourg de Béyant en
criant:
--L'ennemi vient!
Les gens riaient d'abord, en nous voyant passer. Mais ils ne furent pas
longs à comprendre. Aussitôt, ce fut comme une fourmilière, où l'on
vient d'introduire un bâton. Chacun se démenait, sortait, rentrait,
sortait. Les hommes s'armaient, les femmes faisaient leur paquet, les
objets s'empilaient dans les hottes, les brouettes; tout le peuple du
faubourg, abandonnant ses lares, reflua vers la ville, à l'abri des
murailles; les flotteurs, sans ôter leurs costumes, leurs masques,
cornus, griffus, pansus, qui en Gargantua, et qui en Belzébuth,
coururent aux bastions, armés de gaffes et de harpons. Si bien que,
quand l'avant-garde de MM. de Vézelay arriva sous les murs, les ponts
étaient levés, et il ne restait de l'autre côté des fossés que quelques
pauvres diables, qui, n'ayant rien à perdre, ne s'étaient pas beaucoup
pressés de le sauver, et le roi des cocus, notre ami Pluviaut, oublié
par l'escorte, qui, plein jusqu'au goulot et rond comme Noé, ronflait
sur son roussin, en lui tenant la queue.
C'est ici que l'on voit l'avantage, à se trouver en face de Français
pour ennemis. D'autres lourdauds, Allemands, ou Suisses, ou Anglais, qui
ont l'entendement aux mains et comprennent à Noël ce qu'on leur dit à la
Toussaint, eussent cru qu'on raillait; et je n'aurais pas donné un radis
de la peau du pauvre Pluviaut. Mais entre gens de chez nous, on s'entend
à demi-mot: d'où qu'on vienne, de Lorraine, de Touraine, gens de
Champagne ou de Bretagne, oies de Beauce, ânes de Beaune, ou lièvres de
Vézelay, qu'on s'étrille, qu'on s'assomme, une bonne plaisanterie est
bonne pour tout gaillard françois... En voyant notre Silène, tout le
camp ennemi rit, de la bouche et du nez, de la gorge et du menton, du
coeur et du bedon. Et, par saint Rigobert, de les voir qui riaient, nous
en crevions de rire, le long de nos bastions. Ensuite, nous échangeâmes,
par-dessus les fossés, des injures bien plaisantes, à la façon d'Ajax et
d'Hector le Troyen. Mais les nôtres étaient de plus moelleuse graisse.
Je voudrais les noter, je n'en ai pas le temps; je les noterai toutefois
(patience!) dans un recueil que je fais depuis douze ans, des meilleures
facéties, paillardises, gaillardises, que j'ai ouïes, dites ou lues (ce
serait dommage, vraiment, qu'elles fussent perdues), au cours de mon
pèlerinage en cette vallée de larmes. D'y penser seulement, j'ai le
ventre secoué; je viens, en écrivant, de faire un gros pâté.
* * *
Quand nous eûmes bien crié, fallut agir (agir après parler, repose). Ni
eux, ni nous n'y tenions guère. Le coup était manqué pour eux, nous
étions à l'abri: ils n'avaient nulle envie d'escalader nos murs; on
risque trop de se rompre les os. Cependant, s'agissait de faire, coûte
que coûte, quelque chose, n'importe quoi. On brûla de la poudre, on
déchargea des pétarades en veux-tu? eh! en voilà! Nul n'en souffrit, que
les moineaux. Le dos au mur, au pied du parapet, assis en paix, nous
attendions que les pruneaux eussent passé, pour décharger aussi les
nôtres, mais sans viser (il ne faut pas trop s'exposer). On ne se
risquait à regarder que lorsqu'on entendait brailler leurs prisonniers:
ils étaient bien une douzaine, hommes et femmes de Béyant, tous alignés,
non pas la face, mais la pile tournée aux murs à qui l'on donnait la
fessée. Ils criaient plus fort que l'anguille, mais le mal n'était pas
grand. Pour nous venger, bien abrités, nous défilâmes tout le long de
nos courtines, brandissant au-dessus des murs, embrochés au bout de nos
piques, jambons, cervelas et boudins. Nous entendions les cris de rage
et de désir des assiégeants. Nous nous en fîmes une pinte de bon sang;
et, pour n'en point perdre une goutte (lorsque tu tiens une bonne farce,
jusqu'à la moelle ronge l'os!) le soir venu, nous installâmes sous le
ciel clair, sur les talus, avec les murs pour paravent, tables chargées
de victuailles et de flacons; nous banquetâmes, à grand fracas,
chantant, trinquant, à la santé du Mardi gras. Du coup, les autres en
faillirent crever de fureur dans leur peau. Ainsi la journée se passa
gentiment, sans trop de dégât. Si ce n'est que l'un des nôtres, le gros
Gueneau de Pousseaux, ayant voulu, dans sa ribote, se promener sur la
muraille, le verre en main pour les narguer, eut d'une mousquetade sa
cervelle et son verre mis en capilotade. Et de notre côté, nous en
estropiâmes un ou deux, en échange. Mais notre bonne humeur n'en fut
point altérée. Point de fête, on le sait, sans quelques pots cassés.
Chamaille attendait la nuit, pour sortir de la ville et pour rentrer
chez lui. Nous avions beau lui dire:
--Ami, tu risques gros. Attends plutôt la fin. Dieu se chargera bien de
tes paroissiens.
Il répondait:
--Ma place est parmi mes agneaux. Je suis le bras de Dieu; et si je fais
défaut, Dieu restera manchot. Il ne le sera point où je serai, j'en
jure.
--Je le crois, je le crois, dis-je, tu l'as prouvé, lorsque les
huguenots assiégeaient ton clocher et que tu assommas d'un gros moellon
leur capitaine Papiphage.
--Il fut bien étonné, dit-il, le mécréant! Et je le fus pareillement. Je
suis bonhomme et n'aime point à voir couler le sang. C'est dégoûtant.
Mais diable sait ce qui vous passe en la carcasse, quand on est parmi
les fous! On devient loup.
Je dis:
--C'est vrai, il n'est rien de tel que d'être en foule pour n'avoir plus
le sens commun. Cent sages font un fou, et cent moutons un loup... Mais
dis-moi donc, curé, à ce propos, comment arranges-tu ensemble les deux
morales--celle de l'homme seul qui vit en tête à tête avec sa conscience
et demande la paix pour lui et pour les autres,--et la morale des
troupeaux d'hommes, des États, qui font de la guerre et du crime une
vertu? Laquelle vient de Dieu?
--Belle question, parbleu!... Toutes les deux. Tout vient de Dieu.
--Alors, il ne sait ce qu'il veut. Mais je crois bien plutôt qu'il le
sait et ne peut. N'a-t-il affaire qu'à l'homme isolé, c'est facile: il
lui est fort aisé de se faire obéir. Mais quand l'homme est en troupe,
Dieu n'en mène pas large. Que peut un seul contre tous? Alors, l'homme
est livré à la terre, sa mère, qui lui souffle son esprit carnassier...
Tu te souviens du conte de chez nous, où des hommes, à certains jours,
sont loups, et puis ils rentrent dans leur peau. Nos vieux contes en
savent plus long que ton bréviaire, mon curé. Chaque homme dans l'État
reprend sa peau de loup. Et les États, les rois, leurs ministres ont
beau s'habiller en bergers, et, les fourbes, se dire cousins du grand
berger, du tien, du Bon Pasteur, ils sont tous loups-cerviers, taureaux,
gueules et ventres, que rien ne peut combler. Et pourquoi? Pour nourrir
la faim immense de la terre.
--Tu divagues, païen, dit Chamaille. Les loups viennent de Dieu, comme
le reste. Il a tout fait pour notre bien. Ne sais-tu pas que c'est Jésus
qui, nous dit-on, créa le loup, afin de défendre les choux, qui
poussaient dans le jardinet de la Vierge, sa sainte mère, contre les
chèvres et les cabris? Il eut raison. Inclinons-nous. Nous nous
plaignons toujours des forts. Mais, mon ami, si les faibles devenaient
rois, ce serait encore bien pis. Conclusion: tout est bon, les loups et
les moutons; les moutons ont besoin des loups, pour les garder; et les
loups des moutons: car il faut bien manger... Là-dessus, mon Colas, je
vas garder mes choux.
Sa soutane il troussa, son gourdin empoigna, et dans la nuit sans lune
il partit, en m'ayant avec émotion confié Madelon.
Les jours suivants, ce fut moins gai. Nous avions sottement bâfré, le
premier soir, sans compter, par goinfrerie, forfanterie, et par
stupidité. Et nos provisions étaient plus qu'écornées. Il fallut se
serrer le ventre; on le serra. Mais on crânait toujours. Quand les
boudins furent mangés, on en fabriqua d'autres, des boyaux rembourrés de
son, des cordes trempées de goudron, qu'on promenait sur des harpons, à
la barbe de l'ennemi. Mais le drôle éventa la ruse. Une balle trancha
l'un des boudins, au beau milieu. Et qui rit le plus fort, alors? Ce ne
fut pas nous. Pour nous achever, ces brigands, nous voyant pêcher à la
ligne, du haut des murs dans la rivière, imaginèrent, aux écluses amont,
aval, de poser de grands filets pour intercepter la friture. En vain
notre archiprêtre objurgua ces mauvais chrétiens de nous laisser faire
carême. Faute de maigre, il fallut bien vivre sur notre lard.
Nous aurions pu, sans doute, implorer le secours de M. de Nevers. Mais,
pour ne rien cacher, nous n'étions pas pressés d'héberger de nouveau ses
troupes. Il nous en coûtait moins d'avoir les ennemis devant nos murs
que, dedans, les amis. Aussi, tant qu'on pouvait se passer d'eux, on se
taisait; c'était le mieux. Et l'ennemi, de son côté, était assez discret
pour ne les point mander. On préférait s'entendre à deux, sans un
troisième. On ouvrit donc, sans se presser, les pourparlers. Et
cependant, dans les deux camps, on menait une vie très sage, se couchant
tôt, se levant tard et tout le jour jouant aux boules, au bouchon,
bâillant d'ennui plus que de faim, et sommeillant tant et si bien qu'en
jeûnant nous engraissâmes. On remuait le moins possible. Mais il était
bien difficile de tenir aussi les enfants. Ces garnements toujours
courant, piaillant, riant, en mouvement, ne cessaient point de
s'exposer, grimpant aux murs, tirant la langue à l'assiégeant, le
bombardant à coups de pierres; ils avaient une artillerie de seringues
en sureau, de frondes à ficelle, de bâtons refendus... attrape ci,
attrape ça, vlan dans le tas!... Et nos singes hurlaient de rire; et
furieux, les lapidés juraient de les exterminer. On nous cria que le
premier des polissons qui sur les murs montrerait le bout de son nez
serait arquebusé. Nous promîmes de les surveiller; mais nous avions beau
leur allonger les oreilles et leur faire la grosse voix, ils nous
filaient entre les doigts. Et le plus fort (j'en tremble encore) fut
qu'un beau soir j'entends un cri: c'était Glodie (non! qui l'eût dit!),
cette eau qui dort, sainte-nitouche, ah! la mâtine! mon trésor!... qui
du talus dans le fossé venait de faire le plongeon... Dieu bon, je
l'aurais fouettée!... Sur les murs je ne fis qu'un bond. Et tous,
penchés, nous regardions... L'ennemi aurait eu beau jeu, s'il eût voulu
de nous pour cibles; mais, comme nous, il regardait au fond du fossé ma
chérie, qui (la Sainte Vierge soit bénie!) avait roulé douillettement
comme un chaton, et, sans autrement s'effarer, assise dans l'herbe
fleurie, levait la tête vers les têtes qui se penchaient des deux côtés,
leur faisait la risette et cueillait un bouquet. Tous lui riaient aussi.
Monseigneur de Ragny, le commandant de l'ennemi, défendit que l'on fît
aucun mal à l'enfant, et même il lui jeta, brave homme, son drageoir.
Mais pendant qu'on était occupé de Glodie, Martine (on n'en finit jamais
avec les femmes), pour sauver sa brebis, tout le long du talus
dégringolait aussi, courant, glissant, roulant, la jupe jusqu'au cou
retroussée et montrant à tous les assiégeants, fièrement, son orient,
son occident, les quatre points du firmament, et l'autre au ciel
resplendissant. Son succès fut éclatant. Elle n'en fut intimidée, prit
sa Glodie, et l'embrassa, et la claqua.
Enthousiasmé par ses appâts, n'écoutant pas son capitaine, un grand
soldat dans le fossé bondit et vint à elle, tout courant. Elle attendit.
De nos remparts nous lui jetâmes un balai. Elle l'empoigna, et bravement
sur l'ennemi elle marcha, et trique et traque, pati patac, le galant
n'en menait pas large, et tue! et rue! il décampa, sonnez trompettes et
clairons! On hissa la triomphatrice, avec l'enfant, parmi les rires des
deux camps; et je tirais, fier comme un paon, la corde au bout de
laquelle montait ma gaillarde, qui exposait à l'ennemi l'astre des
nuits.
On mit une semaine encore à discuter. (Toutes les occasions sont bonnes
pour causer.) Le faux bruit de l'approche de M. de Nevers nous mit enfin
d'accord; et l'entente se fit, en somme, à bon marché: nous promîmes à
ceux de Vézelay la dîme des vendanges prochaines. Fait bon promettre ce
qu'on n'a, ce qu'on aura... On ne l'aura peut-être pas; dans tous les
cas, sous les ponts l'eau passera, et du vin dans notre estomac.
Des deux côtés, nous étions donc bien satisfaits les uns des autres, et
de nous beaucoup plus encore. Mais à peine sortis de l'averse, nous vint
nouvelle pluie. Ce fut dans la nuit justement qui suivit le traité,
qu'aux cieux parut un signe. Sur les dix heures, il sortit de derrière
Sembert, où il était tapi, et, glissant dans le pré des étoiles, vers
Saint-Pierre-du-Mont comme un serpent il s'allongea. Il semblait une
épée dont la pointe était une torche, avec des langues de fumée. Et une
main tenait le manche, dont les cinq doigts se terminaient par des têtes
hurlantes. On distinguait à l'annulaire une femme dont les cheveux
flottaient au vent. Et la largeur, à la poignée de l'épée, était d'un
empan; sept à huit lignes, à la pointe; trois lignes et deux pouces, en
son milieu, exactement. Et sa couleur était sanglante, violacée,
tuméfiée, ainsi qu'une blessure au flanc. Toutes nos têtes, vers le
ciel, la bouche bée, étaient levées; on entendait claquer les dents. Et
les deux camps se demandaient lequel des deux était visé par le présage.
Et nous étions bien convaincus que c'était l'autre. Mais tous avaient la
chair de poule. Excepté moi. Je n'eus point peur. Il faut dire que je ne
vis rien, j'étais couché depuis neuf heures. M'étais couché pour obéir à
l'almanach: car c'était la date indiquée, afin de prendre médecine; et
où qu'on soit, quand l'almanach commande, je m'exécute sans réplique:
car c'est parole d'Évangile. Mais comme on m'a tout raconté, c'est comme
si je l'avais vu. Je l'ai noté.
* * *
Après que la paix fut signée, ennemis et amis, ensemble on banqueta. Et
comme était venue alors la Mi-Carême, jeûne rompu, on s'en donna. Des
villages des environs nous arrivèrent à foison, pour fêter notre
délivrance, les mangeailles et les mangeurs. Ce fut une belle journée.
Tout le long des remparts, la table était dressée. On y servit trois
marcassins, rôtis entiers, et rembourrés d'un hachis épicé d'abats de
sangliers et de foie de héron, des jambons parfumés, fumés dans l'âtre
avec des branches de genévrier; des pâtés de lièvre et de porc, embaumés
d'ail et de laurier; des andouillettes et des tripes; des brochets et
des escargots; du gras-double, de noirs civets, qui, devant qu'on en eût
tâté, vous grisaient par le nez; et des têtes de veau qui fondaient sous
la langue; et des buissons ardents d'écrevisses poivrées, qui vous
embrasaient le gosier; et là-dessus, pour l'apaiser, des salades à
l'échalote vinaigrées, et de fières lampées des crus de la Chapotte, de
Mandre, de Vaufilloux; et, pour dessert, le blanc caillé, frais,
granuleux, qui s'écrasait entre la langue et le palais; et des biscuits
qui vous torchaient un verre plein comme une éponge, d'un seul coup.
Aucun de nous ne lâcha pied, tant qu'il resta de quoi bâfrer. Loué soit
Dieu qui nous donna de pouvoir en si peu d'espace, dans le sac de notre
estomac, empiler flacons et plats. Surtout la joute fut belle entre
l'ermite Courte-Oreille de Saint-Martin-de-Vézelay, qui les Vézeliens
escortait (ce grand observateur qui le premier, dit-on, nota qu'un âne
ne peut braire s'il n'a la queue en l'air), et le nôtre (je ne dis âne),
Dom Hennequin, qui prétendait qu'il avait dû jadis être carpe ou
brochet, tant il avait dégoût de l'eau, pour en avoir trop bu sans
doute, en l'autre vie. Bref, quand nous sortîmes de table, Vézeliens et
Clamecycois, nous avions les uns pour les autres bien plus d'estime
qu'au potage: c'est au manger que l'on apprend ce que vaut l'homme. Qui
aime ce qui est bon, je l'aime: il est bon Bourguignon.
Enfin, pour achever de nous mettre d'accord, nous digérions notre dîner,
lorsque parurent les renforts que M. de Nevers envoyait pour nous
protéger. Nous rîmes bien; et nos deux camps, très poliment, les
prièrent de s'en retourner. Ils n'osèrent pas insister, et s'en allèrent
tout penauds, comme chiens que brebis font paître. Et nous disions, nous
embrassant:--Étions-nous bêtes de nous battre pour le profit de nos
gardiens! Si nous n'avions pas d'ennemis, ils en inventeraient, parbleu!
pour nous défendre. Grand merci! Dieu nous sauve de nos sauveurs! Nous
nous sauverons bien tout seuls. Pauvres moutons! Si nous n'avions à nous
défendre que du loup, nous saurions bien nous en garder. Mais qui nous
gardera du berger?
III
LE CURÉ DE BRÈVES
Prime avril.
Aussitôt que les chemins furent débarrassés de ces visiteurs importuns,
je résolus de m'en aller, sans plus tarder, voir mon Chamaille en son
village. Je n'étais pas bien inquiet de ce qu'il était devenu. Le
gaillard sait se défendre! N'importe! l'on est plus tranquille,
lorsqu'on a vu avec ses yeux l'ami lointain... Et puis, il me fallait me
dégourdir les jambes.
Je partis donc sans en rien dire, et je suivais en sifflotant le long du
bord de la rivière, qui s'étire au pied des collines boisées. Sur les
feuilles nouvelettes s'égrenaient les gouttelettes d'une petite pluie
bénie, pleurs du printemps, qui se taisait quelques moments, puis
reprenait tranquillement. Dans les futaies, un écureuil amoureux
miaulait. Dans les prés, les oies jabotaient. Les merles s'en donnaient
à gorge que veux-tu et la petite serrurière faisait son: «_titiput_»...
Sur le chemin, je décidai de m'arrêter, pour aller prendre à Dorceny mon
autre ami, le notaire, maître Paillard: de même que les Grâces, nous ne
sommes au complet qu'à trois. Je le trouvai dans son étude, qui
griffonnait sur ses minutes le temps qu'il faisait, les rêves qu'il
avait eus et ses vues sur la politique. Auprès de lui était ouvert, à
côté du _De Legibus_, le livre des _Prophéties de M. Nostradamus_.
Quand on est, toute sa vie, calfeutré dans son logis, l'esprit prend sa
revanche et ne s'en va que mieux dans les plaines du rêve et les taillis
du souvenir; et, faute de pouvoir diriger la machine ronde, il lit dans
l'avenir ce qu'il adviendra du monde. Tout est écrit, dit-on: je le
crois, mais j'avoue que je n'ai jamais réussi à lire dans les _Centuries_
l'avenir que lorsqu'il était accompli.
En me voyant, le bon Paillard s'épanouit; et la maison, du haut en bas,
retentit de nos éclats. Il me réjouit à regarder, le petit homme,
bedonnant, face grêlée, de larges joues, nez coloré, les yeux plissés,
vifs et rusés, l'air renfrogné, et bougonnant contre le temps, contre
les gens, mais dans le fond très bon plaisant, toujours raillant, et
beaucoup plus farceur que moi. C'est son bonheur de vous lâcher, d'un
air sévère, une énorme calembredaine. Et grave, il est beau à voir, à
table, avec la bouteille, invoquant Comus et Momus, et entonnant sa
chansonnette. Tout content de m'avoir, il me tenait les mains dans ses
mains grosses et gourdes, mais comme lui malignes, adroites diablement à
tripoter les instruments, limer, rogner, relier, menuiser. Il a tout
fait dans sa maison; et le tout n'est pas beau, mais le tout est de lui;
et beau ou laid, c'est son portrait.
Pour n'en point perdre l'habitude, il se plaignit de ci de ça; et moi,
par contradiction, je trouvais bon et ça et ci. Il est, lui, le docteur
Tant-Pis, et moi, Tant-Mieux: c'est notre jeu. Il grogna contre ses
clients; et sans doute il faut avouer qu'ils mettent peu d'empressement
à le payer: car certaines de ses créances remontent à trente-cinq ans;
et bien qu'intéressé, il ne se hâte point de les faire rentrer. Les
autres, s'ils s'acquittent, c'est par hasard, quand ils y pensent; en
nature: un panier d'oeufs, une paire de poulets. C'est la coutume; et
l'on trouverait offensant qu'il réclamât son argent. Il grognait, mais
il laissait faire; et je crois qu'à leur place, il en eût fait autant.
Heureusement pour lui, son bien lui suffisait. Une fortune rondelette et
qui faisait des oeufs. Peu de besoins. Un vieux garçon; ne chassant pas
les cotillons; et pour les plaisirs de la table, Nature y a pourvu chez
nous, la table est mise dans nos champs. Nos vignes, nos vergers, nos
viviers, nos clapiers sont d'abondants garde-manger. Sa plus grande
dépense était pour ses bouquins, qu'il montrait, mais de loin (car
l'animal n'est point prêteur), et pour une manie qu'il a de regarder la
lune (polisson) avec ses lunettes qui sont nouvellement de Hollande
venues. Il s'est dans son grenier, dessus son toit, parmi les cheminées,
aménagé une plate-forme branlante, d'où il observe gravement le
firmament tournant; il s'efforce d'y déchiffrer, sans y trop rien
comprendre, l'alphabet de nos destinées. Au reste, il n'y croit pas,
mais il aime à y croire. En quoi je le comprends: on a plaisir, de sa
fenêtre, à voir passer les feux du ciel, comme, en la rue, les
demoiselles; on leur prête des aventures, des intrigues, un roman; et
vrai ou non, c'est amusant.
Nous discutâmes longuement sur le prodige, sur l'épée de feu sanglant
dans la nuit brandie le mercredi d'avant. Et chacun expliquait le signe,
à sa façon; bien entendu, chacun soutenait _mordicus_ que seul son sens
était le bon. Mais à la fin, nous découvrîmes que lui ni moi n'avions
rien vu. Car ce soir-là, mon astrologue, justement, avait fait un somme
devant son instrument. Du moment que l'on n'est plus seul à avoir été
sot, on en prend son parti. Nous le prîmes joyeusement.
Et nous sortîmes, bien décidés à n'en rien confesser au curé. Nous
allâmes à travers champs, examinant les jeunes pousses, les fuseaux
roses des buissons, les oiseaux qui faisaient leurs nids, et sur la
plaine un épervier, comme une roue, aux cieux tournant. Nous nous
contions en riant la bonne farce que naguère à Chamaille nous avions
faite. Pendant des mois, Paillard et moi, nous avions sué sang et eau
afin d'apprendre à un gros merle mis en cage un chant huguenot. Après
quoi, nous l'avions lâché dans le jardin de mon curé. S'y trouvant bien,
il s'était fait le magister des autres merles du village. Et Chamaille,
que leur choral venait troubler, quand il lisait son bréviaire, se
signait, sacrait, croyait que le diable était lâché dans son jardin,
l'exorcisait et, de rage, embusqué derrière son volet, arquebusait
l'Esprit Malin. Il n'en était point dupe d'ailleurs tout à fait. Car
lorsqu'il avait tué le diable, il le mangeait.
* * *
Tout en causant nous arrivâmes.
Brèves semblait dormir. Les maisons sur la route bâillaient, portes
ouvertes, au soleil du printemps, et au nez des passants. Aucun visage
humain, qu'au rebord d'un fossé le derrière d'un marmot, qui se donnait
de l'air et qui faisait de l'eau. Mais à mesure que Paillard et moi,
nous tenant par le bras, avancions en devisant vers le centre du bourg,
par le chemin jonché de pailles et de bouses, montait un ronflement
d'abeilles irritées. Et quand nous débouchâmes sur la place de l'église,
nous la trouvâmes pleine de gens gesticulant, pérorant et piaillant. Au
milieu, sur le seuil de la porte entrouverte du jardin de la cure,
Chamaille, cramoisi de colère, braillait, en montrant les deux poings à
tous ses paroissiens. Nous tâchions de comprendre; mais nous
n'entendions rien qu'un tumulte de voix:
«...Chenilles et chenillots... Hannetons et mulots... _Cum spiritu
tuo...»_
Et Chamaille criait:
--Non! non! je n'irai pas!
Et la foule:
--Sacré nom! Es-tu notre curé? réponds-nous, oui ou non? Si tu l'es (et
tu l'es), c'est pour que tu nous serves.
Et Chamaille:
--Faquins! Je sers Dieu, non pas vous...
Ce fut un beau tapage. Chamaille, pour en finir, plaqua l'huis au visage
de ses administrés; au travers de la grille, on vit encore ses deux
mains s'agiter, dont l'une par habitude répandait sur son peuple
onctueusement la pluie de la bénédiction et dont l'autre levait sur la
terre le tonnerre de la malédiction. Une dernière fois, à la fenêtre de
la maison, parut son ventre rond et sa face carrée, qui, ne pouvant se
faire entendre au milieu des huées, répliqua rageusement avec un pied de
nez. Là-dessus, volets clos et visage de bois. Les crieurs se lassèrent;
la place se vida; et, nous glissant derrière les badauds clairsemés,
nous pûmes enfin à l'huis de Chamaille frapper.
Nous frappâmes longtemps. L'animal entêté ne voulait pas ouvrir.
--Hé! monsieur le curé!...
Nous avions beau héler (nous déguisions nos voix, afin de nous amuser):
--Maître Chamaille, êtes-vous là?
--Au diable! Je n'y suis pas.
Et comme nous insistions:
--Voulez-vous lever le camp! Si vous ne laissez ma porte, je vais,
bougres de chiens, vous baptiser de belle sorte!
Il faillit sur nos dos verser son pot à eau. Nous criâmes:
--Chamaille, au moins verse du vin!
À ces mots, par miracle, l'orage s'apaisa. Rouge comme un soleil, la
bonne figure réjouie de Chamaille se pencha:
--Nom d'un petit bonhomme! Breugnon, Paillard, c'est vous? J'allais en
faire de belles! Ah! les sacrés farceurs! que ne le disiez-vous?
Notre homme quatre à quatre dégringole ses marches.
--Entrez! Entrez! Bénis! Çà, que je vous embrasse! Bonnes gens, que je
suis aise de voir figure humaine après tous ces babouins! Avez-vous
assisté à la danse qu'ils faisaient? Qu'ils dansent tant qu'il leur
plaît, je ne bougerai pas. Montez, nous allons boire. Vous devez avoir
chaud. Vouloir me faire sortir avec le Saint-Sacrement! Il va pleuvoir
tantôt: nous serions, le bon Dieu et moi, trempés comme des soupes.
Sommes-nous à leur service? Suis-je un valet de ferme? Traiter l'homme
de Dieu en manant! Sacripants! Je suis fait pour curer leurs âmes et non
leurs champs.
--Ah! çà, demandâmes-nous, qu'est-ce que tu nous chantes? À qui diable
en as-tu?
--Montez, montez, dit-il. Là-haut, nous serons mieux. Mais d'abord, il
faut boire. Je n'en puis plus, j'étouffe!... Que dites-vous de ce vin?
Certes il n'est point des pires. Croiriez-vous, mes amis, que ces
animaux-là avaient la prétention de me faire, tous les jours, faire les
Rogations, dès Pâques... Pourquoi pas depuis les Rois jusqu'à la
Circoncision? Et cela, pour des hannetons!
--Des hannetons! dîmes-nous. Sûrement, quelques-uns te sont restés pour
compte. Tu divagues, Chamaille.
--Je ne divague point, cria-t-il indigné. Ah! cela, c'est trop fort!
C'est moi qui suis en butte à toutes leurs folies et c'est moi qui suis
fou!
--Alors, explique-toi en homme pondéré.
--Vous me feriez damner, fit-il en s'épongeant de fureur; il faudrait
que je restasse calme, quand on nous tarabuste, moi et Dieu, Dieu et
moi, toute la sainte journée, pour que nous nous prêtions à leurs
billevesées!... Or, sachez (ouf! j'étoufferai, c'est sûr) que ces païens
qui se soucient comme d'une guigne de la vie éternelle, et ne lavent pas
plus leur âme que leurs pieds, exigent de leur curé la pluie et le beau
temps. Il faut que je commande au soleil, à la lune: «Un peu de chaud,
de l'eau, assez, pas trop n'en faut, un petit soleil doux, moelleux,
enveloppé, une brise légère, surtout pas de gelées, encore une arrosée,
Seigneur, c'est pour ma vigne; arrête, assez pissé! À présent, il me
faut un petit coup de feu...»
À entendre ces marauds, il semblerait que Dieu n'ait rien de mieux à
faire, sous le fouet de la prière, que l'âne du jardinier, attaché à sa
meule, qui fait monter de l'eau. Encore (c'est le plus beau!) ne
s'entendent-ils pas entre eux: l'un veut la pluie, quand l'autre veut le
soleil. Et les voilà qui lancent les saints à la rescousse! Ils sont
trente-sept, là-haut, qui font de l'eau. Marche en tête, lance en main,
saint Médard, grand pissard. De l'autre part, ils ne sont que deux:
saint Raymond et saint Dié, qui dissipent les nuées. Mais viennent en
renfort saint Blaise chasse-vent, Christophe pare-grêle, Valérien
avale-orage, Aurélien tranche-tonnerre, saint Clair fait le temps clair.
La discorde est au ciel. Tous ces grands personnages se flanquent des
horions. Et voici saintes Suzanne, Hélène et Scholastique qui se
prennent au chignon. Le bon Dieu ne sait plus à quel saint se vouer. Et
si Dieu n'en sait rien, que saura son curé? Pauvre curé!... Enfin, ce
n'est pas mon affaire. Je ne suis là que pour transmettre les prières.
Et l'exécution regarde le patron. Aussi ne dirais-je rien (quoique cette
idolâtrie, entre nous, me dégoûte... Mon doux Seigneur Jésus, êtes-vous
mort en vain?) si du moins ces vauriens ne voulaient me mêler aux
querelles du ciel. Mais (ils sont enragés!) ils prétendent se servir de
moi et de la croix, comme d'un talisman, contre toutes les vermines qui
dévorent leurs champs. Un jour c'est pour les rats qui rongent les
grains des granges. Procession, exorcisme, prière à saint Nicaise. Jour
glacé de décembre, de la neige jusqu'au dos: j'y pris un lumbago...
Ensuite, pour les chenilles. Prières à sainte Gertrude, procession.
C'est en mars: giboulées, neige fondue, pluie gelée: j'attrape un
enrouement, je tousse depuis ce temps... Aujourd'hui, les hannetons.
Encore une procession! Il faudrait que je fisse le tour de leurs vergers
(un gros soleil de plomb, des nuages pansus et bleu noir comme des
mouches, un orage qui mitonne, je reviendrais avec un bon chaud
refroidi) en chantant le verset: «_Ibi ceciderunt_ fauteurs d'iniquité,
_atque expulsi sunt_ et n'ont pas pu _stare_...» Mais c'est moi qui
serais proprement expulsé!... «_Ibi cecidit_ Chamaille Baptiste, dit
Dulcis, curé.»... Non, non, non, grand merci! Je ne suis pas pressé. On
se lasse, à la fin, des meilleures plaisanteries. Est-ce à moi, s'il
vous plaît, d'écheniller leurs champs? Si les hannetons les gênent,
qu'ils se déshannetonnent eux-mêmes, ces feignants! Aide-toi, et le Ciel
t'aidera. Ce serait trop commode de se croiser les bras et de dire au
curé: «fais ceci, fais cela!» Je ferai ce qu'il plaît à Dieu, et moi: je
bois. Je bois. Faites de même... Quant à eux, qu'ils m'assiègent, s'ils
veulent! Je n'en ai cure, compagnons, et je jure qu'ils lèveront plutôt
le siège de ma maison, que je ne lèverai le mien de ce fauteuil. Buvons!
* * *
Il but, exténué par sa grande dépense de souffle et d'éloquence. Et
nous, ainsi que lui, levâmes notre verre dessus notre goulet, regardant
au travers le ciel et notre sort, qui nous paraissaient roses. Pendant
quelques minutes, le silence régna. Seul, Paillard, qui claquait de la
langue, et Chamaille, dans le gros cou de qui le vin faisait: glouglou.
Il buvait d'un seul trait, Paillard, à petits coups. Chamaille, quand le
flot tombait au fond du trou, faisait: «Han!» en levant ses yeux au
firmament. Paillard regardait son verre, par-dessus, par-dessous, à
l'ombre et au soleil, le humait, reniflait, buvait du nez, de l'oeil,
autant que du palais. Pour moi, je savourais ensemble le breuvage et les
buveurs; ma joie s'augmentait de la leur, et de les observer: boire et
voir font la paire; c'est un morceau de roi. Je n'en fessais pas moins,
prompt et preste, mon verre. Et tous trois, bien au pas; point de
retardataire!... Qui le croirait pourtant? Quand nous fîmes le compte,
celui qui arriva premier à la barrière, d'une bonne lampée, fut monsieur
le notaire.
Après que la rosée de cave eut humecté doucement nos gésiers et rendu la
souplesse aux esprits animaux, nos âmes s'épanouirent, et nos faces
aussi. À la fenêtre ouverte, accoudés, attendris, nous regardions avec
extase dans les champs le printemps nouveau, le gai soleil sur les
fuseaux des peupliers qui se remplument, au creux du val l'Yonne cachée
qui tourne et tourne dans les prés, comme un jeune chien qui se joue, et
d'où montait à nous l'écho des battoirs et des laveuses et des canes
cacardeuses. Et Chamaille, déridé, disait, en nous pinçant le bras:
--Qu'il fait bon vivre, en ce pays! Que le Dieu du ciel soit béni, qui
tous trois nous fit naître ici! Se peut-il rien de plus mignon, de plus
riant, de plus touchant, attendrissant, appétissant, gras, moelleux et
gracieux! On en a les larmes aux yeux. On voudrait le manger, le gueux!
Nous approuvions, du menton, lorsque soudain il repartit:
--Mais pourquoi diable eut-il l'idée, là-haut, de faire en ce pays
pousser ces animaux-ci? Il eut raison, c'est entendu. Il sait ce qu'il
fait, il faut croire... mais je préférerais, je l'avoue, qu'il eût tort,
et que mes paroissiens fussent au diable, où l'on voudra: chez les Incas
ou le Grand Turc, je ne m'en soucie, pourvu qu'ils soient ailleurs
qu'ici!
Nous lui dîmes:
--Chamaille, ils sont pourtant les mêmes. Autant ceux-ci que d'autres! À
quoi sert de changer?
--C'est donc, reprit Chamaille, qu'ils ont été créés, non pour être
sauvés par moi, mais se sauver, en me forçant à faire pénitence sur
terre. Convenez, mes compères, convenez qu'il n'est guère métier plus
misérable que celui d'un curé de campagne, qui sue à faire entrer les
saintes vérités dans le crâne endurci de ces pauvres hébétés. On a beau
les nourrir du suc de l'Évangile et faire à leurs bambins téter le
catéchisme: le fait à peine entré leur ressort par le nez; faut à ces
grands gousiers plus grossière pâtée. Quand ils ont mâchonné quelque
temps un _ave_, d'un coin de bouche à l'autre promené litanies, ou, pour
s'entendre braire, chanté vêpres et complies, rien des sacrées paroles
ne passe le parvis de leur gueule assoiffée. Le coeur ni l'estomac n'en
reçoit quasi rien. Après comme devant, ils restent purs païens. En vain,
depuis des siècles, nous extirpons des champs, des ruisseaux, des
forêts, les génies et les fées; vainement, nous soufflons, à en faire
éclater nos joues et nos poumons, nous soufflons, ressoufflons ces
flambeaux infernaux, afin que, dans la nuit plus noire de l'univers, la
lumière du vrai Dieu seule se fasse voir, jamais on n'a pu tuer ces
esprits de la terre, ces sales superstitions, cette âme de la matière.
Les vieilles souches des chênes, les noires pierres-qui-virent,
continuent d'abriter cette engeance satanique. Combien nous en avons
pourtant brisées, taillées, pillées, brûlées, déracinées! Il faudrait
retourner chaque motte, chaque pierre, la terre tout entière de la
Gaule, notre mère, pour finir d'arracher les diables qu'elle a au corps.
On n'y arriverait même pas. Cette damnée nature nous glisse entre les
mains: vous lui coupez les pattes, il repousse des ailes. Pour chaque
dieu qu'on tue, il en renaît dix autres. Tout est dieu, tout est diable,
pour ces abrutis-là. Ils croient aux loups-garous, au cheval blanc sans
tête et à la poule noire, au grand serpent humain, au lutin Fouletot et
aux canards sorciers... Mais dites-moi, je vous prie, la tête que doit
faire, au milieu de ces monstres éclopés, échappés de l'Arche de Noé, le
doux fils de Marie et du pieux charpentier!
Mons Paillard répondit:
--Compère, «_oeil un autre oeil voit, et non soi_». Tes paroissiens sont
fous, c'est certain. Mais toi, es-tu plus sain? Curé, tu n'as rien à
dire; car tu fais tout comme eux. Tes saints valent-ils mieux que leurs
lutins et leurs fées?... Ce n'était pas assez d'avoir un Dieu en trois,
ou trois qui en font un, et la déesse mère, il a fallu loger dans votre
Panthéon un tas de petits dieux en chausses et en jupons, afin de
remplacer ceux qui étaient brisés et de remplir les niches que vous
aviez vidées. Mais ces dieux, non, vrai Dieu! ne valent pas les vieux.
On ne sait d'où ils viennent; il en sort de partout, comme des limaçons,
tous mal faits, gens de peu, pouacres, stropiats, mal lavés, couverts de
plaies et bosses, et mangés de vermine: l'un exhibe un moignon qui
saigne, ou sur sa cuisse un ulcère luisant; l'autre coquettement porte
sur son chignon enfoncé, un tranchoir; celui-ci se promène la tête sous
le bras; celui-là, tout glorieux, entre ses doigts secoue sa peau, comme
une chemise. Et, sans aller si loin, que dirons-nous, curé, de ton
saint, de celui qui trône en ton église, le Stylite Simon, qui pendant
quarante ans se tint sur une jambe, au sommet d'un pilier, à l'instar
d'un héron?
Chamaille sursauta et cria:
--Halte-là! passe encore pour les autres saints! Je ne suis pas chargé
de les garder. Mais, païen, celui-là, c'est le mien, je suis chez lui.
Mon ami, sois poli!
--Laissons donc (je suis ton hôte) sur sa patte ton échassier; mais
dis-moi ce que tu penses de l'abbé de Corbigny, qui prétend avoir en
bouteille du lait de la Très Sainte-Vierge; et dis-moi que te semble
aussi M. de Sermizelles, qui, un jour, ayant la courante, s'administra
de l'eau bénite et de la poudre de reliques, en tisane de lavement!
--Ce que j'en pense, dit Chamaille, c'est que toi-même, toi qui railles,
si tu souffrais du fondement, tu en ferais peut-être autant. Quant à
l'abbé de Corbigny, tous ces moines, pour nous prendre la pratique,
tiendraient boutique, s'ils le pouvaient, de lait d'archanges, de crème
d'anges, et de beurre de séraphins. Ne parle pas de ces gens-là! Moine
et curé, c'est chien et chat.
--Alors, curé, tu n'y crois pas, à ces reliques?
--Non, pas aux leurs, je crois aux miennes. J'ai l'os acromion de sainte
Diétrine, qui éclaircit l'urine et le teint des diétreux[4]. Et j'ai le
bregmatis carré de saint Étoupe qui chasse les démons des ventres des
moutons... Veux-tu bien ne pas rire! Parpaillot, tu te gausses? Tu ne
crois donc à rien? J'ai les titres ici (aveugles qui en doute! je m'en
vais les chercher), sur parchemin signés; tu verras, tu verras leur
authenticité.
--Reste assis, reste assis, et laisse tes papiers. Tu n'y crois pas non
plus, Chamaille, ton nez bouge... Quel qu'il soit, d'où qu'il vienne, un
os sera toujours un os, et qui l'adore un idolâtre. Chaque chose en sa
place: les morts au cimetière! Moi, je crois aux vivants, je crois qu'il
fait grand jour, que je bois et raisonne--et raisonne fort bien--que
deux et deux font quatre, que la terre est un astre immobile et perdu
dans l'espace tournant; je crois en Guy Coquille, et puis te réciter, si
tu veux, tout du long, le recueil des Coutumes de notre Nivernois; je
crois aussi aux livres où la science de l'homme et son expérience goutte
à goutte se filtrent; par-dessus tout, je crois en mon entendement. Et
(cela va sans dire) je crois également en la sacrée Parole. Il n'est
d'homme prudent et sage d'en douter. Es-tu content, curé?
--Non, je ne le suis pas, s'écria mon Chamaille, tout de bon irrité.
Es-tu calvinien, hérétique, huguenot, qui marmonne la Bible, en remontre
à sa mère l'Église, et qui prétend (fausse couvée de vipères!) se passer
de curé?
À son tour, se fâcha mon Paillard, protestant qu'il ne permettait pas
qu'on le dît protestant, qu'il était bon François, catholique de poids,
mais homme de bon sens et qui n'est point manchot de l'esprit ni des
poings, qui voit clair à midi sans mettre ses lunettes, qui nomme un sot
un sot et Chamaille trois sots en un, ou un en trois (comme il voudra),
et, pour honorer Dieu, honore sa raison, qui du grand luminaire est le
plus beau rayon.
* * *
Là-dessus, ils se turent et burent, en grognant et boudant, accoudés sur
la table tous deux, et se tournant le dos. Moi j'éclatai de rire. Alors,
ils s'aperçurent que je n'avais rien dit, et je le remarquai, moi-même,
à cet instant. Jusque-là, j'étais occupé à les voir, à les écouter, en
m'amusant des arguments, en les mimant des yeux, du front, en répétant
tout bas les mots, en remuant sans bruit la bouche, comme un lapin qui
mâche un chou. Mais les deux enragés parleurs me sommèrent de déclarer
pour lequel des deux j'étais. Je répondis:
--Pour tous les deux, et pour quelques autres encore. N'en est-il plus à
discourir? Plus on est de fous, plus on rit et plus on rit, plus on est
sage... Mes compères, quand vous voulez savoir ce que vous possédez,
vous commencez par aligner sur une page tous vos chiffres; après, vous
les additionnez. Pourquoi donc ne pas mettre au bout l'une de l'autre
vos lubies? Toutes ensemble font peut-être la vérité. La vérité vous
fait la nique, quand vous voulez l'accaparer. Le monde, enfants, a plus
d'une explication: car chacune n'explique qu'un côté de la question. Je
suis pour tous vos dieux, les païens, les chrétiens, et pour le dieu
raison, par-dessus le marché.
À ces mots, tous les deux s'unissant contre moi, courroucés,
m'appelèrent pyrrhonien et athée.
--Athée! que vous faut-il? que voulez-vous de moi? Votre Dieu ou vos
dieux, votre loi ou vos lois veulent venir chez moi? Qu'ils viennent! Je
les reçois. Je reçois tout le monde, je suis hospitalier. Le bon Dieu me
plaît fort, et ses saints encore plus. Je les aime, les honore, et leur
fais la risette; et (ce sont bonnes gens) ils ne refusent pas de venir
avec moi faire un bout de causette. Mais, pour vous parler franc, un
seul Dieu, je l'avoue, je n'en ai pas assez. Qu'y faire? je suis
gourmand... on me met à la diète! J'ai mes saints, j'ai mes saintes, mes
fées et mes esprits, ceux de l'air, de la terre, des arbres et des eaux;
je crois à la raison; je crois aussi aux fous, qui voient la vérité; et
je crois aux sorciers. J'aime bien à penser que la terre suspendue se
balance dans les nues, et je voudrais toucher, démonter, remonter tous
les beaux mécanismes de l'horloge du monde. Mais cela ne fait point que
je n'aie du plaisir à écouter chanter les célestes grillons, les étoiles
aux yeux ronds, et à épier l'homme au fagot dans la lune... Vous haussez
les épaules? Vous, vous êtes pour l'ordre. Eh! l'ordre a bien son prix!
Mais il n'est pas pour rien, et il se fait payer. L'ordre, c'est ne pas
faire ce qu'on veut, et c'est faire ce qu'on ne voudrait pas. C'est se
crever un oeil, pour mieux voir avec l'autre. C'est abattre les bois pour
y faire passer les grandes routes droites. C'est commode, commode...
Mais bon Dieu! que c'est laid!! Je suis un vieux Gaulois: beaucoup de
chefs, beaucoup de lois, tous frères, et chacun pour soi. Crois si tu
veux, et laisse-moi, si je veux, ne pas croire ou croire. Honore la
raison. Et surtout, mon ami, ne touche pas aux dieux! Il en bout, il en
pleut, d'en haut, d'en bas, dessus nos nez, dessous nos pieds; le monde
en est gonflé, comme laie en gésine. Je les estime tous. Et je vous
autorise à m'en apporter d'autres. Mais je vous défie bien de m'en
reprendre un seul, ni de me décider à lui donner congé; à moins que le
coquin n'ait par trop abusé de ma crédulité.
Me prenant en pitié, Paillard et le curé demandèrent comment je pouvais
retrouver mon chemin, au milieu de ce tohu-bohu.
--Je l'y trouve fort bien, dis-je; tous les sentiers me sont familiers,
je m'y promène à l'aise. Quand je vais seul par la forêt, de Chamoux à
Vézelay, croyez-vous donc que j'aie besoin de la grand-route? Je vais,
je viens, les yeux fermés, par les chemins des braconniers; et si je
suis peut-être arrivé le dernier, du moins j'apporte au gîte ma
gibecière pleine. Tout y est à sa place, rangé, étiqueté: le bon Dieu à
l'église, les saints dans leurs chapelles, les fées parmi les champs, la
raison sous mon front. Ils s'entendent très bien: chacun a sa chacune,
sa tâche et sa maison. Ils ne sont pas soumis à un roi despotique; mais,
tels messieurs de Berne et leurs confédérés, ils forment tous entre eux
des cantons alliés. Il en est de plus faibles, il en est de plus forts.
Ne t'y fie pas pourtant! On a parfois besoin des faibles contre les
forts. Et certes, le bon Dieu est plus fort que les fées. Tout de même,
il lui faut aussi les ménager. Et le bon Dieu tout seul n'est pas plus
fort que tous. Un fort trouve toujours un plus fort qui le croque.
Croquant croqué. Oui-dà. On ne m'ôtera pas, voyez-vous, de l'idée, que
le _plus grand bon Dieu_, nul ne l'a encore vu. Il est très loin, très
haut, tout au fond, tout au haut. Comme notre sire roi. On connaît
(trop) ses gens, intendants, lieutenants. Mais lui reste en son Louvre.
Le bon Dieu d'aujourd'hui, celui que chacun prie, c'est comme qui dirait
M. de Concini... Bon, ne me bourre point, Chamaille! Je dirai, pour ne
point te fâcher, que c'est notre bon duc, M. de Nivernois. Que le Ciel
le bénisse! Je l'honore et je l'aime. Mais devant le seigneur du Louvre,
il se tient coi, et fait bien. Ainsi soit!
--Ainsi soit! dit Paillard; mais il n'est pas ainsi. Hélas! il s'en faut
bien! _«En l'absence du seigneur, se connaît le serviteur.»_ Depuis que
notre Henri est mort, et le royaume en quenouille tombé, les princes
jouent avec la quenouillette, la quenouilleuse... «_Les jeux des princes
plaisent à ceux-là qui les font...»_ Ces larrons vont pêcher dedans le
grand vivier, et vider le trésor de l'or et des victoires futures
endormies dans les coffres de l'Arsenal, que garde M. de Sully. Ah! que
le vengeur vienne, qui leur fera cracher la tête, avec l'or qu'ils ont
mangé!
Là-dessus nous en dîmes plus qu'il n'est prudent de le noter: car sur ce
chant donné, nous étions tous d'accord. Et nous fîmes aussi quelques
variations sur les princes enjuponnés, sur les cafards empantouflés, les
gras prélats, et sur les moines fainéants. Je dois dire que Chamaille
improvisait sur ce sujet les plus beaux chants, les plus brillants. Et
le trio continua de marcher en mesure, tous trois comme une voix, quand
nous prîmes pour thème, après les mielleux, les fielleux, après les faux
dévots ceux-là qui le sont trop, les fanatiques de tout poil, huguenots,
cagots, nigauds, ces imbéciles qui prétendent, pour imposer l'amour de
Dieu, le faire entrer à coup de trique, ou bien de dague dans la peau!
Le bon Dieu n'est pas un ânier, pour nous mener par le bâton. Qui veut
se damner, qu'il se damne! Faut-il encore le tourmenter, de son vivant,
et le brûler? Dieu merci, laissez-nous tranquilles! Que chacun vive, en
notre France, et laisse vivre son prochain! Le plus impie est un
chrétien: car Dieu est mort pour tous les hommes. Et puis, le pire et le
meilleur, au bout du compte, ce sont deux pauvres animaux: orgueil ne
sied ni dureté; ils se ressemblent, comme deux gouttes d'eau.
Après quoi, fatigués de parler, nous chantâmes, entonnant à trois voix
un cantique à Bacchus, le seul dieu sur lequel moi, Paillard, le curé,
nous ne discutions pas. Chamaille proclamait bien haut qu'il préférait
celui-là à ces autres, que tous ces sales moines de Luther et Calvin et
les prêchi-prêcha débitent en sermons. Bacchus, lui, est un dieu que
l'on peut reconnaître, et digne de respect, un dieu de bonne souche,
bien française... que dis-je? chrétienne, mes chers frères: car Jésus
n'est-il pas, dans certains vieux portraits, parfois représenté en un
Bacchus qui foule les grappes avec ses pieds? Buvons donc, mes amis, à
notre Rédempteur, notre Bacchus chrétien, notre Jésus riant dont le beau
sang vermeil coule sous nos coteaux et parfume nos vignes, nos langues
et nos âmes, et verse son esprit doux, humain, généreux et railleur
gentiment, dans notre claire France, au bon sens, au bon sang!
* * *
À ce point du discours, et comme nous choquions nos verres, en l'honneur
du gai bon sens français qui se rit de l'excès en tout («_Entre les deux
s'assied le sage»_... d'où vient qu'il sied souvent par terre), un grand
bruit de portes fermées, de pas pesants dans l'escalier, de Jésus! de
Joseph! _d'ave_, et de gros soupirs oppressés, nous annonça l'invasion
de dame Héloïse Curé, comme on nommait la gouvernante, ou «la Curée».
Elle soufflait, en essuyant sa large face avec un coin de tablier, et
s'exclama:
--Holà! Holà! Au secours, monsieur le curé!
--Eh! grosse bête, qu'y a-t-il? demanda l'autre, impatienté.
--Ils viennent! Ils viennent! Ce sont eux!
--Qui? Ces chenilles, qui s'en vont par les champs, en procession? Je te
l'ai dit, ne parle plus de ces païens, mes paroissiens!
--Ils vous menacent!
--Je m'en moque. Et de quoi? D'un procès devant l'official? Allons-y! Je
suis prêt.
--Ah! mon monsieur, si ce n'était qu'un bon procès!
--Qu'est-ce donc? Parle!
--Ils sont là-bas, chez le grand Picq, qui font des signes
cabalistiques, des ésorchixmes, comme on dit, et qui chantent:
«_Saillez, mulots et hannetons, saillez des champs, allez manger dans le
verger et dans la cave du curé!»_
À ces mots, Chamaille bondit:
--Ah! ces maudits! Dans mon verger, leurs hannetons! Et dans ma cave...
Ils m'assassinent! Ils ne savent plus qu'inventer! Ah! Seigneur, saint
Simon, venez au secours de votre curé!
Nous tentâmes de le rassurer, nous riions bien!
--Riez! riez! nous cria-t-il. Si vous étiez à ma place, mes beaux
esprits, nous ne ririez pas autant. Eh! parbleu, je rirais aussi, en
votre peau: c'est bien commode! Mais je voudrais vous voir devant cette
nouvelle, et préparant table, cellier, appartement, pour recevoir ces
garnements!... Leurs hannetons! c'est écoeurant... Et leurs mulots!... Je
n'en veux pas! Mais c'est à se casser la tête!
--Eh! quoi, lui dis-je, n'es-tu pas le curé? Que crains-tu?
Désexorcise-toi! N'en sais-tu pas vingt fois plus que tes paroissiens?
N'es-tu pas plus fort qu'eux?
--Hé! Hé! je n'en sais rien. Le grand Picq est très malin. Ah! mes amis!
Ah! mes amis! Quelle nouvelle! Ah! les bandits!... J'étais si bien, si
confiant! Ah! rien n'est sûr! Dieu seul est grand. Que puis-je faire? Je
suis pris. Ils me tiennent... Mon Héloïse, va, cours leur dire qu'ils
s'arrêtent! Je viens, je viens, il le faut bien! Ah! les gredins! Quand,
à mon tour, sur leur grabat, je les tiendrai... En attendant _(Fiat
voluntas...) c'est_ moi qui passe par leur trente-six volontés!...
Allons, il faut boire la coupe. Je la boirai. J'en ai bu d'autres!...
Il se leva. Nous demandâmes:
--Où vas-tu donc?
--À la croisade, répondit-il, des hannetons.
IV
LE FLÂNEUR OU UNE JOURNÉE DE PRINTEMPS
Avril.
Avril, gracile fille du printemps, pucelette maigrelette, aux yeux
charmants, je vois fleurir tes seins menus sur la branche d'abricotier,
la branche blanche dont les bourgeons pointus, rosés, sont caressés par
le soleil du frais matin, à ma fenêtre, en mon jardin. Quelle belle
matinée! Quelle félicité de penser qu'on verra, qu'on voit cette
journée! Je me lève, j'étire mes vieux bras où je sens la bonne
courbature du travail acharné. Les quinze jours derniers, mes apprentis
et moi, afin de rattraper les chômages forcés, nous avons fait voler les
copeaux et chanter le bois sous nos rabots. Notre faim de travail est
malheureusement plus vorace que n'est l'appétit du client. Eh! l'on
n'achète guère, on se presse encore moins de payer ce qu'on a commandé;
les bourses sont saignées à blanc; n'y a plus de sang au fond des
escarcelles; mais y en a toujours dans nos bras et nos champs; la terre
est bonne, celle dont je suis fait et celle où je vis (c'est la même).
«_Ara, ora et labora._ Roi tu seras.» Ils sont tous rois, les
Clamecycois, ou le seront, oui, par ma foi: car j'entends, dès ce matin,
bruire les aubes des moulins, grincer le soufflet de la forge, tinter la
danse sur l'enclume des marteaux des maréchaux, le couperet sur le
tranchoir hacher les os, les chevaux à l'abreuvoir renifler l'eau, le
savetier qui chante et cloue, les roues des chars sur le chemin, et les
sabots _pati-patoche_, les fouets claquants, les bavardages des
passants, les voix, les cloches, le souffle enfin de la ville
travaillant, qui fait _ahan: «Pater noster,_ nous pétrissons _panem
nostrum_ quotidien, en attendant que tu le donnes: c'est plus
prudent...» Et sur ma tête, le beau ciel du bleu printemps, où le vent
passe, pourchassant les nuages blancs, le soleil chaud et l'air
frisquet. Et l'on dirait... c'est la jeunesse qui renaît! Elle revient,
à tire-d'aile, du fond des temps, refaire son nid d'hirondelle sous
l'auvent de mon vieux coeur qui l'attend. La belle absente, comme on
l'aime, à son retour! Bien plus, bien mieux qu'au premier jour...
À ce moment, j'entends grincer la girouette sur le toit, et ma vieille,
dont la voix aigre criait je ne sais quoi à je ne sais pas qui,
peut-être à moi. (N'écoutais pas.) Mais la jeunesse effarouchée était
partie. Au diable soit la girouette!... Elle, enragée (je dis: ma
vieille), elle descend me corner dans le tympan son chant:
--Que fais-tu là, les bras ballants, bayant aux nues, maudit feignant,
la gueule ouverte comme le trou d'une citerne? Tu fais peur aux oiseaux
du ciel. Qu'attends-tu? Qu'une alouette toute rôtie tombe dedans, ou
bien le pleur d'une hirondelle? Pendant ce temps, moi, je me tue, je
souffle, je sue, je m'évertue, je peine comme un vieux cheval, pour
servir cet animal!... Va, faible femme, c'est ton lot!... Eh bien, non,
non, car le Très-Haut n'a pas dit que nous aurions toute la peine, et
que Adam irait de-ci, de-là, flânant, et les mains derrière le dos. Je
veux qu'il souffre aussi, et je veux qu'il s'ennuie. Si c'était
autrement, s'il s'amusait, le gueux, il y aurait de quoi désespérer de
Dieu! Par bonheur, je suis là, moi, afin d'accomplir ses saintes
volontés. As-tu fini de rire? Au travail, si tu veux faire bouillir le
pot!... Eh! voyez s'il m'écoute! Grouilleras-tu bientôt?
Avec un doux sourire, je dis:
--Mais oui, ma belle. Ce serait un péché de rester au logis, par ce
matin joli.
Je rentre à l'atelier, je crie aux apprentis:
--Il me faut, mes amis, une pièce de bois, liant, doux, et serré. Je
vais voir chez Riou, s'il a dans l'entrepôt quelque beau madrier. Hop!
Cagnat! Robinet! Allons faire notre choix.
Eux et moi, nous sortons. Et ma vieille criait. Je dis:
--Chante toujours!
Mais ce dernier conseil n'était pas nécessaire. Quelle musique! Je
sifflais, pour renforcer le couplet. Le bon Cagnat disait:
--Eh! maîtresse, on croirait qu'on s'en va-t-en voyage. Dans un petit
quart d'heure, on sera de retour.
--Avec ce brigand-là, dit-elle, sait-on jamais!
* * *
Neuf heures alors sonnaient. Nous allions en Béyant, le trajet n'est pas
long. Mais au pont de Beuvron, on s'arrête en passant (il faut bien
s'informer de la santé des gens), pour saluer Fétu, Gadin et Trinquet
dit Beau-Jean, qui commencent leur journée, assis sur la chaussée, à
regarder l'eau couler. On devise, un moment, de la pluie et du beau
temps. Puis, nous nous remettons en route, sagement. On est hommes de
conscience, on va par le plus droit, on ne cause avec personne (il est
vrai que sur le chemin, nous ne rencontrons personne). Seulement (on est
sensible aux beautés de la nature), on admire le ciel, les jeunes
pousses du printemps, dans les fossés des murs un pommier fleurissant,
on regarde l'hirondelle, on fait halte, on discute la direction du
vent...
À mi-chemin, je songe que je n'ai d'aujourd'hui embrassé ma Glodie. Je
dis:
--Allez toujours. Je fais les deux chemins. Chez Riou, je vous rejoins.
Quand j'arrivai, Martine, ma fille, était en train de laver sa boutique,
à grande eau, sans cesser de jaser, de jaser, de jaser, avec l'un, avec
l'autre, son mari, ses garçons, l'apprenti, et Glodie, et deux ou trois
commères en plus du voisinage, avec qui elle riait, à rate que veux-tu,
sans cesser de jaser, de jaser, de jaser. Et quand elle eut fini, non de
jaser, mais de laver, elle sortit et vida le seau dans la rue, à toute
volée. Moi, je m'étais arrêté, quelques pas avant d'entrer, afin de
l'admirer (elle me réjouit les yeux et le coeur, quel morceau!) et je
reçus la moitié du seau sur les mollets. Elle n'en rit que mieux, mais
moi bien plus fort qu'elle. Ah! la belle Gauloise, qui me riait au nez,
avec ses noirs cheveux qui lui mangent le front, ses forts sourcils, ses
yeux qui brûlent, et ses lèvres encore plus, rouges comme des tisons et
gonflées comme des prunes! Elle allait, gorge nue et bras nus,
gaillardement troussée. Elle dit:
--À la bonne heure! Au moins, as-tu tout pris?
Je répondis:
--Il ne s'en faut guère; mais je ne me soucie de l'eau, pourvu que je ne
sois pas obligé à la boire.
--Entre, dit-elle, Noé, du déluge sauvé, Noé le vigneron. J'entre, je
vis Glodie, assise en court jupon, sous le comptoir tapie:
--Bonjour, petit mitron.
--Je parie, dit Martine, que je sais ce qui t'a fait sortir si tôt de la
maison.
--Tu paries à coup sûr, tu connais la raison, tu as sucé son téton.
--C'est la mère?
--Pardine!
--Que les hommes sont poltrons!
Florimond, qui entrait, juste, reçut le paquet. Il prit un air piqué. Je
lui dis:
--C'est pour moi. Ne t'offense pas, mon gars!
--Il y a part pour deux, dit-elle, ne sois pas si glouton. L'autre
gardait toujours sa dignité froissée. Il est un vrai bourgeois. Il n'a
jamais admis qu'on pût rire de lui; aussi, quand il nous voit tous deux,
Martine et moi, il se méfie, il épie, d'un regard soupçonneux, les mots
qui vont sortir de nos bouches qui rient! Eh! pauvres innocents! Quelle
malice on nous prête!
Je dis ingénument:
--Tu plaisantes, Martine; je sais que Florimond est maître, en sa
maison; il ne se laisse pas, comme moi, damer le pion. D'ailleurs sa
Florimonde est douce, docile, discrète, n'a pas de volonté, obéit sans
parler. La bonne fille, elle tient de moi qui ai toujours été un pauvre
homme timide, soumis et écrasé!
--As-tu bientôt fini de te moquer du monde! fit Martine à genoux, qui
frottait de nouveau (et je te frotte, et je te frotte) les carreaux, les
croisées, d'une joie enragée.
Et tout en travaillant (moi, je la regardais faire), nous dégoisions
ensemble de bons et drus propos. Au fond du magasin, que Martine
remplissait de son mouvement, de son verbe, de sa robuste vie, se tenait
rencogné Florimond, renfrogné, pincé, collet monté. Il n'est jamais à
l'aise, dans notre société; les mots verts l'effarouchent, et les saines
gauloiseries: ils choquent sa dignité; et puis, il ne comprend pas que
l'on rie par santé. Il est petiot, pâlot, maigriot et morose; il aime à
se plaindre de tout; il ne trouve rien de bien, sans doute, parce qu'il
ne voit que lui. Une serviette enroulée autour de son cou de poulet, il
avait l'air inquiet, et remuait, à droite, à gauche, les prunelles;
enfin, il dit:
--On est à tous les vents, ici, comme sur une tour. Toutes les fenêtres
sont ouvertes.
Martine, sans l'interrompre, dit:
--Eh! quoi, j'étouffe.
Quelques minutes, Florimond tenta de tenir bon... (Il soufflait, à dire
vrai, un beau petit vent frais)... Et partit furibond. La gaillarde
accroupie leva la tête, et dit, avec sa bonne humeur affectueuse et
railleuse:
--Il va se remettre au four.
Narquois, je demandais si elle s'entendait toujours avec son pâtissier.
Elle se garda bien de me dire que non. Ah! la sacrée mâtine, lorsqu'elle
s'est trompée, on la couperait en quatre, plutôt qu'elle avouât.
--Et pourquoi donc, dit-elle, ne m'entendrais-je pas? Il est fort à mon
goût.
--Oui-dà, j'en mangerais. Mais pour ta grande bouche, dis-je, un petit
pâté est bien vite avalé.
--De ce qu'on a, dit-elle, il faut se contenter.
--C'est bien dit. Malgré tout, si j'étais à la place du petit pâté, je
serais, je l'avoue, à moitié rassuré.
--Pourquoi? N'a rien à redouter, car je suis loyale en marché. Mais
qu'il le soit pareillement! Car sinon, le garnement, s'il me trompe, est
prévenu: le jour ne passera point qu'il ne soit coquericocu. Chacun son
bien. À lui le sien. À moi le mien. Donc, qu'il fasse son devoir!
--Tout son devoir.
--Dame, il faudrait un peu voir qu'il se plaignît que la pucelle fût
trop belle!
--Ah! diablesse, je ne m'abuse, c'est toi qui répondis à la buse, qui
rapportait l'ordre du ciel.
--Je connais plus d'un busard, dit-elle, mais sans plumes. Duquel
veux-tu parler?
--Connais-tu pas, dis-je, l'histoire de la buse que des commères
envoyèrent à Notre Père, pour demander que les marmots, à peine éclos,
pussent trotter sur leurs deux jambes? Le bon Dieu dit: «Je le veux
bien.» (Il est galant avec les dames.) «Je ne demande en échange rien
qu'une petite condition à mes aimables paroissiennes: que désormais,
sous l'édredon, femmes, filles et fillettes couchent seulettes.» La buse
emporta, fidèle, le message sous son aile; et je n'étais point là, le
jour qu'il arriva; mais je sais que le messager en entendit de belles!
Martine s'arrêta, sur les talons assise, de frotter pour pousser de
grands éclats de rire; et puis, me bouscula, en criant:
--Vieux bavard! plus qu'un pot à moutarde, bavard, baveux, bavant!
Va-t'en de là, va-t'en! Conteur de balivernes! À quoi es-tu bon, dis?
Faire perdre le temps! Çà, déguerpis. Et tiens, emmène-moi aussi ce
petit chien sans queue, qui traîne dans mes jambes, ta Glodie, oui, qui
vient de se faire chasser encore du fournil et de fourrer ses pattes, je
gage, dans la pâte (elle en a sur le nez). Ouste, filez tous deux,
laissez-nous, marmousets, laissez-nous travailler, ou je prends mon
balai...
Elle nous mit dehors. Nous partîmes tous deux, bien contents; nous
allâmes ensemble chez Riou. Mais nous nous arrêtâmes un peu, au bord de
l'Yonne. Nous regardions pêcher. Nous donnions des conseils. Et nous
avions grand-joie quand plongeait le bouchon, ou que du vert miroir
l'ablette bondissait. Mais Glodie, en voyant à l'hameçon le ver, qui se
tordait de rire, me dit, d'un petit air dégoûté:
--Père-grand, il a mal, il va être mangé.
--Eh! ma mignonne, dis-je, sans doute! Être mangé, c'est un petit
désagrément. Il n'y faut pas penser. Pense plutôt à qui le mange, au
beau poisson. Il dit: «c'est bon!»
--Mais si c'était toi pourtant que l'on mange, père-grand!
--Eh bien, je le dirais aussi: «Je suis-t-y bon! L'heureux coquin! Ah!
quelle chance il a, le gaillard qui me mange!»
Voilà, ma fille, voilà comment père-grand est: toujours content!
Mangeur, mangé, il n'est rien de tel que d'arranger la chose en sa
cervelle. Un Bourguignon trouve tout bon.
En devisant ainsi, déjà nous nous trouvâmes (il n'était pas onze heures)
arrivés chez Riou, sans y avoir pensé. Cagnat et Robinet m'attendaient,
mais en paix, sur la berge vautrés; et Binet, qui avait pris ses
précautions et sa canne à pêcher, taquinait le goujon.
J'entrai dans le chantier. À partir du moment où je suis au milieu des
beaux arbres couchés, dévêtus et tout nus, et que la bonne odeur de
sciure me monte au nez, dame, j'avoue, le temps et l'eau ont pu couler.
Je ne puis me lasser de leur tâter les cuisses. J'aime un arbre plus
qu'une femme. Chacun a sa folie. J'ai beau savoir celui que je veux et
prendrai. Si j'étais chez le Grand Turc et que je visse, en un marché,
celle que j'aime parmi vingt belles filles nues, croyez-vous que
m'empêcherait mon amour pour ma mie de savourer de l'oeil, en passant,
les appâts du reste du troupeau? Je ne suis pas si sot! Pourquoi Dieu
m'aurait-il donné des yeux avides de la beauté, si, quand elle apparaît,
je devais les fermer? Non, les miens sont ouverts, comme des portes
cochères. Tout y entre, rien ne se perd. Et comme, vieux finaud, je sais
voir sous la peau des femelles rusées leurs désirs, leur malice et leur
fourbe pensée, ainsi sous l'écorce rude ou lisse de mes arbres je sais
lire l'âme enclose, qui sortira de l'oeuf,--si je veux le couver.
En attendant que je veuille, Cagnat, qui s'impatiente (c'est un
avale-tout-cru, il n'y a que nous, les vieux, qui sachions savourer),
converse à coups de gueule avec quelques flotteurs qui, de l'autre côté
de l'Yonne, vont flânant, ou font le pied de grue sur le pont de Béyant.
Car, dans les deux faubourgs, si les oiseaux diffèrent, leur coutume est
la même: percher, pendant le jour, les fesses incrustées sur le rebord
des ponts, et se rincer le bec, dans un voisin bouchon. La conversation,
comme c'est l'habitude, entre fils de Beuvron et fils de Bethléem,
consiste en quolibets. Ces messieurs de Judée nous traitent de paysans,
d'escargots de Bourgogne et de croque-fumier. Et nous, nous répliquons à
leurs aménités, en les nommant «guernouilles» et gueules de brochets...
Je dis: nous, car ne puis, quand j'entends chanter les litanies, me
dispenser de dire mon: _Ora pro nobis!_ C'est pour être poli. À qui vous
parle, on doit répondre. Après que nous eûmes honnêtement échangé
quelques propos jolis (voilà-t-il pas que sonne l'_angelus_ de midi!
J'en sursaute, ébaubi... Hohé! le Temps, hohé! Mais ton sablier
fuit!...) je prie premièrement nos bons flotteurs d'aider Cagnat et
Robinet à charger ma charrette, et de la charrier, _secundo_, à Beuvron,
avec le bois que j'ai choisi. Ils crient beaucoup:
--Sacré Breugnon! Tu ne te gênes pas!
Ils crient beaucoup, mais ils le font. Ils m'aiment, au fond.
Nous revînmes au galop. Sur le pas des boutiques, admirant notre zèle,
on nous regardait passer. Mais quand mon attelage arriva sur le pont de
Beuvron et qu'on trouva, fidèles, les trois autres moineaux, Fétu,
Gadin, Trinquet, qui voyaient couler l'eau, les jambes s'arrêtèrent, et
les langues, _presto_, se remirent en marche. Les uns méprisaient les
autres, parce qu'ils faisaient quelque chose. Les autres méprisaient les
uns, parce qu'ils ne faisaient rien. Tout le répertoire des chanteurs y
passa. Sur la borne du coin, moi, je m'étais assis, et j'attendais la
fin, pour décerner le prix. Lorsqu'une voix me crie à l'oreille:
--Brigand! Te voilà revenu! Enfin, me diras-tu comment, depuis neuf
heures, de Beuvron à Béyant, tu as passé le temps? Le feignant! Quel
malheur! Quand serais-tu rentré, si je ne t'avais pris? Au logis,
scélérat! Mon dîner est brûlé.
Je dis:
--Le prix, tu l'as. Mes amis, vous aurez beau faire: pour ce qui est du
chant, auprès de celle-là, vous êtes de petits enfants.
Mon éloge ne fit que la rendre plus vaine. Elle nous régala encore d'un
morceau. Nous criâmes:
--Bravo!... Et maintenant, rentrons. Va devant. Je te suis.
Ma femme rentrait donc, en tenant par la main ma Glodie, et suivie par
les deux apprentis. Docile, mais sans hâte, j'allais en faire autant,
quand de la ville haute un bruit joyeux de voix, des sonneries de cors,
et le gai carillon de la tour Saint-Martin me firent, vieux flaireur,
renifler l'air, en quête d'un spectacle nouveau. C'était le mariage de
M. d'Amazy avec Mlle Lucrèce de Champeaux, fille du receveur des tailles
et taillon.
Pour voir entrer la noce, les voilà tous qui prennent leurs jambes à
leur cou, et grimpent quatre à quatre vers la place du château. Vous
pensez si je fus le dernier à courir! Ce sont là des aubaines qu'on n'a
point tous les jours. Seuls, Trinquet et Gadin et Fétu, les flâneurs, ne
daignèrent lever leur derrière vissé au bord de la rivière, disant que
ce n'était à eux, gens du faubourg, d'aller faire visite aux bourgeois
de la tour. Certes, j'aime l'orgueil, et l'amour-propre est beau. Mais
lui sacrifier mon divertissement..., serviteur, mon amour! Ta façon de
m'aimer vaut celle du curé qui me fouettait gamin, disait-il, pour mon
bien...
Bien que j'eusse avalé d'un seul trait l'escalier de trente et six
degrés qui monte à Saint-Martin, j'arrivai (quel malheur!) sur la place
trop tard pour voir la noce entrer. Fallut donc (c'était de toute
nécessité) que j'attendisse qu'elle sortît. Mais ces sacrés curés n'en
ont jamais assez de s'entendre chanter. Pour occuper le temps, je
parvins à entrer, à grand-sueur, dans l'église, en foulant gentiment les
bedons complaisants et les coussins charnus; mais je me trouvai pris, à
l'entrée du parvis, sous l'édredon humain, ainsi que dans un lit, bien
au chaud, sous la plume. N'eût été l'endroit saint, j'avoue que j'aurais
eu quelques pensées folâtres. Mais il faut être grave, il y a temps et
lieu; et quand je dois, je puis l'être comme un baudet. Mais il arrive
aussi que le bout de l'oreille reparaît quelquefois, et que le baudet
brait. Il arriva ce jour: car, tandis que, dévot et discret, je suivais,
en bâillant pour mieux voir, le joyeux sacrifice de la chaste Lucrèce à
M. d'Amazy, quatre trompes de chasse, par saint Hubert, sonnèrent,
accompagnant l'office, en l'honneur du chasseur; la meute seule
manquait: on le regrettait bien. Moi, j'avalai mon rire; et
naturellement, je ne pus m'empêcher de siffler (mais tout bas) la
fanfare. Seulement lorsque vint le moment fatidique, où à la question du
curé curieux la mariée répond: «Oui», et que, gaillardement, les joues
gonflées sonnèrent la prise, c'en fut trop, je criai:
--Hallali!
Vous pensez si l'on rit! Mais le suisse arriva, en fronçant le sourcil.
Je me fis tout petit, et me glissant le long des croupes, je sortis.
Sur la place je me trouvai. La compagnie n'y manquait point. Tous, comme
moi, hommes de bien, sachant user des yeux pour voir, des oreilles pour
croire et boire ce qu'ont happé les autres yeux, et de la langue pour
conter ce qu'on n'est pas forcé d'avoir vu pour en parler. Dieu sait si
je m'en suis donné!... Pour beau mentir n'est pas besoin venir de loin.
Aussi, le temps passa très vite, pour moi du moins, jusqu'au moment où
se rouvrit la grande porte de l'église, au bruit des orgues. Parut la
chasse. Glorieux, marchait en tête l'Amazy, tenant au bras la bête
prise, qui roulait ses beaux yeux de biche, à droite, à gauche, en
minaudant... Eh! j'aime mieux n'être chargé de la garder, la belle
enfant! À qui la débobinera, donnera du fil à retordre. Qui prend la
bête, il prend les cornes...
Mais je n'en vis pas davantage de la chasse et de la curée, du piqueur
et de la piquée, et ne saurais même décrire (ce n'est pas pour m'en
vanter) la couleur des habits du sire et la robe de la mariée. Car juste
à ce moment, nos esprits furent pris et notre attention par la grave
question de l'ordre et de la marche et de la préséance de messieurs du
cortège. Déjà, me conta-t-on, quand ils étaient entrés (ah! que
n'étais-je là!) le juge et procureur de la châtellenie et monsieur
l'échevin, maire en titre d'office, ainsi que deux béliers, au seuil,
s'étaient heurtés. Mais le maire, plus gros, plus fort, avait passé.
S'agissait de savoir à présent qui des deux sortirait le premier et
montrerait son nez sur le sacré parvis. Nous faisions des paris. Mais il
ne sortait rien: comme un serpent coupé, la tête de la noce poursuivait
son chemin; le corps ne suivait point. Enfin, nous rapprochant de
l'église, nous vîmes, dedans, près de l'entrée, de chacun des côtés, nos
animaux furieux, dont chacun empêchait le rival de passer. Comme, dans
le saint lieu, ils n'osaient pas crier, on les voyait remuer le nez et
les babines, ouvrir des yeux énormes, faire le dos en boule, froncer le
front, souffler, gonfler les joues, le tout sans qu'il sortît un son.
Nous nous tenions les côtes; et tout en pariant et riant, nous aussi,
nous avions pris parti. Les hommes d'âge, pour le juge, représentant du
seigneur duc (qui voudrait le respect pour soi, le prêche aux autres);
les jeunes coqs, pour notre maire, champion de nos libertés. Moi,
j'étais pour celui des deux qui l'autre rosserait le mieux. Et l'on
criait, pour exciter chacun le sien:
--Cz! Cz! vas-y, monsieur Grasset! Mords-lui la crête, mons Pétaud! Çà,
çà, rabats-lui le caquet! Aïe donc! hardi, bourriquet!...
Mais ces rossards se contentaient de se cracher leur rage au nez, sans
s'empoigner, par peur sans doute de gâter leurs beaux effets. À ce
compte, la discussion eût risqué de s'éterniser (car n'était pas à
craindre que le bec leur gelât), sans M. le curé, inquiet d'arriver en
retard à dîner. Il dit:
--Mes chers enfants, le bon Dieu vous entend, le repas vous attend; ne
faut en aucun cas faire attendre un repas, faire entendre au Seigneur,
notre mauvaise humeur, en son temple. Lavons le linge à la maison...
S'il ne le dit du moins (car je n'entendais rien), ce dut être le sens:
car je vis à la fin que ses deux grosses mains empoignaient par la nuque
et rapprochaient leurs mufles pour un baiser de paix. Après quoi, ils
sortirent, mais sur la même ligne, ainsi que deux piliers encadrant au
milieu le ventre du curé. Au lieu d'un maître, trois. À disputes de
maîtres, peuple ne perd jamais.
* * *
Ils étaient tous passés et rentrés au château, pour manger le dîner
qu'ils avaient bien gagné; nous restions, grosses bêtes, à bâiller sur
la place, autour de la marmite que nous ne voyions pas, comme pour
avaler les odeurs du repas. Pour mieux me contenter, me fis dire les
plats. Nous étions trois gourmands, mons Tripet, Bauldequin, et
Breugnon, ci-présent, qui nous regardions en riant, à chaque mets qu'on
nommait, et nous nous donnions du coude dans les côtes. Nous approuvions
ce plat, nous discutions cet autre: on eût pu faire mieux, si l'on eût
consulté des gens d'expérience, comme nous; mais enfin, ni faute
d'orthographe, ni péché capital; et le dîner en somme était fort
honorable. À propos d'un civet, chacun dit sa recette; et ceux qui
écoutaient ajoutèrent leur mot. Mais là-dessus bientôt un débat éclata
(ces sujets sont brûlants; faut être un méchant homme, pour pouvoir en
parler, de coeur et de sang-froid). Il fut surtout très vif entre dame
Perrine et la Jacquotte, qui sont rivales et font les grands dîners en
ville. Chacune a son parti, chaque parti prétend éclipser l'autre, à
table. Ce sont de beaux tournois. Dans nos villes, les bons repas, ce
sont les joutes des bourgeois. Mais malgré que je sois friand des beaux
débats, rien ne m'est fatigant comme d'ouïr conter les prouesses des
autres, quand moi, je n'agis point; et je ne suis pas homme à me nourrir
longtemps du jus de ma pensée et de l'ombre des plats que je ne mange
pas. C'est pourquoi je fus aise, quand mons Tripet me dit (le pauvre
aussi souffrait!):
--À parler de cuisine trop longtemps, on devient, Breugnon, comme un
amant qui parle trop d'amour. Je n'en peux plus, holà, je suis dans un
état à périr, mon ami, j'arde, je me consume, et mes entrailles fument.
Allons les arroser et nourrir l'animal qui me ronge le ventre.
--Nous en viendrons à bout, dis-je. Compte sur moi. Contre la maladie de
la faim, la médecine la meilleure est de manger, dit un ancien.
Nous allâmes ensemble, au coin de la Grand-Rue, à l'hôtel des Écus de
France et du Dauphin: car de rentrer chez nous, à deux heures passées,
nul de nous n'y pensait; Tripet eût, comme moi, redouté d'y trouver la
soupe froide et la femme bouillante. C'était jour de marché, la salle
était bondée. Mais si, quand on est seul, à table, bien à l'aise, on est
mieux pour manger, quand on est bien serré par de bons compagnons, on
mange mieux: ainsi, tout est toujours très bien.
Pendant un long moment, nous cessâmes tous deux de parler, si ce n'est
_in petto_, c'est-à-dire du coeur et des mâchoires, à un petit salé aux
choux, qui rose et doux embaumait et fondait. Dessus, rouge chopine,
pour éclaircir la bruine que j'avais sur les yeux: car manger et non
boire, comme disent nos vieux, c'est aveugler, non voir. Après quoi, la
vue claire et le gosier lavé, je pus recommencer à bien considérer les
hommes et la vie, qui paraissent plus beaux après qu'on a mangé.
À la table voisine, un curé des environs avait pour vis-à-vis une
vieille fermière, qui lui faisait le dos rond; elle s'inclinait, parlait
en renfonçant la tête dedans sa carapace, la tordant de côté et
doucereusement levant vers lui sa face, comme à la confession. Et le
curé, de même l'écoutait de profil, affable, et sans l'entendre, à
chaque révérence répondait poliment par une révérence, sans perdre une
goulée, et semblait dire: «Allez, ma fille, _absolvo te_. Tous vos
péchés vous sont remis. Car Dieu est bon. J'ai bien dîné. Car Dieu est
bon. Et ce boudin noir est très bon.»
Un peu plus loin, notre notaire, maître Pierre Delavau, qui traitait un
de ses confrères, parlait d'écus, de la vertu, d'argent, de politique,
de contrats, de république... romaine (il est républicain, en vers
latins; mais dans la vie, prudent bourgeois, il est bon serviteur du
roi).
Puis, au fond, mon oeil vagabond dénicha Perrin le Queux, en biaude[5]
bleue, raide empesée, Perrin de Corvol-l'Orgueilleux, dont le regard au
même instant se rencontrant avec le mien, il s'exclama, il se leva et
m'appela. Je jurais qu'il m'avait vu, dès le début; mais le matois se
tenait coi, car il me doit deux armoires en beau noyer, depuis deux ans,
que j'ai taillées. Il vint à moi, m'offrit un verre:
--Tout mon coeur, mon coeur vous salue[6]...
...M'en offrit deux:
--«Pour marcher droit, sur les deux jambes marcher l'on doit...»
...Me proposa de prendre part à son repas. Il espérait qu'ayant dîné,
je dirais non. Je l'attrapai: car je dis oui. Sur ma créance, autant de
pris.
Je recommençai donc, mais cette fois plus calme, posément, n'ayant plus
à craindre la famine. Peu à peu, les dîneurs grossiers, les gens pressés
qui ne savent manger, pareils aux animaux, qu'afin de se nourrir,
avaient vidé les lieux; et il ne restait plus que les honnêtes gens,
gens d'âge et de talent, qui savent ce que vaut le beau, le bien, le
bon, et pour qui un bon plat est une bonne action. La porte était
ouverte, l'air et le soleil entraient, et trois poulettes noires
allongeant leur cou raide pour piquer les miettes sous la table et les
pattes d'un vieux chien qui dormait, et les jacassements des femmes dans
la rue, le cri du vitrier, et: «À mon beau poisson!» et le rugissement
d'un âne comme un lion. Sur la place poudreuse, on voyait deux boeufs
blancs, attelés à un char, et couchés, immobiles, leurs jambes repliées
sous leurs beaux flancs luisants, et la bave au menton, mâchonnant leur
écume avec mansuétude. Des pigeons sur le toit, au soleil, roucoulaient.
J'aurais bien fait comme eux; et je crois que nous tous, tant nous nous
sentions aises, si l'on nous eût passé la main le long du dos, nous
eussions fait ronron.
La conversation s'établit entre tous, de table à table, tous unis, tous
amis, tous frères: le curé, le queux, le notaire, son partenaire, et
l'hôtelière au nom si doux (c'est Baiselat: le nom promet; elle a tenu,
et au-delà). Pour mieux causer, je m'en allais de l'un à l'autre,
m'asseyant ici, puis là. On parla de politique. Pour que le bonheur soit
complet, après souper il ne déplaît de songer au malheur des temps. Tous
nos messieurs se lamentaient de la misère, de la cherté, du peu
d'affaires, de la ruine de notre France, de notre race en décadence, des
gouvernants, des intrigants. Mais prudemment. Ils ne nommaient aucun des
gens. Les grands ont des oreilles grandes comme eux; on ne sait pas si
l'on n'en va pas à tout moment voir passer un bout sous la porte.
Pourtant, la Vérité, en bonne Bourguignonne, étant au fond du muid, nos
amis se risquèrent peu à peu de crier contre ceux de nos maîtres qui
étaient le plus loin. Surtout, ils s'accordèrent contre les Italiens,
Conchine[7], la vermine que la grosse dondon de Florence, la reine,
apporta dans ses jupons. Si vous trouvez deux chiens qui rongent votre
rôt, dont l'un est étranger, dont le second est vôtre, vous chassez
celui-ci, mais vous assommez l'autre. Par esprit de justice, par
contradiction, je dis qu'il ne fallait châtier un seul chien, mais tous
les deux, qu'à ouïr les gens, il eût semblé qu'il ne fût de mal en
France qu'italien, que grâce à Dieu nous ne manquions ni d'autres maux,
ni de coquins. À quoi tous, d'une seule voix, répondirent qu'un coquin
italien en vaut trois et que trois Italiens honnêtes ne valent point le
tiers d'un honnête François. Je répliquai qu'ici ou là, où sont les
hommes, ce sont les mêmes animaux, et qu'une bête en vaut une autre,
qu'un bon homme, d'où qu'il soit, est bon à voir et à avoir; et quand je
l'ai, je l'aime bien, même italien. Là-dessus, ils me tombèrent tous sur
le dos, raillant, disant qu'on connaissait mon goût, et me nommant vieux
fou, Breugnon bouge-toujours, le pérégrin, l'errant, Breugnon frotteur
de routes... c'est vrai que, dans le temps, j'en ai usé beaucoup.
Lorsque notre bon duc, le père de celui d'aujourd'hui, m'envoya à
Mantoue et à Albissola, afin d'étudier les émaux, les faïences et les
industries d'art, que depuis nous plantâmes dans la terre de chez nous,
je n'ai pas ménagé les routes ni la semelle de mes pieds. Tout le trajet
de Saint-Martin à Saint-André-le-Mantouan je l'ai fait, le bâton au
poing, sur mes deux jambes. Il est plaisant sous ses talons de voir la
terre qui s'allonge et pétrir la chair du monde... Mais n'y pensons pas
trop: je recommencerais... Ils se moquent de moi! Eh! je suis un
Gaulois, je suis un fils de ceux qui pillaient l'univers. «Que diable
as-tu pillé? me dit-on en riant, et qu'as-tu rapporté?»--«Autant qu'eux.
Plein mes yeux. Les poches vides, c'est vrai. Mais la tête gavée.»...
Dieu! que c'est bon de voir, d'entendre, de goûter, de se remémorer!
Tout voir et tout savoir, on ne peut pas, je sais bien; mais tout ce
qu'on peut, au moins! Je suis comme une éponge qui tette l'océan. Ou
bien plutôt, je suis une grappe ventrue, mûre, pleine à crever du beau
jus de la terre. Quelle vendange on ferait si on l'allait presser! Pas
si bête, mes fils, c'est moi qui la boirai! Car vous la dédaignez. Eh
bien, tant mieux pour moi! Je n'insisterai pas. Autrefois, j'ai voulu
partager avec vous les miettes du bonheur que j'avais ramassé, tous mes
beaux souvenirs des pays de lumière. Mais les gens de chez nous ne sont
pas curieux, sinon de ce que fait le voisin, et surtout la voisine. Le
reste est trop loin pour y croire. Si tu veux, vas-y voir! Ici, j'en
vois autant. «Trou arrière, trou avant, ceux qui viennent de Rome valent
pis que devant.» Fort bien! Je laisse dire et ne force personne. Puisque
vous m'en voulez, je garde ce que j'ai vu, sous mes paupières, au fond
des yeux. Il ne faut pas vouloir rendre les gens heureux, malgré eux. Il
vaut bien mieux l'être avec eux, à leur façon, puis à la sienne. Un
bonheur vaut moins que deux.
C'est pourquoi, tout en dessinant, sans qu'il s'en doute, les naseaux de
Delavau, et le curé qui bat des ailes en parlant, j'écoute et chante
leur couplet, que je connais: «Quel orgueil, quelle joie d'être
Clamecycois!» Et pardieu, je le pense. C'est une bonne ville. Une ville
qui m'a fait ne peut être mauvaise. La plante humaine y pousse à l'aise,
grassement, sans piquants, point méchante, tout au plus de la langue que
nous avons bien affilée. Mais pour médire un peu du prochain (qui
riposte), il n'en va pas plus mal, on ne l'aime que mieux, et on ne lui
ferait tort d'un seul de ses cheveux. Delavau nous rappelle (et nous en
sommes fiers, tous, même le curé) la tranquille ironie de notre
Nivernois au milieu des folies du reste du pays, notre échevin Ragon
refusant de s'unir aux Guisards, aux ligueurs, aux hérétiques, aux
catholiques, Rome ou Genève, chiens enragés ou loups-cerviers, et saint
Barthélemy venant laver chez nous ses mains ensanglantées. Autour de
notre duc, tous serrés, nous formions un îlot de bon sens, où se
brisaient les flots... Le défunt duc Louis et feu le roi Henri, on ne
peut en parler sans en être attendri! Comme nous nous aimions! Ils
étaient faits pour nous, nous étions faits pour eux. Ils avaient leurs
défauts, certes, tout comme nous. Mais ces défauts étaient humains et
les faisaient plus proches, moins lointains. On disait en riant: «Nevers
est encore vert!» ou: «L'année sera bonne. Nous ne manquerons pas
d'enfants. Le vert-galant nous en fit un encore...» Ah! nous avons mangé
notre pain blanc d'abord. Aussi, nous aimons tous à parler de ces temps.
Delavau a connu le duc Louis comme moi. Mais seul, j'ai vu le roi Henri,
et j'en profite: car, devant qu'ils m'en prient, je leur fais le récit,
pour la centième fois (c'est toujours la première, pour moi, pour eux
aussi, j'espère, s'ils sont de bons François), comment je le vis, le roi
gris, en chapeau gris, en habit gris (par les trous passaient ses
coudes), à cheval sur un cheval gris, le poil gris et les yeux gris,
tout gris dehors, dedans tout or...
Par malheur, le premier clerc de mons notaire m'interrompt pour
l'avertir qu'un client meurt et le demande. Il doit partir, bien à
regret,--non pas avant de nous avoir gratifiés d'une histoire qu'il
préparait depuis une heure: (je le voyais qui sur sa langue la
retournait; mais moi d'abord plaçai la mienne). Soyons juste, elle était
bonne, j'ai bien ri. Pour vous conter la gaudriole, le Delavau est sans
égal.
* * *
Après que nous fûmes ainsi remis de nos émotions, détendus et lavés du
gosier au talon, nous sortîmes ensemble... (il devait être alors cinq
heures moins un quart, ou cinq heures à peine... En trois petites
heures, eh! j'avais récolté, avec deux bons dîners et de gais souvenirs,
une commande du notaire pour deux bahuts qu'il me fait faire)... La
compagnie se sépara après avoir pris un biscuit trempé dans deux doigts
de cassis, chez Rathery l'apothicaire. Delavau acheva d'y conter son
histoire, et nous accompagna, pour en entendre une autre, jusqu'à la
Mirandole, où nous nous séparâmes, définitivement, après avoir fait
halte, le ventre au mur, pour épancher nos dernières effusions.
Comme il était trop tard et trop tôt pour rentrer, je descendis vers
Bethléem avec un marchand de charbon, qui suivait sa charrette, en
sonnant du clairon. Près de la tour Lourdeaux, je croisai un charron,
qui courait en chassant devant lui une roue; et quand il la voyait
ralentir, il sautait, lui décochant un coup. Tel un qui court après la
roue de la Fortune; et quand il va monter dessus, elle s'enfuit. Et je
notai l'image, afin de m'en servir.
Cependant, j'étais hésitant si je devais reprendre ou non, pour
retourner à la maison, le plus court ou le plus long, lorsque je vis de
Panteor[8] venir une procession, la croix en tête, que tenait, en
l'appuyant sur son bedon, comme une lance, un polisson, pas plus haut
que ma jambe, et qui tirait la langue à l'autre enfant de choeur, en
louchant vers le bout de son sacré bâton. Après lui, quatre vieux
portaient cahin-caha, dessous un drap, de leurs mains rouges et
gonflées, un endormi qui s'en allait, sous l'aileron de son curé, en
terre achever son somme. Par politesse, je fis la conduite jusqu'au
logis. C'est plus gai, quand on n'est pas seul. J'avoue aussi que je
suivais un peu afin d'ouïr la veuve, qui, selon l'us, allait bramant, à
côté de l'officiant, et racontant la maladie et les remèdes qu'avait
pris le défunt et son agonie, ses vertus, son affection, sa complexion,
enfin sa vie et celle de son épousée. Elle alternait son élégie avec les
chansons du curé. Nous suivions, intéressés: car je n'ai pas besoin de
dire que, tout le long, nous récoltions de braves coeurs pour compatir et
des oreilles pour ouïr. Enfin, rendu à domicile, à l'auberge du bon
sommeil, on le posa dans son cercueil, au bord de la fosse bâillante; et
comme un gueux n'a pas le droit d'emporter sa chemise de bois (on dort
aussi bien tout nu), après avoir levé le drap et le couvercle de la
boîte, on le vida au fond du trou.
Quand j'eus jeté dessus une pelletée de terre afin de lui border son
lit, et fait le signe de la croix pour écarter les mauvais rêves, je
m'en allai bien satisfait: j'avais tout vu, tout entendu, pris part aux
joies, pris part aux peines; mon bissac était rempli.
Pour finir, je m'en revins, le long de l'eau. Je comptais prendre, au
confluent des deux rivières, le Beuvron, pour retourner à ma maison;
mais la soirée était si belle que me trouvai, sans y penser, hors de la
ville, et je suivis l'Yonne enjôleuse qui m'entraîna jusqu'au pertuis de
La Forêt. L'eau calme et lisse s'enfuyait, sans un pli à sa robe claire;
on était pris par les prunelles, comme un poisson qui a gobé un hameçon;
tout le ciel était comme moi pris au filet de la rivière; il s'y
baignait avec ses nuages, qui s'accrochaient, flottant, aux herbes, aux
roseaux; et le soleil lavait ses crins dorés dans l'eau. Près d'un vieux
homme je m'assis, qui gardait, traînant la quille, deux vaches maigres;
je m'enquis de sa santé, lui conseillai de se chausser la jambe d'un bas
fourré d'orties piquantes (je fais le mire[9], à mes loisirs). Il me
raconta son histoire, ses maux, ses deuils, avec gaieté, parut vexé que
je le crusse de cinq ou six ans moins âgé (il en avait soixante et
quinze); il y mettait sa vanité, il était fier d'avoir été celui qui,
ayant plus vécu, avait plus enduré. Il trouvait naturel qu'on endurât,
que les meilleurs pâtissent avec les méchants, puisqu'en revanche les
faveurs du Ciel se répandent sans distinguer sur les méchants et les
meilleurs: au bout du compte, ainsi tout est égal, c'est bien, riches et
pauvres, beaux et laids, tous un jour dormiront en paix dans les bras du
même Père... Et ses pensées, sa voix cassée, comme dans l'herbe les
grillons, le bouillonnement de l'écluse, l'odeur de bois et de goudron
que le vent apportait du port, l'eau immobile qui fuyait, les beaux
reflets, tout s'accordait et se fondait avec la paix de la soirée.
Le vieux partit, je rentrai seul, à petits pas, en regardant les ronds
qui tournoyaient dans l'eau, et les bras derrière mon dos. Si absorbé
par les images qui flottaient sur le Beuvron que j'oubliais de remarquer
où j'allais, où j'étais: si bien que brusquement je tressautai, en
m'entendant interpeller, de l'autre bord de la rivière, par une voix
trop familière... J'étais, sans m'en être aperçu, revenu devant ma
maison! À la fenêtre, ma douce amie, ma femme me montrait le poing. Je
feignis de ne la voir point, les yeux fixés sur le courant; et
cependant, me rigolant, je la voyais se démenant, gesticulant, la tête
en bas, dans le miroir de la rivière. Je me taisais; mais en mon ventre
je riais, et mon ventre sous moi roulait. Plus je riais, plus, indignée,
elle plongeait dans le Beuvron; et plus elle y piquait la tête, plus je
riais. Enfin, de rage elle claqua porte et fenêtre, et sortit comme un
ouragan pour me chercher... Oui, mais il lui fallut passer par-dessus
l'eau. À gauche? À droite? Entre deux ponts, nous nous trouvions... Elle
choisit la passerelle à droite. Et naturellement, quand je la vis en ce
chemin, moi je pris l'autre et m'en revins par le grand pont où, seul,
Gadin, comme un héron, restait planté, stoïque, depuis le matin.
Je me retrouvai au logis. C'était la nuit. Comment diable passent les
jours? Je ne suis pas heureusement comme Tite, ce fainéant, ce Romain
qui geignait toujours qu'il avait perdu son temps. Je ne perds rien, je
suis content de ma journée, je l'ai gagnée. Seulement, il m'en faudrait
deux, deux chaque jour; je n'en ai pas pour mon argent. À peine je
commence à boire, mon verre est vide; il est fêlé! Je connais d'autres
gens qui sirotent le leur, ils n'en finissent point. Est-ce que par
hasard ils ont un plus grand verre? Parbleu, ce serait là injustice
criante. Hé! là-haut, l'aubergiste à l'enseigne du Soleil, toi qui
verses le jour, fais-moi bonne mesure!... Mais non, béni sois-tu, mon
Dieu, qui m'a donné de m'en aller toujours de table avec la faim et
d'aimer tant le jour (la nuit est aussi bonne) que de l'une et de
l'autre je n'ai jamais assez!... Comme tu fuis, avril! Si tôt finie,
journée!... N'importe! J'ai bien joui de vous, je vous ai eus, et je
vous ai tenus. Et j'ai baisé tes seins menus, pucelette maigrelette,
fille gracile du printemps... Et maintenant, à toi! Bonjour, la nuit! Je
te prends. Chacune à son tour! Nous allons coucher ensemble... Ah!
sacrebleu, mais entre nous, une autre aussi sera couchée... Ma vieille
rentre...
V
BELETTE
Mai.
Depuis trois mois, j'avais reçu la commande d'un bahut avec un grand
dressoir, pour le château d'Asnois; et j'attendais, pour commencer,
d'être allé de mes yeux revoir la maison, la chambre et la place. Car un
beau meuble est comme un fruit qu'on doit cueillir à l'espalier; il ne
saurait pousser sans l'arbre; et tel est l'arbre, tel le fruit. Ne me
parlez point d'une beauté, qui pourrait être ici ou là, et qui s'ajuste
à tout milieu, comme une fille à qui la paie le mieux. C'est la Vénus
des carrefours. L'art est pour nous quelqu'un de la famille, le génie du
foyer, l'ami, le compagnon, et qui dit mieux que nous ce que tous nous
sentons; l'art, c'est notre dieu lare. Si tu veux le connaître, il faut
connaître sa maison. Le dieu est fait pour l'homme, et l'oeuvre pour le
lieu qu'elle achève et remplit. Le beau est ce qui est le plus beau en
sa place.
J'allai donc voir la place où je pourrais planter mon meuble; et j'y
passai une partie de la journée, y compris le boire et manger: car
l'esprit ne doit point le corps faire oublier. Après que tous deux
eurent satisfaction, je repris le chemin par où j'étais venu, et je m'en
retournai gaillardement à la maison.
Déjà je me trouvais à la croisée des routes, et, bien que je n'eusse
aucun doute sur celle que je devais suivre, je louchais sur l'autre
chemin que je voyais ruisseler parmi les prairies, entre les haies
fleuries.
«Qu'il ferait bon, me disais-je, flâner de ce côté! Au diable les
grandes routes, qui mènent au but tout droit! Le jour est beau et long.
N'allons pas, mon ami, plus vite qu'Apollon. Nous arriverons toujours.
Notre vieille n'aura point perdu son caquet, pour attendre... Dieu, que
ce petit prunier à la frimousse blanche est plaisant à regarder! Allons
à sa rencontre. Rien que cinq ou six pas. Le zéphir fait voler dans
l'air ses petites plumes: on dirait une neige. Que d'oiseaux
gazouillants! Ho! Ho! quel délice!... Et ce ruisseau qui glisse, en
grommelant, sous l'herbe, comme un chaton qui joue à chasser une pelote
par-dessous un tapis... Suivons-le. Voici un rideau d'arbres qui
s'oppose à sa course. Il sera bien attrapé... Ah! le petit mâtin, par où
est-il passé?... Ici, ici, dessous les jambes, les vieilles jambes
noueuses, goutteuses, et gonflées de cet orme étêté. Voyez-vous
l'effronté!... Mais où diable ce chemin peut-il bien me mener?...»
Ainsi, je devisais, marchant sur les talons de mon ombre bavarde; et je
feignais, hypocrite, d'ignorer de quel côté ce sentier enjôleur voulait
nous entraîner. Que tu mens bien, Colas! Plus ingénieux qu'Ulysse, tu te
bernes toi-même. Tu le sais bien, où tu vas! Tu le savais, sournois, dès
l'instant que tu sortais de la porte d'Asnois. À une heure, par là-bas,
est la ferme de Céline, notre passion d'autrefois. Nous allons la
surprendre... Mais qui d'elle, ou de moi, sera le plus surpris? Tant
d'années ont passé depuis que je ne la vis! Que sera-t-il resté de son
minois malicieux et de sa fine gueulette, à ma Belette? Je puis bien
l'affronter; à présent, n'y a plus de risques qu'elle me grignote le
coeur avec ses dents pointues. Mon coeur est desséché, ainsi qu'un vieux
sarment. Et a-t-elle encore des dents? Ah! Belette, Belotte, comme elles
savaient rire et mordre, tes quenottes! T'es-tu assez jouée de ce pauvre
Breugnon! L'as-tu assez fait tourner, virer, vire-vire, virevolter comme
un toton! Bah! si cela t'amusait, ma fille, tu as eu raison. Que j'étais
un grand veau!...
Je me revois, bouche bée, appuyé des deux bras, les coudes écartés, sur
le mur mitoyen de maître Médard Lagneau, mon patron qui m'apprit le
noble art de sculpter. Et de l'autre côté, dans un grand potager contigu
à la cour qui servait d'atelier, parmi les plates-bandes de laitues et
de fraises, de radis roses, de verts concombres et de melons dorés,
allait pieds nus, bras nus, et gorge à demi nue, n'ayant pour tout
bagage que ses lourds cheveux roux, une chemise en toile écrue où
pointaient ses seins durs, et une courte cotte qui s'arrêtait aux
genoux, une belle fille alerte, balançant des deux mains brunes et
vigoureuses deux arrosoirs pleins d'eau sur les têtes feuillues des
plantes qui ouvraient leur petit bec, pour boire... Et moi, j'ouvrais le
mien, qui n'était point petit, ébahi, pour mieux voir. Elle allait, elle
venait, versant ses arrosoirs, retournant les emplir ensuite à la
citerne, des deux bras à la fois, se relevant comme un jonc, et revenant
poser avec précaution, dans les minces allées, sur la terre mouillée,
ses pieds intelligents aux doigts longs, qui semblaient tâter au passage
les fraises mûres et les caprons. Elle avait des genoux ronds et
robustes de jeune garçon. Je la mangeais des yeux. Elle, n'avait point
l'air de voir que je la regardais. Mais elle s'approchait, versant sa
petite pluie; et quand elle fut tout près, soudain elle me décocha le
trait de sa prunelle... Aïe! je sens l'hameçon et le réseau serré des
lacs qui m'entortillent. Qu'il est bien vrai de dire que «l'oeil de la
femelle une araignée est tel»! À peine fus-je touché, je me débattis...
Trop tard! Je restai, sotte mouche, collé contre mon mur, les ailes
engluées... Elle ne s'occupait plus de ce que je faisais. Sur ses talons
assise, elle repiquait ses choux. De temps en temps seulement, d'un clin
d'oeil de côté, l'astucieuse bête s'assurait que la proie au piège
restait prise. Je la voyais ricasser, et j'avais beau me dire: «Mon
pauvre ami, va-t'en, elle se gausse de toi», de la voir ricasser, je
ricassais aussi. Que je devais donc avoir la face d'un abruti!...
Brusquement, la voilà qui fait un bond de côté! Elle enjambe une
plate-bande, une autre, une autre encore, elle court, elle saute,
attrape au vol une graine de pissenlit qui voguait mollement sur les
ruisseaux de l'air, et, agitant le bras, elle crie, me regardant:
--Encore un amoureux de pris!
Ce disant, elle fourrait la barque duvetée, dedans l'entrebâillure de sa
gorgeronnette, entre ses deux tétins. Moi, qui pour être un sot, ne suis
pas de l'espèce des galants morfondus, je lui dis:
--Mettez-m'y aussi!
Lors, elle se mit à rire, et, les mains à ses hanches, droit en face, sur
ses jambes écartées, elle me repartit:
--Ardez ce gros goulu! Ce n'est pas pour tes babines que mes pommes
mûrissent...
C'est ainsi que je fis, un soir de la fin d'août, connaissance avec
elle, la Belotte, la Belette, la belle jardinière. Belette on la
nommait, pour ce que comme l'autre, la dame au museau pointu, elle avait
le corps long, et la tête menue, nez rusé de Picarde, bouche avançant un
peu et bien fendue en fourche, pour rire et pour ronger les coeurs et les
noisettes. Mais de ses yeux bleu-dur, noyés dans la buée d'un beau temps
orageux, et du coin de ses lèvres de faunesse mignarde au sourire
mordant, se dévidait le fil dont la rousse araignée tissait sa toile
autour des gens.
Je passais maintenant la moitié de mon temps, au lieu de travailler, à
béer sur mon mur, jusqu'à ce qu'entre mes fesses le pied de maître
Médard vigoureusement planté vînt me faire descendre sur la réalité.
Quelquefois, la Belette criait, impatientée:
--M'as-tu assez regardée, par-devant, par-derrière. Qu'en veux-tu voir
de plus? Tu dois pourtant me connaître!
Et moi, clignant de l'oeil finement, je disais:
--_«Femme et melon, à peine les cognoist-on.»_
Que j'en eusse volontiers découpé une tranche!... Peut-être un autre
fruit eût-il aussi fait l'affaire. J'étais jeune, le sang chaud, épris
des onze mille vierges; était-ce elle que j'aimais? Il y a des heures
dans la vie où l'on serait amoureux d'une chèvre coiffée. Mais non,
Breugnon, tu blasphèmes, tu n'en crois pas un mot. La première qu'on
aime, c'est la vraie, c'est la bonne, c'est celle qu'on devait aimer;
les astres l'avaient fait naître, pour vous désaltérer. Et c'est
probablement parce que je ne l'ai pas bue, que j'ai soif, toujours soif,
et l'aurai toute ma vie.
Comme nous nous entendions! Nous passions notre temps à nous asticoter.
Nous avions tous les deux la langue bien pendue. Elle me disait des
injures; et moi, pour un boisseau, j'en rendais un setier. Tous deux,
l'oeil et la dent prompts à mordre le morceau. Nous en riions parfois,
jusqu'à nous étrangler. Et elle, pour rire, après une méchanceté, se
laissait choir à terre, assise à croupetons, comme si elle voulait
couver ses raves et ses oignons.
Le soir, elle venait causer, près de mon mur. Je la vois, une fois, tout
en parlant et riant, avec ses yeux hardis qui cherchaient dans mes yeux
le défaut de mon coeur, pour le faire crier, je la vois, bras levés,
attirant une branche de cerisier chargée de rouges pendeloques qui
formaient une guirlande autour des cheveux roux; et, sans cueillir les
fruits, les becquetant à l'arbre, gorge tendue, bec en l'air, en
laissant les noyaux. Image d'un instant, éternelle et parfaite,
jeunesse, jeunesse avide qui tette les mamelles du ciel! Que de fois
j'ai gravé la ligne de ces beaux bras, de ce cou, de ces seins, de cette
bouche gourmande, de cette tête renversée, sur les panneaux de meubles,
en un rinceau fleuri!... Et penché sur mon mur, tendant le bras, je pris
violemment, j'arrachai la branche qu'elle broutait, j'y appliquai ma
bouche, je suçai goulûment les humides noyaux.
Nous nous retrouvions aussi, le dimanche, à la promenade, ou à la Cave
de Beaugy. Nous dansions; j'avais la grâce de maître Martin Bâton; amour
me donnait des ailes: amour apprend, dit-on, aux ânes à danser. Je crois
qu'à aucun instant, nous ne cessions de batailler... Qu'elle était
agaçante! M'en a-t-elle dégoisé, des malices mordantes, sur mon long nez
de travers, ma grande gueule bâillante où l'on eût pu, dit-elle, faire
cuire un pâté, ma barbe de savetier, et toute cette mienne figure que
monsieur mon curé prétend faite à l'image du Dieu qui m'a créé! (Quelle
pinte de rire, alors, quand je le verrai!) Elle ne me laissait pas une
minute de repos. Et je n'étais non plus ni bègue, ni manchot.
À ce jeu prolongé, nous commencions tous deux, vrai Dieu, à nous
échauffer... Te souviens-tu, Colas, des vendanges en la vigne de maître
Médard Lagneau? Belette était conviée. Nous étions côte à côte courbés
dans les perchées. Nos têtes se touchaient presque, et ma main
quelquefois, en dépouillant un cep, rencontrait par mégarde sa croupe ou
son mollet. Alors elle relevait sa face enluminée; comme une jeune
pouliche, elle m'appliquait une ruade, ou me barbouillait le nez avec le
jus d'une grappe; et moi, je lui en écrasais une, juteuse et noire, sur
sa gorge dorée que le soleil brûlait... Elle se défendait, ainsi qu'une
diablesse. J'avais beau la presser, jamais je ne réussis une fois à la
prendre. Chacun de nous guettait l'autre. Elle attisait le feu et me
regardait brûler, en me faisant la nique:
--Tu ne m'auras pas, Colas...
Et moi, l'air innocent et tapi sur mon mur, gros chat ramassé en boule
qui fait celui qui dort et, par l'étroite raie des paupières
entrouvertes, épie la souris qui danse, je me pourléchais d'avance:
--Rira bien le dernier.
Or, un après-midi (c'était en ce mois-ci), tout à la fin de mai (mais il
faisait alors bien plus chaud qu'aujourd'hui), l'air était accablant; le
ciel blanc vous soufflait son haleine brûlante comme la gueule d'un
four; dedans ce nid blotti, depuis presque une semaine, l'orage couvait
ses oeufs qui ne voulaient pas éclore. On fondait, de chaleur; le rabot
était en eau, et mon vilebrequin me collait dans la main. Je n'entendais
plus Belotte, qui tout à l'heure chantait. Je la cherchai des yeux. Dans
le jardin, personne... Soudain, je la vis là-bas, à l'ombre de la
cabane, assise sur une marche. Elle dormait, bouche ouverte, la tête
renversée, sur le seuil de la porte. Un de ses bras pendait, le long de
l'arrosoir. Le sommeil l'avait brusquement terrassée. Elle s'offrait
sans défense, tout son corps étalé, demi-nue et pâmée sous le ciel
enflammé, comme une Danaé! Je me crus Jupiter. J'escaladai le mur,
j'écrasai en passant les choux et les salades, je la pris à pleins bras,
je la baisai à pleine bouche; elle était chaude et nue et mouillée de
sueur; à demi endormie, elle se laissait prendre, gonflée de volupté;
et, sans rouvrir les yeux, sa bouche cherchait ma bouche et me rendait
mes baisers. Que se passa-t-il en moi? Quelle aberration! Le torrent du
désir me coulait sous la peau; j'étais ivre, j'étreignais cette chair
amoureuse; la proie que je convoitais, l'alouette rôtie me venait choir
dans le bec... Et voici (grande bête!) que je n'osai plus la prendre. Je
ne sais quel scrupule stupide me saisit. Je l'aimais trop, il m'était
pénible de penser que le sommeil la liait, que je tenais son corps et
non pas son esprit, et que ma fière jardinière, je ne la devrais donc
qu'à une trahison. Je m'arrachai au bonheur, je dénouai nos bras, nos
lèvres et les liens qui nous tenaient rivés. Ce ne fut pas sans peine:
l'homme est feu et la femme étoupe, nous brûlions tous les deux, je
tremblais et soufflais, comme cet autre sot qui vainquit Antiope. Enfin,
je triomphai, c'est-à-dire que je m'enfuis. À trente-cinq ans de là le
rouge m'en monte au front. Ah! jeunesse imbécile! Qu'il est bon de
penser qu'on a été si bête, et que cela fait frais au coeur!...
À partir de ce jour, elle fut avec moi une diablesse incarnée. Fantasque
autant que trois troupeaux de chèvres capricantes, plus que nuée
changeante, un jour elle me dardait un mépris insultant, ou bien elle
m'ignorait; un autre, m'arquebusait de regards langoureux, de rires
enjôleurs; cachée derrière un arbre, me visait sournoisement avec une
motte de terre s'écrasant sur ma nuque quand j'avais le dos tourné,
ou--pan sur le pif!--avec un noyau de prune, lorsque je levais le nez.
Et puis, à la promenade, elle caquetait, coquetait et coquericotait,
avec l'un, avec l'autre.
Le pire est qu'elle s'avisa, pour mieux me dépiter, de prendre au
trébuchet un autre merle de ma sorte, mon meilleur compagnon, Quiriace
Pinon. Nous étions, lui et moi, les deux doigts de la main. Tels Oreste
et Pylade, il n'était pas de rixes, noces ou festins où l'on vît l'un
sans l'autre, s'escrimant de la gueule, du jarret ou du poing. Il était
noueux comme un chêne, trapu, carré d'épaules et carré du cerveau, franc
de la langue et franc du collier. Il eût tué quiconque m'eût voulu
chercher noise. Ce fut lui justement qu'elle choisit pour me nuire. Elle
n'eut pas grand-peine. Il suffit de quatre oeillades et d'une
demi-douzaine des coutumières grimaces. Jouer de l'air innocent,
langoureux, effronté, ricaner, chuchoter, ou faire la sucrée, ciller,
battre des paupières, montrer les dents, sa lèvre mordre, ou bien la
pourlécher de sa langue pointue, se tortiller le cou, se dandiner les
hanches, et hocher le croupion, comme une bergeronnette, quel est le
fils d'Adam qui ne se laisserait prendre aux petites manigances de la
fille du serpent? Pinon en perdit le peu qu'il avait de raison. Dès
lors, nous fûmes deux, perchés sur notre mur, pantelants et pantois, à
guetter la belette. Sans desserrer les dents, déjà nous échangions des
regards furieux. Elle, attisait le feu et, pour mieux l'exciter,
l'aspergeait par moments d'une douche d'eau glacée.
Quel que fût mon dépit, je riais de l'arrosage. Mais Pinon, ce grand
cheval, en piaffait dans la cour. Il en jurait de rage, sacrait,
menaçait, tempêtait. Il était incapable de comprendre une plaisanterie,
à moins qu'il ne l'eût faite (et personne, en ce cas, ne la comprenait
que lui; mais il en riait pour trois). La donzelle cependant, comme une
mouche sur du lait, se délectait, buvant ces injures amoureuses; cette
rude manière différait de la mienne; et quoique cette Gauloise matoise,
bonne raillarde, gaillarde, fût bien plus près de moi que de cet animal
hennissant, se cabrant, ruadant, pétaradant, par divertissement, par
amour du changement, et pour me faire damner, elle n'avait que pour lui
de regards prometteurs, de sourires alléchants. Mais lorsqu'il
s'agissait de tenir ses promesses et que déjà le sot, fanfaron,
s'apprêtait à sonner sa fanfare, elle lui riait au nez et le laissait
quinaud. Moi, je riais aussi, bien entendu; et Pinon dépité tournait
contre moi sa rage; et il me soupçonnait de lui souffler sa belle.
Advint que, certain jour, il me pria tout net de lui céder la place. Je
dis avec douceur:
--Frère, j'allais justement te faire la même prière.
--Alors, frère, dit-il, faut se casser la tête.
--J'y pensais, répondis-je; mais, Pinon, il m'en coûte.
--Moins qu'à moi, mon Breugnon. Va-t'en donc, s'il te plaît: c'est assez
d'un seul coq dans un seul poulailler.
--D'accord, dis-je, va-t'en, toi: car la poule est à moi.
--À toi! tu as menti, cria-t-il, paysan, cul-terreux, et mangeux
d'caillé! Elle est mienne, je la tiens, nul autre n'y goûtera.
--Mon pauvre ami, je réponds, tu ne t'es donc pas regardé! Auvergnat,
croque-navets, à chacun son potage! Ce fin gâteau de Bourgogne est à
nous; il me plaît, j'en suis affriandé. N'y a point de part pour toi. Va
déterrer tes raves.
De menace en menace, nous en vînmes aux coups. Pourtant, nous avions
regret, car nous nous aimions bien.
--Écoute, me dit-il, laisse-la-moi, Breugnon: c'est moi qu'elle préfère.
--Nenni, dis-je, c'est moi.
--Eh bien, demandons-lui. L'évincé s'en ira.
--Tope-là! qu'elle choisisse!...
Oui, mais allez donc demander à une fille qu'elle choisisse! Elle a trop
de plaisir à prolonger l'attente, qui lui permet de prendre en pensée
l'un et l'autre et de n'en prendre aucun, et de tourner, retourner sur
le gril ses galants... Impossible de la saisir! Quand nous lui en
parlions, Belette nous répondait par un éclat de rire.
Nous revînmes à l'atelier, nous mîmes bas nos vestes.
--N'est plus d'autre moyen. Il faut que l'un de nous crève.
Au moment de s'empoigner, Pinon me dit:
--Bige-moi!
Nous nous embrassâmes deux fois.
--Maintenant, allons-y!
La danse commença. Nous y allions tous deux, à bon jeu bon argent. Pinon
m'assenait des coups à m'enfoncer le crâne sur les yeux et moi, je lui
défonçais le ventre, à coups de genoux. N'est rien tel que d'être amis
pour bien être ennemis. Au bout de quelques minutes, nous étions tout en
sang; et de rouges rigoles, ainsi que vieux bourgogne, nous ruisselaient
du nez... Ma foi, je ne sais pas comment cela eût tourné; mais sûrement
l'un des deux eût eu la peau de l'autre, si par grande fortune les
voisins ameutés et maître Médard Lagneau, qui rentrait au logis, ne nous
eussent séparés. Ce ne fut point commode: nous étions comme des dogues;
il fallut nous rosser pour nous faire lâcher prise. Maître Médard dut
prendre un fouet de charretier: il nous sangla, gifla, puis enfin
raisonna. Après le coup, Bourguignon sage. Quand on s'est bien cardé, on
devient philosophe, il est bien plus aisé d'écouter la raison. Nous
n'étions pas très fiers quand nous nous regardions. Et c'est alors
qu'advint le troisième larron.
Gros meunier, ras et roux, hure ronde, Jean Gifflard, joues enflées,
petits yeux enfoncés, il avait l'air toujours d'emboucher la trompette.
--Que voilà deux beaux coqs! dit-il en s'esclaffant. Ils seront bien
avancés quand, pour cette geline, ils se seront mangé la crête et les
rognons! Niquedouilles! Ne voyez-vous donc pas qu'elle se rengorge
d'aise, quand vous vous chantez pouilles? Il est plaisant, parbleu, pour
une de ces femelles, de traîner à ses cottes une harde amoureuse qui
brame après sa peau... Voulez-vous un bon conseil? Je vous le donne pour
rien. Faites la paix entre vous, moquez-vous d'elle, enfants, elle se
moque de vous. Tournez-lui les talons et partez, tous les deux. Elle
sera bien marrie. Faudra bon gré maugré qu'elle fasse enfin son choix,
et nous verrons alors qui des deux elle veut. Allons, ouste, filez!
Point de retard! Tranchons le vif! Courage! Suivez-moi, gens de bien!
Tandis que traînerez vos savates poudreuses sur les routes de France,
moi, je reste, compagnons, je reste pour vous servir: faut s'aider entre
frères! J'épierai la donzelle, je vous tiendrai au courant de ses
lamentations. Dès qu'elle aura choisi, je préviendrai le gagnant;
l'autre ira se faire pendre... Et là-dessus, allons boire! Boire et
boire noie la soif, l'amour et la mémoire...
Nous les noyâmes si bien (nous bûmes comme des bottes) que, le soir de
ce jour, au sortir du bouchon, nous fîmes notre paquet, nous prîmes
notre bâton; et nous voilà partis, par une nuit sans lune, moi et
l'autre niais, glorieux comme deux pets, et pleins de gratitude envers
ce bon Gifflard, qui se dilatait d'aise et dont les petits yeux, sous
les grasses paupières, dans la face luisante comme rillettes, riaient.
Nous fûmes moins glorieux, le lendemain matin. Nous n'en convenions
point, nous faisions les malins. Mais chacun ruminait, ruminait, et ne
comprenait plus l'étonnante tactique, pour prendre une place forte,
d'avoir foutu le camp. À mesure que le soleil roulait dans le ciel rond,
nous nous trouvions tous deux de plus en plus Jocrisses. Quand le soir
fut venu, nous nous guettions de l'oeil, parlant négligemment de la pluie
et du beau temps, pensant:
--Mon bon ami, comme tu parles bien! Cependant tu voudrais me fausser
compagnie. Mais n'y a point de risque. Je t'aime trop, mon frère, pour
te laisser tout seul. Où que tu ailles (masque, je le sais, je le
sais...), je t'emboîte le pas.
Après mainte mainte ruse afin de nous dépister (nous ne nous quittions
plus, même pour aller pisser), au milieu de la nuit,--nous feignions de
ronfler, mordus sur la paillasse par l'amour et les puces,--Pinon sauta
du lit et cria:
--Vingt bons dieux! Je cuis, je cuis, je cuis! Je n'en peux plus! Je
m'en retourne...
Moi, je dis:
--Retournons.
Nous mîmes un jour entier à revenir chez nous. Le soleil se couchait.
Jusqu'à ce que vînt la nuit, nous restâmes cachés dans les bois du
Marché. Nous ne tenions pas beaucoup à ce qu'on nous vît entrer: on eût
daubé sur nous. Et puis, voulions surprendre la Belette dolente, seule,
pleurant, s'accusant:
«Hélas! m'ami, m'ami, pourquoi es-tu parti?» Qu'elle s'en mordît les
doigts et soupirât, nul doute; mais qui était l'ami? Chacun répondait:
--Moi.
Or, arrivés sans bruit le long de son jardin (une sourde inquiétude nous
picotait le sein), sous sa fenêtre ouverte et baignée par la lune, à la
branche d'un pommier nous vîmes accroché... Que croyez? Une pomme? Un
chapeau de meunier! Vous conterai-je la suite? Bonnes gens, vous seriez
trop aises. Jà, je vous vois, farceurs, qui vous épanouissez. Le malheur
du voisin est pour vous divertir. Cocus sont toujours contents que
croisse la confrérie...
Quiriace prit son élan et bondit comme un daim (il en avait les cornes).
Fonça sur le pommier au fruit enfariné, escalada le mur, s'engouffra
dans la chambre, d'où sortirent aussitôt des cris, des glapissements,
des mugissements de veau, des jurons...
--Vertusguoy, ventreguoy, sacripant, sacredieu, au meurtre, à mort, à
l'aide, cocu, coquin, coquard, catin, crottin, cafard, crapaud,
croquant, carcan, je t'essorillerai, je te boyauderai, je t'en baillerai
de vertes, des mûres et des blettes, je te talerai le derrière, attrape,
face à clystère!...
Et des beugnes, et des bignes... Et vlan! et pan! et rran! Patatras!
vitres brisées, vaisselle cassée, meubles qui croulent, gros corps qui
roulent, fille qui piaille, mâtins qui braillent... À cette musique
diabolique (soufflez, ménestriers!) vous pensez si l'on vit le quartier
ameuté!
Je ne m'attardai point à regarder la suite. J'en avais assez vu. Je
repris le chemin par où j'étais venu, riant d'un oeil et de l'autre
pleurant, l'oreille basse et le nez au vent.
--Bien, mon Colas, disais-je, tu l'as échappé belle!
Et tout au fond de lui, Colas était penaud de n'avoir pas au piège pu
laisser ses houseaux. Je faisais le farceur, je me remémorais tout le
charivari, je mimais l'un, puis l'autre, le meunier, la fille, l'âne, je
poussais des soupirs à me décrocher l'âme...
--Hélas! que c'est plaisant! que mon coeur a de peine! Ah! j'en mourrai,
disais-je, de rire... non, de douleur. Qu'il s'en est fallu de peu que
cette petite gueuse ne me mît sous le bât mariteux et piteux! Eh! que ne
l'a-t-elle fait! Que ne suis-je cocu! Du moins, je l'aurais eue. C'est
déjà quelque chose, d'être bâté par ce qu'on aime!... Dalila! Dalila!
Ah! traderidera!...
Quinze jours durant, je fus ainsi tiraillé entre l'envie de rire et
l'envie de larmoyer. Je résumais, à moi seul, en ma face de travers,
toute la sagesse antique, Héraclite le pleurard et Démocrite hilare.
Mais les gens, sans pitié, me riaient tous au nez. À de certaines
heures, quand je pensais à ma mie, je me serais fait périr. Ces heures
ne duraient guère. Par bonheur!... Il est très beau d'aimer; mais par
Dieu, mes amis, c'est trop aimer quand on en meurt! Bon pour les Amadis
et pour les Galaor! Nous ne sommes pas, en Bourgogne, des héros de
roman. Nous vivons: nous vivons. Quand on nous a fait naître, on ne nous
a pas demandé si cela nous agréait, nul ne s'est informé si nous
voulions la vie; mais puisque nous y sommes, nom d'un bonhomme, j'y
reste. Le monde a besoin de nous... À moins que ce ne soit nous qui
ayons besoin de lui. Qu'il soit bon ou mauvais, pour que nous le
quittions faut qu'on nous mette dehors. Vin tiré, faut le boire. Vin bu,
tirons-en d'autre de nos coteaux mamelus! On n'a pas le temps de mourir,
quand on est Bourguignon. Pour ce qui est de souffrir, tout aussi bien
que vous (ne soyez pas si fiers), nous nous en acquittons. Pendant
quatre ou cinq mois, j'ai souffert comme un chien. Et puis, le temps
nous passe et laisse nos chagrins, trop lourds, sur l'autre rive. À
présent je me dis:
--C'est comme si je l'avais eue...
Ah! Belette! Belotte!... Tout de même, je ne l'ai point eue. Et c'est ce
tripeandouille, Gifflard, sac à farine, face de potiron, qui l'a, qui la
pelote, la mignote, Belotte, depuis trente ans passés... Trente ans!...
son appétit doit être rassasié! À ce que l'on m'a dit, il n'en avait
plus guère, dès le lendemain du jour où il l'a épousée. Pour ce goulu,
ce glou, morceau avalé n'a plus goût. Sans le charivari qui fit au lit,
au nid, trouver maître coucou (Ah! Pinon le braillard!), jamais
l'écornifleur ne se fût laissé pincer à mettre son gros doigt en anneau
trop étroit... Io, Hymen, Hyménée! Bien attrapé, ma foi! Plus attrapée,
Belette: car meunier mécontent se paie sur sa bête. Et le plus attrapé
des trois, c'est encore moi. Or, donc, Breugnon, rions (il y a bien de
quoi), de lui, d'elle, et de moi...
* * *
Et voici qu'en riant, j'aperçus à vingt pas, au détour de l'allée (grand
Dieu! aurais-je bavardé deux heures d'affilée!) la maison au toit rouge,
volets verts, dont un cep sinueux de vigne, comme un serpent, vêtait le
ventre blanc de ses feuilles pudiques. Et devant la porte ouverte, à
l'ombre d'un noyer, sur une auge de pierre où coulait une eau claire,
une femme inclinée, que je reconnus bien (pourtant, je ne l'avais point
revue depuis des années). Et j'eus les jambes cassées...
Je faillis détaler. Mais elle m'avait vu, et elle me regardait, en
continuant de puiser de l'eau à la fontaine. Et voilà que je vis qu'elle
aussi, brusquement, elle m'avait reconnu... Oh! elle n'en montra rien,
elle était bien trop fière; mais le seau qu'elle tenait coula de ses
mains dans l'auge. Et elle dit:
--Jean de Lagny, qui n'a point de hâte... Ne te presse donc pas.
Moi, je réponds:
--C'est-y que tu m'attendais?
--Moi, dit-elle, je n'ai garde, je me soucie bien de toi!
--Ma foi, dis-je, c'est comme moi. Tout de même je suis bien aise.
--Et tu ne me gênes point.
Nous étions là plantés, l'un en face de l'autre, elle avec ses bras
mouillés, moi en manches de chemise, nous dandinant tous deux; et nous
nous regardions, et nous n'avions même pas la force de nous voir. Au
fond de la fontaine, le seau continuait de boire. Elle me dit:
--Entre donc, tu as bien un moment?
--Une minute ou deux. Je suis un peu pressé.
--On ne s'en douterait guère. Qu'est-ce donc qui t'amène?
--Moi? Rien, fis-je avec aplomb, rien, je me promène.
--Tu es donc bien riche, dit-elle.
--Riche, non de pécune, mais de ma fantaisie.
--Tu n'as pas changé, dit-elle, tu es toujours le même fou.
--Qui fol naquit jamais ne guérit.
Nous entrâmes dans la cour. Elle referma la porte. Nous étions seuls, au
milieu des poules qui caquetaient. Tous les gens de la ferme étaient
allés aux champs. Pour se donner une contenance, aussi par habitude,
elle crut bon d'aller fermer, ou bien ouvrir (je ne sais plus au juste),
la porte de la grange, en gourmandant Médor. Et moi, afin de prendre une
mine dégagée, je parlais de sa maison, des poulets, des pigeons, du coq,
du chien, du chat, des canards, du cochon. J'aurais énuméré, si elle
m'eût laissé, toute l'arche de Noé! Soudain, elle dit:
--Breugnon!
J'eus le souffle coupé. Elle répéta:
--Breugnon!
Et nous nous regardions.
--Embrasse-moi, dit-elle.
Je ne me fis pas prier. Lorsqu'on est si vieux, ça ne fait de mal à
personne, si ça ne fait plus grand bien. (Ça fait toujours du bien.) De
sentir sur mes joues, sur mes vieilles joues râpeuses, ses vieilles
joues fripées, cela me démangea les yeux d'une envie de pleurer. Mais je
ne pleurai point, je ne suis pas si bête! Elle me dit:
--Tu piques.
--Ma foi, dis-je, ce matin, si l'on avait appris que je t'embrasserais,
je me serais fait le menton. Ma barbe était plus douce, il y a
trente-cinq années, quand je voulais, toi non, quand je voulais, ma
bergère, et ron ron ron petit patapon, la frotter contre ton menton:
--Tu y penses donc toujours? dit-elle.
--Nenni, je n'y pense jamais.
Nous nous fixâmes en riant, à qui ferait des deux baisser les yeux de
l'autre.
--Orgueilleux, entêté, caboche de mulet, comme tu me ressemblais!
dit-elle. Mais toi, grison, tu ne veux point vieillir. Certes, Breugnon,
mon ami, tu n'as point embelli, tu as les pattes d'oie, ton nez s'est
élargi. Mais comme tu ne fus beau en aucun temps de ta vie, tu n'avais
rien à perdre, et tu n'as rien perdu. Pas même un de tes cheveux, j'en
jurerais, égoïste! C'est à peine si ton poil çà et là est plus gris.
Je dis:
--Tête de fou, tu le sais, ne blanchit.
--Vauriens d'hommes, vous autres, vous ne vous faites point de bile,
vous prenez du bon temps. Mais nous, nous vieillissons, nous
vieillissons pour deux. Vois cette ruine. Hélas! Hélas! ce corps si
ferme et doux à regarder, plus doux à caresser, cette gorge, ces seins,
ces reins, ce teint, cette chair savoureuse et dure comme un jeune
fruit... où sont-ils, et où suis-je? où me suis-je perdue? M'aurais-tu
reconnue seulement si tu m'avais rencontrée au marché?
--Entre toutes les femmes, je t'aurais reconnue, dis-je, les yeux
fermés.
--Les yeux fermés, oui, mais ouverts? Regarde ces joues creusées, cette
bouche édentée, ce long nez aminci en lame de couteau, ces yeux rougis,
ce cou flétri, cette outre flasque, ce ventre déformé...
Je dis (j'avais bien vu tout ce qu'elle racontait):
--Petite brebiette toujours semble jeunette.
--Tu ne remarques donc rien?
--J'ai de bons yeux, Belette.
--Hélas! où a-t-elle passé, ta belette, ta belette?
Je dis:
--«Elle a passé par ici, le furet du bois joli.» Elle se cache, elle
fuit, elle s'est retirée. Mais je la vois toujours, je vois son fin
museau et ses yeux de malice, qui me guettent et m'attirent au fond de
son terrier.
--Il n'y a point de risque, dit-elle, que tu y entres. Renard, que tu as
pris de panse! Certes, chagrin d'amour ne t'a point fait maigrir.
--Je serais bien avancé! dis-je. Le chagrin, faut le nourrir.
--Viens donc faire boire l'enfant.
Nous entrâmes à la ferme et nous nous attablâmes. Je ne sais plus trop
bien ce que je bus ou mangeai, j'avais l'âme occupée; mais je n'en
perdis point un coup de dent ni de gosier. Les coudes sur la table elle
me regardait faire: puis, elle dit en raillant:
--Es-tu moins affligé?
--Comme dit la chanson, fis-je: corps vide, âme désolée; et bien repu,
âme consolée.
Sa grande bouche mince et moqueuse se taisait; et tandis que pour faire
le faraud, je disais je ne sais quoi, des sornettes, nos yeux se
regardaient et pensaient au passé. Soudain:
--Breugnon! dit-elle. Sais-tu? Je ne l'ai jamais dit. Je puis bien le
faire maintenant que cela ne sert plus à rien. C'était toi que j'aimais.
Je dis:
--Je le savais bien.
--Tu le savais, vaurien! Eh! que ne me l'as-tu dit?
--Esprit de contradiction, il eût suffi que je le dise, pour que tu
répondisses non.
--Qu'est-ce que cela pouvait te faire, si je pensais le contraire?
Est-ce la bouche qu'on baise, ou bien ce qu'elle dit?
--C'est que la tienne, pardi, ne se contentait pas de dire. J'en ai su
quelque chose, cette nuit que trouvai en ton four le meunier.
--C'est ta faute, dit-elle, le four ne chauffait pas pour lui. Certes,
c'est la mienne aussi; mais je fus bien punie. Toi qui sais tout, Colas,
tu ne sais pourtant pas que je l'ai pris par dépit de ce que tu es
parti. Ah! comme je t'en ai voulu! Je t'en voulais déjà, ce soir (t'en
souviens-tu?) que tu m'as dédaignée.
--Moi! dis-je.
--Toi, pendard, quand tu m'es venu cueillir dans mon jardin, un soir que
j'étais endormie, et puis que tu m'as laissée à l'arbre, avec mépris.
Je poussai les hauts cris et je lui expliquai. Elle me dit:
--J'ai bien compris. Ne te donne pas tant de peine! Grande bête! Je suis
sûre que si c'était à refaire...
Je dis:
--Je le referais.
--Imbécile! fit-elle. C'est pour cela que je t'aimais. Alors, pour te
punir, je me suis amusée à te faire souffrir. Mais je ne pensais pas que
tu serais assez sot pour t'enfuir de l'hameçon (que les hommes sont
lâches!) au lieu de l'avaler.
--Grand merci! dis-je. Goujon aime l'appât, mais tient à ses boyaux.
Riant du coin de ses lèvres serrées, sans ciller:
--Quand j'ai su, reprit-elle, ta rixe avec cet autre, cet autre animal
dont je ne sais plus le nom (j'étais en train de laver mon linge à la
rivière, on me dit qu'il t'égorgeait), je lâchai mon battoir (eh! vogue
la galère) qui alla au fil de l'eau, et piétinant mon linge, culbutant
mes commères, je courus sans sabots, courus à perdre haleine, je voulais
te crier: «Breugnon! tu n'es pas fou? tu ne vois donc pas que je t'aime?
Tu seras bien avancé, quand tu te seras fait happer un de tes meilleurs
morceaux par la gueule de ce loup! Je ne veux point d'un mari détrenché,
disloqué. Je te veux tout entier...» Ah! landeridera, lanlaire,
lanturlu, tandis que je faisais tous ces lantiponnages, ce maître
hurluberlu lampait au cabaret, ne savait déjà plus pourquoi s'était
battu, et bras dessus bras dessous, avec le loup s'enfuit (ah! le lâche!
le lâche!), fuit devant la brebis!... Breugnon, que je t'ai haï!...
Bonhomme, quand je te vois, quand je nous vois aujourd'hui, cela me
paraît comique. Mais alors, mon ami, je t'aurais avec délices écorché,
grillé vif; et, ne pouvant te punir, c'est moi, puisque je t'aimais,
c'est moi que je punis. L'homme au moulin s'offrit. Dans ma rage, je le
pris. Si ce n'eût été cet âne, j'en aurais pris un autre. Faute d'un
Martin Bâton, l'abbaye n'eût point chômé. Ah! comme je me vengeai! Je ne
pensais qu'à toi, tandis qu'il...
--Je t'entends!
--...tandis qu'il me vengeait. Je pensais: «Qu'il revienne à présent!
Le chef te démange-t-il, Breugnon, en as-tu ton compte? Qu'il revienne!
Qu'il revienne!»... Hélas! tu es revenu, plus tôt que je n'aurais
voulu... Tu sais la suite. À mon sot je me trouvai attachée, pour la
vie. Et l'âne (est-ce lui ou moi?) est resté au moulin.
Elle se tut. Je dis:
--Au moins, y es-tu bien?
Elle haussa les épaules et dit:
--Aussi bien que l'autre.
--Diable! fis-je, cette maison doit être un paradis?
Elle rit:
--Mon ami Carabi, tu l'as dit.
Nous parlâmes d'autre chose, de nos champs et de nos gens, de nos bêtes
et de nos enfants, mais quoi que nous fissions, nous retournions au
galop, retournions à nos moutons. Je pensais qu'elle serait bien aise de
connaître les détails de ma vie, des miens, de ma maison; mais je vis (ô
femelles curieuses) qu'elle en savait là-dessus presque aussi long que
moi. Puis, de fil en aiguille, voilà que l'on babille, de-ci, de-çà, à
gauche, à dextre, contre-mont, contre-bas, pour la joie de jaser, sans
savoir où l'on va. Tous deux, à qui mieux mieux, de dire des
calembredaines: c'était un feu roulant, on en perdait haleine. Et point
n'était besoin d'insister sur les mots: devant qu'ils fussent sortis
encore du fourneau, étaient happés tout chauds.
Après avoir bien ri, je m'essuyais les yeux, lorsque j'entends sonner
six heures au clocher.
--Bon Dieu, dis-je, je m'en vas!
--Tu as le temps, dit-elle.
--Ton mari va rentrer. À le voir, je ne tiens pas.
--Et moi donc! répond-elle.
Par la fenêtre de la cuisine, on voyait la prairie, qui déjà commençait
sa toilette du soir. Les rayons du soleil couchant frottaient de leur
poussière d'or les milliers de brins d'herbe aux petits nez frémissants.
Sur les galets polis un ruisselet sautait. Une vache léchait une branche
de saule; deux chevaux immobiles, l'un noir une étoile au front, l'autre
gris pommelé, l'un appuyant sa tête sur la croupe de l'autre, rêvaient
dans la paix du jour, après avoir brouté. Entrait dans la maison fraîche
une odeur de soleil, de lilas, d'herbe chaude et de crottin doré. Et
dans l'ombre de la chambre, profonde, moelleuse, fleurant un peu le
moisi, montait de la tasse de grès que je tenais au poing, l'arôme
affectueux du cassis bourguignon. Je dis:
--Qu'on est bien, ici!
--Et c'eût été ainsi tous les jours de la vie!
Elle me saisit la main.
Je dis (cela m'ennuyait d'être venu la voir, pour lui faire des
regrets):
--Oh! tu sais, ma Belette, c'est peut-être mieux, tout compte fait,
c'est peut-être mieux comme ça est! Tu n'y as rien perdu. Pour un jour,
ça va bien. Mais pour toute la vie, je te connais, je me connais, tu en
aurais vite assez. Tu ne sais pas quel mauvais diable je fais, chenapan,
fainéant, pochard, paillard, bavard, étourdi, entêté, goinfre,
malicieux, querelleux, songe-creux, colérique, lunatique, diseur de
billevesées. Tu aurais été, ma fille, malheureuse comme les pierres et
tu te serais vengée. D'y penser seulement, mes cheveux se hérissent des
deux côtés de mon front. Louange à Dieu qui sait tout! Tout est bien
comme il est.
Son regard sérieux et madré m'écoutait. Elle hocha du nez et fit:
--Tu dis vrai, Jacquet. Je le sais, je le sais, tu es un grand vaurien.
(Elle n'en pensait rien.) Sans doute, tu m'aurais battue; moi, je
t'aurais fait cocu. Mais que veux-tu? puisque aussi bien faut être l'un
et l'autre en ce monde (c'est écrit dans les cieux), n'eût-il pas mieux
valu que ce fût l'un par l'autre?
--Sans doute, fis-je, sans doute...
--Tu n'as pas l'air convaincu.
--Je le suis, dis-je. Tout de même de ce double bonheur faut savoir se
passer.
Et me levant, je conclus:
--Point de regrets, Belette! D'une façon ou de l'autre, à présent ce
serait de même. Qu'on ne s'aime pas ou qu'on s'aime, quand on est comme
nous au bout de son rouleau, c'est passé, c'est passé, c'est comme s'il
n'y avait rien eu.
Elle me dit:
--Menteur!
(Et comme elle disait vrai!)
* * *
Je l'embrassai, je partis. Des yeux, elle me suivit, sur le seuil
appuyée au chambranle de la porte. L'ombre du grand noyer s'allongeait
devant nous. Je ne me retournai pas que je n'eusse tourné le coude du
chemin, et que je ne fusse bien sûr que je ne verrais plus rien. Alors,
je m'arrêtai pour reprendre mon souffle. L'air était embaumé d'un
berceau de glycine. Et les boeufs blancs au loin mugissaient dans les
prés.
Je me remis en marche; et, coupant au plus court, je laissai le chemin,
je gravis le coteau, je partis à travers vignes, et m'enfonçai sous
bois. Ce n'était pourtant pas afin de revenir plus vite. Car, une
demi-heure après, je me trouvai toujours à la lisière du bois, sous les
ramures d'un chêne, immobile, debout, et bayant aux corneilles. Je ne
savais ce que je faisais. Je pensais, je pensais. Le ciel rouge
s'éteignait. Je regardais mourir ses reflets sur les vignes aux petites
feuilles nouvelles, brillantes, vernissées, vineuses et dorées. Un
rossignol chantait... Au fond de ma mémoire, dans mon coeur attristé, un
autre rossignol chantait. Un soir pareil à celui-ci. J'étais avec ma
mie. Nous montions un coteau que tapissaient les vignes. Nous étions
jeunes, joyeux, grands parleurs et rieurs. Soudain, je ne sais pas ce
qui se passa dans l'air, le souffle de l'angélus, l'haleine de la terre,
dans le soir, qui s'étire et soupire, et vous dit: «Viens à moi», la
douce mélancolie qui tombe de la lune... Nous avons fait silence, tous
deux, et tout d'un coup nous prîmes la main, et sans nous dire un mot,
et sans nous regarder, nous restions immobiles. Alors monta des vignes,
sur lesquelles la nuit de printemps s'était posée, la voix du rossignol.
Pour ne pas s'endormir sur les ceps dont les vrilles traîtresses
s'allongeaient, s'allongeaient, s'allongeaient, autour de ses petons à
s'enrouler cherchaient, pour ne pas s'endormir chantait à perdre haleine
sa vieille cantilène le rossignol d'amour:
_«La vigne pouss' pouss' pouss' pouss'_
_Je n'dors ni nuit ni jour...»_
Et je sentis la main de Belette qui disait:
--Je te prends et je suis prise. Vigne, pousse, pousse et nous lie!
Nous descendîmes la colline. Près de rentrer, nous nous déprîmes. Depuis
lors, plus ne nous prîmes. Ah! rossignol, tu chantes toujours. Pour qui
ton chant? Vigne, tu pousses. Pour qui tes liens, amour?...
Et la nuit était là. Et le nez vers le ciel, je regardais, appuyé des
fesses sur les mains, des mains sur mon bâton, comme un pic sur sa
queue; je regardais toujours vers le faîte de l'arbre, où fleurissait la
lune. J'essayai de m'arracher au charme qui me tenait. Je ne pus. Sans
doute l'arbre me liait de son ombre magique, qui fait perdre la route et
le désir de la trouver. Une fois, deux fois, trois fois, je fis le tour,
je le refis; à chaque fois, je me revis, au même point, enchaîné.
Lors, j'en pris mon parti, et m'étendant sur l'herbe, je logeai, cette
nuit, à l'enseigne de la lune. Je ne dormis pas beaucoup dans cette
hôtellerie. Mélancoliquement, je ruminais ma vie. Je pensais à ce
qu'elle aurait pu être, à ce qu'elle avait été, à mes rêves écroulés.
Dieu! que de tristesses on trouve au fond de son passé, dans ces heures
de la nuit où l'âme est affaiblie! Qu'on se voit pauvre et nu, quand se
lève devant la vieillesse déçue l'image de la jeunesse d'espérance
vêtue!... Je récapitulais mes comptes et mes mécomptes, et les maigres
richesses que j'ai dans mon escarcelle: ma femme qui n'est point belle,
et bonne tout autant; mes fils qui sont loin de moi, ne pensent rien
comme moi, n'ont de moi que l'étoffe; les trahisons d'amis et les folies
des hommes; les religions meurtrières et les guerres civiles; ma France
déchirée; les rêves de mon esprit, mes oeuvres d'art pillées; ma vie, une
poignée de cendres, et le vent de la mort qui vient... Et pleurant
doucement, mes lèvres appuyées contre le flanc de l'arbre, je lui
confiais mes peines, blotti entre ses racines, comme en les bras d'un
père. Et je sais qu'il m'écoutait. Et sans doute qu'après, à son tour,
il parla et qu'il me consola. Car lorsque, quelques heures plus tard, je
m'éveillai, nez en terre et ronflant, de ma mélancolie plus rien ne me
restait, qu'un peu de courbature au coeur endolori et une crampe au
mollet.
Le soleil s'éveillait. L'arbre, plein d'oiseaux, chantait. Il ruisselait
de chants, comme une grappe de raisin qu'on presse entre ses mains.
Guillaumet le pinson, Marie Godrée la rouge-gorge, et la limeuse de
scie, et la grise Sylvie, fauvette qui babille, et Merlot mon compère,
celui que je préfère, parce que rien ne lui fait, ni froid, ni vent, ni
pluie, et que toujours il rit, toujours de bonne humeur, le premier à
chanter dès l'aube, et le dernier, et parce qu'il a, comme moi, le pif
enluminé. Ah! les bons petits gars, de quel coeur ils braillaient. Aux
terreurs de la nuit ils venaient d'échapper. La nuit, grosse de pièges,
qui, chaque soir, descend sur eux comme un filet. Ténèbres
étouffantes... qui de nous périra... Mais, _farirarira_!... aussitôt que
se rouvre le rideau de la nuit, dès que le rire pâle de l'aurore
lointaine commence à ranimer le visage glacé et les lèvres blanchies de
la vie..., _oy ty, oy ty, la la-i, la la la, laderi, la rifla_..., de
quels cris, mes amis, de quels transports d'amour ils célèbrent le jour!
Tout ce qu'on a souffert, ce qu'on a redouté, l'épouvante muette et le
sommeil glacé, la nuit, tout, _oy ty_, tout... _frrtt_...
est oublié. Ô jour, ô jour nouveau!... Apprends-moi, mon Merlot, ton
secret de renaître, à chaque aube nouvelle, avec la même foi inaltérable en
elle!...
Il continuait de siffler. Sa robuste ironie me ragaillardissait. Sur la
terre accroupi, je sifflai comme lui. Le coucou..., «_cocu blanc, cocu
noir, gris cocu nivernais»,_ jouait à cache-cache, au fond de la forêt.
«_Coucou, coucou, le diable te cass' le cou!»_
Avant de me relever, je fis une cabriole. Un lièvre qui passait,
m'imita: il riait; sa lèvre était fendue, à force d'avoir ri. Je me
remis en marche, chantai à pleins poumons:
--Tout est bon, tout est bon! Compagnons, le monde est rond. Qui ne sait
nager, il va au fond. Par mes cinq sens ouverts à fenêtres larges, à
pleins battants, entre, monde, coule en mon sang! Vais-je bouder la vie,
ainsi qu'un grand niais, parce que je n'ai point d'elle tout ce que j'en
voudrais? Quand on se met à vouloir, «Si j'avais... Quand j'aurai...»,
il n'y a plus moyen de jamais s'arrêter; on est toujours déçu, on
souhaite toujours plus qu'il ne vous est donné! Même M. de Nevers. Même
le Roi. Même Dieu le Père. Chacun a ses limites, chacun est dans sa
sphère. Vais-je m'agiter, gémir, parce que je n'en puis sortir?
Serais-je mieux, ailleurs? Je suis chez moi, j'y reste, et resterai,
corbleu, si longtemps que je peux. Et de quoi me plaignais-je? On ne me
doit rien, en somme. J'aurais pu ne pas vivre... Bon Dieu! lorsque j'y
pense, j'en ai froid dans le dos. Ce beau petit univers, cette vie, sans
Breugnon! Et Breugnon, sans la vie! Quel triste monde, ô mes amis!...
Tout est bien comme il est. Foin de ce que je n'ai point! Mais ce que
j'ai, je le tiens...
* * *
Avec un jour de retard, je revins à Clamecy. Je vous laisse à penser
comme j'y fus accueilli. Je ne m'en souciai guère; et montant au
grenier, ainsi que vous le voyez, j'ai mis sur le papier, hochant du
nez, parlant tout seul, tirant la langue de côté, mes peines et mes
plaisirs, les plaisirs de mes peines...
_Ce qui est grief à supporter_
_Est, après, doux à raconter._
VI
LES OISEAUX DE PASSAGE OU LA SÉRÉNADE À ASNOIS
Juin.
Hier matin, nous apprîmes le passage à Clamecy de deux hôtes de marque,
Mlle de Termes et le comte de Maillebois. Ils ne s'arrêtèrent point et
continuèrent leur route jusqu'au château d'Asnois, où ils doivent
séjourner trois ou quatre semaines. Le conseil des échevins décida,
suivant l'usage, d'envoyer le lendemain aux deux nobles oiseaux une
délégation, afin de leur présenter, au nom de la cité, nos
congratulations pour leur heureux voyage. (On dirait que c'est miracle
quand un de ces animaux s'en vient dans son carrosse rembourré, bien au
chaud, de Paris à Nevers, sans se tromper d'ornière ou se casser les
os!) Toujours suivant les us, le conseil décida d'y joindre, pour leur
bec, quelques friands gâteaux, orgueil de la cité, de gros biscuits
glacés, notre spécialité. (Mon gendre, pâtissier, Florimond Ravisé, en
fit mettre trois douzaines. Ces messieurs du conseil se contentaient de
deux; mais notre Florimond, qui est aussi échevin, fait tout avec
largesse: à seize sols la pièce: c'est la ville qui paie.) Enfin, pour
enchanter tous leurs sens à la fois, et parce que, paraît-il, on mange
mieux en musique (je n'en ai cure, moi, si je mange et je bois), on
chargea quatre maîtres croque-notes de choix, deux violes, deux
hautbois, en plus un tambourin, d'aller sur leurs crincrins sonner la
sérénade aux hôtes du château, en enfournant le gâteau.
Je me mis de la bande, avec mon flageolet, sans qu'on m'en eût prié. Je
ne pouvais manquer une occasion de voir des figures nouvelles, surtout
quand il s'agit de volailles de cour (non point de basse-cour; je vous
prends à témoin que je n'ai rien dit de tel). J'aime leur fin plumage,
leur babil et leurs mines, quand ils se lissent les plumes, ou vont se
dandinant, tordant le cul, nez au vent, et décrivant des ronds avec
leurs ailes, leurs pattes et leurs pilons. D'ailleurs, qu'il soit de
cour ou d'ailleurs, d'où qu'il vienne, qui m'apporte du nouveau pour moi
est toujours beau. Je suis fils de Pandore, j'aime lever le couvercle de
toutes boîtes, de toutes âmes, blanches, crasseuses, grasses, maigres,
nobles ou basses, fureter dans les coeurs, savoir ce qui s'y passe,
m'enquérir des affaires qui ne me regardent pas, mettre mon nez partout,
flairer, humer, goûter. Je me ferais fouetter, par curiosité. Mais je
n'en oublie pas (vous pouvez être tranquilles) de mélanger toujours le
plaisant à l'utile; et comme justement pour le sire d'Asnois j'avais en
mon atelier deux grands panneaux sculptés, je trouvai bien commode de
les faire porter, sans bourse délier, sur une des charrettes, avec les
délégués, les violes, les hautbois et les biscuits glacés. Nous avions
pris aussi avec nous ma Glodie, la fille de Florimond, pour profiter du
char (c'était une occasion), sans qu'il en coûtât rien. Et un autre
échevin emmenait son garçon. Enfin, l'apothicaire chargea sur la voiture
des sirops, hypocras, hydromel, confitures, qu'il prétendait offrir,
étant de ses produits, aux frais de Clamecy. Je note que mon gendre le
trouvait fort mauvais, disant que ce n'était la coutume et que si chaque
maître, boucher, boulanger, cordonnier, barbier, et cætera, en voulait
faire ainsi, on ruinerait la ville et les particuliers. Il n'avait point
si tort; mais l'autre était échevin, comme lui, Florimond: n'y avait
rien à dire. Les petits sont sujets aux lois; et les autres les font.
On partit sur deux chars: le maire, les panneaux, les cadeaux, les
marmots, les quatre musiciens et les quatre échevins. Mais moi, j'allais
à pied. Bon pour les impotents de se faire charroyer, comme veaux à
l'abattoir ou vieilles au marché! À vrai dire, le temps n'était pas des
plus beaux. Le ciel était pesant, orageux, farineux. Phébus dardait son
oeil rond et brûlant sur nos nuques. La poussière et les mouches
s'élevaient de la route. Mais à part Florimond, qui craint pour son
teint blanc, plus qu'une demoiselle, nous étions tous contents: un ennui
partagé est un amusement.
Aussi longtemps qu'on vit la tour de Saint-Martin, chacun des beaux
messieurs garda l'air compassé. Mais sitôt qu'on fut hors des yeux de la
cité, tous les fronts s'éclaircirent, et les esprits se mirent, comme
moi, en bras de chemise. On échangea d'abord quelques propos salés.
(C'est la façon chez nous de se mettre en appétit.) Puis l'un chanta,
puis l'autre; je crois, Dieu me pardonne, que ce fut le maire en
personne qui entonna le couplet. Je jouai de mon flageolet. Tous les
autres s'en mirent. Et, perçant le concert des voix et des hautbois, la
petite voix grêle de ma Glodie montait, voletait et piaillait, piaillait
comme un moineau.
On n'allait pas très vite. D'eux-mêmes, les bidets, aux montées,
s'arrêtaient, soufflaient, pétaradaient. Pour reprendre la route, on
attendait qu'ils eussent exhalé leur musique. À la côte de Boychault,
notre tabellion, maître Pierre Delavau, nous fit faire un crochet (on ne
pouvait lui refuser: il était le seul échevin qui n'eût rien demandé)
pour aller, chemin faisant, dresser chez un client un projet de
testament. Chacun le trouva bon; mais ce fut un peu long; et notre
Florimond, s'accordant sur ce point avec l'apothicaire, trouva encore
matière à récrimination. «_J'aime mieux un raisin, voire trop vert, pour
moi que deux figues pour toi.»_ Maître Pierre Delavau n'en termina pas
moins, sans hâte, son affaire; fallut bien que l'acceptât, mi-figue,
mi-raisin, monsieur l'apothicaire.
Enfin, nous arrivâmes (l'on finit toujours par arriver), comme la
moutarde après dîner. Nos oiseaux sortaient de table, lorsque entra le
dessert par nos mains apporté. Mais ils en furent quittes pour
recommencer: oiseaux mangent toujours. Nos messieurs du conseil, aux
approches du château, avaient eu soin de faire un arrêt pénultième, afin
de revêtir leurs robes d'apparat, à l'abri du soleil soigneusement
pliées, leurs belles robes de lumière, chaudes aux yeux, riantes au
coeur, de soie verte pour le maire et de laine jaune clair pour ses
quatre compères: on eût dit un concombre et quatre potirons. Nous
entrâmes en faisant sonner nos instruments. Au bruit, l'on vit sortir
des fenêtres les têtes des valets désoeuvrés. Nos quatre vêtus-de-laine
et l'habillé-de-soie montèrent le perron, à la porte duquel daignèrent
se montrer (je ne voyais pas très bien) sur deux fraises deux têtes («_à
la fraise on connaît la bête»_), frisées, enrubannées, ainsi que deux
moutons. Nous autres, croque-musique et croquants, nous restions au
milieu de la cour. En sorte que je ne pus entendre de si loin le beau
discours latin que fit notre notaire. Mais je m'en consolai: car crois
que maître Pierre fut seul à l'écouter. Je me gardai bien, en revanche,
de manquer le spectacle de ma petite Glodie, montant à pas menus les
marches de l'escalier, ainsi qu'une Marie dans la Présentation, et
serrant contre son giron, entre ses deux menottes, la corbeille de
biscuits étagés qui montaient jusqu'à son menton. Elle n'en perdit pas
un: elle les couvait des yeux et des bras, la gourmande, la friponne, la
mignonne... Dieu! je l'aurais mangée...
Le charme de l'enfance est comme une musique; elle entre dans les coeurs
plus sûrement que celle que nous exécutions. Les plus fiers
s'humanisent; on redevient enfant, on oublie un instant son orgueil et
son rang. Mlle de Termes sourit à ma Glodie, gentiment, la baisa,
l'assit sur ses genoux, la prit par le menton, et rompant au mitan un
biscuit, elle dit: «Tends ton bec, partageons...» et mit le plus gros
bout dans le petit four rond. Alors, moi, dans ma joie, je criai à
pleine voix:
--Vive la bonne et belle, la fleur du Nivernois!
Et sur mon flageolet, je fis un joyeux trait, qui fendit l'air, ainsi
qu'avec son cri aigu, l'hirondelle.
Tous, aussitôt, de rire, en se tournant vers moi; et Glodie bât des
mains, en criant:
--Père-grand!
M. d'Asnois m'appelle:
--C'est ce fou de Breugnon...
(Il s'y connaît, ma foi. Il l'est autant que moi.)
Il me fait signe. Je viens avec mon flageolet, je monte d'un pas
guilleret, et je salue...
_(Courtois de bouche, main au bonnet,_
_Peu couste et bon est.)_
...je salue à droite, à gauche, je salue devant, derrière, je salue
chacun, chacune. Et cependant, d'un oeil discret, j'observe et tâche de
faire le tour de la demoiselle suspendue dans son vaste vertugadin (on
eût dit un battant de cloche); et la déshabillant (en pensée, cela
s'entend), je ris de la voir perdue, toute menue et nue dessous ses
aflutiaux. Elle était longue et mince, un peu noire de peau et très
blanche de poudre, de beaux yeux bruns luisants comme des escarboucles,
nez de petit goret fureteur et gourmand, bouche bonne à baiser, grasse
et rouge, et sur les joues des friselis de boucles. Elle dit, en me
voyant, d'un air condescendant:
--C'est à vous cette belle enfant?
Je réplique finement:
--Que savons-nous, madame? Voici monsieur mon gendre. C'est à lui d'en
répondre. Je n'en réponds pour lui. En tout cas, c'est notre bien. Aucun
ne nous le réclame. Ce n'est pas comme l'argent. «_Enfants sont richesse
de pauvres gens.»_
Elle daigna sourire, et mon sire d'Asnois s'esclaffa à grand bruit.
Florimond rit aussi; mais son rire était jaune. Moi, je restais sérieux,
je faisais le béjaune. Alors l'homme à la fraise et la dame à la cloche
voulurent condescendre à me questionner (ils m'avaient pris tous deux
pour un ménétrier) sur ce que pouvait bien rapporter mon métier. Je
réponds comme de juste:
--Autant que rien...
Sans dire ce que je faisais, d'ailleurs. Pourquoi l'aurais-je dit? Ils
ne me le demandaient point. J'attendais, je voulais voir, je me
divertissais. Je trouve assez plaisante la hauteur familière et
cérémonieuse que tous ces beaux messieurs, ces riches, croient devoir
prendre avec ceux qui n'ont rien et sont gueux! Il semble que toujours
ils leur fassent la leçon. Un pauvre est un enfant, il n'a pas sa
raison... Et puis (on ne le dit pas, mais on le pense), c'est sa faute:
Dieu l'a puni, c'est bien; le bon Dieu soit béni!
Comme si je n'étais point là, le Maillebois disait tout haut à sa
commère:
--Puisque aussi bien, madame, nous n'avons rien à faire, profitons de ce
pauvre hère; il a l'air un peu niais, il va de-ci, de-là, sonnant du
flageolet: il doit connaître bien le peuple des cabarets. Enquérons-nous
de lui de ce que la province pense, si tant est...
--Chut!
--... Si tant est qu'elle pense.
On me demanda donc:
--Eh bien, bonhomme, dis-nous, quel est l'esprit du pays?
Je répète:
--L'esprit?
en prenant l'air d'un abruti.
Et je clignais de l'oeil à un gros sieur d'Asnois, qui se tirait la barbe
et me laissait aller, riant sous sa large patte.
--L'esprit ne m'a pas l'air de courre la province, dit l'autre avec
ironie. Je te demande, bonhomme, ce qu'on pense, ce qu'on croit. Est-on
bon catholique? Est-on dévoué au roi?
Je réponds:
--Dieu est grand, et le roi est très grand. On les aime bien tous deux.
--Et que pense-t-on des princes?
--Ce sont de grands messieurs.
--On est donc avec eux?
--Oui-dà, monseigneur, oui.
--Et contre Concini?
--On est pour lui, aussi.
--Comment, diable, comment! Mais ils sont ennemis!
--Je ne dis pas... Cela se peut... On est pour tous les deux.
--Il faut choisir, par Dieu!
--Est-ce qu'il le faut, monsieur? Ne puis m'en dispenser? En ce cas, je
le veux. Pour qui est-ce que je suis?... Monsieur, je vous le dirai un
de ces quatre lundis. Je m'en vas y penser. Mais il me faut le temps.
--Eh! qu'est-ce que tu attends?
--Mais, monsieur, de savoir qui sera le plus fort.
--Coquin, n'as-tu pas honte? N'es-tu pas capable de distinguer le jour
de la nuit et le roi de ses ennemis?
--Ma foi, monsieur, nenni. Vous m'en demandez trop. Je vois bien qu'il
fait jour, je ne suis pas aveugle; mais entre gens du roi et gens des
seigneurs princes, pour ce qui est de faire choix, vraiment je ne
saurais dire lesquels boivent le mieux et font plus de dégâts. Je n'en
dis point de mal; ils ont bon appétit: c'est qu'ils se portent bien.
Bonne santé à vous je souhaite pareillement. Les beaux mangeurs me
plaisent; j'en ferais bien autant. Mais pour ne rien celer, j'aime mieux
mes amis qui mangent chez les autres.
--Drôle, tu n'aimes donc rien?
--Monsieur, j'aime mon bien.
--Ne peux-tu l'immoler à ton maître, le roi?
--Je le veux bien, monsieur, si ne puis autrement. Mais je voudrais
pourtant savoir, si nous n'étions en France quelques-uns qui aimons nos
vignes et nos champs, ce que le roi pourrait se mettre sous la dent! À
chacun son métier. Les uns mangent. Les autres... les autres sont
mangés. La politique est l'art de manger. Pauvres gens, que
pourrions-nous en faire? À vous la politique, et à nous notre terre!
Avoir une opinion, ce n'est pas notre affaire. Nous sommes ignorants.
Que savons-nous, sinon, comme Adam notre père,--(il fut aussi le vôtre,
dit-on; mais quant à moi, je n'en crois rien, pardon..., votre cousin
peut-être...)--que savons-nous, sinon donc engrosser la terre et la
rendre féconde, creuser, labourer ses flancs, semer, faire pousser
l'avoine et le froment, tailler, greffer la vigne, faucher, moissonner
les gerbes, battre le grain, fouler la grappe, faire le vin, le pain,
fendre le bois, tailler la pierre, couper le drap, coudre le cuir,
forger le fer, ciseler, menuiser, creuser les canaux et les routes,
bâtir, dresser les villes avec leurs cathédrales, ajuster de nos mains
sur le front de la terre la parure des jardins, faire fleurir sur les
murs et les panneaux de bois l'enchantement de la lumière, dévêtir de la
gaine de pierre qui les enserre les beaux corps blancs et nus, attraper
à l'affût dans l'air les sons qui passent et les emprisonner dans les
flancs brun doré d'un violon gémissant ou dans ma flûte creuse, enfin
nous rendre maîtres de la terre de France, du feu, de l'eau, de l'air,
des quatre-s éléments, et les faire servir à votre amusement..., que
savons-nous de plus, et comment aurions-nous la prétention de croire que
nous comprenions rien aux affaires publiques, aux querelles des princes,
sacrés desseins du roi, jeux de la politique, et autres métaphysiques?
Il ne faut pas, monsieur, péter plus haut que son cul. Nous sommes bêtes
de somme et faits pour être battus. D'accord! Mais de quel poing il nous
agrée le plus, et quelle trique nous est le plus moelleuse au dos...,
grave question, monsieur, trop forte pour mon cerveau! À vous dire le
vrai, l'un ou l'autre, peu m'en chaut. Faudrait, pour vous répondre,
avoir la trique à la main, soupeser l'une et l'autre, et l'essayer très
bien. Faute de quoi, patience! Souffre, souffre, enclumeau. Souffre,
tant qu'es enclumeau. Frappe, quand tu seras marteau...
L'autre, indécis, me regardait, le nez fronçait, et ne savait s'il
devait rire ou se fâcher, lorsqu'un écuyer de la suite, qui m'avait vu
jadis chez feu notre bon duc de Nivernois, dit:
--Monseigneur, je le connois, l'original: bon ouvrier, fin menuisier,
grand parolier. Il est sculpteur, de son métier.
Le noble sieur ne sembla point, pour cet avis, modifier son opinion sur
Breugnon; ne commença de témoigner quelque intérêt à sa chétive personne
(«chétive» est mis là, mes fils, par modestie: car je pèse un peu moins
qu'un muid) que lorsqu'il sut par l'écuyer et par son hôte, mons
d'Asnois, que de mes oeuvres tel et tel prince faisaient cas. Il ne fut
pas lors le dernier à s'extasier sur la fontaine qu'en la cour on lui
montra, par moi sculptée, représentant fille troussée qui porte dans son
tablier deux canards se débattant, ouvrant le bec, l'aile battant.
Après, il vit dans le château des meubles miens et des panneaux. M.
d'Asnois se pavanait. Ces riches bêtes! On dirait que cette oeuvre qu'ils
ont payée, de leurs deniers, ils l'ont créée!... Le Maillebois, pour
m'honorer, jugea séant de s'étonner que je restasse en ce pays, étouffé,
loin des grands esprits de Paris, et demeurasse cantonné en ces travaux
de patience, de vérité, rien d'inventé,--d'attention, nulle
envolée,--d'observation, point d'idées, point de symbole, allégorie,
philosophie, mythologie,--bref, rien de tout ce qui assure le
connaisseur que c'est de la grande sculpture. (Un grand seigneur
n'admire rien qui ne soit grand.)
Je répondis modestement (humble je suis, un peu benêt) que je savais
très bien le peu que je valais, que chacun dans ses limites doit
s'enfermer. Un pauvre homme de notre sorte n'a rien vu, rien entendu, ne
connaît rien, donc il se tient, quand il est sage, à l'humble étage du
Parnasse, où l'on s'abstient de tout dessein vaste et sublime; et de la
cime où se profilent les ailes du sacré cheval, détournant ses yeux
effrayés, il creuse en bas, au pied du mont, la carrière dont les
pierres pourront servir à sa maison. D'esprit borné par pauvreté, il ne
fait rien, ne conçoit rien qui ne soit d'usage quotidien. L'art utile,
voilà son lot.
--L'art utile! Les deux mots jurent ensemble, dit mon sot. Il n'est de
beau que l'inutile.
--Grande parole! acquiesçai-je. Il est bien vrai. Partout dans l'art et
dans la vie. Rien n'est plus beau qu'un diamant, un prince, un roi, un
grand seigneur ou une fleur.
Il s'en alla, content de moi. M. d'Asnois me prit le bras et me souffla:
--Maudit farceur! As-tu fini de te gausser? Oui, fais la bête. Agnelet
bée, je te connais. Ne dis pas non. Pour ce beau fraisier de Paris,
cueille à ton gré, vas-y, mon fils! Mais si jamais tu t'avisais de
t'attaquer à moi aussi, garde, Breugnon, mon garçon! Car tu auras du
bâton.
Je protestai:
--Moi, monseigneur! M'attaquer à Votre Grandeur! Mon bienfaiteur! Mon
protecteur! Est-il possible de prêter à Breugnon cette noirceur?...
Passe encore d'être noir, mais par Dieu, d'être bête! À d'autres, s'il
vous plaît! Ce n'est pas notre fait. Grand merci, j'aime trop ma peau,
pour ne pas bien respecter celle qui sait se faire respecter. Je ne m'y
frotte; ouais, pas si sot! Car vous êtes non seulement le plus fort
(cela va de soi), mais beaucoup plus malin que moi. Eh! je ne suis qu'un
renardeau, près de Renard en son château. Combien de tours en votre sac!
Que vous en avez mis dedans, jeunes et vieux, fous et prudents!
Il s'épanouit. Rien ne plaît tant que d'être loué pour le talent qu'on a
le moins.
--C'est bon, dit-il, maître bavard. Laissons mon sac, voyons plutôt ce
que tu portes dans le tien. Car je me doute que si tu viens, ce n'est
pour rien.
--Voyez, voyez, vous l'avez, dis-je, encore deviné! On est de verre.
Vous lisez dans les coeurs, tout comme Dieu le Père.
«Je déballai mes deux panneaux, ainsi qu'une oeuvre italienne (une
Fortune sur sa roue, jadis achetée à Mantoue), que je donnai, ne sais
comment, vieil étourdi, comme mienne. On les loua modérément... Ensuite
(quelle confusion!) je leur montrai une oeuvre mienne (un médaillon de
jouvencelle), que je donnai pour italienne. On s'écria, se récria, on
fit des ho! on fit des ha! On pâma d'admiration. Le Maillebois qui en
béait, dit qu'on y voyait le reflet du ciel latin, du sol deux fois béni
des dieux, de Jésus-Christ et de Jupin. M. d'Asnois, qui en brayait,
m'en compta trente et six ducats,--de l'autre, trois.
* * *
Nous repartîmes, vers le soir. En revenant, pour amuser la compagnie, je
racontai qu'une autre fois, M. le duc de Bellegarde était venu à Clamecy
tirer l'oiseau. Le bon seigneur ne voyait pas à quatre pas. J'étais
chargé, quand il tirait, de faire choir l'oiseau de bois, et en son lieu
de présenter, prompt et adroit, un autre droit au coeur troué. On rit
beaucoup; et après moi, chacun à son tour dégoisa quelque bon trait de
nos seigneurs... Ces bons seigneurs! quand ils s'ennuient en leur
grandeur royalement, ah! que ne peuvent-ils savoir combien ils sont pour
nous plaisants!
Mais, j'attendis, pour le récit du médaillon, que nous fussions, la
porte close, à la maison. Quand il le sut, mon Florimond me reprocha
amèrement d'avoir vendu à si bon compte, comme mienne, l'oeuvre
italienne, puisqu'ils avaient si fort goûté et payé celle qui ne l'était
que de nom. Je répondis que je voulais me divertir des gens, oui bien,
mais les plumer, pour cela non! Il s'acharnait, me demandant avec
aigreur la belle jambe que cela pouvait me faire de m'amuser à mes
dépens! Que sert de se moquer des gens, si l'on n'en a pour son argent?
Lors, Martine, ma bonne fille, lui dit avec grande sagesse:
--Ainsi, nous sommes, Florimond, petits et grands, dans la famille,
toujours contents, toujours contant et nous riant des contes que nous
nous contons. Va, ne t'en plains pas, mon bon! Car c'est à cela que tu
dois de n'être pas dix-cors encore. De savoir que je puis te tromper, à
tous moments, me cause tant d'amusement que je me passe de le faire...
Mais ne prends pas un air si sombre! Point de regrets! Car c'est comme
si tu l'étais. Rentre tes cornes, limaçon. J'en vois l'ombre.
VII
LA PESTE
Premiers jours de juillet.
On dit bien: _«Le mal s'en va-t-à pied, mais il vient à cheval.»_ Il
s'est mis postillon de rouliers d'Orléans pour nous rendre visite. Lundi
de la semaine passée, un cas de pestilence fut semé à Saint-Fargeau.
Mauvaise graine, prompte croissance. À la fin de la semaine, il y en
avait dix autres. Puis, puis, se rapprochant de nous, hier, la peste
éclate à Coulanges-la-Vineuse. Beau bruit dans la mare aux canards! Tous
les braves ont pris les jambes à leur cou. Nous avons emballé femmes,
enfants et oisons, et nous les avons expédiés au loin, à Montenoison. À
quelque chose malheur est bon. N'y a plus de caquet dans ma maison.
Florimond est parti aussi avec les dames, prétextant, le capon, qu'il ne
pouvait quitter sa Martine près d'accoucher. Des gros messieurs,
beaucoup trouvèrent de bonnes raisons pour faire un tour de promenade,
la voiture attelée; le jour leur sembla bon pour aller voir comment se
portaient leurs moissons.
Nous autres qui restions, nous faisions les farceurs. Nous nous
gaussions de ceux qui prenaient des précautions. MM. les échevins
avaient posé des gardes aux portes de la ville, sur la route d'Auxerre,
avec ordre sévère de chasser tous les pauvres et manants du dehors qui
essaieraient d'entrer. Pour les autres, gens à huppe et bourgeois dont
la bourse était saine, ils devaient se soumettre du moins à la visite de
nos trois médecins, maître Etienne Loyseau, maître Martin Frotier, et
maître Philibert des Veaux, affublés pour parer aux assauts du fléau
d'un long nez plein d'onguents, d'un masque et de lunettes. Cela nous
faisait bien rire; et maître Martin Frotier, qui était un bon homme, ne
put tenir son sérieux. Il arracha son nez, disant qu'il ne se souciait
de faire la coquecigrue et qu'il ne croyait point à ces billevesées.
Oui, mais il en mourut. Il est vrai que maître Etienne Loyseau, qui
croyait à son nez et couchait avec lui, mourut ni plus ni moins. Et seul
en réchappa maître Philibert des Veaux, qui, plus avisé que ses
confrères, abandonna non son nez, mais son poste... Çà, je brûle
l'étape, et me voici déjà à la queue de l'histoire, avant d'avoir
seulement arrondi mon exorde! Recommençons, mon fils, et de nouveau
prenons notre chèvre à la barbe. Cette fois, la tiens-tu?...
Donc nous faisions les bons Richard-sans-peur. On se croyait si sûr que
la peste ne nous ferait pas l'honneur de sa visite! Elle avait le nez
fin, disait-on; le parfum de nos tanneries l'offusquait (chacun sait
qu'il n'y a rien de plus sain). La dernière fois qu'elle vint dans le
pays (c'était vers l'an mil cinq cent quatre-vingts, j'avais l'âge d'un
vieux boeuf, quatorze ans), elle avança le nez jusqu'au seuil de notre
huis, et puis, l'ayant flairé, s'en était retournée. Ce fut alors (nous
les avons bien plaisantés depuis) que les gens de Châtel-Censoir,
mécontents de leur patron, le grand saint Potentien qui les protégeait
mal, l'avaient mis à la porte, prirent à l'essai un autre, puis un
autre, puis un autre; ils en changèrent sept fois, élisant tour à tour
Savinien et Pellerin, Philibert et Hilaire. Même, ne sachant plus à quel
saint se vouer, ils se vouèrent à celui (les gaillards!) d'une sainte,
et, faute de Potentien, ils prirent Potentiane.
Nous nous remémorions, en riant, cette histoire, bons lurons, fanfarons
et vaillants esprits forts. Pour montrer que nous ne donnions dans ces
superstitions, non plus que dans celles des médecins, échevins, nous
allâmes bravement à la porte du Chastelot faire la conversation
par-dessus les fossés avec ceux qui restaient sur l'autre rive échoués.
Même, par forfanterie, certains trouvaient moyen de se glisser dehors et
d'aller boire une pinte dans une auberge proche, avec quelqu'un de ceux
au nez de qui la porte du paradis était fermée, voire avec un des anges
postés pour la garder (car ils ne prenaient pas leur faction au
sérieux). Moi, je faisais comme eux. Pouvais-je les laisser seuls?
Était-il supportable que d'autres, à ma barbe, s'ébaudissent,
s'ébattissent et dégustassent ensemble fraîches nouvelles et vin frais?
J'en eusse crevé de dépit.
Je sortis donc, voyant un vieux fermier que je connaissais bien, le père
Grattepain, de Mailly-le-Château. Nous trinquâmes ensemble. C'était un
gros réjoui, rond, rouge et râblé, qui luisait au soleil de sueur et de
santé. Il faisait le glorieux, encore bien plus que moi, narguant la
maladie et disant que c'était invention des médecins. Il n'y avait que
de pauvres hères, à l'en croire, qui mouraient, non de mal, mais de
peur.
Il me disait:
--Je vous donne ma recette pour rien:
_Tiens tes pieds bien au chaud,_
_Tiens vides tes boyaux._
_Ne vois pas Marguerite,_
_De tout mal seras quitte._
Nous passâmes une bonne heure à nous souffler dans le nez. Il avait la
manie de vous tapoter la main et de vous pétrir la cuisse ou le bras, en
parlant. Je n'y pensais pas alors. J'y pensai, le lendemain.
Le lendemain, le premier mot que me dit mon apprenti fut:
--Vous savez, patron, le père Grattepain est mort...
Ah! je ne fus pas fier, j'en eus froid dans le dos. Je me dis:
--Mon pauvre ami, tu peux graisser tes bottes; ton histoire est finie,
ou ne tardera guère...
Je vais à mon établi, je me mets à bricoler, afin de me distraire; mais
je vous prie de croire que je n'avais guère la tête à ce que je
fabriquais. Je pensais:
--Sotte bête! Cela t'apprendra à faire le malin.
Mais en Bourgogne, nous ne sommes pas hommes à nous casser la tête sur
ce qu'il fallait faire, le jour d'avant-hier. Nous sommes dans cette
journée. Par saint Martin, tenons-nous-y! Il s'agit de se défendre.
L'ennemi ne m'a pas encore. Je songeai, un moment, à demander conseil à
la boutique de saint Cosme (les médecins, vous m'entendez bien). Mais je
n'eus garde, et n'en fis rien. J'avais, malgré mon trouble, suffisamment
gardé du bon sens de chez nous pour me dire:
--Fils, les médecins n'en savent pas plus que nous. Ils prendront ta
pécune, et, pour tout ton potage, ils t'enverront gésir dans un parc à
pesteux, où tu ne manqueras point d'empester tout à fait. Garde-toi de
leur rien dire! Tu n'es pas fol, peut-être? S'il ne s'agit que de
mourir, nous le ferons bien sans eux. Et par Dieu, ainsi qu'il est
écrit, «_en dépit des médecins, nous vivrons jusqu'au trépas»_.
J'avais beau m'étourdir et faire le flambard, je commençais à me sentir
l'estomac remué. Je me tâtais ici, puis là, puis... Aïe! cette fois,
c'est elle... Et le pire, venue l'heure du dîner, devant une potée de
gras haricots rouges, cuits dans le vin avec des tranches de salé
(aujourd'hui que j'en parle, j'en pleure de regret), je n'eus pas le
courage d'ouvrir les mandibules. Je pensais, le coeur serré:
--Assurément, je m'en vas. L'appétit est défunt. C'est le commencement
de la fin...
Or, donc, sachons au moins mettre nos affaires en ordre. Si je me laisse
mourir ici, ces brigands d'échevins feront brûler ma maison, sous
prétexte (sornettes!) que d'autres y prendront la peste. Une maison
toute neuve! Faut-il que le monde soit méchant ou soit bête! Plutôt que
cela soit, j'aimerais mieux sur mon fumier crever. Nous les attraperons
bien! Ne perdons pas de temps...
Je me lève, je mets mon habit le plus vieil, je prends trois ou quatre
bons livres, quelques belles sentences, des contes gras de Gaule, des
apophtegmes de Rome, les _Mots dorés de Caton_, les _Serées_
de Bouchet, et le _Nouveau Plutarque_ de Gilles Corrozet; je les
mets dans ma poche avec une chandelle et un quignon de pain; je congédie
l'apprenti; je ferme mon logis, et bravement je vas à mon _coûta_,[10]
hors la ville, passé la dernière maison, sur la route de Beaumont. Le
logis n'est pas grand. Une bicoque. Une pièce de débarras où l'on met
les outils, une vieille paillasse et une chaise défoncée. Si l'on doit
les brûler, le mal ne sera pas grand.
Je n'étais pas arrivé que je commençais de claquer du bec, comme un
corbeau. La fièvre me brûlait, j'avais un point de côté, et le gésier
tordu, comme s'il était retourné... Lors, que fis-je, braves gens? Que
vais-je vous raconter? Quels actes héroïques, quel magnanime front
opposé, à l'instar des grands messieurs de Rome, à la fortune ennemie et
au mal de ventre?... Braves gens, j'étais seul, personne ne me voyait.
Vous pensez si je me suis gêné, pour jouer devant les murs le Régulus
romain! Je me jetai sur la paillasse, et je me mis à braire. N'en
avez-vous rien ouï? Ma voix était fort claire. Elle aurait pu porter
jusqu'à l'arbre de Sembert.
--Ah! geignais-je, Seigneur, se peut-il que vous persécutiez un si bon
petit homme qui ne vous a rien fait... Ho! ma tête! Ho! mes flancs!
Qu'il est dur de s'en aller, à la fleur de ses ans! Hélas! tenez-vous
vraiment à me rappeler si tôt?... Ho! ho! mon dos!... Certes, je serai
charmé--honoré, veux-je dire--de vous rendre visite; mais puisque nous
devons toujours nous voir, un peu plus tard, un peu plus tôt, à quoi bon
cette hâte?... Ha! ha! la rate!... Je ne suis pas pressé... Seigneur, je
ne suis rien qu'un pauvre vermisseau. S'il n'est d'autre moyen, soit
faite votre volonté! Vous le voyez, je suis humble et doux, résigné...
Sacripant! Veux-tu bien lever le camp! Qu'a donc cet animal à me ronger
le côté?...
Lorsque j'eus bien braillé, je n'en souffrais pas moins, mais j'avais
dépensé ma vigueur pathétique. Je me dis:
--Tu perds ton temps. Ou Il n'a pas d'oreilles, ou ce sera tout comme.
S'il est vrai, comme on dit, que tu es son image, Il n'en fera qu'à sa
tête; tu t'égosilles en vain. Ménage ton haleine. Tu n'en as plus
peut-être que pour une heure ou deux, et tu vas, imbécile, la gaspiller
au vent! Jouissons de ce qui nous reste de cette belle vieille carcasse
qu'il nous faudra quitter (las! mon amie, ce sera bien malgré moi!); On
ne meurt qu'une fois. Au moins, satisfaisons notre curiosité. Voyons
comment on fait pour sortir de sa peau. Lorsque j'étais enfant, personne
ne savait mieux, avec des branches de saule, fabriquer de beaux
flûtiaux. Du manche de mon couteau je cognais sur l'écorce, jusqu'à ce
qu'elle se dépiautât. Je suppose que Celui qui me regarde, de là-haut,
est en train de s'amuser de même avec la mienne. Hardi! s'en
ira-t-elle... Aïe! le coup était bon!... Est-il permis qu'un homme de
cet âge se plaise à des balivernes de petit garçon?... Çà, Breugnon, ne
lâche point, et tandis que l'écorce tient encore, observons et notons ce
qui se passe dessous. Examinons ce coffre, écumons nos pensées,
étudions, ruminons, remâchons les humeurs, qui, dans mon pancréas, se
remuent, font remous et querelles d'Allemands; savourons ces coliques,
sondons et retâtons nos tripes et nos rognons[11]...
...Ainsi, je me contemple. De temps en temps, j'interromps, pour
brailler, mes investigations. La nuit ne passait guère. J'allume ma
chandelle, je la fiche dans le goulot d'une vieille bouteille (elle
fleurait le cassis, mais le cassis était loin: image de ce que je
promettais d'être avant le lendemain! Le corps était parti, il ne
restait plus que l'âme). Tordu sur ma paillasse, je m'efforçais de lire.
Les apophtegmes héroïques des Romains n'eurent aucun succès. Au diable
ces hâbleurs! _«Chacun n'est né pour aller à Rome»_ Je hais le sot
orgueil. Je veux avoir le droit de me plaindre, tout mon soûl, lorsque
j'ai la colique... Oui, mais lorsqu'elle s'arrête, je veux rire, si je
puis. Et j'ai ri... Vous ne me croirez pas? Mais alors que j'étais tout
dolent, comme noix en un boisseau, que me claquaient les dents, en
ouvrant au hasard le livre de _Facéties_ de ce bon monsieur Bouchet,
j'en trouvai une si belle, croustillante et dorée... vingt bons Dieux!
que je suis parti d'un éclat de rire. Je me disais:
--C'est trop bête. Ne ris donc pas. Tu vas te faire du mal.
Ah! bien, je n'arrêtais de rire que pour braire, de braire que pour
rire. Et je brais, et je ris... La peste en riait aussi. Ah! mon pauvre
petit gars, j'ai-t-y brait, j'ai-t-y ri!
Quand vint le point du jour, j'étais bon à mettre en terre. Je ne tenais
plus debout. En me traînant à genoux, je parvins à l'unique lucarne qui
donnait sur la route. Au premier qui passa, j'appelai, d'une voix de pot
cassé. Il n'eut pas besoin, pour comprendre, d'entendre. Il me vit, il
se sauva, avec des signes de croix. Moins d'un quart d'heure après,
j'avais l'honneur d'avoir deux gardes devant ma maison; et défense me
fut faite de franchir la porte d'icelle. Las! je n'y songeais guère. Je
priai qu'on allât chercher mon vieil ami, maître Paillard, le notaire, à
Dornecy, afin de rédiger mes dernières volontés. Mais ils avaient si
peur qu'ils craignaient jusqu'au vent de mes mots; et je crois, ma
parole, que, par peur de la peste, ils se bouchaient les oreilles!...
Enfin, un brave petit champi, «gardeux d'oueilles» (bon petit coeur), qui
me voulait du bien, parce que je l'avais surpris une fois picorant mes
cerises et que lui avais dit: «Beau merle, pendant que tu y es,
cueilles-en aussi pour moi», se faufila près de la fenêtre, écouta et
cria:
--Monsieur Breugnon, j'y vas!
...Ce qui se passa ensuite, je serais bien en peine pour vous le
raconter. Je sais que, de longues heures, vautré sur ma paillasse, de
fièvre je tirais la langue comme un veau... Des claquements de fouet,
des grelots sur la route, une grosse voix connue... Je pense: «Paillard
est venu...» Je cherche à me relever... Ah! vertu de ma vie! Il me
semblait que je portais saint Martin sur ma nuque, et Sembert sur mon
croupion. Je me dis: «Quand il y aurait encore les roches de Basseville,
il faut que tu y ailles...» Je tenais, voyez-vous, à faire enregistrer
(j'avais eu le temps, la nuit, de ressasser ces pensées) certaine
disposition, clause testamentaire, qui me permît d'avantager Martine et
sa Glodie, sans contestation de mes quatre garçons. Je hisse à la
lucarne ma tête qui pesait plus que Henriette, la grosse cloche. Elle
tombait à droite, à gauche... J'aperçois sur la route deux bonnes
grosses figures, qui écarquillaient les yeux, d'un air épouvanté.
C'étaient Antoine Paillard et le curé Chamaille. Ces braves amis, pour
me voir encore vivant, avaient brûlé le pavé. Je dois dire qu'après
qu'ils m'eurent vu, leur feu se mit à fumer. Sans doute afin de mieux
contempler le tableau, ils firent tous les deux trois pas en arrière. Et
ce sacré Chamaille, pour me rendre du coeur, me répétait:
--Seigneur, que tu es vilain!... Ah! mon pauvre garçon! Tu es vilain,
vilain... Vilain comme lard jaune...
Moi, je dis (de humer leur santé, par un effet contraire, cela
ragaillardissait mes esprits animaux):
--Je ne vous offre pas d'entrer? Vous me semblez avoir chaud.
--Non, merci, non, merci! s'exclament-ils tous deux. Il fait très bon,
ici.
Accentuant leur retraite, ils se retranchent auprès de la voiture; pour
se donner une contenance, Paillard secouait le mors de son bidet, qui
n'en pouvait mais.
--Et comment te trouves-tu? me demanda Chamaille, qui avait l'habitude
de causer avec les défunts.
--Hé! mon ami, qui est malade, il n'est pas aise, répondais-je en
branlant la tête.
--Ce que c'est que de nous. Tu vois, mon pauvre Colas, ce que je t'avais
toujours dit. Dieu est le Tout-Puissant. Nous ne sommes que fumée,
fumier. Aujourd'hui en chère, demain en bière. Aujourd'hui en fleur,
demain en pleur. Tu ne voulais pas me croire, tu ne pensais qu'à te
gaudir. Tu as bu le bon, tu bois la lie. Va, Breugnon, ne t'afflige
point! Le bon Dieu te rappelle. Ah! quel honneur, mon fils! Mais il
faut, pour le voir, t'habiller proprement. Çà, viens que je te lave.
Préparons-nous, pécheur.
Je réponds:
--Tout à l'heure. Nous avons le temps, curé!
--Breugnon, mon ami, mon frère!... Ah! je vois bien que tu es toujours
attaché aux faux biens de la terre. Qu'a-t-elle donc de si plaisant? Ce
n'est qu'inanité, vanité, calamité, dol, cautelle et malice, nasse
borgne, embuscade, douleur, décrépitude. Que faisons-nous ici?
Je réplique:
--Tu me navres. Jamais je n'aurais le courage, Chamaille, de t'y
laisser.
--Nous nous reverrons, dit-il.
--Que n'allons-nous ensemble!... Enfin, je passe devant.» _La devise de
M. de Guise: À chacun son tour!»_... Suivez-moi, gens de bien!
Ils n'eurent pas l'air d'entendre. Chamaille fit la grosse voix:
--Le temps passe, Breugnon, et tu passes avec lui. Le Malin, le
_Maufait_ te guette. Veux-tu que la pute bête happe ton âme encrassée,
pour son garde-manger? Allons, Colas, allons, dis ton _Confiteor_,
prépare-toi, fais cela, fais cela, mon petit garçon, fais cela pour moi,
compère!
--Je le ferai, dis-je, je le ferai, pour toi, pour moi, et pour Lui.
Dieu me garde de manquer aux égards que je dois à toute la compagnie!
Mais, s'il te plaît, je veux d'abord dire deux mots à monsieur mon
notaire.
--Tu les diras après.
--Point. Maître Paillard, premier.
--Y penses-tu, Breugnon? Faire passer l'Éternel après le tabellion!
--L'Éternel peut attendre, ou se promener, s'il lui plaît: je le
retrouverai bien. Mais la terre me quitte. La politesse veut que l'on
fasse visite à qui vous a reçu, avant d'en faire à qui vous recevra...
peut-être.
Il insista, pria, menaça, cria. Je n'en démordis point. Maître Antoine
Paillard tira son écritoire, et, sur la borne assis, rédigea, dans un
cercle de curieux et de chiens, mon testament public. Après quoi, je
disposai de mon âme gentiment, comme j'avais fait de mon argent. Lorsque
tout fut fini (Chamaille me continuait ses exhortations), je dis, d'une
voix mourante:
--Baptiste, reprends haleine. C'est très beau, ce que tu dis. Mais pour
homme altéré, conseil d'oreille ne vaut pas une groseille. À présent que
mon âme est prête à monter en selle, je voudrais au moins boire le coup
de l'étrier. Gens de biens une bouteille!
Ah! les braves garçons! Non moins que bons chrétiens, tous deux bons
Bourguignons, comme ils ont bien compris ma dernière pensée! Au lieu
d'une bouteille, ils m'en apportèrent trois: Chablis, Pouilly, Irancy.
De la fenêtre de mon bateau qui allait vers l'ancre, je jetai une corde.
Le champi y attacha un vieux panier d'osier, et de mes dernières forces,
je hissai mes derniers amis.
À partir de ce moment, retombé sur ma paillasse, les autres étant
partis, je me sentis moins seul. Mais je n'essaierai point de vous faire
le récit des heures qui suivirent. Je ne sais comment il se fait que je
n'en retrouve plus le compte. Il faut qu'on m'en ait volé huit ou dix
dans ma poche. Je sais que j'étais enfoncé dans un vaste entretien avec
la trinité des esprits en bouteille; mais de ce que nous disions, je ne
me rappelle rien. Je perds Colas Breugnon: où diable est-il passé?...
Vers minuit, je le revois, assis dans son jardin, étalé des deux fesses
sur une plate-bande de fraises grasses, moelleuses et fraîches, et
contemplant le ciel au travers des rameaux d'un petit doyenné. Que de
lumières là-haut, et que d'ombre ici-bas! La lune me faisait les cornes.
À quelques pas de moi, un tas de vieux sarments noirs, tortus et
griffus, avaient l'air de grouiller comme un nid de serpents, et me
regardaient avec des grimaces diaboliques... Mais qui m'expliquera ce
que je fais ici?... Il me semble (tout se mêle dans mon esprit trop
riche) que je m'étais dit:
--Debout, chrétien! Un empereur romain ne meurt pas, mon Colas, le cul
sur son matelas. _Sursum corda!_ Les bouteilles sont vides.
_Consummatum est._ Plus rien à faire ici! Allons haranguer nos choux!
Et il me semble aussi que je voulais cueillir des aulx, parce qu'on les
disait souverains contre la peste, ou parce que faute de vin, il faut se
contenter d'aulx. Ce qui est sûr, c'est qu'à peine j'eus mis le pied (et
le séant suivit) sur la terre nourricière, je me sentis saisi par
l'enchantement de la nuit. Le ciel, comme un grand arbre rond et sombre,
étendait sur moi sa coupole de noyer. À ses rameaux pendaient des
fruits, par milliers. Mollement balancées et brillantes, comme des
pommes, les étoiles mûrissaient dans les ténèbres tièdes. Les fruits de
mon verger me semblaient des étoiles. Toutes se penchaient vers moi,
afin de me regarder. Par des milliers d'yeux je me sentais épié. De
petits rires couraient dans les plants de fraisiers. Dans l'arbre,
au-dessus de moi, une petite poire, aux joues rouges et dorées, d'un
filet de voix claire et sucrée, me chantait:
_Aubépine,_
_Prends racine._
_P'tit homme gris!_
_Comme les vrilles de la vigne,_
_Agripp'-toi à mon échine._
_Pour monter au Paradis,_
_Prends racine, prends racine,_
_P'tit homme gris!_
Et de toutes les branches du verger de la terre et de celui du ciel, un
choeur de petites voix chuchotantes, chevrotantes et chantantes,
répétait:
_Prends racine, prends racine!_
Lors, j'enfonçai mes bras dans ma terre, et je dis:
--Veux-tu de moi? Moi je veux bien.
Ma bonne terre grasse et molle, j'y entrai jusqu'aux coudes; elle
fondait comme un sein, et je la fourrageais, des genoux et des mains. Je
la pris à bras-le-corps, j'y marquai mon empreinte, de l'orteil jusqu'au
front; j'y fis mon lit, je m'y carrai; étendu tout du long, je regardais
le ciel et ses grappes d'étoiles, bouche bée, comme si j'attendais
qu'une d'elles vînt me pleuvoir sous le nez. La nuit de juillet chantait
un Cantique des Cantiques. Un grillon ivre criait, criait, criait, à
s'en faire périr. La voix de Saint-Martin soudain sonna douze heures, ou
bien quatorze, ou seize (sûrement, ce n'était pas une sonnerie
ordinaire). Et voici que les étoiles, les étoiles d'en haut et celles de
mon jardin se mettent à carillonner... Ô Dieu! quelle musique! Le coeur
m'en éclatait, et mes oreilles grondaient, comme les vitres, quand il
tonne. Et du fond de mon trou, je voyais s'ériger un arbre de Jessé: un
cep de vigne, tout droit, tout empenné de pampres, qui me montait du
ventre; je montais avec lui; et me faisait escorte tout mon verger,
chantant; à la plus haute branche, une étoile suspendue dansait comme
une perdue; et la tête renversée en arrière pour la voir, pour l'avoir
je grimpais, bramant à pleins poumons:
_Grain d'chasselas,_
_Ne t'en va pas!_
_Hardi, Colas!_
_Colas t'aura,_
_Alléluia!_
J'ai dû grimper, je pense, une partie de la nuit. Car j'ai chanté, des
heures, à ce qu'on m'a dit depuis. J'en chantai de toutes sauces, du
sacré, du profane, et des _De Profundis_, et des épithalames, des Noëls,
des _Laudate_, fanfares et rigaudons, des chansons édifiantes et
d'autres qui étaient gaillardes, et je jouais de la vielle ou bien de la
musette, je battais du tambour, je sonnais de la trompette. Les voisins
ameutés se tenaient les côtes, et disaient:
--Quelle trompe!... c'est Colas qui s'en va. Il est fou, il est fou!...
Le lendemain, comme on dit, je fis honneur au soleil. Je ne lui disputai
pas l'honneur de se lever! Il était bien midi, lorsque je m'éveillai.
Ah! que j'eus de plaisir à me revoir, m'ami, au fond de mon fumier! Ce
n'était pas que la couche fût douce, ni que je n'eusse, au vrai,
diablement mal aux reins. Mais que c'est bon de se dire qu'on a encore
des reins! Quoi! tu n'es pas parti, Breugnon, mon bon ami! Que je
t'embrasse, mon fils! Que je tâte ce corps, ce brave petit museau! c'est
bien toi. Que je suis aise! Si tu m'avais quitté, jamais je ne m'en
serais, non, Colas, consolé. Salut, ô mon jardin! Mes melons me rient
d'aise. Mûrissez, mes mignons... Mais je suis arraché à ma contemplation
par deux Aliborons, qui, de l'autre côté du mur, braillent:
--Breugnon! Breugnon! Es-tu mort?
C'est Paillard et Chamaille, qui, n'entendant plus rien, se lamentent et
déjà prônent mes vertus défuntes, sans doute, sur la route. Je me relève
(Aïe! mes coquins de reins!), je vais tout doucement, soudain je sors ma
tête du trou de la lucarne, et je crie:
--Coucou, le voilà!
Ils font un saut de carpe.
--Breugnon, tu n'es pas mort?
Ils riaient et pleuraient d'aise. Je leur tire la langue:
--Petit bonhomme vit encore...
Croiriez-vous que ces maudits m'ont laissé, quinze jours, enfermé dans
ma tour, jusqu'à ce qu'ils fussent certains que je n'avais plus rien! Je
dois à la vérité d'ajouter qu'ils ne me laissèrent manquer ni de manne,
ni de l'eau du rocher (j'entends celle de Noé). Même, ils prirent
l'habitude de venir, tour à tour, s'installer sous ma fenêtre, afin de
m'apporter les nouvelles du jour.
Lorsque je pus sortir, le curé Chamaille me dit:
--Mon bon ami, le grand saint Roch t'a sauvé. Tu ne peux faire moins que
d'aller le remercier. Fais cela, je te prie!
Je réponds:
--Je crois plutôt que c'est saint Irancy, saint Chablis, ou Pouilly.
--Eh bien, Colas, dit-il, nous y mettrons du nôtre; coupons la poire en
deux. Viens à saint Roch, pour moi. Et moi, je rendrai grâce à sainte
Bouteille, pour toi.
Comme nous faisions ensemble ce double pèlerinage (le fidèle Paillard
complétait le trio), je dis:
--Avouez, mes amis, que vous eussiez moins volontiers trinqué, le jour
que je vous demandai le coup de l'étrier? Vous ne paraissiez pas
disposés à me suivre.
--Je t'aimais bien, dit Paillard, je te jure; mais, que veux-tu, je
m'aime aussi. L'autre dit vrai: «_Ma chair m'est plus près que ma
chemise.»_
--_Mea culpa, mea culpa_, grondait Chamaille, qui battait son poitrail
comme une peau d'ânon, je suis poltron, c'est ma nature.
--Qu'avais-tu fait, Paillard, des leçons de Caton? Et toi, curé, à quoi
te servait ta religion?
--Ah! mon ami, qu'il fait bon vivre! firent-ils tous les deux, avec un
gros soupir.
Alors, nous nous embrassâmes, tous les trois, en riant, et nous dîmes:
--Un brave homme ne vaut pas cher. Il faut le prendre comme il est. Dieu
l'a fait: il a bien fait.
VIII
LA MORT DE LA VIEILLE
Fin juillet.
J'étais en train de reprendre goût à la vie. Je n'y eus pas beaucoup de
peine, comme vous pouvez m'en croire. Même, je ne sais comment, je la
trouvais encore plus succulente qu'avant, tendre, moelleuse et dorée,
cuite à point, croustillante, croquante sous la dent et fondant sur la
langue. Appétit de ressuscité. Que Lazare dut bien manger!...
Un jour donc qu'après avoir joyeusement travaillé, j'étais à m'escrimer,
avec mes compagnons, des armes de Samson, voilà qu'un paysan, qui venait
du Morvan, entre:
--Maître Colas, dit-il, j'ai vu avant-hier votre dame.
--Mâtin! tu as de la chance, dis-je. Et comment va la vieille?
--Très bien. Elle s'en va.
--Où cela?
--À toutes jambes, monsieur, vers un monde meilleur.
--Il cessera de l'être, dit un mauvais plaisant.
Et un autre:
--Elle s'en va. Tu restes. À ta santé, Colas! Un bonheur ne vient jamais
seul.
Moi, pour faire comme les autres (j_'_étais ému tout de même), je
réplique:
--Trinquons! Dieu aime l'homme, compères, quand il lui ôte sa femme, ne
sachant plus qu'en faire.
Mais le vin me parut subitement piquette, je ne pus finir mon verre; et,
prenant mon bâton, je partis sans même saluer la compagnie. Ils
criaient:
--Où vas-tu? Quelle mouche te pique?
J'étais bien loin déjà, je ne répondais pas, j'avais le coeur serré...
Voyez-vous, on a beau de pas aimer sa vieille, s'être fait enrager l'un
l'autre, jour et nuit, durant vingt-cinq années, à l'heure où la camarde
est venue la chercher, celle qui, collée à vous dans le lit trop étroit,
a mêlé si longtemps sa sueur à la vôtre, et qui dans ses flancs maigres
fit lever la semence de la race que vous avez plantée, on sent là
quelque chose qui vous étreint le gosier; c'est comme si un morceau de
vous s'en allait; et quoi qu'il ne soit pas beau, qu'il vous ait bien
gêné, on a pitié de lui, et de soi, on se plaint, on le plaint... Dieu
me pardonne! on l'aime...
J'arrivai, le lendemain, à la tombée de la nuit. Dès le premier coup
d'oeil, je vis que le grand sculpteur avait bien travaillé. Sous le
rideau fripé de la chair craquelée, le visage de la mort, tragique,
apparaissait. Mais ce qui me fut un signe plus certain de la fin, ce fut
qu'en me voyant elle me dit:
--Mon pauvre homme, tu n'es pas trop fatigué?
À cet accent de bonté, dont je fus tout remué, je me dis:
--Pas de doute. La pauvre vieille est finie. Elle se rabonit. Je m'assis
près du lit, et je lui pris la main. Trop faible pour parler, elle me
remerciait, des yeux, d'être venu. Pour la ragaillardir, essayant de
plaisanter, je racontais comment à la peste trop pressée je venais de
faire la nique. Elle n'en savait rien. Elle en fut si émue (diantre de
maladroit!) qu'elle eut une faiblesse, et faillit passer. Quand elle
reprit ses sens, sa langue lui revint (Dieu soit loué! Dieu soit loué!)
et sa méchanceté. La voilà qui se met, bredouillante et tremblante (les
mots ne voulaient point sortir, ou ils sortaient tout autres qu'elle
voulait: alors elle enrageait), la voilà qui se met à m'agonir
d'injures, disant que c'était honteux que je ne lui eusse rien dit, que
je n'avais pas de coeur, que j'étais pire qu'un chien, que comme le
susdit j'eusse bien mérité de crever de colique tout seul, sur mon
fumier. Elle me débita mainte autre gentillesse. On voulait la calmer.
On me disait:
--Va-t'en! Tu vois, tu lui fais mal. Éloigne-toi, un moment!
Mais moi, je ris, me penchant sur son lit, et je dis:
--À la bonne heure! Je te reconnais donc! Il y a encore de l'espoir. Tu
es aussi méchante...
Et lui prenant la tête, sa vieille tête branlante, entre mes grosses
mains, je l'embrassai de grand coeur, deux fois sur les deux joues. Et la
seconde fois, elle pleura.
Nous restâmes alors, tranquilles, sans parler, tous deux seuls dans la
chambre, où dans la boiserie la vrillette frappait, à coups secs, le
tic-tac de l'horloge funèbre. Les gens étaient allés dans la pièce à
côté. Elle, péniblement, ahanait, et je vis qu'elle voulait parler.
Je dis:
--Ne te fatigue pas, ma vieille. On s'est tout dit, depuis vingt-cinq
années. On se comprend sans parler.
Elle dit:
--On ne s'est rien dit. Faut que je parle, Colas; sans quoi le
paradis... où je n'entrerai pas...
--Mais si, mais si, que je fis.
--... Sans quoi le paradis me serait plus amer que le fiel de l'enfer.
Je fus pour toi, Colas, aigre et acariâtre...
--Mais non, mais non, que je fis. Un peu d'acidité, c'est bon pour la
santé.
--... Jalouse, colérique, querelleuse, grondeuse. De ma mauvaise humeur
j'emplissais la maison; et je t'en ai fait voir, de toutes les façons...
je lui tapotai la main:
--Ça ne fait rien. J'ai le cuir bon. Elle reprit, sans souffle:
--Mais c'est que je t'aimais.
--Ça, si je m'en doutais! fis-je en riant. Après tout, chacun a sa
manière. Mais que ne me l'as-tu dit! La tienne n'était pas claire.
--Je t'aimais; reprit-elle; et toi, tu ne m'aimais pas. C'est pourquoi
tu étais bon, et moi j'étais mauvaise: car je te haïssais de ce que tu
ne m'aimais; et toi, tu t'en souciais... Tu avais ton rire, Colas, ton
rire comme aujourd'hui... Dieu! m'a-t-il fait souffrir! Tu
t'encapuchonnais dedans, contre la pluie; et moi, je pouvais pleuvoir,
jamais je ne parvenais, brigand, à t'arroser! Ah! que tu m'as fait de
mal! Plus d'une fois, Colas, j'ai failli en crever.
--Ma pauvre femme, lui dis-je, c'est que je n'aime point l'eau.
--Tu ris encore, coquin!... Va, tu fais bien de rire. Le rire, ça vous
tient chaud. À cette heure que le froid de la terre me monte aux jambes,
je sens ce que vaut ton rire; prête-moi ton manteau. Ris tout ton soûl,
mon homme; je ne t'en veux plus; et toi, Colas, pardonne-moi.
--Tu fus une brave femme, dis-je, probe, forte et fidèle. Tu ne fus
peut-être pas plaisante tous les jours. Mais personne n'est parfait: ce
serait de l'irrespect envers Celui, là-haut, qui l'est seul, m'a-t-on
dit (je n'y ai pas été voir). Et, dans les heures noires (je ne dis
celles de la nuit où tous les chats sont gris, mais celles des années de
misères et de vaches maigres), tu n'étais plus tant laide. Tu fus brave,
jamais tu ne renâclas à la peine; et ta maussaderie me semblait presque
belle, lorsque tu l'exerçais contre le mauvais sort, sans céder d'une
semelle. Ne nous tourmentons plus maintenant du passé. C'est assez de
l'avoir, une bonne fois, porté, sans plier, sans crier, et sans garder
la marque d'une honte acceptée. Ce qui est fait est fait, et n'est plus
à refaire. Le fardeau est à terre. Au Maître maintenant de le peser,
s'il veut! Cela ne nous regarde plus. Ouf! respirons, mon vieux. Nous
n'avons plus maintenant qu'à déboucler la sangle qui nous serrait le
dos, à frotter nos doigts gourds, nos épaules meurtries, et à faire
notre trou, en terre, pour dormir, bouche ouverte, en ronflant comme un
orgue.
--_Requiescat_! Paix à ceux qui ont bien travaillé!--du grand sommeil de
l'Éternité.
Elle m'écoutait, les yeux fermés, les bras croisés. Quand j'eus fini,
les yeux rouvrit, sa main tendit.
--Mon ami, bonne nuit. Tu m'éveilleras demain. Alors, en femme d'ordre,
toute droite, tout de son long, sur le lit elle s'étendit, tira les
draps sous son menton, jusqu'à ce qu'ils ne fissent plus un pli, en
pressant sur ses seins vides le crucifix; puis, en femme décidée, le nez
pincé, le regard fixe, prête à partir, elle attendit.
Mais sans doute que ses vieux os, avant de connaître le repos, devaient
passer, une fois dernière, afin d'être purifiés, par la misère, le feu
de la terre (c'est notre lot). Car, juste à ce moment, la porte d'à côté
s'ouvrit; et dans la chambre, se précipitant, l'hôtesse d'une voix
haletante, cria:
--Vite! venez, maître Colas! Sans comprendre, je demandais:
--Qu'y a-t-il? Parlez plus bas.
Mais elle, sur son lit, qui pour le grand voyage était partie déjà,
comme si, du haut du coche où elle venait de monter, elle pouvait, se
retournant, voir par-dessus nos têtes ce que je ne voyais pas, elle se
redressa de sa couche funèbre, roide comme celui que Jésus réveilla,
tendit les bras vers nous et cria:
--Ma Glodie!
À mon tour, je compris, transpercé par ce cri et par la rauque toux qui
venait d'à côté. Je courus, je trouvai ma pauvre petite alouette, qui,
la gorge serrée, cherchant de ses menottes à desserrer l'étreinte, toute
rouge et brûlante, implorait de ses yeux effarés du secours, et qui se
débattait, comme un oiseau blessé...
Ce que fut cette nuit, je ne puis le raconter. À présent que j'en suis à
cinq jours bien comptés, de me la remémorer, j'ai les jambes cassées; il
faut que je m'assoie. Han! laissez-moi souffler... Faut-il qu'il y ait
au ciel un Maître qui se complaise à faire lentement souffrir ces petits
êtres, à sentir sous ses doigts leur frêle cou craquer, à les voir se
débattre et pouvoir supporter leur regard de reproche étonné! Je
comprends qu'on étrille de vieux ânes comme moi, que l'on fasse du mal à
qui peut se défendre, des gars solides, des femelles râblées. Que vous
vous amusiez à nous faire crier, si vous pouvez, bon Dieu, essayez!
L'homme est à votre image. Que vous soyez, comme lui, pas très bon tous
les jours, capricieux, malicieux, aimant nuire, de temps en temps, par
besoin de détruire, d'éprouver votre force, par âcreté de sang, parce
que vous êtes mal luné, ou bien par passe-temps, cela ne m'étonnerait
pas, en somme, énormément. Nous sommes d'âge, oui-dà, à vous tenir tête:
quand vous nous ennuyez, nous savons vous le dire. Mais prendre comme
cibles des pauvres agnelets, dont on tordrait le nez, il sortirait du
lait, halte-là! Non, c'est trop, nous ne l'admettons pas! Dieu ou roi,
qui le fait outrepasse ses droits. Nous vous en prévenons. Seigneur,
l'un de ces jours, si vous continuiez, nous serions obligés, à notre
grand regret, de vous découronner... Mais je ne veux pas croire que ce
soit là votre oeuvre, je vous respecte trop. Pour que de tels forfaits
soient possibles, Notre Père, il faut de deux choses l'une: ou vous
n'avez pas d'yeux, ou vous n'existez pas... Aïe! voilà un mot incongru,
je le retire. La preuve que vous existez, c'est que nous devisons tous
deux, en ce moment. Que de discussions nous avons eues ensemble! Et,
entre nous, monsieur, combien de fois je vous ai réduit au silence! Dans
cette nuit néfaste, vous ai-je assez appelé, injurié, menacé, nié, prié,
supplié! Vous ai-je assez tendu mes mains jointes et montré mon poing
fermé! Cela n'a servi de rien, vous n'avez pas bronché. Du moins, vous
ne pouvez dire, afin de vous toucher, que j'aie rien négligé!--Et
puisque vous ne voulez, bon sang! que vous ne daignez m'écouter,
serviteur! tant pis pour vous, Seigneur! Nous en connaissons d'autres,
nous nous adresserons ailleurs...
J'étais seul, pour veiller, avec la vieille hôtesse. Martine, qu'avaient
prise en route les douleurs de gésine, était restée à Dornecy, laissant
Glodie à la grand-mère. Quand nous vîmes, au matin, que notre petite
martyre allait passer, nous prîmes les grands moyens. J'enlevai dans mes
bras son mignon corps brisé, pas plus lourd qu'une plume (il n'avait
plus la force même de se débattre, et, la tête pendante, avec des
soubresauts, il palpitait à peine, ainsi qu'un passereau). Je regardai
par la fenêtre. Il faisait vent et pluie. Une rose sur sa tige se
penchait à la vitre, comme si elle voulait entrer. Annonce de la mort.
Je fis le signe de croix et, malgré tout, sortis. L'humide vent violent
s'engouffra dans la porte. Je cachai sous ma main la tête de mon
oiselle, de peur que la bourrasque ne soufflât sa chandelle. Nous
allions. Devant, marchait l'hôtesse, qui portait des présents. On entra
dans les bois qui bordaient le chemin, et nous vîmes bientôt, sur le
bord d'un marais, un tremble qui tremblait. Sur un peuple de joncs aux
reins souples, il régnait, haut et droit comme une tour. Nous en fîmes,
une fois, deux fois, trois fois, le tour. La petite gémissait, et le
vent dans les feuilles, comme elle, des dents claquait. À la menotte de
l'enfant nous nouâmes un ruban; l'autre bout à un bras du vieil arbre
tremblant; et l'hôtesse édentée et moi, nous répétions:
_Tremble, tremble, mon mignon,_
_Prends mon frisson._
_Je t'en prie et je t'en somme,_
_Par les personnes_
_De la Sainte-Trinité._
_Mais si tu fais l'entêté,_
_Si tu ne veux m'écouter,_
_Garde à toi! te trancherai._
Puis, entre les racines, la vieille fit un trou, versa une chopine de
vin, deux gousses d'ail, une tranche de lard; et par-dessus, mit un
liard. Trois tours encore nous fîmes autour de mon chapeau, posé à terre
et bourré de roseaux. Et au troisième tour, nous crachâmes dedans, en
répétant:
--_Crapauds croupissants accroupis, que le croup vous étouffe!_
Ensuite, nous en retournant, à la sortie du bois, nous nous
agenouillâmes devant une aubépine; au pied nous mîmes l'enfant; et par
la Sainte Épine, priâmes le Fils de Dieu.
Lorsque nous rentrâmes enfin à la maison, la petite semblait morte. Du
moins, nous avions fait tout ce que nous pouvions.
Pendant ce temps, ma femme, elle, ne voulait pas mourir. L'Amour de sa
Glodie l'attachait à la vie. Elle se démenait, criait:
--Non, je ne m'en irai pas, bon Dieu, Jésus, Marie, avant que je ne
sache ce que voulez en faire, et si oui ou si non elle doit être guérie.
Guérie, elle le sera, vertudieu, je le veux. Je le veux, je le veux, et
je le veux: c'est dit.
Ce n'était pas encore dit, sans doute, tout à fait: car après l'avoir
dit, elle recommençait. Dieu! quel souffle elle avait! Et moi, qui tout
à l'heure croyais qu'elle était près de rendre le dernier! Si c'était le
dernier, il avait belle taille... Breugnon, mauvais garçon, tu ris,
n'as-tu pas honte?--Que veux-tu, mon ami? Je suis ce que je suis. Rire
ne m'empêche pas de souffrir; mais souffrir n'empêchera jamais un bon
Français de rire. Et qu'il rie ou larmoie, il faut d'abord qu'il voie.
Vive _Janus bifrons_, aux yeux toujours ouverts!...
Donc, je n'en avais pas moins de peine à l'écouter s'essouffler et
souffler, la pauvre vieille commère; et malgré que je fusse aussi
angoissé qu'elle, je voulais la calmer, je lui disais des mots comme on
dit aux enfants, et je l'emmaillotais dans ses draps, gentiment. Mais
elle, se dégageait, furieuse, en criant:
--Bon à rien! Si tu étais un homme, n'aurais-tu pas trouvé moyen de la
sauver, toi? À quoi sers-tu? C'est toi qui devrais être mort.
Je répondais:
--Ma foi, je suis de ton avis, ma vieille, tu as raison. Si quelqu'un en
voulait, je donnerais ma peau. Mais probable que là-haut elle ne fait
pas l'affaire: elle est usée, a trop servi. On n'est plus bon (c'est
vrai), comme toi, qu'à souffrir. Souffrons donc, sans parler. Peut-être
ce sera autant de pris, autant de moins que, la pauvre innocente, elle
aura à porter.
Alors sa vieille tête contre la mienne s'appuya, et le sel de nos yeux
se mêla sur nos joues. Dans la chambre, on sentait peser l'ombre des
ailes de l'archange funèbre...
Et soudain, il partit. La lumière revint. Qui causa ce prodige? Fut-ce
le Dieu d'en haut, ou bien ceux des forêts, mon Jésus pitoyable à tous
les malheureux, ou la terre redoutable, qui souffle et boit les maux,
fut-ce l'effet des prières, ou la peur de ma femme, ou bien parce qu'au
tremble j'avais graissé la patte? Nous ne le saurons jamais; et dans
l'incertitude, je rends grâces (c'est plus sûr) à toute la compagnie, en
y ajoutant même ceux que je ne connais point (ce sont peut-être les
meilleurs). En tout cas, le certain, et le seul qui m'importe, c'est
depuis ce moment que la fièvre tomba, le souffle circula dans le frêle
gosier, comme un ruisseau léger; et ma petite morte, échappant à
l'étreinte de l'archange, ressuscita.
Nous sentîmes se fondre alors notre vieux coeur. Tous deux nous
entonnâmes le: _Nunc dimittis_, Seigneur!... Et ma vieille,
s'affaissant, avec des pleurs de joie, laissa sur l'oreiller sa tête
retomber, comme une pierre qui s'enfonce, et soupira:
--Enfin, je puis donc m'en aller!...
Aussitôt son regard chavira, sa face se creusa, comme si d'un coup de
vent son souffle l'avait quittée. Et moi, penché sur son lit, où elle
n'était plus, je regardais ainsi qu'au fond d'un trou dans la rivière,
où la forme d'un corps qui vient de disparaître reste un instant
empreinte et s'efface en tournant. Je fermai ses paupières, baisai son
front cireux, j'enchaînai l'une à l'autre ses mains de travailleuse qui
ne s'étaient jamais reposées, en leur vie; et, sans mélancolie, laissant
la lampe éteinte dont l'huile était brûlée, j'allai m'asseoir auprès de
la flamme nouvelle qui devait maintenant éclairer la maison. Je la
regardais dormir; je la veillais, avec un sourire attendri, et je
pensais (se peut-on défendre de penser!):
--N'est-il pas bien étrange que l'on s'attache ainsi à cette petite
chose? Sans elle rien ne nous est. Avec elle, tout est bien, même le
pire, qu'importe? Ah! je puis bien mourir, que le diable m'emporte!
Pourvu qu'elle vive, elle, je me moque du reste!... C'est tout de même
un peu fort. Quoi, je suis là, je vis et je suis bien portant, maître de
mes cinq sens et de quelques autres en plus et du plus beau de tous, qui
est monsieur mon bon sens, je n'ai jamais boudé la vie, et je porte en
mon ventre dix aulnes de boyaux vides toujours pour la fêter, tête
saine, main précise, jarret solide et du mollet, brave ouvrier et
Bourguignon salé, et je serais tout prêt à sacrifier cela pour un petit
animal que je ne connais même pas! Car enfin qu'est-il donc! Un trognon
mignon, un jouet gentillet, perroquet qui s'essaie, un être qui n'est
rien, mais qui _sera_, peut-être... Et c'est pour ce «peut-être» que je
dilapiderais mon: «Je suis, et j'y suis, et j'y suis bien, pardi!»...
Ah! c'est que ce «peut-être», c'est ma plus belle fleur, celle pour qui
je vis. Quand les vers se seront empiffrés de ma chair, quand elle aura
fondu dans le gras cimetière, je revivrai, Seigneur, en un autre
moi-même, plus beau, plus heureux et meilleur... Eh! qu'en sais-je?
Pourquoi vaudrait-il mieux que moi?--Parce qu'il aura mis ses pieds sur
mes épaules, et qu'il verra plus loin, marchant sur mon tombeau... Ô
vous, sortis de moi, qui boirez la lumière, où mes yeux qui l'aimaient
ne se baigneront plus, par vos yeux je savoure la vendange des jours et
des nuits à venir, je vois se succéder les années et les siècles, je
jouis tout autant de ce que je pressens que de ce que j'ignore. Tout
passe autour de moi; mais c'est que, moi, je passe; je vais toujours
plus loin, plus haut, porté par vous. Je ne suis plus lié à mon petit
domaine. Au-delà de ma vie, au-delà de mon champ s'allongent les
sillons, ils embrassent la terre, ils enjambent l'espace; comme une voie
lactée, ils couvrent de leur réseau toute la voûte azurée. Vous êtes mon
espérance, mon désir, et mon grain, qu'à travers l'infini je sème à
pleines mains.
IX
LA MAISON BRÛLÉE
À la mi-août.
Noterons-nous ce jourd'hui? C'est un rude morceau. Il n'est pas encore
tout à fait digéré. Allons, vieux, du courage! Ce sera le meilleur moyen
de le faire passer.
On dit que pluie d'été ne fait point pauvreté. À ce compte, je devrais
être plus riche que Crésus; car il ne cesse de pleuvoir, cet été, sur
mon dos, et me voici pourtant sans chemise et sans chausses, ainsi qu'un
saint Jeannot. À peine je sortais de cette double épreuve--Glodie était
guérie, et ma vieille femme aussi, l'une de sa maladie, et l'autre de la
vie--quand je reçus des puissances qui gouvernent l'univers (il doit y
avoir là-haut une femme qui m'en veut; que diable lui ai-je fait?...
Elle m'aime, parbleu!) un furieux assaut d'où je sors nu, battu et moulu
jusqu'aux os, mais (c'est le principal, enfin) avec tous mes os.
Bien que ma petite fille fût à présent remise, je ne me pressais pas de
regagner le pays; je restais auprès d'elle, jouissant encore plus
qu'elle de sa convalescence. Un enfant qui guérit c'est comme si l'on
voyait la création du monde; tout l'univers vous semble frais pondu et
laiteux. Donc, je flânais, écoutant distraitement les nouvelles
qu'apportaient, s'en allant au marché, les commères. Lorsqu'un jour un
propos me fit dresser l'oreille, vieux baudet qui voit venir la trique
de l'ânier. On disait que le feu avait pris, à Clamecy, dans le faubourg
de Beuvron, et que les maisons flambaient comme des margotins. Je ne pus
obtenir aucun autre renseignement. À partir de ce moment, je fus, par
sympathie, sur des charbons assis. On avait beau me dire:
--Reste tranquille! Les mauvaises nouvelles sont prestes comme
l'hirondelle. S'il s'agissait de toi, tu le saurais déjà. Qui parle de
ta maison? Il y a plus d'un âne en Beuvron...
Je ne tenais plus en place, je me disais:
--C'est elle... Elle brûle, je sens le roussi... Je pris mon bâton, je
partis. Je pensais:
--Bon Dieu de bête! c'est la première fois que je quitte Clamecy, sans
rien mettre à l'abri. Dans tous les autres cas, aux approches de
l'ennemi, j'emportais dans les murs, de l'autre côté du pont, mes dieux
lares, mon argent, les travaux de mon art dont je suis le plus fier, mes
outils et mes meubles, et ces brimborions qui sont laids, encombrants,
mais qu'on ne donnerait pas pour tout l'or de la terre parce qu'ils sont
les reliques de nos pauvres bonheurs... Cette fois, j'ai tout laissé...
Et j'entendais ma vieille, qui, de l'autre monde, criait contre ma
stupidité. Moi, je lui répondais:
--C'est ta faute, c'est pour toi que je me suis tant pressé!
Après nous être bien tous les deux chamaillés (cela m'occupa, du moins,
une partie du chemin), je tâchai de nous convaincre que je m'inquiétais
pour rien. Mais malgré moi, l'idée revenait, comme une mouche, se poser
sur mon nez; je la voyais sans cesse; et une sueur froide me rigolait,
le long de l'échine et des reins. Je marchais d'un bon train. J'avais
passé Villiers, et je commençais de monter la longue côte boisée, quand
je vois sur la pente une carriole qui venait, et dedans le père Jojot,
le meunier de Moulot, qui, me reconnaissant, s'arrête, lève son fouet,
et crie:
--Mon pauvre gars!
Ce fut comme si je recevais un coup dans l'estomac. Je restais, bouche
bée, sur le bord de la route. Il reprend:
--Où tu vas? Rebrousse, mon Colas! N'entre pas dans la ville. Tu te
ferais trop de bile. Tout est brûlé, rasé. Il ne te reste plus rien.
L'animal, à chaque mot, me tordait les boyaux. Je voulus faire le brave,
j'avalai ma salive, je me raidis, je dis:
--Pardi, je le sais bien!
--Alors, fait-il vexé, qu'est-ce que tu vas chercher? Je réponds:
--Les débris.
--Il ne reste rien, je te dis, rien, rien, pas un radis!
--Jojot, tu exagères; tu ne me feras pas croire que mes deux apprentis
et mes braves voisins ont regardé brûler ma maison sans tâcher de
retirer du feu quelques marrons, quelques meubles, comme on fait entre
frères...
--Tes voisins, malheureux? Ce sont eux qui ont mis le feu!
Du coup, je fus assommé. Il me dit, triomphant:
--Tu vois bien que tu ne sais rien!
Je n'en voulais pas démordre. Mais lui, sûr à présent de me conter le
premier la mauvaise nouvelle, il se mit, satisfait et contrit, à narrer
la grillade:
--C'est la peste, dit-il. Ils sont tous affolés. Aussi, pourquoi
messieurs de la municipalité et de la châtellenie, échevins, procureur,
nous ont-ils tous quittés? Plus de bergers! Les moutons sont devenus
enragés. De nouveaux cas du mal survenant en Beuvron, on a crié:
«Brûlons les maisons empestées!» Sitôt dit, sitôt fait. Comme tu n'étais
pas là, ce fut naturellement la tienne qui commença. On y allait de bon
coeur, chacun y mettait du sien: on croyait travailler pour le bien de la
cité. Puis, on s'excite l'un l'autre. Quand on se met à détruire, je ne
sais pas ce qui se produit: on est soûl, tout y passe, on ne peut plus
s'arrêter... Quand ils y eurent mis le feu, ils dansèrent autour.
C'était comme une folie... _«Sur le pont de Beuvron, on y danse...»_ Si
tu les avais vus... _«Voyez comme on danse...»_ si tu les avais vus,
peut-être qu'avec eux toi-même aurais dansé. Tu penses si le bois que tu
avais à l'atelier flambait, pétaradait... Bref, on a tout brûlé!
--J'aurais voulu voir cela. Cela devait être beau, dis-je.
Et je le pensais. Mais je pensais aussi:
--Je suis mort! Ils m'ont tué. Ceci, je me gardais de le dire à Jojot.
--Alors, ça ne te fait rien? dit-il, l'air mécontent.
(Il m'aimait bien, le brave homme; mais on n'est pas fâché--sacrée
espèce humaine!--de voir de temps en temps son voisin dans la peine, ne
serait-ce que pour avoir le plaisir de le consoler.)
Je dis:
--Pour ce beau feu, c'est dommage qu'on n'ait pas attendu la Saint-Jean.
Je fis mine de partir.
--Et tu y vas tout de même?
--J'y vas. Bonjour, Jojot.
--Bougre d'original!
Il fouetta son cheval.
Je marchai, ou plutôt j'avais l'air de marcher, jusqu'à ce que la
voiture disparût, au détour. Je n'aurais pu faire dix pas; les jambes
m'entraient dans le ventre; je tombai sur une borne, comme assis sur un
pot.
Les moments qui suivirent furent de mauvais moments. Je n'avais plus
besoin de faire le fanfaron. Je pouvais être malheureux, malheureux,
tout mon soûl. Je ne m'en privai point. Je pensais:
--«J'ai tout perdu, mon gîte et l'espérance d'en refaire jamais un
autre, mon épargne amassée, jour par jour, sou par sou, avec cette lente
peine qui est le meilleur plaisir, les souvenirs de ma vie encrassés
dans les murs, les ombres du passé qui semblent des flambeaux. Et j'ai
perdu bien plus, perdu ma liberté. Que deviendrai-je maintenant? Il me
faudra loger chez un de mes enfants. Je m'étais pourtant juré d'éviter,
à tout prix, cette calamité! Je les aime, parbleu; ils m'aiment, c'est
entendu. Mais je ne suis pas si sot que je ne sache que tout oiseau doit
rester dans son nid, et que les vieux sont gênants pour les jeunes, et
gênés. Chacun songe à ses oeufs, à ceux qu'il a pondus, et ne se soucie
plus de ceux d'où il est venu. Le vieux qui s'obstine à vivre est un
intrus, quand il prétend se mêler à la couvée nouvelle; il a beau
s'effacer: on lui doit le respect. Au diable le respect! C'est la cause
de tout le mal: on n'est plus leur égal. J'ai fait tout mon possible
pour que mes cinq enfants ne soient pas étouffés par leur respect pour
moi; j'y ai assez réussi; mais quoi que vous fassiez et malgré qu'ils
vous aiment, ils vous regardent toujours un peu en étranger: vous venez
de contrées où ils n'étaient pas nés, et vous ne connaîtrez pas les
contrées où ils vont; comment pourriez-vous donc vous comprendre tout à
fait? Vous vous gênez l'un l'autre, et vous vous en irritez... Et puis,
c'est terrible à dire: l'homme qui est le plus aimé ne doit que le moins
possible mettre l'amour des siens à l'épreuve: c'est tenter Dieu. Il ne
faut pas trop demander à notre espèce humaine. De bons enfants sont
bons; je n'ai pas à me plaindre. Ils sont encore meilleurs, quand on n'a
pas besoin de recourir à eux. J'en dirais long si je voulais... Enfin,
j'ai ma fierté. Je n'aime pas reprendre leur pâtée à ceux à qui je l'ai
donnée. J'ai l'air de leur dire: «Payez!» Les morceaux que je n'ai pas
gagnés me restent dans la gorge; il me semble voir des yeux qui comptent
mes bouchées. Je ne veux rien devoir qu'à ma peine. Il me faut être
libre, être maître chez moi, y entrer, en sortir, selon ma volonté. Je
ne suis bon à rien, quand je me sens humilié. Ah! misère d'être vieux,
de dépendre de la charité des siens, c'est encore pis que de ses
concitoyens: car ils y sont forcés; on ne peut jamais savoir s'ils le
font de plein gré; et l'on aimerait mieux crever que de les gêner.»
Ainsi, je gémissais, souffrant dans mon orgueil, dans mon affection,
dans mon indépendance, dans ce que j'avais aimé, les souvenirs du passé
envolés en fumée, dans tout ce que j'avais de meilleur et de pire; et je
savais que, quoi que je fisse, j'avais beau me révolter, par cette
unique voie il me faudrait passer. J'avoue que je n'y apportais aucune
philosophie. Je me sentais misérable, tel un arbre qu'on a scié au ras
de terre et tranché.
Comme, assis sur mon pot, je cherchais quelque chose autour où
m'accrocher, non loin de moi je vis, voilé par les cheveux des arbres
d'une allée, la tourelle à créneaux du château de Cuncy. Et je me
souvins soudain de tous les beaux travaux que, depuis vingt-cinq ans,
j'avais mis là-dedans, des meubles, des boiseries, de l'escalier
sculpté, de tout ce que ce bon seigneur Philbert m'avait commandé...
Fameux original! Il m'a fait quelquefois diablement enrager. Est-ce
qu'il ne s'est pas, un beau jour, avisé de me faire sculpter ses
maîtresses en robe d'Ève, et lui en peau d'Adam, d'Adam gaillard,
galant, après la venue du serpent? Et dans la salle d'armes, n'eut-il
pas fantaisie que les têtes de cerf sculptées en panoplie eussent la
physionomie des bons cocus de la contrée? Nous en avons bien ri... Mais
le diable n'était pas facile à contenter. Lorsqu'on avait fini, on
devait recommencer. Et quant à son argent, on le voyait rarement...
N'importe! Il était capable d'aimer les belles choses, en bois tout
comme en chair, et presque de la même manière: (c'est la bonne, on doit
aimer l'oeuvre d'art comme on aime sa maîtresse, voluptueusement, de
l'esprit et des membres). Et s'il ne m'a pas payé, le ladre, il m'a
sauvé! Car je surnage ici, quand là-bas j'ai péri. L'arbre de mon passé
est détruit; mais ses fruits me restent; ils sont à l'abri des gelées et
du feu. Et j'eus l'envie de les revoir et d'y mordre, à l'instant, afin
de reprendre goût à la vie.
J'entrai dans le château. On m'y connaissait bien. Le maître n'était pas
là; mais sous le faux prétexte de mesures à prendre pour de nouveaux
travaux, j'allai où je savais que je trouverais mes enfants. Il y avait
plusieurs ans que je ne les avais vus. Tant qu'un artiste se sent de la
vigueur aux reins, il engendre, et ne pense plus à ce qu'il a engendré.
D'ailleurs, la dernière fois que j'avais voulu entrer, M. de Cuncy, avec
un rire bizarre, m'en avait empêché. Je me dis qu'il cachait sans doute
quelque drôlesse, quelque femme mariée; et comme j'étais bien sûr que ce
n'était pas la mienne, je n'en pris nul souci. Et puis, avec les lubies
de ces grands animaux, on ne discute pas: c'est plus sage. À Cuncy, nul
n'essaie de comprendre le maître: il est un peu timbré.
Je montai donc bravement par le grand escalier. Mais je n'avais pas fait
dix pas, que, comme la femme de Loth, je restai pétrifié. Les grappes de
raisins, les branches de pêchers, et les lianes fleuries, qui
s'enroulaient autour de la rampe sculptée, étaient déchiquetées, à
grands coups de couteau. Je doutai de mes yeux, j'empoignai à pleines
paumes les pauvres mutilés; je sentis sous mes doigts leurs blessures
écrites. Poussant un gémissement, et le souffle coupé, quatre à quatre,
j'escaladai les marches: je tremblais maintenant de ce que j'allais
trouver!... Mais cela dépassait ce que j'imaginais.
Dans la salle à manger, dans la salle des armures, dans la chambre à
coucher, toutes les figurines des meubles et des boiseries avaient qui
le nez coupé, qui le bras, qui la quille, qui la feuille de vigne. Sur
les panses des bahuts, le long des cheminées, sur les cuisses effilées
de colonnes sculptées, s'étalaient en balafres des inscriptions
profondes au couteau, le nom du propriétaire, quelque pensée idiote, ou
bien la date et l'heure de ce travail d'Hercule. Au fond de la grande
galerie, ma jolie nymphe nue de l'Yonne, qui s'appuie du genou sur le
cou d'une lionne velue, avait servi de cible; son ventre était troué par
des coups d'arquebuse. Et partout, au hasard, des coups et des coupures,
des copeaux rabotés, des taches d'encre ou de vin, des moustaches
ajoutées ou de sales facéties. Enfin, tout ce que l'ennui, tout ce que
la solitude, tout ce que la bouffonnerie et la stupidité peuvent
souffler d'incongruités au cerveau d'un riche idiot, qui ne sait
qu'inventer au fond de son château, et n'étant bon à rien, ne peut rien
que détruire... S'il avait été là, je crois que je l'aurais tué. Je
geignais, je soufflais du fond de mon gosier. Je fus un long moment à ne
pouvoir parler. J'avais le cou rouge et les veines du front qui
saillaient; je riboulais des yeux, ainsi qu'une écrevisse. Enfin,
quelques jurons réussirent à passer. Il était temps! Un peu plus, et
j'allais étouffer... La bonde une fois partie, bon sang! je m'en suis
donné. Dix minutes d'affilée, et sans reprendre haleine, j'ai sacré tous
les dieux et dégorgé ma haine:
--«Ah! chien, criais-je, fallait-il que j'amenasse dans ta bauge mes
beaux enfants, afin que tu les torturasses, mutilasses, violasses,
souillasses et compissasses! Hélas! mes doux petits, enfantés dans la
joie, vous sur qui je comptais pour être mes héritiers, vous que j'avais
faits sains, robustes et dodus, pourvus de membres bien charnus, sans
qu'il y manquât rien, vous qui étiez fabriqués du bois dont on vit mille
ans, dans quel état vous retrouvé-je, éclopés, estropiés, du haut, du
bas, du mitan, de l'avant, de la proue et de la poupe, de la cave et du
grenier, plus couturés de balafres qu'une bande de vieux pillards qui
reviennent de la guerre! Faut-il que je sois le père de tout cet
hôpital!... Grand Dieu, exauce-moi, accorde-moi la grâce (peut-être ma
prière te semble superflue) de ne pas m'en aller, mort, en ton paradis,
mais en enfer, près de la broche, où Lucifer rôtit les âmes des damnés,
afin que de ma main je tourne et je retourne le bourreau de mes enfants,
enfilé par le fondement!»
J'en étais là quand le vieil Andoche, un laquais que je connaissais,
vint me prier de mettre un terme à mes mugissements... Tout en me
poussant vers la porte, le brave homme essayait de me consoler:
--Est-il possible, disait-il, de se mettre en ces états, pour des
morceaux de bois! Que dirais-tu s'il te fallait vivre, comme nous, avec
ce fou? Vaut-il pas mieux qu'il se divertisse (c'est son droit) avec des
planches qu'il t'a payées qu'aux dépens de bons chrétiens comme toi et
moi?
--Eh! répliquai-je, qu'il te bâtonne! Crois-tu que je ne me ferais pas
fesser pour un de ces morceaux de bois que mes doigts ont animés?
L'homme n'est rien; c'est l'oeuvre qui est sacrée. Triple assassin, celui
qui tue l'idée!...
J'en eusse dit bien d'autres, et de cette éloquence; mais je vis que mon
public n'en avait rien compris et que j'étais pour Andoche presque aussi
fou que l'autre. Et comme, en ce moment, je me retournais encore, sur le
pas de la porte, pour, une dernière fois, embrasser le spectacle de ce
champ de bataille, le burlesque des choses, de mes pauvres dieux sans
nez et de leur Attila, d'Andoche aux yeux placides qui me prenaient en
pitié, et de moi, grosse bête, qui perdais ma salive à geindre,
soliloquer devant des soliveaux, me traversa la tête... frroutt... comme
une fusée; si bien qu'oubliant du coup ma colère et ma peine, je ris au
nez d'Andoche ahuri, et partis.
Je me retrouvai sur la route. Je disais:
--Cette fois, ils m'ont tout pris. Je suis bon à mettre en terre. Il ne
me reste que ma peau... Oui, mais aussi, sangbleu, il reste ce qu'il y a
dedans. Comme cet autre assiégé, répliquant à celui qui, s'il ne se
rendait, le menaçait de tuer ses enfants: «Si tu veux! J'ai ici
l'instrument pour en fabriquer d'autres», j'ai le mien, ventrebleu, ils
ne me l'ont pas pris, ils ne peuvent me le prendre... Le monde est une
plaine aride où, çà et là, poussent les champs de blé que nous,
artistes, avons semés. Les bêtes de la terre et du ciel viennent les
becqueter, mâcher et piétiner. Impuissants à créer, ils ne peuvent que
tuer. Rongez et détruisez, animaux, foulez aux pieds mon blé, j'en ferai
pousser d'autre. Épi mûr, épi mort, que m'importe la moisson? Dans le
ventre de la terre fermentent les grains nouveaux. Je suis ce qui sera
et non ce qui a été. Et lorsqu'un jour viendra où ma force s'éteindra,
où je n'aurai plus mes yeux, mes narines charnues, et le goulot dessous
où l'on descend le vin et où est bien pendue ma langue frétillarde,
quand je n'aurai plus mes bras, l'adresse de mes mains et ma frisque
vigueur, quand je serai très vieux, sans sang et sans bon sens..., ce
jour-là, mon Breugnon, c'est que je ne serai plus là. Va, ne t'inquiète
pas! Vous imaginez-vous un Breugnon qui ne sent plus, un Breugnon qui ne
crée plus, un Breugnon qui ne rit plus, et qui ne fait plus feu des
quatre fers à la fois? Non pas, c'est qu'il sera sorti de sa culotte.
Vous pouvez la brûler. Je vous abandonne ma loque...
Là-dessus, je me remis en marche vers Clamecy. Et comme j'arrivais au
haut de la montée, faisant le rodomont, et jouant du bâton (de vrai, je
me sentais déjà réconforté), je vis venir à moi un petit homme blond,
tout courant et pleurant, qui était Robinet dit Binet, mon petit
apprenti. Un galopin de treize ans, qu'on voyait, au travail, plus
attentif aux mouches qui volaient qu'aux leçons, et plus souvent dehors
que dedans, à faire des ricochets ou lorgner les mollets des filles qui
passaient. Je le calottais vingt fois dans sa sainte journée. Mais il
était adroit comme un singe, futé; ses doigts étaient malins comme lui,
bons ouvriers; et j'aimais, malgré tout, son bec toujours ouvert, ses
dents de petit rongeur, ses joues maigres, ses yeux fins et son nez
retroussé. Il le savait, le gueux! J'avais beau lever le poing et jouer
de mon tonnerre: il voyait le rire au coin de l'oeil de Jupiter. Aussi,
quand je l'avais calotté, il se secouait, tranquille comme un baudet, et
puis, après, recommençait. C'était un vaurien parfait.
Je ne fus donc pas peu étonné de le voir, tout pareil à un triton de
fontaine, de grosses larmes en poire coulant, dégoulinant de ses yeux et
de son nez. Le voilà qui se jette sur moi et m'embrasse le corps, en
m'inondant le giron de ses pleurs et meuglant. Je n'y comprenais rien,
je disais:
--Eh! là donc! à qui est-ce que tu en as! Veux-tu bien me lâcher! On se
mouche, sacré!... avant de vous embrasser.
Mais au lieu de cesser, me tenant enlacé, comme le long d'un prunier, il
se laisse glisser à mes genoux, par terre, et pleure de plus belle. Je
commence à m'inquiéter:
--Allons donc, mon petit gars! Relève-toi! Qu'est-ce que tu as?
Je le prends par les bras, je le soulève... houp, là!... et je vois
qu'il avait une main emmaillotée, qui saignait au travers des chiffons,
ses habits en guenilles et ses sourcils brûlés. Je dis (j'avais déjà
oublié mon histoire):
--Drôle, tu as encore fait une sottise? Il gémit:
--Ah! maître, j'ai tant de peine!
Je l'assieds près de moi, sur un talus. Je dis:
--Parleras-tu?
Il crie:
--Tout est brûlé!
Et de nouveau, les grandes eaux se mettent à couler. Alors donc, je
compris que tout ce gros chagrin, c'était à cause de moi, c'était pour
l'incendie; et je ne peux pas dire le bien que cela me fit.
--Mon pauvre petit, je réplique, c'est pour cela que tu pleures?
Il reprit (il croyait que je n'avais pas saisi):
--L'atelier est brûlé!
--Bien oui, c'est du réchauffé; je la connais, ta nouvelle! Voilà dix
fois, en une heure, qu'on me la corne aux oreilles. Que veux-tu? c'est
un malheur!
Il me regarde, soulagé. Tout de même, il avait gros coeur.
--Tu tenais donc à ta cage, merle qui ne pensait qu'aux moyens d'en
sortir? Va, dis-je, je te soupçonne d'avoir, friponneau, dansé comme les
autres, autour des fagots.
(Je n'en pensais pas un mot.)
Il prend l'air indigné:
--Ça n'est pas vrai, crie-t-il, pas vrai! Je me suis battu. Tout ce que
nous avons pu pour arrêter le feu, maître, nous l'avons fait; mais nous
n'étions que deux. Et Cagnat, bien malade (c'est mon autre apprenti),
avait sauté du lit, quoiqu'il tremblât de fièvre, et s'était mis devant
la porte du logis. Allez donc arrêter un troupeau de gouris! Nous avons
été balayés, roulés, foulés, boulés. Nous avions beau taper et ruer
comme des sourds: ils ont passé sur nous, ainsi que la rivière, quand
les vannes de l'écluse sont ouvertes. Cagnat s'est relevé, a couru après
eux: ils l'ont presque assommé. Moi, tandis qu'ils luttaient, je me suis
faufilé dans l'atelier en feu... Bon Dieu, quelle flambée! Tout avait
pris, d'un coup, c'était comme une torche qui allongeait sa langue,
blanche, rouge et sifflante, en vous crachant au nez flammèches et
fumée. Je pleurais, je toussais, je commençais à cuire, je me disais:
«Robin, tu vas faire du boudin!»... Tant pire, on verra bien! Hop là! je
prends mon élan, je fais comme à la Saint-Jean, je saute, ma culotte
brûle, et j'ai le poil grillé. Je tombe dans un tas de copeaux qui
pétaient. J'en fis autant, je rebondis, je bute et je m'allonge, la tête
contre l'établi. J'en restai étourdi. Pas longtemps. J'entendais,
autour, le feu qui ronflait, et ces brutes, dehors, qui dansaient, qui
dansaient. J'essaie de me relever, je retombe, j'étais meurtri; je
m'arc-boute sur mes abattis, et je vois à dix pas votre petite sainte
Madeleine, dont le menu corps tout nu, de ses cheveux vêtu,
grassouillet, mignonnet, était déjà par le feu pourléché. Je criai:
«Arrêtez!» Je courus, je la pris, dans mes mains j'éteignis ses beaux
pieds qui flambaient, dans mes bras l'étreignis; ma foi, je ne sais
plus, je ne sais plus ce que je fis; je l'embrassais, je pleurais, je
disais: «Mon trésor, je te tiens, je te tiens, n'aie pas peur, je t'ai
bien, tu ne brûleras pas, je t'en donne ma parole! Et toi aussi,
aide-moi! Madelon, nous nous sauverons...» N'y avait plus de temps à
perdre,... boum!... le plafond tombait! Impossible de revenir par où
j'étais venu. Nous nous trouvions tout près de la lucarne ronde qui
donne sur la rivière; j'enfonce du poing le verre, nous passons au
travers, ainsi qu'en un cerceau: il y avait juste la place pour notre
râble à tous deux. Je roule, je pique une tête jusqu'au fond du Beuvron.
Heureusement que le fond est près de la surface; et comme il était bien
gras et rembourré de moelle, Madeleine en tombant ne s'est pas fait une
bosse. Moi, je fus moins heureux: je ne l'avais point lâchée, je
barbotais, empêtré, le bec au fond du pot; j'en bus et j'en mangeai plus
que je ne voulus. Enfin, j'en suis sorti; et, sans plus bavarder, nous
voilà tous les deux! Maître, pardonnez-moi de n'avoir pas fait mieux.
Alors, démaillotant pieusement son balluchon, d'une veste roulée il tira
Madelon, qui montrait, souriant de ses yeux innocents et coquets, ses
brûlés petons. Et je fus si ému que (ce que n'avais fait pour la mort de
ma vieille, le mal de ma Glodie, ma ruine et le massacre de mes oeuvres)
je pleurai.
Et comme j'embrassais Madeleine et Robinet, je me souvins de l'autre, et
je dis:
--Et Cagnat? Robinet répondit:
--Il est mort de chagrin.
Je m'agenouillai sur la route, je baisais la terre, je dis:
--Merci, mon gars.
Et regardant l'enfant, qui serrait la statue entre ses bras blessés, je
dis au Ciel, en le montrant:
--Voilà mon plus beau travail: les âmes que j'ai sculptées. Ils ne me
les prendront pas. Brûlez le bois! L'âme est à moi.
X
L'ÉMEUTE
Fin août.
Quand l'émotion fut digérée, je dis à Robinet:
--Assez! Ce qui est fait est fait. Voyons ce qui reste à faire.
Je lui fis raconter ce qui s'était passé dans la cité, depuis quinze ou
vingt jours que je l'avais quittée, mais bref et clair, sans bavarder:
car l'histoire d'hier est de l'histoire ancienne; et l'essentiel est de
savoir où nous en sommes. J'appris que sur Clamecy régnaient la peste et
la peur, la peur plus que la peste: car celle-ci déjà semblait chercher
fortune ailleurs, laissant la place aux malandrins qui, de tous les
côtés, attirés par l'odeur, venaient lui arracher des doigts sa proie.
Ils étaient maîtres du terrain. Les flotteurs, affamés et rendus enragés
par la terreur du fléau, laissaient faire, ou faisaient comme eux. Quant
aux lois, elles gisaient. Qui en avait reçu la garde, était allé garder
ses champs. De nos quatre échevins, l'un était mort, deux avaient fui;
et le procureur avait pris la poudre d'escampette. Le capitaine du
château, vieil homme brave, mais podagre, n'ayant qu'un bras, les pieds
gonflés, et de cerveau pas plus qu'un veau, s'était fait mettre en six
morceaux. Restait un échevin, Racquin, qui se trouvant seul en face de
ces animaux déchaînés, par peur, par faiblesse, par ruse, au lieu de
leur tenir tête, crut plus sage de céder, en faisant la part du feu. Du
même coup, sans se l'avouer (je le connais, j'ai deviné), il
s'arrangeait pour satisfaire à son âme rancunière, en lâchant sur tel ou
tel dont le bonheur lui faisait mal, ou dont il voulait se venger, la
meute incendiaire. Je m'explique à présent le choix de ma maison!...
Mais je dis:
--Et les autres, les bourgeois, que font-ils donc?
--Ils font: «bée», dit Binet; eh! ce sont des moutons. Ils attendent
chez eux qu'on vienne les saigner. Ils n'ont plus de berger, plus de
chiens.
--Eh bien, Binet, et moi! Voyons un peu, mon gars, s'il me reste des
crocs. Allons-y, mon petit.
--Maître, un seul ne peut rien.
--Peut toujours essayer.
--Et si ces gueux vous prennent?
--Je n'ai plus rien, je me moque d'eux. Va donc peigner un diable qui
n'a plus de cheveux!
Il se mit à danser:
--Ce qu'on va s'amuser! Frelelefanfan, chipe, chope, torche, lorgne,
tarirarirariran, boute avant, boute avant!
Et sur sa main brûlée, fit la roue sur la route, et faillit s'étaler. Je
pris un air sévère:
--Eh! babouin, dis-je, est-ce une affaire à danser au bout d'un arbre,
avec ta queue? Debout! Et soyons grave! Il s'agit d'écouter.
Il m'écouta, les yeux brillants.
--Tu ne riras pas longtemps. Voilà: je m'en vas, seul, à Clamecy, de ce
pas.
--Et moi! Et moi!
--Toi, je t'envoie en ambassade à Dornecy, avertir Maistrat Nicole,
notre échevin, l'homme prudent, qui a bon coeur, meilleures jambes, et
s'aime mieux que ses concitoyens, mais mieux que soi aime son bien, que
l'on doit demain matin boire son vin. De là, poussant jusqu'à Sardy, tu
verras en sa tour à pigeons maître Guillaume Courtignon, le procureur,
tu lui diras que sa maison à Clamecy sera sans faute, cette nuit,
brûlée, pillée et cætera, s'il ne revient. Il reviendra. Je ne t'en dis
pas plus. Tu sauras bien tout seul trouver ce qu'il faut dire, et tu
n'as pas besoin de leçons pour mentir.
Le petit, se grattant l'oreille, dit:
--Ce n'est pas la difficulté. Mais je ne veux pas vous quitter.
Je réponds:
--T'ai-je demandé ce que tu veux ou ne veux pas? Moi, je veux. Tu
obéiras.
Il discutait. Je dis:
--Assez!
Et comme il s'inquiétait, ce petit, de mon sort:
--Je ne te défends pas, lui dis-je, de courir. Quand tu auras fini, tu
pourras me rejoindre. Le meilleur moyen de m'aider, c'est de m'amener du
renfort.
--Ventre à terre dit-il, je les amènerai, suant, soufflant, sur leurs
bedons, le Courtignon et le Nicole, quand je devrais leur attacher aux
chausses une casserole!
Il partit comme un trait, puis s'arrêtant encore:
--Maître, au moins dites-moi ce que vous allez faire! L'air important,
avec mystère, je répondis:
--On verra bien.
(Par ma foi, je n'en savais rien!)
* * *
Vers huit heures du soir, en ville j'arrivai. Sous des nuages d'or le
soleil rouge était couché. La nuit commençait à peine. Quelle belle nuit
d'été! Mais personne pour en jouir. Pas un badaud et pas un garde, à la
porte du Marché. On entrait comme en un moulin. Dans la Grand-Rue, un
chat maigre rongeait du pain; se hérissa, quand il me vit, puis détala.
Les maisons, aux yeux clos, montraient face de bois. Pas une voix. Je
dis:
--Ils sont tous morts. Je suis venu trop tard.
Mais voici, j'entendis que derrière les volets, on épiait, au bruit de
mon pas qui sonnait. Je frappai, je criai:
--Ouvrez!
Nul ne bougea. J'allai à une autre maison. Je frappai de nouveau, du
pied et du bâton. Nul n'ouvrit. J'entendis, dedans, _un frr frr_ de
souris. Maintenant, j'avais compris.
--Ils se terrent, les marmiteux! Feste-Dieu, je m'en vais leur mordre
les fesses!
Du poing et du talon, je battis le tambour sur la devanture du libraire,
et je criai:
--Hé! vieux frère! Denis Saulsoy, nom de nom! Je vas tout casser. Ouvre
donc! Ouvre, chapon, je suis Breugnon.
Aussitôt, comme par magie (on eût dit qu'une fée de sa baguette eût
touché les croisées), tous les volets s'ouvrirent, et je vis, tout du
long de la rue du Marché, au rebord des fenêtres, alignées tout du long
ainsi que des oignons, des faces effarées, qui me dévisageaient. Elles
me regardaient, regardaient, regardaient... Je ne me savais pas si beau:
je me tâtai. Puis, leurs traits contractés soudain se détendirent. Ils
avaient l'air contents.
--Braves gens, comme ils m'aiment! pensai-je, sans me dire que leur
bonheur venait de ce que ma présence, à cette heure, en ce lieu, les
rassurait un peu.
Lors, s'engagea la conversation entre Breugnon et les oignons. Tous
parlaient à la fois; et tout seul contre tous, je donnais la réplique.
--D'où viens-tu? Que fis-tu? Que vis-tu? Que veux-tu? Comment pus-tu
entrer? Par où pus-tu passer?
Je dis:
--Holà! Holà! Ne nous emportons pas. Je vois avec plaisir que la langue
vous reste, si vous avez perdu le coeur et les jarrets. Çà, que
faites-vous-là haut? Descendez, il fait bon humer le frais du soir. Vous
a-t-on pris vos chausses, que vous restez chambrés?
Mais au lieu de répondre, ils demandaient:
--Breugnon, dans les rues, en venant, qui as-tu rencontré?
--Idiots, qui voulez-vous, dis-je, que je rencontre, puisque vous êtes
tous au nid?
--Les brigands.
--Les brigands?
--Ils pillent, brûlent tout.
--Où cela?
--En Béyant.
--Allons les arrêter! Qu'avez-vous à rester dans votre poulailler?
--Nous gardons la maison.
--La meilleure façon de garder sa maison, c'est de défendre celle des
autres.
--Le plus pressé d'abord. Chacun défend le sien.
--Je connais le refrain: «_J'aime bien mes voisins, mais je n'ai cure
d'eux»..._ Malheureux! Les brigands, vous travaillez pour eux. Après les
autres, vous. Chacun aura son tour.
--Monsieur Racquin a dit qu'en ce danger, le mieux était de rester coi,
faire la part du feu, en attendant que l'ordre soit rétabli.
--Par qui?
--Par M. de Nevers.
--D'ici là, sous le pont il coulera de l'eau. M. de Nevers a ses
affaires. Devant qu'il pense aux vôtres, vous serez tous brûlés. Allons,
enfants, venez! Il n'a droit à sa peau, qui ne la défend!
--Les autres sont nombreux, armés.
--On crie toujours le loup plus grand qu'il n'est.
--Nous n'avons plus de chefs.
--Soyez-les.
Ils continuaient de jaser, de l'une à l'autre fenêtre, comme des oiseaux
perchés! ils disputaient entre eux, mais aucun ne bougeait. Je
m'impatientai:
--Allez-vous me laisser, toute la nuit, planté dans la rue, nez en
l'air, à me tordre le cou? Je ne suis pas venu chanter la sérénade,
tandis qu'avec vos dents vous battez la chamade. Ce que j'ai à vous dire
ne se chante ni ne se crie sur les toits. Ouvrez-moi! Ouvrez-moi, de par
Dieu, ou bien je mets le feu. Allons, descendez, les mâles (s'il en
reste là-haut); les poules suffiront pour garder le perchoir.
Moitié riant, moitié jurant, une porte s'entrebâilla, puis l'autre; un
nez prudent s'aventura; suivit, la bête; et sitôt que l'on vit un mouton
hors du parc, tous les autres sortirent. Ce fut à qui viendrait me
regarder sous le nez:
--Et tu es bien guéri?
--Sain comme un chou cabus.
--Et nul ne t'a fait noise?
--Nul, hors un troupeau d'oies, qui sifflaient après moi. De me voir
sortir sauf de ce trouble danger, ils en respiraient mieux et m'aimaient
davantage. Je dis:
--Regardez bien. Ouais, je suis au complet. Tous les morceaux y sont.
Non, il n'y manque rien. Voulez-vous mes lunettes?... Çà, en voilà
assez! Demain, vous verrez plus clair. L'heure nous presse, allons,
laissons les fariboles. Où pouvons-nous causer?
Gangnot dit:
--Dans ma forge.
Dans la forge à Gangnot, sentant la corne, au sol pétri par les sabots
des chevaux, nous nous tassâmes dans la nuit, comme un troupeau. Porte
fermée. Un lumignon, posé à terre, faisait danser sur la voûte noire de
fumée nos grandes ombres ployées au cou. Tous se taisaient. Et
brusquement, tous à la fois parlèrent. Gangnot prit son marteau et
frappa son enclume. Le coup troua le bruit des voix; par la déchirure,
le silence rentra. J'en profitai, je dis:
--Ménageons notre souffle. Je sais déjà l'histoire. Les brigands sont
chez nous. Bien! Mettons-les dehors.
Ils dirent:
--Ils sont trop forts. Les flotteurs sont pour eux.
Je dis:
--Les flotteurs ont soif. Quand ils voient d'autres boire, ils n'aiment
pas regarder. Je les comprends très bien. Il ne faut jamais tenter Dieu,
un flotteur encore moins. Si vous laissez piller, ne vous étonnez point
que tel qui n'est pas un voleur aime mieux dans sa poche voir le fruit
du larcin que dans celle de son voisin. Puis, il y a partout des bons et
des mauvais. Allons, comme le Maître, «_ab haedis scindere oves_».
--Mais puisque M. Racquin, dirent-ils, l'échevin, nous défend de
bouger! C'est à lui qu'appartient, en l'absence des autres, lieutenant,
procureur, d'assurer l'ordre en la cité.
--Le fait-il?
--Il prétend...
--Le fait-il, oui ou non?
--Cela se voit assez!
--Alors, nous, faisons-le.
--M. Racquin promet que si nous ne bougeons, nous serons épargnés.
L'émeute restera cantonnée aux faubourgs.
--Et comment le sait-il?
--Il a dû faire un pacte avec eux, contraint, forcé!
--Mais ce pacte, c'est un crime!
--C'est, dit-il, pour les endormir.
--Les endormir, eux, ou bien vous?
Gangnot frappa de nouveau son enclume (c'était son geste à lui, sa façon
pour parler de se claquer la cuisse), et dit:
--Il a raison.
Tous avaient l'air honteux, peureux et furieux. Denis Saulsoy, baissant
le nez:
--Si l'on disait tout ce qu'on pense, on aurait long à raconter.
--Eh! que ne parles-tu? fis-je. Que ne parlez-vous? Nous sommes entre
frères. Qu'est-ce que vous craignez?
--Les murs ont des oreilles.
--Quoi! vous en êtes là?... Gangnot, prends ton marteau, et mets-toi en
travers de la porte, mon gars! Le premier qui voudra ou sortir ou
entrer, enfonce-lui le crâne dans l'estomac! Que les murs aient ou non
des oreilles pour épier, je réponds qu'ils n'auront de langue pour
rapporter. Car quand nous sortirons, ce sera sur-le-champ afin
d'exécuter l'arrêt que l'on va prendre. Et maintenant, parlez! Qui se
tait est un traître.
Ce fut un beau vacarme. Toute la haine et la peur refoulées éclataient
comme des fusées. Ils criaient, en montrant le poing:
--Ce coquin de Racquin, il nous tient! Le Judas nous a vendus, nous et
nos biens. Mais que faire! On ne peut rien. Il a la loi, il a la force,
la police lui appartient.
Je dis:
--Où niche-t-il?
--À la maison de ville. Il y gîte, jour et nuit, pour plus de sûreté,
entouré d'une garde de vauriens qui le veillent, le surveillent
peut-être autant qu'ils veillent sur lui.
--Bref, il est prisonnier? Très bien, dis-je, nous allons, de ce pas,
d'abord le délivrer. Gangnot, ouvre la porte!
Ils ne paraissaient pas encore bien décidés.
--Qu'est-ce qui vous arrête?
Saulsoy dit, se grattant la tête:
--C'est une grosse affaire. On ne craint pas les coups. Mais, Breugnon,
après tout, nous n'avons pas le droit. Cet homme, il est la loi. Marcher
contre la loi, c'est oui-dà se charger d'une lourde...
Je dis:
--...Res-pon-sa-bi-li-té? Eh bien, je la prends, moi. Ne t'inquiète
pas. Lorsque je vois, Saulsoy, un coquin coquiner, je commence par
l'assommer; après je lui demande comment est-ce qu'il se nomme; et s'il
est procureur, ou pape, ainsi soit-il! Amis, faites de même. Quand
l'ordre est le désordre, il faut bien que le désordre fasse l'ordre et
sauve la loi.
Gangnot dit:
--Je viens avec toi.
Le marteau sur l'épaule, avec ses mains énormes (quatre doigts à la
gauche, l'index écrasé manquait), bigle d'un oeil, noir de peau, droit de
corps et large comme un tonneau, il avait l'air d'une tour qui marche.
Et par-derrière, on se pressait, suivant le rempart de son dos. Chacun
courut dans sa boutique, pour y chercher son arquebuse, son couperet, ou
son maillet. Et, ma foi, je ne jurerais que tel entra qui ressortit, de
cette nuit, faute sans doute, le pauvre homme, de trouver son
harnachement. Car pour dire la vérité, en arrivant sur la grand-place,
nous étions assez clairsemés. Mais ceux qui restent sont les bons.
Par chance, la porte de l'hôtel de ville était ouverte: le berger était
si sûr que ses moutons se laisseraient jusqu'au dernier raser la laine
sans bêler, que ses chiens et lui dormaient du bon sommeil de
l'innocence, après avoir très bien dîné. Notre assaut n'eut donc rien,
je l'avoue, d'héroïque. Nous n'eûmes qu'à cueillir, comme on dit, la pie
au nid. Nous l'en tirâmes proprement, nu et sans chausses, comme un
lapin sans peau. Le Racquin était gras, la face ronde et rose, des
coussinets de chair au front, dessus les yeux, l'air doucereux, pas bon
ni bête. Il nous le fit bien voir. Dès le premier instant, il sut, à
n'en pas douter, ce dont il retournait. Ce ne fut qu'un éclair de peur
et de colère dans ses petits yeux gris, enfouis sous le bourrelet des
paupières. Mais tout de suite, il se ressaisit, et, d'une voix
d'autorité, il nous demanda de quel droit nous avions envahi la maison
de la loi.
Je lui dis:
--Pour t'arracher de son lit.
Il s'emporta. Saulsoy lui dit:
--Maître Racquin, ce n'est plus l'heure de menacer. Vous êtes ici
l'accusé. Nous venons demander vos comptes. Défendez-vous.
Il changea _subito_ de musique.
--Mais, chers concitoyens, dit-il, je ne m'explique ce que vous voulez
de moi. Qui se plaint? Et de quoi? Au risque de ma vie, ne suis-je pas
resté ici, pour vous garder? Quand tous les autres fuient, seul j'ai dû
tenir tête à l'émeute et la peste. Que me reproche-t-on? Suis-je cause
des maux que j'essaie de panser?
Je dis:
--«_Médecin avisé fait_, dit-on, _plaie puante_.» Ainsi fais-tu,
Racquin, médecin de la cité. Tu engraisses l'émeute et tu nourris la
peste, et tu leur trais le pis, après, à tes deux bêtes. Tu t'entends
avec les larrons. Tu mets le feu à nos maisons. Tu livres ceux que tu
dois garder. Tu guides ceux que tu dois frapper. Mais dis-nous, traître,
est-ce par peur, ou par cupidité que tu fais ce honteux métier? Que
veux-tu qu'on te mette au cou? Quel écriteau? «_Voilà l'homme qui vendit
sa ville pour trente deniers»_... Pour trente deniers? Pas si sot! Les
prix ont augmenté, depuis l'Iscariot. Ou: «_Voici l'échevin qui, pour
sauver sa peau, mit à l'encan celle de ses concitoyens»_?
Il s'emporta, et dit:
--J'ai fait ce que j'ai dû, ce qui était mon droit. Les maisons où la
peste a passé, je les brûle. C'est la loi.
--Et tu taxes de peste, tu marques d'une croix les maisons de tous ceux
qui ne sont point pour toi! _«Qui veut noyer son chien...»_ Sans doute,
c'est aussi pour combattre la peste que tu laisses piller les maisons
empestées?
--Je ne puis l'empêcher. Et que vous fait, à vous, si ces pillards
ensuite en crèvent comme des rats? C'est coup double. Bon débarras!
--Il va nous dire qu'il combat la peste avec les pillards, et les
pillards avec la peste! Et de fil en aiguille, il restera vainqueur sur
la ville détruite. Le disais-je pas bien? Mort le malade et mort le mal,
nul ne demeure que le médecin... Eh bien, maître Racquin, à partir
d'aujourd'hui, nous ferons de tes soins l'économie, nous nous soignerons
nous-mêmes; et comme toute peine a droit à un salaire, nous te
réservons...
Gangnot dit:
--Ton lit au cimetière.
Ce fut comme si dans une meute un os était tombé. Sur la proie ils se
lancèrent, en hurlant; et l'un criait:
--Nous allons coucher l'enfant!
Le gibier, par bonheur, se sauva dans l'alcôve; et, appuyé au mur,
hagard, il regardait les museaux prêts à mordre. Moi, je retins les
chiens:
--Tout beau! Laissez-moi faire!
Ils restaient en arrêt. Le misérable, nu, rose comme un goret,
grelottait de frayeur et de frais. J'eus pitié. Je lui dis:
--Allons, passe tes chausses! Nous avons assez vu, mon bon ami, ton cul.
Ils rirent comme des bossus. Je profitai de l'accalmie, pour leur parler
raison. L'animal cependant rentrait dedans sa peau, claquant des dents,
et l'oeil mauvais: car il sentait que le danger s'éloignait. Quand il fut
habillé, sûr que ce ne serait encore pour aujourd'hui qu'on happerait le
lièvre, il redevint vaillant et il nous insulta; il nous nomma rebelles
et menaça de nous faire condamner, pour insulte au magistrat. Je lui
dis:
--Tu ne l'es plus. Magistrat, je te destitue.
Alors, ce fut contre moi qu'il tourna sa colère. Le désir de se venger
était plus fort que la prudence. Il dit qu'il me connaissait bien, que
c'était moi dont les conseils avaient tourné les cerveaux faibles de ces
mutins, qu'il ferait tomber sur moi le poids de leurs attentats, que
j'étais un scélérat. Dans sa rage bredouillante, d'une voix aigre et
sifflante, il déchargea sur mon dos un tombereau de gros mots. Gangnot
dit:
--Faut-il l'assommer?
Je dis:
--Tu fus bien inspiré, Racquin, de m'avoir ruiné. Tu le sais bien,
gredin, que je ne puis te faire pendre, sans risquer le soupçon que
j'agis par vengeance, pour l'incendie de ma maison. Et pourtant le
collier de chanvre siérait à ta beauté. Mais nous laissons à d'autres le
soin de t'en parer. Tu ne perds rien pour attendre. L'important, c'est
qu'on te tient. Tu n'es plus rien. Nous t'arrachons ta belle robe
d'échevin. C'est nous qui prenons en main le gouvernail et l'aviron.
Il bégaya:
--Tu sais, Breugnon, ce que tu risques? Je lui réponds:
--Je le sais, mon garçon, ma tête. Et je la mets au jeu,--au jeu de
qui perd gagne. Si je la perds, la cité gagne.
On le conduisit en prison. Il y trouva la place chaude, que lui laissa
un vieux sergent, enfermé trois jours avant, pour avoir refusé d'obéir à
son commandement. Les huissiers et le portier de la maison de ville, à
présent que le coup était fait, disaient tous qu'il était bien fait, et
qu'ils avaient toujours pensé que le Racquin était un traître. À beau
penser qui n'agit point!
* * *
Jusque-là, notre plan s'était exécuté comme une planche lisse où glisse
le rabot, sans rencontrer un noeud. Et je m'en étonnais. Je demandais:
--Où donc sont cachés les brigands?
lorsqu'on cria:
--Au feu!
Parbleu! Ils pillaient ailleurs.
Dans la rue, un homme essoufflé nous apprit que toute la bande mettait à
sac les entrepôts de Pierre Poullard, en Bethléem, hors la porte de la
tour Lourdeaux, brisait, brûlait, buvait à tire-larigot. Je dis aux
compagnons:
--S'ils veulent des violons pour danser, nous voici! Nous courûmes à la
Mirandole. De la terrasse, on dominait la ville basse, d'où montait dans
la nuit un bruit de sabbat. Sur la tour de Saint-Martin, haletant, le
tocsin grondait.
--Camarades, il va falloir descendre, dis-je, en la fournaise. Ça va
chauffer. Sommes-nous prêts? Mais d'abord, il faut un chef. Qui le sera?
Veux-tu, Saulsoy?
--Non, non, non, non, fit-il, faisant trois pas à reculons. Je n'en veux
pas. C'est bien assez que je sois ici, à minuit, obligé de me promener
avec ce vieux mousquet. Ce qu'on voudra, ce qu'il faudra, je le
ferai,--hors commander. Merci Dieu! je n'ai jamais su rien décider...
Je demandai:
--Alors, qui veut?
Mais aucun d'eux ne remua. Je les connais, ces oiseaux-là! Parler,
marcher, encore cela va. Mais décider, il n'y a plus personne.
L'habitude de finasser avec la vie, quand on est petit bourgeois,
d'hésiter et de tâter le drap qu'on veut acheter, cinquante fois, de
marchander, et d'attendre pour le prendre que l'occasion soit passée, ou
bien le drap! L'occasion passe, j'étends le bras:
--Si nul n'en veut, eh bien, c'est moi.
Ils dirent:
--Soit!
--Seulement, qu'on m'obéisse, sans discuter, de cette nuit! Autrement,
nous sommes perdus. Jusqu'au matin, je suis seul maître. Vous me jugerez
demain. Est-ce entendu?
Ils dirent tous:
--C'est entendu.
Nous descendîmes la colline. J'allais devant. À ma gauche, marchait
Gangnot. À droite, j'avais mis Bardet, crieur de ville et son tambour. À
l'entrée du faubourg, sur la place des Barrières, déjà nous rencontrâmes
une foule fort gaie qui, sans méchanceté, s'en allait en famille,
femmes, garçons et filles, vers l'endroit où l'on pille. On eût dit une
fête. Certaines ménagères avaient pris leur panier, comme au jour de
marché. On s'arrêta pour voir notre troupe passer; et les rangs
s'écartaient poliment devant nous; ils ne comprenaient pas, et nous
suivant, d'instinct, emboîtèrent le pas. Un d'eux, le perruquier
Perruche, qui portait une lanterne de papier, l'approchant de mon nez,
me reconnut et dit:
--Ah! Breugnon, bon garçon! te voilà revenu? Eh! tu arrives à point! On
va trinquer ensemble.
--Il y a temps pour tout, Perruche, je réponds. Nous trinquerons demain.
--Tu vieillis, mon Colas. Il n'y a pas d'heure pour la soif. Demain, le
vin sera bu. Ils le tirent. Hâtons-nous! Est-ce que par hasard la purée
de septembre te dégoûte, à présent?
Je dis:
--Le vin volé, oui.
--Volé, il ne l'est point, dit-il, mais bien sauvé. Lorsque la maison
brûle, faut-il donc bêtement laisser perdre les bonnes choses?
Je l'écartai de mon chemin:
--Voleur!
Et je passai.
--Voleur!
lui répétèrent Gangnot, Bardet, Saulsoy, les autres. Ils passèrent. Le
Perruche demeurait atterré; puis, je l'entendis furieux vociférer; et en
me retournant, je le vis qui courait, en nous montrant le poing. Nul de
nous ne parut l'entendre ni le voir. Quand il nous eut rejoints, il se
tut brusquement, et avec nous marcha.
Arrivés sur la berge de l'Yonne, à l'entrée du pont, impossible de
passer. La foule était serrée. Je fis battre le tambour. Les premiers
rangs s'ouvrirent, sans trop savoir pourquoi. Nous entrâmes comme un
coin, mais nous nous trouvions pris. Je vis là deux flotteurs que je
connaissais bien, le père Joachim, dit le Roi[12] de Calabre, et Gadin
dit Gueurlu. Ils me dirent:
--Çà, çà, maître Breugnon, que diable venez-vous faire ici, avec votre
peau d'ânon et tous ces harnachés, graves comme des baudets? C'est-y que
vous voulez rire, ou bien qu'on va-t-en guerre?
--Tu ne crois pas si bien dire, Calabre, je réponds. Car tel que tu me
vois, je suis pour cette nuit capitaine de Clamecy, et je vas le
défendre contre ses ennemis.
--Ses ennemis? dirent-ils, tu n'es pas fou? Qui donc?
--Ceux qui brûlent, là-bas.
--Et qu'est-ce que cela peut te faire, dirent-ils, maintenant que ta
maison est brûlée? (Pour la tienne, on regrette; tu sais, on s'est
trompé.) Mais celle de Poullard, ce pendard engraissé de nos peines, ce
torcoul qui se pavane avec la laine qu'il nous a sur le dos tondue, et
qui, lorsqu'il nous a mis tout nus, nous méprise du haut de sa vertu!
Qui le vole, il est bien sûr d'aller tout droit au paradis. C'est pain
bénit. Laisse-nous faire. Que t'importe? Encore passe de ne point
piller! Mais l'empêcher!... Rien à perdre, tout à gagner.
Je dis (car il m'eût fait gros coeur de cogner sur ces pauvres garçons,
sans avoir essayé d'abord de raisonner):
--Tout à perdre, Calabre. Notre honneur à sauver.
--Notre honneur! Ton honneur! dit Gueurlu. Ça se boit-il? Ou bien si ça
se bâfre? On sera peut-être mort demain. Que restera-t-il de nous? Il ne
restera rien. Que pensera-t-on de nous? On ne pensera rien. L'honneur
est une denrée de luxe pour les riches, les bêtes qu'on enterre avec des
épitaphes. Nous, on sera tous ensemble, dans la fosse commune, comme des
tranches de merluche. Va-t'en voir celle qui pue l'honneur ou bien
l'ordure!
--Seul, chacun, on n'est rien, c'est vrai, mon roi de Calabre; mais
tous, on est beaucoup. Cent petits font un grand. Quand auront disparu
ces riches d'aujourd'hui, quand seront effrités, avec leurs épitaphes,
les mensonges de leurs tombes et le nom de leurs races, on parlera
encore des flotteurs de Clamecy; ils seront dans son histoire sa
noblesse aux rudes mains, à la tête dure comme leurs poings, et je ne
veux pas qu'on dise qu'ils furent des coquins.
Gueurlu dit:
--Je m'en fous.
Mais le roi de Calabre, après avoir craché, cria:
--Si tu t'en fous, tu n'es qu'un saligoud. Il a raison, Breugnon. De
savoir que ça se dit, ça me vexerait aussi. Et par saint Nicolas, ça ne
se dira pas. L'honneur n'est pas aux riches. On le leur fera bien voir.
Qu'il soit sire ou messire, pas un d'eux qui nous vaille!
Gueurlu dit:
--Faut-il donc se gêner? Est-ce qu'ils se gênent, eux? Y a-t-il plus
grand goulafre que ces princes, ces ducs, le Condé, le Soissons, et le
nôtre, le Nevers, et le gros d'Épernon, qui, lorsqu'ils en ont plein les
bajoues et la panse, s'empiffrent, les cochons, de millions à crever, et
quand le roi est mort, vont piller son trésor! Voilà leur honneur à eux!
Vrai, nous serions bien bêtes de ne pas les imiter!
Roi de Calabre jura:
--Ce sont des marcassins. Quelque jour, notre Henri reviendra de sa
fosse pour leur faire rendre gorge, ou bien ce sera nous qui les ferons
rôtir tout farcis de leur or. Si les grands font les porcs, mordia! on
les saignera; mais dans leur porcherie, on ne les imitera. L'exemple,
nous le donnons, nous. Il y a plus d'honneur dans la cuisse d'un
flotteur que dans le coeur d'un genpillehomme.
--Alors, mon roi, tu viens?
--Je viens; et cestuy-là, Gueurlu aussi viendra.
--Non, que diable!
--Tu viendras, que je dis, ou tu vois la rivière, et je te fous en bas.
Allons, ouste, marchons. Et vous, par la Mer Dé[13], place, andouilles,
je passe!
Il passait, refoulant les gens avec ses pilons. Et nous dans le remous,
suivions comme un fretin derrière un gros poisson. Ceux que l'on
rencontrait maintenant étaient trop «bus», pour que l'on pût penser
encore à discuter. Chaque chose en son lieu: les arguments de langue,
d'abord, et puis les poings. On tâchait seulement de les asseoir par
terre, sans trop les abîmer: un soûlard, c'est sacré!
Enfin, l'on se trouva aux portes de l'entrepôt. La nuée des pillards
grouillait dans la maison de maître Pierre Poullard, comme des poux sur
une toison. Les uns déménageaient des coffres, des ballots; d'autres
s'étaient vêtus de défroques volées; certains joyeux farceurs jetaient,
pour rigoler, les vases et les pots, des fenêtres du premier. Au milieu
de la cour, on roulait des barriques. J'en vis un qui buvait, bouche
collée à la bonde, jusqu'à ce qu'il s'écroulât, les quatre fers en
l'air, sous le rouge pissat. Le vin formait des mares, que des enfants
lapaient. Et, afin d'y mieux voir, ils avaient mis en tas des meubles
dans la cour, et les faisaient flamber. Au fond des caves, on entendait
les maillets qui défonçaient les futailles, les feuillettes; des
hurlements, des cris, des toux qui s'étranglaient: par-dessous terre, la
maison grognait, comme si dans son ventre elle portait un troupeau de
gorets. Et déjà, çà et là, sortaient des soupiraux des langues de fumée
qui léchaient les barreaux.
Nous pénétrâmes dans la cour. Ils ne s'occupaient pas de nous. Chacun à
son affaire. Je dis:
--Roule, Bardet!
Bardet battit sa caisse. Il cria les pouvoirs que la ville m'accordait;
et, donnant de la voix à mon tour, je sommai les pillards de partir. Aux
roulements du tambour, ils s'étaient rassemblés, comme un essaim de
mouches, quand on frappe un chaudron. Et lorsque notre bruit cessa, tous
ils recommencèrent, furieux, à bourdonner, et sur nous se lancèrent, en
sifflant et huant et nous jetant des pierres. Je tâchai de forcer les
portes de la cave; mais des fenêtres du grenier, ils faisaient choir
tuiles et poutres. Nous entrâmes pourtant, en refoulant ces gueux.
Gangnot eut là deux doigts encore de la main arrachés, et le roi de
Calabre eut l'oeil gauche crevé. Pour moi, en repoussant la porte qui se
ferma, je me trouvai coincé, comme un renard au piège, le pouce entre
les gonds. Nom de d'là! Je faillis pâmer comme une femme et rendre ce
que j'avais dedans mon estomac. Heureusement, j'avisai un baril éventré.
(c'était de l'eau-de-vie de marc); j'en arrosai mon coffre et j'y
baignai mon pouce. Après quoi, je vous jure, cristi, je n'eus plus envie
de tourner la prunelle. Mais je devins furieux, moi aussi. La moutarde
m'était montée au nez.
Nous luttions à présent sur les marches de l'escalier. Il fallait en
finir. Car ces diables cornus nous déchargeaient à la face leurs
mousquets, et de si près qu'aux barbes de Saulsoy le feu prit. Gueurlu
entre ses mains calleuses l'éteignit. Par chances, ces ivrognes voyaient
double, en visant, sans quoi, pas un de nous n'en serait sorti vivant.
Nous dûmes remonter les marches, et nous battîmes en retraite. Mais,
campés à l'entrée,--j'aperçus l'incendie, sournois, qui se glissait, de
l'une et de l'autre aile vers le logis du fond, où se trouvait la
cave,--je fis fermer l'issue avec une barrière de pierres, de débris,
montant jusqu'au nombril; et par-dessus, braqués, bloquant le défilé,
nos épieux et nos gaffes, tel le dos hérissé d'un porc-épic en boule. Et
je criai:
--Brigands! Ah! vous aimez le feu! Eh bien donc, mangez-le!
La plupart ne comprirent le danger que trop tard, ivres au fond des
caves. Mais quand les grandes flammes firent craquer les murs et
broyèrent les poutres entre leurs mandibules, du fond du sol monta un
pandémonium; et un torrent de gueux, dont quelques-uns flambaient,
jaillit à la surface, comme du vin mousseux qui fait sauter la bonde.
Ils vinrent s'écraser contre notre muraille; et ceux qui les poussaient
formèrent un bouchon qui obstrua l'entrée. Derrière, on entendit rugir
au fond du trou le feu et les damnés. Et je vous prie de croire que
cette musique-là ne nous faisait pas chaud! Ce n'est pas gai d'ouïr la
chair meurtrie qui souffre et brame de douleur. Et si j'avais été simple
particulier, Breugnon de tous les jours, j'aurais dit:
--Sauvons-les!
Mais lorsqu'on est le chef, vous n'avez plus le droit d'avoir un coeur ni
des oreilles. L'oeil et l'esprit. Voir et vouloir, et faire sans faiblir
ce qu'il faut que l'on fasse. Sauver ces bandits-là, c'était perdre la
ville: car s'ils étaient sortis, ils se seraient trouvés plus nombreux
et plus forts que nous qui les gardions; et mûrs pour le gibet, ils ne
se fussent pas laissé cueillir à l'arbre. Les guêpes sont dans le nid:
qu'elles y restent!...
Et je vis les deux ailes de flammes qui se rejoignaient et sur le
bâtiment du milieu se fermaient, en craquant et faisant voleter autour
d'elles leurs plumes de fumée...
Or, juste à ce moment, voici que j'aperçois par-dessus les premiers
rangs de ceux qui se tassaient, au goulot de l'escalier, collés l'un
contre l'autre, et sans pouvoir bouger que des sourcils, des yeux, de la
bouche qui hurlaient, mon vieux compain Éloi, dit Gambi, ce vaurien, pas
méchant, mais soiffard (comment s'est-il fourré, bon Dieu, dans ce
guêpier?) qui riait et pleurait, sans comprendre, hébété. Chenapan,
fainéant, il l'a bien mérité! Mais tout de même, on ne peut pas le voir
ainsi griller... Nous avons joué, enfants, et nous avons mangé, à
l'église Saint-Martin, ensemble le corps de Dieu: nous avons été frères
de première communion...
J'écarte les épieux, je saute la barrière, je marche sur les têtes
furieuses (elles mordaient) et par-dessus cette pâte humaine qui fumait,
j'arrive à mon Gambi, que j'agrippe au collet. «Vingt dieux! Oui, mais
comment l'arracher de l'étau?» pensais-je, en le prenant, «Il faudra le
hacher pour avoir un morceau»... Par bonheur singulier (je dirais qu'il
y a un Dieu pour les ivrognes, si tous n'avaient autant mérité ses
faveurs), mon Gambi se trouvait sur le bord d'une marche, vacillant en
arrière, lorsque ceux qui montaient l'avaient sur leurs épaules soulevé
de telle sorte qu'il ne touchait plus terre et restait suspendu, pareil
a un noyau qu'on presse entre les doigts. En m'aidant des talons pour
écarter, à droite, à gauche, les épaules qui lui serraient les côtes, de
la gueule de la foule, je parvins à sortir sans peine le noyau,
proprement expulsé. Il était temps! Le feu, en trombe, remontait, comme
par une cheminée, le trou de l'escalier. J'entendis brasiller les corps
au fond du four; et me courbant, marchant à grandes enjambées, sans
regarder sur quoi mes souliers s'enfonçaient, je revins, en traînant
Gambi par ses cheveux gras. Nous sortîmes du gouffre, dont nous nous
écartâmes, laissant la flamme achever l'oeuvre. Et cependant, pour
refouler notre émotion, à Gambi nous bourrions les côtes, cet animal
qui, près de crever, avait gardé, sans les lâcher, sur son coeur, deux
plats émaillés et une écuelle coloriée, qu'il avait, Dieu sait où,
raflés!... Et Gambi, dégrisé, pleurant, allait jetant ses écuelles, et
s'arrêtant, à tous les vents, pour pisser comme une fontaine, criant:
--Je ne veux rien garder de ce que j'ai volé!
* * *
Au point du jour, le procureur, maître Guillaume Courtignon, parut,
suivi de Robinet, qui le menait, tambour battant. Trente gens d'armes le
flanquaient, et un parti de paysans. Il en vint d'autres, au cours du
jour, que le Maistrat nous amena. D'autres encore, le lendemain, que le
bon duc nous envoya. Ils tâtèrent les cendres chaudes, dressèrent
constat des dégâts, firent le compte, y ajoutèrent leurs frais de voyage
et séjour, et sans plus, après s'en furent, par où ils étaient venus...
La morale de tout cela:
«Aide-toi, le roi t'aidera.»
XI
LA NIQUE AU DUC
Fin septembre.
L'ordre était revenu, les cendres refroidies, et l'on n'entendait plus
parler de maladie. Mais la ville d'abord resta comme écrasée. Les
bourgeois remâchaient leur peur. Ils tâtaient du pied le terrain; ils
n'étaient pas encore certains d'être dessus, et non dessous. Le plus
souvent, ils se terraient, ou dans la rue, ils détalaient, rasant les
murs l'oreille basse et la queue entre les jambes. Ah! l'on n'était pas
fier, on n'osait presque pas se regarder en face, et on n'avait pas joie
à se regarder soi, soi-même, dans la glace: on s'était trop bien vu, on
se connaissait trop; et la nature humaine avait été surprise sans
chemise: ça n'est pas beau! On avait honte et méfiance. Pour mon compte,
je n'étais pas très à mon aise: le massacre et le fumet de la grillade
me poursuivaient; et, plus que tout, le souvenir des lâchetés, des
cruautés, que j'avais lues sur des visages familiers. Ils le savaient,
ils m'en voulaient secrètement. Je le comprends; j'étais gêné bien
davantage; j'aurais voulu, si j'avais pu, leur dire: «Mes amis, pardon.
Je n'ai rien vu...» Et le lourd soleil de septembre pesait sur la ville
accablée. Fièvre et torpeur de fin d'été.
Notre Racquin était parti, sous bonne escorte, pour Nevers, où le duc et
le roi se disputaient l'honneur de le juger, si bien que, profitant du
différend, il comptait leur glisser des doigts. Quant à moi, nos
messieurs de la châtellenie avaient eu la bonté de vouloir bien fermer
les yeux sur ma conduite. Il paraît que j'avais commis, en sauvant
Clamecy, deux ou trois gros délits, qui m'eussent pu valoir pour le
moins les galères. Mais comme ils n'auraient pu, en somme, se produire,
si ces messieurs, au lieu de décamper, étaient restés pour nous
conduire, ils n'insistèrent, ni moi. Je n'aime point avoir à démêler en
justice ma laine. On a beau se sentir innocent: sait-on jamais? Quand on
a le doigt pris dans la sacrée machine, adieu le bras! Coupez, coupez,
sans hésiter, si vous ne voulez que tout l'animal y passe... Aussi,
entre eux et nous, sans nous être rien dit, il était convenu que je
n'avais rien fait, et qu'ils n'avaient rien vu, et que ce qui s'était
accompli, cette nuit, sous mon capitanat, l'avait été par eux. Mais on a
beau vouloir, on ne peut tout d'un coup effacer ce qui s'est passé. On
se souvient, et c'est gênant. Je le lisais dans tous les yeux: on avait
peur de moi; et j'avais peur moi-même de moi, de mes exploits, de ce
Colas Breugnon inconnu, saugrenu, qu'hier j'avais été. Au diable, ce
César, cet Attila, ce foudre! Foudre de vin, je le veux bien. Mais de
guerre, non, non, ce n'est pas mon affaire!... Bref, nous étions
penauds, courbaturés et las; nous avions des remords de coeur et
d'estomac.
Nous nous remîmes tous au travail, avec rage. Le travail boit les hontes
et les peines, comme une éponge. Le travail fait à l'âme peau neuve et
sang nouveau. L'ouvrage ne manquait; que de ruines partout! Mais qui
nous vint le plus au secours, fut la terre. Jamais on n'avait vu
abondance pareille en fruits et en moissons; et le bouquet, ce fut, pour
finir, la vendange. On aurait dit vraiment que cette bonne mère voulait
nous rendre en vin le sang qu'elle avait bu. Pourquoi pas, après tout?
Rien ne se perd, ne doit se perdre. S'il se perdait, où irait-il? L'eau
vient du ciel et y retourne. Pourquoi le vin ne ferait-il semblablement
le va-et-vient entre la terre et notre sang? C'est même jus. Je suis un
cep, ou l'ai été, ou le serai. Il me plairait de le penser; et je veux
l'être, et je préfère à toute autre immortalité de devenir vigne ou
verger, et de sentir ma chair se tendre et se gonfler en de beaux
raisins bien ronds, bien pleins, de grappe noire et duvetée, et de faire
craquer leur peau à crever, au soleil d'été, et (le meilleur) d'être
mangé. Toujours est-il que, cette année, le jus des vignes déborda, et
que par tous ses pores, la terre saigna. Voilà-t-il pas que les tonneaux
manquèrent; et, faute de récipients, on laissa le raisin en cuve, ou
bien en cuveau de lessive, sans seulement le pressurer! Bien mieux, il
arriva cette chose inouïe qu'un vieux bourgeois d'Andries, le père
Coullemard, n'en pouvant venir à bout, vendit pour trente sous le
tonneau de raisin, à la condition de le prendre à la vigne. Jugez de
notre émoi, à nous qui ne pouvons voir perdre, de sang-froid, le bon
sang du bon Dieu! Plutôt que le jeter, il fallut bien le boire. On se
dévoua, on est hommes de devoir. Mais ce fut un travail d'Hercule; et
plus d'une fois, ce fut Hercule et non Antée qui toucha terre. Enfin, le
bon de cette affaire fut qu'on y changea la livrée de nos pensées; leur
front se dérida et leur teint s'éclaircit.
Malgré tout, un je ne sais quoi restait encore au fond du verre, comme
une lie, un goût de vase; on se tenait toujours à distance les uns des
autres; on s'observait. On avait bien repris un peu d'aplomb d'esprit
(en titubant); mais on n'osait se rapprocher de son voisin; on buvait
seul, on riait seul: c'est très malsain. Les choses auraient pu durer
longtemps ainsi, et l'on ne voyait pas le moyen d'en sortir. Mais le
hasard est un malin. Il sait trouver le vrai moyen, le seul qui cimente
les hommes: c'est à savoir de les unir contre quelqu'un. L'amour aussi
rapproche: mais ce qui de tous fait un seul homme, c'est l'ennemi. Et
l'ennemi, c'est notre maître.
Or, il advint, en cet automne, que le duc Charles prétendit nous
empêcher de danser en rond. C'est un peu fort! Crebleu! Du coup, ne fut
podagre, ou boiteux, ou sans patte, qui ne se sentît monter les fourmis
aux mollets. Comme toujours, l'occasion du débat fut le Pré-le-Comte.
C'est la bouteille à l'encre, on n'en sortira pas. Ce beau pré, sis au
pied du mont du Croc Pinçon, aux portes de la ville, et sur le bord
duquel semble négligemment posé comme une serpe le Beuvron serpentant,
est depuis trois cents ans disputé, tiraillé entre la grande gueule de
M. de Nevers et la nôtre qui est moins grande, mais qui sait tenir ce
qu'elle tient. Nulle animosité, d'une part ni de l'autre; on rit, on est
poli, on se dit: «Mon ami, mes amés, mon seigneur...» Seulement, on n'en
fait qu'à sa tête, et aucun ne consent à céder un pouce du terrain. Pour
dire vrai, dans nos procès, nous n'avons eu jamais raison. Tribunaux,
cour de bailliage, Table de marbre du Palais, ont rendu arrêt sur arrêt,
établissant que notre pré n'était pas nôtre. Comme on sait, justice est
l'art, pour de l'argent, d'appeler noir ce qu'on voit blanc. Ça ne nous
troublait pas beaucoup. Juger n'est rien, avoir est tout. Que la vache
soit noire ou blanche, garde ta vache, mon bonhomme. Nous la gardions et
nous restions dans notre pré. C'est si commode! Pensez donc! C'est le
seul pré qui ne soit pas à l'un de nous, dans Clamecy. Étant au duc, il
est à tous. Nous n'avons donc aucun scrupule à le gâter. Aussi Dieu sait
si l'on s'en donne! Tout ce qu'on ne pourrait faire chez soi, on le fait
là: on y travaille, on y nettoie, on y carde les matelas, on y bat les
vieux tapis, on y jette ses débarras, on y joue, on s'y promène, on y
fait pâturer sa chèvre, on y danse au son des vielles, on s'y exerce au
maniement de l'arquebuse et du tambour; et la nuit, on y fait l'amour,
dans l'herbe fleurie de papiers, le long du chuchotant Beuvron, que rien
n'étonne (il en vit d'autres!).
Tant que vécut le duc Louis, tout alla bien: car il feignait de ne rien
voir. C'était un homme qui savait, pour mieux tenir son attelage sous le
harnais, laisser du jeu à ses sujets. Que lui faisait que nous eussions
l'illusion d'être libres et de jouer les fortes têtes, si dans le fait
il était maître? Mais son fils est un vaniteux, qui aime mieux paraître
qu'être (cela se conçoit, il n'est rien), et qui monte sur ses ergots
dès que l'on fait cocorico. Pourtant, il faut qu'un Français chante et
qu'il se moque de ses maîtres. S'il ne se moque, il se révolte: il n'a
de goût à obéir à qui veut être pris toujours au sérieux. Nous n'aimons
bien que ce dont nous pouvons rire. Car le rire nous fait tous égaux.
Mais cet oison s'avisa donc de nous faire inhibition d'aller jouer,
danser, fouler, gâter l'herbe, en le Pré-le-Comte. Il prenait bien son
temps! Après tous nos malheurs, quand il eût dû plutôt nous dégrever
d'impôts!... Ah! mais nous lui montrâmes que les Clamecycois ne sont pas
de ce bois dont on fait des fagots, mais de souche bien dure de chêne où
la cognée a grand-peine à entrer, et, quand elle est entrée, plus
grand-peine à sortir. Il ne fut pas besoin de se donner le mot. Ce fut
un beau concert. Nous prendre notre pré! Reprendre le cadeau qu'on nous
avait donné,--ou que nous nous étions arrogé (c'est le même: un bien
qu'on a volé et trois cents ans gardé devient propriété trois fois
sainte et sacrée), un bien d'autant plus cher qu'il n'était pas à nous
et que nous l'avions fait nôtre, pouce à pouce, jour par jour, et par
lente conquête et par ténacité, le seul bien qui ne nous eût rien coûté
que la peine de le prendre! C'était à dégoûter de prendre jamais rien! À
quoi bon vivre, alors? Si nous avions cédé, mais nos morts en seraient
sortis de leurs tombeaux! L'honneur de la cité nous trouva tous
d'accord.
Le soir même du jour où le tambour de ville, sur un mode lugubre (il
avait l'air d'accompagner un condamné aux fourches de Sembert), nous
cria le fatal décret, tous les hommes d'autorité, les chefs des
confréries et des corporations et les porte-bâtons, se rassemblèrent
sous les piliers du Marché. J'étais là, je représentais, comme il est
juste, ma patronne, Mme Joachim, la mère-grand, sainte Anne. Sur la
façon d'agir, les avis différaient; mais qu'il fallût agir, chacun en
convenait. Gangnot pour saint Éloi, et pour saint Nicolas Calabre
étaient partisans de la manière forte: ils voulaient que sur l'heure on
mît le feu aux portes, qu'on brisât les barrières et la tête des
sergents, et qu'on rasât le pré, _rasibus_, jusqu'au cuir. Mais pour
saint Honoré boulanger Florimond, et Maclou jardinier pour saint Fiacre,
hommes doux et saints doux, étaient bénins, voulaient sagement qu'on
s'en tînt à la guerre de parchemin: voeux platoniques et suppliques à la
duchesse (accompagnés sans doute des produits non gratuits du four et du
jardin). Heureusement, nous étions trois, moi, Jean Bobin pour saint
Crépin, Emond Poifou pour saint Vincent, qui n'étions pas plus disposés,
pour faire la leçon au duc, à lui baiser qu'à lui botter le cul. _In
medio stat_ la vertu. Un bon Gaulois sait la façon, quand il veut se
moquer des gens, de le faire tranquillement, à leur barbe, sans qu'il y
touche, et surtout sans qu'il lui en coûte. Ce n'est pas tout de se
venger: il faut encore bien s'amuser. Or, voici ce que nous trouvâmes...
Mais dois-je d'abord raconter la bonne farce que j'inventai, devant que
la pièce soit jouée? Non, non, ce serait l'éventer. Il suffit de noter,
pour notre honneur à tous, que notre grand secret, quatorze jours
durant, par toute la cité, fut connu et gardé. Et si l'idée première est
de moi (j'en suis fier), chacun y ajouta quelque embellissement, l'un
refaisant l'oreille, l'autre ajoutant ici une boucle, un ruban: en sorte
que l'enfant se trouva bien pourvu; il ne manquait de pères. Les
échevins, le maire, en secret et discrets, s'informaient chaque jour des
progrès du marmot; et maître Delavau, nuitamment, se cachant le nez sous
son manteau, venait s'entretenir avec nous de l'affaire, nous montrant
la façon de violer la loi tout en la respectant, et triomphalement nous
sortait de ses poches quelque laborieuse inscription en latin qui
célébrait le duc et notre obéissance, et pouvait dire aussi tout juste
le contraire.
* * *
Enfin, le grand jour vint. Sur la place Saint-Martin, nous attendions
les échevins, maîtres et compagnons, bien rasés, pomponnés, sagement
alignés autour de nos bâtons. Sur le coup de dix heures, les cloches de
la tour se mirent à sonner. Aussitôt, aux deux coins de la place, les
deux portes de la maison de ville et de l'église Saint-Martin toutes
grandes s'ouvrirent; et sur les deux perrons (on eût dit des bonshommes
d'horloge qui défilent) sortirent, d'un côté, les surplis blancs des
curés, de l'autre, jaunes et verts comme coins, les échevins. En se
voyant, ils échangèrent par-dessus nous de grands saluts. Puis, sur la
place, ils descendirent, précédés, les premiers, des bedeaux enluminés,
robes rouges et rouges nez, les autres des huissiers de la ville,
bridés, faisant tinter leur chaîne au cou et rebondir leurs longues
lattes sur le pavé. Nous, rangés tout autour de la place et le long des
maisons, nous dessinions un rond; et les autorités, juste au milieu
placées, figuraient le nombril. Tout le monde était là. Point de
retardataires. Les chicanous, les basochiens et le notaire, sous la
bannière de saint Yves, l'homme d'affaires de Notre Père, et les
apothicaires, mires et médecins, fins connaisseurs d'urine (chacun hume
sa vigne), et donneurs de clystères, _sub invocatione_ de saint Cosme,
qui rafraîchit les entrailles du paradis, formaient autour du maire et
du vieux archiprêtre une garde sacrée, la plume et la seringue. De
messieurs les bourgeois, un seul manquait, je crois: c'était le
procureur, représentant du duc, mais mari de la fille de Maistrat
l'échevin, et bon Clamecycois, ayant chez nous son bien, qui sagement,
instruit de ce qu'on allait faire et ne craignant rien tant que de
prendre parti, avait trouvé moyen de s'absenter, la veille.
On resta quelque temps à bouillotter sur place. C'était comme une cuve
où fermente le moût. Quel joyeux brouhaha! Chacun parlait, riait, les
violons s'accordaient et les chiens aboyaient. On attendait... Qui donc?
Patience! La surprise... Et la voici qui vient. Avant qu'on ne l'ait
vue, une traînée de voix court devant et l'annonce; et tous les cous se
tournent, comme des girouettes sous le vent, d'un seul coup. Sur la
place débouche de la rue du Marché, portée sur les épaules de huit
solides gars, et houlant par-dessus la foule, une construction de bois
en pyramide, trois tables inégales, posées l'une sur l'autre, les pieds
enrubannés, galonnés, culottées d'étoffes de soie claire; et au sommet,
dessous un dais piqué d'aigrettes et d'où tombaient un flot de rubans de
couleurs, une statue voilée. Nul ne songea à s'étonner: car tous étaient
dans le secret. Chacun lui tira son bonnet, bien poliment; mais dans la
coiffe, nous, vieux malins, nous rigolions.
Aussitôt que sur la place la machine fut avancée, juste au milieu, entre
le maire et le curé, les corporations, musique en tête, défilèrent,
faisant d'abord autour de l'axe immobile un tour entier, puis
s'engouffrèrent dans la ruelle qui, longeant le portail de l'église,
descend la porte de Beuvron.
Premier, comme se doit, marchait saint Nicolas. Roi de Calabre, vêtu
d'une chape d'église, avec un soleil d'or brodé dessus son dos, ainsi
qu'un scarabée, tenait de ses bras noirs et noueux le bâton du saint de
la rivière, en forme de bateau recourbé des deux bouts, sur lequel
Nicolas bénit avec sa crosse les trois petits enfants assis dans le
baquet. Quatre vieux mariniers l'escortaient en portant quatre cierges
jaunis, épais comme des cuisses et durs comme des triques, dont ils
étaient tout prêts à user, au besoin. Et Calabre, fronçant les sourcils
et levant vers le saint son oeil unique, marchait en écartant les jambes
et bombant ce qu'il avait de ventre.
Suivaient les compagnons du pot d'étain, les fils de saint Éloi,
couteliers, serruriers, charrons et maréchaux que précédait Gangnot à la
main mutilée, portant haut dans sa pince à deux doigts une croix, et,
sculptés sur le manche, en faisceau, l'enclume et le marteau. Et les
hautbois sonnaient «_la culotte à l'envers du bon roi Dagobert_».
Puis, venaient vignerons, tonneliers, chantant l'hymne du vin et de son
saint, Vincent, qui, perché sur le bout du bâton, étreignait un broc
dans une main et dans l'autre un raisin. Menuisiers, charpentiers, saint
Joseph et sainte Anne, gendre et belle-maman, bons soiffards, nous
suivions le patron des bouchons, en claquant de la langue et louchant
vers le piot. Et les saint Honoré, gras et blancs de farine, comme un
trophée romain, dressaient sur un harpon un pain rond surmonté d'une
couronne blonde. Après les blancs, les noirs, les gniafs empoissés, qui
dansaient en faisant claquer leurs tire-pieds, autour de saint Crépin.
Enfin, pour le bouquet, saint Fiacre tout fleuri. Jardiniers,
jardinières, portaient sur un brancard oeillets et giroflées, roses
enguirlandées autour de leurs chapeaux, des pioches, des râteaux. Leur
bannière de soie rouge, représentant Fiacre, les mollets nus, et troussé
jusqu'au cul, son gros orteil crispé sur la bêche enfoncée, claquait au
vent d'automne.
La machine voilée s'ébranla, à la suite. Des fillettes en blanc, qui
trottinaient devant, miaulaient des cantiques. Le maire et les trois
échevins, des deux côtés, marchaient, en tenant les gros glands des
rubans qui tombaient du haut du dais. Autour, saint Yves et saint Cosme
faisaient la haie. Derrière, le suisse, comme un coq, dressé sur ses
ergots, avançait son jabot; et le curé, flanqué de ses abbés, l'un long
ainsi qu'un jour sans pain, l'autre épais, aplati, comme un pain sans
levain, chantait, tous les dix pas, de sa basse profonde, un bout de
litanie, mais sans se fatiguer, laissant chanter les autres, remuant les
babines, et, les mains sur son ventre, il dormait en marchant. Le gros
du peuple enfin roulait, d'un seul morceau, d'une pâte compacte et
molle, comme un flot gras. Et nous étions l'écluse.
Nous sortîmes de la ville. Droit au pré, nous nous rendîmes. Le vent
faisait voler les feuilles des platanes. Sur la route, leur escadron
galopait au soleil. Et la rivière lente charriait leurs cottes d'or. À
la barrière, les trois sergents de la police et le nouveau capitaine du
château firent semblant de nous défendre de passer. Mais à part le
capitaine, frais émoulu, nouveau venu dans notre ville, qui prenait tout
pour bon argent (la pauvre bête avait couru à perdre haleine et roulait
des yeux furieux), comme larrons en foire on était tous d'accord. On
n'en jura pas moins, sacra, on se gourma: c'était dans notre rôle, on
joua en conscience; mais on avait grand mal à rester sérieux. Il
n'aurait pas fallu pourtant faire durer la farce trop longtemps, car
Calabre et les siens commençaient à jouer trop bien; saint Nicolas, au
bout de son bâton, devenait menaçant, et les cierges branlaient dans les
poings, attirés par les dos des sergents. Alors le maire s'avança,
enleva son bonnet de sa tête, et cria:
--Chapeau bas!
Au même instant, tomba le rideau qui couvrait la Statue sous le dais, et
les huissiers de ville crièrent:
--Place au duc!
Le vacarme cessa soudain. Saint Nicolas, saint Éloi, saint Vincent,
saint Joseph et sainte Anne, saint Honoré, saint Fiacre, des deux côtés
rangés, présentèrent les armes; les sergents de police et le gros
capitaine, éperdu, tête nue, cédèrent le passage; et l'on vit s'avancer,
en se dodelinant au-dessus des porteurs, couronné de lauriers, la toque
sur l'oreille et l'épée sur le ventre, le duc en effigie. L'inscription
du moins de maître Delavau le proclamait _urbi et orbi_; mais, pour dire
le vrai, et le bon de la chose, c'est que, n'ayant le temps ni les
moyens de faire un portrait ressemblant, nous avions bonnement pris dans
les greniers de la maison de ville une vieille statue (on n'a jamais
bien su ni de qui ni par qui; sur le socle, on lisait seulement le nom
demi rongé de Balthazar; et depuis, on la nomma Balduc). Mais
qu'importe? C'est la foi qui sauve. Les portraits du bon saint Éloi, de
saint Nicolas ou de Jésus sont-ils plus vrais? Pourvu qu'on croie, on
voit partout celui qu'on veut. Il faut un dieu? Il me suffit, s'il me
plaît, d'un morceau de bois, pour le loger, lui et ma foi. Il fallait un
duc, ce jour-là. On le trouva.
Devant les bannières inclinées, le duc passa. Puisque le pré était a
lui, il y entra. Et nous, pour l'honorer, nous lui fîmes escorte, tous,
étendards au vent, tambours battants, trompettes et musettes, et le
Saint-Sacrement. Qui l'eût trouvé mauvais? Seul, un mauvais sujet du
duc, un esprit chagrin. Mi-figue, mi-raisin, fallut bien que le
capitaine le trouvât bon. Il n'avait que le choix entre arrêter le duc,
ou se joindre à la suite. Il emboîta le pas.
Tout allait pour le mieux, lorsqu'on fut sur le point d'échouer, près
d'arriver au port. À l'entrée, saint Éloi heurta saint Nicolas, et saint
Joseph se prit de bec avec sa belle-mère. Chacun voulait passer le
premier, sans souci de l'âge, des égards de la galanterie. Et comme, ce
jour-là, on était tous venus, prêts au combat et d'humeur guerrière, les
poings nous démangeaient à tous. Heureusement, moi qui suis à la fois de
saint Nicolas par mon nom, et de Joseph et d'Anne par ma profession,
sans parler de mon frère de lait, saint Vincent, qui tette le raisin,
moi qui suis pour tous les saints, pourvu qu'ils soient pour moi,
j'avisai un chariot de vendange qui passait sur la route et Gambi, mon
compain, titubant à côté, et je criai:
--Amis! Il n'est de premier parmi nous. Embrassons-nous! Voici celui qui
nous met tous d'accord, notre maître, le seul (après le duc, bien
entendu). Il est venu. Qu'on le salue! Gloire à Bacchus!
Et prenant par les fesses mon Gambi, je le hisse sur le char où il
glisse et culbute dans un fût de raisin écrasé. Puis j'empoigne les
brides, et dans le Pré-le-Comte nous entrons les premiers; Bacchus,
trempant sa base dans le jus du tonneau, la tête couronnée de pampres,
gigotait des jambes et riait. Bras dessus, bras dessous, tous les saints
et les saintes, derrière le derrière de Bacchus triomphant, le suivaient
en dansant. Il faisait bon sur l'herbe! On y balla, mangea, joua, campa,
tout le jour, autour de ce bon duc... Et, le lendemain matin, le pré
était pareil à un parc à cochons. Plus un fil de gazon. Nos semelles
étaient inscrites dans le sol tendre, et témoignaient du zèle avec
lequel la ville avait fêté le seigneur duc. Je pense qu'il en fut bien
content. Et parbleu, nous le fûmes aussi!... À vrai dire, le lendemain,
le procureur crut opportun, quand il revint, de s'indigner, de
protester, de menacer. Il n'en fit rien, il s'en garda. Oui bien, il
ouvrit une enquête; mais il eut soin de ne la fermer point: il est plus
sain de laisser les portes ouvertes. Nul ne tenait à rien trouver.
* * *
C'est ainsi que nous montrâmes que les Clamecycois peuvent tout à la
fois être sujets soumis de leur duc et du roi, et n'en faire jamais qu'à
leur tête: elle est de bois. Et cette preuve faite ramena la gaieté dans
la ville éprouvée. On se sentait revivre. On s'abordait en clignant de
l'oeil, on s'embrassait en riant, on pensait:
--«Nous n'avons pas vidé notre sac à malices. Ils ne nous ont pas pris
le meilleur. Tout va bien.»
Et le souvenir de nos malheurs s'envola.
XII
LA MAISON DES AUTRES
Octobre.
J'ai dû prendre parti enfin pour le logement. Tant que j'ai pu, j'ai
tardé. On recule, pour mieux sauter. Depuis que je n'ai plus pour foyer
que des cendres, j'ai campé un jour ci, un jour là, chez un ami, chez
l'autre; les gens ne manquaient point, qui me gardaient chez eux, une
nuit ou deux, en attendant. Aussi longtemps que le souvenir des périls
de tous pesait sur tous, on formait un troupeau et chacun se sentait,
chez les autres, chez soi. Mais cela ne pouvait durer. Le danger
s'éloignait. Chacun rentrait son corps dans sa coquille. Hors ceux qui
n'avaient plus de corps, et moi qui n'avais plus de coquille. Je ne
pouvais pourtant m'installer à l'auberge. J'ai deux fils et une fille,
qui sont bourgeois de Clamecy, ils ne me l'eussent pas permis. Non pas
que les deux garçons en eussent beaucoup pâti dans leur affection! Mais
le qu'en-dira-t-on!... Ils n'étaient pas pressés cependant de m'avoir.
Et je ne me hâtais point. Mon franc-parler jure trop avec leur
bigoterie. Lequel se dévouerait des deux? Les pauvres gars! Ils étaient
tout autant embarrassés que moi. Heureusement pour eux, Martine, la
brave fille, m'aime vraiment, je crois. Elle me réclamait à tout prix...
Oui, mais il y a mon gendre. Il n'a pas de raisons, je le comprends, cet
homme, pour me vouloir chez lui. Alors, ils étaient tous à s'épier, à
m'épier, avec des yeux fâchés. Et moi, je les fuyais; il me semblait
qu'on mettait mon vieux corps aux enchères.
Je m'étais, pour l'instant, gîté dans mon «coûta», sur la pente de
Beaumont. C'était là qu'en juillet, j'avais, vieux polisson, couché avec
la peste. Car le bon de l'histoire était que ces hébétés qui, par
salubrité, brûlèrent ma maison saine, ont laissé la bicoque où la mort a
passé. Moi qui ne la crains plus, la madame sans nez, je fus bien aise
de retrouver la cabane au sol battu, où gisaient les flacons de l'agape
funèbre. À parler franc, je savais que je ne pourrais jamais hiverner
dans ce trou. Porte disjointe, vitre brisée, et un toit d'où s'égouttait
l'eau des nuages, proprement, comme d'une claie à fromage. Mais il ne
pleuvait pas aujourd'hui; et demain, il serait assez temps de penser à
demain. Je n'aime pas me tourmenter d'avenir incertain. Et puis, quand
je ne peux, à mon contentement, résoudre un embarras, mon remède est de
le remettre à la semaine prochaine. «À quoi sert?» me dit-on. «Il faudra
bien toujours avaler la pilule.»--«Voire, que je réponds. Qui sait si,
dans huit jours, le monde sera là? Serais-je assez vexé, la pilule
avalée, si les trompettes de Dieu se mettaient à sonner, de m'être trop
pressé! Mon ami, ne remets d'une heure le bonheur jamais! Le bonheur se
boit frais. Mais l'ennui peut attendre. Si la bouteille s'évente, elle
n'en vaudra que mieux.»
Adonques, j'attendis, ou mieux je fis attendre le parti importun qu'il
faudrait un jour prendre. Et pour que rien ne vînt, d'ici là, me
troubler, je verrouillai la porte et me barricadai. Mes méditations ne
me pesaient pas lourd. Je piochais mon jardin, ratissais les allées,
recouvrais les semis sous les feuilles tombées, battais les artichauts
et pansais les bobos des vieux arbres blessés: bref, faisais la toilette
à madame la terre qui s'en va s'endormir sous l'édredon d'hiver. Après,
pour me payer, j'allais tâter les côtes à un petit beurré, roux ou jaune
marbré, oublié au poirier... Dieu! qu'il fait bon le laisser fondre,
tout le long, amont, aval, tout le long de son gosier, bouche pleine, le
jus parfumé!... Je ne me risquais en ville que pour renouveler mes
munitions (j'entends non seulement le boire et le manger, mais les
nouvelles). J'évitais de rencontrer ma postérité. Je leur avais fait
croire que j'étais en voyage. Je ne jurerais pas qu'ils le crussent;
mais, en fils respectueux, ils ne voulaient me démentir. Nous avions
l'air ainsi de jouer à cache-cache, comme ces galopins qui se crient:
«Loup, y es-tu?»; et quelque temps encore, nous aurions pu, pour
prolonger le jeu, répondre: «Loup n'y est pas...» Nous comptions sans
Martine. Quand une femme joue, elle triche toujours. Martine se méfiait,
Martine me connaît; Martine eut bientôt fait de dépister mes ruses. Elle
ne plaisante pas avec ce qu'on se doit, entre père et enfant, frères,
soeurs _et cætera_.
Un soir que je sortais du coûta, je la vis qui montait le chemin et
venait. Je rentrai et fermai. Puis, je ne bougeai plus, tapi au pied du
mur. Elle arriva, frappa, héla, cogna la porte. Je ne remuais non plus
qu'une feuille morte. Je retenais mon souffle (justement j'étais pris
d'une envie de tousser). Elle, sans se lasser, criait:
--Veux-tu ouvrir! Je sais que tu es là.
Et du poing, du sabot, sur l'huis elle ruait. Je pensais: «Quelle
gaillarde! Si la porte cédait, je n'en mènerais pas large.» Et j'étais
sur le point d'ouvrir, pour l'embrasser. Ce n'était pas du jeu. Et moi,
lorsque je joue, je veux toujours gagner. Je m'obstinai. Martine encore
cria, puis enfin renonça. J'entendis s'éloigner son pas, qui hésitait.
Je quittai ma cachette, et je me mis à rire... mais à rire et
tousser..., je m'étranglais de rire. J'avais ri tout mon soûl, je
m'essuyais les yeux, lorsque derrière moi j'entends du haut du mur une
voix qui disait:
--Est-ce que tu n'as pas honte?
J'en faillis choir. Sursautant, je tournai la tête et je vis, agrippée
au mur, Martine qui me regardait. Avec des yeux sévères, elle dit:
--Vieux farceur, je te tiens.
Ébahi, je réponds:
--Je suis pris.
Là-dessus nous partîmes tous deux d'un éclat de rire. Penaud, j'allai
ouvrir. Elle entra, tel César, se planta devant moi, et me dit:
--Demande pardon.
Je dis:
--_Mea culpa_.
(Mais c'est comme à confesse; on se dit que demain l'on recommencera.)
Elle me tenait toujours la barbiche, la barbette, et la tirait, et
grommelait:
--Honte! Honte! Un barbon, cette queue blanche au menton, et dans le
front pas plus de raison qu'un enfançon!
Deux fois, trois fois, elle la tira, comme une cloche, à gauche, à
droite, en haut, en bas, puis sur les joues elle me donna une tapette,
et m'embrassa:
--Pourquoi ne venais-tu pas, mauvais? dit-elle, mauvais, tu sais bien
que je t'attendais!
--Ma petite fille, je dis, je m'en vas t'expliquer...
--Tu m'expliqueras chez moi. Allons, ouste, partons!
--Ah! Mais, je ne suis pas prêt! Laisse-moi faire mes paquets.
--Tes paquets! Jour de Dieu! je vas t'aider à les faire.
Elle me jeta sur le dos ma vieille cape, m'enfonça sur la tête mon
chapeau de feutre usé, me ficela, me secoua, et me dit:
--Et voilà! Maintenant, en avant!
Un instant! que je dis.
Je m'assis sur une marche.
--Quoi! fit-elle indignée. Tu vas me résister? Tu ne veux pas venir chez
moi?
--Je ne résiste pas, dis-je, faut bien que je vienne chez toi, puisqu'il
n'y a pas moyen de faire autrement.
--Eh bien, tu es aimable! dit-elle, voilà ton affection!
--Je t'aime bien, ma bonne fille, je réponds, je t'aime bien. Mais je
t'aimerais mieux chez moi que de me voir chez un autre.
--Je suis donc un autre! dit-elle.
--Tu en es la moitié.
--Ah! que nenni, fit-elle. Ni la moitié, ni le quart. Je suis moi, tout
entier, moi, de la tête aux pieds. Je suis sa femme: possible! Mais il
est mon mari. Et je veux ce qu'il veut, s'il veut ce que je veux. Tu
peux être tranquille; il sera enchanté que tu loges chez moi. Ah! Ah! il
ferait beau voir qu'il ne le fût pas!
Je dis:
--Je le crois bien! Tel M. de Nevers, quand il met garnison chez nous.
J'en ai beaucoup logé. Mais je n'ai pas l'habitude d'être de ceux qu'on
loge.
--Tu la prendras, dit-elle. Plus de réplique! Marchons!
--Soit. Mais à une condition.
--Des conditions déjà? Tu es vite habitué.
--C'est qu'on me logera, suivant ma volonté.
--Tu vas faire le tyran, je vois? Eh bien, soit.
--C'est juré?
--C'est juré.
--Et puis...
--En voilà assez, bavard. Veux-tu marcher!
Elle m'empoigna le bras, nom de d'là, quelle pince! Il fallut bien
filer.
Arrivés au logis, elle me fit voir la chambre qu'elle me destinait: dans
l'arrière-boutique; bien chaude, et sous son aile.
La bonne fille me traitait comme l'enfant à la mamelle. Le lit était
tout prêt: fin duvet et draps frais. Et sur la table, dans un verre, un
bouquet de bruyères. Je riais dans mon coeur, amusé et touché; pour la
remercier, je me dis:
--Brave Martine, je vais la faire enrager. Alors je déclarai tout net:
--Cela ne me convient pas.
Elle me montra, vexée, les autres chambres au rez-de-chaussée. Je ne
voulus d'aucune, et j'arrêtai mon choix sur un petit réduit mansardé,
sous le toit. Elle poussa les hauts cris, mais je lui dis:
--Ma belle, c'est comme tu voudras. À prendre ou à laisser. Ou je
m'installe ici, ou je retourne au «coûta».
Fallut bien qu'elle cédât. Mais tous les jours depuis, et à toute heure
du jour, elle revenait à la charge:
--Tu ne peux pas rester là; tu serais mieux en bas; dis-moi ce qui te
déplaît; enfin, tête de bois, pourquoi ne veux-tu pas?
Je répondais, narquois:
--Parce que je ne veux pas.
--Tu me ferais damner, criait-elle, indignée. Mais je sais bien
pourquoi... Orgueilleux! Orgueilleux! qui ne veut rien devoir à ses
enfants, à moi! À moi! je te battrais!
--Ce serait la façon, dis-je, de me forcer à encaisser de toi, au moins,
des horions.
--Va, tu n'as pas de coeur, dit-elle.
--Ma petite fille!
--Oui, fais le patelin! Bas les pattes! vilain!
--Ma grande, ma doucette, ma mie, ma toute belle!
--Vas-tu me faire la cour, à présent, gueule de miel? Flatteur, hâbleur,
menteur! Quand auras-tu fini, dis, de me rire au nez, avec ta longue
bouche tortillée?
--Regarde-moi. Tu ris, toi aussi.
--Non.
--Tu ris.
--Non! Non! Non!!
--Je le vois... là.
Et j'appuyai mon doigt sur sa joue, qui s'enflait de tire, et qui creva.
--C'est trop bête, dit-elle. Je t'en veux, je te hais et je n'ai même
pas le droit d'être fâchée! Il faut que ce vieux singe me fasse, malgré
moi, rire de ses grimaces!... Mais, va, je te déteste. Un méchant gueux,
ruiné, qui fait son Artaban, le fier avec ses enfants! Tu n'en as pas le
droit.
--C'est le seul qui me reste.
Elle me dit encore des paroles aiguisées. Et je lui en servis d'aussi
bien affilées. Nous avons tous les deux, langues de rémouleurs, nous
repassons les mots sur la meule aux couteaux. Par bonheur, aux moments
où l'on est plus méchant, on se dit, elle ou moi, une bonne drôlerie, et
l'on rit; il n'est pas moyen de s'empêcher. Et tout est à recommencer.
Lorsqu'elle eut bien secoué le battant de sa langue (depuis un long
moment, moi je n'écoutais plus), je lui dis:
--À présent, sonnons le couvre-feu. Nous reprendrons demain.
Elle me dit:
--Bonsoir. Tu ne veux donc pas?...
Bouche close.
--Orgueilleux! Orgueilleux! redit-elle.
--Écoute, ma mignonne. Je suis un orgueilleux, un Artaban, un paon, tout
ce que tu voudras. Mais dis-moi franchement: si tu étais à ma place, que
ferais-tu?
Elle réfléchit et dit:
--J'en ferais autant.
--Tu vois bien! Là-dessus, baise-moi, bonne nuit.
Elle m'embrassa en rechignant, elle s'en alla en marmonnant:
--C'est-y pas malheureux d'avoir reçu du Ciel deux caboches pareilles!
--C'est cela, dis-je, fais-lui la leçon, ma belle, à lui et non à moi.
--Je la ferai, dit-elle. Mais tu n'en seras pas quitte.
Et je n'en fus pas quitte. Le lendemain matin, elle recommença. Et je ne
sais pas quelle fut la part du Ciel. Mais la mienne était belle.
* * *
Je fus comme un coq en pâte, les premiers jours. Chacun me choyait,
gâtait; le Florimond lui-même était aux petits soins et me marquait plus
d'égards qu'il ne m'en fallait. Martine le guettait, ombrageuse pour moi
plus que je ne l'étais. Glodie me régalait de son petit caquet. J'avais
le meilleur siège. À table, on me servait le premier. On m'écoutait,
quand je voulais parler. J'étais très bien, très bien... Ouf! Je n'en
pouvais plus. J'étais mal à mon aise; je ne tenais plus en place; je
descendais, je remontais, redescendait vingt fois par heure l'escalier
de mon grenier. Chacun en était assommé. Martine, qui n'est point
patiente, en tressautait, muette et crispée, en entendant mon pas
craquer. Si c'eût été du moins l'été, j'eusse battu la campagne. Je la
battais, mais au logis. L'automne était de glace; les grands brouillards
couvraient les prés; et la pluie tombait, tombait, le jour, la nuit.
J'étais cloué sur place. Et cette place n'était pas la mienne, jour de
Dieu! Ce pauvre Florimond avait un goût niais, avec prétention; Martine
ne s'en souciait; et tout dans la maison, les meubles, les objets, me
choquaient; je souffrais; j'eusse voulu changer tout, de forme ou de
place, les mains me démangeaient. Mais le propriétaire veillait: si je
touchais du bout du doigt un de ses biens, c'était toute une affaire. Il
y avait surtout dans la salle à manger une aiguière ornée de deux
pigeons, se bécotant, et d'une demoiselle qui faisait la sucrée, avec
son fade amant. J'en avais la nausée; je priais Florimond, au moins, de
l'enlever de la table quand je mangeais; les morceaux s'arrêtaient dans
mon goulet, je m'étranglais. Mais l'animal (c'était son droit) s'y
refusait. Il était fier de son nougat; le plus grand art était pour lui
une pièce montée. Et mes grimaces réjouissaient la maisonnée.
Que faire? Rire de moi; j'étais un sot, c'est sûr. Mais la nuit, je me
retournais dans le lit comme une côtelette, tandis que sur le gril, sur
mon toit, veux-je dire, sans arrêt la pluie grésillait. Et je n'osais me
promener dans mon grenier, que mes gros pas faisaient trembler. Enfin,
une fois que j'étais assis, les jambes nues, et méditant, dessus mon
lit, je me dis: «Mon Colas Breugnon, je ne sais ni quand ni comment,
mais je referai ma maison.»--À partir de ce moment, je fus plus gai: je
conspirais. Je n'avais garde d'en parler à mes enfants: ils m'eussent
dit qu'en fait d'habitation, je n'étais bon que pour les
Petites-Maisons. Mais où trouver l'argent? Depuis Orphée et Amphion, les
pierres ne viennent plus danser en rond et, se faisant la courte
échelle, bâtir les murs et les maisons, sinon au chant des escarcelles.
La mienne avait perdu sa voix, qui jamais ne fut belle.
Je recourus sans hésiter à celle de l'ami Paillard. Le brave homme, à
dire vrai, ne me l'avait point offerte. Mais comme bonnement j'ai
plaisir à demander service à un ami, je crois qu'il en aura autant à le
donner. Je profitai d'une éclaircie pour m'en aller à Dornecy. Le ciel
était bas et gris. Le vent humide et las passait, comme un grand oiseau
mouillé. La terre vous collait aux pieds; et sur les champs tombaient,
planant, les feuilles jaunes des noyers. Aux premiers mots que je lui
dis, Paillard, inquiet, m'interrompit, en geignant sur le peu
d'affaires, l'absence des recouvrements, manque d'argent, mauvais
clients, tant et si bien que je lui dis:
--Mais, Paillard, veux-tu que je te prête un liard?
J'étais froissé. Il l'était plus. Et nous restâmes à bouder, en nous
parlant, d'un air glacé, de ci, de ça, moi furieux, et lui honteux. Il
regrettait sa ladrerie. Le pauvre vieux n'est pas mauvais garçon; il
m'aime, je le sais bien, parbleu; il n'eût pas demandé mieux que de me
donner son argent, s'il ne lui en avait rien coûté; et même, en
insistant, j'eusse obtenu de lui ce que j'aurais voulu; mais ce n'est
pas sa faute, s'il porte dans sa peau trois siècles de fesse-mathieux.
On peut être bourgeois et généreux, sans doute: cela se voit parfois, ou
bien s'est vu, dit-on; mais pour tout bon bourgeois, le premier
mouvement, quand on touche à sa bourse, est de répondre non. L'ami
Paillard eût donné gros, en ce moment, pour dire oui; mais pour cela, il
eût fallu que je lui fisse de nouveau des avances: je n'avais garde.
J'ai mon orgueil; quand je demande à un ami, je crois lui faire un grand
plaisir; et s'il hésite, je n'en veux plus, tant pis pour lui! Donc nous
parlâmes d'autre chose, d'un ton bourru, et le coeur gros. Je refusai de
déjeuner (je le navrais). Je me levai. La tête basse, jusqu'au seuil, il
me suivit. Mais au moment d'ouvrir la porte, je n'y tins plus, je lui
passai mon bras autour de son vieux cou, et sans parler je l'embrassai.
Il me le rendit bien. Timidement, il dit:
--Colas, Colas, veux-tu?...
Je fis:
--N'en parlons plus.
(Je suis têtu).
--Colas, reprit-il, l'air penaud, déjeune au moins.
--Pour ça, dis-je, c'est une autre affaire. Mon Paillard, déjeunons.
Nous mangeâmes comme quatre; mais je restai de bronze et je ne revins
pas sur ma décision. Je sais bien que j'en étais le premier puni. Mais
il l'était aussi.
Je m'en revins à Clamecy. Il s'agissait de rebâtir mon logement, sans
ouvriers et sans argent. Ce n'était pas pour m'arrêter. Ce que j'ai
vissé sous mon front n'est pardieu pas dans mon talon. Je commençai par
visiter soigneusement l'emplacement de l'incendie, faisant le tri de
tout ce qui pouvait servir, poutres rongées, briques noircies, vieilles
ferrures, les quatre murs branlants et noirs comme un bonnet de ramonat.
Puis j'allai en catimini à Chevroches, dans les carrières, piocher,
gratter, ronger les os de la terre, la belle pierre chaude aux yeux et
saignante, où l'on voit des coulées comme de sang caillé. Et même il se
pourrait que j'eusse, sur le chemin à travers la forêt, aidé quelque
vieux chêne au bout de sa carrière, à trouver le repos. Peut-être ce
n'était pas permis: il se peut aussi. Mais si l'on ne devait jamais
faire que ce qui est permis, la vie serait trop difficile. Les bois sont
à la ville, et c'est pour en user. On en use, chacun sans bruit, il va
sans dire. Et l'on n'abuse pas, on pense: «Après moi, les autres.» Mais
prendre n'était rien. Il fallait emporter. Grâce aux voisins, j'en vins
à bout, l'un me prêtant son char, l'autre ses boeufs, ou ses outils, ou
plutôt un coup de main, parce qu'il n'en coûte rien. On peut tout
demander au prochain, voire sa femme, hors qu'il vous donne son argent.
Je le comprends l'argent est ce qu_'on peut avoir_, ce qu_'on aura_,
ce qu_'on aurait_ avec l'argent, tout ce qu'on rêve; le reste,
_on l'a:_ on ne l'a guère.
Le jour où nous pûmes enfin, moi et mon Robinet dit Binet, commencer à
dresser les premiers échafauds, les froids étaient venus. On me traitait
de fou. Mes enfants me faisaient des scènes, chaque jour! et les plus
indulgents me conseillaient d'attendre au moins jusqu'au printemps. Mais
je n'écoutais rien; rien ne me plaît autant que de faire enrager les
gens et les régents. Eh! je le savais bien que je ne pourrais pas, à moi
seul, et l'hiver, bâtir une maison! Mais il me suffisait d'une cabane,
un toit, une cage à lapins. Sociable, je suis, oui, mais à condition de
l'être si je veux, et de ne l'être point, quand il me plaît. Je suis
bavard, j'aime à causer avec les autres, oui mais je veux avec moi
pouvoir causer aussi, seul à seul, à mes heures: de tous mes compagnons,
c'est le meilleur, j'y tiens; et pour le retrouver, je m'en irais
nu-pieds sous la bise, et sans chausses. C'était donc pour m'entretenir
avec moi, tout à loisir, que je m'obstinais à construire, en dépit du
qu'en-dira-t-on, ma maison, et ricanant des beaux sermons de mes
enfants...
Ahi! Mais je ne ris pas le dernier... Un matin de la fin d'octobre, que
la ville s'encapuchonnait sous les frimas et que luisait sur les pavés
la bave d'argent du verglas, en montant à mon échafaud, je glissai sur
un des barreaux, et paf! je me trouvai en bas, plus vite que d'en bas je
n'étais arrivé. Binet criait:
--Il s'est tué!
On accourait me relever. J'étais vexé. Je dis:
--Eh! je l'ai fait exprès...
Je voulus me lever seul. Aïe! la cheville, la chevillette! Je
retombai... La chevillette était cassée. Sur un brancard on m'emporta.
Martine, auprès, levait les bras; les voisines m'escortaient, se
lamentant et commentant l'événement; nous avions l'air d'un saint
tableau: le Fils de Dieu, mis au tombeau! Et les Maries ne ménageaient
leurs cris, leurs gestes et leurs pas. Ils eussent réveillé un mort.
Moi, je ne l'étais pas, mais je feignis de l'être: c'était le mieux pour
ne pas recevoir cette pluie sur mon dos. Et l'air doux, immobile, la
tête renversée et la barbe tendue en pointe vers là-haut, je rageais
dans mon coeur, tout en faisant le beau...
XIII
LA LECTURE DE PLUTARQUE
Fin d'octobre.
Et maintenant, me voici retenu par la patte... Par la patte! Bon Dieu,
ne pouvais-tu me casser, si cela t'amusait, une côte ou un bras, et me
laisser mes piliers? Je n'en aurais pas moins geint, mais non geint,
écroulé. Ah! le mauvais, le maudit! (Son saint nom soit béni!) On dirait
qu'il ne cherche qu'à vous faire enrager. Il sait que plus m'est chère
que tous biens de la terre, que travail, que bombance, qu'amour et
qu'amitié, celle que j'ai conquise, la fille non des dieux, mais des
hommes, ma liberté. C'est pourquoi, dans ma niche (il doit rire, le
mâtin), il m'a lié par le pied. Et je contemple à présent, étendu sur le
dos, ainsi qu'un scarabée, les toiles d'araignée, les poutres du
grenier. C'est là ma liberté!... Ouais, mais tu ne me tiens pas encore,
mon bonhomme. Ligote ma carcasse, ficelle, attache, entoure, allons,
encore un tour, comme on fait aux poulets que l'on tourne à la
broche!... À présent, tu me tiens? Et l'esprit, qu'en fais-tu? Aga, le
voilà parti, avec ma fantaisie! Tâche de les rattraper. Il te faudra de
bonnes jambes. Ma commère fantaisie n'a pas la cuisse cassée. Allons,
cours, mon ami!...
Je dois dire que d'abord, je fus de méchante humeur. La langue m'était
laissée, j'en usai pour pester. Il ne faisait pas bon, ces jours-là,
m'approcher. Je savais pourtant bien que je ne pouvais m'en prendre qu'à
moi seul de ma chute. Eh! je ne le savais que trop. Tous ceux qui
venaient me voir me le cornaient aux oreilles:
--On te l'avait bien dit! Quel besoin avais-tu de grimper comme un chat?
Un barbon de ton âge! On t'avait averti. Mais tu ne veux rien entendre.
Faut toujours que tu trottes. Eh bien, trotte à présent! Tu ne l'as pas
volé...
Belle consolation! Quand vous êtes misérable, s'évertuer à prouver, pour
vous ragaillardir, par-dessus le marché que vous êtes un sot! La
Martine, mon gendre, amis, indifférents, tous ceux qui venaient me voir,
ils s'étaient donné le mot. Et moi, je devais subir leurs objurgations,
sans bouger, pris au piège, et rageant à crever. Jusqu'à cette moutarde
de Glodie, qui me dit:
--Tu n'as pas été sage, grand-père, c'est bien fait! Je lui lançai mon
bonnet, je criai:
--Foutez-moi le camp!
Alors, je restai seul, et ce ne fut pas plus gai. La Martine, bonne
fille, insistait pour qu'on mît mon matelas en bas, dans
l'arrière-boutique. Mais moi (j'avoue qu'au fond, j'en eusse été bien
aise), mais moi, quand j'ai dit non une fois, crebleu, c'est non! Et
puis, on n'aime pas, quand on est impotent, à se montrer aux gens. La
Martine, inlassable, revenait à la charge: harcelante, comme sont les
mouches et les femmes. Si elle n'eût tant parlé, je pense que j'aurais
cédé. Mais elle y mettait trop d'obstination: si j'avais consenti, elle
eût, du matin au soir, trompetté sa victoire. Je l'envoyai promener. Et
naturellement, c'est ce que tout le monde fit, hors moi, bien entendu;
on me laissa morfondre au fond de mon grenier. Ne te plains pas, Colas,
c'est toi qui l'as voulu!...
Mais la raison, la vraie, pour quoi je m'obstinais, je ne la disais pas.
Quand on n'est plus chez soi, quand on est chez les autres, on a peur de
gêner, on ne veut rien leur devoir. C'est un mauvais calcul, si l'on
veut se faire aimer. La pire des sottises est de se faire oublier... On
m'oubliait très bien. On ne me voyait plus? On ne venait plus me voir.
Même Glodie me laissait. Je l'entendais qui riait, en bas; et dans mon
coeur, je riais, en l'entendant; mais je soupirais aussi: car j'aurais
bien voulu savoir pourquoi elle riait... «L'ingrate!» Je l'accusais, et
je pensais qu'à sa place, j'en aurais fait autant... «Amuse-toi, ma
belle!»... Seulement, pour s'occuper, quand on ne peut plus bouger, il
faut bien faire un peu le Job, qui peste sur son fumier.
Un jour que sur le mien, maussade, je gisais, Paillard vint. Ma foi, je
ne le reçus pas trop bien. Il était là devant moi, assis au pied du lit.
Il tenait précieusement un livre empaqueté. Il tâchait de causer, et
tâtait sans succès un sujet, et puis l'autre. Je leur tordais le cou à
tous, d'un mot, l'air furibond. Il ne savait plus que dire, toussotait,
tapotait sur le bois de mon lit. Je le priai de cesser. Alors il resta
coi, et n'osait plus bouger. Moi, je riais sous cape. Je pensais:
--«Mon bonhomme, tu as des remords maintenant. Si tu m'avais prêté
l'argent que je demandais, je n'aurais pas été contraint à faire le
maçon. Je me suis cassé la jambe: attrape! C'est bien fait! Car c'est ta
ladrerie qui m'a mis où je suis.»
Donc, il ne se risquait plus à m'adresser un mot; et moi, qui me forçais
aussi à tenir ma langue et qui mourais d'envie de la remuer, j'éclatai:
--Enfin, parle, lui dis-je. Te crois-tu au chevet d'un mourant? On ne
vient pas chez les gens, pour se taire, que diable! Allons, parle, ou
va-t'en! Ne roule pas les yeux. Ne tripote pas ce livre. Qu'est-ce que
tu tiens là?
Le pauvre homme se leva:
--Je vois bien que je t'irrite, Colas. Et je m'en vas. J'avais porté ce
livre... vois-tu, c'est un Plutarque, _Vie des Hommes_ _illustres_,
translaté en françois par l'évêque d'Auxerre, messire Jacques Amyot. Je
pensais...
(Il n'était pas encore tout à fait décidé)...
...que peut-être tu trouverais...
(Dieu! que cela lui coûtait!)...
...plaisir, consolation veux-je dire, en sa compagnie...
Moi, qui savais combien ce vieux thésauriseur, qui chérissait ses livres
encore plus que ses écus, souffrait de les prêter (lorsqu'on en touchait
un, dans sa bibliothèque, il vous faisait une mine d'amoureux déconfit,
qui verrait un soudard prendre la gorge à sa belle), je fus touché de la
grandeur du sacrifice. Je dis:
--Vieux camarade, tu es meilleur que moi, je suis un animal; je t'ai
bien rabroué. Allons, viens m'embrasser.
Je l'embrassai. Je pris le livre. Il aurait bien voulu encore me le
reprendre.
--Tu en auras grand soin?
--Sois tranquille, lui dis-je, ce sera mon oreiller. Il partit à regret,
l'air pas trop rassuré.
* * *
Et je restai avec Plutarque de Chéronée, un volume petit, ventru, plus
gros que long, de mille et trois cents pages, bien serrées et bondées:
on avait empilé les mots comme du blé dans un sac. Je me dis:
--Il y a là de quoi manger pendant trois ans, et sans arrêt, pour trois
baudets.
D'abord, je me divertis à regarder, au début de chacun des chapitres,
dans des médaillons ronds, les têtes de ces illustres, coupées et
empaquetées de feuilles de laurier. Il ne leur manquait plus qu'un brin
de persil au nez. Je pensais:
--Que font ces Grecs et ces Romains? Ils sont morts, ils sont morts, et
nous sommes vivants. Que pourront-ils me raconter que je ne sache aussi
bien qu'eux? Que l'homme est un animal fort méchant, mais plaisant, que
le vin gagne en vieillissant, la femme non, et qu'en tous les pays, les
grands croquent les petits, et que les croquants croqués, que les petits
se rient des grands? Tous ces hâbleurs romains vous font de longs
discours. J'aime bien l'éloquence; mais je les préviens d'avance qu'ils
ne parleront pas seuls; je leur clorai le bec...
Là-dessus, je feuilletai le livre, d'un air condescendant, en laissant
distraitement mes regards ennuyés tomber comme une ligne, au long de la
rivière. Et dès le premier coup, je fus pris, mes amis... mes amis,
quelle pêche!... Le bouchon ne flottait pas sur l'eau qu'il s'enfonçait,
et je retirais de là quelles carpes, quels brochets! Des poissons
inconnus, d'or, d'argent, irisés, vêtus de pierreries et semant autour
d'eux une pluie d'étincelles... Et qui vivaient, dansaient, qui se
bandaient, sautaient, palpitaient des ouïes et battaient de la queue!...
Moi, qui les croyais morts!... À partir de ce moment, le monde aurait pu
crouler, je n'eusse rien remarqué; je regardais ma ligne: ça mordait, ça
mordait! Quel monstre va sortir de l'onde, cette fois?... Et vlan! le
beau poisson qui vole au bout du fil, avec son ventre blanc et sa cotte
de mailles, verte comme un épi, ou bleue comme une prune, et luisant au
soleil!... Les jours que j'ai passés là (les jours ou les semaines?)
sont le joyau de ma vie. Bénie ma maladie!
Et bénis soient mes yeux, par où s'infiltre en moi la vision
merveilleuse enclose dans les livres! Mes yeux de magicien, qui sous la
broderie des signes gras et serrés, dont le noir troupeau chemine entre
les deux fossés des marges sur la page, font surgir les armées
disparues, les villes écroulées, les beaux parleurs de Rome et les rudes
joueurs, les héros et les belles qui les menèrent par le nez, le grand
vent sur les plaines, la mer ensoleillée, et le ciel d'Orient, et les
neiges d'antan!...
Je vois passer César, pâle, grêle et menu, couché dans sa litière, au
milieu des soudards qui suivent en grognant, et ce goinfre d'Antoine,
qui s'en va par les champs, avec tous ses buffets, sa vaisselle, ses
putains, pour bâfrer à l'orée de quelque vert bocage, qui boit, rend et
reboit, qui mange à son dîner huit sangliers rôtis, et qui pêche à la
ligne un vieux poisson salé, et Pompée compassé, que Flora mord d'amour,
et le Poliorcète, avec son grand chapeau et son manteau doré, sur lequel
sont pourtraits la figure du monde et les cercles du ciel, et le grand
Artaxerce, régnant comme un taureau sur le blanc et noir troupeau de ses
quatre cents femmes, et le bel Alexandre, habillé en Bacchus, qui
retourne des Indes, dessus un échafaud, traîné par huit chevaux, couvert
de ramée fraîche et de tapis de pourpre, aux sons des violons, des
fifres, des hautbois, qui boit et qui festoie avec ses maréchaux, des
fleurs sur leurs chapeaux, et son armée qui suit en trinquant, et les
femmes tels des cabris sautant... N'est-ce pas une merveille? La reine
Cléopâtre, Lamia, la flûtiste, et Statira si belle qu'on avait mal aux
yeux, lorsqu'on la regardait, à la barbe d'Antoine, d'Alex ou
d'Artaxerce, je les ai, s'il me plaît, j'en jouis, je les possède.
J'entre dans Ecbatane, je bois avec Thaïs, je couche avec Roxane,
j'emporte sur mon cou, dans un paquet de hardes, Cléopâtre emballée;
avec Antiochus, rougissant et rongé de fièvre pour Stratonice, je brûle
pour ma belle-mère (la curieuse affaire!), j'extermine les Gaules, je
viens, je vois, je vaincs, et (ce qui me plaît bien) le tout sans qu'il
m'en coûte une goutte de sang.
Je suis riche. Chaque histoire est une caravelle, qui m'apporte des
Indes ou bien de Barbarie les métaux précieux, les vieux vins dans les
outres, les animaux bizarres, les esclaves capturés... les beaux
drilles! Quels poitrails! quelles croupes!... c'est à moi, tout cela.
Les Empires vécurent, grandirent et sont morts, pour mon amusement...
Quel carnaval est-ce là? Il semble que je sois tour à tour tous ces
masques. Je me coule en leur peau, je m'ajuste leurs membres, leurs
passions; et je danse. Je suis en même temps le maître de la danse, je
mène la musique, je suis le bon Plutarque; c'est moi, oui-dà, c'est moi
qui ai mis par écrit (je fus bien inspiré, ce jour-là, n'est-ce pas?)
ces petites drôleries... Qu'il est beau de sentir la musique des mots et
la ronde des phrases vous emporter, dansant et riant dans l'espace,
libre des liens du corps, des maux, de la vieillesse!... L'esprit, mais
c'est le bon Dieu! Loué soit le Saint-Esprit!...
Quelquefois, arrêté au milieu de l'histoire, j'imagine la suite; puis,
je compare l'oeuvre de ma fantaisie et celle que la vie ou que l'art a
sculptée. Quand c'est l'art, bien souvent je devine l'énigme: car je
suis un vieux renard, je connais toutes les ruses, et je ris, dedans ma
barbe, de les avoir éventées. Mais quand c'est la vie, je suis souvent
en défaut. Elle déjoue nos malices, et ses imaginations passent de loin
les nôtres. Ah! la folle commère!... Il n'est que sur un point qu'elle
ne se met guère en frais de varier son récit: celui qui clôt l'histoire.
Guerres, amours, facéties, tout finit par le plongeon que vous savez, au
fond du trou. Là-dessus, elle rabâche. C'est comme une façon d'enfant
capricieux, qui brise ses jouets quand il en a assez. Je suis furieux,
je lui crie: «Vilain brutal, veux-tu, veux-tu me le laisser!...» Je le
lui prends des mains... Trop tard! il est cassé... Et je goûte une
douceur à bercer, comme Glodie, les débris de ma poupée. Et cette mort
qui vient, comme l'heure à l'horloge, à chaque tour du cadran, prend la
beauté d'un refrain. Sonnez, cloches et bourdons, bourdonnez, dig, ding,
don!
«_Je suis Cyrus, celui qui a conquis l'Asie, l'empereur des Persians, et
te prie, mon ami, que tu ne me portes envie de ce très peu de terre qui
couvre mon pauvre corps...»_
Je relis l'épitaphe aux côtés d'Alexandre, qui frémit dans sa chair,
prête à lui échapper, car il lui semble ouïr déjà sa propre voix qui
monte de la terre. Ô Cyrus, Alexandre, que vous m'êtes plus proches,
lorsque je vous vois morts!...
Les vois-je, ou si je rêve?... Je me pince, je dis: «Allons, Colas,
dors-tu? «Alors, sur le rebord de la tablette, près de mon lit, je
prends les deux médailles (je les ai déterrées dans ma vigne, l'an
passé) de Commode poilu, habillé en Hercule, et de Crispine Augusta,
avec son menton gras, son nez de pie-grièche. Je dis: «Je ne rêve point,
j'ai bien les yeux ouverts, je tiens Rome sous mon pouce...»
Le plaisir de se perdre en cogitations sur des pensées morales, disputer
avec soi, remettre en question les problèmes du monde que la force a
tranchés, passer le Rubicon... non, rester sur le bord...
passerons-nous, ou non? se battre avec Brutus, ou bien avec César, être
de son avis, puis de l'avis contraire, et si éloquemment, et
s'embrouiller si bien qu'on ne sait, à la fin, de quel parti on tient!
C'est le plus amusant: on est plein du sujet, on part dans des discours,
on prouve, on va prouver, on réplique, on riposte; corps à corps, coup
de tête, prime haute, pare-moi cette botte!... et puis, en fin de
compte, on se trouve enferré... Être battu par soi! J'en suis
estomaqué... c'est la faute à Plutarque. Avec sa langue dorée et son air
bonhomet de vous dire: «Mon ami», on se trouve toujours, toujours de son
avis; et il en a autant qu'il change de récits. Bref, de tous ses héros
celui que je préfère, c'est immanquablement le dernier que j'ai lu.
Aussi bien, ils sont tous soumis, ainsi que nous, à la même héroïne,
attachés à son char... Triomphes de Pompée, qu'êtes-vous à côté?... Elle
mène l'histoire. C'est à savoir Fortune dont la roue tourne, tourne, et
jamais ne séjourne «en un état, non plus que fait la lune», comme dit,
chez Sophocle, Ménélas le cornard. Et cela est encore très bien
réconfortant,--pour ceux-ci qui, du moins, sont au premier croissant.
Par moments, je me dis: «Mais, Breugnon, mon ami, en quoi diable peut
bien t'intéresser ceci? Qu'as-tu affaire, dis-moi, de la gloire romaine?
Encore moins des folies de ces grands sacripants? Tu as assez des
tiennes, elles sont à ta mesure. Que tu es désoeuvré, pour aller te
charger des vices, des misères des gens qui sont défunts depuis mil huit
cents ans! Car enfin, mon garçon (c'est mons Breugnon, rangé, sensé,
bourgeois, Clamecycois, qui prône), conviens-en, ton César, ton Antoine,
et Cléo leur catin, tes princes persians qui égorgent leurs fils et
épousent leurs filles, sont de fiers chenapans. Ils sont morts: dans
leur vie, ils n'ont rien fait de mieux. Laisse en paix leur poussière.
Comment un homme d'âge trouve-t-il du plaisir à ces insanités? Regarde
un peu ton Alexandre, n'es-tu pas révolté de le voir dépenser, pour
enterrer Éphestion, ce beau mignon, les trésors d'une nation? Passe
encore de tuer! Graine humaine, mauvaise graine. Mais gaspiller
l'argent! On voit bien que ces drôles n'ont pas eu la peine de le faire
pousser. Et tu trouves cela plaisant? Tu écarquilles tes gros yeux, tu
es tout glorieux, comme si ces écus t'étaient sortis des doigts! S'ils
en étaient sortis, tu serais un grand fou. Tu en es deux, pour trouver
de la joie aux folies que les autres ont faites, et non pas toi.»
Je réponds: «Breugnon, tu parles d'or, tu as toujours raison. Cela
n'empêche pas que je ne me ferais fesser pour ces billevesées, et que
ces ombres décharnées depuis deux mille années n'aient plus de sang que
les vivants, je les connais et je les aime. Pour qu'Alexandre pleure sur
moi, comme sur Clytus, je consens de grand coeur, aussi, à ce qu'il me
tue. J'ai la gorge serrée quand je vois, au sénat, César sous les
poignards s'agitant aux abois, ainsi que la bête acculée entre les
chiens et les veneurs. Je reste bouchée bée, quand passe Cléopâtre en sa
barque dorée, avec ses Néréides appuyées aux cordages et ses beaux
petits pages, nus comme des Amours; et j'ouvre mon grand nez afin
d'aspirer mieux la brise parfumée. Je pleure comme un veau, lorsque à la
fin Antoine, sanglant, mourant, est ficelé, hissé par sa belle, penchée
à la lucarne de sa tour, et qui tire de tout son corps (pourvu... il est
si lourd!... qu'elle ne le laisse pas tomber!) le pauvre homme qui lui
tend les bras...
Qu'est-ce donc qui m'émeut, et qui m'attache à eux, comme à une
famille?--Eh! ils sont ma famille, ils sont moi, ils sont l'Homme.
Que je plains les pauvres déshérités qui ne connaissent point la volupté
des livres! Il en est qui font fi du passé, fièrement, s'en tenant au
présent. Canes bâtées, qui ne voient pas plus loin que le bout de leur
nez!... Oui, le présent est bon. Mais tout est bon, corbleu, je prends
de toutes mains, et je ne boude pas devant la table ouverte. Vous n'en
médiriez point si vous la connaissiez. Ou bien c'est, mes amis, que vous
devez avoir un mauvais estomac. Je comprends qu'on étreigne ce qu'on
étreint. Mais vous n'étreignez guère, et votre mie est maigre. Bien et
peu, c'est bien peu. J'aime mieux beaucoup et bien... S'en tenir au
présent, c'était bon, mes amis, au temps du vieil Adam, qui, lui, allait
tout nu, faute de vêtements, et qui, n'ayant rien vu, ne pouvait aimer
rien que sa côte femelle. Mais nous qui avons l'heur de venir après lui
dans une maison pleine où nos pères, nos grands-pères et nos
archi-grands-pères ont entassé, tassé ce qu'ils ont amassé, nous serions
assez fous pour brûler nos greniers, sous le prétexte que nos champs
produisent encore du blé!... Le vieil Adam, il n'était qu'un enfant!
C'est moi, le vieil Adam: car je suis le même homme, et depuis, j'ai
grandi. Nous sommes le même arbre, mais j'ai poussé plus haut. Chacun
des coups qui fait saigner une des branches retentit dans ma feuillée.
Les peines et les joies de l'univers sont miennes. Qui souffre, j'en
pâtis; qui est heureux, je ris. Bien mieux que dans la vie, je sens à
travers mes livres la fraternité qui nous lie, nous tous, les
porte-hottes et les porte-couronnes; car des uns et des autres il ne
reste que cendres et la flamme qui, nourrie de la moelle de nos âmes,
monte, unique et multiple, vers le ciel, en chantant avec les mille
langues de sa bouche sanglante la gloire du Tout-Puissant...
* * *
Ainsi, je rêve dans mon grenier. Le vent s'éteint. La lumière tombe. La
neige, du bout de ses ailes, frôle la vitre. L'ombre se glisse. Mes yeux
se brouillent. Je me penche sur mon livre, et je suis le récit, qui dans
la nuit s'enfuit. Mon nez touche le papier: tel un chien à la piste, je
renifle l'odeur humaine. La nuit vient. La nuit est venue. Et mon gibier
s'échappe et s'enfonce dans l'avenue. Alors je m'arrête au milieu de la
forêt, et j'écoute, le coeur battant de la poursuite, la fuite. Pour
mieux voir au travers de l'ombre, je ferme les yeux. Et je rêve,
immobile, étendu sur mon lit. Je ne dors guère, je rumine mes pensées;
je regarde parfois le ciel par la croisée. Lorsque j'étends le bras, je
touche le carreau; je vois la coupole d'ébène, que raie d'une goutte de
sang une étoile filante... D'autres... Il pleut du feu, dans la nuit de
novembre... Et je pense à la comète de César. C'est peut-être son sang
qui dans le ciel ruisselle...
Le jour revient. Je rêve encore. Dimanche. Les cloches chantent. De leur
bourdonnement ma fantaisie s'enivre. Elle emplit la maison, de la cave
au grenier. Elle couvre mon livre (ah! le pauvre Paillard) de mes
inscriptions. Ma chambre retentit des roues des chariots, des armées,
des clairons et des hennissements. Les vitres tremblent, mes oreilles
tintent, mon coeur craque, je vais crier:
--_Ave,_ César, _imperator!_
Et mon gendre Florimond, qui est monté me voir, regarde par la fenêtre,
bâille avec bruit et dit:
--Il ne passe pas un chat, dans la rue, aujourd'hui.
XIV
LE ROI BOIT
Saint-Martin (11 novembre).
Il faisait, ce matin, une douceur extrême. Elle cheminait dans l'air,
tiède comme la caresse d'une peau satinée. Elle se frottait à vous comme
un chat qui vous frôle. Elle coulait à la fenêtre, comme un muscat doré.
Le ciel avait levé sa paupière de nuées, et de son oeil bleu pâle,
paisible, me regardait; et sur mon toit je voyais un rayon de soleil
blond.
Je me sentais alangui, vieille bête, et rêveur, tel un adolescent. (J'ai
renoncé à vieillir, je remonte mes ans; si cela continue, je serai
marmot, bientôt.) Donc mon coeur était plein de chimérique attente, comme
le bon Roger qui bée après Alcine. Je voyais toutes choses d'un regard
attendri. Je n'aurais, ce jour-là, fait de mal à une mouche. Et j'avais
vidé mon sac à malices.
Et comme je me croyais seul, soudain j'aperçus Martine, assise dans un
coin. Je n'avais pas remarqué lorsqu'elle était entrée. Elle ne m'avait
rien dit, contre son habitude; elle s'était installée, un ouvrage à la
main, et ne me regardait point. J'éprouvais le besoin de faire part à
d'autres du bien-être où j'étais. Et je dis, au hasard (pour ouvrir
l'entretien, tous les sujets sont bons):
--Pourquoi donc le bourdon a sonné ce matin? Elle haussa les épaules, et
dit:
--Pour la Saint-Martin.
J'en tombai de mon haut. Dans les rêvasseries, quoi! j'avais oublié le
dieu de ma cité! Je dis:
--C'est la Saint-Martin?
Et je vis surgir aussitôt, dans la troupe des damoiseaux et des dames de
Plutarque, parmi mes amis nouveaux l'ami vieil (il est de leur taille),
surgir le cavalier qui taille, avec son sabre, son manteau.
--Eh! Martinet, mon vieux compère, se peut-il que j'ai oublié que
c'était ton anniversaire!
--Tu t'en étonnes? dit Martine. Il est grand temps! tu oublies tout, le
bon Dieu, ta famille, les diables et les saints, Martinet et Martine,
rien n'existe pour toi, hors tes sacrés bouquins.
Je ris; j'avais déjà remarqué son oeil mauvais, quand elle venait, chaque
matin, et qu'elle voyait qu'avec Plutarque je couchais. Jamais femme
n'aima les livres, d'un amour désintéressé; elle voit en eux des
rivales, ou des amants. Fille ou femme, quand elle lit, fait l'amour et
trompe l'homme. De là que, quand elle nous voit lire, elle crie à la
trahison.
--C'est la faute à Martin, dis-je, on ne le voit plus. Pourtant, il lui
restait la moitié du manteau. Il la garde, ce n'est point beau. Ma bonne
fille, que veux-tu? Il ne faut se laisser oublier dans la vie. Qui se
laisse oublier, on l'oublie. Retiens cette leçon.
--Je n'en ai pas besoin, dit-elle. Où que je sois, nul ne l'ignore.
--C'est vrai, on te voit bien, on t'entend mieux encore. Hors ce matin,
que j'attendais ta querelle journalière. Pourquoi m'en as-tu privé? Elle
me manque. Viens me la faire.
Mais elle, sans tourner la tête, dit:
--Rien ne te fait. Et je me tais.
Je regardais sa figure obstinée, qui sa lèvre mordait, pour piquer son
ourlet. Elle avait l'air triste et battue; et ma victoire me pesait. Je
dis:
--Viens m'embrasser, au moins. À défaut de Martin, je n'ai pas oublié
Martine. C'est ta fête, allons, j'ai un cadeau pour toi. Viens le
chercher.
Elle fronça le sourcil, et dit:
--Mauvais plaisant!
--Je ne plaisante pas, dis-je. Viens, viens donc, tu verras.
--Je n'ai pas le temps.
--Ô fille dénaturée, quoi, tu n'as pas le temps de venir m'embrasser?
À regret, elle se leva; méfiante, elle s'approcha:
--Quel tour de Villon, quelle farce vas-tu me faire encore? Je lui
tendis les bras.
--Allons, dis-je, baise-moi.
--Et le cadeau? dit-elle.
--Tu l'as, tu l'as, c'est moi.
--Joli cadeau! Le bel oiseau!
--Vilain ou beau, tout ce que j'ai je te le donne, je me rends, sans
conditions, à discrétion. Fais de moi ce que tu voudras.
--Tu consens à venir en bas?
--Pieds et poings liés, je me livre.
--Et tu consens à m'obéir, à ce qu'on t'aime, à te laisser mener,
gronder, choyer, soigner, humilier?
--J'ai abdiqué ma volonté.
--Ah! comme je vais me venger! Ah! mon cher vieux! Méchant garçon! Que
tu es bon! Vieil entêté! M'as-tu fait assez enrager!
Elle m'embrassait, me secouait comme un paquet, et me serrait sur son
giron, tel un poupon.
Elle ne voulut pas attendre une heure. On m'emballa. Et Florimond et les
mitrons, casqués du bonnet de coton, m'enfournèrent par l'escalier
étroit, les pieds devant, la tête après, en bas, dans un grand lit, en
une pièce claire, où Martine et Glodie me bordèrent, narguèrent,
répétèrent vingt fois:
--À présent, on te tient, on te tient, te tient bien, vagabond!...
Que c'est bon!
Et depuis, je suis pris, j'ai jeté ma fierté au panier; à Martine, je me
soumets, vieux marmouset... Et c'est moi, sans qu'il y paraisse, qui
mène tout, dans la maison.
* * *
Martine désormais s'installe auprès de moi, souvent. Et nous causons.
Nous nous ressouvenons d'une autre fois déjà, il y a bien longtemps, où
nous étions assis l'un près de l'autre, ainsi. Mais c'était elle alors
qui se trouvait liée par le pied, s'étant fait une entorse, en voulant,
une nuit (ah! la chatte amoureuse!), sauter par la fenêtre, pour courir
après son galant. En dépit de l'entorse, eh! je l'ai bien rossée. Elle
en rit à présent, et dit que je n'ai pas encore assez cogné. Mais alors,
j'avais beau cogner et veiller; et pourtant, je suis assez malin; elle
l'était dix fois plus que moi, la rusée, et me filait entre les mains.
Au bout du compte, elle n'était pas aussi bête que je la croyais. Elle
sut bien garder sa tête, à défaut du reste; et ce fut le galant sans
doute qui la perdit, puisqu'il est aujourd'hui, puisqu'il est son mari.
Elle rit avec moi de ses folies et dit, avec un gros soupir, que c'est
fini de rire, les lauriers sont coupés, nous n'irons plus au bois. Et
nous parlons de son mari. En brave femme, elle le juge honnête, en somme
suffisant, pas amusant. Le mariage n'est pas fait pour le
divertissement...
--Chacun le sait, dit-elle, et toi mieux que personne. C'est ainsi. Il
faut se faire une raison. Chercher l'amour dans un époux est aussi fou
que puiser l'eau dans un cribleau. Je ne suis folle, je ne me cause de
tracas, en pleurant sur ce que je n'ai pas. De ce que j'ai, je me
contente; ce qui est est bien, comme il est. Point de regrets... Tout de
même, à présent, je vois combien est loin de ce qu'on veut ce que l'on
peut, de ce qu'on rêve en sa jeunesse ce qu'on est bien content d'avoir
quand on est vieux ou qu'on va l'être. Et c'est touchant, ou ridicule:
on ne sait pas lequel des deux. Tous ces espoirs, ces désespoirs, et ces
ardeurs et ces langueurs, et ces beaux voeux et ces beaux feux de
cheminée, pour arriver à faire cuire la marmite et trouver bon le
pot-au-feu!... Et il est bon, vraiment, il l'est assez pour nous: c'est
tout ce que nous méritons... Mais si jadis on me l'eût dit!... Enfin, il
nous reste en tout cas, pour donner du goût au repas, notre rire; et
c'est un fier assaisonnement, il ferait manger des pierres. Riche
ressource, et qui ne m'a jamais manqué, non plus qu'à toi, de pouvoir se
moquer de soi, quand on fut sot et qu'on le voit!
Nous ne nous en faisons pas faute--encore moins de nous moquer des
autres. Parfois, nous nous taisons, rêvassant, ruminant, moi le nez sur
mon livre, elle sur son ouvrage; mais les langues tout bas continuent de
marcher, ainsi que deux ruisseaux qui cheminent sous terre et ressortent
soudain, au soleil, en sautant. Martine, au milieu du silence, repart
d'un grand éclat de rire; et les langues, de reprendre leur danse!
J'essayai de faire entrer Plutarque en notre compagnie. Je voulus faire
goûter à Martine ses beaux récits et la manière pathétique dont je lis.
Mais nous n'eûmes aucun succès. De la Grèce et de Rome elle se souciait
autant qu'un poisson d'une pomme. Lors même qu'elle voulait, afin d'être
polie, écouter, au bout d'un instant elle était loin et son esprit
courait les champs; ou plutôt, il faisait sa ronde, du haut en bas de
son logis. À l'endroit le plus palpitant de mon récit, quand savamment
je ménageais l'émotion et préparais, en chevrotant, l'effet de la
conclusion, elle m'interrompait pour crier quelque chose à Glodie, ou
bien à Florimond, à l'autre bout de la maison. J'étais vexé. Je
renonçai. Il ne faut demander aux femmes de partager nos songes-creux.
La femme est la moitié de l'homme. Oui-dà, mais quelle moitié? Celle
d'en haut? Ou si c'est l'autre? Ce n'est en tout cas le cerveau qui est
commun: chacun des deux a le sien, sa boîte à folies. Ainsi que deux
surgeons, sortis d'un même tronc, c'est par le coeur qu'on communie...
Je communie très bien. Bien que barbon fané, ruiné, et mutilé, je suis
assez malin pour avoir, presque tous les jours, une garde du corps de
jeunes et jolies commères d'alentour, qui, rangées autour de mon lit, me
font joyeuse compagnie. Elles viennent, alléguant une nouvelle
d'importance, ou un service à demander, un ustensile à emprunter. Tous
les prétextes leur sont bons, à la condition de ne plus y songer, à
peine entrées dans la maison. Une fois là, comme au marché, elles
s'installent, Guillemie aux yeux gais, Huguette au nez joli, Jacquotte
l'entendue, Margueron, Alizon, et Gillette, et Macette, autour du veau
sous l'édredon; et jai, jai, jai, nous bavardons, ma commère, ma
commère, comme des battants de cloche, et nous rions, quel carillon! Et
je suis le gros bourdon. J'ai dans mon sac toujours quelques fines
histoires, qui chatouillent au bon endroit: fait beau les voir pâmer! De
la rue, on entend leurs rires. Et Florimond, que mon succès dépite, me
demande, en raillant, mon secret. Je réponds:
--Mon secret? Je suis jeune, mon vieux.
--Et puis, dit-il piqué, c'est ton mauvais renom. Vieux coureurs font
courir après eux les femelles.
--Sans doute, je réponds. N'a-t-on pas du respect, envers un vieux
soldat? On s'empresse à le voir, on se dit: «Il revient du pays de la
gloire. «Et celles-ci se disent:» «Colas a fait campagne, au pays de
l'amour. Il le connaît, il nous connaît... Et puis, qui sait? Peut-être
encore il combattra.»
--Vieux polisson! s'écrie Martine, ardez-moi ça! Va-t-il pas s'aviser
d'être encore amoureux!
--Et pourquoi pas? C'est une idée! Puisqu'il en est ainsi, pour vous
faire enrager, je m'en vais me remarier.
--Eh! remarie-toi, mon garçon, grand bien te fasse! Il faut bien que
jeunesse passe!...
* * *
Saint-Nicolas (6 décembre).
Pour la Saint-Nicolas, hors de mon lit, dans un fauteuil on me roula,
entre la table et la fenêtre. Sous mes pieds, une chaufferette. Devant,
un pupitre de bois, avec un trou pour la chandelle.
Sur les dix heures, la confrérie des mariniers, «faiseurs de flot» et
ouvriers, «compagnons de rivière», violons en tête, défila devant notre
maison, bras dessous bras dessus, dansant derrière leur bâton. Avant de
se rendre à l'église, ils faisaient le tour des bouchons. En me voyant,
ils m'acclamèrent. Je me levai, je saluai mon patron, qui me le rendit.
Par la fenêtre, je serrai leurs pattes noires, je versai dans
l'entonnoir de leurs grands gousiers béants la goutte (autant verser
vraiment une goutte dedans un champ!).
Sur le midi, mes quatre fils vinrent m'offrir leurs compliments. On a
beau ne pas très bien s'entendre, il faut s'entendre une fois l'an; la
fête du père est sacrée: c'est le pivot autour duquel est accrochée la
famille, comme un essaim; en la fêtant, elle resserre son faisceau, et
s'y contraint. Et moi, j'y tiens.
Donc, ce jour-là, mes quatre gars se trouvèrent réunis chez moi. Ils
n'en avaient beaucoup de joie. Ils s'aiment peu, et je crois bien que je
suis le seul lien entre eux. À notre époque, tout s'en va de ce qui
faisait l'union entre les hommes: la maison, la famille et la religion;
chacun croit seul avoir raison, et l'on vit chacun pour soi. Je ne ferai
le vieux qui s'indigne et rechigne, et qui croit que le monde avec lui
finira. Le monde saura bien s'en tirer; et je crois que les jeunes
savent mieux ce qui leur convient que les vieux. Mais c'est un rôle
ingrat que le rôle du vieux. Le monde autour de lui change; et s'il ne
change aussi, plus de place pour lui! Or, moi, je n'entends pas de cette
oreille-là. Je suis dans mon fauteuil. Holà, holà, j'y reste! Et s'il
faut, pour garder sa place, que l'on change d'esprit, je changerai,
oui-dà, je saurai m'arranger pour changer,--en restant (bien entendu) le
même. En attendant, de mon fauteuil je regarde changer le monde et
disputer les jeunes gens; je les admire et cependant, j'attends,
discret, le bon moment pour les mener où je l'entends...
Mes gaillards se tenaient devant moi, autour de la table: Jean-François
le bigot, à droite; à gauche, Antoine le Huguenot, qui est établi à
Lyon. Assis tous deux et sans se regarder, engoncés dans leur col, le
cou raide et le croupion figé. Jean-François, florissant, les joues
pleines, l'oeil dur et le sourire aux lèvres, parlait de ses affaires
intarissablement, se vantait, étalait son argent, ses succès, louait ses
draps et Dieu qui les lui faisait vendre. Antoine, lèvres rasées, queue
de barbe au menton, morose, droit et froid, parlait comme pour soi de
son commerce de librairie, de ses voyages à Genève, de ses relations
d'affaires et de foi, et louait aussi Dieu; mais ce n'était le même.
Chacun parlait à tour de rôle, sans écouter le chant de l'autre, et puis
reprenait son refrain. Mais à la fin, tous deux, vexés, commencèrent à
traiter des sujets qui pouvaient mettre hors des gonds le compagnon,
celui-ci les progrès de la religion vraie, celui-là le succès de la
vraie religion. Et cependant, ils s'obstinaient à s'ignorer; et sans
bouger, comme affligés tous les deux d'un torticolis, l'air furieux,
d'une voix aigre, ils glapissaient leur mépris pour le Dieu de l'ennemi.
Debout, entre eux, les regardant, haussant l'épaule et s'esclaffant, se
tenait mon fils le sergent au régiment de Sacermore, Aimon-Michel le
sacripant (ce n'est pas un mauvais enfant). Il ne pouvait tenir en
place, et tournait comme un loup en cage, tambourinait sur les carreaux,
ou fredonnait: tayaut, tayaut, s'arrêtait pour dévisager les deux aînés
qui disputaient, leur éclatait de rire au nez, ou leur coupait
brutalement la parole pour proclamer que deux moutons, qu'ils soient ou
non marqués d'une croix rouge ou bleue, s'ils sont bien gras, sont
toujours bons, et qu'on saura le leur montrer... «Nous en avons mangé
bien d'autres!...»
Anisse, mon dernier garçon, le regardait, horrifié. Anisse, le très bien
nommé, qui n'a pas la poudre inventé. Les discussions l'inquiètent. Rien
au monde ne l'intéresse. Il n'a de bonheur qu'à pouvoir bâiller en paix
et s'ennuyer, tout le long de la sainte journée. Aussi trouve-t-il
diaboliques la politique et la religion, ces inventions pour troubler le
bon sommeil des gens d'esprit, ou l'esprit des gens qui sommeillent...
«Que ce que j'ai soit mal ou bon, puisque je l'ai, pourquoi changer? Le
lit où l'on a fait son trou est fait par nous, est fait pour nous. Je ne
veux pas de nouveaux draps...» Mais qu'il le voulût ou non, on secouait
son matelas. Et dans son indignation, afin d'assurer son repos, cet
homme doux aurait livré tous les éveilleurs au bourreau. Pour le moment,
l'air effaré, il écoutait parler les autres; et dès que leur ton
s'élevait, son cou rentrait dans ses épaules.
Moi, tout oreilles et tout yeux, je m'amusais à démêler en quoi ces
quatre, devant moi, étaient de moi, étaient à moi. Ils sont pourtant mes
fils; pour cela j'en réponds. Mais s'ils viennent de moi, ils en sont
bien sortis; et morbleu, par où diable y étaient-ils entrés? Je me tâte:
comment ai-je bien pu porter dans ma bedaine ce prêcheur, ce papelard et
ce mouton enragé? (Passe encore pour l'aventurier!)... Ô nature
traîtresse! Ils étaient donc en moi! Oui, j'en avais les germes; je
reconnais certains des gestes, des façons de parler, et même des
pensées; je me retrouve en eux, masqué, le masque étonne, mais
par-dessous, c'est le même homme. Le même, un et multiple. Chaque homme
porte en lui vingt hommes différents, celui qui rit, celui qui pleure,
celui qui est indifférent, comme une souche, et à la pluie et au beau
temps, le loup, le chien, et la brebis, le bon enfant, le chenapan; mais
l'un des vingt est le plus fort et, s'arrogeant seul la parole, il clôt
le bec aux dix-neuf autres. De là, vient que ceux-ci décampent, sitôt
qu'ils voient la porte ouverte. Mes quatre fils ont décampé. Les pauvres
gars! _Mea culpa._ Si loin de moi, ils sont si près!... Eh! ce sont
toujours mes petits. Quand ils disent des sottises, j'ai envie de leur
demander pardon de les avoir faits sots. Heureusement qu'ils sont
contents et qu'ils se trouvent beaux!... Qu'ils s'admirent, j'en suis
bien aise; mais ce que je ne puis supporter, c'est qu'ils ne veuillent
point tolérer que les autres soient laids, tout leur soûl, s'il leur
plaît.
Dressés sur leurs ergots, se menaçant de l'oeil et du bec, tous les
quatre, ils avaient l'air de coqs en colère, prêts à sauter. J'observais
avec placidité, puis je dis:
--Bravo! Bravo, mes agneaux, je vois qu'on ne vous tondrait pas la laine
sur le dos. Le sang est bon (parbleu! c'est le mien), et la voix est
meilleure. À présent qu'on vous a entendus, à mon tour! La langue me
démange. Et vous, faites repos.
Mais ils n'étaient pas très pressés de m'obéir. Un mot avait fait
éclater l'orage. Jean-François, se levant, empoignait une chaise.
Aimon-Michel tirait sa longue épée, Antoine son couteau; et Anisse (il
est fort pour mugir comme un veau) criait: «Au feu! À l'eau!» Je vis
venir l'instant où ces quatre animaux allaient s'entr'égorger. Je saisis
un objet, le premier qui s'offrit à portée de mon poing (justement, ce
fut par hasard l'aiguière aux deux pigeons, qui faisait mon désespoir et
l'orgueil de Florimond); et sur la table, en trois morceaux, sans y
penser, je la brisai. Cependant que Martine, accourue, brandissait un
chaudron fumant et menaçait de les en arroser. Ils criaient comme un
troupeau d'ânons; mais quand je brais il n'est baudet qui ne baisse
pavillon. Je dis:
--Je suis le maître, ici, j'ordonne. Taisez-vous. Ah! çà, êtes-vous
fous? Sommes-nous réunis, afin de discuter le _Credo_ de Nicée? J'aime
bien qu'on discute, oui-dà; mais, s'il vous plaît, choisissez, mes amis,
des sujets plus nouveaux. Je suis las de ceux-ci, j'en suis assassiné.
Que diable, discutez, si pour votre santé il vous est ordonné, sur ce
vin de Bourgogne ou sur ce cervelas, sur ce qu'on peut voir, ou boire,
ou toucher, ou manger: nous mangerons, boirons afin de contrôler. Mais
discuter sur Dieu, bon Dieu! sur le Saint-Esprit, c'est montrer, mes
amis, que d'esprit l'on n'a guère!... Je ne dis pas de mal de ceux qui
croient: je crois, nous croyons, vous croyez... tout ce qu'il vous
plaira. Mais parlons d'autre chose: n'en est-il pas, au monde? Chacun de
vous est sûr d'entrer au paradis. Fort bien, j'en suis ravi. On vous
attend là-haut, la place est retenue pour chacun des élus; les autres
resteront à la porte; c'est entendu... Eh! laissez le bon Dieu loger
comme il lui plaît ses hôtes: c'est son office, et ne vous mêlez pas de
faire sa police. À chacun son royaume. Le ciel à Dieu, à nous la terre.
La rendre, s'il se peut, plus habitable est notre affaire. On n'est pas
trop de tous, pour en venir à bout. Croyez-vous qu'on pourrait se passer
d'un de vous? Vous êtes tous les quatre utiles au pays. Il a autant
besoin de ta foi, Jean-François, en ce qui a été, que de la tienne,
Antoine, en ce qui devrait être, de ton humeur aventureuse,
Aimon-Michel, qu'Anisse, de ton immobilité. Vous êtes les quatre
piliers. Qu'un seul fléchisse et la maison s'écroulera. Vous resteriez,
ruine inutile. Est-ce là ce que vous voulez? Bien raisonné, ma foi! Que
diriez-vous de quatre mariniers qui, sur les flots, par le gros temps,
au lieu de faire la manoeuvre, ne penseraient qu'à disputer?... Je me
souviens d'avoir ouï, au temps jadis, un entretien du roi Henry avec le
duc de Nivernois. Ils gémissaient de la manie de leurs François,
acharnés à s'entre-détruire. Le roi disait: «Ventre-saint-gris! j'aurais
envie, pour les calmer, qu'on me les cousît deux à deux, dans un sac,
moine enragé et prédicant de l'Évangile frénétique, et qu'en la Loire,
ainsi qu'une portée de chats, on les jetât.» Et Nivernois riant, disait:
«Pour moi, je me contenterais de les expédier, en ballots, dans cet
îlot, où, nous dit-on, Messieurs de Berne font déposer sur le rivage
maris et femmes querelleurs, qu'un mois après, quand le bateau vient les
reprendre, on retrouve, roucoulant d'amour tendre, comme des
tourtereaux.» Vous auriez bien besoin d'une cure pareille! Vous grognez,
marmousets? Vous vous tournez le dos?... Eh! regardez-vous donc,
enfants! Vous avez beau croire que vous êtes chacun pétri d'autre
matière et bien mieux que vos frères; vous êtes quatre moutures _ejusdem
farinæ,_ des Breugnons tout crachés, des Bourguignons salés. Ardez-moi
ce grand nez insolent qui s'étale en travers du visage, cette bouche
entaillée largement dans l'écorce, entonnoir à verser le boire, ces yeux
embroussaillés qui voudraient bien avoir l'air méchants, et qui rient!
Mais vous êtes signés! Voyez-vous pas qu'en vous nuisant, c'est
vous-mêmes que vous détruisez? Et feriez-vous pas mieux de vous donner
la main?... Vous ne pensez pas de même. La belle affaire! Eh! tant
mieux! Voudriez-vous cultiver tous le même champ? Plus la famille aura
de champs et de pensées, plus nous serons heureux et forts.
Étendez-vous, multipliez, et embrassez tout ce que vous pourrez de la
terre et de la pensée. Chacun la sienne, et tous unis (allons, mes fils,
embrassons-nous!) afin que le grand nez Breugnon sur les champs allonge
son ombre et renifle la beauté du monde!
Ils se taisaient, l'air rechigné, pinçant les lèvres; mais on voyait
qu'ils avaient peine à ne pas rire. Et soudain Aimon-Michel, partant
d'un grand éclat bruyant, tendit la main à Jean-François, en lui disant:
«Allons, l'aîné des nez, _bene_! Benêts, faisons la paix!» Ils
s'embrassèrent.
--Martine, holà! À nos santés!
Je remarquai, à ce moment, que tout à l'heure, en ma colère, en frappant
avec l'aiguière, je m'étais coupé le poignet. Un peu de sang tachait la
table. Antoine, toujours solennel, levant ma main, posa dessous son
verre, y recueillit le jus de ma veine vermeil, et dit pompeusement:
--Pour sceller notre alliance, buvons tous quatre dans ce verre!
--Or çà, or çà, je dis, Antoine, gâter le vin de Dieu! Pfui! tu me
dégoûtes! Jette cette mixture. Qui veut boire mon sang tout pur, qu'il
boive sec et pur son piot.
Là-dessus nous pintâmes, et sur le goût du vin point nous ne disputâmes.
Comme ils étaient partis, Martine, en me pansant la main, me dit:
--Vieux scélérat, tu en es donc venu à tes fins, cette fois?
--Quelles fins veux-tu dire? À les mettre d'accord?
--Je parle d'autre chose.
--Et de quoi donc, alors?
Sur la table elle montra l'aiguière brisée.
--Tu me comprends fort bien. Ne fais pas l'innocent... Avoue... Tu
avoueras... Allons, à mon oreille! Il ne le saura pas...
Je jouais l'étonné, l'indigné, le niais, je niais; mais je pouffai de
rire... pfl... et je m'étranglai. Elle me répéta:
--Scélérat! Scélérat!
Je dis:
--Elle était trop laide. Écoute, ma bonne fille: il fallait que d'elle
ou de moi l'un disparût.
Martine dit:
--Celui qui reste n'est pas plus beau.
--Pour cet oiseau, qu'il soit laid, tant qu'il lui plaira! Je m'en
moque. Je ne le vois pas.
* * *
Veillée de Noël.
Sur ses gonds huilés l'année tourne. La porte se ferme et se rouvre.
Telle une étoffe que l'on plie, les jours tombent enfouis dans le coffre
moelleux des nuits. Ils entrent d'un côté et ressortent de l'autre,
croissant déjà d'un saut de puce, à la Saint-Luce. Par une fente je vois
briller le regard de l'an nouveau.
Assis sous le manteau de la grande cheminée, dans la nuit de Noël, je
lorgne, comme du fond d'un puits, en haut le ciel étoilé, ses paupières
qui clignotent, ses petits coeurs qui grelottent; et j'entends venir les
cloches, qui dans l'air lisse volent, volent, sonnant la messe de
minuit. J'aime qu'il soit né, l'Enfant, à cette heure de la nuit, à
cette heure la plus sombre, où le monde paraît finir. Sa petite voix
chante: «Ô jour, tu reviendras! Tu viens déjà. Année nouvelle, te
voilà!» Et l'Espoir, sous ses chaudes ailes, couvre la nuit d'hiver
glacée, et l'attendrit.
Je suis tout seul à la maison; mes enfants sont à l'église; pour la
première fois, je n'y vais point. Je reste, avec mon chien Citron et mon
gris chaton Patapon. Nous rêvassons et regardons le feu lécher la
cheminée. Je rumine ma soirée. Tout à l'heure, j'avais près de moi ma
couvée; je contais à Glodie, qui faisait les yeux ronds, des histoires
de fées, et de Bout-de-Canard et de Poussin pelé, et du garçon qui fait
fortune avec son coq, en le vendant aux gens qui vont dans leurs
charrettes chercher le jour pour l'y charrier. Nous nous sommes bien
amusés. Les autres écoutaient et riaient, et chacun ajoutait son trait.
Et puis, l'on se taisait, par moments, épiant l'eau qui bout, les
tisons, et sur la vitre les frissons des blancs flocons, et sous la
cendre le grillon. Ah! les bonnes nuits d'hiver, le silence, la tiédeur
du petit troupeau serré, les rêveries de la veillée où l'esprit aime à
divaguer, mais il le sait, et s'il délire, c'est pour rire...
À présent, je fais mon bilan du bout de l'an, et je constate qu'en six
mois j'ai tout perdu: ma femme, ma maison, mon argent et mes jambes.
Mais le plus amusant, c'est que lorsque à la fin, j'établis ma balance,
je me trouve aussi riche qu'avant! Je n'ai plus rien, dit-on? Non, plus
rien à porter. Eh! je suis délesté. Jamais je ne me suis senti plus
frais, plus libre et plus flottant, au courant de ma fantaisie... Qui
m'eût dit, l'an passé, cependant, que je le prendrais aussi gaiement!
Avais-je assez juré que je voulais rester jusqu'à ma mort maître chez
moi, maître de moi, indépendant, et ne devant qu'à moi mon gîte et ma
pitance et le compte de mes extravagances! L'homme propose...
Finalement, les choses tournent tout autrement que l'on voulait; et
c'est juste ce qu'il fallait. Et puis, en somme, l'homme est un brave
animal. Tout lui est bon. Il s'ajuste aussi bien au bonheur, à la peine,
à la bombance, à la disette. Donnez-lui quatre jambes, ou prenez-lui ses
deux, faites-le sourd, aveugle, muet, il trouvera moyen de s'en
accommoder et, dans son _aparte_, de voir, d'entendre et de parler. Il
est comme une cire qu'on étire et qu'on presse; l'âme la pétrit, à son
feu. Et c'est beau de sentir qu'on a cette souplesse dans l'esprit et
dans les jarrets, que l'on peut aussi bien être poisson dans l'eau,
oiseau dans l'air, dans le feu salamandre, et sur la terre un homme qui
lutte joyeusement avec les quatre éléments. Ainsi, l'on est plus riche,
plus on est dépourvu: car l'esprit crée ce qui lui manque: l'arbre
touffu que l'on élague monte plus haut. Moins j'ai et plus je suis...
Minuit. L'horloge tinte...
_Il est né le divin Enfant..._
Je chante Noël...
_Jouez, hautbois, sonnez, musettes._
_Ah! qu'il est beau, qu'il est charmant!..._
Je m'assoupis, et fais un somme, bien calé, pour ne tomber dans le
foyer...
_Il est né... Hautbois, jouez, sonnez, musettes amusées..._
_Il est né, le petit Messie..._
Mais si j'ai moins, eh plus je suis...
* * *
Épiphanie.
Je suis un bon farceur! Car moins j'ai, et plus j'ai. Et je le sais très
bien. J'ai trouvé le moyen d'être riche sans avoir rien, riche du bien
des autres. J'ai le pouvoir sans charges. Que parle-t-on de ces vieux
pères, qui lorsqu'ils se sont dépouillés, lorsqu'ils ont tout donné à
leurs enfants ingrats, leur chemise et leurs chausses, sont délaissés,
laissés et voient tous les regards les pousser à la fosse? Ce sont de
fichus maladroits. Je n'ai jamais été, ma foi, plus aimé, plus choyé que
dans ma pauvreté. C'est que je ne suis pas si bête que de me dépouiller
de tout, sans rien garder. N'est-il donc que sa bourse à donner? Moi,
quand j'ai tout donné, je garde le meilleur, je garde ma gaieté, ce que
j'ai amassé en cinquante ans de promenade, en long, en large de la vie,
de belle humeur et de malice, et de folle sagesse ou de sage folie. Et
la provision n'est pas près de finir. Je l'ouvre à tous; que tous y
puisent! N'est-ce donc rien? Si je reçois de mes enfants, je donne
aussi, nous sommes quittes. Et s'il advient que celui-ci donne un peu
moins que celui-là, l'affection fournit l'appoint; et du compte nul ne
se plaint.
Qui veut voir un roi sans royaume, un Jean sans terre, un heureux
coquin, qui veut voir un Breugnon de Gaule, qu'il me voie ce soir sur
mon trône, présidant le bruyant festin! C'est aujourd'hui l'Épiphanie.
L'après-midi, on vit passer dans notre rue les trois rois mages, leur
équipage, un blanc troupeau, six pastoureaux, six pastourelles qui
chantaient; et les chiens du quartier braillaient. Et ce soir, nous
sommes à table, tous mes enfants et les enfants de mes enfants. Cela
fait trente, en me comptant. Et tous les trente crient ensemble:
_Le roi boit!_
Le roi, c'est moi. J'ai la couronne, sur mon chef un moule à pâté. Et ma
reine est Martine: comme dans les saints livres, j'ai épousé ma fille.
Chaque fois que je porte à ma bouche mon verre, on m'acclame, je ris,
j'avale de travers; mais de travers ou non, j'avale et n'en perds rien.
Ma reine boit aussi et, gorge nue, fait boire à son rouge téton son
rouge nourrisson, mon dernier petit-fils, braillant, buvant, bavant, et
étalant son cul. Et le chien sous la table jappe et lape la jatte. Et le
chat, en grondant et faisant le gros dos, se sauve avec un os.
Et je pense (tout haut: je n'aime à penser bas):
--La vie est bonne. Ô mes amis! Son seul défaut est qu'elle est brève:
on n'en a pas pour son argent. Vous me direz: «Tiens-toi content, ta
part est bonne, et tu l'as eue.» Je ne dis non. J'en voudrais deux. Et
qui sait! Peut-être que j'aurai, en ne criant pas trop haut, un second
morceau du gâteau... Mais le triste, c'est que si moi suis encore là,
tant de bons gars que j'ai connus, où sont, hélas? Dieu! comme le temps
passe, et les hommes aussi! Où est le roi Henry et le bon duc Louis?...
Et me voici parti, sur les chemins du temps jadis, à ramasser les fleurs
fanées des souvenirs; et je raconte mes histoires, je ne m'en lasse, et
je rabâche. Mes enfants me laissent aller; et lorsque en mon récit un
mot me manque, ou je m'embrouille, ils me soufflent la fin du conte; et
je m'éveille de mon songe, devant leurs yeux malicieux.
--Eh! vieux père, me disent-ils. Il faisait bon vivre, à vingt ans! Les
femmes avaient, en ce temps, la gorge plus belle et fournie; et les
hommes avaient le coeur au bon endroit, le reste aussi. Il fallait voir
le roi Henry et son compain le duc Louis! On n'en fait plus de ce
bois-ci...
Je réponds:
--Malins, vous riez? Vous faites bien, il fait bon rire. Parbleu, je ne
suis pas si fou que de croire que chez nous y ait disette de vendange et
de gaillards pour vendanger. Je sais bien que pour un qui part, il en
vient trois, et que le bois dont on fabrique les lurons, les gars de
Gaule, croît toujours dru, droit et serré. Mais ce ne sont plus les
mêmes qu'on fabrique avec ce bois. Mille et mille aunes on tailleroit,
jamais, jamais ne referoit Henry mon roi, ni mon Louis. Et c'était
ceux-là que j'aimais... Allons, allons, mon Colas, ne nous attendrissons
pas. Larme à l'oeil? eh! grosse bête, est-ce que tu vas regretter de ne
pouvoir, toute ta vie, remâcher la même bouchée? Le vin n'est plus le
même? Il n'en est pas moins bon. Buvons! Vive le roi qui boit! Et vive
aussi son peuple biberon!...
Et puis, pour être francs, entre nous, mes enfants, un bon roi est bien
bon; mais le meilleur, c'est encore moi. Soyons libres, gentils
François, et nos maîtres envoyons paître! Ma terre et moi nous nous
aimons, nous suffisons. Qu'ai-je affaire d'un roi du ciel, ou de la
terre? Je n'ai besoin d'un trône, ici-bas, ni là-haut. À chacun sa place
au soleil, et son ombre! À chacun son lopin du sol, et ses bras pour le
retourner! Nous ne demandons rien d'autre. Et si le roi venait chez moi,
je lui dirais:
--«Tu es mon hôte. À ta santé! Assieds-toi là. Cousin, un roi en vaut un
autre. Chaque François est roi. Et bonhomme est maître chez soi.»
«_Comment, dist frère Jean, vous rhythmez aussy? Par la vertus de Dieu,
je rhythmeray comme les aultres, je le sens bien; attendez, et m'ayez
pour excuse, si je ne rhythme en cramoisi...»_
_Pantagruel, V._ 46,
NOTES:
[1] Bethléem, faubourg de Clamecy.
[2] Judée est le sobriquet donné au faubourg de Bethléem, qu'habitaient
les «flotteurs» de Clamecy. Rome est la ville haute, ainsi nommée à
cause de l'escalier dit de vieille Rome, qui descend de la place de
l'église Saint-Martin au faubourg de Beuvron.
[3] _Aga_: vois, regarde; _l'agasse (ou agace)_: la pie. _(Note du
correcteur--ELG.)_
[4] Des dartreux.
[5] Blouse.
[6] Ancienne façon de parler populaire, usitée entre buveurs qui
trinquent.
[7] Concini.
[8] L'hôpital.
[9] Le médecin.
[10] Vigne et jardin, sur le versant d'une colline.
[11] Ici, nous nous permettons de passer quelques lignes. Le narrateur
ne nous fait grâce d'aucun détail sur l'état de son horlogerie; et
l'intérêt qu'il y porte le fait s'étendre sur des matières qui ne
sentent pas trop bon. Ajoutons que ses connaissances physiologiques,
dont il se montre fier, laissent quelque peu à désirer. (R. R.)
[12] Prononcez: _«Joachain»_, et: _«le Roué»_.
[13] La Mère de Dieu.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Princess Aline
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
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of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
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before using this eBook.
Title: The Princess Aline
Author: Richard Harding Davis
Release date: September 1, 1995 [eBook #327]
Most recently updated: January 1, 2021
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRINCESS ALINE ***
THE PRINCESS ALINE
BY
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
THE PRINCESS ALINE
I
H. R. H. the Princess Aline of Hohenwald came into the life of Morton
Carlton--or "Morney" Carlton, as men called him--of New York city, when
that young gentleman's affairs and affections were best suited to
receive her. Had she made her appearance three years sooner or three
years later, it is quite probable that she would have passed on out of
his life with no more recognition from him than would have been
expressed in a look of admiring curiosity.
But coming when she did, when his time and heart were both unoccupied,
she had an influence upon young Mr. Carlton which led him into doing
several wise and many foolish things, and which remained with him
always. Carlton had reached a point in his life, and very early in his
life, when he could afford to sit at ease and look back with modest
satisfaction to what he had forced himself to do, and forward with
pleasurable anticipations to whatsoever he might choose to do in the
future. The world had appreciated what he had done, and had put much
to his credit, and he was prepared to draw upon this grandly.
At the age of twenty he had found himself his own master, with
excellent family connections, but with no family, his only relative
being a bachelor uncle, who looked at life from the point of view of
the Union Club's windows, and who objected to his nephew's leaving
Harvard to take up the study of art in Paris. In that city (where at
Julian's he was nicknamed the junior Carlton, for the obvious reason
that he was the older of the two Carltons in the class, and because he
was well dressed) he had shown himself a harder worker than others who
were less careful of their appearance and of their manners. His work,
of which he did not talk, and his ambitions, of which he also did not
talk, bore fruit early, and at twenty-six he had become a
portrait-painter of international reputation. Then the French
government purchased one of his paintings at an absurdly small figure,
and placed it in the Luxembourg, from whence it would in time depart to
be buried in the hall of some provincial city; and American
millionaires, and English Lord Mayors, members of Parliament, and
members of the Institute, masters of hounds in pink coats, and
ambassadors in gold lace, and beautiful women of all nationalities and
conditions sat before his easel. And so when he returned to New York
he was welcomed with an enthusiasm which showed that his countrymen had
feared that the artistic atmosphere of the Old World had stolen him
from them forever. He was particularly silent, even at this date,
about his work, and listened to what others had to say of it with much
awe, not unmixed with some amusement, that it should be he who was
capable of producing anything worthy of such praise. We have been told
what the mother duck felt when her ugly duckling turned into a swan,
but we have never considered how much the ugly duckling must have
marvelled also.
"Carlton is probably the only living artist," a brother artist had said
of him, "who fails to appreciate how great his work is." And on this
being repeated to Carlton by a good-natured friend, he had replied
cheerfully, "Well, I'm sorry, but it is certainly better to be the only
one who doesn't appreciate it than to be the only one who does."
He had never understood why such a responsibility had been intrusted to
him. It was, as he expressed it, not at all in his line, and young
girls who sought to sit at the feet of the master found him making love
to them in the most charming manner in the world, as though he were not
entitled to all the rapturous admiration of their very young hearts,
but had to sue for it like any ordinary mortal. Carlton always felt as
though some day some one would surely come along and say: "Look here,
young man, this talent doesn't belong to you; it's mine. What do you
mean by pretending that such an idle good-natured youth as yourself is
entitled to such a gift of genius?" He felt that he was keeping it in
trust, as it were; that it had been changed at birth, and that the
proper guardian would eventually relieve him of his treasure.
Personally Carlton was of the opinion that he should have been born in
the active days of knights-errant--to have had nothing more serious to
do than to ride abroad with a blue ribbon fastened to the point of his
lance, and with the spirit to unhorse any one who objected to its
color, or to the claims of superiority of the noble lady who had tied
it there. There was not, in his opinion, at the present day any
sufficiently pronounced method of declaring admiration for the many
lovely women this world contained. A proposal of marriage he
considered to be a mean and clumsy substitute for the older way, and
was uncomplimentary to the many other women left unasked, and marriage
itself required much more constancy than he could give. He had a most
romantic and old-fashioned ideal of women as a class, and from the age
of fourteen had been a devotee of hundreds of them as individuals; and
though in that time his ideal had received several severe shocks, he
still believed that the "not impossible she" existed somewhere, and his
conscientious efforts to find out whether every women he met might not
be that one had led him not unnaturally into many difficulties.
"The trouble with me is," he said, "that I care too much to make
Platonic friendship possible, and don't care enough to marry any
particular woman--that is, of course, supposing that any particular one
would be so little particular as to be willing to marry me. How
embarrassing it would be, now," he argued, "if, when you were turning
away from the chancel after the ceremony, you should look at one of the
bridesmaids and see the woman whom you really should have married! How
distressing that would be! You couldn't very well stop and say: 'I am
very sorry, my dear, but it seems I have made a mistake. That young
woman on the right has a most interesting and beautiful face. I am
very much afraid that she is the one.' It would be too late then;
while now, in my free state, I can continue my search without any
sense of responsibility."
"Why"--he would exclaim--"I have walked miles to get a glimpse of a
beautiful woman in a suburban window, and time and time again when I
have seen a face in a passing brougham I have pursued it in a hansom,
and learned where the owner of the face lived, and spent weeks in
finding some one to present me, only to discover that she was
self-conscious or uninteresting or engaged. Still I had assured myself
that she was not the one. I am very conscientious, and I consider that
it is my duty to go so far with every woman I meet as to be able to
learn whether she is or is not the one, and the sad result is that I am
like a man who follows the hounds but is never in at the death."
"Well," some married woman would say, grimly, "I hope you will get your
deserts some day; and you WILL, too. Some day some girl will make you
suffer for this."
"Oh, that's all right," Carlton would answer, meekly. "Lots of women
have made me suffer, if that's what you think I need."
"Some day," the married woman would prophesy, "you will care for a
woman so much that you will have no eyes for any one else. That's the
way it is when one is married."
"Well, when that's the way it is with ME," Carlton would reply, "I
certainly hope to get married; but until it is, I think it is safer for
all concerned that I should not."
Then Carlton would go to the club and complain bitterly to one of his
friends.
"How unfair married women are!" he would say. "The idea of thinking a
man could have no eyes but for one woman! Suppose I had never heard a
note of music until I was twenty-five years of age, and was then given
my hearing. Do you suppose my pleasure in music would make me lose my
pleasure in everything else? Suppose I met and married a girl at
twenty-five. Is that going to make me forget all the women I knew
before I met her? I think not. As a matter of fact, I really deserve
a great deal of credit for remaining single, for I am naturally very
affectionate; but when I see what poor husbands my friends make, I
prefer to stay as I am until I am sure that I will make a better one.
It is only fair to the woman."
Carlton was sitting in the club alone. He had that sense of
superiority over his fellows and of irresponsibility to the world about
him that comes to a man when he knows that his trunks are being packed
and that his state-room is engaged. He was leaving New York long
before most of his friends could get away. He did not know just where
he was going, and preferred not to know. He wished to have a complete
holiday, and to see Europe as an idle tourist, and not as an artist
with an eye to his own improvement. He had plenty of time and money;
he was sure to run across friends in the big cities, and acquaintances
he could make or not, as he pleased, en route. He was not sorry to go.
His going would serve to put an end to what gossip there might be of
his engagement to numerous young women whose admiration for him as an
artist, he was beginning to fear, had taken on a more personal tinge.
"I wish," he said, gloomily, "I didn't like people so well. It seems
to cause them and me such a lot of trouble."
He sighed, and stretched out his hand for a copy of one of the English
illustrated papers. It had a fresher interest to him because the next
number of it that he would see would be in the city in which it was
printed. The paper in his hands was the St. James Budget, and it
contained much fashionable intelligence concerning the preparations for
a royal wedding which was soon to take place between members of two of
the reigning families of Europe. There was on one page a half-tone
reproduction of a photograph, which showed a group of young people
belonging to several of these reigning families, with their names and
titles printed above and below the picture. They were princesses,
archdukes, or grand-dukes, and they were dressed like young English men
and women, and with no sign about them of their possible military or
social rank.
One of the young princesses in the photograph was looking out of it and
smiling in a tolerant, amused way, as though she had thought of
something which she could not wait to enjoy until after the picture was
taken. She was not posing consciously, as were some of the others, but
was sitting in a natural attitude, with one arm over the back of her
chair, and with her hands clasped before her. Her face was full of a
fine intelligence and humor, and though one of the other princesses in
the group was far more beautiful, this particular one had a much more
high-bred air, and there was something of a challenge in her smile that
made any one who looked at the picture smile also. Carlton studied the
face for some time, and mentally approved of its beauty; the others
seemed in comparison wooden and unindividual, but this one looked like
a person he might have known, and whom he would certainly have liked.
He turned the page and surveyed the features of the Oxford crew with
lesser interest, and then turned the page again and gazed critically
and severely at the face of the princess with the high-bred smile. He
had hoped that he would find it less interesting at a second glance,
but it did not prove to be so.
"'The Princess Aline of Hohenwald,'" he read. "She's probably engaged
to one of those Johnnies beside her, and the Grand-Duke of Hohenwald
behind her must be her brother." He put the paper down and went into
luncheon, and diverted himself by mixing a salad dressing; but after a
few moments he stopped in the midst of this employment, and told the
waiter, with some unnecessary sharpness, to bring him the last copy of
the St. James Budget.
"Confound it!" he added, to himself.
He opened the paper with a touch of impatience and gazed long and
earnestly at the face of the Princess Aline, who continued to return
his look with the same smile of amused tolerance. Carlton noted every
detail of her tailor-made gown, of her high mannish collar, of her tie,
and even the rings on her hand. There was nothing about her of which
he could fairly disapprove. He wondered why it was that she could not
have been born an approachable New York girl instead of a princess of a
little German duchy, hedged in throughout her single life, and to be
traded off eventually in marriage with as much consideration as though
she were a princess of a real kingdom.
"She looks jolly too," he mused, in an injured tone; "and so very
clever; and of course she has a beautiful complexion. All those German
girls have. Your Royal Highness is more than pretty," he said, bowing
his head gravely. "You look as a princess should look. I am sure it
was one of your ancestors who discovered the dried pea under a dozen
mattresses." He closed the paper, and sat for a moment with a
perplexed smile of consideration. "Waiter," he exclaimed, suddenly,
"send a messenger-boy to Brentano's for a copy of the St. James Budget,
and bring me the Almanach de Gotha from the library. It is a little
fat red book on the table near the window." Then Carlton opened the
paper again and propped it up against a carafe, and continued his
critical survey of the Princess Aline. He seized the Almanach, when it
came, with some eagerness.
"Hohenwald (Maison de Grasse)," he read, and in small type below it:
"1. Ligne cadette (regnante) grand-ducale: Hohenwald et de Grasse.
"Guillaume-Albert-Frederick-Charles-Louis, Grand-Duc de Hohenwald et de
Grasse, etc., etc., etc."
"That's the brother, right enough," muttered Carlton.
And under the heading "Soeurs" he read:
"4. Psse Aline.--Victoria-Beatrix-Louise-Helene, Alt. Gr.-Duc. Nee a
Grasse, Juin, 1872."
"Twenty-two years old," exclaimed Carlton. "What a perfect age! I
could not have invented a better one." He looked from the book to the
face before him. "Now, my dear young lady," he said, "I know all about
YOU. You live at Grasse, and you are connected, to judge by your
names, with all the English royalties; and very pretty names they are,
too--Aline, Helene, Victoria, Beatrix. You must be much more English
than you are German; and I suppose you live in a little old castle, and
your brother has a standing army of twelve men, and some day you are to
marry a Russian Grand-Duke, or whoever your brother's Prime Minister--if
he has a Prime Minister--decides is best for the politics of your little
toy kingdom. Ah! to think," exclaimed Carlton, softly, "that such a
lovely and glorious creature as that should be sacrificed for so
insignificant a thing as the peace of Europe when she might make some
young man happy?"
He carried a copy of the paper to his room, and cut the picture of the
group out of the page and pasted it carefully on a stiff piece of
card-board. Then he placed it on his dressing-table, in front of a
photograph of a young woman in a large silver frame--which was a sign,
had the young woman but known it, that her reign for the time being was
over.
Nolan, the young Irishman who "did for" Carlton, knew better than to
move it when he found it there. He had learned to study his master
since he had joined him in London, and understood that one photograph
in the silver frame was entitled to more consideration than three
others on the writing-desk or half a dozen on the mantel-piece. Nolan
had seen them come and go; he had watched them rise and fall; he had
carried notes to them, and books and flowers; and had helped to dispose
them from the silver frame and move them on by degrees down the line,
until they went ingloriously into the big brass bowl on the side table.
Nolan approved highly of this last choice. He did not know which one
of the three in the group it might be; but they were all pretty, and
their social standing was certainly distinguished.
Guido, the Italian model who ruled over the studio, and Nolan were
busily packing when Carlton entered. He always said that Guido
represented him in his professional and Nolan in his social capacity.
Guido cleaned the brushes and purchased the artists' materials; Nolan
cleaned his riding-boots and bought his theatre and railroad tickets.
"Guido," said Carlton, "there are two sketches I made in Germany last
year, one of the Prime Minister, and one of Ludwig the actor; get them
out for me, will you, and pack them for shipping. Nolan," he went on,
"here is a telegram to send."
Nolan would not have read a letter, but he looked upon telegrams as
public documents, the reading of them as part of his perquisites. This
one was addressed to Oscar Von Holtz, First Secretary, German Embassy,
Washington, D.C., and the message read:
"Please telegraph me full title and address Princess Aline of
Hohenwald. Where would a letter reach her?
"MORTON CARLTON."
The next morning Nolan carried to the express office a box containing
two oil-paintings on small canvases. They were addressed to the man in
London who attended to the shipping and forwarding of Carlton's
pictures in that town.
There was a tremendous crowd on the New York. She sailed at the
obliging hour of eleven in the morning, and many people, in
consequence, whose affection would not have stood in the way of their
breakfast, made it a point to appear and to say goodbye. Carlton, for
his part, did not notice them; he knew by experience that the
attractive-looking people always leave a steamer when the whistle
blows, and that the next most attractive-looking, who remain on board,
are ill all the way over. A man that he knew seized him by the arm as
he was entering his cabin, and asked if he were crossing or just seeing
people off.
"Well, then, I want to introduce you to Miss Morris and her aunt, Mrs.
Downs; they are going over, and I should be glad if you would be nice
to them. But you know her, I guess?" he asked, over his shoulder, as
Carlton pushed his way after him down the deck.
"I know who she is," he said.
Miss Edith Morris was surrounded by a treble circle of admiring
friends, and seemed to be holding her own. They all stopped when
Carlton came up, and looked at him rather closely, and those whom he
knew seemed to mark the fact by a particularly hearty greeting. The
man who had brought him up acted as though he had successfully
accomplished a somewhat difficult and creditable feat. Carlton bowed
himself away, leaving Miss Morris to her friends, and saying that she
would probably have to see him later, whether she wished it or not. He
then went to meet the aunt, who received him kindly, for there were
very few people on the passenger list, and she was glad they were to
have his company. Before he left she introduced him to a young man
named Abbey, who was hovering around her most anxiously, and whose
interest, she seemed to think it necessary to explain, was due to the
fact that he was engaged to Miss Morris. Mr. Abbey left the steamer
when the whistle blew, and Carlton looked after him gratefully. He
always enjoyed meeting attractive girls who were engaged, as it left
him no choice in the matter, and excused him from finding out whether
or not that particular young woman was the one.
Mrs. Downs and her niece proved to be experienced sailors, and faced
the heavy sea that met the New York outside of Sandy Hook with
unconcern. Carlton joined them, and they stood together leaning with
their backs to the rail, and trying to fit the people who flitted past
them to the names on the passenger list.
"The young lady in the sailor suit," said Miss Morris, gazing at the
top of the smoke-stack, "is Miss Kitty Flood, of Grand Rapids. This is
her first voyage, and she thinks a steamer is something like a yacht,
and dresses for the part accordingly. She does not know that it is
merely a moving hotel."
"I am afraid," said Carlton, "to judge from her agitation, that hers is
going to be what the professionals call a 'dressing-room' part. Why is
it," he asked, "that the girls on a steamer who wear gold anchors and
the men in yachting-caps are always the first to disappear? That man
with the sombrero," he went on, "is James M. Pollock, United States
Consul to Mauritius; he is going out to his post. I know he is the
consul, because he comes from Fort Worth, Texas, and is therefore
admirably fitted to speak either French or the native language of the
island."
"Oh, we don't send consuls to Mauritius," laughed Miss Morris.
"Mauritius is one of those places from which you buy stamps, but no one
really lives or goes there."
"Where are you going, may I ask?" inquired Carlton.
Miss Morris said that they were making their way to Constantinople and
Athens, and then to Rome; that as they had not had the time to take the
southern route, they purposed to journey across the Continent direct
from Paris to the Turkish capital by the Orient Express.
"We shall be a few days in London, and in Paris only long enough for
some clothes," she replied.
"The trousseau," thought Carlton. "Weeks is what she should have said."
The three sat together at the captain's table, and as the sea continued
rough, saw little of either the captain or his other guests, and were
thrown much upon the society of each other. They had innumerable
friends and interests in common; and Mrs. Downs, who had been
everywhere, and for long seasons at a time, proved as alive as her
niece, and Carlton conceived a great liking for her. She seemed to be
just and kindly minded, and, owing to her age, to combine the wider
judgment of a man with the sympathetic interest of a woman. Sometimes
they sat together in a row and read, and gossiped over what they read,
or struggled up the deck as it rose and fell and buffeted with the
wind; and later they gathered in a corner of the saloon and ate late
suppers of Carlton's devising, or drank tea in the captain's cabin,
which he had thrown open to them. They had started knowing much about
one another, and this and the necessary proximity of the ship hastened
their acquaintance.
The sea grew calmer the third day out, and the sun came forth and
showed the decks as clean as bread-boards. Miss Morris and Carlton
seated themselves on the huge iron riding-bits in the bow, and with
their elbows on the rail looked down at the whirling blue water, and
rejoiced silently in the steady rush of the great vessel, and in the
uncertain warmth of the March sun. Carlton was sitting to leeward of
Miss Morris, with a pipe between his teeth. He was warm, and at peace
with the world. He had found his new acquaintance more than
entertaining. She was even friendly, and treated him as though he were
much her junior, as is the habit of young women lately married or who
are about to be married. Carlton did not resent it; on the contrary,
it made him more at his ease with her, and as she herself chose to
treat him as a youth, he permitted himself to be as foolish as he
pleased.
"I don't know why it is," he complained, peering over the rail, "but
whenever I look over the side to watch the waves a man in a greasy cap
always sticks his head out of a hole below me and scatters a barrelful
of ashes or potato peelings all over the ocean. It spoils the effect
for one. Next time he does it I am going to knock out the ashes of my
pipe on the back of his neck." Miss Morris did not consider this
worthy of comment, and there was a long lazy pause.
"You haven't told us where you go after London," she said; and then,
without waiting for him to reply, she asked, "Is it your professional
or your social side that you are treating to a trip this time?"
"Who told you that?" asked Carlton, smiling.
"Oh, I don't know. Some man. He said you were a Jekyll and Hyde.
Which is Jekyll? You see, I only know your professional side."
"You must try to find out for yourself by deduction," he said, "as you
picked out the other passengers. I am going to Grasse," he continued.
"It's the capital of Hohenwald. Do you know it?"
"Yes," she said; "we were there once for a few days. We went to see
the pictures. I suppose you know that the old Duke, the father of the
present one, ruined himself almost by buying pictures for the Grasse
gallery. We were there at a bad time, though, when the palace was
closed to visitors, and the gallery too. I suppose that is what is
taking you there?"
"No," Carlton said, shaking his head. "No, it is not the pictures. I
am going to Grasse," he said, gravely, "to see the young woman with
whom I am in love."
Miss Morris looked up in some surprise, and smiled consciously, with a
natural feminine interest in an affair of love, and one which was a
secret as well.
"Oh," she said, "I beg your pardon; we--I had not heard of it."
"No, it is not a thing one could announce exactly," said Carlton; "it
is rather in an embryo state as yet--in fact, I have not met the young
lady so far, but I mean to meet her. That's why I am going abroad."
Miss Morris looked at him sharply to see if he were smiling, but he
was, on the contrary, gazing sentimentally at the horizon-line, and
puffing meditatively on his pipe. He was apparently in earnest, and
waiting for her to make some comment.
"How very interesting!" was all she could think to say.
"Yes, when you know the details, it is,----VERY interesting," he
answered. "She is the Princess Aline of Hohenwald," he explained,
bowing his head as though he were making the two young ladies known to
one another. "She has several other names, six in all, and her age is
twenty-two. That is all I know about her. I saw her picture in an
illustrated paper just before I sailed, and I made up my mind I would
meet her, and here I am. If she is not in Grasse, I intend to follow
her to wherever she may be." He waved his pipe at the ocean before him,
and recited, with mock seriousness:
"'Across the hills and far away,
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
And deep into the dying day,
The happy Princess followed him.'
"Only in this case, you see," said Carlton, "I am following the happy
Princess."
"No; but seriously, though," said Miss Morris, "what is it you mean?
Are you going to paint her portrait?"
"I never thought of that," exclaimed Carlton. "I don't know but what
your idea is a good one. Miss Morris, that's a great idea." He shook
his head approvingly. "I did not do wrong to confide in you," he said.
"It was perhaps taking a liberty; but as you have not considered it as
such, I am glad I spoke."
"But you don't really mean to tell me," exclaimed the girl, facing
about, and nodding her head at him, "that you are going abroad after a
woman whom you have never seen, and because you like a picture of her
in a paper?"
"I do," said Carlton. "Because I like her picture, and because she is
a Princess."
"Well, upon my word," said Miss Morris, gazing at him with evident
admiration, "that's what my younger brother would call a distinctly
sporting proposition. Only I don't see," she added, "what her being a
Princess has to do with it."
"You don't?" laughed Carlton, easily. "That's the best part of
it--that's the plot. The beauty of being in love with a Princess, Miss
Morris," he said, "lies in the fact that you can't marry her; that you
can love her deeply and forever, and nobody will ever come to you and
ask your intentions, or hint that after such a display of affection you
ought to do something. Now, with a girl who is not a Princess, even if
she understands the situation herself, and wouldn't marry you to save
her life, still there is always some one--a father, or a mother, or one
of your friends--who makes it his business to interfere, and talks
about it, and bothers you both. But with a Princess, you see, that is
all eliminated. You can't marry a Princess, because they won't let
you. A Princess has got to marry a real royal chap, and so you are
perfectly ineligible and free to sigh for her, and make pretty speeches
to her, and see her as often as you can, and revel in your devotion and
unrequited affection."
Miss Morris regarded him doubtfully. She did not wish to prove herself
too credulous. "And you honestly want me, Mr. Carlton, to believe that
you are going abroad just for this?"
"You see," Carlton answered her, "if you only knew me better you would
have no doubt on the subject at all. It isn't the thing some men would
do, I admit, but it is exactly what any one who knows me would expect
of me. I should describe it, having had acquaintance with the young
man for some time, as being eminently characteristic. And besides,
think what a good story it makes! Every other man who goes abroad this
summer will try to tell about his travels when he gets back to New
York, and, as usual, no one will listen to him. But they will HAVE to
listen to me. 'You've been across since I saw you last. What did you
do?' they'll ask, politely. And then, instead of simply telling them
that I have been in Paris or London, I can say, 'Oh, I've been chasing
around the globe after the Princess Aline of Hohenwald.' That sounds
interesting, doesn't it? When you come to think of it," Carlton
continued, meditatively, "it is not so very remarkable. Men go all the
way to Cuba and Mexico, and even to India, after orchids, after a nasty
flower that grows in an absurd way on the top of a tree. Why shouldn't
a young man go as far as Germany after a beautiful Princess, who walks
on the ground, and who can talk and think and feel? She is much more
worth while than an orchid."
Miss Morris laughed indulgently. "Well, I didn't know such devotion
existed at this end of the century," she said; "it's quite nice and
encouraging. I hope you will succeed, I am sure. I only wish we were
going to be near enough to see how you get on. I have never been a
confidante when there was a real Princess concerned," she said; "it
makes it so much more amusing. May one ask what your plans are?"
Carlton doubted if he had any plans as yet. "I have to reach the
ground first," he said, "and after that I must reconnoitre. I may
possibly adopt your idea, and ask to paint her portrait, only I dislike
confusing my social and professional sides. As a matter of fact,
though," he said, after a pause, laughing guiltily, "I have done a
little of that already. I prepared her, as it were, for my coming. I
sent her studies of two pictures I made last winter in Berlin. One of
the Prime Minister, and one of Ludwig, the tragedian at the Court
Theatre. I sent them to her through my London agent, so that she would
think they had come from some one of her English friends, and I told
the dealer not to let any one know who had forwarded them. My idea was
that it might help me, perhaps, if she knew something about me before I
appeared in person. It was a sort of letter of introduction written by
myself."
"Well, really," expostulated Miss Morris, "you certainly woo in a royal
way. Are you in the habit of giving away your pictures to any one
whose photograph you happen to like? That seems to me to be giving new
lamps for old to a degree. I must see if I haven't some of my sister's
photographs in my trunk. She is considered very beautiful."
"Well, you wait until you see this particular portrait, and--you will
understand it better," said Carlton.
The steamer reached Southampton early in the afternoon, and Carlton
secured a special compartment on the express to London for Mrs. Downs
and her niece and himself, with one adjoining for their maid and Nolan.
It was a beautiful day, and Carlton sat with his eyes fixed upon the
passing fields and villages, exclaiming with pleasure from time to time
at the white roads and the feathery trees and hedges, and the red roofs
of the inns and square towers of the village churches.
"Hedges are better than barbed-wire fences, aren't they?" he said.
"You see that girl picking wild flowers from one of them? She looks
just as though she were posing for a picture for an illustrated paper.
She couldn't pick flowers from a barbed-wire fence, could she? And
there would probably be a tramp along the road somewhere to frighten
her; and see--the chap in knickerbockers farther down the road leaning
on the stile. I am sure he is waiting for her; and here comes a
coach," he ran on. "Don't the red wheels look well against the hedges?
It's a pretty little country, England, isn't it?--like a private park
or a model village. I am glad to get back to it--I am glad to see the
three-and-six signs with the little slanting dash between the shillings
and pennies. Yes, even the steam-rollers and the man with the red flag
in front are welcome."
"I suppose," said Mrs. Downs, "it's because one has been so long on the
ocean that the ride to London seems so interesting. It always pays me
for the entire trip. Yes," she said, with a sigh, "in spite of the
patent-medicine signs they have taken to putting up all along the road.
It seems a pity they should adopt our bad habits instead of our good
ones."
"They are a bit slow at adopting anything," commented Carlton. "Did
you know, Mrs. Downs, that electric lights are still as scarce in
London as they are in Timbuctoo? Why, I saw an electric-light plant
put up in a Western town in three days once; there were over a hundred
burners in one saloon, and the engineer who put them up told me in
confidence that--"
What the chief engineer told him in confidence was never disclosed, for
at that moment Miss Morris interrupted him with a sudden sharp
exclamation.
"Oh, Mr. Carlton," she exclaimed, breathlessly, "listen to this!" She
had been reading one of the dozen papers which Carlton had purchased at
the station, and was now shaking one of them at him, with her eyes
fixed on the open page.
"My dear Edith," remonstrated her aunt, "Mr. Carlton was telling us--"
"Yes, I know," exclaimed Miss Morris, laughing, "but this interests him
much more than electric lights. Who do you think is in London?" she
cried, raising her eyes to his, and pausing for proper dramatic effect.
"The Princess Aline of Hohenwald!"
"No?" shouted Carlton.
"Yes," Miss Morris answered, mocking his tone. "Listen. 'The Queen's
Drawing-room'--em--e--m--'on her right was the Princess of
Wales'--em--m. Oh, I can't find it--no--yes, here it is. 'Next to her
stood the Princess Aline of Hohenwald. She wore a dress of white silk,
with train of silver brocade trimmed with fur. Ornaments--emeralds and
diamonds; orders--Victoria and Albert, jubilee Commemoration Medal,
Coburg and Gotha, and Hohenwald and Grasse.'"
"By Jove!" cried Carlton, excitedly. "I say, is that really there?
Let me see it, please, for myself."
Miss Morris handed him the paper, with her finger on the paragraph, and
picking up another, began a search down its columns.
"You are right," exclaimed Carlton, solemnly; "it's she, sure enough.
And here I've been within two hours of her and didn't know it?"
Miss Morris gave another triumphant cry, as though she had discovered a
vein of gold.
"Yes, and here she is again," she said, "in the Gentlewoman: 'The
Queen's dress was of black, as usual, but relieved by a few violet
ribbons in the bonnet; and Princess Beatrice, who sat by her mother's
side, showed but little trace of the anxiety caused by Princess Ena's
accident. Princess Aline, on the front seat, in a light brown jacket
and a becoming bonnet, gave the necessary touch to a picture which
Londoners would be glad to look upon more often.'"
Carlton sat staring forward, with his hands on his knees, and with his
eyes open wide from excitement. He presented so unusual an appearance
of bewilderment and delight that Mrs. Downs looked at him and at her
niece for some explanation. "The young lady seems to interest you,"
said she, tentatively.
"She is the most charming creature in the world, Mrs. Downs," cried
Carlton, "and I was going all the way to Grasse to see her, and now it
turns out that she is here in England, within a few miles of us." He
turned and waved his hands at the passing landscape. "Every minute
brings us nearer together."
"And you didn't feel it in the air!" mocked Miss Morris, laughing.
"You are a pretty poor sort of a man to let a girl tell you where to
find the woman you love."
Carlton did not answer, but stared at her very seriously and frowned
intently. "Now I have got to begin all over again and readjust
things," he said. "We might have guessed she would be in London, on
account of this royal wedding. It is a great pity it isn't later in
the season, when there would be more things going on and more chances
of meeting her. Now they will all be interested in themselves, and,
being extremely exclusive, no one who isn't a cousin to the bridegroom
or an Emperor would have any chance at all. Still, I can see her! I
can look at her, and that's something."
"It is better than a photograph, anyway," said Miss Morris.
"They will be either at Buckingham Palace or at Windsor, or they will
stop at Brown's," said Carlton. "All royalties go to Brown's. I don't
know why, unless it is because it is so expensive; or maybe it is
expensive because royalties go there; but, in any event, if they are
not at the palace, that is where they will be, and that is where I
shall have to go too."
When the train drew up at Victoria Station, Carlton directed Nolan to
take his things to Brown's Hotel, but not to unload them until he had
arrived. Then he drove with the ladies to Cox's, and saw them settled
there. He promised to return at once to dine, and to tell them what he
had discovered in his absence. "You've got to help me in this, Miss
Morris," he said, nervously. "I am beginning to feel that I am not
worthy of her."
"Oh yes, you are!" she said, laughing; "but don't forget that 'it's not
the lover who comes to woo, but the lover's WAY of wooing,' and that
'faint heart'--and the rest of it."
"Yes, I know," said Carlton, doubtfully; "but it's a bit sudden, isn't
it?"
"Oh, I am ashamed of you! You are frightened."
"No, not frightened, exactly," said the painter. "I think it's just
natural emotion."
As Carlton turned into Albemarle Street he noticed a red carpet
stretching from the doorway of Brown's Hotel out across the sidewalk to
a carriage, and a bareheaded man bustling about apparently assisting
several gentlemen to get into it. This and another carriage and
Nolan's four-wheeler blocked the way; but without waiting for them to
move up, Carlton leaned out of his hansom and called the bareheaded man
to its side.
"Is the Duke of Hohenwald stopping at your hotel?" he asked. The
bareheaded man answered that he was.
"All right, Nolan," cried Carlton. "They can take in the trunks."
Hearing this, the bareheaded man hastened to help Carlton to alight.
"That was the Duke who just drove off, sir; and those," he said,
pointing to three muffled figures who were stepping into a second
carriage, "are his sisters, the Princesses."
Carlton stopped midway, with one foot on the step and the other in the
air.
"The deuce they are!" he exclaimed; "and which is--" he began, eagerly,
and then remembering himself, dropped back on the cushions of the
hansom.
He broke into the little dining-room at Cox's in so excited a state
that two dignified old gentlemen who were eating there sat open-mouthed
in astonished disapproval. Mrs. Downs and Miss Morris had just come
down stairs.
"I have seen her!" Carlton cried, ecstatically; "only half an hour in
the town, and I've seen her already!"
"No, really?" exclaimed Miss Morris. "And how did she look? Is she as
beautiful as you expected?"
"Well, I can't tell yet," Carlton answered.
"There were three of them, and they were all muffled up, and which one
of the three she was I don't know. She wasn't labelled, as in the
picture, but she was there, and I saw her. The woman I love was one of
that three, and I have engaged rooms at the hotel, and this very night
the same roof shelters us both."
II
"The course of true love certainly runs smoothly with you," said Miss
Morris, as they seated themselves at the table. "What is your next
move? What do you mean to do now?"
"The rest is very simple," said Carlton. "To-morrow morning I will go
to the Row; I will be sure to find some one there who knows all about
them--where they are going, and who they are seeing, and what
engagements they may have. Then it will only be a matter of looking up
some friend in the Household or in one of the embassies who can present
me."
"Oh," said Miss Morris, in the tone of keenest disappointment, "but
that is such a commonplace ending! You started out so romantically.
Couldn't you manage to meet her in a less conventional way?"
"I am afraid not," said Carlton. "You see, I want to meet her very
much, and to meet her very soon, and the quickest way of meeting her,
whether it's romantic or not, isn't a bit too quick for me. There will
be romance enough after I am presented, if I have my way."
But Carlton was not to have his way; for he had overlooked the fact
that it requires as many to make an introduction as a bargain, and he
had left the Duke of Hohenwald out of his considerations. He met many
people he knew in the Row the next morning; they asked him to lunch,
and brought their horses up to the rail, and he patted the horses'
heads, and led the conversation around to the royal wedding, and
through it to the Hohenwalds. He learned that they had attended a
reception at the German Embassy on the previous night, and it was one
of the secretaries of that embassy who informed him of their intended
departure that morning on the eleven o'clock train to Paris.
"To Paris!" cried Carlton, in consternation. "What! all of them?"
"Yes, all of them, of course. Why?" asked the young German. But
Carlton was already dodging across the tan-bark to Piccadilly and
waving his stick at a hansom.
Nolan met him at the door of Brown's Hotel with an anxious countenance.
"Their Royal Highnesses have gone, sir," he said. "But I've packed
your trunks and sent them to the station. Shall I follow them, sir?"
"Yes," said Carlton. "Follow the trunks and follow the Hohenwalds. I
will come over on the Club train at four. Meet me at the station, and
tell me to what hotel they have gone. Wait; if I miss you, you can
find me at the Hotel Continental; but if they go straight on through
Paris, you go with them, and telegraph me here and to the Continental.
Telegraph at every station, so I can keep track of you. Have you
enough money?"
"I have, sir--enough for a long trip, sir."
"Well, you'll need it," said Carlton, grimly. "This is going to be a
long trip. It is twenty minutes to eleven now; you will have to hurry.
Have you paid my bill here?"
"I have, sir," said Nolan.
"Then get off, and don't lose sight of those people again."
Carlton attended to several matters of business, and then lunched with
Mrs. Downs and her niece. He had grown to like them very much, and was
sorry to lose sight of them, but consoled himself by thinking he would
see them a few days at least in Paris. He judged that he would be
there for some time, as he did not think the Princess Aline and her
sisters would pass through that city without stopping to visit the
shops on the Rue de la Paix.
"All women are not princesses," he argued, "but all princesses are
women."
"We will be in Paris on Wednesday," Mrs. Downs told him. "The Orient
Express leaves there twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, and we
have taken an apartment for next Thursday, and will go right on to
Constantinople."
"But I thought you said you had to buy a lot of clothes there?" Carlton
expostulated.
Mrs. Downs said that they would do that on their way home.
Nolan met Carlton at the station, and told him that he had followed the
Hohenwalds to the Hotel Meurice. "There is the Duke, sir, and the
three Princesses," Nolan said, "and there are two German gentlemen
acting as equerries, and an English captain, a sort of A.D.C. to the
Duke, and two elderly ladies, and eight servants. They travel very
simple, sir, and their people are in undress livery. Brown and red,
sir."
Carlton pretended not to listen to this. He had begun to doubt but
that Nolan's zeal would lead him into some indiscretion, and would end
disastrously to himself. He spent the evening alone in front of the
Cafe de la Paix, pleasantly occupied in watching the life and movement
of that great meeting of the highways. It did not seem possible that
he had ever been away. It was as though he had picked up a book and
opened it at the page and place at which he had left off reading it a
moment before. There was the same type, the same plot, and the same
characters, who were doing the same characteristic things. Even the
waiter who tipped out his coffee knew him; and he knew, or felt as
though he knew, half of those who passed, or who shared with him the
half of the sidewalk. The women at the next table considered the slim,
good-looking young American with friendly curiosity, and the men with
them discussed him in French, until a well-known Parisian recognized
Carlton in passing, and hailed him joyously in the same language, at
which the women laughed and the men looked sheepishly conscious.
On the following morning Carlton took up his post in the open court of
the Meurice, with his coffee and the Figaro to excuse his loitering
there. He had not been occupied with these over-long before Nolan
approached him, in some excitement, with the information that their
Royal Highnesses--as he delighted to call them--were at that moment
"coming down the lift."
Carlton could hear their voices, and wished to step around the corner
and see them; it was for this chance he had been waiting; but he could
not afford to act in so undignified a manner before Nolan, so he merely
crossed his legs nervously, and told the servant to go back to the
rooms.
"Confound him!" he said; "I wish he would let me conduct my own affairs
in my own way. If I don't stop him, he'll carry the Princess Aline off
by force and send me word where he has hidden her."
The Hohenwalds had evidently departed for a day's outing, as up to five
o'clock they had not returned; and Carlton, after loitering all the
afternoon, gave up waiting for them, and went out to dine at Laurent's,
in the Champs Elysees. He had finished his dinner, and was leaning
luxuriously forward, with his elbows on the table, and knocking the
cigar ashes into his coffee-cup. He was pleasantly content. The trees
hung heavy with leaves over his head, a fountain played and overflowed
at his elbow, and the lamps of the fiacres passing and repassing on the
Avenue of the Champs Elysees shone like giant fire-flies through the
foliage. The touch of the gravel beneath his feet emphasized the free,
out-of-door charm of the place, and the faces of the others around him
looked more than usually cheerful in the light of the candles
flickering under the clouded shades. His mind had gone back to his
earlier student days in Paris, when life always looked as it did now in
the brief half-hour of satisfaction which followed a cold bath or a
good dinner, and he had forgotten himself and his surroundings. It was
the voices of the people at the table behind him that brought him back
to the present moment. A man was talking; he spoke in English, with an
accent.
"I should like to go again through the Luxembourg," he said; "but you
need not be bound by what I do."
"I think it would be pleasanter if we all keep together," said a girl's
voice, quietly. She also spoke in English, and with the same accent.
The people whose voices had interrupted him were sitting and standing
around a long table, which the waiters had made large enough for their
party by placing three of the smaller ones side by side; they had
finished their dinner, and the women, who sat with their backs towards
Carlton, were pulling on their gloves.
"Which is it to be, then?" said the gentleman, smiling. "The pictures
or the dressmakers?"
The girl who had first spoken turned to the one next to her.
"Which would you rather do, Aline?" she asked.
Carlton moved so suddenly that the men behind him looked at him
curiously; but he turned, nevertheless, in his chair and faced them,
and in order to excuse his doing so beckoned to one of the waiters. He
was within two feet of the girl who had been called "Aline." She
raised her head to speak, and saw Carlton staring open-eyed at her.
She glanced at him for an instant, as if to assure herself that she did
not know him, and then, turning to her brother, smiled in the same
tolerant, amused way in which she had so often smiled upon Carlton from
the picture.
"I am afraid I had rather go to the Bon March," she said.
One of the waiters stepped in between them, and Carlton asked him for
his bill; but when it came he left it lying on the plate, and sat
staring out into the night between the candles, puffing sharply on his
cigar, and recalling to his memory his first sight of the Princess
Aline of Hohenwald.
That night, as he turned into bed, he gave a comfortable sigh of
content. "I am glad she chose the dressmakers instead of the
pictures," he said.
Mrs. Downs and Miss Morris arrived in Paris on Wednesday, and expressed
their anxiety to have Carlton lunch with them, and to hear him tell of
the progress of his love-affair. There was not much to tell; the
Hohenwalds had come and gone from the hotel as freely as any other
tourists in Paris, but the very lack of ceremony about their movements
was in itself a difficulty. The manner of acquaintance he could make
in the court of the Hotel Meurice with one of the men over a cup of
coffee or a glass of bock would be as readily discontinued as begun,
and for his purpose it would have been much better if the Hohenwalds
had been living in state with a visitors' book and a chamberlain.
On Wednesday evening Carlton took the ladies to the opera, where the
Hohenwalds occupied a box immediately opposite them. Carlton pretended
to be surprised at this fact, but Mrs. Downs doubted his sincerity.
"I saw Nolan talking to their courier to-day," she said, "and I fancy
he asked a few leading questions."
"Well, he didn't learn much if he did," he said. "The fellow only
talks German."
"Ah, then he has been asking questions!" said Miss Morris.
"Well, he does it on his own responsibility," said Carlton, "for I told
him to have nothing to do with servants. He has too much zeal, has
Nolan; I'm afraid of him."
"If you were only half as interested as he is," said Miss Morris, "you
would have known her long ago."
"Long ago?" exclaimed Carlton. "I only saw her four days since."
"She is certainly very beautiful," said Miss Morris, looking across the
auditorium.
"But she isn't there," said Carlton.
"That's the eldest sister; the two other sisters went out on the coach
this morning to Versailles, and were too tired to come tonight. At
least, so Nolan says. He seems to have established a friendship for
their English maid, but whether it's on my account or his own I don't
know. I doubt his unselfishness."
"How disappointing of her!" said Miss Morris. "And after you had
selected a box just across the way, too. It is such a pity to waste it
on us." Carlton smiled, and looked up at her impudently, as though he
meant to say something; but remembering that she was engaged to be
married, changed his mind, and lowered his eyes to his programme.
"Why didn't you say it?" asked Miss Morris, calmly, turning her glass
to the stage. "Wasn't it pretty?"
"No," said Carlton--"not pretty enough."
The ladies left the hotel the next day to take the Orient Express,
which left Paris at six o'clock. They had bidden Carlton goodbye at
four the same afternoon, and as he had come to their rooms for that
purpose, they were in consequence a little surprised to see him at the
station, running wildly along the platform, followed by Nolan and a
porter. He came into their compartment after the train had started,
and shook his head sadly at them from the door.
"Well, what do you think of this?" he said. "You can't get rid of me,
you see. I'm going with you."
"Going with us?" asked Mrs. Downs. "How far?"
Carlton laughed, and, coming inside, dropped onto the cushions with a
sigh. "I don't know," he said, dejectedly. "All the way, I'm afraid.
That is, I mean, I'm very glad I am to have your society for a few days
more; but really I didn't bargain for this."
"You don't mean to tell me that THEY are on this train?" said Miss
Morris.
"They are," said Carlton. "They have a car to themselves at the rear.
They only made up their minds to go this morning, and they nearly
succeeded in giving me the slip again; but it seems that their English
maid stopped Nolan in the hall to bid him good-bye, and so he found out
their plans. They are going direct to Constantinople, and then to
Athens. They had meant to stay in Paris two weeks longer, it seems,
but they changed their minds last night. It was a very close shave for
me. I only got back to the hotel in time to hear from the concierge
that Nolan had flown with all of my things, and left word for me to
follow. Just fancy! Suppose I had missed the train, and had had to
chase him clear across the continent of Europe with not even a razor--"
"I am glad," said Miss Morris, "that Nolan has not taken a fancy to ME.
I doubt if I could resist such impetuosity."
The Orient Express, in which Carlton and the mistress of his heart and
fancy were speeding towards the horizon's utmost purple rim, was made
up of six cars, one dining-car with a smoking-apartment attached, and
five sleeping-cars, including the one reserved for the Duke of
Hohenwald and his suite. These cars were lightly built, and rocked in
consequence, and the dust raised by the rapid movement of the train
swept through cracks and open windows, and sprinkled the passengers
with a fine and irritating coating of soot and earth. There was one
servant to the entire twenty-two passengers. He spoke eight languages,
and never slept; but as his services were in demand by several people
in as many different cars at the same moment he satisfied no one, and
the complaint-box in the smoking-car was stuffed full to the slot in
consequence before they had crossed the borders of France.
Carlton and Miss Morris went out upon one of the platforms and sat down
upon a tool-box. "It's isn't as comfortable here as in an
observation-car at home," said Carlton, "but it's just as noisy."
He pointed out to her from time to time the peasants gathering twigs,
and the blue-bloused gendarmes guarding the woods and the fences
skirting them. "Nothing is allowed to go to waste in this country," he
said. "It looks as though they went over it once a month with a
lawn-mower and a pruning-knife. I believe they number the trees as we
number the houses."
"And did you notice the great fortifications covered with grass?" she
said. "We have passed such a lot of them."
Carlton nodded.
"And did you notice that they all faced only one way?"
Carlton laughed, and nodded again. "Towards Germany," he said.
By the next day they had left the tall poplars and white roads behind
them, and were crossing the land of low shiny black helmets and brass
spikes. They had come into a country of low mountains and black
forests, with old fortified castles topping the hills, and with
red-roofed villages scattered around the base.
"How very military it all is!" Mrs. Downs said. "Even the men at the
lonely little stations in the forests wear uniforms; and do you notice
how each of them rolls up his red flag and holds it like a sword, and
salutes the train as it passes?"
They spent the hour during which the train shifted from one station in
Vienna to the other driving about in an open carriage, and stopped for
a few moments in front of a cafe to drink beer and to feel solid earth
under them again, returning to the train with a feeling which was
almost that of getting back to their own rooms. Then they came to
great steppes covered with long thick grass, and flooded in places with
little lakes of broken ice; great horned cattle stood knee-deep in this
grass, and at the villages and way-stations were people wearing
sheepskin jackets and waistcoats covered with silver buttons. In one
place there was a wedding procession waiting for the train to pass,
with the friends of the bride and groom in their best clothes, the
women with silver breastplates, and boots to their knees. It seemed
hardly possible that only two days before they had seen another wedding
party in the Champs Elysees, where the men wore evening dress, and the
women were bareheaded and with long trains. In forty-eight hours they
had passed through republics, principalities, empires, and kingdoms,
and from spring to winter. It was like walking rapidly over a painted
panorama of Europe.
On the second evening Carlton went off into the smoking-car alone. The
Duke of Hohenwald and two of his friends had finished a late supper,
and were seated in the apartment adjoining it. The Duke was a young
man with a heavy beard and eyeglasses. He was looking over an
illustrated catalogue of the Salon, and as Carlton dropped on the sofa
opposite the Duke raised his head and looked at him curiously, and then
turned over several pages of the catalogue and studied one of them, and
then back at Carlton, as though he were comparing him with something on
the page before him. Carlton was looking out at the night, but he
could follow what was going forward, as it was reflected in the glass
of the car window. He saw the Duke hand the catalogue to one of the
equerries, who raised his eyebrows and nodded his head in assent.
Carlton wondered what this might mean, until he remembered that there
was a portrait of himself by a French artist in the Salon, and
concluded it had been reproduced in the catalogue. He could think of
nothing else which would explain the interest the two men showed in
him. On the morning following he sent Nolan out to purchase a
catalogue at the first station at which they stopped, and found that
his guess was a correct one. A portrait of himself had been reproduced
in black and white, with his name below it.
"Well, they know who I am now," he said to Miss Morris, "even if they
don't know me. That honor is still in store for them."
"I wish they did not lock themselves up so tightly," said Miss Morris.
"I want to see her very much. Cannot we walk up and down the platform
at the next station? She may be at the window."
"Of course," said Carlton. "You could have seen her at Buda-Pesth if
you had spoken of it. She was walking up and down then. The next time
the train stops we will prowl up and down and feast our eyes upon her."
But Miss Morris had her wish gratified without that exertion. The
Hohenwalds were served in the dining-car after the other passengers had
finished, and were in consequence only to be seen when they passed by
the doors of the other compartments. But this same morning, after
luncheon, the three Princesses, instead of returning to their own car,
seated themselves in the compartment adjoining the dining-car, while
the men of their party lit their cigars and sat in a circle around them.
"I was wondering how long they could stand three men smoking in one of
the boxes they call cars," said Mrs. Downs. She was seated between
Miss Morris and Carlton, directly opposite the Hohenwalds, and so near
them that she had to speak in a whisper. To avoid doing this Miss
Morris asked Carlton for a pencil, and scribbled with it in the novel
she held on her lap. Then she passed them both back to him, and said,
aloud: "Have you read this? It has such a pretty dedication." The
dedication read, "Which is Aline?" And Carlton, taking the pencil in
his turn, made a rapid sketch of her on the fly-leaf, and wrote beneath
it: "This is she. Do you wonder I travelled four thousand miles to
see her?"
Miss Morris took the book again, and glanced at the sketch, and then at
the three Princesses, and nodded her head. "It is very beautiful," she
said, gravely, looking out at the passing landscape.
"Well, not beautiful exactly," answered Carlton, surveying the hills
critically, "but certainly very attractive. It is worth travelling a
long way to see, and I should think one would grow very fond of it."
Miss Morris tore the fly-leaf out of the book, and slipped it between
the pages. "May I keep it?" she said. Carlton nodded. "And
will you sign it?" she asked, smiling. Carlton shrugged his shoulders,
and laughed. "If you wish it," he answered.
The Princess wore a gray cheviot travelling dress, as did her sisters,
and a gray Alpine hat. She was leaning back, talking to the English
captain who accompanied them, and laughing. Carlton thought he had
never seen a woman who appealed so strongly to every taste of which he
was possessed. She seemed so sure of herself, so alert, and yet so
gracious, so easily entertained, and yet, when she turned her eyes
towards the strange, dismal landscape, so seriously intent upon its sad
beauty. The English captain dropped his head, and with the pretence of
pulling at his mustache, covered his mouth as he spoke to her. When he
had finished he gazed consciously at the roof of the car, and she kept
her eyes fixed steadily at the object towards which they had turned
when he had ceased speaking, and then, after a decent pause, turned her
eyes, as Carlton knew she would, towards him.
"He was telling her who I am," he thought, "and about the picture in
the catalogue."
In a few moments she turned to her sister and spoke to her, pointing
out at something in the scenery, and the same pantomime was repeated,
and again with the third sister.
"Did you see those girls talking about you, Mr. Carlton?" Miss Morris
asked, after they had left the car.
Carlton said it looked as though they were.
"Of course they were," said Miss Morris.
"That Englishman told the Princess Aline something about you, and then
she told her sister, and she told the eldest one. It would be nice if
they inherit their father's interest in painting, wouldn't it?"
"I would rather have it degenerate into an interest in painters
myself," said Carlton.
Miss Morris discovered, after she had returned to her own car, that she
had left the novel where she had been sitting, and Carlton sent Nolan
back for it. It had slipped to the floor, and the fly-leaf upon which
Carlton had sketched the Princess Aline was lying face down beside it.
Nolan picked up the leaf, and saw the picture, and read the inscription
below: "This is she. Do you wonder I travelled four thousand miles to
see her?"
He handed the book to Miss Morris, and was backing out of the
compartment, when she stopped him.
"There was a loose page in this, Nolan," she said. "It's gone; did you
see it?"
"A loose page, miss?" said Nolan, with some concern. "Oh, yes, miss; I
was going to tell you; there was a scrap of paper blew away when I was
passing between the carriages. Was it something you wanted, miss?"
"Something I wanted!" exclaimed Miss Morris, in dismay.
Carlton laughed easily. "It is just as well I didn't sign it, after
all," he said. "I don't want to proclaim my devotion to any Hungarian
gypsy who happens to read English."
"You must draw me another, as a souvenir," Miss Morris said.
Nolan continued on through the length of the car until he had reached
the one occupied by the Hohenwalds, where he waited on the platform
until the English maidservant saw him and came to the door of the
carriage.
"What hotel are your people going to stop at in Constantinople?" Nolan
asked.
"The Grande-Bretagne, I think," she answered.
"That's right," said Nolan, approvingly. "That's the one we are going
to. I thought I would come and tell you about it. And, by-the-way,"
he said, "here's a picture somebody's made of your Princess Aline. She
dropped it, and I picked it up. You had better give it back to her.
Well," he added, politely, "I'm glad you are coming to our hotel in
Constantinople; it's pleasant having some one to talk to who can speak
your own tongue."
The girl returned to the car, and left Nolan alone upon the platform.
He exhaled a long breath of suppressed excitement, and then gazed
around nervously upon the empty landscape.
"I fancy that's going to hurry things up a bit," he murmured, with an
anxious smile; "he'd never get along at all if it wasn't for me."
For reasons possibly best understood by the German ambassador, the
state of the Hohenwalds at Constantinople differed greatly from that
which had obtained at the French capital. They no longer came and went
as they wished, or wandered through the show-places of the city like
ordinary tourists. There was, on the contrary, not only a change in
their manner towards others, but there was an insistence on their part
of a difference in the attitude of others towards themselves. This
showed itself in the reserving of the half of the hotel for their use,
and in the haughty bearing of the equerries, who appeared unexpectedly
in magnificent uniforms. The visitors' book was covered with the
autographs of all of the important people in the Turkish capital, and
the Sultan's carriages stood constantly before the door of the hotel,
awaiting their pleasure, until they became as familiar a sight as the
street dogs, or as cabs in a hansom-cab rank.
And in following out the programme which had been laid down for her,
the Princess Aline became even less accessible to Carlton than before,
and he grew desperate and despondent.
"If the worst comes," he said to Miss Morris, "I shall tell Nolan to
give an alarm of fire some night, and then I will run in and rescue her
before they find out there is no fire. Or he might frighten the horses
some day, and give me a chance to stop them. We might even wait until
we reach Greece, and have her carried off by brigands, who would only
give her up to me."
"There are no more brigands in Greece," said Miss Morris; "and besides,
why do you suppose they would only give her up to you?"
"Because they would be imitation brigands," said Carlton, "and would be
paid to give her up to no one else."
"Oh, you plan very well," scoffed Miss Morris, "but you don't DO
anything."
Carlton was saved the necessity of doing anything that same morning,
when the English captain in attendance on the Duke sent his card to
Carlton's room. He came, he explained, to present the Prince's
compliments, and would it be convenient for Mr. Carlton to meet the
Duke that afternoon? Mr. Carlton suppressed an unseemly desire to
shout, and said, after a moment's consideration, that it would. He
then took the English captain down stairs to the smoking-room, and
rewarded him for his agreeable message.
The Duke received Carlton in the afternoon, and greeted him most
cordially, and with as much ease of manner as it is possible for a man
to possess who has never enjoyed the benefits of meeting other men on
an equal footing. He expressed his pleasure in knowing an artist with
whose work he was so familiar, and congratulated himself on the happy
accident which had brought them both to the same hotel.
"I have more than a natural interest in meeting you," said the Prince,
"and for a reason which you may or may not know. I thought possibly
you could help me somewhat. I have within the past few days come into
the possession of two of your paintings; they are studies, rather, but
to me they are even more desirable than the finished work; and I am not
correct in saying that they have come to me exactly, but to my sister,
the Princess Aline."
Carlton could not withhold a certain start of surprise. He had not
expected that his gift would so soon have arrived, but his face showed
only polite attention.
"The studies were delivered to us in London," continued the Duke.
"They are of Ludwig the tragedian, and of the German Prime Minister,
two most valuable works, and especially interesting to us. They came
without any note or message which would inform us who had sent them,
and when my people made inquiries, the dealer refused to tell them from
whom they had come. He had been ordered to forward them to Grasse,
but, on learning of our presence in London, sent them direct to our
hotel there. Of course it is embarrassing to have so valuable a
present from an anonymous friend, especially so for my sister, to whom
they were addressed, and I thought that, besides the pleasure of
meeting one of whose genius I am so warm an admirer, I might also learn
something which would enable me to discover who our friend may be." He
paused, but as Carlton said nothing, continued: "As it is now, I do
not feel that I can accept the pictures; and yet I know no one to whom
they can be returned, unless I send them to the dealer."
"It sounds very mysterious," said Carlton smiling; "and I am afraid I
cannot help you. What work I did in Germany was sold in Berlin before
I left, and in a year may have changed hands several times. The
studies of which you speak are unimportant, and merely studies, and
could pass from hand to hand without much record having been kept of
them; but personally I am not able to give you any information which
would assist you in tracing them."
"Yes," said the Duke. "Well, then, I shall keep them until I can learn
more; and if we can learn nothing, I shall return them to the dealer."
Carlton met Miss Morris that afternoon in a state of great excitement.
"It's come!" he cried--"it's come! I am to meet her this week. I have
met her brother, and he has asked me to dine with them on Thursday
night; that's the day before they leave for Athens; and he particularly
mentioned that his sisters would be at the dinner, and that it would be
a pleasure to present me. It seems that the eldest paints, and all of
them love art for art's sake, as their father taught them to do; and,
for all we know, he may make me court painter, and I shall spend the
rest of my life at Grasse painting portraits of the Princess Aline, at
the age of twenty-two, and at all future ages. And if he does give me
a commission to paint her, I can tell you now in confidence that that
picture will require more sittings than any other picture ever painted
by man. Her hair will have turned white by the time it is finished,
and the gown she started to pose in will have become forty years behind
the fashion!"
On the morning following, Carlton and Mrs. Downs and her niece, with
all the tourists in Constantinople, were placed in open carriages by
their dragomans, and driven in a long procession to the Seraglio to see
the Sultan's treasures. Those of them who had waited two weeks for
this chance looked aggrieved at the more fortunate who had come at the
eleventh hour on the last night's steamer, and seemed to think these
latter had attained the privilege without sufficient effort. The
ministers of the different legations--as is the harmless custom of such
gentlemen--had impressed every one for whom they had obtained
permission to see the treasures with the great importance of the
service rendered, and had succeeded in making every one feel either
especially honored or especially uncomfortable at having given them so
much trouble. This sense of obligation, and the fact that the
dragomans had assured the tourists that they were for the time being
the guests of the Sultan, awed and depressed most of the visitors to
such an extent that their manner in the long procession of carriages
suggested a funeral cortege, with the Hohenwalds in front, escorted by
Beys and Pashas, as chief mourners. The procession halted at the
palace, and the guests of the Sultan were received by numerous effendis
in single-button frock-coats and freshly ironed fezzes, who served them
with glasses of water, and a huge bowl of some sweet stuff, of which
every one was supposed to take a spoonful. There was at first a
general fear among the Cook's tourists that there would not be enough
of this to go round, which was succeeded by a greater anxiety lest they
should be served twice. Some of the tourists put the sweet stuff in
their mouths direct and licked the spoon, and others dropped it off the
spoon into the glass of water, and stirred it about and sipped at it,
and no one knew who had done the right thing, not even those who
happened to have done it. Carlton and Miss Morris went out on to the
terrace while this ceremony was going forward, and looked out over the
great panorama of waters, with the Sea of Marmora on one side, the
Golden Horn on the other, and the Bosporus at their feet. The sun was
shining mildly, and the waters were stirred by great and little
vessels; before them on the opposite bank rose the dark green cypresses
which marked the grim cemetery of England's dead, and behind them were
the great turtle-backed mosques and pencil-like minarets of the two
cities, and close at hand the mosaic walls and beautiful gardens of
Constantine.
"Your friends the Hohenwalds don't seem to know you this morning," she
said.
"Oh yes; he spoke to me as we left the hotel," Carlton answered. "But
they are on parade at present. There are a lot of their countrymen
among the tourists."
"I feel rather sorry for them," Miss Morris said, looking at the group
with an amused smile. "Etiquette cuts them off from so much innocent
amusement. Now, you are a gentleman, and the Duke presumably is, and
why should you not go over and say, 'Your Highness, I wish you would
present me to your sister, whom I am to meet at dinner to-morrow night.
I admire her very much,' and then you could point out the historical
features to her, and show her where they have finished off a blue and
green tiled wall with a rusty tin roof, and make pretty speeches to
her. It wouldn't hurt her, and it would do you a lot of good. The
simplest way is always the best way, it seems to me."
"Oh yes, of course," said Carlton. "Suppose he came over here and
said: 'Carlton, I wish you would present me to your young American
friend. I admire her very much,' I would probably say: 'Do you?
Well, you will have to wait until she expresses some desire to meet
you.' No; etiquette is all right in itself, only some people don't
know its laws, and that is the one instance to my mind where ignorance
of the law is no excuse."
Carlton left Miss Morris talking with the Secretary of the American
Legation, and went to look for Mrs. Downs. When he returned he found
that the young Secretary had apparently asked and obtained permission
to present the Duke's equerries and some of his diplomatic confreres,
who were standing now about her in an attentive semicircle, and
pointing out the different palaces and points of interest. Carlton was
somewhat disturbed at the sight, and reproached himself with not having
presented any one to her before. He was sure now that she must have
had a dull time of it; but he wished, nevertheless, that if she was to
meet other men, the Secretary had allowed him to act as master of
ceremonies.
"I suppose you know," that gentleman was saying as Carlton came up,
"that when you pass by Abydos, on the way to Athens, you will see where
Leander swam the Hellespont to meet Hero. That little white
light-house is called Leander in honor of him. It makes rather an
interesting contrast--does it not?--to think of that chap swimming
along in the dark, and then to find that his monument to-day is a
lighthouse, with revolving lamps and electric appliances, and with
ocean tramps and bridges and men-of-war around it. We have improved in
our mechanism since then," he said, with an air, "but I am afraid the
men of to-day don't do that sort of thing for the women of to-day."
"Then it is the men who have deteriorated," said one of the equerries,
bowing to Miss Morris; "it is certainly not the women."
The two Americans looked at Miss Morris to see how she received this,
but she smiled good-naturedly.
"I know a man who did more than that for a woman," said Carlton,
innocently. "He crossed an ocean and several countries to meet her,
and he hasn't met her yet."
Miss Morris looked at him and laughed, in the safety that no one
understood him but herself.
"But he ran no danger," she answered.
"He didn't, didn't he?" said Carlton, looking at her closely and
laughing. "I think he was in very great danger all the time."
"Shocking!" said Miss Morris, reprovingly; "and in her very presence,
too." She knitted her brows and frowned at him. "I really believe if
you were in prison you would make pretty speeches to the jailer's
daughter."
"Yes," said Carlton, boldly, "or even to a woman who was a prisoner
herself."
"I don't know what you mean," she said, turning away from him to the
others. "How far was it that Leander swam?" she asked.
The English captain pointed out two spots on either bank, and said that
the shores of Abydos were a little over that distance apart.
"As far as that?" said Miss Morris. "How much he must have cared for
her!" She turned to Carlton for an answer.
"I beg your pardon," he said. He was measuring the distance between
the two points with his eyes.
"I said how much he must have cared for her! You wouldn't swim that
far for a girl."
"For a girl!" laughed Carlton, quickly. "I was just thinking I would
do it for fifty dollars."
The English captain gave a hasty glance at the distance he had pointed
out, and then turned to Carlton. "I'll take you," he said, seriously.
"I'll bet you twenty pounds you can't do it." There was an easy laugh
at Carlton's expense, but he only shook his head and smiled.
"Leave him alone, captain," said the American Secretary. "It seems to
me I remember a story of Mr. Carlton's swimming out from Navesink to
meet an ocean liner. It was about three miles, and the ocean was
rather rough, and when they slowed up he asked them if it was raining
in London when they left. They thought he was mad."
"Is that true, Carlton?" asked the Englishman.
"Something like it," said the American, "except that I didn't ask them
if it was raining in London. I asked them for a drink, and it was they
who were mad. They thought I was drowning, and slowed up to lower a
boat, and when they found out I was just swimming around they were
naturally angry.
"Well, I'm glad you didn't bet with me," said the captain, with a
relieved laugh.
That evening, as the Englishman was leaving the smoking-room, and after
he had bidden Carlton good-night, he turned back and said: "I didn't
like to ask you before those men this morning, but there was something
about your swimming adventure I wanted to know: Did you get that drink?"
"I did," said Carlton--"in a bottle. They nearly broke my shoulder."
As Carlton came into the breakfast-room on the morning of the day he
was to meet the Princess Aline at dinner, Miss Morris was there alone,
and he sat down at the same table, opposite to her. She looked at him
critically, and smiled with evident amusement.
"'To-day,'" she quoted, solemnly, "'the birthday of my life has come.'"
Carlton poured out his coffee, with a shake of his head, and frowned.
"Oh, you can laugh," he said, "but I didn't sleep at all last night. I
lay awake making speeches to her. I know they are going to put me
between the wrong sisters," he complained, "or next to one of those old
ladies-in-waiting, or whatever they are."
"How are you going to begin?" said Miss Morris. "Will you tell her you
have followed her from London--or from New York, rather--that you are
young Lochinvar, who came out of the West, and--"
"I don't know," said Carlton, meditatively, "just how I shall begin;
but I know the curtain is going to rise promptly at eight
o'clock--about the time the soup comes on, I think. I don't see how
she can help but be impressed a little bit. It isn't every day a man
hurries around the globe on account of a girl's photograph; and she IS
beautiful, isn't she?"
Miss Morris nodded her head encouragingly.
"Do you know, sometimes," said Carlton, glancing over his shoulders to
see if the waiters were out of hearing, "I fancy she has noticed me.
Once or twice I have turned my head in her direction without meaning
to, and found her looking--well, looking my way, at least. Don't you
think that is a good sign?" he asked, eagerly.
"It depends on what you call a 'good sign,'" said Miss Morris,
judicially. "It is a sign you're good to look at, if that's what you
want. But you probably know that already, and it's nothing to your
credit. It certainly isn't a sign that a person cares for you because
she prefers to look at your profile rather than at what the dragomans
are trying to show her."
Carlton drew himself up stiffly. "If you knew your ALICE better," he
said, with severity, "you would understand that it is not polite to
make personal remarks. I ask you, as my confidante, if you think she
has noticed me, and you make fun of my looks! That's not the part of a
confidante."
"Noticed you!" laughed Miss Morris, scornfully. "How could she help
it? You are always in the way. You are at the door whenever they go
out or come in, and when we are visiting mosques and palaces you are
invariably looking at her instead of the tombs and things, with a
wistful far-away look, as though you saw a vision. The first time you
did it, after you had turned away I saw her feel to see if her hair was
all right. You quite embarrassed her."
"I didn't--I don't!" stammered Carlton, indignantly. "I wouldn't be so
rude. Oh, I see I'll have to get another confidante; you are most
unsympathetic and unkind." But Miss Morris showed her sympathy later in
the day, when Carlton needed it sorely; for the dinner towards which he
had looked with such pleasurable anticipations and lover-like
misgivings did not take place. The Sultan, so the equerry informed
him, had, with Oriental unexpectedness, invited the Duke to dine that
night at the Palace, and the Duke, much to his expressed regret, had
been forced to accept what was in the nature of a command. He sent
word by his equerry, however, that the dinner to Mr. Carlton was only a
pleasure deferred, and that at Athens, where he understood Carlton was
also going, he hoped to have the pleasure of entertaining him and
making him known to his sisters.
"He is a selfish young egoist," said Carlton to Mrs. Downs. "As if I
cared whether he was at the dinner or not! Why couldn't he have fixed
it so I might have dined with his sisters alone? We would never have
missed him. I'll never meet her now. I know it; I feel it. Fate is
against me. Now I will have to follow them on to Athens, and something
will turn up there to keep me away from her. You'll see; you'll see.
I wonder where they go from Athens?"
The Hohenwalds departed the next morning, and as their party had
engaged all the state-rooms in the little Italian steamer, Carlton was
forced to wait over for the next. He was very gloomy over his
disappointment, and Miss Morris did her best to amuse him. She and her
aunt were never idle now, and spent the last few days of their stay in
Constantinople in the bazars or in excursions up and down the river.
"These are my last days of freedom," Miss Morris said to him once, "and
I mean to make the most of them. After this there will be no more
travelling for me. And I love it so!" she added, wistfully.
Carlton made no comment, but he felt a certain contemptuous pity for
the young man in America who had required such a sacrifice. "She is
too nice a girl to let him know she is making a sacrifice," he thought,
"or giving up anything for him, but SHE won't forget it." And Carlton
again commended himself for not having asked any woman to make any
sacrifices for him.
They left Constantinople for Athens one moonlight night, three days
after the Hohenwalds had taken their departure, and as the evening and
the air were warm, they remained upon the upper deck until the boat had
entered the Dardanelles. There were few passengers, and Mrs. Downs
went below early, leaving Miss Morris and Carlton hanging over the
rail, and looking down upon a band of Hungarian gypsies, who were
playing the weird music of their country on the deck beneath them. The
low receding hills lay close on either hand, and ran back so sharply
from the narrow waterway that they seemed to shut in the boat from the
world beyond. The moonlight showed a little mud fort or a thatched
cottage on the bank fantastically, as through a mist, and from time to
time as they sped forward they saw the camp-fire of a sentry, and his
shadow as he passed between it and them, or stopped to cover it with
wood. The night was so still that they could hear the waves in the
steamer's wake washing up over the stones on either shore, and the
muffled beat of the engines echoed back from either side of the valley
through which they passed. There was a great lantern hanging midway
from the mast, and shining down upon the lower deck. It showed a group
of Greeks, Turks, and Armenians, in strange costumes, sleeping, huddled
together in picturesque confusion over the bare boards, or wide-awake
and voluble, smoking and chatting together in happy company. The music
of the tizanes rose in notes of passionate ecstasy and sharp,
unexpected bursts of melody. It ceased and began again, as though the
musicians were feeling their way, and then burst out once more into
shrill defiance. It stirred Carlton with a strange turbulent unrest.
From the banks the night wind brought soft odors of fresh earth and of
heavy foliage.
"The music of different countries," Carlton said at last, "means many
different things. But it seems to me that the music of Hungary is the
music of love."
Miss Morris crossed her arms comfortably on the rail, and he heard her
laugh softly. "Oh no, it is not," she said, undisturbed. "It is a
passionate, gusty, heady sort of love, if you like, but it's no more
like the real thing than burgundy is like clear, cold, good water.
It's not the real thing at all."
"I beg your pardon," said Carlton, meekly. "Of course I don't know
anything about it." He had been waked out of the spell which the night
and the tizanes had placed upon him as completely as though some one had
shaken him sharply by the shoulder. "I bow," he said, "to your superior
knowledge. I know nothing about it."
"No; you are quite right. I don't believe you do know anything about
it," said the girl, "or you wouldn't have made such a comparison."
"Do you know, Miss Morris," said Carlton, seriously, "that I believe
I'm not able to care for a woman as other men do--at least as some men
do; it's just lacking in me, and always will be lacking. It's like an
ear for music; if you haven't got it, if it isn't born in you, you'll
never have it. It's not a thing you can cultivate, and I feel that
it's not only a misfortune, but a fault. Now I honestly believe that I
care more for the Princess Aline, whom I have never met, than many
other men could care for her if they knew her well; but what they feel
would last, and I have doubts from past experience that what I feel
would. I don't doubt it while it exists, but it never does exist long,
and so I am afraid it is going to be with me to the end of the
chapter." He paused for a moment, but the girl did not answer. "I am
speaking in earnest now," he added, with a rueful laugh.
"I see you are," she replied, briefly. She seemed to be considering
his condition as he had described it to her, and he did not interrupt
her. From below them came the notes of the waltz the gypsies played.
It was full of the undercurrent of sadness that a waltz should have,
and filled out what Carlton said as the music from the orchestra in a
theatre heightens the effect without interrupting the words of the
actor on the stage.
"It is strange," said Miss Morris. "I should have thought you were a
man who would care very much and in just the right way. But I don't
believe really--I'm sorry, but I don't believe you do know what love
means at all."
"Oh, it isn't as bad as that," said Carlton. "I think I know what it
is, and what it means to other people, but I can't feel it myself. The
best idea I ever got of it--the thing that made it clear to me--was a
line in a play. It seemed to express it better than any of the
love-poems I ever read. It was in Shenandoah."
Miss Morris laughed.
"I beg your pardon," said Carlton.
"I beg yours," she said. "It was only the incongruity that struck me.
It seemed so odd to be quoting Shenandoah here in the Dardanelles, with
these queer people below us and ancient Troy on one hand--it took me by
surprise, that's all. Please go on. What was it impressed you?"
"Well, the hero in the play," said Carlton, "is an officer in the
Northern army, and he is lying wounded in a house near the Shenandoah
Valley. The girl he loves lives in this house, and is nursing him; but
she doesn't love him, because she sympathizes with the South. At
least she says she doesn't love him. Both armies are forming in the
valley below to begin the battle, and he sees his own regiment
hurrying past to join them, So he gets up and staggers out on the
stage, which is set to show the yard in front of the farm-house, and he
calls for his horse to follow his men. Then the girl runs out and begs
him not to go; and he asks why, what does it matter to her whether he
goes or not? And she says, 'But I cannot let you go; you may be
killed.' And he says again, 'What is that to you?' And she says: 'It
is everything to me. I love you.' And he makes a grab at her with his
wounded arm, and at that instant both armies open fire in the valley
below, and the whole earth and sky seem to open and shut, and the house
rocks. The girl rushes at him and crowds up against his breast, and
cries: 'What is that? Oh, what is that?' and he holds her tight to
him and laughs, and says: 'THAT? That's only a battle--you love me.'"
Miss Morris looked steadfastly over the side of the boat at the waters
rushing by beneath, smiling to herself. Then she turned her face
towards Carlton, and nodded her head at him. "I think," she said,
dryly, "that you have a fair idea of what it means; a rough
working-plan at least--enough to begin on."
"I said that I knew what it meant to others. I am complaining that I
cannot feel it myself."
"That will come in time, no doubt," she said, encouragingly, with the
air of a connoisseur; "and let me tell you," she added, "that it will
be all the better for the woman that you have doubted yourself so long."
"You think so?" said Carlton, eagerly.
Miss Morris laughed at his earnestness, and left him to go below to ask
her aunt to join them, but Mrs. Downs preferred to read in the saloon,
and Miss Morris returned alone. She had taken off her Eton jacket and
pulled on a heavy blue football sweater, and over this a reefer. The
jersey clung to her and showed the lines of her figure, and emphasized
the freedom and grace with which she made every movement. She looked,
as she walked at his side with her hands in the pockets of her coat and
with a flat sailor hat on her head, like a tall, handsome boy; but when
they stopped and stood where the light fell full on her hair and the
exquisite coloring of her skin, Carlton thought her face had never
seemed so delicate or fair as it did then, rising from the collar of
the rough jersey, and contrasted with the hat and coat of a man's
attire. They paced the deck for an hour later, until every one else
had left it, and at midnight were still loath to give up the beautiful
night and the charm of their strange surroundings. There were long
silent places in their talk, during which Carlton tramped beside her
with his head half turned, looking at her and noting with an artist's
eye the free light step, the erect carriage, and the unconscious beauty
of her face. The captain of the steamer joined them after midnight,
and falling into step, pointed out to Miss Morris where great cities
had stood, where others lay buried, and where beyond the hills were the
almost inaccessible monasteries of the Greek Church. The moonlight
turned the banks into shadowy substances, in which the ghosts of former
days seemed to make a part; and spurred by the young girl's interest,
the Italian, to entertain her, called up all the legends of mythology
and the stories of Roman explorers and Turkish conquerors.
"I turn in now," he said, after Miss Morris had left them. "A most
charming young lady. Is it not so?" he added, waving his cigarette in
a gesture which expressed the ineffectiveness of the adjective.
"Yes, very," said Carlton. "Good-night, sir."
He turned, and leaned with both elbows on the rail, and looked out at
the misty banks, puffing at his cigar. Then he dropped it hissing into
the water, and, stifling a yawn, looked up and down the length of the
deserted deck. It seemed particularly bare and empty.
"What a pity she's engaged!" Carlton said. "She loses so much by it."
They steamed slowly into the harbor of the Piraeus at an early hour the
next morning, with a flotilla of small boats filled with shrieking
porters and hotel-runners at the sides. These men tossed their
painters to the crew, and crawled up them like a boarding crew of
pirates, running wildly about the deck, and laying violent hands on any
piece of baggage they saw unclaimed. The passengers' trunks had been
thrown out in a heap on the deck, and Nolan and Carlton were clambering
over them, looking for their own effects, while Miss Morris stood
below, as far out of the confusion as she could place herself, and
pointed out the different pieces that belonged to her. As she stood
there one of the hotel-runners, a burly, greasy Levantine in pursuit of
a possible victim, shouldered her intentionally and roughly out of the
way. He shoved her so sharply that she lost her balance and fell back
against the rail. Carlton saw what had happened, and made a flying
leap from the top of the pile of trunks, landing beside her, and in
time to seize the escaping offender by the collar. He jerked him back
off his feet.
"How dare you--" he began.
But he did not finish. He felt the tips of Miss Morris's fingers laid
upon his shoulder, and her voice saying, in an annoyed tone: "Don't;
please don't." And, to his surprise, his fingers lost their grip on
the man's shirt, his arms dropped at his side, and his blood began to
flow calmly again through his veins. Carlton was aware that he had a
very quick temper. He was always engaging in street rows, as he called
them, with men who he thought had imposed on him or on some one else,
and though he was always ashamed of himself later, his temper had never
been satisfied without a blow or an apology. Women had also touched
him before, and possibly with a greater familiarity; but these had
stirred him, not quieted him; and men who had laid detaining hands on
him had had them beaten down for their pains. But this girl had merely
touched him gently, and he had been made helpless. It was most
perplexing; and while the custom-house officials were passing his
luggage, he found himself rubbing his arm curiously, as though it were
numb, and looking down at it with an amused smile. He did not comment
on the incident, although he smiled at the recollection of his prompt
obedience several times during the day. But as he was stepping into
the cab to drive to Athens, he saw the offending ruffian pass, dripping
with water, and muttering bitter curses. When he saw Carlton he
disappeared instantly in the crowd. Carlton stepped over to where
Nolan sat beside the driver on the box. "Nolan," he said, in a low
voice, "isn't that the fellow who--"
"Yes, sir," said Nolan, touching his hat gravely. "He was pulling a
valise one way, and the gentleman that owned it, sir, was pulling it
the other, and the gentleman let go sudden, and the Italian went over
backwards off the pier."
Carlton smiled grimly with secret satisfaction.
"Nolan," he said, "you're not telling the truth. You did it yourself."
Nolan touched his cap and coughed consciously. There had been no
detaining fingers on Nolan's arm.
III
"You are coming now, Miss Morris," exclaimed Carlton from the front of
the carriage in which they were moving along the sunny road to Athens,
"into a land where one restores his lost illusions. Anybody who wishes
to get back his belief in beautiful things should come here to do it,
just as he would go to a German sanitarium to build up his nerves or
his appetite. You have only to drink in the atmosphere and you are
cured. I know no better antidote than Athens for a siege of cable-cars
and muddy asphalt pavements and a course of Robert Elsmeres and the
Heavenly Twins. Wait until you see the statues of the young athletes
in the Museum," he cried, enthusiastically, "and get a glimpse of the
blue sky back of Mount Hymettus, and the moonlight some evening on the
Acropolis, and you'll be convinced that nothing counts for much in this
world but health and straight limbs, and tall marble pillars, and eyes
trained to see only what is beautiful. Give people a love for beauty
and a respect for health, Miss Morris, and the result is going to be,
what they once had here, the best art and the greatest writers and
satirists and poets. The same audience that applauded Euripides and
Sophocles in the open theatre used to cross the road the same day to
applaud the athletes who ran naked in the Olympian games, and gave them
as great honor. I came here once on a walking tour with a chap who
wasn't making as much of himself as he should have done, and he went
away a changed man, and became a personage in the world, and you would
never guess what it was that did it. He saw a statue of one of the
Greek gods in the Museum which showed certain muscles that he couldn't
find in his own body, and he told me he was going to train down until
they did show; and he stopped drinking and loafing to do it, and took
to exercising and working; and by the time the muscles showed out clear
and strong he was so keen over life that he wanted to make the most of
it, and, as I said, he has done it. That's what a respect for his own
body did for him."
The carriage stopped at the hotel on one side of the public square of
Athens, with the palace and its gardens blocking one end, and yellow
houses with red roofs, and gay awnings over the cafes, surrounding it.
It was a bright sunny day, and the city was clean and cool and pretty.
"Breakfast?" exclaimed Miss Morris, in answer to Carlton's inquiry;
"yes, I suppose so, but I won't feel safe until I have my feet on that
rock." She was standing on the steps of the hotel, looking up with
expectant, eager eyes at the great Acropolis above the city.
"It has been there for a long time now," suggested Carlton, "and I
think you can risk its being there for a half-hour longer."
"Well," she said, reluctantly, "but I don't wish to lose this chance.
There might be an earthquake, for instance."
"We are likely to see THEM this morning," said Carlton, as he left the
hotel with the ladies and drove towards the Acropolis. "Nolan has been
interviewing the English maid, and she tells him they spend the greater
part of their time up there on the rock. They are living very simply
here, as they did in Paris; that is, for the present. On Wednesday the
King gives a dinner and a reception in their honor."
"When does your dinner come off?" asked Miss Morris.
"Never," said Carlton, grimly.
"One of the reasons why I like to come back to Athens so much," said
Mrs. Downs, "is because there are so few other tourists here to spoil
the local color for you, and there are almost as few guides as
tourists, so that you can wander around undisturbed and discover things
for yourself. They don't label every fallen column, and place fences
around the temples. They seem to put you on your good behavior. Then
I always like to go to a place where you are as much of a curiosity to
the people as they are to you. It seems to excuse your staring about
you."
"A curiosity!" exclaimed Carlton; "I should say so! The last time I
was here I tried to wear a pair of knickerbockers around the city, and
the people stared so that I had to go back to the hotel and change
them. I shouldn't have minded it so much in any other country, but I
thought men who wore Jaeger underclothing and women's petticoats for a
national costume might have excused so slight an eccentricity as
knickerbockers. THEY had no right to throw the first stone."
The rock upon which the temples of the Acropolis are built is more of a
hill than a rock. It is much steeper upon one side than the other,
with a sheer fall a hundred yards broad; on the opposite side there are
the rooms of the Hospital of Aesculapius and the theatres of Dionysus
and Herodes Atticus. The top of the rock holds the Parthenon and the
other smaller temples, or what yet remains of them, and its surface is
littered with broken marble and stones and pieces of rock. The top is
so closely built over that the few tourists who visit it can imagine
themselves its sole occupants for a half-hour at a time. When Carlton
and his friends arrived, the place appeared quite deserted. They left
the carriage at the base of the rock, and climbed up to the entrance on
foot.
"Now, before I go on to the Parthenon," said Miss Morris, "I want to
walk around the sides, and see what is there. I shall begin with that
theatre to the left, and I warn you that I mean to take my time about
it. So you people who have been here before can run along by
yourselves, but I mean to enjoy it leisurely. I am safe by myself
here, am I not?" she asked.
"As safe as though you were in the Metropolitan Museum," said Carlton,
as he and Mrs. Downs followed Miss Morris along the side of the hill
towards the ruined theatre of Herodes, and stood at its top, looking
down into the basin below. From their feet ran a great semicircle of
marble seats, descending tier below tier to a marble pavement, and
facing a great ruined wall of pillars and arches which in the past had
formed the background for the actors. From the height on which they
stood above the city they could see the green country stretching out
for miles on every side and swimming in the warm sunlight, the dark
groves of myrtle on the hills, the silver ribbon of the inland water,
and the dark blue AEgean Sea. The bleating of sheep and the tinkling
of the bells came up to them from the pastures below, and they imagined
they could hear the shepherds piping to their flocks from one little
hill-top to another.
"The country is not much changed," said Carlton. "And when you stand
where we are now, you can imagine that you see the procession winding
its way over the road to the Eleusinian Mysteries, with the gilded
chariots, and the children carrying garlands, and the priestesses
leading the bulls for the sacrifice."
"What can we imagine is going on here?" said Miss Morris, pointing with
her parasol to the theatre below.
"Oh, this is much later," said Carlton. "This was built by the Romans.
They used to act and to hold their public meetings here. This
corresponds to the top row of our gallery, and you can imagine that you
are looking down on the bent backs of hundreds of bald-headed men in
white robes, listening to the speakers strutting about below there."
"I wonder how much they could hear from this height?" said Mrs. Downs.
"Well, they had that big wall for a sounding-board, and the air is so
soft here that their voices should have carried easily, and I believe
they wore masks with mouth-pieces, that conveyed the sound like a
fireman's trumpet. If you like, I will run down there and call up to
you, and you can hear how it sounded. I will speak in my natural voice
first, and if that doesn't reach you, wave your parasol, and I will try
it a little louder."
"Oh, do!" said Miss Morris. "It will be very good of you. I should
like to hear a real speech in the theatre of Herodes," she said, as she
seated herself on the edge of the marble crater.
"I'll have to speak in English," said Carlton, as he disappeared; "my
Greek isn't good enough to carry that far."
Mrs. Downs seated herself beside her niece, and Carlton began
scrambling down the side of the amphitheatre. The marble benches were
broken in parts, and where they were perfect were covered with a fine
layer of moss as smooth and soft as green velvet, so that Carlton, when
he was not laboriously feeling for his next foothold with the toe of
his boot, was engaged in picking spring flowers from the beds of moss
and sticking them, for safe-keeping, in his button-hole. He was
several minutes in making the descent, and so busily occupied in doing
it that he did not look up until he had reached the level of the
ground, and jumped lightly from the first row of seats to the stage,
covered with moss, which lay like a heavy rug over the marble pavement.
When he did look up he saw a tableau that made his heart, which was
beating quickly from the exertion of the descent, stand still with
consternation. The Hohenwalds had, in his short absence, descended
from the entrance of the Acropolis, and had stopped on their way to the
road below to look into the cool green and white basin of the theatre.
At the moment Carlton looked up the Duke was standing in front of Mrs.
Downs and Miss Morris, and all of the men had their hats off. Then, in
pantomime, and silhouetted against the blue sky behind them, Carlton
saw the Princesses advance beside their brother, and Mrs. Downs and her
niece courtesied three times, and then the whole party faced about in a
line and looked down at him. The meaning of the tableau was only too
plain.
"Good heavens!" gasped Carlton. "Everybody's getting introduced to
everybody else, and I've missed the whole thing! If they think I'm
going to stay down here and amuse them, and miss all the fun myself,
they are greatly mistaken." He made a mad rush for the front first row
of seats; but there was a cry of remonstrance from above, and, looking
up, he saw all of the men waving him back.
"Speech!" cried the young English Captain, applauding loudly, as though
welcoming an actor on his first entrance. "Hats off!" he cried. "Down
in front! Speech!"
"Confound that ass!" said Carlton, dropping back to the marble pavement
again, and gazing impotently up at the row of figures outlined against
the sky. "I must look like a bear in the bear-pit at the Zoo," he
growled. "They'll be throwing buns to me next." He could see the two
elder sisters talking to Mrs. Downs, who was evidently explaining his
purpose in going down to the stage of the theatre, and he could see the
Princess Aline bending forward, with both hands on her parasol, and
smiling. The captain made a trumpet of his hands, and asked why he
didn't begin.
"Hello! how are you?" Carlton called back, waving his hat at him in
some embarrassment. "I wonder if I look as much like a fool as I
feel?" he muttered.
"What did you say? We can't hear you," answered the captain.
"Louder! louder!" called the equerries. Carlton swore at them under
his breath, and turned and gazed round the hole in which he was penned
in order to make them believe that he had given up the idea of making a
speech, or had ever intended doing so. He tried to think of something
clever to shout back at them, and rejected "Ye men of Athens" as being
too flippant, and "Friends, Countrymen, Romans," as requiring too much
effort. When he looked up again the Hohenwalds were moving on their
way, and as he started once more to scale the side of the theatre the
Duke waved his hand at him in farewell, and gave another hand to his
sisters, who disappeared with him behind the edge of the upper row of
seats. Carlton turned at once and dropped into one of the marble
chairs and bowed his head. When he did reach the top Miss Morris held
out a sympathetic hand to him and shook her head sadly, but he could
see that she was pressing her lips tightly together to keep from
smiling.
"Oh, it's all very funny for you," he said, refusing her hand. "I
don't believe you are in love with anybody. You don't know what it
means."
They revisited the rock on the next day and on the day after, and then
left Athens for an inland excursion to stay overnight. Miss Morris
returned from it with the sense of having done her duty once, and by so
doing having earned the right to act as she pleased in the future.
What she best pleased to do was to wander about over the broad top of
the Acropolis, with no serious intent of studying its historical
values, but rather, as she explained it, for the simple satisfaction of
feeling that she was there. She liked to stand on the edge of the low
wall along its top and look out over the picture of sea and plain and
mountains that lay below her. The sun shone brightly, and the wind
swept by them as though they were on the bridge of an ocean steamer,
and there was the added invigorating sense of pleasure that comes to us
when we stand on a great height. Carlton was sitting at her feet,
shielded from the wind by a fallen column, and gazing up at her with
critical approval.
"You look like a sort of a 'Winged Victory' up there," he said, "with
the wind blowing your skirts about and your hair coming down."
"I don't remember that the 'Winged Victory' has any hair to blow
about," suggested Miss Morris.
"I'd like to paint you," continued Carlton, "just as you are standing
now, only I would put you in a Greek dress; and you could stand a Greek
dress better than almost any one I know. I would paint you with your
head up and one hand shielding your eyes, and the other pressed against
your breast. It would be stunning." He spoke enthusiastically, but in
quite an impersonal tone, as though he were discussing the posing of a
model.
Miss Morris jumped down from the low wall on which she had been
standing, and said, simply, "Of course I should like to have you paint
me very much."
Mrs. Downs looked up with interest to see if Mr. Carlton was serious.
"When?" said Carlton, vaguely. "Oh, I don't know. Of course this is
entirely too nice to last, and you will be going home soon, and then
when I do get back to the States you will--you will have other things
to do."
"Yes," repeated Miss Morris, "I shall have something else to do besides
gazing out at the AEgean Sea." She raised her head and looked across
the rock for a moment with some interest. Her eyes, which had grown
wistful, lighted again with amusement. "Here are your friends," she
said, smiling.
"No!" exclaimed Carlton, scrambling to his feet.
"Yes," said Miss Morris. "The Duke has seen us, and is coming over
here."
When Carlton had gained his feet and turned to look, his friends had
separated in different directions, and were strolling about alone or in
pairs among the great columns of the Parthenon. But the Duke came
directly towards them, and seated himself on a low block of marble in
front of the two ladies. After a word or two about the beauties of the
place, he asked if they would go to the reception which the King gave
to him on the day following. They answered that they should like to
come very much, and the Prince expressed his satisfaction, and said
that he would see that the chamberlain sent them invitations. "And
you, Mr. Carlton, you will come also, I hope. I wish you to be
presented to my sisters. They are only amateurs in art, but they are
great admirers of your work, and they have rebuked me for not having
already presented you. We were all disappointed," he continued,
courteously, "at not having you to dine with us that night in
Constantinople, but now I trust I shall see something of you here. You
must tell us what we are to admire."
"That is very easy," said Carlton. "Everything."
"You are quite right," said the Prince, bowing to the ladies as he
moved away. "It is all very beautiful."
"Well, now you certainly will meet her," said Miss Morris.
"Oh no, I won't," said Carlton, with resignation. "I have had two
chances and lost them, and I'll miss this one too."
"Well, there is a chance you shouldn't miss," said Miss Morris,
pointing and nodding her head. "There she is now, and all alone.
She's sketching, isn't she, or taking notes? What is she doing?"
Carlton looked eagerly in the direction Miss Morris had signified, and
saw the Princess Aline sitting at some distance from them, with a book
on her lap. She glanced up from this now and again to look at
something ahead of her, and was apparently deeply absorbed in her
occupation.
"There is your opportunity," said Mrs. Downs; "and we are going back to
the hotel. Shall we see you at luncheon?"
"Yes," said Carlton, "unless I get a position as drawing-master; in
that case I shall be here teaching the three amateurs in art. Do you
think I can do it?" he asked Miss Morris.
"Decidedly," she answered. "I have found you a most educational young
person."
They went away together, and Carlton moved cautiously towards the spot
where the Princess was sitting. He made a long and roundabout detour
as he did so, in order to keep himself behind her. He did not mean to
come so near that she would see him, but he took a certain satisfaction
in looking at her when she was alone, though her loneliness was only a
matter of the moment, and though he knew that her people were within a
hundred yards of her. He was in consequence somewhat annoyed and
surprised to see another young man dodging in and out among the pillars
of the Parthenon immediately ahead of him, and to find that this young
man also had his attention centred on the young girl, who sat
unconsciously sketching in the foreground.
"Now what the devil can he want?" muttered Carlton, his imagination
taking alarm at once. "If it would only prove to be some one who meant
harm to her," he thought--"a brigand, or a beggar, who might be
obligingly insolent, or even a tipsy man, what a chance it would afford
for heroic action!"
With this hope he moved forward quickly but silently, hoping that the
stranger might prove even to be an anarchist with a grudge against
royalty. And as he advanced he had the satisfaction of seeing the
Princess glance over her shoulder, and, observing the man, rise and
walk quickly away towards the edge of the rock. There she seated
herself with her face towards the city, and with her back firmly set
against her pursuer.
"He is annoying her!" exclaimed Carlton, delightedly, as he hurried
forward. "It looks as though my chance had come at last." But as he
approached the stranger he saw, to his great disappointment, that he
had nothing more serious to deal with than one of the international
army of amateur photographers, who had been stalking the Princess as a
hunter follows an elk, or as he would have stalked a race-horse or a
prominent politician, or a Lord Mayor's show, everything being fish
that came within the focus of his camera. A helpless statue and an
equally helpless young girl were both good subjects and at his mercy.
He was bending over, with an anxious expression of countenance, and
focussing his camera on the back of the Princess Aline, when Carlton
approached from the rear. As the young man put his finger on the
button of the camera, Carlton jogged his arm with his elbow, and pushed
the enthusiastic tourist to one side.
"Say," exclaimed that individual, "look where you're going, will you?
You spoiled that plate."
"I'll spoil your camera if you annoy that young lady any longer," said
Carlton, in a low voice.
The photographer was rapidly rewinding his roll, and the fire of
pursuit was still in his eye.
"She's a Princess," he explained, in an excited whisper.
"Well," said Carlton, "even a Princess is entitled to some
consideration. Besides," he said, in a more amicable tone, "you
haven't a permit to photograph on the Acropolis. You know you
haven't." Carlton was quite sure of this, because there were no such
permits.
The amateur looked up in some dismay. "I didn't know you had to have
them," he said. "Where can I get one?"
"The King may give you one," said Carlton. "He lives at the palace.
If they catch you up here without a license, they will confiscate your
camera and lock you up. You had better vanish before they see you."
"Thank you. I will," said the tourist, anxiously.
"Now," thought Carlton, smiling pleasantly, "when he goes to the palace
with that box and asks for a permit, they'll think he is either a
dynamiter or a crank, and before they are through with him his interest
in photography will have sustained a severe shock."
As Carlton turned from watching the rapid flight of the photographer,
he observed that the Princess had remarked it also, as she had no doubt
been a witness of what had passed, even if she had not overheard all
that had been said. She rose from her enforced position of refuge with
a look of relief, and came directly towards Carlton along the rough
path that led through the debris on the top of the Acropolis. Carlton
had thought, as he watched her sitting on the wall, with her chin
resting on her hand, that she would make a beautiful companion picture
to the one he had wished to paint of Miss Morris--the one girl standing
upright, looking fearlessly out to sea, on the top of the low wall,
with the wind blowing her skirts about her, and her hair tumbled in the
breeze, and the other seated, bending intently forward, as though
watching for the return of a long-delayed vessel; a beautifully sad
face, fine and delicate and noble, the face of a girl on the figure of
a woman. And when she rose he made no effort to move away, or, indeed,
to pretend not to have seen her, but stood looking at her as though he
had the right to do so, and as though she must know he had that right.
As she came towards him the Princess Aline did not stop, nor even
shorten her steps; but as she passed opposite to him she bowed her
thanks with a sweet impersonal smile and a dropping of the eyes, and
continued steadily on her way.
Carlton stood for some short time looking after her, with his hat still
at his side. She seemed farther from him at that moment than she had
ever been before, although she had for the first time recognized him.
But he knew that it was only as a human being that she had recognized
him. He put on his hat, and sat down on a rock with his elbows on his
knees, and filled his pipe.
"If that had been any other girl," he thought, "I would have gone up to
her and said, 'Was that man annoying you?' and she would have said,
'Yes; thank you,' or something; and I would have walked along with her
until we had come up to her friends, and she would have told them I had
been of some slight service to her, and they would have introduced us,
and all would have gone well. But because she is a Princess she cannot
be approached in that way. At least she does not think so, and I have
to act as she has been told I should act, and not as I think I should.
After all, she is only a very beautiful girl, and she must be very
tired of her cousins and grandmothers, and of not being allowed to see
any one else. These royalties make a very picturesque show for the
rest of us, but indeed it seems rather hard on them. A hundred years
from now there will be no more kings and queens, and the writers of
that day will envy us, just as the writers of this day envy the men who
wrote of chivalry and tournaments, and they will have to choose their
heroes from bank presidents, and their heroines from lady lawyers and
girl politicians and type-writers. What a stupid world it will be
then!"
The next day brought the reception to the Hohenwalds; and Carlton,
entering the reading-room of the hotel on the same afternoon, found
Miss Morris and her aunt there together taking tea. They both looked
at him with expressions of such genuine commiseration that he stopped
just as he was going to seat himself and eyed them defiantly.
"Don't tell me," he exclaimed, "that this has fallen through too!"
Miss Morris nodded her head silently.
Carlton dropped into the chair beside them, and folded his arms with a
frown of grim resignation. "What is it?" he asked. "Have they
postponed the reception?"
"No," Miss Morris said; "but the Princess Aline will not be there."
"Of course not," said Carlton, calmly, "of course not. May I ask why?
I knew that she wouldn't be there, but I may possibly be allowed to
express some curiosity."
"She turned her ankle on one of the loose stones on the Acropolis this
afternoon," said Miss Morris, "and sprained it so badly that they had
to carry her--"
"Who carried her?" Carlton demanded, fiercely.
"Some of her servants."
"Of course, of course!" cried Carlton. "That's the way it always will
be. I was there the whole afternoon, and I didn't see her. I wasn't
there to help her. It's Fate, that's what it is--Fate! There's no use
in my trying to fight against Fate. Still," he added, anxiously, with
a sudden access of hope, "she may be well by this evening."
"I hardly think she will," said Miss Morris, "but we will trust so."
The King's palace and gardens stretch along one end of the public park,
and are but just across the street from the hotel where the Hohenwalds
and the Americans were staying. As the hotel was the first building on
the left of the square, Carlton could see from his windows the
illuminations, and the guards of honor, and the carriages arriving and
departing, and the citizens of Athens crowding the parks and peering
through the iron rails into the King's garden. It was a warm night,
and lighted grandly by a full moon that showed the Acropolis in
silhouette against the sky, and gave a strangely theatrical look to the
yellow house fronts and red roofs of the town. Every window in the
broad front of the palace was illuminated, and through the open doors
came the sound of music, and one without could see rows of tall
servants in the King's blue and white livery, and the men of his guard
in their white petticoats and black and white jackets and red caps.
Carlton pulled a light coat over his evening dress, and, with an
agitation he could hardly explain, walked across the street and entered
the palace. The line of royalties had broken by the time he reached
the ballroom, and the not over-severe etiquette of the Greek court left
him free, after a bow to those who still waited to receive it, to move
about as he pleased. His most earnest desire was to learn whether or
not the Princess Aline was present, and with that end he clutched the
English adjutant as that gentleman was hurrying past him, and asked
eagerly if the Princess had recovered from her accident.
"No," said the officer; "she's able to walk about, but not to stand,
and sit out a dinner, and dance, and all this sort of thing. Too bad,
wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Carlton, "very bad." He released his hand from the other's
arm, and dropped back among the men grouped about the doorway. His
disappointment was very keen. Indeed, he had not known how much this
meeting with the Princess had meant to him until he experienced this
disappointment, which was succeeded by a wish to find Miss Morris, and
have her sympathize and laugh with him. He became conscious, as he
searched with growing impatience the faces of those passing and
repassing before him, of how much the habit of going to Miss Morris for
sympathy in his unlucky love-affair had grown of late upon him. He
wondered what he would have done in his travels without her, and
whether he should have had the interest to carry on his pursuit had she
not been there to urge him on, and to mock at him when he grew
fainthearted.
But when he finally did discover her he stood quite still, and for an
instant doubted if it were she. The girl he saw seemed to be a more
beautiful sister of the Miss Morris he knew--a taller, fairer, and more
radiant personage; and he feared that it was not she, until he
remembered that this was the first time he had ever seen her with her
hair dressed high upon her head, and in the more distinguished
accessories of a décolleté gown and train. Miss Morris had her hand on
the arm of one of the equerries, who was battling good-naturedly with
the crowd, and trying to draw her away from two persistent youths in
diplomatic uniform who were laughing and pressing forward in close
pursuit on the other side. Carlton approached her with a certain
feeling of diffidence, which was most unusual to him, and asked if she
were dancing.
"Mr. Carlton shall decide for me," Miss Morris said, dropping the
equerry's arm and standing beside the American. "I have promised all
of these gentlemen," she explained, "to dance with them, and now they
won't agree as to which is to dance first. They've wasted half this
waltz already in discussing it, and they make it much more difficult by
saying that no matter how I decide, they will fight duels with the one
I choose, which is most unpleasant for me."
"Most unpleasant for the gentleman you choose, too," suggested Carlton.
"So," continued Miss Morris, "I have decided to leave it to you."
"Well, if I am to arbitrate between the powers," said Carlton, with a
glance at the three uniforms, "my decision is that as they insist on
fighting duels in any event, you had better dance with me until they
have settled it between them, and then the survivor can have the next
dance."
"That's a very good idea," said Miss Morris; and taking Carlton's arm,
she bowed to the three men and drew away.
"Mr. Carlton," said the equerry, with a bow, "has added another
argument in favor of maintaining standing armies, and of not submitting
questions to arbitration."
"Let's get out of this," said Carlton. "You don't want to dance, do
you? Let us go where it's cool."
He led her down the stairs, and out on to the terrace. They did not
speak again until they had left it, and were walking under the trees in
the Queen's garden. He had noticed as they made their way through the
crowd how the men and women turned to look at her and made way for her,
and how utterly unconscious she was of their doing so, with that
unconsciousness which comes from familiarity with such discrimination,
and Carlton himself held his head a little higher with the pride and
pleasure the thought gave him that he was in such friendly sympathy
with so beautiful a creature. He stopped before a low stone bench that
stood on the edge of the path, surrounded by a screen of tropical
trees, and guarded by a marble statue. They were in deep shadow
themselves, but the moonlight fell on the path at their feet, and
through the trees on the other side of the path they could see the open
terrace of the palace, with the dancers moving in and out of the
lighted windows. The splash of a fountain came from some short
distance behind them, and from time to time they heard the strains of a
regimental band alternating with the softer strains of a waltz played
by a group of Hungarian musicians. For a moment neither of them spoke,
but sat watching the white dresses of the women and the uniforms of the
men moving in and out among the trees, lighted by the lanterns hanging
from the branches, and the white mist of the moon.
"Do you know," said Carlton, "I'm rather afraid of you to-night!" He
paused, and watched her for a little time as she sat upright, with her
hands folded on her lap.
"You are so very resplendent and queenly and altogether different," he
added. The girl moved her bare shoulders slightly and leaned back
against the bench.
"The Princess did not come," she said.
"No," Carlton answered, with a sudden twinge of conscience at having
forgotten that fact. "That's one of the reasons I took you away from
those men," he explained. "I wanted you to sympathize with me."
Miss Morris did not answer him at once. She did not seem to be in a
sympathetic mood. Her manner suggested rather that she was tired and
troubled.
"I need sympathy myself to-night," she said. "We received a letter
after dinner that brought bad news for us. We must go home at once."
"Bad news!" exclaimed Carlton, with much concern. "From home?"
"Yes, from home," she replied; "but there is nothing wrong there; it is
only bad news for us. My sister has decided to be married in June
instead of July, and that cuts us out of a month on the Continent.
That's all. We shall have to leave immediately--tomorrow. It seems
that Mr. Abbey is able to go away sooner than he had hoped, and they
are to be married on the first."
"Mr. Abbey!" exclaimed Carlton, catching at the name. "But your sister
isn't going to marry him, is she?"
Miss Morris turned her head in some surprise. "Yes--why not?" she said.
"But I say!" cried Carlton, "I thought your aunt told me that YOU were
going to marry Abbey; she told me so that day on the steamer when he
came to see you off."
"I marry him--my aunt told you--impossible!" said Miss Morris, smiling.
"She probably said that 'her niece' was going to marry him; she meant
my sister. They had been engaged some time."
"Then who are YOU going to marry?" stammered Carlton.
"I am not going to marry any one," said Miss Morris.
Carlton stared at her blankly in amazement. "Well, that's most
absurd!" he exclaimed.
He recognized instantly that the expression was hardly adequate, but he
could not readjust his mind so suddenly to the new idea, and he
remained looking at her with many confused memories rushing through his
brain. A dozen questions were on his tongue. He remembered afterwards
how he had noticed a servant trimming the candle in one of the
orange-colored lanterns, and that he had watched him as he disappeared
among the palms.
The silence lasted for so long a time that it had taken on a
significance in itself which Carlton recognized. He pulled himself up
with a short laugh. "Well," he remonstrated, mirthlessly, "I don't
think you've treated ME very well."
"How, not treated you very well?" Miss Morris asked, settling herself
more easily. She had been sitting during the pause which followed
Carlton's discovery with a certain rigidity, as if she was on a strain
of attention. But her tone was now as friendly as always, and held its
customary suggestion of amusement. Carlton took his tone from it,
although his mind was still busily occupied with incidents and words of
hers that she had spoken in their past intercourse.
"Not fair in letting me think you were engaged," he said. "I've wasted
so much time: I'm not half civil enough to engaged girls," he
explained.
"You've been quite civil enough to us," said Miss Morris, "as a
courier, philosopher, and friend. I'm very sorry we have to part
company."
"Part company!" exclaimed Carlton, in sudden alarm. "But, I say, we
mustn't do that."
"But we must, you see," said Miss Morris. "We must go back for the
wedding, and you will have to follow the Princess Aline."
"Yes, of course," Carlton heard his own voice say. "I had forgotten
the Princess Aline." But he was not thinking of what he was saying,
nor of the Princess Aline. He was thinking of the many hours Miss
Morris and he had been together, of the way she had looked at certain
times, and of how he had caught himself watching her at others; how he
had pictured the absent Mr. Abbey travelling with her later over the
same route, and without a chaperon, sitting close at her side or
holding her hand, and telling her just how pretty she was whenever he
wished to do so, and without any fear of the consequences. He
remembered how ready she had been to understand what he was going to
say before he had finished saying it, and how she had always made him
show the best of himself, and had caused him to leave unsaid many
things that became common and unworthy when considered in the light of
her judgment. He recalled how impatient he had been when she was late
at dinner, and how cross he was throughout one whole day when she had
kept her room. He felt with a sudden shock of delightful fear that he
had grown to depend upon her, that she was the best companion he had
ever known; and he remembered moments when they had been alone together
at the table, or in some old palace, or during a long walk, when they
had seemed to have the whole world entirely to themselves, and how he
had consoled himself at such times with the thought that no matter how
long she might be Abbey's wife, there had been these moments in her
life which were his, with which Abbey had had nothing to do.
Carlton turned and looked at her with strange wide-open eyes, as though
he saw her for the first time. He felt so sure of himself and of his
love for her that the happiness of it made him tremble, and the thought
that if he spoke she might answer him in the old, friendly, mocking
tone of good-fellowship filled him with alarm. At that moment it
seemed to Carlton that the most natural thing in the world for them to
do would be to go back again together over the road they had come,
seeing everything in the new light of his love for her, and so travel
on and on for ever over the world, learning to love each other more and
more each succeeding day, and leaving the rest of the universe to move
along without them.
He leaned forward with his arm along the back of the bench, and bent
his face towards hers. Her hand lay at her side, and his own closed
over it, but the shock that the touch of her fingers gave him stopped
and confused the words upon his tongue. He looked strangely at her,
and could not find the speech he needed.
Miss Morris gave his hand a firm, friendly little pressure and drew her
own away, as if he had taken hers only in an exuberance of good feeling.
"You have been very nice to us," she said, with an effort to make her
tone sound kindly and approving. "And we--"
"You mustn't go; I can't let you go," said Carlton, hoarsely. There
was no mistaking his tone or his earnestness now. "IF you go," he went
on, breathlessly, "I must go with you."
The girl moved restlessly; she leaned forward, and drew in her breath
with a slight, nervous tremor. Then she turned and faced him, almost
as though she were afraid of him or of herself, and they sat so for an
instant in silence. The air seemed to have grown close and heavy, and
Carlton saw her dimly. In the silence he heard the splash of the
fountain behind them, and the rustling of the leaves in the night wind,
and the low, sighing murmur of a waltz.
He raised his head to listen, and she saw in the moonlight that he was
smiling. It was as though he wished to delay any answer she might make
to his last words.
"That is the waltz," he said, still speaking in a whisper, "that the
gypsies played that night--" He stopped, and Miss Morris answered him
by bending her head slowly in assent. It seemed to be an effort for
her to even make that slight gesture.
"YOU don't remember it," said Carlton. "It meant nothing to you. I
mean that night on the steamer when I told you what love meant to other
people. What a fool I was!" he said, with an uncertain laugh.
"Yes, I remember it," she said--"last Thursday night, on the steamer."
"Thursday night!" exclaimed Carlton, indignantly. "Wednesday night,
Tuesday night, how should I know what night of the week it was? It was
the night of my life to me. That night I knew that I loved you as I
had never hoped to care for any one in this world. When I told you
that I did not know what love meant I felt all the time that I was
lying. I knew that I loved you, and that I could never love any one
else, and that I had never loved any one before; and if I had thought
then you could care for me, your engagement or your promises would
never have stopped my telling you so. You said that night that I would
learn to love all the better, and more truly, for having doubted myself
so long, and, oh, Edith," he cried, taking both her hands and holding
them close in his own, "I cannot let you go now! I love you so! Don't
laugh at me; don't mock at me. All the rest of my life depends on you."
And then Miss Morris laughed softly, just as he had begged her not to
do, but her laughter was so full of happiness, and came so gently and
sweetly, and spoke so truly of content, that though he let go of her
hands with one of his, it was only that he might draw her to him, until
her face touched his, and she felt the strength of his arm as he held
her against his breast.
The Hohenwalds occupied the suite of rooms on the first floor of the
hotel, with the privilege of using the broad balcony that reached out
from it over the front entrance. And at the time when Mrs. Downs and
Edith Morris and Carlton drove up to the hotel from the ball, the
Princess Aline was leaning over the balcony and watching the lights go
out in the upper part of the house, and the moonlight as it fell on the
trees and statues in the public park below. Her foot was still in
bandages, and she was wrapped in a long cloak to keep her from the
cold. Inside of the open windows that led out on to the balcony her
sisters were taking off their ornaments, and discussing the incidents
of the night just over.
The Princess Aline, unnoticed by those below, saw Carlton help Mrs.
Downs to alight from the carriage, and then give his hand to another
muffled figure that followed her; and while Mrs. Downs was ascending
the steps, and before the second muffled figure had left the shadow of
the carriage and stepped into the moonlight, the Princess Aline saw
Carlton draw her suddenly back and kiss her lightly on the cheek, and
heard a protesting gasp, and saw Miss Morris pull her cloak over her
head and run up the steps. Then she saw Carlton shake hands with them,
and stand for a moment after they had disappeared, gazing up at the
moon and fumbling in the pockets of his coat. He drew out a cigar-case
and leisurely selected a cigar, and with much apparent content lighted
it, and then, with his head, thrown back and his chest expanded, as
though he were challenging the world, he strolled across the street and
disappeared among the shadows of the deserted park.
The Princess walked back to one of the open windows, and stood there
leaning against the side. "That young Mr. Carlton, the artist," she
said to her sisters, "is engaged to that beautiful American girl we met
the other day."
"Really!" said the elder sister. "I thought it was probable. Who told
you?"
"I saw him kiss her good-night," said the Princess, stepping into the
window, "as they got out of their carriage just now."
The Princess Aline stood for a moment looking thoughtfully at the
floor, and then walked across the room to a little writing-desk. She
unlocked a drawer in this and took from it two slips of paper, which
she folded in her hand. Then she returned slowly across the room, and
stepped out again on to the balcony.
One of the pieces of paper held the picture Carlton had drawn of her,
and under which he had written: "This is she. Do you wonder I
travelled four thousand miles to see her?" And the other was the
picture of Carlton himself, which she had cut out of the catalogue of
the Salon.
From the edge of the balcony where the Princess stood she could see the
glimmer of Carlton's white linen and the red glow of his cigar as he
strode proudly up and down the path of the public park, like a sentry
keeping watch. She folded the pieces of paper together and tore them
slowly into tiny fragments, and let them fall through her fingers into
the street below. Then she returned again to the room, and stood
looking at her sisters.
"Do you know," she said, "I think I am a little tired of travelling so
much. I want to go back to Grasse." She put her hand to her, forehead
and held it there for a moment. "I think I am a little homesick," said
the Princess Aline.
THE END
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hunters three: Sport and adventure in South Africa
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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Title: Hunters three: Sport and adventure in South Africa
Author: Thomas Wallace Knox
Illustrator: William de la Montagne Cary
Release date: October 15, 2022 [eBook #69162]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: E. P. Dutton and Company
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUNTERS THREE: SPORT AND ADVENTURE IN SOUTH AFRICA ***
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: HE SAW ME AND CHARGED. Page 29. Frontispiece.]
[Illustration: Title page]
HUNTERS THREE
SPORT AND ADVENTURE IN SOUTH AFRICA
BY
THOMAS W. KNOX
AUTHOR OF "THE BOY TRAVELLERS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM M. CARY
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY
31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
1895
Copyright, 1895,
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY.
INTRODUCTION
For the last fifty years or more South Africa has been an attractive
field for the hunter in search of large game. Along in the middle of
the century it was the paradise of the sportsman, as the readers of
hunting-stories of that time can well understand; as time has gone on
the game has steadily diminished, and the hunter of to-day makes but
a poor record in comparison with Cumming, Andersson, and other men of
the early times. But even at present South Africa is not without
attractions for the hunter, though he can never hope for successes
like those which have been mentioned.
The customary methods of hunting in South Africa were, and still are,
for the hunter to outfit in one of the principal towns along the
coast or in the interior, equipping himself with wagons, oxen, and
horses, and hiring the necessary number of people to accompany him in
a journey up-country. The lading of the wagons consists of
provisions and ammunition for the hunter's use, together with various
kinds of goods to be used as presents or for trading-purposes among
the natives. As fast as the provisions are consumed and the goods
are used up, the wagons are loaded with the ivory of elephants and
the skins of other beasts, such as can be sold in the outfitting
market. The party will be absent from the point of outfitting all
the way from four months to a year or more, depending upon the luck
of the hunter in the slaughter of game, and also upon the
preservation of his oxen and horses. Not infrequently he meets with
disaster, his animals dying in the wilderness and leaving him without
motive power for his wagons. In such an event he must act according
to his judgment; sometimes he may leave his property in the care of a
friendly chief, but if no such personage can be found he must destroy
the fruits of his expedition. It is a rule all through Africa never
to abandon goods and allow them to fall into the hands of the
natives. If goods must be left behind, the true African traveler
always sets fire to them, or in some other way renders them worthless.
Down to quite recently it was the custom for hunting-parties of from
two to five or six men to club together, buy an outfit, and go
up-country on a hunting-expedition. If they are fairly successful
the sale of the ivory and skins obtained on the expedition will cover
all the expenses of it, and frequently leave a liberal profit to be
divided at the end of the tour. It was an expedition of this sort
which brought together the heroes of our story, "Hunters Three," and
we will leave the reader to ascertain by perusal of the narrative the
various adventures through which these young men passed.
And it was a similar expedition, though made with less expectation of
profit, that went out from Walvisch Bay to give two British women a
chance at the big game of South Africa. Somehow the steps of these
two expeditions trended in the same direction, and led to their
meeting as detailed in the opening chapters of the narrative. That
somebody should fall in love with somebody else as a result of the
meeting was naturally to be expected. Love exists in South Africa
quite as much as in more civilized lands, and love-making can be
pursued in the haunts of the elephant and buffalo just as readily as
in the gilded parlors of fashionable life. In justification of this
assertion this narrative of sport and love in South Africa is
submitted to the reader for his instruction and amusement.
T.W.K.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Breakfast Interrupted--Chasing a Big Tusker
CHAPTER II.
Surprised--A Woman Hunting Elephants--Jack's Hippopotamus
CHAPTER III.
A Question of Etiquette--The Fair Hunter Discussed--Lions Visit Us at
Night
CHAPTER IV:
Narrow Escape from a Buffalo--A Divergent Excursion
CHAPTER V.
After Buffaloes and Elands--A Fortunate Snap-shot--Another Hunter's
Game
CHAPTER VI.
A Disputed Prize--Rule of African Hunting--Mrs. Roberts
CHAPTER VII.
Stalking a Koodoo--Harry and Jack among Elands--Caught in a Pitfall
CHAPTER VIII.
African Horse-sickness--Two Narrow Escapes in Elephant-hunting--Jack
and his Horse
CHAPTER IX.
A Morning Call in South Africa--Ladies at Home--How Miss Boland
Killed a Lion
CHAPTER X.
An Invitation Accepted--Another Buffalo--Preparing Luncheon in Style
CHAPTER XI.
Ice-Making in Africa--A Hunters' Luncheon--After Gemsbok Again
CHAPTER XII.
Another Elephant--A Misfortune--Harry's Luck
CHAPTER XIII.
Harry's Shot--His Tracker's Predicament--After Hippopotami--Elephants
Again
CHAPTER XIV.
Hunting Giraffes--Novel Mode of Capture--A Big Snake
CHAPTER XV.
How the Serpent was Captured--Hospitable Reception--Mystery of a
Donkey
CHAPTER XVI.
Snake Cutlets and Stews--Miss Boland Stalks a Giraffe--Oxen for
Hunting-purposes
CHAPTER XVII.
Mrs. Roberts Kills a Giraffe--Hunting the Rhinoceros--Miss Boland
Secures a Pet
CHAPTER XVIII.
Transporting a Young Rhinoceros--Harry and Jack in Love--Animal
Intelligence--Jack's Boat
CHAPTER XIX.
Two Narrow Escapes from Crocodiles--Stalking Elands with Lions in
Company--Good Record for an Afternoon
CHAPTER XX.
An Alarm--The Ladies Missing--What Happened to Them--The Rescue
CHAPTER XXI.
Rescuing the Ladies from Lions--On the Way to Camp--Fight with a
Rogue Elephant
CHAPTER XXII.
Hunting Hippos and Crocodiles--The Ladies Missing Again--Conjectures
as to their Fate
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Rescuing-party--A Startling Discovery--Caught in a Cloudburst
CHAPTER XXIV.
Unpleasant Company--Rescuing the Castaways--Shooting Lions at
Night--Miss Boland's Menagerie
CHAPTER XXV.
Ladies Hunting Hippos--Miss Boland Overboard among the
Crocodiles--Discussing a Change of Base
CHAPTER XXVI.
Change Of Base--Crossing the River--Runaway Oxen--New Hunting-ground
CHAPTER XXVII.
The Ladies Chased by a Herd of Buffaloes--How their Lives were
Saved--In Camp Again--Stories of Buffalo Adventure
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Miscellaneous Hunting--Sudden Call for Help--The Ladies Besieged by
an African Chief--Foreigners' Magic
CHAPTER XXIX.
How We Deceived the King--Solving a Matrimonial Puzzle--Inspan and
Move South--Overtaken
CHAPTER XXX.
The Last Hunt--Three Proposals--"Still Waters Run Deep"--The End
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
He Saw Me and Charged ... Frontispiece
Round and Round the Tree We Went
The Boar was Followed by a Spring
How the Serpent was Captured
Miss Boland Shoots Two Giraffes
My Escape from the Crocodiles
The Lions and the Elands
The Escape of the Ladies from the Lions
Hippopotamus-hunt
Turning the Charge of the Buffaloes
HUNTERS THREE.
CHAPTER I.
BREAKFAST INTERRUPTED--CHASING A BIG TUSKER.
We were just going inside the tent, Harry, Jack, and I, to eat our
frugal breakfast, when we saw one of our natives coming at a rapid
run. He waved his hand as he approached, and shouted:
"Tembo, Bwana!"
Rendered into English, this means, "Elephants, master!" and the
announcement of elephants put the thought of breakfast out of our
heads.
The man came to a halt in front of us, and explained, in a mixture of
English, Cape Dutch, and two or three native languages, that he had
discovered a troop of elephants a little more than a mile from our
camp. There were ten or twelve of them, he thought, and among them
were at least three or four large tuskers.
"All right," said I. "Let's go to breakfast, boys, and then go after
the elephants. They'll keep, and the breakfast won't, nor will we
keep, either, without it."
So we went to the tent and speedily made way with what the cook had
prepared. It was a modest repast, consisting of coffee, with plenty
of sugar and no milk, and some steaks of hartbeest broiled over the
coals of a thorn-bush fire. For bread we had what the English
colonist calls damper--dough made of flour and water, and baked in a
Dutch oven. Very good bread can be made in this way, but not by the
ordinary Hottentot cook, such as one engages for an African
hunting-expedition.
We disposed of our breakfast with a rapidity that would have done
honor to a railway-station where the train halts ten minutes for
refreshments. In considerably less than ten minutes we had finished
breakfast and were getting our rifles ready for business.
We took our heaviest rifles, as the game was of a kind to require a
liberal amount of lead to bring it down. My elephant-gun carried six
bullets to the pound; it was a breech-loader of the Remington
pattern, and of a weight proportioned to its caliber. A trusty negro
boy carried it for me, and his instructions were to keep close at my
heels wherever I went, whenever we were out on a hunting-expedition.
Jack and Harry had a similar equipment, except that their rifles
carried eight bullets to the pound, and consequently had a little
less penetrating power than my own. Each of us had a supply of
explosive bullets, in addition to the solid ones, and in the course
of this narrative the reader will learn how these explosive bullets
were used.
When a party goes out on a hunting-expedition there is always a risk
that somebody will shoot somebody else; elephant and buffalo hunting
is nearly always conducted among trees or bushes, very rarely in open
ground, and where parties are within gunshot of one another it is
impossible always to avoid accidents, even with the greatest care.
For this reason it was our custom to scatter about a good deal, first
ascertaining the position of the game, and the direction in which it
would be likely to run when disturbed.
Mirogo, my native tracker, who had discovered the troop of elephants,
said they were in a little piece of forest adjoining a swamp on the
banks of the Luranga River. As he described the forest we made out
that it was not more than forty or fifty acres in extent, while the
swamp was much larger. After some discussion it was arranged that
Harry should make a circuitous course to the farther side of the
forest, Jack was to remain on the hither side, while Frank (that is
my name) would penetrate the wooded ground and literally stir up the
animals, getting the most effective shot that he could while so doing.
It was necessary to be very careful about giving the elephants our
wind; if they once got scent of us they would be off in a hurry.
Fortune favored us in this respect, as the wind blew directly across
the forest toward the point where we reached it. Consequently the
animals were not likely to scent us, provided neither Harry nor Jack
proceeded too far along their respective sides of the lair of the
elephants.
I sat down and waited while Harry and Jack were reaching their
positions, and during my waiting spell I listened intently for a
sound of the animals. Now and then the breeze brought to my ears the
crashing of the limbs and trees, and the low trumpetings of the
elephants as they called to one another while taking their morning
feed. It was evident they had not been alarmed and were totally
unaware of the danger that threatened them.
When I had allowed a sufficient time, as I thought, for my friends to
reach their stations, I proceeded cautiously into the forest,
preceded by Mirogo, the tracker, and closely followed by Kalil, my
gun-bearer.
We advanced in the direction of the sound of the crashing of limbs,
keeping carefully up the wind; and when within two or three hundred
yards, as nearly as I could judge, of the elephants, I took
possession of my gun and cartridge-belt, and told Kalil to stand by
with more cartridges ready to give me in case I needed them.
The ground was difficult to march over, as it was covered with
creeping vines that every moment threatened to trip me up, and would
most certainly do so in case I were trying to run from an enraged
elephant. The elephant can crash through these creepers and
undergrowth with the greatest ease; at all events, they do not seem
to impede him in the least when he is pursuing the man who has fired
at him and failed to bring him down. Should the man fall under such
circumstances his life is not worth the value of a pin; he is
trampled out of all semblance to humanity, and sometimes the
infuriated beast will stand over him for an hour or more, long after
life is extinct, trumpeting and bellowing, and renewing his assaults
upon the shapeless remains of his adversary.
Lest the reader might suppose that this statement is a flight of
fancy let me tell what happened to my friend M----, only a few months
before the time of which I am writing. M---- and I were hunting on
one of the tributaries of the Zambesi, and had bagged a goodly
quantity of large game. I was one ahead of M---- on the score of
elephants, and the time was approaching for us to break camp and
return to the Boer country, whence we had started on our expedition.
One morning two elephants were reported not very far from our camp,
and I suggested to M---- that he had better go out and shoot one in
order to bring his account even with mine, and I added, jocularly,
"If you can shoot them both I'll divide with you and keep our scores
just equal. I don't want you to beat me and be able to boast about
it after we get back to civilization."
"Oh, I'll take care of both of them," M---- answered, "and bring in a
buffalo or two in addition."
Off he started with his tracker and gun-bearer, while I went out on
the plain to the south of us, in the hope of bagging a koodoo or a
gemsbok. I was gone until noon, or a little later.
When I came back to camp there was no one there but the cook, and two
of the men, who were guarding the oxen. The cook told me that
something terrible had happened to Mr. M----, and the rest of the men
had gone out to where he had been hunting elephants.
I followed immediately, and found that poor M---- had shot at an
elephant, but did not succeed in hitting him vitally. The animal
fell to the ground, but was up again in a moment, so the tracker
said. He wheeled about with wonderful quickness, considering his
size and apparent awkwardness, and made straight for his assailant.
M---- started to run and reach the shelter of the nearest tree; his
foot caught in a creeping vine, and he fell prostrate. In a moment
the elephant was upon him, pounding the unfortunate man with his
trunk, trampling him underfoot, and impaling him with his tusks. The
tracker watched him from the nearest shelter, but could do nothing.
The elephant remained by the side of his victim for at least half an
hour, when, hearing a trumpet-call from his companion, he moved away
into the forest.
We brought M----'s body to the camp, and buried it with all the
ceremony which our situation permitted. I at once gave orders for
inspanning the oxen and starting on our homeward journey, and a sad
journey it was, you may well believe.
But I am wandering from the thread of my story. I took the gun from
the hands of Kalil, and crept cautiously along in the direction of
the elephants. I must have been sixty yards away when I spied the
back of one rising among the bushes; an enormous back it was, fully
nine feet from the ground, but it was no use shooting at that part of
the animal, and I withheld my fire. There are only a few places
where you can hit an elephant and kill him at the first shot: one is
directly in the center of the forehead, where the skull is a little
thinner than elsewhere; another is between the eye and ear; and the
third is in the vicinity of the heart, just back of the foreshoulder.
If you hit him anywhere else he may travel some time carrying your
lead, even though the body is penetrated from side to side; and if
you hit him on the skull or any other bony place where your bullet
glances off, the principal result of your shot is to enrage him.
Mindful of all this, I watched and waited for a suitable chance, and
in a little while I had it.
The elephant fed slowly along, and, fortunately for me, though not
for him, he fed in my direction. He broke through the clump of
bushes where he was feeding, and gave me a full view of his head,
broadside on. I took aim between his eye and ear, and I took careful
aim, you may be sure. Then I fired, and heard plainly the thud of
the bullet as it reached its mark.
The smoke hung about me, and for half a minute or so I could not see
in any direction. That is a nuisance in shooting in an African
forest, and especially in a swampy one. The air is so damp that the
smoke does not quickly clear away, and the hunter is often left in
doubt at a very critical moment.
And it was a critical moment in this case: the elephant fell to the
ground as the result of my shot, and I felt that my prize was secure;
but as the smoke cleared away he rose to his feet again, and charged
directly toward where I stood. I do not think I was over fifty yards
from him when I fired, and therefore he had but a short distance to
come. He ran and I ran; but in the meantime I had got a fresh
cartridge from my belt and shoved it into the gun. I kept my eye on
a large tree a little to the right of my position, and made for that
tree with the greatest speed of which I was capable, taking care to
avoid catching my feet in any of the creeping vines. A man can
easily dodge an elephant around a large tree; the animal is so bulky
and unwieldy that he cannot turn and twist as rapidly as a man can,
and in this respect the biped has the advantage over the quadruped.
I was almost paralyzed with astonishment--of course I will not say
fear--when I saw the bulk of the creature I had shot at, and his
immense tusks. I knew it was a case of life and death, and he was
not likely to give up his pursuit of me in a hurry. At the same time
I felt that I had planted the bullet in an effective spot, and could
not altogether understand why he was up again after having fallen.
But there was no chance for theorizing; he was up, certainly, and
after me, and that is all there was about it.
[Illustration: ROUND AND ROUND THE TREE WE WENT.]
Round and round the tree we went, perhaps half a dozen times. He had
his mouth open and trunk uplifted, and I watched for a chance to give
him another shot. Shooting was difficult under the circumstances; a
man on a dead run around a tree is unable to aim a gun with any
accuracy, and, furthermore, there are not many vulnerable points
about an elephant, as I have already shown. The only thing I could
do was to fire into his mouth, but that was not likely to do any good.
The French have a saying that it is the unexpected which always
happens; so it was with me and the elephant.
Suddenly there came the sound of the trumpet-call of another
elephant. My pursuer stopped an instant to listen, turning his head
to one side. As he did so I gave him another bullet, directly in the
spot where I sent the first one. He quivered, staggered for a
moment, and fell, dead!
CHAPTER II.
SURPRISED--A WOMAN HUNTING ELEPHANTS--JACK'S HIPPOPOTAMUS.
Following my shot, with an interval of not more than two seconds,
came the sound of another rifle, three or four hundred yards away.
Then several elephants--I cannot say whether there were two or three,
or twice that number--crashed away through the forest in different
directions, and simultaneously with the crashing I heard the sound of
other shots in the same direction as the first one.
"Surely Harry and Jack can't have turned back and got here as quickly
as this?" I said to myself. "That must be some other hunter; but I
don't know of any one in this neighborhood."
I shouted and blew my whistle, but received no audible response,
except the firing of a rifle, which seemed to be discharged directly
toward the sky. Then I went in the direction of the shot,
occasionally blowing my whistle to indicate my whereabouts. Of
course Mirogo and Kalil accompanied me.
When we had gone about three hundred yards we met a native tracker
who was unknown to me, and also to both my servants. He had a few
words with Mirogo, and it was evident that they understood each
other. Mirogo turned to me and said there was another hunter who had
shot an elephant, and was back in the forest a short distance.
"Very well," I said to Mirogo; "show me where he is and I'll make his
acquaintance."
"He isn't a man," said Mirogo; "he's a woman!"
"What!" I exclaimed, "a woman hunting elephants?"
"That's what his tracker say," replied Mirogo; "his tracker say he's
woman."
Well, here was romance with a vengeance: a woman shooting elephants
in Africa, and we three men had not heard of her presence in the
neighborhood! All the more reason why I should become acquainted
with our rival. We certainly did not want to be in each other's way,
and, moreover, if she was from any civilized land it would be a
satisfaction to see and talk with her. The female society that one
encounters in an African hunting-expedition is not usually of a kind
to be enamoured of, as it consists almost entirely of native negroes,
whose accomplishments in literature and the arts are not very marked.
Furthermore, their style of beauty and habits of life do not render
them at all attractive.
It did not occur to me that however much I might desire to make the
acquaintance of this amazon she might not care for mine; but that is
a good deal like a man, anyhow. The majority of the male sex always
seem to think that their society is in demand, and you cannot make
them understand that their room is sometimes better than their
company.
So I followed Mirogo, who was following the strange tracker, and in a
very few minutes I stood with my hat off in presence of the fair one,
the sound of whose rifle had attracted my attention.
I bowed and smiled, and apologized for the intrusion, adding that I
was quite unaware that any party but my own was in that region.
"Don't understand me as objecting to your presence," I added, "as
there is abundance of game for ten times the number of hunters that
are likely to assemble in this neighborhood."
"Quite natural," said the stranger, "that you were not aware of our
being in this vicinity, as we only arrived here last evening. We
heard of a party of hunters who had come in from the southeast; we
came in here from the southwest, from Walvisch Bay, and only encamped
at sunset yesterday. This morning I heard of elephants in this
forest, and came out in the hope of shooting one."
"And evidently you have succeeded," I replied, pointing in the
direction of the fallen beast that lay a short distance away. "Allow
me to extend my congratulations."
She accepted the compliment, and said it was not her first elephant
by any means. "We have been out several weeks," she continued, "and
have been hunting whenever the opportunity offered."
"One does not carry a card-case in his pocket on an elephant-hunt," I
remarked, "so please allow me to introduce myself verbally. I am
Frank Manson, at your service, and belong to a hunting-party that
came out from Durban and has been working up in this direction. We
are encamped about two miles east of here."
The fair huntress bowed slightly in acknowledgment, and then said: "I
am Miss Boland, and am with my friend, Mrs. Roberts. We are both
English, and are independent enough to travel by ourselves. The only
men in our party are the native assistants, the fore-looper,
after-rider, and manager; the latter is a Dutchman who has general
charge of the wagons and outfit, subject to our orders."
I thanked her for the information, and asked if I or my friends could
be of any assistance to her. It is so like a man to think that a
woman always wants assistance that the suggestion came from me as
naturally as does the phrase "Good-morning" whenever I meet a friend
at the beginning of the day.
She smiled, saying as she did so, with an air of independence:
"Thank you, sir, but I do not know that we need any assistance
whatever; you are very kind to tender it, but really we manage to get
along very comfortably. Should I think of anything in which you can
aid us I will not hesitate to send word to your camp. Do you remain
long in this neighborhood?"
"As to that I cannot say positively," I replied; "we have formed no
very definite plans. Shall stay where we are as long as the hunting
is good, and when it falls off we'll go elsewhere. I presume that is
very much the case with yourselves?"
"Yes," she replied; "we stay in a place as long as we like it, and
then move on."
With that she bowed, as if to intimate that I had better be moving on
in my own direction. I took the hint and bade her good-day, with the
suggestion that I had been greatly pleased at meeting her; and she
amiably returned the suggestion almost word for word. I went back in
the direction of my fallen elephant, and she turned the other way in
the forest.
The reader will naturally want to know how this amazon of the African
woods was dressed.
Her costume was decidedly mannish, and less unlike mine than might at
first be supposed. She wore loose, baggy trousers that were thrust
into hunting-boots, thus enabling her to get around the forest far
easier than if she had been encumbered with any kind of skirts, even
short ones. The upper part of her figure was clad in a tunic that
was buttoned from the neck down the whole length of the front, and
terminated just at the knee, not below it. The tunic was evidently
made for hunting-purposes, as it abounded in pockets and had a
cartridge-case firmly sewed to it. On her head she wore a sola
topee, or sun-helmet, and in general her dress was not at all unlike
that of a man. While we were conversing she stood behind a fallen
log, so that I could not take in the entire outline of her figure.
Her manner was pleasing enough, and altogether I felt myself a little
touched in the region of the heart. Her independence had piqued me
somewhat, and I felt that I wanted to see her again, but exactly how
to go about it I did not know. She had not invited me to visit their
camp or indicated the slightest desire that any one of our party
should come near her or her friend. While she had not said they
wished to be left alone, she certainly did not say that she wanted
any of our company.
I got back to where my fallen elephant lay, and then sent Mirogo to
camp to bring men and an ax for cutting out the animal's tusks. I
told him to be particular and not make any mistake, as the men might
stumble on the carcass of the elephant which Miss Boland had killed.
I remarked that it would be very discourteous to take the tusks of
her elephant instead of ours, and, furthermore, that ours were much
larger than hers.
Then, accompanied by Kalil, I made my way back to camp, reaching
there an hour or more before Harry and Jack returned from their
unprofitable wait at the edge of the forest. We took lunch, and then
went down the river to shoot hippopotami. We met with fairly good
luck, as we killed three or four of the big brutes, though we secured
only one, the others sinking out of our reach in the river. It is
proper to say that I had no actual part in the affair, as I turned
away before reaching the river to stalk a gemsbok.
"We made a good-sized raft of reeds," said Harry--"one that would
hold both of us and a couple of men to paddle the craft. In this
raft we floated out into the river and down a half-mile or so, where
it expands into a narrow lake. When we started we couldn't see a
hippo, not one, as they'd all taken the alarm at the noise we made
building and launching the raft. By the time we got down to the
broad portion of the river we were beyond the point of disturbance,
and then we saw their snouts sticking out of the water in various
directions. The proper thing to do is to shoot the hippo in shallow
water, and then throw a harpoon into him just as quickly as you can.
If you can manage to kill him instantly with your first shot, and the
water is not too deep, you can get him and drag him ashore; but
unless your first shot is instantly fatal he gets away.
"And that was the case with us," Harry continued; "there was only one
that we got fine work into, and that we did with an explosive bullet.
Jack was the lucky fellow. He put the bullet straight into the
hippo's ear, and that, you know, is the best shot to make. It didn't
explode until it got well into his head, and I don't believe there
was ever a more astonished creature in the river than that beast was
when the explosion came. He went to the bottom like a shot; that is,
he went down about four feet. We had a harpoon along, one of the
regular style that the natives hunt with, and we prodded that into
the fellow just as soon as we could. Then we paddled the raft off to
the shore, and dragged him along by means of the harpoon-line."
"And you've got him all right, have you?" I said.
"Oh yes," replied Harry, "he's secure; but the others are at the
bottom of the river. The men will be along in a little while with
the skin of the beast, and we'll have all the jambok we want in the
camp."
I should explain that the jambok is a whip made of hippopotamus-hide,
just like the koorbash in Egypt. It is the most cruel whip ever
made; the nearest approach to it known in the civilized world is the
green hide, or rawhide, such as was formerly used in the Southern
States in the days of slavery, and occasionally by New England
schoolmasters of the olden time on very unruly pupils.
Our native attendants had a royal feast off the flesh of the
hippopotamus, and we came in for a share of it, or as much as we
wanted. Hippo is very good eating when you cannot get anything
better; it has a strong, rather musky flavor which I do not like, and
I find that most other white men have tastes similar to mine in this
respect. But a Kafir, or any other black-skinned native of Africa,
is not at all particular, and you might empty a bottleful of musk
over his dinner without interfering with his appetite.
I did not say a word to Harry and Jack until dinner about the hunter
I met in the forest. I told them briefly about my elephant-hunt, but
we all were too busy for anything else until we got seated at the
table; fact is, we were pretty busy then, as all were hungry, but
there are intervals at table when even a very hungry man can put in a
few words now and then between the mouthfuls.
"By the way, fellows, I didn't tell you about the new hunting-party
here, did I?" I remarked, soon after we had taken our seats.
"No!" said both the others, in a breath; "who are they?"
"I don't know their whole pedigree," I replied. "I have only seen
one of them."
"Well, what can you tell us about him?" said Harry. "Who is he?
Where is he from? What kind of an outfit has he?"
"There are several questions all in one," I answered, "and some of
them I haven't yet learned about. In the first place, it isn't a
'him' at all; it's a 'her'!"
CHAPTER III.
A QUESTION OF ETIQUETTE--THE FAIR HUNTER
DISCUSSED--LIONS VISIT US AT NIGHT.
"What!" exclaimed Harry and Jack simultaneously.
"Yes, it's a woman, and she shot an elephant this afternoon."
Another exclamation of astonishment followed my assertion, and then
Harry asked:
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Miss Boland," I answered; "at least that's what she told
me, and she said her companion was Mrs. Roberts. They came from
Walvisch Bay, and that's pretty much all I know about them."
Then I explained the circumstances under which we met, and detailed
the conversation, word for word, as nearly as I could remember it.
The information almost broke up the dinner of my companions. That a
woman, or two women, should take to hunting big game in South Africa
was enough to take away any man's breath, and with his breath gone
there was not much chance for him to need an appetite. Both of them
stopped eating long enough to allow me to take the choicest cuts of
the hippopotamus, and if I had managed the affair shrewdly, and
maintained a good deal of mystery about the matter, I think I might
have stolen the entire dinner. But when I said that was all I knew
about it, their appetites returned, and they fell to eating again
with their accustomed vigor.
"We must go and call on them to-morrow morning," said Harry. "Pity
we haven't a barber and a tailor and a fashionable bootmaker here on
the borders of the Luranga River."
"Oh, nonsense," said Jack. "What business have we to go calling on
them? We've never been introduced." Then, turning to me, Jack
inquired if the fair one I met had requested a visit from me or my
friends.
I told him what the reader already knows, and then Jack remarked:
"That settles it; if those women want us they'll send for us, or if
they want us and don't send for us they'll manage to hunt around in
this direction and stumble upon our camp by the merest accident,
first finding out exactly where it is, so that there won't be any
mistake about their accident. My idea is, that we had better stick
to our business; mind our own affairs, in fact, and let them politely
alone. We may run across them hunting some day, and they'll be far
more likely to respect us if we hold aloof than if we go running
after them."
"Oh, that's all rubbish," said Harry; "we'll ride over to their camp;
that is, we'll get within half a mile or so of it, and send along the
most intelligent of our servants. He can go to their camp, and
through their principal servant let the women know that it would give
us pleasure to call on them if entirely agreeable."
"Yes," said Jack, "and thereby compel them to receive us, or appear
rude in declining our call. We push ourselves forward and put them
in an awkward position. We are just like the man whom you know, but
don't care a straw about, who comes to you with a plausible yarn,
with the object of borrowing five dollars. He forces you to do one
of two things, either of which is disagreeable: part with your
money--with a prospect of never seeing it again--or affront him by a
refusal. I tell you flatly I will not go. Understand me, I would
like to meet the ladies, for such I presume they are, but I don't
want to force myself on their acquaintance."
Harry did not admit the force of Jack's argument, at least not
audibly. Before committing himself he turned to me and asked my
opinion. I coincided with Jack, but made a suggestion that it would
do no harm for us to hunt in that direction, and possibly we might
meet one or both the amazons in field or forest.
Harry and Jack assented to this view, and the discussion as to the
propriety of calling upon the women was dropped.
"The one you saw must have been an accomplished huntress," Harry
remarked, after a pause.
"Oh, call her a hunter," said Jack; "don't bother about that
straining word 'huntress.' In sport, as in science, there's no
distinction of sex. When women first began to study medicine one who
obtained her degree was called 'doctress.' Now that nonsense is
dropped, and she's called doctor, like any other medical
practitioner. Hunting big game in South Africa is entitled to be
called a science; anyhow, it requires a lot of science to succeed in
it. She's a hunter just as much as you or I."
"All right," said Harry; "I won't dispute with you, especially
because I think you are right; and I don't think Frank will, either."
I assented to the adoption of the term as Jack proposed, at which the
latter remarked that we seemed to be settling a good many important
questions over our hippopotamus-steak.
Then they asked me as to the appearance, dress, and manner of Miss
Boland, and I answered them to the best of my ability. After our
dinner was over we had our smoke, and soon after went to bed. Before
we retired our wagonmaster reported that lions were about the kraal
the previous night, as he had heard them growling several times, and
found their spoor close up to the fence. He thought we might have
another visit that night, and wished to know if he should call us.
"By all means," I answered; "when you're entirely sure they're
outside, let us know."
When we camped on that spot we made a kraal of thorn-bushes, which
surrounded everything, including our tent and wagons. The cattle
were driven into the kraal at night, and were carefully watched
during the day by the men who had them in charge. We had about fifty
oxen altogether, and five horses, and the horses were secured in the
same way as the cattle. The kraal was built high and strong; it is
necessary to make it high, otherwise the lions might attempt to jump
it. On the outside of the kraal thorn-bushes were scattered all over
the ground, at least ten or fifteen feet from the fence, the object
being to prevent the lions approaching close to the kraal, where they
could get a favorable opportunity for a jump.
We got our guns ready for work in case the lions showed themselves,
and then turned in.
About one o'clock in the morning my Kafir came to wake me, and said
the lions were outside the kraal. I was up on the instant, and so
were Harry and Jack; fact is, we had not undressed at all, as we felt
it reasonably certain that we would be called, and wanted to have as
little delay as possible in getting at work.
At least one half of our people were out and about when we made our
appearance. That there were lions around was evident by the actions
of the horses and oxen. The horses were in a little kraal by
themselves, each one tethered to a stake, and on a quiet night all
would be lying down and at rest; now every horse was up, dancing
around uneasily, and straining at his halter. My favorite,
Brickdust--as I called him on account of his color--was snorting and
stamping in a condition of excitement. When I spoke to him he
quieted down instantly, but not altogether. He felt a good deal
reassured by my presence, but at the same time believed himself in
danger. It was the same with the other horses; and as for the oxen,
they were likewise on the alert, and aware of the presence of their
natural enemy.
The Kafirs were jabbering away at a great rate when we appeared. We
enjoined silence, but it was not easy to quiet them; in fact, it was
necessary to threaten them with the jambok before we succeeded in
hushing their voices. When they were hushed we could distinctly hear
the lions, now in one quarter, and now in another. They were
evidently prowling around the outside of the kraal looking for a spot
where they could penetrate to the interior.
Harry suggested that we go outside and find them; to this proposition
I demurred most emphatically, and so did Jack. I presume Harry
really did not intend to do anything so foolish, but made the
suggestion out of bravado. It would have been folly for us to do
what he suggested, as the lions would have seen us far easier than we
could have seen them. They had come in search of food, and were,
therefore, hungry. We should run a very good chance of becoming
their victims instead of their becoming ours.
The Kafirs had erected their huts of grass and bushes inside the
kraal, close up to the fence. I suggested that we climb to the top
of these huts, which would give us a view over the fence; and my
friends acted upon the suggestion. We scattered so that the three of
us commanded three sides of the kraal with our weapons, and from this
point of vantage we peered out as well as we could into the darkness.
There was a small moon, which was nearly set, so that we had not much
light to help us. I was favored in my position by having the moon
almost directly in front of me, while the ground outside the kraal
sloped off gradually at that point. It was understood that we were
to act independently of one another, and also not to waste our
bullets. No one was to fire except when he felt certain that he saw
a good mark to fire at.
The uneasiness of the oxen and horses continued; our dogs were also
running around, and manifesting a desire to take part in whatever
fighting was about to occur. Now and then they indicated their
feelings by growling; they would have barked outright had they not
been ordered most emphatically to emulate the example of the oyster
and "shut up."
We had been ten or fifteen minutes on the top of the huts when I made
out the forms of three lions that were half walking and half crawling
along the ridge betwixt me and the sky. They seemed to be a lion and
two lionesses, or possibly an old lion with two younger ones. At any
rate, I could make out a heavy mane on the foremost of the brutes,
and little or none at all on the others.
I brought my rifle to the shoulder, and let fly at the leader and
largest of the trio. I aimed to take him in the shoulder-blade, and
either kill or disable him at the first shot.
My rifle rang out on the still night air, and immediately following
it there was a terrific roar, which told that my bullet had hit its
mark. Following the roar was a rush toward my position; the victim
of my shot desired revenge, and in order to obtain it made for the
direction of the flash.
His companions followed him; and the whole three came dashing on
through the outlying mass of thorn-bushes and up to the very front of
the kraal. But an African lion is not proof; against the wait-a-bit
thorn. The only animals that can successfully defy this product of
the African soil are the elephant, rhinoceros, hippopotamus, and
alligator. Well, yes, I do not think the buffalo minds the
wait-a-bit, at least when he is old, and his skin has acquired the
proper toughness; but the young buffalo treats it with respect after
he has become experienced in its qualities.
The lion came no farther than the fence, just outside the hut on
which I stood; another leap and he would have reached me.
This reminds me of one night when I was in camp in the Impanyi
country and had not made a strong kraal. The lions came around the
kraal at night, and I was waked up suddenly by hearing one of the
oxen bellowing and the dogs barking. The night was pretty dark, and
it was not easy for me to perceive objects more than fifteen or
twenty feet away. My tent was pitched close to the rear of the
wagon; when I got outside I saw the driver standing on the top of a
grass-hut about six feet high, which was near the front wheels of the
wagon. The ox was bellowing and the lion was growling; they were not
more than twenty yards from me, but it was so dark that I could not
see them. I climbed to the top of the hut by the side of the driver,
and after fixing my eyes steadily on the spot for some minutes I
thought I could make out the lion's form. At any rate, I fired in
that belief, and the growl and roar which immediately followed told
me I had made a hit. The ox was evidently dead by this time, as all
sound from him had ceased.
I put in another cartridge and fired again, this time a few inches
lower than before. My shot was followed by a loud roar, far more
terrific than the one which had preceded it, and the roar was
followed by a spring. How many bounds the lion made I do not know,
but he struck me full in the chest with his head, and sent me
tumbling off the hut to the ground on which it stood. In my fall I
brought with me the wagon-driver, and at first I thought it was the
lion that was mixed up with me on the ground, instead of the harmless
Kafir. The driver scrambled to the top of the wagon, and I followed
and got on the box. I do not understand how the driver managed to
get there so quickly, as the whole thing passed in a very short time.
[Illustration: THE ROAR WAS FOLLOWED BY A SPRING.]
Not only was the driver there, but all the Kafirs from the kraal;
some were inside the wagon, some on top, and others standing on the
wheels, or in any place where they could find clinging-room.
My driver got his gun out from the inside of the wagon, and then took
a shot from the top of it; the recoil knocked him over and landed him
on the top of my tent. It would have been a pretty serious fall for
him had it not been for the tent, which broke the force of his
tumble, and was badly broken up as the result.
As near as we could make out by the growling there was a family of
lions, and they did not at all relish being disturbed at their meal.
We all stayed in and around the wagon until daylight; the lions made
off just before it came, and we ventured to descend.
I stayed in camp that day repairing damages and making ready for the
lions in case they returned the next night, which I felt they were
pretty sure to do. I had the men drag the remains of the ox to the
best spot for getting a shot, right on the crest of a ridge a little
higher up than the wagon, and about twenty-five yards from it. I had
the carcass fastened down with stakes, so that they could not drag it
away; then I dug a hole in the ground just under the rear of the
wagon, so as to screen me and at the same time give me the horizon to
shoot against.
Well, I had my revenge. The lions were there not later than an hour
after dark; I heard them before seeing them, but I saw them very
soon. The head of the family made his appearance first, and he stood
up against the sky so that his whole figure was outlined, and I could
determine just where to shoot. My greatest difficulty was to make
out the front sight of my rifle; any sportsman will tell you that you
cannot do any accurate shooting when the front sight is obscured.
The best thing at night is to cover it with white paper, and this I
did.
I gave Master Leo a shot just back of the shoulder that brought him
to the ground instanter. Mrs. Leo next put in an appearance; she did
not give me as fair a shot, but, under the circumstances, I do not
think I ought to complain. The ball entered her body just a little
forward of the tail, and to one side, and plowed along until near the
foreshoulder, where it stopped. My driver fired just after me, and
his shot was followed by a loud roar on the part of the lioness.
After a few moments the sound subsided, or rather it came from
farther and farther away. We waited awhile longer, and then, as
everything was quiet, we went to bed.
Daylight the next morning repealed the lion, dead, close to the
remains of the ox, my shot having killed him. The lioness was half a
mile away with a broken foreleg, and the bullet in her skin as I have
described. With her were two cub-lions, which I wanted ever so much
to keep and take to the coast; but I saw that it would be impossible
to do so, and so allowed my men to finish them off.
We removed the skins of all four lions, and I took them back with me
as trophies. That will do for that story. Now I will come back to
where we were.
Harry got a shot at another of our disturbers, and then the growling
died away in the distance and finally ceased altogether. We went
back to our beds and were not called again. When we rose in the
morning we found that our shots had told, as a lion and lioness, both
severely wounded, were on the ground half a mile or so from camp.
Jack went out with his rifle and finished them in short order, and
the Kaffirs removed their skins.
CHAPTER IV.
NARROW ESCAPE FROM A BUFFALO--A DIVERGENT EXCURSION.
At breakfast we had a difference of opinion as to what we should do
during the day. I wanted to hunt elephants, in case any could be
found; Harry thought we ought to take the horses and try for elands,
gemsbok, hartbeest, or some others of the antelope family that
abounds in the open country; Jack suggested that a turn at buffalo
would suit him best, and he had learned from his tracker that there
was a herd of buffalo off to the westward.
"Whereabout to the westward?" queried Harry.
"As near as I can make out," replied Jack, "it is somewhere in the
direction where those women are encamped."
Harry gave a low whistle, and said he thought it might be just as
well to make an effort for those buffaloes; in fact, he preferred
buffalo-hunting to anything else, provided the game was in that
direction. I was of the same opinion, and so it was decided that
after breakfast we should start on a buffalo-hunt.
Hunting the buffalo is pretty nearly as dangerous sport as hunting
the elephant. The African buffalo is a large and vicious beast, and
has great strength and endurance. He is an ugly-looking brute at his
best, and his disposition is quite in keeping with his personal
beauty. One of my first adventures with a bull-buffalo nearly cost
me my life.
It was one afternoon near sunset, when I was camped with a party in
the Amaswazi country. I was taking a stroll a mile or so away from
camp, and had a dog with me, and also my tracker and gun-bearer. I
saw plenty of birds and small game, but nothing that I cared to
shoot, and was about to turn back when Mirogo, the tracker, suddenly
made a motion of silence, and pointed with his spear to a little
thicket of wait-a-bit thorns. I could not see anything at first, but
in a minute or so discovered the outline of a large buffalo about
sixty yards distant. I suppose he had gone into the thorn-thicket
for the pleasure of titillating his hide, and the African wait-a-bits
ought to be just the thing for that purpose. The hide of the African
buffalo is fully as thick as that of an American one; it is a saying
of old plainsmen in America that there is nothing in the world which
gives so much pleasure to a healthy old Bos Americanus of the bull
sort as a scratch with a brad-awl, and a good-sized brad-awl is about
the equivalent of a wait-a-bit thorn.
Well, I stalked along quietly, until I got within about thirty yards
of that buffalo, and took a shot at his shoulder. He ran away, with
the dog after him, and I followed up as fast as I could. The dog
brought him to bay in a place which was not at all agreeable; I was
inexperienced in buffalo-hunting, and went into the clump of bushes
where he was, much nearer than was prudent. He saw me and charged; I
did not have time to bring the rifle to my shoulder, and just fired a
snap-shot, which glanced off his forehead like a hailstone off the
roof of a house.
The shot did not seem to disturb him in the least, as he continued to
charge. I jumped to one side, and must have made a tremendous jump.
He was going at such a speed that the momentum of his body carried
him past me; but he was so near that I certainly felt the wind which
he created in his rush. The dog stuck to him like a leech, and very
soon brought him to bay in a place that was about as bad as the
previous one. I went after him once more, and he came out after me,
and I did not see him until he appeared through a bush not ten feet
from me. He came at full speed, too, and I had no chance to fire.
There was a little path at one side, and I jumped into it. He did
not go by me this time, but swung around to follow me, and the tips
of his horns were very near me when I reached a small tree.
There was not time for me to climb the tree and get out of his way.
Luckily there were some branches growing out from the root of it,
just about parallel to the ground, and about two feet above it. I
dived under the tree and lay down as flat as I could, sticking close
to the roots.
The buffalo could not get at me because the branches were too stout
and too close together to enable him to get his horns under them, and
for the same reason he could not get near enough to trample me with
his hoofs. He walked round and round that tree, evidently trying to
figure out some way of extracting me from that hole. Horns and hoofs
were of no use, but he managed to insert his nose among the branches,
and pounded me pretty hard with it. I tried to seize him by the
tongue, and if I had had a hunting-knife with me I think I could have
sent him away.
The fellow pounded me so hard with his nose that it really seemed as
though he were knocking the life out of me. I found myself growing
weak and misty; by and by everything faded away, and the next I knew
my tracker and gun-bearer were pouring water over my face to revive
me. I owed my life to those two men, and acknowledged my obligation
by making them, the next day, some handsome presents, of which they
were very proud. The way they saved me was this:
When they came up to where the buffalo was, after I had gone into the
thicket, they looked cautiously through the bushes and saw him
standing watch near me. I was lying perfectly still, and he walked
off a little way, probably thinking I might try to get out of my
predicament and give him a chance to impale me on his horns. The men
took in the situation, and Mirogo crept up near enough to hurl his
spear at the buffalo. The beast then dropped me out of his
consideration, and went for Mirogo.
Mirogo ran, and at a very lively pace too. He ran for a small tree
with a projecting bough, and as he came under the tree he seized the
bough and swung himself up among the limbs with the agility of a
monkey. The buffalo made a vicious dig at the tree, and then went
off into the bush at full speed. As soon as he considered it safe to
do so Mirogo came down, called my gun-bearer, and found me as I have
already stated.
It did not take us long to get ready for our buffalo-hunt on the
morning in question, and we started off at a very moderate pace on
our horses, partly in order not to tire the beasts unnecessarily, and
partly to enable our Kafirs to keep up with us. Each of us was
accompanied by two Kafirs, a tracker and a gun-bearer, and there were
generally from two to half a dozen others who went along in order to
see the sport and be of general usefulness.
One thing they were always useful for was to eat up any spare food
that might come in their way. The quantity that a Kafir will consume
is something astonishing. I dare not pretend to say how many pounds
of meat one of them can get away with in a sitting, lest I might be
supposed to be romancing. We generally engaged our Kafirs at so much
for the trip, making no mention of time. Time is of no consequence
to them as long as they are fed; and as they eat pretty nearly
everything that lives and moves, a hunter with any experience and any
sort of decent luck can manage to subsist them.
Our horses had not been exercised for some days, and were at first
inclined to be frisky. They soon toned down, however, evidently
realizing that they might have hard work before the day was over, and
would stand in need of all their strength. Occasionally we took a
little spurt over the open country, just to shake out their limbs a
little, and then settled down for a walk, during which the Kafirs
came up with us. We passed the borders of the forest where we had
our adventure with the elephants, and entered the valley of the river
where it was fairly well wooded, with open spaces here and there.
We kept a careful lookout for the camp of the amazons, but did not
see it up to the time we reached the river, nor did we see any trace
of either of the fair hunters.
We halted under the shade of a large tree, and candor compels me to
say that we discussed the whereabouts of Miss Boland and her
companion much more than we did the locality of the other game which
we came to seek. Harry said he thought they had taken alarm and
moved, while Jack felt sure that nothing of the kind had happened.
"We haven't come in the right direction," said he, "and that's where
the trouble is. I'll wager three to one they haven't moved at all,
unless they found it judicious to move their camp and bring it nearer
to ours."
I did not express any opinion either way on the subject, as I did not
want to appear particularly interested in it.
In a little while, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, one of our
trackers came in and said there were buffaloes farther along the
valley toward the west. There was quite a bunch of them, he said,
some twenty or more, making an assorted lot of bulls, cows, and young
buffaloes. They were in a patch of thin bushes, which were
sufficiently low to enable the tracker to see the backs of the beasts
without difficulty.
CHAPTER V.
AFTER BUFFALOES AND ELANDS--A FORTUNATE
SNAP-SHOT--ANOTHER HUNTER'S GAME.
The question now was whether we should continue our hunting on
horseback or go on on foot. It is a very two-sided question, this
one of hunting buffaloes on horseback or leaving the horses behind
you. The horse gives you the advantage of making a rapid pursuit of
your game when it is trying to run away, and with a good horse you
can easily overtake a buffalo, if you have wounded him at all
severely.
On the other hand, it is difficult, yes, practically impossible, to
shoot from a horse's back with any sort of accuracy. You must
dismount to shoot, and when you do so you necessarily lose a little
time; and quite likely your horse is restive, and will jerk your arm
just as you raise the rifle to your shoulder. Then, when you try to
mount again, he will make it difficult for you to do so by pulling
back on the bridle and acting ugly. Horses that are perfect hunters
are very hard to find in Africa, and I do not believe the rest of the
world is oversupplied with them. I have heard of a great many horses
that would enter into the spirit of the chase, stand like rocks when
their riders wished to fire, follow closely, always be ready to be
mounted, and do everything else that the hunter might desire. I say
I have heard of those horses, but they were always a long way off
from where I was.
We decided that we would leave the horses under the tree, which was a
conspicuous landmark, with two of the Kafirs to take care of them
while we went on foot after the buffaloes.
Just as we were about starting, however, one of the natives reported
a herd of elands about a mile to the south; whereupon Harry and Jack
concluded to go after the elands, leaving the buffaloes to me. "It
will diminish the chance of our hitting one another," said Harry,
"which we might very likely do in the bushes where the buffaloes are;
but there's less danger of that sort of trouble in the open country."
I assented to this suggestion, in which there was good sense, and
remarked that it might make a variety in our stock of provisions for
the next few days.
"Don't give all your attention to shooting bull-buffaloes," said
Jack; "fetch down a yearling cow if you have the chance, as it will
be better eating than the patriarchs of the herd."
"All right," I replied; "I'll endeavor to bring you in an
assortment." And with that I started off, while they were getting
their horses ready. I saw to it that I had plenty of ammunition, and
Kalil was carrying my six-to-the-pound Remington, which I had cleaned
up that morning.
When we reached the neighborhood of the buffaloes I filled my
cartridge-belt and took my rifle from Kalil. Mirogo led the way,
creeping along as cautiously as a cat--an animal which he resembled
in more ways than one. I could hear the buffaloes tramping about in
the bushes; they seemed to be considerably scattered, but evidently
had not been disturbed recently.
The first of the buffaloes to come into my range of vision was a
magnificent bull, who towered considerably above the bushes. Mirogo,
who was a little distance ahead, called my attention to the animal
and then dropped back behind me. I crept along until I had a good
chance at the creature's shoulder, about twenty yards away. I fired,
and my bullet told, as the buffalo gave a loud roar and then looked
around in my direction. Immediately on firing I slipped behind a
tree, and he did not, at first, perceive me. Mirogo and Kalil had
also sought the protection of trees, and the animal was evidently
puzzled to know where the shot came from. He threw his head in the
air, snorted, and then started forward, coming straight to the tree
where I was concealed.
When a buffalo's head is elevated in the way he usually carries it
when on a trot, it affords slight chance for a shot. A bullet on the
forehead is pretty sure to glance off, and if aimed at any other part
of the head the result will be the same. About the only thing to do,
provided no broadside is presented, is to crouch low to the ground
and then aim at the animal's chest. If well planted, a chest-shot is
a fatal, or, at any rate, a demoralizing one.
I had shoved a fresh cartridge into the rifle, and was ready for the
beast when he came on. I crouched almost to the ground behind the
tree, and when he was within about fifteen paces I let him have it in
the chest. He fell forward with a plunge that brought him directly
against the tree. I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, and did
not venture to step out from my place of concealment for at least a
minute. The buffalo has his tricks, as the reader already knows, and
I wanted to be sure he was dead before I came within his reach.
I blew my whistle to summon my tracker and gun-bearer, and when they
came--which was very quickly, as they were concealed close by--I had
them pull the tail of the buffalo and otherwise test him. Then we
marked the spot and went in pursuit of the rest of the herd.
Of course the shot had alarmed the other buffaloes, and they
scattered about considerably. They were difficult to find, and for
nearly half an hour we were uncertain in what direction to go.
Mirogo and I held two or three consultations, and decided to push on
toward the west, where the spoor showed that the animals had gone.
We worked our way along, and in a little while I had the pleasure of
bringing down one of the yearling buffaloes of the kind that Jack
suggested would be desirable. A single bullet sufficed for his case,
as he gave me a good shot at short distance, and, besides, a yearling
does not possess the strength and endurance of one of those old
veterans such as I had first obtained.
During the excitement that immediately followed the shooting of this
second buffalo I thought I heard the report of a gun a mile or so
away to the westward. It was only a surmise, as we were just then
tramping around in the bushes, and paying no attention to anything
except what immediately surrounded us. I gave the subject not a
moment's thought, and speedily forgot all about it, until a sudden
and very unexpected circumstance brought it to my mind again.
One of the dangers of shooting in company, in addition to hitting one
another, is that of coming unexpectedly upon an infuriated beast that
has been wounded by somebody else than yourself. If you are
following an animal wounded by yourself you will exercise proper
caution, but no skill in the art of hunting, and no amount of
caution, can protect you from the charge of an ugly animal that has
been wounded by some other hunter. This has happened to me on
several occasions, and it happened on the buffalo-hunt which I have
just been describing.
We were going along through the forest peaceably enough, Mirogo
leading the way and I following, with Kalil, carrying my gun, close
at my heels. No buffaloes were in sight, and there was no occasion
for me to be burdened with my rifle just at that moment.
Suddenly we heard a great crashing in the bushes twenty or thirty
yards away, and out of them sprang an infuriated bull, who made
directly at us.
Mirogo had just time to shout "Look out, sir!" when he sprang into a
small tree; but there was no tree for me to spring into. I jumped to
one side of the path, and at the same time brought my rifle around,
which Kalil, with great presence of mind, had shoved into my hands
the moment he heard the crash. I gave the buffalo a snap-shot just
behind the left shoulder as he passed me, not having time to bring
the weapon to an aim. It was one of the luckiest shots I ever
planted, as it brought him, dead, to the ground.
The manner of this buffalo indicated that he had been wounded, and I
was sure that he had not been wounded by me. It naturally occurred
to me that our amazon neighbors had been trying their skill, and had
been unsuccessful in bringing down their game, at least in this
instance.
I told Mirogo to examine the buffalo for bullet-marks other than my
own. He examined the body of the brute, and it turned out as I
expected: the animal had been wounded, having received a bullet in
the right shoulder.
It is a rule of the chase in Africa that, when several people are
hunting together, the first shot is the counting one. If I fire at
an animal and wound it, and it runs off in your direction, and you
shoot and bring it down, the prize is mine, not yours. In some cases
such a decision seems to be very unjust, but on a moment's reflection
the reader will see that it is founded on justice. The first one who
hits a creature disables it more or less, and through the disability
that he creates the subsequent hunter or hunters are enabled to kill
it.
I told Mirogo to mark the spot by attaching a rag to the tallest bush
in the vicinity, and then continue in the same general direction we
had been traveling. He acted accordingly, and we proceeded with our
hunting, the impression being very strong on my mind that before we
saw any more buffaloes we would pretty certainly meet the hunter who
had planted the initial shot in the animal I had recently finished.
We went on for a mile or more without seeing or hearing anything.
Then we came to a little mound, perhaps twenty feet in height, whose
top gave us a view over the bushes for quite a distance. We ascended
the mound and took a careful survey, knowing that if any buffaloes
were in range of the spot we could not easily miss them.
Not a buffalo was in sight, but there was visible, two or three
hundred yards away, a hunter with tracker and gun-bearer. I looked
very carefully at the hunter, and speedily saw that it was none of
our party. As the stranger came nearer I perceived that it was not
the fair one whom I met the day before, but was dressed in precisely
the same manner, and the movements and general appearance told me it
was a woman.
"Aha!" I said to myself, "I think I am about to meet Mrs. Roberts.
Miss Boland is at the camp with a headache--no, let me think! Africa
is no place for headaches such as women complain of in civilized
lands. Perhaps the two are hunting together, and are working the
buffalo-herd from opposite sides. She continues to come this way, so
I presume she has no objection to meeting me. Miss Boland evidently
gave me a good character when she got back to camp. Perhaps she
didn't mention me at all; may have considered the incident, and the
man, too trivial to refer to. However, I'll descend from the mound
and meet the lady, who quite likely will ask if I've seen any
buffaloes belonging to her."
I descended from the mound and moved in the direction of the
stranger. I saluted respectfully, raising my hat as I did so, and
remarking that it was a fine day for hunting. What a blessing the
weather is for breaking the ice in a conversation!
"Yes," was the response of the stranger, "it is a fine day for
hunting, or for a promenade, and what more agreeable promenade can
there be than in the forest at this time?"
"I certainly know of nothing to surpass it," I replied, "and it is my
fondness for the sport that brought me to this part of the world.
But let me come from generalities to particulars: have you wounded a
buffalo this morning?"
"Yes," was the reply, "I have killed one and wounded another. I'm
afraid I'm not a first-class shot, as I ought to have brought down
the last buffalo I fired at; he was not more than twenty yards away,
and I had an excellent chance at him."
"What did you aim for?"
"I tried to aim just back of the right foreshoulder, but from the way
he went off I don't think I hit him there; perhaps did not hit him at
all."
"It is my pleasure to inform you," said I, "that your game is secure.
I heard your shot, and a little while afterward a buffalo came in my
direction. He came crashing through the bushes, and charged directly
at me. I was fortunate enough to be able to bring him
down--fortunate in more ways than one, as he would have brought me
down with a vengeance if I had not done so."
CHAPTER VI.
A DISPUTED PRIZE--RULE OF AFRICAN HUNTING--MRS. ROBERTS.
"I congratulate you," said the fair stranger; "but how are you
certain that it was the buffalo I fired at?"
I explained that my tracker had examined the animal and found the
wound in the shoulder, as already described. I then mentioned the
rule of the chase, of which the reader knows, and told the lady that
I surrendered all claim to the prize. As I did so I said, again
raising my hat, "I presume I have the honor of addressing Mrs.
Roberts?"
"I am Mrs. Roberts," she replied, with a smile; "but how did you know
me?"
I explained briefly about my meeting with Miss Boland, and that she
informed me of the name of her hunting-companion and the location of
their camp, or, at least, its general direction. The lady appeared
somewhat surprised, though not altogether so, and I was unable to
make out from her manner whether Miss Boland had told her about
encountering me in the forest, or had failed to mention the matter in
any way.
I then told her my name and where our party was encamped. I offered
to conduct her to the spot where her buffalo had met his death, and
she assented to the proposition. Her gun-bearer was close at her
heels, just as Kalil was close to mine. I told Mirogo to lead the
way, and he and the other tracker showed the direction, keeping a
short distance in our front. I was in no hurry to reach the spot,
but thought my companion was quite willing to have the interview come
to an end as soon as convenient. We conversed on hunting-topics, and
altogether the conversation was an agreeable one, at least to me.
In all her talk the lady bore herself very modestly, and seemed
inclined to give the credit of superior hunting-ability to Miss
Boland. She magnified the exploits of her companion and depreciated
those of herself.
"Miss Boland," said she, "is a fine hunter in the saddle, which I am
not. It is about as much as I can do to attend to the horse and keep
on his back, to say nothing of loading a rifle while going at full
speed, or dismounting to take a shot. A few days ago," said she, "we
chased a herd of elands. Miss Boland brought down the leader of the
herd; she had a hard ride for it, and I thought she would have to
give it up; but she stuck to it until she got right alongside the
eland, and shot him from the saddle. I brought up the rear a good
distance away, and did not get near enough for a shot with the
longest-range rifle that ever was made. It is proper to say, though,
that Miss Boland had a much better horse than I had; it isn't
possible to get the speed out of my animal that she can out of hers.
We started out on our expedition with three horses apiece, but we've
lost one of them, and two others are not in serviceable condition."
"You haven't been in the tsetse-fly country, have you?" I asked.
"No, we haven't as yet," she answered, "and we're deliberating
whether to go there or not. We have been told that there's some fine
buffalo-hunting up in the fly country, and want to go there; but of
course if we do we must leave our horses behind, or be put to the
pain of seeing them die."
I may as well explain to the reader that the tsetse-fly is one of the
scourges of certain parts of Africa. It is about the size of the
common house-fly, or a little larger, and is harmless to horned
cattle and donkeys, and also harmless to the human race; but, to use
a slang expression, it is "death on horses." The bite of a
tsetse-fly causes the death of a horse in a very short time; the skin
swells enormously, great festering sores follow, and no remedy has
yet been found for the bite. The valleys of certain rivers and lakes
are infested with these flies, while other parts of the country are
entirely free from them. Sometimes they are found on one side of a
river but not on the other, and the alternations of heat and cold do
not seem to have any effect in driving them away.
We had quite a talk about the flies, and speculated as to the reason
why some animals were attacked and others exempt. Other travelers
have speculated on the same subject before and since, but I presume
their investigations had no more practical result than ours did.
"Our foreman told us," said Mrs. Roberts, "that up in the fly country
there were great herds of buffaloes--thousands of animals in a
herd--and that this was about the time for attacking them. I don't
think we are quite equal to one of the large herds, but after the
other hunters have gone in and broken them up we might attack some of
the stragglers."
I was able to tell the lady something about that style of hunting, as
I had been engaged in it the previous year. "A party of us formed a
camp on a little stream called the Gumban; then we sent out native
hunters in all directions to visit the drinking-places of the
buffaloes, find the large troops of the animals, and break them up.
The buffaloes form into these troops in the summer and get broken up
in the winter by the hunters. We were lucky enough to find one of
the largest troops, which was known to the natives as the
'dust-raiser.' It was several days before we struck the herd, but
when we did we had lively work. My first experience with one of that
herd was something to remember."
"I would like very much to hear about it," said Mrs. Roberts, "if you
have no objection to telling me."
"Oh, not at all," I replied; "on the contrary, it will give me great
pleasure. It was a very brief affair, as I came suddenly upon the
animal when he was standing under a tree. I was not aware that any
buffalo was about, and was carrying a rifle loaded for koodoo. My
gun-bearer was behind me with my large rifle, and I quickly exchanged
one for the other. I took a shot at the buffalo, but it was not
sufficient to bring him down. He turned and charged upon me; I
dodged behind a tree, and as he went past and was turning to come
back at me I gave him a second shot which laid him low.
"Half an hour after that," said I, "I met my friend Harry, who was of
our hunting-party, and when he caught sight of me he came forward on
a run. He said he had wounded a buffalo and it had retreated into a
very disagreeable place--into a thorn-thicket, where it was not easy
to follow. He proposed that we should get on opposite sides of the
thicket--which was not very large--and then send our trackers in to
drive the animal out.
"I had a quiet laugh to myself," I continued, "because I saw a very
large defect in his scheme. The thicket was not far off, and we went
to it; but when Harry suggested that the trackers should go inside
they demurred emphatically. There was a tall tree at the side of the
thicket, and I proposed that Harry should climb that tree with the
aid of his tracker, and from that point he would be able to see his
game; I would stand at the foot of a tree at the opposite side of the
thicket, and be prepared to meet the animal in case it came out at
that point.
"Harry acted according to my suggestion, and after reaching an
elevation of about thirty feet he called out that he could see the
buffalo distinctly. Then he gave it a shot, and it looked around
very much surprised, not knowing whence it was assaulted. Another
shot followed, and then the beast made a break outside the thicket
close to my position. I managed to lay it low, and then I shouted to
Harry that he could descend from his perch."
"I've been telling Miss Boland," said Mrs. Roberts, "that a good way
to shoot buffaloes--certainly a safe way--would be to climb a tree
and shoot from a secure place in the limbs. She answers me that it
is not a fair way of fighting, and nowhere near as exciting as the
way in which the buffalo is usually hunted. I presume she is right;
in fact, I know she is. She is braver than I am, and takes risks in
hunting that I am unwilling to take."
"I don't think there can be any question of your bravery, Mrs.
Roberts," I replied, "after what I have seen this morning. You
certainly took your chances with that buffalo, and I'll warrant
you've done the same before. You have dodged behind trees and
perhaps have climbed them, just as many a man has done in this
African shooting."
"Oh yes," she said, with a laugh, "I'm not by any means without
experience in hunting-risks, only I think it would be just as well
for all of us if we consulted our safety a little more, and had some
regard for the possibilities of getting back to our homes in due
course of time."
"Very few people think of safety when they set out on a
hunting-excursion," I replied. "Of course they consider the question
a little when face to face with big game, and I don't think there
would be any difference between men and women on that score. A cool
head is requisite at all times, and any one who cannot command that
should not venture into the hunting-field where the quarry is a
dangerous one."
"I agree with you there," the lady responded, "and that's where our
sex is decidedly at a disadvantage."
"How so?" I asked, with an air of wonder and surprise.
"Oh, you know perfectly well," said she, "that it's a habit of women
to faint in presence of danger, and what would become of a fainting
woman before an infuriated buffalo or elephant? I'm afraid it would
be her last hunt."
"Yes, I am afraid of that too," I replied; "but I think you do
injustice to your sex. Women generally faint after the danger is
over, if they faint at all; as long as the peril is present they are
as nervy as the sterner sex. Of course that's not the invariable
rule, but I think it's so in the majority of cases."
"Thank you for the compliment," she answered; "perhaps we'll have a
chance to discuss this subject further. Here we are at your buffalo."
"I beg pardon, madam; not my buffalo--your buffalo."
"Oh now," she answered, "I think it belongs to you; never mind about
the rule of South African hunting, as the animal had escaped me
entirely, and I should never have seen it again or heard from it but
for you. You had a narrow risk of your life when you brought it
down."
I insisted that the animal was her prize, and that it was not proper
to violate the laws of the country. "There isn't much law here," I
added, "except that of custom, and nothing can be more binding than
an established rule."
"Well, if you insist upon it," she replied, "rather than violate the
practice of the country I will accept the prize as mine, and in doing
so I thank you most heartily for the share you took in obtaining it
for me. Perhaps I may have the pleasure of returning the service
some time--no, stop! it isn't fair to suppose that you ever miss a
shot, and consequently I should never have the opportunity."
"There never yet was a hunter," I answered--"at least I've never
heard of one--who was invariably successful in his pursuit of game,
especially of large game. Even such mighty nimrods as Gordon
Cumming, Sir Samuel Baker, and others whose names you know, have many
stories to tell of game that escaped, not only after one, but after
many bullets."
"That's true," she replied; "and I remember how Cumming returned on
several occasions after an entire day in pursuit of elephants without
securing a single one. Instead of being disheartened at the result
it only nerved him to further exertion, and he persisted in the chase
until he had made a good record."
Then, suddenly looking at the sky, the fair hunter asked me if I
could give a guess as to what time it was. I may remark that it is
not customary to carry a watch in one's pocket when out after
buffaloes or elephants; the African hunter generally takes his time
by the position of the sun or by rough-and-tumble guesswork.
"I think it is along in the neighborhood of noon," I
answered--"certainly within an hour of it."
"Thank you, thank you very much," she responded; then she paused and
surveyed the horns of her prize, and seemed to forget my presence
entirely.
I took this as a hint that I had better be going; so, raising my hat,
I said, "I bid you good-day, madam, and hope I may have the pleasure
of meeting you again, and possibly of helping secure for you another
prize like this."
CHAPTER VII.
STALKING A KOODOO--HARRY AND JACK AMONG ELANDS--CAUGHT
IN A PITFALL.
I was bowing myself away when Mrs. Roberts, with a gracious smile,
said:
"I am greatly pleased to have met you, and if it should be in your
way to pass near our encampment it would give us pleasure to see you."
I thanked her for the invitation, and said it would give me pleasure
to accept it. Then I made my adieus and turned back to the tree
where I had separated from Harry and Jack, they going in pursuit of
the elands and I starting out on foot for buffaloes.
Mirogo sent the Kafirs to skin both the buffaloes and bring in the
horns and tongue of the big one and the meat of the yearling. The
Kafirs reported that Harry and Jack had disappeared in pursuit of the
elands; the last seen of them they had crossed a ridge to the south
three or four miles away. I knew they would have a long ride for it,
and if I set out in pursuit it would be a good while before I could
overtake them. Away to the east, half a mile or so, the Kafirs
reported some koodoos, and I thought it would be a good plan to stalk
them. So, leaving Mirogo and Kalil behind, I took my small rifle,
with a beltful of ammunition suited to it, and away I started.
There is an old saying that you do not hunt ducks with a brass band,
and you do not hunt koodoo with a tracker and a gun-bearer. Like all
animals of the antelope kind, the koodoo is very shy and also very
sharp-sighted. To stalk him you must do a great deal of creeping on
the ground, and take advantage of every bush, tree, rock, ant-hill,
or anything else that rises more than six inches from the ground. It
is far easier to approach an elephant than a koodoo; in fact, it is a
complete science to be an accomplished hunter of this animal or any
of his African kindred. One of each herd is generally on the watch,
and they seem to select him for his superior eyesight, hearing, and
powers of smelling. You must study the wind down to a single point
of the compass, take your bearings with the utmost care, and then
creep along very much as a cat creeps after a mouse before she makes
her spring. If the animals see you there is no use following them;
turn right about, go in the contrary direction, and circle around
until you come in on the opposite side, provided the wind will permit
you to do so.
I have heard old hunters say that they were perfectly satisfied if
they got one good chance in a day to shoot a koodoo. Knowing this,
the reader will understand how anxious I was to succeed in my hunt,
and that I was willing to put myself to a great deal of inconvenience
and trouble in the hope of bagging my game.
The ground was quite open where the koodoos were, but within half a
mile of them there was a stretch of scattered bushes. I made for
these bushes till I got around a point that was nearest to the herd
and also was off-wind, and then I began the snake and cat business to
my best abilities. I utilized every little obstruction on the
ground, and when there was none I dragged myself along by means of my
elbows, pushing my gun in front of me and taking care not to get dirt
in the muzzle of it. There were perhaps a dozen koodoos in the herd,
and one fine old buck was posted as sentinel. He kept turning slowly
around, surveying all points of the compass; and whenever his head
was in my direction I lay as still as the ground on which I rested.
When he turned away I slipped forward a length or two, and sometimes,
by great good fortune, half a dozen lengths.
The sun was hot--not only hot, but blazingly so. Whenever my hand
touched the ironwork of my gun it seemed as if it would raise a
blister; and with my back exposed to the rays of the orb of day, I
felt as though I were standing before the furnace of an iron-foundry.
The perspiration poured out of me, and had it not been for my
determination to bag a koodoo I should have abandoned the chase and
gone back to camp.
It was not only the heat that came near breaking me up on that hunt,
but a snake, and a poisonous one at that. As I was dragging myself
along over the ground, imagine my horror at seeing a serpent about
six feet long lying directly in front of me and not more than three
yards away! I came very near springing up and jumping backward,
which of course would have ended the koodoo-hunt then and there; but
I restrained myself. My next thought was to shoot the reptile, but
to do so would have been equally fatal to my sport.
After a moment of thought--and it was only a moment--I adopted the
tactics of the crab, and moved backward. I did not turn around, as I
wanted to keep my face in the direction of his snakeship, who seemed
to be asleep and sunning himself. I backed away three or four yards
and then made a detour around my unpleasant neighbor, sufficiently
far away from him not to disturb his slumbers.
I was afraid of coming on more snakes, but luckily that was the only
one I encountered. He was what is known as a mamba, and is found in
various parts of South Africa. The one I saw was a small one; we
killed a snake of this kind one day under our wagon, and when he was
stretched out on the grass he measured about eleven feet in length.
Mambas of ten or twelve feet are by no means uncommon. Their bite is
poisonous; dogs bitten by them die within an hour or two, and the
same is the case with small animals. Human beings live longer, but
the bite of one of these serpents is almost sure to be fatal. Some
of the native tribes have a superstitious reverence for them, and do
not kill them; but the majority of Africans generally try to despatch
them if they can.
The herd of koodoos gradually fed around in my direction, so that
they were between me and the sentinel. I wanted to bag him, but of
course their position rendered it impossible. I had had my eye on
him for some time, and when the rest of them got around toward where
I was I thought of the Irishman who gave as his excuse for not firing
at a flock of ducks, "Whenever I get a bead on one, another swims
right in between him and me!"
I singled out the best buck of the herd and stalked up to within
forty yards of him. Then, when he presented a good broadside, I let
him have it, and brought him to the ground. He was up almost in an
instant, and so was I; and I gave him another shot, which again
floored him, this time for good. I ran forward and plunged my
hunting-knife into his throat to make sure that he did not escape me.
Of course the others were off like the wind, but I paid no attention
to them; my thirst for glory was satisfied for that day.
The men had been watching me from the tree where I left my horse.
The report of the gun, the smoke, and my handkerchief, which I waved
in the air, brought them, and with them my horse Brickdust, which was
led along at a slow trot by the Kafir who had charge of him. I
mounted and rode to camp, while the Kafirs attended to skinning the
koodoo and bringing in the meat.
Harry and Jack had not reached camp when I got there, and they did
not return until nearly sunset. They had good luck in their chase of
the elands, Harry shooting one and Jack bringing down two. Harry's
was the largest of the three, and consequently he claimed that the
honors were about even. They had a lively chase after them, and by
the time they got through their horses were pretty well used up.
"In two or three places," said Harry, "we came near breaking our
necks in pitfalls that the Kafirs had made for game; and in one
instance if it had not been for the intelligence of my horse I should
have gone headlong into a hole about eight feet deep. The horse saw
the hole before I did, and swerved quickly to one side; if we had
gone full speed into that pitfall I am afraid it would have been all
over with both horse and rider."
These native pitfalls are oftentimes a great nuisance and also a
great danger to the hunter. The natives dig them in localities where
the animals are apt to run, and consequently they are right in the
way which a hunter takes when he is pursuing a herd. Sometimes the
pitfalls are open, and strung along in connection with one another
for a considerable distance. The natives surround a herd on three
sides and then drive it in the direction of the traps. If an animal
tumbles in he cannot get out, and is easily speared or otherwise
slaughtered by his captors.
One day, while I was stalking a herd of gemsbok, I walked plump into
a pitfall that was seven feet deep. The hole had been covered over
with bushes, grass, and a sprinkling of earth, so that it looked for
all the world like the ground in its immediate vicinity. I was
sneaking along, bent nearly to the ground, with my eye on the game
ahead of me, when suddenly I felt the earth give way, and it seemed
as though I was dropping half-way to the other side of the world. I
fetched up at the bottom all in a heap and half stunned. When I
gathered myself up and rubbed my eyes I found that my gun was lying
on the bottom of the pit with the muzzle directly toward me and both
locks at full cock!
My hair had been standing on end when I brought myself up to a
sitting posture; when I saw my gun and its position every individual
hair on my head was frozen stiff!
There was a native kraal not very far from where my friends killed
their elands, and of course the people came out to share in the
spoils. Whenever a hunt of any kind is in progress, if there are any
Kafirs or Zulus about they are sure to come, partly out of curiosity
to see the sport, but more particularly to eat up any trifle of game
that may be left over. It was so in this case. My friends selected
the cuts that they wanted from the animals, and hired some of the
people to bring them to camp. The rest was turned over to the crowd
and disposed of in short order. As a general thing these natives do
not take the trouble to carry the game to their kraals, especially if
they are a long way off, but they build a fire on the spot, sit down,
and begin their feast.
The jackals and hyenas come around and hang about at a respectful
distance, waiting for what is left over. By the time the natives are
through the jackals and hyenas have pretty poor picking, unless the
quantity of game is very large and the number of people small. A
dozen or twenty natives will get away with the best part of a
fair-sized buffalo; after they have eaten their fill they lie down
and rest until there is space for a little more, when they rise and
resume eating.
With the natives of South Africa it is generally a feast or a famine,
and I may also remark that it is very much the same with a hunter:
there are days in camp when his supply of food is more than he knows
what to do with, and these are preceded or followed by days when his
stomach is well-nigh empty, if not entirely so.
After my friends had told their experience of the day I narrated
mine. Something put it into my head to say nothing about my
encounter with amazon No. 2, and so I avoided all allusion to the
subject. I thought I would keep the whole matter to myself until I
had visited the camp of the ladies and made their acquaintance; but
Harry spoiled my game by driving me into a corner where it was
necessary to lie outright or "acknowledge the corn."
"By the way, Frank," said he, as we had finished our stories, "did
you see anything of our neighbors, the women, about whom you told us?"
"Oh yes," I replied, "I was coming to that." (Fact is, I was not
coming to it at all.)
"Well, what about it?" queried Harry. "Did you see either or both of
them, or did you happen on their camp?"
Then I told what the reader knows, though really I told the story
much more briefly than I have elsewhere given it. I merely remarked
that I met the one who called herself Mrs. Roberts, and killed a
buffalo which she had wounded.
"Oho!" said Harry, and Jack said "Oho!" at the same time.
"Well, what's the meaning of 'Oho!' I'd like to know?"
"It means," said Jack, "that you seem to have struck a streak of
luck; in two days you run across both of them and make yourself
agreeable. Did she invite you to call on them?"
"Yes," I answered, "in a civil sort of way; didn't appear as if she
cared whether I called or not."
"Well, probably she didn't," said Harry; "but she couldn't very well
avoid doing so after you'd killed a buffalo for her. One must show a
little appreciation of courtesy even in South Africa. I suppose
you'll call?"
CHAPTER VIII.
AFRICAN HORSE-SICKNESS--TWO NARROW ESCAPES IN
ELEPHANT-HUNTING--JACK AND HIS HORSE.
"That's a very natural supposition," I replied; "of course I shall.
After being here in this country for weeks without hearing a feminine
voice or seeing a white woman's face, any one who calls himself a man
would gladly accept an invitation like that. I shall certainly drop
in at their camp the first time I'm that way."
"Yes, and you'll make it your way very soon," said Jack; "I would if
it were my case."
"Are we in it at all?" said Harry. "Did your invitation include your
friends?"
"Not as yet," said I, "but I presume it will in due course of time.
At any rate, when I do visit their camp I'll mention you, as I have
already, and will give you good characters--that is, as good as I
can."
"Thank you," said Jack; "and we'll promise when our turn comes that
we'll sound your praises."
We had a little more good-natured raillery on this subject, and just
as it ended we were called out to look at one of the horses, which
had gone sick. He showed every symptom of the horse-disease peculiar
to South Africa, which has carried away so many animals of greater or
less value. When a horse sickens it is necessary to bleed him
freely, and if this is done in time he may be saved. One of the most
trying things to a hunter in Africa is the loss of his horses,
whether by the African disease or the tsetse-fly. The latter can be
avoided by keeping away from the country where the fly abounds, but
no amount of caution can avoid the former. Horses that have had the
disease and have recovered are said to be "salted," and are much more
valuable than those that have not passed through it. Having had it
once, they are not altogether exempt from it, like a child with the
measles and other infantile maladies, but they are far less liable to
a second attack than they were to the first.
After the incident of the horse we sat down to supper, which
consisted principally of a stew made of the koodoo that I killed, and
the tongues of the elands broiled over coals of thorn-bushes, the
whole washed down with coffee, and a thimbleful of brandy at the end.
Then came our pipes and a chat about what we had best do the next day.
Our Kafirs reported a small herd of elephants three or four miles to
the eastward. They were sighted along in the afternoon, and as they
had not been disturbed at all it was thought they would remain where
they were until the next day. We decided that we would go in pursuit
of them, making an early start, so as to get the most of the hunt
over before the great heat of the day.
In the morning we sent off the trackers an hour or so before we
started ourselves, with directions to make out the position of the
herd, so that we should lose no time in getting to work. We followed
on horseback, and when we had accomplished about two thirds of the
distance to the forest we met a Kafir who had been sent back by
Mirogo to tell us that the elephants were there. At the edge of the
forest we dismounted, leaving our horses in charge of the men, under
the shade of a large tree which was about a quarter of a mile from
the woodland where the elephants were. Harry and Jack were posted on
opposite sides of the forest, while I went into the wood, accompanied
by Mirogo and Kalil. I had my two heaviest rifles, and was prepared
to do good work if the opportunity offered.
The scheme was for me to do the best I could while among the trees;
of course my first shot would alarm the entire herd, and as the
forest was not large they would be pretty sure to run out of it.
Harry and Jack were to take shots at them, if possible, from their
points of concealment, and then signal for their horses to be
brought, and pursue the big game on horseback over the open country.
I was to come out of the wood as soon as whatever work I could do
there was accomplished, and follow the example of my friends; that
is, mount my horse and chase the herd.
It was not long after entering the forest before Mirogo, who was
leading, came upon the spoor of the elephants. It was evident there
was a number of them--all the way from five or six to twice as
many--and the spoor showed that they were animals of the first class
so far as size was concerned.
There was no difficulty in following the spoor, as the herd made
quite a track through the underbrush, and so facilitated my movements
a good deal. In a little while we heard the crashing of bushes and
the usual noise that an elephant makes when he is feeding or
leisurely proceeding through a wooded country. We hurried along
cautiously, and presently I caught sight of a bull with a magnificent
pair of tusks.
Before I could get a shot at the fellow or any of his companions
something disturbed them. What it was I did not know; perhaps they
caught our wind from some direction, or, the herd being a little
scattered, they may have caught the wind from the parties outside the
forest and passed the signal along from one to another. They made
trumpet-calls to indicate some sort of elephant-talk, and then they
seemed to huddle together, as nearly as I could make out, for a
consultation. At all events, they got out of my sight, and very soon
I heard them crashing out of the woods at a great rate.
I knew it was useless to follow on foot, and so made my way back
again out of the forest to where the Kafirs were holding the horses.
I had just reached the tree where my horse was when I saw the
elephants coming out and making across the open country for another
patch of forest three or four miles away. There were four
bull-elephants and five or six cows; the bulls were magnificent
fellows and the cows by no means an ordinary lot. I was nearer to
the herd than either Jack or Harry, and that gave me choice of the
beasts. I singled out the largest of the bulls and gave chase.
Ranging my horse up alongside I gave him a couple of bullets just
back of the shoulder, aiming wild, of course, as the horse was at a
gallop and there was no time to dismount. After the second bullet he
turned and stood facing me, as if undecided what to do. Then he came
on with a terrific charge, and I wheeled the horse very quickly to
avoid him.
After that he continued on his journey after the rest of the herd,
and I followed him and gave him another dose. This brought the
elephant around again, and as he came about I determined to give him
a ball in the chest; and this time I put in the gun a cartridge with
an explosive ball, which would certainly astonish him, at any rate.
When I raised my gun for the purpose of firing, the horse tossed his
head and prevented me from taking aim. While I was trying to pacify
him the bull came on, and I fired at random. I evidently did not hit
the elephant at all; I aimed directly over the horse's head, and
think the bullet must have come disagreeably near to his ear, as he
gave a sudden jerk to one side, which threw the near rein over on the
off side and unfastened the curb-chain, the bit turning right around
in his mouth.
Here was a pretty predicament, and if there had been time for
reflection I should have regretted that I ever came to Africa to hunt
elephants or other big game. The great brute was not fifty feet away
from me, with his trunk elevated in the air, his immense ears
flapping, and his trumpet sounding in the most vicious manner. I had
no control over the horse on account of the position of the reins and
bit, and so I dug the spurs into his side to get a move on him
someway.
The horse went straight for the elephant, and I thought it would be
the end of the animal and his rider. I leaned over as far as
possible on the side farthest from the elephant, and as I went by him
his trunk was within six feet of me. I drove the spurs into the
horse, and on he went for fifty yards or so, where we brought up
against three small trees that stood in a sort of triangle. We got
through these trees, but I was nearly dragged from the horse in so
doing, and it is a wonder that I was able to hold on to my gun. I
clung, however, to the gun and the reins, and on we went, jumping
over thorn-bushes, and through a tangled sort of thicket, and over
ground full of holes.
The horse was nearly down several times, and I narrowly escaped being
pitched overhead, as the ground was very heavy and not at all adapted
to a promenade on horseback.
All this time the elephant was close after us and generally not more
than ten or twenty yards behind us. I got clear of him by moving in
circles, guiding the horse as well as possible by pressing on his
neck and encouraging him in every way I could. When one is chased by
an elephant the best way of escape is by doubling on him; he cannot
turn quickly, and there is where you have him at a disadvantage.
As soon as there was a chance to pull up I jumped off the horse,
arranged the bridle, and mounted again to pursue my elephant, who was
moving in the direction the herd had taken. I came up to him and
renewed the hostilities, giving him in all ten shots, and being
charged three times, the last time for fully half a mile. Then I
gave him an explosive bullet right between the eye and ear, and he
came to the ground. My horse was completely blown by that time, and
as for myself, I was ready to drop with exhaustion. It was one of
the hardest chases I ever had after an elephant, and I do not know of
one on which I had a closer call.
Harry and Jack went in pursuit of the herd soon after I singled out
my prize. Harry said that he got up so close to one that the horse's
nose almost touched him, Harry's intention being to watch a favorable
moment, come around to the elephant's side, and give him a shot
there. It is very little use shooting at an elephant's rear, as
there is nothing but a great mass of flesh there; several ounces of
lead deposited in it make no particular difference in the animal's
movements. Suddenly his elephant turned to see who it was that was
accompanying him; this gave a chance for a broadside, which Harry
embraced, planting a bullet in the beast's shoulder. Harry dropped
back again to reload, and then followed up through a mass of tall
bushes that concealed the animal from sight. He dashed on to
overtake the elephant, and came near being caught by his antagonist.
The elephant had stopped in a place where the path turned suddenly,
and Harry was almost under his trunk before he saw him. The bull
trumpeted furiously and made a terrific charge. The horse whirled
instantly, but Harry drove the spurs into him, when the two went
through a mass of thorn and other bushes that they would not have
dreamed of venturing into at any other time. Harry's encounter with
the bushes was very evident when he turned up, as his clothes were
torn in shreds and his flesh was gashed and scratched in many places;
half the skin was torn from his hands, and he was not at all a
presentable object for a drawing-room; and, besides, he lost his
elephant!
Jack was more fortunate, for he bagged his elephant--one of the
bulls--and had about as lively a time in getting him as I had with
mine. In some respects it was livelier, as he was pitched from his
horse while the elephant was chasing him, and the great beast
actually passed within two feet of where Jack was lying at the side
of the path. The horse caught his foot in a hole and stumbled,
throwing his rider to the ground; he was up on his feet in an instant
and off to one side, while Jack crawled or rolled out of the path
along which the elephant was coming. The animal had such a momentum
that he could not stop, and after getting by he seemed to regard the
horse as his principal assailant and followed him for a hundred yards
or so. Then he gave up the chase and proceeded in the direction of
his companions.
Jack's horse was a wonderfully docile creature; when the elephant
ceased following him he stopped and waited for his master's call.
Jack whistled, and the intelligent animal ran to him at once. My
friend gathered up his gun, remounted, and was immediately off like
the wind in pursuit of his tusker, which he soon laid low.
We spent the evening in telling the stories of our adventures during
the day and laying our plans for the morrow. What they were the
reader will learn in the next chapter.
CHAPTER IX.
A MORNING CALL IN SOUTH AFRICA--LADIES AT HOME--HOW MISS
BOLAND KILLED A LION.
It was decided that we would go in pursuit of a herd of buffaloes
which was reported to be in the locality where I met our amazonian
rivals in the hunting-field. It is hardly necessary to say that the
buffaloes were not the only attraction that drew us in that direction.
We were off in good season after breakfast, and accompanied by the
usual party of followers. We went on horse-back, and--for the
benefit of the buffaloes, of course--we had our clothing carefully
dusted and our hair arranged as much after the style of London or New
York as is possible for a hunter in South African wilds. It may not
make any difference to a buffalo how the person who kills him is
habited and groomed, and up to this time we had given very little
thought to the subject; now our views were materially changed, and
one of my friends suggested that it was a pity we had not brought our
dress suits along.
Our attendants were off a good half-hour ahead of us. We mounted our
horses and followed the same general course that we had taken on our
last buffalo and eland hunt. When we reached the ground where the
buffaloes were said to be, Harry and Jack went in pursuit of them,
while I held my course farther to the westward, where the Kafirs said
the hunting-women were encamped.
The forenoon is not fashionable calling-time in London or New York,
but people are not so particular in South Africa. If one does not
make it too early a forenoon call is just as proper here as an
afternoon one. Of course if it is not convenient to see the caller
when he arrives he can be put off with the polite fiction, "Not at
home," just as easily in one part of the world as in another.
I did not have any card to send in, and when I came in sight of the
camp I sent forward my after-rider to announce that Mr. Manson was
coming. The after-rider went in at a gallop, thus drawing general
attention upon himself and evoking a great deal of noise from several
dogs that belonged to the outfit. It was certainly enough to rouse
the camp and make everybody in it aware that a visitor was
approaching.
When I rode up to the kraal the after-rider informed me that the
ladies were at home and would see me presently. I dismounted and
looked about the kraal while waiting. The camp seemed very well
arranged, and I was obliged to admit to myself that the appearance of
things about it was much more orderly than that of our own. The
kraal was constructed of palisades and large thorn-bushes, the whole
forming a fence about ten feet high, and with an outwork of
thorn-bushes sufficient to deter the approach of the most
enterprising lion or other African beast.
One end of the kraal was fenced off and contained the wagons and
tents; the rest of the space was assigned to the cattle when they
were driven in at night, and also to the huts of the natives who
formed a part of the expedition. The entrance-way was sufficiently
large to admit of free ingress and egress during the daytime; at
night it was securely closed, so that coming in or going out was a
matter of no small moment. Before passage could be obtained the mass
of material blocking the entrance had to be removed, and consequently
it was necessary for every one to be inside the kraal when the gate
was closed for the night.
An intelligent Dutch Boer joined me soon after I dismounted, and
entered into conversation. He was the foreman or manager of the
expedition, and confidentially told me that he had been up-country a
good many times, but never before with women. He said their trip had
been very pleasant thus far and the ladies seemed to be enjoying
themselves. "They haven't killed a great deal of game," said he,
"but much more than I expected they would. Women don't go hunting in
this part of the world," he remarked, "except for antelope and some
other small things; but I've heard they do so sometimes in other
countries."
I made an evasive reply to this remark, which seemed to be put in the
form of an inquiry. While not saying so, I left him to infer that it
was the most ordinary thing in the world for women to go on
hunting-expeditions in the country I came from, and the size of the
game made no difference to the hunters.
Then he told me of some of the difficulties of their march thus far,
and he dwelt on the fact that they had repeatedly been short of fresh
provisions. He did not say for what reason, but I readily guessed
that he meant because his fair employers were not as diligent or
skilful in obtaining game as male hunters usually are. In an African
expedition the hunters are expected to keep a supply of food on hand
by the active use of their weapons, and with the various attendants
attached to the caravan a good deal of shooting is required.
Fifteen or twenty minutes after my arrival a servant came to ask me
to step into the tent, or rather into one of the tents. I followed
him and was ushered into a very comfortable dwelling of canvas, which
evidently served as dining-room, parlor, reception-room, library, and
the like.
Mrs. Roberts was the only occupant of the place, and she greeted me
cordially. A circular table was in the middle of the tent, cut in
halves, so that it could be placed against the center-pole. Four
iron camp-chairs afforded seating-facilities, and some boxes and
trunks around the outer edge of the tent would accommodate others in
case of a rush of visitors. The floor was spread with skins and
rugs, and it was elevated somewhat above the ground outside, in order
to keep off dampness as much as possible. Before entering the tent I
observed that a ditch had been dug around it and a drain led off to
one side--a very wise precaution in South Africa, especially in the
season when rains are not infrequent.
The hostess said that Miss Boland would join us in a few minutes.
"We were intending," said she, "to go on a hunt to-day, but were out
yesterday, and when breakfast was served we concluded to put off our
excursion until afternoon. I am very glad we did so, as it has given
us the pleasure of a call from you."
I bowed my acknowledgments and assured her that my pleasure at their
abandonment of their morning excursion was quite as great as their
own. I added that I hoped they had excellent luck the day before.
"We were not very fortunate yesterday," she replied. "We went out
into the open country in pursuit of elands, koodoo, or anything else
we could find there. I am frank to say that I bagged nothing, while
Miss Boland was fortunate enough to bring down an eland and a
hartbeest. She had a sharp ride for the eland, and stalked the
hartbeest. The ground was very favorable for stalking, and she
approached him with comparative ease. I tried a little stalking at
the same time, but the animals took fright and ran away before I
could get within range. I told you I was not much of a hunter and
that the honors of our expedition belonged to Miss Boland. Here she
comes."
As Miss Boland entered the tent I rose and was cordially greeted.
The manners of the two ladies suggested that they certainly had not
taken offense at my treatment of them at our first meeting in the
forest. They looked far less like hunters than at the time I first
saw them, as their hunting-costumes had been replaced by the morning
wrapper of civilized femininity. I took a sly glance in search of
the powder and other facial adornments which also belong to civilized
life, but could not discover traces of anything of the kind. Their
faces were a ruddy brown, and evidently the women had no fears that
the climate of South Africa would spoil their complexions; in fact,
they were allowing the complexions to take care of themselves, while
enjoying the pleasures of a hunter's life.
We had a general conversation on hunting and other topics, which it
is unnecessary to repeat. In fact, I would find it impossible to
write a verbatim report of what was said during my visit. I was
impressed with the enthusiasm which these women showed for their
semi-wild life, and also with the care they had taken to provide
themselves with as many of the comforts of civilization as it was
possible to bring along. They had a chestful of books, most of them
relating to the country they were in or the sports which attracted
them, and they had not forgotten to bring along a quantity of novels
and miscellaneous matter, such as one does not often find in the
outfit of an African hunter. They offered me several works of
fiction which they were through with, both having read them. I
accepted their offer, as we were short of literature in our camp, and
the books were quickly made into a parcel and handed over to my
after-rider.
I remained there perhaps half an hour. As I rose to go they urged me
to remain longer, just as is always the case in fashionable society,
no matter how much the host may wish for the visitor's departure. I
explained that my companions were hunting buffaloes in the locality
where I had the pleasure of meeting the two ladies, and that they
expected me to join them. This led to my explaining who my
companions were and also to a further explanation as to myself.
"You already know," I said, "that my name is Frank Manson. I am from
New York, and take pride in saying that my father is one of the
prominent citizens of that metropolis of the western world. After my
graduation from college I was taken, into my father's law-office and
expected in due course of time to become his partner and successor.
My health became impaired and it was decided that I should take a
year or two of active outdoor life. I had read the books of Gordon
Cumming, Baldwin, and other South African hunters, and it did not
take me long to make up my mind to visit this part of the world and
take my active outdoor life in pursuit of South African game.
"When I reached the Cape I made the acquaintance of two young men who
had come, the one from London and the other from Glasgow, with the
same objects in view as myself. Jack Delafield is the son of a
wealthy manufacturer in Scotland, and Harry Lawrence is the son of a
London merchant, also reputed wealthy. They are bright, interesting
fellows, and it did not take us long to form a partnership in a
hunting-enterprise. They are my two companions, and we have had a
royal good time together."
Mrs. Roberts said that she would certainly be pleased to meet the
gentlemen, and Miss Boland acquiesced in the suggestion. I observed
that Mrs. Roberts seemed to be in the position of chaperon to the
younger woman; the initiative in everything was taken by the former,
but whether this was accidental or otherwise I was unable to say at
that time.
"Would it please you," I asked, "to visit our camp, on any day and
hour that you choose, where you can see our hunting-outfit and meet
my two companions?"
The ladies looked from one to the other, and I decorously turned my
attention to the opposite side of the tent, so that they could
express approval or disapproval to each other without coming under my
eye. I fastened my gaze on a gun-case, and not only my gaze, but my
hands, whereupon Miss Boland remarked:
"That's my favorite gun--a Winchester. I have two or three other
kinds, but that's the one I prefer above all others and carry more
frequently than any other." Then she stepped forward, deftly opened
the case, and took out the weapon.
It was, as she said, a Winchester, and one of the best of its kind.
I remarked that I was familiar with the gun, as we had four of that
pattern in our outfit. Of course this led to a brief dissertation on
the merits of the Winchester, in which Miss Boland grew quite
enthusiastic over the rapid firing qualities of the weapon.
"I never appreciated the Winchester so much," said she, "as when I
killed my first lion with it. He was a grand old brute, one of the
largest of his race. He had been prowling around the camp at night,
and once, when the moon was bright, I went out determined to shoot
him. We had put a bait out for him just on the edge of a ridge, so
that when the lion came he was between me and the sky. I was about
fifty yards away from him, with this rifle. The first shot did not
bring him, but he gave a terrific roar. Instantly I fired a second
shot, then a third, and then a fourth. The lion fell, and there was
no more disturbance that night. I could not get the men to go out
and see the result of my shot, as they were afraid the mate of the
animal might be about and would seek revenge. The next morning they
were bold enough and went; there was my lion as dead as a door-nail,
and every bullet had told."
CHAPTER X.
AN INVITATION ACCEPTED--ANOTHER BUFFALO--PREPARING
LUNCHEON IN STYLE.
Then from Winchesters the talk ran to other rifles. I suspected that
this diversion was in order to avoid an answer to my invitation, and
at the first convenient pause in the rifle-talk I again started to
leave the tent. Thereupon Mrs. Roberts stopped me and said:
"It will give us pleasure to accept your invitation, and if the
weather justifies we will call at your camp the day after to-morrow."
"Thank you very much," I answered; "it will give us great pleasure,
and if the facilities of the country permitted you might expect a
band of music to welcome your arrival. But as an orchestra is not to
be had we must content ourselves with the resources of the country.
May I ask at about what time we may look for you?"
"Oh, somewhere in the neighborhood of noon, I suppose," she replied.
"Will you do us the honor to take luncheon with us during your call!"
I asked.
"With pleasure," the lady answered; "and we shall look for ice-cream,
oysters, and all the delicacies of London and New York combined."
"Certainly," I replied; "all we have to do is to send to Delmonico's
and Gatty's, and that we can do with the utmost ease."
This retort evoked a laugh from the twain, and under its cover I said
good-day and retired.
I rode as quickly as I could to the place where my friends were
engaged in hunting the buffaloes, drawing up at the tree under which
we had left our horses the day before. Their horses were at the tree
in the care of the Kafirs who accompanied them. I found that Harry
and Jack had gone into the forest on foot and several shots had
already been fired. Not wishing to run the risk of meeting an
infuriated bull which one of them had wounded, and also unwilling to
risk being shot while approaching the hunters, I concluded to remain
outside and wait for developments.
I did not have long to wait--not more than fifteen or twenty minutes;
a huge bull came rushing out of the woods and made across the open
country, passing quite near the tree under which we were resting. He
was followed by three or four other members of his herd, and this
gave me an excellent opportunity for a buffalo-hunt on horseback.
Filling my belt with cartridges and taking my trusty Remington, I
swung into the saddle and went after the bull that was leading the
group. I tried to make out whether he was wounded or not, as I
preferred to bring down game of my own and not an animal that, by the
rules of South Africa, would belong to somebody else. There was no
trace of blood on the spoor of the buffalo, and so I concluded that
he had only been alarmed at the sound of the firing and possibly by a
shot aimed at him which went wide of its mark.
I had no difficulty in getting alongside the brute. Evidently he had
never been chased on horseback and looked upon man and horse as some
sort of wild animal, possibly a modification of the giraffe, or
perhaps a new kind of quagga or eland. In fact, he might easily
mistake the horse for a quagga, as there is a strong resemblance
between the two animals, and the man might be taken for an unusually
large hump on the creature's back. At all events, he manifested no
alarm whatever at my riding up alongside, but he did manifest a great
deal of surprise when I sent a bullet into his side at short range.
His surprise was momentary; he paused, gave a look at me, and then
charged savagely in my direction.
I was ready for him and got out of his way. My horse evinced a good
deal of terror as the brute rushed upon him, and made active use of
his legs. The charge did not last long, and the buffalo resumed his
course over the open country.
I ranged up alongside and gave it to him again, and then I saw the
advantage that a Winchester would have been under the circumstances.
I could have given him two or three shots before he had a chance to
turn and charge, and two or three shots might have settled him where
one did not.
He charged again, but this time his assault was feeble, his steps
grew slower and slower; he paused, came to a dead stand, and then
dropped to the ground! Another shot at the vulnerable point in his
head finished him completely, and then I rode on in pursuit of the
others.
I singled out a cow and hunted her down in the same way. By the time
I finished her the others had disappeared in a great clump of
hack-thorn bushes, where I did not care to follow. Hunting in
hack-thorn bushes is terrible work on one's clothing, not to mention
his skin. For making the visit already mentioned I had donned the
best of my South African equipments, and as my call was to be
returned two days later I thought it just as well to keep away from
the hack-thorns.
I retraced my steps in the direction of the tree where I had left the
horses of my friends. There I found that Harry and Jack had driven
out another bunch of buffaloes, which made off in an easterly
direction; they mounted their horses and went in pursuit of the game,
and had been out of sight for some time, trending away to the
eastward. It was no use for me to follow, as a stern chase would be
a long chase and completely use up my horse, not to speak of his
rider. So I gave the Kafirs the direction for finding the two
buffaloes I had slaughtered, and then, after giving my horse a
breathing-spell of a quarter of an hour or so, jumped into the saddle
and jogged slowly in the direction of camp.
"Glory enough for one day," I remarked to myself--"a call upon those
two charming women, and two buffaloes added to my credit. I don't
know that I care for any more game just at present."
While I was meditating upon the events of the morning and also
considering our menu for lunch, suddenly, on passing a ridge, I
sighted a herd of elands.
I brought my horse to a stop instantly, and with my head just above
the ridge surveyed the herd, which luckily had not seen me. By going
back a little and then moving along parallel to the ridge I could
come upon the herd almost within shooting-distance, and that is
exactly what I did. The herd was feeding in a valley between two
ridges, and before they were fairly aware of it I was upon them. I
singled out the finest of the animals, which was also one of the
nearest, and in less than fifteen minutes from the time I first
sighted the herd the creature was lying dead at my feet. Had I
followed them up it is quite likely I might have bagged another, but
I repeated to myself my previous assertion--"Glory enough for one
day." After marking the spot where the eland lay by tying a piece of
rag (torn from my shirt) to the nearest thorn-bush, I again resumed
my journey toward camp, and this time I reached it.
It was two or three hours after I got to camp before my friends
returned. They had had good luck, both on foot and on horseback,
Harry having killed three buffaloes and Jack two. They had a run
after elands. I could not tell from their description whether it was
the herd from which I had made a selection or not, but they were not
as fortunate as I, not getting near enough for a shot. Altogether we
made a very good day's sport, and when our closing meal of the day
was ready we partook of it with a hearty relish. The old adage says
that hunger is the best sauce, and we were hungry enough to have
eaten a slice out of a lion.
And this reminds me that a lion is not such bad eating after all.
One naturally has a prejudice against it, as the lion belongs to the
feline race, and outside of China cats are not popular as
food-material. I tried lion one day, principally for the reason that
there was nothing else to eat and I had just shot one of the
so-called "kings of beasts." It tasted somewhat like veal, but was
tougher, and also had a cattish flavor to it. I had some steaks cut
from the lion and broiled over the coals, and the next morning had a
stew made from the lion's flesh. The conclusion I reached was that
stewed lion is better than broiled lion, as the stewing rids the
flesh of the feline bouquet. If any reader of this story should have
occasion to dine upon the flesh of this animal I recommend that he
have it stewed or boiled, and well boiled too.
Harry and Jack were delighted when I told them of the visit that was
promised to us. They immediately began making plans for the
luncheon, and to put the camp in order for our fair callers. Harry
ran over the inventory of his clothes and finally decided that he
would don his best hunting-suit, inasmuch as he had no other except
his every-day one, which was very much dilapidated. The best one was
not a great deal better than the worst. As for white shirts and
collars, there was nothing of the kind in our outfit; neither was
there a tall hat among the three of us.
Jack's outfit and mine were very much the same as Harry's, so that
there was nothing to boast of. We had our best suits carefully and
severely dusted, and fished out some checked hunting-shirts which had
not yet been worn.
"We're ahead of any other African hunters, I believe," said Jack, as
the garments were unfolded. "I don't believe there's one in fifty
that can show a clean shirt after he's been out a month from
civilization."
"And a good many of them," said Harry, "can't show any shirt at all,
when you come to that. We're mighty lucky to have such a splendid
wardrobe. Wouldn't be a bad idea to start a clothing-store, even
with our limited stock."
The question of dress being settled, there arose the momentous one of
the menu for luncheon. Jack said that we would paralyze them on
that, and he would apply the stroke of paralysis.
This he said with a shake of the head which intimated that he knew
what he was talking about. I could not make out what he was driving
at, and waited patiently for the result.
We were up early the next morning, and all three set about
preparations for the lunch of the next day. We cleaned out the tent
and made it as presentable as possible; and by the time we were
through with our work we all admitted that it had never yet been as
orderly as it was then. We had three iron camp-stools and sundry
chests and boxes, and we had a table, circular in form, around the
center-pole. The table perplexed us, as it would seat three
comfortably and four fairly well, but five around that table made
altogether too close sitting.
"What's the matter," said Jack, "with ranging our two wagons side by
side, and stretching the canvas cover from one wagon to the other, so
as to form a big awning? Then, by means of chests and boxes, we can
rig up a table under this awning, and have much more room than in the
tent. We can use the tent as a reception-room, and when luncheon is
ready we'll adjourn to the dining-saloon."
Harry and I accepted the suggestion as a capital one, and it was
immediately acted upon. The position of the wagons was changed, the
ground beneath them was cleaned up and leveled, and the wagon-cover
stretched across. We carpeted the ground with skins of some of the
animals we had killed, and altogether made a very comfortable
dining-hall. Jack abandoned his idea of piling up boxes to form a
table, and instead of that he fashioned a temporary table out of the
covers of some of the boxes, supported on sticks driven into the
ground, and connected by means of cross-sticks. We were at a loss
for a table-cover, but improvised one from a piece of canvas that had
been brought along for mending the tent in case of its injury.
These preparations were complete by a little past noon, or enough so
to make it easy to finish them in a little while. We took a slight
luncheon and then went out hunting, I in pursuit of gemsbok--in which
I was successful--Harry after a young buffalo, and Jack in search of
vegetable provender. Jack said that a salad was necessary for a
fashionable luncheon; he had seen a plant growing on the bank of the
river which he thought resembled lettuce. He said he would get a
quantity of the stuff and eat heartily of it that night; if it did
not kill him by morning he would consider it a safe material for the
concoction of the salad.
When he brought the vegetable into camp Harry and I were struck with
its resemblance to lettuce. Jack said that the sea-cows ate freely
of it, and therefore it was not poisonous to them. "But then, you
know," he continued, "what a sea-cow can eat and what we can eat may
be two different things. A sea-cow looks as if it could eat a
sewing-machine or a cotton-loom without impairing its digestion, and
so it's necessary to make an experiment. I'll give the lettuce to
one of the oxen and eat some myself."
I can add that neither the ox nor Jack was injured in the least by
the South African lettuce; so we added it to our bill of fare, not
only for that day, but for many a day thereafter, whenever we could
find it.
CHAPTER XI.
ICE-MAKING IN AFRICA--A HUNTERS' LUNCHEON--AFTER
GEMSBOK AGAIN.
The next morning Jack's stroke of paralysis in the way of a feast
developed itself. He fished out from one of the wagons a box
containing a small machine for making ice. The machine was small,
and also its capacity: it could make two pounds of ice in three
hours, and that was the utmost of which it was capable. I forget the
name of the machine, but it was of French manufacture, and Jack said
in case it got out of repair it was necessary to send the thing to
Paris. It worked in an odd sort of way, as the ice was obtained by
means of the condensation of ammonia-gas into the fluid form, and the
gas was formed by building a fire under a retort. It struck me as
very funny that heat was required for making ice, but so it was.
"I bought this thing in Paris," said Jack, "and brought it along,
thinking it might be useful. Have thought of it several times since
we came up-country, but didn't want the bother of taking it out and
setting it up. But it's all right now, and I don't mind the trouble,
when we're going to give a reception to ladies."
Jack put the machine in operation in the neighborhood of the cook's
quarters, and detailed one of the most intelligent of the men to
watch it. In the meantime Harry had taken his fowling-piece and gone
out to shoot some quail, which were abundant in the open region a
mile or so to the south of the camp. He came back in little more
than an hour with a fine string of them, and said he could have
bagged enough for a London evening party had there been any occasion
to do so. He also shot a bustard, and said it would make a
first-rate substitute for turkey.
Our cook was a native of the soil and had not been to Paris for his
training in the culinary art. His science was limited to plain stews
and broils; but as to anything else he was a failure. We tried him
two or three times on making bread, but the article he produced was
of a quality that would have been refused by a starving beggar. We
set him to work making a stew of the best parts of the young buffalo,
and also intrusted him with the broiling of some gemsbok-steaks. The
rest of the cooking was supervised by ourselves, and we managed to
get along very well, considering our inexperience. We had a very
fair quality of bread, which was prepared by Harry overnight and
baked in a Dutch oven; and we also drew upon the resources of the
wagon for various things. For soup we strained off the thin part of
the buffalo-stew, rejecting all the rest. It was not lost, however,
as the Kafirs made short work of what was left.
Altogether the menu for our luncheon was as follows:
Buffalo-soup
Gemsbok-steak
Boiled eland's tongue
Cutlets of roast turkey (bustard)
Broiled quail
Salad of South Africa
Bread
Claret
Iced champagne
Tea and coffee
Crackers and cheese
"That wouldn't be a bad lay-out for New York or London, would it?"
said Harry, as we went over the list.
"Not by any means," I answered. "I don't believe we'll get through
with it and eat heartily of every dish."
"No more do I," said Jack; "and I think we will astonish our visitors
by showing what three bachelors can do when left to their own
resources."
Everything was ready about noon--the time when our visitors were
expected. All the articles were under the supervision of the cook,
and he was threatened with instant death in case anything was missing.
While we were waiting for our guests Jack suggested that we might
possibly think up something else to add to the feast, but Harry and I
deterred him from so doing. He thought he might be able to bring
something more out of the recesses of the wagon, but we voted that it
would be useless to do so.
We were just a little pushed on the score of tableware, as our
canteen was made up for four persons; but by making some of the
plates and dishes do double duty, and calling into use some tin cups
and tin plates, we managed to get along.
About half an hour past the meridian one of our Kafirs reported
people approaching from the westward, and shortly thereafter our
visitors arrived. The fair ones were accompanied by their manager
and after-rider, and all were on horseback. We met them at the front
of the kraal; I assisted Mrs. Roberts to dismount, while Jack showed
the same civility to Miss Boland. The manager and after-rider
disappeared in the direction of the kraal, where our manager took
charge of them; and after presenting my two friends to the ladies I
escorted them to the tent. We had been not a little curious as to
the costume they would wear on their visit, but all our doubts were
set at rest when they came in sight, as they were habited precisely
like English or American equestriennes, and their riding-habits had a
decidedly fresh and unused look; but more about that by and by.
They departed a little, though, from the fashion of civilized life in
avoiding the chimney-pot hat which custom ordains for the woman on
horseback. On their heads they wore the sola topee, or sun-hat,
which is familiar to everybody in Africa and Asia, and pretty well
known at present throughout Europe and the United States. And I may
add that this head-gear is a pleasing addition to a woman's
riding-dress and ought to be more generally used than it is.
We had a little conversation in the tent, and then I suggested to
Jack and Harry that our duties as assistant cooks required our
presence in the kitchen. If the ladies would excuse us we would go
and see that the ice-cream was properly on the fire and the Scotch
whisky browned after the style of the old country. The ladies
excused us graciously, and we left them to themselves in the tent, so
that they might remove their hats and repair any little damages to
hair or face which the ride might have caused. But there was more
earnestness than jest in my suggestion, as we all had something to
attend to in the way of preparing the feast.
We returned in a little while, and conversation was resumed on
general topics. The ladies had much to say about the neatness of our
camp and the stanch manner in which our kraal was constructed. I
told them of our lion adventure, and added that I thought their kraal
was quite as well built as ours.
"As to the neatness of things as you see them," said Jack, with the
most outspoken frankness, "it is very largely due to your visit.
Man, when left to himself, isn't a very orderly being, and we three
fellows haven't wasted much time in making things shipshape about our
camp. Each of us has his corner in the tent and leaves his things
pretty much as he likes. We have a rule that no one is to disturb
the property of anybody else, and we abide by it strictly. So,
although everything may appear in disorder, we can each of us lay
hands on everything of our own that we want, because we know exactly
where it is."
Jack paused, and Harry took up the line of talk by suggesting that we
had been straightening up a good deal since I returned with the
announcement that the ladies were coming to visit us. "We don't
think it at all right to allow you to take things as they were, but
rather as you find them now. At the same time, we don't believe it
proper to live under any false pretenses."
"I think I ought to blush for my conduct in this matter," I said, as
Harry paused.
"How so?" queried Mrs. Roberts.
"Why, because I called at your camp without warning, while we have
had two days' notice."
"Oh, but don't you remember," the lady replied, "I kept you waiting
outside for at least a quarter of an hour? You can't imagine what
prodigies of setting things to rights we did in those fifteen
minutes."
"Well, we didn't accomplish ours in any fifteen minutes, I assure
you," I answered; "to be frank about it, we were at work all
yesterday forenoon."
"We appreciate the compliment, I am sure; do we not, Miss Boland?"
was the reply.
"Certainly we do," said the young lady; "and I almost feel
conscience-stricken for having put you to so much trouble."
"The trouble has been a great pleasure," Jack responded; "it has been
more than a pleasure--it has called us back to civilization, which we
were rapidly forgetting, and so becoming like the barbarians around
us. No visit of men could have raised in us the energy to do what we
have done--nothing short of a visit of fair women. I have often
thought that if Adam had been left in Eden without the presence of
Eve he would have become as great a barbarian as a South African
hunter, and the only security for the animals which abounded there
was that he didn't have any firearms."
"Oh, but he could have dug a pitfall for them, just as the natives do
here," said Miss Boland; "or perhaps he would have driven them into a
kraal and slaughtered them by wholesale."
The conversation went on in this way for a little while, and then, as
I saw our three personal attendants standing near the table, I rose
and asked the ladies to walk into the dining-hall, offering my arm to
Mrs. Roberts and requesting Mr. Delafield to escort Miss Boland. I
remark by the way that the question of the division of two ladies
among three men had previously been decided by a "toss-up," Harry
being left out in the cold by this appeal to Fortune. I had Mrs.
Roberts at my right; Jack came next; next was Miss Boland; and
between Miss Boland and myself Harry was placed. This was about the
best arrangement we could make. Harry had suggested that another
woman might be obtained, so as to make the party an evenly-balanced
one, by washing and dressing one of the Kafir women. Jack inquired
whether she would be dressed with butter or olive-oil, and then the
subject was dropped.
To tell the whole story of the visit would be tedious, and I forbear.
Considering that we were in South Africa, we had an excellent
luncheon; while the cooking was not up to the Delmonico standard, the
food was abundant and by no means poor in quality. Our visitors
praised it rapturously, and declared they had not sat down to as fine
a table since they started from Walvisch Bay. Jack's salad was a
success of the highest order, and received the sincere praise of
everybody.
When the quail were brought Jack begged to be excused for a few
moments while he went to the kitchen. He came back with five
glasses, filled to the top with ice, on a battered tray which he
carried in one hand, while in the other he held a bottle of
champagne. Placing the tray on the table, he cut the string and
allowed the cork to escape from its confinement with its
well-accustomed sound. Then he filled the glasses with champagne and
passed them around to our surprised visitors and to ourselves.
I say "surprised"--they were more than surprised; they were
paralyzed, as Jack predicted they would be. They sat in speechless
astonishment looking at the bubbles rising around the lumps of ice,
and I think both of them brought their hands to their foreheads to
make sure whether they were awake or dreaming.
"Ice in the wilds of South Africa!" exclaimed Mrs. Roberts. "Who
ever heard or dreamed of such a thing!"
"Yes, indeed," said Miss Boland, "this is the greatest surprise since
we started from Walvisch Bay. I felt sure we would be received in
princely style, but this is more than princely--it is royal; it is
imperial!"
"Ladies, we drink to your very good health," said Jack, with all the
grace of a master of ceremonies at a royal court. Bear in mind that
he was clad in check shirt and trousers and a very shabby moleskin
jacket, which was about the same as the dress of Harry and myself.
All the healths were drunk, and then we had more conversation. The
coffee was brought, and Mrs. Roberts suggested that if we wished to
smoke we were at liberty to do so, as the dining-room was well
ventilated and smoke would be no inconvenience to them.
We thanked her and said that we did not care to smoke at that time,
the usual period for our pipes being at the end of the day. After a
while we adjourned from table, took a stroll outside the kraal, and
managed to get fairly well acquainted all around. The ladies told us
who they were, and gave us a sufficient amount of information about
their families.
The afternoon wore on, and in due time Mrs. Roberts said they had
better be returning to their camp. Their horses were ordered up; but
before mounting they gave us a cordial invitation to visit them at
home, and the day was named for our doing so. Then we helped them
into their saddles--their manager and after-rider were already
mounted--and away the quartet cantered in the direction of the sun,
which was much more than half-way from the zenith to the horizon.
After our visitors had disappeared we discussed them briefly, and our
talk was brought suddenly to an end by the arrival of one of our
Kafirs, who reported a herd of gemsbok not more than a mile away to
the southward. We agreed that it would be a good settler for our
luncheon to take a run in their direction, and in a few minutes we
were mounted on our horses and off in pursuit of the game.
We had a good run, and a successful one too, as each of the party
brought down an animal without much delay. We managed to get on
three sides of the herd, and in this way confused them, thus
rendering our success comparatively easy. We got back to camp a
little after sunset, and when we sat down to supper Jack remarked
that he had not much appetite.
"Well, that's about the way with me," said Harry; "that luncheon was
enough to spoil anybody's appetite for the rest of the day."
I had a similar confession to make, and we did not linger long over
our suppers; but what we did enjoy was our smoke afterward, and we
made amends for our deprivation during the day.
"Charming young woman, that Miss Boland," said Jack, as he lit his
pipe with a coal from the fire.
CHAPTER XII.
ANOTHER ELEPHANT--A MISFORTUNE--HARRY'S LUCK.
"Yes, that she is," said Harry; "girl of excellent manners, and the
pink of propriety."
Of course I echoed their opinion, and added to it a similar
expression in favor of Mrs. Roberts, to which both my friends
assented.
"We've put them on their mettle," said Jack, "and when we go to take
their lunch they'll be sure to startle us in some way."
"Yes, that they will," said Harry. "I suspected as much when they
named the date for our visit. They wouldn't have put the time off so
far if it had not been for their desire to make elaborate
preparations."
"We'll see what we shall see," I remarked; and then the conversation
changed to our plans for the next day.
"I think the elephants will suffer to-morrow," said Harry--"that is,
if we can find any."
"Yes," I answered, "we ought to be in the mood for an elephant-hunt,
and if we can hear of any elephants about we'll go for them."
While we were at breakfast the next morning Mirogo came and announced
some elephants off to the eastward, where the forest skirted a swamp
extending to the river. He said they had been seen at the edge of
the forest about daylight; there were a dozen or more of them, and
some were large tuskers.
Breakfast was completed very quickly, and we were off in the
direction of the elephants. We followed the same tactics as in some
of the hunts already described, Harry and Jack taking opposite sides
of the forest and I going among the trees to stir up the game.
Luck was on my side most emphatically, as I got a shot at a big
tusker before I had been fifteen minutes away from my friends. I did
not bring him down with my first bullet; he turned and charged me,
and I had a lively race among the trees to escape him. His charge
proved his ruin, as I dodged between two trees that were too near
each other to enable him to get through; he was going at such a rapid
rate that he fairly wedged himself between them. Seeing his
predicament, I slipped around to one side and gave him a bullet at
not more than five paces distance. That bullet was his death. He
settled back on his haunches and fell prostrate on the ground. I
fired another bullet into his head to make sure of him, but am
satisfied that it was a waste of ammunition.
I stood motionless for several minutes, surveying my prize; and he
was a prize, and no mistake! His tusks measured four feet nine and a
half inches in length, each of them; and I have them now above my
desk as I write. They have been greatly admired, and a high price
has been offered for them, but I hope I may never be so hard up as to
be compelled to sell these trophies of my hunting-experience.
I marked the spot, or rather took note of the position of certain
tall trees near where the carcass of the elephant lay, and then
started off in pursuit of the others. My tracker and gun-bearer had
disappeared; exactly how far they ran I could not tell, but my first
work was to summon them, which I did by blowing a whistle.
I whistled and waited; whistled and waited again and again before I
was answered. First came the tracker and then the gun-bearer. I
abused them roundly for having run away, though I really felt that
their departure was not altogether unjustifiable under the
circumstances. The elephant would have made no difference between
white man and black, and he was not expected to draw a line between
the man who carried the gun and the one who fired it. When I had
talked myself out on that subject I asked Mirogo what had become of
the other elephants.
"I think they've gone into the swamp, sir," was his reply; "I haven't
heard a shot from the other gentlemen."
"Well, then, the thing for us to do is to go into the swamp and find
them," I remarked. "Which way does it bear?"
Mirogo indicated the direction of the swamp and then led the way to
it.
The forest was bad enough to walk in, but the swamp was worse; there
were about the same vines and creepers in the swamp as in the forest,
and then there was the further disadvantage that it was all cut up
into little hillocks or islands, with mud-holes separating the
islands from one another. The islands were of various sizes, from
that of the top of a barrel up to the size of a respectable parlor;
and the mud-holes between the islands were anywhere from two feet to
a dozen wide. In going through these mud-holes we sank half-way to
our knees--that is, if we went quickly; if we proceeded slowly we
sank at least to our knees, if not deeper. Then, to add to the
inconvenience, there were no trees in the swamp; at least, none large
enough to afford shelter against an enraged elephant. There were
some small trees, perhaps a foot in diameter, which a man could
climb; but he needed the agility of a monkey to get away from his
pursuer in case he got an elephant after him. I did not like that
swamp a bit when we got into it, and if I had been alone I can say
confidentially to the reader that I would have sneaked out and gone
home. But my friends were waiting for me at the edge of the forest,
and this was not a time to hesitate; I had a reputation to sustain.
Mirogo led the way into the swamp, and I followed; and before we had
gone half a mile I had made two or three tumbles in the mud and
water, and was covered from head to foot with black ooze. We went
along as quietly as possible; but with all our care we could not help
treading on an occasional stick or making some other disturbance. We
could hear the elephants tramping around in the water, and they were
evidently a good deal disturbed at the loss of their companion, who
had fallen before my rifle. At one time they seemed to be receding
from us, and I was about suggesting that we give up the chase and
rejoin Jack and Harry on the open ground outside the forest.
Suddenly Mirogo, who was about ten feet in advance of me, turned
around, and with finger on his lip made a motion toward the front. I
crept along to his side, and when I reached it he whispered that the
elephants were there--he had just seen one.
I took my gun from Kalil, and then glanced at the position to see
what line of retreat I could take in case of trouble. The prospects
were not favorable, and I know I felt a sinking sensation clear down
into my boots, which were filled with water; but the sportsman's fire
was within me, and I crept on.
Passing around a clump of bushes through a medium-sized mud-hole, and
then around another clump, I came in sight of a fine bull-elephant;
not as large as my first one of the morning, but still a very fine
one for a hunter's bag. Unfortunately he was standing directly tail
on toward me. A shot at the stern of a ship may sometimes do great
damage, but not so a shot at the stern of an elephant: there is a
great mass of fleshy matter there, and you can fire into it with
anything short of a cannon-ball without doing much damage, and, what
is more, without impeding the movements of the beast. You will
simply enrage him, and that is about all.
To keep out of his sight I had to get down into a mud-hole, or rather
I lay with most of my body in the mud and water, and my head and
shoulders supported by one of the little islands or tussocks.
For three or four minutes the swishing and cracking of the bushes
continued, and I could see the back of the elephant most of the time,
but not very distinctly. Then his back disappeared and he seemed to
move away, which compelled me to change my position, giving up one
mud-hole for another. As I rose to an erect position I stepped on a
stick, which gave way with an audible crack. Luckily the elephant at
this time was engaged in smashing about among the bushes, and so did
not hear me.
I crept cautiously along, and as I did so the elephant moved out from
behind a large bush and presented a fine broadside. I took in the
shape of his tusks and noted that they were perfect. Then I brought
the rifle to my shoulder and fired.
It was a successful shot--at least, successful in one way, though
disastrous in another. The elephant came down head foremost; in
fact, his head was so very much foremost that it was doubled under
him. He was standing just above a little island or tussock, on which
lay a fallen log. Both his tusks rested on this log, and his great
weight, being concentrated upon his head, broke one of the tusks
short off at the lip. I heard the crack and knew that something was
wrong.
The other tusk came near breaking, and I have always wondered why it
did not give way; instead of doing so it tore open that side of the
skull, fairly bursting the thick bone, just as the young shoot of a
plant bursts the soil in which it grows. If the two tusks could have
burst out in this manner it would have been a saving of time and
trouble, as I then could have carried them away with me at once or
sent my men to get them.
There are three ways of getting the tusks of an elephant that you
have killed. If you must have them at once your only recourse is to
chop them out; and chopping the tusks out of an elephant's head is no
small matter. If you are encamped in the neighborhood and can wait a
week or ten days, you can, at the end of that time, pull the tusks
out without much difficulty. As the flesh of the animal decomposes,
the tusks become loosened, just as the teeth of a horse or other
animal become loose in a week or two after his death. The third way
is to have the elephant fall upon the tusks in such a manner as to
pry them out of their sockets. The reader will readily perceive that
this is entirely a matter of accident, and of rare accident at that.
Besides, there is a risk of breaking the tusks, as happened in my
case.
Well, my prize lay there. After prodding him two or three times, and
having Mirogo pull his tail, to make sure that he was dead, I climbed
up on his side and surveyed him. He was a magnificent bull-elephant,
and probably not less than one hundred years old.
There is a good deal of dispute among African hunters as to the age
of elephants, some contending that they do not live anywhere near as
many years as does the Asiatic elephant. There are elephants in
India known to be one hundred and fifty years old. I have never been
able to see why the African pachyderm should be any less long-lived
than his Asiatic brother; the characteristics of the two are so
nearly alike that their habits and way of life are pretty much the
same, except that the Indian elephant is domesticated and the African
one is not, or, at any rate, very rarely. The khedive of Egypt
generally has two or three African elephants in his collection at
Cairo, and the famous Jumbo--the delight of many thousands of
children in Great Britain and the United States--was a native of
Africa, and not of Asia. But let us return to our hunting. As soon
as I had surveyed my prize and marked his position by the surrounding
trees, I sent Mirogo to look for the other elephants, I following him
closely. The others had taken alarm and fled. Their spoor showed
that they had scattered somewhat, and just as I was considering which
spoor was the largest, so that I might follow it, I heard three shots
off on the right and then two on the left.
"Not much more chance for me to-day," I said to myself; "Harry and
Jack are getting their innings now, and it's time they had them."
I was about saying we might as well give up the chase when Mirogo
suggested it. "The elephants have taken the alarm," said Mirogo,
"and we can't get near them any more; they're gone out into the
forest, and are giving the other gentlemen a chance."
"Very well," I answered, "we'll go where the other gentlemen are, and
see how much they have done."
Then I told Mirogo to lead the way to the one that was nearest. He
suggested that we go first to Harry, and from Harry's position to
Jack's, which would be in the direction of camp.
We retraced our steps out of the swamp into the dry ground of the
forest, and then, by means of the sun and my pocket-compass, took a
course as nearly as we could make out for the point where Harry was
located. Before we got in sight of him we heard considerable clamor,
which satisfied us that he had been successful. Such proved to be
the case, as he had brought down a good-sized tusker with only three
shots. His tracker and gun-bearer were detailing the incidents of
the shooting to several of the natives, who had come out from camp
and halted at a respectful distance until the affair was over.
Several jackals had already appeared on the scene, and a dozen or
more vultures were circling through the air, two or three hundred
feet above the ground.
It is astonishing how quickly the jackals, vultures, hyenas, wild
dogs, and other feeders upon fresh or stale flesh will put in an
appearance after an elephant or other large animal has been killed.
I have been puzzled many a time to know where they came from; they
seem to rise out of the ground, or drop out of the sky, as if by
magic. They are useful in their way--very useful--as they perform
the work of scavengers without exacting any financial reward. Even
the lion does not disdain to perform his share, and when you see him
associating with hyenas and jackals you have very little inclination
to rank him as the king of beasts and give him all the prerogatives
of royalty.
Harry was in great glee over the elephant he had shot, especially as
he had had a narrow escape in the performance. He had taken his
position behind a tree, close by an elephant-path leading from the
open ground into the forest. He heard the elephant crashing along
among the trees, and stood ready to give him a shot. Then there was
a pause and the most perfect stillness, and the pause was broken by
the sound of the elephant moving again, and evidently retreating
farther into the wood. Harry was about to leave his position and
follow on the animal's spoor, but was restrained by his tracker, who
said, "Elephant come back bimeby, little while."
CHAPTER XIII.
HARRY'S SHOT--HIS TRACKER'S PREDICAMENT--AFTER
HIPPOPOTAMI--ELEPHANTS AGAIN.
Harry concluded to wait; and, sure enough, the elephant came back, as
the tracker predicted. He paused again at the edge of the forest,
and then came out and proceeded at a rapid walk along the path.
Harry raised his rifle and fired at the vulnerable spot, just between
the eye and ear. He wounded the elephant, but did not bring him
down, and then the animal turned and charged upon him, elevating his
trunk and giving a vicious roar as he ran upon his antagonist.
Harry took advantage of the tree in the same way that I had done;
and, according to his account, his antics were very much like mine,
which the reader already knows about. The tracker climbed into the
limbs of a small tree close by, thinking that there would be a place
of safety. The elephant saw him ascending the tree, and abandoned
the chase for Harry, in the hope of capturing the tracker.
He got under the tracker's tree just as the latter was a foot or so
beyond the reaching-point. Had the elephant been five seconds
earlier he could have seized the tracker with his trunk and dragged
him to the ground. Failing in this, he determined to shake the man
down.
Stepping back eight or ten feet, the brute ran at the tree with the
force of a battering-ram. The tracker--a lithe and active
Kafir--knew that his safety and life depended upon clinging to the
tree, and he hung to it, as the sailors say, "enough to squeeze the
tar out of the rigging."
Three times the elephant butted at that tree, and while he was doing
so Harry was making a diversion on which the infuriated animal had
not counted. With his rifle at full cock, and taking advantage of
the shelter afforded by a few bushes, Harry crept around until he had
the elephant broadside on and not more than twelve yards distant; he
gave him a second and a third shot in his most vulnerable points.
The animal abandoned his tree-shaking and started again in pursuit of
Harry. He took only three or four steps, however, before pausing,
trembling, and then falling dead to the ground.
Then we came around to where Jack had been stationed. He had also
killed his elephant, but, unfortunately, the animal was a young one.
It was a tusker, it is true, but the tusks were small, as was also
the elephant.
"As for a story," said Jack, "I'm like the needy knife-grinder: I've
none to tell. This little fellow came along, and I shot him; and
that's all there is about it."
"Well, if that's all about it," said I, "we'll go back to camp and
send the men out to bring in the tusks. It's a good morning's work
all around, and we ought to be satisfied with it."
By the time we got back to camp it was past noon, and we were,
literally, hungry as hunters. The cook was ready for us with a
dinner of gemsbok-steak and stewed rhinoceros. Rhinoceros is not by
any means a bad dish, and many is the meal I have made of it. You
can have it in a steak, a roast, or a stew. I think it goes best in
a stew; but there is a difference of opinion on that point, just as
there is in everything else in the cooking line. A young elephant is
not at all bad eating, and elephants' feet, no matter whether the
animal be young or old, are one of the delicacies of Africa.
To cook an elephant's foot, and do it properly, requires time and
attention. First get your foot. Then dig a hole in the ground and
build a fire over it; keep this fire going for two or three hours,
until you have got the ground hot all around, and the hole is filled
with coals and glowing ashes. Then throw your elephant's foot into
the hole, covering it over with the hot ashes and embers, and build
more fire over it. It will take from one hour to five or six hours
to cook the foot, depending upon its size and the extent and heat of
the fire. When you think it is done let it stay a little longer--say
half an hour--then rake it out of the ashes, and after letting it
cool enough so that you can handle it, serve it up. It will be found
to be a delicious semi-gelatinous mass, suggesting broiled pigs'
feet, but as much better than that commonplace dish as the elephant
is nobler and larger than our bristly friend of the pigsty.
While at dinner we discussed various things to do in the afternoon,
but found that all were sufficiently weary after the morning's work
to be willing to keep quiet the rest of the day. At the same time we
wanted to do something, and so it was proposed that we go down to the
river--about two miles--and try for a hippopotamus. The hippo is a
difficult beast to shoot, as he sticks pretty closely to the water,
and it is very unusual to find him on land. The time he spends out
of the water is nearly always at night. The natives take advantage
of this peculiarity of the beast, and make traps and pitfalls for
him; and that reminds me that I came very near getting my death-blow
from a hippopotamus-trap, one afternoon, while I was walking along a
path near the river-bank. This is the way the thing was rigged:
An iron spear was stuck in the end of a heavy stick of wood; and as
if the weight of the stick was not enough, some heavy stones were
tied on each side of it, close to the end. This spear was suspended,
with the point downward, right above a path which the hippopotamus
followed on the way from the river to his feeding-ground. The cord
by which the spear was suspended was carried over the limb of a tree
and then down to the ground, where it was fastened to a trigger.
This trigger was connected with a cord that extended across the path.
Now, a hippopotamus, in coming along the path, does not try to step
over the cord, but pushes his clumsy feet against it. In the first
place, he is taking his walk at night, and cannot see the cord; and
even if he could see it his legs are too short to allow him to step
over it. So he just shuffles along, pushes against it, releases the
trigger, and if the trap has been properly arranged the spear comes
down directly between his shoulders; his spine is pretty certainly
cut in two, and if he is not killed outright he is unable to leave
the spot. The natives find him in the morning, and despatch him very
quickly if any life remains.
I had heard about these traps before I came into the hippopotamus
region, but had forgotten all about them, when one day I was walking
along a path and came to a cord just such as I have described. It
was rather high for me to step over, and the thought occurred to me
that somebody must have lost a piece of cord there and I had better
pick it up. I was extending my hand to take hold of it when I
happened to look upward, and saw, directly above me, the weighted
spear, ready to fall the instant the trigger was disturbed! I backed
away from the spot very quickly, and took a course around the trap
instead of venturing farther along the path.
Harry and Jack were ready for the hippopotamus-hunt before I was, and
they started off, I agreeing to follow. They had previously sent
away a dozen or more natives--some of them our own men, and others
picked up in the vicinity--to prepare the raft necessary for a raid
upon the amphibious brutes. It is better to shoot them from a raft
of reeds--which can be constructed in a few minutes--than to shoot
them from a boat. They can overturn a boat and make it decidedly
nasty for the occupants; it is true they can shake up a raft
somewhat, but they cannot overturn it or sink it anywhere near as
easily as they can a boat.
My friends had been gone ten or fifteen minutes, and I was just
getting ready to start, when Mirogo, my elephant-tracker, came
rushing in, and said there were elephants back in the forest where we
had shot them in the morning.
Here was a temptation that I could not well resist. Elephants are
bigger game than hippopotami, and there is a great deal more glory,
and also a good deal more risk, in shooting them. I started a man
off to tell Harry and Jack to go ahead with their fun and not wait
for me, and also to inform them as to the cause of my detention.
Well, we went after the elephants--Mirogo, Kalil, and I. This time I
put my large cartridge-belt around my waist--I had worn my small one
before--and as we neared the forest I filled it with cartridges from
the supply which Kalil carried.
Mirogo had left a native to keep an eye on the movements of the herd,
and as we approached the forest the man met us and guided us on our
course. The herd was considerably farther to the west than the one
of the morning, and as it had not been alarmed in any way it was
supposed not to be the one whose numbers we had reduced with our
rifles.
The locality which the new herd had sought was not at all to my
liking, as the ground at the edge of the forest was covered with
wait-a-bit thorn-bushes; and the reader will allow me to remark that
the wait-a-bit thorn is one of the most aggravating things which the
African continent produces. I do not know who gave this bush its
name, but he was certainly somebody with a practical turn of mind.
The wait-a-bit thorn is barbed like a fish-hook, and whenever you get
into one of the bushes you cannot get out in a hurry; as fast as you
release one piece of your clothing another gets entangled, and very
often the stranger leaves the greater part of his wardrobe in the
possession of the bush. This is particularly the case when he
happens to be in a hurry; when an elephant, buffalo, lion, or other
savage beast is charging upon a hunter, and a wait-a-bit thorn-bush
stands in the way, the hunter has many lacerations, both of clothing
and flesh, in order to escape. The natives treat one of these bushes
with the greatest respect. Jack suggested one day that the natives
went naked because they could not afford to supply thorn-bushes with
clothing.
We outflanked those wait-a-bits and moved into the forest, where
there were no worse things than creepers. Every few minutes we
paused to listen, and before a great while we heard the elephants
breaking branches, and evidently feeding leisurely. Mirogo led the
way, and I followed, with Kalil close at my heels, carrying my gun.
We had got quite close to the herd, whose size we could not make out,
though Mirogo thought there were not fewer than half a dozen
elephants in it.
We were about a hundred yards away--perhaps a hundred and fifty--when
the elephants paused in their feeding and began to snort uneasily.
Mirogo fell back to me, and whispered that he thought something was
disturbing them on the other side. It was evident we had not
disturbed them, as the little wind there was blew from them to us. I
concluded that it was a rhinoceros, or perhaps a buffalo, which was
beyond them.
The elephant is not friendly to either of those animals, and he is
especially hostile to the rhinoceros. When two of those creatures
meet face to face there is pretty sure to be a fight. They do not
exactly go around hunting for an encounter, but they do not, on the
other hand, make any great effort to avoid one. They are terrible
antagonists, the horn of the rhinoceros doing fearful work in ripping
up the elephant, while, on the other hand, the elephant's tusks are
apt to make deep perforations in the thick skin of the rhinoceros.
The crashing in the woods sounded nearer, and the character of it
showed that the animals had stopped feeding and were moving toward
us. I seized my gun and got ready for work; and I was not a moment
too soon in doing so. A stately bull-elephant appeared, walking
slowly, head on, in my direction. I was screened from him behind a
tree, and the course that he was taking cut me off from anything but
a shot directly at the forehead. He was within twenty yards of where
I stood, and had not perceived me. Mirogo was off at one side, and
Kalil was crouched flat to the ground directly behind me.
CHAPTER XIV.
HUNTING GIRAFFES--NOVEL MODE OF CAPTURE--A BIG SNAKE.
The elephant presented a good broadside toward me, and I fired; or
rather I went through the motions of firing, without doing so. The
cartridge was defective, and the hammer of the rifle gave forth, as
it descended, the disappointing thud with which every hunter is
acquainted. It is not much of a sound, but it was enough to send the
elephant scampering through the forest.
My disappointment can be, as the reporters say, "more easily imagined
than described." Not only was I disappointed, but I was angry--angry
all through; and if the maker of that cartridge had been in my reach
I am sure I could have wrung his neck.
I followed up the elephants, but it was no use; they had taken the
alarm, and were making off through the forest a great deal faster
than I could go.
When fully satisfied of the vanity of my pursuit I turned about and
started for camp. It was too late for me to join my friends in the
hippopotamus-hunt, and so I remained around camp until they arrived.
They had not much to boast of--only one hippo between them; but they
proposed that we should try it again the next day, unless something
better offered in the meantime. I assented, and added that I thought
a change of game would be beneficial, as elephants were getting
monotonous. When we went to bed we were fully possessed of the
determination to pursue the hippos; but Africa is a good deal like
other countries--you never know what a day will bring forth.
So it was in our case. While we were preparing for our day's work
one of out runners came in and reported a herd of giraffes in the
open country to the south. That was a new kind of game for us, and
we determined to go for them. Giraffe-hunting requires some good
work on horseback, and also requires good shooting.
We struck out in the direction indicated by the Kafirs, and about
three miles from camp came upon the spoor of the giraffes. The
country was thorny and stony, and pretty bad traveling generally, but
we managed to get over it somehow or other. As we rose over the
crest of a ridge I was ahead, and the first to catch sight of the
animals; there were eight or ten of them in the group, and they were
fully five hundred yards away from us. We struck into a gallop,
paying little attention to the obstructions, and gained on them at a
good rate; but it is the unexpected that always happens.
My horse had never seen a giraffe before, and when I came within
about twenty yards of the herd he stopped and trembled with fear. I
drove the spurs into him and managed to start him, but he was as
scared as a country girl when she thinks she sees a ghost.
Harry passed me and ranged up close to the giraffes, which had
materially widened the distance between me and them. The sight of
the other horse gave mine confidence, and away he went as though he
had suddenly found out that a giraffe is as harmless as a sheep.
Harry picked out the very animal that I had selected for myself--a
handsome cow. I picked out a bull which was running away from the
herd and making a course for himself; he was a splendid fellow, and
could go at great speed, covering as much ground with one bound of
his long legs as my horse could cover with three.
When I got the bull separated from the herd my horse seemed to enter
into the spirit of the thing, and dashed on through everything. I
had brought along a Winchester, thinking it would be better for the
business in hand than a Remington, and it did not take me long to
find out that I was right. There was no possibility of dismounting
to take aim, and, moreover, the giraffe was such a huge beast that it
seemed as if he could be hit as easily as the side of a barn. But,
after all, he is not very vulnerable, and a bullet must be well
planted to disable him.
Ranging up alongside of him, and not more than ten yards away, I
fired, hitting him somewhere in the neck. The shot did not seem to
have any effect on him, except to turn him in my direction. Whether
he intended to charge, or just made a movement of observation, I do
not know; but his great head and neck towered above me like a huge
tree over a small house. It seemed as if, by stooping and laying my
face close to the horse's neck, I could have gone under him without
touching his belly. I never realized that any animal which walked
was as large as that beast.
I gave him four or five shots, planted as best I could plant them,
but without any very serious effect. The next shot, however, brought
him down, as it hit him in the fore-shoulder and smashed it all to
pieces. When I fired that shot I do not think I was more than two
yards from him. The horse stopped as the giraffe fell, and he looked
the strange beast all over with the curiosity of a countryman at a
menagerie. He did not seem so much alarmed at the appearance of the
beast as he was at the powerful odor which arose from him. There is
a strong smell about the giraffe, which doubtless the reader may have
noticed when looking at these creatures in a show.
Harry brought down his game about half a mile farther back than where
I shot mine. Jack was equally fortunate, as he killed a cow; in
fact, he was more fortunate than either Harry or myself, as his cow
was the slickest and fattest of the three animals. I cut off the
mane and tail of my giraffe as a trophy, and also took out the
tongue, which is the most delicate portion of the creature. In fact,
this rule holds good about most of the African game.
We saved the meat from Jack's cow, and found it very tender and good;
the other two giraffes we skinned, and left the meat for the natives
and wild animals. There was a Kafir village a mile or so from where
our hunt took place, and you can be sure that not much of that meat
was wasted. If there are any natives in the vicinity where you have
shot an animal, the lions, hyenas, and jackals have very little
chance for a feed, as the negroes speedily dispose of all they can
hold--which is a great deal--and what they cannot hold they carry
away.
Giraffe-hunting is very good sport, but it is less dangerous than
hunting elephants and buffaloes, for the reason that the giraffe is
naturally an inoffensive animal. He can go at a smashing pace, and
it is only by fast riding that he can be overtaken. At one time I
shot six of them in three days, but I used up two horses pretty
thoroughly in doing it.
I had a stern chase after one of them, which I came in sight of one
day while the wagons were on the road. It occurred to me that I
would follow the example of the man in California who was chased by a
bear one morning directly into camp, his friends shooting the beast
just as he arrived there. The man ran through the camp, and paused
as he heard the shots. Coming back, he quietly remarked, "I bring in
my game alive!" I thought I would manage it so as to fetch that
giraffe to the wagons before killing it.
I headed him after the first shot, and, by keeping wide away from him
and shouting occasionally, drove him in a circle, and fired a
finishing shot within two hundred yards of the wagons. We went into
camp at once, and had a grand feast without the necessity of carrying
the meat any appreciable distance.
Another of the giraffes that I killed at this time plunged headlong
into a tree when he received the finishing shot. His head caught in
a fork of the tree about twelve feet from the ground, and remained
there wedged fast. I can hardly say that that giraffe died "with his
boots on," but he certainly died standing on all-fours, and remained
there till he was cut down.
The next day was the time set for our visit to the camp of the
ladies, and for luncheon with them. Over our supper after the
giraffe-hunt we had an extended debate on the subject; a considerable
part of the debate had reference to our costumes, and consisted
principally of lamentations.
"What swells we would be," said Jack, "if we only had our New York
and London wardrobes!"
"I'm afraid we'd get a mob of the niggers after us if we should come
out fitted for a promenade on Broadway or Pall Mall," replied Harry.
"These people are patient and long-suffering in enduring the vagaries
of foreigners that come here, but they never could stand that."
"Isn't it quite possible," I added, "that our hosts might not
appreciate our efforts in their behalf if we arrayed ourselves in
gorgeous style to appear before them!"
"They would appreciate the effort," said Harry, "though they might
not admire the taste. Anyway, I'll warrant they'll be dressed a good
deal more after civilized fashion than after that of South Africa.
But as to our get-up, they didn't seem to take any offense at it when
they called upon us, and it certainly wasn't of the kind suited to a
fashionable parlor."
After a good many arguments it was settled that we would get
ourselves up in the best of our outfits, including the checked shirts
that had come into use on the day of our luncheon. We had already
had our best suits sponged down and made fairly presentable, and on
these we hung our fate.
When we were saddling up next morning, preparing to start, Harry
suggested that we take our rifles along, and perhaps do a little
stroke of hunting on the way. I opposed this, and then we had
another brief discussion, which ended in a compromise: we did not
take any of the heavy weapons, but only our lighter pieces, Jack and
I carrying our smallest rifles and Harry equipping himself with a
shot-gun. We were thus kept out of the temptation of chasing any big
game that might fall in our way, but would be able to cope with
game-birds and small animals.
In our ride across the country toward our destination we had proof of
the correctness of the adage, "What odd things we see when we haven't
got a gun!" Off to the south we could make out a troop of giraffes;
to the north, at the edge of the forest already described, half a
dozen elephants were in sight, and offering a splendid chance to the
hunter properly equipped for them. When within about two miles of
the amazonian hunters we descried a herd of buffaloes, and also, half
a mile away from them, a herd of elands--a dozen at least. What
splendid sport there was within our reach! But our weapons were not
adapted to it.
Jack remarked that the game "would keep," and we might have a chance
for some fun the next day.
Harry suggested that we send back to our camp for our heavy rifles,
and then invite the ladies to take a run with us after luncheon,
cutting that meal a little short to suit the circumstances.
Jack replied that we might be treading on dangerous ground to do so.
By making the suggestion we might force them to do something much to
their dislike; declining to do so, they would show the white feather
as hunters; and they might not be at all desirous of letting us see
their skill, or the lack of it.
"That's so," said Harry; "I didn't think of that feature of it.
Guess we'll say nothing about it, nor about the game that we saw on
our way."
"Oh, as to that," said Jack, "there's no harm in mentioning the game
in a careless sort of way, just as though it were an every-day affair
with us; and we can add that there will be a good chance for sport
to-morrow. Then, if they choose to propose a joint hunt, you bet
we'll accept the suggestion and lay our plans accordingly."
We had a use for our small arms, though not in the way we had
expected. The sun was hot, and we rode in under a little clump of
trees to rest awhile in their shade. We dismounted, and were about
to throw ourselves on the ground when Jack espied an enormous snake
directly above us, and darting his head as if he resented the
intrusion we had made upon his domain.
"Now for your shot-gun, Harry," said Jack, as he called attention to
the reptile; "give him both barrels!"
CHAPTER XV.
HOW THE SERPENT WAS CAPTURED--HOSPITABLE
RECEPTION--MYSTERY OF A DONKEY.
"Hold on," I said; "that will blow his head all to pieces; we want to
save his skin with as little injury as possible."
"Well, how are you going to do it?" queried Jack.
"Lasso him and strangle him," I answered; "if necessary, we can put a
rifle-ball through his head--that won't damage it much--but I'd
rather save him whole and untouched."
Our after-rider and fore-looper had accompanied us, and I immediately
called to them. They fastened their horses to a tree, and I shouted
to the fore-looper to bring the coil of rope that hung at his
saddle-bow.
I told him to make a noose at the end of the rope, and try to throw
it over the snake's head. He was disinclined to go very near the
serpent, but I gave the assurance that we would see that no injury
came to him, as we stood ready with our guns. "We'll kill the fellow
anyway," I said, "on general principles. We'll shoot him all to
pieces rather than let him get away, and if he makes a spring at you
we'll attend to him."
The fore-looper got the rope ready, and while he was doing so the
after-rider, by my directions, cut a stick about ten feet long. I
tied a piece of rag on the end of the stick, to attract the attention
of the snake when the stick was held up. At the same time a similar
stick, with prongs about two feet in length, was prepared, and the
noose of the rope was fastened to it by tying it with a bit of twine
against the stick at the fork, and also at the ends of the prongs.
When all was ready the fore-looper held up the stick with the rag,
just out of reach of the snake as he darted his head. It attracted
his attention, and he made a dive for it, and then a second dive. As
he made the second attempt to reach it, the stick with the noose of
rope was held up, so that he darted his head directly through it.
I was holding on to the rope, and the instant that he fell into the
trap I pulled away with all my energy. The rope tightened around the
creature's neck, and we had him secure. We all lent a hand at
pulling him, and it was hard pulling, you may be sure. He tightened
his coils around the tree and refused to let go; I was not at all
sorry that he did so, as this enabled us to get a firm grip around
his neck. Not content with the one cord for strangling him, we put
another about him, and drew that just as tightly as we had drawn the
first. In a little, while his strength relaxed, his coils loosened,
and he came to the ground.
[Illustration: HOW THE SERPENT WAS CAPTURED.]
Here a new danger awaited us. He thrashed around at a lively rate,
and it was necessary for us to be very vigilant to avoid being hit by
his tail, which struck tremendous blows. In fact, Jack was knocked
down by one of them, but he was up with the quickness of lightning
and out of the way of the snake's coil. Now and then he would hit
against a tree, tighten a fold or two about it, and that, of course,
would set us to pulling again. While he was thus clinging to a tree
we bent his head around another tree, and then the after-rider pushed
a knife into his throat and started a furious stream of blood.
"I think that will settle him," said Jack; "he'll bleed to death in a
little while, and then you'll have his skin safe and sound, with the
exception of the little hole at the neck."
"It will take all day for him to become quiet," I replied; "I have
seen this sort of animal before, and he has a wonderful hold upon
life. He won't be through squirming until sundown."
Knowing that he could not possibly loosen the cords about his neck,
and that his death was only a question of time, we sent the
fore-looper back to camp to bring some of the Kafirs to watch the
place, and, when the snake was sufficiently quiet, to remove his
skin. One of our men was an adept at such work, and I particularly
cautioned the fore-looper to put the matter in his hands. Then we
rode on to our destination.
We were received in front of the kraal by the manager, whom I have
already mentioned, and also by numerous Kafirs and dogs. The manager
disappeared to announce our arrival, and we dismounted and gave our
horses in charge of the Kafirs. Presently the manager returned, and
invited us inside to the tent where I was received at my first visit.
The ladies were ready for us, and greeted us most cordially. They
were clad after the manner of civilization, their dresses being of
the tailor-made pattern, and of good, though not expensive, material.
The garments were evidently made for use rather than show, and had
been kept for just such occasions as this. Their clothing made a
sharp contrast with ours, but I do not think any of us bothered his
head about that. We chatted on general topics, told about our
hunting-experiences since we last met, and then Jack gave a
picturesque account of our interview with the snake, to which Harry
and I made occasional additions. Altogether I do not think the story
lost anything in the telling; neither did the size of the snake.
Miss Boland said she hoped that kind of game was not abundant in
Africa--she had a decided antipathy to snakes, whether large or
small; and Mrs. Roberts promptly acknowledged the same feeling.
We were still on the serpentine subject when Mrs. Roberts left the
tent for a moment, and came back with the announcement that luncheon
was on the table. We followed her lead into another and larger tent,
which served as the banqueting-hall. It was more sumptuous than the
lunching-place at our camp, as it was a real tent, while ours was a
temporary affair, improvised out of a wagon-cover.
The luncheon began with cups of cold consommé, and I at once
understood that they had a cook in their establishment far superior
to ours. Then we had cutlets of African pheasant, fricassee of
gemsbok, quail on toast--and real toast it was, too--and a salad made
of the same plant as that which Jack used for his. A well-made
omelet was one of the items of the feast, and we found afterward that
they had sent twenty miles to a native village to obtain the eggs.
They served claret and champagne. We had the laugh on them about the
champagne, as we had given ice in ours; but it was not so much of a
laugh after all, as they had cooled their champagne very fairly by
wrapping the bottle in a towel and hanging it in a shady place where
the air had free circulation. This is a trick well known in Africa
and other warm countries for cooling water or other liquids. In most
tropical lands they have porous jars which allow just enough of the
water to pass through to keep the surface moist, and the evaporation
of this water cools the contents of the jar.
We had green pease, and two or three other vegetables grown in
far-off Europe or America, and brought thence in cans. The crowning
glory of the feast was a plum-pudding--one of the most delicious that
I ever ate. We accused one of the ladies of its construction, but,
after indulging in a little badinage concerning it, they admitted
that it was one of the products of the canning industry, and they
were in no way responsible for it, except for having brought it along.
Well, by the time the luncheon was over we had very materially
increased our acquaintance with the fair amazons. We mentioned in
the most casual way the game we had seen while coming from our camp
to theirs, and suggested with equal carelessness that we thought we
would go in pursuit of some of it on the next day. At the mention of
the giraffes, and the account of our experiences with them, Miss
Boland said she had not yet hunted one of those animals, and hoped
she would have an opportunity before long.
Mrs. Roberts made a similar remark, and before we had talked much
longer it was agreed that we would make up a hunting-party for the
next day. Before we separated it was arranged that we would meet on
the following morning, at a point about midway between the two camps,
to go in pursuit of the giraffes, in case they should be found near
the locality where we saw them.
"I don't know," said Miss Boland, "that I can succeed in bringing
down a giraffe, but I will try."
Mrs. Roberts expressed the same doubt and also the same
determination, and then we dropped the subject.
Another surprise awaited us at the end of the luncheon, when the
coffee was served, and a box of cigars was produced! There is not
one African hunter of the male species in a hundred that carries a
supply of cigars when going up-country on a hunting-expedition; and
that two ladies should be thus equipped was certainly unexpected.
The thought arose in our minds as to whether our fair hostesses were
themselves devoted to the weed; they allayed our suspicions by
telling us that they were not smokers, either of cigars or
cigarettes, but had brought along a box of cigars under the
impression that they would be useful when entertaining visitors. "I
am told," said Mrs. Roberts, "that 'the cigars which a woman buys'
are proverbial for their badness. I wish you would tell us frankly
whether these are good or not. I bought them of a shopkeeper at
Walvisch Bay, and he assured me they were the best in the market."
We all declared that the cigars were excellent, whereupon Miss Boland
remarked:
"I suppose you mean they're excellent for South Africa?"
"Well," said Jack, "to be frank with you, they are not the very best
cigars in the world, but they are really of very good quality. The
shopkeeper undoubtedly told you the truth when he said they were the
best in the market--that is, the market of Walvisch Bay. None of the
ports of South Africa could produce anything better, with the
possible exception of Cape Town, which is accustomed to more luxury
than any other place. Set your minds at rest, ladies; any visitor to
your camp who smokes a cigar will consider these of a superior
quality. He is pretty sure to have been without one for a long time,
and therefore will not draw comparisons between these and the
choicest Havana weed that ever was made."
Soon after lighting our cigars we left the tent and strolled about
the premises. To begin with, the tents were the perfection of
neatness in their interior arrangements, and our hostesses were
evidently good housekeepers. The little odds and ends about the
place had been arranged in the most tasteful fashion, and they were
evidently deriving a good deal of comfort from their wandering home.
The kraal where the oxen and horses were made secure at night was
strong and substantial, and the cleanliness of the interior showed a
great deal of energy on the part of somebody.
Mrs. Roberts told us that their manager was a very intelligent
fellow, and came from one of the Boer settlements in the Orange Free
State. When they started out with him his ideas of neatness and
order were very vague; but he was a good-natured chap, and they had
succeeded in instilling him with their enthusiasm on that subject.
"It is a case of eternal vigilance," she added, "and it is necessary
for us to go over the regulations with him pretty nearly every day in
order to hold him up to his duties. He has been up-country several
times before, and consequently we cannot instruct him much upon his
general work. He has managed so well," she continued, "that we have
lost only two oxen and not a single horse since we started."
I replied that they certainly ought to be proud of such a manager, as
they had been more fortunate than we.
Just as I made this remark we came around to where two donkeys were
tethered. As soon as the animals caught sight of the ladies they
strained at their tethers and held up their heads to be patted.
"Those are evidently your riding-animals," Harry remarked.
"Yes, we ride them sometimes," said Miss Boland, "though not as often
as we do our horses. We bought the donkeys partly in the belief that
they would be useful, and partly as a lark. We have had lots of fun
with them, as they are the first animals of their kind ever seen in
this part of South Africa. The natives have looked at them in
wonder, and have queried whether the creatures are horses, dogs, or
lions. In one village we came to the whole population engaged in a
fierce discussion on the subject. One of the wise men said the
donkeys were a new kind of dogs which the foreigners had brought
along. Another said they were not dogs, but horses, and he called
attention to the creatures' hoofs. Just then one of the donkeys
brayed, and the crowd jumped back in astonishment and terror, crying,
'It's a lion! It's a lion!'"
CHAPTER XVI.
SNAKE CUTLETS AND STEWS--MISS BOLAND STALKS A
GIRAFFE--OXEN FOR HUNTING-PURPOSES.
We had a good laugh over the young lady's story, and after finishing
our stroll and getting back to the tent we asked for our horses, bade
our entertainers good-by--not failing to remind them of our
engagement for the morrow--and then mounted and headed for home.
We stopped at the place where we captured the snake, and found, as we
expected, that our men had already arrived and were skinning the
reptile. It was no easy piece of work, as the body of the serpent
continued to squirm, although life was really extinct. The
boa-constrictor is very much like the turtle in this peculiarity, and
what might appear to be cruelty in skinning the animal alive was not
really so. Our men made a very good job of it, and we remained until
it was completed. They followed us home with the skin of the snake,
and left the body for the jackals and anything else that cared to eat
it.
Jack was more than half inclined to take some pieces of the game
along, so that we might have constrictor-cutlets for supper or
breakfast. Harry and I opposed the idea, and told him he would have
to eat alone if he did so; thereupon he abandoned the proposition. I
can add by the way that I have eaten snakes of various kinds, and
they are by no means bad eating, provided you are hungry and cannot
get anything else.
My first experience in the serpent-eating line was on the North
American plains, in a region where rattlesnakes abounded. Fresh
provisions were scarce; and one day, when I was traveling with a
party of mounted soldiers, we made our camp right in a colony of
rattlesnakes, though we did not discover it until after all the tents
had been pegged out and the camp arranged. We killed about thirty
rattlers between the time we went into camp and sunset, and a dozen
more were slaughtered during the night. The soldiers skinned the
snakes, and served them up at breakfast under the name of
"prairie-eels." Had they been called rattlesnakes I might have
relucted, but as prairie-eels they were decidedly toothsome; the
flesh looked like chicken, and tasted a good deal like it, too. I
confess to a prejudice against eating snakes, but would rather do so
any time than go downright hungry.
When we reached camp everything was quiet. Our cook had prepared us
a very good supper, but after our bountiful feast with the amazons we
could not do justice to it. There were, however, plenty of yawning
mouths in the camp where it was welcome, and nothing was left over to
be warmed up the next morning.
During the night we were disturbed by a troop of lions that tried to
get into the kraal for a waltz among the oxen. They made several
efforts to penetrate the thorny fence of the kraal, but were
unsuccessful, though they disturbed the oxen a good deal and set them
to bellowing in terror. We went out in the hope of bringing down one
or more of the prowlers, but the night was so dark that we could not
make out their forms distinctly. We fired where we thought we saw
them, and brought forth a terrific roar, but we did not see anything
drop.
Bright and early the next morning our manager began searching for the
spoor of the lions, and easily made it out. He followed the
retreating spoor for a good half-mile to where it led into a thicket
of thorns. There he abandoned the chase, as he saw no blood upon the
spoor to show that our bullets had told; and, furthermore, he had not
lost any lions, as he remarked when he got back to camp. I admired
his discretion, as he would have been decidedly at a disadvantage had
he entered the thicket and found the lions waiting for him.
We breakfasted early in the morning, in order to be promptly at the
rendezvous for the hunt with our friends. We were there on time, and
so were they, and all were equipped for business. The ladies were
habited as they were when I first met them in the forest--that is,
incased in loose trousers and tunic, with gloves to match, and with
dust-colored sola topees on their heads. They were accompanied by
trackers, gun-bearers, and their after-rider, and they had brought
along two dogs and two oxen as a part of their equipment.
When our salutations were over Jack apologized for being inquisitive,
but said he would like to know how they proposed to utilize dogs and
oxen in hunting giraffes.
"We don't know that we shall utilize them," replied Mrs. Roberts,
"but we brought them along thinking they might be handy, on the
principle set down by the lamented Toodles."
"You may laugh at us," said Miss Boland, "but I've done a little
hunting with those oxen since we started out, and quite successfully,
too."
"Have you hunted giraffes with them?" queried Jack.
"No, not yet," was the reply, "but I've hunted hartbeest and gemsbok,
and one day I stopped a young buffalo by the aid of old David, the
brindle-ox, and got him, too. So I thought it would be no harm to
try him on a giraffe."
"Accept my congratulations, please," said Jack; "I didn't know so
much could be done in the hunting-field with oxen. We have some
saddle-oxen in our outfit, but haven't used them yet. The Kafirs
ride them to keep them in training, and we are holding them in
reserve in case of any mishap to our horses."
"Of course you are aware," said Mrs. Roberts, "that not a few African
hunters have found saddle-oxen of great advantage in their journeys."
"Oh yes, I'm aware of that," said I; "Andersson, who discovered Lake
Ngami, had a saddle-ox named Spring, which he rode over two thousand
miles, and he naturally became much attached to the animal."
The saddle-oxen of Mrs. Roberts and Miss Boland were good-natured
beasts, and had evidently received kind treatment. The ladies told
us that they made it a point of having the oxen brought up every day
and saddled, and they always talked to the beasts and petted them, so
that they got along famously. "They were shy at first," said Miss
Boland, "but gradually got over their shyness when they found that
not only were they not hurt, but they generally received some little
delicacy to eat, provided we had it to give to them. We usually ride
them for half an hour or so in the morning, and sometimes take them
out for stalking game. They enter into the spirit of it fairly well;
this is particularly the case with David, and if he could only handle
a gun we might send him out alone and count on his bringing in
something. This one," said she, again pointing to the brindle, "is
David; and the other--the yellow one--is Goliath."
"I hope they don't entertain for each other sentiments like those
which prevailed between the original parties with those names,"
remarked Harry, as the lady paused.
"No, I don't think they do," was the reply; "they get along very well
together. Goliath is the more powerful of the two, and keeps David
under control."
The ladies had their saddle-horses as well as their saddle-oxen, and
the saddles for both sort of beasts were made man-fashion. We three
fellows made no comment whatever upon the style of saddles, leaving
it to the ladies to mention the subject if they chose to do so. Mrs.
Roberts was the first to speak of it, and said they adopted them by
the advice of the wife of the missionary at Walvisch Bay, who had
made two or three journeys up-country.
"We came out from England," said she, "fully equipped with
riding-habits and with side-saddles, and expected to bring nothing
else on our journey; but the missionary's wife urged us so strongly
that we each bought a man's saddle, and have used it, too. We can
mount and dismount without assistance, and we find it far more
convenient for hunting-purposes than the side-saddle. As we have
traveled alone all the time, we had no neighbors to make comments
upon our mode of travel or concerning our way of riding, and the
first time we have used our side-saddles and riding-habits in a month
and more was when we accepted the invitation to visit your camp; when
we got out our habits that morning we found them a good deal creased,
and thought you would see that they had not been used recently."
I remarked that I noticed the creases in the habits, and thought the
garments were new ones, brought out for that occasion. We all
commended their good common sense in adopting the man-fashion of
riding while in South Africa, and while we were doing so one of our
trackers arrived with reports of the giraffes.
"They are about a mile to the south," said the tracker, "and you can
get pretty close on them without being seen."
"Now's the chance for your experiment with your saddle-ox, Miss
Boland," I said, turning to that lady.
"Very well," said she; "with your permission, gentlemen, I'll see
what I can do. Am I to be commander in this hunt?"
"Certainly you are," we answered; "we await your orders."
"All right then, gentlemen, here they are: I'll lead off on David's
back, you can follow on horseback two or three hundred yards behind
me, and Kleinboy, my after-rider, will keep with you and bring up my
horse. Let your tracker indicate to me where the giraffes are, and
just before we come in sight of them I'll dismount from David's back
and keep along at his side. Then we'll see what we shall see. After
the first fire you can all go ahead and chase the herd in any way you
like; Kleinboy can bring me my horse and take away David."
"An excellent plan of campaign," I remarked--"excellent;" and the
other fellows echoed my opinion. Away went Miss Boland on David's
back, preceded by the tracker who had sighted the herd of giraffes.
David moved at a fast walk, and the rest of us brought up the rear,
as we had been directed to do.
When they reached the foot of a slight ridge the tracker indicated
that the giraffes were on the other side. Then Miss Boland
dismounted, and, holding the bridle in one hand and her rifle in the
other, crept along in a stooping posture on the side of the ox that
was farthest away from the game.
It is proper to explain that an African ox is bridled by means of a
stick, about a foot long, passed transversely through the cartilage
of his nose, and held in place by a piece of cord. The reins, which
are generally made of half-inch or three-eighths-inch rope, are
fastened to the ends of this stick; and when he gets used to the
affair he minds the helm with great readiness. The cartilage of the
nose is pierced like that of an unruly bull in civilized countries,
and it is very sensitive to any strain upon it.
As he neared the top of the ridge David began to pluck a little
grass, as if he were out on a grazing-expedition; and he continued to
feed quietly along as he passed the crest of the ridge and worked
down into the hollow, where the giraffes were.
Of course we lost sight of him as he went over the ridge, not daring
to show ourselves to the giraffes until we heard the sound of Miss
Boland's rifle. We could only conjecture what was happening, and the
time seemed long while we were waiting for the report of the weapon.
Miss Boland afterward told us that the giraffes just turned their
heads toward her when David came in sight; she was peeping over his
neck to see whether they took alarm or not, and also to see where to
guide him. He obeyed her slightest word, or rather the slightest
pull that she gave upon one or other of the reins. The giraffes took
no alarm whatever, but went on with their feeding among some
scattered mimosa-trees on the plain. By the aid of the ox she got
within ten yards of one of the giraffes--a medium-sized cow--and
then, resting the rifle over David's shoulder, and getting good aim,
she put a bullet straight into the heart of the towering beast, which
came to the ground instantly. Before the rest of the herd could take
alarm Miss Boland fired at another giraffe, barely thirty yards away,
and laid it low with a broken foreshoulder.
[Illustration: MISS BOLAND SHOOTS TWO GIRAFFES.]
When we heard the reports of her rifle we came over the slope at a
gallop, and away we went in pursuit of the herd. Miss Boland
exchanged David for her horse as soon as the after-rider arrived, and
joined in the chase with us. She lost a little time in mounting, and
so we distanced her as we pursued the fleeing game.
CHAPTER XVII.
MRS. ROBERTS KILLS A GIRAFFE--HUNTING THE
RHINOCEROS--MISS BOLAND SECURES A PET.
Jack brought down a giraffe, and so did Harry. I might have done as
well, perhaps, but felt that politeness required me to look after
Mrs. Roberts. She disclaimed all intention of trying to kill a
giraffe, unless it came around in her way. After her exploit at
stalking, Miss Boland joined us, and said she would leave the fleeing
herd to the gentlemen, as she thought she had already had enough
glory to satisfy her for that day. So we took places in the rear of
Jack and Harry, and it was not long before they were out of sight.
We were jogging demurely along, and I suppose half an hour had
passed, when I saw a cloud of dust away to the southward. I was at
first doubtful about it, but looking a second and a third time, I was
satisfied as to its character.
"You are to have your chance now, Mrs. Roberts," I said, doubtless
with a good deal of animation.
"How so?" she asked.
"Why, there comes the herd!" I answered; "you said you wouldn't shoot
a giraffe unless it came in your way, and there's a lot of them
coming now."
"All right, then; if they're coming I'll take a shot."
The plain was quite open where the giraffes were running, and they
seemed to be headed directly for a clump of trees a quarter of a mile
or so to our right.
"Come on," I shouted, as I led the way to the clump of trees. "The
giraffes will go there for security, and that will give you a chance
for a shot at them."
We reached the trees easily and dismounted, I holding the horses
while the ladies took up their positions behind trees that would
screen them well. On came the herd, and it did exactly what I
expected it would do--sought the shelter of the trees. One of the
animals passed within ten yards of the muzzle of Mrs. Roberts's
rifle; she fired at the right time, and her shot was successful. The
bullet passed through the cervical column, just above the shoulder,
and brought the animal to the ground, where a second shot finished
him. Miss Boland refrained from firing, and so did I, as we felt
that game enough had been slaughtered for the day, and none of us
believed in wanton destruction.
Not far behind the herd came Harry and Jack; they reported, as I have
already said, that each had slaughtered a giraffe, and it was then
unanimously voted to bring the hunt to an end. Our camp was much
nearer than that of the ladies; we invited them to our establishment
for luncheon, and they graciously accepted. Mrs. Roberts relieved
any possible embarrassment of ours by saying:
"We sha'n't expect any such lunch as you gave us the other day--that
is too much to look for more than twice in a season. We will go to
your camp with pleasure, and take whatever pot-luck happens to be in
order."
"Yes," echoed Miss Boland; "I am hungry enough for whatever you offer
us, from hippopotamus to buffalo or giraffe; anything will be
welcome."
"Thank you very much," said Jack. "We've a bit of surprise in store
for you; at least, I think we have; but I'll keep it a secret till we
get to camp."
When we reached the camp we gave up our tent to our guests, sent
their horses to the kraal to be fed and cared for, and then proceeded
to interview our cook. Table was set, and in due time we sat down to
a feast, the principal dish being an elephant's foot, which the
reader already knows about. Our guests had never seen or tasted of
this dish, and they praised it so warmly as to bring the blushes all
over the cheeks of Jack Delafield, who had supervised its preparation.
We had several other things in the luncheon, including buffalo-steaks
and rhinoceros-stew; but they received very little attention, the
elephant's foot being the _pièce de résistance_ of the occasion.
We lingered a reasonable while over the table, and then it was
proposed that the three from our camp should accompany the two from
the other on their homeward way, and possibly do a little hunting
while making the journey.
We discussed the propriety of attempting to stalk gemsbok or koodoo
on the way, and Miss Boland said if she had her favorite ox David
along, she would show us what could be done in the pursuit of
gemsbok; but the probabilities were that the after-rider, Kleinboy,
had returned to the wagons with the ox; and unless a herd of game
animals could be found in the neighborhood of the camp, it would be
altogether too late in the day for a hunt of that sort.
I went away from the table while the hunting-question was being
settled, and went out to find Mirogo. He was regaling the cook with
stories of his prowess and the wonderful things he had accomplished
in previous excursions up-country with white men. Mirogo was a
judicious liar, as he always placed his remarkable achievements at
times and localities where it was impossible to confute him. If he
found, while telling a story, that any of his auditors had the least
knowledge of the affair, he subsided at once. In everything
concerning our own affairs, and particularly in reports of game that
had just been sighted, he was quite exact--as exact as one could
possibly expect a native of South Africa to be.
When I questioned Mirogo as to the chances of game in the direction
where we were going, he said he did not think there was much there
just at that time. The elephants seemed to have crossed the river
and gone farther north, while the buffaloes appeared to have worked
away quite a distance to the westward. Some natives had told him
about two or three troops of rhinoceroses, and the presence of these
animals was a pretty fair indication that the elephants had gone
elsewhere.
I have already stated that the elephant and rhinoceros are not
friends, and generally fight when they meet. The rhinoceros and
buffalo get along very well together, and I have repeatedly seen
mixed herds of these two animals living on the most friendly terms.
But it is not all peace and happiness with them, as they occasionally
get into difficulties with one another; and when a couple of bulls
get to fighting, it is generally a fight to the death.
On one occasion, when I was pursuing one of these mixed herds through
some low bushes, my attention was attracted by the vultures that were
assembling from all directions near a certain spot. I rode to the
place, and found a rhinoceros and a buffalo--both powerful bulls--in
the agonies of death. No, they were not in agonies, as the buffalo
had just died, and the rhinoceros was breathing his last. The latter
had cut fearful gashes in the buffalo with the single horn that
protrudes from his nose; and at the same time the buffalo had made
vigorous use of those powerful horns that adorn his ugly head. I
looked a few moments at the spectacle, and then went away, knowing
that the vultures would very soon go at their work.
When I announced to my friends the hunting-prospects, nobody seemed
particularly elated; the ladies said they had never hunted
rhinoceros, and Mrs. Roberts asked if it would be proper for them to
do so. I told her everything was game in Africa, and if she felt any
compunctions of conscience about shooting the beasts, she might look
on and see somebody else perform the work. So we mounted our horses
and went off in the direction where the game was to be found.
A sturdy bull-rhinoceros is pretty nearly as dangerous when you hunt
him as an elephant is. His body is unwieldy and very clumsy in
appearance, but when his temper is up he can get around with it
pretty rapidly. Sometimes, when he sees a hunter coming toward him,
he does not wait to be fired at before charging, but goes in for the
charge at once. This being the way of the animal, I suggested to the
ladies that two of our party would begin the fight, while they, with
the third one, could stay in the rear and look on.
It was my quiet intention to be that third one myself; but before I
said so, Jack and Harry had each volunteered to look after our fair
charges. Seeing that there might be some dispute on the subject,
Mrs. Roberts suggested that they would take care of themselves, and
all three of us might attack the game. This was a very sensible
proposition, as it gave us an equal chance all around--that is, an
equal chance at the rhinos, and no chance whatever for any of us to
stay back and say sweet things to the ladies.
Sure enough, we found the game--about twenty rhinos of all sizes and
ages. There was one cow with a calf, the calf a good-sized fellow,
who ought to have been going around independently by himself. Some
of the rhinos were black, and others white. The white rhinoceros is
valuable for his horn, which is much superior to that of the black
rhino, and his hide is also of a better quality. In fact, the black
rhinoceros is of so little value that a great many hunters pass him
by, and do not waste ammunition upon him. They shoot him
occasionally in order to give the natives meat, or when they have the
fever in their blood, and the feeling that they must kill something.
About half the animals in this herd were white, and so we went in
pursuit of them. We each singled out our game, and rode up to it as
closely as we could without being discovered. Then we dismounted,
leaving the horses in the care of our after-rider, and stalked our
way up to the game. The brute I had chosen was standing under a
tree, and appeared very uneasy; he seemed to scent the danger in the
air, but could not tell from what direction it was coming. I got up
to within twenty yards of him, and gave him a shot behind the
shoulder, which brought him to the ground. He was up and off in a
moment; or rather, he was up, but went off only two or three steps
till I finished him with another shot.
Harry and Jack were less successful than I, as they had a long chase,
Harry losing his animal altogether; but Jack succeeded in capturing
his game just as he was entering the edge of the forest. When Harry
found he would lose his, he turned in pursuit of the cow and calf
that I mentioned. He stalked up within fifty yards of the cow, when
she suddenly perceived him. She turned and trotted straight toward
him, her manner indicating that his room would be much preferable to
his company, and that it was her intention to secure his immediate
departure. He had views of his own on the subject, and so gave her a
shot in the chest as she approached. The calf bore quite a
resemblance to a good-sized hog; his ears were sharp and pointed, his
skin was very smooth and fat, and it shone like a freshly polished
boot.
When the shooting was over, and those of the herd that we had not
brought down had disappeared in the distance, the ladies joined us to
look at our game. We cut out the horns and the tongues of the
animals, and Harry suggested to the ladies that we would present them
with the young rhinoceros; in fact, he would have that honor, as the
game belonged to him. To this we readily assented, and told the
after-rider to get a half-dozen or so of the Kafirs to carry away the
little brute--not so little, either, as he weighed pretty nearly
three hundred pounds!
"Wait a moment," said Miss Boland; "before you send for the men to
carry him, let us consider what we can do with him."
"Oh, make a pet of him, Miss Boland," said I; "a young rhinoceros is
a delightful pet."
"If it's all the same to you," she replied, "I think a fox-terrier or
a pug would be preferable. It looks not altogether unlike a pug;
perhaps he is really a gigantic dog of the pug species--who knows?"
"I'm afraid his habits of life," I replied, "are not altogether
puggish; and certainly the way his mother charged at Harry just as he
was about to fire indicated anything but the disposition of that
inoffensive member of the canine race. Perhaps, after all, he
wouldn't make a good household pet, but would do as an ornament to
the kraal."
"Possibly I can tame him and use him for saddle purposes," the young
lady continued. "What do you say to that, Mrs. Roberts?"
"A saddle-rhinoceros would certainly be a novelty," the other lady
answered, "but I don't think it would be of much use for
hunting-purposes. On seeing its kindred it might dart off and carry
you among them, without giving you a chance to slip from the saddle
and escape. One's life wouldn't be worth much in a herd of these
creatures."
CHAPTER XVIII.
TRANSPORTING A YOUNG RHINOCEROS--HARRY AND JACK IN
LOVE--ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE--JACK'S BOAT.
"Well," said Miss Boland, after a moment's pause, "I'll accept him,
with many thanks, and use him as the basis of a menagerie. We'll
keep him as long as we can around the kraal, and it is possible that
we'll be able to take him to Walvisch Bay on our return. It will
give him a chance to see something of the world; I judge from his
youthful appearance that he has never traveled far away from home,
and he may yet have an opportunity to visit the Tower of London."
"Or, more likely, the Zoological Garden," said Jack. "He will feel
more at home there than in the Tower, as no wild animals have been
kept there for many and many a year."
"Oh, I may get up a show of my own; and should I do so, it will be
pleasant to remember its origin. This young rhinoceros will be an
excellent beginning; but I think you're going to have a hard time to
get him to our camp."
"Oh, not at all," said I; "we'll show you how it will be done."
While the conversation was going on I spied a troop of hartbeest
about a mile away from us, toward the east. Accompanied by Mirogo
and Kalil, I made a circuit in their direction, coming in under the
cover of some bushes, and then stalking up to the herd to single out
one of the largest. I got close up to him, and finished him with a
single shot. Then I had Mirogo remove his skin, while I went slowly
back to where the young rhinoceros was still surrounded by the group.
Meantime the Kafirs had arrived. Under my directions the after-rider
tied the feet of the young rhino--tied them firmly, so that he could
not move; then he laid him, with his back downward, in the skin of
the hartbeest, and finally slung the skin, by means of holes cut
along its edge, on a stout pole. Three Kafirs took each end of this
pole on their shoulders; they were six in all, and thus had a weight
of only fifty pounds each to carry, which is a mere trifle for a
Kafir. Raising the pole to their shoulders, they went off at a
swinging pace; and thus we demonstrated to our friends how a young
rhinoceros could be transported. The fellow kept up a tremendous
squealing all the time, and evidently did not like that mode of
travel; yet it was not a question of his like or dislike, but of
finding him a suitable home after his unfortunate bereavement.
We accompanied the ladies until we were in sight of their camp.
Then, as the hour was getting late, we turned in the direction of our
own wagons, and rode for them at a smart canter, reaching home just
about dusk.
I had expected Jack and Harry would be enthusiastic and loquacious
over the experiences of the day; on the contrary, they were decidedly
moody and silent, and I came to the conclusion that both were in love
and unwilling to admit it. What made the case a little awkward was
that they were both in love with one woman. Had they respectively
been in love with the two women they would undoubtedly have been more
talkative; but when their devotion was fastened upon one and the same
individual it gave a fine chance for that verdant-eyed monster known
as Jealousy. They were jealous up to the eyes--jealous all over; and
from being the best of friends, they seemed to have developed, all in
a day, a very pronounced feeling of hatred. Their silence toward
each other drove me into a condition of taciturnity, and as we sat
down to supper we were as sociable as mourners at a funeral feast
where each expects that he has been left out in the will of the
deceased, and the rest have got it all.
After we had eaten awhile in such profound quiet, I suggested that
the method of stalking with oxen might be followed with other game
than giraffes.
Silence prevailed for half a minute or more, when Harry spoke,
saying, "Do you think so?"
Jack uttered not a word.
"Yes," I replied, "I certainly think so; it might be a good way to
get close up to buffaloes or rhinoceroces, and possibly to elephants."
"Yes," said Jack, suddenly, "and lions too!"
"No trouble about that," I answered; "you wouldn't have to get up to
the lions; the lions would get up to you very quickly, and the ox
would make off as fast as he could. I am afraid it would be a bad
business, both for the ox and the hunter, so far as lions are
concerned."
"That reminds me," I remarked, "of the last time before this when I
came on a hunting-expedition up-country. We were trekking, one day,
through an open sort of plain, where there were sufficient trees to
afford cover up to within a hundred yards of the road. We had nine
yoke of oxen hauling the wagon, and about twelve extra oxen driven
along behind the wagon--the way, in fact, that most expeditions come
up from the coast. I was on my best horse, and the other horses were
ridden by the fore-looper, after-rider, manager, and others of our
party. Everybody was in his place; and as we had not seen any large
game, I was carrying my small rifle, ready to pick off any ordinary
thing that came in our way.
"We were not very far from the settlements, and not a lion had been
seen, nor the spoor of one. Suddenly a big lion came bounding out of
the forest, making straight for the loose bunch of oxen at the rear
of the wagon. He started from the cover of a bush which may have
been fifty yards from the trail; I don't think it was more than that.
You know in what a short time a lion can go fifty yards when he gives
his whole mind to it; it didn't seem to me ten seconds from the time
we saw the brute till he sprang on one of the oxen, killing him by a
single stroke of his enormous paw, and setting his teeth in the neck
of the unfortunate beast. It was all the work of a few seconds. The
men ran in all directions except toward the lion; I brought my small
rifle to bear, and gave the fellow a shot. It was enough to anger
him, and nothing more. He gave a fierce growl, and seemed half
inclined to come at me; and my only salvation was that he was very
hungry and fell at once to devouring the ox."
Here I paused purposely, to compel one of my comrades to say
something. Harry broke the silence by asking me what I did.
"I rode to the wagon just as quickly as I could," said I, "and got
one of my large rifles; then I came out, and was accompanied, very
reluctantly, by one of my men. I dismounted, gave my horse to the
man, walked up to within twenty yards of the lion, who was busy
satisfying his hunger, and gave him a shot through the heart."
"Well," said Jack, "you lost an ox and made a lion."
"That's time," I replied; "but the loss was much greater than the
gain. A lion's skin doesn't equal the value of an ox, and I doubt if
you would find any hunter who would be willing to make trades of that
sort."
"No indeed," said Jack; "to lose one's traveling-equipment in an
expedition like this is virtually to lose everything."
In this way I managed to break the ice and get the two men more
amiable to each other. Perhaps I added a little fuel to the fire in
both cases by praising the skill which Miss Boland had shown in her
hunting-work that day. Then I changed to the subject of the young
rhinoceros, and speculated as to what use she would be able to make
of the beast. I remarked that I was afraid she would never be able
to teach him drawing-room manners, as he did not seem to be adapted
to a higher education. Harry said he could not see why the
rhinoceros could not be educated up to the same point as the
elephant, with the difference that he was not as large as the
elephant, and consequently not capable of holding as much knowledge.
"Hold on, Harry!" said Jack; "that doesn't make any difference at
all; it's a question of brain-capacity, and not of size. The dog is
the equal of the elephant in intelligence, and you could make a
hundred dogs out of one elephant--yes, a thousand of them--so far as
size is concerned."
This led them into a discussion as to the respective intelligence of
dogs and elephants. Harry took the side of the elephant, and Jack
that of the dog, each claiming that the animal he favored was more
intelligent than the other. I put in a word occasionally, the
fellows forgot their differences and their loves, and altogether we
had a very pleasant evening.
Our conversation would have been very enjoyable to a party of young
folks, and I wish I could repeat the instances that were narrated of
the display of unusual intelligence on the part of those two animals.
Each of the champions told stories of performances which certainly
bordered upon reason, and nearly every story was inexplicable on the
ground of instinct only. Jack claimed that the intelligence of both
beasts was distinctly human. Harry opposed him, and quoted the
argument of some distinguished naturalist, who said that the line
between human and animal intelligence was illustrated by means of
fire. No animal, however intelligent, has yet been known to light a
fire, or even to keep one going after it was lighted. On the other
hand, the lowest of savages can produce fire, and also can keep it
going.
Jack admitted the force of the point, and then conversation drifted
to our schemes for the next day.
After discussing the whereabouts of the various kinds of game, we
concluded that the best available place, with our present
information, was the hippopotamus-ground. The hippos had not been
disturbed very recently, and perhaps we could bag two or three
without much trouble.
"Before I go on any hippopotamus-hunt," said Jack, "I'm going to have
a boat! Without a boat you can't do much."
"As to that," replied Harry, "there isn't a boat that one of us would
trust himself in in all this part of South Africa. Do you propose to
send back to the settlements for a boat?"
"No, I don't propose anything of the kind," said Jack; "I'll make a
boat, and I'll do it to-morrow morning, so that it will be ready for
use by noon!"
We laughed at his suggestion, but Jack said quietly, "Just you wait
and see."
Before going to bed that night, Jack got out four of our largest
buffalo-hides, and put them to soak in a tub, so that they would be
soft and pliable by morning. He was up bright and early, and before
breakfast he went out to the nearest bush and cut some poles about
ten feet long and an inch and a half in diameter. He took along two
of our Kafirs, who brought the poles into camp; and by the time they
did so, and Jack was back from his tour, breakfast was ready.
After breakfast he marked out on the ground a space which represented
the size of his boat at the gunwales. Then he split the sticks he
had cut, just as a "hoop-pole" is split for its uses. Then each hoop
was sharpened at the ends, and the ends were stuck in the ground at
equal distances marked along the curves indicating the gunwales of
the boat. When the hoops or sticks were all in place they resembled
the framework of a very low and oblong Eskimo hut. Harry suggested
that Jack was making a hen-coop to keep the dogs in, to which Jack
replied, as before, "Wait and see."
The next move was to take the now softened buffalo-hides and spread
them over the framework, straightening the places where they met by
means of a sharp knife. When the hides had been properly trimmed
they were sewn together, and then stretched over the framework, which
they fitted, as Harry said, "like paper on the wall." I should have
remarked that the series of hoops which formed the framework were
braced longitudinally by longer and stronger pieces of wood, one
taking the place of the keel and two others forming the gunwales, all
of them firmly tied in place by a strong cord. When the hide
covering was stretched over the woodwork and securely fastened at the
gunwales, the boat was complete. It was lifted from its inverted
position and turned right side up, the points of the sticks were cut
away, and odd pieces of the hide were bound around the edge to
strengthen it.
"I told you to wait and see," said Jack, "and now you see it!"
CHAPTER XIX.
TWO NARROW ESCAPES FROM CROCODILES--STALKING ELANDS
WITH LIONS IN COMPANY--GOOD RECORD FOR AN AFTERNOON.
Harry and I admitted that Jack's effort at boat-building was highly
successful, and we could see no reason why it would not serve a good
purpose in hunting hippopotami.
"I got the idea of this craft," said Jack, "up among the natives of
the Arctic circle. They make boats of walrus-hide, and sometimes of
reindeer-skin, in just this way: they build a framework and fasten
the skins around it. You have to be very particular in moving around
in one of their boats, and always step on one of the timbers; never
let your feet rest entirely on the hide that forms the cover, or you
may make a hole through it. There's no danger of any mishap of that
kind with this tough old buffalo-skin, except at the places where it
is sewn together; but it will be well to observe the same rule with
this craft as with those I have mentioned."
In the afternoon we got our Kafirs together--a dozen of them--and
transported the boat to the river. We had previously made some
paddles out of pieces of board, and the boat was also provided with
two long poles for propelling it in shallow places. It floated like
a duck on the water, and we all felt proud of Jack's achievement. We
took along several hippopotamus-spears, together with our rifles, and
it was decided that two of us in the boat, with two natives to paddle
it, would be as large a crew as she could easily sustain. The plan
was to launch the boat some distance up the river, while I took my
station on the bank, sitting down on a pile of reeds, and waiting for
a shot at the first hippo that came along. The rest of the party
moved slowly up along the river-bank, the Kafirs carrying the boat,
and Jack and Harry preceding them to indicate the spot where they
would launch out upon the waters.
It was very quiet sitting there all by myself, and after a little
while I felt the soothing effect of the stillness, and, leaning my
head forward, fell asleep. I was sitting just at the edge of the
river; my feet were not three inches from the water, and my cushion
of reeds was a low one. I heard nothing, saw nothing, and felt
nothing until I was roused by the report of a rifle, seemingly close
at hand.
Of course I was awake in an instant, and when I waked the water in
front of me was whirling and churning violently, and there was a
whirling and churning around my head, mingled with shouts from my
friends, whose voices I recognized. They came paddling rapidly
toward me with the boat, and I could see that both of them were in a
state of great excitement.
[Illustration: MY ESCAPE FROM THE CROCODILES.]
"You've had a narrow escape from a horrible death!" said Jack, as the
boat touched the bank and he sprang ashore.
"Why, what's the matter?" said I.
"A minute more," said Jack--"yes, half a minute--and you would have
been in the jaws of a crocodile!"
I felt my hair standing on end at this announcement, which I could
not fully comprehend; and I replied to it with the question, "What do
you mean?"
"I mean just this," said Jack: "when we came in sight of you we saw
from your position that you had probably fallen asleep. As we came
nearer we saw that the river in front of you was full of crocodiles;
there must have been a dozen of them close to you, and a dozen more
only a little distance away. They probably stopped at first to look
at you out of curiosity, and then made up their minds that you would
be good to eat. We saw two or three of them creeping up in your
direction, and the foremost of the lot had his nose within less than
a yard of your feet. We could see that he was preparing to seize
you. Others were moving along in his direction, and the
probabilities are that when one of them had grabbed you and pulled
you into the water the others would have taken a share in the work.
We fired at one of them, but not the one nearest you, for fear that
in his sudden whirling about he would sweep you into the water.
Immediately after firing we shouted, and the shouts and the report of
the rifle drove the crocodiles away."
I then realized the dangerous position in which I had been, and made
a vow never to run the same risk again. I kept that vow faithfully
for a week, when I was one day out duck-shooting, and had ornamented
my belt with five or six ducks. I wanted to cross the river where
the water was not very deep, and thought I could do so with safety.
I started in, the ducks hanging at my side, and I holding my gun
between my chin and chest so as to keep it from getting wet. The
water was very nearly at my neck, and I was getting slowly along,
when suddenly I saw a crocodile--an immense fellow--coming in my
direction like a steamboat, not twenty yards away, his ugly snout
protruding from the water.
I dropped my gun instantly, and struck out with both hands for the
shore. Partly swimming and partly wading, I reached it, and got on
dry land with the monster's nose about six feet behind me! That was
about as close a call as the other one.
I was quite alone, and there was no way in which I could recover my
gun without an almost certain risk of becoming the prey of the
crocodiles. The next day all hands of us went there, and by keeping
up a great noise we drove the saurians out of the way, and got a
chance to drag for the gun. We worked there two or three hours, and
finally recovered it. The reader may ask why we did not dive for it;
but I beg him to remember that the proximity of crocodiles or
alligators is not encouraging to divers, although in waters no more
than five or six feet in depth.
We did not get any hippos that afternoon by means of our boat, but we
killed two that were feeding on shore by cutting them off from their
line of retreat to the river. They were of a very fair size, and it
did not take long for our people to skin them, cut them up, and
transport the meat to camp.
While we were on our way home Harry and I made a detour to the
westward, partly to use up the time and partly in the hope of finding
something worthy of our attention.
In a little nook at the edge of the forest we caught sight of three
or four elands. It was rather unusual to see them as near as this to
the forest, and we flattered ourselves that we would be able to bring
down at least two of them; so we told our trackers and gun-bearers to
drop back behind us, while we crept forward to stalk the elands,
which we could do with ease, on account of their nearness to the
wooded country. The only drawback to the business was that there was
a patch of wait-a-bit thorns exactly between them and the forest.
However, we were not going to let this impediment daunt us, and felt
sure we would find some way of circumventing it.
We worked our way along pretty well among the creepers and other
growths that covered the ground, and had got within about sixty yards
of the nearest of the elands when we were startled by a very emphatic
growl that seemed to come from almost under our feet. I do not know
whether I turned pale or not; Harry says I did, and I know he did.
It was enough to make any one turn pale; for there, within twenty
yards of us, were two lions that were engaged in a rival occupation
to ours. They were stalking those very elands, and they did not
relish the idea of interference. One of the lions was standing up
and looking in our direction; the other was crouching with his nose
pointed toward the elands.
I sidled over to Harry, meantime putting my gun at full cock and
standing ready in case of a charge, and Harry doing the same thing.
"What shall we do?" whispered Harry. "Shall we back out or shoot the
lions?"
"Do neither," said I; "stand where we are, backing just a little,
enough to signify that we give up the chase; then I don't think the
lions will molest us."
"Do you believe they'll tackle the elands, then?"
"Yes," I answered, "they probably will; and if we work it right, and
the lions do what we want them to do, we'll bag the elands and the
lions at the same time. See, that fellow's taking his gaze off us
now, and they'll make a spring very soon."
We stood and watched and waited, but we did not have to wait long.
The lions chose two of the elands--at least they acted as if they had
done so, as they made a bound simultaneously; and in less time than
it takes me to tell it they were on the backs of two of those
animals. Both the elands fell, struck senseless by the blows of the
lions' paws and by the grip of the powerful teeth just forward of the
shoulder. The other elands ran away.
"Now's our chance," I said to Harry; "you get a bead on the one to
the right, and I'll take the fellow on the left. They'll be so
intent on their eating that they won't be likely to leave it to make
a charge upon us. All the same, we'll keep under cover as much as we
can."
We moved about till we got up in pretty close range. I said to Harry
that we wanted to fire together as well as we could, but of course I
realized that we might not get a good aim at the same time.
I was just raising my rifle to the shoulder in readiness to fire when
I heard a crashing in the bush almost behind me. It sounded like a
large animal, and was coming almost in my direction. I had not time
to look around before a third lion bounded past me, not four feet
away, and sprang upon one of the lions' as he was beginning his
repast on the eland he had brought down!
[Illustration: THE LIONS AND THE ELANDS.]
It seemed to me that the air was getting rather thick with lions, and
it would be well for us to dispose of what we had before any more
arrived. The new-comer joined the lion which I had selected for my
game, and therefore I had a double task before me. I waved my hands
to Harry, trying to indicate that under the circumstances I had
better fire first. He understood me, and withheld his shot until I
had disposed of one of my beasts.
The animal gave me a good chance to do so, as he fell to quarreling
with the possessor of the prize. I killed one of the lions at the
first shot; the second one I wounded badly, and it took no fewer than
three shots to finish him. By good luck I had my Winchester along,
and poured the lead in with great rapidity. Harry was also carrying
his Winchester, which he fired three times before silencing and
quieting his Hon. There was no need of wasting any ammunition on the
elands, as they were already dead from the work of the lions. When
this was completed we came out into the open and surveyed our game.
"Pretty good business," said Harry, "just for an afternoon walk."
I agreed with him that it was pretty good business, and now the
question arose with Harry as to what we should do about it.
"Oh, that's very simple," I answered: "send one of the trackers to
the wagon, and get all the men we can to skin the lions and cut up
and carry home the elands. We'll have rather an abundance of meat in
camp now, but there won't be any of it wasted. What with dogs,
Kafirs, and ourselves, we can get away with a goodly amount."
"But won't Jack be jealous of us," remarked Harry, "when he finds
what we've done in our little detour while going home from the river!"
"Oh, I don't think he will be jealous exactly," I answered; "he will
be sorry he wasn't along, and I'm sorry he wasn't. I don't know that
we could have got any more game if he'd been with us, but he might
have had the satisfaction, at any rate, of shooting one of the lions."
We waited on the spot until the men came to take charge of our
prizes; then we proceeded to camp, where we found Jack, who had
already heard the story of our success. He congratulated us
heartily, and, as I knew he would, wished he had been along.
"You've reversed the old adage," said he, "about the odd things you
see when you haven't got a gun. You certainly saw a lot of very odd
things, and had your guns along at the same time."
CHAPTER XX.
AN ALARM--THE LADIES MISSING--WHAT HAPPENED TO
THEM--THE RESCUE.
We dined that night on eland-steak and boiled hippopotamus, and found
both dishes excellent; and we pieced out the dinner with some tinned
peaches, which Jack drew from the recesses of the wagon. Blessings
on the head of the man who invented tinning, or canning, edible
things! They have softened the asperities of life in rough regions
to a wonderful extent, and have rendered it possible for men to live
a long time away from fresh meats and fruits without danger of that
terrible disease, scurvy. And furthermore, they have enabled the
traveler in distant lands to imagine himself in his own home when he
sits down to a table containing the fruits and meats to which he was
accustomed in his boyhood days.
This can of peaches recalls to my mind a Fourth-of-July dinner at
which half a dozen of us Americans once sat down, far in the interior
of China, on the upper waters of the Yang-tse-Kiang. We had
chicken-soup, boiled salmon, roast turkey, boiled corned beef, two or
three kinds of vegetables, and a plum-pudding, each and every thing
having been tinned in America, and shipped thence to the Celestial
Empire. And it was by no means a shabby dinner; on the contrary, it
would have been a good one in New York or Boston. The turkey was not
cut up and put into a small can, as you might imagine, but was served
whole, the can having been made to fit him as though he were a Fifth
Avenue "swell" and the tinsmith were a fashionable tailor.
We had our smoke after dinner, and then retired. During our smoke we
laid our plans for the next day; but it is hardly necessary to say
what they were, as they were not carried out.
Just as we were sitting down to breakfast, Kleinboy, the after-rider
of our amazon friends, came riding into camp at full speed. We knew
something was wrong, and immediately stepped out to meet him.
"What is the matter?" I asked, as soon as he drew rein and brought
his panting horse to a halt.
"The ladies are missing!" he answered, "missing since yesterday!"
"Missing!" we exclaimed. "How is that?"
"They went away hunting yesterday afternoon," said Kleinboy; "said
they were going after elands, giraffes, or anything else they could
find; they carried their rifles, and had plenty of cartridges."
"Did they have their trackers or anybody else with them?"
"No," replied Kleinboy; "the trackers started with them, but went
only a mile or two; they told the trackers they would have no use for
them, and it would be impossible for them to keep up, as they were
going to ride at a gallop."
"And they haven't come back yet, either of them?"
"No, neither of them."
"Nor their horses?"
"Oh yes, I forgot; the horses came back alone a little after dark;
both of them came up to the kraal and made a noise, so we went out
and brought them in."
"Couldn't you follow the spoor of the horses and make out where they
went?"
"The manager is going to try that; but he thought the first thing to
do was for me to come over here and let you gentlemen know."
"All right," I answered. Then I called our manager, and told him to
see that Kleinboy had some breakfast, unless he had already
breakfasted.
Jack was for starting off instantly, without waiting for breakfast or
anything else; in fact, he gave the order for our horses to be
saddled at once.
"No hurry about it," I said to Jack; "let us eat our breakfast, as
that will only make a few minutes' difference in our starting, and if
we go without it we might become faint and drop down when we most
need our strength. Take in a good meal, and then we'll be off."
Harry and Jack admitted the common sense of my suggestion, and sat
down to the repast. Both were quite nervous, and I think their
appetites were somewhat disturbed. I told our cook to put up a piece
of whatever cold meat there was, and some bread--enough to make a
good lunch for all of us; and I took, on my own account, a flask of
brandy. Then we started, and rode at a good pace--at the same time
being careful to preserve our horses--to the camp of the amazons.
When we reached there we found that the manager had followed the
spoor of the horses for a mile or more to the southward; there the
ground became very hard and broken, and it was no longer possible to
track the animals. He returned to the camp and waited our arrival;
in fact, he came out half a mile or more to meet us.
During the ride from our camp the three of us had hardly spoken to
one another, partly because the opportunities for conversation are
very limited in a ride like that, and partly because each was
occupied with his own thoughts.
When we met the manager we drew rein and proceeded at a walk,
listening to the account of what he had done, and asking him what he
suggested. He could not suggest anything except that we should ride
toward the south, following the spoor of the horses as far as we
could, and then continuing on in the same general direction. I was
unable to add anything else, and so were Jack and Harry. We made our
plans to ride to the south, and after losing the spoor we were to
stretch out and zigzag along the way until we picked up the spoor
again.
Just as we reached the camp Jack said:
"I have a suggestion that I think may be useful."
"What is that?" I asked.
Turning to the manager, Jack asked if the horses which the ladies
rode were the most intelligent of the outfit.
"Yes," said the manager; "they were their favorite horses."
"They pet them a good deal, do they not?"
"Oh yes," said the manager, "you should see them; they are constantly
petting those horses, and the animals seem much attached to them."
"All right," said Jack; "bring out the horses, put on the same
saddles they had on yesterday, leave the bridles loose, and throw the
reins over the horses' necks."
The horses were saddled and bridled, and brought out, in compliance
with Jack's orders. We dismounted, patted the horses on the necks,
and endeavored in every way we could think of to show them that we
were their friends and the friends of their owners. They were a
little shy of us at first, but by talking to them and petting them
they quieted down, rubbed their noses against our faces, and became
entirely friendly.
When this point was reached Jack said:
"Now, in our saddles again; turn those horses loose, first heading
them to the south."
The horses--the loose ones--started off at a brisk trot, as if they
knew perfectly well where they were going. We followed a dozen yards
or so behind them; and sometimes they went at such a speed that they
got a considerable distance ahead. Then they stopped, looked around
at us, whinnied, and proceeded again. They seemed to be saying, as
plainly as if in so many words: "Come on; we're taking you the way
you want to go. We know you're going to get our owners out of
trouble, and we'll lead the way."
On and on we went, till we had reeled off at least a dozen miles
behind us; then the loose horses paused, and seemed to be a good deal
alarmed. They no longer led the way, but appeared to yearn for our
close companionship. We spread out so as to inclose them between us,
and then they went along with decidedly more boldness. Every little
while they stopped, snorted, and pawed the ground; and once one of
them started to run back; but he went only a short distance.
"I think we had better take hold of their bridles," said Jack; "I'm
afraid they'll get a sudden scare, and start back at full speed."
Jack took one of the bridles and I the other, and then we went on in
the direction indicated by the horses. The ground was open, dotted
here and there with small trees, and occasionally with a large one;
but the large trees were few and far between. The smaller trees were
perhaps a foot in diameter, some of them with limbs close to the
ground, and others with no limbs until six or eight feet above it.
After a time the horses paused, and refused to go any farther; and
our horses also showed signs of uneasiness.
"We're getting close to the spot," said Harry; "one of us had better
stay behind with these two horses, while the others go ahead and
reconnoiter."
We left the horses with the manager, and we three fellows went ahead,
carefully scanning the ground in every direction as we did so.
Suddenly I caught sight of something white fluttering in a tree--a
small tree--perhaps a quarter of a mile away. It looked as if it
might be a woman's handkerchief waved as a signal.
"There they are, boys; there they are!" I shouted; "we've found them
at last!"
"There they are?" said Jack--"where?"
"Why, don't you see? Look at that tree there--that small tree
between two larger ones, just the way our horses' heads are pointed."
[Illustration: THE ESCAPE OF THE LADIES FROM THE LIONS.]
"Yes, there it is, sure enough!" said Jack, and at the same instant
Harry made an identical exclamation.
We went forward at full speed, you may be sure. The fluttering of
that handkerchief in the tree was nothing to the fluttering of our
hearts--I do not make any exception for Jack's, Harry's, or mine; it
was a moment of great excitement to us all.
As we neared the tree we saw tawny forms at its base; at the sound of
our hoof-beats the forms rose and resolved themselves into lions,
which slunk away in the direction opposite to which we had come. We
rode for them, but they quickened their pace and disappeared. As
soon as they did so we drew rein under the tree.
There were both the women in the limbs of the tree! They had not
fainted, but both were crying, and the elder one was hysterical.
"We knew you would come," said Miss Boland; "we knew you would come;
but oh, the time has been so long!"
"Of course we would come," said Jack, "just as soon as we heard of
it; what else could you expect of us?"
"We were afraid you couldn't find the way," she replied, drying her
tears and regaining her self-possession.
"We were guided here by your clever horses," Jack replied; "had it
not been for them it would have been a very difficult matter for us
to find you. But come, come down from the tree; you're perfectly
safe now."
Mrs. Roberts quickly recovered herself, and then the two came down to
the solid ground.
As soon as they reached it I begged them to excuse me a moment, while
I rode away to call the manager with the horses. I did not have far
to go, as he had followed slowly on our track from the moment we left
him. Then I rode back to the tree and joined the group.
"You must be very hungry," said Jack; "how long have you been in that
tree?"
"We've been there since more than an hour before sunset--yes, nearly
two hours before--and without a thing to eat or drink!"
"It was a lucky trick I brought along some brandy," I remarked, as I
produced my flask; "some brandy and water will do you good."
Each of us had a bottle of water at his saddle-bow; in fact, we
always made it a rule to take water along. In a very few moments the
ladies were regaled with a drink, and then we brought forth our lunch
and bade them satisfy their hunger.
"While you are doing so," I said, "you can make it less monotonous by
telling how you came to get into that tree."
CHAPTER XXI.
RESCUING THE LADIES FROM LIONS--ON THE WAY TO
CAMP--FIGHT WITH A ROGUE ELEPHANT.
"It's a very short story," said Miss Boland. "We halted under this
tree for a little rest, as we had been in the saddle for some time;
we had no luck in hunting, all the game keeping a long distance away
from us. When we reached this point we decided to turn back, and
before doing so thought we would give the horses and ourselves a
little rest.
"We were lying on the ground, and our horses were grazing a little
distance away, when suddenly they gave a start and fled like the wind.
"Of course that brought us to our feet, and we looked around to see
what had startled them. Coming straight toward us we saw three
lions--and big ones they were, too. Our impulse was to spring into
the tree, the lower limbs just affording us a chance to catch them
and swing up. We left our rifles lying on the ground, but got into
the tree safely. Oh, if we had only been able to take one of those
rifles with us, we would have made short work of those fellows! The
lions didn't seem to think it worth their while to pursue the horses;
they stopped beneath the tree, and stayed there until you drove them
away just now. And that's the whole story. They kept up a snarling
and growling all night to let us know they were there, and there they
have been ever since the horses went away from us."
By this time the manager had arrived with the horses; and when we
told the ladies how the intelligent animals had shown us the way to
rescue them, they hugged and petted the creatures as though they had
been sisters who had just arrived after ten years' separation. I
think Jack and Harry would willingly have been transformed into Miss
Boland's horse for the sake of the caresses it received. The horses
seemed delighted to find their owners again, and manifested their joy
by little whinnies, and in other equine ways.
When the caressing of the horses had ended, Miss Boland referred
again to the cause of their imprisonment, and said she was surprised
at the persistence of the lions in staying near them so long. "I
never knew," said she, "that lions were so keen after the human race;
I thought their preference was for quadrupeds."
"So it is," I answered; "at least as a general thing. When lions
come into one's camp they are usually in search of oxen or horses,
and don't disturb human beings unless the latter happen to be in
their way; but occasionally there is a lion which has tasted human
flesh, and learned how easily a man can be overpowered and killed;
and learned also, at the same time, that a man's flesh is excellent
eating. Such a lion is apt to disdain, from that time forth, the
pursuit and capture of quadrupeds; in fact, he becomes a man-eater."
"I've heard of man-eating tigers," said Mrs. Roberts, "but I don't
know that I ever heard of man-eating lions. Oh yes, now you speak of
it, I think Cumming mentions them in his book."
"Man-eating lions are mentioned by Cumming and some other writers,"
said Jack, "but they are not very prominent. Now, referring to your
case, the probabilities are that one or two, and perhaps all three,
of those lions that chased you into the tree were man-eaters. The
fact that they stayed by and watched so long would confirm that
belief; of course it is just possible that they were after the
horses, and not yourselves; but as the horses ran away and you were
left behind, they took whatever fate had in store for them."
"I hope you slept well in the tree," said Harry, "though the
accommodations were rather poor for a night's lodging."
"Slept well!" said Mrs. Roberts. "We didn't either of us close an
eye during the night; and I don't believe any one of you three could
have slept had you been in our places."
Harry admitted the probable correctness of her surmise, and after a
little more jocularity, to enable the ladies to forget their recent
horrible predicament, the lunch being finished, we suggested a return
to the wagons. The proposition was accepted, and in a few minutes we
were in the saddle and away.
We reached the camp of the ladies without any incident worthy of
note, and glad enough they were to be at home again. All their
followers were out to greet them, and the manifestations of joy were
quite in keeping with the Kafir character. They shouted and yelled
and danced, and if etiquette and custom had permitted, they would
have embraced their employers with tears of joy in their eyes. Mrs.
Roberts suggested that we should remain with them for luncheon; but
we excused ourselves by telling a few polite falsehoods, and went
back to our own camp. We felt that they would prefer to be left to
themselves for the rest of the day, as they had been under a great
mental strain, and ought not to be submitted to the fatigue of
entertaining visitors.
On our way back to our own camp we paid no attention to hunting,
chiefly for the reason that we were not properly equipped for it. We
had brought, in addition to revolvers, our light rifles only, which
would have done good work with small game, but were quite unsuited to
elephants or buffaloes. We saw a herd of elands three or four miles
away--at least we supposed them to be elands, though we were not near
enough to make them out. When within about a mile of camp we saw an
elephant--and a big one he was--standing under a large tree fully
half a mile distant from any other protection, the nearest trees
being the forest that skirted the river.
Of course we were all eager to go in pursuit of that beast, and
hurried on to camp as fast as we could. I was the first to see the
elephant, and therefore the choice of first shot was given to me. I
took my heaviest rifle, buckled my cartridge-case around my waist,
and started in the direction of the elephant, Mirogo and Kalil
following, with instructions not to keep too close to me--an
instruction which they were very likely to obey; in fact, I think
they would have preferred to remain in camp and hear about the hunt
later. Harry and Jack kept about a quarter of a mile behind me,
ready to bear a hand in case of necessity.
The beast was there just as we had left him, not having moved a yard.
Not another elephant was in sight, and I speedily made up my mind
that the creature was what is called a "rogue." Perhaps you do not
know what a rogue elephant is. Well, he is an elephant that for some
reason--nobody knows why--has become separated from his herd, and is
not allowed to rejoin it. Should he seek to come into any herd of
elephants, all will turn upon him and drive him away. He seems to be
an outcast, like a man who has been cut by all his acquaintances and
is positively forbidden to enter decent society anywhere. All the
other elephants seem to know him, and shun him. When elephants are
driven into a corral and captured, if a rogue happens to be among
them, the captives, while caressing and condoling with one another,
keep as far as possible away from the unfortunate pariah.
Whether his temper has been injured by this treatment, or whether the
treatment has been caused by his bad temper, I am unable to say; but
certain it is that the rogue elephant is far more vicious than the
herd elephant. In cultivated regions, where the elephants sometimes
destroy the gardens of the natives by coming in the night and eating
up growing things, a rogue elephant will do ten times as much damage
as any other; and when it comes to fighting, he will fight as long as
breath remains.
Fully convinced that the animal which I was after belonged to the
rogue species, I approached him with great caution. I was careful in
getting to leeward of him, to prevent his catching my wind; and it so
happened that a leeward position placed the trunk of the tree between
me and the creature's head. There was an advantage and a
disadvantage in this. The advantage was that he could not sight me,
while there was this disadvantage--that I was cut off from my
favorite shot. The reader already knows that my favorite place for
planting a heavy bullet in an elephant is between the eye and ear. I
was cut off from this by the tree, and the next best shot I could get
was behind the shoulder.
My horse entered into the spirit of the business very well; he saw
the elephant and knew what I was after. I had some difficulty in
repressing in him a desire to snort, which would have aroused the
game at once and revealed his danger. I patted him on the neck and
encouraged him, and he kept on until I was within about thirty-five
yards of the tree.
I dismounted, took steady aim just back of the fore-shoulder, and
fired. Then, without waiting to see the effect of my shot, I sprang
into the saddle; my horse whirled as if on a pivot, and darted away
as fast as his legs could carry him.
The elephant's being behind the tree, and obliged to turn to come out
from beneath it, gave me a little start, but not much. I think that
just about as my horse began his flight the elephant started on in
pursuit. He trumpeted viciously. I looked back over my shoulder,
and saw his trunk elevated in the air, and the animal coming on at
full speed. The ground at this point was pretty nearly level, and
comparatively free from bushes or other growths. Glancing back every
few moments, I could see that the elephant was gaining on me, and I
must try some sort of tactics to escape him.
An eighth of a mile or so away to the right there was a little hill;
I pulled on my bridle-rein and made for the hill. "If I can get to
that hill all right," I said to myself, "I'll have this old brute in
a box."
I reached the hill, and as I went up the elephant lost distance. In
an uphill chase a horse, even with a rider, can out-run an elephant;
but when it is a downhill race the elephant has the best of it.
When about half-way up the hill I checked my horse a little, so as to
let my pursuer get nearer. Then I turned and went around the hill,
the elephant following me. A side-hill is not a good place for a man
to run upon, nor is it good for horse or elephant; but it is much
worse for the elephant than for either of the other two.
My horse made very good time going around the hill, but not so the
elephant. His legs were so short in proportion to his body that it
was very difficult for him to brace himself. He screamed with rage,
evidently realizing the predicament into which he had been drawn. I
reduced my speed, bringing the horse to a halt, and then I took shot
after shot at my pursuer, vainly endeavoring to hit the one spot in
the front of his head where he is vulnerable. I turned and faced
him, letting him come within twenty yards of me, then gave him
another shot, and turned my horse down the hill.
It was the elephant's turn to think he had me now, as he whirled and
followed at a great rate. Before reaching the foot of the hill I
turned my horse quickly to one side, and the elephant, unable to
stop, went crashing by me, giving me a chance to plant a couple of
bullets behind his shoulder.
Then I wheeled and went a little way up the hill, and next made a
quarter-turn to go around it again. There were places on the hill
which were steeper than others, and I led my pursuer into the worst
spots I could find. One of them was altogether too much for him, his
legs on one side being so much heavier than those on the other that
he lost his balance, rolled over on his side, and kept on rolling and
sliding till he reached the bottom of the hill. If he had been an
ordinary herd elephant I think he would have given up at this point,
and made off as fast as he could; but with his unusually ugly
disposition he was not discouraged at the mishap, but resumed his
pursuit of me as soon as he got to his feet.
I may remark by the way that not only is the elephant an unwieldy
beast on a side-hill, but a loaded one is very unwieldy when
ascending a steep hill. Of course we do not have loaded elephants in
Africa, where the animal is not domesticated; but in Asia they are a
very common sight. It has happened, and by no means infrequently,
when troops have been marching in the mountain regions of India with
their heavy baggage carried on the backs of elephants, that the huge
beasts have tumbled over backward while ascending steep hills.
Observe the next elephant you see in a menagerie, or look at the
picture of one, and you will see that his hind legs have a bent and
weak appearance, which makes them, at least to the eye, shorter than
the forelegs. With his weak hind legs, and a large portion of his
body lying aft of his waist, the poor creature has all he can do to
keep from going over when ascending a steep incline without any
burden whatever. Place a heavy load upon his back, and his
equilibrium is gone.
CHAPTER XXII.
HUNTING HIPPOS AND CROCODILES--THE LADIES MISSING
AGAIN--CONJECTURES AS TO THEIR FATE.
The elephant turned and came up the hill again, and as he did so I
dismounted and waited for his coming. I let him advance to within
less than twenty yards, when I planted a steel-pointed bullet right
in the center of his forehead, and laid him low. He fell directly
forward, and then his huge body settled toward the base of the hill
and rolled partly over.
I remained where I was, with my rifle ready, until my friends came up
in response to the waving of my handkerchief. Mirogo and Kalil had
watched the performance throughout, and although they were on foot
they reached the hill in advance of Harry and Jack, who were on
horseback.
My prize was a large one, but, unfortunately, one of his tusks had
been partly broken off, probably in an encounter with another
elephant. We saved both the tusks, and his feet were cut off and
taken home for cooking-purposes. It did not seem to me that the
flesh of this elephant would be very tender eating, and I did not try
to save any part of it. The Kafirs, however, took a goodly supply,
and the rest went to the lions, jackals, and hyenas.
We rode home slowly, and on the way discussed the possibilities of
any more elephants being in the neighborhood. The presence of this
rogue elephant was indicative of the absence of others, as the rogues
are generally far away from the herds. We concluded that we would
not go in pursuit of elephants, but turn our attention to the
hippopotami, for whose benefit the boat had been constructed.
After breakfast the next morning we went to the river, armed and
equipped for hunting hippos. I remained on shore, as I had done at
our last hunt, but with this difference: I did not sit down at the
edge of the river and go to sleep where the crocodiles could have an
easy chance at me, but kept along the bank of the stream, watching my
friends in the boat, and for chances to assist them.
Below the spot where I came so near becoming the prey of the
crocodiles, the river widened considerably, but was quite shallow.
Harry and Jack, with two of the men and a supply of
hippopotamus-spears, drifted silently upon the water, with their
weapons in readiness. A large hippo came along, and his curiosity
was excited by the strange object on the surface of the water. He
paddled himself alongside, and when in a good position Harry darted a
harpoon into his back. Of course the creature sank at once.
The boat was quickly paddled to the shore, the rope of
hippopotamus-hide being paid out as it came along. Then the end of
the rope was tossed to where I stood accompanied by a dozen Kafirs.
I seized it instantly and passed it over to the men.
They hauled away like good fellows, keeping a steady pull on the
rope, which gradually shortened, showing that the animal was being
dragged along the bottom. By and by they brought him up so that he
raised his head above the water and made a dash at us. I was ready
for him, and with two or three well-planted bullets made an end of
his onset. Then a rope was passed around the body of the beast, and
he was hauled on shore for dissection.
We did not wait to dissect him then, however, but went on farther
down the stream, well knowing that it was no use hunting any more in
that immediate locality for that day at least. We went down fully
half a mile, the boat drifting slowly with the current, or getting,
now and then, a stroke or two from one of the paddles, which were
handled very skilfully and silently. In due time another hippo was
secured in the same way as the first, and brought to land. He was
smaller than the other, and was despatched with a lance, and without
the necessity of shooting. Consequently less disturbance was made,
and we did not have to go so far to secure our next beast. We saw a
good many crocodiles, but did not waste ammunition on them; they are
of no earthly use to anybody--at least not to any white man. The
natives eat their flesh, and would be very greatly pleased if we
would slaughter a crocodile or two every day for their benefit.
And this reminds me that one day, just before sunset, I killed a
crocodile on the river-bank, at least a hundred feet away from the
water. He had gone up there in pursuit of some small animal, as
crocodiles frequently do. I had a good chance at him, and killed him
with an explosive bullet; he was dead as the proverbial door-nail,
and when I reached camp I told the negroes about it, and suggested
that they could go in the morning and bring away whatever they liked.
"No crocodile there to-morrow morning," said Mirogo.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Other crocodiles pull him into river," was the reply; "he no be
there in morning."
Sure enough, when they went there next morning there was not a
vestige of the saurian to be seen; his friends had come in the night
and carried him away. Whether they were moved by affection to do so
I am unable to say; certainly the crocodile is not credited with
affectionate feelings--at least, not for any race other than his own.
Crocodiles appear to live peacefully enough together, and they also
get along with the hippos without any apparent trouble; but I fancy
that many a young hippo finds a resting-place in the stomach of its
scaly neighbors.
We got back to camp a little past noon, with good appetites for the
luncheon which the cook had provided. After lunch we went in pursuit
of giraffes, elands, or anything else that might come in our way; and
somehow that way led us in the direction of the camp of our female
friends. Nobody suggested riding in that direction, but the impulse
seemed to be universal.
We found the ladies at home, and received a cordial welcome. They
had quite recovered from the excitement of their night in a tree-top
in company with lions, and seemed quite willing to take the
hunting-field again at any time. Mrs. Roberts said that, whatever
they did, they would not go in exactly that same locality again; but
I told her it was not at all likely that those lions would be found
there. "Lions range about a good deal," I said, "and the beasts
which kept you in that tree-top may be dozens of miles away from
there by this time. However, I don't think that is a particularly
good hunting-ground, as there is not generally much other game where
lions abound."
It was arranged that two or three days later, whenever they should
send us word, we would join them in a hunt of some kind, meantime
keeping a sharp eye out for whatever might put in an appearance.
They said they were going on a little excursion on their own account
the next day, but did not say where it was.
We remained at their camp a half-hour or so, and then rode away. We
were not fortunate enough to find anything that afternoon, or, at any
rate, anything we could capture, and so our entire day's sport was
limited to the hippopotami.
The next day we followed up the hippopotamus-hunt with very good
success. Jack's boat was admirably well adapted for its purposes,
and proved to be a very comfortable craft. We did our hunting
leisurely, and as the process was the same as on the previous day, I
will not waste time in describing it. We were pretty tired when
night came, and after a hearty supper slept very soundly.
We slept so soundly, in fact, that we did not hear the growling and
roaring of some lions outside the camp until the manager came and
waked us. We were up in a moment, in the hope of getting a shot at
the brutes; but after hanging around for half an hour or so without
getting a sight of them--although we could hear them distinctly--we
gave it up and went back to bed. Before doing so, however, we fired
two or three shots in the air, or at places on the ground where we
fancied we saw anything moving, thus intimating to the prowlers that
it would be well for them to keep at a respectable distance.
We were seated at breakfast the next morning, and making good headway
with our damper and stewed hippopotamus, when we were interrupted by
our manager. He came to announce that the after-rider from the
ladies' camp had just come with the news that they were missing again.
"Missing again!" said Jack, as he sprang to his feet; "I hope it
isn't lions this time."
"I hope so, too," said Harry, as he imitated Jack's movements, and in
his precipitation dropped a cupful of coffee, which went splashing
over the table.
"I'll bet it isn't lions," said I; "but it's something equally
serious. Let's finish our breakfast and be off." Then I turned to
the manager and told him to have our horses saddled at once.
"There's no need of all three of us going," said Jack; "Frank and I
will be sufficient, and you"--addressing Harry--"had better stay here
and watch camp."
"I was just going to propose the same thing," said Harry--"that Frank
and I would go and help the ladies out of their trouble, if they can
be found. There are only two of them, and two of us ought to be
quite sufficient for recovering them, if they are in a predicament
such as they were in the other day."
They argued the point with a good deal of vehemence, each insisting
that the other should remain at camp, and that I should accompany the
one of them who went to the rescue. It was plain as day, the whole
situation: they were jealous of each other, but not of me!
Finally, just as we were concluding breakfast, the subject was
referred to me for arbitration, and I was placed in an awkward
predicament. I got out of it, though, by suggesting that I would be
the one to remain at camp, and that Harry and Jack should start at
once on the expedition.
"I agree with you," I said, "that two are sufficient for the purpose;
and as I know you would prefer the expedition to loitering about the
camp all day, and perhaps longer, you had better go."
The result of my turning the tables on them in this manner was that
they both agreed that I ought to accompany them, which I did; and in
a very few minutes after breakfast we were off across-country to the
camp of the ladies. There we learned that they had started away
about the middle of the forenoon in a southwesterly direction,
accompanied by the fore-looper, who carried their rifles and extra
ammunition. They told the manager that they would take a turn off to
the southwest, and expected to be back by nightfall. They had not
returned; neither had the fore-looper, nor any of the horses.
"They have their horses with them," I remarked, "and therefore cannot
be in such a terrible predicament as they were the other day. On the
other hand, having their horses and the fore-looper, it would appear
that something serious has happened, since none of them have come in."
"Yes," said Jack, "it's no trivial matter, whatever it is. Perhaps
they've been captured by a band of hostile natives; didn't you say
there was one living in that direction?"
"Yes," I answered, with a good deal of alarm in my voice; "there's a
petty chief, or king, as he calls himself, off in that direction, who
is not at all friendly to white men. If they go into his country to
hunt he either orders them out at once, or makes them pay very dearly
for the privilege. I don't think his boundaries are within
twenty-five or thirty miles of here, but there's no telling how far
the ladies would ride; and, on the other hand, the king may have sent
out a marauding-expedition that took them in."
"In case we find them--" said Jack, and then he paused.
"In case we find them," echoed Harry, "we'll go straight to his kraal
and compel him to give up the captives. Isn't that so, Frank?"
"Yes," I replied, "in a general way that's so."
"What do you mean by 'a general way'?"
"Well, I mean this: bear in mind we are three white men, well armed,
and capable of doing a good deal of fighting; but three of us, with
all our weapons, might be over-matched on reaching his kraal, as we
would be liable to be beset by two or three hundred natives, armed
with spears, knob-kerries, and other native weapons. The odds in
numbers would be terribly against us; and though we made every bullet
tell, they would still have a large majority on their side after our
ammunition was exhausted. It may be a case where diplomacy will be
much more to our advantage than to pitch in and fight at once."
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE RESCUING-PARTY--A STARTLING DISCOVERY--CAUGHT IN A
CLOUD-BURST.
Jack and Harry agreed with me, and then the former remarked that we
had better be on our way.
We carried a supply of food and water, and, as on the previous
occasion, I had the forethought to take my brandy-flask. We took our
bearing by compass toward the southwest, and for some distance were
able to follow the spoor of the horses. The ground was dry and hard,
and in many places the spoor was so indistinct that we frequently
lost it; but by keeping the same direction we were generally able to
pick it up again, and we did so without losing much time on the way.
Seven or eight miles from camp we came upon traces of a shower of
rain the previous day; and as there were no signs of any spoor of
horses upon it, we concluded that the shower must have fallen after
our friends passed along. The country was open and undulating; there
were clumps of bushes here and there, occasional patches of trees,
and occasionally a solitary old tree standing alone, like a sentinel.
Over a considerable part of the country there were numerous
ant-hills: not the ordinary ant-hill of England or the United States,
but a conical mound six or eight feet in height, erected by the labor
of its tiny inhabitants, and so firmly built as to resist the effects
of the weather.
We saw a few koodoo, elands, and other animals of the antelope order,
but we had no time to go in pursuit of them. We held on in the
general direction in which we had started, keeping a sharp eye out
everywhere for anything which might guide us toward the objects of
our search. The undulations of the plain increased; and after a
time, as we crossed a ridge, we saw before us a valley of great
width, and stretching out to right and left as far as the eye could
reach. The valley was at least a mile wide, and to our surprise we
saw what appeared to be a river or lake in the middle of it.
We drew rein on the crest of the ridge, to hold a consultation and
determine what next to do.
"They can't very well have gone beyond this body of water," said
Jack, "unless they made a wide detour, one way or the other, to flank
it."
"No, I can't see how that is possible," I answered; "and,
furthermore, it would be a very rash proceeding for them, as it would
carry them much farther from their camp than it would be judicious
for them to go. What do you think about it, Harry!"
"I really don't know what to think," was the reply; "I'm puzzled; but
we sha'n't do any good by standing here. Let's ride on into the
valley, and down to the edge of the water. Perhaps we may find
something there that will give us information, or, at any rate, will
hint to us what we want."
We acted upon Harry's suggestion, and rode on into the valley.
Everywhere around us were the indications of a heavy rain--one of
those tremendous downpours peculiar to the tropics all the world
over. South Africa has its share, some parts being more favored than
others; in fact, the rainfall is very unevenly distributed in that
country, some portions getting much more than they want and others
much less. With an even distribution of rain, South Africa would be
a far more fertile country than it is.
A short distance before we reached the lake we caught sight of two
buffaloes that were having a good time wallowing in a large puddle of
mud and water. That is one of the buffalo's amusements: nothing
delights him more than a wallow in the mud; and the more he can cause
the stuff to adhere to his skin the better he seems to be satisfied.
When we reached the water's edge we noted the indications of the
banks, and saw that the lake was of very recent formation. There did
not seem to be any current to it, the water was very muddy, and there
was not the slightest sign of any ripple in the sand on the shore,
nor was there any streak of debris piled up there.
"I have it, boys," I said: "there has been a heavy rain, and perhaps
a cloud-burst, just beyond here. Twenty-four hours ago this was as
barren and dry as the plain that we have just crossed; the water has
come in here with a rush and filled this up. Now the chances are
that our friends had gone on beyond here before the rain and
cloud-burst, and can't get back."
"Yes, that may be," said Harry; "but they could send the fore-looper
to outflank the water somewhere and get away to camp."
We were intently regarding the water where it came in contact with
the earth, and did not look up for some minutes. At length we raised
our eyes and glanced over the water, which was perhaps half a mile
across. Over toward the other shore we saw a little island, rounded
on the top, and fairly well covered with trees. Our gaze naturally
rested on this island, and as it did so we saw the flutter of
something white upon it, exactly as we had seen the fluttering in the
tree when the lions stood at its base.
Jack was the first to catch sight of the waving object; as he did so
he flung his arms in the air, and said:
"There they are! There they are!"
We watched, and saw a repetition of the signal, and then we answered
it with the best handkerchief that could be mustered in the party.
We waved our hands and made all the demonstrations we could; and now
the question arose how we could help them out of their trouble.
They led their horses out in front of the trees in such a way that we
could see they were all there, and at the same time each of the three
individuals was in full view. This assured us that no calamity had
happened to them other than imprisonment in a storm.
"It is a pretty long job," said Jack, "to wade or swim this water
with our horses; and besides there is the chance of crocodiles."
"I don't think there are any crocodiles here," I replied, "in this
lake, which was probably formed since yesterday noon; but of course
there's a possibility that some may have been brought down from a
permanent lake or stream where they've been living. I confess that I
don't exactly like the idea of undertaking to go through this water
on horseback, or without a horse. If there should be a crocodile
here, and he should take a notion to breakfast on one of us, it would
be good-by to any more hunting in this life."
Jack looked suddenly around in the direction where we had seen the
buffaloes wallowing in the mud. "Come on," he said; "I've got it.
We'll shoot those buffaloes; I'll make a boat of their skins, and
we'll paddle out to them!"
The idea seemed a good one, so Jack and I gave our horses to Harry to
hold, while we stalked up close to the buffaloes and finished both of
them. Then we out with our knives and skinned the beasts; or rather
I did most of the skinning, while Jack went into a bunch of trees
close by and cut some poles similar to those he had used in making
his boat at our camp. It is unnecessary to describe how he did it,
as the description would be practically a repetition of what the
reader already knows. Within less than an hour we had made a small
boat from the skins of those two buffaloes and the framework which
Jack had set up. We made paddles by taking forked sticks and binding
leaves across the intersection of their branches, so that they made a
fair imitation of the blade of a paddle. The boat was not as large
nor as handsome as the one Jack had previously made, but it answered
its purpose admirably, and what more could be asked?
Jack took the provisions we had brought along, and the flask of
brandy; there was no need of taking water, as there was more than a
sufficient amount all around us. I promptly, and Harry reluctantly,
conceded that Jack should be the Christopher Columbus of this
expedition, and as soon as he had collected his cargo he started.
Then the handkerchiefs on the island waved more rapidly than ever,
and I could see that he would receive a warm welcome. Harry was
rather sulky over the state of affairs; but he said nothing, for the
reason, probably, that the situation was such that he had nothing to
complain about.
Jack reached the island in safety, and from all we could observe he
was received like a messenger of salvation. His first act was to
hand over the provisions to the famishing party, not forgetting the
flask of brandy which I had sent along. During the repast, which was
not especially hurried, Jack learned from the lips of the ladies the
story of their misadventure.
"This lake which you now see," said Mrs. Roberts, "was not here
yesterday when we came. There's a depth of thirty or forty feet all
around us; it shoals somewhat over toward the side where you came,
but there is depth enough all around for anybody to swim. We came
down into the valley yesterday, thinking we would cross over to the
opposite side and then turn back again, just about making the length
of our day's excursion. This island that we are now on is a hill in
the midst of the valley--or was so yesterday.
"When we got to the other side of the valley, and were turning back,
the rain came on. We had noticed a thunder-cloud off in the west,
but didn't think it would amount to much. Five minutes before the
rain came on us the sky was clear overhead, or at least partially so.
The first outburst was tremendous, and drenched us completely. I
suggested that we should take shelter among the trees on this hill,
and so we rode our horses up here and got the best shelter we could.
"The rain kept on coming, fiercer and fiercer, for an hour or more;
then it slackened somewhat, but only for a little while. All around
us we could see patches of water covering the ground, but nothing at
all like what there is here now.
"By and by the rain ceased entirely, the clouds seemed to blow away,
and the sun struggled to make its appearance; but away among the
hills to the west we could see that the clouds were very dense and
hanging close to the ground. We had observed that condition of
affairs some time before the rain came upon us, and remarked that
they were having quite a storm over there, fifteen or twenty miles
away.
"We were just getting ready to start back for our camp when we heard
a rushing, roaring sound, somewhere up the valley. It was more like
the sound of a railway-train than anything else I can describe, and
certainly a very unusual sound in a country where there are no
railways at all.
"We stood and looked in that direction, wondering what was coming;
and before long we found out!
"A wall of water, ten or fifteen feet high, came pouring down and
filling the whole valley. On and on it came, rushing like a torrent,
and filling up all the space around us. Our hill became an island,
with a depth of water around it enough to float a small steamboat!"
"Were there any wild animals caught in the flood and brought down by
it?" queried Jack.
"Yes," said Mrs. Roberts, "there were a goodly number. There were
several buffaloes, two or three elephants, and there were antelopes,
elands, leopards, and I don't know what else. Come around here and
I'll show you what came to us. The most of the animals were driven
past us by the flood, and some made the shore and escaped; some, I am
sure, were drowned, and a few took to our island for safety."
By this time they were at the other side of the island, and a sight
was revealed which made Jack's eyes bulge out with astonishment. A
leopard, a lion, and a boa-constrictor had taken refuge upon the
little island where the ladies were! Miss Boland said that neither
the leopard nor the lion manifested any hostility toward them, being
so overcome with fear. "They were terribly frightened," said she,
"and very much exhausted by their efforts at swimming. They came on
the island almost together, and lay down where you see them without
appearing to recognize each other's existence."
CHAPTER XXIV.
UNPLEASANT COMPANY--RESCUING THE CASTAWAYS--SHOOTING
LIONS AT NIGHT--MISS BOLAND'S MENAGERIE.
"I wanted to try an experiment with them," continued Miss Boland,
"and see if they had not been completely tamed by their experiences;
but Mrs. Roberts remarked that it was no time or place for
experiments of that sort, and our best policy was to kill them before
they got over their fright. So we shot them, and we walked up to
within four paces of them to do so. They dropped down so peacefully
that I rather think they liked being shot."
"How did you manage with the boa-constrictor?" queried Jack.
"Oh, we shot him too," said Miss Boland; "he was all used up with
swimming, and was an easy prey to us. We fired at him
simultaneously, putting two bullets through his head. He twisted
about a great deal, but did not need any more shooting."
The experiences of the ladies with these wild animals, alarmed as
they were by the freshet, is corroborated by that of other travelers
in Africa, and also in other countries. Winwood Reade tells about
being in Senegambia during a time of flood. He said his party, which
was traveling by boat, came to a small island in the river; and on
this island there were lying, huddled together, two lions, a leopard,
some monkeys and hyenas, two antelopes, and a wild boar. They killed
all of these animals without difficulty. None of them took to the
water; the leopard and the monkeys made an attempt to escape by
running up a tree.
I have a friend who was on a hunting-expedition on the island of
Saugor at the time of the great cyclone at Calcutta, twenty odd years
ago. Saugor Island was flooded, and my friend was forced to climb
into a tree for safety. A tiger--a full-grown Asiatic tiger--sought
shelter in the same tree, and for more than twenty hours tiger and
man remained there, neither molesting the other. My friend had
dropped his rifle in his haste to save himself from drowning, and
therefore was unable to make any demonstrations against the tiger.
As for the latter animal, he was so overcome by fear that all his
natural ferocity was gone.
But to return to the castaways. The question now was how to get them
off the island. They were all agreed that there was practically no
danger from crocodiles; but at the same time there was a lingering
fear that some might have come down the valley in the freshet, just
as lizards come down with the rain. Jack suggested that the best
plan would be for one of the ladies to get into the boat with him,
and be brought over to the shore where we were standing. The boat
could carry only two persons, and thus two trips would be required
before both of them could be brought over. The fore-looper would
follow in the third and last trip of the boat, and he would lead one
horse, allowing him to swim through the water; and when the other two
horses found they were to be left alone on the island, they would
take to the water and follow.
This was exactly what happened, and in due time all were safely
ferried over. All the party that had spent the night on the island
presented a very dilapidated appearance, as there was no shelter save
what the trees afforded, and there are very few trees in the world
that can keep out an African rain. But though dilapidated in
appearance, they were in good spirits; and now that their mishap was
over, were ready to laugh about it, and thought it was not so bad
after all.
"We were not as frightened," said Mrs. Roberts, "as we were when the
lions had us up that tree; but I am frank to say we were by no means
easy in our minds. There was the uncertainty as to what height the
waters would attain, and until we found that they had ceased rising
we were in quite a state of alarm."
While Jack was busy with his work of rescuing the castaways, Harry
and I had hunted around for the dryest wood we could find; and we had
no easy task of it, I assure you. We built a fire, on which we
cooked the tongues of the two buffaloes; so that when the party had
been ferried over to our side we had a hot lunch ready for them.
They were not particularly hungry, having eaten the cold meat which
Jack took to them; but a hot buffalo-tongue, fresh from the coals, is
a delicacy which no one can refuse in South Africa, unless he has
just gorged himself in imitation of an anaconda. We had a
substantial feast all around, and then we mounted our horses and rode
at a good pace to the ladies' camp.
We made very good time on our return-journey, as we did not stop to
do any hunting on our way. We saw a herd of giraffes at quite a
distance, and some scattered gemsbok and other members of the
antelope family; but it was not considered worth while to pursue them.
When we reached the ladies' camp it was the intention of the three
men of the party to leave immediately for their own wagons; but the
manager told us that the cook had an ample lunch prepared, and, as
the ladies urged us to stop, we did so, frankly telling them that we
would consider it no breach of hospitality if they left us to
ourselves.
Mrs. Roberts thanked us for our thoughtfulness in their behalf, and
said that both she and Miss Boland would take advantage of our
suggestion and excuse themselves; but before doing so they arranged
to come to our camp the next day and go in pursuit of hippopotami.
"We have not yet hunted hippos," said Mrs. Roberts, "and I'm sure the
sport will be very interesting."
We finished our meal, and then went home. It was too late in the day
to think of anything like hunting, and so we busied ourselves with a
few preparations for the affair of the next day.
Jack was in great glee, and Harry correspondingly depressed, over the
subject of the boat; as the craft was of Jack's design and
construction, the honor and pleasure of accompanying our guests would
be his, while Harry and I would be obliged to take a back seat.
Harry felt so ugly about it that he suggested, privately, to me a
wish that the boat could be smashed all to smithereens. I evaded the
subject, and endeavored to divert his thoughts by asking what a
smithereen is, and whether it is something to eat, wear, or play
with. This set him laughing, and he forgot his jealousy, at least
for the moment.
One of our oxen died just about nightfall, and we had his carcass
dragged out of the kraal and put on a ridge where it would afford a
good chance for shooting. There was a hollow at one side, and a
person crouched in this hollow would have the carcass between himself
and the sky. We went to bed soon after sunset, so as to lay in a
good stock of sleep before the lions came around to make a meal from
the remains of the ox.
We were tired enough to go to sleep immediately; and the lions
treated us very kindly, as they did not show up until about three
o'clock in the morning. Then the manager came and waked us with the
information that there was a group of lions at the carcass. He could
hear them distinctly, growling and snarling in their leonine way, and
he thought there were several of them, judging by the noise they made.
We took our heavy rifles and crept out to the spot we had previously
selected as a good firing-point. Crouching in the hollow, or rather
in the hole which we had ordered the Kafirs to dig, we had a fine
position--that is, fine in every way except in case the lions should
conclude to attack us. In that event it would not have been a bit
fine.
I was standing at the right of our line as we faced the target--that
is, the body of the ox--and it was agreed that I was to have the
first fire. We waited several minutes before I had a chance; then a
fine large lion stood up, and I could see his entire outline against
the sky beyond the ridge. We had put pieces of white paper on our
guns, so as to be able to see the foresights, and we found the
arrangement worked very well. I got a good bead on the lion, and
fired; he fell, but gave a tremendous roar in so doing. Whether he
was killed or only wounded I was unable to say; but by the speedy
cessation of the roar I thought that the former was the case.
It was Harry's turn next, and I sat down on the edge of the hole,
just behind him. I think he waited a good ten minutes, and then he
had a chance for a shot very much like mine, and with the same
result. His animal disappeared, and there was some roaring
afterward, which indicated either that he had not made a fatal shot,
or there were more lions about.
Very soon it was revealed that there were more lions, or else the
first ones had not received their _coup de grâce_. It was now Jack's
turn, and Harry and I expressed a wish that he might bring down a
lion, so as to make the honors of the affair equal. Jack watched and
waited patiently, even longer than we had waited; but his patience
had its reward: he got a good shot at a lion, and evidently bowled
him over, as we heard no more noise in that direction. After waiting
a quarter of an hour or so we went back to our tent to sleep again
till morning.
When we got up and came out our eyes met a surprising sight.
As soon as it was fairly daylight our people went out and surveyed
the scene of the slaughter during the night. They found two lions,
dead, a little distance away from the carcass of the ox which had
been used as a bait; and a very effective one it had proved. They
were about returning to camp, dragging the bodies of the lions, when
they discovered a trail of blood leading off down the slope of the
ridge. Following this for a quarter of a mile, they came to the body
of a lioness; and a large one she was. By her side were two lion
cubs--pugnacious little fellows, that snarled and bit ferociously at
the men as they attempted to pick them up. The men persisted,
however, and the little fellows were brought to camp in the arms of
two of the Kafirs. The carcasses of the lioness and the two lions
were also dragged up to the kraal, to give us an opportunity of
seeing the beasts before their skins were removed. A very fine lot
of game they were.
We immediately ordered the skins removed, and the carcasses dragged
away to where the remains of the ox were lying, in order to give the
jackals and hyenas a chance at them. As for the cubs, Jack devised a
nursing-apparatus for them, by means of a beer-bottle filled with
milk, and a piece of leather fastened in the mouth of it. We found
the cubs did not live on milk alone, as they ate with avidity some
raw meat which was given to them. They looked more like overgrown
kittens than anything else I can describe. Imagine a kitten two
months old as large as a good-sized cat, but retaining the kittenish
appearance, and you have a good idea of these lion cubs.
Of course we had little else to look at and think of besides these
cubs until our lady friends arrived. When they came the interest in
the cubs increased, and exclamations of wonder and admiration filled
the air. After the vocabulary of interjections had been pretty well
exhausted, Mrs. Roberts asked what we were going to do with our
prizes.
"Really," I answered, "that's a subject to which none of us have
given any thought. I don't know what we can do with them; 'twould be
rather nice to take them back to the Cape, but I don't know how the
market is for young lions at present. We'll keep them awhile, and
will probably be tired of them soon enough."
"Wouldn't they make a good addition to Miss Boland's menagerie?"
queried Jack. "I wonder how they would get along with the young
rhinoceros? By the way, Miss Boland, what is the latest intelligence
of your rhinoceros?"
"We have named him Rhino," replied Miss Boland, "and he has been
getting along very well. His manners are not at all sociable, but he
has an excellent appetite; I haven't seen the least sign of
indigestion in him since he was brought to camp. We feed him on
milk, which is supplied by one of the goats; and we give him a
variety of green food such as the rhinoceros is supposed to live
upon. Our manager says Rhino eats his weight every day, and would
eat as much more if he could get it. I've been trying to get on
friendly terms with him, but he doesn't seem to care for anybody or
anything. One of the Kafirs has been assigned to act as Rhino's
attendant, but the creature treats him with the same disdain as he
treats everybody else."
"Would you like to take these cubs as an addition to your menagerie?"
queried Jack.
"Oh, I'll take them with pleasure," was the reply; "a rhinoceros and
two lions will make a very good start for a show--worth sixpence at
least to go inside to see them; and just imagine how I can stand up
before the audience and say, 'Ladies and Gentlemen: These are animals
that I caught myself in Africa;' and then I can go on and tell all
about how I had a desperate fight with the lion and lioness from whom
I took the cubs. I can remove my glove and show this scar--which was
made by a wait-a-bit thorn--as the scar of the wound that the lion
gave me. Oh, I think I shall have a splendid menagerie, and I am
very much obliged to you."
CHAPTER XXV.
LADIES HUNTING HIPPOS--MISS BOLAND OVERBOARD AMONG THE
CROCODILES--DISCUSSING A CHANGE OF BASE.
I was very glad that Jack made the offer and enabled us to get rid of
the little brutes. Harry's face was covered with frowns because Jack
had got ahead of him in giving our prizes away. I do not believe we
should have kept the lions many days--certainly not after leaving
that place and trekking away elsewhere. A pet lion is not an
agreeable companion for a gentleman, and as for taking them back to
Durban in the hope of selling them, the scheme would have been
ridiculous. I had no idea that the ladies would keep the creatures
long, but they would certainly enjoy the possession of them more than
we should have done.
After a brief halt at our camp the whole party proceeded to the
river, where the hippopotamus-hunt was to take place. We left our
horses half a mile or so back from the water, in the care of the
Kafirs, and finished our journey on foot.
The boat was exactly where we had left it. Jack brought it around to
a convenient place at the bank, and then said he could take one of
the ladies with his native paddlers, but was doubtful about taking
the two of them.
There was an amiable contention between our fair visitors as to which
should have the first opportunity of spearing a hippo. It was
finally settled that Mrs. Roberts should take the first chance, and
she thereupon stepped into the boat and followed Jack's instructions.
I should have remarked before that they came, not on their
side-saddles, but on their man-fashion saddles, and were habited in
their hunting-costumes, which have already been described. It was a
visit of work and not of ceremony, and they were dressed accordingly.
The boat pulled out into the stream, where the heads of several
hippos were now and then visible, and also the heads of an equal or
greater number of crocodiles. The rest of us remained on the bank,
walking slowly downward, so as to keep constantly opposite the boat,
which drifted with the current, aided now and then by a perfectly
silent stroke of a paddle. Jack had equipped Mrs. Roberts with a
hippopotamus-spear, and stood close at her side, peering over the bow
of the boat.
It was some time before a good chance was presented for using the
spear; several hippos came up and looked at the boat, but somehow
they seemed a little wary, and did not allow their curiosity to get
altogether the better of their judgment. But all things come to him
who waits, and the hippos came in due time to our waiting friends. A
good-sized hippo paddled up alongside the boat, and then turned, as
if he would cross its bow. As he did so his back was just at the
surface, and presented a splendid mark for the spears.
"Now!" said Jack to Mrs. Roberts; and she thrust the spear with all
her force into the back of the amphibious animal below her. At the
same time Jack launched another spear into the back of the beast, to
make entirely certain that he was secure.
Then the boat was paddled rapidly to the shore, the lines attached to
the spears were thrown to us, and with a dozen Kafirs trailing away
with all their strength, the poor hippo at the other end had little
chance. He swam and whirled about, but it was no use. Nearer and
nearer he came to the shore, and when the proper time arrived a rope
was passed around him and firmly fastened, and he was dragged up on
the land.
[Illustration: HIPPOPOTAMUS HUNT.]
Then there was more rejoicing, and congratulations all around were
showered upon Mrs. Roberts. She protested that the animal was not
her prize, it having been speared by Mr. Delafield. That gentleman
gallantly called her attention to the rule of hunting in Africa--that
the first shot is the counting one. "You threw the first spear into
the hippo," said he, "and therefore the game is yours. The spear
that I threw was simply a precautionary one; but yours is just as
firmly imbedded as mine, and probably would have secured him without
any assistance."
"Very well," said Mrs. Roberts; "I won't make any dispute about it,
as I know you will all vote me down, even if I am right. Now, Miss
Boland, it's your turn."
When everything was ready, Miss Boland stepped into the boat,
accompanied, as had been Mrs. Roberts, by Jack and the paddlers. The
same course was adopted as before, the boat going farther down the
stream, in order to get away from the scene of the late commotion.
There was the same period of watching and waiting for a hippo to come
along, and the same result--that one came along in time. Miss Boland
had been duly instructed as to the necessity of driving the spear or
harpoon well into the flesh of the animal. When the time came to
throw the spear she bent all her energies to it, and drove the weapon
deep into the flesh of the prey at which it was aimed. In doing so
she lost her balance and fell overboard into the river!
A cry of horror arose from the bank where we stood, and the faces of
all of us became the complexion of marble. A woman struggling in the
river! The river full of crocodiles! Can anything more horrible be
imagined?
Jack gave the order for the paddlers to turn the boat; and luckily
they paddled in the right direction, and whirled the craft so as to
bring the bow directly over Miss Boland. Jack braced himself,
reached down, and clutched her garments between the shoulders. As he
did so he glanced along the water, and saw several crocodiles coming
in his direction! There was no chance for deliberation or
politeness; he clutched Miss Boland by the arms, and dragged her over
the side of the boat and into a place of safety. It was all the work
of an instant--not literally an instant, but I think not more than a
minute. Miss Boland said afterward that it was all done so quickly
that she had not time to get frightened, though she did think of the
crocodiles while she was in the water.
The crocodiles came around the boat, and were evidently disappointed,
if one might judge by their manner. As soon as the fair passenger
was rescued, the boat was paddled to the shore, the line attached to
the hippo being paid out as usual. The shore was reached in safety,
and Miss Boland, dripping with water, stepped somewhat unsteadily to
the ground. Having reached the firm earth, she threw her arms around
Mrs. Roberts, and then the two of them sat down on a bunch of reeds
and fainted. They were perfectly right to do so, as the danger was
all over.
The hippo was dragged ashore as the first one had been. When the
ladies came to themselves they concluded that they did not want any
more hippo-hunting that day. We returned to camp as quickly as we
could; the ladies declined our invitation to remain for luncheon, but
went to their own quarters immediately.
Of course we had a good deal to say to one another about the
incidents of the day, and particularly concerning the mishap, which
might have been horribly serious.
"But for your quickness, and the strength of your arms," said Harry,
addressing Jack, "I'm afraid our lady friend would have been food for
the crocodiles. What a horrible thought!"
"Yes, indeed," said Jack; "I'm so glad I didn't have time to think;
had there been any opportunity whatever for exercising my thoughts,
I'm afraid I should have been paralyzed at the situation."
"It is just possible," I added, "that the crocodiles which were
swimming so rapidly toward the boat were doing so from curiosity, and
not with the idea that something which they could catch was there."
"Yes, that's barely possible," said Harry; "let us suppose it was the
case, and dismiss the subject; I don't like to think of it."
"Nor I," said Jack.
I added, "Nor I."
So by mutual consent we put the river and the hippos, and all
incidents connected with them, out of our thoughts. We discussed
buffaloes and elephants and other game, and at length I suggested
that we had better be moving from where we were.
"Why so!" queried Jack, and Harry echoed the inquiry.
"Well," I answered, "because we have used up most of the game in this
neighborhood; we've had no really good shooting for several days.
Killing hippos is not first-class hunting, as you know. Neither is
killing lions at night; true, their skins are worth something, but
not very much, and it's a kind of hunting that I don't care for
particularly. Some skill is required, it is true, but I don't like
the idea of concealing myself in a hole in the ground near the
carcass of an animal that has been put out as bait. Of course, if
any lions come along we'll take them in, but I would just as lief
they would stay away.
"Now, as to moving away from here: I was thinking last night that we
had better turn off to the west, where the river is much smaller than
it is here, and there are plenty of good fording-places. Then we can
cross it and work away to the north, until we get into what looks to
be a good hunting-ground. There we can outspan and make a kraal."
Jack and Harry did not take kindly to my suggestion; they insisted
that the shooting was still good enough, although they were obliged
to admit that it was by no means equal to what we found on our
arrival. All the time they were talking my mind was at work, and I
thought I could see the reason for their wishing to remain. But I
did not give any hint of what was uppermost in my thoughts, and
though I held out promises of rare sport to the north of the river, I
was unable to convince them. As all our movements were determined by
a majority vote, I was left in the lurch, and obliged to assent to
remaining a while longer where we were.
The manager reported certain little repairs necessary to the wagons,
and we devoted the afternoon to them. At supper in the evening we
discussed our plans for the next day, and ordered runners to go out
and look for elephants and buffaloes in the forests where we had
previously found them. I had little expectation that any would be
discovered, as it is not generally the habit of these animals to
remain long in a place where they have been disturbed.
We had just finished breakfast on the following morning when our
manager came to the tent with a letter in his hand.
"The post has just arrived," said he, "and I bring a letter which you
gentlemen can divide among you."
I took the letter from the manager's hands, and found that it was
addressed on the envelope, "Messrs. Manson, Delafield, and Lawrence.
In Camp near Luranga River." It bore no postmark, and I readily
perceived that it had not come through regular course of mail.
Before opening it I surmised its origin.
The letter was from Mrs. Roberts and Miss Boland; or rather it was
from Mrs. Roberts, as her name alone was signed to it. It announced
that they had just determined to make a movement to the north, and
their men were at that moment inspanning the oxen. "We don't know
exactly where we shall go," the letter said, "but somewhere to the
north of the river, where we can find a good region for hunting. We
are greatly obliged to you gentlemen for the kindness you have shown
us, and should it ever be in our power to reciprocate, it will give
us great pleasure to do so. Our manager says it will be three or
four hours before we will be under way, and that gives us time to
send this letter to you."
"Any answer?" the manager asked.
"We must send them an answer, certainly," said Jack. "Frank, sit
down and drop them a note."
"Yes," said Harry, "politeness requires that we shall respond to it.
By all means, Frank, write something."
Thus impelled, I opened my despatch-box and penned a hasty note,
acknowledging the receipt of their missive, and hoping they would
have a successful journey to the north of the river, and find an
abundance of game. I added the echo of their expression of
satisfaction at having met us, and also the hope that we might again
be of service to them. I read it over to my friends and hastily
sealed it, and despatched it by the messenger, a Kafir boy, who could
travel about as fast across-country as an able-bodied horse.
After the boy had gone I remarked that it was a great pity we were to
lose our neighbors.
"I don't see why we should lose them," said Jack; "let's inspan, and
go in the same direction!"
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHANGE OF BASE--CROSSING THE RIVER--RUNAWAY OXEN--NEW
HUNTING-GROUND.
"Why, I thought you and Harry voted to remain here; didn't you?" I
remarked.
"Yes," said Jack; "I did think last night that there was no use in
our hurrying away, but later on I thought over what you said about
the scarcity of game, and have concluded that it would be a good plan
to move on."
"Yes, and so have I," said Harry; "I didn't realize the full force of
your remarks last night, but I've been thinking it over, and see very
plainly that we've skinned out this spot and ought to go somewhere
else. I suggest that we reconsider our vote of last night, and bring
the subject again before parliament."
I could not help laughing at their change of view. When my laugh was
over I assumed a serious expression, and put the question to vote.
Harry and Jack were as unanimous now for moving on as they were for
remaining _in situ_ the night before.
So the order was given for inspanning. Jack suggested that we had
better send down to the river and save the boat which he had
constructed. "We needn't bother about the frame," said he, "as I can
get up another one. I'll go down with the Kafirs, take the boat to
pieces, and bring away the skins; the skin covering is all we want;
it can be folded up and carried in a small space."
Away went Jack with three or four of the Kafirs, and in an hour or so
he was back at the camp with the essential portion of his boat. The
work of inspanning was rather slow; it is always much slower when you
have been in camp for several or many days than when you are moving
steadily day after day. We had two wagons, and nine pairs of oxen to
each wagon. To yoke up eighteen pairs of oxen is no small job, even
when the animals are under thorough discipline; when they are in a
condition bordering on wildness it is a great deal worse.
I remember, in my younger days, on the American plains, I used to
wonder why the teamsters with the prairie-schooners of those times
were so fearfully profane in their talk. I did not wonder any more
when I had seen them at work yoking up their teams. A man was
pointed out to me once in Leavenworth, Kan., as a prodigy of
goodness, because he had driven a five-yoke team from Leavenworth to
Salt Lake City and back without uttering a single oath. But there
was a sequel to the story: the man was deaf and dumb!
It was noon, and a little after, before we got under way. We made
about six miles that afternoon, and then outspanned at the edge of
the river's valley, where there was a good supply of water for the
cattle, and fairly good grazing-ground. Next morning we were under
way in good season; and just before the wagons started we three
hunters rode on ahead, partly to spy out the land and partly to see
if we could pick up any game. We found two straggling buffaloes, and
managed to shoot both of them. They were small, but welcome, and
Jack rode back to the wagons to show the party the route they could
take in order to pass near where the buffaloes were, and gather up
the meat and the hides. We made about fifteen miles that day,
outspanning again near the river's valley, and in a very good
location.
Soon after going into camp we discovered a herd of half a dozen
elands a mile or so to the westward. We spread out in different
directions, so as to encircle them, and thereby increase our chances
of bringing down at least one of the number. Harry secured one of
them, and Jack another; I returned empty-handed from the chase, but I
did not care much for that, as the two elands, added to the two
buffaloes, gave us a plentiful supply of meat. We saw nothing of our
lady friends or their wagons, and concluded that they must have gone
farther to the west before crossing the river. Harry and Jack seemed
to be a good deal exercised as to the direction they had taken, and I
exercised them a good deal more by suggesting that after sending the
note to us they had possibly changed their minds and traveled south
instead of north. "You know," I added, "that it is a woman's
privilege to change her mind, and what better opportunity could they
have than now?"
I watched their faces as I spoke, and could distinctly see that both
of them turned decidedly pale. The idea that Miss Boland could have
been so deceitful as all that was something to drive the poor fellows
wild with indignation. They were speechless for two or three
minutes, but at last Jack broke the silence by declaring that my idea
was an absurd one. He did not believe a word of it for a moment, and
would not believe it until he had positive proof. "They said
distinctly," he added, "that they were going to cross the river and
proceed northward, and I don't believe they would tell a lie."
"It isn't a question of lying," I said; "it is simply that of a
change of mind. People don't generally call that a falsehood. Why,
you yourself, Jack, the night before we received the note from them,
believed in staying where we were, and said so emphatically; the next
morning you changed your mind. It wouldn't be right for me to accuse
you of falsehood in so doing."
Gradually the conversation took a chaffing tone, and my companions
became better-tempered. We slept well, after a hearty supper, and
the next morning the three of us went out to find a good place for
fording the river. We found one--a place where the river was quite
broad and shallow, with a good sandy bottom, and the water about four
feet in depth. The manager was doubtful as to the ability of the
teams to pull the wagons through; so, by way of precaution, before
the first wagon entered he took five yokes of oxen from the other
wagon and hitched them on in front of the nine pairs that constituted
the team; then, with a great deal of shouting, swearing in half a
dozen languages, and a vigorous use of whips and sticks, the team
entered the water. It was no small matter to keep the leaders in the
way they should go, but the fore-looper, with three or four Kafirs to
assist him, managed to do so. It was a pretty hard pull, but they
got through all right; the oxen wanted to stop and breathe in
midstream, but that could not be allowed, as the wheels would sink in
the sand, and it would be a matter of extreme difficulty to start
again.
The second wagon was brought over in the same way as the first, with
five yokes of oxen taken from the team of the first wagon, making
fourteen yokes in all. This practice is a very common one in South
African travel, just as it used to be on the American plains.
Sometimes the crossings of the rivers here are so bad that it is
necessary to unload everything out of the wagons, and carry it across
on men's heads or in boats. In many of the rivers the bottom is
rocky, being filled with boulders of all sizes. They make a very bad
crossing, because they offer miserable foothold to the oxen, and are
equally bad footing to men. In crossing one of these stony rivers in
my first trip up-country, I slipped and fell at full length in the
middle of a swift current, in consequence of having stepped on a
boulder which turned under my feet. I was carrying a gun and my suit
of clothes at the time; gun and clothes went into the water; but
happily I saved both.
After getting safely over the river and putting everything in order,
we took a course about due north, uncertain how long we would
continue it. Harry, Jack, and I scoured the country ahead of the
wagons in order to pick up whatever game might be in our way, and we
managed to keep the party well supplied with meat.
Our company on its march was a picturesque sight. First came the
fore-looper on horseback, indicating the route which the wagons
should take; it is the fore-looper's duty to select the way, and he
must be able to take in a considerable range of country at a single
glance. Then came the wagons, each with its nine span of oxen, and
behind the second wagon was the loose extra stock of oxen and
horses--though generally there are no extras of the latter, all the
horses in the outfit being saddled and ridden by somebody. The
manager rides here and there along the line, watching and directing
everything, and using very emphatic language when he has occasion to
address any of his inferiors. The rear is brought up by the
after-rider, whose duty it is to prevent men and cattle from
straggling or from falling behind.
The reader will see that there is thus a good deal of military
formality about the composition of an African train, and such is
necessarily the case. The fore-looper is the advance-guard, the
after-rider the rear-guard, the wagons and their teams the army, the
loose stock the commissary-train, and the manager the general in
command.
We found the country to the north of the river decidedly hilly--much
more so than the southern side. Climbing hills was a serious matter,
as it required a great deal of shouting and flogging to accomplish
it. On the other hand, descending hills was nearly as bad; and when
it came to accidents those of the descents were more numerous than
those of the ascents. One hill that we descended came near wrecking
one of the wagons. We cut down a small tree and tied it to the rear
of the wagon to make a drag; then we started the oxen; but the drag
was insufficient, and the wagon pushed ahead, forcing the oxen before
it. They quickened their pace to a trot, and then to a run.
In going down the descent the oxen turned along the side of the hill,
which brought the wheels on one side of the wagon much higher than
those on the other. The wagon tipped over, or rather would have done
so had it not come against a tree just as it was overturning, and
brought everything up all standing. The chains that held the first
four yokes of oxen were broken, and away the creatures went at a
tearing pace, until they were stopped by the fore-looper half a mile
away.
We had a variety of mishaps while traveling in the hilly country, but
happily none of them were serious. After two days of this sort of
thing we came out into an open region, where the country was fairly
level, but there was a scarcity of water, as the streams were small
and far apart. We kept on through this open region till we came near
the Divargo River; at any rate, it is called a river, though it is
hardly anything more than a small brook. As the valley of the river
afforded good pasturage for our oxen, and the stream itself would
supply us with water, we decided to form a kraal in its neighborhood.
Signs of game were plentiful, and the natives that came into the camp
reported an abundance of elephants and buffaloes. While looking
about for a good place for a camp, Harry stumbled upon a fine spring
of water coming out of a hillside at the edge of the valley, and of
course that settled the question at once.
We outspanned there, and all hands went to work industriously to make
a kraal. Not only did the natives report plenty of elephants and
buffaloes, but they also reported giraffes, elands, gemsbok, blesbok,
and lions. The lions were the fellows that we were obliged to build
a kraal against, all the other animals named giving us a wide berth.
The next morning after forming our camp we started in on our
hunting-work--first after elephants, then after buffaloes, and then
after smaller game. We had very good success, as we brought down
three elephants and two buffaloes the first day, and all the
elephants were good-sized tuskers.
The second day we were not so fortunate, as we secured only two
elephants, the herd having become shy on account of the devastation
in their midst the day before. Still, as sport goes, that was very
good work, and we returned to camp in fairly buoyant spirits.
Soon after we arrived our manager came to us and said several natives
had been in the camp a short time before and reported two hunters
camped some five or six miles to the westward of us. He added the
important information that these hunters were women, whereupon Jack
and Harry took a look at the sun, to see whether there was time to
ride over to the camp and back again before dark. Harry proposed
that we should go at once on the visit; but I suggested that it was
rather late in the day for a call, and besides, it might look like
rushing matters a bit if we started out directly from our own camp
with the object of visiting them.
"It would be better," I said, "to hunt in that direction, and come
upon them 'by accident.' Don't you think so?"
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE LADIES CHASED BY A HERD OF BUFFALOES--HOW THEIR
LIVES WERE SAVED--IN CAMP AGAIN--STORIES OF
BUFFALO ADVENTURE.
"No, I don't," replied Harry; "I think it would be showing a greater
respect to them for us to take the trouble of saddling our horses and
going purposely to their kraal, instead of ignoring them until such
time as we 'happen' upon them. They will learn from the natives that
we are here, just as we have learned about them."
"I agree with Harry," said Jack; "but it's too late in the afternoon
for us to visit them to-day; we can start out in the morning and ride
over there."
"Well, that will do," said Harry; "it certainly is rather late in the
day; if we were ready to start this minute we couldn't get there and
back again before dark unless we limited our call to about five
minutes, and that wouldn't do."
"You may be sure it wouldn't," said Jack; "when I call upon them I
don't want to be cut short on five minutes."
It was agreed all around that we should make a visit to the ladies
the next morning, and with that understanding everybody was cheerful.
We had a substantial supper, and went to bed early. All were up in
good season the next morning, and my companions were decidedly uneasy
all the time that intervened between their waking and the saddling of
the horses after breakfast. As we mounted and rode away I suggested
that we had better ride slowly, as the distance was short, and we did
not want to get there too early in the morning; the others assented,
and we jogged on at a slow pace. We had several opportunities for
shooting game while on the way, but resisted temptation, since a
yielding to it would have involved loss of time. In due time we came
in sight of the camp, and rode slowly up to it; the manager came
forward to meet us, and informed us, to our dismay, that the ladies
had taken an early start and gone out hunting.
"Which way did they go?" queried Jack.
"They went toward the northwest," replied the manager, "where the
natives reported a herd of buffaloes. The after-rider went with them
on horseback, and half a dozen Kafirs followed on foot. I think," he
continued, "that you will have no difficulty in finding them, as they
will be sure to be in the vicinity of the herd of buffaloes."
We thanked him for the information, and then rode away in the
direction which he indicated. When an intervening ridge shut out the
sight of the camp, we halted and held a council. I was of the
opinion that we had better leave the ladies to themselves, and not
interfere with their hunting for the day, but was speedily overruled
by my companions, who outvoted me two to one. They had the argument
on their side, I had to confess, and therefore I yielded with very
little hesitation.
"They've been getting into scrapes lately," said Jack, "and the
chances are even that they'll get into one to-day. If we go where
they are we may be able to pull them out of a difficulty, which we
could not do if we went on in an entirely different direction. We
need not interfere with their hunting at all; if they can kill the
entire herd let them do so, but I imagine there won't be very much
diminution of it after they have had their fill of buffalo-shooting."
As soon as the question was decided we hurried on toward the
northwest. We had gone about six miles when we saw ahead of us a
cloud of dust, and knew that it was the locality of the herd. The
ground was open and undulating; scattered mimosa and other trees
dotted the region, but they were not sufficiently numerous to afford
cover or shelter to any great extent; neither did they impede the
view.
"There comes the herd!" shouted Jack, as he saw the cloud of dust.
"I'll bet our friends are just behind it, and having a merry time."
"The herd is coming this way at full speed," said Harry; "how rapidly
that dust-cloud approaches!"
We all rose in our stirrups and looked intently in the direction of
the dust; very soon I made out that the herd stretched across the
plain to a considerable extent, and, according to the indications, it
contained a goodly number of animals. It was certain that we would
have plenty of sport without interfering with that of our neighbors.
"Stop! What is that?" I exclaimed. "Just look in front of the herd,
past that mimosa-tree with a bush at its base!"
"Yes, just look!" said Jack. "My God, the hunters are being hunted!"
[Illustration: TURNING THE CHARGE OF THE BUFFALOES.]
Sure enough, that was the case. We could see the herd of buffaloes
advancing at full speed, and in front of them--not more than two
hundred yards in advance--were three individuals on horseback, riding
at a gallop away from the herd! The situation was plain: the
buffaloes had charged upon the three riders, and were pursuing them
to the best of their ability.
"If anybody falls, death is certain," said Jack, "as that herd would
trample the life out of one in a very few minutes. The lives of
riders and horses are at stake; a single misstep, and the fall would
be terrible. Let us ride forward and turn the herd, if it is
possible to do so."
We went ahead at a gallop. Very soon we passed the fleeing riders,
and just as we did so one of their horses plunged his foot into a
hole and fell headlong! There was no time to stop to render
assistance; all depended upon heading off that ruck of infuriated
animals, that was coming on with the force of an avalanche.
We shouted, and waved our hands in the air; and then, gripping our
faithful Winchesters, which we had brought along, we poured shot
after shot, not at the herd, but directly over it. Had we fired at
the animals and wounded any of them, we should have increased their
fury; firing above them was the only way to intimidate them.
Our plan was successful: the leaders of the herd slackened their
speed, and then veered away to the left. The others naturally
followed the course of their leaders, and in less time than it takes
me to tell the story the direction of that animate tornado was
changed. The speed of the herd was but little diminished, but the
course was changed about a quarter of a circle, which was amply
sufficient for our purposes.
Under other circumstances we should have rushed in and had glorious
sport among that mass of buffaloes, but our attentions were needed
elsewhere. We wheeled about and saw the group of our friends where
the one mentioned had fallen, and rode as quickly as possible to the
place where they were. When we reached it we found that the victim
of the fall was Miss Boland; but fortunately, with the exception of a
few bruises, she was not injured. Mrs. Roberts and the after-rider
had turned back to her assistance as soon as they discovered her
fall, believing that we would be able to turn their pursuers either
to the left or the right.
Mrs. Roberts was standing over Miss Boland, the latter being in a
half-fainting condition. Fortunately I had brought along the
brandy-flask which has heretofore been mentioned, and was able to
administer a restorative dose to the patient.
In a little while the lady was able to mount her horse, and then we
rode slowly toward their camp.
Harry obtained a place by Miss Boland's side, Jack rode close behind
them with Mrs. Roberts, and I brought up the rear with the
after-rider as my companion. From him I learned the particulars of
the affair, which were about as follows:
"We had no difficulty in finding the herd," said he, "as it was
scattered over quite a bit of land, where the buffaloes were grazing.
We rode directly at them, the wind being favorable to us; and when
within perhaps fifty yards the ladies drew up and fired, each one
selecting a medium-sized cow as her target.
"The moment the first shot was fired some of the old bulls in the
herd gave a peculiar cry or bellow, which brought all the animals
together, with the exception of the two cows, that had been severely
wounded and were unable to move quickly. The whole herd acted like a
regiment of well-trained soldiers, all running toward the center,
where these old bulls were. We thought they would try to run away,
but they did not do anything of the kind: they pawed the earth and
bellowed repeatedly, and then, as if by word of command, they all
started straight toward us. We turned and ran, well knowing that if
they once overtook us our deaths would be certain. That was the time
you saw us, and you certainly saved the life of Miss Boland, if not
the lives of all three. If you had been two minutes later she would
surely have been trampled to death; and if our horses had fallen as
hers did our fate would have been the same."
With the exception of my conversation with the after-rider, our
journey homeward was a silent one. Miss Boland was unable to talk,
much to Harry's disappointment, while Mrs. Roberts could do little
better than answer in monosyllables to Jack's remarks.
When the party reached the kraal we assisted the ladies to dismount,
and I, as the self-appointed master of ceremonies, told them to go to
their tents at once, and we should see them the next day.
Miss Boland nodded assent, as she could not speak and was barely able
to stand. Mrs. Roberts shook each of us fervently by the hand, and
said:
"We owe our lives to you, gentlemen. Had it not been for you our
fate would have been sealed. I can't say more now; good-by."
With that she took Miss Boland by the arm, and the two disappeared.
We remained a few minutes outside the kraal, talking with the
manager, and then mounted and rode away to our own camp.
By the time we reached it it was past noon, and we were hungry. The
cook had not expected us, and consequently had made no preparations
for luncheon; but that did not trouble us much, as a few slices of
meat--good-sized slices--with some bread left over from breakfast,
were sufficient for us. We discussed the events of the morning, and
agreed that it was no exaggeration for Mrs. Roberts to say we had
saved the lives of herself and Miss Boland.
"That's the first time I ever saw a herd of buffaloes charge in a
body," said Jack; "I've been told that they do so, but have never
seen it."
"I've seen it twice," I replied, "and I was one of the parties they
charged against in both instances. My first experience was when
chasing a troop of elands; a small herd of buffaloes, with a
rhinoceros or two, came after me, and I only escaped by the fleetness
of my horse and by doubling upon them in a little patch of forest.
They lost sight of me and gave up the chase. Evidently they don't
follow the trail by scent, but rely entirely upon the use of their
eyes."
"And what was the other occasion?" queried Harry.
"Oh, the other time I was chased was when I was up in the buffalo
country last year, and it was very much under the same circumstances
as the event of to-day. Two of us had attacked a herd and put some
lead into the leading bulls. The bulls gave a call that brought all
the others to their aid, and then they charged at full speed. At a
guess there were more than a hundred buffaloes in the crowd. My
friend who was with me at the time thought there were two hundred at
least. They formed into a very compact mass, and only the leaders
could see where they were going.
"When they charged we were about two thirds of the way from one flank
of the herd to the other. I suggested to my friend that we take the
shortest cut toward the edge of the herd, and ride obliquely along
the front, instead of running dead away before them. We did so, and
as we reached the edge of the flank we doubled quickly around to the
rear of the herd. This threw the animals into confusion, as the mass
was so dense and so large that the leading bulls could not quickly
make their way through it, while the cows and yearlings at the rear
were not likely to lead a charge on their own account. Before the
bulls got around in position to make a head against us we were safely
out of reach."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MISCELLANEOUS HUNTING--SUDDEN CALL FOR HELP--THE LADIES
BESIEGED BY AN AFRICAN CHIEF--FOREIGNERS' MAGIC.
"Shall we call on the ladies to-morrow to ask how they are, or wait
until we hear from them?" Harry asked.
"Oh, we'll call on them, of course," responded Jack.
"I think," said I, "that we'll do neither. We won't disturb them by
a call, and we won't neglect them by waiting till they send to us."
"Then what do you propose to do?"
"That's very simple," said I: "we'll send our manager over to ask how
they are, and if it would please them to have a call from us."
"You're a diplomat of the first water," said Jack, "and have mistaken
your vocation. Instead of hunting big game in South Africa, you
should be representing your country in a foreign capital, where
difficult questions are often arising."
I thanked him for the compliment, and explained that my desires did
not run in that direction. I had been offered a diplomatic
appointment, which I declined, partly because I had no taste for the
life, and partly in consequence of the feeling that I was not fully
adequate to the duties of the position. "And speaking of diplomacy,"
I added, "shall we do any hunting this afternoon?"
As I asked this question Mirogo appeared at the door of our tent and
announced a herd of elephants--a small herd--about two miles to the
eastward.
"There's the answer to your question." said Harry, as he rose from
the table and reached for his rifle.
"Yes, that's the answer," said Jack; "no necessity for any further
talking."
In a few minutes we were off for the chase, which I will not
describe, as it would be a practical repetition of previous
elephant-hunts. We each bagged an animal, and all three were good
ones--that is, they had good tusks.
The next day we sent our manager to the ladies' camp. He returned
with the report that our friends were pretty well recovered from the
shock they had received during the buffalo-chase, and with the
statement, by way of postscript, that they would be pleased to see us
at any time when we chose to call. They did not think they would go
out hunting for the next two or three days, and if we made a visit
within that time we would be pretty sure to find them at home.
Needless to say, we made it in our way to call there the next day.
We were intending to pursue the buffaloes, and had a cold luncheon
with us; but they pressed us so hard that we remained to luncheon,
and, in fact, remained so late that we postponed our buffalo-hunt
until the following day.
We remained in that region a fortnight and more, dividing our time
between hunting the various kinds of game which abounded there,
calling every few days at the ladies' camp, and receiving occasional
prearranged visits from Mrs. Roberts and Miss Boland about
luncheon-time. Needless to say, we became well acquainted, and the
acquaintance ripened into friendship, and, in certain quarters, into
love. We arranged that the next time we made a move we would go in
company and form our camps more nearly together.
I had a large map of South Africa--the best I could find in
Durban--and we studied it a good deal to determine where we would
next go. We also obtained all the information possible from the
natives; but such information, except as concerned the immediate
neighborhood, was never reliable and always exaggerated. If you ask
a question of a Kafir or a Zulu, and he knows the correct answer, he
may possibly give it to you; if he does not know it he will give you
the first that his imagination suggests, and he generally endeavors
to make it of a pleasing character.
We had about made up our minds to trek for three or four days in an
easterly direction; the natives reported an abundance of game there,
and their report was confirmed by some of our own people, whom we
sent out on a scouting-expedition. They saw several herds of
elephants and buffaloes; and as for the divers members of the
antelope family, they answered the Irishman's description of the
absentee landlords of Ireland: "The country was full of 'em." The
question was not fully decided, but was to be at the next meeting of
our friends and ourselves.
On the morning of the day when we were to take luncheon together and
decide the question, the after-rider of the ladies' expedition came
into our camp in great haste with a note, which he brought to me. It
was addressed to all three of us by our surnames only, and had
evidently been written in great haste. It said, briefly:
"Please come immediately, and bring your Winchesters. We are in
peril."
The only signature to the letter was that of Mrs. Roberts. Needless
to say, "there was mounting in hot haste," to use the words of Byron,
and we went off at a brisk canter in the direction of our friends.
As we neared their camp we saw that it was surrounded by two or three
hundred negroes, armed with spears and equipped with shields. Our
hearts rose in our mouths, as we feared that our fair friends were
prisoners in the hands of the natives.
"What shall we do," said Jack--"ride up slowly and parley with them,
or send in our after-rider [who accompanied us] and find out what the
trouble is?"
"No," I answered, "we'll ride right in among them, straight up to the
wagon and the tent. We'll find out from those who can best tell us."
"Yes, that's the best way," said Harry; "no use parleying with these
fellows, or they'll think we're afraid of them."
We rode right on to the kraal, straight up to the wagon and the tent.
The natives pushed up against us, and we pushed them vigorously
aside, dismounting instantly and giving the reins of our horses to
the after-rider. It is proper to say that he was well armed and
ready for his share of the fighting in case any occurred.
The manager of the camp came out as we dismounted, pushing his way
with some difficulty through the crowd. As I caught sight of him I
said:
"Tell the ladies we are here."
He disappeared, returned in a moment, and said they wished us to walk
into the tent.
We did not wait for a second invitation, but proceeded there at once.
Mrs. Roberts came to the door of the tent and shook our hands
convulsively one after the other, repeating several times, "I'm so
glad you've come! I'm so glad you've come!"
"What is the matter?" we all asked in a breath.
"The matter is just this," she replied: "Macatese, the chief who owns
this land, came here early this morning and demanded to see us. We
were both in bed at the time, and sent word to him that he could not
be received. He sent back that his time was precious---as if the
time of these natives ever amounted to anything--and he could not
wait. We answered that he could see us as soon as we were dressed,
and not before. He threatened to come into our tent, and our manager
told him he would certainly be shot if he did so, and that any of his
followers who invaded our tent would be killed. That seemed to
frighten him, and he concluded to wait.
"We dressed as quickly as we could, and then received him. He said
we had come into his lands without permission. We told him we didn't
know that any permission was required, but if we had violated any of
his rules we were willing to pay whatever damage was proper. Then he
said that we need not pay anything, but he wanted us at his kraal--he
wanted some white wives. His people had reported that two white
women were hunting in his territory, and he had decided they must be
his wives and form a part of his household."
The three of us stood open-mouthed with astonishment, but only for a
moment; I broke the silence by asking where the chief was at that
moment.
"He's in the other tent, with two of his followers, the fore-looper,
who is acting as interpreter, and Miss Boland. He has been trying
all his powers of persuasion to induce us to become his wives; he
promises that we shall have authority over all others, and be the
queens of the land!"
In spite of her indignation Mrs. Roberts could not help laughing when
she reached this point in the story, and I felt a smile endeavoring
to spread itself over my face. The idea of two refined, educated
Englishwomen becoming the wives of an African chief was about as
ridiculous a thing as I ever heard of.
"Realizing our helplessness, we decided to send word to you, and I
wrote the very hasty note that you received."
"We are very glad you did so," I replied, "and I think the best thing
we can do is to interview this African potentate at once. Please
lead the way into the tent where he is."
Mrs. Roberts did as requested, and in a moment we stood in the
presence of the chief, or king, as he was pleased to call himself.
Miss Boland rose and shook us warmly by the hand, with more composure
than Mrs. Roberts had shown when she greeted us. There was reason
for this, however, as she had heard us talking outside the tent, and
had known for several minutes of our arrival.
I had a little acquaintance with the native language, though not a
great deal. It was possible for me to talk in a fragmentary sort of
way, and with the aid of the fore-looper I got along very well with
his majesty; at all events, I made sure that he understood what I
said. My impulse was to begin the conversation very abruptly by
ordering him out of the tent and away from the kraal; but the thought
arose that diplomacy might be better, and so I greeted him as amiably
as was possible for me under the circumstances. He seemed somewhat
disconcerted at our appearance, and this gave me an advantage.
I praised his country and the game that we had found in it, and told
him we were intending to call on him that very day to pay our
_hongo_, or tribute, for hunting in his dominions. He seemed pleased
at the suggestion, and said he would receive us in the afternoon.
I suggested that as his residence was some twelve or fifteen miles
away we might defer our visit till the next day, or possibly the day
after; to which he assented. Then I invited him to come outside the
tent, where I would show him some foreign magic.
The natives all over Africa are great believers in magic, and nowhere
more so than in the region where we were. Everything they do not
understand is at once attributed to supernatural powers, and it is
this belief which has enabled foreigners to penetrate their country
to the extent they have. A watch is regarded as a living thing with
magical powers, and so is every piece of machinery, whether elaborate
or simple. Firearms of all kinds are supposed to be of magical
production, and the more effective they are and the more rapidly
loaded and fired the greater is the amount of magic they contain.
Mrs. Roberts had asked us to bring our Winchesters, with a view to
their rapid use in case of actual fighting; I immediately saw, or
thought I saw, a use for these weapons that she had not counted upon.
After getting Macatese outside the tent, and also outside the kraal,
I called his attention to my rifle, telling him it was the newest
magic of the white man. He looked at it in wonderment, and then
asked me to fire it. His people meanwhile had gathered around us,
and were intently watching the proceedings. There was a large tree
about a hundred yards away, and I indicated that as the mark at which
I would fire; then I drew the weapon to my shoulder, and fired five
shots at the tree as fast as I could pump them out.
The first and second shots did not seem to startle him, as he had
seen double-barreled guns fired before; but the third, fourth, and
fifth shots were what may be termed, in slang, "corkers." A look of
astonishment overspread his face, and if his complexion had permitted
I think he would have turned pale! He was one of the most surprised
Africans I ever saw.
I paused at the fifth shot, intimating to him that I could go on
indefinitely, and then pointed to the weapons of my companions to
show that they were of the same sort and of the same magical powers
as mine. I further told him that we had a hundred such guns in our
wagons (may the Lord forgive me for lying!), and we had a hundred men
who could use them. I also averred that we had other things of much
greater powers than these, and when we visited his kraal we would
exhibit them.
CHAPTER XXIX.
HOW WE DECEIVED THE KING--SOLVING A MATRIMONIAL
PUZZLE--INSPAN AND MOVE SOUTH--OVERTAKEN.
The king shook his head, and I gathered from his remarks that he
preferred we should leave our magical appliances at home when we paid
him a visit.
After this I led the conversation around to the object of his visit
to the ladies' camp. He hesitated somewhat, and did not admit that
he came for the purpose of marrying our fair friends, until I plumply
asked if what we had heard was true. He then said that he did wish
to marry them, and he would make them the greatest ladies of the land.
"But you should give them time to consider it," I said. "You must
manage this matter just as it is managed in the country the ladies
come from. Is it not so, my friend!"
He reluctantly assented to my proposition, and said that he would
give them time to consider.
"Very well," I answered; "go away for a short time, say three or five
days, and tell them that you will come back at the end of that period
to receive their answer. You can, if you like, leave a few of your
men here to watch the camp and see that they do not move away. This
will make everything safe for you, and the ladies will have an
opportunity to think the matter over; when they have carefully
considered it there is no doubt that they will do as you wish."
He hesitated a moment, and then said:
"The white man's words are wisdom; I will leave four of my soldiers
here, and will come back in five days."
I called Mrs. Roberts and Miss Boland from their tent, not desiring
to have the old blackguard go back there again, and heard him make
his statement as just given, through the medium of the interpreter.
I nodded to them, and they accepted the proposal at once.
Thereupon the interview ended; the king gathered his followers,
detailing four of them to remain at the camp, and told them their
duty would be to give him notice of any attempt of the party to move.
He was then treated to a good-sized drink of weak brandy and water,
and after smacking his lips over it for some ten minutes or so, he
departed.
We watched his retiring column as it wound over the plain and off
among the hills, and I am sure we all breathed sighs of satisfaction
over the fact that we had secured his departure without bloodshed.
As Macatese and his train disappeared Mrs. Roberts invited us into
the tent, and the five of us were quickly seated there.
"What shall we do now?" said Mrs. Roberts; and Miss Boland echoed,
"What shall we do?"
"Are there any Kafirs among your people whom you can trust
implicitly?"
"Yes, I think there are," replied Mrs. Roberts; "but we had better
consult our manager on that point."
The manager was called and made one of the conference. In response
to my inquiry he said there were several men in their expedition in
whom he had as much faith as he could possibly have in a negro.
"Well, what you want to do," I said, "is to get ready to move out of
here immediately. But before you make the least preparation for
doing so you must intoxicate those four men whom Macatese left; it
must be no ordinary intoxication, either--something that will make
them thoroughly and completely insensible. As soon as that is
accomplished, get up your oxen, inspan, and start for the south.
Macatese's dominions end at the Luranga; get across that river just
as quick as you can, and then you'll be safe. Tie those men hand and
foot, so that if one happens to sober up he can't get away; and don't
let one of them leave you till you're safe on the opposite side of
the stream."
Mrs. Roberts suggested that they had in their medicine-chest some
tincture of opium, which might assist the intoxicating process.
"The very thing!" said Jack. "I was just going to propose to send
you some from our camp, and I'm very glad you have it."
The opium was quickly brought, and also a bottle of brandy. Jack had
studied medicine a little, and knew more of the use of drugs than
either Harry or myself. He prepared what he averred would be a
"knock-out" dose for the four men, and then gave it to the manager,
with instructions to tell the Kafirs who were to administer it that
they must not touch it themselves.
"I'm afraid they might be tempted to take a sip of it," he replied,
"and I think I can manage it with my own hands."
He went outside the tent, got into an amiable conversation with the
soldiers, and then invited them to take a drink. He poured out a
glass for each of them in turn, and then pretended to take one
himself. His pretense was one of the prettiest feats of legerdemain
on record. In less than fifteen minutes the fellows were very sleepy
and concluded they would take a nap. They were accommodated with a
comfortable place, and then the work of inspanning and pulling out
was pushed with great vigor.
There was no further need of our presence at the ladies' camp. While
the process of subduing Macatese's men had been going on we told our
friends that we should inspan at once and meet them on the south side
of the river. To this end we hastened away to our own kraal as soon
as the manager reported that the redoubtable four no longer possessed
any powers of observation.
We rode home at full speed, and gave orders to the manager to inspan
at once. We packed our rifles and ammunition so as to have them
handy in case of trouble, and told the manager to get ready for
fighting at a moment's notice. This alarmed him a good deal, and we
quieted his fears by saying we did not expect any trouble, but had
heard that the natives were quarrelsome and might come about us with
hostile intentions.
There was a good moon in the early part of the night, and we told our
friends before leaving them that we should trek until midnight at
least. We advised them to do the same thing, and also spoke to their
manager on the subject. He said he would trek until morning if
necessary, but thought if they kept on the road till midnight it
would be quite late enough.
We made the best speed we could through the country to the north of
the Luranga, deeming it all-important that we should get that river
between us and Macatese as soon as we could. We were fearful that
some of his people might have lingered behind and witnessed the start
of the ladies' expedition. Of course we had to take our chances on
that point, but gathered courage from the fact that the four soldiers
were left behind to give notice of any movement, and therefore there
would be no necessity of any other watch upon the party.
The reader will remember about the hilly country through which we
passed to the north of the Luranga, and the troubles we had in
traversing it. Some natives who came into our camp offered to show
us a much better route through that region than the one by which we
came--a route, they said, which was not generally known. We
stipulated to give each of them a string of beads and a cotton shirt,
provided their statement proved true and the route was as
represented, payment to be made on our arrival on the other bank of
the river.
We kept up a constant communication with our friends, and as we
proceeded our routes converged to bring us to the same point on the
river. When we had completed our negotiation with these natives, I
sent two of them with a note to Mrs. Roberts, telling her what the
men had promised, and advising them to join us the next day. They
joined us, and the whole party proceeded in company.
For once we found that the stories of the natives were not
exaggerated; they guided us to a valley reaching from the level
country to the bottom-land of the river--a valley through which water
flowed in the rainy season, or in times of great floods. It was
narrow and crooked, but a vast improvement over the hilly route we
traveled during our upward journey.
It was near sunset when we reached the Luranga, and our manager said
that we had better outspan where we were and wait till morning for
the crossing. I vehemently opposed the proposition, and told him we
must cross that evening if it took all night to do it. We did not
know what would happen, and wanted to be on the safe side of the
stream.
With considerable reluctance the manager proceeded to carry out our
orders, and the manager of the other party followed his example. The
teams were doubled, as at the previous crossing, and one after the
other the wagons were taken safely over. We had some personal
mishaps, Jack and I getting a good soaking in the river, and Mrs.
Roberts faring likewise, in consequence of her horse deciding to lie
down and roll when in the middle of the stream. The forward axle of
one of our wagons was badly cracked and strained during the crossing,
so that a new axle was needed before we could proceed on our journey.
It was long after midnight before we three fellows were able to get
to bed. We fell into a sound sleep, and were roused at daybreak by
the manager, who said there were a large number of natives on the
other side of the stream, shouting and gesticulating violently! Of
course we rose at once and dressed in a hurry.
Sure enough, we could see on the other side of the Luranga a party of
African warriors to the number of a hundred and more. We went down
to the southern bank to parley with them, and you may be sure we took
our Winchesters and plenty of ammunition. We also took our
fore-looper along to act as interpreter, and after a good deal of
parleying and promises of safety we induced two of their number to
cross the river, so that we could talk to them. The king was not
with the party, and we were not at all sorry that he stayed at home.
The two men who came over the river belonged to his personal staff or
ministry, and were rather more intelligent than the average of the
tribe. They told us we had been gone two days before the king
discovered our departure, and he was greatly puzzled to know why the
faithful soldiers whom he had left with us had not informed him; he
had not heard from them at all; was very angry at their conduct, and
very angry with the ladies and ourselves for leaving his dominions so
abruptly.
I explained, through the fore-looper, that the soldiers whom the king
left to watch over the ladies' kraal were not in any wise to blame;
they had done their duty as far as they could, but we had enchanted
them by our magic powers and made it impossible for them to know that
the camp had been changed, or anything else. I asserted that we had
kept them under that spell of enchantment during our journey to the
Luranga, but now that we were safe on the southern bank we should
exercise our powers of witchcraft and remove the spell. I promised
that the men should join them during the day, but only on condition
that the party of warriors then on the north bank should remain where
they were.
"If one of you men," said I, "attempts to cross the river we shall
exercise the power of our magic guns, and he will be a dead man
before he knows it. Our guns are ready, and should we desire to do
so we can shoot away the ground on which your people are standing,
and leave beneath them a bottomless pit, into which they will fall!"
The fore-looper delivered my words very solemnly, and the envoys were
duly impressed with the truth of all I said. They promised that
their men should remain exactly where they were until the soldiers
who had acted as our escort should be returned to them; then they
would go back to their king with any message we desired to send.
I answered that they might as well take the message on the spot,
which was, that the ladies could not possibly decide in so short a
time as the king allowed them the question as to whether they would
be his brides or not. Consequently they had thought it well to leave
Macatese's dominions and come to a region where they could deliberate
freely and with plenty of time at their command. If they concluded
to accept his proposition they would send him a message to that
effect as soon as their determination was reached; unless he heard
from them he might consider that his proposals were declined.
The envoys repeated the message several times to make sure that they
had it correctly; then they recrossed the river, and we saw them no
more, except at a distance.
During the course of the day the soldiers whom Macatese had left as a
guard were sufficiently sobered up to be sent to their comrades.
They had been treated kindly, and also treated often, the manager of
the ladies' expedition keeping them well filled with brandy
containing a proper proportion of opium, Mrs. Roberts taking great
care that the quantity administered to them should not be sufficient
to endanger their lives. From the time they were first put to sleep
they remained in a stupefied condition, and were carried in the top
of the wagon, their hands and feet securely tied, and a guard
standing over them, so that escape was impossible.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE LAST HUNT--THREE PROPOSALS--"STILL WATERS RUN
DEEP"--THE END.
As we neared the river their doses of brandy and opium were
considerably reduced, so that by the time we had crossed the Luranga
they were fairly sobered up. They had been supplied with all they
wanted to eat, which was not a great deal; but as they got the opium
out of their systems their appetites returned, and before their
departure they had an abundant meal of stewed meat and steaks, cooked
over the fire. We loaded them with presents--that is, we gave each
of them a cotton shirt, three yards of cloth, and two strings of
beads--so that they went back to the north side of the river feeling
very proud, happy, and rich, though possibly they may have had some
misgivings as to the reception which awaited them on their arrival at
the king's kraal. The king had a pleasant habit of beheading or
strangling those of his people who displeased him, and it was on this
account that I impressed the envoys with the idea that the whole
affair was due to the white man's magic, and the innocent soldiers
were not in the least to blame.
Shortly after the soldiers joined their comrades on the north bank
the whole party marched away into the country back of the river and
disappeared among the hills. We were fearful that they might attempt
a raid upon us during the night, and so, about sunset, we inspanned
again and traveled by moonlight until a late hour, a new axle having
been made to replace the broken one. We felt sure that the fellows
would not proceed far into the region where they did not belong, lest
they might encounter some of the soldiers of the king who owned the
land, and in that event there would be sure to be a fight.
We trekked on again the next night, and then went into kraal about
half a mile from a water-hole, which was the drinking-place of a
large number of elephants, buffaloes, elands, and other animals, not
to omit lions and leopards. We found a small spring of water close
to where we outspanned, sufficient for the use of our party,
including the oxen and horses, but not large enough to be a favorite
spot with the wild animals when a much greater one was close at hand.
Here we determined to abide for a while, to give our teams a chance
to rest after their forced march, and also to do some hunting that
would finish the burdens of our wagons. In these up-country
excursions the hunter loads his wagons with provisions and trade
goods, and as the provisions and goods are used up he fills the space
with hides, ivory, karosses, and other things that are marketable in
the seaports of the Cape. When his cargo is completed he is ready to
return home. By means of the contents of his wagons he pays the
expenses of his expedition, and sometimes realizes a handsome profit.
We had some fine hunting in that region, including night-shooting at
the drinking-place already mentioned. Our sport was hardly equal to
that which Cumming describes in his book, but we had splendid
success, take it for all in all, and were well satisfied with it.
The asperities of night-shooting were softened on several occasions
by the presence of Mrs. Roberts and Miss Boland, who wished to enjoy
the sport, and achieved their full share of success in so doing.
We had our wagons pretty nearly filled up, and only a few more hides
and tusks were needed to complete the lading. As for the ladies'
wagon, it was little more than half filled, and their collection of
ivory was considerably smaller than ours. We said nothing about this
to our friends, as we all were reluctant to dwell intently on the
subject of separation.
One day I was out with Miss Boland in search of elands, giraffes, or
any other medium-sized game that came in our way. We were not
equipped for elephants or buffaloes, and, as usually happens in such
cases, we saw both kinds of animals in goodly numbers. When we saw
the elephants Miss Boland said:
"I suppose you'll be riding back to camp now to get your elephant-gun
and ammunition?"
"No," I answered, "my enthusiasm for elephants is less than it was."
"Well," she responded, "so is mine. I'm thinking I have had all the
elephant and buffalo shooting I care for, and Mrs. Roberts shares my
opinion."
"Do you intend to remain much longer in this region?" I asked.
"I think not," was the answer; "I was talking the matter over with
Mrs. Roberts last evening, and we are pretty well agreed that when
you gentlemen leave us we will start for Walvisch Bay."
I explained that the time of separation was approaching; that our
wagons were nearly filled with the articles that a hunter usually
brings back from the chase, and in a day or two we would probably
inspan and start for Durban.
"Our roads diverge from this point," said Miss Boland, with a sigh.
"Yes, that is true," I replied; "Durban and Walvisch Bay are on
opposite sides of South Africa. But the roads may come together
again."
"I don't think I understand you quite, Mr. Manson," replied Miss
Boland, with a blush rising on her cheek, browned though it was by
the sun of Africa.
"I will make my meaning clear in a few words: we have become pretty
well acquainted during our sojourn, and I have no hesitation in
asking you, Miss Boland, to become my wife. Will you do so?"
If we had been on foot the reader would be justified in surmising
that we fell into each other's arms after the usual manner of lovers
when one of the most important questions of life is asked; but as we
were on horseback in the open plain the scene was varied--our horses
edged closely to each other, we clasped our right hands, leaned over
in our saddles and exchanged a kiss, and after the kiss was exchanged
Miss Boland uttered the single word "Yes."
For some minutes we rode on in silence, our hearts too full for
utterance; by and by I spoke, and then the lady responded, and in a
little while we were chatting away about as before. We paid very
little attention to the game that day, and came back to camp
absolutely empty-handed, although we knew there was a short supply of
meat for feeding our multitude. The rest of the party rallied us
somewhat on our ill success, which I attributed to the shyness of the
game, it having been hunted so long, and I added that we would have
to pull out of that place within a day or so at the latest.
I should explain that in our homeward ride after the proposal and
acceptance it was arranged that Miss Boland would proceed with Mrs.
Roberts to Walvisch Bay, and after settling their affairs there she
would take the first steamer for Cape Town. I would go with Harry
and Jack to Durban, and when all our matters in that place were
adjusted I would take the first steamer on that side of the peninsula
for Cape Town. There we would meet again, in a city where marriage
licenses are easily obtained and clergymen are numerous and fond of
earning fees.
My remark about the necessity of moving out from where we were
encamped precipitated matters; Jack sought and obtained an
opportunity to see Miss Boland alone. I think they took a stroll in
the direction of the spring that supplied us with water, under the
pretense that they wanted a draft, or at least Jack did, fresh from
the ground. Before they returned from the spring Jack had asked Miss
Boland to become his wife, to which she had replied that her heart
was already pledged to another.
"Not to Harry, is it?" in a tone that evinced considerable anger and
jealousy.
"Oh no, not at all," was the reply; "he has never spoken to me on the
subject."
"Then it's some fellow back in merry England, I suppose?" Jack
retorted. "I don't care who it is, as long as it isn't Harry. But
as long as I live," he continued, "you will always have my best
wishes, Miss Boland, and my warmest hopes for your happiness."
The young woman expressed herself in similar terms toward her
would-be lover, and then changed the subject of conversation, which
was broken up altogether when they reached the camp again.
Harry happened to be inside the tent cleaning his rifle during this
episode at the spring, and consequently knew nothing about it. After
supper, which we took all together under the improvised tent where we
held our first luncheon, we chatted awhile about the necessity of
breaking up and going in different directions, regretting unanimously
the inevitableness of the movement. When we adjourned and escorted
the ladies to their tent Harry managed to draw Miss Boland aside,
unperceived by either Jack or myself. He went through pretty nearly
the same formula as that of the walk to the spring, receiving the
same answer that had been given to Jack. He was a good deal
crestfallen to find that Miss Boland's heart and hand were already
pledged, and fell into the same supposition that her fiancé was
somebody in the old country. His satisfaction at this belief was
similar to that of Jack, and it would have been cruel to undeceive
him, as well as awkward.
It is not often that a young woman has three proposals inside of six
hours from three different individuals, and all three good men and
true.
We agreed to have another day's hunting and then inspan and trek
away, each party in its own direction. Happily for us, a large herd
of elands put in its appearance early in the day, and we went in
pursuit of them. There were so many of us on horseback that we
managed to surround the herd and drive it into a hollow, of whose
existence we knew, where a precipitous wall on three sides of an area
of a few acres caught the creatures as in a trap. We could have
killed the entire herd without difficulty, but we were merciful, and
only shot enough to give us a good supply of meat.
True to our agreement, we all inspanned on the following morning and
trekked away, the ladies going to the southwest, we to the southeast.
We breakfasted together, and the last bottle of champagne was used in
drinking health and a safe journey, together with all sorts of good
wishes to each and every one of the party. Tears were in all our
eyes as we separated, but there were fewer in Harry's, than in those
of any of the rest.
The ladies' wagon was ready sooner than were our own wagons, and they
pulled out in advance of us. We fired a farewell volley as they
departed, and they fired one in return.
"I wonder if we'll ever meet again?" said Harry, with a sigh, as he
watched the retreating forms of the two ladies on horseback.
"Perhaps so," said Jack, in a tone of confidence; "the world is
small, and the paths of humanity constantly cross each other."
"Yes," I answered, in consonance with Jack, "the world is very small,
and the more I live the more I comprehend the correctness of the
assertion. Of course life has many chances, but I confidently
believe that we have not separated from our friends for all time."
We met with no mishap of consequence during our homeward journey,
though we lost several of our oxen and my favorite horse, Brickdust,
by the depredations of the lions. We were able to kill enough game
to keep the company fairly supplied with provisions, but as we neared
the settlements of the Boer farmers we found the game growing very
scarce.
By the way, I must not fail to tell of an adventure which befell
Harry during this journey. It was after we reached the settlements,
and when game was scarce, that Harry pursued a quagga for quite a
distance. Night overtook him, and he was not in sight of camp; he
knew its general direction, and was riding for it, listening intently
for the sound of the signal-guns that we always fired when one was
out after dark. He was feeling rather gloomy at having lost his
game, and was thinking of the possibilities of being obliged to camp
out alone in the open air.
Suddenly his horse snorted, and indicated that there was something
ahead. Harry urged him gently forward, and in the little light that
remained he made out the forms of two quagga, that seemed to be
standing entirely unalarmed in the presence of danger. To make sure
work Harry dismounted, and by the quick use of his rifle he brought
down both the animals. Then, clinging to his bridle, he went
cautiously in the direction of his prizes to examine them. To his
horror he discovered that they were horses; one of them was wearing a
halter, and the other was fully harnessed. He had been shooting a
Dutchman's wagon-team!
At the Tugela River we found such a flood that we were obliged to
wait two days for it to subside. Then we went on, and one day, about
noon, rolled into Durban with the air of conquering heroes. We sold
our hides, ivory, and other things to good advantage, and recouped
ourselves fully for our outlay. With our horses and oxen we were
less fortunate; it is always the case, the world over, when you want
to buy live-stock, nobody wants to sell, and when you want to sell
nobody wants to buy, except at an enormous discount. You have the
alternative of accepting half the value or of keeping the animals and
seeing them perform that wonderful scientific feat of eating their
heads off. We chose the former method and sold our stock at auction
in the public square of Durban.
After everything had been cleaned up and our settlements made, I
inquired for the first steamer that would leave for the Cape. Jack
said he thought he would take a run down there, and he was glad that
I intended going. Harry was not inclined to make the journey, and
said he would stay awhile in Durban and then join another party going
up-country. "I'll wait for you fellows," said he, "if you'll cut
your Cape visit short, and come back in a reasonable time."
"I don't think I shall be back this way in a hurry," remarked Jack.
"The fact is, boys--I don't mind telling it to you now--I'm engaged
to Mrs. Roberts! We are to meet at the Cape and be married there."
"The deuce you say!" Harry remarked.
"Yes, actually so; I proposed to her the morning we broke camp, and
she accepted!"
There was a pause, which I broke by saying, "Jack and I can be 'best
men' for each other, as I'm engaged to Miss Boland, and am to meet
her for marriage at the Cape!"
Harry and Jack both gave prolonged whistles as I finished my little
story, and after his whistle Harry remarked, "I thought from what she
said she was engaged to a fellow in England!"
"So did I," said Jack; "and this quiet, inoffensive, demure old
Manson has cut us both out!"
"That he has!" said Harry. "'Still waters run deep!'"
THE END.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Romance of the Canoness: A Life-History
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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Title: The Romance of the Canoness: A Life-History
Author: Paul Heyse
Translator: Mary J. Safford
Release date: October 22, 2010 [eBook #33879]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page images provided by Google Books
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROMANCE OF THE CANONESS: A LIFE-HISTORY ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page images provided by Google Books
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=E1ETAAAAYAAJ&dq
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE ROMANCE
OF THE CANONESS.
_A LIFE-HISTORY_
BY
PAUL HEYSE
AUTHOR OF "IN PARADISE," ETC.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY
J. M. PERCIVAL
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1887
Copyright, 1887,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
The title of this book, in the German, is "Der Roman der Stiftsdame,"
_stiftsdame_ being rendered in this version _canoness_. It is desirable
to explain that _stiftsdame_ is the name given to a female member of
certain religious communities or orders, originally Roman Catholic, the
members of which lived in common but without taking monastic vows.
After the Reformation, Protestant houses of a similar kind were
organized. The privileges of these communities are often secured by
noblemen for their daughters, who may at any subsequent period enter
the stift or chapter of the order, but who forfeit this right in case
of marriage.
THE
ROMANCE OF THE CANONESS.
In June, 1864, a visit I had promised to pay one of the friends of my
youth led me into the heart of the province of Brandenburg. I could
travel by the railway as far as the little city of St. ----, but from
this place was compelled to hire a carriage for two or three miles, as
the estate, which my friend had owned several years, did not even
possess the advantage of a daily stage. So, on reaching St. ----,
I applied to the landlord of the "Crown-Prince"--who was also
postmaster--for a carriage, and, as it was past three o'clock in the
afternoon, and the drive over shadeless roads in the early heat of
summer would not be particularly agreeable, I begged him not to hurry,
but give me time to have a glimpse of the little city and its environs.
The landlord replied that the poor little place had no sights worth
looking at. As a native of a great capital who had removed to the
province, he displayed a compassionate contempt for his present
residence. The situation was not bad, and the "lake" the most
abundantly stocked with fish in the whole Mark. If I kept straight on
in that direction--he pointed across the square marketplace on which
his hostelry stood--I should get a view of the water just beyond the
city-wall.
To a traveler who is less thoroughly familiar with the local history of
the Mart than my friend, Theodor Fontane, and who suddenly finds
himself transferred from the capital to the province, one of these
little cities looks very much like another. The first feeling amid the
neat little houses--most of them only a story high, while walking over
the rough pavement kept as clean as the floor of an old maid's room, or
passing through the quiet squares planted with acacias or ancient
lindens, where nothing is stirring save flocks of noisy sparrows--is a
secret doubt whether real people actually dwell here, people who take
an active interest in the life of the present day, or whether we have
not strayed into a pretty, gigantic toy village, which has merely been
set up here for a time and will soon be taken down and packed into
boxes like Nuremberg carvings.
This impression of fairy illusion and enchantment, which would speedily
vanish, was enhanced by the sultry calm, portending an approaching
thunder-storm, that brooded over the streets and squares and kept the
inhabitants indoors. Here and there I saw behind the glittering
window-panes the face of an old woman or a fair-haired young girl, not
peering out between the pots of geranium and cactus to look after the
stranger with provincial curiosity, but gazing into vacancy with a
strange expression of gentle melancholy. The few persons I met in the
street also wore this pensive look, as if some great universal calamity
had happened, which quenched the cheerfulness of even the most
indifferent.
I therefore pursued my walk somewhat cheerlessly, and not until I had
reached the wall, which rose to a moderate height on both sides of the
ancient city-gate, did the oppression of this sultry afternoon calm
abandon me. Not less than four rows of the most magnificent old trees,
among which several huge maples and chestnuts stretched their gigantic
branches skyward, cast a broad belt of shade over the dreary little
place, and were not only animated by the notes of birds, but by the
shouts and laughter of countless children, who had seen the light of
the world in the silent houses. Their nurses sat knitting and gossiping
on the numerous benches; yet even on their faces I fancied I perceived
the sorrowful expression I had noticed in the other inhabitants of the
city.
It would have been pleasant to linger here in the shade among the
little ones. But I remembered that I must do my duty as a tourist and
see the lake, which even the postmaster had mentioned approvingly. At
the end of a long avenue of poplars, leading from the gate over the
level plain, I saw the white-capped waves sparkling in the sunlight,
and quickened my pace in order to return the sooner to the cool shade
of the dense foliage.
Yet the scene that opened below, before my gaze, was indeed wonderfully
charming. A bright, semicircular basin, as clear as a mirror, whose
circuit it would probably have required a full hour to make, lay amid
the most luxuriant green meadows and a few tilled fields, in which the
lighter hue of the young grain stood forth in strong relief. The shore
was encircled by a dense border of sedges, whose brown tops, whenever a
faint breeze blew, waved gently to and fro as though stirred by their
own weight. The opposite bank, which rose in a gradual ascent, was
clothed with a dark grove of firs, whose reddish trunks were reflected
in the water, and around whose tops hovered flocks of crows and jays,
whose harsh screams ever and anon interrupted the oppressive silence.
The avenue of poplars led directly to the harbor, which was marked by
half a dozen gayly painted boats. These had been drawn up on the sand,
but their owners had not thought it worth while to fasten them to a
stake, as if it would be quite impossible for them to voluntarily drift
away from the shore. Near these skiffs I was surprised by the sight of
a steamer, similar in size and form to the coasters so much used in the
German Ocean. The light green garlands of fir, with which it was
profusely adorned, formed a strange contrast to its slanting smokestack
and the damaged condition of the deck-rail. But I looked about me in
vain for some person who might have told me how this craft, which must
have once seen better days, had reached the quiet inland lake and been
decked in its gay festal array, like a shame-faced old man holding a
jubilee.
Still keeping my eyes fixed on the opposite grove, I strolled slowly
along the broad path by the shore of the lake, unheeding the sun, as a
refreshing coolness rose from the water. But ere I had advanced a
hundred paces I discovered, half hidden behind some tall lindens,
several lonely buildings, a long, narrow, gable-roofed house, without
any architectural ornamentation, which looked more like a store-house
than a dwelling, yet showed by the little white curtains at the
window-frames, and the flowering plants inclosed by trellis-work
fences, that human beings lived there. A few low huts or sheds adjoined
it in the rear, the long front faced the lake; but the view was here
partly cut off by a little church or chapel, also of the plainest
structure, and so low that a man on horseback might have easily glanced
into the swallows' nests under its weather-beaten roof. Yet the poor
little church, with its four blind arched windows and tiny steeple,
looked cheerful and picturesque, for an ancient ivy had climbed the
narrow rear wall, and, while the trunk clung naked and bare to the
masonry, the luxuriant branches, twining over cornice and roof, had
flung a thick mantle over the shoulders of the shabby building.
Here, too, all was desolate and silent. But a peasant lad, who had been
fishing in the lake and was now running home, answered my queries so
far as to enable me to learn that the long building was the almshouse,
and the chapel belonged to it, but there were no religious services
held there now; and no one, except the paupers, were buried in the
little grave-yard, whose sunken, slanting black crosses gleamed from
under the shadow of the lindens. When I asked if I could go into the
chapel, the child stared at me in astonishment, shook his flaxen head,
and sped away on his little bare feet as swiftly as though the earth
was beginning to scorch them.
I now walked slowly around the chapel, and approached the house.
Standing on a little bench in the flower-garden, before an open window,
was a tall figure clad in black, gazing motionless into the dwelling.
He was apparently a man of middle age, with smooth, brown hair, which
fell slightly over a high forehead. The profile, whose noble lines
denoted marked character, was strongly relieved against the whitewashed
wall; the sun shone fiercely on his head and back, but, without heeding
it, he held his hat before him in both hands, and did not even turn
when I passed. The sound of my steps apparently did not reach his ear.
His coat was old-fashioned in cut, but his appearance was by no means
provincial. I would gladly have accosted him, had it not seemed as if
he were listening to something, inaudible to me, that was being said
inside the room.
So I quietly passed him and went to the gable side of the house. On the
steps in front of the open door sat an aged dame, stooping so far
forward that her big black crêpe cap shaded the tiny old book she held
in her lap. A pair of large horn spectacles rested on the open pages,
and her sharp red nose nodded strangely like the beak of a bird that is
trying to peck at something. She was not asleep, for she sometimes
sighed so heavily that the capstrings under her withered chin trembled.
Then her yellow shriveled hand grasped a small lead box lying on the
stone step beside her, and she took a pinch of snuff.
"Can you still read, mother?" I asked, stopping before her.
She looked up at me without the slightest sign of surprise. The stern,
withered old face wore the anxious expression of a deaf person.
I repeated my question.
"Not so very well, sir," she replied in her Mark dialect. "When one has
seventy-seven years on one's back the old eyes are of little use. But I
can still manage tolerably with the hymn-book. I need only see the
numbers and the big letters at the beginning to remember the whole at
once; and if I can't get one verse exactly right, I think of the next
one. Whoever has had experiences, and fears and loves the Lord, can
make a verse for many a hymn in the book."
"You have a beautiful spot for your old age, mother, and are well taken
care of, it seems to me."
The aged dame wore a new dark calico dress, and over her thin shoulders
lay a black shawl, which, spite of the heat, she had pinned close.
"It's very comfortable, my dear sir, it's very comfortable," she
replied, taking a pinch of snuff with her trembling hand. "The Canoness
said so, too; that's why she didn't wish to go away again, not even
when they wanted to take her to the castle. But she planted the
flowers, and we have only kept our gardens so neat since she has been
here. Well, everything will soon be at sixes and sevens again. You see,
when I first came, thirteen years ago, just after my husband and my
eldest daughter died, and there wasn't a soul to care for Mother
Schulzen, I thought I should lead a wretched life in the almshouse. A
silver groschen every day, free lodging, peat, and light, six groschen
every quarter for beer money, and a bit of land where everybody can
plant potatoes--that was hardly enough for a living. Dear me! A person
who hasn't much is soon satisfied, and there is apt to be something put
by for a rainy day. When the Canoness first came, though she had
nothing herself, yet she always found something to give away. See, she
gave me this woolen petticoat"--she pulled her dress up to her knees to
show it--"on her last birthday, and the shawl at Christmas. That's why
I wear it in her honor to-day, though it's certainly warm; but I want
to look respectable when I follow the body, for a woman like her won't
come again, and, as the hymn says:
'Alas, my Saviour, must Thou die,
That we the heirs of life may be?
Let not Thy woes, grief, agony,
On us be lost, but win to Thee.'"
She muttered to herself for a while, with her chin buried in her shawl,
and seemed to have entirely forgotten my presence.
"Mother," I began after a time, "you are always talking about a
Canoness. Is there a chapter-house in this neighborhood?"
The old dame slowly raised her head and scanned me with a
half-suspicious, half-pitying look.
"Why, what a question!" she said at last. "I suppose you don't belong
here, my dear sir; but you must live very far away, for everybody in
the neighborhood knows who the Canoness was, and that she died three
days ago and will be buried to-day. Have you never heard of
Spiegelberg, her husband, who is now standing before the throne of God?
She belonged to a noble family, and her cousin, the baron, when he
visited her, took me aside and said: 'I hope, Mother Schulzen, that you
don't let my cousin want for anything here.' Good Heavens! What we poor
old women could do to make her life easy--especially I! For she always
showed me the greatest kindness, and the teacher and I were with her in
her last hour. Yes! yes! If anybody had told me that such a poor,
useless body would close her eyes, and yet must creep about here on
earth a while longer, while she, who was still in her prime--But
perhaps you would like to see her? There is time enough. She is to be
buried at four, and the whole town will be present, and not a dry eye
in the throng, for nobody else in the whole place had gifts like hers;
and now they will see what we had in her, we old creatures especially,
for no one like her will come again--never again--never again--"
She shook her head mournfully as she spoke, but her weary, reddened
eyes were tearless, and, rising with some difficulty, she took up her
hymn-book, spectacles, and snuff-box, and, beckoning to me to follow,
hobbled through the entrance--the door stood ajar--into the long
corridor which divided the interior of the dwelling into two equal
parts.
It was pleasantly cool inside, only a strong smell of vinegar tainted
the air and enhanced the feeling of uneasiness with which I had
entered. It was uncanny to be conducted to the abode of death by this
old crone, incessantly mumbling her song of Destiny, while out-of-doors
the bright young summer was wandering over the fields. The bare hall,
too, from which opened more than a dozen whitewashed doors, had no
inviting aspect, especially as several dark figures, all dressed very
much like my guide, were crouching on little benches along the walls,
whispering together and casting distrustful glances at me. I afterward
learned that the almshouse had been erected for a pest-house centuries
before, when the Black Death was devastating the land, and afterward
remained a long time vacant and shunned, until it was at last converted
into a poor-house, and the chapel was rebuilt. But how had the Canoness
come under this humble roof?
Mother Schulzen had already opened the first door on the left, and I
entered a large room with two windows. In the center stood a piano, a
number of plain, rush-bottomed chairs were ranged along the walls, a
rack containing music-books stood on the table between the clean white
curtains. "She gave her singing-lessons here," the old dame said; "the
next room was her sleeping-chamber, where she died."
She opened the door of the adjoining room as gently as if she feared to
wake some sleeper, and let me stand on the threshold.
I saw a light, square chamber, through whose one window the sun was
shining. These walls, too, were merely whitewashed, but they were
adorned with a few engravings in dark wooden frames, and the simple but
tasteful furniture, a sofa with a bright calico cover, a book-case,
a chest of drawers, a bed with white curtains, the flowers on the
window-sill, would have made a cheerful impression, had not a coffin
stood on a low trestle in the middle of the room. Over the shining
boards was flung a large, gayly embroidered rug, whose artistically
wrought flowers and vines were almost entirely concealed by garlands of
natural blossoms. The dead woman was attired in a plain white shroud;
the head was toward the window; at the feet lay a large laurel wreath
tied with a broad white satin bow; the hands, which were large, but
very beautiful in shape, rested on the bosom, but were not clasped; the
head inclined a little to the right, so that I could see it perfectly
from the threshold.
There was nothing to inspire horror; a quiet, mysterious charm pervaded
the features, which, spite of the silvery hue of the smoothly brushed
hair, still wore a look of youth: it was the face of a beautiful woman
in her prime, who had lain down on her last couch in the full vigor of
life. I said to myself that to have known this sleeper, while living,
must have been no ordinary happiness, and those whom she had chosen for
her friends had been most fortunate. A feeling of regret stole over me
that I had never pressed that firm hand, nor heard a word from those
calmly closed lips, never seen the face brightened by a smile.
Who was she? How had this noble woman condescended to make one of the
number of the inmates of the almshouse, and who had laid the laurel
wreath at her feet?
My eyes quitted the pallid face a moment and wandered to the sunny
window. There I saw the mute figure, clad in black, still gazing
fixedly in. He did not even seem to see me, but stood motionless,
watching the lifeless form, of which only the head and the tips of the
feet were visible to him. I now distinctly saw large tears gush from
his dilated, motionless eyes, and course down his pale cheeks.
"Mother," I asked softly, "who is the man outside of the window?"
I had forgotten that her deafness would prevent her understanding me.
Just at that moment a clear little bell began to ring from the steeple
of the chapel. The old dame looked up.
"It is four o'clock," she said; "the services will begin. You can't
stay here any longer, sir; the pastor and the others will come
directly. But if you stand by the trellis outside you can see
everything. Oh, dear! Now the sad end is coming! But God's will be
done! Only, may it be my turn soon. Come, sir, there are the bearers."
Six men in long black coats entered, and I was obliged to leave the
room. In the corridor I met the pastor in his robes, and a tall,
broad-shouldered man, with a sorrowful face--the burgomaster, the old
dame whispered. Outside the house a large crowd of people had
assembled, who eyed me with surprise and curiosity. Most of them were
women in mourning-garments, but in their midst was a group of young
girls dressed in white, with large black bows, and black veils on their
heads. Each carried a garland of flowers on her arm, and the eyes of
all were full of tears. I perceived that, as a total stranger, I ought
to keep myself as much out of sight as possible, and hurried around the
house to a post by the garden-fence, whence I could overlook the chapel
and the cemetery.
The solitary man in the black coat had disappeared.
The bell continued to toll, the birds twittered in the linden boughs,
but spite of the surging throng the spot was otherwise so still that we
could distinctly hear the coffin-lid screwed on. A few minutes after,
the funeral procession began to move, headed by the pastor; then came
the bearers with the coffin, over which hung the gay rug covered with
garlands, close behind it the aged paupers, six in number, then the
young girls, two by two, carrying their wreaths, and behind them the
burgomaster and many stately men, evidently the dignitaries of the
little place. Last of all came the women and less important citizens,
in such a throng that the open space between the house and the
chapel was filled with the crowd. But scarcely had the pastor
entered the consecrated ground, when, from behind a dense clump of
elderberry-bushes on the edge of the cemetery, floated the notes of a
chant, a beautiful, simple melody, wholly unfamiliar to me, which
did not sound as if it came from a hymn-book. Clear, boyish voices,
well-trained, fresh, and pure, as children alone sing ere they have
learned to understand the solemnity of death and can not belie their
joyousness even in a dirge.
There were only three verses, then the clergyman began his address, of
which I could distinguish but a few words in my distant corner. But it
must have been very touching, for all present showed the deepest
emotion, and the suppressed sobbing was communicated to the farthest
ranks. I regretted that I had not ventured nearer, I so much desired to
know who this noble woman was, and why she had enjoyed such universal
reverence and love.
But I could only indistinctly see the pastor raise his hand to bless
first the open grave and then the mourning parish, the young girls
approach and throw their wreaths upon the coffin, and the whole
assembly press forward to scatter a handful of earth upon the flowers.
During this ceremony, which occupied some time, the boys' voices were
again raised, and this time I plainly heard the words:
"Like her in sweet repose,
All the sainted--"
and, as a sunbeam now pierced the elder-bushes, I saw the bared head of
the man at the window, who was standing among the young singers, slowly
and solemnly beating time with his hand.
The little bell had stopped ringing, the throng noiselessly dispersed
without the unfeeling buzz and murmur which usually rise at once when
people have merely dutifully paid the last honors to one who has
departed from their midst. I remained quietly in my place watching the
throng move off in the direction of the town, while the old dames,
coughing and panting, returned home. My intention was to approach the
lonely man, who I thought would be the last to quit the grave, and
modestly express my desire to learn some particulars of the dead woman.
But when I entered the cemetery and glanced toward the elder-bushes,
there was no trace of him.
It was now quite time for me to return to the hotel, where my carriage
must already be waiting. I consoled myself by the belief that the
postmaster would undoubtedly be fully informed about the Canoness. The
pale, still face, with the silvery halo around the head, in the
mysterious twilight, still hovered before me, and I quickened my pace
to obtain a solution of the mystery.
The path I took through the grain-fields, along whose edges grew small
cherry-trees, did not lead me back to the city-gate, but to a different
part of the wall, which I found entirely deserted. There was not a
single baby-carriage, nor a pedestrian resting on any of the benches.
Yet it was pleasant to saunter along in the shade, and I lapsed into a
comfortable, dreamy state, which is really the greatest advantage of
travel, because we shake off our daily dull routine of occupation, and,
in some strange manner, feel as if we had just dropped from the moon
and were strangers in this world, to whom the most trivial thing
appears new and wonderful.
Suddenly I stopped. Sitting on the next bench, in front of me, I saw
the man in the black coat whom I had just vainly sought. He was
evidently so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not hear me,
but sat gazing out over the open country and the waters of the lake, or
rather at the little chapel and the small portion of the almshouse
cemetery visible from this point. I could now obtain a near view of his
delicate, regular features, and was particularly struck by the
beautiful arch of the brow, and the character expressed in the nose,
which was by no means small. His hat lay on the bench at his side, and
his clasped hands rested on his knee.
He now perceived me, but remained perfectly motionless, as if he could
thereby render himself invisible and induce me to pass on.
But I was not disposed to let the favorable chance slip.
"Allow me to sit with you a moment, sir," I said. "I am passing through
here on a journey, and am somewhat fatigued by rambling about. I must
set out again in fifteen minutes, much as I regret not becoming more
familiar with the pretty town. A walk on the walls like this can not be
easily found, far or near."
He made no reply, merely bent his head slightly and took up his hat to
give me the other half of the bench. I sat down, and we remained silent
for a time.
"Pardon me," I said at last, "if I seem intrusive, and perhaps disturb
you in a mood in which one prefers to be entirely alone. But I was a
witness of the funeral that has just taken place, and, as the image of
the lifeless form I saw just before in the coffin has haunted me ever
since, and I fancied I read a remarkable destiny on the noble brow, you
can probably understand that I am reluctant to leave here without
learning some particulars of her fate. One of the old women in the
almshouse below gave me some information which, though very vague and
insufficient, only increased my interest. You seem to have been on more
intimate terms with this universally respected woman. If you would see
a better motive in my question than idle curiosity, I should be very
grateful to you for any details of her life you might be willing to
give."
I saw a faint flush mount into his face. He gazed steadily into vacancy
for a while, as if irresolute what to answer. Suddenly he seized his
hat, rose, and, bowing to me, said:
"Pardon me, sir--I have--my time will not permit--I wish you a pleasant
journey."
Then he turned and walked away with long, but not hurried steps, while
I remained on the bench in a mood of painful discomfiture.
At first I was uncertain whether I had done wrong, or merely applied to
the wrong person. But I soon distinctly perceived that the fault was
mine. This resident of the provinces, on whose deep grief I had
intruded with a bold question, as if he must consider it an honor to
afford a traveler information about anything worthy of note, even if it
concerned his most sacred private feelings, had given me a well-merited
lesson. How indelicate to put the question point-blank, without any
introduction, like a police-officer inspecting a passport, and, ere the
tears were fairly dry on his lashes, request from him an obituary of
the dead woman, such as a newspaper reporter would unfeelingly insert
in a daily journal. Perhaps, had I been more considerate of his
feelings, cautiously gained his confidence without revealing my
object--! But, as it was, I ought not to complain of having received a
refusal, whose manner showed that I had addressed a cultivated man.
At last, very much displeased with myself, I rose and tried to reach my
hotel by the shortest cut. Even the desire to question the postmaster
had deserted me. I would gladly have driven the Canoness--who was now
associated with a humiliating remembrance--entirely out of my mind,
and, in fact, at that time I was to learn nothing more about her. My
light carriage stood waiting in front of the house, but the landlord
had been suddenly called away on some business; so I remained no longer
than to drink a little wine and seltzer-water, for my tongue was
parched, and then urged the driver to hurry that I might reach my
destination before night.
Even at my friend's house I did not mention my experiences in St. ----.
As he had only lived in the neighborhood a short time, and was
completely engrossed by his immediate duties and occupations, he had
scarcely had an opportunity to become familiar with the local history
of the place. Only it chanced to be mentioned that the dismantled
coasting-steamer had belonged to a bankrupt firm and been taken by one
of the creditors, who had hoped to sell it again for the value of the
material. As it did not immediately find a purchaser, he had had the
worn-out invalid brought to the inland lake, where it was now enjoying
rest from its labors.
I spent a few refreshing days in my friend's pretty house, which
unfortunately was situated in a most prosaic neighborhood, and when I
returned to Berlin the memory of the hour in the cemetery had already
become considerably fainter.
But, like every reminder of our weaknesses and follies, it never wholly
vanished. So no one will marvel that I was most agreeably surprised
when, a year afterward, I received by mail a heavy parcel, accompanied
by the following lines:
MOST HONORED SIR: Unfortunately, I am not so happy as to be able to
present myself as a total stranger. For I must commence my letter by
apologizing for an offense committed more than a year ago, when I had
the honor of making your acquaintance, if this word can be applied to a
meeting in which both persons remained wholly unknown to each other.
True, I am ignorant whether you have retained any recollection of the
uncourteous person who had no other reply to a friendly question than
to quit you so abruptly. You are living in the current of the world,
which washes away so many trivial things, and effaces old impressions
with a thousand new ones. An inhabitant of the provinces, of my
temperament, has nothing to interrupt him in the unpleasant task of
thrusting still deeper into his flesh, in the endeavor to withdraw
them, the thorns implanted by a fleeting moment.
Directly after leaving you I had, it is true, no other unpleasant
feeling than that a total stranger had disturbed me amid the indulgence
of a fresh sorrow. But at the end of an hour, when I recalled your
words and tones, and the gestures accompanying them, I was seized with
shame for my boorish conduct. You had been present at the funeral, had
even gazed with deep interest at the face of the dead: what was more
natural than that you should marvel how that queenly head could rest on
the hard pillow of an almshouse coffin, though the mourning of a whole
city followed it? And how could you suspect that the man to whom you
applied for information suffered most keenly from the universal loss,
and at that hour had so bitter a taste of the earth-mold on his tongue
that he could not have uttered a word, had his own brother accosted
him?
When I clearly perceived this, and had partly regained my calmness, I
hurried to the hotel, firmly intending to apologize for my incivility
and tell you at least enough to have enabled you to understand my
sorrowful obduracy. You had already continued your journey. I only
found your name in the landlord's book, and doubly regretted my
unseemly conduct. I was familiar with some of your books, and said to
myself that you, of all men, could not have spoken from mere empty
curiosity, but from genuine interest in everything relating to human
nature, and you, if any one, would have been capable of feeling with me
that the death of such a woman is a loss to the whole world.
What had happened could not be altered, but, to somewhat alleviate the
discomfort of my regrets, I began the very next day to write down, for
my justification and penance, everything I had left unsaid, intending
to lay it before you and thereby obtain absolution for the sin of
silence I had formerly committed.
I meant to be very brief. But my heart took possession of my pen, and
the short narrative of this remarkable life has become a shapeless
"history in detail," whose swelling daily alarmed me, though I was
unable to confine the overflowing torrent of memories into a narrower
channel.
I have spent a whole year in writing, as I only found leisure for it
during a few evening hours, and often for weeks together could not find
courage to summon up the spirits of the departed. Will you have
patience to read to the end? Far more important persons and destinies
have passed before your notice, and you will more than once have
occasion to smile at the value attached to apparently trivial incidents
by a person whose horizon is so limited as that of my insignificant
self. Besides, I am a clumsy writer, and do not understand the literary
art of polishing even a pebble till in the sunlight it looks like a
costly gem.
Yet, even if you merely cast a pitying glance at these memoranda, I
think I can venture to promise that the principal character in this
true story will fix your interest and win from you the acknowledgment
that it was worth while to follow her unusual life-path with the care
of a truth-loving chronicler.
So I trustfully commit to you the clumsy manuscript, which I entreat
you to burn after you have read it. It owes its existence solely to my
purpose of paying my debt to you, and with sincere respect, I am
Your devoted
Johannes Theodor Weissbrod,
_ex-Cand. Theol_.
I confess that, in spite of this letter, whose simple, amiable style
recalled to me every feature of the writer's face, so full of feeling,
I took up the bulky manuscript with a certain dread. More than three
hundred closely written pages--who could tell with how much theological
speculation the simple life-history had been garnished. But the very
first pages dispelled the doubt, and the farther I read the more eager
was my interest in both contents and narrative. When I laid the last
sheets down, I said to myself aloud: Yes, it was indeed worth while.
With this opinion I instantly wrote to the author, begging him not to
confine this confession to ourselves, but by its publication edify all
who, in our hurried and corrupt age, had preserved minds capable of
appreciating simple grandeur of soul and the natural nobility of
humanity.
He did not keep me waiting long for his answer.
"Dearest sir and friend," he wrote--"for the friends of our friends are
ours, and the warmth with which you speak of my departed friend
justifies me in believing that you cherish a kindly feeling toward me
also--no, I can not bring myself to regard this account of my most
private experiences as a literary production, and appear in it before
the cold eyes of the public. Apart from all other considerations,
however, the careless, thoroughly untrained literary style appears to
me an unconquerable obstacle. Yet, if you would undertake to subject
these pages to a thorough revision, provide the splendid kernel which
is no merit of mine, with a new and more fitting husk! But, even then,
I could not wholly conquer my secret reluctance. I live in complete
seclusion; those who know me best, with the exception of one friend of
my youth, regard me as a mere commonplace day-laborer in the shape of a
pedagogue. The publication of such a work would suddenly render me an
'object of notice,' and nothing is less readily forgiven in a
provincial sphere than any departure from the every-day routine of
existence.
"But I will say this, my honored friend: If my unpretending story
really seems to you so valuable that you desire to save it from a fiery
death, keep the volume till I am no more. You will then be at liberty
to publish it--of course, with the abridgment necessary where my
personal interest has made me unwarrantably garrulous, and the omission
of the guide-posts that would point out persons still living, or the
descendants of certain families. The names of cities and communities
ought also in justice to be suppressed. Nothing appears to me more
contemptible than the modern effort to attain, by the disclosure of
actual events, a success which mere skillful literary invention could
not have hoped to secure.
"For the rest, I am entirely of your opinion that a life like the one
described here is well fitted to set an example, and that it seems
almost a duty to transmit the memory of so rare and lofty a human
character to future generations."
This was the last direct communication I had from the admirable man. I
did not venture to make any further effort to shake his resolution, and
for two decades his manuscript was carefully treasured in my desk.
Early this year I received a letter, written by an unknown hand, and
bearing the postmark of the city in the Mark. The principal of the
grammar-school there informed me that his friend, after having enjoyed
the best possible health to the last, had been found one morning dead
in his bed! He had been buried, according to the directions of his
will, in the almshouse church-yard, by the side of the Canoness, amid
the sincere grief of the whole community. Among his papers had been
found the request that I should be informed of his demise.
So I may doubtless consider myself as his executor in at least bringing
the following pages from their concealment. While re-reading them I
have made only the most modest use of the authority to erase and alter
at pleasure--only here and there a certain inequality of style will
show that another hand has interposed to make some obscure passage
clearer, or correct some awkward expression. In the main, I have left
everything as I found it; for it seems to me that the unassuming series
of pictures in this biographical romance, as it may be called, would
scarcely have gained greater vivacity and charm by a more careful
grouping or more artistic execution, while the impression of simple
truthfulness might have been impaired. With little art, clear wit and
sense suggest their own delivery; and, I may add, that as the love of a
warm and noble heart transfigures even the most insignificant
countenance from whose eyes it shines, much more does it illuminate
features as expressive and beautiful as those that look forth at us
from between the lines of this narrative.
HERR WEISSBROD'S STORY.
I.
I must preface the following record with the entreaty that it may not
be regarded as puerile vanity if I begin with my insignificant self and
allow my own personality to appear in the course of my story more
frequently than it may deserve. The nature of the case requires it. My
own valueless destiny is as inseparably connected with the life of the
principal personage as the insignificant thread is a part of the pearl
necklace whose costly gems are strung upon it. Unfortunately, there are
some parts where the jewels are missing, and then only the gray thread
appears. But I will try to make these spaces as short as possible; for
I am only too well aware that my own existence has merely gained what
little worth it possesses because Providence brought me into the
vicinity of so rare a creature, and permitted me to move around her and
receive light and warmth, as a planet from the sun.
True, I certainly did not begin life with so modest an estimate of
myself. Nay, I imagined that I was well fitted to let my light shine as
the center of a little planetary system of my own. At a very early age
I was praised in my family and notorious among my school-fellows as a
pattern boy, and the blows I received from the latter--and had richly
deserved by my ridiculous boasting--only helped to increase my
arrogance. All exalted minds, I said to myself, have been obliged to
atone for their superiority by calamity and persecution. Nay, I even
went so far as to compare myself with the Son of man, and should not
have been surprised had some Herod yearned for the life of the child
who felt himself destined to redeem the poor, sinful world, and
meanwhile showed his teachers in the town-school contemptible cajolery
and faultlessly written exercises.
When I was fourteen my father, who was a true Christian and a faithful
servant of the Word, was transferred from the town parish to be
superintendent in Berlin. My mother had died young, and my father, who
was completely absorbed in his official duties, left me--with too much
confidence--to myself. An elderly, somewhat weak-minded aunt, who even
in the great city kept house for us, regarded me as a small miracle,
and, therefore, had neither judgment nor power to uproot the weeds of
spiritual arrogance from my heart. The latter had already flourished so
rankly that they continued to grow luxuriantly even in the freer air of
the capital. When, at eighteen, I entered the university, I instantly
formed a pietistical society, which behaved almost like a students'
consistory. We preached to each other to our hearts' content, debated
the most difficult theological points of controversy, wrote hymns,
which I set to music and accompanied on our harmonium; in short, we
were a set of insufferable young saints, not a single one of whom,
had he knocked at the door of heaven with his long locks and meekly
turned-down collar, would Saint Peter have admitted.
I need scarcely state that I held aloof from all worldly amusements,
considered the theatre a vestibule of hell, and the other beautiful
arts as mere pagan jugglery. But the thing that now seems to me the
drollest of all is the relation I then occupied toward the female sex.
With the best intentions, I could imagine pure maids and matrons in no
other guise than as a devout congregation in Sunday attire, gazing
upward in gentle ecstasy at their pastor, and drinking in with fervent
gratitude the heavenly dew that fell from his lips. In some far remote
background of time I beheld one of these humble creatures nestling in
my embrace, trembling in the ecstasy of her bliss, and overwhelmed with
gratitude at the knowledge of being chosen before all her sisters to
stand by the side of the man of God--whom she had long secretly
worshiped--as his unworthy wife, iron his snow-white bands, embroider
his slippers, and write down his sermon every Sunday.
In this state of supernal self-glorification, I considered it only
natural that, as soon as I had passed my examination with special
brilliancy, and crossed the threshold of the position of candidate, the
most advantageous projects should open to me from more than one
direction. My dear father's heart was far too kind, and he practiced
the injunction of Christian charity of his own impulse in too wide a
sense, to permit him to find his salary sufficient either in the little
town or the great capital, and when suddenly summoned from this life he
left me nothing but his blessing and a choice theological library, the
only luxury he had ever allowed himself.
I was now forced to rely, with God's assistance, upon myself, and as,
with all the innocence of the dove, I possessed a sufficient measure of
the wisdom of the serpent, I did not merely examine superficially the
three places offered to me, but made careful inquiries to discover in
which one I should have the softest bed. All three were tutor's
situations in the country, with a prospect of the pastorate, which
would fall vacant in a longer or shorter time. I decided in favor of
the estate of the most aristocratic of the three employers, who also
owned two villages located in a region described to me as being very
fertile and not lacking in rural beauty. The pastor there was almost
eighty; the baron's children, whom I was to teach, were but two in
number, a boy, and a girl twelve or fourteen years old; my patron was
reported to be particularly strict in his religious views, and--a fact
by no means least influential--his letter, which my dear father
received with tears of joy on his death-bed and read aloud to me in a
trembling voice, expressed emphatic praise of my admirable self, a
pleasant report of my gifts and virtues having spread through the
country.
So in my heart I praised God, who so paternally provided a fitting
career for his favorites here below, embraced my poor old aunt, who was
left behind in a wretched attic, and set forth on the journey to my
paradise with proud hopes and a joyousness but slightly subdued by my
recent grief.
* * * * *
This exalted mood was somewhat depressed when, on reaching the last
railway-station, I vainly looked for the coach in which I was to make
my entry into the place of my destination. The baron had written that
he would send for me. I expected nothing less than a splendid carriage,
not drawn by four horses, it is true, but perhaps hung with garlands as
befits a young ecclesiastical conqueror. Instead, there was nothing
stopping at the station but an insignificant cart, which I suspected
was generally used for the transportation of calves or sheep, drawn by
two plow-horses, dejectedly switching their long tails to and fro. An
old man-servant, who did not even take the stump of a pipe from his
mouth when he came up to me, asked in his surly Low German dialect if I
was the tutor whom he was to take to the estate, then, with many a
muttered oath, lifted my trunk and three heavy boxes of books into the
cart, and pointed with his whip to the seat, where the sole provision
made for my comfort was a thin leather cushion.
He himself--after relighting his pipe and starting his horses by a
drawling Hi-i!--trudged beside the cart as it creaked slowly along.
I tried to bear my disappointment with Christian resignation, and,
after we had gone a few hundred paces, asked in my gentlest voice how
far the castle was, and whether we were to go the whole distance at a
walk.
The horses were plowing all day yesterday, growled the old man, and the
road was too bad for them to trot. We should be two hours at least,
"p'raps a bit more"; the sand began just beyond the next village, and
then, with the big boxes, we should move still more slowly.
Rustic ways! I thought, to console myself, jolted about on my hard seat
for a while longer, and, at the beginning of the sandy road, which ran
sometimes between fields and meadows, sometimes between low fir-woods,
sprang nimbly from the cart to relieve the panting animals. It was
toward the end of April, a warm spring wind blew over the wide, quiet
country, the crows were perched in dense flocks on the freshly turned
furrows, and the low twittering of birds was heard from the bare tops
of the birches. At three and twenty the theological bark around my
heart was not yet hard enough to prevent all this stir and movement of
Nature from penetrating it. In a very short time, while striding a few
horse-lengths ahead of my vehicle, I was so happy in the thought of my
God that I seemed to myself like King David, and my great wooden trunk
the ark of the covenant, and could scarcely refrain from falling into a
dancing step and letting the hymns I was singing in my heart escape my
lips.
Yet I was glad when the two hours and "p'raps a bit more" were over,
and old Krischan, pointing with his whip to the roof of a tower,
visible between the lofty elms in the avenue, muttered between his
teeth: "Here we are!"
I had made several vain efforts on the way to question him about the
lord of the castle and his family. I had learned nothing except that
the baron was "a bit strict," and the old baroness "always very kind
and gracious." Of the heir he only uttered a significant hum! and of
the pastor merely said, "He's poorly just now." So my curiosity and
impatience increased with every step the horses took in the grinding
sand; and, as the rural charms of which I had dreamed were nowhere
visible, the village through which I passed differed in no respect from
an utterly unattractive Mark hamlet, and the few women and children who
stared at me from the doors of the houses appeared extremely
indifferent to the great event of my arrival, I climbed back with a
sigh into the cart as we turned into the avenue and traversed the rest
of the way at a trot.
We drove directly up to the castle, which looked very stately through
the bare branches, and, as the road at last passed over a slight
ascent, the horses relapsed into their former comfortable walk. Yet we
overtook a queer little cart, to which the--according to the Mark
ideas--considerable hill gave more trouble than to us.
A very old woman had harnessed herself and a spotted dog to a small
hand-cart, heavily laden with a large, well-filled sack, several
bundles of fagots, and various utensils and tools, the whole, tied
together with old ropes, towering so high aloft that the swaying
structure could scarcely keep its balance. The little dog's red tongue
was hanging out of its mouth, and the old dame panted and coughed as
she bent under the drawing-rope, which cut deep into her shoulder.
Spite of her four-footed assistant, she could scarcely have pulled the
load up-hill, had not a vigorous push from behind aided her. This was
given by a tall, slender figure, a young lady dressed in city style,
who, with both hands braced against the back, walked firmly on,
relieving the toiling pair of half the weight.
As we passed she merely turned her face toward us for a moment without
the slightest change of expression. I could not see her features
distinctly, owing to the shifting play of the shadows cast by the bare
branches above, but I perceived that the face was young and grave. It
made a singular impression on me, though she flashed but a single
glance at me and then instantly lowered her eyes. I noticed too that
her smoothly brushed hair, over which she had knotted a black kerchief,
was of a remarkable dark golden hue, somewhat similar to amber. I
perceived also that she wore a blue polonaise of rather old-fashioned
cut, trimmed with a narrow border of gray fur. Then the old vehicle was
left behind, and I did not venture to look back.
"That's the Canoness!" said Krischan, who had taken his pipe out of his
mouth and lifted his cap respectfully; "and the old one is Mother
Lieschen."
"The Canoness!" I repeated in surprise. "Has the baron so old a
daughter?"
"No, sir. The baron's daughter is only fourteen. She's Fräulein
Leopoldine. But the Canoness--hi!"
He urged on his bays with a loud crack of the whip, for we were just
turning out of the avenue into the castle court-yard. I was obliged to
repress my curiosity for the present.
* * * * *
The castle really did honor to its name. It was a very large building,
dating back from the commencement of the previous century, with a lofty
lower story, to which led a double flight of broad steps, above which
was a second story richly decorated with stucco ornaments--a style,
however, that did not exactly harmonize with the peaked roof and
irregular attic windows. From this central building a wing extended at
right angles on the left almost to the avenue of elms, while the right
wing, which, as I afterward learned, had been destroyed by a great
fire, was replaced by a clumsy square tower three stories high. Yet
this tower bore above its four gables a gigantic cupola, garnished with
pinnacles and battlements of all sorts, which gave it an air of
chivalrous boldness.
A servant in a light-green livery received me at the top of the steps,
said that his master was expecting me, and ushered me into the house
with condescending familiarity, as if he considered me a sort of
colleague. The cool, dim hall paved with tiles, the broad stone
staircase, the antlers that adorned the walls, the numerous servants of
both sexes, who were peeping curiously from different doors, produced a
strong impression upon me, though I secretly regretted the absence of a
more formal reception by my future patron's assembled family. But I
consoled myself with the thought that this was the genuine aristocratic
demeanor, and resolved to maintain my own dignity and command the
respect due my ecclesiastical character even from high-born laymen.
Meantime I had climbed the steep stairs to the highest story in the
tower till I was fairly out of breath. But when I entered the apartment
the footman showed me as mine, I was instantly reconciled to the
quarters gained by the toilsome ascent. It was a corner room with four
wide, almost square windows, which afforded a most superb view, over
the tops of the trees in the avenue, of fields and moorland, forest and
farms, and the village houses gathered about the handsome village
church like a flock of chickens around the clucking hen. The whole
scene was steeped in the brightest noonday sunlight, and filmy bluish
clouds floated from the chimneys of the low straw-thatched roofs,
pierced by single sunbeams, and swayed to and fro by a fresh April
breeze.
Dinner would be served in fifteen minutes, the servant said. Did
the Herr Candidate want anything? I asked for my trunks, and had just
time to brush the dust of my journey from my clothing, when a big,
hollow-sounding bell, which roused a welcome echo in my empty stomach,
began to ring in the hall below.
I cast one more glance into the tiny mirror, which, like the rest of
the furniture, did not produce a very magnificent impression, and,
after having combed my hair smoothly, and pushed my long locks neatly
behind my ears, descended the steep tower-stairs, spite of the
consciousness of my ecclesiastical dignity, with a somewhat quickened
pulsation of the heart.
The dining-room was on the lower floor, directly behind the
entrance-hall, a vaulted apartment, whose four high windows looked out
upon the garden. The wide glass door in the center opened on a small
terrace, from which a few steps led to the flower-beds. But I did not
notice all this at my first entrance, as my whole interest was
engrossed by the various persons who were assembled.
A tall, extremely dignified gentleman, with very handsome, regular
features, and mustache and whiskers cut in military fashion, came up to
me, held out his well-kept hand, and said, in a voice whose musical
tones he himself seemed to enjoy: "May the Lord bless your coming and
going, Herr Candidate!"
I bowed silently, and was led to a little lady attired in a black
silk dress and a large white lace cap, who sat in the depths of a tall
arm-chair.
"Here, my dear Elizabeth," said the baron, "I present to you Candidate
Johannes Weissbrod, who, with God's blessing, will aid us in the
education of our Achatz! Achatz!" he called, turning to a pale-faced
boy, evidently backward in mental development, who stood giggling with
a tall young girl at the other end of the hall. The lad came slowly
forward, eying me askance with mingled shyness and defiance, and only
at his father's repeated desire gave me a thin yellow hand. I noticed
at the first glance the striking resemblance between him and his
mother. The latter was remarkably plain; she had a shrunken, withered
face, which strongly reminded me of old General Zieten, to whom, I
afterward learned, the baroness was distantly related. Even a little
Hussar mustache was not lacking, and the sight of the tiny witch-like
scarecrow was so melancholy, especially by the side of her husband's
stately figure, that in my first confusion I actually forgot the fine
speech with which I had intended to present myself, and could only bow
silently and kiss the diminutive hand the little specter extended to
me.
But, as I straightened myself again, a warm, irresistibly kind glance
fell upon me from the small gray eyes, and such a touching, child-like
voice came from the little withered mouth, saying, "I shall be deeply
grateful to you, Herr Candidate, for everything you do in behalf of my
dear son," that I lowered my eyes in actual confusion, and felt a
sincere reverence for the little lady, whom I had just held in such
light esteem. I would make every possible effort, I stammered, laying
my hand on the boy's rough fair locks. But he shook off the friendly
touch so rudely that I instantly saw that the effort would certainly be
no easy one.
Meantime his sister had also approached me. She bore as strong a
resemblance to her handsome father as the boy to his mother. I
addressed a pleasant remark to her, which she answered by a haughty
curl of her full red lips. But there was still another feminine member
of the company, a lady, whom I supposed to be about thirty, not so
tall as the young baroness, but of a more elegant figure and with
serpent-like swiftness of motion. "This is a beloved member of our
household, Mademoiselle Suzon Duchanel," said the baron, as he led me
to her. "She is a true blessing from the Lord to us all, shortening the
long hours to my suffering wife, helping my daughter in her French
lessons, and sometimes chatting my own anxieties away." As he spoke he
bent over the young lady's hand, and, with chivalrous gallantry,
pressed it to his lips.
I know not why the act displeased me. My knowledge of the world and
society was still slight, and nothing could be more natural than an act
of courtesy by which the master of the house endeavored to lighten the
discomfort of a subordinate position to a lady. Nor was there anything
worthy of censure in the Frenchwoman's conduct. She was studiously
polite to every one, not excepting her insignificant fellow-slave,
myself, and, after becoming accustomed to a certain piercing light in
her dark eyes, no one could help thinking her attractive. So I could
only explain my strange aversion by the belief that, in her society, I
was almost always conscious of my defective French, and therefore,
though she spoke to me only in German, I felt her presence as an
embarrassment.
We were about to take our places at the table, which, set for eight
persons, stood in the middle of the room. The baron had already
escorted his little wife to her seat opposite to the glass door, and
the young heir had seized his sister's braids to drive her to the table
like a horse, when the door into the hall opened and another person
appeared, a tall, thin man in a plain gray hunting-coat, with horn
buttons, high boots, and a shabby gray felt hat on his head. It was
evident at the first glance that he must be a brother of the master of
the house, only he lacked the elegance that pervaded the latter's whole
appearance.
He entered noiselessly with a slight smile, half sad, half humorous,
that lent his beautiful beardless lips a very pleasant expression, went
slowly up to the mistress of the house, whose hand he silently kissed,
and nodded to his niece, but without vouchsafing me anything more than
an indifferent glance.
"Where is Luise?" asked the baron.
The little old lady gazed at him with a look of timid entreaty. I
noticed that he had some angry remark on his tongue, but his son
interposed.
"She harnessed herself to Mother Lieschen's dogcart," he said loudly,
with a jeering laugh, which displeased me extremely; and then whispered
into his sister's ear so that all could hear, "I laughed at her well,
and she tried to hit me, but I was spryer."
And the little toad giggled spitefully.
The baron uttered a few words in French, which I did not understand.
Then he clasped his hands on the back of the chair, and said: "Let us
thank the Lord."
He asked a blessing, which did not seem to me amiss, only it appeared
somewhat lengthy, especially as Achatz was constantly nudging his
sister in the side with his elbow. Mademoiselle Suzon Duchanel made the
sign of the cross at its beginning and end, which led me to secretly
wonder how a Catholic could have been received into this rigidly
Protestant family. Yet none of the others seemed to find it
objectionable.
The company then took their places at the table, the baroness at the
head between her two children, the master of the house next to Achatz,
then the French governess, by whose side my seat was assigned. There
was a vacant chair opposite, next Fräulein Leopoldine, then came the
baron's brother, to whom he presented me as we were taking our seats:
"Herr Candidate Johannes Weissbrod--my brother Joachim."
Just as the soup was being served, the folding-door again opened and
the missing Luise entered, who of course proved to be the Canoness whom
I had passed in the elm avenue outside. She had taken off her blue
polonaise and little black kerchief, and in a plain gray dress, with
snow-white frill, looked even more slender than before, somewhat as
ancient statues represent the goddess of the chase. Her face was
slightly flushed, whether from embarrassment or her hurried walk I
could not determine. Yet she did not hang her head like a penitent, but
went straight up to the old lady, bent down and kissed her cheek, then
bore the baron's reproving glance without lowering her lashes, and
silently took the vacant chair between the daughter of the house and
"brother Joachim."
Achatz stared and giggled, but grew as still as a mouse when she cast a
sharp, quiet look at him across the table. I now saw that she had
sparkling dark-brown eyes, against which the golden lashes stood forth
in strong relief. Yet, on the whole, she did not seem to me so
beautiful as when out-of-doors under the shadow of the elm-trees.
There was a stern, defiant expression in her face, very unlike my ideal
of feminine charm and lamb-like meekness. Moreover, she seemed to
entirely overlook my precious self, which gave me no favorable
impression of her character. Without uttering a word, she exchanged a
hurried clasp of the hand with her next neighbor at table and then
began to eat as indifferently as though she had been entirely alone.
I was somewhat annoyed because I had received no special introduction
to her; but my thoughts were soon directed from this perplexing young
creature by the baron, who commenced a theological conversation with
me, in which he showed himself a zealous Lutheran of the most rigid
type. I was extremely cautious at first, having heard that he was a
remarkably learned man. But I soon perceived that his knowledge was
utterly unsubstantial; he merely scattered broadcast certain names and
titles of books, which had been new years before, and persistently
repeated a few established formulas, on which he set far too much
value. He seemed especially to have received the stamp of the
Schleiermacher school, repeated a pun on the name of its founder two or
three times, but did not appear to have read even a page of his
"Dogmatik" or of the "Discourses on Religion."
The whole conversation was evidently solely intended to inspire me with
a high opinion of his knowledge and spiritual enlightenment, though he
himself did not really feel the slightest interest in the matter, for
he turned a deaf ear to my modest objections, and as--though I regarded
myself a valiant champion of the true faith--I knew how to keep my
polished sword in its sheath on occasion, this first theological
tourney passed off with mutual satisfaction. I only regretted that my
position in the house forbade me to stretch my opponent on the sand and
receive from fair hands the prize of victory.
* * * * *
During the whole dinner no one except the baron and myself had spoken.
The mistress of the house gazed into vacancy with a look of quiet
suffering, ate very little, and only showed herself eager to fill her
husband's glass as soon as he had emptied it, which in the zeal of his
debate occurred every moment. The others drank nothing but water,
except Mademoiselle Suzon, whose glass, spite of her coquettish
reluctance, the baron filled twice with Bordeaux. Two liveried servants
moved to and fro as if shod with felt; but for so aristocratic a
household the meal seemed to me rather meager and niggardly.
After dinner the baron, lighting a short hunting-pipe, took me into his
study and discussed the plan of instruction I was to pursue with the
heir. Biblical history, the catechism, the history of his native
country, a little geography--the lessons in the two latter branches
were to be shared with Leopoldine. She was far more talented than her
brother, my patron remarked; but the lad possessed the germ of a
genuine old-school Mark nobleman and an orthodox Christian, though it
was overgrown by all manner of boyish naughtinesses. His affectionate
papa hoped, from my experience in teaching and theological training,
that my pupil would soon visibly grow in favor with God and man.
At the same time the baron allowed me to see that upon my success would
depend my future position and promotion to the living. The present
pastor, with increasing age, would become less and less capable of
maintaining the strict discipline that was desirable, already displayed
a lamentable tolerance in matters of faith, and, if he did not shortly
apply for a discharge from his office, it would be necessary to obtain
his removal.
When I left my patron's study, I should have liked to give my pupil a
short examination at once and commence the training of the young plant
intrusted to my charge. Achatz, however, was neither within sight nor
hearing, but had disappeared, like the other members of the Round
Table. So I went up to my tower-room, and set about unpacking my books.
An old servant, who appeared to be the factotum of everybody in the
castle who wanted help, made me--as there was no book-case--two rude
sets of shelves out of boards, which, however, after they were filled
with my ecclesiastical works, looked very respectable. My pupil's room
adjoined mine. "Who occupies the second story under us?" I asked. "The
young baroness and Fräulein Luise," was the reply. I don't know why
this annoyed me, but I should have preferred to avoid the vicinity of
the Canoness.
While thus occupied, twilight had closed in, and I resolved to walk
down to the village and call on the old pastor.
As I entered the long village street, I prepared to assume the most
gracious manner. The worthy folk should have an idea of what they might
expect from their future pastor. But my nods and smiles, greetings and
questions, did not produce the slightest impression. The children ran
shyly away, and the grown people only gave me curt, suspicious answers,
though they knew very well that I was the expected candidate, and
enjoyed the favor of their noble church-patron. So I was not in the
best humor when I reached the little old parsonage, whose dilapidated
condition was revealed, at this early season of the year, by the bare
vine-trellises and empty garden. Even the church, beside which it
stood, only separated by the graveyard, urgently needed repairs, and I
secretly wondered that so pious a man as the baron did not set more
value on the proper preservation of the house of God.
But the interior of the parsonage looked all the brighter and more
home-like. True, the walls of the rooms were only whitewashed, but
there was not even a fly-speck on them; the thin white curtains seemed
to have been freshly ironed only the day before, the floors were strewn
with sand, and the household utensils were dazzlingly clean. A brisk,
plump old lady, the pastor's wife, greeted me with so cordial a
pressure of the hand, that I felt almost ashamed of having crossed her
threshold with the selfish thoughts of a smiling heir.
She led me into a small back room, that was just illumined by the
setting sun. Here, in an atmosphere so oppressive from the heat of the
stove that I could scarcely breathe, an old gentleman was sitting by
the window in a large arm-chair covered with calico. A small black
cloth cap rested on his venerable head, and his gouty, swollen knee was
wrapped in a woolen blanket. His kind, blue eyes gazed so
affectionately at me that I involuntarily bent over his outstretched
hand and would have kissed it, had he not withdrawn it, silently
shaking his head. I was requested to sit beside him, and, while we were
exchanging the first common-place remarks, I had time to again reflect
what a brilliant young light of the church I was compared to this
feebly flickering, almost burned-out tallow stump. For on the little
book-shelf beside the desk stood a scanty group of theological works,
so that, recalling my own abundant store, I seemed to myself, in the
presence of this aged champion of God, like a hero armed to the teeth
and clad in a steel corslet, opposed to an old warrior, who could only
swing a rude iron-spiked club.
But I was not allowed to display my admirable armor, for the old
gentleman subjected me to no theological examination, but merely
inquired about my former life, parents, and relatives. When he heard
that I had lost my mother when a child, he passed his withered hand
over my arm with a gesture of timid kindness, and his old wife, who had
often mingled in our conversation with some little jest, gazed at me
with such maternal compassion that a very strange feeling came over me.
Until then I had never realized my orphaned condition, but felt
perfectly secure in my kinship to God.
To reach a fresher theme, I began to talk of the baron and his family,
praising especially the spirit of genuine piety that pervaded this
aristocratic household. I perceived with surprise that neither the old
pastor nor his more loquacious wife assented to my fervent eulogy. Only
when I paused, the old man nodded gravely, and with his eyes fixed on
vacancy, said: "Yes, yes, the baroness--she is a woman after God's own
heart." "And don't forget Fräulein Luise!" added the old lady eagerly,
then hastily quitted the room, as if summoned by some urgent necessity,
and did not appear again even when I took my leave.
I explained this strange silence to myself by the supposition that
there were dogmatic differences between the pastor and his patron. The
baron had shaken his head over the old gentleman's toleration. Desiring
to avoid any dispute on this first visit, I soon rose to take leave.
The old clergyman apologized for being compelled to remain seated. He
was confined to the chair by a violent attack of his complaint, and
would have been obliged to leave the pulpit vacant on the following
Sunday had not God sent him so able a representative in my person. He
begged me to preach in his stead, and only regretted that he could not
be among my devout listeners.
I was grateful in my heart to his gout for affording me an immediate
opportunity to display my lauded oratorical talent, wished him a speedy
convalescence, and took my leave with a much calmer heart than I had
entered.
* * * * *
When I returned to the castle, a servant received me in the hall and
informed me that tea was ready.
I found the whole family, except brother Joachim, assembled in the
dining-room around the tea-table, on which two large old-fashioned
lamps diffused a somewhat dim light. As at dinner, there was no
lack of silver tableware, so that everything looked very stately and
splendid, though the fare was scarcely superior to that of a
respectable farm-house.
The Canoness was making tea, and poured it from a heavy silver pot into
the cups handed around by a servant. Again she did not vouchsafe me a
glance. The others, too, merely bowed silently, as the master of the
house, seated close beside one of the lamps, was absorbed in the
newspapers, which were brought every evening by an errand-woman. The
regular mail came but twice a week.
I, too, now ate, without speaking, a due amount of bread and butter, my
sense of decorum and theological wisdom having prevented my fully
satisfying my appetite at dinner. Achatz giggled and whispered with his
sister, who now sat beside him; Mademoiselle Suzon had the headache and
looked very much bored, but from time to time gave me a glance and
murmured a question, her cold eyes meanwhile wandering to and fro with
a strangely uneasy expression.
When the baron threw aside the papers, the whole party rose from the
table; Fräulein Luise led the baroness to an arm-chair beside the huge
chimney-piece, which, however, spite of the chill evening air, served
merely for ornament; and, after a little table had been pushed before
her seat, and the children had said good-night, the Canoness brought
out a pack of French cards and sat down opposite to play with her.
The baron had taken his place at a small chess-table with the French
governess, who had suddenly recovered her animation, and, turning to me
while arranging the ivory men, he said, "You can choose, Herr
Weissbrod, which game you will overlook. It is really against my
principles to allow card-playing in my house, but my wife's game is by
no means an invention of Satan, unless tediousness is considered one of
the torments of hell. I never touch a card myself, and suppose you have
the same ideas. So, if you have no interest in chess, do not feel under
any restraint, but go to your room, if you prefer. You have had a
fatiguing journey to-day."
I thought this implied that my presence was no longer desired,
and, after having watched both games for awhile--for civility's
sake--without understanding anything about either, I bid the party
good-night and climbed up to my tower-room.
The footman who lighted me seemed strongly inclined to have a little
chat, and I was very anxious to put certain queries about the relations
existing between the different members of the household. But I thought
it was indecorous to question servants about their employers, cut short
the tall rascal's opening remark, which tended in that direction, and
remained alone with my wandering thoughts.
My pupil was already sound asleep. As I looked at him and noted the
resemblance to his mother, which seemed even stronger than when he was
awake, I resolved to struggle against my aversion to the saucy young
lad and honestly strive to develop the half-stifled germ of which his
father had spoken. It seemed as though the impulse was felt through the
little dreaming brain, for the boy opened his eyes, stared at me,
blushed, and then said in an entirely different voice, "Good-night,
Herr Johannes."
I returned this good-night, passed my hand over his eyes, and went
softly back to my room.
But I could not yet go to sleep. All the new experiences the day had
brought were surging and seething in my head as if it were a witch's
caldron. Opening the window, I gazed out into the calm, cool night,
where the moon was shining so beautifully over the tree-tops, and gauzy
veils of mist were hovering in the distance above the hills and
meadows.
Conspicuous among all the figures which glided past me, as if in a
spectral chase, staring at me with questioning eyes, was one which
at last, when the other ghosts had vanished, remained standing before
me--a slender girl with tawny hair and brown eyes, whose gaze rested on
me so indifferently that my vain soul grew more and more insulted and
angry, yet without being able to turn my thoughts from her. I said to
myself that if this one woman did not dwell under the same roof I
should be as contented here as though I were in Abraham's bosom. Then I
wondered whether she had gone to rest, and imagined that she was even
now thinking of me with a scornful curl of her lips, which idea
strengthened my hostility still more. To calm myself, I lighted a long
pipe and paced up and down the carpetless floor of my room, thinking of
the sermon I was to preach on the following Sunday, and in which I
meant to say all sorts of offensive things to the arrogant creature's
face. Yet I possessed sufficient good-breeding to remove my squeaking
boots and put on the soft slippers my good aunt had given me as a
parting present.
I was just going to shut the window, for I was beginning to shiver,
when a low melody rose below me, to which I listened intently. My
little talent for music, as I first learned long after, was at that
time the best and most genuine quality I possessed. So, at the first
notes, I knew that the pure alto voice beneath me was no ordinary one,
but issued from a thoroughly musical nature. But the piano on which the
singer accompanied herself appeared to be a worn-out, tuneless old box,
and she made the least possible use of it. I did not know what she was
singing, but it seemed to me a magnificent piece by some great master,
and I went close to the window that I might not lose a note. I
afterward discovered that it was an aria from Gluck's "Orpheus."
This solitary nocturnal singing, which could proceed from no other lips
than those of the Canoness, instantly disarmed me. It sounded very
subdued; Fräulein Leopoldine slept in the next room, and must not be
disturbed. But this _mezza voce_, in its melancholy gentleness,
contradicted everything I had imagined of the singer's nature. It was
like the lament of a proud, free soul, that disdains to impart its
grief to any one, and only in a secret soliloquy makes the moon and the
night its confidants.
When the singing ceased, it was long ere I could resolve to seek my
bed. I still waited to learn whether it would begin again. Midnight had
passed when I at last shut my window, and, absorbed in thought,
prepared to seek repose.
* * * * *
Yet I was up very early, and had much difficulty in persuading my
pupil, who had hitherto slept below next his mamma's room, to leave his
bed, as among other bad habits he had been accustomed to stretching and
turning lazily on his couch in the morning.
I found it difficult to keep the resolution I had made the night before
over the sleeper, now that he sat wide awake before me with his
impudent little face, especially as I soon perceived with horror that
the young nobleman was deficient in nearly all the rudiments of
knowledge, and, moreover, did not appear to feel at all ashamed of his
ignorance. I found myself obliged to begin from the very commencement
in all the branches except writing, for which he was indebted to the
village school-master, and the catechism, which he could repeat
faultlessly with the volubility of a starling.
Yet, even in the first hour, I succeeded in uprooting some weeds
of error in his head and heart, and at least in conquering his
absent-mindedness, so that we were tolerably well-satisfied with each
other when, toward ten o'clock, the baron entered in his own sublime
person. He merely asked carelessly what I thought of my pupil then,
with an exclamation of surprise, went up to my books and glanced over
their titles. "Ah, Neander! Marheineke!" he said, as if greeting old
acquaintances. "You are certainly a thorough scholar, Herr Weissbrod.
Only don't soar too high! Let us have no unfruitful knowledge.
'Knowledge puffeth up, but charity edifieth.' There is this Neander,
for instance--h'm! Yet he's not one of the worst." (Good Heavens!
Candid Neander! That soul of child-like purity!) "And yet--h'm! Well,
with God's assistance and favor, his day of Damascus will come."
He talked a great deal more of such conceited, equivocal trash; and
though even then some irreverent doubts arose in my mind as to whether
his own theological wisdom was correct, I was impressed by his oracular
speeches, and endeavored to make one answer and another which should
lead to a more professional conversation. But he cut me short by
remarking that there would be time enough for us to come to a clearer
understanding. I might now accompany him down-stairs to his daughter,
and then give the two children their first lesson in history.
We found the young lady's room already in order, and she herself, in a
by no means studious mood, sitting at a table which stood in the middle
of the apartment. The Canoness sat by the window with some sewing in
her hand. At our entrance she rose hastily and returned her uncle's
cold good-morning with a slight bend of the head. I did not appear to
have any existence for her.
Again I felt my blood boil with indignation. But I only strove the more
to do my work well, in order to show her what a remarkable fellow I
was; nor did I succeed badly, in my own estimation. I began to relate
the history of the Mark from its earliest origin, and as I was myself a
native of the country, and, moreover, very familiar with this subject,
I had the satisfaction of interesting not only my two pupils, but their
papa, to such a degree, that the baron remained a full half-hour, and
was first reminded that he had long since outgrown his school-days by
the announcement that the steward was awaiting his orders.
I was especially pleased to see how Achatz fairly hung on my lips
during the narrative of the battles and victories of his ancestors in
this once pagan land. The ice was broken, at any rate, and even
Fräulein Leopoldine, who at first had sat with an insufferably
condescending expression, was evidently excited. Only the grave face at
the window bent like a stone image over the industrious hands, without
any token of interest. I began to doubt whether the beautiful nocturnal
melody could have issued from those obstinately compressed lips.
At dinner, when I again saw the mistress of the house, I could plainly
perceive that my first appearance as a pedagogue had produced a
favorable impression. The little lady, with a kindly glance from her
timid blue eyes, held out her hand to me, and asked whether I had slept
well and if I needed anything for my comfort. Achatz displayed in
motley confusion all sorts of crumbs of his new knowledge, and
Mademoiselle Suzon granted me more than one long look from her Catholic
eyes. When I said that the old pastor had requested me to take his
place the following Sunday--which was the next day--the baron said he
was very curious about the conception held by the young school of the
preacher's office, but warned me not to drag my Neander and Marheineke
into the pulpit with me, which of course I smilingly promised.
Uncle Joachim, according to his custom, did not utter a word. The
Canoness looked at her plate, and I noticed that she sometimes made a
low remark to her neighbor, who always responded by a quiet smile or a
twinkle in his honest gray eyes.
When, that afternoon, I was again alone in my tower, I prepared to
study my sermon with great composure of mind, for I felt perfectly sure
of myself. I had brought from the university and our religious society
a bundle of outline sermons, one of which I took out and read over
again with constant reference to my new hearers. Of course this
masterpiece seemed a thousand times too good for the rural
congregation, but I had intended it principally for my patron and
his family, not least for the obstinate face that, willing or not,
must listen to me for a full half hour. I changed a few details,
repeated the whole in a low tone, while veiling myself in clouds of
tobacco-smoke, and, when I had finished, patted my stomach caressingly,
as though I had just swallowed a dainty morsel, and resolved to take a
short stroll in the park as an aid to digestion.
Hitherto I had only seen the grounds through the glass door of the
dining-room, and I now marveled at their extent and beauty.
* * * * *
Low farm-buildings, stables, and barns extended on both sides in the
rear of the castle, and were separated from the flower-garden in the
center of the park by dense rows of splendid fir-trees. The dry basin
of a fountain, ornamented by a crumbling sandstone statue, served as an
abode for an aged peacock, which could now spread only a very ragged
and shabby tail, as he constantly circled around it, keeping a
distrustful watch. No one except the Canoness, as I afterward noticed,
was permitted to approach without his uttering a shrill, spiteful
scream.
The beds, at this early season of the year, were still empty except for
a narrow border of crocuses and snowdrops, but they were neatly raked
and carefully marked out; even the paths between were free from dead
leaves. From this place ran a broad walk fenced on both sides by tall,
closely clipped hedges in the French style. But the tops of the ancient
elms and oaks soared above them into the air, and the solemn splendor
of a German forest far surpassed the Italian prettiness. Never in my
life had I seen anything so beautiful, for the Berlin Thiergarten, so
far as the size of the trees was concerned, could not bear the least
comparison to it.
When, studying my sermon, I had strolled some distance under the lofty
crowns of foliage, a strange figure came toward me, whom I at once
supposed to be the gardener--a short, gray-haired man in a peasant's
jerkin, over which a green apron was tied, a green cap, horn spectacles
on his sharp, hawk's nose, an axe in his bony hand, and with one foot
slightly dragging. I went up to him, greeted him in my affable manner,
and asked if it was due to his care that the beautiful park was in such
admirable order.
At first he nodded silently, scanning me from head to foot with the air
of an expert examining some new plant to see whether it would be likely
to thrive in this soil. Then he said, by no means sullenly, that he was
the gardener Liborius and I was probably the new tutor. As this was a
leisure evening, he would do me the honor to show me the park.
While walking by his side, I had a strange conversation. In the first
place, he modestly refused my praise of his skill in gardening. He
would not be able to accomplish half without Uncle Joachim, who planned
everything that was to be done. True, he himself knew more about
cultivating flowers, because he had been educated for an apothecary,
and, had he not been compelled to enter the army, would probably be one
now. But while serving as the baron's orderly--the elder brother--he
had been shot in the foot; so, after he had obtained his discharge, his
master had made him gardener on the estate. At that time the park was a
perfect wilderness, everything higgledy-piggledy, and at first he had
only bungled, until at last the younger baron came. "Yes," he added,
glancing at me as if somewhat doubtful whether he might venture to
speak openly, "many things would go wrong if it were not for Uncle
Joachim. There's no telling all he has on his shoulders--half the
management of the estate, the garden and stables, and the few cattle,
for the larger portion of the land is leased. And yet he gets small
thanks for it. They say that as a young officer he was what people call
a sly chap, ran in debt, gambled, had love affairs; we know how things
are with young noblemen who serve as officers. Then his brother once
helped him out of a scrape and made him take an oath to lead a regular
life, and he has done so too. But they always treat him like the
prodigal son in the gospel, only there is no fatted calf killed for
him. And why? Because he doesn't go to church. You pull a long face
over it, Herr Candidate, but you can believe this: he's more religious
at heart than many a man who can repeat the whole hymn-book; if he were
not, there's much that would look very different here. For our master,
he's not exactly a bad one, but very strict, like our Lord in the Old
Testament, and looks after the pennies and wages, so, though the
heavens should fall, he never abates any of the work the peasants are
obliged to do for him. Unfortunately, he is obliged to look after his
due, for the estate was heavily laden with debt when he took possession
of it, and had he not made the wealthy marriage he did--for the money
comes from _her_--he could not have lived here, especially as he, too,
in by-gone days, led a jolly life and spent a great deal. Well, he's
tolerably well over that now, but he nips and saves at all the ends and
corners, always saying it is for his children. Would you believe it, he
wanted to send me off six years ago, after the grounds here were at
last in proper order and the park could be seen again. His brother
could attend to it with one of the servants. Then I said: 'Don't send
me away, Herr Baron; I'm no longer a young man, and have forgotten my
training as an apothecary, and my heart clings to the old trees as we
cleave to an old love. If it's only the wages, I'll gladly give them
up, if I can keep my room and have the little food I eat.' So he let me
stay, and I drudge away in Heaven's name and for the sake of Uncle
Joachim, who could not manage it all alone. And now Fräulein Luise
helps us, too."
"The Canoness?" I interrupted.
"Yes, indeed. She has charge of the vegetable-garden, because she knows
best what is wanted in the kitchen. Ah, yes, she is for a woman what
Uncle Joachim is for a man, and gets just as few thanks for it. You
know, of course, Herr Candidate, that she is an orphan, the daughter of
a third brother of our baron, who also squandered his property and died
young. She has lived here at her uncle's since her eighteenth year--she
will be twenty-four next Whitsuntide--and as her aunt has been an
invalid so long, and her uncle is often absent for months, because he
finds the castle tiresome, Fräulein Luise is obliged to stand in the
breach everywhere. Well, she can do it, for she has the brains, and her
heart is in the right place; our Lord will reward her some day for what
she does for her old aunt."
The old man stopped, pushed aside with his hatchet a few dry branches
that lay at our feet, and then drew from under his green apron a small
bone snuff-box, from which he offered me a pinch. I took a few grains
for the sake of courtesy, and then, with the most perfect innocence,
for I had not yet penetrated into the real state of affairs, asked:
"Is it possible, Herr Liborius? I thought the French lady took charge
of the housekeeping."
The old man shrugged his shoulders, slowly stuffed the pinch of snuff
into his little hooked nose, sneezed several times, and after a long
delay replied: "All that glitters is not gold, Herr Candidate. But let
every man sweep before his own door. See, here we are at Uncle
Joachim's rooms. Will you pay him a call? He'll surely be glad to see
you. Not a human creature ever crosses his threshold except myself, his
dog Diana, and Fräulein Luise."
We had walked the whole length of the park, to where a tall fence
divided it from the open fields, and were again approaching the castle,
when we reached a small summerhouse connected with the outbuildings by
a long hothouse. As I nodded assent, Liborius knocked, and then,
without waiting for the "Come in!" raised the latch of the crumbling
old door. No one was within. But at first I could not believe that this
utterly cheerless room was occupied by a member of the baron's family.
Against one wall stood a more than plain bed, covered with an old
horse-blanket; a huge arm-chair, from whose worn leather covering the
horsehair stuffing here and there protruded, was at one of the windows,
and at the other a large pine table, without a cloth, on which lay in
excellent order numerous thick account-books, writing-materials, boxes
of seeds, and a leaden tobacco-box; in the corner stood a narrow
wardrobe, and on pegs along the wall hung a few guns and fishing-rods.
This constituted the entire furniture of the yellow-washed room. But
above the bed hung the portrait of a beautiful woman, and a couple of
old copper engravings, representing Napoleon at Fontainebleau, and on
his death-bed, in worm-eaten brown frames.
"It is not exactly a princely lodging!" said the gardener, "but he
chose it himself. Well, it makes little difference where we stretch our
limbs if we haven't spared them from early till late. At night all cats
are gray, and any four walls do well enough for a sleeping-room."
Then he let me out again, and I went back to the castle, often shaking
my head over the many things I had learned, which had considerably
lowered my high opinion of the people and things around me.
* * * * *
When the church-bells rang the next morning, I went to the window and
looked down into the courtyard. A large old-fashioned coach, to which
two fine horses were harnessed, was standing before the steps. Almost
immediately the baron came out of the doorway, carefully leading his
wife.
Mademoiselle Suzon and the two children followed. They took their seats
in the carriage--Achatz mounting the box, so that if those within moved
a little nearer together there would be room for a slender person. I
waited to see the Canoness, who was always late, come out of the
castle. But the coach-door was closed by the footman, who sprang up
behind, and the vehicle lumbered slowly away.
Is she, too, like Uncle Joachim, no church-goer? I thought, and felt
that this would have chagrined me greatly, for I hoped to impress her
especially by my sermon.
But I had fretted in vain.
I set out at a rapid pace, and, having discovered a meadow-path, which,
intersecting the avenue, led straight to the village and church, I
arrived even before the party from the castle.
The sexton received me, ushered me into the vestry, and helped me don
the black robe in which I always seemed to myself especially trim and
ecclesiastical. While the last verse of the hymn was being sung, I saw
by my pocket-mirror that my locks were parted down the middle of my
head in perfect order, and my hands faultlessly clean, and then entered
the crowded church.
I had carefully examined and tried my voice in it the day before. It
was as plain and bare as most of our village churches in the Mark,
having been hastily rebuilt with scanty means after a conflagration,
and even robbed of the monuments which, as the sexton said, had come
down from Catholic times. On the whitewashed pillars hung nothing but
dusty and faded bridal and funeral wreaths, with long black or white
streamers and tarnished silver spangles. There was also a black tablet
with a few hooks, from which were suspended the war medals of anno '13,
'14, and '15, with the names of their wearers in clumsy white letters
beneath. The organ alone was handsome, its pipes brightly polished, and
its notes--for the schoolmaster understood his business--greeted me
with a harmonious melody as I climbed the steep stairs to the pulpit.
While the last verse died away I had just time to scan my devout
congregation. Opposite to me, in the baronial pew lined with red cloth,
sat the party that had come in the carriage. In the front seat, at its
left, was the pastor's plump old wife; the lines on her cheerful face
were to-day drawn into a peculiarly intent expression. I told myself
that I should have in her a particularly critical auditor. Behind these
pews, in a dense throng, were the peasants and cottagers of the
village, with their wives and children, whose singing, thanks to the
musical teacher, was far more endurable to hear than is usually the
case in our unmelodious region. Spite of my self-confidence, I was
forced to subdue the quickened throbbing of my heart as I saw the eyes
of all these strangers fixed steadily and not exactly benevolently upon
me. I was really glad not to discover among them one pair that, within
the last few days, had already more than once disturbed my peace of
mind.
But just as I was opening the Bible on the pulpit desk to read the
text, the door at the end of the narrow aisle, between the rows of
pews, noiselessly opened, and, amid a stream of sunlight and spring
air, that was instantly shut out again, the Canoness entered. Instead
of passing through the rows to take her seat in the baron's pew, she
unceremoniously sat down on the farthest bench, where an old woman, in
whom I now recognized Mother Lieschen, made room for her with a
friendly nod. No one else in the church noticed her; this late arrival
appeared to be considered perfectly proper.
So I began my sermon in a somewhat unsteady voice, but it soon grew
firmer. The text was: "Many are called, but few are chosen."
The doctrine of predestination had frequently been the theme of our
debates at the university, and the sermon as I had brought it in my
trunk bore evident traces of the learned apparatus with which I was
accustomed to defend my views. For my present congregation, however, I
had wisely omitted this, and restricted myself to bringing the kingdom
of God as I had dreamed of it, in vast outlines, but colored with
brilliant hues, before the imagination of my listeners. It resembled,
as it were, a beautiful fairy palace, to which led an immense, broad
staircase. This symbolized the temporal world in which, separated by
steps, the many called and the few chosen hurried on together. For, I
said, as all nature shows a gradual development from a lower to a
higher stage, in which no creature has reason to complain, since thus
alone can the omnipotence of God, which renders everything that might
be possible actual, reveal itself; so it is compatible with the
Creator's infinite righteousness that he does not endow all his
creatures equally, but makes distinctions, and, with apparent severity,
favors one and neglects another. Thus only could he have completed the
wondrous picture of the world, without leaving any step vacant or
overleaping transitions. If dissatisfaction should thereby arise, the
peace that is not of this world will at some future time silence all
complaints and reconcile all contradictions. On the day the portals of
that palace would open at the sound of the last trump, all who were
waiting on the stairs would be invited to celebrate the entrance into
the heavenly mansions. Ay, even those on the lowest step. For it is
explicitly written: "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the
kingdom of heaven."
I now adorned this idea of a staircase, which, as the final tableau of
a fairy opera, would have done credit to a scene-painter, with the
necessary lay figures and heroic characters, which I will briefly pass
over here. It is only necessary to say that in the elect on the upper
step I described with tolerable clearness people of the stamp of my
employer and his family--high-born, wealthy mortals, endowed with every
advantage of nature and education, and also with the grace of true
religion; while on the lowest step crawled poverty-stricken creatures,
bereft of happiness, like Mother Lieschen, who, however, would also be
saved if they gathered the treasures which moth and rust do not
destroy.
After I had pronounced the benediction over the congregation and
descended the steep stairs of the pulpit, I felt fairly intoxicated by
my own fiery eloquence, and considered it only natural that the baron
should signify his most gracious approval by a nod of his handsome
head. The pastor's wife, on the contrary, had not changed her
expression in the least, and did not stir even when I passed close by
her. I forgave her from my heart for being unable to feel friendly to
the new star that outshone her husband.
The sexton, however, praised me lavishly. Only I had made my sermon a
little too aristocratic.
* * * * *
I could scarcely wait for the dinner-bell to ring, as I fully expected
that the whole conversation over the Sunday roast would turn upon my
sermon. But in this I was bitterly disappointed.
A guest had arrived who had not witnessed my oratorical triumph, a
thorough man of the world, as I perceived at the first glance. He was
called Cousin Kasimir; I do not know whether the relationship was
through the baron or his wife, for he was so disagreeable to me that I
vouchsafed him no special notice. The young gentleman had ridden over
from a neighboring estate, where he was living as a student of
agriculture, lured less by the aroma of the baronial table, which even
on Sunday promised no choice dishes, than, as everybody knew, by
designs on his cousin, the Canoness, in which he had long obstinately
persisted, though without any form of encouragement. He seemed to have
resolved not to attempt to take the coy fortress by storm, but induce
it to surrender by tenacious persistence. So he sat between Fräulein
Luise and the young girl Leopoldine, without addressing a word to
either, but zealously striving to entertain the whole company by
amusing anecdotes, bits of gossip, and jests with Uncle Joachim. The
latter always gave him sharp, curt replies, whose quiet scorn the young
man did not appear to feel. In the intervals he discussed politics with
his host, of course from the standpoint of the nobility; and
Mademoiselle Suzon was the only lady at table who could boast of a
slight show of gallantry from him.
On the other hand, he did not seem to be aware of the existence of the
mistress of the house, nor of my important self, though the baron had
presented me to him with some flattering words about my intellectual
gifts.
Nothing was said of my sermon.
Wounded vanity naturally led me to cherish a secret, but all the more
bitter, hatred of the new guest. Even now, though I have long since
learned to smile at this pitiable youthful weakness, I must, for
truth's sake, admit that Cousin Kasimir, fine gentleman though he might
be, was an insufferable fellow, and had a face that might aptly be
styled a hang-dog countenance.
Very much annoyed, I went out into the garden as soon as we rose from
the table. I should have been glad to meet my honest friend Liborius,
not to hear him praise my pulpit eloquence, but to question him about
the object of my hate. He was, however, nowhere to be seen. He spent
his Sunday afternoons, as I learned later, in a neighboring village,
where he had placed a daughter, the child of an unlawful youthful love,
in the charge of worthy people. The baron inexorably banished
everything bordering upon unchaste relations from his pure
neighborhood.
I sat for a while under the budding trees on one of the most remote
benches in the park, and the worm of unsatisfied vanity gnawed my
heart. At last I consoled myself with the thought that the fitting
opportunity to speak of such exalted subjects had not yet come, and
when the conceited nobleman had taken leave the neglect would be more
than made up.
So I at last rose and resolved to have the church opened again and
improvise a short time on the organ, for I was accustomed to be my own
Orpheus, and quell, by the power of music, the wild beasts which, spite
of my religion, ever and anon stirred in my heart.
But as I approached the little summer-house where Uncle Joachim lodged,
I saw the door open and Fräulein Luise come out, taking leave of her
friend with a cordial clasp of the hand.
I confess that this meeting was not exactly welcome. Her icy
manner--even colder than usual--at dinner had told me plainly enough
that I had by no means advanced in her esteem. But in certain moods a
vain man longs to hear himself talked about at any cost, and would
rather endure the most pitiless verdict than the offense of silence.
Therefore, instead of turning into a side-path, I quickened my steps
toward my foe, who, without taking the slightest notice of me, friendly
or otherwise, quietly pursued her way to the kitchen-garden.
I soon came up with her, bowed politely, and asked whether she objected
to my bearing her company a few moments.
"Not in the least," she calmly replied. She merely desired to look at
the young plants, which was not an occupation in which one could not be
disturbed.
We walked for some distance side by side in silence. She did not
wear the gray dress to-day, but a black one, whose contrast made her
fair face look still whiter. A thin gold chain, from which hung an
old-fashioned locket, was twisted around her neck. I afterward learned
that it contained her mother's miniature. I do not remember ever having
seen her wear any other ornament.
Her expression was even colder and more repellent than usual, yet she
seemed to me more beautiful than on the first day I saw her. She again
wore over her golden hair the little black kerchief I thought her most
becoming head-gear.
"You were at church to-day, Fräulein," I began at last, for I felt that
I must hear something about my sermon.
"Yes," she answered, gazing calmly at the freshly dug beds by the path.
"But I shall not go again when you preach."
"Why?"
"Because I will not have the God I love marred by you."
This was too much. I stopped as though a loaded pistol had been fired
under my nose.
"Permit me to ask," I said, essaying a superior smile, "in what respect
the God you love differs from him whom we all, including myself, have
worshiped in our Sunday service to-day."
"Oh, if you wish to know," she replied with a slight curl of the lip,
which, spite of my wrath at her depreciation, I thought bewitching.
"You have made a God who reigns in heaven very much as an aristocratic
patron of the church rules his estate. When there is a harvest festival
here, and the peasants come into the court-yard of the castle to cheer
the noble family, they arrange themselves on the steps very much as, in
your imagination, humanity stands on your staircase: the magistrates at
the top, then the villagers, graded according to the amount of their
property and cattle, and at the very bottom Mother Lieschen, who owns
nothing but a wretched hut, a dog, and a goat, yet nevertheless
receives a gracious glance because, as you think, she is poor in
spirit. To certain ears this may have been an admirable prophecy of the
Day of Judgment. In the ears of God it must have sounded somewhat
differently."
"Then you do not admit the gradual development of all mortal
creatures?"
"Certainly. Who would deny it? Only the image of poor humanity probably
looks somewhat different to the omniscient eyes of God than when seen
through the spectacles of our arrogant prejudices. If there were such a
staircase, reaching to the portals of heaven, Mother Lieschen might
perhaps stand on the topmost step, and certain others, to whom you have
borne such flattering testimony, at the very bottom."
I wished to give the conversation, which was becoming more and more
embarrassing to me, a different turn, and said in the gayest tone I
could assume:
"You seem to be a special patroness of this old dame, who doubtless
possesses a multitude of secret virtues. You preferred the seat by her
side to one in the baron's pew."
She now stopped in her turn, flashing so strange a glance at me from
her brown eyes, that all inclination to jest vanished.
"Yes," she said, "I like to sit where my heart attracts me. I think
there would be neither patrons' pews in the church, nor hereditary
tombs in the grave-yard, if people did not merely bear God's words on
their lips, but were aware that we are all sinners and lack the grace
we ought to have before God. Their forgetfulness of it is the fault of
the false expounders of the gospel, who value worldly profit more than
the kingdom of heaven. Ay, look at me, Herr Weissbrod. You, too, are
among them, spite of your excellent theological testimonials and St.
John's head. Otherwise you would not speak of the old dame with pitying
contempt, merely because she is the poorest person in the parish. First
learn to know her as I do. Then I hope your derision of her secret
virtues will cease. That she _does_ conceal them is possibly her
greatest merit, and God, who seeth in secret, will perhaps reward her
openly."
She turned away with a hasty gesture of indignation, and seemed about
to leave me. But I was not so easily shaken off.
"I have irritated you, Fräulein," I said somewhat dejectedly. "We will
discuss my theology no further. But I should be very grateful if you
would give me some other particulars of your protégée. I really did not
intend to despise the old dame on account of her poverty."
"Really?" she retorted. "Did you not? Well, I will believe you, though
you don't seem to possess much knowledge of character. But you would be
greatly mistaken if you supposed that Mother Lieschen is one of the
poor in spirit. Let me tell you that I owe all, or at any rate a large
share, of my love and reverence for God, and the small amount of
Christian patience I have acquired, solely to my intercourse with this
sorely tried soul. When I made her acquaintance, six years ago, I had a
defiant, despairing heart. Now I believe, in all humility and
cheerfulness, that my Creator will impose upon me no heavier burden
than I can bear, and know that a human being who possesses genuine
nobility can never lose it, no matter into what society he may be
thrown. Only he must fear God more than men, even those who, in your
opinion, stand on the highest step, next the angels and archangels, as
at court the second rank of nobility is close beside the royal
personage. You wonder to hear a Canoness speak so irreverently of noble
birth. But I have seen too many base and contemptible acts perpetrated
by people with the longest pedigrees, to feel very proud of my
ancestors. There will be quite a different Almanach de Gotha in heaven
from the one here below, I think, and perhaps there Mother Lieschen
will have a nine-pointed coronet over her name."
Wondering more and more, I made no reply. She had hurled these remarks
at me with sharp abruptness, while her fair face flushed, and the
little locks on her temples trembled with repressed excitement. I had
had no idea that an aristocratic young lady could cherish such
democratic ideas and express them as a matter of course.
"Tell me more about this rare Christian," I asked at last.
"Oh, that is soon done. She lost three fine sons in the war of
liberation; her only daughter was led astray by a dissolute
fellow--also one of those on the highest step; her husband, who until
then had been thoroughly steady, was driven by sorrow to the demon of
drink, and died a wretched death. She herself was at first utterly
crushed by all these troubles, especially as the little property she
possessed was lost through faithless people. But she remembered the
promise, 'All things work together for good, to them that love God,'
and resolved that she would not suffer herself to be overwhelmed, but
in her great desolation constantly sought those who were as sorely
tried, nursed the sick, and shared her last mouthful with a poor
outcast till the girl could maintain herself. While thus employed, her
old heart became at last so cheerful that whenever I am with her all my
own somber thoughts leave me, and I would rather cross her threshold
than stand on the topmost step of your staircase and be invited to
enter by an aristocratic archangel, as the reception of the few elect
was just being held. Now I will bid you good-evening, Herr Weissbrod. I
have something to tell Uncle Joachim."
After passing through the kitchen-garden, we had again reached the
little summer-house. The Canoness nodded haughtily, raised the latch,
and left me standing outside, disturbed and bewildered.
* * * * *
But, strange to say, roughly as the shower-bath had dashed over me, I
did not feel in the least chilled, but revived and strengthened, as we
do after a rain which, though drenching us to the skin, has at the same
time washed all the dust and feverish heat from our limbs, so that,
even while shaking and shivering, we can not help laughing at the
baptism.
Even had her words been more severe and stinging they would have
inflicted no sharp wounds, for the voice which uttered them soothed me
like balm, though the tones were by no means gentle, but often harsh
with indignation. Yet, when she spoke of the persons and things that
were dear to her, one could imagine no richer melody. I felt in that
hour a strange ambition to have her voice some day pronounce my name
also in that sweet, thrilling tone.
And how her whole appearance had bewitched me, while she lectured me so
pitilessly!
I was lost in reverie as I returned to the castle. Cousin Kasimir met
me, and asked if I knew where Fräulein Luise was. I shook my head. Even
his hang-dog face did not seem quite so disagreeable when the pinched
lips uttered that name.
And how I felt an hour later when, unable to fix my thoughts upon any
occupation, I sat at my tower-window and suddenly heard beneath me
the piano and then the voice for which I had so passionately longed.
To-day, since the time for sleep had not yet come, there was no
repression, but a power and fullness of melody which, when a note
seemed to soar triumphantly upward, or to sink into the very depths of
the soul, sometimes brought my heart into my throat. It was another
aria by the same composer, who was her special favorite. For nearly an
hour this pure flood of harmony flowed through my penitent soul. I may
truly say that whatever transformation of my nature her words had
failed to accomplish was completed by her singing.
When the supper hour arrived, I sent word by the servant that I begged
to be excused, I was not well.
With this fib my first Sunday ended. I was, on the contrary, so
rapturously well that I could not bear to be confined within four
walls, but slipped out into the open air and sauntered for several
hours, with an overflowing heart, under the waving branches of the
trees, and over the young grain sprouting in the dark fields, until all
the lights in the castle were extinguished.
* * * * *
If, from the foregoing confession of faith, you have drawn the
inference that Herr Johannes Weissbrod had regularly fallen in love
with Fräulein Luise von X., the conjecture might be termed premature.
True, I had had as yet no personal experience in this department, but I
knew from the stories of others, and my own few observations, that love
includes the tender desire to take possession of the beloved object.
Even in its boldest dreams my agitated soul had not felt a trace of
such a yearning. If ever so-called Platonic affection existed, it was
in my case, though some eccentricities would have given a third person
cause to smile.
For, albeit I could not help thinking constantly of her, I did not feel
this constraint, after the manner of lovers, as a sweet bond imposed
upon me, but struggled against my chains, and had moments when I almost
hated them, though even then she seemed to me one of the most
remarkable human beings I had ever met. At such times I would gladly
have practiced some little act of retaliation upon her--of course
merely to shame her, and show that I really was no such contemptible
fellow, but with my intellect and learning could have held my own
beside any arrogant young lady.
I also detected in myself a secret envy, which will show you how far I
was from the usual condition of being in love. I would gladly have been
in Uncle Joachim's place, even for a few hours, to feel how it seemed
to be liked and honored by this girl. And, if this could not be, I
would have even consented to be transformed by some magic spell into
Mother Lieschen.
At night I dreamed that the beautiful staircase to the portal of heaven
was before me perfectly empty; but when I tried to mount it I
constantly slipped back, till at last I remained with bruised knees on
the lowest step. Just at that moment the door opened and St. Peter came
out--who, however, bore a striking likeness to Uncle Joachim--leading
with his right hand the Canoness and with his left Mother Lieschen. All
three looked down at me and suddenly began to laugh. I started up
angrily, and gave them a sharp lecture on the wickedness of malice.
While I was in the midst of it, the little old baroness came up, looked
compassionately at me, and said, "Give me your hand, my son." Then she
led me up the stairs with as light a step as if she were no longer an
invalid, saying, "You see, Johannes, it is perfectly easy, only we must
leave behind the learned luggage you have dragged with you in your
trunk." And, indeed, it seemed as if I had received winged shoes, like
the messenger of the Greek gods, yet the stairs appeared endless.
Higher and higher I floated, but still saw the three at the same
distance above me, only they were no longer laughing, and the vision
constantly grew paler, till at last I beheld nothing but the horn
buttons on St. Peter's gray coat, glittering like stars, and the
Canoness's golden hair shone like the sun on a winter day, while Mother
Lieschen's gray locks fluttered around her little pale face like the
autumn clouds about the moon. When at last the dread that I should
never get up found utterance in a shrill cry, I woke and felt ashamed
that the sun was shining on my bed.
* * * * *
My first business that morning was to send for the barber who shaved
the baron every day, and have him cut my hair. True, what remained was
still brushed behind my ears, the parting, however, was no longer
exactly in the middle, but a little on the left side. When I went down
with my pupil to the history lesson I was vexed that this important
change in my outer man, symbolical of a transformation of my views, did
not receive a glance from her on whom I hoped it would produce an
impression. Achatz alone made some foolish remark about it, which I
sternly reproved. Fräulein Luise again sat at the window, sewing on a
child's jacket, as completely unmoved as if nothing had passed between
us the day before.
So she remained during the whole week. I did not understand how I could
have fancied, even in a dream, that I heard her laugh, for she never
laughed.
I should have been delighted to meet her again alone, but she never
permitted it. So I had no resource except to continue in my next sermon
our conversation in the kitchen-garden, an expedient which gave me one
advantage--she would be unable to interrupt me.
But, while in the act of connecting my sermon with my cleverly chosen
text, the old pastor sent me word by one of the school-children that,
as his foot was now tolerably well, he intended to occupy the pulpit
himself on the following Sunday.
This greatly annoyed me. When the Sunday came I should have preferred
to stay away from church, especially as I did not know which would be
the most suitable seat for me. I could not take my place in the baron's
pew without a special invitation, which was not given, and I did not
consider it exactly proper to sit among the congregation. So I chose an
excellent expedient by joining the schoolmaster in the organ-loft,
where a dozen towheaded children stared at me. Requesting the worthy
man, by a condescending gesture, not to trouble himself about me, I sat
down on a stool behind the low wooden railing.
From here I could overlook the whole church except the last bench under
the organ-loft, which was the very one that most interested me, because
I supposed Mother Lieschen and some one else to be there. But I had not
much time for such thoughts.
While the hymn was being sung, the door of the vestry opened and the
old pastor appeared, accompanied by the sexton, who carried the Bible,
while his wife walked by his side, supporting his feeble steps with her
strong hand. With trembling knees the old clergyman slowly ascended the
pulpit stairs, and was obliged to rest for a time--which he passed in
silent prayer--in a chair that had been placed for him. Then he rose as
if refreshed, and, when he had opened the Bible and cast a long, gentle
glance over the congregation, he seemed ten years younger, and his
wrinkled but kindly apostolic face glowed as though illumined by the
fire of youth.
He had chosen for his text the words of the seventh psalm: "My defense
is of God, which saveth the upright in heart."
I had intended to watch sharply, to endeavor to detect some reference
to my own sermon, as I could well imagine that the pastor's wife had
told her husband about it, and not in the most favorable way. But after
the first few sentences all my vain self-consciousness vanished, and
even my renowned powers of theological criticism, which I had so often
valiantly tested at the university. True, there was no trace of any
controversial disposition in the low words from those withered lips,
which, however, were so distinct that not one remained unheard. The old
man opened his reverent heart to all who had ears to listen, as a
father speaks to the children who cluster around his knees. I have
forgotten what he said. It was anything but what is termed an
intellectual discourse. But the tone of his voice has rung in my ears
all my life, as though I had heard it only yesterday.
I can remember but one thing: that he referred to the calamity of the
preceding year, when floods and stunted harvests had affected the
village; but all this trouble had not been able to depress pious
hearts, only those who did not have God for their shield, and what a
precious thing this shield was, and many more simple, earnest words of
this sort, all appealing with gentle power to every heart, because they
did not merely spring from the lips, but were felt in the depths of the
soul.
The dull peasants listened so breathlessly that the fall of a leaf
might have been heard in the church. I glanced once at the occupants of
the red pew. The baron had closed his eyes and bowed his handsome head
on his breast--in contrition, as I first thought. Then I perceived, by
the strange nodding, as it drooped lower, that he was indulging in a
little nap. His wife's face, on the contrary, was raised, and she did
not avert her eyes from the venerable bald head and silver locks of the
speaker. As Mademoiselle Suzon was of a different faith, it could
hardly be considered a crime that she was constantly glancing here and
there over the congregation.
When the sermon was over, and the people were just preparing to sing
the last two verses of that day's hymn, I hastily signed to the
schoolmaster to let me take his seat at the organ, and at first
modestly played the accompaniment; afterward, however, I put forth all
my skill, not from the vain desire to make myself talked about, but an
earnest longing to pour forth in music all the emotions of my
overflowing heart.
A magnificent motet by Graun had been constantly echoing in my ears
during the sermon, a harmony as full of the faith of childhood and the
gentleness of age as the nature of the old clergyman in the pulpit. I
now began to play it with a quiet fervor and triumphant devotion which
finally made the tears gush from my own eyes. At the same time the
image of the maiden whom I revered rose before my mind, and, as I had
so long been unable to communicate with her in words, it was a pleasure
to think: She is hearing you play, and, as her own being is instinct
with music, you will approach her across all the gulfs that yawn
between you, and she must begin to think better of you!
When I at last closed with a bit of improvisation, and rose, glowing
with excitement, I saw close behind me the whole flock of children from
both villages, who had stolen softly up from below and gathered around
with shy reverence, as if I were a magician. But I sought only one pair
of eyes, and enjoyed the first happy moment for several days. The
Canoness was standing beside the old peasant woman, gazing rapturously
into vacancy, as though still under the thrall of the notes she had
just heard. As I passed with a slight bow, she only moved her blonde
lashes a little, while her lips parted in a serene smile. No
enthusiastic eulogy could have rewarded me more highly.
* * * * *
I could scarcely wait to meet her again at dinner. I fully expected
that she would at last break her cold silence, and question me about
what I had played, my musical studies and tastes. But nothing of the
sort occurred. Nay, while all the others were praising and admiring me,
and the Frenchwoman, with studied graciousness, kept her black eyes on
my face, and laid a large piece of roast goose on my plate with her own
hands, Fräulein Luise looked at me so absently and indifferently that I
could not help secretly brooding over this mystery.
I was also annoyed because the baron, who had made no allusion to my
sermon, delivered a long speech about my organ-music, from which I
perceived that he had not taken the slightest interest in it, and was
merely patching together, with a defective memory, certain phrases
about the value of music to religious consciousness and the sin of
considering the old church-hymns antiquated.
But Uncle Joachim vouchsafed me for the first time a brief conversation
in a low tone, which, however, I scarcely regarded as an honor. I
thought him an insignificant, frivolous old nobleman; besides, he had
not been to church at all.
I longed to learn whether I owed the happy moment after my playing to
self-delusion, or what was the reason I had again fallen into disfavor
with the Canoness. So, soon after dinner, I went into the park and
sauntered about within a short distance of the summer-house, holding in
my hand a book, at which I gazed intently without reading a line.
My friend Liborius had told me that Fräulein Luise drank coffee every
Sunday afternoon with her Uncle Joachim, who made it himself in his
little pot, and ordered the cakes from the town at the next station.
They always enjoyed it very much, and could often be heard talking and
laughing loudly together.
I had seen her go there that day, after giving a Sunday morsel to the
sick peacock and stroking its back as it came up to her, screaming and
fluttering. I did not understand how she could love the spiteful,
disagreeable bird, any more than I could comprehend what attracted her
to her godless uncle, with his sarcastic smile, whom I so greatly
envied on account of her preference. I waited at my post an hour and a
half in a very irritated mood, and was just in the act of turning away,
and driving the arrogant enchantress out of my thoughts, when the door
of the summer-house opened and she herself appeared, evidently in the
gayest humor.
But, as she caught sight of me, a shadow instantly flitted over her
face, and only a faint smile of superiority lingered on her lips.
"You are waiting for me, Herr Weissbrod," she said, carelessly,
advancing directly to me. "You want a compliment for your church
concert, do you not? Well, you played very finely."
I was so bewildered by this address, and still more by the glance with
which she seemed to illumine my inmost heart, and read my most secret
thoughts, that at first I could only stammer a few unmeaning words. She
seemed to pity my awkwardness.
"Yes," she repeated, "you really played very finely. Where did you
learn? Our organ sounds well, doesn't it? Do you play on the piano
too?"
I answered that I had taken lessons at college, but had never made much
progress on the piano, which required greater dexterity. Besides, there
were no such beautiful, solemn melodies for the piano as for the organ.
She again looked at me with so strange an expression that I lowered my
eyes.
"Do you love music only when it is solemn?" she asked, and turned away
as if to leave me. But I was determined to speak freely and compel her
to confess her grudge against me.
"I thought you would be of the same opinion on this point," I answered,
hastily. "At least I have only heard you sing slow, solemn melodies."
"Me? Oh, yes! You are my neighbor in the tower." She smiled faintly,
but instantly grew grave again. "Well, would you like to know why I
sing nothing else? Because I have a heavy voice that does not suit gay
airs. Yet 'Bloom, dear Violet,' and 'When I on my Faded Cheek,' or
anything still more light and cheerful, can touch the feelings as much
as the most devout choral, if it only comes from a merry heart and a
pure voice. True, we can not win artistic renown or be considered
specially pious by singing such things; though I think God has the same
pleasure in the chirp of the cricket as in the trills of the
nightingale."
"You wound me, Fräulein," I answered, crimson with emotion. "You do me
great injustice if you believe that what I do or leave undone is for
the sake of external effect. Who gave you so bad an opinion of me?"
She stopped and looked at me again, not into my eyes, but at my hair,
whose parting had meanwhile daily moved farther to the left.
"Do you really care to know what I think of you? Well, I believe you
vain and weak, a man who no longer reflects upon anything because he
imagines he has made himself familiar, once for all, with all the
enigmas of life, though he does not yet know even the first word of
them. I don't blame you, for I know that this is the case with most of
those who have pursued your path. But, as I have different ideas of the
one thing needful, we certainly have nothing to share with each other."
I felt a keen pang at these words, but was resolved at any cost to know
more, to know everything.
"And what is your idea of the one thing needful?" I asked, trembling
with emotion. "You say such hard things to me. Are you perfectly sure
that you have a right to do so? Are you certain that you are yourself
in possession of the right knowledge?"
"Oh, no," she replied, and her voice suddenly sounded strangely low and
earnest, as if she were speaking only to herself; "but I know that I
seek truth and allow myself to be led astray by no external delusion,
peril, or reward. No more can be required of any one, but no human
being should demand less from himself. I don't know why I am saying
this to you; I see by your puzzled face that it is a language wholly
unfamiliar. Well, I have neither taste nor talent for converting any
one. I shall thank God if I can conquer myself."
She bent over a bed to straighten a young cabbage-plant that had just
been set out and was half trodden down.
"Fräulein," I said, once more fully conscious of my ecclesiastical
dignity, "has not God himself pointed out to us the way in which we
must seek him? And is it not boastful to disdain this allotted way and
seek a side-path, merely in order to be able to say to ourselves that
we do not follow the high-road?"
She straightened herself, and flashed a glance at me from her dark
eyes, which she always closed a little when angry.
"Boastful!" she answered. "If food that neither satisfies nor nourishes
is offered, and I can break from some bough fruit that suits me better!
Boastful, because I do not wish to starve! That is only another of
those speeches learned by rote. You do not even suspect how much you
yourself suffer from arrogance." Then, after a pause, during which I
persistently asked myself, "Good Heavens! what am I to do? how shall I
say anything that does not displease her?" she added:
"I will tell you why the high-road is so detestable to me: because I
can not bear to hear strangers chatter thoughtlessly about things I
love. If I revere any human being, it always seems to me like a
desecration to hear him approved and praised by others who do not know
him so well; how much more when I hear all sorts of things said about
my Creator, things which distort the image of him I cherish in my
heart! I suddenly turn as cold as ice, and feel as much oppressed as if
he were taken from me, and strangers were pressing between us. Whoever
really loves God keeps that love secretly, does not repeat others'
protestations of affection, nor use worn-out forms of speech already
employed a thousand times. It seems to me like having a love-letter
copied from a letter-writer. You know the passage in the Bible that
says we must go to our closets and shut the door. Yet you come forward
publicly and preach your petty human wisdom, as if you were thereby
doing God a special favor. If you had a wife, would you not be ashamed
to plant yourself in the village street and protest that she was a
paragon of her sex?"
"Oh," I said, "how can you make such a comparison! God belongs to no
one person alone."
"Do you really believe so? I think, on the contrary, that God belongs
to every human being alone. He dwells in a special way in each human
soul, and whoever does not feel this has not received him into his
heart at all."
"Then you object to all public worship, Fräulein?"
"No, only that which prevents our coming to ourselves and God within
us. Did you not hear how our old pastor preached to-day? How completely
he forgot that he was in a crowded church, and poured out his heart as
if he were alone with his Creator! So every one had time to do the
same, and also approach God in his own soul. The rest of the old man's
discourse was like a father talking to his children. Even if they did
not all agree with him, they heard him speak from his inmost heart, and
were glad to have him still among them and see his venerable white hair
and his gentle eyes."
"Then it surely is not my fault if I can not assume the right paternal
tone, since my hair is not yet white," I answered, trying to jest.
"Not your fault," she replied, "but the fault of those who believe
young people capable of taking charge of a parish. Well, it is all the
same to me."
"Because you will not go to church again when I preach? Oh, Fräulein,
try once more! Don't give me up too quickly! What you have said has
made a deeper impression upon me than you suppose. Perhaps we may yet
understand each other better than you now believe."
She reflected an instant, and then said: "Very well, if you lay stress
upon it, I will try once more. At the worst, I can think of something
else. Farewell!"
She left me, and walked with her swift, even steps to the castle.
* * * * *
I can not describe the state of mind in which I spent the days until
the following Sunday.
When a house, in which a man has lived safely and happily for years,
suddenly falls under the shock of an earthquake, and he escapes, at
great peril, with bruised head and half-broken limbs into the open air,
his feelings may be somewhat akin to mine.
At first, it is true, the old Adam stirred and tried to reconstruct the
ruined edifice and persuade me that it might be made habitable again.
But I soon felt that the dust floating around it oppressed my breathing
more and more, and the old walls shook at the slightest motion. Only
one little room had escaped the universal destruction--the one I was to
enter and shut the door behind me to be alone with my Creator and my
love for him.
But I am not writing the confessions of my own soul and my incarnation,
but the account of a far better and more interesting human being. So I
will be brief.
My anxiety lest the old pastor should be able to fill his pulpit again
the following Sunday, for which I did not reproach myself at all,
though it showed little love for my neighbor, had been superfluous. His
disease again confined him to the arm-chair by the window. But he
talked long and cordially with me, and, when on my departure he
embraced me, I thought I perceived that he was better satisfied with my
conversation this time than during our first interview. With his wife,
however, I had found no special favor as yet.
When the Sunday had come and I heard the bells ring and the hymn was
sung, I was obliged to drink a glass of the wine kept in the vestry for
the communion service, in order to control the wholly unprecedented
weakness that assailed me. My knees trembled as if I were about to
plead my own cause before a jury, in a case where my life was at stake.
Yet there were only two judges in the church whose verdict I valued--my
own consciousness, and the grave face beside Mother Lieschen in the
last pew.
To be brief, the culprit was absolved.
I had chosen the text, "I will not let thee go, except thou bless me!"
And when I began to speak it was not long ere I forgot everything
around and was entirely alone in the church with one whom hitherto I
had only known afar off, but who now for the first time drew near me,
clasped my cold, damp hand, and gazed into my eyes with indescribable
goodness, gentleness, and majesty, so that I clung fervently to him and
poured forth all the trouble of my bewildered soul till he raised and
blessed me.
My heart was so melted by the feeling of having at last beheld my God
that I did not even glance at the pew under the organ-loft. But, in a
pause which I was compelled to make to control my emotion, I perceived
two things that satisfied me that I had found the right words: the
pastor's wife was gazing affectionately at me with motherly love, as if
she were listening to her own son, and the baron had again let his chin
sink on his breast and was sleeping the sleep of the just, as soundly
and sweetly as I had seen him on the previous Sunday during the old
pastor's sermon.
* * * * *
I could scarcely wait for dinner. I did not expect a kind word from any
of the others, but I firmly believed that she would grant me a friendly
look.
But, as I entered the dining-room, my first glance fell on the cold,
arrogant face of Cousin Kasimir, and all my pleasure was spoiled.
True, my heart grew warm again. For the first time Uncle Joachim was
not the only one who pressed my hand. Fräulein Luise also extended
hers, which was neither small nor especially white, but, when I
cordially clasped and pressed it, I felt a joy akin to that of the
first man when the Creator stretched out his hand and bade him rise and
look heavenward.
It was but a brief happiness; I perceived, by the Canoness's stern eyes
and compressed lips, that she was no longer thinking of me and my
sermon, but of something repulsive and hopeless. Besides, she did not
whisper some confidential remark to her neighbor now and then, as
usual, and a leaden cloud of discomfort rested upon the whole company
at table.
Cousin Kasimir alone seemed to be in an unusually cheerful mood, which,
however, did not appear quite natural, and chattered continually,
telling hunting stories, news from Berlin, and occasionally commencing
bits of gossip, which the baron hastened to interrupt on the children's
account.
He was very handsomely dressed, wore a small bouquet of violets in his
new dark-blue coat, and had carefully trimmed his somewhat thin fair
hair and small mustache.
As soon as we rose from the table, the Canoness was retiring as usual,
but her uncle said: "Come to my room, Luise." She looked at him with a
steady, almost defiant glance, then stooped to kiss her aunt's cheek
and followed him.
Cousin Kasimir had approached Mademoiselle Suzon, to whom he constantly
paid compliments in French, without receiving any special
encouragement. My pupil had seized his sister's hand and hurried off to
show her a new gun Cousin Kasimir had brought him. The old baroness sat
in her high-backed chair, gazing at the beautiful blue sky as if her
thoughts were far away. I took my leave of her, which roused her from
her abstraction, and she gave me her little wrinkled hand, looked at me
with her sad, gentle eyes, and said: "You edified me greatly to-day,
Herr Candidate. God bless you for it."
At any other time this praise would have greatly delighted me, but
to-day all my thoughts were fixed on the person to whom my heart clung,
and I could not shake off the idea that she was now enduring an
unpleasant scene. I went up to my chamber in the tower and paced
restlessly to and fro within its four walls, like a wild beast
in a cage. Sometimes I went to the window and looked down into the
court-yard without knowing what I expected to see there. An hour
probably passed in this way, then a groom led Cousin Kasimir's horse to
the foot of the steps and, directly after, he himself appeared,
accompanied by the master of the house. He was very much excited, he
had cocked his hat defiantly over his left eye, and was lashing his
high boots violently with his riding-whip. I heard his disagreeable
laugh, which now sounded angry and malignant. He shook the baron's hand
and, with a wrathful smile, said a few words I did not understand,
which brought a sullen look to his companion's face. Then he swung
himself into the saddle, driving his spurs into the flanks of his noble
horse so cruelly that it reared high in the air, and then darted like
an arrow down the elm avenue with its savage rider.
I remained standing at the window a little longer; I did not know
myself why I felt so strangely relieved by this speedy departure.
Something decisive, something that had made the hated cousin's blood
boil, had evidently occurred. And I grudged him no vexation.
The air was now pure again, and I determined to go down to the
kitchen-garden in quest of information. But, while passing Uncle
Joachim's open windows, I did not hear the Canoness's voice, and could
nowhere find any trace of her. The peacock screamed so discontentedly
as I passed him that I knew he had not received his usual Sunday
dainty. But in other respects the garden was very pleasant, the beds
were full of spring flowers, and the first light-green foliage was
waving on all the branches in the delightful May air. At last I met my
old friend Liborius.
He was sitting in his clean white sleeves on one of the farthest
benches, with a tattered book in his hand, and a cigar, a luxury he
allowed himself only on Sunday, between his teeth.
I sat down beside him, took the volume, which was nothing worse than a
novel by Van der Velde, now forgotten, and ere ten minutes had passed I
knew everything I desired to learn. For, as the castle afforded no
other entertainment, so thorough a system of watching and listening had
been established that the family might as well have discussed their
most private affairs before the assembled servants as behind closed
doors.
The long and short of the matter was that Cousin Kasimir had sued for
the hand of the Canoness; but the latter, on being informed by her
uncle of the flattering and advantageous offer, had curtly replied that
she felt neither love nor esteem for the suitor, and begged once for
all that she might hear no more about him.
A terrible scene had followed, the baron had flown into an
inconceivable fury, upbraided her for her poverty, her impiety, her
defiance of his kindness and wisdom as her guardian, and who could tell
where it might have ended had not the young lady turned away with a
contemptuous shrug of the shoulders and left the room.
Now even her pleasant coffee-drinking with Uncle Joachim was spoiled.
She had locked herself up in her chamber, and would not see any human
being.
I heard all this--part of which I had already conjectured--with secret
triumph, bade my informant good-evening, and strolled through the park
into the open country.
Never had I been so happy on any day I had spent in the castle. A small
quiet flame was burning in my breast, as if it were some pure
hearthstone, and must have shone from my eyes. At least all who met me
looked at me as if they saw me for the first time, or, rather, were
wondering what change had taken place in me. The peasants in that
neighborhood are not loquacious, but more than one stopped of his own
accord and said something about the crops, the weather, and the need of
a good harvest, in which I thought I heard the assurance that they no
longer considered me a stranger, but would confidently confess their
spiritual wants as well as their external ones.
And the young grain was so beautifully green, the little fleecy clouds
in the bright sky drifted along so gayly, the countless nightingales
were already beginning their evening songs, scarcely a patch of green
was visible in the meadows among the spring flowers, the dogs lay
yawning and stretching in front of the little houses, which extended
from the village to the fir-wood, and the only person who had been like
the Satan of this beautiful spot of earth, Cousin Kasimir, had
departed, gnashing his teeth, leaving the good people to enjoy the
bright Sunday repose.
When I at last approached the little wood, whose narrow border of young
birch-trees bounded the last inhabited tract, I saw a low hut whose
straw roof looked as awry and dilapidated as a moth-eaten fur cap that
has fallen over one of its wearer's ears. I knew that Mother Lieschen
lived here, but had always passed by it on my strolls. To-day some
impulse prompted me to go there.
It was a miserable shelter for a human being, having but one window by
the side of the low door, and only a single room, which had not been
whitewashed for many years. A patch of ground behind it, inclosed by
a low, ruinous fence, contained a few potato-plants and two tiny
flower-beds, both still empty. A lean goat, tethered to the fence, was
grazing on a bit of turf; two pairs of stockings and a much-darned
shirt were hanging on the old palings to dry. Yet this scene of the
deepest poverty seemed to me more beautiful than Gessner's trimmest
idyl, for, on the bench before the house, by the side of the old woman,
whose thin gray hair fluttered unconfined, sat the object of my secret
worship.
* * * * *
The Canoness held on her lap a woman's old blue waist, which she was so
busily engaged in darning that she did not notice my approach until I
stood close before her. Mother Lieschen was half blind, and could not
see anything at a distance of more than two paces.
I was greatly astonished, when Fräulein Luise looked up at me, to see
in her beautiful, calm face no trace of the emotions which had
embittered the afternoon.
She greeted me in her usual simple way, but I felt that I was no longer
a disagreeable object. With a slight blush, she told me that she was
helping the old woman--whose stiff fingers could scarcely hold the
needle--with her sewing. I asked if I might join them, and took my seat
on the bottom of a wash-tub turned upside down. The kitten came out of
the hut, rubbed purring against me, and at last jumped confidingly into
my lap. Then a short conversation began, which seemed to me far more
interesting than the most profound debates at our college.
I do not know what we talked about, but I can still remember that the
old dame, who spoke the purest Low German, sometimes made brief, droll
remarks, which greatly amused all three of us. She had asked Fräulein
Luise to tell her about Berlin, where, though nearly seventy, she had
never been. But the Canoness did not relate all the marvels as if she
were talking to a child, but as though she expected from Mother
Lieschen's wisdom a decisive verdict upon people and things. I rarely
mingled in the conversation between the two friends, but gazed intently
at the Canoness's beautiful bowed face and amber hair, and then at the
slender fingers that used the needle and thread so nimbly. Sometimes
the goat bleated, and the kitten arched her soft back to rub it against
my hand.
At last the difficult task was finished, and Fräulein Luise rose,
pressed the old dame's shriveled fingers, pushed back from her face a
few gray hairs that had fallen over her eyes, and prepared to return
home.
I asked if I might accompany her, and she silently nodded assent.
Yet at first we said nothing. I cast stolen side-glances at her. She
wore a dark summer dress, very simple in style, which, like all her
clothes--as I knew through friend Liborius--she had made herself. But
it fitted her so well. Her figure, which afterward became somewhat too
stout, was then in its most perfect symmetry.
At last I said, "You are becoming a deaconess, Fräulein, after all. At
least, I am constantly meeting you engaged in some work of charity."
She looked calmly at me. "I hope you don't say that in mockery, because
you do not believe in works, and think salvation is gained only by
faith. But I have never understood that. Whoever regards neighborly
love as not merely a command, but a necessity of the heart, can be
happy on earth only when he helps his fellow-man wherever he can. And
do you really believe any one can be happy in heaven who was not so on
earth?"
I now launched into a long discourse upon salvation by faith, till I
perceived that she was listening absently.
Suddenly she interrupted me.
"No, I would not do for a deaconess. If I were to wear a special
uniform of Christian charity, I should begin to be ashamed of what is
best and dearest within me. A thing that is a matter of course ought
not to be made a profession whose sign we wear. Others, I know, think
differently. But neither could I put on the pastor's robe, if I were a
man. Yet perhaps it is necessary; people cling to appearances, and
clothes make people."
She said all this interruptedly, stooping frequently to gather
flowers--which she arranged in a bouquet--from the meadows through
which we were walking.
Somewhat embarrassed to defend my position, I tried to help myself with
a jest.
"I would give much if I could see you stand in the pulpit in a black
robe and bands, and hear you preach. But tell me, if you had been a
man, what profession would you have chosen?"
The Canoness stood still a moment, apparently gazing at a wide, radiant
prospect with a rapt expression I had never seen on her face before.
"I would have been an artist, an actor, or a singer," she said, softly.
"An actor?" I replied, scarcely concealing my horror.
"What do you discover so terrible in that?" she asked, with a slight,
sarcastic smile. "Is it not a magnificent thing to embody the
characters of a great author, to cast noble, beautiful thoughts among
the throng of breathless listeners? But perhaps you know nothing about
it. You believe the theatre to be a sink of iniquity, like so many of
your class. I can only pity you. I have neither the desire nor the
power to convert you to a better view."
"And where were you yourself converted?"
"Oh, I--I, like you, was reared to loathe this so-called jugglery. But,
three years ago, I spent several months in Berlin. An old aunt, who was
very fond of me, sent for me because she was entirely alone. Uncle
Joachim took me to her. There I spent the happiest period of my life,
and there the scales fell from my eyes."
"If those are your views, have you never felt tempted to become a
singer?" I inquired. "With your beautiful voice and love for music--"
"No," she answered, firmly, "as a girl I should never have ventured
into that career. For the very reason that music lies so near my heart,
I should feel it a desecration to be compelled to come forward and
reveal my inmost soul to strangers, who had paid for tickets. Perhaps,
if I had true genius, it would bear me above all such scruples. And yet
the greatest singer I ever heard, Milder--have you heard Milder?"
I was forced to confess I had never entered an opera-house.
"Well, then, we will say no more about the matter," she replied. "You
could not understand me. But I pity you."
Yet she did tell me more of her experiences in Berlin. She had heard
Milder in some of Gluck's operas and in "The Vestal," and described her
appearance, her figure, her execution; then, assuming a majestic
attitude, she herself sang several passages which had specially touched
her. Her fair face flushed crimson, and her eyes sparkled.
I believe it was on that evening that she enthralled my heart forever.
Not a word was exchanged between us concerning the events of the
afternoon or of my sermon. But I was too happy to find that she gave me
her confidence so far, not to forget myself and my petty vanity.
We rambled over the fields for an hour, until it grew perfectly dark,
and returned to the castle just at tea-time. The Canoness had arranged
her bouquet very gracefully and laid it beside her aunt's cup, who
patted her arm with a grateful glance. She looked past her uncle into
vacancy, without moving a muscle. The latter was in the worst possible
humor, which he even vented on Mademoiselle Suzon during the game of
chess.
Soon after I went to my tower-room, Fräulein Luise began to sing below.
I listened at my open window in a perfect rapture of every sense.
Outside, the nightingales were trilling, beneath me this magnificent
voice, in which so strong, so pure, so noble a woman's soul appealed to
me--I felt as if my whole being had been encompassed with iron bands,
and in this "moonlit, magic night" one after another burst asunder, and
I could breathe freely for the first time.
* * * * *
Much might be said of the days that followed. They were the happiest of
my young life. But memorable as they are still, distinctly as I can
recall all the trivial events and rapturous joys of many, I shall avoid
relating them in detail.
Though a man should speak of his first and only love with the tongue of
an angel, he would find no patient listeners.
Yet, for truth's sake, I must here remark that I did not deceive myself
for an instant in regard to the hopelessness of my passion. But,
strangely enough, this clear perception of the heights and depths which
separated me from the woman I worshiped did not make me unhappy. Nay,
it would only have crippled the lofty flight of my feelings had I
flattered myself that this peerless, unattainable being might some day
prosaically descend from her height and become the wife of a
commonplace village pastor. True, I can not assert that this state of
mere spiritual aspiration would always have continued. If she gave me
her hand, if her dress brushed me, or my foot even touched the shoes
she had put outside her chamber-door in the evening to be cleaned, an
electric shock thrilled me, which doubtless had some other origin than
mere devotion and the worship we pay to saints.
Still, it never entered my mind to imagine that I could put my arm
around her and press her lips. I believe I should have actually fallen
lifeless from ecstasy if such a thing had occurred.
Externally everything remained precisely as before--our lesson-hours,
which she always attended as a duenna, our Sunday conversations in the
kitchen-garden, now and then a meeting at Mother Lieschen's. Yet I felt
more and more plainly that she trusted me and had forgiven my former
follies. My hair was now parted wholly on the left side, and no longer
combed behind my ears.
Whitsuntide came in the middle of June, and Whitsuntide Tuesday was her
birthday, on which she attained her majority. The evening before, I had
composed a long poem addressed to her, no declaration of love, merely a
simple expression of gratitude for all she had done to aid my secret
regeneration. I had carefully erased every exaggerated word that had
flowed from my pen in the first fervor of writing, and substituted a
simpler and more genuine one. I was no great poet, though I had been
considered one at the college. While following the style in which
church hymns are composed, I had been able to deceive myself on this
point. Now that I desired to express my deepest personal feelings, I
perceived that God had not granted me the power "to tell what I
suffered." Yet on the whole I did not succeed badly, and it afforded me
special pleasure to accost her in my lyric flight with the "Du" (thou).
Then I made a fair copy of my poem, and at midnight stole softly
down-stairs and pushed it under her door, that she might find it the
next morning.
I waited with many an inward tremor and quickened throbbing of the
heart to learn how she would receive it, and was much relieved when, at
dinner, she showed me by an unusually cordial pressure of the hand that
she had not been displeased. No notice was taken in the household, save
surreptitiously, of the high holiday, for which no celebration, either
of music, illuminations, or fireworks, would have seemed to me
brilliant enough. The old baroness had crocheted a large silver-gray
shawl, which, spite of the heat, the Canoness did not lay aside all
day; Uncle Joachim wore a little bouquet in the button-hole of his gray
coat; my pupil Achatz, who had grown very well behaved, gave her a
horse which he had sketched very carefully from nature; and Fräulein
Leopoldine had placed in her room a rose-bush in full bloom. The master
of the house appeared to see no reason for making any special ado over
the day, though it must have been a marked one to him, since it
relieved him from the duties of his guardianship.
"Come and drink coffee with me this afternoon," Uncle Joachim had
whispered to me as he rose from the table. I bowed silently, feeling as
if I had received a patent of nobility.
When, an hour later, I went to the little summerhouse, I found the
Canoness already there. Diana, Uncle Joachim's pointer, sprang toward
me growling, as soon as I crossed the threshold of the sanctuary; but,
seeing that her master welcomed me kindly, lay down again, whining and
wagging her tail, at the feet of the young lady who, from time to time,
rubbed her smooth back with the tip of her foot.
Uncle Joachim wore a short summer coat made of unbleached linen, with
yellow bone buttons, and a white cravat, and had brushed the hair over
his high forehead in a curve that gave him a holiday air. On the neatly
covered table, which had been cleared and pushed into the middle of the
room, stood a large pound-cake adorned with a wreath of roses.
"You ought to brighten up Herr Weissbrod's black coat a little, Luise,"
he said, with his dry, good-natured smile. "A poet likes flowers."
I blushed at finding the secret of my rhymed congratulations betrayed,
and the flush grew deeper when the young lady took several beautiful
buds from the garland and fastened them in my button-hole with her own
hands. Then we three sat in the most delightful friendliness around the
table; Fräulein Luise poured the coffee from the big Bunzlau[1] pot,
and cut the cake. I was amazed to see with what persistent dexterity
Uncle Joachim made the largest pieces vanish behind his sound teeth,
while I myself had lost all appetite in the delight of being near her.
Meantime a merry little conversation went on, spiced by my host's droll
remarks and Luise's musical laughter. I myself served as a target for
the old gentleman, who indulged in jests about my inward and outward
transformation, but so kindly that I could not help joining in the
laugh, without the least feeling of offense.
I was ashamed of having at first set so low a value upon this man. No
one could desire a more genial companion; without the least effort he
gave an interesting turn to everything he said.
When only a small portion of the cake was left, our host filled a
short, smoke-blackened pipe with French tobacco, stretched his long
limbs comfortably under the table, and began for the first time to
really thaw out. He amused himself by recalling how and where, during
the past years, he had spent his niece's birthdays. The year she was
born, he had been in France, and related all sorts of adventures he had
had there, often breaking off, however, as he approached the point,
because they were not exactly fit for a woman's ears. Then he spoke of
his other journeys, his travels in Spain, often with a heavy sigh,
because such delightful days were over. He also questioned me about my
so-called past, and, shaking his head, said, "You have missed a great
deal, Herr Weissbrod. Whoever doesn't sow his wild oats in youth, must
commit his follies later, when they are less easily forgiven. Nature
will not be mocked."
Luise rose, saying that she was going to take a walk. Then she asked
for a piece of paper, in which she carefully wrapped the remains of the
cake, pressed Uncle Joachim's hand, and nodded pleasantly to me. "Wait
a bit," cried the old gentleman, in Platt Deutsch--he was very fond of
speaking it when in a good humor--"the old witch shall have a birthday
present from me too." While speaking, he took from the chest of drawers
a small snuffbox, which he had made himself out of birch-bark, and
filled it with tobacco. "Here's something for her eyes. She need only
try it. When she has used it all up, I'll give her more."
I understood that these holiday presents were intended for Mother
Lieschen, and would have been only too glad to accompany the young
lady. But I did not venture to make the offer, and, after she had gone,
remained a few minutes with the old gentleman.
I call him so because, at that time, when I was only twenty-three, he
really seemed to me very elderly and venerable, but he would have been
not a little offended, or else laughed heartily, had he suspected that,
while only forty-eight, I had already placed him on the catalogue of
ancients.
When we were alone, he laid his large hairy hand on my shoulder.
"You are still a young man, Herr Weissbrod," he said. "But when you
have half a century more on your back, even though you have used your
eyes industriously meanwhile, I doubt whether you will have met any
human being more pleasing to God than the girl whose birth we celebrate
to-day. I am glad that, judging from your poem, some idea of this is
beginning to dawn upon you. Only heed this well-meant advice--don't
scorch your wings. That's nonsense."
I stammered something that sounded like an assurance that I was far
from intending such presumption.
"That's right, my son," he said, kindly. "Follies, as I declared, are
good things in their way. But we mustn't lose hide and hair in
committing them, like the bear who put his head into the honey-tree and
couldn't pull it out again. Good-evening, Herr Weissbrod. Don't take
offense because I don't go to hear your sermons. My old heathen, the
rheumatism, can't bear the air of the church."
* * * * *
How often I afterward recalled the worthy man's words, and could not
help sighing mournfully and saying, with a shake of the head, "Good
advice is cheap. You were her uncle, dear friend, and, besides, had had
your due share of 'follies' in the past, while I, poor student of
theology, had yet to learn the first rudiments of passion.
"Then you did not consider the unreasonable number of nightingales in
the park, which were fairly in league against me; and, what was still
more, the voice below, Gluck's 'Armida,' Spontini's 'Vestal,' and all
the divine spells of golden hair and brown eyes."
But I am lapsing into Wertherism again. At least, I will commit no more
follies now, but continue my narrative like an honest chronicler.
* * * * *
We are writing of August 26th. It was a fruitful year, and the harvest
had almost all been garnered. But the heat daily increased, and we
obtained no relief until after sunset. I had gone in the sweat of my
brow to the next village, which belonged to our parish, on an errand of
duty: to aid a sick tailor who desired spiritual consolation--no easy
task. The old sinner, in his terror and despair, had been reading
certain tracts and taken specially to heart the doctrine of the endless
punishments of hell, probably because he was aware that he had made a
sinful use of his tailor's hell[2] here below.
I did my best to calm him, and, as I had the reputation among my
parishioners of being an enlightened and not fanatical preacher,
succeeded in partially soothing him and inspiring his soul with some
degree of trust in God's mercy.
As I returned through our own village in the gathering dusk of
twilight, I saw a little group of children standing in front of the
tavern, staring at two dusty, shabby carriages. The first was an
ordinary, four-seated calash, with a torn leather covering, and a
broken spring under the box, temporarily mended with ropes. The second
vehicle was a large, windowless box on a rough platform, such as is
commonly used for a furniture-van. Of the people traveling in this
extraordinary equipage I saw only two persons, who were sitting on the
little bench beside the tavern-door, a bold-eyed, pale-faced young
fellow, not more than twenty, who, with his straw hat trimmed with a
dirty blue ribbon, pushed far back on his head, and his hands thrust
into his pockets, was saying to his companion, amid frequent yawns, all
sorts of things I could not understand. He had a bottle of beer beside
him, from which he occasionally filled a glass, held it up to the
light, and then emptied it at one draught.
The girl by his side was probably sixteen or eighteen years old. Her
appearance was disagreeable to me at the first glance, though no one
could have helped owning that her prettiness was more than the mere
beauty of youth. But the bold way in which she turned up her little
nose, the scornful looks she cast at the villagers, and especially the
soulless laugh with which she greeted her companion's jests, were
thoroughly repulsive to me.
Her dress was as shabby as the vehicle in which she had arrived. But
she had fastened a huge red bow into her black hair, and fancied
herself sufficiently adorned in comparison to the barefooted children.
Her little dirty hand held a few flowers, which she continually bit
with her sharp white teeth, and then spat the leaves out of her mouth
again.
The landlady, who came forward when she saw me stop before the house,
told me that they were actors. There was a married couple, too, but
they were in their room. The manager had gone up to the castle to speak
to the baron.
I don't know why the sight of the poor traveling players was so
repulsive to me. One might almost believe in some prophetic gift of the
soul, for I had long been cured of my aversion to actors by Fräulein
Luise's opinion of them.
So I did not linger long, but briefly reported to my old pastor how I
had found his parishioner in the village--we were now one in heart and
soul, including the pastor's wife--and then walked rapidly to the
castle. As I turned from the elm avenue into the court-yard, I
instantly perceived that something unusual was occurring. A groom was
leading up and down a saddled horse, which I recognized from the
silver-mounted bridle as Cousin Kasimir's. During the months that had
passed since the latter's rejection, he had only come to the castle
when he had some business matter to settle with the baron, and never
remained to dine or to spend the evening. Yet this surely could not be
the cause of the general excitement. Almost all the servants were
standing, whispering together, near the staircase, on whose upper step
the baron's valet and the cook--the two most zealous gatherers and
diffusers of everything that happened in the household--had stationed
themselves like two sentinels. They were so thoroughly absorbed in
their office of listening, that they did not even move as I passed.
True, this task was certainly made very easy for them.
Voices were ringing through the spacious entrance-hall in tones so loud
and excited that every word could be distinctly heard outside of the
lofty doors. Within I saw the master of the house, his face deeply
flushed, and beside him Cousin Kasimir, with his hat on one side of his
head and in his hand a riding-whip with which he beat time to his
uncle's words; behind the glass door appeared the faces of the two
children and Mademoiselle Suzon, pressed closely against one another,
while opposite to the baron stood a handsome, finely formed man, the
cause and center of the whole scene, whom I had no difficulty in
recognizing as the manager of the company of actors.
He was showily dressed in a blue coat with gilt buttons, black
trousers, red velvet vest, and light cravat. Yet, this somewhat
variegated attire was by no means unbecoming to him, since it made his
symmetrical and not over-corpulent figure more conspicuous. His head
was gracefully poised on his broad shoulders; but at first I only saw
the lustrous black locks that fell rather low on his neck, then, as he
turned his face, the finely cut profile and light-gray eyes, whose
expression was both honest and self-conscious. He held in his left hand
a pair of yellow gloves and a black hat, while he gesticulated eagerly
with his right, making a red stone in his large seal ring glitter.
"Only one night, only this one night, Herr Baron," I heard him say in a
resonant, somewhat theatrical voice, which, however, had a certain
cadence that touched the heart. "If I must give up proving to you and
your honored family, by a recitation, that you are not dealing with an
ordinary strolling company, but with an artist by the grace of God--"
"I forbid you to utter the name of God uselessly," the baron vehemently
interrupted. "The calling you pursue has nothing in common with God or
divine things. We know what spirit rules those who devote themselves to
your profession. And, in short, I shall not change what I have said."
"I will not discuss the matter further, Herr Baron," replied the actor
with quiet dignity. "But consider, there is a sick woman in my company,
who has been made much worse by the journey here over the rough roads.
If she is permitted to rest this one night, we shall continue our way
to-morrow with lighter hearts. Therefore I most earnestly beseech--"
"You have nothing to beseech; I have expressed my will," cried the
baron furiously, passing his hand through his beard, which with him was
always a sign of extreme anger. "I have told you that the control of
the police regulations in the district intrusted to my care is in my
hands, and that I could not reconcile it to my conscience if to-morrow,
on the Lord's day, a few paces from the house in which his word is
preached, one might meet a company of strolling players, whose
depravity is stamped upon their brows. You will therefore return to
your people at once, and see that they are ordered outside the limits
of the village within an hour."
These words were accompanied with such an unequivocal gesture toward
the door that I believed the final decision had been uttered. But the
actor stood motionless, save that he turned his head toward the side
where the stairs led to the upper story, and, as my glance followed
his, I saw what had silenced him, though I did not instantly perceive
the true cause. In the dusk above us, on the central landing, stood the
tall, slender figure of the Canoness.
* * * * *
All eyes were involuntarily fixed upon her where she leaned, as though
turned to stone, against the railing. She had grown deadly pale; life
seemed to linger only in her eyes.
"Fräulein," I heard the stranger exclaim in a tone of the most joyful
surprise, "you appear before me like an angel of deliverance. Can you
refuse to say a word in my behalf? Consider that the point in question
is not so much my sorely insulted dignity as an artist, as a simple
duty of benevolence. Through a mistake, in taking what I supposed to be
a short cut, I came here. For two years I have had the privilege of
giving performances in the cities of Pomerania and the Mark, and, after
spending several weeks in L----, I intended to go to R----, where I
meant to practice my art during the last months of summer. I should
probably have reached the railway-station to-day, had not the lady who
plays the old woman's parts in my company been taken violently ill. And
now the Herr Baron, as you have heard, wants to turn us out of his
territory as though we were a band of gypsies. You, who know me,
Fräulein, will not hesitate to be my security; you will explain to the
baron--"
The nobleman did not let him finish.
"Do you dare, sir!" he shrieked (his voice sounded like the creaking of
a weathercock in a storm), "do you presume to appeal to my own niece
for support? Do you wish to shake the foundations of the authority on
which the life of every Christian family is founded? Such unprecedented
insolence--"
His voice suddenly failed, he tore open his coat to get more air, and
his hand groped around as though seeking some weapon to expel the
intruder by force.
Just at that instant we heard from the staircase the firm voice of the
Canoness, only it sounded somewhat deeper than usual.
"Consider what you are doing, uncle. It would ill beseem the honor of
this house to turn from its threshold a suppliant who asks of you
nothing save what Christian love and God's command alike enjoin upon
you as a duty. I know this gentleman. I know him to be an admirable
artist, and a man of unsullied honor. To refuse him admittance to your
house is your own affair, but to deny him permission to rest for a
night in the village below, especially when a human life is perhaps at
stake, is an act you can not justify before God or man."
A deathlike silence followed these words. No sound was heard in the
spacious hall save the gasping breath of the baron, who was vainly
striving to speak. Then the actor's fine baritone, in which there now
seemed to me a slight tone of affectation, echoed on the stillness.
"I thank you, most honored lady, thank you from my heart, for bestowing
your sympathy upon a misunderstood disciple of Thalia. True, I expected
nothing else from your noble soul. Will you now fill up the measure of
your goodness by explaining to your uncle--"
A sharp cracking sound interrupted him. Cousin Kasimir, who during the
whole scene had been casting furious glances around him and only
waiting for a moment when he might interfere, struck his riding-whip
violently against the top of his high boot and advanced a step.
"Silence!" he shouted, his mustache quivering with excitement. "You
have heard that you have nothing more to ask or expect here, and if you
carry your insolence so far as to throw upon a member of this family
the suspicion of standing in any relation whatever to the head of a
band of jugglers, the baron, whose patience amazes me, will have you
driven out of his grounds by the field-guard. Do you understand, sir?
And, now, without further ceremony--"
He advanced another step toward him and, with a threatening gesture,
raised the hand that held the whip. But the actor did not cease playing
his _rôle_ of hero for an instant.
"Who are you, sir?" he exclaimed, without yielding an inch, "that you
dare to assume a tone whose ill-breeding befits no cultured man. You
seem to be abandoned by all the Muses and Graces, and I pity you. It
can hardly surprise me that a country nobleman has never heard the name
of Konstantin Spielberg. But in any other place I would call you to
account for speaking of my company of artists, which has been honored
by the concession of a distinguished government, as a band of jugglers.
In this house, and out of respect for the ladies present, I can only
say that I include you among the profane _vulgus_ whose opinion I
despise."
He raised his right arm with an impressive gesture, as though hurling
an anathema against some worthless heretic or insulter of majesty, and
at the same time, with expanded chest and locks tossed back, fearlessly
confronted his foe. Then something happened which drew from me a low
exclamation of terror. The riding-whip whizzed through the air and
struck the uplifted hand of the artist, who staggered back, speechless
with pain and rage.
"Scoundrel!" cried the nobleman's sharp voice, "dare--dare you tell me
to my face--"
But he could say no more. The Canoness, whose approach had been
unnoticed, suddenly stood between the furious men with her tall figure
drawn up to its full height.
"Back!" she said imperiously to the young nobleman. It was only one
word, but uttered in a tone that must have pierced to the very marrow
of his bones, for I saw him turn as white as chalk, stammer a few
unmeaning words, and draw his head between his shoulders. But, without
vouchsafing him even a glance, she went up to the ill-treated stranger,
seized the hand hanging loosely down, on which a deep-red mark was
visible, and stooping, pressed a hasty kiss upon it.
Then in a loud voice, trembling with secret emotion, she said: "Forgive
this poor creature, he does not know what he is doing. And now shake
off the dust of this house from your shoes. You will hear from me
again."
Once more a deathlike stillness pervaded the hall. But it lasted only a
few minutes. Then we heard the actor say: "I shall be your debtor to my
dying day, most gracious lady."
The next instant he turned toward the door, passed me with haughty,
echoing strides, and went out upon the steps.
* * * * *
Spite of my terrible excitement, I retained sufficient deliberation to
look keenly at him. For the first time I saw his full face, whose
remarkable regularity of feature and a certain dreamy luster in the eye
aroused my astonishment. Nevertheless, he did not attract me. I thought
I detected in his expression, instead of manly indignation, a trace of
satisfied vanity, Such as may be seen in an actor who has just made an
effective exit and, while the curtain is falling, tells himself that he
is an admirable fellow. I could not help thinking involuntarily how
different would be my feelings if such a girl had done _that_ for me,
how humbly, enraptured by such divine favor, my heart would shine from
my eyes. And he seemed to be merely reflecting how brilliantly he had
retired from the stage, not at all how he had left his fellow actor
upon it.
I gazed anxiously at the heroine of this improvised drama. She was
standing motionless, her eyes fixed with a look full of earnestness and
dignity upon the door through which the man whom she had protected had
disappeared. Her face looked as though chiseled from marble, her hands
hung by her side, and ever and anon a slight tremor ran through her
frame.
The master of the house also stood as if he were turned to stone. Not
until Cousin Kasimir went up and whispered something to him did any
semblance of life return. He drew a long breath, then, without moving
from the spot, said: "Go to your room, Luise, and wait there for what
more I have to say. Until then I leave you to your own conscience."
He turned quickly away and walked, followed by Cousin Kasimir,
through the glass door, which he banged noisily behind him, into the
dining-room, whither the three watching faces had shrunk, startled,
from the panes.
Luise still stood lost in thought, showing no sign that she had heard
the imperious words. But, just as I was about to approach her and
assert my modest claim of friendship, she seemed to suddenly awake, but
without taking any notice of me. I heard her say to herself: "It is
well! Now it is decided!" Then she quietly pressed her hand on her
heart as if she felt a pang there, nodded thoughtfully twice, and
walked slowly up the steps of the great staircase, while I looked after
her in gloomy helplessness.
* * * * *
As soon as I found myself again alone and recalled all the events I had
just witnessed, I felt, with a certain sense of shame for the pettiness
of my nature, that fierce jealousy was consuming every other emotion.
So she had known and honored this man in former days. She had even
placed him on so high a pedestal in her thoughts that the proud
woman--before whom, in my opinion, the best and noblest must bow and
hold themselves richly compensated by one kind look for every annoyance
they encountered--did not for an instant consider herself too good to
kiss his hand.
And he had received this homage as if it were his due, and thanked her
with a cold, high-sounding speech.
What was he that she should consider him so far above her. For, after
all, the insult offered him here was not so atrocious that it could
only be atoned by the humiliation of such an angel in woman's garb. Had
he not been already dear to her, she would probably have left him to
obtain satisfaction for himself.
She had made his acquaintance during her visit to Berlin, that was
evident, on the stage, of course, and probably elsewhere also; or how
could he have greeted her as an acquaintance? Yet she had never
mentioned his name to me, as she had spoken of the worshiped songstress
Milder. What had passed between them? And what kind of afterpiece might
yet follow the scene of today?
I could not help thinking constantly of his handsome yet unpleasant
face, and asking myself what attraction she could find in it. I felt a
most unchristian hatred rising in my heart toward this man, who had
certainly not done me the slightest harm--nay, with whose whole
deportment I could find no fault save the somewhat theatrical air
inseparable from his profession. Yet, had I possessed the power to make
the earth by some magic spell suddenly swallow up the whole innocent
"band of jugglers," like Korah and his company, I believe I should not
have hesitated a moment.
Since this was impossible, I resolved to try to obtain some explanation
of this disaster which, as the principal person shut herself up from
me, I could only hope to do through Uncle Joachim. Unhappily I found
his cell closed--he had ridden across the country on some business
connected with the sale of a peat-digging. I wandered in the deepest
ill-humor through the park. At last it occurred to me that Mother
Lieschen, with whom the Canoness was in the habit of talking about so
many things, might be familiar with this accursed Berlin story, and I
turned into the path leading to her lonely hut.
But just as I caught a glimpse of the straw roof I perceived that I was
too late. The old dame was just coming out of the door, and by her side
walked Fräulein Luise herself, whom I had supposed imprisoned in her
tower-room. They were talking eagerly together, Mother Lieschen had
tied her kerchief over her head and seemed about to set out for a walk,
for she took from the bench the staff with which she supported her
steps, and held out her hand to the young lady. Then they parted, and,
while the old dame hobbled along the edge of the wood, which was the
shortest way to the village, Fräulein Luise came directly toward me to
return to the castle.
She did not see me until within the distance of twenty paces, then she
stopped a moment, but without the slightest change of expression. No
one, who did not know what had happened an hour before, could have
suspected it from her face.
"Good-evening, Herr Johannes," she said in her calmest voice (she had
called me so for some time because the "Candidate" seemed too formal,
and she thought the name of Weissbrod ugly), "I am glad to see you. I
have a favor to ask."
I bowed silently. My heart was too full not to pour forth all its
feelings if a single word overflowed, which I did not think seemly.
"Our old pastor will preach again to-morrow," she continued, walking
quietly on by my side. "You might do me a real favor if, after the
close of the service, you would give a beautiful long organ concert in
your very best style, like the first one we heard from you. I have a
reason for making the request, which I can not tell you to-day. Will
you do me this service, dear Herr Johannes?"
Dear Herr Johannes! It was the first time she ever gave me that title.
No matter how many unutterable things I had cherished in my heart
against her, such an address would have won me to render the hardest
service.
"How can you doubt it!" I answered quickly. "I understand only too well
that you need the consoling power of music. Oh, Fräulein Luise, when I
think how it affected me, a mere silent spectator, and how you must
feel--"
"No," she interrupted, "it is not as you suppose, but no matter; it is
important to me for you to play both very well and very long. I will
thank you for it in advance--" she gave me her hand, but without pausing
in her walk--"and also for every other kindness you have showed me in
your earnest, faithful way. Promise that you will always remain the
same, and never, even in thought, agree with other people's silly
gossip about me."
I silently pressed her hand. A hundred questions were on my tongue, but
I could not summon courage to ask even one. She, too, sank into a
silence as unbroken as though she had forgotten that she had a
companion.
So, when we reached the elm avenue, we parted with a brief
good-evening. The Canoness turned toward the farm-buildings, and I went
to my room.
Fräulein Luise did not appear in the dining-room at tea-time. Cousin
Kasimir had ridden off long before, and a strange, oppressive
atmosphere of irritation brooded over the rest of the party. I had
already heard that the baron had had a long, violent conversation with
the Canoness in her own room, but, contrary to the custom of the house,
whose walls had a thousand ears, nothing was known of its purport. The
baron's eyes were blood-shot and the lid of the left one twitched
nervously. He had invited the steward to tea and talked to him with
forced gayety about agricultural affairs. The old baroness gazed into
her plate with an even more sorrowful and timid expression than usual,
the children frolicked with each other, Fräulein Leopoldine endeavored
to put on an arrogant air, while Achatz chattered to her with boyish
impetuosity. Mademoiselle Suzon alone seemed to be in good humor, and
ate a large quantity of bread and butter, while making tireless efforts
to maintain a conversation with me, which I with equal persistency
continually dropped.
* * * * *
When I at last went up to my tower-chamber and saw Fräulein Luise's
well-shaped, though not unusually small, shoes standing outside of her
room, I was obliged to put the strongest constraint upon myself to
avoid knocking at the door and begging the alms of a few soothing
words. It would have been very indecorous and worse--utterly useless.
So, with a sigh, I renounced the wish, and resolved to speak to her so
touchingly through my church-music on the morrow that the closed door
must at last open of its own accord.
I had never passed so sleepless a night, and on the next morning felt
so wearied that I feared the keys of the organ would refuse to obey me.
But the old pastor's sermon strengthened me wonderfully, and his words
fell like, soothing oil upon the burning wounds in my heart. Now, I
thought, she is sitting beneath you with her old friend, the comfort of
God's word is coming to her also, and the balm of music must do what
more is needed to make her soul bright and joyous again.
I began to play the best melodies I knew, and I believe that never in
my life have I had a higher and more sacred musical inspiration. So
completely did I forget myself in it, that I started in alarm when the
schoolmaster at last touched me lightly on the shoulder, and whispered
that I had been playing a full hour, and, exquisite as was the
performance, the dignitaries below were showing signs of impatience,
and the congregation wanted to go home.
As if roused from some dream of Paradise, I broke off with a brief
passage and hurried down the stairs. My eyes searched the ranks of
church-goers thronging out of the edifice. I saw Mother Lieschen, but
she was standing quite alone in her dark corner, and I could nowhere
find the face I sought.
Perhaps she had shunned the gloomy church and preferred to remain
outside in the graveyard, now fragrant with monthly roses and
mignonette, hearing my music through the half-open door. At any rate I
should see her at dinner.
When we assembled in the dining-room and she was even later than usual,
I heard the baron say, turning to his wife: "She grows worse and worse
every day; this irregularity must be stopped--" and my heart beat so
violently that it seemed as though it would leap into my mouth. I asked
Uncle Joachim, under my breath, how the young lady was, and whether she
would not come to dinner. He shrugged his shoulders without moving a
muscle, yet I saw that even his appetite had deserted him.
Just as the roast was served, and the baron was preparing to carve it,
one of the footmen handed him a note on a silver salver. It had just
been left by old Mother Lieschen.
The knife and fork dropped from his hands, he hastily seized the
missive, glanced rapidly over it, and I saw him turn pale as he read.
Then with an effort he controlled himself and rose.
"Harness the horses into the hunting-carriage," he shouted, "and saddle
the chestnut instantly! Ha! This was all that was lacking! This caps
the climax. But the lunatic shall learn with whom she has to deal! Dead
or alive--even if Satan himself, to whom she has sold her soul, tried
to protect her from me--she shall not drag the name she bears through
the mire; she shall--"
He could say no more--it seemed as if some convulsion in the chest
choked his utterance, and, with a terrible groan, he sank back into his
chair.
The children started up; Mademoiselle Suzon hastily dipped her
handkerchief into a glass of water to sprinkle the nobleman's brow; the
old baroness rose as fast as her feeble limbs would permit, and in
mortal terror approached her husband to feel his hands and head. The
servants hurried out to execute his orders.
Just at this moment a voice was heard which never before had spoken in
loud tones in that hall.
Uncle Joachim had risen, but remained standing at his place. His face
wore a sorrowful, yet bold and threatening expression.
"Brother Achatz," he said, "I must beg you to moderate your words and
undertake nothing that will make the matter worse, and which you would
perhaps afterward repent. Do not forget that Luise is of age and
mistress of her own actions. I regret what she has done as much as you
do. But what has happened can not be altered."
The baron started up as if he had been stung by a serpent, angrily
shaking off all the hands outstretched to help him. Wrath at the
interference of his brother, who had hitherto had only a seat and no
voice at this table, seemed to have suddenly restored all his haughty
strength.
"You have the effrontery to still plead for her?" he shouted with
flashing eyes. "You even knew her intention, and not only concealed it
but helped her forget all modesty and honor and go out into the wide
world like a wanton?"
"I forbid any imputations upon my honor, Achatz!" replied the other,
meeting his brother's wrathful glance with cold contempt. "I have not
seen Luise since yesterday noon. Just before dinner to-day I received a
farewell letter from her, in which she informs me that she can no
longer endure to live in this house, and will seek her happiness at her
own peril. The other reasons she adds in justification of her step
concern no one save myself."
"Then she did not tell you that she has determined to follow a certain
Herr Spielberg, a strolling actor, and, if he will graciously consent,
to become his wife? The wife of an adventurer who pursues a godless
calling, and whom I ought to have had hunted out of the court-yard by
the dogs, instead of giving him any hearing at all!"
"She told me that also, Brother Achatz, and it sincerely grieves me;
for, though I believe this gentleman to be a reputable artist, I doubt
whether she will ever become at home and happy in this sphere. But from
what we know of her she will carry out her purpose, and if you should
now institute a pursuit it will only cause a tremendous scandal and
gain nothing; the family honor will be far more sullied than if we keep
quiet and let the grass grow over the affair. That matters have gone so
far, Brother Achatz, some one else will have to answer for at the Day
of Judgment."
The two men measured each other with a look of most unfraternal hatred.
The old baroness gazed up at her husband with a pleading quiver of her
withered lips, whose words were not audible to me. But he hastily shook
himself free, as she laid a hand on his arm, and advanced a step toward
his brother.
"Do you mean to say," he asked, grinding his teeth, "that I am to blame
because this mangy sheep has strayed from our fold and is devoured by
the wolf? True, she has always rebelled against the strict rule of
obedience, against both human and divine law. But, if any one in this
house has helped to strengthen her in her obstinacy and arrogance, it
is you, you, and no one else. Can you deny it?"
"I am not disposed to allow myself to be examined like a criminal,"
replied Joachim with sarcastic coolness. "If I were malicious, I would
let you say the most senseless things in your helpless rage. But, as we
bear the same name and I pity your blindness, Brother Achatz, and
moreover we are not alone, so that I might tell you my whole opinion to
your face, I will simply warn you. If you use violence and drag the
matter before the courts, you may hear things far more damaging to the
honor of our family than the news that the Canoness Luise has followed
a strolling actor and made an unequal marriage by wedding him. I have
nothing more to say. May the meal do you all good!"
He bowed to his sister-in-law, walked quietly to the antlers on which
he had hung his hat, and left the room.
His last words had a magical effect upon the baron, who bowed his head
on his breast and stood for a time as if lost in thought. Not until the
servant entered and announced that the carriage was ready and the horse
saddled did he rouse himself, and, with an imperious gesture that
indicated they were no longer wanted, he walked without a glance at any
one, with slow, heavy steps, to his room.
The roast meat, which meantime had grown cold, was left untouched on
the table. The mistress of the house, after remaining for a time lost
in sorrowful thought, followed her husband; the children, completely
puzzled, had withdrawn into a window-niche. When the Frenchwoman, with
a disagreeable smile intended to be amiable, addressed a remark to me
containing the words _horreur_ and _déplorable_, I made a very
uncourteous gesture, as though brushing off a buzzing hornet, and
hurried into the park after Uncle Joachim.
* * * * *
I found him where I sought him, but his surroundings looked very
different from usual on the cozy Sunday afternoons.
Nothing was in order in the room, which had never seemed to me so
shabby and unhomelike; the fly-specks had not been washed from the
glass over the engravings, and the coffee-service was not on the table.
Diana was lying in the middle of the unmade bed, and only lifted her
head from her fore-paws to yawn at me. Her master, who usually dressed
himself very carefully for this coffee-hour, was pacing up and down
with folded arms, in his shirtsleeves, and slippers down at the heel,
smoking his short pipe as fiercely as if he meant, in defiance of the
sunshine streaming through the little window, to intrench himself
behind an impenetrable cloud.
"Pardon me if I disturb you," I said, as he stopped and glared angrily
at me as though I were a total stranger; "but I can not bear to stay
alone with my own thoughts among people who either make scornful
comments on the misfortune in private or openly exult over it. And
altogether--I can't yet believe it. Tell me honestly, Herr Baron; do
_you_ believe it? Do _you_ understand it?"
"Nonsense!" he growled. "Believe what? 'Long hair and short
wits'--that's all we need know to marvel at nothing one of _that_ sex
does, even if she were the best of them all. Have you come, too, to
fill my ears with lamentations? I have enough to do to swallow my own
bile."
He began to puff out the smoke again, and resumed his walk as if he had
said enough to induce me to beat a discreet retreat.
But I did not stir.
"Oh, Herr Baron, don't send me away without any comfort, any
explanation. You know more about the matter than any other person; you
said you had known this--this Herr Spielberg. Do you really believe
that she has followed him, that--that she has not merely suggested the
horrible idea of becoming his wife as a threat, an alarm-shot, but will
seriously persist in it?"
Again he stopped, then with grim earnestness said: "Do you not yet know
her well enough to be aware that she never jests about serious matters,
and that, when she has once made up her mind, a legion of angels or
fiends could not divert her from her purpose. I've seen it coming a
long time, not exactly this, for no sensible person could imagine such
a folly, but some dangerous escapade, merely to escape from this
oppressive, poisonous atmosphere into the free air, and, had it not
been for her aunt, the martyr, who must now endure to the end, she
would have gone away as soon as she became of age, at least to her
chapter, where, it is true, she would have found all sorts of hypocrisy
that did not suit her, but at any rate she could have planned her life
according to her own inclination. She only remained for the sake of her
aunt, and to be able to occasionally lay a bunch of flowers beside the
old baroness's plate. Now that scoundrel Kasimir has severed with his
riding-whip the tie that bound her here, as if it were a cobweb, she
has dropped everything as if she were called upon to answer for the
honor of the whole family, and questioned only the bewildered heart and
obstinate conscience which persuaded her that this folly was a noble
sacrifice. I could tear my hair out by the roots because I was not
present, and heard nothing about the matter until early this morning,
when Liborius told me that so and so had occurred yesterday, and that
he saw the young lady set off gayly on her walk at dawn this morning
but thought nothing of it. She appeared just the same as she usually
did when walking, and he would never have dreamed of her committing so
extraordinary an act. But _I_ should have noticed something and opposed
it with might and main. _Nom d'un nom!_"--this was the French oath he
used when excessively angry--"I believe, if I could not have conquered
her obstinacy, I would have gone with her and twisted the neck of the
man into whose arms she wanted to throw herself, ere I would have
allowed him to rob me of my darling and drag her into misery."
He again smoked furiously. Diana sprang howling from the bed and ran up
to him, but was banished into a corner by a kick.
"But how can you explain her taking refuge with this stranger,
confiding to him her person, her honor, her whole life, merely because
he was treated here in her presence as a vagabond? So proud as she
always was, so pure, and so well aware of what she ought and must do in
order not to blush for herself?"
Uncle Joachim gave me a side-glance from his half-shut eyes. "Herr
Weissbrod," he said, "you are an honest fellow, and you revered my
niece as if she were a saint. I can tell you how all this agrees. As a
future pastor, you must know what is to be expected of women, the best
of whom are often the most perplexing. You see, three years ago, this
Spiegelberg, or Spielberg, as he now calls himself, had the insolence
to write her a letter, which she did not answer. But a girl like her
does not willingly remain in debt for anything. What she has done now
is the reply to that old letter."
I stared at him with dilated eyes.
"Yes," he continued, "what _is_ to be, _will_ be. I thought then the
matter was ended once for all, but the proof of the pudding is in the
eating! That devil of a fellow, with his dove-like eyes, was more
cunning than I. At that time he was living in Berlin, at the same hotel
where I had gone with Luise, a respectable second-rate house in
Mohrenstrasse, for our means did not allow us to go to the Hôtel du
Nord or Meinhardt's. She noticed the black-haired gentleman who sat
opposite to us at the table, and talked so well, and he did not seem a
bad fellow to me either. I inquired who he was. An actor, I was told,
who played at the Royal Theatre. 'We must go there once, uncle,' she
said, 'as a matter of courtesy,' and I was weak enough not to say no.
What could I ever refuse her? Especially with her love for the stage.
So we saw him act, and he did not play his part badly; and, as the
women were crazy over him, he had a great success. I have forgotten the
play, I never had much fancy for the theatre; everything always seemed
to me bombastic and exaggerated, and the most touching passages moved
me less than when my Diana gets a thorn into her paw and whines. But he
seemed to please Luise greatly. So I was obliged to go with her three
or four times, when Herr Constantin Spielberg's name was on the bills.
Well, no great misfortune could have come from that. The worst of it
was that Luise caught fire from the flashing sparks he scattered around
him when he stood on the stage in his romantic costumes and assumed the
most melting tones of love. 'Luise,' I said, jestingly, 'you must not
forget that Herr Spielberg did not compose the works of Schiller or
Goethe, but simply acts them. Still, he did not need to declame; when
he was merely sitting at the hotel table, talking about the weather,
she listened as though he was expounding the gospel. And there was
something in his voice that might well turn a young girl's head--she
was twenty-one, but she had never been in love--and even when he was
not behind the footlights he could look as honest and innocent as a
pastor's son or you yourself, Sir Tutor.
"Besides, everybody in the hotel liked him, and no one had anything to
say against him. It was reported that he supported an old blind mother,
etc. But, knowing Luise as I did, the longer this state of things
lasted the less I was pleased, and I gently began to speak of
departure, of course without making any allusion to my own private
reason. Well, to cut the story short, one morning my niece came
to me with a letter in her hand: 'Just think, uncle, what I have
received'--and gave it to me to read. We had no secrets from each
other. It was a declaration of love from our opposite neighbor in due
form--that is, in the Schiller and Goethe style, only not in verse,
closing with a simple honorable offer of marriage. _Nom d'un nom!_ This
was too much for me. I allowed her the choice whether I should give the
bold fellow a verbal answer, such as his insolence deserved, or we
should set off _stante pede_, without bidding him farewell.
"After some consideration she decided in favor of the latter. But when
we were on our way she said, 'Uncle, I was too hasty. He will always
think me an arrogant fool. I ought to have answered him myself.' 'And
what would you have said?' 'That I felt honored by his proposal, but
was under the guardianship of my uncle, who would never consent to this
alliance.' 'The deuce!' I cried; 'that would have been almost the same
thing as a declaration of love.' 'What then?' she asked, quietly. 'Is
there anything degrading in loving a noble man, merely because he
belongs to a class against which people in our circle are unjustly
prejudiced?' 'Well, this beats the Old Nick!' I thought, but did not
say one word, for I knew that fire is only fanned by blowing upon it,
and thought, 'It will die away into ashes when it has no food.' Now you
see what a confoundedly clever prophet I was."
During Uncle Joachim's story, I had sat in the chair Fräulein Luise
usually occupied, and patiently endured everything like a person who is
crossing the fields in a pouring rain without an umbrella, and feels
that he is drenched to the skin and can be no worse off. Every spark of
hope had vanished; I knew that she would never turn back from the path
she had entered; and, even if it were possible, she would be too proud
to desire to do so. But man is so constituted that, though I foresaw
all the misery of the future, for I did not trust the handsome face of
the man to whom she had fled, and I knew by this step she had forfeited
her right to be received into her chapter in case of need, in short,
though I saw nothing in prospect for her save trouble and grief--the
bitterest thing of all to me was to find my own dreams and wishes,
which hitherto I had never acknowledged to myself, shattered at one
blow. The most frantic jealousy of the happy man, who had won the bride
forever unattainable to me, burned in my miserable soul, now suddenly
bankrupt; and, when it flashed upon my mind that I had even been her
accomplice by deferring the discovery of her flight as long as possible
through my organ-music, I felt so utterly wretched that I suddenly
burst into Boyish sobbing, in which offended vanity, wounded love, and
grief for the uncertain fate of the woman so dear to me, bore an equal
share.
Just at that moment I felt Uncle Joachim's hand press heavily on my
shoulder.
"Hold up your head and don't flinch, my friend," he said, in a voice
that was by no means firm. "We can't change the matter now, so we must
let it go. But we must always repeat to ourselves one thing: whatever
folly a woman like her may commit, she will not allow herself to
succumb to it. She may lose the right scent once, like Diana, but
she'll find it again--I feel no anxiety on that score. The only people
who will surfer and can get no amends are ourselves--or rather, I mean,
my own insignificant self. You are a young man, still have life before
you, and--which I can't say of myself--are a devout Christian. But an
old fellow like me, who is robbed of his only plaything--deuce take it!
It will be a dog's life!"
He had put on his coat and now whistled to Diana. "Excuse me, Herr
Candidate, I have some business to attend to. Stay quietly here till
your eyes are dry. I'm disgusted with the old barrack, since we can
expect no more pound-cake here."
He went out, carrying his gun upside down and followed by Diana, whose
ears drooped mournfully, as if she shared her master's mood.
II.
There is not much to be said of the period which now ensued. Outwardly
everything went on as usual. The void made by the flight of the
insubordinate member of the family seemed to be felt by no one except
myself and the silent Uncle Joachim; at least, her name was never
mentioned. True, pauses in the conversation at table were more
frequent, and were usually broken--not always with much taste--by a
remark from my little pupil. There had been no gayety before in this
strangely constituted circle, and I don't remember ever having heard a
really hearty laugh. But, since the event, the master of the house
seemed to desire to keep his family under still more rigid spiritual
control. The blessing invoked upon the food often extended into a short
homily, and on Sunday afternoons he held services of his own, by the
aid of some Lutheran tracts, from which he extracted so confused a
theology that I was often compelled to exercise great self-control in
order not to give the rein to my old love for debate. On such occasions
he indulged in rancorous allusions to stray sheep and lost souls, spite
of the presence of the servants, who nudged one another, and afterward
let their tongues wag freely in the servants' hall.
I wished myself a hundred miles away, for it seemed to me as if the
veil, which hitherto had only allowed me to see the vague outlines of
persons and things in the household, was suddenly torn away, and I
experienced a sense of almost physical discomfort, which increased with
every passing week.
The most puzzling thing was that, spite of the promise I had given my
worshiped idol at our last meeting, I had become suspicious even of
her. When I imagined her in the society of the strange actor, my hand
involuntarily clinched, and I was strongly inclined to pronounce the
whole female sex, which had seemed to me so supernatural and adorable
in this individual, nothing better than the body-guard of the enemy of
mankind.
I was by no means reconciled to her, but on the contrary still more
deeply wounded, when, a fortnight after her disappearance, I received
the printed announcement of her marriage to Herr Konstantin Spielberg,
theatrical manager. I had still cherished a secret hope that she would
repent the false step into which her exaggerated sense of justice had
led her, and withdraw from the turbid, bottomless swamp she had
entered, pure as a swan that needs only to shake its wings to cast off
everything that could besmirch it.
True, with my knowledge of her, I ought not to have been surprised that
she should take upon herself all the consequences of her hasty step,
yet it roused a feeling of such intense bitterness that it made me
fairly ill, and for twenty-four hours I would see no one, as if the
sight of any human face must awaken a sense of shame.
I knew that she had written long letters to her aunt and Uncle Joachim,
letters in which she had probably attempted to justify her conduct. But
I did not venture to make any inquiries about them. More than once,
when I met her beloved uncle, my tongue was on the point of asking the
question what threat he had used to deter his brother from pursuing the
fugitive. I vaguely suspected that I should learn things in her favor.
But, as the old gentleman did not commence the subject, I was forced to
say to myself that, little friendship as he felt for his brother, he
probably considered it unseemly to afford a stranger a glimpse of the
circumstances that did no honor to the name they both bore.
Not until long after did I obtain a clear understanding of the matter.
Even from the poor, timid baroness, I could obtain no information,
though, since the loss of her affectionate young confidante, she
had shown me even greater kindness than before. Nay, since I had
offered to supply Fräulein Luise's place at the evening games of
cards, I was regularly assured of her friendly feeling by a warm clasp
from her little wrinkled hand on my arrival and departure. Very soon
she bestowed upon me another office which her niece had formerly
filled--that of her High Almoner. I now perceived, with reverent
emotion, how from her invalid chair she was the guardian angel of all
the poor and wretched in the village; and the wan little face, with its
bony nose and low forehead, really gained a gleam of youthful grace
when I informed her of the recovery of some sick person, or the
gratitude of a poor woman to whom her help in some desperate strait had
restored the courage to live.
Besides the quiet satisfaction I felt in my own modest share in these
deeds of charity, I had one great pleasure--my little pupil was
becoming more and more fond of me. Through all his ungovernableness he
had retained a dim consciousness of right and wrong, and when he
perceived the patient love I gave him he felt the obligation not to be
indebted to me, and therefore vented his instinctive rudenesses on
others. His progress in study continued to be extremely slow. But he
disarmed my displeasure by a frank confession of his faults and
laziness, and the entreaty that I would not attribute to ill-will what
was a part of his nature.
I hoped to gradually obtain an influence over this perverse
disposition, but I was not allowed time to do so. With this fact there
was a strange story connected.
* * * * *
The day after the flight of the Canoness, as Fräulein Leopoldine needed
a companion, Mademoiselle Suzon had moved into the vacant tower-room
below me. From this time, also, the Frenchwoman was present at the
history lessons, during which she made herself very troublesome by
asking foolish questions and coquettishly endeavoring to turn the
tiresome teaching into empty conversation. But I said nothing about it,
knowing that a complaint to the baron would have been futile.
Neither did I trouble myself about the extraordinary marks of favor
with which the cunning creature began to annoy me.
One of the least of these was, that I rarely returned home from a walk
without finding in my room a bouquet of flowers or a few choice fruits,
filched from the garden or the green-house. Even at table she did not
restrain herself in the least from making all sorts of advances to me,
praising my lessons, repeating admirable remarks of which I had no
recollection, and keeping up a fusillade of glances, which greatly
incensed me, because it seemed to show distinctly that we were on the
best possible terms with each other. In my innocence, I was mainly
disturbed lest it should place me in a false light before the eyes of
my employer and his wife. To Uncle Joachim I had made no secret of my
dislike. The baroness's confidence in my honor and virtue, however,
seemed immovable, and the baron appeared to be merely amused by this
shadow of flirtation between his awkward tutor and the family friend,
without seeing any cause for suspicion in it.
The affair pursued its course in this way for several weeks. Sometimes,
from the open window beneath mine, I heard, instead of the dear
"Orpheus" melody, most unmusical sighs and incoherent French verses,
declaimed to moon and stars, but whose real object I knew only too
well. Then I shut my own casement with an intentionally loud slam, and
preferred to dispense with the delicious coolness of the autumn night
rather than seem to listen to the tender soliloquies of this detestable
hypocrite.
She perceived that she made no progress in this way, and resolved to
risk a bold stroke.
It had already happened several times--accidentally, as I, unsuspicious
novice, supposed--that, when going up to my room, I passed the
Fräulein's door just at the moment she was putting her shoes outside. I
had then forced myself to exchange a few courteous words with her, but
escaped her efforts to carry on a more familiar conversation in the
dimly-lighted corridor as quickly as possible by a hasty "_Bonne nuit,
mademoiselle!_"
How different would have been my demeanor if my former neighbor in the
tower, whose shoes and speech were both less ornate, had met me here
even once to say good-night!
One evening my game with the old lady had been unusually prolonged.
Mademoiselle Suzon, after her victory at chess over the baron, and
obligatory courtesy to the baroness, had glided out of the room; the
master of the house, making no concealment of his impatience, paced up
and down the spacious apartment, frowning angrily; the servants
occasionally glanced sleepily through the glass doors, to see if it
were not bed-time. At last we finished, and I could take leave of my
employers. My old patroness pressed my hand with a friendly glance, the
baron nodded silently, but, as it seemed to me, with a sarcastic smile.
I took the candle from the servant who was waiting outside, and, in a
mood of dull ill-temper which was now almost always dominant, mounted
the stairs to my lofty lodging.
I thought the delay would at least insure safety from my tormentor. But
as, walking on tip-toe, I reached the story where her room was
situated, the door gently opened, and an arm in a white night-dress
noiselessly placed the well-known pair of dainty shoes on the floor.
I stopped, holding my breath and shading the candle with my hand. But,
as the door showed no sign of closing, I resolved to rush straight on
and pretend to be deaf and blind.
But I had reckoned without my host. The door was suddenly thrown wide
open, and the French spook, in a most bewitching _négligée_ costume,
stood directly before me.
"_Bonsoir, Monsieur le Candidat!_" I heard her whisper, and then
followed a long, half tender, half reproachful speech in her
Franco-German jargon, of which I only understood that she was angry
with me--yes, seriously offended, because I so openly shunned her. She
could bear it no longer, and desired at last to know what grudge I had
against her, why I treated her like an enemy. She knew, of course, that
she could bear no comparison with Fräulein Luise, to whom I had been so
completely devoted. She was only a simple French girl, and had no other
_qualités_ than her good heart and her virtue. But, since I was such a
chivalrous young man, and treated everybody else so kindly and
politely, she must suppose that she had given me some special offense;
and, if this were the case, she would gladly apologize for her fault if
she could thereby put an end to the icy coldness with which I treated
her.
As she spoke, the wretch gazed at me with such an humble, childlike
expression in her crafty black eyes, that I, poor simpleton, completely
lost countenance.
I stammered a few French phrases--I should have found it more difficult
to lie in German--assured her of my profound _estime_, and that she had
made a deplorable _erreur_, and, with a low bow, was hurrying away,
when I felt the arm that carried the candle seized in a firm clasp.
"I thank you for those noble words," said the smooth serpent, fixing
her glittering eyes so intently on my face that I could not help
lowering my own like a detected criminal.
"If you knew, _Monsieur Jean_, how happy your _sympathie_, your cordial
warmth makes me! Ah, _mon ami_, I am not what I perhaps seem to you, a
superficial, selfish creature, who avails herself of her position in
this house to gain some advantage. If you knew how this dependence,
this forbearance humiliates me! My youth was so brilliant, so happy! If
any one had told me then that I should ever enter a foreign German
household--"
And she now began to relate to me in French, with incredible fluency,
the romance of her life, not more than half of which could I
understand. But as, spite of my inexperience, I retained a sufficient
degree of calmness to believe that even this half contained far more
fiction than fact, I at last, relapsing into my former incivility,
showed evident signs of impatience, and was just in the act of gently
shaking off the hand that still held my arm, when her eyes filled with
tears as she talked of her worshiped mother, and that honorable man,
her father.
"You are exciting yourself too much, mademoiselle," I said. "It is
late--you must go to rest--to-morrow, if you wish--"
Meantime I glanced into her room, which looked very untidy. The bed was
already opened, and on the little night-table stood a candle which
illumined the picture of the Madonna on the wall and a small black
crucifix beneath it.
"Oh, _mon ami_!" she sobbed, pressing my arm as if she needed
some support in her grief, "_si vous saviez! Mon c[oe]ur est si
sensible--tous les malheurs de ma vie_--" and then came a fresh torrent
of revelations of her most private affairs, till terror brought cold
drops of perspiration to my forehead and, in my helplessness, I could
finally think of no other expedient than to whisper: "Calm yourself,
Mademoiselle Suzon! Somebody is coming--if we should be found here--!"
Her features suddenly changed their expression, she half closed her
eyes, as if fainting, and murmuring with a gesture of horror: "Mon
Dieu--je suis perdue!" tottered backward and would have fallen, had I
not sprung forward and caught her with my free arm.
Instantly I felt her throw her arm over my shoulder, clinging to me as
if unconscious, and while we stood in this attitude and undoubtedly
formed a very striking group, which I myself lighted effectively with
the candle I held aloft, hasty footsteps, which I had only pretended to
hear, actually did come up the staircase, and at the end of the
corridor appeared the tall figure of one of the footmen, who served as
the baron's valet.
I was wild with rage and shame at having allowed myself to be caught in
this suspicious position, and the thought darted like lightning through
my brain that the whole scene had been merely a prearranged farce, to
which in my good-natured simplicity I had fallen a victim! The fellow's
manner strengthened this belief, as he grinned at me with insolent
cunning. Besides, he had no reason to come here at this hour.
Yet I retained sufficient composure to say quietly: "Mademoiselle has
been taken ill. Wake the housekeeper, Christoph, and see that she is
put to bed. I wish her a speedy recovery."
With these words I unceremoniously laid her on the floor, and walked
off as calmly as if entirely indifferent to what was happening behind
my back.
Yet every one will understand that I could not fall asleep very quickly
that night. Again and again I called myself an ass for having entered
this clumsy trap, and for the first time in my life learned that a good
conscience is not always a soft pillow. True, when I asked myself how a
trained man of the world would have acted in this situation, I could
find no reply. But my contempt for the female sex increased that night
to such a degree, and gained so large an access of dread and horror,
that for the first time I envied the anchorites who, to escape from the
sight of these fiends, retreated to some wilderness, where if any
appeared to them and might perchance lure to sin, though they did not
come straight from Hades, at least the hermits could not be surprised
by inquisitive lackeys.
* * * * *
The next morning, just after I had risen with so disagreeable a tang on
my tongue from the scene of the previous night that I could not make up
my mind to touch any breakfast, I suddenly heard a heavy step in the
corridor outside, which I recognized with terror as the baron's.
I did not doubt for an instant that the hour of judgment had struck,
and the whole affair had been planned to obtain a sufficient excuse for
my dismissal--I was perfectly aware how little I had concealed my
feelings toward the outlawed member of the family, the lost soul of
this household. After the first shock of surprise, I really felt glad
that the climax had been reached without any volition of mine, and
armed myself with all the pride and defiance of a pure conscience.
What was my amazement when my employer, after knocking courteously,
entered my room with his most cordial smile, which I had not seen for a
long time, and sat down on my hard sofa with the utmost affability.
He began by requesting me to give my pupil a holiday, as the family
intended to drive to a neighboring estate. Then he launched into
praises of the good influences I had exerted over Achatz, and expressed
the hope that I might still long devote myself to his education, even
if the other duties of my office claimed my attention--for the old
pastor could not remain longer; his sermons showed that he was falling
more and more into the childishness of old age. He had determined to
pension him very shortly, even if it were against his wish, and give
the office to me, though I could not move into the parsonage till after
Christmas, as a suitable residence must first be found for the old
couple.
I was so surprised by this offer--after having prepared myself for the
most furious rage--that I could only thank my kind patron with a few
clumsy words.
"Oh, my dear Weissbrod," he replied, gazing out of the window with his
handsome bright eyes, like an aristocrat who is accustomed to dispense
favors, "you need not give me any special thanks. I know what I possess
in you, and hope that we shall understand each other better in future.
Of course, I should have wished you to treat me with more frankness,
but I understand and pardon your reticence. You thought me a rigid
judge of the conscience, from whom it would be best to conceal all
human weaknesses. You ought to have believed me a better Christian, one
who is mindful of the words relating to the forgiveness of his erring
brother: 'I say not unto thee, until seven times; but until seventy
times seven.' Besides, youth has no virtue, and a future pastor is not
to blame if he remembers the proverb: 'The pastor when settling for
life wants a wife.'"
He smiled with patronizing significance, rose, went to my bookcase,
and, while gazing thoughtfully for the tenth time at the names of
Neander and Marheineke on the backs of the volumes, remarked with
apparent calmness:
"When do you expect to be married?"
I felt as if I had dropped from the clouds.
"Herr Baron," I replied, "I am very grateful for your kindness, but I
have never had any idea of entering the estate of matrimony."
The baron took out a book, turned the leaves, and then said, still in
the same tone of gracious familiarity:
"That I can easily believe, my dear Weissbrod. Young people do not
always think of the consequences of their acts. But an honest man, and
especially a servant of the gospel, will not hesitate to recognize the
obligations he has undertaken. As I said, I do not reproach you for
having permitted the matter to go so far. But, after the scene of
yesterday evening, which could not remain secret, you will perceive
that it is your duty to protect the honor of the lady you have
compromised, and this can only be done by a speedy marriage."
He shut the volume and restored it to its place. Then, turning quickly
and gazing at me with an inquisitorial expression, as if I were a
convicted criminal, he smoothed his beard with his white hands.
But, thanks to the indignation which took possession of me at the
perception of this base farce, I maintained sufficient composure to
look him squarely in the face and answer coldly:
"I do not know what has been told you, Herr Baron. But, for the sake of
truth, I must declare that it never entered my mind to carry on any
love affair beneath your roof, and that my conscience absolves me from
any obligation."
I saw that he turned pale, and with difficulty repressed a violent
outburst of rage. At last he said:
"How you are to justify yourself to your conscience is your own affair.
Mademoiselle has told me, with tears, that yesterday evening you took
advantage of a moment's physical weakness, by which she was attacked,
to embrace her, an act that did not occur without witnesses. I am
disposed to judge such an impulse of gallantry leniently, on account of
your youth and the attractiveness of the lady. But, as she is alone and
defenseless in the world, it is my duty to protect her reputation, and
I therefore give you the choice between proposing for her hand within
twenty-four hours or resigning your position in my house, and with it
all your prospects for the future. You must not make your decision in
your first embarrassment. When we return this evening from our drive,
there must either be a note from you in the young lady's room
containing your proposal, or in mine your request for a vacation, as
family affairs summon you as quickly as possible to Berlin. This
request--unless you should change your mind while away--you must follow
after a time with a petition for your final dismissal. You see that,
even though you have forfeited my esteem, I treat you with Christian
forbearance, but at the same time, as I am a foe to scandal and have
confidence in you, I trust you will avoid any cause of vexation. I will
now leave you to consider your own future, and wish you good-morning."
He nodded with affable condescension and, without waiting for an
answer, left the room.
I was scarcely alone ere the repressed indignation that had been
seething within me found vent in a convulsive laugh, and I felt tempted
to rush after my noble patron and loudly inform him, outside the door
of his clever accomplice, that I was not the dull simpleton they
believed me, but saw through their preconcerted man[oe]uver, and was
not at all disposed to let a bridle be thrown over my head. Fortunately
I remembered that I did not possess a particle of proof, and should
only make my cause worse by uncorroborated assertions. So I strove to
calm myself, showed my pupil, who came bounding joyously in to bid me
good-by, a cheerful face, and embraced him, a caress he received with
innocent surprise, not suspecting that I was taking leave of him
forever, and then watched from my window the departure of the family,
which took place with the usual ceremony. In the servants' presence the
baron always treated his wife with chivalrous courtesy, lifted her into
the carriage himself, saw that she had the pillows for her back and the
rug for her feeble knees, and always asked if she was comfortable, and
whether she would not prefer to have the carriage open.
Mademoiselle Suzon helped him with kittenish suppleness. Spite of the
nocturnal attack of faintness, her usual smile rested on her lips, and
not a single upward glance at me intimated that above her lodged the
robber of her honor, the man on whom depended the weal or woe of her
future life.
* * * * *
As soon as the carriage had disappeared in the elm-avenue, I prepared
to pack my effects, except my books, which I could not take with me
without revealing my determination never to return. I do not know what
impulse of prudence induced me to enter into the cunning farce my
shrewd employer had marked out for me. Perhaps it was consideration for
the kind mistress of the house or for my little pupil. The others
certainly had not deserved to have me conceal the truth. After locking
my trunk, I sat down and wrote the note to the baron, which was
disagreeable enough for me. With great difficulty I resisted the
temptation to inform him, on another sheet, that his hypocritical words
had not blinded me in the least to the real motive of his conduct. But
I deemed it more dignified to leave him to his own conscience, and, if
the matter was as I firmly believed, he would be sufficiently punished.
Several other farewells were before me--my worthy pastor, old Mother
Lieschen, with whom since the Canoness's departure I had chatted a
short time on many evenings, and finally my honored patron, Uncle
Joachim. I made the leave-taking with the first two as brief as
possible. I felt reluctant to use deception toward the good old pastor,
and yet I could not tell him the whole truth. But, spite of his eighty
years, his eyes were still keen enough to perceive the real state of
affairs, so that a shake of the hand was sufficient to make us
understand each other.
Mother Lieschen was not in her hut. I could only leave a farewell
message, in which I wrapped a small gift of money. Uncle Joachim I
found in the fields, where he was overlooking the laborers in place of
the steward, who was ill.
I thought it needless to maintain any secrecy toward him. He listened
quietly, and his sharp, expressive features showed no signs of
surprise.
"I have seen it coming," he said at last, sending forth vehement puffs
of smoke from his short pipe. "The farce is excellent, though no longer
perfectly new; such things have frequently occurred before, though the
exit is usually different. Well, I'm not anxious about you, Sir Tutor,
and I shall at least have the advantage of no longer seeing that
intriguing woman's face opposite. Believe me, my dear friend, I, too,
would gladly take to my heels and try to earn my bit of daily bread
elsewhere, even if it should be as head-groom or steward on the estate
of one of my former equals and boon companions. But there is my
sister-in-law, poor thing. Who knows what her pious husband might
do, if the last person in whose presence he is obliged to control
himself should go away? You know the proverb about us natives of the
Mark--that, though we never burned a heretic, we never produced a
saint. Well, if there were a Protestant Pope, he should canonize that
poor martyr for me on the spot."
Then, after we had shaken hands, he called me back again.
"You must do me the favor to keep this whole abominable story a secret,
Sir Tutor," he said. "I could not blame you if you blazoned it abroad,
for, after all, you are the one who is injured, and, if we can get no
other satisfaction, to rage and call things by their right names
relieves the bile. Still, remember that the honorable man who has thus
injured you bears the same name as our Luise, to say nothing of myself.
True, the girl has made haste to lay it aside. If you should ever meet
her in the outside world, give her a tender greeting from Uncle
Joachim, and tell her to bestow a sheet of letter-paper on him. Well,
may God be with you, my dear friend! Heads up always, then we see the
sun, moon, and stars, and not the wretched worms that crawl on this
foul earth."
As he uttered these words, he clasped me affectionately in his arms,
and kissed me on both cheeks. Then, turning abruptly away, he went back
to his work.
In the afternoon I sat in the self-same butcher's cart in which I had
made the journey to the castle. Krischan maintained a diplomatic
silence, though I could not doubt that, like the other servants, he was
perfectly aware of the nocturnal incident and its unpleasant
consequences. Yet I perceived that the popular voice was not against
me, for several times on the way I was obliged to refuse a drink from
the worthy fellow's bottle. In the village, too, many tokens of a
friendly and respectful disposition fell to my lot.
Yet, though this time the bays did not have the heavy box of books to
drag through the sand, and my conscience was no weightier burden than
it had been six months before, the drive, spite of the bright October
weather, was a dismal one, and my heart was far from singing hymns as
it had longed to do on the former occasion.
I could not help constantly reflecting that a few weeks before the one
woman who attracted all my thoughts had passed over this very road to a
future which I could paint only in the blackest hues.
* * * * *
I can not shake off the fear that in the preceding pages, which
concerned my insignificant self, I may have been too verbose. Should
this really be the case, I may confidently assert that the error is not
due to the garrulity, or even the self-love, of a lonely man, but the
desire of a conscientious biographer to omit nothing that could throw
more light upon the acts of his heroine.
During the time immediately following her marriage, she disappeared
entirely from the horizon of my own pitiful existence. I will therefore
make my account of the succeeding years until she reappears as brief as
possible.
My good old aunt in Berlin received me with her former love and
kindness, though somewhat surprised that she must once more shelter in
her little back-room the clerical nephew whom she had expected to
speedily see shining as a brilliant light of the church in the
glittering candlestick of a parish, while he now again seemed to be a
dim little flame with a big "thief" in it.
True, she did not suspect the real state of the case concerning this
"thief"--the hapless love for a woman who had utterly vanished that was
secretly consuming me. I did not deny it to myself for a moment. I knew
too well that all the joyousness of youth was irretrievably lost to me;
and, as I perceived that the consolations of religion were powerless in
my condition, I fell away more and more from my theological vocation,
and during the first months gave myself up to a very God-forsaken,
brooding idleness.
I carefully remained aloof from the circle of my former companions. I
felt that the experiences of the past six months had separated me from
them forever. Even in my outward man I had changed so much that two of
my former most intimate friends passed close by me in the street
without recognizing in the tall fellow with closely cropped hair, clad
in a light summer suit and a straw hat, the apostle of yore, with his
long locks parted in the middle, and clerical black coat.
On receiving my definite request for a dismissal, the baron, closely as
he usually calculated, had sent me six months' extra pay as tutor,
which I did not return, though I could not help regarding the modest
sum as a sort of hush-money. Having been turned out of the house
without any fault of my own, I thought myself entitled to some
compensation.
This money, which I was not compelled to use for my own support, since
my kind aunt feasted me as though I were the prodigal son, I devoted to
one exclusive purpose, for which probably no theological candidate
waiting for his parish ever used his savings--I went to the theater
every evening.
True, my longing to hear the great Milder was not fulfilled. I do not
know whether she was dead or had merely retired from the stage.
But I heard other admirable singers, among whom Sophie Löwe and the
fair-haired Fassmann made the deepest impression upon me, and in the
drama I was just in time to admire the famous Seydelmann, and
afterward, perhaps wrongly, rave over Hendrichs, though I never saw the
latter enter without a feeling of aversion, which did not vanish until
he had acted for some time. He reminded me, both in personal appearance
and in many gestures, of another actor, whom I hated from my inmost
soul because I believed that he was to blame for the darkening of the
star of my life.
But the world represented on the stage, the creations of the authors
themselves, captivated me far more than any individual artist--so
bewitched me, indeed, that I do not remember having opened a
theological work or even visited a church during the year and a half I
spent in the capital. The hypocrisy whose bitter fruits I had tasted
had disgusted me with the delicious wine pressed in the Lord's
vineyard, till, with a sort of defiant rebellion, I fled to the world
of illusion irradiated by the foot-lights.
No one will marvel that, in this mood, I even essayed my own powers as
a dramatic author. Of course, it was no less a personage than Julian
the Apostate whom, during five acts, I made atone in iambics for having
desired to restore to honor the ancient Pagan gods. I still retained
enough of the theologian to place Venus lower than the mother of the
Saviour. Yet between the lines glimmered so skeptical a view of the
world that this _exercitium_ in ecclesiastical history certainly would
not have been reviewed _cum laude_ at my old college.
I had just finished the shapeless _opus_, and was considering whether I
should offer it to a "rational artist," like Eduard Devrient, for his
opinion, when a sorrowful event suddenly stopped my dramatic career.
My loving nurse and supporter fell ill, and at the end of a few days I
was obliged to accompany her to her last resting-place. As she had
lived upon a small annuity, her whole property consisted of old
furniture and a modest wardrobe. I myself had spent all my money except
a few thalers. Therefore, it was necessary to again obtain a firmer
foothold than the boards of the theatre, which could not be my world.
A few private pupils whom I secured helped me out of my most pressing
need. Meanwhile, I industriously watched the papers for advertisements
for tutors, and almost every week sent to the addresses mentioned a
letter containing copies of my testimonials and references, including
the name of my first employer, but to my grief and anger I invariably
received a refusal. Knowing myself to be so well recommended, it was a
long time ere I could understand these persistent failures, till at
last, one sleepless night, when anxiety about my immediate future
sharpened my wits, I hit upon the most natural solution of the
enigma--my former employer, in reply to inquiries about me, of course
gave the most unfavorable information, thereby refuting his written
testimony, partly to prevent my relating in a new position the true
cause of my dismissal.
Therefore, when a tutor--who must also be musical--was wanted for two
boys seven and eight years old on a country estate near the frontier of
Pomerania, I quickly formed my resolution, borrowed from an actor,
whose acquaintance I had made, the money to pay my traveling expenses,
and hastened to wait upon my future employer in person.
I found the position to be everything I could desire. The owner of the
estate was a vigorous, thoroughly aristocratic, that is, noble-minded,
man of middle age, who was deeply interested in agriculture, and had
therefore left the education of his two sons exclusively to his
admirable wife, until they had outgrown her feminine care and teaching.
When I had explained my situation, and told him enough of the cause of
my short stay with the baron to enable the shrewd man to perceive my
innocence, without suspecting the whole truth, we soon agreed that I
should come on trial for a quarter. These three months became three
years, and, as neither found any reason to complain of the other, I
should probably have grown old and gray in this beautiful part of my
native land, had not the strange wandering star of my life suddenly
appeared again in the firmament and lured me into new paths.
I had entered upon my office of tutor without any thought of ever
moving into the neighboring parsonage. This was partly because I had
become doubtful of my vocation as a preacher, and partly because I did
not grudge the excellent man who now filled the place the longest
possible life, which indeed he needed in order to leave his six young
daughters--who had early lost their mother--alone in this dreary world
without anxiety.
The oldest, Marie, was just sixteen when I entered upon my duties in
the family of Herr von N----. Never have I known a more exemplary girl
than this pure and lovely young creature, who, spite of her extreme
youth, took the whole burden of the housekeeping and the education of
her younger sisters on her slender shoulders, without even seeming to
feel its weight. Her violet eyes and waving light-brown locks gave her
a claim to beauty, especially when she smiled and her teeth glittered
bewitchingly between her pouting lips. Had I not been afflicted with so
obstinate a heart, I should undoubtedly have lost it to this charming
child of God, and now be settled as a worthy pastor and father of a
family in some village in the Mark. But my thoughts, spite of my utter
hopelessness, clung so steadfastly to one image that for a long time I
went in and out of the worthy pastor's house, and ate many a piece of
cake Marie had baked, without seeing the merry little housekeeper in
any other light than as the well-educated daughter of a man to whom I
became more and more indebted for my own development.
For, while a country pastor who enters his pulpit every Sunday for
twenty years usually lets his spiritual armor grow tolerably rusty with
the flight of time, this admirable man, in his quiet gable-room, had
taken the most eager interest in all the struggles which in those days
agitated the theological world, had entered deeply into the historical
investigations of the Tübingen School, and instantly fanned to a bright
blaze the scientific interest which, during my rage for the theater in
Berlin, had become completely extinguished--a blaze, it is true, that
consumed to a sorry little heap the last scraps of orthodoxy with which
I had covered my nakedness.
This is not the place to enter more fully into this spiritual question
now struggling in the pangs of its birth. Only I must say that I looked
up with actual reverence to this man who, from the depths of his warm,
thoroughly evangelical nature, drew the strength--spite of casting
aside the dogmatic traditions, whose foundations had been shaken in his
soul--to beneficently fulfill his duties as pastor and proclaim the
Word, without being faithless to its spirit.
I was not granted this gift, rooted in the purest philanthropy, and
therefore capable of helping each individual to salvation in his own
way. I was exclusively occupied with my own redemption, and, as I had
entirely relinquished the idea of a parish, and for the present gave
myself no anxiety about any other profession, I spent these three
years, so far as my secret yearnings for my lost love permitted, very
happily, and daily passed several hours with my teacher and friend, who
treated me like a younger brother, and let me share without reserve
everything that occupied his mind.
It was inevitable that I should be on the most familiar terms with his
children also. From the first I had placed myself on a footing of merry
banter, and asked the little girls to call me Uncle Hans. Marie
persisted in addressing me as Herr Johannes. Yet an innocent
familiarity, like that of blood relations, existed between us, and
seemed to continue undisturbed when the child had matured into a
maiden, and the eyes of the girl of nineteen gazed into the world with
a dreamy earnestness that would have given a person better versed than
I in reading the human heart much food for thought.
I noticed that she had lost some of her former vivacity, but was so
unsuspicious that I jested with her about it, and drew no inference
from her silence and blushes. True, the idea occurred to me that the
young bird was fledged and longed to quit the overcrowded nest. But, as
I knew with whom she associated, and that none of my employer's guests,
who sometimes visited her father, had made the slightest impression
upon her, I ascribed her changed demeanor to some anxiety of
conscience--she often rummaged among her father's books--rather than
any affair of the heart.
That I myself might be the cause never entered my dreams. All vanity
had been shorn away with my beautiful fair locks, for with cropped hair
I seemed to myself anything but attractive, and, since I had been
obliged to atone for the bold hope of making an impression on the heart
of the sole object of my adoration, by the keen disappointment of her
marriage, I did not consider myself created to be dangerous to any
woman.
So, one morning, when I had vainly sought my pastor in his study to
return him a volume by David Friedrich Strauss, and on entering the
little garden saw Marie sitting on a bench, holding in her lap a dish
of green beans which she was preparing for the kitchen, I greeted her
with a jest, though I noticed her tearful eyes, and asked if I could
sit beside her a moment.
She nodded silently, and moved to make room for me. I commenced an
indifferent conversation, but secretly resolved to question her, like a
true uncle, about the cause of her melancholy. Her only friend, the
daughter of a neighboring pastor, had just become engaged to a young
agriculturist. I began with that, and asked if there was genuine love
on the part of the girl, to whom I also had become attached. Marie,
without looking up from her work, replied that this was a matter of
course. How could people stand before the altar, and form the sacred
tie, if there was no real love? Why, I answered, many a girl hopes that
love will come after marriage, and only weds for the sake of having a
home of her own, a husband, and children. True, I did not believe Marie
capable of such conduct. She would never put this little hand--and as I
spoke I patted the delicate little fingers resting on the beans--into
that of a man whom she did not love with her whole heart.
Again I felt a violent tremor run through her slender figure; she made
a visible effort to calm herself, but suddenly let the dish fall from
her lap, tears streamed from her eyes, and, stammering almost
inaudibly, "Excuse me, I don't feel well!" she rushed into the house as
if flying from Satan himself.
I remained sitting on the bench as if a thunderbolt had struck me. It
was long ere I could calm myself sufficiently to pick up the dish and
carefully collect the scattered green pods.
What would I have given to be able, with a clear conscience, to follow
the dear child, take her little cold hands in mine, and utter words
which would have had the power to dry her tears.
But, deeply as my heart glowed with tender sympathy for this youthful
sorrow, I did not doubt an instant that I should be doing her a far
heavier wrong if I tried to console her without the "real love" than if
I left her uncomforted.
At last, after vainly waiting in the hope that she would come back and
turn the affair into a jest, I rose in great perplexity and went
thoughtfully back to my employer's house, here also called the
"castle," though it had no feudal aspect.
As soon as I was alone in my little room--my pupils were waiting for
their lessons in the school-room--I went to the mirror and carefully
scrutinized my face. Even now I could find in it nothing that seemed
calculated to disturb the peace of a young girl's heart. The
conversations with the dear child, which I could remember also
contained nothing captivating, and, as I had again and again said that
I should probably remain a bachelor all my life, I could not help
acquitting myself of all blame in the sweet girl's unfortunate passion.
Yet the sudden discovery so agitated me that I felt unable to give my
Latin lesson. I dictated a written exercise to the lads, and, while
they were at work upon it, sat down by the window with the last
newspaper, which had just been brought in, not to read, but to have
some pretext for pursuing my idle and fruitless thoughts.
But, as my eyes wandered absently over the columns of the paper, they
were abruptly arrested by a name which glared in large letters amid the
small type of the advertisement.
_Konstantin Spielberg_.
How long a time had passed since I had either heard or read that name!
In Berlin, where ever and anon--always blushing as if I were betraying
my secret--I had inquired about this object of my silent hate, no one
seemed to know whether he was alive or dead. He appeared to have won no
special repute as an artist, and, since his withdrawal to the
provinces, his former colleagues, several of whom I knew, had heard
nothing about him. As such wandering stars only diffuse their light in
their immediate vicinity, the small local sheets that came to us made
as little mention of him as the large journals of the capital.
Now, in his erratic course, he had come so near us that I could not
avoid suddenly discerning him with the naked eye.
There stood the notice. "Konstantin Spielberg, with his renowned
dramatic company, has arrived in St. ----," the nearest Pomeranian
capital to us, "and intends, during the next six weeks, to give
performances to which respected citizens, the nobility, and the
art-loving public are invited."
At any other time this intelligence would undoubtedly have agitated me,
but without stimulating me to any decision. In the strange situation in
which I found myself since my last interview with my friend's daughter,
this shadow from former days seemed to me like a sign from Heaven. I
instantly resolved to repress all the emotions contending in my soul
and convince myself, with my own eyes, how this man's wife fared, and
whether she needed any assistance from the friend whose confidence she
had certainly sorely betrayed.
I went at once to my employer and requested him to give me a week's
vacation. Both physically and mentally I was in a strangely upset
condition, which perhaps was only due to stagnation of the blood, and
would be relieved by a short pedestrian excursion.
My request was granted without hesitation, and that very afternoon I
found myself, with a light knapsack on my back, but my heart doubly
burdened by two hopeless love-affairs, on the sunny highway that led to
the Pomeranian frontier.
* * * * *
I might have reached my destination that night. But, swiftly as I had
commenced my walk, after the first hour it became difficult for me to
put one foot before the other. I constantly repeated to myself: "How
will you find her? And how will she look when you suddenly take her by
surprise without having previously inquired whether your visit would be
agreeable or not? Quite probably she will shrink from you, as if you
were a ghost recalling a time she would prefer to have buried, and you
can be off home again.
"What then? And what is to be done about the other, whom you really
never ought to see again, if you desire to be an honest man."
Under the influence of such thoughts I stopped, at the end of a few
hours, at a respectable village tavern, the last in the territory of
the Mark, and spent the sultry night uncomfortably enough in the thick
feather-bed. The next morning I continued my snail's pace. Never in my
life had I felt more plainly, and with deeper shame, how pitiful a
thing is our much-lauded free-will. For in fact I was nothing more than
a puppet which a child pulls by a string, and it made the matter none
the better because the boy whose plaything I was had gay wings on his
shoulders and wrote his name Cupid.
It was about ten o'clock when I reached the little city--a place as
ugly, dreary, and lifeless as any other Pomeranian town on an August
morning. But, as I walked over the rough pavement of the main street,
my heart throbbed as if I were entering some enchanted city, where in a
crystal castle I should find the princess in a giant's power, and,
after perilous adventures, secure her release.
I first inquired at the hotel, fully expecting that I should find the
"renowned" traveling company had lodgings there. But, when I had thrown
my knapsack into one chair in the public-room of the "Black Eagle" and
myself into another, and the waiter had brought me half a bottle of
Moselle, I was better informed at once.
The actors had spent only one night with them, and the very next day
hired the back of the commandant's house for a month. Until six years
ago a regiment of infantry had been stationed here, and the colonel had
occupied Count X----'s old house facing the Goose-Market. When the
regiment was ordered to another garrison, the house was not rented
again. Now the manager had hired the back building, formerly used for
the offices and adjutant's residence, at a very low price. The
performances were given at the Schützenhaus near the Stettin Gate. The
actors were splendid and drew large crowds.
"Does the manager's wife play too?" I asked, and, as I spoke, my hand
trembled so violently that part of the wine was spilled from my glass.
No. The manager's wife never appeared. It was said that she was a lady
of noble birth, who had run away with her present husband. But she was
a very beautiful lady, and nobody could tell any evil of her. Did not I
want something to eat? The _table-d'hôte_, at which there was nobody
now except one commercial traveler, would not be ready for two hours.
I rose after hastily swallowing a single glass, let the officious youth
brush my hat and clothes, and then requested him to direct me to the
actor's residence. Perceiving my interest in him, he brought me the
bill for that night's performance. The "Ancestress," a tragedy by
Grillparger, with spectral apparitions: first row, six good
groschens[3]; second row, five silver ones; pit, two good ones;
children, half price; commencement at six o'clock. I read the names, of
which I knew only the manager's: Jaromir--Manager Konstantin Spielberg.
An uncomfortable feeling of mingled cowardice and repugnance again
overpowered me. For a moment I actually hesitated whether I should not
strap on my knapsack again and walk straight out through the opposite
gate. But the puppet was fastened to its platform, and the naughty boy
pulled till his toy was obliged to roll where he wanted it to go.
The Goose-Market was a rectangular piece of ground, in which grew dusty
acacia-trees. On one of the narrow sides stood the colonel's former
residence, a by no means ugly two-story building, in the style of the
reign of Old Fritz, with a flight of steps leading to the door, and a
stone escutcheon on the cornice above. But all the windows were closed
with shutters, and a cat lay asleep in the sentry-box beside the steps.
My waiter led me to the side entrance, whose door was unlocked, and
through the wide gateway into the shady court-yard, in whose center a
large chestnut-tree spread its boughs in front of the windows of the
rear building. "Please go up the stairs at the back," he said.
"Somebody is always at home; but, if you want the manager, you'll find
him now at the rehearsal. A very diligent artist, as the president of
the district court says, and the rest of the company do well, too. But
our little city deserves it, for everybody here raves about art. Well,
you will see for yourself."
He bowed affectedly and left me alone, which made me very happy. For
the accursed throbbing of the heart grew madder than ever, and I was
forced to lean against the trunk of the chestnut ere I was able to walk
through the court-yard.
The lower story of the back building seemed to be wholly occupied by
stables and coach-houses. In the upper one, all the windows stood open,
and their freshly washed panes glittered all the more brightly from the
contrast to the thick dust on the doors and sills. At last I plucked up
courage and mounted the dark stairs.
I came to a long, tolerably wide corridor, and wandered helplessly past
several closed doors. Behind one of them I heard the rattling of pans
and dishes; that must be the kitchen. I did not wish to summon a
servant, so I stole softly on. And now I paused before a door through
which I heard the sound of a woman's well-known voice--only a few
words, but I felt by the hot tide which coursed through my veins that
it had not lost its power over me during the four or five years of
separation. And now I summoned up my resolution like a hero and
knocked. Some one called "Come in," and I suddenly stood inside the
apartment, confronting my old, inevitable fate.
* * * * *
She was sitting at the open window, and the sunbeams, piercing the
foliage of the chestnut, flickered over her figure, leaving her head in
shadow. At the first glance I saw that she had grown even more
beautiful--a little stouter and more matronly, of course--but her face
was still more instinct with intellect, and her nose had actually
lengthened a trifle. She wore her hair in the same fashion as in her
girlhood, only she had fastened over the coil behind a black-silk
crocheted net, whose ends were knotted at her neck. No one would have
perceived either her lineage or her present dignity as wife of the
manager by her plain, dark-calico dress. But in her lap she held a
red-velvet royal mantle--very threadbare, it is true--trimmed with
gold-lace, in which she was mending a long rent, and a pile of knights'
costumes, satin bodices, and plumed caps lay in a clothes basket beside
her chair.
"Good Heavens, Johannes!" I heard her suddenly exclaim. The royal
mantle slipped from her hand, and she rose to her full-height, fixing
her large brown eyes on me exactly as I had feared--as if a ghost had
rudely startled her from her quiet thoughts.
A little boy, about four years old, who had been playing with a Noah's
ark on a piece of carpet at her feet, sprang up at the same time,
seized her hand, and was now staring at me with mingled shyness and
curiosity.
At first I could say nothing. I was gazing steadily at the little fair
head--her child, and her very image.
She seemed to notice it, and, as if to disguise her first feeling of
embarrassment, she bent over the little fellow, saying, "Go and shake
hands prettily with the gentleman, Joachimchen. He is a dear uncle, and
it is very kind in him to have sought out your mother again."
But the child clung timidly to her arm, and would not approach me.
"Yes, it is I, Frau Luise," I stammered at last, in some confusion. "I
wanted, as my way brought me near you--. But you are looking so
well, Frau Luise. How do you do? You are happy, I see--and the dear
child--does Uncle Joachim know that he bears his name? He would surely
be pleased."
"Won't you sit down, Herr Johannes?" she replied. "The sofa over yonder
is very uncomfortable. Bring a chair, and let us sit near the window.
And now tell me whence you have come and what has brought you to us."
I did as she requested, while she resumed her interrupted work and
listened intently. The child had pushed his toys aside, and, when I
held out my hand, shyly laid his soft little fingers in it. But I soon
drew him close to my side, and, ere ten minutes had passed, he was
sitting on my knee, patiently letting me stroke his hair while I
described my life.
True, I dared not make even the most distant allusion, to the one
thought around which everything else had turned in the course of the
years, and which had now brought me here. But women are sensitive, and
have the gift of reading in our eyes and catching from broken tones the
very thing we are most anxious to conceal.
She, however, did not do this.
"I am heartily glad to see you again at last, dear Herr Johannes," she
replied, when I had paused. "I have always valued your friendship, and
was very sorry that you had perhaps formed a false opinion of me when I
disappeared so suddenly. If you stay with us a few days, you will see
that I could not have done otherwise. My husband, too, will be glad to
make your acquaintance. I have told him about you. True, you will not
be able to judge correctly of his talent as an artist. His surroundings
are not worthy of him, and he can not appear in his best parts in these
little towns. But you will learn to value him as a man."
I made no reply. I could not tell her that I greatly doubted the
latter, and did not even desire it. My aversion to her husband was as
much a part of my reverence for her as the thorn is a portion of the
rose.
"Put the boy down again," she said. "You will tire the gentleman,
Joachimchen."
The little fellow had begun to pull my whiskers with his slender
fingers, which gave me great pleasure.
"Let him stay, Frau Luise," I said. "Shall I tell you a story, little
Joachim? Or, shall we play together?"
"Play!" replied the dear child, and his earnest eyes sparkled. He slid
quickly from my lap and again knelt on the carpet where the little
menagerie lay, heaped in motley confusion. I sat down beside him and
began to arrange the animals in pairs on the floor, asking my little
playmate the name of each. He scarcely missed one.
"He is remarkably far advanced for his age," I said to his mother, who
sat at her work, looking down at us with a quiet smile.
"He has associated entirely with grown persons," she replied. "I hope
it will not always be so. I shall try to obtain some companions for him
this winter. We shall then spend several months in the same place."
Just at that moment the door opened and her husband entered. He paused
as he saw the strange group at the window, but, when I rose, and his
wife mentioned my name, came forward with outstretched hand, saying, in
the beautiful baritone voice he used in personating his heroes:
"How do you do, Herr Candidate? We are old acquaintances, for you were
among the spectators at my disastrous appearance at the castle. It
certainly was not one of my brilliant parts, and the only hand that
moved to clap, wounded me. But, for the sake of the happy afterpiece, I
still remember the day with joy and gratitude. Do I not, dear wife?"
He had taken his wife's hand and raised it to his lips. I could not
help owning that his chivalrous bearing suited him admirably. Though he
had just passed his fortieth year, his appearance was still youthful
and winning; there was not a gray hair in his locks _à la Hendricks_;
the expression of the pale, finely-chiseled features was a trifle
self-complacent and triumphant, but unmistakably kind. Even his
conspicuous dress--a short, black-velvet coat trimmed with braid,
yellow nankeen trousers, and a red-silk kerchief knotted loosely around
his throat--was becoming. One thing, however, I did not like: he nodded
to the child with sarcastic condescension, and, after a careless "How
are you, lad?" took no further notice of him. The boy, too, quietly
continued his play as if a total stranger had entered.
The great artist instantly asked me familiarly if I felt inclined to
change the pulpit for the stage, since it was well known that an actor
can teach a pastor. Luise had told him that I was musical; as he meant
in time to add operettas to his list of attractions, he could make me a
sort of conductor, unless I should prefer to fit myself to be an actor.
I would find it pleasant with him; his wife could bear witness that he
did not make amends for the petticoat government he was under at home
by tyranny behind the scenes.
His jesting tone did not seem to be exactly agreeable to his wife. At
least she did not enter into it, but gravely continued to mend the
crimson robe. But he was evidently in the best possible humor. While
pacing up and down the spacious room with the slow strides of a stage
hero, he cast a proud, well-satisfied glance into the mirror that hung
above the sofa every time he passed it, talked of the rehearsal from
which he had just come, and trivial annoyances which he had smoothed
according to his wishes.
"You will make the acquaintance of the members of our company
immediately," he said, turning to me; "and I hope you will find them by
no means the worst sort of people. We must live and let live. My wise
wife, who in the shortest possible time has transformed herself into a
perfect mother to the company, has made the arrangement that we are all
to dine together at noon, not at the hotel where food is dear and bad,
but here under her wing. At first it was inconvenient to many of them.
But they soon perceived it to be an advantage in every way. They obtain
for a very small sum, which is deducted from their salaries in advance,
good and abundant food, support themselves honestly, and contract no
debts at the hotel. Besides, we have an opportunity of discussing at
table many points concerning the evening performance which did not
occur to us at the rehearsal."
A square-built personage, with a white cap surrounding her flushed
face, entered and announced that dinner was ready.
"Here, my honored friend, you see the artist who provides for our
physical support--Fräulein Kunigunde--the mistress of the kitchen and
larder, who in her leisure hours renders us priceless services as
mistress of the wardrobe.--Fräulein Kunigunde, I have the honor to
present to you Herr Dr. Johannes, a distant relative of my wife, who
would fain convince himself whether our car of Thespis merits the
renown it enjoys in all the region where Low German is spoken. I hope
you have some nice dish for us."
The embarrassed creature courtesied silently and vanished, settling
her cap. She evidently supposed me to be some distinguished
stranger, before whom she would not willingly have appeared in her
working-clothes. The artist, after a parting look in the mirror,
passed his hand familiarly through my arm, saying: "You won't object
to my suppressing your title of Candidate and promoting you to that
of Doctor in presenting you to my colleagues. Among these frivolous
folk, theology plays the part of Knecht Ruprecht,[4] or must encounter
disrespectful badinage. Your surname, too, would give cause for
witticisms. So let us keep to the Christian one. Then it will be
thought that you consider it a duty to your aristocratic relatives to
be known on the stage only as Johannes."
I was about to protest against his taking possession of my person in
this arbitrary fashion, but he had already opened the door of the
adjoining room, and, as Frau Luise, who led the boy by the hand, cast a
glance at me as she passed, which seemed to indicate that I need not be
too rigorous, I entered without further scruple into the part thus
forced upon me, and from which I fancied I could escape at any moment.
* * * * *
The dining-room was a long apartment with three windows. Its walls were
perfectly bare, and the old white-lace curtains made them seem still
more cold and unhomelike. A narrow table, whose uneven width betrayed
that it had been formed of several sets of boards, occupied the center;
its cloth was not fine, but exquisitely clean. About fourteen rude
wooden chairs were ranged around it, all as yet unoccupied, and the
number of guests, who stood chatting together in the window-niches,
seemed still incomplete.
I was presented, as an old friend of the family and embryo student of
the dramatic art, first to a married couple, Herr and Frau Selmar, who
eyed me in unfriendly silence. These two oldest members of the company,
as I afterward learned, were in a chronic state of dissatisfaction with
everything and everybody except themselves. Probably there is no class
of persons among whom the type of character embodying cureless,
arrogant pride, may so frequently be found as amid the older dramatic
artists, whose profession compels them to attach value to their
personality, to long passionately for momentary triumphs, and to be on
their guard against any rivalry. Herr Selmar, who took the parts of the
stage fathers and blustering old men, considered himself still young
enough for the lover's rôles in which the manager shone, and his faded
wife, who years before had bewitched all hearts by her personal charms
as much as by her acting, could not now feel satisfied to fill the
characters of old women and mothers.
They had just been venting their irritation concerning some jealous
grievance to each other, and I admired the good-natured cheerfulness
with which the manager gradually soothed them. True, he was most ably
assisted in doing so by the droll quips interposed by a tall, thin man
of uncertain age, dressed in a greenish summer suit. The latter was
presented to me as Herr Laban, comedian of the company, and as, spite
of my uncomfortable mood, I could not help laughing heartily at his
quaint jests, a sort of friendly familiarity instantly arose between
us, and he took the seat next me at table.
Frau Luise sat at the head, and on a high cushion in the chair at her
right was the little boy, who managed his knife and fork very prettily
from his miniature throne. Her husband occupied the seat at her left,
then came the Selmar couple, I sat next the child, and with tender
delight rendered him all sorts of little services. A few of the lesser
lights of the company joined us, and, just as the soup was served, a
dilatory pair appeared, in whom I recognized the young man and his
companion who had attracted my attention while sitting on the bench in
front of the village tavern.
"Herr Daniel Kontzky--Fräulein Victorine."
With a silent bow to the manager's wife, they sat down opposite to me,
and seemed to recognize my face. At least, they exchanged a few
whispered words before beginning to eat, which they did with affected
haste and indifference, entering into no conversation with any of their
colleagues. They evidently desired to give the impression that they
considered themselves far superior to their present associates, and had
only strayed among them by chance.
While the simple but very excellent food was handed around--Fräulein
Kunigunde brought in the dishes, placed them at the ends of the table,
and left those who sat nearest to pass them farther--I had time enough
to study the two youngest and most interesting members of the company.
They had improved during the five years--at least, so far as their
personal appearance was concerned. The young man, now probably about
six and twenty, had a remarkably handsome face, whose swift play of
expression instantly betrayed the actor. I afterward learned he was the
child of a Hebrew father and a Polish mother. From the latter he
inherited the passionate fire of his eyes and the feminine delicacy of
his complexion, as well as his small hands and feet. He wore a light
summer suit of the latest fashion, and had a ruby ring on his little
finger. But, notwithstanding his soft tenor voice, his laugh was
sneering and disagreeable, and I noticed with surprise that he
sometimes cast a side glance at Frau Luise which expressed open
dislike, while her lip curled whenever their eyes chanced to meet.
Fräulein Victorine's face puzzled me still more. It revealed a two-fold
nature, at once aspiring and sordid. Nothing could be more charming
than her large, mournful gray eyes, under delicate black brows, and her
little nose seemed to have been stolen from some Greek statue. But the
mouth belied this refinement of nature. Spite of her youth, it was
flabby and prematurely withered, and, even when it remained firmly
closed, one expected nothing to issue from it save commonplace and
repulsive words. Her little figure was the daintiest, and at the same
time the most perfectly rounded that could be imagined, and she
understood how to set off its charms in the best light.
At first I was myself deluded as I watched her melting Madonna gaze
wander so disconsolately over the company, and read in it a touching
legend of lost youth and premature contempt for the world. But, as soon
as she began to whisper with her neighbor, an expression of coldness
and insolence rested on her face that was intensely repulsive to me.
I will mention here the other members of the Round Table: A graybeard
of fifty, vigorous and stoutly built, in the dress of a workman, who
was introduced to me as stage-manager, machinist, and Inspector
Gottlieb Schönicke--a queer fellow, who told me the very next day that
he was a misunderstood genius, and, if he were only allowed to play
King Lear once, the world would perceive what serious injustice had
been done him for years; and his neighbor, a stout, plain, middle-aged
woman, who filled the office of a prompter, but was often pressed into
the service as an actress to play women of the people, Hannah in "Mary
Stuart," nay, if necessity required, even the mother of Emilia Galotti.
All these worthy actors and actresses behaved during the meal like
mutes, and I thought I noticed that the presence of Frau Luise, whose
kindness they regarded as condescension, embarrassed them. The only
person whose manner displayed dignified ease was the manager himself,
who did not let the conversation drop, first discussing all sorts of
technical questions with the tall comedian, then turning to me and
asking minute questions about the present condition of theatrical
affairs in Berlin. I could not help secretly owning that he did not
lack culture and sound judgment; and a certain enthusiasm for great
models, whom he had studied on the stage, though it was expressed in a
somewhat sentimental manner, and rather too abundantly garnished with
classical quotations after the manner of actors, also did him honor.
Besides, he ate very little and very gracefully, and always offered his
wife the best pieces, which she declined with a blush.
Frau Luise said little, devoted herself to the child, and thanked me
with a half smile for my services to him.
When the delicious plums and early pears, that formed the dessert, had
been eaten, she rose from the table. A hasty "May the meal do you
good!" was uttered on all sides without shaking hands, and in two
minutes the whole company had dispersed. The manager, after again
kissing his wife's hand, beckoned me to accompany him. "I must first of
all take you into better company," he declaimed with his sonorous
laugh. "I drink my coffee every day at the club-house, where all the
rich dignitaries meet. You won't object to my taking your 'kinsman'
away from you, Luise?"
She silently shook her head and dismissed me with an absent "Farewell."
I should have infinitely preferred to stay with her and the little boy,
who had completely won my heart. But the actor had already passed his
hand through my arm, and now led me out. Nothing was more painful to me
than this familiar contact with a man whom I had cursed a thousand
times in my heart, and who was now treating me so kindly and frankly
that I could not even have stabbed him with Macbeth's imaginary dagger.
We had scarcely reached the street, when he suddenly stopped, took off
his straw hat, and passed his large, well-shaped hand across his brow.
"I am extremely glad that you have come, Herr Doctor," he said in a
subdued voice. "I don't grudge my wife a little agreeable refreshment,
such as a visit from an old friend affords.
'She is a woman, take her all in all!
We ne'er shall look upon her like again.'
But we will not conceal it from each other, she is not exactly in her
sphere among us. Her eloping with me was a piece of magnanimous folly,
which she does not repent, it is true, she is too proud for that,
and--" here he straightened his shoulders and replaced his hat on his
flowing locks--"and too happy in her marriage with me. Nevertheless,
she is an aristocrat, and the best among us have a drop of gypsy blood
in our veins. If she could have resolved to act--with her appearance,
her superb voice--I am sure that she would now be completely absorbed
by her new profession, and it would have been a great gain to me. But
nothing would induce her to do this. Now she sits alone during the many
hours that I am occupied, for the boy is a little aristocrat, too, and
so quiet--I would rather have had a girl, you know. Girls can be used
in the business much younger, and there is no such need of educating
them. Well, as I said, it is only for her sake--she is really a pearl
of her sex, and never complains. But I should like to see her shining
in a suitable setting. Posterity weaves no garlands for the actor, and
his contemporaries only too often twine for him a crown of thorns.
That they wound her forehead, too, is painful to me. I am really a
kind-hearted fellow. It is not true that genius makes people wicked and
selfish. You will yet be convinced of it."
I replied that I should not have much time to become acquainted with
all his good qualities, as I intended to continue my journey the
following day.
In fact, all these disclosures made my heart so sore that I wished
myself a hundred miles away.
He instantly took my arm again and led me on. "We will discuss that
subject further. I will not impose any restraint upon you, but, you
know, temptation is really violence, and I think you will be able to
endure our society for a few weeks at least. Come to the theatre
tonight. It is not our worst performance. True, when I think of the
difficulties with which a traveling company must contend, and how
differently I might fill the office of a priest of art, had not envy
and intrigues forced me away from the great theatres--"
Here he launched forth into descriptions of his former triumphs, to
which I listened with only half an ear.
I remained only half an hour in the club-room, to which he conducted me
mainly to show the distinction he enjoyed among these worthy citizens.
His game of dominoes, at which I was merely a spectator, wearied me,
and his drinking three small glasses of rum to one cup of coffee
completely destroyed my dawning good opinion of him. I pleaded a
headache, which would not allow me to endure the smoke-laden atmosphere
of the room, and, as he was entirely absorbed in a conversation with
several enthusiastic admirers, he dismissed me without opposition by
one of his royal gestures of the hand.
I sauntered in a very miserable mood through the little city and out of
the gate.
* * * * *
The day was beautiful, the air had been cooled by a light shower while
we were drinking our coffee, and the neighborhood of the little town,
with its fields and meadows dotted with fruit-trees, was well worth
seeing. But my mind was closed against the perception of anything
pleasant.
I could not help constantly saying to myself: "So she lives here, with
this man, among these people! And she has before her a long life, which
can never again tend upward to the heights, but always downward, slowly
paralyzing the mind and soul."
For the unruffled cheerfulness of her manner at the table had not
deceived me an instant. True, the life she had led in her uncle's house
was by no means what she deserved. Yet, in those days, amid all the
oppression, all the repugnance to so much that was base, her eyes had
sparkled with joyous pride, and her head was held proudly erect on her
strong shoulders. Now it drooped slightly as though under an unseen
burden, and her large eyes often wandered to the floor as though
seeking something that was lost.
My grief for her was so intense that it even crowded the old passionate
love into a corner of my heart, especially as I had taken a solemn vow
to see in her only the wife of another. Nay, I believe, if I had found
her perfectly happy, with head erect and laughing eyes, I would have
uprooted the weeds of envy and jealousy from my poor soul forever.
True, Uncle Joachim had said: "Whatever folly a woman like her may
commit, she will not allow herself to succumb to it." He knew her well.
But how much secret misery a human being may have to endure, even
though he or she "bears the inevitable with dignity."
Absorbed in these thoughts, I had walked a long distance, and was
already considering whether I should not let the "Ancestress" go, and
find some pretext for taking my departure that very evening, when I saw
Frau Luise herself, with her little boy, approaching me by the shady
path that led through a wood. The child was frisking merrily around his
mother, but she walked slowly with bowed head, and seemed to answer his
questions very absently. She had put on a small hat that had slipped
back from her head, and a blue sunshade rested carelessly on her left
shoulder. She came slowly forward without looking up, until the child
noticed me, and with a sudden exclamation ran to her and seized her
hand; then, with a friendly nod, she paused.
At first we talked of indifferent matters, the weather, the pretty
location of the city, and the superior fertility of the soil to that of
her native region. This brought us to the persons we had both known
there, and about whom she had been kept informed by Uncle Joachim. I
learned that my former pupil had been placed in the cadet barracks, and
that his sister was betrothed to Cousin Kasimir. Mademoiselle Suzon had
quitted the castle a few weeks after my departure, to return no more.
She passed quickly over this point, but a contemptuous curl of her
lower lip betrayed that she had been informed of the whole affair. A
young English lady had now taken the Frenchwoman's place; she did not
know whether she could play chess, but she seemed to fill her
predecessor's position satisfactorily in every other respect. Sometimes
the new pastor--the old one had gently fallen asleep in death--came to
the castle in the evening and held devotional exercises for an hour.
Everything else remained unchanged. The veteran peacock had spread his
tail for the last time the previous winter, and she was keeping some of
his feathers as a relic.
Then for a time we relapsed into silence. The dear child walked gravely
along between us, holding a hand of each. When we came out of the wood,
we saw a meadow thickly besprinkled with autumn flowers. "Run,
Joachimchen, and pick a beautiful bouquet for Uncle Johannes," said the
mother.
The child obeyed, climbing merrily over the little slope by the road.
"He is so bright," said Frau Luise, "he hears everything, and already
understands more than is well, or at least has his little confused
thoughts about all sorts of subjects. And I must tell you something
that is to remain a secret between ourselves. I have never so
thoroughly despised any one from the depths of my heart as Uncle
Achatz, and it was a punishment to me even to breathe the same air.
When I came to his house--only a few months after my mother's death--he
had the effrontery to persecute me with offers of love. He wished to
get a divorce and marry me. You can imagine that I longed to go out
into the wide world then; but pity for my aunt, who is a saint-like
sufferer, withheld me. During those sorrowful years I learned that man
has no other source of strength and peace than his conscience, his love
of truth, and the quiet communion with his God, who, it is true,
answers us not when we chatter to him overmuch, but when we listen in
the deepest silence. He commanded me to interfere when a good and
innocent person was shamefully insulted in my presence. 'The measure is
full!' cried a voice in my heart. 'You must no longer breathe the air
of this house, where all human dignity is trampled under foot.' So I
did what I could not help doing. I knew I was undertaking no easy task,
and those who charged me with frivolity never knew me. Now, with God's
assistance, I will perform it. And he has given me something that has
helped me through many a trying hour and will aid me year after year."
Her eyes wandered to the child, who had already gathered a handful of
flowers, and with sparkling eyes was holding them up to show them to
his mother.
"The dear little fellow!" I said.
"Yes, if I did not have him! He has never caused me a single sorrow. He
constitutes my entire happiness."
"Your _entire_ happiness, Frau Luise?"
The question had scarcely escaped my lips ere I regretted it. What
right had I to tear the veil she had drawn over her fate?
But she raised it herself.
"No," she said, "you must not misunderstand me. The child is not the
sole blessing I possess, but he is really my only _entire_ happiness.
You do not yet know my husband thoroughly. He is a noble-hearted man,
and would do anything for my sake, so far as he could anticipate my
wishes. But his profession makes him see the world in a different
light, and think other objects desirable. That is usually the case
between married people, and must be accepted. Have you ever or anywhere
found entire happiness? We must strive to receive the patchwork with
our whole souls, then the gaps will be filled, and, as the words run in
Faust, 'the insufficient becomes an event.' Stay with us a few days.
You will then judge many things differently."
I did not know what to answer, but a cry of terror from the boy
relieved me from my dilemma. We saw him suddenly spring aside, stumble
over a clod of earth, and fall, still holding the flowers tightly in
his little hand. I was at his side in an instant, lifted him, and saw
that an ugly fat toad, which had jumped clumsily into the ditch, had
frightened him. He was still trembling in every limb, but already
smiled again and held out the bouquet to me.
"His nerves are so sensitive," said his mother, as she smoothed the
little bare head. "If he could only be more in the open air. But all my
time is so occupied that I can scarcely manage to spend an hour out of
doors with him every afternoon. And his father lives so entirely in his
art that he does not see it."
She became absorbed in her thoughts, while I walked by her side,
carrying the boy in my arms. He soon climbed on my shoulders and
pretended I was his horse, till his shouts and laughter even called a
smile to his mother's grave face.
Just before reaching the city, we again walked decorously side by side.
I took my leave outside the house. Should I see her at the theatre? No,
she always remained at home and her husband went with his colleagues to
the club-room, so she could not receive me, but hoped to see me early
in the morning, or at any rate at dinner.
I dared not at once bid her farewell forever; nay, I no longer believed
I should have the courage to set out on my return the next morning. The
child had won my heart.
* * * * *
Of course I spent the evening at the theatre. The hall of the
Schützenhaus had been hastily fitted up, and for the first time I
admired Gottlieb Schönicke's skill in placing shabby and faded scenery
and properties in the best light. My free ticket admitted me to the
most desirable place, which consisted of three rows of rush-bottomed
chairs, but I purposely took my seat on one of the back benches where
the humbler folk, the tradesmen, and resident farmers of the little
town, gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the play. The house was
packed; the large receipts would have warranted a better illumination.
But it was the rule not to light more than eight lamps in the
proscenium and one on every other pilaster, and I must confess that the
illusion was more perfect than in the broad glare of the gas in the
theatres of the capital.
I do not intend to deliver a discourse on the drama, and shall avoid
adopting the style of the countless romances of theatrical life,
especially as--apart from the external differences caused by the
changed methods of travel--the lives of these strolling players have
remained essentially the same since the days of Wilhelm Meister.
Besides, they are perfectly familiar to the world in general and
possess little interest. Only, for truth's sake, I must observe that
the "renowned" Spielberg company did honor to their name. Spite of
inadequate accessories and acting, the wonderful drama created by a
classically poetic imagination, still under the influence of romance,
exerted a fascination which even the lachrymose specter of Madame
Selmar, and the hypochondriacal, sepulchral tones of her husband, who
played Count Idenko von Borotin, could not destroy. Spielberg was a
superb Jaromir, and I now understood that his fervent chest-voice might
irresistibly charm the heart of a girl of twenty. In the scenes with
Bertha particularly--whose character, as personated by Fräulein
Victorine, had a touch of witchery--his tones possessed a pathos that
brought storms of applause from the audience which, however, on
appearing before the foot-lights, he acknowledged--as became so great
an artist--with merely a quiet bend of the head.
During the performance his eye had discovered me in my dark corner, and
ere he left the stage he made a significant gesture as if to say, "I
expect to meet you again." But this was by no means agreeable to me. I
only hated him the more because he had extorted from me some degree of
admiration; besides, I longed to be alone in order to determine whether
to go or stay.
So I let the audience quit the hall, that I might not be accosted, with
provincial courtesy, by any of the inhabitants who chanced to notice
that I was a stranger, and was the last of all to emerge into the open
air.
It was a beautiful star-lit summer night, warm and still; the only
sound was the patter of the heavy dew trickling from the branches of
the trees in the Schützen Park. I paused outside, enjoying the same
sense of comfort we have while awake in bed between two dreams, in the
consciousness that we are still enjoying our bodily existence. Only the
day before yesterday I had been sitting on the bench in the parsonage
garden, beside the dear sensitive girl from whom the sudden outburst of
the flame of a hapless attachment had driven me, and to-day I was here
amid these totally unfamiliar surroundings, with the old fire once more
burning beneath the ashes, and must again save myself by flight if I
were not to perish utterly.
I saw the actors, who meantime had changed their clothes and washed off
their rouge, emerging from a little back door, heard their loud
conversation, and once even the call for "Doctor Johannes." Then the
little group dispersed under the trees toward the city, and, after a
sufficiently long interval separated us, I too set out on my way home.
Suddenly I heard a light footstep behind me, and a low, musical voice
said: "Are you in such a hurry, Herr Doctor, that you can't even look
round at a defenseless lady, far less offer her your arm and your
company?"
At the same moment a hand was slipped through my arm, and by the
uncertain starlight I looked into Victorine's big, mournful eyes.
"I was belated," she said, "and now I am glad to still find a
companion. Besides, I should like to become a little better acquainted
with you, for at dinner, when the manager's wife is present, my mouth
feels as though it were sewed up. Come, you needn't be afraid that
anything will be thought of it, if we are seen taking this nocturnal
promenade. We sha'n't meet even a cat, and you probably care no more
what Mrs. Grundy thinks of you than I do."
Her light tone, so strangely belied by her melancholy eyes, was
extremely repulsive to me: So I answered very coldly and a trifle
maliciously:
"I only wonder that Herr Daniel leaves the knightly service to
another."
"He!" she replied, with a short laugh, which, spite of her beautiful
voice, sounded very unmusical. "In the first place, he did not play
to-night, and was not even at the hall. And then, though he usually
pays me some little attention, we have had a quarrel to-day. You are
mistaken if you fancy he is in love with me. It's only old custom that
makes us keep together. His heart, such as it is, belongs to a very
different person."
"May I ask--?"
"Why not? It is an open secret. He's infatuated with Frau Spielberg,
though she's such a cold fish that it always makes me shiver merely to
look at her. She behaves, too, as if he were not in existence, and when
he gets into a rage about it he pours out his whole heart to me, and it
does him good to have me laugh at him. That is our whole relation.
Perhaps I ought not to speak to you so frankly about it. You are her
relative, and of course revere her as though she were a saint. But I
can't help it; she is insufferable to me, with her Canoness airs and
woful face the instant the company begins to be a little merry, and one
or another goes a shade too far. She ought to have kept away from the
stage. But she felt her human nature once when she threw herself into
Spielberg's arms. Why does she put on her governess manner now?"
As I made no reply--feeling disgusted by these blasphemies--she
chattered on, clinging still more closely to my arm.
"You see, even you yourself can not defend her. She is a positive
injury to the manager. He used to be such a pleasant, courteous man, a
genuine artist. Now he, too, poses as a Philistine and tutor, all by
the orders of his aristocratic wife. She would prefer to have the whole
company live in the same house, like a great cloister, to be able to
continually watch over them. And most of them are cowardly or obliging
enough to submit to it. But Herr Daniel, Herr Laban, and my
insignificant self don't care for such an institution for small
children. We always lodge at the hotel, and so you have the honor of
being only three doors away from me; your room is No. 6, mine No. 2. I
hope we shall be good neighbors."
I could not command my feelings sufficiently to enter into this light
tone, so I began to speak of something entirely different, and
praised--which I could do with a clear conscience--her acting that
evening.
"Nonsense!" she interrupted, "you can't be in earnest; for, between
ourselves, I played abominably to-night, I was so vexed by the scene
with Daniel, whom I had been lecturing because he confessed his
jealousy of you. Besides, I hate such sentimental parts, which
unfortunately I have to play most frequently. Before I joined
Spielberg's company--I was still very young--I was very fond of acting
the merry little coquettes, the gayer they were the better, and best of
all were parts like those of Parisian grisettes. But the manager
thought my face exactly suited the heroines of tragedy, so now I am
continually obliged to moan and roll my beautiful eyes toward heaven,
as, for instance, to-morrow in 'Cabal and Love.' I have finally become
indifferent to it, and, after all, we learn to act best the characters
most unlike our own."
I did not feel at all tempted to enter into a conversation upon the art
of acting and its higher demands with this girl. Meantime we had
reached our hotel, at whose open door the waiter received us with a
meaning face. I had evidently risen in his esteem, since I had the
honor of escorting the youthful leading lady home the very first
evening.
On our way up-stairs she said: "I don't know whether I can venture to
invite you to drink a cup of tea with me. I should be obliged to send
you away in half an hour at any rate, for I must read over my part of
Luise Miller once more before I sleep."
I excused myself, on the plea that I had a letter to write. She quietly
shrugged her shoulders.
"As you please, Herr Doctor, or rather, as you must. I forgot that you
are a kinsman of Frau Spielberg. So good-night, and no offense!
'Thou'rt ill, ah, return,
Return to thy room!'"
she declaimed from the rôle of Bertha, then dropped me a mocking
courtesy and glided into the door of No. 2.
* * * * *
I ordered supper to be brought to No. 6, not because I was hungry, but
to show the waiter that I had not availed myself of the favor of this
envied neighbor. Then I stood a long while at the open window, gazing
out into the narrow street and at the opposite houses, the homes of the
worthy citizens who led their quiet lives so contentedly, without
dreaming of tempests like those that raged in my heart and brain.
One light after another disappeared, the footsteps of some belated
pedestrian echoed less and less frequently from the pavement below; at
last no sound arose save the hoarse voice of the night-watchman calling
the tenth hour. The house, too, which was so slightly built that its
walls told every secret, had become perfectly still. I was just
unpacking my knapsack to make my toilet for the night, when I heard in
the corridor a stealthy step which stopped a few doors away from mine,
then a low knock, and after a short time a suppressed voice said,
"Victorine. Open the door! I have something to tell you!"
Of course, I could not hear the answer. The colloquy lasted some time,
the request for admittance being several times repeated, sometimes in
urgent, sometimes in coaxing tones, ere the closed door opened and was
noiselessly shut again.
The study of the rôle of Luise Miller would scarcely be pursued in
company.
This incident had the effect of sending me to bed, firmly determined to
turn my back as speedily as possible upon a world to which I did not
belong. I woke in the morning with the same resolution, and only
hesitated whether I should be expected to take a verbal farewell or
might depart with merely a written one.
But, while I was sitting at breakfast pondering over this weighty
question, some one knocked at my door, and a personage of no less
importance than Konstantin Spielberg himself entered.
Though he had sat up till late in the night with several of the town
dignitaries and some of his colleagues, and had drunk a great deal of
liquor, he looked so fresh, so full of strength and cheerfulness, that
again I could not help admiring him. He first kindly reproached me for
having so slyly deserted him the evening before. It had been my own
loss; he would have made me acquainted with some very intelligent
people; and his colleague Laban's witticisms had been like a perfect
shower of fireworks. But I should be forgiven if I would do him a great
favor.
"A favor?" I asked. "If only I have time to grant it. I shall leave in
half an hour."
That would be impossible in any case, he answered, arranging his locks
before the mirror. I must see him that night as the President; it was
one of his best parts, though he had resigned Ferdinand to Herr Daniel.
But, if I really had any friendly feeling for him, I must help him out
of a great difficulty. The prompter was to play Luise Miller's mother.
Gottlieb Schönicke usually filled her place on such occasions, but
owing to his carouse the night before he had become so hoarse that he
could scarcely utter an audible word. So, if the performance was to
take place, I must consent to fill this part and accompany him to the
rehearsal at once.
All reluctance and pleas of my unfitness for this responsible post were
futile. And as, in the depths of my heart, I had sought some pretext
for being _compelled_ to stay, at least for one more day--ere I took my
leave, never to return--I finally allowed myself to be dragged away,
and half an hour later was standing behind the scenes with the
prompter's book in my hand.
Tall Herr Laban greeted me very cordially, and told me he yet hoped to
see me appear in different parts. It was a pity to waste my gifts:
figure, play of expression, voice, and taste for acting, all urged me
toward the stage, and the company was in great need of new talent for
the characters which he himself, now _invita Minerva_--he pronounced
the words with a faultless accent--was compelled to fill, though Nature
had originally intended him for a comedian.
Victorine gave me a careless nod, and studiously held aloof. Her friend
treated me with marked hostility, and was the only person who
constantly found fault with my prompting, for which the manager quietly
reproved him. Most of the members of the company performed their parts
at the rehearsal indifferently enough. Frau Selmar, however, personated
her Milford with a clear voice and through every shade of meaning, and
Laban gave an extremely clever performance of his Hofmarschall Kalb.
Gottlieb Schönicke remained invisible. Whether he was sleeping off his
intoxication, or the story of his condition was merely a fiction to
induce me to act with them, I have never been able to determine.
After the rehearsal the actors unceremoniously dispersed; the manager
had some arrangements to make in the dressing-room, and I was no little
surprised when allowed a glimpse of this holy of holies to find only a
single, tolerably large room, divided by a few screens and a sheet hung
over a rope, into two dressing-rooms, one for the men, the other for
the women. In the broad light of day all this disorderly collection of
mirrors, rouge-pots, and clothes-presses looked uncanny enough, and I
hastily beat a retreat. But, as I was passing through the empty
auditorium of the theatre, I saw with astonishment Frau Luise sitting
on one of the rear benches.
"You here?" I exclaimed. "And absent yesterday evening? Do you attend
such unattractive rehearsals?"
"I never go to the theatre during the evening performances," she
answered, rising. "I will not allow the suspicion that I do not
consider the acting of the company worth looking at, so I sometimes
come to the rehearsals, which also serves the purpose of enabling me to
call my husband's attention to many points when we are alone. True, it
is of little use," she added, with a resigned smile; "these second-rate
people, among whom we are placed, are the very ones that have an
exalted opinion of their own talent and knowledge of art. But I feel in
a certain sense responsible for the acting of my husband, who is a
genuine artist, and I know that my opinion is not a matter of
indifference to him.
"Besides, dear friend," she added, after a pause, "you can not imagine
how lonely I am. So completely without society, except the company at
the dinner-table, I sometimes feel the necessity of sharing some sphere
of life, even though I might desire it to be a different one."
Then she thanked me for having granted her husband's request, and we
left the theatre together. On our way, while she frequently glanced
back to see if her husband were not at last following us, I told her
that I had determined to continue my journey to-day, and now positively
intended to take my departure on the morrow.
"You are right," she answered. "What should detain you here? You are
not fitted for these surroundings."
Then, after a pause, she added: "Write to me if you change your
residence. I should always like to know where you are to be found, for
I have one earnest desire, which I have long secretly counted on you to
fulfill. When you have a parish, or a good wife, such as I desire for
you, I should be glad to put my son in your charge."
"Do you intend to part with the child?"
"Yes, dear friend," she replied, her brows contracting with an
expression of pain. "How I am to bear it I do not know. But my
resolution is fixed. He must grow up in a perfectly pure atmosphere.
While he is a child, I guard him myself. But how long will that be?
Even now it is almost impossible for me to reconcile all my duties.
When I go to the rehearsals I am compelled to trust him to Kunigunde,
who is an excellent person, but does not always take the right course
with him, and he shall not accompany me to the theatre. It would be
worse than if I were to give him brandy to drink, instead of milk."
Then we grew silent. "Poor woman!" a voice in my heart continually
repeated; "you are indeed lonely."
Meantime we had returned to the town, and then something happened,
whose memory even now makes my heart throb faster.
When we entered the courtyard of the commandant's residence, my
companion's first glance sought the windows of her room. She suddenly
grasped my arm as if to save herself from falling, and I asked in alarm
if she were ill. But, as I looked up, a thrill of horror ran through my
frame also. For at the open window I saw the child, who had climbed out
on the sill, clinging with one little arm to the sash and stretching
out the other toward a drooping chestnut bough, whose ripening nuts had
probably roused his longing. As in his eagerness he held one little
foot suspended in the air, he seemed fairly hovering aloft with but the
feeblest support, and an icy chill crept down my back.
Suddenly I heard the mother say in her gentlest voice: "Wouldn't it be
better for me to get you the beautiful chestnuts, Joachimchen? You
shall have a whole handful, if you are a good boy and climb down again
at once. Do what your mother tells you, my darling. I am coming up
directly. Then you shall show Uncle Johannes how to make a chain of
chestnuts."
The smiling boy looked down at us, nodded to his mother, cautiously
drew first his foot and then his arm back from the giddy height, and
quickly disappeared inside the dark frame of the window.
My own heart had fairly stopped beating. When I could breathe again, I
wanted to tell my companion how much I admired her for having had
courage to repress any cry of terror that might have startled the
little one and perhaps hurled him to destruction. But the words died on
my lips, for the next instant she had thrown her arms around my neck,
and, with her face hidden on my breast, burst into such convulsive sobs
that I was forced to exert all my strength, to support the tall, noble
figure in its helpless emotion.
She did not regain her self-control until we heard steps in the
gateway, then, still clinging to my arm, she hurried into the rear
building and up the stairs. "Not a word about it to anybody!" she
whispered. At the top she stood still, panting for breath, and passed
her hand over her eyes. At last she rushed to her room, on whose
threshold the child met her, and clasped her sole happiness in her arms
with a cry of rapture in which all the pent-up excitement of the
mother's heart found utterance.
When, soon after, her husband entered, nothing but her unwonted pallor
and a tremor, which still ever and anon ran through her limbs, could
have betrayed to him that anything unusual had occurred. He, however,
in his jovial self-satisfaction, was so exclusively absorbed in
himself--having just purchased a new neck-tie which he meant to wear at
dinner--that he noticed no change in her. And there was no one else at
the table who took any special heed of her, except a young girl of
fourteen--the daughter of the Selmar couple--who had been too ill to
appear at dinner the day before. She went to Frau Luise, pressed her
hand affectionately, and anxiously asked if she were well. "Oh!
perfectly well," replied the happy mother, smiling, as she kissed the
girl's cheek and inquired about her own doings. The dinner passed off
very much like the one of the previous day, except that the manager
regretted he could not drink my health in a glass of wine as a token of
gratitude for my admirable prompting. But the rigid law of the
household prohibited all spirituous drinks until the evening--and he
cast a glance of comic terror at his wife.
I saw that she found it difficult to maintain her assumed cheerfulness,
and when we rose her knees trembled. So I suggested in a low tone that
she should lie down for a time and trust the boy to me for the
afternoon. She assented with a grateful glance and pressure of the
hand.
When, at the end of a few hours, I brought the child--with whom I had
formed the closest friendship--back to his mother, I found her sitting
by the very window at which she had gazed with so much horror. She was
still quiet and pale, like a person just recovering from a dangerous
illness, but I had never seen her look more beautiful and charming, and
felt that the duty of self-defense required me to take leave of her
now. I could not come to her room after the play, so we shook hands
without uttering what was oppressing each heart; I kissed the child,
for the last time as I supposed, and, in a mood well worthy of
compassion, left these two beloved beings expecting never to see them
again.
* * * * *
When the evening performances ended, amid great applause--which most of
the company had honestly deserved, even Victorine, whose Madonna eyes
were obliged to make up for the deficiencies in her soul, while
Daniel's acting, in its fervent sensual vehemence, if it did not depict
the "German stripling," presented a very attractive young hothead--I
attempted to again slip out unnoticed, but was detected by the
manager's watchful eye, and, as tall Laban joined him, was helplessly
carried off between them and dragged to the club-room. Protest as I
might, Spielberg insisted upon treating me, and while doing so
presented me to his acquaintances in the little town with great
ceremony as a young dramatic student, whom he hoped to secure for his
own stage. Meantime, one bottle of doubtful red wine followed another,
and while I took a very moderate share I marveled at the celerity with
which the great actor emptied one glass after another at a single
draught, without the slightest flush appearing on his face. During all
this time his stories of various events in his theatrical career seemed
inexhaustible, and his frank delight in his own genius sparkled so
innocently in his eyes, that it was impossible to feel vexed with him
or avoid listening with a certain interest to his marvelous anecdotes,
as one would to the tales of the "Arabian Nights."
At last the regular guests had all dispersed, even Laban had departed,
but the great actor still detained me and made a sign to the sleepy
waiter, upon which he instantly set a bottle of champagne upon the
table. "It's no-use, cousin," he said, in a sonorous bass voice, which,
it is true, now sounded a little husky; "we have a solemn act to
perform. I have vowed not to go to bed until I have drunk to a pledge
of fraternity with you in foaming sack. Come and pledge me! You are a
fine fellow, only you haven't yet found it out yourself. When you have
been in my company a few weeks, you will strip off the chrysalis and
wonder at yourself as your wings bear you from flower to flower. Even
if you often fly too near a light and scorch yourself a little, that is
better than your pastoral tepidity. Your health, my heart's brother!
Let us drink eternal friendship!"
Spite of my intense reluctance, I could not avoid his cordial embrace.
Then he grew quieter, and, with apparent business-like gravity, began
to discuss the capacity in which I was to enter his company. He spoke
of new pieces its members were to study, the revision of older ones,
for which he himself lacked time, and finally of his plan for including
light operas in his repertory, for which he could not dispense with a
conductor.
I listened without protesting, save by interjections and shrugs of the
shoulders. Meantime, he emptied the bottle almost alone and called for
a second, but I rose and resolutely declared I was going home.
"A plague on all cowardly poltroons!" he cried, staggering to his feet.
"Virtue exists no more!" Then followed a torrent of classical
quotations in a voice that made the windows rattle. Yet his gait was so
unsteady that I hastily sprang forward to support him. When we were in
the dark street, he passed his arm around my shoulders and tottered
along the road like a blind man. "Say nothing to her about it,
brother," he stammered, "nothing about the champagne. She hates
champagne, though in other respects she's a good wife; it's pure
jealousy, ha! ha! She thinks my heart belongs to the Widow Clicquot--a
worthy dame, in truth, who never reads me a curtain-lecture, but
her purse must be filled with gold if we want to win her favor, ha!
ha!--and the father of a family, you know. Never get married, brother!
'Long hair, short wits,'" and he began to sing the champagne aria in
the midst of the death-like silence of the Goose-Market.
When, with some difficulty, I at last succeeded in getting him up the
stairs to his lodgings, he became as still as a mouse, and trembled
from head to foot. "Don't tell her!" were the last words he whispered.
Then, forcing himself to stand erect, he gently opened the door.
"Good-evening, my angel," he stammered, and was going up to her to
embrace her. She silently rose and looked at him with a sorrowful gaze,
which suddenly seemed to sober him. "Well, well," he said, "it's hardly
one o'clock--we don't act to-morrow--I've done a good business, too,
haven't I, cousin? He'll stay with us, sweetheart; I've engaged him as
dramatist and conductor, at a monthly salary of twelve thalers for the
present--that will please you, I think. But now good-night, cousin! I'm
perfectly sober, only I couldn't tell the town how one becomes
President. So I'm going to take a long sleep, for the torture of the
day was great."
Amid all the confusion of his brain, he still retained sufficient
chivalrous courtesy to take his wife's hand and kiss it. Then he
staggered through the side door into the sleeping-room, and we could
hear him fall on the bed without undressing.
I cast a hasty glance at his wife, who stood gazing into vacancy.
"Good-night, Frau Luise," I said. "You will see me again to-morrow."
"To-morrow?"
"Certainly. To-morrow, and every day until you yourself send me away.
Perhaps I may yet make myself useful here--though not as conductor."
* * * * *
After that night I no longer led my own life.
My existence seemed only valuable when I made myself a slave, soul and
body, in Frau Luise's service, coming to her aid wherever her own grand
and lofty strength failed.
In reality I was making no sacrifice by this self-abnegation. For,
as I have already confessed, my own aims and purposes had vanished,
as a light on which a nocturnal traveler depends suddenly proves a
will-o'-the-wisp, and flickers into a marsh mist. I felt averse rather
than inclined to enter a pulpit, and I had not sufficient love or
talent for any art or science to induce me to devote my life to it.
Clearly, as though written on the wall by some spectral hand, the
sentence stood before me: "You are a mediocre man from whom the world
has nothing to hope in the way of happiness or enlightenment. Rejoice
if some good human being can warm his hands by your little flame."
I also perceived the correctness of my opinion by the fact that this
discovery, instead of wounding me, created a sense of peace I had
hitherto lacked. Rarely have I awaked in a mood so joyous, feeling as
it were new-born, as on the morning after I had placed myself at the
service of this noble woman. And the difficulties in regard to my
former occupation which still embarrassed me were to be dispelled in
the simplest way.
With my breakfast a letter was brought in, which had been forwarded
from the estate I had left, as I had said I should remain in this place
for several days. A former fellow-student, a very admirable and
intelligent man, wrote that some weakness of the throat compelled him
to give up his profession as a preacher. Until he could determine how
to shape his future life, he desired to seek a position as tutor in a
family, and begged me to aid him as far as possible. I instantly wrote
to my employer, informing him that I could not return to his house for
reasons which at present I could disclose to no one, but which he would
certainly approve if I could ever confide the whole truth to him. At
the same time I proposed in my place the college friend, for whose
character and education I could amply vouch.
I took leave of him and his whole family, who had become so dear to me,
and requested him to send my property to me except the books, which I
would leave for the present in my successor's care. Then I wrote a few
cordial lines to my friend the pastor. As I added the farewell message
to his dear daughters, the sorrowful face of the eldest again appeared
before me in the most vivid hues, and her earnest eyes seemed to say:
"You do not know what happiness you are losing."
But I was proof against any temptation to return.
Early that very morning I hurried to Herr Spielberg's rooms. He
received me in a Turkish dressing-gown, with his brightest face, and,
when I inquired how he had slept, answered, laughing: "You probably
expected to find me a quiet fellow, cousin. But you must know that
champagne and I are on the best of terms. When we do fall out, however,
champagne always gets the worst of it; or to quote Julius Cæsar:
'We were two lions litter'd in one day,
And I the elder and more terrible.'
"But, good-morning. I hope you haven't slept off overnight what we
arranged yesterday. How much salary did I promise you? I don't
remember. But I won't play the rogue to you at any rate."
I told him that I would remain only on two conditions: first, that I
should have entire liberty to do nothing except what I felt competent
to accomplish; and secondly, that there should never be any question of
wages. I had saved enough, during my three years as a tutor, to live
without earning anything for a time.
He made no reply, only shook his ambrosial locks thoughtfully and
struck my shoulder with his hand, like a prince accepting the homage
and service of a vassal. Then he called his wife, who was in the
adjoining room, dressing the boy.
She entered with her usual calm expression and, avoiding my eyes, held
out her hand. The boy ran to me and threw his arms around my neck.
"What do you say, dear," cried the artist, "he has really determined to
stay. Of course, it is solely on your account, for he would not throw
up his profession for my sake. Well, I hope you will treat him kindly.
'This lad--no angel is from sin more free,
Craving thy favor, I commend to thee.'"
With these words he rose, smiling, leaving me to decide whether the
quotation referred to my character of Fridolin, or to Joachimchen, who
expressed great delight on hearing that Uncle Johannes would take him
to walk immediately.
After her husband had left the room, Luise came to me and said in a low
tone: "I can not approve your decision, Johannes. But I am so weary
that I have not the strength to combat it."
* * * * *
I shall avoid giving a minute description of the time that now
followed. No one can feel disposed to pursue the destinies of such a
strolling company, the alternations of good and evil fortune, or the
coming and going of its members, in greater detail--nay, even for
theatrical history the list of its plays would have no value, as it was
not at all regulated by the spirit of the time, nor even by the
fashion, but patched together from new stock and shabby rubbish, as
chance and the difficulties of stage-setting permitted.
During the first few months the enterprise remained in about the same
stage of prosperity as I had found it. Then, by the withdrawal of the
Selmars and their charming daughter, it fell several degrees, soon rose
again by advantageous engagements, and then declined in consequence of
our worthy stage-manager's being made helpless for months by a fall
from a high scaffold. These fluctuations corresponded with the ebb and
flow in the cash-box, and, but for the wise economy of the manager's
wife, there would often have been a failure in the payment of salaries.
But the name of Spielberg always possessed sufficient attraction to
fill the house tolerably well, and make amends for the recreant
members. The most faithful were those from whom I should have least
expected loyalty--Laban, who, with all his apparent frivolity and
jesting, felt a sincere and warm reverence for Frau Luise, and the
young couple, whose stay, it is true, was due to less honorable traits
of character.
How they were to regard me, and in what manner my position as dramatic
"maid of all-work" was to be interpreted, at first caused them much
perplexity. They soon learned that I was not working for money. My sole
pecuniary profit consisted in my paying no board, as Frau Luise would
not permit any other arrangement, and occasionally, when lodgings for
all could be hired, I was not allowed to pay for my sleeping-room. In
return, I made myself as useful as I could, coached green beginners in
their parts, sometimes stood at the side-scenes or crouched in a
subterranean box with the prompter's book in my hand, copied parts,
arranged plays so that ten characters could be compressed into six, and
only drew the line of my services at the one point of obstinately
refusing to undertake to act any part, no matter how trivial.
At first they attributed this to arrogance, of which, spite of his
unassuming helpfulness, they credited the "doctor" with a large share.
But, after I had once told them that I cherished too lofty an idea of
art to sin against it by bungling work, I rose no little in their
esteem, and even Spielberg, who never ceased saying that I was a genius
in disguise, let me alone.
The suspicion that I was following the company as a secretly favored
admirer of the manager's unpopular wife had of course at first
suggested itself, even to the better natures among them. But the calm
irony with which the great artist crushed all allusions to such a
relation did not fail to produce its effect, as well as the perfectly
unembarrassed demeanor of the suspected woman herself, and my own
Fridolin countenance, which expressed anything rather than the secret
triumph of a favored lover.
And, indeed, I was not on a bed of roses.
Not to mention that I was forced to purchase the happiness of being
daily in her society, and making myself indispensable to her by a
hundred little services, at the cost of witnessing her suffering,
which, it is true, she bore like a heroine, but which nevertheless
constantly consumed her strength and youth--it was a most painful thing
to be compelled to witness her husband's steady progress toward the
ruin to which the unfortunate man opposed less and less resistance. At
first I had endeavored not to lose sight of him after the play was
over, striving--in the outset with mild, afterwards with the most
earnest remonstrances--to recall him from his fatal passion. As he had
a gentle, yielding nature, I succeeded several times in doing so. But
Daniel, who with fiendish cold-bloodedness played the part of his evil
genius, soon made him disloyal to his best resolves and vows, so, at
the end of a few weeks, I was forced to let the evil pursue its course.
For a time the leonine constitution of which he boasted resisted the
effects of his nocturnal debauches, at least so far that no traces of
them were visible the following morning. Then, in the consciousness
that he stood in need of forgiveness, he was courteous and affectionate
throughout the day, like a little boy who fears punishment, and paid
his wife all sorts of charming little attentions.
But as his weakness gained more and more control, and his nervous
strength began to fail, he no longer took any trouble to deceive us
about his condition, and instead of showing repentance and
embarrassment, after spending half the day in bed suffering from the
effects of his intoxication, he tried to conceal his evil conscience
under an air of boastful defiance, and bluntly declared that genius
required great stimulants, and need not be restrained by Philistine
rules.
Of course, with such irregularities, which soon became the rule, no
firm, careful management of the company was possible. By degrees all
business cares and responsibilities were shifted to my insignificant
self. It was enough if the sick lion crawled out of his den an hour
before the performance, rolled his bloodshot eyes in front of the
mirror, and then made his somewhat husky but all the more tragic voice
resound through the theater till the puzzled spectators left the house
with the acknowledgment that he had "roared well" again, and no one
could easily outdo him in shaking his mane.
Nevertheless, in this disorder, the company lost its power of
attraction more and more, and were obliged to change from place to
place more frequently, and these numerous journeys increased the
expenses and demoralized the members. I did what I could to stay the
ruin, and, besides a silent clasp of the hand from the woman I loved, I
was rewarded by the confidence and devotion of most of my colleagues.
Only two, who watched the mischief with quiet malice, showed me their
aversion more openly, the more honestly I tried to save the tottering
car of Thespis from breaking down.
These two, of course, were Daniel and Victorine.
For a long time the cause of their evident dislike was a mystery to me.
For the insolent young fiend could not long suppose that he had been
supplanted in the favor of the object of his secret worship by the
faithful squire, and his publicly-acknowledged sweetheart, disagreeable
as she was to me, I treated with the utmost courtesy. The real purpose
of both, and the reason I stood in their way, did not dawn on me until
afterward.
Daniel's passion for the pure and proud woman was of the nature of
those feelings with which fallen angels survey their former heavenly
companions. He could not forgive her being so unapproachably far above
him. To drag her down, gloat over her humiliation, take vengeance for
the coldness with which she passed his hellish ardor by--this was the
diabolical idea that haunted him day and night. He well knew it was
madness to hope for its attainment so long as our wandering life
pursued its usual course. But, if everything were thrown into
confusion, the husband utterly ruined, the wife overwhelmed by poverty
and despair, he relied on conquering the helpless woman, and, with
Satanic energy, grasping her when mentally broken down as his sure
prey. Whoever strove to check this development of the tragedy he could
not fail to hate.
He had such power over Victorine that she shared this mood--though the
infernal plot affected her too. Besides, I had made her forever my foe
by remaining wholly indifferent to her charms. I will pass over the
proofs I might bring forward, not because I am ashamed of my _rôle_ of
Joseph, but, even without this, I shall have occasion to speak of
myself more than is agreeable to me.
* * * * *
I should have led no enviable existence, had not Heaven itself provided
some consolation and strengthened my heart.
Whenever we settled for a few months in one of the larger cities, I
always obtained a piano, which was placed in Frau Luise's room, or, if
there was no space there, in the dining-room--she still maintained the
rule of having the meals in common, though the Round Table constantly
dwindled--and here we passed our only hours of pure, unshadowed
happiness. For, when she sang and I accompanied her, the narrow walls
seemed to expand, the earth, with everything base and unlovely it
contained, to sink beneath us, while we ourselves floated in a sunny
atmosphere where everything was harmony and peace, love and hope, and
every wound that bled secretly healed at once as though touched by the
hand of some enchanter.
We did not permit ourselves this delight daily, only on Sundays and
when, for some reason, there was no acting. The boy, meantime, sat in a
little chair and never turned his eyes from his mother while she sang;
or I took him on my knee while I played the accompaniment, and he gazed
wonderingly at the keys. At last I began to give him a few lessons on
the piano, and was amazed to see how easily he understood everything.
Oh, that child! He became more and more the one unalloyed delight of my
life, for unmixed happiness in the society of his mother was impossible
for me.
Afterward, during my long life as a teacher, I had an opportunity to
observe many hundred boys, and to this companionship I owe a thousand
pleasures. But neither before nor after did I ever meet a child like
Joachimchen.
He was no prodigy in the usual acceptance of the word. No technical
talent, no intellectual gift developed with extraordinary power or
precocity, and, even in music--the only instruction I began in his
sixth year to give him regularly--he made no remarkable progress.
But the quality this young creature possessed to a far greater degree
than other children of his age, was the subtlety and accuracy of his
mental perceptions, by which he infallibly distinguished truth from
semblance--a, if I may so express it, moral clairvoyance which enabled
him to give the most striking opinions of persons and things without
any precocious conceit. No trace of child-like vanity, no desire for
praise, marred this innocent faculty of his soul. He was like a clear
mirror, which reflected in their real outlines the images of everything
that surrounded him. Any one whom he loved was sure to be pure and
good; for everything base and sordid, though it approached him under
the most flattering guise, instantly repelled him.
Yes; there was a well-spring of cheerfulness in this little human being
which, in proportion to the delicacy of his physical condition, became
the more refreshing to him and those who best loved him. His thoughtful
views of the world, and the luster of the large eyes in the little
palid face, would have roused our anxiety, had not shouts of mirth
often issued from the narrow chest, while even in his quieter moments
there was no trace of sickly peevishness or weariness. The little
naughtinesses, almost invariably seen in an only child who is deeply
loved and spoiled, were foreign to his nature. A sign, a word would
guide him. It was only in the society of other children that I
frequently perceived a shade of reserve and fretfulness in his manner,
so I persuaded his mother not to force him into their companionship. On
the other hand, he was all the more vivacious, even to the verge of
ungovernable delight, when we took him out to walk. He chased all the
butterflies, made friends with all the little dogs he met, and, mounted
on a hobby-horse, galloped along, swinging his little riding-whip.
Everybody loved him, though he was very chary of his caresses. He was
shy only with his own father.
Often at dinner--the only time he spent a whole hour with him--I saw
him fix a watchful gaze upon Spielberg, just when the latter in his
most radiant mood was pouring forth high-sounding speeches about art
and artists. The boy never uttered a word, though often, to the delight
of the others, he made one of his quaint, penetrating remarks to some
member of the company. Never, either to me or his mother, did he
mention his father's name. But the latter, whose face always beamed
with the consciousness that he was impressing every one, evidently
avoided meeting the child's eyes, and, when he felt their gaze on him,
became so confused that he often hesitated in the middle of a sentence
and lapsed into silence. I do not remember, during all the time that we
lived together, a single instance when he showed the boy any
tenderness, or troubled himself in the least about him.
* * * * *
I had agreed with Frau Luise that, on account of the child's delicate
constitution and sensitive nerves, he ought to be guarded from all
mental excitement, though he was now six years old, an age when
children usually begin to Study the alphabet and primers. To train him
in the use of his hands, I gave him easy lessons in drawing, which he
greatly enjoyed, let him practice daily half an hour on the piano, and
sing with his clear little voice intervals and simple songs. During our
walks I told him Bible stories, which, whatever may be thought of their
historical value, ought--as the most venerable traditions from the
earliest days of the Christian world--to be given every child for his
journey through life, as well as the fairy lore of our nation.
Yet I was obliged to limit even this elementary instruction, because
the boy's unusually vivid imagination transformed everything which was
intended merely to serve for amusement into solid food for his mind.
For instance, he became as much excited over the history of Joseph and
his brothers as a grown person would have been by a novel. I directed
his thirst for knowledge exclusively to natural objects, so far as my
defective education in this department permitted, and everything seemed
to be going on admirably when a slight attack of fever roused our
anxiety.
The company had settled in one of the larger cities on the shore of the
Baltic, where they were doing an excellent business. So the plan of
instantly departing, and perhaps breaking up the threatening disease by
a change of climate, could not be entertained. Besides, the physician,
whom the mother questioned, did not consider the case serious,
attributed all the symptoms to the child's rapid growth, and prescribed
a different diet and certain strengthening measures which seemed to
have a good effect.
We had formerly divided the care and training of the boy in such a
way that he was never left a moment without his mother or myself.
Now she would not allow me to take her place except for an occasional
half-hour, and even at dinner remained in her room, while we were
served by Kunigunde. For a long time she had given up the sleeping-room
to her husband's sole use, and contented herself with an uncomfortable
couch made up every night on the sofa, while the child's little bed
stood close by her side.
He could not be allowed to see the condition in which his father
usually returned at midnight.
One morning she received me with an anxious face. Joachimchen was
reluctant to leave his bed, complained of headache, and did not want
his breakfast. The doctor, whom I instantly summoned, soothed her as
much as he was able. The fever had not increased, perhaps some childish
disease was coming on, which would produce a favorable change in his
whole physical condition. He prescribed some simple remedy, and we felt
a little relieved.
He became no worse in the evening. But I had told Spielberg that I
could not perform my duties that night, and, as the play had been acted
hundreds of times, I really was not needed behind the scenes.
When at ten o'clock I felt the pulse of the child, who was lying in an
uneasy slumber, I thought there was no occasion to fear a bad night,
and persuaded his mother to lie down in order to save her strength. I
would sit up a few hours longer, as I had some alterations to make in a
new play, which was then creating a sensation--I believe it was the
"Son of the Wilderness"--in order to adapt it to the scanty strength of
our company.
My room in the private house where we had taken lodgings was on the
same floor as the manager's, and I could be summoned by the faintest
call. But for several hours everything remained quiet, and I was just
thinking that I might venture to go to bed when I heard the drunkard's
heavy footstep on the stairs. He had wished the sick child a good
night's rest, with evident sympathy, and even now seemed to remember
that he must enter softly. Nor did it surprise me that he did not go
directly to his own sleeping-room as usual, but gently raised the latch
of his wife's door. He wants to inquire how the boy has rested, I
thought.
I had just closed my book and was preparing to retire for the night
when I heard the door of Frau Luise's room thrown open, Spielberg's
voice faltering unintelligible words, and shrill moans and cries for
help from the boy which sent a thrill of terror through every nerve.
But I had no time to reach my door, for at the same instant it was
flung wide open, and the unfortunate mother, clad only in the white
dressing-gown in which she was in the habit of lying down when
Joachimchen needed any special care, darted in, her face death-like in
its pallor, holding the wailing child in her arms.
"Protect us! Save the child!" she cried, with a terrified gesture, and
as she rushed to my bed, drew back the curtains and hastily laid the
boy, whose slender frame was convulsed with sobs, on it, she whispered,
with a glance of intense fear: "He will follow us! Bolt the door! O,
God, this too!"
She had thrown herself on her knees beside the bed, clasping her
darling's quivering form closely in her arms, pressing her lips to the
little pale face, and murmuring in confused words that he must be
quiet, nobody would hurt him or his mother, he had only been dreaming,
now he must go to sleep again, and his mother and Uncle Johannes would
stay with him all night.
The child did not cease moaning, struggled into a sitting posture in
her arms, and cast an anxious glance around the room as if he feared a
pursuer. And in fact some one knocked at the door, but very timidly,
and, as none of us answered the request to open it, silence followed,
and we heard the steps retire and the door of Spielberg's room open and
close.
But there was no improvement in the child's condition. He tossed
convulsively to and fro, his eyes rolled without any sign of
intelligence, and his face burned with fever.
"I will get the doctor, Frau Luise," I said. "I hope it is only a
crisis." She made no reply, but gazed fixedly at the little one's
distorted features, and endeavored by her embrace to control the
convulsions that shook the slight frame.
We found them still in the same state when I at last brought the
physician.
The worthy man, who felt the most sincere reverence for the poor
mother, made every effort to conceal his alarm. When, after a few
hours, during which he had watched the very trivial success of his
remedies, he took his leave, promising to return early in the morning,
and I lighted him down the stairs, he pressed my hand with a heavy
sigh. "Poor woman!" he said. "The child does not suffer at all; it is
not conscious. But how the mother is to bear--"
"So you have no hope--"
"There is inflammation of the brain, more severe than I have often
witnessed. But nature is incalculable. Do you know how it happened that
his condition changed for the worse so suddenly?"
I answered in the negative. It was not until long afterward that I
learned what had occurred in the brief interval between the father's
entrance and the mother's flight.
Spielberg had returned home with a clearer head than usual. When he
entered his wife's room, she half arose from the sofa and laid her
finger on her lips. By the light of the dim night-lamp he approached
the child's bed, softly touched the little sleeping face, gazed at it a
short time, and then turned to his wife, whispering: "He is doing
admirably." She merely nodded, and when, in an impulse of his old
tenderness and sympathy with her anxiety, he held out his hand, she
kindly returned the clasp. He sat down on the edge of the bed and told
her in a low tone that the play had been much applauded and the
receipts large. When she asked him to go to rest, as talking might
disturb the child, he answered that he was not tired, but felt inclined
to have a short chat with his beloved wife. When she shook her head, he
moved nearer, and, putting his arm around her, begged her to go into
the next room with him for a little while. It was so long since they
had had a confidential talk, and there was rarely time for one during
the day. The more he urged, the more firmly she declined, till he
finally threw both arms around her and whispered: "If you don't come
voluntarily, I will use force! You are my wife!"
Then, as she resisted with desperate strength, he fairly lifted her up
and was carrying her away, when a shriek from the child's bed suddenly
made him loose his hold. The boy was sitting up, staring with dilated
eyes at the nocturnal scene, and stretching out his little arms as if
to aid his defenseless mother. The next instant he had sprung from the
bed, climbed on the sofa by his mother's side, and, thrusting his
father away with his little clinched hands, screamed: "You sha'n't kill
my mother! Go away! You sha'n't hurt her!--" till, exhausted by terror,
the chivalrous child succumbed to a severe attack of fever.
* * * * *
The boy lay in the same condition all night, without a single interval
of consciousness. We had not removed him to his own little bed; my
room, situated at the end of the corridor, was quieter than his
mother's. Neither of us left him. His father had come in early in
the morning, but, as he found the child apparently calm and received
only curt answers from his wife, who did not vouchsafe him a single
glance, he soon went away again. For the first time his unshadowed
self-complacency had deserted him. He hung his head like an unjustly
accused criminal before the judge, whom he can not hope to convince of
his innocence.
The physician had returned very early. He uttered no word of
discouragement, but his troubled face, after he had examined the child,
so oppressed my heart that I could not even venture to ask a question.
But when I went out with him he pressed my hand, whispering: "If he
survives the night--but we must be prepared for everything."
The actors, who were all very fond of the little fellow, stole to the
door, tapped gently, and asked me for news of him. The only one who
entered the room was Daniel. He bowed silently to Frau Luise, and then
stood a long time at the foot of the bed; but, after a hasty glance at
the little invalid, he fixed his glowing dark eyes on the mother, who,
still robed just as she had fled to me yesterday, sat beside the child,
now hovering between life and death. At first she took no more notice
of the intruder than of anything else that was passing around her.
Suddenly she seemed to feel his scorching gaze, and looked up; the
blood crimsoned her pale cheeks, and she flashed a single glance at the
man she so detested. His head sank, as if he had been struck by an
arrow, and he glided on tiptoe out of the room.
Victorine alone did not appear. She had never showed any affection for
the child, and, besides, was to have a benefit that night, for which
she wished to freshen her costume by many little devices.
No one thought of dinner. Kunigunde brought Frau Luise some food, which
she did not touch. I myself hastily swallowed a few mouthfuls in the
kitchen. Spielberg, who after the rehearsal had again inquired for the
child, went to the hotel with the others.
So the evening approached. The boy's condition remained unchanged,
except that the fever increased, and every remedy used seemed
powerless. After a bath, however, which the doctor himself helped to
give, he seemed somewhat quieter, and lay still and pale in my large
bed, the dear little face only occasionally distorted by a slight
convulsive quiver.
The father entered in street dress. For the first time his wife looked
at him, and her lips parted in a question--her voice sounded hoarse and
hollow after her long silence.
"Are you going to act to-night, Konstantin?"
He went up to the child and touched its pale forehead.
"He is better. His forehead is perfectly cool. I will come back as soon
as the play is over."
"He is _not_ better. If, meanwhile--"
She could not finish the sentence.
He looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away to hide the
tears the unhappy mother's voice brought into my eyes.
"If I could be of any assistance here," he said, hesitatingly; "it
costs me a hard struggle to leave you, but you will find that the night
will pass quietly, and to-morrow we shall be relieved of all anxiety."
"To-morrow!" she repeated, dully. "You are right; to-morrow we shall be
relieved of all anxiety."
Turning abruptly away, she bowed her face on the pillow of the little
boy, whose chest was beginning to heave painfully.
The artist had already gone to the door, but stopped, saying: "Since
you prefer it, I will give up the performance. I am so agitated that it
would be a poor piece of acting; and then--if he is really--no, it is
better so. They must do as well as they can. Farewell!"
I felt how deeply each one of these careless words wounded her. But no
sound or look betrayed that she was conscious of anything save her
maternal anxiety.
Yet--when, half an hour later, a boy brought a note in which was
scrawled in pencil, "I had entirely forgotten that it is Victorine's
benefit. Unfortunately, it has been impossible for me to induce her to
give me up, and, besides, we have a very crowded house. Let us bear the
inevitable with dignity. Konstantin"--I saw by the gesture of loathing
with which she crushed the sheet and flung it into the corner, that the
wife possessed a vulnerable spot as well as the mother.
Still she uttered no word of comment, and the next moment seemed to
have entirely forgotten it.
For the brief armistice produced by the bath had expired. The last
struggle began. It lasted only a few hours, then all was over. The
brave little heart had ceased to beat.
The mother sat like a statue of despair beside the bed, holding the
little white hand, which no current of blood would ever again warm, and
gazing fixedly at the closed eyelids and livid mouth distorted by pain
that would never more utter any merry words. It was as still around us
as though the night was holding its breath, in order not to rouse the
mother's agonized heart from its beneficent stupor. I had thrown myself
into a chair in a dark corner, and felt as though I were sinking deeper
and deeper into the bottomless abyss of the vast enigma of the world.
From time to time I was forced to struggle with the temptation to rise,
go to the poor woman, fall on my knees before her, and plead: "Keep
your heart firm that it may not break. If you follow him into the
grave, I shall perish too."
But I conquered this selfish impulse. What mattered what happened to
me! What mattered anything, since this child no longer breathed!
The window stood open, the still night air--it was early in June--stole
into the room, but, as the house stood in a quiet side street, rarely
bore with it the sound of a human voice or a passing footstep. The play
must be over, and, with silent indignation, I expected to see the
artist return home to-night in the same condition as yesterday. But I
had done him injustice.
His footstep echoed from the street below as firm and full of stately
majesty as when he trod the boards in his most exalted characters.
Beside it was another, which I should instantly have recognized as
Daniel's elastic tread, even had not his voice been audible also. The
words were unintelligible. But he must have been telling some amusing
story, for his companion's resonant laugh interrupted him several
times. They did not cease talking till they reached the door of the
house.
His wife started at the sound of the laugh, and rose. The little
lifeless hand slipped from her clasp. She passed her other hand over
her brow and her lips moved, but I did not understand what she was
saying, and I only saw that her eyes were sullenly fixed on the floor.
Her husband entered softly. "O, God!" he exclaimed, as he glanced at
the bed. "It is over!" He pondered a moment to find something to say to
his wife, then with a deep groan went to the boy and was about to bend
over him. But he started back as the mother suddenly stood before him,
with her tall figure drawn up to its full height.
"You shall not touch him," she said, in a harsh, hollow tone. "Go, at
once--we have nothing more in common with each other. May God forgive
you for what you have done! Go, go!" she repeated, in a louder tone,
as he made a gesture of entreaty--"I will not bear one word from
you--here--by this bed--in this hour--"
"Luise!" he exclaimed wildly.
"Hush!" she replied sharply, "I pity us both, you as well as myself. I
know you do what you cannot avoid. But go, go! Something is rising in
my soul--something terrible. If I should see you before me longer,
poor--comedian, I might utter words I should repent to-morrow."
Spielberg tottered out of the room. But, as soon as he had closed the
door behind him, his wife sank down beside the couch of her dead child,
and a convulsive sob burst from her sorrow-laden heart.
* * * * *
(Here in the manuscript follow several pages, in which a detailed
account is given of everything that happened during the next few days.
After so many years, every little circumstance was still present to the
narrator, and his grief for the boy, his sympathetic insight into the
soul of the hapless mother, burst forth with such renewed strength that
he felt a sorrowful relief in again conjuring up, incident by incident,
these melancholy recollections. But we will not take up the thread
again until after the earth has closed over the little coffin, which
was wholly concealed under the garlands bestowed by the actors and some
kind people among the inhabitants of the little town. The mother, who
could not be prevented from walking in the funeral procession, had
watched with tearless eyes, as if they were "burned out," her "entire
happiness" placed in the grave--the father had displayed a pathetic
emotion, whose extravagance touched no one. The next evening a comedy
was again played, and the great artist did not miss a word of his
part.)
* * * * *
The fortunate star of the renowned company of artists seemed to have
vanished when the child's eyes closed.
The audiences at the theater daily diminished, two of the most useful
and indispensable members broke their contract and left the manager
in great embarrassment, he himself, after having exerted some little
self-control during the first period of mourning, plunged still more
madly into his nocturnal carouses, and, when I earnestly remonstrated,
asserted with tragic affectation that he had no other means of drowning
his grief. Recently he had even smuggled a bottle of strong liquor into
the dressing-room, contrary to his own rule, prohibiting the use of
wine or spirituous drinks of any kind during the performances. So it
happened that he sometimes declaimed his lines with a stammering
tongue, and lost the last remnant of his authority over his company and
effect upon the public.
I watched the increasing trouble with deep anxiety; but the mute
abstraction in which the unhappy wife passed her days tortured me still
more. At last I ventured to speak to her on the subject, and it seemed
as though she had only been in an apparent death-trance, which was
broken by the first tender word, the first touch of a friend's hand.
"I thank you, Johannes," she said, and for the first time her dull eyes
grew wet with tears. "You are right, I must try to control my grief. It
is not death which has clutched me in his bony arms and stifled every
breath. Life, dear friend, is far more cruel; I cannot break the chains
and bonds in which it has fettered me. But even a convict who drags an
iron ball by a chain must perform his task. It was cowardly and
childish to neglect my daily duties. Only have a little patience with
me; I will hold up my head again."
From that moment she resumed all her duties to the company, managed the
money matters, kept an eye, with Kunigunde's assistance, on the
wardrobe, sent the members word that she would again provide the
dinner, and only shrank from one thing--occasionally attending a
rehearsal as usual.
She again treated every one pleasantly, but never spoke a word to her
husband except when he addressed her. Her misfortune had drawn the
members of the company nearer to her; the women, especially, showed her
many little attentions, except Victorine, who held aloof as before, and
no longer even appeared at the Round Table.
But, when darkness came, she always went to the graveyard and remained
there an hour alone, declining even my companionship with a silent
shake of the head. But we met each other several other times when she
was returning home, and walked silently side by side, absorbed in the
same thoughts, which needed no utterance. I only remember that I once
asked her how she could reconcile this pitiless blow with God's
fatherly kindness. She stopped and, raising her tearful eyes to heaven,
answered:
"Never for one moment have I doubted him. Spite of all the burdens that
weighed upon me, I was the most blessed among women, and God is wise
and just. He lets the tree of no earthly happiness grow into heaven.
But, for the very reason that he took the child from me, I know that he
has not deserted me. If he had left him to me, and he had some day seen
with his innocent eyes the ugly world around us as it really is, and
been permitted only the choice between scorning it or becoming akin to
it, who knows what he would have decided, and either course would have
made both him and me wretched. Now I have buried him here in my heart,
in all his purity and loveliness, and may love him forever, far better
and more fervently than when I still clasped him in my arms. And,
though this love is full of sorrow, neither time nor fate has any power
over it, and for this I thank God, whom I always know near to me when I
go down into the depths of my own heart and feel the dear child living
on there."
What answer could I have made? My whole philosophy became pitiful and
humble before the pious trust of this strong soul. She received the
news calmly, when one day at table her husband said that they would be
obliged to change their residence. The receipts were miserably poor,
and he had had an invitation from the magistrates of the next town on
the coast to give a series of plays, lasting several weeks.
As he spoke, he cast a side-glance at his wife, as though fearing she
would object to leave the place where her child lay buried. He had long
since fallen into the habit of discussing no subjects, when alone with
her, except those required by absolute necessity.
To his surprise she simply assented. Even, when, three days after, we
departed and I drove through the gate in the same carriage with her and
the worthy lady whose young daughter played the _ingénues_, while
Spielberg, with Daniel and Victorine, formed the rear-guard, she had
strength enough to give no sign of the emotions which must have
assailed her in parting from the little grave.
But the hopes with which we had struck our tents were not to be
realized. Just at that time a panic occurred in commercial circles that
made itself felt in the seaport no less than in the large North German
commercial towns. People kept their pockets buttoned, and even the
renowned artist could not open them.
He became so irritated by this state of affairs that, to punish the
ingratitude of the age, he intentionally hid the light of his art under
a bushel, and played his parts with such haughty negligence that even
the few patrons of the theater, who had known his reputation, shook
their heads, and transferred their favor to the less famous members
of the company. Victorine was the admiration of the young merchants;
the _ingénue_ previously mentioned turned the heads of the older
school-boys; Daniel, whose acting, even when most negligent, always had
its interesting moments, found favor with the critics in the two local
papers--yet, nevertheless, the receipts were so small that the company
would have been compelled to disband had not Frau Luise's wise economy
provided a reserve fund for such contingencies. She paid the salaries
as regularly as ever, and kept the wardrobes and other requisites in
decent order, without receiving any special thanks from any one.
* * * * *
I myself was entirely out of funds. Two and a half years of this
wandering life had devoured my savings, I could scarcely be seen in my
shabby clothes, and, though protected from any anxiety about food, had
not even the small amount of pocket money required for trifling wants,
so that I was sometimes seized by a mood of despairing melancholy, and
should undoubtedly have been up and away some day had I not known how
indispensable I had become. If I left the company, everything must
go to ruin. I could tell myself, without vanity, that the breach of
my--unwritten--contract would be equivalent to fracturing an axle in
the car of Thespis.
Moreover, was I not bound body and soul to this woman, considering
myself transcendently rewarded if she held out her large, firm hand to
me in the evening and said, "Good-night, dear friend!"
Still, these miserable circumstances oppressed me more and more, and
one day, when I met in the street a college friend who meanwhile had
had a prosperous career, and while on a business journey had come to
our Pomeranian coast, I bore his look of compassionate surprise with a
bitter laugh, and willingly accepted his invitation to share a bottle
of wine with him that evening at his hotel and make a general
confession.
I had made no confession for years, and it was months since a drop of
wine had moistened my lips. So only a single glass was needed to lure
from me an unreserved acknowledgment of my wretched plight.
There was but one thing I carefully concealed--the strongest chain that
bound me to this miserable existence, my mad, hopeless love for this
woman. Yet, had the hand of a god suddenly aided me to tear myself
free, what could I have done with my liberty? To what occupation in
civil life should I have found the door open, I, a runaway Candidate of
theology, who had not disdained to play the part of factotum to a
company of traveling actors for two years and a half.
So when, toward eleven o'clock, I took leave of my former comrade, we
were no wiser concerning my future, and what I had to hope and fear
from it, than in the beginning.
He had told me, with a shake of the head, that there must be some love
affair in the matter, and correctly understood my shrug of the
shoulders. But, as he had been to the theater the night before, he
seemed undecided between Victorine and the young _ingénue_.
"Let me sleep over the affair," he said at last, as he went out into
the hall with me--we had had our wine in his chamber, as there was
much noise and confusion in the public room below--"I sha'n't see you
to-morrow, because I must leave very early, but I will write as soon as
a good idea occurs to me."
I pressed his hand and thoughtfully descended the stairs. In going up,
two hours before, I had seen in the public room below Luise's husband
and several actors, among them Daniel, who was inseparable from the
manager. Meantime, eleven o'clock had come, but they had not yet
separated, and I wished at any cost to avoid meeting them. But, just as
I was stealing softly past the door, it was thrown open, and my friend,
tall Herr Laban, staggered out, supported by one of the younger actors.
Both were in the gayest humor. "Look there, look there, Timotheus!" he
shouted, laughing. "Where the deuce hast thou been hiding"--he always
used 'thou' to me--"while we have been seeing the most capital farce
played here? You have missed a great deal, I can tell you, Doctor; and,
in not saying good-night to your traveling friend over our heads, you
have stood very much in your own light. Isn't that so, Juvenil?"
The young man laughingly agreed that it had been a splendid joke--no
comedy of errors had ever amused him so much.
I tried to pass on with some careless remark, but Laban seized my arm
and, while we helped him down the last steps, began to tell me the
story in his comical way.
They had drunk several glasses when Daniel began to boast of his talent
for imitating living persons, and instantly gave several proofs of this
ability by copying the voice and gestures of the landlord and some of
the regular guests, to the delight of the whole company. Spielberg
alone had sat in his heroic grandeur, looking on with an air of
contemptuous dignity, and finally remarked that such monkey tricks,
which dazzled the public, were easy, and besides found their limits in
certain figures whose majesty rendered them, as it were, unapproachable
for mimicry. Did he include himself among them? the insolent fellow
asked, and, when the great man nodded silently, he laid a wager that he
would personate him so exactly that he would hardly know whether it was
himself or his double. They ordered a bottle of champagne, and then
Daniel led the manager into the next room. After a short time the door
opened again, and Spielberg strode in. Everybody asked whether Daniel
was not ready or had given up his wager. "That young man promises much,
and does nothing save to make fools of honest Thebans," was the reply,
after which he approached the table with his stately walk, shook the
bottle in the ice and exclaimed: "A plague on all cowardly poltroons!"
Then they first discovered that it was Daniel, and not the great actor
himself, and even then it was only the little hand he owes to his
Polish blood that betrayed him. But, just as there was a general burst
of applause and laughter, the door again opened and a second Daniel
appeared, in a gray summer suit and Polish cap, with his cat-like tread
and feminine movement of the hips, so that the uproar and clapping of
hands grew louder than ever--for nobody had ever imagined the manager
possessed such a talent. This, however, was merely the beginning of the
farce. Each continued to play the character of the other: Daniel in the
belaced velvet coat, with straw hat pulled over his forehead, toasted
his image, amid constant quotations uttered in his resonant voice, and
Spielberg, with all the Harlequin tricks the other was in the habit of
using on the stage, never let the laughers stop to take breath, so that
each of the two had won and lost the wager. But, when they had broken
the neck of the second bottle, Daniel suddenly became silent, went to
Spielberg, and whispered something which made the manager look puzzled.
But his double seized his arm and led him out. When after a long time
they did not return, we asked for them, and the waiter said that after
whispering together for some time the two gentlemen had left the hotel
arm in arm.
I do not know why I could not laugh at this amusing trick. But I
hastily took leave of the two actors, whose room was on the top floor
of the hotel, and, in a most uncomfortable mood, passed out into the
street just as the clock in the nearest church-steeple struck eleven.
Though I felt no inclination to sleep, a strange anxiety urged me
homeward, as if I were expected there.
My way led through the street in which the other hotel stood. Here
Victorine and Daniel lodged. And just as I glanced at the door of the
house I saw the fellow--whom I easily recognized by his dress--ring the
bell and, directly after, with a greeting from the porter, cross the
threshold. But what thought occurred to me? Was that really Daniel--or
was it his double in his clothes? And, if it were the latter, what was
he doing in that house, where Victorine was now probably waiting for
the _other_?
However, I had no time to ponder over this idea, for the question
suddenly darted through my brain: What has become of that other, the
false Spielberg?
Suspecting some deviltry, some base trick, I rushed through the
deserted streets to the house where Frau Luise lived, and I, too, had
my modest room in the upper story. She was in the habit of sitting up
late with some piece of sewing or a book, usually alone, for faithful
Kunigunde closed her eyes at nine o'clock. As I hastily drew out my
night-key I noticed that the door, contrary to custom, stood half open.
I did not take time to shut it again, but, with trembling hands,
lighted the little pocket-lantern, which must illumine my way up the
dark stairs, and rushed on. But I had not yet reached the landing on
the first story when I heard Frau Luise's deep tones, and then saw her
facing her husband--no, his double, who, with his straw hat on his head
and his coat flung open, slowly retreated before her, his ardent dark
eyes fixed with an indescribable expression on her face.
Frau Luise was holding a little lamp in her left hand, and had raised
her right threateningly against the scoundrel, her face, whose waxen
pallor usually formed a striking contrast to her mourning dress, was
flushed with the crimson hue of wrath, and her eyes shone with a
strange, supernatural luster.
"You will leave this house at once and the city tomorrow," I heard her
say. "You are the most contemptible of human beings, and what you have
presumed to do merits a bloody chastisement. I am a woman, and must
leave it to my husband to avenge this insult as he deems best. But, if
you should ever have the effrontery to appear before my eyes again--"
"Pardon me, madame," he interrupted--and, though he endeavored to
appear entirely nonchalant, I detected in his tremulous voice that he
did not feel entirely at ease while confronting this haughty figure--"I
beg a thousand pardons; I did not imagine you would take an innocent
jest so tragically, especially as your husband saw no offense in it. We
had laid a wager that I could personate him exactly. The final and
hardest test, of course, was whether his own wife would recognize me.
Well, at first you certainly believed me to be Herr Spielberg, and were
not undeceived until I took the liberty of embracing you--doubtless a
husband's kisses are less ardent than those of a lover, who for two
years has yearned to even once press his lips upon a mouth which never
had aught for him save contemptuous silence. Though I have lost my
wager, the kiss that betrayed me is abundant compensation, and so,
fairest of women, I have the honor--"
He was not to have breath to finish the sentence. For, in a fury I had
never experienced before, I rushed upon the miscreant, seized him by
the chest, and, tearing off his hat with the other hand, shook him by
the hair till his sneering face wore an expression of mortal terror, as
I dragged him to the stairs and would have flung him down heels over
head, had he not by a sudden movement, lithe as a young panther,
escaped from my grasp, and, thrusting me aside, glided down the dark
stair-case, muttering an imprecation between his set teeth.
* * * * *
We heard him shut the door of the house and, in the fear of pursuit,
hurriedly lock it. Then, in the death-like stillness that again
prevailed, we looked into each other's eyes to see if it were possible
that we had actually experienced this, or whether some dream had
conjured up the same vision before both. I saw her tremble as if some
unclean beast had clutched her in its claws. A quiver of wrath and
loathing contracted her brow and lips. "I thank you, Johannes," she
said. "But excuse me, I must go in now and wash myself. O, Heaven! all
the perfumes of Arabia--but no, we can only be sullied by our own evil
thoughts. Do not you think so, too?"
She turned away and carried the lamp back to her room again. I followed
her to the threshold.
"Frau Luise," I asked, "will you let me shoot the rascal down like a
mad dog? Or do you consider him worthy to receive his punishment in an
honest duel?"
"You must do nothing to him," she answered in a hollow tone. "If,
as I still hope, it is false that another person knew of this knavish
trick, it is that other's business to avenge the insult that was
offered to him even more than to me. To-morrow will decide this. It is
late now--you must leave me--I must wash my face and the hands that
touched the scoundrel, even to push him away."
I shut the door, and sadly mounted the stairs to my room.
* * * * *
It was useless to think of sleeping. Not only because the detestable
scene I had just witnessed still hovered before my eyes, but because I
expected every moment that the other would return home, and wished to
be ready in case his wife should need my assistance.
True, she was strong and brave enough to defend herself against any
insult or injury. But who could tell in what state of recklessness,
stung by his evil conscience, that "other" would confront her.
At any rate he delayed long enough. The _rôle_ of double, which he
played so admirably, seemed to have found an appreciative audience in
the depraved girl for whom he was enacting it, or perhaps she had
entered into the deception with malicious satisfaction in order to
wound the noble woman she hated.
I heard the clock strike the hours--midnight, one, two. Then, without
undressing, I threw myself on the bed and shut my burning eyes, but my
ears remained open and watchful. Scarcely half an hour had passed when
I heard a lagging step approach along the pavement below, and in an
instant again stood at my window. Yes, it was he. By the gray light of
the summer sky, I could distinguish the Polish cap, the loose coat, and
the white hands which hastily rummaged his pockets for the key of the
house door. But it was in the other suit of clothes, now worn by the
double. The criminal who had shut himself out of the peace of his own
home stood for a time gazing up at the windows, behind which he
doubtless saw the glimmer of the night-lamp. Ought you to go down, open
the door for him, and pour forth to his face all you think of him, all
the wrath you have so long pent up concerning his sins against this
woman, the tip of whose little finger he is unworthy to kiss? No, I
thought. Let him suffer for his sin. It is only a pity that this isn't
a winter night, and he is not obliged to stand barefoot in the snow
until broad daylight.
He? He would have been likely to undertake such a penance! After twice
calling, in a tone of assumed piteousness, "Luise!" he took off his
cap, passed his hand over his waving locks, then pressed the little fur
cap low over his forehead, and turned defiantly to seek the place from
which some pitiful remnant of remorse had driven him.
I uttered a sigh of relief, opened the window, and cooled my heated
face. At last I sought my couch, and toward morning really fell asleep.
My slumber was so sound that I was first roused by a very loud knocking
at my door. When I opened it, Kunigunde was standing outside, and
requested me to come down to Frau Luise. "Has your master returned?" I
asked the faithful creature.
"Of course. But not until nearly nine o'clock, when my mistress had
gone out to make some purchases. He seemed to know that she was not at
home, for he did not even ask for her, but shut himself up in her room
for a while, and then went away without leaving any message. But I saw
a letter lying on the table, which the mistress read as soon as she
came in, and then sent me up to you."
The good old woman was evidently troubled, and, in spite of having gone
to rest so early, seemed to have heard enough of the nocturnal scene to
pity her honored mistress.
When, following close at her heels, I entered Frau Luise's room, I
found her sitting on the sofa beside a table, with the letter lying
open before her.
She nodded to me with an absent look, and said in an expressionless
tone: "Sit down and read this, Johannes; the end has come."
I took the sheet and hastily glanced over it. The letter was not short,
and was written precisely in Spielberg's usual style, lofty, adorned
with rhetorical ornaments, interspersed here and there with a quotation
from Schiller. He saw that by yesterday's occurrence--of which, though
without any evil intent, he had been the cause--he had forfeited even
the last remnant of her love. So it would be better for him to go
voluntarily into exile, and not return until he could meet her with new
renown and in an assured position. True, what are the hopes, the wishes
on which man relies? But he trusted to his star. She would lose all
trace of him for a time, but he hoped he should afterward be able to
repay her for what she had suffered through him. He closed by thanking
her for her generous tolerance of his weaknesses. Genius was no easy
companion for a life-pilgrimage--and similar high-sounding words.
In a postscript, he begged her to pardon him for having appropriated,
in order to execute his plan, the reserve fund she had so carefully
saved. He left in exchange, at her free disposal, the whole _fundus
instructus_, scenes, costumes, requisites, and theatrical library; she
might either sell them or continue the business. In the latter case,
Cousin Johannes would assist her.
Then followed a pathetic farewell, another quotation, and the
signature, with an elaborate flourish: "Ever your own Konstantin."
I probably looked like a person who, while eating raspberries, suddenly
bites a wasp. For, as I silently laid down the letter, she said
soothingly: "It has moved me very little. This must have happened
sooner or later, and it is fortunate that it came now. Believe me, I
feel perfectly calm, and am sincerely grateful to him for not having
sought a personal interview. I am like a person recovering from a
severe, insidious disease, a little weak, it is true, but I shall no
longer be terrified by the hideous visions with which the fever
tortured my brain."
"What do you intend to do?" I asked at last.
"My duty, so far as I can. True, I am as poor as a church-mouse. But
the others must not suffer."
"Frau Luise," I said, "I know that you were formerly too proud to
summon your guardian to give an account of his management of your
property. But now, in such necessity--"
She smiled bitterly. "Too proud? My dear friend, I should not have been
too proud even at that time to claim my rights. But, as you know, where
there is nothing, even the Emperor cannot assert his rights, far less a
poor Canoness who eloped with an actor. My uncle squandered the last
shilling of my mother's property. Would you have me turn him out of
house and home by appealing to the law? But let us say no more about
these detestable things. Fortunately I paid the members of the company
their monthly salary only a few days ago. As the business is now broken
up, they are in a pitiable plight, for where can they obtain a new
engagement in midsummer? So the _fundus instructus_ must be sold as
quickly and as profitably as possible, and meantime be pawned. You will
do me this one last favor, dear Johannes. I have another little plan,
too. Why do you look at me so wonderingly? Surely you did not suppose
that all this would find me unprepared. I have long expected something
of the sort. Weak as he is--but we will not speak of him."
She now explained her intention of obtaining, by means of a concert in
the theater, a considerable sum for the benefit of the orphaned
company, which, bereft of the manager and "the others," could give no
more performances. By these "others" she meant Daniel and Victorine.
While out of doors she had met an actor, who excitedly asked whether
she knew that the couple had just gone on board an English merchant
vessel lying in the harbor. He did not say that the manager was with
them, but the wife did not doubt it for an instant, and therefore knew
what she should find when she returned to the house again.
She would herself appear and sing at the concert, she continued. She
knew that there would be a full house, for her misfortune, of course,
was now in everybody's mouth, and, as she had always kept out of sight,
curiosity and perhaps a better feeling would urge many to see and hear
the woman who had led so strange a life, and must now reap what she had
sown. She did not fear the eyes of strangers. It was a misfortune that
her heart had prompted her to entrust her life to the keeping of one
who was unworthy, but neither a disgrace nor a crime. So she would
appear, with head erect, before a cold, malicious world, and not a note
would falter in her throat.
She had not expected too much of her own powers. When she appeared on
the stage, in a plain black dress, with a little black veil wound
around her golden braids, and every eye in the densely-crowded house
was fixed upon her, I saw--I was sitting at the piano to play her
accompaniments--her face flush for a moment. But its natural hue
instantly returned, and she sang her aria from Orpheus, several
melodies from Iphigenia in Tauris, and Mignon's song composed by
Beethoven, with such power and simple beauty that it seemed as if the
tempests of life which had stirred the inmost depths of her soul had
only served to bring the flower of her art to still more superb
development.
The effect was so profound and overwhelming that a storm of applause,
such as had never greeted even the finest scenes of the great actor,
shook the theater.
She bowed modestly, with a sad smile that won every heart. When, in the
waiting-room, I congratulated her, her face clouded. "Hush," she
whispered hurriedly. "Would you tell the victim, about to be offered as
a sacrifice, that the garlands are becoming?"
The other parts of the programme, two comic soliloquies by Laban, and
some of Schiller's ballads recited by our _ingénue_, were well
received. When I accompanied Frau Luise home, I held in the box under
my arm a very large sum received from the evening's entertainment.
When we reached her room, I wished to give her the money. "No," she
replied, "henceforth you must be the treasurer. I shall make but one
stipulation--that you do not entirely forget yourself, but share
equally with the rest. With foolish generosity you have spent all your
savings in order to retain a laborious situation here, for which you
received neither thanks nor payment. What do you intend to do now?"
"That will depend upon you, Frau Luise."
Her eyes sought the floor, then, raising them to mine with an
indescribably tender glance, she said:
"No, my friend, we part this very day, this very hour. You need have no
anxiety about me. I shall not pine away and die. You know that I am
very strong, or how could I have endured everything?--and, as I am no
longer a Canoness, I must not shrink from a little labor. But you must
try to return to the life from which your friendship for me has torn
you. Promise me that, after you have attended to the last details of
business here, you will go back to your old profession, if not as a
clergyman, as a teacher, or in some scholarly occupation. I will watch
your course from a distance. You will promise, will you not?"
"Frau Luise," I stammered, "do you wish to banish me? Do you not
know--"
"I know all, my friend; you need not add another word. And I also know
that I love you with all my heart, and therefore it is better for us to
part. A woman whose husband has vanished is not free to choose--surely
you understand that. And I will suffer no stain upon my name. You will
remain my friend, as I am yours. And to seal this, I will now, in
bidding you farewell, affectionately embrace you and give you a
sister's kiss. Your lips, my faithful friend, shall restore the purity
of mine, which yesterday were desecrated by a scoundrel."
With these words, she embraced me, and for one brief, blissful moment
her warm lips pressed mine in a pure and tender caress. Then, with a
low "Farewell, my friend," she gently pushed me out of the door.
The next morning, when I woke from sorrowful dreams, and was hurriedly
dressing, some one knocked at my door. Kunigunde entered and, with many
tears, told me that her mistress had driven away at dawn in a hired
carriage, telling nobody her destination, and leaving for me a farewell
and a little package.
It was a sealed paper. When I opened it, out fell the gold chain on
which she used to wear around her neck the locket containing her
mother's picture.
III.
Several weeks have passed since I wrote the last lines. When I laid the
sheet in the portfolio--a music portfolio Frau Luise had left, and in
which I usually kept some of the airs from Glück's operas arranged for
the piano--I was startled by the bulk of the MS., and asked myself:
"Will any one have patience to read all this? And why should you add to
it?"
Ah, if you were a professional author, and, instead of a truthful
narrative of the life of the woman so dear to you, could transform her
fate into a genuine romance, skillfully blending fact and fiction, or
if you at least possessed the gift of describing these experiences in
hues so fresh and vivid that no one could help finding her as charming
as she is to you! But you are only a clumsy, simple chronicler of
events, and the man for whom you intend these records will smile at the
_labor improbus_ you have bestowed on so superfluous a work and at your
innocent idea that you were thereby doing him a favor.
Well, I then thought, even if you are only pleasing yourself by again
conjuring up your old joys and sorrows, what harm is there in that? He
can let the avalanche of MS. you hurl into his house roll quietly aside
with the others the mail brings to importune him. Who compels him to do
more than cast a compassionate glance at it?
But, if he forgives the lonely man his volubility, and eats through
this biographical mountain, as Klas Avenstak ate through the hill of
pancakes, he must expect that I shall not defraud him of the end,
especially as the early close the gods decreed to Luise's life was
spiced with much that was sweet, to compensate for many bitter things
in her previous destiny.
So I will summon courage to again take up my pen, endeavoring, however,
to be as brief as possible, especially in the incidents which concern
my insignificant self.
Therefore I will say nothing of the state of mind in which I spent the
first few days after my friend's secret departure. Fortunately I had a
number of disagreeable affairs on my hands, was forced to attend to the
questions, complaints, business, and reproaches of the deserted company
of actors, undertake the distribution of the money and provide for the
sale of the _fundus_, which latter affair was settled more quickly and
profitably than I had feared. Frau Luise's destination was as little
known as the distant shore to which the great artist had shaped his
course. So I took a sorrowful leave of my colleagues, who, with the
exception of the three oldest members, Laban, Gottlieb Schönicke, and
the good prompter, who grieved sincerely for the vanished woman, seemed
to be tolerably consoled by the considerable sum that fell to the share
of each, and, as I was far too sad at heart and dull of brain to form
any sensible plan for the future, I sent my trunk to my native town,
strapped my knapsack on my back, and wandered through Pomerania and the
Mark to my old home. I believe that during those eight or ten days I
did not have one sensible thought, for the Orpheus aria constantly rang
in my ears:
"Alas, I have lost her,
All my happiness is o'er!"
It will be considered perfectly natural that the news of my return
excited no special rejoicing in the small provincial town, and no one
felt impelled to kill a fatted calf to do honor to the Prodigal Son. At
first I kept out of the way as much as possible, since wherever I
appeared I was stared at as though I were some wild animal just escaped
from a menagerie, or, still worse, shunned with evident fear of
contagion, being regarded as a dangerous sinner who, lured by the lust
of the world and the flesh, had exchanged the preacher's calling for a
dissipated vagabond life among jugglers and strollers.
One old friend, however, who meantime had become principal of the
highest public school, treated me with his old cordiality, listened
sympathizingly to the account of my fate, and, as I was absolutely
penniless, offered me temporary shelter in an attic room in his little
house. Ere long, spite of my antecedents, he succeeded in getting me
the position of teacher of singing to the three lower classes, as
the old chorister was daily growing deafer. When he became wholly
incapable of further service, the three upper classes were also
transferred to me, and, after having conscientiously done my duty for
several years, and meanwhile showed by my irreproachable conduct that I
was not the Don Juan and demon of darkness rumor had pronounced me, I
was advanced--partly in consequence of the services of my dead father,
whose memory was still honored--to the position of teacher of geography
and history, in which I was often reminded of the time when I had
related the same beautiful stories to my little pupil and his haughty
sister.
My kind fellow-citizens had pardoned my past--nay, with the feminine
portion of the population, it merely helped to surround the commonplace
fellow I was and am with that halo of impiety which is usually more
attractive to the weaker sex than the most beautiful aureola of
unsullied virtue. Many very estimable mothers of marriageable daughters
greeted me in the street with an encouraging glance--nay, there was no
lack of efforts to tempt me to their houses, especially after a small
legacy, which I inherited very unexpectedly, enabled me, with my modest
salary as a teacher, to establish a quiet home of my own. Even my
friend and present colleague gave me numerous well-meant hints--Heaven
would rather provide for two than for one, and so would the fathers of
the city. But I answered all such admonitions with a smile and a shrug
of the shoulders. How could I have been such a scoundrel as to deceive
an innocent, unsuspecting girl by letting her suppose a heart free
which had long been firmly bound?
The ten years I spent in this way were joyless and desolate enough. I
had lost my taste even for the society of men; foolish political
discussions and standing local jests had no interest for me, and I had
never cared for any game of cards except the one with which such
beloved memories were associated. So I spent the evenings in my lonely
room, and used the money I saved from gambling and drinking for the
purchase of books, though the volumes were wholly different in
character from those I had inherited from my dear father. Besides the
newest philosophical works, I ordered novels by English authors, among
whom Thackeray was my special favorite, while Dickens seemed to me a
sentimental mannerist, striving for effect, who had no correct ideas of
women. But I will leave this part of my life and hasten on to the main
subject.
* * * * *
One Wednesday afternoon in March--I had no school, but a furious
snow-storm prevented my taking my usual walk into the country--some one
knocked at my door, and an old woman, on whom I had never set eyes
before, hobbled into the room. She was almost out of breath, for, as
she said, she had come from the alms-house at the opposite end of the
town, and the wind had almost blown her away. She drew from the folds
of her thick shawl a crumpled note, in which was scribbled in pencil:
"If you have not yet forgotten your old friend, dear Johannes, give her
the pleasure of a visit. She has been ill for a fortnight, and is
permitted to sit up to-day for the first time. The messenger knows
where she is to be found.
Luise."
I will not attempt to describe the tempest of feeling those few words
awakened in my soul. For a moment the room and all it contained whirled
around me, and I should not have been surprised had the old woman
suddenly thrown off her patched clothing and stood before me in the
guise of a beautiful fairy.
With trembling haste I hurried on my coat, seized my hat and cane, and
went out into the street ere I asked if this were really true, and how
she had happened to serve the lady as a messenger.
There was nothing strange in that, the old dame had answered. Madame
Spielberg had arrived a fortnight ago, in her own carriage, very ill
with measles, and had asked to be taken to the hospital. But as, on
account of the rebuilding, no one could be received there, and the only
patient, by the burgomaster's orders, had meantime been removed to the
almshouse, the stranger had been transported there, to her entire
satisfaction for, thank Heaven, she had lacked nothing. The doctor had
been instantly summoned, and then the seven old dames who now lived
there shared the nursing, which had prospered so well that to-day she
had eaten her soup with an excellent appetite and been able to drink a
tiny glass of wine. The doctor had told them to be very attentive to
the sick lady, who was of noble birth and a Canoness. Well, that was no
hard task for them. There was not such another lovely lady in the whole
world, she was always apologizing for giving so much trouble, and that
day, after she sat up, had sent for her trunk and given each one some
article of clothing for a present. Then she asked about the
schoolmaster, but, when she saw the storm, said the note could wait
till to-morrow. But she, the old dame, would not hear of that, and now
I would see for myself how well the lady was taken care of. She
occupied No. 12, the best room in the whole house.
When I had entered the dusky corridor and shaken the snow from my
clothing, and my guide, pointing to one of the little doors, had said,
"That's number 12," I was obliged to pause a few moments to calm myself
before I knocked. Is it really true? I thought. Ten years have passed
like one day! In your heart at least! And she--how will you find her?
But I had scarcely heard her "Come in!" when I knew she must be just
the same as ever; time, grief, and even want had no power over her
strong soul; and, whether I found her in this wretched almshouse or on
a throne, she would ever be the mistress of my thoughts and feelings.
So I entered, and the first look in which our eyes met thrilled me with
the warmth and happiness a patient, on whom an operation for a cataract
has been performed, feels when the bandage is removed for the first
time.
She was sitting in a large arm-chair by the window, past which the
snow-flakes were whirling, and held on her knee an open book. The large
room was bare and wholly unadorned, the walls were white-washed, the
bed was covered with a brown shawl that I distinctly remembered, her
trunk stood at the foot, there was a plain table and two chairs--the
usual almshouse furniture. But on the table beside the _carafe_ stood a
glass containing a bunch of snow-drops, in front of a daguerreotype of
her child in a small easel-frame wreathed with the same white blossoms.
Everything was just as usual, for she had always kept this picture near
her, and she still wore, as at the time I last saw her, her mourning
dress, with the little black silk kerchief wound in her fair hair, only
its amber hue was not so deep, but seemed powdered with a gray dust.
The beautiful oval face, however, was wholly unchanged, save for an
expression of cheerfulness which had been alien to it during the last
period of our companionship. How she smiled at me, how her voice
sounded--was she really a sorely-afflicted woman, who had passed her
fortieth year? And I, was I the dried up, provincial Philistine and
pedagogue I had so long believed myself to be, or still a reckless
young fellow, ready at any moment to commit the wildest folly for this
woman's sake.
She did not rise to greet me, but held out both hands, and I could only
clasp and hold them in the utmost embarrassment. I did not venture to
kiss them. I had too often seen this knightly homage paid by the man
who had inflicted the keenest suffering upon her heart, and would not
remind her of any bitter experience.
"Frau Luise," I said, "it is really you--you have not changed in the
least--I am so happy to see you again--and you were ill and I only
learn your presence here to-day."
"Sit down by me, Johannes," she said. "I, too, am glad to see your face
once more. You look very well; you have grown a little stouter, but it
is becoming; teaching seems to suit you better than the dramatic
business. Oh, my dear friend, this is like the day of judgment, when
everything is to be brought together. True, only the shadow of the very
best of all returns!" She glanced at the picture of Joachimchen on the
table, and her eyes grew grave.
"I can not yet recover from my joyful surprise," I said, as I took my
seat at the window opposite to her. "You here! And what tempted you to
this out-of-the-way corner? And whence do you come?"
She smiled again.
"_You_ tempted me, my friend--_you_, and no one else. I was very ill
and thought I should not recover. So, before my death, I wanted to
again clasp the hand of my last friend, and thank him for all the love
and fidelity he has shown me. Believe me, I know everything that has
happened to you during our separation--it is not much--Uncle Joachim
constantly inquired about you and wrote me all he learned. He alone, of
all my acquaintances, knew where I was to be found."
"And did not answer one single word, the envious man, though I wrote to
him three times to obtain news of you."
"He could not. I had strictly forbidden it. I wanted to be dead to
every one, and always hoped that God would be merciful and speedily
summon me from the world. But He had different plans for me, and I will
not murmur against His will. Where did I hide myself? Why, in a very
remote corner of the Uckermark, on the estate of a nobleman who had
advertised for a companion for his invalid wife and a governess for his
little daughter. How I fared in that house, and learned to practice
every deed of charity, I will tell you some other time or not at all. I
can only repeat the old words: 'With the sick I became well, with the
poor rich, with the dying I learned to live.' And all this exactly in
my own way, with people whom I tenderly loved. You know the
professional neighborly love a deaconess practices would be contrary to
my nature, like a public display of piety and love for God. But when
the gentle sufferer died, and a few weeks after her little daughter
followed her, I could no longer remain in the house; for the sorrowing
widower, otherwise a thoroughly admirable man, offered me his heart and
hand, and, when I told him that I was not free, proposed to make every
effort to have my missing husband declared dead and then marry me. Just
at that time I received a letter from our Liborius, the gardener,
informing me that Uncle Joachim was very ill and wished to see me. This
instantly afforded me an escape from my painful position. For, though I
could be nothing to the worthy man, I pitied his desolation and his
hopeless love. Willing or not, he was now obliged to let me go at
once."
"Poor woman!" I said. "How you must have suffered in returning to the
old scenes which had so many hated associations."
"You are wrong," she answered. "Those few weeks on the estate are among
the most consoling my life has known. I saw none of the faces that were
repulsive to me--indeed many of those I held dear were also missing.
Aunt Elizabeth had slept for six years in the family vault. Her
'inconsolable husband,' as he styles himself on the tombstone, coupled
with a verse from the Bible expressing a hope of a reunion--perhaps you
have seen it in the newspaper?--Uncle Achatz, went to France directly
after the funeral, accompanied by the young Englishwoman, who, after
the separation from Mademoiselle Suzon, had become indispensable to him
as a reader and companion. In Paris, where to improve his finances he
frequented gambling-houses, he met a doubtful character, who quarreled
with him at faro and then shot him in a duel. As the traveling
companion disappeared the same day, leaving nothing of any value, the
unfortunate man was buried in a very simple manner at the expense of
the Prussian embassy, and is still awaiting in French soil the day when
he is to be interred by his wife's side. Hitherto my young cousin has
lacked time and means to do this. Immediately after his father's death,
he set to work zealously, under Uncle Joachim's supervision, to
extricate his financial affairs from their utter disorder, and in every
possible way improve the estate, so that in time the former splendor of
the family might be restored. I should have been very glad to see
Achatz, who had not been your pupil one whole summer entirely in vain.
But just before I arrived he had set out with his young wife on a
wedding journey to Italy. Nor did I see my cousin Leopoldine, who as
you know married Cousin Kasimir, and has had no light cross to bear. My
best friend, Mother Lieschen, had long since gone to her last rest. So
I found only the old servants, the gardener, the villagers, who were
all fond of me because Aunt Elizabeth's kind deeds reached them by my
hands--and my dear old uncle, the sight of whom fairly startled me. He
was sitting, crippled with gout, our family disease, in an
uncomfortable chair by the stove, his dog, a grand-daughter of our old
Diana, lying beside him, and his pipe, which had gone out, between his
teeth. He could not light it himself with his bandaged hands, and
Liborius did not always have time to attend to him. But his mind was as
clear and bright as in his best days, and his old heart still throbbed
as warmly as ever. I can not tell you, dear Johannes, what joy and
enlightenment, even amid the saddest feelings, I experienced during
those last days spent with the dying man. There the last ring forged
around me by my own hard fate was shattered into fragments, and I felt
ashamed of my weak-hearted melancholy in the presence of the quiet,
brave, cheerful sufferer, who never allowed a complaint to escape his
lips. Only when the pain became too severe, a stifled _nom d'un nom!_
sometimes slipped through his teeth with the smoke, and then he begged
me to put my hand on his heart, that the raging thing might feel its
mistress.
"So he at last died, with a chivalrous jest on his lips and a loving
look at me. The gout, as people say, went to his heart. It was not
until after his death that I fully realized what a noble man he had
been. I sat for hours beside the open coffin, and resolved that I would
fight as bravely through the span of life still left me, and again look
forth upon the world with cheerful eyes.
"But I could not yet devote myself to my own affairs, an epidemic of
measles had broken out in the village, and I was needed from early till
late, in house after house, to help the doctor abolish the absurd
torments still in use from the treatment of ancient times. Meanwhile,
the small sum of money I had brought with me was consumed in the
expenses of my uncle's funeral and the needs of the village hospital.
When at last the disease attacked me also, I had just enough left to
pay for the carriage which was to bring me here to my old friend.
"But when I had arrived it seemed kinder not to startle this faithful
man, perhaps even expose him to the same calamity by summoning him to
my sick bed. So I waited till I had had my first bath, which I took
yesterday, and now I can give you my hand without peril, and tell you
how glad I am that a respite on this chilly earth is still granted me,
and that I hope to enjoy a few more beautiful springs in this lower
world."
* * * * *
She had again given me her hand, which I now raised to my lips.
"Frau Luise," I replied, "you have bestowed upon me the greatest joy
and honor I have ever experienced. I value your coming here as highly
as though you had dubbed me a knight. And, in truth, during all these
years, I have felt myself your knight and worn your colors."
A slight flush mounted into her face, which made her look still
younger. "Do not overestimate me," she replied. "I had two objects in
coming, only one of which was unselfish. I wanted to see you again to
have you help me in my need, but also, it is true, to provide for your
own future."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "What future can there be for a man like
me, whose presence no one would miss. You see, my dear friend, men of
my stamp are indispensable to the human race, but only like the stones
the architect cements together in the earth, that they may form a solid
foundation for his proud temple. We are invisibly bound together, and
render service as a whole, but the individual is not much noticed; even
if he is moldering, he does his duty while he fills his little space.
Why do you talk to me of the future? So long as you stay with me, time
will vanish."
Luise shook her head gravely.
"I am not in question," she replied, "and, if we are to remain good
friends, you must not make any more of these extravagant speeches. You
are no longer an enthusiastic youth, but still young enough to take a
fresh start in life, have a beloved wife and a house full of children,
without entirely forgetting your old friend. It is not necessary to
have a proud ideal of the future for that. But you ought to be ashamed
of so depreciating yourself, burying your talent, dreaming and grieving
away your life in this secluded hamlet, instead of seeking a sphere of
influence where all your gifts might develop. Or, if you have lost the
courage and desire to live for mankind, why will you not at least make
one individual happy, and diffuse warmth enough from your hearth-stone
to benefit the immediate neighborhood?"
"Because I am no longer free, but have long languished in bonds and
fetters," I replied, and, unbuttoning my vest at the neck, drew out her
gold chain, which I never laid aside. She again flushed slightly, but
forced herself to assume a stern expression, and said: "You are
incorrigible; but I won't give you up yet. I know that you will do much
to afford me pleasure. First, however, you must do me another service.
I have told you that I spent my last thalers for the carriage which
brought me here. I should like to look about me for another position,
where I can make myself useful, and you shall help me by advancing a
small sum. I don't need much, but I haven't paid a farthing in this
house, and should not like to live on at the expense of a community
upon which I have not even the claim of being a native of the place.
But I am not too proud to beg from you."
"You could have made me no more valuable gift," I exclaimed. "And now
we won't say another word about this trifle. Tell me about yourself,
and, above all, whether you are well cared for here, and what I can do
for your comfort."
She smiled again.
"I am treated like a princess. You know that old women were always fond
of me. Now I have no less than seven of them in one group, and they are
so attentive and so jealous of my favor that I am obliged to act on the
defensive. Whenever I rang, all seven of them would come hobbling in to
ask my wishes. They felt honored by the presence of an ex-Canoness in
the almshouse; the coachman, who came from our estate, had told them
who I was, or rather might be, if I had not destroyed my own prospects.
My coming here ill with such a commonplace disease, and lying down
contentedly in so plain a bed, as if I had never slept in a castle, won
their hearts at a single stroke. But, to escape their officious zeal
without wounding the jealous devotion of any one, I arranged to have
each dame serve me one day in the week. In this way I learned to know
them all, and am now aware of everything Mother Schulzen, Mother
Jenicke, Mother Grabow and the others have suffered during their
insignificant, sorrowful lives. But you will be little interested in
this. Besides, I have already talked too much--the doctor would scold.
Go now, dear friend, and if you have time come again to-morrow. While I
am here, we will see a great deal of each other."
* * * * *
These were pleasant and prophetic words. I owe the happiest part of my
life to the time Frau Luise spent beneath this humble roof.
Of course, I now visited her daily, and as she rapidly recovered our
talks became longer, so, when the last snow had disappeared and the
world grew warm and bright again, we did not stay within the four bare
walls, but took the most delightful walks, at first near the house and
church, but afterward we rambled for hours along the shore of the lake,
and even entered the little grove beyond.
We were always compelled to do this when my princess desired to escape
from the attendance of her court. So long as we remained near the
house, the seven old dames persistently followed us, the one who was on
duty that day in front, the six others, each holding her knitting in
her old withered hands, behind, as if to do the honors of the
neighborhood, but really because their hearts drew them to this new
inmate of the household. They seemed to find comfort in merely looking
at her or hearing the distant sound of her voice. But their feeble old
limbs would not carry many of them farther than the shore of the lake,
and the two youngest, who were only seventy and still very vigorous,
dared not take any special liberties.
We never went into the city. Frau Luise did not wish to fan the public
curiosity, already excited. True, the burgomaster had considered it his
duty to wait upon the lady, and urge her to move into more elegant
lodgings which he had secured for her.
He, too, was so charmed by her appearance and manner that his first
embarrassment soon vanished, especially after she had requested him not
to call her Baroness, but simply Frau Spielberg, and had thanked him
for the hospitality extended to her here. So comfortable an abode for
old women--to whose number she herself would soon belong--could
scarcely be found in the whole Mark, and she begged to be allowed to
stay until she had decided how to shape her future life.
But, as she could remain nowhere without bestowing on her environments
the impress of her own nature, the burgomaster at his first visit
marveled at the changed appearance of the almshouse and its inmates.
The seven old dames, who had formerly crept about in forlorn tatters,
with their thin hair hanging over their brows, and lines of discontent
on their faces--nay, sometimes bearing tokens of very unchristian
deeds, the result of their quarrels--suddenly appeared transformed into
neat, civil matrons, for they had noticed that they did not please
their mistress unless they appeared with clean faces and carefully
mended dresses. Even the building itself had changed. The corridors and
rooms were spick and span from scouring, and strewed with clean sand.
The most beautiful of all was the garden, a narrow strip of ground
beneath the low windows. Without saying much about it, Frau Luise one
day dug with her own hands the patch below her own window, divided it
into small beds, and planted some flowers she had asked me to get for
her. Her old guard had scarcely seen this ere they became possessed
with an ambition to imitate the noble lady, and, as the latter
willingly helped them with seeds and young plants, the wilderness, in
which formerly nothing but nettles and weeds of all kinds had
flourished, was transformed into a gay garden, and under each window
stood a small, rudely made bench, painted with cheap green paint, on
which every leisure evening one of the old crones sat in the sunset
glow with the everlasting knitting in her lap.
I had ordered Frau Luise's bench to be made somewhat larger, so that
there was room for a slender person by her side. There I sat many an
hour, often with a book from which I read aloud to her, or talking
cheerfully and earnestly about God and the world, not infrequently
recalling memories of the beloved child, whose smallest trait of
character had not been forgotten by either of us. His father's name was
never mentioned. I only knew that he was still dragging out his useless
existence in some foreign land.
At that time I learned to know the deep wisdom of the words "All things
work together for good to them that love God." For all the good and
evil, strange and detestable things this woman had experienced, had
worked together in her strong, clear soul, till after the dross had
been separated pure gold remained. Now, as ever, she was reluctant to
needlessly mention the name of God, and, had she been catechized about
her faith, probably would not have passed the examination well. But she
possessed the consciousness that, whenever she went down into the
depths of her heart, she would find the spirit of peace, love, and
truth, and this consciousness was so vivid that a divine calmness and
confidence, visible to the dullest senses, illumined her brow. But a
new trait in her was a peculiar sense of humor, a mirthfulness which
had rarely flashed out in her youth, yet now appeared to be the
predominant mood of her nature. When she was gay, she could make the
most comical remarks about herself and her surroundings, mutual old
acquaintances, and the seven dames knitting on their little benches,
remarks whose drollery could not be surpassed by Dickens or Thackeray.
Her merry satire did not even spare me. But, as I was utterly
defenseless, she soon let the subject drop, though she could see by my
hearty laughter that I was flattered rather than offended.
This uniformly charming idyl would have satisfied all my wishes, had I
been able to shake off the fear that it would some day come to an end.
For Frau Luise daily studied all the advertisements for governesses or
nurses, and several times had applied for something, fortunately
without success. I racked my brains to discover some plan that would
keep her near me. But, though she unhesitatingly accepted my friendly
assistance as a loan, she was inexorable whenever I spoke of having no
question concerning "mine and thine" rise between us in the future.
"Whoever can work must gain a living!" she answered once, in a tone
that deprived me of all courage to return to the subject.
Then a fortunate chance caused, in a very simple and easy way, the
fulfillment of the sum total of my wishes.
* * * * *
One Sunday afternoon in May we had taken a delightful walk, and on our
return the little almshouse chapel stood before us in its dense robe of
ivy, illumined by the full radiance of the sun, looking so beautiful
and venerable that, for the first time, we gazed at it attentively and
remarked how strange it was that we had never desired to see the
interior. Though we now heard from the seven matrons that it was
perfectly bare and the walls had nothing but spiders' webs, Frau Luise
asked for the key, which had not been used for years, and, attended by
the whole train of knitting courtiers, we entered the deserted old
chapel.
There was, in truth, nothing remarkable to be seen. A tolerably bright
light fell through four long, narrow, arched windows, but illumined
nothing save bare walls destitute of pillars, entablatures, or other
architectural decorations. Within the choir there was only the square,
brick foundation of the altar, raised one step above the floor. In a
corner opposite stood a bier covered with a black pall, thickly coated
with dust. The little almshouse chapel had doubtless served for a
receiving tomb so long as the graveyard outside was used. This thought
did not make the cellar-like place more agreeable, and we were about to
go back to the warm spring sunshine when my eyes fell upon a high,
narrow, wooden box, which stood on the other side just opposite to the
altar. Great was my surprise when, after having vainly fumbled about
the case for a time, a lid suddenly flew back, and an old harmonium
appeared. How it came there I could never ascertain. These instruments
are still very rare in our province, and it is hardly probable that
years ago the almshouse had a pious and wealthy patron in the city, who
desired to aid the religious service in the poor little church by such
an endowment.
So we examined our treasure with astonished eyes. When I touched the
keys, dull and somewhat rusty, yet not wholly discordant notes stole
forth, as if the sleeping soul, so long confined there, were waking,
and its first sound was a timid expression of thanks to its deliverers.
The case was instantly drawn forward, and I prepared to play. Frau
Luise, with sparkling eyes, came to my side. I began "A mountain
fastness is our Lord," and she joined in with her voice, at first
timidly, it was so long since she had sung a note, but soon with all
her former depth of feeling, till my heart thrilled with ecstasy. When
it was over, I began the introduction to our beloved Orpheus aria, and
how my friend's marvelous alto voice rang through the lofty, empty
chapel! The seven old dames sat silently on the step of the altar, the
click of the knitting-needles was no longer heard, nothing mingled with
the melody except the low twittering of the birds. So in the utmost
delight we practiced for some time, not stopping with this one aria,
and many airs which we had sung to our little Joachim returned to his
mother's mind.
At last emotion overpowered her, and I ceased playing, rose, and held
out my hand, which she cordially pressed. We knew what remained
unuttered.
"This must not be the last time we are happy here," I said; "later in
the summer this concert-room will be a pleasant refuge, though now the
damp, close atmosphere oppresses us. I wonder that you could control
your voice so well, Frau Luise."
She made no reply, but passed out through the doorway. I walked by her
side, and the seven maids-of-honor followed. But what was our amazement
to see a crowd of people gathered outside the threshold, who
respectfully formed into two lines to allow the singer and her train to
pass. Not only some of the plain people from the few neighboring houses
had flocked hither, attracted by the music, but several of the
prominent families in the city, among them the burgomaster and his two
daughters, who while returning from a Sunday walk had heard with
astonishment the strong, beautiful tones issuing from the long silent
chapel, and stopped to enjoy the free concert.
The burgomaster himself, a great lover of music, seemed so amazed
by the discovery that so admirable an artist had been concealed
in the humble almshouse that he did not utter a word to express his
homage--only bowed low and silently lifted his hat as she passed. The
audience of both high and low degree speedily dispersed; yet, as I
walked home in the evening, I caught many a word from the worthy
citizens, sitting before their doors or going to get their beer, which
betrayed how our church-music still echoed in the ears of the
listeners.
The Canoness at the almshouse formed the topic of every conversation
during the evening, and no three women whispered together ten minutes
over their coffee without saying something for or against their
interesting new neighbor.
When, on the following afternoon, I went to my friend, she asked,
smiling: "Guess what distinguished visitor I have had to-day,
Johannes?" Then she told me that the burgomaster himself had called on
her, and, amid many compliments on, her singing, asked if she would
give lessons to his daughters. The two girls, who had been waiting
outside, entered, blushing, and, as she did not refuse the request,
sang to her at their father's bidding in fresh, though untrained, young
voices, after which she gladly consented to give them two lessons a
week, and was to begin the next morning. The only point now was to
procure a piano, the harmonium being far too powerful to be used to
accompany singing.
It was difficult for me to repress my joy at these glad tidings. Now
she is ours, I thought. Now she need no longer pore over the
advertisements in the last pages of the Voss and Spener journals.
But I said quite calmly: "This happens capitally. I have a piano"--this
one luxury had been procured for little money, as, though the old
instrument was originally good, it had seen much service--"and I will
send it early to-morrow to the almshouse, where there are plenty of
vacant rooms which would be cheerfully given up to you for your
lessons."
This plan was accomplished. Ere a month had passed, all the girls from
fifteen to five-and-twenty were enrolled in my friend's volunteer corps
of singers, and it was considered as fashionable to send a daughter to
the Canoness as it is in the capitals to secure admission to the
conservatory.
She had fixed a very moderate price for her lessons. Still, as she also
superintended choir-singing, and soon had all her time occupied, her
income was so large that I jestingly said she would soon be able to buy
an estate.
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling, and I well knew what this meant.
For her left hand was never aware of what her right hand was doing,
and, though our town had an organized system of charity, there was
ample opportunity for deeds of benevolence.
We never exchanged a word about her remaining in the almshouse. But she
persistently resisted the entreaties of her young pupils and their
parents to move into better lodgings in the city. "I could not do
without my seven guardian angels," she said, smiling. She merely
obtained somewhat better furniture for her room, sent for Uncle
Joachim's old chest of drawers and the two pictures of Napoleon--he had
left her everything he possessed--and added two beautiful engravings
from my aunt's legacy. The large room with two windows, adjoining her
own, was fitted up for her lessons, and my piano was moved into it.
Many an afternoon, when I had arrived before the close of the lessons,
I sat outside on the bench in her little garden, listening to the
chirping within, the regular _solfeggios_ and runs, and the magnificent
bell-like tones of the teacher ringing out between them, or the sweet
voices of the full choir, which practiced not only solemn _motettos_
and _cantatas_, but sought recreation in Mendelssohn, Schubert, and
Schumann.
The service she was rendering the young people could not fail to dispel
their parents' prejudices against the wife of the strolling actor, and
make them endeavor to draw her to their houses. But on this point she
was inexorable. "I detest these provincial entertainments," she said to
me. "I will cheerfully give the people among whom I live as much of my
life as can be of service to them, but the rest I will keep for myself.
To sit on the sofa a whole evening between the wives of the burgomaster
and the councilor, and talk about servants and betrothals, would kill
me. Besides, my opinions would rouse their displeasure before an hour
was over. There is where Mother Schulzen, Mother Grabow, and the other
five Fates deserve praise. They think me a saint, though I don't go to
church."
But, while she retained this view and avoided the society of the
mothers, she was all the more friendly in her intercourse with the
daughters. Every other Sunday her pupils, about twenty in number, were
allowed to spend the evening with her, and she gave them a little
supper of tea, cake, and bread and butter. But these pleasant meetings
were not intended merely for merry talk with the children--they were
expected to produce better results. She read to them from the works of
our classic writers the most beautiful and ennobling selections adapted
to their age and culture, a couple of acts from one of Schiller's
tragedies, which they were afterward to finish at home, once the whole
of Iphigenia, at another time ballads from Goethe and Uhland, and then
let her youthful audience express their ideas of what they had heard,
only adding a few wise remarks of her own.
I did not attend these readings, but took the liberty of lingering
outside the open window and listening to her recitations. I will not
speak of the indescribable enjoyment that fell to my lot. But, though
my love for this woman may make me appear somewhat partial, the
assertion can be believed that she would have surpassed many a famed
tragic actress, had she given her readings on the stage.
How completely she captivated her young listeners!
Many of the older people were made somewhat anxious by finding that the
actor's wife was on such intimate terms with her young pupils that she
directed not only their singing but their thoughts and feelings. But
the last ice melted, though it was the very middle of winter; when a
nocturnal conflagration destroyed several houses and robbed some
families of their whole property. Frau Luise instantly advertised
a concert in the town-hall for the benefit of the sufferers. She
herself sang, her pupils helped to the best of their ability in solos,
choir-singing, and recitations. Every nook in the hall, spite of the
high price of admission, was occupied, and the next day there was but
_one_ verdict in house and hovel, namely, that no such pleasure had
ever been enjoyed by even the oldest inhabitants, and no more noble
soul ever dwelt in woman's breast than in the tuneful one of this
greatly misjudged lady.
* * * * *
So she had reached this point.
The swan, that had lost its way in the marsh, had plunged into the
clear water of this quiet country lake, shaken its feathers, and lo!
they were once more snow-white as in its early days.
Even the pastor, who had been unable to forgive her for not appearing
at his church and having even chosen as her only intimate friend a
renegade theologian, whom he could not help doubly condemning--even
this zealous shepherd of souls could not permanently refuse her his
esteem. After the concert he called on her, and had a conversation
which lasted two hours. I met him just as he was leaving the almshouse.
His face looked as I imagine Moses' might have done after he had seen
the Lord in the naming bush. I did not even consider this strange. What
victory over human hearts might I not have expected this woman to
achieve!
The "overflowing treasure of grace" she so lavishly bestowed benefited
me also. For the first time, my modest greeting to the secretly
resentful man was returned with a friendly gesture, in which I fancied
I noticed a shade of curious interest. We afterward became better
acquainted, and learned to sincerely value each other.
My position as the Canoness's special friend was of course much envied
by my colleagues and other acquaintances, and many questions were asked
about her. But, as I had no intimacies, I was not obliged to put any
unusual bolts on my heart, that it might keep its secrets. And I must
add one thing more which, amid such narrow, provincial environments,
does the highest honor to human nature: never, by even the most trivial
jest, was the slightest shadow cast upon the purity of my intercourse
with her.
Nay, a still more extraordinary thing: even the most arrogant among the
wives of the dignitaries willingly yielded her the precedence she never
claimed, and without envy or hatred beheld this stranger, who had been
received into the almshouse from Christian charity, ruling the city as
it were from her little room--at least, in all matters relating to the
common welfare of the inhabitants and their intellectual life. Even the
burgomaster's wife and her friends, who gathered at society meetings
and coffee-parties, did not consider it beneath their dignity to seek
the Canoness's advice on any charitable business, or any question
concerning education or etiquette, with a faith as devout as if the
almshouse were the oracle of Delphi, and Frau Luise sat on the tripod
as priestess. She told me the drollest stories about these occasions,
which I, as a faithful servant of the temple, vowed to silence, must
not betray here.
Thus the renown of her talents and virtues could not fail to extend
beyond the precincts of our little town, till at last even the
newspapers mentioned her. She took no notice of it; indeed, she did not
look at the papers, now that the advertisements no longer interested
her. I think she secretly dreaded to accidentally read the name of the
man whom she desired to forever forget.
But her concert for the sufferers by the conflagration had made such a
sensation that all Preignitz and Uckermark rang with its fame. So one
day, when I came to chat with her a little while after she had finished
her lessons, I saw standing in front of the almshouse a dusty carriage,
on whose door I recognized the coat of arms of her own family, though
the faces of coachman and footman were unfamiliar to me.
Nevertheless, I did not hesitate to knock at her door, and, on
entering, saw a pretty, stylish young lady sitting on the sofa by her
side, while at the first glance I recognized in her companion my former
pupil--Baron Achatz. He had not grown much taller, but a little blonde
mustache had ventured forth under his turned-up Zieten nose, and the
light-blue eyes beneath his low brow had so frank an expression that I
was instantly reminded of his excellent mother, now resting in the
peace of God.
"Come nearer, my dear friend," cried Frau Luise. "You will find an old
acquaintance, who has already been inquiring for you, and his young
wife. This is our candidate, dear Luitgarde, of whom Achatz has often
told you. What do you say, Herr Johannes? My cousins have come in
person to invite me to spend the rest of my life with them. They have
heard I was an inmate of an almshouse, which did not seem to them a
proper place for a member of their family. Now they want to carry me
off in triumph to their castle, like a precious jewel that has been
taken from the family treasures and at last found again. Is it not kind
in these young people, who could not be blamed if, for a time, they had
thought only of themselves and their own happiness. But you are
misinformed, my dear cousins. I live here just as I desire, and want
for nothing, though my claims upon life are not the most modest. Tell
Achatz, my dear Johannes, how I am spoiled here. Am I not pleasantly
lodged? The adjoining room is my music-hall, and my reception-day is
always crowded. The attendance leaves me nothing to desire, seven maids
and waiting-women, whose united ages number more than five hundred
years; where should I ever find the like again? If you could stay
longer, you would be convinced that I am at least as well cared for
here as though I were living in a chapter, while I need not even wear
the veil and dress of the order, but can cut my garments according to
my own taste. Nevertheless, I thank you from my heart for your kind
intentions"--and as she spoke she kissed the young wife, whose blushes
followed each other in swift succession--"but, if you really must go
to-day, you must first see that your old cousin can offer her guests a
very tolerable cup of tea. First, however, I will take you over my
little kingdom, of whose orderly government I am so vain that the
sarcastic candidate is fond of calling me 'the queen of the
almshouse.'"
She rose, tied her little black kerchief over her hair, and then drew
the young baroness' slender arm through hers. We men followed, and,
while Frau Luise, with sportive self-ridicule, pointed out all the
modest beauties of the building and its environs, and finally gathered
a bouquet for the bride in her little garden, my pupil (pardon the
slip) plucked up courage to beg me, in a whisper, to persuade his
cousin to accept his well-meant offer. Even if she herself was
satisfied with her humble position, it would place him and the whole
family in a bad light if it should be rumored that he had allowed his
nearest relative to live in an almshouse, and from considerations of
kinship she owed it to him and to herself to return to--
"My dear baron," I replied, "you overestimate my influence with your
cousin. She knows exactly what she owes to herself. But, if you speak
of family considerations, allow me to say, with all the freedom
warranted by my old acquaintance with you, that the occurrences during
your father's life-time must absolve Frau Luise before God and man from
any duty to her family. And now, pray, let us say no more about it. I
congratulate you sincerely upon your marriage. Your wife seems endowed
with every physical and mental gift that would have led your mother to
greet her joyfully as her son's wife, and love her most tenderly."
The good fellow silently pressed my hand, and I saw his honest little
eyes sparkle.
When we returned to the house--the lake and ivy-mantled chapel had
fairly enraptured the somewhat romantic young wife--we found the
tea-table set, a task for which Mother Schulzen, whose day it was,
possessed especial skill, and supplied with fresh bread, golden butter,
and a little cold meat. "The cups are not Sèvres," said Frau Luise
in a jesting tone, "and, as I had more pressing wants than silver
table-ware, you must be content with pewter spoons and bone-handled
knives and forks. While I am making the tea, friend Johannes will give
you a proof of his greatest talent, which consists in buttering bread."
She was so irresistibly charming in her quiet cheerfulness that the
young wife at last lost her embarrassment, and we four sat together for
an hour, talking in the gayest manner like old friends. When the time
for departure had come, the ladies affectionately embraced each other,
and promised to correspond regularly. The young baron kissed his
cousin's hand, but she embraced him with maternal tenderness, saying:
"I can not see the kind face you have inherited from your mother,
Achate, without remembering how often I kissed that saintly woman's
cheek. Now, farewell; remember me to old Liborius, and Krischan, too,
though he has become a drunkard, and, when you meet Leopoldine, tell
her that I should be very glad to see her again. But traveling is
uncomfortable for an old woman like myself; she must come to me."
* * * * *
This visit, which of course was much discussed in the little city,
greatly increased and strengthened the love and reverence my friend
enjoyed. It was considered greatly to her credit that she had resisted
the temptation to return to her aristocratic circle, and preferred the
humble almshouse to the proud castle. Mother Schulzen, of course, under
the pretext that she must be close at hand, had listened at the door,
and, though she usually declared herself to be hard of hearing, had not
lost a word of the conversation.
From that time Frau Luise was secretly regarded as a sort of honorary
citizen of our town, and would have been cheerfully granted the most
jealously guarded privilege of citizenship, that of fishing in the
lake, had she displayed any love for angling.
Yet she continued to live on in the unassuming manner previously
described, and, as she enjoyed perfect health, she compared, in her
droll way, her own condition with that of the little dismantled steamer
that lay anchored in the calm inland lake, resting comfortably from
every storm.
But one more tempest burst over her, which threatened to shake even her
steadfast nature.
* * * * *
We had been permitted for three years to call her ours. Spring had come
again, but no March snow-flakes were fluttering through the air as in
the time when she arrived; the sun was shining brightly, and, as the
song says, the weather tempted one to walk. Still, though it was
Saturday afternoon and school had therefore been dismissed, I was
obliged to leave her earlier than usual, as I had taken charge of the
lessons in German for a sick colleague, and had a whole pile of
exercise-books to correct by Monday.
I was sitting at my work again early Sunday morning, when a hurried
message, brought by one of the seven almshouse dames, startled me. I
must come at once to the Canoness--as her train preferred to call her.
I could not learn what had happened from the messenger. It was not _her
day_, and she had not seen Frau Luise.
When I entered, I was no little surprised to find her in bed for the
first time since I had known her. She tried to smile in order to soothe
me, but it was only like a fleeting sunbeam which instantly vanished
behind clouds of gloom.
"My life is not threatened, dear friend," said she; "nay, I am not even
really ill--only so exhausted by mental emotion that, when I tried to
rise, I fell back again. Sit down and listen."
She then related the horrible story. On the afternoon of the previous
day, as, lured by the beautiful sunshine, she continued her walk alone
as far as the lake, a wretched figure had suddenly confronted her, just
at the spot where a group of willows cast a dense shade. It was a man
with long, gray locks and a haggard, sunken face, holding his hat in
his hand with the gesture of a mendicant. Lost in thought, she had not
at first noticed him particularly, but felt in her pocket to throw alms
into his hat. Suddenly the beggar seized her hand, and, covering it
with passionate kisses, exclaimed: "Do you no longer know me, Luise?"
The sudden fright fairly made her heart stop beating. She could not
move a limb, but, wrenching her hand from his grasp, stood staring at
him, as though the specter must dissolve into mist before her eyes.
But unhappily it remained, tangible and audible, and the wife perceived
with horror the ruin time had wrought in the proud and stately man.
Absolutely unable to utter a word, she had been forced to listen to the
long, carefully-studied speech, in which the hapless actor gave her a
succinct account of his adventures and experiences in two hemispheres,
protested his eternal love and longing for his worshiped wife, and in
exaggerated theatrical phrases besought her forgiveness.
Not until he paused and, panting for breath, again tried to take her
hand, did she recover sufficient self-control to retreat a step and
say, "We have parted forever." With these words she turned to leave
him. But he grasped her dress, and again began the litany of his
complaints, entreaties, and self-reproaches. Fearing that some person
might pass whom the desperate man would make a witness of this pathetic
scene, she imperiously commanded him to leave her at once, but inquire
for her in the evening at that house--she pointed to the almshouse.
"And you did not inform me at once?" I interposed.
"Why should I, dear friend? I knew what I had to do, and no one could
represent me. True, the hours before night closed in--the bitter and
anxious feelings seething in my soul, shame at the thought that I had
once imagined I loved this man, horror of his presence, and grief for
the downfall of a human being who had once been good and noble--you can
easily understand how all these things agitated me. But when he
entered, I had at least attained sufficient outward composure to tell
him my decision in curt, resolute words."
"'You will swear,' I said, 'never to appear before my face again.
Your sins against me have long since been forgiven. You were like one
dead to me, and will be so once more as soon as the door has closed
between us. But you must remain unknown to others, and therefore must
agree never to mention your name here, and to leave this place early
to-morrow morning, not to return. The little I have saved I will give
you. But, if you rely on my weakness and ever again remind me of your
existence, either verbally or in writing, I will appeal to the
protection of the law, and use the right of self-defense. Here on the
table is the money. It will be enough to pay your passage to America.
What you do there is your own affair. I have made many sacrifices for
your sake; I will not allow you to ruin the last remnant of life and
peace I have won.'
"Spare me the description of the scene the unfortunate man now
rehearsed," she continued. "Dragging himself to me on his knees, he
poured forth flatteries, curses on his evil destiny, imprecations on
the stupid world that leaves genius to languish--in short, he used the
whole stock of his pitiful theatrical arts. When he saw that he made no
impression upon me, he staggered to his feet, straightened his shabby
velvet coat, tossed back his thin locks, with a look into yonder little
mirror, and then cast a quick glance toward the table on which the
money lay. My loathing, especially as he diffused a horrible odor of
bad liquor, had grown so strong that I was afraid every moment of
fainting. Fortunately he speedily released me from his intolerable
presence. With a flood of high-sounding words, he swore to respect my
wish, until I myself changed, which he expected sooner or later from my
generous heart. Meantime he found himself compelled to accept one last
favor from me, of course only as a loan, which he would repay with
interest, when I had become convinced of his complete regeneration, and
recalled him to spend the evening of our lives in loving harmony, and
look back with a pitying smile on the storm and stress of our wandering
youth.
"With these words he went to the table, put the money in his
breast-pocket, made a movement as if to take my hand, but, when I drew
back, cast a sorrowful glance heavenward, and with a low bow tottered
out of the room.
"I listened to discover whether he really went away. Then, with
trembling hands, for I did not feel absolutely secure from a fresh
surprise, I bolted the door, and threw myself, utterly exhausted, upon
the bed.
"I told myself that I could have pursued no other course--that his life
was not to be saved, even if I threw my own into the gulf of ruin after
it. Yet, my friend--the man whom I was forced to drive from my
threshold had once laid his hand in mine for an eternal union--and had
been the father of my beloved child.
"I did not sleep quietly an hour. Every time the spring wind shook my
window and rattled the blind, I started up and listened to hear if he
was standing outside, rapping. And to-day I feel as though I were
paralyzed, and moreover have constantly before my eyes the piteous
figure of the poor, homeless man, and tremble at the thought of the woe
that may still be in store for us both."
She then begged me to inquire whether he had been seen in the city, or
where he had gone. I soon brought her news that he had spent the night
at the "Crown Prince," did not enter the public-room, but ordered wine
and rum to be brought to him. He had not mentioned his name, and early
that morning--about eight o'clock--had departed as he came, on foot and
without luggage, after paying his bill and buying a bottle of brandy to
take with him. After giving the waiter a thaler for his fee, he turned
his steps toward the north.
I succeeded in partially soothing her agitated mind. I spent nearly the
whole day with her, played some of her favorite melodies, and shared
the simple meal brought to her bed-side. When I at last went away, she
pressed my hand with a touching look of gratitude. "Don't forsake me,
dear friend," she said. "And do not think me an affected simpleton,
because I am lying here so helpless. I shall be in my place again
to-morrow. Only I will defer our spring concert"--she had been in the
habit of giving a musical entertainment, aided by her pupils, every
three months--"for a fortnight. I fear I should not be able to sing
with them now."
* * * * *
These words proved true, but not in the way she had meant.
Her great strength of will soon roused her from the lethargy into which
the sad meeting with her husband had plunged her, and even on Monday
she gave her lessons as though nothing had occurred. But on Friday news
came that tore the old wounds open afresh.
A few miles down the river, near a little village, a fisherman had
found, drifting in the water among the reeds, the body of a man with
long gray locks, dressed in a black-velvet coat. It must have been
there several days, for it was swollen and livid, like the corpses of
the drowned who do not instantly rise to the surface; besides, the
pocket-book containing his papers was completely sodden, and the
money in it spoiled by the water. In each of his two pockets he
carried a half-empty bottle. There could be no doubt that he had met
with his death while in a state of bewilderment, perhaps partial
unconsciousness. With the exception of an American passport bearing a
foreign name, nothing was found on him that could throw any light upon
his personal relations.
Nevertheless the rumor spread with amazing celerity through the whole
neighborhood that the Canoness's missing husband had returned to find
his death in the waves of their native river. The burgomaster called on
Frau Luise to impart the sad news considerately. But the old gossips
who served her had anticipated him.
I was with her when she received the visit of the father of the city.
"It is true," she said, "the man is my unfortunate husband. But do not
expect me to feign a grief I do not feel. That he sought death I do not
believe. He was supplied with money, and could indulge his sole
passion, which had stifled all his nobler feelings. His death was an
easy one, and now the poor restless wanderer has found repose. You can
not desire me to see him again. Have him buried as quietly as possible;
I will place a cross upon the grave at my own expense." Then, in a few
brief words, she told the worthy magistrate about her last interview
with the dead man.
This occasion clearly revealed the love and esteem in which she was
held by the whole community, high and low. There was not a single
malicious gossip who molested her with a visit of feigned condolence,
while secretly gloating over the fact that the husband of this
much-lauded woman had met with a miserable end like any common
vagabond. On the contrary, all who could boast of her acquaintance
endeavored to show her by little attentions that the misfortune
of her life, which had here reached so tragical an end, had only made
them love and honor her the more. Not one of her pupils came to
take a singing-lesson without bringing a bunch of violets or early
lilies-of-the-valley, or a hyacinth raised at home, and no coffee-party
was given from which the hostess did not send her a plate of cakes,
which, it is true, only benefited the almshouse dames. Though Frau
Luise gratefully appreciated these discreet tokens of affection, she
was remarkably quiet and thoughtful. She wore no mourning robe, but her
soul seemed muffled in a black veil.
* * * * *
This mood was deepened by the death of the oldest of the almshouse
dames, a feeble crone of eighty-four, who had recently been unable to
perform her duties as attendant. During the last three days she was
unconscious, and her exhausted flame of life went out without a
flicker: When I spoke to my friend, who had not left her side, of this
easy death as something enviable, she shook her head gravely, and
replied: "I would prefer a different one, like my dear Uncle Joachim's.
I wish to be conscious when I am dying, to experience my own death, and
not, so to speak, steal out of the world behind my own back."
She insisted that, at the burial in the almshouse church-yard--where
only the inmates of the almshouse were interred--her pupils should sing
a choral and Mendelssohn's "It is Appointed by God's Will," an honor
which had never before fallen to a poor woman's lot, so that some
wiseacres asserted she was overdoing the matter. But that did not
trouble her in the least.
"When they bear me out some day," she said, as we returned from the
funeral, "see, dear friend, that I, too, find my last resting-place
yonder. I do not wish to be dragged through the whole city to the other
cemetery, with its pompous marble monuments. And place no cross on my
grave. I have borne it enough during my life; in death, let the earth
rest lightly on me. What I possess will go to my old guard; you must
attend to it, after first choosing some memento you value. Promise me
that! I have written my last will and given it to the burgomaster."
These words could not specially disturb or sadden me. I saw her walking
by my side in the full vigor of life, and though, since the day she had
sustained such a fright, her hair had grown still more silvery, she
seemed, in her gentle melancholy, younger and fairer than ever.
She was also even more affectionate and tender to all, including
myself. And, though I had already passed my fortieth year and ought to
have grown sensible, her mild words and the faint air of sadness that
surrounded her fanned the old flames I had with so much difficulty
subdued, and one evening they not only flashed from my eyes but darted
from my tongue.
The heat for several days had been equal to that of summer, so we had
been weeding and watering the young plants in her garden. Then we sat
down side by side on the little bench, and I said: "Do you know, Frau
Luise, that this is the anniversary of the day on which, twenty years
ago, I first saw you?"
She reflected a short time and then answered: "I have no memory for
dates. But I know one thing, Johannes: there has not been a single day
since then when I could have doubted you."
While speaking, she gazed thoughtfully into vacancy, as if this great
truth were dawning upon her to-day for the first time. This gave me
some little encouragement.
"Frau Luise," I continued, "that day seems to me like yesterday. And
not one has passed since then that I have not felt you are the dearest
creature in the world to me. But must we live on thus to the end, only
together a few hours, though we feel that we belong to each other?
You have long known my feelings. Can you not resolve to make the bond
that unites us still firmer, to grant me the right to lay my whole
insignificant self at your feet before the eyes of the world?"
The words had leaped from my lips as if some one else had lured them
from my inmost soul, and I was startled at my boldness as I heard the
sound of my own voice. I dared not look at her. I felt, or thought I
felt, that she was forcing herself to keep calm and not rebuke my
presumption. After a long pause, she replied, in a voice whose tones
were sorrowful rather than indignant:
"Why have you said this, Johannes? You ought to know me and be aware
that I have done with life. Do not suppose that the opinion of the
world would awe me, if I felt that I was still young enough to be happy
and make others happy. But I was probably never created to devote
myself with my whole heart to a single individual, as a true wife
ought. Even my unfortunate first love was but a delusion of my
imagination. I have every talent for friendship or for being a Sister
of Charity, and my most passionate feeling has ever been a fervent
sympathy with _pauvre humanité_, as Mademoiselle Suzon said. But you
would not wish to be married from compassion.
"No," she continued, as I was about to protest, "it would be a cruel
pity. In a few years I should easily pass for your mother, and you
would cut a ridiculous figure in attending me through the streets. You
are still a young man and a very foolish one, as you have just proved.
Your heart must still possess a fountain of youth, though you are no
mere lad. Why don't you do me the favor to marry my Agnes, who is nine
and twenty, an epitome of every feminine virtue, and, moreover, in love
with you?"
This Agnes was her favorite pupil, the daughter of the district
physician, and, as I lived opposite to her house, our names had already
been associated by the gossips. It was by no means humiliating to be
suspected of cherishing a special liking for this exemplary and by no
means ugly girl. But, Good Heavens, I!
I could only shake my head and answer: "Why do I not love your Agnes?
Because I don't want to marry a bundle of virtues, but one human being,
and in fact only that one who in my eyes will always be young, and whom
I desire to call mine in order to please no mortal save myself.
However, as you have so little love for me that you would willingly
serve as a match-maker in my behalf, it was of course folly to ask if
you would become Frau Johannes Weissbrod, and I therefore most humbly
beg your pardon."
I rose with an uncontrollable sense of grief, and, scarcely bowing to
her, stalked away like a thoroughly rude, defiant man.
The next day, it is true, I returned humbly, and remorsefully besought
her to forgive my spiteful escapade. She was quite right; I was nothing
but a crack-brained young man who grasped at the stars, and in doing so
fell on the ground. Frau Luise gazed silently into vacancy, and then
said: "The most difficult task and the one we learn latest is to cut
our garments according to the cloth, though we feel it will grow with
us. Let us say no more about it."
I did not exactly understand what she meant. It became clear to me
afterward.
* * * * *
We again lived on as before, and, after she had survived the spring
tempest, life seemed to become dear to her once more, though a slight
shadow rested on her brow. At Easter she gave her concert for the
benefit of the poor, which was a brilliant success. Her birthday came
just after Whitsuntide, and, in token of the love and gratitude of the
whole community, was to be celebrated with special pomp. I, of course,
began the festival with a morning serenade executed under her windows
by my pupils, after which she invited the whole choir in and treated
them to coffee and cakes. At ten o'clock the burgomaster's wife and her
most distinguished friends called, and attended her in a stately
procession down to the shore of the lake. There the greatest surprise
awaited her. The burgomaster had sent to Berlin several days before for
a machinist and some assistants to inspect the little steamer and put
her in safe condition to make an excursion over the mirror-like surface
of the lake. The boiler and engine were found to be still in tolerable
order, and a trial trip was taken at night whose result was perfectly
satisfactory.
When we came down to the shore, the little vessel, gayly decked with
flags, hung with garlands of fir, and sending upward a light column of
smoke from its smokestack, looked extremely pretty and inviting; and
Frau Luise's eyes dilated with astonishment when she understood that
this smoke was floating from the stack, so long empty, in honor of her.
The burgomaster's wife and I led her across the long, swaying plank
that extended to the deck; but here she was so startled that she almost
made a misstep, for an exultant pæan suddenly resounded with such
vehement, youthful energy from invisible throats that it was almost too
much for her composure. Her pupils had posted themselves behind a
canvas awning, which was afterward drawn over the deck as a protection
from the sun, and in the excitement of the moment were singing the
festal melody I had composed and arranged with more regard to the
feelings of their hearts than the rules of art, by which state of
affairs neither words nor music were especially enhanced. However, in
the open air and amid the general emotion, this modest overture
performed its part acceptably. Then the deck suddenly became thronged
with joyous, loving faces; and, when the anchor was weighed and the
little vessel swept with majestic calmness through the glittering
water, first along the shore and then across the lake to the little
grove, while the chorus of fresh young voices, now mindful of every
nicety of execution they owed to their mistress, began the superb air,
"Who has Thee, Forest Fair--" I saw the sweet face of the woman I loved
illumined with gentle, divine emotion, and was forced to turn away that
my tears might fall into the water unobserved.
But all this was merely the prelude to the festival. The banquet was
served in the wood, where, in an open space under tall fir-trees, stood
a large table adorned with bouquets and covered with dishes, which had
been brought there early in the morning, and received the last dressing
over an improvised hearth by some experienced housekeepers. Under the
seat that had been arranged for the heroine of the day lay the gift her
young friends had prepared, a large rug for her room, the work of many
industrious hands, and as gayly adorned with the most beautiful
garlands of roses and arabesques of violets as provincial love could
accomplish. Still, here amid the green foliage and before the festal
board, the strange work of art with its glaring colors and grotesque
flourishes looked very bright, and each of the fellow-workers won from
the deeply agitated recipient a kiss and clasp of the hand. After this
we took our places at the table, and began the feast with the best
possible appetite.
Of course, there was no lack of admirable speeches, merry clinking of
glasses, and frequent embraces between the feminine members of the
party, during which I played the part of envious spectator. I also
contributed my shred to the general eloquence by emptying my glass to
the health of the six almshouse dames, who were seated in holiday garb
at the table below, and imagined themselves in Paradise--never had they
dreamed of such honors and delights on earth. Their patroness, the
queen, had not even been obliged to stipulate that they were not to
remain at home. The givers of the festival knew that without her
faithful followers something would be lacking from the pleasures of the
day.
Of course, the meal did not pass without singing, and, when we had
risen from the table and were enjoying a little rest on the moss-grown
soil of the wood, the young ladies walked arm in arm in little groups
along the dusky woodland-paths, raising their voices in an alternative
melody very sweet to hear. All sorts of games followed, in which,
however, the presence of young men was secretly missed. I was malicious
enough to remain with the mothers or talk with the six or seven fathers
who had joined the party, in order not to go near Agnes, whom my cruel
friend, as a punishment for my sins, desired to force upon me as a
wife.
I saw that the long-continued festivity was wearying her, though she
exerted herself to acknowledge, with unvarying winsomeness, the efforts
made by these worthy people. I heard her cough, so I drew the
burgomaster's wife aside and persuaded her to give the signal for
departure.
After some delay and discussion we all went on board the steamer again,
and, making a wide sweep around the lake, returned to our harbor.
Frau Luise stood on deck in the bow of the vessel with several of her
favorite pupils near her; no one uttered a word. We were allowing the
memories of this delightful day to re-echo in our hearts. Her head was
turned toward the west, where the sun was slowly sinking, and her dear
face and tall figure were warmly illumined by the crimson glow. With
what a youthful light her eyes sparkled! The silvery luster of her hair
had vanished in the golden radiance. It seemed impossible to believe
that this woman had just celebrated her forty-fourth birthday.
"Sing something!" said Agnes, who stood nearest. "Ah, yes, do sing!"
entreated the others.
She did not seem to have heard them. Yet suddenly, as if in a dream,
she sang, _mezza voce_, an Italian air, an aria from Paësiello, of
which she was especially fond. And, as the steamer swept on into the
crimson light, the song rose clearer and stronger till she poured forth
the full power of her voice, whose every note must have been distinctly
audible on the shore. The whole company had gradually glided closer to
us, and I saw by their rapt faces how they were enjoying the foreign
beauty of the melody, whose words no one understood. Even the people on
the shore, peasants with their carts and solitary pedestrians, stopped
as if enchanted, and gazed at the black ship slowly dividing the waves
bearing a singing nixie on her deck.
Then the vessel turned, and the sun was behind us. The aria was
finished, and the burgomaster had given the signal for applause, in
which all joined with great fervor. When silence was restored, and the
group waited for the singing to be resumed, she began, without waiting
to be asked, Beethoven's "Knows't thou the Land!" which she had
transposed to suit the deeper notes of her voice. "Mignon certainly had
an alto voice," she once jestingly said to me. Never had I heard her
sing it so superbly, never heard the "Thither! thither!" express such
strong, sweet, uncontrollable yearning. We reached the landing-place
just as the last notes died away. The burgomaster was so deeply moved
that he forgot to applaud, went to her, and, with tears in his honest
old eyes, bent, seized both hands, and faltered: "I thank you, I thank
you a thousand times, madame! This is the fairest day of my life! You
have made us all happy."
She smiled and looked at me. "It was my swan song," she said. "I fear I
shall be obliged to give up singing. Just hear how hoarse this little
exertion has suddenly made me."
I saw her shiver slightly, and hastened to wrap a shawl around her.
"Good-night, my dear friends," she said. "I owe you all thanks for a
pleasure never to be forgotten. Forgive me for taking my leave so
abruptly. But this was a little too much joy for an old woman who has
not deserved so much love and kindness. No, I am perfectly well; a
little rest will make me quite myself again. My beautiful rug must be
put in my room at once. I will feast my eyes on the lovely flowers and
think of the dear givers till I fall asleep."
She then shook hands with every one. As I helped her across the plank
to the shore, I felt the difficulty she experienced in holding herself
erect. "It is nothing, dear friend," she whispered hoarsely. "My heart
is as light as a bird's, only my limbs are heavy. My good mother Grabow
shall put me to bed. Perhaps I took cold in the wood. But you know I am
like a cork figure, my head is always uppermost. Good-night."
* * * * *
I had by no means a good night. When, before school the next morning, I
inquired at the almshouse for Frau Luise, she was still asleep, that
is, she was lying in a feverish dream, raving incoherently without
recognizing any one. I spoke to the doctor, who had been already called
in the night. The old man had the thoughtful wrinkle between his bushy
eyebrows that always boded trouble.
"But she is so strong and full of vital energy," I said.
"The strongest constitutions fare the worst. But we can still hope, and
she could not be more carefully nursed if she were a princess."
It was the same at noon. I spent the whole day with her, had a couch
made up for me in the music-room at night, and the following morning
sent a message to my friend the head teacher--who meantime had been
made superintendent of the school--requesting him to do me the favor to
take charge of my classes. I was unable to do my duty while my friend's
life was in danger.
This lasted four, five days. The doctor shook his head more and more
despairingly. "I can give the disease no special name! It is a sort
of nervous fever, but in a very unusual form, and the ordinary remedies
do not avail. It is fortunate that she is unconscious. Only the
expression of pain on her face shows that she has a dull sense of the
life-and-death struggle raging in her frame."
During those days it seemed as though the little almshouse had been
transferred to the heart of the city. Instead of being solitary and
deserted as usual, it was now constantly surrounded by a crowd of
persons of all ages and sexes, treading lightly with a sorrowful look
on their faces. They did not venture to ring the bell, and indeed it
was not necessary: one of the old dames was constantly cowering outside
of the door, and gave to all questions the same sad answer. When
prominent people came, I was obliged to go out and reply to the queries
myself. Every one thought it was a matter of course that I now belonged
to the household.
Scarcely any change occurred in her critical condition, nothing save a
slight ebb and flow of the fever, a lower or louder intonation of the
voice, as she raved of the visions of her bewildered brain. Sometimes,
with wide-open eyes that rested on nothing, she repeated correctly and
distinctly a few lines from one of her husband's parts. Sometimes she
seemed to be talking with her son, and a happy smile that pierced me to
the heart flitted over her colorless lips. Sometimes she sang, but only
diatonic scales, and when her voice failed to reach the high notes she
shook her head mournfully, whispering: "Too high, too high! Trees must
not grow to the sky. Down! down! It is pleasant to dwell below."
At such times I could not restrain my tears.
But, on the fifth day, a crisis seemed imminent. The fever had lessened
several degrees; the old doctor's face, for the first time, wore a
hopeful look.
He gave several directions, and promised to come in the next morning
earlier than usual. I could send home the young girls, who called at a
late hour to inquire, with a little hope, which, however, I did not
feel myself. Then I returned to my post. It was Mother Schulzen's turn
to keep watch that night, but she was so deaf that I could not trust
the invalid solely to her, though nothing would have induced her to go
to bed. She was sitting in a low chair by the wall, and, after keeping
herself awake for a while by knitting and taking snuff, at last fell
peacefully asleep.
A lamp, protected by a green shade, was burning in the room; outside,
the moon was sailing through a cloudless sky; deep silence surrounded
us. Frau Luise had not uttered a word since noon, and for the first
time seemed to be quietly asleep.
Suddenly--it was about ten o'clock--while I sat by the bed without
turning my eyes from her face, her eyes slowly opened and wandered
about the room with a strained gaze till they rested upon me. Then she
said, in a perfectly clear voice: "I feel wonderfully well!"
After a pause, during which I scarcely ventured to breathe, as if the
slightest sound might drive the approaching convalescence away, she
murmured: "Are you here, dear friend? Have I slept long? How delightful
that I can see you as soon as I wake!"
She moved her hand as if seeking something. I timidly clasped it, and
stooped to press my burning brow upon it. Just at that moment I felt
her other hand laid gently on my head, and, while stroking my hair, she
continued in the same calm voice:
"My last hour is near, Johannes. But I am glad that I have waked once
more before the long night begins. I have something to say to you, my
friend. You know the tenor of my last will, and that I wish to be laid
in the church-yard outside with my old almshouse friends. If there is a
Day of Judgment, I would like to rise with my body-guard; they have
spoiled me; I could no longer do without their service. And let my
coffin be covered with the rug; afterward it shall belong to you. Do
you hear me? Come a little nearer. What I now have to say is to be a
secret between us two. I deceived you when I told you, a short time
ago, that I was not created to see the universe in a single individual.
It cost me no little effort, for my heart belied my lips. I should have
been very happy if I could have become your wife. I knew that long,
long ago--ever since the day you took our Joachimchen in your arms when
he grew weary and carried him home, I said to myself: 'Could I possess
this child and this man, no wish would remain ungratified.' But it
might not be. I was obliged to bury the child and hide my love for the
man in the inmost depths of my heart. But it always lived on there, and
now I can thank you, Johannes, for all the love and faith you have
lavished upon me. Lift my head a little--there--I want to see you
clearly once more, and--it is strange--my eyes are so heavy, though my
soul is awake."
I helped her rise higher on her pillows, bowed my face nearer hers, and
saw her eyes fixed on me with strange brilliancy.
"I love you, my friend," she said. "There is not one false line in your
face nor in your heart, but a great sorrow now fills both. Be happy,
dear one, and remember your friend without tears. Shall I not remain
with you, wherever I go? True, to see each other again--" She slowly
shook her head. "Ah, if I might only see you and my boy--but the other
masks--no, no! We have eaten at the table of life here below till we
are satisfied--or rather, we are wise and stop just when the food
tastes best; now others will sit in our chairs. But we will first
cordially wish each other 'a good appetite!' Come! kiss me once, just
as a loving husband kisses his beloved wife--then I will stretch myself
out and take my afternoon rest."
My quivering lips touched her cool mouth. "Dear Johannes!" she
murmured, clasping my hand tightly as she fell back on the pillows.
Then she smiled once more, an unearthly smile, and closed her eyes. Her
hand trembled a little.
An hour after it lay cold and still in mine.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Bunzlau is famed for its pottery.--Tr.]
[Footnote 2: A round hole in a tailor's table, through which he brushes
useless bits of cloth, and--as is generally supposed--some that are
valuable.--Tr.]
[Footnote 3: An old coin, worth a little more than the groschen now in
general use; for a time both circulated together.--Tr.]
[Footnote 4: The bug-bear of German nurseries.--Tr.]
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The colour out of space
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Title: The colour out of space
Author: H. P. Lovecraft
Illustrator: J. M. de Aragon
Release date: June 4, 2022 [eBook #68236]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Experimenter Publishing Company
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLOUR OUT OF SPACE ***
THE COLOUR OUT OF SPACE
By H. P. Lovecraft
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories September 1927.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
_Here is a totally different story that we can
highly recommend to you. We could wax rhapsodical
in our praise, as the story is one of the finest
pieces of literature it has been our good fortune to
read. The theme is original, and yet fantastic
enough to make it rise head and shoulders above
many contemporary scientifiction stories. You will
not regret having read this marvellous tale._
West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep
woods that no axe has ever cut. There are dark narrow glens where the
trees slope fantastically, and where thin brooklets trickle without
ever having caught the glint of sunlight. On the gentler slopes there
are farms, ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding
eternally over old New England secrets in the lee of great ledges; but
these are all vacant now, the wide chimneys crumbling and the shingled
sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrel roofs.
The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there.
French-Canadians have tried it, Italians have tried it, and the Poles
have come and departed. It is not because of anything that can be seen
or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined. The
place is not good for imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at
night. It must be this which keeps the foreigners away, for old Ammi
Pierce has never told them of anything he recalls from the strange
days. Ammi, whose head has been a little queer for years, is the only
one who still remains, or who ever talks of the strange days; and he
dares to do this because his house is so near the open fields and the
travelled roads around Arkham.
There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys, that ran
straight where the blasted heath is now; but people ceased to use it
and a new road was laid curving far toward the south. Traces of the
old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a returning wilderness,
and some of them will doubtless linger even when half the hollows are
flooded for the new reservoir. Then the dark woods will be cut down and
the blasted heath will slumber far below blue waters whose surface will
mirror the sky and ripple in the sun. And the secrets of the strange
days will be one with the deep's secrets; one with the hidden lore of
old ocean, and all the mystery of primal earth.
When I went into the hills and vales to survey for the new reservoir
they told me the place was evil. They told me this in Arkham, and
because that is a very old town full of witch legends I thought the
evil must be something which grandmas had whispered to children
through centuries. The name "blasted heath" seemed to me very odd
and theatrical, and I wondered how it had come into the folklore of
a Puritan people. Then I saw that dark westward tangle of glens and
slopes for myself, and ceased to wonder at anything besides its own
elder mystery. It was morning when I saw it, but shadow lurked always
there. The trees grew too thickly, and their trunks were too big for
any healthy New England wood. There was too much silence in the dim
alleys between them, and the floor was too soft with the dank moss and
mattings of infinite years of decay.
In the open spaces, mostly along the line of the old road, there were
little hillside farms; sometimes with all the buildings standing,
sometimes with only one or two, and sometimes with only a lone chimney
or fast-filling cellar. Weeds and briers reigned, and furtive wild
things rustled in the undergrowth. Upon everything was a haze of
restlessness and oppression; a touch of the unreal and the grotesque,
as if some vital element of perspective or chiaroscuro were awry. I did
not wonder that the foreigners would not stay, for this was no region
to sleep in. It was too much like a landscape of Salvator Rosa; too
much like some forbidden woodcut in a tale of terror.
But even all this was not so bad as the blasted heath. I knew it the
moment I came upon it at the bottom of a spacious valley; for no other
name could fit such thing, or any other thing fit such a name. It
was as if the poet had coined the phrase from having seen this one
particular region. It must, I thought as I viewed it, be the outcome
of a fire; but why had nothing new ever grown over those five acres of
grey desolation that sprawled open to the sky like a great spot eaten
by acid in the woods and fields? It lay largely to the north of the
ancient road line, but encroached a little on the other side. I felt
an odd reluctance about approaching, and did so at last only because
my business took me through and past it. There was no vegetation of
any kind on that broad expanse, but only a fine grey dust or ash which
no wind seemed ever to blow about. The trees near it were sickly
and stunted, and many dead trunks stood or lay rotting at the rim.
As I walked hurriedly by I saw the tumbled bricks and stones of an
old chimney and cellar on my right, and the yawning black maw of an
abandoned well whose stagnant vapours played strange tricks with the
hues of the sunlight. Even the long, dark woodland climb beyond seemed
welcome in contrast, and I marvelled no more at the frightened whispers
of Arkham people. There had been no house or ruin near; even in the
old days the place must have been lonely and remote. And at twilight,
dreading to repass that ominous spot, I walked circuitously back to the
town by the curving road on the south. I vaguely wished some clouds
would gather, for an odd timidity about the deep skyey voids above had
crept into my soul.
In the evening I asked old people in Arkham about the blasted heath,
and what was meant by that phrase "strange days" which so many
evasively muttered. I could not, however, get any good answers, except
that all the mystery was much more recent than I had dreamed. It was
not a matter of old legendry at all, but something within the lifetime
of those who spoke. It had happened in the 'eighties, and a family had
disappeared or was killed. Speakers would not be exact; and because
they all told me to pay no attention to old Ammi Pierce's crazy tales,
I sought him out the next morning, having heard that he lived alone in
the ancient tottering cottage where the trees first begin to get very
thick. It was a fearsomely ancient place, and had begun to exude the
faint miasmal odour which clings about houses that have stood too long.
Only with persistent knocking could I rouse the aged man, and when he
shuffled timidly to the door I could tell he was not glad to see me. He
was not so feeble as I had expected; but his eyes drooped in a curious
way, and his unkempt clothing and white beard made him seem very worn
and dismal.
Not knowing just how he could best be launched on his tales, I feigned
a matter of business; told him of my surveying, and asked vague
questions about the district. He was far brighter and more educated
than I had been led to think, and before I knew it had grasped quite
as much of the subject as any man I had talked with in Arkham. He was
not like other rustics I had known in the sections where reservoirs
were to be. From him there were no protests at the miles of old wood
and farmland to be blotted out, though perhaps there would have been
had not his home lain outside the bounds of the future lake. Relief
was all that he showed; relief at the doom of the dark ancient valleys
through which he had roamed all his life. They were better under water
now--better under water since the strange days. And with this opening
his husky voice sank low, while his body leaned forward and his right
forefinger began to point shakily and impressively.
* * * * *
It was then that I heard the story, and as the rambling voice scraped
and whispered on I shivered again and again despite the summer day.
Often I had to recall the speaker from ramblings, piece out scientific
points which he knew only by a fading parrot memory of professors'
talk, or bridge over gaps, where his sense of logic and continuity
broke down. When he was done I did not wonder that his mind had snapped
a trifle, or that the folk of Arkham would not speak much of the
blasted heath. I hurried back before sunset to my hotel, unwilling to
have the stars come out above me in the open; and the next day returned
to Boston to give up my position. I could not go into that dim chaos
of old forest and slope again, or face another time that grey blasted
heath where the black well yawned deep beside the tumbled bricks and
stones. The reservoir will soon be built now, and all those elder
secrets will lie safe forever under watery fathoms. But even then I do
not believe I would like to visit that country by night--at least not
when the sinister stars are out; and nothing could bribe me to drink
the new city water of Arkham.
It all began, old Ammi said, with the meteorite. Before that time there
had been no wild legends at all since the witch trials, and even then
these western woods were not feared half so much as the small island
in the Miskatonic where the devil held court beside a curious stone
altar older than the Indians. These were not haunted woods, and their
fantastic dusk was never terrible till the strange days. Then there
had come that white noontide cloud, that string of explosions in the
air, and that pillar of smoke from the valley far in the wood. And by
night all Arkham had heard of the great rock that fell out of the sky
and bedded itself in the ground beside the well at the Nahum Gardner
place. That was the house which had stood where the blasted heath was
to come--the trim white Nahum Gardner house amidst its fertile gardens
and orchards.
Nahum had come to town to tell people about the stone, and had dropped
in at Ammi Pierce's on the way. Ammi was forty then, and all the queer
things were fixed very strongly in his mind. He and his wife had gone
with the three professors from Miskatonic University who hastened out
the next morning to see the weird visitor from unknown stellar space,
and had wondered why Nahum had called it so large the day before. It
had shrunk, Nahum said as he pointed out the big brownish mound above
the ripped earth and charred grass near the archaic well-sweep in his
front yard; but the wise men answered that stones do not shrink. Its
heat lingered persistently, and Nahum declared it had glowed faintly in
the night. The professors tried it with a geologist's hammer and found
it was oddly soft. It was, in truth, so soft as to be almost plastic;
and they gouged rather than chipped a specimen to take back to the
college for testing. They took it in an old pail borrowed from Nahum's
kitchen, for even the small piece refused to grow cool. On the trip
back they stopped at Ammi's to rest, and seemed thoughtful when Mrs.
Pierce remarked that the fragment was growing smaller and burning the
bottom of the pail. Truly, it was not large, but perhaps they had taken
less than they thought.
The day after that--all this was in June of '82--the professors had
trooped out again in a great excitement. As they passed Ammi's they
told him what queer things the specimen had done, and how it had
faded wholly away when they put it in a glass beaker. The beaker had
gone, too, and the wise men talked of the strange stone's affinity
for silicon. It had acted quite unbelievably in that well-ordered
laboratory; doing nothing at all and showing no occluded gases when
heated on charcoal, being wholly negative in the borax bead, and soon
proving itself absolutely non-volatile at any producible temperature,
including that of the oxy-hydrogen blowpipe. On an anvil it appeared
highly malleable, and in the dark its luminosity was very marked.
Stubbornly refusing to grow cool, it soon had the college in a state
of real excitement; and when upon heating before the spectroscope it
displayed shining bands unlike any known colours of the normal spectrum
there was much breathless talk of new elements, bizarre optical
properties, and other things which puzzled men of science are wont to
say when faced by the unknown.
Hot as it was, they tested it in a crucible with all the proper
reagents. Water did nothing. Hydrochloric acid was the same. Nitric
acid and even aqua regia merely hissed and spattered against its torrid
invulnerability. Ammi had difficulty in recalling all these things, but
recognized some solvents as I mentioned them in the usual order of use.
There were ammonia and caustic soda, alcohol and ether, nauseous carbon
disulphide and a dozen others; but although the weight grew steadily
less as time passed, and the fragment seemed to be slightly cooling,
there was no change in the solvents to show that they had attacked
the substance at all. It was a metal, though, beyond a doubt. It was
magnetic, for one thing; and after its immersion in the acid solvents
there seemed to be faint traces of the Widmänstätten figures found
on meteoric iron. When the cooling had grown very considerable, the
testing was carried on in glass; and it was in a glass beaker that they
left all the chips made of the original fragment during the work. The
next morning both chips and beaker were gone without trace, and only a
charred spot marked the place on the wooden shelf where they had been.
All this the professors told Ammi as they paused at his door, and
once more he went with them to see the stony messenger from the
stars, though this time his wife did not accompany him. It had now
most certainly shrunk, and even the sober professors could not doubt
the truth of what they saw. All around the dwindling brown lump near
the well was a vacant space, except where the earth had caved in;
and whereas it had been a good seven feet across the day before, it
was now scarcely five. It was still hot, and the sages studied its
surface curiously as they detached another and larger piece with hammer
and chisel. They gouged deeply this time, and as they pried away
the smaller mass they saw that the core of the thing was not quite
homogeneous.
* * * * *
They had uncovered what seemed to be the side of a large coloured
globule embedded in the substance. The colour, which resembled some
of the bands in the meteor's strange spectrum, was almost impossible
to describe; and it was only by analogy that they called it colour at
all. Its texture was glossy, and upon tapping it appeared to promise
both brittleness and hollowness. One of the professors gave it a smart
blow with a hammer, and it burst with a nervous little pop. Nothing was
emitted, and all trace of the thing vanished with the puncturing. It
left behind a hollow spherical space about three inches across, and all
thought it probable that others would be discovered as the enclosing
substance wasted away.
Conjecture was vain; so after a futile attempt to find additional
globules by drilling, the seekers left again with their new
specimen--which proved, however, as baffling in the laboratory as
its predecessor. Aside from being almost plastic, having heat,
magnetism, and slight luminosity, cooling slightly in powerful acids,
possessing an unknown spectrum, wasting away in air, and attacking
silicon compounds with mutual destruction as a result, it presented
no identifying features whatsoever; and at the end of the tests the
college scientists were forced to own that they could not place it. It
was nothing of this earth, but a piece of the great outside; and as
such dowered with outside properties and obedient to outside laws.
That night there was a thunderstorm, and when the professors went out
to Nahum's the next day they met with a bitter disappointment. The
stone, magnetic as it had been, must have had some peculiar electrical
property; for it had "drawn the lightning," as Nahum said, with a
singular persistence. Six times within an hour the farmer saw the
lightning strike the furrow in the front yard, and when the storm was
over nothing remained but a ragged pit by the ancient well-sweep,
half-chocked with caved-in earth. Digging had borne no fruit, and the
scientists verified the fact of the utter vanishment. The failure was
total; so that nothing was left to do but go back to the laboratory and
test again the disappearing fragment left carefully cased in lead. That
fragment lasted a week, at the end of which nothing of value had been
learned of it. When it had gone, no residue was left behind, and in
time the professors felt scarcely sure they had indeed seen with waking
eyes that cryptic vestige of the fathomless gulfs outside; that lone,
weird message from other universes and other realms of matter, force,
and entity.
As was natural, the Arkham papers made much of the incident with its
collegiate sponsoring, and sent reporters to talk with Nahum Gardner
and his family. At least one Boston daily also sent a scribe, and Nahum
quickly became a kind of local celebrity. He was a lean, genial person
of about fifty, living with his wife and three sons on the pleasant
farmstead in the valley. He and Ammi exchanged visits frequently, as
did their wives; and Ammi had nothing but praise for him after all
these years. He seemed slightly proud of the notice his place had
attracted, and talked often of the meteorite in the succeeding weeks.
That July and August were hot; and Nahum worked hard at his haying in
the ten-acre pasture across Chapman's Brook; his rattling wain wearing
deep ruts in the shadowy lanes between. The labour tired him more than
it had in other years, and he felt that age was beginning to tell on
him.
Then fell the time of fruit and harvest. The pears and apples slowly
ripened, and Nahum vowed that his orchards were prospering as never
before. The fruit was growing to phenomenal size and unwonted gloss,
and in such abundance that extra barrels were ordered to handle the
future crop. But with the ripening came sore disappointment, for of all
that gorgeous array of specious lusciousness not one single jot was
fit to eat. Into the fine flavour of the pears and apples had crept
a stealthy bitterness and sickishness, so that even the smallest of
bites induced a lasting disgust. It was the same with the melons and
tomatoes, and Nahum sadly saw that his entire crop was lost. Quick to
connect events, he declared that the meteorite had poisoned the soil,
and thanked Heaven that most of the other crops were in the upland lot
along the road.
* * * * *
Winter came early, and was very cold. Ammi saw Nahum less often than
usual, and observed that he had begun to look worried. The rest of his
family too, seemed to have grown taciturn; and were far from steady
in their churchgoing or their attendance at the various social events
of the countryside. For this reserve or melancholy no cause could be
found, though all the household confessed now and then to poorer health
and a feeling of vague disquiet. Nahum himself gave the most definite
statement of anyone when he said he was disturbed about certain
footprints in the snow. They were the usual winter prints of red
squirrels, white rabbits, and foxes, but the brooding farmer professed
to see something not quite right about their nature and arrangement.
He was never specific, but appeared to think that they were not as
characteristic of the anatomy and habits of squirrels and rabbits and
foxes as they ought to be. Ammi listened without interest to this talk
until one night when he drove past Nahum's house in his sleigh on the
way back from Clark's Corners. There had been a moon, and a rabbit had
run across the road; and the leaps of that rabbit were longer than
either Ammi or his horse liked. The latter, indeed, had almost run away
when brought up by a firm rein. Thereafter Ammi gave Nahum's tales
more respect, and wondered why the Gardner dogs seemed so cowed and
quivering every morning. They had, it developed, nearly lost the spirit
to bark.
In February the McGregor boys from Meadow Hill were out shooting
woodchucks, and not far from the Gardner place bagged a very peculiar
specimen. The proportions of its body seemed slightly altered in a
queer way impossible to describe, while its face had taken on an
expression which no one ever saw in a woodchuck before. The boys were
genuinely frightened, and threw the thing away at once, so that only
their grotesque tales of it ever reached the people of the countryside.
But the shying of horses near Nahum's house had now become an
acknowledged thing, and all the basis for a cycle of whispered legend
was fast taking form.
People vowed that the snow melted faster around Nahum's than it did
anywhere else, and early in March there was an awed discussion in
Potter's general store at Clark's Corners. Stephen Rice had driven past
Gardner's in the morning, and had noticed the skunk-cabbages coming
up through the mud by the woods across the road. Never were things of
such size seen before, and they held strange colours that could not
be put into any words. Their shapes were monstrous, and the horse had
snorted at an odour which struck Stephen as wholly unprecedented. That
afternoon several persons drove past to see the abnormal growth, and
all agreed that plants of that kind ought never to sprout in a healthy
world. The bad fruit of the fall before was freely mentioned, and it
went from mouth to mouth that there was poison in Nahum's ground. Of
course it was the meteorite; and remembering how strange the men from
the college had found that stone to be, several farmers spoke about the
matter to them.
One day they paid Nahum a visit; but having no love of wild tales and
folklore were very conservative in what they inferred. The plants were
certainly odd, but all skunk-cabbages are more or less odd in shape
and hue. Perhaps some mineral element from the stone had entered the
soil, but it would soon be washed away. And as for the footprints and
frightened horses--of course this was mere country talk which such
a phenomenon as the aerolite would be certain to start. There was
really nothing for serious men to do in cases of wild gossip, for
superstitious rustics will say and believe anything. And so all through
the strange days the professors stayed away in contempt. Only one
of them, when given two phials of dust for analysis in a police job
over a year and a half later, recalled that the queer colour of that
skunk-cabbage had been very like one of the anomalous bands of light
shown by the meteor fragment in the college spectroscope, and like the
brittle globule found imbedded in the stone from the abyss. The samples
in this analysis case gave the same odd bands at first, though later
they lost the property.
The trees budded prematurely around Nahum's, and at night they swayed
ominously in the wind. Nahum's second son Thaddeus, a lad of fifteen,
swore that they swayed also when there was no wind; but even the
gossips would not credit this. Certainly, however, restlessness was
in the air. The entire Gardner family developed the habit of stealthy
listening, though not for any sound which they could consciously
name. The listening was, indeed, rather a product of moments when
consciousness seemed half to slip away. Unfortunately such moments
increased week by week, till it became common speech that "something
was wrong with all Nahum's folks." When the early saxifrage came out it
had another strange colour; not quite like that of the skunk-cabbage,
but plainly related and equally unknown to anyone who saw it. Nahum
took some blossoms to Arkham and showed them to the editor of the
_Gazette_, but that dignitary did no more than write a humorous article
about them, in which the dark fears of rustics were held up to polite
ridicule. It was a mistake of Nahum's to tell a stolid city man about
the way the great, overgrown mourning-cloak butterflies behaved in
connection with these saxifrages.
April brought a kind of madness to the country folk, and began that
disuse of the road past Nahum's which led to its ultimate abandonment.
It was next the vegetation. All the orchard trees blossomed forth in
strange colours, and through the stony soil of the yard and adjacent
pasturage there sprang up a bizarre growth which only a botanist could
connect with the proper flora of the region. No sane wholesome colours
were anywhere to be seen except in the green grass and leafage; but
everywhere were those hectic and prismatic variants of some diseased,
underlying primary tone without a place among the known tints of earth.
The "Dutchman's breeches" became a thing of sinister menace, and the
bloodroots grew insolent in their chromatic perversion. Ammi and the
Gardners thought that most of the colours had a sort of haunting
familiarity, and decided that they reminded one of the brittle globule
in the meteor. Nahum ploughed and sowed the ten-acre pasture and the
upland lot, but did nothing with the land around the house. He knew it
would be of no use, and hoped that the summer's strange growths would
draw all the poison from the soil. He was prepared for almost anything
now, and had grown used to the sense of something near him waiting
to be heard. The shunning of his house by neighbours told on him, of
course; but it told on his wife more. The boys were better off, being
at school each day; but they could not help being frightened by the
gossip. Thaddeus, an especially sensitive youth, suffered the most.
* * * * *
In May the insects came, and Nahum's place became a nightmare of
buzzing and crawling. Most of the creatures seemed not quite usual in
their aspects and motions, and their nocturnal habits contradicted all
former experience. The Gardners took to watching at night--watching in
all directions at random for something they could not tell what. It was
then that they all owned that Thaddeus had been right about the trees.
Mrs. Gardner was the next to see it from the window as she watched the
swollen boughs of a maple against a moonlit sky. The boughs surely
moved, and there was no wind. It must be the sap. Strangeness had come
into everything growing now. Yet it was none of Nahum's family at all
who made the next discovery. Familiarity had dulled them, and what they
could not see was glimpsed by a timid windmill salesman from Bolton who
drove by one night in ignorance of the country legends. What he told in
Arkham was given a short paragraph in the _Gazette_; and it was there
that all the farmers, Nahum included, saw it first. The night had been
dark and the buggy-lamps faint, but around a farm in the valley which
everyone knew from the account must be Nahum's, the darkness had been
less thick. A dim though distinct luminosity seemed to inhere in all
the vegetation, grass, leaves, and blossoms alike, while at one moment
a detached piece of the phosphorescence appeared to stir furtively in
the yard near the barn.
The grass had so far seemed untouched, and the cows were freely
pastured in the lot near the house, but toward the end of May the milk
began to be bad. Then Nahum had the cows driven to the uplands, after
which this trouble ceased. Not long after this the change in grass and
leaves became apparent to the eye. All the verdure was going grey,
and was developing a highly singular quality of brittleness. Ammi
was now the only person who ever visited the place, and his visits
were becoming fewer and fewer. When school closed the Gardners were
virtually cut off from the world, and sometimes let Ammi do their
errands in town. They were failing curiously both physically and
mentally, and no one was surprised when the news of Mrs. Gardner's
madness stole around.
It happened in June, about the anniversary of the meteor's fall, and
the poor woman screamed about things in the air which she could not
describe. In her raving there was not a single specific noun, but
only verbs and pronouns. Things moved and changed and fluttered, and
ears tingled to impulses which were not wholly sounds. Something
was taken away--she was being drained of something--something was
fastening itself on her that ought not to be--someone must make it
keep off--nothing was ever still in the night--the walls and windows
shifted. Nahum did not send her to the county asylum, but let her
wander about the house as long as she was harmless to herself and
others. Even when her expression changed he did nothing. But when the
boys grew afraid of her, and Thaddeus nearly fainted at the way she
made faces at him, he decided to keep her locked in the attic. By July
she had ceased to speak and crawled on all fours, and before that month
was over Nahum got the mad notion that she was slightly luminous in the
dark, as he now clearly saw was the case with the nearby vegetation.
It was a little before this that the horses had stampeded. Something
had aroused them in the night, and their neighing and kicking in their
stalls had been terrible. There seemed virtually nothing to do to calm
them, and when Nahum opened the stable door they all bolted out like
frightened woodland deer. It took a week to track all four, and when
found they were seen to be quite useless and unmanageable. Something
had snapped in their brains, and each one had to be shot for its own
good. Nahum borrowed a horse from Ammi for his haying, but found it
would not approach the barn. It shied, balked, and whinnied, and in
the end he could do nothing but drive it into the yard while the men
used their own strength to get the heavy wagon near enough the hayloft
for convenient pitching. And all the while the vegetation was turning
grey and brittle. Even the flowers whose hues had been so strange
were graying now, and the fruit was coming out grey and dwarfed and
tasteless. The asters and goldenrod bloomed grey and distorted, and
the roses and zinnias and hollyhocks in the front yard were such
blasphemous-looking things that Nahum's oldest boy Zenas cut them down.
The strangely puffed insects died about that time, even the bees that
had left their hives and taken to the woods.
By September all the vegetation was fast crumbling to a greyish
powder, and Nahum feared that the trees would die before the poison
was out of the soil. His wife now had spells of terrific screaming,
and he and the boys were in a constant state of nervous tension.
They shunned people now, and when school opened the boys did not go.
But it was Ammi, on one of his rare visits, who first realized that
the well water was no longer good. It had an evil taste that was not
exactly fetid nor exactly salty, and Ammi advised his friend to dig
another well on higher ground to use till the soil was good again.
Nahum, however, ignored the warning, for he had by that time become
calloused to strange and unpleasant things. He and the boys continued
to use the tainted supply, drinking it as listlessly and mechanically
as they ate their meagre and ill-cooked meals and did their thankless
and monotonous chores through the aimless days. There was something of
stolid resignation about them all, as if they walked half in another
world between lines of nameless guards to a certain and familiar doom.
Thaddeus went mad in September after a visit to the well. He had gone
with a pail and had come back empty-handed, shrieking and waving his
arms, and sometimes lapsing into an inane titter or a whisper about
"the moving colours down there." Two in one family was pretty bad,
but Nahum was very brave about it. He let the boy run about for a
week until he began stumbling and hurting himself, and then he shut
him in an attic room across the hall from his mother's. The way they
screamed at each other from behind their locked doors was very
terrible, especially to little Merwin, who fancied they talked in some
terrible language that was not of earth. Merwin was getting frightfully
imaginative, and his restlessness was worse after the shutting away of
the brother who had been his greatest playmate.
Almost at the same time the mortality among the livestock commenced.
Poultry turned greyish and died very quickly, their meat being found
dry and noisome upon cutting. Hogs grew inordinately fat, then suddenly
began to undergo loathsome changes which no one could explain. Their
meat was of course useless, and Nahum was at his wit's end. No rural
veterinary would approach his place, and the city veterinary from
Arkham was openly baffled. The swine began growing grey and brittle
and falling to pieces before they died, and their eyes and muzzles
developed singular alterations. It was very inexplicable, for they had
never been fed from the tainted vegetation. Then something struck the
cows. Certain areas or sometimes the whole body would be uncannily
shrivelled or compressed, and atrocious collapses or disintegrations
were common. In the last stages--and death was always the result--there
would be a greying and turning brittle like that which beset the hogs.
There could be no question of poison, for all the cases occurred in a
locked and undisturbed barn. No bites of prowling things could have
brought the virus, for what live beast of earth can pass through solid
obstacles? It must be only natural disease--yet what disease could
wreak such results was beyond any mind's guessing. When the harvest
came there was not an animal surviving on the place, for the stock
and poultry were dead and the dogs had run away. These dogs, three
in number, had all vanished one night and were never heard of again.
The five cats had left some time before, but their going was scarcely
noticed since there now seemed to be no mice, and only Mrs. Gardner had
made pets of the graceful felines.
* * * * *
On the nineteenth of October Nahum staggered into Ammi's house with
hideous news. The death had come to poor Thaddeus in his attic room,
and it had come in a way which could not be told. Nahum had dug a grave
in the railed family plot behind the farm, and had put therein what
he found. There could have been nothing from outside, for the small
barred window and locked door were intact; but it was much as it had
been in the barn. Ammi and his wife consoled the stricken man as best
they could, but shuddered as they did so. Stark terror seemed to cling
round the Gardners and all they touched, and the very presence of one
in the house was a breath from regions unnamed and unnameable. Ammi
accompanied Nahum home with the greatest reluctance, and did what he
might to calm the hysterical sobbing of little Merwin. Zenas needed no
calming. He had come of late to do nothing but stare into space and
obey what his father told him; and Ammi thought that his fate was very
merciful. Now and then Merwin's screams were answered faintly from the
attic, and in response to an inquiring look Nahum said that his wife
was getting very feeble. When night approached, Ammi managed to get
away; for not even friendship could make him stay in that spot when the
faint glow of the vegetation began and the trees may or may not have
swayed without wind. It was really lucky for Ammi that he was not more
imaginative. Even as things were, his mind was bent ever so slightly;
but had he been able to connect and reflect upon all the portents
around him he must inevitably have turned a total maniac. In the
twilight he hastened home, the screams of the mad woman and the nervous
child ringing horrible in his ears.
Three days later Nahum burst into Ammi's kitchen in the early morning,
and in the absence of his host stammered out a desperate tale once
more, while Mrs. Pierce listened in a clutching fright. It was little
Merwin this time. He was gone. He had gone out late at night with a
lantern and pail for water, and had never come back. He'd been going
to pieces for days, and hardly knew what he was about. Screamed at
everything. There had been a frantic shriek from the yard then, but
before the father could get to the door the boy was gone. There was no
glow from the lantern he had taken, and of the child himself no trace.
At the time Nahum thought the lantern and pail were gone too; but when
dawn came, and the man had plodded back from his all-night search of
the woods and fields, he had found some very curious things near the
well. There was a crushed and apparently somewhat melted mass of iron
which had certainly been the lantern; while a bent pail and twisted
iron hoops beside it, both half-fused, seemed to hint at the remnants
of the pail. That was all. Nahum was past imagining, Mrs. Pierce was
blank, and Ammi, when he had reached home and heard the tale, could
give no guess. Merwin was gone, and there would be no use in telling
the people around, who shunned all Gardners now. No use, either, in
telling the city people at Arkham who laughed at everything. Thad was
gone, and now Merwin was gone. Something was creeping and creeping and
waiting to be seen and heard. Nahum would go soon, and he wanted Ammi
to look after his wife and Zenas if they survived him. It must all be a
judgment of some sort; though he could not fancy what for, since he had
always walked uprightly in the Lord's ways so far as he knew.
For over two weeks Ammi saw nothing of Nahum; and then, worried about
what might have happened, he overcame his fears and paid the Gardner
place a visit. There was no smoke from the great chimney, and for a
moment the visitor was apprehensive of the worst. The aspect of the
whole farm was shocking--greyish withered grass and leaves on the
ground, vines falling in brittle wreckage from archaic walls and
gables, and great bare trees clawing up at the grey November sky with
a studied malevolence which Ammi could not but feel had come from some
subtle change in the tilt of the branches. But Nahum was alive, after
all. He was weak, and lying in a couch in the low-ceiled kitchen,
but perfectly conscious and able to give simple orders to Zenas. The
room was deadly cold; and as Ammi visibly shivered, the host shouted
huskily to Zenas for more wood. Wood, indeed, was sorely needed; since
the cavernous fireplace was unlit and empty, with a cloud of soot
blowing about in the chill wind that came down the chimney. Presently
Nahum asked him if the extra wood had made him any more comfortable,
and then Ammi saw what had happened. The stoutest cord had broken at
last, and the hapless farmer's mind was proof against more sorrow.
Questioning tactfully, Ammi could get no clear data at all about the
missing Zenas. "In the well--he lives in the well--" was all that the
clouded father would say. Then there flashed across the visitor's mind
a sudden thought of the mad wife, and he changed his line of inquiry.
"Nabby? Why, here she is!" was the surprised response of poor Nahum,
and Ammi soon saw that he must search for himself. Leaving the harmless
babbler on the couch, he took the keys from their nail beside the door
and climbed the creaking stairs to the attic. It was very close and
noisome up there, and no sound could be heard from any direction. Of
the four doors in sight, only one was locked, and on this he tried
various keys on the ring he had taken. The third key proved the right
one, and after some fumbling Ammi threw open the low white door.
It was quite dark inside, for the window was small and half-obscured
by the crude wooden bars; and Ammi could see nothing at all on the
wide-planked floor. The stench was beyond enduring, and before
proceeding further he had to retreat to another room and return
with his lungs filled with breathable air. When he did enter he saw
something dark in the corner, and upon seeing it more clearly he
screamed outright. While he screamed he thought a momentary cloud
eclipsed the window, and a second later he felt himself brushed as if
by some hateful current of vapour. Strange colours danced before his
eyes; and had not a present horror numbed him he would have thought of
the globule in the meteor that the geologist's hammer had shattered,
and of the morbid vegetation that had sprouted in the spring. As it
was he thought only of the blasphemous monstrosity which confronted
him, and which all too clearly had shared the nameless fate of young
Thaddeus and the livestock. But the terrible thing about the horror was
that it very slowly and perceptibly moved as it continued to crumble.
* * * * *
Ammi would give me no added particulars of this scene, but the shape
in the corners does not re-appear in his tale as a moving object.
There are things which cannot be mentioned, and what is done in common
humanity is sometimes cruelly judged by the law. I gathered that no
moving thing was left in that attic room, and that to leave anything
capable of motion there would have been a deed so monstrous as to damn
any accountable being to eternal torment. Anyone but a stolid farmer
would have fainted or gone mad, but Ammi walked conscious through that
low doorway and locked the accursed secret behind him. There would be
Nahum to deal with now; he must be fed and tended, and removed to some
place where he could be cared for.
Commencing his descent of the dark stairs, Ammi heard a thud below him.
He even thought a scream had been suddenly choked off, and recalled
nervously the clammy vapour which had brushed by him in that frightful
room above. What presence had his cry and entry started up? Halted by
some vague fear, he heard still further sounds below. Indubitably there
was a sort of heavy dragging, and a most detestably sticky noise as
of some fiendish and unclean species of suction. With an associative
sense goaded to feverish heights, he thought unaccountably of what he
had seen upstairs. Good God! What eldritch dream-world was this into
which he had blundered? He dared move neither backward nor forward, but
stood there trembling at the black curve of the boxed-in staircase.
Every trifle of the scene burned itself into his brain. The sounds, the
sense of dread expectancy, the darkness, the steepness of the narrow
steps--and merciful Heaven!--the faint but unmistakable luminosity of
all the woodwork in sight; steps, sides, exposed laths, and beams alike.
Then there burst forth a frantic whinny from Ammi's horse outside,
followed at once by a clatter which told of a frenzied runaway. In
another moment horse and buggy had gone beyond earshot, leaving the
frightened man on the dark stairs to guess what had sent them. But that
was not all. There had been another sound out there. A sort of liquid
splash--water--it must have been the well. He had left Hero untied
near it, and a buggy-wheel must have brushed the coping and knocked in
a stone. And still the pale phosphorescense glowed in that detestably
ancient woodwork. God! how old the house was! Most of it built before
1700.
A feeble scratching on the floor downstairs now sounded distinctly, and
Ammi's grip tightened on a heavy stick he had picked up in the attic
for some purpose. Slowly nerving himself, he finished his descent and
walked boldly toward the kitchen. But he did not complete the walk,
because what he sought was no longer there. It had come to meet him,
and it was still alive after a fashion. Whether it had crawled or
whether it had been dragged by any external forces, Ammi could not
say; but the death had been at it. Everything had happened in the last
half-hour, but collapse, greying, and disintegration were already far
advanced. There was a horrible brittleness, and dry fragments were
scaling off. Ammi could not touch it, but looked horrifiedly into the
distorted parody that had been a face. "What was it, Nahum--what
was it?" He whispered, and the cleft, bulging lips were just able to
crackle out a final answer.
"Nothin' ... nothin' ... the colour ... it burns ... cold an' wet, but
it burns ... it lived in the well.... I seen it ... a kind o' smoke ...
jest like the flowers last spring ... the well shone at night.... Thad
an' Merwin an' Zenas ... everything alive ... suckin' the life out of
everything ... in that stone ... it must o' come in that stone ...
pizened the whole place ... dun't know what it wants ... that round
thing them men from the college dug outen the stone ... they smashed
it ... it was that same colour ... jest the same, like the flowers an'
plants ... must a' ben more of 'em ... seeds ... seeds ... they
growed ... I seen it the fust time this week ... must a' got strong
on Zenas ... he was a big boy, full o' life ... it beats down your
mind an' then gits ye ... burns ye up ... in the well water ... you
was right about that ... evil water ... Zenas never come back from the
well ... can't git away ... draws ye ... ye know summ'at's comin', but
'tain't no use ... I seen it time an' agin Zenas was took ... whar's
Nabby, Ammi? ... my head's no good ... dun't know how long sence I fed
her ... it'll git her ef we ain't keerful ... jest a colour ... her
face is gittin' to hev that colour sometimes towards night ... an' it
burns an' sucks ... it come from some place whar things ain't as they
is here ... one o' them professors said so ... he was right ... look
out, Ammi, it'll do suthin' more ... sucks the life out...."
But that was all. That which spoke could speak no more because it had
completely caved in. Ammi laid a red checked tablecloth over what was
left and reeled out the back door into the fields. He climbed the slope
to the ten-acre pasture and stumbled home by the north road and the
woods. He could not pass that well from which his horses had run away.
He had looked at it through the window, and had seen that no stone
was missing from the rim. Then the lurching buggy had not dislodged
anything after all--the splash had been something else--something which
went into the well after it had done with poor Nahum....
When Ammi reached his house the horses and buggy had arrived before
him and thrown his wife into fits of anxiety. Reassuring her without
explanations, he set out at once for Arkham and notified the
authorities that the Gardner family was no more. He indulged in no
details, but merely told of the deaths of Nahum and Nabby, that of
Thaddeus being already known, and mentioned that the cause seemed to
be the same strange ailment which had killed the livestock. He also
stated that Merwin and Zenas had disappeared. There was considerable
questioning at the police station, and in the end Ammi was compelled
to take three officers to the Gardner farm, together with the coroner,
the medical examiner, and the veterinary who had treated the diseased
animals. He went much against his will, for the afternoon was advancing
and he feared the fall of night over that accursed place, but it was
some comfort to have so many people with him.
The six men drove out in a democrat-wagon, following Ammi's buggy, and
arrived at the pest-ridden farmhouse about four o'clock. Used as the
officers were to gruesome experiences, not one remained unmoved at
what was found in the attic and under the red checked tablecloth on
the floor below. The whole aspect of the farm with its grey desolation
was terrible enough, but those two crumbling objects were beyond all
bounds. No one could look long at them, and even the medical examiner
admitted that there was very little to examine. Specimens could be
analysed, of course, so he busied himself in obtaining them--and here
it develops that a very puzzling aftermath occurred at the college
laboratory where the two phials of dust were finally taken. Under the
spectroscope both samples gave off an unknown spectrum, in which many
of the baffling bands were precisely like those which the strange
meteor had yielded in the previous year. The property of emitting this
spectrum vanished in a month, the dust thereafter consisting mainly of
alkaline phosphates and carbonates.
* * * * *
Ammi would not have told the men about the well if he had thought they
meant to do anything then and there. It was getting toward sunset, and
he was anxious to be away. But he could not help glancing nervously
at the stony curb by the great sweep, and when a detective questioned
him he admitted that Nahum had feared something down there--so much so
that he had never even thought of searching it for Merwin or Zenas.
After that nothing would do but that they empty and explore the well
immediately, so Ammi had to wait trembling while pail after pail of
rank water was hauled up and splashed on the soaking ground outside.
The men sniffed in disgust at the fluid, and toward the last held their
noses against the foetor they were uncovering. It was not so long a
job as they had feared it would be, since the water was phenomenally
low. There is no need to speak too exactly of what they found. Merwin
and Zenas were both there, in part, though the vestiges were mainly
skeletal. There were also a small deer and a large dog in about the
same state, and a number of bones of smaller animals. The ooze and
slime at the bottom seemed inexplicably porous and bubbling, and a man
who descended on hand-holds with a long pole found that he could sink
the wooden shaft to any depth in the mud of the floor without meeting
any solid obstruction.
Twilight had now fallen, and lanterns were brought from the house.
Then, when it was seen that nothing further could be gained from the
well, everyone went indoors and conferred in the ancient sitting-room
while the intermittent light of a spectral half-moon played wanly on
the grey desolation outside. The men were frankly nonplussed by the
entire case, and could find no convincing common element to link the
strange vegetable conditions, the unknown disease of livestock and
humans, and the unaccountable deaths of Merwin and Zenas in the tainted
well. They had heard the common country talk, it is true; but could not
believe that anything contrary to natural law had occurred. No doubt
the meteor had poisoned the soil, but the illness of person and animals
who had eaten nothing grown in that soil was another matter. Was it the
well water? Very possibly. It might be a good idea to analyse it. But
what peculiar madness could have made both boys jump into the well?
Their deeds were so similar--and the fragments showed that they had
both suffered from the grey brittle death. Why was everything so grey
and brittle?
It was the coroner, seated near a window overlooking the yard, who
first noticed the glow about the well. Night had fully set in, and all
the abhorrent grounds seemed faintly luminous with more than the fitful
moonbeams; but this new glow was something definite and distinct, and
appeared to shoot up from the black pit like a softened ray from a
searchlight, giving dull reflections in the little ground pools where
the water had been emptied. It had a very queer colour, and as all the
men clustered round the window Ammi gave a violent start. For this
strange beam of ghastly miasma was to him of no unfamiliar hue. He had
seen that colour before, and feared to think what it might mean. He
had seen it in the nasty brittle globule in that aerolite two summers
ago, had seen it in the crazy vegetation of the springtime, and had
thought he had seen it for an instant that very morning against the
small barred window of that terrible attic room where nameless things
had happened. It had flashed there a second, and a clammy and hateful
current of vapour had brushed past him--and then poor Nahum had been
taken by something of that colour. He had said so at the last--said it
was like the globule and the plants. After that had come the runaway
in the yard and the splash in the well--and now that well was belching
forth to the night a pale insidious beam of the same demoniac tint.
It does credit to the alertness of Ammi's mind that he puzzled even
at that tense moment over a point which was essentially scientific.
He could not but wonder at his gleaning of the same impression from
a vapour glimpsed in the daytime, against a window opening in the
morning sky, and from a nocturnal exhalation seen as a phosphorescent
mist against the black and blasted landscape. It wasn't right--it was
against Nature--and he thought of those terrible last words of his
stricken friend, "It come from some place whar things ain't as they is
here ... one o' them professors said so...."
All three horses outside, tied to a pair of shrivelled saplings by
the road, were now neighing and pawing frantically. The wagon driver
started for the door to do something, but Ammi laid a shaky hand on his
shoulder. "Dun't go out thar," he whispered. "They's more to this nor
what we know. Nahum said somethin' lived in the well that sucks your
life out. He said it must be some'at growed from a round ball like one
we all seen in the meteor stone that fell a year ago June. Sucks an'
burns, he said, an' is jest a cloud of colour like that light out thar
now, that ye can hardly see an' can't tell what it is. Nahum thought it
feeds on everything livin' an' gits stronger all the time. He said he
seen it this last week. It must be somethin' from away off in the sky
like the men from the college last year says the meteor stone was. The
way it's made an' the way it works ain't like no way o' God's world.
It's some'at from beyond."
So the men paused indecisively as the light from the well grew stronger
and the hitched horses pawed and whinnied in increasing frenzy. It was
truly an awful moment; with terror in that ancient and accursed house
itself, four monstrous sets of fragments--two from the house and two
from the well--in the woodshed behind, and that shaft of unknown and
unholy iridescence from the slimy depths in front. Ammi had restrained
the driver on impulse, forgetting how uninjured he himself was after
the clammy brushing of that coloured vapour in the attic room, but
perhaps it is just as well that he acted as he did. No one will ever
know what was abroad that night; and though the blasphemy from beyond
had not so far hurt any human of unweakened mind, there is no telling
what it might not have done at that last moment, and with its seemingly
increased strength and the special signs of purpose it was soon to
display beneath the half-clouded moonlit sky.
* * * * *
All at once one of the detectives at the window gave a short, sharp
gasp. The others looked at him, and then quickly followed his own
gaze upward to the point at which its idle straying had been suddenly
arrested. There was no need for words. What had been disputed in
country gossip was disputable no longer, and it is because of the
thing which every man of that party agreed in whispering later on,
that strange days are never talked about in Arkham. It is necessary to
premise that there was no wind at that hour of the evening. One did
arise not long afterward, but there was absolutely none then. Even
the dry tips of the lingering hedge-mustard, grey and blighted, and
the fringe on the roof of the standing democrat-wagon were unstirred.
And yet amid that tense, godless calm the high bare boughs of all
the trees in the yard were moving. They were twitching morbidly and
spasmodically, clawing in convulsive and epileptic madness at the
moonlit clouds; scratching impotently in the noxious air as if jerked
by some allied and bodiless line of linkage with sub-terrene horrors
writhing and struggling below the black roots.
Not a man breathed for several seconds. Then a cloud of darker depth
passed over the moon, and the silhouette of clutching branches faded
out momentarily. At this there was a general cry; muffled with awe,
but husky and almost identical from every throat. For the terror had
not faded with the silhouette, and in a fearsome instant of deeper
darkness the watchers saw wriggling at the treetop height a thousand
tiny points of faint and unhallowed radiance, tipping each bough like
the fire of St. Elmo or the flames that come down on the apostles'
heads at Pentecost. It was a monstrous constellation of unnatural
light, like a glutted swarm of corpse-fed fireflies dancing hellish
sarabands over an accursed marsh; and its colour was that same nameless
intrusion which Ammi had come to recognise and dread. All the while
the shaft of phosphorescence from the well was getting brighter and
brighter, bringing to the minds of the huddled men, a sense of doom and
abnormality which far outraced any image their conscious minds could
form. It was no longer _shining_ out; it was _pouring_ out; and as the
shapeless stream of unplaceable colour left the well it seemed to flow
directly into the sky.
[Illustration: ... and in the fearsome instant of deeper darkness, the
watchers saw wriggling at that treetop height, a thousand tiny points
of faint and unhallowed radiance, tipping each bough like the fire
of St. Elmo ... and all the while the shaft of phosphorescence from
the well was getting brighter and brighter and bringing to the minds
of the huddled men, a sense of doom and abnormality.... It was no
longer shining out; it was pouring out; and as the shapeless stream of
unplaceable colour left the well, it seemed to flow directly into the
sky.]
The veterinary shivered, and walked to the front door to drop the heavy
extra bar across it. Ammi shook no less, and had to tug and point for
lack of a controllable voice when he wished to draw notice to the
growing luminosity of the trees. The neighing and stamping of the
horses had become utterly frightful, but not a soul of that group in
the old house would have ventured forth for any earthly reward. With
the moments the shining of the trees increased, while their restless
branches seemed to strain more and more toward verticality. The wood
of the well-sweep was shining now, and presently a policeman dumbly
pointed to some wooden sheds and beehives near the stone wall on the
west. They were commencing to shine, too, though the tethered vehicles
of the visitors seemed so far unaffected. Then there was a wild
commotion and clopping in the road, and as Ammi quenched the lamp for
better seeing they realized that the span of frantic grays had broken
their sapling and run off with the democrat-wagon.
The shock served to loosen several tongues, and embarrassed whispers
were exchanged. "It spreads on everything organic that's been around
here," muttered the medical examiner. No one replied, but the man who
had been in the well gave a hint that his long pole must have stirred
up something intangible. "It was awful," he added. "There was no bottom
at all. Just ooze and bubbles and the feeling of something lurking
under there." Ammi's horse still pawed and screamed deafeningly in
the road outside, and nearly drowned its owner's faint quaver as he
mumbled his formless reflections. "It come from that stone--it growed
down thar--it got everything livin'--it fed itself on 'em, mind and
body--Thad an' Merwin, Zenas an' Nabby--Nahum was the last--they all
drunk the water--it got strong on 'em--it come from beyond, whar things
ain't like they be here--now it's goin' home--"
At this point, as the column of unknown colour flared suddenly stronger
and began to weave itself into fantastic suggestions of shape which
each spectator later described differently, there came from poor
tethered Hero such a sound as no man before or since ever heard from
a horse. Every person in that low-pitched sitting-room stopped his
ears, and Ammi turned away from the window in horror and nausea. Words
could not convey it--when Ammi looked out again the hapless beast lay
huddled inert on the moonlit ground between the splintered shafts of
the buggy. That was the last of Hero till they buried him next day.
But the present was no time to mourn, for almost at this instant a
detective silently called attention to something terrible in the very
room with them. In the absence of the lamplight it was clear that a
faint phosphorescence had begun to pervade the entire apartment. It
glowed on the broad-planked floor where the rag carpet left it bare,
and shimmered over the sashes of the small-paned windows. It ran up
and down the exposed corner-posts, coruscated about the shelf and
mantel, and infected the very doors and furniture. Each minute saw it
strengthen, and at last it was very plain that healthy living things
must leave that house.
Ammi showed them the back door and the path up through the fields to
the ten-acre pasture. They walked and stumbled as in a dream, and did
not dare look back till they were far away on the high ground. They
were glad of the path, for they could not have gone the front way, by
that well. It was bad enough passing the glowing barn and sheds, and
those shining orchard trees with their gnarled, fiendish contours; but
thank Heaven the branches did their worst twisting high up. The moon
went under some very black clouds as they crossed the rustic bridge
over Chapman's Brook, and it was blind groping from there to the open
meadows.
* * * * *
When they looked back toward the valley and the distant Gardner place
at the bottom they saw a fearsome sight. All the farm was shining
with the hideous unknown blend of colour; trees, buildings, and even
such grass and herbage as had not been wholly changed to lethal grey
brittleness. The boughs were all straining skyward, tipped with tongues
of foul flame, and lambent tricklings of the same monstrous fire were
creeping about the ridgepoles of the house, barn and sheds. It was a
scene from a vision of Fuseli, and over all the rest reigned that riot
of luminous amorphousness, that alien and undimensioned rainbow of
cryptic poison from the well--seething, feeling, lapping, reaching,
scintillating, straining, and malignly bubbling in its cosmic and
unrecognizable chromaticism.
Then without warning the hideous thing shot vertically up toward the
sky like a rocket or meteor, leaving behind no trail and disappearing
through a round and curiously regular hole in the clouds before any
man could gasp or cry out. No watcher can ever forget that sight, and
Ammi stared blankly at the stars of Cygnus, Deneb twinkling above the
others, where the unknown colour had melted into the Milky Way. But his
gaze was the next moment called swiftly to earth by the crackling in
the valley. It was just that. Only a wooden ripping and crackling, and
not an explosion, as so many others of the party vowed. Yet the outcome
was the same, for in one feverish kaleidoscopic instant there burst up
from that doomed and accursed farm a gleamingly eruptive cataclysm of
unnatural sparks and substance; blurring the glance of the few who saw
it, and sending forth to the zenith a bombarding cloudburst of such
coloured and fantastic fragments as our universe must needs disown.
Through quickly re-closing vapours they followed the great morbidity
that had vanished, and in another second they had vanished too. Behind
and below was only a darkness to which the men dared not return, and
all about was a mounting wind which seemed to sweep down in black,
frore gusts from interstellar space. It shrieked and howled, and lashed
the fields and distorted woods in a mad cosmic frenzy, till soon the
trembling party realized it would be no use waiting for the moon to
show what was left down there at Nahum's.
Too awed even to hint theories, the seven shaking men trudged back
toward Arkham by the north road. Ammi was worse than his fellows,
and begged them to see him inside his own kitchen, instead of
keeping straight on to town. He did not wish to cross the blighted,
wind-whipped woods alone to his home on the main road. For he had had
an added shock that the others were spared, and was crushed for ever
with a brooding fear he dared not even mention for many years to come.
As the rest of the watchers on that tempestuous hill had stolidly set
their faces toward the road, Ammi had looked back an instant at the
shadowed valley of desolation so lately sheltering his ill-starred
friend. And from that stricken, far-away spot he had seen something
feebly rise, only to sink down again upon the place from which the
great shapeless horror had shot into the sky. It was just a colour--but
not any colour of our earth or heavens. And because Ammi recognized
that colour, and knew that this last faint remnant must still lurk down
there in the well, he has never been quite right since.
Ammi would never go near the place again. It is forty-four years now
since the horror happened, but he has never been there, and will be
glad when the new reservoir blots it out. I shall be glad, too, for I
do not like the way the sunlight changed colour around the mouth of
that abandoned well I passed. I hope the water will always be very
deep--but even so, I shall never drink it. I do not think I shall visit
the Arkham country hereafter. Three of the men who had been with Ammi
returned the next morning to see the ruins by daylight, but there were
not any real ruins. Only the bricks of the chimney, the stones of the
cellar, some mineral and metallic litter here and there, and the rim
of that nefandous well. Save for Ammi's dead horse, which they towed
away and buried, and the buggy which they shortly returned to him,
everything that had ever been living had gone. Five eldritch acres of
dusty grey desert remained, nor has anything ever grown there since.
To this day it sprawls open to the sky like a great spot eaten by acid
in the woods and fields, and the few who have ever dared glimpse it in
spite of the rural tales have named it "the blasted heath."
* * * * *
The rural tales are queer. They might be even queerer if city men
and college chemists could be interested enough to analyze the water
from that disused well, or the grey dust that no wind seems ever to
disperse. Botanists, too, ought to study the stunted flora on the
borders of that spot, for they might shed light on the country notion
that the blight is spreading--little by little, perhaps an inch a year.
People say the colour of the neighboring herbage is not quite right
in the spring, and that wild things leave queer prints in the light
winter snow. Snow never seems quite so heavy on the blasted heath as
it is elsewhere. Horses--the few that are left in this motor age--grow
skittish in the silent valley; and hunters cannot depend on their dogs
too near the splotch of greyish dust.
They say the mental influences are very bad, too; numbers went queer in
the years after Nahum's taking, and always they lacked the power to get
away. Then the stronger-minded folk all left the region, and only the
foreigners tried to live in the crumbling old homesteads. They could
not stay, though; and one sometimes wonders what insight beyond ours
their wild, weird stories of whispered magic have given them. Their
dreams at night, they protest, are very horrible in that grotesque
country; and surely the very look of the dark realm is enough to stir
a morbid fancy. No traveler has ever escaped a sense of strangeness in
those deep ravines, and artists shiver as they paint thick woods whose
mystery is as much of the spirits as of the eye. I myself am curious
about the sensation I derived from my one lone walk before Ammi told
me his tale. When twilight came I had vaguely wished some clouds would
gather, for odd timidity about the deep skyey voids above had crept
into my soul.
Do not ask me for my opinion. I do not know--that is all. There was no
one but Ammi to question; for Arkham people will not talk about the
strange days, and all three professors who saw the aerolite and its
coloured globule are dead. There were other globules--depend upon that.
One must have fed itself and escaped, and probably there was another
which was too late. No doubt it is still down the well--I know there
was something wrong with the sunlight I saw above that miasmal brink.
The rustics say the blight creeps an inch a year, so perhaps there is
a kind of growth or nourishment even now. But whatever demon hatchling
is there, it must be tethered to something or else it would quickly
spread. Is it fastened to the roots of those trees that claw the air?
One of the current Arkham tales is about fat oaks that shine and move
as they ought not to do at night.
What it is, only God knows. In terms of matter I suppose the thing
Ammi described would be called a gas, but this gas obeyed laws that
are not of our cosmos. This was no fruit of such worlds and suns as
shine on the telescopes and photographic plates of our observatories.
This was no breath from the skies whose motions and dimensions our
astronomers measure or deem too vast to measure. It was just a colour
out of space--a frightful messenger from unformed realms of infinity
beyond all Nature as we know it; from realms whose mere existence stuns
the brain and numbs us with the black extra-cosmic gulfs it throws open
before our frenzied eyes.
I doubt very much if Ammi consciously lied to me, and I do not think
his tale was all a freak of madness as the townsfolk had forewarned.
Something terrible came to the hills and valleys on that meteor,
and something terrible--though I know not in what proportion--still
remains. I shall be glad to see the water come. Meanwhile I hope
nothing will happen to Ammi. He saw so much of the thing--and its
influence was so insidious. Why has he never been able to move away?
How clearly he recalled those dying words of Nahum's--"can't git
away--draws ye--ye know summ'at's comin', but 'tain't no use--" Ammi is
such a good old man--when the reservoir gang gets to work I must write
the chief engineer to keep a sharp watch on him. I would hate to think
of him as the grey, twisted, brittle monstrosity which persists more
and more in troubling my sleep.
THE END
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Highest Mountain
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Title: The Highest Mountain
Author: Bryce Walton
Release date: January 7, 2016 [eBook #50868]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN ***
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar
System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to
open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd
sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing
off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be
postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of
human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,
but seemed real and alive--except that they were also just parts of a
last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening
till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He
smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into
Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger
in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly
at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you
think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care
of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the
revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some
sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the
gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain
didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars
eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never
got back to Earth--all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,
like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher
than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The
entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills
by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one
incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it
had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at
Earth--or a warning one.
* * * * *
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,
_Mars V_, seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in
front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs
stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.
His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the
Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there
was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he
wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.
They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly
of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene
shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in
his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he
had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know
you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.
Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we
get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out
there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again
to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in
the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted
enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.
This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too
much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing
fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,"
Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never
have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can
find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I
told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part
of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you
backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil
does Venus--?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high
forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to
the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly
educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice
any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the
crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One
of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were
aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this
village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings
there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand
inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet
us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The
village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning
to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the
cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking
about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the
most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of
elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the
real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you
think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws
of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say
what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do
that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They
had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The
psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't
want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human
vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was
kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted
to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.
Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for
centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,
individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question
of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.
So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job
there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.
This was the fifth attempt--
* * * * *
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and
when he shot the--" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to
sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke
me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we
were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got
here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People
talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some
kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of
some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling
there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.
You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce
pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some
fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me
from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place--"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about
scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming
to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew
of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a
precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?
Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?
Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful
climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up
there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why
should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The
challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend
going before something bigger than you are stops you--it doesn't
interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up
straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,
I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was
shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either
that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the
window--something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at
first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,
almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling
it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in
my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking--"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked
me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.
Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,
or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up
his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran
after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do
you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I
could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.
Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.
That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest--don't take any chances with
aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill
everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill
everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun
away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe
that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and
that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would
if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small
wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what
do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit
him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia
is caused by inner conflict--indecision between the older values and
our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case
history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would
say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why
he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense
which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era
values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings
of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action?
Doran must have seen something--"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak
personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He _imagined_ he saw
something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did _you_ see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't
anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there
is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything
else. A shadow maybe--"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law
regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you
a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from
you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left
food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the
mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the
others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of
us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they
come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
* * * * *
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of
the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them
disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like
convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much
if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative
prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so
pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as
long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were
climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and
that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for--to
accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen
masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness
and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I
can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just
to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!
What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain
at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't
seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on
going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our
computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this
high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so
smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice
that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other
four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any
of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb--"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food
concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He
had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to
take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser
a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most
dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether
we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on
climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused
to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.
So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning
anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for
us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the
weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.
Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What
a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,
it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but
that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can
see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be--"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he
was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long
time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking
the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more
real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but
Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real
any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
* * * * *
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to
worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence
was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His
dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had
left it, and it was the same--allowing even for the time difference
necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:
Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to
him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could
also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.
Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green
valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing
their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there
were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them
that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
'_... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,
shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the
delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love--and all our
own!--than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known...._'
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the
dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would
look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing
but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.
The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he
couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would
die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into
himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one
compensation--he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them
who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way
across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him
much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He
could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce--Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure
to be five hundred thousand feet! It _is_ impossible. We keep climbing
and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is
going up and up--"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the
matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps
laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.
Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled
softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce--"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember
how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I
never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't
matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and
hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish
I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?
I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest
mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and
warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What
are you doing--reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was
that, Bruce--that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last
night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
* * * * *
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the
mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.
Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she
looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with
Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of
that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,
as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren
rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound
of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?"
Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into
any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our
destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and
we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're
going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the
top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a
thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this
world--the top of _everything_. The top of the UNIVERSE!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or
other--Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all--and turned into
crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe
they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He
knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration
break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an
instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film
negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was
out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet
sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there
was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the
softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,
drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass
wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,
but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this
one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from
that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl--Helene--was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a
cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but
now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between
them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.
She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at
because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only
what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row
of spaceships--not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd
relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships
instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,
and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
* * * * *
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and
he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,
and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it
again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through
that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he
wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the
lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever
again, you know."
"I didn't _know_ that, but I didn't _think_ we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe
it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was
not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"'_Is all that we see or seem_,'" he whispered, half to himself, "'_but
a dream within a dream?_'"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still
don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I
can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of
understanding of the human mind--after they've accepted you, and after
you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers--we can see
now--it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child
of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but
they'll never get the chance--the chance we seem to have here, to live
decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and
smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their
chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.
Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming
here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It
won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene
walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back
and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and
drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the
mountain had been, or still was--he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,
naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding
green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure
on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the
third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb
the mountain--" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the
pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the
fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind.
I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill
a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned
the horror we're capable of from the first ship--the Conquerors,
the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on
into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own
sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable
of hypnosis--no, that's not really the word, only the closest our
language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it
seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to
the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those
ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to
see and feel--but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,
was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the
suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the
mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by
instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But
you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the
mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no
Conqueror will ever see."
* * * * *
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When
they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,
actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on
walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that
there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,
either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is
given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the
Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had
to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded
hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied
together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond
them were those from _Mars V_, too freshly dead to have decayed
much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and
Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed
to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched
out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,
red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve
miles from the ship--horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the
fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace
beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that
other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so
much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of
Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently
flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she
was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd
been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the
leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never
seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm
city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet
I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.
Are--are the climbers still climbing--somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the
Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Young People, September 7, 1880
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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Title: Harper's Young People, September 7, 1880
Author: Various
Release date: June 15, 2009 [eBook #29134]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Annie McGuire
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, SEPTEMBER 7, 1880 ***
Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 45. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, September 7, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LIGHT-HOUSE SKETCHES.]
WALLY, THE WRECK-BOY.
A STORY OF THE NORTHERN COAST.
BY FRANK H. TAYLOR.
His real name is Wallace, but his mates always called him "Wally," and
although he is now a big broad-shouldered young mariner, he is still
pointed out as the "wreck-boy." One summer not long ago Wally sailed
with me for a week out upon the blue waters across the bar after
blue-fish, or among the winding tide-water creeks for sheep's-head, and
it was then, by means of many questions, that I heard the following
story.
Wally's father was a light-house keeper. The great brick tower stood
aloft among the sand-hills, making the little house which nestled at its
base look dwarfish and cramped.
Wally was about twelve years old, and seldom had the good fortune to
find a playmate. Two miles down the beach, at Three Pine Point, stood a
handsome cottage that was occupied by Mr. Burton, a city gentleman and a
great ship-owner, during the summer, and sometimes his daughter Elsie, a
bright-eyed little girl, would come riding along the sands from the
cottage behind a small donkey, and ask Wally to show her his "museum."
It was a matter of great pride with the boy to exhibit the many curious
shells, bits of sea-weed, sharks' teeth, fish bones, and the full-rigged
ships he had whittled out and completed on winter nights, and Elsie was
an earnest listener to all his explanations, showing him in return the
pictures she had made in her sketch-book.
Not far from the light-house stood a life-saving station--a strong
two-story building, shingled upon its sides to make it warmer. Here,
through the winter months, lived a crew of brave fishermen, who were
always ready to launch the life-boat, and go out through the stormy
waters to help shipwrecked sailors.
Wally was a favorite here, and spent much of his time listening to the
tales they told of ocean dangers and escapes; but he liked best of all
to trudge along the sands with the guard on dark nights, lantern in
hand, watching for ships in distress. The captain of the crew, who was
an old seaman, taught him the use of the compass and quadrant, and other
matters of navigation, while the rest showed him how to pull an oar,
steer, and swim, until he could manage a boat as well as any of them.
Just before sunset each day Wally's father climbed the iron steps of the
light tower, and started the lamp, which slowly revolved within the
great crystal lens, flashing out four times each minute its beam of
warning across the stormy waters. Every few hours it was the watcher's
duty to pump oil into a holder above the light, from which it flowed in
a steady stream to the round wicks below. If this was neglected, the
lamp would cease to burn.
Wally, who was an ingenious boy, had placed a small bit of mirror in his
little bedroom in the attic so that as he lay in bed he could see the
reflection of the flash across the waters. One wild October evening he
had watched it until he fell asleep, and in the night was awakened by
the roaring gusts of the gale which swept over the lonely sands, and he
missed the faithful flash upon his mirror. _The light had gone out!_
Many ships out upon the sea were sailing to and fro, and there was no
light to guide them or warn them of dangerous shoals. Nearer and nearer
some of them were drifting to their fate, and still the beacon gave no
warning of danger.
The light-keeper, hours before, had gone out upon the narrow gallery
about the top of the tower to look at the storm, just as a large wild
fowl, bewildered by the glare, had flown with great speed toward it, and
striking the keeper's head, had laid him senseless upon the iron
grating.
I have seen fractures in the lenses, or glass reflectors, of
light-houses as large as your two fists, such as it would require a
heavy sledge-hammer to break by human force, caused by the fierce flight
of wild fowl; and a netting of iron wire is usually spread upon three
sides of the lens as a protection to the light. Sometimes a large number
of dead birds will be found at the foot of the light-house in the
morning after a stormy autumn night, when wild-geese are flying
southward.
Wally sprang from his bed, full of dread lest his father had fallen to
the ground; for he knew he would never sleep at his post of duty. But
first in his thoughts was the need of starting the lamp again. Calling
to his mother, he sped up the spiral stairway, which never seemed so
long before, and began to pump the oil. Then he lighted the wick from a
small lantern burning in the watch-room, and pumped again until the oil
tank was quite full. His mother in the mean time had found the form of
the keeper, and partially restored him. Wally stepped out upon the
gallery to find his father's hat, and looking seaward, saw something
which for a moment made him sick with terror. In the midst of the
breakers lay a large square-rigged vessel, helplessly pounding to pieces
upon the outer bar. In the intervals of the wind's moaning Wally could
hear the despairing cries of those on board, who seemed to call to him
to save them.
The life-saving station was not yet opened for the season. The captain
and his men lived upon the mainland, across a wide and swift-flowing
channel in the marsh, called the "Thoroughfare." To reach them was of
the most vital importance, for their hands only could drag out and man
the heavy surf-boat, or fire the mortar, and rig the life-car.
All this passed through Wally's mind in a few seconds, and knowing that
his helpless father could do nothing, and that an alarm might make him
worse, he sped silently down the stairway, and setting fire to a "Coston
torch," such as are used by the coast-guard in cases of wreck, he rushed
from the house, swinging the torch, that burned with a bright red flame,
above his head as he ran.
Half a mile across the sands there was a small boat landing, where a
skiff usually lay moored.
Toward this Wally sped with all his strength; but, alas! the waves had
lifted it, the winds had broken it from its moorings, and it was
floating miles away down the "Thoroughfare," and now Wally stood upon
the landing, in the blackness of the night, full of despair. He might
swim, but he had never tried half the width of the channel before. He
looked into the blackness beyond, and hesitated; then at the
light-house, where his mother still sat in the little watch-room
ministering to his injured father; then he thought of the poor men out
in the breakers, whose lives depended upon his reaching the crew.
But a moment longer he stood, and then throwing off his coat, he tied a
sleeve securely about a post so it would be known, in case he should
fail, how he had lost his life. And now he was in the icy waters. The
wind helped him along, but the incoming tide swept him far out of his
course. As he gained the middle of the channel he thought how bitter the
consequences might be to his father if the crew of the ship were lost,
for who would believe the story of the wild fowl's blow? This nerved his
tired arms, but the effort was too much for his strength. He paused, and
threw up his arms. As his form sank beneath the waves, his toes touched
the muddy bottom, and his hand swept among some weeds. One more effort
as he came to the surface, and now he could stand with his mouth out of
water. A moment's rest, and he was tearing aside the dense flags that
bordered the channel.
The captain, a good mile from the Thoroughfare, had left his warm bed to
fasten a loose window-shutter, when he saw a small form tottering toward
him, and Wally fell, weak and voiceless, at his feet. Restoratives were
brought, and the boy told his story.
Ten minutes later half a dozen of the crew were on their way to the
landing, Wally, now fully recovered, foremost among them. He seemed to
possess wonderful strength. They crossed the channel, and dragged out
the great life-boat from its house. It hardly appeared possible to
launch it in such a sea, but each man, in his excitement, had the
strength of two, and without waiting to be bid, Wally leaped into the
stern and grasped the helm.
"Well done, boy!" cried the captain. "I'll take an oar: we need all help
to-night."
Through the night the faithful crew pulled, bringing load after load of
men, women, and children from the wreck of the _Argonaut_ to the shore,
until all were saved. The little house under the light was well filled,
and the sailors were crowded into the life-saving station.
"Where is my father?" asked Wally; and as a man came forward with his
head bandaged, in reply, the boy sank down, and a blackness came over
his eyes.
When he recovered he was in a beautiful room, into which the sun shone,
lighting up the bright walls, pictures, and carpets. He was on a pretty
bedstead, and a strange lady sat by the window talking to his mother.
He thought it all a dream. The door opened, and Mr. Burton came in,
dressed in a fisherman's suit. How queer he looked in such a garb! and
Wally laughed at the sight, and thought that when he awoke he would tell
his mother about it.
It happened that the ship which had come ashore was one belonging to Mr.
Burton, who was on board, returning from a trip to the Mediterranean. So
he had opened the cottage at Three Pine Point, and as the little house
under the light was full, had insisted upon having Wally, with some
others, brought to his summer home, where he could care for them.
Everybody had learned of the boy's brave swim, all had seen him in the
life-boat, and they were anxious to have him recover soon.
Wally, too, learned that the ship had become helpless long before she
had struck the shore, and that her loss was not caused by his father's
mishap.
When Wally had recovered, Mr. Burton and some of the other passengers
insisted upon taking him to the city, where they had a full suit of
wrecker's clothes made for him--cork jacket, sou'wester, and all. He was
also presented with a silver watch and a medal for his bravery. When he
was dressed in his new suit, Miss Elsie made a sketch of him, whereupon
Wally blushed more than he had done during all the praises lavished upon
him.
At the close of the next summer Mr. Burton arranged with the
light-keeper to let him send Wally to a city school, and for the next
four years the boy lived away from the little house on the sands, making
only occasional visits to his home.
Then Mr. Burton took him into his office, where he worked faithfully for
two years; but his old life by the sea caused a longing for a sailor's
career, and his employer wisely allowed him to go upon a cruise in one
of his ships. Upon the following voyage he was made a mate, and this
year he is to command a new ship now being built. Captain Wally was
asked the other day to suggest a name for the new craft, and promptly
gave as his choice the _Elsie_.
And Elsie Burton, who is now an artist, has painted two pictures for the
Captain's cabin. One is called "The Loss of the _Argonaut_," and the
other, "Wally, the Wreck-Boy."
[Begun in No. 31 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER XV.
There was only one fault to be found with Brandt Lake--there was hardly
anything to shoot in its vicinity. Occasionally a deer could be found;
but at the season of the year when the boys were at the lake it was
contrary to law to kill deer. It was known that there were bears in that
part of the country as well as lynxes--or catamounts, as they are
generally called; but they were so scarce that no one thought of hunting
them. Harry did succeed in shooting three pigeons and a quail, and Tom
shot a gray squirrel; but the bears, deer, catamounts, and ducks that
they had expected to shoot did not show themselves.
On the other hand, they had any quantity of fishing. Perch and cat-fish
swarmed all around the island; and large pickerel, some of them weighing
six or eight pounds, could be caught by trolling. Two miles farther
north was another lake that was full of trout, and the boys visited it
several times, and found out how delicious a trout is when it is cooked
within half an hour after it is taken from the water. In fact, they
lived principally upon fish, and became so dainty that they would not
condescend to cook any but the choicest trout and the plumpest cat-fish
and pickerel.
It must be confessed that there was a good deal of monotony in their
daily life. In the morning somebody went for milk, after which breakfast
was cooked and eaten. Then one of the boys would take the gun and tramp
through the woods in the hope of finding something to shoot, while the
others would either go fishing or lie in the shade. Once they devoted a
whole day to sailing entirely around the lake in the boat, and another
day a long rainstorm kept them inside of the tent most of the time. With
these exceptions, one day was remarkably like another; and at the end of
two weeks they began to grow a little tired of camping, and to remember
that there were ways of enjoying themselves at home.
Their final departure from their island camp was caused by an accident.
They had decided to row to the southern end of the lake, and engage a
team to meet them the following week, and to carry them to Glenn's
Falls, where they intended to ship the boat on board a canal-boat bound
for New York, and to return home by rail. To avoid the heat of the sun,
they started down the lake immediately after breakfast, and forgot to
put out the fire before they left the island.
After they had rowed at least a mile, Tom, who sat facing the stern,
noticed a light wreath of smoke rising from the island, and remarked,
"Our fire is burning yet; we ought not to have gone and left it."
Harry looked back, and saw that the cloud of smoke was rapidly
increasing.
"It's not the fire that's making all that smoke," he exclaimed.
"What is it, then?" asked Tom.
"Perhaps it's water," said Joe. "I always thought that where there was
smoke there must be fire; but Harry says it isn't fire."
"I mean," continued Harry, "that we didn't leave fire enough to make so
much smoke. It must have spread and caught something."
"Caught the tent, most likely," said Tom. "Let's row back right away and
put it out."
"What's the use?" interrupted Jim. "That tent is as dry as tinder, and
will burn up before we can get half way there."
"We must get back as soon as we can," cried Harry. "All our things are
in the tent. Row your best, boys, and we may save them yet."
The boat was quickly turned and headed toward the camp.
"There's one reason why I'm not particularly anxious to help put that
fire out," Joe remarked, as they approached the island, and could see
that a really alarming fire was in progress.
"What's that?" asked Harry.
"As near as I can calculate, there must be about two pounds--"
[Illustration: DESTRUCTION OF THE CAMP.--DRAWN BY A. B. FROST.]
He was interrupted by a loud report from the island, and a shower of
pebbles, sticks, and small articles--among which a shoe and a tin pail
were recognized--shot into the air.
"--of powder," Joe continued, "in the flask. I thought it would blow up;
and now that it's all gone, I don't mind landing on the island."
"Everything must be ruined," exclaimed Jim.
"Lucky for us that we put on our shoes this morning," Tom remarked, as
he rowed steadily on. "That must have been one of my other pair that
just went up."
When they reached the island they could not at first land, on account of
the heat of the flames; but they could plainly see that the tent and
everything in it had been totally destroyed. After waiting for half an
hour the fire burned itself out, so that they could approach their dock
and land on the smoking ash heap that an hour before had been such a
beautiful shady spot. There was hardly anything left that was of any
use. A tin pan, a fork, and the hatchet were found uninjured; but all
their clothing and other stores were either burned to ashes or so badly
scorched as to be useless. Quite overwhelmed by their disaster, the boys
sat down and looked at one another.
"We've got to go home now, whether we want to or not," Harry said, as he
poked the ashes idly with a stick.
"Well, we meant to go home in a few days anyway," said Tom; "so the fire
hasn't got very much the better of us."
"But I hate to have everything spoiled, and to have to go in this sort
of way. Our tin pans and fishing-tackle aren't worth much, but all our
spare clothes have gone."
"You've got your uncle's gun in the boat, so that's all right,"
suggested Tom, encouragingly. "As long as the gun and the boat are safe,
we needn't mind about a few flannel shirts and things."
"But it's such a pity to be driven away, when we were having such a
lovely time," continued Harry.
"That's rubbish, Harry," said Joe. "We were all beginning to get tired
of camping out. I think it's jolly to have the cruise end this way, with
a lot of fire-works. It's like the transformation scene at the theatre.
Besides, it saves us the trouble of carrying a whole lot of things back
with us."
"The thing to do now," remarked Tom, "is to row right down to the
outlet, and get a team to take us to Glenn's Falls this afternoon. We
can't sleep here, unless we build a hut, and then we wouldn't have a
blanket to cover us. Don't let's waste any more time talking about it."
"That's so. Take your places in the boat, boys, and we'll start for
home." So saying, Harry led the way to the boat, and in a few moments
the _Whitewing_ was homeward bound.
The boys were lucky enough to find a man who engaged to take them to
Glenn's Falls in time to catch the afternoon train for Albany. They
stopped at the Falls only long enough to see the _Whitewing_ safely on
board a canal-boat, and they reached Albany in time to go down the river
on the night boat.
After a supper that filled the colored waiters with astonishment, the
boys selected arm-chairs on the forward deck, and began to talk over the
cruise. They all agreed that they had had a splendid time, in spite of
hard work and frequent wettings.
"We'll go on another cruise next summer, sure," said Harry. "Where shall
we go?"
Tom was the first to reply. Said he, "I've been thinking that we can do
better than we did this time."
"How so?" asked the other boys.
"The _Whitewing_ is an awfully nice boat," Tom continued, "but she is
too small. We ought to have a boat that we can sleep in comfortably, and
without getting wet every night."
"But then," Harry suggested, "you couldn't drag a bigger boat round a
dam."
"We can't drag the _Whitewing_ round much of a dam. She's too big to be
handled on land, and too little to be comfortable. Now here's my plan."
"Let's have it," cried the other boys.
"We can hire a cat-boat about twenty feet long, and she'll be big
enough, so that we can rig up a canvas cabin at night. We can anchor
her, and sleep on board her every night. We can carry mattresses, so we
needn't sleep on stones and stumps--"
"And coffee-pots," interrupted Joe.
"--and we can take lots of things, and live comfortably. We can sail
instead of rowing; and though I like to row as well as the next fellow,
we've had a little too much of that. Now we'll get a cat-boat next
summer, and we'll cruise from New York Bay to Montauk Point. We can go
all the way through the bays on the south side, and there are only three
places where we will have to get a team of horses to drag the boat
across a little bit of flat meadow. I know all about it, for I studied
it out on the map one day. What do you say to that for a cruise?"
"I'll go," said Harry.
"And I'll go," said Jim.
"Hurrah for the cat-boat!" said Joe. "We can be twice as moral and
piratical in a sail-boat as we can in a row-boat, even if it is the dear
little _Whitewing_."
THE END.
[Illustration]
In Africa wandered a yak;
A jaguar jumped up on his back.
Said the yak, with a frown,
"Prithee quick get thee down;
You're almost too heavy, alack!"
BITS OF ADVICE.
ENTERTAINING FRIENDS.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
I once overheard a little bit of talk between two school-girls, one of
whom said, "Well, the Ames family are coming to our house next week, and
for my part I dread it. I don't expect to have a mite of enjoyment while
they are with us. I can not entertain people." I have forgotten her
companion's reply, but I know that the feeling is common among young
people, and when guests arrive they often slip off the responsibility of
making them happy upon papa and mamma. This is hardly fair. The art of
hospitality is really as easily acquired as a knowledge of geography or
grammar.
In the first place, the young girls in a family when expecting friends
of their own age should see that their rooms are pleasantly arranged,
the beds freshly made, toilet soap provided, and plenty of towels and
water at hand. Not new towels, dear girls; they are hard and slippery,
and nobody likes them. There should be a comb and brush, a button-hook,
pins in plenty, and space in the closet to hang dresses and coats, as
well as an empty drawer in the bureau at the guest's service. By
attending to these little things themselves, girls can take quite a
burden from their busy mothers. Then both boys and girls should have in
mind some sort of plan by which to carry on operations during the days
of their friends' stay. So far as possible it is well to lay aside
unnecessary work for the time. As for the morning and evening duties
which belong to every day's course, attend to them faithfully, but do
not let them drag. Never make apologies if you happen to have some
occupation which you fear may seem very humble in the eyes of your
guest. All home service is honorable.
If you live in the country there will be fishing, nutting, climbing,
riding, driving, and exploring; all of which you can offer to your
friends. Be sure that you have fishing-tackle, poles, and baskets,
harness in order, and, in short, everything in readiness for your
various expeditions. To most out-of-door excursions a nice luncheon is
an agreeable addition, and you need not upset the house nor disturb the
cook in order to arrange this, for sandwiches, gingerbread, cookies,
crackers, and similar simple refreshments, can be obtained in most homes
without much difficulty. Every boy, as well as every girl, should know
how to make a good cup of coffee by a woodland fire.
In town there are museums, picture-galleries, and concerts, as well as
various shows, to delight guests from a distance. In the season you can
take them to the beach or the parks. But whether in town or country, do
not wear your friends out by too much going about, nor ever let them
feel that you are taking trouble for them, nor yet that they are
neglected. Forget your own convenience, but remember their comfort.
Study their tastes and consult their wishes in a quiet way.
[Illustration: A LIVELY TEAM.]
THE HOMES OF THE FARMING ANTS.
BY CHARLES MORRIS.
Woodbine Cottage was just a gem of a place. If any of my readers have
ever seen a gem of a place, they will know exactly what that means. For
those who have not been so fortunate, I will say that it was the
prettiest of cottages, with no end of angles and gables, of shady nooks
and sunny corners, and of cunning ins and outs; while to its very roof
the fragrant woodbine climbed and clambered, and the bees buzzed about
the honeyed blossoms as if they were just wild with delight.
That was Woodbine Cottage itself. But I have said nothing about its
surroundings--the neat flower beds, and the prattling brook that ran by
just at the foot of the garden, the green lawn as smooth as a table, and
the great spreading elm-tree in its centre, against which Uncle Ben
Mason was so fond of leaning his chair in the bright summer afternoons,
and where Harry and Willie Mason liked nothing better than to lie at his
feet on the greensward, and coax him to tell them about the wonderful
things he had seen and the marvellous things he had read.
It was only the afternoon succeeding that in which he had told them the
strange story of the honey ants, and they were at him again, anxious to
know something more about ant life.
"You know, Uncle Ben," pleaded Harry, coaxingly, "that you said there
were ever so many other queer things about them."
"And that they milked cows. And that some of them were just soldiers,"
broke in Willie, eagerly. "And--and--" The little fellow was quite at a
loss for words in his eagerness.
"Now, now, now!" cried Uncle Ben; "you don't want me to tell you all at
once, I hope?"
"Tell us sumfin, Uncle Ben--sumfin of just the queerest you knows,"
pleaded Willie; "cos I wants to know 'bout them ever so much."
"Very well. Suppose I describe the farmer ants."
"The farmer ants!" cried Harry, with interest.
"Yes, there is a species of ants in Texas that have farms of their own,
and gather the grain in when it is ripe, and store it away in their
granaries; and some people say that they plant the seed in the spring,
just like human farmers. But others think that this part of the story is
very doubtful."
"You don't believe that, do you, Uncle Ben?" asked Harry, doubtingly.
"Why, that would be making them folks at once."
"They are very much like folks without that," said his uncle, settling
himself back easily in his chair, and gazing down with his kindly glance
on his eager young nephews.
"If you could see one of their clearings," he continued. "But maybe you
don't care to hear about them?"
"Yes, we does," cried Willie, eagerly.
"I do, ever so much. I know that," chimed in Harry.
"Well, then, if you will keep just as quiet as two mice, I will tell you
the story of our little black farmers. They are, in some ways, the
strangest of all ants. You have seen little ant-hills thrown up in the
sand about an inch across; but these ants build great solid mounds,
surrounded by a level court-yard, sometimes as much as ten or twelve
feet in diameter. Here they do not suffer a blade of grass nor a weed to
grow, and the whole clearing is as smooth and hard as a barn floor. This
is no light labor, I can tell you, for wild plants grow very fast and
strong under the hot suns of Texas."
"But how do they do it?" asked Harry.
"You would laugh to see them," continued his uncle. "They bite off every
blade of grass near the root, some seize it with their fore-legs, and
twist and pull at it, while others run up to the top of the blade, and
bend it down with their weight. It is not long before the great tree, as
it must seem to the ants, comes toppling down. The roots are left in the
ground to die out, just as a Western wood-cutter leaves the roots of his
trees."
"It must be a funny sight," exclaimed Harry.
"Does they keep stables for their cows?" asked Willie, who could not get
over his interest in the ants' milking operations.
"Not they. These ants do not keep cows," returned Uncle Ben.
"They're mighty queer farmers, then," replied Willie, contemptuously.
"They are grain farmers, not dairy farmers," was the amused reply. "But
I have not finished telling you about their clearings. There is nothing
stranger in the world, when we consider how they are made. They may
often be seen surrounded by a circle of tall weeds, great, fast-growing
fellows, two or three feet high, that look very much as if they would
like to step in on the ants' play-ground. But the active little
creatures do not suffer any intrusion upon their domain."
"It is odd how they can cut down so many grass trees without tools,"
said Harry.
"They have better tools than you think," replied Uncle Ben. "Their hard,
horny mandibles are good cutting instruments, and are used for teeth,
saws, chisels, and pincers all in one. They form a sort of compound
tool."
"I'd like to see them ever so much," cried Willie. "But, Uncle Ben,
where does they live? Cos they can't be running 'bout all the time
out-of-doors. I know that."
"And they must have some place to put their crops in," said Harry.
"Their houses are in the centre of the clearing," continued their uncle.
"They are usually rounded mounds of earth, with a depression in the top,
of the shape of a basin. In the centre of this basin is a small hole,
forming the entrance to the ant city, which is all built under-ground.
If you could see one of these mounds cut open, you would be surprised to
behold the multitude of galleries not more than a quarter or half an
inch high, running in all directions. Some of them lead up and down to
the upper and lower stories of the establishment. At the ends of these
galleries are many apartments, some of which serve as nurseries where
the young ants are kept, and others as granaries where the grain is
stored up. The granaries are sometimes one and three-quarter inches
high, and two inches wide, neatly roofed over, and filled to the roof
with grain. That may not seem much of a barn, but if you had one in the
same proportion to your size, it would need no trifle of grain to fill
it."
"But you said they were farmer ants," cried Harry, as if he fancied he
had now got his uncle in a tight place, "and you haven't said a word
about their wheat fields."
"And you tole us they didn't keep cows, too," put in Willie,
triumphantly.
"But I am not half through my story yet," replied Uncle Ben, with a
quiet smile. "We have only been talking about their homes and their
clearings. Now suppose we take a stroll out to the wheat fields by one
of the great roads which the ants make."
"Roads!" cried both boys in surprise.
"Just as fine roads as men could make. Our little farmers always have
three or four of these roads, and sometimes as many as seven, running
straight out from their clearing, often for sixty feet in length. One
observer, in fact, says he saw an ant road that was three hundred feet
long. The roads are from two to five inches wide at the clearing, but
they narrow as they go out, until they are quite lost."
"But are they real roads? You ain't funning, Uncle Ben?" asked Willie.
"They are as hard, smooth, and level as you would want to see, not a
blade of grass, nor a stick nor a stone, upon them. And just think what
little tots they are that make them! That long road I have just
mentioned would be equal to a road made by men ten miles long and
twenty-two feet wide, and yet it is only the ant's pathway to his
harvest field."
"Well, that is the queerest thing yet!" exclaimed Harry.
"In the harvest season these roads are always full of ants, coming and
going," continued Uncle Ben. "There is a great crowd of them at the
entrance, but they thin out as they get further from home. They stray
off under the grass, seeking for the ripe seeds which may have dropped.
They do not seem to climb the grass for the seeds, but only hunt for
them on the ground."
"It's only old _grass_, then, and it ain't wheat after all!" exclaimed
Willie, in some disappointment.
"It is the ants' wheat," was the reply. "A grain of our wheat might
prove too heavy for them. They generally prefer the seed of the
buffalo-grass, a kind of grass that grows plentifully in Texas. It is
very amusing to see one of the foragers after he has found a seed to his
liking. No matter how far he has strayed from the road, he always knows
his way straight back. But he has a hard struggle with his grass seed,
clambering over clods, tumbling over sticks, and travelling around
pebbles. There is no give up in him, however. He is bent on bringing in
his share of the crop, and lets nothing hinder him. After he reaches the
road, it is all plain sailing. He gets a good hold on his grain, and
trots off home like an express messenger, sometimes not stopping to rest
once on the long journey."
"Gracious! wouldn't I like to see them?" exclaimed Harry. He had
approached his uncle step by step, and was now standing in open-mouthed
wonder at his knee.
As for Willie, he was not nearly so eager. He had not yet got over his
contempt for farmers who did not keep cows.
"Is there anything else queer about them?" asked Harry.
"There is another sort of grass, called ant rice, of which the seed
tastes something like rice. One observer says that this grass is often
permitted to grow upon their clearings, all other kinds of grass being
cut away, as our farmers clear out the weeds from their grain. When the
seeds are ripe and fall, they carry them into their granaries, and
afterward clear away the stubble, preparing their wheat field for the
next year's crop. It is this writer who says that they plant the seeds
in the spring, but other writers doubt this statement."
"And you said a while ago that you didn't believe it, either," remarked
Harry.
"I think it needs to be pretty thoroughly established before we can
accept it as a fact."
"I think so too," said Harry, with great gravity.
"Ain't nuffin more queer 'bout 'em, is there?" asked Willie. "Cos I's
getting kind of tired of them."
"You can go 'way, then," retorted Harry. "Uncle Ben's telling me."
"No, he ain't. He's telling bofe of us. Ain't you, Uncle Ben?"
"Anybody who wants to listen is welcome," answered their uncle, with
assumed gravity. "But I don't wish to force knowledge into any unwilling
young brains. However, I have only a few more things to tell, and then
will leave you at liberty."
"Just tell all, Uncle Ben. Don't mind him," cried Harry.
"Another strange part of the story is this," continued their
good-natured uncle: "sometimes the rain gets into their granaries, and
wets the grain. But as soon as the sun comes out again the industrious
little fellows carry out their stores, seed by seed, and lay them in the
sun to dry. They then carry them carefully back again, except those that
have sprouted and been spoiled. These are left outside."
"Don't they husk their grain?" asked Harry.
"Yes. They carry the husk and all other refuse out-of-doors, and pile it
up in a heap on one side of the clearing. Is that all, Harry?"
"But you haven't said a word yet about what these seeds are stored up
for. Do they eat them during the winter?"
"Very likely they do, though they have never been observed at their
winter meals. Ants usually sleep through the cold weather. But a warm
day is apt to waken them, and there is little doubt that they take the
opportunity to make a good dinner before going to sleep again."
"But how can they eat such great seeds--bigger than themselves?"
"They don't swallow them at a mouthful, I assure you. They seem rather
to rasp them with the rough surface of their tongues, getting off a fine
flour, which they swallow eagerly, together with the oil of the seed. I
have nothing further to tell you about them just at present, except to
say that these are not comfortable ants to meddle with, for they sting
almost as sharply as a bee."
"Then I don't want nuffin at all to do with 'em," cried Willie; "cos I
was stinged with a bee once, and I don't like bees."
"I am ever so much obliged, Uncle Ben," said Harry. "Come, Willie, let's
go play now, for I know we've been a big bother."
"Maybe you has; I ain't," replied Willie, stolidly, as he followed his
brother, leaving Uncle Ben with a very odd smile upon his face.
A ROYAL THIEF.
In the summer weather
Kindly, gen'rous Night
Flings upon the thirsting grass
Dew-drops cool and bright.
There they lie and sparkle
Till return of Day;
Then the Sun--a royal thief--
Steals them all away.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 37, July 13.]
THE STORY OF THE AMERICAN NAVY.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
CHAPTER IX.
Between the war of 1812-15 and the civil war, 1861-65, our navy had very
little to do in actual warfare. It was sometimes called upon to assert
the rights and dignity of our government in foreign ports, and during
the war with Mexico it assisted in the capture of Vera Cruz and in the
conquest of California.
When in 1861 civil war was begun in Charleston Harbor, our navy
consisted of ninety vessels, of which only forty were in commission, and
these were distributed in distant seas. The entire naval force available
at the beginning of that war for the defense of our Atlantic sea-board
was the _Brooklyn_, of twenty-five guns, and a store-ship carrying two
guns. The Confederates seized revenue-cutters in Southern ports. Ships
were got ready, and early in April, 1861, a squadron was sent to the
relief of Fort Sumter. But it could effect nothing. Very soon afterward
the Confederates seized the Navy-yard at Norfolk, and several ships of
war were destroyed there to prevent their falling into the hands of the
enemies of the republic. The Confederates fitted out privateers to prey
upon our commerce; but these were soon disposed of by government
vessels, which, forty-three in number, blockaded the Southern ports by
midsummer. Nevertheless, numerous British ships, in violation of
neutrality laws, slipped into Southern ports with supplies for the
Confederates.
Danger made the Navy Department very active. Vessels were bought and
built, and fully armed and manned. Two hundred and fifty-nine naval
officers of Southern birth left the government service and joined the
Confederates at the beginning of the war. Their places were soon filled
by patriotic men of equal ability, and there was always an ample supply.
In August, 1861, a land and naval force went from Hampton Roads to
capture forts erected by the Confederates at Hatteras Inlet. The vessels
were commanded by Commodore Stringham. The expedition was successful.
Soon afterward both the national government and the Confederates began
to build vessels covered with iron plates, and called "iron-clads." The
Federals built a flotilla of twelve gun-boats on the Mississippi early
in 1862, a part of them iron-clad, and placed them under the command of
Flag-officer Foote. They carried all together one hundred and twenty-six
guns. These performed admirable service soon afterward in assisting the
army in the capture of Forts Henry and Donelson, in Tennessee, and all
through the war they were active and efficient in Western rivers.
Late in October, 1861, a powerful land and naval force left Hampton
Roads to take possession of the coasts of South Carolina. The ships were
commanded by Commodore S. F. Dupont. The entrance to Port Royal Sound
was strongly guarded by Confederate forts. These were reduced, after a
sharp engagement with the fleet. The Federals entered, and were soon in
complete possession of the sea islands of South Carolina.
At the beginning of 1862 the navy was composed of seven squadrons, each
having a distinct field of operation, chiefly in the blockading service.
In that service many stirring events occurred. At the very beginning the
Confederate cruiser _Petrel_ went out of Charleston Harbor and attacked
the _St. Lawrence_, supposing her to be a merchant ship. Presently the
latter opened her guns, sending a fiery shell that exploded in the
_Petrel_, and a heavy solid shot that struck her amidships below
water-mark. In an instant she was reduced to a wreck, leaving nothing on
the surface of the foaming waters but floating fragments of her hull,
and the struggling survivors of her crew. The latter scarcely knew what
had happened. A flash of fire, a thunder-peal, and ingulfment had been
the events of a moment.
Early in 1862 a land and naval force, the latter commanded by
Flag-officer Goldsborough, captured Roanoke Island, which the
Confederates had fortified. This was speedily followed by the capture of
places on the mainland of North Carolina. A little earlier than this,
great excitement was produced by the seizure on board an English
mail-steamer, by Captain Wilkes, of our navy, of two Confederate
Ambassadors to European courts (Mason and Slidell), and lodging them in
Fort Warren, in Boston Harbor. The British government threatened war;
but common-sense prevailed, and after a little bluster peace was
assured.
After the capture of Forts Henry and Donelson, Commodore Foote's
attention was directed to Island Number Ten, in the Mississippi, which
the Confederates occupied, and had strongly fortified. It was regarded
as the key to the Lower Mississippi. Foote beleaguered it with gun-boats
and mortar-boats, and with some assistance of a land force he captured
the stronghold. Then the flotilla went down the Mississippi, and
captured Fort Pillow and Memphis, terribly crippling the Confederate
squadron at the latter place.
The government resolved to repossess New Orleans and Mobile. A land
force under General Butler, and a naval force under Commodore Farragut
and Commodore D. D. Porter, with a mortar fleet, gathered at Ship
Island, off the coast of Mississippi, early in 1862. The ships entered
the Mississippi in April. Two forts opposite each other on the
Mississippi, some distance from its mouth, had been strongly garrisoned
by the Confederates, who considered them a perfect protection to New
Orleans. These had to be passed. That perilous feat was performed by the
fleet in the dark hours of the morning of April 24, when a terrific
scene was witnessed. Farragut, in the wooden ship _Hartford_, led the
way. Forts, gun-boats, mortar-boats, and marine monsters called "rams"
opened their great guns at the same time. Earth and waters for miles
around were shaken. The forts were silenced, the fleet passed, and then
met a strong Confederate flotilla in the gloom. After one of the most
desperate combats of the war, this flotilla was vanquished, and Farragut
pushed on toward New Orleans, which he had virtually captured before the
arrival of General Butler. This event gave great joy to the loyal people
of the country.
Meanwhile a stirring event had occurred in Hampton Roads. Early in March
the Confederates sent down from Norfolk a powerful iron-clad "ram" named
_Merrimac_ to destroy national vessels near Fortress Monroe. This raid
was destructive, and its repetition was expected the next morning. At
midnight a strange craft came into the Roads. It seemed to consist of
only a huge cylinder floating on a platform. She was under the command
of Lieutenant J. L. Worden. That cylinder was a revolving turret of
heavy iron, containing two enormous guns. The almost submerged platform
was also of iron. It was called the _Monitor_.
[Illustration: FIGHT BETWEEN THE "MONITOR" AND "MERRIMAC."--DRAWN BY
J. O. DAVIDSON.]
The _Merrimac_ came down the next morning to attack the frigate
_Minnesota_. The little _Monitor_ went to her defense--in size a little
child defending a giant. Slowly her turret began to revolve. Her cannon
sent forth 100-pound shot, and very soon the _Merrimac_ was so crippled
that she fled with difficulty back to Norfolk, and did not come out
again. After that, Monitors were favorites as defenders of land-locked
waters.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: AT THE SEA-SIDE.]
IN SEPTEMBER.
BY MARY DENSEL.
It had been a hot summer, and Cassy Deane, shut up in a close street,
had been treated to every atom of heat that the city contained. So at
least it seemed to her, for the family had only lately moved into town
from the country, and Cassy was like a little wind-flower that had been
transplanted from a cool wood into a box of earth near a blazing fire.
No wonder that she drooped. She seldom had even a drive to console her.
"Because we are only _middling_," she explained to herself. "If we were
poor, we could go on excursions with the charity children; and if we
were rich, we'd travel to the mountains or the sea. We're only middling,
so we stay at home."
At first Cassy was ready to envy Marion Van Dysk, who started with her
mamma and a dozen trunks for Saratoga; and she breathed a sigh over the
fortunes of Lillie Downs, whose father had built a cottage on the coast
of Maine, where the ocean surged up to the very piazza.
But by-and-by Cassy forgot her woes, such a delightful piece of news
came to her ears. Her mother told it to her one evening, and Cassy never
went to sleep for two whole hours after she was in bed, so excited was
she by the bliss that was to be hers in September.
The truth was that Mr. Deane had come to the city for the express
purpose of giving his little daughter the benefit of no less an
establishment than Madame McLeod's "Boarding and Day School for Young
Ladies." Cassy knew that Marion Van Dysk and Lillie Downs and a host of
other damsels were also "to enjoy its advantages." Cassy was overwhelmed
with the honor and the joy of it all. She had always been a solitary
chick up in her country home, and it seemed almost too good to be true
that she was actually to have real live girls to play with, and that she
could talk of "_our_ games," and "_our_ history class."
What matter that the August sun scorched and flamed? What matter if the
bricks, baked through and through by day, took their revenge by keeping
the air as hot as a furnace all night?
Cassy was as gay as a lark, and sang and chattered by the hour, while
she helped her mother run up the breadths of an extraordinary changeable
silk gown, which had been cut over from one that had been her
grandmother's. This was to be Cassy's school-dress. Think what
richness--silk for every-day wear!
"We can't afford to buy anything new," argued Mrs. Deane. Still, it was
a solemn moment when the key snapped in the lock of the cedar chest, and
that changeable silk was taken from the place where it had lain these
thirty years, wrapped in a pillow-case and two towels.
Cassy fairly gasped when the scissors cut into its gorgeousness. She
gasped even more when Mrs. Deane also brought from the chest six yards
of an ancient bottle-green ribbon to trim the robe withal. To be sure,
the ribbon drooped despondingly under the chastening influence of a hot
flat-iron, but, "We'll put it on in bands," said Mrs. Deane. "Bows would
really be too dressy for you, my daughter."
Stitch, stitch, stitch, Cassy's fingers flew. And all the time she
sewed, her busy brain was weaving the most rapturous visions of the new
life that was to be hers. In her dreams she made polite little
courtesies to Marion Van Dysk, whom she imagined as standing on the
threshold of the "Boarding and Day School" to welcome her. To be sure
she only knew Marion by sight, but as Marion knew her in the same way,
she thought they would instantly become friends. Then Lillie Downs would
entreat her to join in all the games, for Lillie Downs was already an
acquaintance: at least she had said, "How do you do?" one day when she
saw Cassy on the sidewalk. Cassy was sure there were a dozen girls who
would stretch out their hands at once, and perhaps she could even think
of a secret to tell some of them, and then they would, of course, be
friends forever.
"And even if they wear common clothes, I sha'n't be proud in this
magnificent dress," thought Cassy. For the changeable silk was finished
now, and Cassy stole twenty times a day into the guest-chamber that she
might behold its splendor as it lay on the bed.
It did seem as if August would never end. But at last September
appeared, and the morning of all mornings dawned.
Cassy rose bright and early. Her mother dressed her with her own hands,
and tied up her hair with a narrow pink ribbon.
"Pink goes so well with the green on your gown," said dear, guileless
Mrs. Deane; "and, Cassy, here are some new shoes that father bought for
you yesterday. He'll go himself with you to the door, so you sha'n't
feel strange like."
"Oh, but they'll be so glad to see me I sha'n't feel strange!" cried
Cassy, and down the street she skipped.
But for some reason no one was at the door to welcome her. Cassy crept
into the big school-room. It was full of girls, and there was Marion Van
Dysk among the rest. A wee smile came to Cassy's face. She was about to
say "good-morning," but Marion only glanced carelessly at her and turned
away.
"Why, she's forgotten that I live round the corner," thought Cassy.
Lillie Downs had evidently "forgotten" too, or else she was too busy to
notice.
Cassy turned away, and that just in time to catch a whisper.
"Who, under the sun, is that queer image in a dress that came out of the
ark?"
Cassy looked wonderingly about to discover the "image." The girl who had
spoken was gazing directly at her with a twinkle in her eyes. Her
companion said, "Hush! she'll hear," and the two laughed under their
breath, not jeeringly, but only as if they really could not help it.
A "queer image"? Was she "queer"? Cassy asked herself.
All at once it flashed across her that her gown was certainly very
unlike the crisp, ruffled dresses around her. Those flimsy satin ribbons
did look as if Mrs. Noah might have worn them. A hot flush sprang to
Cassy's cheeks. She began to almost wish she had not come, such a sense
of loneliness rushed over her.
She was even more forlorn when the school was presently called to order,
for every other girl was blessed with a seat-mate, and Cassy sat quite
by herself.
When recess-time came she followed the others into a large back yard,
and stowed herself meekly away in a corner to watch the fun. She tried
to console herself by the thought that she could not have run about even
had she been asked to join in the game of "tag," for the new shoes
pinched her feet sadly. For all that, she was almost glad when one girl
stumbled against her and fairly trod on her toes, for she turned so
quickly, and begged her pardon so heartily, that it was worth bearing
the pain for the sake of the notice.
Cassy was sure that all the girls were good-natured. They were only busy
with their own affairs, and what claim had the stranger upon any one of
them?
When noon came, and Cassy went home to dinner, she put a brave face on
the matter. She knew it would break her father's heart to know how keen
had been her disappointment. So she spoke of the large school-room, and
of the classes in which she had been placed; and Mr. Deane nodded
approval, while his wife put her head on one side to see if that
changeable silk could not bear to be taken in a little in the biases.
How could Cassy tell her that the gown was "queer"? How could she even
mention that her shoes were coarse, and that they hurt her feet?
"Perhaps the girls will speak to me to-morrow," she thought, patiently.
But they did not. Again Cassy sat in her corner quite alone. In vain she
told herself that it was "no matter," in vain she "played" that she did
not care.
"I sha'n't mind it to-morrow."
To-morrow came, and it was just as hard as to-day.
At last one morning at recess it did seem as though she could not bear
it any longer. A big lump was in her throat, and two tears sprang to her
eyes; but still she tried to say, "Never mind; oh, never mind."
Just at that moment a voice sounded in her ear. She turned and saw a
face rosy with blushes.
"I didn't know," began the voice, hesitatingly--"I thought you might
like--anyway, I am Bessie Merriam."
Cassy looked out shyly from under her lashes. "I am Cassy Deane," said
she.
"You're a new girl," continued Bessie, more boldly, "so I had to speak
first. Would you like to play, 'I spy'?"
Cassy sprang up eagerly, then drew back. "I wish I could," she
stammered, "but my shoes--and father's only middling, so I don't like to
ask for more."
"Of course not," broke in Bessie, who, though puzzled to know what it
was to be "middling," was sure there was something wrong about the
shoes. "Of course not; but maybe you know 'jack-stones'?"
In a twinkling she brought five marbles from the depth of her pocket,
and the two were deep in the mysteries of "horses in the stall," "Johnny
over," "peas in the pot," and all the rest of that fascinating game.
One person having spoken to the forlorn stranger, two more appeared on
the scene. It is always so. These girls wanted Bessie and her new friend
for "hop-scotch," but Bessie interfered before there was any chance for
embarrassment.
"We can't leave this game," said she, decidedly.
"How could she think to speak so quickly?" thought Cassy. "I should have
felt so bad to explain about my shoes!"
It was the very next morning that Bessie Merriam came to school with a
mysterious bundle under her arm. She took Cassy by the hand, and led
her--where? Why, into the coal closet!
"It's so very private here," explained Bessie. "And, do you know, it's
no fun to play romping games in these good boots of mine; so I hunted up
an old pair. And, do you think, I stumbled on these old ones too. Would
you mind using one pair? You _won't_ think me impertinent, will you?"
Bessie was quite out of breath, and gazing at Cassy with wide-open,
pleading eyes.
Those boots fitted to a T. Cassy could jump and run to her heart's
content. Jump and run she did, for at recess Bessie drew her into the
midst of the other girls, and such a game of "I spy" Cassy had never
imagined. Nobody said a word about her droll gown. "She is _my_ friend,"
Bessie had announced, and that was enough.
Marion Van Dysk gave her two bites of her pickled lime. Lillie Downs
"remembered" her, and did not shrink from partaking of Cassy's
corn-ball. School was a very different affair to-day.
Cassy fairly danced on her way home. She determined to think up a secret
that very night that she might confide it to Bessie. In the mean time
she bought a bit of card-board and some green, red, and brown worsted.
All that afternoon and all that evening she worked. The next day Bessie
found in her arithmetic a remarkable book-mark, with a red house and a
green and brown tree, while underneath were the touching words,
"Friendship's Offering."
"Please to keep it for ever and ever," begged Cassy, earnestly, "to make
you remember how I thank you."
"Thank me for what?" asked Bessie, in surprise.
Cassy stared at her.
"Don't you know what a beautiful thing it was in you to ask me to play
'jack-stones'? Don't you know you're a--a--an angel?"
"It never says once in the Bible that angels play 'jack-stones,'" cried
Bessie, in great glee; "so don't talk nonsense, Cassy. But I think the
book-mark's lovely."
So the two little girls laughed as if there was a joke somewhere, though
neither knew exactly what it was, only Cassy Deane was too happy to be
sober, and it's my belief Bessie Merriam was just as happy as she. What
do you think?
WHAT THE BABIES SAID.
BY MRS. E. T. CORBETT.
Lillie Benson and Daisy Brooks sat on the floor in the nursery, and
looked at each other, while their delighted mammas looked at them, and
each mother thought her own baby the finest. Lillie was ten months old,
and Daisy was just twelve. Lillie had great blue eyes, soft flaxen hair
curling in little rings all over her head, and pink cheeks. Daisy had
brown eyes, golden-brown hair cut straight across her forehead
(_banged_, people call it), and two lovely dimples. One wore a white
dress all tucks and embroidery, with a blue sash; the other a white
dress all ruffles and puffs, with a pink sash.
Daisy looked at Lillie, and said, "Goo-goo!"
"The dear little thing!" said Daisy's mamma. "She's so delighted to see
Lillie to-day."
Then Lillie looked at Daisy, and said, "Goo-goo-goo!"
"Oh, the darling!" exclaimed Lillie's mamma. "She's _so_ fond of Daisy,
you know, that she is trying to talk."
Presently Daisy turned her back to Lillie, and crept into the corner of
the room. "Now just see that! she wants Lillie to follow her. Isn't it
cunning?" said Lillie's mamma.
"Of course she does, and see Lillie trying to do it. Isn't she sweet?"
answered Daisy's mother, while Lillie crept to the opposite side of the
room.
But after a while the two babies were sleepy; so their mammas laid them
down side by side in the wide crib, and then went down stairs to lunch.
"We'll leave the door open, so we can hear them if they cry; but I know
they won't wake for a couple of hours," said one of the mothers; and the
other one said, "Oh no; of course not; they'll sleep soundly, the
darlings!"
But in a very few moments something strange happened--something _very_
strange indeed. The babies opened their eyes, looked around the room,
and then at each other.
"We're alone at last, and I'm so glad," said Daisy.
"Yes," said Lillie. "Now we can have a nice little chat, I hope. Isn't
it dreadful to be a baby, Daisy?"
"Of course it is," sighed Daisy; "yet I suppose it is very ungrateful to
say so, when every one loves us so much, and is so kind to us."
"That's the worst of it; I don't want every one to love _me_, because
they will kiss me, and I hate to be kissed so much," objected Lillie.
"Ugh! how horrid some people's kisses are!"
"It's enough to make any baby cross, _I_ think," added Daisy. "I wish no
one but mamma would ever kiss me, and even she does too much of it when
I'm sleepy."
"Why, Daisy Brooks! what a thing to say about your own dear mamma!"
exclaimed Lillie, looking shocked.
"I don't mean to say anything unkind of mamma, for I love her dearly,
you know, Lillie; but it _is_ hard to be kissed and kissed when you're
hungry or sleepy, or both, and sometimes I have to cry," answered Daisy,
quickly.
"Well, I'll tell you something else I hate," continued Lillie, "and that
is to have people who don't know anything about it try to amuse me. They
have such a dreadful way of rushing at you head-first, and shrieking,
'Chee! _chee!_ CHEE!' or 'Choo! _choo!_ CHOO!' that you don't know what
may be coming next."
"Yes, or else they poke a finger in your neck, and expect you to laugh
at the fun. I do laugh sometimes at the absurdity of their behavior,"
said Daisy, scornfully.
"Yes, and then they always think you're delighted, and go on until you
are disgusted, and have to scream, don't they?" asked Lillie.
"Of course. Oh, babies have a great deal to suffer, there's no doubt of
_that_," said Daisy.
"And there's another horrid thing," Lillie added, after thinking a
moment. "I mean the habit people have of talking to babies about their
family affairs in public. My mamma don't do that; but I heard Aunt Sarah
talking to her baby in the cars the other day, loud enough for every one
to hear, and she said: 'Poor grandpa! grandpa's gone away: don't Minnie
feel sorry? She can't play with grandpa's watch now. Grandpa wants
Minnie to come and see him, and ride on the pony, and Minnie must have
her new sacque made, so she can go. Will Minnie send a kiss to grandpa?'
and ever so much more. I know poor Minnie was ashamed, for she fidgeted
all the time; but what could she do?"
"Well, mamma would talk to me just the same way this morning, as we came
here, and I did my best to stop her, too, but it wasn't any use," said
Daisy, looking indignant. "She had to tell everybody that we were going
to see 'dear little Lillie Benson,' over and over again."
"But I'll tell you what makes me most angry, after all, Daisy," said her
cousin, suddenly. "Does your mamma ever give you a chicken bone to
suck?"
"Yes, she does, and oh!--I know what you're going to say," interrupted
Daisy. "That's another of our trials. You get a nice bone, and you begin
to enjoy yourself, when all at once your nurse or your mother fancies
you've found a scrap of meat on the bone, and then one or the other just
makes a fish-hook of her finger, and pokes it down your throat before
you know where you are!"
"That's it exactly," exclaimed Lillie. "I go through just such an
experience nearly every day, and it's too aggravating."
"Hark!" said Daisy, listening; "I hear old Dinah coming up stairs now,
and I suppose we'll have to listen to her baby-talk for a half-hour at
least. I know what I'll do; I'll make faces and scream."
"And get a dose of medicine, maybe, as I did one day," answered Lillie.
"I tried that plan to stop an old lady from saying, 'Ittie peshous!
ittie peshous! tiss ou auntie!' and mamma got so frightened she sent for
the doctor, and he gave me a horrid powder. I can taste it yet."
"That was too bad," said Daisy, compassionately; "but hush, dear, for
Dinah is at the door."
And when the old nurse came in the room, she found the two babies
wide-awake, smiling at each other, and saying, "Goo-goo," as sweetly as
if they hadn't a grievance in the world.
[Illustration: GETTING ACQUAINTED.--DRAWN BY W. L. SHEPPARD.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
We are compelled to repeat some of our instructions to our young
correspondents desiring exchange, in order to save ourselves and them
from unnecessary trouble. In the first place, the name must be written
very plainly. In some instances we can give only the initials because it
is impossible to read the name, and the initials themselves are often
very doubtful. Then the address must be given in full. If you have no
post-office box, and live in a town too small to have numbered streets,
have your letter addressed to the care of your father, or of some one
through whom you will be sure to receive it.
Do not write to us that it would give you pleasure to exchange with any
particular correspondent whose address has been plainly given in Our
Post-office Box, because we can not make room to print a letter which
should more suitably be written direct to the correspondent with whom
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Requests for correspondence, or for exchange of cards or pictures of any
kind, will not be noticed, as we do not consider such exchanges as
leading to any valuable information, and it is only such that we desire
to facilitate. Postmarks, which in themselves are worthless, we consider
calculated to develop a knowledge of geography; for no American boy will
rest content until he knows the exact locality from which his new
postmark comes, and finds out all about it that his geography will tell
him. Postage stamps have the same merit, with the advantage of being
historical as well, as many of them contain heads of kings, queens, or
eminent men, or at least some design typical of the country from which
they come.
We shall never print in the Post-office Box letters from correspondents
desiring to sell stamps, minerals, or any other things.
These observations are not gratuitous on our part, but we are compelled
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which we can make no use whatever.
* * * * *
NEWBERN, VIRGINIA.
We live at the sea-side, and we had never seen mountains before we
came here this summer. I thought they were awfully big when I
first looked at them.
We amuse ourselves in many ways. Sometimes we ride on horseback,
and other times we go to the brook and paddle. We also take lovely
walks, and gather ferns, mosses, and lichens for hanging baskets.
One morning we went to the barn to see them thresh, and Ally found
eight baby mice, and Nora brought them home in her pocket. At the
threshing place there are ten little puppies, and we have fine
times playing with them.
The other day we drove to see the highest mountain near here, and
just before we got there down came a shower. We took shelter in a
log-cabin church, but before we got inside we were all wet
through. We thought that was all the more fun, because we like to
be in the rain.
I am nine years old, and the oldest child of five.
SUE D. T.
* * * * *
SAINT JOSEPH, TENSAS PARISH, LOUISIANA.
I am a little Southern girl nine years old, and I like YOUNG
PEOPLE so much! I read all the letters in the Post-office Box.
So many children write about turtles that I thought I would tell
them about one my brother had once. He said it was a pet, and one
day he went to kiss it, when it put out its head and bit his nose,
and hung on. His old black mammy told him that it would never let
go until it thundered, so he ran all around, screaming, "I wish it
would flunder! I wish it would flunder!" The noise he made
frightened the turtle so that it dropped off without waiting for
thunder.
My brother is a grown man now, living in New Orleans, and we often
laugh at him about his turtle and the "flunder."
ANNIE FLEMING L.
* * * * *
I am a little girl of nine years. My papa has taken YOUNG PEOPLE
for me since the first number. I enjoy reading the children's
letters very much.
My grandma is visiting us this summer, and she has her parrot with
her. It is twenty-seven years old. It calls "Grandma" and
"Mother," and screams for its breakfast. It says "Good-by" and
"How do you do?" as plain as I can, and sings two songs, and
imitates the cat, the dog, and the rooster, and does a great many
other things.
Now I will tell the little girls what I have been doing since the
school closed. I have learned to crochet, and have made two tidies
and five yards of trimming. I am now making trimming of
feathered-edge braid, and if any little girl who can crochet would
like the pattern, I will be glad to send her a sample.
GRACIE MEADS,
Platte City, Platte County, Missouri.
* * * * *
SAN BERNARDINO, CALIFORNIA.
I take YOUNG PEOPLE, and like it so much! I am ten years old. My
papa is out at the mines, and I am going there too when it gets
cooler weather. I have a pet kitten here at home, and my papa has
got two kittens and a dog for me when I go out to the mines.
I have a doll named Goldie. My aunt sent it to me from New York
city.
I go to school, and my reading-book is the History of the United
States.
FLORENCE R.
* * * * *
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.
I send two easy experiments for the chemist's club: Pour a small
quantity of common aqua ammonia in a dish; over this place a
funnel, big end down, in the tube of which place a few cut
flowers. In a little while the flowers will change color.
A very pretty experiment is this: Take a piece of ice, or in
winter a snow-ball, and dig a small cavity in it. In this hole
place a little piece of gum-camphor, and touch a lighted match to
it. It will burn a good while, and have the appearance of ice or
snow on fire.
FRED A. C.
* * * * *
BARTON, MARYLAND.
I am seven years old. I go to school, and am in the Second Reader.
Our teacher takes YOUNG PEOPLE, and we love to hear her read the
stories.
I have a pet pig just as white as it can be. It likes to roll in
the mud, and then it gets black and dirty like other pigs.
Sometimes it bites my brother Harry's toes, and then I think it is
a naughty pig.
GRACIE W.
* * * * *
GREENSBURG, KENTUCKY.
Here is a game for rainy evenings I made up myself. It takes two
players to play it. Player No. 1 places a chair or table in the
centre of the room, and while Player No. 2 is shut outside, he
walks round the object as many times as he pleases. Then Player
No. 2 is called in, and will tell how many times his companion has
walked round the object.
The way to do it is this: When Player No. 2 is told to go outside,
he must hesitate a little, and perhaps say something in a careless
way to divert suspicion. Then Player No. 1 will tell him to go
three or four times. It is understood between the two players that
so many times as Player No. 2 is told to go, so many times will
Player No. 1 walk round the object; and if the players are
skillful, it is impossible for the spectators to detect in what
way they understand each other.
If any one in the audience suspects signs of any kind, Player No.
2 may offer to be blindfolded by the suspicious person.
JOHN H. B.
* * * * *
ATLANTA, GEORGIA.
I live in the suburbs of Atlanta. We have had lots of birds' nests
in our yard this summer--mocking-birds, bluebirds, and sparrows.
On moonlight nights the mocking-bird sings far into the night.
When Pluto, our black cat, goes under the trees where the little
birds are, the old bird flies down, pecks him on the back, and
looks very angry. Pluto looks as if he would like to eat her at
one bite.
We have another cat, called Charity, because she came to us, and a
little black kitten named Potts.
I wish YOUNG PEOPLE was just full of "The Moral Pirates," but
mamma says that wouldn't be fair to the girls.
I have a little brother named Bayard, two years old. Thursday
night, when my uncle brings YOUNG PEOPLE, he says, "Luncle Leddie,
give me my YOUNG PEOPLE; show me my bootiful pictures and
Wiggles." Then he sits still while mamma reads him a story. He can
tell stories, too. He says: "A humble-bee stung a bluebird out in
the flont yard. Can't find me. 'Long come a big turkey and eat me
up. That's a big stoly for YOUNG PEOPLE."
STEWART H.
* * * * *
I live on a farm near the Great South Bay, and have great fun
bathing and catching crabs. Will crabs shed their shells in a car
if they are fed?
I am collecting birds' eggs and postage stamps, and would like to
exchange with any readers of YOUNG PEOPLE.
WILLIE R. WILBUR,
Sayville, Suffolk County, Long Island.
* * * * *
LONG GROVE, IOWA.
I am eleven years old. I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE from the
first number, and like it very much. I have a brother who is just
thirteen years old, and he likes it as much as I do, and there is
a great rush to see who gets it first when it comes from the
office. Papa says we need two copies. Papa has taken HARPER'S
WEEKLY more than twelve years, and intends to take it always.
We have a pet white calf with black nose and eyes. We call it
Creamy. I feed it milk twice a day, and it eats apples from my
hand.
I made a white cake for my brother on his birthday from the recipe
sent by Altia Austin. It was very nice.
COSETTE M. M.
* * * * *
I have a pet dog named Topsy that will sit up, shake hands, kiss,
and jump through my arms. My little sister Genie has a cat that
tries to imitate my dog. I have the promise of a pair of pigeons,
and I have a lot of little chickens.
I am trying to make a scrap-book, and I am starting a collection
of stamps. If Paul S., of Bridgeport, Connecticut, will send me a
French postage stamp from one of his father's letters, I will send
him a Japanese one in return.
WILLIE D. VATER,
Care of S. Vater, Office of the _Daily Journal_,
Lafayette, Indiana.
* * * * *
SHERBURNE FOUR CORNERS, NEW YORK.
I have just been reading YOUNG PEOPLE, and the last piece I read
was "Easy Botany." I liked it very much. I think YOUNG PEOPLE is
the best paper I ever saw.
I tried Nellie H.'s recipe for candy, and it was very nice. I
would like to know if she pulls it. I did mine, and I burned my
fingers.
I tumbled out of a cherry-tree the other day, and almost broke my
back.
We had an old dog named Watch, that we liked so much, and two
weeks ago he died.
I wish Puss Hunter would let me know if she ever tried my recipe
for bread.
FANNIE A. H.
* * * * *
I am ten years old. I have a collection of about five hundred
postage stamps, and would like to exchange with any readers of
YOUNG PEOPLE.
J. E. A.,
700 Court Street, Reading, Pennsylvania.
* * * * *
I am making a collection of stones, one from every State. I try to
get them about the size of a hen's egg. If any other correspondent
is making such a collection, I will be very glad to exchange a
stone from Michigan for one from any other State.
JESSIE I. BEAL,
Agricultural College, Lansing, Michigan.
* * * * *
I would like to exchange pressed flowers for birds' eggs with any
of the correspondents of Our Post-office Box.
BELLE ROSS,
Knoxville, Tennessee.
* * * * *
I would like to exchange postmarks of the United States or of
foreign countries with any readers of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
FRED L. B.,
337 Belleville Avenue, Newark, New Jersey.
* * * * *
I have a collection of postage stamps, and would gladly exchange
with any readers of YOUNG PEOPLE. I was born in the West Indies,
in the island of Curaçao, and I can get a great many stamps from
there. Correspondents will please send me a list of what stamps
they require, and what kinds they have to exchange.
ELIAS A. DE LIMA,
162 East Sixtieth Street, New York city.
* * * * *
I am collecting birds' eggs, and would like to exchange with any
of the correspondents of YOUNG PEOPLE. My sister takes the paper,
and I like to read it as well as she does.
HENRY A. FERGUSON,
P. O. Box 339, Rutland, Vermont
* * * * *
I have just written to some of the boys who offer exchange through
Our Post-office Box, and I wish to say to any others that if they
will send a list of stamps they have to spare, and also of those
they would like to get, I will send them my lists in return, and
try to effect a satisfactory exchange with them.
WALTER S. DODGE,
700 Ninth Street, Washington, D. C.
* * * * *
I have had YOUNG PEOPLE from the first number, and like it very
much.
I have a very nice garden, and would like to exchange seeds with
any readers of YOUNG PEOPLE. I have morning-glories, double
lady's-slippers, and wax-plant.
I have been trying to learn how to cook, this vacation, and have
succeeded in clam chowder, which all liked very much.
MAGGIE SIMONTON,
424 West Twenty-ninth Street, New York city.
* * * * *
B. W. T.--Fire-works were invented by the Chinese at a very early
period, and the magnificence of their pyrotechnic exhibitions is still
unsurpassed by the most beautiful displays of modern times. In Europe
the Italians were the first to cultivate the pyrotechnic art.
Exhibitions of rockets and set pieces were given in Italy in the early
part of the sixteenth century, and the annual display which takes place
at Easter on the ramparts of the Castle of San Angelo at Rome is still
famous for its magnificent beauty. Some noted displays took place in
France during the seventeenth century, and those given in Paris at the
present time are marvels of ingenuity of design and brilliancy and
variety of coloring. Filings of copper, zinc, and other metals in
combination with certain chemicals are used to produce the brilliant
stars which are thrown out by rockets as they explode. Although there is
great beauty in many of the combinations of wheels and stars arranged on
frames, in the troops of fiery pigeons flying back and forth, and in the
wonderful presentations of sea-fights, buildings, and other devices to
be seen at every grand pyrotechnic display, there is nothing so majestic
as the rockets and bombs which rush upward to the sky, and, bursting,
fill the air with showers of golden serpents, floating stars of
brilliant, changing hues, and cascades of silver and gold rain.
* * * * *
R. S. A.--The schooner yacht differs from the sloop only in rig,
consequently an article on schooner yachts would be but little else than
a repetition of that on sloops.
* * * * *
C. A. SAVAGE.--The reason given you as the cause of low water is no
doubt correct. If you can take note of the back-water above the mills,
you will probably find the increase sufficient to balance the decrease
below. The low water is especially noticeable during the present summer,
when the long-continued drought of the early part of the season has
dried up many of the small streams and springs which usually contribute
to the volume of water in the river.
* * * * *
ED.--A descriptive list of the publications of Messrs. Harper & Brothers
will be sent, postage free, to any address in the United States, on the
receipt of nine cents.
* * * * *
D. D. LEE.--You will find some useful suggestions concerning catamarans
in _The Canoe and the Flying Proa_, by W. L. Alden, a volume of
"Harper's Half-hour Series."
* * * * *
DAISY G.--No article on silk-worms has been published in HARPER'S BAZAR,
but there was an interesting paper in HARPER'S MAGAZINE on that subject,
to which reference was made in Post-office Box No. 44.
* * * * *
ALEXINA N., CARL S. H., HELEN R. F., AND OTHERS.--Write directly to the
correspondents with whom you desire to make exchange.
* * * * *
Favors are acknowledged from Fannie W. B., Louie, Frank W., Winnie S.
Gibbs, Miriam Hill, G. Y. M., Mary B. Reed, Clyde Marsh, Howard
Starrett, Edwin F. Edgett, S. Birdie D., P. T. C., Amelia M. Smith,
Helen M. Shearer, Florry and Daisy, Maud Dale, Pearl Collins, Maud
Zeamer, Rosa Mary D., May Harvey, George Thomas.
* * * * *
Correct answers to puzzles are received from George D. S., Edward,
Maggie Horn, K. T. W., M. E. Norcross, Nena C., Karl Kinkel, Addie
Giles, Frank Lomas, Mary E. Fortenbaugh, "Morning Star," Effie K.
Talboys, Myra M. Hendley, Charlie Rossmann, Florence E. Iffla,
"Chiquot," G. Volckhausen, Ralph M. Fay, H. A. Bent, Daisy Violet
Morris.
* * * * *
PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.
No. 1.
ENIGMA.
My first in white, but not in black.
My second in nail, but not in tack.
My third in love, but not in hate.
My fourth in luck, but not in fate.
My fifth in ship, but not in boat.
My sixth in atom, not in mote.
My seventh in man, but not in boy.
My eighth in trouble, not in joy.
My ninth in head, but not in tail.
My tenth in turtle, not in snail.
My eleventh in cake, but not in bread.
My twelfth in yellow, not in red.
My thirteenth in wrong, but not in right.
My fourteenth in squire, not in knight.
My fifteenth in run, but not in walk.
My sixteenth in chatter, not in talk.
My seventeenth in horse, but not in mule.
My eighteenth in govern, not in rule,
My nineteenth in rain, but not in snow.
A warrior I, who long ago
In a famous battle won kingdom and crown,
And covered my name with high renown.
CARRIE.
* * * * *
No. 2.
DIAMONDS.
1. In Scotland. A solid, heavy substance which easily changes its
character. Something never at rest. A verb. In Scotland.
2. In Constantinople. A bird. Agreeable to the taste. A verb. In
Constantinople.
KATIE.
* * * * *
No. 3.
WORD SQUARES.
1. First, to beg. Second, a rampart. Third, to suit. Fourth, steam.
Fifth, a passageway.
GEORGE.
2. First, a place for skating. Second, thought. Third, cleanly. Fourth,
a girl's name.
EDWIN.
* * * * *
No. 4.
NUMERICAL CHARADE.
I am the title of a celebrated book composed of 16 letters.
My 4, 10, 2, 7, 14 is dirt.
My 12, 5, 11, 4 is an intoxicating beverage.
My 3, 14, 8, 16 signifies smaller.
My 13, 6, 9, 1, 3, 14, 15 are undulations.
WESTERN STAR.
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN NO. 42.
No. 1.
S I C K
I R O N
C O M E
K N E E
No. 2.
N o W
A nn A
P ilo T
O d E
L andsee R
E ar L
O thell O
N er O
Napoleon, Waterloo.
No. 3.
Geranium.
No. 4.
1. Madrid. 2. Warsaw. 3. Athens. 4. Connecticut.
No. 5.
Ear, pear, year, bear, dear, gear, tear, fear, near, hear, rear, sear,
wear.
SPECIAL NOTICE.
* * * * *
OUR NEW SERIAL STORY.
* * * * *
In the next Number of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE will be found the opening
chapter of a new serial story, entitled
"WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?"
written expressly for this paper by JOHN HABBERTON, so widely known as
the author of "Helen's Babies." The story is one of school-boy life, and
abounds in situations and incidents that will prove familiar to the
experience of a large proportion of our readers. Over the life of Paul
Grayson, the hero of the story, hangs a mystery that his schoolmates
determine to solve, and which is at last cleared up in the most
unexpected manner. The story will be fully and beautifully illustrated
from original drawings.
ADVERTISEMENTS.
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE will be issued every Tuesday, and may be had at
the following rates--_payable in advance, postage free_:
SINGLE COPIES $0.04
ONE SUBSCRIPTION, _one year_ 1.50
FIVE SUBSCRIPTIONS, _one year_ 7.00
Subscriptions may begin with any Number. When no time is specified, it
will be understood that the subscriber desires to commence with the
Number issued after the receipt of order.
Remittances should be made by POST-OFFICE MONEY ORDER or DRAFT, to avoid
risk of loss.
ADVERTISING.
The extent and character of the circulation of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
will render it a first-class medium for advertising. A limited number of
approved advertisements will be inserted on two inside pages at 75 cents
per line.
Address
HARPER & BROTHERS,
Franklin Square, N. Y.
COLUMBIA BICYCLE.
[Illustration]
Bicycle riding is the best as well as the healthiest of out-door sports;
is easily learned and never forgotten. Send 3c. stamp for 24-page
Illustrated Catalogue, containing Price-Lists and full information.
THE POPE MFG. CO.,
79 Summer St., Boston, Mass.
CHILDREN'S
PICTURE-BOOKS.
Square 4to, about 300 pages each, beautifully printed on Tinted
Paper, embellished with many Illustrations, bound in Cloth, $1.50
per volume.
The Children's Picture-Book of Sagacity of Animals.
With Sixty Illustrations by HARRISON WEIR.
The Children's Bible Picture-Book.
With Eighty Illustrations, from Designs by STEINLE, OVERBECK,
VEIT, SCHNORR, &c.
The Children's Picture Fable-Book.
Containing One Hundred and Sixty Fables. With Sixty Illustrations
by HARRISON WEIR.
The Children's Picture-Book of Birds.
With Sixty-one Illustrations by W. HARVEY.
The Children's Picture-Book of Quadrupeds and other Mammalia.
With Sixty-one Illustrations by W. HARVEY.
* * * * *
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
_Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on
receipt of the price._
OUR CHILDREN'S SONGS.
* * * * *
Our Children's Songs. Illustrated. 8vo, Ornamental Cover, $1.00.
* * * * *
This is a large collection of songs for the nursery, for childhood, for
boys and for girls, and sacred songs for all. The range of subjects is a
wide one, and the book is handsomely illustrated.--_Philadelphia
Ledger._
Songs for the nursery, songs for childhood, for girlhood, boyhood,
and sacred songs--the whole melody of childhood and youth bound in
one cover. Full of lovely pictures; sweet mother and baby faces;
charming bits of scenery, and the dear old Bible story-telling
pictures.--_Churchman_, N. Y.
The best compilation of songs for the children that we have ever
seen.--_New Bedford Mercury._
* * * * *
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
HARPER & BROTHERS _will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid, to
any part of the United States, on receipt of the price_.
Harper's New and Enlarged Catalogue,
With a COMPLETE ANALYTICAL INDEX, and a VISITORS' GUIDE TO THEIR
ESTABLISHMENT,
Sent by mail on receipt of Nine Cents.
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE, N. Y.
[Illustration: SOME ANSWERS TO WIGGLE No. 13, OUR ARTIST'S IDEA, AND NEW
WIGGLE No. 14.]
The following also sent in answers to Wiggle No. 13:
W. H. Western, C. Flagler, Philip P. Cruder, Ben S. Darrow, C. W. Lyman,
Harry J. F., F. Holton, Marvin Burt, W. M. Hill, Ettie Houston, Fred
Houston, Sallie Whitaker, Lulu Craft, Charles N. Hoar, Bertha Thompson,
Gussie Horton, Sadie Clark, Effie K. Talboys, Pen. Percival, Abby Park,
T. K., Bessy F., Alexis Shriver. Sam, Bessie Linn, Winyah Lodge, Nella
Coover, C. C. McClaughry, Hal, J. S. Bushnell, Jasper Blines, Theo. F.
John, G. F. D., J. R., Percy F. Jomieson, W. Fowler, Johnnie Fletcher,
Eddie Cantrell, Frank S. Miller, H. K. Chase, Myron B. Vorce, John
Jocob, Ellis C. Kent, Toots, Theresa Morro, Rebecca Hedges, Josie
Parker, Maude T., Ella S., Maude S., Roy S., H. S. K., Stella M. L.,
Jessie Lee Reno, W. T. Broom, Leon Fobes, R. B., C. B. H., Edith
Bidwell, Louise M. Gross, E. L. S., Willard R. Drake, Herbert F. R.,
Eddie J. Hequembourg, C. H. Newman, Louise Buckner, C. H. N. S., Lizzie
E. Hillyer, Edith G. White, Mazie, Aggie May Mason, Harry R. Barlett,
Bessie G. Barlett, John H. Barlett, Jun., Fred Wendt, Alfred Wendt, Emma
L. Davis, Annie Dale Jones, Frank Lowas, H. M. Western, Oscar M. Chase,
May A. Vinton, William B. Jennings, Willie G. Hughes, Cora A. Binninger,
G. R. N., A. M. N., Fred A. Conklin, G. Simpson, Howard Starrett, Gus
Busteed, H. M. P., G. M., Charles Platt, Gilbert Moseley, A. T. D., Ges.
Haywood, Julia B. Smith, W. M., G. G. Kauffman, Mary C. Green, J. N.
Howe, Louis Gooss, C. C., Percy Griffin, Roswell Starrett, Etta M.
Gilbreath, Charles E. Simonson, Wilfred H. Warner, Walter A. Draper,
Charley Nash, Daniel Rogers, Clinton Starin, William O. Brackett,
Estelle Moshberger, Gertie G., Katie G., E. R. Hall, Harry N., Wiggler.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, SEPTEMBER 7, 1880 ***
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Das Nationaltheater des Neuen Deutschlands. Eine Reformschrift
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Title: Das Nationaltheater des Neuen Deutschlands. Eine Reformschrift
Author: Eduard Devrient
Release date: April 19, 2012 [eBook #39480]
Language: German
Credits: Produced by Thorsten Kontowski, Karl Eichwalder, La Monte
H.P. Yarroll and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned
images of public domain material from the Google Print
project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAS NATIONALTHEATER DES NEUEN DEUTSCHLANDS. EINE REFORMSCHRIFT ***
Produced by Thorsten Kontowski, Karl Eichwalder, La Monte
H.P. Yarroll and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned
images of public domain material from the Google Print
project.)
[Transcriber's Note: Original language and spelling variations have not
been standardized (e.g. blos, Erkenntniß, datirt, obenein). Original
emphasis by =letter spacing= has been marked here with =equal= signs
(e.g. seines =eignen= Vortheils); changes in font from Fraktur to
_Antiqua_ have been indicated by _underscores_ (e.g. Ludwig XIV. gab dem
_théâtre français_ die erste Verfassung). In the publisher's name J. J.
Weber, the initials probably expand to Johann Jacob.
Zur Transkription: Die Wortwahl und Schreibweisen des Originals wurden
beibehalten (z.B. blos, Erkenntniß, datirt, obenein). Hervorhebungen im
Original durch =gesperrten= Druck wurden hier mit =Gleichheitszeichen=
dargestellt (z.B. seines =eignen= Vortheils); der Wechsel von Fraktur
zur _Antiquaschrift_ wurde mit _Unterstrichen_ angedeutet (z.B. Ludwig
XIV. gab dem _théâtre français_ die erste Verfassung). Die Abkürzung im
Verlagsnamen J. J. Weber steht wohl für Johann Jacob.]
Das
Nationaltheater
des
Neuen Deutschlands.
Eine Reformschrift
von
Eduard Devrient.
Leipzig,
Verlag von J. J. Weber.
1849.
[I.]
Das preußische Cultusministerium hat mich durch den Auftrag geehrt, ihm
meine Ansichten mitzutheilen: welche Gestaltung dem Theater zu geben
sei, um es, zu einem gedeihlichen Wirken, in Uebereinstimmung mit den
übrigen Künsten zu setzen.
Dieser Auftrag hat mich zur Abfassung der vorliegenden Schrift
veranlaßt. In dem Glauben, daß sie von zeitgemäßem und allgemein
deutschem Interesse sei, übergebe ich sie hiermit der Oeffentlichkeit.
Dresden, im December 1848.
=Eduard Devrient.=
[II.]
Noch in keinem Momente des Völkerlebens ist die höhere Sendung der
Künste zur Veredlung des Menschengeschlechtes so leuchtend
hervorgetreten, hat sich noch nie zu so kräftiger, tiefgreifender
Wirkung angeboten, als in der großen Wendung unserer Tage.
Schule und Kirche, die bisher allein anerkannten Erziehungsstätten, sind
einem Streite verfallen, der noch langehin ein heftiges Sträuben des
mündig gewordenen Volkes gegen jeden fühlbaren Zwang erhalten wird. Was
kann daher willkommener sein, als die sanfte Gewalt der Künste, die es
allein vermag, die Gemüther zu beschwichtigen, in rein menschlichem
Antheil die Herzen aller Parteien zu vereinigen, durch unmerklichen
Zwang wieder Achtung vor Sitte, Friede und stillem Glück zu verbreiten,
auf diesem heitren Wege die Geister wieder den strengen
Erziehungsstätten zuzuführen und der großen, gemeinsamen Begeisterung
für eine neue, edle Freiheit des Völkerlebens den höchsten Schwung und
den schönsten Ausdruck zu verleihen!
Ueberall muß es daher als ein Zeugniß sorgsamer Staatsweisheit anerkannt
werden, wo die Organisation des Kunsteinflusses auf das Volksleben von
der Landesregierung in thätigen Angriff genommen wird.
Daß unter allen Künsten keine von so allgemeiner und volksthümlicher
Wirkung ist, als die Schauspielkunst, bedarf hier keiner Beweisführung,
die tägliche Erfahrung liefert sie. Keine Kunst wird also in dem Maße
die Aufmerksamkeit der Staatsgewalt verdienen, so wie keine einer
Organisation so dringend bedürftig ist, welche sie mit allen anderen
höheren Culturmitteln des Staates in Uebereinstimmung setzt, als die
Schauspielkunst.
Faßt man ihre rein künstlerische Wichtigkeit in's Auge, so drängt sich
als ihre wesentliche Eigenheit hervor: daß sie alle übrigen Künste
umfaßt; sie erhebt sich auf allen anderen und wird so zur Spitze der
Pyramide; sie ist die Kunst der Künste.
Plastik, Malerei, Dichtkunst, Musik, Redekunst, Mimik und Tanzkunst
sammelt sie in den gewaltigen Brennpunkt unmittelbaren Lebens, und
dieser trifft in eine versammelte Menge, wo die Gemeinsamkeit des
Antheils das Feuer des Enthusiasmus um so mächtiger entzündet.
Wenngleich daher die schon vollendeten Werke der übrigen Künste, welche
der Schauspielkunst zum Stoffe dienen, dabei an ihrer Selbständigkeit
einbüßen müssen, so macht dennoch keine Kunst für sich schlagendere
Wirkungen, als von der Bühne herab.
Wie dringend nothwendig ist es also, daß die Schauspielkunst endlich in
den Kreis der akademischen Bildung aufgenommen werde, damit ihre
drastischen Wirkungen eine grundsätzliche Uebereinstimmung mit den
übrigen Künsten gewinnen!
Die Bühne vermag den Schönheitssinn, des Volkes sowohl als der Künstler,
in die größte Verwirrung zu bringen, sie vermag ihn aber auch zu heben
und zu reinigen. Daß so viel Unpoetisches, Unmusikalisches und
Unmalerisches auf der Bühne Glück macht, bleibt ein unablässig
fortwirkendes Moment der Verführung und Corruption für Dichter,
Musiker, Maler und Bildhauer; dagegen hat an die einzelnen, im rechten
Geiste gelungenen Erscheinungen der Bühne sich von jeher eine Kette der
fruchtbringendsten Anregungen geknüpft. =Die Fähigkeit der
Schauspielkunst: den wohlthätigsten Einfluß auf die übrigen Künste, also
auf den Kunstsinn überhaupt, zu äußern, ist außer Zweifel, es muß daher
als Pflicht erkannt werden: diese Fähigkeit zum wesentlichen Zweck der
Bühne zu erheben.=
Und nun, den Einfluß auf die =Sittlichkeit= in's Auge gefaßt, welche
Kunst übt ihn stärker, als die der Bühne? -- Der Gegenstand ist zu oft
erörtert worden, als daß es nöthig wäre, ihn hier noch einmal
aufzunehmen; wer damit unbekannt ist, sei zunächst auf Schiller's
Vorlesung: »die Schaubühne, als eine moralische Anstalt betrachtet«,
verwiesen.
Gewiß ist -- das gestehen selbst die Feinde der Bühne nicht nur zu,
sondern sie machen es als ihre größte Gefahr geltend -- daß die
Schauspielkunst die gewaltigsten Wirkungen auf das Volk hervorbringt.
Starke Wirkungen aber sind entweder wohlthätig oder nachtheilig,
gleichgültig können sie nicht sein. Wenn also die Bühne den Geschmack
und die Versittlichung nicht =fördert=, so muß sie ihnen =schaden=;
=unabweisbar wird daher die Verpflichtung für den Staat sein: sich der
Wirkung seiner Schaubühnen zu vergewissern, dafür zu sorgen, daß sie die
Bahn seiner Grundsätze über Volkscultur innehalten=.
Daß dies bisher nicht, oder nur sehr lau und mangelhaft geschehen ist,
der Einfluß der Bühne daher oft in den schreiendsten Widerspruch mit den
Staatsmaximen gerathen,[1] das liegt ebenso vor Aller Augen, als daß die
Schauspielkunst noch immer ganz außerhalb des Kreises einer, mit den
übrigen Künsten übereinstimmenden Bildung sich bewegt; ganz außerhalb
der Kettenglieder, welche die Regierungen zur Versittlichung und
Veredlung des Volkes so sorgfältig ineinanderfügen.
[1] Mit welchem strengen Eifer hat z. B. der Staat den neuen
socialen Theorien entgegenzuwirken und die Achtung vor der Ehe,
der Familie und allen Gliederungen der gesellschaftlichen Ordnung,
welche daraus hervorgehen, aufrecht zu erhalten gesucht, während
die Theaterrepertoire -- die der Hofbühnen keinesweges
ausgeschlossen -- von Stücken wimmelten, in denen die Heiligkeit
der Ehe verhöhnt, die Familienpietät lächerlich gemacht, ja eine
förmliche Verherrlichung der Nichtswürdigkeit getrieben wird!
Die Forderung, diesem Zustande ein Ende zu machen, dem deutschen Theater
eine andere, grundsätzliche Basis und Einrichtungen zu geben und es
dadurch in Stand zu setzen: seine künstlerische und sociale Bestimmung
zu erfüllen, ist seit lange schon laut genug geworden. Sie wird bei der
Bewegung unserer Zeit immer lauter und ungestümer, sie wird unabweislich
werden und sich natürlich zunächst gegen die bedeutendsten,
tonangebenden Theater richten, die reich dotirt, den höheren Forderungen
des Volksgeistes am ehesten zu entsprechen verpflichtet erscheinen.
Es sind die =Hoftheater=.
In ihrer Entstehung rühmlich für die Fürsten und wohlthätig für Kunst,
sind sie im Verlaufe der Zeit -- wie dies allen menschlichen
Einrichtungen begegnet -- von ihrer ursprünglichen Bestimmung
abgewichen; ihre heutige Erscheinung entspricht ihrer ersten Idee nicht
mehr.
Als in der zweiten Hälfte des vorigen Jahrhunderts die deutschen Höfe
sich ernstlich und dauernd der vaterländischen Schauspielkunst annahmen,
repräsentirten die Fürsten noch alle Staatsgewalt. Es war der Staat,
welcher durch sie der wandernden Kunst heimische Stätten, Anerkennung,
Schutz und Unterstützung gab. Fürsten waren es, der edle Kaiser Joseph
II. an der Spitze, welche den höheren Staatszweck der Bühne thatsächlich
proklamirten. Kaiser Joseph gab seiner Hofbühne den Namen und die
Grundsätze eines =Nationaltheaters=, er erklärte: es solle keine andere
Bestimmung haben, als =zur Verbreitung des guten Geschmacks und zur
Veredlung der Sitten zu wirken=.[2] Fast überall folgten Höfe und
Magistrate des Kaisers Beispiele, die Nationaltheater wurden allgemein
und die Schauspielkunst gewann eine bewunderungswürdig rasche und
nationale Entwickelung, weil sie ihr in einer gewissen Freiheit und
Selbständigkeit gegönnt war. Die Höfe nämlich übten im Allgemeinen nur
Schutz und Oberaufsicht über ihre Theater aus, die künstlerische
Thätigkeit wurde fort und fort von künstlerischen Directoren geleitet.
Ja Kaiser Joseph erkannte die Nothwendigkeit der Selbstregierung der
Künstler so vollständig an, daß er dem Wiener Nationaltheater eine ganz
republikanische Verfassung gab, deren Grundsätze in Mannheim unter
Dalberg eine denkwürdige Fortbildung fanden.[3]
[2] Das Genauere über diesen geschichtlichen Moment ist in meiner
»Geschichte der deutschen Schauspielkunst« (Leipzig 1848, bei J.
J. Weber) im II. B. zu finden. Ich muß mich hier und fernerhin auf
dies Buch beziehen, weil es bis jetzt das einzige über diesen
Gegenstand ist.
[3] Gesch. der deutsch. Schauspielkunst II. B., S. 402, und III.
B., S. 16.
Aus solchem Geiste und unter solchem Schutze wuchs die deutsche
Schauspielkunst, geführt von Meistern, wie Eckhoff, Schröder, Iffland,
zu der kräftigen Reife, welche unter Schiller's und Goethe's Einfluß
ihre poetische Vollendung erhielt.
Als aber nach dem Wiener Congreß die Höfe den alten Glanz wieder
gewannen, neue Theater in den Residenzen errichtet, die bestehenden in
größeren Flor gebracht wurden, da veränderte sich Stellung und
Organisation der Bühnen wesentlich.
Die Verbreitung der constitutionellen Regierungsform trennte die
Staatsgewalten, der Fürst vertrat nicht mehr allein den Willen der
Nation; indem also die Höfe das Theater an sich behielten, gab der
Staat, gab die Nation stillschweigend den Anspruch auf, den sie bisher
daran zu haben glaubten.
Es war ganz folgerichtig, daß der Name »=Nationaltheater=« überall dem
Titel »=Hoftheater=« Platz machen mußte und Kaiser Joseph's Principien
aufgegeben wurden. Da die Höfe immer reichlichere Geldmittel für die
Bühnen bewilligten, so wollten sie diese auch ganz in ihrem Sinne
verwendet sehen und dehnten daher die Verantwortung der Hofintendanten
über den ganzen Umfang der theatralischen Leistungen aus. So kam es
denn, daß fast überall die künstlerischen Directionen -- selbst die
eines =Goethe= -- der neuen Ordnung der Dinge weichen mußten und die
Hofintendanten in die falsche Stellung geriethen: die specielle
künstlerische Leitung der Bühne zu übernehmen. =Das Bureau wurde nun der
Mittelpunkt der Kunstthätigkeit.=
Diese Veränderung der Theaterorganisation erwies sich viel tiefer
greifend, als man wohl vorausgesehen hatte. Die dramatische Kunst war
dadurch nicht nur dem Staatsinteresse entfremdet, auch die
unausweichbare Nothwendigkeit ihres inneren Verfalles war damit
ausgesprochen.
Eine Kunst, die sich nur in Totalwirkungen vollendet, kann den
Sammelpunkt einer künstlerischen Direction schlechterdings nicht
entbehren. Der einige Geist, welcher in der Uebereinstimmung aller
Theile lebendig werden soll, kann nur aus innerstem, praktischen
Verständniß der Kunstthätigkeit selbst hervorgehen. =Der Schauspielkunst
die künstlerische Direction nehmen, hieß: ihr das Herz ausschneiden.=
Umsonst haben die Intendanten, theils mit Talent, meistens mit gutem
Willen und redlichem Eifer das Naturwidrige ihrer Stellung zu überwinden
gesucht; es konnte nicht gelingen. Erwägt man, wie mannichfache
specielle Kenntnisse, Fähigkeiten und Erfahrungen für die Leitung eines
Theaters erforderlich sind, so ist es leicht zu begreifen, daß diese
nicht bei Männern gefunden werden können, welche, bis dahin
Kammerherren, Hofmarschälle, Oberstall- oder Oberjägermeister, Officiere
u. s. w. gar keine Veranlassung gehabt hatten irgend einem dieser
Erfordernisse genug zu thun. Zwar hat man geglaubt, dem Wesen der Kunst
hinlänglich Rechnung zu tragen, indem dem nichtsachverständigen Director
die sachverständigen Regisseure zur Seite gestellt blieben, denen das
augenfällig Technische der Leitung und die Abhaltung der Proben u. s.
w. überlassen ist; =in diesem Irrthume aber liegt eben der eigentliche
Knotenpunkt der Verwirrung unseres heutigen Theaterwesens=.
Die Leistungen der Bühnenkunst sollen einheitliches Leben haben, darum
verträgt ihre Leitung keine Theilung der Gewalt. Indem die
wesentlichsten Bestimmungen: Wahl, Besetzung und Ausstattung der
aufzuführenden Werke, Zusammensetzung des Kunstpersonals durch
Anstellungen und Entlassungen, Urlaube, Gastrollen u. dergl. vom
Intendanten, wohl auch von höheren Verfügungen, abhängig sind, bleibt
der Regie nur ein beschränkter und durchaus bedingter Kreis des Wirkens,
in welchem sie keine absolute Verantwortung für das Gelingen der
Kunstwerke übernehmen kann, weil alle Vorbedingungen dazu nicht in ihren
Händen liegen. Rühmend muß es anerkannt werden, daß einige Intendanten
durch Anstellung von Oberregisseuren oder Dramaturgen der künstlerischen
Autorität eine größere Ausdehnung gegeben und eine Annäherung an die
alten Zustände bewirkt haben, in welchen die Intendantur nur
Oberaufsicht und administrative Gewalt ausübte; aber es ist auch nur
eine Annäherung. So lange die Intendanten noch für alle Einzelheiten
der theatralischen Thätigkeit verantwortlich gelten, können sie sich
auch der Bestimmung über dieselben nicht entschlagen, und so muß, bei
diesen bestgemeinten Einrichtungen, der Nachtheil kreuzender Anordnungen
ebenfalls lähmend für die Ausführung bleiben.
Das Theater soll lebendige Kunstwerke schaffen, seine Thätigkeit muß
also eine organische, von =einem= Lebenspunkte ausgehende sein. Die
ganze complicirte Kette der Maßregeln, welche bis zum Aufsteigen des
Vorhanges nothwendig sind, darf =eine= Hand nur halten, wenn das Werk in
Einheit zur Erscheinung kommen soll; und das muß die Hand eines
Sachverständigen sein. Nur der versteht aber eine Sache, der sie ausübt.
=Halbheit in der Machtvollkommenheit der künstlerischen Leitung,
Einmischung kunstfremder Gewalten muß nothwendig Halbheit und
Zerfahrenheit in ihre Resultate bringen.=
Nicht glücklicher ist die Hofintendanz in anderer Beziehung gestellt;
die innere Selbständigkeit, welche sie der Kunst entzog, gewann sie
nicht für sich, ja sie gerieth in Abhängigkeit, da, wo sie absolut zu
herrschen unternommen hatte. Außerdem immer im Gedränge der
widersprechendsten Forderungen: hier den Wünschen des Hofes zu genügen,
dort den Forderungen der höhern Bildung der Nation, entgegen denen der
bloßen rohen Vergnügungslust der Menge, unvermögend sich auf eine dieser
Parteien mit Sicherheit zu stützen, unausgesetzt im Schaukelsystem: es
bald hier, bald dort recht zu machen -- mußte sie es zuletzt mit Allen
verderben. Zum Ueberfluß noch verantwortlich gegen eine Oberbehörde,
(das Hausministerium) die, ihrer Natur nach blos verwaltend, für das
Kunstinstitut nur den Geldmaßstab haben kann, überwuchs die Verlegenheit
um vortheilhafte Kassenabschlüsse zuletzt fast alle übrigen, und so
sehen wir alle, so reich dotirten Hoftheater in unausgesetzter
ängstlicher Bemühung um die Einnahme. Der Zuschuß aus Staatsmitteln
scheint seinen eigentlichen Zweck: =die Kunst unabhängig zu machen=, gar
nicht zu erfüllen; er hat die Kassenverlegenheit nur auf größere
Zahlenverhältnisse gebracht, hat den vornehmen Hofbühnen dieselbe
plebejische industrielle Richtung der Privatunternehmungen gegeben. In
stetem Kreislaufe von hazardirten Ausgaben und kleinlicher Noth sie
wieder zu decken, erinnert man sich kaum zu welchem höhern Zweck sie
eigentlich in Bewegung gesetzt werden? Das Mittel ist zum Zweck geworden
und der Zweck (die Kunst) zum Mittel; das Theater scheint lediglich eine
Anstalt für den Geldumsatz zu sein.
Consequent war es da freilich, daß man auf den Gedanken gerieth:
administrativen Capacitäten müsse die Leitung des Theaters übergeben
werden; der Mann der Ersparnisse galt nun für den wünschenswerthesten
Intendanten. Man hatte vergessen, daß ein Theater für jeden
festzustellenden Etat zu führen ist, daß es nicht darauf ankommt: wie
viel oder wie wenig =ausgegeben=, sondern was für das Ausgegebene
=geleistet= wird, und daß nur der Sachverständige für den möglichst
geringen Preis das möglichst Beste herzustellen vermag. Die
Controllansicht der Hausministerien siegte, die Höfe bemühten sich um
die Wette den knappsten Haushalter zum Intendanten zu machen. Mit diesem
Experimente büßte die Hofintendanz ihren unbestreitbaren Vorzug ein: den
einer würdigen, achtunggebietenden Haltung, einer edlen, kunstbelebenden
Liberalität. Mehr als ein Hoftheater ist, bei solcher Umwandlung, an
Würde, Anstand und künstlerischem Geiste tief herabgekommen, obenein
ohne die goldenen Hoffnungen auf Kassenüberschüsse erfüllt zu sehen.
Daß dieser Zustand unhaltbar geworden, daß die Mission der Hofintendanz
an ihr Ziel gelangt sei, ist eine allgemeine Ueberzeugung; es fragt sich
nur: was an deren Stelle gesetzt werden soll?
Es fehlt nicht an Stimmen, welche jede Unterstützung des Theaters
verwerfen und verlangen: es solle ganz frei gegeben, d. h. sich selbst
und der Concurrenz der Privatunternehmung überlassen werden; es solle
aus eigener Kraft bewähren: was es werden und was es der Nation nützen
könne.
Aus dieser Forderung spricht eine untergeordnete Anschauung der Kunst
überhaupt: =Alles, was die Menschheit bilden und veredeln soll, muß vom
Staate gestützt, vom bloßen Erwerbe unabhängig gemacht werden; das gilt
von der Kunst, wie von der Schule und der Kirche.= Die Concurrenz ist in
unsern Tagen, selbst in ihrer Anwendung auf die Gewerbe, verdächtig
geworden, und sicherlich birgt sie ein so starkes Moment der Verführung
zu schlechten Hülfsmitteln, daß sie von den Maßregeln zur Hebung der
Künste ein für allemal ausgeschlossen sein sollte. Privatindustrie, in
Pachtverhältnissen wie in selbständigen Unternehmungen, kann, bei den
Bedingungen unserer Zeit, dem Theater kein höheres Gedeihen bringen;
=ohne den Rückhalt kräftiger Geldunterstützung, welche den Bühnen
Unabhängigkeit von der geldbringenden Menge sichert, ist ihre Führung
nach reinen Grundsätzen unmöglich=. Die Erfahrungen der Geschichte und
unsere täglichen Erlebnisse beweisen es, daß alle Bühnen, welche auf
Selbsterhaltung angewiesen sind, kleine und große, den Kampf der reinen
Kunstrichtung gegen die Forderungen der materiellen Existenz nicht
bestehen können. Männer wie Schröder selbst sind ihm unterlegen, auch
seine Direction zielte zuletzt nur auf Gewinn.
Befreit aber soll die Kunst allerdings werden, befreit von allen
Bedingungen, die ihrer Natur zuwider sind, unter denen die erste die der
unbedingten Abhängigkeit vom Erwerbe ist. Frei auf sich selbst und ihre
hohe Bestimmung: =den Menschen die Menschheit darzustellen, dem Volke
das Leben der Völker abzuspiegeln=, soll die dramatische Kunst gestellt
werden. Unabhängig von der Herrschaft des Geschmacks einzelner
Standesschichten, seien es die höchsten, seien es die niedrigsten, nur
auf die Vernunft und den besseren Willen der Nation gestützt, soll sie
die Opposition gegen das wandelbare Urtheil der Massen halten können,
eine unbestechliche Priesterschaft der Wahrheit und des Adels der
menschlichen Natur.
Diese Freiheit aber der Schaubühne kann nur auf dem Boden einer höheren
Gesetzlichkeit stehen, einer ernsten Verpflichtung zur Treue gegen ihre
Bestimmung. Streng gehalten muß sie werden: der Nation zu leisten, was
diese berechtigt ist von ihr zu fordern.
Kein Zweifel also, =daß die Staatsregierung selbst die Schaubühnen des
ganzen Landes unter ihre Oberleitung nehmen muß=, daß dasjenige
Ministerium, welches die Erziehung und Veredlung des Volkes zur Aufgabe
hat, welches Religion, Wissenschaft und Kunst -- diese dreieinige
Beglaubigung unserer höhern Natur -- in ihrem Zusammenwirken überwacht,
nicht länger säumen darf sich auch der Schauspielkunst zu bemächtigen.
Nehme Niemand Anstoß an der frivolen Miene, die noch die Bühne unserer
Tage zeigt und die sie der Verbindung mit Schule und Kirche unwerth zu
machen scheint; ihrer inneren Natur nach ist Schauspielkunst zu hohen
Dingen bestimmt, bei allen Völkern war sie die Trägerin des
ursprünglichen Gottesdienstes. =Auch muß durch diese einzige Maßregel:
die Bühne zur Staatsanstalt zu erklären, unausbleiblich ihre ganze
Beschaffenheit sich verwandeln.=
Soll aber die Grundlage der nothwendigen Theaterreform in Uebertragung
der Oberleitung, von der unverantwortlichen Autorität des Hofes auf die,
dem Lande verantwortliche, der Regierung, bestehen, so darf dabei doch
nicht aus den Augen gelassen werden: was die Hoftheater der Kunst
genützt haben, damit diese Vortheile einem neuen Zustande der Dinge
möglichst erhalten werden. Allen Glanz, alle Sicherstellung und Würde,
alle äußere Vervollkommnung und Achtung verdankt das Theater dem Schutze
und der Intimität der Höfe. Ohne das bisherige Verhältniß der
Zugehörigkeit würde kein Theater so hoch dotirt, würden die Ansprüche
des Publikums daran nie so hoch gesteigert worden sein. Auch hat der
gewähltere Geschmack der höheren Gesellschaft allem künstlerischen
Streben nach Adel, Feinheit, Grazie und Eleganz, den derberen
Forderungen des großen Publikums gegenüber, einen wichtigen Rückenhalt
dargeboten. Alles dies darf künftig nicht verloren gehen.
Nicht nur die bisherigen Geldzuschüsse, auch der permanente Antheil des
Hofes muß dem Theater erhalten bleiben.
Der hin und wieder laut gewordene Vorschlag: das Theater lediglich zur
Landessache zu machen und dem Fürsten anheim zu geben, seine Logen darin
zu bezahlen -- wie dieß in Frankreich und England üblich -- ist
unbedingt und aus Staatsprincip zurückzuweisen. In jedem wahrhaften
Nationalinstitute muß der Erste der Nation, der Träger der Majestät des
Volkes, ohne alle Bedingung zu Haus sein, und sein Interesse an der
Kunst zu nähren muß ein Antrieb des Ehrgeizes bleiben.
Allerdings wird es selbst politisch consequent sein, in dieser Zeit,
welche die Fürsten von Verantwortung frei zu machen trachtet, den Höfen
auch die für das Theater -- dessen Oeffentlichkeit unablässige Angriffe
jedes Einzelnen herausfordert -- abzunehmen; aber damit darf doch, zum
Vortheil der Kunst, das Protectorat der Fürsten nicht aufgegeben werden.
Der Landesfürst hat nur die Organe seines Willens zu wechseln, anstatt
Hofbeamten, die von seiner Willkür abhängig, die Oberleitung des
Theaters Staatsbeamten zu übergeben, die außer ihm auch dem Lande
verantwortlich sind.
Der jetzige Moment ist entscheidend. Die Umgestaltung unserer
staatlichen und bürgerlichen Verhältnisse muß auch das Theater
ergreifen; es kann nicht anders sein, denn das Theater ist zu jeder Zeit
das kleine Spiegelbild des großen Außenlebens gewesen. Jetzt kommt es
darauf an: was es dem Vaterlande werden soll?
Wie vor hundert Jahren alle Stimmen die Höfe um Schutz für die
heimathliche Kunst anriefen, wie es als eine That ruhmwürdigen
Patriotismus gepriesen wurde, wenn ein Fürst seinen Mantel über ein
Nomadenhäuflein deutscher Comödianten ausbreitete, so blicken die
Freunde der Kunst und des Vaterlandes jetzt wieder auf die Fürsten,
verhoffend: sie werden die erste Wohlthat durch die zweite,
großmüthigere vollenden, sie werden den verweichlichenden Gnadenmantel
zurückschlagen und den üppig aufgeschossenen Pflegling ihrer Gunst in
die ernste Pflicht: =der höheren Wohlfahrt des Volkes dienstbar zu
sein=, entlassen.
[III.]
Nun aber die praktische Ausführung dieser tiefgreifenden Theaterreform!
Was ist zu thun, wenn sie den angekündigten Zwecken entsprechen soll?
Hier meine Vorschläge:
Der Landesfürst überträgt dem Ministerium für Cultus, Wissenschaft u.
Kunst, neben der Oberaufsicht über die Institute für Musik und bildende
Künste -- Conservatorien, Akademien, Museen -- auch die über die
bisherigen Hoftheater. Er gewährt die Uebertragung der Summen, welche
die Hofkasse bisher jährlich zur Erhaltung des Theaters zugeschossen,
auf die Staatskasse. Alle Unterstützungen und Vortheile, welche andre
Theater des Landes von Staats wegen genießen, so wie die Aufsicht über
dieselben, welche bis jetzt meistentheils von dem Ministerium des
Innern ausgeübt worden, alles dieß wird ebenfalls in die Hand des
Cultusministeriums gelegt, =so daß die Staatspflege aller Kunst im
ganzen Lande durch eine Abtheilung dieses Ministeriums vollkommen
vertreten und ihr organisches Leben gesichert ist=.
Der Beamte, dem die Generaldirection der Landesbühnen übertragen wird,
braucht keine specielle Kenntniß vom Theaterwesen zu besitzen; -- er
soll sich in die künstlerische Thätigkeit nicht mischen -- ein
ästhetisch gebildeter Sinn, das genaue Verständniß dessen, was die Bühne
für die höhere Volksbildung zu leisten habe, ein richtiger
administrativer Ueberblick werden die Erfordernisse für dieses Amt sein.
Eine würdige persönliche Repräsentation wird die Wirksamkeit dieses
Beamten wesentlich unterstützen. Erleichtern wird es die Theaterreform,
wenn bisherige Hofintendanten von geeigneten Fähigkeiten, in dieses
Ministerialamt eintreten. In welcher Weise dasselbe auf die eigentliche
Theaterdirection einzuwirken hat, wird sich aus der Organisation
derselben ergeben.
Die Residenztheater sind es, welche die nächste und hauptsächlichste
Aufmerksamkeit in Anspruch nehmen; nichts darf versäumt werden, um
ihnen eine wahre Mustergültigkeit zu verleihen. Ihre künstlerische
Verfassung wird am wesentlichsten dazu wirken.
* * * * *
Die bisherigen =Hoftheater= erhalten unter dem Namen: =Nationaltheater=
eine =von künstlerischen Vorständen gebildete, selbständig
abgeschlossene, der Landesregierung verantwortliche Direction=.
Dieselbe besteht aus den Vertretern derjenigen Künste, welche den
wesentlichen Kern der Dramatik ausmachen: Dichtkunst, Musik und
Schauspielkunst; also aus einem =Theaterdichter= und =Schriftführer=
(dem bisherigen Theatersecretair), einem =Kapellmeister= und einem
=darstellenden Künstler=.
=Diese drei Männer berathen und beschließen= -- mit Hinzuziehung der
weiter unten zu besprechenden Vorstände zweiten Ranges -- =über alle
Angelegenheiten des Theaters=; aber =Einem unter ihnen steht die
endliche Entscheidung in allen Beschlüssen und ihre Ausführung mit
vollkommener Gewalt und unter seiner alleinigen Verantwortlichkeit zu=.
Weil nun die Schauspielkunst diejenige ist, in welche alle übrigen
aufgehen, weil es auf sie ankommt: was die Dicht- und Musikwerke von der
Bühne herab wirken, weil sie in letzter Instanz für Alles verantwortlich
sein muß, was auf der Bühne geschieht, so wird auch die Direction des
Theaters nur dann naturgemäß organisirt sein, wenn =ein darstellender
Künstler an ihrer Spitze= steht.
Man pflegt gegen die Direction eines Schauspielers vielfache Bedenken
geltend zu machen. Man sagt: er mißbrauche gewöhnlich seine Macht zur
Befriedigung der, dem Schauspieler nahe liegenden Rollensucht, säe
dadurch Mißtrauen und Zwietracht im Personal, benachtheilige wohl auch
dadurch die Wirkung der Darstellungen.
Wahr ist es, fast alle Schauspielerdirectoren in der ganzen
Kunstgeschichte haben diesen Vorwurf verschuldet. Aber da jede Direction
ihre Mängel haben wird, so ist dieser, gegen den unermeßlichen Vorzug
einer kunstverständigen Leitung, sehr gering anzuschlagen; wird auch
zudem, aus Rollensucht der übrigen Schauspieler, gewöhnlich übertrieben
angegeben. Den Meistern =Eckhof=, =Schröder=, =Iffland= u. A., obschon
sie manche Rolle, die ihnen nicht zukam, sich aneigneten, hat dennoch
die deutsche Kunst ihr erstaunlich rasches Wachsthum zu danken.
Uebrigens ist in der Organisation des Theaters ein hinlängliches
Gegengewicht gegen egoistische Uebergriffe aufzustellen, wie die weitern
Vorschläge zeigen werden.
Ferner macht man den Einwand geltend: die erforderliche Bildung und
Charakterwürde sei unter den Schauspielern zu selten anzutreffen, um dem
Stande die Selbstregierung überall anvertrauen zu können.
Der Vorwurf ist, in seiner Anwendung wenigstens, unbegründet. An jeder
irgend bedeutenden Bühne wird ein darstellender Künstler zu finden sein,
der hinlänglich befähigt ist, die Direction -- wenn auch nicht tadellos
-- jedenfalls besser zu führen, als sie bisher von Nichtschauspielern
geführt worden ist. Ein Fortschritt also wäre der Bühne damit jedenfalls
garantirt, selbst bei dem gegenwärtigen Bildungsstande. Dieser aber wird
sich durch Einführung künstlerischer Directionen erstaunlich schnell
verändern. Die Directionstalente unter den Schauspielern, seit 30 Jahren
niedergehalten und vom Steuer entfernt, weil sie der Bureauherrschaft
unbequem sein mußten, werden sich wieder erheben, die Bühne, zur
Staatsanstalt erklärt, wird immer mehr an Mitgliedern aus den gebildeten
Ständen gewinnen, es werden Talente, welche vielleicht, wegen
mangelhafter Begabung, auf der Bühne nicht die größten Erfolge zu
erlangen vermögen, andere von vorherrschender Verstandesrichtung, sich
mehr auf Ausbildung der künstlerischen =Einsicht= legen, und wenn sie
einen Weg praktischer Entwicklung in der Theaterorganisation offen
finden, eine Vervollkommnung erlangen, wie wir sie ähnlich in andern
Künsten bei Talenten antreffen, die vortrefflich als Lehrer und
Directoren, in ihren Werken selbst aber nicht bedeutend sind. Und diese
Entwicklung wird man um so geduldiger abwarten können, als bei der
vorgeschlagenen Directionseinrichtung von dem Schauspielerdirector nicht
aller Verstand und alle Einsicht allein gefordert wird, weil ihm die, in
den Berathungen gleichberechtigten musikalischen und literarischen
Vorstände zur Seite stehen, hier also der =Geist= der dramatischen Kunst
und die =praktische Ausführbarkeit= sich lebendig durchdringen können.
Man hat vielfach der Direction eines Dichters vor der eines
Schauspielers den Vorzug gegeben um der höhern Bildung willen, welche
sein Beruf ihm aneignet, die Directionen von Goethe, Schreyvogel
(West), Klingemann und Immermann scheinen diesen Vorzug zu
rechtfertigen; und wo es zur Zeit nicht möglich sein sollte, einem
Schauspieler das volle Directionsvertrauen zu schenken, dagegen, was
selten genug der Fall sein wird, der Theaterdichter besonders
vorragendes schauspielerisches und praktisches Talent zeigen sollte, mag
man ausnahmsweise den Literaten an die Spitze stellen.
Der Natur der Dinge wird es immer widersprechen, und der Mißstand, den
dies erzeugt, ist jederzeit, auch bei den besten Literaten-Directionen,
hervorgetreten. Wie der Dichter den geistigen Stoff hergiebt in der
Dramatik, der Schauspieler aber ihm Gestalt und sinnliches Leben
verleiht, =so muß auch bei der Leitung der Kunst im Ganzen der Dichter
die berathende Stimme haben, die künstlerische Praxis aber das letzte
Wort behalten=.
* * * * *
Die Frage: wie der künstlerische Vorstand gefunden, wie die bis jetzt
unerkannten Directionstalente unter den Schauspielern hervorgezogen
werden sollen? muß sich wiederum aus der Natur und dem Wesen der Kunst
beantworten.
Das Wesen der Schauspielkunst aber ist vollkommene Vergesellschaftung
=Aller=, mit Erhaltung der Eigenheit des =Einzelnen=. Sie fordert
gänzliche Hingebung an den Gesammtvortheil der Totalwirkungen, fordert
Selbstverläugnung in einer Thätigkeit, welche Ehrgeiz und Eitelkeit am
gewaltigsten aufregt, fordert, daß der Einzelne die Befriedigung seines
=eignen= Vortheils in der Befriedigung des =allgemeinen= finde, =die
Schauspielkunst fordert also republikanische Tugend in höchster Potenz=.
Um diese zu wecken und zu pflegen bedarf das Theater folgerichtig auch
republikanischer Einrichtungen. Diese Erkenntniß datirt nicht etwa aus
den politischen Bewegungen unserer Tage, schon die absolutesten
Herrscher haben ihr gemäß gehandelt. Ludwig XIV. gab dem _théâtre
français_ die erste Verfassung, die Napoleon späterhin ausbildete.
Joseph II. führte eine ähnliche am Wiener Nationaltheater ein. Dalberg
in Mannheim, Schröder in Hamburg u. A. m. nahmen ihre Grundsätze auf. Es
ist also nichts Neues, wenn das Theater eine künstlerische
Selbstregierung durch Vertretung, und aus freiem Vertrauen gewählte
Vorstände erhält, es ist eine Nothwendigkeit, die sich aus tausend
Hemmungen und Mißhelligkeiten in der Theaterpraxis ergiebt. Denn es sind
nicht blos mechanische Verrichtungen, welche von dem Personal -- selbst
dem untergeordneten -- gefordert werden, der gute Wille, der lebendige
Antheil an der gemeinsamen Sache, die eifrige Betheiligung müssen
überall das Beste thun. Dies Alles aber ist nicht zu erlangen, wenn
nicht jeder Einzelne fühlt, daß er wirklichen Theil hat an dem
organischen Leben des Institutes, dem er angehört, wenn die Führer nicht
Männer des allgemeinen Vertrauens sind.
Darum muß die Gliederung der verschiedenen Körperschaften im Personale
festgestellt und der Grundsatz der =Wahl= von Vertretern und Führern,
von unten auf geltend gemacht werden; die Direction wird dadurch
erleichtert und vereinfacht.
Die Mitglieder des =Orchesters=, des =Chors= und des =Balletts= wählen
sich alljährlich =Ausschüsse= von drei bis fünf Männern etwa. Bei Chor
und Ballett übernehmen diese das bereits eingeführte Geschäft der
Inspicienten, handhaben Ordnung in Vorübungen, Proben und Vorstellungen
u. s. w.; alle aber vertreten ihre Körperschaft der Direction
gegenüber, bei Wahl von Vorständen, bei Verwaltung gemeinsamer Kassen
und in Streit- und Beschwerdesachen. Zum Theil besteht diese Einrichtung
bereits an einigen Bühnen, sie bedarf aber grundsätzlicher Regelung.
Diese Ausschüsse mit ihren Vorständen -- Kapellmeister, Musikdirector
und Conzertmeister, Chordirector und Ballettmeister -- treten mit
sämmtlichen darstellenden Mitgliedern, männlichen und weiblichen,
zusammen[4] und =wählen den Künstler, dem sie die meisten Fähigkeiten
zutrauen, die Ehre und Würde des Institutes zu fördern=, durch
mindestens zwei Drittel Mehrheit der Stimmen, =zum Director=.
[4] Obwohl die darstellenden Mitglieder ebenfalls einen
vertretenden Ausschuß haben müssen, von dem nachher die Rede sein
wird, so betheiligen sie sich doch bei der Wahl des Directors
=unmittelbar=, weil jeder Einzelne in unmittelbarer Beziehung zu
diesem steht. Die übrigen Genossenschaften, Orchester, Chor und
Ballett, stehen größtentheils nur in ihrer Gesammtheit -- da sie
in dieser nur wirken -- in Bezug zum Director, darum wählen sie
nur als Genossenschaft durch Vertretung. Auch würde ihre
Stimmenüberzahl ein unrichtiges Betheiligungsverhältniß ergeben.
Dem Ministerium steht es zu, die Wahl zu bestätigen.
Man darf sich überzeugt halten, daß der rechte Mann auf diese Weise
gefunden wird. Wie gering man auch den allgemeinen Bildungsstand der
Theatermitglieder anschlagen mag, was zu ihrem Fache taugt, verstehen
sie besser, als irgend sonst Jemand, und wo es sich um Ehre und Gedeihen
des Theaters handelt, wird persönliche Parteilichkeit die Freiheit des
Urtheils nicht mehr benachtheiligen, als dies bei anderen Wahlen
geschieht.
Dem Ministerium sowohl, als den künstlerischen Ausschüssen steht es
frei: Wahlcandidaten, auch von andern Bühnen, vorzuschlagen.
Eine Dauer der Amtsführung kann im Voraus nicht vorgeschrieben werden,
ein Theaterdirector kann so wenig, als ein Staatsminister, auf
Lebenszeit oder auf eine bestimmte Anzahl von Jahren eingesetzt werden.
Es muß ihm freistehen, den Posten aufzugeben, wenn er Muth, Kraft und
Lust dazu verliert, -- was in diesem Amte schneller, als in jedem
anderen geschieht, -- aber es muß auch möglich sein, ihn des Postens zu
entheben, wenn er stumpf wird, ohne es zu merken, oder er dem Vertrauen
der Kunstgenossenschaft und der Regierung nicht entspricht.
Diese Enthebung darf aber nur -- um Gewaltsamkeit oder Intrigue zu
entwaffnen -- in derselben Weise, wie die Wahl geschehen, durch Beschluß
des Ministeriums und der zwei Drittel Mehrheit der Stimmberechtigten.
Der austretende Director -- wenn nicht Straffälligkeit ihn aus der
Genossenschaft entfernt -- nimmt seine frühere Stellung im Personale,
oder diejenige ein, welche auf diesen Fall mit dem Ministerium
verabredet worden. Es leuchtet ein, daß das Ministerium überhaupt in
jedem einzelnen Falle mit dem gewählten Director über die Bedingungen
der Annahme übereinkommen muß. Dazu ist aber die dringende Warnung
auszusprechen: den Director der Residenztheater in keiner Weise bei den
Einnahmen zu betheiligen. Er darf niemals persönlichen Gewinn, sondern
nur die Ehre und Würde des Institutes im Auge haben.
Die Stellung des Directors wird sich erst übersehen lassen, wenn die
ganze Organisation des Theatervorstandes klar ist.
* * * * *
=Der Kapellmeister in der Direction hat die Verantwortung für das
gesammte Musikwesen des Theaters zu übernehmen.= Ihm sind die übrigen
Orchesterdirigenten, so wie der Chorlehrer untergeben, mit deren Beirath
er über Anstellungen, Verabschiedungen und Pensionirungen im Orchester,
über Wahl, Reihefolge und Ausführung der Musikwerke Vorschläge zu
machen, und sobald diese durch die Direction zum Beschluß erhoben
worden, für Betreibung des Studiums und für die Vollkommenheit der
Ausführung zu sorgen hat.
Der Kreis dieser Wirksamkeit wird bereits an vielen Bühnen von dem
Kapellmeister beherrscht, darum würden die in Amt befindlichen fast
überall für die neue Organisation passen. Es gälte nur: den Umfang ihrer
Machtvollkommenheit und also ihrer Verantwortlichkeit zweifellos
festzustellen und da, wo die musikalischen Angelegenheiten in
verschiedenen Händen liegen, sie in einer einzigen zu centralisiren. Wo
zwei gleichberechtigte Kapellmeister im Amte sind, müßte der eine dem
anderen untergeordnet oder die Directionsgewalt jährlich abwechselnd in
ihre Hand gelegt werden, bis ein Personenwechsel über diese Auskunft
hinweghilft. Denn unverrückt muß an dem Grundsatze festgehalten werden,
daß die Verantwortung überall in eine einzige Person auslaufe, damit die
so geregelten einzelnen Kreise schnell und gelenkig für den allgemeinen
Zweck bewegt werden können.
Diese Einrichtungen dürfen natürlich nur in Uebereinkunft mit dem
Director getroffen werden, weil derselbe sich mit dem musikalischen
Mitdirector in grundsätzlicher Uebereinstimmung fühlen muß. Wenn daher
die Stelle des Kapellmeisters neu zu besetzen ist, so muß der Director
sich mit der Aufstellung der Candidaten, welche das Ministerium oder der
musikalische Ausschuß, neben den von ihm selbst vorzuschlagenden,
präsentiren will, einverstanden erklären.
=Die Ernennung eines neuen Kapellmeisters geschieht durch Wahl der
musikalisch Betheiligten= mit zwei Drittel Stimmenmehrheit und
Bestätigung der Regierung. Stimmberechtigt sind -- in Analogie mit der
Wahl des Directors -- die Sänger und Sängerinnen der Oper, die übrigen
musikalischen Vorstände und die Ausschüsse des Orchesters[5] und des
Chors.
[5] Ob man alle Orchestermitglieder für stimmberechtigt erklären
will, muß lokalen Bestimmungen überlassen bleiben.
Ob die Anstellung auf Zeit oder auf Lebensdauer geschehen soll, wird von
den Bedingnissen jedes einzelnen Falles abhängen. Zu erwägen ist nur,
daß der Rücktritt, lediglich von der Theilnahme an der Direction, nur da
möglich ist, wo ein zweiter Kapellmeister dafür einzutreten vorhanden
ist.
* * * * *
Der =Theaterdichter= und =Schriftführer= -- man mag ihn auch =Dramaturg=
nennen -- hat, wie herkömmlich, für das Bedürfniß der Bühne an
Gelegenheitsgedichten, Bearbeitungen, Abänderungen, Verbesserungen der
Operntexte u. s. w. zu sorgen, auch die Bureaugeschäfte und
Correspondenz zu führen, so weit ihm letztere nicht vom Kapellmeister
und Director erleichtert wird. Seine wesentliche Aufgabe aber wird sein,
=die Literatur, den Geist der Dramatik zu vertreten=. Er soll von dieser
Seite her immer neue Anregungen geben, damit die Direction sich nicht
einer blos herkömmlich theatralischen Richtung und den gewöhnlichen
Tagesforderungen hingebe. Er soll also der wichtigste Rathgeber des
Directors sein in Allem, was die höhere Bedeutung der Bühne berührt;
besonders also in der Wahl der aufzuführenden dramatischen Werke. Er
soll den Director vornehmlich unterstützen: im Kunstpersonale ein
allgemeines Bildungsbestreben zu wecken und zu nähren. Durch Anregungen
aller Art, durch Vorträge, Regelung der Lectüre, Aufsicht über
Vervollständigung und Benutzung der Theaterbibliothek in diesem Sinne,
durch bereite Auskunft über wissenschaftliche Fragen, durch Vermittelung
eines innigen Verkehrs mit literarischen Capacitäten und eines
Zusammenhanges mit den Vereinen dramatischer Autoren -- deren Bildung
durch die Reorganisation des Theaters gewiß angeregt werden wird -- soll
er den Geist des Institutes heben und erweitern.
Daß dieser Posten von der allergrößten Wichtigkeit, leuchtet ebensowohl
ein, als daß die meisten zur Zeit fungirenden Theatersecretaire -- die
ebensowohl beim Post- oder Steuerfache angestellt sein könnten -- diesen
Forderungen nicht entsprechen werden; diese Stelle wird also bei einer
Bühnenreform fast überall neu besetzt werden müssen.
Aus einer Wahl kann dieses Mitglied der Direction nicht hervorgehen,
weil keine wahlberechtigte Körperschaft dazu vorhanden ist.[6] Die
darstellenden Mitglieder können in ihrer Mehrheit kein Urtheil über
seine Befähigung haben, auch sind sie in dienstlicher Beziehung nicht
dergestalt von ihm abhängig, daß er der Mann ihres Vertrauens sein
müßte. Es wird genügen, wenn die Majorität des Ausschusses der
darstellenden Künstler der Ernennung beistimmt, welche vom Ministerium,
in Uebereinkunft mit den beiden andern Directionsmitgliedern,
vorgenommen wird.
[6] Bis jetzt existiren keine Vereine dramatischer Autoren, denen
eine corporative Vertretung beizumessen wäre und denen man darum
eine Betheiligung bei der Wahl dieses Vertreters der dramatischen
Literatur zumuthen könnte.
* * * * *
Dieser =Ausschuß der darstellenden Künstler= ist für die
Gesammtorganisation überhaupt von großer Wichtigkeit.
Gleich den Musikern, Choristen und Tänzern erwählt alljährlich das
darstellende Personal, Herren und Damen, einen Ausschuß von mindestens
fünf Männern, darunter wenigstens je zwei aus Oper und Schauspiel.
Von diesen Vertrauensmännern des Personals hat der Director sich die
=Regisseure= zu seinen künstlerischen Mitarbeitern zu wählen. Im Fall
längerer Krankheit oder Abwesenheit eines derselben ernennt der Director
aus den übrigen Ausschußmitgliedern einen =Stellvertreter=. Die
Entfernung eines Regisseurs von seinem Posten muß natürlich in der
Gewalt des Directors stehen, doch hat er sich mit dem übrigen Ausschusse
deshalb zu benehmen.
In ähnlicher Weise, d. h. unter Beirath der betreffenden Ausschüsse,
werden =alle Vorstände zweiten Ranges= eingesetzt:
=Orchesterdirigenten=, =Chordirector=, =Ballettmeister=. Diese können
natürlich nicht aus Vertrauensmännern ernannt werden, welche das
Personal bezeichnet, weil sie oft von andern Theatern berufen werden
müssen, immerhin aber wird es wichtig sein, daß die Direction
verpflichtet sei: sich der Zustimmung des betreffenden Ausschusses zu
versichern, damit das unentbehrliche Moment des ausgesprochenen
Vertrauens zu allen Vorständen die ganze Bühnenverfassung durchdringe.
Der, nach Wahl zweier Regisseure mindestens aus drei Personen bestehende
Ausschuß der darstellenden Künstler wird in dieser Zahl jährlich neu
gewählt, wenn nicht der Austritt eines oder beider Regisseure eine
Ergänzungswahl nöthig macht.
Der Ausschuß der drei Künstler ist, wie bei den andern Genossenschaften,
Vorstand der Almosen-, Pensions- und Wittwenkassen u. s. w., zugleich
aber übt er die Vertretung des Kunstpersonals der Direction gegenüber.
Er wird dadurch zum Mittelgliede der Ausgleichung für die
entgegenstehenden Interessen, die sich so oft in der Theaterpraxis
geltend machen. In vielen Streitfällen, welche nach dem Buchstaben der
Theatergesetze nicht, sondern nur nach dem Urtheile Sachverständiger zu
entscheiden sind, bei Beschwerden über parteiische Rollenvertheilung,
über Beeinträchtigung künstlerischer Rechte, welche durch kein
geschriebenes Wort zu sichern sind, hingegen auch bei bestrittenen
Ansprüchen der Direction wird das Hinzutreten des Ausschusses zu
denjenigen Vorständen, in deren Gebiet der Fall schlägt, eine Jury
bilden, welche dem Ausspruche eine größere Unparteilichkeit verleihen
muß. Alle Gesetze, Ordnungs- und Strafverfügungen, Entlassungen wegen
Dienstvergehungen oder gröblicher Vernachlässigung -- welche auch
lebenslänglich Angestellten nicht erspart werden dürfen -- werden, unter
Mitwirkung des Ausschusses erlassen, eine gerechtere Anerkennung
erlangen und verdienen. Der Ausschuß, die Interessen des Personals
vertretend und zugleich auf der Schwelle der Direction stehend, wird das
Gleichgewicht zwischen dem allgemeinen und dem Einzelinteresse am
sichersten halten können. Und was noch überaus wichtig ist, der Ausschuß
wird eine Vorbereitungsstufe abgeben für die Directionstalente, die
rascher als bisher in die künstlerischen Aemter eintreten werden, wenn
sie sich auszeichnen, weil die kräftigere Bewegung, welche die
Selbstregierung in den Genossenschaften hervorbringen muß, die
abgenutzten Vorstände nicht lange an der Spitze dulden, überhaupt die
Hemmnisse der Anciennetät, des Rollenmonopols u. s. w. beseitigen wird.
Vor Allem aber muß diese allgemeine Betheiligung an der künstlerischen
Selbstregierung das eine wichtigste Lebenselement der Schauspielkunst
stärken, das der =künstlerischen Gesinnung=, des =Gesammtgeistes=. Das
selbstsüchtige Sonderinteresse einzelner Talente, durch hervorragende
Fähigkeiten und durch geschickte und dreiste Ausbeutung der bisherigen
Verhältnisse, fast an allen Hofbühnen zu einer Gewalt gelangt, die das
allgemeine Gedeihen schlechterdings unmöglich macht, dieser
Krebsschaden des heutigen Theaterwesens, der die beste Lebenskraft der
Institute zur Beute der Eitelkeit und Eigensucht weniger Bevorrechteter
macht, kann nur durch die Gesundheit und Kräftigung der gesammten
Körperschaft geheilt werden. Entweder werden die Theatermatadore durch
eine edlere Richtung der Bühne zu einer edlen Hingebung an die
Herrschaft des Gemeinwesens der Kunst bewogen, oder ihre Anmaßung wird
durch die gehobene Gesinnung der Kunstgenossen beschämt und
niedergehalten werden. Dies wird um so eher geschehen, als das
Sonderinteresse sich nicht mehr in dem Mißbrauch der Hofgunst nähren
wird, die Direction dagegen, auf bestimmte Staatsgrundsätze gestützt und
dem Lande verantwortlich, das allgemeine Interesse dem einzelnen
gegenüber energischer wird vertreten können und müssen.
* * * * *
Bei einer solchen Bühnenverfassung wird die Direction -- aus dem
besonnenen Vertrauen der Genossenschaft hervorgegangen, deren beste
Einsicht sie repräsentirt -- an und für sich stark sein, aber die
Oberbehörde darf sie auch in keiner Machtvollkommenheit beschränken,
welche es ihr möglich macht, die ganze Verantwortung für die Leistungen
der Bühne zu übernehmen und dem Personal gegenüber die vollkommenste
Autorität zu behaupten.
Von der künstlerischen Direction müssen daher alle =Anstellungen=,
=Verabschiedungen=, =Beurlaubungen= und =Pensionirungen= abhängig sein.
Dem Ministerium bleibe die Bestätigung, damit Ueberschreitungen im
Ausgabeetat oder Uebereilungen vermieden werden. Die Beurtheilung aber
und Entscheidung über die Zusammensetzung des Personals muß der
Direction durchaus anheim gegeben werden. Ebenso hat sie allein über die
Zulässigkeit der =Gastspiele= zu entscheiden; wobei ihr nur zur Pflicht
gemacht werden muß, dem allgemein eingerissenen tief verderblichen
Mißbrauche derselben zu steuern, der die Geldmittel der Theater
vergeudet, das künstlerische Ensemble untergräbt, das vereinzelte
Virtuosenspiel bei den Künstlern und das Vergnügen daran bei dem
Publikum hervorruft, auch dessen Neuigkeitsgier und Parteinahme
steigert.
Der Direction muß ferner die Entscheidung über =Wahl und Reihenfolge der
aufzuführenden Werke=, die =Rollenbesetzung=, =Ausstattung= in
=Decorationen= und =Costüm=, die Aufstellung des =Repertoirs= überlassen
sein. Daß ein verderblicher Eigenwille sich in den Entscheidungen des
Directors geltend machen werde, ist nicht zu fürchten, weil alle Dinge
mit den übrigen Vorständen berathen werden müssen, der Director nur der
Erste unter Gleichen, er auch der Ueberwachung und zuletzt der Anklage
bei der Ministerialdirection von Seiten des Ausschusses ausgesetzt ist.
Mit unbeschränkter Gewalt soll aber der künstlerischen Führung die Kunst
zurückgegeben, der Mittelpunkt ihrer Thätigkeit aus dem Bureau wieder
auf den Regieplatz in's Proscenium der Bühne, wo er naturgemäß liegt,
versetzt werden. =Die künstlerische Arbeit sei wieder die Hauptaufgabe
der Theaterdirection.=
Dabei aber darf sie, ebensowenig wie von der Ministerialdirection, von
der Einmischung des Ausschusses beeinträchtigt werden. An der
regelmäßigen Geschäftsführung darf demselben kein Theil zustehen, die
schon so complicirte Theaterpraxis würde sonst in babylonische
Verwirrung gerathen, der Ausschuß würde dadurch ein integrirender Theil
der Direction werden und seinen Charakter als Vertreter der
Genossenschaft, der Direction =gegenüber=, einbüßen.
Die Stärke der Theaterdirection soll aber keinesweges den Einfluß der
Staatsbehörde ausschließen. Die Direction -- abgesehen von ihrer später
zu besprechenden administrativen Abhängigkeit -- hat alle ihre Pläne,
vorhabenden Einrichtungen und vorzubereitenden Arbeiten, vierteljährlich
etwa, dem Ministerialdirector vorzulegen, damit er sich überzeuge, ob
das Institut die Staatstendenzen innehalte.
Ferner ist das Ministerium in allen Streitsachen letzter und oberster
Gerichtshof, sowohl in Differenzen zwischen Direction und Untergebenen,
als zwischen den Mitgliedern der Direction selbst, oder in Klagen gegen
dieselbe von Seiten der Autoren, des Publikums u. s. w., sie mögen sich
nun auf materielle Forderungen oder auf solche, welche den Geist des
Institutes betreffen, richten.
* * * * *
Die Aufgaben, welche dem so reformirten Nationaltheater gestellt werden
müssen, sind nicht gering.
Vor allem thut es Noth, ein =Stammrepertoir= der bedeutendsten Dicht-
und Musikwerke aufzustellen, das in alljährlicher Wiederkehr die
Künstler in der Uebung am Vortrefflichen erhält, dem Volke den Genuß
seines Kunstschatzes in Musteraufführungen sichert, ihm den ganzen
Entwicklungsproceß des Theaters zugleich klar macht und ihm Ehrfurcht
für das, was es leistet, einflößt.[7]
[7] Was Goethe davon sagt, siehe Geschichte der deutschen
Schauspielkunst B. III. S. 379-382.
Auf einem Nationaltheater soll keine Woche vergehen, in welcher nicht
eins der Werke aus diesem klassischen Cyklus gegeben wird. Jedes
kirchliche oder politische Fest, jeder für die Nation merkwürdige Tag --
bezeichne er eine große Begebenheit oder die Geburt eines großen
Künstlers u. s. w. -- werde durch eine entsprechende Vorstellung
gefeiert und in die Sympathie der Gegenwart gezogen. Auch die wichtigen
Ereignisse des Tages sollen ihren Ausdruck auf der Nationalbühne finden;
sie soll nicht bestimmt sein, die Eindrücke des Lebens vergessen zu
machen, sondern dem Volke ein höheres und heiteres Verständniß derselben
zu eröffnen.
Um all dieser Zwecke willen wird dem Nationaltheater die =Ermuthigung
und Befeuerung der Autoren= dringend angelegen sein müssen. Auffordernde
Anregungen aller Art, angemessenere Regulirung des Honorars, Eröffnung
einer achtungsvollen Stellung zur Bühne -- wie sie den Schöpfern der
geistigen Nahrung derselben gebührt -- werden die nächsten Schritte dazu
sein.
Dagegen fordert gerade die Achtung vor der Autorschaft, daß eine strenge
Auswahl unter den Tageserzeugnissen vorgenommen, das Mittelmäßige und
Schlechte nicht gleichberechtigt mit dem Guten betrachtet werde. Es
fordert die Achtung und Rücksicht für die darstellenden Künstler, daß
ihre Kraft und ihr Eifer nicht durch die Beschäftigung mit
nichtsbedeutenden Arbeiten abgestumpft werden. Es fordert die Achtung
vor dem Publikum: daß man es sicher stelle gegen die Langeweile an der
Darstellung von Arbeiten, wie sie zufällig einlaufen und worüber dem
Publikum hinterher das Urtheil überlassen wird. Die Direction ist dazu
eingesetzt, ein Urtheil im Voraus zu haben und dem Publikum nur wahrhaft
Erfreuendes oder Begeisterndes anzubieten, nicht aber das Vertrauen zu
täuschen, mit dem das Volk sein Theater betritt, nicht die Kräfte und
Mittel, die es ihr zur Verwendung übergiebt, aus persönlicher Rücksicht
oder Furcht vor Journalartikeln abgewiesener Autoren zu vergeuden. Die
Direction eines Nationaltheaters soll ihre Bühne nicht zum Tummelplatz
für bloße Neuigkeiten und unreife Versuche eröffnen, dagegen sie mit
aller Hingebung den werthvollen Arbeiten anbieten und das Interesse der
Autoren bei der Darstellung zu ihrem eigenen machen.
Die ganze Praxis der künstlerischen Leitung hier zu besprechen, ist
weder zulässig noch nöthig, einige Momente aber scheinen mir anregender
Erwähnung zu bedürfen.
So wird unter Allem, was für die möglichste Vollendung der Darstellungen
geschehen muß, auf das =Malerische= derselben eine größere Sorgfalt, als
sie bisher in Deutschland üblich, zu wenden sein.
Die =Decorationen= werden meist auf einzelne Bestellung, bald hier bald
dort, oder doch von verschiedenen Malern gefertigt. Natürlich entsteht
dadurch die größte Ungleichartigkeit. Werden auch die auffallendsten
Mißgriffe dabei vermieden, so sieht man doch selten die Decorationen ein
und desselben Stückes in übereinstimmender Farbe und Behandlungsart. Oft
sieht man in ein und derselben Scene Prospect, Coulissen und Setzstücke
von dreifach grell verschiedener Manier. Hierin Uebereinstimmung zu
schaffen, die richtige Unterordnung der Farbe bei den Decorationen
überhaupt einzuführen, genügt aber nicht allein, auch auf die Farben der
=Costüme= und ihre Stimmung zum Hintergrunde der Handlung sollte
Aufmerksamkeit gewendet werden. Das ganze Gebiet der Theatertracht
bedarf im Allgemeinen einer gründlichen Regelung. Bei den wenigsten
Bühnen sind Costümiers angestellt, Unkenntniß, Laune, Geschmacklosigkeit
und Putzsucht erzeugen daher das grundsatzloseste, bunteste
Durcheinander, das für jedes einigermaßen gebildete Auge eine wahre
Beleidigung ist.
Costümier und Decorateur müssen also in genauem Einverständniß gehalten
werden. Wo es die Verhältnisse gestatten, muß ihnen der Rath großer
malerischer Capacitäten gewonnen werden; wie denn überhaupt mit den
Höchstbefähigten in Literatur, Plastik, Musik, auch aller Wissenschaft,
die sonst der Bühne dienen kann, die Verbindung mehr gesucht und
unterhalten werden muß, als es bisher der Fall war. Zu diesen Zwecken
müssen die Theatervorstände zugleich Mitglieder der Kunstakademie sein.
Auch wird die ministerielle Gesammtleitung aller Künste dem Theater
große Unterstützung verschaffen, sich von allen Künsten das Beste
anzueignen, sich stets mitten in der Strömung allseitigen Lebens zu
halten, um so in seinen Werken der Nation das Trefflichste bieten zu
können.
Ihre Eigenheit dabei zu bewahren, wird freilich eine neue Aufgabe der
Schauspielkunst und ihrer Leitung sein. Indem sie aber von Allen
entlehnt, das Entlehnte jedoch anders und frei benutzt, werden in ihr
auch die übrigen Künste ihr eignes Wesen schärfer erkennen; sie wird so
den Kreis der akademischen Künste erst verständigend abschließen.
Selbständig muß die Theaterdirection sich durchaus erhalten, unabhängig
von allen Forderungen, in deren Erfüllung die einzelnen Künste sich
selbst gern auf dem Theater fänden. Die Schauspielkunst muß wissen, was
sie auszuführen vermag, und darum Alles abweisen was sie nicht lebendig
machen kann. Sie muß die Productionen der andern Künste zu verwenden
wissen, nicht aber sich ihnen dienstbar machen. Gleichweit von
theatralischer Herkömmlichkeit, wie von unfruchtbaren Experimenten, hat
sie den schwierig einzuhaltenden Weg einer unablässigen Fortentwicklung
und Bereicherung der Kunst in den Grenzen ihrer eigensten Natur zu
finden.
Um dies ausführen zu können, wird die Direction es aber auch nicht an
Anregungen zur =Bildung= und zum =Kunstverständniß des Personals= fehlen
lassen dürfen. Was die Eckhof'sche Schauspielerakademie,[8] die
Manheimer Ausschußsitzungen,[9] der Berliner Schauspielerverein in der
neuern Zeit, gesollt: die Schauspieler nämlich zu gemeinsamem
Kunststreben und gegenseitiger Forthülfe sammeln, das dürfte bei
wahrhaft künstlerisch organisirten Theatern endlich, zu unberechenbarem
Vortheil des Gesammtgeistes und des nachwachsenden Geschlechtes, Bestand
gewinnen.
[8] Gesch. d. deutschen Schauspielkunst. Bd. II. S. 88.
[9] Ebendas. Bd. III. S. 18.
Von großer Wichtigkeit wird es sein, wenn die Nationaltheater =die
Spieltage vermindern=. Die Alltäglichkeit des Schauspiels ernüchtert
Publicum und Künstler. Könnten zwei Tage, oder auch nur einer in der
Woche ausfallen, so würden die Vorstellungen wieder einen größeren,
einen festlichen Reiz für das Publicum gewinnen, und der um so
lebhaftere Besuch den Kassenverlust der ausfallenden Tage hinlänglich
ersetzen. Die Künstler aber gewönnen durch die Ruhetage größere
Elasticität und wärmere Begeisterung und, was nicht minder wichtig ist,
mehr Zeit und Sammlung, um die Vorstellungen mit der letzten Sorgfalt
vorzubereiten. Die Hast und Noth für jeden Tag eine Vorstellung zu
schaffen, ist eines der wesentlichsten Hindernisse für die heutige
Bühne: höhere Kunstforderungen zu befriedigen.
Die Abende, an denen das Theater feiert, würden, für das Publicum um so
gelegener, durch Concerte oder Kunstgenüsse anderer Art ausgefüllt
werden.
Ferner müßte das Nationaltheater dahin streben, die =Eintrittspreise=,
besonders für die wohlfeileren und mittleren Plätze zu =ermäßigen=. Der
Theaterbesuch ist noch viel zu kostspielig, als daß er seine volle
Wirkung auf alle Schichten des Volkes äußern könnte. Der durch
wohlfeilere Preise vermehrte Besuch würde die Kasse entschädigen, oder
Ersparnisse im Ausgabeetat müßten es thun, deren nähere Angaben hier zu
weit führen würden.
* * * * *
Es ist noch übrig, den Punkt, welcher bisher als der wichtigste
gegolten, zu erörtern, den der =Finanzen=, des richtigen Verhältnisses
zwischen Einnahme und Ausgabe.
Nach dem Prinzip des Nationaltheaters sollen die =Einnahmen= nur durch
würdige Mittel, durch möglichst vollkommene, dem Volksgeschmacke
wahrhaft gedeihliche Vorstellungen erzielt werden; diese können durch
die künstlerische Direction als gesichert erachtet werden, denn bessere
Leistungen bringen auch bessere Einnahmen. Die Verwaltungsfrage wird
sich daher wesentlich um die richtige =Verwendung= der Geldmittel,
welche dem Theater zu Gebote stehen, drehen.
Der Ausgabeetat werde nach der Summe, welche der Staatszuschuß und dem
Minimalsatz der jährlichen Einnahme ergeben, festgesetzt. Derselbe müsse
nur nach Maßgabe erworbener Ueberschüsse überschritten werden dürfen,
jährlich aber ein Theil des Staatszuschusses zu einem Reservefonds
zurückgelegt werden, damit die mannichfachen Wechselfälle, denen das
Theater durch die Zeitereignisse ausgesetzt ist, dasselbe niemals
mittellos finden. Von diesen Grundzügen der Theaterökonomie müsse
niemals gewichen werden, damit der Staat die Garantie hätte: nur in den
außer aller menschlichen Berechnung liegenden Fällen vor den Riß treten
zu müssen.
Daß der Theaterhaushalt auf dieser Basis zu führen ist, steht bei einer
künstlerischen Direction außer Zweifel, die durch bestimmte
Staatsgrundsätze geschützt ist: nicht jedem kostspieligen Gelüsten eines
dominirenden Geschmackes, nicht jeder unmäßigen Geldprätension
hervorragender Talente fröhnen zu müssen. =Bei jedem, wenn nur irgend
gesicherten, hohen oder niedrigen Einnahmeetat ist ein Theater
herzustellen, in dem der Geist lebendig ist=, und wenn hierauf nur der
Accent gelegt wird, ergiebt sich alles Uebrige leicht. Man nehme keinen
Anstand, einer selbständigen, künstlerischen Direction die Aufgabe
zuzuschieben, sie kann, sie wird sie lösen. Sie wird bei einer sicherer
berechneten und geleiteten Verwendung der Talente schon im Gehaltetat,
gewiß aber in den Ausgaben für allen Apparat, der so ungeheure Summen
verzehrt, große Ersparnisse herbeiführen können. Inmitten der Production
stehend, kann sie das Auge überall haben, sie versteht mit Wenigem Viel
auszurichten, Dinge doppelt und dreifach zu benutzen, welche bei mancher
Hofbühne -- die in der Fülle ihres aufgehäuften Apparates fast erstickt
-- bereits doppelt und dreifach existiren und doch immer wieder aufs
Neue beschafft werden.
Der Ausgabeetat werde nach monatlichen Durchschnittssummen, je nach den
verschiedenen Zweigen geordnet, wie dies schon jetzt gebräuchlich ist.
Das Ministerium hat diese Eintheilung zu bestätigen, aber auch speciell
darüber zu wachen, daß sie nicht ohne Noth überschritten werde. Künstler
sind selten geschickte Haushalter, daher muß der Regierung zustehen: die
Direction, in Bezug auf die Geldverwendung genau zu controlliren und
jeden Augenblick darüber Rechenschaft fordern zu dürfen.
Erleichtert wird dies, wenn der ganze Theaterhaushalt, wie dies bereits
bei einigen Hofbühnen der Fall ist, in die Hand eines einzigen Beamten
gelegt ist, der jede materielle Beschaffung vermittelt, das gesammte
Theaterinventarium unter seiner Aufsicht hat und die Controlle der
Einnahme und Ausgabe führt. Damit ist auch die Verantwortlichkeit für
die materielle Verwaltung in der Person dieses =ökonomischen Inspectors=
concentrirt und durch ihn kann die Oberbehörde in jedem Augenblick
vollständigen Aufschluß über den complicirten Theaterhaushalt erlangen.
Dieser Posten, so wie der des Cassirers und anderer bloß verwaltenden
Beamten, wird durch die Regierung, in Uebereinkunft mit der
künstlerischen Direction, besetzt.
Mit der Bemerkung: daß Anordnungen über Baulichkeiten in den Theatern,
über Hausordnung, die Aufnahme des Publicums u. s. w. von der
künstlerischen Direction, aber nur unter specieller Bestätigung der
Oberbehörde vorzunehmen sind, daß also die Direction, wie frei sie auch
auf rein künstlerischem Gebiete zu schalten habe, aus dem der
Administration doch entschieden abhängig sein müsse -- wird die
Auseinandersetzung des Verhältnisses zwischen Ministerium und
Theaterdirection abgeschlossen sein.
* * * * *
Diese hier vorgeschlagene Reorganisation der großen und tonangebenden
Bühnen in Deutschland müßte sich am vortheilhaftesten in Wien und Berlin
erweisen, wo mehrere Theater vorhanden, welche eine Trennung der
verschiedenen dramatischen Gattungen und dadurch eine um so vollkommnere
Ausbildung jeder einzelnen begünstigen. Denn die Schwierigkeit: das
ganze recitirende Schauspiel, vom Trauerspiel bis zur Posse, daneben
heroische und komische Oper und Ballett, kurz die ganze dramatische
Möglichkeit auf ein und derselben Bühne, mit ein und demselben Personal
zur Vollkommenheit zu bringen, wird immer ungeheuer bleiben; selbst wenn
die vorgeschlagene organische Gliederung einer Direction von
Kunstverständigen die Lösung dieses Problems erleichtert.[10] In =Wien=
aber z. B., wo Schauspiel, Oper und Posse bereits abgesonderte Theater
und abgesonderte Directionen besitzen, wo noch zwei andere Bühnen
vorhanden sind, mit deren Hinzuziehung sich eine noch weitere
Eintheilung nach dem Muster der Pariser Theater vornehmen ließe, wonach
dem =Burgtheater= sein bisheriges Gebiet des =recitirenden Schauspiels=
verbliebe, dem =Kärnthnerthortheater= die =große Oper= (nach dem Muster
der _Academie royale_), dem =Josephstädter Theater= die =komische Oper=
und das =Singspiel=, dem =Wiedner-Theater= das =Spektakelstück und
Melodram=, dem =Leopoldstädter Theater= die =Volksposse= zufiele -- dort
würde jede Gattung, bei der vorgeschlagenen Organisation, sich ihrer
Vollendung zuführen lassen.
[10] Ausführlicheres hierüber Gesch. d. deutsch. Schauspielkunst.
Bd. III. S. 413 u. f.
Freilich müßten aber alle fünf Theater Staatsanstalten werden und ihre
abgesonderten Directionen dem gemeinsamen höheren Prinzipe und der
Beaufsichtigung der Regierung unterworfen werden.
* * * * *
Die preußische Regierung hat den wichtigsten Grundsatz der aus diesen
Blättern vorgeschlagenen Theaterreform, den einer ministeriellen
Oberleitung, bereits vor vierzig Jahren auf einige Zeit anerkannt,[11]
=Berlin= hat unter =Iffland= schon eine musterhafte künstlerische
Direction gehabt, dort würde man also nur auf schon anerkannte Zustände
zurück zu fußen brauchen.
[11] Gesch. d. deutsch. Schauspielk. Bd. III. S. 422 u. f.
=Die erste und unabweisbare Maßregel einer Reorganisation der Berliner
Theater würde die Trennung der dramatischen Gattungen sein müssen.=
Berlin besitzt drei Theater, angemessen in Lage und Beschaffenheit, um
eine natürliche Scheidung mit dem schönsten Erfolge vornehmen zu können.
Im =Schauspielhause=, das zu der, leider immer geringer werdenden Zahl
derjenigen gehört, deren glückliche mittlere Größe noch eine naturgemäße
Menschendarstellung zuläßt, wo der Schauspieler noch nicht genöthigt ist
zum Ueberbieten aller Mittel zu greifen um nur einen Eindruck
hervorzubringen, im Schauspielhause bliebe das sogenannte =recitirende
Schauspiel=, der eigentliche Kern der dramatischen Kunst: Tragödie,
Drama und Comödie, in reiner Gattung abgeschlossen, wie dies im Wiener
Burgtheater musterhaft und erfolgreich der Fall ist; nur ohne jene
peinliche Beschränkung, welche selbst Lieder und Chöre aus dem
Schauspiele verbannt. Im glanzvollen =Opernhause= die =große Oper= und
die =komische=, so weit sich diese vom Burlesken frei hält und die
musikalische Entwicklung als ihre wesentliche Aufgabe darlegt. Diesen
schlösse das =Ballett= sich an.
Das behagliche =Königsstädter Theater= dagegen werde seiner
ursprünglichen Bestimmung eines =Volkstheaters= zurückgegeben. Hier
werde der Maßstab des höheren Schönheitsprinzipes und der Classicität
nicht angelegt, in Ernst und Scherz mögen die grellen Effecte walten,
wie der Volksgeschmack sie heischt. Dies Theater umfasse in seiner
Thätigkeit das =Schauerdrama=, das =Spektakelstück= und =Melodram=, die
=niedrig-komische Oper= und =Posse=, das =komische Liederspiel=, die
=Genrebilder=, =komische Pantomime= und =Grotesktanz= u. s. w. Hier kann
das =Berliner Localstück= -- wenn ihm, was bisher nie geschehen, das
Gebiet unbeeinträchtigt überlassen wird -- seine mögliche Ausbildung
finden.
Es wird dies ein Theater sein, am beliebtesten bei dem großen Publicum
und vielleicht mit einem geringeren Zuschuß, als ihr jetzt durch die
Krone zu Theil wird, im schönsten Flor zu erhalten.[12]
[12] Auf welche Weise das Königstädter Theater gänzlich in Besitz
der Krone und so der Regierung zu bringen wäre, muß Gegenstand
abgesonderter Erörterung bleiben.
Die Subvention des Königl. Theaters würde zwischen Oper und Schauspiel
zu vertheilen sein. Nach der Erfahrung, welche die Trennung der Wiener
Theater an die Hand giebt, würde Oper und Ballet 2/3, das Schauspiel 1/3
davon brauchen.
Alle drei Theater erhielten abgesonderte Directionen, nach der
vorbeschriebenen Organisation, und fänden ihre gemeinsame Oberdirection
im Ministerium. Dieselbe hätte nicht nur Einsicht zu nehmen von den
Arbeitsplänen der einzelnen Directionen -- wie früher angegeben -- sie
hätte diese auch sämmtlich, vielleicht monatlich, zu gemeinschaftlichen
Sitzungen zu versammeln, damit die verschiedenartige Thätigkeit doch
nach einem übereinstimmenden Plane und Geiste geordnet werde, die neuen
Werke sich nicht gegenseitig im Eindruck beim Publicum hindern, die
Gattungen richtig gesondert blieben u. s. w. Zugleich würden, durch
diese gemeinschaftliche ministerielle Oberdirection, ausnahmsweise
Aufführungen von Werken, welche den Zusammentritt der ersten Talente
aller Gattungen erfordern, möglich bleiben; wie die Vorstellungen der
Antigone, des Sommernachtstraumes u. s. w. Der Uebelstand einer
absoluten Trennung des musikalischen vom recitirenden Drama, der in Wien
so oft empfunden wird, wäre dadurch vermieden und die großartigste
Entfaltung der Dramatik, dem ganzen Umfang ihrer Mittel nach, bliebe
freigegeben.
Natürlich dürften solche combinirte Vorstellungen nur ausnahmsweise und
durch die hohe Bedeutung ihres Gehaltes gebotene sein, damit eine
abgesonderte Entwicklung der Gattungen und der einzelnen Theater nicht
zu oft gehindert würde.
Welch eine Vollendung die dramatische Kunst in Berlin durch solche
Organisation gewinnen könnte, getragen durch die Empfänglichkeit und
Befeuerung eines, die Sommitäten der Intelligenz und des Geschmackes
repräsentirenden Publicums, ist leicht zu übersehen.
Die Vereinigung der höheren Interessen der drei Directionen in der
gemeinsamen Leitung der Regierung würde auch eine gegenseitige Förderung
garantiren. Der falsche Antrieb feindseliger Concurrenz -- welcher
vierundzwanzig Jahre lang dem Königl. Theater nachtheilig und dem
Königstädter an seiner Ausbildung entschieden hinderlich gewesen und gar
keinen Vortheil gebracht hat -- würde dem edlen Wetteifer Platz machen:
in gleichem Interesse des Nationalruhms sich den Kranz streitig zu
machen.[13]
[13] Es braucht kaum noch erwähnt zu werden, daß auch hier alle
drei Theater wetteifern würden, sich den Antheil des Hofes
ungeschwächt zu erhalten und die Erfüllung eines Wunsches
desselben als einen besondern Vorzug zu betrachten. Auch bei
besondern Vorstellungen in den königl. Schlössern fände
verwaltungsmäßig keine wesentliche Veränderung statt, da diese
bisher schon besonders in Rechnung kamen.
Freilich müßten -- wenigstens bis diese drei Theater sich ganz
consolidirt hätten -- alle übrigen Bühnen in Berlin geschlossen, auch
die italiänische Oper und das französische Schauspiel verbannt werden.
Man muß Theater und Publicum erst im Geist und Sinne für ein wahrhaft
nationales Theater erstarken lassen, bis man beide verlockender und
zerstreuender Rivalität preisgeben darf.
* * * * *
Soll nun aber das künstlerische Gedeihen der naturgemäß organisirten
großen Nationalbühnen gesichert sein, so dürfen ihnen die vorbereitenden
=Theaterschulen= nicht länger fehlen. Sie sind endlich zu einer
gebieterischen Nothwendigkeit geworden, wenn die Schauspielkunst nicht
überhaupt binnen Kurzem als ein gauklerhaftes Virtuosenthum alle Achtung
des deutschen Volkes verscherzen soll.
Was ich über die Nothwendigkeit der Schulen, wie über ihre praktische
Einrichtung zu sagen weiß, habe ich bereits 1840 in einer kleinen
Schrift: =Ueber Theaterschule= gegen das Publicum ausgesprochen,[14] ich
kann also hier die Wiederholung sparen. In den acht Jahren, welche
seitdem verflossen, haben alle Uebel der künstlerischen Zuchtlosigkeit
dergestalt zugenommen, daß selbst die Gegner der Schulen -- die jede
methodische Vorbildung verwarfen und die Behauptung verfochten: die
Schauspieler müßten wild, wie die Pilze aufwachsen -- von ihrer Ansicht
bekehrt worden sind. Sie geben jetzt zu, daß dieser Mangel an Unterricht
in den künstlerischen Elementen, die jungen Talente unserer Tage
massenhaft zu Grunde gehen läßt und alle Natur, alle Vernunft und allen
Geschmack von der Bühne zu verbannen droht.
[14] Sie ist im IV. Bande meiner dramatischen und dramaturgischen
Schriften wieder abgedruckt.
Der Zeitpunkt die Theaterschulen einzurichten, ist folgerichtig der
einer Reorganisation der Directionen. Bei unkünstlerischer Leitung der
Bühnen konnten die Schulen allerdings nur halbe Frucht bringen, viele
ihrer Vortheile würden wieder verloren gegangen sein; der künstlerischen
Direction dagegen werden sie eine organische Vervollständigung ihres
Lebens und Wirkens sein.
Der Schuleinrichtung, welche ich in der angezogenen Schrift angegeben,
habe ich nur noch die dringende Empfehlung des engsten Anschlusses an
die übrigen Kunstschulen hinzuzufügen. Jeder Staat bilde =eine
allgemeine umfassende Kunstakademie=, entsprechend der Universität, die
das Gesammtstudium aller Wissenschaften umfaßt.
Wenn der Staat alle Künste auf eine höhere Bildung des Volkes lenken
will, so muß er ihre Uebereinstimmung dazu schon in den Kunstschulen
vorbereiten. Die Künste und die Künstler müssen mit einander verständigt
werden. Indem man die Theaterschule mit den bereits bestehenden
Anstalten für Musik und für bildende Künste vereinigt, wird man eine
größere allgemeine künstlerische Bildung des heranwachsenden
Geschlechtes erreichen, die jetzt nur zu oft vermißt wird, weil Jeder in
seinen Fachstudien eingeengt bleibt.
Auch die Kosten der Schulen würden geringer werden, indem viele
Gegenstände gemeinschaftliche Studien zulassen. Wie sehr Musik- und
Theaterschule in einander greifen, hat man längst erkannt -- das Pariser
Conservatorium vereinigt darum beide -- aber wie sehr dies auch mit den
bildenden Künsten der Fall ist, hat man sich bisher verhehlt. Nicht
allein daß Hülfswissenschaften, wie Geschichte und Mythologie, allen
Kunstjüngern übereinstimmend zu lehren sind,[15] daß dem Theatereleven
Bildung des Auges für Schönheit und Charakteristik der Form im
Zeichnenunterricht, daß den Zöglingen der bildenden Künste dagegen zu
Förderung einer harmonischen Bildung Theilnahme an manchem Unterricht
der Theaterschule, dem Gesange, der Redekunst,[16] der höhern Gymnastik
u. s. w. wünschenswerth sein wird, sondern es würden auch die
beiderseitigen Fachstudien sich fördernd berühren können. Die Uebungen
der Geberdensprache von den Theatereleven z. B. könnten den Schülern der
bildenden Kunst einen Reichthum lebendiger Motive zu raschen Skizzen
liefern, an denen das Urtheil über die beiderseitige Leistung sich
schärfen würde. So könnte die gegenseitige Anregung fortwachsend sich
bis auf die wirkliche theatralische Thätigkeit ausdehnen und in der
Dramatik eine wahrhafte Verschwisterung aller Künste erzeugen.
[15] Ueber das Wie? habe ich mich in der angezogenen Schrift
erklärt.
[16] Der Unterricht hierin wird, bei unserer parlamentarischen
Entwicklung, bald zu einer Bedingung guter Erziehung werden.
Noch eine Wohlthat würde aus solch einer Universität der Künste
erwachsen, indem sie die Mißgriffe der jungen Talente über ihren Beruf
zu berichtigen vermöchte, wie dies auf den Universitäten der
Wissenschaften der Fall ist, wo mancher Jüngling zu seinem Heile -- wie
man es nennt -- umsattelt. Abgesehen von denen, deren Talentlosigkeit in
der Schule zur Erkenntniß kommt und die somit bei Zeiten von einer
falschen Lebenstendenz geheilt werden können, giebt es Viele, die sich
in unbestimmtem Triebe zur Kunst auf einen falschen Zweig derselben
werfen. Wie man auf den jetzigen Kunstakademien wohl junge Bildhauer zu
Malern umschlagen sieht und umgekehrt, so würde eine allgemeine
Kunstschule manchen Theatereleven belehren, daß er zum Maler oder
Bildhauer, manchen jungen Maler, daß er zum Schauspieler geboren sei. In
den Abtheilungen für Musik und Theater würden diese gegenseitigen
Berichtigungen ebensowenig ausbleiben und jeder wahrhaft zur Kunst
berufene junge Mensch würde, in noch bildungsfähiger Zeit, an den Platz
gestellt werden wohin er gehört, wo er der Kunst wahrhaft nützen und
über seine Zukunft außer Sorge sein könnte.
Denn Wien und Berlin würden, auf ihren vielen Theatern, fast den ganzen
Nachwuchs aus ihren Schulen anzustellen im Stande sein, hier also würden
die darauf verwendeten Kosten augenscheinlichen Vortheil bringen. Diese
Kosten aber würden, wenn die Landesvertreter nicht geneigt wären
besondere Bewilligungen dazu zu machen, zur Noth von dem bedeutenden
Zuschusse, den die Bühnen bereits genießen, abzuzweigen sein!
Die drei Theater in =Berlin= z. B. kosten dem Hofe jährlich an 200,000
Thlr. Was wäre es für drei künstlerische Directionen -- die unfehlbar
große Ersparungen und größere Einnahmen als bisher herbeiführen werden
-- von dieser Summe gemeinschaftlich 6-8000 Thlr. an die allgemeine
Kunstakademie abzutreten? Und diese würden zureichen -- wenn man alle
vereinzelte Musikinstitute des Staates und was sonst an
Deklamationslehrern, Ballettschulen u. s. w. verausgabt wird,
zusammenzöge und zu =einer= großen Schule vereinfachte -- dem
ausgedehntesten Plane zu genügen. Im Akademiegebäude, seinem ganzen
Umfange nach, würden -- wenn man Ställe und Caserne daraus entfernte --
alle Künste unter =einem= Dache eine Pflanzstätte finden, wie sie Europa
noch nicht kennt und wie sie doch, ohne unverhältnißmäßige Opfer, durch
guten und energischen Willen sehr wohl herzustellen wäre.
Selbst der Anstalten von so großem Umfange bedürfte es nicht, um auch
mit kleineren Mitteln in kleinerem Kreise höchst Wohlthätiges zu
leisten. =Das musikalische Conservatorium Sachsens= z. B., auch das von
=Prag=, wären durch veränderte Organisation und Hinzufügung einiger
Disciplinen, leicht zu Musik- und Theaterschulen umzugestalten und im
Anschluß an die vorhandenen Akademien zu wahrhaft praktischer
Nutzbarkeit des Staates auszubringen.
Und wo auch solche Anlehnungspunkte nicht vorhanden sind, sollte doch,
wenigstens an jeder stehenden Bühne, ein erfahrener Künstler dazu
angestellt sein: den Anfängern die nothdürftigsten Anweisungen zu
geben, damit die jungen Talente ihre besten Jahre nicht ganz in
irrthümlichen und verkehrten Versuchen -- die das Theater selbst immer
mitbüßen muß -- verlören. Der praktische Nutzen davon ist so
einleuchtend, und doch ist im ganzen großen Deutschland nirgend eine
solche Einrichtung getroffen. =Unter den tausend Professoren der
verschiedenen Künste giebt es noch keinen einzigen der Schauspielkunst.=
Künstlerische Directionen und Theaterschulen werden auch diese
Verhältnisse verändern oder sie durch die richtigen Maßregeln
ausgleichen.
* * * * *
Ist mit der hier besprochenen, durchgreifenden Erneuerung des ganzen
Kunstlebens für eine mögliche Vollkommenheit dessen, was die großen,
tonangebenden Theater leisten, gesorgt, so wird der wohlthätige Einfluß
davon auf die Bühnen zweiten Ranges, auf die =Stadttheater=, nicht
ausbleiben. Damit aber darf die Landesregierung sich nicht beruhigen,
ihre Oberleitung muß sich grundsätzlich bis auf die letzte Wanderbühne
geltend machen.
Die Directionen der Stadttheater sind -- man darf sich darüber nicht
täuschen -- nichts anderes, als industrielle Unternehmungen. Die
Magistrate oder die Regierungspolizei, denen bis jetzt die dramatische
Kunst in den Provinzen unterworfen ist, setzen daher auch ihre höchste
Forderung an den Director, bei Uebergabe des Theaters, in seine
Zahlungsfähigkeit.
In welchem =Geiste= er es führen werde, davon ist niemals die Frage.
Gute Einnahmen gelten für den Beweis, daß er das Publikum zu unterhalten
verstehe, und wenn dies auch in der geschmackverderblichsten Weise
geschieht, so hat die Behörde ihn deshalb nicht anzufechten.
Dieser Zustand verändert sich schon durchaus, sobald die Oberaufsicht
von der Landespolizei auf das Cultusministerium übergeht, dem der
=Geist= der Institute als das Wesentliche, ihr =materieller Bestand= nur
als dessen Grundlage gilt. Das Ministerium würde vor Allem darüber
wachen müssen, =daß die Directoren der Stadttheater künstlerisch
befähigte und gesinnungstüchtige Männer seien und daß sie die
Verpflichtung übernähmen: ein der Musterbühne des Landes analoges
Verfahren einzuhalten=. Dies müßte der Hauptpunkt der Pachtverträge oder
Concessionsertheilungen sein. Nach Ort und Verhältnissen würde sich das
Maß für die Erfüllung dieser Bedingung bestimmen lassen, wobei die
Directionen der Residenztheater die sachverständige Regulirung
übernehmen könnten. Das Wichtigste dabei müßte die Aufstellung eines
=Stammrepertoirs= sein, das jeder Director -- nach Maßgabe seiner Kräfte
und seines Publikums -- in jährlicher Wiederkehr festzuhalten hätte.
Denn womit ein Theater sich beschäftigt, das bestimmt seine
Beschaffenheit. Ist ein Director gezwungen, alljährlich gewisse
treffliche Stücke aufzuführen, so wird er, um seines eignen Vortheils
willen, sie möglichst gut zu geben suchen und an dem Umgang mit dem
Trefflichen wird das Institut sich erheben.
Die Regierung müßte ferner dahin wirken, das =Repräsentativsystem der
Direction= auch bei diesen Theatern einzuführen. Hier, wo die Einnahmen
zur Lebensfrage für alle Mitglieder werden, wird die Organisation bald
zu einem vollständigen =Societätsverhältnisse= führen, das, wenn es
gehörig geregelt und beaufsichtigt wird, die trefflichste Schule für den
schauspielerischen Gemeingeist abgeben und der Ausbeutung der Kunst und
der Künstler durch das Unternehmerwesen ein Ziel setzen muß.
Freilich hätte die Regierung auch dahin zu wirken, daß die Städte den
verkehrten Grundsatz aufgäben: vom Theater Nutzen ziehen zu wollen, daß
die Stadttheater von einer Menge von Lasten und Abgaben und dadurch von
steten Sorgen befreit würden, welche die Befolgung reinerer Grundsätze
unmöglich machen.
Zunächst müßte dies mit dem Miethzins der Fall sein, der für die
Benutzung der Schauspielhäuser gezahlt wird. Jede bedeutende Stadt muß
unter ihren öffentlichen Gebäuden auch ein Theater besitzen, und
=ebensowenig als für Benutzung der Kirchen, Schulhäuser, Bibliotheken,
Museen u. s. w. ein Miethzins eingezogen wird, sollte er für das Theater
gefordert werden=.
Es sollte ein Ehrenpunkt für unsere Städte sein -- wie dies in
Frankreich der Fall ist -- ihre Schauspielhäuser der Kunst ohne
Eigennutz zu eröffnen, dann würden sie auch höhere Ansprüche an das, was
drinnen geleistet werden soll, machen können.
Auf die Directionen solcher Theater, welche aus Staatsmitteln
Unterstützungen erhalten -- wie dies in mehreren Provinzialhauptstädten
Preußens der Fall ist -- würde die Regierung einen dictatorischen
Einfluß üben können, auf die andern würde dieser zunächst ein
vermittelnder, aber darum nicht weniger wichtiger sein.
Entschiedener und gewaltsamer müßte dagegen der Eingriff in das Wesen
der =Wanderbühnen=, der großen und kleinen ausfallen; hier ist einem
Unfuge zu steuern, der nicht allein auf dem Gebiete der Volksbildung,
sondern auch der bürgerlichen Sitte und Ordnung wahre Verwüstungen
anrichtet.
Aeußerst wenige der sogenannten =reisenden Gesellschaften= bewähren
durch dauernden Bestand ihre Achtbarkeit. Die bei Weitem größere Zahl
der Comödiantenbanden, welche schaarenweis Deutschland durchschwärmen,
in mittleren und kleinen Städten, Flecken und Dörfern sich einander auf
die Fersen treten und die Schaulust der Einwohner -- auf eine, zu deren
übriger Lage, unverhältnißmäßige und meistentheils unwürdige Weise --
ausbeuten, schleppen sich von einem Bankerott zum andern. Sie entstehen
aus zusammengerafften Leuten, halten sich einige Monate, oft nur einige
Wochen, bezeichnen ihre Wanderspur mit der liederlichsten Wirthschaft,
hinterlassenen Schulden, verführter Jugend u. s. w. und zerstreuen sich
dann über das Land hin, eine Schaar vagabundirender Bettler. Meistens
sind es bethörte Menschen, die im äußersten Elende die unergiebigen
Sommermonate durchkämpfen, um mit dem Herbste den Kreislauf ihrer
verzweifelten Existenz von Neuem zu beginnen. Zu keiner regelmäßigen
Thätigkeit mehr brauchbar, gerathen diese Abenteurer des lustigen Elends
endlich bis zur untersten Stufe der physischen und moralischen
Versunkenheit.
Und diese Zustände werden von den Landesbehörden recht eigentlich
herbeigeführt und gehegt. Das Uebermaß der Concessionen, die
leichtsinnige Unbedenklichkeit, mit welcher sie ertheilt werden,
erschaffen dem Staate eine ganze Klasse von bedauernswerthen und
unheilbringenden Landstreichern.
Man hat zur Entschuldigung dieses laxen Regierungsverfahrens angeführt:
auch der Kleinbürger und Bauer bedürfe der Erregung seiner Phantasie,
die ihn der drückenden Alltäglichkeit enthöbe und dadurch erfrische, das
Schauspiel sei dazu das geeigneteste und unschuldigste Mittel, wer ihm
also dies verschaffe, dürfe in seiner Gewerbthätigkeit nicht gehindert
werden.
Abgesehen davon aber, daß ein Erwerb, der notorisch trügerisch ist, an
welchen entschieden polizeiwidrige Folgen geknüpft sind, nicht
unbedingten Schutz verdient, ist die Gleichgültigkeit gegen den
geistigen Einfluß dieser bettelhaften Schauspiele auf Bürger und Bauer
gewiß nicht zu rechtfertigen. Es =darf= dem Staate nicht gleichgültig
sein, wenn dem Volke das menschliche Leben in Zerrbildern und in
unsinniger Verkehrtheit dargestellt wird. =Gerade den unteren Schichten
des Volkes, auf welche der sinnliche Eindruck ungemäßigt durch
Ueberlegung und Urtheil wirkt, muß im Schauspiele ein möglichst reiner
und lehrreicher Spiegel des Lebens geboten werden.=
Ist es doch in unsern Tagen zur Anerkennung gekommen: das Volk habe ein
Recht, vom Staate Bildung zu verlangen. Soll sie ihm nun lediglich auf
dem Wege des Buchstabens und des Erlernens angeboten, soll sie ihm nicht
auch durch lebendige Kunsteindrücke in's Gemüth geprägt werden? Und wenn
dies nicht überall in =rechter= Weise geschehen kann, hat der Staat
nicht die Verpflichtung: das Volk wenigstens vor =falschen= Eindrücken
zu bewahren?
Zudem wäre es eine sträfliche Inconsequenz, wenn die Regierung länger
zugeben wollte, daß in den Provinzen und auf dem Lande gerade das
Gegentheil von dem geschieht, was sie mit so bedeutenden Geldopfern in
den Hauptstädten zu bewirken sucht.
Darum muß also die Generaldirection des Cultusministeriums ihre Hand
über das ganze Land hinstrecken, der Polizei die Beurtheilung und
Entscheidung der Bühnenangelegenheiten abnehmen, sie höchstens zur
Vollstreckerin ihrer Beschlüsse machen.
=Alle Comödiantentruppen, welche die Würde der Menschendarstellung
geradehin verletzen, müssen ohne Weiteres abgeschafft werden.= Alle
Concessionen sind nach ihrem Ablauf einzuziehen, nur dem
Cultusministeriums stehe es zu: sie nach einem neuen Modus zu erneuern.
Nun grenze man bestimmte =Wanderbezirke= ab, welche vielleicht eine
Provinzialhauptstadt und einige nahe gelegene, oder eine genügende
Anzahl von mittleren und kleinen Städten umfassen, und übergebe ein
jedes dieser Gebiete einem erprobten Director, daß er nach Uebereinkunft
mit den betreffenden Städten sie nach einer jährlichen Reihefolge mit
seiner Truppe besuche.
Man richte diese Bezirke nicht zu eng, nicht nach einer knappen, sondern
nach einer reichlichen Veranschlagung des Theaterpublikums ein, damit
diese Gesellschaften anständig bestehen, damit das kostspielige Reisen
und an verschiedenen Orten Wohnen in unanstößiger Weise geschehen könne.
Man schütze diese Truppen gegen jede Concurrenz -- welche jederzeit die
Theater nur gegenseitig verschlechtert, niemals verbessert hat -- man
organisire sie nach dem Muster der Residenztheater, mit angemessenem
=Stammrepertoir=[17] und grundsätzlichen Verpflichtungen, mit
=Repräsentativverfassung=, die ganz natürlich auch hier zu
=Societätsverhältnissen=, mit selbstgewählten Führern, ausschlagen wird,
dann werden diese ambulanten Theater so in Flor kommen, daß manche
Stadt, die jetzt einen Ehrgeiz darein setzt, ein stabiles Theater
kümmerlich zu erhalten, es vorziehen wird, in solch einen Wanderbezirk
zu treten und lieber vier oder sechs Monate =gutes= Theater, als das
ganze Jahr über =schlechtes= zu haben. Denn diese reisenden
Gesellschaften werden den großen Vortheil genießen, nur einen kleinen
Kreis von Vorstellungen zu brauchen, um das Publikum jeder Stadt eine
Zeit lang in regem Antheil zu erhalten. Diese Vorstellungen können daher
sehr sorgfältig studirt sein und in jeder Stadt neu gespielt, vor immer
neuen Zuschauern, immer vollkommener werden. Die Truppen werden auch,
wenn bei ihrer Abwesenheit kein anderes Schauspiel stattfinden darf, das
Publikum immer wieder voll frischer Theaterlust und begierigem Antheil
finden.
[17] Wie man den besseren dieser Truppen gewisse Vorstellungen zu
=ge=bieten hätte, so müßte man den untergeordneten andere
=ver=bieten, damit sie nicht, was über ihre Kräfte geht,
herabwürdigen.
Man schelte diese durchgreifende und beschränkende Einrichtung -- welche
allerdings so viele Interessen berührt, daß sie, sowie die gesammte
Theaterorganisation, durch ein eignes Gesetz von den Landesvertretern
adoptirt werden müßte -- nicht eine Beeinträchtigung der Freiheit des
Theaterpublikums und der Erwerbthätigkeit. =Man darf das Theater nicht
länger als eine bloße Vergnügungs- und Industrieanstalt betrachten.=
Soll es aber eine höhere Culturbedeutung gewinnen, so müssen die Grenzen
seiner Wirksamkeit, ebenso wie die der Kirche und Schule, vom Staate
festgestellt werden.
Die Zahl der reisenden Gesellschaften wird über die Hälfte vermindert
werden, das ist ein Glück für die bürgerliche Gesellschaft und für die
Kunst, denn um so eher wird der Schauspielerstand nur aus wirklich
Berufenen bestehen. Den Bewohnern der Dörfer und kleinen Städte wird es
besser sein, wenn sie nicht mehr von Wandertruppen heimgesucht werden,
dagegen ein wohlgeordnetes Theater in den Städten finden, sobald sie
diese zu Jahrmärkten oder festlichen Zeiten besuchen. Die Mittelstädte
werden nur eine bestimmte Theatersaison haben, aber sie wird ihnen auch
etwas bieten, das des Antheils werth ist.
Man braucht nicht zu besorgen, daß die Bezirksgesellschaften, auf die
Ausschließlichkeit des Privilegiums pochend, sich vernachlässigen und
das Theaterbedürfniß ihres Publikums mit Bequemlichkeit ausbeuten
werden; dagegen bürgt die allgemeine Betheiligung der Mitglieder an Ehre
und Vortheil der Gesellschaft und die Abhängigkeit von der
Landesregierung, die, auf eine begründete Beschwerde des Bezirks, der
Gesellschaft das Privilegium nehmen, oder sie in einen andern Bezirk
versetzen kann.
Diese letzte Maßregel eines Wechsels der Gesellschaften könnte übrigens
auch unter anderen Umständen anwendbar sein.
* * * * *
Der Vortheil, der hierin aus der Centralisation der Oberleitung
sämmtlicher Landesbühnen entspringt, wird sich noch in einer Menge von
anderen Dingen darthun. In großen Staaten wird die Ausübung des
Ministerialeinflusses allerdings einer weitläuftigeren Gliederung
bedürfen, in den kleineren dagegen in ungemein abgerundetem
Zusammenhange wirken.
So werden z. B. die allgemeinen und einzelnen Einrichtungen,
Bearbeitungen von Stücken, Uebersetzungen, zur dramatischen Handlung
gehörige Musiken, verbesserte Operntexte, Scenirungen u. s. w., wenn sie
sich in der Residenz als zweckmäßig erwiesen haben, sich ohne erhebliche
Kosten den übrigen Landesbühnen mittheilen lassen; mithin werden die
besten Talente, welche die Mustertheater versammeln, für die Hebung des
gesammten Theaterwesens im ganzen Lande arbeiten. Junge Leute, die sich
bei den untergeordneten Theatern auszeichnen, werden in der
Unparteilichkeit der, allen Theatern gemeinsamen Oberbehörde den Weg zu
den besseren Bühnen unversperrter finden, während, bei dem verbesserten
Zustande der Provinztheater, man künftig ohne Sorge vor Verbildung,
junge Leute, Eleven der Theaterschule, auf Lehr- und Uebungsjahre
dorthin geben kann.
So manches Mitglied der ersten Theater, das unter den jetzigen
Verhältnissen bei voller, kräftiger Gesundheit pensionirt wird, -- weil
es etwa die Stimme verloren hat, oder dem jugendlichen Fache entwachsen,
für ein älteres gerade kein Talent zeigt -- würde als Director eines
Provinzial-Theaterbezirkes dem Staate noch gute Dienste leisten können.
Oder der Halbinvalide eignete sich für eine Professur an der
Theaterschule; eine Wirksamkeit, welche einem abgetretenen Director auch
wohl anstehen würde. Oder wenn der für die Bühne Untauglichgewordene von
untergeordneten Fähigkeiten ist, könnte er sich auf irgend einem
Beamtenposten der Bühne noch nützlich machen. Immer vermöchte so die
Ministerialdirection, durch ihre umfangreiche Verfügung, dem Staate die
ungebührlich langen Pensionsleistungen und den alternden Künstlern die
Schmach eines bezahlten Müßigganges zu ersparen, in einem Alter, wo sie
noch arbeiten können.[18]
[18] Uebereinstimmende und angemessene Anstalten zur Pensionirung
der Schauspieler zu treffen, würde erst möglich sein, wenn die
Reorganisation des ganzen Theaterwesens festen Fuß gefaßt hätte.
Auch diese, so überaus wichtige Angelegenheit müßte nach einem
umfassenden Plane geordnet werden, auf alle Bühnen des Landes,
nach den erweiterten Grundsätzen des preußischen
Staatspensionsfonds sich erstrecken, vielleicht, nach Eckhof's
altem Entwurfe, ganz Deutschland umfassen. Für's Erste wird man an
den bestehenden Einrichtungen festhalten müssen, mit denjenigen
Modificationen, welche an den Residenztheatern die Verwandlung der
Theatermitglieder aus Hofdienern in Staatsdiener nothwendig macht.
Genügen werden die hier angegebenen Momente, um den Blick auf den
außerordentlichen Gewinn zu lenken, den das Theater in seinen =Mitteln=,
durch deren gesammelte Verwendung machen wird. Genügen wird die ganze
bisherige Darstellung, um den unermeßlichen Gewinn darzuthun, den der
=Geist= und die =Würde= der deutschen Bühne von der vorgeschlagenen
Reform ziehen und dem Volke mittheilen muß.
Die Schwierigkeiten der Reorganisation sind nicht so groß, als die
Umständlichkeit dieser Besprechung vielleicht erscheinen läßt, denn die
Einrichtungen beruhen auf der Natur der Sache, gestalten und regeln sich
darum aus sich selbst.
=In einer freien Entwicklung der künstlerischen Kräfte, bei gemeinsam
berechtigter Betheiligung, muß die auf sich selbst gestellte Kunst
werden, was sie werden kann; in ihrer Wirkung auf das Volk, vom Geiste
desselben -- der sich in der Staatsregierung auszusprechen hat --
geleitet, wird sie dem Volke leisten, was sie ihm leisten kann.=
Dies sind die Bedingungen eines wahrhaften Nationaltheaters.
Uebereinstimmend, wie in Kirche und Schule, müssen die Kräfte und Mittel
der Nation dazu wirken; =nur die organisch verbundenen Landesbühnen
erschaffen ein Nationaltheater=.
* * * * *
Zum Schluß noch einen Blick auf ein Moment dieses Reformvorschlages, das
in rein menschlicher Beziehung allein schon volle Beherzigung verdient:
es ist =die Wirkung auf den Schauspielerstand=.
Allen Plänen, die Schaubühne auf eine höhere Stufe zu heben, pflegt man
den Einwurf entgegenzuhalten: sie müßten an der unabänderlichen
Beschaffenheit des Schauspielerstandes scheitern.
Wäre es wahr, daß die allerdings starken und mannichfachen Versuchungen
dieses Standes unüberwindlich wären, so hätte der Staat die Pflicht,
denselben aufzuheben und nach Plato's und Rousseau's Rath das Theater
aus seinem Bereiche zu verbannen.
Aber es ist nicht so. Die Kunstgeschichte zeigt uns unter den
Schauspielern wahre Muster an sittlicher Würde und Charaktergröße. Waren
diese möglich, so muß auch die Hebung des ganzen Standes möglich sein
und es hat bisher nur an den Bedingungen dazu gefehlt.
Was hat der Staat, was hat die bürgerliche Gesellschaft zur Bildung und
Versittlichung des Standes gethan? Nichts! Ja schlimmer als das, man hat
Alles gethan ihn in verderblicher Stellung zu erhalten.
Das erste Erforderniß zur Hebung eines Standes: =Bildung=, der Staat hat
ihm bis auf den heutigen Tag die =Gelegenheit= und damit auch die
=Nöthigung= dazu versagt. =Der Schauspieler ist der einzige
Staatsbürger, dem keine Fachbildung geboten, dem auch keine abgefordert
wird.= Darf man sich wundern, daß er sie nicht besitzt?
Unsittlichkeiten unter den Theatermitgliedern -- obschon sie
verhältnißmäßig kaum häufiger vorkommen, als in andern Ständen, nur bei
der Oeffentlichkeit ihrer Stellung auffallender sind -- entfernen noch
immer die gute Gesellschaft von dem ganzen Stande, und Einzelne finden
nur =trotz= ihres Standes Zutritt. Aber um demselben eine sittlichere
Haltung aufzunöthigen, was hat denn der Staat, was die Gesellschaft
gethan? Würden wohl andere öffentliche Stände: Geistliche, Richter u. s.
w. ein im Allgemeinen sittliches Verhalten zeigen, wenn es ihnen nicht
streng abgefordert, wenn der einzelne Bescholtene nicht, als des Standes
unwürdig, ausgestoßen würde? Alle bürgerlichen Tugenden haben ihre
Grundlage im Zwange des Gesetzes und der Sitte.
Dem Schauspieler aber macht die irregeleitete öffentliche Meinung
Unsittlichkeit beinahe zur Bedingung künstlerischer Anerkennung; man
läßt es ihn merken: einige Flecken Schande ständen ihm gut zu Gesicht.
Man nimmt dem Schauspieler nichts übel, aber man verachtet ihn. Das
Spiel der Leidenschaften im Privatleben des Künstlers sieht man als in
nothwendiger Beziehung zu dem auf der Bühne stehend an, läßt seine
entfesselten Neigungen als eine Würze der Kunstproduction gelten. Sogar
die ersten Grundbedingungen des rechtlichen Vertrauens legt man ihm nur
locker auf, er gilt als ein privilegirter Freibeuter im bürgerlichen
Leben. Ein contraktbrüchiger, durchgegangener Bühnenkünstler findet
selbst an Hoftheatern bereite Aufnahme.
Darf man sich wundern, daß in dieser Stellung manche Theatermitglieder
es mit sittlichen Verpflichtungen nicht genau nehmen?
Darf man die allerdings tief eingerissene Selbstsucht, -- aus der in der
Kunstübung das vereinzelte Virtuosenspiel und die verderbliche
Effectjägerei entspringen -- dem Künstler so unbedingt zum Vorwurf
machen, wenn er behaupten darf, daß die jetzigen Bühnenzustände ihm, von
allen Antrieben für seine Kunst, nur den Egoismus übrig gelassen? Daß er
sich als ein Miethling fühle, entweder gewinnsüchtiger Unternehmer oder
kunstfremder Behörden, die für seine Leistungen keinen andern Maßstab
als den Beifall der Massen und der Journale haben, der denn also um
jeden Preis errungen werden müsse, wenn man sich eine Stellung sichern
wolle.
=Sobald das Theater zur Staatsanstalt erhoben ist, werden die
Forderungen an die Künstler strenger, die Achtung für sie aber darum
auch größer werden.= Verletzungen der öffentlichen Moral werden keine
Bemäntelung mehr finden, der Stand wird an sittlicher Haltung gewinnen.
Er wird für seinen Beruf gebildet und geprüft werden, wie das in andern
Künsten der Fall ist. Die Anerkennung seiner Bedeutung und seines
Nutzens im Staate wird ihm gesellschaftliche Achtung verschaffen, er
wird sich immer mehr aus den gebildeten Schichten der Gesellschaft
recrutiren. Seine gemeinwesenliche Verfassung wird die Elemente feinerer
Bildung mit der Kraft naturwüchsigen Talentes unausgesetzt durchdringen,
eine edle künstlerische Gesinnung sich geltend machen können.
=Darum ist es menschlich und gerecht, wenn man dem Schauspieler endlich
eine Verfassung zugesteht, die seine Selbständigkeit anerkennt, ihm
Bildung und höhere Gesittung garantirt=; den Anspruch daran erhebe ich
im Interesse meines Standes mit diesen Reformvorschlägen. =Wir haben
ein Recht: endliche Gleichstellung mit den übrigen Ständen zu
verlangen, Gleichstellung in Unterricht und moralischer Verpflichtung.=
Wir sind die einzigen davon Ausgeschlossenen, wir sind die Parias unter
den Ständen. Willig sind wir zu leisten, was man von uns fordern kann,
aber wir können es nicht, wenn man es nicht fordern, wenn man die
Leistung nicht ermöglichen will. Erst wenn Alles geschehen ist, wie
bisher Nichts geschehen ist, unsern Stand zu heben und er sich unfähig
dazu erwiesen, erst wenn man ihm höhere Zwecke gegeben und er ihnen
nicht entsprochen -- dann mag man ihn verwerfen, aber erst dann. Jetzt
hat die Gesellschaft kein Recht dazu, sie hat verschuldet, was sie uns
vorwirft.
Ueber diese höhere Lebensfrage unseres Standes wird zugleich mit der
über die deutsche Bühne entschieden werden.
Der bisherige Zustand hat keine Dauer mehr. Das deutsche Volk, an seiner
Spitze seine Fürsten, muß sich erklären, was es von seiner Schaubühne
will?
Soll sie ihm nur zum Vergnügungsort, zur Zuflucht des Zeitvertreibes,
zur Reunion der feinen Welt, zur Gelegenheit: Toilette zu machen und
sich Rendezvous zu geben, daneben zur Befriedigung der Schaulust oder
des Bedürfnisses der Erschütterung durch Lachen oder Weinen dienen --
wozu dann die enormen Summen, welche aus Landesmitteln zu Gunsten so
frivoler Anstalten fließen? Dann mögen diejenigen das Vergnügen
bezahlen, die es genießen, man ziehe alle Subventionen zurück, verpachte
die Theater und lasse den Unfug auf der Bahn industrieller Speculation
dahinschießen. Die englische Bühne zeigt: wohin sie führt; die
französische wird vor ihren Gefahren bis jetzt nur noch durch den
angeborenen richtigen Sinn ihres Volkes für die dramatische Kunst
bewahrt. Gewiß ist, daß auf diesem Wege keine Bühne zur =Veredlung= des
Volkes wirken, ja daß sie vom Strome der Vergnügungslust so weit
fortgerissen werden kann, daß ihre Existenz für die öffentliche Moral
bedenklich wird.
Soll aber dem deutschen Volke sein Nationaltheater sein, was die
Folgerichtigkeit seines geistigen und sittlichen Bildungsstrebens
fordert, soll es ihm ein Spiegel des Lebens, eine Stätte der
Selbsterkenntniß, ein heiterer Tempel der Begeisterung für Schönes,
Edles und Erhabenes sein, so müssen ihm auch ernster Wille und volle
Mittel dafür zugewendet werden. =Ein ächtes Nationaltheater wird die
Erwartungen der Nation niemals täuschen.=
Mögen zu der alsdann nothwendig werdenden durchgreifenden Umgestaltung
des heutigen Theaterwesens meine Ansichten und Vorschläge behülflich
sein, sie sind ein Ergebniß dreißigjähriger Erfahrung in allen Zweigen
der Dramatik und einer unzerstörbaren Ueberzeugung von der erhabenen
Bestimmung des Theaters.
=Dresden= im December 1848.
=Eduard Devrient.=
Druck von =Otto Wigand= in Leipzig.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Motor Truck Logging Methods
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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Title: Motor Truck Logging Methods
Author: Frederick Malcolm Knapp
Release date: September 8, 2011 [eBook #37359]
Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Harry Lamé, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTOR TRUCK LOGGING METHODS ***
Produced by Harry Lamé, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
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+-------------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| Transcriber's Notes: |
| |
|* Words printed in italics in the original document are represented|
| here between underscores, as in _text_; bold text is similarly |
| represented between =, as in =text=. Small caps in the original |
| have been converted to ALL CAPITALS. |
|* Some of the tables have been laid out differently than in the |
| original book, with every effort made to keep the original data |
| and meaning unchanged. |
|* All inconsistencies in spelling, lay-out, hyphenation, etc. in |
| the original document have been preserved in this text, except |
| when mentioned below. |
|* Changes made to the original text: |
| * page 5: 'and the used of' changed to 'and the use of'; |
| * page 13: 'distance, is it, of course' changed to 'distance, |
| it is, of course'; |
| * page 13: 'four year depreciation' changed to 'four-year |
| depreciation'; |
| * page 16: 'twisting the the rubber' changed to 'twisting of |
| the rubber'; |
| * page 26: 'page --' changed to 'page 25'; |
| * page 39: 'plank' changed to 'planks'; |
| * page 39: 'is handy' changed to 'is a handy'; |
| * page 46, table: 'A.M.' moved down one row, similar to 'P.M.' |
| further down in the table; |
| * Table of Contents: page number '4' changed to '5' (2 changes); |
| * Table of Contents: 'Loading and Hauling' changed to 'Loading |
| and Unloading' as in text; |
| * Table of Contents: 'Fires' changed to 'Tires' as in text. |
|* Footnotes have been moved to directly below the paragraph or |
| table to which they refer. |
|* Other issues: |
| * Page 33 contained a reference to an illustration on page 40, |
| but this page has no illustration. The reference has been |
| changed to 'page 38', which is probably the illustration the |
| author intended. |
| * Both 'Meicklejohn and Brown' and 'Meickeljohn and Brown' occur |
| in the text, as do 'Hillard' and Hilliard'. |
| |
+-------------------------------------------------------------------+
The Engineering Experiment Station of the University of Washington was
established in December, 1917, in order to coördinate investigations in
progress and to facilitate the development of engineering and industrial
research in the University. Its purpose is to aid in the industrial
development of the state and nation by scientific research and by
furnishing information for the solution of engineering problems.
The scope of the work is twofold:--
(a) To investigate and to publish information concerning
engineering problems of a more or less general nature that would
be helpful in municipal, rural and industrial affairs.
(b) To undertake extended research and to publish reports on
engineering and scientific problems.
The control of the Station is vested in a Station Staff consisting of
the President of the University, the Dean of the College of Engineering
as ex-officio Director, and seven members of the Faculty. The Staff
determines the character of the investigations to be undertaken and
supervises the work. For administrative purposes the work of the Station
is organized into seven divisions--
1. Forest Products
2. Mining and Metallurgy
3. Chemical Engineering and Industrial Chemistry
4. Civil Engineering
5. Electrical Engineering
6. Mechanical Engineering
7. Physics Standards and Tests
The results of the investigations are published in the form of
bulletins. Requests for copies of the bulletins and inquiries for
information on engineering and industrial problems should be addressed
to the Director, Engineering Experiment Station, University of
Washington, Seattle.
BULLETIN
UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON
ENGINEERING EXPERIMENT STATION
ENGINEERING EXPERIMENT STATION SERIES
BULLETIN NO. 12
MOTOR TRUCK LOGGING METHODS
BY
FREDERICK MALCOLM KNAPP
Student in the College of Forestry,
University of Washington.
[Illustration]
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE UNIVERSITY
APRIL, 1921
Entered as second class matter, at Seattle, under the Act of
July 16, 1894.
CONTENTS
Page
INTRODUCTION 5
HISTORY OF TRUCK LOGGING 5
First use of motor truck in logging--Development of logging
trailer--Possibilities in the use of motor trucks.
TRANSPORTATION OF LOGS--RAILROADS VERSUS MOTOR TRUCKS 7
Comparative advantages and uses of motor trucks and railroads--
Relative cost of road construction--Advantage of flexibility of
motor trucks.
COSTS 8
Operating costs of a typical 5-ton truck--Actual cash outlay--
Total expense--Variable charges--Recapitulation of work
performed.
ROLLING STOCK EQUIPMENT 10
Rigid versus flexible truck bodies--Chain drive versus worm
drive--Weight of trucks--Speed--Depreciation.
INSURANCE 14
Fire and theft insurance--Collision insurance--Liability
insurance--Property damage insurance.
TRUCK EQUIPMENT 14
Bunks--Tires--Relative advantages of different types of tires
--Laws governing operation of motor vehicles--Legal limit of
weight of load--Chain drives--Tops.
TRAILERS 17
Draw-bar pull of motor trucks--Effect of grades on draw-bar
pull--Advantage of trailer--Description of trailer--Brakes on
trailer--Air brakes on trailers.
LIFE AND DEPRECIATION 20
COST DATA 20
Operating expenses for 3½ and 5-ton trucks--Fixed charges--
Total expenses.
ROAD CONSTRUCTION 24
Sub-grade--Cross-plank roads--Fore and aft pole roads--Cement
roads--Guard rails--Cost of road construction.
BRIDGES 36
TURNING DEVICES AND TURNOUTS 37
Construction of turn-tables--Turning of trucks.
TELEPHONES 39
INCLINES 39
Snubbing methods--Practicability of inclines.
YARDING 41
LOADING AND HAULING 41
Methods of loading trucks--Loading with boom--Rigging of
boom--Unloading.
TIME STUDIES 45
CONCLUSION 46
Future use of the motor truck--Motor trucks and forestry.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 48
INTRODUCTION
In this paper an attempt has been made to bring together some useful
facts concerning the application of the motor truck to the logging
industry. The term "motor truck" as here used is applied to the ordinary
truck type of motor vehicle with trailer adapted to carrying logs, and
does not include the "tractor" and the "caterpillar tractor." These
latter types present special problems of their own. In the following
pages the discussion of motor truck logging is premised upon conditions
as they exist in the forests of the Pacific Northwest.
HISTORY OF TRUCK LOGGING
Motor trucks in the logging industry are a comparatively recent
development. As nearly as can be determined, the first use of a truck in
a logging operation was made in this region by Palms and Shields near
Covington, Washington, in the spring of 1913. Since that time various
types of road construction suitable for heavy trucks have been devised
and the use of the motor truck for logging has steadily increased until
at the present time there are about six hundred trucks operating in the
woods in the Northwest.
The first real progress in the use of the motor truck for logging
purposes came with the development of the trailer. Although the motor
truck has been brought to its present high state of perfection in
eastern factories the problem of adapting it to the hauling of massive
logs was solved in Seattle, Washington, with the perfecting of a trailer
which could carry unprecedented loads and stand up under the speed
attained by a motor truck. In the early attempts to design a trailer,
it was found that too great tractive effort on the part of the truck
was required if the trailer was patterned after older types with
simply increased dimensions in all of its parts. Through successive
improvements the modern form of heavy duty trailer was finally evolved.
It has solved a serious problem by permitting the hauling of heavier
weights with the aid of the trailer than is possible with the use of the
truck alone. With the help of the trailer and an adjustable reach, the
motor truck has successfully entered the logging field.
In the Pacific Northwest tracts of timber of sufficient area well
situated for economical logging by old established methods are no longer
plentiful. Almost every logging chance which exists today presents its
own peculiar conditions and individual problems. An operator must
therefore analyze the situation thoroughly before arriving at a decision
as to the most economical logging methods that will apply in any
particular case. Even in different sections of the same operation it is
often necessary to use different methods. Since proper cost accounting
systems are not usually kept by logging companies, particularly the
smaller concerns, these companies often do not know that they are losing
money upon one part of an operation because the success of the whole
absorbs this loss.
[Illustration: Pioneer logging with a motor truck in 1913.]
The use of a motor truck has proved to be practicable in many instances,
and bids fair to become of increasing importance. It will therefore
be advantageous for every operator to inquire into its possible
applications. It should be emphasized, however, that the motor truck is
not economically adapted to all conditions. There have been many
failures. Each projected application of the motor truck in the logging
field must be thoroughly analyzed and if a doubt as to its successful
performance exists, expert advice should be sought.
TRANSPORTATION OF LOGS--RAILROADS VERSUS MOTOR TRUCKS
The principal methods of transporting logs are by rail, by motor truck
and by animal power. The last of these methods is, for obvious reasons,
impracticable in the Northwest, and so needs no further comment. While
it is impossible to give specific details in a general discussion of
this kind to show where the motor truck may be more economically suited
to the conditions at hand than the railroad, a comparison of the
fundamental principles involved should enable any operator familiar with
logging to determine whether or not to use the truck for his particular
chance.
In general the choice between railroad and motor truck logging depends,
fundamentally, upon two things: (1) comparative cost, and (2)
adaptability. Sufficient motive power and rolling stock can be obtained
much more cheaply for motor truck logging than for a railroad. There
are, of course, many situations where the locomotive and car costs, as
well as those of constructing a logging railroad, are obviously
prohibitive, and the question revolves entirely upon the adaptability of
the motor truck to existing conditions. There is no question at all that
the logging railroad is not adapted to small, isolated and scattering
tracts, and to certain portions of larger operations. There are almost
innumerable tracts situated close to public highways, or where temporary
roads can be built, which may be very serviceable during the summer
months, giving ample time to clean up the timber before wet weather sets
in. In such instances, road construction and maintenance costs are of
very minor importance. In the larger operations and in the use of the
motor truck as an auxiliary to railroad logging, there are many
opportunities for the reduction of logging costs. However, it is
impossible to discuss these problems specifically in a paper of this
kind. They will need to be worked out on the ground with each case as a
distinct problem. The fundamental problems covered in this paper will
serve as a basis for the more detailed problems that must be solved on
the ground.
Wherever the item of road construction is important, it may be stated in
general that the time required and the cost of building roads for motor
trucks are very much less than for a logging railroad. This is due to
the lesser importance of grades, curves, ballasting, bridges and other
construction work, all of which is much cheaper and takes less time. In
case a pole road is built the material found adjacent to the right of
way can be utilized for what it costs to fell it.
From the standpoint of adaptability the motor truck is very flexible. It
can operate on grades and curves that are impossible with the railroad.
The whole logging equipment, including the donkey engine, can be loaded
on the truck and trailer and easily moved from one setting to another.
By replacing the log bunk with a platform the truck can take out all the
smaller marketable material, such as shingle bolts, poles and cordwood.
The modern truck can also be provided with the necessary equipment for
use in snaking out the logs in stands of small timber and when used with
a winch and an "A" shaped boom, will load itself. If the truck becomes
mired in a mud hole, the winch may be used to pull it out. Finally, the
item of fire risk is practically negligible.
COSTS
In order to arrive at definite figures as a basis for a comparison
between railroad and motor truck transportation costs, the following
case is cited as an example representing average good conditions:[1] A
5-ton truck with trailer was used, operating on a seven and one-half
mile haul over ordinary unpaved roads. An average of four trips a day
were made and the actual running expense for hauling was $.90½ per
thousand feet. Adding to this the overhead expenses of interest,
depreciation, etc., the total cost of hauling was $1.44 per thousand
feet. The statement of this cost is as follows:
ACTUAL CASH OUTLAY IN HAULING 128,420 BOARD FEET OF LOGS
Gasoline, 284 gallons @ $.19 $53.96
Oil, 3 gallons @ $.60 1.80
Oil, 20½ gallons @ $.45 9.23
Incidentals--One electric light globe .35
Hardware 4.03
Blacksmith 3.00
Driver, 11 days @ $4.00 44.00
--------
Total $116.37
128,420 feet @ $116.37, or $.90½ per thousand feet.
[1] West Coast Lumberman. Nov. 1, 1916, page 266. Labor, gas and oil
have since advanced in cost.
TOTAL EXPENSE OF HAULING 128,420 BOARD FEET OF LOGS
Investment:
Chassis $4,900.00
Trailer 700.00
----------
Total Investment $5,600.00
VARIABLE CHARGES
Gasoline, 284 gallons @ $.19 $53.96
Oil, 3 gallons @ $.60 1.80
Oil, 20½ gallons @ $.45 9.23
Tires, $.07½ per mile on 615 miles 46.12
Incidentals 7.43
-------
Total variable charges $118.54
Depreciation (based on 15% per annum on $5,600, less
$560, the cost of the tires, or $5,040.00) $1.349
Interest on amortized value at 7% .63
Storage, $5.00 a month .20
Driver @ $4.00 a day 4.00
--------
Total fixed charges $6.179
Total variable charges $118.54
Total fixed charges at $6.179 a day for 11 days 67.97
-------
Total cost $186.51
128,420 board feet of logs @ $186.51, or $1.44 per 1000 feet.
Following is a recapitulation of the work performed by a 5-ton logging
truck, Jan. 20 to Jan. 31, 1916, inclusive. The logs were hauled from
O'Neill's Camp on the Bothell-Everett road 7½ miles and dumped into Lake
Washington at Bothell.
Date Trips Mileage No. Ft. Hauled Gas Used Oil Used
1/20/16 4 60 10,768 30 2.25
1/21/16 4 60 11,888 24 2.25
1/22/16 4 60 11,707 30 2.25
1/23/16 Did not haul. Roads in bad condition.
1/24/16 4 60 8,894 34 2.25
1/25/16 2 30 5,200 16 [2]1.00
1/26/16 4 60 16,174 29 2.25
1/27/16 4 60 11,276 25 2.25
1/28/16 4 60 15,514 26 2.25
1/29/16 4 60 15,511 31 2.25
1/30/16 3 45 9,152 20 [3]2.25
1/31/16 4 60 12,336 19 2.25
-- --- ------- --- -----
Total 41 615 128,420 284 23.50
[2] Freight truck in the ditch. Four hours lost getting the road
cleared.
[3] Two hours lost at the landing due to a spring slipping out of
place, which made it necessary to unload and load again.
Many loggers who have used both the steam railroad and the motor truck
claim that the latter is preferable in some cases and often is the only
method by means of which logs can be gotten to the mill at a reasonable
cost. Where the stand is scattered and of poor quality, the building of
a railroad is not practical. In such a case the motor truck may offer
the only solution.
The motor truck makes the best showing when hauling from one "side."
With a two or three side operation the railroad is by far the more
practical. It must be remembered, however, that the railroad and the
motor truck are not competitors in the logging industry--they are
allies.
ROLLING STOCK EQUIPMENT
In general two plans are followed in building a motor truck. The first
is to build a rigid truck so that it will resist all shocks and
distortions that come from rough and uneven roads. The second plan is to
build a flexible body so that the chassis will "give" rather than resist
when subjected to hard strains. Although the rigidly-built truck may be
entirely satisfactory for most forms of trucking, it is practically
impossible to build one on the rigid principle that will stand up under
the heavy strains to which a logging truck is subjected unless it is to
be operated over good paved roads. When only ordinary unpaved public
roads are available, flexibility is one of the most important
characteristics to look for when selecting a truck. Where the operator
is hauling over his own pole or plank road this consideration does not
play so important a part, as the road bed then is more likely to be free
from holes and irregularities.
All makes of trucks are more or less alike in general construction,
differing only in minor details, so that the personal whims of the buyer
will largely determine the kind he will select. It is advantageous to
have as long a distance as possible between the driver's seat and the
bunk over the rear axle, in order to allow more of the load to be
carried by the truck, and less by the trailer, giving better traction to
the drive wheels, but necessitating extra strong rear springs and axles.
The type of power transmission best suited to the use of the logging
truck is a question that has received a great deal of attention. There
are three general methods of transmitting the power: (1) by chain; (2)
by worm drive, and (3) by internal gear drive. Each has its advantages.
It is claimed by many that the chain drive saves many hours of
"shut-down time" due to the fact that if anything breaks in the
transmission, it will be a link in the chain as this is the weakest
point. It is then only a matter of a few minutes to insert another link.
With the worm driven vehicle, a break in the transmission requires an
expensive shut-down before the matter can be repaired. The worm drive,
on the other hand, very seldom breaks if proper care is used.
The chain drive also allows the replacement of the sprocket with one of
a larger or smaller diameter thereby giving a higher or lower gear
ratio, which cannot be done with the worm gear. This seems to be of some
advantage to an operator when changing his setting from one with a short
haul and steep grades where a low gear ratio is required, to one where
the haul is long and fairly level, and where speed in transit is an
advantage.
On the other hand, in starting on slippery grades or wherever the
traction is poor, the worm drive will give better traction than a chain
drive because there is difficulty in taking up the slack that is always
present in the chain before letting in the clutch fully. The slightest
jerk given to the wheels when the slack is taken up is likely to cause
them to spin, thereby losing all the tractive power of the drive wheels.
In the worm gear there is no slack to take up and the power can be
applied more gradually, thus reducing the chances of spinning the wheels
and losing the traction.
The question of the weight of the truck used for logging purposes is not
as important now as it will be in the future. Laws are being passed in
nearly every state limiting the maximum weight to be carried on each
wheel by trucks using state or county roads so that the total weight of
the truck without load will be important. When operating over state or
county roads the load is limited to from 2400 to 3000 feet, B. M., of
Douglas fir, depending upon the locality. In such cases, it is an
advantage to have a lighter truck, say one of 3½ tons capacity. By
adding additional leaves to the rear springs of a truck of this capacity
it may be made to carry a larger load than it would be possible to put
on a 5-ton truck and still comply with the law. The pulling power of the
3½-ton truck and the 5-ton truck is practically the same so that the
difference in dead weight between the two may be carried in a profitable
manner by adding four or five hundred feet B. M. of logs. Another
advantage of the lighter weight truck is _speed_. The 3½-ton truck is
geared to make from 14 to 16 miles an hour, while the 5-ton truck is
usually limited to from 10 to 12 miles an hour.
Whenever the legal weight limit does not enter into the problem, as in
operating over a pole or plank road for the entire distance, it is, of
course, advantageous to carry the largest loads possible. In such cases
a 5-ton truck with an 8½-ton trailer is the most profitable investment.
This allows a much larger load to be carried in proportion to the
overhead charges. The disadvantage of the 5-ton truck is that it is very
heavy and unless the roads are good, it will easily sink into the ground
and cause trouble. A common fault of the 5-ton truck today is the
overweight of the front end, which is too heavy for the width of tire on
the front wheels. This can be very easily overcome by the use of wider
tires.
LIFE AND DEPRECIATION
The life of a truck is directly proportional to the care that it
receives, hence, a good driver is a most important consideration. If the
right man can be secured his wages should be a secondary consideration.
The charge to be made for the depreciation of a truck is an uncertain
question. Some loggers figure on the basis of four and a half years,
others on as much as seven years. The depreciation charge on a truck
used in the logging industry should depend largely upon the type of road
over which it is operated. Loggers in general over-rate the life of
their equipment because they do not fully realize the severity of the
work. Over a fore and aft plank road or a cement road, where the jar and
vibration are reduced to a minimum, the wear and tear on the equipment
is very much less than where the truck is operated over a cross-plank
road or an unpaved public road. The matter of depreciation, then, will
depend largely upon the type of road over which the truck is to operate.
In general a four-year depreciation charge less 25% sale value at the
end of that time should be used as a basis for figuring costs unless the
hauling conditions are very favorable. Only under very rare
circumstances should more than four years be allowed. It should be
remembered that the depreciation on a truck is very heavy during the
first year, and the sale value at the end of a year is only half the
original price. Many truck operators now hauling over good roads who are
depreciating on the basis of five years say that a four-year
depreciation would be more nearly correct. Another factor in favor of a
four-year depreciation charge is that methods of logging are changing
constantly and that trucks in that time may be improved upon to such an
extent that the use of the old equipment would be unprofitable and
inefficient.
[Illustration: Swivel bunk on truck equipped for motor truck logging.
The base on which the bunk rests is made of two heavy timbers about 18
inches by 24 inches in section and 4 feet long, bolted together and
clamped to the frame of the truck by means of heavy N-bolts, (D). The
bunk is fastened by a king-pin (E) to the base and is free to rotate
upon a steel center plate and two side-bearing plates (F).]
INSURANCE
The insurance rates on trucks depend upon the use to which they are put.
The insurance usually carried by loggers covers fire and theft, although
some companies also carry liability and either collision or property
damage insurance. The equipment can be insured for only ninety per cent
of its value.
Fire and theft insurance is based upon the list price of the truck and
body when new and the usual premium for the logging truck is one dollar
for every hundred dollars of insured value. Theft rates on the trailer
are based on a flat charge of twenty-five cents per hundred dollars of
insurance taken, regardless of age, list price, etcetera.
Collision insurance is based upon the list price of the equipment and
covers full value at the time of loss of the damage to the truck by
colliding with anything movable or immovable.
The liability rate for logging trucks is $33.75 and is based upon
occupation alone. This covers the public as well as the employee and is
limited to $5,000 for one person and $10,000 for two persons or more.
The property damage rate for logging trucks is $13.50, and covers the
damage done to the property of others. It is arrived at in the same way
as liability insurance. The usual limit for property damage is $1,000.
TRUCK EQUIPMENT
_Bunks._ All trucks for use in log hauling are equipped with a patent
bunk over the rear axle on which the logs rest (see illustration on page
13). This is essentially a steel I-beam (A) which grips the logs so that
they will not slip. At each end of the bunk are V-shaped iron
chock-blocks (B) held by chains which run under the I-beam and are
fastened by an iron gooseneck hook (C) so that the load is kept from
spreading. These blocks may be adjusted to any width of load. The whole
bunk is mounted on a swivel so that it will turn with the logs when
rounding a sharp turn in the road. When dumping the logs at the landing,
each block is loosened from the opposite side so that the danger of the
logs rolling off on the men is greatly lessened.
_Tires._ Solid rubber tires are generally conceded to be the best suited
for the heavy duty required in logging. The use of steel tires is
rapidly declining. The jar on the equipment is in itself enough to
condemn their use. Rubber tires double the mileage of a day's work, more
than double the life of the equipment, allow the weight of the equipment
to be cut in half, and work well on dirt, cement, or any other type of
road. The saving on the life of a pole or plank road by the use of
rubber tires is also an item of considerable importance. There are three
general types of solid rubber tires in use on the logging truck: the
so-called giant tires, the duals, and the non-skid or caterpillar tires.
It is a question as to which of the three is the best. Traction for the
drive wheels and also for the trailer wheels, if the latter are equipped
with brakes, is the problem to be solved.
The duals are satisfactory with light loads and easy grades, on cement,
brick, or other perfect surface road, but when the haul is heavy and the
braking difficult on account of heavy grades, the larger single-tread
giant tires are more efficient. During dry weather it is safe to work
with the single-tread tires on grades as high as nine or ten per cent,
but in wet weather a seven per cent grade should be the maximum unless
some extra means are taken to secure traction, and even then the wheels
will skid if particles of soil get on the surface of a plank road,
unless chains are used or the wheel is wrapped with a light cable.[4]
For very heavy-duty trucking, where resiliency and long service are
prime considerations, the giant type is rapidly superseding the old dual
type as the former contains more rubber and gives more mileage with the
least truck vibration.
[4] West Coast Lumberman. October, 1919. Page 25.
The non-skid or caterpillar tire may well be used on heavy grades or
where the traction is very poor, the general opinion being that it gives
a firmer grip on the road and makes it safer to handle the truck in wet
weather.
There is no standard width of tread for truck wheels. The widths usually
used on the drive wheels of the logging truck and the wheels of the
trailer are twelve and fourteen inches, respectively. The use of tires
of smaller width on either trailer or truck cannot be recommended. The
wider the tires on the trailer, the better it is both for the life of
the equipment and for ease in handling the load. When the surface of the
giant tires becomes worn down so that the grooves become very shallow,
it is desirable to have the tires re-grooved. They will last a great
deal longer if this is done and will also give better traction on the
road. The groove makes the tire lobes act separately on the uneven
places in the road so that only one lobe is subjected to the strain of
the irregularities instead of the whole tire. This is also true with
reference to the strains that are set up internally due to the twisting
of the rubber.
LAWS GOVERNING THE OPERATION OF MOTOR VEHICLES
The Laws governing the operation of motor vehicles upon the
public highways of the State of Washington are contained and
summarized in Senate Bill No. 220, Session of 1921 of the
Legislature of the State of Washington. They include the
following provisions governing the operation of motor trucks and
trailers:
(a) Chapter 153 of the laws of 1913 and Chapter 142 of the laws
of 1915 are repealed.
(b) Motor truck vehicles weighing less than 1,500 pounds must pay
an annual license fee of ten dollars ($10.00); Trucks weighing
more than 1,500 pounds and not to exceed 6,500 pounds, ten
dollars ($10.00) plus forty cents per hundredweight for all in
excess of 1,500 pounds and in addition thereto fifty cents per
hundredweight at the rated carrying capacity. Motor trucks
weighing more than 6,500 pounds must pay a license fee of ten
dollars ($10.00) plus fifty cents per hundredweight for all in
excess of 1,500 pounds and in addition thereto fifty cents per
hundredweight at the rated carrying capacity. Trailers =used as
trucks= shall be classified and rated as, and shall pay the same
fees as hereinbefore provided for motor trucks of like weight and
capacity.
(c) No vehicle of four wheels or less whose gross weight with
load is over 24,000 pounds is permitted to operate over or along
a public highway. Any vehicle having a greater weight than 22,400
pounds on one axle, or any vehicle having a combined weight of
800 pounds per inch-width of tire concentrated upon the surface
of the highway (said width of tire in the case of solid rubber
tires to be measured between the flanges of the rim) is also
barred by the provisions of this law, with the following
exception:
PROVIDED, that in special cases vehicles whose weight including
loads whose weight exceeds those herein prescribed, may operate
under special written permits, which must be first obtained and
under such terms and conditions as to time, route, equipment,
speed and otherwise as shall be determined by the director of
licenses if it is desired to use a state highway; the county
commissioners, if it is desired to use a county road; the city or
town council, if it is desired to use a city or town street; from
each of which officer or officers such permit shall be obtained
in the respective cases. Provided, that no motor truck or trailer
shall be driven over or on a public highway with a load exceeding
the licensed capacity.
_Chain Drive._ Trucks equipped with a chain drive should be supplied
with an extra set of chains so that they may be changed and cleaned
every week. To clean the chains, they should be soaked in kerosene which
removes the dirt, grease and gum that has accumulated. By doing this the
life of the chains will be quadrupled. The small amount of time that it
takes will pay.
_Top._ The truck should come equipped with a top over the driver's seat
that is easily detachable. In bad weather the driver should be protected
from the elements, but the top should be removed in good weather as it
is in constant danger of being broken during loading. Many operators
leave the top off entirely and the driver must dress for the weather. A
good demountable top will add to the comfort of the men and often helps
to keep a good man at his job.
TRAILERS
The development of the trailer has made motor truck logging practical.
Every truck has greater tractive power than it can utilize in the
propulsion of the ordinary load. Its limitations are due to a short-bulk
carrying capacity and not to any lack of pulling power. The ordinary
truck has a draw-bar pull of 2600 pounds. The draw-bar pull per ton of
load varies from the minimum of 50 pounds on a level pavement to 250
pounds on a level dirt road, depending upon the character of surface.[5]
Twenty pounds of additional pull are required for each degree of
gradient. For example, a fore and aft plank road offers a resistance of
about 60 pounds pull to a ton of load. If this were located on a seven
per cent grade, it would require a 60 pound pull to overcome the load
resistance plus seven times twenty or 140 pounds additional pull for the
grade, a total of 200 pounds to pull one ton. Dividing 2600, the
draw-bar pull of the truck, by 200, the resistance offered by road and
grade, gives 13 tons as the load that can be pulled by the truck over
this surface and grade. As this must include the weight of the trailer,
which when equipped for logging is about three tons, it leaves a total
of 10 tons that the truck can pull. This is equivalent to about 3000
feet B. M. of Douglas fir logs, the average load that is hauled. While
such an adverse grade as cited in this illustration is avoided if
possible with a loaded truck, the illustration will serve to show the
pulling capacity of the truck. The hauling of loads of this size would
be impossible without the use of the trailer. The normal load, then, may
be increased two, three, or even four times, by the use of the trailer,
over the maximum load that can be carried by the truck alone.
[5] Operating Cost of Motor Truck Computed. Timberman. Feb., 1918.
Page 60.
Objection to the trailer that it tends to shorten the life of the truck
is hardly worth consideration. According to a careful analysis it has
been estimated that the use of the trailer does not shorten the life of
the truck by more than one year, which is of little consequence when the
saving due to the size of the load that can be carried is taken into
consideration.
_Description of the Trailer_: The frame of the trailer is constructed of
heavy steel channel bars which support the twin bunks used for logging,
and for the substructure to carry the body when used for other service.
The steel frame is supported by semi-elliptic springs held by shackles
similar to those of the truck. The springs rest securely upon the axle,
are clamped to it by U-bolts, and are relieved from side stresses by
radius rods which connect the axle to the frame.
The trailer is coupled to the truck by a reach which is passed through
guides secured to the hounds of the trailer. The latter may slide upon
the reach and is held in the desired position with reference to the
truck by means of clamps. The hounds are located fore and aft of the
axle and are connected to it by steel plates. The square reach is more
favored generally by loggers than the round type for the reason that it
can be more easily adjusted, particularly the round reach that is cut in
the woods, which is irregular and has to be clamped very tightly in
order to make it stay in place. Holes bored through the square reach
makes the adjustment easy. Combination steel and wood reaches, the sides
being of channel iron and the center of wood, are favored by some
operators.
The twin bunks of the trailer carry the load in balance upon the axle
independent of the reach, thereby relieving the reach of all vertical
stress. (See illustration below). The rear bunk is just an ordinary
wooden affair designed only to help support the weight of the logs. The
front bunk is of the same construction as the one on the truck
(described above) and serves to hold the load in place.
[Illustration: Type of trailer adapted for heavy Pacific coast logging.]
The trailer is guided through the reach directly to the axles, thus
relieving the springs and frame from side stresses. The springs and
their suspension from the frame permit a limited movement of the frame
and the load independent of the wheels and axles and vice versa. This
enables the wheels to pass over an obstruction or drop into a hole
without subjecting the trailer to shocks that would otherwise ensue.
Other types of trailers are used to a limited extent. The trailer
described above was evolved by local engineers and is in almost
universal use in motor truck logging operations.
_Brakes._ All trailers should be equipped with brakes when negotiating
heavy grades. A device connecting the trailer brakes to the truck
permits a ready control from the driver's seat on the truck. The brake
outfit is easily attached to the truck and consists of a ratchet and
lever which winds a one-quarter inch cable on a small drum. The cable
winds around a second drum which is attached to the frame of the truck
about six feet back of the driver's seat. A third drum in the center of
the chassis attached to the shaft of the second drum winds a cable which
goes to an equalizing bar just in front of the trailer brake. As the
ratchet and drum are tightened, the motion is transmitted through the
second and third drums to the equalizing bar. Two arms extend from this
bar to roads which when pulled forward, move a bar attached to the road
in such a way that the brake band in the inside of the brake shoe is
extended against the shoe, applying the brakes evenly to each wheel no
matter how uneven the road-bed or how sharp the curve. A spring attached
to the reach clamp pulls back the equalizing bar when the brakes are
released. A heavy spring on the drum in the center of the shaft on the
truck allows for curves so that an even pressure is always maintained.
The use of a trailer equipped with brakes will do away with the numerous
devices for snubbing a load of logs down a grade not steeper than twelve
per cent. Grades up to this degree of steepness are safe to operate over
in dry weather without added braking power if the trailer is properly
equipped.
A simple and it is claimed an effective air brake for motor trucks and
trailers is now being marketed by an air-brake concern of San Francisco
but it has not yet been tried out in the logging industry. "Braking
action is secured by means of a diaphragm and pressure plate. The
diaphragm is directly connected to the brake-band lever. No air
compressor is used in this system. A small air receiver or storage tank
takes the spent gases from one of the cylinders by utilizing the outlet
afforded by a priming cock. The brakes are applied by a control system
mounted on the steering column. By means of a quickly adjusted hose
connection, air can be applied to the wheels of the trailer using the
control which governs the braking of the truck. The air pressure in the
storage tank is automatically maintained by means of an accumulator
valve which closes when the tank pressure reaches 150 to 175 pounds. If
the tank should be empty at the top of a long grade, sufficient pressure
is generated by the compression of the engine to operate the brakes.
Opening the throttle to full emergency position will apply maximum
braking effect without sliding the wheels."[6]
[6] Air Brakes for Trucks. Timberman. March, 1920. Page 48g.
This system has not been tried out under the conditions as found in the
woods but if it can be made to work satisfactorily it will be a big
improvement over the old system as the driver will then have
instantaneous control over the load at all times.
LIFE AND DEPRECIATION
The life of the trailer is about the same as that of the truck, and in
depreciation, a period of four years is usually allowed. The maintenance
and upkeep of the trailer is very low. It rarely gives out and with the
ordinary usage requires only a few minor repairs every two or three
years.
COST DATA
The items of expense are here segregated in such a manner that they may
be used as a basis for figuring the cost of hauling logs under average
conditions. These costs are for the truck and trailer as a unit. If a
road has to be built, the overhead charge of the road per thousand feet
of timber hauled over it together with the cost of upkeep must be added
to the figures given below in order to know the total cost of
transportation per thousand feet.
3000 FOOT CAPACITY, OUTFIT COMPLETE
The following figures are for a 3½-ton logging truck with a 5-ton
trailer. The figures are based upon a 275 working day year.
Cost of equipment (as a basis) $6700.00
Less resale value at expiration of 4 years at
25% of the original cost $1675.00
Less cost of tires,
2--36" × 6" $140.50
4--40" × 12" 776.00 916.50
-------- --------
Total $916.50 $2591.50 2591.50
--------
Basis for computing $4108.50
RUNNING EXPENSES PER MILE
Per Mile
Tires, based on a cost of $916.50 and a life of 8000 miles $ .1145
Gasoline, four miles to a gallon @ $ .28 per gal. .07
Oil and grease .02
General repairs .03
--------
Total running expenses per mile $ .2345
FIXED CHARGES PER 275 WORKING DAY YEAR
Depreciation, based on 25% per year on $4108.50 $1027.12
Interest on money invested at 6% (figured on truck less
cost of tires) 347.01
Driver at $7.00 a day 1925.00
License 27.00
Insurance, Fire, Theft and Liability based on $1 a hundred
on 90% of the value of the new truck for fire and theft,
and a flat rate of $33.75 for liability 90.75
-------
Total fixed charges for 275 day year $3416.88
Total fixed charges per day 12.418
TOTAL EXPENSES
30 40 50 60 70
miles miles miles miles miles
Uniform variable charges $7.035 $9.38 $11.725 $14.07 $16.415
Fixed charges 12.418 12.418 12.418 12.418 12.418
Total charges (per day) 19.453 21.798 24.143 26.488 28.833
Total cost per mile, loaded
one way only .648 .545 .482 .441 .412
Total cost per 1000 ft. per
mile with 3000 ft. to the
load .216 .181 .160 .147 .137
4000 FOOT CAPACITY, OUTFIT COMPLETE
The following figures are for the 5-ton logging truck equipped with an
8½-ton trailer, based on a 275 working day year:
Cost of equipment (as a basis) $7600.00
Less resale value at expiration of four years
at 25% of original cost $1900.00
Less cost of tires:
2--36-in. × 6-in $140.50
4--40-in. × 14-in 923.00
--------
Total $1063.50 1063.50
--------
$2963.50 2963.50
--------
Basis for computation $4636.50
RUNNING EXPENSES PER MILE
per mile
Tires, based on cost of $1063.50 and a life of 8000 miles $.129
Gasoline, 3½ miles to the gallon @ $.28 per gal. .08
Oil and grease .02
General repairs .035
------
Total running expenses per mile $.264
FIXED CHARGES PER 275 DAY YEAR
Depreciation, based upon 25% per year on $4636.50 $ 1157.13
Interest on money invested at 6% (figured on equipment
less cost of tires) 392.19
Driver at $7.00 a day 1925.00
License 27.00
Insurance, fire, theft and liability, based on $1 a hundred
on 90% of the value of the new truck for fire and
theft, and a flat rate of $33.75 for liability 101.75
-------
Total fixed charges for 275 day year $3603.07
Total fixed charges per day 12.92
TOTAL EXPENSES
30 40 50 60
Uniform variable charges per miles miles miles miles
mile $.247 $ 7.92 $10.56 $13.20 $15.84
Fixed charges per day 12.92 12.92 12.92 12.92
Total charges per day 20.84 23.48 26.12 28.76
Total cost per mile loaded one way
only .694 .587 .522 .479
Total cost per 1000 feet per mile
with a 4000 foot load .173 .146 .130 .119
The above costs will be found to be approximately correct for average
operations. They will vary somewhat with the road conditions, loads,
grades, and the efficiency of the driver. These variations, however,
will be slight. They will not amount to more than one cent per thousand
feet per mile of haul. The investment pays the owner six per cent and
provides renewals for all time. The interest charge is based on the
total cost of the equipment less the cost of the tires. The tire cost is
deducted in figuring the interest charges because this item is covered
under running expenses. The resale value of the truck at the end of four
years is not deducted from the interest charge, because this sum is tied
up for that length of time. Renewal for the equipment is taken care of
by the creation of a sinking fund based on an average life of four
years. Theoretically, on a 5-ton truck, $1157.13 is put aside each year
for four years at the expiration of which time the aggregate of these
savings together with the resale value of $1900, automatically provides
for the purchase of new equipment.[7]
[7] Timberman. Feb., 1918. Page 60.
A fifty-mile haul may be used as an illustration for figuring the total
running expense of the 5-ton truck. This means that the truck makes
trips enough to total fifty miles for the day's run. The cost per mile,
including gasoline, oil and repairs is 26.4 cents. It will, therefore,
cost $13.20 for the fifty miles. To this amount must be added $12.92,
daily overhead charge, making a total of $26.12 for fifty miles traveled
or 52.2 cents a mile. With an average load of four thousand feet the
cost will be 13.0 cents per mile per thousand feet. A glance at the
table will show that the greater the mileage and the larger the load,
the less will be the overhead expense and consequently the cost per mile
per thousand feet. To these items must be added the cost and maintenance
of the road if one has to be built.
ROAD CONSTRUCTION
The question of the kind of road for hauling logs with the motor truck
is a very important one. It is impossible to move a fifteen-ton load day
in and day out unless there are good roads, and no motor truck operation
of reasonably large proportions can be successfully maintained without a
road that is well constructed and which will not give way during any
kind of weather, under the loads that are carried. One cannot
successfully and continuously operate on dirt or even gravel roads as
they are good only when dry. Good roads are as important to the motor
truck operator as the railroad is to the transportation of logs by rail.
The big handicap in motor truck logging in the past has been poor roads.
The same man who will survey, grade, carefully lay and ballast the steel
for a logging railroad will many times put a truck and trailer on a poor
dirt road and expect the truck to haul economically and satisfactorily.
A motor truck will haul over some mighty poor apologies for roads but it
does not pay. A good road is an excellent investment. It makes larger
loads and more trips a day possible, will save on tires and repairs, and
will require less gasoline to the mile; the efficiency and output will
be increased and the time and operating costs will be decreased.
[Illustration: Sub-grade for motor truck logging road.]
There have been some very successful operators who have secured a small
body of timber at a low price on a public road who made the motor truck
pay without building a road. This method of logging in a small way will
continue to be carried on by small operators who will haul only during
three seasons of the year or even less. However, the big future for the
motor truck for logging is in the larger tracts of timber where it would
not pay to put in a railroad but where a good type of motor truck road
can be built cheaply and loads as large as the truck can handle be
carried with no road restrictions as to the weight.
In general four types of roads are used by loggers: (1) the cross-plank
road, (2) the fore and aft pole road, (3) the fore and aft plank road,
and (4) the cement road. The puncheon road is a modification of the fore
and aft plank road and will be taken up with the latter. The methods and
cost of construction, the advantages and the disadvantages of these
various types of roads follow in detail.
_Sub-Grade_: The sub-grade is put in the same way for each type of road.
The average width of the truck is seven feet and six inches, calling for
a road about eight and a half feet wide, so that the sub-grade should be
twelve feet in width. An illustration of the amount of grading necessary
is shown on page 25. Too much care cannot be taken in the matter of
ditches for draining. In a rainy climate, the water should be carried
away from the hill side of the grade every fifty feet.
_Cross-Plank Road_: The cross-plank road is constructed by laying cull
ties on hewn poles lengthwise of the road. Three rows, four feet apart
are used and second grade ten foot plank, six inches thick and of random
widths, are securely nailed to the ties. Great care must be taken to
have the ties laid fairly smooth if the road is to be even. Plank less
than six inches in thickness should not be used as the thinner ones very
soon crack and go to piece under the excessive jar and vibration.
This is a very expensive road to build as it wastes material. Six
thousand feet of lumber is necessary for every hundred foot station, at
a cost of $222 a station for the material alone, without considering the
cost of laying it. The maintenance cost also is very heavy because the
nails pull out as a result of the vibration caused by the truck. This
type of road is used only over short stretches, such as swampy ground
in connection with the dirt road, and on steep grades and sharp turns in
connection with the pole or plank road.
The Esary Logging Company at Camano Island, Washington, put in a
cross-plank road for a short distance on a sharp curve and a steep
grade, to see how it would affect the traction. It was found that cross
planking was not necessary on curves where the grade is ten per cent or
less when coming down with a load, providing trailer brakes are used. In
the future the company will not use this type of road unless grades
above this maximum are encountered. It is impossible to lay a
cross-plank road smoothly because the stringers settle and make the road
bumpy. The resulting jar on the equipment and the fact that these
stretches have to be taken at a much reduced speed, furnish ample reason
to condemn its use.
The only real use for a cross-plank road is to secure better traction on
grades exceeding ten or twelve per cent, and then it should be laid with
a space of about one inch between the planks. Even in such cases it
would be better to use some other method for securing traction, such as
sanding the track or winding the drive wheels with a light cable. The
waste of material and the excessive vibration limit the use of this type
of road.
_Fore and Aft Pole Road._ In the fore and aft pole road, poles from
twelve to fourteen inches in diameter are hewn on one or more faces and
laid longitudinally with the road, with one or more logs for each wheel
track. This type of road is commonly used by motor truck loggers and is
one that lends itself readily to their use. It is the most practical
road that can be built unless there is a small saw-mill handy to saw
planks for the fore and aft plank road. The smaller material growing
along the right of way is used at an expense of only what it costs to
fell it, hew it and put the poles in place. Hemlock poles may be used to
advantage.
Some operators use the single large pole placed on cross-ties eight or
ten feet apart and use lighter eight-inch poles placed on the outside
for a guard rail to keep the truck from leaving the track. The main pole
is laid in a ditch about eight inches deep, leaving it half buried. This
helps to keep the poles from spreading and increases their firmness and
strength. The pole is notched into the cross-ties, which are made of
logs not less than eight inches in diameter, and is securely nailed or
bolted to prevent it from rolling. The outside guard rail is laid on
the surface of the ground close to the main track and is securely braced
from the outside by means of posts sunk into the ground or it may be
spiked to the main pole or to the ties. When running with the trailer on
this narrow type of road, the guard rail is very necessary.
After the poles have been laid, the sub-grade should be ditched in the
center deep enough to carry away the water that falls in the middle of
the road. The success of the road depends to a large extent upon good
drainage.
The Meicklejohn and Brown Logging Company near Monroe, Washington,
operate over a pole road with three poles for each wheel. The poles are
from ten to twelve inches in diameter at the small end and are hewn to a
six inch face, giving an eighteen inch bearing surface for each wheel.
(See illustration on page 29.) The minimum sized pole that should be
used for roads of this character is one eight inches in diameter at the
small end. The road is constructed the same way as the single pole road
and the poles are laid on cross ties twelve inches in diameter placed
from eight to ten feet apart. Where the road is off the ground as when
crossing over a small depression, these sleepers must not be over five
feet apart. The guard rails at this operation are held in place by means
of a wooden brace nailed from each end of the rail to a near-by stump.
The ends of the poles used for the track are adzed so that they match
evenly. By breaking the joints and hewing them the road presents a level
surface with no bumps.
In planning the curves, it is necessary to make the tracks somewhat
wider than on straight stretches in order to keep the trailer from
running off. The track should be three feet wide on sharp curves and
provided with a stout guard rail if there is any danger of the truck
leaving the track. The curves are banked on the opposite side from that
used on railroad curves. That is, the inner rail is raised about three
inches. This is to throw the load to the outside away from the inner
guard rail, making it easier to make the turn without the rear wheels
binding. In this way a 35 degree curve may be negotiated with forty or
fifty foot logs. As the curves have to be passed at a much reduced
speed, there is little danger of the logs rolling off due to the raised
inner rail.
The grading for a road of this construction is usually light. The grades
should, if possible, be kept below five per cent. A truck will operate
better on a ten per cent grade in dry weather than on a five per cent
one in wet weather. On a road of this type, grades up to ten per cent
can be operated over unless there is snow. When the grades are above
this and the weather is wet, traction still may be secured by sanding
the road or by tacking an old half inch steel cable to the road in the
form of a figure "s". If this is sanded in addition, the truck may
safely be taken up a steeper grade than it would be safe to bring it
down without sanding.
The pole road could be greatly improved by hewing the faces of the poles
where they come together side by side so that an even fit is made. The
details of this improved form of construction are shown in figure 1,
page 30.
[Illustration: The most common type of motor truck logging road--a
fore-and-aft pole road.]
[Illustration: Figure 1. Cross section of pole road. Scale--1 inch
equals 2 feet.]
At the present time this is not done and there are one or more ruts in
the surface of the road due to the rounding off of the poles where they
are placed side by side. The front wheels of the truck are constantly
dropping into these ruts, tending to spread the track apart and making
it harder for the driver to steer. The tires also suffer from uneven
wear. With this deep groove in the track, a certain amount of the
traction of the rear wheels is also lost. Hence a much better road would
be one with the inner faces of the poles hewn so that a tight fit is
secured.
This road can be built of two large poles or three smaller ones to give
a flat track two and a half feet wide for each wheel. Laid nearly flush
with the ground the guard rail can be eliminated with this width of
track, except on sharp curves and other locations where there would be
danger if the truck left the track. On such a road the traction will
also be increased, better time can be made, the truck will be easier to
steer and hence safer to operate, and there will be less wear on the
tires. Such a road can be very easily and cheaply built by bringing in a
portable sawmill and slabbing the material on two sides to the desired
face.
The life of a good pole road is from three to four years if kept in good
repair. The maintenance cost is very light if the road is properly
constructed in the first place, consisting chiefly in removing a pole
here and there that shows signs of too much wear, and in bracing guard
rails where they weaken. The use of two or three hewn poles laid
lengthwise for each wheel without cross-ties does not pay as the poles
soon get out of place even when trenched, and the loss of traction due
to the irregularities and of time and money in the upkeep of such a road
more than justifies putting in a good road in the first place.
The cost of a fore and aft pole road varies with the accessibility of
the material and the cost of the labor. In the past they have been built
for as low as $2000 a mile, but with the present prices costs will range
from $5000 to $7000 a mile. One company within the year contracted the
grading and construction of the road for $70 a hundred foot station, not
including the cost of clearing and chunking out the right of way. The
total cost was about $125 a station or $6600 a mile.
Some of the advantages of the pole road are that it is tough and strong
and does not crack, split or break easily so that if it is properly put
in it lasts and requires but little maintenance. The material for its
construction is found along the right of way and being small in diameter
is less expensive than other road materials.
_Fore and Aft Plank Roads._ This type of road is constructed by placing
cross-ties from eight to ten feet apart, center to center, upon which
are placed lengthwise for each wheel, two or three sawed timbers not
less than six inches in thickness and from twelve to fifteen inches in
width. A good road of this type will deliver 150 million feet of logs at
a conservative estimate.
The grading is usually light and in many places entirely unnecessary.
Second-grade six by eight ties with the eight inch face placed down, or
hewn poles are laid about eight feet apart. Where the road bed is soft,
the ties are placed closer and in some places as near as two and a half
feet apart. Over very swampy ground, the road known as the fore and aft
puncheon road is used. It consists simply of cedar puncheon placed
crosswise of the road with the usual planking nailed securely to it. The
plank used should never be less than six inches in thickness in the main
road as it has been proved that four inch plank very soon give way under
the heavy loads. On the spur lines it is practicable to use four inch
plank because the road is used only a short time.
The total width of the road is eight feet and the plank are laid on top
of the ground, but if they are sunk nearly to the level of the ground
the road is made considerably more firm and enduring, and of course is
safer. The ends are adzed smooth to present an even surface,
drift-bolted to the ties, and all joints broken.
The plank in the track are kept together by means of a three by four
inch timber driven tightly between the tracks on top of the cross-ties
at each joint, and a block nailed to the outside of the tie at each
joint with a wedge-shaped piece of wood driven between it and the plank.
(See illustration on page 33.) This wedge is driven in from time to time
as occasion may demand. If, in addition to this construction, dirt or
gravel is filled in the center to the level of the track, the road is
made very solid.
[Illustration: Fore-and-aft plank road with wedges on cross ties to
facilitate the re-aligning of the planks.]
With a good road of this type and a bearing surface of thirty inches,
the trouble and expense of a guard rail may be eliminated. When a light
truck is used for a small body of timber such a wide and heavily
constructed road is not practical. In this case, a four inch plank with
a fifteen inch surface and an eight inch pole for a guard rail would be
used. Here again the track must be made wider on the sharp curves, often
as wide as three and a half feet. Usually, the inner rail is made wider
than the outer one. On very sharp curves the track may have to be
planked solid to keep the trailer from running off. By sawing out chips
from one-half to one inch wide two-thirds of the way through the plank,
and about six feet apart on the inner side, a long plank may be bent
around quite a sharp curve. The ties, of course, should be placed so as
to allow the cut sections of the plank to rest squarely on them. This
does away with the short pieces and so strengthens the track.
The company logging at Camano Island, Washington, operates over a road
of this type, an illustration of which is shown on page 38. The
difficulties encountered in the construction of this particular road
were very considerable as a cut through very hard shale, in some places
as much as seven feet, was necessary. The maintenance on this road is
heavier than is usual. Two men are employed to work on it continually.
The work consists of blocking up the loose ties and plank, making any
necessary repairs and keeping sand and gravel on the steep grades. The
cost of this work is good insurance as it keeps the road in the best of
condition at all times and saves on other operating expenses.
[Illustration: Detailed view of fore-and-aft plank road, showing method
of wedging.]
_Cost._ The first cost of a road of this type is high but it more than
pays in the long run if a large body of timber is to be hauled over it.
The timber used in its construction amounts to about 160 thousand feet
per mile. Second grade material can be used at a cost of approximately
$5,500 a mile for the plank. The total cost per mile varies from $6,000
to $8,000. The plank road at Camano Island cost $20,000 for two and
three-quarter miles, which includes the cost of the plank, the grading
and labor of putting the plank in place. This is at the rate of about
$7,275 a mile, or approximately $138 a hundred foot station. The
overhead charge for the road at this operation is $.75 a thousand feet
of timber hauled over it. Plank roads of lighter construction have been
built for $4,000 a mile. The length of life is about the same as that of
a pole road, three to four years.
The fore and aft plank road is one of the best roads that can be put in
where the timber is of sufficient quantity to justify the expense. The
big advantage is the speed that can be made and the saving in the
equipment. Such a road is very free from bumps and the jar and vibration
on the truck is no greater than on a city pavement. The depreciation on
a truck depends to a great extent upon the road operated over. With the
above type, depreciation on the truck will not be less than five years.
In addition, tire mileage will be double that obtained over a pole road,
and the gasoline and repair expense will be very materially cut. Owing
to the very small vibration, a load of logs can be brought to the
landing as fast as it is safe to let the truck glide on a down grade.
Speeds as high as 20 miles an hour can easily be taken without excessive
vibration. The traction is greater on this type of road than it is on
the pole road, due to the greater bearing surface. Traction on grades up
to 12% is easily secured by sanding the plank.
_Concrete Roads._ Concrete has been suggested as an ideal road material.
However, up to the present time, loggers have not been very enthusiastic
about this type of road on account of the cost of construction, which is
somewhat more expensive than the other types of roads, and on account of
the permanence of the finished road which is beyond that needed. To the
writer's knowledge, there is no company operating in the Northwest over
a concrete road of their own building. In the future such roads may be
used to a limited extent on the main haul by companies which have
operations extending over at least a five year period. The spur roads
will probably always be of some other material.
In building such roads two tracks of concrete, one for each wheel are
provided. The sub-grade should be well ditched in the center with cross
ditches every fifty feet, as is done with the pole road. It has been
suggested that the ditches holding the track be six inches deep and
twenty-six inches wide. They are filled to the top with concrete and
built with a lip four inches high and four inches wide along the outside
on top of the main surface to serve as a guard rail. No forms are
necessary except for the guard lip.
A word of caution here may not be amiss. Concrete roads of this nature
must be regarded as only experimental, for no specific data are
available for determining the proper section of concrete to be used for
carrying heavy loads on so narrow a bearing surface. It is evident that
the carrying capacity of such strips of concrete would be greatly
affected by the character of the sub-base. It will therefore be
impossible to specify a standard that can be used under all conditions.
The use of the concrete guard rail is one of the disadvantages of this
road. The edges of the rail cannot be made rounding except by special
forms and the rubbing of the tires against this rough surface would
greatly reduce the tire mileage. In addition, the rail is so exposed to
weather and hard wear that it cannot be relied upon to serve effectively
for any great length of time. The placing of forms is also a
considerable item of expense in building such a road. A method which
would eliminate such an expense and at the same time provide a more
practical rail would be an advantage.
[Illustration: Figure 2. Cross section of concrete road. Scale--1 inch
equals 2 feet.]
It has already been said that guard rails are unnecessary with a thirty
inch track except on sharp curves and otherwise dangerous places.
However, where rails are necessary the wooden rail fastened by bolts
embedded in the concrete as illustrated above, is quite effective and
readily installed. This consists of a four by six inch plank placed on
edge and drift-bolted to the concrete every three to five feet by a
three-quarter inch bolt. These bolts are placed in the concrete when it
is poured and should be embedded six inches. This will provide a rail
less expensive to build than a concrete rail and one which will last
longer and save on tires. Replacements are easily made by removing the
nuts and placing a new plank in place of the old. With a guard rail of
this type, there is left a twenty-six inch track for the wheels to run
in.
Experiments by W. D. Pence (Journ. West. Soc. Eng. Vol. VI, 1901, Page
549) on 1:2:4 concrete give an average value of 0.0000055 inches per
degree Fahrenheit for the coefficient of expansion. The richer the
concrete, the greater the change in dimension. Due to the expansion, in
laying the concrete the track must be broken every twenty-five or thirty
feet by placing a half-inch board in the ditch when the concrete is
being filled in. Later this board is removed and the joint filled with
asphalt so that the concrete may expand without danger of cracking the
road.
_Cost._ The best mix to use in building this road is what is known as
the 1:2½:5. For one cubic yard of concrete, the following amounts of
materials will be used for the above mix: 1.21 barrels of cement, 0.46
cubic yards of sand, and 0.92 cubic yards of stone. At the present
prices, the cost for the materials for this road is about twenty cents a
cubic foot or about $4,400 a mile. The total cost of the road including
the necessary grading, ditching and labor, will be from $7,000 to $9,000
per mile.
One of the big advantages of the concrete road is the large gain in
traction secured when operating on steep grades. A motor truck will haul
up a twelve per cent and down a fifteen per cent grade in wet weather on
concrete due to the roughened surface on which the tires do not easily
slip. This, of course, would be dangerous to attempt on the other types
of roads. Another advantage is the small item of upkeep necessary. A
road well laid in the first place should need no repair except to
replace worn guard rails as they show signs of weakening. The concrete
road, however, will not be generally used except on the mainline by the
larger concerns, or for short distances on steep grades where greater
traction is desired.
BRIDGES
In most cases the construction of bridges is unnecessary on account of
the steep grades the trucks can take and because they can negotiate
sharp curves, which make it easier to avoid expensive bridge work.
Where they are absolutely necessary a serviceable bridge is made of
cribwork.
The Esary Logging Company of Camano Island, Washington, operates over a
crib bridge 175 feet long and 15 feet high. The sub-structure of this
bridge is made of logs laid alternately crosswise in tiers. Six by
twelve inch plank are laid diagonally on the cribbing and four by twelve
inch plank are placed on crosswise to the road on top. This makes a
bumpy surface. A better one could be made with cross-ties placed on the
cribbing with fore and aft planking on top. A guard rail is placed on
all bridges.
Short bridges up to eighty or ninety feet in length are constructed by
the use of two large logs hewn flat on the upper surface. The logs
should be at least thirty-six inches in diameter and perfectly sound.
They are placed at the proper gauge and the regular road on cross-ties
constructed on top. On such short stretches this type of bridge has been
operated over without supports. It is not used, however, for long
stretches. The long bridges are, of course, constructed of bents or
piling but are very seldom used in connection with motor truck
transportation on account of the expensive construction and because they
are usually unnecessary.
TURNING DEVICES AND TURNOUTS
When the truck and trailer reach the place where they are to be loaded,
some method must be used to turn them around. Various means are used to
accomplish this. One is the motor truck turn-table. The turn-table
should be slightly longer than the length of the truck and trailer
combined. It is constructed of heavy plank and timbers so that each
track is about 16 inches wide and tapers in thickness from about 14
inches at the center to 4 inches at the ends. The two tracks are held
together at the center and each end by heavy timbers. A heavy timber is
sunk to the level of the road and at the center two circular saws are
laid. A king bolt through the center brace of the turn-table and through
the two saws into the sunken timber provides a pivot upon which the
table turns. When properly balanced and with a little oil between the
surfaces of the saws, the turn-table can be operated by hand with very
little effort. It is usually placed at the end of the road. A turn-table
can be loaded on the truck and trailer when it is desired to move it, so
that as the road is extended into the timber, a means of turning the
truck can be obtained close to the point where the logs are to be
loaded. This device can be built at a cost of from $75 to $125 and is
very serviceable. The main objection to its use is that the setting has
to be just right to make it work satisfactorily and it is sometimes
difficult to get a spot that is level enough. It is always a difficult
problem and a different one for each set-up.
The use of the "back around" is more common with truck loggers at
present because it is easier to build. The back-around is simply a
pocket or short spur along the road above the landing ground which is
planked solid. The truck and trailer are backed into this far enough so
that the truck can pull ahead in the opposite direction. This method of
turning the truck requires only a little extra clearing and grading and
is less expensive and more easily constructed than a turn-table.
[Illustration: Turn out on fore-and-aft plank road.]
When two or more truck units are to be used on a single track, a careful
calculation must be made to determine the best passing places. The
location of these points may determine the success of the operation.
They should be placed so that the truck returning empty can reach the
turnout before the loaded one comes along in order that the loaded one
may not be held up. At the same time, the turnout should not be so far
away from the loading ground that the loading crew will be idle for any
length of time while waiting for an empty truck. It is better to have an
extra turnout, even if seldom used, than conditions that would hinder
efficient operation or might even result in a collision which would tie
up the logging for several days.
A few loggers build a turnout of the same material as the main road for
a short distance to the side. An illustration of this type of turnout is
shown above. Most of them, however, simply clear off a right of way and
put in a gravel bottom for the road as the waiting truck at this point
is empty and will not ordinarily sink into the ground and get stalled. A
few heavy planks laid fore and aft in the form of a track are sometimes
used. The construction of passing places is very simple--the only
important thing to be taken into consideration is the proper point at
which the trucks should pass in order to keep the operation going at
maximum efficiency.
TELEPHONES
In connection with the passing places, the installation of a telephone
line is an important but often neglected item. With two or more
transportation units, a telephone line is a handy if not well nigh
indispensable accessory. It is a great advantage to have such a system
with stations at each end of the road and also at the passing places, as
unavoidable delays will frequently allow a waiting truck to move on to
another passing place, thus saving time. To avoid accidents, the driver
at the passing place should call the loader at the spar tree to see if
the road is clear before coming any farther.
Very often something breaks on the yarding or loading donkey. With the
telephone, perhaps a half day of shutdown may be saved by calling the
main camp for the repair parts and having them brought up by the next
truck. The saving due to avoided accidents and the saving of time more
than pays for the initial expense of installation. The telephone line
should not be neglected at the larger operations.
INCLINES
In rough country the use of the incline has been a great help and has
proved to be entirely practical and quite economical. Grades as high as
sixty or even seventy per cent can be safely taken with an incline if
the proper measures are taken to prevent accidents.
A typical incline is successfully operated by the Meickeljohn, Brown
Logging Company near Monroe, Washington. It is fifteen hundred feet long
and the steepest grade is twenty-eight per cent. An 11-in. × 14-in.
roader donkey located at the top of the incline snubs the loads down and
hauls up the empty trucks. A one and one-eighth inch wire cable is
thrown around the logs and made fast by means of a clevis. This holds
the truck and prevents the logs from slipping forward and injuring the
driver. On all inclines, the line should be choked around the logs
rather than simply attached to the truck to prevent them from slipping
ahead.
The snubbing device consists of an ordinary donkey engine fitted with a
hand brake of extra large size and special air valves so that air is
sucked into the cylinders and let out of the exhaust when the engine is
being pulled backwards by the weight of the load. The load is controlled
by the amount of air let out of the valves. The braking action is very
positive and the load can be stopped in a few revolutions of the crank
shaft.
The average time to lower the load down the incline is three and a half
minutes. At the bottom of the incline, the cable is released and the
truck goes on its way. The cable is attached to the waiting truck by
means of a ring fastened to the frame and the donkey pulls the empty
truck to the top. The time taken to raise the trucks is three minutes.
On grades too steep to operate a truck safely with the ordinary brakes
and yet not steep enough to warrant the expense of the donkey snubber,
the difficulty is overcome by means of a friction snubber. This consists
simply of a cable which is hooked to the truck and extends through a
system of three or four pulleys and thence on down the track. The
friction of this line dragging on the ground and passing through the
pulleys is enough to hold the load so that the truck engine must exert
power to pull the load down the grade. The line is made long enough so
that as the load reaches the bottom of the grade, the free end of the
cable has been pulled up to the system of pulleys and is ready to be
attached to the next load. This system is efficient for small grades, is
inexpensive to install, and requires no further attention.
By the use of the incline with the donkey engine snubber, very heavy
grades can be taken. The construction of the incline is the same as the
rest of the road and is only slightly more expensive to build because of
the inconvenience of laying it on such a steep slope. The use of the
incline will not slow up the operation to any great extent as from fifty
to seventy thousand feet of logs (which is about the average yarding and
loading capacity of one motor-truck side), can be taken over it in a
day. This method of hauling down steep grades is used in several
operations and has been found to be entirely successful.
YARDING
A variety of methods are used by motor truck loggers to get the logs to
the landing to be loaded. The larger operations invariably use the
high-lead method of yarding as the logs come in quicker and with fewer
hang-ups. In a few places the old ground method of yarding with a bull
block is still used. The horse team and skid road is used in a small
timber where poles and piling are being marketed. The latter is a slow
method but will keep one truck busy and is still used in some places
where small stands are located along the highway or in other readily
accessible places.
LOADING AND UNLOADING
The loading of a motor truck is very much the same proposition as the
loading of a flat-car. The principal difficulties that trucks have had
to contend with have been poor roads and inefficient methods of loading.
In loading, the main trouble has been in regulating the yarding so that
a supply of logs is always on hand. The use of the gin pole and crotch
line operated by the straw drum of the yarding donkey ties up the
yarding until the truck is loaded. This is being overcome by using a
separate engine with the high lead for yarding and doing the logging
independently of the yarding as is done in the case of railroad logging.
In this way the yarder can keep ahead of the loading engine and there
will be no delay at the landing.
Most of the larger companies load with the Duplex loader and use tongs.
This is a safer way to load than with the crotch line as the logs can be
more easily controlled. The danger of dropping a log through the truck
or of knocking off the top of the truck or the driver's seat is greatly
lessened.
In pole and piling timber where a skid road and horses are used, loading
is done by hand or with a team. A landing is built of cribwork and the
logs are simply rolled on the truck with peavies or cant hooks, or a
parbuckle system with skids and horses is used. This works fairly well
for small operations in small timber.
[Illustration: Loading a motor truck and trailer through the use of a
boom.]
The latest development in loading is the boom. An illustration of this
method is shown above. The boom itself is a fifty to sixty foot pole
about eighteen inches in diameter at the base and is attached to the
spar tree by means of a metal strap with two lugs which are fitted into
holes bored in the spar to keep the strap from slipping. The base of the
boom is fitted with a metal joint which moves freely on an upright pin
set in the metal strap. (See A, above.) The whole rig is set high enough
on the tree so that it may be swung in a semi-circle and clear the
loaded truck by several feet. A light line (B) from the haulback drum of
the donkey passes through a block attached low on the spar tree and
thence to another block on a stump to the right of the landing. From
here it passes through a third block at the end of the boom and back to
the stump again. This secures the needed pulling power from the haulback
drum.
The lifting line from the mainline drum passes through a block half way
up the tree and thence through a free swinging block (C) and back to the
tree again. On the second block is a ring to which two one inch lines
(D) are attached. These lines pass through the boom stick on rollers (E)
about fifteen feet apart. On the ends of these lines hooks are attached.
These two lines should be so arranged that the hooks remain parallel to
the ground. Two three-quarters inch cables (F) with an eye splice in
each end are attached to the hooks. These lines, or chokers, are then
wrapped around the log and it is lifted clear of the ground by means of
the block hold in the main line.
The haulback line (B) from the donkey is slacked and the boom travels
over to the truck by means of a line (G) attached from the boom to a
dummy log running on a special guy line. A log two feet in diameter and
sixteen feet long is wrapped at each end with a cable and fastened to a
pulley. The two pulleys and attached dummy log travel up and down the
guy line as the boom moves. A line is attached to the boom and runs
through a pulley attached to the dummy log and extends back to the boom
again. This pulls the boom over above the truck as the dummy log travels
down the guy line. The logs are held parallel to the ground above the
truck and the truck is run under the boom to the location designated by
the head loader. With this system the logs will not drop suddenly on the
trucks as the log will fall off while being carried over to the truck if
there is any danger of its falling at all. After the log is placed, the
boom is pulled back to the landing by the haulback line. This system has
worked with success in a number of motor truck operations and is a safer
method than loading with tongs because the logs cannot accidentally drop
and injure the truck. However, the loading situation should be studied
carefully. The most efficient loading device for the particular needs of
the operation may be installed as any loss of time in loading seriously
affects the output of the operation.
Most of the truck loggers unload their logs into water; either into a
lake, a river that can be driven, or into tide-water. A few, however,
unload directly into the log pond at the mill or at the log yard in case
the mill has no log pond.
The road is usually planked solid at the unloading ground. A great help
in unloading is a dock from six to twelve inches higher on one side
than on the other so the logs will roll off the truck easily. The
brow-skid should be close to the log bunks and just a little lower than
these when the truck is tilted. When unloading into shallow water, such
as a small river, six or eight skids a foot and a half in diameter are
placed so that they slope from the brow-skid to the water at an angle of
forty-five degrees. An illustration of this method of unloading is shown
below. The skids are so placed that the unloading ground will not be
undermined.
[Illustration: Unloading truck and trailer through the use of an
incline, showing brow-skids and roll-way.]
When the truck comes to a stop on the incline, the chock blocks are
released from the opposite side and the logs roll off of their own
accord. In some instances a gill-poke has been used in connection with
the unloading incline, the logs being sheared off as the truck moves
ahead. Usually the logs roll off readily without the use of the
gill-poke and if a load does stick it can be loosened with a cant-hook,
so that the gill-poke really is unnecessary.
Unloading on public wharves or roads where no permanent incline can be
used is accomplished by placing a portable wedge-shaped timber in front
of the outside truck and trailer wheels and driving upon it.
[Illustration: Parbuckling a load of logs from the truck and trailer.]
In the most efficient way of unloading the usual brow-skid is placed a
few inches below the log bunk and the logs are parbuckled from the truck
and trailer, an illustration of which is shown above. The trucks are run
on an incline so that one side is raised about four inches. A
crotch-line consisting of two half-inch cables is attached to the
brow-skid and passed under the logs to a ring fastened to an inch cable.
The larger cable passes thru a block located on a gin pole. A light
yarding or a land clearing donkey furnishes the power to parbuckle the
logs into the water. By this method the logs are lifted from the truck
as they are rolled into the water with little danger of the top log
dropping on the log bunk as is often the case when other methods are
used, resulting in expensive repairs for broken springs or bearings.
TIME STUDIES
Time is a very important item in loading and unloading. Usually the most
time is consumed in loading, for which reason any improvement that will
reduce the time taken to load will greatly increase the efficiency of
the operation. With the proper unloading devices, the truck may be
unloaded in the time required to knock down the chock blocks.
The following table is a record kept for one day of the actual time
taken by a truck at each step in the hauling of logs at one operation.
However, it is possible to give only arbitrary figures to fit the
particular operation of which they are taken. No average figures can be
given that fit all conditions.
DONKEY ENGINE DUMP AT MILL
Time Time Unload- Time
Arrive Loading Leave Down Arrive ing Leave Up Scale
A.M.
7:15 10 Min. 7:25 20 Min. 7:45 25 Min. 8:10 20 Min. 2592
8:30 5 Min. 8:35 27 Min. 8:57 13 Min. 9:10 20 Min. 2092
9:30 12 Min. 9:42 21 Min. 10:03 7 Min. 10:10 20 Min. 1908
10:30 12 Min. 10:42 33 Min. 11:15 30 Min. 11:45 20 Min. 3074
P.M.
12:05 10 Min. 12:15 35 Min. 12:50 17 Min. 1:07 20 Min. 2542
1:27 15 Min. 1:42 18 Min. 2:00 27 Min. 2:27 20 Min. 1828
2:47 8 Min. 2:55 21 Min. 3:16 8 Min. 3:24 20 Min. 1689
3:44 11 Min. 3:55 23 Min. 4:18 9 Min. 4:27 20 Min. 2407
4:47 14 Min. 5:01 26 Min. 5:27 12 Min. 5:39 20 Min. 2558
-----
Total 20690
Length of haul 5.9 miles round trip.
Amount of gasoline, 15 gallons.
The above figures were taken several years ago when the facilities for
unloading were slower than the present day methods, which accounts for
the excessive length of time taken to unload.[8]
[8] The writer is indebted to Mr. George Gunn, Jr., for these figures.
The unloading of a truck is a time when a little care taken will save
considerable expense for repairs. Such a method as the parbuckling
system should be used by companies with sufficient stumpage to warrant
the expense of the extra donkey, to prevent the top logs from dropping
to the log bunks, thereby saving the cost of repairing broken springs
and bearings.
CONCLUSION
At present, the possibilities for the use of the motor truck for logging
are just beginning to be realized. What effect their use will have upon
the future methods of logging remains to be seen. It is certain,
however, that the advent of motor truck transportation will have a
marked effect upon the science of forestry and will bring about a closer
utilization of our timber resources.
The motor truck and the portable band mill seem likely to furnish a
combination which will do away with the old wasteful circular mill
because it supplies the cheapness and efficiency of railroad
transportation and is applicable to small and scattered tracts and to
stands of low-grade lumber. The fact that the portable band mill may be
moved for a cut of a million feet assures adaptability. This is not only
an industrial advance but also a silvicultural advance in that it
affords the possibility of cuttings at frequent intervals without
greatly adding to the cost.
A closer utilization of our present stands of timber may be practiced by
the use of the motor truck. In the northwest, only the larger material
is taken from the forest, leaving a large amount of good timber on the
ground in the form of poles and piling and chunks too short to be made
into saw lumber but from which high grade ties can be made. The truck,
in connection with a band mill, will furnish a means of utilizing this
present waste at a profit to the operator.
The motor truck will be a valuable aid in the working out of a sound
national forest policy for the proper use of our timber resources so
that the timber will be utilized to the greatest possible extent and at
the same time methods taken to provide for the perpetuation of the
forest for future generations. This suggests a way of opening the timber
for the market on some of our national forests. Most of the government
owned forests are situated in more or less rugged country back from the
regular routes of travel. The timber on a great many of these forests is
over-mature and should be cut but at this time it is inaccessible. The
problem confronting the country is how to make it accessible.
The plan for opening these forests is to build permanent concrete or
asphalt roads from the nearest commercial centers thru these tracts
taking into consideration the aesthetic value of the location as well as
the possibilities of logging the timber from them. The timber, then, is
to be taken out, under some silvicultural system and under government
supervision, by motor truck operators who build their own roads from the
nearest concrete road to the timber to be cut. Under this system of
management, the state and federal government pays a part of the expense
of building the permanent road and the operator pays a small sum for the
use of the road by being taxed additional stumpage.
The system of management has many advantages. In the first place, the
mature timber will be logged, the older decadent material coming out
first, in small bodies and at the same time care being taken to
reproduce a new stand. The total area is divided so that as the timber
is logged in rotation a continuous cutting will be assured. Due to the
use of the trucks and on account of the timber being cut in rotation,
the fire danger will be greatly lessened. In case a fire gets beyond
control, the roads thru the forest make an excellent way to bring in men
and supplies to fight the fire. In this way, a fire is readily
accessible in a few hours where formerly it took perhaps several days to
organize the fire fighting party and reach the scene of action. The
concrete roads themselves make good fire lines. By means of the good
roads, the forest is opened to campers and tourists each of whom pays a
small sum as they enter the forest to help pay for the cost of building
the roads and to provide funds for more extensive highways. In this way
the forest is opened for the timber, the best methods of utilization and
forest regeneration are practiced, fire hazard is reduced, and the area
is opened as a recreational ground so that the greatest possible value
is obtained from the tract.
A great many other uses of the motor truck for logging and scientific
forest utilization are being recognized, as example, for transporting
pulpwood, veneer stock, cordwood, rosin and turpentine, and other forest
products. Suffice it to say that this method of transportation has
found a place in the industry and is here to stay. Its value has been
recognized beyond doubt and in the future will play an important part
in the further development of this country.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
1916. Motor Truck Logging.
The Power Wagon. Sept. 15. Page 34. (Periodical).
1916. The Law of the Public Highway in Washington.
West Coast Lumberman. Sept. 15. Page 23. (Periodical).
1916. Motor Truck Logging Now Making Great Strides on the Pacific
Coast. West Coast Lumberman. Nov. 1. Page 260. (Periodical).
1917. Motor Truck Logging in the Pacific Northwest.
West Coast Lumberman. Mar. 15. Page 70. (Periodical).
1917. Motor Trucks in High Favor Among Lumbermen.
Lumber World Review. Mar. 25. Page 23. (Periodical).
1917. Motor Truck Logging on Camano Island.
West Coast Lumberman. July 1. Page 28. (Periodical).
1917. Motor Truck Logging.
The Commercial Vehicle. Sept. 1. Page 12. (Periodical).
1918. Pole Roads. A. R. Hillard.
West Coast Lumberman. Feb. 1. Page 34. (Periodical).
1918. Operating Cost of Motor Trucks Computed. H. S. Finch.
Timberman. Feb. 1. Page 60. (Periodical).
1918. Winch for Motor Trucks.
American Lumberman. Mar. 2. Page 58. (Periodical).
1918. Motor Truck Roads.
American Lumberman. Mar. 16. Page 38. (Periodical).
1918. The Motor Truck in the Logging Industry. H. H. Warwood.
Timberman. April 1. Page 74. (Periodical).
1918. Road Construction for Motor Trucks. Jay C. Smith.
Timberman. April 1. Page 38. (Periodical).
1918. Adjustable Reach Logging Trailer.
American Lumberman. May 18. Page 63. (Periodical).
1918. Demonstrating Duplex Trucks.
American Lumberman. June 1. Page 63. (Periodical).
1918. Modern Motor Truck Solves Difficult Logging Problems.
West Coast Lumberman. July 1. Page 18D. (Periodical).
1918. Motor Trucks in Winter Logging. A. R. Hilliard.
West Coast Lumberman. Sept. 1. Page 25. (Periodical).
1919. The Effect of Changed Conditions Upon Forestry. W. W. Ashe.
Journal of Forestry. Oct. 1. Page 657. (Periodical).
1919. Puget Sound Logger Tells Congress How to Log With Motor Trucks.
West Coast Lumberman. October. Page 25. (Periodical).
1920. Air Brakes for Trucks.
Timberman. Mar. 1. Page 48g. (Periodical).
The writer has drawn freely from the material found in the above
periodicals and trade journals, but wishes to acknowledge the greater
bulk of information in writing this paper received from the various
truck salesmen and truck operators who were interviewed personally.
Without their assistance, the gathering of this information would have
been impossible.
Publications of the Engineering Experiment Station University of
Washington
=Bulletin No. 1=--Creosoted Wood Stave Pipe and Its Effect Upon Water
for Domestic and Irrigational Uses. 1917.
(Bureau of Industrial Research.) 20 pp. Price, 25 cents.
=Bulletin No. 2=--An Investigation of the Iron Ore Resources of the
North-west. By William Harrison Whittier. 1917.
(Bureau of Industrial Research.) 128 pp. Price, 60 cents.
=Bulletin No. 3=--An Industrial Survey of Seattle. By Curtis C. Aller.
1918.
(Bureau of Industrial Research.) 64 pp. Price, 50 cents.
=Bulletin No. 4=--A Summary of Mining and Metalliferous Mineral
Resources in the State of Washington with Bibliography.
By Arthur Homer Fischer. 1919. 124 pp. Price, 75 cents.
=Bulletin No. 5=--Electrometallurgical and Electrochemical Industry
in the State of Washington. By Charles Denham Grier.
1919. 43 pp. Price, 50 cents.
=Bulletin No. 6=--Ornamental Concrete Lamp Posts. By Carl Edward
Magnusson. 1919. 24 pp. Price, 40 cents.
=Bulletin No. 7=--Multiplex Radio Telegraphy and Telephony. 1920.
By F. M. Ryan, J. R. Tolmie, R. O. Bach. Price, 50 cents.
=Bulletin No. 8=--Voltage Wave Analysis with Indicating Instruments.
By Leslie Forrest Curtis. 1920. 28 pp. Price, 50 cents.
=Bulletin No. 9=--The Coking Industry of the Pacific Northwest.
By Joseph Daniels. 1920. 36 pp. Price, 60 cents.
=Bulletin No. 10=--An Investigation of Compressed Spruce Pulleys.
By George Samuel Wilson. 1920. 72 pp. Price, 80 cents.
=Bulletin No. 11=--The Theory of Linear-Sinoidal Oscillations.
By Henry Godfrey Cordes. 1920. 24 pp. Price, 40 cents.
=Bulletin No. 12=--Motor Truck Logging Methods.
By Frederick Malcolm Knapp. 1921. 52 pp. Price, 50 cents.
Requests for bulletins should be addressed to the Director, Engineering
Experiment Station, University of Washington, Seattle.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Annie o' the Banks o' Dee
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Title: Annie o' the Banks o' Dee
Author: Gordon Stables
Release date: September 10, 2011 [eBook #37357]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNIE O' THE BANKS O' DEE ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Annie o' the Banks o' Dee
By Gordon Stables
Illustrations by none
Published by F.V. White & Co, 14 Bedford Street, Strand, London WC.
This edition dated 1899.
Annie o' the Banks o' Dee, by Gordon Stables.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
ANNIE O' THE BANKS O' DEE, BY GORDON STABLES.
CHAPTER ONE.
AT BILBERRY HALL.
"It may not be, it cannot be
That such a gem was meant for me;
But oh! if it had been my lot,
A palace, not a Highland cot,
That bonnie, simple gem had thrown
Bright lustre o'er a jewelled crown;
For oh! the sweetest lass to me
Is Annie--Annie o' the Banks o' Dee?"
Old Song.
Far up the romantic Dee, and almost hidden by the dark waving green of
spruce trees and firs, stands the old mansion-house of Bilberry Hall.
Better, perhaps, had it still been called a castle, as undoubtedly it
had been in the brave days of old. The many-gabled, turreted building
had formerly belonged to a family of Gordons, who had been deprived of
house and lands in the far north of Culloden, after the brutal soldiery
of the Bloody Duke had laid waste the wild and extensive country of
Badenoch, burning every cottage and house, murdering every man, and more
than murdering every woman and child, and "giving their flesh to the
eagles," as the old song hath it.
But quiet indeed was Bilberry Hall now, quiet even to solemnity,
especially after sunset, when the moon sailed up from the woods of the
west, when only the low moan of the wind through the forest trees could
be heard, mingling with the eternal murmur of the broad winding river,
or now and then the plaintive cry of a night bird, or the mournful
hooting of the great brown owl.
It was about this time that Laird McLeod would summon the servants one
and all, from the supercilious butler down to Shufflin' Sandie himself.
Then would he place "the big ha' Bible" before him on a small table,
arrange his spectacles more comfortably astride his nose, clear his
throat, and read a long chapter.
One of the Psalms of David in metre would then be sung. There wasn't a
deal of music in the Laird's voice, it must be confessed. It was a
deep, hoarse bass, that reminded one of the groaning of an old
grandfather's clock just before it begins to strike. But when the maids
took up the tune and sweet Annie Lane chimed in, the psalm or hymn was
well worth listening to.
Then with one accord all fell on their knees by chairs, the Laird
getting down somewhat stiffly. With open eyes and uplifted face he
prayed long and earnestly. The "Amen" concluded the worship, and all
retired save Annie, the Laird's niece and almost constant companion.
After, McLeod would look towards her and smile.
"I think, my dear," he would say, "it is time to bring in the tumblers."
There was always a cheerful bit of fire in the old-fashioned grate, and
over it from a sway hung a bright little copper kettle, singing away
just as the cat that sat on the hearth, blinking at the fire, was doing.
The duet was the pleasantest kind of music to the Laird McLeod in his
easy-chair, the very image of white-haired contentment.
Annie Lane--sixteen years of age she was, and beautiful as a rosebud--
would place the punch-bowl on the little table, with its toddy-ladle,
and flank it with a glass shaped like a thistle. Into the bowl a
modicum of the oldest whisky was poured, and sugar added; the good
Squire, or Laird, with the jolly red face, smiled with glee as the water
bubbled from the spout of the shining kettle.
"Now your slippers, dear," Annie would say. Off came the "brogue shoes"
and on went a pretty pair of soft and easy slippers; by their flowery
ornamentation it was not difficult to tell who had made them.
A long pipe looked rather strange between such wee rosy lips;
nevertheless, Annie lit that pipe, and took two or three good draws to
make sure it was going, before handing it to her uncle. Then she bent
over the back of the chair and kissed him on the bald pate, before going
out with her maid for a walk on the lawn.
It might be in the sweet summer time, when those green grassy terraces
were perfumed with roses of every hue, or scented with the sweet
syringa; in spring, when every tree and bush were alive with bird song;
in red-berried autumn, or in the clear frost of a winter's night, when
the world was all robed in its white cocoon and every bush, brake, or
tree had branches like the whitest of coral.
Jeannie Lee, the maid, was a great favourite with Annie, and Jeannie
dearly loved her young mistress, and had done so for ten long years,
ever since she had arrived at Bilberry Hall a toddling wee thing of six,
and, alas! an orphan. Both father and mother had died in one week.
They had loved each other in life, and in death were not divided.
Jeannie was just four years older than her mistress, but she did not
hesitate to confide to her all her secrets, for Jeannie was a bonnie
lassie.
"She whiles had a sweetheart,
And whiles she had two."
Well, but strange as it may appear, Annie, young as she was, had two
lovers. There was a dashing young farmer--Craig Nicol by name--he was
well-to-do, and had dark, nay, raven hair, handsome face and manly
figure, which might well have captivated the heart of any girl. At
balls and parties, arrayed in tartan, he was indeed a splendid fellow.
He flirted with a good many girls, it is true, but at the bottom of his
heart there was but one image--that of Annie Lane. Annie was so young,
however, that she did not know her own mind. And I really think that
Craig Nicol was somewhat impetuous in his wooing. Sometimes he almost
frightened her. Poor Craig was unsophisticated, and didn't know that
you must woo a woman as you angle for a salmon.
He was a very great favourite with the Laird at all events, and many
were the quiet games of cards they played together on winter evenings,
many the bowl of punch they quaffed, before the former mounted his good
grey mare and went noisily cantering homewards.
No matter what the weather was, Craig would be in it, wind or rain, hail
or snow. Like Burns's Tam o' Shanter was Craig.
"Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire,
Despising wind and rain and fire,
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet."
Yes, indeed. Craig Nicol was a dashing young blade, and at times Annie
thought she almost loved him.
But what of the girl's other lover? Well, he was one of a very
different stamp. A laird he was too, and a somewhat wealthy one, but he
was not a week under fifty.
He, too, was a constant visitor at Bilberry Hall, and paid great
attention to Annie, though he treated her in a kind and fatherly sort of
manner, and Annie really liked the man, though little did she think he
was in love with her.
One lovely moonlight night in autumn, however, when Laird Fletcher--for
that was his name--found himself seated beside Annie and her maid in an
arbour that overlooked the dreamy, hazy forest, he suddenly said to
Jeannie:
"Jeannie, I'd be the happiest man on earth if I only had this darling
child to be my bride."
Annie never spoke. She simply smiled, thinking he was in fun.
But after a pause the Laird took Annie's hand:
"Ah! dear lassie, I'll give you plenty of time to think of it. I'd care
for you as the apple of my eye; I'd love you with a love that younger
men cannot even dream of, and not a lady in all the land should be
dressed so braw as my own wee dove."
Annie drew her hand from his; then--I can't tell why--perhaps she did
not know herself, she put her little white hands to her face and burst
into tears.
With loving words and kind, he tried to soothe her, but like a startled
deer she sprang away from him, dashed across the lawn, and sought
shelter in her own boudoir.
The Laird, honest fellow, was sad, and sorry, too, that he had proposed
to Annie; but then he really was to be excused. What is it a man will
not do whom love urges on?
Laird Fletcher was easy-minded, however, and hopeful on the whole.
"Ah! well," he said to himself; "she'll come round in time, and if that
black-haired young farmer were only _out of the way_, I'd win the battle
before six months were over. Gives himself a mighty deal too much side,
he does. Young men are mostly fools--I'll go into the house and smoke a
pipe with my aged friend, McLeod."
Shufflin' Sandie seemed to spring from the earth right in front of him.
A queer little creature was Sandie, soul and body, probably thirty years
old, but looking older; twinkling ferrety eyes and red hair, a tuft of
which always stuck up through a hole on the top of the broad Prince
Charlie bonnet he wore; a very large nose always filled with snuff; and
his smile was like the grin of a vixen.
Sandie was the man-of-all-work at Bilberry. He cleaned knives and boots
in-doors, ran errands, and did all kinds of odd jobs out of doors. But
above all Sandie was a fisherman. Old as he was, Squire McLeod, or
Laird, as he was most often called, went to the river, and Sandie was
always with him. The old man soon tired; then Sandie took the rod, and
no man on all Deeside could make a prettier cast than he. The salmon
used to come at his call.
"Hullo!" said Laird Fletcher, "where did _you_ come from?"
"Just ran round, sir, to see if you wanted your horse."
"No, no, Sandie, not for another hour or two."
The truth is that Sandie had been behind the arbour, listening to every
word that was said.
Sandie slept in a loft above the stable. It was there he went now, and
threw himself on his bed to think.
"Folks shouldn't speak aloud to themselves," he thought, "as Laird
Fletcher does. Wants Farmer Nicol got out of the way, does he? The old
rascal! I've a good mind to tell the police. But I think I'd better
tell Craig Nicol first that there is danger ahead, and that he mustn't
wear his blinkers. Poor man! Indeed will I! Then I might see what the
Laird had to say as well. That's it, Sandie, that's it. I'll have twa
strings to my bow."
And Sandie took an enormous pinch of snuff and lay back again to muse.
I never myself had much faith to put in an ignorant, deformed,
half-dwarfed creature, and Shufflin' Sandie was all that, both
physically and morally.
I don't think that Sandie was a thief, but I do believe he would have
done almost anything to turn an honest penny. Indeed, as regards
working hard there was nothing wrong with Sandie. Craig Nicol, the
farmer, had given him many a half-crown, and now he saw his way, or
thought he did, to earn another.
Well, Sandie, at ten o'clock, brought round Laird Fletcher's horse, and
before mounting, the Laird, who, with all his wealth, was a wee bit of a
niggard, gave him twopence.
"The stingy, close-fisted, old tottering brute. Tuppince, eh!"
Shufflin' Sandy shook his fist after the Laird.
"_You_ marry our bonnie Annie?" he said, half-aloud. "Man, I'd sooner
see the dearie floating down the Dee like a dead hare than to see her
wedded to an old fossil like you."
Sandie went off now to his bed in the loft, and soon all was peace
around Bilberry Hall, save when the bloodhounds in their kennels lifted
up their bell-like voices, giving warning to any tramp, or poacher that
might come near the Hall.
Annie knelt reverently down and said her prayers before getting into
bed.
The tears were in her eyes when she got up.
"Oh," she said to her maid, "I hope I haven't hurt poor Mr Fletcher's
feelings! He really is a kind soul, and he was very sincere."
"Well, never mind, darling," said Jeannie; "but, lor, if he had only
asked _my_ price I would have jumped at the offer."
CHAPTER TWO.
"THERE IS DANGER IN THE SKY."
"What!" said Annie Lane, "would you really marry an old man?"
"Ay, that would I," said the maid. "He's got the money. Besides, he is
not so very old. But let me sing a bit of a song to you--very quietly,
you know."
Jeannie Lee had a sweet voice, and when she sang low, and to Annie
alone, it was softer and sweeter still, like a fiddle with a mute on the
bridge. This is the little song she sang:
"What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do with an old man?
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie
To sell her poor Jenny for silver and land.
"He's always complaining from morning till eenin',
He coughs and he hobbles the weary day long;
He's stupid, and dozin', his blood it is frozen--
Oh! dreary's the night wi' a crazy old man!
"He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers--
I never can please him, do all that I can;
He's peevish and jealous of all the young fellows--
Oh! grief on the day I met wi' an old man!
"My old Aunty Kitty upon me takes pity:
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan;
I'll cross him and rack him until I heart-break him,
And then his old brass will buy a new pan!"
"But, oh, how cruel!" said Annie. "Oh, I wish you would marry that
Laird Fletcher--then he would bother me no more. Will you, Jeannie,
dear?"
Jeannie Lee laughed.
"It will be you he will marry in the long run," she said; "now, I don't
set up for a prophet, but remember my words: Laird Fletcher will be your
husband, and he will be just like a father to you, and your life will
glide on like one long and happy dream."
It will be observed that Jeannie could talk good English when she cared
to. When speaking seriously--the Scots always do--the Doric is for the
most part of the fireside dialect.
"And now, darling," continued Annie's maid, "go to sleep like a baby;
you're not much more, you know. There, I'll sing you a lullaby, an old,
old one:
"`Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed;
Countless blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.'"
The blue eyes tried to keep open, but the eyelids would droop, and soon
Annie o' the Banks o' Dee was wafted away to the drowsy land.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shufflin' Sandie was early astir next morning. First he fed and
attended to his horses, for he loved them as if they had been brothers;
then he went to the kennels to feed the hounds, and in their joy to see
him they almost devoured him alive.
This done, Sandie had a big drink of water from the pump, for Sandie had
had a glass too much the night before.
He was none the worse, however; so he hied him to the kitchen.
There were lots of merry Scotch lassies here, and they delighted to
torment and tease Sandie.
"Sandie," said one, "I've a good mind to tie the dish-cloth round your
head."
"Tie it round your own," said Sandie. "Anything becomes a good-looking
face, my bonnie Betsy."
"Sandie," said another buxom girl, "you were drunk last night. I'm sure
of it."
"No, not so very full, Fanny. I hadn't enough to get happy and jolly
on."
"But wouldn't you like a hair of the doggie that bit you this morning?"
"Indeed would I, Fanny. I never say no to a drop of good Scotch."
"Well, ye'll have to go to the village. Ye'll get none here. Just make
your brose, and be content."
Sandie did as he was bidden. Into a huge wooden bowl, called a "caup,"
he put three large handfuls of fine oatmeal and a modicum of salt. The
kettle was boiling wildly on the fire, so the water was poured on and
stirred, and the "brose" was made.
A huge piece of butter was placed in the centre, and the bowl was
flanked by a quart of new milk.
And this was Shufflin' Sandie's breakfast, and when he had finished all
save the bit he always left for Collie and the cat, he gave a sigh of
contentment, and lit his pipe.
And now the lasses began their banter again.
"That's the stuff to make a man of you," said Fanny.
"Make a man of an ill-shapen dwarf like him," said Maggie Reid. "Well!
well! well!"
"Hush, Mag," cried Fanny, "hush! God could have made you just as
misshapen as poor Sandie."
But Sandie took no heed. He was thinking. Soon he arose, and before
Fanny could help herself, he had kissed her. Fanny threw the dish-cloth
after him, but the laugh was all against her.
The Laird would be downstairs now, so Sandie went quietly to the
breakfast-room door and tapped.
"Come in, Sandie," cried the Laird. "I know it is you."
The Laird had a good Scotch breakfast before him. Porridge, fresh
herrings and mashed potatoes, with ducks' eggs to follow and marmalade
to finish off with.
"Will you have a thistle, Sandie?"
"Indeed I will, sir, and glad to."
"Well, there's the bottle, and yonder's the glass. Help yourself, lad."
Sandie did that, right liberally, too.
"Horses and hounds all well, Sandie?"
"All beautiful, Laird. And I was just going to ask if I could have the
bay mare, Jean, to ride o'er to Birnie-Boozle (Craig Nicol's farm
possessed that euphonic name). I've news for the fairmer."
"All right, Sandie. Take care you don't let her down, though."
"I'll see to her, Laird."
And away went Sandie exultant, and in ten minutes more was clattering
along the Deeside road.
It was early autumn, and the tints were just beginning to show red and
yellow on the elms and sycamores, but Sandie looked at nothing save his
horse's neck.
"Was the farmer at home?"
"Yes; and would Sandie step into the parlour for a minute. Mary would
soon find him."
"Why, Sandie, man, what brings you here at so early an hour?"
Sandie took a lordly pinch of snuff, and handed the box to Craig Nicol.
"I've something to tell ye, sir. But, hush! take a peep outside, for
fear anybody should be listening."
"Now," he continued, in a half-whisper, "ye'll never breathe a word of
what I'm going to tell you?"
"Why, Sandie, I never saw you look so serious before. Sit down, and
I'll draw my chair close to yours."
The arrangement completed, Sandie's face grew still longer, and he told
him all he heard while listening behind the arbour.
"I own to being a bit inquisitive like," he added; "but man, farmer, it
is a good thing for you on this occasion that I was. I've put you on
your guard."
Craig laughed till the glasses on the sideboard jingled and rang.
"Is that all my thanks?" said Sandie, in a disheartened tone.
"No, no, my good fellow. But the idea of that old cockalorum--though he
is my rival--doing a sturdy fellow like me to death is too amusing."
"Well," said Sandie, "he's just pretty tough, though he is a trifle old.
He can hold a pistol or a jock-the-leg knife easily enough; the dark
nights will soon be here. He'd be a happy man if you were dead, so I
advise you to beware."
"Well, well, God bless you, Sandie; when I'm saying my prayers to-night
I'll think upon you. Now have a dram, for I must be off to ride round
the farm."
Just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite all
over the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into Sandie's
hand, and off the little man marched with a beaming face.
"I'll have a rare spree at Nancy Wilson's inn on Saturday," he said.
"I'll treat the lads and lassies too."
But Shufflin' Sandie's forenoon's work was not over yet.
He set spurs to his mare, and soon was galloping along the road in the
direction of Laird Fletcher's mansion.
The Laird hadn't come down yet. He was feeling the effects of last
evening's potations, for just as--
"The Highland hills are high, high, high,
The Highland whisky's strong."
Sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half an
hour Laird Fletcher came shuffling along in dressing-gown and slippers.
"Want to speak to me, my man?"
"Seems very like it, sir," replied Sandie.
"Well, come into the library."
The Laird led the way, and Sandie followed.
"I've been thinkin' all night, Laird, about the threat I heard ye make
use of--to kill the farmer of Birnie-Boozle."
Gentlemen of fifty who patronise the wine of Scotland are apt to be
quick-tempered.
Fletcher started to his feet, purple-faced and shaking with rage.
"If you dare utter such an expression to me again," he cried, banging
his fist on the table, "I won't miss you a kick till you're on the
Deeside road."
"Well, well, Laird," said Sandie, rising to go, "I can take my leave
without kicking, and so save your old shanks; but look here. I'm going
to ride straight to Aberdeen and see the Fiscal."
Sandie was at the door, when Laird Fletcher cooled down and called him
back.
"Come, come, my good fellow, don't be silly; sit down again. You must
never say a word to anyone about this. You promise?"
"I promise, if ye square me."
"Well, will a pound do it?"
"Look here, Laird, I'm saving up money to buy a house of my own, and
keep dogs; a pound won't do it, but six might."
"Six pounds!"
"Deuce a dollar less, Laird." The Laird sighed, but he counted out the
cash. It was like parting with his heart's blood. But to have such an
accusation even pointed at him would have damned his reputation, and
spoilt all his chances with Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. Shufflin' Sandie
smiled as he stowed the golden bits away in an old sock. He then
scratched his head and pointed to the decanter.
The Laird nodded, and Sandie drank his health in one jorum, and his
success with Miss Lane in another. Sly Sandie!
But his eyes were sparkling now, and he rode away singing "Auld Lang
Syne."
He was thinking at the same time about the house and kennels he should
build when he managed to raise two hundred pounds.
"I'll save every sixpence," he said to himself. "When I've settled down
I'll marry Fanny."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
That same forenoon Craig called at Bilberry Hall. He was dressed for
the hill in a dark tweed kilt, with a piece of leather on his left
shoulder.
He had early luncheon with McLeod, Annie presiding. In her pretty white
bodice she never looked more lovely. So thought Craig.
"Annie, come to the hill with me. _Do_."
"Annie, go," added her uncle.
"Well, I'll go, and bring you some birds, uncle dear, and Sandie shall
ghillie me."
"_I_ have a ghillie," said Craig.
"Never mind. Two are better than one."
They had really a capital day of it, for the sun shone brightly and the
birds laid close.
Gordon setters are somewhat slow, and need a drink rather often, but
they are wondrous sure, and Bolt, the retriever, was fleet of foot to
run down a wounded bird. So just as the sun was sinking behind the
forests of the west, and tingeing the pine trees with crimson, they
wended their way homeward, happy--happy with the health that only the
Highland hills can give.
Shufflin' Sandie had had several drops from Craig's flask, but he had
also had good oatcakes and cheese, so he was as steady as a judge of
session.
When near to Bilberry Hall, Nicol and Annie emptied their guns in the
air, and thus apprised of their approach, white-haired old McLeod came
out to bid them welcome.
A good dinner!
A musical evening!
Prayers! The tumblers! Then, bidding Annie a fond adieu, away rode the
jolly young farmer.
Shufflin' Sandie's last words to him were these:
"Mind what I told you. There's danger in the sky. Good-night, and God
be with you, Farmer Craig."
CHAPTER THREE.
SANDIE TELLS THE OLD, OLD STORY.
"I wonder," said Craig Nicol to himself that night, before going to bed,
and just as he rose from his knees, "if there can be anything in
Shufflin' Sandie's warning. I certainly don't like old Father Fletcher,
close-fisted as he is, and stingy as any miser ever I met. I don't like
him prowling round my darling Annie either. And _he_ hates _me_, though
he lifts his hat and grimaces like a tom-cat watching a bird whenever we
meet. I'll land him one, one of these days, if he can't behave
himself."
But for quite a long time there was no chance of "landing the Laird
one," for Fletcher called on Annie at times when he knew Craig was
engaged.
And so the days and weeks went by. Laird Fletcher's wooing was carried
on now on perfectly different lines. He brought Annie many a little
knick-knack from Aberdeen. It might be a bracelet, a necklet of gold,
or the last new novel; but never a ring. No; that would have been too
suggestive.
Annie accepted these presents with some reluctance, but Fletcher looked
at her so sadly, so wistfully, that rather than hurt his feelings she
did receive them.
One day Annie, the old Laird and the younger started for Aberdeen, all
on good horses--they despised the train--and when coming round the
corner on his mare, whom should they meet face to face but Craig Nicol?
And this is what happened.
The old man raised his hat.
The younger Laird smiled ironically but triumphantly.
Annie nodded, blushed, and smiled.
But the young farmer's face was blanched with rage. He was no longer
handsome. There was blood in his eye. He was a devil for the present.
He plunged the spurs into his horse's sides and went galloping furiously
along the road.
"Would to God," he said, "I did not love her! Shall I resign her? No,
no! I cannot. Yet--
"`Tis woman that seduces all mankind;
By her we first were taught the wheedling arts.'"
Worse was to follow.
Right good fellow though he was, jealousy could make a very devil of
Craig.
"For jealousy is the injured woman's hell."
And man's also. One day, close by the Dee, while Craig was putting his
rod together previous to making a cast, Laird Fletcher came out from a
thicket, also rod in hand.
"Ah, we cannot fish together, Nicol," said the Laird haughtily. "We are
rivals."
Then all the jealousy in Nicol's bosom was turned for a moment into
fury.
"You--_you_! You old stiff-kneed curmudgeon! You a rival of a young
fellow like me! Bah! Go home and go to bed!"
Fletcher was bold.
"Here!" he cried, dashing his rod on the grass; "I don't stand language
like that from anyone!"
Off went his coat, and he struck Craig a well-aimed blow under the chin
that quite staggered him.
Ah! but even skill at fifty is badly matched by the strength and agility
of a man in his twenties. In five minutes' time Fletcher was on the
grass, his face cut and his nose dripping with blood.
Craig stood over him triumphantly, but the devil still lurked in his
eyes.
"I'm done with you for the time," said Fletcher, "but mark me, I'll do
for you yet!"
"Is that threatening my life, you old reprobate? You did so before,
too. Come," he continued fiercely, "I will help you to wash some of
that blood off your ugly face."
He seized him as he spoke, and threw him far into the river.
The stream was not deep, so the Laird got out, and went slowly away to a
neighbouring cottage to dry his clothes and send for his carriage.
"Hang it!" said Craig aloud; "I can't fish to-day."
He put up his rod, and was just leaving, when Shufflin' Sandie came upon
the scene. He had heard and seen all.
"Didn't I tell ye, sir? He'll kill ye yet if ye don't take care. Be
warned!"
"Well," said Craig, laughing, "he is a scientific boxer, and he hurt me
a bit, but I think I've given him a drubbing he won't soon forget."
"No," said Sandie significantly; "he--won't--forget. Take my word for
that."
"Well, Sandie, come up to the old inn, and we'll have a glass together."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a whole fortnight Laird Fletcher was confined to his rooms before he
felt fit to be seen.
"A touch of neuralgia," he made his housekeeper tell all callers.
But he couldn't and dared not refuse to see Shufflin' Sandie when he
sent up his card--an old envelope that had passed through the
post-office.
"Well," said the Laird, "to what am I indebted for the honour of _this_
visit?"
"Come off that high horse, sir," said Sandie, "and speak plain English.
I'll tell you," he added, "I'll tell you in a dozen words. I'm going to
build a small house and kennels, and I'm going to marry Fanny--the
bonniest lassie in all the world, sir. Ah! won't I be happy, just!"
He smiled, and took a pinch, then offered the box to the Laird.
The Laird dashed it aside.
"What in thunder?" he roared, "has your house or marriage to do with
me?"
"Ye'll soon see that, my Laird. I want forty pounds, or by all the
hares on Bilberry Hill I'll go hot-foot to the Fiscal, for I heard your
threat to Craig Nicol by the riverside."
Half-an-hour afterwards Shufflin' Sandie left the Laird to mourn, but
Sandie had got forty pounds nearer to the object of his ambition, and
was happy accordingly.
As he rode away, the horse's hoofs making music that delighted his ear,
Sandie laughed aloud to himself.
"Now," he thought, "if I could only just get about fifty pounds more,
I'd begin building. Maybe the old Laird'll help me a wee bit; but I
must have it, and I must have Fanny. My goodness! how I do love the
lassie! Her every look or glance sends a pang to my heart. I cannot
bear it; I _shall_ marry Fanny, or into the deepest, darkest kelpie's
pool in the Dee I'll fling myself.
"`O love, love! Love is like a dizziness,
That winna let a poor body go about his bus-i-ness.'"
Shufflin' Sandie was going to prove no laggard in love. But his was a
thoroughly Dutch peasant's courtship.
He paid frequent visits by train to the Granite City, to make purchases
for the good old Laird McLeod. And he never returned without a little
present for Fanny. It might be a bonnie ribbon for her hair, a bottle
of perfume, or even a bag of choice sweets. But he watched the chance
when Fanny was alone in the kitchen to slip them into her hand
half-shyly.
Once he said after giving her a pretty bangle:
"I'm not so very, _very_ ugly, am I, Fanny?"
"'Deed no, Sandie!"
"And I'm not so crooked and small as they would try to make me believe.
Eh, dear?"
"'Deed no, Sandie, and I ay take your part against them all. And that
you know, Sandie."
How sweet were those words to Sandie's soul only those who love, but are
in doubt, may tell.
"Tis sweet to love, but sweeter far
To be beloved again;
But, ah! how bitter is the pain
To love, yet love in vain!"
"Ye haven't a terrible lot of sweethearts, have you, Fanny?"
"Well, Sandie, I always like to tell the truth; there's plenty would
make love to me, but I can't bear them. There's ploughman Sock, and
Geordie McKay. Ach! and plenty more."
She rubbed away viciously at the plate she was cleaning.
"And I suppose," said Sandie, "the devil a one of them has one sixpence
to rub against another?"
"Mebbe not," said Fanny. "But, Fanny--"
"Well, Sandie?"
"I--I really don't know what I was going to say, but I'll sing it."
Sandie had a splendid voice and a well-modulated one.
"My love is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
My love is like a melody,
That's sweetly played in tune.
"As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love you still, my dear,
Till a' the seas go dry.
"Till a' the seas go dry, my lass,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
Yes, I will love you still, my dear,
Till sands of life are run."
The tears were coursing down the bonnie lassie's cheeks, so plaintive
and sweet was the melody.
"What! ye're surely not crying, are ye?" said Sandie, approaching and
stretching one arm gently round her waist.
"Oh, no, Sandie; not me!"
But Sandie took the advantage, and kissed her on the tear-bedewed
cheeks.
She didn't resist.
"I say, Fanny--"
"Yes, Sandie."
"It'll be a bonnie night to-night, the moon as bright as day. Will you
steal out at eight o'clock and take a wee bit walk with me? Just meet
me on the hill near Tammie Gibb's ruined cottage. I've something to
tell you."
"I'll--I'll try," said Fanny, blushing a little, as all innocent Scotch
girls do.
Sandie went off now to his work as happy as the angels.
And Fanny did steal out that night. Only for one short hour and a half.
Oh, how short the time did seem to Sandie!
It is not difficult to guess what Sandie had to tell her.
The old, old story, which, told in a thousand different ways, is ever
the same, ever, ever new.
And he told her of his prospects, of the house--a but and a ben, or two
rooms--he was soon to build, and his intended kennels, though he would
still work for the Laird.
"Will ye be my wife? Oh, will you, Fanny?"
"Yes."
It was but a whispered word, but it thrilled Sandie's heart with joy.
"My ain dear dove!" he cried, folding her in his arms.
They were sitting on a mossy bank close by the forest's edge.
Their lips met in one long, sweet kiss.
Yes, peasant love I grant you, but I think it was leal and true.
"They might be poor--Sandie and she;
Light is the burden love lays on;
Content and love bring peace and joy.
What more have queens upon a throne?"
Homeward through the moonlight, hand-in-hand, went the rustic lovers,
and parted at the gate as lovers do.
Sandie was kind of dazed with happiness. He lay awake nearly all the
livelong night, till the cocks began to crow, wondering how on earth he
was to raise the other fifty pounds and more that should complete his
happiness. Then he dozed off into dreamland.
He was astir, all the same, at six in the morning. And back came the
joy to his heart like a great warm sea wave.
He attended to his horses and to the kennel, singing all the time; then
went quietly in to make his brose.
Some quiet, sly glances and smiles passed between the betrothed--Scotch
fashion again--but that was all. Sandie ate his brose in silence, then
took his departure.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
One morning a letter arrived from Edinburgh from a friend of Craig
Nicol.
Craig was sitting at the table having breakfast when the servant brought
it in and laid it before him. His face clouded as he read it.
The friend's name was Reginald Grahame, and he was a medical student in
his fourth year. He had been very kind to Craig in Edinburgh, taking
him about and showing him all the sights in this, the most romantic city
on earth--
"Edina, Scotia's darling seat."
Nevertheless, Craig's appetite failed, and he said "Bother!" only more
so, as he pitched the letter down on the table.
CHAPTER FOUR.
"THIS QUARREL, I FEAR, MUST END IN BLOOD."
Reginald Grahame was just as handsome a young fellow as ever entered the
quad of Edinburgh University. Not the same stamp or style as Craig;
equally as good-looking, but far more refined.
"My dear boy," ran the letter,--"next week look out for me at
Birnie-Boozle. I'm dead tired of study. I'm run down somewhat, and
will be precious glad to get a breath of your Highland air and a bit of
fishing. I'm only twenty-one yet, you know, and too young for my M.D.
So I'm going soon to try to make a bit of money by taking out a patient
and her daughter to San Francisco, then overland to New York, and back
home. Why, you won't know your old friend when he comes back," etc,
etc.
"Hang my luck!" said Craig, half-aloud. "This is worse than a dozen
Laird Fletchers. Annie has never said yet that she loved me, and I feel
a presentiment that I shall be cut out now in earnest. Och hey! But
I'll do my best to prevent their meeting. It may be mean, but I can't
help it. Indeed, I've half a mind to pick a quarrel with him and let
him go home."
Next week Reginald did arrive, looking somewhat pale, for his face was
"Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," but very good-looking for
all that. Probably his paleness added to the charm of his looks and
manner, and there was the gentleman in every movement, grace in every
turn.
They shook hands fervently at the station, and soon in Craig's dogcart
were rattling along towards Birnie-Boozle.
Reginald's reception was everything that could be desired, and the
hospitality truly Highland. Says Burns the immortal:
"In Heaven itself I'll seek nae mair
Than just a Highland welcome!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For over a week--for well-nigh a fortnight, indeed--they fished by the
river, and caught many a trout, as well as lordly salmon, without seeing
anyone belonging to Bilberry Hall, except Shufflin' Sandie, for whom the
grand old river had irresistible attractions.
Sandie smelt a rat, though, and imagined he knew well enough why Craig
Nicol did not bring his friend to the Hall. Before falling asleep one
night, Craig had an inspiration, and he slept more soundly after it.
He would take his friend on a grand Highland tour, which should occupy
all his vacation.
Yes. But man can only propose. God has the disposal of our actions.
And something happened next that Craig could not have calculated on.
They had been to the hill, which was still red and crimson with the
bonnie blooming heather, and were coming down through the forest, not
far from Bilberry Hall, when suddenly they heard a shot fired, then the
sounds of a fearful struggle.
Both young men grasped their sturdy cudgels and rushed on. They found
two of McLeod's gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with four
sturdy poachers. But when Craig and his friend came down they were man
to man, and the poachers fled.
Not, however, before poor Reginald was stabbed in the right chest with a
_skean dhu_, the little dagger that kilted Highlanders wear in their
right stocking.
The young doctor had fallen. The keepers thought he was dead, the blood
was so abundant.
But he had merely fainted. They bound his wound with scarves, made a
litter of spruce branches, and bore him away to the nearest house, and
that was the Hall. Craig entered first, lest Annie should be
frightened, and while Shufflin' Sandie rode post-haste for the doctor
poor Reginald was put to bed downstairs in a beautiful room that
overlooked both forest and river.
So serious did the doctor consider the case that he stayed with him all
night.
A rough-looking stick was this country surgeon, in rough tweed jacket
and knickerbockers, but tender-hearted to a degree.
Craig had gone home about ten, somewhat sad-hearted and hopeless. Not,
it must be confessed, for his friend's accident, but Reginald would now
be always with Annie, for she had volunteered to nurse him.
But Craig rode over every day to see the wounded man for all that.
"He has a tough and wondrous constitution," said Dr McRae. "He'll pull
through under my care and Annie's gentle nursing."
Craig Nicol winced, but said nothing. Reginald had brought a dog with
him, a splendid black Newfoundland, and that dog was near him almost
constantly.
Sometimes he would put his paws on the coverlet, and lean his cheek
against his master in a most affectionate way. Indeed, this action
sometimes brought the tears to Annie's eyes.
No more gentle or kind nurse could Reginald have had than Annie.
To the guileless simplicity of a child was added all the wisdom of a
woman. And she obeyed to the very letter all the instructions the
doctor gave her. She was indefatigable. Though Fanny relieved her for
hours during the day, Annie did most of the night work.
At first the poor fellow was delirious, raving much about his mother and
sisters. With cooling lotions she allayed the fever in his head. Ay,
she did more: she prayed for him. Ah! Scots folk are strange in
English eyes, but perhaps some of them are saints in God's.
Reginald, however, seemed to recover semiconsciousness all at once. The
room in which he lay was most artistically adorned, the pictures
beautifully draped, coloured candles, mirrors, and brackets everywhere.
He looked around him half-dazed; then his eyes were fixed on Annie.
"Where am I?" he asked. "Is this Heaven? Are you an--an--angel?"
He half-lifted himself in the bed, but she gently laid him back on the
snow-white pillows again.
"You must be good, dear," she said, as if he had been a baby. "Be good
and try to sleep."
And the eyes were closed once more, and the slumber now was sweet and
refreshing. When he awoke again, after some hours, his memory had
returned, and he knew all. His voice was very feeble, but he asked for
his friend, Craig Nicol. But business had taken Craig away south to
London, and it would be a fortnight before he could return.
Ah! what a happy time convalescence is, and happier still was it for
Reginald with a beautiful nurse like Annie--Annie o' the Banks o' Dee.
In a week's time he was able to sit in an easy-chair in the
drawing-room. Annie sang soft, low songs to him, and played just as
softly. She read to him, too, both verse and prose. Soon he was able
to go for little drives, and now got rapidly well.
Is it any wonder that, thrown together in so romantic a way, these two
young people fell in love, or that when he plighted his troth Annie
shyly breathed the wee word Yes?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Craig Nicol came back at last, and he saw Reginald alone.
Reginald--impulsive he ever was--held out his hand and asked for
congratulations on his engagement to Annie.
Craig almost struck that hand away. His face grew dark and lowering.
"Curse you!" he cried. "You were my friend once, or pretended to be.
Now I hate you; you have robbed me of my own wee lamb, my sweetheart,
and now have the impudence--the confounded impertinence--to ask me to
congratulate you! You are as false as the devil in hell!"
"Craig Nicol," said Reginald, and his cheeks flushed red, "I am too weak
to fight you now, but when I am well you shall rue these words! _Au
revoir_. We meet again."
This stormy encounter took place while the young doctor sat on a
rocking-chair on the gravelled terrace. Shufflin Sandie was close at
hand.
"Gentlemen," said Sandie, "for the Lord's sake, don't quarrel!"
But Craig said haughtily, "Go and mind your own business, you blessed
Paul Pry."
Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, and soon after his
horse's hoofs might have been heard clattering on the road as he dashed
briskly on towards his farm of Birnie-Boozle.
Annie Lane came round from the flower-garden at the west wing of
Bilberry Hall. She carried in her hand a bouquet of autumnal roses and
choice dahlias--yellow, crimson, and white; piped or quilled cactus and
single. She was singing low to herself the refrain of that bonnie old
song:
"When Jackie's far awa' at sea,
When Jackie's far awa' at sea,
What's a' the pleasure life can gie,
When Jackie's far awa'?"
Perhaps she never looked more innocently happy or more beautiful than
she did at that moment.
"Like dew on the gowans lying
Was the fa' o' her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
Her voice was low and sweet."
But when she noticed the pallor on her lovers cheek she ceased singing,
and advanced more quickly towards him.
"Oh, my darling," she cried, "how pale you are! You are ill! You must
come in. Mind, I am still your nursie."
"No, no; I am better here. I have the fresh air. But I am only a
little upset, you know."
"And what upset you, dear Reginald?"
She had seated herself by his side. She had taken his hand, and had
placed two white wee fingers on his pulse.
"I'll tell you, Annie mine--"
"Yes, I'm yours, and yours only, and ever shall be."
"Craig Nicol has been here, and we have quarrelled. He has cursed and
abused me. He says I have stolen your heart from him, and now he must
for ever hate me."
"But, oh, Reginald, he never had my heart!"
"I never knew he had sought it, dearest."
"Yet he did. I should have told you before, but he persecuted me with
his protestations of love. Often and often have I remained in my room
all the evening long when I knew he was below."
"Well, he cursed me from the bottom of his heart and departed. Not
before I told him that our quarrel could not end thus, that I was too
proud to stand abuse, that when well I should fight him."
"Oh, no--no--no! For my sake you must not fight."
"Annie, my ain little dove, do you remember these two wee lines:
"`I could not love thee half so much,
Loved I not honour more.'
"There is no hatred so deep and bitter as that between two men who have
once been friends. No; both Craig and I will be better pleased after we
fight; but this quarrel I fear must end in blood."
Poor Annie shuddered. Just at that moment Shufflin' Sandie appeared on
the scene. He was never far away.
"Can I get ye a plaid, Mr Grahame, to throw o'er your legs? It's
gettin' cold now, I fear."
"No, no, my good fellow; we don't want attendance at present. Thank you
all the same, however."
Oscar, Reginald's great Newfoundland, came bounding round now to his
master's side. He had been hunting rats and rabbits. The embrace he
gave his master was rough, but none the less sincere. Then he lay down
by his feet, on guard, as it were; for a dog is ever suspicious.
Annie was very silent and very sad. Reginald drew her towards him, and
she rested her head on his shoulder. But tears bedimmed her blue eyes,
and a word of sympathy would have caused her to burst into a fit of
weeping that would probably have been hysterical in its nature. So
Reginald tried to appear unconcerned.
They sat in silence thus for some time. The silence of lovers is
certainly golden.
Presently, bright, neatly-dressed Fanny came tripping round, holding in
advance of her a silver salver.
"A letter, sir," she said, smiling.
Reginald took it slowly from the salver, and his hand shook visibly.
"Annie," he said, somewhat sadly, "I believe this contains my sailing
orders."
CHAPTER FIVE.
A DISCOVERY THAT APPALLED AND SHOCKED EVERYONE.
Reginald had guessed aright. The good barque _Wolverine_ would sail
from Glasgow that day month, wind and weather permitting, for the South
Atlantic, and round the Horn to the South Pacific Islands and San
Francisco.
This was from the captain; but a note was enclosed from Mrs Hall,
Reginald's pet aunt, hoping he was quite restored to health and
strength, and would join them some hours before sailing. She felt
certain, she said, that the long voyage would quite restore her, and her
daughter Ilda and wee niece Matty were wild with delight at the prospect
of being--
"All alone on the wide, wide sea."
"Oh, my darling!" cried Annie, "I believe my heart will break to lose
you."
"But it will not be for long, my love--a year at most; and, oh, our
reunion will be sweet! You know, Annie, I am _very_ poor, with scarce
money enough to procure me an outfit. It is better our engagement
should not be known just yet to the old Laird, your uncle. He would
think it most presumptuous in me to aspire to the hand of his heiress.
But I shall be well and strong long before a month; and think, dearest,
I am to have five hundred pounds for acting as private doctor and nurse
to Mrs Hall! When I return I shall complete my studies, set up in
practice, and then, oh, then, Annie, you and I shall be married!
"`Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one.'"
But the tears were now silently chasing each other down her cheeks.
"Cheer up, my own," said Reginald, drawing her closer to him.
Presently she did, and then the woman, not the child, came uppermost.
"Reginald," she said, "tell me, is Miss Hall very beautiful?"
"I hardly know how to answer you, Annie. I sometimes think she is.
Fragile, rather, with masses of glittering brown hair, and hazel eyes
that are sometimes very large, as she looks at you while you talk.
But," he added, "there can be no true love unless there is a little
jealousy. Ah, Annie," he continued, smiling, "I see it in your eye,
just a tiny wee bit of it. But it mustn't increase. I have plighted my
troth to you, and will ever love you as I do now, as long as the sun
rises over yonder woods and forests."
"I know, I know you will," said Annie, and once more the head was laid
softly on his shoulder.
"There is one young lady, however, of whom you have some cause to be
jealous."
"And she?"
"I confess, Annie, that I loved her a good deal. Ah, don't look sad; it
is only Matty, and she is just come five."
Poor Annie laughed in a relieved sort of way. The lovers said little
more for a time, but presently went for a walk in the flower-gardens,
and among the black and crimson buds of autumn. Reginald could walk but
slowly yet, and was glad enough of the slight support of Annie's arm.
"Ah, Annie," he said, "it won't be long before you shall be leaning on
my arm instead of me on yours."
"I pray for that," said the child-woman.
The gardens were still gay with autumnal flowers, and I always think
that lovers are a happy adjunct to a flower-garden. But it seemed to be
the autumn buds that were the chief attraction for Reginald at present.
They were everywhere trailing in vines over the hedgerows, supported on
their own sturdy stems or climbing high over the gables and wings of the
grand old hall.
The deadly nightshade, that in summer was covered with bunches of
sweetest blue, now grew high over the many hedges, hung with fruitlike
scarlet bunches of the tiniest grapes. The _Bryonia Alba_, sometimes
called the devil's parsnip, that in June snows the country hedges over
with its wealth of white wee flowers, was now splashed over with crimson
budlets. The holly berries were already turning. The black-berried ivy
crept high up the shafts of the lordly Lombardy poplars. Another tiny
berry, though still green, grew in great profusion--it would soon be
black--the fruit of the privet. The pyrocanthus that climbs yonder wall
is one lovely mass of vermilion berries in clusters. These rival in
colour and appearance the wealth of red fruit on the rowan trees or
mountain ashes.
"How beautiful, Annie," said Reginald, gazing up at the nodding berries.
"Do you mind the old song, dear?--
"`Oh, rowan tree, oh, rowan tree,
Thou'lt ay be dear to me;
Begirt thou art with many thoughts
Of home and infancy.
"`Thy leaves were ay the first in spring
Thy flowers the summer's pride;
There wasn't such a bonnie tree
In a' the countryside,
Oh, rowan tree!'"
"It is very beautiful," said Annie, "and the music is just as beautiful,
though plaintive, and even sad. I shall play it to you to-night."
But here is an arbour composed entirely of a gigantic briar, laden with
rosy fruit. Yet the king-tree of the garden is the barberry, and I
never yet knew a botanist who could describe the lavish loveliness of
those garlands of rosy coral. With buds of a somewhat deeper shade the
dark yews were sprinkled, and in this fairy-like garden or arboretum
grew trees and shrubs of every kind.
Over all the sun shone with a brilliancy of a delightful September day.
The robins followed the couple everywhere, sometimes even hopping on to
Reginald's shoulder or Annie's hat, for these birds seem to know by
instinct where kindness of heart doth dwell.
"Annie," said Reginald, after a pause, "I am very, very happy."
"And I, dear," was the reply, "am very hopeful."
How quickly that month sped away. Reginald was as strong as ever again,
and able to play cards of an evening with Laird McLeod or Laird
Fletcher, for the latter, knowing that the farmer of Birnie-Boozle came
here no longer, renewed his visits.
I shall not say much about the parting. They parted in tears and in
sorrow, that is all; with many a fond vow, with many a fond embrace.
It has often grieved me to think how very little Englishmen know about
our most beautiful Scottish songs. Though but a little simple thing,
"The Pairtin'" (parting) is assuredly one of the most plaintively
melodious I know of in any language. It is very _apropos_ to the
parting of Reginald and Annie o' the Banks o' Dee.
"Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,
Home and friends, and country dear,
Oh, ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee,
Happier days may soon be here.
"See, yon bark so proudly bounding,
Soon shall bear me o'er the sea;
Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding,
Calls me far from love and thee.
"Summer flowers shall cease to blossom,
Streams run backward from the sea;
Cold in death must be this bosom
Ere it cease to throb for thee.
"Fare thee well--may every blessing
Shed by Heaven around thee fa';
One last time thy lov'd form pressing--
Think on me when far awa'."
"If you would keep song in your hearts," says a writer of genius, "learn
to sing. There is more merit in melody than most people are aware of.
Even the cobbler who smoothes his wax-ends with a song will do as much
work in a day as one given to ill-nature would do in a week. Songs are
like sunshine, they run to cheerfulness, and fill the bosom with such
buoyancy, that for the time being you feel filled with June air or like
a meadow of clover in blossom."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
How lonely the gardens and the Hall itself seemed to Annie now that her
lover had gone, and how sad at heart was she!
Well, and how reluctant am I myself to leave all these pleasant scenes,
and bring before the mind's eye an event so terrible and a deed so dark
that I almost shudder as I describe it; but as the evolution of this
ower-true tale depends upon it, I am obliged to.
First, I must tell you that just two days before joining his ship,
Reginald had to go to Aberdeen to see friends and bid them adieu.
But it happened that Craig Nicol had made a visit on foot to Aberdeen
about the same time. Thirty, or even forty, miles was not too much for
a sturdy young fellow like him. He had told his housekeeper a week
before that he was to draw money from the bank--a considerable sum, too.
This was foolish of him, for the garrulous old woman not only boasted to
the neighbouring servants of the wealth of her master, but even told
them the day he would leave for the town.
Poor Craig set off as merrily as any half-broken hearted lover could be
expected to do. But, alas! after leaving Aberdeen on his homeward
journey, he had never been seen alive again by anyone who knew him.
As he often, however, made a longer stay in town than he had first
intended, the housekeeper and servants of Birnie-Boozle were not for a
time alarmed; but soon the assistance of the police was called in, with
the hopes of solving the mystery. All they did find out, however, was
that he had left the Granite City well and whole, and that he had called
at an inn called the Five Mile House on the afternoon to partake of some
refreshment. After that all was a dread and awful blank. There was not
a pond, however, or copse along from this inn that was not searched.
Then the river was dragged by men used to work of this sort.
But all in vain. The mystery remained still unrevealed. Only the
police, as usual, vaunted about having a clue, and being pressed to
explain, a sergeant said:
"Why, only this: you see he drew a lot of cash from the bank in notes
and gold, and as we hear that he is in grief, there is little doubt in
our minds that he has gone, for a quiet holiday to the Continent, or
even to the States."
Certain in their own minds that this was the case, the worthy police
force troubled themselves but little more about the matter. They
thought they had searched everywhere; but one place they had forgotten
and missed. From the high road, not many miles from Birnie-Boozle, a
road led. It was really little more than a bridle-path, but it
shortened the journey by at least a mile, and when returning from town
Craig Nicol always took advantage of this.
Strange, indeed, it was, that no one, not even the housekeeper, had
thought of giving information about this to the police. But the
housekeeper was to be excused. She was plunged deeply in grief. She
and she only would take no heed of the supposed clue to the mystery that
the sergeant made sure he had found.
"Oh, oh," she would cry, "my master is dead! I know, I know he is. In
a dream he appeared to me. How wan and weird he looked, and his
garments were drenched in blood and gore. Oh, master, dear, kind, good
master, I shall never, never see you more!" And the old lady wrung her
hands and wept and sobbed as if her very heart would break.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reginald's ship had been about two days at sea. The wind was fair and
strong, so that she had made a good offing, and was now steering south
by west, bearing up for the distant shores of South America.
And it was now that a discovery was made that appalled and shocked
everyone in all the countryside.
CHAPTER SIX.
A VERDICT OF MURDER.
About half-way up the short cut, or bridle-path, was a dark, dingy
spruce-fir copse. It was separated from the roads by a high whitethorn
hedge, trailed over with brambles, the black, shining, rasp-like fruit
of which were now ripe and juicy. They were a great attraction to the
wandering schoolboy. Two lads, aged about eight or ten--great
favourites with Craig's housekeeper--were given a basket each in the
forenoon and sent off to pick the berries and to return to tea about
four o'clock.
There was a gate that entered from the path, but it was seldom, if ever,
opened, save probably by the wood-cutters.
Well, those two poor little fellows returned hours and hours before
tea-time. They were pale and scared-looking. In their terror they had
even dropped their baskets.
"Oh, the man! the man!" they cried, as soon as they entered. "The poor,
dead man!"
Although some presentiment told the aged housekeeper that this must
indeed be the dead body of her unhappy master, she summoned courage to
run herself to the police-station. An officer was soon on the fatal
spot, guided by the braver of the two little lads. With his big knife
the policeman hacked away some of the lower branches of the spruce-fir,
and thus let in the light.
It was indeed Craig, and there was little doubt that he had been foully
murdered. But while one officer took charge of the corpse, he did not
touch it, but dispatched another to telegraph to Aberdeen at once for a
detective. He arrived by the very next train, accompanied by men with a
letter. The news had spread like wildfire, and quite a crowd had by
this time gathered in the lane, but they were kept far back from the
gate lest their footsteps should deface any traces of the murder. Even
the imprint of a shoe might be invaluable in clearing up an awful
mystery like this. Mr C., the detective, and the surgeon immediately
started their investigations.
It was only too evident that Craig Nicol had been stabbed to the heart.
His clothes were one mass of gore, and hard with blood. On turning the
body over, a discovery was made that caused the detective's heart to
palpitate with joy. Here, underneath it, was found a Highlander's
_skean dhu_ (stocking dirk). The little sheath itself was found at a
distance of a few yards, and it must evidently have been dropped by the
murderer, in his haste to conceal the body.
"Ha! this is indeed a clue," said the detective. "This knife did the
deed, George. See, it is encrusted with blood."
"I think so, sir."
"And look, on the silver back of the little sheath are the letters R.G."
He took the dagger in his hand, and went back to the little crowd.
"Can anyone identify this knife?" he asked, showing it to them.
No one could.
"Can you?" said the detective, going to the rear and addressing
Shufflin' Sandie. Sandie appeared to be in deep grief.
"Must I tell?"
"You needn't now, unless you like, but you must at the inquest."
"Then, sir, I may as well say it now. The knife belongs to Mr
Grahame."
A thrill of horror went through the little crowd, and Sandy burst into
tears.
"Where does he live, this Mr Grahame?"
"He did live at Bilberry Hall, sir," blubbered Sandie; "but a few days
ago he sailed away for the Southern Seas."
"Was he poor or rich, Sandie?"
"As poor as a church mouse, sir. I've heard him tell Miss Annie Lane
so. For I was always dandlin' after them."
"Thank you; that will do in the meantime."
Craig had evidently been robbed, for the pockets were turned inside out,
and another discovery made was this: the back of the coat was covered
with dust or dried mud, so that, in all human probability, he must have
been murdered on the road, then dragged and hidden here. There was a
terrible bruise on one side of the head, so it was evident enough to the
surgeon, as well as to the detective, that the unfortunate man must
first have been stunned and afterwards stabbed. There was evidence,
too, that the killing had been done on the road; there were marks of the
gravel having been scraped away, and this same gravel, blackened with
blood, was found in the ditch.
The detective took his notes of the case, then calling his man,
proceeded to have the man laid on the litter. The body was not taken
home, but to the barn of an adjoining cottage.
Here when the coroner was summoned and arrived from Aberdeen, part of
the inquest was held. After viewing the body, the coroner and jury went
to Birnie-Boozle, and here more business was gone through.
The housekeeper was the first to be examined. She was convulsed with
grief, and could only testify as to the departure and date of departure
of her master for the distant city, with the avowed intention of drawing
money.
"That will do, my good woman; you can retire."
The next witness to be examined was Shufflin' Sandie. He was
exceedingly cool, and took a large pinch of snuff before answering a
question.
"Were not Craig Nicol and Reginald Grahame particular friends?"
"Once upon a time, sir; but he was awfully jealous was Craig, and never
brought Grahame to the Hall; but after the fight with thae devils of
poachers, Grahame was carried, wounded, to Bilberry Hall, and nursed by
Miss Annie. Not much wonder, sir, that they fell in love. I would have
done the same myself. I--"
"Now, don't be garrulous."
"Oh, devil a garrylus; I'll not say another word if ye like."
"Well, go on."
"Well, sir, they were engaged. Then one day Craig comes to the Hall,
and there was terrible angry words. Craig cursed Grahame and called him
all the ill names he could lay his tongue to."
"And did Grahame retaliate?"
"Indeed did he, sir; he didn't swear, but he said that as soon as he was
well, the _quarrel should end in blood_." (Sensation in court.) "Had
Craig any other enemy?"
"That he had--old Laird Fletcher. They met at the riverside one day,
and had a row, and fought. I saw and heard everything. Craig Nicol
told the old Laird that he would have nobody snuffling round his lady
love. Then they off-coat and fought. Man! it was fine! The Laird put
in some good ones, but the young 'un had it at last. Then he flung the
Laird into the river, and when he got out he threatened to do for poor
Craig Nicol." (Sensation.)
Sandie paused to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, and took snuff before he
could proceed.
"You think," said the coroner, "that Laird Fletcher meant to carry out
his threat?"
"I don't know. I only know this--he was in doonright devilish earnest
when he made it."
"I am here," said Laird Fletcher, "and here, too, are five witnesses to
prove that I have not been twice outside my own gate since Craig Nicol
started for Aberdeen. Once I was at the Hall, and my groom here drove
me there and back; I was too ill to walk."
The witnesses were examined on oath, and no alibi was ever more clearly
proven. Laird Fletcher was allowed to leave the court without a stain
on his character.
"I am sorry to say, gentlemen," addressing the jury, "that there appears
no way out of the difficulty, and that his poverty would alone have led
Grahame to commit the terrible deed, to say nothing of his threat that
the quarrel would end in blood. Poor Craig Nicol has been robbed, and
foully, brutally murdered, and Reginald Grahame sails almost immediately
after for the South Seas. I leave the verdict with you."
Without leaving the box, and after a few minutes of muttered
conversation, the foreman stood up.
"Have you agreed as to your verdict?"
"Unanimously, sir."
"And it is?"
"Wilful murder, sir, committed by the hands of Reginald Grahame."
"Thank you. And now you may retire."
Ill news travels apace, and despite all that Fanny and Annie's maid
could do, the terrible accusation against her lover soon reached our
poor heroine's ears.
At first she wept most bitterly, but it was not because she believed in
Reginald's guilt. No, by no means. It was because she felt sorrow for
him. He was not here to defend himself, as she was sure he could.
Perhaps love is blind, and lovers cannot see.
But true love is trusting. Annie had the utmost faith in Reginald
Grahame--a faith that all the accusations the world could make against
him could not shake, nor coroners' verdicts either.
"No, no, no," she exclaimed to her maid passionately, through her tears,
"my darling is innocent, though things look black against him. Ah! how
unfortunate that he should have gone to the city during those three
terrible days!" She was silent for a couple of minutes. "Depend upon
it, Jeannie," she added, "someone else was the murderer. And for all
his alibi, which I believe to be got up, I blame that Laird Fletcher."
"Oh, don't, dearest Annie," cried the maid, "believe me when I say I
could swear before my Maker that he is not guilty."
"I am hasty, because in sorrow," said Annie. "I may alter my mind soon.
Anyhow, he does not look the man to be guilty of so terrible a crime,
and he has been always kind and fatherly to me, since the day I ran away
from the arbour. Knowing that I am engaged, he will not be less so now.
But, oh, my love, my love! Reginald, when shall I ever see thee again?
I would die for thee, with thee; as innocent thou as the babe unborn.
Oh Reginald my love, my love!"
Her perfect confidence in her lover soon banished Annie's grief. He
would return. He might be tried, she told herself, but he would leave
the court in robes of white, so to speak, able to look any man in the
face, without spot or stain on his character. Then they would be
wedded.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A whole month flew by, during which--so terrible is justice--an
expedition was sent to San Francisco overland, with policemen, to meet
the _Wolverine_ there, and at once to capture their man.
They waited and waited a weary time. Six months flew by, nine months, a
year; still she came not, and at last she was classed among the ships
that ne'er return.
Reginald Grahame will never be seen again--so thought the 'tecs--"Till
the sea gives up the dead."
CHAPTER SEVEN.
BUYING THE BONNIE THINGS.
To say that Annie was not now in grief would be wrong. Still hope told
a flattering tale. And that tale sufficed to keep her heart up.
He must have been wrecked somewhere, but had she not prayed night and
day for him? Yes, he was safe--must be. Heaven would protect him.
Prayers are heard, and he _would_ return safe and sound, to defy his
enemies and his slanderers as well.
Fletcher had been received back into favour. Somewhat penurious he was
known to be, but so kind and gentle a man as he could never kill. Had
she not seen him remove a worm from the garden path lest it might be
trodden upon by some incautious foot?
He kept her hopes up, too, and assured her that he believed as she did,
that all would come right in the end. If everybody else believed that
the _Wolverine_ was a doomed ship, poor Annie didn't.
There came many visitors to the Hall, young and middle-aged, and more
than one made love to Annie. She turned a deaf ear to all. But now an
event occurred that for a time banished some of the gloom that hung
around Bilberry Hall.
About two months before this, one morning, after old Laird McLeod had
had breakfast, Shufflin' Sandie begged for an audience.
"Most certainly," said McLeod. "Show the honest fellow in."
So in marched Sandie, bonnet in hand, and determined on this occasion to
speak the very best English he could muster.
"Well, Sandie?"
"Well, Laird. I think if a man has to break the ice, he'd better do it
at once and have done with it. Eh? What think _you_?"
"That's right, Sandie."
"Well, would you believe that a creature like me could possibly fall in
love over the ears, and have a longing to get married?"
"Why not, Sandie? I don't think you so bad-looking as some other folks
call you."
Sandie smiled and took a pinch.
"Not to beat about the bush, then, Laird, I'm just awfully gone on
Fanny."
"And does she return your affection?"
"That she does, sir; and sitting on a green bank near the forest one
bonnie moonlit night, she promised to be my wife. You wouldn't turn me
away, would you, sir, if I got married?"
"No, no; you have been a faithful servant for many a day."
"Well, now, Laird, here comes the bit. I want to build a bit housie on
the knoll, close by the forest, just a but and a ben and a kennel. Then
I would breed terriers, and make a bit out of that. Fanny would see to
them while I did your work. But man, Laird, I've scraped and scraped,
and saved and saved, and I've hardly got enough yet to begin life with."
"How much do you need?"
"Oh, Laird, thirty pounds would make Fanny and me as happy as a duke and
duchess."
"Sandie, I'll lend it to you. I'll take no interest. And if you're
able some time to pay it back, just do it. That will show you are as
honest as I believe you are."
The tears sprang, or seemed to spring, to Sandie's eyes, and he had to
take another big noseful of snuff to hide his emotions.
"May the Lord bless ye, Laird! I'll just run over now and tell Fanny."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It does not take so long to build a Highland cot as it would to erect a
Crystal Palace, and in three weeks' time Shufflin' Sandie's house was
complete and furnished. He had even laid out a garden or kail-yard, and
planted a few suitable trees. Then, when another month had passed away,
Sandie once more sought audience of the good Laird, and formally begged
for Fanny's hand.
Next the wedding-day was settled, and the minister's services
requisitioned. And one day Shufflin' Sandie set off for Aberdeen by
train to buy the "bonnie things," as they are termed.
Perhaps there are no more beautiful streets in Great Britain than Union
Street and King Street, especially as seen by moonlight. They then look
as if built of the whitest and purest of marble. While the beautiful
villas of Rubislaw, with their charming flower-gardens, are of all sorts
of architecture, and almost rival the snow in their sheen.
Fanny was charmed. Strange to say this simple servant lassie had never
been to the city before. It was all a kind of fairyland to her, and,
look wherever she might, things of beauty met her eyes. And the
windows--ah, the windows! She must pull Sandie by the sleeve every
other minute, for she really could not pass a draper's shop nor a
jeweller's without stopping to glance in and admire.
"Oh!" she would cry, "look, look, Sandie, dear, at the chains and the
watches, and the bracelets and diamonds and pearls. Surely all the gold
in Ophir is there!"
One particularly well-dressed window--it was a ladies' drapery shop--
almost startled her. She drew back and blushed a little as her eyes
fell on a full-length figure of a lady in fashionable array.
"Oh, Sandie, is she living?"
"De'il a living?" said Sandie. "Her body's timber, and her face and
hands are made out of cobbler's wax. That's how living she is."
"But what a splendid dress! And yonder is another. Surely Solomon in
all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!"
"Well, Fanny, lassie, beautiful though this shop be, it is a pretty
cheap one, so we'll buy your marriage dress here."
The shop-walker was very obsequious. "Marriage dress, sir. Certainly,
sir. Third counter down, my lady."
Fanny had never been so addressed before, and she rose several inches in
her own estimation.
"I--that is, she--is needing a marriage dress, missie."
"Ready-made?"
"Ay, that'll do, if it isn't over dear. Grand though we may look in our
Sunday clothes, we're not o'er-burdened with cash; but we're going to be
married for all that."
Sandie chuckled and took snuff, and Fanny blushed, as usual.
"I'm sure I wish you joy," said the girl in black.
"I'm certain ye do. You're a bit bonnie lassie yerself, and some day
ye'll get a man. Ye mind what the song says:
"`Oh, bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,
Ye little know what may betide ye yet;
Some bonnie wee mannie may fa' to your lot,
So ay be canty and thinkin' o't.'"
The girl in black certainly took pleasure in fitting Fanny, and, when
dressed, she took a peep in the tall mirror--well, she didn't know
herself! She was as beautiful as one of the wax figures in the window.
Sandy was dazed. He took snuff, and, scarce knowing what he was doing,
handed the box to the lassie in black who was serving them.
Well, in an hour's time all the bonnie things that could be purchased in
this shop were packed in large pasteboard boxes, and dispatched to the
station waiting-room.
But before sallying forth Sandie and Fanny thought it must be the
correct thing to shake hands with the girl in black, much to her
amusement.
"Good-bye, my lady; good-bye, sir. I hope you were properly served."
This from the shop-walker.
"That we were," said Sandie. "And, man, we'll be married--Fanny and
me--next week. Well, we're to be cried three times in one day from the
pulpit. To save time, ye see. Well, I'll shake hands now, and say
good-day, sir, and may the Lord be ay around you. Good-bye."
"The same to you," said the shop-walker, trying hard to keep from
laughing. "The same to you, sir, and many of them."
There were still a deal of trinkets to be bought, and many gee-gaws, but
above all the marriage ring. Sandie did feel very important as he put
down that ten shillings and sixpence on the counter, and received the
ring in what he called a bonnie wee boxie.
"Me and Fanny here are going to be married," he couldn't help saying.
"I'm sure I wish ye joy, sir, and"--here the shopman glanced at
Fanny--"I envy you, indeed I do."
Sandie must now have a drop of Scotch. Then they had dinner. Sandie
couldn't help calling the waiter "sir," nor Fanny either.
"Hold down your ear, sir," Sandie said, as the waiter was helping him to
Gorgonzola. "We're going to be married, Fanny and I. Cried three times
in one Sunday. What think ye of that?"
Of course, the waiter wished him joy, and Sandie gave him a shilling.
"I hope you'll not be offended, sir, but just drink my health, you
know."
The joys of the day ended up with a visit to the theatre. Fanny was
astonished and delighted.
Oh, what a day that was! Fanny never forgot it. They left by a
midnight train for home, and all the way, whenever Fanny shut her eyes,
everything rose up before her again as natural as life--the charming
streets, the gay windows, and the scenes she had witnessed in the
theatre, and the gay crowds in every street. And so it was in her
dreams, when at last she fell asleep.
But both Fanny and Sandie went about their work next day in their
week-day clothes as quietly as if nothing very extraordinary had
happened, or was going to happen in a few days' time.
Of course, after he had eaten his brose, Sandie must "nip up," as he
phrased it, to have a look at the cottage.
Old Grannie Stewart--she was only ninety-three--was stopping here for
the present, airing it, burning fires in both rooms, for fear the young
folks might catch a chill.
"Ah, grannie!" cried Sandie, "I'm right glad to see you. And look, I've
brought a wee drappie in a flat bottle. Ye must just taste. It'll warm
your dear old heart."
The old lady's eyes glittered.
"Well," she said, "it's not much of that comes my way, laddie. My blood
is not so thick as it used to be. For--would you believe it!--I think
I'm beginnin' to grow auld."
"Nonsense," said Sandie.
Old or young the old dame managed to whip off her drop of Scotch, though
it brought the water to her eyes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
And now all preparations were being made for the coming marriage.
For several days Sandie had to endure much chaff and wordy persecution
from the lads and lasses about his diminutive stature and his uncouth
figure.
Sandie didn't mind. Sandie was happy. Sandie took snuff.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
A SCOTTISH PEASANT'S WEDDING AND A BALL.
Old Laird McLeod had a right good heart of his own, and willingly
permitted the marriage to take place in his drawing-room. There were
very few guests, however.
The grey-haired old minister was there in time to taste the wine of
Scotland before the ceremony began, which, after all, though short, was
very solemn. No reading of prayers. The prayer that was said was from
the heart, not from a book; that sort of prayer which opens Heaven.
A long exhortation followed, hands were joined, the minister laid his
above, and Sandie and Fanny were man and wife. Then the blessing.
I don't know why it was, but Fanny was in tears most of the time.
The marriage took place in the afternoon; and dinner was to follow.
Annie good-naturedly took Fanny to her own room and washed away her
tears.
In due time both sailed down to dinner. And a right jolly dinner it
was, too. Fanny had never seen anything like it before. Of course that
lovely haunch of tender venison was the _piece de resistance_, while an
immense plum-pudding brought up the rear. Dessert was spread, with some
rare wines--including whisky--but Sandie could scarce be prevailed upon
to touch anything. He was almost awed by the presence of the reverend
and aged minister, who tried, whenever he could, to slip in a word or
two about the brevity of life, the eternity that was before them all,
the Judgment Day, and so on, and so forth. But the minister, for all
that, patronised the Highland whisky.
"No, no," he said, waving the port wine away. "`Look not thou upon the
wine when it is red; when it giveth his colour to the cup... at the last
it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.'"
It was observed, however, that as he spoke he filled his glass with
Glenlivet.
Well, I suppose no man need care to look upon the wine when it is red,
if his tumbler be flanked by a bottle of Scotch.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dinner ended, there was the march homeward to Sandie's wee house on
the knoll, pipers first, playing right merrily; Sandie and his bride
arm-in-arm next; then, four deep, lads and lasses gay, to the number of
fifty at least.
And what cheering and laughing as they reached the door. But finally
all departed to prepare for the ball that was to take place later on in
the great barn of Bilberry Hall.
And it was a barn, too!--or, rather, a loft, for it was built partly on
a brae, so that after climbing some steps you found yourself on level
ground, and entered a great door.
Early in the evening, long ere lad and lass came linking to the door,
the band had taken their places on an elevated platform at one side of,
but in the middle of, the hall.
The floor was swept and chalked, the walls all around densely decorated
with evergreens, Scotch pine and spruce and heather galore, with here
and there hanging lamps.
Boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now
and then, amazed and curious. To them, too, the tuning of the
musicians' fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls.
How they did long, to be sure, for the opening time.
As the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the Aberdeen "sweetie"
wives scent a peasant's ball. And these had already assembled to the
number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of
sweets. These would be all sold before morning. These sweetie wives
were not young by any means--save one or two--
"But withered beldames, auld and droll,
Rig-woodie hags would spean a foal."
They really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps
with flapping borders.
A half-hour goes slowly past. The band is getting impatient. A sweet
wee band it is--three small fiddles, a 'cello, a double bass, and
clarionet. The master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the
wine of the country. Then the leader gives a signal, and they strike
into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as "Auld Robin Grey,"
"The Flowers o' the Forest," "Donald," etc, enough to draw tears from
anyone's eyes.
But now, hurrah! in sails Fanny with Shufflin' Sandie on her arm,
looking as bright as a new brass button. There is a special seat for
them, and for the Laird, Annie, and the quality generally, at the far
end of the hall--a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and
draped with McLeod tartan. Here they take their seats. There is a row
of seats all round the hall and close to the walls.
And now crowd in the Highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in
white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their
breasts and shoulders. Very beautiful many look, with complexions such
as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as
they whisper to each other and smile.
As each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a
seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are
seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads
really infinitely more shy than the lasses.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now Laird McLeod slowly rises. There is a hush now, and all eyes are
turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man.
"Ladies and gentlemen all," he says, "I trust you will enjoy a really
happy evening, and I am sure it will be an innocent one. `Youth's the
season made for joy.' I have only to add that the bridegroom himself
will open the ball with a hornpipe."
A deafening cheer rang out, the musicians struck up that inimitable
College Hornpipe, and next moment, arrayed in his best clothes,
Shufflin' Sandie was in the middle of the floor. He waited, bowing to
the McLeod and the ballroom generally, till the first measure was
played. Then surely never did man-o'-war sailor dance as Sandie danced!
His legs seemed in two or three places at one time, and so quickly did
he move that scarce could they be seen. He seemed, indeed, to have as
many limbs as a daddy-long-legs. He shuffled, he tripled and
double-tripled, while the cracking of his thumbs sounded for all the
world like a nigger's performance with the bones. Then every wild,
merry "Hooch!" brought down the house. Such laughing and clapping of
hands few have ever heard before. Sandie's uncouth little figure and
droll face added to the merriment, and when he had finished there was a
general cry of "Encore!" Sandie danced another step or two, then bowed,
took a huge pinch of snuff, and retired.
But the ball was not quite opened yet. A foursome reel was next danced
by the bride and Annie herself, with as partners Shufflin' Sandie and
McLeod's nephew, a handsome young fellow from Aberdeen. It was the Reel
of Tulloch, and, danced in character, there is not much to beat it.
Then came a cry of "Fill the floor!" and every lad rushed across the
hall for his partner. The ball was now indeed begun. And so, with
dance after dance, it went on for hours:
"Lads and lassies in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France;
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels
Put life and mettle in their heels."
Sandie hardly missed a dance. He was indeed the life and soul of the
ballroom.
The sweetie wives were almost sold out already, for every Jock must
treat his own Jeannie, or the other fellow's Jeannie, to bags and
handfuls of sweets. And the prettier the girl was the more she
received, till she was fain to hand them over to her less good-looking
sisters.
But at midnight there came a lull--a lull for refreshments.
White-aproned servants staggered in with bread, butter, and cheese, and
bucketfuls of strong whisky punch.
There was less reserve now. The lads had their lasses at either side of
the hall, and for the most part on their knees. Even the girls must
taste the punch, and the lads drank heartily--not one mugful each, but
three! Nevertheless, they felt like giants refreshed.
"And now the fun grew fast and furious"--and still more so when, arrayed
in all the tartan glory of the Highland dress, two stalwart pipers
stalked in to relieve the band, grand men and athletes!
"They screwed their pipes and made them skirl,
Till roofs and rafters all did dirl.
The pipers loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew."
But at two o'clock again came a lull; more biscuits, more
bread-and-cheese, and many more buckets of toddy or punch. And during
this lull, accompanied by the violins, Sandie sang the grand old
love-song called "The Rose of Allandale." It was duly appreciated, and
Sandie was applauded to the "ring of the bonnet," as he himself phrased
it.
Then Annie herself was led to the front by her uncle. Everyone was
silent and seemingly dazzled by her rare but childlike beauty.
Her song was "Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming." Perhaps few were near
enough to see, but the tears were in the girl's eyes, and almost
streaming over more than once before she had finished.
And now McLeod and his party took their leave, Sandie and his bride
following close behind.
The ball continued after this, however, till nearly daylight in the
morning. Then "Bob at the Booster"--a kind of kiss-in-the-ring dance--
brought matters to a close, and, wrapped in plaids and shawls, the
couples filed away to their homes, over the fields and through the
heather.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Next day Shufflin' Sandie was working away among his horses as quietly
and contentedly as if he had not been married at all yesterday, or spent
the evening in a ballroom.
Before, however, leaving his little cottage by the wood, he had
dutifully made his wife a cup of tea, and commanded her to rest for
hours before turning out to cook their humble dinner. And dutifully she
obeyed.
The Laird and Sandie came to an arrangement that same forenoon as to how
much work he was to do for him and how much for himself.
"Indeed, sir," he told McLeod, "I'll just get on the same as I did
before I got the wife. My kail-yard's but small as yet, and it'll be
little trouble to dig and rake in the evening."
"Very well, Sandie. Help yourself to a glass there."
Sandie needed no second bidding. He was somewhat of an enthusiast as
far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as
regarded the wine of "poor auld Scotland."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nearly three years passed away. The ship had not returned. She never
would, nor could.
CHAPTER NINE.
A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.
Nearly three years! What a long, lonesome time it had been for Annie!
Yet she still had somewhat of hope--at times, that is.
Her cousin, Mr Beale, from the city, had spent his holiday very
delightfully at Bilberry Hall; he had gone shooting, and fishing also,
with Annie; yet, much though he admired her, and could have loved her,
he treated her with the greatest respect, condoled with her in her
sorrow, and behaved just like a brother to her.
Her somewhat elderly lover was different. Lover he was yet, though now
fifty and three years of age, but fatherly and kind to a degree.
"We all have griefs to bear in this world, Annie dear," he said once.
"They are burdens God sends us to try our patience. But your sorrow
must soon be over. Do you know, dear, that it is almost sinful to
grieve so long for the dead?"
"Dead!" cried Annie. "Who knows, or can tell?"
"Oh, darling, I can no longer conceal it from you. Perhaps I should
have told you a year ago. Here is the newspaper. Here is the very
paragraph. The figurehead of the unfortunate _Wolverine_ and one of her
boats have been picked up in the midst of the Pacific Ocean, and there
can remain no doubt in the mind of anyone that she foundered with all
hands. The insurance has been paid."
Annie sat dumb for a time--dumb and dry-eyed. She could not weep much,
though tears would have relieved her. She found voice at last.
"The Lord's will be done," she said, simply but earnestly.
Laird Fletcher said no more _then_. But he certainly was very far from
giving up hope of eventually leading Annie to the altar.
And now the poor sorrowing lassie had given up all hope. She was, like
most Scotch girls of her standing in society, pious. She had learnt to
pray at her mother's knee, and, when mother and father were taken away,
at her uncle's. And now she consoled herself thus.
"Dear uncle," she said, "poor Reginald is dead; but I shall meet him in
a better world than this."
"I trust so, darling."
"And do you know, uncle, that now, as it is all over, I am almost
relieved. A terrible charge hung over him, and oh! although my very
soul cries out aloud that he was not guilty, the evidence might have led
him to a death of shame. And I too should have died."
"You must keep up your heart. Come, I am going to Paris for a few weeks
with friend Fletcher, and you too must come. Needn't take more than
your travelling and evening dresses," he added. "We'll see plenty of
pretty things in the gay city."
So it was arranged. So it was carried out. They went by steamer, this
mode of travelling being easier for the old Highlander.
Fletcher and McLeod combined their forces in order to give poor Annie "a
real good time," as brother Jonathan would say. And it must be
confessed at the end of the time, when they had seen everything and gone
everywhere, Annie was calmer and happier than she ever remembered being
for years and years, and on their return from Paris she settled down
once more to her old work and her old ways.
But the doctor advised more company, so she either visited some friends,
or had friends to visit her, almost every night.
Old Laird McLeod delighted in music, and if he did sit in his easy-chair
with eyes shut and hands clasped in front of him, he was not asleep, but
listening.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
How little do we know when evil is about to befall us!
It was one lovely day in spring. Annie had kissed her uncle on his
bald, shining head, and gone off to gather wildflowers, chaperoned by
Jeannie, her maid, and accompanied by Laird Fletcher. This man was a
naturalist--not a mere classifier. He did not fill cases with beetles
or moths, give them Latin names, and imagine that was all. He knew the
life story and habits of almost every flower and tree, and every
creature that crept, crawled, or flew.
So he made just the kind of companion for Annie that she delighted in.
When he found himself thus giving her pleasure he felt hopeful--nay,
sure--that in the end his suit would be successful.
It was indeed a beautiful morning. Soft and balmy winds sighing through
the dark pine tree tops, a sky of moving clouds, with many a rift of
darkest blue between, birds singing on the bonnie silver birches, their
wild, glad notes sounding from every copse, the linnet on the yellow
patches of whins or gorse that hugged the ground and perfumed the air
for many a yard around, and the wild pigeon murmuring his notes of love
in every thicket of spruce. Rare and beautiful wildflowers everywhere,
such as never grow in England, for every country has its own sweet
flora.
The little party returned a few minutes before one o'clock, not only
happy, but hungry too. To her great alarm Annie found her uncle still
sitting on his chair, but seemingly in a stupor of grief. Near his
chair lay a foolscap letter.
"Oh, uncle dear, are you ill?"
"No, no, child. Don't be alarmed; it has pleased God to change our
fortunes, that is all, and I have been praying and trying hard to say
`Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven,'--I cannot yet. I may
ere long."
But Annie was truly alarmed. She picked up the lawyer's letter and read
it twice over ere she spoke. And her bonnie face grew ghastly pale now.
"Oh, uncle dear," she said at last, "what does this mean? Tell me, tell
me."
"It means, my child, that we are paupers in comparison to the state in
which we have lived for many years. That this mansion and grounds are
no longer our own, that I must sell horses and hounds and retire to some
small cottage on the outskirts of the city--that is all."
"Cheer up, uncle," said Annie, sitting down on his knee with an arm
round his neck, as she used to do when a child. "You still have me, and
I have you. If we can but keep Jeannie we may be happy yet, despite all
that fate can do."
"God bless you, my child! You have indeed been a comfort to me. But
for you, I'd care nothing for poverty. I may live for ten years and
more yet, to the age of my people and clansmen, but as contentedly in a
cottage as in a castle. God has seen fit to afflict us, but in His
mercy He will temper the wind to the shorn lamb."
Luncheon was brought in, but neither McLeod nor his niece did much
justice to it. The weather, however, remained bright and clear, and as
the two went out to the beautiful arbour and seated themselves, they
could hear the birds--mavis, chaffinch, and blackie--singing their wild,
ringing lilts, as if there was no such thing as sorrow in all this wide
and beautiful world.
"Uncle," said Annie at last, "tell me the sad story. I can bear it
now."
"Then, dear, I shall, but must be very brief. I love not to linger over
sorrow and tribulation. The young fellow Francis Robertson, then, who
now lays claim to the estate, is, to tell the honest truth, a _roue_ and
a blackguard from the Australian diggings. He is but twenty-two. Even
when a boy he was rough and wild, and at fifteen he was sentenced to six
years' imprisonment for shooting a man at the gold diggings. He has but
recently come out of gaol and found solicitors in Australia and here to
take up the cudgels for him. His father disappeared long, long ago, and
I, not knowing that, before his death, he had married, and had one son,
succeeded to this estate. But, ah me! the crash has come."
"But may this young fellow not be an impostor?"
"Nay, child, nay. You see what the letter says: that if I go to law I
can only lose; but that if I trouble and tire Robertson with a lawsuit
he will insist upon back rents being paid up. No," he added, after a
pause, "he is fair enough. He may be good enough, too, though
passionate. Many a wild and bloody scene is enacted at the diggings,
but in this case the police seem to have been wonderfully sharp. Ah,
well; he will be here to-morrow, and we will see."
That was an anxious and sleepless night for poor Annie. In vain did her
maid try to sing her off into dreamland. She tossed and dozed all night
long.
Then came the eventful day. And at twelve o'clock came young Francis
Robertson, with a party of witnesses from Australia.
McLeod could tell him at once to be the heir. He was the express image
of his dead father.
The Laird and his solicitor, hastily summoned from Aberdeen, saw them
alone in the drawing-room, only Annie being there. Robertson was tall,
handsome, and even gentlemanly. The witnesses were examined. Their
testimony under oath was calm, clear, and to the point. Not a question
they did not answer correctly. The certificate of birth, too, was
clear, and succinct. There were no longer any doubts about anything.
Then Laird McLeod--laird now, alas! only by courtesy--retired with his
advocate to another room to consult.
Said the advocate: "My dear Laird, this is a sad affair; but are you
convinced that this young fellow is the rightful owner?"
"He is, as sure as yonder sun is shining."
"And so am I convinced," said the advocate. "Then there must be no
lawsuit?"
"No, none."
"That is right. At your age a long and troublesome lawsuit would kill
you."
"Then, my dear Duncan," said Laird McLeod, "look out for a pretty
cottage for me at once."
"I will do everything for you, and I know of the very place you want--a
charming small villa on the beautiful Rubislaw Road. Choose the things
you want. Have a sale and get rid of the others. Keep up your heart,
and all will yet be well. But we must act expeditiously."
And so they did. And in a fortnight's time all was settled, and the
little villa furnished.
Till the day of the sale Francis Robertson was a guest at the Hall.
Now I must state a somewhat curious, but not altogether rare,
occurrence. The young man, who really might be rash, but was not
bad-hearted, sought audience of the Laird on the very day before the
sale.
"My dear uncle," he said, "I would rather you did not leave. Be as you
were before. I will occupy but a small portion of the house. Stay with
me."
"Francis Robertson," replied McLeod, "we _go_. I'll be no man's guest
in a house that once was mine."
"Be it so, sir. But I have something further to add."
"Speak on."
"From the first moment I saw her I fell in love with Miss Annie Lane.
Will you give me her hand?"
"Have you spoken to herself?"
"I have not dared to." McLeod at once rang the bell and summoned Annie,
his niece.
"Annie, dear, this gentleman, your relation, says he loves you, and asks
for your hand. Think you that you could love him?"
Annie drew herself haughtily up. She said but one word, a decisive and
emphatic one: "_No_."
"You have had your answer," said McLeod. Francis bowed and went
somewhat mournfully away.
CHAPTER TEN.
"WHAT MUST BE MUST--'TIS FATE."
The old Laird McLeod possessed that true Christian feeling which we so
rarely see displayed in this age, and as he left the door of the old
mansion where he had lived so long and so happily he held out his hand
to Francis.
"God bless you, lad, anyhow. Be good, and you'll prosper."
"The wicked prosper," said Francis.
"All artificial, lad, and only for a time. Never can they be said to be
truly happy."
"Good-bye--or rather, _au revoir_."
"_Au revoir_."
Then the old man clambered slowly into the carriage. Poor Annie was
already there. She cast just one longing, lingering look behind, then
burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. But the day was beautiful,
the trees arrayed in the tender tints of spring, while high above,
against a fleecy cloud, she could see a laverock (lark), though she
could not hear it. But his body was quivering, and eke his wings, with
the joy that he could not control. Woods on every side, and to the
right the bonnie winding Dee, its wavelets sparkling in the sunshine.
Everything was happy; why should not she be? So she dried her tears,
and while her uncle dozed she took her favourite author from her
satchel, and was soon absorbed in his poems.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After they had settled down in McLeod Cottage, as the snow-white pretty
villa had now been called, I do believe that they were happier than when
in the grand old mansion, with all its worries and work and trouble.
They were not very well off financially, that was all.
But it was a new pleasure for Annie and her maid to do shopping along
Union Street the beautiful, and even round the quaint old New Market.
She used to return happy and exultant, to show her uncle the bargains
she had made.
One night Annie had an inspiration. She was a good musician on piano
and zither. Why not give lessons?
She would. Nor was she very long in finding a pupil or two. This added
considerably to the fund for household expenditure. But nevertheless
the proud old Highlander McLeod thought it was somewhat _infra
dignitate_. But he bore with this because it seemed to give happiness
to the child, as he still continued to call her.
So things went on. And so much rest did the Laird now have that for a
time, at least, his life seemed all one happy dream. They soon made
friends, too, with their neighbours, and along the street wherever Annie
went she was known, for she was always followed by a grand and noble
dog, a Great Dane, as faithful and as true as any animal could well be.
One evening she and Jeannie, her maid, were walking along a lovely
tree-shaded lane, just as the beams of the setting sun were glimmering
crimson through the leafy grandeur of the great elms. For some purpose
of his own the dog was in an adjoining field, when suddenly, at the bend
of the road, they were accosted by a gigantic and ragged tramp, who
demanded money on the pain of death. Both girls shrieked, and suddenly,
like a shell from a great gun, darted the dog from the hedge, and next
moment that tramp was on his back, his ragged neckerchief and still more
ragged waistcoat were torn from his body, and but for Annie his throat
would have been pulled open.
But while Jeannie trembled, Annie showed herself a true McLeod, though
her name was Lane. She called the dog away; then she quickly possessed
herself of the tramp's cudgel. Annie was not tall, but she was strong
and determined.
"Get up at once," she cried, "and march back with us. If you make the
least attempt to escape, that noble dog shall tear your windpipe out!"
Very sulkily the tramp obeyed.
"I'm clean copped. Confound your beast of a dog!"
Within a few yards of her own door they met a policeman, who on hearing
of the assault speedily marched the prisoner off to gaol.
When she related the adventure to her uncle he was delighted beyond
measure, and must needs bless her and kiss her.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
They had parted with the carriage. Needs must where poverty and the
devil drives! But they still had a little phaeton, and in this the old
man and his niece enjoyed many a delightful drive. He would take her to
concerts, too, and to the theatre also, so that, on the whole, life was
by no means a galling load to anyone.
But a very frequent visitor at McLeod Cottage was Laird Fletcher. Not
only so, but he took the old man and Annie frequently out by train. His
carriage would be waiting at the station, and in this they drove away to
his beautiful home.
The house itself was modern, but the grounds, under the sweet joy of
June, looked beautiful indeed. It was at some considerable distance
from the main road, and so in the gardens all was delightfully still,
save for the music of happy song-birds or the purr of the turtle-dove,
sounding low from the spreading cedars.
"A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky.
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh;
But whate'er smacked of 'noyance or unrest
Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest."
Through these lovely rose-gardens and tree-shaded lawns frequently now
wandered Annie, alone with Fletcher. He was so gentle, winning, and
true that she had come to like him. Mind, I say nothing of love. And
she innocently and frankly told him so as they sat together in a natural
bower beneath a spreading deodar cedar. He was happy, but he would not
risk his chance by being too precipitate.
Another day in the same arbour, after a moment or two of silence, she
said: "Oh, I wish you were my uncle!" Fletcher winced a little, but
summoned up courage to say:
"Ah, Annie, could we not be united by a dearer tie than that? Believe
me, I love you more than life itself. Whether that life be long or
short depends upon you, Annie."
But she only bent her head and cried, childlike.
"Ah, Mr Fletcher," she said at last, "I have no heart to give away. It
lies at the bottom of the sea."
"But love would come."
"We will go to the house now, I think," and she rose.
Fletcher, poor fellow, silently, almost broken-heartedly, followed, and,
of course, the Great Dane was there.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
That night she told her uncle all. He said not a word. She told her
maid in the bedroom.
"Oh, Miss Annie," said Jeanie, "I think you are very, very foolish. You
refuse to marry this honest and faithful man, but your mourning will
not, cannot restore the dead. Reginald Grahame is happier, a thousand,
million times more happy, than anyone can ever be on this earth.
Besides, dear, there is another way of looking at the matter. Your poor
Uncle McLeod is miles and miles from the pines, from the heath and the
heather. He may not complain, but the artificial life of a city is
telling on him. What a quiet and delightful life he would have at Laird
Fletcher's!"
Annie was dumb. She was thinking. Should she sacrifice her young life
for the sake of her dear uncle? Ah, well, what did life signify to her
now? _He_ was dead and gone.
Thus she spoke:
"You do not think my uncle is ill, Jeannie?"
"I do not say he is _ill_, but I do say that he feels his present life
irksome at times, and you may not have him long, Miss Annie. Now go to
sleep like a baby and dream of it."
And I think Annie cried herself asleep that night.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"It becomes not a maiden descended from the noble clan McLeod to be
otherwise than brave," she told herself next morning. "Oh, for dear
uncle's sake I feel I could--" But she said no more to herself just
then.
Fletcher called that very day, and took them away again to his bonnie
Highland home. It was a day that angels would have delighted in. And
just on that same seat beneath the same green-branched cedar Fletcher
renewed his wooing. But he, this time, alluded to the artificial city
life that the old Laird had to lead, he who never before during his old
age had been out of sight of the waving pines and the bonnie blooming
heather.
Fletcher was very eloquent to-day. Love makes one so. Yet his wooing
was strangely like that of Auld Robin Grey, especially when he finished
plaintively, appealingly, with the words:
"Oh, Annie, for his sake will you not marry me?"
Annie o' the Banks o' Dee wept just a little, then she wiped her tears
away. He took her hand, and she half-whispered: "What must be
_must_--'tis fate."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE "WOLVERINE" PUTS OUT TO SEA.
With the exception of the _Sunbeam_, probably no more handsome steam
yacht ever left Southampton Harbour than the _Wolverine_. She was all
that a sailor's fancy could paint.
Quite a crowd of people were on the quay to witness her departure on her
very long and venturesome cruise. Venturesome for this reason, that,
though rigged as a steam barque, she was but little over four hundred
tons register.
Seamen on shore, as they glanced at her from stem to stem, alow and
aloft, criticised her freely. But Jack's opinion was on the whole well
embodied in a sentence spoken by a man-o'-wars-man, as he hitched up his
nether garments and turned his quid in his mouth:
"My eyes, Bill and Elizabeth Martin, she is a natty little craft! I've
been trying to find a flaw in her, or a hole, so to speak, but there's
ne'er a one, Bill--above water, anyhow. Without the steam she reminds
me of the old Aberdeen clippers. Look at her bilge, her lines, her
bows, her jibboom, with its smart and business-like curve. Ah, Bill,
how different to sail in a yacht like that from living cooped up in a
blooming iron tank, as we are in our newest-fashioned man-o'-war
teakettles! Heigho! Blowed if I wouldn't like to go on board of her!
Why, here is the doctor--splendid young fellow!--coming along the pier
now. I'll overhaul him and hail him. Come on, Bill!"
Reginald Grahame was coming somewhat slowly towards them. It was just a
day or two before the discovery of Craig Nicol's murder and the finding
of his body in the wood.
Reginald was thinking of Bilberry Hall and Annie o' the Banks o' Dee.
Sorrow was depicted in every lineament of his handsome but mobile and
somewhat nervous countenance. Was he thinking also of the cold, stiff
body of his quondam friend Craig, hidden there under the dark spruce
trees, the tell-tale knife beside him? Who can say what the innermost
workings of his mind were? Some of the most bloodthirsty pirates of old
were the handsomest men that ever trod the deck of a ship. We can judge
no man's heart from his countenance. And no woman's either. There be
she-devils who bear the sweet and winning features of saints. Our
Scottish Queen Mary was beautiful, and as graceful as beautiful.
"If to her share some human errors fall,
Look in her face, and you'll forget them all."
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir," said Jack, touching his hat and scraping a
bit, like a horse with a loose shoe, "we're only just two blooming
bluejackets, but we've been a-admiring of your craft--outside like.
D'ye think, sir, they'd let us on board for a squint?"
"Come with me, my lads. I'll take you on board."
Next minute, in company with Reginald--who was now called _Dr._--
Grahame, they were walking the ivory-white decks. Those two honest
man-o'-war sailors were delighted beyond measure with all they saw.
"Why," said Jack--he was chief spokesman, for Bill was mute--"why,
doctor, you have _sailors_ on board!--and mind you, sir, you don't find
real sailors nowadays anywhere else except in the merchant service. We
bluejackets are just like our ships--fighting machines. We ain't hearts
of oak any longer, sir."
"No," said the doctor, "but you are hearts of iron. Ha! here comes the
postman, with a letter for me, too. Thank you, postie."
He gave him sixpence, and tore the letter open, his hand shaking
somewhat. Yes, it was from Annie. He simply hurriedly scanned it at
present, but he heaved a sigh of relief as he placed it in his bosom.
Then he rejoined the bluejackets.
"Well, sir, we won't hinder you. I see you've got the Blue Peter up.
But never did I see cleaner white decks; every rope's end coiled, too.
The capstan itself is a thing o' beauty; all the brasswork looks like
gold, all the polished woodwork like ebony; and, blow me, Bill, just
look at that binnacle! Blest if it wouldn't be a beautiful ornament for
a young lady's boodwar (boudoir)! Well, sir, we wishes you a pleasant,
happy voyage and a safe return. God bless you, says Jack, and
good-bye."
"Good-bye to you, lads; and when you go to war, may you send the foe to
the bottom of the ocean. There,"--he handed Jack a coin as he
spoke--"drink _bon voyage_ to us."
"Ah, that will we!"
The sailors once more scraped and bowed, and Reginald hurried below to
read Annie's letter. It was just a lover's letter--just such a letter
as many of my readers have had in their day--so I need not describe it.
Reginald sat in his little cabin--it was only six feet square--with his
elbow leaning on his bunk, his hand under his chin, thinking, thinking,
thinking. Then an idea struck him. The skipper of the yacht--called
"captain" by courtesy--and Reginald were already the best of friends.
Indeed, Dickson--for that was his name--was but six or seven years older
than Reginald.
"Rat-tat-tat!" at the captain's door. His cabin was pretty large, and
right astern, on what in a frigate would be called "the fighting deck."
This cabin was of course right abaft the main saloon, and had a private
staircase, or companion, that led to the upper deck.
"Hullo, doctor, my boy!"
"Well, just call me Grahame, _mon ami_."
"If you'll call me Dickson, that'll square it."
"Well, then, Dickson, I'm terribly anxious to get out and away to sea.
If not soon, I feel I may run off--back to my lady love. When do we
sail for sure?"
The captain got up and tapped the glass.
"Our passengers come on board this afternoon, bag and baggage, and
to-morrow morning early we loose off, and steam out to sea--if it be a
day on which gulls can fly."
"Thanks, a thousand times. And now I won't hinder you."
"Have a drop of rum before you go, and take a cigar with you."
Reginald's heart needed keeping up, so he did both.
"When I am on the sea," he said, "I shall feel more happy. Ay, but
Annie, I never can forget you."
More cheerily now, he walked briskly off to the hotel to meet his
patients. There were two, Mr and Mrs Hall, wealthy Americans;
besides, there were, as before mentioned, Miss Hall and the child Matty.
They were all very glad to see Reginald.
"You are very young," said Mr Hall, offering him a cigar.
"I think," he answered, "I am very fit and fresh, and you will find me
very attentive."
"I'm sure of it," said Mrs Hall.
Little Matty took his hand shyly between her own two tiny ones.
"And Matty's su'e too," she said, looking up into his face.
They say that American children are thirteen years of age when born. I
know they are precocious, and I like them all the better for it. This
child was very winning, very pert and pretty, but less chubby, and more
intellectual-looking than most British children. For the life of him
Reginald could not help lifting her high above his head and kissing her
wee red lips as he lowered her into his arms.
"You and I are going to be good friends always, aren't we?"
"Oh, yes, doc," she answered gaily; "and of torse the dleat (great) big,
big dog."
"Yes, and you may ride round the decks on him sometimes."
Matty clapped her hands with joy.
"What a boo'ful moustache you has!" she said.
"You little flatterer!" he replied, as he set her down. "Ah! you have
all a woman's wiles."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Everything was on board, and the _Wolverine_ was ready to sail that
night. But the captain must go on shore to see his friends and bid them
adieu first.
The night closed in early, but the sky was studded with stars, and a
three-days'-old moon shone high in the west like a scimitar of gold.
This gave Reginald heart. Still, it might blow big guns before morning,
and although he sat up pretty late, to be initiated by Mr Hall into the
game of poker, he went often to the glass and tapped it. The glass was
steadily and moderately high. Reginald turned into his bunk at last,
but slept but little, and that little was dream-perturbed.
Early in the morning he was awakened by the roar of steam getting up.
His heart leaped for joy. It is at best a wearisome thing, this being
idle in harbour before sailing.
But at earliest dawn there was much shouting and giving of orders; the
men running fore and aft on deck; other men on shore casting off
hawsers. Then the great screw began slowly to churn up the murky water
astern. The captain himself was on the bridge, the man at the wheel
standing by to obey his slightest command.
And so the _Wolverine_ departed, with many a cheer from the shore--ay,
and many a blessing.
As she went out they passed a man-o'-war, in which the captain had many
friends. Early as it was, the commander had the band up, and sweetly
across the water came the music of that dear old song I myself have
often heard, when standing out to sea, "Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye."
By eventide they were standing well down towards the Bay of Biscay,
which they would leave on their port quarter. They would merely skirt
it, bearing up for Madeira. But a delightful breeze had sprung up; the
white sails were set, and she was running before it, right saucily, too,
bobbing and curtseying to each rippling wavelet very prettily, as much
as to say: "Ah! you dear old sea, we have been together before now. You
will never lose your temper with me, will you?" It is well, indeed,
that sailors do not know what is before them.
The dinner-hour was seven. Mr and Mrs Hall were seated on chairs on
the quarter-deck. Neither was over-well, but Ilda and Reginald were
pacing briskly up and down the quarter-deck, chatting pleasantly. I
think, though, that Ilda had more to say than he. American girls are
born that way.
Wee Matty was making love to Oscar, the splendid and good-natured
Newfoundland. Nobody more happy than bonnie Matty, bonnie and gay, for
her happiness, indeed, was a species of merry madness. Only no one
could have heard her childish, gleesome and silvery laugh without
laughing with her.
The bell at last! Reginald took Ilda down below, then hurried on deck
to help his patients. Matty and Oscar seemed to come tumbling down.
And so the evening passed away, the stars once more glittering like
crystal gems, the great star Sirius shining in ever-changing rays of
crimson and blue.
It was indeed a goodly night, and Reginald slept to-night. The incubus
Love had fled away.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
"I SAY, CAP," SAID MR HALL, "I SHOULD MAROON A FELLOW LIKE THAT!"
While the whole countryside--ay, and the Granite City itself--were
thrilled with awe and horror at the brutal murder of poor unoffending
Craig Nicol, the _Wolverine_ was making her way on the wings of a
delightful ten-knot breeze to the Isle of Madeira.
Reginald had ascertained that there was nothing very serious the matter
with Mr and Mrs Hall. They were run down, however, very much with the
gaieties of Paris and London, to say nothing of New York, and thought
rightly that a long sea voyage would be the best thing to restore them.
Madeira at last! The beach, with its boulders or round sea-smoothed
stones, was a difficult one to land upon. The waves or breakers hurled
these stones forward with a hurtling sound that could be heard miles and
miles away, then as quickly sucked them back again. Nevertheless, the
boat was safely beached, and there were men with willing hands and broad
shoulder to carry Mr and Mrs Hall and daughter safely on to dry land.
Reginald was sure of foot, and lifting Matty in his arms as she crowed
with delight, he bore her safe on shore. The great Newfoundland
despised a boat, and hardly was she well off the yacht ere he leaped
overboard with a splash. And he also landed, shaking himself free of
gallons of water, which made rainbows and halos around him. He drenched
his master pretty severely. But it was a fine joke to Oscar, so,
grinning and laughing as only this breed can, he went tearing along the
beach and back again at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. When he did
come back, he licked his master's hand and little Matty's face.
"Nothing like a good race," he seemed to say, "to set the blood in
motion after a long bath."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
While the party sit in the piazza of a beautiful tree-shaded hotel,
sipping iced sherbet, let me say a word about the nature of the
_Wolverine's_ voyage.
The yacht did not belong to the Halls. She was lent them for the cruise
round the Horn to the South Pacific, and many a beautiful island they
meant to visit, and see many a strange and wondrous sight. For hitherto
all their travelling experiences had been confined to Europe. But your
true American wants to see all the world when he can afford it.
It was health the Halls were in search of, combined with pleasure if
possible; but they meant to collect all the curios they could get, and
they also felt certain--so Mrs Hall said--that they would find the
South Sea savages very interesting persons indeed.
So have I myself found them, especially when their spears were whisking
over my boat and they were dancing in warlike frenzy on the beach. In
such cases, however, a shot or two from a good revolver has a
wonderfully persuasive and calmative effect on even Somali Indians.
We British have called Scotland and England an isle of beauty, but I
question very much if it can cope with Madeira. Here not only have we
splendid mountains, clad in all the beauty of tropical and sub-tropical
shrubs and trees, tremendous cliffs and gorges, raging torrents and
cataracts, with many a bosky dell, lovely even as those birchen glades
in Scotia, but in this heavenly isle there is the sunshine that
overspreads all and sparkles on the sea. And that sea, too!--who could
describe the splendour of its blue on a calm day, patched here and there
towards the shore with browns, seagreens, and opals? No wonder that
after making several visits and picnics in shore and high among the
mountains, borne there by sturdy Portuguese in hammocks, Mrs Hall
should declare that she felt better already.
It was with some reluctance that Mr Hall ordered the anchor to be got
up at last, and all sail made for the Canaries. Near sunset was it when
they sailed slowly away, a sunset of indescribable beauty. A great grey
misty bank of cloud was hanging many degrees above the mountains, but
beneath it was more clear and streaked with long trailing cloudlets of
crimson, light yellow, and purple, the rifts between being of the
deepest sea-green. But over the hills hung a shadow or mist of smoky
blue.
Then descended the sun, sinking in the waters far to the west, a ball of
crimson fire with a pathway of blood 'twixt the horizon and the yacht.
Then night fell, with but a brief twilight. There was going to be a
change, however. The mate, a sturdy, red-faced, weather-beaten, but
comely fellow, sought the captain's cabin and reported a rapidly-falling
glass, and the gradual obliteration of the stars, that erst had shone so
sweetly.
How swiftly comes a squall at times in these seas! A huge bank of
blackest darkness was seen rapidly advancing towards the ship, and
before sail could be taken in or steam got up she was in the grasp of
that merciless demon squall.
For a minute or two she fled before it and the terrible waves, quivering
the while from stem to stern like a dying deer.
Then high above the roaring of the wind, and booming and hissing of the
waves, great guns were heard. It seemed so, at least, but it was but
the bursting of the bellying sails, and platoon-firing next, as the rent
ribbons of canvas crackled and rattled in the gale.
To lie to was impossible now. With the little sail they had left they
must fly on and on. Men staggered about trying to batten down, but for
a time in vain.
Then came a huge pooping wave, that all but swept the decks. It smashed
the bulwarks, it carried away a boat, and, alas! one poor fellow found a
watery grave. He must have been killed before being swept overboard.
Anyhow, he was seen no more. Everything movable was carried forward
with tremendous force. Even the winch was unshipped, and stood partly
on end.
The man at the wheel and the men battening down were carried away on the
current, but though several were badly bruised, they were otherwise
unhurt. Sturdy Captain Dickson had rushed to the wheel, else would the
_Wolverine_ have broached to and sunk in a few minutes.
The water had poured down the companions like cataracts, and it drowned
out the half-lit fires. Mr Hall and party had shut themselves up in
their state-rooms, but everything in the saloon was floating in water
two feet deep.
However, this storm passed away almost as quickly as it had come, and
once more the seas calmed down, and sky and waters became brightly,
ineffably blue. The ship was baled out, and, as the wind had now gone
down, fires were got up, and the _Wolverine_ steamed away for the
Canaries and the marvellous Peak of Teneriffe.
But poor Bill Stevens's death had cast a general gloom throughout the
ship. He was a great favourite fore and aft, always merry, always
laughing or singing, and a right good sailor as well.
So next morning, when red and rosy the sun rose over the sea, orders
were sent forward for the men to "lay aft" at nine o'clock for prayers.
Then it was "wash and scrub decks, polish the wood, and shine the
brasswork."
Right rapidly did the sun dry the decks, so that when Mrs Hall, who had
received a bad shock, was helped on deck by Reginald, everything 'twixt
fo'c'sle and wheel looked clean and nice. The winch had not been badly
damaged, and was soon set to rights.
I should not forget to mention that the only one not really alarmed
during the terrible black Squall was that busy, merry wee body Matty.
When she saw the cataract of waters coming surging in, she speedily
mounted the table. The fiddles had been put on, and to these she held
fast; and she told Reginald all this next morning, adding, "And, oh,
doc, it was so nice--dust (just) like a swinging-rope!"
But she had had a companion; for, after swimming several times round the
table, as if in search of dry land, the beautiful dog clambered up on
the table beside Matty. To be sure, he shook himself, but Matty shut
her eyes, and wiped her face, and on the whole was very glad of his
company.
How solemn was that prayer of Mr Hall for the dead. Granted that he
was what is so foolishly called "a Dissenter" in England, his heart was
in the right place, and he prayed right from that Even his slight nasal
twang in no way detracted from the solemnity of that prayer. Ilda Hall
had her handkerchief to her face, but poor little cabin-boy Ralph
Williams wept audibly. For the drowned sailor had ever been kind to
him.
The captain was certainly a gentleman, and an excellent sailor, but he
had sea ways with him, and now he ordered the main-brace to be spliced;
so all the Jacks on board soon forgot their grief.
"His body has gone to Davy Jones," said one, "but his soul has gone
aloft."
"Amen," said others.
They stayed at Orotava long enough to see the sights, and Reginald
himself and a sailor got high up the peak. He was on board in time for
dinner, but confessed to being tired. He had not forgotten to bring a
splendid basket of fruit with him, however, nor wildflowers rich and
rare.
A long lonely voyage was now before them--south-west and away to Rio de
Janeiro--so ere long everyone on board had settled quietly down to a sea
life.
I must mention here that it was the first mate that had chosen the crew.
He had done so somewhat hastily, I fear, and when I say that there were
two or three Spaniards among them, and more than one Finn, need I add
that the devil was there also?
One Finn in particular I must mention. He was tall to awkwardness.
Somewhat ungainly all over, but his countenance was altogether
forbidding. He had an ugly beard, that grew only on his throat, but
curled up over his chin--certainly not adding to his beauty.
Christian Norman was his name; his temper was vile, and more than once
had he floored poor boy Williams, and even cut his head. He smoked as
often as he had the chance, and would have drunk himself to
insensibility if supplied with vile alcohol.
"I don't like him," said the captain one evening at dinner.
"Nor I," said Reginald.
"I say, cap," said Mr Hall, "I'd maroon a fellow like that! If you
don't, mark my words, he will give us trouble yet."
And he did, as the sequel will show.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
THE BREAKDOWN--SAVAGES!
Captain Dickson was just as kind to Norman, the Finn, as he was to
anyone else. Perhaps more so. Not that he dreaded him. Dickson would
have shot him with as little compunction as shooting a panther had he
given him even a mutinous answer. But he often let him have double
allowance of rum. "You're a big man," he would say; "you need a little
more than the little ones."
Norman would smile grimly, but swallow it. He would even buy the men's,
for he seemed to have plenty of money. When half-seas-over Norman would
swagger and rant and sing, and with little provocation he would have
fought. The other Finns and the Spaniard, besides an Englishman or two,
always took Norman's side in an argument.
So things went on until Rio was reached. What a splendid harbour--ships
of all nations here; what a romantic city as seen from the sea, and the
surroundings how romantic, rivalling even Edinburgh itself in beauty!
It was early summer here, too. They had left autumn and the coming
winter far away in the dreary north. I shall make no attempt to
describe the floral grandeur of the country here. I have done so
before. But not only Reginald, but all the Halls, and Matty as well,
were able to walk round and admire the tropical vegetation and the
gorgeous flowers in the gardens; and in the town itself the fish-market
and fruit-market were duly wondered at, for everything was new and
strange to the visitors.
Further out into the country they drove all among the peaked and
marvellous mountains and the foliaged glens, and Matty, who sat on
Reginald's knee, clapped her hands with delight to see the wee, wee
humming-birds buzzing from flower to flower "like chips of rainbows," as
Ilda phrased it, and the great butterflies as big as fans that floated
in seeming idleness here, there, and everywhere.
A whole week was spent here, and every day afforded fresh enjoyments.
But they must sail away at last. The captain had half-thought of
leaving the Finn Norman here, but the man seemed to have turned over a
new leaf, so he relented.
South now, with still a little west in it. The good ship encountered
more bad weather. Yet so taut and true was she, and so strong withal,
that with the exception of the waves that dashed inboards--some of them
great green seas that rolled aft like breakers on a stormy beach--she
never leaked a pint.
Captain Dickson and his mate paid good attention to the glass, and never
failed to shorten sail and even batten down in time, and before the
approach of danger.
But all went well and the ship kept healthy. Indeed, hardly was there a
sick man among the crew. Little Matty was the life and soul of the
yacht. Surely never on board ship before was there such a merry little
child! Had anyone been in the saloon as early as four, or even three,
bells in the morning watch, they might have heard her lightsome laugh
proceeding from her maid's cabin; for Matty was usually awake long
before the break of day, and it is to be presumed that Maggie, the maid,
got little sleep or rest after that.
Reginald used to be on deck at seven bells, and it was not long before
he was joined by Matty. Prettily dressed the wee thing was, in white,
with ribbons of blue or crimson, her bonnie hair trailing over her back
just as wild and free as she herself was.
Then up would come Oscar, the great Newfoundland. Hitherto it might
have been all babyish love-making between Reginald and Matty.
"I loves 'oo," she told him one morning, "and when I'se old eno' I'se
doin' (going) to mally 'oo."
Reginald kissed her and set her down on the deck.
But the advent of the grand dog altered matters considerably. He came
on deck with a dash and a spring, laughing, apparently, all down both
sides.
"You can't catch me," he would say, or appear to say, to Matty.
"I tan tatch 'oo, twick!" she would cry, and off went the dog forward at
the gallop, Matty, screaming with laughter, taking up the running,
though far in the rear.
Smaller dogs on board ship are content to carry and toss and play with a
wooden marlin-spike. Oscar despised so puny an object. He would not
have felt it in his huge mouth. But he helped himself to a capstan bar,
and that is of great length and very heavy. Nevertheless, he would not
drop it, and there was honest pride in his beaming eye as he swung off
with it. He had to hold his head high to balance it. But round and
round the decks he flew, and if a sailor happened to cross his hawse the
bar went whack! across his shins or knees, and he was left rubbing and
lamenting.
Matty tried to take all sorts of cross-cuts between the masts or boats
that lay upside down on the deck, but all in vain. But Oscar would tire
at last, and let the child catch him.
"Now I'se tatched 'oo fairly!" she would cry, seizing him by the shaggy
mane.
Oscar was very serious now, and licked the child's cheek and ear in the
most affectionate manner, well knowing she was but a baby.
"Woa, horsie, woa!" It was all she could do to scramble up and on to
Oscar's broad back. Stride-legs she rode, but sometimes, by way of
practical joke, after she had mounted the dog would suddenly sit down,
and away slid Matty, falling on her back, laughing and sprawling, all
legs and arms, white teeth, and merry, twinkling eyes of blue.
"Mind," she would tell Oscar, after getting up from deck and preparing
to remount, "if 'oo sits down adain, 'oo shall be whipped and put into
the black hole till the bow-mannie (an evil spirit) tomes and takes 'oo
away!"
Oscar would now ride solemnly aft, 'bout ship and forward as far as the
fo'c's'le, and so round and round the deck a dozen times at least.
When dog and child were tired of playing together, the dog went in
search of breakfast down below, to the cook's galley. There was always
the stockpot, and as every man-jack loved the faithful fellow he didn't
come badly off.
But even Norman the Finn was a favourite of Matty's, and he loved the
child. She would run to him of a morning, when his tall form appeared
emerging from the fore-hatch. He used to set her on the capstan, from
which she could easily mount astride on his shoulders, grasping his hair
to steady herself.
How she laughed and crowed, to be sure, as he went capering round the
deck, sometimes pretending to rear and jib, like a very wicked horse
indeed, sometimes actually bucking, which only made Matty laugh the
more.
Ring, ding, ding!--the breakfast bell; and the child was landed on the
capstan once more and taken down--now by her devoted sweetheart,
Reginald Grahame.
The ship was well found. Certainly they had not much fresh meat, but
tinned was excellent, and when a sea-bank was anywhere near, as known
from the colour of the water, Dickson called away a boat and all hands,
and had fish for two days at least. Fowls and piggies were kept
forward. Well, on the whole she was a very happy ship, till trouble
came at last.
It was Mr Hall's wish to go round the stormy and usually ice-bound
Horn. The cold he felt certain would brace up both himself and his
wife. But he wished to see something of the romantic scenery of
Magellan's Straits first, and the wild and savage grandeur of Tierra del
Fuego, or the Land of Fire. They did so, bearing far to the south for
this purpose.
The weather was sunny and pleasant, the sky blue by day and star-studded
by night, while high above shone that wondrous constellation called the
Southern Cross. Indeed, all the stars seemed different from what they
were used to in their own far northern land.
Now, there dwells in this fierce land a race of the most implacable
savages on earth. Little is known of them except that they are
cannibals, and that their hands are against everyone. But they live
almost entirely in boats, and never hesitate to attack a sailing ship if
in distress.
Hall and Dickson were standing well abaft on the quarter-deck smoking
huge cigars, Mr Hall doing the "yarning," Dickson doing the laughing,
when suddenly a harsh grating sound caused both to start and listen.
Next minute the vessel had stopped. There she lay, not a great way off
the shore, in a calm and placid sea, with not as much wind as would lift
a feather, "As idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean."
In a few minutes' time the Scotch engineer, looking rather pale, came
hurrying aft.
"Well, Mr McDonald, what is the extent of the damage? Shaft broken?"
"Oh, no, sir, and I think that myself and men can put it all to rights
in four days, if not sooner, and she'll be just as strong as ever."
"Thank you, Mr McDonald; so set to work as soon as possible, for mind
you, we are lying here becalmed off an ugly coast. The yacht would make
very nice pickings for these Land of Fire savages."
"Yes, I know, sir; and so would we."
And the worthy engineer departed, with a grim smile on his face. He
came back in a few minutes to beg for the loan of a hand or two.
"Choose your men, my good fellow, and take as many as you please."
Both Hall and Dickson watched the shore with some degree of anxiety. It
was evident that the yacht was being swept perilously near to it. The
tide had begun to flow, too, and this made matters worse. Nor could
anyone tell what shoal water might lie ahead of them.
There was only one thing to be done, and Dickson did it. He called away
every boat, and by means of hawsers to each the _Wolverine_ was finally
moved further away by nearly a mile.
The sailors were now recalled, and the boats hoisted. The men were
thoroughly exhausted, so the doctor begged the captain to splice the
main-brace, and soon the stewardess was seen marching forward with
"Black Jack." Black Jack wasn't a man, nor a boy either, but simply a
huge can with a spout to it, that held half a gallon of rum at the very
least.
The men began to sing after this, for your true sailor never neglects an
opportunity of being merry when he can. Some of them could sing
charmingly, and they were accompanied by the carpenter on his violin.
That grand old song, "The Bay of Biscay," as given by a bass-voiced
sailor, was delightful to listen to. As the notes rose and fell one
seemed to hear the shrieking of the wind in the rigging, the wild
turmoil of the dashing waters, and the deep rolling of the thunder that
shook the doomed ship from stem to stern.
"Hullo?" cried Hall, looking shorewards. "See yonder--a little black
fleet of canoes, their crews like devils incarnate!"
"Ha!" said Dickson. "Come they in peace or come they in war, we shall
be ready. Lay aft here, lads. Get your rifles. Load with ball
cartridge, and get our two little guns ready and loaded with grape."
The savages were indeed coming on as swift as the wind, with wild shouts
and cries, meant perhaps only to hurry the paddle-men, but startling
enough in all conscience.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS.
Hardly a heart on board that did not throb with anxiety, if not with
fear, as that fiendish-looking cannibal fleet drew swiftly nigh. Armed
with bows and arrows and spears were they, and Dickson could see also
the glitter of ugly creases in the bottom of each canoe. Not tall men
were any of them; all nearly naked, however, broad-shouldered, fierce,
and grim.
The yacht was now stern on to the shore, but at a safe distance.
Nevertheless, by the soundings they could tell that the water just here
was not so deep as that further in; so both anchors were let go, the
chains rattling like platoon-firing as these safeguards sank to the
bottom.
There was no fear about Matty. To the astonishment of all she had
clambered up into the dinghy that hung from davits abaft the binnacle.
"Hillo!" she was shouting, as she waved a wee red flag. "Hillo! 'oo
bootiful neglos! Tome twick, Matty wants to buy some-fink!"
These dark boats and their savage crews were soon swarming round the
_Wolverine_, but they had come to barter skins for tobacco, rum, and
bread, not to fight, it seemed.
Peaceful enough they appeared in all conscience. Yet Dickson would not
permit them to board. But both he and Hall made splendid deals. A
dozen boxes of matches bought half-a-dozen splendid and well-cured otter
skins, worth much fine gold; tobacco bought beautiful large guanaca
skins; bread fetched foxes' skins and those of the tuen-tuen, a charming
little rodent; skins, also well-cured, of owls, hawks, rock-rabbits, and
those of many a beautiful sea-bird.
The barter, or nicker, as the Yankee called it, pleased both sides, and
the savages left rejoicing, all the more so in that, although the
skipper would give them no rum to carry away with them, he spliced a
kind of savage main-brace, and everyone swallowed a glass of that rosy
fluid as a baby swallows its mother's milk.
"The moon will be shining to-night, Hall," said the captain, "and we'll
have a visit from these fire-fiends of another description. Glad we
have got her anchored, anyhow."
Soon after sunset the moon sailed majestically through the little fleecy
clouds lying low on the horizon. She soon lost her rosy hue, and then
one could have seen to pick up pins and needles on the quarter-deck.
She made an immense silver triangular track from ship to shore. Matty
was then on deck with Oscar, both merry as ever. But Reginald now took
her in his arms and carried her below for bed. Both Dickson and Hall
went below to console and hearten the ladies.
"Those fire savages will pay us a visit," said Hall, "but you are not to
be afraid. We will wipe them off the face of the creation world. Won't
we, skipper?"
"That will we!" nodded Dickson.
But neither Mrs Hall nor Ilda could be persuaded to retire. If a
battle was to be fought they would sit with fear and trembling till all
was over.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Out from under the dark shadows of the terrible snow-peaked mountain,
that fell far over the water, just before eight bells in the first
watch--the midnight hour--crept a fleet of canoes, silently--oh, so
silently! But presently they got into that track of moonlit sea, so
that they could be counted. Thirteen! Ominous number--but ominous for
whom?
In twenty minutes the plash of the paddles could be distinctly heard,
and the warriors could be seen, armed with spear and bow and deadly
crease.
"Standoff! Standoff!"
It was a shout from Dickson.
But it was answered by a wilder shout of defiance and rage, and a cloud
of arrows flew inboards.
"Now then, lads!" cried the captain, "give them fits! Quick is the
word!"
The six-pounder Armstrong was trained on the foremost boat, with
terrible effect. "Bang!" went the gun. Heavens! what a sight! No less
than three canoes went down, with the dead and the shrieking wounded.
The others but sped onwards the faster, however. A rifle volley now.
Then the other gun was fired almost straight down among them, with awful
results so far as the savages were concerned.
Hall was coolly emptying his revolvers as soon as his fingers could fill
them. Had it been daylight his practice would have been better; as it
was, there was nothing to be ashamed of.
But now the canoes were close under the ship's bows and sides. They
would attempt to board.
They did, and partly succeeded, cutting through the netting easily with
their knives. The sailors fought like true British tars, repelling the
fiends with revolvers, with the butts of their rifles, and smashing many
a chest and skull even with capstan bars. The officers defended the
bows.
No less than six savages managed to get inboards. The Newfoundland was
slightly wounded; then he was like a wild beast. He downed one savage,
and, horrible to say, seizing him by the windpipe, drew it clean away
from the lungs. The others were seen to by the sailors, and their
bodies tossed overboard.
The fire-fiends had had enough of it, and prepared to retire. Grape was
once more brought to bear on them, and two more canoes were sunk.
The loss to the _Wolverine_ was one man killed and three wounded, but
not severely. As long as a canoe was visible, a determined rifle fire
was kept up, and many must have fallen.
When Hall and Reginald went below to report the victory, they found the
ladies somewhat nervous, and there was little Matty on the table-top,
barefooted and in her night-dress. The strange little Yankee maiden
wouldn't stop in her state-room, and even when the battle was raging
fiercest she had actually tried to reach the deck!
Then Oscar came down, laughing and gasping, and Matty quickly lowered
herself down to hug her darling horsie, as she called him.
"Oh, look, auntie!" she cried, after she had thrown her little arms
around his great neck and kissed him over and over again, "my pinny is
all bluggy!"
The night-dress was indeed "bluggy," for poor Oscar had an ugly spear
wound in his shoulder. But the doctor soon stitched it, the faithful
fellow never even wincing. Then he licked the doctors red hands and
Matty's ear, and then went off on deck to bed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Next morning broke bright and crisp and clear, but it was cold, for
autumn reigned in this dreary land. Once more a service for the dead,
and as the body sank into the deep the poor sailor's messmates turned
sadly away, and more than one brought his arm to bear across his eyes.
As another attack was to be feared, it was determined to punish the
islanders--to carry the war on shore, in fact--and so the four large
boats were called away, only a few men being left on board to defend the
ship. The guns were too heavy to take, but every man had a rifle, two
revolvers and a cutlass.
For so small a vessel, the _Wolverine_ was heavily manned, for from the
beginning Captain Dickson had expected grim fighting.
This attack was more than the natives had calculated on. They did not
stand the onset an instant, but fled from their village helter-skelter
to the almost inaccessible mountains beyond, dropping their spears and
bows to accelerate their flight. But the fire which was poured on them
was a withering one, and brought many to the ground.
Emboldened by their success, Hall, with Dickson and his brave fellows,
made a journey of several miles into the interior. The mountains were
everywhere rugged and stern, and covered on their summits with snow that
no doubt was perpetual.
But in the valleys beneath, which were quite uninhabited except by wild
beasts and birds, were beautiful forests of dark waving cypresses, lofty
pines, and beeches, their leaves tinted now with rose and yellow. Very
silent and solemn were these woods; but for the savages that even now
might be hidden in their dark depths, they seemed to woo one to that
peace that only a forest can give.
A stream was meandering through the valley here, and many a glad fish
leaped up from the pools, his scales shining like a rainbow in the
sunlight.
All haste was now made to regain the shore, where but a few sailors had
been left to guard the boats. Only just in time, for the savages were
gathering for another attack, and coming down the hillsides in streams.
A hot volley or two dispersed them, however, and they once more hid
behind the rocks.
Here in the village was evidence that these fire-fiends had been sitting
down to a terrible feast of roasted human flesh! Doubtless they had
killed the wounded and cooked them. It is a terrible thing to think of,
but I have proof that a woman will eat of the dead body of either
husband or brother, and the children too will ravenously partake. I
dare not tell in a story like this the horrors of savage life that I
have witnessed. I wish to interest, but not to horrify, my readers.
This village was probably one of the largest in the islands which
constitute the Tierra del Fuego group. It consisted of nearly nine
hundred huts in all, some well-built and comparatively comfortable.
First and foremost it was looted, a large cargo of precious skins being
secured. Some bows and arrows, spears, etc, were taken as curios; then,
just as the sun was sinking red behind the sea, every hut and house was
fired.
The blaze was tremendous; and back to the ship, by means of its light,
the boats were steered. A breeze having sprung up increased the
magnificence of the conflagration, and the sparks, like showers of
golden snow, were carried far inland and up the mountain sides.
No wonder that Matty was clapping her wee hands and crowing with delight
at the beauty of the "bonfire," as she called it.
Happy indeed were the adventurers when the breeze waxed steadier and
stronger. It blew from the west, too. The anchors were quickly
hoisted, the ship's head turned to the east, and before two days had
fled she had wormed her way out once more into the open ocean. The
engines had by this time been repaired, but were not now needed, for the
breeze, though abeam, was steady, and good progress was made.
A few days more, and the wind having died down, clear sky by day,
star-studded at night, and with sharp frost, the _Wolverine_ was once
more under steam and forcing her way round the storm-tormented Horn.
For the waves are ofttimes houses high here when no wind is blowing, and
they break and toss their white spray far over the green and glittering
sides of the snow-clad bergs.
"And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold;
And ice mast-high came floating by,
As green as emerald.
"The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around;
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound."
But at this time a greater danger than that from the ice was
threatening, for Norman the Finn was hatching mutiny. Verily a curse
seemed to follow the ship wherever she went.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
MUTINY--THE COMING STORM.
Nobody would have credited Williams, the cabin-boy, with very much
'cuteness. We never know the hidden depths of even a young lad's mind.
The Finn Norman had in his two countrymen and in the Spaniards five men
willing to do anything. To put it plainly, for gold they would use
their knives against their dearest friends, and rejoice in it too.
Norman had not only a body of fearful physical strength, but a winning
and persuasive tongue, and he wheedled over no less than three
Englishmen, or rather Scotsmen, to join his forces.
Late one night a half-whispered conversation was held near to the winch.
The Finn had been here before--that is, up in the South Pacific--and he
could guide them to an island of gold. And what was it that gold could
not purchase in this world? he added. "Everyone of you shall be
wealthy. We shall then scrape the vessel from stem to stern, alter her
name and rigging, and after loading up with gold, sail for distant
Australia. There we shall sell the ship and, going to the diggings for
a time, to avoid suspicion, will in a few months return to Sidney or
Melbourne as lucky miners. Then hurrah for home!"
"We will join," said the Scotsman, "on one condition."
"And that is?"
"There must be no murder."
"Your request is granted. We will rise suddenly, batten down the men
below, then rushing aft we shall secure the officers in the saloon. The
vessel will then be ours. But we shall maroon the men on the nearest
land, with biscuits and a few arms. The women will be best on board,"
he grinned.
"Bah!" said a Spaniard, drawing his ugly knife. "Let us throat them.
Dead men tell no tales, you know. Take my advice."
But the marooning was finally decided on, and the mutineers retired to
their bunks or to their duty.
Little did they know that the cabin-boy, with listening ears, though
almost frightened out of his life, was hiding behind the winch and had
heard every word they had said.
As soon as it was possible he escaped, and going at once aft, he
reported in a frightened whisper all the details of the terrible plot.
"Horrible!" said Dickson.
"Strikes me," said Hall, "that there must be a Jonah on board, or a
murderer. Let us draw for him, putting all names in a hat, and then
lynch the fellow!"
"If," said Dickson, "there be a murderer on board, the fellow is that
Finn."
"Seize the scoundrel at once, then," cried Hall, "and throw him to the
sharks or put him in irons."
"No, I'll wait, and Williams shall be our spy."
Nearly all the mutineers were in the same watch, only one good man and
true being among them. Norman played his game well. He knew that if
suspected at all, they would be watched by night, so he chose broad
daylight for the awful _denouement_. While the men were below at
dinner, those in the cabin all having luncheon, then Norman suddenly
gave the preconcerted signal.
The hatches were thrown on in a moment, and screwed down by two men,
while the main band rushed aft and secured the saloon door.
"If you value your lives in there," savagely shouted the Finn down
through the skylight, as that too was being fastened securely down,
"you'll keep quiet."
Hall had both his revolvers out in a trice, and fired; but the skylights
were closed, and no harm or good was done.
Next the mutineers threw open the fore-hatch, and at pistol point
ordered every man into the half-deck cabin abaft the galley and abaft
the sailors' sleeping bunks.
"I'll shoot the first man dead," cried Norman, "who does not look
active!"
The communication door was then secured, and all was deemed safe. They
would bear north now, and make for the nearest island.
The rum store was near the foot of the stair, or companion, and close to
the stewardess's pantry. The key hung there, so more than a gallon of
rum was got up and taken forward.
The engineers were told that if they did not crack on, they would be had
on deck and made to walk the plank.
The Finn had not meant that any orgie should take place; but take place
it did, and a fearful one too. The man at the wheel kept on for fear of
death, and so did the engineers.
By twelve o'clock, or eight bells, in the first watch, the fellows were
helplessly drunk and lying about in the galley in all directions.
Little Williams, the cabin-boy, had been overlooked. Wise he was
indeed, for now he very quietly hauled on the fore-hatch--ay, and
screwed it down. Then he went quickly aft and succeeded in releasing
the officers. The men were next set free, and the door between secured
aft.
In ten minutes' time every mutineer in the ship was in irons. Surely no
mutiny was ever before quelled in so speedy and bloodless a manner!
"I knew," said Hall, "that we had a Jonah on board, and that Jonah is
the double-dyed villain Christian Norman. Say, Captain Dickson, is it
going to be a hanging match?"
"I am almost tempted to hang the ringleader," replied Dickson, "but this
would be far too tragical, especially with ladies on board. Remember
that, be his heart what it may, there is just one little good spot in
his character. He dearly loved little Matty, and she loved him."
"Well, sir, what are you going to do about it? I'd like to know that."
"This. I cannot pardon any single one of these villains. The Scotsmen,
indeed, are worse in a manner of speaking than the Finns or cowardly
Spaniards. I shall mete out to them the same punishment, though in a
lesser degree, that they would have meted out to us. Not on the
inhospitable snow-clad shores of the Tierra del Fuego islands shall they
be placed, but on the most solitary isle I can find in some of the South
Pacific groups."
Now things went on more pleasantly for a time. The prisoners were not
only in leg-irons, but manacled, and with sentries placed over them
watch and watch by night and by day. These men had orders to shoot at
once any man who made the slightest attempt to escape.
It was about a week after this, the _Wolverine_ had safely rounded the
stormy Cape, and was now in the broad Pacific. A sailor of the name of
Robertson had just gone on sentry, when, without a word of warning,
Norman the Finn suddenly raised himself to his feet and felled him with
his manacled hands. The strength of the fellow was enormous. But the
ring of a rifle was heard next minute, and Norman fell on his face, shot
through the heart.
He was thrown overboard that same evening with scant ceremony.
"I feel happier now," said Hall, "that even our Jonah is no more. Now
shall our voyage be more lucky and pleasant."
Ah! but was it?
The _Wolverine_ was purposely kept well out of the ordinary track of
ships coming or going from either China or Australia. And luck or not
luck, after ten days' steaming westward and north, they sighted an
island unknown to the navigator, unknown to any chart. It was small,
but cocoa-nuts waved from the summit of its lofty hills.
Here, at all events, there must be fruit in abundance, with probably
edible rodents, and fish in the sea. And here the mutineers were
marooned. Not without fishing gear were they left, nor without a small
supply of biscuits, and just three fowling pieces and ammunition, with
some axes and carpenter's tools.
They deserved a worse fate, but Dickson was kind at heart.
Well, at any rate, they pass out of our story. On that island they
probably are until this day.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Everyone on the _Wolverine_ seemed to breathe more freely now, and the
vessel was once more headed eastwards to regain her direct route to
California and San Francisco.
For a whole week the breeze blew so pleasantly and steadily that fires
were bunked and all sail set. The very ship herself seemed to have
regained cheerfulness and confidence, and to go dancing over the sunlit
sea, under her white wing-like studding sails, as if she were of a
verity a thing of life. Those on board soon forgot all their trials and
misery. The mutineers were themselves forgotten. Matty and Oscar (who
had recovered from his spear wound) resumed their romps on deck, and
surely never did sea-going yacht look more snug and clean than did the
_Wolverine_ at this time.
She was still far out of the usual track of ships, however, though now
bearing more to the nor'ard. So far north were they, indeed, that the
twilight at morn or even was very short indeed. In the tropics, it is
not figurative language, but fact, to say that, the red sun seemed to
leap from behind the clear horizon. But a few minutes before this one
might have seen, high in the east, purple streaks of clouds, changing
quickly to crimson or scarlet, then the sun, like a huge blood orange,
dyeing the rippling sea.
At night the descent was just as sudden, but my pen would fail did I try
to describe the evanescent beauty of those glorious sunsets.
Light and sunshine are ever lovely; so is colour; but here was light and
colour co-mingled in a transformation scene so grand, so vast, that it
struck the heart of the beholder with a species of wonder not unmixed
with awe. And the beholders were usually silent. Then all night long
in the west played the silent lightning, bringing into shape and form
many a rock-like, tower-like cloud. It was behind these clouds of the
night that this tropical lightning played and danced and shimmered.
Then at times they came into a sea of phosphorescent light. It was seen
all around, but brighter where the vessel raised ripples along the
quarter. It dropped like fire from her bows, ay, and even great fishes
could be seen--sharks in all probability--sinking down, down, down into
the sea's dark depths, like fishes of fire, till at last they were
visible only like little balls of light, speedily to be extinguished.
About this latitude flying gurnets leapt on board by the score on some
nights, and a delightful addition indeed did they prove to the matutinal
_menu_. Sometimes a huge octopus would be seen in the phosphorescent
sea. It is the devil-fish of the tropics, and, with his awful head and
arms, so abhorrent and nightmarish was the sight that it could not be
beheld without a shudder.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Pacific Ocean! Yes, truly, very often pacific enough; so much so
that with ordinary luck one might sail across its waters in a dinghy
boat. But there are times when some portions of it are swept by
terrific circular storms. Ah! happy is the ship that, overtaken by one
of these, can manage to keep well out and away from its vortex.
One evening the sun went down amidst a chaos of dark and threatening
clouds, from which thunder was occasionally heard like the sound of
distant artillery, but muttering, and more prolonged. The glass went
tumbling down. Captain Dickson had never seen it so low. The wind too
had failed, and before sunset the sea lay all around them, a greasy
glitter on its surface like mercury, with here and there the fin of a
basking shark appearing on the surface. Even the air was stifling,
sickening almost, as if the foetus of the ocean's slimy depths had been
stirred up and risen to the surface.
All sail was speedily taken in, and by the aid of oil, the fires were
quickly roaring hot beneath the boilers.
Higher and higher rose that bank of clouds, darkening the sky. Then--
"The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire flags sheen;
To and fro they were hurried about,
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
SHIPWRECK--THE WHITE QUEEN OF THE ISLE OF FLOWERS.
To and fro, to and fro, on the quarter-deck walked the imperturbable
Yankee, Mr Hall, quietly pulling at his huge cigar. He had seen the
ladies, and had told them straight that it was to be a fearful storm,
and now he would wait to see what Fate had in store for them.
But more impatient far was Captain Dickson. Would steam never be got
up? He had an idea which way the storm would come, and he wanted to
steam southwards, and as much out of its track as possible.
At last the steam begins to roar, and now the screw revolves, and the
good ship cleaves its way through the darkness of sky and sea. Dickson
is somewhat relieved. He puts two men to the wheel, and sailors lash
them to it. Well Dickson knows that the storm will be a fearful one.
Who is this fluttering up along the deck? A little dot all in white--
nothing on but a night-dress. Matty, of course.
"I lunned away," she explained, "and tomed (came up) to see the
lightnin's flash."
"Oh, my darling!" cried Reginald, "you must come with me at once!"
He picked the little fairy up, and quickly had her safely below again.
The men were busy battening down when he returned to deck. Here and
there along the bulwarks loose ropes were left that the men, if needful,
might lash themselves to the rigging.
But now the rain began to come down, first in scattered drops, then in a
hot and awful torrent. Louder and louder roared the thunder, brighter
and still more vivid flashed the lightning. The thunder-claps followed
the lightning so quickly that Dickson knew it was very near.
"Lash yourselves, lads!" the skipper roared through the
speaking-trumpet. "She is coming!"
Ah! come she did. And no shoreman can ever tell what the vehemence of a
circular hurricane like this sweeping across the ocean is like in
strength and vehemence.
Dickson had just time to shout, "The first shock will be the strongest,
boys," when the terrible storm burst upon the doomed ship with a
violence indescribable, and a noise like a hundred great guns fired at
once.
Thrown at first almost on her beam-ends, she soon righted, and now she
was tossed about like a cork. High up on a mighty wave at one moment,
down in a dark gulf the next. The foam of the breaking waters and the
incessant lightning was the only light they had, and in this glare the
faces of the crew looked blue and ghastly.
Bravely did the men stick to the wheel. Hall himself had gone early
below to comfort the ladies. Yet, although the waves and spray were
making a clean breach over the ship, luckily she was well battened down,
and it was dry below. The seas that tumbled inboard were hot and
seething.
Mr Hall prevailed upon his wife and daughter to lie down on the
lockers, or couches, and to these he did his best to lash them; but so
great was the uncertain motion, that he had to clutch with one hand to
the table while he did so.
The air down below was as hot as the waters on deck; hot and sulphurous,
so that the perspiration stood on the brows of all below. It was indeed
a fearful storm.
But it lulled at last, though two men had been called to their account--
swept overboard in the clutches of a great green sea.
It lulled; but the intensity of the pitchy darkness still continued. It
was no longer a circular storm, but a gale, settling down to less than
half a gale towards the commencement of the morning watch. But the
binnacle had been washed away, and the men were steering only by blind
chance.
Just as daylight, grey and gloomy, began to appear in the east, an awful
tell-tale rasping was heard beneath the keel of the _Wolverine_, and
almost at once two of her masts went by the board.
"Axes, men!" cried Dickson--"axes, and clear away the wreck!"
It was a dangerous and difficult task, with every now and then a huge
sea rushing in from astern, and all but sweeping the decks.
Daylight came in quickly now, though clouds seemingly a mile in depth
obscured the sun, and the horizon was close on board of them all around.
But yonder, looming through the mist, was a coral shore, with huge
rugged, and apparently volcanic, mountains rising behind it. Fearing
she would soon break up, Captain Dickson determined to lower a boat at
all hazards, manned by four of his strongest and best sailors. In this
Hall begged that his wife might go with the maid, and the request was
granted. Mr Hall watched that boat as she rose and fell on the
troubled waters with the greatest anxiety and dread. Suddenly he
staggered and clutched the rigging, and his eyes seemed starting from
his head.
"Oh, my God! my God!" he cried. "My wife! my wife!"
For a bigger wave than any, a huge breaker or bore, in fact came rushing
from seawards and engulfed the unfortunate boat.
And she was never seen, nor anyone who had gone in her. The crew and
poor Mrs Hall, with her maid, now--
"Lie where pearls lie deep,
Yet none o'er their low bed may weep."
Mr Hall was led below by the kind-hearted captain himself, and threw
himself on a couch in an agony of grief. Dickson forced him to take a
large stimulant, and put a man to watch him, fearing he might rush on
deck and pitch himself into the sea.
As to their whereabouts, or the latitude and longitude of that strange,
wild island, Dickson knew nothing. He had many times and oft sailed
these seas, and was certain he had never seen those lofty peaks and
rugged hills before. Although the wind continued, and the keel was
breaking up, although she was fast making water below, he determined to
hang on to her as long as possible, for there was a probability that the
storm might soon die away.
Some of the crew, however, grew impatient at last, and, in spite of
threats, lowered another boat, into which crowded six men.
Alas! they, too, went down before they were many yards from the wreck.
But see these figures now flitting up and down on the coral sands! And,
strangest sight of all, there is among those dusky, almost naked
savages, the tall and commanding figure of a white woman, dressed in
skins. The savages are evidently obeying her slightest behest, for a
queen she is.
With ropes of grass they are stoutly binding together three large
canoes, flanked by outriggers, thus forming a kind of wide raft. Then
these are launched, and right rapidly do the paddles flash and drip and
ply, as the triple craft nears the ship. The raft seems to come through
the seas rather than over them, but busy hands are baling, and, by the
time this strange construction arrives on the lee bow, the canoes are
free of water.
The _Wolverine_ has but few on board her now, only eight men of the
crew, with the officers, little Matty, Hall, and Miss Hall. These
latter are lowered first, with three men. They are safely landed
through the surf, and Dickson can see the strange white woman advance
towards them with outstretched arms.
The raft comes back again, and all on board are now taken off, Captain
Dickson being the last to leave the doomed ship.
Oscar, the grand Newfoundland, prefers to swim. No terrors have the
waves or surf for him, and he is on shore barking joyfully as he races
up and down the beach long before the raft rasps upon the silver sands.
The strange, skin-dressed lady met them. She was English, and dubbed
herself Queen of the Isle of Flowers.
"For ten long years," she told Captain Dickson, "I have been here, and
yours is the first ship I have seen. But come to my house behind the
hills, and I will tell you my strange story later on."
Though drenched to the skin, they all most gladly followed the Queen, up
glens, and by zigzag paths, and over wild hills, till at last they came
to one of the wildest and most beautiful valleys these adventurers had
ever beheld. Now they could understand how the Queen had named it the
Isle of Flowers.
A beautiful stream went meandering through the valley with every species
of tropical or semi-tropical flowering trees it is possible to imagine
growing on its banks. No wonder that Matty, whom Reginald carried in
his strong arms, cried:
"Oh, doc, dear, zis (this) is surely fairyland! Oh, doc, I'se dizzy wi'
beauty!"
"Hurry on," said the Queen; "a keen wind is blowing on this hilltop."
In the midst of a forest of magnolias that scented the air all around,
they found the road that led to the Queen's palace. A long, low
building it was, and seemingly comfortable; but the path that led to it
was bordered on each side with human skulls placed upon poles.
Noticing Dickson's look of horror, she smiled.
"These are the skulls of our enemies--a tribe that in war canoes visited
our island a few years ago, but never found their way back. My people
insisted on placing those horrid relics there. Had I refused my
permission, I should have been deposed, probably even slain."
Into one room she showed the ladies, the officers and few remaining men
into another. Here were couches all around, with comfortable mats of
grass, and on these, tired and weary, everyone lay and many slept, till
their garments were dried in the sun by the Queen's servants.
It was afternoon now, but the wind had lulled, and soon it was night,
clear and starry. The vessel had gone on shore at low tide, but some
time during the middle watch a great wave had lifted her and thrown her
on her beam-ends high up on the coral sands.
Next morning, when Dickson and Reginald went over the hills, after a
hearty breakfast of roast yams and delicious fish, they found that the
sea had receded so far that they could walk around the wreck on the dry
sand.
That day was spent--with the assistance of the Queen's special
servants--in saving from the vessel everything of value, especially
stores, and the ship's instruments.
Casks of rum and flour, casks of beans, and even butter, with nearly all
the bedding and clothes. These latter were spread on the beach to dry.
Inland, to the Queen's mansion, everything else was borne on litters.
But the greatest "save" of all was the arms and ammunition, to say
nothing of tools of every description, and canvas wherewith good tents
might be built later on.
When all was secured that could be secured, and the remainder of the
crew had joined them--
"Men," said Dickson, "let us pray."
Down on the coral strand knelt the shipwrecked men, while, with eyes
streaming with tears, Captain Dickson prayed as perhaps he had never
prayed before, to that Heavenly Father who had spared the lives of those
before him.
The natives stood aside wonderingly, but they listened intently and
earnestly when, led by their captain, the mariners sang a portion of
that beautiful psalm:
"God is our refuge and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore, although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
CRUSOES ON THE ISLAND OF FLOWERS--A THREATENED ARMADA.
For weeks and weeks mourned poor Hall for his wife; for weeks and weeks
mourned he. He was like Rachel weeping for her children, who would not
be comforted "because they were not."
But the anguish of his grief toned down at last. His sorrow was deep
still, but he could listen now to the consolations that Dickson never
forgot to give him morn, noon, and night.
"Ah, well," he said at last, "I shall meet her again in the Bright
Beyond, where farewells are never said, where partings are unknown.
That thought must be my solace."
And this thought did console both him and Ilda, his daughter. As for
Matty, she was too young to know what grief really was, and romped with
Reginald's dog in the Queen's beautiful gardens, just as she had done on
board the unfortunate yacht--now, alas! a yacht no more.
But busy weeks these had been for the shipwrecked mariners. Yet far
from unhappy. They were Crusoes now to all intents and purposes, and
acting like Crusoes, having saved all the interior stores, etc, that
they could, knowing well that the very next storm would not leave a
timber of the poor _Wolverine_. So at every low tide they laboured at
breaking her up. At high tide they worked equally energetically in
building a wooden house on a bit of tableland, that was easy of access,
and could not be reached by a tide, however high.
The house was very strong, for the very best wood in the ship was used.
Moreover, its back was close to the straight and beetling mountain
cliff.
The six men of the crew that were saved worked like New Hollanders, as
sailors say. The house had sturdy doors, and the vessel's windows were
transhipped. But this wooden house did not actually touch the ground,
but was built on two-foot high stone supports. Soot could be strewn
around them, and the white ants thus kept at bay. Stone, or rather
scoria, steps led up to the dwelling, one end of which was to be not
only the sleeping-place of the men, but a kind of recreation-room as
well, for Dickson had succeeded in saving even the piano and violins.
The other room to the right was not so large, but, being furnished from
the saloon of the _Wolverine_, was almost elegant, and when complete was
always decorated and gay with lovely wildflowers. Indeed, all the
flowers here were wild.
The Queen had begged that Miss Hall and wee Matty might sleep at the
palace. This was agreed to; but to luncheon not only they but the Queen
herself came over every fine day, and the days were nearly all fine.
One day a big storm blew and howled around the rocky mountain peaks. It
increased in violence towards evening, and raged all night. Next day
scarcely a timber of the wrecked yacht was to be seen, save a few spars
that the tempest had cast up on the white and coralline beach.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Captain Dickson was far indeed from being selfish, and quite a quantity
of saloon and cabin furniture saved from the wreck was carried on the
backs of the natives over the mountain tracks to the beautiful Valley of
Flowers, to furnish and decorate the house of the Queen.
Her Majesty was delighted, and when her rooms were complete she gave a
great dinner-party, or rather banquet. She had much taste, and the
table was certainly most tastefully decorated. The _menu_ was a small
one. There was fish, however, excellently cooked.
"I taught my cook myself," said her Majesty, smiling.
This was followed by the _piece de resistance_, a roast sucking-pig.
The _entree_ was strange, namely, fillets of a species of iguana lizard.
The huge and terrible-looking iguana lizard, as found on the coast of
Africa, crawling on the trees, is very excellent eating, and so were
these fillets.
But the fruits were the most delicious anyone around the festive board
had ever tasted. There were, strangely enough, not only blushing
pine-apples, but guavas, which eat like strawberries smothered in cream;
mangoes, and many other fragrant fruits no one there could name.
Dickson had supplied the wine, but very little was used. Goats' milk
and excellent coffee supplied its place.
Poor Hall was still a patient of Reginald's, and the latter compelled
him to take a little wine for his grief's sake.
Just a word or two about Queen Bertha. Though but twenty and five, her
dark hair was already mixed with threads of silver. She was tall for a
woman, very beautiful and very commanding. She never stirred abroad in
her picturesque dress of skins without having in her hand a tall staff,
much higher than herself. It was ornamented--resplendent, in fact--with
gold, silver, precious stones and pearls.
"This is my sceptre," she said, "and all my people respect it." She
smiled as she added: "I make them do so. I can hypnotise a man with a
touch of it; but if a fellow is fractious, I have a strong arm, and he
feels the weight of it across his shins. He must fling himself at my
feet before I forgive him. My history, gentlemen, is a very brief one,
though somewhat sad and romantic. I am the daughter of a wealthy
English merchant, who had a strange longing to visit in one of his own
ships the shores of Africa and the South Sea Islands. He did so
eventually, accompanied by my dear mother and myself, then little more
than a child, for I was only fifteen; also an elder brother. Alas! we
were driven far out of our way by a gale, or rather hurricane, of wind,
and wrecked on this island. My father's last act was to tie me to a
spar. That spar was carried away by the tide, and in the _debris_ of
the wreck I was washed up on shore. Every soul on board perished except
myself. The superstitious natives looked upon the dark-haired maiden as
some strange being from another world, and I was revered and made much
of from the first. I soon had proof enough that the islanders were
cannibals, for they built great fires on the beach and roasted the
bodies of the sailors that were washed up. There were, indeed, but few,
for the sharks had first choice, and out yonder in that blue and sunlit
sea the sharks are often in shoals and schools. Some devoured the human
flesh raw, believing that thus they would gain extra strength and
bravery in the day of battle."
"Are there many battles, then?" asked Reginald.
"Hitherto, doctor, my people have been the invaders of a larger island
lying to the east of us. Thither they go in their war canoes, and so
far fortune has favoured them. They bring home heads and human flesh.
The flesh they eat, the heads they place on the beach till cleaned and
whitened by crabs and ants; then they are stuck on poles in my somewhat
ghastly avenue. I have tried, but all in vain, to change the
cannibalistic ways of my people. They come to hear me preach salvation
on Sundays, and they join in the hymns I sing; but human flesh they will
have. Yes, on the whole I am very happy, and would not change my lot
with Victoria of Britain herself. My people do love me, mind, and I
would rather be somebody in this savage though beautiful island than
nobody in the vortex of London society.
"But I have one thing else to tell you. The Red-stripe savages of the
isle we have so often conquered are gathering in force, and are
determined to carry the war into our country; with what results I cannot
even imagine, for they are far stronger numerically than we are, though
not so brave. These savages are also cannibals; not only so, but they
put their prisoners to tortures too dreadful even to think of. It will
be many months before they arrive, but come they will. I myself shall
lead my army. This will inspire my people with pluck and from the
hilltops I hope you will see us repel the Armada in beautiful style."
She laughed right merrily as she finished her narrative.
"But my dear Queen," said Dickson, "do you imagine that myself and my
brave fellows saved from the wreck will be contented to act as mere
spectators from the hills, like the `gods' in a theatre gallery, looking
down on a play? Nay, we must be beside you, or near you, actors in the
same drama or tragedy. Lucky it is, doctor, that we managed to save our
two six-pounders, our rifles, and nearly all our ammunition. Why are
they called the Red-stripe savages, your Majesty?"
"Because, though almost naked, their bodies when prepared for war are
all barred over with red paint. The face is hideous, for an eye is
painted on the forehead, and a kind of cap with the pricked ears of the
wild fox, which is half a wolf, worn on the head. Their arms are bows,
spears, shields of great size, which quite cover them, and terrible
black knives."
"Our shrapnel, believe me, lady, will go through all that, and their
heads as well."
"Though loth to seek your assistance," said Queen Bertha, "in this case
I shall be glad of it. For if they succeed in conquering us the
massacre would be awful. Not a man, woman or child would be left alive
on our beautiful island."
"Assuredly we shall conquer them," said Dickson. "The very sound of our
guns and crack of our rifles will astonish and demoralise them. Not a
boat shall return of their invincible Armada; perhaps not a savage will
be left alive to tell the tale hereafter."
"That would indeed be a blessing to us. And my people have
half-promised not to make war on them again. We should therefore live
in peace, and fear no more Armadas."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr Hall was now brightening up again, and all the survivors of the
unfortunate _Wolverine_, having something to engage their attention,
became quite jolly and happy. I scarce need mention Matty. The child
was happy under all circumstances.
Ilda, too, was contented. Perhaps never more so than when taking long
walks with Reginald up the lovely valley, gathering wildflowers, or
fishing in the winding river.
Ilda was really beautiful. Her beauty was almost of the classical type,
and her voice was sweet to listen to. So thought Reginald.
"How charmingly brown the sun has made you, dear Ilda," said Reginald,
as she leant on his arm by the riverside.
He touched her lightly on the cheek as he spoke. Her head fell lightly
on his shoulder just then, as if she were tired, and he noticed that
there were tears in her eyes.
"No, not tired," she answered, looking up into his face.
Redder, sweeter lips surely no girl ever possessed.
For just a moment he drew her to his breast and kissed those lips.
Ah, well, Reginald Grahame was only a man.
I fear that Ilda was only a woman, and that she really loved the
handsome, brown-faced and manly doctor.
They had now been one year and two months away from Scotland, and at
this very moment the Laird Fletcher was paying all the attention in his
power to Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. He was really a modern "Auld Robin
Grey."
"My mither she fell sick,
An' my Jamie at the sea;
Then Aold Robin Grey came a-courting me."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
A CANNIBAL BREWER AND CANNIBAL BEER.
Queen Bertha of the Isle of Flowers had industriously laboured among her
people. It gave her pleasure to do so. She even taught them English,
which all could now speak after a fashion.
Well, while Dickson and Hall were drilling a small company of blacks as
soldiers, and trying to make them experts in the use of the rifle--for
they had over a score of these to spare--Reginald spent much of his time
on the hills with his gun, shooting small wild pigs, rock-rabbits,
tuen-tuens, etc. He was always accompanied by Ilda, merry Matty, and
Oscar the Newfoundland. No matter where a wild bird fell, in river or
lake, or in the bush, Oscar found it, and laid it at his master's feet.
But one day Reginald, while shooting, made a singular discovery indeed.
Far up in the hills they came upon the grass hut of a very peculiar old
man indeed. Before reaching the place quite, they met three natives,
and they were evidently intoxicated, staggering, laughing, singing and
dancing.
The old man was seated in his doorway. Around his hut were at least a
dozen huge clay jars, with clay lids, and these contained beer of some
sort. He was the most hideous old wretch that Reginald had yet clapped
eyes on. Even Matty was terrified, and hugged the great dog round the
neck as she gazed on that awful-looking and repulsive creature.
"These jars," said Reginald, "evidently contain some intoxicating drink.
And the old brewer doesn't look a beauty, nor a saint either!"
Nor did he. Here he is, as I myself have seen him more than once.
Squatting tailor-fashion outside the door of his dark and windowless
hut, a man with a mop of rough silvery hair, thin lips, drawn back into
a grin, so that one could see all his awful teeth--tusks they really
seemed to be, each one filed into a pointed triangle, the better to tear
human flesh. They were stained red. His eyes were red also, and like
those of some scared wild beast and cheeks and brow were covered with
symmetrical scars. But he was a brewer, and very busy plying his trade.
Beside him were open cocoa-nuts and bunches of fragrant herbs.
"Go on," said Reginald; "don't let us interfere with business, pray."
The horrid creature put a huge lump of cocoa-nut into his mouth, then
some herbs, and chewed the lot together; then taking a mouthful of water
from a chatty, he spat the whole mass into a jar and proceeded as
before. This awful mess of chewed cocoa-nut, herbs, and saliva ferments
into a kind of spirit. This is poured off and mixed with water, and lo!
the beer of the cannibal islanders!
Reginald, noticing a strange-looking chain hanging across the old man's
scarred and tattooed chest, begged to examine it. To his astonishment,
it consisted entirely of beautiful pearls and small nuggets of gold.
"Where did this come from, my man?"
"Ugh! I catchee he plenty twick. Plenty mo'. Ver' mooch plenty."
Reginald considered for a moment. Money was no good to an old wretch
like this, but he wore around his waist a beautiful crimson sash. This
he divested himself of, and held it up before the cannibal brewer.
"I will give you this for your chain," he said, "and another as good
to-morrow, if you will come now and show us where you find these
things."
The old man at once threw the chain at Reginald's feet, and seized the
scarf delightedly.
"I come quick--dis moment!" he cried. And he was as good as his word.
It was a long walk, and a wild one. Sometimes Reginald carried Matty;
sometimes she rode on the great dog. But they arrived at last at the
entrance to a gloomy defile, and here in the hillsides were openings
innumerable, evidently not made by hands of man. Here, however, was an
El Dorado. Caves of gold! for numerous small nuggets were found on the
floors and shining in the white walls around them.
It was evident enough that it only needed digging and a little hard work
to make a pile from any single one of these caves.
Next about the pearls. The old savage took the party to the riverside.
He waded in, and in five minutes had thrown on shore at least a hundred
pearl oysters. These, on coming to bank, he opened one by one, and ten
large and beautiful white pearls were found, with ever so many
half-faced ones.
Strange and wondrous indeed was the story that Reginald Grahame had to
relate in private to Mr Hall and Captain Dickson on his return to his
home by the sea.
At present the trio kept the secret to themselves. That gold was to be
had for the gathering was evident enough. But to share it with six men
was another question. It might be better, at all events, if they were
first and foremost to make their own pile. Anyhow, the men's services
might be required; in that case they could choose their own claims,
unless Reginald claimed the whole ravine. This he was entitled to do,
but he was very far indeed from being mean and greedy.
But so intricate was the way to the ravine of gold that without a guide
no one could possibly find it.
For six whole weeks no gold digging was thought about. Matters of even
greater import occupied the minds of the white men.
The company of blacks was beautifully drilled by this time, and made
fairly good marksmen with the rifle. They were, indeed, the boldest and
bravest on the island, and many of them the Queen's own bodyguards.
Well, the bay enclosed by the reefs on one of which the _Wolverine_ had
struck was the only landing-place in the whole island. Every other part
of the shore was guarded by precipitous rocks a thousand feet high at
least, rising sheer and black out of the ocean. The Armada must come
here, then, if anywhere; and, moreover, the bay faced the enemy's own
island, although, with the exception of a mountain peak or two, seen
above the horizon, it was far too distant to be visible.
A grass watch-tower was built on the brow of a hill, and a sentry
occupied this by night as well as by day. Only keen-eyed blacks were
chosen for this important duty, and they were told that if any
suspicious sign was observed they must communicate immediately with
Captain Dickson.
And now, facing the sea, a strong palisaded fort was built, and
completely clayed over, so as to be almost invisible from the sea. It
was roofed over with timber, as a protection against the enemy's arrows;
it was also loop-holed for rifles, and here, moreover, were mounted the
two six-pounders. Plenty of ammunition for both rifles and guns was
placed at a safe distance from the ports.
One evening the sentry ran below to report that, seeing a glare in the
sky, he had climbed high up the mountain side, and by aid of the
night-glass could see that fires were lighted on the brow of every low
hill on the enemy's island, and that savages in rings were wildly
dancing around them. The sentry had no doubt that the attack on the
Isle of Flowers would soon follow this. Dickson thanked the man
heartily for his attention, gave him coffee and biscuit, and sent him
back to the sentry hut. So kind was the captain, and so interested in
the welfare of the blacks, that any one of those he had trained would
have fought at fearful odds for him. For kindness towards, a savage
soon wins his heart, and his respect as well.
Three days more passed by--oh, so slowly and wearily! For a cloud
hovered over the camp that the white men tried in vain to dispel. There
was this fearful Armada to face and to fight, and the anxiety born of
thinking about it was harder to bear than the actual battle itself would
be.
Dickson was a strictly pious man. Never a morning and never an evening
passed without his summoning his men to prayers, and in true Scottish
fashion reading a portion from the little Bible which, like General
Gordon, he never failed to carry in his bosom.
I think he did good. I think he made converts. Mind, without any
preaching. He simply led these darkened intellects to the Light, the
glorious Light of revealed religion.
The portion of the fort where the guns were placed was so fashioned as
to be able to cover a wide space of sea on both sides, and from this
arrangement Dickson expected great results.
A whole week had worn away since the first fires had been seen from the
hilltop; but every night those fires had blazed.
It was evident enough the enemy was endeavouring to propitiate their
gods before sailing. For by day, on climbing a mountain, Dickson, by
means of his large telescope, could see on the beach that human
sacrifices were being offered up.
It was fearful to behold. Men, or perhaps women, were chained to stakes
on the beach, and pyres of wood built around them. As the fire curled
up through the smoke in tongues, he could see the wretches writhing in
agony, while round them danced the spear-armed savages.
Reginald had little to do at present, and would have but little to do
until summoned to tight. So he was often at the Queen's palace, and a
very delightful conversationalist she proved herself to be. She had
avowed her intention of being at the great battle herself. Her
presence, and the sway of her pole-like sceptre, she assured the doctor,
would give her people confidence, and mayhap be the turning point which
would lead to victory.
Many a ramble together had Reginald and Ilda, nearly always followed by
sweet wee Matty and her canine favourite Oscar.
One day, however, Matty was at the seaside camp, and Reginald went out
with Ilda alone to collect bouquets for the Queen's table. The day was
a hot one, but both were young, and when they zigzagged up a mountain
side they found not only shade on a green mound beneath some spreading
trees, but coolness as well.
All this morning Reginald had been thinking sorrowfully about his lost
love, as he now called Annie, and of the country he never expected again
to see, because never did ships visit this unknown island unless driven
hither by storm or tempest.
But now there was the soft and dreamy light of love in Ilda's eyes, if
ever there were in a woman's.
Reginald was very far indeed from being unfaithful at heart to his
betrothed, but--well, he could not help thinking how strangely beautiful
Ilda was. When she leant towards him and gave one coy glance into his
face, it might have been but passion--I cannot say; it might be budding
love. At all events, he drew her to his breast and kissed those red
lips over and over again, she blushing, but unresisting as before.
What he might have said I do not know. But at that moment a half-naked
armed savage burst hurriedly in upon the scene.
"Come, sah, come; de capatin he sendee me. De bad black mans' war
canoes dey is coming, too. Plenty big boat, plenty spear and bow."
Reginald thought no more of love just then. His Scottish blood was on
fire, and when he had seen Ilda safe in the palace he bade her an
affectionate but hurried farewell, and hurried away to the front.
The Armada was coming in deadly earnest, and no one in the Isle of
Flowers could even guess how matters might end.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
GOLD AND PEARLS--JACK CAROUSING.
No confusion here in the fort. The men were all in, the other
spear-armed corps of at least five hundred were hidden in the bush at
the base of the mountain side. Inside everything was being conducted as
quietly and regularly as--as--well, as a marriage in church.
But looking seaward, even without the aid of a glass, the great Armada
could be seen approaching.
Huge black many-paddled war canoes, forty in all, and probably with
fifty men in each, or nearly a thousand altogether.
Nearer and nearer they swept with many a wild or warlike shout that was
meant to strike terror into the hearts of the Flower Islanders. They
were soon so near that the rattling of their spears as they struck them
against their big shields could be distinctly heard.
So near now that with a small opera-glass which the doctor carried, he
could see their painted skins and faces, and the red and horrible
streaks.
And now it was time to fire the first gun. A shot or shell would have
carried much further, but grape would be ever so much more demoralising.
Dickson himself trained that gun on the foremost or leading boat.
The surprise of the enemy was indeed great. Never had they seen a gun
fired before, nor heard the roar of one. But yonder on shore and in
front of the barricaded fort they could see a balloon of white smoke,
with a stream of red fire in the centre. Then the roar of that piece of
ordnance was appalling. Next moment the crowded boat or war canoe was
filled with corpses and the shrieking, bleeding wounded. But she was in
splinters, and quickly filled and sank. The other boats lay on their
paddles for a minute, uncertain what to do.
Meanwhile, and just as Reginald was quickly sponging out the gun
previous to reloading, and all was silent for a time, a curious thing
occurred.
In at the tiny back door of the fort, which had not yet been closed,
rushed a tiny, laughing figure, all in white and barefooted. It was
Matty, and in jumped honest Oscar next. She was laughing merrily.
"Oh!" she cried, clapping her hands with glee. "They put me to bed, but
I dot up again and runned away twickly, and I'se come to 'ssist!"
"Oh, my darling!" cried Reginald, in great concern, "why did you come?"
"I can tally (carry) tartridges and powder."
"No, no, no, dear. You must obey me. Here, there is my coat, and in
that corner you must sit till all the fight is over."
Matty said: "Tiss me, then."
He kissed her, and down she sat with the dog beside her, and looked very
demure indeed, with that one wee forefinger in her mouth.
Strange to say, she soon fell fast asleep, with her head pillowed on the
dog's back, one hand clutching his mane.
The battle now became general all along the line. For the riflemen in
the back, as well as those within the fort, began to fire.
And now slowly down the hill came Bertha, the Island Queen, sceptre-pole
in hand, and dressed in skins of dazzling white. A very imposing figure
she looked. But her presence gave extra courage to her people.
The officers in almost every boat were picked off easily, so short was
now the range.
It must be admitted that the enemy showed no lack of courage, though
boat after boat was sunk to the number of six, and rifles rang out from
the bush and fort in a series of independent but incessant firing, and
well did the foe understand that their main safety now consisted in
landing as soon as they possibly could. They knew that in a
hand-to-hand fight the "fire-sticks," as savages call our rifles, would
be of little avail.
The guns were worked with splendid results, however, and by the time the
war canoes were beached only about four hundred men were left to fight.
But these cannibals knew no fear.
One more telling volley from the bush, one more shot from a six-pounder,
then from behind a bush rushed the white Queen waving aloft her sceptre,
and instantly from their cover, spear-armed, now rushed the Flower
Islanders, one thousand strong at least The fight was a fearful one.
Dickson, Hall, with Reginald and the men in the fort, joined with
revolver and cutlass. The Queen was in the front. No, she fought not,
but her presence there was like that of Joan of Arc.
Many of the invaded fell dead and wounded; but even the fierce foe was
forced to yield at last, and the miserable remnant of them tried once
more to reach their boats.
They never did. It was a war of extermination, and the invaders were
utterly and completely wiped out Never a boat, never a man returned home
to their distant island to tell the fearful tale.
The Flower Islanders expected now a grand feast. Here was flesh--human
flesh.
The Queen forbade it, and Dickson himself gave orders that every body--
the wounded had been stabbed--should be rowed out to sea and thrown
overboard to feed the sharks. They demurred. Dickson was determined
and stern. If not obeyed instantly, he should turn the guns on the
would-be cannibals.
Reginald suggested as a kind of compromise that each man who had been
fighting should receive a large biscuit and a glass of rum. It was a
happy thought, and after this the work was set about merrily. The
sea-burial occupied all the afternoon till within an hour of sunset.
Then the canoes returned. All was over. The Armada was no more.
But around him now Dickson gathered the Flower Island Army, and offered
up a prayer of thanks to the God of Battle, who had fought on their
side, and the islanders seemed much impressed. The enemy would probably
never attempt invasion again--in our heroes' time, at all events.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Queen gave a banquet that night, she herself presiding. Of course,
nothing was talked about except the incidents of the recent terrible
battle.
Matty came in for a share of praise, but was told she really must not
run away again. And she promised, only adding that she thought she
could "'ssist the poor dear doc."
The banquet lasted till late. The Queen had not forgotten how to play
and sing. Dickson and Reginald were both good musicians, and one or two
blacks gave inimitable performances, partly gesture, partly song; which
would assuredly have brought down the house if given in a London
music-hall.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Being freed now for a time from any fear of further invasion, attention
was turned to the gold mines and to the pearl-fishing. At a meeting on
the hillside it was resolved that the men--they were all honest
fellows--should be admitted to the secret. To have shut them out would
hardly have been fair, so thought all.
Well, naturally enough, Reginald chose what he considered the best two
claims; then came Dickson's choice; then Mr Hall's, and after these the
six white sailors, and they were willing to dig like heroes.
They divided the work of the day into two parts. One was spent at the
gold mines, the other in fishing for pearls. They were remarkably
successful with the latter, but for nine months at least the gold came
but slowly in, and this was disheartening. Nevertheless, they continued
to dig and dig, assisted by native labour. The savages often found
nuggets among the _debris_ that had been overlooked by the white men,
and these they dutifully presented to the owners of the claims.
It must be admitted that the men were most energetic, for while their
officers were always at the Queen's palace by five o'clock, and ready
for dinner, the men often worked by moonlight, or even by the glimmer of
lanterns. They were slowly accumulating wealth.
Success crowned Reginald's efforts at last, though. For, to his extreme
wonderment and delight, he struck a splendid pocket.
It was deep down at the far end of the cave, and the mould was of a
sandy nature, much of it apparently powdered quartz, broken, perhaps, by
the awful pressure of the mountain above. But the very first nugget he
pulled from here was as large as a pineapple, and many more followed,
though none so large.
No wonder his heart palpitated with joy and excitement, or that his
comrades crowded round to shake his hand and congratulate him. But that
cave had already made Reginald a fairly wealthy man. His success,
moreover, encouraged the others to dig all the harder, and not without
excellent results. It seemed, indeed, that not only was this island a
flowery land, but an isle of gold. And the further they dug into the
hill the more gold did they find. The men were very happy.
"Oh, Bill," said one to his pal one night at supper, "if ever we does
get a ship home from this blessed isle, won't my Polly be glad to see me
just!"
"Ay, Jack, she will; but I ain't in any particular hurry to go yet, you
know."
"Well, it's two years come Monday since we sailed away from the
beautiful Clyde. Heigho! I shouldn't wonder if Polly has given me up
for good and all, and married some counter-jumping land-lubber of a
draper or grocer."
"Never mind, Jack; there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of
it yet. Pass the rum. This is Saturday night, and it was just real
good of Captain Dickson to send us an extra drop of the rosy. Fill your
glasses, gentlemen, for a toast and a song. That digging has made me a
mighty deal too tired to think of dancing to the sweetest jig e'er a
fiddler could scrape out."
"Well, give us your toast, Bill. We're all primed and waiting."
"My toast ain't a very short one, but here it goes: `May the next year
be our very last in this 'ere blessed island; may we all go home with
bags of gold, and find our sweethearts true and faithful.'"
"Hear, hear!" And every glass was drained to the bottom. "Now for the
song."
"Oh, only an old ditty o' Dibdin's, and I'd rather be on the heavin'
ocean when I sings it. There is no accompaniment to a song so fetching
as that which the boom and the wash of the waves make. Them's my
sentiments, boys.
"Wives and Sweethearts.
"'Tis said we ve't'rous diehards, when we leave the shore,
Our friends should mourn,
Lest we return
To bless their sight no more;
But this is all a notion
Bold Jack can't understand,
Some die upon the ocean,
And some die on the land.
Then since 'tis clear,
Howe'er we steer,
No man's life's under his command;
Let tempests howl
And billows roll,
And dangers press;
In spite of these there are some joys
Us jolly tars to bless,
For Saturday night still comes, my boys,
To drink to Poll and Bess.
"Hurrah!" But just at this moment a strange and ominous sound, like
distant thunder, put a sudden stop to the sailors' Saturday night. All
started to their feet to listen.
CHAPTER TWENTY.
"OH, AWFUL! WHAT CAN IT BE?" CRIED REGINALD.
I do not hesitate to say that the possession of unprotected wealth
maketh cowards of most people. The anxiety connected therewith may keep
one awake at night, and bring on a state of nervousness that shall end
in a break-up of the general health. But no thought of ever losing the
precious nuggets and pearls that had cost him so much hard work came
into the mind of Reginald Grahame, until an event took place which
proved that gold may tempt even those we trust the most.
Harry Jenkins was a bright little sailor, the pet of his mess. He was
always singing when at work in the diggings, and he generally managed to
keep his comrades in excellent humour, and laughing all the time. In
their messroom of an evening they were all frank and free, and hid
nothing one from the other. For each believed in his pal's honesty.
"I have a thousand pounds' worth of nuggets at least!" said Harry one
evening.
"And I," said Bill Johnson, "have half as much again."
They showed each other their gold, comparing nuggets, their very eyes
glittering with joy as they thought of how happy they should be when
they returned once more to their own country. Then they each stowed
away their wealth of nuggets and pearls, placed in tiny canvas bags
inside their small sea-chests.
This was about a week after that pleasant Saturday night which was so
suddenly broken up by the muttering of subterranean thunder and the
trembling of the earth.
But earthquakes were frequent in the island, though as yet not severe.
The Queen was by no means alarmed, but Ilda was--terribly so.
"Oh," she cried, "I wish I were away and away from this terrible
island!"
The Queen comforted her all she could.
"I have a presentiment," replied the poor girl, "that this is not the
last nor the worst."
But when days and days passed away, and there were no more signs of
earth-tremor, she regained courage, and was once more the same happy
girl she had been before.
Then the occurrence took place that made Reginald suspicious of the
honesty of some of those British sailors.
One morning Harry was missing. They sought him high, they sought him
low, but all in vain. Then it occurred to Johnson to look into his box.
The box, with all his gold and pearls, was gone!
Harry's box had been left open, and it was found to be empty. No one
else had lost anything. However, this was a clue, and the officers set
themselves to unravel the mystery at once. Nor was it long before they
did so. Not only was one of the largest canoes missing, with a sail
that had been rigged on her, but two of the strongest natives and best
boatmen.
It was sadly evident that Harry was a thief, and that he had bribed
these two savages to set out to sea with him.
There was a favouring breeze for the west, and Harry no doubt hoped
that, after probably a week's sailing, he would reach some of the more
civilised of the Polynesian islands, and find his way in a ship back to
Britain. Whether he did so may never be known, but the fact that the
breeze increased to over half a gale about three days after he had fled,
makes it rather more than probable that the big canoe was swamped, and
that she foundered, going down with the crew and the ill-gotten gold as
well. Only a proof that the wicked do not always prosper in this world.
Poor Johnson's grief was sad to witness.
"On my little store," he told his messmates, wringing his hands, and
with the tears flowing over his cheeks, "I placed all my future
happiness. I care not now what happens. One thing alone I know: life
to me has no more charms, and I can never face poor Mary again."
He went to the diggings again in a halfhearted kind of way, and for a
day or two was fairly successful; but it was evident that his heart was
almost broken, and that if something were not done he might some evening
throw himself over a cliff, and so end a life that had become
distasteful to him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
So one morning Reginald had an interview with his messmates.
"I myself," he said, "must have already collected over twenty thousand
pounds in nuggets and pearls, and will willingly give of this my store
five hundred pounds worth of gold by weight, if you, Captain Dickson,
and you, Hall, will do the same. Thus shall we restore reason and
happiness to a fellow-creature, and one of the best-hearted sailors that
ever lived and sailed the salt, salt seas."
Both Dickson and Hall must need shake hands with Reginald, and, while
the tears stood in his eyes, the former said:
"That will we, my dear boy, and God will bless your riches, and restore
you all your desires whenever we reach our British shores again."
And so that very night there was no more happy man than Johnson.
Another Saturday night in the men's mess. Dickson willingly spliced the
main-brace twice over, and the night passed pleasantly on with yarn and
song till midnight. But the thief Harry was never mentioned. It was
better thus. Already, perhaps, the man had met his doom, and so they
forgave him. Yet somehow this incident rankled in Reginald's bosom, and
made him very uneasy.
"I say," he said to Dickson one day, "I confess that the flight of Harry
Jenkins with poor Johnson's gold has made me suspicious."
"And me so as well," said Dickson.
"I mean," said Reginald, "to bury my treasure, and I have already
selected a spot."
"You have? Then I shall bury mine near yours. I have ever liked you,
doctor, since first we met, and we have been as brothers."
They shook hands.
Appealed to, Mr Hall said straight:
"I am a wealthy man, and, if ever I reach America, I shall have more
than I can spend. I shall leave mine in the box where it is. I admit,"
he added, "that if there be one thief among six men, there may be two,
and gold is a great temptation. But I'll go with you at the dead of
night, and help to carry, and help you to bury your treasure."
They thanked him heartily, and accepted his kindly assistance.
The spot at which Reginald had chosen to hide his gold and treasure was
called Lone Tree Hill. It was on a bare, bluff mountain side. Here
stood one huge eucalyptus tree, that might have been used as a landmark
for ships at sea had it been in the track of vessels. But this island,
as I have already said, was not so.
Strangely enough, all around this tree the hill was supposed to be
haunted by an evil spirit, and there was not a native who would go
anywhere near it, even in broad daylight. The spirit took many forms,
sometimes rushing down in the shape of a fox, or even wild pig, and
scaring the natives into convulsions, but more often, and always before
an earthquake, the spirit was seen in the shape of a round ball of flame
on the very top of the tree.
This was likely enough. I myself have seen a mysterious flame of this
kind on the truck or highest portion of a ship's mast, and we sailors
call it Saint Elmo's fire. I have known sailors, who would not have
been afraid to bear the brunt of battle in a man-o'-war, tremble with
superstitious dread as they beheld that mysterious quivering flame at
the mast-head. Some evil, they would tell you, was sure to happen. A
storm invariably followed. Well, generally a gale wind did, owing to
the electric conditions of the atmosphere.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A bright scimitar of moon was shining at midnight when Dickson and
Reginald, assisted by Hall, stole silently out and away to the hills to
bury their treasure.
There were few sounds to be heard to-night on the island. Far out in
the bay there was at times the splash of a shark or the strange cooing
of a porpoise, and in the valley the yapping of foxes in pursuit of
their prey. The mournful hooting of great owls sounded from the woods,
with now and then the cry of a night bird, or shriek of wounded bird.
It was a long and stiff walk to Lone Tree Hill; but arrived there, they
set to work at once to dig at the eucalyptus root. The holes made--
Dickson's to the east, Reginald's to the west--the nuggets, enclosed in
strong tarpaulin bags, were laid in, and next the pearls, in small
cash-boxes, were placed above these. The earth was now filled in, and
the sods replaced so carefully and neatly that no one could have told
that the earth had ever been broken or the sods upturned.
Then, breathing a prayer for the safety of their treasure, on which so
much might depend in future, they walked silently down the hill and back
to the camp.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
But that very night--or rather towards morning--an event took place that
alarmed all hands.
The earth shook and trembled, and finally heaved; and it felt as if the
house were a ship in the doldrums crossing the Line. Everyone was
dashed on to the floor, and for a time lay there almost stunned, giddy,
and even sick. It passed off. But in an hour's time a worse shock
followed, and all hands rushed into the open air to seek for safety.
Outside it was not only hot and stifling--for not a breath of wind was
blowing--but the air had a strange and almost suffocating sulphurous
odour. And this was soon accounted for. Now, not far from Lone Tree
Mountain was a high and conical hill.
From this, to the great astonishment of all, smoke and flames were now
seen issuing. The flames leapt in marvellous tongues high up through
the smoke. There was the whitest of steam mingling with the smoke, and
anon showers of dust, scorai, and stones began to fall.
For a minute or two the sight quite demoralised the trio. But the men,
too, had run out, and all had thrown themselves face down on the ground
while the heaving of the earth continued. It was a new experience, and
a terrible one. Dickson went towards them now.
"I do not think, boys, that the danger is very extreme," he said. "But
I advise you to keep out of doors as much as possible, in case of a
greater shock, which may bring down our humble dwelling. And now, Hall,
and you, Reginald," he added, "the ladies at the palace will, I fear, be
in great terror. It is our duty to go to them. Our presence may help
to cheer them up."
Daylight was beginning to dawn, though from rolling clouds of smoke in
the far east the sun could only be seen like a red-hot iron shot. It
was evident enough to our heroes when they had climbed the highest
intervening hill, that the island from which the Armada had come was far
more severely stricken than this Isle of Flowers was.
But as they still gazed eastward at the three or four blazing mountains
on that island, they started and clung together with something akin to
terror in every heart.
"Oh, awful! What can it be?" cried Reginald.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
A TERRIBLE TIME.
Never until the crack of doom might they hear such another report as
that which now fell upon their ears. At almost the same moment, in a
comminglement of smoke and fire, a huge dark object was seen to be
carried high into the air, probably even a mile high. It then took a
westerly direction, and came towards the Isle of Flowers, getting larger
every second, till it descended into the sea, end on, and not two miles
away. It was seen to be a gigantic rock, perhaps many, many acres in
extent.
The waters now rose on every side, the noise was deafening; then in,
landwards, sped a huge bore, breaker, or wave, call it what you please,
but darkness almost enveloped it, and from this thunders roared and
zigzag lightning flashed as it dashed onwards to the island shore. The
men they had left behind had speedily climbed the rocks behind the camp,
for although the wave did not reach so high, the spray itself would have
suffocated them, had they not looked out for safety.
It was an awful moment. But the wave receded at last, and the sea was
once more calm. Only a new island had been formed by the fall of the
rock into the ocean's coral depths, and for a time the thunder and
lightning ceased. Not the volcanic eruptions, however. And but for the
blaze and lurid light of these the enemy's isle, as it was called, must
have been in total darkness. Truly a terrible sight! But our heroes
hurried on.
Just as they had expected, when they reached the Queen's palace they
found poor Miss Hall, and even little Matty--with all her innocent
courage--in a state of great terror. The Queen alone was
self-possessed. She had seen a volcanic eruption before. Ilda was
lying on the couch with her arms round Matty's waist Matty standing by
her side. The child was now seven years of age, and could talk and
think better. Reginald, after kissing Ilda's brow, sat down beside
them, and Matty clambered on his knee.
Meanwhile, the darkness had increased so much that the Queen called upon
her dusky attendants to light the great oil lamp that swung from the
roof. The Queen continued self-possessed, and tried to comfort her
guests.
"It will soon be over," she said. "I am assured of that. My experience
is great."
But Matty refused all consolation.
"I'se never been a very great sinner, has I?" she innocently asked
Reginald, as she clung round his neck.
"Oh, no, darling," he said; "you are too young to be much of a sinner."
"You think God won't be angry, and will take you and me and Ilda and
Queen Bertha straight up to Heaven, clothes and all?"
"My child," said Reginald, "what has put all this into your head?"
"Oh," she answered, "because I know the Day of Judgment has come."
Well, there was some excuse for the little innocent thinking so.
Without the thickest darkness reigned. Dickson and Hall went to the
door, but did not venture out. Scoria was falling, and destroying all
the shrubs and flowers in the beautiful valley. The river was mixed
with boiling lava, and the noise therefrom was like a thousand engines
blowing off steam at one and the same time. Surely never was such loud
and terrible thunder heard before; and the lightning was so vivid and so
incessant that not only did the island itself seem all ablaze, but even
the distant sea. Crimson and blue fire appeared to lick its surface in
all directions.
But the burning mountain itself was the most wondrous sight eyes of man
could look upon. The smoke and steam rose and rolled amidst the play of
lightning miles high apparently. The peak of the mountain itself shot
up a continuous stream of orange-yellow flame, in which here and there
small black spots could be seen--rocks and stones, without a doubt.
But the cone of the great hill itself was marvellously beautiful. For
rivers of lava--Dickson counted nine in all--were rushing down its sides
in a straight course, and these were streams of coloured fire, almost
every one a different hue--deep crimson, green, and blue, and even
orange.
Were it not for the terror of the sight, our heroes would have enjoyed
it. Reginald carried Matty to the door to see the beauty of the burning
mountain. She took one brief glance, then shudderingly held closer to
Reginald's neck.
"Take me back, take me back!" she cried in an agony of fear. "That is
the bad place! Oh, when will God come and take us away?"
All that fearful day and all the following night scoria and ashes
continued to fall, the thunder never ceased, and the lightning was still
incessant. There was no chance now of getting back to camp, and they
trembled to think of what might have taken place.
Towards morning, however, a wondrous change took place. The sky got
clearer, a star or two shone through the rifts of heavy, overhanging
clouds. The fire no longer rose from the mountain, only a thick
balloon-shaped white cloud lay over it. Then the rain began to fall,
and, strangely enough, mingled with the rain, which felt warm, were
gigantic hailstones and pieces of ice as large as six-pound shells.
Then up rose the glorious sun. Like a red ball of fire he certainly
was; but oh, what a welcome sight!
That forenoon, all being now peace and quiet, Dickson and his comrades
determined to march back to camp and ease their minds. After a long and
toilsome journey over the hills, many of which were covered with ashes,
they reached camp, and were glad to find the men alive, and the house
intact. A rampart had been built around the barracks, as Hall called
it, and inside was a large drill-yard.
Dickson served out rum to the men, and they soon were cheerful enough
once more. The guns had been mounted on the walls, and all rifles were
stowed away inside. This was at a suggestion from Hall.
"You never can trust those niggers," he said quietly, shaking his head.
And well it was, as it turned out, that Dickson had taken Mr Hall's
advice.
That same afternoon, about two o'clock, the same savages who had fought
with rifles from the bush against the invaders came hurriedly and
somewhat excitedly into camp. The spokesman, a tall and
splendid-looking native, gesticulated wildly, as he almost shouted in
the officers' ears:
"To-mollow molning dey come! All dis island rise! Dey come to kill and
eat!"
The officers were astonished. What had they done to deserve so terrible
a fate?
"Dey blame you for all. Oh, be plepared to fight. Gib us guns, and we
too will fight plenty much. Foh true!"
A very uneasy night was passed, but the yard and guns had been cleared
of cinders and scoria, the bulwarks strengthened, and before the sun
once more shone red over the sea Dickson was prepared for either battle
or siege. Everyone had been assigned his quarters.
The day was still, hot, and somewhat sultry. Luckily the little
garrison was well provisioned, and the water would last a week or even
longer. Low muttering thunders were still heard in the direction of the
volcano, and sometimes the earth shook and trembled somewhat, but it was
evident that the subterranean fires had burnt themselves out, and it
might be a score of years before another eruption occurred.
It was evident that the savages did not think so. For as long as the
cloud hung over the peak they did not consider themselves safe. About
twelve o'clock that day distant shouts and cries were heard in the
nearest glen, and presently an undisciplined mob of nearly a thousand
howling savages, armed with bows and spears and broad black knives,
appeared on the sands, in their war-paint. It was evidently their
intention to storm the position, and determinedly too. They halted,
however, and seemed to have a hasty consultation. Then a chief boldly
advanced to the ramparts to hold a parley. His speech was a curious
one, and he himself, dressed partly in skins and leaning on a spear like
a weaver's beam, was a strangely wild and romantic figure.
The officers appeared above the ramparts to look and to listen.
"Hear, O white men!" cried the savage chief, in fairly good English;
"'tis you who brought dis evil on us. We now do starve. De rice and de
fruit and de rats and most all wild beasts dey kill or hide demselves.
In de sea all round de fish he die. We soon starve. But we not wish to
fight. You and your men saved us from the foe that came in der big
black war canoe. Den you try to teach us God and good. But we all same
as before now. We must fight, eat and live, if you do not leave the
island. Plenty big canoe take you off. Den de grass and trees and
fruit will grow again, and we shall be happy and flee onct mo'."
"An end to this!" cried Dickson angrily. "Fight as you please, and as
soon as you please. But mind, you will have a devilish hot reception,
and few of you will return to your glens to tell the tale. Away!"
As soon as the chief had returned and communicated to his men the result
of the interview, they shrieked and shouted and danced like demons.
They brandished their spears aloft and rattled them against their
shields. Then, with one continuous maddened howl, they dashed onwards
to scale the ramparts. "Blood! blood!" was their battle cry.
Well knowing that if once they got inside the little garrison would soon
be butchered, Dickson immediately had both guns trained on them. He
himself did so.
"Bang! bang!" they went, and the grape made fearful havoc in the close
and serried ranks of the cannibals. The rifles kept up a withering
fire. Again, and quickly too, the guns were loaded and run out, and
just as the enemy had scaled the brae they were once more met by the
terrible fire, and positively hewn down before it.
Not even savages could stand this. They became demoralised, and fled
incontinently. And they soon disappeared, carrying many of their dead
with them. Far along the beach went they, and as stakes were placed in
the ground, large fires built around them, and one or more of the dead
thrown on each, it was evident that they had made up their minds not to
starve.
One of the blacks was now sent out from the fort to make a circuit round
the hills, and then, mingling with the savages, to find out out what was
their intention.
He returned in a few hours, and while the awful feast was still going
on. A night attack was determined on, and they believed they would
inherit strength and bravery by eating their dead comrades. That was
the scout's report.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
MORE FEARFUL FIGHTING--GOLDEN GULCH--"A SHIP! A SHIP!"
Forewarned is, or ought to be, forearmed. Nevertheless, it must be
confessed that Dickson and the others greatly dreaded an attack by
savages under cover of the moonless darkness of a tropical night. All
was done that could be done to repel the fury of the onslaught. But
come it must and would.
Just as the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, amidst lurid
and threatening clouds, a happy thought occurred to one of the sailors.
"Sir," he said to Dickson, "the darkness will be our greatest foe, will
it not?"
"Certainly. If these demon cannibals would but show front in daylight
we could easily disperse them, as we did before. Have you any plans,
McGregor?"
"I'm only a humble sailor," said McGregor, "but my advice is this. We
can trust the honest blacks we have here within the fort?"
"Yes."
"Well, let them throw up a bit of sand cover for themselves down here on
the beach and by the sea. Each man should wear a bit of white cotton
around his arm, that we may be able to distinguish friend from foe. Do
you follow me, sir?"
"Good, McGregor. Go on."
"Well, captain, the cannibals are certain to make direct for the
barracks and attempt to scale as they did before. I will go in command
of our twenty black soldiers, and just as you pour in your withering
grape and rifle bullets we shall attack from the rear, or flank, rather,
and thus I do not doubt we shall once more beat them off."
"Good again, my lad; but remember we cannot aim in the darkness."
"That can be provided against. We have plenty of tarry wood here, and
we can cut down the still standing brush, and making two huge bonfires,
deluge the whole with kerosene when we hear the beggars coming and near
at hand. Thus shall you have light to fight."
"McGregor, my lad, I think you have saved the fort and our lives. Get
ready your men and proceed to duty. Or, stay. While they still are at
their terrible feast and dancing round the fires, you may remain
inside."
"Thanks, sir, thanks."
The men had supper at eleven o'clock and a modicum of rum each. The
British sailor needs no Dutch courage on the day of battle.
The distant fires burnt on till midnight. Then, by means of his
night-glass, Dickson could see the tall chieftain was mustering his men
for the charge.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half an hour later they came on with fiendish shouts and howling. Then
brave McGregor and his men left the barracks and hid in the darkling to
the left and low down on the sands.
The enemy advanced from the right. Their chief was evidently a poor
soldier, or he would have caused them to steal as silently as panthers
upon the fort. When within a hundred yards, Dickson at one side and
Reginald at the other, each accompanied by a man carrying a keg of
kerosene, issued forth at the back door.
In three minutes more the flames sprang up as if by magic. They leaped
in great white tongues of fire up the rock sides, from which the rays
were reflected, so that all round the camp was as bright as day.
The astonished savages, however, came on like a whirlwind, till within
twenty yards of the brae on which stood the fort. Then Mr Hall, the
brave and imperturbable Yankee, "gave them fits," as he termed it. He
trained a gun on them and fired it point-blank. The yells and awful
howlings of rage and pain told how well the grape had done its deadly
work, and that many had fallen never to rise again.
The tall, skin-clad chief now waved his spear aloft, and shouted to his
men, pointing at the fort. That dark cloud was a mass of frenzied
savages now. They leaped quickly over their dead and wounded, and
rushed for the hill. But they were an easy mark, and once again both
guns riddled their ranks. They would not be denied even yet.
But lo! while still but half-way up the hill, to their astonishment and
general demoralisation, they were attacked by a terrible rifle fire from
the flank. Again and again those rifles cracked, and at so close a
range that the attacking party fell dead in twos and threes.
But not until two more shots were fired from the fort, not until the
giant chief was seen to throw up his arms and fall dead in his tracks,
did they hurriedly rush back helter-skelter, and seek safety in flight.
The black riflemen had no mercy on their brother-islanders. Their blood
was up. So was McGregor's, and they pursued the enemy, pouring in
volley after volley until the darkness swallowed them up.
The slaughter had been immense. The camp was molested no more. But at
daybreak it was observed that no cloud hung any longer on the volcanic
peak. The savages were still grouped in hundreds around their now
relighted fires, and it was evident a new feast was in preparation.
But something still more strange now happened. Accompanied by two
gigantic spear-armed men of the guard, the Queen herself was seen to
issue from the glen, and boldly approach the rebels. What she said may
never be known. But, while her guard stood like two statues, she was
seen to be haranguing the cannibals, sometimes striking her sceptre-pole
against the hard white sand, sometimes pointing with it towards the
volcanic mountain.
But see! another chief approaches her, and is apparently defying her.
Next moment there is a little puff of white smoke, and the man falls,
shot through the head.
And now the brave and romantic Queen nods to her guards, and with their
spears far and near the fires are dispersed and put out.
This was all very interesting, as well as wonderful, to the onlookers at
the fort, but when the Queen was seen approaching the little garrison, a
little white flag waving from her pole, and followed by all the natives,
astonishment was at its height.
Humbly enough they approached now, for the Queen in their eyes was a
goddess. With a wave of her sceptre she stopped them under the brae, or
hill, and Dickson and Reginald hurried down to meet her floral majesty.
"Had I only known sooner," she said sympathisingly, "that my people had
rebelled and attempted to murder you, I should have been here long, long
before now. These, however, are but the black sheep of my island, and
now at my command they have come to sue for pardon."
"And they will lay down their arms?"
"Yes, every spear and bow and crease."
"Then," said Dickson, "let them go in single file and heap them on the
still smouldering fire up yonder."
Queen Bertha said something to them in their own language, and she was
instantly obeyed. The fire so strangely replenished took heart and
blazed up once more, and soon the arms were reduced to ashes, and the
very knives bent or melted with the fierce heat.
"Go home now to your wives and children," she cried imperiously. "For a
time you shall remain in disgrace. But if you behave well I will gladly
receive you once more into my favour. Disperse! Be off!"
All now quietly dispersed, thankfully enough, too, for they had expected
decapitation. But ten were retained to dig deep graves near the sea and
bury the dead. There were no wounded. This done, peace was restored
once more on the Island of Flowers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three weeks of incessant rain followed. It fell in torrents, and the
river itself overflowed its banks, the fords being no longer of any use,
so that the men were confined to their barracks.
It was a long and a dreary time. Very much indeed Reginald would have
liked to visit the palace, to romp with little Matty, and listen to the
music of Ilda's sweet voice.
"As for Annie--she must have given me up for dead long ere now," he said
to himself. "Why, it is two years and nine months since I left home.
Yes, something tells me that Annie is married, and married to--to--my
old rival the Laird. Do I love Ilda? I dare not ask myself the
question. Bar Annie herself, with sweet, baby, innocent face, I have
never known a girl that so endeared herself to me as Ilda has done.
And--well, yes, why deny it?--I long to see her."
One day the rain ceased, and the sun shone out bright and clear once
more. The torrents from the mountains were dried up, and the river
rapidly went down. This was an island of surprises, and when, three
days after this, Reginald, accompanied by Hall and Dickson, went over
the mountains, they marvelled to find that the incessant downpour of
rain had entirely washed the ashes from the valley, and that it was once
more smiling green with bud and bourgeon. In a week's time the flowers
would burst forth in all their glory.
The ford was now easily negotiable, and soon they were at the Queen's
palace. Need I say that they received a hearty welcome from her Majesty
and Ilda? Nor did it take Matty a minute to ensconce herself on
Reginald's knee.
"Oh," she whispered, "I'se so glad you's come back again! Me and Ilda
cried ourselves to sleep every, every night, 'cause we think the bad
black men kill you."
Ilda crying for him! Probably praying for him! The thought gave him
joy. Then, indeed, she loved him. No wonder that he once again asked
himself how it would all end.
The weather now grew charming. Even the hills grew green again, for the
ashes and _debris_ from the fire-hill, as the natives called it, had
fertilised the ground. And now, accompanied by Ilda and Matty, who
would not be left behind, an expedition started for the valley of gold.
The road would be rough, and so a hammock had been sent for from the
camp, and two sturdy natives attached it to a long bamboo pole. Matty,
laughing with delight, was thus borne along, and she averred that it was
just like flying.
Alas! the earthquake had been very destructive in Golden Gulch. Our
heroes hardly knew it. Indeed, it was a glen no longer, but filled
entirely up with fallen rocks, lava, and scoria.
They sighed, and commenced the return journey. But first a visit must
be paid to Lone Tree Mountain. For Reginald's heart lay there.
"From that elevation," said Reginald, "we shall be able to see the
beautiful ocean far and near."
The tree at last! It was with joy indeed they beheld it. Though
damaged by the falling scoria, it was once more green; but the grave in
which the gold and pearls lay was covered three feet deep in lava and
small stones. The treasure, then, was safe!
They were about to return, when Ilda suddenly grasped Reginald's arm
convulsively.
"Look! look!" she cried, pointing seawards. "The ship! the ship! We
are saved! We are saved!"
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
"SHE THREW HERSELF ON THE SOFA IN AN AGONY OF GRIEF."
Nearer and nearer drew that ship, and bigger and bigger she seemed to
grow, evidently with the intention of landing on the island.
Even with the naked eye they soon could see that her bulwarks were badly
battered, and that her fore-topmast had been carried away.
Back they now hurried to leave Ilda and Matty at the palace. Then
camp-wards with all speed; and just as they reached the barracks they
could hear the rattling of the chains as both anchors were being let go
in the bay.
A boat now left the vessel's side, and our three heroes hurried down to
meet it.
The captain was a red-faced, white-haired, hale old man, and one's very
_beau-ideal_ of a sailor. He was invited at once up to the barracks,
and rum and ship biscuits placed before him. Then yarns were
interchanged, Captain Cleaver being the first to tell the story of his
adventures. Very briefly, though, as seafarers mostly do talk.
"Left Rio three months ago, bound for San Francisco. Fine weather for a
time, and until we had cleared the Straits. Then--oh, man! may I never
see the like again! I've been to sea off and on for forty years and
five, but never before have I met with such storms. One after another,
too; and here we are at last. In the quiet of your bay, I hope to make
good some repairs, then hurry on our voyage. And you?" he added.
"Ah," said Dickson, "we came infinitely worse off than you. Wrecked,
and nearly all our brave crew drowned. Six men only saved, with us
three, Mr Hall's daughter and a child. The latter are now with the
white Queen of this island. We managed to save our guns and provisions
from our unhappy yacht and that was all."
"Well, you shall all sail to California with me. I'll make room, for I
am but lightly loaded. But I have not yet heard the name of your craft,
nor have you introduced me to your companions."
"A sailor's mistake," laughed Dickson; "but this is Mr Hall, who was a
passenger; and this is Dr Reginald Grahame. Our vessel's name was the
_Wolverine_."
"And she sailed from Glasgow nearly three years ago?"
Captain Cleaver bent eagerly over towards Dickson as he put the
question.
"That is so, sir."
"Why, you are long since supposed to have foundered with all hands, and
the insurance has been paid to your owners."
"Well, that is right; the ship is gone, but _we_ are alive, and our
adventures have been very strange and terrible indeed. After dinner I
will tell you all. But now," he added, with a smile, "if you will only
take us as far as 'Frisco, we shall find our way to our homes."
Captain Cleaver's face was very pale now, and he bit his lips, as he
replied:
"I can take you, Captain Dickson, your six men, Mr Hall and the ladies,
but I cannot sail with this young fellow." He pointed to Reginald. "It
may be mere superstition on my part," he continued, "but I am an old
sailor, you know, and old sailors have whims."
"I cannot see why I should be debarred from a passage home," said
Reginald.
"I am a plain man," said Cleaver, "and I shall certainly speak out, if
you pretend you do not know."
"I do _not_ know, and I command you to speak out."
"Then I will. In Britain there is a price set upon your head, sir, and
you are branded as a _murderer_!"
Dickson and Hall almost started from their seats, but Reginald was
quiet, though deathly white.
"And--and," he said, in a husky voice, "whom am I accused of murdering?"
"Your quondam friend, sir, and rival in love, the farmer Craig Nicol."
"I deny it _in toto_!" cried Reginald.
"Young man, I am not your judge. I can only state facts, and tell you
that your knife was found bloodstained and black by the murdered man's
side. The odds are all against you."
"This is truly terrible!" said Reginald, getting red and white by turns,
as he rapidly paced the floor. "What can it mean?"
"Captain Dickson," he said at last, "do you believe, judging from all
you have seen of me, that I could be guilty of so dastardly a deed, or
that I could play and romp with the innocent child Matty with,
figuratively speaking, blood between my fingers, and darkest guilt at my
heart? Can you believe it?"
Dickson held out his hand, and Reginald grasped it, almost in despair.
"Things look black against you," he said, "but I do _not_ believe you
guilty."
"Nor do I," said Hall; "but I must take the opportunity of sailing with
Captain Cleaver, I and my daughter and little Matty."
Reginald clasped his hand to his heart.
"My heart will break!" he said bitterly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a few days' time Cleaver's ship was repaired, and ready for sea. So
was Hall, and just two of the men. The other four, as well as Dickson
himself, elected to stay. There was still water to be laid in, however,
and so the ship was detained for forty-eight hours.
One morning his messmates missed Reginald from his bed. It was cold,
and evidently had not been slept in for many hours.
"Well, well," said Dickson, "perhaps it is best thus, but I doubt not
that the poor unhappy fellow has thrown himself over a cliff, and by
this time all his sorrows are ended for ay."
But Reginald had had no such intention. While the stars were yet
shining, and the beautiful Southern Cross mirrored in the river's depth,
he found himself by the ford, and soon after sunrise he was at the
palace.
Ilda was an early riser and so, too, was wee Matty. Both were surprised
but happy to see him. He took the child in his arms, and as he kissed
her the tears rose to his eyes, and all was a mist.
"Dear Matty," he said, "run out, now; I would speak with Ilda alone."
Half-crying herself, and wondering all the while, Matty retired
obediently enough.
"Oh," cried Ilda earnestly, and drawing her chair close to his, "you are
in grief. What can have happened?"
"Do not sit near me, Ilda. Oh, would that the grief would but kill me!
The captain of the ship which now lies in the bay has brought me
terrible news. I am branded with murder! Accused of slaying my quondam
friend and rival in the affections of her about whom I have often spoken
to you--Annie Lane."
Ilda was stricken dumb. She sat dazed and mute, gazing on the face of
him she loved above all men on earth.
"But--oh, you are not--_could_ not--be guilty! Reginald--my own
Reginald!" she cried.
"Things are terribly black against me, but I will say no more now. Only
the body was not found until two days after I sailed, and it is believed
that I was a fugitive from justice. That makes matters worse. Ilda, I
could have loved you, but, ah! I fear this will be our last interview
on earth. Your father is sailing by this ship, and taking you and my
little love Matty with him."
She threw herself in his arms now, and wept till it verily seemed her
heart would break. Then he kissed her tenderly, and led her back to her
seat.
"Brighter times may come," he said. "There is ever sunshine behind the
clouds. Good-bye, darling, good-bye--and may every blessing fall on
your life and make you happy. Say good-bye to the child for me; I dare
not see her again."
She half rose and held out her arms towards him, but he was gone. The
door was closed, and she threw herself now on the sofa in an agony of
grief.
The ship sailed next day. Reginald could not see her depart. He and
one man had gone to the distant hill. They had taken luncheon with
them, and the sun had almost set before they returned to camp.
"Have they gone?" was the first question when he entered the
barrack-hall.
"They have gone."
That was all that Dickson said.
"But come, my friend, cheer up. No one here believes you guilty. All
are friends around you, and if, as I believe you to be, you are
innocent, my advice is this: Pray to the Father; pray without ceasing,
and He will bend down His ear and take you out of your troubles.
Remember those beautiful lines you have oftentimes heard me sing:
"`God is our comfort and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid.'
"And these:
"`He took me from a fearful pit,
And from the miry clay;
And on a rock he set my feet,
Establishing my way.'"
"God bless you for your consolation. But at present my grief is all so
fresh, and it came upon me like a bolt from the blue. In a few days I
may recover. I do not know. I may fail and die. It may be better if I
do."
Dickson tried to smile.
"Nonsense, lad. I tell you all will yet come right, and you will see."
The men who acted as servants now came in to lay the supper. The table
was a rough one indeed, and tablecloth there was none. Yet many a
hearty meal they had made off the bare boards.
"I have no appetite, Dickson."
"Perhaps not; but inasmuch as life is worth living, and especially a
young life like yours, eat you must, and we must endeavour to coax it."
As he spoke he placed a bottle of old rum on the table. He took a
little himself, as if to encourage his patient, and then filled out half
a tumblerful and pushed it towards Reginald. Reginald took a sip or
two, and finally finished it by degrees, but reluctantly. Dickson
filled him out more.
"Nay, nay," Reginald remonstrated.
"Do you see that couch yonder?" said his companion, smiling.
"Yes."
"Well, as soon as you have had supper, on that you must go to bed, and I
will cover you with a light rug. Sleep will revive you, and things
to-morrow morning will not look quite so dark and gloomy."
"I shall do all you tell me."
"Good boy! but mind, I have even Solomon's authority for asking you to
drink a little. `Give,' he says, `strong drink to him Who is ready to
perish... Let him drink... and remember his misery no more.' And our
irrepressible bard Burns must needs paraphrase these words in verse:
"`Give him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
And liquor good to fire his blood,
That's pressed wi' grief and care.
There let him bouse and deep carouse
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er;
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.'"
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
"OH, MERCIFUL FATHER! THEY ARE HERE."
Well, it seemed there was very little chance of poor Reginald (if we
dare extend pity to him) forgetting either his loves or the terrible
incubus that pressed like a millstone on heart and brain.
Captain Dickson was now doctor instead of Grahame, and the latter was
his patient. Two things he knew right well: first, that in three or
four months at the least a ship of some kind would arrive, and Reginald
be taken prisoner back to England; secondly, that if he could not get
him to work, and thus keep his thoughts away from the awful grief, he
might sink and die. He determined, therefore, to institute a fresh
prospecting party. Perhaps, he told the men, the gold was not so much
buried but that they might find their way to it.
"That is just what we think, sir, and that is why we stayed in the
island with you and Dr Grahame instead of going home in the _Erebus_.
Now, sir," continued the man, "why not employ native labour? We have
plenty of tools, and those twenty stalwart blacks that fought so well
for us would do anything to help us. Shall I speak to them, captain?"
"Very well, McGregor; you seem to have the knack of giving good advice.
It shall be as you say."
After a visit to the Queen, who received them both with great
cordiality, and endeavoured all she could to keep up poor Reginald's
heart, they took their departure, and bore up for the hills, accompanied
by their black labourers, who were as merry as crickets. Much of the
lava, or ashes, had been washed away from the Golden Mount, as they
termed it, and they could thus prospect with more ease in the gulch
below.
In the most likely part, a place where crushed or powdered quartz
abound, work was commenced in downright earnest.
"Here alone have we any chance, men," said Captain Dickson cheerily.
"Ah, sir," said McGregor, "you have been at the diggings before, and so
have I."
"You are right, my good fellow; I made my pile in California when little
more than a boy. I thought that this fortune was going to last me for
ever, and there was no extravagance in New York I did not go in for.
Well, my pile just vanished like mist before the morning sun, and I had
to take a situation as a man before the mast, and so worked myself up to
what I am now, a British master mariner."
"Well, sir," said Mac, "you have seen the world, anyhow, and gained
experience, and no doubt that your having been yourself a common sailor
accounts for much of your kindness to and sympathy for us poor Jacks."
"Perhaps."
Mining work was now carried on all day long, and a shaft bored into the
mountain side. This was their only chance. Timber was cut down and
sawn into beams and supports, and for many weeks everything went on with
the regularity of clock-work; but it was not till after a month that
fortune favoured the brave. Then small nuggets began to be found, and
to these succeeded larger ones; and it was evident to all that a
well-lined pocket was found. In this case both the officers and men
worked together, and the gold was equally divided between them. They
were indeed a little Republic, but right well the men deserved their
share, for well and faithfully did they work.
Two months had passed away since the departure of the _Erebus_, and soon
the detectives must come. Reginald's heart gave a painful throb of
anxiety when he thought of it. Another month and he should be a
prisoner, and perhaps confined in a hot and stuffy cell on board ship.
Oh! it was terrible to think of! But work had kept him up. Soon,
however, the mine gave out, and was reluctantly deserted. Every night
now, however, both Dickson and Reginald dined and slept at the palace of
Queen Bertha. With her Reginald left his nuggets.
"If I should be condemned to death," he said,--"and Fate points to that
probability--the gold and all the rest is yours, Dickson."
"Come, sir, come," said the Queen, "keep up your heart. You say you are
not guilty."
They were sitting at table enjoying wine and fruit, though the latter
felt like sawdust in Reginald's hot and nerve-fevered mouth.
"I do not myself believe I am guilty, my dear lady," he answered.
"You do not _believe_?"
"Listen, and I will tell you. The knife found--it was mine--by the side
of poor Craig Nicol is damning evidence against me, and this is my
greatest fear. Listen again. All my life I have been a sleep-walker or
somnambulist."
The Queen was interested now, and leaned more towards him as he spoke.
"You couldn't surely--" she began.
"All I remember of that night is this--and I feel the cold sweat of
terror on my brow as I relate it--I had been to Aberdeen. I dined with
friends--dined, not wisely, perhaps, but too well. I remember feeling
dazed when I left the train at--Station. I had many miles still to
walk, but before I had gone there a stupor seemed to come over me, and I
laid me down on the sward thinking a little sleep would perfectly
refresh me. I remember but little more, only that I fell asleep,
thinking how much I would give only to have Craig Nicol once more as my
friend. Strange, was it not? I seemed to awake in the same place where
I had lain down, but cannot recollect that I had any dreams which might
have led to somnambulism. But, oh, Queen Bertha, my stocking knife was
gone! I looked at my hands. `Good God!' I cried, for they were
smeared with blood! And I fainted away. I have no more to say," he
added, "no more to tell. I will tell the same story to my solicitor
alone, and will be guided by all he advises. If I have done this deed,
even in my sleep, I deserve my fate, whate'er it may be, and, oh, Queen
Bertha, the suspense and my present terrible anxiety is worse to bear
than death itself could be."
"From my very inmost heart I pity you," said the Queen.
"And I too," said Dickson.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was now well-nigh three months since the _Erebus_ had left, and no
other vessel had yet arrived or appeared in sight.
But one evening the Queen, with Reginald and Dickson, sat out of doors
in the verandah. They were drinking little cups of black coffee and
smoking native cigarettes, rolled round with withered palm leaves in
lieu of paper. It was so still to-night that the slightest sound could
be heard: even leaves rustling in the distant woods, even the whisk of
the bats' wings as they flew hither and thither moth-hunting. It was,
too, as bright as day almost, for a round moon rode high in the clear
sky, and even the brilliant Southern Cross looked pale in her dazzling
rays. There had been a lull in the conversation for a few minutes, but
suddenly the silence was broken in a most unexpected way. From seaward,
over the hills, came the long-drawn and mournful shriek of a steamer's
whistle.
"O, Merciful Father!" cried Reginald, half-rising from his seat, but
sinking helplessly back again--"they are here!"
Alas! it was only too true.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When the _Erebus_ left the island, with, as passengers, Mr Hall and
poor, grief-stricken Ilda, she had a good passage as far as the Line,
and here was becalmed only a week, and made a quick voyage afterwards to
the Golden Horn. Here Mr Hall determined to stay for many months, to
recruit his daughter's health. All the remedies of San Francisco were
at her command. She went wherever her father pleased, but every
pleasure appeared to pall upon her. Doctors were consulted, and
pronounced the poor girl in a rapid decline. There was a complete
collapse of the whole nervous system, they said, and she must have
received some terrible shock. Mr Hall admitted it, asking at the same
time if the case were hopeless, and what he could do.
"It is the last thing a medical man should do," replied the physician,
"to take hope away. I do not say she may not recover with care, but--I
am bound to tell you, sir--the chances of her living a year are somewhat
remote."
Poor Mr Hall was silent and sad. He would soon be a lonely man indeed,
with none to comfort him save little Matty, and she would grow up and
leave him too.
Shortly after the arrival of the _Erebus_ at California, a sensational
heading to a Scotch newspaper caught the eye of the old Laird McLeod, as
he sat with his daughter one morning at breakfast:
"Remarkable Discovery.
The Supposed Murderer of Craig Nicol
Found on a Cannibal Island."
The rest of the paragraph was but brief, and detailed only what we
already know. But Annie too had seen it, and almost fainted. And this
very forenoon, too, Laird Fletcher was coming to McLeod Cottage to ask
her hand formally from her father.
Already, as I have previously stated, she had given a half-willing
consent. But now her mind was made up. She would tell Fletcher
everything, and trust to his generosity. She mentioned to Jeannie, her
maid, what her intentions were.
"I would not utterly throw over Fletcher," said Jeannie. "You never
know what may happen."
Jeannie was nothing if not canny. Well, Fletcher did call that
forenoon, and she saw him before he could speak to her old uncle--saw
him alone. She showed him the paper and telegram. Then she boldly told
him that while her betrothed, whom she believed entirely innocent of the
crime laid at his door, was in grief and trouble, all thoughts of
marriage were out of the question entirely.
"And you love this young man still?"
"Ay, Fletcher," she said, "and will love him till all the seas run dry."
The Laird gave her his hand, and with tears running down her cheeks, she
took it.
"We still shall be friends," he said.
"Yes," she cried; "and, oh, forgive me if I have caused you grief. I am
a poor, unhappy girl!"
"Every cloud," said Fletcher, "has a silver lining."
Then he touched her hand lightly with his lips, and next moment he was
gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
THE CRUISE OF THE "VULCAN."
The next news concerning what was called the terrible Deeside murder was
that a detective and two policemen had started for New York, that thence
they would journey overland to San Francisco, and there interview the
captain of the _Erebus_ in order to get the latitude and longitude of
the Isle of Flowers. They would then charter a small steamer and bring
the accused home for trial--and for justice.
It is a long and somewhat weary journey, this crossing America by train,
but the detective and his companions were excited by the adventure they
were engaged on, and did not mind the length of the way.
The _Vulcan_, which they finally chartered at 'Frisco, was a small, but
clean and pretty steamer, that was used for taking passengers (a few
select ones only) to view the beauties of the Fiji Islands.
Many a voyage had she made, but was as sturdy and strong as ever.
It must be confessed, however, that Master Mariner Neaves did not
half-like his present commission, but the liberality of the pay
prevailed, and so he gave in. His wife and her maid, who acted also as
stewardess, had always accompanied him to sea, and she refused to be
left on this expedition.
So away they sailed at last, and soon were far off in the blue Pacific,
steering southwards with a little west in it.
And now a very strange discovery was brought to light. They had been
about a day and a half at sea, when, thinking he heard a slight noise in
the store-room, Captain Neaves opened it. To his intense surprise, out
walked a beautiful little girl of about seven. She carried in her hand
a grip-sack, and as she looked up innocently in Neaves's face, she said
naively:
"Oh, dear, I is so glad we are off at last. I'se been so very lonely."
"But, my charming little stowaway, who on earth are you, and how did you
come here?"
"Oh," she answered, "I am Matty. I just runned away, and I'se goin'
south with you to see poor Regie Grahame. That's all, you know."
"Well, well, well!" said Neaves wonderingly. "A stranger thing than
this surely never happened on board the saucy _Vulcan_, from the day she
first was launched!" Then he took Matty by the hand, and laughing in
spite of himself, gave her into the charge of his wife. "We can't turn
back," he explained; "that would be unlucky. She must go with us."
"Of course," said Matty, nodding her wise wee head. "You mustn't go
back."
And so it was settled. But Matty became the sunshine and life of all on
board. Even the detective caught the infection, and the somewhat
solemn-looking and important policeman as well. All were in love with
Matty in less than a week. If Neaves was master of the _Vulcan_, Matty
was mistress.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, when that ominous whistle was heard in the bay of Flower Island,
although utterly shaken and demoralised for a time, Reginald soon
recovered. Poor Oscar, the Newfoundland, had laid his great head on his
master's knees and was gazing up wonderingly but pityingly into his
face.
"Oh, Queen Bertha," said Reginald sadly, as he placed a hand on the
dog's great head, "will--will you keep my faithful friend till all is
over?"
"That I shall, and willingly. Nothing shall ever come over him; and
mind," she said, "I feel certain you will return to bring him away."
Next morning broke sunny and delightful. All the earth in the valley
was carpeted with flowers; the trees were in their glory. Reginald
alone was unhappy. At eight o'clock, guided by two natives, the
detectives and policemen were seen fording the river, on their way to
the palace. Reginald had already said good-bye to the Queen and his
beautiful brown-eyed dog.
"Be good, dear boy, and love your mistress. I will come back again in
spirit if not in body. Good-bye, my pet, good-bye."
Then he and Dickson went quietly down to meet the police. The detective
stopped and said "Good-morning" in a kindly, sympathetic tone.
"Good-morning," said Reginald sadly. "I am your prisoner."
The policeman now pulled out the handcuffs. The detective held up his
hand.
"If you, Grahame," he said, "will assure me on your oath that you will
make no attempt to escape or to commit suicide, you shall have freedom
on board--no irons, no chains."
The prisoner held up his hand, and turned his eyes heavenwards.
"As God is my last Judge, sir," he said, "I swear before Him I shall
give you not the slightest trouble. I know my fate, and can now face
it."
"Amen," said the detective. "And now we shall go on board."
Reginald took one last longing, lingering look back at the palace; the
Queen was there, and waved him farewell; then, though the tears were
silently coursing down his cheeks, he strode on bravely by Dickson's
side.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arrived on board, to his intense surprise, Matty was the first to greet
him. She fairly rushed into his arms, and he kissed her over and over
again. Then she told him all her own little story.
Now the men came off with their boxes, and Dickson with his traps. The
_Vulcan_ stayed not two hours altogether after all were on board. Steam
was got up, and away she headed back once more for 'Frisco, under full
steam. I think that Reginald was happier now than he had been for
months. The bitterness of death seemed to be already past, and all he
longed for was rest, even should that rest be in the grave. Moreover,
he was to all intents and purposes on parole. Though he took his meals
in his own cabin, and though a sentry was placed at the door every
night, he was permitted to walk the deck by day, and go wherever he
liked, and even to play with Matty.
"I cannot believe that the poor young fellow is guilty of the terrible
crime laid to his charge," said Mrs Neaves to her husband one day.
"Nor I either, my dear; but we must go by the evidence against him, and
I do not believe he has the slightest chance of life."
"Terrible!"
Yet Mrs Neaves talked kindly to him for all that when she met him on
the quarter-deck; but she never alluded to the dark cloud that hung so
threateningly over his life. The more she talked to him, the more she
believed in his innocence, and the more she liked him, although she
tried hard not to.
Matty was Reginald's almost constant companion, and many an otherwise
lonely hour she helped to cheer and shorten.
He had another companion, however--his Bible. All hope for this world
had fled, and he endeavoured now to make his peace with the God whom he
had so often offended and sinned against.
Captain Dickson and he often sat together amidships or on the
quarter-deck, and the good skipper of the unfortunate _Wolverine_ used
to talk about all they should do together when the cloud dissolved into
thin air, and Reginald was once more free.
"But, ah, Dickson," said the prisoner, "that cloud will not dissolve.
It is closed aboard of me now, but it will come lower and lower, and
then--it will burst, and I shall be no more. No, no, dear friend, I
appreciate the kindness of your motives in trying to cheer me, but my
hopes of happiness are now centred in the Far Beyond."
If a man in his terrible position could ever be said to experience
pleasure at all, Reginald did when the four honest sailors came to see
him, as they never failed to do, daily. Theirs was heart-felt pity.
Their remarks might have been a little rough, but they were kindly
meant, and the consolation they tried to give was from the heart.
"How is it with you by this time?" McGregor said one day. "You mustn't
mope, ye know."
"Dear Mac," replied Reginald, "there is no change, except that the
voyage will soon be at an end, just as my voyage of life will."
"Now, sir, I won't have that at all. Me and my mates here have made up
our minds, and we believe you ain't guilty at all, and that they dursn't
string you up on the evidence that will go before the jury."
"I fear not death, anyhow, Mac. Indeed, I am not sure that I might not
say with Job of old, `I prefer strangling rather than life.'"
"Keep up your pecker, sir; never say die; and don't you think about it.
We'll come and see you to-morrow again. Adoo."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yes, the voyage was coming to a close, and a very uneventful one it had
been. When the mountains of California at last hove in sight, and
Skipper Neaves informed Reginald that they would get in to-morrow night,
he was rather pleased than otherwise. But Matty was now in deepest
grief. This strange child clung around his neck and cried at the
thoughts of it.
"Oh, I shall miss you, I shall miss you!" she said. "And you can't take
poor Matty with you?"
And now, to console her, he was obliged to tell her what might have been
called a white lie, for which he hoped to be forgiven.
"But Matty must not mourn; we shall meet again," he said. "And perhaps
I may take Matty with me on a long cruise, and we shall see the Queen of
the Isle of Flowers once more, and you and dear Oscar, your beautiful
Newfoundland, shall play together, and romp just as in the happy days of
yore. Won't it be delightful, dear?"
Matty smiled through her tears, only drawing closer to Reginald's breast
as she did.
"Poor dear doggy Oscar?" she said. "He will miss you so much?"
"Yes, darling; his wistful, half-wondering glance I never can forget.
He seemed to refuse to believe that I could possibly leave him, and the
glance of love and sorrow in the depths of his soft brown eyes I shall
remember as long as I live."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first to come on board when the vessel got in was Mr Hall himself
and Ilda. The girl was changed in features, somewhat thinner, paler,
and infinitely more sad-looking. But with loving abandon she threw
herself into Reginald's arms and wept.
"Oh, dear," she cried, "how sadly it has all ended!" Then she
brightened up a little. "We--that is, father and I--are going to Italy
for the winter, and I may get well, and we may meet again. God in
Heaven bless you, Reginald!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Then the sad partings. I refuse to describe them. I would rather my
story were joyful than otherwise, and so I refrain.
It was a long, weary journey that to New York, but it ended at last, and
Reginald found himself a prisoner on board the _B--Castle_ bound for
Britain's far-off shores.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
MEETING AND PARTING.
Reginald was infinitely more lonely now and altogether more of a
prisoner too. Neither Captain Dickson nor the four sailors returned by
the same ship, so, with the exception of the detective, who really was a
kind-hearted and feeling man, he had no one to converse with.
He was permitted to come up twice a day and walk the deck forward by way
of exercise, but a policeman always hovered near. If the truth must be
told, he would have preferred staying below. The passengers were
chiefly Yankees on their way to London Paris, and the Riviera, but as
soon as he appeared there was an eager rush forward as far as midships,
and as he rapidly paced the deck, the prisoner was as cruelly criticised
as if he had been some show animal or wild beast. It hurt Reginald not
a little, and more than once during his exercise hour his cheeks would
burn and tingle with shame.
When he walked forward as far as the winch, he turned and walked aft
again, and it almost broke his heart--for he dearly loved children--to
see those on the quarter-deck clutch their mothers' skirts, or hide
behind them screaming.
"Oh, ma, he's coming--the awful man is coming?"
"He isn't so terrible-looking, is he, auntie?" said a beautiful young
girl one day, quite aloud, too.
"Ah, child, but remember what he has done. Even a tiger can look soft
and pleasant and beautiful at times."
"Well," said another lady, "he will hang as high as Haman, anyhow!"
"And richly deserves it," exclaimed a sour-looking, scraggy old maid.
"I'm sure I should dearly like to see him strung. He won't walk so
boldly along the scaffold, I know, and his face will be a trifle whiter
then!"
"Woman!" cried an old white-haired gentleman, "you ought to be downright
ashamed of yourself, talking in that manner in the hearing of that
unfortunate man; a person of your age might know just a little better!"
The old maid tossed her yellow face. "And let me add, madam, that but
for God's grace and mercy you might occupy a position similar to his.
Good-day, miss!"
There was a barrier about the spot where the quarter-deck and midships
joined. Thus far might steerage passengers walk aft, but no farther.
To this barrier Reginald now walked boldly up, and, while the ladies for
the most part backed away, as if he had been a python, and the children
rushed screaming away, the old gentleman kept where he was.
"God bless you, sir," said Reginald, loud enough for all to hear, "for
defending me. The remarks those unfeeling women make in my hearing
pierce me to the core."
"And God bless you, young man, and have mercy on your soul." He held
out his hand, and Reginald shook it heartily. "I advise you, Mr
Grahame, to make your peace with God, for I cannot see a chance for you.
I am myself a New York solicitor, and have studied your case over and
over again."
"I care not how soon death comes. My hopes are yonder," said Reginald.
He pointed skywards as he spoke.
"That's good. And remember:
"`While the lamp holds out to burn,
The greatest sinner may return.'
"I'll come and see you to-morrow."
"A thousand thanks, sir. Good-day."
Mr Scratchley, the old solicitor, was as good as his word, and the two
sat down together to smoke a couple of beautiful Havana cigars, very
large and odorous. The tobacco seemed to soothe the young man, and he
told Scratchley his story from beginning to end, and especially did he
enlarge on the theory of somnambulism. This, he believed, was his only
hope. But Scratchley cut him short.
"See here, young man; take the advice of one who has spent his life at
the Bar. Mind, I myself am a believer in spiritualism, but keep that
somnambulism story to yourself. I must speak plainly. It will be
looked upon by judge and jury as cock-and-bull, and it will assuredly do
you more harm than good. Heigho!" he continued. "From the bottom of my
heart I pity you. So young, so handsome. Might have been so happy and
hopeful, too! Well, good-bye. I'll come again."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr Scratchley was really a comfort to Reginald. But now the voyage was
drawing near its close. They had passed the isles of Bute and Arran,
and had entered on the wild, romantic beauties of the Clyde.
It was with a feeling of utter sadness and gloom, however, that the
prisoner beheld them. Time was when they would have delighted his
heart. Those days were gone, and the darkness was all ahead. The glad
sunshine sparkled in the wavelets, and, wheeling hither and thither,
with half-hysterical screams of joy, were the white-winged, free, and
happy gulls; but in his present condition of mind things the most
beautiful saddened him the most.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two days are past and gone, and Reginald is now immured in gaol to await
his trial. It was lightsome and comfortable, and he had books to read,
and a small, cheerful fire. He had exercise also in the yard, and even
the gaolers talked kindly enough to him; but all the same he was a
prisoner.
His greatest trial had yet to come--the meeting with--ah! yes, and the
parting from--Annie--his Annie--Annie o' the Banks o' Dee.
One day came a letter from her, which, though it had been opened and
read by the authorities, was indeed a sweet boon to him. He read it
over and over again, lover-like. It burned with affection and love, a
love that time and absence had failed to quench. But she was coming to
see him, "she and her maid, Jeannie Lee," she continued. Her uncle was
well and hearty, but they were no longer owners of the dear old house
and lands of Bilberry. She would tell him all her story when she saw
him. And the letter ended: "With unalterable love, your _own_ Annie."
The ordeal of such a meeting was one from which Reginald naturally
shrank; but this over, he would devote himself entirely to communion
with Heaven. Only Heavenly hopes could now keep up his heart.
The day came, and Annie, with Jeannie, her maid, arrived at the prison.
He held Annie at arms' length for a few seconds. Not one whit altered
was she. Her childlike and innocent beauty was as fresh now, and her
smile as sweet, though somewhat more chastened, as when he had parted
with her in sorrow and tears more than three years ago. He folded her
in his arms. At this moment, after a preliminary knock at the door, the
gaoler entered.
"The doctor says," he explained, "that your interview may last an hour,
and that, fearing it may be too much for you, he sends you this. And a
kindly-hearted gent he is."
He placed a large glass of brandy and water before Reginald as he spoke.
"What! Must I drink all this?"
"Yes--and right off, too. It is the doctor's orders."
The prisoner obeyed, though somewhat reluctantly. Even now he needed no
Dutch courage. Then, while Jeannie took a book and seated herself at
some little distance, the lovers had it all to themselves, and after a
time Annie felt strong enough to tell her story. We already know it.
"Yes, dear, innocent Reginald, we were indeed sorry to leave bonnie
Bilberry Hall, and live in so small a cottage. And though he has kept
up wonderfully well, still, I know he longs at times for a sight of the
heather. He is not young now, darling, and yet he may live for very
many years. But you were reported as lost, dear, and even the
figurehead of the _Wolverine_ and a boat was found far away in the
Pacific. Then after that, dearest, all hope fled. I could never love
another. The new heir of Bilberry Hall and land proposed to me. My
uncle could not like him, and I had no love to spare. My heart was in
Heaven with you, for I firmly believed you drowned and gone before.
Then came Laird Fletcher. Oh, he was very, very kind to us, and often
took uncle and myself away in his carriage to see once more the bonnie
Highland hills. And I used to notice the tears standing in dear uncle's
eyes when he beheld the glory and romance of his own dear land, and the
heather. And then I used to pity poor uncle, for often after he came
home from a little trip like this he used to look so forlornly at all
his humble surroundings. Well, dear, from kindness of every kind
Fletcher's feelings for me seemed to merge into love. Yes, true love,
Reginald. But I could not love him in return. My uncle even pleaded a
little for Fletcher. His place is in the centre of the Deeside
Highlands, and, oh, the hills are high, and the purple heather and
crimson heath, surrounded by dark pine forests, are a sight to see in
autumn. Well, you were dead, Reginald, and uncle seemed pining away;
and so when one day Fletcher pleaded more earnestly than ever, crying
pathetically as he tried to take my hand, `Oh, Annie, my love, my life,
I am unworthy of even your regard, but for sake of your dear old uncle
won't you marry me?' then, Reginald, I gave a half-consent, but a wholly
unwilling one. Can you forgive me?"
He pressed her closer to his heart by way of answer.
How quickly that hour sped away lovers only know. But it ended all too
soon. The parting? Ay, ay; let this too be left to the imagination of
him or her who knows what true love is.
After Annie had gone, for the first time since his incarceration
Reginald collapsed. He threw himself on his bed and sobbed until verily
he thought his heart would break. Then the gaoler entered.
"Come, come, my dear lad," said the man, walking up to the prisoner and
laying a kindly and sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "Keep up, my boy,
keep up. We have all to die. God is love, lad, and won't forsake you."
"Oh," cried the prisoner, "it is not death I fear. I mourn but for
those I leave behind."
A few more weeks, and Reginald's case came on for trial.
It was short, perhaps, but one of the most sensational ever held in the
Granite City, as the next chapter will prove.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
A SENSATIONAL MURDER TRIAL.
The good people of Aberdeen--yclept the Granite City--are as fond of
display and show as even the Londoners, and the coming of the lords, who
are the judges that try the principal cases, is quite an event of the
year, and looked forward to with longing, especially by the young
people.
Ah! little they think of or care for the poor wretches that, in charge
of warders or policemen, or both, are brought up from their cells, to
stand pale and trembling before the judge.
The three weeks that intervened between the departure of poor, unhappy
Annie from his cell and the coming of the lords were the longest that
Reginald ever spent in life--or appeared to be, for every hour was like
a day, every day seemed like a month.
The gaoler was still kind to him. He had children of his own, and in
his heart he pitied the poor young fellow, around whose neck the halter
would apparently soon be placed. He had even--although I believe this
was against the rules--given Reginald some idea as to the day his trial
would commence.
"God grant," said Reginald, "they may not keep me long. Death itself is
preferable to the anxiety and awful suspense of a trial."
But the three weeks passed away at last, and some days to that, and
still the lords came not. The prisoner's barred window was so
positioned that he could see down Union Street with some craning of the
neck.
One morning, shortly after he had sent away his untouched breakfast, he
was startled by hearing a great commotion in the street, and the hum of
many voices. The pavements were lined with a sea of human beings.
Shortly after this he heard martial music, and saw men on the march with
nodding plumes and fixed bayonets. Among them, guarded on each side,
walked lords in their wigs and gowns. Reginald was brave, but his heart
sank to zero now with terror and dread. He felt that his hour had come.
Shortly the gaoler entered.
"Your case is to be the first," he said. "Prepare yourself. It will
come off almost immediately."
He went away, and the prisoner sank on his knees and prayed as surely he
never prayed before. The perspiration stood in great drops on his
forehead.
Another weary hour passed by, and this time the door was opened to his
advocate. His last words were these:
"All you have got to do is to plead `Not guilty'; then keep silent. If
a question is put to you, glance at me before you answer. I will nod if
you must answer, and shake my head if you need not."
"A thousand thanks for all your kindness, sir. I'm sure you will do
your best."
"I will."
Once more the gaoler entered.
"The doctor sends you this," he said. "And drink it you must, or you
may faint in the dock, and the case be delayed."
At last the move was made. Dazed and dizzy, Reginald hardly knew
whither he was being led, until he found himself in the dock confronting
the solemn and sorrowful-looking judge. He looked just once around the
court, which was crowded to excess. He half-expected, I think, to see
Annie there, and was relieved to find she was not in court. But yonder
was Captain Dickson and the four sailors who had remained behind to
prosecute the gold digging. Dickson smiled cheerfully and nodded. Then
one of the policemen whispered attention, and the unhappy prisoner at
once confronted the judge.
"Reginald Grahame," said the latter after some legal formalities were
gone through, "you are accused of the wilful murder of Craig Nicol,
farmer on Deeside, by stabbing him to the heart with a dirk or _skean
dhu_. Are you guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty, my lord." This in a firm voice, without shake or tremolo.
"Call the witnesses."
The first to be examined was Craig's old housekeeper. She shed tears
profusely, and in a faint tone testified to the departure of her master
for Aberdeen with the avowed intention of drawing money to purchase
stock withal. She was speedily allowed to stand down.
The little boys who had found the body beneath the dark spruce-fir in
the lonely plantation were next interrogated, and answered plainly
enough in their shrill treble.
Then came the police who had been called, and the detective, who all
gave their evidence in succinct but straightforward sentences.
All this time there was not a sound in the court, only that sea of faces
was bent eagerly forward, so that not a word might escape them. The
excitement was intense.
Now came the chief witness against Reginald; and the bloodstained dirk
was handed to Shufflin' Sandie.
"Look at that, and say if you have seen it before?" said the judge.
"As plain as the nose on your lordship's face!" said Sandie, smiling.
That particular nose was big, bulbous, and red. Sandie's reply,
therefore, caused a titter to run through the court. The judge frowned,
and the prosecution proceeded.
"Where did you last see it?"
"Stained with blood, sir; it was found beneath the dead man's body."
On being questioned, Sandie also repeated his evidence as given at the
coroner's inquest, and presently was allowed to stand down.
Then the prisoner was hissed by the people. The judge lost his temper.
He had not quite got over Sandie's allusion to his nose.
"If," he cried, "there is the slightest approach to a repetition of that
unseemly noise, I will instantly clear the court?"
The doctor who had examined the body was examined.
"Might not the farmer have committed suicide?" he was asked.
"Everything is against that theory," the doctor replied, "for the knife
belonged to Grahame; besides, the deed was done on the road, and from
the appearance of the deceased's coat, he had evidently been hauled
through the gateway on his back, bleeding all the while, and so hidden
under the darkling spruce pine."
"So that _felo de se_ is quite out of the question?"
"Utterly so, my lord."
"Stand down, doctor."
I am giving the evidence only in the briefest epitome, for it occupied
hours. The advocate for the prosecution made a telling speech, to which
the prisoner's solicitor replied in one quite as good. He spoke almost
ironically, and laughed as he did so, especially when he came to the
evidence of the knife. His client at the time of the murder was lying
sound asleep at a hedge-foot. What could hinder a tramp, one of the
many who swarm on the Deeside road, to have stolen the knife, followed
Craig Nicol, stabbed him, robbed and hidden the body, and left the knife
there to turn suspicion on the sleeping man? "Is it likely," he added,
"that Reginald--had he indeed murdered his quondam friend--would have
been so great a fool as to have left the knife there?" He ended by
saying that there was not a jot of trustworthy evidence on which the
jury could bring in a verdict of guilty.
But, alas! for Reginald. The judge in his summing up--and a long and
eloquent speech it was--destroyed all the good effects of the
solicitor's speech. "He could not help," he said, "pointing out to the
jury that guilt or suspicion could rest on no one else save Grahame. As
testified by a witness, he had quarrelled with Nicol, and had made use
of the remarkable expression that `the quarrel would end in blood.' The
night of the murder Grahame was not sober, but lying where he was, in
the shade of the hedge, Nicol must have passed him without seeing him,
and then no doubt Grahame had followed and done that awful deed which in
cool blood he might not even have thought about Again, Grahame was poor,
and was engaged to be married. The gold and notes would be an incentive
undoubtedly to the crime, and when he sailed away in the _Wolverine_ he
was undoubtedly a fugitive from justice, and in his opinion the jury had
but one course. They might now retire."
They were about to rise, and his lordship was about to withdraw, when a
loud voice exclaimed:
"Hold! I desire to give evidence."
A tall, bold-looking seafarer stepped up, and was sworn.
"I have but this moment returned from a cruise around Africa," he said.
"I am bo's'n's mate in H.M.S. _Hurricane_. We have been out for three
years. But, my lord, I have some of the notes here that the Bank of
Scotland can prove were paid to Craig Nicol, and on the very day after
the murder must have taken place I received these notes, for value
given, from the hands of Sandie yonder, usually called Shufflin' Sandie.
I knew nothing about the murder then, nor until the ship was paid off;
but being hurried away, I had no time to cash the paper, and here are
three of them now, my lord." They were handed to the jury. "They were
smeared with blood when I got them. Sandie laughed when I pointed this
out to him. He said that he had cut his finger, but that the blood
would bring me luck." (Great sensation in court.)
Sandie was at once recalled to the witness-box. His knees trembled so
that he had to be supported. His voice shook, and his face was pale to
ghastliness.
"Where did you obtain those notes?" said the judge sternly.
For a moment emotion choked the wretch's utterance. But he found words
at last.
"Oh, my lord my lord, I alone am the murderer! I killed one man--Craig
Nicol--I cannot let another die for my crime! I wanted money, my lord,
to help to pay for my new house, and set me up in life, and I dodged
Nicol for miles. I found Mr Grahame asleep under a hedge, and I stole
the stocking knife and left it near the man I had murdered. When I
returned to the sleeping man, I had with me--oh, awful!--some of the
blood of my victim that I had caught in a tiny bottle as it flowed from
his side,"--murmurs of horror--"and with this I smeared Grahame's
hands."
Here Sandie collapsed in a dead faint, and was borne from the court.
"Gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, "this evidence and confession
puts an entirely new complexion on this terrible case. The man who has
just fainted is undoubtedly the murderer." The jury agreed. "The
present prisoner is discharged, but must appear to-morrow, when the
wretched dwarf shall take his place in the dock."
And so it was. Even the bloodstained clothes that Sandie had worn on
the night of the murder had been found. The jury returned a verdict of
guilty against him without even leaving the box. The judge assumed the
black cap, and amidst a silence that could be felt, condemned him to
death.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reginald Grahame was a free man, and once more happy. The court even
apologised to him, and wished him all the future joys that life could
give.
But the wretched culprit forestalled justice, and managed to strangle
himself in his cell. And thus the awful tragedy ended.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I knew it, I knew it!" cried Annie, as a morning or two after his
exculpation Reginald presented himself at McLeod Cottage. And the
welcome he received left nothing to be desired.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
THE LAST CRUISE TO THE ISLAND OF FLOWERS.
In quite a ship-shape form was poor Reginald's release from prison, and
from the very jaws of death. Met at the door by his friends and old
shipmates. Dickson was there, with his four brave sailors, and many was
the fellow-student who stretched out his hands to shake Reginald's, as
pale and weakly he came down the steps. Then the students formed
themselves into procession--many who read these lines may remember it--
and, headed by a brass band, marched with Dickson and the sailors, who
bore Reginald aloft in an armchair, marched to the other end of Union
Street, then back as far as a large hotel. Here, after many a ringing
cheer, they dismissed themselves. But many returned at eventide and
partook of a sumptuous banquet in honour of Reginald, and this feast was
paid for by Dickson himself. The common sailors were there also, and
not a few strange tales they had to tell, their memories being refreshed
by generous wine.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
And now our story takes a leap of many months, and we find the _Highland
Mary_, a most beautiful yacht, somewhat of the _Wolverine_ type, far,
far at sea, considerable to nor'ard of the Line, however, but bounding
on under a spread of whitest canvas, over just such a sea as the sailor
loves. No big waves here, but wavelets of the darkest steel-blue, and
each one wrinkled and dimpled with the warm, delightful breeze, kissed
by the sunlight, and reflecting the glory in millions of broken rays, as
if the sea were besprinkled with precious stones and diamonds of purest
ray serene.
Let us take a look on deck. We cannot but be struck with the neatness
and brightness of everything our eyes fall upon. The fires are out.
There is no roaring steam, no clouds of dark, dense smoke, no grind and
grind of machinery, and no fall of black and sooty hailstones from the
funnel. Ill indeed would this have accorded with the ivory whiteness of
the quarter-deck, with the snow-white table linen, which one can catch a
glimpse of down through the open skylight. But worst of all would it
accord with the dainty dresses of the ladies, or the snowy sailor garb
of the officers. The ladies are but two in reality, Annie herself--now
Mrs Reginald Grahame--and daft, pretty wee Matty. But there is Annie's
maid, Jeannie Lee, looking as modest and sweet as she ever did. Annie
is seated in a cushioned chair, and, just as of old, Matty is on
Reginald's knee. If Annie is not jealous of her, she certainly is not
jealous of Annie. In her simple, guileless young heart, she believes
that she comes first in Reginald's affections, and that Annie has merely
second place.
I daresay it is the bracing breeze and the sunshine that makes Matty
feel so happy and merry to-day. Well, sad indeed would be the heart
that rejoiced not on such a day as this! Why, to breathe is joy itself;
the air seems to fill one with exhilaration, like gladsome, sparkling
wine.
Here is Captain Dickson. He never did look jollier, with his rosy,
laughing face, his gilt-bound cap and his jacket of blue, than he does
now. He is half-sitting, half-standing on the edge of the skylight, and
keeping up an animated conversation with Annie. Poor Annie, her
troubles and trials seem over now, and she looks quietly, serenely
happy; her bonnie face--set off by that tiny flower-bedecked bride's
bonnet--is radiant with smiles.
But Matty wriggles down from Reginald's knee at last, and is off to have
a game of romps with Sigmund, the splendid Dane. Sigmund is
four-and-thirty inches high at the shoulder, shaped in body somewhat
like a well-built pointer, but in head like a long-faced bull-terrier.
His coat is short, and of a slatey-blue; his tail is as straight and
strong as a capstan bar. At any time he has only to switch it across
Matty's waist, when down she rolls on the ivory-white decks. Then
Sigmund bends down, and gives her cheek just one loving lick, to show
there is no bad feeling; but so tickled is he at the situation, that
with lips drawn back and pearly teeth showing in a broad smile, he must
set out on a wild and reckless rush round and round the decks from winch
to binnacle. If a sailor happens to get in his way, he is flung right
into the air by the collision, and is still on his back when Sigmund
returns. But the dog bounds over the fallen man, and continues his mad
gallop until, fairly exhausted, he comes back to lie down beside Matty,
with panting breath, and about a yard, more or less, of a red-ribbon of
tongue depending from one side of his mouth.
Matty loves Sigmund, but she loves Oscar more, and wonders if she will
ever see him once again; and she wonders, too, if Sigmund and Oscar will
agree, or if they will fight, which would be truly terrible to think of.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yonder is McGregor. He is elevated to the rank of bo's'n, and the three
other sailors that came home in the _Vulcan_ are here too. With the
pile in gold and pearls they made on the Isle of Flowers, they needn't
have been now serving before the mast. This would probably be their
last voyage, for they meant to go into business on shore. But they
loved the sea, and they loved Reginald and Dickson too. So here they
were, and many more tars also; and when the main-brace was spliced of a
Saturday night, it would have been good for anyone to have come forward
to the bows and listened to the songs sung and the tales told by honest
Jack.
But how came Matty on board? The story is soon told, and it is a sad
one. A few weeks after his marriage, being in London, and dropping into
the Savoy Hotel on the now beautiful Embankment, Reginald found Mr Hall
standing languid and lonely by the bar with a little glass of green
liquor in his hand.
"Delighted to see you! What a pleasant chance meeting to be sure!"
Then Matty ran up for her share of the pleasure, and was warmly greeted.
Ah! but Mr Hall had a sad story to tell. "I am now a lonely, childless
man," he said. "What!" cried Reginald--"is Ilda--"
"She is dead and gone. Lived but a week in Italy--just one short week.
Faded like a flower, and--ah, well, her grave is very green now, and all
her troubles are over. But, I say, Grahame, we have all to die, and if
there is a Heaven, you know, I daresay we shall be all very happy, and
there won't be any more partings nor sad farewells."
Reginald had to turn away his head to hide the rising tears, and there
was a ball in his throat that almost choked him, and quite forbade any
attempt at speaking.
The two old friends stayed long together, and it was finally arranged
that Mr Hall should pay a long visit to the old Laird McLeod, and that
Reginald should have the loan of his little favourite Matty in a voyage
to the South Sea Island.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The cruise of the _Highland Mary_ was a long but most pleasant and
propitious one. They steamed through the Straits of Magellan, and were
delighted when the yacht, under, a favouring breeze, went stretching
west and away out into the blue and beautiful Pacific Ocean.
Dickson had taken his bearings well, and at last they found themselves
at anchor in the bay off the Isle of Flowers, opposite the snow-white
coralline beach and the barracks and fort where they had not so long ago
seen so much fighting and bloodshed.
Was there anyone happier, I wonder, at seeing her guests, her dear old
friends, than Queen Bertha? Well, if there was, it was honest Oscar on
meeting his long-lost master.
Indeed, the poor dog hardly knew what to do with joy. He whined, he
cried, he kissed and caressed his master, and scolded him in turns.
Then he stood a little way off and barked at him. "How could you have
left your poor Oscar so long?" he seemed to say. Then advancing more
quietly, he once more placed a paw on each of his master's shoulders and
licked his ear. "I love you still," he said.
After this he welcomed Matty, but in a manner far more gentle, for he
ever looked upon her as a baby--his own baby, as it were. And there she
was, her arms around his massive neck, kissing his bonnie broad brow--
just a baby still.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Isle of Flowers was very lovely now, and the valley--
"Oh?" cried Annie, in raptures, as she gazed down the verdant strath.
"Surely this is fairyland itself!"
The ladies, and Jeannie as well, were the guests of the Queen during the
long, happy month they stayed on the island.
There was no more gold-seeking or pearl-fishing to any great extent.
Only one day they all went up the valley and had a delightful picnic by
the winding river and under the shade of the magnolia trees. Reginald
and Dickson both waded into the river, and were lucky enough, when they
came out with their bags full of oysters, to find some rare and
beautiful pearls. They were as pure as any Scotch ever taken from the
Tay, and had a pretty pinkish hue.
But now Jeannie Lee herself must bare her shapely legs and feet and try
her luck. She wanted one big pearl for her dear mistress, she said, and
three wee ones for a ring for somebody. Yes, and she was most
successful, and Annie is wearing that large pearl now as I write. And
the three smaller? Well, I may as well tell it here and be done with
it. McGregor, the handsome, bold sailor, had asked Jeannie to be his
wife, and she had consented. The ring was for Mac.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On Lone Tree Mountain, assisted by the men, Dickson and Reginald soon
set to digging, and found all their gold and pearls safe and sound.
And now parting time came, and farewells were said, the Queen saying she
should live in hopes of seeing them back again.
"God bless you all, my children."
"And God bless you, Queen Bertha."
With ringing British cheers, the little band playing "Good-bye,
Sweetheart, Good-bye," the _Highland Mary_ sailed slowly, and, it
appeared, reluctantly, away from the Isle of Flowers. At sunset it was
seen but as a little blue cloud low down on the western horizon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
To Matty's surprise the two great dogs made friends with each other at
once, and every day during that long voyage homewards they romped and
played together, with merry Matty as their constant companion, and never
quarrelled even once.
British shores and the snow-white steeples and spires of bonnie Aberdeen
at last! The first thing that Reginald did was to hire a carriage, and,
accompanied by Annie and the honest dog Oscar, drive straight to
McLeod's cottage.
To their surprise and alarm they found the house empty and the windows
boarded up.
"Oh, Annie!" cried Reginald. "I fear the worst. Your poor uncle has
gone."
Annie had already placed her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Beg pardon," said the jarvey, "but is it Laird McLeod you're a-talking
about? Oh, yes; he's gone this six months! Man! I knew the old man
well. Used to drive him most every day of his life. But haven't you
heard, sir?"
"No, my good fellow; we have not been on shore two hours. Tell us."
"There isn't much to tell, sir, though it was sad enough. For the young
Laird o' Bilberry Hall shot himself one morning by accident while out
after birds. Well, of course, that dear soul, the old Laird, is gone
back to his estate, and such rejoicings as there was you never did see."
"And he is not dead, then?"
"Dead! He is just as lively as a five-year-old!"
This was indeed good news. They were driven back to the ship, and that
same afternoon, accompanied by Matty, after telegraphing for the
carriage to meet them, they started by train up Deeside.
Yes, the carriage was there, and not only the Laird, but Mr Hall as
well.
I leave anyone who reads these lines to imagine what that happy reunion
was like, and how pleasantly spent was that first evening, with so much
to say, so much to tell.
But a house was built for Mr Hall on the estate, and beautiful gardens
surrounded it, and here he meant to settle down.
Jeannie was married in due course, but she and McGregor took a small
farm near to Bilberry Hall, and on the estate, while Reginald and his
wife lived in the mansion itself.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Many years have passed away since the events I have related in this
"ower-true" tale. Matty is a tall girl now, and her uncle's constant
companion. Reginald and Annie are lovers still--"happy, though
married." The heather still blooms bonnie on the hills; dark wave the
pine trees in the forests around; the purring of the dove is heard
mournfully sounding from the thickets of spruce, and the wildflowers
grow on every bank and brae; but--the auld Laird has worn away. His
home is under the long green grass and the daisies; yet even when the
snow-clads that grave in a white cocoon, Annie never forgets to visit
it, and rich and rare are the flowers that lie at its head.
And so my story ends, so drops the curtain down.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Drug
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
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Title: The Drug
Author: C. C. MacApp
Illustrator: Martinez
Release date: March 21, 2016 [eBook #51519]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DRUG ***
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE DRUG
By C. C. MacAPP
Illustrated by MARTINEZ
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine February 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It could be deadly. It had to be tested. But
Sales wanted a new product this very minute.
Amos Parry, a regional manager for Whelan, Inc. (Farm & Ranch Chemicals
& Feeds), had come to work a few minutes early and was waiting in the
lab when Frank Barnes arrived. He saw that the division's chief chemist
was even more nervous than usual, so he invested a few minutes in
soothing small talk before saying, "Frank, Sales is beginning to push
for that new hormone."
Immediately, Barnes came unsoothed. "Bill Detrick was on the phone
about it yesterday, Mr. Parry. I'm sorry I was abrupt with him."
Amos grinned. "If you were, he hasn't had a chance to mention it to
me yet. But I think we'd better light a fire under the thing. We'll
probably get a blast from Buffalo before long. How many men do you have
on it?"
"Well, two helping with routine work, but I've done most of it myself,
evenings and weekends. I didn't want anybody to know too much about it.
Mr. Parry, I'm worried about it."
"Worried? How do you mean?"
"Well--let me show you the litter we've been testing it on."
The pigs were in pens outside the lab. Amos had seen figures on
weight gain and general health (the latter was what promised to be
sensational) but hadn't seen the animals for two weeks. He eyed the
first bunch. "How old is that boar pig?"
"Not quite four months."
Amos was no expert, but he'd spent many hours on customers' farms and
he thought the animal looked more mature than that. So did the shoats
in the same pen, though they tended more to fat. All of the group had
an odd look, certainly not normal for Yorkshires of their age. He
thought of wild hogs. "Is it just the general health factor?" he asked.
"I don't think so, Mr. Parry. You remember I told you this wasn't
actually a hormone."
"I know. You wanted to call it that for secrecy, you told me."
"Yes, sir, but I didn't tell you what it really was. Mr. Parry, are you
familiar with hypnotics? Mescaline, especially?"
"No, I'm not, Frank."
"Well, it's a drug that causes strong hallucinations. This is a
chemical derivative of it."
Amos grinned again. "Pipe dreams for hogs?"
He quit grinning as implications struck him. If this thing didn't pan
out, after the money they'd spent and the rumors that had seeped out,
there'd be some nasty questions from Buffalo. And if it did, and they
began selling it....
"What would it do to human beings?" asked Amos.
Barnes avoided his eyes. "That's one of the things I'm worried about,"
he said. "I want to show you another pig."
This one was isolated in its own pen, and it looked even stranger than
its siblings. In the first place, its hair was thicker, and black.
There was an oddness in its shape and a vaguely familiar sinuousness in
the way it moved that made Amos' skin prickle.
"What's wrong with it?" he asked.
"It's healthy except for the way it looks and acts."
"Same litter and dosage?"
"Yes, sir--all of them got just one dose. The effects seem to be
permanent."
They were leaning over the fence and the animal was looking up at
them. There was an oddity in its eyes; not intelligence exactly, but
something unpiglike. Abruptly, it stood up on its hind legs, putting
its forefeet against the fence and raising its head toward them.
It squealed as if begging for attention. Amos knew that pigs made
affectionate pets. Drawn to it as well as repelled, he reached down and
patted it, and the squealing stopped.
It was standing too easily in that position, and suddenly Amos
recognized what was familiar about it. He jerked his hand away, feeling
a strong desire for soap and water. "How long's it been this way?"
"It's changed fast in the last week."
Amos looked toward the doorway of the lab, just inside of which a large
black tomcat sat watching them. "Is the cat out here a lot?"
Barnes' eyes went to the cat, widened, and turned back to the pig. He
looked as ill as Amos felt.
* * * * *
When Amos got to his office, his sales manager was already waiting.
His mind only half present, Amos sized up the stuffed briefcase and
the wider-than-necessary smile as he responded automatically to the
amenities. "Just get back?" he asked.
"Early train. Darned planes grounded again." Detrick looked full of
energy, though he'd undoubtedly rushed home, shaved, showered and
changed, and hurried to the office with no rest. He sat down, extracted
papers from the briefcase, and beamed, "Wrote up the Peach Association."
He'll give me the good news first, Amos thought. "Fine, fine," he said.
"The whole year?"
"Yep. Got a check from the Almond Growers, too. All paid up now."
"Good," said Amos, and waited.
It came. "Say, I was talking to Frank Barnes about that new hormone
he's got and he seemed a little negative about it. When do you think we
can have it?"
It was a temptation to answer with false optimisms and duck the issue
for a while, but Amos said, "The slowest thing will be State and
Federal testing and registration. I'd say not less than a year."
Detrick nodded. "Competition's selling more and more stuff that's not
registered."
"Fly-by-night outfits and they're always getting caught."
Detrick smiled. "Every night they fly away with more business."
Amos managed a smile, though the argument was old and weary. "We'll
put it up to Buffalo if you want to, Bill. You know I can't okay it
myself."
Detrick dropped the subject, not being a man to beat his head against
a stone wall if there were ways around it, and for the next hour Amos
had to listen to the troubles: competition had cut prices on this,
upped active ingredients in that, put such and such a new product on
the market (Whelan's factories and warehouses already groaned under a
crippling diversity of products but Sales didn't feel that was _their_
problem) and even the credit policies needed revising. But the worst
of all was a fifteen-thousand-dollar claim for damage to pear trees,
caused by a bad batch of Whelan's arsenical insecticide.
Amos got rid of Detrick with a few definite concessions, some tentative
ones, and some stand-offs. He made sure no one was waiting to see him
and told his secretary he didn't want to be bothered before lunch.
He had a lunch date with a customer and dreaded it--it meant three or
four highballs and overeating and an upset stomach later. Before then,
though, he had a few minutes to try to get his mind straightened out.
He mixed a glassful of the stuff he was supposed to take about now.
The Compleat Executive, he thought; with physician and prescription
attached. It didn't seem possible that this same body had once breezed
through anything from football to fried potatoes.
Mechanically, his mind on the lab's pigs, he got a small bag of grain
out of a desk drawer. He hoped nobody (except his secretary, of course)
knew he wasted time feeding pigeons, but it helped his nerves, and he
felt he had a right to one or two eccentricities.
They were already waiting. Some of them knew him and didn't shoo off
when he opened the window and scattered grain on the ledge outside. A
few ate from his hand.
It was a crisp day, but the sun slanting into the window was warm.
He leaned there, watching the birds--more were circling in now--and
looking out over the industrial part of the city. The rude shapes were
softened by haze and there was nothing noisy close by. He could almost
imagine it as some country landscape.
He looked at his watch, sighed, pulled his head in and shut the window.
The air conditioner's hiss replaced the outside sounds.
Not even imagination could get rid of the city for long.
* * * * *
Going through the outer office, he saw that Alice Grant, his secretary,
already had her lunch out on her desk. She was a young thirty, not very
tall and just inclined to plumpness. She wore her blonde hair pulled
back into a knot that didn't succeed in making her look severe, and her
features were well-formed and regular, if plain. Amos noticed a new
bruise on one cheek and wondered how long she'd stay with her sot of a
husband. There were no children to hold her.
"I'll probably be back late," he said. "Anything for this afternoon?"
"Just Jim at two-thirty and the union agent at three."
The lunch didn't go too badly, lubricated as the customer liked it, and
Amos was feeling only hazily uneasy when he got back.
A stormy session with his plant superintendent jarred him into
the normal disquiet. Jim Glover was furious at having to take the
fifteen-thousand-dollar claim, though it was clearly a factory error.
He also fought a stubborn delaying action before giving Amos a
well-hedged estimate of fifty thousand to equip for the new drug. He
complained that Frank Barnes hadn't given him enough information.
Amos was still trembling from that encounter when the union business
agent arrived. The lunch was beginning to lump up and he didn't spar
effectively. Not that it made much difference. The union was going to
have a raise or else. By the time he'd squirmed through that interview,
then dictated a few letters, it was time to go home.
He hoped his wife would be out so he could take some of his
prescription and relax, but she met him at the door with a verbal
barrage. Their son, nominally a resident of the house, had gotten
ticketed with the college crowd for drunken driving and Amos was to get
it fixed; the Templetons were coming for the weekend; her brother's boy
was graduating and thought he might accept a position with Amos.
She paused and studied him. "I hope this isn't one of your grumpy
evenings. The Ashtons are coming for bridge."
His control slipped a little and he expressed himself pungently on
Wednesday night bridge, after a nightclub party on Tuesday and a
formless affair at somebody's house on Monday.
She stared at him without compassion or comprehension. "Well, they're
all business associates of yours. I wonder where you think you'd be
without a wife who was willing to entertain."
He'd been getting a lot of that lately; she was squeezing the role
of Executive's Wife for the last drop of satisfaction. Well, since he
couldn't relax with his indigestion there was only one thing to do. He
headed for the bar.
"Now don't get tipsy before dinner," she called after him.
He got through the evening well enough, doused with martinis, and the
night that followed was no worse than most.
* * * * *
At nine the next morning, the call he'd been expecting from Buffalo
came through. "Hello, Stu," he said to the president of the company.
"Hello, Amos. Still morning out there, eh? How's the family? Good.
Say, Amos; couple of things. This big factory charge. Production's
screaming."
"It was definitely a bad batch, Stu."
"Well, that's it, then. Question is, how'd it happen?"
"Jim Glover says he needs another control chemist."
"Hope you're not practicing false economy out there."
"We wanted to hire another man, Stu, but Buffalo turned it down."
"You should have brought it to me personally if it was that important.
It's going to take a big bite out of your year's profit. Been able to
get your margin up any?"
Amos didn't feel up to pointing out that Sales wanted lower prices and
the union wanted higher wages, so that the margin would get even worse.
He described a couple of minor economies he'd been able to find, then
mentioned the contract with the Peach Association.
"Yes, I heard about that," said the president of the company. "Nice
piece of business. By the way, how you coming on that animal hormone?"
That was the main reason for the call, of course. Detrick had
undoubtedly phoned east and intimated that Amos was dragging his feet
on a potential bonanza. "I was going to call you on that, Stu. It'll
take a year to test and get registered and--"
"Amos, I hope you're not turning conservative on us."
The message was plain; Amos countered automatically. "You know me
better than that, Stu. It's the Legal Department I'm worried about. If
they set up a lot of roadblocks, we may need you to run interference."
"You know I'm always right behind you, Amos."
That's true, thought Amos as he hung up. Right behind me. A hell of a
place to run interference.
He knew exactly what to expect. If he tried to cut corners, the Legal
Department would scream about proper testing and registration,
Production would say he was pushing Jim Glover unreasonably, and
everyone who could would assume highly moral positions astraddle the
fence. A ton of paperwork would go to Buffalo to be distributed among
fifty desks and expertly stalled.
Not to mention that this was no ordinary product. He realized for the
first time that the Government might not let him produce it, let alone
sell it. Even as a minute percentage in feeds. If it was a narcotic, it
could be misused.
* * * * *
His buzzer sounded, and he was surprised when Mrs. Grant announced
Frank Barnes. It was out of character for Frank not to make a formal
appointment first.
One look told Amos what was coming. He listened to Frank's resignation
with a fraction of his mind while the rest of it mused upon the
purposeful way things were converging.
Barnes stopped talking and Amos said mechanically, "You've been part
of the team for a long time, Frank. It's especially awkward to lose
you just now." It was banal, but it didn't matter; he wasn't going to
change the man's mind anyway. He looked closer. The timidity was gone.
So were the eyeglasses. A frightening thought struck him. "You've
taken some of that drug."
Barnes grinned and handed a small vial full of powder across the desk,
along with a file folder. "Last night," he said. "Between frustration
with the job and curiosity about this stuff, I yielded to temptation."
Amos took the vial and folder. "What are these for?"
"So you can destroy them if you want to. I've doctored up the lab
records to make the whole thing look like a false alarm. You're holding
all that's left of the whole program."
Amos looked for signs of irrationality and saw none. "Do you feel all
right?"
"Better than you can imagine. But let me tell you what you're up
against. I can at least do that for you, Mr. Parry."
"Thanks. Don't you suppose you could call me Amos now?"
"Sure, Amos. First of all, you were right about that pig trying to
imitate the cat. He couldn't do much because he only had a pig's brain
to work with." He stopped and grinned, evidently at Amos' expression.
"I'll try to explain. What is an animal? Physically, I mean?"
Amos shook his head. "You've got the floor."
"All right. An animal is a colony of cells. Different kinds of cells
form organs and do different things for the colony, but each cell has
a life of its own, too. When it dies a new one of the same kind takes
over. But what regulates the colony? What maintains the pattern?"
Amos waited.
"Part of it's automatic replacement, cell for cell. But beyond that
there's a control; and it's the unconscious mind." He paused and
studied Amos. "You think I'm theorizing. I'm not. That drug broke down
some barriers, and I see all this as you see your own fingers moving."
Amos remembered the mention of hallucinations.
* * * * *
Barnes grinned again. "Let's say it's only one per cent awake and
walled off from the conscious mind. What would happen if something
removed the wall and woke up the other ninety-nine per cent?"
Remembering the pig, it was impossible not to feel a cold seed of
belief. Amos dreaded what was coming next; clearly, it would be a
demonstration.
Barnes held out his hand, palm up. In a few seconds a pink spot
appeared. It turned red, oozed dismayingly, and became a small pool
of blood. Barnes let it stay for a moment, then wiped it off with a
handkerchief. There was no more bleeding. "That's something I can do
fast," he said. "I opened the pores, directed blood to them, then
closed them again. Amos, do you believe in werewolves?"
Amos wanted to jump up and shout, "No! You're insane!" but he could
only sit staring.
"I could move that thumb around to the other side of my hand," Barnes
said thoughtfully. "I'm still exploring, but I don't think even the
bone would take too long. You'll notice I don't need glasses any more."
The buzzer buzzed. Amos jumped, and from habit answered. "Bill Detrick
and that customer are here, Mr. Parry," came Alice Grant's voice.
"I--ask them to wait," he managed.
His mind was a muddle; he needed time. "You--Frank--will you stay for a
few days?"
"Sure. I'm in no hurry now. And while you're thinking, let me give you
a few hints. No more cripples or disease. No ugly people, unless they
choose to be. And no law."
"No--law?"
"How would you police such a world? A man could change his face at
will, or his fingerprints. Even his teeth. Probably he could do things
I can't imagine yet."
The buzzer went again, with Mrs. Grant's subtle urgency. Amos ignored
it, yet he hardly knew when Frank left the room.
He realized the chemist had done him a favor. The selfish thing would
have been to keep the secret and the boon all to himself; instead, he'd
given Amos the choice.
But what was the choice? Suppressing the drug would cost him his job.
There was no doubt about that.
He was standing with his back to the door when he heard it open. He
turned and faced Detrick's annoyed frown. "Amos, we can't keep this man
waiting. He's--"
All of Amos' frustration and the new burden coalesced into rage. He ran
toward Detrick. "You baboon-faced huckster!" he yelled. "Get out! Get
out! I'll tell you when you can come in here!" He barely caught his
upraised fist in time.
Detrick stood petrified, his face ludicrous. Then he came to life,
ducked out, and pulled the door shut behind him.
Amos waited no longer; if he had to decide, he wanted the data
first-hand. He spread out the file Barnes had left him and looked
through it for dosages. Apparently it wasn't critical, so he poured a
little of the powder into a tumbler, added water and threw it down.
There was a mild alkaline taste, which he washed out of his mouth with
more water. Then he sat down to wait.
* * * * *
A monotone seemed to be rattling off trivia; almost faster than he
could grasp it, even though it was in his head and not in his ears:
"Paris green/calcium acetoarsenite/beetle invasion Texan cotton/paint
pigment/obsolete/should eliminate/compensation claim/man probably
faking infection/Detrick likes because we only source/felt like hitting
him when we argued about it/correspondence Buffalo last year/they say
keep/check how use as poison/damned wife--"
The last thought shocked his intellect awake. "Hey!" Intellect
demanded. "What's going on here?"
"Oh; you've broken through," said Unconscious. "That was fast.
Fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds since you drank it.
Probable error, one-third second. I've only been awake a few minutes
myself. Minute/sixty per hour/twenty-four hours day/days getting
shorter/September/have raincoat in car/wife wants new car/raincoat
sweats plasticizer/stinks/Hyatt used camphor--"
"Hold up a minute!" cried Intellect.
"You want me to stop scanning?"
"Is that what you're doing? Scanning what?"
"Memory banks, of course. Don't you remember the book we read three
years ago? 'Human brain estimated--' Oh, all right; I'll slow down.
You could follow me better if you'd let me grow some permanent direct
connections."
"Am I stopping you?"
"Well, not you, exactly. I'll show you." Unconscious began directing
the growth of certain nerve tendrils in the brain. Amos could only
follow it vaguely.
"Fear!" screamed a soundless voice. "Stop!"
"What was that?" Intellect asked, startled.
"That was Id. He always fights any improvements, and I can't override
him."
"Can _I_?"
"Of course; that's mainly what you're for. Wait till I get these
connections finished and you'll see the whole setup."
"FEAR!" shrieked Id. "STOP! NO CHANGE!"
"SHUT UP!" yelled Intellect.
It was strange being integrated; Amos found he was aware on two
levels simultaneously. While he responded normally to his external
environment, a lightning inner vision saw everything in vastly greater
detail. The blink of an eye, for instance, was an amazing project. Even
as commands flashed out and before the muscles started to respond,
extra blood was rushing into the area to nourish the working parts.
Reports flowed back like battle assessments: these three muscles
were on schedule; this was lagging; that was pulling too hard. An
infinitesimal twinge of pain marked some minor accident, and correction
began at once. A censor watched the whole operation and labeled each
incoming report: trivial, do not record; trivial, do not record;
trivial, do not record; worth watching, record in temporary banks;
trivial, do not....
He felt now that he could look forward to permanent health, and so far
he didn't seem to be losing his identity or becoming a moral monster
(though certain previously buried urges--toward Alice Grant, for
instance--were now rather embarrassingly uncovered). He was not, like
Frank Barnes, inclined to slip out of the situation at once. He still
felt the responsibility to make the decision.
He carried the vial of powder and the lab records home with him,
smuggled them past his wife's garrulity (it didn't bother him now)
and hid them. He went out with her cheerfully to visit some people he
didn't like, and found himself amused at them instead of annoyed. In
general, he felt buoyant, and they stayed quite late.
* * * * *
When they did get home, an urgent message was waiting on the telephone
recorder, and it jolted him. He grabbed up the hat and coat he'd just
laid down.
"What is it?" his wife demanded.
"I've got to go down to the plant." He hesitated; it was hard to say
the words that were charged with personal significance. "The watchman
found Frank Barnes dead in the laboratory."
"Who?"
"Frank Barnes! My chief chemist!"
"Oh." She looked at him, obviously concerned only with what effect, if
any, it might have on her own circumstances. "Why do you have to get
mixed up in it?"
"I'm the boss, damn it!" He left her standing there and ran for the
garage.
The police were already at the plant when he arrived. Fred's body lay
on the floor of his office, in a corner behind some file cabinets, face
up.
"What was it?" Amos asked the man from the coroner's office, dreading
the answer he expected.
The answer wasn't the one he expected. "Heart attack."
Amos wondered if they were mistaken. He looked around the office.
Things weren't disarrayed in any way; it looked as if Frank had simply
lain down and died. "When did you find him?" he asked the watchman.
"A little after one. The door was closed and the lights were out, but I
heard the cat yowling in here, so I came in to let it out, and saw the
body."
"Any family?" one of the city men asked.
"No," said Amos slowly, "he lived alone. I guess you might as well take
him to the ... morgue. When can I call about the autopsy?"
"Try after lunch."
Amos watched them carry Frank away. Then he put out the lights and
closed up the laboratory. He told the watchman he'd be around for a
while, and went to his office to think.
As nearly as he knew, Frank had taken the drug less than twenty-four
hours before he had. Death had come late at night, which meant Frank
had been working overtime. Why? And why hadn't he been able to save
himself?
"Not logical," his unconscious stated firmly. "He should have felt it
coming and made repairs."
"This whole thing's a delusion," said Amos dully, aloud.
"No, it isn't," said a peculiar voice behind him.
He whirled and saw the black tomcat grinning up at him. He gasped,
wondering if he were completely insane, but in a flash understanding
came. "Frank!"
"Well, don't act so surprised. I can tell that you took some yourself."
"Yes--but how--"
"I thought it would be an easy life and I want to stay around here and
watch things for a while. It ought to be fun."
"But _how_?"
"I anesthetized the cat and grew a bridge into his skull. It took five
hours to transfer the bulk of my personality. It's odd, but it blended
right in with his."
"But--your speech!"
"I've made some changes. I'm omnivorous now, too, not just
carnivorous--or will be in a few more hours. I can go into the hills
and live on grass, or grow back into a man, or whatever I like."
Amos consulted his own inwardness again. "Is this possible? Can a human
mind be compressed into a cat's brain?"
"Sure," said Unconscious, "if you're willing to junk all the excess."
He thought about it. "So you're going to stay around and watch," he
said to the cat--no, Frank. "An intriguing idea. My family's taken care
of, and nobody'll really miss me."
"Except Alice Grant," said Frank cattily. "I've seen the way you look
at her. The cat part of me has, I mean. And she looks back, too, when
you aren't watching."
"Well," said Amos. "Hm. Maybe we can do something there too."
* * * * *
His own metamorphosis took a lot longer than five hours; he had a much
bigger job of alterations to finish. It was nearly two months before he
got back to the plant.
He peered in through the window at Detrick, who'd inherited Amos' old
office. Detrick was chewing out a salesman. Amos knew what would be
happening now; Derrick's ambitious but unsound expansion would have
gotten the division all tangled up. In fact, with his sharp new eyes,
Amos could read part of a letter from Buffalo that lay on the desk. It
was quite critical of Detrick's margin of profit.
The salesman Detrick had on the carpet was a good man, and Amos
wondered if he was to blame for whatever it was about. Maybe Detrick
was just preparing to throw him to the wolves. A man could hang on a
long time like that, shifting the blame to his subordinates.
The salesman was finally excused, and Detrick sat alone with all the
frustration and selfish scheming plain on his face. No, Amos thought,
I'm not going to turn this drug loose on the world for a while. Not
while there are people like Detrick around.
There were no other pigeons on the window ledge except himself and
Alice; the rest had stopped coming when Amos disappeared and the
feeding ended. For that matter, they tended to avoid him and Alice,
possibly because of the abnormal size, especially around the head, and
the other differences.
He noticed that Alice was changing the color of her feet again. Just
like a woman, he thought fondly.
"Come on, Pigeon," he said, "let's go somewhere else. This tightwad
Detrick isn't going to give us anything to eat."
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Cecil Rhodes, Man and Empire-Maker
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Title: Cecil Rhodes, Man and Empire-Maker
Author: Princess Catherine Radziwill
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CECIL RHODES
Man and Empire-Maker
by
PRINCESS CATHERINE RADZIWILL
(CATHERINE KOLB-DANVIN)
With Eight Photogravure Plates
Cassell & Company, Ltd
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1918
[Illustration: THE RT. HON. CECIL RHODES]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
1. CECIL RHODES AND SIR ALFRED MILNER 1
2. THE FOUNDATIONS OF FORTUNE 17
3. A COMPLEX PERSONALITY 28
4. MRS. VAN KOOPMAN 40
5. RHODES AND THE RAID 50
6. THE AFTERMATH OF THE RAID 69
7. RHODES AND THE AFRIKANDER BOND 82
8. THE INFLUENCE OF SIR ALFRED MILNER 104
9. THE OPENING OF THE NEW CENTURY 120
10. AN ESTIMATE OF SIR ALFRED MILNER 130
11. CROSS CURRENTS 144
12. THE CONCENTRATION CAMPS 157
13. THE PRISONERS' CAMPS 170
14. IN FLIGHT FROM THE RAND 191
15. DEALING WITH THE REFUGEES 202
16. UNDER MARTIAL LAW 214
CONCLUSION
INDEX
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE RT. HON. CECIL RHODES Frontispiece
Facing page
THE RT. HON. W.P. SCHREINER 32
PRESIDENT KRUGER 68
THE HON. J.H. HOFMEYR 86
THE RT. HON. SIR W.F. HELY-HUTCHINSON 98
VISCOUNT MILNER 132
THE RT. HON. SIR LEANDER STARR JAMESON 148
THE RT. HON. SIR JOHN GORDON SPRIGG 224
INTRODUCTION
The recent death of Sir Starr Jameson reminded the public of the South
African War, which was such an engrossing subject to the British public at
the close of the 'nineties and the first years of the present century. Yet
though it may seem quite out of date to reopen the question when so many
more important matters occupy attention, the relationship between South
Africa and England is no small matter. It has also had its influence on
actual events, if only by proving to the world the talent which Great
Britain has displayed in the administration of her vast Colonies and the
tact with which British statesmen have contrived to convert their foes of
the day before into friends, sincere, devoted and true.
No other country in the world could have achieved such a success as did
England in the complicated and singularly difficult task of making itself
popular among nations whose independence it had destroyed.
The secret of this wonderful performance lies principally in the care
which England has exercised to secure the welfare of the annexed
population, and to do nothing likely to keep them in remembrance of the
subordinate position into which they had been reduced. England never
crushes those whom it subdues. Its inbred talent for colonisation has
invariably led it along the right path in regard to its colonial
development. Even in cases where Britain made the weight of its rule
rather heavy for the people whom it had conquered, there still developed
among them a desire to remain federated to the British Empire, and also a
conviction that union, though it might be unpleasant to their personal
feelings and sympathies, was, after all, the best thing which could have
happened to them in regard to their material interests.
Prosperity has invariably attended British rule wherever it has found
scope to develop itself, and at the present hour British patriotism is far
more demonstrative in India, Australia or South Africa than it is in
England itself. The sentiments thus strongly expressed impart a certain
zealotism to their feelings, which constitutes a strong link with the
Mother Country. In any hour of national danger or calamity this trait
provides her with the enthusiastic help of her children from across the
seas.
The Englishman, generally quiet at home and even subdued in the presence
of strangers, is exuberant in the Colonies; he likes to shout his
patriotism upon every possible occasion, even when it would be better to
refrain. It is an aggressive patriotism which sometimes is quite uncouth
in its manifestations, but it is real patriotism, disinterested and devoid
of any mercenary or personal motives.
It is impossible to know what England is if one has not had the
opportunity of visiting her Dominions oversea. It is just as impossible to
judge of Englishmen when one has only seen them at home amid the comforts
of the easy and pleasant existence which one enjoys in Merrie England, and
only there. It is not the country Squires, whose homes are such a definite
feature of English life; nor the aristocratic members of the Peerage, with
their influence and their wealth; nor even the political men who sit in
St. Stephen's, who have spread abroad the fame and might and power of
England. But it is these modest pioneers of "nations yet to be" who, in
the wilds and deserts of South Africa, Australia and Asia, have
demonstrated the realities of English civilisation and the English spirit
of freedom.
In the hour of danger we have seen all these members of the great Mother
Country rush to its help. The spectacle has been an inspiring one, and in
the case of South Africa especially it has been unique, inasmuch as it has
been predicted far and wide that the memory of the Boer War would never
die out, and that loyalty to Great Britain would never be found in the
vast African veldt. Facts have belied this rash assertion, and the world
has seldom witnessed a more impressive vindication of the triumph of true
Imperialism than that presented by Generals Botha and Smuts. As the leader
of a whole nation, General Botha defended its independence against
aggression, yet became the faithful, devoted servant and the true adherent
of the people whom he had fought a few years before, putting at their
disposal the weight of his powerful personality and the strength of his
influence over his partisans and countrymen.
CATHERINE RADZIWILL.
_December, 1917._
CECIL RHODES
CHAPTER I.
CECIL RHODES AND SIR ALFRED MILNER
The conquest of South Africa is one of the most curious episodes in
English history. Begun through purely mercenary motives, it yet acquired a
character of grandeur which, as time went on, divested it of all sordid
and unworthy suspicions. South Africa has certainly been the land of
adventurers, and many of them found there either fame or disgrace,
unheard-of riches or the most abject poverty, power or humiliation. At the
same time the Colony has had amongst its rulers statesmen of unblemished
reputation and high honour, administrators of rare integrity, and men who
saw beyond the fleeting interests of the hour into the far more important
vista of the future.
When President Kruger was at its head the Transvaal Republic would have
crumbled under the intrigues of some of its own citizens. The lust for
riches which followed upon the discovery of the goldfields had, too, a
drastic effect. The Transvaal was bound to fall into the hands of someone,
and to be that Someone fell to the lot of England. This was a kindly throw
of Fate, because England alone could administer all the wealth of the
region without its becoming a danger, not only to the community at large,
but also to the Transvaalers.
That this is so can be proved by the eloquence of facts rather than by
words. It is sufficient to look upon what South Africa was twenty-five
years ago, and upon what it has become since under the protection of
British rule, to be convinced of the truth of my assertion. From a land of
perennial unrest and perpetual strife it has been transformed into a
prosperous and quiet colony, absorbed only in the thought of its economic
and commercial progress. Its population, which twenty years ago was
wasting its time and energy in useless wrangles, stands to-day united to
the Mother Country and absorbed by the sole thought of how best to prove
its devotion.
The Boer War has still some curious issues of which no notice has been
taken by the public at large. One of the principal, perhaps indeed the
most important of these, is that, though brought about by material
ambitions of certain people, it ended by being fought against these very
same people, and that its conclusion eliminated them from public life
instead of adding to their influence and their power. The result is
certainly a strange and an interesting one, but it is easily explained if
one takes into account the fact that once England as a nation--and not as
_the_ nation to which belonged the handful of adventurers through whose
intrigues the war was brought about--entered into the possession of the
Transvaal and organised the long-talked-of Union of South Africa, the
country started a normal existence free from the unhealthy symptoms which
had hindered its progress. It became a useful member of the vast British
Empire, as well as a prosperous country enjoying a good government, and
launched itself upon a career it could never have entered upon but for the
war. Destructive as it was, the Boer campaign was not a war of
annihilation. On the contrary, without it it would have been impossible
for the vast South African territories to become federated into a Union of
its own and at the same time to take her place as a member of another
Empire from which it derived its prosperity and its welfare. The grandeur
of England and the soundness of its leaders has never come out in a more
striking manner than in this conquest of South Africa--a blood-stained
conquest which has become a love match.
During the concluding years of last century the possibility of union was
seldom taken into consideration; few, indeed, were clever enough and wise
enough to find out that it was bound to take place as a natural
consequence of the South African War. The war cleared the air all over
South Africa. It crushed and destroyed all the suspicious, unhealthy
elements that had gathered around the gold mines of the Transvaal and the
diamond fields of Cape Colony. It dispersed the coterie of adventurers who
had hastened there with the intention of becoming rapidly rich at the
expense of the inhabitants of the country. A few men had succeeded in
building for themselves fortunes beyond the dreams of avarice, whilst the
majority contrived to live more or less well at the expense of those naïve
enough to trust to them in financial matters until the day when the war
arrived to put an end to their plunderings.
The struggle into which President Kruger was compelled to rush was
expected by some of the powerful intriguers in South Africa to result in
increasing the influence of certain of the millionaires, who up to the
time when the war broke out had ruled the Transvaal and indirectly the
Cape Colony by the strength and importance of their riches. Instead, it
weakened and then destroyed their power. Without the war South Africa
would have grown more wicked, and matters there were bound soon to come to
a crisis of some sort. The crux of the situation was whether this crisis
was going to be brought about by a few unscrupulous people for their own
benefit, or was to arise in consequence of the clever and far-seeing
policy of wise politicians.
Happily for England, and I shall even say happily for the world at large,
such a politician was found in the person of the then Sir Alfred Milner,
who worked unselfishly toward the grand aim his far-sighted Imperialism
saw in the distance.
History will give Viscount Milner--as he is to-day--the place which is due
to him. His is indeed a great figure; he was courageous enough, sincere
enough, and brave enough to give an account of the difficulties of the
task he had accepted. His experience of Colonial politics was principally
founded on what he had seen and studied when in Egypt and in India, which
was a questionable equipment in the entirely new areas he was called upon
to administer when he landed in Table Bay. Used to Eastern shrewdness and
Eastern duplicity, he had not had opportunity to fight against the
unscrupulousness of men who were neither born nor brought up in the
country, but who had grown to consider it as their own, and exploited its
resources not only to the utmost, but also to the detriment of the
principles of common honesty.
The reader must not take my words as signifying a sweeping condemnation of
the European population of South Africa. On the contrary, there existed in
that distant part of the world many men of great integrity, high
principles and unsullied honour who would never, under any condition
whatsoever, have lent themselves to mean or dishonest action; men who held
up high their national flag, and who gave the natives a splendid example
of all that an Englishman could do or perform when called upon to maintain
the reputation of his Mother Country abroad.
Some of the early English settlers have left great remembrance of their
useful activity in the matter of the colonisation of the new continent to
which they had emigrated, and their descendants, of whom I am happy to say
there are a great number, have not shown themselves in any way unworthy of
their forbears. South Africa has its statesmen and politicians who, having
been born there, understand perfectly well its necessities and its wants.
Unfortunately, for a time their voices were crushed by the new-comers who
had invaded the country, and who considered themselves better able than
anyone else to administer its affairs. They brought along with them fresh,
strange ambitions, unscrupulousness, determination to obtain power for the
furtherance of their personal aims, and a greed which the circumstances in
which they found themselves placed was bound to develop into something
even worse than a vice, because it made light of human life as well as of
human property.
In any judgment on South Africa one must never forget that, after all,
before the war did the work of a scavenger it was nothing else but a vast
mining camp, with all its terrifying moods, its abject defects, and its
indifference with regard to morals and to means. The first men who began
to exploit the riches of that vast territory contrived in a relatively
easy way to build up their fortunes upon a solid basis, but many of their
followers, eager to walk in their steps, found difficulties upon which
they had not reckoned or even thought about. In order to put them aside
they used whatever means lay in their power, without hesitation as to
whether these answered to the principles of honesty and
straightforwardness. Their ruthless conduct was so far advantageous to
their future schemes that it inspired disgust among those whose ancestors
had sought a prosperity founded on hard work and conscientious toil. These
good folk retired from the field, leaving it free to the adventurers who
were to give such a bad name to England and who boasted loudly that they
had been given full powers to do what they liked in the way of conquering
a continent which, but for them, would have been only too glad to place
itself under English protection and English rule. To these people, and to
these alone, were due all the antagonisms which at last brought about the
Boer War.
It was with these people that Sir Alfred Milner found himself out of
harmony; from the first moment that he had set his foot on African soil
they tried to put difficulties in his way, after they had convinced
themselves that he would never consent to lend himself to their schemes.
Lord Milner has never belonged to the class of men who allow themselves to
be influenced either by wealth or by the social position of anyone. He is
perhaps one of the best judges of humanity it has been my fortune to meet,
and though by no means an unkind judge, yet a very fair one. Intrigue is
repulsive to him, and unless I am very much mistaken I venture to affirm
that, in the 'nineties, because of the intrigues in which they indulged,
he grew to loathe some of the men with whom he was thrown into contact.
Yet he could not help seeing that these reckless speculators controlled
public opinion in South Africa, and his political instinct compelled him
to avail himself of their help, as without them he would not have been
able to arrive at a proper understanding of the entanglements and
complications of South African politics.
Previous to Sir Alfred's appointment as Governor of the Cape of Good Hope
the office had been filled by men who, though of undoubted integrity and
high standing, were yet unable to gauge the volume of intrigue with which
they had to cope from those who had already established an iron--or,
rather, golden--rule in South Africa.
Coteries of men whose sole aim was the amassing of quick fortunes were
virtual rulers of Cape Colony, with more power than the Government to whom
they simulated submission. All sorts of weird stories were in circulation.
One popular belief was that the mutiny of the Dutch in Cape Colony just
before the Boer War was at bottom due to the influence of money. This was
followed by a feeling that, but for the aggressive operations of the
outpost agents of certain commercial magnates, it would have been possible
for England to realise the Union of South Africa by peaceful means instead
of the bloody arbitrament of war.
In the minds of many Dutchmen--and Dutchmen who were sincerely patriotic
Transvaalers--the conviction was strong that the natural capabilities of
Boers did not lie in the direction of developing, as they could be, the
amazing wealth-producing resources of the Transvaal and of the Orange Free
State. By British help alone, such men believed, could their country hope
to thrive as it ought.
Here, then, was the nucleus around which the peaceful union of Boer and
English peoples in South Africa could be achieved without bloodshed.
Indeed, had Queen Victoria been represented at the Cape by Sir Alfred
Milner ten years before he was appointed Governor there, many things which
had a disastrous influence on the Dutch elements in South Africa would not
have occurred. The Jameson Raid would certainly not have been planned and
attempted. To this incident can be ascribed much of the strife and
unpleasantness which followed, by which was lost to the British Government
the chance, then fast ripening, of bringing about without difficulty a
reconciliation of Dutch and English all over South Africa. This
reconciliation would have been achieved through Cecil Rhodes, and would
have been a fitting crown to a great career.
At one time the most popular man from the Zambesi to Table Mountain, the
name of Cecil Rhodes was surrounded by that magic of personal power
without which it is hardly possible for any conqueror to obtain the
material or moral successes that give him a place in history; that win for
him the love, the respect, and sometimes the hatred, of his
contemporaries. Sir Alfred Milner would have known how to make the work of
Cecil Rhodes of permanent value to the British Empire. It was a thousand
pities that when Sir Alfred Milner took office in South Africa the
influence of Cecil Rhodes, at one time politically dominant, had so
materially shrunk as a definitive political factor.
Sir Alfred Milner found himself in the presence of a position already
compromised beyond redemption, and obliged to fight against evils which
ought never to have been allowed to develop. Even at that time, however,
it would have been possible for Sir Alfred Milner to find a way of
disposing of the various difficulties connected with English rule in South
Africa had he been properly seconded by Mr. Rhodes. Unfortunately for both
of them, their antagonism to each other, in their conception of what ought
or ought not to be done in political matters, was further aggravated by
intrigues which tended to keep Rhodes apart from the Queen's High
Commissioner in South Africa.
It would not at all have suited certain people had Sir Alfred contrived to
acquire a definite influence over Mr. Rhodes, and assuredly this would
have happened had the two men have been allowed unhindered to appreciate
the mental standard of each other. Mr. Rhodes was at heart a sincere
patriot, and it was sufficient to make an appeal to his feelings of
attachment to his Mother Country to cause him to look at things from that
point of view. Had there existed any real intimacy between Groote Schuur
and Government House at Cape Town, the whole course of South African
politics might have been very different.
Sir Alfred Milner arrived in Cape Town with a singularly free and unbiased
mind, determined not to allow other people's opinions to influence his
own, and also to use all the means at his disposal to uphold the authority
of the Queen without entering into conflict with anyone. He had heard a
deal about the enmity of English and Dutch, but though he perfectly well
realised its cause he had made up his mind to examine the situation for
himself. He was not one of those who thought that the raid alone was
responsible; he knew very well that this lamentable affair had only fanned
into an open blaze years-long smoulderings of discontent. The Raid had
been a consequence, not an isolated spontaneous act. Little by little over
a long span of years the ambitious and sordid overridings of various
restless, and too often reckless, adventurers had come to be considered as
representative of English rule, English opinions and, what was still more
unfortunate, England's personality as an Empire and as a nation.
On the other side of the matter, the Dutch--who were inconceivably
ignorant--thought their little domain the pivot of the world. Blind to
realities, they had no idea of the legitimate relative comparison between
the Transvaal and the British Empire, and so grew arrogantly oppressive in
their attitude towards British settlers and the powers at Cape Town.
All this naturally tinctured native feeling. Suspicion was fostered among
the tribes, guns and ammunition percolated through Boer channels, the
blacks viewed with disdain the friendly advances made by the British, and
the atmosphere was thick with mutual distrust. The knowledge that this was
the situation could not but impress painfully a delicate and proud mind,
and surely Lord Milner can be forgiven for the illusion which he at one
time undoubtedly cherished that he would be able to dispel this false
notion about his Mother Country that pervaded South Africa.
The Governor had not the least animosity against the Dutch, and at first
the Boers had no feeling that Sir Alfred was prejudiced against them. Such
a thought was drilled into their minds by subtle and cunning people who,
for their own avaricious ends, desired to estrange the High Commissioner
from the Afrikanders. Sir Alfred was represented as a tyrannical,
unscrupulous man, whose one aim in life was the destruction of every
vestige of Dutch independence, Dutch self-government and Dutch influence
in Africa. Those who thus maligned him applied themselves to make him
unpopular and to render his task so very uncongenial and unpleasant for
him that he would at last give it up of his own accord, or else become the
object of such violent hatreds that the Home Government would feel
compelled to recall him. Thus they would be rid of the presence of a
personage possessed of a sufficient energy to oppose them, and they would
no longer need to fear his observant eyes. Sir Alfred Milner saw himself
surrounded by all sorts of difficulties, and every attempt he made to
bring forward his own plans for the settlement of the South African
question crumbled to the ground almost before he could begin to work at
it. Small wonder, therefore, if he felt discouraged and began to form a
false opinion concerning the persons or the facts with whom he had to
deal. Those who might have helped him were constrained, without it being
his fault. Mr. Rhodes became persuaded that the new Governor of Cape
Colony had arrived there with preconceived notions in regard to himself.
He was led to believe that Milner's firm determination was to crush him;
that, moreover, he was jealous of him and of the work he had done in South
Africa.
Incredible as it appears, Rhodes believed this absurd fiction, and learned
to look upon Sir Alfred Milner as a natural enemy, desirous of thwarting
him at every step. The Bloemfontein Conference, at which the brilliant
qualities and the conciliating spirit of the new Governor of Cape Colony
were first made clearly manifest, was represented to Rhodes as a desire to
present him before the eyes of the Dutch as a negligible quantity in South
Africa. Rhodes was strangely susceptible and far too mindful of the
opinions of people of absolutely no importance. He fell into the snare,
and though he was careful to hide from the public his real feelings in
regard to Sir Alfred Milner, yet it was impossible for anyone who knew him
well not to perceive at once that he had made up his mind not to help the
High Commissioner. There is such a thing as damning praise, and Rhodes
poured a good deal of it on the head of Sir Alfred.
Fortunately, Sir Alfred was sufficiently conscious of the rectitude of his
intentions and far too superior to feelings of petty spite. He never
allowed himself to be troubled by these unpleasantnesses, but went on his
way without giving his enemies the pleasure of noticing the measure of
success which, unhappily, attended their campaign. He remained inflexible
in his conduct, and, disdaining any justification, went on doing what he
thought was right, and which was right, as events proved subsequently.
Although Milner had at last to give up, yet it is very largely due to him
that the South African Union was ultimately constituted, and that the
much-talked-of reconciliation of the Dutch and English in Cape Colony and
in the Transvaal became an accomplished fact. Had Sir Alfred been listened
to from the very beginning it might have taken place sooner, and perhaps
the Boer War altogether avoided.
It is a curious thing that England's colonising powers, which are so
remarkable, took such a long time to work their way in South Africa. At
least it would have been a curious thing if one did not remember that
among the first white men who arrived there Englishmen were much in the
minority. And of those Englishmen who were attracted by the enormous
mineral wealth which the country contained, a good proportion were not of
the best class of English colonists. Many a one who landed in Table Bay
was an adventurer, drawn thither by the wish to make or retrieve his
fortune. Few came, as did Rhodes, in search of health, and few, again,
were drawn thither by the pure love of adventure. In Australia, or in New
Zealand or other colonies, people arrived with the determination to begin
a new life and to create for themselves new ties, new occupations, new
duties, so as to leave to their children after them the result of their
labours. In South Africa it was seldom that emigrants were animated by the
desire to make their home in the solitudes of the vast and unexplored
veldt. Those who got rich there, though they may have built for themselves
splendid houses while they dwelt in the land, never looked upon South
Africa as home, but aspired to spend their quickly gained millions in
London and to forget all about Table Mountain or the shafts and factories
of Johannesburg and Kimberley.
To such men as these England was a pretext but never a symbol. Their
strange conception of patriotism jarred the most unpleasantly on the
straightforward nature of Sir Alfred Milner, who had very quickly
discerned the egotism that lay concealed beneath its cloak. He understood
what patriotism meant, what love for one's own country signified. He had
arrived in South Africa determined to spare neither his person nor his
strength in her service, and the man who was repeatedly accused both by
the Dutch and by the English party in the Colony of labouring under a
misconception of its real political situation was the one who had from the
very first appreciated it as it deserved, and had recognised its damning
as well as its redeeming points.
Sir Alfred meant South Africa to become a member of the British Empire, to
participate in its greatness, and to enjoy the benefits of its protection.
He had absolutely no idea of exasperating the feelings of the Dutch part
of its population. He had the best intentions in regard to President
Kruger himself, and there was one moment, just at the time of the
Bloemfontein Conference, when a _modus vivendi_ between President Kruger
and the Court of St. James's might have been established, notwithstanding
the difficult question of the Uitlanders. It was frustrated by none other
than these very Uitlanders, who, fondly believing that a war with England
would establish them as absolute masters in the Gold Fields, brought it
about, little realising that thereby was to be accomplished the one thing
which they dreaded--the firm, just and far-seeing rule of England over all
South Africa.
In a certain sense the Boer War was fought just as much against financiers
as against President Kruger. It put an end to the arrogance of both.
CHAPTER II.
THE FOUNDATIONS OF FORTUNE
It is impossible to speak of South Africa without awarding to Cecil Rhodes
the tribute which unquestionably is due to his strong personality. Without
him it is possible that the vast territory which became so thoroughly
associated with his name and with his life would still be without
political importance. Without him it is probable that both the Diamond
Fields to which Kimberley owes its prosperity and the Gold Fields which
have won for the Transvaal its renown would never have risen above the
importance of those of Brazil or California or Klondyke.
It was Rhodes who first conceived the thought of turning all these riches
into a political instrument and of using it to the advantage of his
country--the England to which he remained so profoundly attached amid all
the vicissitudes of his life, and to whose possessions he was so eager to
add.
Cecil Rhodes was ambitious in a grand, strange manner which made a
complete abstraction of his own personality under certain conditions, but
which in other circumstances made him violent, brutal in manner, thereby
procuring enemies without number and detractors without end. His nature
was something akin to that of the Roman Emperors in its insensate desire
to exercise unchallenged an unlimited power. Impatient of restraint, no
matter in what shape it presented itself, he brooked no resistance to his
schemes; his rage against contradiction, and his opposition to any
independence of thought or action on the part of those who were around
him, brought about a result of which he would have been the first to
complain, had he suspected it--that of allowing him to execute all his
fancies and of giving way to all his resentments. Herein lies the reason
why so many of his schemes fell through. This unfortunate trait also
thrust him very often into the hands of those who were clever enough to
exploit it, and who, more often than proved good to Rhodes' renown,
suggested to him their own schemes and encouraged him to appropriate them
as his own. He had a very quick way of catching hold of any suggestions
that tallied with his sympathies or echoed any of his secret thoughts or
aspirations.
Yet withal Rhodes was a great soul, and had he only been left to himself,
or made longer sojourns in England, had he understood English political
life more clearly, had he had to grapple with the difficulties which
confront public existence in his Mother Country, he would most certainly
have done far greater things. He found matters far too easy for him at
first, and the obstacles which he encountered very often proved either of
a trivial or else of a removable nature--by fair means or methods less
commendable. A mining camp is not a school of morality, and just as
diamonds lose of their value in the estimation of those who continually
handle them, as is the case in Kimberley, so integrity and honour come to
be looked upon from a peculiar point of view according to the code of the
majority.
Then again, it must not be forgotten that the first opponents of Cecil
Rhodes were black men, of whom the European always has the conception that
they are not his equals. It is likely that if, instead of Lobengula, he
had found before him a European chief or monarch, Rhodes would have acted
differently than history credits him to have done toward the dusky
sovereign. It is impossible to judge of facts of which one has had no
occasion to watch the developments, or which have taken place in lands
where one has never been. Neither Fernando Cortez in Mexico nor Pizzaro
Gonzalo in Peru proved themselves merciful toward the populations whose
territory they conquered. The tragedy which sealed the fate of
Matabeleland was neither a darker nor a more terrible one than those of
which history speaks when relating to us the circumstances attending the
discovery of America. Such events must be judged objectively and forgiven
accordingly. When forming an opinion on the doings and achievements of
Cecil Rhodes one must make allowance for all the temptations which were
thrown in his way and remember that he was a man who, if ambitious, was
not so in a personal sense, but in a large, lofty manner, and who, whilst
appropriating to himself the good things which he thought he could grasp,
was also eager to make others share the profit of his success.
Cecil Rhodes, in all save name, was monarch over a continent almost as
vast as his own fancy and imagination. He was always dreaming, always lost
in thoughts which were wandering far beyond his actual surroundings,
carrying him into regions where the common spirit of mankind seldom
travelled. He was born for far better things than those which he
ultimately attained, but he did not belong to the century in which he
lived; his ruthless passions of anger and arrogance were more fitted for
an earlier and cruder era. Had he possessed any disinterested friends
capable of rousing the better qualities that slumbered beneath his
apparent cynicism and unscrupulousness, most undoubtedly he would have
become the most remarkable individual in his generation. Unfortunately, he
found himself surrounded by creatures absolutely inferior to himself,
whose deficiencies he was the first to notice, whom he despised either for
their insignificance or for their mental and moral failings, but to whose
influence he nevertheless succumbed.
When Cecil Rhodes arrived at Kimberley he was a mere youth. He had come to
South Africa in quest of health and because he had a brother already
settled there, Herbert Rhodes, who was later on to meet with a terrible
fate. Cecil, if one is to believe what one hears from those who knew him
at the time, was a shy youth, of a retiring disposition, whom no one could
ever have suspected would develop into the hardy, strong man he became in
time. He was constantly sick, and more than once was on the point of
falling a victim of the dreaded fever which prevails all over South Africa
and then was far more virulent in its nature than it is to-day. Kimberley
at that time was still a vast solitude, with here and there a few
scattered huts of corrugated iron occupied by the handful of colonists.
Water was rare: it is related, indeed, that the only way to get a wash was
to use soda water.
The beginning of Rhodes' fortune, if we are to believe what we are told,
was an ice machine which he started in partnership with another settler.
The produce they sold to their companions at an exorbitant price, but not
for long; whereafter the enterprising young man proceeded to buy some
plots of ground, of whose prolificacy in diamonds he had good reason to be
aware. It must be here remarked that Rhodes was never a poor man; he could
indulge in experiments as to his manner of investing his capital. And he
was not slow to take advantage of this circumstance. Kimberley was a wild
place at that time, and its distance from the civilised world, as well as
the fact that nothing was controlled by public opinion, helped some to
amass vast fortunes and put the weaker into the absolute power of the most
unscrupulous. It is to the honour of Rhodes that, however he might have
been tempted, he never listened to the advice which was given to him to do
what the others did, and to despoil the men whose property he might have
desired to acquire. He never gave way to the excesses of his daily
companions, nor accepted their methods of enriching themselves at top
speed so as soon to be able to return home with their gains.
From the first moment that he set foot on African soil Rhodes succumbed to
the strange charm the country offers for thinkers and dreamers. His
naturally languid temperament found a source of untold satisfaction in
watching the Southern Cross rise over the vast veldt where scarcely man's
foot had trod, where the immensity of its space was equalled by its
sublime, quiet grandeur. He liked to spend the night in the open air,
gazing at the innumerable stars and listening to the voice of the desert,
so full of attractions for those who have grown to discern somewhat of
Nature's hidden joys and sorrows. South Africa became for him a second
Motherland, and one which seemed to him to be more hospitable to his
temperament than the land of his birth. In South Africa he felt he could
find more satisfaction and more enjoyment than in England, whose
conventionalities did not appeal to his rebellious, unsophisticated heart.
He liked to roam about in an old coat and wideawake hat; to forget that
civilisation existed; to banish from his mind all memory of cities where
man must bow down to Mrs. Grundy and may not defy, unscathed, certain
well-defined prejudices.
Yet Cecil Rhodes neither cared for convention nor custom. His motto was to
do what he liked and not to trouble about the judgments of the crowd. He
never, however, lived up to this last part of his profession because, as I
have shown already, he was keenly sensitive to praise and to blame, and
hurt to the heart whenever he thought himself misjudged or condemned. Most
of his mistakes proceeded from this over-sensitiveness which, in a certain
sense, hardened him, inasmuch as it made him vindictive against those from
whom he did not get the approval for which he yearned. In common with many
another, too, Cecil Rhodes had that turn of mind which harbours resentment
against anyone who has scored a point against its possessor. After the
Jameson Raid Rhodes never forgave Mr. Schreiner for having found out his
deceit, and tried to be revenged.
Cecil Rhodes had little sympathy with other people's woes unless these
found an echo in his own, and the callousness which he so often displayed
was not entirely the affectation it was thought by his friends or even by
his enemies. Great in so many things, there were circumstances when he
could show himself unutterably small, and he seldom practised consistency.
Frank by nature, he was an adept at dissimulation when he thought that his
personal interest required it. But he could "face the music," however
discordant, and, unfortunately for him as well as for his memory, it was
often so.
The means by which Cecil Rhodes contrived to acquire so unique a position
in South Africa would require volumes to relate. Wealth alone could not
have done so, nor could it have assured for him the popularity which he
gained, not only among the European colonists, but also among the coloured
people, notwithstanding the ruthlessness which he displayed in regard to
them. There were millionaires far richer than himself in Kimberley and in
Johannesburg. Alfred Beit, to mention only one, could dispose of a much
larger capital than Rhodes ever possessed, but this did not give him an
influence that could be compared with that of his friend, and not even the
Life Governorship of De Beers procured for him any other fame than that of
being a fabulously rich man. Barney Barnato and Joel were also familiar
figures in the circle of wealthy speculators who lived under the shade of
Table Mountain; but none among these men, some of whom were also
remarkable in their way, could effect a tenth or even a millionth part of
what Rhodes succeeded in performing. His was the moving spirit, without
whom these men could never have conceived, far less done, all that they
did. It was the magic of Rhodes' name which created that formidable
organisation called the De Beers Company; which annexed to the British
Empire the vast territory known now by the name of Rhodesia; and which
attracted to the gold fields of Johannesburg all those whom they were to
enrich or to ruin. Without the association and glamour of Rhodes' name,
too, this area could never have acquired the political importance it
possessed in the few years which preceded, and covered, the Boer War.
Rhodes' was the mind which, after bringing about the famous Amalgamation
of the diamond mines around Kimberley, then conceived the idea of turning
a private company into a political instrument of a power which would
control public opinion and public life all over South Africa more
effectually even than the Government. This organisation had its own agents
and spies and kept up a wide system of secret service. Under the pretext
of looking out for diamond thieves, these emissaries in reality made it
their duty to report on the private opinions and doings of those whose
personality inspired distrust or apprehension.
This organisation was more a dictatorship than anything else, and had
about it something at once genial and Mephistophelian. The conquest of
Rhodesia was nothing in comparison with the power attained by this
combine, which arrogated to itself almost unchallenged the right to
domineer over every white man and to subdue every coloured one in the
whole of the vast South African Continent. Rhodesia, indeed, was only
rendered possible through the power wielded in Cape Colony to bring the
great Northward adventure to a successfully definite issue.
In referring to Rhodesia, I am reminded of a curious fact which, so far as
I am aware, has never been mentioned in any of the biographies of Mr.
Rhodes, but which, on the contrary, has been carefully concealed from the
public knowledge by his admirers and his satellites. The concession
awarded by King Lobengula to Rhodes and to the few men who together with
him took it upon themselves to add this piece of territory to the British
Empire had, in reality, already been given by the dusky monarch--long
before the ambitions of De Beers had taken that direction--to a Mr.
Sonnenberg, a German Jew who had very quickly amassed a considerable
fortune in various speculations. This Mr. Sonnenberg--who was subsequently
to represent the Dutch party in the Cape Parliament, and who became one of
the foremost members of the Afrikander Bond--during one of his journeys
into the interior of the country from Basutoland, where he resided for
some time, had taken the opportunity of a visit to Matabeleland to obtain
a concession from the famous Lobengula. This covered the same ground and
advantages which, later, were granted to Mr. Rhodes and his business
associates.
Owing in some measure to negligence and partly through the impossibility
of raising the enormous capital necessary to make anything profitable out
of the concession, Mr. Sonnenberg had put the document into his drawer
without troubling any more about it. Subsequently, when Matabeleland came
into possession of the Chartered Company, Mr. Sonnenberg ventured to speak
mildly of his own concession, and the matter was mentioned to Mr. Rhodes.
The latter's reply was typical: "Tell the ---- fool that if he was fool
enough to lose this chance of making money he ought to take the
consequences of it." And Mr. Sonnenberg had to content himself with this
reply. Being a wise man in his generation he was clever enough to ignore
the incident, and, realising the principle that might is stronger than
right, he never again attempted to dispute the title of Cecil John Rhodes
to the conquest which he had made, and, as I believe, pushed prudence to
the extent of consigning his own concession to the flames. He knew but too
well what his future prosperity would have been worth had he remembered
the document.
CHAPTER III.
A COMPLEX PERSONALITY
Rhodesia and its annexation was but the development of a vast scheme of
conquest that had its start in the wonderful brain of the individual who
by that time had become to be spoken of as the greatest man South Africa
had ever known. Long before this Cecil Rhodes had entered political life
as member of the Cape Parliament. He stood for the province of Barkly
West, and his election, which was violently contested, made him master of
this constituency for the whole of his political career. The entry into
politics gave a decided aim to his ambitions and inspired him to a new
activity, directing his wonderful organising faculties toward other than
financial victories and instilling within him the desire to make for
himself a name not solely associated with speculation, but one which would
rank with those great Englishmen who had carried far and wide British
renown and spread the fame of their Mother Country across the seas.
Rhodes' ambitions were not as unselfish as those of Clive, to mention only
that one name. He thought far more of himself than of his native land in
the hours when he meditated on all the advantages which he might obtain
from a political career. He saw the way to become at last absolutely free
to give shape to his dreams of conquest, and to hold under his sway the
vast continent which he had insensibly come to consider as his private
property. And by this I do not mean Rhodesia only--which he always spoke
of as "My country"--but he also referred to Cape Colony in the same way.
With one distinction, however, which was remarkable: he called it "My old
country," thus expressing his conviction that the new one possessed all
his affections. It is probable that, had time and opportunity been granted
him to bring into execution his further plans, thereby to establish
himself at Johannesburg and at Pretoria as firmly as he had done at
Kimberley and Buluwayo, the latter townships would have come to occupy the
same secondary importance in his thoughts as that which Cape Colony had
assumed. Mr. Rhodes may have had a penchant for old clothes, but he
certainly preferred new countries to ones already explored. To give Rhodes
his due, he was not the money-grubbing man one would think, judging by his
companions. He was constantly planning, constantly dreaming of wider areas
to conquer and to civilise. The possession of gold was for him a means,
not an aim; he appreciated riches for the power they produced to do
absolutely all that he wished, but not for the boast of having so many
millions standing to his account at a bank. He meant to become a king in
his way, and a king he unquestionably was for a time at least, until his
own hand shattered his throne.
His first tenure of the Cape Premiership was most successful, and even
during the second term his popularity went on growing until the fatal
Jameson Raid--an act of folly which nothing can explain, nothing can
excuse. Until it broke his political career, transforming him from the
respected statesman whom every party in South Africa looked up to into a
kind of broken idol never more to be trusted, Rhodes had enjoyed the
complete confidence of the Dutch party. They fully believed he was the
only man capable of effecting the Union which at that time was already
considered to be indispensable to the prosperity of South Africa. Often he
had stood up for their rights as the oldest settlers and inhabitants of
the country. Even in the Transvaal, notwithstanding the authority wielded
then by President Kruger, the populace would gladly have taken advantage
of his services and of his experience to help them settle favourably their
everlasting quarrels with the Uitlanders, as the English colonists were
called.
Had Cecil Rhodes but had the patience to wait, and had he cared to enter
into the details of a situation, the intricacies of which none knew better
than he, it is probable that the annexation of the Transvaal to the
British Empire would have taken place as a matter of course and the Boer
War would never have broken out. Rhodes was not only popular among the
Dutch, but also enjoyed their confidence, and it is no secret that he had
courted them to the extent of exciting the suspicions of the ultra-English
party, the Jingo elements of which had openly accused him of plotting with
the Dutch against the authority of Queen Victoria and of wishing to get
himself elected Life President of a Republic composed of the various South
African States, included in which would be Cape Colony, and perhaps even
Natal, in spite of the preponderance of the English element there.
That Rhodes might have achieved such a success is scarcely to be doubted,
and personally I feel sure that there had been moments in his life when
the idea of it had seriously occurred to him. At least I was led to think
so in the course of a conversation which we had together on this subject a
few weeks before the Boer War broke out. At that moment Rhodes knew that
war was imminent, but it would be wrong to interpret that knowledge in the
sense that he had ever thought of or planned rebellion against the Queen.
Those who accused him of harbouring the idea either did not know him or
else wished to harm him. Rhodes was essentially an Englishman, and set his
own country above everything else in the world. Emphatically this is so;
but it is equally true that his strange conceptions of morality in matters
where politics came into question made him totally oblivious of the fact
that he thought far more of his own self than of his native land in the
plans which he conceived and formulated for the supremacy of England in
South Africa. He was absolutely convinced that his election as Life
President of a South African Republic would not be in any way detrimental
to the interests of Great Britain; on the contrary, he assured himself it
would make the latter far more powerful than it had ever been before in
the land over which he would reign. By nature something of an Italian
_condottieri_, he considered his native land as a stepping-stone to his
own grandeur.
For a good many years he had chosen his best friends among Dutchmen of
influence in the Cape Colony and in the Transvaal. He flattered, courted
and praised them until he quite persuaded them that nowhere else would
they find such a staunch supporter of their rights and of their claims.
Men like Mr. Schreiner,[A] for instance, trusted him absolutely, and
believed quite sincerely that in time he would be able to establish firm
and friendly relations between the Cape Government and that of the
Transvaal. Though the latter country had been, as it were, sequestrated by
friends of Rhodes--much to their own profit--Mr. Schreiner felt convinced
that the Colossus had never encouraged any plans which these people might
have made against the independence of the Transvaal Republic. Rhodes had
so completely fascinated him that even on the eve of the day when Jameson
crossed the Border, Mr. Schreiner, when questioned by one of his friends
about the rumours which had reached Cape Town concerning a projected
invasion of the Transvaal by people connected with the Chartered Company,
repudiated them with energy. Mr. Schreiner, indeed, declared that so long
as Mr. Rhodes was Prime Minister nothing of the kind could or would
happen, as neither Jameson nor any of his lieutenants would dare to risk
such an adventure without the sanction of their Chief, and that it was
more to the latter's interest than to that of anyone else to preserve the
independence of the Transvaal Republic.
[A] Now High Commissioner for the Union of South Africa.
[Illustration: THE RT. HON. W.G. SCHREINER.]
Talking of Mr. Schreiner reminds me of his sister, the famous Olive
Schreiner, the author of so many books which most certainly will long rank
among the English classics. Olive Schreiner was once upon terms of great
friendship with Mr. Rhodes, who extremely admired her great talents. She
was an ardent Afrikander patriot, Dutch by sympathy and origin, gifted
with singular intelligence and possessed of wide views, which strongly
appealed to the soul and to the spirit of the man who at that time was
considered as the greatest figure in South Africa.
It is not remarkable, therefore, that Rhodes should fall into the habit
of confiding in Miss Schreiner, whom he found was "miles above" the
people about him. He used to hold long conversations with her and to
initiate her into many of his plans for the future, plans in which the
interests and the welfare of the Cape Dutch, as well as the Transvaalers,
used always to play the principal part. His friendship with her, however,
was viewed with great displeasure by many who held watch around him.
Circumstances--intentionally brought about, some maintain--conspired to
cause a cooling of the friendship between the two most remarkable
personalities in South Africa. Later on, Miss Schreiner, who was an ardent
patriot, having discovered what she termed and considered to be the
duplicity of the man in whom she had so absolutely trusted, refused to
meet Cecil Rhodes again. Her famous book, "Trooper Peter Halkett of
Mashonaland," was the culminating point in their quarrel, and the break
became complete.
This, however, was but an incident in a life in which the feminine element
never had any great influence, perhaps because it was always kept in check
by people anxious and eager not to allow it to occupy a place in the
thoughts or in the existence of a man whom they had confiscated as their
own property. There are people who, having risen from nothing to the
heights of a social position, are able to shake off former associations:
this was not the case with Rhodes, who, on the contrary, as he advanced in
power and in influence, found himself every day more embarrassed by the
men who had clung to him when he was a diamond digger, and who, through
his financial acumen, had built up their fortunes. They surrounded him day
and night, eliminating every person likely to interfere; slandering,
ridiculing and calumniating them in turns, they at last left him nothing
in place of his shattered faiths and lost ideals, until Rhodes became as
isolated amidst his greatness and his millions as the veriest beggar in
his hovel.
It was a sad sight to watch the ethical degradation of one of the most
remarkable intelligences among the men of his generation; it was
heartrending to see him fall every day more and more into the power of
unscrupulous people who did nothing else but exploit him for their own
benefit. South Africa has always been the land of adventurers, and many a
queer story could be told. That of Cecil John Rhodes was, perhaps, the
most wonderful and the most tragic.
Whether he realised this retrogression himself it is difficult to say.
Sometimes one felt that such might be the case, whilst at others it seemed
as if he viewed his own fate only as something absolutely wonderful and
bound to develop in the future even more prosperously than it had done in
the past. There was always about him something of the "tragediante,
comediante" applied to Napoleon by Pope Pius VII., and it is absolutely
certain that he often feigned sentiments which he did not feel, anger
which he did not experience, and pleasure that he did not have. He was a
being of fits and starts, moods and fancies, who liked to pose in such a
way as to give others an absolutely false idea of his personality when he
considered it useful to his interests to do so. At times it was evident he
experienced regret, but it is doubtful whether he knew the meaning of
remorse. The natives seldom occupied his thoughts, and if he were reminded
in later years that, after all, terrible cruelties had been practised in
Mashonaland or in Matabeleland, he used simply to shrug his shoulders and
to remark that it was impossible to make an omelette without breaking some
eggs. It never occurred to him that there might exist people who objected
to the breaking of a certain kind of eggs, and that humanity had a right
to be considered even in conquest.
And, after all, was this annexation of the dominions of poor Lobengula a
conquest? If one takes into account the strength of the people who
attacked the savage king, and his own weakness, can one do else but regret
that those who slaughtered Lobengula did not remember the rights of mercy
in regard to a fallen foe? There are dark deeds connected with the
attachment of Rhodesia to the British Empire, deeds which would never have
been performed by a regular English Army, but which seemed quite natural
to the band of enterprising fellows who had staked their fortunes on an
expedition which it was their interest to represent as a most dangerous
and difficult affair. I do not want to disparage them or their courage,
but I cannot help questioning whether they ever had to withstand any
serious attack of the enemy. I have been told perfectly sickening details
concerning this conquest of the territory now known by the name of
Rhodesia. The cruel manner in which, after having wrung from them a
concession which virtually despoiled them of every right over their native
land and after having goaded these people into exasperation, the people
themselves were exterminated was terrible beyond words. For instance,
there occurred the incident mentioned by Olive Schreiner in "Trooper Peter
Halkett of Mashonaland," when over one hundred savages were suffocated
alive in a cave where they sought a refuge.
Personally, I remain persuaded that these abominable deeds remained
unknown to Mr. Rhodes and that he would not have tolerated them for one
single instant. They were performed by people who were in possession of
Rhodes' confidence, and who abused it by allowing the world to think that
he encouraged such deeds. Later on it is likely that he became aware of
the abuse that had been made of his name and of the manner in which it had
been put forward as an excuse for inexcusable deeds, but he was far too
indolent and far too indifferent to the blame of the world, at these
particular moments to disavow those who, after all, had helped him in his
schemes of expansion, and who had ministered to his longing to have a
kingdom to himself. Apart from this, he had a curious desire to brave
public opinion and to do precisely the very things that it would have
disapproved. He loved to humiliate those whom he had at one moment thought
he might have occasion to fear. This explains the callousness with which
he made the son of Lobengula one of his gardeners, and did not hesitate to
ask him one day before strangers who were visiting Groote Schuur in what
year he "had killed his father." The incident is absolutely true; it
occurred in my own presence.
At times, such as that related in the paragraph above, Rhodes appeared a
perfectly detestable and hateful creature, and yet he was never sincere
whilst in such moods. A few moments later he would show himself under
absolutely different colours and give proof of a compassionate heart.
Generous to a fault, he liked to be able to oblige his friends, or those
who passed as such, while the charitable acts which he was constantly
performing are too numerous to be remembered. He had a supreme contempt
for money, but he spoiled the best sides of his strange, eccentric
character by enjoying a display of its worst facets with a "cussedness" as
amusing as it was sometimes unpleasant. Is it remarkable, then, that many
people who only saw him in the disagreeable moods should judge him from an
entirely false and misleading point of view?
Rhodes was a man for whom it was impossible to feel indifference; one
either hated him or became fascinated by his curious and peculiar charm.
This quality led many admirers to remain faithful to him even after
disillusion had shattered their former friendship, and who, whilst
refusing to speak to him any more, yet retained for him a deep affection
which not even the conviction that it had been misplaced could alter. This
is a remarkable and indisputable fact. After having rallied around him all
that was honest in South Africa; after having been the petted child of all
the old and influential ladies in Cape Town; after having been accepted as
their leader by men like Mr. Schreiner and Mr. Hofmeyr, who, clever though
they were, and convinced, as they must have been, of their personal
influence on the Dutch party and the members of the Afrikander Bond, still
preferred to subordinate their judgment to Rhodes'; after having enjoyed
such unparalleled confidence, Rhodes had come to be spurned and rejected
politically, but had always kept his place in their hearts. Fate and his
own faults separated him from these people of real weight and influence,
and left him in the hands of those who pretended that they were attached
to him, but who, in reality, cared only for the material advantages that
their constant attendance upon him procured to them. They poisoned his
mind, they separated him from all those who might have been useful to him,
and they profited by the circumstance that the Raid had estranged him from
his former friends to strengthen their own influence upon him, and to
persuade him that those who had deplored the rash act were personal
enemies, wishful for his downfall and disgrace.
CHAPTER IV.
MRS. VAN KOOPMAN
Among those with whom Rhodes had been intimate from almost the first days
of his establishment in Cape Town and his entrance into political life was
a lady who, for something like half a century, had been enjoying an
enviable position throughout almost the whole of South Africa. Mrs. van
Koopman was a Dutchwoman of considerable means and of high character. She
was clever, well read, and her quick intelligence allowed her to hold her
own in discussion upon any subject against the most eminent men of her
generation. She had never made a secret of her Dutch sympathies, nor of
her desire to see her countrymen given equal rights with the English all
over South Africa. She was on excellent terms with President Kruger, and
with President Steyn, whose personality was a far more remarkable one than
that of his old and crafty colleague.
The leading South African political men used to meet at Mrs. van Koopman's
to discuss the current events of the day. It is related that she was one
of the first to bring to the notice of her friends the complications that
were bound to follow upon the discovery of the gold fields, and to implore
them to define, without delay, the position of the foreign element which
was certain to move toward Johannesburg as soon as the news of the riches
contained in that region became public property.
If the English Government had considered the matter at once the
complications which arose as soon as companies began to be formed would
have been less acute. The directors of these concerns imagined themselves
to be entitled to displace local government, and took all executive power
into their own hands. This would never have happened if firm governmental
action had been promptly taken. The example of Kimberley ought to have
opened the eyes of the Mother Country, and measures should have been taken
to prevent the purely commercial domain of the gold fields from assuming
such strident political activities, and little by little dominating not
only the Transvaal Republic, but also the rest of South Africa.
Mrs. van Koopman had cherished a great affection for Rhodes. Her age--she
was in the sixties--gave an almost maternal character to the tenderness
with which she viewed him. He had made her his confidante, telling her all
that he meant to do for the welfare of the land which she loved so dearly.
She thought he looked upon South Africa with the same feelings of
admiration as she did.
The strength of her belief led Mrs. van Koopman to interest all her
friends in the career of the young Englishman, who appealed to her
imagination as the embodiment of all that was great and good. Her
enthusiasm endowed him with many qualities that he did not possess, and
magnified those which he really had. When he consulted her as to his
future plans she entered closely into their details, discussed with him
their chances of success, advised him and used all her influence, which
was great, in winning him friends and adherents. She trusted him fully,
and, on his part, whenever he returned to Cape Town after one of his
yearly visits to Kimberley, or after a few months spent in the solitudes
of Rhodesia, his first visit was always to the old and gentle lady, who
welcomed him with open arms, words of affection, and sincere as well as
devoted sympathy. She had always refused to listen to disparagement of her
favourite, and would never allow any of the gruesome details connected
with the annexation of Rhodesia to be recited in her presence.
In Mrs. van Koopman's eyes there was only a glorious side to the Rhodesian
expedition, and she rejoiced in the renown which it was destined to bring
to the man who had conceived and planned it. She fully believed that
Rhodes meant to bring English civilisation, English laws, the English
sense of independence and respect for individual freedom into that distant
land. The fact that lucre lay at the bottom of the expedition never
crossed her mind; even if it had she would have rejected the thought with
scorn and contempt.
Although the attacks upon Cecil Rhodes increased day by day in intensity
and in bitterness, Mrs. van Koopman never wavered in her allegiance. She
attributed them to jealousy and envy, and strenuously defended his name.
Mrs. van Koopman, too, rejoiced at any new success of Rhodes as if it had
been her own. She was the first to congratulate him when the dignity of a
Privy Councillor was awarded to him. After the Matabele Rebellion, during
which occurred one of the most famous episodes in the life of Rhodes, Mrs.
van Koopman had been loud in her praises of the man whom she had been the
first to guess would do great things.
The episode to which I refer, when he alone had had the courage to go
unattended and unarmed to meet the savage chiefs assembled in the Matoppo
Hills, had, by the way, done more than anything else to consolidate the
position of the chairman of De Beers in South Africa.
During the first administration of Cape Colony by Mr. Rhodes, when his
accession to the premiership had been viewed with a certain suspicion by
the Dutch party, Mrs. van Koopman made tremendous efforts to induce them
to have full confidence in her protégé. And the attempt succeeded, because
even the shrewd Mr. Hofmeyr had at last succumbed to the constant
entreaties which she had poured upon him. Thenceforward Mr. Hofmeyr became
one of Mr. Rhodes' firm admirers and strong partisans. Under the able
guidance of Mrs. van Koopman the relations between the Dutch party and
their future enemy became so cordial that at last a singular construction
was put upon both sides of the alliance by the opponents of both. The
accusation, already referred to, was made against Rhodes that he wished to
make for himself in South Africa a position of such independence and
strength that even the authority of the Queen might find itself
compromised by it. As has been pointed out, the supposition was devoid of
truth, but it is quite certain that the then Premier of Cape Colony would
not have objected had the suzerainty been placed in his hands by England
and British rule in South Africa vested solely in his person.
During a brief interval in his political leadership Rhodes pursued his
work in Rhodesia. In those days the famous British South Africa Company,
which was to become known as the Chartered Company, was definitely
constituted, and began its activity in the new territories which had come
under its control. Ere long, though, the tide of events brought him again
to the head of the Government. This time, however, though his appointment
had been considered as a foregone conclusion, and though very few had
opposed it, he no longer met the same sympathetic attention and
co-operation which had characterised his first administration of public
affairs. The Colony had begun to realise that Mr. Rhodes alone, and left
free to do what he liked, or what he believed was right, was very
different from Mr. Rhodes under the influence of the many so-called
financiers and would-be politicians who surrounded him.
An atmosphere of favouritism and of flattery had changed Rhodes, whom one
would have thought far above such small things. Vague rumours, too, had
begun to circulate concerning certain designs of the Chartered Company
(one did not dare yet mention the name of its chief and chairman) on the
Transvaal. Rhodes was directly questioned upon the subject by several of
his friends, amongst others by Mr. Schreiner, to whom he energetically
denied that such a thing had ever been planned. He added that Doctor
Jameson, of whom the man in the street was already speaking as the man who
was planning an aggression against the authority of President Kruger, was
not even near the frontier of the neighbouring Republic. The mere idea of
such a thing, Rhodes emphatically declared to Mr. Schreiner, was nothing
but an ill-natured hallucination to create bad blood between the English
and the Dutch. His tone seemed so sincere that Mr. Schreiner allowed
himself to be convinced, and voluntarily assured his colleagues that he
was convinced of the sincerity of the Prime Minister.
The only person who was really alarmed at the persistent rumours which
circulated in Cape Town in regard to a possible attack in common accord
with the leaders of the Reform movement in Johannesburg against the
independence of the Transvaal Republic was Mrs. van Koopman. She knew
Rhodes' character too well not to fear that he might have been induced to
listen to the misguided advice of people trying to persuade him that the
Rhodesian adventure was susceptible of being repeated on a larger and far
more important scale, with as much impunity and as little danger as the
other one had been. Alarmed beyond words by all that she was hearing, she
determined to find out for herself the true state of things, and, trusting
to her knowledge of Rhodes' character, she asked him to call upon her.
Rhodes came a few afternoons later, and Mrs. van Koopman closely
questioned him on the subject, telling him of the tales which were being
circulated not only in Cape Town, but also at Kimberley and Buluwayo and
Johannesburg. Rhodes solemnly assured her that they were nothing but
malicious gossip, and, taking her hands in his own, he repeated that all
she had heard concerning the sinister designs he was supposed to be
harbouring against the independence of the Transvaal had absolutely no
foundation. To add force to his words, he continued that he respected her
far too much to deceive her willingly, and that he would never have risked
meeting her and talking with her upon such a subject had there been the
slightest ground for the rumours which were disturbing the tranquillity of
the inhabitants of Cape Town. When he left her Mrs. van Koopman felt quite
reassured.
Next morning Mrs. van Koopman told her anxious friends that she had
received such assurances from Rhodes that she could not disbelieve him,
and that the best thing which they could do would be to contradict all
statements on the subject of a raid on the Transvaal that might come to
their ears. This occurred on an after-Christmas evening of the year 1895.
When the decisive conversation which I have just related was taking place
between Mrs. van Koopman and Cecil Rhodes, Doctor Jameson and his handful
of eager adventurers had already entered Transvaal territory. The Raid had
become an accomplished fact. It was soon realised that it was the most
deplorable affair that could have occurred for the reputation of Cecil
Rhodes and for his political future. The rebound, indeed, was immediate;
his political career came to an end that day.
The person who was struck most painfully by this disgraceful and cryingly
stupid adventure was Mrs. van Koopman. All her illusions--and she had
nursed many concerning Rhodes--were destroyed at one blow. She never
forgave him. All his attempts to bring about a reconciliation failed, and
when later on he would fain have obtained her forgiveness, she absolutely
refused all advances, and declared that she would never consent willingly
to look upon his face or listen to his voice again. The proud old woman,
whose ideals had been wrecked so cruelly, could not but feel a profound
contempt for a man who had thus deliberately lied to her at the very time
when she was appealing to his confidence. Her aristocratic instincts arose
in indignation at the falsehoods which had been used to dupe her. She
would not listen to any excuse, would not admit any extenuating
circumstances; and perhaps because she knew in the secret of her heart
that she would never be able to resist the pleadings of the man who had
thus deceived her, she absolutely refused to see him.
Rhodes never despaired of being restored to her favour, and would have
given much to anyone able to induce her to relent in her judgment as to
his conduct. Up to the last he made attempts to persuade her to reconsider
her decision, but they all proved useless, and he died without having been
able to win a forgiveness which he craved for many years.
I used to know Mrs. van Koopman well and to see her often. I admired her
much, not only on account of her great talents and of her powerful
intellect, but also for the great dignity which she displayed all through
the Boer War, when, suspected of favouring the Dutch cause to the extent
of holding communications with the rebels all over the Cape Colony, she
never committed any indiscretion or gave cause for any direct action
against her. For some time, by order of the military authorities, she was
placed under police supervision, and her house was searched for papers and
documents which, however, were not found--as might have been foreseen.
All through these trying months she never wavered in her attitude nor in
her usual mode of life, except that she saw fewer people than
formerly--not, as she used playfully to say, because she feared to be
compromised, but because she did not wish to compromise others. More than
once during my visits I spoke to her of Mr. Rhodes and tried to induce her
to relent in her resolution. I even went so far as to tell her that her
consent to meet him would, more than anything else, cause him to use all
his influence, or what remained of it, in favour of a prompt settlement of
the war in a peace honourable to both sides. Mrs. van Koopman smiled, but
remained immovable. At last, seeing that I would not abandon the subject,
she told me in tones which admitted of no discussion that she had far too
much affection for Rhodes not to have been so entirely cut to the core by
his duplicity in regard to her and by his whole conduct in that
unfortunate matter of the Raid. She could trust him no longer, she told
me, and, consequently, a meeting with him would only give her unutterable
pain and revive memories that had better remain undisturbed. "Had I cared
for him less I would not say so to you," she added, "but you must know
that of all sad things the saddest is the destruction of idols one has
built for oneself."
This attitude on the part of the one friend he had the greatest affection
for was one of the many episodes which embittered Rhodes.
CHAPTER V.
RHODES AND THE RAID
After the Raid, faithful to his usual tactics of making others responsible
for his own misdeeds, Cecil Rhodes grew to hate with ferocity all those
whose silence and quiet disapproval reminded him of the fatal error into
which he had been led. He was loud in his expressions of resentment
against Mr. Schreiner and the other members of the Afrikander party who
had not been able to conceal from him their indignation at his conduct on
the memorable occasion which ruined his own political life. They had
compelled him--one judged by his demeanour--to resign his office of Prime
Minister at the very time when he was about to transform it into something
far more important--to use it as the stepping-stone to future grandeurs of
which he already dreamt, although he had so far refrained from speaking
about them to others. Curious to say, however, he never blamed the authors
of this political mistake, and never, in public at least, reproached
Jameson for the disaster he had brought upon him.
What his secret thoughts were on this subject it is easy to guess.
Circumstances used to occur now and then when a stray word spoken on
impulse allowed one to discern that he deplored the moment of weakness
into which he had been inveigled. For instance, during a dinner-party at
Groote Schuur, when talking about the state of things prevailing in
Johannesburg just before the war, he mentioned the names of five Reformers
who, after the Raid, had been condemned to death by President Kruger, and
added that he had paid their fine of twenty-five thousand pounds each.
"Yes," he continued, with a certain grim accent of satire in his voice, "I
paid £25,000 for each of these gentlemen." And when one of his guests
tactlessly remarked, "But surely you need not have done so, Mr. Rhodes? It
was tacitly admitting that you had been a party to their enterprise!" he
retorted immediately, "And if I choose to allow the world to think that
such was the case, what business is it of yours?" I thought the man was
going to drop under the table, so utterly flabbergasted did he look.
It is, of course, extremely difficult to know what was the actual part
played by Rhodes in the Raid. He carried that secret to the grave, and it
is not likely that his accomplices will ever reveal their own share in the
responsibility for that wild adventure. My impression is that the idea of
the Raid was started among the entourage of Rhodes and spoken of before
him at length. He would listen in silence, as was his wont when he wished
to establish the fact that he had nothing to do with a thing that had been
submitted to him. Thus the Raid was tacitly encouraged by him, without his
ever having pronounced himself either for or against it.
Rhodes was an extremely able politician, and a far-seeing one into the
bargain. He would never have committed himself into an open approval of an
attempt which he knew perfectly well involved the rights of nations. On
the other hand, he would have welcomed any circumstance which would result
in the overthrow of the Transvaal Republic by friends of his. His former
successes, and especially the facility with which had been carried out the
attachment of Rhodesia to the British Empire, had refracted his vision,
and he refused--or failed--to see the difficulties which he might
encounter if he wanted to proceed for the second time on an operation of
the same kind.
On the other hand, he was worried by his friends to allow them to take
decisive action, and was told that everyone in England would approve of
his initiative in taking upon himself the responsibility of a step, out of
which could only accrue solid advantage for the Mother Country.
Rhodes had been too long away from England, and his sojourns there during
the ten years or so immediately preceding 1895 had been far too short for
him to have been able to come to a proper appreciation of the importance
of public opinion in Great Britain, or of those principles in matters of
Government which no sound English politician will ever dare to put aside
if he wishes to retain his hold. He failed to understand and to appreciate
the narrow limit which must not be overstepped; he forgot that when one
wants to perform an act open to certain well-defined objections there must
be a great aim in order eventually to explain and excuse the doing of it.
The Raid had no such aim. No one made a mistake as to that point when
passing judgment upon the Raid. The motives were too sordid, too mean, for
anyone to do aught else but pass a sweeping condemnation upon the whole
business.
If he did not, Rhodes ought to have known that the public would most
certainly pass this verdict on so dark and shameful an adventure, one that
harmed England's prestige in South Africa far more than ever did the Boer
War. But though perhaps he realised beforehand that this would be the
verdict, he only felt a vague apprehension, more as a fancy than from any
real sense of impending danger. He had grown so used to see success attend
his every step that his imagination refused to admit the possibility of
defeat.
As for the people who engaged in the senseless adventure, their motives
had none of the lofty ideals which influenced Rhodes himself. They simply
wanted to obtain possession of the gold fields of the Transvaal and to
oust the rightful owners. President Kruger represented an obstacle that
had to be removed, and so they proceeded upon their mad quest without
regard as to the possible consequences. Still less did they reflect that
in his case they had not to deal with a native chief whose voice of
protest had no chance to be heard, but with a very cute and determined man
who had means at his disposal not only to defend himself, but also to
appeal to European judgment to adjudge an unjustifiable aggression.
Apart from all these considerations, which ought to have been seriously
taken into account by Doctor Jameson and his companions, the whole
expedition was planned in a stupid, careless manner. No wonder that it
immediately came to grief. It is probable that if Rhodes had entered into
its details and allowed others to consult him, matters might have taken a
different turn. But, as I have already shown, he preferred to be able to
say at a given moment that he had known nothing about it. At least, this
must have been what he meant to do. But events proved too strong for him.
The fiasco was too complete for Rhodes to escape from its
responsibilities, though it must be conceded that he never tried to do so
once the storm burst. He faced the music bravely enough, perhaps because
of the knowledge that no denial would be believed, perhaps also because
all the instincts of his, after all, great nature caused him to come
forward to take his share in the disgrace of the whole deplorable affair.
Whether he forgave Doctor Jameson for this act of folly remains a mystery.
Personally I have always held that there must have _un cadavre entre eux_.
No friendship could account for the strange relations which existed
between these two men, one of whom had done so much to harm the other. At
first it would have seemed as if an individual of the character of Cecil
Rhodes would never have brought himself to forgive his confederate for the
clumsiness with which he had handled a matter upon which the reputation of
both of them depended, in the present as well as in the future. But far
from abandoning the friend who had brought him into such trouble, he
remained on the same terms of intimacy as before, with the difference,
perhaps, that he saw even more of him than before the Raid. It seemed as
if he wanted thus to affirm before the whole world his faith in the man
through whom his whole political career had been wrecked.
The attitude of Rhodes toward Jameson was commented upon far and wide. The
Dutch party in Cape Town saw in it a mere act of bravado into which they
read an acknowledgment that, strong as was the Colossus, he was too weak
to tell his accomplices to withdraw from public sight until the
ever-increasing difficulties with the Transvaal--which became more and
more acute after the Raid--had been settled in some way or other between
President Kruger and the British Government. Instead of this Rhodes seemed
to take a particular pleasure in parading the trust he declared he had in
Doctor Jameson, and to consult him publicly upon almost all the political
questions which were submitted to him for consideration. This did not mean
that he followed the advice which he received, because, so far as I was
able to observe, this was seldom the case.
To add to the contrariness of the situation, Rhodes always seemed more
glad than anything else if he heard someone make an ill-natured remark
about the Doctor, or when anything particularly disagreeable occurred to
the latter. An ironic smile used to light up Rhodes' face and a sarcastic
chuckle be heard. But still, whenever one attempted to explain to him that
the Raid had been an unforgivable piece of imprudence, or hazarded that
Jameson had never been properly punished for it, Rhodes invariably took
the part of this friend of his younger days, and would never acknowledge
that Doctor Jim's desire to enter public life as a member of the Cape
Parliament ought not to be gratified.
On his side, Doctor Jameson was determined that the opportunity to do so
should be offered to him, and he used Rhodes' influence in order to obtain
election. He knew very well that without it his candidature would have no
chance.
Later on, when judging the events which preceded the last two years of
Rhodes' life, many people expressed the opinion that Jameson, being a
physician of unusual ability, was perfectly well aware that his friend was
not destined to live to a very old age, and therefore wished to obtain
from him while he could all the political support he required to establish
his career as the statesman he fully believed he was. In fact, Doctor
Jameson had made up his mind to outlive the odium of the Raid, and to
become rehabilitated in public opinion to the extent of being allowed to
take up the leadership of the party which had once owned Rhodes as its
chief. By a strange freak of Providence, helped no doubt by an iron will
and opportunities made the most of, Jameson, who had been the great
culprit in the mad adventure of the Raid, became the foremost man in Cape
Colony for a brief period after the war, while Rhodes, who had been his
victim, bore the full consequences of his weakness in having permitted
himself to be persuaded to look through his fingers on the enterprise.
Rhodes never recovered any real political influence, was distrusted by
English and Dutch alike, looked upon with caution by the Cape Government,
and with suspicion even among his followers. The poor man had no friends
worthy of the name, and those upon whom he relied the most were the first
to betray his confidence. Unfortunately for himself, he had a profound
contempt for humanity, and imagined himself capable of controlling all
those whom he had elected to rule. He imagined he could turn and twist
anyone according to his own impulses. In support of this assertion let me
relate an incident in which I played a part.
When the Boer War showed symptoms of dragging on for a longer time than
expected, some Englishmen proposed that Rhodes should be asked to stand
again for Prime Minister, to do which he resolutely refused. Opinions,
however, were very much divided. Some people declared that he was the only
man capable of conciliating the Dutch and bringing the war to a happy
issue. Others asserted that his again taking up the reins of Government
would be considered by the Afrikander Bond--which was very powerful at the
time--as an unjustifiable provocation which would only further embitter
those who had never forgiven Rhodes for the Raid.
A member of the Upper House of Legislature, whom I used to see often, and
who was a strong partisan of Rhodes, determined to seek advice outside the
House, and went to see an important political personage in Cape Town, one
of those who frequented Groote Schuur and who posed as one of the
strongest advocates of Rhodes again becoming the head of the Government
presided over by Sir Alfred Milner. What was the surprise of my friend
when, instead of finding a sympathising auditor, he heard him say that he
considered that for the moment the return of Rhodes at the head of affairs
would only complicate matters; that it was still too soon after the Raid;
that his spirit of animosity in regard to certain people might not help to
smooth matters at such a critical juncture; and that, moreover, Rhodes had
grown very morose and tyrannical, and refused to brook any contradiction.
Coming from a man who had no reason to be friendly with Rhodes, the
remarks just reported would not have been important, but proceeding from a
personage who was continually flattering Rhodes, they struck me as showing
such considerable duplicity that I wrote warning Rhodes not to attach too
much importance to the protestations of devotion to his person that the
individual in question was perpetually pouring down upon him. The reply
which I received was absolutely characteristic: "Thanks for your letter.
Never mind what X---- says. He is a harmless donkey who can always make
himself useful when required to do so."
The foregoing incident is enlightening as to the real nature of Cecil
Rhodes. His great mistake was precisely in this conviction that he could
order men at will, and that men would never betray him or injure him by
their false interpretation of the directions which it pleased him to give
them. He considered himself so entirely superior to the rest of mankind
that it never struck him that inferior beings could turn upon him and rend
him, or forget the obedience to his orders which he expected them to
observe. He did not appreciate people with independence, though he admired
them in those rare moments when he would condescend to be sincere with
himself and with others; but he preferred a great deal the miserable
creatures who always said "yes" to all his vagaries; who never dared to
criticise any of his instructions or to differ from any opinions which he
expressed. Sometimes he uttered these opinions with a brutality that did
him considerable harm, inasmuch as it could not fail to cause repugnance
among any who listened to him, but were not sufficiently acquainted with
the peculiarities of his character to discern that he wanted simply to
scare his audience, and that he did not mean one single word of the
ferocious things he said in those moments when he happened to be in a
particularly perverse mood, and when it pleased him to give a totally
false impression of himself and the nature of his convictions in political
and public matters.
It must not be lost sight of when judging Mr. Rhodes that he had been
living for the best part of his life among people with whom he could not
have anything in common except the desire to make money in the shortest
time possible. He was by nature a thinker, a philosopher, a reader, a man
who belonged to the best class of students, those who understand that
one's mind wants continually improving and that it is apt to rust when not
kept active. His companions in those first years which followed upon his
arrival in South Africa would certainly not have appreciated any of the
books the reading of which constituted the solace of the young man who
still preserved in his mind the traditions of Oxford. They were his
inferiors in everything: intelligence, instruction, comprehension of those
higher problems of the soul and of the mind which always interested him
even in the most troubled and anxious moments of his life. He understood
and realised that this was the fact, and this did not tend to inspire him
with esteem or even with consideration for the people with whom he was
compelled to live and work.
Men like Barney Barnato, to mention only this one name among the many,
felt a kind of awe of Cecil Rhodes. This kind of thing, going on as it did
for years, was bound to give Rhodes a wrong idea as to the faculty he had
of bringing others to share his points of view, and he became so
accustomed to be considered always right that he felt surprised and vexed
whenever blind obedience was not given. Indeed, it so excited his
displeasure that he would at once plunge into a course of conduct which he
might never have adopted but for the fact that he had heard it condemned
or criticised.
It has been said that every rich man is generally surrounded by parasites,
and Cecil Rhodes was not spared this infliction. Only in his case these
parasites did not apply their strength to attacks upon his purse; they
exploited him for his influence, for the importance which it gave them to
be considered by the world as his friends, or even his dependants. They
appeared wherever he went, telling the general public that their presence
had been requested by the "Boss" in such warm terms that they could not
refuse. It was curious to watch this systematic chase which followed him
everywhere, even to England. Sometimes this persistency on the part of
persons whom he did not tolerate more than was absolutely necessary bored
him and put him out of patience; but most of the time he accepted it as a
necessary evil, and even felt flattered by it. He also liked to have
perpetually around him individuals whom he could bully to his heart's
content, who never resented an insult and never minded an insolence--and
Rhodes was often insolent.
Another singular feature in a character as complex as it was interesting
was the contempt in which he held all those who had risen under his very
eyes, from comparative or absolute poverty, to the status of millionaires
possessed of houses in Park Lane and shooting boxes in Scotland. He liked
to relate all that he knew about them, and sometimes even to mention
certain facts which the individuals themselves would probably have
preferred to be consigned to oblivion. But--and here comes the singularity
to which I have referred--Rhodes would not allow anyone else to speak of
these things, and he always took the part of his so-called friends when
outsiders hinted at dark episodes which did not admit of investigation. He
almost gave a certificate of good conduct to people whom he might have
been heard referring to a few hours before in a far more antagonistic
spirit than that displayed by those whom he so sharply contradicted.
I remember one amusing instance of the idiosyncrasy referred to. There was
in Johannesburg a man who, having arrived there with twenty-five pounds in
his pockets--as he liked to relate with evident pride in the fact--had, in
the course of two years, amassed together a fortune of two millions
sterling. One day during dinner at Groote Schuur he enlarged upon the
subject with such offensiveness that an English lady, newly arrived in
South Africa and not yet experienced in the things which at the time were
better left unsaid, was so annoyed at his persistency that she interrupted
the speaker with the remark:
"Well, if I were you, I would not be so eager to let the world know that I
had made two millions out of twenty-five pounds. It sounds exactly like
the story of the man who says that in order to catch a train at six
o'clock in the morning he gets up at ten minutes to six. You know at once
that he cannot possibly have washed, whilst your story shows that you
could not possibly have been honest."
I leave the reader to imagine the consternation produced among those
present by these words. But what were their feelings when they heard
Rhodes say in reply:
"Well, one does not always find water to wash in, and at Kimberley this
happened oftener than one imagines; as for being honest, who cares for
honesty nowadays?"
"Those who have not lived in South Africa, Mr. Rhodes," was the retort
which silenced the Colossus.
This man of the get-rich-quick variety was one of those who had mastered
the difficult operation of passing off to others the mines out of which he
had already extracted most of the gold, an occupation which, in the early
Johannesburg days, had been a favourite one with many of the inhabitants
of this wonderful town. One must not forget that as soon as the fame of
the gold fields of the Transvaal began to spread adventurers hastened
there, together with a few honest pioneers, desirous of making a fortune
out of the riches of a soil which, especially in prospectuses lavishly
distributed on the London and Paris Stock Exchanges, was described as a
modern Golconda. Concessions were bought and sold, companies were formed
with a rapidity which savoured of the fabulous. Men made not only a
living, but also large profits, by reselling plots of ground which they
had bought but a few hours before, and one heard nothing but loud praises
of this or that mine that could be had for a song, "owing to family
circumstances" or other reasons which obliged their owner to part with it.
The individual who had boasted of the intelligent manner with which he had
transformed his twenty-five pounds into two solid millions had, early in
his career, invested some of his capital in one of these mines. Its only
merit was its high-sounding name. He tried for some time without success
to dispose of it. At last he happened to meet a Frenchman, newly arrived
in Johannesburg, who wanted to acquire some mining property there with the
view of forming a company. Our hero immediately offered his own. The
Frenchman responded to the appeal, but expressed the desire to go down
himself into the shaft to examine the property and get some ore in order
to test it before the purchase was completed. The condition was agreed to
with eagerness, and a few days later the victim and his executioner
proceeded together to the mine. The Frenchman went down whilst Mr. X----
remained above. He walked about with his hands in his pockets, smoking
cigarettes, the ashes of which he let fall with an apparent negligence
into the baskets of ore which were being sent up by the Frenchman. When
the latter came up, rather hot and dusty, the baskets were taken to
Johannesburg and carefully examined: the ore was found to contain a
considerable quantity of gold. The mine was bought, and not one scrap of
gold was ever found in it. Mr. X---- had provided himself with cigarettes
made for the purpose, which contained gold dust in lieu of tobacco, and
the ashes which he had dropped were in reality the precious metal, the
presence of which was to persuade the unfortunate Frenchman that he was
buying a property of considerable value. He paid for it something like two
hundred thousand pounds, whilst the fame of the man who had thus cleverly
tricked him spread far and wide.
The most amusing part of the story consists in its _dénouement_. The duped
Frenchman, though full of wrath, was, nevertheless, quite up to the game.
He kept silence, but proceeded to form his company as if nothing had been
the matter. When it was about to be constituted and registered, he asked
Mr. X---- to become one of its directors, a demand that the latter could
not very well refuse with decency. He therefore allowed his name to figure
among those of the members of the board, and he used his best endeavours
to push forward the shares of the concern of which he was pompously
described on the prospectus as having been once the happy owner. As his
name was one to conjure with the scrip went up to unheard-of prices, when
both he and his supposed victim, the Frenchman, realised and retired from
the venture, the richer by several hundreds of thousands of pounds.
History does not say what became of the shareholders. As for Mr. X----, he
now lives in Europe, and has still a reputation in South Africa.
This story is but one amongst hundreds, and it is little wonder that,
surrounded as he was with men who indulged in this charming pastime of
always trying to dupe their fellow creatures, Rhodes' moral sense relaxed.
It is only surprising that he kept about him so much that was good and
great, and that he did not succumb altogether to the contamination which
affected everything and everybody around him. Happily for him he cherished
his own ambitions, had his own dreams for companions, his absorption in
the great work he had undertaken; these things were his salvation.
Rhodesia became the principal field of Rhodes' activity, and the care with
which he fostered its prosperity kept him too busy and interested to
continue the quest for riches which had been his great, if not his
principal, occupation during the first years of his stay in South Africa.
Although Cecil Rhodes was so happily placed that he had no need to bother
over wealth, he was not so aloof to the glamour of politics. He had always
felt the irk of his retirement after the Raid, and the hankering after a
leading political position became more pronounced as the episode which
shut the Parliamentary door behind him after he had passed through its
portals faded in the mind of the people.
It was not surprising, therefore, to observe that politics once more took
the upper hand amidst his preoccupations. It was, though, politics
connected with the development of the country that bore his name more than
with the welfare of the Cape Colony or of the Transvaal. It was only
during the last two years of Rhodes' existence that his interest revived
in the places connected with his first successes in life. Rhodes had been
convinced that a war with the Boers would last only a matter of a few
weeks--three months, as he prophesied when it broke out--and he was
equally sure, though for what reason it is difficult to guess, that the
war would restore him to his former position and power. The illusion
lingered long enough to keep him in a state of excitement, during which,
carried along by his natural enthusiasm, he indulged in several
unconsidered steps, and when at last his hope was dispelled he accused
everybody of being the cause of his disappointment. Never for a moment
would he admit that he could have been mistaken, or that the war, which at
a certain moment his intervention might possibly have avoided, had been
the consequence of the mischievous act he had not prevented.
When the Bloemfontein Conference failed Rhodes was not altogether
displeased. He had felt the affront of not being asked to attend; and,
though his common sense told him that it would have been altogether out of
the question for him to take part in it, as this would have been
considered in the light of a personal insult by President Kruger, he would
have liked to have been consulted by Sir Alfred Milner, as well as by the
English Government, as to the course to be adopted during its
deliberations. He was fully persuaded in his own mind that Sir Alfred
Milner, being still a new arrival in South Africa, had not been able to
grasp its complicated problems, and so had not adopted the best means to
baffle the intrigues of President Kruger and the diplomacy of his clever
colleague, President Steyn. At every tale which reached Cecil Rhodes
concerning the difficulties encountered by Sir Alfred, he declared that he
was "glad to be out of this mess." Yet it was not difficult to see that he
passionately regretted not being allowed to watch from a seat at the
council table the vicissitudes of this last attempt by conference to
smooth over difficulties arising from the recklessness displayed by people
in arrogantly rushing matters that needed careful examination.
[Illustration: PRESIDENT KRUGER]
CHAPTER VI.
THE AFTERMATH OF THE RAID
Toward the close of the last chapter I referred to the Raid passing from
the forefront of public memory. But though, as a fact, it became blurred
in the mind of the people, as a factor in South African history its
influence by no means diminished. Indeed, the aftermath of the Raid
assumed far greater proportions as time went on. It influenced so entirely
the further destinies of South Africa, and brought about such enmities and
such bitterness along with it, that nothing short of a war could have
washed away its impressions. Up to that fatal adventure the Jingo English
elements, always viewed with distrust and dislike in the Transvaal as well
as at the Cape, had been more or less held back in their desire to gain an
ascendancy over the Dutch population, whilst the latter had accepted the
Jingo as a necessary evil devoid of real importance, and only annoying
from time to time.
After the Raid all the Jingoes who had hoped that its results would be to
give them greater facilities of enrichment considered themselves
personally aggrieved by its failure. They did just what Rhodes was always
doing. The Boers and President Kruger had acted correctly in this
enterprise of Doctor Jameson, but the Jingoes made them responsible for
the results of its failure. They went about giving expression to feelings
of the most violent hatred against the Boers, and railed at their
wickedness in daring to stand up in defence of rights which the British
Government had solemnly recognised. It became quite useless to tell those
misguided individuals that the Cabinet at Westminster had from the very
first blamed Rhodes for his share in what the English Press, with but few
exceptions, had declared to be an entirely disgraceful episode. They
pretended that people in London knew nothing about the true state of
affairs in South Africa or the necessities of the country; that the
British Government had always shown deplorable weakness in regard to the
treatment meted out to its subjects in the Colonies, and that both Rhodes
and Jameson were heroes whose names deserved to be handed down to
posterity for the services which they had rendered to their country.
It is true that these ardent Jingoes were but a small minority and that
the right-minded elements among the English Colonials universally blamed
the unwarranted attack that had been made against the independence of the
Transvaal. But the truculent minority shouted loud enough to drown the
censure, and as, with a few notable exceptions, the South African Press
was under the influence of the magnates, it was not very easy to protest
against the strange way in which the Raid was being excused. I am
persuaded that, had the subject been allowed to drop, it would have died a
natural death, or at worst been considered as an historical blunder. But
the partisans of Rhodes, the friends of Jameson, and personages connected
with the leading financial powers did their best to keep the remembrance
of the expedition which wrecked the political life of Rhodes fresh before
the public. The mere mention of it was soon sufficient to arouse a tempest
of passions, especially among the Dutch party, and by and by the history
of South Africa resolved itself into the Raid and its memories. You never
heard people say, "This happened at such a time"; they merely declared,
"This happened before, or after, the Raid." It became a landmark for the
inhabitants of Cape Town and of the Transvaal, and I could almost believe
that, in Kimberley at any rate, the very children in the schools were
taught to date their knowledge of English history from the time of the
Raid.
The enemies of Cecil Rhodes, and their number was legion, always declared
that the reason why he had faced the music and braved public opinion in
England lay in the fact that, for some reason or other, he was afraid of
Doctor Jameson. I have referred already to this circumstance. Whilst
refusing to admit such a possibility, yet I must own that the influence,
and even the authority exercised by the Doctor on his chief, had something
uncanny about it. My own opinion has always been that Rhodes' attitude
arose principally from his conviction that Jameson was the only one who
understood his constitution, the sole being capable of looking after his
health. Curious as it may seem, I am sure the Colossus had an inordinate
fear of death and of illness of any kind. He knew that his life was not a
sound one, but he always rebelled against the idea that, like other
mortals, he was subject to death. I feel persuaded that one of the reasons
why he chose to be buried in the Matoppo Hills was that, in selecting this
lonely spot, he felt that he would not often be called upon to see the
place where he would rest one day.
This dread of the unknown, so rare in people of his calibre, remained with
him until the end. It increased in acuteness as his health began to fail.
Then, more than ever, did he entertain and plan new schemes, as if to
persuade himself that he had unlimited time before him in which to execute
them. His flatterers knew how to play upon his weakness, and they never
failed to do so. Perhaps this foible explains the influence which Doctor
Jameson undoubtedly exercised upon the mind of Rhodes. He believed himself
to be in safety whenever Jameson was about him. And so in a certain sense
he was, because, with all his faults, the Doctor had a real affection for
the man to whom he had been bound by so many ties ever since the days when
at Kimberley they had worked side by side, building their fortunes and
their careers.
By a curious freak of destiny, when the tide of events connected with the
war had given to the Progressive English party a clear majority in the
Cape Parliament, Jameson assumed its leadership as a matter of course,
largely because he was the political next-of-kin to Rhodes. The fact that
at that time he lived at Groote Schuur added to his popularity, and he
continued whilst there the traditional hospitality displayed during the
lifetime of Rhodes. That he ultimately became Prime Minister was not
surprising; the office fell to his share as so many other good things had
fallen before; and, having obtained this supreme triumph and enjoyed it
for a time, he was tactful enough to retire at precisely the right moment.
The Raid indirectly killed Rhodes and directly obliterated his political
reputation. It lost him, too, the respect of all the men who could have
helped him to govern South Africa wisely and well. It deprived him of the
experience and popularity of Mr. Schreiner, Mr. Merriman, Mr. Sauer and
other members of the Afrikander Bond who had once been upon terms of
intimacy and affection with him.
It must never be forgotten that at one period of his history Rhodes was
considered to be the best friend of the Dutch party; and, secondly, that
he had been the first to criticise the action of the British Government in
regard to the Transvaal. At the very moment when the Raid was contemplated
he was making the most solemn assurances to his friends--as they then
believed themselves to be--that he would never tolerate any attack against
the independence of the Boers. If his advice had been taken, Rhodes
considered that the errors which culminated at Majuba with the defeat of
the British troops would have been avoided. He caused the same assurances
to be conveyed to President Kruger, and this duplicity, which in anyone
less compromised than he was in regard to the Dutch party might have been
blamed, was in his case considered as something akin to high treason, and
roused against him sentiments not only of hatred, but also of disgust.
When later on, at the time of the Boer War, Rhodes made attempts to
ingratiate himself once more into the favour of the Dutch he failed to
realise that while there are cases when animosity can give way before
political necessity, it is quite impossible in private to shake hands with
an individual whom one despises. And that such persons as Mrs. van Koopman
or Mr. Schreiner, for instance, despised Rhodes there can be no doubt.
They were wrong in doing so. Rhodes was essentially a man of moods, and
also an opportunist in his strange, blunt way. Had the Dutch rallied round
him during the last war it is certain that he would have given himself up
body and soul to the task of trying to smooth over the difficulties which
gave such an obstinate character to the war. He would have induced the
English Government to grant to all rebel colonists who returned to their
allegiance a generous pardon and reinstatement into their former rights.
Even while the war lasted it is a fact that, in a certain sense, Rhodes'
own party suspected him of betraying its interests. I feel almost sure
that Sir Alfred Milner did not trust him, but, nevertheless, he would have
liked Rhodes as a coadjutor. If the two men were never on sincerely
cordial terms with one another it was not the fault of the High
Commissioner, who, with that honesty of which he always and upon every
occasion gave proof, tried to secure the co-operation of the great South
African statesman in his difficult task. But Rhodes would not help Sir
Alfred. But neither, too, would he help the Dutch unless they were willing
to eat humble pie before him. In fact, it was this for which Rhodes had
been waiting ever since the Raid. He wanted people to ask his forgiveness
for the faults he himself had committed. He would have liked Sir Alfred
Milner to beg of him as a favour to take the direction of public affairs,
and he would have desired the whole of the Dutch party to come down _in
corpore_ to Groote Schuur, to implore him to become their leader and to
fight not only for them but also for the rights of President Kruger, whom
he professed to ridicule and despise, but to whom he had caused assurances
of sympathy to be conveyed.
During the first period of the war, and especially during the siege, Cecil
Rhodes was in Kimberley. He had gone with the secret hope that he might be
able from that centre to retain a stronger hold on South African politics
than could have been the case at Groote Schuur, in which region the only
authority recognised by English and Dutch alike was that of Sir Alfred
Milner. He waited for a sign telling him that his ambition was about to be
realised in some way or other--and waited in vain. It is indisputable that
whilst he was shut up in the Diamond City Rhodes entered into secret
negotiations with some of the Dutch leaders. This, though it might have
been construed in the sense of treason against his own Motherland had it
reached the knowledge of the extreme Jingo party, was in reality the
sincere effort of a true patriot to put an end to a struggle which was
threatening to destroy the prosperity of a country for which he had
laboured for so many years.
In judging Rhodes one must not forget that though a leading personality in
South Africa, and the chairman of a corporation which practically ruled
the whole of the Cape Colony and, in part, also the Transvaal, he was,
after all, at that time nothing but a private individual. He had the right
to put his personal influence at the service of the State and of his
country if he considered that by so doing he could bring to an end a war
which threatened to bring destruction on a land that was just beginning to
progress toward civilisation. It must be remembered that his was the only
great personality in South Africa capable of opposing President Kruger and
the other Dutch and Boer leaders. He was still popular among many
people--feared by some, worshipped by others. He could rally round him
many elements that would never coalesce with either Dutch or English
unless he provided the impetus of his authority and approval. If only he
had spoken frankly to the Boer leaders whom he had caused to be
approached, called them to his side instead of having messages conveyed to
them by people whom he could disavow later on and whom, in fact, he did
disavow; and if, on the other hand, Rhodes had placed himself at the
disposal of Sir Alfred Milner, and told him openly that he would try to
see what he could do to help him, the tenseness of the situation would
almost certainly have been eased.
In a position as intermediary between two adversaries who required his
advice and influence to smooth the way toward a settlement of the terrible
South African question Rhodes could have done incalculable service and
added lustre to his name. But he did not, and it is not without interest
to seek the reason why the Colossus was not courageous enough to embark
upon such a course. Whether through fear of his actions being wrongly
interpreted, or else because he did not feel sure of his ground and was
apprehensive lest he might be induced to walk into a trap, Cecil Rhodes
never would pronounce himself upon one side or the other. He left to
well-wishers the task of reconciliation between himself and his enemies,
or, if not that, at least the possibility for both once more to take
common action for the solution of South African difficulties. The
unfortunate side of the whole affair lay in the fact that the Boer and
Bond leaders each remained under the impression that in the Raid affair it
was against their particular body that Rhodes had sinned, that it was
their cause which he had betrayed. Accordingly they expected him to
recognise this fact and to tell them of his regret.
But this was not Rhodes' way: on the contrary, he looked to his
adversaries to consider that they had wronged him. Both parties adhered
firmly to their point of view; it was not an easy matter to persuade
either of them to take the initiative. Each very well knew and felt it was
an indispensable step, but each considered it should be taken by the
other.
This brings me to make a remark which probably has never yet found its way
into print, though some have spoken about it in South Africa. It is that
Cecil Rhodes, whilst being essentially an Empire Maker, was not an Empire
Ruler. His conceptions were far too vast to allow him to take into
consideration the smaller details of everyday life which, in the
management of the affairs of the world, obliges one to consider possible
ramifications of every great enterprise. Rhodes wanted simply to sweep
away all obstacles without giving the slightest thought to the
consequences likely to follow on so offhand a manner of getting rid of
difficulties.
In addition to this disregard of vital details, there was a tinge of
selfishness in everything which Rhodes undertook and which gave a personal
aspect to matters which ought to have been looked upon purely from the
objective. The acquisition of Rhodesia, for instance, was considered by
him as having been accomplished for the aggrandisement of the Empire and
also for his own benefit. He sincerely believed that he had had nothing
else in his mind when he founded the Chartered Company, than the desire to
conquer a new country and to give it to England; but he would certainly
have felt cruelly affronted if the British Government had ever taken its
administration into its own hands and not allowed Rhodes to do exactly
what he pleased there. He loved to go to Buluwayo, and would spend weeks
watching all that was being done in the way of agriculture and mining. In
particular, he showed considerable interest in the natives.
The Colonial Office in London was treated by Cecil Rhodes with the utmost
disdain on the rare occasions when it tried to put in a word concerning
the establishment of British rule in the territories which he gloried in
having presented to the Queen. It was sufficient to mention in his
presence the possibility of the Charter being recalled to put Rhodes into
a passion. No king or tyrant of old, indeed, treated his subjects with the
severity which Rhodes showed in regard to the different civil officials
and military defenders of the Rhodesia he loved so much and so unwisely.
It is curious that Rhodes never allowed speculation a free hand in
Rhodesia as he had done at Kimberley or at Johannesburg. He was most
careful that outsiders should not hear about what was going on, and took
endless precautions not to expose the companies that worked the old
dominions of poor King Lobengula, to the sharp criticism of the European
Stock Exchanges. Their shares remained in the hands of people on whose
discretion Rhodes believed that he could rely, and no one ever heard of
gambling in scrip exciting the minds of the inhabitants of Buluwayo or
Salisbury to anything like the degree stocks in Transvaal concerns did.
In Rhodesia Rhodes believed himself on his own ground and free from the
criticisms which he guessed were constantly uttered in regard to him and
to his conduct. In the new land which bore his name Rhodes was surrounded
only by dependants, whilst in Cape Colony he now and then came across
someone who would tell him and, what was worse, who would make him feel
that, after all, he was not the only man in the world, and that he could
not always have everything his own way. Moreover, in Cape Town there was
the Governor, whose personality was more important than his own, and whom,
whether he liked it or not, he had to take into consideration, and to
whom, in a certain sense, he had to submit. And in Kimberley there was the
De Beers Board which, though composed of men who were entirely in
dependence upon him and whose careers he had made, yet had to be
consulted. He could not entirely brush them aside, the less so that a
whole army of shareholders stood behind them who, from time to time, were
impudent enough to wish to see what was being done with their money.
Nothing in the way of hampering critics or circumscribing authorities
existed in Rhodesia. The Chartered Company, though administered by a
Board, was in reality left entirely in the hands and under the control of
Rhodes. Most of the directors were in England and came before public
notice only at the annual general meeting, which was always a success,
inasmuch as no one there had ever ventured to criticise, otherwise than in
a mild way, the work of the men who were supposed to watch over the
development of the resources of the country. Rhodes was master, and
probably his power would have even increased had he lived long enough to
see the completion of the Cape to Cairo Railway, which was his last hobby
and the absorbing interest of the closing years of his life.
The Cape to Cairo Railway was one of those vast schemes that can be
ascribed to the same quality in his character as that which made him so
essentially an Empire Maker. It was a project of world-wide importance,
and destined to set the seal to the paramount influence of Great Britain
over the whole of Africa. It was a work which, without Rhodes, would never
have been accomplished. He was right to feel proud of having conceived it;
and England, too, ought to be proud of having counted among her sons a man
capable of starting such a vast enterprise and of going on with it despite
the violent opposition and the many misgivings with which it was received
by the general public.
CHAPTER VII.
RHODES AND THE AFRIKANDER BOND
To return to the subject of the negotiations which undoubtedly took place
between Rhodes and the leaders of the Afrikander Bond during the war, I
must say that, so far as I know, they can rank among the most
disinterested actions of his life. For once there was no personal interest
or possible material gain connected with his desire to bring the Dutch
elements in South Africa to look upon the situation from the purely
patriotic point of view, as he did himself.
It would have been most certainly to the advantage of everybody if,
instead of persisting in a resistance which was bound to collapse, no
matter how successful it might appear to have been at its start, the
Boers, together with the Dutch Afrikanders, had sent the olive branch to
Cape Town. There would then have been some hope of compromise or of coming
to terms with England before being crushed by her armies. It would have
been favourable to English interests also had the great bitterness, which
rendered the war such a long and such a rabid one, not had time to spread
all over the country. Rhodes' intervention, which Sir Alfred Milner could
not have refused had he offered it, backed by the Boers on one side and by
the English Progressive party in the Colony on the other, might have
brought about great results and saved many lives.
No blame, therefore, ought to attach to Cecil Rhodes for wishing to
present the Boer side of the case. It would, indeed, have been wiser on
the part of Mr. Hofmeyr and other Bond leaders to have forgotten the past
and given a friendly hand to the one man capable of unravelling the
tangled skein of affairs.
At that period, whilst the siege of Kimberley was in progress, it is
certain that serious consideration was given to this question of common
action on the part of Rhodes and of the two men who practically held the
destinies of the Transvaal in their hands--de Wet and General Botha, with
Mr. Hofmeyr as representative of the Afrikander Bond at their back. Why it
failed would for ever remain a mystery if one did not remember that
everywhere in South Africa lurked hidden motives of self-interest which
interfered with the best intentions. The fruits of the seed of distrust
sown by the Raid were not easy to eradicate.
Perhaps if Mr. Rhodes had stood alone the attempt might have met with more
success than was actually the case. But it was felt by all the leading men
in the Transvaal that a peace concluded under his auspices would result in
the subjection of the Boers to the foreign and German-Jew millionaires.
This was the one thing they feared.
The Boers attributed to the millionaires of the Rand all the misfortunes
which had fallen upon them, and consequently the magnates were bitterly
hated by the Boers. And not without reason. No reasonable Boer would have
seriously objected to a union with England, provided it had been effected
under conditions assuring them autonomy and a certain independence. But no
one wanted to have liberty and fortune left at the mercy of adventurers,
even though some of them had risen to reputation and renown, obtained
titles, and bought their way into Society.
Unfortunately for him, Rhodes was supposed to represent the class of
people referred to, or, at any rate, to favour them. One thing is
certain--the great financial interests which Rhodes possessed in the Gold
Fields and other concerns of the same kind lent some credence to the idea.
All these circumstances prevented public opinion from expressing full
confidence in him, because no one could bring himself to believe what
nevertheless would have come true.
In the question of restoring peace to South Africa Rhodes most certainly
would never have taken anyone's advice; he would have acted according to
his own impulse, and more so because Doctor Jameson was not with him
during the whole time Kimberley was besieged. Unfortunately for all the
parties concerned, Rhodes let slip the opportunity to resume his former
friendship with Mr. Hofmeyr, the only man in South Africa whose
intelligence could measure itself with his own. And in the absence of this
first step from Rhodes, a false pride--which was wounded vanity more than
anything else--prevented the Bond from seeking the help of Rhodes. This
attitude on the part of each man would simply have been ridiculous under
ordinary circumstances, but at a time when such grave interests were at
stake, and when the future of so many people was liable to be compromised,
it became criminal.
In sharp contrast to it stood the conduct of Sir Alfred Milner, who was
never influenced by his personal feelings or by his vanity where the
interests of his country were engaged. During the few months which
preceded the war he was the object of virulent hatred on the part of most
of the white population of the Colony. When the first disillusions of the
war brought along with them their usual harvest of disappointments the
personality of the High Commissioner appeared at last in its true light,
and one began to realise that here was a man who possessed a singularly
clear view on matters of politics, and that all his actions were guided by
sound principles. His quiet determination not to allow himself to be
influenced by the gossip of Cape Town was also realised, and amid all the
spite shown it is to his honour that, instead of throwing up the sponge,
he persevered, until at last he succeeded in the aim which he had kept
before him from the day he had landed in Table Bay. He restored peace to
the dark continent where no one had welcomed him, but where everybody
mourned his departure when he bade it good-bye after the most anxious
years he had ever known.
When Sir Alfred accepted the post of Governor of the Cape Colony and
English High Commissioner in South Africa, he had intended to study most
carefully the local conditions of the new country whither fate and his
duty were sending him, and then, after having gained the necessary
experience capable of guiding him in the different steps he aspired to
take, to proceed to the formidable task he had set for himself. His great
object was to bring about a reconciliation between the two great political
parties in the Colony--the South African League, with Rhodes as President,
and the Afrikander Bond, headed by Messrs. Hofmeyr (the one most in
popular favour with the Boer farmers), Sauer and Schreiner.
In the gigantic task of welding together two materials which possessed
little affinity and no love for each other, Sir Alfred was unable to be
guided by his experience in the Motherland. In England a certain
constitutional policy was the basis of every party. At the Cape the
dominating factors were personal feelings, personal hatreds and
affections, while in the case of the League it was money and money alone.
I do not mean that every member of the League had been bought by De Beers
or the Chartered Company; but what I do maintain is that the majority of
its members had some financial or material reason to enrol themselves.
In judging the politics of South Africa at the period of which I am
writing, one must not forget that the greater number of those who then
constituted the so-called Progressive party were men who had travelled to
the Cape through love of adventure and the desire to enrich themselves
quickly. It was only the first comers who had seen their hopes realised.
Those who came after them found things far more difficult, and had
perforce to make the best of what their predecessors left. On the other
hand, it was relatively easy for them to find employment in the service of
one or the other of the big companies that sprang up, and by whom most of
the mining and industrial concerns were owned.
[Illustration: THE HON. J.H. HOFMEYR]
When the influence of the De Beers increased after its amalgamation with
the other diamond companies around Kimberley, and when Rhodes made up his
mind that only a political career could help him to achieve his vast
plans, he struck upon the thought of using the money and the influence
which were at his disposal to transform De Beers into one of the most
formidable political instruments the world had ever seen. He succeeded in
doing so in what would have been a wonderful manner if one did not
remember the crowd of fortune-seeking men who were continually landing in
South Africa. These soon found that it would advantage them to enrol under
Rhodes' banner, for he was no ordinary millionaire. Here stood a man who
was perpetually discovering new treasures, annexing new continents, and
who had always at his disposal profitable posts to scatter among his
followers.
The reflex action upon Rhodes was that unconsciously he drifted into the
conviction that every man could be bought, provided one knew what it was
he wanted. He understood perfectly well the art of speculating in his
neighbours' weaknesses, and thus liked to invite certain people to make
long stays at his house, not because he liked them, but because he knew,
if they did not, that they would soon discover that the mere fact of being
the guest of Mr. Rhodes procured for them the reputation of being in his
confidence. Being a guest at Groote Schuur endowed a man with a prestige
such as no one who has not lived in South Africa can realise, and,
furthermore, enabled him to catch here and there scraps of news respecting
the money markets of the world, a proper understanding and use of which
could be of considerable financial value. A cup of tea at Groote Schuur
was sufficient to bring about more than one political conversion.
Once started the South African League soon became a power in the land, not
so strong by any means as the Afrikander Bond, but far more influential in
official, and especially in financial, circles. Created for the apparent
aim of supporting British government in Cape Colony, it found itself
almost from the very first in conflict with it, if not outwardly, at least
tacitly. After his rupture with the Bond consequent upon the Raid, Rhodes
brought considerable energy to bear upon the development of the League. He
caused it to exercise all over the Colony an occult power which more than
once defied constituted authority, and proved a source of embarrassment to
British representatives with greater frequency than they would have cared
to own. Sir Alfred Milner, so far as I have been able to see, when taking
the reins, had not reckoned upon meeting with this kind of government
within a government, and in doing so perhaps did not appreciate its
extent. But from the earliest days of his administration it confronted
him, at first timidly, afterwards with persistence, and at last with such
insolence that he found himself compelled to see what he could do to
reduce to impotence this organisation which sought to devour him.
The problem which a situation of the character described thrust upon Sir
Alfred was easier to discuss than to solve. The League was a power so wide
that it was almost impossible to get rid of its influence in the country.
It was controlled by Rhodes, by De Beers, by the Chartered Company, by the
members in both Houses who were affiliated to it, by all the great
financial establishments throughout South Africa--with but a solitary
exception--by the principal industrial and agricultural enterprises in the
country. It comprised political men, landowners, doctors, merchants,
ship-owners, practically all the colonists in Rhodesia, and most of the
English residents of the Transvaal. It controlled elections, secured
votes, disposed of important posts, and when it advised the Governor the
Legislature had to take its remarks into consideration whether or not it
approved of them. Under the regime of the days when the League was formed
it had been able to develop itself with great facility, the dangers which
lurked behind its encroachment on the privileges of the Crown not being
suspected. But Sir Alfred Milner discovered the menace at once, and with
the quiet firmness and the tact which he always displayed in everything
that he undertook proceeded to cope with the organisation.
Sir Alfred soon found himself confronted by the irritation of Rhodes, who
had relied on his support for the schemes which he had nursed in regard to
the Transvaal. I must here explain the reason why Rhodes had thrown his
glances toward the Rand. One must remember the peculiar conditions in
which he was placed in being always surrounded by creatures whom he could
only keep attached to his person and to his ambition by satisfying their
greed for gold. When he had annexed Matabeleland it had been principally
in the expectation that one would find there the rich gold-bearing strata
said to exist in that region. Unfortunately, this hope proved a fallacious
one. Although thousands of pounds were spent in sinking and research, the
results obtained were of so insignificant a nature, and the quantity of
ore extracted so entirely insufficient to justify systematic exploitation,
that the adventurers had perforce to turn their attention toward other
fields.
It was after this disillusion that the idea took hold of Rhodes, which he
communicated to his friends, to acquire the gold fields of the Rand, and
to transform the rich Transvaal into a region where the Chartered Company
and the South African League would rule. Previous to this, if we are to
believe President Kruger, Rhodes had tried to conclude an alliance with
him, and once, upon his return from Beira to Cape Town, had stopped at
Pretoria, where he paid a visit to the old Boer statesman.
It is quite likely that on this occasion Rhodes put in a word suggesting
that it would be an advantage to the Transvaal to become possessed of an
outlet on the sea-board, but I hardly think that Kruger wrote the truth in
his memoirs in stating that when mentioning Delagoa Bay Rhodes used the
words, "We must simply take it," thus associating himself with Kruger.
Cecil Rhodes was far too cute to do any such tiling, knowing that it would
be interpreted in a sense inimical to his plans. But I should not be
surprised if, when the President remarked that Delagoa was Portuguese, he
had replied, "It does not matter, and you must simply take it." This would
have been far more to the point, as it would have hinted to those who knew
how to read between the lines that England, which Rhodes was persuaded was
incarnated in himself, would not mind if the Transvaal did lay hands on
Delagoa Bay. Such an act would furnish the British Government with a
pretext for dabbling to some effect in the affairs of the Transvaal
Republic.
Such a move as this would have been just one of these things which Rhodes
was fond of doing. He felt sometimes a kind of malicious pleasure in
whispering to others the very things likely to get them into trouble
should they be so foolish as to do them. In the case of President Kruger,
however, he had to deal with a mind which, though uncouth, yet possessed
all the "slimness" of which so many examples are to be found in South
Africa.
Kruger wrote, "Rhodes represented capital, no matter how base and
contemptible, and whether by lying, bribery or treachery, all and every
means were welcome to him if they led to the attainment of his ambitious
desires." But Oom Paul was absolutely wrong in thinking that it was the
personage he was thus describing who practised all these abominations. He
ought to have remembered that it was his name only which was associated
with all these basenesses, and the man himself, if left to his better
self, would never have condescended to the many acts of doubtful morality
with which his memory will remain associated in history.
I am firmly convinced that on his own impulse he would never, for
instance, have ventured on the Raid. But, unhappily, his habit, when
something "not quite" was mentioned to him, was to say nothing and to
trust to his good luck to avoid unpleasant consequences arising out of his
silence. Had he ventured to oppose the plans of his confederates they
would have immediately turned upon him, and ... There were, perhaps, past
facts which he did not wish the world to remember. His frequent fits of
raging temper arose from this irksome feeling, and was his way--a futile
way--of revenging himself on his jailors for the durance in which they
kept him. The man who believed himself to be omnipotent in South Africa,
and who was considered so powerful by the world at large, was in reality
in the hands of the very organisations he had helped to build.
It was not Cecil John Rhodes' will which was paramount in the South
African League. Kruger spoke absolutely the truth when he asserted that it
was essential "to know something about the Chartered Company before it was
possible to realise the true perspective of the history of South Africa
during the closing years of the last century." Another of Kruger's
sweeping assertions--and one which he never backed by anything
tangible--was when he further wrote that Rhodes was "one of the most
unscrupulous characters that ever existed, whose motto was 'the end
justifies the means,' a motto that contains a creed which represents the
whole man." Rhodes by nature was not half so unscrupulous as Kruger
himself, but he was surrounded by unscrupulous people, whom he was too
indolent to repulse. He was constantly paying the price of his former
faults and errors in allowing his name to serve as a shield for the
ambitions of those who were in no way worthy of him and who constantly
abused his confidence.
The habit became ingrained in the nature of Cecil Rhodes of always doing
what he chose without regard to the feelings and sentiments of others. It
persisted during the whole of the war, and would probably have proved a
serious impediment to the conclusion of peace had he lived until it became
accomplished. This characteristic led him, after all his intrigues with
the Dutch party and the Bond, to throw himself once more into the arms of
the English Progressive party and to start a campaign of his own against
the rebel Colonials and the Dutch inhabitants of the Transvaal.
While the siege of Kimberley lasted, even while he was seeking to become
reconciled to the British element, Rhodes asserted himself in a strongly
offensive manner. He sent to Sir Alfred Milner in Cape Town reports of his
own as to the military authorities and dispositions, couched in such
alarming tones that the High Commissioner became most uneasy concerning
the possible fate of the Diamond City. These reports accused the officers
in charge of the town of failing in the performance of their duties, and
showing symptoms of abject fear in regard to the besieging Boer army. It
was only after an explanation from Sir Redvers Buller, and after the
latter had communicated to him the letters which he himself had received
from Colonel Kekewich, the commander of the troops to whom had been
entrusted the defence of Kimberley, that Sir Alfred was reassured.
The fact was that Rhodes became very impatient to find that his movements
were watched by the military authorities, and that sometimes even the
orders which he gave for what he considered the greater security of the
town, and gave with the superb assurance which distinguished him, were
cancelled by the responsible officials. Disgraceful scenes followed.
Rhodes was accused of wishing to come to an arrangement with Cronje, who
was in charge of the besieging troops, in order to bring the war to an end
by his own efforts.
I never have been able to ascertain how much of real truth, if any, was in
the various accusations made against Cecil Rhodes by the English General
Officers, but they were embodied in the message which was alleged to have
been flashed across to Kimberley after the battle of Modder River by Lord
Methuen, but which was supposed by those whom it concerned to have been
inspired by the Commander-in-Chief:
"Tell Mr. Rhodes," the heliograph ran, "that on my entry into Kimberley he
and his friends must take their immediate departure."
Two years later, in November, 1902, Sir Redvers Buller, when speaking at
the annual dinner of the Devonians in London, remarked that he must
protest against the rumours which, during the siege of Kimberley, had been
spread by some of its residents that the Imperial authorities had been in
a perpetual state of "funk." The allusion was understood to refer to Mr.
Rhodes by his partisans, who protested against the speech. Rhodes, indeed,
during his whole life was never in greater disfavour with the English
Government than after the siege of Kimberley; perhaps because he had
always accused Whitehall of not understanding the real state of things in
South Africa. The result of that imperative telegram, and Rhodes' belief
as to its source, was bitter hatred against Sir Redvers Buller. It soon
found expression in vindictive attacks by the whole Rhodesian Press
against the strategy, the abilities, and even the personal honesty of Sir
Redvers Buller.
Whether Rhodes, upon his arrival in London, attempted to hurt the General
I do not know, but it could be always taken for granted that Rhodes could
be a very bad enemy when he chose.
Upon his return to Groote Schuur he seemed more dissatisfied than ever
with the Home Government. He was loud in his denunciations and unceasing
in his criticisms. Sir Alfred, however, like the wise man he was,
preferred to ignore these pinpricks, and invariably treated Rhodes with
the utmost courtesy and attention. He always showed himself glad to listen
to Rhodes and to discuss with him points which the Colossus thought it
worth while to talk over. At that time Rhodes was in the most equivocal
position he had ever been in his life. He could not return to Kimberley;
he did not care to go to Rhodesia; and in Cape Colony he was always
restive.
At this period all kinds of discussions used to take place concerning the
ultimate results of the war and the influence which it would have on the
future development of affairs in the Transvaal. The financiers began to
realise that after the British flag had once been raised at Pretoria they
would not have such a good time of it as they had hoped at first, and now,
having done their best to hurry on the war, regretted it more than anybody
else. The fact was that everybody in South Africa, with the exception of
the Boers themselves, who knew very well their own resources, had believed
that the war would be over in three months, and that the Transvaal would
be transferred into a Crown Colony where adventurers and gold-seekers
would have a fine time.
Rhodes himself had more than once expressed his conviction that the
destruction of the Boers would not take more than three months at the
most, and this assurance was accepted as gospel by most of the financiers
of Johannesburg. An exception was Mr. F. Eckstein, the general manager and
partner in the concern of Wernher, Beit & Co., and one of the ablest
financiers in that city. From the first he was quite pessimistic in regard
to the length of time the war would take.
As the war dragged on without there seeming any chance of its being
brought to a rapid conclusion, it became evident that England, after all
the sacrifices which she was making, would never consent to leave the
leaders of the movement--the ostensible object of which had been to grant
to the Uitlanders certain privileges to which they had no right--as sole
and absolute masters of the situation. In fact, the difficulties of the
war made it evident that, once peace was proclaimed, public opinion at
home would demand that the Transvaal, together with the Orange Free State,
should be annexed to the British Empire in view of a future federation of
the whole of South Africa, about which the English Press was already
beginning to speak.
That South Africa should not remain a sphere of exploitation sent shivers
down the spines of the financiers. The South African League was observed
to become quite active in discovering rebels. Their zeal in this direction
was felt all over Cape Colony. Their aim was to reduce the register in
order to bring about a considerable falling off of voters for the
Afrikander Bond, and thereby substantially influence the results of the
next election to the Cape Parliament.
At this period certain overtures were made once again to the Bond party.
They proceeded apparently from men supposed to act on their own
initiative, but who were known to be in favour at Groote Schuur. These
advances met with no response, but when the rumour that they had been made
spread among the public owing to an indiscretion, Rhodes hastened to deny
that he had been a party to the plan--as was his wont when he failed to
achieve. All the same, it is a fact that members of the House of Assembly
belonging to the Afrikander party visited Groote Schuur in the course of
that last winter which Rhodes spent there, and were warmly welcomed.
Rhodes showed himself unusually gracious. He hoped these forerunners would
rally his former friends to his side once more. But Rhodes was expecting
too much, considering ail the circumstances. Faithful to his usual
tactics, even whilst his Afrikander guests were being persuaded to lend
themselves to an intrigue from which they had hoped to win something,
Rhodes was making himself responsible for another step likely to render
the always strong hatred even more acute than ever. More than that, he was
advocating, through certain underground channels, the suspension of the
Constitution in Cape Colony.
[Illustration: THE RT. HON. SIR W.F. HELY-HUTCHINSON]
The particulars of this incident were only disclosed after the war was
over. The whole thing was thrashed out in Parliament and its details
communicated to the public by Mr. David de Waal, one of the truest friends
Mr. Rhodes ever had. The discussion took place after Sir Alfred Milner had
been transferred to Johannesburg and Sir Walter Hely-Hutchinson had taken
his place in Cape Town. The South African League had become more active
than ever, and was using all its influence to secure a majority for its
members at the next general election. The Bond, on its side, had numerous
adherents up country, and the stout Dutch farmers had remained faithful to
their old allegiance, so there was no hope that they would be induced,
even through the influence of money, to give their votes to the
Progressives. The only things which remained were: a redistribution of
seats, then a clearing out of the register, and, lastly, a suspension of
the Constitution, which would have allowed the Governor a "free" hand in
placing certain measures on the statute book. The most influential members
among the executive of the South African League met at Cotswold Chambers,
and Rhodes, who was present, drew up a petition which was to be presented
to the Prime Minister. Sir Gordon Sprigg, who filled that office, was a
man who, with all his defects, was absolutely incapable of lending himself
to any mean trick in order to remain in power. When Sir Gordon became
acquainted with the demands of the League he refused absolutely to take a
part in what he maintained would have been an everlasting blot on the
reputation of the Government.
After Rhodes' death, when the question of the suspension of the
Constitution was raised by the Progressives in the House of Assembly, it
was discussed in all its details, and it was proved that the South African
League, in trying throughout the country to obtain signatures to a monster
petition on the matter, had resorted to some more than singular means to
obtain these signatures. Mr. Sauer, who was the leader of the Bond party
in the Chamber, revealed how the League had employed agents to induce
women and sometimes young children to sign the petition, and that at the
camp near Sea Point, a suburb of Cape Town, where soldiers were stationed
previous to their departure for England, these same agents were engaged in
getting them to sign it before they left under the inducement of a fixed
salary up to a certain amount and a large percentage after it had been
exceeded, according to the number of the names obtained in this way. When
trustworthy people of unimpeachable character wrote to the papers
denouncing this manoeuvre the subsidised papers in Cape Town, and the
Rhodesian Press, refused to publish the affidavits sworn on the subject,
but wrote columns of calumnies about the Dutch Colonials, and, as a
finishing stroke, clamoured for the suspension of the Constitution.
The speech of Mr. Sauer gave rise to a heated debate, during which the
Progressive members indignantly denied his assertions. Then stepped in Mr.
David de Waal, that friend of Rhodes to whom I have already referred. He
rose to bring his testimony to the facts revealed by Mr. Sauer, who was
undoubtedly the most able leader which the Afrikander party possessed,
with the exception, perhaps, of Mr. Merriman.
"In February, 1902," he said, "there was a meeting in Cotswold Chambers
consisting of the twenty-two members of the House of Assembly who went by
the name of 'Rhodes' group.' It was at first discussed and ultimately
decided to wait on the Prime Minister and to interview him concerning the
expenditure of the war, which had reached the sum of £200,000 monthly.
Then, after some further discussion, we came to the conclusion to meet
once more. This was done on February 17th. You must remember that war was
still raging at the time. At this second meeting it was agreed to
formulate a scheme to be submitted to the Government which proposed the
suspension of the Constitution in regard to five clauses. The first was to
be this very suspension, then a new registration of voters, a
redistribution of seats, the indemnity to be awarded to the faithful
English Colonials, and, finally, the reestablishment of the Constitution.
As to this last I must make a statement, and that is, that if I had known
that it was meant to withdraw the Constitution for more than one month I
would have objected to it, but I was told that it would be only a matter
of a few days."
At this point Mr. de Waal was interrupted by a Progressive member, who
exclaimed that Dr. Jameson had denied that such a thing had ever been said
or mentioned.
"I know he has done so," replied Mr. de Waal, "but I will make a
declaration on my oath. A committee was then appointed," he went on,
"which waited on the Prime Minister and presented to him this very same
petition. Sir Gordon Sprigg, however, said that he would not be ruled by
anyone, because they had a responsible Government. The Committee reported,
when it returned, that the Prime Minister was opposed to any movement
started on the basis of the petition which they had presented to him, and
that he would not move an inch from his declaration, saying energetically,
'Never! I shall never do it!' Sir Gordon Sprigg had further pointed out
that the result of such a step would be that the Cape would become a Crown
Colony and would find itself in the same position as Rhodesia."
Perhaps this was what Rhodes and the South African League had wished, but
the publication of the details connected with this incident, especially
proceeding from a man who had never made a secret of the ties which had
bound him to Rhodes, and who, among the latter's Dutch friends, had been
the only one who had never failed him, drove the first nail into the
coffin of Rhodesian politics.
It was common knowledge that de Waal had steadfastly stood by Rhodes even
during the terrible time of the Raid. Moreover, he was a man of high
integrity, who alone among those who had attached themselves to the
destinies of the Empire Maker had never taken part in the financial
schemes of a doubtful nature which marked the wonderful career of Rhodes.
This declaration opened the eyes of many persons who, to that day, had
denied the political intrigues which had been going on at Cotswold
Chambers. Afterwards it became relatively easy for Sir Alfred Milner to
clear the atmosphere in South Africa and to establish public life on
sounder principles than the pure love of gain. It cannot be sufficiently
regretted that he should not have done so before Rhodes' death and thus
have given Rhodes--and, incidentally, the country for which Rhodes had
done so much in the way of material development--the opportunity to shake
off his parasites and become a real factor in solidifying the great area
in which he was such an outstanding personality.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE INFLUENCE OF SIR ALFRED MILNER
The occult power exercised by the League on the inner politics of South
Africa could not fail to impress Sir Alfred Milner most unpleasantly.
Frank himself, it must have often been absolutely repulsive to him to have
to do with people whom he feared to trust and who believed that they could
bring into political life the laxities of the mining camp. Though not
aware of it, even before he landed in Cape Town the Progressives had made
up their minds to represent him as determined to sweep the Dutch off the
face of the earth.
Believing Sir Alfred to be the confederate of Rhodes, the Boers, too,
would have nothing to do with him. Whilst the Bloemfontein Conference was
going on President Kruger, as well as the leaders of the Afrikander Bond,
were overwhelmed with covert warnings to distrust the High Commissioner.
Whence they emanated is not a matter of much doubt. Sir Alfred was accused
of wanting to lay a trap for the Boer plenipotentiaries, who were told to
beware of him as an accomplice of Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, whose very name
produced at Pretoria the same effect as a red rag upon a bull. Under these
circumstances the Conference was bound to fail, and the High Commissioner
returned to Cape Town, very decidedly a sadder and most certainly a wiser
man.
Now that years have passed since the Boer War it is possible to secure a
better perspective, in the light of which one can question whether it
would have been possible to avoid the conflict by an arrangement of some
kind with the Boer Republics, Personally, I believe that an understanding
was not out of the question if the strong financial interests had not
opposed its accomplishment; but at the same time a patched up affair would
not have been a happy event for either South Africa or for England. It
would have left matters in almost the same condition as they had been
before, and the millionaires, who were the real masters on the Rand, would
have found a dozen pretexts to provoke a new quarrel with the Transvaal
Government. Had the Boer Executive attempted to do away with the power of
the concerns which ruled the gold mines and diamond fields, it would have
courted a resistance with which it would have been next to impossible to
deal. The war would still have taken place, but it might have occurred at
a far less favourable moment. No arrangement with President Kruger, even
one most propitious to British interests, could have done away with the
corruption and the bribery which, from the first moment of the discovery
of the gold fields, invaded that portion of South Africa, and this
corruption would always have stood in the way of the establishment of the
South African Union.
Sir Alfred Milner knew all this very well, and probably had an inward
conviction, notwithstanding his efforts to prevent the war, that a
conflict was the only means of breaking these chains of gold which
shackled the wheels of progress. At so critical a time the support of
Rhodes and his party would have been invaluable. And Sir Alfred would have
welcomed it. Cecil Rhodes, of course, had declared himself officially in
accord with the High Commissioner, and even praised him to a degree of
fulsomeness. But the ulterior motive was simply to excite the Dutch party
against him. The reputation of Sir Alfred Milner as a statesman and as a
politician was constantly challenged by the very people who ought to have
defended it. Rhodes himself had been persuaded that the Governor harboured
the most sinister designs against his person. The innuendo was one of the
most heinous untruths ever invented by his crowd of sycophants.
An opportunity came my way, by which I was able to convince myself how
false was the belief nourished by Rhodes against Milner. During the course
of a conversation with Sir Alfred, I boldly asked him whether he was
really such an enemy of Rhodes as represented. I was surprised by the
moderate tone in which he replied to my, after all, impertinent question.
The remarks which we then exchanged filled me with the greatest admiration
for the man who so nobly, and so worthily, upheld British prestige in
South Africa under the most trying circumstances. Milner was an entirely
honest man--the rarest thing in the whole of Cape Town at that anxious
period--and after one had had the advantage of discussing with him the
political situation, one could only be filled with profound respect for
him and for his opinions, actions and conduct. Far from working against
Rhodes, as Sir Alfred had been represented to me as doing, I convinced
myself that he was keenly anxious to be on good and, what is more
important, on sincere terms with him. Sir Alfred had not the slightest
feeling of animosity against the Dutch. On the contrary, he would have
liked them to become persuaded of his desire to protect them against
possible aggression by the Jingoes, whose offensive conduct none more than
himself assessed at its true value.
But what was the real situation? He found his every action misconstrued;
whatever he did was interpreted in a wrong sense, and those who should
have shared his aims were plotting against him. The position was truly
tragic from whatever side it was viewed, and a weaker or less honest man
would assuredly have given up the struggle.
A few days after my conversation with Sir Alfred Milner, which took place
during the course of a dinner at Government House, I took opportunity to
mention it to Rhodes. I tried to clear his mind of the suspicions that I
knew he entertained in regard to the High Commissioner. Cecil Rhodes
listened to me with attention, then asked me in that sarcastic tone of
his, which was so intensely disagreeable and offensive, whether I was in
love with Sir Alfred, as I had so suddenly become his champion. Then he
ended, "You are trying to make me believe the impossible." I did not allow
him, however, to ruffle me, as evidently was his desire, but replied that
when one came to know better those whom one had only met occasionally,
without ever having talked with them seriously, it was natural to amend
one's opinion accordingly. I told him, too, that my earlier
misapprehension had been intensified by a certain lady who posed as
Rhodes' greatest friend, and who had been loud in her denunciations of the
High Commissioner, long before I had ever met him. But now, I added, I had
come to the conclusion that Sir Alfred had been terribly maligned.
At this point Rhodes interrupted me with the remark: "So you think that he
is a paragon. Well, I won't contradict you, and, besides, you know that I
have always defended him; but still, with all his virtues, he has not yet
found out what he ought to do with me."
"What can one do with you, Mr. Rhodes?" I asked with a smile.
"Leave me alone," was the characteristic reply, in a tone which was
sufficient for me to follow the advice, as it meant that the man was
getting restive and might at any moment break out into one of those fits
of rage which he so often used as a means to bring to an end a
conversation in which he felt that he might not come out as victor.
A few days later a rabid Rhodesian who happened to be staying at Groote
Schuur approached me. "You have been trying to convert Mr. Rhodes to Sir
Alfred," he remarked.
"I have done nothing of the kind," I said. "I am not a preacher, but I
have been telling Mr. Rhodes that he was mistaken if he thought that he
had an enemy in the High Commissioner."
"Had you any reason to suppose that he considered him one?" was the
unexpected question.
"Well, from what I have seen it seemed to me that you have all been doing
your best to persuade him that such was the case," I retorted, "and why
you should have done so passes my comprehension."
The conversation dropped, but the incident confirmed me in my opinion that
strong forces were at work to sow enmity between Rhodes and Sir Alfred
Milner for fear the influence of the High Commissioner might bring Rhodes
to look at things differently. As things stood at the moment, Rhodes was
persuaded that the High Commissioner hated him, was jealous of him, wanted
him out of his path, and never meant to allow him under any circumstances
whatever to have any say in the settlement of South African affairs. This
conviction, which was carefully nourished from the outside, evoked in his
mind an absurd and silly rage to which no man of common sense, unblinded
by vanity, could have fallen victim. I would not be so foolish as to deny
to the famous Life Governor of De Beers either abundant common sense or
outstanding intelligence, but here was a man gifted with genius who, under
the impulse of passion, could act and speak like a child.
Rhodes looked upon the High Commissioner as a nuisance unfortunately not
to be set aside. What exasperated him, especially in regard to the High
Commissioner, was the fact that he knew quite well that Sir Alfred Milner
could assume the responsibility for concluding peace when that time
arrived. Rhodes always hoped that his personal influence on the English,
as well as among the Bond party, would enable him to persuade the leaders
of the rebel movement in Cape Colony to lay down their arms and to leave
their interests in his hands. Should such a thing have happened, Rhodes
thought that such a success as this would efface the bad impression left
by the Raid. He grudgingly admitted that that wild adventure had not
pleased people, but he always refused to acknowledge that it was the one
great and unredeemable mistake of his life. I remember once having quoted
to him the old French motto which in the Middle Ages was the creed of
every true knight:
"Mon âme à Dieu,
Mon bras au roi,
Mon coeur aux dames,
L'honneur à moi!"
"Ah, yes! In those times one could still think about such things," he
simply remarked, which proved to me that he had no comprehension of the
real sense of the beautiful words. The higher attributes of mind did not
trouble him either in the hours of his greatest triumphs or in the moments
when Fortune ceased to smile upon him. He thought he had something far
better: ambition, love of domination, the desire to eclipse everybody and
everything around him. I do not mention money, because Rhodes did not care
for money intrinsically.
Yet the man was great in spite of all his defects. Particularly in the
rein he gave to his thoughts during nights spent in the solitude of the
karroo, when the stars were almost the only things which he could look
upon, their immensity the only companion worthy of himself. One could
almost believe Cecil Rhodes was possessed of a dual personality. At one
moment he lived in the skies in regard to his own future prospects and the
great deeds he wished to perform, about which he never ceased to think.
The next he was on this earth, dabbling in the meannesses of humanity,
taking a vicious pleasure in noticing the evil about him and too
frequently succeeding, somehow, in wounding the feelings of those who
liked him best, and then wondering how it happened that he had so few
friends.
On account of these characteristics, notwithstanding all his wonderful
faculties, Cecil Rhodes will never remain an historical figure like the
Count of Egmont during the Revolt of the Netherlands, or Mirabeau at the
time of the French Revolution. Undoubtedly he achieved great things, but
nothing truly beautiful. I do not think that even the warmest of his
admirers can ever say that the organising and amalgamation of De Beers or
the conquest of Matabeleland had anything beautiful about them. Still,
they were triumphs which no one except himself could have achieved. He
undoubtedly erected an edifice the like of which had never been seen in
modern times, and he opened to the ambitions and to the greed of the world
new prospects, new sources of riches, which caused very many to look upon
him as truly the god of material success.
Rhodes can be said to have revolutionised Society by bringing to the
social horizon people who, but for the riches he placed within reach of
their grasping fingers, would never have been able to emerge from their
uncultured obscurity.
People have said to me, "How generous was Rhodes!" Yes, but always with a
shade of disdain in the giving which hurt the recipients of his charity.
One of the legends in the Cape is that half those whom Rhodes helped had
been his victims at one time or the other.
It was no wonder that Cecil Rhodes was an embittered man when one reflects
how many curses must have been showered upon his head. The conquest of
Matabeleland had not gone by without evoking terrible enmities; and the
amalgamation of De Beers, in consequence of which so many people who had
spent thousands of pounds in acquiring plots of ground where they had
hoped to find diamonds, and who had later to part from them for a mere
song, were among the things never forgiven him by those whom the
speculations had ruined. Later on came the famous Bill which he caused to
be adopted in both Houses of Legislature concerning the illicit buying of
diamonds, the I.D.B. Act.
The I.D.B. enactment destroyed one of the fundamental principles in
British legislature which always supposes a man to be innocent until he
has been proved guilty. It practically put the whole of Cape Colony under
the thumb of De Beers. The statute was not wisely framed. It could be
invoked to remove persons whose presence in Kimberley was inconvenient.
Therefore the I.D.B. Act drew on the head of Rhodes and of his colleagues
torrents of abuse. It is, unfortunately, certain that cases happened where
diamonds were hidden surreptitiously among the effects of certain persons
who had had the imprudence to say too loudly that they meant to expose the
state of things existing in Kimberley; and in consequence innocent men
were sentenced to long terms of imprisonment.
I heard one story in particular which, if true, throws a terrible light on
the state of affairs in the Diamond City. A young man of good connections,
who had arrived from England to seek his fortune in South Africa, was
engaged in Kimberley at a small salary by one of the big diamond mining
concerns. After about three or four months' sojourn he felt so disgusted
that he declared quite loudly that as soon as he could put by sufficient
money to pay his passage back to Europe he would do so, there to make it
the business of his life to enlighten his compatriots as to what was going
on in South Africa. He threatened, too, to warn his countrymen against
those who used to deluge England with prospectuses praising, in exalted
terms, the wonderful state of things existing in South Africa and dilating
upon the future prospects of Cape Colony. Old residents warned him he
would do better to restrain his wrath until he was out of reach of
interested parties; he did not listen to them, with the result that one
morning detectives appeared in the house where he lodged, searched his
room, and--found some diamonds hidden in a flower pot of geraniums which
was standing in his window and which the daughter of his landlady had
given him that very morning. No protestations of the unhappy young fellow
availed him. He was taken to Cape Town and condemned to seven years'
imprisonment, the end of which he did not live to see, as he died a few
months after he had been sentenced.
The story was freely current in South Africa; and, true or not, it is
unquestionable that a large number of persons suffered in consequence of
the I.D.B. Act, no more serious proofs being offered that they had taken
or concealed diamonds than the fact that the stones had been found in
unlikely places in their rooms. Books without number have been written
about the I.D.B. Act, a great number evidently evincing hatred or revenge
against Mr. Rhodes and his lieutenants.
The famous De Beers Company acquired a position of overwhelming strength
in the social, economical and political life of South Africa, where
practically it secured control of everything connected with finance and
industry. De Beers built cold storage rooms, a dynamite factory, ice
houses, interested itself in agriculture, fruit-growing, farming and
cattle-breeding all over the Colony. It managed to acquire shares in all
the new mining enterprises whether in the Transvaal or in Rhodesia.
Politically it controlled the elections, and there were certain districts
in the Cape Colony where no candidate unsupported by De Beers could hope
to be elected to a seat in Parliament. The company had its own police,
while its secret service was one of the most remarkable in the world,
having among its archives a record of the private opinions of all the
people enjoying any kind of eminence in the country. In presence of De
Beers the Governor himself was overshadowed; indeed, I do not think that
if the Home Government had tried to oppose the organisation it would have
had much chance of coming out on top.
Sir Alfred Milner was the first man who saw that it would be impossible
for England to have the last word in South Africa unless those who, both
in Cape Colony and in the Transvaal, were the real masters of the
situation were broken, and financial concerns persuaded to occupy
themselves solely with financial matters. Though Sir Alfred was wise
enough, and prudent enough, not to allow his feelings on the subject to
become public property, Rhodes was shrewd enough to guess that he would
encounter a resolute adversary in the person of the High Commissioner.
Perhaps had he kept his suspicions to himself instead of communicating
them to others he might have been persuaded in time to recognise that
there was a great deal in the opinions which Sir Alfred held as to the
participation of financial organisations in political matters. If only
each could have had a chance for a frank understanding, probably Milner
would not have objected to Rhodes continuing to control the vast machine
into which the diamond mines amalgamation had grown, so long as it
confined its operations to commerce.
If Government is exercised by a single person it is possible for it to
possess the elements of justice and equity, and to be carried out with few
mistakes of such gravity as would compromise the whole system. But,
unfortunately, the South African autocracy meant an army of small
autocrats, and it was they who compromised Rhodes and then sheltered
themselves behind his gigantic personality from the unpopularity and
detestation which their actions aroused in the whole of South Africa.
I feel personally convinced that if, during the period which immediately
followed upon the relief of Kimberley and of Lady smith, Rhodes had
approached Sir Alfred and frankly told him that he wanted to try his luck
with the Dutch party, and to see whether his former friends and colleagues
of the Afrikander Bond could not be induced to listen to reason, the High
Commissioner would have been only too glad to meet him and to explain his
views on the whole question. Instead of doing so, Rhodes, carried away as
he always was by this everlasting desire to be the first everywhere, did
not even give a thought to the wisdom of confiding to anyone the efforts
which he undoubtedly made to induce the Bond leaders to trust him again.
There was a moment when things got very near to an understanding between
Rhodes and Sir Alfred. This was when Mr. Sauer himself entertained the
thought of letting Rhodes sway the future by making with the English
Government conditions of a peace which would not wound to the quick the
feelings of the Dutch part of the population of the Colony.
A circumstance, apparently insignificant, destroyed all the hopes that had
been entertained by several who wished the Colossus well. Certain papers
were brought to Rhodes; these contained information likely to prove of use
to him as well as to the English Government. After he had read them he
asked that they should be left with him until the following day. The
person in charge of the documents had been asked not to part with them
even for a single hour, as it was important that no one should be able to
copy documents which might seriously compromise certain people. Therefore,
she refused. Rhodes thereupon flew into a terrible passion and demanded to
know the reason for the apparent distrust. When told that it was not so
much a question of distrust as the impossibility of breaking a promise
once given, he exclaimed that he would have nothing more to do with the
whole business, and started almost immediately afterwards his agitation
for the suspension of the Constitution in Cape Colony. But--and this is an
amusing detail to note--Rhodes used every possible effort to obtain
possession of the papers he had been allowed to see, going so far as to
have the house searched of the person who had refused to allow him to keep
the documents--a revenge which was as mean as it was useless, because the
papers in question had been at once returned to their rightful owners.
The request made by Rhodes to keep these documents produced a very bad
impression on those who had begun to entertain hopes that he might be
induced to throw the weight of his personality into the scale of a
settlement. It confirmed the suspicions held by the Afrikander party ever
since the Raid.
They say that everyone is afforded once the chance of one's lifetime. In
the case of Rhodes, he certainly missed by that action the one opportunity
of reinstating himself once again upon the pinnacle whence the adventure
of Doctor Jameson had caused him to fall.
I remember that whilst these events were going on a political man, well
acquainted with all details of the endeavour to secure a reconciliation
between the Afrikander Bond and Rhodes, came to see me one evening. We
talked over the whole situation. He told me that there were people who
thought it would be a good thing to inform Sir Alfred Milner of what was
going on, in the hope that he might give Rhodes an inkling that he knew
that intrigue was rife at Groote Schuur, and at the same time express to
Rhodes with what satisfaction he personally would view the good offices of
the Colossus to influence both the South African League and the Afrikander
Bond. But we agreed that it was quite impossible. Such a course would not
inspire the High Commissioner with an exalted idea as to our morality in
matters of trust, and, besides, it would not be playing the game in regard
to Rhodes and his group. So the matter dropped; but Rhodes suspected, and
never forgave us or any of those whose thoughts ran on the same lines.
Whether Sir Alfred Milner ever learned who had been trying to persuade the
master of Groote Schuur to seek his co-operation in what would have been
the noblest deed of Rhodes' life, I have not been able to ascertain to the
present day. To tell the truth, I never tried to do so, the matter having
lost all interest except as a matter of history.
CHAPTER IX.
THE OPENING OF THE NEW CENTURY
Such were the preoccupations, the intrigues and the emotions which, all
through that monotonous winter of 1900-1901, agitated the inhabitants of
and the visitors to Groote Schuur. Rhodes himself seemed to be the one man
who thought the least about them. It is certain that he felt hurt in his
pride and in his consciousness that the good which he had wanted to do
failed to be appreciated by those whom he had intended to benefit. But
outwardly he made no sign that the matter interested him otherwise than
from a purely objective point of view, that of the statesman who thinks
that it is part of his duty to put his services at the disposal of his
country whenever required to do so. He felt also slightly surprised to
find, once he had expressed his willingness to use the experience of South
African affairs which he had acquired and which no one in the Cape
possessed with such thoroughness, that the people who had appealed to him,
and whom he had consented to meet half-way, would not give him the whole
of their confidence; indeed, they showed some apprehension that he would
use his knowledge to their detriment.
When one reviews all the circumstances that cast such a tragic shade over
the history of these eventful months, one cannot help coming to the
conclusion that there was a good deal of misunderstanding on both sides
and a deplorable lack of confidence everywhere. Rhodes had entirely lost
ground among his former friends, and would not understand that it was more
difficult, even on the part of those who believed in his good intentions,
to efface the impression that he had been playing a double game ever since
the Raid had deprived him of the confidence and support which previously
were his all over Cape Colony.
The whole situation, as the new century opened, was a game of cross
purposes. Sir Alfred Milner might have unravelled the skein, but he was
the one man whom no one interested in the business wished to ask for help.
And what added to the tragedy was the curious but undisputable fact that
even those who reviled Rhodes hoped he would return to power and assume
the Premiership in place of Sir Gordon Sprigg.
In spite of the respect which Sir Gordon Sprigg inspired, and of the
esteem in which he was held by all parties, it was generally felt that if
Rhodes were once more at the helm he might return to a more reasonable
view of the whole situation. In such an office, too, it was believed that
Rhodes would give the Colony the benefit of his remarkable gifts of
statecraft, as well as wield the authority which he liked so much to
exercise, for the greater good of the country in general and of the
British Government in particular. I believe that if at that moment Cecil
Rhodes had become the head of the Cabinet not one voice, even among the
most fanatic of the Afrikander Bond, would have objected. Those most
averse to such a possibility were Rhodes' own supporters, a small group of
men whose names I shall refrain from mentioning.
All true friends of Rhodes, however, must surely have felt a keen regret
that he wasted his talents and his energy on those entangled and, after
all, despicable Cape politics. The man was created for something better
and healthier than that. He was an Empire Maker by nature, one who might
have won for himself everlasting renown had he remained "King of
Rhodesia," as he liked to call himself. There, in the vast solitudes which
by his enterprise and foresight had become a part of the British Empire,
he ought to have gone on uninterruptedly in the glorious task of bringing
civilisation to that hitherto unknown land. For such work his big nature
and strange character were well fitted, and his wide-ranging mind
appreciated the extent of the task. As he used to say himself sometimes,
he was never so happy and never felt so free and so much at peace with the
world and with mankind as among the Matoppo Hills.
The statesmanlike qualities which Cecil Rhodes undoubtedly possessed were
weakened by contact with inferior people. It is impossible to create real
politicians and sound ones at the same rapid pace as financial magnates
sprang up at the Cape as well as in the Transvaal. The class who entered
politics had as little real solidity about them as the houses and
dwellings which were built at a moment's notice from corrugated iron and a
few logs. They thought that they understood how to govern a nation because
they had thoroughly mastered the mysteries of bookkeeping in problematical
financial undertakings.
I remember one afternoon when, talking with Rhodes in the grounds of
Groote Schuur, he took me to the summer-house which he had built for
himself, whence one had a beautiful view over the country toward Table
Mountain. He leaned on the parapet of the little observatory which
surmounted the summer-house and lost himself in a day dream which, though
long, I felt I had better not interrupt. I can see his face and expression
still as, with his arms crossed over his chest, he gazed into space,
thinking, thinking, and forgetting all else but the vision which he was
creating in that extraordinary brain of his. I am sure that he remained so
for over twenty minutes. Then he slowly turned round to me and said, with
an accent indescribable in its intensity and poignancy:
"I have been looking at the North, at my own country--"
"Why do you not always remain there?" I exclaimed almost involuntarily, so
painfully did the words strike me.
"Because they will not let me," he replied.
"They? Who?" I asked again. "Surely you can do what you like?"
"You think so," he said, "but you do not know; there are so many things;
so many things. And they want me here too, and there is this place ..."
He stopped, then relapsed once more into his deep meditation, leaving me
wondering what was holding back this man who was reputed to do only what
he chose. Surely there would have been a far better, far nobler work for
him to do there in that distant North which, after all, in spite of the
beauties of Groote Schuur, was the only place for which he really cared.
There he could lead that absolutely free and untrammelled life which he
loved; there his marvellous gifts could expand with the freedom necessary
for them to shine in their best light for the good of others as well as
for his own advantage. In Rhodesia he was at least free, to a certain
extent, from the parasites.
How could one help pitying him and regretting that his indomitable will
did not extend to the courage of breaking from his past associations; that
he did not carry his determination far enough to make up his mind to
consecrate what was left of his life to the one task for which he was best
fitted, that of making Rhodesia one of the most glorious possessions of
the British crown. Rhodes had done so much, achieved so much, had
conceived such great things--as, for instance, the daring inception of the
Cape to Cairo Railway--that it surely could have been possible for him to
rise above the shackling weaknesses of his environment.
So many years have passed since the death of Rhodes that, now, one can
judge him objectively. To me, knowing him so well as I did, it seem that
as his figure recedes into the background of history, it acquires more
greatness. He was a mystery to so many because few had been able to guess
what it was that he really meant, or believed in, or hoped for. Not a
religious man by any means, he yet possessed that religion of nature which
pervades the soul of anyone who has ever lived for long face to face with
grandeurs and solitudes where human passions have no entrance. It is the
adoration of the Greatness Who created the beauty which no touch can
defile, no tongue slander, and nobody destroy. Under the stars, to which
he confided so much of the thoughts which he had kept for himself in his
youth and early manhood, Rhodes became a different man. There in the
silence of the night or the dawn of early morning, when he started for
those long rides of which he was so fond, he became affectionate, kind,
thoughtful and tender. There he thought, he dreamt, he planned, and the
result of these wanderings of his mind into regions far beyond those where
the people around him could stray was that he revealed himself as God had
made him and such as man hardly ever saw him.
Rhodes had always been a great reader; books, indeed, had a great
influence over his mind, his actions and opinions. He used to read slowly,
and what he had once assimilated he never forgot. Years after he would
remember a passage treating of some historical fact, or of some social
interest, and apply it to his own work. For instance, the idea of the Glen
Grey Act was suggested to him by the famous book of Mackenzie Wallace
dealing with Russia,[B] in which he described the conditions under which
Russian peasants then held their land. When Rhodes met the author of the
aforementioned volume at Sandringham, where both were staying with the
then Prince and Princess of Wales, he told him at once, with evident
pleasure at being able to do so, that it was his book which had suggested
that particular bit of legislation.
[B] "Russia" (Cassell).
Another occasion I remember when Rhodes spoke of the great impression
produced upon his opinions by a book called "The Martyrdom of Man,"[C] the
work of Winwood Reade, an author not very well known to the general
public. The essay was an unusually powerful negation of the Divinity.
Rhodes had, unfortunately for him, chanced across it just after he had
left the University, and during the first months following upon his
arrival in South Africa he read it in his moments of leisure between
looking for diamonds in the sandy plains of Kimberley. It completely upset
all the traditions in which he had been nurtured--it must be remembered
that he was the son of a clergyman--and caused a revolt against the
teachings of his former masters.
[C] Published in the U.S.A., 1875.
The adventurous young man who had left his native country well stocked
with principles which he was already beginning to find embarrassing, found
in this volume an excuse for becoming the personage with whom the world
was to become familiar later on, when he appeared on the horizon as an
Empire Maker. He always kept this momentous book beside him, and used to
read it when he wanted to strengthen himself in some hard resolution or
when he was expected to steel his mind to the performance of some task
against which his finest instincts revolted even whilst his sense of
necessity urged him onward.
Talking with me on the occasion I have referred to above, in respect to
this volume which had left such weeds in his mind, he expressed to me his
great enthusiasm about the ideas it contained, and spoke with unmeasured
approval of its strong and powerful arguments against the existence of a
Deity, and then exclaimed, "You can imagine the impression which it
produced on me when I read it amid all the excitement of life at Kimberley
not long after leaving Oxford University." And he added in a solemn tone,
"That book has made me what I am."
I think, however, that Rhodes exaggerated in attaching such influence to
Reade's essay. He was very interested in the supernatural, a feature which
more than once I have had occasion to observe in people who pretend that
they believe in nothing. I suspect that, had he been able to air the
doubts which must have assailed him sometimes when alone in the solitudes
of Rhodesia, one would have discovered that a great deal of carelessness,
of which he used to boast in regard to morality and to religion, was
nothing but affectation. He treated God in the same offhand way he handled
men, when, in order to terrify them, he exposed before their horrified
eyes abominable theories, to which his whole life gave the lie. But in his
inmost heart he knew very well that God existed. He would have felt quite
content to render homage to the Almighty if only this could have been done
incognito. In fact, he was quite ready to believe in God, but would have
felt extremely sorry had anyone suspected that such could be the case. The
ethical side of Cecil Rhodes' character remained all through his life in
an unfinished state. It might perhaps have been the most beautiful side of
his many-sided life had he not allowed too much of what was material, base
and common to rule him. Unwillingly, perhaps, but nevertheless certainly,
he gave the impression that his life was entirely dedicated to ignoble
purposes. Perhaps the punishment of his existence lay precisely in the
rapidity with which the words "Rhodesian finance" and "Rhodesian politics"
came to signify corruption and bribery. Even though he may not have been
actually guilty of either, he most certainly profited by both. He
instituted in South Africa an utter want of respect for one's neighbour's
property, which in time was a prime cause of the Transvaal War. Hated as
he was by some, distrusted as he remained by almost everybody, yet there
was nothing mean about Cecil Rhodes. Though one felt inclined to detest
him at times, yet one could not help liking and even loving him when he
allowed one to see the real man behind the veil of cynicism and irony
which he constantly assumed.
With Rhodes' death the whole system of Rhodesian politics perished. It
then became relatively easy for Sir Alfred Milner to introduce the
necessary reforms into the government of South Africa. The financial
magnates who had ruled at Johannesburg and Kimberley ceased to interest
themselves politically in the management of the affairs of the Government.
They disappeared one after the other, bidding good-bye to a country which
they had always hated, most of them sinking into an obscurity where they
enjoy good dinners and forget the nightmare of the past.
The Dutch and the English elements have become reconciled, and loyalty to
England, which seemed at the time of the Boer War, and during the years
that had preceded it, to have been confined to a small number of the
English, has become the rule. British Imperialism is no mere phantom: the
Union of South Africa has proved it to have a very virile body, and, what
is more important, a lofty and clear-visioned soul.
CHAPTER X.
AN ESTIMATE OF SIR ALFRED MILNER
The conditions under which Sir Alfred Milner found himself compelled to
shape his policy of conciliation were beset with obstacles and
difficulties. An understanding of these is indispensable to the one who
would read aright the history of that period of Imperial evolution.
The question of the refugees who overwhelmed Cape Colony with their
lamentations, after they had been obliged to leave the Transvaal at
the beginning of the hostilities--the claims of the Rand
multi-millionaires--the indignation of the Dutch Colonists confined in
concentration camps by order of the military authorities--the Jingoes
who thought it would be only right to shoot down every Dutch
sympathiser in the country: these were among the things agitating the
South African public mind, and setting up conflicting claims
impossible of adjustment without bitter censure on one hand or the
other. The wonder is that, amid all these antagonistic elements, Sir
Alfred Milner contrived to fulfil the larger part of the tasks which
he had sketched out for himself before he left England.
The programme which Sir Alfred planned to carry out proved, in the long
run, to have been thoroughly sound in conception and practice, because it
contained in embryo all the conditions under which South Africa became
united. It is remarkable, indeed, that such a very short time after a war
which seemed altogether to have compromised any hope of coalescing, the
Union of South Africa should have become an accomplished fact.
Yet, strange as it may appear, it is certain that up to his retirement
from office Sir Alfred Milner was very little known in South Africa. He
had been so well compelled by force of circumstances to lead an isolated
life that very few had opportunity to study his character or gain insight
into his personality. In Cape Town he was judged by his policy. People
forgot that all the time he was at Government House, Cape Town, he was a
man as well as a politician: a man whose efforts and work in behalf of his
country deserved some kind of consideration even from his enemies. It is
useless to discuss whether Sir Alfred did or did not make mistakes before
the beginning of the war. Why waste words over events which cannot be
helped, and about which there will always be two opinions? Personally, I
think that his errors were essentially of the kind which could not have
been avoided, and that none of them ever compromised ultimately the great
work which he was to bring to a triumphant close.
What I do think it is of value to point out is the calmness which he
contrived always to preserve under circumstances which must have been
particularly trying for him. Another outstanding characteristic was the
quiet dignity with which he withstood unjustifiable attacks when dealing
with not-to-be-foreseen difficulties which arose while carrying on his
gigantic task. Very few would have had the courage to remain silent and
undaunted whilst condemned or judged for things he had been unable to
alter or to banish. And yet this was precisely the attitude to which Sir
Alfred Milner faithfully adhered. It stands out among the many proofs
which the present Viscount Milner has given of his strong character as one
of its most characteristic features, for it affords a brilliant
illustration of what will, mastered by reason, can do.
Since those perilous days I have heard many differing criticisms of Lord
Milner's administration as High Commissioner in South Africa. What those
who express opinions without understanding that which lies under the
surface of history fail to take into account is the peculiar, almost
invidious position and the loneliness in which Sir Alfred had to stand
from the very first day that he landed in Table Bay. He could not make
friends, dared not ask anyone's advice, was forced always to rely entirely
upon his own judgment. He would not have been human had he not sometimes
felt misgivings as to the wisdom of what he was doing. He never had the
help of a Ministry upon whom he could rely or with whom he could
sympathise. The Cabinet presided over by Sir Gordon Sprigg was composed of
very well-intentioned men. But, with perhaps one single exception, it did
not possess any strongly individualistic personage capable of assisting
Sir Alfred in framing a policy acceptable to all shades of public opinion
in the Colony, or even to discuss with him whether such a policy could
have been invented. As for the administration of which Mr. Schreiner was
the head, it was distinctly hostile to the policy inaugurated by Mr.
Joseph Chamberlain, which Sir Alfred represented. Its members, indeed, put
every obstacle in the Governor's way, and this fact becoming known
encouraged a certain spirit of rebellion among the Dutch section of the
population. Neither one Ministry nor the other was able to be of any
serious use to Milner, who, thus hampered, could neither frame a programme
which accorded with his own judgment nor show himself in his true light.
[Illustration: VISCOUNT MILNER]
All these circumstances were never taken into consideration by friends or
foes, and, in consequence, he was made responsible for blunders which he
could not help and for mistakes which he was probably the first to
deplore. The world forgot that Sir Alfred never really had a free hand,
was always thwarted, either openly or in secret, by some kind of
authority, be it civil or military, which was in conflict with his own.
It was next to an impossibility to judge a man fairly under such
conditions. All that one could say was that he deserved a good deal of
praise for having, so successfully as he did, steered through the manifold
difficulties and delicate susceptibilities with which he had to contend in
unravelling a great tangle in the history of the British Empire.
The Afrikander Bond hated him, that was a recognised fact, but this hatred
did Sir Alfred more good than anything else. The attacks directed against
him were so mean that they only won him friends among the very people to
whom his policy had not been acceptable. The abuse showered by certain
newspapers upon the High Commissioner not only strengthened his hands and
his authority, but transformed what ought to have remained a personal
question into one in which the dignity as well as the prestige of the
Empire was involved. To have recalled him after he had been subjected to
such treatment would have been equivalent to a confession that the State
was in the wrong. I have never been able to understand how men of such
undoubted perception as Mr. Sauer or Mr. Merriman, or other leaders of the
Bond, did not grasp this fact. Sir Alfred himself put the aspect very
cleverly before the public in an able and dignified speech which he made
at the lunch offered to Lord Roberts by the Mayor and Corporation of Cape
Town when he said, "To vilify her representative is a strange way to show
one's loyalty to the Queen."
A feature in Sir Alfred Milner's character, which was little known outside
the extremely small circle of his personal friends, was that when he was
in the wrong he never hesitated to acknowledge the fact with
straightforward frankness. His judgments were sometimes hasty, but he was
always willing to amend an opinion on just grounds. There was a good deal
of dogged firmness in his character, but not a shred of stubbornness or
obstinacy. He never yielded one inch of his ground when he believed
himself to be in the right, but he was always amenable to reason, and he
never refused to allow himself to be convinced, even though it may be that
his natural sympathies were not on the side of those with whom he had got
to deal. Very few statesmen could boast of such qualities, and they surely
ought to weigh considerably in the balance of any judgment passed upon
Viscount Milner.
The welfare of South Africa and the reputation of Sir Alfred would have
been substantially enhanced had he been able to assert his own authority
according to his own judgment, without overrulings from Whitehall, and
with absolute freedom as to choice of colleagues. His position was most
difficult, and though he showed no outward sign of this fact, it is
impossible to believe that he did not feel its crushing weight. Between
the Bond, Mr. Hofmeyr, the race hatred which the Dutch accused him of
fomenting, the question of the refugees, the clamours of the Jingo
Colonials, and the extreme seriousness of the military situation at one
time, it was perfectly marvellous that he did not break down. Instead, as
very few men could have done, he kept a clear-headed shrewdness, owing to
which the Empire most certainly contracted an immense debt of gratitude
toward him for not having allowed himself to yield to the temptation of
retaliating upon those who had made his task such a particularly hard one.
His forbearance ought never to be lost sight of in judging the
circumstances which brought about and attended the South African War.
Whilst the war was going on it was not realised that Sir Alfred Milner was
the only man who--when the time arrived--could allay the passions arising
from the conflict. But, without vanity, he knew, and could well afford to
wait for his reward until history rather than men had judged him.
In the meanwhile Sir Alfred had to struggle against a sea of obstacles in
which he was probably the only man clever enough not to drown himself--a
danger which overtook others who had tried to plunge into the complicated
politics of South Africa. A succession of administrators at Government
House in Cape Town ended their political career there, and left, broken in
spirit, damaged in reputation.
As for the local politicians, they were mostly honest mediocrities or
adventurous spirits, who used their influence for their personal
advantage. An exception was Mr. Hofmeyr. But he was far too absorbed in
securing the recognition of Dutch supremacy at the Cape to be able to work
on the milder plane necessary to bring about the one great result. The
popularity of Mr. Hofmeyr was immense and his influence indisputable; but
it was not a broad influence. He shuddered at the mere possibility of the
Transvaal falling into the hands of the British.
Whilst touching upon the subject of the Transvaal, I may say a word
concerning the strangely mixed population, for the sake of whom,
officially, Britain went to war. The war was entirely the work of the
Uitlanders, as they called themselves with a certain pride, but very few
of whom possessed a drop of English blood. The British public at home was
told that it was necessary to fight President Kruger because Englishmen in
the Transvaal were being ill-treated and denied their legitimate rights.
In reality, this was one of those conventional reasons, lacking common
sense and veracity, upon which nations are so often fed. If we enter
closely into the details of existence in the Transvaal, and examine who
were those who shouted so loudly for the franchise, we find that the
majority were either foreigners or Jews hailing from Frankfurt or Hamburg.
Many of them had, to be sure, become naturalised British subjects, but I
doubt very much whether, among all the magnates of Johannesburg or of
Kimberley, more than one or two pure-blooded Englishmen could be found.
Rhodes, of course, was an exception, but one which confirmed the rule.
Those others whose names can still be conjured with in South Africa were
Jews, mostly of Teutonic descent, who pretended that they were Englishmen
or Colonials; nothing certain was known about their origin beyond the fact
that such or such small shops in Grahamstown, Durban or Cape Town had
witnessed their childish romps. The Beits, the Neumanns and the Wernhers
were German Jews; Barney Barnato was supposed to have been born under the
shade of a Portuguese synagogue, and considered the fact as being just as
glorious a one as would have been that of having in his veins "all the
blood of all the Howards." The Joels were Hebrews; the Rudds supposed to
belong to the same race through some remote ancestor; the Mosenthals,
Abrahams, Phillipps, and other notabilities of the Rand and Kimberley,
were Jews, and one among the so-called Reformers, associated with the
Jameson Raid, was an American engineer, John Hays Hammond.
The war, which was supposed to win the franchise for Englishmen in the
Transvaal, was in reality fought for the advantage of foreigners. Most
people honestly believed that President Kruger was aiming at destroying
English prestige throughout the vast dark continent, and would have been
horrified had they known what was going on in that distant land. Fortunes
were made on the Rand in a few days, but very few Englishmen were among
the number of those who contrived to acquire millions. Englishmen, indeed,
were not congenial to the Transvaal, whilst foreigners, claiming to be
Englishmen because they murdered the English language, abounded and
prospered, and in time came sincerely to believe that they were British
subjects, owing to the fact that they continually kept repeating that
Britain ought to possess the Rand.
When Britain came really to rule the Rand the adventurers found it did not
in the least secure the advantages which they had imagined would derive
from a war they fostered. This question of the Uitlanders was as
embarrassing for the English Government as it had been for that of the
Transvaal. These adventurers, who composed the mass of the motley
population which flourished on the Rand, would prove a source of annoyance
to any State in the world. On the other hand, the importance acquired by
the so-called financial magnates was daily becoming a public danger,
inasmuch as it tended to substitute the reign of a particular class of
individuals for the ruling of those responsible for the welfare of the
country. These persons individually believed that they each understood
better than the Government the conditions prevailing in South Africa, and
perpetually accused Downing Street of not realising and never protecting
British interests there.
Amidst their recriminations and the publicity they could command from the
Press, it is no wonder that Sir Alfred Milner felt bewildered. It is to
his everlasting honour that he did not allow himself to be overpowered. He
was polite to everybody; listened carefully to all the many wonderful
tales that were being related to him, and, without compromising himself,
proceeded to a work of quiet mental elimination that very soon made him
thoroughly grasp the intricacies of any situation. He quickly came to the
conclusion that President Kruger was not the principal obstacle to a
peaceful development of British Imperialism in South Africa. If ever a
conflict was foisted on two countries for mercenary motives it was the
Transvaal War, and a shrewd and impartial mind like Milner's did not take
long to discover that such was the case.
He was not, however, a man capable of lending himself meekly to schemes of
greed, however wilily they were cloaked. His was not the kind of nature
that for the sake of peace submits to things of which it does not approve.
This man, who was represented as an oppressor of the Dutch, was in reality
their best friend, and perhaps the one who believed the most in their
eventual loyalty to the English Crown. It is a thousand pities that when
the famous Bloemfontein Conference took place Sir Alfred Milner, as he
still was at that time, had not yet acquired the experience which later
became his concerning the true state of things in the Transvaal. Had he at
that time possessed the knowledge which he was later to gain, when the
beginning of hostilities obliged so many of the ruling spirits of
Johannesburg to migrate to the Cape, it is likely that he would have acted
differently. It was not easy for the High Commissioner to shake off the
influence of all that he heard, whether told with a good or bad intention,
and it was still harder for him in those first days of his office to
discern who was right or who was wrong among those who crowded their
advice upon him--and never forgave him when he did not follow their
ill-balanced counsels.
Concerning the outstanding personality of Cecil Rhodes, the position of
Sir Alfred Milner was even more difficult and entangled than in regard to
anyone else. It is useless to deny that he had arrived at Cape Town with
considerable prejudice against Rhodes. He could not but look
interrogatively upon the political career of a man who at the very time he
occupied the position of Prime Minister had lent himself to a conspiracy
against the independence of another land. Moreover, Rhodes was supposed,
perhaps not without reason, to be continually intriguing to return to
power, and to be chafing in secret at the political inaction which had
been imposed upon him, and for which he was himself responsible more than
anyone else. The fact that after the Raid Rhodes had been abandoned by his
former friends harmed him considerably as a political man by destroying
his renown as a statesman to whom the destinies of an Empire might be
entrusted with safety. One can truly say, when writing the story of those
years, that it resolved _itself_, into the vain struggle of Rhodes to
recover his lost prestige. Sir Alfred was continually being made
responsible for things of which he had not only been innocent, but of
which, also, he had disapproved most emphatically. To mention only
one--the famous concentration camps. A great deal of fuss was made about
them at the time, and it was generally believed that they had been
instituted at the instigation of the High Commissioner. When consulted on
the subject Sir Alfred Milner had, on the contrary, not at all shared the
opinion of those who had believed that they were a necessity, although
ultimately, for lack of earlier steps, they became so.
The Colony at that time found its effective government vested in the hands
of the military authorities, who not infrequently acted upon opinions
which were not based upon experience or upon any local conditions. They
believed, too, implicitly what they were told, and when they heard people
protest, with tears in their eyes, their devotion to the British Crown,
and lament over the leniency with which the Governor of Cape Colony looked
upon rebellion, they could not possibly think that they were listening to
a tissue of lies, told for a purpose, nor guess that they were being made
use of. Under such conditions the only wonder is the few mistakes which
were made. To come back to the Boers' concentration camps, Sir Alfred
Milner was not a sanguinary man by any means, and his character was far
too firm to use violence as a means of government. It is probable that,
left alone, he would have found some other means to secure strict
obedience from the refugees to orders which most never thought of
resisting. Unfortunately for everybody concerned, he could do nothing
beyond expressing his opinion, and the circumstance that, out of a feeling
of duty, he made no protestations against things of which he could not
approve was exploited against him, both by the Jingo English party and by
the Dutch, all over South Africa. At Groote Schuur especially, no secret
was made by the friends of Rhodes of their disgust at the state of things
prevailing in concentration camps, and it was adroitly brought to the
knowledge of all the partisans of the Boers that, had Rhodes been master
of the situation, such an outrage on individual liberty would never have
taken place. Sir Alfred Milner was subjected to unfair, ill-natured
criticisms which were as cunning as they were bitter. The concentration
camps afford only one instance of the secret antagonisms and injustices
which Sir Alfred Milner had to bear and combat. No wonder thoughts of his
days in South Africa are still, to him, a bitter memory!
CHAPTER XI.
CROSS CURRENTS
The intrigues which made Groote Schuur such a disagreeable place were
always a source of intense wonder to me. I could never understand their
necessity. Neither could I appreciate the kind of hypocrisy which induced
Rhodes continually to affirm that he did not care to return to power,
whilst in reality he longed to hold the reins again. It would have been
fatally easy for Rhodes, even after the hideous mistake of the Raid, to
regain his political popularity; a little sincerity and a little truth
were all that was needed. Unfortunately, both these qualities were wanting
in what was otherwise a really gifted nature. Rhodes, it seemed by his
ways, could not be sincere, and though he seldom lied in the material
sense of the word, yet he allowed others to think and act for him, even
when he knew them to be doing so in absolute contradiction to what he
ought to have done himself. He appeared to have insufficient energy to
enforce his will on those whom he despised, yet allowed to dictate to him
even in matters which he ought to have kept absolutely under his own
control.
I shall always maintain that Rhodes, without his so-called friends, would
most certainly have been one of the greatest figures of his time and
generation. He had a big soul, vast conceptions, and when he was not
influenced by outward material details--upon which, unfortunately for
himself as well as for his reputation in history, he allowed his mind to
dwell too often--his thoughts were always directed toward some higher
subject which absorbed his attention, inspired him, and moved him
sometimes to actions that drew very near to the heroic. He might have gone
to his grave not only with an unsullied, but also with a great reputation
based on grounds that were noble and splendid had he shaken off the
companions of former times. Unhappily, an atmosphere of flattery and
adulation had become absolutely necessary to him, and he became so used to
it that he did not perceive that his sycophants never left him alone for a
moment. They watched over him like a policeman who took good care no
foreign influence should venture to approach.
The end of all this was that Rhodes resented the truth when it was told
him, and detested any who showed independence of judgment or appreciation
in matters concerning his affairs and projects. A man supposed to have an
iron will, yet he was weak almost to childishness in regard to these
flattering satellites. It amused him to have always at his beck and call
people willing and ready to submit to his insults, to bear with his fits
of bad temper, and to accept every humiliation which he chose to offer.
Cecil Rhodes never saw, or affected never to see, the disastrous influence
all this had on his life.
I remember asking him how it came that he seldom showed the desire to go
away somewhere quite alone, if even for a day or two, so as to remain
really tête-à-tête with his own reflections. His reply was most
characteristic: "What should I do with myself? One must have people about
to play cards in the evening." I might have added "and to flatter one,"
but refrained. This craving continually to have someone at hand to bully,
scold, or to make use of, was certainly one of the failings of Rhodes'
powerful mind. It also indicated in a way that thirst for power which
never left him until the last moment of his life. He had within him the
weakness of those dethroned kings who, in exile, still like to have a
Court about them and to travel in state. Rhodes had a court, and also
travelled with a suite who, under the pretence of being useful to him,
effectually barred access to any stranger. But for his entourage it is
likely that Rhodes might have outlived the odium of the Raid. But, as Mrs.
van Koopman said to me, "What is the use of trying to help Rhodes when one
is sure that he will never be allowed to perform all that he might
promise?"
The winter which followed upon the relief of Kimberley Rhodes spent almost
entirely at Groote Schuur, going to Rhodesia only in spring. During these
months negotiations between him and certain leaders of the Bond party went
on almost uninterruptedly. These were either conducted openly by people
like Mr. David de Waal, or else through other channels when not entrusted
to persons whom it would be relatively easy later on to disavow. Once or
twice these negotiations seemed to take a favourable turn at several
points, but always at the last minute Rhodes withdrew under some pretext
or other. What he would have liked would have been to have, as it were,
the Dutch party, the Bond, the English Colonists, the South African
League, President Kruger, and the High Commissioner, all rolled into one,
fall at his feet and implore him to save South Africa. When he perceived
that all these believed that there existed a possibility for matters to be
settled without his intervention, he hated every man of them with a hatred
such as only very absolute natures can feel. To hear him express his
disgust with the military authorities, abuse in turns Lord Roberts, whom
he used to call an old man in his dotage, Lord Kitchener, who was a
particular antipathy, the High Commissioner, the Government at home, and
the Bond, was an education in itself. He never hesitated before making use
of an expression of a coarseness such as does not bear repeating, and in
his private conversations he hurled insults at the heads of all. It is
therefore no wonder that the freedom of speech which Rhodes exercised at
Groote Schuur added to the difficulties of a situation the brunt of which
not he, but Sir Alfred Milner, had to bear.
More than once the High Commissioner caused a hint to be conveyed to Cecil
Rhodes that he had better betake himself to Rhodesia, and remain there
until there was a clearer sky in Cape Colony. These hints were always
given in the most delicate manner, but Rhodes chose to consider them in
the light of a personal affront, and poured down torrents of invective
upon the British Government for what he termed their ingratitude. The
truth of the matter was that he could not bring himself to understand that
he was not the person alone capable of bringing about a permanent
settlement of South Africa. The energy of his young days had left him, and
perhaps the chronic disease from which he was suffering added to his
constant state of irritation and obscured the clearness of his judgment in
these post-raid days.
I hope that my readers will not imagine from my reference that I have a
grudge of any kind against Doctor Jameson.[D] On the contrary, truth
compels me to say that I have seldom met a more delightful creature than
this old friend and companion of Cecil Rhodes, and I do believe he held a
sincere affection for his chief. But Jameson, as well as Rhodes, was under
the influence of certain facts and of certain circumstances, and I do not
think that he was, at that particular moment about which I am writing, the
best adviser that Rhodes might have had. In one thing Doctor Jim was above
suspicion: he had never dirtied his hands with any of the financial
speculations which those about Rhodes indulged in, to the latter's
detriment much more than his own, considering the fact that it was he who
was considered as the father of their various "smart" schemes. Jameson
always kept aloof from every kind of shady transaction in so far as money
matters were concerned, and perhaps this was the reason why so many people
detested him and kept advising Rhodes to brush him aside, or, at all
events, not to keep him near him whilst the war was going on. His name was
to the Dutch as a red rag to a very fierce and more than furious bull,
while the Bond, as well as the burghers of the Transvaal, would rather
have had dealings with the Evil One himself than with Doctor Jim. Their
prejudices against him were not to be shaken. In reality others about
Rhodes were far more dangerous than Jameson could ever have proved on the
question of a South African settlement in which the rights of the Dutch
elements in the Cape and Orange Free State would be respected and
considered.
[D] Dr. Jameson died November 26th, 1917.
[Illustration: THE RT. HON. SIR LEANDER STARR JAMESON]
Whatever might have been his faults, Doctor Jameson was neither a rogue
nor a fool. For Rhodes he had a sincere affection that made him keenly
alive to the dangers that might threaten the latter, and anxious to avert
them. But during those eventful months of the war the influence of the
Doctor also had been weakened by the peculiar circumstances which had
arisen in consequence of the length of the Boer resistance. Before the war
broke out it had been generally supposed that three months would see the
end of the Transvaal Republic, and Rhodes himself, more often than I care
to remember, had prophesied that a few weeks would be the utmost that the
struggle could last. That this did not turn out to be the case had been a
surprise to the world at large and an intense disappointment to Cecil
Rhodes. He had all along nourished a bitter animosity against Kruger, and
in regard to him, as well as Messrs. Schreiner, Merriman, Hofmeyr, Sauer
and other one-time colleagues, he carried his vindictiveness to an extent
so terrible that more than once it led him into some of the most
regrettable actions in his life.
Cecil Rhodes possessed a curious shyness which gave to his character an
appearance the more misleading in that it hid in reality a will of iron
and a ruthlessness comparable to a _Condottiere_ of the Middle Ages. The
fact was that his soul was thirsting for power, and he was inordinately
jealous of successes which anyone but himself had or could achieve in
South Africa. I am persuaded that one of the reasons why he always tried
by inference to disparage Sir Alfred Milner was his annoyance at the
latter's calm way of going on with the task which he had mapped out for
himself without allowing his mind to be troubled by the outcries of a mob
whom he despised from the height of his great integrity, unsullied honour,
and consciousness of having his duty to perform. Neither could Rhodes ever
see in political matters the necessities of the moment often made it the
duty of a statesman to hurl certain facts into oblivion and to reconcile
himself to new circumstances.
That he did disparage Sir Alfred Milner is unfortunately certain. I
sincerely believe that the war would never have dragged on so long had not
Rhodes contrived to convey to the principal Boer leaders the impression
that while Sir Alfred Milner remained in South Africa no settlement would
be arrived at with the British Government, because the High Commissioner
would always oppose any concessions that might bring it to a successful
and prompt issue. Of course Cecil Rhodes never said this in so many words,
but he allowed people to guess that such was his conviction, and it was
only after Sir Alfred had I left the Cape for Pretoria that, by a closer
contact with the Boers themselves, some of the latter's prejudices against
him vanished.
At last did the sturdy Dutch farmers realise that if there was one man
devoid of animosity against them, and desirous of seeing the end of a
struggle which was ruining a continent, it was Sir Alfred Milner. They
also discovered another thing concerning his political views and
opinions--that he desired just as much as they did to destroy the power
and influence of those multi-millionaires who had so foolishly believed
that after the war's end they would have at their disposal the riches
which the Transvaal contained, so that, rather than becoming a part of the
British Empire, it would in reality be an annexe of the London and Paris
Stock Exchanges.
As events turned out, by a just retribution of Providence, the magnates
who had let greedy ambition master them lost most of the advantages which
they had been able to snatch from President Kruger. Whether this would
have happened had Rhodes not died before the conclusion of peace remains
an open question. It is certain he would have objected to a limitation of
the political power of the concerns in which he had got such tremendous
interests; it is equally sure that it would have been for him a cruel
disappointment had his name not figured as the outstanding signature on
the treaty of peace. There were in this strange man moments when his
patriotism assumed an entirely personal shape, but, improbable as it may
appear to the reader, there was sincerity in the conviction which he had
that the only man who understood what South Africa required was himself,
and that in all that he had done he had been working for the benefit of
the Empire. There was in him something akin to the feeling which had
inspired the old Roman saying, "_Civis Romanum sum._" He understood far
better than any of the individuals by whom he was surrounded the true
meaning of the word Imperialism. Unfortunately, he was apt to apply it in
the personal sense, until, indeed, it got quite confused in his mind with
a selfish feeling which prompted him to put his huge personality before
everything else. If one may do so, a reading of his mind would show that
in his secret heart he felt he had not annexed Rhodesia to the Empire nor
amalgamated the Kimberley mines and organised De Beers for the benefit of
his native Britain, but in order to make himself the most powerful man in
South Africa, and yet at the same time shrewdly realised that he could not
be the king he wished to become unless England stood behind him to cover
with her flag his heroic actions as well as his misdeeds.
That Rhodes' death occurred at an opportune moment cannot be denied. It is
a sad thing to say, but for South Africa true enough. It removed from the
path of Sir Alfred Milner the principal obstacle that had stood in his way
ever since his arrival at Cape Town. The Rhodesian party, deprived of its
chief, was entirely harmless. Rhodesian politics, too, lost their strength
when he was no longer there to impose them upon South Africa.
One of the great secrets of the enormous influence which the Colossus had
acquired lay in the fact that he had never spared his money when it was a
question of thrusting his will in directions favourable to his interest.
None of those who aspired to take his place could follow him on that road,
because none were so superbly indifferent to wealth. Cecil Rhodes did not
care for riches for the personal enjoyments they can purchase. He was
frugal in his tastes, simple in his manners and belongings, and absolutely
careless as to the comforts of life. The waste in his household was
something fabulous, but it is a question whether he ever participated in
luxuries showered upon others. His one hobby had been the embellishment of
Groote Schuur, which he had really transformed into something absolutely
fairylike as regards its exterior beauties and the loveliness of its
grounds and gardens. Inside, too, the house, furnished after the old Dutch
style, struck one by its handsomeness, though it was neither homelike nor
comfortable. In its decoration he had followed the plans of a clever
architect, to whose artistic education he had generously contributed by
giving to him facilities to travel in Europe, but he had not lent anything
of his own personality to the interior arrangements of his home, which had
always kept the look of a show place, neither cared for nor properly
looked after.
Rhodes himself felt happier and more at his ease when rambling in his
splendid park and gazing on Table Mountain from his stoep than amidst the
luxury of his richly furnished rooms. Sometimes he would sit for hours
looking at the landscape before him, lost in a meditation which but few
cared to disturb, and after which he invariably showed himself at his best
and in a softer mood than he had been before. Unfortunately, these moments
never lasted long, and he used to revenge himself on those who had
surprised him in such reveries by indulging in the most caustic and cruel
remarks which he could devise in order to goad them out of all patience. A
strange man with strange instincts; and it is no wonder that, once, a
person who knew him well, and who had known him in the days of his youth
when he had not yet developed his strength of character, had said of him
that "One could not help liking him and one could not avoid hating him;
and sometimes one hated him when one liked him most."
Sir Alfred Milner had neither liked nor hated him, perhaps because his
mind was too well balanced to allow him to view him otherwise than with
impartiality and with a keen appreciation of his great qualities. He would
have liked to work with Rhodes, and would gladly have availed himself of
his experience of South Africa and of South African politicians. But Sir
Alfred refused to be drawn into any compromises with his own conscience or
to offend his own sense of right and wrong. He was always sincere, though
he was never given credit for being so in South Africa. Sir Alfred Milner
could not understand why Rhodes, instead of resolutely asserting that he
wanted to enter into negotiations with the Bond in order to win its
co-operation in the great work of organising the new existence of South
Africa on a sound and solid basis, preferred to cause promises to be made
to the Bond which he would never consent to acknowledge.
These tortuous roads, which were so beloved by Rhodes, were absolutely
abhorrent to the High Commissioner. When Rhodes started the agitation for
the suspension of the Constitution, which occupied his thoughts during the
last months of his life--an agitation which he had inaugurated out of
spite against Mr. Sauer and Mr. Hofmeyr, who had refused to dance to
Rhodes' tune--Sir Alfred Milner had at once seen through the underlying
motives of the moment, and what he discerned had not increased his
admiration for Rhodes. Sir Alfred had not opposed the plans, but he had
never been sanguine as to their chance of success, and they were not in
accordance with his own convictions. Had he thought they had the least
chance of being adopted, most certainly he would have opposed them with
just as much energy as Sir Gordon Sprigg had done. He saw quite well that
it would not have been opportune or politic to put himself into open
opposition to Rhodes. Sir Alfred therefore did not contradict the rumours
which attributed to him the desire to reduce the Cape to the condition of
a Crown Colony, but bent his energy to the far more serious task of
negotiating a permanent peace with the leading men in the Transvaal, a
peace for which he did not want the protection of Rhodes, and to which an
association with Rhodes might have proved inimical to the end in view--the
ideal of a South African Federation which Rhodes had been the first to
visualise, but which Providence did not permit him to see accomplished.
CHAPTER XII.
THE CONCENTRATION CAMPS
It is impossible to speak or write about the South African War without
mentioning the Concentration Camps. A great deal of fuss was made about
them, not only abroad, where all the enemies of England took a particular
and most vicious pleasure in magnifying the so-called cruelties which were
supposed to take place, but also in the English Press, where long and
heartrending accounts appeared concerning the iniquities and injustices
practised by the military authorities on the unfortunate Boer families
assembled in the Camps.
In recurring to this long-forgotten theme, I must first of all say that I
do not hold a brief for the English Government or for the administration
which had charge of British interests in South Africa. But pure and simple
justice compels me to protest, first against the use which was made for
party purposes of certain regrettable incidents, and, more strongly still,
against the totally malicious and ruthless way in which the incidents were
interpreted.
It is necessary before passing a judgment on the Concentration Camps to
explain how it came about that these were organised. At the time of which
I am writing people imagined that by Lord Kitchener's orders Boer women,
children and old people were forcibly taken away from their homes and
confined, without any reason for such an arbitrary proceeding, in
unhealthy places where they were subjected to an existence of privation as
well as of humiliation and suffering. Nothing of the kind had taken place.
The idea of the Camps originated at first from the Boers themselves in an
indirect way. When the English troops marched into the Orange Free State
and the Transvaal, most of the farmers who composed the bulk of the
population of the two Republics having taken to arms, there was no one
left in the homes they had abandoned save women, children and old men no
longer able to fight. These fled hurriedly as soon as English detachments
and patrols were in sight, but most of the time they did not know where
they could fly to, and generally assembled in camps somewhere on the
veldt, where they hoped that the British troops would not discover them.
There, however, they soon found their position intolerable owing to the
want of food and to the lack of hygienic precautions.
The British authorities became aware of this state of things and could not
but try to remedy it. Unfortunately, this was easier said than done. To
come to the help of several thousands of people in a country where
absolutely no resources were to be found was a quite stupendous task, of a
nature which might well have caused the gravest anxieties to the men
responsible for the solution. It was then that the decision was reached to
organise upon a reasonable scale camps after the style of those which
already had been inaugurated by the Boers themselves.
The idea, which was not a bad one, was carried out in an unfortunate
manner, which gave to the world at large the idea that the burgher
families who were confined in these camps were simply put into a prison
which they had done nothing to deserve. The Bond Press, always on the
alert to reproach England, seized hold of the establishment of the Camps
to transform into martyrs the persons who had been transferred to them,
and soon a wave of indignation swept over not only South Africa, but also
over Britain. This necessary act of human civilisation was twisted to
appear as an abuse of power on the part of Lord Roberts and especially of
Lord Kitchener, who, in this affair, became the scapegoat for many sins he
had never committed. The question of the Concentration Camps was made the
subject of interpellations in the House of Commons, and indignation
meetings were held in many parts of England. The Nonconformist Conscience
was deeply stirred at what was thought to be conduct which not even the
necessities of war could excuse. Torrents of ink were spilt to prove that
at the end of the nineteenth century measures and methods worthy of the
Inquisition were resorted to by British Government officials, who--so the
ready writers and ready-tongued averred--with a barbarity such as the
Middle Ages had not witnessed, wanted to be revenged on innocent women and
children for the resistance their husbands and fathers were making against
an aggression which in itself nothing could justify.
So far as the Boers themselves were concerned, I think that a good many
among them viewed the subject with far more equanimity than the English
public. For one thing, the fact of their women and children being put in
places where at least they would not die of hunger must have come to them
rather in the light of a relief than anything else. Then, too, one must
not lose sight of the conditions under which the Boer burghers and farmers
used to exist in normal times. Cleanliness did not rank among their
virtues; and, as a rule, hygiene was an unknown science. They were mostly
dirty and neglected in their personal appearance, and their houses were
certainly neither built nor kept in accordance with those laws of
sanitation which in the civilised world have become a matter of course.
Water was scarce, and the long and torrid summers, during which every bit
of vegetation was dried up on the veldt, had inured the population to
certain privations which would have been intolerable to Europeans. These
things, and the unfortunate habits of the Boers, made it extremely
difficult, if not impossible, to realise in the Camps any approach to the
degree of cleanliness which was desirable.
To say that the people in the Concentration Camps were happy would be a
gross exaggeration, but to say that they were martyrs would convey an
equally false idea. When judging of facts one ought always to remember the
local conditions under which these facts have developed. A Russian moujik
sent to Siberia does not find that his life there is very much different
from what it was at home, but a highly civilised, well-educated man,
condemned to banishment in those frozen solitudes, suffers acutely, being
deprived of all that had made existence sweet and tolerable to him. I feel
certain that an Englishman, confined in one of the Concentration Camps of
South Africa, would have wished himself dead ten times a day, whilst the
wife of a Boer farmer would not have suffered because of missing soap and
water and clean towels and nicely served food, though she might have felt
the place hot and unpleasant, and might have lamented over the loss of the
home in which she had lived for years.
The Concentration Camps were a necessity, because without them thousands
of people, the whole white population of a country indeed, amounting to
something over sixty thousand people, would have died of hunger and cold.
The only means of existence the country Boers had was the produce of their
farms. This taken away from them, they were left in the presence of
starvation, and starvation only. This population, deprived of every means
of subsistence, would have invaded Cape Colony, which already was overrun
with white refugees from Johannesburg and the Rand, who had proved a
prolific source of the greatest annoyance to the British Government. To
allow this mass of miserable humanity to wander all over the Colony would
have been inhuman, and I would like to know what those who, in England and
upon the Continent, were so indignant over the Concentration Camps would
have said had it turned out that some sixty thousand human creatures had
been allowed to starve.
The British Government, owing to the local conditions under which the
South African War came to be fought, found itself in a dilemma, out of
which the only escape was to try to relieve wholesale misery in the most
practical manner possible. There was no time to plan out with deliberation
what ought to be done; some means had to be devised to keep a whole
population alive whom an administration would have been accused of
murdering had there been delay in feeding it.
There was also another danger to be faced had the veldt been allowed to
become the scene of a long-continued migration of nations--that of
allowing the movements of the British troops to become known, thereby
lengthening a war of already intolerable length, to say nothing of
exposing uselessly the lives of English detachments, which, in this
guerrilla kind of warfare, would inevitably have occurred had the Boer
leaders remained in constant communication with their wandering
compatriots.
Altogether the institution of the Concentration Camps was not such a bad
one originally. Unfortunately, they were not organised with the
seriousness which ought to have been brought to bear on such a delicate
matter, and their care was entrusted to people who succeeded, unwittingly
perhaps, in making life there less tolerable than it need have been.
I visited some of the Concentration Camps, and looked into their interior
arrangements with great attention. The result of my personal observations
was invariably the same--that where English officials were in charge of
these Camps everything possible was done to lighten the lot of their
inmates. But where others were entrusted with surveillance, every kind of
annoyance, indignity and insult was offered to poor people obliged to
submit to their authority.
In this question, as in many others connected with the Boer War, it was
the local Jingoes who harmed the British Government more than anything
else, and the Johannesburg Uitlanders, together with the various Volunteer
Corps and Scouts, brought into the conduct of the enterprises with which
they were entrusted an intolerance and a smallness of spirit which
destroyed British prestige far more than would have done a dozen
unfortunate wars. The very fact that one heard these unwise people openly
say that every Boer ought to be killed, and that even women and children
ought to be suppressed if one wanted to win the war, gave abroad the idea
that England was a nation thirsting for the blood of the unfortunate
Afrikanders. This mistaken licence furnished the Bond with the pretext to
persuade the Dutch Colonists to rebel, and the Boer leaders with that of
going on with their resistance until their last penny had been exhausted
and their last gun had been captured.
Without these detestable Jingoes, who would have done so much harm not
only to South Africa, but also to their Mother Country, England, it is
certain that an arrangement, which would have brought about an honourable
peace for everybody, could have come much sooner than it did. A
significant fact worth remembering--that the Boers did not attempt to
destroy the mines on the Rand--goes far to prove that they were not at all
so determined to hurt British property, or to ruin British residents, or
to destroy the large shareholder concerns to which the Transvaal owed its
celebrity, as was credited to them.
When the first rumours that terrible things were going on in the
Concentration Camps reached England there were found at once amateurs
willing to start for South Africa to investigate the truth of the
accusations. A great fuss was made over an appeal by Lady Maxwell, the
wife of the Military Governor of Pretoria, in which she entreated America
to assist her in raising a fund to provide warm clothing for the Boer
women and children. Conclusions were immediately drawn, saddling the
military authorities with responsibility for the destitution in which
these women and children found themselves. But in the name of common
sense, how could one expect that people who had run away before what they
believed to be an invasion of barbarians determined to burn down and
destroy all their belongings--how could one expect that these people in
their flight would have thought about taking with them their winter
clothes, which, in the hurry of a departure in a torrid summer, would only
have proved a source of embarrassment to them? More recently we have seen
in Belgium, France, Poland and the Balkans what occurred to the refugees
who fled before foreign invasion. The very fact of Lady Maxwell's appeal
proved the solicitude of the official English classes for the unfortunate
Boers and their desire to do something to provide them with the
necessaries of life.
Everybody knows the amount of money which is required in cases of this
kind, and--in addition to America's unstinting response--public and
private charity in Britain flowed as generously as it always does upon
every occasion when an appeal is made to it in cases of real misfortune.
But when it comes to relieve the wants of about sixty-three thousand
people, of all ages and conditions, this is not so easy to do as persons
fond of criticising things which they do not understand are apt sweepingly
to declare. Very soon the question of the Concentration Camps became a
Party matter, and was made capital of for Party purposes without
discrimination or restraint. Sham philanthropists filled the newspapers
with their indignation, and a report was published in the form of a
pamphlet by Miss Hobhouse, which, it is to be feared, contained some
percentage of tales poured into her ears by people who were nurtured in
the general contempt for truth which at that time existed in South Africa.
If the question of Concentration Camps had been examined seriously, it
would have been at once perceived what a tremendous burden the
responsibility of having to find food and shelter for thousands of enemy
people imposed on English officials. No one in Government circles
attempted or wished to deny, sorrowful as it was to have to recognise it,
that the condition of the Camps was not, and indeed could not be, nearly
what one would have wished or desired. On the other hand, the British
authorities were unremitting in their efforts to do everything which was
compatible with prudence to improve the condition of these Camps.
Notwithstanding, people were so excited in regard to the question, and it
was so entirely a case of "Give a dog a bad name," that even the
appointment of an Imperial Commission to report on the matter failed to
bring them to anything approaching an impartial survey. Miss Hobhouse's
report had excited an emotion only comparable to the publication of Mrs.
Beecher Stowe's famous novel, "Uncle Tom's Cabin."
Miss Hobhouse came to South Africa inspired by the most generous motives,
but her lack of knowledge of the conditions of existence common to
everyone in that country prevented her from forming a true opinion as to
the real hardship of what she was called upon to witness. Her own
interpretations of the difficulties and discomforts which she found
herself obliged to face proved that she had not realised what South Africa
really was. Her horror at the sight of a snake in one of the tents she
visited could only evoke a smile from those who had lived for some time in
that country, as a visitor of that particular kind was possible even in
the suburbs of Cape Town, and certainly offered nothing wonderful in a
tent on the high veldt. The same remark can be applied to the hotels,
which Miss Hobhouse described as something quite ghastly. Everyone who
knew what South Africa really was could only agree with her that the
miserable places there were anything but pleasant residences, but the fuss
which she made as to these trivial details could only make one sceptical
as to the genuineness of the other scenes which she described at such
length. No one who had had occasion to watch the development of the war or
the circumstances which had preceded it could bring himself to believe
with her that the British Government was guilty of premeditated cruelty.
Of course, it was quite dreadful for those who had been taken to the
Concentration Camps to find themselves detained there against their will,
but at the same time, as I have already remarked, the question remains as
to what these people would have done had they been left absolutely
unprotected and unprovided for among the remnants of what had once been
their homes. It was certain that Miss Hobhouse's pamphlet revealed a
parlous state of things, but did she realise that wood, blankets, linen
and food were not things which could be transported with the quickness
that those responsible heartily desired? Did she remember that the British
troops also had to do without the most elementary comforts, in spite of
all the things which were constantly being sent from home for the benefit
of the field forces? Both had in South Africa two enemies in common that
could not be subdued--distance and difficulty of communication. With but a
single line of railway, which half the time was cut in one place or
another, it was but natural that the Concentration Camps were deprived of
a good many things which those who were compelled to live within their
limits would, under different circumstances or conditions, have had as a
matter of course.
Miss Hobhouse had to own that she met with the utmost courtesy from the
authorities with whom she had to deal, a fact alone which proved that the
Government was only too glad to allow people to see what was being done
for the Boer women and children, and gratefully appreciated every useful
suggestion likely to lighten the sad lot of those in the Camps.
It is no use denying, and indeed no one, Sir Alfred Milner least of all,
would have denied that some of the scenes witnessed by Miss Hobhouse,
which were afterwards described with such tremulous indignation, were of a
nature to shock public opinion both at home and abroad. But, at the same
time, it was not fair to circumstances or to people to have a false
sentimentality woven into what was written. Things ought to have been
looked upon through the eyes of common sense and not through the
refracting glasses of the indignation of the moment. It was a libel to
suggest that the British authorities rendered themselves guilty of
deliberate cruelty, because, on the contrary, they always and upon every
occasion did everything they could to lighten the lot of the enemy peoples
who had fallen into their hands.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PRISONERS' CAMPS
I went myself very carefully into the details of whatever information I
was able to gather in regard to the treatment of Boer prisoners in the
various Camps, notably at Green Point near Cape Town, and I always had to
come to the conclusion that nothing could have been better. Is it likely
that, when such an amount of care was bestowed upon the men, the women and
children should have been made the objects of special persecution? No
impartial person could believe such a thing to have been possible, and I
feel persuaded that if the people who in England contributed to make the
position of the British Government more difficult than already it was,
could have glanced at some Prisoners' Camps, for instance, they would very
quickly have recognised that an unbalanced sentimentality had exaggerated
facts, and even in some cases distorted them.
In Green Point the prisoners were housed in double-storied buildings which
had balconies running round them. Here they used to spend many hours of
the day, for not only could they see what was going on around the Camps
but also have a good view of the sea and passing ships. Each room held six
men, and there was besides a large mess-room downstairs in each building
which held about ninety people. Each Boer officer had a room for himself.
When, later on, the number of prisoners of war was increased, tents had to
be erected to accommodate them; but this could hardly be considered
hardship in the climate which prevails at the Cape, and cannot be compared
to what at the present moment the soldiers of the Allies are enduring in
the trenches. The tents were put in a line of twenty each, and each score
had a building attached for the men in that line to use as a dormitory if
they chose. Excellent bathrooms and shower-baths were provided, together
with a plentiful supply of water. The feeding of the prisoners of war was
on a substantial scale, the daily rations per man including:
Bread 1¼ lb.
Meat (fresh) 1 lb.
Sugar 3 oz.
Coal (or) 1 lb.
Wood (or) 2 lb.
Coal and wood 1½ lb.
Vegetables ½ lb.
Jam ¼ lb., or 6 oz. of
vegetables in lieu.
Coffee, milk and other items were also in like generous apportionments.
The clothing issued to the prisoners, as asked for by them, to give the
month of June, 1901, as an instance, was:
Boots 143 pairs
Braces 59 pairs
Hats 164
Jackets 133
Shirts 251
Socks 222 pairs
Trousers 166
Waistcoats 87
and other small sundries.
At Green Point Camp ample hospital accommodation was provided for the
sick, and there was a medical staff thoroughly acquainted with the Dutch
language and Boer habits. There was electric light in every ward, as well
as all other comforts compatible with discipline.
In the first six months of 1901 only five men died in the Camps, the
average daily strength of which was over 5,000 men. As for the sick, the
average rarely surpassed 1 per cent., amongst which were included wounded
men, the cripples, and the invalids left behind from the parties of war
prisoners sent oversea to St. Helena or other places.
The hospital diet included, as a matter of course, many things not forming
part of the ordinary rations, such as extra milk, meat extracts, and
brandy. A suggestive fact in that respect was that though the medical
officers in charge of the Camps often appealed to Boer sympathisers to
send them eggs, milk and other comforts for the sick prisoners, they
hardly ever met with response; and in the rare cases when it happened, it
was mostly British officials or officers' wives who provided these
luxuries.
The spiritual needs of the prisoners of war were looked after with
consideration; there was a recreation room, and, during the time that a
large number of very young Boers were in Camps, an excellent school, in
which the headmaster and assistant teachers held teachers' certificates.
Under the Orange River Colony this school was later transferred to the
Prisoners of War Camp at Simonstown, and in both places it did a
considerable amount of good. The younger Boers took very kindly and almost
immediately to English games such as football, cricket, tennis and quoits,
for which there was plenty of room, and the British authorities provided
recreation huts, and goal posts and other implements. The Boers also
amused themselves with amateur theatricals, club-swinging, and even formed
a minstrel troup called the "Green Point Spreemos."
In the Camps there was a shop where the Boers could buy anything that they
required in reason at prices regulated by the Military Commandant. Beyond
this, relatives and friends were allowed to send them fruit or anything
else, with the exception of firearms. In the Boer laagers were coffee
shops run by speculative young Boers. The prisoners used to meet there in
order to drink coffee, eat pancakes and talk to heart's content. This
particular spot was generally called Pan Koek Straat, and the wildest
rumours concerning the war seemed to originate in it.
Now as to the inner organisation of the Camps. The prisoners were allowed
to choose a corporal from their midst and also to select a captain for
each house. Over the whole Camp there reigned a Boer Commandant, assisted
by a Court of "Heemraden" consisting of exlandrosts and lawyers appointed
by the prisoners of war themselves. Any act of insubordination or
inattention to the regulations, sanitary or otherwise, was brought before
this court and the guilty party tried and sentenced. When the latter
refused to abide by the judgment of the Boer court he was brought before
the Military Commandant, but for this there was very seldom need.
The prisoners of war had permission to correspond with their friends and
relatives, and were allowed newspapers and books. The former, however,
were rather too much censored, which fact constituted an annoyance which,
with the exertion of a little tact, might easily have been avoided.
As will be seen from the details, the fate of the Boer prisoners of war
was not such a bad one after all. Nor, either, was life in the
Concentration Camps, and I have endeavoured to throw some new light on the
subject to rebut the old false rumours which, lately, the German
Government revived when taxed with harsh treatment of their own prisoners
of war, so as to draw comparisons advantageously to themselves.
While adhering to my point, I quite realise that it would be foolish to
assert that all the Concentration Camps were organised and administered on
the model of the Green Point Camp, where its vicinity to Cape Town allowed
the English authorities to control everything that was going on. In the
interior of the country things could not be arranged upon such an
excellent scale, but had there not existed such a state of irritation all
over the whole of South Africa--an irritation for which the so-called
English loyalists must also share the blame--matters would not have grown
so sadly out of proportion to the truth, painful though the facts were in
some cases.
This question of the Camps was admittedly a most difficult one. It was the
result of a method of warfare which was imposed upon England by
circumstances, but for which no individual Minister or General was solely
responsible. The matter was brought about by successive steps that turned
out to be necessary, though they were deplorable in every respect. Failing
the capture of the Boer commandoes, which was well-nigh impossible, the
British troops were driven to strip the country, and stripping the country
meant depriving not only the fighting men but also the women and children
of the means of subsistence. Concentration, therefore, followed
inevitably, and England found itself burdened with the immense
responsibility of feeding, housing and clothing some sixty thousand women
and children.
In spite of the British officers in charge of the Concentration Camps
struggling manfully with this crushing burden of anxiety, and doing all
that lay within their power to alleviate the sufferings of this multitude,
cruel and painful things happened. The food, which was sufficient and
wholesome for soldiers, could not do for young people, and yet it was
impossible to procure any other for them. If the opinion of the military
had been allowed to be expressed openly, one would have found probably
that they thought England ought never to have assumed this responsibility,
but rather have chosen the lesser evil and left these people on their
farms, running the risk of the Boers provisioning themselves therefrom.
The risk would not, perhaps, have been so great as could have been
supposed at first sight, but then this ought to have been done from the
very beginning of the war, and the order to burn the Boer farms ought
never to have been given. But once the Boer farms had been deprived of
their military use to the enemy, these people could not be turned back to
starve on the veldt; the British had to feed them or earn the reproach of
having destroyed a nation by hunger. As things had developed it was
impossible for Great Britain to have followed any other policy--adopted,
perhaps, in a moment of rashness, but the consequences had to be accepted.
It only remained to do the best toward mitigating as far as possible the
sufferings of the mass of humanity gathered into the Camps, and this I
must maintain that the English Government did better than could have been
expected by any who knew South Africa and the immense difficulties which
beset the British authorities.
It must not be forgotten that when the war began it was looked upon in the
light of a simple military promenade; and, who knows, it might have been
that had not the Boers been just as mistaken concerning the intentions of
England in respect of them as England was in regard to the Boer military
strength and power of resistance. One must take into account that for the
few years preceding the war, and especially since the fatal Jameson Raid,
the whole of the Dutch population of the Transvaal and of the Orange Free
State, as well as that of Cape Colony, was persuaded that England had made
up its mind to destroy it and to give up their country, as well as their
persons, into the absolute power of the millionaires who ruled the Rand.
On their side the millionaires openly declared that the mines were their
personal property, and that England was going to war to give the Rand to
them, and thereafter they were to rule this new possession without any
interference from anyone in the world, not even that of England. Such a
state of things was absolutely abnormal, and one can but wonder how ideas
of the kind could have obtained credence. But, strange as it may seem, it
is an indisputable fact that the opinion was prevalent all over South
Africa that the Rand was to be annexed to the British Empire just in the
same way as Rhodesia had been and under the same conditions. Everyone in
South Africa knew that the so-called conquest of the domain of King
Lobengula had been effected only because it had been supposed that it was
as rich in gold and diamonds as the Transvaal.
When Rhodes had taken possession of the vast expanse of territory which
was to receive his name, the fortune-seekers who had followed in his
footsteps had high anticipations of speedy riches, and came in time to
consider that they had a right to obtain that which they had come to look
for. These victims of money-hunger made Rhodes personally responsible for
the disappointments which their greed and unhealthy appetites encountered
when at last they were forced to the conclusion that Rhodesia was a land
barren of gold. In time, perhaps, and at enormous expense, it might be
developed for the purpose of cattle breeding, but gold and diamonds either
did not exist or could only be found in such small quantities that it was
not worth while looking for them.
As a result of this realisation, Rhodes found himself confronted by all
these followers, who loudly clamoured around him their indignation at
having believed in his assertions. What wonder, therefore, that the
thoughts of these people turned toward the possibility of diverting the
treasures of the Transvaal into their own direction. Rhodes was brought
into contact with the idea that it was necessary to subdue President
Kruger. With a man of Rhodes' impulsive character to begin wishing for a
thing was sufficient to make him resort to every means at his disposal to
obtain it. The Boer War was the work of the Rhodesian party, and long
before it broke out it was expected, spoken of, and considered not only by
the Transvaal Government, but also by the Burghers, who, having many
opportunities of visiting the Cape as well as Rhodesia, had there heard
expression of the determination of the South African League, and of those
who called themselves followers and partisans of Rhodes, to get hold of
the Rand, at the head of which, as an inevitable necessity, should be the
Colossus himself. No denial of these plans ever came from Rhodes. By his
attitude, even when relations between London and Pretoria were excellent,
he gave encouragement to the people who were making all kinds of
speculations as to what should happen when the Transvaal became a Crown
Colony.
The idea of a South African Federation had not at that time taken hold of
public opinion, and, if Rhodes became its partisan later on, it was only
after he had realised that the British Cabinet would never consent to put
Johannesburg on the same footing as Bulawayo and Bechuanaland. Too large
and important interests were at stake for Downing Street to look with
favourable eyes on the Rand becoming only one vast commercial concern. A
line had to be drawn, but, unfortunately, the precise demarcation was not
conveyed energetically enough from London. On the other hand, Cecil
Rhodes, as well as his friends and advisers, did not foresee that a war
would not put them in power at the Transvaal, but would give that country
to the Empire to rule, to use its riches and resources for the good of the
community at large.
The saddest feature of the South African episode was its sordidness. This
robbed it of every dignity and destroyed every sympathy of those who
looked at it impartially or from another point of view than that of
pounds, shillings and pence. England has been cruelly abused for its
conduct in South Africa, and abused most unjustly. Had that feeling of
trust in the justice and in the straightforwardness of Great Britain only
existed in the Dark Continent, as it did in the other Colonies and
elsewhere, it would have proved the best solution to all the entangled
questions which divided the Transvaal Republic from the Mother Country by
reason of its manner of looking at the exploitation of the gold mines. On
its side too, perhaps, England might have been brought to consider the
Boers in a different light had she disbelieved a handful of people who had
every interest in the world to mislead her and to keep her badly informed
as to the truth of the situation.
When war broke out it was not easy for the Command to come at once to a
sane appreciation of the situation, and, unfortunately for all the parties
concerned, the unjust prejudices which existed in South Africa against Sir
Alfred Milner had to a certain extent tinctured the minds of people at
home, exercising no small influence on the men who ought to have helped
the High Commissioner to carry through his plans for the settlement of the
situation subsequently to the war. The old saying, "Calumniate,
calumniate, something will always remain after it," was never truer than
in the case of this eminent statesman.
It took some time for matters to be put on a sound footing, and before
this actually occurred many mistakes had been made, neither easy to
rectify nor possible to explain. Foremost among them was this question of
the Concentration Camps. Not even the protestations of the women who
subsequently went to the Cape and to the Transvaal to report officially on
the question were considered sufficient to dissipate the prejudices which
had arisen on this unfortunate question. The best reply that was made to
Miss Hobhouse, and to the lack of prudence which spoiled her good
intentions, was a letter which Mrs. Henry Fawcett addressed to the
_Westminster Gazette_. In clear, lucid diction this letter re-established
facts on their basis of reality, and explained with self-respect and
self-control the inner details of a situation which the malcontents had
not given themselves the trouble to examine.
"First," says this forceful document, "I would note Miss Hobhouse's
frequent acknowledgments that the various authorities were doing their
best to make the conditions of Camp life as little intolerable as
possible. The opening sentence of her report is, 'January 22.--I had a
splendid truck given me at Cape Town through the kind co-operation of Sir
Alfred Milner--a large double-covered one, capable of holding twelve
tons.' In other places she refers to the help given to her by various
officials. The commandant at Aliwal North had ordered £150 worth of
clothing, and had distributed it; she undertook to forward some of it. At
Springfontein 'the commandant was a kind man, and willing to help both the
people and me as far as possible.' Other similar quotations might be made.
Miss Hobhouse acknowledges that the Government recognise that they are
responsible for providing clothes, and she appears rather to deprecate the
making and sending of further supplies from England. I will quote her
exact words on this point. The italics are mine. 'The demand for clothing
is so huge that it is hopeless to think that the private charity of
England and Colonial working parties combined can effectually cope with
it. _The Government recognise that they must provide necessary clothes,_
and I think we all agree that, having brought these people into this
position, it is their duty to do so. _It is, of course, a question for
English folk to decide how long they like to go on making and sending
clothes._ There is no doubt they are immensely appreciated; besides, they
are mostly made up, which the Government clothing won't be.' Miss Hobhouse
says that many of the women in the Camp at Aliwal North had brought their
sewing machines. If they were set to work to make clothes it might serve a
double purpose of giving them occupation and the power of earning a little
money, and it would also ensure the clothes being made sufficiently large.
Miss Hobhouse says people in England have very incorrect notions of the
magnificent proportions of the Boer women. Blouses which were sent from
England intended for women could only be worn by girls of twelve and
fourteen; they were much too small for the well-developed Boer maiden, who
is really a fine creature. Could a woman's out-out size be procured? It
must be remembered that when Miss Hobhouse saw the Camps for the first
time it was in January, the hottest month in the South African year; the
difficulty of getting supplies along a single line of rail, often broken
by the enemy, was very great. The worst of the Camps she saw was at
Bloemfontein, and the worst features of this worst Camp were:
"1. Water supply was bad.
"2. Fuel was very scarce.
"3. Milk was very scarce.
"4. Soap was not to be had.
"5. Insufficient supply of trained nurses.
"6. Insufficient supply of civilian doctors.
"7. No ministers of religion.
"8. No schools for children.
"9. Exorbitant prices were demanded in the shops.
"10. Parents had been separated from their children.
"Within the Report itself, either in footnotes or in the main body of the
Report, Miss Hobhouse mentions that active steps had already been taken to
remedy these evils. Tanks had been ordered to boil all the water. She left
money to buy another, and supplied every family with a pan to hold boiled
water. Soap was given out with the rations. 'Moreover, the Dutch are so
very full of resources and so clever they can make their own soap with fat
and soda.' The milk supply was augmented; during the drought fifty cows
only yielded four buckets of milk daily. 'After the rains the milk supply
was better.' An additional supply of nurses were on their way. 'The Sister
had done splendid work in her domain battling against incessant
difficulties ... and to crown the work she has had the task of training
Boer girls to nurse under her guidance.'
"Ministers of religion are in residence, and schools under Mr. E.B.
Sargant, the Educational Commissioner, are open for boys and girls.
Children have been reunited to parents, except that some girls, through
Miss Hobhouse's kind efforts, have been moved away from the Camps
altogether into boarding schools. Even in this Bloemfontein Camp,
notwithstanding all that Miss Hobhouse says of the absence of soap and the
scarcity of water, she is able to write: 'All the tents I have been in are
exquisitely neat and clean, except two, and they are ordinary.' Another
important admission about this Camp is to be found in the last sentence of
the account of Miss Hobhouse's second visit to Bloemfontein. She describes
the iron huts which have been erected there at a cost of £2,500, and says:
'It is so strange to think that every tent contains a family, and every
family is in trouble--loss behind, poverty in front, privation and death
in the present--but they have agreed to be cheerful and make the best of
it all.'
"There can be no doubt that the sweeping together of about 68,000 men,
women and children into these Camps must have been attended by great
suffering and misery, and if they are courageously borne it is greatly to
the credit of the sufferers. The questions the public will ask, and will
be justified in asking, are:
"1. Was the creation of these Camps necessary from the military point of
view?
"2. Are our officials exerting themselves to make the conditions of the
Camps as little oppressive as possible?
"3. Ought the public at home to supplement the efforts of the officials,
and supply additional comforts and luxuries?
"The reply to the first question can only be given by the military
authorities, and they have answered it in the affirmative. Put briefly,
their statement is that the farms on the veldt were being used by small
commandoes of the enemy as storehouses for food, arms and ammunition; and,
above all, they have been centres for supplying false information to our
men about the movements of the enemy, and correct information to the enemy
about the movements of the British. No one blames the Boer women on the
farms for this; they have taken an active part on behalf of their own
people in the war, and they glory in the fact. But no one can take part in
war without sharing in its risks, and the formation of the Concentration
Camps is part of the fortune of war. In this spirit 'they have agreed,' as
Miss Hobhouse says, 'to be cheerful and make the best of it.'
"The second question--'Are our officials exerting themselves to make the
Camps as little oppressive as possible?'--can also be answered in the
affirmative, judging from the evidence supplied by Miss Hobhouse herself.
This does not imply that at the date of Miss Hobhouse's visit, or at any
time, there were not matters capable of improvement. But it is confessed
even by hostile witnesses that the Government had a very difficult task,
and that its officials were applying themselves to grapple with it with
energy, kindness and goodwill. Miss Hobhouse complains again and again of
the difficulty of procuring soap. May I quote, as throwing light upon the
fact that the Boer women were no worse off than the English themselves,
that Miss Brooke-Hunt, who was in Pretoria to organise soldiers'
institutes a few months earlier than Miss Hobhouse was at Bloemfontein,
says in her interesting book, 'A Woman's Memories of the War': 'Captain
---- presented me with a piece of Sunlight soap, an act of generosity I
did not fully appreciate till I found that soap could not be bought for
love or money in the town.' A Boer woman of the working-class said to Miss
Brooke-Hunt: 'You English are different from what I thought. They told us
that if your soldiers got inside Pretoria they would rob us of everything,
burn our houses, and treat us cruelly; but they have all been kind and
respectable. It seems a pity we did not know this before.' Miss Hobhouse
supplies some rather similar testimony. In her Report she says: 'The
Mafeking Camp folk were very surprised to hear that English women cared a
rap about them or their suffering. It has done them a lot of good to hear
that real sympathy is felt for them at home, and I am so glad I fought my
way here, if only for that reason.'
"In what particular way Miss Hobhouse had to fight her way to the Camps
does not appear, for she acknowledges the kindness of Lord Kitchener and
Lord Milner in enabling her to visit them; we must therefore suppose that
they provided her with a pass. But the sentence just quoted is enough in
itself to furnish the answer to the third question--'Is it right for the
public at home to supplement by gifts of additional comforts and luxuries
the efforts of our officials to make Camp life as little intolerable as
possible?' All kinds of fables have been told to the Boer men and women of
the brutality and ferocity of the British. Let them learn by practical
experience, as many of them have learnt already, that the British soldier
is gentle and generous, and that his women-folk at home are ready to do
all in their power to alleviate the sufferings of the innocent victims of
the war. I know it will be said, 'Let us attend to the suffering loyalists
first.' It is a very proper sentiment, and if British generosity were
limited to the gift of a certain definite amount in money or in kind, I
would be the first to say, 'Charity begins at home, and our people must
come first.' But British generosity is not of this strictly measured kind.
By all means let us help the loyal sufferers by the war; but let us also
help the women and children of those who have fought against us, not with
any ulterior political motive, but simply because they have suffered and
are bound to suffer much, and wounded hearts are soothed and healed by
kindness.
"Mr. Rowntree has spoken quite publicly of the deep impression made on the
Boer women by the kindness shown them by our men. One said she would be
always glad to shake hands with a British soldier; it was because of the
kindly devices they had invented to make over their own rations to the
women and children during the long journey when all were suffering from
severe privations. Another Boer girl, referring to an act of kindness
shown her by a British officer, remarked quietly: 'When there is so much
to make the heart ache it is well to remember deeds of kindness.' The more
we multiply deeds of kindness between Boer and Briton in South Africa, the
better for the future of the two races, who, we hope, will one day fuse
into a united nation under the British flag."
I hope the reader will forgive me for having quoted in such abundance from
Mrs. Fawcett's letter, but it has seemed to me that this plain,
unprejudiced and unsophisticated report, on a subject which could not but
have been viewed with deep sorrow by every enlightened person in England,
goes far to remove the doubts that might still linger in the minds of
certain people ignorant of the real conditions of existence in South
Africa.
A point insufficiently realised in regard to South African affairs is the
manner in which individuals comparatively devoid of education, and with
only a hazy notion of politics, contrived to be taken into serious
consideration not only by those who visited South Africa, but by a certain
section of English society at home, and also in a more restricted measure
by people at the Cape and in the Transvaal who had risen. These people
professed to understand local politics better than the British
authorities, and expected the officials, as well as public opinion in
Great Britain, to adopt their advice, and to recognise their right to
bring forward claims which they were always eager to prosecute.
Unfortunately they had friends everywhere, to whom they confided their
regrets that the British Government understood so very little the
necessities of the moment. As these malcontents were just back from the
Rand, there were plenty of people in Cape Town, and especially in Port
Elizabeth, Grahamstown, and other English cities in Cape Colony, ready to
listen to them, and to be influenced by the energetic tone in which they
declared that the Boers were being helped all along by Dutch Colonials who
were doing their best to betray the British.
In reality, matters were absolutely different, and those who harmed
England the most at that time were precisely the people who proclaimed
that they, and they alone, were loyal to her, and knew what was necessary
and essential to her interests and to her future at the Cape of Good Hope
and the Rand. Foremost amongst them were the adherents of Rhodes, and this
fact will always cling to his memory--most unfortunately and most
unjustly, I hasten to say, because had he been left absolutely free to do
what he liked, it is probable he would have been the first to get rid of
these encumbrances, whose interferences could only sow animosity where
kindness and good will ought to have been put forward. Cecil Rhodes wanted
to have the last and definite word to say in the matter of a settlement of
the South African difficulties, and as no one seemed willing to allow him
to utter it, he thought that he would contrive to attain his wishes on the
subject by seeming to support the exaggerations of his followers. Yet, at
the same time, he had the leaders of the Dutch party approached with a
view of inducing them to appeal to him to put himself at their head.
This double game, which while it lasted constituted one of the most
curious episodes in a series of events of which every detail was
interesting, I shall refer to later in more detail, but before doing so
must touch upon another, and perhaps just as instructive, question--the
so-called refugees, whose misfortunes and subsequent arrogance caused so
many anxious hours to Sir Alfred Milner during his tenure of office at the
Cape and later on in Pretoria.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN FLIGHT FROM THE RAND
One of the greatest difficulties with which the Imperial Government found
themselves confronted when relations between Great Britain and the
Transvaal became strained was the influx of refugees who at the first hint
of impending trouble left Johannesburg and the Rand, and flocked to Cape
Town.
The greater number were aliens. From Russia in particular they had flocked
to the Transvaal when they heard of its treasures. Adventurers from other
parts of Europe, with a sprinkling of remittance men, also deserted
Johannesburg. Only the few were real English residents who, from the time
the Rand had begun to develop, had been living and toiling there in order
to win sufficient for the maintenance of their families. All this mass of
humanity, which passed unnoticed when scattered over wide areas in the
vicinity of Pretoria or Johannesburg, had lived for many years in the
expectation of the day when the power of the Transvaal Republic would be
broken. They had discounted it perhaps more than they should have done had
the dictates of prudence been allowed to take the lead against the wishes
of their hearts.
When war became imminent the big mining houses considered it wiser to
close their offices and mines, and for these unfortunate beings, deprived
of their means of existence, the position became truly a lamentable one.
They could not very well remain where they were, because the Burghers, who
had never taken kindly to them, made no secret of their hostility, and
gave them to understand very clearly that as soon as war had been declared
they would simply turn them out without warning and confiscate their
property. Prudence advised no delay, and the consequence was that,
beginning with the month of August, and, indeed, the very first days which
followed upon the failure of the Bloemfontein Conference, a stream of
people from the Transvaal began migrating toward Cape Colony, which was
supposed to be the place where their sufferings would find a measure of
relief that they vainly imagined would prove adequate to their needs. At
the Cape, strangely enough, no one had ever given a thought to the
possibility of such a thing happening. In consequence, the public were
surprised by this persisting stream of humanity which was being poured
into the Colony; the authorities, too, began to feel a despair as to what
could be done. It is no exaggeration to say that for months many hundreds
of people arrived daily from the north, and that so long as communications
were kept open they continued to do so.
At first the refugees inundated the lodging-houses in Cape Town, but these
soon being full to overflowing, some other means had to be devised to
house and feed them. Committees were formed, with whom the Government
officials in the Colony worked with great zeal and considerable success
toward alleviating the misery with which they found themselves confronted
in such an unexpected manner. The Municipal Council, the various religious
communities, the Medical men--one and all applied themselves to relief
measures, even though they could not comprehend the reason of the blind
rush to the Cape. Nor, in the main, could the refugees explain more
lucidly than the one phrase which could, be heard on all sides, no matter
what might have been the social position: "We had to go away because we
did not feel safe on the Rand." In many cases it would have been far
nearer to the truth to say that they had to go because they could no
longer lead the happy-go-lucky existence they had been used to.
The most to be pitied among these people were most certainly the Polish
Jews, who originally had been expelled from Russia, and had come to seek
their fortunes at Johannesburg. They had absolutely no one to whom they
could apply, and, what was sadder still, no claim on anyone; on the
English Government least of all. One could see them huddling together on
the platform of Cape Town railway station, surrounded by bundles of rags
which constituted the whole of their earthly belongings, not knowing at
all what to do, or where to go to. Of course they were looked after,
because English charity has never stopped before differences of race and
creed, but still it was impossible to deny that their constantly
increasing number added considerably to the difficulties of the situation.
A Jewish Committee headed by the Chief Rabbi of Cape Town, the Rev. Dr.
Bender, worked indefatigably toward the relief of these unfortunate
creatures, and did wonders. A considerable number were sent to Europe, but
a good many elected to remain where they were, and had to be provided for
in some way till work could be found for them, which would at least allow
them to exist without being entirely dependent on public charity. Among
the aliens who showed a desire to remain in South Africa were many in
possession of resources of their own; but they carefully concealed the
fact, as, upon whatever it amounted to, they counted to rebuild their
fortunes when Britain became sole and absolute mistress on the Rand.
The most dangerous element in the situation was that group of easygoing
loafers who lived on the fringe of finance and picked up a living by doing
the odd things needed by the bigger speculators. When things began to be
critical, these idlers were unable to make money without working, and
while prating of their patriotism, made the British Government responsible
for their present state of penury. These men had some kind of instruction,
if not education, and pretended they understood all about politics, the
government of nations, and last, but not least, the conduct of the war.
Their free talk, inflamed with an enthusiasm got up for the occasion, gave
to the stranger an entirely incorrect idea of the position, and was
calculated to give rise to sharp and absolutely undeserved criticisms
concerning the conduct of the administration at home, and of the
authorities in the Colony. They also fomented hatred and spite between the
English and the Dutch.
The harm done by these people, at a moment when the efforts of the whole
community ought to have been directed toward allaying race hatred, and
smoothing down the differences which had arisen between the two white
sections of the population, is almost impossible of realisation for one
who was not in South Africa at the time, and who could not watch the slow
and gradual growth of the atmosphere of lies and calumny which gradually
divided like a crevasse the very people who, in unison, might have
contributed more than anything else to bring the war to a close. One must
not forget that among these refugees who poisoned the minds of their
neighbours with foundationless tales of horror, there were people who one
might have expected to display sound judgment in their appreciation of the
situation, and whose relatively long sojourn in South Africa entitled them
to be heard by those who found themselves for the first time in that
country. They were mostly men who could talk well, even eloquently; and
they discussed with such apparent knowledge all the circumstances which,
according to them, had brought about the war, that it was next to
impossible for the new-comers not to be impressed by their language--it
seemed bubbling over with the most intense patriotism.
The observer must take into account that among these people there happened
to be a good many who, as the war went on, enrolled themselves in the
various Volunteer Corps which were formed. These gave the benefit of their
experience to the British officers, who relied on the knowledge and
perception of their informants because of themselves, especially during
the first months which followed upon their landing, they could not come to
a clearly focused, impartial judgment of the difficulties with which they
found their efforts confronted. One must also remember that these officers
were mostly quite young men, full of enthusiasm, who flamed up whenever
the word rebellion was mentioned in their presence, and who, having
arrived in South Africa with the firm determination to win the war at all
costs, must not be blamed if in some cases they allowed their minds to be
poisoned by those who painted the plight of the country in such a
lugubrious tint. If, therefore, acts of what appeared to be cruelty were
committed by these officers, it would be very wrong to make them alone
responsible, because they were mostly done out of a spirit of self-defence
against an enemy whom they believed to be totally different from what he
was in reality, and who if only he had not been exasperated, would have
proved of better and healthier stuff than, superficially, his acts seemed
to indicate.
There was still another class of refugee, composed of what I would call
the rich elements of the Rand: the financiers, directors of companies;
managers and engineers of the different concerns to which Kimberley and
Johannesburg owed their celebrity. From the very first these rightly
weighed up the situation, and had been determined to secure all the
advantages which it held for anyone who gave himself the trouble to
examine it rationally. They came to Cape Town under the pretence of
putting their families out of harm's way, but in reality because they
wanted to be able to watch the development of the situation at its centre.
They hired houses at exorbitant prices in Cape Town itself, or the
suburbs, and lived the same kind of hospitable existence which had been
theirs in Johannesburg. Their intention was to be at hand at the
settlement, to put in their word when the question of the different
financial interests with which they were connected would crop up--as it
was bound to do.
The well-to-do executive class forming the last group had the greatest
cause to feel alarmed at the consequences which might follow upon the war.
Although they hoped that they would be able to maintain themselves on the
Rand in the same important positions which they had occupied previous to
the war, yet they had enough common sense to understand that they would
not be allowed under a British administration the same free hand that
President Kruger had given, or which they had been able to obtain from him
by means of "refreshers" administered in some shape or other. It is true
that they had always the alternative of retiring from South Africa to Park
Lane, whence they would be able to astonish Society, but they preferred to
wait, in case the crash were still delayed for some little time.
The big houses, such as Wernher, Beit and Co.--the head of which, at
Johannesburg, was Mr. Fred Eckstein, a man of decided ability, who perhaps
was one of those in South Africa who had judged the situation with
accuracy--would have preferred to see the crisis delayed. Mr. Eckstein and
other leading people knew very well that sooner or later the Transvaal was
bound to fall to England, and they would have felt quite content to wait
quietly until this event had been accomplished as a matter of course, by
the force of circumstances, without violence. President Kruger was such an
old man that one could, in a certain sense, discuss the consequences which
his demise was bound to bring to South Africa. There was no real necessity
to hurry on events, nor would they have been hurried had it not been for
the efforts of the Rhodesians, whose complaints had had more than anything
else to do with the failure of the Bloemfontein Conference, and all that
followed upon that regrettable incident. It was the Rhodesians, and not
the big houses of the Rand, who were most eager for the war.
The exploitation of Rhodesia, the principal aim of which was the
foundation of another Kimberley, had turned out to be a disappointment in
that respect, and there remained nothing but making the best of it,
particularly as countless companies had been formed all with a distinctly
mineral character to their prospectuses. Now, if the Rand, with all its
wealth and its still unexplored treasures, became an appanage of
Kimberley, it would be relatively easy to effect an amalgamation between
gold and diamond mines, which existed there, and the Rhodesian companies.
Under these conditions it was but natural that despite an intelligent
comprehension of the situation, Sir Alfred Milner was nevertheless unable
to push forward his own plans in regard to the Transvaal and its aged
President, Mr. Kruger.
The misfortune of the whole situation, as I have already pointed out, was
that the men who had attempted to play a high game of politics, in reality
understood very little about them, and that instead of thinking of the
interests of the Empire to which they professed themselves to be so deeply
attached, they thought in terms of their personal outlook. Rhodes alone of
those not in official position saw the ultimate aim of all these entangled
politics. But unfortunately, though he had the capacities and experience
of a statesman, he was not a patient man; indeed, throughout his life he
had acted like a big spoiled child, to whom must be given at once whatever
he desires. Too often he acted in the present, marring the future by
thinking only of the immediate success of his plans, and brutally starting
to work, regardless of consequences and of his personal reputation. Though
his soul was essentially that of a financier and he would ride rough-shod
over those who conducted their business affairs by gentler methods, yet at
the same time, by a kind of curious contrast, he was always ready, nay,
eager, to come to the material help of his neighbour--maybe out of
affection for him; maybe out of that special sort of contempt which makes
one sometimes throw a bone to a starving dog one has never seen before.
The greatest misfortune in Rhodes' life was his faculty, too often applied
upon occasions when it were best suppressed, of seeing the mean and sordid
aspects of an action, and of imagining that every man could be bought,
provided one knew the price. He was so entirely convinced of this latter
fact that it always caused him a kind of impatience he did not even give
himself the trouble to dissimulate, to find that he had been mistaken.
This happened to him once or twice in the course of his career.
The English party in the Colony regretted until the end of Rhodes' life
the strange aberration that allowed the Raid, and made him sacrifice his
reputation for the sake of hastening an event which, without his
interference, would almost surely soon have come to pass. The salient
feature of the Raid was its terrible stupidity; in that respect it was
worse than a crime, for crime is forgotten, but nothing can efface from
the memory of the world or the condemnation of history a colossally stupid
political blunder.
After the foolish attempt to seize hold of their country, the Boers
distrusted British honour and British integrity; and doubting the word or
promises of England, they made her responsible for this mistake of Cecil
Rhodes. Rhodes, however, refused to recognise the sad fact. The big
magnates of Johannesburg said that the wisest thing Rhodes could have done
at this critical juncture would have been to go to Europe, there to remain
until after the war, thus dissociating himself from the whole question of
the settlement, instead of intriguing to be entrusted with it.
The fact of Cecil Rhodes' absence would have cleared the whole situation,
relieved Sir Alfred Milner, and given to the Boers a kind of political and
financial security that peace would not be subject to the ambitions and
prejudices of their enemies, but concluded with a view to the general
interests of the country.
CHAPTER XV.
DEALING WITH THE REFUGEES
The refugees were a continual worry and annoyance to the English community
at the Cape. As time went on it became extremely difficult to conciliate
the differing interests which divided them, and to prevent them from
committing foolish or rash acts likely to compromise British prestige in
Africa. The refugees were for the most boisterous people. They insisted
upon being heard, and expected the whole world to agree with their
conclusions, however unstable these might be. It was absolutely useless to
talk reason to a refugee; he refused to listen to you, but considered
that, as he had been--as he would put it--compelled to leave that modern
paradise, the Rand, and to settle at Cape Town, it became the
responsibility of the inhabitants of Cape Town to maintain him. Table
Mountain echoed with the sounds of their vain talk. They considered that
they were the only people who knew anything about what the English
Government ought to do, and who criticised it the most, threatening at
every moment that they would write to their influential friends--even the
poorest and most obscure had "influential friends"--revealing the
abominable way in which English interests were neglected in Cape Colony,
where the Government, according to them, only helped the rebels, and
considered their wants and requirements in preference to those of their
own people.
At first, when they were not known as they deserved to be, some persons
fresh from the Mother Country, to whom South African morals and intrigues
were unknown, took to heart the position as well as the complaints of
those refugees. Hearing them continually mention cases in which rebel
Dutch had, in this way or that, shown their want of allegiance to the
British Government, conclusions were jumped at that there must exist a
reason for these recriminations and allegations, and that British
officials were in reality too anxious to conciliate the anti-English
elements in the Colony, to the detriment of the loyalists, whose feelings
of patriotism they considered, as a matter of course, required no reward
and scarcely any encouragement. These people, unequipped with the truth,
took up with a warmth which it certainly did not deserve the cause of
these loyalists, sought their advice, and formed a totally wrong and even
absurd opinion both as to South African politics and the conduct of the
representatives of the Queen in Cape Town.
All the misrepresentation and misunderstanding which took place
increasingly, led to animosity on the part of the Dutch. Rightly or
wrongly, it was taken as a matter of course that Rhodes favoured the idea
of a total annihilation of the Cape Dutch. And as he was considered a kind
of demigod by so many the idea was widely circulated, and became at last
deeply rooted in the minds of most of the white population of South
Africa, who, without being able to say why, considered it in consequence a
part of its duty to exaggerate in the direction of advocating severity
toward the Dutch. This did not contribute to smoothen matters, and it grew
into a very real danger, inimical to the conclusion of an honourable and
permanent peace. Federation, which at one time had been ardently wished
for almost everywhere, became a new cause for anxiety as soon as it was
known that Rhodes was in favour of it. People fancied that his ambitions
lay in the direction of a kind of dictatorship exercised by himself over
the whole of South Africa, a dictatorship which would make him in effect
master of the country.
This, however, was the last thing which the financiers on the Rand wished.
Indeed, they became quite alarmed at the thought that it might become
possible, and hastened to explain to Sir Alfred Milner the peril which
such a thing, if it ever happened, would constitute for the community at
large. Their constant attendance upon Sir Alfred, however, gave rise to
the idea that these financiers wanted to have it all their own way with
him and with the Cabinet at home, and that they meant to confiscate the
Transvaal to their own profit.
The presence of the moneyed class at the Cape had also another drawback:
it exasperated the poorer refugees, who could not forgive those who, too,
had fled the Rand, for having so successfully saved their own belongings
from the general ruin and remained rich, when so many of those who had
directly or indirectly helped them to acquire their wealth were starving
at their door. In reality the magnates of the Rand spent huge sums in the
relief of their poorer brethren in misfortune. I know from personal
experience, having often solicited them in favour of, say, some
unfortunate Russian Jew or a destitute Englishman who had lost all his
earthly belongings through the war. These millionaires, popularly accused
of being so hardhearted, were always ready with their purses to help those
who appealed to their charity. But the fact that they were able to live in
large and luxurious houses whilst so many others were starving in hovels,
that their wives wore diamonds and pearls, and that they seemed still to
be able to gratify their every desire, exasperated the multitude of
envious souls congregated at the Cape.
A general feeling of uneasiness and of unpleasantness began to weigh on
the whole atmosphere, and as it was hardly possible for anyone to attack
openly those who had inexhaustible purses, it became the fashion to say
that the Dutch were responsible for the general misfortune, and to
discover means of causing them unpleasantness.
On the other hand, as the war went on and showed no signs of subsiding,
the resources of those who, with perfect confidence in its short duration,
had left the Rand at a moment's notice, began to dwindle the more quickly
insomuch as they had not properly economised in the beginning, when the
general idea was prevalent that the English army would enter Pretoria for
the Christmas following upon the beginning of the war, and that an era of
unlimited prosperity was about to dawn in the Transvaal. I do believe that
among certain circles the idea was rooted that once President Kruger had
been expelled from the Rand its mines would become a sort of public
property accessible to the whole community at large, and controlled by all
those who showed any inclination for doing so.
The mine owners themselves looked upon the situation from a totally
different point of view. They had gathered far too much experience
concerning the state of things in South Africa to nurse illusions as to
the results of a war which was bound to put an end to the corruption of
the Transvaal Republic. They would have preferred infinitely to let things
remain in the condition into which they had drifted since the Raid,
because they understood that a strong British Government would be
interested in putting an end to the abuses which had transformed the Rand
into an annexe of the Stock Exchange of almost every European capital.
But, as the war had broken out, they preferred that it should end, in the
establishment of a regular administration which could neither be bought
nor persuaded to serve interests in preference to the public. They did not
relish the possible triumph of a single man, backed by a powerful
financial company, with whom they had never lived upon particularly
affectionate terms.
Rather than see South Africa continue under the influence which had
hitherto held it in grip, the magnates preferred to associate themselves
with Sir Alfred Milner to bring about as soon as possible a Federation of
the different South African States, where there would be no place for the
ambition of a single individual, and where the domination of one financial
company would become an impossibility. These magnates were reasonable
people after all, quite content, after they had taken the cream, to allow
others to drink. The fever for gold had left them. The fact was that these
people were not at all anxious to remain at Johannesburg; they preferred
to gather dividends in London rather than to toil in South Africa; the
merry, merry days of the Rand had come to an end.
Altogether, indeed, things were beginning to slow down at Johannesburg, in
spite of the fictitious agitation by the Rhodesian party. The war had come
as a relief to everybody, and afforded the magnates the opportunity which
they had been longing for, to enforce order and economy upon a stringent
scale in their mines and to begin modelling their concerns after a
European fashion, closing the door upon adventurers and cutting off the
"financial fringe." The times when new fields of exploitation were
discovered every day were at an end; the treasures which the Transvaal
contained in the way of precious metals and stones had all been located;
and very few surprises could be expected in that direction. It was time
for the pioneers to retire upon their laurels and to give to themselves,
as well as to their fortunes, the sedate appearance which they required in
order to be able to take a place amid the most elegant and exclusive
society of Europe. Had Rhodes remained alive he would have proved the one
great obstacle which the magnates of the Rand would have to take into
consideration, the disturbing element in a situation that required calm
and quiet.
If Cecil Rhodes had been allowed to decide alone as to the best course of
action to pursue he also might have come to the same conclusion as these
magnates. During those moments when he was alone with his own thoughts and
impulses he would have realised his duty toward his country. He was
conscious, if others were not, of how utterly he had lost ground in South
Africa, and he understood that any settlement of the South African
difficulties could only become permanent if his name were not associated
with it. This, though undeniable, was a great misfortune, because Rhodes
understood so perfectly the art of making the best of every situation, and
using the resources to hand, that there is no doubt he would have brought
forward a practical solution of the problems which had cropped up on every
side. He might have proved of infinite use to Sir Alfred Milner by his
thorough knowledge of the Dutch character and of the leaders of the Dutch
party with whom he had worked. But Rhodes was not permitted to decide
alone his line of conduct: there were his supporters to be consulted, his
so-called friends to pacify, the English Jingoes to satisfy, and, most
difficult of all, the Bond and Dutch party to please. Moreover, he had
been indulging in various intrigues of his own, half of which had been
conducted through others and half carried out alone, with what he believed
was success. In reality they proved to be more of these disappointments he
had courted with a carelessness which would have appeared almost
incredible if one did not know Cecil Rhodes. The Rhodesians, who with
intention had contrived to compromise him, never left him a moment to his
own thoughts. Without the flatterers who surrounded him Rhodes would
undoubtedly have risen to the height of the situation and frankly and
disinterestedly put himself at the disposal of the High Commissioner. But
they managed so to irritate him against the representative of the Queen,
so to anger him against the Dutch party to which he had belonged formerly,
and so to persuade him that everybody was jealous of his successes, his
genius and his position in South Africa, that it became relatively easy
with a man of Rhodes' character to make him smart under the sense of
non-appreciation. Thus goaded, Rhodes acted often without premeditation.
In contrast to this impatience and the sense of unsatisfied vanity, the
coolness and greatness of character of Sir Alfred Milner appeared in
strong contrast, even though many friends of earlier days, such as W.T.
Stead, had turned their backs upon Sir Alfred, accusing him of being the
cause of all the misfortunes which fell upon South Africa. But those who
thus condemned Sir Alfred did not understand the peculiar features of the
situation. He was credited with inspiring all the harsh measures which
were employed on occasion by others, measures which he had stridently
disapproved. Rhodes, in his place, would have killed somebody or destroyed
something; Sir Alfred went slowly on with his work, disdained praise as
well as blame, and looked toward the future. I leave it to the reader to
decide which of the two showed himself the better patriot.
The refugees did not take kindly to the High Commissioner. They had been
full of illusions concerning the help they fondly imagined he would be
glad to offer them, and when they discovered that, far from taking them to
his bosom, he discouraged their intention of remaining in Cape Town until
the end of the war, they grumbled and lied with freedom. Sir Alfred gave
them very distinctly to understand that they had better not rely on the
British Government to feed and clothe them. He said that they would be
well advised to try to find some work which would allow them to keep
themselves and their families. But especially he recommended them to go
back to Europe, which, he gravely assured the refugees, was the best place
for them and their talents. This did not please those refugees who posed
as martyrs of their English patriotism and as victims of the hatred of
Kruger and of the Dutch. They expected to be petted and flattered as those
looked up to as the saviours of the Empire.
All the foregoing applies to the middle-class section of the refugees. The
poorer ones grumbled also, but in a different manner, and their irritation
was rather directed towards the military authorities. As for the
millionaires, with a few exceptions they also did not care for the High
Commissioner for reasons elaborated in earlier pages of this volume. They
even considered that it would be prejudicial to their interests to allow
Rhodes to be upon too intimate terms with Sir Alfred Milner, so they kept
a faithful watch at Government House as well as at Groote Schuur, and in
doing so added to the tension which, up to the last moment of Sir Alfred's
tenure of office at Cape Town, existed between him and Cecil Rhodes. Too
courteous to tell his redoubtable adversary that he had better mind his
own business, convinced, on the other hand, of the latter's great
capacities and great patriotism, Sir Alfred was constantly doing all that
he could do in reason to pacify him. Cecil Rhodes used to make most bitter
and untrue remarks as to the stupidity of the Imperial Government at home
and the incapacity of the men in charge of its armies in South Africa. All
this was repeated right and left with the usual exaggeration, and reached,
as perhaps was intended, those whom it concerned. The result was that
Rhodes found himself tabooed at Pretoria. This he said was due to the
great fear which his influence over public opinion in South Africa
inspired among those in command there.
The big trouble with Rhodes was that he would never own himself in the
wrong. He quibbled, he hesitated, he postponed replies to questions
submitted for his consideration. He wearied everybody around him with his
constant prevarications in regard to facts he ought to have accepted
without flinching if he wanted to regain some of his lost prestige.
Unfortunately for himself and for the cause of peace in South Africa,
Rhodes fancied himself immensely clever at "biding his time," as he used
to say. He had ever lurking somewhere in his brain the conviction that one
day the whole situation at Cape Town and Pretoria would become so
entangled that they would have to send for him to beg him as a favour to
step round and by his magic touch unravel all difficulties. His curious
shyness, his ambition and his vanity battled with each other so long that
those in authority at last came to the sad conclusion that it was far
better to look elsewhere for support in their honest efforts at this
important moment in the existence of the African Continent.
One last attempt was made. It was backed up by people in London, among
others by Stead. Stead liked the Great Imperialist as well as one man can
like another, and had a great and justified confidence in Rhodes' good
heart as well as in that indefinable nobility which manifested itself at
times in his strange, wayward nature. Moreover, being gifted with a keen
sense of intuition, the famous journalist realised quite well the immense
work that might have been done by England through Rhodes had the latter
consented to sweep away those men around him who were self-interested.
But Rhodes preferred to maintain his waiting attitude, whilst trying at
the same time to accumulate as many proofs as possible that people wanted
him to assert himself at last. It was the fact that these proofs were
denied to him at the very minute when he imagined he held them already in
his hands which led to his suddenly turning once more against the persons
he had been almost on the point of propitiating. It led him to begin the
movement for the suspension of the Constitution in Cape Colony, out of
which he expected so much and which he intended to use as his principal
weapon against the enemies whom he suspected. That was the last great
political venture in his life; it failed, but merciful Providence allowed
him not to see the utter collapse of his latest house of cards.
CHAPTER XVI.
UNDER MARTIAL LAW
It may be useful, or at any rate of interest, before I lay my pen aside,
to refer to several things which, at the time they occurred, caused
torrents of ink to flow both in England and in South Africa.
The most important, perhaps, was the application of martial law in Cape
Colony. I must repeat that I hold no brief for England. My affection and
admiration for her does not go to the extent of remaining absolutely blind
to faults she has made in the past, and perhaps is making in the present.
I will not deny that martial law, which, unfortunately, is a necessity in
wartime, was sometimes applied with severity in South Africa. But the
odium rests principally on the loyalists; their spiteful information in
many cases induced British officers to treat as rebels people who had
never even dreamt of rebellion.
It must not be forgotten that those to whom was entrusted the application
of martial law had perforce to rely on local residents, whom they could
not possibly suspect of using these officers to satisfy private
animosities of further private interests. These British officers had never
been used to see suspicion reign as master, or to watch a perfectly
conscious twisting of the truth in order to condemn, or even destroy,
innocent people. A young and probably inexperienced officer sent into a
small place like Aliwal North or Uitenhage, for instance, found himself
obliged to rely for information as to the loyalty of the inhabitants on
some adventurer who, through capitalist influence, had obtained an
executive post of some kind. How can one wonder, therefore, that many
regrettable incidents occurred and were immediately made capital of by the
Bond party further to embitter the feelings of the Dutch Colonists?
Many illegal acts were performed under martial law; of some a mention was
made in the Cape Town Parliament; these, therefore, do not admit of doubt.
For instance, as Mr. Neethling said in the Legislative Council, a man of
seventy was sent down from Paarl to Beaufort West without being allowed to
say good-bye to his wife, who was left behind without means of support.
Their house was searched for papers, but without result, and the man--a
member of the Afrikander Bond--was sent back, after eighteen months'
deportation, without any charge having been made against him. He was an
auctioneer and shipping agent, and during his absence his business was
annexed by a rival. One British Colonial, who held office at Stellenbosch,
said to one family, without even making an inquiry as to their conduct,
"You are rebels and I will take your mules"--which was done. The mules
were afterwards sold to the Commissariat Department by the man who had
commandeered them. Is it a matter of astonishment, therefore, that many
people felt sore and bitter at all that they had undergone and were going
through?
The administration of martial law in the country districts was absolutely
deplorable; but when one examines minutely the circumstances of the cases
of injustice about which one could have no doubt, it always emerged that
these never proceeded from British officers, who, on the contrary,
wherever they found themselves in command, invariably acted with humanity.
The great mistake of the military authorities was that they had far too
much confidence in the Volunteer Corps and those members of it who were
only anxious to make money out of existing circumstances. Unfortunately,
certain officers in command of the different corps were extreme Jingoes,
and this distorted their whole outlook. People said at the time of the war
that some districts of Cape Colony had been turned into hells; some
things, in truth, called for strong comment. No words could be energetic
enough to describe the manner in which martial law had been
administered--in the district of Graaf Reinet, for instance. The
commandants--this justice must be rendered to them--generally meant well,
but, unfortunately, they were assisted by men of less stable character as
intelligence officers. These, in their turn, unwisely without due inquiry,
engaged subordinates, upon whom they relied for their information. Graaf
Reinet people had had to put up with something akin to the Spanish
Inquisition. Men there were afraid to speak for fear of espionage, the
most innocent remarks were distorted by spies recruited from an uncertain
section of the community. A cattle inspector was deported without trial;
in consequence, the Secretary for Agriculture decided not to employ him
again; at Graaf Reinet a Colonial intelligence officer constantly declared
in public that it was his intention to drive the people into rebellion;
and so instances could be multiplied.
The rebellion was not due to martial law. In Graaf Reinet the prison was
frequently so crowded, often by men who did not in the least know why,
that no more sleeping accommodation could be found in it. People were in
durance vile because they would not join the town guard or defence force.
So overcrowded the prison became that many persons contracted disease
during their incarceration.
For these sad occurrences the Cape Government was not initially to blame;
more than once they had remonstrated with the local military authorities,
but reports concerning their conduct were not allowed to reach the ears of
Lord Roberts or of Lord Kitchener. Very often a Hottentot informed against
respectable citizens to the intelligence officer, and by virtue of that
they were imprisoned as long as the military authorities deemed fit. When
released, a man would sometimes find that his house had been sacked and
his most valuable property carried away. Persons were deported at an
hour's notice without reasons being given, and thereafter scouts took
possession of their farms and plundered and destroyed everything. Four
wagon-loads of men, women and children were deported from their homes at
Beaufort West. In vain did they ask what they had done. Everybody of the
name of Van Zyl in the district of Graaf Reinet was deported! not a single
person was left on their farms except those who had driven them out of
them. And after these had done their work the victims were told, "Now you
can return home." Some had to walk back many miles to their farms, to find
only ruin left. Many white people were imprisoned on the mere evidence of
coloured persons, the reputation for veracity of whom was well known all
over South Africa, and whose evidence against a white man would never have
been admitted in any court of law previous to the war.
In Uitenhage the same kind of thing occurred. It was sufficient for a Boer
column to pass near the farm of an Afrikander for the latter to be taken
to prison without the slightest investigation. No one knew where the fines
paid went, and certainly a good many of those which were imposed by the
commanders of the scouts and volunteer corps never reached the coffers of
the Government.
At Cradock, Somerset East, Graaf Reinet and Middelburg people were
compelled to eradicate prickly pears and do other hard labour simply
because they had remained quietly at home, according to the proclamation
issued by Sir Alfred Milner, and refused to join a volunteer corps of some
sort or other. Many magistrates, acting on instructions, forced guiltless
people to walk a four to six hours' drive under the pretence of subduing
their spirits.
One case especially was of such a flagrant nature that it illustrates how
far the malice of these so-called loyalists went and the harm which their
conduct did to the British Government. The act which I am going to relate
would never have been committed by any genuine English officer, no matter
under what provocation. There is also a detail which must be noticed: by a
strange coincidence all the victims of oppression were, with but few
exceptions, men of means, whom, therefore, it was worth while to plunder.
The story is that a certain Mr. Schoeman, a man of wealth and position
residing on Vlakteplaats, a farm in the division of Oudtshoorn, received,
on August 28th, 1901, a message through his son from the military scouts
who were stationed at De Jaeger's farm in the neighbourhood, instructing
him to hand over his horses to their care. No written order from the
Commandant was exhibited to Mr. Schoeman, either at that time or on his
request, nor was any evidence adduced at his trial later on to prove that
such an order had really been given by an officer administering martial
law in the district. Nevertheless, Mr. Schoeman obeyed the order, and on
the same afternoon sent his horses, three in number, to De Jaeger. The
scouts refused to take his horses, and told them to bring them on the
following morning, Thursday, August 29th. This Schoeman did; on coming to
the place with them he found that the scouts had left, and was obliged to
take the animals again back to his farm. On the afternoon of that same day
he received a message from the scouts, and in reply told them to come and
see him. He had meanwhile, for safety's sake, sent two horses to be
concealed away from his stable, and kept one, a stallion, at the
homestead.
The next day, Friday, Boers appeared early in the afternoon. They took the
stallion, and the following day they returned and asked where the other
horses were. Mr. Schoeman declined to give any information, but they
discovered and seized them. Immediately after the Boers had left, Mr.
Schoeman dispatched one of his farm boys named Barry to De Jaeger, the
nearest military post, to report the occurrence. The scouts had, however,
disappeared, and he learned from De Jaeger that before leaving they had
received a report of the presence of the Boers. On the return of Barry,
Mr. Schoeman endeavoured to obtain another messenger. Owing to the state
of the country, which was infested with the enemy, his efforts proved
unavailing.
During the next week Mr. Schoeman, with a considerable number of his
neighbours, was ordered to Oudtshoorn. On his arrival he was arrested,
without any charge or warrant, and confined for some three months, bail
being refused. No preliminary examination was held as provided in the
instructions on martial law issued May 1st, 1901. On Sunday, December 1st,
it was notified to Mr. Schoeman that he would be tried on the following
day, and the charges were for the first time communicated to him. On
December 2nd the court assembled and Mr. Schoeman was charged with three
offences:
1. For not having handed his horses over to the proper military
authorities, whereby they fell into the hands of the enemy.
2. For having been on friendly terms with the enemy.
3. For having failed to report the presence of the enemy.
He was found guilty on the first and last charges and not guilty on the
second count, being sentenced to six months' hard labour and to pay a fine
of £500, or to suffer a further term of twelve months' hard labour in lieu
of the fine. The sentence was confirmed, the fine was paid by Mr.
Schoeman, and he underwent the imprisonment for one month with hard labour
and for five months without hard labour, which was remitted upon order
from Lord Kitchener, who, without even being fully instructed as to the
circumstances of the case, of his own accord lightened the terrible
sentence passed upon Mr. Schoeman.
Later on Mr. Schoeman was cleared of the calumnies that had been the cause
of his suffering. In this case, as in many others, the victim was the
object of the private vengeance of a man who had had a grudge against him,
and repaid it in that abominable manner.
One of the worst mistakes among the many committed during the South
African War was to allow residents to be invested with what was nothing
less than unlimited authority over their fellow-citizens. The British
Government, which was made responsible for these acts, would never have
given its sanction to any one of them; mostly, it was unaware of the
original facts. The English military authorities dealt in absolute good
faith, which makes the more shameful the conduct of those who wilfully led
them into error. Their one fault was not to realise that certain
individuals were not fit to administer martial law. In one particular
district the man in authority seemed to have as the single aim of his life
the punishment of anyone with Dutch sympathies or of Dutch blood. It was
useless to appeal to him, because whenever a complaint was brought by an
inhabitant of the district he simply refused to listen to it, and poured a
torrent of abuse at the head of the bringer. One of his most notorious
actions was the treatment which, by his orders, was inflicted on an old
man who enjoyed the general esteem of both the English and the Dutch
community, a former member of the House of Assembly. His house was
searched, the floors were taken up, and the whole garden was dug out of
recognition in a search for documents that might have proved that his son,
or himself, or any other member of his family had been in correspondence
with the two Republics. All this kind of thing was done on hearsay
evidence, behind which lay personal motives. Had the settlement of the
country been left entirely in the hands of Lord Kitchener, nothing
approaching what I have related could have occurred. Unfortunately for all
concerned, this was precisely the thing which the Rhodesian and other
interests opposed. Much of the loyalty, about which such a fuss was made
at the Cape, was loyalty to the sovereign in the pocket, and not loyalty
to the Sovereign on the throne. This concern for wealth was seen in many
aspects of life in South Africa, and occasionally invaded drastically the
realm of social well-being. A case in point was the opposition by the
financial interests to a tax on brandy. In South Africa drunkenness was
one of the worst evils, especially among the coloured race, yet the
restrictive influence of a tax was withheld. The underlying motive was
nothing but the desire to avoid the tax on diamonds, which every
reasonable person claimed and considered to be a source of revenue of
which the Government had no right to deprive itself. While Rhodes lived
the legislation introduced and maintained by his powerful personality
revealed the policy of compromise which he always pursued. He was
eminently practical and businesslike. He said to the members of the Bond,
"Don't you tax diamonds and I won't tax dop," as the Cape brandy is
called. The compact was made and kept in his lifetime.
When Rhodes was dead and a big democratic British element had come into
the country after the war, those in power began wondering how it was that
diamonds, which kept in luxury people who did not live in the country and
consequently had no interest whatever in its prosperity, were not taxed.
The Ministry presided over by Sir Gordon Sprigg shared this feeling, and
in consequence found itself suddenly forsaken by its adherents of the day
before, and the Rhodesian Press in full cry against the Government. Sir
Gordon Sprigg was stigmatised as a tool of the Bond and as disloyal to the
Empire after the fifty years he had worked for it, with rare
disinterestedness and great integrity. Nevertheless, the Ministry declared
that, as there existed an absolute necessity for finding new resources to
liquidate the expenses contingent on the war, it would propose a tax on
diamonds and another one on dop.
The exasperation of the Rhodesian party, which was thus roused, was the
principal reason why the agitation for the suspension of the Constitution
in Cape Colony was started and pursued so vigorously in spite of the small
chance it had to succeed. His support of this agitation may be called the
death-bed effort of Rhodes. When he was no longer alive to lend them his
strong hand, the Rhodesian party was bound to disperse. They tried in vain
to continue his policy, but all their efforts to do so failed, because
there was nothing really tangible for them to work upon.
With Cecil Rhodes came to an end also what can be called the romantic
period of the history of South Africa, that period during which fortunes
were made and lost in a few days; when new lands were discovered and
conquered with a facility and a recklessness that reminded one of the
Middle Ages. The war established an equilibrium which but for it would
have taken years to be reached. It sealed the past and heralded the dawn
of a new day when civilisation was to assert itself, to brush away many
abuses, much cruelty and more injustice. The race hatred which the
personality of Rhodes had done so much to keep alive, collapsed very
quickly after his death, and as time went on the work done with such
unselfishness and such quiet resolution by Sir Alfred Milner began to bear
fruit. It came gradually to be understood that the future would justify
his aims.
[Illustration: THE RT. HON. SIR JOHN GORDON SPRIGG]
The war was one of those colossal crises which shake the foundations of a
country and change the feelings of a whole generation of men and women in
regard to each other. Whilst it lasted it roused the worst passions and
showed up the worst aspects of the character of the people who played a
part in it; but once it was over the false fabric upon which the
animosities of the day before had been built fell. A serious and more
enlightened appreciation of the events that had brought about the
cataclysm which had cleared the air took the place of the furious outburst
of hatred that had preceded it. People began to realise that it was not
possible, on a continent where Europeans constituted but a small minority,
that they could give the coloured races a terrible example of disunion and
strife and still maintain dominance. Both the English and Dutch had at
last recognised the necessity for working together at the great task of a
Federation of the South African States, which would allow the whole of the
vast Southern Continent to develop itself on a plane of higher progress
under the protection of the British flag. This Union was conceived many,
many years earlier by Cecil Rhodes. It was his great spirit that thought
of making into one great nation the agglomeration of small nationalities,
white and black, that lay over the veldt and impenetrable forests of South
and Central Africa. For a long space of years Cecil Rhodes was South
Africa.
So long as Rhodes lived it would have been impossible for South Africa
to escape the influence of his brain, which was always plotting and
planning for the future whilst forgetting more often than was healthy or
wise the preoccupations of the present. After the Queen's flag had been
hoisted at Pretoria, Cecil Rhodes alive would have proved an anomaly in
South Africa. Cecil Rhodes dead would still retain his position as a
dreamer and a thinker, a man who always pushed forward without heeding the
obstacles, forgetful of aught else but the end he was pursuing, the
country which he loved so well, and, what he cared for even more, his own
ambition. Men like Rhodes--with all their mistakes to mar their dazzling
successes--cannot be replaced; it is just as difficult to take up their
work as it is to fill the gap caused by their disappearance.
CONCLUSION
I have come to the end of what I intended at first to be a book of
recollections but which has resolved itself into one of impressions. A
more competent pen than mine will one day write the inner history of this
South African War, which by an anomaly of destiny had quite different
results from those expected. So many things have occurred since it
happened that the whole sequence of events, including the war, is now
looked upon by many people as a simple incident in a long story.
In reality the episode was something more than that. It was a
manifestation of the great strength of the British Empire and of the
wonderful spirit of vitality which has carried England triumphantly
through crises that would have wrecked any other nation. The incidents
which followed the war proved the generosity that lies at the bottom of
the English character and the grandeur that comes out of it in those grave
moments when the welfare of a nation appears to be at stake and its rulers
are unable to apply to a succession of evils and dangers the right remedy
to bring about peace and contentment. No other nations possess this
remarkable and distinctive feature. England very wisely refused to notice
the bitterness which still persisted in the early days after the
conclusion of peace, and devoted her energies to the one immense and
immediate work of Federation.
The colossal work of Union had been conceived in the shape which it was
eventually to assume by Sir Alfred Milner, who, after having laid the
foundations, was patriot enough to allow others to achieve its
consummation, because he feared the unjust estimate of his character,
disseminated by interested persons, might compromise the desired object
and far-reaching possibilities of an enterprise which the most sanguine
had never imagined could be accomplished within so short a space of time.
He had toiled courageously toward the founding of a new State where the
rights of every white as well as of every coloured man should be respected
and taken into account, and where it would be impossible for a handful of
rich men by the mere power of riches to control the lives and consciences
of others.
The time of Sir Alfred Milner's administration was the transitory period
between the primitive and the civilised that no nation escapes, and this
period Sir Alfred used in working toward the establishment of a strong and
wise government. Whether the one which started its course of existence on
the day when the Federation of South Africa became an accomplished fact
was strong and wise it is not for me to say. At least it was a patriotic
government, one which worked sincerely at the abolition of the race hatred
which the war had not entirely killed, and also one which recognised that
after all it was the principle of Imperial government that alone could
bring back prosperity and security to unfortunate and bleeding South
Africa.
The war gave to the Empire the loyal support and co-operation of the Dutch
population at the Cape and also in the Transvaal, and the fidelity with
which General Botha fulfilled his duty toward the Mother Country in the
difficult moments of 1914 proved the strong link forged in 1902 between
the British Empire and South Africa. Now that years have passed it is
possible to look with a less passionate eye upon the past and upon the men
who took a leading part in the events which gave to the British Empire
another fair dominion. They appear to us as they really were, and we can
more justly accord them their proper valuation. The personality of Cecil
Rhodes will always remain a great one; his merits and his defects will be
reduced to their proper relative proportions, and the atmosphere of
adulation or antagonism which, as the occasion suited, was poured upon
him, be dissipated by time's clarifying influences. His real work
consisted in the opening of new sources of wealth and new spheres of
activity to a whole multitude of his fellow-countrymen, and of giving his
native land an extension of its dominions in regions it had never
penetrated before Cecil Rhodes' enterprising spirit of adventure and of
conquest sent him into the wilderness of Africa to open a new and
radiating centre of activity and development for his country. The
conception of the Cape to Cairo Railway was one of those projects for
which his country will ever remain grateful.
Yes! Rhodes was a great Englishman in spite of his faults, and perhaps on
account of his faults. Beside the genius of a Darwin or of a Pasteur, the
talent of a Shakespeare or of a Milton, the science of a Newton or of a
Lister, his figure seems a small one indeed, and it is absurd to raise him
to the same level as these truly wonderful men. The fact that the activity
of Cecil Rhodes lay in quite a different direction does not, however,
diminish the real importance of the work which he did, nor of the services
which he rendered to his country. The mistake is to judge him as a
universal genius. His genius had a particular bent; it was always directed
toward one point and one only, that of material advantages to be acquired
for the nation to which he belonged and of which he was so proud to be the
son. Without him South Africa would possibly have been lost for the
British Empire, which owes him most certainly a great debt in that
respect.
The years which have gone by since his death have proved that in many
things Rhodes had been absolutely mistaken. Always he was an attractive,
and at times even a lovable, personality; a noble character marred by
small acts, a generous man and an unscrupulous foe; violent in temper,
unjust in his view of facts that displeased him, understanding chiefly his
personal interests, true to those whom he considered his friends, but
implacable toward the people whom he himself had wronged. He was a living
enigma to which no one had ever found a solution; because he presented
constantly new and unexpected sides that appeared suddenly and shattered
the conclusion to which one had previously arrived.
In Europe Rhodes would not only have been impossible, but he would never
have found the opportunity to give full rein to his faculties of
organisation and of conquest. He knew no obstacles and would admit none in
his way; he was of the type of Pizarro and of Fernando Cortez, with fewer
prejudices, far more knowledge, and that clear sense of civilisation which
only an Englishman born and bred amid the traditions of liberty can
possess. But he was lacking in the fine political conception of government
which Sir Alfred Milner possessed, and whilst refusing to admit the
thought of compromise in matters where a little yielding to the wishes and
desires of others might have secured him considerable advantage, he yet
allowed himself to become entangled in intrigues which he denied as soon
as he perceived that they could not be successful, but for which the world
always condemned and never forgave, and even in some cases despised him.
Notwithstanding the great brilliance of his intelligence and the strength
of his mind, Cecil Rhodes will always be found inferior to the present
Viscount Milner as a statesman. Rhodes could not and would not wait.
Milner spent his whole existence in waiting, and waited so successfully
that he lived to see the realisation of the plans which he had made and
which so many, even among his friends, had declared to be quite impossible
for him to realise. Milner, about whose tact and mental greatness so many
false notions existed in South Africa as well as elsewhere, had been the
one man who had seen clearly the consequences of the war. As he told me
one day when we were talking about the regrettable race-hatred which lent
such animosity to the struggle: "It will cease sooner than one thinks."
The wise administrator, who had studied human nature so closely as he had
done politics, had based his judgments on the knowledge which he had
acquired of the spirit of colonisation which makes Great Britain so
superior to any other nation in the world, and his belief that her
marvellous spirit of adaptation was bound to make itself felt in South
Africa as it had elsewhere. Sir Alfred Milner knew that as time went on
the Afrikanders would realise that their erstwhile enemies had given them
the position to which they had always aspired, a position which entitled
them to take a place among the other great nations of the world. He knew,
too, that their natural spirit of pride and of vanity would make them
cherish the Empire that had allowed them to realise their ambitions of the
past. Until the war they had been proud of their gold and of their
diamonds; after the war they would be proud of their country. And by the
consciousness which would gradually come to them of the advantages which
their Federation under the British flag had brought to them they would
become also ardent British patriots--blessing the day when, in a passing
fit of insanity, goaded into it by people who had never seen clearly the
situation, President Kruger had declared war on England.
INDEX
Africa, South, charm of, 22
conquest of, 1
drunkenness in, 223
English colonists, 14
prior to Boer War, 6
Union of (_see_ Union)
Afrikander Bond, 86, 99
and Rhodes, 73, 82, 84
and Sir A. Milner, 134
Afrikander party compel Rhodes' resignation, 50
Aliwal North concentration camp, 182
America's response to concentration camp appeal, 165
B
Barkly West, Rhodes elected for, 28
Barnato, Barney, 24, 137
his awe of Rhodes, 60
Beit, Alfred, 24
Bender, Rev. Dr., Chief Rabbi of Cape Town, 194
Bloemfontein, concentration camp at, 182, 184
Bloemfontein Conference, the, 13, 16, 140
failure of, 67, 104
Boer War, concentration camps, 157 _et seq._
not a war of annihilation, 3
prime cause of, 128, 137, 139, 178
Rhodes' prophecy, 67
Boers, the, mistrust of England after the Raid, 200
pre-war hygienic conditions of, 160 (_Cf. also_ Dutch)
Botha, General, 83
imperialism of, xii, 229
British Empire, South Africa added to, 3
British Government, the, a missed opportunity, 41
and Boer concentration camps, 162
British South Africa Company, constitution of, 44
(_See also_ Chartered Company)
Brooke-Hunt, Miss, in Pretoria, 186
Buller, Sir Redvers, and siege of Kimberley, 94, 95
C
Cape Colony, diamond fields, 3
loyalty to England, 129
martial law in, 214 _et seq._
mutiny of Dutch in, 8
overcrowded prisons, 217
Rhodes as Premier, 30, 43, 44
Sir Gordon Sprigg as Premier, 99, 121
Cape to Cairo Railway, 81, 124, 229
Cape Town, influx of refugees, 191 _et seq._
Chamberlain, Joseph, 104
policy of, 133
Chartered Company of South Africa, 25, 26, 78, 80
sinister rumours, 45
Concentration camps, 141, 142, 157
hygienic conditions of, 160
inner organisation, 173
Miss Hobhouse's charges, and Mrs. Henry Fawcett's reply to, 165, 181
necessity for, 161
rations, 171
Cronje, General, 94
D
De Beers Consolidated Mines, 24, 80, 112
power of Company, 114
Delagoa Bay, 91
Dop tax, the, 223
Dutch, the, and Dr. Jameson, 149
and Sir A. Milner, 151
enmity with English, 11
mutiny in Cape Colony, 8
popularity of Rhodes with, 30, 43, 73
reconciliation with English, 129 (_Cf. also_ Boers)
E
Eckstein, F., 97, 197
England acquires the Transvaal, 1
the question of concentration camps, 159
English, the
as colonists, 14, 15
enmity with the Dutch, 11
reconciliation with the Dutch, 129
F
Fawcett, Mrs. Henry, reply to Miss Hobhouse, 181
Frenchman, a, and a Johannesburg mining property, 64
G
Glen Grey Act, the, 126
Graaf Reinet, martial law in, 216
Green Point (Cape Town) concentration camp, 170
Groote Schuur, the house and gardens, 153
H
Hammond, John Hays, 138
Hely-Hutchinson, Sir W.F., 99
Hobhouse, Miss, pamphlet on concentration camps, 165 _et seq._
Hofmeyr, Mr., 38, 43, 83, 84, 86, 135, 150, 155
popularity of, 136
I
I.D.B. Act, the, unwisdom of, 113
Imperial Commission report on concentration camps, 166
J
Jameson, Dr., affection for Rhodes, 72, 148
becomes Prime Minister, 73
death of, 148 (note)
enters Transvaal territory, 47 (_see_ Jameson Raid)
political aspirations of, 56
Progressive leader, 72
relations with Rhodes after the raid, 54
rumours of his forthcoming raid, 45
the Dutch and, 149
Jameson Raid, the, 9, 30
a colossal blunder, 200
aftermath of, 69
its aim, 53
tacitly encouraged by Rhodes, 51, 67
Jews, Polish, plight of, 193
Jingoes, the, 69, 107, 130, 135, 142, 163, 216
Joel, S., 24
Johannesburg, a shady operation in, 63
flight from, 191
goldfields of, 24
K
Kekewich, Colonel, entrusted with defence of Kimberley, 94
Kimberley, diamond mines in, 17, 24, 87
relief of, 116
Rhodes' purchase of plots in, 21
Rhodes' secret negotiations, 76
siege of, 75, 83, 94
the I.D.B. Act in operation, 113
Kitchener, Lord, and Boer concentration camps, 159
intervenes in the Schoeman case, 221
Rhodes and, 147
Koopman, Mrs. van, author's admiration for, 48
disillusionment of, 47, 74, 146
her alarm at raid rumours, 45
intimacy with Rhodes, 40
Rhodes denies raid projected, 46
under police supervision, 48
Kruger, President, 30, 53, 198
and Mrs. van Koopman, 40
candid criticisms of Rhodes, 92, 93
death sentence for Reformers, 51
"refreshers" for, 197
Rhodes attempts alliance with, 90
Rhodes' _bête-noire_, 150
Rhodes' duplicity, 74
warned against Sir A. Milner, 104
L
Ladysmith, relief of, 116
Lobengula, King, 36
and Rhodesia, 25
Cecil Rhodes and, 19
his son becomes one of Rhodes' gardeners, 37
Loyalists and concentration camps, 174
M
Mafeking concentration camp, 186
Majuba, defeat of British at, 73
Martial law in Cape Colony, 214 _et seq._
"Martyrdom of Man" (Reade's), its influence on Rhodes, 126
Matabele Rebellion, the, Rhodes' courage in, 43
Matabeleland, 19
acquired by the Chartered Company, 26, 90, 112
Matoppo Hills, an historic meeting, 43
Rhodes' burial-place, 72
Maxwell, Lady, an appeal by, 164
Merriman, Mr., 134, 150
severs relations with Rhodes, 73
Methuen, Lord, mandate to Rhodes, 95
Milner, Sir (Viscount) Alfred, 4, 58
a hint to Rhodes, 147
and the Boers, 12, 85, 132
and Rhodes, 74, 140, 148
and the De Beers Company, 115
appointed Governor of Cape Colony, 8, 85
dignified speech, 134
efforts for peace, 156
his great object, 86
influence of, 104
misunderstood and misjudged 7, 12, 85, 104, 107, 108, 180, 228
overruled from Whitehall, 135
policy of conciliation, 130
reports from Rhodes on defence of Kimberley, 94
Rhodes' distrust of, 13, 75
the refugees and, 210
the South African League, 90
transferred to Johannesburg, 99
N
Napoleon, Pius VII. on, 35
Neethling, Mr., and martial law in Cape Colony, 215
O
Orange Free State, flight of the populace, 158
illusions of the Dutch in, 176
resources of, 8
P
Pius VII., Pope, on Napoleon, 35
Polish Jews, plight of, 193
Pretoria, British flag hoisted at, 226
Rhodes tabooed at, 211
Rhodes visits Kruger at, 91
soldiers' institutes at, 186
R
Radziwill, Princess Catherine, and Rhodes, 110, 146
and Rhodes' suspicions of Sir A. Milner, 107
conversations with Sir A. Milner, 106, 232
Rhodes' characteristic note to, 59
talks with Rhodes on Reade's "Martyrdom of Man," 127
visits concentration camps, 163
Rand, the, Downing Street and, 179
Dutch illusions as to Britain's intentions, 177
flight from, 191 _et seq._
gold fields of, 90
magnates of, 137 _el seq._, 197
Reade, Winwood, influence of his
"Martyrdom of Man" on Rhodes, 126
Rhodes, Cecil, agitates for suspension of constitution, 118, 155, 213, 224
beginning of his fortune, 21
created a Privy Councillor, 43
death, 129, 153, 224
end of his political career, 47, 50, 57, 73
enters political life, 28
patriotism of, 10,17, 31, 76, 82, 152, 230
Rhodes, Herbert (brother of Cecil Rhodes), 20
Rhodesia, annexation of, 24, 25, 28, 35, 36, 78
exploitation of, 198
question of its mineral wealth, 177
Rhodes as "King" of, 122
Roberts, Lord, complimentary lunch to, 134
Rhodes' abuse of, 147
Rowntree, Mr., and the concentration camps, 187
Russia, Wallace's work on, 126
S
Sandringham, Rhodes at, 126
Sargent, E.B., 183
Sauer, Mr., 86, 117, 134, 150, 155,
and Rhodes, 73
leader of Bond party, 100
Schoeman, Mr., illegal arrest of, and Lord Kitchener's
intervention, 200, 201
Schoeman, Mr., and Loyalists, 219
Schreiner, Mr., 38, 86, 133, 150
confidence in Rhodes, 32
indignation with Rhodes, 50, 73
questions Rhodes, 45
Rhodes and, 23, 74
Schreiner, Olive, on annexation of Rhodesia, 36
Rhodes and, 33
Simonstown, camp for prisoners of war at, 172
Smuts, General, Imperialism of, xii
Sonnenberg, Mr., and Rhodes, 26
South Africa (_see_ Africa, South)
South African League, 86, 88, 97, 99
a petition to Sir Gordon Sprigg, 99, 102
and Sir A. Milner, 90
Southern Cross, the, 22
Sprigg, Sir Gordon, and the South African League, 99
diamond and dop taxes, 224
Premier of Cape Colony, 99, 121, 132
Stead, W.T., admiration of Rhodes, 212
and Sir A. Milner, 209
Steyn, President, and Mrs. van Koopman, 40
T
Transvaal, the, flight of Boer inhabitants, 158
gold mines, 1, 3, 17
loyalty to England, 129
object of Jameson Raid, 53
racial qualifications, 137
Transvaal Republic, intrigues in, 1
U
Uitenhage, martial law in, 218
Uitlanders, the, and concentration camps, 163
quarrel with, 30
their part in the Boer War, 16, 97, 137, 139
Union of South Africa, 228
an accomplished fact, 131, 228
magnates' views, 207
organisation of, 2
Sir A. Milner's part in constitution, 14
united effort for, 225
W
Wall, David de, 99, 101, 146
Wales, Prince of (Edward VII.), 126
Wallace, Mackenzie, meets Rhodes, 126
Wernher, Beit and Company, 97, 197
Wet, De, 83
_Westminster Gazette,_ Mrs. Fawcett's reply to Miss Hobhouse in, 181
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nouvelles lettres d'un voyageur
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Title: Nouvelles lettres d'un voyageur
Author: George Sand
Release date: August 17, 2004 [eBook #13198]
Most recently updated: December 18, 2020
Language: French
Credits: Produced by George Sand project PM, Renald Levesque and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team from images generously made available
by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at
http://gallica.bnf.fr.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOUVELLES LETTRES D'UN VOYAGEUR ***
Produced by George Sand project PM, Renald Levesque and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team from images generously made available
by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at
http://gallica.bnf.fr.
NOUVELLES LETTRES
D'UN
VOYAGEUR
PAR
GEORGE SAND
1877
I
LA VILLA PAMPHILI
A***
Rome, 25 mars 185...
La villa Pamphili n'a pas été abîmée dans les derniers événements, comme
on l'a dit. Ni Garibaldi, ni les Français n'y ont laissé de traces de
dévastation sérieuse. Ses pins gigantesques sont, en grande partie,
encore debout. Elle est bien plus menacée de périr par l'abandon que par
la guerre, car elle porte l'empreinte de cette indifférence et de ce
dégoût qui sont, à ce que l'on me dit, le cachet général de toutes les
habitations princières de la ville et des environs.
C'est un bel endroit, une vue magnifique sur Rome, l'Agro-Romano et
la mer. De petites collines un peu plantées, chose rare ici, font un
premier plan agréable. Le palais est encore de ceux qui résolvent le
problème d'être très-vastes à l'intérieur et très-petits d'aspect
extérieur.
En général, tout me paraît trop petit ou trop grand, depuis que je suis
à Rome. Quant à la végétation, cela est certain, les arbres de nos
climats y sont pauvres, et les essences intermédiaires n'y atteignent
pas la santé et l'ampleur qu'elles ont dans nos campagnes et dans nos
jardins.
En revanche, les plantes indigènes sont d'une taille démesurée, et le
même contraste pénible que l'on remarque dans les édifices se fait
sentir dans la nature. On dirait que cette dernière est aristocrate
comme la société et qu'elle ne veut pas souffrir de milieu entre les
géants et les pygmées, sur cette terre de la papauté. Ces ruines de la
ville des empereurs au milieu des petites bâtisses de la ville moderne,
et ces énormes pins d'Italie au milieu des humbles bosquets et des
courts buissons de la villégiature, me font l'effet de magnifiques
cardinaux entourés de misérables capucins. Et puis, quels que soient
les repoussoirs, il y a un manque constant de proportion entre eux et
l'arène désolée qu'ils dominent. Cette campagne de Rome, vue de haut et
terminée par une autre immensité, la mer, est effrayante d'étendue et de
nudité. Rome elle-même, toute vaste qu'elle est, s'y perd. Ses lignes,
tant vantées par les artistes italianomanes, sont courtes et crues,
crues surtout; et ce soleil, que l'on me disait devoir tout enchanter,
un beau et chaud soleil, en effet! accuse plus durement encore ces
contours déjà si secs. Je comprends maintenant les ingristes, que je
trouvais un peu trop livrés à la convention, au _style_, comme ils
disent. Je vois qu'ils ont, au contraire, trop de conscience et
d'exactitude, et que la réalité prend ici cette physionomie de froide
âpreté qui me gênait chez eux. Il faudrait adoucir ce caractère au lieu
de le faire prédominer, car ce n'est pas là sa beauté, c'est son défaut.
Le séjour de Rome doit nécessairement entraîner à cette manière de
traduire la nature. L'oeil s'y fait, l'âme s'en éprend. C'est pour
cela, indépendamment de son grand savoir, que M. Ingres a eu une école
homogène. Mais, si on ne se défend pas de cette impression, on risque de
tomber dans les tons froids ou criards, dans les modelés insuffisants,
dans les contours incrustés au mur, de la fresque primitive.
«Eh bien, et les fresques de Raphaël, et celles de Michel-Ange, les
avez-vous vues? pourquoi n'en parlez-vous pas?»
Je vous entends d'ici. Permettez-moi de ne pas vous répondre encore.
Nous sommes à la villa Pamphili, dans la région des fleurs. Oh! ici, les
fleurs se plaisent; ici, elles jonchent littéralement le sol, aussitôt
qu'un peu de culture remue cette terre excellente abandonnée de l'homme.
Dans les champs, autour des bassins, sur les revers des fossés, partout
où elles peuvent trouver un peu de nourriture assainie par la pioche,
les fleurs sauvages s'en donnent à coeur-joie et prennent des ébats
ravissants. A la villa Pamphili, une vaste prairie est diaprée
d'anémones de toutes couleurs. Je ne sais quelle tradition attribue ce
semis d'anémones à la Béatrix Cenci. Je ne vous oblige pas d'y croire.
Dans nos pays de la Gaule, les traditions ont de la valeur. Nos paysans
ne sont pas gascons, même en Gascogne. Ils répètent naïvement, sans le
comprendre, et par conséquent sans le commenter, ce que leur ont conté
leurs aïeux. Ici, tout prolétaire est cicérone, c'est-à-dire résolu à
vous conter des merveilles pour vous amuser et vous faire payer ses
frais d'imagination. Il y a donc à se métier beaucoup. M. B..., jadis à
la recherche de la fontaine Égérie, prétend qu'en un seul jour, on lui
en a montré dix-sept.
Il y a à Pamphili d'assez belles eaux, des grottes, des cascades, des
lacs et des rivières. C'est grand pour un jardin particulier, et le
_rococo_, dont je ne suis pas du tout l'ennemi, y est plus agréable que
ce qui nous en reste en France. C'est plus franchement adopté, et ils
ont employé pour leurs rocailles des échantillons minéralogiques d'une
grande beauté. Tivoli et la Solfatare qui l'avoisine ont fourni des
pétrifications curieuses et des débris volcaniques superbes à toutes
les villas de la contrée. Ces fragments étranges, couverts de plantes
grimpantes, de folles herbes, et de murmurantes eaux, sont très-amusants
à regarder, je vous assure.
Pardon, cher ami. Vous m'avez dit souvent que j'avais de l'intelligence;
mais, sans vous offenser, je crois que vous vous êtes bien trompé et que
je ne suis qu'un âne. Je crois aussi, et plus souvent que je n'ose vous
le dire, que j'ai eu bien tort de me croire destiné à faire de l'art.
Je suis trop contemplatif, et je le suis à la manière des enfants. Je
voudrais tout saisir, tout embrasser, tout comprendre, tout savoir, et
puis, après ces bouffées d'ambition déplacée, je me sens retomber de
tout mon poids sur un rien, sur un brin d'herbe, sur un petit insecte
qui me charme et me passionne, et qui, tout à coup, par je ne sais quel
prestige, me paraît aussi grand, aussi complet, aussi important dans
ma vie d'émotion que la mer, les volcans, les empires avec leurs
souverains, les ruines du Colisée, le dôme de Saint-Pierre, le pape,
Raphaël et tous les maîtres, et la Vénus de Médicis par-dessus le
marché.
Quelle influence me rend idiot à ce point? Ne me le demandez pas, je
l'ignore. Peut-être que j'aime trop la nature pour lui donner jamais
une interprétation raisonnable. Je l'aime pour ses modesties adorables
autant que pour ses grandeurs terrifiantes. Ce qu'elle cache dans un
petit caillou aux couleurs harmonieuses, dans une violette au suave
parfum, me pénètre, en de certains moments, jusqu'à l'attendrissement
le plus stupide. Un autre jour, j'aurai la fantaisie de voler sur les
nuages ou sur la crête des vagues courroucées, d'enjamber les montagnes,
de plonger dans les volcans, et d'embrasser, d'un coup d'oeil, la
configuration de la terre. Mais, si tout cela m'était permis, si Dieu
consentait à ce que je fusse un pur esprit, errant dans les abîmes de
l'univers, je crois que, dans cette haute condition, je resterais
bon prince, et que, tout à coup, au milieu de ma course effrénée, je
m'arrêterais pour regarder, en badaud, une mouche tombée sur le nez
d'une carpe, ou, en écolier, un cerf-volant emporté dans la nue.
Je cache mon infirmité le mieux que je puis; mais je vous confesse, à
vous, que, sur cette terre classique des arts, je me sens las d'avance
de tout ce que j'ai à voir, à sentir et à juger. Juger, moi! pourquoi
faire? J'aime mieux ne rien dire et penser fort peu. Pardonnez-moi
d'être ainsi: j'ai tout souffert dans la vie de civilisation! j'y ai
tant de fois désiré l'absence de prévoyance et le laisser aller complet
de la pensée! Je voudrais encore quelquefois être bien seul dans le
fond d'un antre noir, comme les lavandières de l'_acqua argentina_, et
chanter quelque chose que je ne comprendrais pas moi-même. Il me faut
faire un immense effort pour passer brusquement, de mes rêveries, à la
conversation raisonnable ou enjouée, comme il convient avec des êtres de
mon espèce et de mon temps.
Je regardais dans les eaux de la villa Pamphili un beau petit canard
de Chine barbotant auprès d'une cascatelle. «Il est donc tout seul?
demandai-je à un jardinier qui passait.--Tiens! il est seul aujourd'hui,
répondit-il avec insouciance. _L'oiseau_ lui aura mangé sa femme ce
matin. Il y en avait ici une belle bande, de ces canards-là; mais il y a
encore plus d'oiseaux de proie, et, ma foi, celui-ci est le dernier.»
Là-dessus, il passa sans s'inquiéter de mettre le pauvre canard à l'abri
de la _serre cruelle_. Je levai les yeux et je vis cinq ou six de ces
brigands ailés décrivant leurs cercles funestes au-dessus de lui. Ils
attendaient d'avoir dépecé sa femelle et d'avoir un peu d'appétit pour
venir le prendre. Je ne saurais vous dire quelle tristesse s'empara de
moi. C'était une image de la fatalité. La mort plane comme cela sur la
tête de ceux qu'on aime. Si elle les prend, qu'a-t-on à faire en ce
monde, sinon de barboter dans un coin, comme ce canard hébété qui se
baigne au soleil en attendant son heure?
L'abandon de ces oiseaux étrangers, objets de luxe dans la demeure
princière, était, du reste, très en harmonie avec celui qui se faisait
sentir dans le parc. La même malpropreté que dans les rues de Rome, les
mêmes souillures sur les fleurs que sur les pavés de la ville éternelle.
Cela sent le dégoût de la vie. Je crois qu'un spleen profond dévore ici
les grandes existences. Je ne sais si elles se l'avouent, mais cela est
écrit sur les pierres de leurs maisons à formes coquettes et sur les
riantes perspectives de leurs allées abandonnées. Est-ce la saison
encore pluvieuse et incertaine qui fait ce désert dans des lieux si
beaux? est-ce la dévotion ou l'ennui, ou la tristesse qui retiennent à
Rome ces hôtes ingrats envers le printemps? On dit que toutes les villas
sont délaissées ou négligées et que celle-ci est encore une des mieux
entretenues. J'ai peine à le croire.
En quittant le parc pour voir les jardins, je fus frappé pourtant de
l'activité déployée par un vieux jardinier pour la réparation d'un
singulier objet de goût horticole. Je n'ai jamais vu rien de semblable.
On me dit que c'est usité dans plusieurs villas et que cela date de
la renaissance. J'aurai de la peine à vous expliquer ce que c'est.
Figurez-vous un tapis à dessins gigantesques et à couleurs voyantes,
étendu sur une terrasse qui tient tout le flanc d'une colline sous les
fenêtres du palais. Les dessins sont jolis: ce sont des armoiries de
famille, entourées de guirlandes, de noeuds entrelacés, de palmes, de
chiffres, de couronnes, de croix et de bouquets. L'ensemble en est
riche et les couleurs en sont vives. Mais qu'est-ce que cette mosaïque
colossale, ou ce tapis fantastique étalé, en plein air, sur une si vaste
esplanade? Il faut en approcher pour le comprendre. C'est un parterre
de plantes basses, entrecoupé de petits sentiers de marbre, de faïence,
d'ardoise ou de brique, le tout cassé en menus morceaux et semé comme
des dragées sur un surtout de table du temps de Louis XV; mais on ne
marche pas dans ces sentiers, je pense, car ils sont trop durement
cailloutés pour des pieds aristocratiques et trop étroits pour des
personnes d'importance. Cela ne sert uniquement qu'à réjouir la vue et
absorbe toute la vie d'un jardinier émérite. Les compartiments de chaque
écusson ou rosace sont en fleurs faisant touffe basse et drue. Les
plantes de la campagne y sont admises, pourvu qu'elles donnent le ton
dont on a besoin. Une petite bordure de buis nain ou de myrte, taillée
bien court, serpente autour de chaque détail: c'est d'un effet bizarre
et minutieux; c'est un ouvrage de patience, et toute la symétrie, toute
la recherche, toute la propreté dont les Romains de nos jours sont
susceptibles, paraissent s'être réfugiées et concentrées dans
l'entretien de cette ornementation végétale et gymnoplastique.
II
LES CHANSONS DES BOIS
ET DES RUES
A VICTOR HUGO
Dans une de ses chansons, le poëte dit:
George Sand a la Gargilesse
Comme Horace avait l'Anio.
O poésie! Horace avait beaucoup de choses, et George Sand n'a rien, pas
même l'eau courante et rieuse de la Gargilesse, c'est-à-dire le don de
la chanter dignement; car ces choses qui appartiennent à Dieu, les flots
limpides, les forêts sombres, les fleurs, les étoiles, tout le beau
domaine de la poésie, sont concédées par la loi divine a qui sait les
voir et les aimer. C'est comme cela que le poëte est riche. Mais, moi,
je suis devenu pauvre, et je n'ai plus à moi qu'une chose inféconde,
le chagrin, champ aride, domaine du silence. J'ai perdu en un an trois
êtres qui remplissaient ma vie d'espérance et de force. L'espérance,
c'était un petit enfant qui me représentait l'avenir; la force,
c'étaient deux amitiés, soeurs l'une de l'autre, qui, en se dévouant à
moi, ravivaient en moi la croyance au dévouement utile.
Il me reste beaucoup pourtant: des enfants adorés, des amis parfaits.
Mais, quand la mort vient de frapper autour de nous ce qui devait si
naturellement et si légitimement nous survivre, on se sent pris d'effroi
et comme dénué de tout bonheur, parce qu'on tremble pour ce qui est
resté debout, parce que le néant de la vie vous apparaît terrible, parce
qu'on en vient à se dire: «Pourquoi aimer, s'il faut se quitter tout à
l'heure? Qu'est-ce que le dévouement, la tendresse, les soins, s'ils ne
peuvent retenir près de nous ceux que nous chérissons? Pourquoi lutter
contre cette implacable loi qui brise toute association et ruine toute
félicité? A quoi bon vivre, puisque les vrais biens de la vie, les joies
du coeur et de la pensée, sont aussi fragiles que la propriété des
choses matérielles?»
O maître poëte! comme je me sentais, comme je me croyais encore riche,
quand, il y a un an et demi, je vous lisais au bord de la Creuse, et
vous promenais avec moi en rêve le long de cette Gargilesse honorée
d'une de vos rimes, petit torrent ignoré qui roule dans des ravines plus
ignorées encore. Je me figurais vraiment que ce désert était à moi qui
l'avais découvert, à quelques peintres et à quelques naturalistes qui
s'y étaient aventurés sur ma parole et ne m'en savaient pas mauvais gré.
Eux et moi, nous le possédions par les yeux et par le coeur, ce qui est
la seule possession des choses belles et pures. Moi, j'avais un trésor
de vie, l'espoir! l'espoir de faire vivre ceux qui devaient me fermer
les yeux, l'illusion de compter qu'en les aimant beaucoup, je leur
assurerais une longue carrière. Et, à présent, j'ai les bras croisés
comme, au lendemain d'un désastre, on voit les ouvriers découragés se
demander si c'est la peine de recommencer à travailler et à bâtir sur
une terre qui toujours tremble et s'entr'ouvre, pour démolir et dévorer.
A présent, je suis oisif et dépouillé jusqu'au fond de l'âme. Non,
George Sand n'a plus la Gargilesse; il n'a plus l'Anio, qu'il a possédé
aussi autrefois tout un jour, et qu'il avait emporté tout mugissant et
tout ombragé dans un coin de sa mémoire, comme un bijou de plus dans un
écrin de prédilection. Il n'a plus rien, le voyageur! il ne veut pas
qu'on l'appelle poëte, il ne voit plus que du brouillard, il n'a plus
de prairies embaumées dans ses visions, il n'a plus de chants d'oiseaux
dans les oreilles, le soleil ne lui parle plus, la nature qu'il aimait
tant, et qui était bonne pour lui, ne le connaît plus. Ne l'appelez pas
artiste, il ne sait plus s'il l'a jamais été. Dites-lui _ami_, comme on
dit aux malheureux qui s'arrêtent épuisés, et que l'on engage à marcher
encore, tout en plaignant leur peine.
Marcher! oui, on sait bien qu'il le faut, et que la vie traîne celui qui
ne s'aide pas. Pourquoi donner aux autres, à ceux qui sont généreux et
bienfaisants, la peine de vous porter? n'ont-ils pas aussi leur fardeau
bien lourd? Oui, amis, oui, enfants, je marcherai, je marche; je vis
dans mon milieu sombre et muet comme si rien n'était changé. Et, au
fait, il n'y a rien de changé que moi; la vie a suivi autour de moi son
cours inévitable, le fleuve qui mène à la mort. Il n'y a d'étrange en
ma destinée que moi resté debout. Pourquoi faire? pour chanter, cigale
humaine, l'hiver comme l'été!
Chanter! quoi donc chanter? La bise et la brume, les feuilles qui
tombent, le vent qui pleure? J'avais une voix heureuse qui murmurait
dans mon cerveau des paroles de renouvellement et de confiance. Elle
s'est tue; reviendra-t-elle? et, si elle revient, l'entendrai-je? est-ce
bientôt, est-ce demain, est-ce dans un siècle ou dans une heure qu'elle
reviendra?
Nul ne sait ce qui lui sera donné de douceur ou de force pour fléchir
les mauvais jours. Au fort de la bataille, tous sont braves: c'est si
beau, le courage! «Ayez-en, vous dit-on; tous en ont, il faut en avoir.»
Et on répond: «J'en ai!» Oui, on en a, quand on vient d'être frappé et
qu'il faut sourire pour laisser croire que la blessure n'est pas trop
profonde. Mais après? quand le devoir est accompli, quand on a pressé
les mains amies, quand on a dissipé les tendres inquiétudes, quand on
reprend sa route sur le sol ébranlé, quand on s'est remis au travail, au
métier, au devoir; quand tout est dit enfin sur notre infortune et qu'il
n'est plus délicat d'accepter la pitié des bons coeurs, est-ce donc
fini? Non, c'est le vrai chagrin qui commence, en même temps que la
lutte se clôt. On avance, on écoute, on voit vivre, on essaie de
vivre aussi; mais quelle nuit dans la solitude! Est-ce la fatigue
qui persiste, ou s'est-il fait une diminution de vie en nous, une
déperdition de forces? J'ai peine à croire qu'en perdant ceux qu'on
aime, on conserve son âme entière. A moins que....
Oui, allons, la vie ne se perd pas, elle se déplace. Elle s'élance et
se transporte au delà de cet horizon que nous croyons être le cercle de
notre existence. Nous avons les cercles de l'infini devant nous. C'est
une gamme que nous croyons descendre après l'avoir montée, mais les
gammes s'enchaînent et montent toujours, La voix humaine ne peut
dépasser une certaine tonalité; mais, par la pensée, elle entre
facilement dans les tonalités impossibles, et, d'octave en octave,
l'audition imaginaire, mais mathématique, escalade le ciel. Ceux qui
sont partis vivent, chantent et pensent maintenant une octave plus haut
que nous; c'est pourquoi nous ne les entendons plus; mais nous savons
bien que le choeur sacré des âmes n'est pas muet et que notre partie y
est écrite et nous attend.
Au delà, oui, au delà! Faut-il s'inquiéter de ce peu de notes que nous
avons à dire encore? Et, quand nous avons souhaité le bonsoir au vivant
qui ferme la porte et descend l'escalier, savons-nous si ce mot n'est
pas le dernier que nous aurons dit dans la langue des hommes?
Vivre est un bonheur quand même, parce que la vie est un don; mais il
y a bien des jours, dans notre éphémère existence humaine, où nous
ne sentons pas ce bonheur. Ce n'est pas la faute de l'univers! Les
personnalités puissantes souffrent moins que les autres. Elles
traversent les crises avec une vaillance extraordinaire, et, quand elles
sont forcées de descendre dans les abîmes du doute et de la douleur,
elles remontent, les mains pleines de poésies sublimes.
Tel vous êtes, ô poëte que nous admirons! dans la tempête, vous chantez
plus haut que la foudre, et, quand un rayon de soleil vous enivre, vous
avez l'exubérante gaieté du printemps. Si tout est gris et morne autour
de vous, votre âme se met à l'unisson des heures pâles et lugubres; mais
vous chantez toujours et vous voyez, vous sentez, même sous l'impression
accablante du néant, la profondeur des choses cachées sous le silence et
l'ombre. Ce mutisme intérieur des coeurs brisés, cette surdité subite
de l'esprit fermé à tous les renouvellements du dehors, vous ne les
connaissez pas. Cela est heureux pour nous, car votre voix est un
événement dans nos destinées, et, quand nous n'entendons plus celle de
la nature, vous parlez pour elle et vous nous forcez d'écouter. Il faut
donc s'éveiller, et demander à votre immense vitalité un souffle qui
nous ranime. Nul n'a le droit d'être indifférent quand votre fanfare
retentit. C'est un appel à la vie, à la force, à la croyance, à la
reconnaissance que nous devons à l'auteur du beau dans l'univers. Ne pas
vous écouter, c'est être ingrat envers lui, car personne ne le connaît
et ne le célèbre comme vous.
La poésie, la grande poésie! quelle arme dans les mains de l'homme pour
combattre l'horreur du doute! La philosophie est belle et grande, soit
qu'elle rejette, soit qu'elle affirme l'espérance. Elle aussi fouille
les profondeurs, éclaire les abîmes et relève énergiquement la puissance
intellectuelle. Par elle, celui-ci, qui croit au néant, se dévoue à
tripler les forces de son être pour marquer son passage en ce monde. Par
elle encore, celui-là, qui croit à sa propre immortalité, se rend digne
d'un monde meilleur. Appel à la libre raison sur toute la ligne! Travail
généreux de la pensée qui cherche Dieu toujours, quand même elle le nie!
Mais voici venir la poésie. Celle-ci ne raisonne ni ne discute, elle
s'impose. Elle vous saisit, elle vous enlève au-dessus même de la région
où vous vous sentiez libres. Vous pouvez bien encore discuter ses
audaces et rejeter ses promesses, mais vous n'en êtes pas moins la proie
de l'émotion qu'elle suscite. C'est ce cheval fantastique qui de son vol
puissant sépare les nuées et embrasse les horizons. Le poëte l'appelle
monstrueux et divin. Il est l'un et l'autre, mais qu'on l'aime
classique, comme la Grèce, ou qu'il ait «l'échevèlement des prophètes,»
il a cela d'étrange et de surnaturel que chacun voudrait pouvoir le
monter, et qu'au bruit formidable de sa course, tout frémit du désir de
s'envoler avec lui.
C'est la magie de cet art qui s'adresse à la partie la plus
impressionnable de l'âme humaine, à l'imagination, au sens de l'infini,
et, si le poëte vous arrache ce cri: «C'est grand! c'est beau!» il a
vaincu! Il a prouvé Dieu, même sans parler de lui, car, à propos d'un
brin d'herbe, il a fait palpiter en vous l'immortalité, il a fait
jaillir de vous cette flamme qui veut monter au-dessus du réel. Il ne
vous a pas dit comme le philosophe: «Croyez ou niez, vous êtes libre.»
Il vous a dit: «Voyez et entendez, vous voilà délivré.»
Au delà d'une certaine région où l'esprit humain ne peut plus affirmer
rien, et où il craint de s'affirmer lui-même, le poëte peut affirmer
tout. C'est le voyant qui regarde par-dessus toutes nos montagnes.
Qui osera lui dire qu'il se trompe, s'il a fait passer en vous
l'enthousiasme de l'inconnu, et si sa vision palpitante a fait vibrer en
vous une corde que la raison et la volonté laissaient muette?
Art et poésie, voilà les deux ailes de notre âme. Que la note soit
terrible ou délicieuse, elle éveille l'instinct sublime engourdi qui
s'ignore, ou le renouvelle quand elle le trouve épuisé par la fatigue et
la tristesse. Chantez, chantez, poëte de ce siècle! Jamais vous ne fûtes
si nécessaire à notre génération. Promenez votre caprice dans la tendre
et moqueuse antithèse du rire antique et du rire moderne:
O fraîcheur du rire! ombre pure!
Mystérieux apaisement!
Il vous est permis, à vous, de placer dans votre universelle symphonie
le «mirliton de Saint-Cloud» à côté de la «lyre de Thèbes». Vous avez le
droit de mettre Pégase au vert. Ceux qui s'en fâchent ne sont pas les
vrais tristes; ce ne sont que des gens chagrins qui ne veulent pas que
le poëte joue avec le feu sacré. Les tristes, famille d'amis en deuil,
veulent bien qu'on essaie de tout pour prouver la vie quand même.
Il s'agit de prouver, et là, dans l'expansion brillante comme dans
l'austère rêverie, le poëte prouve du moment qu'il rayonne.
Quel rayonnement dans ces vers à la courte et vive allure, qui nous
versent les senteurs du printemps et les puissantes folies de la nature
en fête! Hélas! je regarde souvent par ma fenêtre les vestiges de ces
jardins des Feuillantines où vous avez été élevé et où l'on a bâti des
maisons neuves. On a respecté de vieux murs couverts de lierre. Des
arbres qui vous ont prêté leur ombre, quelques-uns sont encore debout,
me dit-on. L'hiver les dépouille à cette heure, et je ne sais où se sont
réfugiés les oiseaux. Rien ne chante plus dans ce coin qui abrita et
charma votre enfance. Au dehors, dans les vallons mystérieux qu'on
trouve encore non loin de Paris, la gelée a mordu les ramées. Il n'y a
plus d'autres chansons des bois que le grésillement des feuilles tombées
que le vent balaie. Dans les rues, il n'y a pas de chansons non plus. Ce
beau quartier latin que je traverse chaque soir est devenu vaste, aéré,
monumental. Ses groupes d'étudiants qui emplissaient jadis toute une rue
dans un éclat de rire, sont comme perdus et inaperçus sur ces larges
chaussées plantées d'arbres. Ils sont toujours jeunes, pourtant; le
printemps ne se fait jamais vieux, et le renouveau de chaque génération
est toujours un objet d'attendrissement et de sympathie pour les coeurs
qui ont vécu et souffert. Mais qu'y a-t-il dans cette influence de la
saison où nous sommes?
Je me le demandais l'autre jour en traversant le jardin du Luxembourg,
au coucher du soleil. C'était une belle et douce soirée. Le ciel était
tout rose et l'horizon en feu derrière les branchages noirs. Le grand
bassin aussi était rouge et comme embrasé de tous ces reflets. Le cygne
de la fontaine Médicis était ému et disait de temps en temps je ne sais
quel mot triste et doux. Les enfants étaient gais, eux, franchement
gais, en lançant sur l'eau des flottilles en miniature. La jeunesse
se promenait sagement, presque gravement, et je m'inquiétais de cette
gravité. Parlait-on de vous? sentait-on passer sur cette austérité
du grand jardin, du grand palais, du grand ciel qui peu à peu se
remplissait de brume violette, le vol du coursier que vous déliez et
faites repartir si vigoureusement après l'avoir forcé de brouter la
prairie de l'idylle en fleurs? Moi, je croyais l'entendre soulever des
flots d'harmonie....
Mais un lugubre tonnerre s'éleva des tours de Saint-Sulpice, déjà
effacées dans le brouillard du soir. Une furieuse clameur étouffa le
rire des petits et glaça peut-être le rêve des jeunes. Cette voix rauque
de l'airain me jeta moi-même dans une stupeur profonde. N'est-ce pas la
voix du siècle? Cloches et canons, voilà notre musique à nous; comment
serions-nous musiciens, comment serions-nous artistes et poëtes, quand
les coryphées de nos villes sont des prêtres ou des soldats, quand la
bénédiction des cathédrales ressemble à un tocsin d'alarme, et quand les
joies publiques s'expriment par les brutales explosions de la poudre? Du
bruit, quelque chose qui, de la part de Dieu ou des hommes, ressemble à
la menace d'un _Dies irae_. Pourquoi le brutal courroux des beffrois?
Ce jour de fête religieuse annonce-t-il le jugement dernier? Avons-nous
tous péché si horriblement qu'il nous faille entendre éclater la fanfare
discordante des démons prêts à s'emparer de nous?--Mais non, ce n'est
rien, ce sont les vêpres qui sonnent. C'est comme cela que l'on prie
Dieu; ce tam-tam sinistre, c'est la manière de le bénir. O sauvages que
nous sommes!
Vous voyez bien qu'il faut que vous chantiez toujours, par-dessus ces
voix du bronze qui veulent nous rendre sourds, nous et nos enfants, et
il faut que nous écoutions en nous-mêmes l'harmonie de vos vers qui nous
rappelle celle des bois, des eaux, des brises, et tout ce qui célèbre
et bénit dignement l'auteur du vrai. Ce sera là notre chanson des rues,
celle qu'en dépit du morne hiver qui arrive et des mornes idées qui
menacent, nous chanterons en nous-mêmes pour nous délivrer des paroles
de mort qui planent sur nos toits éplorés.
Et je revenais seul au clair de la lune par le Panthéon silencieux.
La brume avait tout envahi, mais la lune, perçant ce voile argenté,
enlevait de pâles lumières sur le fronton et sur le dôme qui paraissait
énorme et comme bâti dans les nuages. La place était déserte, et le
monument, qui n'aura jamais l'aspect d'une église, quoi qu'on fasse,
était beau de sérénité avec ses grands murs froids et sa coupole perdue
dans les hautes régions. Je sentis ma tristesse s'agrandir et s'élever.
Ce colosse d'architecture n'est rien, en somme, qu'un tombeau voté aux
grands hommes, et il faudra qu'il se rouvre un jour pour recevoir leur
cendre ou leur effigie. Mais je ne pensais pas aux morts en contemplant
cette tombe. J'avais lu vos radieux poëmes sur la vie, et la vie
m'apparaissait impassiblement éternelle en dépit de nos simulacres
d'éternelle séparation.
Pourquoi des sépultures et des hypogées? me disais-je. Il n'y a pas de
morts. Il y a des amis séparés pour un temps, mais le temps est court,
le temps est relatif, le temps n'existe pas; et, pensant à la flamme
immortelle que Dieu a mise en nous, dans ceux qui chevauchent les
monstres comme dans les plus humbles pasteurs de brebis, je lui disais
ce que vous dites à la poésie:
Tu ne connais ni le sommeil
Ni le sépulcre, nos péages.
Novembre 1865.
III
LE PAYS DES ANÉMONES
A MADAME JULIETTE LAMBER, AU GOLFE JUAN
I
Nohant, 7 avril 1868.
J'étais, il y a aujourd'hui un mois, au bord de la Méditerranée,
côtoyant la belle plage doucement déchirée de Villefranche, et causant
de vous sous des oliviers plantés peut-être au temps des Romains. Trois
jours plus tard, nous étions ensemble beaucoup plus loin, dans la région
des styrax[1],--ne confondez plus avec smilax,--et les styrax n'étaient
pas fleuris; mais le lieu était enchanté quand même, et, en ce lieu
vous dites une parole qui me donna à réfléchir. Vous en souvenez-vous?
C'était auprès de la source où nous avions déjeuné avec d'excellents
amis. B..., mon cher B..., aussi bon botaniste que qui que ce soit,
venait de briser une tige feuillée en disant:
--_Suis-je bête!_ j'ai pris une daphné pour une euphorbe!
[Note 1: Le styrax doit croître aussi autour de Grasse. Dites au
cher docteur Maure de vous en procurer.]
Vous vouliez vite cueillir la plante pour m'en éviter la peine. Je vous
dis que je ne la voulais pas, que je la connaissais, qu'elle n'était pas
exclusivement méridionale, et mon fils se souvint qu'elle croissait dans
nos bois de Boulaize, au pays des roches de jaspe, de sardoine et de
cornaline.
A ce propos, vous me dites, avec l'indignation d'un généreux coeur, que
je connaissais trop de plantes, que rien ne pouvait plus me surprendre
ni m'intéresser, et que _la science refroidissait_.
Aviez-vous raison?
Moi, je disais intérieurement:
--Je sais que l'étude enflamme.
Avais-je tort?
Nous avions là-bas trop de soleil sur la tête et trop de cailloux sous
les pieds pour causer. Maintenant, à tête et à pieds reposés, causons.
La science.... Qu'est-ce que la science? Une route partant du connu
pour se perdre dans l'inconnu. Les efforts des savants ont ouvert cette
route, ils en ont rendu les abords faciles, les aspérités praticables;
ils ne pouvaient rien faire de plus, ils n'ont rien fait de plus; ils
n'ont pas dégagé l'inconnu, ce terme insaisissable qui semble reculer à
mesure que l'explorateur avance, ce terme qui est le grand mystère, la
source de la vie.
On peut étudier avec progrès continuel le fonctionnement de la vie chez
tous les êtres: travail d'observation et de constatation très-utile,
très-intéressant. Dès qu'on cherche à saisir l'opération qui _fait_ la
vie, on tombe forcément dans l'hypothèse, et les hypothèses des savants
sont généralement froides.
Pourquoi, me direz-vous, une étude que vous trouvez ardente et pleine
de passion, conduit-elle à des conclusions glacées? Je ne sais pas;
peut-être, à force de développer minutieusement les hautes énergies de
la patience, l'examen devient-il une faculté trop prépondérante dans
l'équilibre intellectuel, par conséquent une infirmité relative. Le
besoin de conclure se fait sentir, absolu, impérieux, après une longue
série de recherches; on fait la synthèse des millions d'analyses qu'on
a menées à bien, et on prend cette synthèse, qui n'est qu'un travail
humain tout personnel, plus ou moins ingénieux, pour une vérité
démontrée, pour une révélation de la nature. Le savant a marché
lentement, il a mesuré chacun de ses pas, il a noblement sacrifié
l'émotion à l'attention; car c'est un respectable esprit que celui du
vrai savant, c'est une âme toute faite de conscience et de scrupule.
C'est le buveur d'eau pure qui se défend de la liqueur d'enthousiasme
que distille la nature par tous ses pores, liqueur capiteuse qui enivre
le poëte et l'égare. Mais le poëte est fait pour s'égarer, son chemin,
à lui, c'est l'absence de chemin. Il coupe à travers tout, et, s'il ne
trouve pas le positif de la science, il trouve le vrai de la peinture et
du sentiment. Tel est un naturaliste de fantaisie, qu'on doit cependant
élever au rang de prêtre de la nature, parce qu'il l'a comprise, sentie
et chantée sous l'aspect qui la fait voir et chérir avec enthousiasme.
Le savant proprement dit est calme, il le faut ainsi. Aimons et
respectons cette sérénité à laquelle nous devons tant de recherches
précieuses, mais ne nous croyons pas obligés de conclure avec le savant
quand il arrive par l'induction à un système _froid_. Ce seul adjectif
le condamne. Rien n'est froid, tout est feu dans la production de la
vie.
Ceci me rappelle une anecdote. Un élève botaniste de mes amis étudiait
la germandrée et se sentait pris d'amour pour cette plante sans éclat,
mais si délicatement teintée. Au milieu de son enthousiasme, en lisant
la description de la plante dans un traité de botanique, excellent
d'ailleurs, il tombe sur cette désignation de la corolle: _fleur d'un
jaune sale_. Je le vois jeter le livre avec colère en s'écriant:
--C'est vous, malheureux auteur, qui avez les yeux sales!
On pourrait en dire autant aux malveillants qui jugent à leur point de
vue les actions et les intentions des autres; mais aux bons et graves
savants qui voient la nature froide en ses opérations brûlantes on
pourrait peut-être dire:
--C'est vous qui avez l'esprit refroidi par trop de travail.
L'auteur de _la Plante_, ce spirituel et poétique Grimard, dont je vous
recommandais le livre, lui aussi a pourtant fait acte de soumission
presque complète aux arrêts des savants sur la loi de la vie dans le
végétal. Quand vous le lirez, vous vous insurgerez à cette page, je le
sais; aussi, pour ne pas vous voir abandonner la pensée d'étudier les
fleurs, je veux me hâter de vous dire que, moi aussi, je proteste, non
contre le système généralement adopté en botanique, mais contre la
manière dont on l'expose et les conclusions arbitraires qu'on en tire.
Je tâcherai de résumer le plus simplement possible, au risque de forcer
un peu le raisonnement pour le rendre plus palpable, et pour vous mettre
plus aisément en garde contre ce que présente de spécieux et même de
captieux ce raisonnement.
Il part d'une observation positive, incontestable. La plante tire ses
organes de sa propre substance; qui en doute? De quoi les tirerait-elle?
Est-il besoin d'affirmer que la patte qui repousse à l'écrevisse ou à la
salamandre amputée est patte d'écrevisse pour l'écrevisse, et patte de
salamandre pour la salamandre? Le merveilleux serait que la nature se
trompât et fit des arlequins.
Cependant les savants se sont crus obligés de constater et d'affirmer le
fait, et ils ont donné, très à tort selon moi, le nom de métamorphisme à
l'opération logique et obligatoire qui transforme le pétale en étamine
après avoir transformé la feuille en pétale, comme si une progression
de fonctions dans l'organisme était un changement de substance. Ils
appellent très-sérieusement l'attention de l'observateur sur ce
changement de formes, de couleurs et de fonctions. Fort bien. Le passage
du pétale à l'étamine saute aux yeux dans le nénufar, comme dans la
rose des jardins le passage de l'étamine au pétale. Dans le nénufar, la
nature travaille elle-même à son perfectionnement normal; dans la rose,
elle subit le travail inverse que lui impose la culture pour arriver à
un perfectionnement de convention; mais, de grâce, avec quoi, dans l'un
et l'autre cas, la fleur arriverait-elle à se faire féconde ou stérile?
Et, dans tout être organisé, animal ou plante, de quoi se forment
l'organisation et la désorganisation, sinon de la propre substance,
enrichie ou égarée, de l'individu?
Cette simple observation a fait trop de bruit dans la science et a
produit une doctrine que voici: la plante serait un pauvre être soumis
à d'étranges fatalités; elle ne serait en état de santé normale qu'à
l'état inerte. Reste à savoir quel est le savant qui surprendra ce
moment d'inertie dans la nature organisée! Mais continuons. Du moment
que la plante croît et se développe, elle entre dans une série continue
d'_avortements_. Le pétiole est un avortement de la tige, la feuille un
avortement du pétiole; ainsi du calice, du périanthe et des organes de
la reproduction. Tous ces avortements sont maladifs, n'en doutons pas,
car la floraison est le dernier, c'est la maladie mortelle. Les feuilles
devenues pétales se décolorent; oui, la science, hélas! parle ainsi. Ces
brillantes livrées de noces, la pourpre de l'adonis, l'azur du myosotis,
décoloration, maladie, signe de mort, agonie, décomposition, heure
suprême, mort.
Tel est l'arrêt de la science. Elle appelle sans doute mort le travail
de la gestation, puisqu'elle appelle maladie mortelle le travail de la
fécondation. Il n'y a pas à dire: si jusque-là tout est avortement,
atrophie, efforts trompés, le rôle de la vie est fini au moment où la
vie se complète. La nature est une cruelle insensée qui ne peut procéder
que par un enchaînement de fausses expériences et de vaines tentatives.
Elle développe à seule fin de déformer, de mutiler, d'anéantir;
toutes les richesses qu'elle nous présente sont des appauvrissements
successifs. La plante veut se former en boutons, elle vole la substance
de son pédoncule pour se faire un calice dont les pétales vont devenir
les voleurs à leur tour, et ainsi de suite jusqu'aux organes, qui sont
apparemment des monstruosités, et que la mort va justement punir,
puisqu'ils sont le résultat d'un enchaînement de crimes.
Pauvres fleurs! qui croirait que votre adorable beauté ait pu inspirer
une doctrine aussi triste, aussi amère, aussi féroce?
Rassurons-nous. Tout cela, ce sont des mots. Les mots, hélas! _words,
words, words!_ quel rôle insensé et déplorable ils jouent dans le monde!
A combien de discussions oiseuses ils donnent lieu! Et que fais-je en
ce moment, sinon une chose parfaitement puérile, qui est de réfuter des
mots? Pas autre chose, car, au fond, les savants ne croient pas les
sottises que je suis forcé de leur attribuer pour les punir d'avoir si
mal exprimé leur pensée. Non, ils ne croient pas que la beauté soit une
maladie, l'intelligence une névrose, l'hymen une tombe; ce serait une
doctrine de fakirs, et ils sont par état les prêtres de la vie, les
instigateurs de l'intelligence, les révélateurs de la beauté dans les
lois qui président à son rôle sur la terre.... Mais ils disent mal;
ils ont je ne sais quel fatalisme dans le cerveau, je ne sais quelle
tristesse dans la forme, et parfois l'envie maladive d'étonner le
vulgaire par des plaisanteries sceptiques, comme si la science avait
besoin d'esprit!
Supposons qu'ils eussent retourné la question et qu'ils l'eussent
présentée à peu près ainsi:
«Comme la nature a pour but la fécondation et la reproduction de
l'espèce, la plante tend dès l'état embryonnaire à ce but, qui est le
complément de sa vie. Ce qu'elle doit produire, c'est une fleur pour
l'hyménée, un lit pour l'enfantement. Elle commence par un germe, puis
une tige, puis des feuilles, qui sont, ainsi que le calice, le périanthe
et les organes, une succession de développements et de perfectionnements
de la même substance. Il serait presque rationnel de dire que l'effort
de la plante pour produire des organes passe par une série d'ébauches,
et que la tige est un pistil incomplet, les feuilles des étamines
avortées; mais supprimons ce mot d'avortement, qui n'est jamais que le
résultat d'un accident, et ne l'appliquons pas à ce qui est normal,
car c'est torturer l'esprit du langage et outrager la logique de la
création. Quand une fleur nous présente constamment le caractère
d'organes inachevés qui semblent inutiles, rappelons-nous la loi
générale de la nature, qui crée toujours _trop_, pour conserver _assez_,
observons la ponte exorbitante de certains animaux, et, sans sortir de
la botanique, la profusion de semence de certaines espèces.
»Que l'on suppose la nature inconsciente ou non, qu'on la fasse procéder
d'un équilibre fatalement établi ou d'une sagesse toute maternelle, elle
fonctionne absolument comme si elle avait la prévision infinie. Donc,
si certaines plantes sont pourvues d'organes stériles à côté d'organes
féconds, c'est que ceux-ci ont pris la substance de ceux-là dans la
mesure nécessaire à leur accroissement complet. Cette plante, en vertu
d'autres lois qui sont au profit d'autres êtres, de quelque butineur
ailé ou rampant, est exposée à perdre ses anthères avant leur formation
complète. La nature lui fournit des rudiments pour les remplacer, et
leur avortement, loin d'être maladif, prouve l'état de santé de l'organe
qui les absorbe. Dirons-nous que la floraison exubérante des arbres à
fruit est une erreur de la nature? La nature est prodigue parce qu'elle
est riche, et non parce qu'elle est folle.
»Nous voulons bien,--je fais toujours parler les savants à ma guise, ne
leur en déplaise,--nous voulons bien ne pas l'appeler généreuse, pour
ne pas nous égarer dans les questions de Providence, qui ne sont pas
de notre ressort et dont la recherche nous est interdite; mais, s'il
fallait choisir entre ce mot de généreuse et celui d'imbécile, nous
préférerions le premier comme peignant infiniment mieux l'aspect et
l'habitude de ses fonctions sur la planète. Donc, nous rejetons de notre
vocabulaire scientifique les mots impropres et malsonnants d'avortement
et de maladie appliqués aux opérations normales de la vie.»
Les savants eussent pu exprimer cette idée en de meilleurs termes; mais
tels qu'ils sont, vulgaires et sans art, ils valent mieux que ceux dont
ils se sont servis pour dénaturer leur pensée et nous la rendre obscure,
puérile et quelque peu révoltante.
N'en parlons plus, et chérissons quand même la science et ses adeptes.
Je veux vous dire d'où je tire mon affection et mon respect pour les
naturalistes, car c'est ici le lieu de répondre complètement à votre
objection: _la science refroidit_.
Je n'ai pas la science, c'est-à-dire que je n'ai pas pu suivre tout le
chemin tracé dans le domaine du connu. Une application tardive, d'autres
devoirs, des nécessités de position, peu de temps à consacrer au plaisir
d'apprendre, le seul vrai plaisir sans mélange, peu de mémoire pour
reprendre les études interrompues sans être forcé de tout recommencer,
voilà mes prétextes, je ne veux pas dire mon excuse. J'ai à peine
parcouru les premières étapes de la route, et j'ai encore les joies
de la surprise quand je fais un pas en avant. Je dois donc parler
humblement et vous répéter: Je ne sais pas si vraiment on se refroidit
et pourquoi on se refroidit quand on a fait le plus long trajet
possible. Pour vous expliquer la froide hypothèse de tout à l'heure,
j'ai été obligé de recourir à des hypothèses; mais j'ai un peu d'étude,
et je peux vous dire à coup sûr que l'étude enflamme. Or, l'étude nous
est donnée par ceux qui savent, et il est impossible de renier et
de méconnaître les initiateurs à qui l'on doit de vives et pures
jouissances.
Ces jouissances, vous ne les avez pas bien comprises, et pourtant elles
n'ont rien de mystérieux. Vous me disiez: «J'aime les fleurs avec
passion, j'en jouis plus que vous qui cherchez la rareté, et trouvez
_sans intérêt_ les bouquets que je cueille pour vous tout le long de la
promenade.»
D'abord un aveu. Vous me saignez le coeur quand vous dévastez avec votre
charmante fille une prairie _émaillée_ pour faire une botte d'anémones
de toutes nuances qui se flétrit dans nos mains au bout d'un instant.
Non, cette fleur cueillie n'a plus d'intérêt pour moi, c'est un cadavre
qui perd son attitude, sa grâce, son milieu. Pour vous deux, jeunes et
belles, la fleur est l'ornement de la femme: posée sur vos genoux, elle
ajoute un ton heureux à votre ensemble; mêlée à votre chevelure, elle
ajoute à votre beauté; c'est vrai, c'est légitime, c'est agréable à
voir; mais ni votre toilette, ni votre beauté n'ajoutent rien à
la beauté et à la toilette de la fleur, et, si vous l'aimiez pour
elle-même, vous sentiriez qu'elle est l'ornement de la terre, et que là
où elle est dans sa splendeur vraie, c'est quand elle se dresse élégante
au sein de son feuillage, ou quand elle se penche gracieusement sur son
gazon. Vous ne voyez en elle que la face colorée qui étincelle dans la
verdure, vous marchez avec une profonde indifférence sur une foule de
petites merveilles qui sont plus parfaites de port, de feuillage et
d'organisme ingénieusement agencé que vos préférées plus voyantes.
Ne disons pas de mal de ces princesses qui vous attirent, elles sont
séduisantes: raison de plus pour les laisser accomplir leur royale
destinée dans le sol et la mousse qui leur ont donné naissance.
Cueillez-en quelques-unes pour vous orner, vous méritez des couronnes,
ou pour les contempler de près, elles en valent la peine. Laissez-m'en
cueillir une pour observer les particularités que le terrain et le
climat peuvent avoir imprimées à l'espèce; mais laissez-la-moi cueillir
moi-même, car sa racine ou son bulbe, ses feuilles caulinaires, sa tige
entière et son feuillage intact, m'intéressent autant que sa corolle
diaprée. Quand vous me l'apportez écourtée, froissée et mutilée, ce
n'est plus qu'une fleur, chère dévastatrice, vous avez détruit la
plante.
A l'aspect d'une plante nouvelle pour moi, ou mal classée dans mon
souvenir, ou douteuse pour ma spécification, je serai plus barbare,
j'achèverai quatre ou cinq sujets, afin de pouvoir analyser, ce qui
nécessite le déchirement de la fleur, et de pouvoir garder un ou deux
types, on a toujours un ami avec qui l'on aime à échanger ses petites
richesses. L'étude est chose sacrée, et il faut que la nature nous
sacrifie quelques individus. Nous la paierons en adoration pour ses
oeuvres, et ce sera une raison de plus pour ne pas la profaner ensuite
par des massacres inutiles.
Oui, des massacres, car qui vous dit que la plante coupée ou brisée ne
souffre pas? C'est une question qui se pose dans la botanique, et sur
laquelle cette fois nos chers savants ont dit d'excellentes choses. Tout
les porte à croire à la sensibilité chez les végétaux. Ils supposent
cette sensibilité relative, sourdement et obscurément agissante. Du plus
ou du moins de souffrance, ils ne savent rien, pas plus que du degré de
vitalité, de terreur ou de détresse que garde un instant la tête humaine
séparée de son corps. Ce que nous voyons, c'est que le végétal saigne
et pleure à sa manière. Il se penche, il se flétrit, il prend un
ramollissement qui est d'aspect infiniment douloureux. Il devient froid
au toucher comme un cadavre. Son attitude est navrante; la main humaine
l'étouffe, le souffle humain le profane. N'avait-il pas le droit de
vivre, lui qui est beau, par conséquent nécessaire, utile même en ses
terribles énergies, selon que ses propriétés sont plus ou moins bien
connues de l'homme qui les interroge? Assez de dévastations inévitables
poursuivent la plante sur la surface de la terre habitée, et quand
même la culture, qui multiplie et accumule certains végétaux pour les
utiliser à notre profit, ne les atteindrait pas, la dent des ruminants
et des rongeurs, les pinces ou les trompes des insectes, leur
laisseraient peu de repos. C'est ici que la prodigalité de la nature et
l'ardeur de la vie éclatent. Elles sont assez riches pour que tout ce
que la plante doit nourrir soit amplement pourvu sans que la plante
cesse de renouveler l'inépuisable trésor de son existence.
Mais faisons la part du feu. Le goût des fleurs s'est tellement répandu,
qu'il s'en fait une consommation inouïe en réponse à une production
artificielle énorme. La plante est entrée, comme l'animal, dans
l'économie sociale et domestique. Elle s'y est transformée comme lui,
elle est devenue monstre ou merveille au gré de nos besoins ou de nos
fantaisies. Elle y prend ses habitudes de docilité et, si l'on peut dire
ainsi, de servilité qui établissent entre elle et sa nature primitive un
véritable divorce. Je ne m'intéresse pas moralement au chou pommé et aux
citrouilles ventrues que l'on égorge et que l'on mange. Ces esclaves ont
engraissé à notre service et pour notre usage. Les fleurs de nos serres
ont consenti à vivre en captivité pour nous plaire, pour orner nos
demeures et réjouir nos yeux. Elles paraissent fières de leur sort,
vaines de nos hommages et avides de nos soins. Nous ne remarquons guère
celles qui protestent et dégénèrent. Celles-ci, les indépendantes qui ne
se plient pas à nos exigences, sont celles justement qui m'intéressent
et que j'appellerais volontiers les libres, les vrais et dignes enfants
de la nature. Leur révolte est encore chose utile à l'homme. Elle le
stimule et le force à étudier les propriétés du sol, les influences
atmosphériques et toutes les conséquences du milieu où la vie prend
certaines formes pour creuset de son activité. Les droséracées, les
parnassées, les pinguicules, les lobélies de nos terrains tourbeux
ne sont pas faciles à acclimater. La vallisnérie n'accomplit pas ses
étranges évolutions matrimoniales dans toutes les eaux. Le chardon
laiteux n'installe pas où bon nous semble sa magnifique feuille
ornementale; les orchidées de nos bois s'étiolent dans nos parterres,
l'_orchis militaris_ voyage mystérieusement pour aller retrouver son
ombrage, l'ornithogale ombellé descend de la plate-bande et s'en va
fleurir dans le gazon de la bordure; la mignonne véronique Didyma, qui
veut fleurir en toute saison, grimpe sur les murs exposés au soleil et
se fait pariétaire. Pour une foule de charmantes petites indigènes, si
nous voulons retrouver le groupement gracieux et le riche gazonnement
de la nature, il nous faut reproduire avec grand soin le lit naturel où
elles naissent, et c'est par hasard que nous y parvenons quelquefois,
car presque toujours une petite circonstance absolument indispensable
échappe à nos prévisions, et la plante, si rustique et si robuste
ailleurs, se montre d'une délicatesse rechigneuse ou d'une nostalgie
obstinée.
Voilà pourquoi je préfère aux jardins arrangés et soignés ceux où le
sol, riche par lui-même de plantes locales, permet le complet abandon
de certaines parties, et je classerais volontiers les végétaux en deux
camps, ceux que l'homme altère et transforme pour son usage, et ceux qui
viennent spontanément. Rameaux, fleurs, fruits ou légumes, cueillez tant
que vous voudrez les premiers. Vous en semez, vous en plantez, ils
vous appartiennent: vous suivez l'équilibre naturel, vous créez et
détruisez;--mais n'abîmez pas inutilement les secondes. Elles sont bien
plus délicates, plus précieuses pour la science et pour l'art,
ces _mauvaises herbes_, comme les appellent les laboureurs et les
jardiniers. Elles sont vraies, elles sont des types, des êtres complets.
Elles nous parlent notre langue, qui ne se compose pas de mots hybrides
et vagues. Elles présentent des caractères certains, durables, et, quand
un milieu a imprimé à l'espèce une modification notable, que l'on en
fasse ou non une espèce nouvellement observée et classée, ce caractère
persiste avec le milieu qui l'a produit. La passion de l'horticulture
fait tant de progrès, que peu à peu tous les types primitifs
disparaîtront peut-être comme a disparu le type primitif du blé.
Pénétrons donc avec respect dans les sanctuaires où la montagne et la
forêt cachent et protègent le jardin naturel. J'en ai découvert plus
d'un, et même assez près des endroits habités. Un taillis épineux, un
coin inondé par le cours égaré d'un ruisseau, les avaient conservés
vierges de pas humains. Dans ces cas-là, je me garde bien de faire part
de ces trouvailles. On dévasterait tout.
Sur les sommets herbus de l'Auvergne, il y a des jardins de gentianes
et de statices d'une beauté inouïe et d'un parfum exquis. Dans les
Pyrénées, à Gèdres entre autres, sur la croupe du Cambasque près de
Cauterets, au bord de la Creuse, dans les âpres micaschistes redressés,
dans certains méandres de l'Indre, dans les déchirures calcaires de la
Savoie, dans les oasis de la Provence, où nous avons été ensemble avant
la saison des fleurs, mais que j'avais explorés en bonne saison, il y a
des sanctuaires où vous passeriez des heures sans rien cueillir et sans
oser rien fouler, si une seule fois vous avez voulu vous rendre bien
compte de la beauté d'un végétal libre, heureux, complet, intact dans
toutes ses parties et servi à souhait par le milieu qu'il a choisi. Si
la fleur est l'expression suprême de la beauté chez certaines plantes,
il en est beaucoup d'autres dont l'anthèse est mystérieuse ou peu
apparente et qui n'en sont pas moins admirables. Vous n'êtes pas
insensible, je le sais, à la grâce de la structure et à la fraîcheur du
feuillage, car vous aimez passionnément tout ce qui est beau. Eh bien,
il y a dans la flore la plus vulgaire une foule de choses infiniment
belles que vous n'aimez pas encore parce que vous ne les voyez pas
encore. Ce n'est pas votre intelligence qui s'y refuse, c'est votre oeil
qui ne s'est pas exercé à tout voir. Pourtant votre oeil est jeune; le
mien est fatigué, presque éteint, et il distingue un tout petit brin
d'herbe à physionomie nouvelle. C'est qu'il est dressé à la recherche
comme le chien à la chasse; et voilà le plaisir, voilà l'amusement muet,
mais ardent et continu que chacun peut acquérir, si bon lui semble.
Apprendre à voir, voilà tout le secret des études naturelles. Il est
presque impossible de voir avec netteté tout ce que renferme un mètre
carré de jardin naturel, si on l'examine sans notion de classement.
Le classement est le fil d'Ariane dans le dédale de la nature. Que ce
classement soit plus ou moins simple ou compliqué, peu importe, pourvu
qu'il soit classement et qu'on s'y tienne avec docilité pour apprendre.
Chacun est libre, avec le temps et le savoir acquis, de rectifier selon
son génie ou sa conscience les classifications hasardées ou incomplètes
des professeurs. Adoptons une méthode et n'ergotons pas. Le but d'un
esprit artiste et poétique comme le vôtre n'est pas de se satisfaire
en connaissant d'une manière infaillible tous les noms charmants ou
barbares donnés aux merveilles de la nature; son but est de se servir de
ces noms, quels qu'ils soient, pour former les groupes et distinguer
les types. Les principaux sont si faciles à saisir que peu de jours
suffisent à cette prise de possession des familles. Les tribus et les
genres s'y rattachent progressivement avec une clarté extrême. La
distinction des espèces exige plus de patience et d'attention, c'est
le travail courant, habituel, prolongé et plein d'attraits de la
définition. On y commet longtemps, peut-être toujours, plus d'une
erreur, car les caractères accessoires sur lesquels repose l'espèce sont
parfois très-variables ou difficiles à saisir, même avec la loupe ou le
microscope. Vous pouvez bien vous arrêter là, si vous avez atteint le
but, qui est d'avoir vu tout ce qu'il y a de très-beau à voir dans le
végétal. Pourtant cette recherche ardue ne nuit pas. La loupe vous
révèle des délicatesses infinies, des différences de tissu, des
appareils respiratoires ou sudorifiques très-mystérieux, des appendices
de poils transparents qui ressemblent à une microscopique chevelure
hyaline, tantôt disposée en étoiles, tantôt couchée comme une fourrure,
tantôt courant le long de la tige et alternant avec ses noeuds, tantôt
composée de fines soies articulées ou terminées par une petite boule de
cristal. Ces appendices, placés tantôt sur la tige en haut ou en bas,
tantôt sur le calice, le bord des feuilles ou des pétales, déterminent
quelquefois une partie essentielle des caractères. S'ils ne nous
renseignent pas toujours exactement, c'est un bien petit malheur;
l'important, c'est d'avoir vu cette parure merveilleuse que la plus
humble fleurette ne révélait pas à l'oeil nu, et, pour la chercher avec
la lentille, il fallait bien savoir qu'elle existe ou doit exister.
Je vous cite ce petit fait entre mille. Si vous étudiez la plante
dans tous ses détails, vous serez frappé d'une première unité de plan
vraiment magistrale, donnant naissance à l'infinie variété et reliant
cette variété au grand type primordial par des embranchements
admirablement ingénieux et logiques. Je m'embarrasse fort peu, quant à
moi, des questions religieuses ou matérialistes que soulève l'ordre de
la nature. Il a plu à de grands esprits d'y trouver du désordre ou tout
au moins des lacunes et des hiatus. Pour mon compte, j'y trouve tant
d'art et de science, tant d'esprit et tant de génie, que j'attribuerais
volontiers les lacunes apparentes de la création à celles de notre
cerveau. Nous ne savons pas tout, mais ce que nous voyons est
très-satisfaisant, et, que la vie se soit élancée sur la terre en
semis ou en spirale, en réseau ou en jet unique, par secousses ou par
alluvions, je m'occupe à voir et je me contente d'admirer.
Pour conclure, l'étude des détails ne peut se passer de méthode. La
méthode impose la recherche, qui n'est qu'un emploi bien dirigé de
l'attention. L'attention est un exercice de l'esprit qui crée une
faculté nouvelle, la vision nette et complète des choses. Là où
l'amateur sans étude ne voit que des masses et des couleurs confuses,
l'artiste naturaliste voit le détail en même temps que l'ensemble. Qu'il
ait besoin ou non pour son art de cette faculté acquise, je n'en sais
rien; et là n'est pas le but que j'ai cherché, je n'y ai même pas songé;
mais qu'il en ait besoin pour son âme, pour son progrès intérieur, pour
sa santé morale, pour sa consolation dans les écoeurements de la vie
sociale, pour la force à retrouver entre l'abattement du désastre et
l'appel du devoir, voilà ce qui n'est pas douteux pour moi. On arrive à
aimer la nature passionnément comme un grand être passionné, puissant,
inépuisable, toujours souriant, toujours prêt à parler d'idéal et à
renouveler le pauvre petit être troublé et tremblant que nous sommes.
Je suis arrivé, moi, à penser que c'était un devoir d'apprendre à
étudier, même dans la vieillesse et sans souci du terme plus ou moins
rapproché qui mettra fin à l'entreprise. L'étude est l'aliment de la
rêverie, qui est elle-même de grand profit pour l'âme, à cette condition
d'avoir un bon aliment. Si chaque jour qui passe fait entrer un peu plus
avant dans notre intelligence des notions qui l'enflamment et stimulent
le coeur, aucun jour n'est perdu, et le passé qui s'écoule n'est pas
un bien qui nous échappe. C'est un ruisseau qui se hâte de remplir le
bassin où nous pourrons toujours nous désaltérer et où se noie le regret
des jeunes années. On dit _les belles années_! c'est par métaphore,
les plus belles sont celles qui nous ont rendus plus sensitifs et plus
perceptifs; par conséquent, l'année où l'on vit dans la voie de
son progrès est toujours la meilleure. Chacun est libre d'en faire
l'expérience.
Il n'y a pas que des plantes dans la nature: d'abord il y a tout; mais
commencez par une des branches, et, quand vous l'aurez comprise, vous en
saisirez plus facilement une autre, la faune après la flore, si bon vous
semble. La pierre ne semble pas bien éloquente au milieu de tout cela.
Elle l'est pourtant, cette grande architecture du temple; elle est
l'histoire hiéroglyphique du monde, et, en l'étudiant, même dans les
minuties minéralogiques, qui sont plus amusantes qu'instructives, on
complète en soi le sens visuel du corps et de l'esprit. Ces mystérieuses
opérations de la physique et de la chimie ont imprimé aux moindres
objets des physionomies frappantes que ne saisit pas le premier oeil
venu. Tous les rochers ne se ressemblent pas; chaque masse a son sens
et son expression; toute forme, toute ligne a sa raison d'être et
s'embellit du degré de logique que sa puissance manifeste. Les grands
accidents comme les grands nivellements, les fières montagnes comme les
steppes immenses, ont des aspects inépuisables de diversité. Quand la
nature n'est pas belle, c'est que l'homme l'a changée; voir sa beauté
où elle est et la voir dans tout ce qui la constitue, c'est le précieux
résultat de l'étude de la nature, et c'est une erreur de croire que
tout le monde est à même d'improviser ce résultat. Pour bien sentir la
musique, il faut la savoir; pour apprécier la peinture, il faut l'avoir
beaucoup interrogée dans l'oeuvre des maîtres. Tout le monde est
d'accord sur ce point, et pourtant tout le monde croit voir le ciel,
la mer et la terre avec des yeux compétents. Non, c'est impossible; la
terre, la mer et le ciel sont le résultat d'une science plus abstraite
et d'un art plus inspiré que nos oeuvres humaines. Je trouve inoffensifs
les gens sincères qui avouent leur indifférence pour la nature; je
trouve irritants ceux qui prétendent la comprendre sans la connaître et
qui feignent de l'admirer sans la voir. Cette verbeuse et prétentieuse
admiration descriptive des personnes qui voient mal rend forcément
taciturnes celles qui voient mieux, et qui sentent d'ailleurs
profondément l'impuissance des mots pour traduire l'infini du beau.
Voilà ce que je voulais vous écrire à propos de la botanique. Ne me
dites plus que je la sais. J'en bois tant que je peux, voilà tout. Je ne
saurai jamais. Sans mémoire, on est éternellement ignorant; mais savoir
son ignorance, c'est savoir qu'il y a un monde enchanté où l'on voudrait
toujours se glisser, et, si l'on reste à la porte, ce n'est pas parce
qu'on se plaît au dehors dans la stérilité et dans l'impuissance, c'est
parce qu'on n'est pas doué; mais au moins on est riche de désirs,
d'élans, de rêves et d'aspirations. Le coeur vit de cette soif d'idéal.
On s'oublie soi-même, on monte dans une région où la personnalité
s'efface, parce que le sentiment, je dirais presque la sensation de la
vie universelle, prend possession de notre être et le spiritualise en le
dispersant dans le grand tout. C'est peut-être là la signification du
mot mystérieux de contemplation, qui, pris dans l'acception matérielle,
ne veut rien dire. Regarder sans être ému de ce qu'on voit serait
une jouissance vague et de courte durée, si toutefois c'était une
jouissance. Regarder la vie agir dans l'univers en même temps qu'elle
agit en nous, c'est la sentir universalisée en soi et personnifiée dans
l'univers. Levez les yeux vers le ciel et voyez palpiter la lumière des
étoiles; chacune de ces palpitations répond aux pulsations de notre
coeur. Notre planète est un des petits êtres qui vivent du scintillement
de ces grands astres, et nous, êtres plus petits, nous vivons des mêmes
effluves de chaleur et de lumière.
L'étoile est à nous, comme le soleil est à la terre. Tout nous
appartient, puisque nous appartenons à tout, et ce perpétuel échange
de vie s'opère dans la splendeur du plus sublime spectacle et du plus
admirable mécanisme qu'il nous soit possible de concevoir. Tout y est
beau, depuis Sirius, qui traverse l'éther d'une flèche de feu, jusqu'à
l'oeil microscopique de l'imperceptible insecte qui reflète Sirius et le
firmament. Tout y est grand, depuis le fleuve de mondes qui s'appelle
la voie lactée jusqu'au ruisselet de la prairie qui coule dans son flot
emperlé un monde de petits êtres extraordinairement forts, agiles, doués
d'une vitalité intense, presque irréductible. Tout y est heureux, depuis
la grande âme du monde qui révèle sa joie de vivre par son éternelle
activité jusqu'à l'être qui se plaint toujours, l'homme! Oui, l'homme
est infiniment heureux dans ses vrais rapports avec la nature. Il a le
beau dans les yeux, le vrai est dans l'air qu'il respire, le bon est
dans son coeur, puisqu'il est heureux quand il fait le bien, et triste,
bête ou fou quand il fait le mal.
Qui l'empêche d'être lui-même? Son ignorance du milieu où il existe,
partant son indifférence pour les biens qui sont à sa portée. La race
humaine est une création trop moderne pour avoir établi sa relation
vraie avec le vrai de l'univers. Extraordinairement douée, elle s'agite
démesurément avant de se poser dans son milieu, et l'on pourrait dire
qu'elle n'existe encore que par l'inquiétude et le besoin d'exister. En
possession d'un sens merveilleux qui semble manquer aux autres créatures
terrestres, et qui est précisément le besoin de connaître et de sentir
ses rapports avec l'univers, elle les cherche péniblement et à travers
tous les mirages que lui crée cette puissance admirable de l'esprit et
de l'imagination. La raison humaine est encore incomplète. L'historien
de l'humanité s'en étonne et s'en effraie. L'historien de la vie, le
naturaliste, peut s'en affliger aussi, mais il n'est ni surpris
ni découragé. Les chiffres de la durée ne sont pour lui que des
palpitations de l'astre éternité.
L'homme est forcé d'être, il est donc forcé d'arriver à l'existence
normale et complète, qui est le bonheur. Il en eut la révélation
fugitive le jour où il écrivit au fronton de ses temples trois mots
sacrés qui résumaient tout le but de sa vie philosophique, sociale et
morale. Ces mots sont effacés de la bannière qui dirige la phalange
humaine. Ils sont restés vivants dans l'univers qui les a entendus.
Essayez de les arracher de l'âme du monde! Étouffez le tressaillement
que la terre en a ressenti, faites qu'ils soient rayés du livre de la
vie! Oui, oui, tâchez! On peut embrouiller ou suspendre tout ce qui
est du domaine de l'idée, mais tuer une idée est aussi vain, aussi
impossible que de vouloir anéantir la vibration d'un son jeté dans
l'espace. Tirez cent mille coups de canon pour empêcher qu'on ne
l'entende. Le dieu Pan se rit du vacarme, et l'écho a redit le chant
mystérieux de sa petite flûte avant que vos mèches fussent allumées.
Liberté, seule condition du véritable fonctionnement de la vie; égalité,
notion indispensable de la valeur de tout être vivant et de la nécessité
de son action dans l'univers; fraternité, complément de l'existence,
application et couronnement des deux premiers termes, action vitale par
excellence.
On a dit que la Révolution était une expérience manquée. On n'a pu
entendre cet arrêt que dans un sens relatif, purement historique. Le
bouillonnement de la sève dans l'humanité peut bien n'avoir pas produit
dans le moment voulu tout l'accroissement de vitalité intellectuelle et
morale que les philosophes de cette grande époque devaient en attendre;
mais c'est la loi de la nature même qui le voulait ainsi. La vie se
compose d'action et de repos, de dépense d'énergie dans la veille et de
recouvrement d'énergie dans le sommeil, de vie sous forme de mort et de
mort sous forme de vie. Rien ne s'arrête et rien ne se perd. C'est l'ABC
de la science, qu'elle s'intitule spiritualiste ou positive. Comment
donc se perdrait une formule qui a fait monter à l'homme un degré de
plus dans la série du perfectionnement que la loi de l'univers impose à
son espèce?
Adieu, et aimons-nous.
A LA MÊME
II
Nohant, 20 avril.
Ma chère, si la science est _triste_, c'est parce qu'elle est toujours
persécutée. Elle lutte, elle a l'austérité et la dignité de sa tâche
écrite sur le front en caractères sacrés. Depuis ma dernière lettre,
j'ai été mis au courant des faits nouveaux. La foi veut attribuer à
l'État le droit d'imposer silence à l'examen. Je vous disais que ces
discussions ne m'intéressaient pas. Elles ne me troublent pas pour mon
compte, cela est certain. Je n'ai pas mission de défendre une école, je
ne saurais pas le faire, et, bénissant ici ma propre ignorance qui me
permet de me tromper autant qu'un autre, je me borne à défendre mon for
intérieur contre des notions qui ne me paraissent pas convaincantes.
Mais ne pas m'intéresser à la marche des idées et aux luttes qu'elles
suscitent, ce me serait tout aussi impossible qu'à vous. Nous ne
sortirons pas trop de la physiologie botanique en causant de la marche
générale des études sur l'histoire naturelle; toutes ses branches
partent de l'arbre de la vie.
Voilà donc que la religion nous défend de conclure? Moi qui, par
exemple, trouvais dans l'étude une sorte d'exaltation religieuse, je
dois m'abstenir de l'étude. C'est une occupation criminelle qui peut
conduire au doute, cela entraîne à discuter, et, comme on peut être
vaincu dans la discussion, le mieux est de faire taire tout le monde.
Quand on voit de quelle façon les influences finies ou près de finir se
précipitent d'elles-mêmes, on est tenté de croire que les idées fausses
ont besoin de se suicider avec éclat, et qu'elles convoquent le genre
humain au spectacle de leur abdication. Comment! le Dieu des Juifs
n'était pas assez humilié dans l'histoire le jour où en son nom le
prêtre prononça la condamnation de Galilée! il fallait donner encore
plus de solennité à la chose et venir, au XIXe siècle, invoquer les
pouvoirs de l'État pour que défense fût faite à la science de s'enquérir
de la vérité, et pour que cette sentence fût portée:
«La vérité est le domaine exclusif de l'Église; quand elle décrète
que le soleil tourne autour de la terre, elle ne peut pas se tromper!
N'a-t-elle pas l'Esprit-Saint pour lumière? Donc toutes les découvertes,
tous les calculs, toutes les observations de la science sont rayées et
annulées: qu'on se le dise, la terre ne tourne pas!»
Si la science penche vers le matérialisme exclusif, à qui la faute? Il
fallait bien une réaction énergique contre ce prétendu _esprit_ saint
qui veut se passer des lumières de la raison et de l'expérience.
Dans un excellent article sur ce sujet, que je lisais hier, on rappelait
fort à propos et avec beaucoup de poésie ce grand cri mystérieux que les
derniers païens entendirent sur les rivages de la Grèce et qui les fit
pâlir d'épouvante: _Le grand Pan est mort!_
L'auteur parlait des idées qui meurent. Moi, je songeais à celles qui
ne meurent pas, et je voyais dans ce cri douloureux et solennel tout un
monde qui s'écroulait, le culte et l'amour de la nature égorgés par le
spiritualisme farouche et ignorant des nouveaux chrétiens sans lumière.
Le divorce entre le corps et l'âme était prononcé, et le grand Pan, le
dieu de la vie, léguait à ses derniers adeptes la tâche de réhabiliter
la matière.
Depuis ce jour fatal, la science travaille à ressusciter le grand
principe, et, comme il est immortel, elle réussira. Elle révolutionnera
la face de la terre, c'est-à-dire que ses décisions auront un jour
la force des vérités acquises, qu'elles auront pénétré dans tous les
esprits, et qu'elles auront détruit insensiblement tous les vestiges de
la superstition et de l'idolâtrie.
On fait grand bruit de ses tendances actuelles. On fait bien. C'est le
moment de défendre le droit qu'elle a de tout voir, de tout juger et de
tout dire, puisque ce droit lui est encore contesté par les juges de
Galilée; mais, quand cette rumeur sera passée, quand la science aura
triomphé des vains obstacles,--un peu plus tôt, un peu plus tard, ce
triomphe est assuré, certain, fatal comme une loi de la vie;--quand,
mise sous l'égide de la liberté sacrée invoquée par nos pères, elle
poursuivra paisiblement ses travaux, la grande question, aujourd'hui mal
posée, qui s'agite dans son sein sera élucidée. Il le faudra bien. Si le
grand Pan représentait la force vitale inhérente à la matière, si en lui
se personnifiaient la plante, les bois sacrés et les suaves parfums de
la montagne, l'habitant ailé de l'arbre et de la prairie, la source
fécondante et le torrent rapide, les hôtes du rocher, du chêne et de la
bruyère, depuis le ciron jusqu'à l'homme, si tout enfin était Dieu ou
divin, la vie était divinité: divinité accessible et intelligible, il
est vrai, divinité amie de l'homme et partageant avec lui l'empire de la
terre, mais essence divine incarnée; activité indestructible, revêtant
toutes les formes, nécessairement pourvue d'organes quelconques, mais
émanant d'un foyer d'amour universel, incommensurable.
Vous me dites souvent que vous êtes païenne. C'est une manière poétique
de dire que vous aimez l'univers, et que les aperçus de la science vous
ont ouvert le grand temple où tout est sacré, où toute forme est sainte,
où toute fonction est bénie. En son temps, le paganisme n'était pas
mieux compris des masses que ne l'était le théisme qui le côtoyait,
et l'absorbait même dans la pensée des adorateurs exclusifs du grand
Jupiter. Pour les esprits élevés, Pan était l'idée panthéiste, la même
qui s'est ranimée sous la puissante étreinte de Spinoza. Depuis cette
vaste conception, l'esprit humain s'est rouvert à une notion de plus en
plus large du rôle de la matière, et la science démontre chaque jour la
sublimité de ce rôle dans son union intime avec le principe de la vie.
En résulte-t-il qu'elle soit le principe même? La matière pourrait-elle
se passer de l'esprit, qui ne peut se passer d'elle? Est-ce encore une
question de mots? Je le crains bien, ou plutôt je l'espère. La science
a-t-elle la prétention de faire éclore la pensée humaine comme résultat
d'une combinaison chimique? Non, certes; mais elle peut espérer de
surprendre un jour les combinaisons mystérieuses qui rendent la matière
inorganisée propre à recevoir le baptême de la vie et à devenir son
sanctuaire. Ce sera une magnifique découverte; mais quoi! après? L'homme
saura, je suppose, par quelle opération naturelle le fluide vital
pénètre un corps placé dans les conditions nécessaires à son apparition.
Le Dieu qui, roulant dans ses doigts une boulette de terre, souffla
dessus et en fit un être pensant, ne sera plus qu'un mythe. Fort bien,
mais un mythe est l'expression symbolique d'une idée, et il restera à
savoir si cette idée est un poëme ou une vérité.
Allons aussi loin qu'il est permis de supposer. Entrons dans le rêve,
imaginons un nouveau Faust découvrant le moyen de renouveler sa propre
existence, un _Albertus Magnus_ faisant penser et parler une tête de
bois, _Capparion!_ un Berthelot futur voyant surgir de son creuset une
forme organisée, vivante,--que saura-t-il de la source de cette vie
mystérieuse? La philosophie a beaucoup à répondre, mais je vois surtout
là une question d'histoire naturelle à résoudre, rentrant dans les
célèbres discussions sur la génération spontanée. Pour mon compte, je
crois presque à la génération spontanée, et je n'y vois aucun principe
de matérialisme à enregistrer dans le sens absolu que l'on veut
aujourd'hui attribuer à ce mot. La matière, dit-on, renferme le
_principe vivant_. Ceci est encore l'histoire de la plante, qui tire
ses organes de sa propre substance. Mais le principe _vivant_, d'où
tire-t-il son activité, sa volition, son expansion, ses résultats
sans limites connues? D'un milieu qui ne les a pas? C'est difficile à
comprendre. La matière possède le principe _viable_; mais point de vie
sans fécondation. La doctrine de la génération spontanée proclame que
la fécondation n'est pas due nécessairement à l'espèce; elle admet donc
qu'il y a des principes de fécondation dans toute combinaison vitale,
et même que tout est combinaison vitale, vie latente, impatiente de
s'organiser par son mariage avec la matière. Quoi qu'on fasse, il faut
bien parler la langue humaine, se servir de mots qui expriment des
idées. On aura beau nous dire que la vie est une pure opération et une
simple action de la matière, on ne nous fera pas comprendre que les
opérations de notre pensée et l'action de notre volonté ne soient pas le
résultat de l'association de deux principes en nous. Que faites-vous
de la mort, si la matière seule est le principe vivant? Vous dites que
l'âme s'éteint quand le corps ne fonctionne plus. On peut vous demander
pourquoi le corps ne fonctionne plus quand l'âme le quitte. Et tout
cela, c'est un cercle vicieux, où les vrais savants sont moins
affirmatifs que leurs impatients et enthousiastes adeptes. Il y a
quelque chose de généreux et de hardi, j'en conviens, à braver les
foudres de l'intolérance et à vouloir attribuer à la science la liberté
de tout nier. Inclinons-nous devant le droit qu'elle a de se tromper.
Ses adversaires en usent si largement! Mais attendons, pour nier
l'action divine qui préside au grand hyménée universel, que l'homme soit
arrivé par la science à s'en passer ou à la remplacer.
--Vous ne pensez, nous disent les médecins positivistes, que parce que
vous avez un cerveau.
Très-bien; mais, sans ma pensée, mon cerveau serait une boîte
vide.--Nous pouvons mettre le doigt sur la portion du cerveau qui pense
et oblitérer sa fonction par une blessure, notre main peut écraser la
raison et la pensée!--Vous pouvez produire la folie et la mort; mais
empêcher l'une et guérir l'autre, voilà où vous cherchez en vain des
remèdes infaillibles. Cette pensée qui s'éteint ou qui s'égare dans le
cerveau épuisé et meurtri est bien forcée de quitter le milieu où elle
ne peut plus fonctionner.
--Où va-t-elle?--Demandez-moi aussi d'où elle vient. Qui peut vous
répondre? Me direz-vous d'où vient la matière? Vous voilà étudiant les
météorites, étude admirable qui nous renseignera sans doute sur la
formation des planètes. Mais, quand nous saurons que nous sommes nés du
soleil, qui nous dira l'origine de celui-ci? Pouvez-vous vous emparer
des causes premières? Vous n'en savez pas plus long sur l'avènement
de la matière que sur celui de la vie, et, si vous vous fondez sur la
priorité de l'apparition de la matière sur notre globe, vous ne résolvez
rien. La vie était organisée ailleurs avant que notre terre fut prête à
la recevoir; latente chez nous, elle fonctionnait dans d'autres régions
de l'univers.
Mais il n'y a pas de matière proprement inerte; je le veux bien! Chaque
élément de vitalité a sa vie propre, et j'admets sans surprise celle de
la terre et du rocher. La vie chimique est encore intense sous nos pieds
et se manifeste par les tressaillements et les suintements volcaniques;
mais, encore une fois, la vie la plus élémentaire est toujours une
vie; la vie inorganique--il paraît qu'on parle ainsi aujourd'hui--est
toujours une force qui vient animer une inertie. D'où vient cette force?
D'une loi. D'où vient la loi?
Pour répondre scientifiquement à une telle question, il faut trouver
une formule nouvelle à coup sûr. Puisque tous les mots qui ont servi
jusqu'ici à l'idée spiritualiste paraissent entachés de superstition,
et que tous ceux qui servent à l'idée positiviste semblent entachés
d'athéisme, vitalité, dis-nous ton nom!
Sublime inconnue, tu frémis sous ma main quand je touche un objet
quelconque. Tu es là dans ce roc nu qui, l'an prochain ou dans un
million d'années, aura servi, par sa décomposition ou toute autre
influence peut-être occulte, à produire un fruit savoureux. Tu es
palpable et visible et déjà merveilleusement savante dans la petite
graine qui porte dans sa glume les prairies de six cents lieues de
l'Amérique. Tu souris et rayonnes dans la fleur qui se pare pour
l'hyménée. Tu bondis ou planes dans l'insecte vêtu des couleurs de la
plante qui l'a nourri à l'état de larve. Tu dors sous les sables dorés
du rivage des mers, tu es dans l'air que je respire comme dans le regard
ami qui me console, dans le nuage qui passe comme dans le rayon qui le
traverse.--Je te vois et je te sens dans tout; mais rayez le mot divin
_amour_ du livre de la nature, et je ne vois plus rien, je ne comprends
plus, je ne vis plus.
La matière qui n'a pas la vie, et la vie qui ne se manifeste pas dans la
matière ont-elles conscience du besoin qu'elles éprouvent de se réunir?
Ce n'est pas très-probable sans la supposition d'un agent souverain qui
les pousse irrésistiblement l'une vers l'autre. Quel est-il? son nom? Le
nom que vous voudrez parmi ceux qui sont à l'usage de l'homme; moi, je
n'en peux trouver que dans le vocabulaire classique des idées actuelles:
âme du monde, amour, divinité. Je vois dans la moindre étude des choses
naturelles, dans la moindre manifestation de la vie, une puissance dont
nulle autre ne peut anéantir le principe. La matière a beau se ruer sur
la matière et se dévorer elle-même, la vie a beau se greffer sur la vie
et s'embrancher en d'inextricables réseaux où se confondent toutes les
limites de la classification, tout se maintient dans l'équilibre qui
permet à la vie de remplacer la mort à mesure que celle-ci opère une
transformation devenue nécessaire. Je sens le souffle divin vibrer dans
toutes ces harmonies qui se succèdent pour arriver toujours et par tous
les modes au grand accord relativement parfait, âme universelle, amour
inextinguible, puissance sans limites.
Laissons les savants chercher de nouvelles définitions. Si leurs
tendances actuelles nous ramènent à d'Holbach et compagnie, comme il y
avait là en somme très-bonne compagnie, il en sortira quelque chose de
bon; la vie ne s'arrête pas parce que l'esprit fait fausse route.
Une notion qui tend à comprimer son essor, à détruire son énergie, à
refroidir son élan vers l'infini, n'est pas une notion durable; mais la
science seule peut redresser et éclairer la science. S'il était possible
de la réduire au silence, ce qu'il y a de vrai dans le spiritualisme
aurait chance de succomber longtemps. Les esprits vulgaires
s'empareraient d'un athéisme grossier comme d'un drapeau, et la
recherche de la vérité serait soumise aux agitations de la politique.
Tel n'est point le rôle de la science, tel n'est point le chemin du
vrai. Telle n'est heureusement pas la loi du progrès, qui est la loi
même de la vie.
* * * * *
Ce n'est certes pas moi, ma chère amie, qui vous dirai par où le monde
passera pour sortir de cette crise. Je ne sais rien qu'une chose, c'est
qu'il faut que l'homme devienne un être complet, et que je le vois en
train d'être comme l'enfant dont on voulait donner une moitié à chacune
des mères qui se le disputaient. L'enfant ne se laissera pas faire,
soyons tranquilles.
Au reste, je me suis probablement aussi mal exprimé que possible sur le
fond de la question en parlant de la vie comme d'une opération. C'est
plus que cela sans doute, ce doit être le résultat d'une opération non
surnaturelle, mais divine, où les éléments abstraits se marient aux
éléments concrets de l'existence; mais il y a un langage technique que
je ne veux point parler ici, parce qu'il me déplaît et n'éclaircit rien.
Les sciences et les arts ont leur technologie très-nécessaire, et vous
voyez que j'évite d'employer cette technologie à propos de botanique.
Elle est si facile à apprendre que l'exhiber serait faire un mauvais
calcul de pédantisme. La technologie métaphysique n'est pas beaucoup
plus _sorcière_, comme on dit chez nous; mais elle n'a pas la justesse
et la précision de la botanique. Chaque auteur est forcé de créer des
termes à son usage pour caractériser les opérations de la pensée telle
qu'il les conçoit. Ces opérations sont beaucoup plus profondes que
les mystères microscopiques du monde tangible. Après tant de sublimes
travaux et de grandioses explorations dans le domaine de l'âme,
la science des idées n'a pas encore trouvé la parole qui peut se
vulgariser: c'est un grand malheur et un grand tort. Le matérialisme
radical menace d'une suppression complète la recherche des opérations
de l'entendement humain. Allons donc! alors vienne l'homme de génie
qui nous expliquera notre âme et notre corps dans l'ensemble de leurs
fonctions, par des vérités sans réplique et dans une langue qui nous
permettra d'enseigner à nos petits-enfants qu'ils ne sont ni anges ni
bêtes!
* * * * *
Me voilà bien un peu loin de ce que je voulais vous dire aujourd'hui sur
les herbiers. Je tiens cependant à ne pas finir sans cela.
L'herbier inspire des préventions aux artistes.
--C'est, disent-ils, une jolie collection de squelettes.
Avant tout, je dois vous dire que faire un herbier est une chose si
grave, que j'ai écrit sur la première feuille du mien: _Fagot_. Je
n'oserais donner un titre plus sérieux à une chose si capricieuse et si
incomplète. Je parlerai donc de l'herbier au point de vue général, et
je vous accorde que c'est un cimetière. Dès lors, ce n'est pas un coin
aride pour la pensée. Le sentiment l'habite, car ce qui parle le plus
éloquemment de la vie, c'est la mort.
Maintenant, écoutez une anecdote véridique.
* * * * *
J'ai vu Eugène Delacroix essayer pour la première fois de peindre des
fleurs. Il avait étudié la botanique dans son enfance, et, comme il
avait une admirable mémoire, il la savait encore, mais elle ne l'avait
pas frappé en tant qu'artiste, et le sens ne lui en fut révélé que
lorsqu'il reproduisit attentivement la couleur et la forme de la plante.
Je le surpris dans une extase de ravissement devant un lis jaune dont il
venait de comprendre la belle _architecture_; c'est le mot heureux dont
il se servit. Il se hâtait de peindre, voyant qu'à chaque instant son
modèle, accomplissant dans l'eau l'ensemble de sa floraison, changeait
de ton et d'attitude. Il pensait avoir fini, et le résultat était
merveilleux; mais, le lendemain, lorsqu'il compara l'art à la nature, il
fut mécontent et retoucha. Le lis avait complètement changé. Les lobes
du périanthe s'étaient recourbés en dehors, le ton des étamines avait
pâli, celui de la fleur s'était accusé, le jaune d'or était devenu
orangé, la hampe était plus ferme et plus droite, les feuilles, plus
serrées contre la tige, semblaient plus étroites. C'était encore une
harmonie, ce n'était plus la même. Le jour suivant, la plante était
belle tout autrement. Elle devenait de plus en plus _architecturale_.
La fleur se séchait et montrait ses organes plus développés; ses formes
devenaient _géométriques_; c'est encore lui qui parle. Il voyait le
squelette se dessiner, et la beauté du squelette le charmait. Il fallut
le lui arracher pour qu'il ne fit pas, d'une étude de plante à l'état
splendide de l'anthèse, une étude de plante en herbier.
Il me demanda alors à voir des plantes séchées, et il s'enamoura de ces
silhouettes déliées et charmantes que conservent beaucoup d'espèces.
Les raccourcis que la pression supprime, mais que la logique de l'oeil
rétablit, le frappaient particulièrement.
--Les plantes d'herbier, disait-il, c'est la grâce dans la mort.
Chacun a son procédé pour conserver la plante sans la déformer. Le plus
simple est le meilleur. _Jetée_ et non _posée_ dans le papier qui doit
boire son suc, rétablie par le souffle dans son attitude naturelle,
si elle l'a perdue en tombant sur ce lit mortuaire, elle doit être
convenablement comprimée, mais jamais jusqu'à produire l'écrasement. Il
faut renouveler tous les jours les couches de papier qui l'isolent, sans
ouvrir le feuillet qui la contient. Le moindre dérangement gâte sa pose,
tant quelle colle à son linceul. Au bout de quelques jours, pour la
plupart des espèces, la dessiccation est opérée. Les plantes grasses
demandent plus de pression, plus de temps et plus de soins, sans jamais
donner de résultats satisfaisants. Les orchidées noircissent malgré le
repassage au fer chaud, qui est préférable à la presse. Bannissons la
presse absolument, elle détruit tout et ne laisse plus la moindre chance
à l'analyse déjà si difficile du végétal desséché. Le but de l'herbier
doit être de faciliter l'étude des sujets qu'il contient. Le goût des
collections est puéril, s'il n'a pas ce but avant tout pour soi et pour
les autres.
Mais l'herbier a pour moi une autre importance encore, une importance
toute morale et toute de sentiment. C'est le passage d'une vie humaine
à travers la nature, c'est le voyage enchanté d'une âme aimante dans le
monde aimé de la création. Un herbier bien fait au point de vue de la
conservation exhale une odeur particulière, où les senteurs diverses,
même les senteurs fétides, se confondent en un parfum comparable à celui
du thé le plus exquis. Ce parfum est pour moi comme l'expression de la
vie prise dans son ensemble. Les saveurs salutaires des plantes dites
officinales, mariées aux âcres émanations des plantes vireuses,
lesquelles sont probablement tout aussi _officinales_ que les autres,
produisent la suavité qui est encore une richesse, une salubrité,
une subtile beauté de la nature. Ainsi se perdent dans l'harmonie de
l'ensemble les forces trop accusées pour nous de certains détails.
Ainsi de nos souvenirs, où se résument comme un parfum tout un passé
composé de tristesse et de joie, de revers et de victoires. Il y a dans
cet herbier-là des épines et des poisons: l'ortie, la ronce et la ciguë
y figurent; mais tant de fleurs délicieusement belles et bienfaisantes
sont là pour ramener à l'optimisme, qui serait peut-être la plus vraie
des philosophies!
La ciguë d'ailleurs..., je l'arrache sans pitié, je l'avoue, parce
qu'elle envahit tout et détrône tout quand on la laisse faire; mais,
outre qu'elle est bien belle, elle est une plante historique. Son nom
est à jamais lié au divin poëme du _Phédon_. Les chrétiens ne sauraient
dire quel arbre a fourni la croix vénérée de leur grand martyr. Tout le
monde sait que la ciguë a procuré une mort douce et sublime au grand
prédécesseur du crucifié. Innocente ou bienfaisante ciguë, sois donc
réhabilitée, toi qui, forcée de donner la mort, sus prouver que tu
n'atteignais pas la toute-puissance de l'âme, et laissas pure et lucide
celle du sage jusqu'à la dernière pulsation de ses artères!
L'herbier est encore autre chose, c'est un reliquaire. Pas un individu
qui ne soit un souvenir doux et pur. On ne fait de la botanique bien
attentive que quand on a l'esprit libre des grandes préoccupations
personnelles ou reposé des grandes douleurs. Chaque plante rappelle donc
une heure de calme ou d'accalmie. Elle rappelle aussi les beaux jours
des années écoulées, car on choisit ces jours-là pour chercher la vie
épanouie et s'épanouir pour son propre compte. La vue des sujets un
peu rares dans la localité explorée réveille la vision d'un paysage
particulier. Je ne puis regarder la petite campanule à feuilles de
lierre,--merveille de la forme!--sans revoir les blocs de granit de nos
vieux dolmens, où je l'observai vivante pour la première fois. Elle
perçait la mousse et le sable en mille endroits, sur un coteau couvert
de hautes digitales pourprées, et ses mignonnes clochettes devenaient
plus amples et plus colorées à mesure qu'elle se rapprochait du ruisseau
qui jase timidement dans ces solitudes austères. Là aussi, je trouvai
la _lysimaque nemorum_, assez rare chez nous, non moins merveilleuse de
fini et de grâce, et, dans le bois voisin, l'_oxalis acelosella_, qui
remplissait de ses touffes charmantes,--_d'un vert gai_, comme daignent
dire les botanistes,--les profondes crevasses des antiques châtaigniers.
Que ce bois était beau alors! Il était si épais d'ombrage que la lumière
du soleil y tombait, pâle et glauque, comme un clair de lune. De
vieux arbres penchés nourrissaient, du pied à la cime, des panaches
ininterrompus de hautes fougères. A la lisière, des argynnis énormes,
toutes vêtues de nacre verte, planaient comme des oiseaux de haut vol
sur les églantiers. Un paysan d'aspect naïf et sauvage nous demanda
ce que nous cherchions, et, nous voyant ramasser des herbes et des
insectes, resta cloué sur place, les yeux hagards, le sourire sur les
lèvres. Il sortit enfin de sa stupeur par un haussement d'épaules
formidable, et s'éloigna en disant d'un ton dont rien ne peut rendre le
mépris et la pitié:
--Ah! mon Dieu, mon Dieu!
J'ouvre l'herbier au hasard, quand je suis rendu _gloomy_ par un temps
noir et froid. L'herbier est rempli de soleil. Voici la circée, et
aussitôt je rêve que je me promène dans les méandres et les petites
cascades de l'Indre; c'était un coin vierge de culture et bien touffu.
La flore y est très-belle. J'y ai trouvé cette année-là l'agraphis
blanche, le genêt sagitté, la balsamine _noli me langere_, la spirante
d'été, les jolies hélianthèmes, le buplèvre en faux, l'_anagallis
tenella_, sans parler des grandes eupatoires, des hautes salicaires, des
spirées ulmaires et filipendules, des houblons et de toutes les plantes
communes dans mon petit rayon habituel. La circée m'a remis toute cette
floraison sous les yeux, et aussi la grande tour effondrée, et le jardin
naturel qui se cache et se presse sous les vieux saules, avec ses petits
blocs de grès, ses sentiers encombrés de lianes indigènes et ses grands
lézards verts, pierreries vivantes, qui traversent le fourré comme des
éclairs rampants. Le martin-pêcheur, autre éclair, rase l'eau comme une
flèche; la rivière parle, chante, gazouille et gronde. Il y a partout,
selon la saison, des ruisseaux et des torrents à traverser comme on
peut, sans ponts et sans chemins. C'est un endroit qui semble primitif
en quelques parties, que le paysan n'explore que dans les temps secs.
Hélas! gare au jour où les arbres seront bons à abattre! La flore des
lieux frais ira se blottir ailleurs. Il faudra la chercher.
En voyant le domaine de la nature se rétrécir de jour en jour, et les
ravages de la culture mal entendue supprimer sans relâche le jardin
naturel, je ne suis guère en train de conclure avec certains adeptes de
Darwin que l'homme est un grand créateur, et qu'il faut s'en remettre
à son goût et à son intelligence pour arranger au mieux la planète.
Jusqu'à présent, je trouve qu'il est un affreux bourgeois et un vandale,
qu'il a plus gâté les types qu'il ne les a embellis, que, pour quelques
améliorations, il a fait cent bévues et cent profanations, qu'il a
toujours travaillé pour son ventre plus que pour son coeur et pour son
esprit, que ces créations de plantes et d'animaux les plus utiles sont
précisément les plus laides, et que ces modifications tant vantées sont,
dans la plupart des cas, des détériorations et des monstruosités. La
théorie de Darwin n'en est pas moins vraisemblable et logiquement vraie;
mais elle ne doit pas conclure à la destruction systématique de tout ce
qui n'est pas l'ouvrage de l'homme. L'interpréter ainsi diminuerait son
importance et dénaturerait probablement son but; mais, pour parler de ce
grand esprit et de ces grands travaux, il faudrait plus de papier que je
ne veux condamner vos yeux à en lire. Revenons à nos fleurs mortes.
Je vous disais que l'herbier est un cimetière; hélas! le mien est rempli
de plantes cueillies par des mains amies que la mort a depuis longtemps
glacées. Voici les graminées que mon vieux précepteur Deschartres
prépara et classa ici, il y a soixante-quinze ans, pour mon père, qui
avait été son élève; elles ont servi à mes premières études botaniques;
je les ai pieusement gardées, et, si j'ai rectifié la classement un peu
suranné de mon professeur, j'ai respecté les étiquettes jaunies qui
gardent fidèlement son écriture... J'ai trouvé dans un volume de l'abbé
de Saint-Pierre, qui a été longtemps dans les mains de Jean-Jacques
Rousseau, une saponaire ocymoïde qui m'a bien l'air d'avoir été mise là
par lui.--De nombreux sujets me viennent de mon cher Malgache, Jules
Néraud, dont le livre élémentaire et charmant, _Botanique de ma fille_,
a été réédité avec luxe par Hetzel, après avoir longtemps dormi chez
l'éditeur de Lausanne.
Cet aimable et excellent ouvrage est le résumé de causeries pleines
de savoir et d'esprit que j'écoutais en artiste et pas assez en
naturaliste. Je ne me suis occupé un peu sérieusement de botanique que
depuis la mort de mon pauvre ami. J'avais toujours remis au lendemain
_l'épélage_ de cet alphabet nécessaire dont on espère en vain pouvoir se
passer pour bien voir et réellement comprendre. Le lendemain, hélas! m'a
trouvé seul, privé de mon précieux guide; mais les plantes qu'il m'avait
données, avec d'excellentes analyses vraiment descriptives,--il y en a
si peu de complètes dans les gros livres!--sont restées dans l'herbier
comme types bien définis. Chacune de ces plantes me rappelle nos
promenades dans les bois avec mon fils enfant, que nous portions à
tour de rôle, et qui aimait à chevaucher _la grandelette_, la boîte de
fer-blanc du Malgache.
D'autres amis, qui, grâce au ciel, vivent encore et me survivront, ont
aussi laissé leurs noms et leurs tributs dans mon herbier. Une grande
artiste dramatique, qui est rapidement devenue botaniste attentive et
passionnée, m'a envoyé des plantes rares et intéressantes des bois de
la Côte-d'Or. Célimène a les yeux aussi bons qu'ils sont beaux. La
botanique ne leur a rien ôté de leur expression et de leur pureté: c'est
que l'exercice complet d'un organe le retrempe. J'ai longtemps partagé
cette erreur, qu'il ne faut pas exercer la vue, dans la crainte de
la fatiguer. L'oeil est complet ou non, mais il ne peut que gagner à
fonctionner régulièrement. Des semaines et des mois de repos, que l'on
me disait et que je croyais nécessaires, augmentaient le nuage qui me
gêne. Des semaines et des mois d'étude à la loupe m'ont enfin prouvé que
la vue revient quand on la sollicite, tandis qu'elle s'éteint de plus
en plus dans l'inertie; mais, en ceci comme en tout, il ne faut point
d'excès.
L'herbier se prête aussi aux exercices de la mémoire, qui est un sens
de l'esprit. Si on ne le feuilletait de temps en temps, les noms et les
différences se confondraient ou s'échapperaient pour qui n'est pas doué
naturellement du beau souvenir qui s'incruste. Les soldats passés en
revue, avec leurs costumes variés, se confondraient dans la vision,
s'ils n'étaient bien classés par régiments et bataillons. Ils défilent
dans leur ordre; on reconnaît alors facilement chacun d'eux, et, avec
son nom et son origine, on retrouve son histoire personnelle, on se
retrace des lieux aimés, des personnes chéries; on revoit les douces
figures, on entend les gais propos des compagnons qui couraient alertes
et joyeux au soleil, et qui aujourd'hui vivent dans notre âme fidèle à
l'état de pensées fortifiantes et salutaires.
Quoi de plus beau et de plus pur que la vision intérieure d'un mort
aimé? L'esprit humain a la faculté d'une évocation admirable. L'ami
reparaît, mais non tel qu'il était absolument. L'absence mystérieuse a
rajeuni ses traits, épuré son regard, adouci sa parole, élevé son âme.
Il se rappelle quelques erreurs, quelques préjugés, quelques préventions
inséparables du milieu incomplet où il avait vécu. Il en est débarrassé,
il vous invite à vous débarrasser de cet alliage. Il ne se pique point
d'être entré dans la lumière absolue, mais il est mieux éclairé, il juge
la vie avec calme et sagesse. Il a gardé de lui-même et développé tout
ce qui était bon. Il est désormais à toute heure ce qu'il était dans ses
meilleurs jours. Il nous rappelle les bienfaits de son amitié, et
il n'est pas besoin qu'il nous prie d'en oublier les erreurs ou les
lacunes. Son apparition les efface.
Telle est la puissance de l'imagination et du sentiment en nous, que
nous rendons la vie à ceux qui nous ont quittés. Y sont-ils pour quelque
chose? Nous le croyons par l'enthousiasme et l'attendrissement. La
raison jusqu'ici ne nous le prouve pas, elle ne peut tout prouver: elle
n'est pas la seule lumière de l'homme, _quoi qu'on die_; mais elle a des
droits sacrés, imprescriptibles, ne l'oublions pas, et n'arrêtons jamais
son essor.
En attendant qu'elle se mette d'accord avec notre coeur, car il faut
qu'elle en arrive là, donnons à nos amis envolés un sanctuaire dans
notre âme, et continuons la reconnaissance et l'affection au delà de
la tombe en leur faisant plus belle cette région idéale, cette vie
renouvelée où nous les plaçons. Qu'ils soient pour nous comme les suaves
parfums de fleurs qui s'épurent en se condensant.
IV
DE MARSEILLE A MENTON
A M. GUSTAVE TOURANGIN, A SAINT-FLORENT
Nohant. 28 avril 1868.
Mais non, mon cher _Micro_, je ne suis plus au pays des anémones, je
suis au doux pays de la famille, où vient de nous fleurir une petite
plante plus intéressante que toutes celles de nos herbiers. Le beau
soleil qui rit dans sa chambre et la douce brise de printemps qui
effleure son rideau de gaze sont les divinités que j'invoque en ce
moment pour elle, et je laisse les cactus et les dattiers de la Provence
aux baisers du mistral, qu'ils ont la force de supporter.
J'ai passé un mois seulement sur le rivage de la mer bleue. Le
_rapide_,--c'est ainsi que les Méridionaux appellent le train que l'on
prend à Paris à sept heures du soir, nous déposait à Marseille le
lendemain à midi. Une heure après, il nous remportait à Toulon.
Je regrette toujours de ne plus m'arrêter à Marseille: les environs
sont aussi beaux que ceux des autres stations du littoral, plus beaux
peut-être, si mes souvenirs ne m'ont pas laissé d'illusions. Ce que j'en
vois en gagnant Toulon, où nous sommes attendus, me semble encore plein
d'intérêt. Le massif de Carpiagne, qui s'élève à ma droite et que
j'ai flairé un peu autrefois sans avoir la liberté d'y
pénétrer,--j'accompagnais un illustre et cher malade que tu as connu et
aimé,--m'apparaît toujours comme un des coins ignorés du vulgaire, où
l'artiste doit trouver une de ses oasis. C'est pourtant l'aridité qui
fait la beauté de celle-ci. C'est un massif pyramidal qui s'étoile à
son sommet en nombreuses arêtes brisées, avec des coupures à pic, des
dentelures aiguës, des abîmes et des redressements brusques. Tout cela
n'est pas de grande dimension et paraît sans doute de peu d'importance à
ceux qui mesurent le beau à la toise; autant que mon oeil peut apprécier
ce monument naturel, il a de six à sept cents mètres d'élévation, et ses
verticales nombreuses ont peut-être trois ou quatre cents pieds. Peu
m'importe; l'oeil voit immense ce qui est construit dans de belles
proportions, et le Lapithe qui a taillé cette montagne à grands coups de
massue était un artiste puissant, quelque demi-dieu ancêtre du génie qui
s'incorpora et se personnifia dans Michel-Ange.
Il y a, n'est-ce pas? dans la nature, des formes qui nous font penser
à tel ou tel maître, bien que le rapport ne soit pas matériellement
saisissable entre l'oeuvre de la planète et celle de l'artiste. Un
rocher de la Carpiagne ou de l'Estérel ne ressemble pas à la chapelle
des Médicis ni au Moïse, et pourtant ces grandes figures de la
civilisation idéalisée viennent, dans notre rêverie, s'asseoir sur les
sommets de ces temples barbares et primitifs. C'est que le beau engendre
la postérité du beau, qui, parlant du fait et passant par tous les
perfectionnements que la pensée lui donne, garde comme air de famille
les qualités de hardiesse, d'âpreté ou de grâce du type fruste.
Michel-Ange voyait-il avec nos yeux d'aujourd'hui les croupes et les
attaches d'une montagne plus ou moins belle? Qu'importe! il avait toutes
les Alpes dans la poitrine, et il portait l'Atlas dans son cerveau.
Quittons cet Atlas en miniature de la Carpiagne, où le soleil dessine
avec de grands éclats de lumière coupés d'ombres vaporeuses les contours
rudes de formes, chatoyants de couleur comme l'opale. Notre déesse Flore
cache-t-elle dans ces fentes arides et nues en apparence les petites
raretés du fond de sa corbeille? Probablement; mais le convoi brutal
nous emporte au loin et s'engouffre sous des tunnels interminables où il
fait noir et froid. On entre dans l'Érèbe, un sens païen de voyage aux
enfers se formule dans la pensée; ce bruit aigre et déchirant de la
vapeur, ce rugissement étouffé de la rotation, cette obscurité qui
consterne l'âme, c'est l'effroi de la course vers l'inconnu. L'esprit ne
sent plus la vie que par le regret de la perdre, et l'impatience de la
retrouver. Mais voici une lueur glauque: est-ce la porte du Tartare ou
celle d'un monde nouveau plus beau que l'ancien? C'est la lumière, c'est
le soleil, c'est la vie. La mort n'est peut-être que le passage d'un
tunnel.
La côte largement déchirée que l'on suit jusqu'à Toulon, et où l'oeil
plonge par échappées, est merveilleusement belle; nous la savons par
coeur, mon fils et moi. Nous la revoyons avec d'autant plus de plaisir
que nous la connaissons mieux. Voilà le Bec-de-l'Aigle, le beau rocher
de la Ciotat, le Brusc et les îles des Embiez, la colline de Sixfours,
toutes stations amies dont je sais le dessus et le dessous, dont les
plantes sont dans mon herbier et les pierres sur mon étagère. Je sais
que derrière ces pins tordus par le vent de mer s'ouvrent des ravins
de phyllade lilas qu'un rayon de soleil fait briller comme des parois
d'améthyste sablées d'or. La colline qui s'avance au delà a les
entrailles toutes roses sablées d'argent, l'or et l'argent des _chats_,
comme on appelle en minéralogie élémentaire la poudre éclatante des
roches micacées ou talqueuses.--Les _Frères_, ces écueils jumeaux, pics
engloutis qui lèvent la tête au milieu du flot, sont noirs comme l'encre
à la surface, et je n'ai pas trouvé de barque qui voulût m'y conduire
pour explorer leurs flancs. Dans cette saison-là, le mistral soufflait
presque toujours. Aujourd'hui, il est anodin, et à peine avons-nous
embrassé à la gare de Toulon les chers amis à qui nous y avions donné
rendez-vous, que nous sautons avec eux dans un fiacre, et nous voici
à trois heures à Tamaris. Soleil splendide, des fleurs partout, nos
vêtements d'hiver nous pèsent. Hier, à pareille heure, nous nous
chauffions à Paris, le nez dans les cendres. Ce voyage n'est qu'une
enjambée de l'hiver à l'été.
Rien de changé à Tamaris, où je me suis installé, il y a sept ans en
février, presque jour pour jour. Les beaux pins parasols couvrent
d'ombre une circonférence un peu plus grande, voilà tout; le gazon ne
s'en porte que mieux. Il est très-remarquable, ce gazon cantonné ici
uniquement sur la colline qui sert de jardin naturel à la bastide. C'est
le brachypode rameux, une céréale sauvage, n'est-ce pas? ou tout au
moins une triticée, la soeur bâtarde, ou, qui sait! l'ancêtre ignoré de
monseigneur froment, puisque cet orgueilleux végétal qui tient tant de
place et joue un si grand rôle sur la terre ne peut plus nommer ses
pères ni faire connaître sa patrie. Le _brachypodium ramosus_ n'a pas de
nom vulgaire que je sache; aucun paysan n'a pu me le dire. Il porte un
petit épi grêle, cinq ou six grains bien chétifs qui, çà et là, ont
passé l'hiver sur leur tige sans se détacher. On ne l'utilise pas, on ne
s'en occupe jamais. Il est venu là, et, comme son chaume fin et chevelu
forme un gazon presque toujours vert et touffu, on l'y a laissé. Il n'y
a nullement dépéri depuis sept ans que je le connais. Nul autre gazon
n'eût consenti à vivre dans ces rochers et sous cette ombre des grands
pins: les animaux ne le mangent pas, il n'y a que Bou-Maca, le petit
âne d'Afrique, qui s'en arrange quand on l'attache dehors; mais il aime
mieux autre chose, car il casse sa corde ou la dénoue avec ses dents et
s'en va, comme autrefois, chercher sa vie dans la presqu'île. J'apprends
que, seul tout l'hiver dans cette bastide inhabitée,--le pauvre petit
chien qui lui tenait compagnie n'est plus,--il s'est mis à vivre à
l'état sauvage. Il part dès le matin, va dans la montagne ou dans la
vallée promener son caprice, son appétit et ses réflexions. Il rentre
quelquefois le soir à son gîte, regarde tristement son râtelier vide et
repart. On vole beaucoup dans la presqu'île, mais on ne peut pas voler
Bou-Maca; il est plus fin que tous les larrons, il flaire l'ennemi, le
regarde d'un air paisiblement railleur, le laisse approcher, lui détache
une ruade fantastique et part comme une flèche. Or, il n'est guère plus
facile d'attraper un âne d'Afrique que de prendre un lièvre à la course.
Intelligent et fort entre tous les ânes, il n'obéit qu'à ses maîtres
et porte ou traîne des fardeaux qui n'ont aucun rapport avec sa petite
taille.
Ainsi, je n'ai pas eu le plaisir de renouer connaissance avec Bou-Maca.
Monsieur était sorti; mais l'étrange gazon de la colline profite de son
absence et recouvre les soies jaunies de sa tige d'une verdure robuste
disposée en plumes de marabout. Il tapisse tout le sol sans empiéter sur
les petits sentiers et sans étouffer les nombreuses plantes qui
abritent leurs jeunes pousses sous sa fourrure légère. Une vingtaine de
légumineuses charmantes apprêtent leur joli feuillage qui se couronnera
dans six semaines de fleurettes mignonnes, et plus tard de petites
gousses bizarrement taillées: _hippocrepis ciliata_, _melilotus
sulcata_, _trifolium stellatum_, et une douzaine de lotus plus jolis les
uns que les autres. Le psoralée bitumineux a passé l'hiver sans quitter
ses feuilles, qui sentent le port de mer; la santoline neutralise son
odeur âcre par un parfum balsamique qui sent un peu trop la pharmacie.
Les amandiers en fleur répandent un parfum plus suave et plus fin. Les
smilax étalent leur verdure toujours sombre à côté des lavandes toujours
pâles. Les cistes et les lentisques commencent à fleurir. Le _C. albida_
surtout étale çà et là sa belle corolle rose, si fragile et si finement
plissée une heure auparavant. On la voit se déplier et s'ouvrir. Les
petites anémones lilas, violettes, rosées, purpurines ou blanches
étoilent le gazon, le liseron _althoeoïdes_ commence à ramper et les
orchys-insectes à tirer leur petit labelle rosé ou verdâtre. Rien
n'a disparu; chaque végétal, si rare ou si humble qu'il soit dans la
localité, a gardé sa place, je devrais dire sa cachette.
Quand j'ai fini ma visite domiciliaire dans le jardin sans clôture et
sans culture qui était et qui est encore pour moi un idéal de jardin,
puisqu'il se lie au paysage et le complète en rendant seulement
praticable la terrasse qu'il occupe, je m'assieds sur mon banc favori,
un demi-cercle de rochers ombragé à souhait par des arbres d'une grâce
orientale. A travers les branches de ceux qui s'arrondissent à la
déclivité du terrain, je vois bleuir et miroiter dans les ondulations
roses et violettes ce golfe de satin changeant qui a la sérénité et la
transparence des rivages de la Grèce. Ce golfe de Tamaris, vu du côté
_est_, est le coin du monde, à moi connu, où j'ai vu la mer plus douce,
plus suave, plus merveilleusement teintée et plus artistement encadrée
que partout ailleurs; mais il y faut les premiers plans de ce jardin,
libre de formes et de composition. Du côté _sud_, c'est la pleine mer,
les lointains écueils, les majestueux promontoires, et là j'ai vu les
fureurs de la bourrasque durant des semaines entières. J'y ai ressenti
des tristesses infinies, un état maladif accablant. Tamaris me rappelle
plus de fatigues et de mélancolies que de joies réelles et de rêveries
douces, et c'est sans doute pourquoi j'aime mieux Tamaris, où j'ai
souffert, que d'autres retraites où je n'ai pas senti la vie avec
intensité. Sommes-nous tous ainsi? Je le pense. Le souvenir de
nos jouissances est incomplet quand il ne s'y mêle pas une pointe
d'amertume. Et puis les choses du passé grandissent dans le vague
qui les enveloppe, comme le profil des montagnes dans la brume du
crépuscule. Il me semble que, sur ce banc où me voilà assis encore une
fois après lui avoir dit un adieu que je croyais éternel, j'ai porté
en moi un monde de lassitude et de vaillance, d'épuisement et de
renouvellement. Il me semble qu'à certaines heures j'ai été un
philosophe très-courageux, et à d'autres heures un enfant très-lâche. Je
venais de traverser une de ces maladies foudroyantes où l'on est emporté
en quelques jours sans en avoir conscience. L'affaiblissement qui me
restait et que le brutal climat du Midi était loin de dissiper, tournait
souvent à la colère, car l'être intérieur avait conservé sa vitalité, et
le rire du printemps sur la montagne me faisait l'effet d'une cruelle
raillerie de la nature à mon impuissance.
--Puisque tu m'appelles, guéris-moi, lui disais-je.
Elle m'appelait encore plus fort et ne me guérissait pas du tout.
J'étudiai la patience. Je me souviens d'avoir fait ici une théorie,
presque une méthode de cette vertu négative, avec un classement de
phases à suivre en même temps que j'étudiais le classement botanique
d'après Grenier et Godron. Ces auteurs rejettent sans pitié de leur
catalogue toute plante acclimatée ou non qui n'est pas de race
française. Je m'exerçais puérilement, car la maladie est très puérile,
à rejeter de ma méthode philosophique tout ce qui était amusement ou
distraction de l'esprit, comme contraire à la recherche de la patience
pour elle-même. Et puis je m'apercevais que la sagesse, comme la santé,
n'a pas de spécialité absolue, qu'elle doit s'aider de tout, parce
qu'elle s'alimente de tout, et, un beau jour de soleil, ayant pris ma
course tout seul, comme Bou-Maca, sauf à tomber en chemin et à mourir
sur quelque lit de mousse et de fleurs, au grand air et en pleine
solitude, ce qui m'a toujours paru la plus douce et la plus décente
mort que l'on puisse rêver, je forçai ma pauvre machine à obéir aux
injonctions aveugles de ma volonté. J'eus chaud et froid, faim et soif,
dépit et résignation; j'eus des envies de pleurer quand j'essayais
en vain de gravir un escarpement, des envies de crier victoire quand
j'avais réussi à le gravir. L'attente muette et stoïque de la guérison
ne m'avait pas rendu un atome de force musculaire. La volonté de
ressaisir à tout prix cette force me la rendit, et je me souviens encore
de ceci: c'est qu'au retour d'une excursion assez sérieuse, je vins
m'asseoir sur ce banc en me débitant l'axiome suivant: «Décidément, la
patience n'est pas autre chose qu'une énergie.»
J'avais peut-être raison. L'inertie glacée de l'attente du mieux n'amène
que le dépérissement. La volonté d'être et d'agir en dépit de tout nous
fait vaincre les maladies de langueur du corps et de l'âme; j'ai encore
vaincu, l'an dernier, un accès d'anémie en n'écoutant que le médecin qui
me conseillait de ne pas m'écouter du tout.
C'est bien aussi ce que me conseillait le docteur qui m'a soigné ici
il y a sept ans, et que j'ai retrouvé hier soir plus jeune que moi,
toujours charmant, sensible et tendre. Je l'aimai à la première vue, cet
ami des malades, cet être aimable et sympathique qui apporte la santé
ou l'espérance dans ses beaux yeux septuagénaires, toujours remplis de
cette flamme méridionale si communicative. Certains vieux médecins de
province sont des figures que l'on ne retrouvera plus: Lallemant et
Cauvières, qui sont partis au milieu d'une sénilité adorable, Auban à
Toulon, Maure à Grasse, Morère à Palaiseau, Vergne à Cluis, et tant
d'autres qui sont encore bien vivants et solides, et qui exercent dans
leur milieu une sorte de royauté paternelle. Jamais riches, ils ont
pratiqué la charité sur des bases trop larges; tous aisés, ils n'ont pas
eu de vices; tous hommes de progrès, fils directs de la Révolution, ils
ont traversé dans leur jeunesse les déboires de la Restauration, ils ont
lutté contre la théorie de l'étouffement, ils luttent toujours: ils ont
été hommes du temps qu'on mettait sa gloire à être homme avant tout. Ils
sont devenus savants avec un but d'apostolat qu'ils poursuivent encore
en dépit de la mode qui a créé le problème de la science pour la
science, comme elle avait inventé l'art pour l'art dans un sens étroit
et faux.
Nos jeunes savants d'aujourd'hui mûriront et poseront mieux la question,
car elle a son sens juste et son côté vrai; mais ils seront généralement
et forcément sceptiques. Ils auront le doute et le rire, l'esprit et
l'audace. Ce ne sera plus le temps de l'enthousiasme et de l'espoir, de
l'indignation et du combat. On retrouve ces vieilles énergies du passé
sur de nobles fronts que le temps respecte, et on les aime spontanément.
Qu'ils soient dans l'illusion ou dans le vrai sur l'avenir des sociétés
humaines, c'est avec eux qu'on se plaît à songer, et l'on se sent
meilleur en les approchant.
Et pourtant j'aime bien tendrement la jeunesse; comment faire pour ne
pas aimer les enfants, et pour ne pas contempler comme un idéal l'âge
de l'irréflexion, où le mal n'est pas encore le mal, puisqu'il n'a pas
conscience de lui-même?
La nature, éternellement jeune et vieille, passant de l'enfance à la
caducité, et ressuscitant pour recommencer sans savoir ce que vie
et mort signifient, est une enchanteresse qui nous défend d'être
moroses.... Le moyen au mois de février, qui est l'avril du Midi, sous
un ciel en feu et sur une terre en fleurs, de pleurer sur les roses ou
sur les neiges d'antan?
Le lendemain, en quatre heures, nous gagnons Cannes. Le trajet le long
de la mer est aussi beau que celui de Marseille à Toulon, et tout cela
se ressemble sans s'identifier. Ce qui est nouveau d'aspect pour moi,
c'est la chaîne des Mores, montagnes couvertes de forêts et d'une
tournure fière avec un air sombre. On les côtoie et on entre dans les
contre-forts de l'Estérel, massif superbe de porphyre rouge découpé tout
autrement que la Carpiagne, qui est calcaire et disloquée. L'Estérel
a la physionomie d'une chose d'art, des mouvements logiques et voulus
comme les ont généralement les roches éruptives. Ses sommets ont peu de
brèche, ses dents s'arrondissent comme des bouillonnements saisis d'un
brusque refroidissement. Rien ne prouve que telle soit la cause de ces
formes arrêtées et solides, mais l'esprit s'en empare comme d'une raison
d'être des ligues moutonnées qui festonnent le ciel et qui descendent
en bondissements jusque dans la mer. Petites montagnes, collines en
réalité, mais si élégantes et si fières qu'elles paraissent imposantes.
Une grande variété de groupements, rentrant dans l'unité de plans de la
structure générale, peu de blocs isolés ou détachés là où l'homme n'a
pas mis la main; des murailles droites inexpugnables, des plissements
soudains arrêtés par des mamelonnements tumultueux qui se dressent en
masses homogènes, compactes, d'une grande puissance. Rien ici ne sent
le désastre et l'effondrement. Rien ne fait songer aux cataclysmes
primitifs. C'est un édifice et non une ruine; la végétation y prend ses
ébats, et le mois de mai doit y être un enchantement.
Cannes, rendez-vous des étrangers de tout pays, doit être pour le
romancier habile une bonne mine pleine d'échantillons à collectionner;
mais, outre que je n'ai aucune habileté, je ne suis pas venu céans
pour étudier les moeurs qu'on raconte et observer les physionomies
qui passent. Ici comme ailleurs, je ne prendrai que des notes, et
j'attendrai que je sois saisi n'importe où, n'importe par quoi ou par
qui. Je ne suis pas de ceux qui savent ce qu'ils veulent faire. Je subis
l'action de mes milieux. Je ne pourrais la provoquer; d'ailleurs, je
suis en vacances.
Je n'espère pas non plus faire beaucoup de botanique. La saison est trop
peu avancée, et cette année-ci particulièrement la floraison est très en
retard. Il parait qu'il n'a pas plu depuis deux ans. Maurice ne compte
pas non plus sur des trouvailles entomologiques à te communiquer. Notre
but est une affaire de coeur, une visite à de chères personnes qui m'ont
attendu tout l'hiver. La beauté et le charme du pays seront par-dessus
le marché.
Dès le lendemain pourtant, nous voici en campagne. Les amis veulent nous
faire les honneurs de l'Estérel, et nous remplissons de notre bande
joyeuse et de nos provisions de bouche un omnibus énorme, traîné par
trois vigoureux chevaux. La locomotion est admirablement organisée ici.
On pénètre dans la montagne, on trotte à fond de train sur les corniches
vertigineuses; nous n'avons pas fait autre métier pendant un mois, et
nous n'avons pas vu l'ombre d'un accident. Cochers et chevaux sont
irréprochables.
A l'entrée de la gorge de Maudelieu, on laisse la voiture, on porte les
paniers, on s'engouffre dans une étroite fente de rochers en remontant
le cours d'un petit torrent presque à sec, et on s'arrête pour déjeuner
à l'endroit où une cascatelle remplit à petit bruit un petit réservoir
naturel. Ce n'est pas un des plus beaux coins de l'Estérel. Le porphyre
n'y est pas bien déterminé, on est encore trop à la lisière; mais, comme
salle à manger, la place est charmante, et il y fait une réjouissante
chaleur. Les murailles déjetées qui vous pressent ont une grâce sauvage.
Il y a tant de lentisques, de myrtes, d'arbousiers et de phyllirées
qu'on se croirait dans de la vraie verdure. Pour moi, ces feuillages
cassants et persistants ont toujours quelque chose d'artificiel et de
théâtral. Ils seront beaux quand les chèvrefeuilles et les clématites
qui les enlacent mêleront leurs souplesses et leurs fraîcheurs à cette
rigidité. Après le déjeuner, on reprend le vaste et solide omnibus, qui
grimpe résolument vers le point central de l'Estérel.
Le massif intérieur, fermé transversalement par une muraille rectiligne
d'une grande apparence, offre progressivement, des extrémités au coeur,
un porphyre rouge mieux déterminé et d'un plus beau ton. A toutes les
heures du jour, ces chaudes parois semblent imprégnées de soleil. La
couleur est donc ici aussi riche que la forme, et les masses de la
végétation, en suivant le mouvement heureux du sol, se composent comme
pour le plaisir des yeux. Une belle route traverse le sanctuaire en
suivant les bords du ravin principal, et, des points les plus élevés
de son parcours, permet de plonger sur les grandes ondulations qui
aboutissent à la mer. Qu'elle est belle, cette mer cérulée qui, partant
du plus profond du tableau, remonte comme une haute muraille de saphir
à l'horizon visuel! A droite se dressent les Alpes neigeuses, autre
sublimité qui fascine l'oeil et le fixe en dépit des plantes qui
sourient à nos pieds et sollicitent notre attention. Dis-moi, cher
naturaliste, notre maître, si le papillon, qui a tant de facettes dans
son oeil de diamant, peut voir à la fois la terre et le ciel, l'horizon
et le ciel qui s'effleure! Il est bien heureux le papillon, s'il peut
saisir d'emblée le grand et le petit, le loin et le proche! Ah! que
notre oeil humain est lent et pauvre, et avec cela la vie si courte!
Les arbres sont très beaux dans l'Estérel, on y échappe à la monotonie
des grands oliviers, bien beaux aussi, mais trop répétés dans le pays.
Sauf le liége, les essences de la forêt de l'Estérel sont, à l'espèce
près, celles de nos régions centrales. Les châtaigniers paraissent se
plaire surtout vers le centre. C'est là que nous nous arrêtons au hameau
des Adrets, toujours orné de son poste de gendarmerie, comme d'une
préface de mélodrame. La route était dangereuse autrefois, mais
Frédérick-Lemaître a tué à jamais sa poésie. Le lieu n'évoque plus que
des souvenirs de tragédie burlesque.
Elle est pourtant sinistre, cette auberge des Adrets, et les auteurs
du drame qui en porte le nom l'ont parfaitement choisie pour type de
coupe-gorge. Elle en a tout le classique, surtout aujourd'hui que
la cuisine est fermée et abandonnée. Pourquoi? On ne sait. A force
d'entendre les voyageurs plaisanter sur la mort fictive de M. Germeuil,
les propriétaires se sont imaginé qu'on leur attribuait un crime réel.
La porte principale est barricadée, les habitants du hameau regardent
avec défiance et curiosité les tentatives que l'on fait pour entrer. Ils
sourient mystérieusement, ils affectent un air moqueur pour répondre aux
moqueries qu'ils attendent de vous. Il faut que certains passants les
aient cruellement mystifiés. On frappe longtemps en vain; enfin, les
hôtes vous demandent sèchement ce que vous voulez et consentent à vous
conduire dans une salle de cabaret véritablement hideuse. Elle est
sombre, sale et barbouillée de fresques représentant des paysages, des
scènes de pêche et de chasse d'un dessin si barbare et d'une couleur si
féroce, qu'on est pris de peur et de tristesse devant cette navrante
parodie de la nature. Ceci est la nouvelle auberge soudée à l'ancienne,
que l'on ne vous ouvre qu'après bien des pourparlers et des questions.
--Que voulez-vous voir, là? Il n'y a rien de curieux. Il ne s'y est
jamais rien passé.
Il faut répondre qu'on le sait bien; mais qu'on veut voir l'escalier
de bois. On le voit enfin dressé en zigzag, au fond d'une salle nue et
sombre à cheminée très ancienne. Il est assez décoratif et conduit
à deux misérables petites chambres dans l'une desquelles ne fut pas
assassiné M. Germeuil. Toute cette recherche du souvenir d'une fiction
de théâtre est fort puérile, mais il faut rire en voyage, et, en
sortant, on rit de la figure ahurie et soupçonneuse de ces bons
habitants des Adrets.
* * * * *
Il fait beaucoup plus doux au golfe Juan qu'au golfe de Toulon. Le
mistral y est moins rude, moins froid, plus vite passé; mais au baisser
du soleil, l'air se refroidit plus vite et la soirée est véritablement
froide, jusqu'au moment où la nuit est complète. Alors il y a un
adoucissement remarquable de l'atmosphère jusqu'au retour du matin.
En dépit de ces bénignes influences, la végétation est beaucoup plus
avancée à Toulon: pourquoi?
Le lendemain, il faisait un vent assez aigre à l'île Sainte-Marguerite.
La _passerina hirsuta_ tapisse le rivage du côté ouest. Elle est en
fleurs blanche et jaunes. On me dit qu'elle ne croît que là dans toute
la Provence. Par exemple, elle abonde au Brusc, dans les petites anses
qui déchiquettent le littoral, mais toujours tournée vers l'occident.
Est-ce un hasard ou une habitude?
Je croyais trouver ici plus de plantes spéciales. Le sol que j'ai
pu explorer en courant me semble très pauvre; pas l'ombre d'un
_tartonraire_, pas de _medicayo maritima_, pas d'astragale
_tragacantha_, rien de ce qui tapisse la plage des Sablettes et de ce
qui orne les beaux rochers du cap Sicier. Ma seule trouvaille consiste
dans un petit ornithogale à fleur blanche unique et à feuilles linéaires
canaliculées, dont une démesurément longue. Je n'en trouve nulle part la
description bien exacte, à moins que ce ne soit celui que mes auteurs
localisent exclusivement sur le Monte-Grosso, en Corse. J'ai cueilli
celui-ci sur le rocher qui porte le fort d'Antibes. Il y gazonnait
sur un assez petit espace. De l'orchis jaune trouvé une seule fois à
Tamaris, le 13 mars, point de nouvelles par ici; mais nous habitons une
côte particulièrement aride, et les promenades en voiture ne sont pas
favorables à l'exploration botanique.
Il faut donc s'en tenir au charme de l'ensemble et mettre les lunettes
du peintre. Pour le peintre de grand décor de théâtre, ce pays-ci est
typique. Les formes sont admirables, les masses sont de dimensions à
être embrassées dans un beau cadre, et leur tournure est si fière,
qu'elles apparaissent plus grandioses qu'elles ne le sont en effet. Ce
trompe-l'oeil perpétuel caractérise au moral comme au physique la nature
et l'homme du Midi; il est cause du reproche de _blague_ adressé à la
population, reproche non mérité en somme. Le Midi et le Méridional
annoncent toujours et tiennent souvent. Ils sont éminemment
démonstratifs, et, à un moment donné, ils semblent frappés d'épuisement;
mais ils se renouvellent avec une facilité merveilleuse, et, comme la
terre d'Afrique qui semble souvent morte et desséchée, ils refleurissent
du jour au lendemain.
La transition de l'hiver à l'été n'est pourtant pas aussi belle et aussi
frappante ici que chez nous. La végétation n'y éclate pas avec la même
splendeur. L'absence de gelée sérieuse n'y fait pas ressortir le réveil
de la vie, et on n'y sent guère en soi-même ce réveil si intense et
si subit qui s'opère chez nous par crises énergiques. Le vent de mer
contrarie l'essor général. Le mistral est un petit hiver qui recommence
presque chaque semaine, et qui est d'autant plus perfide qu'il n'altère
pas visiblement l'aspect des choses; mais, quoi qu'on en dise, il gèle
ici blanc presque tous les matins, et les promesses du soleil de la
journée ressemblent à une gasconnade. Est-ce à dire que la nature n'y
soit pas généreuse et la vie intense? Certes non. C'est un beau pays, et
les organisations qu'il développe sont résistantes et souples à la fois.
Malheureusement, dans ces stations consacrées par la mode, ce que l'on
voit le moins, c'est le type local. Homme, animaux, plantes, coutumes,
villas, jardins, équipages, langage, plaisirs, mouvement, échange de
relations, c'est une grande auberge qui s'étend sur toute la côte. Si
vous apercevez le paysan, l'industriel indigènes, soyez sûr qu'ils
sont occupés à servir les besoins ou les caprices de la fourmilière
étrangère.
Ceci, je l'avoue, me serait odieux à la longue, et, si j'avais une villa
sur ce beau rivage, je la fuirais à l'époque où des quatre coins du
monde s'abattent ces bandes d'oiseaux exotiques. C'est un tort d'être
ainsi et de vouloir être seul ou dans l'intimité étroite de quelques
amis au sein de la nature. Certes l'homme est l'animal le plus
intéressant de la création; je dirai pour mon excuse que, dans certains
milieux où tout est artificiel, l'art semble appeler les humains à se
réunir et les inviter à l'échange de leurs idées. Au sein du mouvement
qui est leur ouvrage, ils ont naturellement jouissance morale et
avantage intellectuel à se communiquer l'activité qui les anime. Il y a
aussi de délicieux milieux de villégiature où la sociabilité plus douce
et un peu nonchalante peut réaliser des _décamérons_ exquis; mais, en
présence de la mer et des Alpes neigeuses, peut-on n'être point dominé
par quelque chose d'écrasant dont la sublimité nous distrait de
nous-mêmes et nous fait paraître misérable toute préoccupation
personnelle?
Je fus frappé de cette sorte de stupeur où la grandeur des choses
extérieures nous jette en parcourant un jardin admirablement situé
et admirablement composé à la pointe d'Antibes. C'est, sous ces deux
rapports, le plus beau jardin que j'aie vu de ma vie. Placé sur une
langue de terre entre deux golfes, il offre un groupement onduleux
d'arbres de toutes formes et de toutes nuances qui se sont assez élevés
pour cacher les premiers plans du paysage environnant. Tous les noms de
ces arbres exotiques, étranges ou superbes, car le créateur de cette
oasis est horticulteur savant et passionné, je te les cacherai pour une
foule de raisons: la première est que je ne les sais pas. Tu me fais
grâce des autres, et même tu me pardonnes de n'avoir pas abordé la flore
exotique, moi qui suis si loin de connaître la flore indigène, et qui
probablement, si tu ne m'aides beaucoup, ne la connaîtrai jamais. Je me
souviens d'une dame qui me disait de grands noms de plantes étrangères
avec une épouvantable sûreté de mémoire, et qui me semblait si savante,
que je n'osais lui répliquer. Pourtant je me hasardai à lui dire
modestement:
--Madame, je ne sais pas tout cela. Je m'occupe exclusivement de l'étude
du _phaseolus_.
Elle ne comprit pas que je lui parlais du haricot, et avoua qu'elle ne
connaissait pas cette plante rare.
Pour ne point ressembler à cette dame, je ne me risquerai pas à te
nommer une seule des merveilles végétales de l'Australie, de la
Polynésie et autres lieux fantastiques que M. Turette a su faire
prospérer dans son enclos: mais ce dont je peux te donner l'idée, c'est
du spectacle que présente le vaste bocage où toutes les couleurs et
toutes les formes de la végétation encadrent, comme en un frais vallon,
les pelouses étoilées de corolles radieuses et encadrées de buissons
chargés de merveilleuses fleurs. La villa est petite et charmante sous
sa tapisserie de bignones et de jasmins de toutes nuances et de tous
pays; mais c'est du pied de cette villa au sommet de la pelouse qui
marque le renflement du petit promontoire, et qui, par je ne sais quel
prodige de culture, est verte et touffue, que l'on est ravi par la
soudaine apparition de la mer bleue et des grandes Alpes blanches
émergeant tout à coup au-dessus de la cime des arbres. On est dans un
Éden qui semble nager au sein de l'immensité. Rien, absolument rien
entre cette immensité sublime et les feuillages qui vous ferment
l'horizon de la côte, cachant ses pentes arides, ses constructions
tristes, ses mille détails prosaïques; rien entre les gazons, les
fleurs, les branches formant un petit paysage exquis, frais, embaumé,
et la nappe d'azur de la mer servant de fond transparent à toute cette
verdure, et puis au-dessus de la mer, sans que le dessin de la côte
éloignée puisse être saisi, ces fantastiques palais de neiges éternelles
qui découpent leurs sommets éclatants dans le bleu pur du ciel. Je ne
chercherai pas de mots excentriques et peu usités pour te représenter
cette magie. Les mots qui frappent l'esprit obscurcissent les images que
l'on veut présenter réellement à la vision de l'esprit. Figure-toi donc
tout simplement que tu es dans ce charmant vallon, «arrondi au fond
comme une corbeille,» que tu me décris si bien dans ta dernière lettre,
et que tu vois surgir de l'horizon boisé la Méditerranée servant de
base à la chaîne des Alpes. Impossible de te préoccuper de la distance
considérable qui sépare ton premier horizon du dernier. Il semble que
ce puissant lointain t'appartienne, et que toute cette formidable
perspective se confonde sans transition avec l'étroit espace que tes pas
vont franchir, car tu es tenté de t'élancer à la limite de ton vallon
pour mieux voir.--Ne le fais pas, ce serait beau encore, mais d'un beau
réaliste, et tu perdrais le ravissement de cet aspect composé de trois
choses immaculées, la végétation, la mer, les glaciers. Le sol, cette
chose dure qui porte tant de choses tristes, est noyé ici pour les yeux
sous le revêtement splendide des choses les plus pures. On peut se
persuader qu'on est entré dans le paradis des poëtes... Pas une plante
qui souffre, pas un arbre mutilé, pas une fortification, pas une
enceinte, pas une cabane, pas une barque, aucun souvenir de l'effort
humain, de l'humaine misère ni de l'humaine défiance. Les arbres de tous
les climats semblent s'être donné rendez-vous d'eux-mêmes sur ce tertre
privilégié pour l'enfermer dans une fraîche couronne, et ne laisser
apparaître à ceux qui l'habitent que les régions supérieures où semblent
régner l'incommensurable et l'inaccessible.
Le créateur de ce beau jardin a-t-il eu conscience de ce qu'il
entreprenait? A-t-il vu dans sa pensée, lorsqu'il en a tracé le plan, le
spectacle étrange et unique au monde qu'il offrirait lorsque ces plantes
auraient atteint le développement qu'elles ont aujourd'hui? Si oui,
voilà un grand artiste; si non, s'il n'a cherché qu'à acclimater des
raretés végétales, disons qu'il a été bien récompensé de son intéressant
labeur.
Mais tout passe ou change, et il est à craindre que dans quelques années
les arbres, en grandissant, ne cachent la mer. Quelques années de plus,
et ils cacheront les Alpes. Il faudra s'y résigner, car, si on émonde
les maîtresses branches pour dégager l'horizon, leur souple feston de
verdure perdra sa grâce riante et ses divins hasards de mouvement. Ce ne
sera plus qu'un beau jardin botanique.
Ainsi du petit bois de pins, de liéges et de bruyères blanches en arbres
qui s'élevait au-dessus de Tamaris, et d'où l'on voyait la mer et les
collines à travers des rideaux de fleurs. J'y ai contemplé de petites
plantes, le _dorycnium suffruticosum_ et l'_epipactis ancifolia_, qui se
donnaient des airs de colosses en se profilant sur les vagues lointaines
de la pleine mer. Barbare qui les eût cueillies pour leur donner
l'horizon d'un verre d'eau ou d'une feuille de papier gris!
--C'est moi, pensais-je en regardant le jardin de M. Turette, qui
voudrais bien emporter cet horizon de flots et de neiges pour encadrer
mon jardin de Nohant!
Mais bien vite cette ambitieuse aspiration m'effraya. Je suis un trop
petit être pour vivre dans cette grandeur; j'y suis trop sensible, je
me donne trop à ce qui me dépasse dans un sens quelconque, et, quand je
veux me reprendre après m'être abjuré ainsi, je ne me retrouve pas. Je
deviendrais tellement contemplatif, que la réflexion ne fonctionnerait
plus.
En effet, à quoi bon chercher la raison des choses quand elles vous
procurent une extase plus douce que l'étude? On risque la folie à
vouloir perpétuer le ravissement. Maxime Du Camp, dans son roman des
_Forces perdues_,--un titre très profond!--raconte que deux âmes ivres
de bonheur se sont épuisées et presque haïes sans autre motif que de
s'être trop aimées. Peut-être, en se fixant au centre d'une oasis rêvée,
deviendrait-on l'ennemi du beau trop senti et trop possédé, à moins que,
sans retour et à tout jamais, on n'en devînt la victime. Pour habiter
l'Éden, il faudrait donc devenir un être complètement paradisiaque. Adam
en fut exilé, et s'en exila probablement de lui-même le jour où l'esprit
de liberté le fit homme. Quelle irrésistible et décevante fascination
ces Alpes et ces mers, vues ainsi sans intermédiaire matériel, doivent
exercer sur l'âme! Comme on oublierait volontiers que le mal et la
douleur habitent la terre, et que la mort sévit jusque sur ces hauteurs
sereines où l'on rêve la permanence et l'éternité! Le son de la voix
humaine arriverait ici comme une fausse note. Le désir de peindre, le
besoin d'exprimer, s'évanouiraient comme des velléités puériles. Le
sentiment des relations sociales s'éteindrait, et la démence vous ferait
payer cher quelques années d'un bonheur égoïste.
Voilà pourquoi j'arrive à comprendre ceux qui viennent sur ces rivages
admirables pour ne rien voir et ne rien sentir, ou pour voir mal et
sentir à faux. S'ils étaient bien pénétrés de la grandeur qui les
environne, ils n'oseraient pas vivre, ils ne le pourraient pas.
Arrachons-nous au ravissement qui paralyse, et soyons plutôt bêtes
qu'égoïstes. Acceptons la vie comme elle est, la terre comme l'homme
l'a faite. Le cruel, l'insensé! il l'a bien gâtée, et des artistes ont
imaginé d'aimer sa laideur plutôt que de ne pas l'aimer du tout.
Un autre jour, nous voici sur la Corniche, trottant sur une route que
surplombent et que supportent follement des calcaires en ruine. Ici,
la France finit splendidement par une muraille à pic ou à ressauts
vertigineux qui s'écroule par endroits dans la Méditerranée. On côtoie
les dernières assises de cette crête altière, et pendant des heures
l'oeil plonge dans les abîmes. Ici, la lumière enivre, car tout
est lumière; l'immense étendue de mer que l'on domine vous renvoie
l'éblouissement d'une clarté immense, et son reflet sur les rochers,
les flots et les promontoires qu'elle baigne, produit des tons qui
deviennent froids et glauques en plein soleil, comme les objets que
frappe la lumière électrique. A la distance énorme qui vous élève
au-dessus du rivage, vous percevez le moindre détail ainsi éclairé avec
une netteté invraisemblable. C'est bien réellement une féerie que
le panorama de la Corniche. Les rudes décombres de la montagne y
contrastent à chaque instant avec la vigoureuse végétation des ses
pentes et la fraîcheur luxuriante de ses fissures arrosées de fines
cascades. L'eau courante manque toujours un peu dans ces pays de la
soif; mais il y a tant d'oranges et de citrons sur les terrasses de
l'abîme que l'on oublie l'aspect aride des sommets, et qu'on se plaît
au désordre hardi des éboulements. Les sinuosités de la côte offrent à
chaque pas un décor magique. Les ruines d'Eza, plantées sur un cône de
rocher, avec un pittoresque village en pain de sucre, arrêtent forcément
le regard. C'est le plus beau point de vue de la route, le plus complet,
le mieux composé. On a pour premiers plans la formidable brèche de
montagne qui s'ouvre à point pour laisser apparaître la forteresse
sarrasine au fond d'un abîme dominant un autre abîme. Au-dessus de cette
perspective gigantesque, où la grâce et l'âpreté se disputent sans se
vaincre, s'élève à l'horizon maritime un spectre colossal. Au premier
aspect, c'est un amas de nuages blancs dormant sur la Méditerranée; mais
ces nuages ont des formes trop solides, des arêtes trop vives: c'est une
terre, c'est la Corse avec son monumental bloc de montagnes neigeuses,
dont trente lieues vous séparent; plus loin, vous découvrez d'autres
cimes, d'autres neiges séparées par une autre distance inappréciable.
Est-ce la Sardaigne, est-ce l'Apennin? Je ne m'oriente plus.
Il faisait un temps magnifique. Le ciel et la mer étaient si limpides,
qu'on distinguait les navires à un éloignement inouï, et les détails du
Monte-Grosso à l'oeil nu; mais passer, car il faut bien passer par là
sans y planter sa tente, rend tout à coup mortellement triste.
La riante presqu'île de Monaco vous apparaît bientôt. On se demande
par quel problème on y descendra des hauteurs de la Turbie. C'est bien
simple: on tourne pendant une grande heure le massif de la montagne, et,
d'enchantements en enchantements, de rampe en rampe, on descend par des
lacets l'unique petite route assez escarpée de la principauté: on admire
tous les profils du gros bloc de la _Tête-du-Chien_, qui surplombe la
ville et la menace, et on arrive de plain-pied avec la rive dans un
grand hôtel qui est à la fois une hôtellerie, un restaurant, un casino
et une maison de jeu.
Étrange opposition! au sortir de ces grandeurs de la nature, vous voilà
jeté en pleine immondice de civilisation moderne. Au pâle clair de la
jeune lune, au pied du gros rocher qui dort dans l'ombre, au mystérieux
gémissement du ressac, à la senteur des orangers qui vous enveloppe,
succèdent et se mêlent la lueur blafarde du gaz, un caquetage de filles
chiffonnées et fatiguées, je ne sais quelle fétide odeur de fièvre et le
bruit implacable de la roulette. Il y a là de jeunes femmes qui jouent
pendant que sur les sofas des nourrices allaitent leurs enfants. Une
jolie petite fille de cinq à six ans s'y traîne et s'endort accablée de
lassitude, de chaleur et d'ennui. Sa misérable mère l'oublie-t-elle,
ou rêve-t-elle de lui gagner une dot? Des _babies_ de tout âge, de
vingt-cinq à soixante-et-dix ans, essuient en silence la sueur de
leur front en fixant le tapis vert d'un oeil abruti. Une vieille dame
étrangère est assise au jeu avec un garçonnet de douze ans qui l'appelle
sa mère. Elle perd et gagne avec impassibilité. L'enfant joue aussi et
très décemment, il a déjà l'habitude. Dans la vaste cour que ferme le
mur escarpé de la montagne, des ombres inquiètes ou consternées
errent autour du café. On dirait qu'elles ont froid; mais peut-être
regardent-elles avec convoitise le verre d'eau glacée qu'elles ne
peuvent plus payer. On en rencontre sur le chemin, qui s'en vont à pied,
les poches vides; il y en a qui vous abordent et qui vous demandent
presque l'aumône d'une place dans votre voiture pour regagner Nice.
Les suicides ne sont point rares. Les garçons de l'hôtel ont l'air de
mépriser profondément ceux qui ont perdu, et à ceux qui se plaignent
d'être mal servis ils répondent en haussant les épaules:
--Ça n'a donc pas été ce soir?
On dîne comme on peut dans une salle immense encombrée de petites tables
que l'on se dispute, assourdi par le bruit que font les demoiselles à la
recherche d'un dîner et d'un ami qui le paie. On retourne un instant aux
salles de jeu pour y guetter quelque drame. Moi, je n'y peux tenir; la
puanteur me chasse. Nous courons au rivage, nous gagnons la ville qui
s'élance en pointe sur une langue de terre délicieusement découpée au
milieu des flots. Elle aussi, cette pauvre petite résidence, semble
vouloir fuir le mauvais air du tripot et se réfugier sous les beaux
arbres qui l'enserrent. Nous montons au vieux château sombre et
solennel. La lune lui donne un grand air de tragédie. Le palais du
prince est charmant et nous rappelle la capricieuse demeure moresque du
gouverneur à Mayorque. La ville est déserte et muette, tout le monde
paraît endormi à neuf heures du soir. Nous revenons par la grève, où la
mer se brise par de rares saccades très brusques au milieu du silence.
La lune est couchée. Le gaz seul illumine le pied du grand rocher
et jette des lueurs verdâtres sur les rampes de marbre blanc et les
orangers du jardin. La roulette va toujours. Un rossignol chante, un
enfant pleure...
Pour gagner Menton, le lendemain matin, nous traversons une gorge qui
ressemble aux plus fraîches retraites de l'Apennin du côté de Tivoli;
les oliviers y sont superbes, les caroubiers monstrueux. Ceci doit être
un _nid_ pour la botanique; mais peu de fleurs sont écloses, et nous
passons trop vite. Nous courons et ne voyageons pas. Il faudrait revenir
seul au mois de juin. Nous sommes gais quand même, parce que nous
nous aimons les uns les autres, et parce que voir ainsi défiler des
merveilles comme dans la confusion d'un rêve est, sinon un plaisir vrai,
du moins une ivresse excitante. On revient de la frontière d'Italie à
Cannes en quelques heures. Route excellente, aucun danger et aucune
interruption dans la splendeur des tableaux; mais trop de rencontres,
trop d'Anglais, trop de mendiants, trop de villas odieusement bêtes
ou stupidement folles, un pays sublime, un ciel divin, empestés de
civilisation idiote ou absurde.
Mon cher ami, après avoir vu cette limite méridionale incomparablement
belle de notre France, j'ai reporté ma pensée tout naturellement à la
limite nord que je côtoyais l'automne dernier, et j'ai trouvé mon coeur
plus tendre pour le pays des vents tièdes et des grands arbres baignés
de brume. Le souvenir que l'on emporte des côtes de Normandie, c'est un
parfum de forêts et d'algues qui s'attache à vous: ce qui vous reste des
rivages de la Provence, c'est un vertige de lumière et d'éblouissements.
Et ce qu'il y a encore de mieux, c'est notre France centrale, avec son
climat souple et chaud, ses hivers rapidement heurtés de glace et de
soleil, ses pluies abondantes et courtes, sa flore et sa faune variées
comme le sol, où s'entre-croisent les surfaces des diverses formations
géologiques, son caractère éminemment rustique, son éloignement des
grands centres d'activité industrielle, ses habitudes de silence et de
sécurité. Je l'ai passionnément aimé, notre humble et obscur pays, parce
qu'il était mon pays et que j'avais reçu de lui l'initiation première;
je l'aime dans ma vieillesse avec plus de tendresse et de discernement,
parce que je le compare aux nombreuses stations où j'ai cherché ou
rêvé un nid. Toutes étaient plus séduisantes, aucune aussi propice au
fonctionnement normal et régulier de la vie physique et morale. Notre
Berry a beau être laid dans la majeure partie de sa surface, il a ses
oasis que nous connaissons et que les étrangers ne dénicheront guère. Un
petit pèlerinage tous les ans dans nos granits et dans nos micaschistes
vaut toutes les excursions dans le nord ou dans le midi de l'Europe pour
qui sait apprécier le charme et se passer de l'éclat.
Le chemin de fer va nous supprimer plus d'un sanctuaire, ne le
maudissons pas. Rien n'est stable dans la nature, même quand l'homme la
respecte. Les arbres unissent, les rochers se désagrègent, les collines
s'affaissent, les eaux changent leurs cours, et, de certains paysages
aimés de mon enfance, je ne retrouve presque plus rien aujourd'hui.
L'existence d'un homme embrasse un changement aussi notable dans les
choses extérieures que celui qui s'opère dans son propre esprit. Chacun
de nous aime et regrette ses premières impressions; mais, après une
saison de dégoût des choses présentes, il se reprend à aimer ce que ses
enfants embrassent et saisissent comme du neuf. En les voyant s'initier
à la beauté des choses, il comprend que, pour être éternellement
changeant et relatif, le beau n'en est pas moins impérissable. Si nous
pouvions revenir dans quelques siècles, nous ne pourrions plus nous
diriger dans nos petits sentiers disparus. La culture toute changée nous
serait peut-être incompréhensible, nous chercherions nos plaines sous
le manteau des bois, et nos bois sous la toison des prairies. Comme de
vieux druides ressuscités, nous demanderions en vain nos chênes sacrés
et nos grandes pierres en équilibre, nos retraites ignorées du vulgaire,
nos marécages féconds en plantes délicates et curieuses. Nous serions
éperdus et navrés, et pourtant des hommes nouveaux, des jeunes, des
poëtes, savoureraient la beauté de ce monde refait à leur image et selon
les besoins de leur esprit.
Quels seront-ils, ces hommes de l'an 2500 ou 3000? Comprendrions-nous
leur langage? Leurs habitudes et leurs idées nous frapperaient-elles
d'admiration ou de terreur? Par quels chemins ils auront passé! Que
d'essais de société ils auront faits! L'individualisme effréné aura eu
son jour. Le socialisme despotique aura eu son heure. Que de questions
aujourd'hui insolubles auront été tranchées! que de progrès industriels
accomplis! que de mystères dégagés dans les énigmes de la science! On
ne se demandera plus le nom du chèvrefeuille sauvage qui nous a tant
préoccupé à Crevant et qui nous tourmente encore, ni si l'on doit
sacrifier dans les guerres la moitié du genre humain pour assurer la vie
de l'autre moitié. On ne croira plus qu'une nation doive obéir à un seul
homme, ni qu'un seul homme doive être immolé au repos d'une nation. On
saura peut-être ce que célèbre la grosse grive du gui _dans son solo
de contralto_, et de quoi se moque la petite grive des vignes qui lui
répond en fausset. On ne comptera peut-être plus cent vingt espèces de
roses sauvages sur nos buissons. Peut-être en aura-t-on distingué cent
vingt mille espèces; peut-être aussi paiera-t-on un impôt pour cultiver
le _drosera_ dans un pot à fleurs, peut-être n'en paiera-t-on plus
pour cultiver sept pieds de tabac dans sa plate-bande. Peut-être aussi
croira-t-on qu'il n'y a pas de Dieu logé dans les églises et qu'il y en
a un logé partout, voire même dans l'âme de la plante.
Qu'est-ce que tu en dis, toi, de l'_âme de la plante_ et de l'ouvrage[2]
qui porte ce joli nom? Ce n'est peut-être pas un livre de science
proprement dit, mais c'est le développement d'une hypothèse charmante,
c'est le sentiment d'un observateur que la poésie entraîne.--Et, après
tout, quel être dans l'univers peut vivre sans ce que j'appelle une âme,
c'est-à-dire la sensation de son existence? Que cette sensation devienne
_conscience_ chez l'homme, affaire de mots pour exprimer un degré
supérieur atteint par une même et seule faculté. Où commence _l'être_
et où finit-il? Ce n'est pas le mouvement, ce n'est pas la faculté de
locomotion, premier degré de la liberté sacrée, qui le caractérise
essentiellement. Dans certaines choses, le mouvement semble voulu; chez
certains êtres, il semble fatal. La véritable vie commence où commence
le sentiment de la vie, la distinction du plaisir et de la souffrance.
Si la plante cherche avec effort et une merveilleuse apparence de
discernement les conditions nécessaires à son existence--et cela est
prouvé par tous les faits,--nous ne sommes pas autorisés à refuser une
âme au végétal. Pour moi, je me définis la vie, le mariage de la matière
avec l'esprit. C'est vieux, c'est classique; ce n'est pas ma faute si on
ne me fournit pas une formule plus neuve et aussi vraie. Or, l'esprit
existe partout où il fonctionne, si peu que ce soit. L'âme d'une huître
est presque aussi élémentaire que celle d'un fucus. C'est une âme
pourtant, aussi précieuse ou aussi indifférente au reste de l'univers
que la nôtre. Si la nôtre se dissipe et s'éteint avec les fonctions
de l'être matériel, nous ne sommes rien de plus que la plante et le
mollusque; si elle est immortelle et progressive, le jour où nous serons
anges, le mollusque et la plante seront hommes, car la matière est
également progressive et immortelle.
[Note 2: Par M. Boscowitz.]
Nous voici loin de la doctrine du jugement dernier et du drame
fantastique de la vallée de Josaphat. Ce n'est pas que ces fictions me
déplaisent; elles semblent indiquer un dogme de renouvellement, et elles
sont en complet désaccord avec les décisions catholiques qui placent le
jugement de l'âme au moment qui suit la mort de chacun de nous. Si nous
devons attendre pour reprendre notre dépouille mortelle et pour marcher
dans l'avenir terrible ou riant, suivant nos mérites, la fin du monde
que nous habitons, c'est un sursis d'exécution qui a sa valeur. C'est
aussi une concession temporaire à la croyance au néant dont il faut
prendre note. Toute la doctrine du spiritualisme catholique repose ainsi
sur une foule de notions et de symboles contradictoires que l'Église a
fait entrer pêle-mêle et de force dans sa prétendue orthodoxie. Elle
succombe à cette pléthore, recueillant aujourd'hui ceci, et rejetant
demain cela, au hasard des circonstances et selon les besoins de la
cause du moment. Elle a fait grand mal au spiritualisme, qu'elle n'a
jamais compris, et qu'elle tue en irritant une réaction cruelle, mais
légitime.
Après un mois d'excursions dans les environs du littoral, nous sommes
revenus avec nos amis à Toulon, où d'autres amis nous attendaient,
et j'ai voulu revoir avec eux toutes les régions montagneuses de la
Provence où se brise le mistral et où la vraie beauté du climat donne
asile à la flore de l'Afrique et à celle des Alpes de Savoie. C'était
encore trop tôt. Les clématites qui revêtent des arbres entiers étaient
encore sèches. Les belles plantes n'étaient pas fleuries. N'importe, le
lieu était toujours ce qu'il est, un des plus beaux du monde.
Ce lieu s'appelle Montrieux, il est situé sur les hauteurs près des
sources du Gapeau, à trente-deux kilomètres de Toulon. La route est
belle, on va vite. On traverse des régions maigres et sèches, des
collines pelées ou revêtues de terrasses d'oliviers petits et laids. Ce
n'est pas avant Cannes qu'il faut voir l'olivier, on le prendrait en
haine; mais là il est de plus en plus splendide jusqu'à Menton. On ne le
taille pas, il devient futaie, il est monumental et primitif.
Il ne faut pas le regarder dans le pays qui nous conduit à Montrieux.
A Belgentier, le pays devient charmant quand même. On avance dans une
étroite vallée arrosée de mille ruisseaux qui descendent de la montagne
et qui se laissent choir en cascades dans les prairies et les cultures
pour se joindre en bondissant au Gapeau, qui bondit lui-même. On n'est
plus dans le pays de la soif. La vue de tant d'eaux limpides, folles et
gaies est un enchantement.
On voit se dresser bientôt devant soi, au dessus des bois, les dents
blanches, bizarrement découpées et fouillées à jour, de la crête des
montagnes calcaires de Montrieux. J'annonce à nos compagnons que nous
allons grimper jusque-là. Comme il fait très chaud, on s'en effraie;
mais, une demi-heure après, sans descendre de voiture, nous entrons dans
ces dentelures fantastiques, nous sommes dans la forêt de Montrieux,
un gracieux pêle-mêle de roches ardues, de vallons étroits, d'arbres
magnifiques, de buissons épais et d'eaux frissonnantes. Nous traversons
à gué le Gapeau, qui danse et chante sur du sable fin et doré, au milieu
des herbes et des guirlandes de feuillage. C'est une oasis, un Éden.
Si tu y vas l'an prochain, repose-toi là. Cette entrée de forêt autour
du gué de Gapeau est le plus bel endroit de la promenade. C'est que
nous eussions dû déjeuner et ne point passer seulement; mais l'envie de
revoir la source et d'arriver au but, qui est la chartreuse, nous a fait
quitter un peu la proie pour l'ombre.
La chartreuse nouvelle est fort laide et sans intérêt aucun. Les débris
de l'ancienne sont enfouis au fond d'une gorge encaissée et boisée où le
roc montre ses flancs âpres à travers le revêtement de la forêt.
C'est un de ces sites sauvages qu'en de nombreuses localités les gens
intitulent emphatiquement le _bout du monde_, et qui, comme toutes les
fins, est l'embranchement d'un monde nouveau. Si la montagne enferme la
ruine et semble la séparer du reste de la terre, à cent pas au-dessous
on voit la muraille faire un coude, une verte petite prairie s'ouvrir le
long du ruisseau, se rétrécir pour s'entr'ouvrir plus loin et déboucher
dans les larges vallées qui se succèdent et s'étagent jusqu'à la mer.
L'endroit est frais, austère et riant à la fois.
--On y vivrait, me dit mon ami Talma, le capitaine de vaisseau. C'est
une retraite, un nid, un asile. J'y passerais volontiers le reste de ma
vie.
--En famille?
--Non, la famille s'y ennuierait. Je me suppose sans famille, seul au
monde, las des voyages, revenu de la grande illusion du devoir. Vivre là
d'étude et de rêverie....
--Oh! très-bien, vous rêvez ici, comme j'ai rêvé partout,
l'insaisissable chimère du repos?
Mon fils nous apprit qu'un naturaliste avait fait de cette sauvage
résidence le centre de son activité. M. de Cérisy était un entomologiste
distingué. Il a vécu et il est mort ici, s'occupant à communiquer au
monde savant le fruit de ses recherches et de ses explorations. Nous
voyons encore dans un pavillon, à travers les vitres, une grande
boîte de toile métallique qui a servi à l'élevage des chenilles ou à
l'hivernage des chrysalides. Ces bois et ces montagnes ont dû lui donner
de grandes jouissances et de grands enseignements. Un sentiment de
respect s'empare de nous, et je ne sais comment je me surprends à penser
à toi, à ta retraite, à tes courses, à tes occupations, et à me rappeler
Maurice cherchant partout, il y a une vingtaine d'années, certaine
phalène blanche que vous avez souvent trouvée depuis, mais que nous
appelions alors _desideratum Touranginii_.
En ce moment, toute ta vie se présenta devant moi, résumée par une de
ces rapides opérations de la pensée que les métaphysiciens, lents à
penser, n'ont jamais su nous apprendre à expliquer et à exprimer en peu
de mots. Je n'ai donc pas la formule pour dire en trois paroles tout ce
qui m'apparut en trois secondes, et il me faudrait beaucoup de mots pour
raconter ce que le souvenir me raconta instantanément. Je te vis
d'abord adolescent, aussi mince, aussi chevelu, aussi calme que tu l'es
aujourd'hui, avec de grands yeux clairs et je ne sais quoi d'_ailé_
dans le regard et dans l'attitude qui te faisait ressembler à un de ces
oiseaux de rivage, lents et paresseux d'aspect, infatigables en réalité.
On disait de toi:
--Il est fort délicat. Vivra-t-il? Que fera-t-il? disait ton père.
--Rien et tout, lui répondais-je.
Dans ce temps-là, tu empaillais des oiseaux. C'est tout ce qu'on savait
de tes occupations, et on admirait ton ouvrage, car ces oiseaux sont les
seuls que j'aie vus tromper les yeux au point de faire illusion. Ils
avaient le mouvement, l'attitude vraie, la grâce essentiellement propre
à leur espèce, outre que tu ne choisissais que des sujets intacts,
lustrés, frais et en pleine toilette, selon la saison. C'étaient des
chefs-d'oeuvre.
Tu préparas ensuite des papillons avec une perfection égale, cherchant
à conserver avec pattes et antennes les plus petits, les plus fragiles,
les microscopiques enfin, d'où te vint le surnom de _Micro_, dont nous
n'avons jamais su nous déshabituer.
Un jour, tu t'exerças à dessiner des oiseaux et à peindre des
lépidoptères: autres merveilles! Tu étais décidément d'une adresse
inouïe. Étais-tu artiste? étais-tu savant? Tes échantillons furent
admirés, et, quand ta famille perdit une fortune qui t'eût permis de
ne faire que ce qui te plaisait, tu entras comme préparateur au Muséum
d'histoire naturelle sous les auspices de Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire. Il
nous semblait que tu étais _casé_, comme on dit bourgeoisement, et que,
ayant la passion exclusive des sciences naturelles, tu arriverais peu à
peu à pouvoir la satisfaire en dehors d'une étroite spécialité; mais,
au bout de quelques mois, tu nous revins dégoûté de ces arides
commencements, affamé d'air rustique et de liberté. Tu étais souffrant.
Ta soeur, l'être adorablement maternel, te reçut avec joie et ne te
gronda pas.
Moi, j'étais affligé de ta désertion. L'illustre vieillard m'avait dit:
--Votre jeune frère a le pied à l'étrier. On _arrive_ à tout quand on
est doué comme lui.
Parlait-il ainsi pour m'être agréable, ou parce qu'il avait senti en toi
un véritable amant de la nature? Dans ce dernier cas, il a dû comprendre
ta fuite. _Arriver_, voilà un grand mot, le mot, le but, le charbon
ardent de la génération actuelle. Il n'a pas touché tes lèvres, tu n'y
as pas cru, ou tu l'as trop analysé, ce charbon qui souvent n'allume
rien, ce mot qui résume pour la plupart des hommes, un océan de
déceptions. Je ne parle pas de ceux qui se croient arrivés quand ils
sont riches ou influents. L'argent ou l'autorité, c'est le but du
vulgaire; les esprits plus élevés ou plus aimants rêvent la gloire ou la
satisfaction intérieure de se rendre utiles, de servir la science, la
philosophie, le progrès, la patrie.
Une modestie excessive, farouche même, t'a persuadé que tu n'avais rien
d'utile à communiquer personnellement, et, dédaignant de te résumer, tu
as tout appris et tout donné, tes collections, tes observations, tes
découvertes, à quiconque a bien voulu s'en servir. Ta vie s'est écoulée
dans une sorte de contemplation attentive dont je ne comprends que trop
les délices, mais que j'eusse voulu, dans ce temps-là, rendre féconde
chez toi par une manifestation de ta volonté. Tu es resté inébranlable,
je dirais impassible, si je ne connaissais la solidité de tes muettes
affections et l'enthousiasme de tes admirations secrètes. Tu avais une
philosophie pratique mieux formulée en toi-même que je ne le supposais:
avais-je raison, avais-je tort de la combattre?
Assis un instant pour reprendre haleine sur une pierre du sentier de ce
_bout du monde_ fictif où s'enferma pour n'en plus sortir M. de Cérisy,
je me demandais sérieusement si j'étais arrivé moi-même à une limite
quelconque de mon activité, et si tu n'avais pas été beaucoup plus sage
que moi en limitant la tienne dès ta jeunesse à l'exercice paisible et
soutenu de ton intelligence, sans aucun souci de la faire connaître en
dehors de l'intimité.
Si tu étais égoïste, je n'hésiterais pas à te donner tort. Ma
raison--jamais mon coeur--t'a quelquefois blâmé. J'ai cru être dans le
vrai en me persuadant qu'il fallait instruire les autres, et que le
devoir de quiconque avait un don, grand ou petit, était impérieusement
tracé: se communiquer à toutes les insultes, se révéler, se donner,
s'immoler, s'exposer à toutes les injures, à toutes les calomnies, à
tous les déboires de la notoriété, pour peu que l'on eût à dire, bien ou
mal, quelque chose de senti, d'expérimenté ou de jugé au fond de soi.
Si ma nature et mon éducation m'eussent permis d'acquérir la science,
j'aurais voulu explorer le monde entier en savant et en artiste, deux
fonctions intellectuelles dont je sentais en moi, je ne dis certes pas
la puissance, mais l'appétence bien vive et le désir bien ardent. Une
plus humble destinée m'ayant été faite, j'ai étudié, comme par hasard et
faute de mieux, les sentiments et les luttes de l'être humain, et peu à
peu j'ai pris à coeur ce métier des gens qui n'ont pas de métier, et
que les personnes purement pratiques méprisent profondément ou ne
comprennent pas du tout.
Engagé dans cette voie, et voyant le temps qu'il faut y consacrer, la
dépense d'énergie vitale qu'il exige, j'ai pensé que ce n'était pas
un vain travail, et, poursuivi par un type idéal applicable à l'être
humain, j'ai cru parfois très-utile de tenter de le dégager de la
fiction des entrailles de l'humanité présente, qui le porte en elle
sans y croire, mais qui le fait vibrer et tressaillir par moments en le
trouvant exprimé dans un livre, dans un tableau, dans un chant, dans une
oeuvre d'art quelconque.
Je ne me suis pas fait de grandes illusions sur la portée de mon
travail; mais, s'il a produit peu d'effet, la faute en est à mon peu
de talent, non à mon but, qui était trop consciencieux pour ne pas me
paraître sérieux. Ceci donné, je m'abandonnais au hasard de la fantaisie
pour les sujets, ayant expérimenté que le bien, si bien il y a, me
venait en dormant et que je ne savais pas composer d'avance. Dans cet
emploi soutenu de la petite part d'énergie qui m'était dévolue j'ai
senti pourtant, avec un regret quelquefois bien douloureux, combien sont
à envier ceux qui, au lieu de produire sans relâche, se sont réservé le
droit d'acquérir sans cesse: et souvent dans ta modeste fortune, dans
tes longues claustrations d'hiver, dans tes courses solitaires des beaux
jours, dans ton état d'absorption par l'examen et l'étude de la nature,
tu m'as paru le plus sage de nous deux. Tu n'as pas eu besoin d'arriver,
toi, tu n'es pas parti, et tu es heureux au port que tu n'as pas voulu
quitter. Moi, j'ai eu les aventures du pigeon de la fable, et je reviens
toujours vers les miens sans autre joie que celle de les retrouver. Ce
n'était donc pas la peine de quitter la terre natale, puisque _arriver_,
pour moi, c'est toujours revenir.
Je ne saurais me plaindre du sort. J'y aurais mauvaise grâce du moment
que la faculté d'aimer et d'admirer ne s'est point amoindrie en moi dans
mon combat avec la vie; mais, quand on pense à soi, quand on compare sa
destinée avec d'autres destinées qui nous intéressent également, on est
porté--c'est mon travers--à chercher l'idéal de la vie pour tous les
êtres du présent et de l'avenir. C'est la pente que suivait ma pensée
pendant que nous revenions à la nouvelle chartreuse.
Et, chemin faisant, nous rencontrâmes un groupe de chartreux qui se
promenaient: un gros vieux, court, qui s'appuyait sur une canne, cinq
ou six autres moins frappants de type, et un jeune, grand, brun, d'une
figure triste et d'une beauté remarquable dans son sévère costume
de laine blanche, qui semblait fait pour s'harmoniser avec la roche
calcaire, le sentier poudreux et la pâle verdure des buissons. Dans
ce pays des styrax et des clématites, ces personnages _tomenteux_[3]
semblaient un produit du sol.
On nous apprit que le beau chartreux était le héros de mille légendes
dans la province, qu'un mystère impénétrable enveloppait le roman de sa
vie, qu'on ne savait ni son vrai nom, ni son pays, que, selon les
uns, il cachait là le remords d'un crime, et, selon les autres, une
dramatique histoire d'amour. Nous n'avons pas voulu nous informer
davantage. Eu égard à sa belle figure, nous lui devons de ne pas
chercher la prose peut-être fâcheuse de sa vie réelle. Le garde
forestier qui nous servait de guide nous dit que ces moines étaient
paisibles et doux, très charitables, et faisaient beaucoup de bien.
[Note 3: On appelle plantes tomenteuses, en botanique, celles qui
sont couvertes d'une sorte de duvet comme le bouillon blanc.]
Je me demandai quel bien on pouvait faire dans ce désert, à moins de le
défricher et de le peupler. Pour le dernier point, les chartreux se sont
mis officiellement hors de cause par leurs voeux, et, quant au premier,
il est tout à fait illusoire. Les chartreux, devant cultiver eux-mêmes
le sol qu'ils possèdent, rentrent dans la classe des propriétaires
associés pour le grand bien de leur immeuble, et encore ne
présentent-ils pas le modèle d'une bonne association, car la prière, la
méditation, la pénitence et les offices absorbent la bonne moitié de
leur existence. On ne fait pas un bien gros travail des bras et de
l'intelligence quand l'esprit est ainsi plongé, à heures fixes, dans la
stupeur du mysticisme.
Faire travailler, donner de l'ouvrage aux pauvres, c'est le classique
devoir des propriétaires dans les pays habités; mais, en Provence, au
coeur de ces roches revêches, où le petit propriétaire suffit tout au
plus à sa tâche ingrate, il n'y a pas de bras à employer. Tous les
travaux du littoral sont faits par des étrangers, et les forêts de
l'État, qui remplissent les gorges de la montagne, seraient et sont
probablement plus utiles aux journaliers sans ouvrage que les terres
arables des chartreux. Si leur établissement emploie quelques pauvres
diables, c'est parce qu'il ne peut se passer de leur aide. En somme,
leurs charités, que je ne nie point, seraient tout aussi bien répandues
par de simples particuliers qui n'auraient pas la tête rasée en couronne
et porteraient des souliers au lieu de porter des sandales. Le luxe
archéologique de leur costume peut encore poser pour le peintre; voilà
tout l'emploi qui lui reste.
En regardant ces beaux figurants s'éloigner et se perdre dans le décor
de la chartreuse, je me demandai naturellement quel monde, sublime ou
idiot, celui qui nous avait frappés portait sous ce crâne rasé, exposé
aux morsures d'un soleil dévorant. Est-il _arrivé_, celui-là? A-t-il
trouvé dans le cloître une solution à son existence? Poésie féconde ou
anéantissement stérile, s'il possède l'une ou l'autre, il est entré au
port; mais qui de nous voudrait l'y suivre? Certes ce lieu-ci est un
Éden, et l'image divine y est revêtue de sublimité; mais le catholicisme
n'a-t-il pas rompu avec la nature, et n'est-il pas défendu au mystique
particulièrement de se plaire à la contemplation des choses extérieures?
Quel enfer d'ailleurs que la promiscuité du communisme pratiqué dans ce
sens étroit et sauvage du couvent? Les chartreux ont, il est vrai,
des habitations séparées, mais qui se touchent en s'alignant dans une
enceinte rectiligne. Ces petites maisons propres et nues, avec leur ton
jaune et leur couverture de tuiles roses, ressemblent beaucoup à une
maison de fous. Il y en a une douzaine, et toutes ne sont pas occupées.
Je crois bien que le groupe de six ou sept religieux que nous avons
rencontré compose toute la communauté. J'ignore s'ils observent bien
strictement la règle austère de saint Bruno, s'ils se dispensent de la
prison cellulaire, du silence et du salut classique: _Frère, il faut
mourir!_ Ils ont, ma foi, bien raison, les pauvres hères, et je ne
les blâme point. Le catholicisme n'a plus rien à faire dans la vie
cénobitique. Il s'y éteint sans retentissement et sans qu'on l'admire ou
le plaigne.
Il y aurait pourtant ici, dans ce lieu enchanté, le long de ces eaux
limpides, au pied de ces roches théâtrales, sous l'ombre fraîche de ces
beaux arbres, dans ces clairières baignées de soleil où croissent de
si belles fleurs et de si sveltes graminées, une vie à vivre dans les
délices de l'étude ou du recueillement. Cette oasis de la Provence
n'existe pas pour rien, elle n'a pas été créée pour des chartreux, ni
même pour des entomologistes exclusifs; sa beauté suave appartient au
peintre, au poëte, au philosophe, à l'érudit, à l'amant et à l'ami,
tout comme au botaniste et au géologue. Il faudrait être tout cela pour
habiter ce sanctuaire. Où sont les hommes dignes de s'y réfugier et de
le posséder avec le respect qu'il inspire? Voilà ce que l'on se demande
chaque fois que l'on rencontre un vestige du beau primitif, dans des
conditions de douceur appropriées à l'existence humaine. On pourrait
vivre ici de chasse et de pêche, de fruits et de légumes; le sol est
excellent. On n'y serait pas enfermé et séparé du reste des hommes; les
chemins sont beaux en toute saison, et il faudrait d'ailleurs y vivre en
famille, car sans famille il n'y a rien à la longue qui vaille sous
le ciel. Il faudrait aussi y être tous occupés de choses tour à tour
intellectuelles et pratiques, que le ménage occupât les femmes sans les
abrutir, et que le travail passionnât les hommes sans les absorber et
les rendre insociables.
Je rêve ici une abbaye de Thélème avec la grande devise _Fais ce que
veulx!_ En possession de cette absolue liberté, l'homme rationnel est
inévitablement porté par sa nature à ne vouloir que le bien. Dès lors je
peuple cette solitude à ma guise; d'un coup de baguette, ma fantaisie
fait rentrer sous terre cette ridicule chartreuse avec ses clochetons
vernis, qui ressemblent à des parapluies fermés, et ces petites maisons,
qui ressemblent à un hospice d'aliénés. Je restitue à la merveilleuse
flore de cette région cette partie trop longtemps mutilée de son
domaine. Je ne vois dans la brume de mon rêve ni château, ni villa, ni
chalet pour abriter les créatures d'élite que j'évoque. Je ne suis pas
en peine du détail de leur vie pratique: elles ont l'intelligence et
le goût, quelques-unes ont probablement le génie. Elles ont su se
construire des habitations dignes d'elles et les placer de manière à ne
pas faire tache dans le paysage. Je ne vois pas non plus quel costume
elles ont revêtu. Il est beau à coup sûr et ne ressemble en rien à
nos modes extravagantes ou hideuses. Il n'y a point de mode dans ce
monde-là. Chacun marque ou adoucit son type avec art et discernement;
tout y est harmonieux d'ensemble et ingénieux de détail comme la nature
qui l'environne et l'inspire.
La langue que parlent ces êtres libres n'est pas la nôtre; elle est
débarrassée de ses règles étroites et compliquées. Elle est aussi rapide
que la pensée; l'emploi du verbe est simplifié, la nuance de l'adjectif
est enrichie. Il ne faut pas des années, il faut des jours pour
apprendre cette langue, parce que la logique humaine s'est dégagée, et
que le langage humain s'en est imprégné naturellement. J'ignore le
mode d'occupations de mes thélémites. Ils ont trouvé des lumières qui
simplifient tous nos procédés; mais, quelle que soit leur étude, je les
vois sinon réunis volontairement à de certaines heures, du moins groupés
dans les plus beaux sites à certains moments et se communiquant leurs
idées avec l'expansion fraternelle des sentiments libres. L'art est là
en pleine expansion, et la nature inspire des chefs-d'oeuvre. Pauline
Viardot chante au bord du Gapeau avec Rubini, Eugène Delacroix esquisse
des profils de rochers où son génie évoque le monde fantastique. Nos
maîtres aimés y conçoivent des livres sublimes; nos chers amis y rêvent
des bonheurs réalisables, et nous deux, cher Micro, nous y cueillons des
plantes, tout en mêlant dans notre rêverie ceux qui sont à ceux qui ne
sont plus et à ceux qui seront!
V
A PROPOS DE BOTANIQUE
Juillet 1868.
Puisque ces lettres, toujours commencées avec l'intention d'être
particulières, ont pris chacune un développement qui me les a fait
croire propres à être publiées, et puisqu'en leur donnant le titre de
_Lettres d'un voyageur_, j'ai cru leur conserver le ton de modestie qui
convient à des impressions toutes personnelles, il est temps peut-être
que je les accompagne d'un mot de préface et d'explication.
Sommé plusieurs fois, par la bienveillance et par l'hostilité, de
reprendre ce genre de travail qu'on disait m'avoir réussi jadis dans
la période de l'émotion, je n'ai cédé, je l'avoue, qu'au besoin de me
résumer un peu, et je n'ai point du tout cherché à mettre le passé de
ma vie intellectuelle d'accord avec le présent. J'ignore si, dans
des régions plus élevées que celle où je promène cette vie un peu
aventureuse et toujours sincère, les _penseurs_ se croient forcés
d'expliquer leurs variations. Moi, j'ai la simplicité de regarder les
miennes comme un progrès, et je n'attache pas assez d'importance à ma
personnalité pour ne pas lui donner un démenti quand je pense qu'elle
s'est trompée. Il y a des personnalités susceptibles qui répondent par
un soufflet à ce démenti: c'est quand la personnalité nouvelle, vendue
à quelque intérêt humain, s'efforce de renier son passé honnête et
candide. Ce n'est point ici le cas. Mes défauts ont persisté, mon
indépendance ne s'est point rangée au joug du convenu, je ne me suis
pas réconcilié avec ce qui facilite la vie et allège le travail; j'ai
cherché un chemin, je l'ai trouvé, perdu, retrouvé, et je peux le perdre
encore. Si cela m'arrive, je le dirai encore, rien ne m'empêchera de le
dire. La contrée idéale que j'appelais autrefois la verte bohème des
poëtes s'est semée de plus de fleurs à mes yeux, mais les fleurs
fantastiques y ont fait de moins fréquentes apparitions. J'ai essayé de
trouver le vrai de ma fantaisie, le droit légitime de ma protestation.
J'ai peut-être vu peu à peu la destinée humaine avec d'autres yeux, et
reconnu que, dans la période du doute et du découragement, je voyais
mal parce que je ne voyais pas assez; mais je crois sentir avec le
même coeur, penser avec la même liberté. Dès lors je ne crains pas que
l'ancien _moi_, qu'il s'incline ou non devant le nouveau, lui cherche
querelle ou lui adresse un reproche.
En 1834, il y a trente-quatre ans, j'écrivais à mon cher Rollinat qui
n'est plus:
«Eh quoi! ma période de parti pris n'arrivera-t-elle pas? Oh! si j'y
arrive, vous verrez, mes amis, quels profonds philosophes, quels
antiques stoïciens, quels ermites à barbe blanche se promèneront à
travers mes romans. Quelles pesantes dissertations, quels magnifiques
plaidoyers, quelles superbes condamnations découleront de ma plume!
Comme je vous demanderai pardon d'avoir été jeune et malheureux! Comme
je vous prônerai la sainte sagesse des vieillards et les joies calmes
de l'égoïsme! Que personne ne s'avise plus d'être malheureux dans ce
temps-là, car aussitôt je me mettrai à l'ouvrage, et je noircirai trois
mains de papier pour lui prouver qu'il est un sot et un lâche, et que,
quant à moi, je suis parfaitement heureux[4].»
Aujourd'hui, en 1868, il y a bien un vieux ermite qui se promène à
travers mes romans; mais il n'a pas de barbe, il n'est pas stoïcien, et
certes il n'est pas un philosophe bien profond, car c'est moi. Je ne
sais s'il condamnerait et gourmanderait la jeunesse de son temps, si
elle était _jeune et malheureuse_; mais, chose étrange, cette jeunesse
nouvelle rit de tout, elle exorcise le doute au nom de la raison, elle
ne comprend rien aux souffrances morales que les vieux ont traversées,
elle s'en moque un peu, et un des plus naïfs; un des plus émus, un des
plus jeunes de cette époque de refroidissement, c'est encore le vieux
ermite qui la contemple avec surprise.
Le voyageur d'autrefois l'eût maudite, l'époque où nous voici! Je
crois bien qu'il n'eût pas résisté aux tentations de suicide qui
l'assiégeaient. Le vieux voyageur d'aujourd'hui la bénit quand même,
croyant fermement qu'elle est une transition inévitable, peut-être
nécessaire, un passage difficile, mais sûr, pour monter plus haut.
[Note 4: _Lettres d'un voyageur_.]
Quant à lui, jusqu'à sa dernière heure, il aura fantaisie de monter.
Donnez-lui la main, vous qui pensez à peu près comme lui, et vous
aussi qui pensez tout à fait autrement; ceux qui veulent rester en bas
crieront après nous tous et nous envelopperont dans le même anathème.
Que cette persécution nous unisse, car notre but est le même, et, si ce
n'est la conviction, c'est du moins le sentiment de notre droit qui
nous rend solidaires. Nous ferons tous effort pour gagner les hauteurs,
chacun suivant ses moyens et ses procédés, et il est des étapes où nous
ne pouvons manquer de nous rencontrer, des refuges où nous aurons à
lutter ensemble contre l'ennemi commun. Monte, jeunesse, monte en riant
si tu veux, pourvu que tu ne t'arrêtes pas trop sous les arbres du
chemin, et qu'à l'heure du combat tu saches te défendre!
A MAURICE SAND.
Nohant, 15 juillet 1868.
Il fait sombre, l'orage s'amasse, et déjà vers l'horizon les hachures de
la pluie se dessinent en gris de perle sur le gris ardoise du ciel. La
bourrasque va se déchaîner, les feuilles commencent à frissonner à la
cime des tilleuls, et la flèche déliée des cèdres oscille, incertaine
de la direction que le vent va prendre. C'est le moment de rentrer les
enfants, les petites chaises et les jouets fragiles. L'aînée voudrait
jouer encore sur la terrasse, elle ne croit pas à la pluie; mais le vent
vient brusquement gonfler les plis de sa petite jupe, une large goutte
d'eau tombe sur sa main mignonne. Elle saisit sa chère _Henriette_, la
poupée favorite, et vient se réfugier dans mon cabinet.
Alors commence un nouveau jeu: le jeu, la fiction, le drame de la pluie.
L'enfant ouvre une ombrelle et marche effarée par la chambre; elle se
livre à une pantomime charmante de grâce et de vérité. Elle se courbe
sous les coups de l'aquilon, elle fuit devant la rivière qui déborde,
elle avertit _Henriette_ de tous les dangers qui la menacent, elle la
préserve, elle la pelotonne sous son bras, enfin elle combat la tempête
avec elle, et, toute souriante et palpitante, m'apporte _son enfant_,
qu'il me faut essuyer, réchauffer et caresser comme un Moïse sauvé des
eaux. Cette comparaison, qui ne peut pas être dans son esprit, perce
aussitôt dans le mien.
La dualité de l'âme éclate dans cette puissance qu'un enfant de trente
mois possède déjà de dédoubler dans son esprit la réalité et le
simulacre; mais voici un autre phénomène. J'étais en train d'écrire;
l'action scénique m'intéresse, je l'observe, j'y prends part. Je
joue mon rôle dans le drame qu'elle improvise, et, entre chacune des
répliques que nous échangeons, ma plume reprend sa course sur le papier,
l'idée que j'exprimais se retrouve dans la case de mon cerveau où je
l'ai priée d'attendre, mon être intellectuel a suivi l'opération que
l'enfant a su faire, il s'est dédoublé; il y a en moi deux acteurs,
l'un qui écrit sa pensée méditée, l'autre qui représente la fille des
pharaons arrachant aux flots du Nil le berceau d'un pauvre enfant
nouveau-né. Je ne suis pas moins saisi de la fiction que ne l'est ma
petite-fille. Je le suis peut-être davantage, car je vois le paysage
égyptien qui doit servir de cadre à l'épisode. J'aperçois la mère qui se
cache dans les roseaux, pleine d'angoisse, jusqu'à ce que son fils
soit recueilli et emmené par la princesse. Le sentiment maternel, plus
développé en moi, rêve une émotion que je ressens presque...
Et pourtant mon travail, complètement étranger à ce genre d'impressions,
va son train, et après chaque interruption de mon dialogue avec ta
fille, dont la grâce me charme et m'occupe, il se trouve suffisamment
élaboré pour que je le reprenne sans effort et sans hésitation.
L'habitude de jouer ainsi avec elle, tout en faisant ma tâche
quotidienne, a sans doute préparé et amené peu à peu ce résultat un peu
exceptionnel; mais, comme il n'a rien du tout de prodigieux, il me
donne à réfléchir sur les facultés de notre être intellectuel, et ces
réflexions, je veux te les résumer à mesure quelles se succèdent et
se groupent. Aussi bien l'orage redouble, l'enfant s'est endormie;
voyageurs, nous ne voyageons pas: en ce moment, la nature nous chasse
de es sanctuaires, la plante gonflée de pluie veut boire à l'aise,
l'insecte s'est réfugié sous l'épaisse feuillée, le paysage s'est
rempli de voiles où la couler pâlit et se noie; n'est-ce pas le moment
d'entreprendre une petite excursion dans le domaine de l'invisible et de
l'impalpable?
Essayons.
Bien que la botanique, qui me préoccupe cette année par son côté
philosophique, ne soit pas le sujet direct de cette causerie, c'est
elle qui m'y a conduit aussi par de longues rêveries sur _l'âme de la
plante_, et je m'imagine avoir trouvé quelque chose pour ma satisfaction
personnelle tout au moins. Cela se résume en quelques mots, mais il m'en
faudra davantage pour y arriver; prends patience.
«Nous avons deux âmes: l'une préposée à l'entretien et à la conservation
de la vie physique, l'autre au développement de la vie psychique. La
première, involontaire, impersonnelle, qui tombe sous l'examen et
l'appréciation de la science physiologique, est, avec plus ou moins
d'intensité, identique chez tous les hommes. L'autre, dont l'étude est
du ressort des sciences métaphysiques, c'est le _moi_ personnel, l'homme
affranchi de la fatalité, le souffle impérissable et mystérieux de la
vie.»
Ainsi m'enseignait, il y a quelque vingt ans, un ami très-intelligent et
très-modeste qui n'a jamais fait parler de lui comme philosophe.
Cette définition pouvait être forcée quant à l'expression: il donnait le
même nom à l'instinct et à la réflexion; mais, dans son langage figuré,
il résumait peut-être d'une façon pénétrante et saisissante le problème
de l'humanité. Je n'ai jamais oublié cette formule qui m'a toujours paru
résoudre admirablement le mystère de nos contradictions antérieures et
les antinomies sans fin qui divisent les hommes à l'endroit de leurs
croyances.
Voici ce que je lis dans un livre dernièrement publié:
«Les choses se passent dans l'être humain comme si, à côté du cerveau
pensant, il y avait d'autres cerveaux pensant à notre insu, et
commandant à tous les actes ce que j'appelle la vie _spécifique_. Le
dualisme de l'homme et de l'animal, de l'ange et de la bête, n'est point
chimère, antithèse, fantaisie. Voici le cerveau, le centre noble, et
voilà les centres divers de la moelle et du système nerveux sympathique.
Ici règne la volonté, là l'instinct. Quelle lumière se répand sur la
vie humaine quand on se met à y démêler l'oeuvre de l'intelligence
consciente et volontaire, et le travail lent, monotone et fatal
de l'instinct, caché aux centres nerveux secondaires! Comme l'âme
proprement dite se trouve parfois devant cette âme-instinct qui ne
devrait être que servante[5]».
Voilà bien, en somme, la définition de mon vieux philosophe--_sans le
savoir_: une âme libre, immatérielle, fonctionnant au sommet de l'être;
une âme esclave, _spécifique_, c'est-à-dire commune à toute l'espèce,
agissant dans les régions inférieures; ici la moelle épinière
transmettant ses volitions à l'encéphale, là l'encéphale luttant avec
la volonté, dont il est le siège, contre les volitions aveugles de
l'instinct.
De là deux propositions contraires qui contiennent chacune une vérité
incontestable.
«L'homme est toujours et partout le même, disent les uns: cruel,
lascif, intempérant, paresseux, égoïste. Les mêmes causes produisent et
produiront toujours les mêmes effets. L'homme ne progresse point.»
[Note 5: Auguste Laugel, _des Problèmes de l'âme_. Paris, 1868.]
Cette opinion est fondée. Le rôle de l'instinct est fatal et ne s'épuise
ni dans le temps ni dans l'espace. Vaincu, il n'est pas soumis et ne
renonce jamais à la lutte.
«L'homme est essentiellement et nécessairement progressif, disent les
autres. Chaque révolution sociale ou religieuse marque une étape de
son perfectionnement, chaque effort de son intelligence amène une
découverte, chaque instant de sa durée est un pas vers le mieux.»
Ceci est tout aussi vrai que l'assertion contraire. Aussitôt que l'on
prend la peine de distinguer, on se trouve d'accord.
Nous arriverons, je pense, à savoir compter jusqu'à trois, qui est le
nombre sacré, la clef de l'homme et celle de l'univers, et une bonne
définition nous fera quelque jour reconnaître en nous, non pas seulement
deux _âmes_ aux prises l'une contre l'autre, mais trois _âmes_ bien
distinctes, une pour le domaine de la vie spécifique, une autre pour
celui de la vie individuelle, une troisième pour celui de la vie
universelle. Celle-ci, qui tiendra compte du droit inaliénable de la vie
spécifique, mettra l'accord et l'équilibre entre cette vie diffuse chez
tous les êtres et la vie personnelle exagérée en chacun. Elle sera te
vrai lien, la vraie _âme_, la lumière, l'unité.
Chacun de nous, à un degré quelconque, porte en lui cette troisième et
suprême puissance, puisqu'il l'entrevoit, l'interroge, lui cherche un
nom, et s'inquiète de son emploi; mais l'éclair a bien des nuages à
traverser encore, et peut-être faudra-t-il ces crises sociales terribles
où s'amasse la foudre, pour que l'homme, frappé de la vérité comme d'une
flèche divine, découvre sa vraie force et remplisse enfin son vrai rôle
sur la terre.
L'excellent livre que je viens de te citer, et que tu voudras lire, est
le développement analytique du dualisme où l'homme actuel est encore
engagé entre ses deux âmes. Le tableau éloquent de cette lutte est
navrant, mais il aboutit à des espérances d'un ordre supérieur. Il
est plein d'épouvantes pour la destinée humaine livrée à l'instinct
spécifique, plein d'enseignements et d'exhortations à l'homme
individuel, qui est ardemment sollicité de dégager le principe
impérissable de sa liberté du tourbillon des passions basses ou des
fantaisies coupables. C'est un livre de morale et de philosophie écrit
par un savant et un libre penseur, car il nous engage à rejeter ces
vains termes de spiritualisme et de matérialisme qui nous éloignent de
la recherche de la vérité. Funeste antagonisme, en effet! Il semble que
l'humanité se condamne à marcher sur des lignes parallèles sans vouloir
jamais les faire fléchir pour se rencontrer, et que, de cette stupide
obstination, les individus se fassent un point d'honneur et un mérite
personnel. Faudra-t-il en conclure que bien des gens n'auraient rien à
dire, s'ils ne disaient pas d'injures aux autres?
La critique philosophique, dont le rôle est grand en ce moment-ci, est
forte quand elle signale l'abus des mots et le vide des formules. C'est
tout ce qu'elle a pu faire jusqu'à ce jour, et il semble qu'il ne soit
pas encore de son ressort de chercher une solution. Les ignorants s'en
impatientent; ils s'imaginent que leur sentiment personnel doit se
manifester et se concentrer dans quelque aphorisme magique sanctionné
par l'expérience et la raison. Faites place à ces ardeurs de la pensée,
hommes de réflexion! elles vous donnent la mesure de nos tendances et
de nos besoins. Ne les dédaignez pas, elles sont un thermomètre à
consulter, une face de l'humanité à examiner. La preuve de ce besoin,
c'est le catholicisme de pur sentiment qui se prêche avec succès
aujourd'hui dans les salons et les églises, doctrine incapable de lutter
contre la critique historique et habile à esquiver ses coups, mais forte
de nos aspirations et adroite pour les accaparer au profit de sa cause.
Faites-y grande attention, défenseurs de la doctrine expérimentale!
Trouvez dans vos plus consciencieuses inductions un refuge pour notre
idéalisme; autrement tous les faibles, tous les indécis, tous les
illettrés passeront du côté du christianisme moderne, espérant y trouver
la paix de l'esprit, et l'oubli du devoir de raisonner sa foi.
M. Vacherot, dans un solide et délicat travail récemment publié dans
la _Revue_, nous trace une esquisse instructive de la situation du
catholicisme actuel. Malgré son exquise courtoisie pour les lumières de
la chaire et de la polémique religieuse, il met ces lumières au pied du
mur, les sommant, le malin qu'il est, d'étudier les textes sacrés, de
les mettre d'accord et de définir l'orthodoxie. L'Église répond _in
petto: Non possumus_; mais elle continue à nous parler avec une
éloquence plus ou moins entraînante (M. Vacherot a un peu exagéré le
talent de ses adversaires par excès de générosité ou de finesse) des
points lumineux que cherche à ressaisir l'humanité présente: l'âme
immortelle, la divinité _personnelle_, l'avenir infini, les cieux
ouverts, l'idéal en un mot.
Devant une critique et une philosophie qui ne peuvent sauver ouvertement
ces trésors du naufrage, qui ne pensent pas même devoir trop affirmer
qu'ils existent, l'Église invoque le sentiment, supérieur selon elle, à
la raison, et les êtres de sentiment vont à elle.
Mal nécessaire, disent les gens calmes. J'avoue que je ne puis pousser
jusque-là l'indifférence et la sérénité. Je vois l'âme supérieure
s'atrophier dans ce divorce avec la logique et retourner à l'enfance de
l'humanité, enfance sacrée, poétique, respectable en son temps, dans
son premier développement normal; sénilité puérile et funeste, presque
honteuse à l'heure que nous marque aujourd'hui l'aiguille du temps.
Eh quoi! nous ne sommes point mûrs pour une croyance qui réponde aux
besoins de notre libre aspiration sans condamner à mort cet instinct
spécifique, qui est le code imprescriptible de la nature animée? Et
même dans le sanctuaire de l'encéphale, dont les opérations sont aussi
multiples et aussi mystérieuses que la structure anatomique du cerveau
est compliquée et insaisissable, il nous est impossible de marier la
lucidité supérieure à la clairvoyance pratique? Nous sommes donc
des infirmes, des êtres épuisés, à moins que nous ne soyons des
intelligences qui n'ont encore rien commencé?
Levez-vous donc, éveiller-vous, nobles esprits qui sentez palpiter en
vous la troisième âme, la grande, la vraie, celle qui n'affirme pas
timidement l'idéal et qui le prouve par cela même qu'elle le possède,
qui ne tressaille pas d'effroi devant l'épreuve scientifique parce
qu'elle sait _a priori_ que cette épreuve sera la sanction de sa foi
aussitôt qu'elle sera complète et décisive. Cette âme a autre chose à
faire que de vaincre les révoltes et les tyrannies de l'instinct. Elle
éclora dans des organisations qui les auront vaincues; mais, sitôt
qu'elle parlera, elle enseignera rapidement comment il est facile à tous
de les vaincre. Elle résoudra ce formidable problème qui consterne notre
élan philosophique vers la beauté morale; elle nous rendra moins sévères
pour les obstinations de la vie _spécifique_. Ces tyrannies de la chair
ne sont redoutables que parce que l'âme universelle n'a point clairement
parlé en nous, et que l'âme personnelle n'a pas d'armes assez bien
trempées pour le combat. Ces armes de la foi et de la grâce que les
catholiques se vantent de posséder sont aussi faibles que celles du
scepticisme, puisque les tentations sont plus âpres à mesure que le
chrétien devient plus saint et plus mortifié. Ce n'est pas la haine et
le mépris de la chair qui en imposent à cette sourde-muette que nous
portons en nous. Ce n'est point assez d'une âme libre de ses propres
mouvements pour combattre des mouvements qui ne sont pas libres de lui
obéir. Il faut quelque chose de plus. Il faut l'éclat d'une vérité
supérieur à toutes les individualités, et supérieure même à leur
liberté, car toute liberté qui ne se soumet pas à l'évidence devient
aberration ou tyrannie.
On nous dit que cette vérité de _consentement_, qui est la vraie
discipline des intelligences, ne peut naître que d'une religion
théologique ou sociale.
De généreux esprits, prenant un effet pour une cause, ont cru
l'apercevoir dans des formes sociales à imposer à l'humanité; d'autre
part, de nobles érudits, épris de leurs sujets d'étude, se persuadent
encore aujourd'hui que, sans le prestige d'un culte et l'absolu d'un
dogme, aucune vérité ne peut devenir commune à l'humanité.
A mes yeux, il y a erreur chez les uns comme chez les autres. Si
l'humanité future confectionne des sociétés et construit des temples,
l'individu sera libre sous la loi commune, et le mystère sera banni de
l'autel.
Pour cela, il faut que l'homme _sache_ Dieu et l'humanité. On croit à ce
que l'on sait. Ouvrez la porte au savoir. Donnez-lui des instruments,
des laboratoires et la liberté absolue; mais donnez-lui aussi des ailes.
Apprenez-lui que chaque genre de certitude a son domaine, chaque vérité
acquise sa case dans l'intelligence, mais qu'il en est une d'un ordre si
élevé, qu'il faut l'accueillir et la posséder dans la plus haute région
de l'âme pour qu'elle serve de _criterium_ et de corollaire à toutes les
autres.
18 juillet 1868.
.... Tu me demandes ce que j'entends par l'âme _universelle_ de l'homme.
Mon mot est mauvais, je ne le défends pas. Il faudrait toujours prendre
les mots pour ce qu'ils valent; ils sont les empreintes du moment qui
les fait éclore, les symboles qui transmettent à notre esprit nos
impressions passagères, toujours incomplètes. Peu de mots fixent assez
une idée pour mériter d'être conservés toute une semaine. Prends le mien
pour ce que je te le donne, et vois-y l'appel d'une relation à établir
entre l'âme individuelle et l'âme de l'univers.
Tu vas me demander encore où est l'âme de l'univers, si elle est diffuse
ou personnelle. Elle est partout selon moi, comme la matière est
partout; elle est à la fois personnelle et diffuse, elle remplit le fini
et l'infini. Je ne vois point d'obstacle à cette antithèse, puisque
l'âme humaine a ces deux attributs bien distincts et cependant
inséparables. A toute heure, notre esprit, enfermé en apparence dans le
cercle étroit de nos besoins matériels ou de nos impressions passagères,
peut s'élancer vers les sphères de l'infini, non pas seulement par la
rêverie poétique, mais par les calculs précis de la mathématique et les
certitudes idéales de la géométrie. Supposez que l'univers a une âme
comme nous, mais une âme aidée de la connaissance d'elle-même, ce qui
est la connaissance absolue de toutes choses; vous pouvez très-bien lui
attribuer aussi la volonté de maintenir ses propres lois, puisque cette
volonté est toujours en nous à un degré quelconque. Je ne vois rien
là qui dépasse les perceptions de l'esprit humain. Il me semble au
contraire, que cette vision de l'âme de l'univers nous est nécessaire,
qu'elle prend sa source dans ce que nous avons de plus clair dans le
cerveau, la logique, et de plus personnel dans le coeur, la conscience.
Il nous est impossible d'attacher un sens aux mots de _sagesse_,
d'_amour_ et de _justice_, qui résument toute la raison d'être et toute
l'aspiration de notre vie, si nous ne sentons pas planer sur nous une
idéale atmosphère composée de ces trois éléments abstraits, qui nous
pénètre et nous anime. Il n'y a pas que l'air qui alimente nos poumons.
Il y a celui que notre âme respire. Trop subtil pour tomber sous les
sens, cet air divin a une vertu supérieure à nos volitions animales, il
les dompte ou les régularise quand nous ne lui fermons pas nos organes
supérieurs. La chimie ne trouvera jamais ce fluide sacré; raison de
plus pour que le chimiste ne le nie pas. C'est par d'autres moyens,
par d'autres méditations, par d'autres expériences, que le vrai
métaphysicien devra s'en emparer.
Quels peuvent être ces moyens, me diras-tu? Ils sont bien simples et à
la portée de tous, et même il n'y en a qu'un: passer à l'état de santé
morale qui seule permet de saisir la véritable notion du divin. Je
voudrais bien que l'on trouvât à l'âme de l'univers un autre nom que
celui de _Dieu_, si mal porté depuis le temps des Kabires jusqu'à nos
jours. J'aimerais encore mieux celui d'homme, _le grand homme_ (comme
qui dirait la grande personne universelle) de Swedenborg; mais
qu'importe son nom? Elle en changera longtemps encore avant que nous
lui-en ayons trouvé un définitif et convenable.
Ce Dieu, puisqu'il faut le désigner par un nom qui est tout aussi
grossier que sublime, n'a pas seulement mis en nous, à l'heure de
notre naissance _spécifique_, une parcelle de sa divinité; il nous
la renouvelle et nous l'augmente quand nous naissons à la vie de
raisonnement individuel. Il nous la concède réellement quand nous
surmontons l'instinct aveugle assez pour mériter d'échapper à sa
tyrannie. Je ne dirai pas avec Laugel qu'il faudra à l'homme de grands
combats et des sacrifices immenses pour arriver à ce perfectionnement.
Il les lui faut aujourd'hui parce qu'il doute. Le jour où il croira,
avec ses _deux âmes_ supérieures, à un idéal bien défini et bien
évident, l'âme inférieure ne réclamera que la part de satisfaction qui
lui est due. L'appétit ne sera plus la fureur, la passion ne sera plus
le crime, la fantaisie ne sera plus le vice. L'âme personnelle, celle
qui est libre de choisir entre le vrai et le faux, recevra--de l'âme
vouée au culte de l'_universel_--une lumière assez frappante pour ne
plus hésiter à la suivre. Le mal a déjà beaucoup diminué à mesure qu'a
diminué l'ignorance, qui peut le nier? Il disparaîtra progressivement à
mesure que rayonnera l'astre intellectuel voilé en nous.
On opposera à cette espérance, je le sais, la brutalité de la nature,
le déchaînement aveugle des désastres extérieurs ruinant à tout instant
l'oeuvre du travail de l'homme, la férocité des animaux qui lui ont fait
si longtemps une guerre sérieuse, le déchaînement des cyclones, les
tremblements de terre, les épidémies foudroyantes, les maladies
incurables, toutes les puissances ennemies que nous ne savons point
encore conjurer ou éviter. Mais l'âme de l'univers a aussi sa dualité
pour ne pas dire sa trinalité. Elle a, comme l'homme, une âme
spécifique, instinctive, fatale, que l'âme libre et personnelle combat,
et que l'âme universelle domine. L'âme spécifique, qui agit aveuglément
dans tout être, peut-être dans toute chose, pousse sans cesse l'univers
matériel vers le trop plein et le trop vivant. De cet excès naissent
les éclatements, le vase trop rempli se brise, la force trop accumulée
déchire ses enveloppes et se détruit elle-même en s'épanchant au dehors.
Une montagne, une contrée, un monde, peuvent tomber en ruine sous les
coups de l'agent indompté. L'âme céleste et personnelle de ce monde
n'est pas détruite pour cela; elle va rejoindre le foyer de la vie
céleste irréductible, et, dans ce foyer de l'infini psychique, elle
se retrempe à la vie universelle, qui s'aperçoit peu des désastres
partiels, ou qui s'en sert avec discernement pour reconstruire des
mondes mieux équilibrés.
Mais les victimes, les millions d'individus plus ou moins intelligents
que frappe un grand cataclysme, les compterons-nous pour rien? Si
nous croyons que quatre-vingts ou cent ans d'existence sont toute
l'aspiration, toute la conquête, toute la destinée de l'homme, ou que,
surpris par la mort violente en état de péché, il ait une éternité
d'inénarrable souffrance à endurer au sortir de la vie, certes Dieu est
injuste, l'âme universelle est idiote et méchante, ou, pour mieux dire,
elle n'existe pas. Nous sommes des chiffres,... pas même! des accidents
qui ne comptent point.
Ceux que domine l'âme spécifique sont bien libres de le croire, mais ils
ne peuvent forcer ceux qui pensent à partager leur découragement. Sur
quelque raisonnement que s'appuie la négation du _moi_ éternel, il ne
dépend pas de nous de nous sentir persuadés. A mesure que nos instincts
se règlent et s'harmonisent doucement avec les instincts supérieurs,
nous entrons dans une lucidité de l'esprit qui est l'état normal auquel
l'homme doit parvenir.
19 juillet.
Te définirai-je l'état de santé morale, l'idéal tel que je l'entends? Il
est relatif et se moule forcément sur la vertu la plus pure et la raison
la plus haute qu'un homme puisse atteindre dans le temps et le milieu
où il existe.--Tel saint très-respectable et très-sincère des anciennes
religions ne serait plus aujourd'hui qu'un fou. Le cénobitisme serait
l'égoïsme, la paresse, la lâcheté. Nous savons que la vie complète est
un devoir, qu'on ne peut pas rompre avec l'instinct normal de la vie
spécifique sans rompre avec les lois les plus élémentaires de la vie, et
que l'infraction à une loi de l'univers est une sorte d'impiété toujours
punie par le désordre des facultés supérieures. La mortification de la
chair, par le célibat, le jeûne et les flagellations, était grossière et
charnelle en ce sens qu'elle ne servait qu'à ranimer ses révoltes. En
lui imposant des sacrifices, l'esprit tranquille et fort la mortifie
surabondamment.
Mais les appétits déréglés, vicieux, immondes, sont-ils donc une loi de
l'espèce? Si certains animaux, en se rapprochant de la forme humaine et
du développement de l'encéphale, nous offrent le repoussant spectacle
de la lubricité, de la cruauté, de la gourmandise; si l'homme sauvage
lui-même, aux prises avec l'animalité, s'imprègne des instincts de la
brute, résulte-il de cette confusion de limites entre l'homme et le
singe que l'instinct humain ne soit pas modifiable? Il l'est à un point
qui frappe de surprise et d'admiration, quand on ne voit que la surface
des moeurs civilisées. Le respect d'une convention qui prend sa source
dans le respect de soi et des autres est une victoire bien signalée de
la volonté sur l'instinct.
Si c'est peu que cette décence extérieure qui, sous le nom de
savoir-vivre, voile des abîmes de corruption, c'est déjà quelque chose.
La sainteté pourrait consister dès aujourd'hui à identifier la vie
secrète et cachée à ces apparences de pudeur, de bonté, d'hospitalité,
de raison, qui sont le code de la bonne compagnie. Pourquoi non? Où
est l'obstacle? Pourquoi toute parole aimable ne serait-elle pas
l'expression d'une âme aimante? Pourquoi toute allure de pudeur ne
serait-elle pas la manifestation d'une conscience épurée? Pourquoi
tout simulacre d'obligeance ne prendrait-il pas sa source dans la joie
d'assister son semblable? Pourquoi toute discussion de l'intelligence ne
reposerait-elle pas avant tout sur le désir de s'instruire?
Avoue que, si nous arrivions à marier la politesse parfaite à une
parfaite sincérité, nous serions déjà, sans sortir de nos lois et de nos
usages, montés à un degré supérieur d'excellence et de joie intérieure.
La joie intérieure, voilà un grand mot! C'est le premier des biens,
parce qu'il est le seul qui nous appartienne réellement. Je ne vois pas
que beaucoup de gens s'en préoccupent et le cherchent. La masse court
aux satisfactions de l'instinct: les vicieux s'efforcent d'exaspérer
leurs appétits pour mieux sentir l'intensité de la vie animale; les
ambitieux se vouent à une anxiété incessante qui bannit la joie du
sanctuaire de leur âme; des esprits plus élevés se vouent à des études
dont le but défini n'est souvent que la satisfaction d'une curiosité
spéciale; les coeurs passionnés cherchent leur ivresse et leur expansion
dans l'amour, sans songer à en faire quelque chose de plus noble que
la volonté d'amasser deux orages et de choquer douloureusement deux
courants électriques. Où sont les hommes qui cherchent sincèrement à
se rendre meilleurs sans prétendre à un paradis fait à leur guise, en
acceptant dans l'avenir éternel toutes les éventualités, toutes les
fonctions, toutes les épreuves, quelles qu'elles soient, que l'inconnu
nous réserve? Cette résignation, non mystique ni fanatique, mais
confiante et digne, serait déjà un pas vers la sainteté.
Quelle difficulté insurmontable éprouvons-nous donc à nous placer ainsi
dans le sentiment de l'infini avec une bravoure calme et un modeste
sentiment de nos forces? Où serait la vanité de travailler le _moi_
comme un lapidaire taille et polit une pierre précieuse? La vertu peut
avoir aussi son instinct pour ainsi dire _spécifique_, son besoin ardent
et soutenu d'élever dans l'individu le niveau intellectuel de la race.
Pour peu que l'on s'y essaie, on découvre en soi une docilité que l'on
ne se connaissait pas, de même que l'esprit généreux qui entreprend un
grand et noble travail est tout surpris de sentir en lui un nouveau
lui-même qui s'éveille, se révèle et semble dicter ses lois à l'ancien.
C'est la troisième âme, c'est ce que les artistes inspirés appellent
l'_autre_, celle qui chante quand le compositeur écoute et qui vibre
quand le virtuose improvise. C'est celle qui jette brûlante sur la toile
du maître l'impression qu'il a cru recevoir froidement. C'est celle qui
pense quand la main écrit et qui fait quelquefois qu'on exprime _au
delà_ de ce que l'on songeait à exprimer. Enfin c'est elle qui n'ergote
pas, qui n'a plus besoin de raisonner, mais qui peut et qui veut; elle
est là, agissante à notre insu le plus souvent, cherchant à nous élever
vers le foyer de la science infinie; mais nous ne la connaissons pas,
nous avons peur d'elle. Nous croyons qu'elle usera trop vite les
ressorts de notre frêle machine. L'instinct de la conservation nous
empêche de la suivre sur les cimes. C'est une peur lâche, résultat de
notre ignorance, car c'est elle qui est la vie irréductible, et, si son
embrassement nous donnait la mort, ce serait une mort bien douce, bien
enviable et bien féconde, le réveil dans la lumière!
Mais ne nous livrons pas trop à l'enthousiasme sans contrôle. N'oublions
pas qu'il s'agit de rendre la vérité accessible même aux esprits froids,
pourvu qu'ils soient épris de la vérité.
L'analyse complète de l'homme, _âmes et corps_, nous conduirait
certainement à une notion complète de la Divinité, _corps et âmes_.--En
distinguant en nous trois étages de facultés, nous nous rendrions compte
des trois étages de puissance de la vie universelle. Nous ne sortirons
d'aucun problème par la notion de dualité, puisque toute dualité
représente deux contraires. Ce que je dis là est aussi vieux que le
monde pensant. C'est l'éternel symbole. D'où vient qu'il n'a reçu aucune
application scientifique qui puisse se traduire en philosophie certaine
pour les lois de la vie morale et les actes de la vie pratique? Les
explications des trinités théologiques sont des figures confuses mal
comprises ou mal définies par les hommes du passé. La définition que je
te propose ne vaut peut-être pas mieux. La technologie vulgaire, dont
il n'est pas permis à mon humilité de se dégager, est encore
très-insuffisante pour résumer une vision plus ou moins nouvelle du
vieux thème de l'humanité. A des conceptions vraiment neuves il faudra
certes un langage nouveau.
Mais, quelque mal exprimée que soit ma définition, elle ne m'apparaît
pas comme un vain songe que le réveil dissipe. J'ai besoin d'un Dieu,
non pour satisfaire mon égoïsme ou consoler ma faiblesse, mais pour
croire à l'humanité dépositaire d'un feu sacré plus pur que celui auquel
elle se chauffe. Jamais on ne me fera comprendre que le cruel, l'injuste
et le farouche soient des lois sans cause, sans but et sans correctif
dans l'univers. La compensation que le malheureux demande à Dieu dans
une vie meilleure est une réclamation toute personnelle que Dieu
pourrait fort bien ne pas écouter, si elle n'était le cri énergique
et déchirant de l'humanité entière. Nulle théorie sérieuse n'a encore
présenté le sentiment et le besoin de la justice comme une illusion. Le
moment où l'homme renoncerait à posséder cet idéal marquerait la fin de
sa race et le ferait redescendre à l'animalité, dont il est peut-être
issu. S'il existe une doctrine qui envisage ce résultat comme digne
d'être poursuivi, je lui refuse tout au moins d'avoir pour guide la
_raison_, puissance si hautement invoquée par les sceptiques.
Non, il n'y a pas de raison véritable sans sagesse; c'est par la sagesse
seule que la raison, s'élevant à l'état de vertu, devient respectable.
La sagesse entraîne et réclame impérieusement la justice, et, s'il n'y a
ni justice ni sagesse dans l'âme de l'univers, il n'y en a jamais eu, il
n'y en aura jamais dans celle de l'homme. Que devient la morale,
devant laquelle pourtant toutes les écoles s'inclinent et toutes les
discussions cessent, si l'homme ne peut puiser à une source certaine les
premières conditions de la moralité?
Il existe donc dans l'univers une pensée souveraine faite de lumière et
d'équité. Si les faits extérieurs simulent de temps à autre, par des
désastres partiels, l'indifférence d'un destin inexorable, ne nous
arrêtons pas à ces apparences indignes de troubler une philosophie
sérieuse. Il est bien certain que la plupart des maux inhérents à notre
espèce, maladies, passions, guerres, égarements, sont notre propre
ouvrage, c'est-à-dire le résultat de l'élan déréglé ou de l'aveugle
inertie de l'âme spécifique. Cette âme impersonnelle, ce moteur aveugle
que les uns respectent trop, que les autres ne respectent pas assez,
est chez nous un agent de destruction tout aussi bien qu'un agent de
conservation. Chose frappante, et qui témoigne de la nécessité de la
troisième âme, l'instinct de l'homme est inférieur à celui des animaux.
Les animaux ont le discernement des aliments salutaires ou nuisibles, la
prévision jamais en défaut des besoins de la vie et des influences de
l'atmosphère pour eux et pour leur progéniture. Aucun vice particulier,
aucun excès de nourriture, aucune ivresse d'amour ne fait oublier à une
pauvre petite femelle de papillon qui va mourir après sa ponte de se
dépouiller le ventre de son duvet pour envelopper et tenir chaudement
ses oeufs destinés à passer l'hiver avant d'éclore. Il semble, devant
une multitude de faits observés, que l'animal ait deux âmes aussi,
l'instinctive et celle qui raisonne. Peut-être devrait-on oser
l'affirmer, puisqu'à toute heure la prévoyance, le dévouement, le
discernement et la modération de la bête semblent faire la critique
de nos aveuglements et de nos excès. Avec l'hypothèse des trois âmes,
l'animal, doué des deux premières, s'explique et cesse d'être un
problème insoluble. La troisième âme complète l'homme: «Il n'est, a dit
Pascal, ni ange ni bête.» Pascal est resté garrotté ici par la notion de
dualité. L'homme est bête, homme et ange. .
_La plante, placée à l'étage inférieur, a sans doute l'âme inconsciente,
spécifique._ Ainsi seraient expliqués les deux royaumes de la vie,
improprement nommés règnes de la nature.
L'homme a donc à se préoccuper des trois supports de son existence
normale, dirai-je latente? Non, le monde caché s'ouvre peu à peu et
beaucoup ont pénétré dans la troisième sphère, croyant n'être que dans
la seconde.
L'homme, parvenu à l'apogée de ses facultés, saura conjurer les fléaux
matériels. Quand il accuse l'âme de l'univers de frapper son âme par
le déchirement des morts prématurées, c'est lui-même, c'est son espèce
qu'il devrait accuser de paresse et d'ignorance. Loin de se décourager
d'invoquer la grande âme, il devrait s'élever de plus en plus vers elle
pour sortir des ténèbres. En l'interrogeant dans la portion de lui-même
qu'elle habite plus spécialement, il trouverait une réponse nette qui
serait le remède à sa douleur. Cette réponse que l'on traite de vague
espérance, c'est la perpétuité du _moi_, qui ordonne d'entrevoir une
meilleure existence pour les chers innocents que nous pleurons. Nous le
connaissons, nous l'avons bu ensemble, ce calice, le plus amer qui soit
versé dans la vie de famille. J'ose dire que la douleur de l'aïeule, qui
sent dans ses entrailles et dans sa pensée la douleur du fils et de la
fille en même temps que la sienne propre, est la plus cruelle épreuve de
son existence. La blessure faite à l'instinct et à la réflexion ne se
ferme pas. C'est alors qu'il faut monter au sanctuaire de la croyance
qui est celui de la raison supérieure; c'est alors qu'il faut soumettre
les notions de justice personnelle aux notions de justice universelle.
Si Dieu a pris cette âme qui était le plus pur de nous-mêmes, c'est
qu'il la voulait heureuse, disent les chrétiens. Disons mieux, Dieu n'a
pas pris cette âme: c'est notre science humaine, c'est notre puissance
spécifique qui n'ont pas su la retenir; mais Dieu l'a reçue, elle est
aussi bien sauvée et vivante dans son sein, cette petite parcelle de sa
divinité, que l'âme plus complexe d'un monde qui se brise. Elle n'y est
pas perdue et diffuse dans le grand tout, elle a revêtu les insignes de
la vie, d'une vie supérieure immanquablement; elle respire, elle agit,
elle aime, elle se souvient!
Dans le refuge de la seconde âme, celle qui résonne et choisit, nous
trouvons encore des éléments de force et de guérison relative; celle-ci,
c'est l'âme sociale où le sentiment parle au sentiment. Il nous reste
toujours, si nous sommes dans le juste et l'humain, quelqu'un à chérir
sur la terre. A la consolation de cet être, n'y en eût-il qu'un seul,
nous devons notre courage, et, si nous ne le devons à aucun individu, si
nous sommes sans famille et séparés de nos amis, nous le devons à tous
nos semblables, l'idée de solidarité et de fraternité étant commune à
l'âme sociale et à l'âme métaphysique.
Mais voici l'aube! Pendant que je te résume l'objet, assez flottant
jusqu'ici, de quelques-uns de nos entretiens, tu poursuis avec une
énergie soutenue des études spéciales, où ta pensée rencontre souvent la
préoccupation de ce _moi_ divin interrogeant les mystérieuses fonctions
de la vie instinctive. Je vais aller éteindre ta lampe, à moins que
je n'aille avec toi voir coucher les étoiles rouges et bleues dans la
pâleur de l'horizon. Les oiseaux ne chantent pas encore, nos enfants
dorment. Leur adorable mère s'est retirée de bonne heure, s'arrachant
avec courage aux enjouements de la veillée, pour assister au réveil de
ses petits anges. Un silence solennel plane sur cette chaude nuit. La
matière repose, et pourtant ton chien rêve de chasse ou de combats. La
_plusie_ argentée voltige autour des fenêtres d'où s'échappe un rayon
de lumière. La chouette, qui semble portée par l'air immobile et muet,
glisse discrètement sous les branches. Tout un monde nyctalope s'agite
autour de nous sans bruit. Nous éprouvons la sensation d'un bien-être
diffus dans toute la nature estivale.... Est-ce l'âme spécifique qui
répercute seule en nous ce mélange de calme suprême et d'activité
mystérieuse répandus dans les dernières ombres? Il y a quelque chose de
plus; notre âme personnelle observe et compare, notre âme divine perçoit
et savoure.
Bonsoir, je veux dire bonjour, car un rayon rose monte là-bas derrière
les vieux noyers. Endormons-nous comme nous nous réveillerons, en nous
aimant!
22 juillet.
Tu n'en as pas assez? tu veux un résumé de cette doctrine? Oh! je ne
donne pas ce titre pompeux à ma notion personnelle de l'univers, toute
notion de ce genre est trop forcément incomplète pour s'affirmer comme
une découverte; c'est un essai de méthode, et rien de plus. L'homme
n'en est pas encore à posséder autre chose qu'un instrument de travail
intellectuel que chacun tâche d'adapter à son cerveau, comme l'ouvrier
mécontent des instruments imparfaits qu'il trouve dans le commerce
cherche à s'en fabriquer un qui réponde à la conformation de sa main. Il
y a une vérité d'ensemble, corollaire de toutes les vérités de détail.
Personne ne peut nier cette proposition sans une défiance qui va
jusqu'au mépris de la vérité.
Pour parvenir à la possession de cette vérité suprême, l'homme doit
s'exciter, se perfectionner, se rendre apte à la saisir et à l'élucider;
c'est toute une éducation qu'il doit acquérir et s'imposer à travers
des angoisses et des difficultés qui exerceront et décupleront sa force
morale. La plupart des méthodes qu'il a inventées sont restées sans
résultat général, et les plus belles, les plus ingénieuses, n'ont
pas toujours été les plus efficaces; elles n'ont pas réussi à élever
l'esprit humain plus haut que l'antithèse, qui est une impasse.
En cherchant Dieu dans l'univers, l'homme n'a pu que le chercher en
lui-même, c'est-à-dire en se servant de l'induction personnelle et
directe. Le premier sauvage qui a invoqué une puissance supérieure à la
nature ennemie s'est dit: «Je suis trop faible; appelons un être fort
dans la nuée et dans la foudre pour éclater sur les obstacles de ma
vie.» De là le sentiment de la toute-puissance.
Le premier croyant qui a constaté l'insuffisance des sacrifices s'est
dit qu'il fallait persuader ce Dieu qui ne se laissait point acheter
par des offrandes. Il a cherché dans son coeur la fibre tendre et
suppliante, et il s'est dit, en se sentant adouci, que son Dieu devait
être bon.
Le premier philosophe qui a contemplé ou subi l'injustice du destin
s'est dit à son tour qu'il devait y avoir dans la pensée divine, dans
l'âme de l'univers, quelque refuge contre cette injustice. En se sentant
pénétré d'horreur pour l'injuste, il s'est senti juste, et aussitôt il
a attribué à son Dieu une justice si exacte et si étendue, que les maux
soufferts en cette vie devaient se convertir dans sa main en bienfaits
éternels.
Trouvera-t-on un autre procédé que ces moyens naïfs d'apercevoir la
Divinité? Est-ce la science qui remplacera le sens humain? Mais la
science n'est elle-même qu'une méthode humaine pour chercher la vérité
extra-humaine; ce sont nos sciences exactes qui ont mesuré l'espace
et conçu l'infini. Ce sont nos sciences naturelles qui ont classé
méthodiquement les oeuvres de la nature.
Il s'est trouvé que l'univers donnait pleine confirmation aux sciences
exactes, et que la nature terrestre pouvait se prêter au classement,
Donc, le vrai est au delà de l'homme, mais ne peut être prouvé à l'homme
que par l'homme. Ceux qui font intervenir le miracle, l'interversion des
lois naturelles pour faire apparaître Dieu au sommet de leur extase,
ne peuvent plus être traités sérieusement. Il faut que l'homme trouve
lui-même son Dieu par les moyens qui lui sont propres et qui lui ont
fait trouver tout ce qu'il possède de vrai. Toute conception d'une
abstraction parfaite a son siége dans notre intelligence et sa raison
d'être dans notre coeur.
Pour percevoir l'idéal en dehors de soi, il faut donc le percevoir en
soi. Pour connaître Dieu, l'homme doit se connaître, et mon avis est
qu'il ne l'ignore que parce qu'il s'ignore lui-même.
Certaines études ont conduit tristement quelques-uns à ne reconnaître
en nous que l'âme spécifique, la plupart des autres ont confondu cette
première région de la vie commune à l'espèce avec la seconde, siége de
la vie individuelle. Ce mélange de liberté et de fatalité n'a pu trouver
de solution pratique, puisque la discussion continue sous tous les noms
et sous toutes les formes. Le christianisme a dû expliquer le mal par
l'intervention du diable, et il y a encore des gens qui croient au
diable, la logique de leur croyance exigeant cette bizarre hypothèse.
Pourtant on s'est généralement arrêté à la notion d'une vie instinctive
et d'une vie intellectuelle, et on a fait procéder nos contradictions
intérieures du combat sans issue de ces deux natures. La notion
de l'univers, moulée sur cette notion de nous-mêmes, est restée
problématique, et confond encore de très-grands esprits qui ne
s'expliquent ni son ordre admirable, ni ses désordres effrayants.
Ne pas consentir à ce que l'univers soit ce qu'il est, c'est ne pas
consentir à être ce que nous sommes, et le considérer comme une énigme,
c'est se résoudre à ne jamais déchiffrer celle de notre propre vie.
Pouvons-nous nous arrêter là? Pour ma part, je le voudrais en vain.
J'appelle donc à notre aide une méthode qui fasse entrer l'homme dans la
notion de _trinalité_, applicable à l'univers et à lui. Je crois que ce
n'est certes point assez pour clore la série de nos études. Le vieux
monde a trouvé, dans les profondeurs de sa métaphysique mystérieuse,
ce nombre trois, qui n'est pas dépassé, puisqu'il n'est pas encore
généralement admis. Nos efforts actuels devraient tendre à le faire
comprendre et accepter en attendant mieux. Ce serait un grand pas de
fait.
Je sais fort bien qu'aucune méthode ne peut répondre sans réplique à
toutes les questions que l'homme se pose. La plus grave est celle-ci:
Pourquoi Dieu, qui pouvait tout, n'a-t-il pas tout réglé en vue d'un
idéal auquel l'homme peut arriver d'emblée sans passer par l'âge de
barbarie, et pourquoi cet âge d'ignorance et de bestialité a-t-il encore
tant d'âmes soumises à son empire, même au sein de la civilisation
raffinée de notre temps? Il ne tenait qu'au _Créateur_ de nous faire
plus éducables et de nous initier plus promptement à l'intelligence de
sa loi.
S'il y a un Dieu antérieur à la création, et qu'elle soit son ouvrage,
si l'univers a eu un commencement, si une âme magique a soufflé sur la
matière inerte à un moment donné pour la faire tressaillir et penser,
enfin si le Dieu que l'humanité doit admettre est celui des antiques
théodicées, ces questions resteront à jamais sans réponse.
Mais si, écartant ces poëmes symboliques, nous nous contentons de
comprendre l'âme de l'univers par l'induction rigoureuse, qui est le
seul rapport possible entre elle et nous, nous sommes forcés de croire
qu'il y a un créateur perpétuel sans commencement ni fin dans une
création éternelle et infinie. Si l'univers a commencé, Dieu a commencé
aussi; c'est ce que n'admet aucune métaphysique, aucune philosophie.
L'univers avec ses lois immuables existe par lui-même, il est Dieu, et
Dieu est universel. Dieu est un corps et des âmes. Il faudrait peut-être
dire que dans son unité il a des corps et des âmes à l'infini, car,
dans le fini où nous rampons, nous ignorons le chiffre de nos organes
matériels et intellectuels. «Quel oeil, quel microscope est jamais
descendu dans les profonds abîmes du monde cérébral? Dans ce petit
espace remuent des systèmes plus complexes que les systèmes célestes,
des constellations organiques plus étonnantes que celles qui parsèment
l'infini. Une force unique détermine les formes et les mouvements des
grands corps qui courent dans l'espace; mais ici sont enfermées des
forces sans nombre comme en champ clos, elles s'y marient, s'y épousent,
s'y fécondent, s'y métamorphosent sans relâche....
»L'oeuvre de l'anatomie, toute descriptive, est jusqu'ici demeurée
stérile. Elle peint des tissus, des éléments anatomiques, elle ignore la
dynamique de ces petits édifices moléculaires. Elle reste en face de ces
amas cellulaires comme un oeil ignorant en face des désordres lumineux
du ciel. Elle connaît les caractères d'un livre, elle ignore le sens des
mots[6].»
[Note 6: Laugel, _Problèmes de l'âme_.]
Vous qui proclamez la méthode exclusivement expérimentale, il ne
faudrait peut-être pas tant affirmer qu'elle suffit. Jusqu'à ce jour,
elle ne suffit pas, elle ne sait pas, elle n'a pas trouvé. Tout comme
les études psychiques, vos études ont encore besoin d'un peu de
modestie.
Il existe un très-beau livre, très-peu connu, de notre digne ami M.
Léon Brothier[7], qui répond à bien des propositions et résout bien
des doutes. Il t'a semblé ardu, et pourtant il est charmant dans sa
profondeur, et l'on y sent la bonhomie de la Fontaine, pour ne pas dire
celle de Leibnitz. Il conclut en d'autres termes, tantôt plus savants,
tantôt plus aimables que ceux que j'emploie ici, à la nécessité d'une
triple vue sur le monde des faits et des idées. Je ne suis pas de
force à proclamer qu'il ne se trompe en rien, que, après l'avoir lu
attentivement, je pense par lui et avec lui sur toute chose. Je ne sais,
mais il m'a puissamment aidé à me dégager de la notion de dualité
qui nous étouffe, et j'ose dire que cette notion ne résiste pas à sa
critique.
[Note 7: _Ébauche d'un glossaire du langage philosophique_. Paris,
1853.]
Avant lui, les travaux de Pierre Leroux, de Jean Reynaud et de son école
avaient porté de grands coups aux vieilles méthodes de l'antithèse,
beaucoup d'autres nobles esprits ont cherché à traduire les
trois personnes divines de la théologie par des notions vraiment
philosophiques. Moi, je demande, je cherche une explication plus facile
à vulgariser, et surtout l'abandon de cette vision trinitaire céleste
qui supprime le corps et ne peut pas supprimer Satan. Je ne peux pas me
représenter un Dieu hors du monde, hors de la matière, hors de la vie.
Les attributs appréciables de la Divinité, que, par un grand progrès,
nous pourrions classer en trois ordres principaux, n'ont pas de limites
appréciables à l'esprit humain, puisque l'esprit humain ne sait pas
encore la limite de ses propres facultés et s'obstine à ne s'en
attribuer que deux, privées de régulateur et de lien.
Ne va pas croire qu'en donnant le nom de _troisième_ âme, d'âme
supérieure en contact avec l'universel, au troisième ordre encore peu
défini de nos facultés vitales, je sois tenté de croire cette âme
impersonnelle et de l'abîmer en Dieu. Je n'en suis pas là; je pense avec
nos ancêtres de la Gaule que l'homme ne pénétrera jamais dans _Ceugant_,
et je ne les suis pas dans cette notion que Dieu lui-même puisse habiter
l'_absolu_ du druidisme. La fin d'un monde ne me surprend pas, mais
la fin de l'univers n'entre pas dans ma tête. L'existence diffuse,
la disparition du moi, l'extinction de la personne, me paraissent
l'écroulement de la Divinité elle-même.
Mais voici l'heure du bain. Là-bas, sous les trembles, gronde une petite
cascade de diamants qui nous appelle, et qui s'épanche en fuyant dans
l'allée de verdure, sous les gros arbres penchés en forme de ponts, sous
les guirlandes de houblon et de rosiers sauvages. Il y a là de petits
jardins naturels que le courant baigne et qu'un furtif rayon de soleil
caresse; il y a des îles de salicaires et de spirées, des rivages de
scutellaires et des presqu'îles d'épilobes. Une délicieuse fraîcheur
nous attend dans cette oasis, ta fille y baigne ses poupées, et la
vieille laveuse qui tord et bat son linge au bas de l'écluse s'arrête
et sourit en voyant cette enfance et cette joie. Tout est salubre et
charmant dans ce petit coin où j'ai rêvé autrefois d'une _fadette_
et d'un _champi_. Couché dans l'eau et à demi assoupi sous l'ombre
charmeresse, j'ai senti cent fois mon âme instinctive se mettre en
parfait accord avec mon âme réflective, pour savourer et pour rêver.
L'instinct _thermique_ a son siége dans une de nos _âmes_, à ce que
disent les physiologistes. Je ne vois point que ces instincts de la vie
impersonnelle soient aussi impersonnels qu'on le dit. Ils produisent des
effets très-divers selon les individus, et, loin d'être toujours
les ennemis de l'âme personnelle, ils lui procurent souvent, par la
sympathie nerveuse qui unit leurs foyers, un état de santé morale que
l'esprit isolé de la matière ne trouverait pas.
Il y aurait bien des choses encore à dire sur cette âme inférieure,
véritable soutien d'une vie normale, fléau d'une vie corrompue. Je
t'avoue que, si je la traite d'_inférieure_, c'est parce que, en lisant
Laugel, je me suis imprégné à mon insu de sa technologie. Il est
difficile de se préserver de cet entraînement en suivant la pensée d'un
éloquent écrivain; mais, en y réfléchissant, en reprenant possession
de mon moi intérieur, je trouve qu'il a trop vu la face excessive
et repoussante de cette âme qu'il qualifie de _spécifique_. D'abord
est-elle spécifique d'une manière absolue? offre-t-elle à des degrés
identiques les tendances nombreuses de la vitalité? est-elle la même
dans un sujet malade et dans un individu sain? Dans tous les cas, son
rôle n'est pas la satisfaction isolée d'elle-même, puisqu'il lui faut
l'assistance du cerveau, c'est-à-dire de la faculté de comparer, pour
arriver à son entier développement de jouissance. L'amour chez l'homme
distingue la beauté de la laideur en toute chose. Ses appétits
s'aiguisent par la qualité des aliments. L'âme instinctive dans un sujet
normal serait donc la soeur jumelle ou l'épouse irrépudiable de l'âme
personnelle. Cette âme, dite _supérieure_, n'est supérieure que dans
notre appréciation. Elle a besoin du contentement et du consentement de
l'âme instinctive pour être lucide, et, de ce que cette princesse daigne
absorber les fruits de vie que cette paysanne lui cultive, il ne résulte
pas que l'âme universelle maudisse l'une pour bénir l'autre. L'âme
personnelle doit commander, cela est certain; mais nos préjugés sociaux
nous font méconnaître l'égalité qui existe entre ce qui commande et ce
qui obéit en vertu d'une fonction de réciprocité. La plante _obéit_ à
l'insecte quand elle subit l'effet de sa faim; mais, quand l'insecte
féconde la plante en transportant sa poussière séminale de fleur en
fleur, il _sert_ la plante.
Tel est à peu près l'échange entre l'esprit et l'instinct. Ils se
nourrissent et se fécondent mutuellement. Si l'esprit se plaint
amèrement de la bête, c'est peut-être parce que la bête a aussi à se
plaindre de l'esprit.
Mais ce n'est pas mon état de tant philosopher, et je demande que ceux
qui savent m'instruisent. Si j'ai lieu d'être reconnaissant envers
quelques-uns, je suis impatienté contre plusieurs autres qui pourraient
nous enseigner (ce n'est pas le talent qui leur manque), et qui ne nous
apprennent rien.
Vivons par toutes nos âmes, mais vivons en gens de bien, et, comme
l'éphémère dans le rayon éternel, buvons le plus possible de chaleur et
de lumière. En avions-nous donc trop, hélas! pour que l'on cherche à
nous en ôter?
MÉLANGES
I
UNE VISITE AUX CATACOMBES
...Terra parens...
Ce qui nous frappa le plus en visitant les Catacombes, ce fut une source
qu'on appelle le «puits de la Samaritaine».
Nous avions erré entre deux longues murailles d'ossements, nous nous
étions arrêtés devant des autels d'ossements, nous avions foulé aux
pieds de la poussière d'ossements. L'ordre, le silence et le repos
de ces lieux solennels ne nous avaient inspiré que des pensées de
résignation philosophique. Rien d'affreux, selon moi, dans la face
décharnée de l'homme. Ce grand front impassible, ces grands yeux vides,
cette couleur sombre aux reflets de marbre, ont quelque chose d'austère
et de majestueux qui commande même à la destruction. Il semble que ces
têtes inanimées aient retenu quelque chose de la pensée et qu'elles
défient la mort d'effacer le sceau divin imprimé sur elles. Une
observation qui nous frappa et nous réconcilia beaucoup avec l'humanité,
fut de trouver un infiniment petit nombre de crânes disgraciés. La
monstruosité des organes de l'instinct ou l'atrophie des protubérances
de l'intelligence et de la moralité ne se présentent que chez quelques
individus, et des masses imposantes de crânes bien conformés attestent,
par des signes sacrés, l'harmonie intellectuelle et morale qui réunit et
anima des millions d'hommes.
Quand nous eûmes quitté la ville des Morts, nous descendîmes encore plus
bas et nous suivîmes la raie noire tracée sur le banc de roc calcaire
qui forme le plafond des galeries. Cette raie sert à diriger les pas de
l'homme dans les détours inextricables qui occupent huit ou neuf lieues
d'étendue souterraine. Au bas d'un bel escalier, taillé régulièrement
dans le roc, nous trouvâmes une source limpide incrustée comme un
diamant sans facettes dans un cercle de pierre froide et blanche; cette
eau, dont le souffle de l'air extérieur n'a jamais ridé la surface, est
tellement transparente et immobile, qu'on la prendrait pour un bloc de
cristal de roche. Qu'elle est belle, et comme elle semble rêveuse dans
son impassible repos! Triste et douce nymphe assise aux portes de
l'Érèbe, vous avez pleuré sur des dépouilles amies; mais, dans le
silence de ces lieux glacés, vos larmes se sont répandues dans votre
urne de pierre, et maintenant on dirait une large goutte de l'onde du
Léthé.
Aucun être vivant ne se meut sur cette onde ni dans son sein; le jour ne
s'y est jamais reflété, jamais le soleil ne l'a réchauffée d'un regard
d'amour, aucun brin d'herbe ne s'est penché sur elle, bercé par une
brise voluptueuse; nulle fleur ne l'a couronnée, nulle étoile n'y a
réfléchi son image frémissante. Ainsi, votre voix s'est éteinte, et les
larves plaintives qui cherchent votre coupe pour s'y désaltérer, ne sont
point averties par l'appel d'un murmure tendre et mélancolique. Elles
s'embrassent dans les ténèbres, mais sans se reconnaître, car votre
miroir ne renvoie aucune parcelle de lumière; et vous aussi, immortelle,
vous êtes morte, et votre onde est un spectre.
Larmes de la terre, vous semblez n'être point l'expression de la
douleur, mais celle d'une joie terrible, silencieuse, implacable.
Cavernes éplorées, retenez-vous donc votre proie avec délices, pour ne
la rendre jamais à la chaleur du soleil? Mais non! on est frappé d'un
autre sentiment en parcourant à la lueur des torches les funèbres
galeries des carrières qui ont fourni à la capitale ses matériaux de
construction. La ville souterraine a livré ses entrailles au monde des
vivants, et, en retour, la cité vivante a donné ses ossements à la terre
dont elle est sortie. Les bras qui creusèrent le roc reposent maintenant
sous les cryptes profondes qu'ils baignèrent de leurs sueurs. L'éternel
suintement des parois glacées retombe en larmes intarissables sur les
débris humains. Cybèle en pleurs presse ses enfants morts sur son sein
glacé, tandis que ses fortes épaules supportent avec patience le fardeau
des tours, le vol des chars et le trépignement des armées, les iniquités
et les grandeurs de l'homme, le brigand qui se glisse dans l'ombre et
le juste qui marche à la lumière du jour. Mère infatigable, inépuisable
nourrice, elle donne la vie à ceux-ci, le repos à ceux-là; elle alimente
et protège, elle livre ses mamelles fécondes à ceux qui s'éveillent,
elle ouvre ses flancs pleins d'amour et de pitié à ceux qui s'endorment.
Homme d'un jour, pourquoi tant d'effroi à l'approche du soir? Enfant
poltron, pourquoi tressaillir en pénétrant sous les voûtes du tombeau?
Ne dormiras-tu pas en paix sous l'aisselle de ta mère? Et ces montagnes
d'ossements ne te feront-elles pas une place assez large pour t'asseoir
dans l'oubli, suprême asile de la douleur? Si tu n'es que poussière,
vois comme la poussière est paisible, vois comme la cendre humaine
aspire à se mêler à la cendre régénératrice du monde! Pleures-tu sur
le vieux chêne abattu dans l'orage, sur le feuillage desséché du jeune
palmier que le vent embrasé du sud a touché de son aile? Non, car tu
vois la souche antique reverdir au premier souffle du printemps, et le
pollen du jeune palmier, porté par le même vent de mort qui frappa la
tige, donner la semence de vie au calice de l'arbre voisin. Soulève sans
horreur ce vieux crâne dont la pesanteur accuse la fatigue d'une longue
vie. A quelques pieds au-dessus du sépulcre où ce cadavre d'aïeul est
enfoui, de beaux enfants grandissent et folâtrent dans quelque jardin
paré des plus belles fleurs de la saison. Encore quelques années, et
cette génération nouvelle viendra se coucher sur les membres affaissés
de ses pères. Et pour tous, la paix du tombeau sera profonde, et
toujours la caverne humide travaillera à la dissolution de ses
squelettes.
Bouche immense, avide, incessamment occupée à broyer la poussière
humaine, à communier pour ainsi dire avec sa propre substance, afin de
reconstituer la vie, de la retremper dans ses sources inconnues et de
la reproduire à sa surface, faisant sortir ainsi le mouvement du repos,
l'harmonie du silence, l'espérance de la désolation. Vie et mort,
indissoluble fraternité, union sublime, pourquoi représenteriez-vous
pour l'homme le désir et l'effroi, la jouissance et l'horreur? Loi
divine, mystère ineffable, quand même tu ne te révélerais que par
l'auguste et merveilleux spectacle de la matière assoupie et de la
matière renaissante, tu serais encore Dieu, esprit, lumière et bienfait.
II
DE LA LANGUE D'OC
ET
DE LA LANGUE D'OIL
A M. LE RÉDACTEUR EN CHEF DE _l'Éclaireur de l'Indre._
Monsieur,
J'ai entendu dire par certains savants que la diversité des langues
venait de la différence des climats. Ils soutiennent que, si le
norvégien est rude et guttural, et le toscan musical et doux, cela
provient de, ce que, en Norvège, les eaux et les vents grondent et
mugissent, tandis qu'en Italie, ils font entendre un murmure mélodieux.
Cette théorie sur la diversité des langues, basée sur l'onomatopée, ne
me va pas. Je m'en tiens à la tour de Babel. La confusion des langues
doit être de droit divin. Cette explication me plaît parce qu'elle est
beaucoup moins savante et beaucoup moins embrouillée. Ne voit-on pas,
d'ailleurs, le miracle se continuer de nos jours? Plus les sociétés
vieillissent, moins les hommes s'entendent, moins ils se comprennent. Et
n'a-t-on pas remarqué qu'une foule de dialectes naissaient d'une même
langue, au sein d'une même nation?
La langue de notre pays de France, la langue romane, presque aussi
harmonieuse que celle des Grecs, au dire des connaisseurs, avait comme
elle différents dialectes. Les deux principaux étaient le _provençal_ et
le _français_ proprement dit, autrement la langue d'_oc_ et la langue
d'_oil_.
Vous ne voyez peut-être pas encore où je veux en venir, monsieur le
rédacteur. Un peu de patience, s'il vous plaît, nous arriverons.
Le premier de ces dialectes était répandu dans le Midi; le second dans
le Nord. Mais où commençait le pays de la langue d'_oc_, où finissait
celui de la langue d'_oil_? Les uns disent que c'était la Loire qui
formait la ligne de démarcation. Cela est vrai à partir de sa source
jusqu'aux montagnes de l'Auvergne. De là, la frontière qui divisait
les deux pays, se dirigeant à travers les montagnes de la Marche,
aboutissait, en suivant une ligne droite, au pertuis d'Antioche.
Nous y voilà, monsieur le rédacteur. Les poëtes du pays de la langue
d'_oc_ s'appelaient _troubadours_; on nommait _trouvères_ ceux de la
langue d'_oil_. Ainsi, à partir de la province de la Marche jusqu'à la
frontière du nord, _français_, proprement dit, et _trouvères_ c'est le
pays de Rabelais, de Paul-Louis Courier et de Blaise Bonnin; à partir,
au contraire, de la même province jusqu'aux rives de la Durance,
dialecte provençal et _troubadours, troubadours_ purs; nos braves
voisins de la Marche peuvent seuls revendiquer les deux qualités; car,
pour le dire en passant, c'est au milieu de leur pays qu'était assise la
noble forteresse de Croizan. C'était là, au confluent de la Creuse et de
la Sedelle, que passait la ligne séparative des deux dialectes.
Vous savez mieux que moi, monsieur le rédacteur, qu'on a beaucoup et
savamment écrit sur les _troubadours_ et les _trouvères_. Mais il nous
importe, à nous qui habitons le pays de la langue d'_oil_, de prouver
que les seconds l'emportaient sur les premiers.
Je m'en réfère au jugement d'un homme compétent sur la matière, à celui
de M. de Marchangy, écrivain monarchique et religieux s'il en fut. Il
dit que les _troubadours_ ont excité une admiration que le faible mérite
de leurs compositions ne peut suffisamment justifier. Il ajoute que les
_trouvères_, «moins connus et plus dignes de l'être, ont fait briller
une imagination riche et variée dans ses jeux, et ont laissé des
ouvrages où n'ont pas dédaigné de puiser Boccace, l'Arioste, la Fontaine
et Molière».
Admettons cependant qu'un _troubadour_ puisse lutter contre un
_trouvère_ avec quelque espoir de succès; du moins faudra-t-il qu'ils
écrivent chacun dans leur langue; mais qu'un habitant du pays des
trouvères s'avise de composer en dialecte provençal, ou qu'un troubadour
pur sang, un _indigène des régions Lémoricques_ se permette d'écrire
dans le langage de Rabelais, nous verrons, ma foi, de belle besogne!
Si vous rencontrez jamais un infortuné _troubadour_ qui veuille entrer
en lutte avec notre ami Blaise Bonnin, et s'évertuer à parler notre
patois berrichon, citez-lui, je vous prie, le chapitre VI du livre II de
_Pantagruel_.
C'est une petite leçon que Rabelais donnait aux écoliers de son temps,
et dont ceux du nôtre feront bien de profiter.
Si ce passage ne dégrise pas le malencontreux orateur, il faudra
désespérer de sa raison.
CHAPITRE VI
_Comment Pantagruel rencontra ung Limosin qui contrefaisoit le languaige
françoys._
«Quelque jour, je ne sçay quand, Pantagruel se pourmenoit après souper
avecques ses compaignons, par la porte d'ond l'on va à Paris: là
rencontra ung escholier tout joliet, qui venoit par icelluy chemin; et,
après qu'ils se feurent saluez, luy demanda:
»--Mon amy, d'ond viens-tu à ceste heure?
»L'escholier lui respondist:
»--De l'alme, inclyte et celebre academie que l'on vocite Lutece[8].
»--Qu'est-ce à dire? dist Pantagruel à ung de ses gens.
»--C'est, respondist-il, de Paris.
»--Tu viens doncques de Paris? dit-il. Et à quoi passez-vous le temps,
vous aultres messieurs estudians audict Paris?
»Respondist l'escholier:
»--Nous transfretons la Sequane au dilucule et crepuscule: nous
deambulons par les compites et quadeivies de l'urbe, nous despumons
la verbocination latiale; et, comme versimiles amorabonds, captons la
benevolence de l'omnijuge, omniforme et omnigene sexe feminin[9]...
[Note 8: «De la belle, remarquable et célèbre académie que l'on
appelle Paris.»]
[Note 9: «Nous passons la Seine soir et matin. Nous nous promenons
sur les places et dans les carrefours de la ville. Nous parlons la
langue latine; et, comme vrais amoureux, nous captons la bienveillance
du sexe féminin, le juge suprême, possesseur de toutes les formes et le
générateur Universel.»]
»A quoi Pantagruel dist:
»--Que diable de languaige est cecy? par Dieu tu es quelque hereticque.
»--Seignor, non, dist l'escholier, car libentissimement des ce qu'il
illuccese quelque minutule lesche du jour, je demigre en quelqu'ung de
ces tant bien architectez moustiers: et là, me irrorant de belle eau
lustrale, grignotte d'un transon de quelque missique precation de nos
sacrificules, et submirmillant mes precules horaires, eslue et absterge
mon anime des es inquinamens nocturnes. Je revere les olympicoles. Je
venere latrialement le supernel astripotent. Je dilige et redame mes
proximes. Je serre les prescripz decalogicques; et, selon la facultatule
de mes vires, n'en discede la late unguicule. Bien est veriforme qu'à
cause que Mammone ne supergurgite goutte en mes locules. Je suis quelque
peu rare et lent à supereroger les elecmosynes à ces egenes queritans
leur stipe hostiatement[10].
[Note 10: «Non, seigneur, dit l'écolier; car, dès que brille le
moindre rayon de jour, je me rends de grand coeur dans quelqu'une de nos
belles cathédrales, et, là, m'arrosant de belle eau lustrale, je
chante un morceau des prières de nos offices. Et, parcourant mon livre
d'heures, je lave et purifie mon âme de ses souillures nocturnes. Je
révère les anges, je révère avec un culte particulier l'Éternel qui
régit les astres. J'aime et je chéris mon prochain. J'observe les
préceptes du Décalogue; et, selon la puissance de mes forces, je ne
m'en écarte de la longueur de l'ongle; il est bien vrai que le dieu des
richesses ne verse une goutte dans mes coffres, et c'est à cause de cela
que je suis quelque peu rare et lent à faire l'aumône à ces pauvres qui
vont demander aux portes.»]
»--Eh bren, bren, dist Pantagruel, qu'est-ce que veult dire ce fol? Je
croi qu'il nous forge ici quelque languaige diabolique, et qu'il nous
charme comme enchanteur!
»A quoi dist ung de ses gens:
»--Seigneur, sans doubte, ce galant veult contrefaire la langue des
Parisians; mais il ne faict qu'escorcher le latin et cuide ainsi
pindariser; et luy semble bien qu'il est quelque grand orateur en
françoys, parce qu'il dédaigne l'usance commune de parler.
»A quoy dist Pantagruel:
»--Est-il vrai?
»L'escholier respondist:
»--Signor messire, mon genie n'est point apte nate à ce que dist ce
flagitiose nebulon, pour escorier la cuticule de votre vernacule
gallicque; mais viceversement je gnave opere, et par veles et par rames
je me entite de le locupleter par la redundance latinicome[11].
»--Par Dieu! dist Pantagruel, je vous apprendray à parler. Mais devant,
respond moi, d'ond es-tu?
»A quoy dist l'escholier:
»--L'origine primere de mes aves et ataves feut indigene des régions
Limoricques, où requiesce le corpore de l'agiotate sainct Martial[12].
»--J'entends bien, dist Pantagruel: Tu es Limosin pour tout potaige; et
tu veulx ici contrefaire le Parisian. Or viens ça que je te donne un
tour de pigne.
»Lors le print à la gorge, lui disant:
»--Tu escorches le latin; par sainct Jean, je te ferai escorcher le
regnard, car je t'escorcheray tout vif.
[Note 11: «Seigneur messire, mon génie n'est pas apte à faire ce que
dit ce mauvais fripon, je ne suis pas né pour écorcher la pellicule
de votre français vulgaire, au contraire je mets tout mon soin, et,
à l'aide de la voile et de la rame, je m'efforce de l'enrichir par
l'imitation latine.»]
[Note 12: «L'origine première de mes aïeux et quadris aïeux fut
indigène des régions Lémoriques, où repose le corps du très-saint
Martial.»]
»Lors commença le paoure Limosin à dire:
»--Vee dicon gentilastre! hau! sainct Marsault, adjouda mu! Hau! hau!
laissas a quo au nom de Dious, et ne me touquas gron[13].
»A quoy, dist Pantagruel:
»--A ceste heure, parles-tu naturellement.
»Et ainsi le laissa; car le paoure Limosin conchioit toutes ses
chausses, qui estoyent faictes à queue de merluz, et non à plain fonds,
dont dit Pantagruel:
»--Au diable soit le mascherabe[14]!
»Et le laissa. Mais ce luy fut un tel remordz toute sa vie, et tant feut
altéré, qu'il disoit souvent que Pantagruel le tenoit à la gorge. Et,
après quelques années, mourut de la mort Roland, ce faisant la vengeance
divine, et nous demonstrant ce que dict le philosophe, et Aule-Gelle,
qu'il nous convient parler selon le languaige usité. Et, comme disait
Octavia Auguste, qu'il fault eviter les mots espaves[15] en pareille
diligence que les patrons de navire evitent lers rochiers de mer.»
[Note 13: «Eh! dites donc, mon gentilhomme... O saint Martial
secourez-moi! oh! oh! laissez-moi, au nom de Dieu, ne me touchez pas.»]
[Note 14: «Mangeur de raves.»]
[Note 15: «Inusités.»]
Je vous demande mille pardons, monsieur le rédacteur, d'avoir interrompu
vos travaux; mais vous m'excuserez. J'aime la jeunesse et je ne désire
rien tant que de la voir suivre la bonne voie en littérature comme en
toute chose. Je crois qu'il est inutile d'en dire davantage.
A bon entendeur, salut.
Agréez mes salutations cordiales.
III
LA PRINCESSE
ANNA CZARTORYSKA
Il y a en France environ cinq mille cinq cents émigrés polonais. De ce
nombre, cinq cents vivent sans subsides, des débris de leur fortune.
Trois mille travaillent, et, sans distinction de rang, comme, hélas!
sans distinction de forces physiques, se livrent aux professions les
plus pénibles. Les proscrits ne se plaignent pas et ne demandent rien.
Loin de se croire humiliés, ils portent noblement la misère qui est le
partage des durs travaux. Ils remuent la terre sur les grandes routes,
ils font mouvoir des machines dans les manufactures. Les fils des
compagnons de Jean Sobieski ne sont plus soldats, ils sont ouvriers pour
ne pas être mendiants sur une terre étrangère. Quatre cent cinquante
autres émigrés suivent l'enseignement de nos savants dans différentes
écoles.
Mais il reste environ onze cents personnes, vieillards, femmes et
enfants, accablées par les infirmités, la misère et le désespoir. Le
temps, loin d'adoucir cet amer regret de la patrie, semble avoir rendu
plus profond encore le découragement des victimes. Le chiffre des
exilés morts en 1832 est de onze seulement, et cette année il s'élève
à soixante-quatorze. A mesure que les rangs s'éclaircissent, la misère
augmente, car l'abattement moral, l'épuisement des forces sont le
partage des chefs de famille, des mères chargées d'enfants. Des
orphelins restent sans ressources, des vieillards sans consolation, des
jeunes filles sans conseil et sans appui.
Au milieu de ses désastres et de sa détresse, l'émigration a reçu du
ciel le secours et la protection d'un ange. La princesse Czartoryska,
femme du noble prince Czartoryski, qui fut à la tête de la révolution
polonaise, a consacré sa vie au soulagement de tant d'infortunes. Cette
femme, qui eut une existence royale, vit aujourd'hui à Paris avec sa
famille, dans une médiocrité voisine de la pauvreté. C'est quelque chose
de solennel et de vénérable que cet intérieur modeste et résigné. Cette
famille n'a qu'un regret, celui de n'avoir pas assez de pain pour
nourrir tous les pauvres proscrits, et nous savons qu'elle se refuse les
plus modiques jouissances du bien-être domestique, pour subvenir aux
frais incessants d'une patriotique charité.
Qu'on me permette donc d'entrer dans quelques détails sur cette femme,
dont le nom se placera un jour, dans l'histoire de l'émigration
polonaise, à côté de Claudine Potoçka et de Szczanieçka.
Ceci est bien aussi intéressant qu'un feuilleton de théâtre ou qu'une
nouvelle de revue; ce sera une scène d'analyse de moeurs si l'on veut,
aussi poétique à narrer simplement que le serait une création de
l'art. Si quelque grand talent d'écrivain s'y consacrait, la postérité
donnerait peut-être tous nos romans prétendus intimes pour ce tableau
historique de la vie d'une princesse au XIXe siècle.
Compagne dévouée d'un digne époux, mère de trois beaux enfants, frêle
et délicate comme une Parisienne, quel moyen pouvait-elle trouver de
se consacrer à la révolution polonaise sans manquer aux devoirs de la
famille? Pouvait-elle armer et commander un régiment comme la belle
Plater et tant d'autres héroïnes du vieux sang sarmatique? Pouvait-elle,
comme Claudine Potoçka, se faire cénobite et partager son dernier
morceau de pain avec un soldat? Non; mais elle trouva un moyen tout
féminin de se rendre utile et de donner plus que son pain, plus que son
sang. Elle donna son temps, sa pensée et son intelligence, le travail
de ses mains; mais quel travail! C'est à elle qu'il appartenait de
réhabiliter à nos yeux les ouvrages de l'aiguille trop méprisés en
ces temps-ci par quelques femmes philosophes, trop appréciés par la
coquetterie égoïste de quelques autres.
Jamais, avant d'avoir vu ces merveilleux ouvrages, nous n'eussions pensé
qu'une broderie pût être une oeuvre d'art, une création poétique; et
pourtant, si on y songe bien, ne faudrait-il pas dans le rêve d'une vie
complète faire intervenir la pensée poétique, le sentiment de l'art, ce
quelque chose qui échappe à l'analyse, mais dont l'absence fait souffrir
toutes les organisations choisies, et qu'on appelle _goût_; mot vague
encore, parce qu'il est jusqu'ici le résultat d'un sens individuel, et
souvent très-excentrique, partant très-opposé à la _mode_, qui est la
création vulgaire des masses.
Dans le perfectionnement que doivent subir toutes choses, et les arts
particulièrement, il y aura certes un encouragement à donner aux oeuvres
de pur goût; elles n'auront pas, si vous voulez, une utilité positive,
immédiate; mais, comme l'avenir nous rendra certainement moins positifs,
nous arriverons à comprendre que l'élégance et l'harmonie sont
nécessaires aux objets qui nous entourent, et que le sentiment
d'harmonie sociale, religieux, politique même, doit entrer en nous
par les yeux, comme la bonne musique nous arrive à l'esprit par les
oreilles, comme la conviction de la vérité nous est transmise par le
charme de l'éloquence, comme la beauté de l'ordre universel nous est
révélée à chaque pas par le moindre détail des beautés ou des grâces
d'un paysage. Le grand artiste de la création nous a donné un assez
vaste atelier pour nous porter à l'étude du beau.
D'où vient donc que des générations entières passent au milieu du temple
universel sans apprendre à construire un seul édifice qui ne soit
grossier et disproportionné, tandis que d'autres générations se sont
tellement préoccupées du beau extérieur, qu'elles nous ont transmis les
objets les plus futiles, empreints d'une invention exquise ou d'une
correction méticuleuse? C'est que l'humanité n'a pu se développer par
tous les côtés à la fois. Incomplète encore et ne suffisant pas à
l'énorme gestation de son travail interne, elle a dû négliger l'art
lorsqu'elle existait par la guerre, de même qu'elle a dû négliger la
politique lorsqu'elle s'est laissée absorber par le luxe et le goût. On
a conclu jusqu'ici, comme Jean-Jacques-Rousseau, que l'esprit humain
était à jamais condamné à perdre d'un côté ce qu'il acquérait de
l'autre. Mais c'est une erreur que repoussent les esprits sérieux. Ne
sentent-ils pas déjà en eux la perfectibilité se manifester par les
besoins du coeur et de l'intelligence, qui ne peuvent se réaliser
tout d'un coup, mais dont la présence dans le cerveau humain est une
souffrance, un appel, une protestation contre _le fini_ des choses
passées, un garant de l'infini des choses futures?
Sans aller trop loin, nous pouvons jeter les yeux autour de nous et
remarquer combien, depuis quelques années seulement, le goût a gagné
sous plusieurs rapports. L'inconstance effrénée de la mode est une
preuve évidente du besoin que le goût des masses éprouve de se former et
de s'éclairer avant de se fixer. Il ne se fixera sans doute jamais d'une
manière absolue, mais il se posera du moins des bases plus durables, et,
à mesure que le génie des artistes innovera, le goût du public est prêt
à le contenir dans sa bizarrerie ou à le protéger dans son élan. Déjà ce
que nous appelions il y a quelques années l'_épicier_ commence à perdre
de ses principes absolus de stagnation, déjà il cherche à se meubler
_moyen âge_, _renaissance_, et, quand il a de l'argent, son tapissier
lui insuffle un peu de goût. Ces essais de retour vers le passé ne
sont point une marche rétrograde; c'est en étudiant, en comprenant les
produits antérieurs de l'art, qu'on pourra apprendre à les juger, à les
corriger, à les perfectionner. Qu'on ne s'inquiète pas de nous voir
encore copier dans les arts l'architecture ou l'ameublement de nos
pères; chaque instant de la vie sociale donnera bien assez de caractère
à ce qui ressortira de ces essais de reproduction.
Il faut donc encourager le goût même dans les plus petites choses, et
compter pour l'avenir sur une _nouvelle renaissance_; elle sortira de
nos erreurs mêmes, et il n'y aura pas une bévue de nos architectes ou de
nos décorateurs qui ne serve de base à de meilleures notions. Il faut ne
point mépriser comme futiles le sentiment de la grâce et le mouvement
de l'esprit, manifestés dans un tapis, dans une tenture, dans l'étoffe
d'une robe, dans la peinture d'un éventail. Nos meubles sont déjà
devenus plus moelleux et plus confortables; on en viendra à leur donner
l'élégance qui leur manque. Une éducation plus exquise apportera dans
les ornements de toute espèce l'harmonie et le charme, qui sont encore
étouffés sous la transition bien nécessaire de l'économie et de
l'utilité. Dans ces choses de détail, les femmes seront nos maîtres,
n'en doutons pas, et, loin de les en détourner, cultivons en elles ce
tact et cette finesse de perception qui ne leur ont pas été donnés pour
rien par la nature.
Reconnaissons-le donc, il y a du génie dans le goût, et jusqu'ici le
goût est peut-être encore tout le génie de la femme. Autant nous avons
souffert quelquefois de voir de jeunes personnes pâlir et s'atrophier
sur la minutieuse exécution d'une fleur de broderie dessinée lourdement
par un ouvrier sans intelligence, autant nous avons admiré ce qu'il y a
de poésie dans le travail d'une femme qui crée elle-même ses dessins,
qui raisonne les proportions de l'ornement et qui sent l'harmonie des
couleurs. Celle qui nous a le plus frappé dans ce talent, où l'âme met
sa poésie et le caractère sa persévérance, c'est la princesse Anna
Czartoryska. Cette jeune femme aux mains patientes, à l'âme forte,
à l'esprit exquis, passe sa vie auprès de sa mère, charitable et
laborieuse comme elle, penchée sur un métier ou debout sur un
marchepied, créant avec la rapidité d'une fée des enroulements
hiéroglyphiques d'or, d'argent ou de soie, sur des étoffes pesantes ou
des trames déliées, semant des fleurs riches et solides sur des toiles
d'araignée, peignant des arabesques d'azur et de pourpre sur le bois,
sur le satin, sur le velours et nuançant avec la patience de la femme,
et jetant avec l'inspiration de l'artiste, des dessins toujours
nouveaux, des richesses toujours inattendues du bout de ses jolis
doigts, du fond de son ingénieuse pensée, du fond de son coeur surtout.
Oui, c'est son coeur qui travaille, car c'est lui qui la soutient dans
cette desséchante fatigue d'une vie sédentaire, où le cerveau brille, où
le sang glace. Il n'y a pas une de ces fleurs qui ne soit éclose
sous l'influence d'un sentiment généreux et qu'une larme de ferveur
patriotique n'ait arrosée.
Qui nous dira le mystère sacré de ces pensées, tandis que, courbée sur
son ouvrage, tremblante de fièvre, attentive pourtant au moindre cri, au
moindre geste de ses enfants, elle poursuivait d'un air calme et dans
une apparente immobilité le poëme intérieur de sa vie? Chacun de ces
fantastiques ornements qu'elle a tracés sur l'or et la soie renferme le
secret d'une longue rêverie; l'immolation de sa vie entière est là.
C'est ainsi que, chaque année, elle rassemble tous les travaux qu'elle
a terminés pour les vendre elle-même aux belles dames oisives du grand
monde. Elle ne leur fait payer ni son travail, ni sa peine, ni sa pensée
créatrice: elle compte tout cela presque pour rien, et, pourvu qu'on
achète autour d'elle mille petits objets que la sympathie d'autres
femmes généreuses apporte à son atelier, elle est heureuse d'achalander
la vente des objets de pur caprice par la valeur réelle de ses belles
productions. Aussi les acheteurs ne lui manqueront pas cette année plus
que les autres, et le monde élégant de Paris viendra en foule, nous
l'espérons, se disputer ces charmants ouvrages, création d'une artiste,
reliques d'une sainte.
IV
UTILITÉ
D'UNE
ÉCOLE NORMALE D'ÉQUITATION [16]
Nous ne savons pas si un artiste doit s'excuser auprès du public d'avoir
compris, par hasard, un beau matin, comme on dit, l'importance d'une
question toute spéciale, et sur laquelle les pédants du métier
pourraient bien l'accuser d'incompétence. Cependant, si la logique
naturelle n'est pas un critérium applicable à tous les jugements
humains, le public lui-même, qui n'est pas spécialement renseigné sur
toutes les matières possibles, risque fort d'être regardé comme le
plus incompétent de tous les juges; et comme il n'est guère disposé à
souffrir qu'on le récuse, comme, après tout, il n'est point de questions
générales, de quelque nature qu'elles soient, qui ne lui soient soumises
en dernier ressort, il faut bien que, entre lui et les travailleurs
spéciaux, la critique remplisse son rôle et serve d'intermédiaire.
[Note 16: Par le comte d'Aure. In-8°, 1815.]
Ceci, à propos d'une courte brochure que vient d'écrire M. le vicomte
d'Aure, et qui est le résumé de deux remarquables ouvrages précédemment
publiés, le _Traité d'équitation_ et le _Traité sur l'industrie
chevaline_. A ceux qui ont suivi ces travaux et lu ces ouvrages,
l'importance du sujet est suffisamment démontrée, soit qu'ils s'occupent
de l'équitation comme art ou comme science, soit qu'ils l'envisagent
sous son aspect militaire et politique, soit, enfin, qu'ils la
considèrent sous le rapport de l'économie industrielle.
Cette brochure a pour but de faire comprendre au gouvernement
l'indispensable utilité d'une école normale d'équitation. C'est au
moyen d'une institution de ce genre que l'on créera des hommes spéciaux
destinés à répandre le goût du cheval et les connaissances équestres
dans les populations. Il s'agit de revenir à ce que l'on faisait
autrefois, c'est-à-dire former des hommes en état de dresser et de
mettre en valeur nos chevaux de luxe, et des consommateurs en état de
s'en servir. A quoi ont abouti toutes les dépenses du gouvernement pour
régénérer nos races de luxe, le jour où il n'a pas compris que la chose
essentielle pour leur assurer la vogue était de créer des hommes en
état d'en tirer parti? Mais laissons parler M. d'Aure, sur les courses,
considérées aujourd'hui comme le seul et unique moyen de régénération:
«On ne peut pas mettre en doute que les courses ne soient à présent
plutôt une question de jeu qu'une amélioration de race; il suffit, pour
être édifié à cet égard, de voir comment les choses se passent aussi
bien en Angleterre qu'en France.
»Le cheval de course est un dé sur lequel un joueur vient placer un
enjeu considérable; peu importe ce que deviendra plus tard le cheval;
ce à quoi l'on s'attache, c'est à lui faire subir une préparation; les
mettant dans le cas de concourir de bonne heure, et avec le plus de
chances possible de vitesse. Si, en agissant ainsi le joueur peut y
trouver son compte, l'amélioration de l'espèce doit-elle y trouver le
sien? Je ne le pense pas. Du reste, tous les hommes sensés et spéciaux
de l'Angleterre reconnaissent que l'adoption d'un pareil système apporte
la dégénérescence de leurs races; ils s'aperçoivent que des sujets,
soumis dès l'âge de deux ans à une préparation donnant une énergie
factice et prématurée, sont ruinés pour la plupart, et retirent ainsi à
la production une foule de sujets qui eussent été précieux s'ils avaient
été élevés dans de meilleures conditions.
»N'en est-il pas de même, chez nous? Que deviennent la plupart de ces
chevaux de noble origine, élevés d'abord avec tant de frais? Défleuris,
estropiés, altérés dans leur santé par l'entraînement, ils sortent de
l'hippodrome souvent pour être vendus à vil prix, et le produit de cette
vente doit servir de dédommagement aux frais énormes faits pour leur
éducation. Avec de semblables résultats, bien rares en exceptions,
le jeu devient une conséquence; ne faut-il pas se couvrir des frais
exorbitants de l'entraînement et de toutes les chances défavorables qui
en émanent, et chercher, dans le hasard, des chances pouvant devenir
plus propices; aussi, en France comme en Angleterre, le motif réel,
essentiel des courses, a-t-il été effacé: ce n'est plus qu'un vaste
champ d'agiotage subventionné chez nous par l'État.
»Après avoir fait naître une situation aussi aventureuse dans une
industrie ne demandant, au contraire, que de la suite et du positif,
quels avantages en a retirés l'État? quel a été le prix des sacrifices
faits pour soutenir une pareille institution? Dans le nombre
incalculable de chevaux tarés et estropiés par les exercices prématurés,
il a trouvé, depuis quatorze ans, à acheter, à des prix souvent trop
élevés, une cinquantaine d'étalons dont la plupart ont encore des
qualités fort contestables comme reproducteurs. Cependant, si l'on fait
le relevé des fonds versés par l'État depuis quatorze ans, les villes
ayant des hippodromes, le roi, les princes et les sociétés, on pourrait
évaluer à plusieurs millions les fonds employés à encourager une
industrie, cause de ruine pour beaucoup de gens et n'ayant servi qu'à
détériorer une race appelée à jeter des germes d'amélioration dans nos
espèces...»
Et plus loin:
«Si tout le mérite du cheval était dans la vitesse, cette préoccupation
serait excusable; mais à quoi sert le meilleur coureur, quand il ne
joint pas à cette qualité une bonne construction et de belles allures?
Repoussé pour la reproduction, ne trouvant pas même d'emploi chez celui
qui l'élève, il ne sert qu'à engager des paris et à compromettre ainsi
la fortune de celui auquel il appartient.
»Rien ne pourrait mieux faire naître le doute, qu'un mode amenant
d'aussi tristes résultats. En tout état de cause, à quoi sert d'obtenir
un degré de plus grande vitesse parmi les individus d'une même race et
tous soumis aux mêmes conditions? seront-ils pour cela plus de pur sang?
»Si la lutte s'établissait entre des chevaux d'espèce différente, et que
deux systèmes fussent en présence, je comprendrais fort bien alors les
luttes à outrance pour faire prévaloir un de ces deux systèmes; mais ici
tout le monde est d'accord; et l'on tient si fortement à l'être, que,
dans les concours, on n'admet pas un cheval dont l'origine ne soit bien
constatée, tant on craint de réveiller la controverse, si un cheval dont
l'origine serait douteuse était vainqueur.»
Voilà donc pourtant où nous en sommes; voilà le résultat de ces
grands moyens d'amélioration, considérés aujourd'hui comme la panacée
universelle. M. d'Aure, qui admet bien les épreuves de courses pour
certains chevaux, voudrait cependant aussi que des primes, des
encouragements fussent accordés à des chevaux qui ne peuvent et ne
doivent pas être achetés comme étalons, et qui sont destinés à entrer
dans la consommation. Cet encouragement serait certainement le meilleur,
car l'éducation donnée à nos chevaux indigènes contribuerait puissamment
à combattre la concurrence étrangère.
Laissons encore parler M. d'Aure:
«Pourquoi, en exigeant quelques preuves d'énergie, ne pas primer aussi
les allures, la construction, le dressage et la bonne condition? Le
cheval une fois soumis à des exercices qui ne serviraient qu'à le mettre
en valeur, une grande concurrence s'établirait alors pour obtenir un
prix, et, si on ne l'obtenait pas, on disposerait, en tout état
de cause, le cheval à une vente facile et avantageuse. Dans cette
hypothèse, il n'est pas douteux qu'une foule de chevaux ne soient
achetés par le consommateur à un prix souvent beaucoup plus élevé que ne
sont vendus annuellement au haras quelques étalons.»
De quelque manière que soit envisagée cette grande question, la création
d'hommes spéciaux est une chose indispensable. Quand bien même nous
enlèverions à l'équitation son importance sous le point de vue
d'économie industrielle, ou sous le point de vue militaire et politique,
elle a encore une valeur immense sous le point de vue artistique.
L'équitation est, en effet, une science et un art. C'est un art pour
celui qui dispose du cheval tout dressé. C'est une science pour le
professeur, qui dresse et l'homme et le cheval. Le professeur a donc
à créer l'instrument et le virtuose: il faut qu'il possède à fond
la physiologie du cheval; faute de quoi, il est exposé à demander
violemment à certains individus ce que leur conformation, des défauts
naturels ou des tares peu apparents leur interdisent de faire avec
spontanéité. L'ignorance de l'éducateur, inattentif à ces imperfections
ou à ces particularités, provoque infailliblement chez des animaux,
peut-être généreux et dociles d'ailleurs, la souffrance, la révolte et
une irritation de caractère qu'eux-mêmes ne peuvent plus gouverner.
Mais comment s'étonnerait-on que l'éducation des bêtes, de ces
instruments passifs et muets de nos indiscrètes volontés, ne fût pas
souvent prise à rebours, lorsque, nous qui avons le raisonnement et la
parole pour nous défendre et nous justifier, nous sommes si mal compris
et si mal menés par les prétendus éducateurs du genre humain? Un bon
cheval, intelligent et fin, est un instrument à perfectionner. Une main
brutale ne saurait en tirer parti; un artiste habile en développe la
délicatesse et la puissance. Dans ce noble et vivifiant exercice,
l'écuyer expérimenté sent qu'il y a là, comme dans tous les arts, un
progrès continuel à faire, une perfection de plus en plus difficile
à atteindre, de plus en plus attrayante à chercher. C'est un champ
illimité pour l'étude et l'observation des instincts et des ressources
de cet admirable instrument, de cet instrument qui vit, qui comprend,
qui répond, qui progresse, qui entend, qui retient, qui devine, qui
raisonne presque; le plus beau, le plus intelligent des animaux qui
peuvent nous rendre un service immédiat en nous consacrant leurs forces.
Ceux qui n'ont aucune notion de cet art du cavalier s'imaginent
que l'équilibre résultant de l'habitude, la force musculaire et
l'intrépidité suffisent. La première de ces qualités est la seule
indispensable. Elle l'est, à la vérité, mais elle est loin de suppléer
à la connaissance des moyens; et, quant à l'emploi de la force et de
l'audace, il est souvent plus dangereux qu'utile. Une femme délicate,
un enfant, peuvent manier un cheval vigoureux s'il est convenablement
dressé, et s'ils ont l'instruction nécessaire. Les qualités naturelles
sont: la prudence, le sang-froid, la patience, l'attention, la
souplesse, l'intelligence des moyens et la délicatesse du toucher, car
ce mot de pratique instrumentale peut très-bien s'appliquer au maniement
de la bouche du cheval; et, tandis que l'ignorance croit n'avoir qu'à
exciter et à braver l'exaspération du coursier, la science constate
qu'il s'agit, au contraire, de calmer cette créature impétueuse, de la
dominer paisiblement, de l'assouplir, de la persuader pour ainsi dire,
et de l'amener ainsi à exécuter toutes les volontés du cavalier avec une
sorte de zèle et de généreux plaisir.
Qu'on nous permette encore un mot sur la question d'art. Il y a dans
l'équitation, comme dans tout, une bonne et une mauvaise manière, ou
plutôt il y a cent mauvaises manières et une seule bonne, celle que la
logique gouverne. Cependant l'erreur prévaut souvent, et la logique
proteste en vain. Certain professeur, naguère au pinacle, et qui n'a
pas craint de soumettre sa méthode, incarnée en sa personne, aux
applaudissements et aux sifflets d'une salle de spectacle, avait obtenu
des résultats en apparence merveilleux, tout en ressuscitant et en
exagérant des procédés à la mode sous Louis XIII. Le cheval réduit à
l'état de machine entre ses mains et entre ses jambes, entièrement
dénaturé, raidi là où la nature l'avait fait souple, brisé là où il
devait être ferme, déformé en réalité et comme crispé dans une attitude
contrainte et bizarre, exécutait, comme une mécanique à ressorts, tous
les mouvements que l'écuyer, espèce d'homme à ressorts aussi, lui
imprimait au grand ébahissement des spectateurs. Cela était fort
curieux, en effet, et ce puéril travail, considéré comme étude de
fantaisie, pouvait fort bien défrayer le spectacle de Franconi parmi les
diverses exhibitions de chevaux savants.
Jusque-là, rien de mieux: M. Baucher méritait les applaudissements pour
avoir montré un si remarquable asservissement des facultés du cheval aux
volontés de l'homme. Malheureusement le public s'imagina que c'était
là de l'équitation, et qu'un spécimen de l'exagération à laquelle
on pouvait parvenir en ce genre était la vraie, la seule base de
l'éducation hippique. Des hommes réputés spéciaux se le laissèrent
persuader par l'engouement, et l'inventeur du système finit par le
croire lui-même en se voyant pris au sérieux.
C'est donc d'une mauvaise manière, de la pire de toutes peut-être, que
ces hommes prétendus compétents se sont récemment enthousiasmés aux
dépens et dommages de l'État. Cette incroyable erreur ne signale que
trop la décadence où sont tombés aujourd'hui l'art de l'équitation et
la science de l'hippiatrique; car ces choses qu'on a voulu désunir
sont indissolublement solidaires l'une de l'autre. Avant de dresser un
cheval, il faut savoir: 1° ce que c'est que le cheval en général; 2° ce
qu'est en particulier l'individu soumis à l'éducation. Nous avons dit
comment la connaissance de l'individu était indispensable lorsqu'on ne
voulait pas s'exposer à lui demander autre chose que ce qu'il pouvait
exécuter. Quant au cheval en général, nous disons que c'est un être
énergique, irritable, généreux, par conséquent. On pourrait presque
dire de lui, que c'est, après l'homme, un être libre, puisqu'il est
susceptible d'abjurer la liberté naturelle de l'état sauvage et d'aimer
non-seulement la domesticité, mais l'éducation. Aimer est le mot, et les
poëtes n'ont fait ni métaphore ni paradoxe en dépeignant son ardeur
dans le combat et son orgueil dans l'arène du tournoi. Autant un cheval
courroucé par une éducation abrutissante se montre colère, vindicatif et
perfide, autant celui qui n'a jamais éprouvé que de bons traitements et
que l'on instruit avec logique, patience et clarté, répond aux leçons
avec zèle et attrait.
Il s'agit donc de faire de cet être intelligent un être instruit, et,
pour cela, il ne faudrait pas oublier qu'on s'adresse à une sorte
d'intelligence et non à une sorte de machine construite de main d'homme
et qu'il soit donné à l'homme de modifier dans son essence. La main de
Dieu a passé par là, elle a imprimé à cette race d'êtres un cachet de
beauté et des aptitudes particulières que l'homme, appelé à gouverner
les créatures secondaires, ne peut fausser sans contrarier et gâter
l'oeuvre de la nature; c'est là une loi inviolable dans tous nos arts,
dans tous nos travaux, dans toutes nos inventions. Le cheval est fait
pour se porter en avant, pour aspirer l'air avec liberté, pour gagner en
grâce, en force, en souplesse, à mesure qu'on règle ses allures; mais
régler, c'est développer. Cela est vrai pour la bête et pour l'homme.
La science vraie de l'écuyer consiste donc, en deux mots, à rendre sa
monture docile en augmentant son énergie.
Nous ne pouvions rendre compte d'une brochure qui est le résumé rapide
des travaux précédents et de l'expérience de toute la vie de l'auteur,
sans résumer de notre côté ses principes sur l'équitation. M. d'Aure est
un praticien sérieux qui a étudié sa spécialité sous ses rapports les
plus profonds. Il a porté dans ses études et dans sa pratique une
véritable ferveur d'artiste, des convictions fondées, la persévérance et
le désintéressement qui caractérisent ceux qui sentent vivement l'utile,
le beau et le vrai de leur vocation.
Dans un excellent traité sur _l'industrie chevaline_, écrit avec une
clarté remarquable, et rempli de vues historiques ingénieuses et
intéressantes, M. d'Aure a vu en grand et traité en maître cette
question de l'amélioration des races que nous résumerions, nous,
communistes, dans les termes suivants: «Socialisation d'un des
instruments du travail de l'homme.» On ne niera pas que le cheval
ne soit un de ces instruments de travail qu'aucune machine n'est de
longtemps appelée à remplacer absolument. Il est heureux sans doute que
le génie de l'industrie arrive de plus en plus à substituer les machines
à l'emploi abusif qui a été fait et qui se fait encore des forces
vitales. Mais, tandis qu'on se préoccupe aujourd'hui de supprimer par
les machines la dépense qu'exige l'entretien de ces forces vitales, on
ne s'aperçoit pas qu'on les laisse se détériorer et se perdre, lorsque,
pour longtemps encore, on en a un besoin essentiel. On oublie que, pour
des siècles encore, le cheval sera indispensable au travail humain, au
service des armées, à l'agriculture, aux transports de fardeaux, aux
voyages, etc.; et, lorsque cette noble espèce ne sera plus dans les
mains de nos descendants que ce qu'elle doit être en effet, c'est-à-dire
un moyen de plaisir, et son éducation perfectionnée une pratique d'art
accessible à tous, nous aurons été forcés d'épuiser encore bien des
générations de ces laborieux animaux, avant d'arriver à supprimer
l'excès de leur travail. Ne dirait-on pas, à voir l'état de décadence
où l'on a laissé tomber la production chevaline, que nous sommes à la
veille d'entrer dans cet Eldorado de machines, où tout se fera à l'aide
de la vapeur, depuis le transport des cathédrales jusqu'à l'office du
barbier?
Quel est donc le résultat social qu'il faudrait atteindre pour
réhabiliter l'industrie chevaline, à peu près perdue depuis la
révolution et particulièrement depuis 1830? Encourager la production,
renouveler et conserver nos belles races indigènes, qui, dans peu
d'années, auront entièrement disparu si on n'y prend garde; donner aux
cultivateurs et aux éleveurs de chevaux les moyens de faire de bons
élèves; enfin créer, comme on l'a déjà dit, une classe d'éducateurs
spéciaux, sans laquelle le producteur ne peut donner au cheval la valeur
d'un instrument complet, mis en état de service et de durée; sans
laquelle aussi le consommateur ne saura jamais entretenir les ressources
de sa monture. Nous en avons dit assez au commencement de cet article
pour prouver que, sans l'éducation, le cheval est d'un mauvais service,
et qu'entre les mains d'un bon éducateur et d'un bon cavalier, sa valeur
augmente, ses forces se décuplent et se conservent. Il y aurait une sage
économie générale à répandre ces connaissances dans notre peuple.
Les riches n'y songent guère, ils ne se contentent pas de se servir
exclusivement de chevaux anglais, il leur faut des cochers et des
jockeys d'outre-Manche. Il est vrai qu'on trouverait difficilement
aujourd'hui chez nous _des hommes de cheval_ entendus. A qui la faute?
Pour prouver la nécessité de ces mesures, il suffit de montrer le
désordre, l'incurie, et tous les fâcheux résultats de la concurrence
aveugle et inintelligente, l'absence d'encouragements bien entendus,
de dépenses utiles, d'initiative éclairée, et de vues sociales et
patriotiques de la part de l'État.
Nous ne prétendons pas que M. d'Aure ait songé à accuser, de notre point
de vue, le régime de la concurrence et à invoquer les solutions sociales
qui nous préoccupent; mais, par la force rigoureuse de la logique qui
est au fond de toutes les questions approfondies, ses démonstrations
arrivent à prouver la nécessité de l'initiative sociale dans la question
qu'il traite. Si l'on apportait sur toutes les spécialités possibles des
travaux aussi complets et des calculs aussi certains, tous ces travaux
d'analyse aboutiraient à la même conclusion synthétique: à savoir, que
la concurrence est destructive de toute industrie, de tout progrès, de
toute richesse nationale, et qu'il faut, pour régler la production et la
consommation, que la sagesse et la prévoyance de l'État interviennent,
règlent et dirigent.
V
LA BERTHENOUX
C'est un hameau entre Linières et Issoudun, sur la route de
communication qui côtoie le plateau de la vallée Noire. Une très-jolie
église gothique et un vieux château, jadis abbaye fortifiée, aujourd'hui
ferme importante, embellissent cette bourgade, située d'ailleurs dans un
paysage agréable; c'est là que se tient annuellement, dans une prairie
d'environ cent boisselées (plus de six hectares), une des foires les
plus importantes du centre de la France. On évalue de douze à treize
mille têtes le bétail qui s'y est présenté cette année: quatre cents
paires de boeufs de travail, trois cents génisses et taureaux, denrée
que l'on désigne communément dans le pays sous le nom de _jeunesse_ (un
métayer se fait entendre on ne peut mieux quand il vous dit qu'il va
_mener sa jeunesse_ en foire pour s'en défaire); trois cents vaches,
douze cents chevaux, quatre mille bêtes à laine, trois cents chèvres, et
une centaine d'ânes. Ajoutez à cela ces animaux que le paysan méticuleux
ne nomme pas sans dire: _sauf votre respect_, c'est-à-dire trois mille
porcs, qui ont un champ de foire particulier de quatre-vingts boisselées
d'étendue, et vous aurez la moyenne d'un des grands marchés de bestiaux
du Berry.
Les marchands forains et les éleveurs s'y rendent de la Creuse, du
Nivernais, du Limousin, et même de l'Auvergne. Les chevaux, comme on a
vu, n'y sont pas en grand nombre, et ils sont rarement beaux. Les vaches
laitières sont encore moins nombreuses et plus mauvaises; on ne vend les
belles vaches que quand elles ne peuvent plus faire d'élèves. Ces élèves
sont la richesse du pays. Ils deviennent de grands boeufs de labour
qui travaillent chez nous une terre grasse et forte, _bien terrible_ à
soulever. Quant à la _jeunesse_ qu'on a de reste, après que le choix des
boeufs de travail est fait, elle est enlevée en masse par les Marchois,
qui l'engraissent ou la brocantent. Quelques bouchers d'Orléans viennent
aussi s'approvisionner à la foire de la Berthenoux. Une belle paire de
boeufs assortis se vend aujourd'hui, six cents francs; la _taurinaille_
ou la _jeunesse_ quatre-vingts francs par tête; les chevaux cent trente,
les vaches cent vingt, les moutons trente, les brebis vingt-cinq, les
porcs vingt-cinq, les ânes vingt-cinq, les chèvres dix, les chevreaux,
de quinze à trente sous.
Les principales affaires se traitent entre Berrichons et Marchois. Les
premiers ont une réputation de simplicité dont ils se servent avec
beaucoup de finesse. Les seconds ont une réputation de duplicité qui les
fait échouer souvent devant la méfiance des Berrichons.
La vente du bétail est, chez nous, une sorte de bourse en plein air,
dont les péripéties et les assauts sont les grandes émotions de la
vie du cultivateur. C'est là que le paysan, le maquignon, le fermier,
déploient les ressources d'une éloquence pleine de tropes et de
métaphores inouïes. Nous entendions un jour, à propos d'un lot de porcs,
le marchandeur s'écrier:
--Si je les paie vingt-trois francs pièce, j'aime mieux que les
trente-six cochons me passent à travers le corps!
Et même nous altérons le texte; il disait _le cadavre_, et encore
prononçait-il _calabre_, ce qui rendait son idée beaucoup plus claire
pour les oreilles environnantes.
Il y a d'autres formules de serment ou de protestation non moins
étranges:
--Je veux que la patte du diable me serve de crucifix à mon dernier
jour, si je mens.--Que cette paire de boeufs me serve de poison..., etc.
Ces luttes d'énergumènes durent quelquefois du matin jusqu'à la nuit.
Enfin, après avoir attaqué et défendu pied à pied, sou par sou, la
dernière pièce de cinq francs, on conclut le marché par des poignées de
main qui, pour valoir signature, sont d'une telle vigueur que les yeux
en sortent de la tête; mais discours, serments et accolades sont perdus
dans la rumeur et la confusion environnantes; tandis que vingt musettes
braillent à qui mieux mieux du haut des tréteaux, les propos des buveurs
sous la ramée, les chansons de table, les cris des charlatans et des
montreurs de curiosités _à l'esprit-de-vin_, l'antienne des mendiants,
le grincement des vielles, le mugissement des animaux, forment un
charivari à briser la cervelle la plus aguerrie. Il y a mille tableaux
pittoresques à saisir, mille types bien accusés à observer.
Quelquefois la chose devient superbe et, en même temps, effrayante:
c'est quand la panique prend dans le campement des animaux à cornes.
_La jeunesse_ est particulièrement quinteuse, et parfois un taureau
s'épouvante ou se fâche, on ne sait pourquoi, au milieu de cinq ou six
cents autres, qui, au même instant, saisis de vertige, rompent leurs
liens, renversent leurs conducteurs, et s'élancent comme une houle
rugissante au milieu du champ de foire. La peur gagne bêtes et gens
de proche en proche, et on a vu cette multitude d'hommes et d'animaux
présenter des scènes de terreur et de désordre vraiment épouvantables.
Une mouche était l'auteur de tout ce mal.
La foire de la Berthenoux a lieu tous les ans le 8 et le 9 septembre.
Elle commence par la vente des bêtes à laine, et finit par celle des
boeufs. Il s'y fait pour un million d'affaires, en moyenne.
VI
LES JARDINS EN ITALIE
Depuis cent ans, les voyageurs en Italie ont jeté sur le papier et semé
sur leur route beaucoup de malédictions contre le mauvais goût des
_villégiatures_[17]. Le président de Brosses était, lui, un homme de
goût, et nul, dans son temps, n'a mieux apprécié le beau classique,
nul ne s'est plus gaiement moqué du rococo italien et des grotesques
modernes mêlés partout aux élégances de la statuaire antique. Sur la foi
de ce spirituel voyageur, bon nombre de touristes se croient obligés,
encore aujourd'hui, de mépriser ces fantaisies de l'autre siècle avec
une rigueur un peu pédantesque.
[Note 17: Un de nos amis n'aime pas cette expression, qui était
familière à Érasme. Nous le prions toutefois de considérer que c'est ici
le mot propre et qu'il ne serait même pas remplacé par une périphrase.
On entend par _villégiature_ à la fois le plaisir dont on jouit dans
les maisons de campagne italiennes, la temps que l'on y passe, et, par
extension, ces villas elles-mêmes avec leurs dépendances.]
Tout est mode dans l'appréciation que l'on a du passé comme dans les
créations où le présent s'essaie, et, après avoir bien crié, sous
l'Empire et la Restauration, contre les chinoiseries du temps de Louis
XV, nous voilà aussi dégoûtés du grec et du romain que du gothique de la
Restauration! C'est que tout cela était du faux antique et du faux moyen
âge, et que toute froide et infidèle imitation est stérile dans les
arts. Mais, en général, les artistes ont fait ce progrès réel de ne
pas s'engouer exclusivement d'une époque donnée, et de s'identifier
complaisamment au génie ou à la fantaisie de tous les temps. La
complaisance de l'esprit est toujours une chose fort sage et bien
entendue, car on se prive de beaucoup de jouissances en décrétant qu'un
seul genre de jouissance est admissible à la raison.
Parmi ces fantaisies du commencement du dernier siècle que
stigmatisaient déjà les puristes venus de France trente ou quarante ans
plus tard, il en est effectivement de fort laides dans leur détail: mais
l'ensemble en est presque toujours agréable, coquet et amusant pour
les yeux. C'est dans leurs jardins surtout que les seigneurs italiens
déployaient ces richesses d'invention puériles que l'on ne voit pourtant
pas disparaître sans regret:
Les grandes girandes, immenses constructions de lave, de mosaïque et de
ciment, qui, du haut d'une montagne, font descendre en mille cascades
tournantes et jaillissantes les eaux d'un torrent jusqu'au seuil d'un
manoir;
Les grandes cours intérieures, sortes de musées de campagne, où, à côté
d'une vasque sortie des villas de Tibère, grimace un triton du temps de
Louis XIV, et où la madone sourit dans sa chapelle entourée de faunes et
de dryades mythologiques;
Le labyrinthe d'escaliers splendides dans le goût de Watteau, qui
semblent destinés à quelque cérémonie de peuples triomphants, et qui
conduisent à une maisonnette étonnée et honteuse de son gigantesque
piédestal, ou tout bonnement à une plate-bande de tulipes très-communes;
Les tapis de parterre, ouvrage de patience, qui consiste à dessiner sur
le papier le pavé d'une vaste cour ou sur les immenses terrasses d'un
jardin, des arabesques, des dessins de tenture, et surtout des armoiries
de famille, avec des compartiments de fleurs, de plantes basses, de
marbre, de faïence, d'ardoise et de brique;
Les concerts hydrauliques, où des personnages en pierre et en bronze
jouent de divers instruments mus par les eaux des girandes;
Enfin les grottes de coquillages, les châteaux sarrasins en ruine, les
jardiniers de granit, et mille autres drôleries qui font rire par la
pensée qu'elles ont fait rire de bonne foi une génération plus naïve que
la nôtre.
Les plus belles girandes de la campagne de Rome sont à Frascati, dans
les jardins de la villa Aldobrandini. Ces jardins ont été dessinés et
ornés par Fontana, dans les flancs d'une montagne admirablement plantée
et arrosée d'eaux vives. Dans un coin du parc, on s'est imaginé de
creuser le roc en forme de mascaron, et de faire de la bouche de ce
Polyphème une caverne où plusieurs personnes peuvent se mettre à l'abri.
Les branches pendantes et les plantes parasites se sont chargées d'orner
de barbe et de sourcils cette face fantastique reflétée dans un bassin.
A la Rufinella (ou villa Tusculana), une autre fantaisie échappe au
crayon par son étendue; c'est une rapide montée d'un kilomètre de
chemin, plantée d'inscriptions monumentales en buis taillé. Et, chose
étrange, sur cette terre papale dans la liste de cent noms illustres,
choisis avec amour, on voit ceux de Voltaire et de Rousseau verdoyer
sur la montagne, entretenus et tondus avec le même soin que ceux des
écrivains orthodoxes et des poëtes sacrés. Je soupçonne que cette
galerie herbagère a été composée par Lucien Bonaparte, autrefois
propriétaire de la villa. Ce qu'il y a de certain, c'est qu'elle a été
respectée par les jésuites, possesseurs, après lui, de cette résidence
pittoresque, et qu'elle l'est encore par la reine de Sardaigne,
aujourd'hui propriétaire.
En résumé, la vétusté de ces décorations princières, et l'état
d'abandon où on les voit maintenant, leur prête un grand charme, et,
de bouffonnes, toutes ces allégories, toutes ces surprises, toutes ces
gaietés d'un autre temps, sont devenues mélancoliques et quasi austères.
Le lierre embrasse souvent d'informes débris que l'on pourrait attribuer
à des âges plus reculés; les racines des arbres centenaires soulèvent
les marbres, et partout les eaux cristallines, restées seules vivantes
et actives, s'échappent de leur prison de pierre pour chanter leur
éternelle jeunesse sur ces ruines qu'un jour a vues naître et passer.
VII
A MADAME ERNEST PÉRIGOIS[18]
Deux amoureux sont là guettant la fleur charmante:
Le papillon superbe et la bête rampante;
L'une qui souille tout dans son embrassement,
L'autre qui du pollen s'enivre follement.
Femmes, talents, beautés, contemplez votre image;
Toujours un ennemi s'abreuve de vos fleurs,
Soit qu'il dévore, abject, la tige et le feuillage,
Soit qu'il pille, imprudent, le parfum de vos coeurs!
Nohant, 30 mai 1856
[Note 18: Écrit sur son album, au-dessous d'un dessin d'Alexandre
Manceau représentant une corbeille de fleurs, un escargot et un
papillon.]
VIII
LES BOIS
Dieu! que ne suis-je assise à l'ombre des fortis!
Qui de vous, sans être dévoré de passions tragiques n'a soupiré, comme
la Phèdre de Racine, après l'ombre et le silence des bois? Ce vers,
isolé de toute situation particulière, est comme un cri de l'âme qui
aspire au repos et à la liberté, ou plutôt à ce recueillement profond et
mystérieux qu'on respire sous les grands arbres. Malheureusement, ces
monuments de la nature deviennent chaque jour plus rares devant les
besoins de la civilisation et les exigences de l'industrie. Comme il se
passera encore peut-être des siècles avant que les besoins de la poésie
et les exigences de l'art soient pris en considération par les sociétés,
il est à présumer que le progrès industriel détruira de plus en plus les
plantes séculaires, ou qu'il ne donnera de longtemps à aucune plante
élevée le droit de vivre au delà de l'âge strictement nécessaire à son
exploitation. Déjà la forêt de Fontainebleau a souffert de ces idées
positives, et des provinces entières se sont dépouillées, à la même
époque, de leurs grands chênes et de leurs pins majestueux. Nous savons
tous, autour de nous, des endroits regrettés où, dans notre jeunesse,
nous avons délicieusement rêvé sous des arbres impénétrables au soleil
et à la pluie, et qui ne présentent plus que des sillons ensemencés ou
d'humbles taillis.
Ce n'est pas seulement en France que ces magnifiques ornements de la
terre ont disparu. Dans nos voyages, nous les avons toujours cherchés
et nous sommes convaincus que sur les grandes étendues de pays ils
n'existent plus. On fait très-bien des journées de marche en France,
en Italie et en Espagne, sans rencontrer un seul massif véritablement
important, et, dans les forêts mêmes, il n'est presque plus de
sanctuaires réservés au développement complet de la vie végétale.
Un des plus beaux endroits de la terre serait le golfe de la Spezzia,
sur la côte du Piémont, si les grands arbres n'y manquaient absolument.
Montagnes gracieuses et fières, sol luxuriant de plantes basses,
mouvements de terrain pittoresques, couleur chaude et variée des
terrains mêmes, crêtes neigeuses dans le ciel, horizons maritimes
merveilleusement encadrés, tout y est, excepté un seul arbre imposant.
La montagne et la vallée ne demandent cependant qu'à en produire; mais,
aussitôt qu'un pin vigoureux s'élance au-dessus des taillis jetés en
pente jusqu'au bord des flots, la marine s'en empare, et même le jeune
arbre, à peine grandi, est condamné à aller flotter sur le dos de la
petite chaloupe côtière.
Si, de là, vous suivez l'Apennin jusqu'à Florence, et de Florence
jusqu'à Rome, vous trouvez partout, au sein d'une nature splendide de
formes, sa plus belle parure, la haute végétation, absente par suite de
l'aridité des montagnes, ou supprimée par la main de l'homme, qui ne
respecte que l'olivier, le plus utile, mais le plus laid des arbres,
quand il n'est pas sept ou huit fois centenaire.
La campagne de Rome, jadis si riche de jardins et de parcs touffus, est
désormais, on le sait, une plaine affreuse où l'oeil ne se repose que
sur des ruines; mais, au sortir de cette campagne romaine, si mal à
propos vantée, quand on a gravi les premières volcaniques des monts
Latins, on trouve, dans les immenses parcs des villas et sur les routes
(celle d'Albano est justement célèbre sous ce rapport), le chêne vert
parvenu à toute son extension formidable. C'est un colosse au feuillage
dur, noir et uniforme, au branchage tortueux et violent, que l'on peut
regarder sans respect, mais qui ne saurait plaire qu'aux premiers jours
du printemps, lorsque la mousse fraîche couvre son écorce jusque sur les
rameaux élevés et lui fait une robe de velours vert tendre qui tranche
sur sa feuillée sombre et terne. Toute la beauté de l'arbre est alors
sur son bois, où le printemps semble s'être glissé mystérieusement à
l'insu de son autre éternelle et lugubre verdure.
Dans cette région, les pins sont véritablement gigantesques. Ils se
dressent fièrement au-dessus de ces chênes verts déjà monstrueux et, les
dépassant de toute la moitié de leur taille, ils forment un second dôme
au-dessus du dôme déjà si noir qu'ils ombragent.
Ces lieux sont magnifiques, car entre toutes ces branches étendues en
parasol ou entre-croisées en réseaux inextricables, la moindre éclaircie
encadre un paysage de montagnes transparentes ou de plaines profondes
terminées par les lignes d'or de l'embouchure du Tibre, qui se
confondent avec la nappe étincelante de la Méditerranée.
Mais, pour chérir exclusivement cette végétation méridionale, il faut
n'avoir pas aimé auparavant celle de nos latitudes plus douces et plus
voilées. Tout est rude sous l'oeil de Rome. Les pâles oliviers y sont
durs encore par leur sèche opposition avec les autres arbres trop noirs.
Les bosquets splendides de buis, de lauriers et de myrtes sont noirs
aussi par leur épaisseur, et leurs âcres parfums sont en harmonie avec
leur inflexible attitude. Le soleil éclate sur toutes ces feuilles
cassantes qui le reçoivent comme autant de miroirs; il glisse ses rayons
crus sous les longues allées ténébreuses et les raie de sillons lumineux
trop arrêtés, parfois bizarres. Il ne faut point être ingrat, cela est
parfois splendide, surtout quand les rayons tombent sur des tapis de
violettes, de cyclamens et d'anémones qui jonchent la terre jusque
dans les coins les plus sauvages, ou sur les ruisseaux cristallins qui
sautent, écument et babillent entre les grosses racines des arbres;
mais, en général, l'oeil, comme la pensée, est en lutte contre la
lumière et contre l'ombre qui, trop vigoureuses toutes deux, se heurtent
plus souvent qu'elles ne se combinent et ne s'associent.
Sans aller si loin, il y a autour de nous, en France, quand on les
cherche et que l'on arrive à les trouver, des aspects d'une beauté toute
différente, il est vrai, mais plus pénétrante et plus délicate que cette
rude beauté du Latium. Aimons l'une et l'autre, et que chaque école
d'artiste y trouve sa volupté. Pour nous, il faudra toujours garder une
secrète préférence pour certains coins de notre patrie. En dehors du
sentiment national, que l'on ne répudie pas à son gré, il est des
jouissances de contemplation que nous n'avons point trouvées ailleurs.
Certains recoins ignorés dans la Creuse et dans l'Indre ont réalisé pour
nous le rêve des forêts vierges. Dans des localités humides et comme
abandonnées, nous avons pénétré sous des ombrages dont l'épaisseur
admirable n'ôtait rien à la transparence et au vague délicieux. Là, tout
aussi bien que dans la forêt fermée de Laricia et sur les roches de
Tivoli, les plantes grimpantes avaient envahi les tiges séculaires et
s'enlaçaient en lianes verdoyantes aux branches des châtaigniers, des
hêtres et des chênes. La mousse tapissait les branches, et la fougère
hérissait de ses touffes découpées le corps des arbres, de la base au
faîte. Dans leur creux, des touffes de trèfle forestier semblaient
s'être réfugiées et sortaient en bouquet de chaque fissure. Les blocs
granitiques, embrassés et dévorés par les racines, étaient soulevés et
comme incrustés dans le flan des arbres. Enfin, ce que j'ai en vain
cherché en Italie, ce que je n'ai remarqué que là, en plein midi, le
soleil, tamisé par le feuillage serré mais diaphane, laissait tomber
sur le sol et sur les fûts puissants des hêtres, des reflets froids et
bleuâtres comme ceux de la lune.
En résumé, les arbres à feuillage persistant ont plus d'audace et
d'étrangeté dans leur attitude; mais ils manquent tout à fait de cette
finesse de tons et de cette grâce de contours qui caractérisent les
essences forestières de nos climats. Les cyprès monumentaux de la villa
Mandragone, à Frascati, ont, à coup sûr, un grand caractère; mais ces
plantes à centuple tige, réunies en faisceau comme des colonnettes
sarrasines, ressemblent trop à de l'architecture. Ils sont si noirs
qu'ils font tache dans l'ensemble. La brise ne les caresse point, la
tempête seule les émeut. Aussi, quand, aux approches du Clitumne et
de l'Arno, on revoit les peupliers et les saules, on croit reprendre
possession de l'air et de la vie. En Provence, on se croit encore un
peu trop en Italie et pas assez en France; mais, quand on gagne nos
provinces du Centre, moins riches de grands mouvements du sol, on est
dédommagé par l'abondance et la tranquille majesté de la végétation. Les
noyers énormes des bords de la Creuse sont mille fois plus beaux que
les beaux orangers de Majorque, et il semble que, dans la variété
harmonieuse de nos arbres indigènes, les tilleuls, les érables, les
trembles, les aunes, les charmes, les cormiers, les frênes, etc., il y
ait quelque chose qui ressemble à l'intelligence étendue et profonde des
artistes féconds, comparée au génie étroit et orgueilleux des poëtes
monocordes.
Quant à la beauté des lignes, si vantée par les amants exclusifs de la
nature méridionale, nous l'avons goûtée aussi, mais sans pouvoir la
trouver supérieure à celle de nos forêts de France. Il y a, dans l'effet
magistral de nos grandes avenues, des masses plus harmonieusement
disposées et vraiment mieux dessinées par la structure des arbres qui
les composent. Enfin, nous nous résumerons en disant que l'éternelle
verdure des climats chauds est inséparable d'une éternelle monotonie,
non-seulement de couleur, mais de formes dures qui excluent la grâce
touchante et peut-être la véritable majesté.
IX
L'ILE DE LA RÉUNION[19]
Sous ce titre beaucoup trop modeste, un homme éminemment observateur et
doué de connaissances spéciales en plus d'un genre, rassemble une foule
de notions très-complètes sur cette intéressante colonie française qui,
d'un volcan perdu au sein des mers lointaines, s'est fait longtemps un
nid tranquille et délicieux.
[Note 19: Par Louis Maillard.]
Bien que déchue de sa sauvage beauté primitive, l'île de la Réunion
offre encore pour l'avenir des ressources immenses, si on sait les
mettre à profit. Grâce à ses formes coniques et à la grande élévation de
ses principaux centres, elle se prête à toutes les productions, depuis
celles de la zone torride jusqu'à celles de nos Alpes. Donc, rien
de plus varié que la flore de cette échelle de température; mais le
caractère le plus curieux de l'île, caractère qui y a été général
autrefois et qui s'y trouve localisé aujourd'hui, c'est cet état
perpétuel de création ignescente, propre aux îles volcaniques, et nulle
part mieux appréciable aux études spéciales.
Le volcan qui couronne notre colonie de ses banderoles de flamme ou de
fumée vomit toujours, à des intervalles assez rapprochés, des torrents
de lave et de cendre qui, sur une notable étendue de sa surface (un
dixième environ), changent sa configuration. Des tremblements de terre
ont fait surgir sur les hauteurs des masses rocheuses, débris des
anciennes éruptions que d'autres cataclysmes avaient engloutis.
Ailleurs, ces monuments naturels, anciennement produits, s'effondrent et
rentrent dans l'abîme. De profondes ravines se creusent et des torrents
s'y précipitent, des vallées se soulèvent ou s'aplanissent sous des lits
de sable et de cendre bientôt recouverts d'un nouvel humus, des remparts
rocheux s'écroulent ou se dressent. La fertilité, poursuivie par ces
ravages, se déplace, monte ou descend, abandonne les forêts saisies
sur pied par la lave et s'en va créer des pâturages dans les régions
redevenues calmes.
D'autre part, la mer, refoulée par les coulées volcaniques, voit des
caps nouveaux étendre leurs bras dans ses ondes et former des anses
paisibles là où, la veille, elle battait la côte avec énergie; mais,
toujours agissante, elle aussi, elle va ronger plus loin,--par son
action saline encore plus que par ses vagues,--les pores des anciennes
falaises. Elle y creuse des cavernes étranges, jusqu'à ce que la roche,
désagrégée, s'écroule et montre à vif ses arêtes de basalte et les
couches superposées des diverses éruptions. Au fond de son lit, l'Océan
ne travaille pas moins à se débarrasser des masses de galets et de
débris de toutes formes et de toutes dimensions que les torrents lui
déversent. Il les soulève, les roule, les porte sur un point de la côte
où il les reprend pour les amonceler ou les répandre encore. Ailleurs,
il se bâtit des digues de corail et des bancs de madrépores aussi
solides que les remparts de lave, si bien que ces deux forces
gigantesques, la mer et le volcan, l'eau et le feu, toujours en lutte,
pétrissent pour ainsi dire le dur relief de l'île comme une cire molle
soumise à leur caprice; mais ici le caprice ne consiste que dans
l'étreinte corps à corps de deux lois également fatales, logiques par
conséquent, car ce que nous appelons fatalité est la logique même, et
l'homme qui les observe arrive à saisir leur puissance d'impulsion et
à camper en toute sécurité sur cette terre mobile, si souvent remaniée
dans les âges anciens, et qui change encore manifestement de forme et
d'emploi sur une partie de sa surface.
Pour nous, cette île enchantée, passablement terrible, a toujours été
un type des plus intéressants. Nos fréquents rapports avec M. Maillard
durant les dix dernières années de son séjour à la Réunion, nous avaient
initié à une partie de sa flore, de sa faune et de ses particularités
géologiques. Plus anciennement encore, un autre ami, spécialement
botaniste, après un séjour de quelques années dans ces parages, nous
avait rapporté de précieux échantillons et des souvenirs pleins de
poésie. Ce fut le rêve de notre jeunesse d'aller voir les _grands
brûlés_ et les fraîches ravines de Bourbon. Quand l'âge des projets
est passé, c'est un vif plaisir que de se promener dans son rêve
rétrospectif avec un excellent guide, et ce guide, à qui rien n'est
resté étranger durant vingt-six ans d'explorations aventureuses et de
travaux assidus, c'est l'auteur des notes que nous avons sous les yeux.
Ingénieur colonial à la Réunion, M. Maillard s'est trouvé là, en
présence de la mer et du volcan, le représentant d'une troisième force,
le travail humain aux prises avec les impétueuses et implacables forces
d'expansion de la nature. Le temps n'est plus où le Dieu hébreu défiait
Job de dire à la mer: «Tu n'iras pas plus loin!» Le vrai Dieu, qui veut
que l'homme aille toujours plus loin, lui a permis de posséder la nature
en quelque sorte, en s'y faisant place et en luttant avec elle de
persévérance. Des jetées hardies et des travaux sous-marins bien
calculés, ouvrent aux navires les passes les plus dangereuses et
défendent aux flots d'envahir les grèves où l'homme s'établit. Quand
les torrents des montagnes emportent les ponts jetés sur leurs abîmes,
l'homme s'attaque au torrent lui-même, lui creuse un autre lit, et
l'oblige à se détourner. Les débris incandescents des volcans ravagent
en vain ses cultures: il les transporte ailleurs, et il attend. Il sait
que ces déserts redeviendront fertiles, il sait aussi quels abris ces
gigantesques vomissements refroidis offriront à sa demeure, à son
troupeau, à son verger, et, de cette nature terrible, de ces cratères
éteints, il se fait une forteresse et un jardin.
En ouvrant des routes dans la lave, en dessinant des jetées à la
côte, en explorant lui-même les profondeurs sous-marines à l'aide
du scaphandre, en étudiant les habitudes de l'atmosphère et ses
perturbations violentes, M. Louis Maillard a pu observer cette nature
tropicale sous tous ses aspects. Ses notes embrassent donc tout ce
qui constitue l'existence de la colonie: topographie, hydrographie,
météorologie, géologie, botanique, zoologie, agriculture, industrie,
administration, histoire, législation, finances, statistique, arts,
coutumes, biographie, travaux publics, etc. Toutes ces recherches,
sobrement et clairement exposées, appuyées des indications et
témoignages des hommes les plus sérieux et les plus compétents de la
colonie, sont venues demander l'aide de la science aux illustrations
de la mère patrie. M. Maillard a eu de la sorte le généreux plaisir
d'offrir à notre Muséum, ainsi qu'à des personnages éminents dans
la science, des collections et des spécimens précieux, rares, ou
entièrement nouveaux en histoire naturelle, et, en retour, il a eu
l'honneur de pouvoir joindre à sa publication une annexe de notes
descriptives et classificatives, signées Verreaux, Michelin,
Guichenot, Milne-Edwards, Guénée, Deyrolle, H. Lucas, Signoret, de
Sélys-Longchamps, Sichel, Bigot, Duchartre. L'illustre et respectable
docteur Camille Montagne et son savant associé M. Millardet se sont
chargés de décrire les algues et toute la cryptogamie. Aux travaux zélés
et consciencieux de M. Maillard se rattache donc une suite de travaux
extrêmement précieux et intéressants, non-seulement pour l'île de la
Réunion, mais aussi pour le progrès des sciences naturelles, auxquelles
les recherches des voyageurs et des amateurs dévoués apportent chaque
jour leur contingent éminemment utile. Celui de M. Louis Maillard est
considérable. Il a rapporté, en fait de zoologie et de botanique, les
types d'une famille nouvelle (parmi les crustacés) de plusieurs genres,
et de plus de cent cinquante espèces jusqu'ici non décrites.[20] Il
a donc bien mérité de la science, et son ouvrage intéresse tous les
adeptes.
Mais une autre utilité incontestable de cet ouvrage, c'est d'avoir
signalé sans ménagement à l'attention du gouvernement et de la société
tout entière, la nécessité d'organiser, sur des bases sévères et
intelligentes, le régime de la propriété et le système de l'exploitation
territoriale dans notre colonie, aujourd'hui dévastée et menacée de
ruine par suite du déboisement. Tout le monde lira avec intérêt les
réflexions de M. Maillard sur les inconvénients de la culture trop
développée de la canne à sucre, sur l'abandon de la culture du café,
du girofle et d'autres plantes utiles qui préservaient le sol en le
retenant sur les pentes et en lui conservant l'humidité nécessaire. Le
défrichement aveugle, qui est la conséquence du _chacun pour soi_, a
fait disparaître entièrement les arbres magnifiques dont les essences
précieuses couronnaient l'île et la protégeaient à la fois contre la
sécheresse et contre les inondations. Quand les terribles cyclones
dévastaient ces belles forêts, leurs débris imposants servaient encore
longtemps de digues à la fureur des ouragans et protégeaient les jeunes
pousses destinées à remplacer les anciennes.
[Note 20: Ce chiffre sera peut-être dépassé, le travail le plus
important, la conchyliologie, n'étant pas encore terminé.]
Aujourd'hui, rien n'entrave plus les déluges qui pèlent le sol et
l'entraînent à la mer, tandis que dans les temps secs, les sources,
privées d'ombre, tarissent et que l'aridité se propage. Si la France
ne daigne pas intervenir, ou si les colons ne se rendent pas aux plus
simples calculs de la prévoyance, on peut prédire la ruine et l'abandon
prochains de cette perle des mers que les anciens navigateurs saluèrent
du nom d'_Éden_, et qui, épuisée et mutilée par la main de l'homme,
secouera son joug et rentrera dans le domaine de Dieu. C'est une leçon
qu'il tient en réserve, en France aussi bien qu'ailleurs, pour les
populations qui méconnaissent les lois de l'équilibre providentiel, et
abusent de leurs droits sur la terre. A l'homme sans doute est dévolue
la mission d'explorer et d'exploiter; mais l'intelligence lui a été
départie pour épargner à propos, prévoir l'avenir, et chercher dans la
nature même le préservatif de son existence. Les forêts lui avaient été
données comme réservoirs inépuisables de la fécondité du sol et
comme remparts contre les crises atmosphériques. Il a violé tous les
sanctuaires. Plus aveugle et plus ignorant que ses ancêtres, il a
porté la hache jusqu'au plus épais de la forêt sacrée. En Amérique, il
s'acharne avec fureur contre le monde primitif qui lui livre un sol
admirablement nourri et préservé depuis les premiers âges de la
végétation. L'oeuvre de dévastation s'accomplit. Nous aurons du blé, du
sucre et du coton jusqu'à ce que la terre fatiguée se révolte et jusqu'à
ce que le climat nous refuse la vie.
X
CONCHYLIOLOGIE
DE L'ILE DE LA RÉUNION[21]
Dans un précédent article, nous avons appelé l'attention du monde savant
et du monde instruit sur un ouvrage, intéressant à tous les points de
vue[22], science, industrie, moeurs, agriculture, histoire naturelle,
etc. Il manquait à cette publication une annexe importante dont nous
n'avons pas nommé l'auteur, et dont nous n'avions pas encore pu prendre
connaissance. Ce travail nous est communiqué aujourd'hui, et nous
voulons réparer une omission qui laisserait incomplète l'utilité des
notes si précieuses de M. Maillard, d'autant plus qu'ici il ne s'agit
plus seulement de compléter la description de notre belle colonie, mais
bien d'apporter des matériaux au grand édifice de la science naturelle
en général. C'est le savant M. Deshayes, illustré par d'immenses travaux
sur cette matière, qui s'est chargé de la conchyliologie, ou, pour mieux
dire, de la malacologie relative aux trouvailles et découvertes de M.
Maillard. Cette annexe forme donc un travail du plus grand intérêt, et
l'on peut dire qu'elle est un monument acquis à la science dans une de
ses branches les plus ardues.
[Note 21: Par M. Deshayes.]
[Note 22: _Notes sur l'île de la Réunion_, par Louis Maillard.]
Beaucoup de personnes dans le monde se doutent peu du rôle immense que
jouent les mollusques dans l'économie de notre planète. On s'en pénètre
en lisant les pages par lesquelles M. Deshayes ouvre l'étude spéciale
dont nous nous occupons ici. La conscience et la modestie, conditions
essentielles du vrai savoir, obligent ce grand explorateur à nous dire
que la connaissance de vingt mille espèces provenant de toutes les
régions du monde n'est rien encore, et que de trop grands espaces sont
encore trop peu connus pour qu'il soit possible d'entreprendre un
travail d'ensemble satisfaisant. Si un pareil chiffre et celui qu'on
nous fait entrevoir nous étonnent, reportons-nous au noble et poétique
livre de M. Michelet, _la Mer_, et notre imagination au moins se
représentera la puissante fécondité qui se produit au sein des eaux, et
qui n'a aucun point de comparaison avec ce qui se passe sur la terre.
C'est là que la nature, échappant à la destruction dont l'homme est
l'agent fatal, et se dérobant à plusieurs égards à son investigation,
enfante sans se lasser des êtres innombrables dont l'existence éphémère
se révèle plus tard par l'apparition de continents nouveaux, ou par
l'extension des continents anciens. Cette intéressante et universelle
formation de la terre par les mollusques commence aux premiers âges du
monde. C'est sous cette forme élémentaire d'abord et de plus en plus
compliquée que la vie apparaît, mais avec quelle profusion étonnante!
Notre monde, nos montagnes, nos bassins, les immenses bancs calcaires
qui portent nos moissons ou qui servent à la construction de nos villes
ne sont en grande partie qu'un amoncellement, une pâte de coquillages,
les uns d'espèce si menue, qu'il faut les reconnaître au microscope,
les autres doués de proportions colossales relativement aux espèces
actuellement vivantes. Ainsi les grands et les petits habitants des mers
primitives ont bâti la terre et ont constitué ses premiers éléments de
fécondité. Ils ont disparu pour la plupart, ces travailleurs du passé à
qui Dieu avait confié le soin d'établir le sol où nous marchons; mais
leur oeuvre accomplie sur une partie du globe, n'oublions pas que la
plus grande partie du globe est encore à la mer et que la mer travaille
toujours à se combler par l'entassement des dépouilles animales qui s'y
accumulent et par le travail ininterrompu des coraux et des polypiers,
enfin qu'on peut admettre l'idée de leur déplacement partiel sans
secousse, sans cataclysme, et sans que les générations qui peuplent la
terre s'en aperçoivent autrement qu'en se transmettant les unes aux
autres les constatations successives de cette insensible révolution.
Le rôle des habitants de la mer et celui des mollusques en particulier,
à cause de leur abondance inouïe, est donc immense dans l'ordonnance de
la création. Tout en constatant les importants et vastes travaux de ses
devanciers et de ses contemporains adonnés à ce genre de recherches, M.
Deshayes ne pense pas que le moment soit venu d'entreprendre la grande
statistique de la mer. Des documents que nous possédons, on pourrait,
selon lui, tirer des notions d'une assez grand valeur; «mais, dans
l'état actuel de la science, ce travail, dit-il, ne satisferait pas les
plus impérieux besoins de la géologie et de la paléontologie, car il
ne s'agit pas de savoir quelle est la population riveraine de certains
points de la terre: il est bien plus important de connaître la
distribution des mollusques dans les profondeurs de la mer, de
déterminer l'étendue des surfaces qu'ils habitent, la nature du fond
qu'ils préfèrent, et ce sont ces recherches, ce sont ces documents qui
manquent à la science.»
Il résulte de ceci que, dans la mer, la vie a son ordonnance logique
comme partout ailleurs, et que ce vaste abîme ne renferme pas l'horreur
du chaos, ainsi qu'au premier aperçu l'imagination épouvantée se la
représente. Tous ces grands tumultes, ces ouragans, ces fureurs qui
agitent sa surface passent sans rien déranger au calme mystérieux de
ses profondeurs et aux lois de la vie, qui s'y renouvelle dans des
conditions voulues. «Pour entreprendre des investigations complètes,
dit encore M. Deshayes, il faut mesurer les profondeurs, reconnaître
la nature des fonds, suivre les zones d'égale profondeur, établir
séparément la liste des espèces habitées par chacune d'elles: bientôt
on reconnaît des populations différentes attachées à des profondeurs
déterminées.»
Donc, si c'est avec raison que les géologues considèrent les coquilles,
selon la belle expression de M. Léon Brothier, comme «les médailles
commémoratives des grandes révolutions du globe», il est de la
plus haute importance d'étudier leur existence actuelle, destinée
probablement à marquer un jour les phases du monde terrestre futur,
enfoui encore dans un milieu inaccessible à la vie humaine. C'est une
grande étude à faire et qui n'effraye pas la persévérance de ces hommes
paisibles et respectables dont la mission volontaire est d'interroger la
nature dans ses plus minutieux secrets. Notre siècle, positif et avide
de jouissances immédiates, sourit à la pensée d'une vie consacrée à un
travail qui lui semble puéril; mais les esprits sérieux savent qu'à la
suite de ces vaillantes investigations, la lumière se fait, l'hypothèse
devient certitude, et que, d'un ensemble d'observations de détail,
jaillissent tout à coup des vérités qui ébranlent de fond en comble les
plus importantes notions de notre existence. C'est la grande entreprise
que la science accomplit de nos jours, et c'est par elle que les
préjugés font nécessairement place à de saines croyances.
Nous avons donné de sincères éloges aux notes de M. Maillard sur ses
travaux de recherches à l'île de la Réunion; nous ne pouvons mieux les
compléter qu'en citant encore M. Deshayes. «Pour ce qui a rapport aux
mollusques (de cette région), nous pouvons l'affirmer, et le catalogue
le constate, personne avant M. Maillard n'en avait réuni une collection
aussi complète.... Parmi tant d'espèces contenues dans cette collection,
il eût été bien étrange de n'en rencontrer aucune qui fût nouvelle. Loin
de ce résultat négatif, nous avons eu le plaisir d'en reconnaître un
grand nombre qui jusqu'alors avaient échappé aux recherches d'autres
naturalistes. On remarquera surtout une addition notable à ces
mollusques aborigènes et fluviatiles sur lesquels notre savant ami M.
Morelet avait entrepris des recherches. Nous ne pouvions confier à de
meilleures mains le soin de déterminer les espèces contenues dans ce
catalogue.» Suit la description de trois genres nouveaux et de plus de
cent espèces avec treize planches d'un travail exquis dues à l'habile
dessinateur M. Levasseur. Cet ouvrage se recommande donc à tous les
explorateurs de la faune malacologique comme un document d'une valeur
incontestable.
XI
A PROPOS DU CHOLÉRA DE 1865
Le choléra est parti, des douleurs sont restées: des veuves, des
orphelins, de la misère. La charité administrative et la charité privée
ont donné de grands secours. Mais, quand le chef de famille est frappé,
la misère se prolonge ou se renouvelle. La mère est épuisée et les
enfants dépérissent. En ce moment, ce qui manque le plus, c'est
le vêtement, et l'hiver va sévir! Le XVIIIe arrondissement a
particulièrement souffert. Huit cent vingt et un décès représentent une
masse sérieuse de veuves découragées et d'enfants sans ressources.
M. Arrault, secrétaire du conseil de salubrité, a vu ces douleurs, il
les a racontées avec émotion dans _le Siècle_. Il a fait un appel aux
mères heureuses, il a demandé les vieux vêtements des enfants heureux.
On s'est empressé de lui envoyer de quoi vêtir une grande partie de
ses orphelins. _L'Avenir national_ veut l'aider dans son oeuvre de
dévouement et de charité en publiant à son tour ce bon et simple remède
à la plupart des maladies de l'enfance indigente, des habits et des
chaussures! Non pas seulement des habits d'enfants, mais des vestes,
des rebuts de toute sorte sont employés par les veuves qui coupent,
ajustent, essayent, utilisent, s'aidant les unes les autres et
retrouvant dans le travail le courage et l'espoir. Secours et
moralisation: voilà ce que l'on peut donner avec de vieux chiffons.
On peut envoyer à M. Arrault, qui se charge d'acquitter les frais de
transport,--rue Lepic, n° 11, à Montmartre,--tous les objets destinés à
cette oeuvre de bienfaisance opportune et généreuse.
LES AMIS DISPARUS
I
NÉRAUD PÈRE
Nous venons de perdre un de ces hommes rares qui ont traversé les
vicissitudes de notre vie politique sans y rien laisser flétrir de leur
noble caractère. Le vieillard probe et sage que nous avons conduit ces
jours-ci à son dernier lit de repos, a parcouru sa longue carrière,
sinon avec éclat, du moins avec honneur. C'est une de ces gloires
modestes qui restent dans le cercle de la famille, mais qui
l'agrandissent au point d'y faire entrer tout ce qu'il y a d'honnête
dans une province. C'est un de ces exemples qui demeurent pour
l'encouragement ou pour la condamnation des hommes publics appelés à
leur succéder.
Magistrat de sûreté durant la Révolution, à l'époque d'une réaction
antiroyaliste, il n'usa de sa dictature qu'avec indulgence et
générosité. Plus tolérant que la lettre des lois, il ne voulut entendre
ni punir bien des plaintes vives et bien des regrets imprudemment
exprimés.
Sous l'Empire, fidèle à un profond sentiment de son indépendance et de
sa dignité, nous l'avons vu blâmer avec force et franchise, en présence
de ses supérieurs, l'insupportable tyrannie qui trouvait alors tant
d'agents fanatiques ou cupides. Sous la Restauration, poursuivant de ses
railleries spirituelles les prétentions d'une génération surannée, nous
l'avons encore vu lutter tranquillement contre les tendances du pouvoir.
Quoique haï personnellement par M. de Peyronnel, quoique dénoncé maintes
fois et tourmenté dans l'exercice de ses fonctions, il fut l'allié
sincère du parti national et favorisa toujours l'opposition libérale
de son vote. Sous la Convention comme sous l'Empire et comme sous la
Restauration, il fut donc toujours le même; ferme, bon et tolérant.
Il eut une vertu, grande chez un magistrat: il resta homme, il crut au
repentir des coupables. Entre ses mains, l'accusation demeura sobre
de poursuites, délicate dans les moyens, décente et modérée dans
l'invocation des châtiments.
Le trait dominant de son caractère, c'était une grande bienveillance
pour les hommes, une gaieté railleuse pour leurs vices et leurs travers.
Son enjouement aimable et sa douce philosophie le conservèrent jeune
dans un âge avancé. Pendant ses dernières années, sa tête s'affaiblit,
mais son coeur resta jusqu'à la fin affectueux et simple. Il avait
oublié le nom et la demeure de ses amis; mais, lorsqu'il les
rencontrait, son regard et son sourire attestaient que leur image ne
s'était point effacée de son âme.
II
GABRIEL DE PLANET
Le Berry vient de perdre un des hommes les plus aimants et les plus
aimés qui aient vécu en ce monde, où tout est remis en discussion, et
où il est si rare, à présent, de voir toutes les opinions, toutes les
classes se réunir autour d'une tombe pour la bénir.
Gabriel de Planet est mort le 30 décembre 1854, d'une phthisie
pulmonaire, à l'âge de quarante-cinq ans. Porté à sa dernière demeure
par des ouvriers et des bourgeois, sans distinction de parti ni d'état,
il laisse des regrets unanimes, incontestés.
Né gentilhomme, Planet avait conçu, dès sa première jeunesse, l'idée
nette et le sentiment profond de l'équité fraternelle. Il n'a jamais
varié un seul jour dans cette religion de son coeur et de son esprit;
et pourtant, la rare tolérance de son jugement, la bienveillance de son
caractère et le charme conciliant de son commerce l'ont rendu cher à des
hommes dont la croyance et les instincts semblaient élever une barrière
infranchissable entre eux et lui. Il a été estimé et apprécié de la
Fayette, des deux Cavaignac, de Royer-Collard, de Michel (de Bourges),
de Delatouche, de Bethmont, des deux Garnier-Pagès, de l'archevêque de
Bourges, de MM. Mater et Duvergier de Hauranne, de MM. Devillaines et
de Boissy, de MM. Dufaure, Goudchaux, Duclerc et de cent autres qui,
en apprenant sa mort et la douleur quelle nous cause, s'écrieront sans
hésiter: «Et moi aussi, je l'ai aimé!»
Reçu avocat après 1830, Planet habita Bourges et apprit la science des
affaires avec Michel. Il fit, sous sa direction, la _Revue du Cher_ avec
M. Duplan, aujourd'hui rédacteur du _Pays_, puis vint s'établir à la
Châtre, où il acheta une étude d'avoué qui prospéra entre ses mains et
lui créa des relations étendues et variées qu'il a gardées, comme
autant d'amitiés fidèles, jusqu'à sa mort. Il les a dues autant à sa
remarquable capacité qu'à son activité infatigable, et à un zèle dont
ses clients ont su lui tenir compte. Nommé préfet du Cher sous le
général Cavaignac, il a été d'emblée un des meilleurs administrateurs
de France, et grâce â son esprit liant et persuasif, il a exercé des
fonctions calmes et faciles dans des temps difficiles et troublés.
Envoyé à la préfecture de la Corrèze à l'avènement de la Présidence, il
donna sa démission, n'ayant jamais eu d'autre ambition que celle d'être
utile dans sa province. L'Assemblée nationale s'occupait alors
de composer le Conseil d'État, Planet y obtint un nombre de voix
insuffisant, mais assez élevé pour témoigner de son mérite et de la
considération dont il jouissait. Depuis, il a vécu à la campagne,
adonné à la culture d'un admirable jardin créé par lui sur des collines
sauvages, dans le but principal d'occuper de nombreux ouvriers sans
ressources. Il avait aussi l'espoir de combattre, par le mouvement et la
volonté, l'incurable mal qui détruisait son être. Jusqu'à son dernier
jour, il a conservé cette volonté de vivre pour être utile et serviable;
jusqu'à sa dernière heure, il s'est préoccupé du bonheur de ses amis, du
bien-être des malheureux, de la charité, de l'affection et du devoir.
Il a été l'homme de dévouement par excellence. Il a fait autant de
bonnes actions et rendu autant de services importants qu'il a compté
de moments dans sa vie. Son activité décuplait le temps et tenait du
prodige. D'autres sont les martyrs d'instincts héroïques, il a été, lui,
le martyr de sa propre bonté. Tolérant par nature, navré des souffrances
d'autrui, malade d'une angoisse fiévreuse jusqu'à ce qu'il eût réussi
à les faire cesser, accablé de fatigues physiques et morales, toujours
ranimé par le désir du bien, toujours prêt à reprendre sa tâche
écrasante, il a vécu bien littéralement pour aimer, et il est mort jeune
pour avoir bien réellement vécu ainsi.
Planet était naïf comme un enfant, avec un esprit pénétrant et une
finesse déliée. Il était un type de stoïcisme envers lui-même, de tendre
indulgence envers les autres. Les contrastes de cette âme exquise et
simple, souffrante et enjouée, étonnaient et charmaient en même
temps, Nulle intimité n'a été plus douce et plus sûre que la sienne.
Souvenez-vous de lui, vous tous qui l'avez reconnu, et cherchez qui
lui ressemble! Pour nous, qui l'avons fraternellement chéri pendant
vingt-cinq ans, sans jamais découvrir une tache dans son âme ardente, un
travers dans son admirable bon sens, une défaillance dans sa charité,
une lacune dans son affection, nous ne le remplacerons pas! mais nous
l'aimerons toujours, étant de ceux pour qui la mort ne détruit rien.
A PLANET
L'avant-dernier des jours qui finissent l'année,
Planet nous a quittés pour un monde meilleur;
Il a rejoint, là-haut, la troupe fortunée
De ceux que Dieu remplit d'un éternel bonheur.
Je crois à ce beau rêve où l'âme se transporte
Pour accepter le mal qui règne parmi nous;
Mais j'y crois à demi: des cieux j'ouvre la porte,
Mais sans la refermer à tout jamais sur tous.
Je crois, ou crois sentir que Dieu, dans sa clémence,
Dans sa justice aussi, nous reprend tous en lui;
Que, dans son sein fécond, retrempant l'existence,
Il nous ôte l'effroi d'un monde évanoui.
Mais je pense qu'ayant renouvelé notre être,
Et l'ayant affranchi du cuisant souvenir,
Il nous dit: «Recommence, homme, tu vas renaître,
Et retourner là-bas pour vivre et pour mourir.
»Tâche qu'à ton retour, je te retrouve digne
De rester près de moi pendant l'éternité; .
Pour te faire obtenir cette faveur insigne,
Ne t'ai-je pas cent fois rendu ta volonté?
»Je n'ai jamais puni d'une peine éternelle,
L'homme ingrat et chétif qui ne peut m'offenser.
J'ai fait courte et fragile une phase mortelle,
Où croyant vivre, enfant, tu ne fais que passer.
«Reprends donc ton fardeau, refais ta rude tâche!
C'est dur! mais c'est un jour dans l'abîme du temps.
Ce jour mal employé ne sert de rien au lâche,
Mais il peut conquérir le Ciel aux militants.»
Des révélations que nous ouvre la tombe,
Nous ne conservons pas le souvenir distinct:
Sous le poids de la chair l'esprit divin succombe,
Mais nous en retenons un doux et vague instinct.
L'enfant, dès qu'il connaît le baiser de sa mère,
Aime avant de comprendre.--Aimer est le besoin
Qui s'éveille avec lui dès qu'il touche la terre,
Et que, plus qu'on ne croit, il rapporte de loin.
L'enfant, dès qu'il comprend le son de la parole,
Aide au tableau qu'on fait pour lui du paradis,
Il le voit, il l'a vu! et nulle parabole
N'embellit ce beau lieu présent à ses esprits.
Oui, l'enfant se souvient; mais il faut qu'il oublie,
Afin de s'attacher à ce monde sans foi;
Il faut que par lui-même il essaye la vie,
Afin de dire à Dieu: «J'ai souffert, reprends-moi.»
C'est alors que, selon le plus ou moins de flamme
Qu'elle a su raviver dans cet obscur séjour,
Pour plus ou moins de temps, le juge prend cette âme.
Et lui rend la santé, la jeunesse, l'amour.
Mais il est des mortels dont la course est remplie
De mérites si purs et d'un prix si parfait,
Que, leur peine remise, ou leur tâche accomplie,
De l'éternel repos ils goûtent le bienfait.
Planet, humble martyr, âme douce et naïve,
Toi qui restas enfant jusque dans l'âge mûr,
Par le besoin d'aimer, par la croyance vive,
Par le coeur et l'esprit, va donc, ton sort est sûr!
Tu luttas quarante ans contre un mal sans remède,
Tu naquis condamné, c est-à-dire béni.
Dieu t'avait dit là-haut: «Au malheur, viens en aide;
Meurs à la peine: alors, ton temps sera fini».
Il vécut pour bénir, pour consoler, pour prendre
Sur ses bras, tout le poids des misères d'autrui:
Pour souffrir de nos maux, pour ranimer la cendre
De nos coeurs épuisés que l'espoir avait fui.
Simple dans sa parole, éloquent à son heure,
Ingénieux en l'art de la persuasion,
Habile à pénétrer ce qu'en secret on pleure,
Indulgent aux douleurs de la confession;
Énergique au besoin, apôtre de tendresse,
Sans parti pris d'orgueil, sans rigueur de savant,
Du véritable juste il avait la sagesse,
Du conseil décisif il avait l'ascendant.
Les esprits froids ont dit: «Cet homme a la manie
De faire des ingrats, puisqu'il fait des heureux».
Dieu dit: «De la bonté, cet homme eut le génie,
C'est la seule grandeur que je couronne aux cieux».
III
CARLO SOLIVA[23]
SONNET TRADUIT DE L'ITALIEN
Du beau dans tous les arts, disciple intelligent,
Tu possédas longtemps la science profonde
Que n'encourage point la vanité d'un monde
Insensible et rebelle au modeste talent.
Dans le style sacré, dans le style élégant,
Sur le divin _Mozart_ ta puissance se fonde,
Puis dans _Cimarosa_, ton âme se féconde,
Et de _Paesiello_ tu sors jeune et vivant.
C'est que, sous notre ciel, tu sentis la Nature
L'emporter dans les coeurs sur la science pure,
Et qu'au doux chant natal tu fus initié.
Si, dans ce peu de mots, je ne puis de ta vie
Résumer les travaux, la force et le génie,
Laissons dire le reste aux pleurs de l'amitié!
[Note 23: Compositeur italien.]
IV
LE COMTE D'AURE
La presse a consacré quelques lignes au souvenir de M. d'Aure. Elle a
dit l'emploi officiel de sa vie active, elle a parlé de ses talents, de
ses travaux, de ses vues pratiques, de tout ce qui formait son éminente
spécialité.
Pour les amis particuliers de M. d'Aure, il y a quelque chose de plus à
dire. On ne peut se résoudre à voir disparaître un coeur d'élite sans
lui payer le tribut de l'affection méritée, et c'est là qu'il faut
entrer dans la vie privée. M. d'Aure était un des hommes les meilleurs
qui aient existé. L'éloge ne semblera banal qu'à ceux qui ne font point
de cas du dévouement et ceux-là sont rares, espérons-le. M. d'Aure ne
vivait que pour obliger, secourir, consoler. Il avait l'enjouement, la
sérénité de la bonté vraie, sûre d'elle-même, toujours prête. Toute sa
vie, il a donné tout ce qu'il avait d'argent à tout ce qu'il a rencontré
de détresse, et tout ce qu'il avait de coeur et de courage à tout ce
qu'il a rencontré de faible et d'abandonné. Au milieu de cette activité
mise au service de quiconque la réclamait, il était l'homme de la
famille et de l'intimité. Il s'est marié trois fois et trois fois il
a répandu autour de lui le charme de l'existence, car son unique
préoccupation était de rendre une famille heureuse. Il était
essentiellement paternel, même dans sa jeunesse, et ses nombreux
subordonnés se regardaient presque comme ses enfants. Il n'a jamais
abandonné personne. Il n'a jamais été servi par un pauvre homme sans
assurer son travail et le repos de sa vieillesse avec une sollicitude
incessante. Il pardonnait même l'ingratitude avec une facilité
qu'on prenait quelquefois pour de l'insouciance. Ce n'était pas de
l'insouciance; c'était un sentiment d'humanité raisonné par la logique
du coeur, et qui rendait d'autant plus énergiques les arrêts rendus par
son indignation. Il avait le sens du juste et du vrai avec une rare
équité de jugement. En lui, aucun préjugé de naissance, aucune intrigue;
une admirable franchise, un bon sens infaillible, une sensibilité
profonde, inépuisable.
Voilà ce que j'avais à dire de lui: il a été _bon_; pas comme tout le
monde peut l'être à un moment donné; il l'a été toujours, à toute heure
et jusqu'au dernier souffle de sa vie.
V
LOUIS MAILLARD
DISCOURS PRONONCÉ SUR SA TOMBE
LE 25 JANVIER 1865
Celui à qui nous disons adieu ici, avec l'espoir de le retrouver dans
l'immortalité _de tout ce qui est_, fut dévoué corps et âme à cet
éternel _devenir_ de l'humanité. Il a servi la civilisation avec la
famille saint-simonienne, ce grand et fécond agent du progrès au
dix-neuvième siècle. Il a servi son pays comme individu, en portant dans
une de nos colonies les plus françaises l'activité, l'intelligence, la
conscience et le zèle qui font durables et bienfaisants les travaux
de l'ingénieur. Il a servi la science en lui apportant le fruit de
recherches et d'observations vraiment fécondes et heureuses, faites avec
cette vraie lumière qui, chez les hommes épris de la nature, supplée aux
études spéciales. Il a servi aussi les lettres par son dévouement
aux idées généreuses et à quiconque autour de lui s'attachait à les
répandre.
Mais tous ces travaux, tous ces efforts, tous ces _dons_ d'une volonté
aussi ardente que sérieuse, n'ont pas assouvi la sainte prodigalité de
cette riche et tendre organisation. Nous le savons ici. Il a été le
meilleur ami de tous ses amis. Rien ne lui coûtait pour les aider, pour
les préserver, pour les consoler. Il était toujours là, lui, dans nos
dangers ou dans nos désastres, sachant, ou conjurer le malheur, ou dire
la parole simple et vraie qui sauve l'affligé en le rattachant à l'amour
des autres. Il était le compagnon toujours prêt et toujours utile, le
confident toujours délicat et sûr, le conseil sage, le secours prompt et
soutenu. Il était, pour tous ceux qui ont eu le bonheur de vivre près de
lui, un élément de leur être, une part de leur âme.
Reçois nos remercîments, toi qui ne voulais jamais être remercié, toi
qui te regardais ingénument comme notre obligé quand tu nous avais fait
du bien! On peut dire de toi que tu as eu le génie de la bonté, comme
d'autres en ont l'instinct. Où que tu sois, dans le monde du mieux
incessant et du développement infini, reçois les bénédictions de
l'impérissable amitié.
VI
FERDINAND PAJOT
La mort de Ferdinand Pajot est un fait des plus douloureux et des
plus regrettables. Ce jeune homme, doué d'une beauté remarquable et
appartenant à une excellente famille, était en outre un homme de coeur
et d'idées généreuses. Nous avons été à même de l'apprécier chaque fois
que nous avons invoqué sa charité pour les pauvres de notre entourage.
Il donnait largement, plus largement peut-être que ses ressources
ne l'autorisaient à le faire, et il donnait avec spontanéité, avec
confiance, avec joie. Il était sincère, indépendant, bon comme un ange.
Marié depuis peu de temps à une charmante jeune femme, il sera regretté
comme il le mérite. Je tiens à lui donner après cette cruelle mort, une
tendre et maternelle bénédiction: Illusion si l'on veut, mais je crois
que nous entrons mieux dans la vie qui suit celle-ci, quand nous y
arrivons escortés de l'estime et de l'affection de ceux que nous venons
de quitter.
VII
PATUREAU-FRANCOEUR
Patureau-Francoeur vient de mourir à la ferme de Saint-Vincent, près de
Gastonville (province de Constantine). Son nom suffit pour ses nombreux
amis, mais il appartient à l'un d'eux de dire au public quel homme était
Patureau-Francoeur.
C'était un simple paysan, un vigneron des faubourgs de Châteauroux. Il
avait appris tout seul à écrire, et il écrivait très remarquablement,
avec ces naïves incorrections qui sont presque des grâces, dans un style
rustique et spontané. Il a publié un excellent traité sur la culture de
la vigne, qu'il avait étudiée et pratiquée toute sa vie en bon ouvrier
et en naturaliste de vocation. Ce petit homme robuste, à grosse tête
ronde, au teint coloré, à l'oeil bleu étincelant et doux, était doué
d'une façon supérieure. Il voyait la nature, il l'observait, il l'aimait
et il la savait. Il avait des enthousiasmes de poëte, il faisait des
vers barbares, incorrects, d'où s'élançaient, comme des fleurs d'un
buisson, des éclairs de génie. Il riait de ses vers, il les disait ou
les chantait une ou deux fois, et n'en parlait plus. Quand il écrivait
sérieusement, c'était pour enseigner. Il a émis dans de nombreux
opuscules d'excellentes idées et des observations ingénieuses et sages
sur la culture propre aux régions de l'Afrique qu'il a longtemps
habitées.
Son existence parmi nous fut pénible, agitée, méritante. Naturellement
un esprit aussi complet que le sien devait se passionner pour les
idées de progrès et de civilisation. Il fut, avant la Révolution, le
représentant populaire des aspirations de son milieu, et il travailla
à les diriger vers un idéal de justice et d'humanité. Il faisait sa
modeste et active propagande sans sortir de chez lui, en causant avec
ses amis, au milieu de ses enfants et en s'inclinant avec respect
quand sa mère octogénaire, pieuse et digne femme qui professait le
christianisme primitif, lui rappelait que l'Évangile était la science de
l'égalité par excellence. Aussi Patureau tenait-il de sa mère la douceur
des instincts, l'austérité des moeurs et une religiosité particulière
qui ajoutait au charme de sa douce prédication.
Nul homme ne parlait mieux, avec plus de sens, plus de bonhomie et plus
d'esprit. Il était impossible de l'aborder sans vouloir l'écouter encore
et toujours. Il y avait en lui un intime mélange de finesse et de
candeur, d'ardeur pour le bien et de moquerie pour le mal, d'indignation
républicaine et de pardon chrétien. Lorsque les journaux nous
apportèrent la nouvelle d'un attentat célèbre, il était chez moi. Nous
déjeunions ensemble. Cet attentat était dirigé contre le représentant
d'un système qui l'avait déjà cruellement frappé. Loin de s'intéresser
aux conspirateurs, il jeta tristement le journal, en s'écriant:
--Faire du mal à ses ennemis, moi, je ne pourrais pas!
Il n'en fut pas moins emprisonné et exilé comme solidaire, sinon
complice de l'attentat.
On dit qu'il ne faut pas rappeler ces erreurs, ces égarements, ces
injustices des époques historiques voisines de nous; que c'est réveiller
des passions _assoupies_, évoquer des souvenirs dangereux, _armer_ les
citoyens les uns contre les autres! Non, cent fois non! Sur la tombe à
peine fermée d'un des plus purs martyrs de l'idée évangélique, raconter
le malheur et le courage ne peut pas être un délit. Apprendre aux
rancuniers et aux vindicatifs de tous les partis comment une âme
généreuse subit et pardonne, ne peut pas être une excitation â la haine.
Le système de l'oubli et de l'étouffement est immoral, antihumain et
par-dessus tout chimérique. C'est dans le silence forcé que couvent les
vengeances. C'est sous la compression que s'enveniment les plaies. Mieux
vaut relâcher le lien qui oppresse les coeurs et dire à ceux qui firent
le mal: «Voyez comme vous fûtes abusés, vous qui avez cru sauver la
société en bannissant ses plus utiles soutiens!» Et à ceux qui subirent
la persécution: «Voyez comme les vrais croyants se vengent en protestant
par leur douceur et leur vertu, contre l'arrêt aveugle qui les frappe!»
En 1848, Patureau avait été élu maire de Châteauroux. _Inde irae_. Il
remplissait avec fermeté et impartialité ses fonctions, préservant les
uns, apaisant les autres, tâche difficile et délicate s'il en fut! Mais,
si quelques-uns se sont souvenus de sa conduite et se sont chaudement
employés--le marquis de Barbançois entre autres--pour l'arracher à
l'exil, il en est beaucoup qui lui ont imputé les agitations populaires
de certains moments de crise. Une cruelle préoccupation agissait alors
dans l'esprit d'une fraction irritée de la bourgeoisie. Ce maire en
blouse et en sabots--il était trop pauvre pour être mieux vêtu--faisait,
disait-on, souffrir, malgré son extrême politesse et le tact exquis dont
il était doué, l'orgueil de certaines familles aristocratiques, dont il
consacrait les actes civils. Il y avait d'ailleurs là, comme partout,
jalousie de crédit et d'autorité, et puis la peur, une peur simulée, la
plus dangereuse de toutes. On savait bien que Patureau était sage et
humain; mais ce peuple inquiet, passionné, dont il traînait tous les
coeurs après lui: comment lui pardonner cela? La popularité est la chose
la plus enviée des temps de révolution; on oublie alors que c'est la
plus trompeuse et la plus funeste. On la redoute chez les autres, on la
voudrait pour soi. Tout homme se flatte d'en user à sa guise! Patureau
savait bien le contraire. Il se voyait alors débordé. Un agitateur assez
mystérieux dont j'ai oublié le nom, et qui, depuis, a inspiré de grands
doutes sur le but de sa véritable mission, travaillait les esprits et
passionnait la masse. Ces choses se perdirent et s'effacèrent dans les
événements du 15 mai.
Jusqu'en 1852, Patureau continua à tailler la vigne. Sa vie était rude,
il ne trouvait pas d'ouvrage chez les gens de certaines opinions, et il
avait une nombreuse famille à soutenir. Je lui confiai la création d'un
vignoble, et il tira d'un terrain stérile et abandonné une plante modèle
produisant le meilleur fruit de la localité. Il se louait aussi à la
journée pour les autres travaux de la terre. Il conduisait nos moissons
comme _chef dirige_, c'est-à-dire _tête de sillon_, et par son ardeur,
sa force et sa gaieté, il stimulait et charmait les autres moissonneurs.
On oubliait l'heure de la sieste pour l'écouter parler des étoiles, des
plantes, des insectes ou des oiseaux; car il avait tout observé et tout
retenu dans son contact perpétuel avec la nature, qu'il étudiait en
praticien et en artiste. La journée finie, il venait dîner avec nous
ou avec nos gens quand il s'était laissé attarder et que notre repas
changeait de table. Il était absolument le même à l'office ou au salon,
toujours aussi distingué dans ses manières, aussi choisi et aussi simple
dans son langage, aussi sobre, aussi aimable, aussi intéressant; sachant
se mettre à la portée de tous, instruisant les jardiniers, raillant avec
douceur les préjugés du paysan, enseignant à mon fils les moeurs des
insectes et à moi celles des plantes, causant philosophie, histoire ou
politique avec des personnes éminemment distinguées qui le rencontraient
toujours avec un vif plaisir et se montraient avides de l'entendre. Il
n'était jamais bavard ni déclamateur. Il causait surtout par répliques;
il racontait brièvement et de la façon la plus pittoresque. Il
questionnait avec candeur, se faisait expliquer, écoutait comme un
enfant, souriait comme si les choses eussent dépassé la portée de son
intelligence, et tout à coup, d'un trait pénétrant, d'un mot charmant
et profond, il résumait et l'opinion de son interlocuteur et la sienne
propre. Combien j'ai vu d'esprits sérieux et vraiment élevés, saisis
par la parole, le regard et l'attitude de cet homme supérieur, au teint
cuivré par le soleil et aux mains gercées par le travail!
--C'est le paysan idéal, me disait l'un.
--C'est le bonhomme la Fontaine, me disait l'autre.
Je leur répondais:
--C'est le peuple comme il devrait, comme il doit être.
Il fallait bien payer les chaudes amitiés et l'affection populaire dont
il était l'objet. Trop d'amis lui firent d'irréconciliables ennemis.
Jalousie de gens plus haut placés sur l'échelle de la fortune et qui ne
peuvent pardonner à un pauvre diable d'être né leur supérieur. Dieu
se trompe parfois étrangement; il ne tient pas compte des distances
sociales. Il donne le génie de la grâce et de la séduction à un
petit homme de rien. Dieu est sans principes, il pense mal. Il aime
quelquefois la canaille avec passion.
Les aversions longtemps couvées éclatèrent au coup d'État. Les gens
prétendus dangereux furent dénoncés, arrêtés et emprisonnés. Patureau,
averti à temps, disparut. Le paysan, l'homme de la nature, abhorre
la prison. Il sent qu'elle le tuera. Il aime mieux subir de pires
souffrances sous la voûte des cieux. Patureau, errant à travers la
campagne, dormant en plein bois, à la belle étoile, entrant furtivement
dans la première hutte venue et trouvant partout le pain du pauvre et
la discrétion du fidèle, échappa à toutes les recherches. Sa vie
d'aventures fut un roman. Tous les limiers de la police y perdirent leur
peine. L'un d'eux, un Javert peu lettré, essaya, dans un zèle fanatique,
de faire parler son petit enfant, le dernier, qui avait quatre ans, et
qui voyait souvent son père venir l'embrasser au milieu de la nuit.
L'enfant ne parla pas.
Personne ne parla, et, durant des semaines et des mois, le proscrit
revint voir ses nombreux amis et sa chère famille à l'improviste,
soupant chez l'un, déjeunant chez un autre, dormant quelquefois dans
un lit hospitalier, d'où il entendait, entre deux sommes, la voix des
agents qui venaient interroger ses hôtes sur son compte.
Une nuit, il dormit dans la forêt de Châteauroux dans un tas de fagots,
presque côte à côte avec un garde qui l'eût arrêté--car ordre était
donné à tous de l'appréhender--et qui ne le vit pas.
--Nous avons très-bien dormi tous deux, disait-il en racontant
l'anecdote; seulement, cette fois-là, j'ai eu bien soin de ne pas
ronfler.
On le cherchait toujours. Je lui avais conseillé de changer de province.
Je lui avais trouvé un gîte sous un nom supposé dans une maison où, de
jardinier, il devint bientôt chef de travaux, gardien et régisseur. Je
pourrai dire un jour le nom de l'honnête homme qui le recueillit et
l'aima. Aujourd'hui, je ne veux compromettre que moi.
Patureau fut compris dans la liste des exilés. Il en prit son parti sans
colère.
--Que voulez-vous! disait-il, les gens qui viennent pour nous juger ne
nous connaissent pas. Ils consultent certaines personnes qui souvent ne
nous connaissent pas davantage, et qui nous jugent, non sur ce que nous
sommes, mais sur ce que nous pourrions être après tant de misères, de
persécutions. Me voilà traité comme un buveur de sang, moi qui n'aime
pas à tuer une mouche!
Pendant que, lassé de vivre loin des siens, il se disposait à revenir et
à se montrer, d'actives et persévérantes démarches aboutirent à faire
entendre la vérité en haut lieu.
Enfin Patureau, _gracié_,--Dieu sait de quels crimes! mais c'était le
mot officiel--revint dans ses foyers, ainsi que plusieurs autres. Ses
ennemis ne laissaient pas de le surveiller, de l'inquiéter, de l'accuser
et de le mettre aux prises avec l'autorité, sans pouvoir trouver en lui
l'étoffe d'un conspirateur. Il se disculpa, la haine s'en accrut.
Un jour qu'il travaillait sous les ordres d'un régisseur qui l'avait
embauché comme bon ouvrier, le propriétaire accourut furieux et le
chassa de son domaine.
--Il en avait le droit, dit Patureau à ses amis. J'ai ramassé ma
faucille et j'ai serré la main des camarades qui me regardaient partir
et pleuraient de colère. «On ne veut donc pas, disaient-ils, que cet
homme gagne sa vie?...» Je leur ai répondu: «Soyez tranquilles, Dieu y
pourvoira. Il n'est pas du côté de ceux qui se vengent.»
Mais de quoi se vengeait-on? Impossible de le dire. Patureau ne pouvait
le deviner, car il le cherchait naïvement en faisant son examen de
conscience. Il n'avait jamais fait injure ni menace à personne; mais il
faisait envie, et c'est ce que sa modestie ne comprenait pas. Jamais je
n'ai pu saisir un fait contre lui, car j'étais à la recherche des griefs
pour le justifier. Toutes les accusations se résumaient ainsi: «Il ne
dit et ne fait rien de mal, il est fort prudent; mais ses amis sont à
craindre. C'est un homme dangereux, il est trop aimé.» Je ne pus rien
arracher de plus juste et de plus clair à celui de nos préfets qui me
faisait marchander sa grâce.
L'attentat d'Orsini, qui, dans les provinces, servit de prétexte à tant
de vengeances personnelles, surprit Patureau dans une quiétude complète
sur son propre sort. Il blâmait si sincèrement la doctrine du meurtre,
qu'il se croyait à l'abri de tout soupçon et ne songeait point à se
cacher. Il avait tort. Tant d'autres aussi innocents que lui de fait et
d'intention étaient arrêtés et condamnés à un nouvel exil! On lui fit la
prison rude! on l'isola, on ne permit pas à sa femme et à ses enfants de
le voir, pas même de lui faire passer des vêtements. Il resta un mois au
cachot sur la paille, en plein hiver. Quand on le mit dans la voiture
cellulaire qui le dirigeait vers l'Afrique, il était presque aveugle,
et, depuis, il a toujours souffert cruellement des yeux.
Cette fois, toutes les tentatives échouèrent. Il dut aller expier, sous
le terrible climat de Gastonville, le crime d'avoir été trop aimé.
Quelques-uns se découragèrent et y perdirent leur foi et leur espérance.
Le paysan, pris de nostalgie, devient fou. Patureau supporta l'exil en
homme et se prit à regarder l'Afrique en artiste. A peine arrivé, il
nous écrivait des lettres charmantes, presque enjouées, comme les eût
écrites un homme voyageant pour son plaisir et son instruction. La vue
des premières grandes montagnes couvertes de neige, l'audition des
premiers rugissements du lion dans la nuit firent battre son coeur d'une
émotion inattendue et il m'écrivait simplement: «Ah! madame, que c'est
beau!»
Et puis il se prit d'amour pour cette terre nouvelle si féconde en
promesses. Il regardait _pousser le blé derrière la charrue_; il prenait
cette terre dans sa main, l'examinait, l'analysait d'un oeil expert et
disait:
--Il y a là la nourriture d'un monde.
Déclaré libre, en septembre 1858, sur la terre d'Afrique, il résolut de
s'établir sous ce beau ciel et de chercher une ferme à faire valoir.
Connaissant sa valeur et sa capacité, le ministère de l'Algérie lui
accorda une concession qu'il lui fut permis de chercher à son gré dans
la région qu'il avait explorée. Enfin, une permission lui fut accordée
aussi de venir vendre sa maison et sa vigne de Châteauroux, et d'y
chercher sa famille pour être en mesure de cultiver. Il revint donc,
réalisa ses humbles ressources, emballa ses outils, persuada sa femme et
ses enfants (ses vieux parents étaient morts), vint chez nous donner une
_façon_ à la vigne qu'il y avait créée, et qu'il aimait comme sa
chose, nous raconta ses misères et ses joies, ses étonnements et ses
espérances; puis il partit pour Gastonville, avec tout son monde, la
pioche en main et le fusil sur l'épaule pour se préserver des bêtes
sauvages qui trônaient encore sur son domaine. Malgré de généreux
secours, il eut grand'peine à vivre au commencement. Pas assez d'argent,
pas assez de bras, et, la chaude saison, la fièvre et l'ophthalmie
interrompant le travail.
«C'est égal, disait-il dans ses lettres, le cachot m'a attaqué les yeux,
il faudra bien que le soleil me les guérisse.»
Au bout de deux ans, il s'aperçut bien que la colonisation est
impossible sans ressources suffisantes; il se vit forcé de louer sa
terre aux Arabes et de chercher une ferme dont il pût retirer de quoi
payer sa bâtisse, condition exigée de tous les concessionnaires.
Il trouva un terrain considérable, et s'établit à la ferme de
Coudiat-Ottman, dite depuis ferme de M. Vincent, et dite aujourd'hui
ferme du père Patureau. C'est là qu'il a vécu dès lors, élevant ses fils
et gardant sa douce philosophie pour remonter les courages autour de
lui. Il y conquit tant d'estime et de sympathie, que le préfet de
Constantine voulut l'adjoindre au conseil municipal de sa commune. Il
publia, ainsi que son fils aîné Joseph, de très-bons travaux sur
la vigne et la culture du tabac. Il fut nommé membre de la Société
d'agriculture de Philippeville. Tous les colons, à quelque classe et à
quelque opinion qu'ils appartinssent, se sont étonnés qu'un homme
de moeurs si douces et d'un coeur si humain et si généreux eût été
emprisonné et chassé de son pays comme un malfaiteur. Heureusement les
uns réparèrent la faute des autres. Sur la terre lointaine et au milieu
des races étrangères, le sentiment de la patrie se fait sérieux et
fraternel. Les jalousies de clocher expirent au seuil du désert, on se
connaît, on s'apprécie, on ne songe point à se persécuter. Patureau
sentait profondément cette solidarité qui lui faisait une nouvelle
patrie. Il l'avait sentie dès les premiers jours de son exil, et, quand
il vint nous faire ses derniers adieux, comme nous voulions lui dire:
_Au revoir!_
--Non, répondit-il, c'est bien adieu pour toujours. Si une amnistie
est promulguée, je n'en profiterai pas. J'ai dit adieu à tout ce que
j'aimais, à la maison où mes parents sont morts et où mes enfants sont
nés, à la vigne que j'ai plantée et que mes amis cultivaient pour moi en
mon absence. Je laisse beaucoup de gens qui m'ont aimé et que j'aimerai
toujours; mais j'en laisse aussi beaucoup qui m'ont haï injustement et
rendu malheureux. Là-bas, il y a la fatigue et la soif, la souffrance,
la fièvre, et peut-être la mort; mais il n'y a pas d'ennemis, pas de
police politique, pas de dénonciations, pas de jalousies, il suffit
qu'on soit Français pour être frères. C'est un beau pays, allez, que
celui où l'on n'a à se défendre que des chacals et des panthères!
On le voit, être aimé, c'était l'idéal de ce coeur aimant. Il a beaucoup
souffert du climat de l'Afrique, et il y a succombé encore dans la force
de l'âge; mais il y a réalisé son rêve. Il y a été chéri et respecté
comme il méritait de l'être. Son nom vivra dans la mémoire de ses
anciens concitoyens, et je ne serais pas surpris que, chez nos paysans,
qui l'ont tant questionné et tant admiré, il ne restât comme un
personnage légendaire. La persécution lui a fait une double auréole;
c'est à quoi toute persécution aboutit.
VIII
MADAME LAURE FLEURY
PAROLES PRONONCÉES SUR SA TOMBE A LA CHATRE LE 26 OCTOBRE 1870
Elle est revenue mourir au pays, la femme du proscrit, l'épouse dévouée,
la digne mère de famille! Elle a beaucoup souffert et beaucoup mérité,
elle a soutenu ses compagnons d'exil, soutenu ses amis et ses croyances
avec un courage héroïque. Elle laisse d'impérissables regrets à tous
ceux qui l'ont connue et qui viennent ici lui dire un solennel adieu.
Mais cet adieu n'est pas le dernier mot d'une si pure et si noble
existence. Comme elle, nous avons toujours cru à un Dieu juste et bon
qui connaît les belles âmes, qui ne leur demande pas compte des nuances
religieuses, et qui ne les abandonne jamais.
Nous comptons la retrouver dans une vie meilleure, cette âme immortelle,
sans tache et sans défaillance, et notre réunion autour d'une tombe est
un hommage plein de respect et de foi, un cri de douleur et d'espérance.
FIN
TABLE
NOUVELLES LETTRES D'UN VOYAGEUR
I. LA VILLA PAMPHILI
II. LES CHANSONS DES BOIS ET DES RUES
III. LE PAYS DES ANÉMONES
IV. DE MARSEILLE A MENTON
V. A PROPOS DE BOTANIQUE
MÉLANGES
I. UNE VISITE AUX CATACOMBES
II. DE LA LANGUE D'OC ET DE LA LANGUE D'OIL
III. LA PRINCESSE ANNA CZARTORYSKA
IV. UTILITÉ D'UNE ÉCOLE NORMALE D'ÉQUITATION
V. LA BERTHENOUX VI. LES JARDINS EN ITALIE
VII. SONNET A MADAME ERNEST PÉRIGOIS
VIII. LES BOIS
IX. L'ILE DE LA RÉUNION
X. CONCHYLIOLOGIE DE L'ILE DE LA RÉUNION
XI. A PROPOS DU CHOLÉRA DE 1865
LES AMIS DISPARUS
I. NÉRAUD PÈRE
II. GABRIEL DE PLANET
III. CARLO SOLIVA
IV. LE COMTE D'AURE
V. LOUIS MAILLARD
VI. FERDINAND PAJOT
VII. PATUREAU-FRANCOEUR
VIII. MADAME LAURE FLEURY
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of In het Schemeruur
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Title: In het Schemeruur
Author: Pieter Louwerse
Illustrator: Jan Sluijters
Release date: July 20, 2006 [eBook #18877]
Language: Dutch
Credits: Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN HET SCHEMERUUR ***
Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/
In het Schemeruur
Vertellingen voor het jonge volkje
Door
P. Louwerse
Geïllustreerd door Jan Sluijters
Derde, verbeterde druk
Amsterdam
H. J. W. Becht
JAN MET DE PIJP.
Midden tusschen de huizen van het dorpje Schootwerve lag een
allerliefst tuintje, dat door een heg van hulst van den weg
afgescheiden lag. Dat tuintje zag er keurig net onderhouden
uit. Tusschen de perkjes, die allerlei vormen hadden, slingerden
zich paadjes, die met schelpzand bedekt waren. De perkjes zelf waren
omringd door een laag hegje van steekpalm en versierd met allerlei
soorten van zaaibloemen.
Het grootste perk, dat in het midden lag, was een zoogenaamd tapijtbed,
dat er met zijn veelkleurige bloemen uitzag als een groote, heel groote
lappendeken, waardoor middenin een mannetje gekropen was. Dat mannetje
was een pop van aardewerk en stelde een rookenden Moor voor. Vroeger
had hij voor een tabakswinkel gestaan, maar toen hij bij de een of
andere gelegenheid zijn rechterhand, die de pijp vasthield, gebroken
had, was hij bij een uitdrager verzeild, en bij dezen had de eigenaar
van het tuintje den invalide gekocht. De timmerman van het dorp,
een echte knutselaar, had den steenen Moor een houten hand en pijp
gegeven en deze met draadnagels aan zijn lichaam vastgemaakt.
En zoo stond daar de rookende Moor den heelen zomer midden tusschen
de bloemen. Kwam het najaar aan, dan werd hij op den zolder gebracht
en eerst in April, na goed afgestoft, geveegd en opgeverfd te zijn,
kwam hij, den eersten zomerschen dag den besten, weer te voorschijn.
Roepen op andere plaatsen de jongens elkaar toe, als ze den
koekoek voor het eerst in het jaar hebben gehoord: "Ik heb den
koekoek gehoord!" hier riepen alle jonge Schootwervers: "Ik heb Jan
met de pijp gezien!" Want Jan met de pijp was de bijnaam van den
opgelapten Moor. Ja, de vrouw van den smid zou niet eer aan de groote
voorjaarsschoonmaak beginnen, vóór zij wist, dat Jan met de pijp van
den zolder in den tuin gekomen was.
Achter het tuintje stond een ouderwetsch huis. De muren waren van
onder tot boven begroeid met klimop en het was er zoo rustig en stil,
dat verscheidene vogeltjes het waagden hun nestjes in de altijd groene
takken te maken.
Het huis zelf had een groote voorkamer, een zijvertrekje, een
tuinkamer en een keuken. Boven waren nog een paar kamers en drie
slaapvertrekken. Tusschen de voor- en de tuinkamer was een alkoof en
hierin sliep de eigenaar van het huis, de oude heer Van Laeken.
Wie de oude heer Van Laeken was, zal ik jelui eens even vertellen.
Met Nieuwejaar van het jaar 1800 was hij te Antwerpen geboren, waar
zijn vader magazijnmeester was. De menschen hadden fatsoenlijk hun
brood, maar toen Napoleon beval, dat er geen Engelsche schepen meer in
de havens mochten komen om voortbrengselen uit Oost en West binnen te
brengen, toen was er in het magazijn van den rijken koopman, bij wien
Van Laeken's vader in dienst was, geen magazijnmeester meer noodig;
want het pakhuis was ledig.
Nu stond bittere armoede voor de deur.
De oude Van Laeken kon goed rekenen, schrijven en lezen, maar van
een ambacht verstond hij niets. Zijn eenig zoontje moest terstond
van school af, hoewel het ventje nog maar elf jaar oud was, en zijn
twee zusjes, die reeds bij een Franschen meester waren, werden ook
thuis gehaald.
"Als je nu nog leeren wilt, dan moet je jezelf maar oefenen en als je
met het een of ander niet voort kunt, vraag er mij dan maar naar en,
als ik kan, dan zal ik je helpen!" zei vader.
Maar van dat leeren kwam niet veel; want wie wat verdienen kon met
werken of boodschappen doen, die moest er maar op uit.
Toen George, zoo heette de jongen, zag, dat hij met boodschappen doen
het niet heel ver in de wereld brengen zou, zag hij naar alle kanten
uit, of hij niet iets kon vinden waarmede hij een eerlijk stuk brood
verdienen kon.
Zoo liep hij eens tegen den avond langs de kade toen een zeeman op
hem afkwam en vroeg: "Wat zoek je, jongen?"
"Ik zoek werk! Ik wil een ambacht leeren!" antwoordde George.
"En wat wil je leeren?"
"Daar geef ik niet om, als het maar iets is waarmee ik mijn brood
verdienen kan!"
"Je bent een onverschillige jongen," zei de zeeman.
"Dat is niet waar," antwoordde George. "Nu heb ik twaalf ambachten
en dertien ongelukken. Dat wordt nooit wat goeds! Ik wil één ambacht
leeren!"
"Nu, nu, het was zoo erg niet gemeend, manneke! Weet je wat ik ben?"
"Matroos?"
"Neen!"
"Stuurman of hofmeester dan?"
"Ook al niet! Ik ben scheepstimmerman aan boord van een oorlogsschip."
"En is dat een goed ambacht?"
"Dat zou ik wel gelooven. Z. M. de Keizer zorgt goed voor zijn
manschappen. Er is maar één Napoleon!"
"Dat zeg je! Maar zou ik dat scheepstimmeren ook kunnen leeren?"
"Waarom niet? Zou jij het bij mij aan boord willen leeren? Ik was er
juist op uit een jongen te zoeken!"
George's oogen glinsterden en den zeeman bij den arm vattend, zei hij:
"Ga mee naar vader en moeder en doe een goed woordje voor me!"
De man voldeed hieraan gaarne en.... veertien dagen later was George
aan boord van _La France_, een prachtig linieschip.
In den scheepstimmerman, meester Barend, zooals hij door de Hollandsche
matrozen genoemd werd, vond George een goed leermeester en een warm
vriend. Jarenlang, ook nog na den val van Napoleon, voeren ze samen,
doch na 1825 niet meer ten oorlog, maar ter koopvaardij.
Eindelijk was meester Barend zoo gelukkig een erfenis te krijgen
en daar zijn dienstjaren juist verloopen waren, ging hij uit den
zeedienst en vestigde zich als scheepstimmerman in de stad, waar
hij zijn vriend en makker George bij zich nam. George had de eerste
drie jaren aan boord van _La France_ niet alleen zijn vak geleerd,
maar daar de betrekking van schrijver door een gewezen schoolmeester
vervuld werd, en deze in zijn ledigen tijd gaarne nog wat deed, had
George van hem geleerd wat hij, door het ongeluk van zijn vader, in
Antwerpen niet had kunnen leeren. George schreef een goede hand en
wist van het Fransch en Engelsch zooveel, dat hij deze beide talen,
zonder grove fouten te maken, lezen, spreken en schrijven kon. Deze
kennis kwam hem nu uitmuntend te pas. Hij hield boek en meester
Barend zorgde, dat het volk op de werf zijn plicht deed. Het gevolg
hiervan was, dat de scheepmakerij in bloei toenam en toen meester
Barend op 62-jarigen leeftijd aan een slepende ziekte overleed,
was George van Laeken eigenaar van de geheele zaak. Meester Barend,
die op de geheele wereld geen familie meer had, had kort voor zijn
dood alles aan George vermaakt.
Hadden George's ouders nu nog geleefd, dan had hij voor hen kunnen
zorgen, maar ze waren in 1812 kort na elkaar gestorven, en zijn
zusters waren de wijde wereld ingegaan, zonder eenig spoor van zich
achter te laten.
Oude buren verzekerden, dat ze met de vrouw van den gewezen maire
(burgemeester) van Antwerpen waren medegegaan naar Frankrijk.
Twintig jaar lang bleef George scheepstimmermansbaas, maar toen besloot
hij stilletjes te gaan leven. Hij zocht daarom een vriendelijk gelegen
plaatsje en vond dat in Schootwerve. Hij kocht daar een groot stuk
duingrond, liet er een huisje bouwen en legde er, met heel veel moeite
en voor heel veel geld, een mooi tuintje aan. Achter zijn huis had
hij berken en dwergeiken laten planten en die tierden daar uitmuntend.
Toen hij ongeveer een jaar of tien te Schootwerve met een huishoudster
geleefd had, kwam op zekeren dag de burgemeester bij hem om te vragen,
of hij ook nog familie in Antwerpen had.
Nu, wat zou mijnheer Van Laeken zeggen? Hij wist niet beter dan
van neen.
"Ik heb anders vanmiddag een brief gekregen uit Antwerpen waarin
me gevraagd werd, of bij mij op het dorp niet een zekere George van
Laeken woonde. Daar waren twee kleine meisjes te Antwerpen gekomen met
een brief waarin stond, dat haar grootmoeder een zuster was geweest
van George van Laeken, die als scheepmakersleerling in Franschen
dienst gegaan was. Die grootmoeder had daar in Frankrijk haar man,
haar dochter en haar schoonzoon zien sterven en toen zij voelde dat
ze ook niet lang meer leven zou, had ze aan de twee kinderen van haar
dochter een brief gegeven om dien aan den burgemeester van Antwerpen
te brengen, als ze gestorven zou zijn. Kort daarop stierf ze; haar
geringe bezitting werd verkocht en in gezelschap van den pastoor van
het dorp waren ze naar Antwerpen gegaan!"
"Nu," zei mijnheer Van Laeken, "dat kan best waar zijn. Ik zal naar
Antwerpen gaan en de zaak onderzoeken!"
Drie weken later kwam de oude heer te Schootwerve terug met twee
meisjes bij zich. Ze waren tweelingen en heetten Helena en Anna.
Voor die nichtjes was hij alles, en waar hij haar pleizier kon
doen, daar deed hij het, en zij toonden dat ze die liefde ten volle
verdienden.
Die meisjes kregen weldra vriendinnetjes en menigmaal was er
kinderfeest in huis, op welk feest ook de broertjes van de
vriendinnetjes mochten komen.
Eindelijk maakte de oude heer met al de jongelui de volgende
afspraak. "Iedere week zal ik aan den hoofdonderwijzer vragen wie
er de heele week goed opgepast heeft en zij nu, op wie hij niets
te zeggen heeft, mogen Zaterdags bij me komen, dan zal ik hun een
vertelling doen!"
Dat werd natuurlijk goedgevonden en den volgenden Zaterdag was de
oude man door wel dertig kinderen omringd. Een stuk of acht jongens,
echte belhamels, hadden om hun slecht gedrag niet mogen komen, en
die waren hierover zóó boos, dat ze mijnheer Van Laeken allerlei
leelijke namen gaven, en op het laatst hem bijna niet anders kenden,
dan onder den naam van "_Jan met de Pijp_."
"Wel," zei de vriendelijke oude heer, toen hij dat hoorde, "ze noemen
me _Jan met de Pijp_, best, heel best!" Hierop was hij naar de stad
gegaan, had zijn portret laten maken en veertien dagen later gingen
meer dan dertig kinderen naar huis, en ieder had een keurig nette
afbeelding van den goeden man in den zak.
Ik heb het geluk gehad zulk een portret meester te worden, en als
je nu weten wilt, hoe mijnheer George van Laeken er als _Jan met
de Pijp_ uitziet, bekijk dan maar eens het prentje in dit boek, dan
weet je het. Hij lijkt sprekend. En als je hem nu goed bekeken hebt,
lees dan maar verder wat hier in dit boekje staat. De vertellingen,
die ik uit zijn mond opgevangen heb, staan hierin, en ik twijfel geen
oogenblik of ze zullen je wel bevallen.
NAAR ZEE.
Het was vroeg in het voorjaar van 1817 en we lagen met onze korvet,
dat is een soort van oorlogsschip moet je weten, te Vlissingen in het
dok. Het was meer dan noodig, dat we die haven binnengeloopen waren;
want _De Windhond_, zoo heette ons schip, had het vorig jaar nogal
wat geleden, toen we den Algerijnen den mantel uitgeborsteld hadden,
dat de wol er afvloog. We moesten in het droogdok, maar die het eerst
komt, het eerst maalt, dat was ook hier waar; want niet minder dan
zes schepen waren ons voor. Als die klaar waren werd het onze beurt.
Zulk een leven aan den wal is voor Janmaat het onplezierigste wat er
wezen kan. We verveelden ons vreeselijk en dikwijls dacht ik, als ik
zoo naar de groote beelden keek, die boven het beeldenhuis staan:
"We hebben nu op het oogenblik veel weg van die steen en dingen
daarboven! Is dat een leven?"
We hadden een bovenstbesten kommandant. Hij hield van zijn volk, en
zijn volk hield van hem. Waar hij ons maar pleizier kon doen, daar deed
hij het, zoodat we menigmaal verlof kregen om eens te gaan wandelen.
Ik weet niet of je op het eiland Walcheren bekend zijt. Denkelijk wel
niet en daarom wil ik je even zeggen, dat het een der mooiste streken
van ons land is. Weiland, bouwland, buitenplaatsen, vriendelijk
gelegen dorpjes, mooi aangelegde wegen, mooie duinstreken, zware
dijken en zee wisselen elkander af.
Geen wonder, dat we dan ook altijd van de vergunning om te wandelen
gaarne gebruik maakten en wel zorgden, dat er nooit klachten over ons
kwamen. Want, zie je, dan wisten we, als er een veldwachter aan boord
van _De Windhond_ kwam om te klagen, dat een der matrozen hier of
daar wat gedaan had, dat niet in den haak was, dan zat er wat op. De
minste straf was een maand dekarrest, dat wil zooveel zeggen als een
maand lang aan boord blijven.
Zooals ik daar straks al zei, het was vroeg in het voorjaar toen we
in het dok kwamen te liggen. We hadden een koude, schrale Februari en
Maart was nog een beetje erger. Op de timmerwerf van de schepen was
werk in overvloed, maar al de andere ambachten wachtten op het mooie
weer om te beginnen; vooral hadden de metselaars het kwaad, bitter
kwaad. In het najaar was het werk vroeg gedaan geweest en nu duurde
het zoo lang eer ze weer beginnen konden met wat te gaan verdienen.
Voor ons kwam het er evenwel niet zoo erg op aan; we ondervonden
alleen het onaangename van de koude, maar voor het overige hadden
we er geen hinder van. Spek en gort kregen we meer dan we lustten,
en dikwijls gebeurde het, dat de bakmaats den bak met gort niet leeg
konden krijgen.
Eens op een morgen, dat ik zoo aan den valreep naar de beelden van het
beeldenhuis en dan weer naar de beweging op straat stond te kijken,
zag ik twee jongetjes door de modder van de pasgevallen watersneeuw
loopen. Ze zagen er schraaltjes uit. De kleertjes, die ze aan het lijf
hadden, waren brandhelder, maar dun, dun, o, men kon de ribbetjes,
die er onder zaten, bijna tellen. Gezond zagen ze er ook niet uit;
de oudste had lange, zwarte haren en daardoor kwam zijn mager
gezichtje nog veel meer uit. Zijn oogen kropen bijna weg, alsof ze
zich schaamden, dat ze boven een paar zulke magere wangen staken,
en de wijde pijpen van de broek woeien met den wind zoo achteruit,
dat men de beentjes, zoo dun als talhoutjes, er in kon zien zitten.
En toch scheen dat kereltje geen verdriet te hebben; want onderwijl
zijn jonger broertje, dat er iets beter uitzag en die ook betere
kleertjes aanhad, liep te huilen, floot hij een deuntje.
"Jongens," dacht ik, "vanmorgen hebben we wel een bak half vol met
gort overgehouden, er is nog een stuk spek in ook, wie weet of die
kleine snuiters dat niet graag hebben zouden!"
"Wat sta je daar als een baliekluiver de straatsteenen te
tellen?" vroeg opeens iemand, die achter me stond.
Het was onze kommandant; ik keerde me om, sloeg de voorste vingers
van mijn rechterhand tegen mijn wollen muts en zei: "Ik keek naar
die twee arme kinderen, kommandant, en ik dacht ... ik dacht ..."
"Nu, wat dacht je?"
"Ik dacht, kommandant, dat die arme zielen misschien de gort wel
zouden lusten, die wij vanmorgen hebben overgehouden!"
"Wel, vraag het dan, kerel! Van mij heb je permissie!" antwoordde hij.
"Alstublieft, kommandant," zei ik, liep de loopplank af en haalde de
jongens, die op hun sukkeldrafje al een heel eind ver geloopen waren,
spoedig in.
"Hei, hei!" riep ik.
De kinderen keken om en toen ze mij zagen wenken stonden ze stil.
"Heb jelui soms ook honger?" vroeg ik.
"Ik heb mijn buik vol gefloten, maar mijn broertje kan niet fluiten
en die denkt nu zijn buik vol te kunnen huilen; maar dat schijnt hem
niet te gelukken!" zei de oudste.
"Lust je ook gort met spek?" vroeg ik weer.
"Die niet lust is dood! Ik lust alles!" antwoordde hij.
"Best, ga dan maar met me mee, dan kan je bij ons aan boord
schaften. Hallo, frisch op maar! Wie van jelui beiden er het eerste
is krijgt het meeste."
Rrrt, daar ging de kleinste, loop je niet, zoo heb je niet! als een
kogel uit eene draaibas! De oudste deed het niet en kwam langzaam
achteraan slenteren.
"Wat," riep ik hem toe, "kan jij niet loopen?"
"Neen, mijn broertje wint het altijd van me," zei hij en kwam wel
een paar minuten later aan boord dan zijn broertje en ik.
Weldra zaten we tusschendeks, ik op zij, en die twee plat op de
planken met den bak tusschen zich in.
"Jij mag twee prikken tegen dat ik er een neem, Jan," zei de oudste;
"jij hebt het gewonnen, jij mag dus het meeste!"
En, verbazend, wat at die kleine! Zulk eten heb ik nooit gezien! Maar
toch kon hij alles niet op en er bleef nog heel wat over. Zoodra Jan
den lepel neerlegde deed Tom, zoo heette de ander, het ook.
"Nu, Tom," sprak meester Barend, die er ook bij gekomen was, "nu Tom,
heb jij zoo'n kleine maag?"
"Welneen," antwoordde hij, "maar ik heb ze al vol gefloten en ... en
thuis, weet u ... thuis ..."
"Nu, thuis?"
"Ja, vader en moeder en de twee kleintjes kunnen ook niet fluiten!"
Ik keerde me om, zag meester Barend aan en ... dat had ik nog nooit
gezien, meester Barend kreeg opeens zulke natte oogen, alsof hij
zwaar verkouden was en niezen moest en het niet kon.
"Te weerga, jongen, eet!" riep hij. "Eet, zeg ik je! Jij bent een
jongen, hoor! Je bent van de stof waaruit onze Lieve Heer de engelen
gemaakt heeft! Eet, zeg ik je! Die daar thuis zijn en niet fluiten
kunnen, krijgen van mij en mijn kameraads een bak vol! Toe kerel,
eet, eet dan!"
Maar zie eens aan! In plaats van nu opnieuw toe te tasten, vloog de
lange lummel zijn broertje om den hals en begon hardop te huilen,
en daar huilen een aanstekelijke ziekte is, begon Jan ook. Dat was
me een mooi gezicht! Twee huilende kwajongens en een schaftbak met
gort en spek er naast.
"Mag ik ook weten wat hier te doen is, meester Barend?" vroeg de
kommandant.
"Wij hebben hier een jongen gevonden met een groot hart in 't lijf,
kommandant," antwoordde meester Barend en, terwijl hij vertelde wat
die oudste jongen zoo al gezegd en gedaan had, kwamen een paar groote
tranen langs zijn wangen rollen.
"Dat is mooi, dat is heel mooi," sprak de kommandant. "Eer die jongens
van boord gaan, moeten ze eens even bij mij in de kajuit komen!"
Wat de kommandant met deze jongens besprak, kwam ik natuurlijk niet te
weten, althans dien dag niet. Maar dat is zeker, dat ze meer van boord
rolden dan liepen, en dat ze voortaan elken morgen om de overgeschoten
gort kwamen. Zoo werden we langzamerhand bekenden.
Intusschen werd het in Juni ook onze beurt in het droogdok te gaan
liggen, dat is te zeggen, het schip, weet je, maar wij niet. Zoolang
_De Windhond_ daar lag, gingen wij aan boord van de _Neptunus_, een
oud linieschip, dat daar al sinds jaar en dag in het dok gelegen en
nooit zee gezien had. Op zoo'n schip, dat volstrekt geen tuigage had,
hadden we nog veel minder te doen dan op _De Windhond_, zoodat de
kommandant ons gaarne vergunning gaf met meester Barend eens een
rijtoertje te gaan maken.
Wij hadden een prettigen dag en kwamen tegen den avond langs Koudekerke
terug.
"Weet je wat, jongens," zei meester Barend, "het zitten en rijden
begint me te vervelen. Ik stel voor, den wagen naar Vlissingen leeg
terug te laten rijden, en dan gaan we van hier naar de duinen om zoo
langs het strand naar huis te gaan!"
De anderen hadden evenwel geen zin in het loopen, en daarom reden
er vijf mee en meester Barend en ik gingen loopen. Na bijna twee uur
gewandeld te hebben, we waren nog verdwaald geweest op den koop toe,
kwamen we zoowat een groot uur van Vlissingen af op het strand. Er woei
een stevige bries en dat beviel ons; want we waren niet weinig warm.
Toen we zoo omstreeks een half uur geloopen hadden riep meester
Barend opeens: "Kijk eens, George, zijn daar ginds geen jongens aan
het zwemmen?"
Ik keek op en zag ze ook; maar zwemmen deden ze niet. Ze schenen maar
wat in het water te loopen spelen.
"De lange lummel daar mag wel voorzichtig zijn," sprak meester
Barend. "Er gaat hier een sterke eb en de kwajongen waagt zich veel
te ver! Pas op, straks kunnen we nog gaan zwemmen om hem te redden."
Toen we nader kwamen zagen we wat er aan de hand was. Op de eb
dreef een heel klein scheepje, waarmee ze gespeeld hadden, doch dat
omgeslagen was, al verder en verder zee in.
"Ik weet al wie het zijn," zei ik na een poosje. "Die lange daar
met zijn stroohoed op is Tom, en die met dat mutsje, is Jan van den
metselaar uit de Vrouwenstraat. Zeker aan het spelen!"
"Mooi spelen!" bromde meester Barend. "Ze leggen het er op toe om te
verdrinken. Als hij nog wat verder gaat, dan ... daar gaat hij al,
daar gaat hij al!" Hierop zette meester Barend de holle handen voor
zijn mond en schreeuwde, evenals door een scheepsroeper: "Hei!"
Tom zag op en Barend wenkte hem, dat hij terug zou komen.
Maar dat terugkomen was gauwer gezegd dan gedaan. Er ging een sterke
stroom en eer Tom er op verdacht was, daar ging hij.
"Help! Help!" schreeuwde hij.
"Heb ik het niet gezegd?" riep Barend, "dat geeft vanavond nog een
bad!" en zoo als hij dat gezegd had, liep hij langs den kortsten weg
dwars door het water heen.
Tom dreef met den stroom al verder af en, was meester Barend niet
een baas in het zwemmen geweest, dan had Tom zijn onderneming om het
drijvende scheepje weer terug te krijgen, met den dood moeten bekoopen.
Onderwijl mijn oude kameraad zich met het redden van den
onvoorzichtigen Tom bezighield, had ik Jan op het droge gebracht,
en daar ik wel kans zag het scheepje nog te krijgen, ging ik opnieuw
te water, om van mijn zijde ook wat te doen.
Barend kwam op hetzelfde oogenblik met Tom aan wal, als ik met het
scheepje, maar ik zou liever het scheepje dan Tom geweest zijn; want
die kreeg van Barend een ongemakkelijk pak voor de natte broek. Dat
deed hij nu niet om den armen jongen te straffen, maar alleen om den
schrik er uit te slaan.
Wij zagen er met ons viertjes keurig mooi uit. We waren heelemaal
nat en, al was het nu ook al in Juni, toch kan ik niet zeggen, dat
zulk een nat pak zoo heel plezierig en verkwikkend was. We beefden
van koude, en toen wij 's avonds in kooi lagen, konden we er ons nog
maar niet diep genoeg in rollen om toch maar warm te worden.
Een paar dagen later liepen meester Barend en ik eens langs den
Nieuwendijk te wandelen toen er een metselaar op ons afkwam.
"Meester Barend," zei hij, "ik bedank u wel voor het redden van mijn
jongen, hoor! Hij was er bijna geweest!"
"Ja," antwoordde Barend, "hij zal nu vooreerst wel geen scheepjes
meer laten varen; hij zal er wel schrik van gezet hebben!"
"Schrik van gezet hebben? Schrik van gezet hebben?" riep de man. "Lieve
schepsel, dat lijkt er niet naar. Hebben die kwajongens vanmiddag
het alweer niet gedaan? Ik kan hen maar niet van het water houden;
zóó ben ik de deur uit en zijn zij de straat op, of, jawel, op het
Hoofd, op het Rondeel, op het Dok, op de Kaai, nu hier, dan daar,
maar altijd om of bij het water!"
"Dan zullen ze zeeman moeten worden, vriend!" zei Barend.
"Ja, dat roepen ze allebei. Als ik vraag: Tom, wat moet je worden? dan
is het: Naar zee, vader! en doe ik diezelfde vraag aan Jan, dan is het:
Naar zee, vader!"
"Wel, stuur ze dan naar het wachtschip, vriend!"
"Naar het wachtschip? Wel, voor geen nog zooveel! Ze kunnen worden wat
ze willen, als ze maar aan den wal blijven! Want, een zeemansleven,
geen leven!"
"Zeker om daar 's winters gebrek te lijden, hé?" zei Barend, die
wat boos werd. "Je hebt gelijk, man, groot gelijk! Als ik jou was,
dan liet ik ze metselaar worden en anders aschman of zoo iets! Dan
heb je altijd volop werk, je verdient veel geld, en eten, drinken,
vuur, licht, kleeren en al wat je maar wilt, heb je volop. Ik zeg ook:
een zeemansleven, geen leven!"
"Neen, meester Barend, niet omdat jelui geen eten of drinken of goede
kleeren hebt, daarom niet; maar,--maar,--och, ik zal het u maar zeggen:
ik ben bang, dat er van die twee aan boord niet veel goeds groeit. Als
al het zeevolk was, zooals meester Barend en hier de deze,"--hij
wees op mij,--"dan zou ik zeggen: Ga naar zee, jongens, en je zult
wat worden. Maar nu,--neen, mijn vrouw zou het ook niet willen hebben!"
Toen de arme metselaar dat gezegd had, stond meester Barend een
poosje in gedachten. Eindelijk zei hij: "En als ik nu eens aan onzen
kommandant vroeg of de jongens bij ons aan boord mochten komen, dan
zouden mijn jonge vriend George en ik een oogje op die twee houden
en, misschien, misschien, dat er een paar ferme zeelui uit je jongens
groeiden! Wil je hebben, dat ik het vraag?"
De metselaar bedacht zich een oogenblik en zei eindelijk: "Als u dat
doen wilt, alstublieft! Heel graag, heel graag!"
Een week later was alles in orde en waren Tom en Jan bij ons aan boord
van het linieschip. Wel viel het leven beiden vreemd, maar daar ze
een paar flinke borsten waren, begonnen ze met op zij te zetten wat
hun niet beviel, en hemelhoog te prijzen wat niet onplezierig was.
Op den 31sten Augustus zeilden we weer uit. De korvet was heelemaal
hersteld en deed haar naam weer eer aan; want ze vloog over het water
als een zeemeeuw. Onze bestemming was West-Indië, waar we drie jaar
lang moesten kruisen om onze koopvaardijschepen te beschermen tegen
de vele zeeroovers, die deze streken onveilig maakten.
We waren er spoedig en de eerste zes maanden ging alles vrij goed;
zeeroovers waren nergens te zien en we hadden eigenlijk niemendal
te doen.
Maar spoedig kwam er een vijand, op wien we niet gerekend hadden en
waarvoor we allemaal bang waren. Het was de gele koorts. Zie, tegen
zulk een vijand helpen geen kanonnen of scherpe sabels. De eerste,
die deze ziekte kreeg, was meester Barend. Dagen achtereen lag hij
vreeselijk ziek en er was wel niemand aan boord, die dacht, dat hij
er bovenop komen zou. Ik moet eerlijk bekennen, dat ik bang was bij
hem te komen. Als ik die ziekte ook eens kreeg! En als ik er dan eens
aan stierf! Ik was toch nog zoo jong!
Jong, ja, dat waren Tom en Jan ook; maar die waren beter dan ik. Zij
dachten niet, dat het mogelijk kon zijn, dat ze sterven konden. Ze
hielden veel van Barend; hij had Toms leven gered en voor beiden als
een vader gezorgd.
"Tom," zei de dokter eens, "Tom, weet je wel, dat de gele koorts een
besmettelijke ziekte is, hé?"
Tom knikte van ja en zei, dat hij dat ook wel eens gehoord had.
"Nu, jongen, laat de ziekenoppasser den armen Barend dan
verzorgen! Waag je leven niet, hé!"
"Ja maar, dokter, meester Barend heeft mijn leven eens gered, en
gezorgd, dat mijn broertje en ik bij hem aan boord kwamen! We wilden
hem toch liever oppassen!"
"Nu, als je er op staat en de kommandant wil het hebben, dan is het
mij onverschillig, hé!"
Onder ons, we noemden den dokter altijd "meneertje Hé," omdat hij, als
hij wat zei, altijd eindigde met "hé!"--Toen dan "meneertje Hé" bij den
kommandant kwam en hem vertelde wat die twee jongens deden, zei deze:
"Wel, die jongens toonen, dat ze ook dankbaar kunnen zijn en het zou
jammer wezen, als we hun nu gingen beletten hun vriend op te passen!"
De dokter kon er dus niemendal aan doen, zoodat Tom en Jan aan het
ziekbed van Barend bleven en den man zóó trouw verzorgden, dat een
moeder niet beter op haar kind kon passen.
Eindelijk hadden Tom en Jan het genoegen te zien, dat hun zeevader
het gevaar te boven was en langzaam van zijn ziekte herstelde.
Van dien tijd af was meester Barend aan de jongens gehecht, alsof
het zijn eigen kinderen waren. Maar wat gebeurde er? Reeds waren
verscheidene manschappen aan de ziekte bezweken en had de kapitein
besloten het eiland Curaçao aan te doen om hen, die nog ongesteld
waren, aan wal te brengen, het heele schip te laten zuiveren en versch
drinkwater in te nemen. Niemand onzer gevoelde hierover eenige spijt
en allen zagen verlangend uit naar het oogenblik, dat het eiland in
het gezicht zou zijn.
"Wel, Tom," zei ik op zekeren dag, "zie je niets?"
"Ja," was het antwoord, "ik zie wel wat, maar ik kan nog niet zeggen
wat het is!" Opeens echter kwam de kommandant op het voorschip loopen
en gaf bevel, dat alle zeilen terstond moesten gereefd worden. Wat
Tom zag, was geen schip, geen bergtop, geen eiland, het was een wolk,
die spoedig al grooter en grooter werd. Opeens ging de wind liggen;
het werd bladstil. De wimpel zakte neer en de zeilen hingen slap
tegen het want.
"Handen uit de mouwen, jongens, we krijgen storm! En storm in deze
zee zegt zoo iets!" riep meester Barend.
Wij hielpen waar wij konden, maar konden niet begrijpen vanwaar die
storm nu komen moest.
"Bravo!" riep nu de kommandant, "dat heet ik werken! Mijnheer Blaasbalg
kan nu komen en wij hopen hem moedig het hoofd te bieden!"
Intusschen was in minder dan tien minuten tijds de heele westelijke
hemel met wolken bedekt en wel met wolken, zooals ik ze nog nooit
gezien had. Ze waren zoo blauw-zwart als leien, en onderwijl we er
zoo naar stonden te kijken en de anderen op het dek alles vastsjorden
wat los stond, hoorden wij een onophoudelijk gerommel, even alsof er
in de verte een boerenwagen over groote straatkeien reed.
Eensklaps begon de lucht ook van de andere zijden te werken en hoewel
het midden op den dag was, werd het zoo donker, alsof de zon zooeven
was ondergegaan.
Het gerommel werd sterker; en zoo mogelijk werd het nog stiller. En
drukkend heet dat het was! Men had het overal te kwaad; want zelfs in
het topje van den grooten mast was geen koeltje te voelen. Het waren
vreeselijke oogenblikken. We wisten allen, dat er wat komen zou en
de een keek den ander aan, alsof hij vragen wilde: "Komt het nog niet?"
Eensklaps schoot er zulk een bliksemstraal door de lucht, dat
er uit alle monden een: "Hè!" klonk en de slag, die er op volgde,
geleek veel op het bombardement van Algiers, maar het geluid was nog
sterker! Dit was het begin van het vreeselijkste onweder, dat ik ooit
heb bijgewoond. Tom en Jan waren overal waar ik was en ik was overal
waar meester Barend was. Zeker dachten we, dat die man ons helpen
kon. Angstig zag meester Barend uit naar den wimpel, die nog altijd
langs den mast nederhing. Als die zich begon te bewegen, dan....
"Hij komt, jongens, hij komt!" riep hij onverwachts.
"Wie, meester Barend, wie komt er?" vroegen wij alle drie te gelijk.
"De orkaan, kinderen, de orkaan!" was zijn antwoord, en pas had hij
dat gezegd of het schip, dat doodstil gelegen had, bewoog zich even,
de wimpel begon te trillen, in de verte zagen we golven aankomen,
de masten kraakten, het want zuchtte en kreunde, de wimpel fladderde
rond, nog een vreeselijke donderslag klonk en...
Daar lagen we alle vier op het dek! We waren op den eersten aanval
van den orkaan niet bedacht geweest. Met moeite stonden we op; de
eene zee na de andere sloeg over het dek, totdat eensklaps meester
Barend uitschreeuwde: "Man over boord!"
"Man over boord!" riep men aan alle kanten.
Wij hadden met ons vieren niet bij elkander kunnen blijven; we
werden van stuurboord naar bakboord geslingerd en toen ik eindelijk
bij meester Barend aankwam en hem vroeg: "Wie is er over boord
geslagen?" wees hij op Tom, die radeloos van droefheid zich aan
meester Barend vastklemde en uitriep: "Jan, meester Barend, red Jan
toch! Jan! Jan!"
Maar er viel niet aan te denken iemand te redden; geen boot kon te
water gelaten worden. Nu eens waren we boven op een waterberg, dan in
een waterdal. De masten bogen als breinaalden en hier en daar werd
een zeil losgerukt en een touw afgebroken, alsof het met een scherp
mes doormidden gesneden werd.
Zoo hield de orkaan wel een vol uur aan en toen hij wat begon te
bedaren, zag het er aan boord vreeselijk uit. De groote mast en de
fok lagen over boord; de watervaten waren van hun plaatsen geschoven;
de affuiten waarop de kanonnen rustten, waren op zijde geschoven;
stukken zeil, losgeslingerde touwen, planken van de verschansing en
nog veel meer, lagen overal langs het dek verspreid, en nog was er
geen kijk op om een en ander te herstellen; want al was de orkaan
voorbij, de storm hield aan. Twee dagen lang hadden wij er mede
te worstelen, en eerst den derden dag kwam het weer tot zichzelf,
en kon er aan gedacht worden om te zien, of we de reis naar Curaçao
konden voortzetten, ja of neen. Maar daar was geen denken aan. Alles
was onklaar, en daarom besloot de kommandant te beproeven, of we met
ons ontredderd schip het eiland Jamaïca konden bereiken, en met veel
moeite mocht ons dat gelukken.
Wat waren we blij, dat we na zulke vreeselijke dagen doorleefd te
hebben, weer in behouden haven mochten zijn. Blij, ja, dat waren we;
maar allen niet. De arme Tom liep stil en zwijgend daarheen. Hij had
geen enkel lachje, ook dan niet, als de konstabel, die de grootste
grappenmaker aan boord was, zijn kluchten verkocht.
"Tom," zei ik, "je moet je wat opbeuren, jongen! Aan zulke
gebeurtenissen moet de zeeman gewoon raken!"
"Zeg, George," antwoordde hij, "heb je ooit een broer verloren, en dat
nog wel zulk een bovenstbesten broer? Wat zal ik zeggen, als ik thuis
kom, en vader en moeder vragen waar Jan is? Ik durf niet thuis komen!"
Zoo sprak Tom, en of ik al beproefde hem te troosten, het gelukte
me niet en meester Barend beproefde het mede tevergeefs. Tom zou van
verdriet sterven, of....
"Zoo," zei de stuurman, "die Deensche bark ziet er ook lief uit; die
heeft zeker ook Meneer Blaasbalg op zijn dak gehad! Maar wat weerga,
wat moeten ze van ons hebben? Ze zetten een sloep uit!"
Ongemerkt waren meester Barend, Tom, ik en nog een paar anderen bij den
stuurman komen staan en zagen naar de boot, waarin vier mannen klommen,
die iets droegen, dat wel wat op een mensch geleek.--Ze legden het
voorzichtig neer, namen de riemen op en roeiden naar ons schip.
Weldra lag de boot tegen ons boord en een stem van beneden riep in
gebroken Hollandsch, dat men den valreep nederlaten moest. Hieraan
werd voldaan. De mannen klommen naar boven en brachten bij ons....
Tom had iets, iets gezien. Een bleek jongensgezicht met zwarte
haren. Hij snelde er heen, gaf een schreeuw en.... viel.
Jan was weer bij ons aan boord. Wel was hij zwaar gekwetst en had
hij een gebroken been, maar hij leefde toch, en wie weet of hij niet
herstellen zou.
Onze kommandant vroeg den stuurman van de boot, hoe het mogelijk was,
dat ze dien knaap hadden kunnen redden.
Toen vertelde de man dit:
"Misschien een kwartier nadat de hevige orkaan voorbij en in een
storm overgegaan was, zagen we wat op een hooge golf drijven. De golf
sloeg tegen stuurboord en over het schip heen, en toen ze weer weg
was lag er een stuk mast met zijn losgierend touwwerk in ons want
verward. En tusschen hout en touwwerk lag deze knaap. We haalden hem
er uit en dachten eerst dat hij dood was, maar onze scheepsdokter
onderzocht hem en vond er nog leven in. Zijn been was gebroken,
zijn rechterarm gekneusd en over heel zijn lichaam had hij bulten en
schrammen. Toen hij na verloop van een paar uren wat bijkwam, vroegen
wij hem van welk schip hij kwam; maar hij verstond ons niet. Omdat
hij zoo zwart van opslag was hielden wij hem voor een Franschman,
Spanjaard of Napolitaan, tot hij met een zwakke stem vroeg: 'Drinken,
drinken!' Toen hoorden we dat hij een Hollander was en wisten nu heel
spoedig, dat hij als kajuitsjongen op het Nederlandsche oorlogsschip
_De Windhond_ diende. Zoodra we nu zagen, dat dit schip hier was,
namen we het besluit hem hier aan boord te brengen."
"En daar heb jelui goed aan gedaan," antwoordde de kommandant en
gaf den matrozen een goede fooi, waarop dezen weer naar hun vaartuig
terugroeiden.
Nu was Tom ook weer vroolijk, en al zei de dokter ook, dat Jans been
nooit meer terecht zou komen, toch rekenden we dat geen van allen
als iets. Zijn leven was gered en dat was het voornaamste.
En als je nu weten wilt wat er van Jan en Tom geworden is, ga dan
maar eens naar mijn vroegere scheepstimmerwerf en als je dan vraagt:
"Van wie is deze werf?" dan zullen de werklieden je zeggen: "Ze is
van twee bazen, broers, weet je! Ze heeten Thomas en Jan Epelaere. En
goed,--er leven er geen beter op de wereld.--Ze hebben vroeger ter
zee gevaren, maar...."
Verder behoeven we niets meer te hooren; je weet de rest!"
Dit was de eerste vertelling van Jan met de Pijp.
DE WEG NAAR DE GEVANGENIS.
"Meneer, meneer, vanmorgen is er een jongen van het dorp naar de
gevangenis gebracht, omdat hij gestolen heeft!" zoo riep op zekeren
Zaterdagmorgen het zoontje van den dokter, toen hij bij den ouden heer
Van Laeken achter in den tuin kwam, waar reeds het geheele gezelschap
vergaderd was.
"Wie, Herman? Wie?" vroegen terstond eenige meisjes en jongens.
"Wel, Govert de Plinte!"
"O die!" riepen eenigen, alsof ze zeggen wilden: "is het anders niet?"
"En wie is die Govert de Plinte, Herman?" vroeg mijnheer Van Laeken.
"Dat is...." riepen dadelijk eenigen, doch eer ze verder konden gaan,
legde de oude heer met een: "Ssst, we kunnen wel samen zingen, maar
niet samen praten,--ik vraag het aan Herman," dien driftigen mondjes
het zwijgen op.
"Govert de Plinte is de zoon van Wout, den poldergast, die wel
een half uur van hier midden in het land woont. Op school was hij
zulk een deugniet, en hij bleef zóó dikwijls stilletjes thuis,
dat meester hem op het laatst niet meer op school hebben wilde. O,
meneer, die Govert zei altijd zulke leelijke woorden en hij vloekte
zoo! En eens heeft hij van mij een doosje met kleurkrijt gestolen,
dat ik meegebracht had om een kaartje te teekenen. Ik had het in den
lessenaar gezet en het vergeten mede te nemen toen ik naar huis ging!"
"Ja, en mijn pet heeft hij bij den smid in de sloot gegooid," riep
Jan van den timmerman.
"En bij meester heeft hij al de aardbeien afgeplukt toen hij school
moest blijven. Hij is toen door het raam geklommen!" zei een ander
en een derde voegde er bij: "Ja, en van mijn zusje heeft hij een mooi
Faber-potlood gekaapt!"
Misschien zouden de kinderen nog veel meer van Govert verteld hebben
als mijnheer Van Laeken niet gezegd had: "Stop maar, ik weet genoeg
van dien knaap, en nu ik dat alles weet, verwonder ik er mij ook niet
meer over, dat hij vanmorgen naar de gevangenis gebracht is. Van zulk
een jongen kan men niets anders verwachten. Ik weet ook wat van een
paar deugnieten te vertellen, waarmee het niet veel beter afgeloopen
is, ja, misschien wel erger! Ik zal je dat eens vertellen.
Mijn goede vader had nog een flink bestaan en droomde er niet van, dat
hij eens gebrek zou moeten lijden. Daarom had hij voor mij een school
gezocht, waar de kinderen heel veel leeren konden, en al kostte dat
ook veel geld, dat had vader er wel voor over; want hij zei altijd:
"een kop met verstand is veel gemakkelijker mee te dragen dan een zak
met geld. Geld kunnen ze een mensch ontnemen, maar wat in het hoofd
zit, daar moeten ze afblijven!"
Op die school gingen ook twee zoontjes van een schrijnwerker, die
wel met twaalf knechts werkte en dus veel geld verdiende. Nu spreekt
het vanzelf, dat die man het heel druk had en zich daarom niet altijd
zooveel met zijn kinderen bemoeide, als dat wel moest. Geheele dagen
was hij soms van huis en daar hij veel van zijn kinderen hield, gaf hij
om hun maar pleizier te doen, hun in alles den zin, als hij eens thuis
was. En Henri en Jacques,--zoo heetten de jongens,--waren slim. Ze
wisten precies waar ze moesten gaan staan om vader te bedriegen. Ja,
ze wisten zich zóó mooi voor te doen, dat van al het kwaad, dat
ze zelf deden, een ander de schuld kreeg. Er kwamen heel dikwijls
klachten over de beide jongens en, als hij er dan wàt van geloofde,
dan wisten de schelmen zóó te praten, dat vader op het laatst zei:
"Ze schijnen het dan ook altijd op jelui beiden voorzien te hebben. Het
is schande! Maar, als ze weer komen klagen, dan zal ik die lui wel
eens terechtzetten."
Dat was koren op den molen van de deugnieten, en ze maakten elkander
wijs, dat er geen beter vader op heel de wereld was.
Hoe ze zich bedrogen!
Hadden ze nu maar een moeder gehad, die vader eens alles vertelde,
zooals het was, maar ach, de arme jongens, hun moeder was in een
krankzinnigen-gesticht en de dokters hadden gezegd, dat ze nooit meer
beter zou worden.
Een oude tante van vader deed het huishouden, en daar deze arm was,
en door haar neef al eens bedreigd was, dat ze het huis uit zou
moeten, als ze weer over zijn "arme, lieve kinderen" klagen kwam,
had ze besloten te zwijgen, er mocht gebeuren wat er wilde.
Dat was nu wel niet mooi van die vrouw; maar oud en arm zijn en niet
weten waarheen, dat zegt veel en daarom moeten we het die oude vrouw
niet zoo ten kwade duiden, dat ze zweeg, en.... alles van de kwajongens
verdroeg om, zooals ze zei, een gerusten en goeden ouden dag te hebben.
En goed had zij het. Ze kon eten en drinken zooveel en wat ze
wilde. Maar het is met eten en drinken alleen niet te halen. Gelukkig
was ze niet; want de neefjes maakten haar het leven zoo bitter, dat
ze dikwijls heele nachten lag te huilen, in plaats van te slapen. En
dat moet niet. Als een mensch gezond, sterk en vroolijk wil blijven,
dan moet hij 's nachts slapen en geen andere dingen doen.
Onder degenen, die het meest kwamen klagen, behoorde monsieur Levin,
die ongehuwd was en een goede school had.
"Weet je wat," zei monsieur Levin op zekeren dag tegen baas Daelhouten,
den schrijnwerker, die hem brutale woorden gaf, omdat hij over de
broers klagen kwam, "weet je wat, baas Daelhouten, ik heb een goede
school! De voornaamste burgers van Antwerpen zenden er hun kinderen
heen, en ik weet zeker, dat ik meer dan twee andere kinderen van mijn
school verliezen zou, als ik je zoontjes hield, wanneer ze zich niet
beterden. Daarom vraag ik je op den man af: Wil je je jongens nu
straffen voor het gemeene kwaad, dat ze gedaan hebben, ja of neen?"
"Neen," sprak baas Daelhouten kortaf, "neen, ik straf mijn kinderen
niet. Ik weet dat iedereen aan mijn arme kinderen van al wat er
leelijks gebeurt de schuld geeft."
"Zooals je wilt!" antwoordde monsieur Levin, "zooals je wilt; maar
dan heb ik je ook wat te zeggen!"
"En dat is?" vroeg baas Daelhouten.
"Dat je je jongens niet meer naar mijn school behoeft te sturen,
want ik neem ze er niet meer op! Gegroet!"
Hierop ging monsieur Levin weg, maar baas Daelhouten dacht: "Och wat,
dat mag hij gezegd hebben; maar hij meent het niet! Als hij zoo met
alle kinderen doet, dan zou ik wel eens willen weten waarvan hij
leven moet! Morgen stuur ik ze toch!"
Zoo dacht de man; maar hij bedroog zich deerlijk. Vooreerst waren lang
niet alle kinderen zoo als de zijne, en dan, monsieur Levin had liever
armoe willen lijden dan kwajongens den zin geven. Toen den anderen
morgen Henri en Jacques stilletjes naar hun plaats gegaan waren,
riep monsieur hen voor de klasse en zei: "Hoor eens, jongeheertjes,
je vader schijnt niet begrepen te hebben, wat ik hem gezegd heb. Ik
wil geen straatjongens in mijn school hebben. Vooruit maar, marsch!"
In dien tijd moesten meest alle onderwijzers van het schoolgeld leven,
dat de kinderen meebrachten en ongelukkig de man, die een groot
huisgezin had en geen cent van dat schoolgeld missen kon. Zulk een
man was soms wel genoodzaakt toe te geven, en toen Henri en Jacques
thuis kwamen met de boodschap, die monsieur Levin hun meegegeven had,
lachte de vader en zei: "Gelukkig, dat er meer scholen zijn en ook
nog schoolmeesters, die meer van de kinderen verdragen kunnen, dan
die verwaande Levin. Wacht maar, jongens, ik zal je zoo wegbrengen!"
Ik ging school bij monsieur Gozewinus, een oud, braaf man. Wij hielden
veel van hem, want hij was goed. Zijn eenig gebrek was, dat hij doof
was. Als wij zijn vragen beantwoordden en hij verstond ons niet,
dan dacht hij, dat we met opzet zoo zacht spraken en dan gaf hij ons
wel eens straf, als wij het niet verdiend hadden.
Onderwijl we nu op zekeren morgen bezig waren met rekenen ging de
schooldeur open, en baas Daelhouten trad met zijn twee zoons binnen.
"Goeden morgen, monsieur Gozewinus," zei hij met een beweging of keizer
Napoleon zijn adjudant was, "goeden morgen, monsieur Gozewinus! Hier
heb ik twee leerlingen voor u. Ze hebben school gegaan bij Levin,
maar die man had me te veel noten op zijn zang en hij had het altijd
op deze jongens voorzien, die van alles de schuld kregen. Ik twijfel
niet, of u zult er anders over oordeelen en bemerken, dat mijn zoons
brave en vlugge jongens zijn!"
Wij zaten met open monden te luisteren en toen we die twee zoo hoorden
prijzen, keken we hen natuurlijk aan, maar we schoten in den lach,
toen de jongste, die Jacques heette, zijn tong naar ons uitstak en
Henri, de oudste, hem aan zijn haar trok, waarvoor Henri alweer een
schop van zijn broer kreeg.
Als er nieuwe jongens op school komen, wil ieder kind hen graag naast
zich hebben, en toen monsieur rondkeek bij wien hij hen zou zetten,
viel zijn oog op mij. Ik kreeg den jongste bij me. Al dadelijk gaf
ik hem de grootste plaats en zei, dat, als hij geen grift of pen had,
hij alles van mij kon krijgen, dat mijn vader magazijnmeester was en
dat ik koopman wilde worden. Ik vroeg hem of hij 's middags tusschen
schooltijd met me naar huis wilde gaan en of hij 's avonds bij me
kwam spelen. Op alles kreeg ik een voldoend antwoord en toen hij me
vertelde, dat ik 's avonds bij hem mocht komen spelen, dat de oude
tante dan allerlei dingen geven zou; en dat zijn vader een groote
houtloods had waarin ze soms halve dagen wegkropen, jongens, wat was
ik toen grootsch met mijn nieuwen kameraad. Toen ik 's avonds thuis
kwam, stond mijn mond niet stil over Jacques Daelhouten en 's nachts
droomde ik, dat ik boven in het pakhuis van zijn vader uit een stuk
mahoniehout met mijn pennemes een boekenplank zat te snijden.
Vader lachte eens even toen ik hem dat den volgenden morgen vertelde,
maar had hij geweten, waarmede monsieur Levin, de oude tante en nog zoo
vele anderen wel bekend waren, ik weet niet, of hij wel zoo vroolijk
gelachen zou hebben.
Den anderen morgen hadden we aardrijkskunde.
"Ik geloof dat die mooie meneer met dien bril op zijn vlasschuit doof
is," zei Jacques stilletjes tegen me.--Met die vlasschuit bedoelde
hij den neus van monsieur Gozewinus, die toevallig wat grooter dan
een gewone menschenneus uitgevallen was.
Ik knikte van ja.
"Dan zullen we een grap hebben," zei hij.
"Zeg eens, jongeheer Daelhouten," riep monsieur, "noem de eilanden
eens op, die boven Duitschland en Nederland liggen."
En daar begon hij: "Snork-niet, Rotte, Bokking, Schiet den monnik dood,
Naamval, Drie schellingen, Biertand, Deksel!"
Zulke grappen waren wij nog niet gewoon en daarom schoten wij allen
in den lach. Monsieur Gozewinus deed nu, alsof hij wel gehoord had,
dat hij ze niet goed had opgenoemd en zei: "Als ik je wel verstaan
heb, dan heb jij de eilanden in de Stille Zuidzee opgenoemd. Ik heb
je gevraagd naar de eilanden boven Duitschland en Nederland, waarvan
de meeste boven de Zuiderzee liggen."
"O, meent u die!" riep Jacques met het brutaalste gezicht van de
wereld, "jawel, monsieur, ik zal ze nu anders opnoemen. Norderney,
Rottum, Borkum, Schiermonnikoog, Ameland, Terschelling, Vlieland,
Texel!"
"Best, jongen, best! Dat gaat goed!" zei monsieur en vervolgde:
"En zeg de eilanden van Zuid-Holland eens op, George van Laeken!"
"Tulpenburg, Voorn in de Putten, Kriekenland," fluisterde Jacques,
terwijl hij voor zich keek, maar zoo hard dat ik en de jongen, die
aan den anderen kant zat, het best hooren konden.
Wij begonnen te lachen, en monsieur meende, dat wij hem voor den gek
hielden. Wij kregen ieder eene slechte aanteekening en mochten geen
beurt meer hebben.
Toen het uur om was zei ik tegen Jacques: "Dat is jouw schuld, dat
wij een slechte aanteekening gekregen hebben. Als je dat nog eens
doet zal ik de waarheid zeggen en...."
"Dan krijg je van Henri een pak rammel, reken er op!" zei Jacques. "Ik
bedank voor zoo'n vriendschap!"
Een half uur later was ik echter weer heel anders jegens Jacques
gestemd. Het hinderde me, dat hij boos was en daarom begon ik zulke
zoete broodjes te bakken, dat hij toen het vier uur was, zei: "Zeg,
kom je straks bij ons spelen?"
Ik nam dit aanbod met graagte aan en vroeg hem wat we spelen zouden.
"Wij gaan in de groote achterkamer wat met dobbelsteenen spelen. Henri
brengt Pierre de Rooze mee. Tante Kee zal ons chocolade geven!"
"Dat zal prettig zijn," zei ik.
"Nou! Maar zeg, je moet geld meebrengen, hoor!"
"Geld? Ik heb geen geld!"
"Heb je dan geen spaarpot? Als je komt moet je geld meebrengen,
anders kan je wel wegblijven!" Nadat hij dit gezegd had ging hij heen.
Ik keek hem na. Wat zou ik doen? Ik had wel een spaarpot en ik zelf
was er baas over. Iedere week kreeg ik er van vader een schelling
in. Maar vader wist hoeveel er in was en ik spaarde voor een Fransch
woordenboek. Toen ik thuis kwam was ik niet erg op mijn gemak. Ik
was mijzelf overal in den weg en hoewel ik anders onbeschroomd naar
boven ging, waar mijn boeken en mijn spaarpot stonden, nu durfde ik
het niet wagen uit vrees, dat moeder vragen zou wat ik boven moest
gaan doen. Ik wachtte daarom tot moeder uit de kamer ging en vloog
toen naar boven, maakte mijn spaarpot leeg, gooide hem uit het raam
en klom weer naar beneden, maar met een kloppend hart.
Een uur later ging ik de straat op. Ik was erg ongerust. Ik had een
gevoel, alsof iedereen aan mijn gezicht zou kunnen zien, dat ik iets
gedaan had dat niet goed was.
"Wat ben je toch een domme jongen, George," zei ik tot mijzelf. "Als
vader vraagt: 'Waar is de spaarpot?' dan ga ik hem zoogenaamd halen;
ik zal zoeken en eindelijk naar beneden gaan en zeggen, dat hij
gestolen moet zijn. Daarom heb ik hem weggegooid!"
Zoo beproefde ik mijzelf gerust te stellen en eindelijk kwam ik voor
het huis van den schrijnwerker. Jacques stond me al op te wachten
en het eerste wat hij vroeg, was: "Wel, heb je geld?"
Ik zei van ja en een kwartiertje later zaten we te dobbelen. Ik was
bijzonder gelukkig. In plaats van te verliezen won ik twee schellingen
en toen ik naar huis ging vond ik mijzelf dwaas, dat ik mijn spaarpot
weggegooid had. Als ik hem nu nog gehad had, had ik er weer alles
in kunnen doen. De twee schellingen, die ik gewonnen had, zouden dan
kunnen dienen om nog eens te gaan dobbelen,--ja, wat nu?
Maar wat wilde het toeval? Ik kwam voorbij een winkel en daar lagen
juist zulke spaarpotten als ik er een weggegooid had. Er was geen
haartje verschil in. Juist zoo groot, dezelfde kleur van hout, alles
hetzelfde behalve dat er geen groote G op stond.
Vader kon met een pennemes mooie letters in hout snijden en voor
mijn zusters en mij had hij op onze spaarpotten de eerste letters
van onzen voornaam gesneden.
Goede raad was duur; wat zou ik doen?
Eindelijk besloot ik den winkel in te gaan en zulk een spaarpot
te koopen.
Zonder te vragen: "Hoeveel kost die spaarpot?" zei ik: "Och, geef
mij dien spaarpot eens!"
"Asjeblief," zei de winkelier, zette er een op de toonbank en
vervolgde: "veertien stuivers!"
Daar stond ik gekke jongen nu. Afdingen durfde ik niet en den
winkel uitgaan zonder koopen durfde ik ook niet. Ik haalde dus drie
schellingen voor den dag, legde ze op de toonbank en.... kreeg twee
en dertig duiten terug. Dat was eene leelijke geschiedenis. Ik meende
voortaan van mijn winst te zullen kunnen spelen en nu moest ik toch
mijn toevlucht tot mijn spaargeld nemen. Ja, ik had daarenboven nog
twee stuivers minder dan toen ik heenging.
Zoodra ik thuis gekomen was bracht ik mijn boeken boven, zette den
nieuwen spaarpot naast dien van mijn zusters en, ja, precies eender
van kleur en gedaante, maar wat korter in de lengte en breedte en
wat langer in de hoogte. Ze waren alle drie even groot geweest.
Maar dat zou vader zoo gauw niet zien, en moeder keek er nooit naar.
Als ik er nu maar die G op krijgen kon.
Een scherp mes had ik niet. Vaders pennemes lag beneden in een
lade. Als moeder maar eens wegging!
Klingeling---klingeling!
Ha, tweemaal gescheld! Dat was de melkboer.
Ze ging heen en nog was ze niet aan de buitendeur of ik was met vaders
pennemes naar boven.
Nu aan het snijden.
Eerst teekende ik met pootlood een G. Flink maar! Hè, het zweet liep
me langs het voorhoofd.
Eindelijk was de letter klaar, wel niet zoo mooi, als die van vader,
maar.... wacht, als ik die van mijn zuster er naast hield, dan kon
ik toch zien, of ze veel verschilden met die van mij. Ik greep den
spaarpot van Mina en daar stond een M op.
Zou ik mij vergist hebben, dacht ik en greep naar dien van Kato. Al
zijn leven! Daarop stond een K.
Wat was ik dom geweest! In plaats van een schrijfletter had ik een
drukletter gesneden. Ik had een G gezet en het moest een G zijn.
Ja, er viel niets aan te doen dan van de G een G te maken. Had ik die G
maar niet heelemaal afgewerkt, dan kon er uit het bovenstuk precies een
_G_ en nu zat ik met dien leelijken, langen staart. In vrede, dan maar
een héél groote G. Vader zou niet kunnen zien, dat ik het gedaan had;
want.... Knak.... juist bij het dikke, onderste streepje brak mijn mes.
Kon er iemand ongelukkiger zijn dan ik?
"Wat voer je toch daar boven uit, George?" vroeg moeder.
"Ik leer mijn les, moeder," riep ik, maar ik voelde, dat ik bij die
leugen tot achter de ooren rood werd.
"Die kun je straks wel leeren. Kom nu even naar beneden en ga eens
naar den kruidenier om rijst, gauw!"
Alle ongelukken opeens!
In mijn angst wist ik niet wat ik deed. Ik raapte de houtsnippers op,
zette den half versneden spaarpot weg, stak het gebroken pennemes in
den zak en ging naar beneden.
"Een pond," zei moeder, die me stond op te wachten, en toen ik bleef
staan, zei ze: "Nu, waar wacht je op?"
"Op een flesch, moeder!"
"Op een flesch, dwaze jongen? Wanneer heb je een pond rijst in een
flesch gehaald?"
"O ja," zei ik, "het is waar, ik moet om rijst bij Wierhoeve op het
hoekje, hé?"
Wierhoeve was een smid, moet je weten.
"Maar jongen, wat scheelt er toch aan? Rijst in een flesch bij den
smid halen!--Zeg eens, George, heb je daar boven ook kwaad gedaan?"
Mijn gelaat werd als vuur zoo rood; maar toch zei ik driestweg:
"Neen, moeder, ik heb mijn les geleerd!"
"Goed, ga dan maar heen!" zei ze.
Ik ging, maar met den grootsten angst van de wereld en toen ik weer
thuis kwam was ik al in mijn schik, dat ze weer niet begon te vragen.
Intusschen was het donker geworden, het licht werd opgestoken en ik
begon mijn les te leeren. Maar daar kwam niemendal van in. De letters
dansten op het papier en toen vader thuis kwam begon mijn hart zoo
fel te kloppen, dat ik er raar van werd.
Als hij zijn pennemes maar niet noodig had.
"Vader," zei moeder, toen ze in de kamer kwam, "ik moet je eens wat
zeggen. Kom eens even hier!"
Vader stond op en ging met moeder in de gang.
Ik voelde dat ze het daar achter de deur over mij hadden en ik begon
nog akeliger te worden.
Eindelijk kwamen ze binnen. Geen woord werd gesproken en een oogenblik
later begon moeder de boterhammen te snijden. Hoe ik die boterhammen
binnen gekregen heb, weet ik nog niet. Het was maar, alsof er groote
brokken in mijn keel bleven zitten.
Ondertusschen was het maal afgeloopen en ik wilde naar bed gaan.
"Je moet eens even blijven zitten, George!" zei vader.
Moeder en mijn zusters gingen heen en ik.... ik begon hardop te
schreien.
"Beter berouw te hebben dan nog meer kwaad te doen, George! Vertel
eens eerlijk, wat is er gebeurd?" vroeg vader en zette den spaarpot
op de tafel.
Moeder had hem gehaald toen ik naar den winkel was.
Ik keek vader even aan en toen ik ook tranen in zijn oogen zag, neen,
toen kon ik mij niet langer inhouden. Ik begon krampachtig te snikken
en greep vaders hand.
"Je zult je ziek maken, George," sprak vader. "Vertel maar eerlijk
wat je met je spaarpot gedaan hebt, hoe je aan dezen komt en waar de
twaalf schellingen gebleven zijn! Je ziet, ik weet al veel!"
Ja, vader wist veel en daarom--neen, liegen kon ik niet, ik vertelde
hem alles, en legde ten slotte elf schellingen en twee en dertig
duiten op de tafel.
"Je bent nog niet slim genoeg om kwaad te doen, George! Je moet het
eerst nog wat leeren, en daar je dat niet hier in huis of bij monsieur
Gozewinus leeren kunt, raad ik je aan, les te gaan nemen bij je vriend
Jacques! Die jongen zal een kerel van je maken! Nacht, George!"
Vader stak de hand uit en ik drukte ze vurig.
Ik ging naar bed en.... o, ik heb nooit onzen Lieven Heer zoo gebeden,
als toen! Ik heb Hem nooit zoo voor zulk een goeden vader gedankt,
als op dien avond.
Den volgenden dag bekeek ik mijn nieuwen vriend Jacques met een paar
andere oogen dan vóór dien tijd, en toen ik hem zei, dat ik niemendal
met hem meer te doen wilde hebben, gaf hij mij een harden stomp voor
den neus, zoodat deze begon te bloeden.
Dat zag monsieur Gozewinus en ik werd bij hem geroepen om te vertellen
wat er gebeurd was. Ik aarzelde, maar toen ik zag, dat ik daardoor op
het punt stond voor een ander straf te krijgen, vertelde ik hem alles.
"Kom eens hier, Jacques!" beval monsieur.
"Blijven zitten, Jacques!" riep Henri uit de andere klasse zijn broer
toe en deze verroerde zich niet.
"Kom eens hier, Jacques!" beval monsieur nogmaals.
"Niet doen, hoor!" riep Henri weer en Jacques deed het ook niet.
Toen werd monsieur driftig en ging op Jacques af, maar Henri sprong
uit de bank en liep met een groote lei naar zijn broer, en monsieur
brutaal aanziende, schreeuwde hij: "Blijf af!"
Wij zaten op onze plaatsen van angst te rillen en te beven.
Zoo iets was er nog nooit op school gebeurd, en, al fopten we den
ouden man ook wel eens, toch hielden we veel van hem en, zoo waar,
de heele klasse stond gereed partij voor monsieur te trekken. Maar
het was gelukkig niet noodig. Met een kracht, waarover we verbaasd
stonden, pakte hij den flink opgegroeiden Henri bij den kraag en
Jacques bij den arm en bracht beiden, als twee kleine ondeugende
kinderen, in een hoekje bij den schoorsteen.
"Vanmiddag blijven zitten, kwajongens," zei hij en begon toen weer
aan het werk, alsof er niets gebeurd was.
Ik kan je niet zeggen welk een indruk dat op ons maakte. Nog nooit
hadden we geweten, dat die oude man nog zooveel kracht had. Van dien
dag af had hij ons geheel in zijn macht. We waren bang voor hem,
als we kwaad gedaan hadden, en we hadden hem nog even lief als vroeger.
Zoodra we uit school waren sloot monsieur de deur en liet de jongens
staan zonder iets anders te zeggen dan: "Over een half uur kom ik terug
en dan zal ik eens zien of het harde kopje wat zachter geworden is!"
Ja, monsieur Gozewinus wist wel welk vleesch hij in de kuip had
en daarom sloot hij de deur; maar, dat het zulk vleesch was, neen,
dat had hij niet vermoed.
Nauwelijks toch was monsieur de deur uit of ze klommen het raam
uit. Nu waren ze in monsieurs tuintje. Maar hoe er uit te komen?
"Wacht," zei Henri, "hier achter deze heining maar!"
Beide jongens kropen weg en hielden zich doodstil.
Eindelijk hoorden ze het schelpzand kraken en met den sleutel in de
hand trad monsieur naar de school. De sleutel ging in het sleutelgat
en de twee kwajongens hadden moeite om niet in een hard gelach uit
te barsten. Daar ging de deur open en, snel als de wind liep Henri er
heen, haalde den sleutel er uit, deed de deur op slot en.... monsieur
Gozewinus zat gevangen.
"Wie brutaal is, wint de halve wereld," zei Henri en nam Jacques mee
naar de achterdeur van monsieurs tuin.
"Wat moet jelui?" vroeg de meid.
"Hier heb je den sleutel van de school; monsieur zei, dat we dien
aan jou moesten geven en je moet ons door de voordeur uitlaten!"
De meid begreep er niets van, maar deed de voordeur voor hen open.
We waren op onzen gewonen tijd in school en vonden monsieur erg
afgetrokken.
De plaatsen van Jacques en Henri bleven onbezet.
"Waar zijn Jacques en Henri, monsieur?" vroeg ik.
"Den weg op naar de gevangenis, mannetje," was het antwoord, dat ik
niet begreep.
Als een loopend vuurtje ging het nu door de school, dat ze nu allebei
naar de gevangenis waren, en het zou wel waar zijn, als monsieur zelf
het zei.
"Vraag eens hoe lang ze moeten blijven zitten?" fluisterde een jongen
me in het oor. Ik deed het en nu was het de beurt van monsieur om
vreemd op te zien.
"Hoe kom jelui daaraan, jongens? Wie heeft je gezegd, dat Henri en
Jacques in de gevangenis zijn?"
"Uzelf monsieur!" antwoordde ik.
"Wat? Ik? Ik heb dat niet gezegd, manneke! Ik heb gezegd, dat ze op weg
naar de gevangenis zijn en daarmee bedoel ik: als ze zoo voortgaan,
dan zal er niet veel uit die twee groeien, en het kon best gebeuren,
dat ze nog in de gevangenis kwamen ook!"
Nu begrepen wij het, en we twijfelden ook geen oogenblik of monsieur
sprak waarheid. Ik althans twijfelde er geheel niet aan; ik was nog
niet vergeten wat er den vorigen dag met me geschied was.
Toen ik thuis kwam, vertelde ik vader en moeder wat er dien dag op
school gebeurd was.
"Zoo," zei vader, "dat jongetje zal het ver brengen!"
"Jawel, vader, maar er zijn er twee!"
"Dat weet ik wel, maar ik bedoel nu dien Jacques, je vriend, weet je!"
"Hij is mijn vriend niet meer, vader, dat weet u ook wel!"
"Ik hoop het, jongen, ik hoop het!"
Gelukkig is vaders hoop niet vergeefsch geweest. Ik had aan dat ééne
lesje genoeg.
En wil je weten wat er met die twee gebeurd is? Ze hebben het
leven van hun vader verkort, zijn geld verkwist en hun arme moeder
vergeten. Henri kwam op het schavot, en Jacques is in de gevangenis
gestorven.
De kinderen hadden van het begin tot het einde aandachtig geluisterd
en wilden weer heengaan toen het zoontje van den dokter zei: "Maar,
meneer, u zei zooeven, dat het met die twee kennissen van u niet
veel beter en misschien nog wel erger afgeloopen is dan met Govert
de Plinte!"
"Dat heb ik ook gezegd, Herman! Maar wat zou dat?"
"Wel, met dien Govert is het bij lange na zoo erg niet afgeloopen
als met die twee."
"Dat is zoo! Het is nog zoo erg niet; maar wat niet is, kan worden. En
dat wil ik jelui nog zeggen: een deugnieten-grapje kan er nog mee door,
maar herinner je altijd het versje:
Och, bedenk het, jongensstreken
Worden licht'lijk mansgebreken."
HOE FRANS DOOR DE WERELD KWAM.
"Frans, Frans!"
"Ja, moeder, ik kom!"
Frans, die op een heel klein zolderkamertje op een oude viool zat te
krassen, kwam langs een oude, vermolmde trap naar beneden.
Als ik nu zei, dat het er in de kamer beneden plezierig uitzag, dan
zou ik onwaarheid spreken. Een kamer was het eigenlijk niet. Het was
een groot vierkant vertrek met witte muren en een steenen vloer. Het
was zeer laag van verdieping en in een hoek stonden stoelen en tafels,
stoven, doofpot, tang, kolenbak en nog veel meer, erg verward door
elkander. De roode steenen vloer geleek veel op een modderzee, te
midden waarvan moeder stond met een bezem in de eene, een dweil in
de andere hand en een emmer water aan de voeten.
Het was Zaterdag, weet je, en de weduwe Jacobsen moest zorgen, dat
tegen den Zondag haar huisje schoon was.
Vrouw Jacobsen zag er in haar werkpakje niet al te helder en schoon
uit, en haar zoontje Frans, die aan het Zaterdag houden niet meedeed,
maar de natte wereld op den zolder ontvlucht was, droeg ook al geen
prachtige kleeren. Maar toch, die kleeren mochten lap op lap staan,
zindelijk waren ze, en dat moeder er nog een handdoek en een kam op
nahield, dat kon men Frans best aanzien; want zijn haren zaten netjes
en zijn rond gelaat zag er zoo frisch en schoon uit, dat men er met
plezier naar keek.
Toen Frans beneden kwam, bleef hij op den dorpel staan en zei:
"Wat is het, moeder?"
"Buurman is zooeven aan de deur geweest!"
"Die nieuwe, moeder, met dien grooten bril op zijn nog veel grooteren
neus?"
"Ja, Frans!"
"En wat moest die hebben, moeder?"
"Hij vroeg of je niet eens even wou komen om een boodschap te doen!"
"Hè, moeder, ik heb er niet veel lust in."
"Kom, kom, jongen, het is of je bang voor den nieuwen buurman bent! Dat
is toch niet zoo?"
"Bang niet, moeder; maar Jan van Dulven heeft ook naast hem gewoond
en die heeft me gezegd, dat hij zoo'n akelige vent is, die altijd
maar gromt en knort. Weet u hoe ze hem noemden?"
"Ja, de straatjongens geven iedereen een bijnaam en vooral zal dat
die Jan van Dulven doen; want dat is me een hachje! Als je me plezier
wilt doen, dan moet je dien jongen links laten liggen. Je leert toch
maar leelijke dingen van hem!"
"Neen, moeder, die Jan van Dulven is heusch niet gemeen, en de jongens
alleen scholden onzen nieuwen buurman niet uit. De heele buurt noemde
hem "den Beer."
"Dan deden al die menschen verkeerd, Frans! En ik wil hebben, dat je
buurman niet anders noemt dan "meneer Moerdijk", begrepen?"
"Ja, moeder!"
"Best, en ga jij nu naar meneer Moerdijk en vraag beleefd, wat meneer
wil dat je doet! Maar beleefd en vriendelijk, hoor!"
Frans beloofde dit en ging.
Eenigszins angstig trok hij aan de schel en hoorde slof-slof, iemand
door de gang aankomen. De deur ging open en een oude vrouw met een
vriendelijk uitzicht vroeg, wat hij wilde.
"Meneer heeft gevraagd of ik niet eens een boodschap voor hem wilde
doen, juffrouw!"
"O zoo, ben jij het zoontje van de vrouw hiernaast!"
"Ja, juffrouw!"
"Goed, kom dan maar eens even in de gang, dan zal ik meneer zeggen,
dat je er bent! Voeten vegen, hoor!"
Slof-slof, ging de oude vrouw de lange gang door naar de achterkamer,
en onderwijl ze dat deed, had Frans gelegenheid om te zien hoe
kraakzindelijk er die gang al uitzag, en het verwonderde hem niemendal,
dat het vrouwtje gezegd had: "Voeten vegen, hoor!" Maar lang tijd had
Frans niet om hierover na te denken; want de vrouw deed de deur open
en zei: "Meneer, hier is het jongetje van hiernaast!"
"Goed," klonk het, "laat den slungel maar achter komen!"
"Zie je," dacht Frans, "dat die vent wel verdient Beer genoemd te
worden. Hij kent me niet eens, en noemt me toch slungel. Als hijzelf
maar geen slungel is!"
Schoorvoetend ging Frans naar achter en klopte met zekeren angst aan
de deur.
"Binnen!" riep een barre stem.
Frans deed de deur open en stond in de tuinkamer waar het ruim en
luchtig was. Wat er zoo al in de kamer te zien was, zag Frans niet. Hij
zag alleen mijnheer Moerdijk, zooals hij daar in zijn stoel zat.
Op de grijze haren stond een zwart fluweelen kalotje en de bril was
in de hoogte geschoven, en rustte nu op het hooge voorhoofd boven
een paar groote, zwarte wenkbrauwen. De lange, grijze ochtendjapon,
van een bontgekleurde stof, sloot hem als een wijde zak om de magere
leden, en de voeten staken in een paar roode, vilten pantoffels.
"Zoo, eeuwige vedelaar, ben je daar?" zei hij en sloeg zijn
donkerzwarte oogen op Frans.
"Ja, meneer! Wat is er van uw dienst?" vroeg deze.
"Wat er van mijn dienst is? Veel! Maar, daar staat een stoel, schuif
dien bij de tafel, ga er op zitten en antwoord me dan eens netjes op
alles, wat ik je vraag!"
Frans voldeed aan dit bevel en zat weldra bij den ouden heer aan tafel,
en toen had het volgende gesprek plaats.
"Hoe heet je, jongen?"
"Ik heet Frans Jacobsen, meneer!"
"Zoo, en wat is je vader?"
"Mijn vader was muzikant op den toren, meneer!"
"Muzikant op den toren? Wat is dàt voor een beroep?"
"Ja, meneer, hij moest 's nachts op den toren zijn, en als het
heel uur sloeg, dan ging hij op alle vier de hoeken op een klarinet
'Wilhelmus' blazen!"
De oude heer glimlachte en zei: "O zoo, hij was dus torenwachter? En
wat is hij nu?"
"Hij is al vier jaar dood, meneer!"
"Zoo, dat is ongelukkig, jongen! En wat doe jij nu?"
"Ik doe boodschappen, meneer, en moeder gaat uit werken!"
"Maar dan toch altijd boodschappen na schooltijd, niet? Bij wien ga
je school?"
"Ik ga niet school, meneer!"
"Ei, ei, al volleerd? Zoo, zoo, dat is vroeg genoeg! En kun je dan
al goed lezen, rekenen en schrijven?"
"Ik heb nooit school gegaan, meneer!"
"Wat? Nooit school gegaan? Wat moet je dan toch worden?"
"Pakjesdrager en wegwijzer bij het spoor, meneer!"
"Gekheid, gekheid! Jij moet naar school!"
"Jawel, meneer, maar...."
"Geen gemaar! Helpt geen lieve vaderen of lieve moederen aan! Jij
moet naar school. En wat ik vragen wil, waar zat je daar straks toch
zoo op te zagen?"
"Ik, meneer?"
"Ja, jij! Toen je daar straks op zolder zat, lag ik door het raam te
kijken, en toen hoorde ik je zagen en krassen! En dat was zóó mooi,
dat mijn oude kat, die op het dak liep te kuieren, hard mee begon
te mauwen!"
"O, dan weet ik het al, meneer! Ik speelde wat op een oude viool
van grootvader!"
"Zoo, was je grootvader ook muzikant op den toren?"
"Neen, meneer, die was muziekmeester en gaf les aan de kinderen!"
"Dat is wat anders! En hoor je graag muziek?"
"Jawel, meneer!"
Toen Frans dat gezegd had, ging mijnheer Moerdijk naar een hoek van
de kamer, waar een kast stond. Frans dacht ten minste, dat het een
kast was, maar bij nader inzien bleek het, dat het een piano was. Hij
nam toen een stoeltje en sloeg zes toetsen te gelijk aan.
Frans antwoordde niets. Hij vond het leelijk; want mijnheer Moerdijk
had zoo maar zes toetsen genomen. Hij durfde het evenwel niet zeggen
en zweeg dus.
"Nu, ben je stom? Zeg maar gerust of het leelijk is of mooi!"
"Het is leelijk, meneer!" antwoordde Frans.
De oude heer glimlachte en sloeg toen weer zes toetsen aan, maar
toen hij nu weer vroeg: "Is dat mooi of leelijk?" riep Frans: "Dat
is mooi, meneer!"
Toen mijnheer Moerdijk dit gehoord had, begon hij langzamerhand te
spelen, en eindigde met zulk een treurig liedje, dat Frans de tranen
in de oogen sprongen.
"Wel?" vroeg hij toen. Doch zich omkeerende, zag hij den knaap
stilletjes de tranen, die hem langs de wangen liepen, wegmoffelen.
"Meneer, dat was mooi, o, dat was mooi!" riep Frans.
Mijnheer Moerdijk stond een poosje in gedachten en zei toen: "Mooi,
zoo, is het mooi geweest? Ja, dat zie ik; want je hebt gehuild. Goed,
goed, maar jij moet naar school, hoor! Ik zal er wel eens met je
moeder over praten. Maar nu moet je een boodschap voor me doen in
de Zilverstraat!"
Hierop stuurde de oude heer hem naar een boekwinkel en onderwijl hij
weg was, mompelde mijnheer Moerdijk: "Als hij een goed gehoor heeft,
dan wil ik dat wel eens doen! Ja, ja, ik heb toch geen kinderen of
geen familie op de wereld. Dat wil ik doen!"
En wat wilde hij nu doen?
Dat zullen we zien.
De volgende week reeds kwam de weduwe Jacobsen elken dag bij mijnheer
Moerdijk een paar uren werken; want "Aaltje, de meid wordt wat oud,"
had hij gezegd. Frans ging school. Wel hinderde het hem, dat hij
al elf jaar oud was en nog bij kinderen van vijf jaar moest zitten
om de letters te leeren, maar hij beet door den zuren appel heen,
en hij beet er zóó goed doorheen, dat hij twee jaar later al in de
hoogste klasse zat. Geen oogenblik liet hij verloren gaan en, als
hij thuis was, hielp mijnheer Moerdijk hem altijd aan zijn lessen,
zoodat hij weldra de knapste leerling van de geheele school was.
Ja, ja, als men maar wil, kan men het ver brengen.
Eens op zekeren dag zei mijnheer Moerdijk: "Hoor eens, Frans, ik
hoor je tegenwoordig niet meer op de viool krassen, doe je daar niet
meer aan?"
"Ik heb geen tijd, meneer," antwoordde Frans.
"Ja, jongen, dat is waar! Maar zeg, heb je er nu al eens over gedacht,
wat je worden moet?"
"Neen, meneer!"
"Niet? Maar dan dien je daaraan toch haast te denken; want morgen
wordt je dertien jaar! Zou je muzikant willen worden?"
Frans' oogen schitterden, en zijn "ja, meneer!" kwam er zóó blij uit,
dat mijnheer Moerdijk niet behoefde te vragen, of hij wel meende,
wat hij zei.
"Zoo, wil je muzikant worden? Ei, ei! Maar dan dien je te beginnen
met de noten te leeren!"
"O, meneer, die ken ik al! Ik heb ze op school geleerd! En.... maar
zal u niet boos worden, als ik u nog wat zeg?"
"Dat komt er op aan wat het is, manneke!"
"Nu, meneer, ik kan piano spelen ook! Dat heb ik op uw piano geleerd,
als u niet thuis was!"
"Ja, dat piano spelen zal wat moois zijn, als het voor de heeren
komt! Kom, ga eens mee, en laat me dan eens hooren!"
De oude man bracht Frans voor de piano en zei: "Speel!"
"Jawel, meneer, maar mag ik dan een boek hebben?"
"Een boek, jongen, ben je mal? En welk boek zou je dan wel willen
hebben?"
"Dat dikke, meneer!"
Dat dikke boek was juist datgene, waaruit hij meneer zoo dikwijls
had zien spelen, en als hij dat deed, moest Frans altijd de bladen
omkeeren, maar omdat de oude muzikant meende, dat Frans er niets van
wist, had hij altijd bij het einde van ieder blad gezegd: "Keer om!"
Weldra zat Frans voor de piano, en daar begon hij. En achter zijn
stoel stond mijnheer Moerdijk met oogen vol verwondering. Op het
laatst werd hij echter zóó aangedaan, dat hij Frans van het stoeltje
rukte en uitriep: "Van wien heb je dat zoo geleerd, jongen?"
"Ik heb het van u afgekeken, meneer, en zoo mijzelven geleerd. Als
de meester op de school ons van de noten wat leerde, heb ik alles
onthouden en...."
"Frans, je zult muzikant worden, hoor je! Jongen, jongen! Het is
onbegrijpelijk!" En hierop liep hij de kamer eenige malen rond,
telkens uitroepende: "Onbegrijpelijk! Onbegrijpelijk!"
Intusschen stond Frans midden op den vloer en wist niet wat hij
zeggen zou.
"Weet je wat, jongen, wacht hier even!" zei mijnheer en verdween in
een zijkamer.
Een half uurtje later kwam hij weer terug, maar nu netjes
aangekleed. Hij had een dikken wandelstok in de hand en zei: "Ga mee,
Frans!" en deze volgde gewillig.
Weldra waren ze op straat, doch geen woord werd gesproken, tot ze op
een pleintje voor een groot gebouw stilstonden.
"Wat staat daar boven de deur?" vroeg mijnheer Moerdijk en wees met
zijn stok naar het gebouw.
"Muziekschool, meneer!" was het antwoord.
"Precies! Nu, hier moeten we zijn!" hervatte de oude heer en schelde
aan.
Een bediende deed de deur open en liet de bezoekers in een zijkamertje,
waar, na eenige oogenblikken, een lange man met blonden baard en
knevel binnentrad en beleefd vroeg wat mijnheer wilde.
Mijnheer Moerdijk antwoordde hem in het Fransch en toen ontstond er
tusschen die twee heeren een gesprek in die taal, dat wel een half
uur duurde.
Frans verstond er niets van, doch hij begreep toch wel waarover het
zijn zou, en toen het gesprek geëindigd was, zei de blonde meneer:
"Kereltje, deze meneer wil een muzikant van je maken en dat vind
ik goed! Maar.... krukken komen niet meer door de wereld. Zoodra ik
merk, dat er toch niets meer dan een kermismuzikant uit je groeit,
kan ik je niet gebruiken. Leeren is dus de boodschap, begrepen? En nu,
morgenochtend om half twaalf wacht ik je hier in school. Het poortje
hiernaast zal openstaan, en je zult er wel meer jongens binnen zien
gaan, die volg je maar! Nu, tot morgen!"
Hierop gaven de heeren elkander de hand en.... de deur viel achter
beiden dicht.
Nu zou ik jelui kunnen vertellen, wat er zoo al dag aan dag met Frans
voorviel, maar dat doe ik liever nu niet. Ik wil je alleen zeggen,
dat de blonde heer Frans niet behoefde weg te zenden. De arme knaap
werd.... maar stil, ik heb toch nog wat te zeggen.
Toen Frans zoo in die wachtkamer zat en de beide heeren een taal
hoorde spreken, waarvan hij geen woord verstond, hinderde hem dat
erg. Niet dat hij zoo nieuwsgierig was en van stukje tot beetje
verlangde te weten, wat de heeren met elkander bespraken, neen, dat
niet. Het hinderde hem maar, dat hij nog niet alles wist wat meest
alle fatsoenlijke menschen weten, en daarom nam hij het besluit,
ook Fransch te leeren, het mocht kosten wat het wilde.
Maar hoe dat aan te leggen? Mijnheer Moerdijk vragen of hij het leeren
mocht, dat durfde hij niet; want hij begreep wel, dat deze toch al
zooveel voor hem betaalde. Dagen achtereen liep hij hierover na te
denken en nog wist hij niet, hoe hij het aanleggen zou, toen hij op
zekeren morgen op weg naar de muziekschool, den Franschen pianomaker
tegenkwam, die hem vroeg: "Garçon, jij mij kan zek, waar woont die
monsieur Vluuktenbourg? Ik niet wete!"
Frans keek eens op de torenklok en zag, dat hij nog wel een kwartier
tijd had, en daarom zei hij: "Ga maar mee, meneer, ik zal u er
brengen!"
Nu begonnen Frans en de pianomaker zoo goed en kwaad dit ging een
gesprek te voeren, en de laatste beklaagde zich, dat hij niet meer
van het Nederlandsch wist, en dat dit zoo moeielijk was, omdat zijn
knechts hem de helft van den tijd niet verstonden. Frans vond dat
ook en.... daar schoot hem iets te binnen. Ais hij dien meneer eens
vroeg, of hij hem Fransch wilde leeren, dan zou hij ... ja, als dat
eens kon ... dan ...
Maar het hooge woord kwam er niet uit. Telkens als hij er over
beginnen wilde, dan was het of er iets in zijn keel schoot. Reeds had
de Franschman hem bedankt en stond gereed bij den heer Vluchtenburg
aan te schellen toen Frans zich omkeerde en zei: "Meneer!"
"Eh, watte?"
Ja, nu moest het hooge woord er uit, en hoe meer Frans sprak, des te
vrijer werd hij. De man lachte eens en verzocht Frans 's avonds bij
hem te komen, dan konden ze er samen eens over praten. Dien avond
werd er tusschen die twee bepaald, dat ze elkander leeren zouden.
Ik zeg nog eenmaal, wie vooruit wil in de wereld, wie graag leeren
wil en den wil heeft, die komt er wel.
Frans en de Franschman kwamen er ook, en, al was het Nederlandsch nu
ook al niet zoo goed, als dat van een onderwijzer, en al haperde er
hier en daar wel eens wat aan het Fransch, met geduld en goeden wil
kan men bergen verzetten. Dat ondervonden deze twee ook.
Den 13den Maart was Frans jarig. Hij zou dan veertien jaren oud
worden. En weet je wat hij op dien dag van mijnheer Moerdijk kreeg? Ik
zal het je zeggen: hij kreeg vergunning om Fransch, Engelsch en Duitsch
te gaan leeren. Maar wat zag de goede man vreemd op, toen Frans hem
zei wat hij gedaan had en om te bewijzen dat het geen bluffen was,
met hem Fransch begon te spreken! De tranen kwamen hem in de oogen
en de goedige oude legde zijn hand op Frans' hoofd en zei: "Je bent
een flinke jongen! Je moeder kan plezier aan je beleven!"
En werd dit woord bewaarheid?
Tien jaar later zat er op den hoek van een straat in Londen een blinde
man erbarmelijk op een viool te spelen. Zijn pet, die op de straat
voor zijn voeten lag, en waarin eenige koperen geldstukjes waren,
liet duidelijk zien, wat hij aan de menschen vroeg.
Maar de meesten gingen voorbij zonder den blinden man maar even aan
te kijken, zoodat de ongelukkige niet veel kans had, iets meer te
verdienen dan een stukje droog brood.
Onderwijl de man zoo voortspeelde, kwam er een rijkgekleed heer met
een dame voorbij.
"Och," zei de dame, "kijk dien stumperd daar eens zitten! Och toe,
geef hem wat!"
De heer keek eens in de pet en zag niets anders dan eenig kopergeld.
"Wordt je niet moe, oude man, met zoo den heelen dag te spelen? Wil
ik je eens aflossen, dan kun je wat uitrusten!" zei de heer.
"O, als u ook spelen kunt, graag!" was het antwoord en de viool
ging uit de handen van den blinden bedelaar in die van den rijken
heer over. Hij stemde de snaren, bestreek den strijkstok met hars,
en begon zóó prachtig te spelen, dat niemand meer voorbijging zonder
te blijven staan luisteren.
Bijna iedereen kende den ouden, blinden muzikant, maar dezen heer
kende niemand, doch iedereen begreep, waarom die voorname heer daar
zoo stond te spelen.
Dat moest een eerste meester op de viool zijn! Zóó hadden ze het
nog nooit gehoord en.... klink-klank,--klink-klank--het goud- en
zilvergeld rolde in de pet van den arme, die zat te beven van geluk
en te schreien van blijdschap.
Eindelijk legde de heer de viool in de armen van den ouden man en
zeide: "Neem je pet nu op. Hier is een rijtuig, laat je nu maar thuis
brengen, vriend!"
"O, God zegene u, God zegene u! U kunt niemand anders zijn dan die
groote kunstenaar, die door heel Europa trekt. U bent...."
"Ssst!" zei de heer en verwijderde zich snel met de dame.
En weet je wat de dame zei?
Ze drukte de hand van haar man en sprak met bevende stem:
"Frans, Frans, wat heb je dien man gelukkig gemaakt! O, ik dank je
ook! En.... ja, die arme blinde heeft waarheid gesproken: God zal
je zegenen!"
"Zeg, man, wie was die vioolspeler?" vroeg een heer, die in een mooie
koets zat en ook stil had laten houden.
"Dat was de beroemde vioolspeler Frans Jacobsen, mylord!" antwoordde
de blinde.
"Die viool moet ik voor een gedachtenis hebben. Ik geef er vijftig
pond voor!" liet de lord zeggen en je begrijpt wel, dat de blinde
voor vijftig pond, dat is zes honderd gulden, zijn oud instrument
gaarne afstond.
Reeds denzelfden avond waren de couranten vol van hetgeen gebeurd was,
en waren vijf menschen overgelukkig.
De blinde, omdat hij nu niet meer behoefde te gaan spelen en zich in
een gesticht koopen kon, was de eerste gelukkige.
En de andere vier, wie waren die?
In een voornaam hotel op een der grootste marktplaatsen van Londen
zit een stokoud, maar nog krachtig man in een grooten stoel.
Dicht bij hem aan een tafel zit een bejaarde dame. Ze is bezig de
Haarlemsche courant te spellen.
Spellen?! Ja, spellen; want de vrouw kon zeer slecht lezen. Nu leefde
ze uit de korf zonder zorg, maar....
Eens was ze een arme weduwe, die dag aan dag bij anderen uit werken
moest gaan en dan nog niet eens zooveel verdienen kon, dat ze haar
jongen kon laten schoolgaan!
Maar, ze had een besten zoon in haar eenig kind! Die jongen was
braaf voor drie en vlijtig voor vier. Hij had een wil en een moed,
die zeeën konden leegmalen!
En dan, ja, behalve dien goeden zoon en een milden buurman, had ze nog
iemand, die haar en haar kind nooit vergeten had, en nooit vergeten
zou! En dat was de lieve Hemelvader, die geen zijner schepselen
vergeet: die de bloemen des velds kleedt, die het eenvoudige muschje
voedt en die een Man der weduwen en een Vader der weezen wil zijn.
Nu was ze bij dien ouden heer, die daar in den stoel zit, huishoudster
geworden, en als deze op reis ging, dan moest zij altijd mee. En
overal waar hij eenige dagen bleef, liet hij de Haarlemsche courant
voor de oude vrouw per post komen, omdat ze er zich den geheelen dag
mee bezig kon houden.
"The Times, sir!" zei een knecht, die binnentrad.
De oude heer knikte, de knecht ging weg en de oude vrouw bracht die
vreeselijk groote courant bij den heer, die haar aanpakte en begon
te lezen.
Ook vrouw Jacobsen begon weer te spellen, maar eensklaps sprong de
oude heer van zijn stoel op, liet van verwondering zijn sigaar vallen,
en op de ontstelde vrouw toevliegend, schreeuwde hij: "Vrouw Jacobsen,
dat is een bericht! Lieve Vader in den Hemel, dat is een bericht, dat
me meer dan duizend gulden waard is! Jij hebt nog eens een zoon, hoor!"
"Maar wat, wat is er dan toch?" vroeg de vrouw bevende.
"Luister! Ik zal in het Nederlandsch voorlezen, wat hier in het
Engelsch staat.
"Heden had op den hoek van de S....straat een vreemd voorval
plaats. Iedereen kent den blinden vioolspeler John, die daar dag aan
dag op zijn oude viool zit te krassen. Niemand is er, die geloofde,
dat men op die oude kast nog wat anders kon doen dan zagen. Doch zie,
vanmiddag stonden daar honderden stil om te luisteren naar het spel
van een vreemden heer, die op dezelfde viool zoo heerlijk speelde,
dat ieder verrukt was en niet anders kon doen, dan een stuk geld in
de pet van den blinde werpen. Toen de oude zijn pet bijna vol goud en
zilver had, legde de musicus de viool neer en verdween met zijn vrouw
tusschen de menigte. De blinde herkende hem echter aan het meesterlijk
spel en zei: 'God zegene den grooten meester Frans Jacobsen!'"
"Wie, wie, wat, wat zeg je?" schreeuwde de oude vrouw. "Mijn, mijn
Frans, mijn eigen Frans?"
"Ja, vrouw Jacobsen, jouw zoon, die...."
Andermaal ging de deur open en....
"Dag moeder, dag meneer Moerdijk!" zeiden de heer en de dame, die
binnentraden.
"Lieve, lieve Frans!" riep de oude vrouw. "O, mijn jongen, wat maak
je me gelukkig!"
"God zegene je, Frans!" sprak nu mijnbeer Moerdijk en tranen sprongen
uit zijn oogen.--zegene je!--Jongen, jongen, wat een gelukkige dag!"
"Hoor eens, moeder, hoor eens, meneer, spreek, als je me een pleizier
wilt doen, niet meer over die kleinigheid, waarover de lui hier, naar
ik hoor, zulk een ophef maken, dat het al in drie of vier couranten
staat. U beiden hebt me gelukkig gemaakt, waarom mag ik anderen nu
ook niet gelukkig maken? En kom vrouw, daar staat een piano, hier is
mijn viool: we zullen samen wat muziek maken. Dat verzet de zinnen!"
De avond vloog om en het was tien uur eer men het wist.
Tien uur was voor de twee oudjes het bedklokje, en alleen als er
eens een concert gegeven werd, kon het een uurtje later worden. En
dat zou den volgenden dag zijn, Frans zou een concert geven.
Hij bracht zijn oude moeder in de loge, die voor haar, zijn vrouw en
mijnheer Moerdijk bestemd was en begaf zich toen naar het orkest. De
zaal was al stampvol, maar niemand kende mijnheer Jacobsen, zoodat het
gegons en gebrom bleef aanhouden en niemand acht sloeg op den heer,
die daar zijn familie in een loge bracht en toen door een deur bij
het orkest verdween. Het zou misschien een andere muzikant zijn;
dien avond speelden er nog meer.
Maar nauwelijks was hij de orkest-deur binnen, of een oude heer
stond op en riep, op zijn Engelsch natuurlijk: "Stilte!" Dadelijk
was alles stil.
"Mee, ouwentje, mee!" zei de heer, die de lord was, die de viool
gekocht had en hij bracht den blinden muzikant op het orkest.
"Dames en heeren," dus begon de lord, "dezen man zult u wel kennen! Hij
is Blinde John en hij is het voor wien gisteren mijnheer Jacobsen
gespeeld heeft!"
Van alle kanten riep men den blinden muzikant een welkom toe.
"En nu heb ik er zóó over gedacht. We moesten dien Hollandschen violist
een klein geschenk geven voor zijn edelmoedige handelwijze. Zie,
ik heb deze vioolkist gekocht en daarop in een gouden plaat laten
graveer en: 'Liefde om liefde. Londen aan Frans Jacobsen.' Blinde
John mag hem die kist geven, en ieder, die er wat aan bijdragen wil,
kan dat straks bij het verlaten der zaal in een bus doen. Al wat
er meer is dan de helft van hetgeen die kist gekost heeft, is voor
Blinden John! Dat had ik te zeggen! Stil, stil, daar komt de meester!"
Frans kwam zonder dat hij ergens van wist op het orkest en opeens
stonden al, al de menschen op en begroetten den kunstenaar met de
grootste hartelijkheid, en toen Blinde John hem met een paar gebrekkige
woorden de prachtige vioolkist overreikte, scheen het huis te moeten
instorten, zulk een handgeklap, voetgetrappel en geroep werd er
gehoord. Wat de bewogen, de diep bewogen Frans zei, verstond niemand,
maar Frans greep terstond zijn viool en heel zijn dankbaar hart liet
hij spreken in een muziekstuk, dat nergens geschreven of gedrukt was,
maar dat zoo al voortspelende gemaakt werd in het dankbare hart.
Eindelijk legde hij de viool neer en--zonder de goedkeuring van
het publiek af te wachten, verwijderde hij zich even van het orkest
om--zijn oogen af te drogen en heel in stilte Hem in een paar woorden
te danken, die den armen torenwachterszoon zoo over- en overgelukkig
had gemaakt.
Dat Frans dien avond veel lof inoogstte, zal wel niet gezegd moeten
worden. Dat de bus aan de deur te klein was en dat Mylord zijn hoed
moest ophouden ook, was een meevallertje. Blinde John behoefde nu
zelfs niet meer naar een gesticht te gaan.
Dat er ook dien avond vier Hollanders in Londen gelukkig waren,
zul je vanzelf wel begrijpen.
En hier is mijn vertelling uit, kinderen! Als jelui er nu maar uit
geleerd hebt dat de Liefde en het Geluk de wereld niet uit zijn en
dat God helpt, die zichzelven helpen, dan ben ik tevreden.
MET GOEDEN WIL EN EEN WEINIG HULP.
I.
De torenklok had al een poosje geleden negen uur in den morgen
geslagen.
De straten waren veel lediger dan voor een half uurtje; want toen
wemelde en krioelde het op plein of gracht, in straat en steeg, op
stoep en trottoir van het jonge volkje, waarvan men gerust zeggen kon:
"En aan hun oogjes zie je 't aan,
Dat zij wat graag naar school toe gaan!"--
Nu en dan slechts zag men er nog een, die misschien vóór schooltijd
voor moeder nog een boodschap gedaan had, of die door de zon van acht
uur uit het bed gejaagd was, zoo hard hij kon naar school draven,
om dan toch niet àl te laat te komen.
Niet ver van den toren, en dicht bij de bloemmarkt, was de
stads-apotheek en, als er geen bijzondere ziekten in de stad
heerschten, dan ging de deur van dat gebouw eerst te negen uren open.
Ondertusschen was het er nu al kwartier over. De menigte voor de deur
werd al grooter en grooter, en toch hoorde men daarbinnen nog volstrekt
geen beweging. Het spreekt vanzelf, dat er onder die wachtende menschen
al heel spoedig gemor ontstond, en eindelijk verstoutte er zich één
eens ferm aan de schel te trekken.
Hij, die dat deed, was een opgeschoten jongen van een jaar of tien,
die, toen de klok nog geen negen geslagen had, al voor de deur
stond. Met angstig en ongeduldig gebaar had hij al verscheidene
keeren naar het wijzerbord van den toren gezien, en telkens zag hij
dat de minuutwijzer, hoe langzaam dan ook, voortging. Eerst stond hij
op één, toen, op twee, wat later op drie en het speelde daar boven
"kwartier-over";--nu stond hij al bijna op vier!
Men kon het hem zoo aanzien, dat hij er lang niet plezierig onder was.
Geen wonder, hij behoorde ook tot de kinderen, die daar straks
stoeiend en spelend naar school waren gegaan. Ook _zijn_ plaats was in
de school! Wat zou de meester nu wel zeggen? Hij was nooit "zoo maar"
om het een of ander thuis gebleven; ja, hij was zelfs nog nooit te
laat gekomen. En nu al haast tien minuten voor halftien!
Neen, hij kon niet langer wachten, het was hem onmogelijk: hij zou
maar eens schellen.
Nu was er aan die apotheek een bijzonder soort van schelknop, een
nieuwe, zooals er toen nog geen tweede in de stad was. Men moest er
niet aan trekken, maar op drukken.
Dat wist onze knaap niet, en tot zijn grooten schrik ging de schel
hard over, toen hij, nogal driftig, de hand op den knop legde.
"Nu, als ze dat daarbinnen niet hooren, dan slapen ze zoo vast als
marmotten in den winter," zei een der mannen.
"Het heeft geholpen ook. Hoor maar, daar komen ze al," sprak een ander.
En ja, ze kwamen dan toch eindelijk.
Driftig werden de luiken geopend, en nog driftiger werd de deur
opengesmeten.
"Wie, voor den drommel, maakt hier zoo'n vreeselijk leven? Het lijkt
of er brand is! Kan jelui dan niet wachten tot een fatsoenlijk mensch
zichzelven aangekleed heeft? Wie heeft er gescheld?"
Dit alles riep in één adem een dik en groot heer met vreeselijken baard
en knevel, en hij keek zoo grimmig en leelijk, alsof hij grooten trek
had al die menschen zoo maar ineens op te eten.
Niemand sprak echter en daarom schreeuwde hij nog eens: "Ik wil
weten wie er daar zooeven de brandklok geluid heeft! Heb je het
niet gehoord?"
"Ik heb het gedaan, meneer! Ik moest om negen uren op school zijn en
het speelt daar al voorslag van half tien!" zei de knaap en zag den
heer vrijmoedig aan.
"Mooi, brandklokluider, dan zal ik jou ditmaal eens allerlaatst
helpen, verstaan? Dat maakt een kabaal, alsof ze hun drankje met goud
betalen! Je weet toch wel, dat je het hier voor niemendal krijgt,
en dat je dan zooveel praats niet hebben mag! Zeg, kwajongen?"
"Maar, meneer, ik moet naar school! Ik...."
"Houd je mond, straatbengel!" riep de booze apotheker en nam het
recept aan van een vrouw, die dichtbij stond.
Sapperloot, wat maakte hij een geweld met dien ijzeren stamper in
dien koperen vijzel! Wat werd de knecht toegesnauwd, als hij niet gauw
genoeg de poeders in papiertjes vouwde, doosjes aangaf, kurkjes op de
fleschjes deed of pillen draaide. De man speelde: haast-je, rep-je,
en toch was het niet goed.
Nummer één was geholpen, nummer twee ook, eindelijk zelfs nummer negen,
en nog altijd stond de arme jongen met het recept in de handen te
wachten. Reeds lang had de klok tien geslagen, en met het slaan van
tien, kwamen er misschien wel evenveel, misschien ook nog meer tranen
uit zijn oogen rollen.
Af en toe kwamen er menschen bij en gingen er af.
Het was half elf.
De wreede apotheker hield vol met hen, die het laatst gekomen waren,
het eerst te helpen.
"Wat scheelt er aan, manneke?" vroeg opeens een vriendelijke stem,
dicht bij den knaap.
De jongen keek op en zag een zonderling gekleed man voor zich
staan. Lange, grijze haren golfden van onder een blauwe slaapmuts op
den rug, die voor een gedeelte met een rooden zakdoek bedekt was. Een
reistaschje hing over de jas. In de rechterhand hield hij een dikken
en knoestigen doornstok en de voeten staken in groote geverfde klompen.
"Wat scheelt er aan, manneke?" vroeg hij nog eens en zoo mogelijk
nog vriendelijker dan daar straks.
Snikkend en fluisterend vertelde de knaap alles wat er gebeurd was.
"Is het anders niet?" hervatte de oude. "Wacht, ik zal eens maken,
dat je geholpen wordt. Geef je receptje maar eens hier!"
Het jongetje gaf het over, en nu drong de man door de vóór hem staande
menschen, stak de hand, met het recept er in, door het loket, en geen
vijf minuten later kwam hij terug en gaf het drankje over.
"Zie je wel, vent, wie arm is, moet slim zijn," zei de man en tegelijk
stopte hij met het drankje, den knaap een dubbeltje in de hand.
"Toe, toe, maak maar voort! Dat dubbeltje is voor je lang
wachten!" hervatte de oude toen het jongetje hem vreemd aankeek.
Die vriendelijke, oude man en dat dubbeltje verzoetten voor hem
eenigszins de nare gedachte, dat hij nu, buiten zijn schuld, niet
naar school kon.
Zonder te kijken naar een paar honden, die om een weggeworpen been
vochten, snelde hij den hoek om langs de bloemmarkt....
Hé, wat stonden daar mooie bloemen!
Geraniums, fuchsia's, rozen, petunia's, aäronskelken, reseda's....
En moeder zag zoo graag een reseda! Ze hield er zoo van, en nu ze
ziek was en niet naar de markt kon om een potje te koopen, was er
nog niets van gekomen.
Hij liep wat minder snel en bekeek de lange rijen met bloemen.
Het dubbeltje danste in zijn zak.
Neen, de verzoeking was te groot; hij kon niet voort; hij moest even
blijven staan en kijken.
"Wat noodig, manneke?" vroeg een vrouw.
"Hoe duur is de reseda?" bracht de knaap er met moeite uit.
"De mooiste kosten vijftien centen; de andere een
dubbeltje!" antwoordde de vrouw.
"Geef er mij dan een van een dubbeltje," zei de jongen, die nog nooit
scheen gehoord te hebben van overvragen of afdingen.
Of deze vrouw nu overvraagd had, en of ze ook liet afdingen, kijk,
dat weet ik zoo precies niet; maar de leelijkste gaf ze hem toch niet,
dat weet ik wel.
In een ommezien was nu de knaap met zijn drankje en reseda-plantje
thuis.
"Willem, Willem, wat ben je lang weggebleven! Hoe komt dat?" klonk
een zachte stem uit de bedstede hem tegen toen hij thuis kwam.
De knaap, die, zooals we hooren, Willem heette, vertelde haarfijn
alles wat er met hem in die twee uren gebeurd was, en liet haar ook
het potje met reseda zien.
"Kan ik nu nog naar school, moeder?" vroeg hij.
"Ja, kind, het is wel jammer; maar ik zou het niet doen. Het is al elf
uur en om half twaalf gaat de school uit! Het is de moeite niet meer!"
"Ja maar, moeder, wat zal ik dan vanmiddag wel tegen den meester
zeggen?"
"De waarheid, Willem!"
"En als meester me dan eens niet gelooven wil?"
"Heb je dan wel eens gelogen, mijn kind?" vroeg de moeder nu.
"Neen, moeder, maar...."
"Stil maar, jongen, stil maar! Je gaat vanmiddag naar school en je
vertelt net alles wat er gebeurd is. Je doet er niets af en niets
bij. Neem nu het prentenboek, dat je bij het laatste school-examen
gekregen hebt, en lees er dan maar wat in, dan doe je toch wat,"
zei moeder, die een lepelvol van het drankje innam en weer ging liggen.
Mietje, de eenige zuster, die Willem had, was een meisje van veertien
jaren, die nu gedurende de ziekte van haar moeder, zoo goed en zoo
kwaad het ging, het huishouden waarnam. Had ze geweten, dat haar
broertje zoo lang zou moeten wachten, dan zou ze zelf wel naar de
apotheek gegaan zijn; want haar moeder was nu zóó ziek niet, of ze kon
wel een oogenblik alleen zijn. Want, zie je, _zij_ zou niet gescheld,
of het althans zoo hard niet gedaan hebben. Ze kende dien knop wel;
ze zou ook zoo vroeg niet gegaan zijn, en zoo voort. Maar aardig
en vriendelijk vond ze het toch van dien vreemden, ouden man! En
voor de reseda zou ze zorgen, dat was vast. Zoo ging het mondje van
Mietje, terwijl ze in het zijkamertje bezig was met den middagpot
gereed te maken, zoodat er van Willems lezen ook al niet zoo heel
veel terechtkwam.
Even na het slaan van twaalven kwam de vader, een breed geschouderde
opperman, thuis. Deze hoorde ook wat er gebeurd was, doch daar hij
zelf niet lezen of schrijven kon, begreep hij niet, dat Willem zóó
iets zich zoo aantrekken kon.
"Was het anders niet?--Over een half jaar moest hij toch van
school af. Had hij, als vader, zijn zin gekregen, dan had de
jongen verleden jaar de school al verlaten. Hij kon hem toen bij
een schoenmakersbaasje, als loopjongen, voor een halven gulden in
de week gekregen hebben. Jammer genoeg; want iedere week een halven
gulden meer is toch ook geen kleinigheid! Met nog een kwartje er bij
was het juist de huishuur! En wat beteekende al dat leeren? Hijzelf
kende immers geen _a_ voor een _b_, en hij had toch altijd te eten,
's zomers van hetgeen hij verdiende, en 's winters van de bedeeling!"
"Och, vader, houd toch op met dat geleuter over de school," riep de
moeder. "Doe me het pleizier en zwijg ervan!"
"Nu, ik zal zwijgen!" was het antwoord en kort daarop ging hij,
na een pijpje opgestoken te hebben, de deur uit.
's Middags kwam Willem in de school. Hij vertelde de waarheid,
heelemaal de waarheid! Maar meester was een streng man en maakte met
niemand eenig onderscheid. Hij nam zijn schoollijst en Willem kreeg
één aanteekening van willekeurig schoolverzuim.
II.
Het was misschien een maand later en op een mooien Donderdagmiddag,
dat er aan het spoorwegstation heel wat drukte en beweging was. Wel
honderdtwintig kinderen waren onder geleide van twaalf onderwijzers
in den trein gestapt om te R. den dierentuin te gaan bezichtigen.
En waar kwamen die honderdtwintig kinderen vandaan?
Ik zal het je zeggen.
In de stad waarin Willem woonde, waren eenige heeren op de armenscholen
gekomen en hadden gezegd:
"Meneer, al de kinderen die gedurende een geheel jaar geen enkelen keer
voor willekeurig schoolverzuim zijn aangeteekend, moet u eens opgeven!"
"Dat wil ik wel doen, heeren," antwoordde Willems onderwijzer. "Maar
welk plan heeft u daarmee?"
"Wel," zei toen een, "om de kinderen voor dat trouwe schoolbezoek te
beloonen, zullen wij ze den dierentuin te R. eens laten zien!"
Dat vonden al de onderwijzers goed en de kinderen natuurlijk ook.
Willem ging op school D. en toen de hoofdonderwijzer vertelde wat
er gebeuren zou, noemde hij veertien namen op van kinderen, die het
geheele jaar lang geen enkelen keer "zoo maar" waren thuis gebleven.
De veertien namen waren genoemd,--meester noemde ze nog eens, het
papier werd gevouwen.... Ach, Willem was er niet bij!
Hij stond op de lijst voor één keer willekeurig schoolverzuim, dat
wist hij.
Maar kon hij dat helpen?
Was dat zijn schuld?
Neen, die poets had die man uit de stadsapotheek hem gebakken, en
toen hij de school uitging kon hij niet nalaten, eens even naar de
apotheek te gaan.
Om dien boozen man kwaad te doen?
Neen, dát niet; maar als hij hem zag dan zou hij zijn tong toch wel
eens tegen hem uitsteken, weet je!
Zoo'n leelijke vent!
De man was niet in de apotheek, en met een boos hoofd ging Willem nu
maar naar huis.
Vader kwam dien middag niet thuis eten. Hij was buiten de stad op een
karwei en Mietje moest hem zijn potje maar brengen. Ze zou op verzoek
van moeder, die nu weer beter was, van dat pleizierreisje van sommige
kinderen maar geen woord spreken; want hij zou er misschien aanleiding
in vinden om Willem maar van school te nemen.
Het middagmaal was afgeloopen en baloorig ging Willem de straat
op. Zou hij naar school gaan?
"Neen," bromde hij, "nu blijf ik vanmiddag eens stilletjes
thuis! Hebben die andere jongens en meisjes pret, ik wil het ook
hebben!"
Zoo in zichzelven pratend, liep hij maar verder en verder tot dicht
bij het station.
Lieve schepsel, hoor eens wat een gejuich! Wat een gejoel!
Jawel, daar zingen ze al:
"Wilhelmus van Nassauen!"
De tranen kwamen onzen knaap in de oogen toen hij dat hoorde, en
schreiend zette hij zich op een bank.
"Daar heb je warempel dien huilebalk alweer!" riep plotseling een stem
dicht bij hem, en opkijkend, ontdekte Willem denzelfden ouden man,
die een maand geleden zoo vriendelijk voor hem geweest was.
Hij droeg nog precies dezelfde kleeren en was nog niemendal veranderd.
"En wat scheelt er nu weer aan?" vroeg de oude.
"Niets! Niemendal! Neen, niets!" antwoordde Willem, keerde zich om
en draaide hem zijn rug toe.
"Wel, wat een vriendelijke jongen is dat geworden," zei de oude. "Kom,
ik ga een beetje naast hem zitten!"
Hij deed het, doch zette zijn dikken doornstok dwars over Willems
beenen heen, zoodat deze, die eerst hard wilde wegloopen, er nu op
bleef kijken, als een haan op een krijtstreep.
"Hoor eens, maatje, ik wed, dat ik weet wat er aan hapert! Wil ik er
eens naar raden, zeg?"
"Neen! neen!"
"Wel, hoor me nu zoo'n stijfkop eens aan! Dat is zoo kortaf als
een gebroken pijpesteeltje. Ja, ja, vanmiddag zeker spinnekoppen of
oorwurmen gevangen, is het niet?"
"Neen! Houd op met plagen!"
"Of zure karnemelk gegeten?" hervatte de oude.
Of Willem nu wilde of niet, daar hielp niets aan; hij moest schreien
en lachen te gelijk.
"Aha," zei de man, "het zonnetje schijnt en het regent! Nu ga ik
raden! Huil je ook omdat je niet met dat troepje jongens en meisjes
mee mag? Zeg?"
Het ijs was gebroken. Willem begon opnieuw te schreien, zei eindelijk:
"ja!" en toen de vriendelijke man hem vroeg hoe dat gekomen was,
vertelde Willem weer de heele geschiedenis.
"Zoo, zoo!" hervatte de oude man, "zit de vork zóó in den steel? En
nu heb je vanmiddag zeker vacantie?"
Willem durfde niet liegen en eindelijk kwam het er uit, dat hij
stilletjes uit school wilde blijven.
"Dat is goed! Daar doe je wijs aan!" zei de man.
Willem keek hem aan, alsof hij vragen wilde: "Nu fop je me toch?"
"Neen maar, dat is dan toch eens heel verstandig van je, hoor! Nu
moet je net eens thuis blijven en niet school komen, dan doe je den
meester schade en je zelf voordeel; want er is voor jongens geen betere
plaats op de wereld dan de straat. Ze leeren er liegen, luieren,
vloeken, bedriegen, kwaaddoen en ik weet niet wat al meer! Nu, nu,
waar moet je nu weer heen?"
Onderwijl die oude man zoo sprak was Willem opgestaan en wilde
wegloopen.
"Nu zeg, waar moet je heen?"
"Naar school, meneer! Och toe, laat me maar gaan, als ik hard loop,
dan kom ik nog niet te laat!"
"Zoo? Nu, je bent verstandiger dan ik dacht! Maar zeg, heb je
Zaterdagmiddag ook school?"
"Neen, meneer!"
"Moet je dan ook boodschappen doen?"
"Neen, meneer! Ik mag altijd den heelen Zaterdagmiddag spelen!"
"Best. Ik woon een half uurtje hier vandaan aan den straatweg. Het
eerste huis aan je linkerhand, als je den tol voorbij bent. Kom je
me Zaterdagmiddag dan eens opzoeken om eens wat met me te praten?"
"Ja, meneer, graag, heel graag," riep Willem, en als een pijl uit
den boog snelde hij heen.
Hij kwam juist nog bijtijds op school en weinig middagen waren er
geweest, dat hij zóóveel geleerd had.
Wat hunkerde hij naar dien Zaterdag! En toen die dag er was, wat was
hij toen blij!
Alsof hij dicht bij het tolhek den Brijberg uit Luilekkerland zou
vinden, zoo vroolijk ging hij er heen, en toen hij nog geen kwartier
geloopen had, kwam hij den ouden man al tegen.
"Ik dacht: ik zal mijn vriendje maar tegemoet gaan; hij moest anders
eens verdwalen," zei hij en begon toen over allerlei dingen te praten.
Eindelijk kwamen ze bij een aardig huisje.
"Ziezoo," zei de oude, "hier woon ik! Kijk nu maar eens op de deur,
dan weet je hoe ik heet en wat ik ben!"
Willem keek op, en las van een koperen plaatje, dat op de deur
geschroefd was: G. _Balsem_, _Veearts_.
Het aardige huisje zag er van binnen nog netter uit dan van buiten,
en het tuintje, dat er achter lag, was een lust om te zien, zoo netjes
als het er uitzag. Mooier bloemen waren er zelfs op de bloemmarkt
niet te vinden.
En terwijl ze daar samen in den tuin zaten, vertelde mijnheer Balsem,
dat hij in zijn jeugd een heel arme jongen was geweest, die niet al
te best wilde oppassen. In plaats van naar school te gaan, bleef hij
heel dikwijls stilletjes op straat loopen, en daar leerde hij zooveel,
dat hij, toen hij negentien jaar oud was, als koloniaal naar de West
kon gaan. Hij werd oppasser bij een kapitein, en dat was gelukkig een
bovenstbeste man, die den jongen Balsem op het goede pad terugbracht
en hem zelfs heel goed leerde lezen, schrijven en rekenen. Eens in een
ledige kamer, die zoowat tot pakhuis gebruikt werd, snuffelend, vond
hij een boek, waarboven stond: _De verstandige veehouder_. In zijn
ledige uren las hij er in, en eens toen het paard van een luitenant
niet wel was, had hij het geluk het dier te genezen. Van dien tijd
af was er geen paard of koe in den omtrek ongesteld, of Balsem werd
er bij gehaald, en dikwijls wist hij met eenvoudige middelen de
dieren beter te maken. Toen zijn tijd om was en hij weer naar huis
kon gaan, had hij een aardig sommetje bespaard. Zijn ouders waren in
dien tijd gestorven, en daar niemand in zijn geboorteplaats veel met
hem ophad, ging hij hier wonen, schroefde het koperen plaatje, dat
er nóg op was, aan zijn deur, en begon in het vaderland als veearts
van meet af aan. In zijn ledige uren, die hij in het begin veel had,
las hij allerlei boeken over de ziekten van het vee, en eer er twee
jaren verliepen, noemden al de boeren in den omtrek hem: _den knappen
veearts_. En, dat bracht hem voordeel aan ook. Hij kreeg het verbazend
druk en verdiende veel geld. Later trouwde hij en kreeg twee zoons, die
nu zelf al getrouwd waren. "Kijk," dus eindigde hij zijn vertelling,
"daar ginder in dat boerenhuis met dat roode pannendak, daar woont
mijn oudste zoon Jan. Hij is boer en het gaat hem goed. Mijn jongste
zoon is paardenarts bij de dragonders en hem gaat het ook goed."
Nog altijd zat Willem te luisteren of de oude man nog meer zou
vertellen.
Deze deed het echter niet, maar vroeg eensklaps: "En wat zal jij
worden, kameraad?"
"Ik weet het niet," antwoordde Willem, "maar ik zou wel bloemist
willen worden; want ik houd veel van bloemen!"
En hierop vertelde hij, hoe hij voor dat dubbeltje een reseda-plantje
voor zijn moeder gekocht had, en hoe mooi dat bloeide.
"Nu maar, dat is allemaal niemendal," zei Balsem. "Schoolgaan is in
de eerste jaren nog maar de boodschap; want het gaat tegenwoordig
niet meer, manneke, om met weinig te weten in de wereld vooruit te
komen. Toen _ik_ jong was, kon dat nog, dat zie je; want o, ik weet
zoo bitter weinig, en toch ben ik rijk geworden. Maar, als ik nu nog
eens van meet af aan moest beginnen, en ik wist niet meer dan ik nu
weet, dan werd ik misschien ook nog opperman, net als je vader!"
Toen Balsem zoo een en ander verteld had, ging hij met Willem wat
in den tuin wandelen en leerde hem nog heel wat van sommige bloemen,
waarvan de knaap nog nooit gehoord had, en toen hij naar huis ging,
gaf hij hem een boek mee om er wat in te lezen. Iederen Zaterdag
mocht hij bij hem komen, en als hij niet thuis was, zou de oude
vrouw er toch zijn, dan kon hij die vertellen wat hij gelezen had,
en zij zou hem dan wel een ander boek geven.
Zoo gingen de zomer, de herfst en de winter voorbij;--zoo werd
het Maart.
"Wat scheelt er nu weer aan, jongen?" vroeg Balsem, toen Willem met
roodgeweende oogen op een Zaterdagmiddag bij hem kwam.
"Och, meneer, ik moet van school af!"
"Van school af, jij? En hoe oud ben je?"
"Twaalf jaar, meneer!"
"En wat moet je dan gaan doen?"
"Vader heeft me bij zijn baas gedaan, en overmorgen moet ik al beginnen
met steenenbikken."
"Maar dat wil ik niet hebben. Is je vader thuis?"
"Neen, meneer; maar morgenochtend wel!"
"Best, dan kom ik zelf morgen eens met je vader praten, hoor! Ik heb
nu geen tijd; want ik moet naar mijn zoon; want die heeft twee zieke
koeien. Hier, dit boek heb ik voor je gereedgelegd, lees er maar veel
in. Dag, Willem!"
"Dag, meneer!" antwoordde de kleine steenenbikker, en ging naar huis.
Den anderen dag kwam Balsem bij Willems vader, doch hoe mooi de
brave en verstandige veearts ook sprak, de opperman wilde niet
toegeven. Willem moest van de school af en Maandag aan het werk. Hij
was het nu al lang zat om voor zulk een grooten jongen nog langer te
werken. Hij kon den kost best zelf verdienen, ja, dat kon hij.
Toen mijnheer Balsem thuis kwam, was de eerste vraag, die hij zijn
vrouw deed: "Zeg eens, Bet, zou je er veel tegen hebben, als ik een
loopjongen in huis nam?"
"Maar, wat haal je nu toch in je hoofd? Ben je dan van plan zoo iets
te doen, Gerard?"
"Van plan, van plan,--als je er erg tegen opziet, dan doe ik het niet,
dat is eenvoudig."
"Maar waartoe heb je dan een loopjongen noodig? Heb je het nu zooveel
drukker dan vroeger, en komen de boeren zelf de medicijnen niet
meer halen?"
"Och ja, vrouw, maar.... wacht, ga zitten, dan zal ik je eens alles
van a tot z vertellen," hernam Balsem en begon zijn vrouw nu mede
te deelen wat er met den armen Willem stond te gebeuren. Toen hij
geëindigd had, besloot hij met te vragen:
"Nu, wat zeg je ervan?"
"Laat den jongen komen, Gerard! Ik wil hem ook helpen," was het
antwoord.
Na het eten ging de veearts weer naar Willems ouders, om, zooals
hij dacht, niet alleen de laatsten, maar bovenal Willem gelukkig te
maken. Doch toen hij op het zolderkamertje kwam, vond hij den opperman
in geen al te best humeur.
Voor den middag was hij ergens geweest, waar hij, door van iets
veel te drinken, een warm hoofd gekregen had, en toen hij naar huis
ging, meende hij, dat de huizen dansten of, erger nog, op zijn hoofd
wilden vallen. Hij had erg op zijn vrouw en kinderen gegromd. Het
eten was weer niet gaar, had hij gezegd en toen de tafel afgenomen
werd, gaf hij Mietje een slag, omdat ze zoo'n leven met de borden
maakte. Hij knorde op de duiven van zijn buurman, omdat die onder
het vliegen zoo met de vleugels klapperden. Hij gromde op de honden,
die langs de straat liepen te blaffen. Hij schopte een stoel omver,
omdat hij er tegen aanliep, ja, hij was zelfs boos op de zon, omdat
die zoo warm scheen, en al zulke gekke dingen meer.
"En wat heb je me nu weer te vertellen?" vroeg hij aan Balsem toen
deze boven kwam.
De veearts zei het hem.
Onze opperman was nu nog zóó raar niet, of hij begreep wel, dat Willem
veel beter af zou zijn, als hij bij Balsem kwam, dan als hij bij
den metselaar steenen ging bikken; doch hij had het nu vandaag zich
eens in het hoofd gezet, een dwarsdrijver te zijn en daarom zei hij,
toen Balsem zweeg:
"Zeg eens, sinjeur de paardendokter, ik wilde wel, dat je mij en
mijn geheele familie met rust liet! Ik heb je niet geroepen, en,
kort en goed, ik zeg je, dat Willem metselaar zal en moet worden,
begrepen? Meer heb ik je niet te zeggen!"
Nu de oude man voor al zijn goeddoen nog zoo leelijk behandeld werd,
was hij ook wel wat boos geworden, doch hij was te verstandig om met
den man te gaan kibbelen, en daarom ging hij zonder iets te zeggen weg.
Beneden aan de trap vond hij Willem.
"Pas maar braaf op, mijn jongen, en kom zoo nu en dan, als je tijd
hebt, nog eens bij me aan, zal je?" zei Balsem en gaf den knaap
de hand.
Den anderen dag was Willem aan het steenen bikken, en een enkelen keer
aan het kalk maken. O, wat had hij er een hekel aan, en wat vorderde
het werk slecht!
Maar de week ging om en het werd weer Zondag.
"Waar ga je heen, Willem?" vroeg vader, die weer boos was op de
stoelen, op de duiven, op de honden en op de zon.
"Ik ga naar meneer Balsem!" zei Willem.
"Blijf thuis!" was het korte bevel, dat de jongen kreeg en toen deze er
iets tegen inbrengen wilde, hernam zijn vader: "Nu, en _ik_ zeg, dat je
er niet heen mág. Vandaag niet, morgen niet, en nooit meer! Begrepen?"
"Maar, vader, ik heb meneer beloofd, dat ik komen zou!"
"En ik zeg je, dat je niet gaat, gehoord?" was het nijdige antwoord.
"Maar ik mag toch wel op straat loopen?"
"Daar geef ik niet om, maar naar dien paardendokter mag je niet,"
zei de vader nogmaals, trapte nog gauw een paar stoelen omver, bromde
op de zon, omdat ze zoo fel scheen en ging liggen slapen.
Willem liep de trappen af en ging de straat op.
Ja, maar hij bleef daar niet. Hij sloop langs de huizen tot hij op
de Bloemmarkt was, en liep toen wat hij loopen kon, den straatweg
op naar zijn ouden vriend; maar, och, toen hij dezen vertelde, dat
hij eigenlijk van zijn vader niet mocht, en dat hij maar stilletjes
gekomen was, toen zei de brave veearts: "Het spijt me, Willem, dat ik
je wegsturen moet. Wel zou ik graag weer een uurtje met je praten; maar
dat kan nu niet! Je mag je vader niet ongehoorzaam zijn. Dag, Willem!"
De knaap had er niet veel zin in, doch Balsem duwde hem zachtjes de
deur uit en zei nog: "En als je nu weer zonder vergunning van je vader
hier komt, dan zou ik genoodzaakt zijn het zelf aan je vader te komen
vertellen. Gehoorzaamheid gaat boven alles, Willem! Dag, kerel!"
Willem kon maar niet begrijpen, dat hij hieraan verkeerd gedaan had, en
dacht nu, dat die oude veearts hem ook al afviel, en daarom bromde hij
in zichzelf: "Best, ik zal niet meer bij dien Balsem komen! Pfff! Wat
geef ik er om?"
"Ik heb toch medelijden met den armen jongen, Gerard," had juffrouw
Balsem gezegd toen Willem weg was, "en, als ik in jouw plaats geweest
was, zou ik hem niet weggestuurd hebben!"
"Ik heb ook medelijden met hem, vrouw," was het antwoord, "maar
kinderen moeten niet te lichtvaardig vader of moeder ongehoorzaam
zijn. Als er wat goeds in den jongen zit, dan zal tóch wel alles
terechtkomen."
"Jawel; maar als hij nu eens een kwajongen wordt, als zoovele anderen,
wat dan?"
"Hoor eens, vrouw, daarvoor zal ik trachten te zorgen!" zei Balsem en
ging weer naar zijn kleine apotheek om daar eenige medicijnen klaar
te maken, die zoo op het oogenblik zouden gehaald worden.
En hoe ging het met Willem?
Wel, in zijn booze bui zocht hij nog dienzelfden Zondag eenige jongens
op, die ook zoo wat op een ambacht waren. Hij probeerde met hen mee
te doen aan leelijke dingen; maar hij had te veel gelezen en van den
ouden Balsem te veel goeds geleerd, om er pret in te hebben.
Toen hij nu 's avonds naar bed ging, was hij op zijn manier ook eens
boos, ja, boos op iedereen. Hij gooide ook met stoelen en deuren,
precies zooals zijn vader dat een paar keeren gedaan had. Maar
het meest was hij boos op zichzelf. Waarom? Och, dat wist hij zelf
niet recht; maar het is heusch waar, hoor, hij was op zichzelf heel
erg boos.
III.
De eene week na de andere ging voorbij. Dat gaat altijd zoo. Of men
boos of goed, vroolijk of bedroefd is, daaraan stoort zich de tijd
niet: die loopt maar door. Het was dan ook al heel spoedig najaar
en daar de zomer niet zeer voorspoedig geweest was, liep het meeste
werkvolk nu al zonder werk.
Onze opperman had al lang gedaan gekregen, en Willem ook, zoodat die
twee nu met pakjesdragen en wegwijzen zoo wat den kost verdienden.
Zoo liep Willem weer eens op een donkeren en regenachtigen Octoberdag
door de straten en ook voorbij de stads-apotheek.
Daar werd tegen de ruiten getikt en toen de knaap opkeek, wenkte de
apotheker hem, dat hij eens binnen moest komen.
Het was dezelfde man, die eens zoo onverdiend op hem gegromd had,
en die hem zoo lang liet wachten. Willem was die geschiedenis nog
wel niet vergeten; maar hij kon toch niet altijd boos blijven ook,
zoodat hij zonder dralen de apotheek binnenstapte.
"Moet je naar je winkel, jongen?" vroeg de apotheker.
"Ik heb geen winkel, meneer!" antwoordde Willem.
"Zoo! Wil je een boodschap voor me doen?"
"Jawel, meneer!"
"Mooi! Breng dit pakje kruiden dan eens bij mijnheer Balsem, den
veearts, die dicht bij den tol woont!"
De apotheker wilde hem nu beduiden hoe hij loopen moest om er te
komen, doch Willem zei, dat hij het best wist; want dat hij er vroeger
dikwijls geweest was.
"Zooveel te beter," zei de apotheker. "Hij zal je antwoord geven,
waarop je wachten moet. Komaan, laat eens zien, of je goed boodschappen
doen kunt!"
"Als ik geld verdienen kan, dan geeft vader er niet om waar ik loop,"
dacht Willem en stapte den weg op naar den tol.
Toch had hij er niet veel lust in; want na dien Zondag had hij
mijnheer Balsem maar tweemaal gezien en ongelukkig beide keeren,
dat hij bezig was met kwaaddoen.
Maar kom, wat gaf hij er om, als hij maar een dubbeltje kon
verdienen! Het kon immers ook best gebeuren, dat hij niet thuis
was! Zijn vrouw wist er toch niets van.
Mijnheer Balsem was echter wel thuis, doch zei niet veel. Hij maakte
het pakje open; bekeek de kruiden, die er in waren, las het briefje,
dat er bovenop lag en zei toen:
"Wacht even, Willem, ik zal je antwoord meegeven!"
Hé, wat duurde dat lang! Wel een half uur. Maar eindelijk was hij
klaar. Willem kreeg den brief met de boodschap, om dien aan den
apotheker te geven, en toen hij de deur uitging, vroeg de oude man
enkel: "En heb je me soms niets meer te zeggen, Willem?"
"Neen, meneer!" antwoordde deze.
"Goed! Dag, Willem!" klonk het en de deur viel toe.
Toen de apotheker den langen brief gelezen had, zei deze: "Hier is
een kwartje voor je moeite en vraag aan je vader of je van den winter
hier mag komen om boodschappen te doen, zal je?"
"Jawel, meneer," riep de knaap en spoedde zich heen om moeder te
vertellen, dat hij een goeden dag had gehad.
De vader had er ditmaal niets tegen. Hij gaf er niet om wat Willem
deed, als hij maar kwartjes thuis bracht.
In dien brief, dien Willem had meegebracht, had de oude heer Balsem
aan zijn vriend, den apotheker, een en ander van dien jongen verteld,
en hem verzocht of hij ook een oogje op hem wilde houden. Nu weet ik
zeker, dat de meesten van mijn lezertjes meenen, dat ze eens recht
boos op dien kwaden apotheker mogen zijn; maar ik geloof, dat ze het
wel eens glad mis konden hebben.
Op dien morgen toen hij Willem zoo erg toesnauwde, deed hij leelijk,
heel leelijk zelfs, dat is zoo. Maar een mensch kan wel eens boos zijn,
en iets verkeerds doen zonder dat hij daarom slecht is.
Jelui bent immers ook wel eens boos geweest, wed ik, ja, wellicht
ook wel eens op je ouders, is het niet?
Nu, weest maar eerlijk en zegt gerust, dat het waar is; want daarom ben
jelui nog niet _slecht_. En wil ik eens zeggen, waarom niet? Wel, omdat
je er naderhand berouw van hadt, en.... omdat je het nooit meer deedt.
Ben jelui nu nog boos op dien apotheker?
Ja, nog wel wat.
Nu, wel wát, dat is nogal zooveel niet.
Den anderen dag stond Willem achter in het pakhuis fleschjes te
spoelen, en toen hij hiermee klaar was, moest hij in een grooten
ijzeren vijzel rabarber-wortel stampen. Iederen dag was er werk
voor hem.
Maar, nu eens was er veel, dan weer weinig te doen. Dat wist de
apotheker ook wel en daarom had hij gezegd: "Lees je graag, ventje?"
"Ja, meneer!"
"Zoo! En waarvan het liefst?"
"Van bloemen, meneer!"
"Goed, daar houd ik ook veel van! Dan moet je straks maar eens met
me meegaan naar mijn boekenkast, dan kun je zeggen wat je hebben
wilt!" zei de apotheker, en hij deed het ook. Ongemerkt gaf hij hem
langzamerhand minder werk en toen het midden in den winter was, en
er heel weinig zieken waren, nam hij Willem op zekeren dag eens naar
een bloemist mede. Jongens, dat was mooi!
Daar buiten lag alles onder de sneeuw; over het water lag een dikke
ijskorst; al de boomen stonden kaal en geen bloempje, ja, zelfs geen
groen grassprietje was ergens te zien. En hier in die bloemenkas! Het
was er heerlijk warm, evenals in Mei. De bloemen stonden te bloeien,
en boven in de kas hingen zelfs tusschen de donkere wijngaardbladeren,
kleine trosjes druiven in den bloei. Willems oogen schitterden van
vergenoegen, en toen de apotheker hem vroeg of hij wel bloemist zou
willen worden, zei hij: "O, graag, heel graag, meneer!"
"Nu, vraag dan maar hier aan dezen heer of je tuinjongen bij hem
worden mag," zei de apotheker.
"Och," sprak thans de bloemist, "eigenlijk heb ik geen jongen
noodig. Ik kan het best met mijn werkvolk af. Maar, als hij er nu
zoo bijzonder veel lust in heeft, dan wil ik het wel eens met hem
probeeren. Verleden jaar had ik ook een jongen; maar dien heb ik
weggejaagd, omdat hij lui was en streken uithaalde. Als hij dat nu
ook maar niet doet, dan zal het wel gaan. Maar werken, manneke,
werken is nummer één, en uit de boeken lezen hoe je werken moet,
en waaróm je zoo doet, dat is nummer twee. Het een gaat niet zonder
het ander. Nu, zeg op! Wat denk je ervan?"
Willem dacht er natuurlijk goed over en hij beloofde zijn best te
zullen doen.
"Goed, als deze meneer,"--hij wees op den apotheker,--"die een
goed vriend van me is, je missen kan, dan moet je morgen maar
komen. Gegroet!" zei de bloemist en ging heen.
In het naar huis gaan begon Willem zich te bedenken, dat hij misschien
wel wat gauw "ja" had gezegd en dat zijn vader het mogelijk wel
niet zou willen hebben; maar de apotheker stelde hem gerust en zei,
dat hij wel niet zooveel bij den bloemist zou verdienen als bij hem;
maar als Willem 's avonds klaar was, moest hij maar bij hem komen,
dan kon hij hem ook nog wat laten doen, en dan zou hij in de week
wel evenveel thuis brengen als anders.
De opperman had er weer niets tegen, zoodat Willem eindelijk het vak
mocht leeren waarin hij altijd zooveel lust had gehad.
En jongens, wat werkte hij! Zoo koud kon het niet wezen, dat hij er
last van had. Hij werd, wat men wel eens zegt, een rechte werkezel,
en als hij 's avonds thuis kwam, had hij altijd nog wat te doen; want
het kleine kamertje waarin het eten gekookt werd,--het was eigenlijk
maar een hok,--stond vol met potten waarin hij stekjes gestoken had.
Zonder het erg te laten uitkomen, begon zijn vader er zelf pret in
te krijgen, en eens op een avond toen Willem thuis kwam, vond hij
zijn bloemen al begoten en uitmuntend verzorgd.
"Dat heeft vader gedaan," zei Mietje toen haar broer er haar naar
vroeg.
Eens op een Zondag, dat het erg vuil weer was, had vader geen lust
om uit te gaan en dan weer zoo raar thuis te komen.
"Als je me wat voorleest, Willem, blijf ik bij de kachel zitten,"
zei vader.
Willem keek vreemd op.
Vader wilde hebben, dat hem wat werd vóórgelezen! Hoe was dàt mogelijk?
Moeder zei niets; maar de goede ziel had groote tranen in haar oogen.
Ik heb wel eens hooren vertellen, dat tranen óók wat zeggen,
jullie ook?
Zou je me dan ook kunnen uitleggen wat die tranen in moeders oogen
vertelden?
Bedenk je eens!
Het boek, dat Willem voor zichzelf las, was een tuinboek en daaraan
zou zijn vader weinig gehad hebben. Daarom nam hij wat anders, en wel
het leven van Michiel Adriaensz. de Ruyter. Wel vijf Zondagmiddagen had
Willem noodig om het uit te lezen, doch toen hij klaar was, zei vader:
"Hm, hm, die Michiel heeft het met goed op te passen en veel te leeren
dan heel ver gebracht!"
"Ja, dat heeft hij wél, vader!"
"Nu, jongen, pas jij dan ook maar goed op, wie weet wat je dan nog
wordt!" hernam de opperman en kleedde zich aan om naar de avondkerk
te gaan.
Zijn vrouw stond vreemd te kijken. Zelf ging zij er iederen Zondag
heen, doch haar man was in de laatste vier of vijf jaar niet meer in
de kerk geweest. Ze zei evenwel niemendal; maar dacht zooveel te meer.
De klok begon te luiden.
"Ik ga naar de kerk, man!" zei ze.
Haar man keek haar aan en zei: "Wacht dan wat, ik ga ook eens mee."
Ze keek hem vragend aan.
"Ja, ja," zei hij, "ik heb veel te lang geleefd, alsof ik niemendal
met onzen Lieven Heer te maken had. Ik hoop mijn leven te beteren,
vrouw! Onze Lieve Heer zal mij wel kracht geven om tegen al het kwaad
te vechten."
Hierop gingen ze samen naar de kerk, en--dat bleef voortaan zoo,
al staken zijn vroegere vrienden er ook den gek mede.
Het is zes jaar later.
Op de Bloemmarkt staat een man van omstreeks vijftig jaren bloemen
te verkoopen.
Het is Willems vader en hij is geen opperman meer.
De oude heer Balsem heeft naast zijn huisje nog een andere woning
laten bouwen, en hierin woont Willem met zijn ouders en zijn zuster.
Achter die woning is een flinke kweektuin voor bloemen, en tegen
het huis staat een glazen kas om er de bloemen 's winters in over
te houden.
Willem is nog altijd bij den bloemist; maar als hij 's avonds thuis
komt, doet hij het fijne werk in zijn eigen tuin. Zijn vader doet
het grove, en hij doet dat graag, vooral als de oude heer Balsem, met
wien hij nu goede vrienden is, hem helpt, of zegt hoe hij doen moet.
Des Zondags bromt hij ook niet meer op de duiven of op de honden. Hij
is niet boos meer op het lieve zonnetje en de stoelen smijt hij ook
al niet meer omver. Ja, hij zou zelfs pret in zijn leven hebben,
als hij maar.... lezen kon. Hij heeft nog geprobeerd het te leeren;
maar dat ging niet. Het was veel te moeilijk voor hem en toen heeft
hij het maar opgegeven.
En, als je soms zoo eens met buurman Balsem over die luitjes praat,
dan zegt hij: "Ja, ja, met wat hulp en goeden wil en vertrouwen op
den goeden God, kan men in de wereld wel vooruitkomen!"
Wie den goeden wil had, dat weet je, nietwaar, mijn vriendjes, en
wie Willem en zijn ouders zoo goed geholpen hebben, dat zul je ook
wel weten.
En.... heeft de een of ander van jelui soms plan om het óók eens te
beproeven of de veearts waarheid sprak? Zeg?
Je zult er geen berouw van hebben, hoor!
WERKEN BETER DAN BEDELEN.
Midden in het gebergte lag een alleraardigst dorpje, dat bewoond
werd door Alpenherders en gemzenjagers. Het lag ook heelemaal van
den grooten weg af, zoodat men er maar hoogstzelden een vreemdeling
zag. Als er een kind geboren was, dan wisten ze er allen wat van te
vertellen; ze wisten hoe het heeten zou, ja, wat het worden moest
zelfs. Was het een jongetje en was de vader Alpenherder, dan zou
het kind dat óók eens worden. Was de vader gemzenjager, dan wist
men vooruit, dat er uit den jongen, als hij maar groot werd, ook een
gemzenjager groeien zou.
Yan één jongen hadden ze dat echter niet kunnen voorspellen; want
zijn vader was geen herder en ook geen jager.
"Zwarte Pietro," zooals hij in de wandeling genoemd werd, was eens op
een zomeravond met zijn vrouw in het dorp gekomen en had in de kleine
herberg gevraagd of er hier in het dorp niet een huisje te huur was.
"Jawel, vreemdeling," antwoordde de herbergier; "maar het is heel
afgelegen en wel een half uur buiten het dorp, de bergen in!"
In vroegere tijden had een hertog de gewoonte gehad, om een paar
keer in het jaar hier te komen jagen en, om te kunnen uitrusten, als
hij vermoeid van de jacht was, had hij dat kleine huisje daar laten
zetten. Toen hij later niet meer kwam, had hij tegen den dorpsschout
gezegd: "Dat jachthuisje geef ik aan het dorp. Je kunt het verhuren,
als je wilt!"
Maar niemand wilde zoo ver van het dorp wonen en daardoor kwam het,
dat het jaren lang ledig stond en nog nooit bewoond was geweest,
toen de vreemdeling met zijn vrouw in het dorpje kwam.
Uit de papieren, die de man bij zich had, bleek dat hij van beroep
ketellapper was, en dat hij het laatst te Milaan was geweest, waar de
papieren door het hoofd van de politie onderteekend waren voor "goed."
De dorpsschout maakte dan ook volstrekt geen zwarigheid om het huisje
aan Pietro, den ketellapper, te verhuren, en reeds den anderen dag
betrok hij het.
Waar ze op sliepen, op zaten of kookten, dat begreep niemand; want de
ezel, dien ze bij zich hadden, droeg enkel wat gereedschap, een ketel,
een volgeladen mand en een paar groote, ledige zakken.
Doch dat ging niemand aan; als de nieuwe inwoners van het dorpje
maar brave lieden waren, dan was het goed. Zijzelven moesten maar
zien hoe ze zich behielpen.
In den loop van denzelfden dag, dat het jachthuisje door hen betrokken
was, kwam hij reeds bij de menschen aan de huizen rond, om te vragen
of ze geen ketels te lappen, geen aardewerk te krammen, geen klokken
schoon te maken, geen stoelen te matten of geen geweren te herstellen
hadden. Hij scheen dus van beroep nog meer dan ketellapper te zijn
en iedereen, die hem wat gegeven had om te maken, kreeg het spoedig
en goed afgewerkt weder thuis.
Maar het dorpje was te klein om er op den duur werk genoeg te vinden,
en daarom zag men Pietro dikwijls voor dag en voor dauw met zijn
ezel, die het gereedschap droeg, uit het dorp gaan, om op heel andere
plaatsen werk te zoeken.
Toen hij er zoo omstreeks een jaar gewoond had, vernam men in het
dorpje, dat hij den vorigen dag een zoontje gekregen had, dat hij
Luigi noemen zou.
Maar, wat moest Luigi worden?
Ja, dat wist Pietro zelf nog niet. Als hij acht jaar oud was, dan
was het tijd genoeg om er eens over te gaan praten.
Daarvan begreep niemand iets. Hoe konden er ooit ouders gevonden
worden, die bij de geboorte van een jongen niet al aanstonds wisten,
wat hij worden moest?
Intusschen werd de kleine Luigi ouder en grooter.
Zijn moeder bracht hem wel eens een enkele maal mee, als ze
boodschappen in het dorp moest doen, doch voor het overige zag men
het kind nooit.
Andere jongens en meisjes gingen op hun zesde jaar al naar de
dorpsschool; maar Luigi was al acht jaar oud geworden en van schoolgaan
was nog geen sprake.
Dat was wel ongelukkig; want een mensch, die, als hij groot is,
niet lezen, schrijven of rekenen kan, is al zeer te beklagen.
Eens bracht Pietro een aap uit de stad mee.
Hijzelf naaide voor het dier een broekje en een jasje, en maakte van
bordpapier een schako.
De kleine Luigi had razend veel pret met het dier, en leerde hem in
minder dan een maand allerlei kunstjes.
Had de jongen echter geweten, wat van zijn ijver het gevolg zou zijn,
hij had misschien met het leeren van die kunstjes geen begin gemaakt.
"Wel, Luigi, wat kan je aap zoo al?" vroeg Pietro op zekeren avond,
een week of vier nadat hij het beest had thuis gebracht.
"O, vader, hij kan heel beleefd groeten. Alles wat ik hem geef, pakt
hij aan met zijn rechter voorpoot. Als ik zeg: 'klim', dan klimt hij;
zeg ik: 'ga dood liggen!' dan ligt hij zoo stil als een muisje, en
zeg ik: 'Sim, hoe doen de kindertjes, die pret hebben?' dan gaat hij
dansen en in de handen klappen. Hij kan koffie malen, een geweertje
afschieten, touwtje springen, en nog veel meer."
"Nu, dat is al meer dan genoeg. Je kunt er zoo best je kost mee
verdienen!" antwoordde Pietro, en toen Luigi hem met groote oogen
verwonderd aankeek, vervolgde hij: "Ja, ja, jongen, je bent een paar
maanden geleden al acht jaar geworden. Het is nu meer dan tijd dat
je ons huis uit-, en de wijde wereld ingaat!"
"Ga je dan mee, vader?" vroeg Luigi eenigszins beschroomd en verlegen;
want vader sprak zoo bar.
"Ben je wel dwaas, jongen? Je gaat alleen!"
"Voor hoe lang, vader?"
"Wel, hoor me nu zulk een lompen jongen eens aan! Misschien voor twee
of drie jaar, misschien ook wel voor altijd!"
"Maar mag ik dan nooit terugkomen, vader?"
"Ja, als je je zakken vol met geld hebt, anders kunnen we je best
missen!"
De moeder sprak geen woord; maar toch geloof ik, dat zij, als ze doen
kon wat ze wilde, niet zoo leelijk zou doen als haar man; want nu en
dan pinkte zij stilletjes een traan weg.
De arme jongen!
Veertien dagen later bracht Pietro, toen hij 's morgens vroeg met
zijn ezel uitreed om de naburige dorpen te bezoeken, onzen Luigi tot
aan den grooten straatweg.
Toen ze daar gekomen waren zei de vader:
"Nu, Luigi, ik ga hier links af. Jij moet maar altijd rechtdoor loopen,
dan kom je, als je stevig doorstapt, tegen den middag in een groote
stad. Bij de poort begin je maar terstond met Sim kunstjes te laten
doen en voor het geld, dat je daarvoor krijgt, koop je maar dadelijk
eten. Begrepen?"
"Maar, vader, als ze me nu eens geen geld geven?"
"Dan ga je bij de boeren buiten de stad maar een stuk brood bedelen en
vragen of je 's nachts in de schuur mag slapen. En nu, ik ga weg. Zorg
maar, dat je gauw je zakken vol geld hebt, hoor!"
Zonder iets meer te zeggen ging Pietro heen en liet zijn zoontje staan.
Deze keek met betraande oogen zijn vader na en ging, toen hij hem
niet meer zag, den weg op.
Hij liep maar al rechtuit en telkens als hij voorbij een huis kwam,
moest Sim zijn kunstjes vertoonen. Sommige menschen gaven hem wat,
anderen weer niet. Slechts langzaam vorderde hij, en eerst tegen den
avond kwam hij in de groote stad.
Hier zou hij geld, veel geld krijgen; want kijk eens, wat rijden daar
mooie koetsen! Wat loopen daar prachtig gekleede heeren en dames! Als
ieder maar één cent gaf, dan zou hij spoedig de zakken vol geld hebben,
en kon hij naar zijn huis terugkeeren.
Dat dacht hij, ja, maar die rijke menschen reden en wandelden hem
voorbij, zonder hem ook maar even aan te zien. Slechts nu en dan
smeet er een hem een klein, heel klein koperen geldstukje toe.
Ach, dien avond sliep Luigi voor het eerst van zijn leven op een hoop
stroo onder een poort!
Hij had ternauwernood zooveel geld verzameld om een droog stuk brood
te koopen. En, toen hij niet wist waarheen, was hij maar op een hoop
stroo neergevallen, en daar sliep hij nu in gezelschap van zijn vriend
Sim, die hem, toen hij schreide, met de zwarte, kleine handen over
het gelaat gestreken had.
Het is veertien dagen later.
Wat een drukte en beweging is daar ginds aan het spoorwegstation!
Wat zou er te doen zijn?
Wel, een grooten dief heeft men aangebracht. Iedereen wil den man zien,
die al zooveel kwaad gedaan heeft, en voor wien men nu niet meer bang
behoeft te wezen.
Maar met dien booswicht hebben we niets te maken, wel met den
boevenwagen waarin hij per spoor hierheen gebracht werd.
Op het perron stond Luigi met zijn aap, en daar hij hier in deze groote
stad al zoo lang gezworven had, zonder zooveel te verdienen, dat hij
iets kon overhouden, besloot hij naar een andere plaats te gaan, die
ongeveer zes uur verder lag. Maar, hoe daar te komen? Hij had al in
twee dagen geen brood gekocht, in de hoop dan zooveel te besparen,
dat hij het reisgeld op het spoor betalen kon. Met dat geld nu was
hij thans naar het station gegaan, en aan een man met een glimmende
pet op, vroeg hij of hij voor dat geld wel mee kon rijden naar Trient.
De spoorwegbeambte zag het weinigje geld, begon hard te lachen en zei:
"Ben je wel dwaas, jongen? Voor geen tienmaal zooveel."
Den armen knaap stond het schreien nader dan het lachen. Hij had er
nu toch twee dagen lang bijna niets voor gegeten!
De spoorwegbeambte evenwel had pret in de onnoozelheid van den knaap,
en vertelde het nu eens aan den een, dan aan den ander.
In het eind hoorde de stations-chef het ook. Deze had medelijden met
Luigi en zei tegen den conducteur: "Je neemt immers den boevenwagen
weer mee terug?"
"Jawel, meneer!" was het antwoord.
"Welnu, laat den jongen de reis dan daarin maken!" hernam de goedige
man, en stopte onzen Luigi bij een broodje nog een paar geldstukjes
in de hand.
Weldra zat hij nu in den donkeren, grooten wagen, waarin alleen een
venstertje van boven eenig licht bracht.
"Goede reis," riep de conducteur hem toe en sloot de deur.
Daar hoorde Luigi een langgerekt gefluit, toen kreeg de wagen een
schok, en hij voelde dat hij vooruitging. Of het snel of langzaam ging,
dat wist hij niet; want hij kon niets zien. Van tijd tot tijd hoorde
hij het fluiten weer, en hij meende, dat hij er nu zijn zou. Maar dan
begon het gerommel en gestamp opnieuw. Dat duurde lang en hij begon
al spijt te krijgen, dat hij meegereden was, toen hij andermaal het
fluitje van de locomotief hoorde. Een oogenblik later werd de deur
opengedaan en een andere man dan die hem erin gelaten had, zei:
"Je kan er uitkomen, mannetje!"
Sim moest weer dadelijk beginnen met zijn kunsten te vertoonen;
maar het scheen wel, dat de menschen hier nog minder mild waren dan
te Verona, waar hij vandaan kwam. Reeds begon de avond te vallen,
toen hij nog zoo goed als niets gekregen had, en hij zag al hier en
daar uit, of hij niet een geschikte plaats vond om er den nacht door
te brengen, doch te vergeefs.
Moedeloos zette hij zich op een stoep neer en begon van de droge
broodkorst, die hij van Verona medegebracht had, te eten, toen een
jongen bij hem kwam staan.
"Kom je uit Tyrol?" vroeg hij.
Luigi schudde het hoofd.
"Waar kom je dan vandaan?"
"Uit Verona!"
"En wat kom je hier doen?"
"Ik laat Sim kunsten maken."
"Zoo, en heb je al veel verdiend?"
"Hier? Neen, bijna nog niemendal!"
"Dat wil ik wel gelooven; de menschen geven hier niet. De boeren daar
buiten zijn veel beter. Waarom ga je niet bij de boeren?
"Ik wist het niet, dat die zoo mild waren. Zou ik daar mijn zakken
gauw vol geld hebben?"
"Misschien wel in een week. Ga jij morgen maar gerust den boer op,
hoor!" zei de vreemde jongen en ging heen.
Dien nacht sliep Luigi alweer maar in een oude poort, die door de
vrachtlieden gebruikt werd om er hun karren in te zetten.
Den anderen morgen al heel vroeg ging hij de poort en de stad uit.
Het was een eenzame weg, en hij was misschien wel al een uur
voortgegaan zonder iemand te ontmoeten, of een huis te zien.
Intusschen begon de zon heel fel te schijnen en het werd brandend
heet. Den vorigen dag al had hij zijn voeten op de straten van Trient
open geloopen, en deze begonnen hem nu verschrikkelijk zeer te doen.
Daar kwam hij eensklaps aan een driesprong.
De eene weg liep tegen de bergen op; de andere door het dal en de
derde door het bosch.
Om tegen de hitte der zon beveiligd te zijn, koos hij den laatsten.
Maar ach, de weg werd al smaller en smaller, en eindigde op het laatst
in een aantal voetpaden. Een er van sloeg hij op goed geluk in; maar
hoe hij ook zocht en uitkeek, nergens zag hij menschen of huizen. Ach,
niets anders dan boomen en nog eens boomen!
Wel besloot hij nu terug te keeren, en den weg door het dal te nemen,
doch hij verdwaalde op de kleine paden al meer en meer. Hoe licht
Sim ook woog, hij werd den jongen veel te zwaar om te dragen, en bij
iederen stap, dien hij deed, had hij het wel kunnen uitschreeuwen
van de pijn.
Eindelijk hoorde hij hetzelfde schelle gefluit als dat, hetwelk hem
zoo verveeld en haast bang gemaakt had, toen hij in den boevenwagen
op het spoor zat.
Hij keek op, en ja, daar ginds zag hij over een breed water een steenen
brug, en met vreeselijk geweld kwam er een spoortrein over rollen.
Doch op dien weg kon hij weer niet komen; want een andere snelvlietende
beek scheidde hem er heelemaal van.
Moedeloos zette hij zich bij het frissche, heldere water neer. Zijn
dorst had hij spoedig bevredigd en thans trok hij de oude kousen uit,
om in het koele water zijn brandend heete voeten te verkwikken. Uit
zijn ransel haalde hij een paar lappen, die hij trachtte er om heen
te winden.
Onderwijl hij daar zoo zat en van pijn en verdriet huilde, hield Sim
zich met wat anders bezig. Toen zijn baas den ransel had geopend om
er zwachtels uit te halen, liet hij hem open staan ook, en al dadelijk
vielen de oogen van den aap op het brood, dat er in lag.
Spoedig had hij het beet en begon er van te eten, en reeds had hij het
meer dan half op, toen Luigi omkeek en Sim zoo bezig zag. Het beest
wist zeker, dat hij kwaad deed; want het brood in den mond stekend,
klom hij er, zoo schielijk hij kon, mede in een boom. Welke lieve
namen Luigi hem ook gaf, de aap trok maar leelijke gezichten en klom
nog hooger.
Plotseling echter hoorde Luigi een schot en, eer hij tijd had om te
zien wie dat loste, tuimelde Sim uit den boom en viel dood aan zijn
voeten neder.
Daar kraakten de takken en een man, gekleed in een jas met koperen
knoopen, trad met een geweer onder den arm en een sabel op zijde,
te voorschijn. Een groote hond sprong hem achterna.
"Was dat jouw aap, jongen?" vroeg hij.
Luigi kon den vreemdeling nauwelijks verstaan, doch hij begreep hem
toch wel, en zei daarom: "Jawel, meneer, dat was mijn aap!"
"En wat zit je hier te doen?" vroeg de man weer.
Luigi vertelde hem alles en wees op zijn voeten.
"Een mooie geschiedenis," bromde de jager. "Daar schiet ik je
kostwinner dood, en ik zit met jou opgescheept! Maar zeg, wil je
werken?"
De arme knaap antwoordde, dat hij wel werken wilde, maar het nooit
geleerd had.
Dat kon de man, die een houtvester was, maar niet gelooven en daarom
zei hij: "Och wat, niet werken kunnen! Alle menschen kunnen werken! Ga
maar mee!"
Luigi droogde zijn voeten af, trok de oude kousen en schoenen aan,
en, na den dooden aap opgenomen te hebben, strompelde hij den
houtvester na.
Toen ze zoo ongeveer een kwartier geloopen hadden, kwamen ze aan een
alleraardigste woning. Voor de deur zat een jonge vrouw en op het
grasperk liepen drie kinderen te spelen.
"Vrouw," riep de houtvester, "ik breng hier een jongen mee, die niet
werken kan; maar die honger heeft. Heb je wat te eten voor hem?"
De vrouw was dadelijk bereid, het hem te geven.
Onder het eten begonnen de houtvester en zijn vrouw den knaap allerlei
vragen te doen, en de eerste schaterde het uit van lachen toen Luigi
vertelde, dat hij niet thuis mocht komen vóór hij de zakken vol
geld had; maar toen hij daarna ook vertelde, dat hij niet lezen of
schrijven kon, ja, zelfs nog nooit gebeden had, riep hij uit:
"Vrouw, heb je ooit van je leven zulke menschen gezien? Dat leert hun
kinderen niet lezen, schrijven, rekenen, bidden of werken! Mijn hemel,
jongen hoe kun je dan je zakken vol geld krijgen?"
Luigi tastte dapper toe en ondertusschen spraken de man en de vrouw
wat met elkander af.
Toen alles op was, legde Luigi den lepel neer.
"Zoo, heeft het je gesmaakt?" vroeg de jager.
"Heerlijk, meneer!"
"Goed, en zou je zóó heerlijk wel driemaal op een dag willen eten?"
"O, wat graag, meneer!"
"Best, dat kan je hier doen! Je mag een week bij ons blijven. In
den kleinen stal hier achter zal mijn vrouw een slaapplaats voor je
gereedmaken. Maar, als ik je het dan leer, zou je dan willen werken?"
"Jawel meneer!" gaf Luigi ten antwoord.
"Kom, ga dan alvast maar mee, dan zal ik je aardappelen leeren delven
en gras snijden; want ik heb zes geiten, weet je, en voor die dieren
moet jij dan zorgen."
Luigi ging met den houtvester mee en deze deed hem een en ander van
het werk voor.
De knaap was niet dom en had spoedig den slag er van beet. Zijn dooden
aap begroef hij in het bosch.
Toen de week om was vroeg de houtvester hoe het hem beviel, en of
hij bij hem wilde blijven.
"Jawel, meneer, maar, maar...."
"Nu, wat maar, jongen, spreek maar zooals je het meent!" zei de man.
"Maar, meneer, ik zou zoo graag gauw, heel gauw mijn zakken vol
geld hebben!"
"Aha! Jawel, ik dacht wel dat er zoo iets komen zou. Maar, hoor eens,
beste jongen, dat zijn maar praatjes van je vader geweest om van je
af te komen. Heb je met je aap wel ooit zooveel verdiend, dat je goed
eten kon krijgen en een bed om op te slapen?"
Luigi moest hierop zwijgen; want het was waar, en daarom vervolgde
zijn vriendelijke baas: "Zonder werken, mijn jongen, kan je geen
rooden penning overhouden! Je moet tegenwoordig in de wereld zoo
wat van alles kunnen doen, en dan is het nog een geluk, als je volop
je brood verdient. Maar, dat wil ik je wel zeggen, als je het werk,
dat je hier doen moet, altijd zoo goed afmaakt als in de afgeloopen
week, dan zal je bij mij ook geld verdienen en nog goede kleeren
bovendien. Zeg, heb je er lust in?"
Luigi bedacht zich geen oogenblik, maar zei dadelijk met een vroolijk
gelaat: "Jawel meneer! Dat doe ik heel graag!"
Acht jaren zijn sinds verloopen en Luigi is nu een knaap van zeventien
jaren. Nog heeft hij zijn zakken niet vol met geld, maar toch al
een aardig spaarpotje. En dan heeft hij nog iets, dat eigenlijk meer
waard is dan zakken vol met geld. Hij heeft in al dien tijd heel wat
aangeleerd. Hij kan nu bidden en werken en, als de winterdagen kort en
de avonden lang waren, leerde de houtvester hem ook lezen, schrijven
en rekenen. Hij heeft nuttige kennis opgedaan, en.... kennis is macht.
Zoons heeft de houtvester niet, en daarom hebben ze al eens verteld,
dat de vreemde knaap veel kans heeft, om, als zijn pleegvader oud
geworden is, houtvester in zijn plaats te worden. Wanneer men dat den
goeden man zoo eens vertelt, dat begint hij te lachen en gewoonlijk
zegt hij dan: "De jongen zou het verdienen ook!"
Maar zijn ouders, hoor ik je vragen?
Ja, kinderen, ik heb gehoord, dat in dienzelfden boevenwagen, waarin
Luigi eens van Verona naar Trient reed, zijn ouders ook gezeten
hebben. Maar niet om er weer uitgelaten te worden evenals hun zoon,
doch om van het station af naar de gevangenis gebracht te worden. Men
vertelde heel leelijke en vreeselijke dingen van die lieden.
Nu, dat is niet te verwonderen ook. Van ouders, die zoo leelijk met
hun kinderen handelen, verwacht ik nooit veel goeds.
Luigi weet evenwel niet beter, of ze zijn beiden gestorven, en dit
is maar goed ook; want het moet voor een kind al heel treurig zijn,
als hij zijn ouders niet thuis, maar in de gevangenis heeft wonen.
En hier aan het slot dezer vertelling heb ik een wensch voor jelui
en die is deze:
Ik hoop, dat de Lieve Heer jelui allen eenmaal op dezelfde eerlijke
wijze het dagelijksch brood doe vinden, en dat je van jullie kant
niet alleen zult zeggen: "werken is beter dan bedelen," maar ook:
"het geluk zit niet in zakken vol goud."
DE BAVIAAN.
"Kijk, kijk, die moet er ook wezen! Wat maait hij met zijn beenen! Het
lijkt wel of het roeiriemen zijn! En wat zwaait hij met zijn armen! Het
is of hij aanstonds op den hol zal gaan! Dat is een gekke vent! Zie
je hem wel, Douwes?"
"Och, jij met je geschreeuw, zwijg toch! Straks poetst die oppasser
met zijn lederen helm en sabel op zijde, ons nog weg! Wat zeg jij er
van, Huibert?"
"Wat ik er van zeg? Dat er hier voor ons toch zooveel niet te zien
is. Ik ga er uit en buiten op het plein wat vangballetje spelen. Kijk
eens wat een mooie bal, Douwes!" riep de derde en duwde zijn makker,
die eigenlijk een heel anderen weg uitzag, een grooten elastieken
bal onder den neus.
"Och, loop, jij met je bal! Ik blijf hier, George, en het is een
knappe jongen, die me er vandaan krijgt!" antwoordde Douwes.
Dit gesprek werd gevoerd bij een gebouw van den dierentuin, waarin
allerlei opgezette dieren bewaard werden. Het was kermis en de directie
van die diergaarde wilde den vreemdelingen en onbemiddelden burgers
ook wel eens wat laten kijken, en daarom stond dien dag voor een
onnoozele vijfentwintig cents het hek open.
En, er werd druk gebruik van gemaakt ook.
Matrozen, die van de lange reis teruggekeerd waren en nu in het
vaderland het zuur verdiende geld bijna zoo goed als gingen opmaken;
soldaten, die niet veel te missen hadden en toch ook wel eens wat zien
wilden; kindermeisjes met kleine kinderen op den arm, die bang werden;
heeren en dames, die van buiten de stad kwamen en oude vrouwtjes uit
een hofje, alles woelde en wriemelde door elkander.
Tusschen het gedrang aan de poort was het Douwes, Huibert en George
gelukt om, zonder de entree te betalen, toch binnen te komen, en
als echte stads-kwajongens dachten ze er geen oogenblik aan, dat ze
heel leelijk deden, en dat ze wel eens op een gevoelige wijze konden
weggejaagd worden.
Overal waar ze kwamen hadden ze het hoogste woord, en als ze het
konden gedaan krijgen, dan hielden ze vooral de menschen, die van
buiten kwamen, braaf voor den gek.
Zoo hadden ze bij de apenkooi tegen een ouden zeeman, die er heusch
heel leelijk uitzag, gezegd:
"Baas, is die baviaan daar je broertje of je zoontje?"
Ze waren hierop schielijk weggeloopen; maar Douwes was nog niet vlug
genoeg geweest, want hij had van den zeeman nog een fermen draai om
zijn ooren opgeloopen.
"Baviaan, leelijke baviaan!" riepen de drie jongens, toen ze zoo ver
waren, dat hij hen toch niet meer krijgen kon.
"Wel foei, dat waren dan toch eens echte kwajongens!" denk jelui zeker.
Ja, wat zal ik je daarop antwoorden? Ik hoop maar, dat je nog nooit zoo
iets zult gedaan hebben, en het ook nooit doen zult! Anders.... Doch
laten we nu weer maar naar ons ondeugend drietal terugkeeren.
Alleen Douwes had dan gezegd, dat hij hier blijven wilde. Waarom,
dat wist hij zelf niet; hij keek tóch nergens naar.
"Hoor je het, Huibert, hoor je het? Douwes blijft hier en wil niet
meespelen. Wat 'n brave jongen toch, hé?" riep George op tergenden
toon.
"O, hij is vast bang, dat hij den Baviaan weer ergens zien zal,
en dat wil hij liever niet," antwoordde Huibert.
Toen hij dit gezegd had, werd hij door een dikken heer tegen het
lijf geloopen, en achter zich kijkend om te zien wie dat deed, zag
hij, achter een langen rekruut, den man staan over wien ze zooeven
gesproken hadden.
"Ik zie iemand met een wollen muts op. Op die wollen muts is een
kwastje, en onderaan een randje van rood, wit en blauw. Wie zou dat
zijn, Douwes?" zei hij.
Douwes keek ook om en zag den man, dien hij had uitgescholden, en van
wien hij een klap om de ooren gekregen had, ook staan. Hij stond te
lachen, omdat niet ver van hem af, een kind op den arm van een meisje
uit benauwdheid hard begon te huilen.
"Nu blijft Douwes nog hier," sarde Huibert.
"Neen, neen, laten we maar gauw maken, dat we wegkomen! Ga je mee naar
de Markt, daar is Dassie met zijn honden- en apenspel. Dat is veel
mooier dan hier!" zei Douwes en trok zijn kameraads mede naar buiten.
Het kostte onzen jongens nogal moeite om uit het hek te komen;
want zóó dom waren ze toch niet, of ze begrepen, dat de portier,
hen ziende, wel zou kunnen nagaan, dat zij geen jongens waren om een
kwartje entree te betalen.
Doch ze wisten ook hier hun kans zóó goed waar te nemen, dat ze er
ongemerkt uit konden komen, en spoedig daarop stonden ze op de Markt
voor het honden- en apenspel. Wat ze daar zoo al uitvoerden, wil
ik liever maar niet vertellen, want dat was ook al niet veel moois,
dat begrijp je wel.
Liever willen we kennis maken met den leelijken zeeman.
Zie, daar komt hij het hek uit.
Ja, het is waar! Hij is foeileelijk en heusch niet veel mooier dan
een baviaan.
Welke dikke lippen! Welk een stompe neus! Wat rare oogen! En wat
loopt hij "sjok-sjok" langs de straat! Het is of hij dronken is.
Nu maar, dan kijk je toch verkeerd, hoor! De man is volstrekt niet
dronken, en we kunnen hem gerust volgen ook. Als wij hem maar niet
uitschelden, zal hij ons geen kwaad doen.
Kijk, daar slaat hij links af en loopt de Maansteeg in.
Dat is geen mooie straat. Allemaal groentewinkels en
water-en-vuur-huizen.
Wat hindert dàt? Daar kunnen ook wel goede menschen wonen, zou ik
zoo meenen.
"Dag, grootvader! Ben je daar al?" roept een klein meisje, dat den
ouden zeeman te gemoet komt en hem bij de hand vat. "Grootmoeder
slaapt nog, en het eten is bijna klaar. Ik ben blij, dat je terugkomt!"
"Zoo, Leentje, was je bang, meid?"
"Neen, grootvader; maar het is hier zoo stil in de steeg! Al de
menschen zijn naar de kermis."
"Nu, als grootmoeder wakker is, en je hebt de tafel afgenomen,
dan wed ik, dat je wel met me mee mag. Kijk, dat heb ik alvast voor
je gekocht!"
Dit zeggend, haalde de man uit zijn jaszak een alleraardigst
speldenkussentje en een naaldenkokertje, die allebei keurig mooi met
schelpjes opgelegd waren.
"Is het goed, lieve meid?" vroeg hij.
Leentje stond te dansen van blijdschap, en den ouden man om den
hals vallend, zag zij niet, dat hij zoo verschrikkelijk leelijk was,
maar gaf hem drie frissche zoenen.
"Nu, nu, je bent een beste meid, hoor!" zei grootvader en stapte met
Leentje het kleine en armoedige huisje aan het eind van de Maansteeg
binnen.
Het zag er armoedig maar knapjes uit. Wat blinken kon, blonk, en
wat helder en schoon kon zijn, was niet vuil, maar bij de sneeuw af,
zoo wit.
En hier woonde nu Jochem Pels met zijn vrouw, die echter in den
laatsten tijd wat sukkelde. Daarom was Jochem naar zijn zoon gegaan, en
had hem gevraagd of Leentje, op een na het oudste van zijn kinderen,
grootmoeder wat in het huishouden mocht helpen. De zoon deed dat
natuurlijk graag, en zoo komt het, dat we op dezen mooien kermisdag
Leentje Pels bij grootvader in de Maansteeg, en niet bij haar vader
in de Turflaan vinden. Na afloop van het middageten knapte Leentje
zich wat op, om met grootvader naar de kermis te gaan. Grootmoeder
was nu opgestaan, en op het oogenblik iets beter.
Hé, wat keek Leentje op de kermis rond! Wat was er veel, waarvan ze
zelfs den naam niet wist!
Ze kwam haast oogen te kort!
Dat was vooral bij een groote speelgoedkraam het geval.
Onverwachts hoorde ze echter eenige jongens schreeuwen; "Baviaan,
leelijke baviaan!" en naar den kant ziende, vanwaar de stemmen kwamen,
zag ze drie jongens, die hard lachend achter de kraam liepen, en aan
de andere zijde weer voor den dag kwamen.
"Baviaan, leelijke baviaan!" riepen ze nogmaals.
Eén der jongens kende ze wel. Het was Douwes Vlinder, die vroeger
ook in de Turflaan gewoond had; maar wie de twee andere waren, dat
wist ze niet. Ze had hen nooit gezien.
De oude Pels deed net, alsof hij niets gehoord had en ging met Leentje
verder de kermis op.
Toen ze weer thuis waren, vroeg Leentje: "Maar, grootvader, wat is
een baviaan?"
"Dat is een groote, leelijke aap!" was het antwoord.
"Maar was er dan bij die kraam een baviaan? Ik heb er geen gezien!"
"Och, dat riepen die jongens maar om iemand uit te schelden!" was
het antwoord, en hij zei er verder maar liever niets van.
Den anderen dag ging Leentje in den vroegen voormiddag een boodschap
doen.
Daar zag ze Douwes loopen en dadelijk dacht ze weer aan den baviaan.
"Douwes, Douwes!" riep ze.
De jongen keek om en vroeg: "Wat moet je?"
"Toen ik gisteren met grootvader bij die speelgoedkraam stond, riep
je met je drieën: 'baviaan'! Waar was die dan, zeg?"
"Zoo, was dat jouw grootvader?" antwoordde Douwes. "Wel, dat riepen
we tegen hem."
"Maar grootvader is toch geen aap?" riep Leentje verwonderd uit.
"Neen, maar hij lijkt er toch veel op. Of is hij niet leelijk
genoeg?" riep Douwes en ging weer verder.
--"Grootvader net een baviaan, omdat hij zoo leelijk is! Wel, dat heb
ik nog nooit gezien! Ik vind hem zelfs wel mooi, en.... hij is toch
zoo goed, o, zoo goed," sprak het kind in zichzelf. Ze begreep er
niets van, en het is geen wonder, dat ze bij grootvader terugkomend,
hem, heel onschuldig, dadelijk alles vroeg.
"Och ja, lieverdje," sprak de oude man, "ik ben leelijk, heel
leelijk, mijn hartje! Ik ben zoo geworden toen ik een buurvrouw uit
een brandend huis gehaald heb. Geheel mijn gezicht was verbrand en
ik werd doodziek. Toen ik beter was en in den spiegel keek, kende
ik mijzelf niet, zoo leelijk was ik geworden. En daarom riepen die
jongens, toen ze me zagen, 'baviaan'! Begrepen?"
"Ja, grootvader, maar dat is toch heel leelijk van die jongens, niet?"
"Zeker, beste meid; maar ik hoop, dat ze later wel zullen leeren
begrijpen, dat een leelijk mensch toch ook een mensch is, en even
goed en braaf kan zijn, als de mooiste man of vrouw!"
Leentje keek haar grootvader nog eens aan en zei toen:
"Maar, stellig, grootvadertje, u is heusch niet leelijk! Dat zeg ik"
"Ja, kind, ik ben het wel; maar dat kan _jij_ niet zien!"
"En waarom niet, hé?"
"Omdat je zooveel van me houdt, engel!" antwoordde de man en gaf
toen de zoenen, die hij den vorigen dag van haar gekregen had, wel
driedubbel terug.
De kramen zijn afgebroken en nergens meer te zien!
In heel de stad is het weer alles, zooals vóór de kermis.
De scholen zijn ook weer begonnen, doch Douwes, George en Huibert,
die het leeren nog hard noodig hebben, vinden het straatloopen
pleizieriger, en zijn dus maar stilletjes uit school gebleven.
"Zeg, Douwes, wat zullen we gaan doen?" vraagt Huibert op zekeren dag.
"Op de wallen spelen!" antwoordt George.
"Ben je wel dwaas?" roept Douwes, "op den wal spelen, waar iedereen
loopt en ons zien kan! Neen, ik ga buiten in den Vliet bij de
sluisdeuren vischjes vangen. Daar ziet geen mensch ons, en toch kunnen
wij de klok hooren slaan; want, we moeten op ons uurtje passen, weet
je! Als we kwartier voor twaalven naar huis gaan, dan weten vader en
moeder niemendal."
"En waarmee wil je visschen?" vroeg George.
"Wel, we binden onzen zakdoek aan een stok, dan hebben wij een
schepnetje. Eergisteren heb ik wel dertig stekelbaarsjes gevangen. Twee
leven er nog, die zwemmen thuis in de waschtobbe."
Zoo iets stond den twee jongens aan en het was geen kwartier later,
of ze waren alle drie bij de sluisdeuren.
Die sluis was in 1784 gemetseld, en hoewel de deuren in dien langen
tijd vast wel vernieuwd zullen zijn, toch waren ze niet te best
meer. Aan den eenen kant was het water veel lager dan aan den anderen
kant in den Vliet; het water sijpelde evenwel door de deuren heen,
en kwam in de ondiepe vaart. Hier was geen visch. Neen, maar aan
de andere zijde, in den Vliet! Voornamelijk in de hoeken en op het
plekje waar een lek was, daar wemelde het van stekelbaarsjes. Dat
zou een goede vangst geven!
Hé, wat zoog dat water! De zakdoeken werden heelemaal tegen de deuren
gedrukt. Hierdoor vingen ze al bijzonder weinig.
"Wacht," riep Douwes, "ik ga midden over de sluisdeuren hangen,
dan vang ik zeker. Maar dàn doe ik het aan den anderen kant."
"Pas op, dat je er niet invalt!" waarschuwde George.
"Och loop! Denk je dan, dat ik mij niet kan vasthouden? En bovendien,
ik kan heel goed zwemmen," riep Douwes en kroop langs een der
sluisdeuren naar het midden.
Onderwijl hij daar zoo lag, hoorden de beide andere jongens het geluid
van roeiriemen in het water.
"Ga eens kijken wie daar komt!" zei George.
Huibert klauterde naar boven en gluurde door het lange gras heen naar
den Vliet.
"O jongens," riep hij, "het is de Baviaan! Gauw, Douwes, gauw,
kom hier!"
En Douwes kwam, maar toen hij bijna aan het kantje was, gleed hij
uit en plofte in het water.
O, hij kon zwemmen, zie je, dat was minder! Als hij maar aan den kant
was eer de Baviaan kwam!
Maar Douwes had gepocht toen hij zei, dat hij zwemmen kon. Er was
niemendal van aan en hij plompte in het water van belang.
Pels hoorde het; roeide er heen en nam Douwes in zijn schuitje.
George en Huibert liepen hard weg, en zagen uit de verte toe wat de
Baviaan Douwes toch wel doen zou.
Maar hij deed hem niets. Hij roeide eenvoudig naar den wal, zette
Douwes op den kant en zei alleen: "Wees voortaan voorzichtiger,
manneke, als je bij de sluisdeuren gaat visschen, in plaats van naar
school te gaan, zooals je moet!"
Druipnat en met beschaamde wangen stond Douwes aan den oever, en wist
niet wat hij doen moest.
De Baviaan roeide verder en toen hij uit het gezicht was, kwamen
George en Huibert aanloopen om te vernemen, wat de leelijke vent hem
gedaan of gezegd had.
Douwes vertelde het hun; maar voegde er dadelijk bij: "Wat moet ik
nu doen? Ik kan toch zoo maar niet naar huis gaan!"
"Wel neen, dat hoeft ook niet! Het is nog maar half tien. Je trekt
je kleeren uit en laat ze drogen. Anders zit er niet op!" zei George.
Douwes begreep, dat dit nog het beste was, en zijn kleederen
uittrekkend, wrong hij die eerst uit en legde ze toen te drogen.
Gelukkig was het zomer, en toen hij ze kwartier voor twaalven weer
aantrok, kon men er bijna niets meer van zien.
Daar kwam hij dan nog eens goed af! Dat had hij nu in het geheel
niet gedacht, hoor! Hij had al vast op een pak slaag van den Baviaan
gerekend, en nu hij dàt misgeloopen was, meende hij dat alles wel
goed zou gaan!
Ja, dat meende hij. Maar het kon toch wel eens anders wezen, nietwaar?
Precies op klokslag van twaalven kwam Douwes thuis.
Het was etenstijd en Douwes ging op zijn gewone plaats naast moeder
zitten.
"Wat is er toch een rare lucht in huis!" zei ze en keek overal rond
of ze ook wat zag.
"Ik ruik niemendal!" antwoordde vader.
"En ik ook niet!" zei Douwes.
"Net modder! Heb je soms op straat in de modder getrapt?" vroeg moeder
weer en zag haar zoon aan.
"Neen, moeder, ik ben naar school geweest!" gaf de jongen ten antwoord.
"Maar daarom kan je toch wel in de modder trappen! Nu zou ik haast
gelooven, dat je er stilletjes uitgebleven bent," hernam zij.
"Neen, ik ben naar school geweest, hoor! Vraag het maar aan George
en Huibert!"
"Ja, dat zijn ook lieve jongens! Maar kijk eens, vader, Douwes heeft
kroos in zijn haar zitten en aan een knoop van zijn jas ook!" hervatte
moeder.
Douwes wilde een nieuwe leugen verzinnen; maar eer hij daartoe kwam,
zei vader: "Waarom zit je zoo te jokken, kwajongen? Je hebt in de
sloot gelegen! Kijk maar, het eendenkroos zit nog in je haar. Spreek
op, hoe komt dat?"
"Ik heb in het gras gerold en het is gras," bromde Douwes, doch
vader verstond geen gekscheren en ging na afloop van het eten naar
school. Juist toen ze den hoek van de Vinkestraat, waarin de school
stond, insloegen, liepen ze bijna den Baviaan tegen het lijf.
"Hei, hei, Vlinder, je loopt me haast omver! Man, wat heb je een
haast!" zei Pels, die Vlinder goed kende.
O, wat werd Douwes benauwd! Het zweet brak hem van angst naar alle
kanten uit. Als de oude nu maar niet vertelde, dat hij en zijn twee
kameraads hem altijd uitscholden, dan was het nog minder. Dat hij
stil uit school gebleven en in het water gevallen was, wist vader nu
toch al!
"Ja, Pels, ik moet mijn jongen naar school brengen. Hij is vanmorgen
stilletjes thuis gebleven en op den koop toe in het water gevallen."
"Zoo, is dat je jongen?" vroeg Pels.
"Ja! Ken je hem?" was het antwoord.
"Ik heb hem wel eens meer gezien; maar ik wist niet, dat het je zoon
was. Hoe heet hij?"
"Douwes!"
"Zoo, zeker naar zijn grootvader?"
"Ja!"
"Nu, als hij dan maar half zoo braaf wordt, als die oude man was,
dan zal het best met hem schikken."
"Ja, vader was een braaf mensch," zuchtte Vlinder; maar naar den
toren ziende, bemerkte hij, dat het al laat geworden was en zei daarom:
"Nu, Pels, ik moet weg. Maar zeg, wanneer kom je me toch eens
opzoeken?"
"Als ik maar weet waar je woont!" antwoordde Pels.
"Hoe is het, weet je dat niet meer? Ik woon in het Kaneel-slop, Nº. 8!"
"O zoo, woon je daar? Nu, ben je vanavond zoo omstreeks acht uur thuis,
dan kom ik een uurtje praten!"
"Dat is goed, ik zal je wachten!" zei Vlinder en ging met Douwes
naar school.
Maar meester had geen lust om den jongen, zooals hij er uitzag,
tusschen de andere kinderen te zetten, en daarom vroeg hij of Vlinder
het goedvond, dat hij hem maar heel den middag bij den spekslager
naast het varkenshok zette.
Vader had er niets tegen, en zie, den ganschen middag stond Douwes
bij het varkenshok met de lei in de handen; want ledig staan mocht
hij niet. Honderdmaal moest hij keurig netjes op de lei schrijven:
_Soort zoekt soort_!
Douwes had er in het eerst niet veel lust in; hij legde zijn lei op
den grond en begon de varkens te bekijken.
"Ben ik dan een varken?" bromde hij. "Waarom laat meester me schrijven:
_soort zoekt soort_? Hij scheldt me niet uit, neen, dat doet hij niet;
maar het is toch langs het kantje af!"
En zoo redeneerde hij al voort, tot hij ten laatste aan den Baviaan
dacht.
"Dien leelijken vent heb ik uitgescholden, dat is waar, maar hij
geleek toch meer op een baviaan dan ik op een varken gelijk!"
Wacht, daar stond een emmer met schoon water. Net een spiegel! Als
hij er eens in keek, dan zou hij toch eens goed kunnen zien, dat hij
geen varken was.
Juist was hij bezig met kijken, toen een kweekeling kwam om zijn
strafregels te zien.
Hij had er nog niet één.
"Nu, Douwes, dan komen er vijfentwintig bij, heeft de bovenmeester
gezegd!" zei de kweekeling en ging heen.
Nog een poosje bleef Douwes staan, doch hij begon te bedenken, dat
hij er nog wel eens vijfentwintig bij kon krijgen, en daarom besloot
hij maar bedaard aan het werk te gaan.
"_Soort zoekt soort_," het stond er honderd vijfentwintig maal toen
de klok vier uur geslagen had en meester op de plaats kwam.
Douwes moest nu in de school. Al de kinderen waren weg.
Wat zou er gebeuren?
"Hij moet niet probeeren me te slaan," dacht de brutale knaap,
"want dan zal ik het den Burgemeester gaan vertellen, en dan zal hij
leelijk tegen de lamp loopen!"
Maar meester sloeg niet. Hij legde een pen voor Douwes neer en zei:
"Komaan, manneke, nu zullen we al het werk, dat we vanmorgen hier
onder schooltijd gedaan hebben, met ons beitjes eens na schooltijd
doen. Vindt je het goed?"
Neen, Douwes vond het niet goed. Hij vond het zelfs gemeen en slecht;
maar tegenpruttelen durfde hij niet.
Om zeven uur ging Douwes naar huis met de boodschap, dat hij
morgenmiddag van hetzelfde laken een pak zou hebben, als hij weer
niet school kwam en vischjes ging vangen.
Toen hij thuis kwam, vond hij zoowaar den Baviaan al op vader zitten
wachten.
Dat was evenwel zoo afgesproken; want toen Vlinder naar zijn werk
ging, stond Pels hem op te wachten en vroeg hem, of hij het goedvond,
dat hij vanavond een beetje vroeger kwam om wat met Douwes te praten.
Vader had dit uitmuntend gevonden.
"Zoo, Douwes, kom je nu pas uit school?" begon hij. "Ik heb gehoord,
dat je moeder je schoon goed wil laten aantrekken, en daar je vader
toch eerst te acht uur thuis komt, heb ik er wat op verzonnen. We
zullen samen naar de badinrichting gaan, en daar eens een bad
nemen. Dat zal je heelemaal opknappen. Ga je mee?"
Douwes had er maar half lust in; maar moeder stopte hem zijn schoon
goed, in een doek geknoopt, in de handen, en de twee gingen heen.
Toen ze klaar waren, kende Douwes zichzelven niet. Het was, alsof
hij een andere jongen geworden was, zoo vreemd gevoelde hij zich.
Dat kwam vooreerst door het frissche bad en dan, neen maar, als hij
dien ouden Pels zoo eens aankeek, dan was die man toch zoo leelijk
niet!
En wat praatte hij aardig! Hij sprak over geen schelden, of over geen
stil-uit-school-blijven, niets van dat! Hij had het over heel andere
zaken, en toen hij thuis kwam had hij spijt, dat vader nu met Pels
praten ging.
Eindelijk ging de oude zeeman heen, doch toen hij de kruk van de deur
al vast had, zei hij: "Wat ik zeggen wil, Douwes, ik ga morgenmiddag
om vijf uur in de plassen buiten de stad visschen. Als je mee wilt,
en je mag van je ouders, dan moet je maken, dat je op dat uur bij de
sluis bent! En als je kameraads ook mee willen, en hun ouders hebben
er niets tegen, dan breng je ze maar mee, hoor! Gegroet!"
In den vroegen morgen van den volgenden dag zocht Douwes zijn twee
kameraads op. Hij vertelde hun alles wat er gebeurd was en ook dat
ze vanavond mee mochten gaan visschen, als vader of moeder er niets
tegen hadden.
Wel stonden Huibert en George gek te kijken; maar Douwes wist zooveel
van den ouden Pels te vertellen, dat ze besloten verlof te vragen om
mee te gaan.
Natuurlijk moesten ze dan ook naar school; want anders liep het
heelemaal mis.
Meester zei niets en keek de drie luitjes zoo nu en dan maar eens
even aan.
Hé, ze hadden nog nooit zoo veel gewerkt en, om de waarheid te zeggen,
ze vonden het toch wel prettig.
Doch toen 's middags om vier uur de school uitging en meester kortaf
beval, dat ze alle drie zouden blijven zitten, zie, toen keken ze
toch niet heel vriendelijk en ze meenden, dat ze heel onrechtvaardig
behandeld werden.
Doch meester had volstrekt geen plan om de jongens te straffen;
hij wilde hen eens ernstig over dat stil uit school blijven
onderhouden. Hoe hij het aanlegde heb ik nimmer vernomen, maar een
buurvrouw, die voor het raam stond, dat op het schoolplein uitzag,
had de knapen alle drie zien schreien, toen ze een kwartiertje later
dan de andere kinderen uit school kwamen.
"Heb je slaag gehad, jongens?" vroeg ze.
"Neen!" was het korte antwoord.
"Wat scheelt er dan aan?" hernam ze weer; want ze was wat nieuwsgierig
uitgevallen.
De jongens gaven haar echter geen antwoord en gingen bedaard verder.
Te vijf uur waren ze bij de sluis. Ze behoefden niet lang te wachten;
want spoedig was Pels er ook.
Hij kwam met zijn roeibootje naar den wal en zei: "Stap maar in,
jongens!"
Dat lieten ze zich geen tweemaal zeggen.--Weldra waren ze nu met hun
vieren in de boot, en de oude Pels trok nog zoo stevig aan de riemen,
dat een voetganger, die nogal goed doorstapte en langs het smalle
jaagpad liep, het bootje niet bij kon houden.
En toen ze op de plassen kwamen, wat hadden ze toen een pret!
Wat wist die oude man aardige geschiedenisjes te vertellen. En wat
werd er veel gevangen!
De avond was om eer ze het wisten, en toen ze tegen het donker weer
bij de sluis aan wal stapten, riep Pels: "Nu, jongens, tot overmorgen,
hoor! Wel te rusten!"
Nauwelijks was Pels met zijn bootje den hoek omgedraaid of Douwes zei:
"Wat zeg je nu van den Baviaan?"
"Ja, dat weet ik niet," antwoordde Huibert, "maar we moeten hem toch
niet meer uitschelden, wel?"
"Neen, want hij is veel te goed, en overmorgen mogen we weer
mee!" sprak George.
Nu, overmorgen kwam, en ze gingen weer op de plassen.
Ze dachten er niet meer aan om hem Baviaan te noemen, en toen ze
later eens bij hem aan huis kwamen, was het ook de oude Pels, die
hun leerde wat ze doen moesten om braaf en gelukkig te worden. Nooit
meer verzuimden ze de school, en meester had altijd pleizier van
deze jongens.
Nu zijn ze alle drie onder dienst geweest en verdienen hun eigen
brood; maar nog altijd is de oude Pels hun beste vriend, en als ze
eens een uurtje vrij hebben, en het weer zóó is, dat ze niet weten
waar ze loopen zullen, dan kan men hen altijd in zeker huisje van de
Maansteeg vinden.
Onlangs kwamen ze er weer uit en toen zei Douwes tot Huibert en George:
"Leelijk is hij, leelijk als de nacht! Hij is waarlijk nog net een
baviaan; maar hij is _goed_, _verstandig_ en _braaf_, dat zegt meer,
zou ik denken!"
"Dat gelooven wij ook!" antwoordden de andere twee.
De oude Pels leefde nog verscheidene jaren en werd zelfs
overgrootvader; want Douwes was met Leentje getrouwd en had drie
kindertjes, die niets liever deden dan met grootvader spelen. Daartoe
had de oude man ook overvloed van tijd; want Douwes, die, door goed
leeren en goed oppassen, meesterknecht in een groote smederij werd
en goed geld verdiende, wilde niet hebben, dat de brave man, die hem
eigenlijk gelukkig gemaakt had, op zijn ouden dag moest werken voor
den kost. Hij leefde dus vergenoegd bij zijn kleinkinderen, en toen
hij eindelijk gestorven was, zeiden de menschen: "Hij was een aap
van buiten, maar een engel van binnen!"
Van P. Louwerse verscheen bij den uitgever van dit boek op hetzelfde
formaat en geheel op dezelfde manier uitgevoerd, voor jongens en
meisjes van 8-12 jaar:
Jan met de Pijp
Ver van Huis
Tante Poes
Hier is wat
Is er nog plaats voor
Vertelavonden
De Kerstwagen
_Alle Fraai Geïllustreerd door Jan Sluijters_.
Prijs in geïllustreerd omslag 50 cents. Gebonden in fraai linnen
stempelband 75 cents. _Bij den Uitgever van dit boek verscheen ook_:
Serie fraaie boeken voor jongens en meisjes van 8-10 jaar:
P. J. en SUZE ANDRIESSEN.
Aan het strand.
Sinterklaasavond.
Het Kransje.
Greta en Meta.
Een dagje bij vrouw Aaltje.
Elsje van den Bezembinder.
Anne's Kanarietje.
Slordig Jansje.
Het verdwaalde kind.
De gebroken vaas.
De Gevolgen der ongehoorzaamheid.
Mina de snoepster.
Een brutaal Meisje.
Op de Kostschool.
De Savoyaard en zijn aapje.
Vijf Kersen aan een steel.
De pleegkinderen van den orgelman.
Vacantiedagen.
Hoe raar een bal soms rollen kan.
De twaalfde verjaardag.
Een Zaterdagmiddag in het bosch.
TINE VAN BERKEN.
Robbedoes.
Heintje Pochhans.
De geschiedenis van een broodtrommeltje.
Lachebekje.
Ons troepje.
Laura's opstel.
Driftkopje.
Jongens die rooken.
Twee Vacantiedagen.
Hedwigs Sint-Nicolaasfeest.
Hollandsche Spartanen.
Plaaggeest.
Uit logeeren.
Hesters gebrek.
Jonge vechtersbazen.
Het album van Dora Jemelle.
Alfreds gedragboekje.
Een Buurjongetje.
Elk boek met twee fraaie platen.
Prijs in geïllustreerd omslag 35 CENTS. Gebonden in rijk vergulden
linnen band 50 CENTS.
P. J. ANDRIESSEN,
Sneeuwklokjes.
Heide en veld.
Uit ons Dorp.
Uit Stad en Dorp.
Klimop.
Het Klaverblad.
Bosch en Duin.
TINE VAN BERKEN,
Meidorens.
Wilde Wingerd.
Kleine Menschen.
Met z'n drieën.
Onder ons.
Regen en Zonneschijn.
Elk der bovenstaande prachtige dikke boeken, bevat drie verhalen met
zes platen en is gebonden in fraaien linnen stempelband.
Prijs f 0.90 ingenaaid en f 1.25 in prachtband.
Bij den uitgever van dit boek verscheen ook:
"ONS CLUBJE"
BIBLIOTHEEK VOOR MEISJES
Prijs per deel f 0.90--in prachtband f 1.25.
Het groote succes, dat zoowel hier te lande als in het buitenland
aan Series Kinderboeken onder een gezamenlijken titel te beurt viel,
gaf aanleiding tot de uitgave van "_Ons Clubje_", _Bibliotheek voor
Meisjes_.
Dat ook deze serie door het publiek, reeds bij het verschijnen van
het eerste deel, met ingenomenheid is begroet, valt gemakkelijk te
verklaren. Wat toch maakt de aantrekkelijkheid van zulk een serie
uit? Dat de kinderen vroegtijdig den grondslag leeren leggen tot een
kleine boekerij, en dat de wensch om elke serie compleet te bezitten
hun orde en netheid leert ten opzichte van hun boeken.
"_Ons Clubje_" nu komt deze goede eigenschappen nog met een aantal
vermeerderen, en wel om de volgende redenen.
1º. "_Ons Clubje" overtreft in pracht van uitvoering alles wat tot
nu toe in dat genre verscheen_. De _buitengewoon goed geslaagde
bandteekening_ geeft elk deel een cachet, dat bijna geen ander
kinderboek bezit. Het _artistieke, welverzorgde uiterlijk van "Ons
Clubje"_ heeft ten gevolge, dat den kinderen reeds vroeg eerbied en
zin voor het schoone wordt ingeprent, dat zij de waarde van een mooi
voorwerp voor dagelijksch gebruik leeren kennen.
2º. "_Ons Clubje_" geeft slechts _degelijke en gezonde lectuur_,
waarvan _opvoedende kracht_ uitgaat, en die in de eerste plaats
_echt-kinderlijk_ is. "_Ons Clubje_" kweekt liefde en smaak bij onze
kinderen aan voor een mooi, goed boek.
_In "Ons Clubje" verscheen tot heden_:
I. _Fransje Elswoudt_, door TRUIDA KOK.
II. _Emma van Bergen_, door P. J. ANDRIESSEN, 5e dr.
III. _Vera_, door SUZE ANDRIESSEN, 3e druk.
IV. _Paulette_, door E. DE PRESSENSÉ, 2e druk.
V. _De Buren, van mevrouw Bertrand_, door E. DE PRESSENSÉ,
2e druk.
VI. _Mooie Bruno_, door TINE VAN BERKEN, 2e druk.
VII. _Marie en Pauline_, door P. J. ANDRIESSEN, 7e druk.
VIII. _Van een Grootmoeder en zeven Kleinkinderen_, door TINE
VAN BERKEN, 2e druk.
GOED EN GOEDKOOP.
Wilhelmina-Bibliotheek
voor JONGENS en MEISJES.
Elk boek prachtig geïllustreerd en gebonden in fraaien
stempelband. Prijs per deel f 0.90.--In prachtband f 1.25.
_In deze Bibliotheek verscheen tot op heden_:
I. E. DE PRESSENSÉ, _GENOVEVA_. Tweede druk.
II. P. J. ANDRIESSEN, _DE ERFENIS EENER MOEDER_. Derde Druk.
III. E. DE PRESSENSÉ, _URSULA_. Tweede druk.
IV. A. DE GRAAFF, _TOM en JACK_, Avonturen van twee
schooljongens.
V. E. DE PRESSENSÉ, _ARME KLEINE_. Tweede druk.
VI. A. DE GRAAFF, _DE SPION OP SCHOOL_.
VIL E. DE PRESSENSÉ, _WILGENHOF_. Tweede druk.
VIII. A. DE GRAAFF, _JAAP en BEN_, Avonturen van twee
schooljongens.
IX. A. DE GRAAFF, _HET GEHEIM VAN EEN SCHOOLJONGEN_.
X. A. DE GRAAFF, _DICK EN ZIJN VRIENDEN_.
XI. A. DE GRAAFF, _JACOB DE VONDELING_.
XII. A. DE GRAAFF, _DOOR DIK EN DUN_.
XIII. A. DE GRAAFF, _JACOB RENSUM_.
_De Wilhelmina-Bibliotheek overtreft in pracht van uitvoering alles
wat tot nu toe in dat genre verscheen_.
_De buitengewoon goed geslaagde bandteekening_ geeft elk deel een
cachet, dat bijna geen ander kinderboek bezit.
Het _artistieke, wel verzorgde uiterlijk der Wilhelmina-Bibliotheek_
heeft ten gevolge, dat den kinderen reeds vroeg eerbied en zin voor
het schoone wordt ingeprent, dat zij de waarde van een mooi voorwerp
voor dagelijksch gebruik leeren kennen.
De _Wilhelmina-Bibliotheek_ geeft slechts _degelijke en gezonde
lectuur, waarvan opvoedende kracht uitgaat_, en die in de eerste
plaats echt-kinderlijk is.
De _Wilhelmina-Bibliotheek_ kweekt liefde en smaak bij onze kinderen
aan voor een mooi, goed boek.
HET AARDIGSTE BOEK DAT TOT HEDEN VOOR JONGENS EN MEISJES VERSCHEEN IS
UIT DEN KOSTSCHOOLTIJD VAN JAN VAN BEEK
DOOR J. B. SCHUIL
Met talrijke Humoristische teekeningen tusschen den tekst van
JAN SLUYTERS.
Prijs ingenaaid f 2.40; in prachtband f 2.90 EENIGE BEOORDEELING.
Handelsblad:
Kleurig en monter is dit kostschoolleven met zijn "geheime verbonden",
"dieventaaltjes", ontvluchtingen en andere avonturen verteld. De toon
bewijst duidelijk, dat de schrijver schik had in de dingen, die hij
beschreef en misschien nog wel eens naar een eigen kostschooltijd
terugverlangt.
De Nieuwe Courant:
Wij zeggen het den uitgever in zijn prospectus na, dat dit een echt
Jongensboek is, prettig en vol afwisseling. De schrijver _J. B. Schuil_
is in de jongenswereld voortreffelijk thuis en weet op 'n prik wat
dit wereldje boeien kan. Maar hij weet er ook een goede keuze uit te
doen en zijn verhaal zoo in te kleeden, dat het ook opvoedend werkt,
zonder den zedemeester uit te hangen. Er worden in dit boek misschien
wat veel ondeugende streken naverteld en gedeeltelijk gefantaseerd,
maar die streken van Jan hebben vaak een sympathieken achtergrond en
de uiterlijke ruwheid gaat gepaard met innerlijke fijngevoeligheid.
Dit boek is vooral ook leerzaam voor ouders en opvoeders, die hier
menigen wenk krijgen, hoe zoogenaamde ondeugende jongens op te voeden;
hoe gemis van tact, ondoordachte bestraffing en ruwe behandeling vaak
de oorzaken zijn van het verstikken van den edelsten aanleg.
De grappen en dwaasheden die door dit verhaal met kwistige hand zijn
gestrooid, zijn meestal geestig geïllustreerd door JAN SLUYTERS.
De Tijd:
Een boek, onderhoudend en frisch geschreven, vol jongens-inzonderheid
kostschooljongensfantasie, vol echte, guitige schelmsche jongensstreken
en jeugdige ridderlijkheid. 't Is een leven van enkele jaren, doorleefd
op kostschool met haar gewichtigheden, prettige en minder prettige
weken, naar gelang de dag van vertrekken in de richting kostschool,
huis, of omgekeerd, is aangebroken; naar gelang de streepjes, zoovele
takjes aan den boom der dagen, successievelijk in kruisjes veranderen,
of een nieuw trimester begint.
End of Project Gutenberg's In het Schemeruur, by P. Louwerse and Jan Sluijters
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Title: Auction of To-day
Author: Milton C. Work
Release date: October 18, 2007 [eBook #23086]
Language: English
Credits: E-text prepared by Rick Niles and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUCTION OF TO-DAY ***
E-text prepared by Rick Niles and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.
AUCTION OF TO-DAY
by
MILTON C. WORK
Author of "Whist of To-day"
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1913
Copyright, 1913, by Milton C. Work
All Rights Reserved
Published January 1913
THIS BOOK
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
TO
THE AUCTION PLAYERS OF THE RACQUET CLUB
OF PHILADELPHIA,
WHO, WHILE OTHERS DOUBTED AND WAITED,
WERE SUFFICIENTLY BROADMINDED AND DISCERNING
TO ADOPT THE "NEW COUNT"
AND WHO, THEREFORE, PLAYED AUCTION OF TO-DAY
MONTHS BEFORE IT WAS IN VOGUE
ELSEWHERE
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION xi
I. THE DECLARATION 1
II. ORIGINAL DECLARATIONS BY THE DEALER 15
The Bid of One No-trump.
Table of Hands in which the No-trump Declaration
is Doubtful.
When to bid Two No-trumps.
Exception to the No-trump Rule.
Table of Doubtful Hands illustrating Exception.
Suit Declarations.
Various Ideas of the Two Spade Bid.
The Two Spade Bid.
The Three Spade Bid.
When to bid Two in Either Royals or Hearts.
When to bid Three in Either Royals or Hearts.
The Two Bid in Diamonds or Clubs.
How to declare Two-Suit Hands.
Table of Hands in which a Trump Declaration
is Doubtful.
III. SECOND HAND DECLARATIONS 60
Bidding over One Spade.
When to bid No-trump.
When to make a Trump Declaration.
The Double of One Spade.
The Bid of Two Spades.
Table of Spade Bids.
The Bid of Three Spades.
How Second Hand should bid after an Offensive
Declaration.
The Shift.
When to Bid Two No-trumps over One No-trump.
How to Bid against Two or Three Spades.
When to Bid No-trump over a Suit.
IV. THIRD HAND DECLARATIONS 82
When the Dealer has called One Spade, and the
Second Hand passed.
When the Dealer has shown Strength, and the
Second Hand passed.
When "Two Spades" has been declared.
When "Three Spades" has been declared.
When "One Club" or "One Diamond" has been declared.
When "Two Diamonds" or "Two Clubs" has been declared.
When "One Heart" or "One Royal" has been declared.
When "Two Hearts" or "Two Royals" has been declared.
When to overbid a Partner's No-trump.
When to overbid with Strong Clubs.
A New Plan for Overbidding.
When to overbid One No-trump with Two No-trumps.
What Third Hand should bid when Second Hand has declared.
V. FOURTH HAND DECLARATIONS 114
When the Dealer's Defensive Declaration has been
the Only Bid.
When the Only Offensive Declaration has been
made by the Dealer.
When the Only Offensive Declaration has been
made by the Second Hand.
When the Only Offensive Declaration has been
made by the Third Hand.
When the Dealer has Made a Defensive, and both the
Second and Third Hands Offensive, Declarations.
When the Dealer and Second Hand have made
Offensive Declarations, and the Third Hand passed.
When the Dealer and Third Hand have made
Offensive Declarations, and the Second Hand passed.
When all Three Players have made Offensive Declarations.
VI. CONTINUATION OF THE BIDDING 130
When to advance the Bid.
When to overbid the Partner.
Flag-Flying.
VII. DOUBLING 143
The Choice between a Game and a Double.
When to redouble.
What to do when the Partner is doubled.
VIII. LEADING 158
How to lead against a No-trump.
Number-showing Leads.
The Lead against a Suit Declaration.
How to lead to a Double.
Table of Opening Leads against a Trump Declaration.
IX. THE PLAY 183
Difference between Play in Auction and Bridge.
Playing for Game.
Play for an Even Break.
General Play of the Declarer.
Declarer's Play of No-trump.
Declarer's Play of a Suit Declaration.
Play by Declarer's Adversaries.
The Signal.
The Discard.
Blocking the Dummy.
Avoid opening New Suits.
How to return Partner's Bid.
The Finesse.
Table showing when Third Hand should finesse.
X. SCORING AND SCORE-SHEETS 213
Samples of Score-Sheets.
XI. THE LAWS 225
1912 Code of The Whist Club of New York.
Decisions by the Card Committee of The Whist Club
of New York.
SUMMARIZED PENALTIES 277
APPENDIX: QUERIES AND ANSWERS 279
INTRODUCTION
With so many excellent textbooks now in circulation, it seems almost
audacious to add another treatise to current card literature. It
happens, however, that the game of Auction, or Auction Bridge, as it is
generally called ("Auction Whist" is perhaps a more appropriate title),
has been so completely and so suddenly revolutionized that books
written upon the subject a few months ago do not treat of Auction of
to-day, but of a game abandoned in the march of progress. Only a small
portion of the change has been due to the development of the game, the
alteration that has taken place in the count having been the main
factor in the transformation. Just as a nation, in the course of a
century, changes its habits, customs, and ideas, so Auction in a few
months has developed surprising innovations, and evolved theories that
only yesterday would have seemed to belong to the heretic or the
fanatic. The expert bidder of last Christmas would find himself a
veritable Rip Van Winkle, should he awake in the midst of a game of
to-day.
The present tourist along the newly macadamized Auction highway has no
modern signpost to guide him, no milestone to mark his progress. The
old ones, while most excellent when erected, now lead to abandoned and
impassable roads, and contain information that of necessity confuses
and misleads.
Beyond doubt, the present game, like other modern improvements, has
come to stay, and with that belief the following pages are offered as
an aid to the thorough understanding of the new order of things.
Until the latter part of 1911, practically all players used the same
count in Auction that had for years obtained in Bridge; namely,
No-trump, 12; Hearts, 8; Diamonds, 6; Clubs, 4; and Spades, 2. The
change was first suggested by the author, and it, therefore, seems only
appropriate that he, having had the good fortune to conceive a system
which has been endorsed by general adoption, should have the privilege
of giving to the Auction-loving public his views upon the most
advantageous methods of playing the game under the new conditions, and
thus possibly help to allay the confusion created by the introduction
of an innovation so drastic.
In this connection, it may be interesting to recall how this new count,
which is now so universally used that it should be called, not the
"new" count, but "the" count, came to be suggested, and why it met with
popular favor.
When Auction first took the place of Bridge as the paramount game in
the club and social life of the scientific card-player of the United
States (just as Bridge had previously superseded Whist), it was but
natural that the Bridge count should be continued in Auction.
Admitting that these values were the best possible for Bridge (and of
that there is considerable doubt in the mind of the player of to-day),
it, nevertheless, did not mean that for the new and very different game
of Auction they would of necessity be the most suitable. It was soon
found that the No-trump was so much more powerful than any other bid
that competition was almost eliminated. With even unusually strong
suits, only occasionally could a declaration valued at 12 be
successfully combated by one valued at 8 or less, and the vast majority
of hands were, consequently, played without a Trump.
The inherent theory of the game of Auction provides for a bidding in
which each one of the four suits competes with each other, and also
with the No-trump. Using the Bridge count, this does not take place.
The two black suits, by reason of their inconsequential valuation, are
practically eliminated from the sea of competitive bidding. The Diamond
creates only a slight ripple, and even the Heart has to be unusually
strong to resist the strenuous wave of the No-trump.
Players in different parts of the country realized that as long as the
Bridge count was used, five bids could not compete in the race, as, due
to unequal handicapping, the two blacks could barely pass the starter,
while the two reds could not last long in a keen contest.
The desire to make the Spade a potent declaration had appeared in
Bridge; Royal Spades, valued at 10, having been played by some
unfortunates who believed that, whenever they had the deal, the fickle
goddess favored them with an undue proportion of "black beauties." As
competitive bidding is not a part of the game of Bridge, that could not
be offered as a reason for increasing the value of the Spade, and to be
logical, Royal Clubs should also have been created. Naturally, Royal
Spades never received any very large or intelligent Bridge following,
but as making the Spade of value was in line with the obvious need of
Auction, as soon as that game became the popular pastime, Royal Spades
(or Lilies, as they were perhaps foolishly called in some places, the
pseudonym being suggested by the color of the Spade), valued at 11 and
at 10, were accorded a more thorough trial.
They met objection on the ground that three Royals, equally with three
No-trumps, carried a side to game from a love score, and, therefore,
while some continued to experiment with Royals, it cannot be said that
they were anywhere accepted as a conventional part of Auction. Finally,
some clever Bostonians suggested that their value be made nine, and
this proved both more logical and more popular.
With affairs in this state, the author determined that it would
materially improve the game to arrange the count so that the various
bids be as nearly as possible equalized, every suit given a real
rating, and the maximum competition created. After some little
experimentation, the very simple expedient now in vogue was suggested.
It makes the game _in reality_ what it previously was _only in name_.
In September, 1911, the Racquet Club of Philadelphia, the first club to
act upon the subject, incorporated in its club code the count of 10 for
No-trump, 9 for Royal Spades, 8 for Hearts, 7 for Diamonds, 6 for
Clubs, and 2 for Spades. Other clubs in this country and abroad slowly
but surely followed, and the card-playing public in its social game
adopted the new plan as soon as it received a fair trial.
Early in 1912, the Whist Club of New York, a most conservative body,
yielded to the pressure, and accepted the new count. Since then, it has
been universally used.
It has been given various names, such as the "new count," which is, of
course, a title that cannot long be retained; the "Philadelphia count,"
which is now inappropriate, as it is played in all parts of the
country; the "game of Royals," which is grossly incorrect, as it is not
a game of Royals any more than of any other suit, and certainly is not
one-tenth as much a game of Royals as the old count was a game of
No-trumps. One writer, who ably advocates the new count, calls the
present game "Royal Auction Bridge," yet frankly admits that No-trump
is still played more frequently than Royals, and Hearts almost as
often. There can be no question that the number of Diamond and Club
declarations has materially increased, so the only apparent reason for
calling the game Royals is the desire for some name to distinguish the
count now used from its predecessor. That, however, is totally
unnecessary. The old, or Bridge count, is a thing of the past--dead and
almost forgotten. The "new" count is "Auction"--"Auction of To-day" if
you will, but unquestionably the best Auction yet devised, the only
Auction now played, and destined to be Auction for all future time,
unless some system be suggested which will create keener competition in
bidding. It is generally conceded that this is practically impossible.
In this book the author does not attempt to drill the uninitiated
player in the intricacies of the game. The rudiments can be learned far
more satisfactorily by watching a rubber, or by receiving the kindly
instruction of a friend or teacher.
In perusing these pages, the beginner will seek in vain to receive such
information as that the 10 is a higher card than the 9; or that the
Third Hand plays after the Second. The reader is supposed to thoroughly
understand the respective values of the cards, as well as the
underlying principles and the rules of the game.
Neither is this book intended for the player who recognizes himself as
an expert and continuously prates of his own ability. Even should he
condescend to read, he would find either "nothing new," or "nothing new
worth knowing." Why, indeed, should he waste his valuable time
considering the ideas of others, when by his brilliant exposition of
his own inimitable theories, he can inculcate in the minds of his
inferiors a new conception of Auction possibilities? Such a player may
at any time confuse a conscientious partner by making an original bid
without an Ace or King, or by committing some equally atrocious Auction
_faux pas_, but as even a constant recurrence of such "trifles" will
not disturb his equanimity, why suggest ideas for his guidance?
The real purpose of this little book is to point out to the moderate
player the system of bidding and methods of play now adopted by the
best exponents of the game, and to advise generally how to produce a
satisfactory result at the end of the rubber, sitting, or season.
Much of the success of an Auction player is due to his ability to
concentrate his entire attention upon the game. If it were possible to
make only a single suggestion to a beginner, the most important point
that could be called to his attention would be the necessity for
concentration. From the moment the first bid is made until the last
card is played, the attention of every player should be confined to the
declaration and the play, and during that time no other idea should
enter his mind. This may seem rudimentary, but as a matter of fact, the
loss of tricks is frequently blamed upon various causes, such as
"pulling the wrong card," forgetting that a certain declaration had
been made, or that a certain card has been played, miscounting the
Trumps or the suit in question, etc., when the lack of complete
concentration is the real trouble.
Success in Auction is indeed difficult, and the player who would grasp
every situation, and capture every possible trick, must have the power
to concentrate all his faculties upon the task before him. No matter
how great his capacity, he cannot do thorough justice to any hand, if,
during the declaration or play, his mind wander. Too often do we see a
player, while the play is in progress, thinking of some such subject as
how many more tricks his partner might have made in the last hand;
whether his partner has declared in the manner which he believes to be
sound and conventional; what is going on at some other table; whether
this rubber will be over in time for him to play another, etc.
When this is the mental condition of a player, the best results cannot
be obtained. If a trick has been lost, it is gone. Thinking over it
cannot bring it back, but may very quickly give it one or more
comrades. As soon as each deal is completed, it should be erased from
the mind just as figures from a slate. In that way only can be obtained
the complete and absolute concentration which is essential to perfect
play, and goes a long way toward securing it.
Auction is beyond doubt the most scientific card game that has ever
become popular in this country. The expert has the full measure of
advantage to which his skill entitles him, and yet the game possesses
wonderful fascination for the beginner and player of average ability.
It is doubtless destined to a long term of increasing popularity, and
it is, therefore, most advisable for all who participate that they
thoroughly familiarize themselves with the conventional methods of
bidding and playing, so that they may become intelligent partners, and
a real addition to any table.
AUCTION OF TO-DAY
I
THE DECLARATION[1]
It is well to realize from the start that the declaration is the most
important department of the game, and yet the most simple to master. A
foolish bid may cost hundreds of points. The failure to make a sound
one may lose a rubber, whereas mistakes in the play, while often
expensive and irritating, are rarely attended with such disastrous
results.
[1] Also known as "the Bid" and "the Call."
Any good player who has to choose between a partner who bids well and
plays poorly, and one who is a wild or unreliable bidder, but handles
his cards with perfection, without hesitation selects the former.
To be an expert player requires natural skill, long experience, keen
intuition, deep concentration, and is an art that cannot be accurately
taught either by the instructor or by a textbook. Bidding has been
reduced to a more or less definite system, which may be learned in a
comparatively brief space of time. Consequently, any one possessed of
ordinary intelligence, regardless of sex, age, temperament, or
experience, may become an expert declarer, but of all who attempt to
play, not more than forty per cent. possess that almost indefinable
characteristic known as a "card head," without which it is impossible
to become a player of the highest class.
The average club or social game, however, produces numerous expert
players, while the sound bidder is indeed a _rara avis_.
The explanation of this peculiar condition is not hard to find. Most
Auction devotees began their card experience with Whist, a game in
which, beyond doubt, "The play's the thing"; then they transferred
their allegiance to Bridge, where the play was the predominant factor;
and now they fail to realize that in their new pastime _the most
important part of the game is concluded before the first card leaves
the leader's hand_.
It must encourage the student to know that he may surely and quickly
become a sound bidder, and that he will then be a more valued partner
than a Whist or Bridge celebrity who does not accord to the Declaration
the care it deserves and rewards.
Many methods of bidding have been suggested; some have been so absurd
that they have not warranted or received serious consideration; others
have been accorded a thorough trial, and found wanting.
The system which is herein advocated is believed to be the most sound
and informatory yet devised.
Before taking up the declaration by each hand, it is important for the
player to realize that with the introduction of the count of to-day,
much of the bidding previously in vogue has, of necessity, passed into
disuse. For example, under the old count, a player, knowing that the
Club suit would never be played and that there was no danger of that
declaration being continued by his partner, very properly called a Club
to show the Ace and King, even when these two cards were the only Clubs
in his hand.
In Auction of to-day, it being possible to score game with any
declaration, a suit cannot be safely called unless it be of such length
and strength that the partner may continue it as far as his hand
warrants. In discussing the subject of Bidding, under the subheads of
DEALER, SECOND HAND, etc., this will be considered more thoroughly, and
it is referred to at this time only for the purpose of pointing out
that informatory bids from short suits containing high cards are no
longer included in the vocabulary of the Declarer.
Another difference between the old and the present game is worthy of
notice. In the old game a marked distinction was drawn between the
color of the suits in the make-up of a No-trumper, it being more
important that the black suits should be guarded than the red. Using
the Bridge count, the adversaries, if strong in the red suits, were apt
to bid, but the black suits, by reason of their low valuation,
frequently could not be called. Black was, consequently, the natural
lead against a No-trump, and therefore, required more protection.
Now, as every suit can be named with practically equal effectiveness,
the color distinction has ceased to exist. The original leader, when
No-trump has been declared, no longer attempts to guess his partner's
strength by starting with a black suit, in preference to a red; and in
bidding one No-trump, strength in one color is just as valuable as in
the other.
When Auction was first played in England, it was believed that the deal
was a disadvantage, that the Declarer should disguise his hand as long
as possible and use every expedient to force his adversary to be the
first to show real strength. This doctrine has been found to be
ridiculous. The premium of 250 for winning the rubber is a bonus well
worth having, and the player who, when his cards justify a bid, unduly
postpones his declaration, belongs to an antiquated and almost extinct
school.
It is now conceded that the best results are obtained by that character
of bidding which gives the partner the most immediate and accurate
information regarding the strength of the Declarer.
There are still the "old fogies" who preach that, as there are two
opponents and only one partner, all information is doubly advantageous
to the adversary. This "moss-covered" idea was advanced concerning the
play in Whist and Bridge, but experience proved it fallacious. In
Auction, its folly is apparent, not only in the matter of the play, but
even more surely when applied to the bidding.
A moment's consideration causes the realization that the declaration
would become an easy task if the exact composition of the partner's
hand were known; it should, therefore, be the aim of the bidder to
simplify the next call of his partner by describing his own cards as
accurately as possible.
True it is that the deceptive bidder at times succeeds in duping some
confiding or inexperienced adversary and thereby achieves a temporary
triumph of which he loves to boast. For every such _coup_, however, he
loses many conventional opportunities, frequently gets into trouble,
and keeps his partner in a continual state of nervous unrest, entirely
inimical to the exercise of sound judgment. Nevertheless, the erratic
one rarely realizes this. He gives his deceptive play the credit for
his winning whenever he holds cards with which it is impossible for
him to lose, but characterizes as "hard luck" the hundreds that his
adversaries tally in their honor columns by reason of his antics, and
is oblivious of the opportunities to win games which he allows to slip
from his grasp.
The difference between informative and deceptive bidding is shown in
the harmony of a partnership. When the former is practised, the pair
pull together; the latter results in misunderstandings and disputes.
It must not be understood, however, that the ability to give accurate
information comprises the entire skill of the bidder. It is most
important that he possess the judgment which enables him to force the
adversary into dangerous waters without getting beyond his own depth.
It is no excuse for a player who has led his partner on to their mutual
destruction to murmur, "I could have made my bid." An early bid being
allowed to become the final declaration is exceptional. Whether or not
it could be made is, therefore, immaterial, but the result it may
produce is vital.
In club circles the story is told of the player of experience, who,
after he had been deceived by his partner's declaration, said:
"Partner, if you were reading the paper to a stranger, you would not
vary a word of even an unimportant item. Why, then, should you, in
describing your thirteen cards, deliberately misinform a trusting
partner?"
Another exploded idea is that an advantage can be obtained by so-called
"misleading" or "trap" bidding. There are some players who imagine
that, by calling one Spade with an excellent hand, they can induce the
adversaries to believe that the bidder possesses a trickless
combination, and as a result, some ridiculous declaration will follow,
which will give an opportunity for a profitable double. Experience has
shown that in practice this idea does not produce satisfactory results.
Adversaries will not bid to a point where they are apt to be doubled,
except in the face of competition. When the Dealer has called one
Spade, his partner, unless he hold very strong cards, will not
materially elevate the declaration. If both partners have strength, it
is not probable that the adversaries can do much bidding, so that it is
only in the unusual case, and against the inexperienced and unskilled,
that such a scheme is apt to prove successful. On the other hand, it
transfers the advantage of being the first to show strength and abuses
the confidence of the partner. It is a tool which should be employed
only by the Declarer of ripe experience, and he will limit its use to
the unusual hand.
The bidder should remember that part of the finesse of the game, when
partners vary considerably in their respective skill, is to so arrange
the declaration that the stronger player is at the helm most of the
time. A weak player with a strong partner should not jump with undue
haste into a No-trump, Royal, or Heart declaration; but rather, wait
for the partner, and then back up his call. The weak player should also
hesitate before taking away his partner's bid, although of course,
there are many situations which thoroughly justify it, regardless of
the greatest difference in the skill of the players.
The objection to the game of Auction which makes it the subject of the
most severe criticism is the possibility that improper information may
be conveyed to the partner by the manner of making the bid.
After starting to bid, by using the word "one" or "two" there should
never be any hesitation, as that tells the partner that there is more
than one call under consideration. The same comment applies to
hesitation when it is evident to the partner that it must be caused by
a doubt whether or not to double, and the opportunity so to do still
remains with him. An extended delay in passing or bidding one Spade
also conveys an obvious suggestion. It goes without saying that no
honorable partner would avail himself of such information. Being the
unwilling recipient of it, however, places him in an awkward position,
as he must cross-examine himself as to whether any questionable bid or
double he contemplates is in any way encouraged by it. If he have even
a scintilla of doubt, he must pass.
A few principles of bidding applicable to all conditions may be stated
at the beginning of the consideration of the subject.
Adopt informatory and conservative methods.
A good player may bid higher than a poor one.
When your partner fails to assist your bid, do not count on him for
more strength than a Dealer who has bid one Spade.
Any overbid of an adversary shows strength; an overbid of a partner who
has declared No-trump may show weakness.
Overbidding a partner who has declared Royals or Hearts shows weakness
in his suit.
Being without a suit, or holding a singleton, is an element of strength
for a Trump declaration; of weakness for a No-trumper.
When, if you do not bid, the adversary will be left in with a
declaration with which he cannot make game, do not take him out unless
you expect to score game with your declaration.
Do not, by reckless bidding, make the loss of one rubber equal the
usual value of two.
With a love score, it requires three tricks in No-trumps, four in
Royals or Hearts, and five in Diamonds or Clubs, to make game. It is an
exceptional hand in which the Declarer does not lose more than two
tricks. Diamonds and Clubs are, therefore, rarely played in preference
to one of the three declarations of higher value, which are spoken of
as "game-going" declarations.
There is very little declaring to the score in Auction, as the majority
of deals in which the contract is fulfilled score game, so that most of
the time the score is love. In a certain percentage of cases, however,
there is a score, and it affects the bidding to the following extent:--
If it be 2 or more, Diamonds should be treated as Royals or Hearts
would be at love; if it be 6 or more, Clubs should be similarly
treated.
If it be 3 or more, Royals, with a holding of five or more, should be
bid in preference to No-trump, even with all the suits stopped, and if
it be 6 or more, Hearts should be similarly treated.
When the score reaches a higher figure, such as 16, for example,
holding five Diamonds, Hearts, or Spades, suit bids should be given the
preference over No-trumpers.
The reason is plain. The winning of the game is the object of the
bidder; when that is in sight with a suit declaration, No-trump should
not be risked unless in the higher declaration the fulfilment of the
contract be equally sure.
The establishment of an adverse suit is the rock which sinks many a
No-trumper. There is little chance of this with a suit declaration.
Therefore, especially when it does not require any more tricks to go
game, the suit should be selected, if the No-trump present any element
of danger.
The state of the score never justifies an original bid which would not
be conventional at love. In other words, while being the possessor of a
score may make it wise for a bidder to select a suit instead of a
No-trump, it never justifies his calling a suit in which he has not
both the length and strength requisite for a declaration with a love
score.
Bidding by the different hands is so varied in its character that each
must be considered as practically a separate subject, and they will,
therefore, be taken up _seriatim_. In all cases where the score is not
especially mentioned, it should be understood that neither side is
supposed to have scored.
II
ORIGINAL DECLARATIONS BY THE DEALER
The Dealer, in making the initial declaration, obtains a valuable
strategic position whenever his hand justifies an offensive bid
(_i.e._, anything but one Spade); but when he is compelled to assume
the defensive, this advantage passes to his opponents. By any
declaration which shows strength, he materially aids his partner and
places difficulties in the path of his adversaries. A No-trump is
naturally his most advantageous opening.
There are many hands in which the strength is so evenly divided that
the advantage of playing the Dummy enables the player who "gets to the
No-trump first" to make good his declaration, and frequently, in such
equally balanced hands, one No-trump is the only bid that can be made.
One No-trump eliminates all adverse calls of one, and sometimes when
the strength of the opponents is considerable, but divided, results in
shutting out a productive declaration. The Dealer, therefore, whenever
his hand warrants it, should grasp his good fortune and declare his
strength.
He should not, however, rashly assume the offensive. There is no way in
which he can more thoroughly deceive his partner, create greater havoc
with the bidding of the hand and cast deeper distrust upon his future
declarations than by using the keynote bid to announce strength which
his hand does not contain.
He must thoroughly understand the conventional declarations, and when
in doubt should bid one Spade, as the damage which is apt to result
from an overestimation by his partner of his winning cards is much
greater than any benefit gained by starting the attack.
THE BID OF ONE NO-TRUMP
The Dealer is justified in basing his declaration upon the assumption
that his partner has one-third of the high cards not in his own hand.
He may, therefore, _bid one No-trump with any holding better than the
average_ whenever he has
(_a_) Four suits stopped.
(_b_) Three suits stopped and his hand contains an Ace.
(_c_) Three King suits, all of which contain in addition either
Queen or Knave.
(_d_) A solid five-card Club or Diamond suit and another Ace.
The first question to determine is what, from the standpoint of the
Declarer, constitutes a guarded or stopped suit.
That an Ace comes under that head is self-evident.
So also must a King, if accompanied by one small, because the lead
comes up to the Declarer, and the King must either be able to win the
trick or be made good.
A Queen and one other manifestly will not stop a suit, and a Queen and
two others is not apt to do so unless the leader hold both Ace and
King. Queen and three others is, however, comparatively safe, and
Queen, Knave, and one other is a most satisfactory guard.
Knave, Ten, and two others surely stops a suit, but Knave and three
small is about as unreliable as Queen and two small. It, therefore,
becomes evident that the Dealer, to count a suit as stopped, must have
in it one of the following holdings:--
Ace.
King and one other.
Queen and three others.
Queen, Knave, and one other.
Knave and four others.
Knave, Ten, and two others.
Some experts, with three suits stopped, bid No-trump with exactly an
average hand, but experience has shown that this is advisable only when
supported by exceptional skill, and cannot be recommended to most
players. The average holding of high cards is one Ace, one King, one
Queen, and one Knave. From the average standpoint it is immaterial
whether they are all in one suit or divided. Any hand containing a face
card or Ace above this average is a No-trumper, whenever it complies
with the other above-mentioned requirements. When the average is
exceeded by holding two Aces, instead of an Ace and King, a No-trump
should be called, but two Kings, instead of a King and Queen, or even a
King and Knave, is a very slight margin, and the declaration is
doubtful for any but the most expert. A hand with two Queens instead of
one Queen and one Knave, while technically above the average, cannot be
so considered when viewed from a trick-taking standpoint, and does not
warrant a No-trump call.
In bidding No-trump with three guarded suits, it does not matter which
is unprotected. For example, the minimum strength of a No-trumper
composed of one face card more than the average is an Ace in one suit;
King, Knave, in another; and Queen, Knave, in a third. This hand would
be a No-trumper, regardless of whether the suit void of strength
happened to be Hearts, Diamonds, Clubs, or Spades.
The above-described method of determining when the hand sizes up to the
No-trump standard is generally known as the "average system," and has
been found more simple and much safer than any of the other tests
suggested. It avoids the necessity of taking the Ten into
consideration, and does not involve the problems in mental arithmetic
which become necessary when each honor is valued at a certain figure
and a total fixed as requisite for a No-trump bid.
The theory upon which a player with possibly only three tricks declares
to take seven, is that a hand containing three sure tricks, benefited
by the advantage derived from having twenty-six cards played in unison,
is apt to produce one more; and until the Dummy refuse to help, he may
be figured on for average assistance. The Dealer is expecting to take
four tricks with his own hand, and if the Dummy take three (one-third
of the remaining nine), he will fulfil his contract. Even if the Dummy
fail to render the amount of aid the doctrine of chances makes
probable, the declaration is not likely to prove disastrous, as one
No-trump is rarely doubled.
It is also conventional to declare one No-trump with a five-card or
longer Club or Diamond suit,[2] headed by Ace, King, Queen, and one
other Ace. This is the only hand containing strength in but two suits
with which a No-trump should be called.
[2] With a similar suit in either Spades or Hearts, Royals or
Hearts should be the bid.
As a rule a combination of high cards massed into two suits does not
produce a No-trumper, although the same cards, divided into three
suits, may do so. For example, a hand containing Ace, Queen, Knave, in
one suit; King, Queen, Knave, in another, and the two remaining suits
unguarded, should not be bid No-trump, although the high cards are
stronger than the example given above with strength in three suits.
Admitting all the advantage of the original No-trump, even the boldest
bidders do not consider it a sound declaration with two defenseless
suits, unless one of the strong suits be established and the other
headed by an Ace. The reason for this is easily understood. When the
adversaries have a long suit of which they have all the high cards, the
chances are that it will be opened; but if not, it will soon be found
unless the Declarer can at once run a suit of considerable length. When
a suit is established by the adversaries, the Declarer is put in an
embarrassing position, and would probably have been better off playing
a Trump declaration. It is a reasonable risk to trust the partner to
stop one suit, but it is being much too sanguine to expect him to
protect two. Should he fail to have either stopped, the Declarer's loss
is so heavy that only with a long and apparently established suit and
an additional Ace is the risk justified. It is realized that the case
cited, namely, Ace, King, Queen, and two others, may not prove to be an
established (or solid, as it is often called) suit. If however, the
division be at all even, as it is in the vast majority of cases, the
suit can be run, and it is cited as the minimum holding which may be
treated as established.
With the present value of Clubs and Diamonds, either suit presents an
effective original declaration. There is, therefore, much less excuse
than formerly for a reckless No-trump bid, based upon five or six Club
or Diamond tricks and one other suit stopped. When, however, an Ace of
another suit accompanies the unusual Club or Diamond strength, the
advantage of being the first to bid No-trump makes the chance worth
taking.
The hands above cited as containing the minimum strength to warrant the
call are all what are known as "weak No-trumpers." This kind of bidding
may not be conservative, but experience has shown it to be effective as
long as it is kept within the specified limits. A No-trump must,
however, justify the partner in acting upon the assumption that the
bidder has at least the stipulated strength, and it merely courts
disaster to venture such a declaration with less than the conventional
holding.
A few examples may possibly make the above somewhat more clear, as by
that means the various "minimum-strength" or "border-line" No-trumpers,
and also hands which fall just below the mark, can be accurately shown.
It will be understood that an effort is made to give the _weakest_
hands which justify the No-trump declaration, and also the hands which
fall short by the smallest possible margin. In other words, the hands
which puzzle the Declarer. With greater strength or greater weakness
the correct bid is plainly indicated.
The suits are numbered, not designated by their respective names, in
order to emphasize that it does not matter where the weakness is
located.
HANDS IN WHICH THE NO-TRUMP DECLARATION IS DOUBTFUL
Suit 1 King, Knave, X Does not contain an Ace, but is
" 2 King, X, X above the average and has four
" 3 Queen, Knave, X suits stopped. It is a No-trump
" 4 Knave, Ten, X, X bid.
Suit 1 Ace, Knave, X Has an Ace, three suits stopped,
" 2 X, X, X and a Knave over the average. It
" 3 King, X, X, X is a No-trump bid.
" 4 Queen, Knave, X
Suit 1 Ace, Queen, X Has an Ace and two face cards
" 2 King, Queen, Knave more than the average, but, not
" 3 X, X, X, X having three suits stopped, is
" 4 Knave, X, X _not_ a No-trump bid.
Suit 1 King, Queen, X Has three suits stopped, but is
" 2 King, Knave, X, X without an Ace, and is one King
" 3 Queen, Knave, X short of three King suits all with
" 4 X, X, X another face card. It is _not_
a No-trump bid.
Suit 1 King, Knave, X Has three King-Queen, or
" 2 King, Queen, X King-Knave suits. It is a No-trump
" 3 King, Knave, X bid.
" 4 X, X, X, X
Suit 1 Ace, X, X Has three suits stopped and is
" 2 Ace, X, X, X above the average. It is a No-trump
" 3 Queen, Knave, X bid.
" 4 X, X, X
Suit 1 Ace, X, X This is the border-line hand
" 2 King, X, X mentioned above. It may be a
" 3 X, X, X, X No-trump bid for an expert, but
" 4 King, Knave, X the moderate player is hardly
justified in risking it. The
presence of one or two Tens would
add materially to the strength of
this hand and make it a No-trump.
Suit 1 Ace, X, X, X Only above the average to the
" 2 King, Queen, X extent of a Queen in place of
" 3 Queen, X, X, X a Knave. No-trump is not advised
" 4 X, X unless Declarer is confident he
can outplay his adversaries.
Suit 1 Ace, Knave, X An average hand. With this holding
" 2 King, X, X only an expert is justified in
" 3 Queen, X, X, X bidding No-trump.
" 4 X, X, X
Suit 1 Ace, X, X Below the average, and, therefore,
" 2 King, X, X only "one Spade" should be bid.
" 3 Queen, X, X, X
" 4 X, X, X
Clubs } Has the weakest "solid" suit
or } Ace, King, Queen, X, X that with one other Ace warrants
Diamonds } a No-trump bid.
Suit 2 Ace, X, X
" 3 X, X, X
" 4 X, X
Clubs } Ace, King, Knave, X, X Absence of Queen in one case, and
or } or of King in the other, keeps the
Diamonds } Ace, Queen, Knave, X, X suit from being established. Even
} the presence of the additional
Suit 2 Ace, Queen, X Queen in Suit 2 does not make this
" 3 X, X, X a No-trumper.
" 4 X, X
Clubs } Absence of additional Ace makes
or } Ace, King, Queen, X, X a No-trump inadvisable.
Diamonds }
Suit 2 King, Queen, X
" 3 X, X, X
" 4 X, X
It is realized that in the last three cases cited the margin is
unusually close; the last one, should the partner happen to have either
Suit 3 or 4 stopped, and the Ace and some length of Suit 2, would be
very much stronger than the example justifying the bid. It is also true
that a fortunate drop of the King or Queen of the long suit, with a
little help from the partner, would make the next to the last the
strongest of the three. It is idle, however, to speculate on what the
partner may have. In such close cases it is most important to
invariably follow some fixed rule. The player who guesses each time may
always be wrong, while the player who sticks to the sound bid is sure
to be right most of the time. Experience has shown that, when only two
suits are stopped, it is not wise to bid No-trump without both an Ace
and a solid suit, and experience is the best teacher.
WHEN TO BID TWO NO-TRUMPS
An original bid of more than one No-trump is rarely advisable, as it is
important that the partner be given the option of bidding two of a
suit. With great strength such a call should never be made, as in that
case there is no good reason for attempting to shut out the adversary.
The only character of hand which justifies starting with two No-trumps
is the rare combination in which a long, solid suit of six or seven
Clubs or Diamonds is held, accompanied by an Ace or guarded King in at
least two of the remaining suits, the idea being to shut out adverse
Royals or Hearts.
Some players believe in bidding two No-trumps with "every Ace and not a
face," but that sort of an effort to "steal" the 100 is not justified
as the partner's hand may make a game, which could not be won at
No-trumps, obtainable in a suit declaration. A game with the incidental
score is worth much more than "one hundred Aces" and only two odd
tricks, or perchance an unfilled contract. It is also important that
the bid be limited to the one case mentioned, as in that way it gives
the most accurate information.
EXCEPTION TO THE NO-TRUMP RULE
There is one important exception to most of the No-trump bids above
described, and that is when the hand, which otherwise would be a
No-trumper, contains as its strong suit five or more Spades or Hearts.
It takes only one more Royal or Heart than it does No-trump to win the
game, and with a suit unguarded, it is far safer and wiser, with such a
holding, to bid the Heart or Royal than the No-trump. For example, with
Ace, King, Knave, and two small Clubs; King, Queen, Knave, and one
Diamond; Queen, Knave, and one Heart; and one Spade, the bid would
unquestionably be No-trump. If, however, the Club and Spade holding be
transposed, a Royal should be declared. When there is a score which
places the Club or Diamond within four tricks of game, these suits
become as valuable as the Heart or Royal, with the score at love, and
should be treated accordingly.
The Declarer should bear in mind that as the game is the desideratum,
the surest, not the most glorious or enjoyable, route of reaching it
should be chosen. When No-trump is declared with a hand containing a
defenceless suit, there is a grave chance that the adversaries may save
game by making five tricks in that suit before the Declarer can obtain
the lead. With five or more strong cards of a suit and two other suits
stopped, four tricks are more probable with the suit declaration than
three with No-trump, but three with the No-trump are more likely than
five with the suit. It, therefore, depends upon which suit be held
whether it or No-trump should be bid. The inclination which many
players have for a No-trump bid should be firmly curbed, when the
holding is of the character mentioned and the strength is in Spades or
Hearts.
A very different case arises, however, when all the suits are stopped;
the Dealer is then, the game being probable with either declaration,
justified in bidding either the No-trump or the suit, as he may prefer,
and the value of the honors he holds should be an important factor in
guiding his decision. When he has more than five Spades or Hearts, the
suit declaration is generally to be preferred, even with all suits
stopped, unless the hand contain four Aces. A few examples follow:--
Spades Ace, King, Queen, X, X While this hand contains three
Hearts Ace, Queen, X Aces, it is more apt to score
Diamonds Ace, Knave, X, X game with Royals than without a
Clubs X Trump. With the Spade and Club
or Spade and Diamond suits
transposed, it is a No-trumper.
Spades Ace, King, Queen, X Not having five Spades, this hand
Hearts Ace, Queen, X, X is a No-trump bid. The fact that
Diamonds Ace, Knave, X, X it contains a singleton is an
Clubs X argument in favor of a suit
declaration, but with only four
Spades it is safer to risk the
Clubs than long adverse Spades
with one more trick required for
game.
Spades Knave, Ten, X, X A No-trumper, as it has three
Hearts Ace, Queen, Knave suits stopped and contains an
Diamonds X Ace. A transposition of the Clubs
Clubs King, Queen, Knave, X, X to Spades or Hearts would make it
a Trump declaration.
Spades King, Queen, Knave, X, X Can be declared either Royals
Hearts Ace, Queen or No-trump, as four suits are
Diamonds Ace, X, X stopped and it has five strong
Clubs Ace, Knave, X Spades. The 30 Aces as compared
with 18 honors in Royals and the
absence of a singleton make the
No-trump more attractive. If,
however, the Ten of Spades be
substituted for a small Spade,
the 72 honors would make it a
Royal.
Spades King, Knave, X While the four Suits are stopped,
Hearts King, Queen, Ten, X, X, X the length in Hearts makes the
Diamonds Ace, X suit call the more advisable.
Clubs Ace, X
Spades King, Queen, Ten The Diamond is tempting, as a
Hearts King, Knave, Ten score of 56 honors is compared
Diamonds Ace, King, Queen, Knave with possibly 30 adverse aces.
Clubs King, Queen, Knave If, however, the three missing
Aces be held by the adversaries,
game cannot be scored in Diamonds,
and a game is always worth more
than 100. It is therefore a
No-trump.
SUIT DECLARATIONS
For some reason the Dealer is more apt to make faulty suit bids than
unwarranted No-trumpers. It seems as difficult for the old Whist and
Bridge player as it is for the novice to realize that even excessive
length does not justify an original suit call, unless the suit contain
either the Ace or the King. It, also, is just as important to remember
that if the suit does not contain _both_ the Ace and the King, the hand
must in addition have at least one other honor in the suit named,[3]
and one other sure trick. By "sure trick" in this connection is not
meant merely a suit stopped, but a trick that can be won not later than
the second round; in other words, either an Ace or a King and Queen, or
King and Knave, of the same suit.
[3] While, as a general rule, to justify an original suit
declaration, "one other honor" should accompany either Ace or
King, it is not necessary to blindly follow such a requirement to
an absurd extreme.
If the suit be headed by the Ace, either unusual length (six or
more) or considerable strength in another suit (Ace and King, or
Ace, Queen, Knave) would justify a call without "one other
honor."
If, however, the suit be headed by the King, the presence of
another honor is essential unless the length or additional
strength be extraordinary.
Stating in another way the combination of high cards requisite for an
original suit bid, it may be said that a suit should never be
originally declared unless the hand contain two sure high-card tricks,
one of which must be in the suit named. These sure high-card tricks
must be either two Aces or their equivalent in value for trick-taking
purposes. The reason is obvious. The declaration of a suit by an
informatory bidder tells the partner, not only that the bidder is
satisfied to have that hand played with the suit named as the Trump,
but also that his holding will be helpful to the extent of at least two
tricks, one of which is in his suit, should the declaration be shifted
to No-trump. This is one of the simplest and most vital rules of
bidding, yet it is probably the most frequently disregarded.
Innumerable points have appeared in the adverse honor column because a
partner has properly assumed that an original suit call showed the
high-card strength just mentioned, only to find out too late that the
bidder, with perhaps a couple of Kings, had yielded to the lure of
length. Even at the risk of seeming repetition, it is necessary to be a
little more explicit upon this subject.
When the Dealer bids a suit, he says: "Partner, I have great strength
in this suit; it is probable that I have both the Ace and King, but if
not, I have either the Ace or King, supported by at least one other
honor,[4] and the Ace or the King and Queen, or King and Knave, of some
other suit; you can bid No-trump or double any adverse declaration,
positively assured that I will support you to the extent named."
[4] See footnote, page 31.
The holding in the suit which is declared, is vital. Take, for example,
such a hand as Queen, Knave, and five small Hearts; and the Ace and
King of Clubs. Of course, the Dealer wants to play this hand with
Hearts as Trump, but he should not bid a Heart at the start, as he has
not the Ace or King. The fact that he has both the Ace and King of
Clubs does not justify a Heart call without either the Ace or King of
Hearts. With the hand cited there will be plenty of time to bid Hearts
later.
The rule which governs this case is the foundation of modern bidding;
it is without exception, is not affected by the score, and is the most
important of all Auction conventions.
Every player should resolve that, whatever his other shortcomings may
be, he will treat it as a veritable law of the Medes and Persians, and
that never, as Dealer, will he call a suit unless he hold the Ace or
King of it, and the other requisite strength.
The combination of high cards above mentioned, however, is not in
itself sufficient to justify a suit declaration. There must, in
addition, be length in the suit. This is just as essential in Clubs or
Diamonds as in Hearts or Royals. The partner may have great strength,
and yet be unable to stop the adverse suit. A No-trump being thus
eliminated, he, acting on the assurance given by the original call, may
carry the suit to high figures. This is sure to prove disastrous,
unless the original bidder has length as well as strength.
As a general rule, five is the minimum length with which a suit should
be called, but with great strength, such as Ace, King, Knave; Ace,
Queen, Knave; or King, Queen, Knave, in the suit, coupled with another
Ace; or a King and Queen, a bid with a four-card combination may be
ventured. A four-card suit, headed by Ace, King, Queen, may be called
without other strength.
A short suit, that is, one of three cards or less, should never be bid
originally, regardless of its strength. Even the holding of Ace, King,
Queen, does not justify the naming of such a suit.
While the doctrine above enunciated as to the minimum strength required
for a Trump bid is unquestionably logical and is now regarded as
conventional by a very large proportion of the expert players of
Auction, it is only natural that there should be some dissent. There is
a certain character of mind that always desires to carry any sound
theory to dangerous extremes, and, consequently, some players and
writers have seen fit, while adopting the theory which has altered the
old system of always starting with one Spade into the modern
informatory game, to advocate extensions which would practically
eliminate the defensive declaration.
These extremists desire to permit a Dealer to bid whenever he has a
long suit, regardless of whether it be headed by high cards, and also
whether it would aid a No-trump. One system suggested is that a Trump
be called whenever the Dealer holds any suit which counts 7, on the
basis of an Ace or face counting 2, and any lower card, 1. The
believers in this doctrine would, therefore, bid a Club from such a
hand as Queen, Knave, X, X, X, without any possibility of another
trick; or even from Knave, X, X, X, X, X. The absurdity of this becomes
obvious when it is remembered that the only real object in bidding a
Club or Diamond is to show strength which will justify the partner in
declaring one of the three game-going declarations. Any such holding as
that mentioned not only does not help any other declaration, but as a
matter of fact is a hand so far under the trick-taking average that, if
any method could be devised by which weakness could be emphasized more
strongly than by making the defensive declaration, such a hand would
fully justify employing it. It is difficult to conceive what benefit
can result to a partnership from any such weakness being, for the
purpose of the declaration, changed into alleged strength. If a player
declare with any such combination, his power to give information when
he really possesses strength of course immediately ceases to exist, and
the entire structure of informative bidding thereby drops to pieces.
The system of suit declarations above outlined, and upon which all that
is hereinafter suggested in relation to bidding is based, must be
followed by players who wish to give their partners accurate data, and
while it may be tempting at times to depart from the conventional, the
more frequently such exception is made by the Dealer in his bid, the
more often does misunderstanding between the partners ensue.
VARIOUS IDEAS OF THE TWO SPADE BID
Every game of the Whist family has some point upon which experts
disagree, and which, consequently, produces apparently interminable
discussion.
In Auction, it is the two Spade bid, and no less than four recognized
factions have widely divergent views concerning it. These views may be
briefly stated as follows:--
(_a_) With the border-line No-trumpers now in vogue, a hand not
strong enough to bid No-trump is too weak to warrant any call but
one Spade. The two Spade bid is, therefore, useless and should
never be made.
(_b_) The two Spade bid should be used as a No-trump invitation
with any hand not quite strong enough to justify a No-trump call.
Having this meaning it does not matter whether the hand contain any
Spade strength.
(_c_) The two Spade bid should be used as a No-trump invitation,
but must also give the additional information that the hand
contains at least one trick in Spades.
(_d_) The two Spade bid should be used to tell the partner that
the hand has the high-card strength to bid one Royal, but not
sufficient length. It thus becomes either a No-trump or Royal
invitation.
All these systems have their advocates, most of whom refuse to see
merit in any plan but their own. It is only fair, however, before
reaching a definite conclusion to accord to all a fair and
dispassionate consideration.
(_a_)
The argument that, as long as light No-trumpers are conventional, any
hand not sufficiently strong to call No-trump is too weak to justify
declaring more than one Spade, has considerable force. Beyond question,
many followers of plans "_b_" and "_c_" call two Spades when their
holdings do not warrant such action, but the fact that a declaration is
at times abused is far from being a sufficient reason for wiping it off
the Auction map, and saying to those who desire to use it rationally,
"No, because some players see fit to make this bid with two Knaves and
a Queen, it is not safe to allow you the privilege of using it sanely,
wisely, and at the appropriate time."
The supporters of "_a_," however, go further, and say that the hands in
which a No-trump cannot be called, but with which the invitation should
be extended to the partner to bid it, are so rare that the retention of
the two Spade call merely encumbers the catalogue of the Declarer with
a bid that is practically obsolete.
This, if it be true, would be most convincing, but it is so surprising
a statement that it should be examined before being accepted.
Every hand that class "_d_" would bid two Spades would be similarly
called by "_b_" and "_c_," and at least ninety-nine per cent. of
expert Auction players concede that such a bid is sound. For example:--
Spades Ace, King, Knave
Hearts X, X, X, X
Diamonds X, X, X
Clubs Ace, Queen, X
has strength which deserves, if possible, to be shown.
This is merely a sample of a hand which would be a Royal, if length in
Spades accompanied the strength. Such hands come within the "_d_"
classification, and are not rare. This must be admitted when it is
considered that three- or four-card suits are much more frequently held
than suits of greater length. Therefore, two Spades should be bid more
often than one Royal. With the single exception of No-trump, Royals is
the call most frequently played; consequently, as a preliminary call,
two Spades must be used more constantly than any declaration, except
No-trump.
Experience bears out this argument, and it, therefore, seems that the
"_a_" allegations are not supported by examination.
It is obvious that the more original calls with which it is possible to
equip a Dealer, the more accurately can he distinguish for the benefit
of his partner between the different classes of holdings. It therefore
seems absurd to contend that the bid of two spades should be
eliminated.
(_b_)
The argument presented by the "_b_" school is also at first quite
convincing. Take such a hand as
Spades X, X, X
Hearts Ace, X, X
Diamonds King, Knave, X
Clubs Knave, X, X, X
It is just too weak for a No-trump, but at first glance seems too
strong for a Spade.
Why, however, should it be too strong for a Spade? It is under the
average, which means the holding of the partner must be quite a bit
better than the average to get one odd. If he have such a hand he will
declare it in any event, and the dealer can then help. Furthermore,
this system does not point out any one suit as stopped, and, therefore,
gives the minimum degree of information. It is practically saying, "I
bid half a No-trump." It is quite doubtful whether the holding
essential for such a bid can be properly limited and whether it will
not tempt bidding with too great weakness.
Furthermore, it must be taken out. The Third Hand cannot allow his
partner to play two Spades, and if he be weak, all he can do under this
system is to call three Spades, which only makes matters worse, as it
is sure to be doubled, and the dealer must in turn take that out. To do
this with the hand above cited, he must either call two Clubs with four
to a Knave, or one Diamond with three to the King, Knave.
The trouble is evident--the result apt to be unfortunate. If the
partner with average strength accept such a No-trump invitation, the
contract cannot be fulfilled; while if he be strong, he will bid in any
event, so where is the advantage of the call?
For one purpose, however, this system of bid seems sound. If the dealer
be a poor player and the Third Hand an expert, it is for the benefit of
the partnership that the Third Hand be the Declarer. When the Dealer
holds a real No-trumper, but wishes his partner to become the Declarer,
the two Spade,--not invitation, but command,--has real merit, but as
few players either concede their own inferiority or are willing to
allow their partners to play a majority of the hands, this apparent
argument in favor of the plan will not appeal to many, and will,
therefore, seldom prove of service.
(_c_)
This comes nearer being logical, as it shows one Spade trick, and,
therefore, indicates help for a partner's Royal, but with that
exception, it is subject to the same objections as "_b_." It is
troublesome to take out, and when compared with "_d_" gives extremely
limited information.
It may, however, be of distinct advantage for a player who does not
approve of light No-trumpers. Followers of the theory that the call
of one No-trump means four or five sure tricks will certainly find
"_c_" or even "_b_" an advantageous system, but the advantage of
"getting to the No-trump first" is so manifest that the light
declarations have become generally popular, and but few of the
"I-will-not-declare-unless-I-have-the-'goods'" bidders are now to be
found.
If a player believe in calling No-trump with the minimum strength now
considered sufficient, he has little use for either "_b_" or "_c_."
It is self-evident that "_c_" cannot be used as often as "_b_," so the
Declarer who likes always to say something will prefer "_b_," but the
bidder who wishes, when he calls, to have distinct value attached to
his announcement, will elect in favor of "_c_" rather than "_b_," and
for the same reason will find "_d_" the best system of all.
(_d_)
It is toward this system that the evolution of modern bidding is
turning. True, two Spades cannot be declared as frequently when "_d_"
is used as when "_b_" or "_c_" is employed, but the "_d_" bid conveys
information so comprehensive and important that one call is of greater
value than several "_b_" or "_c_" bids, which, at best, furnish the
partner with indefinite data.
It makes the weakness take-out of the partner, namely, one Royal, easy
and logical, and in every way seems the soundest, safest, simplest, and
most conducive to game-winning of all the plans suggested.
It invites equally the two most important declarations, makes easy the
position of the partner when he holds long, weak Spades, and is
doubtless destined, in a short time, to be the only two-Spade system
in use, unless it be found advisable to include in the repertory of
the original declarer both "_b_" and "_d_."
This can be readily accomplished by calling two Spades for "_b_"; three
Spades for "_d_"; and four Spades for the combination hereinafter
given, for which the declaration of three Spades is suggested.
No serious objection can be advanced to this plan, except that it is
somewhat complicated, and for a light No-trump bidder, possibly
unnecessary. It is a totally new idea, but believed to be of sufficient
value to entitle it to a trial.
As it is impossible to declare or play intelligently when any doubt
exists between partners regarding the convention employed, and as it is
wise not to follow unsound theories, no further reference will be made
to "_a_," "_b_," or "_c_" plans. The "_d_" system will be fully
described, and all suggestions that hereinafter appear will be based
upon the supposition that it is being used.
THE TWO SPADE BID[5]
The bid of two Spades is a showing of Spade strength, with a hand which
does not contain Spade length sufficient to justify the bid of one
Royal.
[5] See page 89, as to how the partner should treat this
declaration; also table on pages 68 and 69.
The latter is the more advantageous declaration, and should be made
whenever five Spades with the requisite high-card strength are held.
When, however, the hand contains the strength, but not the length, for
a Royal call, the bid of two Spades is a most useful substitute.
It may be made with three or four Spades in any case in which, with
five, one Royal could be declared, except the solitary instance of
holding Ace and King of Spades without another trick of any kind. A
Royal may be called with five, headed by Ace, King, as, should the bid
stand, the three small Trumps would surely take one trick. Every
original offensive declaration is based upon a minimum of three tricks.
This principle applies to the bid of two Spades, and, therefore, a hand
containing less than five Spades, headed by Ace, King, and no other
winning card, is a one Spade call, as it is one and one-quarter tricks
below the average.
When a player bids two Spades, he sends his partner a message which
gives information about as follows: "I have three or four Spades with
two or three high honors, and in addition, unless I have Ace, King, and
Queen of Spades, I have one other suit well stopped. My hand does not
warrant a No-trump, because I have only two suits stopped. As I have
not more than four Spades, I do not wish to bid a Royal; I am too
strong to be satisfied with one Spade, so I bid two for the purpose of
encouraging you to call No-trump or Royals."
Such a declaration certainly gives very accurate information, and
should be used whenever such a hand occurs, but not under any other
circumstances.
THE THREE SPADE BID[6]
The declaration of three Spades by the Dealer is a very recent idea and
is also most informatory. It says: "Partner, I am anxious to have
Royals the Trump, but I cannot make that declaration now, as I have not
the requisite high cards. I probably have not the Ace of Spades, and
the chances are that I am without the King also. Either because the
balance of my hand is so strong that I fear I will be left in with one
Spade, or for some other reason, I do not wish to open with the
defensive declaration and wait for a later round to show strength. You
can count on me for five or more (probably more) Spades and other
strength."
[6] See page 90, as to how the partner should treat this
declaration.
WHEN TO BID TWO IN EITHER ROYALS OR HEARTS
Another case to consider in bidding by the Dealer is when more than one
of any game-scoring suit should be declared.
The original theory of declaration was to withhold from the table as
long as possible all information regarding the strength of the hand;
therefore, to start with one in the real suit was regarded as most
unwise, and to bid two would have been deemed the act of a lunatic.
Now, however, the original suit declaration of more than one is
generally acknowledged to be an important part of the finesse of the
skilled bidder, and such bidding, when justified by the hand, is
recognized as eminently wise and proper.
When the "two" and "three" original Trump bids first came into vogue,
they were used indiscriminately with great length, regardless of
whether or not high cards headed the suit. The meaning of the bid was
"Do not take me out," and it was made under widely divergent
conditions. No distinction was drawn between a hand which might be
trickless as an aid to, or defense against, a No-trump declaration, and
one which would produce seven or eight tricks under such circumstances.
This kind of bidding was found to be much too confusing for the
partner, and prevented him from rendering intelligent support.
It is now realized that it is far wiser with length, no matter how
great, but without commanding cards, to start with a Spade and then bid
the long suit on the succeeding round, thus practically photographing
the hand for the partner and energetically waving the red flag for any
declaration but the one suit.
Take, for example, such a hand as seven Hearts, headed by Queen, Knave;
Ace, Knave, and two Clubs; two small Diamonds, and no Spades. An
original two Heart or one Club call would grossly mislead the partner
without being of any real advantage, but one Spade followed by two
Hearts, or even three, if necessary, shows the exact situation. As long
as the hand containing a long suit is not so strong that there is grave
danger of its being left in with one Spade, it should be started with
the defensive declaration. When such great strength exists, a sound
opening bid invariably presents itself.
It, therefore, becomes apparent that an original suit bid of two or
three, just as necessarily as a bid of one, should demonstrate the
underlying principle of original suit declarations--namely, strength,
as well as length.
The incidental object in bidding more than one originally is to warn
the partner that the Dealer prefers to play the suit named rather than
a doubtful No-trump; the main reason, however, is, if possible, to shut
out adverse bidding. When there is great length in either Spades or
Hearts and distinct weakness in the other, a two or three bid is most
advisable. In that case, the strength in the other suit may be entirely
with the adversaries and may be divided between them. They could
readily find this out, if allowed to start with a cheap bid, but it
frequently happens that neither is sufficiently strong to make a high
declaration without assistance from his partner.
When the Dealer has sufficient strength in either Royals or Hearts to
bid more than one, and, in addition, has considerable strength in the
other suits, it is as a rule advisable to bid but one, as in that case
he does not wish to frighten off adverse bidding, but prefers to
encourage it with the hope that it may reach a point which will give
him a safe and profitable double.
Six sure tricks with the possibility of more is the minimum strength
for an original call of two Hearts or two Royals.
WHEN TO BID THREE IN EITHER ROYALS OR HEARTS
An original bid of three Royals or Hearts is justified by a hand in
which sufficient strength exists to make it probable that the
declaration will be successful, and which nevertheless cannot
effectively defend against a high bid by the adversaries in the other
suit. As a rule this is a two-suit hand, and in a genuine two-suiter it
often happens that one side may be able to win eleven tricks in Royals
or Hearts, while their adversaries can capture a similar number in the
other.
The three bid is, of course, a "shut-out" measure, and should be
employed for that purpose only.
Seven sure tricks, with the possibility of more, is the minimum
strength for an original call of three Hearts or three Royals.
THE TWO BID IN DIAMONDS OR CLUBS
The original bid of two in either Diamonds or Clubs with the score at
love is a totally different character of declaration from two Hearts or
two Royals. The Dealer does not with this declaration say, "Let me stay
in and make game," but he does say, "I have a long suit (at least five
cards) headed by Ace, King, Queen, with no considerable support on the
side. (If I had another Ace, I would bid No-trump.) Now you know my
exact hand."
When there is a score which places Diamonds or Clubs within four tricks
of game, the original bid of two or more in either suit is of exactly
the same significance as a similar call of Royals or Hearts, with the
score at love.
HOW TO DECLARE TWO-SUIT HANDS
The only remaining case of original declaration by the Dealer is the
hand with two suits, both of which are of sufficient strength to bid.
As a general rule, it is wiser first to call the lower in value, and
then to declare the higher on the next round. This gives the maximum
amount of information, but should only be attempted when the hand
clearly indicates that there will be another opportunity to bid, as
otherwise the Dealer may be left in with a non-game-producing
declaration.
The Dealer must determine from the composition of his hand whether a
second opportunity to bid is assured. When he is not very strong, the
chances are that some one else will declare. When he is without a suit
or has a singleton, it is a reasonably safe assumption that some one
will be strong enough in that suit to call it.
A few examples follow of hands which have the minimum strength to
justify the various Trump calls and also of hands which, by a small
margin, fall short:--
HANDS IN WHICH A TRUMP DECLARATION IS DOUBTFUL
Spades Ace, King, X, X, X Has five Spades headed by Ace
Hearts X, X, X and King. With Royals Trump has
Diamonds X, X, X two high-card tricks, and can
Clubs X, X take at least one with small
cards. It is, therefore, a one
Royal bid.
Spades King, X, X, X Has not high-card strength
Hearts King, Knave, X, X, X sufficient for either a Heart or
Diamonds X, X two-Spade bid. One Spade is the
Clubs X, X correct call.
Spades X, X Complies with all the requirements
Hearts King, Queen, X, X, X of a Heart bid.
Diamonds Ace, Knave, X
Clubs X, X, X
Spades X, X, X Has only four Hearts; is,
Hearts King, Queen, X, X therefore, a one Spade call.
Diamonds Ace, Knave, X
Clubs X, X, X
Spades X, X, X Has only four Hearts, but has
Hearts Ace, Queen, Knave, X sufficient high-card strength
Diamonds Ace, Queen, X to justify a Heart bid.
Clubs X, X, X
Spades Ace, Queen, X, X A two Spade bid; with one more
Hearts X, X, X Spade, it would be one Royal.
Diamonds Ace, X, X
Clubs X, X, X
Spades Ace, Knave, X A two Spade bid. With two more
Hearts X, X, X, Spades, it would be one Royal.
Diamonds King, Queen, X
Clubs X, X, X, X
Spades Ace, Knave, X, X Either two Spades or one Club
Hearts X, X could be bid, but the Club is
Diamonds X, X distinctly preferable.
Clubs Ace, Queen, Knave, X, X
Spades King, X, X, X A one Spade bid, as it has not
Hearts Ace, X, X two honors in Spades.
Diamonds Knave, X, X
Clubs Knave, X, X
Spades Queen, Knave, Ten, X, X, A three Spade bid; cannot be
X, X started as a Royal without Ace
Hearts Ace, Queen or King, and so strong, one Spade
Diamonds King, Knave, X might not be overbid.
Clubs King
Spades None A two or three Heart bid.
Hearts Ace, King, Knave, Ten, X, X
Diamonds Queen, Knave, Ten
Clubs Ace, X, X, X
Spades Ace, King A one Heart bid. So strong that
Hearts Ace, King, Knave, Ten, a higher call is unnecessary, as
X, X adverse bidding is desired.
Diamonds Queen, Knave, Ten
Clubs King, Queen
Spades Ace, King, Knave, Ten, A three Royals bid. Important to
X, X, X shut out adverse bidding.
Hearts None
Diamonds X, X
Clubs Ace, King, X, X
Spades X, X A two Diamonds bid.
Hearts King, X, X
Diamonds Ace, King, Queen, X, X,
X
Clubs X, X
Spades Ace, King, Knave, X, X Should either be bid one Club
Hearts X and subsequently Royals, or
Diamonds X, X started at two Royals to shut out
Clubs Ace, King, X, X, X other bidding.
Spades King, X While this hand has more than
Hearts Ace, King, Queen sufficient high-card strength to
Diamonds X, X, X, X justify an offensive bid, it is only
Clubs X, X, X, X a Spade. Two Spades would mislead
the partner as to length and
strength of Spades and might
induce him to bid high Royals; one
Heart would mislead him as to
length of Hearts; having, however,
called one Spade, the hand can
advance any declaration of the
partner and if the partner bid
either Clubs or Diamonds, can call
No-trump.
Spades King, Knave, X, X, X, Should not be bid one Royal, as
X, X that deceives partner as to
Hearts X, X high-card strength; two Spades
Diamonds X, X invites a No-trump, which is not
Clubs X, X wanted. Either three Spades or
one Spade should be called. The
hand, outside of Spades, is so
weak that the latter is the wiser
bid.
Spades Queen, Ten, X, X Spade honors are too weak for two
Hearts Ace, X, X Spades. One Spade is the only
Diamonds X, X, X sound bid.
Clubs X, X, X
Spades X One Club should be bid, followed,
Hearts Queen, Knave, Ten, X, regardless of the partner's
X, X, X declaration, with Hearts.
Diamonds None
Clubs Ace, King, X, X, X
Spades Queen, Knave, Ten, X, Three Spades, and on the next
X, X round, Hearts, unless the partner
Hearts King, Knave, Ten, X, has bid _two_ Royals.
X, X
Diamonds None
Clubs X
Spades Knave, Ten, Nine, X, X, X This very interesting hand affords
Hearts None a number of correct original bids.
Diamonds Ace, Knave, X One Club, three Spades, and one
Clubs Ace, Queen, Knave, X Spade are all sound; the latter
is not apt to be left in, as a
Heart call is most probable, the
long hand in that suit containing
at least five. Three Suits being
stopped, with more than an average
hand, one No-trump is also
technically correct. The chances
are, however, that the hand will
produce better results if the
Trump be Royals, and as the call
of one No-trump may stand, it is
not wise to open the bidding that
way. Three Spades seems the most
advisable declaration, as it gives
the information most important for
the partner to receive. The risk
in calling one Spade, while
slight, is totally unnecessary,
and one Club does not warn the
partner not to bid Hearts, if he
have anything in Spades.
Should three Spades be called and
the partner declare one Heart, the
dealer on the next round could try
No-trump, but one Club, followed
by one Heart from partner, would
necessitate a Royal from the
dealer, as the absence of Spades
in the partner's hand is not then
announced.
In the event of the small Club
being transposed to a Diamond, so
that the hand contain four
Diamonds and three Clubs, three
Spades would unquestionably be the
most advantageous original call.
III
SECOND HAND DECLARATIONS
The Second Hand bids under two totally dissimilar conditions. The
Dealer of necessity has declared and, either by a call of one Spade,
shown comparative weakness, or, by an offensive declaration, given
evidence of strength.
It is obvious that whether the Dealer be strong or weak materially
affects the question of how the Second Hand should bid, as it makes
quite a variation in the number of tricks he has the right to expect to
find in his partner's hand. This, however, is not the only, and,
possibly, not the most important difference.
When the Dealer has called one Spade, it is practically certain, should
the Second Hand pass, that he will have another opportunity to enter
the bidding. When, however, the Dealer has declared a suit or No-trump,
it is possible, if the Second Hand fail to declare, that no other bid
will be made, and the declaration of the Dealer will stand.
It is, therefore, readily seen that, in the first case, the Second Hand
is making an initial declaration; in the other, a forced bid.
BIDDING OVER ONE SPADE
When Auction was in its infancy, the authorities advised the Second
Hand, regardless of the character of his cards, to pass a declaration
of one Spade. The reason given was that the Third Hand would have to
take his partner out, which might prove embarrassing, and that a bid by
the Second Hand would release his left-hand adversary from this,
possibly, trying position.
Modern Auction developments have proven the futility of this idea. The
Third Hand of to-day is not troubled by any obligation to take the
Dealer out of "one Spade," and will not do so without considerable
strength. Should the Second Hand pass, with winning cards, the Fourth
Hand may be the player who finds himself in the awkward position, and
if, adopting the conservative course, he allow the Spade declaration to
stand, a good chance to score game may be lost by the failure of the
Second Hand to avail himself of his opportunity.
Second Hand silence is not now regarded as golden, but there is still
some question as to the amount of strength required to make a
declaration advisable. Some authorities believe the Second Hand should
pass, unless his cards justify him in expecting to make game. This
theory was for a time very generally accepted, and even yet has a
considerable following. Experience, however, has convinced most of its
advocates that it is unsound, and it is being rapidly abandoned.
It is now conceded that the deal is quite an advantage, because of the
opportunity it gives the Dealer to strike the first blow. It follows
that when the Dealer has been obliged to relinquish his favorable
position, it is the height of folly for the Second Hand, when he has
the requisite strength, not to grasp it. Furthermore, the Dealer having
shown weakness, the adverse strength is probably in the Third Hand.
Should the Third Hand call No-trump, the Fourth Hand will be the
leader, and it will then be important for him to know which suit his
partner desires opened. On the first round of the declaration, this can
be indicated by a bid of one, but after the No-trump, it takes two,
which, with the strength over the bidder, may be dangerous.
The bid of the Second Hand, furthermore, makes the task of his
left-hand adversary more difficult and may prevent a No-trump. It
certainly aids the Fourth Hand--indeed, it may be just the information
he needs for a game declaration.
It seems clear, therefore, that the Second Hand should show his
strength when he has the chance. He should not, however, carry too far
the principles above outlined. It is just as fatal for the Second Hand
as for the Dealer, to deceive his partner.
WHEN TO BID NO-TRUMP
The rules governing an original offensive bid by the Dealer apply to
the Second Hand, after the Dealer has called one Spade, in practically
every instance. The only possible exception is the holding necessary
for a border-line No-trump. When the Dealer, with the minimum strength,
declares "one No-trump," he figures on the probability that his partner
holds one-third of the high cards not in his own hand. When the Second
Hand declares after "one Spade," it is reasonable for him to count upon
his partner for a slightly greater percentage of strength; therefore,
he may bid No-trump a little more freely.
To justify a No-trump by the Dealer, he should have slightly better
than average cards. The Second Hand, with exactly an average holding,
may make the bid. The No-trump requirements,--namely, four suits
stopped, three suits stopped and an Ace, three King-Queen or King-Knave
suits, or at least five solid Diamonds or Clubs and an Ace,--which
limit the declaration of the Dealer, apply, however, with equal force
to the Second Hand, and should never be disregarded.
WHEN TO MAKE A TRUMP DECLARATION
The Dealer, having declared one Spade, a Trump declaration of one, two,
or three by the Second Hand is subject to exactly the same rules as in
the case of the original call by the Dealer. Precisely the same
reasoning holds good and the same danger is apt to arise, should the
Second Hand digress from the recognized principles of safety, and bid a
long suit which does not contain the requisite high cards. The Second
Hand will have an opportunity to declare his weak suit of great length
on the next round, and there is no necessity for deceiving the partner
as to its composition by jumping into it with undue celerity.
THE DOUBLE OF ONE SPADE
The question of when the Second Hand should double is covered in the
chapter on "Doubling," but as the double of one Spade is really a
declaration, rather than a double, it seems proper to consider it here,
especially as it is of vital importance that it be accurately
distinguished from the Second Hand bid of two Spades, with which it is
very frequently confused. Many good players treat the two declarations
as synonymous, although by so doing they fail to avail themselves of a
simple and safe opportunity to convey valuable information. The reason
for this apparent carelessness on the part of many bidders is that no
scheme of declaring that accurately fits the situation has hitherto
been generally understood.
The idea that follows has been found to work well, and while as yet not
sufficiently used to be termed conventional, seems to be growing in
favor with such rapidity that its general adoption in the near future
is clearly indicated.
The Second Hand doubles one Spade, with practically the same holding
with which the dealer bids two Spades, not with the expectation or wish
that the double will stand, but as the most informatory action
possible, and as an invitation to his partner to bid No-trumps or
Royals. In a general way his bid of two Spades has the same
significance, except that it more emphatically suggests a call of
Royals. By accurately distinguishing the two, the partner may declare
with much greater effect.
The double shows short Spades (two or three), with at least two high
honors in Spades, and one other trick, or the Ace of Spades and two
other tricks.
THE BID OF TWO SPADES[7]
The bid of two Spades shows exactly four Spades and the same high-card
holding which justifies doubling one Spade.
[7] See Bid of Two Spades by Dealer, page 47.
The Second Hand, when he doubles one, or bids two Spades, says: "I have
not three suits stopped, so I cannot bid No-trumps. While I have
sufficient high-card strength to call one Royal, I have less than five
Spades, and, therefore, am without sufficient length. I can, however,
by this declaration, tell you the exact number of my Spades, and I
expect you to make the best possible use of the exceptionally accurate
information with which you are furnished."
As much care should be taken in selecting the correct declaration, when
in doubt whether to bid two Spades or double one, as when determining
whether to call a Royal or a Heart. Many a player doubles one Spade
with five or six, headed by Knave, Ten, apparently never realizing that
with such a hand he wishes the trump to be Royals, and yet, by his bid,
is inviting his partner to call No-trump; or he bids two Spades with
the Queen of Spades and a couple of Kings, and after his partner has
declared a Royal, or doubled an adverse No-trump, counting on the
announced Spade strength, says: "I realize I deceived you in the
Spades, but I had two Kings about which you did not know."
That sort of a declarer makes it impossible for his partner to take
full advantage of any sound bid he may make.
Every Second Hand bidder should remember that when he doubles one Spade
or bids two, he tells his partner he has short or exactly four Spades,
as the case may be; that he has not three suits stopped, and that his
minimum high-card holding is one of the following combinations:--
SPADES MINIMUM STRENGTH IN OTHER SUIT
Ace, King, Queen No strength required
Ace, King Queen, Knave, and one other
Ace, Queen King, Knave
Ace, Knave Ace, or King and Queen, or King, Knave, Ten
Ace Ace and King; Ace, Queen, Knave; or King,
Queen, Knave
King, Queen Ace, or King and Queen, or King, Knave, Ten
King, Knave, Ten Ace, or King and Queen, or King, Knave, Ten
King, Knave Ace and King; Ace, Queen, Knave; or King,
Queen, Knave
Queen, Knave, Ten Ace and King; Ace, Queen, Knave; or King,
Queen, Knave
In order that the distinction between the various Second Hand Spade
declarations may be clearly marked, take such a holding as
Spades Ace, King
Hearts Three small
Diamonds Four small
Clubs Ace
Only ten cards are mentioned, and the remaining three are either Spades
or Clubs.
_When Making the The Second
the missing number of Hand
cards are Spades in the Hand should_
All Clubs Two Double
Two Clubs and one Spade Three Double
One Club and two Spades Four Bid two Spades
All Spades Five Bid one Royal
The method suggested above is not the only plan for distinguishing
between the double of one and the bid of two Spades.
Some players think the double should mean a No-trump invitation,
without any significance as to strength in the Spade suit, and two
Spades should show two honors in Spades. The same comment applies to
this as to a similar declaration by the Dealer; namely, that with the
light No-trumpers now conventional, the invitation without Spade
strength is unnecessary and possibly dangerous.
Those, however, who wish to have the privilege of issuing such an
invitation, are not obliged to deprive themselves of the undoubted and
material advantage of being able, when strong in Spades, to distinguish
between a holding of short Spades (two or three) and of exactly four.
They can convey to their partners that very important information by
using the following system:--
THE BID THE MEANING
Double of one Spade A No-trump invitation. No information
as to Spade strength
Two Spades Short Spades with two high honors
and one other trick
Three Spades Four Spades with two high honors and
one other trick
Four Spades Same as bid of three Spades described
immediately below
This system is entirely new, is somewhat complicated, and is suggested
for what it is worth for those who wish, without Spade strength, to
invite a No-trump.
As the bid of four Spades can be taken out by the partner with one
Royal, the system is not subject to objection, on the ground that four
Spades forces the partner to an unduly high declaration. The scheme is,
as yet, merely an experiment, and of doubtful value except for the
purpose of enabling a poor player to place with an expert partner the
responsibility of the play.
It is not hereinafter referred to, but the suggestions made regarding
Third and Fourth Hand bidding can be readily adapted to comply with its
self-evident requirements.
THE BID OF THREE SPADES[8]
The bid of three Spades when made by the Second Hand shows a holding of
at least five (probably six) Spades, almost certainly without the Ace
and probably without the King, but with some side strength. It says, "I
want this hand played with Royals as the Trump, but I cannot bid that
suit now, as I have not the requisite high-card holding. Either because
the rest of my hand is so strong that I fear neither the Third Hand nor
my partner can bid, or for some other good reason, I prefer now, rather
than later, to give my partner all possible information."
[8] See page 123 as to how the partner should treat this
declaration.
This system of bidding differentiates most accurately between the
various lengths of Spade holdings and enables the partner to elect
between No-trump and Royals, with an exact knowledge of the situation
not otherwise obtainable.
HOW SECOND HAND SHOULD BID AFTER AN OFFENSIVE DECLARATION
When the Dealer has made an offensive declaration, the Second Hand must
bear in mind that it is possible this may be his last opportunity to
declare. A declaration under such circumstances being what is very
properly termed "forced," is of a totally different character from the
"free" declaration heretofore considered, and is not limited by any
hard-and-fast rules as to the presence of certain cards. For example,
should the Dealer bid one Royal, and the Second Hand hold seven Hearts,
headed by Queen, Knave, he obviously must declare two Hearts; otherwise,
even if the Fourth Hand hold the Ace and King of Hearts, and other
strength, the declaration of one Royal might stand.
The principle is that an offensive bid having been made, the
declaration of the player following does not of necessity show high
cards, but does suggest the ability of the Declarer to successfully
carry out the proposed contract.
When the Dealer has called a No-trump, the Second Hand is obliged
either to pass, or declare two of some suit, or of No-trump. He must
remember that against the Dealer's No-trump he is the leader, and as
the information regarding his strong suit will be given to his partner
by the first card played, it is not important that he convey it by a
bid.
The No-trump may be only of minimum strength, but it may, on the other
hand, be of much more than average calibre. The Third Hand has yet to
be heard from, and if, as is possible, he have considerable strength in
the suit that the Second Hand thinks of declaring, such a bid will
offer an ideal opportunity for a profitable double. The Second Hand,
therefore, should be somewhat diffident about bidding two in a suit. He
should make the declaration only when his hand is so strong that in
spite of the No-trump, there seems to be a good chance of scoring game,
or he has reason to think he can force and defeat an adverse two
No-trumps, or the No-trump bidder is a player who considers it the part
of weakness to allow his declaration to be easily taken away, and can,
therefore, be forced to dangerous heights.
This is an opportunity for the Second Hand to use all his judgment. The
Dealer may be taking desperate chances with a weak No-trumper, and the
balance of strength may be with his partner and himself, in which case
it is important for him now to show his colors; yet he must always keep
in mind that conservatism, in the long run, is the main factor of
Auction success. It is the ability (possibly "instinct" is the proper
term) to act wisely in such cases that makes a bidder seem inspired.
With a strong Club or Diamond holding and a reëntry, such a hand as,
for example,--
Spades Two small
Hearts Two small
Diamonds King, Queen, Knave, and two small
Clubs Ace, Knave, Ten, Nine
it is generally unwise to bid Second Hand over one No-trump.
There is little danger of the adversaries going game in No-trumps, but
they may easily do so in Hearts or Royals. A Second Hand declaration in
this position may point out to the opponents their safest route to
game, and is not apt to prove of material benefit, as with such hand,
eleven tricks against a No-trump is extremely improbable.
A similar principle presents itself when the holding is five of any
suit, headed by the four top honors, or even by the three top honors,
and no other strength. With such cards, the No-trump can almost
certainly be kept from going game, and if the partner be able to
assist, the declaration may be defeated. If, however, two of that suit
be called, the adversaries, not having it stopped, will not advance the
No-trump, but if sufficiently strong, will declare some other suit in
which they may score game.
THE SHIFT
Holding six or more of a suit, headed by Ace, King, Queen, some writers
have very properly called it an Auction "crime" to double. The question
arises, however, "What should the Second Hand do under such
circumstances?" A bid of two in his solid suit will eliminate any
chance of the No-trump being continued, and an adverse call of two
No-trumps is just what the holder of the solid suit most desires, as he
can double with comparative safety, being assured both of the success
of the double and of the improbability that the Declarer will be able
to take himself out.
There has been suggested to meet this emergency a declaration called
the "Shift." It consists in bidding two of a suit in which the Declarer
has little or no strength. For this purpose a suit of lower value than
the solid suit, should, if possible, be selected. The theory of the bid
is that either the original No-trump declarer or his partner, having
the suit securely stopped, will bid two No-trumps and that the double
can then be effectively produced. The advocates of the Shift urge that
should the worst happen, and the declaration be doubled, the player
making it can then shift (this situation giving the declaration its
name) to his real suit, and that no harm will ensue.
The trouble is that a double under such circumstances is not the worst
that can happen. When the Shift was first suggested, players were not
familiar with nor on the lookout for it. Success, or at least the
absence of failure, therefore, often attended its use. Now, however, it
is generally understood, and players will not either overbid or double
a declarer they suspect of it. They merely allow him to meet his doom
attempting, with weak Trumps, to win eight tricks against an adverse
No-trumper.
While, therefore, at long intervals and under advantageous circumstances,
the Shift may be successfully utilized, against experienced players it
is a dangerous expedient, especially for any one known to be fond of
that character of declaration.
The conservative and safe course to follow with a holding of the
character described is to pass the one No-trump.
WHEN TO BID TWO NO-TRUMPS OVER ONE NO-TRUMP
The bid of two No-trumps over one No-trump is a more or less spectacular
performance, that appeals to those fond of the theatrical. There are
some hands that justify it, but it is safe to say that in actual play
it is tried far more frequently than Second Hand holdings warrant.
Such a bid may be made with a strong suit--not of great length--and the
three other suits safely stopped, with the four suits stopped twice,
with a long solid Club or Diamond suit and two other suits stopped, or
with some similar, and, under the circumstances, equally unusual
combination.
HOW TO BID AGAINST TWO OR THREE SPADES
With two Spades bid by the Dealer, if the Second Hand have a suit he
desires led against a No-trump, it is of the utmost importance that he
indicate it to his partner.
Under such conditions, the Second Hand should declare a suit headed by
King, Queen, Knave, or some similar combination, but should avoid
bidding a long, weak suit, as the No-trump declarer may hold Ace, Queen
of it, and the partner may, by the call, be invited to lead his King
into the jaws of death. Of course, if the hand contain reëntries, it
may be advisable to make such a bid, although even then it may
advantageously be delayed until the second round, since against a two
Spade declaration the Second Hand is sure of having another opportunity
to speak.
With three Spades declared by the Dealer, the Second Hand expects a
Royal from the Third Hand. He knows that he will have another chance to
bid, but, as he will then probably have to go much higher, it is just
as well not to wait if the hand contain any advantageous declaration.
WHEN TO BID NO-TRUMP OVER A SUIT
The question of what amount of strength warrants the Second Hand in
bidding one No-trump, after a suit has been declared by the Dealer, is
somewhat difficult to accurately answer. It goes without saying that to
justify a No-trump under such circumstances, the Second Hand must have
much better than merely an average holding. The suit that the Dealer
has bid should be safely stopped, and when the declarer has only one
trick in that suit, at least four other tricks should be in sight.
Occasionally cases arise in which the Second Hand may bid one No-trump
over a suit declaration without the suit that has been declared being
stopped, but these are rare and such a call should only be made with
unusual strength, as it gives the partner the right to assume that the
adverse suit is stopped and he may consequently advance the No-trump to
dangerous figures.
It is probably a good rule that a No-trump should not be called over a
declared suit, that suit not being stopped, with a holding of less than
six sure tricks. Even with one stopper in the suit bid, it is generally
better to declare either Royals or Hearts in preference to No-trump,
provided the hand contain sufficient length and strength to warrant
such declaration.
IV
THIRD HAND DECLARATIONS
Third Hand declarations can best be considered by dividing them into
three classes:--
1. When the Dealer has called one Spade, and the Second Hand passed.
2. When the Dealer has made an offensive declaration, and the Second
Hand passed.
3. When the Second Hand has declared.
The distinction between these three situations is so clearly drawn that
each is really a separate and distinct subject. They will be taken up
_seriatim_.
WHEN THE DEALER HAS CALLED ONE SPADE, AND THE SECOND HAND PASSED
In the old days, when the Dealer's "one Spade" was without significance,
the Third Hand was always obliged to declare, in order to give the
Dealer the opportunity to get back into the game, as it was possible
that he had great strength. Now the Third Hand recognizes that there is
not the least obligation upon him to bid, and that it is inadvisable
for him to do so unless his hand be so strong that, even with a weak
partner, game is in sight, or unless it be important for him to
indicate to the Dealer what to lead if the Fourth Hand make the final
declaration.
Should the Third Hand pass, and the Fourth Hand also pass, allowing the
one Spade declaration to stand, the liability of the Declarer cannot
exceed 100 points, but if the Third Hand bid, the liability becomes
unlimited. While the Dealer and Second Hand both have the right to
assume that their partners have an average percentage of the remaining
cards, the Third Hand is not justified in any such presumption, after
the Dealer, by bidding one Spade, has virtually waved the red flag.
True it is, a similar warning has appeared on the right, but if both
danger signals are to be believed, the only inference is that the
strength is massed on the left. The bidding by the Third Hand must,
therefore, be of a very different character from that of the Dealer or
Second Hand. He should not venture a No-trump unless he have four sure
tricks with the probability of more and at least three suits stopped.
When in doubt whether to declare No-trump or a suit, it is generally
wise for him to select the latter.
Third Hand suit declarations should be made under either of two
conditions:--
(_a_) When the hand is so strong that there appears to be at
least a fair chance for game with the suit he names as Trump.
(_b_) When he expects a No-trump from the Fourth Hand and
wishes to indicate to his partner the lead he desires.
In the former case, it is often good policy for the Third Hand to start
with a bid of two. This serves a double purpose, as it shows the Dealer
the character of the hand and helps to shut out an adverse declaration.
If the main idea of the bid be to indicate a lead, it is advisable to
make it on the first round, when one can be called, rather than wait
until it becomes necessary to bid two, which, against a No-trump, may
prove dangerous. If the Third Hand have any such combination as King,
Queen, Knave, with one or more others of that suit, and a reëntry, a
declaration at this stage is most important, as unless the partner open
that suit, it will probably never be established against a No-trump.
Even if the long suit be headed by Queen, Knave, it may be important to
show it, as the partner may hold an honor, in which case the suit may
be quickly established. When the long suit is headed by a Knave, it
should not be shown unless the hand contain more than one reëntry. It
may be so necessary for the Third Hand, in the position under
consideration, to indicate a lead that no absolute strength
requirement, such as a fixed number of tricks, is essential for a bid.
It frequently keeps the adverse No-trumper from going game to have the
right suit called originally--otherwise, the Dealer has to lead his own
suit, and when the Third Hand is without strength in it, such a lead
greatly facilitates the Declarer.
WHEN THE DEALER HAS SHOWN STRENGTH AND THE SECOND HAND PASSED
One of the cardinal principles of harmonious team play is that when the
partner has made a suit declaration which is apt to result in game, it
is inadvisable to "take him out" merely with the hope of obtaining a
slightly higher score. Suppose the partner has declared a Heart and the
Third Hand holds three Hearts, headed by the Ace, four Clubs headed by
the King, no Diamonds, and five Spades with three honors. Of course,
the partner may have an honor and some other Spades, and, therefore, a
bid of Royals may produce a higher count than Hearts, but that is only
"may." The Declarer certainly has Heart strength, and the Third Hand,
valuable assistance. It takes the same number of tricks to score game
in each suit. Why, therefore, risk the game for a paltry addition to
the trick and honor score?
One of the most remarkable features of Auction is the extraordinary
desire, exhibited by a large percentage of players, to play the
combined hands. This comment is not applicable to a strong player, who,
for the good of the partnership, is anxious to get the declaration
himself, in order that during the play two or three tricks may not be
presented to the adversaries, but is intended for the general run of
cases where the partners are of equal, or nearly equal, ability.
A player, before determining to overbid his partner's call, should
remember that one of the greatest pleasures of the game is facing the
Dummy, especially when the declaration is apt to be successful, and he
should assure himself beyond peradventure that, in bidding his own suit
in preference to advancing his partner's, he is not in any way
influenced by his own selfish desires. He should be sure that, with the
positions reversed, he would thoroughly approve of just such action by
his partner; and, if his partner be the better player, he should also
convince himself that his suit is at least two tricks stronger, as his
partner's superior play probably makes a difference of at least one in
favor of his declaration.
It should be put down as axiomatic that, when a partner takes out a
Heart or Royal with a bid of another suit, he denies strength in the
suit originally declared and announces great length with probably four
honors in the suit he names; also, that when a Heart or Royal is taken
out by a No-trump declaration (except with a four-Ace holding), not
only is weakness in the declared suit announced, but also the fact that
every other suit is safely stopped.
This must not be understood as a suggestion that a partner should
seldom be overbid. Quite the reverse. The informatory school of modern
bidding, which attempts, as nearly as possible, to declare the two
hands as one, has as an essential feature the overbidding of the
partner in an infinite number of cases. It is against the foolish and
selfish instances which occur with great frequency that this protest is
directed.
WHEN "TWO SPADES" HAS BEEN DECLARED
When the Dealer bids two Spades, he gives explicit information
regarding the contents of his hand.[9] The Third Hand is, therefore,
practically in the position of having twenty-six cards spread before
him, and the question of what he should declare is not apt to be at all
confusing.
[9] See page 47.
If his hand be trickless, or practically so, he must bid one Royal, as
that reduces the commitment from two tricks to one, and increases the
possible gain per trick from 2 points to 9.
It is a noncommittal bid, as it may be made with great weakness or
moderate strength. With considerable Spade strength, however, two
Royals should be declared.
When the Third Hand has other than Spade strength, he will, of course,
bid in accordance with his holding, but it goes without saying that he
should make the best possible use of the accurate information he has
received. With four strong Spades, even with sufficient additional
strength to justify a weak No-trump, a Royal is generally preferable,
and with more than four Spades, two Royals is unquestionably the bid,
regardless of the strength of the remainder of the hand, unless, of
course, it contain the much looked for, but seldom found, four Aces.
WHEN "THREE SPADES" HAS BEEN DECLARED
When the Dealer has called three Spades, the Third Hand has quite
accurate data with which to work.[10] In this case, even if his hand be
trickless, he must bid one Royal, as his partner's three Spades might
otherwise be left in by the Fourth Hand. With some strength in other
suits, one Royal is his bid, unless his cards justify him in telling
the Dealer that, in spite of the announced long, weak Spades, the
combined hands are apt to sail more smoothly and on more peaceful seas
to the port called "Game" by the No-trump than by the suggested Royal
route.
[10] See page 49.
Should the Third Hand overbid three Spades with either Hearts,
Diamonds, or Clubs, he shows great strength in the suit named and
absolute weakness in Spades; the bid of two Royals shows assistance in
Spades, and probably other strength.
WHEN "ONE CLUB" OR "ONE DIAMOND" HAS BEEN DECLARED
When the Dealer has called one Club or one Diamond, the Third Hand (the
score being love) must realize that going game with the declaration
made is most unlikely. He should, therefore, overbid it whenever he has
sufficient strength to justify such action. With strong Hearts or
Spades, he should bid Hearts or Royals; without such Heart or Spade
strength, but with three tricks and two suits stopped, he should bid
No-trump. In the rare case in which game seems probable with the Club
or Diamond declaration, he should advance his partner's call to two or
three.
WHEN "TWO DIAMONDS" OR "TWO CLUBS" HAS BEEN DECLARED
When the Dealer has called two Clubs or two Diamonds with the score at
love, the Third Hand should allow the declaration to stand, unless his
Heart or Spade holding be such that he believes, with the assistance of
his partner's Club or Diamond suit, he may win the game; or unless able
to bid two No-trumps. With the information that his partner has an
established suit, it does not require much strength to justify the two
No-trumps call. With all the other suits stopped, no matter how weakly,
the bid is imperative. With two securely stopped, it is advisable, but
with only one stopped, it is entirely out of the question.
With a score in the trick column, the Third Hand will treat either a
one or two Club or Diamond declaration just as, with the score at love,
he treats a similar call in Hearts or Royals.
WHEN "ONE HEART" OR "ONE ROYAL" HAS BEEN DECLARED
When the Dealer bids one Heart or one Royal, the Third Hand should not
overbid unless without strength in the declaration. By this is meant
not only the absence of high cards, but also the absence of length.
With four small Hearts or Spades, and that suit bid by the Dealer, it
is almost invariably the part of wisdom to allow it to remain.
The Third Hand should bid one Royal over one Heart, or two Hearts over
one Royal with strength sufficient to justify an original call in that
suit, and distinct weakness in the partner's declaration. The theory is
that the Third Hand knows he cannot help his partner's declaration,
while it is possible his partner may help him.
When the Third Hand has such strength in Hearts or Royals that he would
advance his partner's declaration of either, in the event of an adverse
bid, it is wise for him to bid two on the first round, in order, if
possible, to shut out such adverse declaration and the information
thereby given to the leader.
The Third Hand should call two Diamonds or Clubs over one Heart or
Royal when he holds a long and practically solid suit. The original
bidder can then use his judgment whether to let this declaration stand,
continue his own, or try two No-trumps.
With a score, two Clubs or Diamonds may be bid more freely over the
partner's Heart or Royal.
The Third Hand should not bid a No-trump over the Dealer's Heart or
Royal, unless he have the three remaining suits safely stopped, or his
hand contain solid Diamonds or Clubs, and one other suit stopped.
WHEN "TWO HEARTS" OR "TWO ROYALS" HAS BEEN DECLARED
The declaration of two Hearts or two Royals is practically a command to
the partner not to alter the call. It indicates at least six sure
tricks, probably more, and a valuable honor count, in the Declarer's
hand, provided the suit named be the Trump. The Third Hand should only
change such a declaration when convinced beyond reasonable doubt that
his holding is so unusual that he is warranted in assuming the
responsibility of countermanding the order that has issued.
Weakness in the Trump and strength in some other suit is far from being
a sufficient justification, as the chances are that the Dealer is weak
in the suit of the Third Hand, and called "two" mainly for the purpose
of keeping it from being named. To overbid two Royals or Hearts with
three Diamonds or Clubs is obviously absurd, unless holding _five
honors_ and such other strength that game is assured.
To overbid two Hearts with two Royals, or two Royals with three Hearts,
is almost tantamount to saying, "Partner, I know you are trying to shut
out this declaration, but I am strong enough to insist upon it." Such
action is only justified by 64 or 72 honors, and a sure game.
To overbid two Hearts or two Royals with two No-trumps, as a rule,
means 100 Aces. High-card strength assures the game in the partner's
call with probably a big honor score; only the premium of 100 makes the
change advisable.
With strength, in the case under consideration, the Third Hand should
advance his partner's call with much greater confidence than if it were
an ordinary bid of one. He should not worry even if absolutely void of
Trumps; in that suit his partner has announced great length as well as
commanding cards; Aces and Kings of the other suits are what the
Declarer wishes to find in his hand, and with them he should bid
fearlessly.
The same line of comment applies with even greater force to the action
of the Third Hand when the Dealer has bid three Royals or three Hearts.
WHEN TO OVERBID A PARTNER'S NO-TRUMP
When the Dealer bids one No-trump and the Third Hand holds five or more
of any suit, one of the most disputed questions of Auction presents
itself.
The conservative player believes that with five Hearts or Spades,
inasmuch as but one more trick is required to secure game, it is safer
to bid two Hearts or Royals, except, of course, when the Third Hand, in
addition to a five-card suit, has the three remaining suits stopped.
The theory is that if the combined hands are very strong, the winning
of the game is absolutely assured with the suit in question the Trump,
but may possibly be lost in the No-trump by the adversaries running a
long suit. The chance of a hostile suit being established is
unquestionably worthy of the consideration of the Third Hand whenever,
with great strength in Hearts or Spades, he allows his partner's
No-trump to stand. Five adverse tricks prevent a game. In the majority
of cases, the leader opens a five-card suit. When it is not stopped,
the game is saved by the adversaries before the powerful No-trump hand
can get in; if it be stopped but once, the game is still in grave
danger unless the Declarer take nine tricks before losing the lead.
With a Heart or Royal declaration the adversaries are not apt to take
more than two tricks in their long suit, which, at No-trumps, may
produce four or five (in rare cases six), and yet the Trump bid
requires only one more trick for game.
It is unquestionably true that, with great strength, the game will be
won nine times out of ten with the No-trump declaration, but in every
such case it is absolutely "cinched" by the Heart or Royal call.
It is further argued that, when the combined hands are not quite so
strong, a game is more frequently won with the Trump declaration, as
the small Trumps are sure to take tricks, but the long suit may not be
established in the No-trumper.
The believers in taking a chance, however, view the situation from the
opposite standpoint. Their argument is that the game requires one more
trick, when a Trump is declared, but does not count as much, that the
original declarer may be weak in the suit named, yet strong in all the
others, and therefore, with a good hand, it is wiser to leave the
No-trump alone.
It is possible that the question is one rather of the temperament of
the player than of card judgment. It is susceptible of almost
mathematical deduction that five or more cards of a long suit are of
greater trick-taking value when that suit is the Trump than when
No-trump is being played, and it does not require any argument to
substantiate the proposition that the slight difference in the score,
between the total in the trick and honor columns netted from a game
made without a Trump and a game made with Royals or Hearts, is so
infinitesimal as not to be worthy of consideration. Nevertheless,
players possessed of a certain temperament will, for example, refuse to
overbid a partner's No-trump with Ace, King, Ten, and two small Spades,
King of Hearts, and Ace of Diamonds, on the ground that the hand is too
strong, although the No-trump bid may have been thoroughly justified by
such a holding as Ace, Queen, Knave, of Hearts; King, Queen, Knave, of
Diamonds; and Queen, Knave, of Spades. In that event it is practically
sure the adversaries will open the Club suit and save the game before
the Declarer has a chance to win a trick. This and similar situations
occur with sufficient frequency to make them well worthy of
consideration, and when such a hand fails to make game, it certainly
seems to be a perfect example of what might be termed "useless
sacrifice."
In spite of all this, however, probably as long as the game lasts, in
the large proportion of hands in which the taking-out does not make any
difference, the Declarer will say, "With such strength you should have
let my No-trump alone"; or the Dummy will learnedly explain, "I was too
strong to take you out."
It would be in the interest of scientific play, if, except when all
suits are stopped, the theory, "Too strong to take the partner out of
the No-trump," had never been conceived, and would never again be
advanced.
The same comment applies with equal force to the remark so often heard,
"Partner, I was too weak to take you out."
This generally emanates from a Third Hand who has a five- or six-card
suit in a trickless hand. He does not stop to realize that his hand
will not aid his partner's No-trump to the extent of a single trick,
but that in a Trump declaration, it will almost certainly take two
tricks. The Trump bid only increases the commitment by one, so it is
obviously a saving and advantageous play. Furthermore, it prevents the
adversaries from running a long suit. It, also, in Clubs and Diamonds,
is a real danger signal, and, in the probable event of a bid by the
Fourth Hand, warns the partner away from two No-trumps.
The advocates of the weakness take-out realize that in exceptional
instances the play may result most unfortunately. When the Dealer has
called a border-line No-trump, without any strength in the suit named
by the Third Hand, and one of the adversaries has great length and
strength in that suit, a heavy loss is bound to ensue, which may be
increased 100 by the advance of the bid from one to two. This case is,
indeed, rare, and when it does turn up the chances are that the
Declarer will escape a double, as the holder of the big Trumps will
fear the Dealer may be able to come to the rescue if he point out the
danger by doubling the suit call.
The fact, however, that a play at times works badly is not a sufficient
argument against its use, if in the majority of cases it prove
advantageous, and that is unquestionably true of the weakness take-out.
The strength take-out, above advocated, applies only to Spades and
Hearts. With Diamonds and Clubs, at a love score, the distance to go
for game is in most cases too great to make it advisable, but the
weakness take-out should be used equally with any one of the four
suits, as it is a defensive, not an offensive, declaration. With a
score, Clubs and Diamonds possess the same value that Hearts and Spades
have at love, and should be treated similarly.
WHEN TO OVERBID WITH STRONG CLUBS
The question of whether the Third Hand, with strong Clubs, should
overbid his partner's No-trump has aroused considerable discussion. The
argument in favor of such a declaration in Clubs, which does not apply
to any other suit, is that the difference between a strength and a
weakness overbid can be made apparent by calling three and two
respectively, and yet the show of strength will not force the Dealer
higher than two No-trumps, when his hand is such that the announcement
that the Third Hand holds strong Clubs, but nothing else, makes the
return to No-trump advisable.
On this basis of reasoning some believe in calling three Clubs whenever
an otherwise trickless Third Hand contains five or more Clubs headed by
Ace, King, Queen. This, it is conceded, only results advantageously
when the No-trump has been called with one suit unguarded, and Clubs is
one of the protected suits. When the No-trump has been declared with
such a hand as
Spades Ace, King, X
Hearts X
Diamonds Ace, King, Knave, X, X
Clubs Knave, Ten, X, X
the employment of such a system of declaration is exceptionally
advantageous; as the game is assured in Clubs, while if the No-trump be
left in, the adversaries will probably save it by making all their
Hearts before the Declarer secures the lead.
It is admitted that this case is somewhat unusual, but the advocates of
the system, conceding this, argue it is advantageous to have this bid
in the repertory, and, in the exceptional instance, to obtain the
benefit, which is bound to ensue from its use. The contention is that
it can do no harm, with such a Club holding, to force the partner to
two No-trumps, if he have all the other suits stopped, and the fact
that three Clubs is called with strength more clearly accentuates the
principle that the two Club takeout means nothing but weakness.
Admitting the force of this argument, and conceding that the system
advocated should be universally adopted were there not a wiser use for
the three Club take-out, first brings forth the question of whether the
case does not more frequently arise in which the long Club holding of
the Third Hand is headed by King and Queen, and is it not much more
probable, when the Third Hand has _long_ Clubs, that the No-trump
maker has the suit stopped with the Ace than with _four_ headed by
Knave, Ten?
It must be remembered that the three Club take-out with Ace, King,
Queen, at the head of five or more, is only advantageous when the
No-trump has been called with a hand in which only three suits are
stopped, of which the Club is one. If the Club be the suit unstopped,
the call merely forces an advance in the No-trump.
If, however, the convention be to use three Clubs to overbid the
partner's No-trump only when holding an otherwise trickless hand which
contains either at least five Clubs headed by King, Queen, Knave, or at
least six headed by King, Queen, would not the number of instances in
which the call proves of benefit appreciably increase, and would not
every reason applicable in the former case be even more forceful in the
latter?
It cannot be questioned that the partner having called No-trump, the
Third Hand is more likely to hold either five Clubs headed by King,
Queen, Knave, or six headed by King, Queen, than five or more headed by
Ace, King, Queen. The greater probability that the Dealer will have the
Ace than four headed by Knave, Ten, is just as obvious.
Take such a No-trump declaration as
Spades Ace, King, Knave
Hearts X, X
Diamonds Ace, King, Knave, X, X
Clubs Ace, X, X
and the advantage of the proposed system becomes apparent. The game,
which is almost sure to be lost by the Heart lead in No-trump, becomes
almost a certainty with Clubs Trump. When this plan is used and the
Dealer has the other suits stopped but has not the Ace of Clubs, he can
easily decide whether to go to two No-trumps, as he can estimate from
the length of his Club holding whether he can establish the long Clubs
or the adverse Ace will block the suit. When the latter is the case, he
should not bid two No-trumps unless his own hand justify it, as the
Third Hand has announced the absence of a reëntry.
Take such a No-trump declaration as
Spades Ace
Hearts Ace, King, X
Diamonds Ace, King, X, X, X, X
Clubs X, X, X
and suppose the Third Hand hold one or two small Diamonds; six Clubs,
headed by King, Queen, Knave, and no other face card.
In such a case Clubs is the call most likely to produce game.
Another and possibly the wisest theory of the three Club take-out, is
that it should be reserved, not for any one particular holding which
may not occur once in a year, but for any hand in which the Declarer
wishes to say, "Partner, my cards are such that I believe we can go
game in Clubs; with this information, use your judgment as to whether
or not to return to your more valuable declaration."
A NEW PLAN FOR OVERBIDDING
In this connection, a new scheme of take-out is respectfully called to
the attention of the thoughtful and studious Auction players of the
country. It is not in general use, is not recognized as conventional,
has never been given a satisfactory trial, and is, therefore, suggested
merely as an experiment worthy of consideration.
The idea is that when a partner has called one No-trump, Second Hand
having passed, the Third Hand with five or more Spades or Hearts,
unless he have four suits stopped, should bid his long suit in the
following manner: if the hand be weak, the bid should be two; if
strong, three. This warns the Dealer, when two is called, to let the
declaration alone, as it is defensive.
On the other hand, when three is bid, the Dealer knows that his partner
is strong, and he may then use his judgment as to the advisability of
allowing the bid to stand or going back to the No-trump, which he can
do without increasing the number of tricks of the commitment.
It must be remembered that, with great strength, it is as easy to make
three No-trumps as one, three are needed for game, and, therefore,
nothing is lost by the expedient.
Playing under this system, should the Third Hand hold four or five
honors in his suit, and earnestly desire to play it for the honor
score, it would be a perfectly legitimate strategy to deceive the
partner temporarily by bidding two, instead of three.
WHEN TO OVERBID ONE NO-TRUMP WITH TWO NO-TRUMPS
When the Dealer has bid one No-trump and the Second Hand passed, the
Third Hand, much more frequently than most players imagine,
should call two No-trumps. It must be remembered that should the Third
Hand pass, the Fourth Hand can, by bidding two of a suit, indicate to
his partner the lead he desires. This places the adversaries in a much
more advantageous position than if the leader open his own suit without
information from his partner. The bid of two No-trumps by the Third
Hand generally prevents the Fourth Hand from declaring, as it
necessitates a call of three, which, sitting between two No-trump
bidders, is, in most cases, too formidable a contract to undertake.
It is, therefore, advisable for the Third Hand, on the first round, to
advance, from one to two, his partner's No-trump declaration, in every
instance in which, in the event of an adverse bid, he is strong enough
to call two No-trumps. This convention, while as yet comparatively new,
and, therefore, but little used, works most advantageously, as it
frequently shuts out the only lead which can keep the No-trump from
going game. It is important for every player to understand the scheme,
and never to overlook an opportunity to make the declaration.
WHAT THIRD HAND SHOULD BID WHEN SECOND HAND HAS DECLARED
This situation involves so many possibilities that it is hard to cover
it with fixed rules.
The Third Hand in this position should reason in very much the same
manner as the Second Hand, after the Dealer has made a declaration
showing strength.[11] There is this distinct difference, however: in the
case of the Second Hand, he only knows that the Dealer has sufficient
strength to declare, and is without any means, other than the doctrine
of chances, of estimating the strength of his partner's hand. The Third
Hand, however, in the situation under consideration, is not only
advised that one adversary has sufficient strength to declare, but also
knows whether his partner's cards justify an initial bid. When the
Dealer has shown strength, he can be counted upon for at least the
minimum that his bid has evidenced; when he has called "one Spade," it
would not be wise to expect him to win more than one trick.
[11] See page 72.
The Third Hand should consider these features of the situation, and
satisfy himself, when his partner has not shown strength, that he is
taking a wise risk in bidding over an adverse declaration. To justify a
call of No-trump over a Trump, he should either have the declared suit
stopped twice or, if it be stopped but once, he should also have solid
Clubs or Diamonds. When the Dealer has declared Hearts or Royals, and
the Second Hand made a higher suit call, it is, as a rule, wiser for
the Third Hand to advance his partner's declaration than to venture a
No-trump unless he have the adverse suit stopped twice.
When the Dealer has bid No-trump and the Second Hand two of any suit,
the Third Hand should not bid two No-trump unless he have the declared
suit stopped and at least one other trick. Without the declared suit
stopped, he should not bid two No-trump unless his hand be so strong
that he can figure with almost positive certainty that the No-trump bid
of his partner could not have been made without the adverse suit being
stopped. When in doubt, under such conditions, as to the advisability
of either bidding two No-trumps or some suit, the latter policy is
generally the safer.
When the Dealer has called No-trump and the Second Hand two of a suit,
the Third Hand must realize that his partner has already been taken
out, and therefore, under no circumstances, should he bid in this
situation, except for the purpose of showing strength; or with the
conviction that, aided by his partner's No-trump, he can fulfil the
contract he is proposing. For example, Dealer bids one No-trump; Second
Hand, two Royals; Third Hand holds six Hearts, headed by the Knave,
without another trick. Under these conditions, a Heart bid would be
most misleading, and probably most damaging. The Dealer may not be able
to help the Heart declaration, and he may very properly be encouraged
by it to believe that the Third Hand has considerable strength,
especially in Hearts, but is very weak in Spades. If, in consequence of
this supposed information, he return to his No-trump declaration, or
double an adverse three Royals, the result is apt to be extremely
disastrous.
The Third Hand must distinguish this case carefully from the situation
in which the Dealer has bid one No-trump and the Second Hand passed.
With the combination mentioned, he should then, of course, most
unhesitatingly take out his partner by bidding two Hearts; that bid,
under such circumstances, not showing strength.
Another situation that arises more frequently than would be supposed,
and the advantage of which it is most important for the Third Hand to
grasp, is when the Dealer has bid No-trump; the Second Hand, two of a
suit; and the Third Hand, without the adverse suit stopped, holds great
strength in Clubs, with such a hand that he desires his partner to go
to two No-trumps; provided he have the adversaries' suit stopped. The
bid of three Clubs does not increase the No-trump commitment which the
partner is obliged to make, and is much safer than for the Third Hand
to bid two No-trumps without the adverse suit stopped. It is a
suggestion to the partner to bid two No-trumps, provided he can take
care of the suit which the Second Hand has declared.
V
FOURTH HAND DECLARATIONS
Some of the principles that have been considered in connection with
certain Second and Third Hand bids are also applicable to similar
Fourth Hand declarations. These are easily pointed out, but the bidding
by the Fourth Hand presents other problems much more difficult.
Each player who has an opportunity to declare materially complicates
the situation, and makes it harder to accurately describe. As three
players declare or pass before the Fourth Hand has his turn, it is
almost impossible to anticipate every contingency that may arise. The
best that can be done is to subdivide Fourth Hand declarations as
follows:--
1. When the Dealer's defensive declaration has been the only bid.
2. When the only offensive declaration has been made by the Dealer.
3. When the only offensive declaration has been made by the Second
Hand.
4. When the only offensive declaration has been made by the Third Hand.
5. When the Dealer has made a defensive, and both the Second and Third
Hand, offensive declarations.
6. When the Dealer and Second Hand have made offensive declarations and
the Third Hand passed.
7. When the Dealer and Third Hand have made offensive declarations, and
the Second Hand passed.
8. When all three players have made offensive declarations.
1. WHEN THE DEALER'S DEFENSIVE DECLARATION HAS BEEN THE ONLY BID
As a general rule, when this situation arises, the Fourth Hand holds a
combination of cards which makes his bid unmistakable. The other three
players having shown weakness, or, at least, the absence of offensive
strength, the Fourth Hand almost invariably has a No-trumper of such
strength that his pathway is plain. Of course, his hand may, by reason
of Spade or Heart length, call for a Royal or Heart declaration in
preference to a No-trumper, but nevertheless, under these
circumstances, it is generally easy for the Fourth Hand to declare.
When, however, the exceptional case occurs, in which the Fourth Hand
finds himself, no previous offensive declaration having been made,
without a plainly indicated bid, it is difficult to lay down a rule for
his guidance. Three players have shown weakness, and yet his cards
assure him that one or more of them is either unduly cautious, has
passed by mistake, or is trying to deceive. If the strength be with his
partner, it may be that, by passing, he will lose an opportunity to
secure the game. On the other hand, if the adversaries have the winning
cards, he may, by declaring, allow them to make a game declaration,
whereas they are now limited to an infinitesimal score.
He must also consider that, should he pass, the maximum he and his
partner can secure is 100 points in the honor column. This is a
position to which conventional rules cannot apply. The individual
characteristics of the players must be considered. The Fourth Hand must
guess which of the three players is the most apt to have been cautious,
careless, or "foxy," and he should either pass or declare, as he
decides whether it is more likely that his partner or one of the two
adversaries is responsible for his predicament.
It sometimes, although rarely, happens that the strength not in the
Fourth Hand is so evenly divided that no one of the three has been
justified in making an offensive declaration, and yet the Fourth Hand
is not very strong. When this occurs, a clever player can as a rule
readily and accurately diagnose it from the character of his hand, and
he should then pass, as he cannot hope to make game on an evenly
divided hand, while as it stands he has the adversaries limited to a
score of 2 points for each odd trick, yet booked for a loss of 50 if
they fail to make seven tricks; 100, if they do not make six. In other
words, they are betting 25 to 1 on an even proposition. Such a position
is much too advantageous to voluntarily surrender.
It is hardly conceivable that any one would advocate that a Fourth Hand
player with a sure game in his grasp, instead of scoring it, should
allow the adverse "one Spade" to stay in for the purpose of securing
the 100 bonus.
Inasmuch, however, as this proposition has been advanced by a prominent
writer, it is only fair that its soundness should be analyzed.
The argument is that the score which is accumulated in going game is
generally considerably less than 100, averaging not over 60, and that,
therefore, the bonus of 100 is more advantageous. The example is given
of a pair who adopted these tactics, and on one occasion gathered eight
successive hundreds in this manner, eventually obtaining a rubber of
approximately 1150 points instead of one of about 350.
The answer to any such proposition is so self-evident that it is
difficult to understand how it can be overlooked. It is true that a
game-going hand does not average over 60 points, which is 40 less than
100, but a game is half of a rubber. Winning a rubber is worth 250,
without considering the 250 scored by the adversaries, if they win. A
game, at its lowest valuation, is, therefore, worth 125 plus 60, or 85
more than the 100.
Examining the case cited, it will be seen that even had the pair, who
are so highly praised for their self-control in scoring eight hundred
before going game, known that for ten successive hands they would hold
all the cards, and, therefore, that they had nothing to fear from
adverse rubber scores of 250, they, nevertheless, made but poor use of
their wonderful opportunities. If, instead of accumulating that 800,
they had elected to win five rubbers, they would have tallied at the
most moderate estimate five times 350, or 1750, in place of the 1150 of
which they boast.
If, however, during that run of luck the adversaries had held two game
hands--say, the 5th and 10th, the exponents of self-control would have
made on the ten hands about 450 points, instead of approximately 1350,
which would have been secured by players who realized the value of a
game.
In the event of an even and alternate division of game hands, the
non-game winners at the end of twelve hands would have lost three
rubbers and won none, as compared with an even score had they availed
themselves of their opportunities.
It is, therefore, easily seen that the closer the investigation, the
more apparent becomes the absurdity of the doctrine that it is
advantageous to sacrifice a game for a score of 100.
2. WHEN THE ONLY OFFENSIVE DECLARATION HAS BEEN MADE BY THE DEALER
In this case the Fourth Hand, before making a declaration in any manner
doubtful, should remember that his partner has, by failing to declare,
announced that he has not sufficient strength to overbid the Dealer.
This does not, however, signify that he has a trickless hand, and the
Fourth Hand may even yet count upon him for some support. There are two
features--both of importance--one weighing in favor, the other against,
a declaration under these circumstances. One is, that the strength
being over the Fourth Hand, he is placed in the worst possible position
in the play, and there is more probability of his being doubled than
under any other conditions. If he be doubled, it is not likely that his
partner can take him out or prove of material assistance, as the double
is apt to come in the case in which the partner has passed with a
practically trickless hand.
On the other hand, the lead is with the partner, and especially when a
No-trump has been declared, it may be of great advantage to indicate
the suit which should be led. The Fourth Hand should, therefore, if
possible avoid placing a large bonus in the adversaries' column, yet he
should not hesitate to take a chance when his hand indicates that the
lead of a certain suit will be likely to save game.
In the event of a Dealer's declaration which is not apt to produce game
coming up to the Fourth Hand, he should pass, unless his holding
convince him that he will be able to go game should he declare.
3. WHEN THE ONLY OFFENSIVE DECLARATION HAS BEEN MADE BY THE SECOND HAND
In this situation the Fourth Hand is in much the same position as the
Third Hand when the Dealer has made an offensive declaration, and the
Second Hand passed.[12] The only difference is that the Fourth Hand
knows that both of the adversaries are apparently weak, whereas in the
previous case the Third Hand had that information as to only one. The
Fourth Hand can, therefore, act much more freely, and should, if in any
way possible, increase a declaration which is not apt to result in game
to one of the three game-producing bids. At a love score, a Club or
Diamond declaration should be allowed to stand in two cases only:--
(_a_) Weakness, which does not make any further declaration
reasonable.
(_b_) A combination of cards which makes it probable the Club
or Diamond call will result in game.
[12] See page 86.
When the Second Hand has declared No-trump, Royals, or Hearts, his bid
should be accorded exactly the same treatment that a similar call of
the Dealer receives from the Third Hand.[13]
[13] See page 86.
Neither a two nor three Spade declaration made by the partner should
under any circumstances, be passed. In these cases, the Fourth Hand can
have little doubt what course to pursue. His partner's hand is spread
before him almost as clearly as if exposed upon the table.[14] With
weakness, or with a moderate hand, he should bid one Royal, this being
merely a takeout, and not giving any indication of strength. In this
position he is placed in the same situation as the Third Hand when the
Dealer has made a similar declaration,[15] and these two propositions
are the only instances in the modern game of Auction where a player
without strength is required to assume the offensive. No matter how
weak the hand may be, the Fourth Hand must declare one Royal, so as to
reduce the contract, and also to increase the advantage obtained from
its fulfillment. The partner must read "one Royal" to be an indication
of weakness, or, at least, not a showing of strength.
[14] See pages 67-72 inc.
[15] See pages 88, 89, 90.
With Spade length or strength, the Fourth Hand, especially in the case
of the three Spade declaration, should bid two Royals. If he declare
anything but Royals, he says to the partner, "I realize perfectly what
you have, but my hand convinces me that the declaration I am making
will be more advantageous than the one you have suggested."
In the event of one Spade doubled coming to the Fourth Hand, he is also
accurately informed as to his partner's holding, and suggestion.[16] In
this case, it is the rare hand which does not warrant an offensive
declaration.
[16] See pages 65, 66.
It is not so great an advantage for the Fourth Hand to call two
No-trumps over one No-trump declared by the Second Hand as it is for
the Third Hand to similarly overbid the Dealer.[17] The reason for this
is, that the main purpose of this overbid by the Third Hand is to
prevent the Fourth Hand from indicating the suit he desires his partner
to lead, but the Dealer, having already declared weakness, is not so
likely to be able to make a bid which will in any way interfere with
the success of a No-trumper. It is, however, not at all impossible that
a declaration of the Dealer's long weak suit, especially when the
Second Hand has an honor or two of it, may be awkward for the No-trump
declarer, and therefore, with the holding which justifies it, the bid
of two No-trumps, under these conditions, is distinctly commendable.
[17] See pages 108, 109.
4. WHEN THE ONLY OFFENSIVE DECLARATION HAS BEEN MADE BY THE THIRD HAND
In this position the Fourth Hand is informed of his partner's weakness.
This weakness is probably quite pronounced, as the Second Hand has
passed the Dealer's defensive declaration, and although it is doubtless
reasonable for the Fourth Hand even yet to count upon his partner for
one trick, he certainly would not be justified in expecting much
greater aid. It is a place for caution; although he is in the
advantageous position of sitting over the adverse strength, he should
bid only if he see a fair chance for game, or think his hand is such
that he may safely attempt to force the adversary.
5. WHEN THE DEALER HAS MADE A DEFENSIVE, AND BOTH THE SECOND AND THIRD
HANDS OFFENSIVE, DECLARATIONS
In this situation, the Fourth Hand comes more nearly within the
category of a second round, or late bidder; that is, he is in the
position in which a player often finds himself when, after some bidding
in which he has not participated, he is in doubt whether he has
sufficient strength to advance his partner's declaration.
Under such circumstances, a player should always remember that his
partner has counted upon him for a certain percentage of high cards. If
he have not more than that percentage, it would be the part of extreme
folly for him to declare. When the partner has made a suit declaration,
and he has weakness in the suit, but some strength elsewhere, he should
be especially careful, and, before bidding, convince himself that his
side strength is more than his partner expected. Advancing a partner's
suit bid by reason of strength in other suits, while, when the strength
warrants it, unquestionably sound, is apt to deceive the partner, as
his first thought necessarily is that the bid indicates help in the
suit declared.
When the partner has declared No-trump, and the Third Hand has called
two in a suit, the Fourth Hand is in much the same position regarding
the advancement of his partner's No-trumper as the Third Hand when the
Dealer bids a No-trump, and the Second Hand, two of a suit.[18] The only
difference is that in this case there is little probability of
high-card strength being developed on the left.
[18] See page 111.
6. WHEN THE DEALER AND SECOND HAND HAVE MADE OFFENSIVE DECLARATIONS,
AND THE THIRD HAND PASSED
It is an exceptional hand which justifies taking the partner out of a
suit declaration, called over a No-trump bid by the Dealer. The partner
has the advantage of sitting over the Dealer, while the Dealer would
have this same advantage should the Fourth Hand declare some other
suit.
In this position the partner having bid two Clubs or Diamonds, the
Fourth Hand, with the other three suits stopped, is justified in
assuming that the original No-trump was made with the minimum strength,
and the chance of game, as the declaration stands, being remote, should
try a bid of two No-trumps.
When the Dealer has declared a suit, and the Second Hand, No-trump, the
Fourth Hand should overbid the Second with a suit declaration (except,
of course, in the almost inconceivable case in which the strength of
the Fourth Hand is in the suit named by the Dealer), with the same
holding that the Third Hand is justified in overbidding the Dealer's
No-trump.[19]
[19] See pages 96-108 inc.
7. WHEN THE DEALER AND THIRD HAND HAVE MADE OFFENSIVE DECLARATIONS AND
THE SECOND HAND PASSED
In this case, both adversaries having shown strength, and the partner
weakness, it is dangerous for the Fourth Hand to declare, and he should
do so only when his holding convinces him that his declaration is not
likely to be successfully doubled.
8. WHEN ALL THREE PLAYERS HAVE MADE OFFENSIVE DECLARATIONS
This case is entirely analogous to the second round or late bidding,
and is covered under the head of CONTINUATION OF THE BIDDING.
VI
CONTINUATION OF THE BIDDING
After the completion of the first round, the situation of the bidder
becomes so complex that it is most difficult to apply general rules.
Some principles, however, should be borne in mind.
Bidding one Spade, or passing, places a player with two tricks in a
position to increase his partner's call; but when a bidder has already
shown the full strength, or practically the full strength, of his hand,
he should not, under any circumstances, advance either his own or his
partner's declaration. The temptation to disregard this rule is at
times exceedingly strong. For example, the dealer declares one Heart,
holding King, Queen, at the top of five Hearts, and the Ace of Spades.
The partner calls one No-trump, and the Fourth Hand, two Royals. In
such case, the original Heart bidder frequently advances the No-trump
to two, because he has the adverse suit stopped, without considering
that his partner, in bidding one No-trump, counted upon him for either
that Ace of Spades, or the equivalent strength, and, therefore, he
should leave the question of the continuance of the No-trump to the
player who knows its exact strength.
Another example of this proposition may be worthy of consideration. The
dealer holds
Spades X, X, X
Hearts Ace, X
Diamonds King, Knave, Ten, X, X
Clubs X, X, X
He bids one Diamond; Second Hand, pass; Third Hand, one Heart; Fourth
Hand, one Royal.
In this position a thoughtless player might call two Hearts, but such a
declaration would greatly exaggerate the value of the hand. The dealer
by his first bid has announced his ability to take at least three
tricks if Diamonds be Trump, and at least two tricks if the deal be
played without a Trump. His hand justifies such a call, but that is
all; having declared his full strength, his lips must thereafter be
sealed.
His partner is already counting upon him for two high-card tricks,
which is the maximum his hand can possibly produce; should he call two
Hearts on the basis of the Ace, the original Heart bidder would expect
assistance to the extent of at least three tricks. He might receive
only one.
If, however, the dealer's hand be
Spades X
Hearts X, X, X, X
Diamonds King, Knave, Ten, X, X
Clubs Ace, X, X
a very different proposition presents itself. While this combination,
had No-trump been called, would not be stronger than the other and
should not advance the bid, with Hearts Trump it is a most valuable
assistant, and being worth at least three tricks, is fully warranted in
calling at least two Hearts.
The fact that it contains four Hearts is one material element of
strength and the singleton Spade is another, neither of which has been
announced by the original call.
One of the most difficult tasks of the bidder is to accurately estimate
the number of tricks the combined hands of his partnership can
reasonably be expected to win. It sometimes occurs, especially in what
are known as "freak" hands, that one pair can take most of the tricks
with one suit declaration, while with another, their adversaries can be
equally successful. This is most apt to happen in two-suit hands, or
when length in Trumps is coupled with a cross-ruff. In the ordinary run
of evenly divided hands, there is not such great difference in the
trick-taking ability of two declarations. The player who, except with
an extraordinary hand, commits his side to ten or eleven tricks, after
the adversaries have shown that with another declaration they do not
expect to lose more than two or three, is extremely venturesome, and
apt to prove a dangerous partner. In normal deals, a change in the
Trump suit does not produce a shift of seven or eight tricks.
WHEN TO ADVANCE THE BID
It is frequently most difficult for a bidder to determine whether he is
justified in advancing his own or his partner's declaration, and when
in doubt it is generally better to err on the side of conservatism.
The continuation of a No-trump without the adverse suit thoroughly
guarded is most dangerous, and should be risked only when the Declarer
is convinced beyond doubt that his holding justifies it, or when the
partner has shown that he can stop the threatening suit.
When the partner, either as Dealer or Second Hand, has declared one
No-trump, the bid has unquestionably been based upon the expectation of
average assistance, and unless able to furnish more, a higher call
should not be made. If, however, the partner bid twice, without aid,
two tricks unquestionably justifies assisting once.
The minimum trick-taking ability with which an original suit
declaration is made being appreciably greater than the number of tricks
contained in a border-line No-trumper, the former should be assisted
with less strength than is required to advance the latter. With two
sure tricks the partner's suit call should be helped once by a player
who has not declared, but whether a No-trump should be aided with just
two tricks and no chance of more is a question depending upon the
judgment of the bidder and upon whether one of the tricks is in the
adverse suit. With two sure high-card tricks and a five-card suit, but
without the adverse suit guarded, the five-card suit is generally the
call, especially if two in it will be sufficient. Three Clubs, however,
should not be declared without due consideration, as that declaration
is recognized as demanding two No-trumps from the partner if he have
the adverse suit stopped.
Being void or holding only a singleton of a suit, especially if it be
the suit declared by the adversary, is to be considered in reckoning
the trick-taking value of a hand which contemplates assisting a
partner's Trump declaration. For example, four small Hearts, the Ace
and three other Clubs, and five small Diamonds, when the partner has
called one Heart, are worth three or four tricks, although the hand
contains but one Ace and no face card. Holding such a combination, a
partner's bid of one Heart should be advanced at least twice.
When a declaration by the dealer is followed by two passes and an
overbid by the right-hand adversary, the dealer is frequently placed in
a doubtful position as to whether he should advance his own bid. Some
authorities contend that with less than six tricks he should wait for
his partner, and while no inflexible rule can be made to cover all such
cases, the follower of this proposition has probably adopted the safest
guide.
When the original call has been one No-trump, it is the part of wisdom
with less than six tricks, even if the adverse suit be stopped twice,
to give the partner a chance. If he can furnish more than two tricks,
he will declare, and the Dealer can then, if he so desire, continue the
No-trump, but to bid without first hearing from the partner is
obviously venturesome. If the Dealer have five tricks, that is enough
to save game, but is three tricks short of making two No-trumps.
When the Dealer has declared a strong No-trump with one unprotected
suit and his right-hand adversary calls two in that suit, it is
manifestly unwise to continue the No-trump. Holding six sure tricks in
a higher-valued suit or seven in a lower, it is probably wise to bid
two or three, as the exigencies of the case may require, in that suit.
In close cases, when advancing or declining to advance the partner's
bid, the personal equation should be a most important, if not the
deciding, factor. Some players are noted for their reckless declaring;
with such a partner the bidding must be ultra-conservative. Other
players do not regard conventional rules in their early declarations.
The bids of a partner of this kind should not be increased unless the
hand contain at least one trick more than the number that normally
would justify an advance.
When playing against a bidder who has the habit of overbidding, full
advantage should be taken of his weakness, and whenever possible he
should be forced to a high contract he may be unable to fulfil.
When a dealer who has opened with one Spade, or any other player who
has passed the first round, subsequently enters the bidding, he gives
unmistakable evidence of length but not strength. This is a secondary
declaration, and the maker plainly announces, "I will take many more
tricks with this suit Trump than any other; indeed, I may not win a
trick with any other Trump."
Overbidding a partner's secondary declaration, or counting upon it for
tricks when doubling an adversary who has overcalled it, shows
inexcusable lack of understanding of the modern system of declaring.
WHEN TO OVERBID THE PARTNER
Overbidding a partner with a declaration which he has once taken out is
only authorized by an honor count which is of material value, or a sure
game. For example, if a player declare one Royal, holding four or five
honors, and the partner overbid with a No-trump, the original declarer
should bid two Royals; but without the big honor count it is wiser to
let the No-trump stand, as the partner has announced weakness in
Spades.
The same line of reasoning should be followed when the partner has
called two of a suit over a No-trump. As a rule, under these
conditions, it is most unwise for the original No-trump declarer to bid
two No-trumps, but with four Aces, the value of the honors thoroughly
warrants such a declaration, unless the partner's call has evidently
been a "rescue."
The "rescue" or weakness take-out is a warning not to be disregarded.
Two Clubs or Diamonds over a No-trump is the most self-evident example,
and after such a call by the partner it takes a holding of eight sure
tricks to justify two No-trumps. Of course, with four Aces, seven
tricks would warrant the call, on the theory that at the worst the 100
for the Aces would set off the possible loss by the double, and more
than equal the loss if a double be not made.
FLAG-FLYING
The practice generally called "flag-flying" consists in overbidding an
adverse declaration, which will surely result in game and rubber, with
a holding which is not of sufficient strength to carry out the
contract.
While at times flag-flying is of great advantage, in inexperienced
hands it is apt to prove a dangerous expedient. The argument in its
favor is obvious. The bonus of 250 points for the rubber really makes
500 points the difference between winning and losing, and in addition
there must be computed the points and honors which would be scored by
the adversaries in the deal with which they go game, and the points and
honors which may be scored by the flag-flyers in the succeeding deal
which they hope will carry them to their goal. On this basis
flag-flyers estimate that it makes a difference of 600 points whether
their opponents go out on the current deal or the flag-flyers score
game on the next, and they claim that any loss under 600 is a gain. The
estimate is correct; the claim, ridiculous. Whenever the next deal
furnishes the player who offers the gambit sufficient strength to
capture the rubber, he gains, when his loss has been under 600, but at
best it is not more than an even chance that he will win, and when the
pendulum swings in the adverse direction, the only result of the
performance with the flag is to increase the size of the adversaries'
rubber by the amount of the sacrifice. This continued indefinitely is
bound to produce Auction bankruptcy.
The player who figures that, on the doctrine of chances, he and his
partner will hold the strong cards once in every two deals, should
remember that the fickle goddess would never have deserved nor received
her well-earned title had she been even approximately reliable.
A run of bad luck may continue for an indefinite period. It has pursued
good players not only for a day or a week, but continuously for months
and years. It does not sound warnings announcing its appearance or
disappearance. To attempt to fight it by the flag-flying process as a
rule only multiplies the loss many fold. And yet, it must not be
understood that the flag-flyer should always be shunned and condemned.
When his loss amounts to only 100 or 200, or when, not detecting his
purpose, the adversaries fail to double, and the loss is, therefore,
smaller, the odds favor his exhibition of nerve. Flag-flying, however,
is like dynamite: in the hands of a child or of one unfamiliar with its
characteristics, it is a danger, the extent of which none can foretell;
but used with skill, it becomes a tool of exceptional value.
It is only during the rubber game that even the most enthusiastic and
expert flyer of the flag should allow it to wave. With a game out, to
make the play successful Dame Fortune must bestow her favors twice in
succession. Before taking such a long chance, a player should realize
that there are future rubbers which he has an even chance of winning,
and that it is better to minimize the present loss than to allow it to
become so great that, even if good fortune follow, it will be
impossible to recoup. On the first game of the rubber, or with a game
in, and the adversaries still without a game, it is plainly too early
and the situation is not sufficiently desperate to resort to any real
flag-flying. Except when playing the rubber game, a voluntary loss of
over 100 should never be considered.
VII
DOUBLING
All doubles, except the double of one Spade by the Second Hand, which
is really an informatory bid,[20] are made for the purpose of increasing
the score of the doubler.
[20] See pages 65, 66.
The old idea of informatory doubles has been abandoned. Now when a
player doubles, he does not invite a No-trump by showing one or more
tricks in the adversary's suit, but he practically says, "Partner, I am
satisfied that we can defeat this declaration, and I desire to receive
a bonus of 100 instead of 50 for each trick that our adversaries fall
short of their contract. I do not wish you to overbid, unless your hand
be of such a peculiar character that you have reason to believe the
double will not be very profitable and feel sure that we can go game
with your declaration."
Although doubles are made under widely divergent conditions, they may
be subdivided into two classes:--
1. The double of a declaration which, if successful, will result in
game, regardless of the double, such as four Hearts, with a love score.
2. The double which, if unsuccessful, puts the Declarer out, although
if undoubled, he would not secure the game by fulfilling his contract,
such as two or three Hearts, with a love score.
In the first instance, the doubler has nothing to lose except the
difference in points which the Declarer may make as a result of the
double. When, for example, a bid of four Hearts is doubled and the
Declarer fulfils his contract, the double costs exactly 82 points. If
the Declarer fall one trick short, the double gains 50 points. When,
however, there is a redouble, the loss is increased 114 points, the
gain 100 points. The doubler is, therefore, betting the Declarer 82 to
50 that he will not make his contract, and giving the Declarer the
option of increasing the bet, so that the odds become 196 to 150. It is
evident, therefore, that even when the Declarer will go out in any
event, it is not a particularly advantageous proposition for the
doubler to give odds of 8 to 5 or 20 to 15, if the chances be even.
When the declaration is Royals or No-trumps, the odds against the
double are increased. If four No-trumps be doubled, the figures are 90
to 50 with the option given to the Declarer to increase them to 220 to
150.
The explanatory remark so often heard after an unsuccessful double, "It
could not cost anything, as they were out anyhow," is not an absolutely
accurate statement. It may be worth while to consider one ordinary
illustration of how many points may be lost by a foolish double of this
character. A bid of four Hearts is doubled and redoubled. The Declarer
takes eleven tricks, as he is able to ruff one or two high cards which
the doubler hoped would prove winners. This is an every-day case, but
the figures are rarely brought home. Without a double, the Declarer
would have scored 40 points; with the redouble, he scores 160 points
and 200 bonus, or 360, presented by an adversary, who hoped at most to
gain 50 and thought his effort "could not cost anything."
A doubtful double should not be made when the partner has another bid,
as, for example, when the adversary to the right has called four
Hearts, over three Royals declared by the partner. Under these
circumstances, the double, on the theory that the doubler expects to
secure a large bonus, may properly deter the partner from a successful
four Royals declaration. Even when the double is successful to the
extent of 100, that is not a sufficient compensation for losing the
opportunity to win the game.
The fact that a good player has declared an unusually large number of
tricks, as, for example, five Hearts, is not in itself a reason for
doubling. A player of experience, when he makes such a declaration,
fully realizes the difficulty of the undertaking. He does not take the
chance without giving it more consideration than he would a smaller
bid, and it is only fair to assume that he has a reasonable expectation
of success. Doubling, therefore, merely because the bid requires ten or
even eleven tricks, is folly, pure and simple. This comment, however,
does not apply when the bid is of the flag-flying character.[21] As to
whether or not it comes within that category the doubler will have to
determine. The Auction expert is always on the lookout for an
opportunity to gather a large bonus at the expense of a flag-flyer, and
as unduly sanguine players indulge in that practice more than others,
their declarations should be subjected to the most rigid scrutiny.
[21] See pages 139-142 inc.
The doubtful double, which, should it prove unsuccessful, will result
in the Declarer scoring a game he would not otherwise obtain, is, as a
rule, inexcusable. By this is not meant that a bid of two or three
Hearts or Royals, or of three or four Clubs or Diamonds, should never
be doubled. That would be absurd doctrine, but such a double should
never be made with the chances even, or nearly even. An experienced
bidder will not risk presenting the adversaries with the game and a
bonus unless reasonably sure of defeating the declaration.
Another absurd notion is doubling because of the partner's general
strength. The partner has an equal opportunity to double, and is much
better posted in relation to his own cards. If the strength be his, he
should decide whether or not to take the chance. When, however, one
partner has some strength in the suit the adversaries have declared,
and the other, high side cards, the double is more apt to confuse the
Declarer if made by the player without the Trump strength.
The above refers to doubtful doubles only; when the indications are
that the Declarer can be decisively defeated, the double is most
important. It is worth 100 if the Declarer go down two; 150, if he lose
three, etc. These additional points should not be allowed to escape.
Even the most venturesome doublers realize that, except in the unusual
case, it is unwise to double a bid of one, whether it be in a suit or
No-trump. Some players hesitate about doubling a bid of two, preferring
to take the chance of forcing the bidder higher. No general rule
covering the situation can be laid down, as it depends greatly upon the
character of the doubler's hand whether the adversary is apt to advance
his bid.
A double of a No-trump is much safer than of a suit declaration. The
doubler of the No-trump knows approximately what to expect from his
long suit, what suits he has stopped, and if one be unguarded, can
estimate how many tricks it may be possible for the declarer to run.
The doubler of a suit declaration cannot figure with any such accuracy.
He rarely has more than two winning Trumps, and therefore, as a rule,
must depend upon side Aces and Kings for the balance of his tricks. It
is always possible that the Declarer or his partner may be absolutely
void of the suit or suits in which the doubler expects to win his
tricks, so that sometimes a hand with which the most conservative
player would double, goes to pieces before a cross-ruff. When one hand
is evenly divided, the chances are that the others are of the same
character, but it is not a certainty that they are. When one hand has a
very long suit, and is either blank in some other suit, or has but a
singleton of it, the other hands are apt to contain very long and very
short suits. Therefore, if the doubler be without, or have but a
singleton of, a suit, he should be more conservative, in doubling a
suit declaration upon the expectation of making high side cards, than
when he has an evenly divided hand.
Probably the most advantageous situation for a double is when the
partner has declared No-trump, and the adversary to the right, two of a
suit, of which the doubler, in addition to other strength, holds four
cards, at least two of which are sure to take tricks. This comes nearer
being an informatory double than any other in vogue in the game of
to-day. The partner, however, should not take it out unless his
No-trump consist of some such holding as a solid suit and an Ace.
A hand of this character may not prove formidable against a suit
declaration, and it justifies the original Declarer, as he knows that
the adverse suit is well stopped, in bidding two No-trumps. It is one
of the few cases where it is not advisable to allow the double of a
partner to stand.
It is generally conceded that the double, although a most powerful
factor in the game, and the element which is productive of large
rubbers, is used excessively, especially by inexperienced and rash
players. If a record could be produced of all the points won and lost
by doubling, there is little doubt that the "lost" column would lead by
a ratio of at least two to one.
The double in the hands of a discreet player of sound judgment is,
indeed, a powerful weapon greatly feared by the adversaries; when used
by the unskilled, it becomes a boomerang of the most dangerous type.
A player cannot afford to have the reputation of never doubling, as
that permits his adversaries to take undue liberties in bidding, but it
is better to be ultra-conservative than a foolish doubler who
continually presents his opponents with games of enormous proportions.
A player should not double unless able to count with reasonable
exactness in his own hand and announced by his partner a sufficient
number of tricks to defeat the Declarer. It is not the place to take a
chance or to rely upon a partner, who has not shown strength, for an
average holding. It must also be remembered as an argument against a
doubtful double that the Declarer is more apt to make his declaration
when doubled, as he is then given more or less accurate information
regarding the position of the adverse strength, and can finesse
accordingly. A double frequently costs one trick--sometimes even more.
THE CHOICE BETWEEN A GAME AND A DOUBLE
A most interesting question arises when a player is placed in the
gratifying position of having the opportunity of electing whether to go
game or secure a bonus by doubling.
Which course he should take depends entirely upon the state of the
rubber, and the size of the bonus that the double will probably
produce. A game is always to be preferred to a double which is not apt
to net more than 100. When 200 is sure and a greater bonus probable,
the double should be made during either the first or second game of the
rubber. During the rubber game, however, the doubler should be more
conservative, and should "take in" his rubber unless satisfied that the
double will produce 300, with a potential possibility of more.
The reason, which may not at first be apparent, for this difference in
the situation, may be briefly explained as follows: Before a game has
been won, the securing of a large bonus in the honor column places the
fortunate doubler in a most advantageous position, as he starts the
rubber insured against loss unless he suffer a similar penalty.
When the only game finished has been won by the adversaries, a large
bonus should be preferred to game. As the adversaries already have a
game, the next hand may give them the rubber, and should it do so, its
amount will be most materially affected by the action of the player who
has the chance either to score a bonus or win a game. If the first game
be of normal size, a large bonus will nullify the result of the rubber,
but if instead a game be taken in the adversaries will score an average
rubber.
When the player considering a double has a game and the adversaries
have not, he is in a most excellent position to double with the hope of
a big winning. To secure the enlarged rubber, it is only necessary for
him to obtain one game before the adversaries get two, and as the odds
are greatly in his favor it is a chance worth taking.
When, however, each side has a game and the question is whether to
obtain a bonus or score rubber, the bonus must be large and sure to
justify giving up a rubber practically won for merely an equal chance
of capturing a larger one. It has been elsewhere stated that when a
player who has an opportunity to win a rubber fails to avail himself of
it, and on the next hand the adversaries reach the goal, the loss may
be roughly estimated at 600 points. The player who doubles during the
third game knows that the next hand may see the adversaries score the
rubber. Even if he obtain 400 points by doubling, and this happens, the
adversaries gain to the extent of approximately 200 points by his
action. On the other hand, he has an equal chance for the game, and if
he win it, he will be the gainer by the amount secured by the double.
When he has a sure 400 in sight, or even a sure 300, with a reasonable
chance of more, the odds favor the double, but it is the height of
folly to take an even chance of losing 600 unless 300 be the minimum
return.
Advice as to whether to double or go game is useful only for players
who can with accuracy estimate the trick-taking value of their hands.
To refuse a double which would net several hundred for the sake of
going game and then fall a trick short of both the game and the
declaration is most exasperating, while on the other hand to double for
a big score, instead of taking in a sure game, only to have the double
fail, is equally heart-breaking.
The player who takes either horn of this dilemma must be sure of his
ground and must figure the chances with the greatest care.
WHEN TO REDOUBLE
The question of when to redouble is so intricate that it is hard to
consider, except when the specific case arises. Some players frequently
redouble, as a kind of bluff, when convinced their declaration will
fail, the intent being to frighten either the doubler or his partner
into another declaration. Against a very timid player, this is
sometimes successful, but unless it catch its victim, it is expensive
bait.
Nine out of ten redoubles, however, are _bona fide_, and made because
the fulfilment of the contract seems assured. Even then, however, a
player should not redouble unless practically positive that neither of
his adversaries can get out of the redouble by making a higher bid.
The player who has been doubled and is sure of his contract is in a
most enviable position; game and a handsome bonus both are his, and it
would be most foolish for him to risk so much merely for the chance of
the extra score. If, however, there be no escape for the doubler, the
redouble is most valuable, and a real opportunity for it should never
be overlooked.
WHAT TO DO WHEN THE PARTNER IS DOUBLED
The player who, whenever his partner's declaration is doubled, becomes
frightened, concludes that the worst is sure to happen, and that it is
his duty to come to the rescue by jumping headlong into some other
declaration, even if it require an increased number of tricks, is a
most dangerous _vis-à-vis_. A double does not justify the assumption
that the Declarer is beaten, especially when the partner has any
unannounced help. If the partner be weak, it is folly for him to go
from bad to worse; if strong, he may enable the Declarer to make a
large score. In any event, in nine cases out of ten, "standing pat" is
his best policy.
VIII
LEADING
The selection of the correct lead in Auction is not attended with so
many difficulties as in Whist, or even in Bridge. In Whist, the
original leader is obliged to begin the play in the dark, the turn-up
constituting his entire knowledge of the strength or weakness of the
other players. In Bridge, the extent of his information is limited to
the inferences that can be drawn from the declaration and the double,
but in Auction every player has made at least one announcement which is
more or less instructive.
When there has been considerable bidding it is frequently possible to
accurately estimate the length and strength of the suit of each player
and the trick-taking value of the balance of his hand. When only one or
two declarations have been made, so much information may not be
obtainable, but even then the leader, from the failure of certain
players to bid, may be able to make deductions of considerable value.
The Auction leader, therefore, must remember the various declarations,
draw both positive and negative inferences therefrom, and whenever it
is not advisable to open his partner's suit or his own, should follow
the old principle which, since the days of Pole, has been applicable to
all games of the Whist family, and realize "'Tis seldom wrong to lead
up to the weak and through the strong."
The original opening is materially varied by the character of the final
declaration, the system of leading against a No-trump being quite
different from that employed when a suit is Trump.
HOW TO LEAD AGAINST A NO-TRUMP
When the partner has not shown strength, the leader, against a
No-trump, should open his own long suit. If he have two long suits, he
should pick the stronger except when he has declared it, and has not
received support from his partner, in which case it is generally wise
to try the other. The possible exception to the lead of a long suit
against a No-trump is when that suit has been declared, has not been
helped by the partner, and the No-trump has been subsequently bid to
the right. In this situation, with a tenace in the long suit, it is
sometimes advisable to try, by leading another suit, to get the partner
in, so that he may lead through the Declarer's strength in the suit
called by the leader. This, however, is a dangerous expedient when the
partner has not declared. Should a suit be guessed which the partner
cannot win, one of his high cards is apt to be sacrificed, and not only
nothing gained, but the advantage of the lead transferred to the
adversary. If two high cards be missing from the tenace suit, as in the
case when it is headed by Ace, Queen, Ten, or King, Knave, Ten, and the
Declarer hold the missing honors and one small card, it will take two
leads to establish the suit. It is not likely that a partner without
sufficient strength to declare will be able to get in twice, and trying
to put him in once is most apt to establish a suit for the Declarer.
Therefore, as a general proposition, unless the partner have declared,
the tenace suit should be led. When, however, the partner has shown a
suit, opening it, in preference to a tenace, is elementary and
compulsory.
When the partner has declared, the leader should open the suit named
unless satisfied that his own affords a more potent weapon for the
attack.
There are only three conditions which justify the leader in assuming
this, viz.:--
(_a_) When the leader has called his suit and his partner has
advanced the declaration.
(_b_) When the leader's suit is headed by Ace, King, Queen, or
King, Queen, Knave.
(_c_) When the leader has only a singleton of his partner's
suit and has several reëntries.
Innumerable tricks, games, and rubbers have been thrown away by a
leader who, considering solely his own hand, has started with his suit
in preference to that of his partner. There is some peculiar
characteristic in the composition of many players which magnifies the
value of their own cards, so that they seem of greater importance and
more desirable to establish than their partners'. Even experienced
players have been known to commit such an Auction absurdity as opening
a suit headed by a Knave, in preference to the suit named by the
partner, which, of necessity, contains the strength requisite for a
Trump declaration.
It is fair to estimate that ten tricks are lost by denying the
partner's declaration to one that escapes the player who leads his
partner's suit in preference to his own.
When the partner has declared, his suit can be counted upon for both
length and strength, and unless it be practically solid, his hand
contains at least one reëntry. The leader by his opening can attack
only one-quarter of the No-trump fortification, and it is his duty to
pick out the spot which promises to be most vulnerable. A No-trump call
is very likely to spell game unless a suit can be established against
it. In order to accomplish this it is generally necessary to start with
the first card led. Therefore, making the right original opening is
probably the only opportunity to save the game. When the leader selects
his own suit in preference to his partner's, he should be able to say,
"In spite of the strength you have declared, I am reasonably sure that
we have a better chance to establish this suit than yours."
As a rule, however, the leader does not have sufficient strength to
support such a statement, and, therefore, his lead generally says,
"Partner, I know you have considerable strength, you may have declared
expressly for the purpose of asking me to lead your suit, but I
selfishly prefer to play my own hand rather than act for the benefit of
the partnership."
It is but a puerile excuse for a leader who does not open his partner's
suit to explain that the No-trump was called by the right-hand
adversary after the partner's declaration, and that the bid, having
been made with the anticipation that the suit named would be led, he
should surprise the Declarer. It is true that the Declarer expects that
suit, but it may be the only opening he fears. It is more than possible
that the suit is stopped but once, and that leading it will save the
game, even if it do not defeat the declaration. It is certainly a very
short-sighted or unduly sanguine player who selects a suit of his own,
which has not nearly the strength of his partner's, merely on the wild
chance that his partner, rather than the No-trump bidder, has the
missing high cards.
When the partner has declared two suits and the leader has length or
strength in one of them, he should open it, but when he cannot assist
either, he should open the suit named first, as it is probably the
stronger.
As will be seen from the tables of leads against a No-trump
declaration, in some cases whether the leader has a reëntry materially
affects the manner in which he should open his long suit. By a reëntry
in this connection is meant either an Ace or King, unless the suit
containing the King have been bid by the adversary to the left of the
leader. In that case the King cannot be expected to win unless
accompanied by the Queen. A Queen, or even Queen, Knave, cannot be
considered a reëntry, as the suit may not be led three times.
The reason for varying the lead, depending upon the presence of a
reëntry, is that the sole thought of the leader against a No-trump is
to establish the suit led, and to insure so doing he opens his suit
exclusively with that end in view, regardless of whether it would
otherwise be the opening most apt to prove trick-winning. He knows that
the Declarer will, if possible, hold up a winning card until the Third
Hand is unable to return the suit. Therefore, if he be without a
reëntry, he must do all in his power to force the winning card from the
adversary's hand as early in the play as possible. If he have a
reëntry, he may play much more fearlessly. An example of this is a long
suit, headed by Ace, Queen, Knave. The most advantageous lead from this
combination is the Ace (as an adversary may hold an unguarded King),
and that would be the lead with a reëntry; but the chances are that the
partner does not hold more than three cards of the suit, and, if it be
opened in the usual way, the King will be held up until the third
round. The leader without a reëntry, therefore, is compelled to open
with the Queen, so as to establish the suit, while the partner, who
probably has a reëntry, still retains a card of it.
Another important convention which applies to the opening of the
leader's suit against a No-trump declaration (but, of course, against a
No-trump declaration only) is that the original lead of an Ace calls
for the partner's highest card. An Ace, therefore, should be led from
such a combination as a suit headed by Ace, King, Knave, Ten, since the
drop of the Queen will permit the suit to be run without hesitation,
and the failure of the partner to play the Queen will permit the leader
to place its position positively, and to continue the suit or not, as
his judgment and the balance of his hand dictate. This doctrine is
extended to all cases of the original lead of an Ace against a No-trump
declaration.
The Ace should not be led unless the partner's best card, regardless of
its size, be desired, and the partner should play it unhesitatingly, be
it King, Queen, or Knave, unless the Dummy convince him that meeting
the demand of the lead will be trick-sacrificing, in which case the
leader's command should be ignored.
In leading a partner's suit, the general rule of selecting the fourth
best, when opening with a small card, is not followed. The object in
leading that suit is to strengthen the partner, and it is more
important to do that and also to tell him what is the leader's highest
card than to post him regarding exact length. Holding either two,
three, or four of a partner's suit, the top, therefore, should be led,
followed on each succeeding trick by the next in order, the lowest
being retained until the last. This is sometimes called the "down and
out." The one exception to the lead of the top of the partner's suit is
when it consists of three or more headed by Ace or King, and the
right-hand adversary has called No-trump after the suit has been
declared. In that case, it may be that the stopper which the Declarer
thinks he has in the suit can be captured, and the lead, therefore,
should be a low card.
NUMBER-SHOWING LEADS
The lead in Auction is materially simplified by the fact that
number-showing is not nearly so important as in Whist, and really only
becomes of value when opening a small card against a No-trump
declaration. In that case the lowest should always be led with four in
the suit, because the partner, having the Dummy spread before him,
being able to count his own hand, and being informed by the lead
regarding the leader's length in the suit, can generally tell the exact
number held by the Declarer, and can, therefore, accurately determine
whether it is better to continue that suit or try some other. It
happens more frequently than would be supposed that when a four-card
suit is opened with a small card, the Dummy and Third Hand have only
four cards of it between them. The Third Hand can then, if the leader
have shown exactly four, mark it as the long suit of the Declarer, and
make an advantageous shift. This is the only method of giving this
warning. If the fourth-best lead be not adopted, the suit must, in most
cases, necessarily be continued to the great benefit of the Declarer.
Number-showing by the lead of a small card (one of the rudiments of
Whist) is doubtless thoroughly understood by most Auction players; it
consists in leading the fourth best, when the suit is not of such a
character as to demand a high card or intermediate sequence opening.
This informs the partner that the leader has exactly three cards in
that suit higher than the card led, and that he may or may not have any
smaller card.
For example: the leader has Queen, 7, 6, and 4; the Dummy, a singleton
(the 3); and the Third Hand, who wins the trick with the Ace, only two
others (the 8 and 2). The Third Hand can place the Declarer with five,
as the leader, having opened his lowest, can have had only four
originally.
Number-showing leads in high cards, so advantageous in Whist, are
absolutely unimportant in Auction, and only complicate the situation.
They are not given in the table of leads appended at the end of this
chapter, nor is their use permissible, even by the Whist-player of the
old school who is thoroughly familiar with their meaning. He must
realize that Auction is not a number-showing game, and must be content
to limit his skill in that respect to the fourth best, which is
advisable when it is not higher than the 7. The limitation of the
fourth-best lead to a 7 or lower card is a useful modern innovation.
When the 8 or a higher fourth best is led against a No-trump, the
Declarer, with his twenty-six cards at his command, and with great
strength in his own hand, is apt to receive information as to the exact
high cards held by the leader which will prove of greater value to him
than to the partner. Furthermore, the lead of an 8 or 9 as a fourth
best is bound at times to conflict with the valuable lead known as the
"top of an intermediate sequence."
The holdings from which the top of an intermediate sequence should be
led are shown in the tables, and while some of the leads in such cases,
which are absolutely conventional in Auction, may shock the
Whist-player, they have, nevertheless, been found to be advisable in
the present game. Trick-winning is far more important than giving
numerical information, and the top of an intermediate sequence often
succeeds in capturing a valuable card in the Dummy, does not give too
much information to the Declarer, helps to establish the suit, and
seldom interferes with the play of the partner.
Much has been written by those who contend that the fourth-best lead
against a No-trump gives the Declarer too much information, and,
therefore, should never be employed. The writers, however, do not
consider that practically the only cases in which the lead is
objectionable for the reason cited is when it is an 8 or higher card,
while the great advantage of the lead is the warning above mentioned.
There are also instances in which the Third Hand is at some time in the
play in doubt whether to return the original lead or try his own suit.
The knowledge of whether his partner holds three or more of the suit
first led may in such case be of the greatest value.
The idea of leading the fourth best only when it is a 7 or smaller card
eliminates the objection, yet in practically every case affords the
advantage.
A player who adopts this system may at times, as, for example, with
such a holding as Ace, Queen, 10, 8, 2, be obliged to open the 8, but
inasmuch as he would lead the same card from Ace, Queen, 8, 7, 2, the
Declarer cannot bank upon the 8 of such a leader showing three higher
cards of the suit in his hand, and, therefore, no harm is done.
If the leader have any such four-card combination as Ace, or any one
face card, accompanied by 9, 8, 2, or 8, 7, 2, showing that the lead is
from four only is more important than opening the top of a two-card
intermediate sequence. When, however, the intermediate is headed by a
Knave or 10, the opening of the top of it becomes advisable regardless
of the length of the suit. Of course, the 2, in the examples just
given, is used to represent any small card, and the fourth best should
be led if it be a 3, 4, or 5.
THE LEAD AGAINST A SUIT DECLARATION
Against a suit declaration, the original lead of the longest suit is
not in the least imperative. Strength is far more important than
length. As the tables show, many high-card combinations are opened very
differently, the theory being to win with honors, not to establish
small cards. If the leader be a Whist-player, he must remember that
Auction is a very different game. The Trump has not been selected by
chance, but has been named because of his adversaries' great length and
strength. The establishment of an adverse suit against a Trump
declaration is, therefore, an almost unknown proceeding.
The object of the leader against a suit declaration is to get as many
tricks as possible, and he should utilize the two best methods for so
doing: namely, winning with his own and his partner's high cards, and
ruffing with weak Trumps.
He should avoid opening a tenace suit, regardless of its length. A
singleton, if he be short in Trumps, is probably his best lead; his
second choice should be high cards in sequence. When his hand does not
contain either of these advantageous openings, he should try his
partner's suit.
It goes without saying that if the leader have both the Ace and King of
a suit, it is always well to lead the King, not only for the purpose of
giving information and taking a practically assured trick, but also in
order to obtain a look at the Dummy, which will enable him to more
advantageously size up the entire situation.
When his partner has not shown strength, the leader need never hesitate
about starting with a strengthening card of a short suit which has not
been declared. He is also thoroughly justified, if weak in Trumps, in
asking for a force by leading the top of a two-card suit. This, while
not nearly so desirable an opening as a singleton, is better than
leading from a tenace. When the leader is long in Trumps, he should
open his own or his partner's strength.
The leader should bear in mind as a vital principal that, against a
suit declaration, a suit containing an Ace should never be opened
originally, unless the Ace (or King, if that card be also held) be led.
The leader should observe this convention, regardless of the length of
the suit. The knowledge that a leader can be relied upon not to have
the Ace unless he lead it will be of material assistance to his partner
in the play. It is sometimes very tempting to lead low with an Ace,
hoping that a King may be found in the Second Hand, and that the
partner's Queen may capture the first trick. This play will
occasionally prove successful, but in the long run, it is a
trick-loser, there being so many instances of singletons, even of
single Kings, and also of two-card suits, where, unless the Ace be led,
the Declarer will win the first trick and discard the other card.
The leader must observe the distinction between opening a long and a
short suit which has always been in force in Whist, Bridge, and
Auction--that is, when leading a suit headed by a Knave or smaller
card, if long, open from the bottom; if short, from the top. For
example, holding Knave, 9, 7, 2, the 2 should be led, but holding
Knave, 7, 2, the Knave is the card to open.
One other conventional lead should be mentioned, which, as an original
opening, is advisable against a Trump declaration only. It is the lead
of a two-card suit consisting of Ace, King. The Ace first, and then
King, signifies no more of the suit, and a desire to ruff. Of course,
by analogy, the lead of the King before the Ace shows more of the suit.
HOW TO LEAD TO A DOUBLE
The question of what lead should be made when the partner has doubled
is comparatively simple, although the answer depends materially upon
whether the double has been of a No-trump or a suit declaration. When a
No-trump has been doubled, the original lead should invariably be the
suit the doubler has declared. When the doubler has not made any
declaration, the suit the leader has called should be opened. When
neither the doubler nor the leader has declared, a case that rarely
occurs, the lead should be either the best Club or the highest card of
the leader's shortest suit, depending upon which of these two
conventions the doubler approves.
The theory of the advocates of the Club convention is that it is
important for the doubler of a No-trump to know exactly what suit will
be led, and that he is more apt to desire Clubs than any other, as the
other suits, being of greater value, are more likely to be bid. The
argument of the advocates of the high card of the short suit convention
is that it enables a double to be made with any long suit.
The Club convention is much safer, and is used by most conservative
players.
In the event of there being any doubt what the lead should be, if the
leader be fortunate enough to hold an Ace, it is good policy for him to
lead it for the purpose of taking a look. The contents of the Dummy
will probably furnish the desired information.
When a suit declaration has been doubled, a singleton is always an
advantageous opening. The lead of a high card is also advisable for the
purpose of taking a look. If the leader be without either a singleton
or high-card lead, his partner's suit is unquestionably his wisest
opening.
THE TABLES
The tables which appear at the end of this chapter should be carefully
examined by all who are not absolutely letter perfect in the
conventional leads. The present tendency of players taking up Auction
is to regard the leads as unimportant, and this often results
disastrously. The quondam Whist-player realizes the necessity of having
every lead at his fingers' ends, but for the benefit of those who have
never participated in the older game, it may be said that the
conventional leads have been determined upon only after years of
experimentation; as a consequence of which it is known just which card,
in the long run, will win the most tricks.
A leader who, on the spur of the moment, during the play, tries
something else, is taking a course sure to deceive an intelligent
partner, and one which will probably reduce the number of his tricks.
The one combination that seems to tempt some players to disregard the
conventional, is the King, Queen, Ten, against a No-trump. With this
holding the King is manifestly most advantageous, as if the Declarer
hold Ace, Knave, it will either force the Ace and hold the tenace over
the Knave or win the trick. Without the Ten, a small card should be
led, but many players fail to recognize the important distinction.
Every one attempting to play the game should learn the conventional
leads, and having once mastered this comparatively easy lesson, should
never allow a childish impulse, such as "having a hunch," to induce an
experiment with a lead not recognized as sound.
The various tables follow.
OPENING LEADS AGAINST A NO-TRUMP DECLARATION
With a Without a
Holding Reëntry Reëntry
Ace, King, Queen, Knave, with or without others Ace Ace
Ace, King, Queen, Ten, with one or more others Ace Ace
Ace, King, Queen, Ten King King
Ace, King, Queen, with three or more others Ace Ace
Ace, King, Queen, with one or two others King King
Ace, King, Knave, Ten, with two or more others Ace Ace
Ace, King, Knave, Ten, with one other Ace Knave
Ace, King, Knave, Ten King Knave
Ace, King, Knave, with three or more others Ace Ace
Ace, King, Knave, with two others Ace 4th best
Ace, King, Knave, with one other King King
Ace, King, and five others Ace Ace
Ace, King, and four others King 4th best
Ace, King, and two or three others 4th best 4th best
Ace, Queen, Knave, Ten, with or without others Ace Queen
Ace, Queen, Knave, with one or more others Ace Queen
Ace, Queen, Ten, Nine, and three others Ace Ten
Ace, Queen, Ten, Nine, with less than seven Ten Ten
Ace, Queen, and five others Ace 4th best
Ace, Queen, and two, three, or four others 4th best 4th best
Ace, Knave, Ten, with one or more others Knave Knave
Ace, Knave, with two or more others 4th best 4th best
Ace, Ten, Nine, with one or more others Ten Ten
Ace, Ten, Eight, with one or more others 4th best 4th best
King, Queen, Knave, Ten, with or without others King King
King, Queen, Knave, with one or more others King King
King, Queen, Ten, with one or more others King King
King, Queen, with five or more others King King
King, Queen, with four or more others King 4th best
King, Queen, with two or three others 4th best 4th best
King, Knave, Ten, with one or more others Knave Knave
King, Knave, with two or more others 4th best 4th best
King, Ten, Nine, with one or more others Ten Ten
King, Ten, with two or more others 4th best 4th best
Queen, Knave, Ten, with one or more others Queen Queen
Queen, Knave, Nine, with one or more others Queen Queen
Queen, Knave, with two or more others 4th best 4th best
Queen, Ten, Nine, with one or more others Ten Ten
Knave, Ten, Nine, with one or more others Knave Knave
Knave, Ten, Eight, with one or more others Knave Knave
Knave, Ten, with two or more others 4th best 4th best
Ten, Nine, Eight, with one or more others Ten Ten
Ten, Nine, Seven, with one or more others Ten Ten
In all the above cases in which the fourth best is given as the lead,
should the hand contain an intermediate sequence, headed by an 8, or
higher card, the top of such sequence should be led instead of the
fourth best. For example, King, Knave, 9, 8, 2, lead the 9; King,
Knave, 9, 7, 2, lead the 7.
In any case not mentioned, in which there is not an intermediate
sequence, headed by an 8 or higher card, the fourth best should be
opened.
The lead of the fourth best, when it is an 8 or higher card, should be
avoided whenever possible. For example, Ace, Queen, 10, 8, 6, 2, lead
the 6; but never lead the lowest when holding more than four, so from
Ace, Queen, 10, 8, 2, lead the 8.
In all the Ace-King combinations in the above table, in which the Ace
is the conventional lead, it is selected in preference to the King,
because the highest card of the partner is desired; when the King is
the lead, the suit is not of sufficient strength to make that play
advisable.
OPENING LEADS AGAINST A TRUMP DECLARATION
Holding Lead
Ace, King, Queen, Knave King, then Knave
Ace, King, Queen King, then Queen
Ace, King, Knave King
Ace, King, and one or more others King
Ace, King, without any others Ace, then King
Ace, Queen, Knave[22] Ace, then Queen
Ace, Queen, and one or more others[22] Ace, then lowest
Ace, Knave, Ten[22] Ace
Ace, and one or more small Ace
King, Queen, Knave, with or without others King
King, Queen, Ten, with or without others King
King, Queen, with or without others King
King, Knave, Ten, with or without others[22] Knave
King, Knave, and one or more others[22] Lowest or 4th best
King, Ten, Nine, and one or more others[22] Ten
King, and two or more others[22] Lowest or 4th best
Queen, Knave, Ten, with or without others Queen
Queen, Knave, Nine, with or without others Queen
Queen, Knave, and two or more others 4th best[23]
Queen, Knave, and one or no others Queen
Queen, Ten, Nine, with or without others Ten
Knave, Ten, with or without others Knave
Ten, Nine, with or without others Ten
[22] These suits unless declared by partner should not be
opened, as they are disadvantageous leads against a Trump
declaration.
[23] This is the conventional lead from this combination, but
many good players prefer the Queen, especially when the
indications are that the hand is not evenly divided. When long
suits have been announced, the chances are that the suit led will
be ruffed on the third round, if not earlier. If the King be in
the Second Hand and the Ace in the Third, a trick can be gained
by leading the Queen whenever the suit does not last for three
rounds. Therefore, unless the hand indicate that the suits are
evenly divided, the Queen seems to be the better lead.
IX
THE PLAY
It has been stated elsewhere that it is easier to advise an Auction
player how to declare than how to play. This is unquestionably true,
and as a rule instruction in print relating to intricate situations in
the play is of little benefit to the reader.
End situations, and even those which arise earlier in the hand,
seldom exactly repeat themselves. Pages may be filled with the
description of brilliant plays by the Declarer and his opponents.
The reader may study such examples until he becomes thoroughly
familiar with every detail, and yet, so great and infinite is the
variety of Auction hands, may play for years without ever having one
of them arise. Mathematicians state that the 52 cards may be
distributed in 53,644,737,765,839,237,440,000 different ways, and
that a player may receive 635,013,559,600 different hands. There is
no reason to question the accuracy of these figures, but even if
they be grossly excessive, it is still self-evident that each deal
is apt to produce some totally new situation.
All that will be attempted, therefore, in considering the play, is to
offer a few general suggestions that it is believed will be found
applicable to a considerable percentage of hands, and that it is hoped
will prove useful.
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PLAY IN AUCTION AND BRIDGE
There is little difference between the play in Auction and Bridge,
although in Auction, due to the bidding, all the players have much
greater information regarding the strength and weakness of the various
hands.
There is one point of variance, however, worthy of consideration:--
In Bridge, the player of the open hand is generally striving for the
game as his only object. In Auction, the Declarer has two purposes in
view; first, to fulfil his declaration; and second, when the making of
the declaration does not in itself secure game, to obtain that also.
Naturally, the opponents of the Declarer play with exactly the opposite
idea, their first object being to prevent him from going game, and
their second, to keep him from fulfilling his contract.
PLAYING FOR GAME
The Declarer should never take a finesse or make any other play which,
if it succeed, gains one or more tricks, but which, if it fail, risks
the fulfilment of an otherwise assured contract. Having once made sure
of his bid, he should apply a similar rule to the winning of the game.
An extra trick counts comparatively little, but the failure to carry
out a contract or to capture a game may alter the result of the rubber.
The game is, of course, far more important than the contract, and the
Declarer, when he has a reasonable chance of obtaining it, should, if
necessary, risk his declaration. On the other hand, his opponents
should save the game beyond peradventure, even if by so doing they lose
an opportunity to defeat the Declarer.
A couple of examples will show this more clearly than pages of
explanation.
Suppose, the score being love, the Declarer, who has bid three Royals,
has about exhausted the possibilities of his cards. He has won eight
tricks and has the lead in his own hand, with an Ace and Queen of the
same suit in the Dummy. One more trick will fulfil his contract, two
will give him game. The development of the play has shown that the
adversaries will make the rest of the tricks whenever they obtain the
lead, and consequently, if he finesse and lose, the eight tricks
already taken will be all he will secure, his Ace will "die," and he
will be "one down."
He is without information as to the location of the King; neither
adversary has declared, and neither has by discard or otherwise in the
play given a reliable hint as to the absence or presence of the
all-important card.
His duty is plain. By finessing he may lose 27 points and a penalty of
50, 77 in all, but the finesse gives him an even chance to win the
game; and whether it be the rubber, with its premium of 250, or merely
the first game, but still a most important advance toward the goal, he
should take his chance, realizing that the value of the object for
which he is striving is far greater than the 77 he may lose.
Under similar conditions, however, if the Trump be Diamonds, the
finesse should be refused. It would then take three more tricks to make
game, and but two are possible. One completes the contract, and winning
the finesse adds only 7 points, less than one-tenth of the 71 placed in
jeopardy.
The 21 points in the trick column assured by refusing the finesse are,
viewed from a practical standpoint, just as near a game as 28 would be,
but 21 makes the bidding for game on the next deal much easier than if
the effort to win the extra 7 had resulted in the score remaining at
love. In this case, therefore, not only when the chances are equal, but
even when unmistakable inferences of declaration and play indicate that
the success of the finesse is almost assured, the opportunity should be
refused.
"Penny-wise and pound-foolish" aptly characterizes a player who would
risk advantage of position and 71 points for the chance of gaining a
paltry 7.
PLAY FOR AN EVEN BREAK
The Declarer, in the absence of any positive indication to the
contrary, should base his play upon the probability of an even division
of the cards. That is, with seven of a suit in his own hand and Dummy,
he should play for each of the adversaries to have three; with nine, he
should play on the basis that the four missing cards are equally
divided. In the long run, playing for the even break will net many
tricks, but in a small percentage of instances it will result
unfortunately. The case in which the question most frequently arises is
when either in Trumps or in the Declarer's strong suit in a No-trump,
the two hands hold nine cards headed by Ace, King, Knave. The division
between the two hands may be
Ace, King, Knave, X, X and X, X, X, X
Ace, King, X, X, X and Knave, Ten, X, X
Ace, Knave, X, X, X and King, X, X, X
King, Knave, X, X, X and Ace, X, X, X
or any other.
In all these cases the Knave finesse is tempting, but it should be
refused, and the Ace and King played with the expectation of an even
break which will drop the Queen on the second round. The exceptions to
this general rule occur when
(_a_) The presence of the Queen in either adverse hand has
been indicated by some declaration or double.
(_b_) When one adversary has shown unusual length in some
other suit.
In the latter case, it is sometimes wise to play on the assumption that
the adversary, very long in another suit, has but one of the suit in
question, and consequently to finesse the _second round_ on that
basis.
GENERAL PLAY OF THE DECLARER
The Declarer, as soon as the Dummy's cards are spread, should size up
the situation, see how many tricks are in sight, what suit or suits it
is necessary for him to establish, and what, if any, finesse or
finesses he will have to make in order to secure his declaration and
his game.
In determining which way to finesse, he should be materially assisted
by the bids of his adversaries, and during the play, as situations
develop either in his favor or against him, he should be continually
figuring on the best method to make his declaration. He should remember
that failure to fulfil his contract will not only result in a material
loss on the score, but, in the end, may cost the rubber. When the
scheme of play he has planned at the start shows signs of becoming
unsuccessful, he should, if possible, change it for one more promising.
The Declarer, especially if brought up in the Whist school, should bear
in mind that he now has no partner anxiously seeking information
regarding the contents of his hand, but that he has two adversaries
from whom he should withhold, as long as possible, knowledge of his
strength, weakness, aims, and schemes. When any method of play suggests
itself which seems more deceptive than another, and yet produces the
same result, it should be adopted. False cards should be used whenever
possible, as they are less informatory than the conventional lowest of
a sequence. The Declarer should worry his opponents in this way
whenever the opportunity offers. In playing small cards, the higher
should frequently precede the lower, and every means should be used to
make it as difficult as possible for the adversaries to place the
cards.
DECLARER'S PLAY OF NO-TRUMP
The Declarer will find that he is obliged to use different tactics when
playing a No-trump from those he employs when a Trump has been named.
In the former case, his main object should be to establish his long
suit or suits, and to shut out those of the adversary. When he has the
Ace (without any other stopper) of an adverse suit, unless there be
some other he fears more, he should refrain from playing the Ace until
the third round, or until sure that the partner of the long hand has
exhausted his holding of that suit. The reason for this is obvious. If
the holder of the long suit can be kept from the lead, the suit will
not be made. He may be without a reëntry, so it is important that his
partner be unable to put him in by leading that suit. In this case, the
Declarer should take any doubtful finesse, which he has the opportunity
of taking either way, so that, if it lose, the holder of the long suit
will not be in the lead.
The Declarer should postpone as long as possible leading a suit of four
cards in one hand and three in the other, headed by Ace, King, and
Queen, but not the Knave, unless he be afraid of a long, adverse run
which will force him to awkward discards. The reason is that, should
either of the adversaries be long in that suit, three rounds will
establish for him one or more cards which otherwise would not be made
good. Leading even two rounds will be a warning not to discard from
that suit. It should, therefore, be avoided, except for the purpose of
placing a lead, until the other strength of the Declarer is exhausted,
or until it becomes evident that, when next he loses the lead, the
adversaries will control the situation. Then, and not until then,
should he lead such a suit with the realization that, having postponed
its establishment as long as possible, he has adopted the most probable
method not only of shutting out adverse long cards, but also of making
an extra trick for himself.
While the probability of establishing an adverse trick is not nearly so
great when the Declarer has four cards of such a suit in each hand, it
is still possible, and the method of handling it above advised, when
the total holding is seven, should be followed even with eight. A
thoughtless Declarer who has nothing to fear from an adverse run will
often as soon as he gets in (and before he establishes some suit that
demands attention) start with a suit of this character. Such tactics
sometimes cost a declaration--sometimes a game; yet the thoughtless one
rarely appreciates his folly.
An example may make this more evident:--
DUMMY DECLARER
Spades X, X Ace, Queen, X
Hearts Ace, X, X, X King, Queen, X
Diamonds X, X Ace, Queen, X
Clubs Knave, 9, X, X, X Queen, 10, X, X
The 2 of Spades is opened, and the Declarer wins the first trick with
the Queen. He now has assured two Spade, three Heart, and one Diamond
tricks, with a chance of one more in both Hearts and Diamonds; six sure
and eight possible, without the Clubs. If he establish his Clubs, he
can make 3 tricks in that suit, which will insure game.
If he open his Hearts, he may establish one or more for the adversaries
and thus give up all chance of the game, as he is at best practically
sure to lose two Spades and two Clubs.
It is impossible to gain any advantage by running the four Hearts
before the Clubs, even if they all be good; in other words, it is a
play which may cost the game and cannot by any possibility gain
anything whatever.
When the Declarer holds a suit long in both hands, headed by the three
top honors, two in one hand and one in the other, it is wise to win the
first trick with one of the honors of the hand which holds two; this is
apt to be beneficial in the event of an adversary refusing or having a
singleton.
The Declarer, even when he has bid a light No-trump and received little
assistance, should play with confidence. His adversaries do not know
the flimsy character of his declaration, and will credit him with more
powerful cards than he really holds. Even experienced players seem to
feel that a No-trump declaration is entitled to greater respect than it
deserves when made with the minimum strength which conventionally
authorizes it. A clever player will frequently capture the odd with
such a declaration, merely because the adversaries do not realize his
weakness.
DECLARER'S PLAY OF A SUIT DECLARATION
The Declarer generally has a greater opportunity to display skill in
the play of a suit declaration than of a No-trumper. With a suit
declared, as soon as the Dummy is placed before him, he must determine
which of two plans of campaign it is advisable for him to adopt: that
is, he must either lead Trumps until the adversaries have no more, or
he must play the ruffing game and make his Trumps separately. The
latter is especially advantageous if, with his weaker Trump hand, he
can take a trick or tricks that would, of necessity, be lost if he
immediately exhausted all the Trumps.
The Declarer, therefore, should first look for a chance to ruff losing
cards with his weak hand; when he does not find that opportunity, he
should realize that the adversaries will attempt to do some ruffing
themselves, and in nine cases out of ten, should exhaust the Trumps.
When the Declarer has a holding which makes him anxious that the Trump
lead should come from the other side, and the Dummy contains short
Trumps and a short suit (which short suit the Declarer cannot arrange
for the Dummy to ruff, either because he has the same number as the
Dummy, or because he has winning cards), he can sometimes induce an
adverse Trump lead by opening the short suit, thus conveying to his
adversaries the impression that he desires to ruff with the short
Trumps.
If the Declarer have sufficient Trump length in his weak Trump hand to
exhaust the adverse Trump holding, and still remain with sufficient
Trumps for all possible ruffs, he should lead Trumps before taking the
ruff, so as to avoid any chance of an over-ruff. An obvious case will
exemplify this principle:--
The Declarer holds Ace, King, Queen, and one small Trump; the Dummy,
four small; the Declarer, King, Queen, and two small Clubs, in which
suit the Dummy has Ace and one small. Part of the Declarer's original
scheme of play is to have the Dummy ruff his losing Club, yet to lead
that suit before three rounds of Trumps would be the height of folly,
as a winning card might be ruffed by an adversary or the Dummy
over-ruffed.
Managing the Dummy so as to utilize all his small Trumps to the
greatest advantage is one of the tests of the skill of the player of
the combined hands. A simple example follows: With Hearts Trump, the
Dummy puts down one small Club, and three worthless Trumps. The
Declarer wins the first trick, has Ace at the head of his long Trumps;
also, Ace, King, and two losing Clubs. His play is plain. He should
lead his Ace and then a small Club; ruff the latter, lead a Trump from
Dummy, and then the remaining losing Club, for Dummy to ruff with his
last Trump.
PLAY BY DECLARER'S ADVERSARIES
The adversaries of the Declarer must realize that they are at some
disadvantage in the play. The Declarer knows every card in the Dummy,
but each of his opponents can at best only guess the holding of his
partner. They should, therefore, strive by every means in their power
to give each other all possible information.
They should always play the lowest, and (except with Ace, King, and one
or more others) lead the highest of a sequence. The only case in which
they should withhold information or play a false card is when such
action may upset the calculations of the Declarer, and either cannot
mislead the partner, or, if it do, will not affect his play. For
example, with King, Queen, over an adverse Ace, Knave, 10, a false card
is more than justified, as it tempts the Declarer to mould his play for
another finesse; so also, in other cases in which the partner is
without strength in the suit and his play is, therefore, unimportant,
he may be treated as if he were a Dummy.
The advantage of forcing the strong hand is just as great in Auction as
in Whist or Bridge, and as a rule it is the best play possible for the
adversaries of the Declarer. The only exception is when the Dummy has
an established suit and a reëntry.
Suppose, for example, with four tricks to play, the Declarer has the
last Trump (Hearts), one Club, and two Diamonds. The Dummy has three
winning Clubs, and the leader a Diamond and winning Spades. He knows he
can force the Declarer's last Trump with a Spade, and generally this
would be his wisest play; but the long Clubs in the Dummy show that the
usual tactics cannot now be employed, and his only chance is to lead a
Diamond hoping that his partner has one or two winners.
It goes without saying that leading a suit the weak adverse hand can
trump, and upon which the strong hand can discard, is carrying out a
custom most commendable at Christmas, but which at the card-table does
not arouse the enthusiasm of the partner.
A player should be most careful not to indicate by some mannerism that
his hand is trickless. By pulling a card before it is his turn to play,
by apparent lack of interest, or by allowing himself to be wrapped in
gloom, he may give the Declarer as much information as if he spread his
hand on the table.
THE SIGNAL
One of the best and most serviceable methods of giving information is
by using "the signal," which is made by the play of an unnecessarily
high card. For example, the Ace and King of a suit are led. The play of
the 6 before the 5 constitutes a signal, as the 6 is an unnecessarily
high card.
The meaning of this signal is that the maker desires the suit, in which
it is made, continued. Playing in ordinary order, lower before higher,
shows that the continuation of that suit is not requested. It is the
old Trump signal of the game of Whist, which, inasmuch as a demand for
a Trump lead is not needed in Auction, has been borrowed and
transformed into a request to continue the suit. This signal was first
used to mean, "I can ruff the third round," but the absurdity of
limiting it to any such meaning soon became apparent, and, as it is now
played, it means, "Partner, continue this suit. I have some reason for
asking you so to do." The failure to give this signal may mean, "Shift
the suit," but does not of necessity do so. It merely says, "Partner, I
have no reason for asking you to lead this suit a third time."
This signal is a most important part of Auction tactics. It can be
given on either the partner's or the Declarer's lead, should always be
used when a continuation of the suit is desired, and should be watched
for by the partner with the most painstaking care. The first trick
sometimes furnishes this information. For example, the play of the
deuce, or of any card which the partner can read as being of necessity
the lowest, tells him that either the card is a singleton or that the
player is not beginning a signal.
When a player is anxious to place his partner in the lead, the signal
may be of the greatest possible value. Suppose, for example, he has two
suits from which to choose. In one of these suits he is without
strength, but his partner may have the Ace. In the other, he has the
Ace himself, and his partner may have the King. If he guess the wrong
suit, the Declarer will get in and take the rest of the tricks. By
leading his Ace and watching the size of the card his partner plays, he
can generally tell what to do. If the lowest card be played, he should
shift the suit. In such a situation, if the partner wish the suit
continued, and has more than two small cards, he should play the
highest so as to emphasize the signal.
THE DISCARD
The discard which in Whist has been the subject of so many
controversies, and which, even in Bridge, has created some discussion,
does not assume nearly so great importance in Auction. The strength of
the various suits having been clearly indicated by the bid, there is
not as great opportunity to furnish new information by the discard.
It must not, however, be assumed, merely because the Auction discard is
comparatively unimportant, that it is not worthy of consideration. True
it is that there is no need to worry over any such complicated systems
as strength or rotary discards. They are apt to confuse and produce
misunderstandings far more damaging than any possible benefit which
results when they work perfectly. The strength discard may compel the
playing of a card which, if its suit be established, will win a trick,
and the rotary is not always reliable, as the discarder may be void of
the "next suit," or unable to discard from it because it is composed of
high cards only or of necessary guards for single honors. The
"odd-and-even" discard, that is, 3, 5, 7, 9, showing strength, 2, 4, 6,
8, weakness, is very satisfactory when the hands are made to order, but
a certain proportion of hands fail to contain an odd card when the
discarder desires to announce strength, or an even one when he has
extreme weakness. The awkwardness, when using this system, of such a
holding as 3, 5, 7, is self-apparent.
All these plans or fads had their innings in Whist, where important
information had to be conveyed by the discard, but in Auction, they are
about as necessary as pitching a curve to a blind batsman.
The plain, simple, old-fashioned discard from weakness is all that is
used or required, provided it be understood that a signal in the
discard means a reversal of its ordinary inference. A signal by discard
(that is, for example, discarding first a 5, followed by a 2) is
generally a showing of strength in that suit, and a most pronounced
suggestion, if not an imperative command, that it be led at the first
opportunity. The only case in which it is not an evidence of strength
is when it shows a desire to ruff. The signal in the discard is most
serviceable when the Declarer is playing a long suit, and the partner
is in doubt which of the two remaining suits to keep guarded. In this
case it may not be a command to lead, but merely a wireless message
saying, "I have this suit stopped; you take care of the other."
A signal in a discard to show strength is only necessary when it is not
advisable to discard once from each of the other suits, which by
inference gives the same information, yet does not shorten the strong
suit.
Strength information can often be transmitted by the weakness discard,
just as quickly and more simply than by the now generally abandoned
strength discard. For example, the discard of the lowest card shows
weakness and negatives all possibility of a strength signal, but if the
first discard be as high as a 7 or 8, and the partner can read, from
the general composition of his hand and the Dummy, that the discarder
must hold a lower card in that suit, he gets the information at once.
Regardless of showing his partner strength or weakness, the player has
ample opportunity to give evidence of skill in discarding. Too much
information should never be given to the Declarer when he is in the
lead and controls the situation. There are many hands in which it
becomes obvious that all the adversaries of the Declarer can hope to
accomplish is the saving of a slam, or the taking of one more trick.
The question is not what to tell the partner to lead when he gets in,
but how to win a single trick. In such a case, a bluff discard, _i.e._,
showing strength where it does not exist, is sometimes effective,
although a keen Declarer is not apt to be easily deceived by any ruse
so transparent. One thing to remember under such circumstances,
however, is not to help the Declarer by showing weakness, so that he
will know which way to finesse. In No-trumps or with the Trumps
exhausted, never discard a singleton, or too many cards of a weak suit.
When a suit has been declared, it is unnecessary, by informatory
discarding, to repeat the announcement of strength. This principle,
just as is the case with other systems of play, is predicated upon the
ability of the partner to remember the bids. If, however, he be unable
to do so, information by discard will obviously be sowing seed on
barren ground, and should be withheld, as the Declarer is the only one
who will reap any benefit.
BLOCKING THE DUMMY
When the Declarer is playing a No-trump and the Dummy holds a long suit
without reëntry, an adversary of the Declarer may have the opportunity,
when he has a card stopping that suit, of blocking it and preventing
the long cards from making, by holding the winning card until the
Declarer has played what is necessarily his last card of the suit.
AVOID OPENING NEW SUITS
The adversaries of the Declarer should avoid opening new suits unless
the situation shows it to be necessary. They should remember that when
the honors of a suit are evenly divided, opening it is practically sure
to cost a trick, and that the starting of any suit, which is not headed
by Ace and King, or a three-card sequence, is almost invariably
disadvantageous. The lead by the partner has been made with some
object, and should, therefore, be returned, except when the holding of
the Dummy or some other development renders such action plainly
inadvisable.
Shifting suits is about as advantageous as swapping horses while
crossing a stream, and the advice to return the partner's suit rather
than risk a new one applies with equal force whether a No-trump or suit
declaration is being played, but does not refer to the situation in
which the partner evidently desires that the suit he has declared be
led through strength up to him.
HOW TO RETURN PARTNER'S LEAD
When the original Third Hand returns a suit opened by his partner, he
should lead the winning card, if he hold it. If without the best card,
when the lead is against a No-trump declaration, it is far more
important that a high card should be led through strength, and also
that the holder of the length should be accurately advised as to his
partner's high cards, than that he should be told the exact number of
small ones. Therefore, when playing a No-trumper, the highest card
should be returned from either three or two remaining. With four
remaining (five originally), the holding may be longer than that of the
original leader, and, therefore, the lowest should be led. If the
partner be a keen counter of small cards, the next to the lowest is
doubtless more informatory and just as advantageous as the lowest. When
the original Third Hand returns a suit opened by his partner against a
suit declaration, there is some difference of opinion among good
players as to whether he should follow the Whist rule, which is the
most informatory as to number, and lead the lowest of three remaining,
the higher of two; or whether it is unwise to complicate matters by
distinguishing between this case and the return when a No-trump is
being played. The question is not very important as long as partners
understand which convention is being used.
None of these rules applies in the case, readily distinguishable, in
which the adverse strength in the suit is in the Dummy, and it is
necessary to hold a high card over that hand; the play must then be
made to fit the situation, and not according to any hard-and-fast
principle.
THE FINESSE
The cards of the Dummy being exposed make it easy for the player
sitting back of him to determine when to finesse. As the object of a
finesse is to catch a high card on the right, it is folly to finesse
against nothing--for example, the leader opens with Knave against a
No-trump; the Third Hand has King and others; when the Dummy has the
Queen, it is obvious the King should not be played unless the Queen
cover the Knave, but when the Dummy holds only worthless cards, the
Third Hand should play the King, as, should he finesse against nothing,
he would allow the Queen to win. The leader has opened either from Ace,
Knave, Ten, or a suit headed by a Knave-Ten combination. In the former
case the play of the King insures every trick; in the latter, it helps
clear the suit. It, therefore, is an example of the rule not to finesse
when the Dummy has nothing.
An apparent exception to this rule occurs when the lead is made in
answer to a declaration, or as an evident effort to find the partner's
strength. For example, the original Third Hand, with six Hearts headed
by King, Ten, and two reëntries, has called Hearts. The Declarer is
playing a No-trumper, and the opening is the Knave of Hearts. The Dummy
is without strength. In that case, the Declarer is marked with both the
Ace and Queen of Hearts. The Third Hand should, therefore, play small.
The play of the King cannot be of any benefit, and should the Declarer
have the Nine, will be most expensive. This really is not a finesse
against nothing, but, the position of the winning cards being marked,
is merely a conservation of strength.
The same general principle applies in many similar cases; when,
however, a small card is led, the Third Hand should not finesse, unless
the Dummy contain some high card.
Playing No-trump, the following finesses are advisable over the Dummy:--
WHEN DUMMY HAS FINESSE
King Ace, Queen
Ace, Knave
Ace, Ten
King, Knave Ace, Ten
Ace, Nine
King, Ten Ace, Nine
Queen Ace, Knave
Ace, Ten
King, Knave
King, Ten
Knave Ace, Ten
King, Ten
Queen, Ten
Do not, however, except with a fourchette, finesse against Queen or
Knave singly guarded, when it is evident that the Declarer and Dummy
hold only four cards of the suit, and the Ace or King is marked with
the leader.
When playing No-trump, as a rule do not finesse if so doing will block
the partner's suit.
X
SCORING AND SCORE-SHEETS
The score is a very important incident of the game of Auction, and to
keep it properly requires considerable care and skill.
The figures frequently run into high numbers on both sides, and when
the rubber continues during three hotly contested games, they become
quite voluminous.
The score-sheet should be left on the table, and the writing on it
should be of such size that it can be seen at a glance. This saves time
and trouble, as it relieves the players from the necessity of asking
the state of the score.
In some clubs two scores are kept, so that, in the only too probable
contingency of a mistake being made, it may invariably be detected.
This, however, is unnecessary, and at times confusing. The extra sheet
is also apt to prove annoying, because of the space it occupies upon
the table. One score is quite sufficient, if it be competently kept,
and each entry, as well as the additions, verified.
There are two totally different types of Auction score-sheets. The one
which is used in perhaps ninety per cent. of the private games, and,
strange as it may seem, in many clubs, has absolutely no excuse for its
existence, except that it was the first to be introduced and has the
reputation of being universally used in foreign countries. It requires
scoring above and below the line, which is a most cumbersome and
dilatory proposition. Keeping tally by this method involves, at the end
of a rubber, long mathematical problems, which, as the scorer is then
in a hurry, frequently result in serious, and at times undiscovered,
mistakes.
The modern system adopted in the up-to-date clubs, in which the game
has received its most scientific development, and in the highest class
of social games, does away with the antiquated methods and exacting
mathematical problems of the above- and below-the-line system, by using
a form of score-sheet which allows and encourages the scorer to
mentally compute simple sums during the progress of the rubber. By the
elimination of complicated figuring, it minimizes the opportunity for
mistake, and delay at the end of the rubber.
All players are doubtless familiar with the old system of above-and
below-the-line scoring, but only three classes now use it:
A. Those who have never had the modern system and its advantages
called to their attention.
B. Those who believe that, having once become accustomed to any
method, it should never be changed for a better.
C. Those who believe that, because foreign clubs adopt a certain
method, we should do the same.
It is probably wasting time to attempt to convert any representative of
either B or C, and fortunately for the intelligence of American card
players there are comparatively few who deserve to be included in
either of these classifications.
Class A, however, comprises the vast majority of Auction players, who
have either never had the modern system of scoring called to their
attention, or, if they have seen it, have not thoroughly grasped its
numerous advantages, and have continued the old method merely because
they were more familiar with it and did not perfectly understand the
new. It is not putting the matter too strongly to assert that every
intelligent scorer, who gives the new plan a thorough test, never
returns to the trials and vexations incident to keeping the tally above
and below the line.
Sample sheets are appended, showing the up-to-date scoring-blank as it
appears at the beginning of the rubber; the same sheet with a rubber
scored, the net totals being computed at the end of each game; and also
with the same rubber scored, the net totals being computed at the end
of each deal. One scorer will prefer to make up his totals at the end
of a game, another will elect to compute them at the termination of
each deal; but either way the advantages of the score-sheet are
apparent.
It goes without saying that any system which allows a player to see at
a glance, not only the score of the game, but also the exact status of
the rubber, is more advantageous than one which, until some time after
the rubber is completed, may leave him in the dark as to whether he is
ahead or behind. Some players allow, whether they or their opponents
are in the lead upon the total score of the rubber, to affect their
declarations and doubles. This practice cannot be enthusiastically
commended, but all must admit that for such players the new scoring
system is most essential.
It is, however, mainly as a labor- and time-saving device that the new
plan is advocated. If any one doubt, let him keep the score of any
rubber under the old method while the same rubber is being scored by
some one familiar with the advantages of the new. The result is sure to
be most convincing. Under the new method, the short sums in addition or
subtraction are mentally computed, during the deal of the cards, etc.
This occupies waste time only, and at the end of the rubber, leaves a
very simple, frequently nothing more than a mental, problem.
It has been estimated that during an evening's play, at least one more
rubber can be completed when the scoring is conducted under the new
method.
The various score-sheets, all showing the same rubber, follow.
SAMPLE OF THE NEW SCORE-SHEET WITHOUT ANY ENTRY
-----------------------------------------------------
OUR SCORE || OPPONENTS' SCORE
-----------------------------------------------------
TRICKS | HONORS | TOTALS || TOTALS | TRICKS | HONORS
=======+========+========++========+========+========
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-----------------------------------------------------
SAMPLE OF NEW FORM OF SCORE-SHEET SHOWING A RUBBER SCORED
WITH NET TOTALS COMPUTED AT END OF EACH GAME
-----------------------------------------------------
OUR SCORE || OPPONENTS' SCORE
-----------------------------------------------------
TRICKS | HONORS | TOTALS || TOTALS | TRICKS | HONORS
=======+========+========++========+========+========
16 | 32 | || | 18 | 72
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| 100 | || | | 30
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
60 | 60 | 268 || 120 | |
=======+========+========++========+========+========
| | (148) || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| 216 | 266 || | 27 | 18
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
20 | 30 | 414 || 145 | 48 | 52
=======+========+========++========+========+========
| | (269) || | | 200
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| 64 | 249 || | | 100
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| 36 | 518 || 356 | 24 | 32
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
21 | 56 | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
36 | 36 | || | |
=======+========+========++========+========+========
| | (162) || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | 250 || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | 412 || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-----------------------------------------------------
The score included in the circle is the _net_ total at the end of
each game. It is obtained by subtracting the smaller score from the
larger; as, for example, in the first game above, 120 from 268, which
leaves a net of 148. If a scorer find it more satisfactory to subtract
when the figures are in line, he can always write the smaller amount
under the larger; as, for example, the 120 under the 268.
SAMPLE OF NEW FORM OF SCORE-SHEET SHOWING SAME RUBBER
SCORED WITH NET TOTALS COMPUTED AT END OF EACH DEAL
-----------------------------------------------------
OUR SCORE || OPPONENTS' SCORE
-----------------------------------------------------
TRICKS | HONORS | TOTALS || TOTALS | TRICKS | HONORS
=======+========+========++========+========+========
16 | 32 | 48 || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || 42 | 18 | 72
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| 100 | 28 || | | 30
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
60 | 60 | 148 || | |
=======+========+========++========+========+========
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
=======+========+========++========+========+========
| | 103 || | 27 | 18
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| 216 | 319 || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
20 | 30 | 369 || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | 269 || | 48 | 52
=======+========+========++========+========+========
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
=======+========+========++========+========+========
| 64 | 133 || | | 200
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| 36 | 69 || | | 100
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | 13 || | 24 | 32
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
21 | 56 | 90 || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
36 | 36 | 162 || | |
=======+========+========++========+========+========
| | 250 || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | 412 || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-------+--------+--------++--------+--------+--------
| | || | |
-----------------------------------------------------
All figures under the head of totals are net, and show at the end of
each deal the exact status of the rubber. It is also possible, when the
above method is employed, to further reduce the amount of bookkeeping
by making only one entry whenever one pair scores honors and the other
a penalty. This method could have been employed above, deal 3 of game
1, by merely entering 70 under "Our Score" Honors, and also in deal 2
of game 3, by entering 64 under "Opponents' Score" Honors.
SAMPLE SHOWING SAME RUBBER SCORED UNDER OLD SYSTEM
WITH LONG ADDITIONS AND SUBTRACTION AT END OF RUBBER
-----------------------
WE | THEY
-----------+-----------
36 |
56 |
36 | 32
64 | 100
30 | 200
216 | 52
60 | 18
100 | 30
32 | 72
===========+============
16 | 18
60 |
-----------+------------
20 | 27
| 48
-----------+------------
21 | 24
36 | ___
250 | 621
____ |
1033 |
621 |
____ |
412 |
===========+============
THE SCORE OF THE RUBBERS IS BEST KEPT ON A SHEET OF
THE FOLLOWING CHARACTER
SCORE BY RUBBERS
-------------------------------------------------------
| NAMES |+|-|||+|-|||+|-|||+|-|||+|-|||+|-|
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-|
| TOTAL | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
-------------------------------------------------------
THE FOLLOWING SHOWS HOW THIS SCORE SHOULD BE KEPT
SCORE BY RUBBERS
---------------------------------------------------------
| NAMES |+|-|||+|-|||+|-|||+|-|||+|-|||+ |- |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| Smith |2| |||2| ||| |2||| |3||| |3||| |2 |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| Jones | |2||| |2||| |6||| |5||| |5||| |6 |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| Brown |2| |||5| |||5| |||4| |||6| |||6 | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| White | |2|||1| |||1| |||2| |||X|X|||X |X |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| Green | | ||| |3|||1| |||1| ||| |1||| |2 |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| King | | ||| |3|||1| |||1| |||3| |||4 | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| | | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | ||| | |
| ------------------+-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++-+-+++--+--|
| TOTAL |4|4|||8|8|||8|8|||8|8|||9|9|||10|10|
---------------------------------------------------------
It is always well to total at the end of each rubber and to note the
size of the rubber. These precautions make it easy to correct mistakes,
should any occur.
XI
THE LAWS
In 1902, some years before Auction had been heard of in the United
States, a number of the best-known clubs of New York, Philadelphia,
Boston, and other cities were represented at a meeting held in New York
for the purpose of drafting a code of Bridge Laws to be used by the
clubs of this country. The so-called "American Laws of Bridge" were
adopted, and duly published. It was then expected that they would be
universally accepted.
In a few months, however, some clubs, including several that had been
represented at the meeting, found that certain penalties of the
"American Laws" were not popular with their members. One club after
another made alterations or adopted its own code, so that the object in
calling the meeting, namely, club uniformity, was soon as far as ever
from being attained. Gradually, however, the various clubs began to
recognize that the Whist Club of New York deserved to be ranked as the
most conservative and representative card-playing organization in the
United States. They realized that it devoted its attention entirely to
card games, and included in its membership not only the most expert
players of the metropolis, but also of many other cities. It was but
natural, therefore, that the admirable Bridge Code of the Whist Club
should be accepted by one club after another, until in the end the
desideratum of the drafters of the American Laws was virtually
obtained.
When, in 1909-10, Auction, with its irresistible attractions, in an
incredibly brief space of time made Bridge in this country a game of
the past, the only Auction laws available had been drafted in London by
a joint committee of the Portland and Bath Clubs. They were taken from
the rules of Bridge, which were altered only when necessary to comply
with the requirements of the new game. It is probable that the intent
of the members of the Bath-Portland Committee was merely to meet an
immediate demand, and that they expected to revise their own code as
soon as wider experience with the game demonstrated just what was
needed.
Under these circumstances, it was to be expected that the Whist Club of
New York would promulgate a code of Auction laws which would be
accepted from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The club, however, did not
act hastily, and it was not until May, 1910, that it issued its first
edition of "The Laws of Auction Bridge." This was amended in 1911, and
in 1912 subjected to a most thorough and comprehensive revision.
Until the adoption of a national code by an American congress of
Auction players, an event not likely to occur, it is doubtless for the
best interest of Auction in this country that the laws of the Whist
Club of New York be generally followed. Uniformity is most important;
otherwise, players from one city, visiting another, are sure to find
local conditions which will, temporarily at least, prove something of a
handicap.
When any improvement is suggested, which, after due trial, meets with
local favor, it would seem wise that such suggestion, whether it
emanate from a club committee or an individual, be forwarded to the
Card Committee of the Whist Club of New York. It may be authoritatively
stated that all such ideas will be cordially received, thoroughly
considered, and, if approved, incorporated in the club code at its next
revision.
Appended hereto will be found "The Laws of Auction Bridge" as published
by the Whist Club of New York, November, 1912. These laws should be
carefully read, if not studied, by every devotee of the game. No matter
how familiar a player may have been with the old laws, he will find an
examination of the new to be advisable, as the changes are both
numerous and important. If it has not been his practice to keep in
touch with Auction legislation, he should realize that a close
acquaintance with the code which governs the game he is playing will
prove most beneficial.
As the laws speak for themselves, it is not necessary to explain them,
or even to point out the various alterations. The wording in many cases
has been materially changed, in order to clarify and simplify. Some
penalties that seemed too severe have been reduced, and certain
modifications have been made which appear to be in the line of modern
thought. Special attention is called to the elimination of the law
which prevented consultation as to the enforcement of a penalty, and
also of the law which provided that when a wrong penalty was claimed,
none could be enforced. The laws referring to cards exposed after the
completion of the deal, and before the beginning of the play, have been
materially changed, and the law covering insufficient and impossible
declarations has been altered and redrafted. A point worthy of special
attention is Law 52 of the Revised Code. It covers the case, which
occurs with some frequency, of a player making an insufficient bid and
correcting it before action is taken by any other player. Under the old
rule, a declaration once made could not be altered, but now when the
player corrects himself, as, for example, "Two Hearts--I mean three
Hearts"; or "Two Spades--I should say, two Royals," the proper
declaration is allowed without penalty.
The laws follow.
THE LAWS OF AUCTION BRIDGE
THE RUBBER
1. The partners first winning two games win the rubber. If the first
two games decide the rubber, a third is not played.
SCORING
2. A game consists of thirty points obtained by tricks alone, exclusive
of any points counted for honors, chicane, slam, little slam, bonus or
undertricks.
3. Every deal is played out, and any points in excess of the thirty
necessary for the game are counted.
4. When the declarer wins the number of tricks bid, each one above six
counts towards the game: two points when spades are trumps, six when
clubs are trumps, seven when diamonds are trumps, eight when hearts are
trumps, nine when royal spades are trumps and ten when there are no
trumps.
5. Honors are ace, king, queen, knave and ten of the trump suit; or the
aces when no trump is declared.
6. Honors are credited in the honor column to the original holders,
being valued as follows:--
_When a Trump is Declared._
3 honors held between partners equal value of 2 tricks.
4 " " " " " " " 4 "
5 " " " " " " " 5 "
4 " " in 1 hand " " " 8 "
4 " " " 1 " {5th in " " " 9 "
5 " " " 1 " {partner's hand " " 10 "
_When no Trump is Declared._
3 aces held between partners count 30
4 " " " " " 40
4 " " in one hand " 100
7. Slam is made when seven by cards is scored by either side,
independently of tricks taken as penalty for the revoke; it adds forty
points to the honor count.[24]
[24] Law 84 prohibits the revoking side from scoring slam or
little slam.
8. Little slam is made when six by cards is similarly scored; it adds
twenty points to the honor count.[25]
[25] Law 84 prohibits the revoking side from scoring slam or
little slam.
9. Chicane (one hand void of trumps) is equal in value to simple
honors, _i.e._, if the partners, one of whom has chicane, score honors,
it adds the value of three honors to their honor score; if the
adversaries score honors it deducts that value from theirs. Double
chicane (both hands void of trumps) is equal in value to four honors,
and that value must be deducted from the honor score of the
adversaries.
10. The value of honors, slam, little slam or chicane, is not affected
by doubling or redoubling.
11. At the conclusion of a rubber the trick and honor scores of each
side are added, and two hundred and fifty points added to the score of
the winners. The difference between the completed scores is the number
of points of the rubber.
12. A proven error in the honor score may be corrected at any time
before the score of the rubber has been made up and agreed upon.
13. A proven error in the trick score may be corrected prior to the
conclusion of the game in which it occurred. Such game shall not be
considered concluded until a declaration has been made in the following
game, or if it be the final game of the rubber, until the score has
been made up and agreed upon.
CUTTING
14. In cutting, the ace is the lowest card; as between cards of
otherwise equal value, the lowest is the heart, next the diamond, next
the club, and highest the spade.
15. Every player must cut from the same pack.
16. Should a player expose more than one card, the highest is his cut.
FORMING TABLES
17. The prior right of playing is with those first in the room. If
there are more than four candidates of equal standing, the privilege of
playing is decided by cutting. The four who cut the lowest cards play
first.
18. After the table is formed the players cut to decide upon partners,
the two lower playing against the two higher. The lowest is the dealer
who has choice of cards and seats, and who, having made his selection,
must abide by it.
19. Six players constitute a complete table.
20. The right to succeed any player who may retire is acquired by
announcing the desire to do so, and such announcement shall constitute
a prior right to the first vacancy.
CUTTING OUT
21. If, at the end of a rubber, admission is claimed by one or two
candidates, the player or players having played the greatest number of
consecutive rubbers shall withdraw; but when all have played the same
number, they must cut to decide upon the outgoers; the highest are
out.[26]
[26] See Law 14 as to value of cards in cutting.
RIGHT OF ENTRY
22. A candidate desiring to enter a table must declare his intention
before any player at the table cuts a card, whether for the purpose of
beginning a new rubber or of cutting out.
23. In the formation of new tables candidates who have not played at
any existing table have the prior right of entry. Others decide their
right to admission by cutting.
24. When one or more players belonging to an existing table aid in
making up a new one he or they shall be the last to cut out.
25. A player who cuts into one table, while belonging to another,
forfeits his prior right of reëntry into the latter, unless he has
helped to form a new table. In this event he may signify his intention
of returning to his original table when his place at the new one can be
filled.
26. Should any player leave a table during the progress of a rubber, he
may, with the consent of the three others, appoint a substitute to play
during his absence; but such appointment shall become void upon the
conclusion of the rubber, and shall not in any way affect the
substitute's rights.
27. If any player break up a table the others have a prior right
elsewhere.
SHUFFLING
28. The pack must not be shuffled below the table nor so that the face
of any card may be seen.
29. The dealer's partner must collect the cards from the preceding deal
and has the right to shuffle first. Each player has the right to
shuffle subsequently. The dealer has the right to shuffle last; but,
should a card or cards be seen during his shuffling, or while giving
the pack to be cut, he must re-shuffle.
30. After shuffling, the cards properly collected must be placed face
downward to the left of the next dealer, where they must remain
untouched until the play with the other pack is finished.
THE DEAL
31. Each player deals in his turn; the order of dealing is to the left.
32. The player on the dealer's right cuts the pack, and in dividing it
he must leave not fewer than four cards in each packet; if in cutting
or in replacing one of the two packets a card is exposed, or if there
is any confusion or doubt as to the exact place in which the pack was
divided, there must be a fresh cut.
33. When the player whose duty it is to cut has once separated the
pack, he can neither re-shuffle nor re-cut, except as provided in Law
32.
34. Should the dealer shuffle the cards after the cut, the pack must be
cut again.
35. The fifty-two cards shall be dealt face downward. The deal is not
completed until the last card has been dealt.
36. In the event of a misdeal the cards must be dealt again by the same
player.
A NEW DEAL
37. There _must_ be a new deal--
_a_ If the cards are not dealt into four packets, one at a time and
in regular rotation, beginning at the dealer's left.
_b_ If, during a deal, or during the play, the pack is proven
incorrect or imperfect.
_c_ If any card is faced in the pack or is exposed during the deal
on, above or below the table.
_d_ If any player has dealt to him a greater number of cards than
thirteen, whether discovered before or during the play.
_e_ If the dealer deal two cards at once and then deal a third
before correcting the error.
_f_ If the dealer omit to have the pack cut and either adversary
calls attention to the fact prior to the completion of the deal and
before either adversary has looked at any of his cards.
_g_ If the last card does not come in its regular order to the
dealer.
38. Should three players have their right number of cards, the fourth,
less, and not discover such deficiency until he has played, the deal
stands; he, not being dummy, is answerable for any established revoke
he may have made as if the missing card or cards had been in his hand.
Any player may search the other pack for it or them.
39. If, during the play, a pack be proven incorrect, such proof renders
the current deal void but does not affect any prior score. (See Law 37
b.) If during or at the conclusion of the play one player be found to
hold more than the proper number of cards and another have an equal
number less, the deal is void.
40. A player dealing out of turn or with the adversaries' cards may be
corrected before the last card is dealt, otherwise the deal must stand,
and the game proceed as if the deal had been correct, the player to his
left dealing the next hand. A player who has looked at any of his cards
may not correct such deal, nor may his partner.
41. A player can neither cut, shuffle nor deal for his partner without
the permission of his adversaries.
DECLARING TRUMPS
42. The dealer, having examined his hand, must declare to win at least
one odd trick, either with a declared suit, or at "no trumps."
43. After the dealer has made his declaration, each player in turn,
commencing with the player on the dealer's left, has the right to pass,
to make a higher declaration, to double the last declaration made, or
to redouble a declaration which has been doubled, subject to the
provisions of Law 54.
44. A declaration of a greater number of tricks in a suit of lower
value, which equals the last declaration in value of points, shall be
considered a higher declaration--_e.g._, a declaration of "Three
Spades" is a higher declaration than "One Club."
45. A player in his turn may overbid the previous adverse declaration
any number of times, and may also overbid his partner, but he cannot
overbid his own declaration which has been passed by the three others.
46. The player who makes the final declaration shall play the combined
hands of himself and his partner (the latter becoming dummy), unless
the winning suit was first bid by the partner, in which case he, no
matter what bids have intervened shall play the hand.
47. When the player of the two hands (hereinafter termed "the
declarer") wins at least as many tricks as he declared, he scores the
full value of the tricks won (see Laws 4 and 6). When he fails, neither
the declarer nor his adversaries score anything towards the game, but
his adversaries score in the honor column fifty points for each
under-trick--_i.e._, each trick short of the number declared; or,
if the declaration has been doubled, or redoubled, one hundred or two
hundred respectively for each such trick.
48. The loss on the original declaration by the dealer of "One Spade"
is limited to one hundred points whether doubled or not, unless
redoubled. Honors are scored as held.
49. If a player make a declaration (other than passing) out of turn,
either adversary may demand a new deal, or may allow the declaration so
made to stand, in which case the bidding shall continue as if the
declaration had been in order.
50. If a player make an insufficient or impossible declaration either
adversary may demand that it be penalized, provided such demand be made
before an adversary has passed, doubled or declared. In case of an
insufficient declaration the penalty is that the declarer must make his
bid sufficient and his partner is debarred from making any further
declaration unless an adversary subsequently bids or doubles. In case
of an impossible declaration the penalty is that the declarer is
considered to have bid to take all the tricks and his partner cannot
further declare unless an adversary subsequently bids or doubles.
Either adversary, instead of accepting the impossible declaration, may
demand a new deal or may treat his own or his partner's last previous
declaration as final.
51. If, after the final declaration has been made, an adversary of the
declarer give his partner any information as to any previous
declaration, whether made by himself or an adversary, the declarer may
call a lead from the adversary whose next turn it is to lead; but a
player is entitled to inquire, at any time during the play of the hand,
what was the final declaration.
52. A declaration legitimately made cannot be altered after the next
player has passed, declared or doubled. Prior to such action by the
next player, a declaration inadvertently made may be corrected.
DOUBLING AND REDOUBLING
53. The effect of doubling and redoubling is that the value of each
trick over six is doubled or quadrupled, as provided in Law 4; but it
does not alter the value of a declaration--_e.g._, a declaration of
"Three Clubs" is higher than "Two Royal Spades" even if the "Royal
Spade" declaration has been doubled.
54. Any declaration can be doubled and redoubled once, but not more; a
player cannot double his partner's declaration, nor redouble his
partner's double, but he may redouble a declaration of his partner
which has been doubled by an adversary.
55. The act of doubling, or redoubling, reopens the bidding. When a
declaration has been doubled or redoubled, any player, including the
declarer or his partner, can in his proper turn make a further
declaration of higher value.
56. When a player whose declaration has been doubled wins the declared
number of tricks, he scores a bonus of fifty points in the honor
column, and a further fifty points for each additional trick. If he or
his partner has redoubled, the bonus is doubled.
57. If a player double out of turn, either adversary may demand a new
deal.
58. When the final declaration has been made the play shall begin, and
the player on the left of the declarer shall lead.
DUMMY
59. As soon as the player to the left of the declarer has led, the
declarer's partner shall place his cards face upward on the table, and
the duty of playing the cards from that hand shall devolve upon the
declarer.
60. Before placing his cards upon the table the declarer's partner has
all the rights of a player, but after so doing takes no part whatever
in the play, except that he has the right:--
_a_ To ask the declarer whether he has any of a suit in which he
has renounced;
_b_ To call the declarer's attention to the fact that too many or
too few cards have been played to a trick;
_c_ To correct the claim of either adversary to a penalty to which
the latter is not entitled;
_d_ To call attention to the fact that a trick has been erroneously
taken by either side;
_e_ To participate in the discussion of any disputed question of
fact after it has arisen between the declarer and either adversary;
_f_ To correct an erroneous score.
61. Should the declarer's partner call attention to any other incident
of the play in consequence of which any penalty might have been
exacted, the declarer is precluded from exacting such penalty.
62. If the declarer's partner, by touching a card or otherwise, suggest
the play of a card from dummy, either adversary may call upon the
declarer to play or not play the card suggested.
63. Dummy is not liable to the penalty for a revoke; if he revoke and
the error be not discovered until the trick is turned and quitted,
whether by the rightful winners or not, the trick must stand.
64. A card from the declarer's own hand is not played until actually
quitted; but should he name or touch a card in the dummy, such card is
considered as played unless he, in touching the card, say, "I arrange,"
or words to that effect. If he simultaneously touch two or more such
cards, he may elect which one to play.
CARDS EXPOSED BEFORE PLAY
65. If, after the cards have been dealt, and before the trump
declaration has been finally determined, any player lead or expose a
card, the partner of the offending player may not make any further bid
or double during that hand, and the card is subject to call. When the
partner of the offending player is the original leader, the declarer
may prohibit the suit of the exposed card being the initial lead.
66. If, after the final declaration has been made and before a card is
led, the partner of the leader to the first trick expose a card, the
declarer may, in addition to calling the card, prohibit the lead of the
suit of the exposed card; should the rightful leader expose a card it
is subject to call.
CARDS EXPOSED DURING PLAY
67. All cards exposed after the original lead by the declarer's
adversaries are liable to be called, and such cards must be left face
upward on the table.
68. The following are exposed cards:--
1st. Two or more cards played at once.
2d. Any card dropped with its face upward on the table, even though
snatched up so quickly that it cannot be named.
3d. Any card so held by a player that his partner sees any portion
of its face.
4th. Any card mentioned by either adversary as being held by him or
his partner.
69. A card dropped on the floor or elsewhere below the table or so held
that an adversary but not the partner sees it, is not an exposed card.
70. If two or more cards are played at once by either of the declarer's
adversaries, the declarer shall have the right to call any one of such
cards to the current trick, and the other card or cards are exposed.
71. If, without waiting for his partner to play, either of the
declarer's adversaries play or lead a winning card, as against the
declarer and dummy, and continue (without waiting for his partner to
play) to lead several such cards, the declarer may demand that the
partner of the player in fault win, if he can, the first or any other
of these tricks, and the other cards thus improperly played are exposed
cards.
72. If either or both of the declarer's adversaries throw his or their
cards on the table face upward, such cards are exposed and are liable
to be called; but if either adversary retain his hand he cannot be
forced to abandon it. Cards exposed by the declarer are not liable to
be called. If the declarer say, "I have the rest," or any other words
indicating that the remaining tricks or any number thereof are his, he
may be required to place his cards face upward on the table. His
adversaries are not liable to have any of their cards called should
they thereupon expose them.
73. If a player who has rendered himself liable to have the highest or
lowest of a suit called (Laws 80, 86 and 92) fail to play as directed,
or if, when called on to lead one suit he lead another, having in his
hand one or more cards of the suit demanded (Laws 76 and 93), or if,
called upon to win or lose a trick, fail to do so when he can (Laws 71,
80 and 92), or if, when called upon not to play a suit, fail to play as
directed (Laws 65 and 66), he is liable to the penalty for revoke,
unless such play be corrected before the trick is turned and quitted.
74. A player cannot be compelled to play a card which would oblige him
to revoke.
75. The call of an exposed card may be repeated until such card has
been played.
LEADS OUT OF TURN
76. If either of the declarer's adversaries lead out of turn the
declarer may either treat the card so led as an exposed card or may
call a suit as soon as it is the turn of either adversary to lead.
77. If the declarer lead out of turn, either from his own hand or from
dummy, he incurs no penalty; but he may not rectify the error after the
second hand has played.
78. If any player lead out of turn and the three others follow, the
trick is complete and the error cannot be rectified; but if only the
second, or second and third play to the false lead, their cards may be
taken back; there is no penalty against any except the original
offender, who, if he be one of the declarer's adversaries, may be
penalized as provided in Law 76.
79. If a player called on to lead a suit has none of it, the penalty is
paid.
CARDS PLAYED IN ERROR
80. Should the fourth hand, not being dummy or declarer, play before
the second, the latter may be called upon to play his highest or lowest
card of the suit played, or to win or lose the trick.
81. If any one, not being dummy, omit playing to a trick and such error
is not corrected until he has played to the next, the adversaries or
either of them may claim a new deal; should either decide that the deal
is to stand, the surplus card at the end of the hand is considered to
have been played to the imperfect trick, but does not constitute a
revoke therein.
82. When any one, except dummy, plays two or more cards to the same
trick and the mistake is not corrected, he is answerable for any
consequent revokes he may have made. When during the play the error is
detected, the tricks may be counted face downward, to see if any
contain more than four cards; should this be the case, the trick which
contains a surplus card or cards may be examined and the card or cards
restored to the original holder, who (not being dummy) shall be liable
for any revoke he may meanwhile have made.
THE REVOKE[27]
83. A revoke occurs when a player, other than dummy, holding one or
more cards of the suit led, plays a card of a different suit. It
becomes an established revoke if the trick in which it occurs is turned
and quitted by the rightful winners (_i.e._, the hand removed from
the trick after it has been turned face downward on the table); or if
either the revoking player or his partner, whether in turn or
otherwise, lead or play to the following trick.
[27] See Law 73.
84. The penalty for each established revoke is:--
(_a_) When the declarer revokes, his adversaries add 150 points to
their score in the honor column, in addition to any penalty which
he may have incurred for not making good his declaration.
(_b_) If either of the adversaries revoke, the declarer may either
add 150 points to his score in the honor column, or may take three
tricks from his opponents and add them to his own. Such tricks may
assist the declarer to make good his declaration, but shall not
entitle him to score any bonus in the honor column, in the case of
the declaration having been doubled or re-doubled.
(_c_) When more than one revoke is made by the same side during the
play of the hand the penalty for each revoke after the first, shall
be 100 points in the honor column.
A revoking side cannot score, except for honors or chicane.
85. A player may ask his partner if he has a card of the suit which he
has renounced; should the question be asked before the trick is turned
and quitted, subsequent turning and quitting does not establish a
revoke, and the error may be corrected unless the question is answered
in the negative, or unless the revoking player or his partner has led
or played to the following trick.
86. If a player correct his mistake in time to save a revoke, any
player or players who have followed him may withdraw their cards and
substitute others, and the cards so withdrawn are not exposed. If the
player in fault is one of the declarer's adversaries, the card played
in error is exposed and the declarer may call it whenever he pleases;
or he may require the offender to play his highest or lowest card of
the suit to the trick, but this penalty cannot be exacted from the
declarer.
87. At the end of a hand the claimants of a revoke may search all the
tricks. If the cards have been mixed the claim may be urged and proved
if possible; but no proof is necessary and the claim is established if,
after it has been made, the accused player or his partner mix the cards
before they have been sufficiently examined by the adversaries.
88. A revoke must be claimed before the cards have been cut for the
following deal.
89. Should both sides revoke, the only score permitted shall be for
honors in trumps or chicane. If one side revoke more than once, the
penalty of 100 points for each extra revoke shall then be scored by the
other side.
GENERAL RULES
90. Once a trick is complete, turned and quitted, it must not be looked
at (except under Law 82) until the end of the hand.
91. Any player during the play of a trick or after the four cards are
played, and before they are touched for the purpose of gathering them
together, may demand that the cards be placed before their respective
players.
92. If either of the declarer's adversaries, prior to his partner
playing, call attention to the trick, either by saying it is his, or
without being requested so to do, by naming his card or drawing it
towards him, the declarer may require such partner to play his highest
or lowest card of the suit led, or to win or lose the trick.
93. Either of the declarer's adversaries may call his partner's
attention to the fact that he is about to play or lead out of turn; but
if, during the play of a hand, he make any unauthorized reference to
any incident of the play, or of any bid previously made, the declarer
may call a suit from the adversary whose turn it is next to lead.
94. In all cases where a penalty has been incurred the offender is
bound to give reasonable time for the decision of his adversaries.
NEW CARDS
95. Unless a pack is imperfect, no player shall have the right to call
for one new pack. If fresh cards are demanded, two packs must be
furnished. If they are produced during a rubber, the adversaries shall
have the choice of the new cards. If it is the beginning of a new
rubber, the dealer, whether he or one of his adversaries is the party
calling for the new cards, shall have the choice. New cards must be
called for before the pack is cut for a new deal.
96. A card or cards torn or marked must be replaced by agreement or new
cards furnished.
BYSTANDERS
97. While a bystander, by agreement among the players, may decide any
question, he should not say anything unless appealed to; and if he make
any remark which calls attention to an oversight affecting the score,
or to the exaction of a penalty, he is liable to be called upon by the
players to pay the stakes (not extras) lost.
ETIQUETTE OF AUCTION BRIDGE
In Auction Bridge slight intimations convey much information. A code is
compiled for the purpose of succinctly stating laws and for fixing
penalties for an offense. To offend against etiquette is far more
serious than to offend against a law; for, while in the latter case the
offender is subject to the prescribed penalties, in the former his
adversaries have no redress.
1. Declarations should be made in a simple manner, thus: "One Heart,"
"one No-trump," or "I pass," or "I double"; they should be made orally
and not by gesture.
2. Aside from his legitimate declaration, a player should not give any
indication by word or gesture as to the nature of his hand, or as to
his pleasure or displeasure at a play, a bid or a double.
3. If a player demand that the cards be placed, he should do so for his
own information and not to call his partner's attention to any card or
play.
4. No player, other than the declarer, should lead until the preceding
trick is turned and quitted; nor, after having led a winning card,
should he draw another from his hand before his partner has played to
the current trick.
5. A player should not play a card with such emphasis as to draw
attention to it. Nor should he detach one card from his hand and
subsequently play another.
6. A player should not purposely incur a penalty because he is willing
to pay it, nor should he make a second revoke to conceal a first.
7. Players should avoid discussion and refrain from talking during the
play, as it may be annoying to players at the table or to those at
other tables in the room.
8. The dummy should not leave his seat for the purpose of watching his
partner's play, neither should he call attention to the score nor to
any card or cards that he or the other players hold, nor to any bid
previously made.
9. If a player say "I have the rest," or any words indicating the
remaining tricks are his, and one or both of the other players should
expose his or their cards, or request him to play out the hand, he
should not allow any information so obtained to influence his play nor
take any finesse not announced by him at the time of making such claim,
unless it had been previously proven to be a winner.
10. If a player concede in error one or more tricks, the concession
should stand.
11. A player having been cut out of one table should not seek admission
into another unless willing to cut for the privilege of entry.
12. No player should look at any of his cards until the deal is
completed.
DECISIONS BY THE CARD COMMITTEE OF THE WHIST CLUB OF NEW YORK
Since the adoption of the foregoing code, the Card Committee of the
Whist Club of New York has rendered the following decisions,
interpreting certain laws that have caused discussion. The cases in
question have arisen in various localities,--Number 6, for example,
coming from St. Louis, Number 7 from Northern New York, and Number 8
from Mexico.
CASE 1
A bids out of turn. Y and Z consult as to whether they shall allow the
declaration to stand or demand a new deal. B claims that, by reason of
the consultation, the right to enforce a penalty is lost.
DECISION
Rule 49 does not prohibit consultation. It provides that "either
adversary may demand a new deal or allow the declaration to stand."
This obviously only means that the decision first made by either shall
be final. The old law prohibiting consultation has been stricken from
the code, and the action seems wise, as such a question as, "Will you
enforce the penalty, or shall I?" is really a consultation, and
consequently an evasion of the law.
There does not seem to be any sound reason for preventing partners
entitled to a penalty or choice of penalties from consulting, and as
the laws at present stand, there is unquestionably nothing prohibiting
it.
B's claim, therefore, is not allowed.
CASE 2
A bids two Hearts, Y bids two Diamonds,--B demands that the Y
declaration be made sufficient. Y says, "I correct my declaration to
three Diamonds." B passes, Z bids three No-trumps. A claims that Z has
no right to bid.
DECISION
Law 50 provides that "in case of an insufficient declaration ... the
partner is debarred from making any further declaration." This exactly
covers the case in question. True it is that Law 52 provides that,
prior to the next player passing, declaring, or doubling, a declaration
inadvertently made may be corrected. The obvious intent of this law is
that it shall apply when a player says, "Two Diamonds--I mean, three
Diamonds"; or, "Two Spades--I mean two Royals"; and that such
correction shall be allowed without penalty if the declaration has
really been inadvertently made and neither adversary has taken any
action whatever. We interpret 52 by reading into it the additional
words, "or either adversary calls attention to the insufficient
declaration." The construction put upon 52 by Y would result in
nullifying a most important part of 50.
The claim of A is sustained.
CASE 3
At the conclusion of the play the cards are turned face downward
preparatory to the next deal. It is then discovered that the pack
contains two Queens of Clubs and no Knave of Clubs. The score has been
claimed and admitted, but not recorded.
Is the deal which has just been completed, void?
DECISION
Rule 39 provides that "If, _during the play_, a pack be proven
incorrect, such proof renders the _current_ deal void, but does not
affect any prior score."
"Current" may be defined as "in actual progress," "belonging to the
time immediately passing."
It seems clear, therefore, that as the discovery of the imperfection
did not occur during "the current deal," the result of it becomes "a
prior score," which under the terms of the rule is not affected.
CASE 4
A player belonging to one table expresses his desire to enter another,
and cuts in. At the end of the rubber he claims that he is not obliged
to cut with the others.
DECISION
Rule 24 provides that "When one or more players belonging to an
existing table aid in making up a new one, he or they shall be the last
to cut out." This rule applies only when a player leaves an existing
table to help make up another, when, without him, there would not be
four players for the new table.
When a player leaves a table and cuts into another, his presence not
being required to complete the table he enters, he has the same
standing as the others at that table.
CASE 5
A player belonging to one table expresses his desire to join another,
cuts for the privilege of entering in accordance with Rule 23, and
fails to cut in. At the end of the rubber, must he cut again?
DECISION
By his first cut he lost his rights at his former table and became a
member of the new table; at the end of the rubber he has the right to
enter without cutting.
CASE 6
The bidding in an Auction deal was as follows:--
_1st 2d 3d
Round Round Round_
North 3 Royals Redouble Double
East No No No
South 4 Hearts No Double
West Double 6 Clubs Claims new deal
The deal was played and resulted in the Declarer taking six tricks, a
loss of 600. The question is whether West's claim should be sustained
or this score counted, it being a part of the case stated that the
declaration which was the subject of complaint was made inadvertently.
DECISION
Law 54 provides that "A player cannot redouble his partner's double,"
but does not penalize such action. The prohibition is intended to
prevent an increase in the value of the tricks and a penalty is not
attached, as the additional double is generally a careless act, not
likely to materially benefit the offending player.
It goes without saying that any such double is most irregular, and any
suggestion of strength thereby conveyed will not be used by an
honorable partner. The same comment applies to the remark, sometimes
made, "Partner, I would have doubled if you had not."
A player repeatedly guilty of such conduct, or of intentionally
violating any other law, should be reprimanded, and, if the offense be
continued, ostracized.
In the case under consideration, this question does not arise, as it is
conceded that the act was simply an inadvertence. Even, however, had
its _bona fides_ been questioned, the decision would of necessity be
that the score be counted, as the laws do not provide a penalty for the
offense.
CASE 7
The bidding in an Auction deal was as follows:--
_1st 2d 3d 4th
Round Round Round Round_
North 1 Club 1 Heart 2 Hearts No
East 1 Diamond No Double No
South No No 3 Clubs
West No 2 Diamonds No
South claimed that his partner, having abandoned the Club declaration,
he (South) became the real Club bidder, and, having made the final
declaration, was entitled to play the combined hands.
DECISION
Rule 46 provides that when the winning suit was first bid by the
partner, _no matter what bids have intervened_, he shall play the
hand.
This rule decides the case.
CASE 8
At about the seventh or eighth trick, the left-hand adversary of the
Declarer remarks, "If you have all of the tricks, lay down your hand."
The Declarer does not answer, but continues the play in the usual
manner.
One trick later the same adversary says, "Lay down your hand,"
whereupon almost simultaneously the Declarer and the adversary who has
done the talking place their hands face upward on the table.
The Declarer then states that he can take all the tricks. The play is
not completed, but examination shows one trick may be taken by the
adversaries of the Declarer if he do not finesse in a certain way.
Under these irregular circumstances, should the Declarer lose the
trick?
DECISION
Law 72 provides, "If either or both of the declarer's adversaries throw
his or their cards on the table face upward, such cards are exposed and
liable to be called; but if either adversary retain his hand, he cannot
be forced to abandon it. Cards exposed by the declarer are not liable
to be called. If the declarer say, 'I have the rest,' or any other
words indicating that the remaining tricks or any number thereof are
his, he may be required to place his cards face upward on the table.
His adversaries are not liable to have any of their cards called should
they thereupon expose them."
Section 9 of Etiquette provides: "If a player say, 'I have the rest,'
or any words indicating the remaining tricks are his and one or both of
the other players expose his or their cards or request him to play out
the hand, he should not allow any information, so obtained, to
influence his play, nor take any finesse not announced by him at the
time of making such claim, unless it had been previously proven to be a
winner."
The case under consideration is covered by the first portion of Law 72.
The latter portion of that law does not apply, as the opponent did not
place his cards on the table after a claim by the Declarer.
The law seems clear, the cards of the adversary are exposed and subject
to call--the cards of the Declarer cannot be called.
The etiquette of the game, however, must not be disregarded.
The plain intent of Section 9 and the justice of the case is that, if
the Declarer place his hand on the table claiming the remaining tricks,
he should not receive a doubtful trick unless, when he made his claim,
he contemplated any finesse necessary to obtain it.
If he did not intend to finesse that way, or did not then realize that
a finesse would be necessary, he should, under these circumstances,
voluntarily surrender the trick.
The reason for this is that, should a Declarer claim all the tricks,
the opponent who requires the hand to be played out would naturally
hold the strength; the locus of the request, therefore, suggests the
way to win the finesse.
It is most advantageous for the interest of Auction that, when no real
play remains, time should not be wasted, but neither side should in any
way benefit by an effort to avoid useless delay.
In the case under consideration, however, the adversary suggests that
the hands be placed on the table, and the Declarer may naturally expect
that the only card which might take a trick will drop.
There is no reason to assume that the Declarer will not finesse
correctly, and it is not just that the act of his opponent should
deprive him of the opportunity of so doing.
The decision, therefore, is that the Declarer is entitled to the
disputed trick.
CASE 9
Dummy leaves the table to get a glass of water. As he returns to his
seat, he sees his partner's hand and notices that he is revoking.
Has he, under these circumstances, the right to ask him whether he has
any more of the suit?
DECISION
Law 60 gives the Dummy the right to ask this question, and does not
specify that he must be in his seat to avail himself of the privilege.
Section 9 of Etiquette provides that Dummy shall not leave his seat for
the purpose of watching his partner's play; but even should he do so,
his breach of etiquette would not deprive him of the rights given him
by law.
An adversary may unquestionably object to the Dummy watching the play
of the Declarer.
That, however, is not the case under consideration. The penalty for the
revoke is the most severe in Auction, many think it unreasonably so,
and a player is unquestionably entitled to every protection the law
affords him.
The decision, therefore, is that, under the conditions named, the
question may be asked.
CASE 10
With three tricks to play, the Declarer throws his cards face upward on
the table, claiming the remaining tricks. His opponents admit his
claim, and the score is entered. The Dummy then calls the attention of
the table to the fact that, had a certain lead been made, the Declarer
could not have taken all the tricks.
Query: Under the circumstances, is the Declarer entitled to all the
tricks; first, viewing the question solely from a strict interpretation
of the laws; and second, from the standpoint of good sportsmanship?
DECISION
Section 10 of Etiquette provides, "If a player concede in error one or
more tricks, the concession should stand." There is no law affecting
this situation, and, therefore, the section of Etiquette above quoted
clearly covers the first portion of the query.
As to whether good sportsmanship would require the Declarer, under such
circumstances, to voluntarily surrender any of the tricks to which he
is entitled by law, does not seem to produce a more serious question.
It is true that the adversaries, by overlooking a possible play, made a
concession that was not required, and that the Dummy noticed the error
of the adversaries. Why, however, should the Dummy be obliged to
correct this error any more than any other mistake of his opponents?
It is perfectly clear that, had a similar error been made by the
Declarer, the Dummy could not have saved himself from suffering by
reason of it, and, whether the question be either a strict
interpretation of law or of sportsmanship, it is a poor rule that does
not work both ways.
Both parts of the query are, therefore, answered in the affirmative.
CASE 11
The Declarer leads three rounds of Trumps, on the third an adversary
refuses.
Later in the play the Declarer leads a winning card which is trumped by
the adversary who has refused Trumps.
The player who trumped the trick gathered it.
The Declarer said, "How did you win it?"
The player answered, "I trumped it."
The Dummy then said, "Who trumped it?"
After this remark by the Dummy, the Declarer claims a revoke, the claim
is disputed upon the ground that the Dummy called the revoke to the
attention of the Declarer. The Declarer states that he would have made
the claim, regardless of Dummy's remark.
Query: Should the revoke be allowed?
DECISION
Law 60 prescribes explicitly the privileges of the Dummy after he has
placed his hand on the table.
There are exactly six things which he may do and no more.
Law 61 provides, "Should the declarer's partner call attention to any
other incident of the play in consequence of which any penalty might
have been exacted, the declarer is precluded from exacting such
penalty."
Inasmuch as asking "Who won the trick?" is not one of the six
privileges allowed the Dummy, such action is irregular, and must, of
necessity, call attention to the revoke. Had the Dummy actually claimed
the revoke, it would preclude the exaction of a penalty, even had the
Declarer been about to claim it. It is, therefore, immaterial whether
the Declarer would have noticed the revoke had the Dummy not made the
irregular remark.
The question is decided in the negative.
CASE 12
The adversaries of the Declarer take ten tricks, but revoke. Under
these conditions, can either side score "except for honors or chicane?"
DECISION
Law 84 provides that "a revoking side cannot score, except for honors
or chicane."
It also provides: "If either of the adversaries revoke, the declarer
may either add 150 points to his score in the honor column or may take
three tricks from his opponents and add them to his own. Such tricks
may assist the declarer to make good his declaration."
It is evident that the Declarer is given the option of either scoring
150 points or taking three tricks, should he prefer to make good his
declaration rather than receive the bonus.
In the case cited, three tricks could not fulfill the contract, but
should a thoughtless or generous Declarer elect to take a penalty which
would not benefit him, in preference to 150, he would be acting within
his rights.
The rule clearly decides this case. The adversaries "cannot score
except for honors or chicane," and the Declarer can "add 150 to his
score in the honor column" if he elect so to do.
Acknowledgment is made of the courtesy of The Whist Club of New York in
permitting the publication of its code of laws and of the decisions of
its Card Committee.
SUMMARIZED PENALTIES
For the benefit of those who wish to hastily ascertain the penalty for
an offense or to refer to the law upon the subject, the following table
of summarized penalties has been prepared. It does not include every
possible penalty, but merely those of most frequent occurrence.
OFFENSE PENALTY LAW
Revoke by Declarer 150 points 84 _a_
Revoke by Adversary 150 points or 3 tricks 84 _b_
Revoke by Dummy None 63
Second revoke in same hand 100 points 84 _c_
Lead out of turn by Declarer None 77
{ Exposed card
Lead out of turn by Adversary { or 76
{ Called lead
Card exposed during deal New deal 37 _c_
{ Partner cannot bid nor
Card exposed after deal and { lead suit of card and card 65
before end of bidding { may be called
{ May be called and if exposed
Card exposed after end of { by Third Hand that suit 66
bidding and before lead { not be led
Card exposed { Declarer None 72
during {
play by { Adversary May be called { 67
{ 72
Two or more cards played at All may be called 70
once by adversary
Not playing to trick New deal 81
Playing 2 cards to trick Liable for revoke 82
Playing with less than 13 cards Liable for revoke 38
Holding 14 cards New deal 37 _d_
Misdeal New deal { 36
{ 37
Dealing out of turn or with May be corrected before 40
wrong cards last card is dealt
Declaration out of turn New deal 49
Double out of turn New deal 57
Pass out of turn None 49
Insufficient declaration Made sufficient and partner 50
debarred from bidding
Impossible declaration Made 7 tricks and partner 50
debarred from bidding; or
new deal; or previous
declaration may be made final
Dummy's calling attention to Penalty for offense 61
eliminated any offense
Dummy's suggesting a play It may be required or 62
prohibited
Declarer's naming or touching May have to play it 64
card in Dummy
Adversary's calling attention Partner may be required to 92
to trick play highest or lowest card
or win or lose trick
Giving information about Called lead 51
bidding after final bid
Fourth Hand playing before Second Hand may be required 80
Second to play highest or
lowest card or win or lose
trick
Cutting more than one card Must take highest 16
APPENDIX
QUERIES AND ANSWERS
The introduction of the count now in use has produced so radical a
change in the game of Auction that of necessity innumerable differences
of opinion have arisen among individual players.
Many questions have been submitted to arbitrators for decision. In some
cases the author of AUCTION OF TO-DAY has been complimented by being
called upon for his opinion, and a few queries that seem to be upon
points of general interest, with the answers given, follow.
QUERY
What is the correct original bid of the Dealer in the following cases?
1. Seven Diamonds, headed by Knave, Ten; Ace of Spades; Ace of
Hearts; Ace and three small Clubs.
2. The same hand, except that the Clubs are Ace, King, and two
small.
3. The same two hands, with the Diamonds headed by Queen, Knave,
Ten.
ANSWER
These hands are evidently conceived for the purpose of proving
vulnerable the rule that a suit should not be called without the Ace or
King. They doubtless never did and probably never will occur in actual
play, but most aptly illustrate a point of declaration, and are,
therefore, worthy of consideration.
It must be remembered that in the extraordinary case any convention of
declaration may be varied to suit the hand. Undoubtedly, the last rule
to permit exception is that above mentioned. For the purpose of
emphasis it may properly be said to be without exception, and yet, if
any such holding actually happen, it may become necessary for the
Declarer to take a little leeway. It cannot affect the confidence of
the partner if a player, only under such extraordinary circumstances,
departs from the conventional, and the remarkable character of the hand
guarantees that harm will not result in the particular instance.
All of the above hands contain three Aces, yet a No-trump should not be
bid, as it would probably be left in, and with two singleton Aces they
are dangerous No-trumpers, but strong Diamonds.
The hands are much too strong to call one Spade, as that also might not
be overbid. Two Spades followed by Diamonds would be quite
satisfactory, would avoid breaking the rule, but would not include the
effort to eliminate adverse bidding which, with a hand of this
character, might be desirable.
Two Diamonds is not permissible, as that is the conventional call for a
solid Diamond suit.
There is no reason, however, that three or more Diamonds or Clubs
should not indicate a long weak Trump suit with such additional
strength that one Spade is an unsafe call. Such a bid would suggest
that a game is probable in the suit named. It is not a recognized bid
and would rarely be used, but an intelligent partner would at once
grasp its meaning.
The answer to the above, therefore, is
1. Three Diamonds.
2. Three, or even Four, Diamonds. (The bid of one Club might be
left in.)
3. Three or 4 Diamonds in first; 4 in second.
QUERY
Would it not improve the game of Auction and increase the amount of
skill required in the declaration if the value of Royal Spades be
altered from 9 to 5?
ANSWER
The basic theory of the present count is to equalize, as nearly as
possible, the value of the five declarations, in order to produce the
maximum amount of competition in bidding. This has proved most popular
with the mass of players, and has been universally adopted not only in
this country, but also in England, France, and Russia. To decrease the
value of the Royal Spade from 9 to 5, would be a distinct step
backward. In that case it would take 4, instead of 3, Royal Spades to
overbid two No-trumps; and 6, instead of 4, to overbid three No-trumps.
It is not likely that any change, which diminishes the ability of the
holder of Spades (or of any suit) to compete with a No-trump, will ever
appeal to Auction devotees. The greater the possibility for competitive
bidding, the greater the opportunity for displaying skill in that
branch of the game.
QUERY
Should the Dealer bid one Club, holding Ace and King of Clubs, four
small Spades, four small Hearts, Ace, Queen, and one small Diamond?
ANSWER
No. One Club deceives the partner. It indicates length in Clubs, and
may induce him to advance that suit too far. In the event of an adverse
No-trump, it will probably result in the lead of the partner's highest
Club, which is apt to prove extremely disastrous. One No-trump is far
safer than one Club, and might be defended on the ground that with four
cards in each of the two weak suits the danger of a long adverse run is
reduced.
One Spade, however, places the Dealer in a splendid position to advance
any call his partner may make, and is doubtless the sound bid.
QUERY
Is it not an objection to the count now in use that the Spade suit is
given two values, and would it not be wise to make Spades 9, and allow
the Dealer to pass the original declaration?
ANSWER
The advisability of this plan was thoroughly considered before the
present count was suggested. It would make a pass by the Dealer equal
to the present declaration of one Spade, and in the event of the four
players all passing, presumably would necessitate a new deal. It would
eliminate two, three, and four Spade bids by the Dealer and Second
Hand, and the double of one Spade by the latter.
It would relieve the Third Hand from determining whether to take his
partner out of one Spade, and take from the Fourth Hand the decision of
whether to play for a penalty of 100 or try for game. It is evident,
therefore, that it would take a great deal out of the bidding of every
one of the four players, and it is hard to believe that any scheme
tending to decrease the variety of, and amount of skill required for,
the declaration, is to the advantage of the game.
The objection to having two Spade values is purely theoretical, as
players are not in the least embarrassed thereby, nor is the number of
declarations at present a part of the game cumbersome or confusing. The
argument, that if there be two Spade values there might equally well be
two values for each of the other suits, almost answers itself. Having
more than one Royal declaration would of necessity result in
complications, and, of course, only one defensive call is needed. With
the advantages of the Spade bid so numerous and evident, and with no
real disadvantage apparent, there does not seem to be any sound reason
for abandoning it.
QUERY
Dealer bids one Royal. Second Hand holds Ace, King, Queen, Knave, and
Ten of Clubs; Ace, King, and two small Diamonds; Ace and two small
Hearts; one small Spade. What should he bid?
ANSWER
Three Clubs. The holding thoroughly justifies a No-trump, as the hand
contains eight sure tricks. If, however, the partner cannot stop the
Spades, the adversaries will save the game at once, while eleven Club
tricks is not an impossibility. Furthermore, the partner may have the
Spades stopped if _led up to_ him, but not if led _through_
him.
The Declaration of _three_ Clubs (one more than necessary) tells the
partner the situation, and accomplishes two purposes:--if the partner
have not the Spades stopped, the game is still possible; if the partner
have the Spades stopped, if led up to him, it instructs him to call two
No-trumps, whereas a No-trump bid by the Second Hand, with the same
cards, might fail to produce game, because the position of the opening
lead would then be reversed.
QUERY
Dealer bids one No-trump; Second Hand, two Hearts. Third Hand holds
Spades Knave, Ten, and three small
Hearts One small
Diamonds Two small
Clubs Ace, Queen, Knave, and two small
What should be bid?
ANSWER
Two Royals. This hand, especially with an adverse Heart call, is much
more apt to go game at Royals than at No-trump. Two Royals asks to be
let alone; three Clubs practically commands the partner to bid two
No-trumps if he have the Hearts stopped.
This is but an expansion of the principle that the original call of one
Club or one Diamond suggests a No-trump, while one Heart or one Royal
indicates a desire to try for game in the suit named.
QUERY
Is it fair for partners to agree that the bid of one Spade shall mean
weakness; one Club, general strength; and two Clubs, strength in Clubs?
ANSWER
It is perfectly fair for players to use the above-described, or any
other convention, provided their adversaries understand its meaning.
Conventions are an essential part of Auction. The lead of a King to
show the Ace is a convention--so is every informatory play or
declaration. When plays or bids are generally understood, it is
unnecessary for players to explain their significance, but the
adversaries should have all the information upon the subject possessed
by the partner, and nothing approaching a private understanding should
exist.
QUERY
The Dealer bids one No-trump, holding
Spades Ace, Queen, Ten, and three small
Hearts Ace, Queen
Diamonds Ace, and one small
Clubs Ace, and two small
Second and Third Hands pass; Fourth Hand, two Diamonds.
What should the Dealer declare on the second round?
ANSWER
Two Royals. The hand is far too strong to pass, while to bid two
No-trumps is foolish, as, unless the partner hold the King of Spades,
it is almost certain that the contract cannot be fulfilled.
Two Royals is safe and presents a good chance of game. A game in Royals
is far more valuable than 100 for Aces, which may be reduced, if not
wiped out, by penalties for under-tricks.
QUERY
Score, Love. Dealer bids one Spade; Second Hand, one Diamond; Third
Hand, one Royal; Fourth Hand, two Clubs.
Second round, Dealer bids two Royals; Second Hand, three Clubs; Third
Hand, three Royals; Fourth Hand, four Diamonds.
Dealer holds
Spades Knave, 10, 7
Hearts King, Knave, 8
Diamonds 7, 4, 3
Clubs King, 7, 6, 3
Should he double the four Diamond declaration?
ANSWER
A bid of four Diamonds should never be doubled at a love score unless
the Doubler be reasonably sure of defeating the declaration. In this
case he may expect to win one Club, and possibly one Heart, although
that is not sure. Either the Declarer or the Dummy may be without
Spades. The double does not seem reasonably safe and may keep the
partner from a successful bid of four Royals. The Dealer, therefore,
should pass.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Eccentricities of the Animal Creation.
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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Title: Eccentricities of the Animal Creation.
Author: John Timbs
Release date: December 14, 2013 [eBook #44422]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Christian Boissonnas and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECCENTRICITIES OF THE ANIMAL CREATION. ***
Produced by Chris Curnow, Christian Boissonnas and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: KING PENGUINS.]
ECCENTRICITIES
OF
THE ANIMAL CREATION.
BY JOHN TIMBS.
AUTHOR OF "THINGS NOT GENERALLY KNOWN."
WITH EIGHT ENGRAVINGS.
SEELEY, JACKSON, AND HALLIDAY, 54, FLEET-STREET.
LONDON. MDCCCLXIX.
_The right of translation is reserved._
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTORY.--CURIOSITIES OF ZOOLOGY.
Natural History in Scripture, and Egyptian Records, 11.--Origin of
Zoological Gardens, 12.--The Greeks and Romans, 12.--Montezuma's
Zoological Gardens, 13.--Menagerie in the Tower of London,
14.--Menagerie in St. James's Park, 14.--John Evelyn's Notes,
15.--Ornithological Society, 15.--Continental Gardens, 16.--Zoological
Society of London instituted, 16; its most remarkable Animals,
16.--Cost of Wild Animals, 18.--Sale of Animals, 20.--Surrey
Zoological Gardens, 20.--Wild-beast Shows, 21.
THE RHINOCEROS IN ENGLAND.
Ancient History, 22, 23.--One-horned and Two-horned, 25,
26.--Tractability, 25.--Bruce and Sparmann, 27.--African Rhinoceros in
1868, 27.--Description of, 29.--Burchell's Rhinoceros, 30.--Horn of
the Rhinoceros, 31, 32.
STORIES OF MERMAIDS.
Sirens of the Ancients, 33.--Classic Pictures of Mermaids,
34.--Leyden's Ballad, 35.--Ancient Evidence, 36, 37, 38.--Mermaid in
the West Indies, 39.--Mermaids, Seals, and Dugongs, 41.--Mermaids and
Manatee, 42.--Test for a Mermaid, 43.--Mermaid of 1822, 43.--Japanese
Mermaids, 44.--Recent Evidence, 47, 48.
IS THE UNICORN FABULOUS?
Ctesias and Wild Asses, 65.--Aristotle, Herodotus, and Pliny,
50.--Modern Unicorns, 50.--Ancient Evidence, 51.--Hunting the
Unicorn, 52.--Antelopes, 53, 54.--Cuvier and the Oryx, 54.--Tibetan
Animal, 55.--Klaproth's Evidence, 55.--Rev. John Campbell's Evidence,
57.--Baikie on, 58.--Factitious Horns in Museums, 59.--Unicorn in the
Royal Arms, 60.--Catching the Unicorn, 60.--Belief in Unicorns, 61.
THE MOLE AT HOME.
Economy of the Mole, 62.--Its Structure, 63.--Fairy Rings; Feeling
of the Mole, 64.--Le Court's Experiments, 62, 65.--Hunting-grounds,
67.--Loves of the Moles, 68, 69.--Persecution of Moles.--Shrew Mole,
70.--Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, on Moles, 71.
THE GREAT ANT-BEAR.
The Ant-Bear of 1853, 72, 73.--Mr. Wallace, on the Amazon, describes
the Ant-Bear, 73.--Food of the Ant-Bear, 74.--His Resorts, 75.--Habits
in Captivity, by Professor Owen, 76-80.--Fossil Ant-Bear, 80,
81.--Tamandua Ant-Bear, 82--Von Sack's Ant-Bear, 83.--Porcupine
Ant-Eater, 84.--Ant-Bears in the Zoological Gardens, 84.
CURIOSITIES OF BATS.
Virgil's Harpies, 85.--Pliny on the Bat, 85.--Rere-mouse and
Flitter-mouse, 86.--Bats, not Birds but Quadrupeds, 87.--Sir Charles
Bell on the Wing of the Bat, 87.--Vampire Bat from Sumatra, 88.--Lord
Byron and Vampire, 89.--Levant Superstition, 89.--Bat described by
Heber, Waterton, and Steadman, 90.--Lesson on Bats, 91.--Bat Fowling
or Folding, 91, 92.--Sowerby's Long-eared Bat, 92, 96.--Wing of
the Bat, 96.--_Nycteris_ Bat, 97.--_Kalong_ Bat of Java, 98.--Bats,
various, 100, 101.
THE HEDGEHOG.
Hedgehog Described, 102.--Habits, 103.--Eating Snakes, 105.--Poisons,
105, 106.--Battle with a Viper, 105.--Economy of the Hedgehog, 106,
107.
THE HIPPOPOTAMUS IN ENGLAND.
Living Hippopotamus brought to England in 1850, 108.--Capture and
Conveyance, 111.--Professor Owen's Account, 111-115.--Described
by Naturalists and Travellers, 115-118.--Utility to Man,
118-119.--Ancient History, 119.--In Scripture, 120.--Alleged
Disappearance, 121.--Fossil, 122.
LION-TALK.
Character, 123.--Reputed Generosity, 125.--Burchell's Account,
125.--Lion-Tree in the Mantatee Country, 127.--Lion-hunting,
128.--Disappearance of Lions, 130, 131.--Human Prey, 132.--Maneless
Lions of Guzerat, 134.--A Lion Family in Bengal, 135, 136.--Prickle on
the Lion's Tail, 137-139.--Nineveh Lions, 139.--Lions in the Tower of
London, 140, 141.--Feats with Lions, 142.--Lion-hunting in Algeria, by
Jules Gerard, 144.--The Prudhoe Lions, 144.
BIRD-LIFE.
Rate at which Birds fly, 145, 146.--Air in the Bones of Birds,
146.--Flight of the Humming-bird, 147.--Colour of Birds, 148.--Song
of Birds, 149.--Beauty in Animals, 150.--Insectivorous Birds,
151.--Sea-fowl Slaughter, 152.--Hooded Crow in Zetland, 154.--Brain of
Birds, 154.--Danger-signals, 155.--Addison's Love of Nature, 156, 157.
BIRDS' EGGS AND NESTS.
Colours of Eggs, 158.--Bird's-nesting, 159.--Mr. Wolley, the
Ornithologist, 159, 160.--European Birds of Prey, 161.--Large
Eggs, 162, 163, 164.--Baya's Nest, 164.--Oriole and Tailor-bird,
165, 166.--Australian Bower-bird, 167.--Cape Swallows, 168.--"Bird
Confinement," by Dr. Livingstone.
THE EPICURE'S ORTOLAN.
Origin of the Ortolan, 172; described, 173, 174; Fattening process,
175, 176.--Prodigal Epicurism, 177, 178.
TALK ABOUT TOUCANS.
Toucan family, 179.--Gould's grand Monograph, 180.--Toucans described,
180-182; Food, 183; Habits, 184.--Gould's Toucanet, 187.
ECCENTRICITIES OF PENGUINS.
Penguins on Dassent Island, 188.--Patagonian Penguins, 189.--Falkland
Islands, 189.--King Penguins, 190, 191.--Darwin's Account,
192.--Webster's Account, 193.--Swainson's Account, 194.
PELICANS AND CORMORANTS.
Pelicans described by various Naturalists, 195, 196.--The Pelican
Island, 197.--Popular Error, 199-200.--Cormorants, and Fishing with
Cormorants, 201-204.
TALKING BIRDS, INSTINCTS, ETC.
Sounds by various Birds, 204.--Umbrella Bird, 206.--Bittern,
207.--Butcher-bird and Parrots, 208.--Wild Swan, Laughing Goose,
Cuckoo, and Nightingale, 209.--Talking Canaries, 210.--Neighing Snipe,
213.--Trochilos and Crocodiles, 216.--Instinct. Intelligence, and
Reason in Birds, 217-219.--Songs of Birds and Seasons of the Day, 219.
OWLS.
Characteristics of the Owl, 221.--Owl in Poetry, 222.--Bischacho or
Coquimbo, 224.--Waterton on Owls, 225, 226.--Owls. Varieties of,
227-230.
WEATHER-WISE ANIMALS.
Atmospheric Changes, 231.--Stormy Petrel, 233.--Wild Geese and Ducks,
235.--Frogs and Snails, 237.--The Mole, 240.--List of Animals, by
Forster, the Meteorologist, 241.--Weatherproof Nests, 247.--"Signs of
Rain," by Darwin, 248.--Shepherd of Banbury, 249.
FISH-TALK.
How Fishes Swim, 250.--Fish Changing Colour, 251.--"Fish Noise,"
252.--Hearing of Fish, 253.--The Carp at Fontainebleau, 254,
255.--Affection of Fishes, 256.--Cat-fish, Anecdote of, 257.--Great
Number of Fishes, 258.--Little Fishes Eaten by Medusæ, 259.--Migration
of Fishes, 261.--Enormous Grampus, 262.--Bonita and Flying-fish,
263.--Jaculator Fish of Java, 264.--Port Royal, Jamaica Fish,
266.--The Shark, 267.--California. Fish of, 268.--Wonderful Fish,
269.--Vast Sun-fish, 271.--Double Fish, 272.--The Square-browed
Malthe, 274.--Gold Fish, 275.--The Miller's Thumb, 276.--Sea-fish
Observatory, 276.--Herring Question, 278.--Aristotle's History of
Animals, 279-280.
FISH IN BRITISH COLOMBIA.
Salmon-swarming, 281.--Candle-fish, 282.--Octopus, the, 283.--Sturgeon
and Sturgeon Fishing, 283-287.
THE TREE-CLIMBING CRAB.
Locomotion of Fishes, 288.--Climbing Perch, 288.--Crabs in the West
Indies, 289.--Crabs, Varieties of, 289-292.--Robber and Cocoa-nut
Crab, 292-301.--Fish of the China Seas, 301.
MUSICAL LIZARDS.
Lizard from Formosa Isle, 303.--Its Habits, 304-306.
CHAMELEONS AND THEIR CHANGES.
The Chameleon described by Aristotle and Calmet, 307, 308.--Change
of Colour, 309.--Reproduction of, 310, 311.--Tongue, 311.--Lives in
Trees, 312.--Theory of Colours, 313.--The Puzzle Solved, 315.--Mrs.
Belzoni's Chameleons, 317.--Lady Cust's Chameleons, 321.--Chameleon's
Antipathy to Black, 322.
RUNNING TOADS.
Dr. Husenbeth's Toads at Cossey, 327.--Frog and Toad Concerts, 327.
SONG OF THE CICADA.
Greeks' Love for the Song, 329.--Cicada in British Colombia,
329.--Tennyson and Keats on the Grasshopper, 330.
STORIES ABOUT THE BARNACLE GOOSE.
Baptista Porta's Account, 331.--Max Müller on, 331.--Gerarde's
Account, 332.--Giraldus Cambrensis, 332.--Professor Rolleston.
Drayton's _Poly-olbion_, 333.--Sir Kenelm Digby and Sir J. Emerson
Tennent, 334.--Finding the Barnacle, 334.
LEAVES ABOUT BOOKWORMS.
Bookworms, their Destructiveness, 336, 337.--How to Destroy, 338.--The
Death-watch, 339.--Lines by Swift, 340.
BORING MARINE ANIMALS, AND HUMAN ENGINEERS.
Life and Labours of the Pholas, 341.--Family of the Pholas,
342.--Curious Controversy, 343.--Boring Apparatus, 342.--Several
Observers, 347, 348.--Boring Annelids, 348.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Page
KING PENGUINS Frontispiece
THE TWO-HORNED AFRICAN RHINOCEROS 28
SEAL AND MERMAID 40
THE GREAT ANT-BEAR (ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY'S) 76
FRASER'S EAGLE OWL, FROM FERNANDO PO 228
SQUARE-BROWED MALTHE AND DOUBLE FISH 274
THE TREE-CLIMBING CRAB 288
CHAMELEONS 318
ECCENTRICITIES
OF
THE ANIMAL CREATION.
INTRODUCTORY.--CURIOSITIES OF ZOOLOGY.
Curious creatures of Animal Life have been objects of interest to
mankind in all ages and countries; the universality of which may be
traced to that feeling which "makes the whole world kin."
It has been remarked with emphatic truth by a popular writer, that "we
have in the Bible and in the engraven and pictorial records the earliest
evidence of the attention paid to Natural History in general. The 'navy
of Tarshish' contributed to the wisdom of him who not only 'spake of the
trees from the cedar of Lebanon, even unto the hyssop that springeth
out of the wall,' but 'also of beasts, and of fowls, and of creeping
things, and of fishes,'[1] to say nothing of numerous other passages
showing the progress that zoological knowledge had already made. The
Egyptian records bear testimony to a familiarity not only with the forms
of a multitude of wild animals, but with their habits and geographical
distribution."
The collections of living animals, now popularly known as Zoological
Gardens, are of considerable antiquity. We read of such gardens in China
as far back as 2,000 years; but they consisted chiefly of some favourite
animals, such as stags, fish, and tortoises. The Greeks, under Pericles,
introduced peacocks in large numbers from India. The Romans had their
elephants; and the first giraffe in Rome, under Cæsar, was as great an
event in the history of zoological gardens at its time as the arrival in
1849 of the Hippopotamus was in London. The first zoological garden of
which we have any detailed account is that in the reign of the Chinese
Emperor, Wen Wang, founded by him about 1150 A.D., and named by him "The
Park of Intelligence;" it contained mammalia, birds, fish, and amphibia.
The zoological gardens of former times served their masters occasionally
as hunting-grounds. This was constantly the case in Persia; and in
Germany, so late as 1576, the Emperor Maximilian II. kept such a park
for different animals near his castle, Neugebah, in which he frequently
chased.
Alexander the Great possessed his zoological gardens. We find from Pliny
that Alexander had given orders to the keepers to send all the rare and
curious animals which died in the gardens to Aristotle.
Splendid must have been the zoological gardens which the Spaniards found
connected with the Palace of Montezuma. The letters of Ferdinand Cortez
and other writings of the time, as well as more recently "The History
of the Indians," by Antonio Herrera, give most interesting and detailed
accounts of the menagerie in Montezuma's park. The buildings belonging
to these gardens were all gorgeous, as became the grandeur of the Indian
prince; they were supported by pillars, each of which was hewn out of
a single piece of some precious stone. Cool, arched galleries led into
the different parts of the garden--to the marine and fresh-water basins,
containing innumerable water-fowl,--to the birds of prey, falcons
and eagles, which latter especially were represented in the greatest
variety,--to the crocodiles, alligators, and serpents, some of them
belonging to the most venomous species. The halls of a large square
building contained the dens of the lions, tigers, leopards, bears,
wolves, and other wild animals. Three hundred slaves were employed in
the gardens tending the animals, upon which great care was bestowed, and
scrupulous attention paid to their cleanliness. To this South American
zoological garden of the sixteenth century no other of its time could be
compared.[2]
More than six centuries ago, our Plantagenet kings kept in the Tower
of London exotic animals for their recreation. The Lion Tower was built
here by Henry III., who commenced assembling here a menagerie with three
leopards sent to him by the Emperor Frederic II., "in token of his regal
shield of arms, wherein those leopards were pictured." Here, in 1255,
the Sheriffs built a house "for the King's elephant," brought from
France, and the first seen in England. Our early sovereigns had a mews
in the Tower as well as a menagerie:--
"Merry Margaret, as Midsomer flowre,
Gentyll as faucon and hawke of the Towre."--_Skelton._
In the reign of Charles I., a sort of Royal Menagerie took the place of
the deer with which St. James's Park was stocked in the days of Henry
VIII, and Queen Elizabeth. Charles II. greatly enlarged and improved
the Park; and here he might be seen playing with his dogs and feeding
his ducks. The Bird-cage Walk, on the south side of the Park, had in
Charles's time the cages of an aviary disposed among the trees. Near the
east end of a canal was the Decoy, where water-fowl were kept; and here
was Duck Island, with its salaried Governor.
Evelyn, in 1664, went to "the Physique Garden in St. James's," where
he first saw "orange trees and other fine trees." He enumerates in
the menagerie, "an ornocratylus, or pelican; a fowle between a storke
and a swan; a melancholy water-fowl, brought from Astracan by the
Russian ambassador; a milk-white raven; two Balearian cranes," one of
which, had a wooden leg "made by a soulder:" there were also "deere of
severall countries, white, spotted like leopards; antelopes, an elk,
red deer, roebucks, staggs, Guinea goates, Arabian sheepe, &c." There
were "withy-potts, or nests, for the wild fowle to lay their eggs in, a
little above y^e surface of y^e water."
"25 Feb. 1664. This night I walk'd into St. James his Parke, where I saw
many strange creatures, as divers sorts of outlandish deer, Guiny sheep,
a white raven, a great parrot, a storke.... Here are very stately walkes
set with lime trees on both sides, and a fine pallmall."[3]
Upon the eastern island is the Swiss Cottage of the Ornithological
Society, built in 1841 with a grant of 300l. from the Lords of
the Treasury: it contains a council-room, keepers' apartments,
steam-hatching apparatus; contiguous are feeding-places and decoys; and
the aquatic fowl breed on the island, making their own nests among the
shrubs and grasses.
The majority of Zoological Gardens now in existence have been founded
in this century, with the exception of the Jardin des Plantes, which,
although founded in 1626, did not receive its first living animals until
the year 1793-1794. Hitherto, it had been a Garden of Plants exclusively.
We shall not be expected to enumerate the great Continental gardens,
of which that at Berlin, half an hour's drive beyond the Brandenburg
gates, contains the Royal Menagerie; it is open upon the payment of
an admission fee, and generally resembles our garden at the Regent's
Park. Berlin has also its Zoological Collection in its Museum of Natural
History. This collection is one of the richest and most extensive in
Europe, especially in the department of Ornithology: it includes the
birds collected by Pallas and Wildenow, and the fishes of Bloch. The
best specimens are those from Mexico, the Red Sea, and the Cape. The
whole is exceedingly well arranged, and _named_ for the convenience of
students. Still, our Zoological Collection in the British Museum (to be
hereafter removed to South Kensington) is allowed to be the finest in
Europe.
The Zoological Society of London was instituted in 1826, and occupies
now about seventeen acres of gardens in the Regent's Park. Among the
earliest tenants of the Menagerie were a pair of emues from New Holland;
two Arctic bears and a Russian bear; a herd of kangaroos; Cuban mastiffs
and Thibet watch-dogs; two llamas from Peru; a splendid collection of
eagles, falcons, and owls; a pair of beavers; cranes, spoonbills, and
storks; zebras and Indian cows; Esquimaux dogs; armadilloes; and a
collection of monkeys. To the menagerie have since been added an immense
number of species of _Mammalia_ and _Birds_; in 1849, a collection
of _Reptiles_; and in 1853, a collection of _Fish_, _Mollusca_,
_Zoophytes_, and other _Aquatic Animals_. In 1830, the menagerie
collected by George IV. at Sandpit-gate, Windsor, was removed to the
Society's Gardens; and 1834 the last of the Tower Menagerie was received
here. It is now the finest public Vivarium in Europe.
The following are some of the more remarkable animals which the Society
have possessed, or are now in the menagerie:--
_Antelopes_, the great family of, finely represented. The
beautiful _Elands_ were bequeathed by the late Earl of Derby, and
have bred freely since their arrival in 1851. The Leucoryx is the
first of her race born out of Africa. _Ant-eater. Giant_, brought
to England from Brazil in 1853, was exhibited in Broad-street,
St. Giles's, until purchased by the Zoological Society for 200l.
_Apteryx_, or _Kiwi_ bird, from New Zealand; the first living
specimen brought to England of this rare bird. The _Fish-house_,
built of iron and glass, in 1853, consisting of a series of glass
tanks, in which fish spawn, zoophytes produce young, and algæ
luxuriate; crustacea and mollusca live successfully, and ascidian
polypes are illustrated, together with sea anemones, jelly-fishes,
and star-fishes, rare shell-fishes, &c.: a new world of animal
life is here seen as in the depths of the ocean, with masses of
rock, sand, gravel, corallines, sea-weed, and sea-water; the
animals are in a state of natural restlessness, now quiescent,
now eating and being eaten. _Aurochs_, or _European Bisons_: a
pair presented by the Emperor of Russia, in 1847, from the forest
of Bialowitzca: the male died in 1848, the female in 1849, from
pleuro-pneumonia. _Bears_: the collection is one of the largest
ever made. _Elephants_: including an Indian elephant calf and its
mother. In 1847 died here the great Indian elephant Jack, having
been in the gardens sixteen years. Adjoining the stable is a tank
of water, of a depth nearly equal to the height of a full-grown
elephant. In 1851 the Society possessed a _herd of four elephants_,
besides a hippopotamus, a rhinoceros, and both species of tapir;
being the largest collection of pachydermata ever exhibited in
Europe. _Giraffes_: four received in 1836 cost the Society upwards
of 2,300_l._, including 1,000_l._ for steamboat passage: the female
produced six male fawns here between 1840 and 1851. _Hippopotamus_,
a young male (the first living specimen seen in England), received
from Egypt in May, 1850, when ten months old, seven feet long,
and six and a-half feet in girth; also a female hippopotamus,
received 1854. _Humming-birds_: Mr. Gould's matchless collection
of 2,000 examples was exhibited here in 1851 and 1852. _Iguanas_,
two from Cuba and Carthagena, closely resembling, in everything
but size, the fossil Iguanodon. The _Lions_ number generally from
eight to ten, including a pair of cubs born in the gardens in 1853.
_Orang-utan_ and _Chimpanzee_: the purchase-money of the latter
sometimes exceeds 300_l._ The orang "Darby," brought from Borneo
in 1851, is the finest yet seen in Europe, very intelligent, and
docile as a child. _Parrot-houses_: they sometimes contain from
sixty to seventy species. _Rapacious Birds_: so extensive a series
of eagles and vultures has never yet been seen at one view. _The
Reptile-house_ was fitted up in 1849; the creatures are placed in
large plate-glass cases: here are pythons and a rattle-snake, with
a young one born here; here is also a case of the tree-frogs of
Europe: a yellow snake from Jamaica has produced eight young in the
gardens. _Cobra de Capello_, from India: in 1852, a keeper in the
gardens was killed by the bite of this serpent. _A large Boa_ in
1850 swallowed a blanket, and disgorged it in thirty-three days.
A _one-horned Rhinoceros_, of continental India, was obtained in
1834, when it was about four years old, and weighed 26 cwt.; it
died in 1850: it was replaced by a female, about five years old.
_Satin Bower-Birds_, from Sydney: a pair have built here a bower,
or breeding-place. _Tapir_ of the Old World, from Mount Ophir;
the nearest existing form the Paleotherium. _Tigers_: a pair of
magnificent specimens, presented by the Guicoway of Baroda in 1851;
a pair of clouded tigers, 1854. _The Wapiti Deer_ breeds every year
in the Menagerie.
The animals in the Gardens, although reduced in number, are more
valuable and interesting than when their number was higher. The mission
of the Society's head-keeper, to collect rare animals for the Menagerie,
has been very profitable. The additional houses from time to time, are
very expensive: the new monkey house, fittings, and work cost 4,842_l._;
and in 1864, the sum of 6,604_l._ was laid out in permanent additions to
the establishment.
Very rare, and consequently expensive, animals are generally purchased.
Thus, the first Rhinoceros cost 1,000_l._; the four Giraffes, 700_l._,
and their carriage an additional 700_l._ The Elephant and calf were
bought in 1851 for 500_l._; and the Hippopotamus, although a gift, was
not brought home and housed at less than 1,000_l._--a sum which he
more than realised in the famous Exhibition season, when the receipts
were 10,000_l._ above the previous year. The Lion Albert was purchased
for 140_l._; a tiger, in 1852, for 200_l._ The value of some of the
smaller birds will appear, however, more startling: thus, the pair
of black-necked Swans were purchased for 80_l._; a pair of crowned
Pigeons and two Maleos, 60_l._; a pair of Victoria Pigeons, 35_l._;
four Mandarin Ducks, 70_l._ Most of these rare birds (now in the great
aviary) came from the Knowsley collection, at the sale of which,
in 1851, purchases were made to the extent of 985_l._ It would be
impossible from these prices, however, to judge of the present value
of the animals. Take the Rhinoceros, for example: the first specimen
cost 1,000_l._; the second, quite as fine a brute, only 350_l._ Lions
range again from 40_l._ to 180_l._, and Tigers from 40_l._ to 200_l._
The ignorance displayed by some persons as to the value of well-known
objects is something marvellous.--A sea-captain demanded 600_l._ for
a pair of Pythons, and at last took 40_l._! An American offered the
Society a Grisly Bear for 2,000_l._, to be delivered in the United
States; and, more laughable still, a moribund Walrus, which had been fed
for nine weeks on salt pork and meal, was offered for the trifling sum
of 700_l._!
There is a strange notion that the Zoological Society has proposed a
large reward for a "Tortoiseshell Tom-cat," and one was accordingly
offered to the Society for 250_l._! But male Tortoiseshell Cats may be
had in many quarters.[4]
The Surrey Zoological Gardens were established in 1831. Thither
Cross removed his menagerie from the King's Mews, where it had been
transferred from Exeter Change. At Walworth a glazed circular
building, 100 feet in diameter, was built for the cages of the
carnivorous animals (Lions, Tigers, Leopards, &c.); and other houses
for Mammalia, Birds, &c. Here, in 1834, was first exhibited a young
Indian one-horned Rhinoceros, for which Cross paid 800_l._ It was the
only specimen brought to England for twenty years. In 1836 were added
three Giraffes, one fifteen feet high. The menagerie was dispersed in
1856. The menagerie at Exeter Change was a poor collection, though the
admission-charge was, at one period, half-a-crown!
The collections of animals exhibited at fairs have added little to
Zoological information; but we may mention that Wombwell, one of the
most noted of the showfolk, bought a pair of the first Boa Constrictors
imported into England: for these he paid 75_l._, and in three weeks
realised considerably more than that sum by their exhibition. At the
time of his death, in 1850, Wombwell was possessed of three huge
menageries, the cost of maintaining which averaged at least 35_l._ per
day; and he used to estimate that, from mortality and disease, he had
lost, from first to last, from 12,000_l._ to 15,000_l._
Our object in the following succession of sketches of the habits and
eccentricities of the more striking animals, and their principal
claims upon our attention, is to present, in narrative, their leading
characteristics, and thus to secure a willing audience from old and
young.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] 1 Kings iv. 10.
[2] "Athenæum."
[3] Journal of Mr. E. Browne, son of Sir Thomas Browne.
[4] In April, 1842, Mr. Batty's collection of animals was sold by
auction, when the undermentioned animals brought--Large red-faced Monkey
(clever), 1_l._ 10_s._; fine Coatimondi, 1_l._ 4_s._; Mandril (the
only one in England), 1_l._ 17_s._; pair of Java Hares, 1_l._ 9_s._; a
Puma, 14_l._; handsome Senegal Lioness, 9_l._; a Hyæna, 7_l._; splendid
Barbary Lioness, 24_l._; handsome Bengal Tigress, 90_l._; brown Bear,
6_l._; the largest Polar Bear in Europe, 37_l._; pair of Esquimaux
Sledge-Dogs, 3_l._ 7_s._; pair of Golden Pheasants, 3_l._ 10_s._; a
blue-and-buff Macaw (clever talker), 2_l._ 10_s._; a horned Owl, from
North America, 3_l._ 10_s._; a magnificent Barbary Lion, trained for
performance, 105 guineas; a Lioness, similarly trained, 90 guineas;
handsome Senegal performing Leopard, 34 guineas; two others, 50 guineas;
Ursine Sloth, 12 guineas; Indian Buffalo, 10 guineas; sagacious male
Elephant, trained for theatrical performances, 350 guineas. The above is
stated to have been the first sale of the kind by public auction in this
country.
THE RHINOCEROS IN ENGLAND.
The intellectual helps to the study of zoology are nowhere more
strikingly evident than in the finest collection of pachyderms
(thick-skinned animals) in the world, now possessed by our Zoological
Society. Here we have a pair of Indian Elephants, a pair of African
Elephants, a pair of Hippopotami, a pair of Indian Rhinoceroses, and an
African or two-horned Rhinoceros.
The specimens of the Rhinoceros which have been exhibited in Europe
since the revival of literature have been few and far between. The
first was of the one-horned species, sent from India to Emmanuel. King
of Portugal, in the year 1513. The Sovereign made a present of it to
the Pope; but the animal being seized during its passage with a fit of
fury, occasioned the loss of the vessel in which it was transported. A
second Rhinoceros was brought to England in 1685; a third was exhibited
over almost the whole of Europe in 1739; and a fourth, a female, in
1741. A fifth specimen arrived at Versailles in 1771, and it died in
1793, at the age of about twenty-six years. The sixth was a very young
Rhinoceros, which died in this country in the year 1800. The seventh, a
young specimen, was in the possession of Mr. Cross, at Exeter Change,
about 1814; and an eighth specimen was living about the same time in
the Garden of Plants at Paris. In 1834 Mr. Cross received at the Surrey
Gardens, from the Birman empire, a Rhinoceros, a year and a-half old,
as already stated at page 21. In 1851 the Zoological Society purchased
a full-grown female Rhinoceros; and in 1864 they received a male
Rhinoceros from Calcutta. All these specimens were from India, and
_one-horned_; so that the _two-horned_ Rhinoceros had not been brought
to England until the arrival of an African Rhinoceros, _two-horned_, in
September, 1868.[5]
The ancient history of the Rhinoceros is interesting, but intricate. It
seems to be mentioned in several passages of the Scriptures, in most
of which the animal or animals intended to be designated was or were
the _Rhinoceros unicornis_, or Great Asiatic one-horned Rhinoceros.
M. Lesson expresses a decided opinion to this effect: indeed, the
description in Job (chap. xxxix.) would almost forbid the conclusion
that any animal was in the writer's mind except one of surpassing bulk
and indomitable strength. The impotence of man is finely contrasted
with the might of the Rhinoceros in this description, which would be
overcharged if it applied to the less powerful animals alluded to in the
previous passages.
It has also been doubted whether accounts of the Indian Wild Ass, given
by Ctesias, were not highly coloured and exaggerated descriptions of
this genus; and whether the Indian Ass of Aristotle was not a Rhinoceros.
Agatharchides describes the one-horned Rhinoceros by name, and speaks
of its ripping up the belly of the Elephant. This is, probably, the
earliest occurrence of the name _Rhinoceros_. The Rhinoceros which
figured in the celebrated pomps of Ptolemy Philadelphus was an
Ethiopian, and seems to have marched last in the procession of wild
animals, probably on account of its superior rarity, and immediately
after the Cameleopard.
Dion Cassius speaks of the Rhinoceros killed in the circus with a
Hippopotamus in the show given by Augustus to celebrate his victory over
Cleopatra; he says that the Hippopotamus and this animal were then first
seen and killed at Rome. The Rhinoceros then slain is thought to have
been African, and two-horned.
The Rhinoceros clearly described by Strabo, as seen by him, was
one-horned. That noticed by Pausanias as "the Bull of Ethiopia," was
two-horned, and he describes the relative position of the horns.
Wood, in his "Zoography," gives an engraving of the coin of Domitian
(small Roman brass), on the reverse of which is the distinct form of a
two-horned Rhinoceros: its exhibition to the Roman people, probably of
the very animal represented on the coin, is particularly described in
one of the epigrams attributed to Martial, who lived in the reigns of
Titus and Domitian. By the description of the epigram it appears that
a combat between a Rhinoceros and a Bear was intended, but that it was
very difficult to irritate the more unwieldy animal so as to make him
display his usual ferocity; at length, however, he tossed the bear from
his double horn, with as much facility as a bull tosses to the sky the
bundles placed for the purpose of enraging him. Thus far the coin and
the epigram perfectly agree as to the existence of the double horn; but,
unfortunately, commentators and antiquaries were not to be convinced
that a Rhinoceros could have more than one horn, and have at once
displayed their sagacity and incredulity in their explanations on the
subject.
Two, at least, of the two-horned Rhinoceroses were shown at Rome in the
reign of Domitian. The Emperors Antoninus, Heliogabalus, and Gordian
also exhibited Rhinoceroses. Cosmas speaks expressly of the Ethiopian
Rhinoceros as having two horns, and of its power of moving them.
The tractability of the Asiatic Rhinoceros has been confirmed by
observers in the native country of the animal. Bishop Heber saw at
Lucknow five or six very large Rhinoceroses, of which he found that
prints and drawings had given him a very imperfect conception. They
were more bulky animals, and of a darker colour than the Bishop
supposed; though the latter difference might be occasioned by oiling
the skin. The folds of their skin also surpassed all which the Bishop
had expected. Those at Lucknow were quiet and gentle animals, except
that one of them had a feud with horses. They had sometimes howdahs, or
chaise-like seats, on their backs, and were once fastened in a carriage,
but only as an experiment, which was not followed up. The Bishop,
however, subsequently saw a Rhinoceros (the present of Lord Amherst to
the Guicwar), which was so tamed as to be ridden by a Mohout quite as
patiently as an elephant.
No two-horned Rhinoceros seems to have been brought alive to Europe in
modern times. Indeed, up to a comparatively late period, their form
was known only by the horns which were preserved in museums; nor did
voyagers give any sufficient details to impart any clear idea of the
form of the animal. The rude figure given by Aldrovandus, in 1639,
leaves no doubt that, wretched as it is, it must have been taken from a
two-horned Rhinoceros.
Dr. Parsons endeavoured to show that the one-horned Rhinoceros always
belonged to Asia, and the two-horned Rhinoceros to Africa; but there are
two-horned Rhinoceroses in Asia, as well as in Africa. Flacourt saw one
in the Bay of Soldaque, near the Cape of Good Hope, at a distance. Kolbe
and others always considered the Rhinoceros of the Cape as two-horned;
but Colonel Gordon seems to be the first who entirely detailed the
species with any exactness. Sparrman described the Cape Rhinoceros,
though his figure of the animal is stiff and ill-drawn. At this period
it was well known that the Cape species was not only distinguished by
having two horns from the Indian Rhinoceros then known, but also by an
absence of the folds of the skin so remarkable in the latter.
We should here notice the carelessness, to call it by the mildest
name, of Bruce, who gave to the world a representation of a two-horned
Rhinoceros from Abyssinia, with a strongly folded skin. The truth
appears to be that the body of the animal figured by Bruce was copied
from that of the one-horned Rhinoceros given by Buffon, to which Bruce
added a second horn. Salt proved that the Abyssinian Rhinoceros is
two-horned, and that it resembles that of the Cape.
[Illustration: THE TWO-HORNED AFRICAN RHINOCEROS.]
Sparmann exposes the errors and poetic fancies of Buffon respecting the
impenetrable nature of the skin. He ordered one of his Hottentots to
make a trial of this with his hassagai on a Rhinoceros which had been
shot. Though this weapon was far from being in good order, and had no
other sharpness than that which it had received from the forge, the
Hottentot, at the distance of five or six paces, not only pierced with
it the thick hide of the animal, but buried it half a foot deep in its
body.
Mr. Tegetmeier has sufficiently described in the "Field" journal the
African Rhinoceros just received at the Zoological Society's menagerie
in the Regent's-park, and which has been sketched by Mr. T. W. Wood
expressly for the present volume.
It was captured about a year ago in Upper Nubia by the native hunters
in the employment of Mr. Casanova, at Kassala; and was sent, by way of
Alexandria and Trieste, to Mr. Karl Hagenbeck, of Hamburg, a dealer in
wild beasts, who sold it to the Zoological Society.
"This animal is very distinct from its Asiatic congeners; it differs
strikingly in the number of horns, as well as in the character of its
skin, which is destitute of those large folds, which cause the Indian
species to remind the observer of a gigantic 'hog in armour.'
"The arrival of this animal will tend to clear up the confusion
that prevails respecting the number of distinct species of African
Rhinoceros. Some writers--as Sir W. C. Harris--admit the existence of
two species only, the dark and the light, or, as they are termed, the
'white' and the 'black.' Others, as Dr. A. Smith, describe three; some,
as the late Mr. Anderssen, write of four; and Mr. Chapman even speaks of
a fifth species or hybrid.
"Three of these species are very distinctly defined--the ordinary dark
animal, the _Rhinoceros bicornis_, in which the posterior horn is much
shorter than the anterior; the _Rhinoceros keitloa_, in which the two
horns are of equal length; and the 'white' species, _Rhinoceros simus_.
The last, among other characters, is, according to Dr. Smith,
distinguished by the square character of the upper lip, which is not
prehensile.
"The young animal now (October, 1868) in the Zoological Society's
garden, appears to belong to the first-named species, the largest
specimens of which when full grown reach a height of 6ft., and a length
of 13ft., the tail not included. Its present height is 3-1/2ft., and
length about 6ft. In general appearance the mature animal resembles a
gigantic pig, the limbs being brought under the body. The feet are most
singular in form, being very distinctly three-toed, and the remarkable
trefoil-like _spoors_ that they make in the soil render the animal
easy to track. The horns vary greatly in length in different animals;
the first not unfrequently reaches a length of 2ft., the second being
considerably shorter. These appendages differ very much from ordinary
horns; they are, in fact, more of the nature of agglutinated hair, being
attached to the skin only, and consequently they separate from the skull
when the latter is preserved.
"The head is not remarkable for comeliness, especially in the mature
animal, in which the skin of the face is deeply wrinkled, and the small
eyes are surrounded with many folds. The upper lip is elongated, and is
used in gathering the food. The adult animals are described by Sir W. C.
Harris, in his 'Illustrations of the Game Animals of South Africa,' as
'swinish, cross-grained, ill-tempered, wallowing brutes.'"
Mr. Burchell, during his travels in Africa, shot nine Rhinoceroses,
besides a smaller one. The latter he presented to the British Museum.
The animal is, however, becoming every day more and more scarce in
Southern Africa; indeed, it is rarely to be met with in some parts.
It appears that, in one day, two Rhinoceroses were shot by Speelman,
the faithful Hottentot who attended Mr. Burchell. He fired off his gun
but twice, and each time he killed a Rhinoceros! The animal's sense of
hearing is very quick: should he be disturbed, he sometimes becomes
furious, and pursues his enemy; and then, if once he gets sight of the
hunter, it is scarcely possible for him to escape, unless he possesses
extraordinary coolness and presence of mind. Yet, if he will quietly
wait till the enraged animal makes a run at him, and will then spring
suddenly on one side, to let it pass, he may gain time enough for
reloading his gun before the Rhinoceros gets sight of him again, which,
fortunately, owing to its imperfection of sight, it does slowly and with
difficulty.
Speelman, in shooting a large male Rhinoceros, used bullets cast with
an admixture of tin, to render them harder. They were flattened and
beat out of shape by striking against the bones, but those which were
found lodged in the fleshy parts had preserved their proper form, a fact
which shows how little the hardness of the creature's hide corresponds
with the vulgar opinion of its being impenetrable to a musket-ball.
Mr. Burchell found this Rhinoceros nearly cut up. On each side of the
carcase the Hottentots had made a fire to warm themselves; and round a
third fire were assembled at least twenty-four Bushmen, most of whom
were employed the whole night long in broiling, eating, and talking.
Their appetite seemed insatiable, for no sooner had they broiled and
eaten one slice of meat than they turned to the carcase and cut another.
The meat was excellent, and had much the taste of beef. "The tongue,"
says Mr. Burchell, "is a dainty treat, even for an epicure." The hide is
cut into strips, three feet or more in length, rounded to the thickness
of a man's finger, and tapering to the top. This is called a _shambok_,
and is universally used in the colony of the Cape for a horsewhip, and
is much more durable than the whips of European manufacture. The natural
food of the Rhinoceros, till the animal fled before the colonists, was a
pale, bushy shrub, called the Rhinoceros-bush, which burns while green
as freely as the driest fuel, so as readily to make a roadside fire.
The horn of the Rhinoceros, single or double, has its special history by
the way of popular tradition. From the earliest times this horn has been
supposed to possess preservative virtues and mysterious properties--to
be capable of curing diseases and discovering the presence of poison;
and in all countries where the Rhinoceros exists, but especially in the
East, such is still the opinion respecting it. In the details of the
first voyage of the English to India, in 1591, we find Rhinoceros' horns
monopolised by the native sovereigns on account of their reputed virtues
in detecting the presence of poison.
Thunberg observes, in his "Journey into Caffraria," that "the horns of
the Rhinoceros were kept by some people, both in town and country, not
only as rarities, but also as useful in diseases, and for the purpose
of detecting poisons. As to the former of these intentions, the fine
shavings were supposed to cure convulsions and spasms in children. With
respect to the latter, it was generally believed that goblets made of
these horns would discover a poisonous draught that was poured into
them, by making the liquor ferment till it ran quite out of the goblet.
Of these horns goblets are made, which are set in gold and silver and
presented to kings, persons of distinction, and particular friends, or
else sold at a high price, sometimes at the rate of fifty rix-dollars
each." Thunberg adds:--"When I tried these horns, both wrought and
unwrought, both old and young horns, with several sorts of poison, weak
as well as strong, I observed not the least motion or effervescence; but
when a solution of corrosive sublimate or other similar substance was
poured into one of these horns, there arose only a few bubbles, produced
by the air which had been enclosed in the pores of the horn and which
were now disengaged."
Rankin (in his "Wars and Sports") states this mode of using it: a small
quantity of water is put into the concave part of the root, then hold it
with the point downwards and stir the water with the point of an iron
nail till it is discoloured, when the patient is to drink it.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] The conveyance of a Rhinoceros over sea is a labour of some risk. In
1814 a full-grown specimen on his voyage from Calcutta to this country
became so furious that he was fastened down to the ship's deck, with
part of a chain-cable round his neck; and even then he succeeded in
destroying a portion of the vessel, till, a heavy storm coming on, the
Rhinoceros was thrown overboard to prevent the serious consequence of
his getting loose in the ship.
STORIES OF MERMAIDS.
Less than half a century ago, a pretended Mermaid was one of the sights
of a London season; to see which credulous persons rushed to pay
half-crowns and shillings with a readiness which seemed to rebuke the
record--that the existence of a Mermaid is an exploded fallacy of two
centuries since.
Mermaids have had a legendary existence from very early ages, for the
Sirens of the ancients evidently belonged to the same remarkable family.
Shakspeare uses the term Mermaid as synonymous with Siren:--
"O train me not, sweet Mermaid, with thy note,
To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears;
Sing, Syren, for thyself."--_Comedy of Errors_, iii. 2.
Elsewhere, Shakspeare's use of the term is more applicable to the Siren
than to the common idea of a Mermaid; as in the "Midsummer Night's
Dream," where the "Mermaid on a dolphin's back" could not easily have
been so placed. A Merman, the male of this imaginary species, is
mentioned by Taylor, the water-poet:--
"A thing turmoyling in the sea we spide,
Like to a Meareman."
An old writer has this ingenious illustration:--"Mermaids, in Homer,
were witches, and their songs enchantments;" which reminds us of the
invitation in Haydn's Mermaid's Song:--
"Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow."
The orthodox Mermaid is half woman, half fish; and the fishy half is
sometimes depicted as doubly tailed, such as we see in the heraldry of
France and Germany; and in the Basle edition of Ptolemy's "Geography,"
dated 1540, a double-tailed Mermaid figures in one of the plates. In the
arms of the Fishmongers' Company of London, the supporters are "a Merman
and maid, first, armed, the latter with a mirror in the left hand,
proper." From this heraldic employment, the Mermaid became a popular
tavern sign; and there was an old dance called the Mermaid.
Sir Thomas Browne refers to the _picture_ of Mermaids, though he does
not admit their existence. They "are conceived to answer the shape of
the ancient Sirens that attempted upon Ulysses; which, notwithstanding,
were of another description, containing no fishy composure, but made up
of man and bird." Sir Thomas is inclined to refer the Mermaid to Dagon,
the tutelary deity of the Philistines, which, according to the common
opinion, had a human female bust and a fish-like termination; though the
details of this fish idolatry are entirely conjectural.
Leyden, the Scottish poet, has left a charming ballad, entitled "The
Mermaid," the scene of which is laid at Corrievreckin: the opening of
this poem Sir Walter Scott praised as exhibiting a power of numbers
which, for mere melody of sound, has seldom been excelled in English
poetry:--
"On Jura's heath how sweetly swell
The murmurs of the mountain bee!
How softly mourns the writhèd shell
Of Jura's shore its parent sea!
"But softer floating, o'er the deep,
The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay,
That charmed the dancing waves to sleep
Before the bark of Colonsay."
The ballad thus describes the wooing of the gallant chieftain:--
"Proud swells her heart! she deems at last
To lure him with her silver tongue,
And, as the shelving rocks she passed,
She raised her voice, and sweetly sung.
"In softer, sweeter strains she sung,
Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay,
When light to land the chieftain sprung,
To hail the maid of Colonsay.
"O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell,
And sadly sink remote at sea!
O sadly mourns the writhèd shell
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea
"And ever as the year returns,
The charm-bound sailors know the day;
For sadly still the Mermaid mourns
The lovely chief of Colonsay."
Curious evidences of the existence of Mermaids are to be found in
ancient authors. Pliny says that "the ambassadors to Augustine from Gaul
declared that sea-women were often seen in their neighbourhood." Solinus
and Aulus Gellius also speak of their existence. Some stories are,
however, past credence. It is related in the "Histoire d'Angleterre"
that, in the year 1187, a Merman was "fished up" off the coast of
Suffolk, and kept for six months. It was like a man, but wanted speech,
and at length escaped into the sea! In 1430, in the great tempests which
destroyed the dykes in Holland, some women at Edam, in West Friesland,
saw a Mermaid who had been driven by the waters into the meadows, which
were overflowed. "They took it, dressed it in female attire, and taught
it to spin!" It was taken to Haarlem, where it lived some years! Then we
read of Ceylonese fishermen, in 1560, catching, at one draught, seven
Mermen and Mermaids, which were dissected! In 1531, a Mermaid, caught in
the Baltic, was sent to Sigismund, King of Poland, with whom she lived
three days, and was seen by the whole court!
In Merollo's "Voyage to Congo," in 1682, Mermaids are said to be
plentiful all along the river Zaire. In the "Aberdeen Almanack" for
1688, it is predicted that "near the place where the famous Dee
payeth his tribute to the German Ocean," on the 1st, 13th, and 29th
of May, and other specified times, curious observers may "undoubtedly
see a pretty company of Mar Maids," and likewise hear their melodious
voices. In another part of Scotland, about the same time, Brand, in his
"Description of Orkney and Shetland," tells us that two fishermen drew
up with a hook a Mermaid, "having face, arm, breast, shoulders, &c., of
a woman, and long hair hanging down the neck, but the nether part, from
below the waist, hidden in the water." One of the fishermen stabbed her
with a knife, and she was seen no more! The evidence went thus:--Brand
was told by a lady and gentleman, who were told by a baillie to whom the
fishing-boat belonged, who was told by the fishers! Valentyn describes a
Mermaid he saw in 1714, on his voyage from Batavia to Europe, "sitting
on the surface of the water," &c. In 1758, a Mermaid is said to have
been exhibited at the fair of St. Germain, in France. It was about two
feet long, and sported about in a vessel of water. It was fed with bread
and fish. It was a female, with negro features.
In 1775 appeared a very circumstantial account of a Mermaid which was
captured in the Grecian Archipelago in the preceding year, and exhibited
in London. The account is ludicrously minute, and it ends with: "It is
said to have an enchanting voice, which it never exerts except before
a storm." This imposture was craftily made up out of the skin of the
angle shark. In Mr. Morgan's "Tour to Milford Haven in the year 1795,"
appears an equally circumstantial account of a Mermaid, said to have
been seen by one Henry Reynolds, a farmer, of Ren-y-hold, in the parish
of Castlemartin, in 1782. It resembled a youth of sixteen or eighteen
years of age, with a very white skin: it was bathing. The evidence
is very roundabout, so that there were abundant means for converting
some peculiar kind of fish into a Merman, without imputing intentional
dishonesty to any one. "Something akin to this kind of evidence is
observable in the account of a Mermaid seen in Caithness in 1809, which
attracted much attention in England as well as in Scotland, and induced
the Philosophical Society of Glasgow to investigate the matter. The
Editor of a newspaper, who inserted the statement, had been told by a
gentleman, who had been shown a letter by Sir John Sinclair, who had
obtained it from Mr. Innes, to whom it had been written by Miss Mackay,
who had heard the story from the persons (two servant girls and a boy)
who had seen the strange animal in the water." (Chambers's "Book of
Days.")
Then we read of a so-called Mermaid, shown in the year 1794 at No. 7,
Broad-court, Bow-street. Covent-garden, said to have been taken in the
North Seas by Captain Foster. It was of the usual description.
Much evidence comes from Scotland. Thus, in the year 1797, a
schoolmaster of Thurso affirmed that he had seen a Mermaid, apparently
in the act of combing her hair with her fingers! Twelve years
afterwards, several persons observed near the same place a like
appearance. Dr. Chisholm, in his "Essay on Malignant Fever in the West
Indies," in 1801, relates that, in the year 1797, happening to be at
Governor Van Battenburg's plantation, in Berbice, "the conversation
turned on a singular animal which had been repeatedly seen in Berbice
river, and some smaller rivers. This animal is the famous Mermaid,
hitherto considered as a mere creature of the imagination. It is called
by the Indians _méné_, mamma, or mother of the waters. The description
given of it by the Governor is as follows:--'The upper portion
resembles the human figure, the head smaller in proportion, sometimes
bare, but oftener covered with a copious quantity of long black hair.
The shoulders are broad, and the breasts large and well-formed. The
lower portion resembles the tail of a fish, is of great dimensions,
the tail forked, and not unlike that of the dolphin, as it is usually
represented. The colour of the skin is either black or tawny.' The
animal is held in veneration by the Indians, who imagine that killing
it would be attended with calamitous consequences. It is from this
circumstance that none of these animals have been shot, and consequently
examined but at a distance. They have been generally observed in a
sitting posture in the water, none of the lower extremity being seen
until they are disturbed, when, by plunging, the tail agitates the water
to a considerable distance round. They have been always seen employed in
smoothing their hair, and have thus been frequently taken for Indian
women bathing." In 1811, a young man, named John M'Isaac, of Corphine,
in Kintyre, in Scotland, made oath, on examination at Campbell-town,
that he saw, on the 13th of October in the above year, on a rock on the
sea-coast, an animal which generally corresponded with the form of the
Mermaid--the upper half human shape, the other brindled or reddish grey,
apparently covered with scales; the extremity of the tail greenish red;
head covered with long hair, at times put back on both sides of the
head. This statement was attested by the minister of Campbell-town and
the Chamberlain of Mull.
In August, 1812, Mr. Toupin, of Exmouth, in a sailing excursion, and
when about a mile south-east of Exmouth Bar, heard a sound like that
of the Æolian harp; and saw, at about one hundred yards distance, a
creature, which was regarded as a Mermaid. The head, from the crown to
the chin, formed a long oval, and the face seemed to resemble that of
the seal, though with more agreeable features. The presumed hair, the
arms, and the hand, with four fingers connected by a membrane, are then
described, and the tail with polished scales. The entire height of the
animal was from five feet to five and a-half feet. In 1819, a creature
approached the coast of Ireland. It was about the size of a child ten
years of age, with prominent bosom, long dark hair, and dark eyes. It
was shot at, when it plunged into the sea with a loud scream.
[Illustration: SEAL AND MERMAID.]
In reviewing these stories of Mermaids, it may be remarked that there
is always a fish in each tale--either a living fish of a peculiar
kind, which a fanciful person thinks to bear some resemblance in the
upper part to a human being, or a fish which becomes marvellous in the
progress of its description from mouth to mouth. It is commonly thought
the seals may often have been mistaken for Mermaids. But, of all the
animals of the whale tribe that which approaches the nearest in form to
man is, undoubtedly, the Dugong, which, when its head and breast are
raised above the water, and its pectoral fins, resembling hands, are
visible, might easily be taken by superstitious seamen for a semi-human
being, or a Mermaid. Of this deception a remarkable instance occurred
in 1826. The skeleton of a Mermaid, as it was called, was brought
to Portsmouth, which had been shot in the vicinity of the Island of
Mombass. This was submitted to the members of the Philosophical Society,
when it proved to be the skeleton of a Dugong. To those who came to
the examination with preconceived notions of a fabulous Mermaid, it
presented, as it lay on the lecture-table, a singular appearance. It
was about six feet long; the lower portion, with its broad tail-like
extremity, suggested the idea of a powerful fish-like termination,
whilst the fore-legs presented to the unskilful eye a resemblance to the
bones of a small female arm; the cranium, however, had a brutal form,
which could never have borne the lineaments of "the human face divine."
The Mermaid has been traced to the Manatee as well as to the Dugong: the
former is an aquatic animal, externally resembling a whale, and named
from its flipper, resembling the human hand, _manus_. Again, the _mammæ_
(teats) of the Manatees and Dugongs are pectoral; and this conformation,
joined to the adroit use of their flippers (whose five fingers can
easily be distinguished through the inverting membranes, four of them
being terminated by nails) in progression, nursing their young, &c.,
have caused them, when seen at a distance with the anterior part of
their body out of the water, to be taken for some creature approaching
to human shape so nearly (especially as their middle is thick set with
hair, giving somewhat of the effect of human hair or a beard), that
there can be little doubt that not a few of the tales of Mermen and
Mermaids have had their origin with these animals as well as with seals
and walruses. Thus the Portuguese and Spaniards give the _Manatee_ a
denomination which signifies Woman-fish; and the Dutch call the Dugong
_Baardanetjee_, or Little-bearded Man. A very little imagination and
a memory for only the marvellous portion of the appearance sufficed,
doubtless, to complete the metamorphosis of this half woman or man, half
fish, into a Siren, a Mermaid, or a Merman; and the wild recital of the
voyager was treasured up by writers who, as Cuvier well observes, have
displayed more learning than judgment.
The comb and the toilet-glass have already been incidentally mentioned
as accessories in these Mermaid stories; and these, with the
origin of the creature. Sir George Head thus ingeniously attempts
to explain:--"The resemblance of the seal, or sea-calf, to the calf
consists only in the voice, and the voice of the calf is certainly not
dissimilar to that of a man. But the claws of the seal, as well as the
hand, are like a lady's back-hair comb; wherefore, altogether, supposing
the resplendence of sea-water streaming down its polished neck, on a
sunshiny day, the substitute for a looking-glass, we arrive at once at
the fabulous history of the marine maiden or Mermaid, and the appendages
of her toilet."
The progress of zoological science has long since destroyed the belief
in the existence of the Mermaid. If its upper structure be human, with
lungs resembling our own, how could such a creature live and breathe at
the bottom of the sea, where it is stated to be? for our most expert
divers are unable to stay under water more than half an hour. Suppose it
to be of the cetaceous class, it could only remain under the water two
or three minutes together without rising to the surface to take breath;
and if this were the case with the Mermaid, would it not be oftener seen?
Half a century has scarcely elapsed since a _manufactured_ Mermaid was
shown in London with all the confidence of its being a natural creature.
In the winter of 1822 there was exhibited at the Egyptian Hall, in
Piccadilly, this pretended Mermaid, which was visited by from 300 to
400 persons daily! The imposture, however, was too gross to last long;
and it was ascertained to be the dried skin of the head and shoulders
of a monkey attached very neatly to the dried skin of a fish of the
salmon kind with the head cut off; the compound figure being stuffed
and highly varnished, the better to deceive the eye. This grotesque
object was taken by a Dutch vessel from on board a native Malacca boat;
and from the reverence shown to it by the sailors it is supposed to
have represented the incarnation of one of the idol gods of the Malacca
Islands. A correspondent of the "Magazine of Natural History," 1829,
however, avers that the above "Mermaid" was brought from the East
Indies; for being at St. Helena in 1813 he saw it on board the ship
which was bringing it to England. The impression on his mind was that
it was an artificial compound of the upper part of a small ape with the
lower half of a fish; and by aid of a powerful glass he ascertained the
point of union between the two parts. He was somewhat staggered to find
that this was so neatly effected that the precise line of junction was
not satisfactorily apparent: the creature was then in its best state of
preservation.
In a volume of "Manners and Customs of the Japanese," published in
1841, we, however, find the following version of the history of the
above Mermaid:--"A Japanese fisherman seems to have displayed ingenuity
for the mere purpose of making money by his countrymen's passion for
everything odd and strange. He contrived to unite the upper half of
a monkey to the lower half of a fish so neatly as to defy ordinary
inspection. He then gave out that he had caught the creature in his
net, but that it had died shortly after being taken out of the water;
and he derived considerable pecuniary profit from his cunning in more
ways than one. The exhibition of the sea monster to Japanese curiosity
paid well; yet more productive was the assertion that the half-human
fish, having spoken during the five minutes it existed out of its native
element, had predicted a certain number of years of wonderful fertility
and a fatal epidemic, the only remedy for which would be the possession
of the marine prophet's likeness! The sale of these _pictured Mermaids_
was immense. Either the composite animal, or another, the offspring of
the success of the first, was sold to the Dutch factory and transmitted
to Batavia, where it fell into the hands of a speculating American,
who brought it to Europe; and here, in the year 1822-3, exhibited his
purchase as a real Mermaid to the admiration of the ignorant, the
perplexity of the learned, and the filling of his own purse."
The Editor of the "Literary Gazette," Mr. Jerdan, was the first
to expose the fabulous creature of the Egyptian Hall. He plainly
said:--"Our opinion is fixed that it is a _composition_; a most
ingenious one, we grant, but still nothing beyond the admirably
put-together members of various animals. The extraordinary skill of
the Chinese and Japanese in executing such deceptions is notorious,
and we have no doubt that the Mermaid is a manufacture from the Indian
Sea, where it has been pretended it was caught. We are not of those who
because they happen not to have had direct proof of the existence of
any extraordinary natural phenomenon, push scepticism to the extreme
and deny its possibility. The depths of the sea, in all probability,
from various chemical and philosophical causes, contain animals unknown
to its surface-waters, rarely if ever seen by human eye. But when a
creature is presented to us having no other organization but that which
is suitable to a medium always open to our observation, it in the first
instance excites suspicion that only one individual of the species
should be discovered and obtained. When knowledge was more limited, the
stories of Mermaids seen in distant quarters might be credited by the
many, and not entirely disbelieved by the few; but now, when European
and especially British commerce fills every corner of the earth with men
of observation and science, the unique becomes the incredible, and we
receive with far greater doubt the apparition of such anomalies as the
present. It is curious that though medical men seem in general to regard
the creature as a possible production of nature, no naturalist of any
ability credits it after five minutes' observation! This may, perhaps,
be accounted for by their acquaintance with the parts of distinct
animals, of which it appears the Mermaid is composed. The cheeks of the
blue-faced ape, the canine teeth, the _simia_ upper body, and the tail
of the fish, are all familiar to them in less complex combinations,
and they pronounce at once that the whole is an imposture. And such
is our settled conviction." Though naturalists and journalists fully
exposed the imposture, this did not affect the exhibition, which for a
considerable time continued as crowded as ever; but the notoriety had
dwindled down to "a penny show," at Bartholomew Fair, by the year 1825.
After so many exposures of the absurd belief in Mermaids, it could
scarcely be expected that any person could be found in Europe weak
enough to report the existence of one of these creatures to an eminent
scientific Society. Yet, on the 22d of June, 1840, the first Secretary
of the Ottoman Embassy at Paris addressed a note to the Academy of
Sciences, stating that his father, who was in the Admiralty department
at Constantinople, had recently seen a Mermaid while crossing the
Bosphorus, which communication was received with much laughter.
We have still another recorded instance--and in Scotland. In the year
1857 two fishermen on the Argyleshire coast declared that when on their
way to the fishing-station, Lochindale, in a boat, and when about four
miles south-west from the village of Port Charlotte, about six o'clock
in a June evening, they distinctly saw, at about six yards distance, an
object in the form of a woman, with comely face and fine hair hanging
in ringlets over the neck and shoulders. It was above the surface of
the water gazing at the fishermen for three or four minutes--and then
vanished! Yet this declaration was officially attested!
In 1863 Mermaids were supposed to abound in the ponds and ditches of
Suffolk, where careful mothers used them as bugbears to prevent little
children from going too near the water. Children described them as
"nasty things that crome you (hook you) into the water;" others as "a
great big thing like a feesh," probably a pike basking in the shallow
water.
Sometimes the Mermaid has assumed a picturesqueness in fairy tale; and
her impersonation has been described by Dryden as "a fine woman, with a
fish's tail." And, laying aside her scaly train, she has appeared as a
lovely woman, with sea-green hair; and Crofton Croker relates, in his
"Fairy Legends," a marriage between an Irish fisherman and a "Merrow,"
as the Mermaid is called in Ireland.
IS THE UNICORN FABULOUS?
To this question we may reply, in the words of a writer of 1633,
"Concerning the Unicorn, different opinions prevail among authors:
some doubt, others deny, and a third class affirm its existence." The
question has lasted two thousand years, and is every now and then kept
alive by fresh evidences.
Ctesias, a credulous Greek physician, who appears to have resided at
the Court of Persia, in the time of the younger Cyrus, about 400 years
before the birth of Christ, describes the wild asses of India as equal
to the horse in size, and even larger, with white bodies, red heads,
bluish eyes, and a horn on the forehead a cubit in length; the part
from the forehead entirely white, the middle black, and the extremity
red and pointed. Drinking-vessels were made of it, and those who used
them were subject neither to convulsions, epilepsy, nor poison, provided
that before taking the poison, or after, they drank from these cups
water, wine, or any other liquor. Ctesias describes these animals as
very swift and very strong. Naturally they were not ferocious; but when
they found themselves and their young surrounded by horsemen, they did
not abandon their offspring, but defended themselves by striking with
their horns, kicking, and biting, and so slew many men and horses. This
animal was also shot with arrows and brought down with darts; for it was
impossible to take it alive. Its flesh was too bitter for food, but it
was hunted for its horn and astragalus (ankle-bone), which last Ctesias
declares he saw. Aristotle describes the Indian ass with a single horn.
Herodotus mentions asses having horns; and Strabo refers to Unicorn
horses, with the heads of deers. Oppian notices the Aonian bulls with
undivided hoofs, and a single median horn between their temples. Pliny
notices it as a very ferocious beast, similar in its body to a horse,
with the head of a deer, the feet of an elephant, the tail of a boar,
a deep bellowing voice, and a single black horn standing out in the
middle of its forehead. He adds, that it cannot be taken alive; and some
such excuse may have been necessary in those days for not producing the
living animal upon the arena of the amphitheatre.
Out of this passage most of the modern Unicorns have been described
and figured. The body of the horse and the head of the deer appear to
be but vague sketches; the feet of the elephant and the tail of the
boar point at once to a pachydermatous (thick-skinned) animal; and the
single black horn, allowing for a little exaggeration as to its length,
well fits the two last-mentioned conditions, and will apply to the
Indian rhinoceros, which, says the sound naturalist, Ogilby, "affords a
remarkable instance of the obstructions which the progress of knowledge
may suffer, and the gross absurdities which not unfrequently result from
the wrong application of a name." Mr. Ogilby then refers to the account
of Ctesias, which we have just quoted, and adds:--"His account, though
mixed up with a great deal of credulous absurdity, contains a very
valuable and perfectly recognisable description of the rhinoceros, under
the ridiculous name, however, of the _Indian Ass_; and, as he attributed
to it a whole hoof like the horse, and a single horn in the forehead,
speculation required but one step further to produce the fabulous
Unicorn."
The ancient writers who have treated of the Unicorn are too numerous for
us to specify. Some of the moderns may be referred to. Garcias describes
this marvellous creature from one who alleges that he had seen it. The
seer affirmed that it was endowed with a wonderful horn, which it would
sometimes turn to the left and right, at others raise, and then again
depress. Ludovicus Vartomanus writes, that he saw two sent to the Sultan
from Ethiopia, and kept in a repository at Mahomet's tomb in Mecca.
Cardan describes the Unicorn as a rare animal, the size of a horse, with
hair very like that of a weasel, with the head of a deer, on which one
horn grows three cubits in length (a story seldom loses anything in its
progress) from the forehead, ample at its lowest part, and tapering to
a point; with a short neck, a very thin mane, leaning to one side only,
and less on the ear, as those of a young roe.
In Jonston's "Historia Naturalis," 1657, we see the smooth-horned
solipede, "Wald Esel;" and the digitated and clawed smooth-horned "Meer
Wolff," the latter with his single horn erect in the foreground, but
with it depressed in the background, where he is represented regaling on
serpents. Then there are varieties, with the head, mane, and tail of a
horse; another smooth-horned, with a horse's head and mane, a pig's-tail
and camel-like feet; the "Meer Stenbock, Capricornus Marinus," with
hind webbed feet, and a kind of graduated horn, like an opera-glass
pulled out, in the foreground, and charging the fish most valiantly in
the water in the distance. Then there is another, with a mule's head
and two rhinoceros-like horns, one on his forehead and the other on his
nose; and a horse's tail, with a collar round his neck; a neck entirely
shaggy--and a twisted horn, a shaggy gorget, and curly tail, are among
other peculiarities.
The Unicorn seems to have been a sad trouble to the hunters, who hardly
knew how to come at so valuable a piece of game. Some described the horn
as moveable at the will of the animal--a kind of small sword, in short,
with which no hunter who was not exceedingly cunning in fence could have
a chance. Others told the poor foresters that all the strength lay in
its horn, and that when pressed by them it would throw itself from the
pinnacle of the highest rock, horn foremost, so as to pitch upon it, and
then quietly march off not a bit the worse!
Modern zoologists, disgusted as they well may be with fables, such as we
have glanced at, disbelieve, generally, the existence of the Unicorn,
such, at least, as we have referred to; but there is still an opinion
that some land animal bearing a horn on the anterior part of its head,
exists besides the rhinoceros. The nearest approach to a horn in the
middle of the forehead of any terrestrial mammiferous animal known to us
is the bony protuberance on the forehead of the giraffe; and though it
would be presumptuous to deny the existence of a one-horned quadruped
other than the rhinoceros, it may be safely stated that the insertion
of a long and solid horn in the living forehead of a horse-like or
deer-like cranium is as near an impossibility as anything can be.
Rupell, after a long sojourn in the north-east of Africa, stated that
in Kordofan the Unicorn exists; stated to be the size of a small horse,
of the slender make of the gazelle, and furnished with a long straight
horn in the male, which was wanting in the female. According to the
statements made by various persons, it inhabits the deserts to the south
of Koretofan, is uncommonly fleet, and comes only occasionally to the
Koldagi Heive mountains on the borders of Kordofan.
Other writers refer the Unicorn to the antelope. The origin of the name
of antelope is traced by Cuvier to the Greek _Anthalops_, applied to a
fabulous animal living on the banks of the Euphrates, with long jagged
horns, with which it sawed down trees of considerable thickness! Others
conjecture this animal to have been the _Oryx_, a species of antelope,
which is fabulously reported to have had only one horn, and to have been
termed _Panthalops_ in the old language of Egypt.
In his "Revolutions on the Surface of the Globe." Cuvier refers the
idea of the Unicorn to the coarse figures traced by savages on rocks.
Ignorant of perspective, and wishing to present in profile the horned
antelope, they could only give it one horn; and thus originated the
_Oryx_. The oryx of the Egyptian monuments is, most probably, but the
production of a similarly crude style, which the religion of the country
imposed on the artist. Many of the profiles of quadrupeds have only one
leg before and one behind: why, then, should they show two horns? It
is possible that individual animals might be taken in the chase whom
accident had despoiled of one horn, as it often happens to chamois and
the Scythian antelope; and that would suffice to confirm the error which
these pictures originally produced. It is thus, probably, that we find
anew the Unicorn in the mountains of Thibet.
The _Chiru Antelope_ is the supposed Unicorn of the Bhotians. In form
it approaches the deer; the horns are exceedingly long, are placed
very forward in the head, and may be popularly described as erect and
straight. It is usually found in herds, and is extremely wild, and
unapproachable by man. It is much addicted to salt in summer, when vast
herds are often seen at the rock-salt beds which abound in Tibet. They
are said to advance under the conduct of a leader, and to post sentinels
around the beds before they attempt to feed.
Major Salter is stated to have obtained information of the existence of
an animal in Tibet closely resembling the Unicorn of the ancients, which
revived the belief of naturalists by adducing testimonies from Oriental
writings. Upon this statement, M. Klaproth remarks, that previous to
Major Salter's Reports, the Catholic missionaries, who returned to
Europe from China by way of Tibet and Nepal, in the seventeenth century,
mentioned that the Unicorn was found in that part of the Great Desert
which bounds China to the west, where they crossed the great wall; that
Captain Turner, when travelling in Tibet, was informed by the Raja of
Boutan that he had one of these animals alive; and that Bell, in his
"Travels to Peking," describes a Unicorn which was found on the southern
front of Siberia. He adds:--"The great 'Tibetan-Mongol Dictionary'
mentions the Unicorn; and the 'Geographical Dictionary of Tibet and
Central Asia,' printed at Peking, where it describes a district in the
province of Kham, in Tibet, named Sera-zeong, explains this name by 'the
River of Unicorns,' because," adds the author, "many of these animals
are found there."
In the "History of the Mongol-Khans," published and translated at St.
Petersburg, we find the following statement:--Genghiz Khan, having
subjected all Tibet in 1206, commenced his march for Hindustan. As he
ascended Mount Jadanarung, he beheld a beast approaching him of the
deer kind, of the species called _Seron_, which have a single horn at
the top of the head. It fell on its knees thrice before the monarch, as
if to pay respect to him. Every one was astonished at this incident.
The monarch exclaimed. "The Empire of Hindustan is, we are assured, the
country where are born the majestic Buddhas and Bodhisatwas, as well as
the potent Bogdas and princes of antiquity: what can be the meaning,
then, of this animal, incapable of speech, saluting me like a man?"
Upon this, he returned to his own country. "This story," continues M.
Klaproth, "is also related by Mahommedan authors who have written the
life of Genghiz. Something of the kind must, therefore, have taken
place. Possibly, some of the Mongol conqueror's suite may have taken a
Unicorn, which Genghiz thus employed, to gain a pretext for abstaining
from an expedition which promised no success."
Upon this statement, it was observed in the "Asiatic Register," 1839,
that "when we consider that seventeen years have elapsed since the
account of Major Salter was given, and that, notwithstanding our
increased opportunities of intercourse with Tibet, no fact has since
transpired which supplies a confirmation of that account, except
the obtaining of a supposed horn of the supposed Unicorn, we cannot
participate in these renewed hopes."
The Rev. John Campbell, in his "Travels in South Africa," describes the
head of another animal, which, as far as the horn is concerned, seems
to approach nearer than the common rhinoceros to the Unicorn of the
ancients. While in the Machow territory, the Hottentots brought to Mr.
Campbell a head differing from that of any rhinoceros that had been
previously killed. "The common African rhinoceros has a crooked horn,
resembling a cock's spur, which rises about nine or ten inches above
the nose, and inclines backward; immediately behind which is a straight
thick horn. But the head brought by the Hottentots had a straight horn
projecting three feet from the forehead, about ten inches above the tip
of the nose. The projection of this great horn very much resembles that
of the fanciful Unicorn in the British arms. It has a small thick horny
substance, eight inches long, immediately behind it, which can hardly
be observed on the animal at the distance of a hundred yards; so that
this species must look like an Unicorn (in the sense 'one-horned') when
running in the field." The author adds:--"This animal is considered
by naturalists, since the arrival of the above skull in London, to be
the Unicorn of the ancients, and the same that is described in Job
xxxix. 9--'Will the Unicorn be willing to serve thee, or abide by thy
crib? 10. Canst thou bind the Unicorn with his band in the furrow? or
will he harrow the valleys after thee? 11. Wilt thou trust him because
his strength is great? or wilt thou leave thy labour to him?' Again,
Deuteronomy xxxiii. 17--'His horns are like the horns of Unicorns: with
them he shall push the people together to the ends of the earth.'"
A fragment of the skull, with the horn, is deposited in the Museum of
the London Missionary Society.
Mr. W. B. Baikie writes to the _Athenæum_ from Bida Núpe, Central
Africa, in 1862, the following suggestions:--"When I ascended the Niger,
now nearly five years ago, I frequently heard allusions to an animal
of this nature, but at that time I set it down as a myth. Since then,
however, the amount of testimony I have received, and the universal
belief of the natives of all the countries which I have hitherto
visited, have partly shaken my scepticism, and at present I simply
hold that its non-existence is not proven. A skull of this animal is
said to be preserved in a town in the country of Bonú, through which
I hope to pass in the course of a few weeks, when I shall make every
possible inquiry. Two among my informants have repeatedly declared to me
that they have seen the bones of this animal, and each made particular
mention of the long, straight, or nearly straight, black horn. In
countries to the east, and south-east, as Márgi and Bagirmi, where the
one-horned rhinoceros is found, the hunters carefully distinguished
between it and the supposed Unicorn, and give them different names. In
the vast forests and boundless wastes which occur over Central Africa,
especially towards the countries south and east of Lake Tsád, Bórnú,
Bagirmi and Adamáwa, are doubtless numerous zoological curiosities as
yet unknown to the man of science, and among them possibly may exist
this much-talked-of, strange, one-horned animal, even though it may not
exactly correspond with our typical English Unicorn."
The factitious horn has been preserved in various Museums. The "Monocero
Horn," in Tradescant's collection, was, probably, that which ordinarily
has passed for the horn of the Unicorn, namely, the tooth of a narwhal.
Old legends assert that the Unicorn, when he goes to drink, first dips
his horn in the water to purify it, and that other beasts delay to
quench their thirst till the Unicorn has thus sweetened the water. The
narwhal's tooth makes a capital twisted Unicorn's horn, as represented
in the old figures. That in the Repository of St. Denis, at Paris, was
presented by Thevet, and was declared to have been given to him by
the King of Monomotapa, who took him out to hunt Unicorns, which are
frequent in that country. Some have thought that this horn was a carved
elephant's tooth. There is one at Strasburg, some seven or eight feet in
length, and there are several in Venice.
Great medical virtues were attributed to the so-called horn, and the
price it once bore outdoes everything in the _Tulipomania_. A Florentine
physician has recorded that a pound of it (sixteen ounces) was sold
in the shops for fifteen hundred and thirty-six crowns, when the same
weight in gold would only have brought one hundred and forty-eight
crowns.
From what source we derive the stories of the animosity between the
lion and the Unicorn is not clearly understood, although this is the
principal medium through which the fabulous creature has been kept in
remembrance by being constantly before us in the Royal Arms, which
were settled at the Accession of George I. We owe the introduction of
the Unicorn, however, to James I., who, as King of Scotland, bore two
Unicorns, and coupled one with the English lion, when the two kingdoms
were united.
The position of the lion and Unicorn in the arms of our country seems to
have given rise (naturally enough in the mind of one who was ignorant of
heraldic decoration) to a nursery rhyme which most of us remember:--
"The Lion and the Unicorn
Were fighting for the crown;
The Lion beat the Unicorn
All round the town," &c.
unless it alludes to a contest for dominion over the brute creation,
which the "rebellious Unicorn," as Spenser calls it, seems to have waged
with the tawny monarch.
Spenser, in his "Faerie Queen," gives the following curious way of
catching the Unicorn:--
"Like as a lyon, whose imperiall powre,
A prowd rebellious Unicorn defyes,
T'avoide the rash assault and wrathful stowre
Of his fiers foe, him a tree applyes,
And when him rousing in full course he spyes,
He slips aside; the whiles that furious beast
His precious home, sought of his enemyes,
Strikes in the stocke, ne thence can be releast.
But to the mighty victor yields a bounteous feast."
Shakspeare, also ("Julius Cæsar," Act ii. scene 1), speaks of the
supposed mode of entrapping them:--
"For he loves to hear
That Unicorns may be betrayed with trees,
And bears with glasses, elephants with holes,
Lions with toils, and men with flatterers."
We have no satisfactory reason for believing that man ever coexisted
with Mastodons; otherwise Professor Owen's discovery of the retention of
a single tusk only by the male gigantic Mastodon, might have afforded
another form of Unicorn.
Whatever the zoologists may have done towards extirpating the belief
in the existence of the Unicorn, it is ever kept in sight by heraldry,
which, with its animal absurdities, has contributed more to the
propagation of error respecting the natural world than any other species
of misrepresentation.
THE MOLE AT HOME.
The Mole, though generally a despised and persecuted animal, is
nevertheless useful to the husbandman in being the natural drainer of
his land and destroyer of worms. To other inferior animals he is a
sapper and miner, forming for them their safe retreats and well-secured
dormitories.
The economy of the Mole has been much controverted among naturalists.
It is found throughout the greater part of Europe. We are overrun with
it in most parts of England and Wales; but it does not appear to have
been found in the northern extremity of Scotland, and there is no record
of its having been seen in the Orkney Isles, Zetland, or Ireland. Its
most diligent and instructive historian is Henri Le Court, who, flying
from the terrors that came in the train of the French Revolution,
betook himself to the country, and from being the attendant on a Court,
became the biographer of this humble animal. M. Geoffroy St. Hilaire,
the celebrated French naturalist, visited Le Court for the purpose
of testing his observations, and appears to have been charmed by the
facility and ingenuity with which Le Court traced and demonstrated the
subterraneous labours of this obscure worker in the dark.
We shall first briefly describe the adaptation of its structure to its
habits. The bony framework is set in motion by very powerful muscles,
those of the chest and neck being most vigorous. The wide hand, which is
the great instrument of action, and performs the offices of a pickaxe
and shovel, is sharp-edged on its lower margin, and when clothed with
the integuments the fingers are hardly distinguishable. The muzzle of
the Mole is evidently a delicate organ of touch, as are also the large
and broad hands and feet; and the tail has much sensitiveness to give
notice to the animal of the approach of any attack from behind. Its
taste and smell, especially the latter, are very sensitive. Its sight
is almost rudimentary. The little eye is so hidden in the fur that its
very existence was for a long time doubted. It appears to be designed
for operating only as a warning to the animal on its emerging into the
light; indeed, more acute vision would only have been an encumbrance.
If the sight be imperfect, the sense of hearing is very acute, and the
tympanum very large, though there is no external ear, perhaps because
the earth assists considerably in vibration. The fore-feet are inclined
sideways, so as to answer the use of hands, to scoop out the earth to
form its habitation or pursue its prey, and to fling all the loose soil
behind the animal. The breastbone in shape resembles a ploughshare.
The skin is so tough as only to be cut by a very sharp knife. The hair
is very short and close-set, and softer than the finest silk; colour
black; some spotted and cream-coloured. This hair is yielding; had it
been strong, as in the rat or mouse, it would doubly have retarded the
progress of the creature; first by its resistance, and then acting as a
brush, so as to choke up the galleries, by removing the loose earth from
the sides and ceilings of the galleries.
It is supposed that the verdant circles so often seen in grass ground,
called by country people _fairy rings_, are owing to the operations of
Moles: at certain seasons they perform their burrowings in circles,
which, loosening the soil, gives the surface a greater fertility and
rankness of grass than the other parts within or without the ring. The
larger mole-hills denote the nests or dens of the Mole beneath.
The feeling of the Mole is so acute that when casting up the earth, it
is sensible of very gentle pressure; hence mole-catchers tread lightly
when in quest of Moles; and unless this caution is used the Mole ceases
its operation, and instantly retires. Again, so acute is the smell, that
mole-catchers draw the body of a captured Mole through their traps and
the adjoining runs and passages to remove all suspicious odours which
might arise from the touch of their fingers.
During summer the Mole runs in search of snails and worms in the
night-time among the grass, which pursuit makes it the prey of owls. The
Mole shows great art in skinning a worm, which it always does before it
eats it, by stripping the skin from end to end, and squeezing out the
contents of the body. It is doubtful whether any other animal exists
which is obliged to eat at such short intervals as the Mole, ten or
twelve hours appearing to be the maximum of its fasting; at the end
of that time it dies. Cuvier tells us that if two Moles are shut up
together without food, there will shortly be nothing left of the weakest
but its skin, slit along the belly! Buffon accuses Moles of eating all
the acorns of a newly-set soil. Its voracity makes the Mole a great
drinker: a run is always formed to a pond or ditch as a reservoir; when
it is too distant, the animal sinks little wells, which have sometimes
been seen brimfull.
We now return to Le Court's experiments with Moles, which are very
interesting. To afford proof of the rapidity with which the Mole will
travel along its passages, Le Court watched his opportunity, and when
the animal was on its feed at one of the most distant points from its
sanctuary or fortress, to which point the Mole's high road leads. Le
Court placed along the course of that road, between the animal and
the fortress, several little camp colours, so to speak, the staff of
each being a straw, and the flag a bit of paper, at certain distances,
the straws penetrating down into the passage. Near the end of this
subterraneous road he inserted a horn, the mouthpiece of which stood
out of the ground. When all was ready, Le Court blew a blast loud enough
to frighten all the Moles within hearing. Down went the little flags in
succession with astonishing velocity, as the terrified Mole, rushing
along towards his sanctuary, came in contact with the flag-straws; and
the spectators affirmed that the Mole's swiftness was equal to the speed
of a horse at a good round trot.
To test its amount of vision, Le Court took a spare water-pipe, or
gutter, open at both ends. Into this pipe he introduced several Moles
successively. Geoffroy St. Hilaire stood by to watch the result at the
further end of the tube. As long as the spectators stood motionless the
introduced Mole made the best of his way through the pipe and escaped;
but if they moved, or even raised a finger, the Mole stopped, and then
retreated. Several repetitions of this experiment produced the same
results.
In the domain of the Mole, the principal point is the habitation, or
fortress, constructed under a considerable hillock raised in some secure
place, often at the root of a tree, or under a bank. The dome of the
fortress is of earth, beaten by the Mole-architect into a compact and
solid state. Inside is formed a circular gallery at the base, which
communicates with a smaller upper gallery by means of five passages.
Within the lower gallery is the chamber or dormitory, which has access
to the upper gallery by three passages. From this habitation extends
the high road by which the proprietor reaches the opposite end of
the encampment; the galleries open into this road, which the Mole is
continually carrying out and extending in his search for food; this has
been termed the _hunting-ground_. Another road extends, first downwards,
and then up into the open road of the territory. Some eight or nine
other passages open out from the external circular gallery. From the
habitation a road is carried out, nearly straight, and connected with
the encampment and the alleys leading to the hunting-ground which open
into it on each side. In diameter the road exceeds the body of a Mole,
but its size will not admit of two Moles passing each other. The walls,
from the repeated pressure of the animal's sides, become smooth and
compact. Sometimes a Mole will lay out a second or even a third road; or
several individuals use one road in common, though they never trespass
on each other's hunting-grounds.
If two Moles should happen to meet in the same road, one must retreat
into the nearest alley, unless they fight, when the weakest is often
slain. In forming this tunnel the Mole's instinct drives it at a
greater or less depth, according to the quality of the soil, or other
circumstances. When it is carried under a road or stream, a foot and
a-half of earth, or sometimes more, is left above it. Then does the
little engineering Mole carry on the subterraneous works necessary for
his support, travelling, and comfort; and his tunnels never fall in.
The quality or humidity of the soils which regulates the abundance of
earth-worms, determines the greater or less depth of the alleys; and
when these are filled with stores of food the Mole works out branch
alleys.
The main road communicating with the hunting-grounds is of necessity
passed through in the course of the day; and here the mole-catcher sets
his traps to intercept the Mole between his habitation and the alley
where he is carrying on his labours. Some mole-catchers will tell you
the hours when the Moles move are nine and four; others that near the
coast their movements are influenced by the tides. Besides the various
traps which are set for Moles, they are sometimes taken by a man and a
dog; when the latter indicates the presence of a Mole, the man spears
the animal out as it moves in its run. Pointers will stop as steadily as
at game, at the Moles, when they are straying on the surface.
The Mole is a most voracious animal. Earthworms and the larvæ of insects
are its favourite food; and it will eat mice, lizards, frogs, and even
birds; but it rejects toads, even when pressed by hunger, deterred,
probably, by the acrid secretions of their skin. Moles are essentially
carnivorous; and when fed abundantly on vegetable substances they have
died of hunger.
During the season of love, at which time fierce battles are fought
between the males, the male pursues the female with ardour through
numerous runs wrought out with great rapidity. The attachment appears
to be very strong in the Moles. Le Court often found a female taken in
his trap and a male lying dead close to her. From four to five is the
general number of young. The nest is distinct, usually distant from the
habitation. It is constructed by enlarging and excavating the point
where three or four passages intersect each other; and the bed of the
nest is formed of a mass of young grass, root fibres, and herbage. In
one nest Geoffroy St. Hilaire and Le Court counted two hundred and four
young wheat-blades.
M. St. Hilaire describes the pairings, or as he calls it, "the loves of
the Moles." As soon as the Mole has finished the galleries he brings his
mate along with him, and shuts her up in the bridal gallery, taking care
to prevent the entrance of his rivals: in case of a fight they enlarge
the part of the gallery where they are met; and the victory is decided
in favour of him who first wounds his adversary before the ear. The
female, during the fight, is shut up in the bridal gallery, so as to be
unable to escape; for which purpose, however, she uses all her resources
in digging, and attempts to get away by the side passages. Should she
succeed the conqueror hastens to rejoin his faithless mate, and to
bring her back into his galleries. This manoeuvre is repeated as often
as other males enter the lists. At length the conqueror is recognised,
and his mate becomes more docile. The pair work together and finish the
galleries; after which the female digs alone for food. As soon as the
galleries are formed, the male conducts his mate to a certain point, and
from this time the female no longer digs in the solid earth, but towards
the surface, advancing by merely separating the roots of the grass.
The Mole is a great friend to the farmer; but there are places in which
he is a public enemy. He is not a vegetable feeder, and he never roots
up the growing corn in spring-time, except when he is after grubs,
snails, and wire-worms. It has been calculated that two Moles destroy
20,000 white worms in a year. He is very destructive to under drains;
and where the land is low we are in danger of a deluge from his piercing
holes in the drain-banks. Thus it would be madness not to extirpate
Moles in those places where the waters, in drains or rivers, are above
the level of the lands around, especially when the banks are made of
sand or earth of loose texture.
The persecution of Moles in cultivated countries amounts almost to a
war of extermination. The numbers annually slaughtered are enormous.
A mole-catcher, who had followed the craft for thirty-five years,
destroyed from forty to fifty thousand Moles. But all Mole exterminators
must yield to Le Court, who, in no large district, took, in five months,
six thousand of them. Moles are good swimmers, and their bite is very
sharp; their attacks are ferocious, and they keep their hold like a
bull-dog.
The Shrew Mole of North America resembles the European Mole in its
habits. Dr. Goodman describes it as most active early in the morning,
at mid-day, and in the evening; and they are well known in the country
to have the custom of coming daily to the surface _exactly at noon_.
We read of a captive Shrew Mole which ate meat, cooked or raw, drank
freely, and was lively and playful, following the hand of his feeder by
the scent, burrowing for a short distance in the loose earth, and after
making a small circle, returning for more food. In eating he employed
his flexible snout to thrust the food into his mouth, doubling it so as
to force it directly backwards, as described in Dr. Richardson's "North
American Zoology."
James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, remarks, in his usual impressive
manner:--"The most unnatural persecution that ever was raised in a
country is that against the Mole--that innocent and blessed little
pioneer, who enriches our pastures annually with the first top-dressing,
dug with great pains and labour from the fattest of the soil beneath.
The advantages of this top-dressing are so apparent that it is really
amazing how our countrymen should have persisted, for nearly half a
century, in the most manly and valiant endeavours to exterminate the
Moles! If a hundred men and horses were employed on a pasture farm of
from fifteen hundred to two thousand acres, in raising and driving
manure for a top-dressing of that farm, they would not do it so
effectually, so neatly, or so equally as the natural number of Moles. In
June, July, and August, the Mole-hills are all spread by the crows and
lambs--the former for food, and the latter in the evenings of warm days
after a drought has set in. The late Duke of Buccleuch was the first who
introduced Mole-catching into Scotland."
THE GREAT ANT-BEAR.
A fine living specimen of this comparatively rare animal was first
exhibited in the Zoological Society's gardens, in the Regent's-park,
1853. It is stated to be the first specimen brought alive to England,
and accordingly excited considerable attention. It was one of a pair,
captured near the Rio Negro, in the southern province of Brazil, and
shipped for England by some German travellers. The male died on the
voyage; the female arrived in London in 1853, and was exhibited in
Broad-street, St. Giles's, until purchased by the Zoological Society for
the sum of 200_l._ The advantage of this live specimen to naturalists
has been very great. Hitherto the examples engraved by Buffon and
Shaw were both derived from stuffed specimens, and had the inevitable
defects and shortcomings of such. Sir John Talbot Dillon, in his
"Travels through Spain," published in 1780, states that a specimen of
the Ant-Bear, from Buenos Ayres, was alive at Madrid in 1776: it is now
stuffed and preserved in the Royal Cabinet of Natural History at Madrid.
The persons who brought it from Buenos Ayres say it differs from the
Ant-eater, which only feeds on emmets and other insects, whereas this
would eat flesh, when cut in small pieces, to the amount of four or five
pounds. From the snout to the extremity of the tail this animal is two
yards in length, and his height is about two feet; the head very narrow,
the nose long and slender. The tongue is so singular that it looks like
a worm, and extends above sixteen inches. The body is covered with long
hair of a dark brown, with white stripes on the shoulders; and when he
sleeps, he covers his body with his tail. This account, it will be seen
hereafter, corresponds very accurately with that of the animal purchased
by the Zoological Society.
[Illustration: THE GREAT ANT-BEAR.]
Mr. Wallace, who travelled on the Amazon and Rio Negro, about the year
1853, relates:--"The living specimen of this singular animal is a great
rarity, even in its native country. In fact, there is not a city in
Brazil where it would not be considered almost as much a curiosity as
it is here. In the extensive forests of the Amazon the great Ant-eater
is, perhaps, as abundant as in any part of South America; yet, during
a residence there of more than four years, I never had an opportunity
of seeing one. Once only I was nearly in at the death, finding a bunch
of hairs from the tail of a specimen which had been killed (and eaten)
a month previous to my arrival, at a village near the Capiquiare. In
its native forests the creature feeds almost entirely on white ants,
tearing open their nests with its powerful claws, and thrusting in its
long and slender tongue, which, being probably mistaken for a worm,
is immediately seized by scores of the inhabitants, who thus become
an easy prey. The Indians, who also eat white ants, catch them in a
somewhat similar manner, by pushing into the nest a grass-stalk, which
the insects seize and hold on to most tenaciously. It may easily be
conceived that such an animal must range over a considerable extent of
country to obtain a plentiful supply of such food, which circumstance,
as well as its extreme shyness and timidity, causes it to be but rarely
met with, and still more rarely obtained alive."
We have seen that the Ant-Bear lives exclusively upon ants, to procure
which he tears open the hills, and when the ants flock out to defend
their dwellings, draws over them his long, flexible tongue, covered
with glutinous saliva, to which the ants consequently adhere; and he
is said to repeat this operation twice in a second. "It seems almost
incredible," says Azara, "that so robust and powerful an animal can
procure sufficient sustenance from ants alone; but this circumstance has
nothing strange in it, for those who are acquainted with the tropical
parts of America, and have seen the enormous multitude of these insects,
which swarm in all parts of the country to that degree that their hills
often almost touch one another for miles together." The same author
informs us that domestic Ant-Bears were occasionally kept by different
persons in Paraguay, and that they had even been sent alive to Spain,
being fed upon bread-and-milk mixed with morsels of flesh minced very
small. Like all animals which live upon insects, the Ant-eaters are
capable of sustaining a total deprivation of nourishment for an almost
incredible time.
The Great Ant-Bear's favourite resorts are low, swampy savannahs, along
the banks of rivers and stagnant ponds; also frequenting humid forests,
but never climbing trees, as falsely reported by Buffon. His pace is
slow and heavy, though, when hard pressed, he increases his rate, yet
his greatest velocity never half equals the ordinary running of a man.
When pressed too hard, or urged to extremity, he turns obstinate,
sits upon his hind-quarters like a bear, and defends himself with his
powerful claws. Like that animal, his usual and only mode of assault is
by seizing his adversary with his fore-paws, wrapping his arms round
him, and endeavouring, by this means, to squeeze him to death. His great
strength and powerful muscles would easily enable him to accomplish his
purpose in this respect, even against the largest animals of his native
forests, were it but guided by ordinary intelligence, or accompanied
with a common degree of activity; but in these qualities there are
few animals indeed who do not greatly surpass the Ant-Bear; so that
the different stories handed down by writers on natural history from
one to another, and copied, without question, into the histories and
descriptions of this animal, may be regarded as pure fictions. "It is
supposed," says Don Felix d'Azara, "that the jaguar himself dares not
attack the Ant-Bear, and that, if pressed by hunger, or under some other
strong excitement, he does so, the Ant-Bear embraces and hugs him so
tightly as very soon to deprive him of life, not even relaxing his hold
for hours after life has been extinguished in his assailant. Such is
the manner in which the Ant-eater defends himself; but it is not to be
believed that his utmost efforts could prevail against the jaguar, who,
by a single bite, or blow of his paw, could kill the Ant-eater before he
was prepared for resistance, so slow are his motions, even in an extreme
case; and, being unable to leap or turn with ordinary rapidity, he is
forced to act solely upon the defensive. The flesh of the Ant-eater is
esteemed a delicacy by the Indians; and, though black, and of a strong
musky flavour, is sometimes even met with at the tables of Europeans."
The habits of the Great Ant-Bear in captivity have been described
scientifically yet popularly, from the Zoological Society's specimen,
by Professor Owen, who writes:--"When we were introduced to this, the
latest novelty at the noble vivarium in the Regent's-park, we found the
animal busy sucking and licking up--for his feeding is a combination
of the two actions--the contents of a basin of squashed eggs. The
singularly long and slender head, which looks more like a slightly bent
proboscis, or some such appendage to a head, was buried in the basin,
and the end of the lithe or flexible tongue, like a rat's tail, or a
writhing black worm, was ever and anon seen coiling up the sides of
the basin, as it was rapidly protruded and withdrawn. The yellow yolk
was dripping with the abundant ropy saliva secreted during the feeding
process from the exceedingly small terminal mouth; for the jaws are not
slit open, as in the ordinary construction of the mouths of quadrupeds,
and the head, viewed sideways, seems devoid of mouth; but this important
aperture--by some deemed the essential character of an animal--is a
small orifice or slit at the end of the tubular muzzle, just being
enough, apparently, to let the vermiform tongue slip easily in and
out. The tongue, the keeper told us, was sometimes protruded as far as
fourteen inches from the mouth."
By the Qjuarani Indians the beast is known by a name which is, in
Spanish, "little mouth." The Portuguese and Spanish peons call it by a
name equivalent to "Ant-Bear." In the Zoological Catalogue the animal
is denominated _Myrmocophaga jubata_, or the "Maned Ant-eater." This
appellation would very well suit the animal if, as most spectators
commonly imagine at first sight, its head was where its tail is,
for the tail is that part of the animal on which the hair is most
developed, after the fashion of a mane; whilst the actual head appears
much more like a tail, of a slender, almost naked, stiff, rounded
kind. The body is wholly covered by long, coarse hair, resembling hay,
rapidly lengthening from the neck backwards to six or eight inches,
and extending on the tail from ten to eighteen inches. The colour is
greyish brown, with an oblique black band, bordered with white, on
each shoulder. The animal measures about four feet from the snout
to the root of the tail; and the tail, three feet long, resembles a
large screen of coarse hair. When the animal lies down, it bends its
head between its fore legs, slides these forward, and crosses them in
front of the occiput, sinks its haunches by bending its hind legs and
bringing them close to the fore feet; then, leaning against the wall
of its den, on one side, it lays the broad tail over the other exposed
side of the body, by the side bend of that part, like the movement of
a door or screen. Nothing is now visible of the animal but the long
coarse hair of its _natural and portable blanket_. When it is enjoying
its siesta, you cannot form any conception of its very peculiar shape
and proportions; an oblong heap of a coarse, dry, _greyish thatch_ is
all that is visible. When, however, the keeper enters the den with any
new dainty, as cockroaches, crickets, maggots, or meal-worms, to tempt
the huge insect-devourer, the quick-hearing animal unveils its form by
a sweeping movement of the thatch outwards, the tail that supports it
rotating, as if joined by a kind of door-hinge to the body; the head is
drawn out from between the fore limbs; the limbs are extended, and the
entire figure of this most grotesque of quadrupeds stalks forth. The
limbs are short; the fore limbs grow rather thicker to their stumpy
ends, which look as if the feet had been amputated. The four toes, with
their claws, are bent inwards, and are of very unequal length. This is
the most singular part of the animal: it is also the most formidable
member, and, indeed, bears the sole weapon of defence the beast
possesses. The innermost toe, answering to the thumb on the fore limb of
the neighbouring chimpanzee, is the shortest. A fifth toe seems to be
buried in the outside callosity, on which the animal rests its stumpy
feet while walking. At the back part of the sole, or palm, of the fore
foot, is a second large callosity, which receives the point of the great
claw in its usual state of inward inflection. Against this callosity the
animal presses the claw when it seizes any object therewith; and Azara,
as we have seen, avers that nothing can make the Ant-Bear relax its
grasp of an object so seized.
With respect to the jaguar being sometimes found dead in the grasp of
the Great Ant-eater, Professor Owen observes that its muscular force
resembles that of the cold-blooded reptiles in the force and endurance
of the contractile action; and, like the reptiles, the Sloths and
Ant-Bears can endure long fasts.
Woe to the unlucky or heedless aggressor whose arm or leg may be seized
by the Ant-Bear. The strength of the grasp sometimes breaks the bone.
The Ant-Bear never voluntarily lets go, and the limb so grasped can be
with difficulty extricated, even after the animal has been killed. To
put the beast, however, _hors de combat_, no other weapon is needed
than a stout stick. "With this," says Azara. "I have killed many by
dealing them blows on the head, and with the same security as if I had
struck the trunk of a tree. With a mouth so small, and formed as already
described, the Ant-Bear cannot bite; and, if it could, it would be
useless, for it has no teeth."
"Like a lawyer," says Professor Owen, "the tongue is the chief organ
by which this animal obtains its livelihood in its natural habitat.
The warmer latitudes of South America, to which part of the world the
Ant-Bear is peculiar, abound in forests and luxuriant vegetation; the
insects of the ant and termite tribes that subsist on wood, recent
or decaying, equally abound. With one link in the chain of organic
independencies is interlocked another; and as the surplus vegetation
sustains the surplus insect population, so a peculiar form of mammalian
life finds the requisite conditions of existence in the task of
restraining the undue multiplication of the wood-consuming insects."
The number of male Ant-eaters is supposed to be considerably smaller
than that of the females, which circumstance favours the inference that
the extinction of the species, like those of the _edentata_ in general,
is determined upon.[6]
Large as the Ant-Bear is in comparison with the animals on which it
naturally feeds, there appear to have been still larger Ant-Bears in the
old times of South America. Fossil remains of nearly allied quadrupeds
have been detected in both the fresh-water deposits and bone-caves of
the post-pliocene period in Buenos Ayres and Brazil.
In examining the fossil remains has been found evidence that the nervous
matter destined to put in action the muscular part of the tongue was
equal to half of that nervous matter which influences the whole muscular
system of a man. No other known living animal offers any approximation
to the peculiar proportions of the lingual nerves of the fossil animal
in question except the Great Ant-eater; but the size of the animal
indicated by the fossil was three times that of our Ant-eater. For this
strange monster, thus partially restored from the ruins of a former
world, Professor Owen proposes the name of _Glossotherium_, which
signifies tongue-beast.
Evidence of such a creature has been given by Dr. Lund, the Danish
naturalist, resident in Brazil: among the fossil remains here (limestone
caves of the province Minas) he discovered traces of the Great
Ant-eater, which, however, are too imperfect to enable us to determine
more accurately its relation to existing species. The fragments indicate
an animal the size of an ox! Were the insect prey of these antediluvian
Ant-eaters correspondingly gigantic?
Two circumstances very remarkable were observed in the Zoological
Society's Great Ant-eater: the hinge-like manner in which the animal
worked its tail when it had laid itself down, throwing it over the
whole of its body and enveloping itself completely; and the peculiar
vibratory motion of the long vermiform tongue when protruded from the
mouth in search of food. The tongue is not shot forth and retracted,
like that of the chameleon, but protruded gradually, _vibrating_ all the
time, and in the same condition withdrawn into the mouth.
Another species of Ant-eater is the _Tamandua_, much inferior in size to
the Great Ant-Bear, being scarcely so large as a good sized cat, whilst
the other exceeds the largest greyhound in length. The Tamandua inhabits
the thick primæval forests of tropical America, and is never found on
the ground, but exclusively in trees, where it lives upon termites,
honey, and, according to Azara, even bees, which in those countries
form their hives among the loftiest branches of the forest; and having
no sting, they are more readily despoiled of their honey than their
congeners of our own climate. When about to sleep it hides its muzzle in
the fur of its breast, falls on its belly, letting its fore-feet hang
down on each side, and wrapping the whole tightly round with its tail.
The female, as in the Great Ant-eater, has but two pectoral mammæ, and
produces but a single cub at a birth, which she carries about with her
on her shoulders for the first three or four months. _Tamandua_ is the
Portuguese name; the French and English call it _fourmiller_ and Little
Ant-Bear.
The latter are the names of a still smaller species, which does not
exceed the size of the European squirrel. Its native country is Guayana
and Brazil. It is called in Surinam _kissing-hand_, as the inhabitants
pretend it will never eat, at least when caught, but that it only licks
its paws in the same manner as the bear; that all trials to make it eat
have proved in vain, and that it soon dies in confinement. Von Sack, in
a voyage to Surinam, had two of these Ant-eaters which would not eat
eggs, honey, meat, or ants; but when a wasps'-nest was brought they
pulled out the nymphæ and ate them eagerly, sitting in the posture of a
squirrel. Von Sack showed this phenomenon to many of the inhabitants of
Surinam, who all assured him that it was the first time they had ever
known that species of animal to take any nourishment.
Von Sack describes his Ant-eaters as often sleeping all the day long
curled together, and fastened by their prehensile tails to one of the
perches of the cage. When touched they raised themselves on their
hind-legs, and struck with their fore-paws at the object which disturbed
them, like the hammer of a clock striking a bell, with both paws at the
same time, and with a great deal of force. They never attempted to run
away, but were always ready for defence when attacked.
The discovery of the true nature of the food of this species is
particularly desirable, and may enable us to have the animal brought
alive to this country, a thing which we believe has not been attempted;
and which, if attempted, has certainly never succeeded. To procure or
carry ants during a long sea-voyage is impracticable, but the larvæ of
wasps can be obtained in any quantity, and will keep for months; so that
the most serious difficulty to the introduction of the little Ant-eater
being thus removed, it would only require to be protected from the
effects of a colder climate, which may be as easily done in its case as
in that of other South America mammalia.
The Porcupine Ant-eater of New Holland, now very uncommon in New South
Wales, is regarded, of its size, the strongest quadruped in existence.
It burrows readily. Its mode of eating is very curious, the tongue being
used sometimes in the manner of that of the chameleon, and at other
times in that in which a mower uses his scythe, the tongue being curved
laterally, and the food, as it were, swept into the mouth.
The original Great Ant-Bear, received at the Gardens of the Zoological
Society on the 29th of September, 1853, died on the 6th of July, 1854.
There are now two of these animals living in the Gardens, one of which
is a remarkably fine specimen.
FOOTNOTE:
[6] Proceedings of the Zoological Society.
CURIOSITIES OF BATS.
These harmless and interesting little animals have not only furnished
objects of superstitious dread to the ignorant, but have proved to the
poet and the painter a fertile source of images of gloom and terror.
The strange combination of character of beast and bird, which they were
believed to possess, is supposed to have given to Virgil the idea of the
Harpies.
Aristotle says but little about the Bat; and Pliny is considered to
have placed it among the Birds, none of which, he observes, with the
exception of the Bat, have teeth. Again, he notices it as the only
winged animal that suckles its young, and remarks on its embracing its
two little ones, and flying about with them. In this arrangement he was
followed by the older of the more modern naturalists. Belon, doubtingly,
places it at the end of the Night-birds; and the Bat, _Attaleph_ (bird
of darkness), was one of the unclean animals of the Hebrews; and in
Deuteronomy xxv. 18, it is placed among the forbidden birds.
Even up to a late period Bats were considered as forming a link between
quadrupeds and birds. The common language of our own ancestors, however,
indicates a much nearer approach to the truth in the notions entertained
by the people than can be found in the lucubrations of the learned.
The words _rere-mouse_ and _flitter-mouse_, the old English names for
the Bat--the former derived from the Anglo-Saxon "aræan," to raise, or
rear up, and mus; the latter from the Belgic, signifying "flying or
flittering mouse,"--show that in their minds these animals were always
associated with the idea of quadrupeds. The first of these terms is
still used in English heraldry; though it may have ceased to belong to
the language of the country. "The word _flitter-mouse_," says Mr. Bell,
"sometimes corrupted into _flintymouse_, is the common term for the Bat
in some parts of the kingdom, particularly in that part of the county
of Kent in which the language, as well as the aspect and names of the
inhabitants, retain more of the Saxon character than will be found,
perhaps, in any other part of England.
Ben Jonson has--
"Once a Bat, and ever a Bat! a rere-mouse,
And bird o'twilight, he has broken thrice.
. . .
Come, I will see the flicker-mouse, my fly."
_Play._--_New Inn._
The same author uses flitter-mouse also:--
"And giddy flitter-mice, with leather wings."
_Sad Shepherd._
Calmet describes the Bat as an animal having the body of a mouse and the
wings of a bird; but he erroneously adds, "It never grows tame."
Some persons are surprised at Bats being classed by naturalists, not
with birds, but quadrupeds. They have, in fact, no other claim to be
considered as birds than that of their being able to suspend and move
themselves in the air, like some species of fish, but to a greater
degree. They suckle their young, are covered with hair, and have
no wings, but arms and lengthened fingers or toes furnished with a
membrane, by which they are enabled to fly.
Sir Charles Bell, in his valuable treatise on the "Hand," considers
the skeleton of the Bat as one of the best examples of the moulding
of the bones of the extremity to correspond with the condition of the
animal. Contemplating this extraordinary application of the bones of the
extremity, and comparing them with those of the wing of a bird, we might
say that this is an awkward attempt--"a failure." But, before giving
expression to such an opinion, we must understand the objects required
in this construction. It is not a wing intended merely for flight, but
one which, while it raises the animal, is capable of receiving a new
sensation, or sensations, in that exquisite degree, so as almost to
constitute a new sense. On the fine web of the Bat's wing nerves are
distributed, which enable it to avoid objects in its flight during the
night, when both eyes and ears fail. Could the wing of a bird, covered
with feathers, do this? Here, then, we have another example of the
necessity of taking every circumstance into consideration before we
presume to criticise the ways of nature. It is a lesson of humility. In
this animal the bones are light and delicate; and whilst they are all
marvellously extended, the phalanges of the fingers are elongated so
as hardly to be recognised, obviously for the purpose of sustaining a
membranous web, and to form a wing.
In 1839 there was received at the Surrey Zoological Gardens, from
Sumatra, a specimen of the Vampire Bat. This was a young male; the body
was black, and the membranous wing, in appearance, resembled fine black
kid. He was rarely seen at the bottom of his cage, but suspended himself
from the roof or bars of the cage, head downwards, his wings wrapped
round his body; when spread, these wings extended nearly two feet.
Although this specimen was the Vampire Bat to which so many bloodthirsty
feats have been attributed, his appearance was by no means ferocious;
he was active, yet docile, and the only peculiarity to favour belief in
his blood-sucking propensity was his long pointed tongue. The species
has popularly been accused of destroying, not only the large mammiferous
animals, but also men, when asleep, by sucking their blood. "The truth,"
says Cuvier, in his "Regne Animal," "appears to be, that the Vampire
inflicts only small wounds, which may, probably, become inflammatory and
gangrenous from the influence of climate." In this habit, however, may
have originated the celebrated Vampire superstition. Lord Byron, in his
beautiful poem of "The Giaour," thus symbolises the tortures that await
the "false infidel:"--
"First, on earth as Vampire sent,
My corse shall from its tomb be rent;
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There, from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse.
Thy victims, ere they yet expire,
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with _a father's_ name--
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallowed hand shall tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which in life a lock, when shorn,
Affection's fondest pledge was worn,
But now is borne away by thee,
Memorial of thine agony!
Wet with thine one best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go, and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till there in horror shrink away
From spectre more accursed than they!"
In a note, the noble poet tells us:--"The Vampire superstition is still
general in the Levant." Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr.
Southey, in the notes on "Thalaba," quotes, about these Vardoulacha,
as he calls them. "I recollect a whole family being terrified by the
screams of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such a
visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror."
Bishop Heber describes the Vampire Bat of India as a very harmless
creature, entirely different from the formidable idea entertained of it
in England. "It only eats fruit and vegetables; indeed, its teeth are
not indicative of carnivorous habits; and from blood it turns away when
offered to it. During the daytime it is, of course, inert; but at night
it is lively, affectionate, and playful, knows its keeper, but has no
objection to the approach and touch of others."
Mr. Westerton, the traveller, when speaking, in his "Wanderings," of the
Vampire of South America, says:--"There are two species in Demerara,
both of which suck living animals; one is rather larger than the common
Bats, the other measures above two feet from wing to wing, extended. So
gently does this nocturnal surgeon draw the blood, that instead of being
roused, the patient is lulled into a profound sleep." The large Vampire
sucks men, commonly attacking the toes; the smaller seems to confine
itself chiefly to birds.
Captain Stedman, who states that he was bitten by a Bat, thus describes
the operation:--"Knowing by instinct that the person they intend to
attack is in a sound slumber, they generally alight near the feet,
where, while the creature continues fanning with its enormous wings,
which keeps one cool, he bites a piece out of the tip of the great toe,
so very small indeed that the head of a pin would scarcely be received
into the wound, which is, consequently, not painful; yet through this
orifice he continues to suck the blood until he is obliged to disgorge.
He then begins again, and thus continues sucking and disgorging until
he is scarcely able to fly; and the sufferer has been often known to
sleep from time into eternity. Having applied tobacco-ashes as the best
remedy, and washed the gore from myself and my hammock, I observed
several small heaps of congealed blood all round the place where I had
lain upon the ground, on examining which the surgeon judged that I had
lost at least twelve or fourteen ounces during the night."
Lesson, in 1827, says:--"The single American species of Bat is
celebrated by the fables with which they have accompanied its history.
That Bats suck the blood of animals as well as the juices of succulent
fruits zoologists are agreed. The rough tongue of one genus was, I
suppose, to be employed for abrading the skin, to enable the animal
to suck the part abraded; but zoologists are now agreed that the
supposition is groundless. It is more than probable that the celebrated
Vampire superstition and the blood-sucking qualities attributed to the
Bat have some connection with each other."
Bat-fowling is mentioned by Shakspeare. This is the mode of taking
Bats in the night-time, while they are at roost, upon perches, trees,
or hedges. They light torches or straw, and then beat the bushes, upon
which the Bats, flying to the flames, are caught, either with nets or
otherwise.
Bat-fowling, or Bat-folding, is effected by the use of a net, called a
trammel-net, and is practised at night. The net should be made of the
strongest and finest twine, and extended between two poles about ten
feet high, tapering to a point at the top, and meeting at the top of
the net. The larger ends are to be held by the persons who take the
management of the net, and who, by stretching out the arms, keep the net
extended to the utmost, opposite the hedge in which the Bats or birds
are supposed to be. Another of the party carries a lantern upon a pole
at a short distance behind the centre of the net. One or two others
place themselves on the opposite side of the hedge, and by beating it
with sticks disturb the Bats or birds, which, being alarmed, fly towards
the light, but are interrupted in their flight by the net which is
immediately _folded_ upon them, often fifteen or twenty in number. This
sport cannot be followed with much success except when the night is very
dark, or until very late in the autumn, when the trees, having lost
their leaves, the Bats or birds are driven for shelter to the hollies,
yews, hayricks, &c.
We remember reading, in the "Philosophical Magazine," in 1836, a curious
account of the habits of a long-eared Bat, a living specimen of which
was given to the children of Mr. De Carle Sowerby, the naturalist. "We
constructed," says Mr. Sowerby, "a cage for him, by covering a box with
gauze, and making a round hole in the side, fitted with a phial cork.
When he was awake, we fed him with flies, introduced through this hole,
and thus kept him for several weeks. The animal soon became familiar,
and immediately a fly was presented alive at the hole, he would run or
fly from any part of the cage, and seize it in our fingers; but a dead
or quiet fly he would never touch. At other times, dozens of flies and
grasshoppers were left in his cage, and, waking him by their noise, he
dexterously caught them as they hopped or flew about, but uniformly
disregarded them while they were at rest. The cockroach, hard beetles,
and caterpillars he refused.
"As we became still more familiar, our new friend was invited to join
in our evening amusements, to which he contributed his full share
by flitting round the room, at times settling upon our persons, and
permitting us to handle and caress him. He announced his being awake
by a shrill chirp, which was more acute than that of the cricket. Now
was the proper time for feeding him. I before stated that he only took
his food alive. It was observed that not only was motion necessary, but
that generally some noise on the part of the fly was required to induce
him to accept it; and this fact was soon discovered by the children,
who were entertained by his taking flies from their fingers as he flew
by them, before he was bold enough to settle upon their hands to
devour his victims. They quickly improved upon this discovery, and, by
imitating the booming of a bee, induced the Bat, directed by the sound,
to settle upon their faces, wrapping his wings round their lips, and
searching for the expected fly. We observed that, if he took a fly while
on the wing, he frequently settled to masticate it; and, when he had
been flying about a long time, he would rest upon a curtain, pricking
his ears, and turning his head in all directions, when, if a fly were
made to buzz, or the sound imitated, he would proceed directly to the
spot, even on the opposite side of the room, guided, it would appear,
entirely by the ear. Sometimes he took his victim in his mouth, even
though it was not flying; at other times he inclosed it in his wings,
with which he formed a kind of bag-net. This was his general plan when
in his cage, or when the fly was held in our fingers, or between our
lips."
From these observations Mr. Sowerby concludes that many of the movements
of the Bat upon the wing are directed by his exquisite sense of hearing.
May not the sensibility of this organ be naturally greater in these
animals, whose organs of vision are too susceptible to bear daylight,
when those organs, from their nature, would necessarily be of most
service?--such as the cat, who hunts by the ear, and the mole, who,
feeding in the dark recesses of his subterranean abode, is very sensible
of the approach of danger, and expert in avoiding it. In the latter
case, large external ears are not required, because sound is well
conveyed by solids, and along narrow cavities. In the cases of many
Bats, and of owls, the external ears are remarkably developed. Cats
combine a quickness of sight with acute hearing. They hunt by the ear,
but they follow their prey by the eye. Some Bats are said to feed upon
fruits: have they the same delicacy of hearing, feeling, &c., as others?
Mr. Sowerby has further described the singular mode adopted by the
long-eared Bat in capturing his prey. The flying apparatus is extended
from the hind legs to the tail, forming a large bag or net, not unlike
two segments of an umbrella, the legs and tail being the ribs. The Bat,
having caught the fly, instead of eating it at once, generally covers it
with his body, and, by the aid of his arms, &c., forces it into his bag.
He then puts his head down under his body, withdraws the fly from his
bag, and leisurely devours it. Mr. Sowerby once saw an unwary bluebottle
walk beneath the body of the apparently sleeping Bat into the sensitive
bag, in which it was immediately imprisoned. White, of Selborne,
speaking of a tame Bat, alludes to the above described action, which
he compares to that of a beast of prey, but says nothing respecting
the bag. Bell, in his "British Quadrupeds," says that the interfemoral
membrane of Bats "is probably intended to act as a sort of rudder, in
rapidly changing the course of the animal in the pursuit of its insect
food. In a large group of foreign Bats, which feed on fruit or other
vegetable substances, as well as in some of carnivorous habits, but
whose prey is of a less active character, this part is either wholly
wanting or much circumscribed in extent and power." May it not be, asks
Mr. Sowerby, that they do not require an entomological bag-net?
The wing of the Bat is commonly spoken of as of leather; that it is an
insensible piece of stuff--the leather of a glove or of a lady's shoe;
but nothing can be further from the truth. If one were to select an
organ of the most exquisite delicacy and sensibility, it would be the
Bat's wing. It is anything but leather, and is, perhaps, the most acute
organ of touch that can be found.
Bats are supposed to perceive external objects without coming actually
in contact with them, because in their rapid and irregular flight,
amidst various surrounding bodies, they never fly against them; yet, to
some naturalists, it does not appear that the senses of hearing, seeing,
or smelling serve them on these occasions, for they avoid any obstacles
with equal certainty when the eye, ear, and nose are closed: hence has
been ascribed a _sixth sense_ to these animals. The nerves of the wing
are large and numerous, and distributed in a minute network between the
integuments. The impulse of the air against this part may possibly be
so modified by the objects near which the animal passes as to indicate
their situation and nature. The Bat tribe fly by means of the fingers of
the fore feet, the thumb excepted, being, in these animals, longer than
the whole body; and between them is stretched a thin membrane, or web,
for flying. It is probable that, in the action of flight, the air, when
struck by this wing, or very sensitive hand, impresses a sensation of
heat, cold, mobility, and resistance on that organ, which indicates to
the animal the existence or absence of obstacles which would interrupt
its progress. In this manner blind men discover by their hands, and
even by the skin of their faces, the proximity of a wall, door of a
house, or side of a street, even without the assistance of touch, and
merely by the sensation which the difference in the resistance of the
air occasions. Hence they are as little capable of walking on the ground
as apes with their hands, or sloths with their hooked claws, which are
calculated for climbing.
In a certain kind of Bat, the _Nycteris_, there exists a power of
inflation to such a degree that, when inflated, the animal looks,
according to Geoffroy St. Hilaire, like a _little balloon_ fitted
with wings, a head, and feet. It is filled with air through the
cheek-pouches, which are perforated at the bottom, so as to communicate
with the spaces of the skin to be filled. When the Bat wishes to
inflate, it draws in its breath, closes its nostrils, and transmits the
air through the perforations of the cheek-pouches to the spaces; and the
air is prevented from returning by the action of a muscle which closes
those openings, and by valves of considerable size on the neck and back.
There was formerly a vulgar opinion that Bats, when down on a flat
surface, could not get on the wing again, by rising with great ease
from the floor; but White saw a Bat run, with more dispatch than he
was aware of, though in a most ridiculous and grotesque manner. The
adroitness with which this Bat sheared off the wings of flies, which
were always rejected, was very amusing. He did not refuse raw flesh when
offered; so that the notion that Bats go down chimneys, and gnaw men's
bacon, seems no improbable story.
Mr. George Daniell describes a female Bat, who took her food with an
action similar to that of a dog. The animal took considerable pains
in cleaning herself, parting the hair on either side, from head to
tail, and forming a straight line along the middle of the back. The
membrane of the wings was cleaned by forcing the nose through the folds,
and thereby expanding them. This Bat fed freely, and at some times
voraciously, the quantity exceeding half an ounce, although the weight
of the animal itself was not more than ten drams.
The _Kalong_ Bat of the Javanese is extremely abundant in the lower
parts of Java, and uniformly lives in society. The more elevated
districts are not visited by it. "Numerous individuals," says Dr.
Hornfield, "select a large tree, and, suspending themselves with the
claws of their posterior extremities to the naked branches, often in
companies of several hundreds, afford to a stranger a very singular
spectacle. A species of ficus (fig-tree), resembling the _ficus
religiosa_ of India, affords them a very favourite retreat, and the
extended branches of one of these are sometimes covered by them. They
pass the greater portion of the day in sleep, hanging motionless, ranged
in succession, with the head downwards, the membrane contracted about
the body, and often in close contact. They have little resemblance to
living beings; and, by a person not accustomed to their economy, are
readily mistaken for a part of the tree, or for a fruit of uncommon size
suspended from its branches."
In general, these societies are silent during the day; but if they are
disturbed, or a contention arises among them, they emit sharp, piercing
shrieks; and their awkward attempts to extricate themselves, when
oppressed by the light of the sun, exhibit a ludicrous spectacle. Soon
after sunset they gradually quit their hold, and pursue their nocturnal
flight in quest of food. They direct their course by an unerring
instinct to the forests, villages, and plantations, attacking and
devouring every kind of fruit, from the abundant and useful cocoa-nut,
which surrounds the dwellings of the meanest peasantry, to the rare and
most delicate productions which are cultivated by princes and chiefs of
distinction. Various methods are employed to protect the orchards and
gardens. Delicate fruits are secured by a loose net or basket, skilfully
constructed of split bamboo, without which precaution little valuable
fruit would escape the ravages of the _Kalong_. There are few situations
in the lower part of Java in which this night wanderer is not constantly
observed. As soon as the light of the sun has retired, one animal is
seen to follow the other at a small but irregular distance, and this
accession continues uninterrupted till dark:--
"The night came on apace,
And falling dews bewet around the place;
The bat takes airy rounds, on leathern wings,
And the hoarse owl his woful dirges sings."
Gay's "_Pastoral III_."
Bats of the ordinary size are very numerous in Jamaica. They are found
in mills and old houses. They do great mischief in gardens, where they
eat the green peas, opening the pod over each pea, and removing it very
dexterously.
Gilbert White, of Selborne, first noticed a large species of Bat, which
he named _altivolans_, from its manner of feeding high in the air. In
the extent of its wings it measured 14-1/2 inches; and it weighed,
when entirely full, one ounce and one drachm. It is found in numbers
together, so many as 185 having been taken in one night from the eaves
of Queens' College, Cambridge. In the Northern Zoological Gallery of the
British Museum are representatives of the several species of Bats, all
bearing a family resemblance to each other. In England alone there are
eighteen known species. Here is the curious leaf-nosed Bat, from Brazil,
supposed to excel in the sense of smell; also, the Vampire, or large
blood-sucking Bat, from the same country; and the different kinds of
fruit-eating Bats, found in America and Australia, and sometimes called
flying foxes, on account of their great size. The Bats of temperate
climates remain torpid during the winter. Gay has these lines:--
"Where swallows in the winter season keep;
And here the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep."
Young Bats have been taken, when hovering near the ground, by throwing
handfuls of sand, but they rarely live in confinement: they often die
within a week after their capture. A Bat, taken in Elgin, gave birth to
a young one, which was for two days suckled by its parent. Before she
reached the age of three days the young bat died, and the parent only
survived another day to mourn her loss. Sometimes females, when taken,
have young ones clinging to their breast, in the act of sucking; and the
female can fly with ease, though two little ones are attached to her,
which weigh nearly as much as the parent.
To return to an exaggeration of a famous old traveller. In "Purchas his
Pilgrimage," the materials for which he borrowed from above thirteen
hundred authors, when speaking of the island of Madura, in the South of
India, he says:--"In these partes are Battes as big as Hennes, which the
people roast and eat."
THE HEDGEHOG.
Of this animal some strange things are recorded. It is placed by Cuvier
at the head of the insect-devouring Mammifera. It is found in Europe,
Africa, and India. Its body is covered with strong and sharp prickles,
and by the help of a muscle it can contract itself into a ball, and so
withdraw its whole underpart, head, belly, and legs, within this thicket
of prickles:
"Like Hedgehogs, which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount
Their pricks at my foot-fall."--Shakspeare's "_Tempest_."
Sir Thomas Browne, in his "Vulgar Errors," has this odd conceit:--"Few
have belief to swallow, or hope enough to experience, the collyrium of
Albertus; that is, to make one see in the dark: yet thus much, according
to his receipts, will the right eye of an Hedgehog, boiled in oil, and
preserved in a brazen vessel, effect."
Hedgehog was an old term of reproach; but we have heard a well-set
argument compared to a hedgehog--all points.
The food of the Hedgehog, which is a nocturnal animal, consists
principally of insects, worms, slugs, and snails. That it will eat
vegetables is shown by White of Selborne, who relates how it eats the
root of the plantain by boring beneath it, leaving the tuft of leaves
untouched.
The Hedgehog is reputed to supply itself with a winter covering of
leaves. So far as we are aware, it has not been observed in the act of
forming the covering of leaves, though it is supposed to roll itself
about till its spines take up a sufficient number, in the same way as
it is popularly believed (without proof) to do with apples. Blumenbach
states that he was assured, "by three credible witnesses," that
Hedgehogs so gather fruit; but Buffon, who kept several Hedgehogs for
observation, declares they never practise any such habit.
The voracity of the Hedgehog is very great. A female, with a young one,
was placed in a kitchen, having the run of the beetles at night, besides
having always bread and milk within their reach. One day, however, the
servants heard a mysterious crunching sound in the kitchen, and found,
on examination, that nothing was left of the young Hedgehog but the skin
and prickles--the mother had devoured her little pig! A Hedgehog has
also been known to eat a couple of rabbits which had been confined with
it, and killing others; it has likewise been known to kill hares.
A Hedgehog was placed in one hamper, a wood-pigeon in another, and two
starlings in a third; the lid of each hamper was tied down with string,
and the hampers were placed in a garden-house, which was fastened in the
evening. Next morning the strings to the hampers were found severed, the
starlings and wood-pigeon dead and eaten, feathers alone remaining in
their hampers, and the Hedgehog alive in the wood-pigeon's hamper. As no
other animal could have got into the garden-house it was concluded that
the Hedgehog had killed and eaten the birds.
In the "Zoological Journal," vol. ii., is an account by Mr. Broderip of
an experiment made by Professor Buckland proving that in captivity at
least the Hedgehog will devour snakes; but there is no good reason for
supposing that it will not do the same in a state of nature, for frogs,
toads, and other reptiles, and mice, have been recorded as its prey.
From its fondness for insects it is often placed in the London kitchens
to keep down the swarm of cockroaches with which they are infested; and
there are generally Hedgehogs on sale at Covent Garden Market for this
purpose.
The idle story that the persecuted Hedgehog sucks cows has been thus
quaintly refuted:--"In the case of an animal giving suck, the teat is
embraced round by the mouth of the young one, so that no air can pass
between; a vacuum is made, or the air is exhausted from its throat,
by a power in the lungs; nevertheless the pressure of the air remains
still upon the outside of the dug of the mother, and by these two
causes together the milk is forced in the mouth of the young one. But
a Hedgehog has no such mouth as to be able to contain the teat of a
cow; therefore any vacuum which is caused in its own throat cannot be
communicated to the milk in the dug. And if he is able to procure no
other food but what he can get by sucking cows in the night, there is
likely to be a vacuum in his stomach too." (_New Catalogue of Vulgar
Errors._ By Stephen Fovargue, A.M., 1786.) Yet, according to Sir William
Jardine, the Hedgehog is very fond of eggs; and is consequently very
mischievous in the game-preserve and hen-house.
One of the most interesting facts in the natural history of the Hedgehog
is that announced in 1831 by M. Lenz, and subsequently confirmed by
Professor Buckland: this is, that the most violent poisons have no
effect upon it; a fact which renders it of peculiar value in forests,
where it appears to destroy a great number of noxious reptiles. M. Lenz
says that he had in his house a female Hedgehog, which he kept in a
large box, and which soon became very mild and familiar. He often put
into the box some adders, which it attacked with avidity, seizing them
indifferently by the head, the body, and the tail, and not appearing
alarmed or embarrassed when they coiled themselves around its body.
On one occasion M. Lenz witnessed a fight between a Hedgehog and a
viper. When the Hedgehog came near and smelled the snake, for with
these animals the sense of sight is very obtuse, she seized it by the
head, and held it fast between her teeth, but without appearing to do
it much harm; for having disengaged its head, it assumed a furious and
menacing attitude, and, hissing vehemently, inflicted severe bites on
the Hedgehog. The animal did not, however, recoil from the bites of
the viper, or indeed seem to care much about them. At last, when the
reptile was fatigued by its efforts, she again seized it by the head,
which she ground beneath her teeth, compressing the fangs and glands of
poison, and then devouring every part of the body. M. Lenz says that
battles of this sort often occurred in the presence of many persons, and
sometimes the Hedgehog received eight or ten wounds on the ears, the
snout, and even on the tongue, without seeming to experience any of the
ordinary symptoms produced by the venom of the viper. Neither herself
nor the young which she was then suckling seemed to suffer from it. This
observation agrees with that of Pallas, who assures us that the Hedgehog
can eat about a hundred Cantharides (Spanish Flies) without experiencing
any of the effects which this insect, taken inwardly, produces on men,
dogs, and cats. A German physician, who made the Hedgehog a particular
object of study, gave it strong doses of prussic acid, of arsenic, of
opium, and of corrosive sublimate, none of which did it any harm. The
Hedgehog in its natural state only feeds on pears, apples, and other
fruits when it can get nothing it likes better.
The Hedgehog hybernates regularly, and early in the summer brings forth
from two to four young ones at a birth, which, at the time of their
production, are blind, and have the spines white, soft, and flexible.
The nest wherein they are cradled is said to be very artificially
constructed, the roof being rain-proof.
The flesh of the Hedgehog, when it has been well fed, is sweet and well
flavoured, and is eaten on the Continent in many places. In Britain a
few besides gipsies partake of it. The prickly skin appears to have been
used by the Romans for hackling hemp.
Gilbert White notes that when the Hedgehog is very young it can draw
its skin down over its face, but is not able to contract itself into a
ball, as the creature does, for the sake of defence when full grown. The
reason, White supposes, is because the curious muscle that enables the
Hedgehog to roll itself up into a ball has not then arrived at its full
tone and firmness. Hedgehogs conceal themselves for the winter in their
warm _hybernaculum_ of leaves and moss; but White could never find that
they stored in any winter provision, as some quadrupeds certainly do.
THE HIPPOPOTAMUS IN ENGLAND.
In the year 1850 there was exhibited in London a living Hippopotamus,
for many centuries the only instance of this extraordinary animal being
seen in Europe.
There is something irresistibly striking in seeing a living animal,
not one of whose species we have before seen, and especially when
that animal is a large one, as in the instance before us. We had been
wonderstruck at forms of this creature in the old British Museum, where
were two finely-preserved specimens. The Rhinoceros alive was, until of
late years, very rare in England. In 1834 Mr. Cross paid some 1,500_l._
for a young Indian one-horned Rhinoceros, this being the only one
brought to England for twenty years. He proved attractive, but slightly
so in comparison with the expectation of a living Hippopotamus, never
witnessed before in this country. The circumstances of his acquisition
were as follows:--
The Zoological Society of London had long been anxious to obtain
a living Hippopotamus for their menagerie, but without success. An
American agent at Alexandria had offered 5,000_l._ for an animal of
this species, but in vain; no speculator could be induced to encounter
the risk and labour of an expedition to the White Nile for the
purpose of securing the animal. The desire of the Zoological Society
was communicated to the Viceroy of Egypt, who saw the difficulty.
Hasselquist states it to have been impossible to bring the living animal
to Cairo; and the French _savans_, attached to the expedition to Egypt,
who ascended the Nile above Syene, did not meet with one Hippopotamus.
Caillaud, however, asserts that he saw forty Hippopotami in the Upper
Nile, though their resort lay fifteen hundred miles or more from Cairo.
Here they were often shot with rifle-balls, but to take one alive was
another matter. However, by command of the Viceroy, the proper parties
were sent in search of the animal.
In August, 1849, the hunters having reached the island of Fobaysch,
on the White Nile, about 2,000 miles above Cairo, shot a large female
Hippopotamus in full chase up the river. The wounded creature turned
aside and made towards some bushes on the island bank, but sank dead in
the effort. The hunters, however, kept on towards the bushes, when a
young Hippopotamus, supposed to have been recently brought forth, not
much bigger than a new-born calf, but stouter and lower, rushed down
the bank of the river, was secured by a boatman and lifted into the
boat. The captors started with their charge down the Nile. The food of
their young animal was their next anxiety; he liked neither fish, flesh,
fruit, nor grass. The boat next stopped at a village; their cows were
seized and milked, and the young charge lapped up the produce. A good
milch cow was taken on board, and with this supply the Hippopotamus
reached Cairo. The colour of his skin at this time was a dull reddish
brown. He was shown to the Pasha in due form; the present created
intense wonder and interest in Cairo; gaping crowds filled its narrow
sandy streets, and a whale at London-bridge would scarcely excite half
so much curiosity.
It being thought safer for the animal to winter in Cairo than to proceed
forthwith on his journey, the Consul had duly prepared to receive the
young stranger, for whom he had engaged a sort of nurse. Hamet Safi
Cannana. An apartment was allotted to the Hippopotamus in the court-yard
of the Consul's house, leading to a warm or tepid bath. His milk-diet,
however, became a troublesome affair, for the new comer never drank less
than from twenty to thirty quarts daily.
By the next mail after the arrival of the Hippopotamus, the Consul
despatched the glad tidings to the Zoological Society. The animal was
shipped at Alexandria, in the Ripon steamer. On the main deck was built
a house, from which were steps down into an iron tank in the hold,
containing 400 gallons of water, as a bath: it was filled with fresh
water every other day.
Early in May, the Hippopotamus was conveyed in the canal-boat, with
Hamet Safi Cannana, to Alexandria, where the debarkation was witnessed
by 10,000 spectators. The animal bore the voyage well. He lived
exclusively on milk, of which he consumed daily about forty pints,
yielded by the cows taken on board. He was very tame, and, like a
faithful dog, followed his Arab attendant Hamet, who was seldom away
more than five minutes without being summoned to return by a loud grunt.
Hamet slept in a berth with the Hippopotamus. On May 25 they were landed
at Southampton, and sent by railway to London. On arriving at the
Zoological Society's Gardens, Hamet walked first out of the transport
van, with a bag of dates over his shoulder, and the Hippopotamus trotted
after him. Next morning he greatly enjoyed the bath which had been
prepared for him. Although scarcely twelve months old, his massive
proportions indicated the enormous power to be developed in his maturer
growth; while the grotesque expression of his physiognomy far exceeded
all that could be imagined from the stuffed specimens in museums, and
the figures which had hitherto been published from the reminiscences of
travellers.
Among the earliest visitors was Professor Owen, who first saw the
Hippopotamus lying on its side in the straw, with its head resting
against the chair in which sat the swarthy attendant. It now and then
grunted softly, and, lazily opening its thick, smooth eyelids, leered
at its keeper with a singular protruding movement of the eyeball from
the prominent socket, showing an unusual proportion of the white. The
retraction of the eyeball was accompanied by a simultaneous rolling
obliquely downwards, or inwards, or forwards. The young animal, then
ten months' old, was seven feet long, and six and a-half in girth at
the middle of the barrel-shaped trunk, supported, clear of the ground,
on very short and thick legs, each terminated by four spreading hoofs,
the two middle ones being the largest, and answering to those in the
hog. The naked hide, covering the broad back and sides, was of a dark,
india-rubber colour, with numerous fine wrinkles crossing each other,
but disposed almost transversely. The beast had just left its bath, when
a glistening secretion gave the hide, in the sunshine, a very peculiar
aspect. When the animal was younger, the secretion had a reddish colour,
and the whole surface of the hide became painted over with it every time
he quitted his bath.
The ears, which were very short, conical, and fringed with hairs, it
moved about with much vivacity. The skin around them was of a light
reddish-brown colour, and almost flesh-coloured round the eyelids,
which defended the prominent eyes, which had a few short hairs on the
margin of the upper lid. The colour of the iris was of a dark brown. The
nostrils, situated on prominences, which the animal had the power of
raising on the upper part of the broad and massive muzzle, were short
oblique slits, guarded by two valves, which were opened and closed
spontaneously, like the eyelids. The movements of these apertures were
most conspicuous when the beast was in the bath.
The wide mouth was chiefly remarkable for the upward curve of its angles
towards the eyes, giving a quaintly comic expression to the massive
countenance. The short and small milk-tusks projected a little, and the
minute incisors appeared to be sunk in pits of the thick gums; but the
animal would not permit any close examination of the teeth, withdrawing
his head from the attempt, and then threatening to bite. The muzzle was
beset with short bristles, split into tufts or pencils of hairs; and
fine and short hairs were scattered all over the back and sides. The
tail was not long, rather flattened and tapering to an obtuse point.
We may here observe that, at certain moments, the whole aspect of the
head suggested to one the idea of what may have been the semblance of
some of the gigantic extinct Batrachians (as sirens), the relics of a
former world, whose fossil bones in the galleries of Palæontology in the
British Museum excite our special wonder.
After lying about an hour, now and then raising its head, and swivelling
its eyeballs towards the keeper, or playfully opening its huge mouth,
and threatening to bite the leg of the chair on which the keeper sat,
the Hippopotamus rose, and walked very slowly about its room, and
then uttered a loud and short harsh snort four or five times in quick
succession, reminding one of the snort of a horse, and ending with an
explosive sound, like a bark. The keeper understood the language--the
animal desired to return to its bath.
The Hippopotamus carried its head rather depressed, reminding one of
a large prize hog, but with a breadth of muzzle and other features
peculiarly its own. The keeper opened the door leading into a paddock,
and walked thence to the bath, the Hippopotamus following, like a dog,
close to his heels. On arriving at the bath-room, the animal descended
with some deliberation the flight of low steps leading into the water,
stooped and drank a little, dipped his head under, and then plunged
forwards. The creature seemed inspired with new life and activity.
Sinking to the bottom of the bath, and moving about submerged for a
while, it suddenly rose with a bound almost bodily out of the water.
Splashing back, it commenced swimming and plunging about, rolling from
side to side, taking in mouthfuls of water and spirting them out again,
raising every now and then its huge and grotesque head, and biting the
woodwork of the margin of the bath. The broad rounded back of the animal
being now chiefly in view, it seemed a much larger object than when out
of the water.
After half an hour spent in this amusement, the Hippopotamus quitted
the water at the call of its keeper, and followed him back to the
sleeping-room, which was well bedded with straw, and where a stuffed
sack was provided for its pillow, of which the animal, having a very
short neck, thicker than the head, availed itself when it slept. When
awake, it was very impatient of any absence of its favourite attendant.
It would rise on its hind legs, and threaten to break down the wooden
fence, by butting and pushing against it in a way very significant of
its great muscular force. The animal appeared to be in perfect health,
and breathed, when at rest, slowly and regularly, from three to four
times in a minute. Its food was now a kind of porridge, of milk and
maize-meat, it being more than half weaned from milk diet. Its appetite
had been in no respect diminished by the confinement and inconvenience
of the sea voyage, or by change of climate. All observers appear to
have agreed that, to see the Hippopotamus rightly, is to see him in
the water. There his activity is only surpassed by that of the otter
or the seal. Such was one of the opportunities afforded to zoologists
for "studying this most remarkable and interesting African mammal, of
which no living specimen had been seen in Europe since the period when
Hippopotami were last exhibited by the third Gordian in the amphitheatre
of imperial Rome."[7]
It is now time to glance at the general economy of the Hippopotamus, as
he is seen in his native rivers and wilds. In early days, as his Roman
name imports, it was usual to consider him as a species of horse,
inhabiting rivers and marshy grounds, and, in a more especial manner,
the denizen of the Nile. The genus is placed by Linnæus among his
_belluæ_, between _equus_ and _sus_. The skeleton approaches that of the
ox and of the hog, but it presents differences from that of any other
animal.
The Hippopotamus is found not only in the Nile, but in the rivers of
southern Africa. In the former stream of marvels, Hasselquist relates
that "the oftener the River Horse goes on shore, the better hope have
the Egyptians of a sufficient swelling or increase of the Nile." Again,
they say that the River Horse is an inveterate enemy to the crocodile,
and kills it whenever he meets it; adding that he does much damage to
the Egyptians in those places he frequents. He goes on shore, and, in
a short space of time, destroys an entire field of corn or clover, not
leaving the least verdure, for he is very voracious.
Yet neither of these stories is so marvellous as that which a sailor
related to Dampier, the old traveller:--"I have seen," says the mariner,
"one of these animals open its jaws, and, seizing a boat between its
teeth, at one bite sink it to the bottom. I have seen it, on another
occasion, place itself under one of our boats, and, rising under it,
overset it with six men who were in it, but who, however, happily
received no other injury."
Professor Smith and Captain Tuckey, in exploring the Congo River, in
South Africa, saw in a beautiful sandy cove, at the opening of a creek,
behind a long projecting point, an immense number of Hippopotami;
and in the evening a number of alligators were also seen there; an
association hardly consistent with the hostility related by Hasselquist.
Captain Tuckey observed Hippopotami with their heads above the water,
"snorting in the air." In another part of his narrative he says:--"Many
Hippopotami were visible close to our tents at Condo Yanga. No use
firing at these animals in the water; the only way is to wait till they
come on shore to feed at night."
Le Vaillant had an opportunity of watching the progress of a
Hippopotamus under water at Great River, which contained many of these
animals. On all sides he could hear them bellow and blow. Anxious to
observe them, he mounted on the top of an elevated rock which advanced
into the river, and he saw one walking at the bottom of the water. Le
Vaillant killed it at the moment when it came to the surface to breathe.
It was a very old female, and many people, in their surprise, and to
express its size, called it the Grandmother of the River.
The traveller Lander tells us that, on the Niger. Hippopotami are
termed water-elephants. One stormy night, as they were sailing up this
unexplored current, they fell in with great numbers of Hippopotami, who
came plashing, snorting, and plunging all round the canoe. Thinking
to frighten them off, the travellers fired a shot or two at them, but
the noise only called up from the water and out of the fens about as
many more Hippopotami, and they were more closely beset than before.
Lander's people, who had never, in all their lives, been exposed to
such formidable beasts, trembled with fear, and absolutely wept aloud;
whilst peals of thunder rattled over their heads, and the most vivid
lightning showed the terrifying scene. Hippopotami frequently upset
canoes in the river. When the Landers fired, every one of them came
to the surface of the water, and pursued them over to the north bank.
A second firing was followed by a loud roaring noise. However, the
Hippopotami did the travellers no kind of mischief whatever.
Captain Gordon, when among the Bakalahari, in South Africa, bagged no
fewer than fifteen first-rate Hippopotami; the greater number of them
being bulls.
In 1828, there was brought to England the head of a Hippopotamus, with
all the flesh about it, in high preservation. The animal was harpooned
while in combat with a crocodile in a lake in the interior of Africa.
The head measured nearly four feet in length, and eight feet in
circumference; the jaws opened two feet, and the cutting teeth, of which
it had four in each jaw, were above a foot long, and four inches in
circumference.
The utility of this vast pachydermatous, or thick-skinned animal, to man
is considerable. That he can be destructive has already been shown in
his clearance of the cultivated banks of rivers. The enormous ripping,
chisel-like teeth of the lower jaw fit him for uprooting. The ancient
Egyptians held the animal as an emblem of power, though this may have
arisen from his reputed destruction of the crocodile. The flesh is much
esteemed for food, both among the natives and colonists of South Africa.
The blood of the animal is said to have been used by the old Indian
painters in mixing their colours. The skin is extensively employed for
making whips.
But there is no part of the Hippopotamus more in request than the great
canine teeth, the ivory of which is so highly valued by dentists for
making artificial teeth, on account of its keeping its colour better
than any other kind. This superiority was not unknown to the ancients
Pausanias mentions the statue of Dindymene, whose face was formed of the
teeth of Hippopotami, instead of elephants' ivory. The canine teeth are
imported in great numbers into England, and sell at a very high price.
From the closeness of the ivory, the weight of the teeth, a part only of
which is available for the artificial purpose above mentioned, is great
in proportion to its bulk; and the article has fetched about thirty
shillings per pound.
The ancient history of the Hippopotamus is extremely curious, and
we have many representations of him in coins, in sculpture, and in
paintings, which prove, beyond question, that the artists, as well as
the writers, had a distinct knowledge of what they intended to represent.
The earliest notice which occurs in any author, and which has been
considered by many to be a description of the Hippopotamus, is the
celebrated account in the fortieth and forty-first chapter of the Book
of Job of Behemoth and Leviathan. Many learned men have contended that
"Behemoth" really means "Elephant," and thus the Zurich version of the
Bible translates the Hebrew by "Elephas."
In the edition of the English Bible, printed by Robert Barker, in 1615,
for King James I., and since considered as the authorised version, the
word "Behemoth" is preserved in the text, and the following annotation
is added:--"This beast is thought to bee the Elephant, or some other
which is unknowen." Bochart, Ludolph, and some others, have contended
warmly in favour of the Hippopotamus. Cuvier thinks, that though this
animal is probably intended, yet that the description is too vague for
any one to hold a certain opinion on the subject. The theory started by
Bochart, and in the main supported by Cuvier, is generally supposed the
real one. The description in the Book of Job, though doubtless vague,
and in the highest degree poetical, has yet sufficient marks to render
the identification perfectly easy, while there are certain peculiarities
mentioned, which even a poetical imagination could hardly apply to the
Elephant. Thus, when it is said of him, "He lieth under the shady trees,
in the desert of the reed and fens; ... the willows of the brook compass
him round about," this would seem to be the description of an animal
which frequented the water much more than Elephants are accustomed to
do. Again, in the fuller description of "Leviathan," in the forty-first
chapter, we think it is quite clear that a water animal is intended,
though what is there stated might be held to apply to the crocodile
as well as the Hippopotamus; both are animals remarkable for extreme
toughness of skin, and both are almost equally difficult to kill or to
take alive.
Of profane authors, Herodotus is the first who notices this animal,
but his account is far from accurate: the size he states as large as
the biggest ox. That the animal was sacred, in some parts at least,
appears from Herodotus, who says:--"Those which are found in the
district of Paprennis are sacred, but in other parts of Egypt they are
not considered in the same light." Aristotle makes it no bigger than
an ass; Diodorus, an elephant; Pliny ascribes to it the tail and teeth
of a boar, adding, that helmets and bucklers are made of the skin.
Hippopotami figured in the triumphal processions of the Roman conquerors
on their return home. M. Scaurus exhibited five crocodiles and an
Hippopotamus; and Augustus one in his triumph over Cleopatra. Antoninus
exhibited Hippopotami, with lions and other animals; Commodus no less
than five, some of which he slew with his own hand. Heliogabalus, and
the third Gordian, also exhibited Hippopotami.
The Hippopotamus of the London Zoological Society was joined by his
mate, the more juvenile "Adhela," in 1853. Two Hippopotami have lately
been born in Europe; one in the Garden of Plants, at Paris, in 1858; and
another in the Zoological Gardens at Amsterdam, in 1866.
With regard to the alleged disappearance of the Hippopotamus from Lower
Egypt, Cuvier remarks, that the French savans attached to the Expedition
to Egypt, who ascended the Nile above Syene, did not meet with one.
In some of the rivers of Liberia, and other parts, perhaps, of Western
Africa, a second species of Hippopotamus exists, and is proved to be a
very distinct animal.
We have yet to glance at the Hippopotami of a former world. Many
species are recognised in the fossil remains of Europe and Asia as
formerly existing in England and in France. Cuvier detected bones of the
Hippopotamus among the fossil wealth of the Great Kirkdale Cavern in
Yorkshire, in 1821. They have also been found in France, and especially
in the Sewatick Hills in India.
In the Museum of the London Zoological Society are two skulls of
Hippopotami--one fossil. This measures two feet three inches, and
allowing for skin and lip, two feet six inches. Now, as the head is
about one-fifth the length of the body, without the tail, the full-grown
animal would be little, if any, short of fifteen feet from nose to
tail--a size worthy the description of the Behemoth.
We may here add, that Burckhardt, in his "Travels in Nubia," describes
the voice of the Hippopotamus as a hard and heavy sound, like the
creaking or groaning of a large wooden door. This noise, he says, is
made when the animal raises his huge head out of the water, and when he
retires into it again.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] Professor Owen.
LION-TALK.
The Lion has, within the present century, lost caste, and fallen
considerably from his high estate. He has been stripped of much of his
conventional reputation by the spirit of inquiry into the validity of
olden notions, which characterises the present age; and it appears that
much of his celebrity is founded upon popular error. Nor are these
results the work of stay-at-home travellers; but they are derived from
the observation and experience of those who, amidst scenes of perilous
adventure, seek to enlarge and correct our views of the habit and
character of the overrated Lion.
Mr. Bennett, in his admirable work, "The Tower Menagerie," has these
very sensible remarks:--"In speaking of the Lion we call up to our
imaginations the splendid picture of might unmingled with ferocity, of
courage undebased by guile, of dignity tempered by grace and ennobled by
generosity. Such is the Lion of Buffon; who, in describing this animal,
as in too many other instances, has suffered himself to be borne along
by the strong tide of popular opinion; but, as the Lion appears in his
native regions, according to the authentic accounts of those travellers
and naturalists who have had the best means of correctly observing his
habits, he is by no means so admirable a creature. Where the timid
antelope and powerless monkey fall his easy and unresisting prey--or
where the elephant and buffalo find their unwieldy bulk and strength no
adequate protection against his impetuous agility--he stalks boldly to
and fro in fearless majesty. But in the neighbourhood of man--even in
that of uncultivated savages--_he skulks in treacherous ambush for his
prey_. Of his forbearance and generosity it can merely be said, that
when free, he destroys only what is sufficient to satiate his hunger or
revenge; and when in captivity--his wants being provided for, and his
feelings not irritated--he suffers smaller animals to live unmolested in
his den, or submits to the control of a keeper by whom he is fed. But
even this limited degree of docility is liable to fearful interruptions
from the calls of hunger, the feelings of revenge--and these he
frequently cherishes for a long period--with various other circumstances
which render it dangerous to approach him in his most domesticated
state, without ascertaining his immediate mood and temper. That an
animal which seldom attacks by open force, but silently approaches his
victim, and when he imagines his prey to be within his reach, bounds
upon it with an overwhelming leap, should ever have been regarded as
the type of courage and the emblem of magnanimity, is indeed most
astonishing!"
The generosity of disposition so liberally accorded to this powerful
beast has been much and eloquently praised; and it seems hard to
dissipate the glowing vision which Buffon has raised; but, if there is
any dependence to be placed on the observations of those travellers
who have had the best opportunities of judging, and have the highest
character for veracity, we must be compelled to acknowledge that
Buffon's Lion is the Lion of poetry and prejudice, and very unlike the
cautious lurking savage that steals on its comparatively weak prey by
surprise, overwhelms it at once by the terror, the weight, and the
violence of the attack, and is intent only on the gratification of the
appetite. "At the time," says Mr. Burchell, "when men first adopted the
Lion as the emblem of courage, it would seem that they regarded great
size and strength as indicating it; but they were greatly mistaken
in the character they had given of the indolent animal." Indeed, Mr.
Burchell calls the Lion an "indolent skulking animal." The fact of the
Lion sparing the dog that was thrown to him, and making a friend of the
little animal that was destined for his prey, has been much dwelt on;
but these and other such acts of mercy, as they have been called, may
be very easily accounted for. If not pressed by hunger, the Lion will
seldom be at the trouble of killing prey; and the desire for a companion
has created much stronger friendships between animals in confinement
than between a Lion and a little dog. St. Pierre touchingly describes
the Lion of Versailles, who, in 1792, lived most happily with a dog, and
on whose death he became disconsolate and miserable; and in confinement
the "lordly Lion," as Young calls him, has been known to be deeply
afflicted with melancholy at similar losses.
The Lion is easily tamed, and capable of attachment to man. The story of
Androdas, frequently called Androcles, is too well known to need more
than allusion; but in this and other stories of Lions licking men's
hands without injuring them, there must be a stretch of fancy; for the
Lion's tongue has sharp thorn-points, inclining backwards, so as not to
be able to lick the hand without tearing away the skin, which any one
will understand who has _heard_ the Lion tear the raw meat away from the
bone of his food.
Still, very different accounts are given by travellers of the cruelty or
generosity of the Lion's nature; which results, in all probability, from
a difference in time or circumstances, or the degree of hunger which the
individual experienced when the respective observations were made upon
him.
Meanwhile, there are many points in the history of the Lion which are
yet but imperfectly understood; the explanations of which, whilst
they are interesting, add to our correct knowledge of this still
extraordinary animal.
The Lion has been styled "The King of the Forest," which is not very
applicable to him, seeing that Mr. Burchell at least never met with
but one Lion on the plains; nor did he ever meet with one in any of
the forests where he had been. The low cover that creeps along the
sides of streams, the patches that mark the springs in the rank grass
of the valley, seem to be the shelter which the African Lion, for the
most part, seeks. His strength is extraordinary. To carry off a man
(and there are dismal accounts of this horrible fact, which there is no
reason to doubt) appears a feat of no difficulty to this powerful brute.
A Cape Lion, seizing a heifer in his mouth, has carried her off with the
same ease as a cat does a rat; and has leaped with her over a broad dyke
without the least difficulty. A young Lion, too, has conveyed a horse
about a mile from the spot where he had killed it.
There seems to be an idea that the Lion preserves human prey; but, be
this as it may, the inhabitants of certain districts have been under the
necessity of resorting to a curious expedient to get out of the Lion's
reach. Ælian, by the way, records the extinction of a Libyan people by
an invasion of Lions. We read of a large tree, in the country of the
Mantatees, which has amidst its limbs fourteen conical huts. These are
used as dormitories, being beyond the reach of the Lions, which, since
the incursions of the Mantatees, when so many thousands of persons
were massacred, have become very numerous in the neighbourhood, and
destructive to human life. The branches of the above trees are supported
by forked sticks or poles, and there are three tiers or platforms
on which the huts are constructed. The lowest is nine feet from the
ground, and holds ten huts; the second, about eight feet high, has
three huts; and the upper story, if it may be so called, contains four.
The ascent to these is made by notches cut in the poles; the huts are
built with twigs, and thatched with straw, and will contain two persons
conveniently. This tree stands at the base of a range of mountains due
east of Kurrichaine, in a place called "Ongorutcie Fountain," about
1,000 miles north-east of Cape Town. Kurrichaine is the Staffordshire as
well as the Birmingham of that part of South Africa. There are likewise
whole villages of huts erected on stakes, about eight feet from the
ground; the inhabitants, it is stated, sit under the shade of these
platforms during the day, and retire to the elevated huts at night.
Though mortal accidents frequently occur in Lion-hunting, the cool
sportsman seldom fails of using his rifle with effect. Lions, when
roused, it seems, walk off quietly at first, and if no cover is near,
and they are not pursued, they gradually mend their pace to a trot,
till they have reached a good distance, and then they bound away. Their
demeanour is careless, as if they did not want a fray, but if pressed,
are ready to fight it out. If they are pursued closely, they turn and
crouch, generally with their faces to the adversary: then the nerves of
the sportsman are tried. If he is collected, and master of his craft,
the well-directed rifle ends the scene at once; but if, in the flutter
of the moment, the vital parts are missed, or the ball passes by,
leaving the Lion unhurt, the infuriated beast frequently charges on his
enemies, dealing destruction around him. This, however, is not always
the case; and a steady, unshrinking deportment has, in some instances,
saved the life of the hunter.
There is hardly a book of African travels which does not teem with the
dangers and hair-breadth escapes of the Lion-hunters; and hardly one
that does not include a fatal issue to some engaged in this hazardous
sport. The modes of destruction employed against the powerful beast are
very various--from the poisonous arrow of the Bushman to the rifle of
the colonist.
The Lion may be safely attacked while sleeping, because of the dullness
of his sense of hearing, the difficulty of awakening him, and his want
of presence of mind if he be so awakened. Thus the Bushmen of Africa
are enabled to keep the country tolerably clear of Lions, without
encountering any great danger. The bone of the Lion's fore-leg is of
remarkable hardness, from its containing a greater quantity of phosphate
of lime than is found in ordinary bones, so that it may resist the
powerful contraction of the muscles. The texture of this bone is so
compact that the substance will strike fire with steel. He has little
sense of taste, his lingual or tongue-nerve not being larger than that
of a middle-sized dog.
The true Lions belong to the Old World exclusively, and they were
formerly widely and abundantly diffused; but at present they are
confined to Asia and Africa, and they are becoming every day more and
more scarce in those quarters of the globe. That Lions were once found
in Europe there can be no doubt. Thus it is recorded by Herodotus that
the baggage-camels of the army of Xerxes were attacked by Lions in the
country of the Reonians and the Crestonæi on their march from Acanthus
(near the peninsula of Mount Athos) to Therma, afterwards Thessalonica
(now Saloniki); the camels alone, it is stated, were attacked, other
beasts remaining untouched, as well as men. Pausanias copies the above
story, and states, moreover, that Lions often descended into the plains
at the foot of Olympus, which separate Macedonia from Thessaly, and that
Polydamas, a celebrated athlete, slew one of the Lions, although he was
unarmed.
Nor is Europe the only part of the world from which the form of the Lion
has disappeared. Lions are no longer to be found in Egypt, Palestine,
or Syria, where they once were evidently far from uncommon. The
frequent allusions to the Lion in the Holy Scriptures, and the various
Hebrew terms there used to distinguish the different ages and sex of
the animal, prove a familiarity with the habits of the race. Even in
Asia generally, with the exception of some countries between India and
Persia and some districts of Arabia, these magnificent beasts have,
as Cuvier observes, become comparatively rare, and this is not to be
wondered at. To say nothing of the immense draughts on the race for
the Roman arena,--and they were not inconsiderable, for, as Zimmerman
has shown, there were 1,000 lions killed at Rome in the space of forty
years,--population and civilization have gradually driven them within
narrower limits, and their destruction has been rapidly worked in
modern times, when firearms have been used against them instead of the
bow and the spear. Sylla gave a combat of one hundred Lions at once in
his ædileship; but this exhibition is insignificant when compared with
those of Pompey and Cæsar, the former of whom exhibited a fight of six
hundred, and the latter of four hundred Lions. In Pompey's show three
hundred and fifteen of the six hundred were males. The early Emperors
consumed great numbers, frequently a hundred at a time, to gratify the
people.
The African Lion is annually retiring before the persecution of man
farther and farther from the Cape. Mr. Bennett says of the Lion:--"His
true country is Africa, in the vast and untrodden wilds of which, from
the immense deserts of the north to the trackless forests of the south,
he reigns supreme and uncontrolled. In the sandy deserts of Arabia,
in some of the wild districts of Persia, and in the vast jungles of
Hindostan, he still maintains a precarious footing; but from the classic
soil of Greece, as well as from the whole of Asia Minor, both of which
were once exposed to his ravages, he has been entirely dislodged and
extirpated."
Niebuhr places Lions among the animals of Arabia; but their proper
country is Africa, where their size is the largest, their numbers
are greatest, and their rage more tremendous, being inflamed by the
influence of a burning sun upon a most arid soil. Dr. Fryer says that
those of India are feeble and cowardly. In the interior parts, amidst
the scorched and desolate deserts of Zaara or Biledugerid, they reign
the masters; they lord it over every beast, and their courage never
meets with a check where the climate keeps mankind at a distance. The
nearer they approach the habitations of the human race the less their
rage, or rather the greater is their timidity: they have often had
experienced unequal combats, and finding that there exists a being
superior to themselves, commit their ravages with more caution; a cooler
climate, again, has the same effect, but in the burning deserts, where
rivers and springs are denied, they live in a perpetual fever, a sort of
madness fatal to every animal they meet with.
The watchfulness and tenacity of the Lion for human prey are very
extraordinary. Mr. Barrow relates that a Lion once pursued a Hottentot
from a pool of water, where he was driving his cattle to drink, to an
olive-tree, in which the man remained for twenty-four hours, while the
Lion laid himself at the foot of the tree. The patience of the beast was
at length worn out by his desire to drink, and while he satisfied his
thirst the Hottentot fled to his house, about a mile off. The Lion,
however, returned to the tree, and tracked the man within three hundred
yards of his dwelling.
Dr. Philip relates a horrible story of a very large Lion recorded at
Cape Town in the year 1705. He was known to have seized a sentry at a
tent, and was pursued and fired at by many persons without effect. Next
morning the Lion walked up a hill _with the man in his mouth_, when
about forty shots were fired at him without hitting him; and it was
perceived by the blood, and a piece of the clothes of the sentry, that
the Lion had taken him away and carried him with him. He was pursued
by a band of Hottentots, one of whom he seized with his claws by the
mantle, when the man stabbed him with an assagai. Other Hottentots
adorned him with their assagais, so that he looked like a porcupine; he
roared and leaped furiously, but was at length shot dead. He had a short
time before carried off a Hottentot and devoured him.
The Bengal or Asiatic Lion is distinguished from that of Southern Africa
principally by the larger size, the more regular and graceful form, the
generally darker colour, and the less extensive mane than the African.
William Harvey, the graceful artist, drew a portrait of a very fine
Bengal Lion, little more than five years old, and then in the Tower
collection, and called by the keepers "the Old Lion;" the magnificent
development of the mane is very striking in this figure.
Maneless Lions have been found on the confines of Arabia, and were
known to Aristotle and Pliny; a maneless Lion is also said to be
represented on the monuments of Upper Egypt. The Lion of Arabia has
neither the courage nor the stature, nor even the beauty, of the Lion of
Africa. He uses cunning rather than force; he crouches among the reeds
which border the Tigris and Euphrates, and springs upon all the feeble
animals which come there to quench their thirst; but he dares not attack
the boar, which is very common there, and flies as soon as he perceives
a man, a woman, or even a child. If he catches a sheep he makes off
with his prey; but he abandons it to save himself when an Arab looks
after him. If he is hunted by horsemen, which often happens, he does
not defend himself unless he is wounded, and has no hope of safety by
flight. In such a case he will fly on a man and tear him to pieces with
his claws, for it is courage more than strength that he wants. Achmed,
Pasha of Bagdad from 1724 to 1747, would have been torn by one, after
breaking his lance in a hunt, if his slave Suleiman, who succeeded him
in the Pashalik, had not come promptly to his succour and pierced with a
blow of his yataghan the Lion already wounded by his master.
In December, 1833, Captain Walter Smee exhibited to the Zoological
Society of London the skins of a Lion and Lioness killed by him in
Guzerat, and distinguished from those previously known by the absence
of a mane; the tail was shorter than that of the ordinary Lion, and
furnished at its tip with a much larger brush or tuft; and in the
tuft of the older Lion was a short horny claw or nail. The colour is
fulvous; which in darker specimens has a tinge of red. A male maneless
Lion, killed by Captain Smee, measured, including the tail, 8 feet
9-1/2 inches in length; the impression of his paw on the sand 6-1/4
inches across, and his height was 3 feet 6 inches. These maneless Lions
are found in Guzerat, along the banks of the Sombermultee, in low,
bushy-wooded plains, being driven out of the large adjoining tracts of
high grass jungle by the natives annually setting fire to the grass.
Here Captain Smee killed his finest specimens: they were so common in
this district that he killed no fewer than eleven during a residence of
about a month, yet scarcely any of the natives had seen them previously
to his coming amongst them. The cattle were frequently carried off by
these Lions: some natives attributed this to tigers, which, however,
do not exist in this part of the country. Captain Smee could not learn
that men had been attacked by these Lions: when struck by a ball they
exhibited great boldness, standing as if preparing to resist their
pursuers, and then going off slowly, and in a very sullen manner.
In captivity the Lioness usually turns extremely savage when she becomes
a mother; and, in a state of nature, both parents guard their young
with the greatest jealousy. Early in the year 1823 General Watson, then
on service in Bengal, being out one morning on horseback, armed with
a double-barrelled rifle, was suddenly surprised by a large male Lion,
which bounded out upon him from the thick jungle, at the distance of
only a few yards. He instantly fired, and the shot taking complete
effect, the animal fell almost dead at his feet. No sooner had the Lion
fallen than the Lioness rushed out, which the General also shot at and
wounded severely, so that she retired into the thicket. Thinking that
the den could not be far distant, he traced her to her retreat, and
there despatched her; and in the den were found two beautiful cubs, a
male and a female, apparently not more than three months old. This is a
very touching narrative, even of the Lion family.
The General brought the cubs away; they were suckled by a goat and
sent to England, where they arrived in September, 1823, as a present
to George IV., and were lodged in the Tower. When young, Lions mew
like a cat; at the age of ten or twelve months the mane begins to
appear in the male; at the age of eighteen months this appendage is
considerably developed, and they begin to roar. The _roar_ of the adult
Lion is terrific, from the larynx or upper part of the wind-pipe being
proportionately greater than in the whale or the elephant, or any other
animal. Mr. Burchell describes the roar on some occasions to resemble
the noise of an earthquake; and this terrific effect is produced by
the Lion laying his head upon the ground and uttering, as it were, a
half-stifled roar or growl, which is conveyed along the earth.
The natural period of the Lion's life is generally supposed to be twenty
or twenty-two years. Such is Buffon's limitation; but the animal will,
it seems, live much longer. Pompey, the great Lion, which died in 1766,
was said to have been in the Tower above seventy years; and a Lion from
the river Gambia is stated to have since died in the Tower menagerie at
the age of sixty-three.
There had been for ages a popular belief that the Lion lashes his sides
with his tail to stimulate himself into rage; when, in 1832, there was
exhibited to the Zoological Society a claw obtained from the tip of
the tail of a Barbary Lion, presented to the Society's menagerie by
Sir Thomas Reade. It was detected on the living animal by Mr. Bennett,
and pointed out to the keeper, in whose hands it came off while he
was examining it. Blumenbach quotes Homer, Lucan, and Pliny, among
others who have described the Lion (erroneously) as lashing himself
with his tail, when angry, to provoke his rage. None of these writers,
however, advert to any peculiarity in the Lion's tail to which so
extraordinary a function might, however incorrectly, be attributed.
Didymus Alexandrinus, a commentator on the "Iliad," cited by Blumenbach,
having found a black prickle, like a horn, among the hair of the tail,
immediately conjectured that he had ascertained the true cause of the
stimulus when the animal flourishes his tail in defiance of his enemies,
remarking that, when punctured by this prickle, the Lion became more
irritable from the pain which it occasioned. The subject, however,
appears to have slumbered till 1829, when M. Deshayes announced that
he had found the prickle both of a Lion and Lioness, which had died
in the French menagerie, and described it as a little nail, or horny
production, adhering by its base only to the skin, and not to the last
caudal vertebra. From that period Mr. Wood, the able zoologist, examined
the tail of every Lion, living or dead, to which he could gain access;
but in no instance had he succeeded in finding the prickle till the
above specimen, which was placed in his hands within half an hour after
its removal from the living animal, and while yet soft at its base,
where it had been attached to the skin. Its shape was nearly straight,
then slightly contracted, forming a very obtuse angle, and afterwards
swelling out like the bulb of a bristle, to its termination. It was
laterally flattened throughout its entire length, which did not amount
to quite three-eighths of an inch, of horn colour, and nearly black at
the tip. Its connexion with the skin must have been very slight, which
accounts for its usual absence in stuffed as well as living specimens.
This does not depend upon age, as it was found alike in the Paris Lions,
of considerable size, as well as in the Zoological Society's Lions,
very small and young; nor did it depend upon sex. It appears to be
occasionally present in the Leopard; and, in both Lion and Leopard, it
is seated at the extreme tip of the tail, and is altogether unconnected
with the terminal caudal vertebra; not fitted on like a cap, but rather
inserted into the skin.
The use of the prickle, however, it still remained difficult to
conjecture; but that its existence was known to the ancients is proved
by the Nimroud sculptures in the British Museum, in an exaggerated
representation of the claw, in support of this curious fact in natural
history. The existence of the claw has been proved by Mr. Bennett;
and "it is no small gratification to be able now to quote in evidence
of the statement of Mr. Bennett, and of his predecessor. Didymus, of
Alexandria, the original and authentic document, on the authority of the
veritable descendants of the renowned hunter Nimroud; which any one may
read who will take the trouble to examine the sculptured slab in the
British Museum."[8]
In the Nineveh galleries of the British Museum we also see pictured in
stone the employment of the Lion, in the life of Assyria and Babylonia,
three thousand years since; in the events of a succession of dynasties,
recording the sieges of cities, the combats of warriors, the triumphs
of Kings, the processions of victors, the chains and fetters of the
vanquished. To the zoological observer these sculptures present drawings
_ad naturam_ of tableaux of Lions and Lion-hunts; Lions in combat, as
well as in moveable dens and cages, and the ferocity of the chase; and
Lions transfixed with arrows or javelins in the arena. One of the finest
of these sculptures is in the representation of a Lion-hunt, on a long
slab that lined the principal chamber of the most ancient palace at
Nimroud. The King is in his chariot, drawn by three horses, which the
charioteer is urging forward to escape the attack of an infuriated Lion
that has already placed its fore-paws upon the back of the chariot. At
this critical moment, the Royal descendant of the mighty hunter aims a
deadly shaft at the head of the roaring and wounded Lion, the position
of whose tail and limbs is finely indicative of rage and fury. Behind
the Lion are two of the King's attendants, fully armed, and holding
their daggers and shields, ready to defend themselves in case the prey
should escape the arrow of the King. Before the chariot is a wounded
Lion, crawling from under the horses' feet. The cringing agony conveyed
in its entire action is well contrasted with the undaunted fury of the
former. In another slab we have the continuation of the same Lion-hunt,
representing the triumphant return of the King from the chase. At his
feet lies the Lion subdued, but not dead.
Of the pageantry of the Lion, we read, in Bell's "Travels," that the
monarch of Persia had, on days of audience, two great Lions chained on
each side of the passage to the state-room, led there by keepers in
golden chains.
Our early English Sovereigns had a menagerie in the Tower from the reign
of Henry III. (1252.) In 1370 (44 Edward III.) are entries of payments
made to "the Keeper of the King's Lions and Leopards" there, at the
rate of 6_d._ a-day for his wages, and 6_d._ a-day for each beast.
The number of beasts varied from four to seven. Two young Lions are
specially mentioned; and "a Lion lately sent by the Lord the Prince,
from Germany to England, to our Lord the King." And we read, in Lord
Burghley's "Diary," 1586, of the grant of the keeping of the Lions in
the Tower, with "the Fine of 12_d._ per diem, and 6_d._ for the Meat of
those Lions." The first menagerie-building was the Lion Tower, to which
was added a semicircular inclosure, where Lions and Bears were baited
with dogs, with which James I. and his court were much delighted. A
Lion was named after the reigning King; and it was popularly believed
that "when the King dies, the Lion of that name dies after him." The
last of the Tower animals were transferred to the Zoological Society's
menagerie, in the Regent's-park, in 1834. The Tower menagerie is well
described in a handsome volume, with woodcut portraits, by William
Harvey.
The punishment of being _thrown to Lions_ is stated as common among the
Romans of the first century; and numerous tales are extant, in which the
fierce animals became meek and lamb-like before the holy virgins of the
Church. This, indeed, is the origin of the superstition, nowhere more
beautifully expressed than in Lord Byron's "Siege of Corinth":--
"'Tis said that a Lion will turn and flee
From a maid in the pride of her purity."
Every wild beast show almost has its tame Lion, with which the keeper
takes the greatest liberties; liberties which the beast will suffer,
generally speaking, from none but him. Major Smith relates that he
had seen the keeper of a Lioness stand upon the beast, drag her round
the cage by her tail, open her jaws, and thrust his head between her
teeth. Another keeper, at New York, had provided himself with a fur cap,
the novelty of which attracted the notice of the Lion, which, making
a sudden grapple, tore the cap off his head as he passed the cage;
but, perceiving that the keeper was the person whose head he had thus
uncovered, he immediately laid the cap down. Wombwell, in his menagerie,
had a fine Lion, Nero, that allowed _strangers_ to enter his den, and
even put their heads within his jaws. This tameness is not, however, to
be trusted, since the natural ferocity of some Lions is never safely
subdued. Lions which have been sometimes familiar, have, on other
occasions, been known to kill their keepers, and dart at those who have
incautiously approached too near their cage. All these exhibitions have
been entirely eclipsed by the feats of Van Amburgh, in his exercise of
complete control over Lions. The melancholy fate of "the Lion Queen,"
however, tells of the fatal result of her confidence. The Lion-killing
feats of Captain Gordon Cumming had a more legitimate object in view--to
render us more familiar with the zoological character of the Lion.
Colonization has scarcely yet extirpated the Lion in Algeria, where the
French colonists make fine sport of "the King of the Beasts." M. Jules
Gerard, a Nimroud in his way, has been noted for his Lion-killing feats.
We read of his tracking a large old Lion in the Smauls country, one
hundred leagues in ten days, without catching a glimpse of anything but
his foot-prints. At length, accompanied by a native of the country and a
spahi, Gerard took up his quarters at the foot of a tree upon the path
which the old Lion had taken. It was moonlight, and Gerard made out two
Lions sitting about one hundred paces off, and exactly in the shadow of
the tree. The Arab lay snoring ten paces off, in the full light of the
moon, and had, doubtless, attracted the attention of the Lions. Gerard
expressly forbade the spahi to wake the Arab. Our Lion-hunter then got
up the hill to reconnoitre; the boldest of the Lions came up to within
ten paces of Gerard, and fifteen of the Arab: the Lion's eye was fixed
on the latter, and the second Lion placed himself on a level with, and
four or five paces from, the first. They proved to be both full-grown
Lionesses. Gerard took aim at the first as she came rolling and roaring
down to the foot of the tree. The Arab was scarcely awakened, when a
second ball stretched the Lioness dead upon the spot. Gerard then looked
out for the second Lioness, who was standing up within fifteen paces,
looking around her. He fired, and she fell down roaring, and disappeared
in a field of maize; she fell, but was still alive. Next morning at
daybreak, at the spot where the Lioness had fallen, were blood marks,
denoting her track in the direction of a wood. After sending off the
dead Lioness. Gerard returned to his post of the preceding night. A
little after sunset the Lion roared in his lair, and continued roaring
all night. Convinced that the wounded Lioness was there, Gerard sent two
Arabs to explore the cover, but they durst not. He next evening reached
the lair, taking with him a goat, which he left with the Arabs: the
Lioness appeared. Gerard fired, and she fell without a struggle; she was
believed dead, but she got up again as though nothing was the matter,
and showed all her teeth. One of the Arabs, within six paces of her,
seeing her get up, clung to the lower branches of a tree and disappeared
like a squirrel. The Lioness fell dead at the foot of the tree, a second
bullet piercing her heart: the first had passed out of the nape of the
neck without breaking the skull-bone.
The Lions presented by Lord Prudhoe to the British Museum are the best
sculptured representations of the animal in this country. Although the
Lion is our national hieroglyphic, and there are many statues of him,
yet not one among them all appears without a defect, which makes our
representations of him belong to the class _canis_ instead of _felis_, a
fault not found in any Egyptian sculpture.[9]
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Bonomi; "Nineveh and its Palaces," p. 249.
[9] Bonomi; "Proc. Royal Soc., Literature."
BIRD-LIFE.
"Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they
reap, nor gather into barns; yet your Heavenly Father feedeth
them."--Matthew vi. 26.
"Free tenants of land, air, and ocean,
Their forms all symmetry, their motions grace;
In plumage delicate and beautiful,
Thick without burthen, close as fishes' scales,
Or loose as full-blown poppies on the gales;
With wings that seem as they'd a soul within them,
They bear their owners with such sweet enchantment."
_James Montgomery._
Birds, as regards structure, are perhaps the most perfectly endowed,
as they are certainly the most beautiful and interesting, of all the
lower animals. In Birds there is an admirable mechanism and adaptation
both for gliding in the air and swimming in the water. They surpass all
other animals in the faculty of continuing their motion without resting,
as well as in its rapidity. The fleetest courser can scarcely ever run
more than a mile in a minute, nor support that speed beyond five or six
such exertions. But the joyous Swallow does this tenfold for pleasure.
In his usual way he flies at the rate of one mile in a minute; and
Wilson, the ornithologist, ascertained that the Swallow is so engaged
for ten hours every day. So can the Blue-bird of America, for a space of
600 miles. Our Carrier-pigeons move with half that celerity: one flew
from Liskeard to London, 220 miles, in six hours. The Golden Eagle is
supposed to dart through the fiercest storm at the rate of 160 miles an
hour; but one of our smallest Birds, the Swift, can even quadruple the
most excited quickness of the race-horse for a distance. Spallanzani
thought that the little Swift travelled at the rate of 250 miles an hour.
Inquiries into the phenomena of the flight of Birds would lead us
far beyond our limits. The subject is beset with error. Thus, we
read:--"Every one has remarked the manner in which Birds of prey float,
as it were, without any effort, and with steady expanded wings, at great
heights in the atmosphere. This they are enabled to do from the quantity
of air contained in the air-cells of their bodies, which air being taken
in at a low level in the atmosphere, of course rarefies and expands as
the Bird ascends into higher regions. Their rapidity of descent must
be accomplished by the sudden expulsion of this air, aided by their
muscular efforts."
Now, Dr. Crisp has read to the Zoological Society a paper "On the
Presence or Absence of Air in the Bones of Birds," for the purpose of
showing the prevailing error upon the subject--viz., "that the bones
of the Bird are filled with air." Of fifty-two British Birds recently
dissected by him, only one, the Sparrow-hawk, had the bones generally
perforated for the admission of air. In thirteen others, the humeri only
were hollow, and among these were several Birds of short flight. In the
remaining thirty-eight, neither the _humeri_ nor _femora_ contained
air, although in this list were several Birds of passage and of rapid
flight--Dr. Crisp's conclusion being, that the majority of British Birds
have no air in their bones, and that, with the exception of the Falcons,
but very few British Birds have hollow femora.
Mr. Gould records a most remarkable instance of rapid and sustained
flight, which he witnessed on his return from North America, whither
he had proceeded for the purpose of studying the habits and manners of
the species of _Trochilus_ (Humming Bird), frequenting that portion
of America. Having remarked that he arrived just prior to the period
of the migration of this Bird from Mexico to the north, and had ample
opportunities for observing it in a state of nature, he noticed that
its actions were very peculiar, and quite different from those of all
other birds: the flight is performed by a motion of the wings so rapid
as to be almost imperceptible; indeed, the muscular power of this little
creature appears to be very great in every respect, as, independently of
its rapid and sustained flight, it grasps the small twigs, flowers, &c.,
upon which it alights with the utmost tenacity. It appears to be most
active in the morning and evening, and to pass the middle of the day in
a state of sleepy torpor. Occasionally it occurs in such numbers that
fifty or sixty birds may be seen in a single tree. When captured it so
speedily becomes tame that it will feed from the hand or mouth within
half an hour. Mr. Gould having been successful in keeping a Humming-Bird
alive in a gauze bag attached to his breast button for three days,
during which it readily fed from a bottle filled with a syrup of brown
sugar and water, he determined to make an attempt to bring some living
examples to England, in which he succeeded; but unfortunately they did
not long survive their arrival.
The adaptation of colour in Birds to their haunts strikingly tends to
their preservation. The small Birds which frequent hedges have backs
of a brownish or brownish-green hue; and their bellies are generally
whitish, or light-coloured, so as to harmonize with the sky. Thus, they
become less visible to the hawk or cat that passes above or below them.
The wayfarer across the fields also treads upon the Skylark before he
sees it warbling to heaven's gate. The Goldfinch or Thistlefinch passes
much of its time among flowers, and is vividly coloured accordingly.
The Partridge can hardly be distinguished from the fallow or stubble
among which it crouches; and it is considered an accomplishment among
sportsmen to have a good eye for finding a Hare sitting. In northern
countries the winter dress of the Hares and Ptarmigans is white, to
prevent detection among the snows of those inclement regions.
The Song of Birds is popularly explained by the author of a work,
entitled, "The Music of Nature," in which he illustrates the vocal
machinery of Birds as follows:--"It is difficult to account for so small
a creature as a Bird making a tone as loud as some animal a thousand
times its size; but a recent discovery shows that in birds the lungs
have several openings communicating with corresponding air-bags or
cells, which fill the whole cavity of the body from the neck downward,
and into which the air passes and repasses in the progress of breathing.
This is not all. The very bones are hollow, from which air-pipes are
conveyed to the most solid parts of the body, even into the quills and
feathers. The air being rarefied by the heat of their body, adds to
their levity. By forcing the air out of their body, they can dart down
from the greatest heights with astonishing velocity. No doubt the same
machinery forms the basis of their vocal powers, and at once resolves
the mystery into a natural ordering of parts." This is a very pretty
story; but, unfortunately, it is not correct, as already shown.
A correspondent of the "Athenæum," writing in 1866, says:--"He would be
a bold man who should say that Birds have no delight in their own songs.
I have been led to conclude from experiments which I have made, and from
other observations, that certain animals, especially Birds, have not
only an ear for fine sounds, but also a preference for the things they
see out of respect to fine colours or other pleasing external features.
It is chiefly among Birds, when we consider the case of animals, that
a taste for ornament and for glittering objects, often very startling
and human-like, is to be found. The habits of the Pheasant, Peacock,
Turkey, Bird of Paradise, several Birds of the Pigeon and Crow kind, and
certain Singing Birds, are evidence. The Australian Satin Bower-Bird
is the most remarkable of that class which exhibit taste for beauty or
for glittering objects out of themselves--that is, beauty not directly
personal; collecting, in fact, little museums of shells, gaudy feathers,
shining glass, or bits of coloured cloth or pottery. It will be found
with many Birds that fine plumes, a mirror, and an admirer, are not
altogether objects devoid of interest.
"Another consideration leading me to the same conclusion, is the fact,
that beauty in animals is placed on prominent parts, or on parts
which by erection or expansion are easily, and at the pairing season,
frequently rendered prominent, such as a crest or tail. A spangle of
ruby or emerald does not exist, for instance, on the side under the
wing, which is seldom raised, of our domestic poultry. Such jewels are
hung where man himself wears his, on the face and forehead, or court
attention, like our own crowns, trains, shoulder-knots, breast-knots,
painted cheeks, or jewelled ears. I cannot account for the existence of
these gaudy ornaments to please man, for nowhere are they more gorgeous
than in Birds which live in the depth of the tropical forest, where man
is rarely a visitor; I cannot account for them on the principle that
they do good to their possessors in the battle for life, because they
rather render them conspicuous to their enemies, or coveted by man." But
the beauty of these beings glows most brightly at the season of their
pairing, and the selection of their mates.
Baron von Tschudi, the Swiss naturalist, has shown the important
services of Birds in the destruction of insects. Without Birds, no
agriculture or vegetation would be possible. They accomplish in a few
months the profitable work of destruction which millions of human hands
could not do half so well in as many years; and the sage, therefore,
blamed in very severe terms the foolish practice of shooting and
destroying Birds, which prevails more especially in Italy, recommending,
on the contrary, the process of alluring Birds into gardens and
corn-fields. Among the most deserving Birds he counts Swallows, Finches.
Titmice, Redtails, &c. The naturalist then cites numerous instances in
support of his assertion. In a flower-garden of one of his neighbours
three rose-trees had been suddenly covered with about 2,000 tree-lice.
At his recommendation a Marsh-Titmouse was located in the garden, which
in a few hours consumed the whole brood, and left the roses perfectly
clean. A Redtail in a room was observed to catch about 900 flies in an
hour. A couple of Night-Swallows have been known to destroy a whole
swarm of gnats in fifteen minutes. A pair of Golden-crested Wrens
carry insects as food to their nestlings upon an average thirty-six
times in an hour. For the protection of orchards and woods Titmice are
of invaluable service. They consume, in particular, the eggs of the
dangerous pine-spiders. One single female of such spiders frequently
lays from 600 to 800 eggs twice in the summer season, while a Titmouse
with her young ones consume daily several thousands of them. Wrens,
Nuthatches, and Woodpeckers often dexterously fetch from the crevices of
tree-bark numbers of insects for their nestlings.
Yet, profitless and wanton Bird-murder is common. The cliffs on the
coasts of these islands are the resort of numerous kinds of Sea-Fowl,
and these Fowl, we are told, are slaughtered by thousands, not merely
for the sake of their feathers, but actually for the mere savage
pleasure of killing. What speculation can enter into such a proceeding
it may puzzle the reader to imagine; but it seems that the wing feathers
of the poor White Gull are now inquired for in the plume-trade, and
we are actually told of an order given by a single house for 10,000
of these unhappy Birds. When these facts were stated at the Meeting
of the British Association, in August, 1868, at Norwich, a lady stood
up boldly in defence of her sex, and declared that they sinned only
through ignorance, and would never willingly wear the feathers of a
Bird destroyed in the act of feeding its young. That part of the case,
therefore, ought to be now in safe hands. In the Isle of Man a law has
been passed, called the "Seagull Preservation Act," protecting these
Birds by heavy penalties, on the ground of their utility in removing
fish offal and guiding fishermen to shoals of fish. At a certain point
of our shores a similar protection has been established. A visitor to
the South Stack Lighthouse, on the coast of Anglesey, may see prodigious
numbers of Sea-Fowl as tame as complete safety can make them. It has
been ascertained that in thick weather, when neither light can be
distinguished nor signal seen, the incessant scream of these Birds gives
the best of all warnings to the mariner of the vicinity of the rock. The
noise they make can be heard at a greater distance than the tolling of
the great bell; and so valuable was this danger-signal considered, that
an order from the Trinity House forbad even the firing of the warning
gun, lest the colony of the Sea-Fowl should be disturbed. The signals of
the bell and the cannon might be neglected or overpowered, but the Birds
were always there and always audible.
It is inferred that Birds possess some notion of power, and of cause and
effect, from the various actions which they perform. "Thus," relates Dr.
Fleming, "we have seen the Hooded Crow in Zetland, when feeding on small
shell-fish, able to break some of the tenderer kinds by means of its
bill, aided in some cases by beating them against a stone; but, as some
of the larger shells, such as the buckie and the welk, cannot be broken
by such means, the Crow employs another method, by which, in consequence
of applying foreign power, it accomplishes its object. Seizing the
shell with its claws, it mounts up into the air, and then loosing its
hold, causes the shell to fall among stones (in preference to the sand,
the water, or the soil on the ground), that it may be broken, and give
easier access to the contained animal. Should the first attempt fail,
a second or third is tried, with this difference, that the Crow rises
higher in the air, in order to increase the power of the fall, and
more effectually remove the barrier to the contained morsel. On such
occasions we have seen a strong Bird remain an apparently inattentive
spectator of the process of breaking the shell, but coming to the spot
with astonishing keenness when the efforts of its neighbour had been
successful, in order to share the spoil. Pennant mentions similar
operations performed by Crows on mussels."
The brain of Birds is, in general, large in proportion to the size of
the body, and the instinctive powers are very perfect. A few kinds are
rather dull and stupid; but the Parrot, Magpie, Raven, and many others,
show great vivacity and quickness of intellect. The Raven has a great
deal of humour in him. One, a most amusing and mischievous creature,
would get into a well-stocked flower-garden, go to the beds where the
gardener had sowed a great variety of seeds, with sticks put in the
ground with labels, and then he would amuse himself with pulling up
every stick, and laying them in heaps of ten or twelve on the path. This
used to irritate the old gardener, who drove him away. The Raven knew
that he ought not to do it, or he would not have done it. He would soon
return to his mischief, and when the gardener again chased him (the old
man could not run very fast), the Raven would just keep clear of the
rake or the hoe in his hand, dancing before him, and singing as plainly
as a Raven could. "Tol de rol de rol! tol de rol de rol!" with all kinds
of mimicking gestures.
The signal of danger among Birds seems to be of universal comprehension;
because the instant it is uttered we hear the whole flock, though
composed of various species, repeat a separate moan, and away they
all scuttle into the bushes for safety. The sentinel Birds give the
signal, but in some cases they are deceived by false appearances. Dr.
Edmonstone, in his "View of the Zetland Isles," relates a very striking
illustration of the neglect of the sentinel, in his remarks on the Shag.
"Great numbers of this species of the Cormorant are sometimes taken
during the night, while asleep on the rocks of easy access; but before
they commit themselves to sleep, one or two of the number are appointed
to watch. Until these sentinels are secured, it is impossible to make a
successful impression on the whole body; to surprise them is, therefore,
the first object. With this view, the leader of the expedition creeps
cautiously and imperceptibly along the rock, until he gets within a
short distance of the watch. He then dips a worsted glove into the sea,
and gently throws water in the face of the guard. The unsuspecting Bird,
either disliking the impression, or fancying, from what he considers to
be a disagreeable state of the weather, that all is quiet and safe,
puts his head under his wing and soon falls asleep. His neck is then
immediately broken, and the party dispatch as many as they choose."
Addison was a true lover of nature, which he shows in two letters
written by him to the Earl of Warwick (afterwards his son-in-law),
when that nobleman was very young. "My dear Lord," he writes, "I have
employed the whole neighbourhood in looking after Birds'-nests, and
not altogether without success. My man found one last night, but it
proved a hen's, with fifteen eggs in it, covered with an old broody
Duck, which may satisfy your Lordship's curiosity a little; though I
am afraid the eggs will be of little use to us. This morning I have
news brought me of a nest that has abundance of little eggs, streaked
with red and blue veins, that, by the description they give me, must
make a very beautiful figure in a string. My neighbours are very much
divided in their opinions upon them: some say they are a Skylark's;
others will have them to be a Canary-Bird's; but I am much mistaken
in the colour and turn of the eggs if they are not full of Tomtit's."
Again, Addison writes:--"Since I am so near your Lordship, methinks,
after having passed the day amid more severe studies, you may often
take a trip hither and relax yourself with these little curiosities of
nature. I assure you no less a man than Cicero commends the two great
friends of his age, Scipio and Lælius, for entertaining themselves
at their country-house, which stood on the sea-shore, with picking up
cockle-shells, and looking after Birds'-nests."
In another letter Addison writes:--"The business of this is to invite
you to a concert of music which I have found out in a neighbouring wood.
It begins precisely at six in the evening, and consists of a Blackbird,
a Thrush, a Robin-Redbreast, and a Bullfinch. There is a Lark, that, by
way of overture, sings and mounts till she is almost out of hearing; and
afterwards, falling down leisurely, drops to the ground as soon as she
has ended her song. The whole is concluded by a Nightingale, that has a
much better voice than Mrs. Tofts, and something of the Italian manner
in her divisions. If your Lordship will honour me with your company, I
will promise to entertain you with much better music, and more agreeable
scenes, than you ever met with at the Opera; and will conclude with a
charming description of a Nightingale out of our friend Virgil:--
"'So close, in poplar shades, her children gone,
The mother Nightingale laments alone;
Whose nest some prying churl had found, and thence
By stealth convey'd the unfeathered innocence:
But she supplies the night with mournful strains,
And melancholy music fills the plains.'"
BIRDS' EGGS AND NESTS.
The Eggs of Birds are variously tinted and mottled, and hence they
become objects of interest to the collector. In this diversity of
colour nature has, doubtless, some final object in view; and though not
in every instance, yet in many, we can certainly see a design in the
adaptation of the colours to the purpose of concealment, according to
the habits of the various classes of Birds. Thus, as a general rule, the
Eggs of Birds which have their nests in dark holes, or which construct
nests that almost completely exclude the light, are white; as is also
the case with those Birds that constantly sit on their Eggs, or leave
them only for a short time during the night. Eggs of a light blue or
light green tint will also be found in nests that are otherwise well
concealed; while, on the other hand, a great proportion of those nests
that are in exposed situations have Eggs varying in tints and spots in a
remarkable degree, corresponding with the colours of external objects in
their immediate neighbourhood. Thus, a dull green colour is common in
most gallinaceous Birds that form their nests in grass, and in aquatic
Birds among green hedges; a bright green colour is prevalent among Birds
that nestle among trees and bushes; and a brown mottled colour is found
in those Eggs that are deposited among furze, heath, shingle, and grey
rocks and stones.
Birds'-nesting, we need hardly remark, is a favourite pursuit of
boyhood; but, in some cases, its attractions have induced young
persons to take up more important branches of natural history, or the
collection, systematic arrangement, and comparison of Birds' Eggs, which
is, in scientific study, termed Oology; and as the study of Birds cannot
be considered complete until they are known in every stage, it forms a
branch of Ornithology. In this case Birds'-nesting has an useful object;
but many persons are content to acquire collections of Eggs without
troubling themselves about the Birds which have laid them.
The late Mr. John Wolley, M.A., was one of the leading authorities
upon the subject of European Ornithology, and was one of a number
of University men, who, about twelve years ago, established the
ornithological journal called "The Ibis," and who visited far-distant
and unexplored regions, where they might hope to discover strange
Birds and unknown Eggs. For several years Algiers and Tunis were their
favourite resorts, and the meeting-places of many of our rarer Birds
were hunted up in these countries, even so far as the Desert of the
Great Sahara. Others preferred the New World as the scene of their
labours, and collected long series of specimens in the highland of
Guatemala, and the tropical forests of Belize. Mr. Wolley, however,
confined his attention principally to the northern parts of Europe--that
region being the breeding-quarters of a large number of Birds which
are only known in this country as winter visitants. In order to be
at his collecting-station at Muonioniska, on the frontier of Finnish
Lapland, at the earliest commencement of the breeding-season, Mr. Wolley
frequently passed the whole winter in that remote region. But the rigour
of the climate under the Arctic Circle contributed to bring on a malady
which terminated fatally in November, 1859.
Upon the decease of Mr. Wolley, his large collection of Birds' Eggs,
in accordance with his last wishes, became the property of his friend,
Mr. Alfred Newton, who is publishing a Catalogue of Mr. Wolley's Egg
Cabinet, with notes from the deceased naturalist's journals. The first
part contains the Eggs of Birds of Prey (_Accipitres_), recognisable at
once by their strongly-hooked bill, formed to assist them in tearing
their prey, and their large feet and sharpened claws, which aid them to
grasp it. They are divisible into two very distinct groups--the diurnal
Birds of Prey, consisting of the Hawks, Vultures, and Eagles; and the
nocturnal Birds of Prey, or Owls. In the latter the Eggs are invariably
colourless; in the former they are often strongly marked, and present
some of the most beautiful objects in the whole series of Birds' Eggs.
In the most recently published list of European birds fifty-two species
of birds of prey are given as occurring more or less frequently within
the limits of our continent. Of the three generally-recognised species
of European Vultures two are well represented, as regards their eggs,
in the Wolleyan series. A few years ago the nesting of all these birds
was utterly unknown to naturalists, and it was mainly through the
exertions of Mr. Wolley and his friends that specimens first reached
our collectors' cabinets. Here were found both the Egyptian Vulture
and the Griffon breeding abundantly in the Eastern Atlas in 1857; and
the eyries of these birds have since been visited by other collectors
in the same country. The Eggs of the former of these Vultures are
remarkable for their deep and rich coloration. The productions of the
Griffon are not nearly so handsome, and are occasionally altogether
destitute of markings. Of the Eagles of Europe the series of Eggs is
very full, especially of the two well-known British species--the Golden
Eagle and Sea Eagle. The Golden or Mountain Eagle is even now-a-days
much more common in the remote parts of the British islands than is
usually supposed to be the case. In 1852 Mr. Wolley was acquainted
with five nests of this bird in various parts of Scotland, and there
were undoubtedly at least as many more of which he did not learn the
particulars. The eyrie is usually placed in some mountainous district,
on the ledge of some "warm-looking" rock, well clothed with vegetation,
and often by no means wild or exposed. Not unfrequently, under proper
guidance, one can walk into the nest almost without climbing. Mr. Newton
gives a very entertaining account of the taking of a pair of eggs from
a nest in Argyllshire in 1861, where this seems to have been the case.
In the whole ascent there was only one "ticklish place," where it was
necessary to go sideways on a narrow ledge round some rocks. The Sea
Eagle, on the other hand, generally breeds on the high cliffs upon the
coast, often selecting the most inaccessible position for its eyrie.
Sometimes, however, it will choose an island in the middle of an inland
loch, and in such case places its nest upon the ground or in a tree.
Mr. Wolley's well-written notes of his adventures in quest of both
these Eagles, as also those relating to the other rapacious birds, will
be read with much interest; as will also the details concerning the
nesting-habits of many of the rarer species of European birds, several
of which, such as the Rough-legged Buzzard and the Lapp Owl, were first
tracked to their breeding-quarters in the remotest wilds of Scandinavia
by this indefatigable naturalist.[10]
Of large Eggs we are most familiar with those of the Ostrich, of which
Mr. Burchell, when in Africa, found twenty-five Eggs in a hollow
scratched in the sand, six feet in diameter, surrounded by a trench, but
without grass, leaves, or sticks, as in the nests of other birds. In
the trench were nine more Eggs, intended, as the Hottentots observed,
as the first food of the twenty-five young Ostriches. Between sixty and
seventy Eggs have been found in one nest; each is equal to twenty-four
Eggs of the domestic hen, and holds five pints and a quarter of liquid.
The shells are dirty white. The Hottentots string them together as
belts, or garlands, and they are frequently mounted as cups. One Ostrich
Egg is a sufficient meal for three persons. The Egg is cooked over the
fire without either pot or water, the shell answering the purpose of the
first, and the liquid nature of its contents that of the other.
Less familiar to the reader are the gigantic Eggs of the Epyornis, a
bird which formerly lived in Madagascar. One of these Eggs contains the
substance of 140 hens' Eggs. Mr. Geoffroy St. Hilaire describes some
portions of an Egg of the Epyornis which show the Egg to have been of
such a size as to be capable of containing about ten English quarts;
that in the Museum of the Jardin des Plantes can only contain 8-3/4
quarts. Mr. Strickland, in some notices of the Dodo and its kindred,
published in 1849, says that in the previous year a Mr. Dumarele, a
French merchant at Bourbon, saw at Port Leven, Madagascar, an enormous
Egg which held "_thirteen wine quart bottles of fluid_." The natives
stated that the Egg was found in the jungle, and "that such Eggs were
_very, very rarely_ met with."
A word or two about the nests of such gigantic birds. Captain Cook
found, on an island near the north-east coast of New Holland, a nest
"of a most enormous size. It was built with sticks upon the ground, and
was no less than six-and-twenty feet in circumference, and two feet
eight inches high." (Kerr's "Collection of Voyages and Travels," xiii.,
318.) Captain Flinders found two similar nests on the south coast of New
Holland, in King George's Bay. In his "Voyage," &c., London, 1818, he
says, "They were built upon the ground, from which they rose above two
feet, and were of vast circumference and great interior capacity; the
branches of trees and other matter of which each nest was composed being
enough to fill a cart."
Among the varieties of Birds'-nests are some very curious homes, of
which we have but space to notice a few. The pendulous nest of the
Indian Baya-bird is usually formed of the fibres of the palmyra, the
cocoa-nut palm, and wild date of India, sometimes mixed with grass,
neatly interlaced, and very strongly made. It consists of only one
circular chamber, with a long tubular passage leading to it, and is
suspended from a tree, preferred if overhanging water. The natives of
India say the Baya lights up its nest with fire-flies. The bird lays
from four to six white eggs. Bayas are of a very social disposition:
numbers build on the same tree, or neighbouring trees, and singing in
concert during the breeding season. The Baya is very docile, and taught
to fly off the finger and return again; to dart after a ring or small
coin, dropped into a deep well, and catch it before it reaches the
water; to fetch and carry, and perform similar tricks.
The nest of the brilliant Golden-banded Oriole is a hammock of twisted
fibrous substances, and is suspended in a low shrub, so as to swing to
the breeze. The twine-like fibres of which it is woven are the filaments
of the gigantic palm. The threads break away from the leaf, and hang
like fringe to the magnificent foliage.
The Tailor-birds are the best nest-builders of all the feathered tribes.
They interweave their nests between the twigs and branches of shrubs,
or suspend the nests from them; and some of these birds have exercised
arts from the creation which man has found of the greatest benefit to
him since he discovered them. These birds, indeed, may be called the
inventors of the several arts of the weaver, the sempstress, and the
tailor; whence some of them have been denominated Weaver and Tailor
Birds. The nests of the latter are, however, most remarkable. India
produces several species of Tailor-birds that sew together leaves for
the protection of their eggs and nestlings from the voracity of serpents
and apes. They generally select the end of a branch or twig, and sew
with cotton, thread, and fibres. Colonel Sykes has seen some in which
the thread was literally knotted at the end. The inside of these nests
is lined usually with down and cotton.
Tailor-birds are not confined to India or tropical countries. Italy can
boast a species which exercises the same art. Mr. Gould has a specimen
of this bird in his possession, and the Zoological Society have a nest
in their Museum. This little bird, a species of the genus _sylvia_, in
summer and autumn frequents marshes; but in the spring it seeks the
meadows and corn-fields, in which, at that season, the marshes being
bare of the sedges which cover them in summer, it is compelled to
construct its nest in tussocks of grass on the brinks of ditches; but
the leaves of these being weak, easily split, so that it is difficult
for our little sempstresses to unite them, and so form the skeleton
of the fabric. From this and other circumstances, the spring nests of
these birds differ so widely from those made in the autumn that it seems
next to impossible that both should be the work of the same artisan.
The latter are constructed in a thick bunch of sedge or reed: they are
shaped like a pear, being dilated below and narrow above, so as to leave
an aperture sufficient for the ingress and egress of the bird. The
greatest horizontal diameter of the nest is about two inches and a half,
and the vertical is five inches.
The most wonderful thing in the construction of these nests is the
method to which the little bird has recourse to keep united the living
leaves of which it is composed. The sole in the weaving, more or less
delicate, of the materials, forms the principle adopted by other birds
to bind together the walls of their nests; but this sylvia is no weaver,
for the leaves of the sedges or reeds are united by real stitches.
In the edge of each leaf she makes, probably with her beak, minute
apertures, through which she contrives to pass, perhaps by means of
the same organ, one or more cords formed of spiders' web, particularly
that of their egg-pouches. Those threads are not very long, and are
sufficient to pass two or three times from one leaf to another. They
are of unequal thickness, and have knots here and there, which, in some
places, divide into two or three branches.
This is the manner in which the exterior of the nest is formed: the
interior consists mainly of down, chiefly from plants, a little
spiders' web being intermixed, which helps to keep the other substances
together. The upper part and sides of the nest, that is, the external
and internal, are in immediate contact; but in the lower part a greater
space intervenes, filled with the slender foliage of grasses, and other
materials, which render soft and warm the bed on which the eggs are to
repose. This little bird feeds on insects. Its flight is rectilinear,
but consists of many curves, with the concavity upwards. These curves
equal in number the strokes of the wing, and at every stroke its whistle
is heard, the intervals of which correspond with the rapidity of its
flight.
The Australian Bower-bird, as its name implies, builds its nest
like an arbour or bower, with twigs: in the British Museum are two
specimens, each decorated--one with bones and fresh-water shells, and
the other with feathers and land-shells; remarkable instances of taste
for ornament already referred to in a preceding page. The Satin or
Bower-bird is described by settlers in Australia as "a very troublesome
rascal," which besets gardens; if once allowed to make a lodgment there
it is very troublesome to get rid of him; he signalizes his arrival by
pulling up, in his restless fussy way, everything in the garden that he
can tug out of the ground, even to the little sticks to mark the site of
seeds. A settler had formed a garden in the bush; there was no enclosure
of the kind for miles in any direction: a flock of Bower-birds came; he
got his gun and shot two or three; the flock went off, and he never saw
another bird of the kind.
The Cape Swallows build nests which show extraordinary instinct allied
to reason. A pair of these built their nest on the outside of a house
at Cape Town against the angle formed by the wall and the board which
supported the eaves. The whole of this nest was covered in, and it was
furnished with a long neck or passage, through which the birds passed in
and out. It resembled a longitudinal section of a Florence oil flask.
This nest having crumbled away after the young birds had quitted it, the
same pair, or another of the same species, built on the old foundation
again. But this time an improvement was observable in the plan of it
that can hardly be referred to the dictates of mere instinct. The body
of the nest was of the same shape as before, but instead of a single
passage it was furnished with one at each side, running along the angle
of the roof; and on watching the birds, they were seen invariably to go
in at one passage and come out at the other. Besides saving themselves
the trouble of turning in the nest and disturbing, perhaps, its interior
arrangement, they were guarded by this contrivance against a surprise by
serpents, which frequently creep up along the wall, or descend from the
thatch, and devour both the mother and her brood.
Dr. Livingstone relates a very curious instance of "Bird Confinement"
under very strange circumstances. In passing through Mopane country, in
South Africa, his men caught a great number of the birds called _Korwé_
in their breeding-places, which were holes in the mopane trees. They
passed the nest of a Korwé just ready for the female to enter; the
orifice was plastered on both sides, but a space was left of a heart
shape, and exactly the size of the bird's body. The hole in the tree
was in every case found to be prolonged some distance upwards above the
opening, and thither the Korwé always fled to escape being caught. In
another nest that was found, one white egg, much like that of a pigeon,
was laid, and the bird dropped another when captured: she had four
besides in the ovarium. Dr. Livingstone first saw this bird at Kolenbeng
in the forest: he saw a slit only, about half an inch wide and three or
four inches long, in a slight hollow of a tree; a native broke the clay
which surrounded the slit, put his arm into the hole, and brought out a
red-beaked Hornbill, which he killed. He told Dr. Livingstone that when
the female enters her nest she submits to a real confinement. The male
plasters up the entrance, leaving only a narrow slit by which to feed
his mate, and which exactly suits the form of his beak. The female makes
a nest of her own feathers, lays her eggs, hatches them, and remains
with the young till they are fully fledged. During all this time, which
is stated to be two or three months, the male continues to feed her
and the young family. The prisoner generally becomes quite fat, and is
esteemed a very dainty morsel by the natives; while the poor slave of a
husband gets so lean that, on the sudden lowering of the temperature,
which sometimes happens after a fall of rain, he is benumbed, falls
down, and dies.
Dr. Livingstone, on passing the same tree at Kolenbeng about eight days
afterwards, found the hole plastered up again, as if, in the short time
that had elapsed, the disconsolate bird-husband had procured another
wife. Dr. L. saw a nest with the plastering not quite finished, and
others completed; he also received elsewhere, besides Kolobeng, the same
account that the bird comes forth when the young are fully-fledged, at
the period when the corn is ripe; indeed, her appearance abroad with
her young is one of the signs they have for knowing when it ought to be
so: the time is between two and three months. She is said sometimes to
hatch two eggs, and, when the young of these are full-fledged, the other
two are just out of the egg-shells: she then leaves the nest with the
two elder, the orifice is again plastered up, and both male and female
attend to the wants of the young.
There is a specimen of a nest in the Gardens of the Zoological Society,
which merits description, besides that of the Bower-bird. Such is the
nest of the Brush Turkey, which appears more like a small haystack than
an ordinary nest, and the methodical manner in which it is constructed
is thus described:--Tracing a circle of considerable radius, the birds
begin to travel round it, continually grasping with their huge feet the
leaves and grasses and dead twigs which are lying about, and flinging
them inwards towards the centre. Each time that they complete their
round, they narrow their circle, so that in a short time they clear away
a circular belt, having in its centre a low irregular mass. By repeating
the same process, however, they decrease the diameter of the mound as
they increase its height, and at last a large and rudely conical mound
is formed.
In this nest as many as a bushel of eggs are deposited, at regular
intervals, long end downwards. The leaves form a fermenting mass, which
relieves the mother of the necessity of setting upon them. The male,
however, has to regulate the temperature of the mass, which would
otherwise get too hot. This he does by making a central ventilating
shaft, which carries off the superfluous heat; and, lest the temperature
should fall too low, he is constantly engaged in covering and uncovering
the eggs in order to hit the exact temperature to be applied until the
egg is warmed into life.
FOOTNOTE:
[10] Abridged from the "Saturday Review."
THE EPICURE'S ORTOLAN.
We have allotted this bird to the epicure, because it is rarely heard
of but in association with his luxurious table. Mr. Beckford describes
the Ortolans among the delicacies which he saw in the kitchen of the
monastery of Batalha as "lumps of celestial fatness."
Ortolan is the French and English names for a species of _Fringillidæ_
(Finches). It is the _Hortulanus_ of Gesner and other naturalists;
_Miliaria pinguescens_ of Frisch; _Emberiza Hortulana_ of Linnæus;
_Ortolano_ of the Italians generally; _Tordino Berluccio_ of the
Venetians; _Garton Ammer_ and _Fetammer_ of the Germans; and _Gerste
Keneu_ of the Netherlanders. This wide dispersion on the Continent
bespeaks the pet character of the bird. Montagu terms it the
Green-headed Bunting.
The French have a fanciful derivation of the name: they say it is from
the Italian word for gardener, which is from the Latin _hortus_, garden;
because, according to Menage, in Italy, where the bird is common, it is
quite at home in the hedges of gardens.
The male bird has the throat, circle round the eyes, and a narrow band
springing from the angle of the bill, yellow; head and neck grey, with a
tinge of olive, and small brown spots; feathers black, edged with red;
breast, belly, and abdomen, reddish grey, the feathers terminated with
ash-colour; tail blackish, two external feathers, in part white; length
rather more than six inches. There are, also, varieties marked white,
green, blackish, and entirely black. The nest, which is constructed
of fibres of plants and leaves, is frequently found on the ground in
corn-fields, and sometimes in hedges and bushes.
The Ortolan is not famed for its song, which is, however, soft
and sweet. Like the Nightingale, to which it has other points of
resemblance, the Ortolan sings after, as well as before sunset. It was
this bird that Varro, the lyric poet, called his companion by night and
day.
The south of Europe may be considered the summer and autumnal
head-quarters of the Ortolan, though it is a summer visitor in the
central and northern parts. In Italy it is said to be common by Temminck
and others. The Prince of Musignano states it to be found in the Sabine
mountains; adding that it rarely flies in the plains of Rome, but is
frequent in Tuscany. Lapland, Russia, Denmark. Sweden, and Norway,
are among the countries visited by it. In the British Isles it seems
only entitled to rank as an autumnal visitor, but it may occur more
frequently than is generally supposed; for, especially to an unpractised
eye, it might be mistaken for the Yellow Hammer, and in some states of
plumage for other Buntings. It has been taken in the neighbourhood of
London. In 1837 there was a live specimen in an aviary of the Zoological
Society in Regent's-park; and many Ortolans are sent alive to the London
market from Prussia. There is, however, some consolation for the rarity
of the Ortolan in England. It is approached in delicacy by our Wheatear,
which is termed the _English Ortolan_. Hence it has been pursued as a
delicate morsel throughout all its island haunts. Bewick captured it at
sea, off the coast of Yorkshire, in May, 1822. Every spring and autumn
it may be observed at Gibraltar, on its migration. Mr. Strickland saw it
at Smyrna in April. North Africa is its winter residence. Colonel Sykes
notes it in his catalogue of the birds of the Deccan.
Ortolans are solitary birds; they fly in pairs, rarely three together,
and never in flocks. They are taken in traps from March or April to
September, when they are often poor and thin; but if fed with plenty
of millet-seed and other grain, they become sheer lumps of fat, and
delicious morsels. They are fattened thus in large establishments in the
south of Europe; Mr. Gould states this to be effected in Italy, and the
south of France, in dark rooms; and the Prince of Musignano, having
described the process, adds the relishing words. "Carne exquisita."
The fattening process in Italy is one of great refinement in the manner
of feeding. It is the fat of the Ortolan which is so delicious; but it
has a peculiar habit of feeding which is opposed to the rapid fattening,
this is, it feeds only at the rising of the sun. Yet this peculiarity
has not proved an insurmountable obstacle to the Italian gourmands.
The Ortolans are placed in a dark chamber, perfectly dark, with only
one aperture in the wall. The food is scattered over the floor of the
chamber. At a certain hour in the morning the keeper of the birds places
a lantern in the orifice of the wall; when the dim light thrown from the
lantern on the floor of the apartment induces the Ortolans to believe
that the sun is about to rise, and they greedily consume the food upon
the floor. More food is now scattered over it, and the lantern is
withdrawn.
The Ortolans, rather surprised at the shortness of the day, think it
their duty to fall asleep, as night has spread her sable mantle round
them. During sleep, little of the food being expended in the production
of force, most of it goes to the formation of muscle and fat. After they
have been allowed to repose for one or two hours, in order to complete
the digestion of the food taken, their keeper again exhibits the lantern
through the aperture. The "rising sun" a second time illumines the
apartment, and the birds, awaking from their slumber, apply themselves
voraciously to the food on the floor; after having discussed which,
they are again enveloped in darkness. Thus the sun is made to shed its
rising rays into the chamber floor four or five times every day, and
as many nights following. The Ortolans thus treated become like little
balls of fat in a few days. This not uninteresting process has been
detailed by Dr. Lyon Playfair to the Royal Agricultural Society. It
may, probably, be applied to purposes with less luxurious objects than
fattening Ortolans.
Notwithstanding its delicacy, the Ortolan fattens very fast; and it is
this lump of fatness that is its merit, and has sometimes caused it
to be preferred to the Becafico. According to Buffon, the Greeks and
Romans understood fattening the Ortolan upon millet. But a lively French
commentator doubts this statement: he maintains that had the ancients
known the Ortolan, they would have deified it, and built altars to
it upon Mount Hymettus and the Saniculum; adding, did they not deify
the horse of Caligula, which was certainly not worth an Ortolan? and
Caligula himself, who was not worth so much as his horse? However, this
dispute belongs to the "classics of the table."
The Ortolan is considered sufficiently fat when it is a handful, and
is judged by feeling it, and not by appearance. It should not be
killed with violence, like other birds; this might crush and bruise
the delicate flesh, and spoil the _coup-d'oeil_, to avoid which it is
recommended to plunge the head of the Ortolan into a glass of brandy.
The culinary instruction is as follows: having picked the bird of its
feathers, singe it with the flame of paper or spirits of wine; cut off
the beak and ends of the feet; do not draw it; put it into a paper case
soaked in olive oil, and broil it over a slow fire of slack cinders,
like that required for a pigeon _à la crapaudine_; in a few minutes the
Ortolan will swim in its own fat, and will be cooked. Some gourmands
wrap each bird in a vine-leaf.
A gourmand will take an Ortolan by the legs and craunch it in delicious
mouthfuls, so as absolutely to lose none of it. More delicate feeders
cut the bird into quarters, and lay aside the gizzard; the rest may be
eaten, even to the bones, which are sufficiently tender for the most
delicate mouth to masticate without inconvenience.
On the Continent, Ortolans are packed in tin boxes for exportation.
They may be bought in London for half-a-crown a-piece. A few poulterers
import Ortolans in considerable numbers, and some have acquired the art
of fattening these birds.[11] Alexis Soyer put into the hundred guinea
dish which he prepared for the royal table at the grand banquet at York,
in 1850, five pounds worth of Ortolans, which were obtained from Belgium.
FOOTNOTE:
[11] The Ortolan figures in a curious anecdote of individual epicurism
in the last century. A gentleman of Gloucestershire had one son, whom he
sent abroad to make the grand tour of the Continent, where he paid more
attention to the cookery of nations, and luxurious living, than anything
else. Before his return his father died and left him a large fortune.
He now looked over his note-book to discover where the most exquisite
dishes were to be had, and the best cooks obtained. Every servant in his
house was a cook; his butler, footman, coachman, and grooms--all were
cooks. He had also three Italian cooks--one from Florence, another from
Vienna, and another from Viterbo--for dressing one Florentine dish. He
had a messenger constantly on the road between Brittany and London to
bring the eggs of a certain kind of plover found in the former country.
This prodigal was known to eat a single dinner at the expense of 70_l._,
though there were but two dishes. In nine years he found himself
getting poor, and this made him melancholy. When totally ruined, having
spent 150,000_l._, a friend one day gave him a guinea to keep him from
starving, and he was found in a garret next day _broiling an Ortolan_,
for which he had paid a portion of the alms.
TALK ABOUT TOUCANS.
The Toucans, a family of climbing-birds of tropical America, appear to
have been known in Europe by the length and great size of their bills,
long before the birds themselves found their way to England. Belon,
in 1555, described the bill of one of the family as half a foot long,
large as a child's arm, pointed, and black at the tip, white elsewhere,
notched on the edges, hollow within, and so finely delicate as to be
transparent and thin as parchment; and its beauty caused it to be kept
in the cabinets of the curious. For more than a century after Belon's
work, the birds themselves had not been seen in England; for, in the
_Museum Tradescantianum_, the standard collection of the time, and
which, from the list of contributors, appears to have been the great
receptacle for all curiosities, we read of an "Azacari (or Toucan) of
Brazil; has his beak four inches long, almost two thick, like a Turk's
sword" (A.D. 1656). From this description Tradescant knew the nature of
the bird, if he had not seen it.
Mr. Swainson states, that the enormous bills give to these birds a most
singular and uncouth appearance. Their feet are formed like those of
the parrot, more for grasping than climbing; and as they live among
trees, and proceed by hopping from branch to branch, their grasping
feature is particularly adapted for such habits. They live retired in
the deep forests, mostly in small companies. Their flight is strait and
laborious, but not graceful; while their movements, as they glide rather
than hop from branch to branch, are elegant.
Mr. Gould, in his grand Monograph of the Toucans, or _Ramphastidæ_,
remarks, that it was only within a few years of the time of Linnæus that
actual specimens of the Toucan had been received in Europe. The beaks,
however, of these birds, regarded as curiosities, had occasionally found
their way to our shores, and had occasioned some curious conjectures.
The earliest shape resembled a Turkish scimitar.
The Toucans (a word derived from their Brazilian name, _Taca, Tucà_)
received from Linnæus the title of _Ramphastos_, in allusion to
the great volume of the beak ([Greek: ramphos]--Ramphos), a family
(_Ramphastidæ_). In some respects, indeed, they resemble the Hornbills
in the development of the beak. The Toucans may be said to represent
in America the Hornbills in India and Africa. Large as is the beak of
the Toucan compared with the size of the body, it is in reality very
light. Its outer sheathing is somewhat elastic, very thin, smooth, and
semi-transparent; and the interior consists of a maze of delicate cells,
throughout which the olfactory nerves are multitudinously distributed.
The nostrils are basal, the edges of each mandible are serrated, and
the colouring of the whole beak is bright, rich, and often relieved by
contrasted markings. But these tints begin to fade after death, and
become ultimately dissipated. The eyes are surrounded by a considerable
space of naked skin, often very richly tinted. The tongue is very long,
slender, horizontally flattened, pointed, and, except at its base,
horny; it is fringed or feathered along each side. The wings are short,
concave, and comparatively feeble.
The tail is variable, equal and squared; it is remarkable for the
facility with which it can be retroverted or turned up, so as to lie
upon the back. This peculiarity results from a modification of structure
in the caudal vertebræ, which enables the tail to turn with a jerk by
the action of certain muscles, as if it were fixed on a hinge put into
action by means of a spring. When the retroversion is accomplished, the
muscles which caused it become passive, and offer no resistance to their
antagonists, which restore the tail to its ordinary direction. When they
sleep they puff out their plumage, they retrovert the tail over the
back, draw the head between the shoulders; the bill begins to turn over
the right shoulder, and becomes at last buried in the plumage of the
back; at the same time the pinions of the wings droop, and conceal the
feet. The bird now resembles an oval ball of puffed-up feathers, and is
well protected against the cold.
Toucans utter, from time to time, harsh, clattering, and discordant
cries. "Some," says Mr. Gould, "frequent the humid woods of the
temperate regions, while others resort to comparatively colder
districts, and dwell at an elevation of from six to ten thousand
feet. Those inhabiting the lofty regions are generically different
from those residing in the low lands, and are clothed in a more thick
and sombre-coloured plumage. All the members of the Hill-Toucans are
distinguished by their bills being strong, heavy, and hard, when
compared with those of the true Toucans and Araçaris, all of which
have their bills of a more delicate structure, and in several species
so thin and elastic on the sides as to be compressible between the
fingers." Their food in a state of nature consists of fruit, eggs, and
nestling birds; to which, in domestication, are added small birds, mice,
caterpillars, and raw flesh. They incubate in the hollows of gigantic
trees.
Faber was told by Fryer, Alaysa, and other Spaniards who had lived
long in America, and also by the Indians, that the Toucan even hews
out holes in trees, in which to nidify; and Oviedo adds, that it is
from this habit of chipping the trees that the bird is called by the
Spaniards _Carpintero_, and by the Brazilians _Tacataca_, in imitation,
apparently, of the sound it thus makes.
The larger feed upon bananas and other succulent plants; the smaller
upon the smaller fruits and berries. Prince Maximilian de Wied states,
that in Brazil he found only the remains of fruits in their stomachs,
and adds, that they make sad havoc among plantations of fruit-trees. He
was informed, however, that they steal and eat birds, but never himself
saw them in the act. They abound in the vast forests, and are killed
in great number in the cooler season in the year for the purposes of
the table. In their manners the Toucans resemble the Crow tribe, and
especially the Magpies: like them, they are very troublesome to the
birds of prey, particularly to the Owls, which they surround, making a
great noise, all the while jerking their tails upwards and downwards.
Their feathers, especially from their yellow breasts, are used by the
Indians for personal decoration.
Azara states that they attack even the solid nests of the white ants,
when the clay of which their nests are formed becomes moistened with the
rain; they break them up with their beaks, so as to obtain the young
ants and their eggs; and during the breeding season the Toucan feeds
upon nothing else; during the rest of the year he subsists upon fruit,
insects, and the buds of trees.
Edwards, in his voyage up the Amazon, observes, that when a party of
Toucans alight on a tree, one usually acts the part of a sentinel,
uttering the loud cry of "Tucano," whence they derive their name; the
others disperse over the branches in search of fruit. While feeding
they keep up a hoarse chattering, and at intervals unite with the noisy
sentry, and scream a concert that may be heard a mile. Having appeased
their appetites, they seek the depths of a forest, and there quietly
doze away the noon. In early morning a few of them may be seen sitting
quietly upon the branches of some dead tree, apparently awaiting the
coming sunlight before starting for their feeding-trees.
Some species of Toucans have been seen quarrelling with monkeys over a
nest of eggs. Their carnivorous propensity has been strikingly shown
in the specimens which have been kept in England. On the approach of
any small bird the Toucan becomes highly excited, raises itself up,
erects its feathers, and utters a hollow clattering sound, the irides
of the eyes expand, and the Toucan is ready to dart on its prey. A
Toucan, exhibited in St. Martin's-lane in 1824, seized and devoured a
canary-bird. Next day Mr. Broderip tried him with a live goldfinch. The
Toucan seized it with the beak, and the poor little victim uttered a
short weak cry, for within a second it was dead, killed by the powerful
compression of the mandibles. The Toucan now placed the dead bird firmly
between its foot and the perch, stripped off the feathers with its bill,
and then broke the bones of the wings and legs, by strongly wrenching
them, the bird being still secured by the Toucan's foot. He then
continued to work with great dexterity till he had reduced the goldfinch
to a shapeless mass. This he devoured piece by piece with great gusto,
not even leaving the legs or the beak of his prey: to each morsel he
applied his tongue as he masticated it, chattering and shivering with
delight. He never used his foot, but his bill, for conveying his food to
his mouth by the sides of the bill.
Mr. Swainson remarks:--"The apparent disproportion of the bill is one of
the innumerable instances of that beautiful adaptation of structure to
use which the book of nature everywhere reveals. The food of these birds
consists principally of the eggs and young of others, to discover which
nature has given them the most exquisite powers of smell." Again, the
nests in which the Toucan finds its food are often very deep and dark,
and its bill, covered with branches of nerves, enables the bird to feel
its way as accurately as the finest and most delicate finger could. From
its feeding on eggs found in other birds' nests, it has been called the
Egg-sucker. Probably there is no bird which secures her young offspring
better from the monkeys, which are very noisome to the young of most
birds. For when she perceives the approach of these enemies she so
settles herself in her nest as to put her bill out at the hole, and give
the monkeys such a welcome therewith that they presently break away, and
are glad to escape.
Professor Owen, in his minute examination of the mandibles, remarks
that the principle of the cylinder is introduced into the elaborate
structure; the smallest of the supporting pillars of the mandibles are
seen to be hollow or tubular when examined with the microscope.
Light and almost diaphonous as is the bill of the Toucan, its strength
and the power of the muscles, which act upon the mandibles, are evident
in the wrenching and masticatory processes. When taking fruit, the
Toucan generally holds it for a short time at the extremity of his bill,
applying to it, with apparent delight, the pointed tip of the slender
tongue: the bird then throws it, with a sudden upward jerk, to the
throat, where it is caught and instantly swallowed.
Mr. Gould divides the Toucans into six genera. 1. The true Toucans, with
large and gaily-coloured bills, plumage black. 2. The Araçaris, with
smaller beaks, plumage green, yellow, and red. 3. The Banded Aracauris,
an Amazonian genus, proposed by Prince C. L. Bonaparte. 4. Toucanets,
small, with crescent of yellow on the back, and brilliant orange and
yellow ear-coverts. 5. Hill Toucans of the Andes. 6. Groove-bills,
grass-green plumage.
A very fine true Toucan, figured by Mr. Gould, is remarkable for the
splendour and size of the bill, of a fine orange-red, with a large black
patch on each side. Powder-flasks are made of large and finely-coloured
bills. The naked skin round the eye is bright orange. The chest is
white, with a tinge of sulphur below, and a slight scarlet margin.
Upper tail-coverts, white; under tail-coverts, scarlet; the rest of the
plumage, black. Several specimens of this beautiful bird lived both in
the menagerie of the late Earl of Derby, at Knowsley, and in the gardens
of the Zoological Society. It is a native of Cayenne, Paraguay, &c.
Toucans in their manners are gentle and confident, exhibiting no alarm
at strangers, and are as playful as magpies or jackdaws; travellers
assure us that they may be taught tricks and feats like parrots; and
although they cannot imitate the human voice, they show considerable
intelligence. One of the Toucanets is named from Mr. Gould, the plates
in whose _monograph_, from their size, beauty, and accuracy, have all
the air of portraits.
ECCENTRICITIES OF PENGUINS.
This group of amphibious birds, though powerless in the wing as an organ
of flight, are assisted by it as a species of fin in their rapid divings
and evolutions under water, and even as a kind of anterior of extremity
when progressing on the land. Their lot has been wisely cast on those
desolate southern islands and shores where man rarely intrudes, and
in many instances where a churlish climate or a barren soil offers no
temptations to him to invade their territory.
Le Vaillant, when on Dassen Island, found that the smaller crevices
of the rocks served as places of retreat for Penguins, which swarmed
there. "This bird," says Le Vaillant, which is about two feet in length,
"does not carry its body in the same manner as others: it stands
perpendicularly on its two feet, which gives it an air of gravity, so
much the more ridiculous as its wings, which have no feathers, hang
carelessly down on each side; it never uses them but in swimming. As we
advanced towards the middle of the island we met innumerable troops
of them. Standing firm and erect on their legs, these animals never
deranged themselves in the least to let us pass; they more particularly
surrounded the mausoleum, and seemed as if determined to prevent us from
approaching it. All the environs were entirely beset with them. Nature
had done more for the plain tomb of the poor Danish captain than what
proceeds from the imaginations of poets or the chisels of our artists.
The hideous owl, however well sculptured in our churches, has not half
so dead and melancholy an air as the Penguin. The mournful cries of this
animal, mixed with those of the sea-calf, impressed on my mind a kind of
gloom which much disposed me to tender sensations of sadness. My eyes
were sometime fixed on the last abode of the unfortunate traveller, and
I gave his manes the tribute of a sigh."
Sir John Narborough says of the Patagonian Penguins that their erect
attitude and bluish-black backs, contrasted with their white bellies,
might cause them to be taken at a distance for young children with white
pinafores on. A line of them is engraved in Webster's "Voyage of the
Chanticleer," and reminds us of one of the woodcuts in Hood's "Comic
Annual."
The "towns, camps, and rookeries," as they have been called, of Penguins
have been often described. At the Falkland Islands are assemblies of
Penguins, which give a dreary desolation to the place, in the utter
absence of the human race. In some of the towns voyagers describe a
general stillness, and when the intruders walked among the feathered
population to provide themselves with eggs, they were regarded with
side-long glances, but they seemed to carry no terror with them. In many
places the shores are covered with these birds, and three hundred have
been taken within an hour; for they generally make no effort to escape,
but stand quietly by whilst their companions are knocked down with
sticks, till it comes to their turn.
The rookeries are described as designed with the utmost order and
regularity, though they are the resort of several different species.
A regular camp, often covering three or four acres, is laid out
and levelled, and the ground disposed in squares for the nests, as
accurately as if a surveyor had been employed. Their marchings and
countermarchings are said to remind the observer of the manoeuvres of
soldiers on parade. In the midst of this apparent order there appears
to be not very good government, for the stronger species steal the
eggs of the weaker if they are left unguarded; and the King Penguin
is the greatest thief of all. Three species are found in the Falkland
Islands. Two, the _Kings_ and the _Macaroni_, deposit their eggs in
these rookeries. The _Jackass_, which is the third, obtained its English
name from its brayings at night. It makes its nests in burrows on downs
and sandy plains; and Forster describes the ground as everywhere so
much bored, that a person, in walking, often sinks up to the knees; and
if the Penguin chance to be in her hole, she revenges herself on the
passenger by fastening on his legs, which she bites very hard.
But these rookeries are insignificant when compared with a settlement of
King Penguins, which Mr. G. Bennett saw at the north end of Macquarrie
Island, in the South Pacific Ocean--a colony of these birds, which
covered some thirty or forty acres. Here, during the whole of the day
and night, 30,000 or 40,000 Penguins are continually landing, and an
equal number going to sea. They are ranged, when on shore, in as regular
ranks as a regiment of soldiers, and are classed, the young birds in one
situation, the moulting birds in another, the sitting hens in a third,
the clean birds in a fourth, &c.; and so strictly do birds in a similar
condition congregate, that, should a moulting bird intrude itself among
those which are clean, it is immediately ejected from them. The females,
if approached during incubation, move away, carrying their eggs with
them. At this time the male bird goes to sea, and collects food for the
female, which becomes very fat.
Captain Fitzroy describes, at Noir Island, multitudes of Penguins
swarming among the bushes and tussac-grass near the shore, for moulting
and rearing their young. They were very valiant in self-defence, and
ran open-mouthed by dozens at any one who invaded their territory. The
manner of feeding their young is amusing. The old bird gets on a little
eminence and makes a loud noise, between quacking and braying, holding
its head up as if haranguing the Penguinnery, the young one standing
close to it, but a little lower. The old bird then puts down its head,
and opens its mouth widely, into which the young one thrusts its head,
and then appears to suck from the throat of its mother; after which the
clatter is repeated, and the young one is again fed: this continues for
about ten minutes.
Mr. Darwin, having placed himself between a Penguin, on the Falkland
Islands, and the water, was much amused by watching its habits. "It
was a brown bird," says Mr. Darwin, "and, till reaching the sea, it
regularly fought and drove me backwards. Nothing less than heavy blows
would have stopped him: every inch gained, he firmly kept standing close
before me, erect and determined. When thus opposed, he continually
rolled his head from side to side in a very odd manner. While at sea,
and undisturbed, this bird's note is very deep and solemn, and is often
heard in the night time. In diving, its little plumeless wings are used
as fins, but on the land as front legs. When crawling (it may be said
on four legs) through the tussacks, or on the side of a grassy cliff,
it moved so very quickly that it might readily have been mistaken
for a quadruped. When at sea, and fishing, it comes to the surface
for the purpose of breathing with such a spring, and dives again so
instantaneously, that I defy any one, at first sight, to be sure that it
is not a fish leaping for sport."
Bougainville endeavoured to bring home a Penguin alive. It became so
tame that it followed the person who fed it; it ate bread, flesh, or
fish; but it fell away and died. The four-footed Duck of Gesner might
have owed its origin to an ill-preserved Penguin. The notion of its
being four-footed might have been fortified by some voyager who had seen
the bird making progress as Mr. Darwin has above described.
Mr. Webster describes the feathers of Penguins as very different from
those of other birds, being short, very rigid, and the roots deeply
embedded in fat. They are, in general, flat, and bent backwards, those
on the breast being of a satin or silky white, and those on the flippers
so short and small as to approach the nature of scales, overlaying each
other very closely. The skins are loaded with fat. Their feet are not
regularly webbed, but present a broad, fleshy surface, more adapted for
walking than swimming. Mr. Webster saw great numbers of Penguins on
Staten Island. They are the only genus of the feathered race that are
there, and live in the water, like seals. He saw them at the distance of
200 miles from the land, swimming with the rapidity of the dolphin, the
swiftest of fishes. When they come up to the surface for fresh breath,
they make a croaking noise, dip their beaks frequently in the water, and
play and dive about near the surface, like the bonita. Penguins have
great powers of abstinence, and are able to live four or five months
without food. Stones have been occasionally found in their stomachs,
but they generally live on shrimps and crustacea, gorging themselves
sometimes to excess. The sensations of these curious birds do not seem
to be very acute. Sparrman stumbled over a sleeping one, and kicked it
some yards, without disturbing its rest; and Forster left a number of
Penguins apparently lifeless, while he went in pursuit of others, but
they afterwards got up and marched off with their usual gravity.
The bird is named from the Welsh word, _Pengwyn_. White head (_pen_,
head; _gwyn_, white), and is thought to have been given to the
bird by some Welsh sailors, on seeing its white breast. Davis, who
discovered, in 1585, the straits which are named after him, was of
Welsh parents. Might he not have given the name _Pengwyn_ to the bird?
Swainson considers the Penguins, on the whole, as the most singular
of all aquatic birds; and he states that they clearly point out that
nature is about to pass from the birds to the fishes. Others consider
Penguins more satisfactorily to represent some of the aquatic reptiles,
especially the marine _testudinata_.
PELICANS AND CORMORANTS.
Pelicans are described as a large, voracious, and wandering tribe of
birds, living for the most part on the ocean, and seldom approaching
land but at the season of incubation. They fly with ease, and even with
swiftness. Their bill is long, and armed at the end with an abrupt
hook; the width of the gape is excessive; the face is generally bare
of feathers, and the skin of the throat sometimes so extensible as to
hang down like a bag; it will occasionally contain ten quarts. "By this
curious organization," observes Swainson, "the Pelicans are able to
swallow fish of a very large size; and the whole family may be termed
_oceanic vultures_."
The neighbourhood of rivers, lakes, and the sea-coast, is the haunt of
the Pelican, and they are rarely seen more than twenty leagues from
the land. Le Vaillant, upon visiting Dassen Island, at the entrance
of Saldanha Bay, beheld, as he says, after wading through the surf,
and clambering up the rocks, such a spectacle as never, perhaps,
appeared to the eye of mortal. "All of a sudden there arose from the
whole surface of the island an impenetrable cloud, which formed, at the
distance of forty feet above our heads, an immense canopy, or, rather, a
sky, composed of birds of every species and of all colours--cormorants,
sea-gulls, sand-swallows, and, I believe, the whole winged tribe of this
part of Africa, were here assembled." The same traveller found on the
Klein-Brak river, whilst waiting for the ebb-tide, thousands of Pelicans
and Flamingoes, the deep rose-colour of the one strongly contrasting
with the white of the other.
Mr. Gould says the bird is remarkable for longevity and the long period
requisite for the completion of its plumage. The first year's dress is
wholly brown, then fine white. The rosy tints are only acquired as the
bird advances in age, and five years are required before the Pelican
becomes fully mature. The expanse of wings is from twelve to thirteen
feet. Although the bird perches on trees, it prefers rocky shores. It is
found in the Oriental countries of Europe; and is common on the rivers
and lakes of Hungary and Russia, and on the Danube. That the species
exists in Asia there is no doubt. Belon, who refers to Leviticus xi.
18, where the bird is noted as unclean, says that it is frequent on
the lakes of Egypt and Judæa. "When he was passing the plain of Roma,
which is only half a day's journey from Jerusalem, he saw them flying
in pairs, like swans, as well as in a large flock. Hasselquist saw the
Pelican at Damietta, in Egypt. "In flying, they form an acute angle,
like the common wild geese when they migrate. They appear in some of the
Egyptian drawings."--(_Rossellini._)
Von Siebold saw the Pelican in Japan. "Pelicans," says Dr. Richardson,
"are numerous in the interior of the fur countries, but they seldom
come within two hundred miles of Hudson's Bay. They deposit their eggs
usually on small rocky islands, on the brink of cascades, where they can
scarcely be approached; but they are otherwise by no means shy birds.
They haunt eddies under waterfalls, and devour great quantities of carp
and other fish. When gorged with food they doze on the water, and may be
easily captured, as they have great difficulty in taking wing at such
times, particularly if their pouches be loaded with fish."
The bird builds on rocky and desert shores: hence we read of "the
Pelican of the wilderness," alluded to in these beautiful lines:--
"Like the Pelicans
On that lone island where they built their nests,
Nourish'd their young, and then lay down to die."
The bird lives on fish, which it darts upon from a considerable height.
James Montgomery thus describes this mode of taking their prey:--
"Eager for food, their searching eyes they fix'd
On Ocean's unroll'd volume, from a height
That brought immensity within their scope;
Yet with such power of vision look'd they down,
As though they watch'd the shell-fish slowly gliding
O'er sunken rocks, or climbing trees of coral,
On indefatigable wing upheld,
Breath, pulse, existence, seem'd suspended in them;
They were as pictures painted on the sky;
Till suddenly, aslant, away they shot,
Like meteors chang'd from stars in gleams of lightning.
And struck upon the deep; where, in wild play,
Their quarry flounder'd, unsuspecting harm.
With terrible voracity they plunged
Their heads among the affrighted shoals, and beat
A tempest on the surges with their wings,
Till flashing clouds of foam and spray conceal'd them.
Nimbly they seized and secreted their prey,
Alive and wriggling, in th' elastic net
Which Nature hung beneath their grasping beaks;
Till, swoll'n with captures, th' unwieldy burthen
Clogg'd their slow flight, as heavily to land
These mighty hunters of the deep return'd.
There on the cragged cliffs they perched at ease,
Gorging their hapless victims one by one;
Then, full and weary, side by side they slept,
Till evening roused them to the chase again."
_Pelican Island._
Great numbers of Pelicans are killed for their pouches, which are
converted by the native Americans into purses, &c. When carefully
prepared, the membrane is as soft as silk, and sometimes embroidered by
Spanish ladies for work-bags, &c. It is used in Egypt by the sailors,
whilst attached to the two under chaps, for holding or baling water.
With the Pelican has been associated an old popular error, which has not
long disappeared from books of information: it is that of the Pelican
feeding her young with her blood. In reference to the actual economy
of the Pelican, we find that, in feeding the nestlings--and the male
is said to supply the wants of the female, when sitting, in the same
manner--the under mandible is pressed against the neck and breast, to
assist the bird in disgorging the contents of the capacious pouch; and
during this action the red nail of the upper mandible would appear to
come in contact with the breast, thus laying the foundation, in all
probability, for the fable that the Pelican nourishes her young with her
blood, and for the attitude in which the imagination of painters has
placed the bird in books of emblems, &c., with the blood spirting from
the wounds made by the terminating nail of the upper mandible into the
gaping mouths of her offspring.
Sir Thomas Browne, in his "Vulgar Errors," says:--"In every place we
meet with the picture of the Pelican opening her breast with her bill,
and feeding her young ones with the blood distilling from her. Thus it
is set forth, not only in common signs, but in the crest and scutcheon
of many noble families; hath been asserted by many holy writers, and
was an hieroglyphic of piety and pity among the Egyptians; on which
consideration they spared them at their tables."
Sir Thomas refers this popular error to an exaggerated description of
the Pelican's fondness for her young, and is inclined to accept it as an
emblem "in coat-armour," though with great doubt.
In "A Choice of Emblems and other Devices," by Geoffrey Whitney, are
these lines:--
"The Pelican, for to revive her younge,
Doth pierce her breste, and geve them of her blood.
Then searche your breste, and as you have with tonge,
With penne procede to do your countrie good:
Your zeal is great, your learning is profounde;
Then help our wantes with that you do abound."
In George Wither's "Emblems," 1634, we find:--
"Our Pelican, by bleeding thus,
Fulfill'd the law, and cured us."
Shakspeare, in "Hamlet," thus alludes to the popular notion:--
"To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms;
And like the kind, life-rendering Pelican,
Repast them with my blood."
In a holier light, this symbol signifies the Saviour giving Himself up
for the redemption of mankind. In Lord Lindsay's "Christian Art," vols.
i., xx., xxi., we find in the text, "God the Son (is symbolized) by a
Pelican--'I am like a Pelican of the wilderness.' (Psalm cii. 6.)" To
which is added the following note:--"The mediæval interpretation of this
symbol is given by Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lion King, nephew of
the poet, in his MS. 'Collectanea,' preserved in the Advocates' Library.
Edinburgh."
Sir Thomas Browne hints at the probability of the Pelican occasionally
nibbling or biting itself on the itching part of its breast, upon
fulness or acrimony of blood, so as to tinge the feathers in that part.
Such an instance is recorded by Mr. G. Bennett of a Pelican living at
Dulwich, which wounded itself just above the breast; but no such act has
been observed among the Pelicans kept in the menagerie of the Zoological
Society or elsewhere; and the instance just recorded was probably caused
by local irritation.
Of the same genus as the _Pelican_ is the _Cormorant_, an inhabitant
of Europe generally and of America. It swims very deep in the water;
even in the sea very little more than the neck and head are visible
above the surface. It is a most expert diver, pursuing the fish which
forms its food with great activity under water; it is said to be very
fond of eels. It perches on trees, where it occasionally builds its
nests, but it mostly selects rocky shores and islands. Upon the Fern
Islands its nest is composed of a mass of sea-weed, frequently heaped
up to the height of two feet. The species is easily domesticated; and
its docility is shown by the use often made of Cormorants in fishing.
Willughby, quoting Faber, says:--"They are wont in England to train up
Cormorants to fishing. When they carry them out of the room where they
are kept they take off their hoods, and having tied a leather thong
round the lower part of their necks, that they may not swallow down the
fish they catch, they throw them into the river. They presently dive
under water, and there for a long time, with wonderful swiftness, pursue
the fish, and when they have caught them they arise presently to the
top of the water, and pressing the fish tightly with the bills, they
swallow them, till each bird hath after this manner devoured five or six
fishes. Then their keepers call them to the fish, to which they readily
fly, and little by little, one after another, vomit up all the fish, a
little bruised with the nip they gave them with their bills." When they
have done fishing they loosen the string from the birds' necks, and for
their reward they throw them part of the prey they have caught, to each,
perchance, one or two fishes, which they catch most dexterously in their
mouths as they are falling in the air. Pennant quotes Whitelock, who
said that he had a cast of them, manned like hawks, and which would come
to hand. He took much pleasure in them, and relates that the best he
had was one presented him by Mr. Wood, master of the corvorants (as the
older name was) to Charles I. Pennant adds, it is well known that the
Chinese make great use of a congenerous sort in fishing, and that not
for amusement but profit.
Sir George Staunton, in his account of his Embassy to China, describes
the place where the _Leu-tze_, or famed fishing-bird of China, is bred
and instructed in the art and practice of supplying his owner with fish
in great abundance. The bird, a Cormorant, is figured in Sir George's
work, with two Chinese fishermen carrying their light boat, around the
gunnel of which their Cormorants are perched by a pole resting on their
shoulders between them. On a large lake are thousands of small boats
and rafts built entirely for this species of fishery. On each boat or
raft are ten or a dozen birds, which, on a signal from the owner, plunge
into the water; and it is astonishing to see the enormous size of fish
with which they return grasped between their bills. They appeared to be
so well trained that it did not require either ring or cord about their
throats to prevent them from swallowing any portion of their prey except
what the master was pleased to return to them for encouragement and
food. The boat used by these fishermen is remarkably light, and is often
carried to the lake, together with the fishing-birds, by the men who are
there to be supported by it.
Belon gives an amusing account of the chase of this bird during calms,
especially in the neighbourhood of Venice: the hunt is carried on in
very light boats, each of which being rowed by five or six men, darts
along the sea like the bolt from an arbalest, till the poor Cormorant,
who is shot at with bows as soon as he puts his head above water, and
cannot take flight after diving to suffocation, is taken quite tired out
by his pursuers.
Cormorant fishing has occasionally been reintroduced upon our rivers.
In 1848 there were brought from Holland four tame Cormorants, which had
been trained to the Chinese mode of fishing. Upon one occasion they
fished three miles on a river, and caught a pannier-full of trout and
eels. A ring placed round their necks to prevent them from swallowing
large fish, but which leaves them at liberty to gulp down anything not
exceeding the size of a gudgeon. The birds on these occasions are put
into such parts of the river as are known to be favourite haunts of
fish; and their activity under water in pursuit of fish can be compared
to nothing so appropriate as a swallow darting after a fly.
Blumenbach tells us the Cormorant occasionally increases in a few years
to many thousands on coasts where it was previously unknown. It varies
much both in size and colour. The late Joshua Brookes, the surgeon,
possessed a Cormorant, which he presented to the Zoological Society.
The Cormorant has a small sabre-shaped bone at the back of its vertex;
which bone may serve as a lever in throwing back the head, when the
animal tosses the fishes into the air and catches them in its open
mouth. The same motion is, however, performed by some piscivorous birds,
which are not provided with this particular bone.
Aubrey, in his "Natural History of Wilts," quotes the following weather
presage from May's "Virgil's Georgics":--
"The seas are ill to sailors evermore
When Cormorants fly crying to the shore."
TALKING BIRDS, ETC.
Certain birds are known to utter strange sounds, the origin of which
has much puzzled the ornithologists. The Brown Owl which hoots, is
hence called the Screech Owl: a musical friend of Gilbert White tried
all the Owls that were his near neighbours with a pitch-pipe set at a
concert pitch, and found they all hooted in B flat; and he subsequently
found that neither Owls nor Cuckoos keep to one note. The Whidah Bird,
one of the most costly of cage-birds, rattles its tail-feathers with a
noise somewhat resembling that made by the rattle-snake. The Chinese
Starling, in China called _Longuoy_, in captivity is very teachable,
imitating words, and even whistling tunes: we all remember Sterne's
Starling. The Piping Crow, to be seen in troops in the Blue Mountains,
is named from its ready mimicry of other birds: its imitation of the
chucking and cackling of a hen and the crowing of a cock, as well as
its whistling of tunes, are described as very perfect: its native note
is said to be a loud whistle. The Blue Jay turns his imitative faculty
to treacherous account: he so closely imitates the St. Domingo Falcon
as to deceive even those acquainted with both birds; and the Falcon no
sooner appears in their neighbourhood than the jays swarm around him and
insult him with their imitative cries; for which they frequently fall
victims to his appetite. The Bullfinch, according to Blumenbach, learns
to whistle tunes, to sing in parts, and even to pronounce words. The
note of the Crowned Crane has been compared by Buffon to the hoarseness
of a trumpet; it also clucks like a hen. Mr. Wallace, in his "Travels on
the Amazon," saw a bird about the size and colour of the Raven, which
uttered a loud, hoarse cry, like some deep musical instrument, whence
its Indian name, _Ueramioube_, Trumpet Bird: it inhabits the flooded
islands of the Rio Negro and the Solimoes, never appearing on the
mainland.[12] The only sound produced by Storks is by snapping their
bills. The Night Heron is called the Qua Bird; from its note _Qua_.
The Bittern, the English provincial names of which are the Mire-drum,
Bull of the Bog, &c., is so called for the bellowing or drumming noise
or booming for which the bird is so famous. This deep note of the
"hollow-sounding Bittern" is exerted on the ground at the breeding
season, about February or March. As the day declines he leaves his
haunt, and, rising spirally, soars to a great height in the twilight.
Willughby says that it performs this last-mentioned feat in the autumn,
"making a singular kind of noise, nothing like to lowing." Bewick
says that it soars as above described when it changes its haunts.
Ordinarily it flies heavily, like the Heron, uttering from time to time
a resounding cry, not bellowing; and then Willughby, who well describes
the bellowing noise of the breeding season, supposes it to be the Night
Raven, at whose "deadly voice" the superstitious wayfarer of the night
turned pale and trembled. "This, without doubt," writes Willughby, "is
that bird our common people call the Night Raven, and have such a dread
of, imagining its cry portends no less than their death or the death of
some of their near relations; for it flies in the night, answers their
description of being like a flagging collar, and hath such a kind of
hooping cry as they talk of." Others, with some reason, consider the
Qua Bird already mentioned (which utters a loud and most disagreeable
noise when on the wing, conveying the idea of the agonies of a person
attempting to vomit) to be the true Night Raven. The Bittern was well
known to the ancients, and Aristotle mentions the fable of its origin
from staves metamorphosed into birds. The long claw of the hind toe is
much prized as a toothpick, and in the olden times it was thought to
have the property of preserving the teeth.
The Greater-billed Butcher Bird, from New Holland, has extraordinary
powers of voice: it is trained for catching small birds, and it is said
to imitate the notes of some other birds by way of decoying them to
their destruction.
The mere imitative sounds of Parrots are of little interest compared
with the instances of instinct, apparently allied to reason, which are
related of individuals. Of this tribe the distinguishing characteristics
are a hooked bill, the upper mandible of which is moveable as well as
the lower, and not in one piece with the skull, as in most other birds,
but joined to the head by a strong membrane, with which the bird lifts
it or lets it fall at pleasure. The bill is also round on the outside
and hollow within, and has, in some degree, the capacity of a mouth,
allowing the tongue, which is thick and fleshy, to play freely; while
the sound, striking against the circular border of the lower mandible,
reflects it like a palate: hence the animal does not utter a whistling
sound, but a full articulation. The tongue, which modulates all sounds,
is proportionally larger than in man.
The Wild Swan has a very loud call, and utters a melancholy cry when one
of the flock is killed; hence it was said by the poets to sing its own
dying dirge. Such was the popular belief in olden times; and, looking to
the anatomical characteristics of the species, it was, in some degree,
supported by the more inflated wind-pipe of the wild when compared
with that of the tame species. The _Song of the Swan_ is, however,
irreconcileable with sober belief, the only noise of the Wild Swan of
our times being unmelodious, and an unpleasing monotony.
The Laughing Goose is named from its note having some resemblance to the
laugh of man; and not, as Wilson supposes, from the grinning appearance
of its mandibles. The Indians imitate its cry by moving the hand quickly
against the lips, whilst they repeat the syllable _wah_.
The Cuckoo may be said to have done much for musical science, because
from that bird has been derived the _minor scale_, the origin of which
has puzzled so many; the Cuckoo's couplet being the _minor third_ sung
downwards.
The Germans are the finest appreciators of the Nightingale; and it is a
fact, that when the Prussian authorities, under pecuniary pressure, were
about to cut down certain trees near Cologne, which were frequented by
Nightingales, the alarmed citizens purchased the trees in order to save
the birds and keep their music. Yet one would think the music hardly
worth having, if it really sounded as it looks upon paper, transcribed
thus by Bechstein, from whom it is quoted by Broderip:--
Zozozozozozozozozozozozo zirrhading
Hezezezezezezezezezezezezezezeze cowar ho dze hoi
Higaigaigaigaigaigaigaigaigaigai, guaiagai coricor dzio dzio pi.[13]
M. Wichterich, of Bonn, remarks:--"It is a vulgar error to suppose that
the song of the Nightingale is melancholy, and that it only sings by
night. There are two varieties of the Nightingale; one which sings both
in the night and the day, and one which sings in the day only."
In the year 1858, Mr. Leigh Sotheby, in a letter to Dr. Gray, of the
British Museum, described a marvellous little specimen of the feathered
tribe--a Talking Canary. Its parents had previously and successfully
reared many young ones, but three years before they hatched only _one_
out of four eggs, the which they immediately neglected, by commencing
the rebuilding of a nest on the top of it. Upon this discovery, the
unfledged and forsaken bird, all but dead, was taken away and placed in
flannel by the fire, when, after much attention, it was restored, and
then brought up by hand. Thus treated, and away from all other birds, it
became familiarised only with those who fed it; consequently, its first
singing notes were of a character totally different to those usual with
the Canary.
Constantly being talked to, the bird, when about three months old,
astonished its mistress by repeating the endearing terms used in talking
to it, such as "Kissie, kissie," with its significant sounds. This
went on, and from time to time the little bird repeated other words;
and then, for hours together, except during the moulting season, it
astonished by _ringing the changes_, according to its own fancy, and as
plainly as any human voice could articulate them, on the several words,
"Dear sweet Titchie" (its name), "kiss Minnie," "Kiss me, then, dear
Minnie." "Sweet pretty little Titchie," "Kissie, kissie, kissie." "Dear
Titchie," "Titchie wee, gee, gee, gee, Titchie. Titchie."
The usual singing-notes of the bird were more of the character of the
Nightingale, mingled occasionally with the sound of the dog-whistle used
about the house. It is hardly necessary to add, that the bird was by
nature remarkably tame.
In 1839, a Canary-bird, capable of distinct articulation, was exhibited
in Regent-street. The following were some of its sentences:--"Sweet
pretty dear," "Sweet pretty dear Dicky," "Mary," "Sweet pretty little
Dicky dear;" and often in the course of the day, "Sweet pretty Queen."
The bird also imitated the jarring of a wire, the ringing of a bell; it
was three years old, and was reared by a lady who never allowed it to
be in the company of other birds. This Canary died in October, 1839; it
was, it is believed, the only other talking instance publicly known.
We read of some experiments made in the rearing of birds at Kendal
by a bird-fancier, the result of which was, that upwards of 20
birds--Canaries. Greenfinches, Linnets, Chaffinches, Titlarks,
and Whitethroats--were reared in one cage by a pair of Canaries.
The experiments were continued until the extraordinary number of
thirty-eight birds had been brought up within two months by the
Canaries. It may be worth while to enumerate them.
In the month of June the Canaries--the male green, and the female
piebald--were caged for the purpose of breeding. The female laid five
eggs, and while she was sitting a Greenfinch egg was introduced into
the nest. All of these were hatched, and the day after incubation was
completed five Grey Linnets, also newly hatched, were put into the cage,
in their own nest. Next day a newly-hatched nest of four Chaffinches was
also introduced; and afterwards five different nests, consisting of six
Titlarks, six Whitethroats, three Skylarks, three Winchars, and three
Blackcaps. While rearing the last of these nests, the female Canary
again laid and hatched four eggs, thus making thirty-eight young birds
brought up by the pair of Canaries. It will be noticed that most of
these birds are soft-billed, whose natural food is small insects; but
they took quite kindly to the seeds upon which they were fed by their
step-parents. The pair of Canaries fed at one time twenty-one young
birds, and never had less than sixteen making demands upon their care;
and while the female was hatching her second nest she continued to feed
the birds that occupied the other nest.
Of the origin of the _neighing sound_ which accompanies the single
Snipe's play-flight during pairing-time, opinions are various. Bechstein
thought it was produced by means of the beak; Naumann and others, again,
that it originated in powerful strokes of the wing. Pratt, in Hanover,
observing that the bird makes heard its well-known song or cry, which he
expresses with the words, "gick jack, gick jack!" at the same time with
the _neighing sound_, it seemed to be settled that the latter is not
produced through the throat. In the meantime, M. Meves, of Stockholm,
remarked with surprise, that the humming sound could never be observed
whilst the bird was flying upwards, at which time the tail is closed;
but only when it was casting itself downwards in a slanting direction,
with the tail strongly spread out.
M. Meves has written for the Zoological Society a paper upon the origin
of this sound, which all the field-naturalists and sportsmen of England
and other countries had, for the previous century, been trying to make
out, but had failed to discover. Of this paper the following is an
abstract:--
The peculiar form of the tail-feathers in some foreign
species nearly allied to our Snipe encouraged the notion that the
tail conduced to the production of the sound. M. Meves found the
tail-feathers of our common Snipe, in the first feather especially,
very peculiarly constructed; the shaft uncommonly stiff and
sabre-shaped; the rays of the web strongly bound together and very
long, the longest reaching nearly three-fourths of the whole length
of the web, these rays lying along or spanning from end to end of
the curve of the shaft, _like the strings of a musical instrument_.
If you blow from the outer side upon the broad web, it comes into
vibration, and a sound is heard, which, though fainter, resembles
very closely the well-known _neighing_.
But to convince yourself fully that it is the first feather
which produces the peculiar sound, it is only necessary carefully
to pluck out such an one, to fasten its shaft with fine thread to
a piece of steel wire a tenth of an inch in diameter, and a foot
long, and then to fix this at the end of a four-foot stick. If
now you draw the feather, with this outer side forward, sharply
through the air, at the same time making some short movements or
shakings of the arm, so as to represent the shivering motion of the
wings during flight, you produce the neighing sound with the most
astonishing exactness.
If you wish to hear the humming of both feathers at once, as
must be the case from the flying bird, this also can be managed by
a simple contrivance. Take a small stick, and fasten at the side of
the smaller end a piece of burnt steel wire in the form of a fork;
bind to each point a side tail-feather; bend the wire so that the
feathers receive the same direction which they do in the spreading
of the tail as the bird sinks itself in flight; and then, with this
apparatus, draw the feathers through the air as before. Such a
sound, but in another tone, is produced when we experiment with the
tail-feathers of other kinds of Snipe.
Since in both sexes these feathers have the same form, it is
clear that both can produce the same humming noise; but as the
feathers of the hen are generally less than those of the cock-bird,
the noise made by them is not so deep as in the other case.
Besides the significance which these tail-feathers have as a
kind of musical instrument, their form may give a weighty character
in the determination of a species standing very near one another,
which have been looked upon as varieties.
This interesting discovery was first announced by M. Meves in an account
of the birds observed by himself during a visit to the Island of
Gottland, in the summer of the year 1856, which narrative was published
at Stockholm in the following winter. In the succeeding summer, M. Meves
showed his experiments to Mr. Wolley, whose services to Ornithology
we have already noticed. The mysterious noise of the wilderness was
reproduced in a little room in the middle of Stockholm: first, the deep
bleat, now shown to proceed from the male Snipe, and then the fainter
bleat of the female, both most strikingly true to nature, neither
producible with any other feathers than the outer ones of the tail.
Mr. Wolley inquired of Mr. Meves how, issuing forth from the town on
a summer ramble, he came to discover what had puzzled the wits and
strained the eyes of so many observers. He freely explained how, in a
number of "Naumannia," an accidental misprint of the word representing
tail-feathers instead of wing-feathers,--a mistake which another author
ridiculed--first led him to think on the subject. He subsequently
examined in the Museum at Stockholm the tail-feathers of various species
of Snipe, remarked their structure, and reasoned upon it. Then he
blew upon them, and fixed them on levers that he might wave them with
greater force through the air; and at the same time he made more careful
observation than he had hitherto done in the living birds. In short,
in him the obscure hint was thrown upon fruitful ground, whilst in a
hundred other minds it had failed to come to light.
Dr. Walsh saw at Constantinople a Woodpecker, about the size of a
Thrush, which was very active in devouring flies, and tapped woodwork
with his bill with a noise _as loud as that of a hammer_, to disturb the
insects concealed therein, so as to seize upon them when they appeared.
Among remarkable bird services should not be forgotten those of the
Trochilos to the Crocodile. "When the Crocodile," says Herodotus, "feeds
in the Nile, the inside of his mouth is always covered with _bdella_
(a term which the translators have rendered by that of _leech_). All
birds, _except one_, fly from the Crocodile; but this one bird, the
_Trochilos_, on the contrary, flies towards him with the greatest
eagerness, and renders him a very great service; for every time that the
Crocodile comes to the land to sleep, and when he lies stretched out
with his jaws open, the Trochilos enters and establishes himself in his
mouth, and frees him from the bdella which he finds there. The Crocodile
is grateful, and never does any harm to the little bird who performs for
him this office."
This passage was long looked upon as a pleasant story, and nothing more;
until M. Geoffroy St. Hilaire, during his long residence in Egypt,
ascertained the story of Herodotus to be correct in substance, but
inexact in details. It is perfectly true that a little bird does exist,
which flies incessantly from place to place, searching everywhere, even
in the Crocodile's mouth, for the insects which form the principal
part of its nourishment. This bird is seen everywhere on the banks of
the Nile, and M. Geoffroy has proved it to be of a species already
described by Hasselquist, and very like the small winged Plover. If
the Trochilos be in reality the little Plover, the bdella cannot be
leeches, (which do not exist in the running waters of the Nile) but the
small insects known as _gnats_ in Europe. Myriads of these insects dance
upon the Nile: they attack the Crocodile upon the inner surface of his
palate, and sting the orifice of the glands, which are numerous in the
Crocodile's mouth. Then the little Plover, who follows him everywhere,
delivers him from these troublesome enemies; and that without any danger
to himself, for the Crocodile is always careful, when he is going to
shut his mouth, to make some motion which warns the little bird to fly
away. At St. Domingo there is a Crocodile which very nearly resembles
that of Egypt. This Crocodile is attacked by gnats, from which he would
have no means of delivering himself (his tongue, like that of the
Crocodile, being fixed) if a bird of a particular species did not give
him the same assistance that the Crocodile of the Nile receives from
the little Plover. These facts explain the passage in Herodotus, and
demonstrate that the animal, there called bdella, is not a leech, but a
flying insect similar to our gnat.
Exemplifications of instinct, intelligence, and reason in Birds are by
no means rare, but this distinction must be made: instinctive actions
are dependent on the nerves, intelligence on the brain; but that which
constitutes peculiar qualities of the mind in man has no material
organ. The Rev. Mr. Statham has referred to the theory of the facial
angle as indicative of the amount of sagacity observable in the animal
race, but has expressed his opinion that the theory is utterly at
fault in the case of Birds; many of these having a very acute facial
angle being considerably more intelligent than others having scarcely
any facial angle at all. Size also seems to present another anomaly
between the two races of Beasts and Birds; for while the Elephant and
the Horse are among the most distinguished of quadrupeds for sagacity
and instinct, the larger Birds seem scarcely comparable to the smaller
ones in the possession of these attributes. The writer instances this
by comparing the Ostrich and the Goose with the Wren, the Robin, the
Canary, the Pigeon, and the Crow; and amusingly alludes to the holding
of parliaments or convocations of birds of the last species, while the
Ostrich is characterised in Scripture as the type of folly.
The author then refers to the poisoning of two young Blackbirds by the
parent birds, when they found that they could neither liberate them
nor permanently share their captivity. The two fledglings had been
taken from a Blackbirds' nest in Surrey-square, and had been placed in
a room looking over a garden, in a wicker cage. For some time the old
birds attended to their wants, visited them regularly, and fed them
with appropriate food; but, at last, getting wearied of the task, or
despairing of effecting their liberation, they appear to have poisoned
them. They were both found suddenly dead one morning, shortly after
having been seen in good health; and on opening their bodies a small
leaf, supposed to be that of _Solanum Nigrum_, was found in the stomach
of each. The old birds immediately deserted the spot, as though aware of
the nefarious deed befitting their name.
As an exemplification of instinct Dr. Horner states that Rooks built
on the Infirmary trees at Hull, but never over the street. One year,
however, a young couple ventured to build here: for eight mornings in
succession the old Rooks proceeded to destroy the nest, when at last the
young ones chose a more fitting place.
Mr. A. Strickland, having referred to the tendency of birds to build
their nests of materials of a colour resembling that around such nests,
relates an instance in which the Fly-catcher built in a red brick wall,
and used for the nest mahogany shavings. Referring to the meeting of
Rooks for judicial purposes. Mr. Strickland states that he once saw a
Rook tried in this way, and ultimately killed by the rest.
SONGS OF BIRDS AND SEASONS OF THE DAY.
Although nearly half a century has elapsed since the following
observations were communicated to the Royal Society by Dr. Jenner, their
expressive character is as charming as ever, and their accuracy as
valuable:--
"There is a beautiful propriety in the order in which Singing
Birds fill up the day with their pleasing harmony. The accordance
between their songs, and the aspect of nature at the successive
periods of the day at which they sing, is so remarkable that one
cannot but suppose it to be the result of benevolent design.
"From the _Robin_ (not the _Lark_, as has been generally
imagined), as soon as twilight has drawn its imperceptible line
between night and day, begins his artless song. How sweetly does
this harmonize with the soft dawning of the day! He goes on till
the twinkling sunbeams begin to tell him that his notes no longer
accord with the rising sun. Up starts the _Lark_, and with him a
variety of sprightly songsters, whose lively notes are in perfect
correspondence with the gaiety of the morning. The general warbling
continues, with now and then an interruption by the transient croak
of the _Raven_, the scream of the _Jay_, or the pert chattering of
the _Daw_. The _Nightingale_, unwearied by the vocal exertions of
the night, joins his inferiors in sound in the general harmony. The
_Thrush_ is wisely placed on the summit of some lofty tree, that
its piercing notes may be softened by distance before it reaches
the ear, while the mellow _Blackbird_ seeks the lower branches.
"Should the sun, having been eclipsed by a cloud, shine forth
with fresh effulgence, how frequently we see the _Goldfinch_ perch
on some blossomed bough, and hear his song poured forth in a strain
peculiarly energetic; while the sun, full shining on his beautiful
plumes, displays his golden wings and crimson crest to charming
advantage. Indeed, a burst of sunshine in a cloudy day, or after a
heavy shower, seems always to wake up a new gladness in the little
musicians, and invite them to an answering burst of minstrelsy.
"As evening advances, the performers gradually retire, and the
concert softly dies away. At sunset the _Robin_ again sends up his
twilight song, till the still more serene hour of night sends him
to his bower of rest. And now, in unison with the darkened earth
and sky, no sooner is the voice of the _Robin_ hushed, than the
_Owl_ sends forth his slow and solemn tones, well adapted to the
serious hour."
FOOTNOTES:
[12] The popular name of this bird is the _Umbrella Bird_. On its head
it bears a crest, different from that of any other bird. It is formed
of feathers more than two inches long, very thickly set, and with hairy
plumes curving over at the end. These can be laid back so as to be
hardly visible, or can be erected and spread out on every side, forming
a dome completely covering the head, and even reaching beyond the point
of the beak; the individual feathers then stand out something like the
down-bearing seeds of the dandelion. Besides this, there is another
ornamental appendage on the breast, formed by a fleshy tubercle, as
thick as a quill and an inch and a-half long, which hangs down from
the neck, and is thickly covered with glossy feathers, forming a large
pendent plume or tassel. This, also, the bird can either press to its
breast, so as to be scarcely visible, or can swell out so as almost to
conceal the forepart of its body.
[13] "Athenæum," No. 1467.
OWLS.
These nocturnal birds of prey have large heads and great projecting
eyes, directing forwards, and surrounded with a circle of loose and
delicate feathers, more or less developed, according to the nocturnal or
comparatively diurnal habits of the species. The position of the eyes,
giving a particular fulness and breadth to the head, has gained for the
Owl the intellectual character so universally awarded to it. The concave
facial disc of feathers with which they are surrounded materially aids
vision by concentrating the rays of light to an intensity better suited
to the opacity of the medium in which power is required to be exercised.
"They may be compared," says Mr. Yarrell, "to a person near-sighted,
who sees objects with superior magnitude and brilliancy when within the
prescribed limits of his natural powers of vision, from the increased
angle these objects subtend." Their beaks are completely curved,
or raptorial; they have the power of turning the outer toe either
backwards or forwards; they fly weakly, and near the ground; but, from
their soft plumage, stealthily, stretching out their hind legs that they
may balance their large and heavy heads. Their sense of hearing is very
acute: they not only look, but listen for prey.
The Owl is a bird of mystery and gloom, and a special favourite with
plaintive poets. We find him with Ariel:--
"There I couch when Owls do cry."
He figures in the nursery rhyme of "Cock Robin." In reply to "Who dug
his grave?"--
"I, says the Owl, with my little shovel--
I dug his grave."
He hoots over graves, and his dismal note adds to the terror of
darkness:--
"'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the Owls have awakened the crowing cock;
Tu-whit! tu-whoo!
And hark again the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
. . . . . . . . .
"When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring Owl,
Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! _a merry note_,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot!"
Titania sings of
"The clamorous Owl, that nightly hoots and wonders
At our quaint spirits."
Bishop Hall has this "Occasional Meditation" upon the sight of an Owl in
the twilight:--"What a strange melancholic life doth this creature lead;
to hide her head all the day long in an ivy-bush, and at night, when all
other birds are at rest, to fly abroad and vent her harsh notes. I know
not why the ancients have _sacred_ this bird to wisdom, except it be for
her safe closeness and singular perspicuity; that when other domestrial
and airy creatures are blind, she only hath insured light to discern the
least objects for her own advantage." We may here note that Linnæus,
with many other naturalists and antiquaries, have supposed the Horned
Owl to have been the bird of Minerva; but Blumenbach has shown, from
the ancient works of Grecian art, that it was not this, but rather some
smooth-headed species, probably the _Passerina_, or Little Owl.
The divine has, in the above passage, overstated the melancholy of the
Owl; as has also the poet, who sings:--
"From yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping Owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign."
Shakspeare more accurately terms her "the mousing Owl," for her nights
are spent in barns, or in hunting and devouring sparrows in the
churchyard elms. "Moping, indeed!" says a pleasing observer. "So far
from this, she is a sprightly, active ranger of the night, who had as
lief sit on a grave as a rose-bush; who is as valiant a hunter as
Nimroud, chasing all sorts of game, from the dormouse to the hare and
the young lamb, and devouring them, while her mate hoots to her from
some picturesque ruin, and invites her, when supper is over, to return
to him and her babes."
But the tricks of the Owl by night render her the terror of all other
birds, great and small. In Northern Italy, persons in rustic districts
which are well wooded, catch and tame an Owl, put a light chain upon her
legs, and then place her on a small cross-bar on the top of a high pole,
which is fixed in the earth. Half-blinded by the light, the defenceless
captive has to endure patiently the jeers and insults of the dastardly
tribes from the surrounding groves and thickets, who issue in clouds
to scream, chirp, and flit about their enemy. Some, trusting to the
swiftness of their wings, sweep close by, and peck at her feathers as
they pass, and are sometimes punished by the Owl with her formidable
beak for their audacity. Meanwhile, from darkened windows, sportsmen,
with fowling-pieces well charged with shot, fire at the hosts of birds,
wheeling, shrieking, screaming, and thickening around the Owl. All the
guns are fired at once, and the grass is strewn for many yards round
with the slain; while the Owl, whom they have been careful not to hit,
utters a joyous whoo! whoo! at the fate of her persecutors.
Major Head thus describes the _Biscacho_, or Coquimbo, a curious species
of Owl, found all over the pampas of South America:--"Like rabbits,
they live in holes, which are in groups in every direction. These
animals are never seen in the day, but as soon as the lower limb of
the sun reaches the horizon, they are seen issuing from the holes. The
Biscachos, when full-grown, are nearly as big as badgers, but their
head resembles a rabbit's, except that they have large bushy whiskers.
In the evening they sit outside the holes, and they all appear to be
moralizing. They are the most serious-looking animals I ever saw;
and even the young ones are grey-headed, wear moustachios, and look
thoughtful and grave. In the daytime their holes are guarded by two
little owls, which are never an instant away from their posts. As one
gallops by these owls, they always stand looking at the stranger, and
then at each other, moving their old-fashioned heads in a manner which
is quite ridiculous, until one rushes by them, when they get the better
of their dignified looks, and they both run into the Biscacho's hole."
Of all birds of prey, Owls are the most useful to man, by protecting his
corn-fields, or granaried provision, from mice and numberless vermin.
Yet, prejudice has perverted these birds into objects of superstition
and consequent hate. The kind-hearted Mr. Waterton says:--"I wish that
any little thing I could write or say might cause this bird to stand
better with the world at large than it has hitherto done; but I have
slender hope on this score, because old and deep-rooted prejudices are
seldom overcome; and when I look back into annals of remote antiquity,
I see too clearly that defamation has done its worst to ruin the whole
family, in all its branches, of this poor, harmless, useful friend of
mine."
The Barn Owl is common throughout Europe, known in Tartary, and rare in
the United States of America. In England it is called the Barn Owl, the
Church Owl, Gillihowlet, and Screech Owl; the last name is improperly
applied, as it is believed not to hoot, though Sir William Jardine
asserts that he has shot it in the act of hooting. To the screech
superstition has annexed ideas of fatal portent; "but," says Charlotte
Smith, "it has, of course, no more foreknowledge of approaching evil to
man than the Lark: its cry is a signal to its absent mate."
"If," says Mr. Waterton, "this useful bird caught its food by day
instead of hunting for it by night, mankind would have ocular
demonstration of its utility in thinning the country of mice; and it
would be protected and encouraged everywhere. It would be with us what
the Ibis was with the Egyptians. When it has young, it will bring a
mouse to the nest every twelve or fifteen minutes." Mr. Waterton saw his
Barn Owl fly away with a rat which he had just shot; he also saw her
drop perpendicularly into the water, and presently rise out of it with a
fish in her claws, which she took to her nest.
Birds and quadrupeds, and even fish, are the food of Owls, according to
the size of the species. Hares, partridges, grouse, and even the turkey,
are attacked by the larger Horned Owls of Europe and America; while
mice, shrews, small birds, and crabs suffice for the inferior strength
of the smaller Owls. Mr. Yarrell states that the Short-eared Owl is the
only bird of prey in which he ever found the remains of a bat.
William Bullock reports that a large Snowy Owl, wounded on the Isle of
Baltoc, disgorged a young rabbit; and that one in his possession had in
its stomach a sandpiper with its feathers entire. It preys on lemmings,
hares, and birds, particularly the willow-grouse and ptarmigan. It is
a dexterous fisher, grasping the fish with an instantaneous stroke of
the foot as it sails along near the surface of the water, or sits on
a stone in a shallow stream. It has been seen on the wing pursuing an
American hare, making repeated strokes at the animal with its foot. In
winter, when this Owl is fat, the Indians and white residents in the Fur
Countries esteem it to be good eating; its flesh is delicately white.
Small snakes are the common prey of this Owl during the daytime. And to
show on what various kinds of food Owls subsist, Mr. Darwin states that
a species that was killed among the islets of the Chonos Archipelago had
its stomach full of good-sized crabs. Such are a few of the facts which
attest the almost omnivorous appetite of the Owl.
The flight of the Snowy Owl is stronger and swifter than any other
bird of the family; its ears are very large; its voice (says Pennant)
adds horror even to the regions of Greenland by its hideous cries,
resembling those of a man in deep distress. The eye is very curious,
being immovably fixed in its socket, so that the bird, to view different
objects, must always turn its head; and so excellently is the neck
adapted to this purpose, that it can with ease turn the head round
in almost a complete circle, without moving the body. The Virginian
Eagle-Owl, amidst the forests of Indiana, utters a loud and sudden
_Wough O! wough O!_ sufficient to alarm a whole garrison; another of its
nocturnal cries resembles the half-suppressed screams of a person being
suffocated or throttled.
The Javanese Owl is found in the closest forests, and occasionally near
villages and dwellings. Dr. Horsfield says:--"It is not, however, a
favourite with the natives; various superstitious notions are also in
Java associated with its visits; and it is considered in many parts of
the island as portending evil." One of this species never visits the
villages, but resides in the dense forests, which are the usual resort
of the tiger. The natives even assert that the _Wowo-wiwi_ approaches
the animal with the same familiarity with which the jallack approaches
the buffalo, and that it has no dread to alight on the tiger's back. Dr.
Horsfield adds, that it has never been seen in confinement.
The Boobook Owl has the native name of Buck-buck, and it may be heard
in Australia every night during winter, uttering a cry corresponding
with that word. The note is somewhat similar to that of the European
_Cuckoo_, and the colonists have given it that name. The lower order of
settlers in New South Wales are led away by the idea that everything
is the reverse in that country to what it is in England; and the
_Cuckoo_, as they call this bird, singing by night, is one of the
instances which they point out.
Tame Owls are described as nearly as playful, and quite as affectionate,
as kittens; they will perch upon your wrist, touch your lips with their
beak, and hoot to order; and they are less inclined to leave their
friends than other tame birds. A writer in "Chambers's Journal" relates,
that a friend lost his favourite Owl, which flew away, and was absent
many days. In time, however, he came back, and resumed his habits and
duties, which, for a while, went on uninterruptedly. At length, one
severe autumn, he disappeared; weeks, months passed, and he returned
not. One snowy night, however, as his master sat by the blazing fire,
some heavy thing came bump against the shutters. "Whoo, whoo, whoo."
The window was opened, and in flew the Owl, shaking the thick snow from
his wings, and settling lovingly on his master's wrist, the bird's eyes
dilating with delight.
The Owls at Arundel Castle have a sort of historic interest; they
are kept within the circuit of the keep-tower, the most ancient and
picturesque portion of the castle. Among the Australian Owls here we
read of one larger than a turkey, measuring four feet across the wings
when expanded. The Owl named "Lord Thurlow," from his resemblance to
that Judge, is a striking specimen.
The accompanying illustration shows a fine specimen of Fraser's
Eagle-Owl, brought from Fernando Po. It is the size of an ordinary
fowl; colour, very dark reddish-brown mottling; back and wings passing
through all shades of the same colour into nearly white on the under
parts, where the feathers are barred; bill, pale greenish; eyes, nearly
black.
[Illustration: FRASER'S EAGLE-OWL, FROM FERNANDO PO.]
Among the Owls but recently described is the Masked Owl of New Holland,
named from the markings of the disk of the face, somewhat grotesque;
the colours are brown variegated with white. A fine specimen of the
Abyssinian Owl is possessed by Mr. R. Good, of Yeovil: the bird,
although quite young, is of immense size.
Lastly, the Owl is thought to be of the same sympathy or kindred likings
as the Cat: a young Owl will feed well, and thrive upon fish. Cats, too,
it is well known, like fish. Both the Cat and the Owl, too, feed upon
mice. The sight of Owls, also, similar to that of Cats, appears to serve
them best in the dark.
WEATHER-WISE ANIMALS.
Whatever may be the worth of weather prognostications, it is from the
animal kingdom that we obtain the majority. How these creatures become
so acutely sensible of the approach of particular kinds of weather is
not at present well understood. That in many cases the appearance of
the heavens is not the source from which their information is derived
is proved by the signs of uneasiness frequently expressed by them when,
as yet, the most attentive observer can detect no signs of change,
and even when they are placed in such circumstances as preclude the
possibility of any instruction from this quarter. For instance. Dogs,
closely confined in a room, often become very drowsy and stupid before
rain; and a leech, confined in a glass of water, has been found, by
its rapid motions or its quiescence, to indicate the approach of wet
or the return of fair weather. Probably the altered condition of the
atmosphere with regard to its electricity, which generally accompanies
change of weather, may so affect their constitution as to excite in
them pleasurable or uneasy sensations; though man is far from insensible
to atmospheric changes, as the feelings of utter listlessness which
many persons experience before rain, and the aggravated severity of
toothache, headache, and rheumatism abundantly testify. The Cat licking
itself is a special influence of the above electric influence, which
denotes the approach of rain.
Birds, as "denizens of the air," are the surest indicators of weather
changes. Thus, when swallows fly high, fine weather is to be expected
or continued; but when they fly low, or close to the ground, rain is
almost surely approaching; for swallows follow the flies and gnats,
which delight in warm strata of air. Now, as warm air is lighter, and
usually moister than cold air, when the warm strata of air are high
there is less chance of moisture being thrown down from them by their
mixture with cold air; but when the warm and moist air is close to the
surface, it is almost certain that, as the cold air flows down into it,
a deposition of water will take place.
When Seagulls assemble on the land, very stormy and rainy weather is
approaching. The cause of this migration to the land is the security of
these birds finding food; and they may be observed at this time feeding
greedily on the earth-worms and larvæ driven out of the ground by severe
floods; whilst the fish on which they prey in fine weather in the sea,
leave the surface, and go deeper in storms. The search after food is
the principal cause why animals change their places. The different
tribes of the wading birds always migrate when rain is about to take
place.
There is a bird which takes its name from its apparent agency in
tempests. Such is the Stormy Petrel, which name Hawkesworth, in his
"Voyages," mentions the sailors give to the bird, but explains no
further. Navigators meet with the Little Petrel, or Storm Finch, in
every part of the ocean, diving, running on foot, or skimming over the
highest waves. It seems to foresee the coming storm long ere the seamen
can discover any signs of its approach. The Petrels make this known by
congregating together under the wake of the vessel, as if to shelter
themselves, and they thus warn the mariner of the coming danger. At
night they set up a piercing cry. This usefulness of the bird to the
sailor is the obvious cause of the latter having such an objection to
their being killed.
Mr. Knapp, the naturalist, thus pictures gulls, describing the Petrel's
action:--"They seem to repose in a common breeze, but upon the approach
or during the continuation of a gale, they surround the ship, and catch
up the small animals which the agitated ocean brings near the surface,
or any food that may be dropped from the vessel. Whisking like an arrow
through the deep valleys of the abyss, and darting away over the foaming
crest of some mountain-wave, they attend the labouring barque in all
her perilous course. When the storm subsides they retire to rest, and
are seen no more."
Our sailors have, from very early times, called these birds "Mother
Carey's Chickens," originally bestowed on them, Mr. Yarrell tells us, by
Captain Cartaret's sailors, probably from some celebrated ideal hag of
the above name. Mr. Yarrell adds:--"As these birds are supposed to be
seen only before stormy weather, they are not welcome visitors," a view
at variance with that already suggested.
The Editor of "Notes and Queries" considers the Petrels to have been
called _chickens_ from their diminutive size. The largest sort, "the
Giant Petrel," is "Mother Carey's _Goose_;" its length is forty
inches, and it expands seven feet. The common kind are about the size
of a swallow, and weigh something over an ounce; length, six inches;
expansion, thirteen inches; these are Mother Carey's _chickens_
(_Latham_). It should be borne in mind that our language does not
restrict the term chickens to young birds of the gallinaceous class.
The Missel-bird is another bird of this kind: in Hampshire and Sussex
it is called the _Storm Cock_, because it sings early in the spring, in
blowing, showery weather.
Petrels, by the way, are used by the inhabitants of the Faroe Islands as
lamps: they pass a wick through their bodies which, when lighted, burns
a long time from the quantity of fat they contain.
The Fulmar Petrel, in Boothia, follows the whale-ships, availing itself
of the labours of the fishermen by feeding on the carcases of the
whales when stripped of their blubber. In return the bird is exceedingly
useful to the whalers by guiding them to the places where whales are
most numerous, and crowding to the spots where they first appear on the
surface of the water.
Wild Geese and Ducks are unquestionably weather-wise, for their early
arrival from the north in the winter portends that a severe season is
approaching; because their early appearance is most likely caused by
severe frost having already set in at their usual summer residence. The
Rev. F. O. Morris, the well-known writer on natural history, records
from Nunburnholme, Yorkshire. December 5, 1864:--"This season, for the
first time I have lived here, I have missed seeing the flocks of Wild
Geese which in the autumnal months have heretofore wended their way
overhead, year after year, as regularly as the dusk of the evening came
on. Almost to the minute, and almost in the same exact course, they
have flown over aloft from the feeding-places on the Wolds to their
resting-places for the night; some, perhaps, to extensive commons, while
others have turned off to the mud-banks of the Humber, whence they have
returned with equal regularity in the morning.
"But this year I have seen not only not a single flock, but not even
a single bird. One evening one of my daughters did indeed see a small
flock of six, but even that small number only once. Whether it portends
a very hard winter, or what the cause of it may be, I am utterly at a
loss to know or even to guess. I quite miss this year the well-known
cackle of the old gander as he has led the van of the flock that has
followed him; now in a wide, now in a narrow, now in a short, now in a
long wedge, over head, diverging just from the father of the family, or
separating from time to time further back in the line.
"I may add, as a possible prognostication of future weather, that
fieldfares have, I think, been unusually numerous this year, as last
year they were the contrary. I have also remarked that swallows took
their departure this year more than ordinarily in a body, very few
stragglers being subsequently seen."
It will be sufficient to state that the mean temperature of January and
February was below that of the same month in the preceding year, and
that of March had not been so low for twenty years.
The opinion that sea-birds come to land in order to avoid an approaching
storm is stated to be erroneous; and the cause assigned is, that as the
fish upon which the birds prey go deep into the water during storms, the
birds come to land merely on account of the greater certainty of finding
food there than out at sea.
We add a few notes on Bird naturalists. The Redbreast has been called
_the Naturalist's Barometer_. When on a summer evening, though it be
unsettled and rainy, he sings cheerfully and sweetly on a lofty twig or
housetop, it is an unerring promise of succeeding fine days. Sometimes,
though the atmosphere be dry and warm, he may be seen melancholy
chirping and brooding in a bush or low in a hedge; this promises the
reverse. In the luxuriant forests of Brazil the Toucan may be heard
rattling with his large hollow beak, as he sits on the outermost
branches, calling in plaintive notes for rain.
When Mr. Loudon was at Schwetzingen, Rhenish Bavaria, in 1829, he
witnessed in the post-house there for the first time what he afterwards
frequently saw--an amusing application of zoological knowledge for the
purpose of prognosticating the weather. Two tree-frogs were kept in
a crystal jar about eighteen inches high and six inches in diameter,
with a depth of three or four inches of water at the bottom, and a
small ladder reaching to the top of the jar. On the approach of dry
weather the frogs mounted the ladder, but when moisture was expected
they descended into the water. These animals are of a bright green, and
in their wild state climb the trees in search of insects, and make a
peculiar singing noise before rain. In the jar they got no other food
than now and then a fly; one of which, Mr. Loudon was assured, would
serve a frog for a week, though it would eat from six to twelve flies in
a day if it could get them. In catching the flies put alive into the jar
the frogs displayed great adroitness.
Snails are extraordinary indicators of changes in the weather.
Several years ago, Mr. Thomas, of Cincinnati, known as an accredited
observer of natural phenomena, published some interesting accounts
of Weather-wise Snails. They do not drink (he observes), but imbibe
moisture in their bodies during rain, and exude it at regular periods
afterwards. Then a certain snail first exudes the pure liquid; when
this is exhausted, a light red succeeds, then a deep red, next yellow,
and lastly a dark brown. The snail is very careful not to exude more
of its moisture than is necessary. It is never seen abroad _except
before rain_, when we find it ascending the bark of trees and getting
on the leaves. The tree-snail is also seen ascending the stems of
plants _two days before rain_: if it be a long and hard rain they get
on the sheltered side of the leaf, but if a short rain the outside
of the leaf. Another snail has the same habits, but differs only in
colour: before rain it is yellow, and after it blue. Others show signs
of rain, not only by means of exuding fluids, but by means of pores and
protuberances; and the bodies of some snails have large tubercles rising
from them _before rain_. These tubercles commence showing themselves
ten days previous to the fall of rain they indicate; at the end of each
of these tubercles is a pore; and at the time of the fall of rain these
tubercles, with their pores opened, are stretched to their utmost to
receive the water. In another kind of snail, a few days before rain
appears a large and deep indentation, beginning at the head between
the horns, and ending with the jointure at the shells. Other snails,
a few days before the rain, crawl to the most exposed hill-side,
where, if they arrive before the rain descends, they seek some crevice
in the rocks, and then close the aperture of the shell with glutinous
substance; this, when the rain approaches, they dissolve, and are then
seen crawling about.
Our Cincinnati observer mentions three kinds of snails which move along
at the rate of a mile in forty-four hours; they inhabit the most dense
forests, and it is regarded as a sure indication of rain to observe them
moving towards an exposed situation. Others indicate the weather not
only by exuding fluids, but by the colour of the animal. After rain the
snail has a very dark appearance, but it grows of a bright colour as
the water is expended; whilst just before rain it is of yellowish white
colour, also just before rain streaks appear from the point of the head
to the jointure of the shell. These snails move at the rate of a mile in
fourteen days and sixteen hours. If they are observed ascending a cliff
it is a sure indication of rain: they live in the cavities of the sides
of cliffs. There is also a snail which is brown, tinged with blue on the
edges before rain, but black after rain: a few days before appears an
indentation, which grows deeper as the rain approaches.
The leaves of trees are even good barometers: most of them for a short,
light rain, will turn up so as to receive their fill of water; but for
a long rain they are doubled, so as to conduct the water away. The
Frog and Toad are sure indicators of rain; for, as they do not drink
water but absorb it into their bodies, they are sure to be found out
at the time they expect rain. The Locust and Grasshopper are also good
indicators of a storm; a few hours before rain they are to be found
under the leaves of trees and in the hollow trunks.
The Mole has long been recorded as a prognosticator of change of
weather, before which it becomes very active. The temperature or dryness
of the air governs its motions as to the depth at which it lives or
works. This is partly from its inability to bear cold or thirst, but
chiefly from its being necessitated to follow its natural food, the
earth-worm, which always descends as the cold or drought increases.
In frosty weather both worms and moles are deeper in the ground than
at other times; and both seem to be sensible of an approaching change
to warmer weather before there are any perceptible signs of it in the
atmosphere. When it is observed, therefore, that Moles are casting hills
through openings in the frozen turf or through a thin covering of snow,
a change to open weather may be shortly expected. The cause of this
appears to be--the natural heat of the earth being for a time pent in
by the frozen surface accumulates below it; first incites to action the
animals, thaws the frozen surface, and at length escapes into the air,
which is warm, and softens; and if not counterbalanced by a greater
degree of cold in the atmosphere brings about a change, such as from
frosty to mild weather. The Mole is most active and casts up most earth
immediately before rain, and in the winter before a thaw, because at
those times the worms and insects begin to be in motion, and approach
the surface.
Forster, the indefatigable meteorologist, has assembled some curious
observations on certain animals, who, by some peculiar sensibility to
electrical or other atmospheric influence, often indicate changes of the
weather by their peculiar motions and habits. Thus:--
_Ants._--An universal bustle and activity observed in ant-hills may be
generally regarded as a sign of rain: the Ants frequently appear all in
motion together, and carry their eggs about from place to place. This is
remarked by Virgil, Pliny, and others.
_Asses._--When donkeys bray more than ordinarily, especially should
they shake their ears, as if uneasy, it is said to predict rain, and
particularly showers. Forster noticed that in showery weather a donkey
brayed before every shower, and generally some minutes before the rain
fell, as if some electrical influence, produced by the concentrating
power of the approaching rain-cloud, caused a tickling in the wind-pipe
of the animal just before the shower came on. Whatever this electric
state of the air preceding a shower may be, it seems to be the same
that causes in other animals some peculiar sensations, which makes the
peacock squall, the pintado call "come back," &c. An expressive adage
says:--
"When that the ass begins to bray,
Be sure we shall have rain that day."
Haymakers may derive useful admonitions from the braying of the ass:
thus the proverb:--
"Be sure to cock your hay and corn
When the old donkey blows his horn."
_Bats_ flitting about late in the evening in spring and autumn foretel a
fine day on the morrow; as do Dorbeetles and some other insects. On the
contrary, when Bats return soon to their hiding-places, and send forth
loud cries, bad weather may be expected.
_Beetles_ flying about late in the evening often foretel a fine day on
the morrow.
_Butterflies_, when they appear early, are sometimes forerunners of fine
weather. Moths and Sphinxes also foretel fine weather when they are
common in the evening.
_Cats_, when they "wash their faces," or when they seem sleepy and dull,
foretel rain.
_Chickens_, when they pick up small stones and pebbles, and are more
noisy than usual, afford a sign of rain; as do fowls rubbing in the
dust, and clapping their wings; but this applies to several kinds of
fowls, as well as to the gallinaceous kinds. Cocks, when they crow at
unwonted hours, often foretel rain; when they crow all day, in summer
particularly, a change to rain frequently follows.
_Cranes_ were said of old to foretel rain when they retreated to the
valleys, and returned from their aërial flight. The high flight of
cranes in silence indicates fine weather.
_Dolphins_ as well as _Porpoises_, when they come about a ship, and
sport and gambol on the surface of the water, betoken a storm.
_Dogs_, before rain, grow sleepy and dull, lie drowsily before the fire,
and are not easily aroused. They also often eat grass, which indicates
that their stomachs, like ours, are apt to be disturbed before change
of weather. It is also said to be a sign of change of weather when Dogs
howl and bark much in the night. Dogs also dig in the earth with their
feet before rain, and often make deep holes in the ground.
_Ducks._--The loud and clamorous quacking of Ducks, Geese, and other
water-fowl, is a sign of rain; as also when they wash themselves, and
flutter about in the water more than usual. Virgil has well described
all these habits of aquatic birds.
_Fieldfares_, when they arrive early, and in great numbers, in autumn,
foreshow a hard winter, which has probably set in in the regions from
which they have come.
_Fishes_, when they bite more readily, and gambol near the surface of
streams or pools, foreshow rain.
_Flies_, and various sorts of insects, become more troublesome, and
sting and bite more than usual, before, as well as in the intervals of
rainy weather, particularly in autumn.
_Frogs_, by their clamorous croaking, indicate rainy weather, as does
likewise their coming about in great numbers in the evening; but this
last sign applies more obviously to toads.
_Geese_ washing, or taking wing with a clamorous noise, and flying to
the water, portend rain.
_Gnats_ afford several indications. When they fly in a vortex in the
beams of the setting sun they forebode fair weather; when they frisk
about more widely in the open air at eventide they foreshow heat; and
when they assemble under trees, and bite more than usual, they indicate
rain.
_Hogs_, when they shake the stalks of corn, and spoil them, often
indicate rain. When they run squeaking about, and jerk up their heads,
windy weather is about to commence; hence the Wiltshire proverb, that
"Pigs can see the wind."
_Horses_ foretel the coming of rain by starting more than ordinarily,
and by restlessness on the road.
_Jackdaws_ are unusually clamorous before rain, as are also _Starlings_.
Sometimes before change of weather the daws make a great noise in the
chamber wherein they build.
_Kine_ (cattle) are said to foreshow rain when they lick their
fore-feet, or lie on their right side. Some say oxen licking themselves
against the hair is a sign of wet.
_Kites_, when they soar very high in the air, denote fair weather, as do
also _Larks_.
_Magpies_, in windy weather, often fly in small flocks of three or four
together, uttering a strong harsh cry.
_Mice_ when they squeak much, and gambol in the house, foretel a change
of weather, and often rain.
_Owls._--When an owl hoots or screeches, sitting on the top of a house,
or by the side of a window, it is said to foretel death. "The fact,"
says Forster, "seems to be this: the Owl, as Virgil justly observes,
is more noisy at the change of weather, and as it often happens that
patients with lingering diseases die at the change of weather, so the
Owl seems, by a mistaken association of ideas, to forebode the calamity."
_Peacocks_ squalling by night often foretel a rainy day. Forster adds,
"This prognostic does not often fail; and the indication is made more
certain by the crowing of Cocks all day, the braying of the Donkey, the
low flight of Swallows, the aching of rheumatic persons, and by the
frequent appearance of spiders on the walls of the house."
_Pigeons._--It is a sign of rain when Pigeons return slowly to the
dove-houses before the usual time of day.
_Ravens_, when observed early in the morning, at a great height in the
air, soaring round and round, and uttering a hoarse, croaking sound,
indicate that the day will be fine. On the contrary, this bird affords
us a sign of coming rain by another sort of cry; the difference between
these two voices being more easily learned from nature than described.
The Raven frequenting the shore and dipping himself in the water is also
a sign of rain.
_Redbreasts_, when they, with more than usual familiarity, lodge on our
window-frames, and peck against the glass with their bills, indicate
severe weather, of which they have a presentiment, which brings them
nearer to the habitations of man.
_Rooks_ gathering together, and returning home from their pastures
early, and at unwonted hours, forebode rain. When Rooks whirl round in
the air rapidly, and come down in small flocks, making a roaring noise
with their wings, rough weather invariably follows. On the contrary,
when Rooks are very noisy about their trees, and fly about as if
rejoicing, Virgil assures us they foresee a return of fine weather, and
an end of the showers.
_Spiders_, when seen crawling on the walls more than usual, indicate
rain. "This prognostic," says Forster, "seldom fails, I have noticed it
for many years, particularly in winter, but more or less at all times of
the year. In summer the quantity of webs of the garden spiders denote
fair weather."
_Swallows_, in fine and settled weather, fly higher in the air than they
do just before or during a showery or rainy time. Then, also, Swallows
flying low, and skimming over the surface of a meadow where there is
tolerably long grass, frequently stop, and hang about the blades, as if
they were gathering insects lodged there.
_Swans_, when they fly against the wind, portend rain, a sign frequently
fulfilled.
_Toads_, when they come from their holes in an unusual number in the
evening, although the ground be still dry, foreshow the coming rain,
which will generally fall more or less during the night.
_Urchins of the Sea_, a sort of fish, when they thrust themselves into
the mud, and try to cover their bodies with sand, foreshow a storm.
_Vultures_, when they scent carrion at a great distance, indicate that
state of the atmosphere which is favourable to the perception of smells,
and this often forebodes rain.
_Willow Wrens_ are frequently seen, in mild and still rainy weather,
flitting about the willows, pines, and other trees, in quest of insects.
_Woodcocks_ appear in autumn earlier, and in greater numbers, previous
to severe winters; as do Snipes and other winter birds.
_Worms_ come forth more abundantly before rain, as do snails, slugs, and
almost all limaceous animals.
Some birds build their nests weather-proof, as ascertained by careful
observation of Mr. M. W. B. Thomas, of Cincinnati, Ohio. Thus, when a
pair of migratory birds have arrived in the spring, they prepare to
build their nest, making a careful reconnaissance of the place, and
observing the character of the season. If it be a windy one, they thatch
the straw and leaves on the inside of the nest, between the twigs and
the lining; if it be very windy, they get pliant twigs, and bind the
nest firmly to the limb of the tree, securing all the small twigs with
their saliva. If they fear the approach of a rainy season, they build
their nests so as to be sheltered from the weather; but if a pleasant
one, they build in a fair open place, without taking any of these extra
precautions.
Of all writers, Dr. Darwin has given us the most correct account of
the "Signs of Rain," in a poetical description of the approach of foul
weather, as follows. This passage has been often quoted, but, perhaps,
never exceeded in the accuracy of its phenomenal observation:--
"The hollow winds begin to blow;
The clouds look black, the glass is low;
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep;
And spiders from their cobwebs peep.
Last night the sun went pale to bed;
The moon in haloes hid her head;
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,
For, see, a rainbow spans the sky.
The walls are damp, the ditches smell,
Clos'd is the light red pimpernel.
Hark! how the chairs and tables crack,
Old Betty's joints are on the rack;
Her corns with shooting pains torment her,
And to her bed untimely send her.
Loud quack the ducks, the sea-fowls cry,
The distant hills are looking nigh.
How restless are the snorting swine!
The busy flies disturb the kine.
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings,
The cricket, too, how sharp he sings!
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,
Sits wiping o'er her whisker'd jaws.
The smoke from chimneys right ascends;
Then spreading back, to earth it bends.
The wind unsteady veers around,
Or settling in the South is found.
Through the clear stream the fishes rise,
And nimbly catch th' incautious flies.
The glowworms num'rous, clear, and bright,
Illum'd the dewy hill last night.
At dusk, the squalid toad was seen,
Like quadruped, stalk o'er the green.
The whirling wind the dust obeys,
And in the rapid eddy plays.
The frog has chang'd his yellow vest,
And in a russet coat is drest.
The sky is green, the air is still,
The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill.
The dog, so altered is his taste,
Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast.
Behold the rooks, how odd their flight,
They imitate the gliding kite,
And seem precipitate to fall,
As if they felt the piercing ball.
The tender colts on banks do lie,
Nor heed the traveller passing by.
In fiery red the sun doth rise,
Then wades through clouds to mount the skies.
''Twill surely rain, we see 't with sorrow,
No working in the fields to-morrow.'"
The Shepherd of Banbury says:--"The surest and most certain sign of
rain is taken from Bees, which are more incommoded by rain than almost
any other creatures; and, therefore, as soon as the air begins to
grow heavy, and the vapours to condense, they will not fly from their
hives, but either remain in them all day, or else fly but to a small
distance." Yet Bees are not always right in their prognostics, for
Réaumur witnessed a swarm which, after leaving the hive at half-past one
o'clock, were overtaken by a heavy shower at three.
FISH-TALK.
"Man favours wonders;" and this delight is almost endlessly exemplified
in the stories of strange Fishes--of preternatural size and odd forms,
which are to be found in their early history. In our present Talk we do
not aim at re-assembling these olden tales, but propose rather to glance
at recent accessions to our acquaintance with the study of Fish-life,
and a few modern instances of the class of wonders.
Fishes, like all other animals, have a very delicate sense of the
equilibrial position of their bodies. They endeavour to counteract all
change in their position by means of movements partly voluntary and
partly instinctive. These latter appear in a very remarkable manner in
the eye; and they are so constant and evident in fishes while alive,
that their absence is sufficient to indicate the death of the animal.
The equilibrium of the fish, its horizontal position, with the back
upwards, depends solely on the action of the fins, and principally
that of the vertical fins. The swimming-bladder may enable a fish
to increase or diminish its specific gravity. By compressing the air
contained in it, the fish descends in the water; it rises by releasing
the muscles which produced the compression. By compressing more or
less the posterior or anterior portion of the bladder, the animal, at
pleasure, can make the anterior or posterior half of its body lighter;
it can also assume an oblique position, which permits an ascending or
descending movement in the water.
There is a small fish found in the rivers of the Burmese Empire, which,
on being taken out of the water, has the power of blowing itself up to
the shape of a small round ball, but its original shape is resumed as
soon as it is returned to the river.
Mr. St. John, in his "Tour in Eastern Lanarkshire," gives some curious
instances of fish changing colour, which takes place with surprising
rapidity. Put a living black burn Trout into a white basin of water,
and it becomes, within half an hour, of a light colour. Keep the fish
living in a white jar for some days, and it becomes absolutely white;
but put it into a dark-coloured or black vessel, and although on first
being placed there the white-coloured fish shows most conspicuously on
the black ground, in a quarter of an hour it becomes as dark-coloured
as the bottom of the jar, and consequently difficult to be seen. No
doubt this facility of adapting its colour to the bottom of the water
in which it lives, is of the greatest service to the fish in protecting
it from its numerous enemies. All anglers must have observed, that in
every stream the Trout are very much of the same colour as the gravel or
sand on which they live: whether this change of colour is a voluntary or
involuntary act on the part of the fish, the scientific must determine.
Anglers of our time have proved that Tench croak like frogs; Herrings
cry like mice; Gurnards grunt like hogs; and some say the Gurnard makes
a noise like a cuckoo, from which he takes one of his country names. The
Maigre, a large sea-fish, when swimming in shoals, utters a grunting or
piercing noise, that may be heard from a depth of twenty fathoms.
M. Dufossé asserts that facts prove that nature has not refused to all
fishes the power of expressing their instinctive sensations by sounds,
but has not conferred on them the unity of mechanism in the formation
of sonorous vibrations as in other classes of vertebrated animals.
Some fishes, he says, are able to emit musical tones, engendered by a
mechanism in which the muscular vibration is the principal motive power;
others possess the faculty of making blowing sounds, like those of
certain reptiles; and others can produce the creaking noise resembling
that of many insects. These phenomena M. Dufossé has named "Fish-noise."
The River Plate swarms with fish, and is the _habitat_ of one possessed
of a very sonorous voice, like that found in the River Borneo--the
account of which is quoted by Dr. Buist from the Journal of the
Samarang; and there is similar testimony of a loud piscatory chorus
being heard on board H.M.S. Eagle, anchored, in 1845-6, about three
miles from Monte Video, during the night.
That fishes hear has been doubted, although John Hunter was of this
opinion, and has been followed by many observers. When standing beside
a person angling, how often is the request made not to make a noise,
as that would _alarm_ the fish. On the other hand, the Chinese drive
the fish up to that part of the river where their nets are ready to
capture them by loud yells and shouts, and the sound of gongs; but old
Æsop writes of a fisherman who caught no fish because he alarmed them
by playing on his flute while fishing. In Germany the Shad is taken
by means of nets, to which bows of wood, hung with a number of little
bells, are attached in such a manner as to chime in harmony when the
nets are moved. The Shad, when once attracted by the sound, will not
attempt to escape while the bells continue to ring. Ælian says the
Shad is allured by castanets. Macdiarmid, who declares that fishes
hear as well as see, relates that an old Codfish, the patriarch of the
celebrated fish-pond at Logan, "answered to his name; and not only
drew near, but turned up his snout most beseechingly when he heard the
monosyllable 'Tom;' and that he evidently could distinguish the voice of
the fisherman who superintended the pond, and fed the fish, from that
of any other fisherman." In the "Kaleidoscope" mention is made of three
Trout in a pond near the powder-mills at Faversham, who were so tame
as to come at the call of the person accustomed to feed them. Izaak
Walton tells of a Carp coming to a certain part of a pond to be fed "at
the ringing of a bell, or the beating of a drum;" and Sir John Hawkins
was assured by a clergyman, a friend of his, that at the Abbey of St.
Bernard, near Antwerp, he saw a Carp come to the edge of the water to be
fed, at the whistle of the person who fed it. The Carp at Fontainebleau,
inhabiting the lake adjoining the Imperial Palace, are of great size,
and manifest a curious instinct. A Correspondent of the "Athenæum"
remarks:--
"Enjoying entire immunity from all angling arts and lures, the
Fontainebleau Carp live a life of great enjoyment, marred only, we
imagine, by their immense numbers causing the supply of food to be
somewhat below their requirements. It is not, however, very easy to
define what a Carp's requirements in the form of pabulum are, as he
is a voracious member of the ichthyological family, eating whenever
he has an opportunity until absolutely surfeited. His favourite
food consists of vegetable substances masticated by means of flat
striated teeth, which work with a millstone kind of motion against
a singular process of the lower part of the skull covered with
horny plates. When this fish obtains an abundant supply of food it
grows to an enormous size. Several continental rivers and lakes
are very congenial to Carp, and especially the Oder, where this
fish occasionally attains the enormous weight of 60 lb. It is not
probable that any Carp in the lake at Fontainebleau are so large as
this; but there are certainly many weighing 50 lb., patriarchs of
their kind, which, though olive-hued in their tender years, are now
white with age. That the great size of these fish is due to ample
feeding is, we think, evident, and, as we shall see presently, it
is the large fish that are the best fed. During many years the
feeding of the Carp at Fontainebleau has been a favourite Court
pastime. But it is from the visitors who frequent Fontainebleau
during a great part of the year that the Carp receive their
most bountiful rations. For big Carp have an enormous swallow,
soft penny rolls being mere mouthfuls, bolted with ostrich-like
celerity. So to prevent the immediate disappearance of these
_bonnes bouches_, bread, in the form of larger balls than the most
capacious Carp can take into his gullet, is baked until it becomes
as hard as biscuit, and with these balls the Carp are regailed.
Throw one into the lake, and you will quickly have an idea of the
enormous Carp population it contains. For no sooner does the bread
touch the water than it is surrounded by hundreds of these fish,
which dart to it from all sides. And now, if you look attentively,
you will witness a curious display of instinct, which might almost
take a higher name. Conscious, apparently, of their inability to
crush these extremely hard balls, the Carp combine with surprising
unanimity to push them to that part of the lake with their noses
where it is bounded by a wall, and when there they butt at them,
until at last their repeated blows and the softening effect of the
water causes them to yield and open. And now you will see another
curious sight. While shoals of Carp have been pounding away at
the bread-balls, preparing them for being swallowed, some dozen
monsters hover round, indifferent, apparently, to what is passing.
But not so, for no sooner is the bread ready for eating, than two
or three of these giants, but more generally one--the tyrant,
probably, of the lake--rush to the prize, cleaving the shoals of
smaller Carp, and shouldering them to the right and left, seize the
bread with open jaws, between which it quickly disappears."
Some of the finest and oldest Carp are found in the windings of the
Spree, in the tavern-gardens of Charlottenburg, the great resort of
strollers from Berlin. Visitors are in the habit of feeding them with
bread, and collect them together by ringing a bell, at the sound of
which shoals of the fish may be seen popping their noses upwards from
the water.
The affection of fishes has only been properly understood of late years.
It might be supposed that little natural affection existed in this
cold-blooded race; and, in fact, fishes constantly devour their own
eggs, and, at a later period, their own young, without compunction or
discrimination. Some few species bear their eggs about with them until
hatched. This was long thought to be the utmost extent of care which
fishes lavished on their young; but Dr. Hancock has stepped in to rescue
at least one species from this unmerited charge. "It is asserted," he
says, "by naturalists, that no fishes are known to take any care of
their offspring. Both species of _Hassar_ mentioned below, however, make
a regular nest, in which they lay their eggs in a flattened cluster,
and cover them over most carefully. Their care does not end here; they
remain by the side of the nest till the spawn is hatched, with as much
solicitude as a hen guards her eggs, both the male and female Hassar,
for they are monogamous, steadily watching the spawn and courageously
attacking the assailant. Hence the negroes frequently take them by
putting their hands into the water close to the nest, on agitating which
the male Hassar springs furiously at them, and is thus captured. The
_roundhead_ forms its nest of grass, the _flathead_ of leaves. Both,
at certain seasons, burrow in the bank. They lay their eggs only in
wet weather. I have been surprised to observe the sudden appearance of
numerous nests in a morning after rain occurs, the spot being indicated
by a bunch of froth which appears on the surface of the water over
the nest. Below this are the eggs, placed on a bunch of fallen leaves
or grass, which they cut and collect together. By what means this is
effected seems rather mysterious, as the species are destitute of
cutting-teeth. It may, possibly, be by the use of their arms, which form
the first ray of the pectoral fin."
There is another operation by fishes, which seems to require almost
equal experience. Professor Agassiz, while collecting insects along the
shores of Lake Sebago, in Maine, observed a couple of Cat-fish, which,
at his approach, left the shore suddenly, and returned to the deeper
water. Examining the place which the fishes had left, he discovered
a _nest_ among the water-plants, with a number of little tadpoles.
In a few moments the two fishes returned, looking anxiously towards
the nest, and approached within six or eight feet of where Professor
Agassiz stood. They were evidently not in search of food, and he became
convinced that they were seeking the protection of their young. Large
stones, thrown repeatedly into the middle of the nest after the fishes
had returned to it, only frightened them away for a brief period, and
they returned to the spot within ten or fifteen minutes. This was
repeated four or five times with the same result. This negatives the
assertion made by some naturalists--that no fishes are known to take any
care of their offspring.
But affection is scarcely to be looked for where the offspring is so
very numerous as to put all attempts at even recognising them out of
the question. How could the fondest mother love 100,000 little ones at
once? Yet the number is far exceeded by some of the matrons of the deep.
Petit found 300,000 eggs in a single carp; Lenwenhoeck 9,000,000 in a
single cod; Mr. Harmer found in a sole 100,000; in a tench 300,000;
in a mackerel 500,000; and in a flounder 1,357,000.[14] M. Rousseau
disburthened a pike of 160,000, and a sturgeon of 1,567,000, while from
this latter class has been gotten 119 pounds weight of eggs, which, at
the rate of 7 to a grain, would give a total amount of 7,653,200 eggs!
If all these came to maturity the world would be in a short time nothing
but fish: means, however, amply sufficient to keep down this unwelcome
superabundance have been provided. Fish themselves, men, birds, other
marine animals, to say nothing of the dispersions produced by storms
and currents, the destruction consequent on their being thrown on the
beach and left there to dry up, all combine to diminish this excessive
supply over demand. Yet, on the other hand (so wonderfully are all
the contrivances of nature so harmonized and balanced), one of these
apparent modes of destruction becomes an actual means of extending the
species. The eggs of the pike, barbel, and many other fish, says M.
Virey, are rendered indigestible by an acid oil which they contain, and
in consequence of which they are passed in the same condition as they
were swallowed; the result of which is, that being taken in by ducks,
grebes, or other water-fowls, they are thus transported to situations,
such as inland lakes, which otherwise they could never have attained;
and in this way only can we account for the fact, now well ascertained,
that several lakes in the Alps, formed by the thawing of the glaciers,
are now abundantly stocked with excellent fish.
Little fishes are ordinarily the food of larger marine animals; but a
remarkable exception occurs in the case of the larger Medusæ, which
are stated in various works to prey upon fishes for sustenance. Mr.
Peach, the naturalist, has, however, by observations at Peterhead, in
Aberdeenshire, thus corrected this statement. He observed several small
fishes playing round the larger Medusæ in the harbour and bay. When
alarmed, they would rush under the umbrella, and remain sheltered in
its large folds till the danger had passed, when they would emerge,
and sport and play about their sheltering friend. When beneath the
umbrella they lay so close that they were frequently taken into a bucket
with the Medusæ. They proved to be young whitings, varying from 1-1/2
to 2 inches long. These little creatures, so far from becoming the
prey of the Medusæ, experienced from them protection; and, moreover,
they preferred the _stinging_ one. In no instance did Mr. Peach see a
fish in the stomach of the Medusæ, but all could liberate themselves
when they pleased. In one case, Mr. Peach witnessed a small whiting,
in the first instance chased by a single young pollack, whose assault
the little fellow easily evaded by dodging about; but the chaser being
joined by others, the whiting was driven from its imperfect shelter, and
after being much bitten and dashed about by its assailants, became at
length completely exhausted, and lay to all appearance dead. Recovering,
however, after action, it swam slowly to the Medusæ, and took refuge as
before; but its movements being soon observed, it was again attacked,
after a very brief respite, driven into open water, and speedily
despatched.
Fishes appear to execute annually two great migrations. By one of these
shiftings they forsake the deep water for a time, and approach the
shallow shores, and by the other they return to their more concealed
haunts. These movements are connected with the purposes of spawning,
the fry requiring to come into life, and to spend a certain portion
of their youth in situations different from those which are suited
to the period of maturity. It is in obedience to these arrangements
that the Cod and Haddock, the Mackerel, and others, annually leave
the deeper and less accessible parts of the ocean, the region of the
zoophytic tribes, and deposit their spawn within that zone of marine
vegetation which fringes our coasts, extending from near the high-water
mark of neap-tides to a short distance beyond the low-water mark of
spring-tides. Amidst the shelter in this region afforded by the groves
of arborescent fuci, the young fish were wont in comfort to spend
their infancy, but since these plants have been so frequently cut down
to procure materials for the manufacture of kelp, and the requisite
protection withdrawn, the fisheries have greatly suffered. Many species
of fish, as the Salmon, Smelt, and others, in forsaking the deep water,
and approaching a suitable spawning station, leave the sea altogether
for a time, ascend the rivers and their tributary streams, and, having
deposited their eggs, return again to their usual haunts. Even a certain
species of fish, inhabiting lakes, as the Roach, betake themselves to
the tributary streams, as the most suitable places for spawning.
The Goramy, of India, are stated by General Hardwicke to watch most
actively the margins of the spot which they select and prepare for
depositing their spawn, driving away with violence every other fish
which approaches their cover. The General adds that from the time he
first noticed this circumstance about one month had elapsed, when one
day he saw numerous minute fishes close to the margin of the grass, on
the outer side of which the parent fishes continued to pass to and fro.
There is a species of Grampus from two to three tons weight, and about
sixteen feet in length, that amuses itself with jumping, or rather
springing its ponderous body entirely out of the water, in a vertical
position, and falling upon its back. This effort of so large a fish is
almost incredible, and informs us how surprisingly great the power of
muscle must be in this class of animal. A Correspondent writes to the
"United Service Journal":--"I have seen them spring out of the water
within ten yards of the ship's side, generally in the evening, after
having swam all the former part of the day in the ship's wake, or on
either quarter. When several of these fish take it into their heads to
'dance a hornpipe,' as the sailors term their gambols, at the distance
of half a mile, they, especially at or just after sundown, may easily
be mistaken for the sharp points of rocks sticking up out of the water,
and the splashing and foam they make and produce have the appearance
of the action of waves upon rocks. An officer of the navy informed me
that, after sunset, when near the equator, he was not a little alarmed
and surprised at the cry of 'rocks on the starboard bow!' Looking
forward, he indistinctly saw objects which he and all on board took
to be pinnacles of several rocks of a black and white colour. In a
short time, however, he discovered this formidable danger to be nothing
more than a company of dancing Grampuses with white bellies. As one
disappeared, another rose; so that there were at least five or six
constantly above the surface."
Captain Owen relates that "the Bonita has the power of throwing itself
out of the water to an almost incredible distance when in pursuit of
its prey, the Flying Fish; and, the day previous to our arrival at
Mozambique, one of these fish rose close under our bow, and passed under
the vessel's side, and struck with such force against the poop, that,
had any one received the blow, it must have been fatal. Stunned by the
violence of the contact, it fell motionless at the helmsman's feet; but,
soon recovering, its struggles were so furious that it became necessary
to inflict several blows with an axe before it could be approached
with safety. The greatest elevation it attained above the surface of
water was eighteen feet, and the length of the leap, had no opposition
occurred, would have exceeded 180."
Of winged or Flying Fish we find this extravagant account in a
philosophical romance, entitled, "Telliamed," by M. Maillet, an
ingenious Frenchman, of the days of Louis XV.:--
He believed, like Lamarck, that the whole family of birds had
existed one time as fishes, which, on being thrown ashore by the
waves, had got feathers by accident; and that men themselves are
but the descendants of a tribe of sea-monsters, who, tiring of
their proper element, crawled upon the beach one sunny morning,
and, taking a fancy to the land, forgot to return. The account
is as amusing as a fairy tale. "Winged or Flying Fish," says
Maillet, "stimulated by the desire of prey, or the fear of death,
or pushed near the shore by the billows, have fallen among the
reeds or herbage, whence it was not possible for them to resume
their flight to the sea, by means of which they had contracted
their first facility of flying. Then their fins, being no longer
bathed in the sea-water, were split and became warped by their
dryness. While they found among the reeds and herbage among which
they fell many aliments to support them, the vessels of their fins
being separated, were lengthened, or clothed with beards, or, to
speak more justly, the membranes which before kept them adherent
to each other were metamorphosed. The beard formed of these warped
membranes was lengthened. The skin of these animals was insensibly
covered with a down of the same colour with the skin, and this
down gradually increased. The little wings they had under their
belly, and which, like their wings, helped them to walk into the
sea, became feet, and helped them to walk on the land. There were
also other small changes in their figure. The beak and neck of some
were lengthened, and of others shortened. The conformity, however,
of the first figure subsists in the whole, and it will be always
easy to know it. Examine all the species of fowl, even those of the
Indies, those which are tufted or not, those whose feathers are
reversed--such as we see at Damietta, that is to say, whose plumage
runs from the tail to the head--and you will see fine species
of fish quite similar, scaly or without scales. All species of
Parrots, whose plumages are different, the rarest and most singular
marked birds, are, conformable to fact, painted, like them, black,
brown, grey, yellow, green, red, violet colour, and those of gold
and azure; and all this precisely in the same parts, where the
plumages of these birds are diversified in so curious a manner."
The Jaculator Fish, of Java, has been called "a sporting fish," from the
precision with which it takes aim at its prey. In 1828 Mr. Mitchell
saw several of these fishes in the possession of a Javanese chief; and
here is the account of the curious manner in which these Jaculators were
employed. They were placed in a small circular pond, from the centre
of which projected a pole upwards of two feet in height. At the top of
the pole were inserted small pieces of wood, sharp-pointed, and on each
of these were placed insects of the beetle tribe. When the slaves had
placed the beetles, the fish came out of their holes, and swam round the
pond. One of them came to the surface of the water, rested there, and
after steadily fixing its eyes for some time on an insect, it discharged
from its mouth a small quantity of watery fluid, with such force, and
precision of aim, as to strike it off the twig into the water, and in
an instant swallowed it. After this, another fish came, and performed
a similar feat, and was followed by the others, until they had secured
all the insects. If a fish failed in bringing down its prey at the first
shot, it swam round the pond till it came opposite the same object, and
fired again. In one instance, a fish returned three times to the attack
before it secured its prey; but in general the fish seemed very expert
gunners, bringing down the beetle at the first shot. The fish, in a
state of nature, frequents the shores and sides of the rivers in search
of food. When it spies a fly sitting on the plants that grow on shallow
water, it swims on to the distance of five or six feet from them, and
then, with surprising dexterity, it ejects out of its tubular mouth a
single drop of water, which rarely fails to strike the fly into the
sea, where it soon becomes its prey.
Curious fish, in great numbers, may be seen in the Harbour of Port
Royal, Jamaica, on the surface of the water, and are ranked among the
peculiarities of the place. They are the Guardo, or Guard-Fish; the Jack
(Sword-Fish); and the Ballahou. The Jack is the largest, and appears to
be always at war with the two others; it is armed with formidable teeth;
it basks on the surface of the water during the heat of the day, in a
sort of indolent, unguarded state; but this is assumed, the better to
ensnare the other fish, and to catch the floating bodies that may happen
to pass near it; for the moment anything is thrown into the sea from
the ship, the Jack darts with the rapidity of lightning upon it, and
seizing it as quickly, retreats. This Warrior-fish possesses a foresight
or instinctive quality which we see sometimes exemplified in different
animals, almost amounting to second reason, such as the sagacity it
displays in avoiding the hook when baited; although extremely voracious,
it seems aware of the lure held out for its destruction, and avoids
it with as much cunning as the generality of fishes show eagerness to
devour it. The situation it takes, immediately in the wake of the ship
at anchor, is another instance of its sagacity; as whatever is thrown
overboard passes astern, where the fish is ever on the alert for the
articles thrown over. No other fish of equal size dare approach. The
Jack is, however, sometimes enticed with the bait; but he is more
frequently struck with a barbed lance, or entrapped in a net. The
Guardo has similar habits with the Jack, but is generally beaten by
him; yet the former tyrannizes with unrelenting rigour over the weaker
associate, the Ballahou.
The tiger of the ocean, the Shark, is often cruising about Port Royal,
but rarely injures human life. At Kingston, however, such distressing
events often occur. There was a pet Shark known as "Old Tom of Port
Royal;" it was fed whenever it approached any of the ships, but was at
last killed by the father of a child which it had devoured. Whilst it
remained here, no other of the Shark tribe dare venture on his domain;
he reigned lord paramount in his watery empire, and never committed any
depredation but that for which he suffered.
Attending the Shark is seen the beautiful little Pilot Fish, who, first
approaching the bait, returns as if to give notice, when, immediately
after, the Shark approaches to seize it. It is a curious circumstance,
that this elegant little fish is seen in attendance only upon the Shark.
After the Shark is hooked, the Pilot Fish still swims about, and for
some time after he has been hauled on deck; it then swims very near the
surface of the water. When the Shark has been hooked, and afterwards
escapes, he generally returns, and renews the attack with increased
ferocity, irritated often by the wound he has received.
Sharks appear to have become of late years much more numerous in Faroe,
as they have also in other parts of the North Seas, especially on the
coast of Norway.
The reader may, probably, have found on the sea-shore certain cases,
which are fancifully called sea-purses, Mermaids' purses, &c. Now,
some Sharks bring forth their young alive, whilst others are enclosed
in oblong semi-transparent, horny cases, at each extremity of which
are two long tendrils. These cases are the above _purses_, which the
parent Shark deposits near the shore in the winter months. The twisting
tendrils hang to sea-weed, or other fixed bodies, to prevent the cases
being washed away into deep water. Two fissures, one at each end, allow
the admission of sea-water; and here the young Shark remains until it
has acquired the power of taking food by the mouth, when it leaves what
resembles its cradle. The young fish ultimately escapes by an opening at
the end, near which the head is situated.
California has yielded an extraordinary novelty in fish history. In 1854
Mr. Jackson, while fishing in San Salita Bay, caught with a hook and
line a fish of the perch family _containing living young_. These were
supposed to be the prey which the fish had swallowed, but on opening
the belly was found next to the back of the fish, and slightly attached
to it, a long very light violet bag, so clear and transparent that
there could already be distinguished through it the shape, colour, and
formation of a multitude of small fish (all facsimiles of each other),
with which the bag was filled. They were in all respects like the
mother, and like each other; and there cannot remain a single doubt that
these young were the offspring of the fish from whose body they were
taken; and that this species of fish gives birth to her young alive
and perfectly formed, and adapted to seek its own livelihood in the
water. Professor Agassiz has confirmed the truth of this extraordinary
statement by a careful examination of the specimens, and has ascertained
that there are two very distinct species of this remarkable type of
fishes.
Tales of "Wonderful Fish" are common in the works of the old
naturalists, whence they are quoted from generation to generation.
Sir John Richardson has lately demolished one queer fish, which was
as certain to reappear whenever opportunity offered, as the elephant
pricked with the tailor's needle does in books of stories of the animal
world. We allude to that monstrous myth, the great Manheim Pike, with
a collar round his neck, put into a lake by the Emperor Frederick II.
in the year 1230; and taken out in the 276th year of his age, the 17th
foot of his length, and the 350th pound of his weight. M. Valenciennes,
a naturalist of repute, has entered into a critical history of this
monster, and has found him to be apocryphal. The creature was, at any
rate, taken in several places at once, the legends written on his
brass collar do not agree, and his alleged skeleton has been found
to be made up of various bones of various fishes; while the vertebræ
are, unfortunately, so many, that Professor Owen would order him out
of Court in an instant as a rank impostor. Probably some specimen of
the _Mecho_, the monstrous fish of the Danube--which has even now been
scarcely described, and which has only recently been identified as one
of the salmon tribe--having been called a pike, may be at the bottom of
the legend of the great Manheim fish. But Sir John Richardson produces
another big pike, killed by an intrepid "angler seventy years of age,
with a single rod and bait"--an observation which leads to the inquiry
of the possibility of catching a single fish with more than one rod
and bait--"that weighed seventy-eight pounds." This is stated to have
happened in the county of Clare; the angler's name was O'Flanagan.
Here is another wonderful story:--The Bohemians have a proverb--"Every
fish has another for prey:" that named the Wels has them all. This is
the largest fresh-water fish found in the rivers of Europe, except the
sturgeon; it often reaches five or six feet in length. It destroys many
aquatic birds, and we are assured that it does not spare the human
species. On the 3d of July, 1700, a peasant took one near Thorn, that
had an infant entire in its stomach! They tell in Hungary of children
and young girls being devoured on going to draw water; and they even
relate that, on the frontiers of Turkey, a poor fisherman took one that
had in its stomach the body of a woman, her purse full of gold, and
a _ring_! The fish is even reported to have been taken sixteen feet
long. The old stories of rings found in the stomachs of fishes will be
remembered; as well as here and there a _book_ found in the stomach of a
fish!
The Sun-fish is exceedingly rare. A large specimen was captured off
Start Point in 1864. Attention was first drawn to a huge dark object on
the water. On a boat being sent out, it was soon discovered to be the
back fin of a very large fish, apparently asleep. A very exciting chase
commenced, extending over an hour, the crew meanwhile battling with
harpoons, boat-hooks, &c.; the fish trying several times to upset the
boat by getting his back under it. At length a line was thrown over its
head, and the fish, being weakened by the struggle, was towed alongside
the yacht, hoisted on board, and slaughtered. Yarrell, in his work on
British Fishes, states the largest Sun-fish to be about 3 cwt., but the
above specimen weighed nearly 6 cwt. Sun-fish are found occasionally in
the tropical seas of large dimensions, but those found in the Channel
seldom if ever exceed from 1 cwt. to 2 cwt. The peculiarities in regard
to this fish are, that it has no bones, but the whole of the formation
is of cartilage, which can easily be cut with a knife. The skin is
cartilage of about an inch and a-half thick, under which there is no
backbone or ribs. This specimen was of extraordinary dimensions--5 ft.
10 in. in length, and 7 ft. from the tip of the dorsal to the point of
the anal fin.
The "Courrier de Sagon" brings, as a contribution to Natural History,
the not very credible-sounding description of a fish called "Ca-oug"
in the Anamite tongue, which is said to have saved the lives already
of several Anamites; for which reason the King of Anam has invested it
with the name of "Nam hai dui bnong gnan" (Great General of the South
Sea). This fish is said to swim round ships near the coast, and, when it
sees a man in the water, to seize him with his mouth, and to carry him
ashore. A skeleton of this singular inhabitant of the deep is to be seen
at Wung-tau, near Cape St. James. It is reported to be thirty-five feet
in length, to have tusks "almost like an elephant," very large eyes, a
black and smooth skin, a tail like a lobster, and two "wings" on its
back.[15]
The Grouper must be a voracious fish, for we read of a specimen being
caught off the coast of Queensland, which is thus described:--"It was
7 ft. long, 6 ft. in circumference at its thickest part, and its head
weighed 80 lb. When opened, there were found in its stomach two broken
bottles, a quart pot, a preserved milk tin, seven medium-sized crabs; a
piece of earthenware, triangular in shape, and three inches in length,
incrusted with oyster shells, a sheep's head, some mutton and beef
bones, and some loose oyster shells. The spine of a skate was imbedded
in the Grouper's liver."
The Double-fish, here represented, is a pair of Cat-fish, which were
taken alive in a shrimp-net, at the mouth of Cape Fear River, near
Fort Johnston. North Carolina, in 1833, and presented to Professor
Silliman. One of them is three and a-half, and the other two and a-half
inches long, including the tail--the smallest emaciated, and of sickly
appearance. They are connected in the manner of the Siamese Twins, by
the skin at the breast, which is marked by a dark streak at the line of
union. The texture and colour otherwise of this skin is the same as that
of the belly. The mouth, viscera, &c., were entire and perfect in each
fish; but, on withdrawing the entrails, through an incision made on one
side of the abdomen, the connecting integument was found to be hollow.
A flexible probe was passed through from one to the other, with the
tender and soft end of a spear of grass, drawn from a green plant. But
there was no appearance of the entrails of one having come in contact
with those of the other, for the integument was less than one-tenth of
an inch in its whole thickness; in length, from the body or trunk of
one fish to the other, it was three-tenths; and in the water, when the
largest fish was in its natural position, the small one could, by the
length and pliancy of this skin, swim in nearly the same position. When
these fish came into existence it is probable they were of almost equal
size and strength, but one "born to better fortune," or exercising more
ingenuity and industry than the other, gained a trifling ascendency,
which he improved to increase the disparity, and, by pushing his
extended mouth in advance of the other, seized the choicest and most of
the food for himself.
From the northern parts of British America we have received
extraordinary contributions to our fish collections. One of these is
the Square-browed Malthe, obtained in one of the land expeditions under
the command of Captain Sir John Franklin. R.N. It was taken on the
Labrador coast, and then belonged to a species hitherto undescribed.
Its intestines were filled with small crabs and univalve shells. The
extreme length of the fish is 7 inches 11 lines. The upper surface
is greyish white, with brown blotches, and the fins are whitish. The
head is much depressed and greatly widened; the eyes far forward; the
snout projecting like a small horn. Most of the fish of this family
can live long out of water, in consequence of the smallness of their
gill-openings; indeed, those of one of the genera are able, even in warm
countries, to pass two or three days in creeping over the land. All the
family conceal themselves in the mud or sand, and lie in wait to take
their prey by surprise. The accompanying engraving is from the very
able work of Dr. Richardson, F.R.S., published by the munificence of
Government.
[Illustration: SQUARE-BROWED MALTHE AND DOUBLE FISH.]
Gold Fish (of the Carp family) have been made to distinguish a
particular sound made by those from whom they receive their food; they
recognise their footsteps at a distance, and come at their call. Captain
Brown says Gold Fish, when kept in ponds, are "frequently taught to rise
to the surface of the water at the sound of a bell to be fed;" and Mr.
Jesse was assured that Gold Fish evince much pleasure on being whistled
to. Hakewill, in his "Apology for God's Power and Providence," cites
Pliny to show that a certain emperor had ponds containing fish, which,
when called by their respective _names_ that were bestowed upon them,
came to the spot whence the voice proceeded. Bernier, in his "History
of Hindustan," states a like circumstance of the fish belonging to the
Great Mogul. The old poet, Martial, also mentions fish coming at the
call, as will be seen by the following translation from one of his
epigrams:--
"Angler! could'st thou be guiltless? Then forbear:
For these are sacred fishes that swim here;
Who know their Sovereign, and will lick his hand.
Than which none's greater in the world's command;
Nay, more; they've names, and when they called are.
Do to their several owners' call repair."
Who, after reading so many instances, can doubt that fish hear?
It has been found that the water from steam-engines, which is thrown
into dams or ponds for the purpose of being cooled, conduces much to
the nutriment of Gold Fish. In these dams, the average temperature
of which is about eighty degrees, it is common to keep Gold Fish; in
which situation they multiply much more rapidly than in ponds of lower
temperature exposed to variations of the climate. Three pair of fish
were put into one of these dams, where they increased so rapidly that at
the end of three years their progeny, which was accidentally poisoned
by verdigris mixed with the refuse tallow from the engine, were taken
out by wheel-barrow-fuls. Gold Fish are by no means useless inhabitants
of these dams, as they consume the refuse grease which would otherwise
impede the cooling of the water by accumulating on its surface. It is
not improbable that this unusual supply of aliment may co-operate with
increase of temperature in promoting the fecundity of the fishes.
Most of our readers have heard of the fish popularly known as the
Miller's Thumb, the origin of the name of which Mr. Yarrell has thus
explained:--"It is well known that all the science and tact of a miller
is directed so to regulate the machinery of his mill that the meal
produced shall be of the most valuable description that the operation
of grinding will permit, when performed under the most advantageous
circumstances. His ear is constantly directed to the note made by the
running stone in its circular course over the bedstone, the exact
parallelism of their two surfaces, indicated by a particular sound,
being a matter of the first consequence; and his hand is constantly
placed under the meal-spout to ascertain, by actual contact, the
character and quality of the meal produced, which he does by a
particular movement of his thumb in spreading the sample over his
fingers. By this incessant action of the miller's thumb, a peculiarity
in its shape is produced, which is said to resemble exactly the shape of
the _river bull-head_, a fish constantly found in the mill-stream, and
which has obtained for it the name of the Miller's Thumb."
M. Coste has constructed a kind of marine observatory at Concarneau
(Finisterre) for the purpose of studying the habits and instincts of
various Sea-fish. A terrace has been formed on the top of a house on the
quay, with reservoirs arranged like a flight of steps. The sea-water is
pumped up to the topmost reservoir, and thence flows down slowly, after
the manner of a rivulet. The length is divided into 95 cells by wire
net partitions, which, allowing free passage to the water, yet prevent
the different species of fish from mingling together. By this ingenious
contrivance each kind lives separate, enjoying its peculiar food and
habits, unconscious of its state of captivity. Some species, such as the
Mullet, the Stickleback, &c., grow perfectly tame, will follow the hand
that offers them food, and will even allow themselves to be taken out of
the water. The Goby and Bull-head are less familiar. The Turbot, which
looks so unintelligent, will, nevertheless, take food from the hand;
it changes colour when irritated, the spots with which it is covered
growing pale or dark, according to the emotions excited in it. But
the most curious circumstance concerning it is, that it swallows fish
of a much larger size than would appear compatible with the apparent
smallness of its mouth. Thus, a young Turbot, not more than ten inches
in length, has been seen to swallow Pilchards of the largest size. The
Pipe-Fish has two peculiarities. These fish form groups, entwining their
tails together, and remaining immoveable in a vertical position, with
their heads upwards. When food is offered them, they perform a curious
evolution--they turn round on their backs to receive it. This is owing
to the peculiar position of the mouth, which is placed under a kind of
beak, and perpendicular to its axis.
The crustaceous tribes have also furnished much matter of observation.
The Prawn and Crab, for instance, exercises the virtue of conjugal
fidelity to the highest degree; for the male takes hold of his mate,
and never lets her go; he swims with her, crawls about with her, and if
she is forcibly taken away from him, he seizes hold of her again. The
metamorphoses to which various crustaceous tribes are subject have also
been studied with much attention.[16]
Much as the nature and habits of fish have been studied of late years,
the economy of some is to this day involved in obscurity. The Herring
is one of these fishes. The Swedish Herring Fisheries were, at one
time, the largest in Europe, but at present, during the temporary
disappearance of the fish, they have dwindled away. The causes which
influence the movements of the Herring--one of the most capricious of
fish--are a puzzle which naturalists have as yet failed to solve. They
are not migratory, as was at one time believed--that is, they seldom
wander far from the place where they were bred; but they are influenced
by certain hidden and unexplained causes at one time to remain for years
in the deep sea, and at another to come close in to land in enormous
numbers. During the first half of the sixteenth century, Herrings
entirely deserted the Swedish coasts. In 1556 they reappeared, and
remained for thirty-one years in the shallow waters. Throughout this
period they were taken in incalculable numbers; "thousands of ships came
annually from Denmark, Germany, Friesland, Holland, England, and France,
to purchase the fish, of which sufficient were always found for them
to carry away to their own or other countries.... From the small town
of Marstrand alone some two million four hundred thousand bushels were
yearly exported." In 1587 the Herrings disappeared, and remained absent
for seventy-three years, till 1660. In 1727 they returned, and again in
1747, remaining till 1808, and during this last period the fisheries
were prosecuted with extraordinary zeal, industry, and success. The
Government gave every encouragement to settlers, and it was computed
that during some years as many as fifty thousand strangers took part
in them. In 1808 the Herrings once more disappeared, and have never
returned since. The cause must still be considered as quite unknown; but
we may fairly assume, according to historical precedents, that after a
certain period of absence, the Herrings will again return.[17]
Aristotle, in his "History of Animals," makes some extremely curious
observations on Fish and Cetaceous Animals, as might be expected from
the variety of these animals in the Grecian seas. In Spratt and Forbes's
"Travels in Syria" the account of the habits and structure of the
Cuttle-fish in Aristotle's work is ranked amongst the most admirable
natural history essays ever written. It is, moreover, remarkable for its
anticipation.
Dr. Osborne, in 1840, read to the Royal Society a short analysis of
this work, in which he showed that Aristotle anticipated Dr. Jenner's
researches respecting the cuckoo; as also some discoveries respecting
the incubated egg, which were published as new in the above year.
Aristotle describes the economy of bees as we have it at present; but
mistakes the sex of the queen. The various organs are described as
modified throughout the different classes of animals (beginning with
man) in nearly the same order as that afterwards adopted by Cuvier.
The chief value of this body of knowledge, which has been buried for
above 2,000 years, is, that it is a collection of facts observed under
peculiar advantages, such as never since occurred, and that _it is at
the present day to be consulted for new discoveries_.
According to Pliny, for the above work some thousands of men were placed
at Aristotle's disposal throughout Greece and Asia, comprising persons
connected with hunting and fishing, or who had the care of cattle,
fish-ponds, and apiaries, in order that he might obtain information from
all quarters, _ne quid usquam gentium ignoretur ab eo_. According to
Athenæus, Aristotle received from the prince, on account of the expenses
of the work, 800 talents, or upwards of 79,000_l._
FOOTNOTES:
[14] A tench was brought to Mr. Harmer so full of spawn that the skin
was burst by a slight knock, and many thousands of the eggs were lost;
yet even after this misfortune he found the remainder to amount to
383,252! Of other marine animals, which he includes under the general
term fish, the fecundity, though sufficiently great, is by no means
enormous. A lobster yielded 7,227 eggs; a prawn 3,806; and a shrimp
3,057. See Mr. Harmer's paper, "Philosophical Transactions," 1767.
[15] "Athenæum."
[16] See "The Tree-climbing Crab," pp. 282-302.
[17] "Saturday Review."
FISH IN BRITISH COLOMBIA.
In this bitterly cold country, where the snow lies deep six months out
of the twelve, the natives subsist principally on fish, of which there
is an extraordinary abundance generally, and of salmon particularly.
Salmon swarm in such numbers that the rivers cannot hold them. In June
and July every rivulet, no matter how shallow, is so crammed with salmon
that, from sheer want of room, they push one another high and dry upon
the pebbles; and Mr. Lord[18] tells us that each salmon, with its head
up, struggles, fights, and scuffles for precedence. With one's hands
only, or more easily by employing a gaff or a crook-stick, tons of
salmon have been procured by the simple process of hooking them out.
Once started on their journey, the salmon never turn back. As fast as
those in front die, fresh arrivals crowd on to take their places, and
share their fate. "It is a strange and novel sight to see three moving
lines of fish--the dead and dying in the eddies and slack water along
the bank, the living breasting the current in the centre, blindly
pressing on to perish like their kindred." For two months this great
_salmon army_ proceeds on its way up stream, furnishing a supply of food
without which the Indians must perish miserably. The winters are too
severe for them to venture out in search of food, even if there was any
to be obtained. From being destitute of salt, they are unable to cure
meat in the summer for winter provisions, and hence for six months in
the year they depend upon salmon, which they preserve by drying in the
sun.
But the Indian has another source of provision for the winter, fully
as important as the salmon. The Candle-fish supplies him at once with
light, butter, and oil.[19] When dried, and perforated with a rush,
or strip of cypress-bark, it can be lighted, and burns steadily until
consumed. Strung up, and hung for a time in the smoke of a wood fire,
it is preserved as a fatty morsel to warm him when pinched with cold;
and, by heat and pressure, it is easily converted into liquid oil, and
drunk with avidity. That nothing may be wanting, the hollow stalk of the
sea-wrack, which at the root is expanded into a complete flask, makes an
admirable bottle; and so, when the Indian buries himself for long dreary
months in his winter quarters, neither his larder nor his cellar are
empty, and he has a lamp to lighten the darkness. The steamers have,
however, frightened away the Candle-fish and the Indian from their old
haunts, and they have both retreated to the north of the Colombia River.
Amongst the other inhabitants of the salt and fresh waters of these
regions are the Halibut and the Sturgeon, both of which attain to an
immense size. The bays and inlets along the coast abound with marine
wonders. There feasts and fattens the Clam, a bivalve so gigantic that
no oyster-knife can force an entrance, and only when his shell is almost
red-hot will he be at last constrained to open his dwelling.
And there lies in wait the awful Octopus, a monster of insatiable
voracity, of untameable ferocity, and of consummate craft; of sleepless
vigilance, shrouded amidst the forest of sea-weed, and from the touch of
whose terrible arms no living thing escapes. It attains to an enormous
size in those seas, the arms being sometimes five feet in length, and as
thick at the base as a man's wrist. No bather would have a chance if he
once got within the grasp of such a monster, nor could a canoe resist
the strength of its pull; but the Indian, who devours the Octopus with
great relish, has all the cunning created by necessity, and takes care
that none of the eight sucker-dotted arms ever gain a hold on his frail
bark.
Professor Owen has figured a species of Octopus, the Eight-armed Cuttle
of the European seas, representing it in the act of creeping on shore,
its body being carried vertically in the reverse position, with its head
downwards, and its back being turned towards the spectator, upon whom it
is supposed to be advancing. This animal is said to be luminous in the
dark. Linnæus quotes Bartholinus for the statement that one gave so much
light that when the candle was taken away, it illuminated the room.
The Sturgeon is one of the finest fishes of the country, and Mr. Lord's
account of the Indian mode of taking them is a very graphic picture of
this river sport.
"The spearman stands in the bow, armed with a most formidable
spear. The handle, from seventy to eighty feet long, is made of
white pine-wood; fitted on the spear-haft is a barbed point,
in shape very much like a shuttlecock, supposing each feather
represented by a piece of bone, thickly barbed, and very sharp
at the end. This is so contrived that it can be easily detached
from the long handle by a sharp, dexterous jerk. To this barbed
contrivance a long line is made fast, which is carefully coiled
away close to the spearman, like a harpoon-line in a whale-boat.
The four canoes, alike equipped, are paddled into the centre of
the stream, and side by side drift slowly down with the current,
each spearman carefully feeling along the bottom with his spear,
constant practice having taught the crafty savages to know a
Sturgeon's back when the spear comes in contact with it. The
spear-head touches the drowsy fish; a sharp plunge, and the
redskin sends the notched points through armour and cartilage,
deep into the leather-like muscles. A skilful jerk frees the long
handle from the barbed end, which remains inextricably fixed in
the fish; the handle is thrown aside, the line seized, and the
struggle begins. The first impulse is to resist this objectionable
intrusion, so the angry Sturgeon comes up to see what it all
means. This curiosity is generally repaid by having a second spear
sent crashing into him. He then takes a header, seeking safety in
flight, and the real excitement commences. With might and main the
bowman plies the paddle, and the spearman pays out the line, the
canoe flying through the water. The slightest tangle, the least
hitch, and over it goes; it becomes, in fact, a sheer trial of
paddle _versus_ fin. Twist and turn as the Sturgeon may, all the
canoes are with him. He flings himself out of the water, dashes
through it, under it, and skims along the surface; but all is in
vain, the canoes and their dusky oarsmen follow all his efforts
to escape, as a cat follows a mouse. Gradually the Sturgeon
grows sulky and tired, obstinately floating on the surface. The
savage knows he is not vanquished, but only biding a chance for
revenge; so he shortens up the line, and gathers quietly on him
to get another spear in. It is done,--and down viciously dives
the Sturgeon; but pain and weariness begin to tell, the struggles
grow weaker and weaker as life ebbs slowly away, until the mighty
armour-plated monarch of the river yields himself a captive to the
dusky native in his frail canoe."
There is a very rare Spoonbill Sturgeon found in the western waters
of North America: its popular name is Paddle-fish. One, five feet in
length, weighed forty pounds; the nose, resembling a spatula, was
thirteen inches in length. It was of a light slate colour, spotted with
black; belly white; skin smooth, like an eel; the flesh compact and
firm, and hard when boiled--not very enticing to the epicure. The jaws
are without teeth, but the fauces are lined with several tissues of the
most beautiful network, evidently for the purpose of collecting its food
from the water by straining, or passing it through these membranes in
the same manner as practised by the spermaceti whale. Near the top of
the head are two small holes, through which it is possible the Sturgeon
may discharge water in the manner practised by cetaceous animals. It is
conjectured that the long "Spoonbill" nose of this fish is for digging
up or moving the soft mud in the bottom of the river, and when the water
is fully saturated, draw it through the filamentory strainers in search
of food.
Sturgeons resemble sharks in their general form, but their bodies are
defended by bony shields, disposed in longitudinal rows; and their head
is also well curiassed externally. The Sturgeons of North America are of
little benefit to the natives. A few speared in the summer-time suffice
for the temporary support of some Indian hordes; but none are preserved
for winter use, and the roe and sounds are utterly wasted.
The northern limit of the Sturgeon in America is probably between the
55th and 56th parallels of latitude. Dr. Richardson did not meet with
any account of its existence to the north of Stewart's Lake, on the west
side of the Rocky Mountains; and on the east side it does not go higher
than the Saskatchewan and its tributaries. It is not found in Churchill
River, nor in any of the branches of the Mackenzie or other streams that
fall into the Arctic Seas--a remarkable circumstance when we consider
that some species swarm in the Asiatic rivers which flow into the Icy
Sea. Sturgeons occur in all the great lakes communicating with the
St. Lawrence, and also along the whole Atlantic coast of the United
States down to Florida. Peculiar species inhabit the Mississippi; it is,
therefore, probable that the range of the genus extends to the Gulf of
Mexico.
The great rapid which forms the discharge of the Saskatchewan into Lake
Winnipeg appears quite alive with these fish in the month of June; and
some families of the natives resort thither at that time to spear them
with a harpoon, or grapple them with a strong hook tied to a pole.
Notwithstanding the great muscular power of the Sturgeon, it is timid;
and Dr. Richardson saw one so frightened at the paddling of a canoe,
that it ran its nose into a muddy bank, and was taken by a _voyageur_,
who leaped upon its back.
In Colombia River, a small species of Sturgeon attains eleven feet in
length, and a weight of six hundred pounds.[20] It is caught as high up
as Fort Colville, notwithstanding the numerous intervening cataracts and
rapids which seem to be insuperable barriers to a fish so sluggish in
its movements.
The Sturgeon is styled a Royal Fish in England, because, by a statute
of Edward II. it is enacted, "the King shall have Sturgeon taken in the
sea, or elsewhere, within the realm."
FOOTNOTES:
[18] "The Naturalist in Vancouver Island and British Columbia." By John
Keast Lord, F.Z.S., Naturalist to the British North American Boundary
Commission.
[19] The Petrel is similarly used in the Faroe Islands. (See _ante_, p.
234.) It may, therefore, be called the Candle Bird.
[20] Dr. Richardson. The _Huro_ is reported by Pallas to attain a weight
of nearly three thousand pounds, and a length exceeding thirty feet.
THE TREE-CLIMBING CRAB.
The transition from the ordinary mode of the locomotion of fishes by
swimming to that of climbing has been ably illustrated by the Rev. Dr.
Buckland, who showed, in a communication to the Ashmolean Society, in
1843, that the fins in certain genera perform the functions of feet
and wings. Thus, "fishing-frogs" have the fins converted into feet, or
paddles, by means of which they have the power of crawling or hopping
on sand and mud; and another species can live three days out of the
water, and walk upon dry land. The climbing perch of the Indian rivers
is known to live a long time in the air, and to climb up the stems of
palm-trees in pursuit of flies, by means of spinous projections on its
gill-covers. Fishes of the _silurus_ family have a bony enlargement of
the first ray of the pectoral fin, which is also armed with spines;
and this is not only an offensive and defensive weapon, but enables
the fish to walk along the bottom of the fresh waters which it
inhabits. The flying-fishes are notorious examples of the conversion
of fins into an organ of movement in the air. M. Deslongchamps has
published, in the "Transactions of the Linnæan Society of Normandy,"
1842, a curious account of the movements of the gurnard at the bottom of
the sea. In 1839, he observed these movements in one of the artificial
fishing-ponds, or fishing-traps, surrounded by nets, on the shore of
Normandy. He saw a score of gurnards closing their fins against their
sides, like the wing of a fly in repose, and without any movement of
their tails, walking along the bottom by means of six free rays, three
on each pectoral fin, which they placed successively on the ground.
They moved rapidly forwards, backwards, to the right and left, groping
in all directions with these rays, as if in search of small crabs.
Their great heads and bodies seemed to throw hardly any weight on the
slender rays, or feet, being suspended in water, and having their weight
further diminished by their swimming-bladder. During these movements the
gurnards resembled insects moving along the sand. When M. Deslongchamps
moved in the water, the fish swam away rapidly to the extremity of the
pond; when he stood still, they resumed their ambulatory movement, and
came between his legs. On dissection, we find these three anterior rays
of the pectoral fins to be supported each with strong muscular apparatus
to direct their movements, apart from the muscles that are connected
with the smaller rays of the pectoral fin.
Dr. Buckland states that Miss Potts, of Chester, had sent to him a
flagstone from a coalshaft at Mostyn, bearing impressions which he
supposed to be the trackway of some fish crawling along the bottom
by means of the anterior rays of its pectoral fins. There were no
indications of feet, but only scratches, symmetrically disposed on each
side of a space that may have been covered by the body of the fish
whilst making progress, by pressing its fin-bones on the bottom. As yet,
no footsteps of reptiles, or of any animals more highly organized than
fishes, have been found in strata older than those which belong to the
new red sandstone. The abundant remains of fossil fishes, armed with
strong bony spines, and of other fishes allied to the gurnard, in strata
of the carboniferous and old red sandstone series, would lead us to
expect the frequent occurrence of impressions made by their locomotive
organs on the bottoms of the ancient waters in which they lived. Dr.
Buckland proposed to designate these petrified traces or trackways of
ancient fishes by the term of fish-tracks.
Crabs and Lobsters are strange creatures: strange in their
configurations; strange in the transmutations which they exhibit from
the egg to maturity; strange in the process they undergo of casting off,
not only their shell, but the covering of their eyes, of their long
horns, and even the lining of their tooth-furnished stomach; strange,
also, are they in their manners and habits. Many a reader, in wandering
along the sea-shore, may have disturbed little colonies of Crabs
quietly nestling in fancied security amidst banks of slimy sea-weed; and
in the nooks and recesses of the coast, the shallows, and strips of land
left dry at ebb-tide, may be seen numbers of little, or perchance large,
Crabs, some concealed in snug lurking-places, others tripping, with a
quick _side-long_ movement, over the beach, alarmed by the advance of an
unwelcome intruder. Some are exclusively tenants of the water, have feet
formed like paddles for swimming, and never venture on land; others seem
to love the air and sunshine, and enjoy an excursion, not without hopes
of finding an acceptable repast, over the oozy sands; some, equally fond
of the shore and shallow water, appropriate to themselves the shells of
periwinkles, whelks, &c., and there live in a sort of castle, which they
drag about with them on their excursions, changing it for a larger as
they increase in measure of growth. They vary in size from microscopic
animalcules to the gigantic King Crab:[21] to the former, the luminosity
of the ocean, or of the foam before the prows of vessels, is, to a
great extent, attributable, each minute creature glowing with phosphoric
light.
The Bernhard Crab has been proved to have the power of dissolving
shells, it not being unusual to find the long fusiform shells which are
inhabited by these animals with the inner lip, and the greater part of
the pillar on the inside of the mouth, destroyed, so as to render the
aperture much larger than usual. Dr. Gray is quite convinced that these
Crabs have the above power, some to a much greater degree than others.
Certain Crabs, especially in the West Indies, are almost exclusively
terrestrial, visiting the sea only at given periods, for the deposition
of their eggs. These Crabs carry in their gill-chambers sufficient water
for the purpose of respiration; they live in burrows, and traverse
considerable tracts of land in the performance of their migratory
journeys. Of these, some, as the Violet Crab, are exquisite delicacies.
Of a great Crab migration we find these details in the "Jamaica Royal
Gazette:"--In 1811 there was a very extraordinary production of Black
Crabs in the eastern part of Jamaica. In June or July the whole district
of Manchidneed was covered with countless numbers, swarming from the sea
to the mountains. Of this the writer was an eye-witness. On ascending
Over Hill from the vale of Plantain Garden River, the road appeared of a
reddish colour, as if strewed with brick-dust. It was owing to myriads
of young Black Crabs, about the size of the nail of a man's finger,
moving at a pretty quick pace, direct for the mountains. "I rode along
the coast," says the writer, "a distance of about fifteen miles, and
found it nearly the same the whole way. Returning the following day, I
found the road still covered with them, the same as the day before. How
have they been produced, and where do they come from? were questions
everybody asked, and nobody could answer. It is well known that Crabs
deposit their eggs once a year, in May; but, except on this occasion,
though living on the coast, I had never seen above a dozen young Crabs
together; and here were myriads. No unusual number of old Crabs had been
observed in that season; and it is worthy of note, that they were moving
from a rock-bound coast of inaccessible cliffs, the abode of sea-birds,
and exposed to the constant influence of the trade winds. No person, as
far as I know, ever saw the like, except on that occasion; and I have
understood that since 1811 Black Crabs have been more abundant further
in to the interior of the island than they were ever known before."
Cuvier describes the Burrowing Crab as displaying wonderful
instinct:--"The animal closes the entrance of its burrow, which is
situated near the margin of the sea, or in marshy grounds, with its
largest claw. These burrows are cylindrical, oblique, very deep, and
very close to each other; but generally each burrow is the exclusive
habitation of a single individual. The habit which these crabs have of
holding their large claw elevated in advance of the body, as if making a
sign of beckoning to some one, has obtained for them the name of Calling
Crabs. There is a species observed by Mr. Bosc in South Carolina,
which passes the three months of the winter in its retreat without
once quitting it, and which never goes to the sea except at the epoch
of egg-laying." The same observations apply to the Chevalier Crabs (so
called from the celerity with which they traverse the ground). These are
found in Africa, and along the borders of the Mediterranean.
Some Crabs, truly aquatic, as the Vaulted Crab of the Moluccas, have
the power of drawing back their limbs, and concealing them in a furrow,
which they closely fit; and thus, in imitation of a tortoise, which
retracts its feet and head within its shell, they secure themselves,
when alarmed. Other aquatic species have their limbs adapted for
clinging to weeds and other marine objects. Of these some have the
two or four hind pairs of limbs so placed as to appear to spring from
the back; they terminate in a sharp hook, by means of which the Crab
attaches itself to the valves of shells, fragments of coral, &c.,
which it draws over its body, and thus lurks in concealment. Allied,
in some respects, to the Hermit or Soldier Crabs, which tenant empty
shells, is one which, from its manners and habits, is one of the most
extraordinary of its race. The Hermit Crabs are voracious, and feed
on animal substances. The Hermit, or Bernhard Crab, is so called from
its habit of taking up its solitary residence in deserted shells, thus
seeking a protection for its tail, which is long and naked. It is found
in shells of different dimensions, and from time to time leaves its
abode, as it feels a necessity, for a more commodious dwelling. It is
said to present, on such occasions, an amusing instinct as it inserts
the tail successively into several empty shells until one is found to
fit. We learn from Professor Bell, however, that it does not always wait
until the home is vacant, but occasionally rejects the rightful occupant
with some violence. On the contrary, the Crab, or rather Lobster-Crab
(for it takes an intermediate place between them), is more delicate in
its appetite, and feeds upon fruits, to obtain which it is said to climb
up certain trees, at the feet of which it makes a burrow. This species
is the Purse Crab, or Robber Crab, of Amboyna and other islands in the
South Pacific Ocean.
"According to popular belief among the Indians," says Cuvier, "the
Robber Crab feeds on the nuts of the cocoa-tree, and it makes its
excursions during the night; its places of retreat are fissures in the
rocks, or holes in the ground." The accounts of the early writers and
travellers, as well as of the natives, were disbelieved; but their truth
has since been abundantly confirmed. MM. Quoy and Guimard assure us that
several Robber Crabs were fed by them for many months on cocoa-nuts
alone; and a specimen of this Crab was submitted to the Zoological
Society, with additional information from Mr. Cuming, in whose fine
collection from the islands of the South Pacific several specimens were
preserved. Mr. Cuming states these Crabs to be found in great numbers in
Lord Hood's Island, in the Pacific. He there frequently met with them on
the road. On being disturbed, the Crabs instantly assumed a defensive
attitude, making a loud snapping with their powerful claws, or pincers,
which continued as they retreated backwards. They climb a species of
palm to gather a small kind of cocoa-nut that grows thereon. They live
at the roots of trees, and not in the holes of rocks; and they form a
favourite food among the natives. Such is the substance of Mr. Cuming's
account. Mr. Darwin, in his "Researches in Geology and Natural History,"
saw several of these Crabs in the Keeling Islands, or Cocos Islands, in
the Indian Ocean, about 600 miles distant from the coast of Sumatra. In
these islands, of coral formation, the cocoa-nut tree is so abundant as
to appear, at first glance, to compose the whole wood of the islands.
Here the great Purse Crab is abundant. Mr. Darwin describes it as a Crab
which lives on the cocoa-nut, is common on all parts of the dry land,
and grows to a monstrous size. This Crab has its front pair of legs
terminated by very strong and heavy pincers, and the last pair by others
which are narrow and weak. It would at first be thought quite impossible
for a Crab to open a strong cocoa-nut, covered with the husk; but Mr.
Liesk assures me that he has repeatedly seen the operation effected.
The Crab begins by tearing away the husk, fibre by fibre, and always
from that end under which the three eye-holes are situated. When this
is completed the Crab commences hammering with its heavy claws on one
of these eye-holes till an opening is made. Then, turning its body, by
the aid of its posterior and narrow pair of pincers, it extracts the
white albuminous substance. I think this as curious a case as I ever
heard of, and likewise of adaptation in structure between two objects
apparently so remote from each other in the scheme of nature as a Crab
and a cocoa-nut tree. The Crab is diurnal in its habits; but it is said
to pay every night a visit to the sea for the purpose of moistening its
gills. These gills are very peculiar, and scarcely fill up more than a
tenth of the chamber in which they are placed: it doubtless acts as a
reservoir for water, to serve the Crab in its passage over the dry and
heated land. The young are hatched and live for some time on the coast;
at this period of existence we cannot suppose that cocoa-nuts form any
part of their diet; most probably soft saccharine grasses, fruits, and
certain animal matters, serve as their food until they attain a certain
size and strength.
The adult Crabs, Mr. Darwin tells us, inhabit deep burrows, which they
excavate beneath the roots of trees; and here they accumulate great
quantities of the picked fibres of the cocoa-nut husk, on which they
rest as on a bed. The Malays sometimes take advantage of the labours of
the Crab by collecting the coarse fibrous substance, and using it as
junk. These Crabs are very good to eat; moreover, under the tail of the
larger ones there is a great mass of fat, which, when melted, yields as
much as a quart bottleful of limpid oil.
The Crab's means of obtaining the cocoa-nuts have, however, been much
disputed. It is stated by some authors to crawl up the trees for the
purpose of stealing the nuts. This is doubted; though in the kind of
palm to which Mr. Cuming refers as being ascended by this Crab, the
task would be much easier. Now, Mr. Darwin states, that in the Keeling
Islands the Crab lives only on the nuts which fall to the ground. It
may thus appear that Mr. Cuming's and Mr. Darwin's respective accounts
of the _non-climbing_ of this Crab on the one side, and its _actually
climbing trees_ on the other, are contradictory. The height of the stem
of the cocoa-nut tree, its circumference, and comparative external
smoothness, would prove insurmountable, or at least very serious
obstacles, to the most greedy Crab, however large and strong it might
be. But these difficulties are by no means so formidable in the tree
specified by Mr. Cuming: this is arborescent, or bushy, with long, thin,
rigid, sword-shaped leaves, resembling those of the pineapple, usually
arranged spirally, so that they are commonly called Screw Pines. They
are of the genus _Pandanus_, a word derived from the Malay _Pandang_.
The ascent of these arborescent plants, having the stem furnished
with a rigging of cord-like roots, and bearing a multitude of firm,
long, and spirally-arranged leaves, would be by no means a work of
difficulty, as would necessarily be that of the tall feathery-topped
cocoa-tree, destitute of all available points of aid or support. Hence
the contradiction in the two accounts referred to is seeming, and not
real, and the two statements are reconciled.
To sum up, Mr. Cuming fully testifies to the Crab climbing the Screw
Pines; and he has told Professor Owen that he has actually seen the Crab
climbing the cocoa-nut tree. The Crab has been kept on cocoa-nuts for
months; and is universally reported by the natives to climb the trees at
night.
[Illustration: THE TREE-CLIMBING CRAB.]
We may here, too, observe, that fine specimens of the Climbing Crab are
to be seen in the British Museum. Here, too, arranged in cases, are
Spider Crabs; Crabs with oysters growing on their backs, thus showing
that Crabs do not shed their shells every year, or that the oyster
increases very rapidly in bulk; Oval-bodied Crabs; and Fin-footed or
Swimming Crabs. Here are also Telescope, or Long-eyed Crabs, and Land
Crabs, found in India 4,000 feet above the sea-level; another of similar
habits in the plains of the Deccan, that may be seen swarming in the
fields, some cutting and nipping the green rice-stalks, and others
waddling off backwards with sheaves bigger than themselves. To these
may be added Square-bodied Crabs, Crested Crabs; Porcelain Crabs, with
delicate, china-like shells; and Death's-head Crabs, which usually form
cases for themselves from pieces of sponge and shells.
Certain species of Crabs are remarkably tenacious of life, and have been
known to live for weeks buried, and without food. It is in the Crab
tribe that the fact of the metamorphosis of _crustacea_ has been most
distinctly perceived; a small, peculiar crustacean animal, that had
long passed for a distinct species, under the name of _Zoea_, having at
length been identified with the young of the common Crab before it had
attained its full development.
That among the Crab tribes a tree-climbing species is to be found is
certainly curious, but it is not without a parallel among fishes. Many
of the latter leave the water, some even for a long time, and perform
overland journeys, aided in their progress by the structure of their
fins. In these fishes the gills and gill-chambers are constructed for
the retention of water for a considerable time, so as to suffice for the
necessary degree of respiration. In our country, we may mention the eel,
which often voluntarily quits the river or lake, and wanders during the
night over the adjacent meadows, probably in quest of dew-worms. But the
marshes of India and China present us with fishes much more decidedly
terrestrial, and some of which were known to the ancients. Among these
are several fishes of a snake-like form: they have an elongated,
cylindrical body, and creep on land to great distances from their native
waters. The boatmen of India often keep these fishes for a long time
out of water, for the sake of diverting themselves and others by their
terrestrial movements, and children may often be seen enjoying this
sport.
Of these land-haunting fishes, the most remarkable is the tree-climber,
so called in Tranquebar. This fish inhabits India, the Indian islands,
and various parts of China, as Chusan, &c., living in marshes, and
feeding on aquatic insects, worms, &c. According to Daldorf, a Danish
gentleman, who, in 1797, communicated an account of the habits of this
fish to the Linnæan Society, it _mounts up_ the bushes or low palms
to some elevation. This gentleman states that he had himself observed
it in the act of ascending palm-trees near the marshes, and had taken
it at a height of no less than five feet, measured from the level of
the adjacent water. It effects its ascent by means of its pectoral and
under fins, aided by the action of the tail and the spines which border
the gill covers. It is by the same agency that it traverses the land.
The statement of M. Daldorf is corroborated by M. John, also a Danish
observer, to whom we are indebted for the knowledge of its name in
Tranquebar, which alludes to its arboreal proceedings.
It is true that many other naturalists who have observed the habits
of this fish in its native regions, while they concur in describing
its terrestrial journeys, and its living for a long time out of water,
either omit to mention, or mention with doubt, its reputed attempts at
_tree-climbing_.
The habits and instincts of certain Crawfishes are very extraordinary.
Thus, the _Astaci_ are migratory, and in their travels are capable of
doing much damage to dams and embankments. On the Little Genesee River
they have, within a few years, compelled the owner of a dam to rebuild
it. The former dam was built after the manner of dykes, _i.e._, with
upright posts, supporting sleepers, laid inclining up the stream. On
these were laid planks, and the planks were covered with dirt. The
_Astacus_ proceeding up the stream would burrow under the planks where
they rested on the bottom of the stream, removing bushels of dirt and
gravel in the course of a night. They travel over the dam in their
migrations, _often climbing posts_ two or three feet high to gain the
pond above.[22]
We have to add a new and eccentric variety of nature--the Pill-making
Crab, which abounds at Labuan, Singapore, and Lahore, and is described
in Mr. Collingwood's "Rambles of a Naturalist." When the tide is down,
this little creature, if stealthily watched, may be seen creeping up
a hole in the sandy shore, taking up rapidly particles of the loose
powdery sand in its claws, and depositing them in a groove beneath the
thorax. A little ball of sand, about the size of a filbert, is forthwith
projected, though whether it passes actually through the mouth is not
made clear. Pill after pill is seized with one claw, and laid aside,
until the beach is covered with these queer little pellets. This is
evidently the creature's mode of extracting particles of food from the
sand.
Mr. Collingwood also describes, as met with on the shores and waters of
the China seas, Glass Crabs, whose flat, transparent, leaf-like bodies
seem made of fine plates of mica. The dredge brings up many a rich
haul of sponges, corals, and gorgoniæ, of the most splendid colours,
certain of the sponges harbouring within their cells minute crabs of a
new genus. Between Aden and Galle the sea is of a pinkish colour, owing
to the immense accumulation of minute kinds of medusæ, in solid masses
of red jelly. Over Fiery Cross Reef, the mirror-like sea reveals, at
the depth of sixty or seventy feet, this wealth of natural treasures.
"Glorious masses of living coral strew the bottom: immense globular
madrepores--vast overhanging mushroom-shaped expansions, complicated
ramifications of interweaving branches, mingled with smaller and more
delicate species--round, finger-shaped, horn-like and umbrella-form--lie
in wondrous confusion. Here and there is a large clam-shell, wedged
in between masses of coral, the gaping, zigzag mouth covered with the
projecting mantle of the deepest Prussian blue; beds of dark purple,
long-spined Echini, and the thick black bodies of sea-cucumbers vary the
aspect of the sea bottom."[23]
FOOTNOTES:
[21] This Crab has an elongated spine-like tail, the use of which was
long misunderstood. Dr. J. Gray was shown at the Liverpool Museum some
living King Crabs, and the use they made of the tail-like appendages.
When turned over on their backs, he saw them bend down the tail until
they could reach some point of resistance, and then employ it to
elevate the body, and regain their normal position. Dr. Gray states
that they never have been seen to use this tail for the purpose which
has been often assigned to it--that is, for leaping from place to place
by bending it under the body, like the toy called a "spring-jack," or
"leaping frog."
[22] American Journal of Science and Art.
[23] W. C. Linnæus Martin, F.L.S.
MUSICAL LIZARDS.
A small Lizard, lately brought home from the Isle of Formosa by Mr.
Swinhoe, is decided to be a new species by Dr. Günther, of the British
Museum. Mr. Swinhoe found the eggs of this Gecko, or Lizard, in holes of
walls or among mortar rubbish. They are round, and usually lie several
together, resembling eggs of ordinary Lizards. The young, when first
hatched, keep much under stones in dark cellars, where they remain
until they attain about two-thirds of the adult size, when they begin
to appear in public to catch insects, but evincing great shyness of
their seniors. Mr. Swinhoe states that on the plaster-washed sides of
his bedroom, close to the angle of the roof, every evening when the lamp
was placed on the table below, four little Musical Lizards used to make
their appearance and watch patiently for insects attracted by the light.
A sphinx or a beetle buzzing into the room would put them into great
excitement, and they would run with celerity from one part of the wall
to the other after the deluded insect as it fluttered in vain, buffeting
its head, up and down the wall. Two or three would run after the same
insect, but as soon as one had succeeded in securing it, the rest would
prudently draw aloof. In running over the perpendicular face of the wall
they keep so close, and their movements are made so quickly, with one
leg in advance of the other, that they have the appearance at a distance
of gliding rather than running. The tail is somewhat writhed as the body
is jerked along, and much so when the animal is alarmed and doing its
utmost to escape; but its progress even then is in short runs, stopping
at intervals and raising its head to look about. If a fly perch on the
wall it cautiously approaches to within a short distance, then suddenly
darts forwards, and with its quickly-protruded, glutinous tongue, fixes
it. Apart from watching its curious manoeuvres after its insect-food,
the attention of the most listless would be attracted by the singular
series of loud notes these creatures utter at all hours of the day and
night, more especially during cloudy and rainy weather. These notes
resemble the syllables "chuck-chuck," several times repeated; and, from
their more frequent occurrence during July and August, they are thought
to be the call notes of the male to the female.
During the greater part of the day, the little creature lies quiescent
in some cranny among the beams of the roof or in the wall of the house,
where, however, it is ever watchful for the incautious fly that
approaches its den, upon whom it darts forth with but little notice. But
it is by no means confined to the habitations of men. Every old wall,
and almost every tree, possesses a tenant or two of this species. It is
excessively lively, and even when found quietly ensconced in a hole,
generally manages to escape--its glittering little eyes (black, with
yellow ochre iris) appearing to know no sleep; and an attempt to capture
the runaway seldom results in more than the seizure of an animated tail,
wrenched off with a jerk by the little fellow as it slips away, without
loss of blood. The younger individuals are much darker than the larger
and older animals, which are sometimes almost albinoes. In ordinary
fly-catching habits, as they stick to the sides of a lamp, there is much
similarity between this gecko and the little papehoo, or wall-lizard
of China; but this is decidedly a larger and much more active animal,
and often engages in a struggle with insects of very large size. The
Chinese colonists of Formosa greatly respect the geckos, in consequence
of a legend which attributes to them the honour of having once poisoned
the supplies of an invading rebellious army, which was thereby totally
cut to pieces. The geckos were raised to the rank of generals by the
grateful Emperor of China; which honour, the legend states, they greatly
appreciated, and henceforth devoted their energies to the extermination
of mosquitoes and other injurious insects.
CHAMELEONS, AND THEIR CHANGES.
"Nil fuit unquam
Sic impar sibi."--_Horat._
"Sure such a various creature ne'er was seen."
_Francis, in imit._
The Chameleon tribe is a well-defined family of lizard-like reptiles,
whose characters may be summed up as existing in the form of their feet;
the toes, which are joined together or bound up together in two packets
or bundles, opposed to each other; in their shagreen-like skin; in their
prehensile tail; and in their extensile and retractile vermiform tongue.
That the Chameleon was known to the ancients there is no doubt. Its
name we derive directly from the _Chamelæo_ of the Latins. Aristotle's
history of the animal proves the acute observation of that great
zoologist--the absence of a sternum, the disposition of the ribs, the
mechanism of the tail, the motion of the eyes, the toes bound up in
opposable bundles, &c.--though he is not entirely correct on some
points. Pliny mentions it, but his account is for the most part a
compilation from Aristotle.
Calmet's description of the Chameleon is curiously minute:--"It has
four feet, and on each foot three claws. Its tail is long: with this,
as well as with his feet, it fastens itself to the branches of trees.
Its tail is flat, its nose long, ending in an obtuse point; its back is
sharp, its skin plaited, and jagged like a saw, from the neck to the
last joint of the tail, and upon its head it has something like a comb;
like a fish, it has no neck. Some have asserted that it lives only upon
air, but it has been observed to feed on flies, catched with its tongue,
which is about ten inches long and three thick, made of white flesh,
round, but flat at the end, or hollow and open, resembling an elephant's
trunk. It also shrinks, and grows longer. This animal is said to assume
the colour of those things to which it is applied; but our modern
observers assure us that its natural colour, when at rest, and in the
shade, is a bluish-grey; though some are yellow, others green, but both
of a smaller kind. When it is exposed to the sun, the grey changes into
a darker grey, inclining to a dun colour, and its parts which have least
of the light upon them are changed into spots of different colours.
Sometimes, when it is handled, it seems speckled with dark spots,
inclining to green. If it be put upon a black hat, it appears to be of a
violet colour; and sometimes, if it be wrapped up in linen, it is white;
but it changes colour only in some parts of the body."
Its changes of colour have been commemorated by the poets. Shakspeare
has--
"I can add colours ev'n to the Chameleon:
Change shapes with Proteus, for advantage."
Dryden has--
"The thin Chameleon, fed with air, receives
The colour of the thing to which it cleaves."
Prior has--
"As the Chameleon, which is known
To have no colours of his own,
But borrows from his neighbour's hue
His white or black, his green or blue."
Gay, in his charming fable of the Spaniel and the Chameleon, "scarce
distinguished from the green," makes the latter thus reply to the taunts
of the pampered spaniel:--
"'Sir,' says the sycophant, 'like you,
Of old, politer life I knew:
Like you, a courtier born and bred,
Kings lean'd their ear to what I said:
My whisper always met success;
The ladies prais'd me for address;
I knew to hit each courtier's passion,
And flatter'd every vice in fashion:
But Jove, who hates the liar's ways,
At once cut short my prosperous days,
And, sentenced to retain my nature,
Transform'd me to this crawling creature.
Doom'd to a life obscure and mean,
I wander'd in the silvan scene:
For Jove the heart alone regards;
He punishes what man rewards.
How different is thy case and mine!
With men at least you sup and dine;
While I, condemned to thinnest fare,
Like those I flatter'd, fed on air.'"
Upon this fable a commentator acutely notes:--"The raillery at court
sycophants naturally pervades our poet's writings, who had suffered so
much from them. Here, however, he intimates something more, namely, the
apposite dispensations to man's acts, even in this world. The crafty is
taken in by his own guile, the courtier falls by his own arts, and the
ladder of ambition only prepares for the aspirant a further fall."[24]
With respect to the air-food of the Chameleon. Cuvier observes that
its lung is so large that, when it is filled with air, it imparts a
transparency to the body, which made the ancients say that it lived
upon air; and he inclines to think that to its size the Chameleon owes
the property of changing its colour; but, with regard to this last
speculation, he was wrong, as we shall presently see.
It was long thought that the Chameleon, like most of the lizard tribe,
was produced from an egg. The little animal is, however, most clearly
viviparous, and not oviparous, although the tales told of the lizard
tribe in the story books are most perplexing. To name a few of them:--1.
The crocodile, which is the largest of the lizard tribe, and has even
attained the size of 18-1/2 ft. in length, is confidently stated as
laying eggs, which she covers with sand and leaves, to be hatched by the
sun; and these have been met with in the rivers Nile, Niger, and Ganges.
2. _Lacerta Gangetica_, unknown to Linnæus, but brought to this country
from Bengal in 1747 by the late Dr. Mead, is said to be furnished
with a false belly, like the opossum, where the young can be received
for protection in time of danger. In this case the egg must have been
hatched in the belly of the animal, like the viper. 3. The alligator,
or American crocodile, lays a vast quantity of eggs in the sand, near
the banks of lakes and rivers, and leaves them to be hatched by the sun;
and the young are seldom seen. 4. The cayman, or Antilles crocodile, has
furnished its eggs to many collections. 5. A salamander was opened by M.
Maupertuis, and its belly was found full of eggs; but in "Les Mémoires
de l'Académie Royale des Sciences" it is stated that, after a similar
operation of the kind, "fifty young ones, resembling the parent animal,
were found in its womb all alive, and actively running about the room."
The tongue is the chief organ for taking the insects on which the
Chameleon lives. By a curious mechanism, of which the tongue-bone is a
principal agent, the Chameleon can protrude this cylindrical tongue,
which has its tip covered with a glutinous secretion from the sheath
at the lower part of the mouth, to the length of six inches. When the
Chameleon is about to seize an insect, it rolls round its extraordinary
eyeballs so as to bring them to bear on the doomed object; as soon
as it arrives within the range of the tongue, that organ is projected
with unerring precision, and returns into the mouth with the prey
adhering to the viscous tip. The wonderful activity with which this
feat is performed, forms a strong contrast to the almost ridiculously
slow motions of the animal. Their operation of taking meal-worms, of
which they are fond, though comparatively rapid, is not remarkable for
its quickness, but done with an act of deliberation, and so that the
projection and retraction of the tongue can be very distinctly followed
with the eye.
The eyes of the Chameleon are remarkable objects; large, projecting, and
almost entirely covered with the shagreen-like skin, with the exception
of a small aperture opposite the pupil; their motions are completely
independent of each other. It adds to the strange and grotesque
appearance of this creature to see it roll one of its eye-globes
backwards, while the other is directed forwards, as if making two
distinct surveys at one time. Its sight must be acute, from the unerring
certainty with which it marks and strikes its prey.
The Chameleons spend their lives in trees, for clinging to the branches
of which their organization is admirably adapted. There they lie in
wait for the insects which may come within their reach; and it has been
thought that, in such situations, their faculty of changing colour
becomes highly important in aiding them to conceal themselves. The
powers of abstinence possessed by this singular race are very great;
and hence, most probably, arose the old fable of their _living on
air_, which was for a long time considered to be "the Chameleon's
dish." One has been known to fast upwards of six weeks without taking
any sustenance, though meat-food and insects were procured for it.
Notwithstanding this fast, it did not appear to fall away much. It would
fix itself by the feet and tail to the bars of the fender, and there
remain motionless, enjoying the warmth of the fire for hours together.
Hasselquist describes one, that he kept for nearly a month, as climbing
up and down the bars of its cage in a very lively manner.
The power of the Chameleon's changing colour long exercised the
ingenuity of the old naturalists. Hasselquist thought that the changes
of colour depended on a kind of disease, more especially a sort of
jaundice, to which the animal was subject, particularly when it was put
in a rage. M. D'Obsonville thought that he had discovered the secret in
the blood, and that the change of colour depended upon a mixture of blue
and yellow, whence the different shades of green were derived; and these
colours he obtains from the blood and the blood-vessels. Thus he says
that the blood is of a violet hue, and will retain its colour on linen
or paper for some minutes if previously steeped in a solution of alum,
and that the coats of the vessels are yellow; consequently, he argues,
that the mixture of the two will produce green. He further traces the
change of colour to the passions of the animal. Thus, when a healthy
Chameleon is provoked, the circulation is accelerated, the vessels that
are spread over the skin are distended, and a superficial blue-green
colour is produced. When, on the contrary, the animal is imprisoned,
impoverished, and deprived of free air, the circulation becomes languid,
the vessels are not filled, the colour of their coats prevails, and the
Chameleon changes to a yellow-green, which lasts during its confinement.
Barrow, in his "Travels in Africa," declares that previously to the
Chameleon's assuming a change of colour, it makes a long inspiration,
the body swelling out to twice its usual size; and as the inflation
subsides, the change of colour gradually takes place, the only permanent
marks being two small dark lines passing along the sides. Mr. Wood
conceives from this account that the animal is principally indebted for
these varied tints to the influence of oxygen. Mr. Spittal also regards
these changes as connected with the state of the lungs; and Mr. Houston
considers this phenomenon as dependent on the turgescency of the skin.
Dr. Weissenborn thinks it not unlikely that the nervous currents may
directly co-operate in effecting the changes of colour in the Chameleon.
Mr. H. N. Turner, writing from personal observation of the phenomenon
in a live Chameleon in his possession, says:--"It has been generally
imagined that the purpose of the singular faculty accorded to the
Chameleon is to enable it to accommodate its appearance to that of
surrounding objects." Mr. Turner's observations do not, however, favour
the idea, but seem rather to negative it. The box in which Mr. Turner's
Chameleon was kept was of deal, with glass at the top, and a piece of
flannel laid at the bottom, a small branching stick being placed there
by way of a perch. He introduced, at various times, pieces of coloured
paper, covering the bottom of the box, of blue, yellow, and scarlet,
but without the slightest effect upon the appearance of the animal.
Considering that these primary colours were not such as it would be
likely to be placed in contact with in a state of nature, he next tried
a piece of green calico, but equally without result. The animal went
through all its usual changes without their being in any way modified by
the colour placed underneath it. The general tint approximated, as may
be readily observed, to those of the branches of trees, just as those of
most animals do to the places in which they dwell; but Mr. Turner did
not observe the faculty of changing called into play with any apparent
object. It is only when the light is removed that the animal assumes a
colour which absorbs but little of it.
Not to go further into the numerous treatises which have been published
on this intricate subject without arriving at a just conclusion, we
refer to the able and interesting paper of Mr. Milne Edwards, for whose
acuteness the solution of this puzzling phenomenon was reserved. The
steps by which he first overthrew the received theories on the subject,
and then arrived at the cause of the change of colour, is shown in the
following results, derived from observing two Chameleons living, and
researches after the animals had died, on the structure of their skin,
and the parts immediately beneath it.
1. That the change in the colour of the Chameleon does not depend
essentially either on the more or less considerable swelling of their
bodies, or the changes which might hence result to the condition of
their blood or circulation; nor does it depend on the greater or less
distance which may exist between the several cutaneous tubercles;
although it is not to be denied that these circumstances probably
exercise some influence upon the phenomenon.
2. That there exist in the skin of these animals two layers of
membranous pigment, placed the one above the other, but disposed in such
a way as to appear simultaneously under the cuticle, and sometimes in
such a manner that the one may hide the other.
3. That everything remarkable in the changes of colour in the Chameleon
may be explained by the appearance of the pigment of the deeper layer to
an extent more or less considerable, in the midst of the pigment of the
superficial layer, or from its disappearance beneath this layer.
4. That these displacements of the deeper pigment do in reality occur;
and it is a probable consequence that the Chameleon's colour changes
during life, and may continue to change even after death.
5. That there exists a close analogy between the mechanism by the help
of which the change of colour appears to take place in these reptiles,
and that which determines the successive appearance and disappearance of
coloured spots in the mantles of several of the cephalopods.
Chameleons are found in warm climates of the old world, South of Spain,
Africa, East Indies. Isles of Sechelles, Bourbon, France, Moluccas.
Madagascar (where it is said there are seven of the species which belong
to Africa), Fernando Po, and New South Wales. In the year 1860, a new
and curiously formed species of Chameleon was brought from the interior
of the Old Calabar district of West Africa, by one of the natives. It is
characterised by three horny processes on the head. Many Lizards have
singular spiny projections on all parts of the body; but this very well
marked species had not been hitherto recorded.
Mrs. Belzoni, the wife of the celebrated traveller in the East, made
some careful observations upon the habits of Chameleons, which are worth
quoting. The Arabs in Lower Egypt catch Chameleons by jumping upon them,
flinging stones at them, or striking them with sticks, which hurts them
very much. The Nubians lay them down gently on the ground, and when
they come down from the date-trees, they catch hold of the tail of the
animal, and fix a string to it; therefore the body does not get injured.
Mrs. Belzoni had some Chameleons for several months in her house, and
her observations are as follows:--
"In the first place they are very inveterate towards each other, and
must not be shut up together, else they will bite each other's tails and
legs off.
[Illustration: CHAMELEONS.]
"There are three species of Chameleons, whose colours are peculiar
to themselves: for instance, the commonest sort are those which are
generally green, that is to say, the body all green, and, when content,
beautifully marked on each side regularly on the green with black and
yellow, not in a confused manner, but as if drawn. This kind is in great
plenty; they never have any other colour except a light green when they
sleep, and when ill, a very pale yellow. Out of near forty I had the
first year when in Nubia, I had but one, and that a very small one of
the second sort, which had red marks. One Chameleon lived with me eight
months, and most of that time I had it fixed to the button of my coat:
it used to rest on my shoulder or on my head. I have observed, when I
have kept it shut up in a room for some time, that on bringing it out
in the air it would begin drawing the air in, and on putting it on some
marjorum it has had a wonderful effect on it immediately: its colour
became most brilliant. I believe it will puzzle a good many to say what
cause it proceeds from. If they did not change when shut up in a house,
but only on taking them in a garden, it might be supposed the change
of the colours was in consequence of the smell of the plants; but when
in a house, if it is watched, it will change every ten minutes: some
moments a plain green, at others all its beautiful colours will come
out, and when in a passion it becomes of a deep black, and will swell
itself up like a balloon, and, from being one of the most beautiful
animals, it becomes one of the most ugly. It is true that Chameleons
are extremely fond of the fresh air, and on taking them to a window
when there is nothing to be seen, it is easy to observe the pleasure
they certainly take in it: they begin to gulp down the air, and their
colour becomes brighter. I think it proceeds, in a great degree, from
the temper they are in: a little thing will put them in a bad humour: if
in crossing a table, for instance, you stop them, and attempt to turn
them another road, they will not stir, and are extremely obstinate: on
opening the mouth at them, it will set them in a passion: they begin to
arm themselves by swelling and turning black, and will sometimes hiss a
little, but not much.
"The third I brought from Jerusalem was the most singular of all the
Chameleons I ever had: its temper, if it can be so called, was extremely
sagacious and cunning. This one was not of the order of the green kind,
but a disagreeable drab, and it never once varied in its colour in two
months. On my arrival in Cairo. I used to let it crawl about the room on
the furniture. Sometimes it would get down, if it could, and hide itself
away from me, but in a place where it could see me; and sometimes,
on my leaving the room and on entering it, would draw itself so thin
as to make itself nearly on a level with whatever it might be on, so
that I might not see it. It had often deceived me so. One day having
missed it for some time, I concluded it was hid about the room; after
looking for it in vain, I thought it had got out of the room and made
its escape: in the course of the evening, after the candle was lighted,
I went to a basket that had got a handle across it: I saw my Chameleon,
but its colour entirely changed, and different to any I ever had seen
before: the whole body, head and tail, a brown with black spots, and
beautiful deep orange-coloured spots round the black. I certainly was
much gratified. On being disturbed, its colours vanished, unlike the
others; but after this I used to observe it the first thing in the
morning, when it would have the same colours. Some time after, it made
its escape out of my room, and I suppose got into the garden close by.
I was much vexed, and would have given twenty dollars to have recovered
it again, though it only cost me threepence, knowing I could not get
another like it; for, afterwards being in Rosetta, I had between fifty
and sixty; but all those were green, yellow, and black; and the Arabs,
in catching them, had bruised them so much, that after a month or six
weeks they died. It is an animal extremely hard to die. I had prepared
two cages with separate divisions, with the intention of bringing them
to England; but though I desired the Arabs that used to get them for me
to catch them by the tail, they used to hurt them much with their hands;
and if once the body is squeezed, it will never live longer than two
months. When they used to sleep at night, it was easy to see where they
had been bruised; for being of a very light colour when sleeping, the
part that had been bruised, either on the body or the head, which was
bone, was extremely black, though when green it would not show itself so
clear. Their chief food was flies: the fly does not die immediately on
being swallowed, for upon taking the Chameleon up in my hands, it was
easy to feel the fly buzzing, chiefly on account of the air they draw in
their inside: they swell much, and particularly when they want to fling
themselves off a great height, by filling themselves up like a balloon:
on falling, they get no hurt, except on the mouth, which they bruise a
little, as that comes first to the ground. Sometimes they will not drink
for three or four days, and when they begin they are about half an hour
drinking. I have held a glass in one hand while the Chameleon rested its
two fore-paws on the edge of it, the two hind ones resting on my other
hand. It stood upright while drinking, holding its head up like a fowl.
By flinging its tongue out of its mouth the length of its body, and
instantaneously catching the fly, it would go back like a spring. They
will drink mutton broth: how I came to know this was, one day having a
plate of broth and rice on the table where it was: it went to the plate
and got half into it, and began drinking, and trying to take up some of
the rice, by pushing it with its mouth towards the side of the plate,
which kept it from moving, and in a very awkward way taking it into its
mouth."
In the autumn of 1868, a pair of Chameleons, in the possession of the
Hon. Lady Cust, of Leasowe Castle, Cheshire, produced nine active young
ones, like little alligators, less than an inch long. Such a birth has
been, it is believed, very rare in this country. It was remarked, in the
above case, that the male and female appeared altogether indifferent
about their progeny.
Whatever may be the cause, the fact seems to be certain, that the
Chameleon has an antipathy to objects of a black colour. One, which
Forbes kept, uniformly avoided a black board which was hung up in the
chamber; and, what is most remarkable, when the Chameleon was held
forcibly before the black board, it trembled violently and assumed a
_black colour_.[25]
It may be something of the same kind which makes Bulls and Turkey-cocks
dislike the colour of scarlet, a fact of which there can be no doubt.
FOOTNOTES:
[24] The Fables of John Gay. Illustrated. With Original Memoir,
Introduction, and Annotations. By Octavius Freire Owen, M.A., F.S.A.
1854.
[25] This, it will be seen by referring to page 307, does not correspond
with Calmet's statement.
RUNNING TOADS.
That the Toad, by common repute "ugly and venomous," should be made a
parlour pet, is passing strange; yet such is the case, and we find in a
letter from Dr. Husenbeth, of Cossey, the following curious instances.
Thus he describes a species, there often met with, the eyes of which
have the pupil surrounded with bright golden-yellow, whereas in the
common toad the circle is red or orange. This remarkable peculiarity
Dr. H. has not seen anywhere noticed. The head is like that of the
common sort, but much more blunt, and rounded off at the nose and mouth,
and the arches over the eyes are more prominent. The most remarkable
difference is a line of yellow running all down the back. Also down each
side this Toad has a row of red pimples, like small beads, which are
tolerably regular, but appear more in some specimens than in others.
The general colour is a yellowish-olive, but the animal is beautifully
marked with black spots, very regularly disposed, and exactly
corresponding on each side of the yellow line down the back. Like all
other Toads, this one occasionally changes its colour, becoming more
brown, or ash-colour, or reddish at times, probably in certain states
of the weather. This species is much more active than the common Toad.
It never leaps, and very seldom crawls, but makes a short run, stops a
little, and then runs on again. If frightened or pursued, it will run
along much quicker than one would suppose.
During the previous summer Dr. H. kept three Toads of this kind in
succession. "The first (says Dr. H.) I procured in July; but after a
few days, when I let him have a run on the carpet of my parlour, he
got into a hole in a corner of the floor, of which I was not aware,
and fell, as I suppose, underneath the floor, into the hollow space
below. I concluded that he could never get up again, and gave him up to
his fate. I then began to keep another Running Toad, which fed well at
first, but after three weeks refused food, and evidently wasted; so I
turned him out into the garden, and have not met with him since. After
more than three weeks, the former Toad reappeared, but how he came up
from beneath the floor I never could conceive, or how he had picked
up a living in the meantime. He was, however, in good condition, and
seemed to have lived well, probably on spiders and woodlice. He had been
seen by a servant running about the carpet, but I knew nothing of his
having come forth again, till in the evening, when he had got near the
door, and it was suddenly opened so as to pass over the poor creature,
and crush it terribly. I took it up apparently dead. It showed no sign
of life; the eyes were closed, it did not breathe, and the backbone
seemed quite broken, and the animal was crushed almost flat. I found a
very curious milky secretion exuding from it, where it had been most
injured and the skin was most broken. This was perfectly white, and had
exactly the appearance of milk thrown over the toad. It did not bleed,
though much lacerated; but instead of blood appeared this milky fluid,
which had an odour of a most singular kind, different from anything I
ever smelt. It is impossible to describe it. It was not fetid, but of
a sickly, disgusting, and overpowering character, so that I could not
endure to inhale it for a moment. I had read and seen a good deal of the
extraordinary powers of revivification in toads, but was not prepared
for what I witnessed on this occasion. I laid this poor animal, crushed,
flattened, motionless, and to all appearance dead, upon a cold iron
plate of the fireplace. He fell over on one side, and showed no sign of
life for a full hour. After that he had slightly moved one leg, and so
remained for about another half-hour. Then he began to breathe feebly,
and gathered up his legs, and his back began to rise up into its usual
form. In about two hours from the time of the accident, he had so far
recovered as to crawl about, though with difficulty. The milky liquor
was reabsorbed, and gradually disappeared as the toad recovered. The
next morning it was all gone, and no mark of injury could be seen,
except a small hole in his back, which soon closed. He recovered so far
as to move about pretty well, but his back appeared to have been broken,
and one fore-leg crippled. I therefore thought it best to give him his
liberty in the garden. But so wonderful and speedy a recovery I could
never have believed without ocular testimony.
"I then tried my third and last Running Toad. I began to keep him on
Sept. 13th. He was a very fine specimen, and larger than the two former.
He fed well, and amused me exceedingly. He was very tame, and would sit
on my hand quite quiet, and enjoy my stroking him gently down his head
and back. Soon after I got him he began to cast his skin. I helped him
to get rid of it by stripping it down each side, which he seemed to
like much, and sat very quiet during the operation. The new skin was
quite beautiful, and shone as if varnished. This Toad lived in a crystal
palace, or glass jar, where I had kept all the others before him. He
took food freely, and his appetite was so good that in one day he ate
seven large flies and three bees without stings. He was particularly
fond of woodlice and earwigs, but would take centipedes, moths, and
even butterflies. Being more active than common Toads, he often made
great efforts to get out of his glass jar. I used to let him run about
the room nearly every day for a short time, and often treated him to a
run in the garden. Toads make a slight noise sometimes in the evenings,
uttering a short sound like 'coo,' but I never heard them croak. Before
wet weather, and during its continuance, my Toad was disinclined for
food, and took no notice of flies even walking over his nose. He would
then burrow and hide himself in the moss at the bottom of his glass
palace. Thus I kept him, and found him very tame and amusing. But after
about two months he became more impatient of confinement, and refused
to take any food. I did not perceive that he fell away, though his feet
and toes turned of a dark colour, which I knew was a sign of being out
of condition; and, on the 10th of November, I found him dead. I have
now tried three of this sort, and have come to the conclusion that the
Running Toad will not live in captivity. This I much regret, as its
habits are interesting, and its ways very amusing.
"F. C. Husenbeth, D.D."
* * * * *
FROG AND TOAD CONCERTS.
It would be hard to believe the stories of the vocal powers of Frogs
and Toads were they not related by trustworthy travellers, who tell of
animal concerts,
"Wild as the marsh, and tuneful as the harp."
Mr. Priest, the traveller in America, who was himself a musician,
records:--"Prepared as I was to hear something extraordinary from these
animals, I confess the first _Frog Concert_ I heard in America was so
much beyond anything I could conceive of the power of these musicians,
that I was truly astonished. This performance was _al fresco_, and took
place on the eighteenth of April, in a large swamp, where there were at
least 10,000 performers; and I really believe not two exactly in the
same pitch, if the octave can possibly admit of so many divisions, or
shades of semitones."
Professor and Mrs. Louis Agassiz, in their recent "Journey in Brazil,"
record:--"We must not leave Parà without alluding to our evening
concerts from the adjoining woods and swamps. When I first heard this
strange confusion of sounds, I thought it came from a crowd of men
shouting loudly, though at a little distance. To my surprise. I found
that the rioters were the frogs and toads in the neighbourhood. I hardly
know how to describe this Babel of woodland noises; and, if I could do
it justice, I am afraid my account would hardly be believed. At moments
it seems like the barking of dogs, then like the calling of many voices
on different keys; but all loud, rapid, excited, full of emphasis and
variety. I think these frogs, like ours, must be silent at certain
seasons of the year, for on our first visit to Parà we were not struck
by this singular music, with which the woods now resound at nightfall."
SONG OF THE CICADA.
The Greeks have been scoffed at for rendering in deathless verse the
song of so insignificant an insect as the Cicada; and hence it has
been asserted that their love for such slender music must have been
either exaggerated or simulated. It is pleasant, however, to hear an
independent observer in the other hemisphere confirm their testimony.
Mr. Lord tells us that in British Colombia there is one sound or song
which is clearer, shriller, and _more singularly tuneful than any
other_. It never appears to cease, and it comes from everywhere--from
the tops of the trees, from the trembling leaves of the cotton-wood,
from the stunted under-brush, from the flowers, the grass, the rocks and
boulders--nay, the very stream itself seems vocal with hidden minstrels,
all chanting the same refrain.
An especial feature of the Cicada's song is, that it increases in
intensity when the sun is hottest; and one of the later Latin poets
mentions the time when its music is at its highest, as an alternative
expression for noon. Mr. Tennyson, inadvertently, speaks in "Ænone" of
the Grasshopper being silent in the grass, and of the Cicada sleeping
when the noonday quiet holds the hill. Keats sings more truly:--
"When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:
That is the Grasshopper's."
Then the Greek poets show us how intimately the song of the Cicada is
associated with the hottest hours of the day. Aristophanes describes it
as mad for the love of the sun; and Theocritus, as scorched by the sun.
When all things are parched with the heat (says Alcæus), then from among
the leaves issues the song of the sweet Cicada. His shrill melody is
heard in the full glow of noontide, and the vertical rays of a torrid
sun fire him to sing. Over and over again Mr. Lord met with allusions to
the same peculiarity.
Cicadæ are regularly sold for food in the markets of South America. They
are not eaten now, like they were at Athens, as a whet to the appetite;
but they are dried in the sun, powdered, and made into a cake.
STORIES ABOUT THE BARNACLE GOOSE.
"As barnacles turn Poland geese
In th' islands of the Orcades."--_Hudibras._
One of the earliest references to this popular error is in the "Natural
Magic" of Baptista Porta, who says:--"Late writers report that not only
in Scotland, but also in the river of Thames by London, there is a kind
of shell-fish in a two-leaved shell, that hath a foot full of plaits
and wrinkles.... They commonly stick to the keel of some old ship. Some
say they come of worms, some of the boughs of trees which fall into the
sea; if any of them be cast upon shore, they die; but they which are
swallowed still into the sea, live and get out of their shells, and grow
to be ducks, or such-like birds."
Professor Max Müller, in a learned lecture, enters fully into the origin
of the different stories about the Barnacle Goose. He quotes from the
"Philosophical Transactions" of 1678 a full account by Sir Robert Moray,
who declared that he had seen within the barnacle shell, as through a
concave or diminishing glass, the bill, eyes, head, neck, breast, wings,
tail, feet, and feathers of the Barnacle Goose. The next witness was
John Gerarde, Master in Chirurgerie, who, in 1597, declared that he had
seen the actual metamorphosis of the muscle into the bird, describing
how--
"The shell gapeth open, and the first thing that appeareth is the fore
said lace or string; next come the leg of the birde hanging out, and
as it groweth greater, it openeth the shell by degrees, till at length
it is all come forth, and hangeth only by the bill, and falleth into
the sea, when it gathereth feathers and groweth to a foule, bigger than
a mallart; for the truth hereof, if any doubt, may it please them to
repair unto me, and I shall satisfie them by the testimonies of good
witnesses."
As far back as the thirteenth century, the same story is traced in the
writings of Giraldus Cambrensis. This great divine does not deny the
truth of the miraculous origin of the Barnacle Geese, but he warns the
Irish priests against dining off them during Lent on the plea that they
were not flesh, but fish. For, he writes, "If a man during Lent were
to dine off a leg of Adam, who was not born of flesh either, we should
not consider him innocent of having eaten what is flesh." This modern
myth, which, in spite of the protests of such men as Albertus Magnus,
Æneas Sylvius, and others, maintained its ground for many centuries, and
was defended, as late as 1629, in a book by Count Maier, "De volucri
arborea," with arguments, physical, metaphysical, and theological, owed
its origin to a play of words. The muscle shells are called _Bernaculæ_
from the Latin _perna_, the mediæval Latin _berna_; the birds are called
_Hibernicæ_ or _Hiberniculæ_, abbreviated to _Berniculæ_. As their names
seem one, the creatures are supposed to be one, and everything conspires
to confirm the first mistake, and to invest what was originally a good
Irish story--a mere _canard_--with all the dignity of scientific, and
all the solemnity of theological truth. The myth continued to live
until the age of Newton. Specimens of _Lepadidæ_, prepared by Professor
Rolleston of Oxford, show how the outward appearance of the _Anatifera_
could have supported the popular superstition which derived the
_Bernicla_, the goose, from the _Bernicula_, the shell.
Drayton (1613), in his "Poly-olbion," iii., in connexion with the river
Lee, speaks of
"Th' anatomised fish and fowls from planchers sprung;"
to which a note is appended in Southey's edition, p. 609, that such
fowls were "Barnacles, a bird breeding upon old ships." A bunch of the
shells attached to the ship, or to a piece of floating timber, at a
distance appears like flowers in bloom; the foot of the animal has a
similitude to the stalk of a plant growing from the ship's sides, the
shell resembles a calyx, and the flower consists of the tentacula, or
fingers, of the shell-fish. The ancient error was to mistake the foot
for the neck of a goose, the shell for its head, and the tentacula for
feathers. As to the body, _non est inventus_.
Sir Kenelm Digby was soundly laughed at for relating to a party at
the castle of the Governor of Calais, that "the Barnacle, a bird in
Jersey, was first a shell-fish to appearance, and, from that striking
upon old wood, became in time a bird." In 1807, there was exhibited in
Spring-gardens, London, a "Wonderful natural curiosity, called the Goose
Tree, Barnacle Tree, or Tree bearing Geese," taken up at sea on January
12th, and more than twenty men could raise out of the water.[26]
Sir J. Emerson Tennent asks whether the ready acceptance and general
credence given to so obvious a fable may not have been derived from
giving too literal a construction to the text of the passage in the
first chapter of Genesis:--
"And God said, Let the _waters bring forth abundantly_ the
moving creature that hath life, and the _fowl_ that may fly in the
open firmament of heaven."
The Barnacle Goose is a well-known bird, and is eaten on fast-days in
France, by virtue of this old belief in its marine origin. The belief
in the barnacle origin of the bird still prevails on the west coast of
Ireland, and in the Western Highlands of Scotland.
The finding of the Barnacle is thus described by Mr. Sidebotham, to
the Microscopical and Natural History Section of the Literary and
Philosophical Society:--"In September, I was at Lytham with my family.
The day was very stormy, and the previous night there had been a strong
south-west wind, and evidences of a very stormy sea outside the
banks. Two of my children came running to tell me of a very strange
creature that had been washed up on the shore. They had seen it from
the pier, and pointed it out to a sailor, thinking it was a large dog
with long hair. On reaching the shore I found a fine mass of Barnacles,
_Pentalasinus anatifera_, attached to some staves of a cask, the whole
being between four and five feet long. Several sailors had secured the
prize, and were getting it on a truck to carry it away. The appearance
was most remarkable, the hundreds of long tubes with their curious
shells looking like what one would fancy the fabled Gorgon's head with
its snaky locks. The curiosity was carried to a yard where it was to be
exhibited, and the bellman went round to announce it under the name of
the sea-lioness, or the great sea-serpent. Another mass of Barnacles
was washed up at Lytham, and also one at Blackpool, the same day or the
day following. This mass of Barnacles was evidently just such a one as
that seen by Gerard at the Pile of Foulders. It is rare to have such a
specimen on our coasts. The sailors at Lytham had never seen anything
like it, although some of them were old men who had spent all their
lives on the coast."
FOOTNOTE:
[26] "Notes and Queries," No. 201.
LEAVES ABOUT BOOKWORMS.
On paper, leather, and parchment are found various animals, popularly
known as "Bookworms." Johnson describes it as a worm or mite that eats
holes in books, chiefly when damp; and in the "Guardian" we find this
reference to its habits:--"My lion, like a moth or bookworm, feeds upon
nothing but paper."
Many years ago an experienced keeper of the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford
collected these interesting details of Bookworms:--"The larvæ of
_Crambus pinguinalis_ will establish themselves upon the binding of a
book, and spinning a robe will do it little injury. A mite, _Acarus
eruditus_, eats the paste that fastens the paper over the edges of the
binding and so loosens it. The caterpillar of another little moth takes
its station in damp old books, between the leaves, and there commits
great ravages. The little boring wood-beetle, who attacks books and
will even bore through several volumes. An instance is mentioned of
twenty-seven folio volumes being perforated in a straight line, by the
same insect, in such a manner that by passing a cord through the perfect
round hole made by it the twenty-seven volumes could be raised at once.
The wood-beetle also destroys prints and drawings, whether framed or
kept in a portfolio."
There is another "Bookworm," which is often confounded with the
Death-watch of the vulgar; but is smaller, and instead of beating
at intervals, as does the Death-watch, continues its noise for a
considerable length of time without intermission. It is usually found
in old wood, decayed furniture, museums, and neglected books. The
female lays her eggs, which are exceedingly small, in dry, dusty
places, where they are least likely to meet with disturbance. They are
generally hatched about the beginning of March, a little sooner or
later, according to the weather. After leaving the eggs, the insects are
so small as to be scarcely discerned without the use of a glass. They
remain in this state about two months, somewhat resembling in appearance
the mites in cheese, after which they undergo their change into the
perfect insect. They feed on dead flies and other insects; and often,
from their numbers and voracity, very much deface cabinets of natural
history. They subsist on various other substances, and may often be
observed carefully hunting for nutritious particles amongst the dust in
which they are found, turning it over with their heads, and searching
about in the manner of swine. Many live through the winter buried deep
in the dust to avoid the frost.
The best mode of destroying the insects which infest books and MSS.
has often occupied the attention of the possessors of valuable
libraries. Sir Thomas Phillips found the wood of his book-case attacked,
particularly where beech had been introduced, and appeared to think
that the insect was much attracted by the paste employed in binding.
He recommended as preservatives against their attacks spirits of
turpentine and a solution of corrosive sublimate, and also the latter
substance mixed with paste. In some instances he found the produce of
a single impregnated female sufficient to destroy a book. Turpentine
and spirit of tar are also recommended for their destruction; but the
method pursued in the collections of the British Museum is an abundant
supply of camphor, with attention to keeping the rooms dry, warm, and
ventilated. Mr. Macleay states it is the _acari_ only which feed on the
paste employed in binding books, and the larvæ of the Coleoptera only
which pierce the boards and leaves.
The ravages of the Bookworm would be much more destructive had there
not been a sort of guardian to the literary treasures in the shape of
a spider, who, when examined through a microscope, resembles a knight
in armour. This champion of the library follows the Worm into the
book-case, discovers the pit he has digged, rushes on his victim, which
is about his own size, and devours him. His repast finished, he rests
for about a fortnight, and when his digestion is completed, he sets out
to break another lance with the enemy.
The Death-watch, already referred to, and which must be acquitted of
destroying books, is chiefly known by the noise which he makes behind
the wainscoting, where he ticks like a clock or watch. How so loud
a noise is produced by so small an insect has never been properly
explained; and the ticking has led to many legends. The naturalist
Degeer relates that one night, in the autumn of 1809, during an
entomological excursion in Brittany, where travellers were scarce and
accommodation bad, he sought hospitality at the house of a friend. He
was from home, and Degeer found a great deal of trouble in gaining
admittance; but at last the peasant who had charge of the house told
Degeer that he would give him "the chamber of death," if he liked. As
Degeer was much fatigued, he accepted the offer. "The bed is there,"
said the man, "but no one has slept in it for some time. Every night the
spirit of the officer, who was surprised and killed in this room by some
chouans, comes back. When the officer was dead, the peasants divided
what he had about him, and the officer's watch fell to my uncle, who was
delighted with the prize, and brought it home to examine it. However,
he soon found out that the watch was broken, and would not go. He then
placed it under his pillow, and went to sleep; he awoke in the night,
and to his terror heard the ticking of a watch. In vain he sold the
watch, and gave the money for masses to be said for the officer's soul,
the ticking continued, and has never ceased." Degeer said that he would
exorcise the chamber, and the peasant left him, after making the sign of
the cross. The naturalist at once guessed the riddle, and, accustomed to
the pursuit of insects, soon had a couple of Death-watches shut up in a
tin case, and the ticking was reproduced.
Swift has prescribed this destructive remedy by way of ridicule:--
"A Wood-worm
That lies in old wood, like a hare in her form:
With teeth or with claws it will bite, or will scratch;
And chambermaids christen this worm a Death-watch,
Because like a watch it always cries click:
Then woe be to those in the house that are sick!
For, sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost
If the maggot cries click when it scratches the post.
But a kettle of scalding hot water ejected,
Infallibly cures the timber affected:
The omen is broken, the danger is over;
The maggot will die, the sick will recover."
BORING MARINE ANIMALS, AND HUMAN ENGINEERS.
Were a young naturalist asked to exemplify what man has learned from the
lower animals, he could scarcely adduce a more striking instance than
that of a submarine shelly worker teaching him how to execute some of
his noblest works. This we have learned from the life and labours of the
_Pholas_, of which it has been emphatically said:--"Numerous accounts
have been published during the last fourteen years in every civilized
country and language of the boring process of the _Pholas_; and machines
formed on the model of its mechanism have for years been tunnelling Mont
Cenis."
In the Eastern Zoological Gallery of the British Museum, cases 35 and
36, as well as in the Museum of Economic Geology in Piccadilly, may be
seen specimens of the above very curious order of _Conchifers_, most
of the members of which are distinguished by their habits of boring or
digging, a process in which they are assisted by the peculiar formation
of the foot, from which they derive their name. Of these ten families
one of the most characteristic is that of the Razor-shells, which,
when the valves are shut, are of a long, flattened, cylindrical shape,
and open at both ends. Projecting its strong pointed foot at one of
these ends, the _solen_ can work itself down into the sand with great
rapidity, while at the upper end its respiratory tubes are shot out to
bring the water to its gills. Of the _Pholadæ_, the shells of which
are sometimes called multivalve, because, in addition to the two chief
portions, they have a number of smaller accessory pieces, some bore
in hard mud, others in wood, and others in rocks. They fix themselves
firmly by the powerful foot, and then make the shell revolve; the sharp
edges of this commence the perforation, which is afterwards enlarged by
the rasp-like action of the rough exterior; and though the shell must
be constantly worn down, yet it is replaced by a new formation from the
animal, so as never to be unfit for its purpose. The typical bivalve of
this family is the _Pholas_, which bores into limestone-rock and other
hard material, and commits ravages on the piers, breakwaters, &c., that
it selects for a home.
In the same family as the above Dr. Gray ranks the _Teredo_,[27] or
wood-boring mollusc, whose ravages on ships, piles, wooden piers, &c.,
at sea resemble those of the white ant on furniture, joints of houses,
&c., on shore. Perforating the timber by exactly the same process as
that by which the Pholas perforates the stones, the Teredo advances
continually, eating out a contorted tube or gallery, which it lines
behind it with calcareous matter, and through which it continues to
breathe the water.
The priority of the demonstration of the Pholas and its "boring habits"
has been much disputed. The evidence is full of curious details. It
appears that Mr. Harper, of Edinburgh, author of "The Sea-side and
Aquarium," having claimed the lead. Mr. Robertson, of Brighton, writes
to dispute the originality; adding that he publicly exhibited Pholades
in the Pavilion at Brighton in July, 1851, perforating chalk rocks by
the raspings of their valves and squirtings of their syphons. Professor
Flourens (says Mr. Robertson) taught my observations to his class in
Paris in 1853; I published them in 1851, and again more fully in the
"Journal de Conchyliologie," in 1853; and M. Emile Blanchard illustrated
them in the same year in his "Organisation du Règne Animal." I published
a popular account of the perforating processes in "Household Words"
in 1856. After obtaining the suffrages of the French authorities, I
have been recently honoured with those of the British naturalist. (See
Woodward's "Recent and Fossil Shells," p. 327. Family, Pholadidæ.) On
returning to England last autumn I exhibited perforating Pholades to
all the naturalists who cared to watch them. An intelligent lady whom I
supplied with Pholades has made a really new and original observation,
which I may take this opportunity of communicating to the public. She
observed two Pholades whose perforations were bringing them nearer and
nearer to each other. Their mutual raspings were wearing away the thin
partition which separated their crypts. She was curious to know what
they would do when they met, and watched them closely. When the two
perforating shell-fish met and found themselves in each other's way, the
stronger just bored right through the weaker Pholas.[28]
Mr. Robertson has communicated to "Jameson's Journal," No. 101, the
results of his opportunities of studying the Pholas, during six months,
to discover how this mollusc makes its hole or crypt in the chalk: by
a chemical solvent? by absorption? by ciliary currents? or by rotatory
motions? Between twenty and thirty of these creatures were at work
in lumps of chalk, in sea-water, in a finger-glass, and open for
three months; and by watching their operations. Mr. Robertson became
convinced that the Pholas makes its hole by grating the chalk with its
rasp-like valves, licking it up when pulverized with its foot, forcing
it up through its principal orbrambial syphon, and squirting it out in
oblong nodules. The crypt protects the Pholas from _confervæ_, which,
when they get at it, grow not merely outside, but even with the lips
of the valves, preventing the action of the syphons. In the foot there
is a gelatinous spring or style, which, even when taken out, has great
elasticity, and which seems the mainspring of the motions of the Pholas.
Upon this Dr. James Stark, of Edinburgh, writes:
--"Mr. Robertson, of Brighton, claims the merit of teaching that
Pholades perforate rocks by 'the rasping of their valves and the
squirting of their syphons.' His observations only appear to reach
back to 1851. But the late Mr. John Stark, of Edinburgh, author of the
'Elements of Natural History,' read a paper before the Royal Society of
Edinburgh, in 1826, which was printed in the Society's 'Transactions'
of that year, in which he demonstrated that the Pholades perforate the
shale rocks in which they occur on this coast, by means of the rasping
of their valves, and not by acids or other secretions. From also finding
that their shells scratched limestone without injury to the fine rasping
rugosities, he inferred that it was by the same agency they perforated
the hard limestone rocks."
To this Mr. Robertson replies, that Mr. Osler also, in 1826,
demonstrated that the Pholades "perforate the shale rocks by means of
the rasping of their valves; and more, for he actually witnessed a
rotatory movement. But Réaumur and Poli had done as much as this in the
eighteenth and Sibbald in the seventeenth century: and yet I found the
solvent hypothesis in the ascendant among naturalists in 1835, when I
first interested myself in the controversy. What I did in 1851 was, I
exhibited Pholades at work perforating rocks, and explained how they did
it. What I have done is, I have made future controversy impossible, by
exhibiting the animals at work, and by discovering the anatomy and the
physiology of the perforating instruments. In the words of M. Flourens,
'I made the animals work before my eyes,' and I 'made known their
mechanism.' The discovery of the function of the hyaline stylet is not
merely a new discovery, it is the discovery of a kind of instrument as
yet unique in physiology."
Mr. Harper having termed the boring organ of the Pholas the "hyaline
stylet," found it to have puzzled some of the disputants, whereupon Mr.
Harper writes:--"Its use up to the present time has been a mystery,
but the general opinion of authors seems to be, that it is the gizzard
of the Pholas. This I very much doubt, for it is my belief that the
presence of such an important muscle is solely for the purpose of
aiding the animal's boring operations. Being situated in the centre
of the foot, we can readily conceive the great increase of strength
thus conveyed to the latter member, which is made to act as a powerful
fulcrum, by the exercise of which the animal rotates--and at the same
time presses its shell against and rasps the surface of the rock.
The question being asked, 'How can the stylet be procured to satisfy
curiosity?' I answer, by adopting the following extremely simple plan.
Having disentombed a specimen, with the point of a sharp instrument
cut a slit in the base of its foot, and the object of your search will
be distinctly visible in the shape of, if I may so term it, an opal
cylinder. Sometimes I have seen the point of this organ spring out
beyond the incision, made as above described."
Lastly, Mr. Harper presented the Editor of the "Athenæum" with a
piece of bored rock, of which he has several specimens. He adds, "On
examination, you will perceive that the larger Pholas must have bored
through its smaller and weaker neighbour (how suggestive!), the shell of
the latter, most fortunately, remaining in its own cavity."
Now, Mr. Robertson claimed for his observation of this phenomenon
novelty and originality; but Mr. Harper stoutly maintained it to be
"as common to the eye of the practised geologist as rain or sunshine."
The details are curious; though some impatient, and not very grateful
reader, may imagine himself in the condition of the shell of the smaller
Pholas, and will be, as he deserves to remain, in the minority.[29]
It may be interesting to sum up a few of the opinions of the mode by
which these boring operations are performed. Professor Forbes states
the mode by which Molluscs bore into wood and other materials is as
follows:--"Some of the Gauterspods have tongues covered with silica to
enable them to bore, and it was probably by some process of this kind
that all the Molluscs bored."
Mr. Peach never observed the species of Pholas to turn round in their
holes, as stated by some observers, although he had watched them with
great attention. Mr. Charlesworth refers to the fact that, in one
species of shell, not only does the hole in the rock which the animal
occupies increase in size, but also the hole through which it projects
its syphons.
Professor John Phillips, alluding to the theories which have been
given of the mode in which Molluscs bore into the rocks in which they
live, believes that an exclusively mechanical theory will not account
for the phenomenon; and he is inclined to adopt the view of Dr. T.
Williams--that the boring of the Pholades can only be explained on the
principle which involves a chemical as well as a mechanical agency.
Mr. E. Ray Lankester notices that the boring of Annelids seems quite
unknown; and he mentions two cases, one by a worm called Leucadore, the
other by a Sabella. Leucadore is very abundant on some shores, where
boulders and pebbles may be found worm-eaten and riddled by them. Only
stones composed of carbonate of lime are bored by them. On coasts where
such stones are rare, they are selected, and others are left. The worms
are _quite soft_, and armed only with horny bristles. _How, then, do
they bore?_ Mr. Lankester maintains that it is by carbonic acid and
other acid excretions of their bodies, _aided_ by the mechanical action
of their bristles. The selection of a material soluble in these acids
is most noticeable, since the softest chalk and the hardest limestone
are bored with the same facility. This can only be by chemical action.
If, then, we have a case of chemical boring in these worms, is it not
probable that many Molluscs are similarly assisted in their excavations?
FOOTNOTES:
[27] How Brunel took his construction of the Thames Tunnel from
observing the bore of the _Teredo navalis_ in the keel of a ship, in
1814, is well known.
[28] "Athenæum," No. 1640.
[29] See also "Life in the Sea," in "Strange Stories of the Animal
World," by the author of the present volume. Second Edition. 1868.
INDEX.
ANCIENT Zoological Gardens, 12
Animals, Rare, of London Zoological Society, 16, 17, 18
Annelids, boring, 348
Annelids and Molluscs, Boring Habits of, 348
Ant-Bear in captivity, 76
Ant-Bear, the Great, 72
Ant-Bear at Madrid, 72
Ant-Bear described, 77
Ant-Bear, Domestic, in Paraguay, 75
Ant-Bear, Economy of, 76
Ant-Bear and its Food, 74
Ant-Bears, Fossil, 80, 81
Ant-Bear, Muscular Force of, 79
Ant-Bear, Wallace's Account of, 73
Ant-Bear, Zoological Society's, 76, 82, 84
Ant-Eater, Porcupine, 84
Ant-Bear, Professor Owen on, 80
Ant-Eaters, scarcity of, 80
Ant-Eater, Tamandua, 82
Ant-Eaters, Von Saek's Account of, 83
Aristotle's History of Animals, 279, 280
BARNACLE GEESE, finding of the, 334
Barnacle Goose, Gerarde on, 332
Barnacle Goose, Giraldus Cambrensis on, 332
Barnacle Goose, Max Müller on, 331
Barnacle Goose, name of, 332
Barnacle Goose, Sir E. Tennent on, 334
Barnacle Goose, Sir Kenelm Digby on, 334
Barnacle Goose, Sir R. Moray on, 331
Barnacle Goose, Stories of the, 331-335
Barnacles breeding upon old ships, 333
Barnacle Geese in the Thames, 331
Bat, altivolans, by Gilbert White, 100
Bat, American, by Lesson, 91
Bat, Aristotle on, 85
Bat, Mr. Bell on, 86
Bats, Curiosities of, 85
Bat, described by Calmet, 87
Bat, Flight and Wing of, 96
Bats, in England, 100
Bat, Heber, Stedman, and Waterton on, 91
Bats in Jamaica, 100
Bat, Kalong, of Java, 98
Bat, Long-Eared, by Sowerby, 92, 93-96
Bat, Nycteris, 97
Bat, Rere-mouse and Flitter-mouse, 86
Bat Skeleton, Sir C. Bell on, 87
Bat in Scripture, 85
Bat, Vampire, from Sumatra, 88
Bat, Vampire, Lines on, by Byron, 89
Bat, vulgar errors respecting, 97
Bat-Fowling or Bat-Folding, 92
Berlin Zoological Gardens and Museum, 16
Bible Natural History, 11
Birds, Addison on their Nests and Music, 156, 157
Bird, Australian Bower, Nest of, 167
Bird, Baya, Indian, Nest of, 164
Birds and Animals, Beauty in, 150
Birds, Brain of, 154
Birds, Characteristics of, 145
Birds, Colour of, 148
Bird Confinement, Dr. Livingstone on, 169
Birds' Eggs, large, 162
Birds' Eggs, Colours of, 158
Birds' Eggs and Nests, 158
Birds, European, list of, 161
Birds, Flight of, 146, 147
Birds, Insectivorous, 151;
Instinct, Intelligence, and Reason, 217
Bird-Life, 145
Bird-Murder, wanton, 152
Birds' Nesting, 159
Birds' Nests--Cape Swallows, 168
Birds' Nests--Brush Turkey, 171
Birds' Nests, large, 164
Birds' Eggs--Ostrich and Epyornis, 162, 163
Birds' Nests--Tailor Birds, 165-167
Birds, Rapid Flight of, 147
Birds, Signal of Danger among, 155
Birds, Song of, 149
Birds, Mr. Wolley's Collections, 159, 160
Bookworms, Leaves about, 336
Bookworms and Death-watch, 337
Boring Marine Animals, and Human Engineers, 341
CHAMELEON of the Ancients, 306
Chameleon's antipathy to black, 322
Chameleons, Mrs. Belzoni's, 316-320
Chameleons, Birth of, in England, 321
Chameleon changing Colour, 311, 316
Chameleon, Cuvier on, 309
Chameleon, described by Calmet, 307
Chameleon Family, 307
Chameleon, Air-food of, 309
Chameleon, Milne Edwards on its Change of Colour, 314-316
Chameleons, Native Countries of, 316
Chameleon of the Poets, 308
Chameleons, Reproduction of, 309
Chameleon, Tongue and Eyes of, 310, 311
Chinese Zoological Gardens, 12
Cicada, Song of the, 329
Cormorant's Bone, curious, 204
Cormorants, Chase of, 203
Cormorant Fishery in China, 202
Cormorant, Habits of the, 201
Cormorant trained for Fishing, 201
Curiosities of Zoology, 11
ECCENTRICITIES of Penguins, 188:
Darwin, Mr., his account of Falkland Islands Penguin, 192;
Dassent Island Penguins, 188;
Death-watch and Bookworm, 337, 338;
Falkland Islands Penguins, 189;
King Penguins, 191;
Patagonian Penguins, 189;
Penguin, the name, 194;
Webster, Mr., his Account of Penguins, 193
Epicure's Ortolan, the, 172
Epicurism Extravagant, 177
Evelyn and St. James's Physique Garden, 15
FISH in British Colombia, 280:
Candle-fish, 282;
Octopus, 283;
Salmon Army, 281;
Spoonbill Sturgeon, 285;
Sturgeons, and Sturgeon Fishing, 284-287
Fish-Talk, 250:
Affection of Fishes, 256;
Bohemian Wels Fish, 270;
Bonita and Flying Fish, 263;
Californian Fish, 268;
Carp at Fontainebleau, 254;
Cat-fish, curious Account of, 257;
Double Fish, 272;
Fish changing Colour, 251;
Fish Noise, 252;
Gold Fish, 274;
Grampus, gambols of, 262;
Great General of the South Sea, 272;
Grouper, the, 272;
Hassar, the, 256;
Hearing of Fishes, 253;
Herring Puzzle, 278;
Jaculator Fish of Java, 264;
Jamaica, Curious Fish at, 266;
Little Fishes the Food of Larger, 259;
Marine Observatory, 276;
Mecho of the Danube, 270;
Migration of Fishes, 260;
Miller's Thumb, 276;
Numbers, vast, of Fishes, 258;
Pike, Wonderful, 269;
Pilot Fish, 267;
Sharks, 267;
Singing Fish,252;
Square-browed Malthe, 274;
Strange Fishes, 251;
Sun-fish, 271;
Swimming of Fishes, 250;
Sword-fish, 266;
Warrior Fish, 266
Frog and Toad Concerts, 327
HEDGEHOG, the, 102
Hedgehog devouring Snakes, 104
Hedgehog, Food of, 103
Hedgehogs, Gilbert White on, 107
Hedgehog and Poisons, 105
Hedgehogs, Sir T. Browne on, 102
Hedgehog Sucking Cows, 104
Hedgehog and Viper, Fight between, 106, 107
Hedgehog, Voracity of, 103
Hippopotamus, Ancient History of, 119
Hippopotamus, described by Aristotle and Herodotus, 121
Hippopotamus, Economy of the, 115
Hippopotamus, the, in England, 108
Hippopotami, Fossil, 122
Hippopotami on the Niger, 117
Hippopotamus, Professor Owen's Description of, 111-115
Hippopotamus and River Horse, 116
Hippopotamus in Scripture, 120
Hippopotamus, Utility of, 118
Hippopotamus from the White Nile, 109
Hippopotamus, Zoological Society's, in 1850, 108-111
LEAVES about Bookworms, 336
Lions in Algeria, and Jules Gerard, 143
Lion, African, 131
Lion, Bengal, 133
Lion described by Bennett, 123
Lion described by Buffon, 123-125
Lion described by Burchell, 125
Lion, disappearance of, 130
Lion and Hottentots, 132, 133-136
Lion-hunting Feats, 128
Lion, "King of the Forest," 126
Lion, Longevity of, 137
Lion, Maneless, 133-135
Lion, Niebuhr on, 131
Lion in the Nineveh Sculptures, 139, 140
Lions, the Drudhoe, 144
Lions, Popular Errors respecting, 123
Lion, Prickle or Claw in the Tail, 137-139
Lion, Roar of, 136
Lions in the Tower of London, 140
"Lion Tree" in the Mantatee Country, 127
Lion Stories of the Shows, 142
Lion-Talk, 123
Lioness and her Young, 135
MERMAID of 1822, 43-47
Mermaid in Berbice, 39
Mermaid in the Bosphorus, 47
Mermaid and Dugong, 41
Mermaids, Evidences of, 36
Mermaid at Exmouth, 40
Mermaid, Leyden's Ballad, 35
Mermaid and Manatee, 42
Mermaid at Milford Haven, 37
Mermaid, Japanese, 44
Mermaid, Scottish, 36, 38
Mermaids and Sirens, 33
Mermaid's Song, Haydn's, 34
Mermaids, Stories of, 33
Mermaid, Structure of, 43
Mermaids in Suffolk, 48
Mole, its Economy controverted, 62
Mole, the Ettrick Shepherd on, 71
Mole, Le Court on, 62, 65
Mole and Fairy Rings, 64
Mole and Farming, 70
Mole, Feeling of, 64
Mole at Home, 62
Mole, its Hunting-ground, 67
Moles, Loves of the, 68
Mole, structure of the, 63
Mole, St. Hilaire on, 69
Mole, Shrew, of North America, 70
Mole, Voracity of, 68
Montezuma's Zoological Gardens, 13
Musical Lizard, 303:
Climbing Walls, 303, 304;
Formosa Isle, 303;
Gecko ennobled, 306
ORNITHOLOGICAL SOCIETY, 15
Ortolan described, 172, 173
Ortolans, how fattened, 174
Ortolan, Mr. Gould on, 174, 175
Owls, 221:
Abyssinian Owl, 230;
Barn Owl, 226;
Bischaco, or Coquimbo, 224;
Boobook Owl, 228;
Cats and Owls, 230;
Fraser's Eagle Owl, from Fernando Po, 229;
Food of Owls, 226;
Javanese Owl, 228;
Snowy Owl, 227;
Tricks by Night, 224;
Utility of, 225;
Waterton on the Owl, 225
PELICANS and Cormorants, 195
Pelicans described by Gould, 195
Pelican in Japan, 197
Pelican Popular Error, 198, 199
Pelican Pouches, 198
Pelican Symbol, 200
"Pelican of the wilderness," 197
Pholas, Life and Labours of, 341
Pholades, Charlesworth and Peach on, 347
Pholades, Harper on, 346
Pholades, Robertson on, 343
RHINOCEROS in England, 22:
African Rhinoceros in 1858, 27;
Ancient History, 23;
Bruce and Sparmann, 27;
Burchell's shooting, 30;
Horn of the Rhinoceros, 31, 32;
Indian Wild Ass, 24;
One-horned and Two-horned, 23-26;
Scripture, Rhinoceros of, 23;
Speehnan's Rhinoceros Shooting, 30;
Tegetmeir describes the African Rhinoceros, 27;
Tractability, 25;
Varieties of Rhinoceros, 22;
Zoological Society's Rhinoceros, 23, 29
SALE of Wild Animals, 20
Sentinel Birds, 183
Song of the Cicada, 329
Songs of Birds and Seasons of the Day, 219
St. James's Park Menagerie, 14
Stories of the Barnacle Goose, 331-335
Stories of Mermaids, 33
Surrey Zoological Gardens, 20
TALKING birds, 205:
Bittern and Night Raven, 207;
Blue Jay, 206;
Canaries, Talking, 210-212;
Chinese Starling, 205;
Crowned Crane, 206;
Cuckoo, 209;
Laughing Goose, 209;
Nightingale, 209;
Piping Crow, 205;
Snipe, Neighing, 213;
Trochilos and Crocodile, 216;
Umbrella Bird, 206;
Whidaw Bird, 205;
Wild Swan, 209;
Woodpecker at Constantinople, 215
Talk about Toucans, 179:
Bills of Toucans, 180;
Carnivorous propensity, 184;
Economy of, 182;
Food of, 183;
Gould, Mr., his Grand Monograph, 180, 186;
Owen, Professor, on the Mandibles, 185;
Swainson, Mr., on Toucans, 185
Toucan Family, 179, 180;
White Ants' Nests, 183;
Toucanet, Gould's, 184
Toad and Frog Concerts, 327-328
Toads, Running, Dr. Husenbeth's, 323-327
Tower of London Menagerie, 14
Tree-climbing Crab, the, 288:
Bernhard, Hermit, and Soldier Crab, 291;
Climbing Perch, 288;
Crab, Burrowing, 290;
Crab Migration in Jamaica, 292;
Fishing-frogs, 288;
Glass Crabs, 301;
Pill-making Crabs, 301;
Purse Crab feeding on Cocoa-nuts, 296;
Robber Crab, 292;
Screw-pines, Crab climbing, 298;
Vaulted Crab of the Moluccas, 291
UNICORNS, ancient, 51
Unicorn and Antelope, 53
Unicorn in Central Africa, 58
Unicorn described by Ctesias, 49, 50
Unicorn, Cuvier on, 54
Unicorn, Is it Fabulous? 49
Unicorn, Klaproth on, 55
Unicorn in Kordofan, 53
Unicorn and its Horn, 53, 59
Unicorn, modern, 50
Unicorn, Ogilby on, 51
Unicorn, Rev. J. Campbell on, 57
Unicorn in the Royal Arms, 60
WEATHER-WISE ANIMALS, 231:
Ants, Asses, 241;
Darwin's Signs of Rain, 248;
Frogs and Snails, 237-240;
List of Animals, 241-247;
Mole, 240;
Mother Carey's Chickens and Goose, 234;
Redbreast, 236;
Seagulls, 232;
Signs of Rain, 232;
Stormy Petrels, 233;
Shepherd of Banbury, 249;
Toucans, 237;
Weatherproof Birds' Nests, 247;
Wild Geese and Ducks, 235
Wild Animals, Cost of, 19
Wild Beast Shows, 21
ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS, Origin of, 12
Zoological Society of London, 16
Zoology, Curiosities of, 11
C. A. Macintosh, Printer, Great New-street, London.
+----------------------------------------------------------------- +
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Obvious punctuation and spelling errors repaired. |
| Word combinations that appeared with and without hyphens |
| were changed to the predominant hyphenated form. |
| Original spelling and its variations were not standardized. |
| |
| Corrections in the spelling of names were made when those |
| could be verified. Otherwise the variations were left as they |
| were. |
| |
| Page 18: "Parrot-houses, the, sometimes...." changed to |
| "Parrot-houses: they sometimes contain...." |
| |
| Page 170 and others: Kolobeng and Kolenbeng. Both spellings were |
| retained. |
| |
| Page 191 and others: Tussa, tussack and tussock. All spellings |
| were retained. |
| |
| Page 276: Finisterre changed to Finistère. |
| |
| Page 333: cennexion changed to connexion "... in connexion with |
| the river Lee...." |
| |
| Page 352: Screw-pines, Crab climbing, 295; pagination changed |
| to 298. |
| |
| The name of Shakespeare appears with varying spellings. All |
| variants were kept. |
| |
| Some index entries are not in alphabetical order. They were not |
| corrected. |
| |
| Footnotes were moved to the ends of the chapters in which they |
| belonged and numbered in one continuous sequence. The |
| pagination in index entries which referred to these footnotes |
| was not changed to match their new locations and is therefore |
| incorrect. |
+----------------------------------------------------------------- +
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Old Court Life in France, vol. 1/2
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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Title: Old Court Life in France, vol. 1/2
Author: Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE, VOL. 1/2 ***
_By Frances Elliot_
Old Court Life in France
_2 vols. 8º._
Old Court Life in Spain
_2 vols. 8º._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
OLD COURT
LIFE IN FRANCE
BY
FRANCES ELLIOT
AUTHOR OF “DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY,”
“PICTURE OF OLD ROME,” ETC.
[Illustration]
_ILLUSTRATED_
VOLUME I.
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London
BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Made in the United States of America
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
TO MY NIECE
THE COUNTESS OF MINTO
THIS WORK IS
INSCRIBED
PREFACE
TO THE FIFTH EDITION.
I cannot express the satisfaction I feel at finding myself once more
addressing the great American public, which from the first has received
my works with such flattering favour.
I have taken special pleasure in the production of this new edition of
_Old Court Life in France_, which was first published in America some
twenty years ago, and which is, I trust, now entering into a new lease
of life.
That the same cordial welcome may follow the present edition, which was
accorded to the first, is my anxious hope.
A new generation has appeared, which may, I trust, find itself
interested in the stirring scenes I have delineated with so much care,
that they might be strictly historical, as well as locally correct.
To write this book was, for me (with my knowledge of French history) a
labour of love. It takes me back to the happiest period of my life,
passed on the banks of the historic Loire: to Blois, Amboise, Chambord,
and, a little further off, to the lovely _plaisances_ of Chenonceaux and
Azay le Rideau, the woods of magnificent Versailles, and Saint Cloud
(now a desolation), on to the walls of the palatial Louvre, the
house-tree of the great Kings and Queens of France--never can all these
annals be fitly told! Never can they be exhausted!
To be the guide to these romantic events for the American public is
indeed an honour. To lead where they will follow, with, I trust,
something of my own enthusiasm, is worth all the careful labour the work
has cost me.
With these words I take my leave of the unknown friends across the sea,
who have so kindly appreciated me for many years. Although I have never
_visited_ America, this sympathy bridges space, and draws me to them
with inexpressible cordiality and confidence, in which sentiment I shall
ever remain, leaving my work to speak to them for me.
FRANCES ELLIOT.
_June, 1893._
PREFACE
TO THE THIRD EDITION--IN REPLY TO CERTAIN CRITICS.
To relate the “Court life” of France--from Francis I. to Louis XIV.--it
is necessary to relate, also, the history of the royal favourites. They
ruled both court and state, if they did not preside at the council. The
caprice of these ladies was, actually, “the Pivot on which French
history turned.”
Louis XIII. was an exception. Under him Cardinal Richelieu reigned.
Richelieu’s “_zeal_” for France led him unfortunately to butcher all his
political and personal opponents. He ruled France, axe in hand. It was
an easy way to absolute power.
Cardinal Mazarin found France in a state of anarchy. The throne was
threatened with far more serious dangers than under Richelieu. To feudal
chiefs were joined royal princes. The great Condé led the Spanish troops
against his countrymen. Yet no political murder stains the name of the
gentle Italian. He triumphed by statescraft,--and married the Infanta to
Louis XIV.
Cardinal de Retz possessed much of the genius of Richelieu. No cruelty,
however, attaches to his memory. But De Retz was on the wrong side, the
side of rebellion. He was false to his king and to France. Great as were
his gifts, he fell before the persevering loyalty of Mazarin.
The personal morality of either of these statesmen ill bears
investigation. Marion de l’Orme was the mistress and the spy of
Richelieu; Mazarin--it is to be hoped--was privately married to the
Queen Regent Anne of Austria. Cardinal de Retz had, as a contemporary
remarks, “a bevy of mistresses.”
We have the authority of Charlotte de Bavière, second wife of Phillippe
Duc d’Orléans, brother of Louis XIV., in her _Autobiographical
Fragments_, “that her predecessor, Henrietta of England, was poisoned.”
No legal investigation was ever made as to the cause of her sudden
death. There is no proof “that Louis XIV. disbelieved she was poisoned.”
The number of the victims of the St. Bartholomew-massacre is stated by
Sully to have been 70,000. (_Memoirs_, book I., page 37.) Sully and
other authorities state “that Charles IX., at his death, manifested by
his transports and his tears the sorrow he felt for what he had done.”
Further, “that when dying he sent for Henry of Navarre, in whom _alone_
he found faith and honour.” (Sully, book I., page 42.)
That Sorbin, confessor to Charles IX., should have denied this is
perfectly natural. Henry of Navarre would stink in the confessor’s
nostrils as a pestilent heretic. As to the credibility of Sorbin (a
bigot and a controversialist), I would refer to the _Mémoires de l’état
de France sous Charles IX._, vol. 3, page 267.
According to the _Confession de Saucy_, Sorbin de St. Foy “was made a
Bishop for having placed Charles IX. among the Martyrs.”
FRANCES (MINTO) ELLIOT.
August, 1873.
PREFACE
All my life I have been a student of French memoir-history. In this
species of literature France is remarkably rich. There exist
contemporary memoirs and chronicles, from a very early period down to
the present time, in which are preserved not only admirable outlooks
over general events, but details of language, character, dress, and
manners, not to be found elsewhere. I was bold enough to fancy that
somewhat yet remained to tell;--say--of the caprices and eccentricities
of Louis XIII., of the homeliness of Henri Quatre, of the feminine
tenderness of Gabrielle d’Estrées, of the lofty piety and unquestioning
confidence of Louise de Lafayette, of the romantic vicissitudes of
Mademoiselle de Montpensier; and that some pictures might be made of
these old French personages for English readers in a way that should
pourtray the substance and spirit of history, without affecting to
maintain its form and dress.
In all I have written I have sought carefully to work into my dialogue
each word and sentence recorded of the individual, every available trait
or peculiarity of character to be found in contemporary memoirs, every
tradition that has come down to us.
To be true to life has been my object. Keeping close to the background
of history, I have endeavoured to group the figures of my foreground as
they grouped themselves in actual life. I have framed them in the frames
in which they really lived.
FRANCES ELLIOT.
FARLEY HILL COURT,
Christmas, 1872.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I--FRANCIS I. 1
II--CHARLES DE BOURBON 6
III--BROTHER AND SISTER 12
IV--THE QUALITY OF MERCY 20
V--ALL LOST SAVE HONOUR 28
VI--BROKEN FAITH 33
VII--LA DUCHESSE D’ÉTAMPES 42
VIII--LAST DAYS 49
IX--CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI 55
X--A FATAL JOUST 58
XI--THE WIDOWED QUEEN 63
XII--MARY STUART AND HER HUSBAND 67
XIII--A TRAITOR 74
XIV--THE COUNCIL OF STATE 80
XV--CATHERINE’S VENGEANCE 86
XVI--THE ASTROLOGER’S CHAMBER 94
XVII--AT CHENONCEAU 101
XVIII--A DUTIFUL DAUGHTER 113
XIX--BEFORE THE STORM 122
XX--ST. BARTHOLOMEW 129
XXI--THE END OF CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI 139
XXII--THE LAST OF THE VALOIS 146
XXIII--DON JUAN 158
XXIV--CHARMANTE GABRIELLE 172
XXV--ITALIAN ART 186
XXVI--BIRON’S TREASON 198
XXVII--A COURT MARRIAGE 207
XXVIII--THE PREDICTION FULFILLED 215
XXIX--LOUIS XIII. 227
XXX--THE ORIEL WINDOW 235
XXXI--AN OMINOUS INTERVIEW 244
XXXII--LOVE AND TREASON 254
XXXIII--THE CARDINAL DUPED 263
XXXIV--THE MAID OF HONOUR 271
XXXV--AT VAL DE GRÂCE 283
XXXVI--THE QUEEN BEFORE THE COUNCIL 291
XXXVII--LOUISE DE LAFAYETTE 302
NOTES 317
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE CHÂTEAU OF CHENONCEAU _Frontispiece_
From the painting by Debat Ponson.
(With permission of Ad. Braun et Cie.)
PORTION OF THE ROOF OF THE CHÂTEAU OF CHAMBORD 2
CHÂTEAU OF AZAY LE RIDEAU 6
FRANCIS I. 10
From the painting by Titian.
DOOR OF THE CHAPEL, CHÂTEAU OF AMBOISE 16
HENRY, DUKE OF MONTMORENCI, MARSHAL OF FRANCE 24
From a portrait by Balthasar Moncornet.
THE CHEVALIER BAYARD 40
After A. de Neuville.
(By permission of Estes & Lauriat.)
QUEEN ELINOR 44
CHÂTEAU OF AMBOISE 48
DUCHESSE D’ÉTAMPES 52
CHÂTEAU DE CHAMBORD 56
SPIRAL STAIRCASE, CHÂTEAU OF BLOIS 78
(By permission of Neurdein, Paris.)
COUÇY 86
THE GARDENS OF THE TUILERIES, PARIS 90
A GATE OF THE LOUVRE, AFTER ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S DAY 102
CHARLES IX. 106
From the painting by Clouet.
HENRI DE GUISE 122
From a drawing in the Louvre.
(By permission of A. Giraudon, Paris.)
NOTRE-DAME, PARIS 126
ADMIRAL GASPARD DE COLIGNY 132
From a drawing by François Clouet.
(By permission of A. Giraudon, Paris.)
CATHERINE DE MÉDICIS 140
CHÂTEAU DE BLOIS 150
HENRY IV. 158
From a contemporary painting in the Museum at Versailles.
DIANA DE POITIERS, BY JEAN GOUJON 164
From the Château of Anet, now in the Louvre.
(By permission of Levy, Paris.)
THE CASCADE OF ST. CLOUD 174
From an engraving by Rigaud.
GENERAL VIEW OF FONTAINEBLEAU 190
From an old print.
MARIE DE MÉDICIS 204
From a steel engraving.
COUÇY--INTERIOR, SHOWING THICKNESS OF WALLS 218
LOUIS XIII., KING OF FRANCE AND NAVARRE 232
From an old print.
CARDINAL RICHELIEU 270
CHÂTEAU OF NANTES 280
AUTHORITIES
Mémoires de Brantôme.
Mémoires de son Temps, Du Bellay.
Histoire de Henri Duc de Bouillon.
Mémoires de Condé.
Dictionnaire de Bayle, “_Duc de Guise_.”
Histoire des Guerres Civiles de la France, par Davila.
Mémoires pour servir à l’Histoire de France, par Champollion.
Mémoires de Coligni.
Novaes, Storia dei Pontefici.
Mémoires de Marguerite de Valois.
Journal de Henri III.
Mémoires de Sully.
Histoire de Henri IV., par Mathieu.
Histoire des Amours de Henri IV.
L’Intrigue du Cabinet sous Henri IV. et Louis XIII.
Mémoires pour l’Histoire du Cardinal de Richelieu.
Mémoires du Cardinal de Richelieu.
Histoire de la Mère et du Fils, par Mezeray.
Mémoires du Maréchal de Bassompierre.
Observations de Bassompierre.
Mémoires de feu Monsieur (Gaston) Duc d’Orléans.
Mémoires de Cinq-Mars.
Mémoires de Montrésor.
La Cour de Marie de’ Medici, par un Cadet de Gascogne.
Lettres de Madame de Sévigné.
Mémoires de Mademoiselle de Montpensier.
Mémoires du Duc de Lauzun.
Mémoires de Madame de Motteville.
Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan.
Mémoires du Cardinal de Retz.
Mémoires de La Porte.
Mémoires de Mazarin.
Œuvres Complètes de Saint-Simon.
Mémoires de la Duchesse de la Vallière.
Mémoires de la Marquise de Montespan.
Mémoires de la Marquise de Maintenon.
Amours des Rois de France.
Dulaure, Histoire de Paris.
Histoire de la Touraine, dans la Bibliothèque Publique à Tours.
Capefigue, Ouvrages Divers.
OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE.
CHAPTER I.
FRANCIS I.
We are in the sixteenth century. Europe is young in artistic life. The
minds of men are moved by the discussions, councils, protests, and
contentions of the Reformation. The printing press is spreading
knowledge into every corner of the globe.
At this period, three highly educated and unscrupulous young men divide
the power of Europe. They are Henry VIII. of England, Charles V. of
Austria, and Francis I. of France. Each is magnificent in taste; each is
desirous of power and conquest. Each acts as a spur to the others both
in peace and in war. They introduce the cultivated tastes, the refined
habits, the freedom of thought of modern life, and from the period in
which they flourish modern history dates.
Of these three monarchs Francis is the boldest, cleverest, and most
profligate. The elegance, refinement, and luxury of his court are
unrivalled; and this luxury strikes the senses from its contrast with
the frugal habits of the ascetic Louis XI. and the homely Louis XII.
His reign educated Europe. If ambition led him towards Italy, it was as
much to capture the arts of that classic land and to bear them back in
triumph to France, as to acquire the actual territory. Francis
introduced the French Renaissance, that subtle union of elaborate
ornamentation with purity of design which was the renovation of art.
When and how he acquired such exact appreciation of the beautiful is
unexplained. That he possessed judgment and taste is proved by the
monuments he left behind, and by his patronage of the greatest masters
of their several arts.
The wealth of beauty and colour, the flowing lines of almost divine
expression in the works of the Italian painters of the Cinque-cento,
delighted the sensuous soul of Francis. Wherever he lived he gathered
treasures of their art around him. Such a nature as his had no sympathy
with the meritorious but precise elaboration of the contemporary Dutch
school, led by the Van Eycks and Holbein. It was Leonardo da Vinci, the
head of the Milanese school, who blended power and tenderness, that
Francis delighted to honour. He brought Cellini, Primaticcio, and
Leonardo from Italy, and never wearied of their company. He established
the aged Leonardo at the Château de Clos, near his own castle of
Amboise, where the painter is said to have died in the arms of his royal
patron.
As an architect, Francis left his mark beyond any other sovereign of
Europe. He transformed the gloomy fortress-home--embattled, turreted,
and moated--into the elaborately decorated, manorial château. The bare
and foot-trodden space without,
[Illustration: Portion of the Roof of the Château of Chambord]
enclosed with walls of defence, was changed into green lawns and
overarching bowers breaking the vista toward the royal forest, the
flowing river, and the open _campagne_.
Francis had a mania for building. Like Louis XIV., who in the century
following built among the sandhills of Versailles, Francis insisted on
creating a fairy palace amid the flat and dusty plains of Sologne. Here
the Renaissance was to achieve its triumph. At Chambord, near Blois,
were massed every device, decoration, and eccentricity of his favourite
style. So identified is this place with its creator, that even his
intriguing life peeps out in the double staircase under the central
tower--representing a gigantic fleur-de-lys in stone--where those who
ascend are invisible to those who descend; in the doors, concealed in
sliding panels behind the arras; and in many double walls and secret
stairs.
Azay le Rideau, built on a beautifully wooded island on the river Indre,
though less known than Chambord, was and is an exquisite specimen of the
Renaissance. It owes the fascination of its graceful outlines and
peculiar ornamentation to the masterhand which has graven his crowned F
and Salamander on its quaint façades. The Louvre and Fontainebleau are
also signed by these monograms. He, and his son Henry II., made these
piles the historic monuments we now behold.
Such was Francis, the artist. As a soldier, he followed in the steps of
Bayard, “Sans peur et sans reproche.” He perfected that poetic code of
honour which reconciles the wildest courage with generosity towards an
enemy. A knight-errant in love of danger and adventure, Francis comes
to us as the perfect type of the chivalrous Frenchman; ready to do
battle on any provocation either as king or gentleman, either at the
head of his army, in the tournament, or in the duello. He loved all that
was gay, bright, and beautiful. He delighted in the repose of peace, yet
no monarch ever plunged his country into more ruinous and causeless
wars. Though capable of the tenderest and purest affection, no man was
ever more heartless and cruel in principle and conduct.
Francis, Duc de Valois,[1] was educated at home by his mother, Madame
Louise de Savoie, Duchesse d’Angoulême, Regent of France, together with
his brilliant sister, Marguerite, “the pearl of the Valois,” poetess,
story-teller, artist, and politician. Each of these royal ladies was
tenderly attached to the clever, handsome youth, and together formed
what they chose to call “a trinity of love.” The old Castle of Amboise,
in Touraine, the favourite abode of Louis XII., continued to be their
home after his death. Here, too, the hand of Francis is to be traced in
sculptured windows and architectural façades, in noble halls and broad
galleries, and in the stately terraced gardens overlooking the Loire
which flows beneath its walls. Here, under the formal lime alleys and
flowering groves, or in the shadow of the still fortified bastions, the
brother and sister sat or wandered side by side, on many a summer day;
read and talked of poetry and troubadours, of romance and chivalry, of
Arthur, Roland, and Charlemagne, of spells and witcheries, and of Merlin
the enchanter whose magic failed before a woman’s glance.
Printing at that time having become general, literature of all kinds
circulated in every direction, stirring men’s minds with fresh tides of
knowledge. Marguerite de Valois, who was called “the tenth Muse,” dwelt
upon poetry and fiction, and already meditated her Boccaccio-like
stories, afterwards to be published under the title of the _Heptameron_.
Francis gloated over such adventures as were detailed in the roundelay
of the “Four Sons of Aymon,” a ballad of that day, devoured the history
of _Amadis de Gaul_, and tried his hand in twisting many a love-rhyme,
after the fashion of the “Romaunt of the Rose.”
In such an idyllic life of love, of solitude, and of thought, full of
the humanising courtesies of family life, was formed the paradoxical
character of Francis, who above all men possessed what the French
describe as “the reverse of his qualities.” His fierce passions still
slumbered, his imagination was filled with poetry, his heart beat high
with the endearing love of a brother and a son. His reckless courage
vented itself in the chase, among the royal forests of Amboise and of
Chanteloup, that darkened the adjacent hills, or in a tustle with the
boorish citizens, or travelling merchants, in the town below.
Thus he grew into manhood, his stately yet condescending manners,
handsome person, and romantic courage gaining him devoted adherents. Yet
when we remember that Francis served as the type for Hugo’s play of _Le
Roi s’amuse_ we pause and--shudder.
CHAPTER II.
CHARLES DE BOURBON.
The Court is at Amboise. Francis is only twenty, and still solicits the
advice of his mother, Louise de Savoie, regent during his minority.
Marguerite, now married to the Duc d’Alençon, has also considerable
influence over him. Both these princesses, who are with him at Amboise,
insist on the claims of their kinsman, Charles de Montpensier, Duc de
Bourbon,--in right of his wife, Suzanne, only daughter and heiress of
Pierre, the last duke,--to be appointed Constable of France. It is an
office next in power to the sovereign, and has not been revived since
the treasonable conspiracy of the Comte de St. Pol, in the reign of
Louis XI.
Bourbon is only twenty-six, but he is already a hero. He has braved
death again and again in the battle-field with dauntless valour. In
person he is tall and handsome. In manners, he is frank, bold, and
prepossessing; but when offended, his proud nature easily turns to
vindictive and almost savage revenge. Invested with the double dignity
of General of the royal forces and Constable of France, he comes to
Amboise to salute the King and the princesses, who are both strangely
interested in his career, and to take the last commands from Francis,
who does not now propose accompanying his army into Italy.
There is a restless, mobile expression on Bourbon’s dark yet comely
face, that tells of strong passions ill suppressed. A man capable of
ardent and devoted
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU OF AZAY-LE-RIDEAU.]
love, and of bitter hate; his marriage with his cousin Suzanne, lately
dead, had been altogether a political alliance to bring him royal
kindred, wealth, and power. Suzanne had failed to interest his heart. It
is said that another passion has long engaged him. Francis may have some
hint as to who the lady is, and may resent Bourbon’s presumption. At all
events, the Constable is no favourite with the King. He dislikes his
_fanfaronnade_ and haughty address. He loves not either to see a subject
of his own age so powerful and so magnificent; it trenches too much on
his own prerogatives of success. Besides, as lads, Bourbon and Francis
had quarrelled at a game of _maille_. The King had challenged Bourbon
but had never fought him, and Bourbon resented this refusal as an
affront to his honour.
The Constable, mounted on a splendid charger, with housings of black
velvet, and attended by a brilliant suite, gallops into the courtyard.
His fine person is set off by a rich surcoat, worn over a suit of gilded
armour. He wears a red and white _panache_ in his helmet, and his sword
and dagger are thickly incrusted with diamonds.
At the top of the grand staircase are posted one hundred archers, royal
pages conduct the Constable through the range of state apartments.
The King receives Bourbon in the great gallery hung with tapestry. He is
seated on a chair of state, ornamented with elaborate carving, on which
the arms of France are in high relief. This chair is placed on a raised
floor, or dais, covered with a carpet. Beside him stands the grand
master of the ceremonies, who introduces the Constable to the King.
Francis, who inclines his head and raises his cap for an instant, is
courteous but cold. Marguerite d’Alençon is present; like Bourbon, she
is unhappily mated. The Duc d’Alençon is, physically and mentally, her
inferior. When the Constable salutes the King, Marguerite stands apart.
Conscious that her brother’s eyes read her thoughts, she blushes deeply
and averts her face. Bourbon advances to the spot where she is seated in
the recess of an oriel window. He bows low before her; Marguerite rises,
and offers him her hand. Their eyes meet. There is no disguise in the
passionate glance of the Constable; Marguerite, confused and
embarrassed, turns away.
“Has your highness no word of kindness for your kinsman?” says the
Constable, in a low voice.
“You know, cousin, your interests are ever dear to me,” replies she, in
the same tone; then, curtseying deeply to the King, she takes the arm of
her husband, M. d’Alençon, who was killing flies at the window, and
leaves the gallery.
“_Diable!_” says Francis to his confidant, Claude de Guise, in an
undertone; “My sister is scarcely civil to the Constable. Did you
observe, she hardly answered him? All the better. It will teach Bourbon
humility, and not to look too high for a mate.”
“Yet her highness pleaded eagerly with your Majesty for his
advancement.”
“Yes, yes; that was to please our mother. Suzanne de Bourbon was her
cousin, and the Regent promised her before her death to support her
husband’s claims.”
Meanwhile, the Constable receives, with a somewhat reserved and haughty
civility, the compliments of the Court. He is conscious of an
antagonistic atmosphere. It is well known that the King loves him not;
and whom the King loves not neither does the courtier.
A page then approaches, and invites the Constable, in the name of Queen
Claude, to join her afternoon circle. Meanwhile, he is charged to
conduct the Constable to an audience with the Regent-mother, who awaits
him in her apartments.
The King had been cool and the Princess silent and reserved: not so the
Regent Louise de Savoie, who advances to meet the Constable with
unmistakable eagerness.
“I congratulate you, my cousin,” she says, holding out both her hands to
him, which he receives kneeling, “on the dignity with which my son has
invested you. I may add, that I was not altogether idle in the matter.”
“Your highness will, I hope, be justified in the favour you have shown
me,” replies the Constable, coldly.
“Be seated, my cousin,” continues Louise. “I have desired to see you
alone that I might fully explain with what grief I find myself obliged,
by the express orders of my son, to dispute with a kinsman I so much
esteem as yourself”--she pauses a moment, the Constable bows
gravely--“the inheritance of my poor cousin, your wife, Madame Suzanne
de Bourbon. Suzanne was dear to me, and you also, Constable, have a high
place in my regard.”
Louise ceases. She looks significantly at the Constable, as if waiting
for him to answer; but he does not reply, and again bows.
“I am placed,” continues the Regent, the colour gathering on her cheek,
“in a most painful alternative. The Chancellor has insisted on the
legality of my claims--claims on the inheritance of your late wife,
daughter of Pierre, Duc de Bourbon, my cousin. I will not trouble you
with details. My son urges the suit. My own feelings plead strongly
against proceeding any further in the matter.” She hesitates and stops.
“Your highness is of course aware that the loss of this suit would be
absolute ruin to me?” says Bourbon, looking hard at Louise.
“I fear it would be most disastrous to your fortunes. That they are dear
to me, judge--you are by my interest made Constable of France, second
only in power to my son.”
“I have already expressed my gratitude, madame.”
“But, Constable,” continues Louise de Savoie, speaking with much
animation, “why have you insisted on your claims--why not have trusted
to the gratitude of the King towards a brave and zealous subject? Why
not have counted on myself, who have both power and will, as I have
shown, to protect you?”
“The generosity of the King and your highness’s favour, which I accept
with gratitude, have nothing to do with the legal rights of my late
wife’s inheritance. I desire not, madame, to be beholden in such matters
even to your highness or to his Majesty.”
“Well, Constable, well, as you will; you are, I know, of a proud and
noble nature. But I have desired earnestly,” and the Regent rises and
places herself on another chair nearer the Constable, “to
[Illustration: FRANCIS I.
FROM THE PAINTING BY TITIAN.]
ascertain from your own lips if this suit cannot be settled _à
l’amiable_. There are many means of accommodating a lawsuit, Duke.
Madame Anne, wife of two kings of France, saved Brittany from cruel wars
in a manner worthy of imitation.”
“Truly,” replies Bourbon, with a sigh; “but I know not what princess of
the blood would enable me to accommodate your highness’s suit in so
agreeable a manner.”
“Have you not yourself formed some opinion on the subject?” asks Louise,
looking at the Constable with undisguised tenderness.
“No, madame, I have not. Since the hand of your beautiful daughter,
Madame Marguerite, is engaged, I know no one.”
“But--” and she hesitates, and again turns her eyes upon him, which the
Constable does not observe, as he is adjusting the hilt of his
dagger--“but--you forget, Duke, that I am a widow.”
As she speaks she places her hand upon that of the Constable, and gazes
into his face. Bourbon starts violently and looks up. Louise de Savoie,
still holding his hand, meets his gaze with an unmistakable expression.
She is forty years old, but vain and intriguing. There is a pause. Then
the Constable rises and drops the hand which had rested so softly upon
his own. His handsome face darkens into a look of disgust. A flush of
rage sends the blood tingling to the cheeks of Louise.
“Your highness mistakes me,” says Bourbon. “The respect I owe to his
Majesty, the disparity of our years, my own feelings, all render such an
union impossible. Your highness does me great honour, but I do not at
present intend to contract any other alliance. If his Majesty goes to
law with me, why I will fight him, madame,--that is all.”
“Enough,” answers Louise, in a hoarse voice, “I understand.” The
Constable makes a profound obeisance and retires.
This interview was the first act in that long and intricate drama by
which the spite of a mortified woman drove the Duc de Bourbon--the
greatest general of his age, under whom the arms of France never knew
defeat--to become a traitor to his king and to France.
CHAPTER III.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
Years have passed; Francis, with his wife, Queen Claude, daughter of
Louis XII. and Anne of Brittany, is at Chambord, in the Touraine.
Claude, but for the Salic law, would have been Queen of France. In her
childhood, she was affianced to Charles, son of Philip the Fair,
afterwards Charles V. of Germany, the great rival of Francis. Francis
had never loved her, the union had been political; yet Claude is gentle
and devoted, and he says of her, “that her soul is as a rose without a
thorn.” This queen--the darling of her parents--can neither bear the
indifference nor the infidelity of her brilliant husband, and dies of
her neglected love at the early age of twenty-five.
Marguerite d’Alençon, the Duke her husband, and the Court, are assembled
for hunting in the forests of Sologne. Chambord, then but a gloomy
mediæval fortress lying on low swampy lands on the banks of the river
Casson, is barely large enough to accommodate the royal party. Already
Francis meditates many changes; the course of the river Loire, some
fifteen miles distant, is to be turned in order to bathe the walls of a
sumptuous palace, not yet fully conceived in the brain of the royal
architect.
It is spring; Francis is seated in the broad embrasure of an oriel
window, in an oak-panelled saloon which looks towards the surrounding
forest. He eagerly watches the gathering clouds that veil the sun and
threaten to prevent the boar-hunt projected for that morning. Beside
him, in the window, sits his sister Marguerite. She wears a black velvet
riding-habit, faced with gold; her luxuriant hair is gathered into a net
under a plumed hat on which a diamond aigrette glistens. At the farther
end of the room Queen Claude is seated on a high-backed chair, richly
carved, in the midst of her ladies. She is embroidering an altar-cloth;
her face is pale and very plaintive. She is young, and though not
beautiful, there is an angelic expression in her large grey eyes, a
dimpling sweetness about her mouth, that indicate a nature worthy to
have won the love of any man, not such a libertine as Francis. Her dress
is plain and rich, of grey satin trimmed with ermine; a jewelled coif is
upon her head. She bends over her work, now and then raising her wistful
eyes with an anxious look towards the King. The Queen’s habits are
sedentary, and the issue of the hunting party is of no personal
interest to her; she always remains at home with her children and
ladies. Many attendant lords, attired for hunting, are waiting his
Majesty’s pleasure in the adjoining gallery.
“Marguerite,” says the King, turning to the Duchesse d’Alençon, as the
sun reappears out of a bank of cloud, “the weather mends; in a quarter
of an hour we shall start. Meanwhile, dear sister, sit beside me.
_Morbleu_, how well that riding-dress becomes you! You are very
handsome, and worthy to be called the Rose of the Valois. There are few
royal ladies in our Court to compare to you”; and Francis glances
significantly at his gentle Queen, busy over her embroidery, as if to
say--“Would that she resembled you!”
Marguerite, proud of her brother’s praise, reddens with pleasure and
reseats herself at his side. “By-and-by I shall knock down this sombre
old fortress,” continues Francis, looking out of the window at the
gloomy façade, “and transform it into a hunting château. The situation
pleases me, and the surrounding forest is full of game.”
“My brother,” says Marguerite, interrupting him and speaking in an
earnest voice, for her eyes have not followed the direction of the
King’s, which are fixed on the prospect; she seems not to have heard his
remarks, and her bright look has changed into an anxious expression; “my
brother, tell me, have you decided upon the absolute ruin of Bourbon?
Think how his haughty spirit must chafe under the repeated marks of your
displeasure.” They are both silent. Marguerite’s eyes are riveted upon
the King. Francis is embarrassed. He averts his face from the suppliant
look cast upon him by his sister, and again turns to the window, as if
to watch the rapidly passing clouds.
“My sister,” he says at length, “Bourbon is not a loyal subject; he is
unworthy of your regard.”
“Sire, I cannot believe it. Bourbon is no traitor! But, my brother, if
he were, have you not tried him sorely? Have you not driven him from you
by an intolerable sense of injury? Oh, Francis, remember he is our
kinsman, your most zealous servant;--did he not save your life at
Marignano? Who among your generals is cool, daring, valiant, wise as
Bourbon? Has he not borne our flag triumphantly through Italy? Have the
French troops under him ever known defeat? Yet, my brother, you have now
publicly disgraced him.” Her voice trembles with emotion; she is very
pale, and her eyes fill with tears.
“By the mass, Marguerite, no living soul, save our mother, would dare to
address me thus!” exclaims the King, turning towards her. He is much
moved. Then, examining her countenance, he adds, “You are strangely
agitated, my sister. What concern have you with the Constable? Believe
me, I have made Bourbon too powerful.”
“Not now, not now, Francis, when you have, at the request of a woman--of
Madame de Châteaubriand too--taken from him the government of Milan;
when he is superseded in his command; when our mother is pressing on him
a ruinous suit, with your sanction.”
At the name of Madame de Châteaubriand Marguerite’s whole countenance
darkens with anger, the King’s face grows crimson.
“My sister, you plead Bourbon’s cause warmly--too warmly, methinks,” and
Francis turns his head aside to conceal his confusion.
“Not only has your Majesty taken from him the government of Milan,”
continues Marguerite, bitterly, unheeding the King’s interruption, “but
he has been replaced by Lautrec, brother of Madame de Châteaubriand, an
inexperienced soldier, unfitted for such an important post. Oh, my
brother, you are driving Bourbon to despair. So great a general cannot
hang up his victorious sword.”
“By my faith, sister, you press me hard,” replies the King, recovering
the gentle tone with which he always addressed her; “I will communicate
with my council; what you have said shall be duly considered. Meanwhile,
if Bourbon inspires you with such interest, as it seems he does, tell
him to humble his pride and submit himself to us, his sovereign and his
master. If he do, he shall be greater than ever, I promise you.” As he
speaks, he glances at Marguerite, whose eyes fall to the ground. “But
see, my sister, the sun is shining; and there is some one already
mounting in the courtyard. Give the signal for departure, Comte de
Saint-Vallier,” says the King in a louder voice, turning towards two
gentlemen standing at an opposite window in the gallery. The King has to
repeat his command before the Comte de Saint-Vallier hears him.
“Saint-Vallier, you are in deep converse with De Pompérant. Is it love
or war?”
“Neither, Sire,” replies the Captain of the Royal Archers, looking
embarrassed.
“M. de Pompérant, are you going with us
[Illustration: Door of the Chapel, Château of Amboise]
to-day to hunt the boar?” says the King, advancing towards them.
“Sire,” replies De Pompérant, bowing profoundly, “your Majesty does me
great honour; but, with your leave, I will not accompany the hunt.
Urgent business calls me from Chambord.”
“Ah, _coquin_, it is an assignation; confess it,” and a wicked gleam
lights up the King’s eyes.
“No, Sire,” says De Pompérant. “I go to join the Constable de Bourbon,
who is indisposed.”
“Ah! to join the Constable!” Francis pauses and looks at him. “I know he
is your friend,” continues he, suddenly becoming very grave. “Where is
he?”
“At his fortress of Chantelle, Sire.”
“At Chantelle! a fortified place, and without my permission. Truly,
Monsieur de Pompérant, your friend is a daring subject. What if I will
not trust you in his company, and command your attendance on our person
here at Chambord?”
“Then, Sire, I should obey,” replies De Pompérant; “but let your
gracious Majesty remember the Duc de Bourbon is ill; he is a broken and
ruined man, deprived of your favour. Chantelle is more a château than a
fortress.”
“Go, De Pompérant; I did but jest. Tell Bourbon, on the word of a king,
that he has warm friends near my person; that if the Regent-mother gains
her suit against him, I will restore tenfold to him in money, lands, and
honour. Adieu, Monsieur de Pompérant. You are dismissed. Bon voyage.”
Now, the truth was that De Pompérant had come to Chambord upon a secret
mission from Bourbon, who wished to assure himself of those gentlemen
of the Court upon whom he could rely in case of rebellion. The Comte de
Saint-Vallier had just, while standing at the window, pledged his word
to stand by Bourbon for life or death.
The King is now mounting his horse in the courtyard, a noble bay with
glittering harness. He gives the signal of departure, which is echoed
through the woodland recesses by the bugles of the huntsmen. A lovely
lady attired in white has joined the royal retinue in the courtyard. She
rides on in front beside the King, who, the better to converse with her,
has placed his hand upon her horse’s neck. This is Françoise, Comtesse
de Châteaubriand, the favourite of the hour--at whose request Bourbon
had been superseded in the government of Milan by her brother Lautrec.
Behind this pair rides Marguerite d’Alençon with her husband, the Comte
de Guise, Montmorenci, Bonnivet, and other nobles. A large cavalcade of
courtiers follows. Since her conversation with her brother, Marguerite
looks thoughtful and anxious. She is so absent that she does not even
hear the prattle of her husband, who is content to talk and cares not
for reply. On reaching the dense thickets of the forest she suddenly
reins up her horse, and, falling back a little, beckons the Comte de
Saint-Vallier to her side.
“M. le Comte,” she says in a loud voice, so as to be overheard by her
husband and the other gentlemen riding in advance, “tell me when is the
Court to be graced by the presence of your incomparable daughter,
Madame Diane, Grande Seneschale of Normandy?”
“Madame,” replies Saint-Vallier, “her husband, Monseigneur de Brèzè, is
much occupied in his distant government. Diane is young, much younger
than her husband. The Court, madame, is dangerously full of temptations
to the young.”
“We lose a bright jewel by her absence,” says Marguerite, abstractedly.
“M. le Comte,” she continues in a low voice, speaking quickly, and
motioning to him with her hand to approach nearer, “I have something
private to say to you. Ride close by my side. You are a friend of the
Constable de Bourbon?” she asks eagerly.
“Yes, madame, I am.”
“You are, perhaps, his confidant? Speak freely to me; I feel deeply the
misfortunes of the Duke. I would aid him if I could. Is there any
foundation for the suspicion with which my brother regards him? You will
not deceive me, Monsieur de Poitiers?”
Saint-Vallier does not answer at once. “The Constable de Bourbon will
never, I trust, betray his Majesty,” replies he at last, with
hesitation.
“Alas! my poor cousin! Is that all the assurance you can give me,
Monsieur de Saint-Vallier? Oh! he is incapable of treason,” exclaims
Marguerite with enthusiasm; “I would venture my life he is incapable of
treason!”
A courier passes them at this moment, riding with hot speed. He nears
the King, who is now far on in front, and who, hearing the sound of the
horse’s hoofs, stops and listens. The messenger hands the King a
despatch. Francis hastily breaks the seal. It is from Lautrec, the new
governor of Milan. Bourbon is in open rebellion.
Bourbon in open rebellion! This intelligence necessitates the instant
presence of the King at Paris.
CHAPTER IV.
THE QUALITY OF MERCY.
Francis is at the Louvre, surrounded by his most devoted friends and
councillors, Chabannes, La Trémouille, Bonnivet, Montmorenci, Crequi,
Cossé, De Guise, and the two Du Bellays. The Louvre is still the
isolated stronghold, castle, palace, and prison, surrounded by moat,
walls, and bastions, built by Philippe Auguste on the grassy margin of
the Seine. In the centre of the inner court is a round tower, also
moated, and defended by ramparts, ill-famed in feudal annals for its
oubliettes and dungeons, under which the river flows. Four gates, with
posterns and towers, open from the Louvre; that one opposite the Seine
is the strongest. The southern gate--which is low and narrow, with
statues on either hand of Charles V. and his wife, Jeanne de
Bourbon--faces the Church of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.[2] Beyond are
gardens and orchards, and a house called Fromenteau, where lions are
kept for the King’s amusement.
These are the days of stately manners, intellectual culture, and
increasing knowledge. Personal honour, as from man to man, is a
religion, of which Bayard is the high priest; treachery to woman, a
virtue inculcated by the King. The idle, vapid life of later courts is
unknown under a monarch who, however addicted to pleasure, cultivates
all kinds of knowledge, whose inquiring intellect seeks to master all
science, to whom indolence is impossible. His very meals are chosen
moments in which he converses with authors, poets, and artists, or
dictates letters to Erasmus and the learned Greek Lascaris. Such
industry and dignity, such grace and condescension, gather around him
the great spirits of the age. He delights in their company.
It is the King’s boast that he has introduced into France the study of
the Greek language, Botany, and Natural History. He buys, at enormous
prices, pictures, pottery, enamels, statues, and manuscripts. As in his
fervid youth at Amboise, he loves poetry and poets. Clément Marot is his
chosen guest, and polishes the King’s rhymes, of which some delicate and
touching stanzas (those on Agnes Sorel,[3] especially) have come down to
us.
Even that witty heretic, Rabelais, found both an appreciative protector
and intelligent friend in a sovereign superior to the prejudices of his
age. With learning, poetry, wit, and intellect, come luxury and
boundless extravagance. Brantôme speaks as with bated breath of the
royal expenditure. These are the days of broad sombrero hats fringed
with gold and looped up with priceless jewels and feathers; of
embroidered cloaks in costly stuffs--heavy with gold or silver
embroidery--hung over the shoulder; of slashed hose and richly chased
rapiers; of garments of cloth-of-gold, embroidered with armorial
bearings in jewels; of satin justaucorps covered with rivières of
diamonds, emeralds, and oriental pearls; of torsades and collars wherein
gold is but the foil to priceless gems. The ladies wear Eastern silks
and golden tissues, with trimmings of rare furs; wide sleeves and
Spanish fardingales, sparkling coifs and jewelled nets, with glittering
veils. They ride in ponderous coaches covered with carving and gilding,
or on horses whose pedigrees are as undoubted as their own, covered with
velvet housings and with silken nets woven with jewels, their manes
plaited with gold and precious stones. But these illustrious ladies
consider gloves a royal luxury, and are weak in respect of stockings.
Foremost in every gorgeous mode is Francis. He wears rich Genoa velvets,
and affects bright colours--rose and sky-blue. A Spanish hat is on his
head, turned up with a white plume, fastened to an aigrette of rubies,
with a golden salamander his device, signifying, “I am nourished and I
die in fire” (“Je me nourris et je meurs dans le feu”).
How well we know his dissipated though distinguished features, as
portrayed by Titian! His long nose, small eyes, broad cheeks, and
cynical mouth. He moves with careless grace, as one who would say, “_Que
m’importe?_ I am King of France; nought comes amiss to me.”
Now he walks up and down the council-room in the Louvre which looks
towards the river. His step is quick and agitated, his face wears an
unusual frown. He calls Bonnivet to him and addresses him in a low
voice, while the other nobles stand back.
“Am I to believe that Bourbon has not merely rebelled against me, but
that the traitor has fled into Spain and made terms with Charles?”
“Your Majesty’s information is precise.”
“What was the manner of his flight?”
“The Duke, Sire, waited at his fortress of Chantelle until the arrival
of Monsieur de Pompérant from your Majesty’s Court at Chambord, feigning
sickness and remaining shut up within his apartments. After Monsieur de
Pompérant’s arrival, a litter was ordered to await his pleasure, and De
Pompérant, dressed in the clothes of the Duke and with his face
concealed by a hood, was carried into the litter, which started for
Moulins, travelling slowly. Meanwhile Bourbon, accompanied by a band of
gentlemen, was galloping on the road to the frontier. He was last seen
at Saint-Jean de Luz, in the Pyrenees.”
“By our Lady!” exclaims Francis, “such treason is a blot upon
knighthood. Bourbon, a man whom we had made as great as ourselves!”
“The Duke, Sire, left a message for your Majesty.”
“A message! Where? and who bore it?”
“De Pompérant, Sire, who has already been arrested at Moulins. The Duke
begged your Majesty to take back the sword which you had given him, and
prayed you to send for the badge which he left hanging at the head of
his bed at Chantelle.”
“_Diable!_ does the villain dare to point his jests at his sovereign?”
and Francis flushes to the roots of his hair with passion. “I wish I had
him face to face in a fair field”--and he lays his hand on the hilt of
his sword;--“but no,” he adds in a calmer voice, “a traitor’s blood
would but soil my weapon. Let him carry his perfidy into Spain--’twill
suit the Emperor; I am well rid of him. Are there many accomplices,
Bonnivet?”
“About two hundred, Sire.”
“Is it possible! Do we know them?”
“The Comte de Saint-Vallier, Sire, is the principal accomplice.”
“What! Saint-Vallier, the Captain of our Archers! That strikes us
nearly. This conspiracy, my lords,” says Francis, advancing to where
Guise, La Trémouille, Montmorenci, and the others stand somewhat apart
during his conversation with Bonnivet, “is much more serious than I
imagined. I must remain in France to wait the issue of events. You,
Bonnivet, must take command of the Italian campaign.”
Bonnivet kneels and kisses the hand of Francis.
“I am sorry for Jean de Poitiers,” continues Francis, turning to Guise.
“Are the proofs against him certain?”
“Sire, Saint-Vallier accompanied the Constable to the frontier.”
“I am sorry,” repeats the King, and he passes his hand thoughtfully over
his brow and muses.
“Jean de Poitiers, my _ci-devant_ Captain of the Guards, is the father
of a charming lady; Madame Diane, the Seneschale of Normandy, is an
angel, though her husband, De Brèzè--hum--why, he is a monster. Vulcan
and Venus--the old story, eh, my lords?”
There is a general laugh.
A page enters and announces a lady humbly
[Illustration: HENRY, DUKE OF MONTMORENCI, MARSHAL OF FRANCE.
FROM A PORTRAIT BY BALTAZAR MONCORNET.]
craving to speak with his Majesty. The King smiles, his wicked eyes
glisten. “Who? what? Do I know her?”
“Sire, the lady is deeply veiled; she desires to speak with your Majesty
alone.”
“But, by St. Denis--do I know her?”
“I think, Sire, it is the wife of the Grand Seneschal of
Normandy--Madame Diane de Brèzè.”
There is a pause, some whispering, and a low laugh is heard. The King
looks around displeased. “I am not surprised,” says he. “When I heard of
the father’s danger I expected the daughter’s intercession. Let the lady
enter.”
With a wave of his hand he dismisses the Court, and seats himself on a
chair of state under a rich canopy embroidered in gold with the arms of
France.
Diane enters. She is dressed in long black robes which sweep the floor.
Her head is covered with a thick lace veil which she raises as she
approaches the King. She weeps, but her tears do not mar her beauty,
which is absolutely radiant. She is exquisitely fair and wonderfully
fresh, with golden hair and dark eyebrows--a most winsome lady.
She throws herself at the King’s feet. She clasps her hands. Her sobs
drown her voice.
“Pardon, Sire, pardon my father!” she at length falters. The King stoops
forward, and raises her to the estrade on which he stands. He looks
tenderly into her soft blue eyes, his hands are locked in hers.
“Your father, madame, my old and trusted servant, is guilty of treason.”
“Alas! Sire, I fear so; but he is old, too old for punishment. He has
been hitherto a true subject of your Majesty.”
“He is blessed, madame, with a most surpassing daughter.” Francis pauses
and looks steadfastly at her with eyes of ardent admiration. “But I fear
I must confirm the sentence of my judges, madame; your father is certain
to be found guilty of treason.”
“Oh! Sire, mercy, mercy! grant me my father’s life, I implore you”; and
again Diane falls prostrate at the King’s feet, and looks supplicatingly
into his face. Again the King raises her.
“Well, madame, you are aware that you desire the pardon of a traitor; on
what ground do you ask for his life?”
“Sire, I ask it for the sake of mercy; mercy is the privilege of kings,”
and her soft eyes seek those of Francis and rest upon them. “I have come
so far, too, from Normandy, to invoke it--my poor father!” and she sobs
again. “Your Majesty will not send me back refused, broken-hearted?”
Still her eyes are fixed upon the King.
“Mercy, Madame Diane, is, doubtless, a royal prerogative. I am an
anointed king,” and he lets go her hands, and draws himself up proudly,
“and I may use it; but the prerogative of a woman is beauty. Beauty,
Madame Diane,” adds Francis, with a glance at the lovely woman still
kneeling at his feet, “is more potent than a king’s word.”
There is silence for a few moments. Diane’s eyes are now bent upon the
ground, her bosom heaves. Francis contemplates her with delight.
“Will you, fair lady, deign to exercise your prerogative?”
“Truly, Sire, I know not what your Majesty would say,” replies Diane,
looking down and blushing.
Something in his eyes gives her hope, for she starts violently, rises,
and clasping her hands together exclaims, “How, Sire! do I read your
meaning aright? can I, by my humble service to your Majesty----”
“Yes, fair lady, you can. Your presence at my Court, where your adorable
beauty shall receive due homage, will be my hostage for your father’s
loyalty. Madame Diane, I declare that the Comte de Saint-Vallier is
PARDONED. Though he had rent the crown from off our head, your father is
pardoned. And I add, madame, that it was the charm of his daughter that
rendered a refusal impossible.”
Madame Diane’s face shines like April sunshine through rain-drops; a
smile parts her lips, and her glistening eyes dance with joy; she is
more lovely than ever.
“Thanks, thanks, Sire!” And again she would have knelt, but the King
again takes her hands, and looks into her face so earnestly that she
again blushes.
Did that look of the King fascinate her? or did the sudden joy of saving
her father move her heart with love? Who can tell? It is certain,
however, that from this time Diane left Normandy, and became one of the
brightest ornaments of that beauty-loving Court. Diane was a woman of
masculine understanding, concealed under the gentlest and most
fascinating manners; but she was also mercenary, intriguing, and
domineering. Of her beauty we may judge for ourselves, as many portraits
of her are extant, especially one of great excellence by Leonardo da
Vinci, in the long gallery at Chenonceau.
Diane was soon forsaken, but the ready-witted lady consoled herself by
laying siege to the heart of the son of Francis, Prince Henry,
afterwards Henry II.
Henry surrendered at discretion. Nothing can more mark the freedom of
the times than this _liaison_. Yet both these ladies--Diane de Poitiers
and her successor in the favour of the King, the Duchesse
d’Étampes--were constantly in the society of two most virtuous queens
Claude, and Elinor of Spain, the successive wives of Francis.
CHAPTER V.
ALL LOST SAVE HONOUR.
The next scene is in Italy. The French army lies encamped on the broad
plains of Lombardy, backed by snowy lines of Alpine fastnesses.
Bonnivet, in command of the French, presumptuous and inexperienced, has
been hitherto defeated in every battle. Bourbon, fighting on the side of
Spain, is, as before, victorious.
Francis, stung by the repeated defeat of his troops, has now joined the
army, and commands in person. Milan, where the plague rages, has opened
its gates to him; but Pavia, distant about twenty miles, is occupied by
the Spaniards in force. Antonio de Leyva is governor. Thither the French
advance in order to besiege the city.
The open country is defended by the Spanish forces under Bourbon.
Francis, maddened by the presence of his cousin, rushes onward.
Montmorenci and Bonnivet, flatterers both, assure him that victory is
certain by means of a _coup de main_.
It is night; the days are short, for it is February. The winter moon
lights up the rich meadow lands divided by the broad Ticino and broken
by the deep ditches and sluggish streams which surround the city. Tower,
campanile, dome, and turret, with here and there the grim façade of a
mediæval palace, stand out in the darkness.
Yonder among the meadows are the French, darkening the surrounding
plain. Francis knows that the Constable is advancing to support the
garrison of Pavia, and he desires to carry the city by assault before
his arrival. Ever too rash, and now excited by a passionate sense of
injury, Francis, with D’Alençon, De la Trémouille, De Foix, and
Bonnivet, leads the attack at the head of his cavalry. Now he is under
the very walls. Despite the dim moonlight, no one can mistake him. He
wears a suit of steel armour inlaid with gold; a crimson surcoat,
embroidered with gilt “F’s”; a helmet encircled by a jewelled crown, out
of which rises a yellow plume and golden salamander. For an instant
success seems certain; the scaling-ladders thick with soldiers are
already planted against the lowest walls, and the garrison retreats
under cover of the bastions. A sudden panic seizes the troops beneath,
who are to support the assault. In the treacherous moonlight they have
fallen into confusion among the deep, slimy ditches; many are drifted
away in the current of the great river. A murderous cannonade from the
city walls now opens on the assailants and on the cavalry. Francis falls
back. The older generals conjure him to retreat and raise the siege
before the arrival of Bourbon, but, backed by Bonnivet and Montmorenci,
he will not hear of it. The battle rages during the night. The morning
light discovers the Spaniards commanded by Bourbon and Pescara, with the
whole strength of their army, close under the walls. Again the King
leads a fresh assault--a forlorn hope, rather. He fights desperately;
the yellow plumes of his helmet wave hither and thither as his horse
dashes wildly from side to side amidst the smoke, in the thickest of the
battle. See, for an instant he falters,--he is wounded and bleeding. He
recovers, however, and again clapping spurs to his horse, scatters his
surrounding foes; six have already fallen by his hand. Look! his charger
is pierced by a ball and falls with his rider. After a desperate
struggle the King extricates himself; now on foot, he still fights
furiously. Alas! it is in vain. Every moment his enemies thicken around
him, pressing closer and closer. His gallant followers drop one by one
under the unerring aim of the Basque marksmen. La Trémouille has fallen.
De Foix lies a corpse at his feet. Bonnivet in despair expiates his evil
counsel by death.[4] Every shot takes from him one of the pillars of his
throne. Francis flings himself wildly on the points of the Spanish
pikes. The Royal Guards fall like summer grass before the sickle; but
where the King stands, still dealing desperate blows, the bodies of the
slain form a rampart of protection around him. His very enemies stand
back amazed at such furious courage. While he struggles for his life
hand to hand with D’Avila and D’Ovietta, plumeless, soiled, and bloody,
a loud cry rises from a thousand voices--“It is the King--LET HIM
SURRENDER--_Capture the King!_” There is a dead silence; the Spanish
troops fall back. A circle is formed round the now almost fainting
Francis, who lies upon the blood-stained earth. De Pompérant advances.
He kneels before the master whom he has betrayed, he implores him to
yield to Bourbon.
At that hated name the King starts into fresh fury; he grasps his sword,
he struggles to his feet. “Never,” cries he in a hoarse voice; “never
will I surrender to that traitor! Rather let me die by the hand of a
common marksman. Go back, Monsieur de Pompérant, and call to me the
Vice-King of Naples.”
Lannoy advances, kneels, and kisses his hand. “Your Majesty is my
prisoner,” he cries aloud, and a ringing shout is echoed from the
Spanish troops.
Francis gives him his sword. Lannoy receives it kneeling, and replaces
it by his own. The King’s helmet is then removed; a velvet cap is given
to him, which he places on his head. The Spanish and Italian troopers
and the deadly musketeers silently creep round him where he lies on the
grass, supported by cushions, one to tear a feather from his broken
plume, another to cut a morsel from his surcoat as a relic. This
involuntary homage from his enemies is evidently agreeable to Francis.
As his surcoat rapidly disappears under the knives of his opponents, he
smiles, and graciously acknowledges the rough advances of those same
soldiers who a moment before thirsted for his blood. Other generals with
Pescara advance and surround him. He courteously acknowledges their
respectful salutations.
“Spare my poor soldiers, spare my Frenchmen, generals,” says he.
These unselfish words bring tears into Pescara’s eyes.
“Your Majesty shall be obeyed,” replies he.
“I thank you,” replies Francis with a faltering voice.
A pony is now brought to bear him into Pavia. Francis becomes greatly
agitated. As they raise him up and assist him to mount, he turns to his
escort of generals--
“Marquis,” says he, turning to Pescara, “and you, my lord governor, if
my calamity touches your hearts, as it would seem to do, I beseech you
not to lead me into Pavia. I would not be exposed to the affront of
entering as a prisoner a city I should have taken by assault. Carry me,
I pray you, to some shelter without the walls.”
“Your Majesty’s wishes are our law,” replies Pescara, saluting him. “We
will bear you to the monastery of Saint-Paul, without the gate towards
Milan.”
To Saint-Paul the King was carried. It was from thence he wrote the
historic letter to his mother, Louise de Savoie, Regent of France, in
which he tells her, “_all is lost save honour_.”
CHAPTER VI.
BROKEN FAITH.
We are at Madrid. Francis has been lured hither by incredible treachery,
under the idea that he will meet Charles V., and be at once set at
liberty.
He is confined in one of the rooms of the Alcazar, then used as a state
prison. A massive oaken door, clamped and barred with iron, opens from
the court from whence a flight of steps leads into two small chambers
which occupy one of the towers. The inner room has narrow windows,
closely barred. The light is dim. There is just room for a table, two
chairs, and a bed. It is a cage rather than a prison.
On a chair, near an open window, sits the King. He is emaciated and
pale; his cheeks are hollow, his lips are white, his eyes are sunk in
his head, his dress is neglected. His glossy hair, plentifully streaked
with grey, covers the hand upon which he wearily leans his head. He
gazes vacantly at the setting sun opposite--a globe of fire rapidly
sinking below the low dark plain which bounds his view.
There are boundless plains in front of him, and on his left a range of
tawny hills. A roadway runs beneath the tower, where the Imperial Guards
are encamped. The gay fanfare of the trumpets sounding the retreat, the
waving banners, the prancing horses, the brilliant accoutrements, the
glancing armour of the imperial troops, mock him where he sits. Around
him is Madrid. Palace, tower, and garden rise out of a sea of buildings
burnt by southern sunshine. The church-bells ring out the _Ave Maria_.
The fading light darkens into night. Still the King sits beside the open
window, lost in thought. No one comes to disturb him. Now and then some
broken words escape his lips:--“Save France--my poor soldiers--brave De
Foix--noble Bonnivet--see, he is tossed on the Spanish pikes. Alas!
would I were dead. My sister--my little lads--the Dauphin--Henry--Orléans--I
shall never see you more. Oh, God! I am bound in chains of
iron--France--liberty--Glory--gone--gone for ever!” His head sinks on
his breast; tears stream from his eyes. He falls back fainting in his
chair, and is borne to his bed.
Francis has never seen Charles, who is at his capital, Toledo. The
Emperor does not even excuse his absence. This cold and cautious policy,
this death in life, is agony to the ardent temperament of Francis. His
health breaks down. A settled melancholy, a morbid listlessness
overwhelms him. He is seized with fever; he rapidly becomes delirious.
His royal gaoler, Charles, will not believe in his danger; he still
refuses to see him. False himself, he believes Francis to be shamming.
The Spanish ministers are distracted by their master’s obstinacy, for if
the French King dies at Madrid of broken heart, all is lost, and a
bloody war with France inevitable.
At the moment when the Angel of Death hovers over the Alcazar, a sound
of wheels is heard below. A litter, drawn by reeking mules and covered
with mud, dashes into the street. The leather curtains are drawn aside,
and Marguerite d’Alençon, pale and shrunk with anxiety and fatigue,
attended by two ladies, having travelled from Paris day and night,
descends. Breathless with excitement, she passes quickly up the narrow
stairs, through the anteroom, and enters the King’s chamber. Alas! what
a sight awaits her. Francis lies insensible on his bed. The room is
darkened, save where a temporary altar has been erected, opposite his
bed, on which lights are burning. A Bishop officiates. The low voices of
priests, chanting as they move about the altar, alone break a death-like
silence. Marguerite, overcome by emotion, clasps her hands and sinks on
her knees beside her brother. Her sobs and cries disturb the solemn
ordinance. She is led almost fainting away. Then the Bishop approaches
the King, bearing the bread of life, and, at that moment, Francis
becomes suddenly conscious. He opens his eyes, and in a feeble voice
prays that he may be permitted to receive it. So humbly, yet so
joyfully, does he communicate that all present are deeply moved.
In spite, however, of the presence of Marguerite in Madrid, the King
relapses. He again falls into a death-like trance. Then, and then only,
does the Emperor yield to the reproaches of the Duchesse d’Alençon and
the entreaties of his ministers. He takes horse from Toledo and rides to
Madrid almost without drawing rein, until he stops at the heavy door in
the Alcazar. He mounts the stairs and enters the chamber. Francis, now
restored to consciousness, prompted by a too generous nature, opens his
arms to embrace him.
“Your Majesty has come to see your prisoner die,” says he in a feeble
voice, faintly smiling.
“No,” replies Charles, with characteristic caution and Spanish courtesy,
bowing profoundly and kissing him on either cheek; “no, your Majesty
will not die, you are no longer my prisoner; you are my friend and
brother. I come to set you free.”
“Ah, Sire,” murmurs Francis in a voice scarcely audible, “death will
accomplish that before your Majesty; but if I live--and indeed I do not
believe I shall, I am so overcome by weakness--let me implore you to
allow me to treat for my release in person with your Majesty; for this
end I came hither to Madrid.”
At this moment the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a
page, who announces to the Emperor that the Duchesse d’Alençon has
arrived and awaits his Majesty’s pleasure. Glad of an excuse to
terminate a most embarrassing interview with his too confiding prisoner,
Charles, who has been seated on the bed, rises hastily--
“Permit me, my brother,” says he, “to leave you, in order to descend and
receive your august sister in person. In the meantime recover your
health. Reckon upon my willingness to serve you. Some other time we will
meet; then we can treat more in detail of these matters, when your
Majesty is stronger and better able to converse.”
Charles takes an affectionate leave of Francis, descends the narrow
stairs, and with much ceremony receives the Duchess.
“I rejoice, madame,” says he, “to offer you in person the homage of all
Spain, and my own hearty thanks for the courage and devotion you have
shown in the service of the King, my brother. He is a prisoner no
longer. The conditions of release shall forthwith be prepared by my
ministers.”
“Is the King fully aware what those conditions are, Sire?” Marguerite
coldly asks.
Charles was silent.
“I fear our mother, Madame Louise, Regent of France,” continues the
Duchesse d’Alençon, “may find it difficult to accept your conditions,
even though it be to liberate the Sovereign of France, her own beloved
son.”
“Madame,” replies Charles evasively, “I will not permit this occasion,
when I have the happiness of first saluting you within my realm, to be
occupied with state affairs. Rely on my desire to set my brother free.
Meanwhile the King will, I hope, recover his strength. Pressing business
now calls me back to Toledo. Adieu! most illustrious princess, to whom I
offer all that Madrid contains for your service. Permit me to kiss your
hands. Salute my brother, the King, from me. Once more, royal lady,
adieu!”
Marguerite curtseys to the ground. The Emperor, with his head uncovered,
mounts his horse, again salutes her, and attended by his retinue puts
spurs to his steed and rides from the Alcazar on his return to Toledo.
Marguerite fully understands the treachery of his words. Her heart
swelling with indignation, she slowly ascends to the King’s chamber.
“Has the Emperor departed already?” Francis eagerly asks her.
“Yes, my brother; pressing business, he says, calls him back to Toledo,”
replies Marguerite bitterly, speaking very slowly.
“What! gone so soon, before giving me an opportunity of discussing with
him the terms of my freedom. Surely, my sister, this is strange,” says
Francis, turning eagerly towards the Duchess, and then sinking back pale
and exhausted on his pillows.
Marguerite seats herself beside him, takes his hand tenderly within both
her own, and gazes at him in silence.
“But, my sister, did my brother, the Emperor, say _nothing_ to you of
his speedy return?”
“Nothing,” answers Marguerite, drily.
“Yet he assured me, with his own lips, that I was already free, and that
the conditions of release would be prepared immediately.”
“Dear brother,” says the Duchess, “has your imprisonment at Madrid, and
the conduct of the Emperor to you this long time past, inclined you to
believe what he says?”
“I, a king myself, should be grieved to doubt a brother sovereign’s
word.”
“Francis,” says Marguerite, speaking with great earnestness and fixing
her eyes on him, “what you say convinces me that you are weakened by
illness. Your naturally acute intellect is dulled by the confusion of
recent delirium. If you were in full possession of your senses you would
not speak as you do. My brother, take heed of my words--you will never
be free.”
“How,” exclaims the King, starting up, “never be free? What do you
mean?”
“Calm yourself, my brother. You are, I fear, too weak to hear what I
have to say.”
“No, no! my sister; suspense to me is worse than death. Speak to me,
Marguerite; speak to me, my sister.”
“Then, Sire, let me ask you, when you speak of release, when the Emperor
tells you you are free, are you aware of the conditions he imposes on
you?”
“Not accurately,” replies Francis. “Certain terms were proposed, before
my illness, that I should surrender whole provinces in France, renounce
my rights in the Milanese, pay an enormous ransom, leave my sons
hostages at Madrid; but these were the proposals of the Spanish council.
The Emperor, speaking personally to a brother sovereign, would never
press anything on me unbecoming my royal condition; therefore it is that
I desire to treat with himself alone.”
“Alas! my brother, you are too generous; you are deceived. Much
negotiation has passed during your illness, and since my arrival.
Conditions have been proposed by Spain to the Regent, that she--your
mother--supported by the parliament of your country, devoted to your
person, has refused. Listen to me, Francis. Charles seeks to dismember
France. As long as it remains a kingdom, he intends that you shall never
leave Madrid.”
“Marguerite, my sister, proceed, I entreat you!” breaks in Francis,
trembling with excitement.
“Burgundy is to be ceded; you are to renounce all interest in Flanders
and in the Milanese. You are to pay a ransom that will beggar the
kingdom. You are to marry Elinor, Queen Dowager of Portugal, sister to
Charles, and you are to leave your sons, the Dauphin and the Duc
d’Orléans, hostages in Spain for the fulfilment of these demands.”
Francis turns very white, and sinks back speechless on the pillows that
support him. He stretches out his arm to his sister and fondly clasps
her neck. “Marguerite, if it is so, you say well,--I shall never leave
Madrid. My sister, let me die ten thousand deaths rather than betray the
honour of France.”
“Speak not of death, dearest brother!” exclaims Marguerite, her face
suddenly flushing with excitement. “I have come to make you live. I,
Marguerite d’Alençon, your sister, am come to lead you back to your army
and to France; to the France that mourns for you; to the army that is
now dispersed and insubordinate; to the mother who weeps for her beloved
son.” Marguerite’s voice falters; she sobs aloud, and rising from her
chair, she presses her brother in her arms. Francis feebly returns her
embrace, tenderly kisses her, and signs to her to proceed. “Think you,”
continues Marguerite more calmly, and reseating herself, but still
holding the King’s hand--“think you that councils in which _Bourbon_ has
a voice----” At this name the King shudders and clenches his fist upon
the bed-clothes. “Think you that a sovereign who has treacherously lured
you to Madrid will have any mercy on you? No, my brother; unless you
agree to unworthy conditions, imposed by a treacherous monarch who
abuses his power over you, here you will languish until you die! Now
mark my words, dear brother. Treaties made under _duresse_, by _force
majeure_, are legally void. You will dissemble, my generous King--for
the sake of France, you will dissemble. You must fight this crafty
emperor with his own weapons.”
“What! my sister, be false to my word--I, a belted knight, invested by
the hands of Bayard on the field
[Illustration: THE CHEVALIER BAYARD.
AFTER A. DE NEUVILLE.
(By permission of Estes & Lauriat.)]
of Marignano, stoop to a lie? Marguerite, you are mad!”
“Oh, Francis, hear me!” cries Marguerite passionately, “hear me; on my
knees I conjure you to live, for yourself, for us, for France.” She
casts herself on the floor beside him. She wrings his hands, she kisses
his feet, her tears falling thickly. “Francis, you must, you shall
consent. By-and-by you will bless me for this tender violence. You are
not fit to meddle in this matter. Leave to me the care of your honour;
is it not my own? I come from the Regent, from the council, from all
France. Believe me, brother, if you are perjured, all Europe will
applaud the perjury.”
Marguerite, whose whole frame quivers with agitation, speaks no more.
There is a lengthened pause. The flush of fever is on the King’s face.
“My sister,” murmurs Francis, struggling with a broken voice to express
himself, “you have conquered. Into your hands I commit my honour and the
future of France. Leave me a while to rest, for I am faint.”
Treaties made under _duresse_ by _force majeure_ are legally void. The
Emperor must be decoyed into the belief that terms are accepted by
Francis, which are to be broken the instant his foot touches French
soil. It is with the utmost difficulty that the chivalrous monarch can
be brought to lend himself to this deceit. But the prayers of his
sister, the deplorable condition of his kingdom deprived of his presence
for nearly five years, the terror of returning illness, and the thorough
conviction that Charles is as perfidious as he is ambitious, at length
prevail. Francis ostensibly accepts the Emperor’s terms, and Queen
Claude being dead, he affiances himself to Charles’s sister, Elinor,
Queen Dowager of Portugal.
Francis was perjured, but France was saved.
CHAPTER VII.
LA DUCHESSE D’ÉTAMPES.
Riding with all speed from Madrid--for he fears the Emperor’s
perfidy--Francis has reached the frontier of Spain, on the banks of the
river Bidassoa. His boys--the Dauphin and the Duc d’Orléans, who are to
replace him at Madrid as hostages--await him there. They rush into their
father’s arms and fondly cling to him, weeping bitterly at this cruel
meeting for a moment after years of separation. Francis, with ready
sympathy, mingles his tears with theirs. He embraces and blesses them.
But, wild with the excitement of liberty and insecure while on Spanish
soil, he cannot spare time for details. He hands the poor lads over to
the Spanish commissioners. Too impatient to await the arrival of the
ferry-boat, which is pulling across the river, he steps into the waters
of the Bidassoa to meet it. On the opposite bank, among the low scrub
wood, a splendid retinue awaits him. He springs into the saddle, waves
his cap in the air, and with a joyous shout exclaims, “Now I am a king!
Now I am free!”
The political vicissitudes of Francis’s reign are as nothing to the
chaos of his private life; only as a lover he was never defeated. No
humiliating Pavia arrests his successful course. At Bayonne he finds a
brilliant Court; his mother the Regent, and his sister Marguerite, await
his arrival. After “Les embrasseurs d’usage,” as Du Bellay quaintly
expresses it, the King’s eye wanders over the parterre of young beauties
assembled in their suite, “la petite bande des dames de la Cour.” Then
Francis first beholds Anne de Pisselieu, afterwards Duchesse d’Étampes.
No one can compare to her in the tyranny of youth, beauty, and talent. A
mere girl, she already knows everything, and is moreover astute, witty,
and false. In spite of the efforts of Diane de Poitiers to attract the
King (she having come to Bayonne in attendance on the Regent-mother),
Anne de Pisselieu prevails. The King is hers. He delights in her joyous
sallies. Anne laughs at every one and everything, specially at the
pretensions of Madame Diane, whom she calls “an old hag.” She declares
that she herself was born on Diane’s wedding-day!
Who can resist so bewitching a creature? Not Francis certainly. So the
Court divides itself into two factions in love, politics, and religion.
One party, headed by the Duchesse d’Étampes--a Protestant, and mistress
of the reigning monarch; a second by Madame Diane de Poitiers--a
Catholic, who, after many efforts, finding the King inaccessible,
devotes herself to his son, Prince Henry, a mere boy, at least twenty
years younger than herself, and waits his reign. Oddly enough, it is the
older woman who waits, and the younger one who rules.
The Regent-mother looks on approvingly. Morals, especially royal morals,
do not exist. Madame Louise de Savoie is ambitious. She would not see
the new Spanish Queen--a comely princess, as she hears from her daughter
Marguerite--possess too much influence over the King. It might injure
her own power. The poor Spanish Queen! No fear that her influence will
injure any one! The King never loves her, and never forgives her being
forced upon him as a clause in the ignominious treaty of Madrid.
Besides, she is thirty-two years old and a widow; grave, dignified, and
learned, but withal a lady of agreeable person, though of mature and
well-developed charms. Elinor admired and loved Francis when she saw him
at Madrid, and all the world thought that the days were numbered in
which Madame d’Étampes would be seen at Court. “But,” says Du Bellay,
either with perfect naiveté or profound irony--“it was impossible for
the King to offer to the virtuous Spanish princess any other sentiments
than respect and gratitude, the Duchesse d’Étampes being sole mistress
of his heart!” So the royal lady fares no better than Queen Claude,
“with the roses in her soul,” and only receives, like her, courtesy and
indifference.
The King returns to the Spanish frontier to receive Queen Elinor and to
embrace the sons, now released, to whom she has been a true mother
during the time they have been hostages at Madrid.
By-and-by the Queen’s brother--that mighty and perfidious sovereign,
Charles V., Emperor of Germany--passing to his estates in the
Netherlands, “craves leave of his beloved brother, Francis, King of
France, to traverse his kingdom on his way,” so great is his dread of
the sea voyage on account of sickness.
[Illustration: QUEEN ELINOR.]
Some days before the Emperor’s arrival Francis is at the Louvre. He has
repaired and embellished it in honour of his guest, and has pulled down
the central tower, or donjon, called “Philippine,” which encumbered the
inner court. By-and-by he will pull down all the mediæval fortress, and,
assisted by Lescot, begin the palace known as the “Old Louvre.”
Francis is seated _tête-à-tête_ with the Duchesse d’Étampes. The room is
small--a species of boudoir or closet. It is hung with rare tapestry,
representing in glowing colours the Labours of Hercules. Venetian
mirrors, in richly carved frames, fling back the light of a central
chandelier, also of Venetian workmanship, cunningly wrought into gaudy
flowers, diamonded pendants, and true lovers’ knots. It is a blaze of
brightness and colour. Rich velvet hangings, heavy with gold embroidery,
cover the narrow windows and hang over the low doors. The King and the
Duchess sit beside a table of inlaid marble, supported on a pedestal,
marvellously gilt, of Italian workmanship, on which are laid fruits,
wines, and _confitures_, served in golden vessels worked in the
Cinque-cento style, after Cellini’s patterns. Beside themselves,
Triboulet,[5] the king’s fool, alone is present. As Francis holds out
his cup time after time to Triboulet, who replenishes it with Malvoisie,
the scene composes itself into a perfect picture, such as Victor Hugo
has imagined in _Le Roi s’amuse_; so perfect, indeed, that Francis might
have sung, “La donna è mobile,” as he now does in Verdi’s opera of
_Rigoletto_.
“Sire,” says the Duchess, her voice dropping into a most delicious
softness, “do you leave us to-morrow?”
The King bows his head and kisses her jewelled fingers.
“So you persist in going to meet your brother, the Emperor Charles, your
loving brother of Spain, whom I hate because he was so cruel to you at
Madrid.” The Duchess looks up and smiles. Her eyes are beautiful, but
hard and cruel. She wears an ermine mantle, for it is winter; her dress
is of the richest green satin, embroidered with gold. On her head is a
golden net, the meshes sprinkled with diamonds, from which her dark
tresses escape in long ringlets over her shoulders.
Francis turns towards her and pledges her in a cup of Malvoisie. The
corners of his mouth are drawn up into a cynical smile, almost to his
nostrils. He has now reached middle life, and his face at that time
would have made no man’s fortune.
“Duchess,” says he, “I must tear myself from you. I go to-morrow to
Touraine. Before returning to Paris, I shall attend my brother the
Emperor Charles at Loches, then at Amboise on the Loire. You will soon
follow me with the Queen.”
“And, surely, when you have this heartless king, this cruel gaoler in
your power, you will punish him and revenge yourself? If he, like a
fool, comes into Touraine, make him revoke the treaty of Madrid, or shut
him up in one of Louis XI.’s _oubliettes_ at Amboise or Loches.”
“I will _persuade_ him, if I can, to liberate me from all the remaining
conditions of the treaty,” said the King, “but I will never _force_
him.” As he speaks Triboulet, who has been shaking the silver bells on
his parti-coloured dress with suppressed laughter, pulls out some ivory
tablets to add something to a list he keeps of those whom he considers
greater fools than himself. He calls it “his journal.”
The King looks at the tablets and sees the name of Charles V.
“Ha! ha! by the mass!--how long has my brother of Spain figured there?”
asks he.
“The day, Sire, that I heard he had put his foot on the French
frontier.”
“What will you do when I let him depart freely?”
“I shall,” said Triboulet, “rub out his name and put yours in its place,
Sire.”
“See, your Majesty, there is some one else who agrees with me,” said the
Duchess, laughing.
“I know,” replies Francis, “that my interests would almost force me to
do as you desire, madame, but my honour is dearer to me than my
interests. I am now at liberty,--I had rather the treaty of Madrid
should stand for ever than countenance an act unworthy of ‘un roi
chevalier.’ ”
Francis receives Charles V. at Amboise with ostentatious splendour.
Aware of the repugnance of his royal guest to mount steps (the Spanish
Emperor was early troubled by those attacks of gout that caused him at
length to abdicate and to die of premature old age, at the monastery of
San Juste), Francis caused an inclined plane or slope to be constructed
in place of stairs within one of the round towers by which the Castle of
Amboise, standing on a precipitous pile of rocks, is approached. Up
this slope, which remains in excellent preservation, Charles ascends to
the plateau on which the castle stands, seated in his ponderous coach,
drawn by heavy horses, attended by guards and outriders. Elinor, his
sister, the neglected Queen, as well as the favourite, Madame d’Étampes,
are present at the fêtes given in honour of the Emperor. There are no
secrets at Court, and Charles soon comes to know that the _maîtresse en
titre_ is his enemy. One evening, after a dance executed by Anne
d’Étampes along with the ladies of the Court, in which she displayed the
graces of her person, the Emperor approaches her.
“Madame,” he says, “it is only in France that I have seen such
perfection of elegance and beauty. My brother, the King, would be the
envy of all the sovereigns of Europe could they have witnessed what I
have just seen. There is no ransom that I would accept for such a
captive, had I the power of retaining her at Madrid.”
The Emperor’s eyes melt with admiration as he gazes on her.
The Duchess’s countenance beams with delight at the Emperor’s high-flown
compliment.
The King approaches the spot where they stand.
“Know, my brother,” says the King with a slight touch of irony in his
tone, for he is displeased at the tender glances Charles is casting on
his favourite, “know that this fair Duchess would have had me detain you
here a prisoner until you had revoked the treaty of Madrid.”
The Emperor starts visibly and frowns. “If you consider the advice good,
your Majesty had better
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU OF AMBOISE.]
follow it,” he replies haughtily, turning away to address some nobles
standing near.
Some few days afterwards the Duchess gives a supper in her apartments,
to which the Emperor and the Court are invited. After the reception,
sinking on her knees, she presents his Majesty with rose-water in a gold
embossed basin in which to wash his hands. Charles adroitly drops a
large diamond ring into the basin. The Duchess stoops and places the
vessel on the ground in order to pick up the jewel.
“This ring, madame,” he says, and he speaks low, and leans forward in
order to catch her ear, “is too becoming to that fair hand for me to
remove it. It has itself sought a new possessor,” and he kisses her
hand. “Keep it as a pledge of my admiration and my friendship.”
The Duchess rises and makes a deep obeisance. Not only did she keep the
ring, but she became so decided a partisan of this “_gaoler_,” that she
is popularly accused of having betrayed Francis to the Emperor;
specially in the subsequent wars between England, France, and Spain.
CHAPTER VIII.
LAST DAYS.
Rambouillet is now a station on the railway between Versailles,
Chartres, and Le Mans. It is a sunny little town, sloping to the south,
in a sheltered hollow, over which the slanting roofs and conical turrets
of the palace rise out of stately elms and spiked poplars. The
principal façade of the château--which consists of two wings at right
angles to each other, having at each corner a circular turret,
surmounted by a spire--faces the mid-day sun. The ground lies low, and
canals, extending in three directions, bordered by terraced walks and
avenues, intersect the grassy lawns which lengthen into the tangled
woodland of the surrounding forest. Opposite the château, on an islet,
is a grotto called “La Marmite de Rabelais.” To the right, the three
canals flow into a river, spanned by a low bridge, known as “the
accursed bridge,” from some now obscure tradition foreboding evil to
those who pass over it. On every other side, the trunks of venerable
trees, their overarching branches closing above like a cloister--pillars
of oak, elm, and ash--wind away into grassy meads and shady dingles,
intersected by long rides cut straight through the forest, proper for
the stag-hunts which have been held in this ancient manor since the
Middle Ages.
The château itself has now been modernised, save where one ivy-crowned
round tower (the donjon of the mediæval fortress), in deep shadow,
frowns an angry defiance to the stucco and whitewash of the flimsy
modern façade.
It is the month of March, in the year 1547. Francis, attended by a small
retinue, has arrived at the foot of this round tower. Coming from the
south, he has crossed the river by “the accursed bridge.”
During the whole past year he has wandered from place to place,
revisiting all his favourite haunts as though conscious that he is
bidding them farewell. The restlessness of mortal disease is upon him.
Though he flies from city to hamlet, from castle to palace, vainly
seeking respite from pain, death haunts and follows him. His life is
agony. He is greatly changed--an internal fever consumes him. His eyes
are haggard; his face is thin, and his body emaciated. Only fifty-two
years old, like his great rival the Emperor Charles, he is prematurely
aged. Now he is half lifted from his coach and slowly led up a winding
staircase to his apartments on the second floor by his friend James
d’Angennes, to whose ancestors Rambouillet belonged. Francis comes from
Chambord, where Marguerite, now Queen of Navarre by her second marriage,
met him. Marguerite and her brother still cling to each other, but they
are both aged and full of care. Her beauty is faded and her health is
broken. Even she, though devoted as ever, cannot amuse Francis or
dissipate the weight that oppresses his spirit. The old topics that were
wont to delight him are irritably dismissed. He no longer cares for
poetry, is wearied of politics, shrinks from society, and abuses women.
It is at this time he writes with the point of a diamond, on the window
of his closet at Chambord, these significant lines:--
“Souvent femme varie;
Mal habile qui s’y fie!”
He can only talk to his sister on sorrowful subjects: of the death by
plague of his favourite son Charles, who caught the infection when
sleeping at Abbeville; or of his old friend, Henry VIII. of England, who
has also recently died.
The death of the latter seems to affect Francis terribly. “Our lives,”
he says, “were very similar--he was slightly older, but I shall not
long survive him.” Vainly does Marguerite combat these dismal
forebodings. She laments in secret the sad change. Ever sympathetic with
her brother, she, too, throws aside romance and poetry and composes “The
Mirror of a Sinful Soul,” to suit his altered humour. Alas! what would
Marguerite say if she knew what is carefully concealed from her? That
the great surgeon Paré--Paré, who was afterwards to draw the spear-point
from the cheek of the Balafré--has pronounced that the King’s malady is
hopeless!
After a short sojourn together at Chambord, the brother and sister part
never to meet again.
Francis was to have passed the carnival at Limours, says Du Bellay; now
he commands the masked balls and the court ballets to be held at
Saint-Germain en Laye. The King’s fancy changes; he will rouse himself;
he will shake off the horrible lethargy that is creeping over him; he
will dismiss sinister presentiments. Disguised himself, he will dance
among the maskers--the excitement will revive him.
But strong as is his will, high as is his courage, the mortal disease
within him is stronger still. Suddenly he countermands all his orders.
He will rather go to Rambouillet to visit his old friend, D’Angennes; to
meet Rabelais perhaps, who loves the old castle, and to hunt in the
great woods.
The quiet old manor, half hunting-lodge, half fortress, buried in
secluded woods just bursting into leaf, where the wild boar and the stag
are plentiful, will suit him better than banquets, balls, games, and
boisterous revelry. The once dauntless Francis is grown nervous and
querulous, and is painfully
[Illustration: DUCHESSE D’ÉTAMPES.]
conscious of the slightest noise. After a rapid journey he crosses the
ill-omened bridge and arrives at Rambouillet. No sooner has he been laid
in his bed than again his mind changes. He must rise and go to
Saint-Germain, more suitable than Rambouillet in accommodation for his
present condition. But the intense anguish he suffers renders his
project impossible. Well, he will remain. He will rest one night here;
then, he will depart. In the morning, says the same historian, he awakes
at daylight, feeling somewhat better. He commands a royal hunt for stags
and boars. Once more he hears the bugle of the huntsmen, the baying of
the hounds, the tramp of the impatient steeds. The fresh morning air
gives him fictitious strength. He rises from his bed, dresses himself,
descends, forces himself on horseback and rides forth, defying disease
and pain. Alas! he is soon brought back to the donjon tower and carried
up the stairs speechless and in mortal agony to his bed. Fever and
delirium ensue, but as the death shadows gather round him weakness
clears his brain.
“I am dying,” says he, faintly, addressing D’Angennes, who never leaves
him for an instant; “send for my son Henry.”
“Sire,” replies the Count, “his highness is already here.”
“Let him come to me at once; my breath fails me fast.”
The Prince enters and kneels beside the dying King. He weeps bitterly,
takes his father’s already cold hand in his own and kisses it. Francis
feebly returns the pressure. He turns his sunken eyes towards his son
and signs that he would speak. Henry, the better to catch his words,
rises and bends over him.
“My son, I have been a great sinner,” falters the dying King, “my
passions led me astray; avoid this, Henry. If I have done well, follow
that, not the evil.”
“Sire,” replies the Prince, “we all love and honour your Majesty.”
“Cherish France, my son,” continues the King; “it is a noble nation.
They refused me nothing in my adversity, nor will they you, if you rule
them rightly. Lighten the taxes, my son,--be good to my people.”
His voice grows fainter and less distinct, his face more ashen.
The Prince, seeing his lips move, but hearing no sound, lays his ear
close to his father’s mouth.
“Commend me to Catherine, your wife; beware of the Guises; they will
strip you; they are all traitors[6]; cherish my people.” He spoke no
more.
The Prince motions to D’Angennes, and the parish priest with his
acolytes enters, bearing the Host. Speechless, but conscious, with a
look of infinite devotion, Francis receives the sacraments. Then,
turning his dying eyes towards his son, he feebly raises his hands to
bless him.
Henry, overcome by the sight of his dying father, sinks prostrate beside
the bed. D’Angennes stands at the head, supporting his dying master in
his arms; while he wipes the moisture from his forehead, Francis
expires.
CHAPTER IX.
CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI.
Catherine de’ Medici, widow of Henry II., and mother of three kings
regnant, rules France in their name. Her father, Lorenzo, Duke of
Urbino, second tyrant of Florence, died before she was born; her mother,
Madaleine de la Tour d’Auvergne (for Catherine had French blood in her
veins), died when she was born; so fatal was this Medici, even at her
birth.
The _Duchessina_, as Catherine was called, was reared by her aunt
Clarice Sforza, within the mediæval stronghold of the Medici at
Florence--now known as the Riccardi Palace. Although bereft of palisade
and towers of defence, it is still a stately pile of Italian Gothic
architecture, with pillared cortile, ornate front, and sculptured
cornice, bidding a mute defiance to the encroachments of the modern
buildings of the Via Cavour, the Corso of the City of Flowers.
Catherine was educated by the nuns of the “Murate” (walled up), in their
convent near the Porta Santa Croce. The teaching of these lonely
enthusiasts strangely contrasted with the life she afterwards led in the
Florentine Court--a very hot-bed of vice, intrigue, and ambition. There
did this Medea of the Cinque-cento learn how to dissimulate and to
betray. At fifteen she became, by the favour of her uncle, Pope Clement
VII., the richest heiress in Europe. She was tall and finely formed, of
a clear olive complexion (inherited from her French mother), with
well-cut features, and large, prominent eyes, like all the Medici. Her
manners were gracious, her countenance expressive, but there was, even
in extreme youth, a fixed and cold expression on the statuesque face
that belied these pleasant attributes. Many suitors sought her hand, but
Clement VII., outraged at the brutality of the Spanish coalition against
him under Charles V., which had resulted in the sack of Rome and his own
imprisonment in the Castle of St. Angelo, was glad to spite his enemies
by bestowing his wealthy niece on the Duc d’Orléans, son of Francis I.
As the heiress of the Medici came of a republican race of merchant
princes, mere mushrooms beside the lofty antiquity of the Valois line,
the Pope, to give greater lustre to the espousals, announced that he
would himself conduct his niece to her future husband. At Leghorn,
Catherine embarked with her uncle in a sumptuous papal galley, attended
by his tonsured Court. A flotilla of boats accompanied the vice-regent
of God upon earth, and his niece, the sparkling _Duchessina_. Fair winds
and smooth seas soon wafted them to the French shore, where Francis and
his sons awaited their arrival at Marseilles.
Francis, says Brantôme, was so charmed with the Medici bride, her
intelligence and lively manners, that he romped with her the entire
evening after her arrival. When Francis found that she danced admirably,
that she shot with an arquebuse like a trooper, played at _maille_ like
a boy, and rode boldly and gracefully, his partiality to his new
daughter-in-law knew no bounds. What was the opinion of the
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE CHAMBORD.]
bridegroom Orléans, and what comparison he made between a bride of
fifteen and a mistress of thirty-five, is not recorded. There was nearly
twenty years difference in age between Prince Henry, Duc d’Orléans, a
mere boy, and Diane de Poitiers, yet her influence over him was still
absolute. To the day of his death he wore her colours--white and
black--upon his shield. Diane, secure in power, was rather proud of her
age. She boasted to the new Duchess that she was never ill, that she
rose at six o’clock in the morning, bathed in the coldest water, and
rode two hours before breakfast.
When Catherine first appeared at the Louvre as the bride of Prince
Henry, she _seemed_ but a clever, facile girl, ready to accept her
humiliating position as subordinate in power, influence, and beauty to
her husband’s mistress, Diane de Poitiers, as well as to the Duchesse
d’Étampes, the favourite of Francis. Placed among these two women and
the lonely Spanish Queen, Elinor of Portugal, for fourteen years she
acquitted herself with the most perfect temper and discretion. Indeed,
with strange self-command in one so young, she endeavoured to flatter
both the favourites, but failing to propitiate either Diane or the
Duchess, and not being able to attract her husband or to interest the
sedate Spaniard, she devoted herself wholly to charm her father-in-law,
Francis. She became the constant and beloved companion of his various
progresses and hunting-parties to Fontainebleau, Amboise, Chenonceau,
and Loches. No court pageants these, on ambling pads over smooth lawns,
among limber trees, with retinue of velvet-liveried menials on the watch
for any possible casualty; but hard and dangerous riding in search of
boars, and wolves, and stags, over a rough country, among thick
underwood, rocky hills, and precipitous uplands.
Thus Catherine _seemed_; but in her heart she despised the Duchess,
abhorred Diane, and suffered all the mortification of a neglected wife.
Diane did not moreover spare her feelings, but insolently and
ostentatiously paraded her superior influence, especially after Prince
Henry came to the throne and created her Duchesse de Valentinois.
Catherine, however, with marvellous self-command bore all meekly,
brought the King ten children, and for fourteen years bided her time.
And that time came sooner than either the wife or the mistress expected.
CHAPTER X.
A FATAL JOUST.
It is the wedding-day of the two princesses, Elizabeth and Marguerite;
the first a daughter, the latter a sister, of Henry II. A tournament is
to be held in the Rue Saint-Antoine, near the Palace des Tournelles, so
called from its many towers.[7]
King Henry and the elder princes, his sons, are to ride in the lists and
to break a lance freely with all comers. Queen Catherine and the
brides--Elizabeth, the very youthful wife of the morose Philip II. of
Spain, lately husband of Mary Tudor, known as Bloody Mary, now deceased;
Marguerite, wife of the Duke of Savoy, and Marguerite de Valois, second
daughter of Catherine, then but a child--are seated in the centre of an
open dais covered with damascened silk, and ornamented with feathers,
tassels and gaudy streamers, which flutter in the summer breeze. Behind
them are ranged the greatest ladies of the Court, among whom Diane de
Poitiers, now Duchesse de Valentinois, occupies the place of honour. The
ladies in waiting on the Queen and the great officers of state are
ranged at the back.
It is a lovely morning in the month of July. The summer sun lights up
the gay dresses and fair faces of the Court into a glowing parterre of
bright colours. At a signal from Queen Catherine bands of wind
instruments burst into martial music; the combatants enter the arena and
divide themselves into different squadrons. First rides the King at the
head of his knights. His appearance is the signal for all to rise, as
much out of respect to him as the better to observe his chivalrous
bearing and magnificent accoutrements. He wears a suit of armour in
which gold is the chief metal. His sword-handle and dagger are set with
jewels, and from his shield and lance fly streamers of black and
white--the colours of Diane de Poitiers. He rides a Spanish barb,
caparisoned with crimson velvet, that tosses his head and curvets
proudly, as if conscious of its royal burden. Three times the King
passes round the list within the barriers, preceded by pages and
esquires bearing shields bound with ribbons, on which are engraven, in
letters of gold or of gems, the initials of their masters’ ladye-loves.
The King is followed by squadrons of knights. All range themselves near
the open dais occupied by the queens and the princesses.
A herald in a parti-coloured dress advances into the centre of the open
space, and to the sound of trumpet proclaims that the lists are open.
The barriers are then lowered by the pages and the esquires, and the
tilting begins.
Catherine looks on with a troubled countenance. Her eyes incessantly
follow the King and watch his every movement. As knight after knight is
unhorsed and rolls in the dust, and loud cries and shouts of laughter
rise at each discomfiture above the tumult of the fight, the anxious
expression on her face never changes. Now and then, when the King,
excited by the mimic warfare, deals and receives hard blows and vigorous
lance thrusts, Catherine visibly trembles. Like the wife of Pilate, “she
has suffered much because of a dream concerning him”--a dream that has
shown him to her, disfigured and dabbled with blood, lying dead in a
strange chamber.
In the early morning she had implored the King not to enter the lists,
but Henry had laughed and had ridden forth wearing the colours of her
rival.
Now the long day is drawing to a close; the sun is low on the horizon
and the tournament is over. The King, who has fought like the son of
Francis I., and broken the lances of the Ducs de Ferrara, Guise, and
Nemours, has retired from the lists into his tent to unarm. The young
princes have dismounted and ascended into the dais beside their mother
and the brides. Catherine breathes again; the King is safe--her dream
but the coinage of her brain! But hark! the faint sound of a trumpet is
heard, proceeding from the extremity of the long street of
Saint-Antoine. The Queen grows pale and bends her ear to listen. The
sound comes nearer; it becomes more distinct at each fresh blast. Now it
is at hand, and as the shrill and ill-omened notes strike her ear, a
herald advances preceded by a trumpeter, and announces that a masked
knight has arrived and challenges his Majesty to break a lance with him
in honour of his lady.
The masked knight, habited entirely in black armour, rides into the
arena. Certain of the fatal event, the Queen rises abruptly from her
seat. Her countenance expresses absolute terror. She beckons hastily to
the Comte d’O, who is in attendance. “Go,” says she in a low voice,
speaking rapidly; “go at once to the King. Tell him if he fights with
this stranger he will die!--tell him so from me. Haste! for the love of
the Virgin, haste!”
No sooner has the Comte d’O left her, than, leaning over the dais,
Catherine, with clasped hands and eager eyes, watches him as he crosses
the enclosure. She sees him parley with the King, who is replacing his
casque and arranging his armour. Henry laughs. The Queen turns to the
young Comte de la Molle, who is near--“Call up hither his Majesty to me
instantly. Tell him he must come up to me here before he enters the
lists. It is for life or death--the life of the King. Go! fly!”
This second messenger crosses to where Henry is just mounting on
horseback. “Alas! alas! he does not heed my messenger. Let me go,” cries
the Queen in the most violent agitation; “I will myself descend and
speak with his Majesty.” She rushes forward through the astonished
courtiers to where a flight of steps leads below into the enclosure. As
her foot is on the topmost stair, she sees the King gallop forth, fully
equipped, in face of the masked knight. The Queen is ashy pale, her
large eyes are fixed on the King, her white lips tremble. She stands
motionless, supported by the balustrade. Her daughters, the brides, and
her ladies gather round her, full of wonder. By a great effort she
masters her agitation, and slowly turns back into a retiring-room behind
the dais, and seats herself on her chair of state. Then with solemn
gesture she addresses herself to the princesses--
“Elizabeth, my daughter, and you, Marguerite, come hither. My sons,
Francis and Charles, come to me all of you quickly.” At her invitation
they assemble around her in astonishment. “Alas! my children, you are
all orphans and I am a widow. I have seen it. It is true. Now, while I
speak, the lance is pointed that will pierce the King. Your father must
die, my children. I know it and I cannot save him.”
While they all press with pitying looks around her, trying to console
yet unable to comprehend her meaning, she slowly rises. “Let us, my
children,” says she in a hollow voice, “pray for the King’s soul.” She
casts herself on the ground and folds her hands in silent prayer. Her
children kneel around her. There is a great silence. Then a loud cry is
heard from below--“The King is wounded; the King is unhorsed; the King
bleeds; _en avant_ to the King!” Catherine rises. She is calm now and
perfectly composed. She approaches the wooden steps leading into the
arena below. There she sees, stretched on the ground, the King
insensible, his face bathed in blood, pierced in the eye by the lance of
the masked knight, who has fled. Henry is mortally wounded, and is
borne, as the Queen saw in her dream, into a strange chamber in the
Palace des Tournelles, hard by. After some days of horrible agony he
expires, aged forty-one. The masked knight struck but a random blow, and
was held innocent of all malice. He was the Sieur de Montgomeri,
ancestor of the present Earls of Eglinton.
CHAPTER XI.
THE WIDOWED QUEEN.
Even while the King lay dying, Catherine gave a taste of her vindictive
character by ordering Diane de Poitiers instantly to quit the Louvre; to
deliver up the crown jewels; and to make over the possession of the
Château of Chenonceau, in Touraine, to herself. Chenonceau was
Catherine’s “Naboth’s vineyard.” From a girl, when she had often visited
it in company with her father-in-law, Francis, she had longed to possess
this lovely woodland palace, beside the clear waters of the river Cher.
To her inexpressible disgust, her husband, when he became King,
presented it to “the old hag,” Diane, Duchesse de Valentinois.
When Diane, sitting lonely at the Louvre, for Henry II. was dying at the
Palace des Tournelles received the Queen’s message, she turned
indignantly to the messenger and angrily asked, “Is the King then dead?”
“No, madame, but his wound is pronounced mortal; he cannot last out the
day.”
“Tell the Queen,” said Diane haughtily, “that her reign has not yet
begun. I am mistress over her and the kingdom as long as the King lives.
If he dies I care little how much she insults me. I shall be too
wretched even to heed her.”
As Regent, Catherine’s real character appeared. She revelled in power.
Gifted with a masculine understanding and a thorough aptitude for state
business, she was also inscrutable, stern, and cruel. She believed in no
one, and had faith in nothing save the prediction of astrologers and the
course of the stars, to which she gave unquestioning belief. As in the
days of her girlhood, Catherine (always armed with a concealed dagger,
its blade dipped in poison) traded on the weaknesses of those around
her. She intrigued when she could not command, and fascinated the victim
she dared not attack. All who stood in the way of her ambition were
“_removed_.” None can tell how many she hurried to an untimely grave.
The direful traditions of her race, the philters, the perfumes, the
powders, swift and deadly poisons, were imported by her into France. Her
cunning hands could infuse death into the fairest and the freshest
flowers. She had poisons for gloves and handkerchiefs, for the folds of
royal robes, for the edge of gemmed drinking cups, for rich and savory
dishes. She stands accused of having poisoned the Queen of Navarre,
mother of Henry IV.,[8] in a pair of gloves; and, spite of the trial
and execution of Sebastian Montecucolli, she was held guilty of having
compassed the death of her brother-in-law, the Dauphin, in a cup of
water, thus opening the throne for her husband and herself.
Within her brain, fertile in evil, was conceived the massacre of St.
Bartholomew--to exceed the horrors of the Sicilian Vespers under John of
Procida--the plan of which she discussed years before the event with
Philip II. and his minister, the Duke of Alva, whom she met at Bayonne,
when she visited there her daughter, Elizabeth of Spain. Catherine was
true to no party and faithful to no creed. During her long government
she cajoled alike Catholics and Protestants. She balanced Guise against
Coligni, and Condé against Navarre, as suited her immediate purpose.
Provided the end she proposed was attained, she cared nothing for the
means. Although attached to her children in infancy, before supreme
power had come within her grasp, she did not hesitate to sacrifice them
later to her political intrigues.
For her youngest daughter--the bewitching Marguerite, frail Queen of
Navarre--she cared not at all. Her autobiography is filled with details
of her mother’s falseness and unkindness. As to her sons, all--save
Francis, who died at eighteen--were initiated early into vice. Their
hands were soon red with blood. Long before they reached manhood they
were steeped in debauchery and left the cares of government entirely to
their mother. Her Court--an oasis of delight and artistic repose, in an
age of bloodshed (for Catherine was a true Medici, and loved artists and
the art, splendour and expenditure)--was as fatal as the gardens of
Armida to virtue, truth, and honour. She surrounded herself with
dissipated nobles, subservient courtiers, venal nymphs, and impure
enchantresses, all ready to barter their souls and bodies in the service
of their Queen. The names of the forty noble demoiselles by whom
Catherine was always attended, are duly recorded by Brantôme.
“Know, my cousin,” said the Queen, speaking to the Duc de Guise, “that
my maids of honour are the best allies of the royal cause.”
She imported ready-witted Italians, actors and singers, who played at a
theatre within the Hôtel Bourbon at Paris; _saltimbanques_ and
rope-dancers, who paraded the streets; astrologers, like Ruggiero;
jewellers, like Zametti; and bankers, like Gondi. These men were ready
to sell themselves for any infamy; to call on the stars for confirmation
of their prophesies; to tempt spendthrift princes with ample supply of
ready cash; to insinuate themselves into the confidence of unwary
nobles; all to serve their royal mistress as spies.
A woman of such powerful mind, infinite resource, and unscrupulous will,
overawed and oppressed her children. During the three successive reigns
of her sons, Francis II., Charles IX., and Henry III., Catherine ruled
with the iron hand of a mediæval despot. Yet her cruelty, perfidy, and
statescraft, were worse than useless. She lived to see the chivalric
race of Valois degraded; her favourite child Anjou, Henry III., driven
like a dog from Paris, by Henri de Guise; and son after son go down
childless to a dishonoured grave.
CHAPTER XII.
MARY STUART AND HER HUSBAND.
Francis II., aged sixteen, eldest son of Henry II., is nominally King of
France. He is gentle and affectionate (strange qualities for a son of
Catherine), well principled, and not without understanding. Born with a
feeble constitution and badly educated, he lacks vigour both of mind and
body to grasp the reigns of government in a period so stormy--a period
when Guise is at variance with Condé, and the nation is distracted
between Catholic and Protestant intrigues. Though yet a boy, Francis is
married to Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, daughter of James V. and Mary
of Lorraine, and niece to the Duc de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine.
Francis and Mary have known each other from earliest childhood. At the
age of five the little Scottish Princess was sent to the Louvre to be
educated with her royal cousins. Even at that tender age she was the
delight and wonder of the Court--a little northern rosebud, transplanted
into a southern climate, by-and-by to expand into a perfect flower. Her
sweet temper, beauty, and winning manners gained all hearts. She was,
moreover, says Brantôme, quiet, discreet, and accomplished.
Accomplished, indeed, as well as learned, for, at fourteen, the
fascinating girl recited a Latin oration of her own composition in the
great gallery of the Louvre, before her future father-in-law, King
Henry, and the whole Court, to the effect “that women ought to rival,
if not to excel, men in learning.” She spoke with such composure, her
voice was so melodious, her gesture so graceful, and her person so
lovely, that the King publicly embraced her, and swore a great oath that
she alone was fit to marry with the Dauphin. Forthwith he betrothed her
to his son Francis. This marriage between a youth and a girl yet in
their teens was a dream of love, short, but without alloy.
Catherine rules, and Francis and Mary Stuart, too young and careless to
desire any life but a perpetual holiday in each others company, tremble
at her frown and implicitly obey her.
Now and then Mary’s maternal uncles, the princes of Lorraine, Francis,
the great Duc de Guise (the same who took Calais and broke the English
Queen’s heart), and the Cardinal de Lorraine, the proudest and falsest
prelate in the sacred college,[9] endeavour to traverse the designs of
Catherine, and to inspire their beautiful niece with a taste for
intrigue--under their guidance, be it well understood. But all such
attempts are useless. Mary loves poetry and music, revels in banquets
and masques, hunts and games, and toys with her boy-husband, of whose
society she never wearies.
Nevertheless, the Queen-mother hates her, accuses her of acting the part
of a spy for her uncles, the Guises, and, sneering, speaks of her as
“une petite reinette qui fait tourner toutes les tétes.”
The Court is at Amboise, that majestic castle planted on a pile of
sombre rocks that cast gloomy shadows across the waters of the Loire,
widened at this spot into the magnitude of a lake, the river being
divided by an island and crossed by two bridges.
Over these bridges they come, a glittering procession, preceded by
archers and attended by pages and men-at-arms. Francis rides in front;
he is tall, slight, and elegantly formed, and sits his horse with
elegant grace. His grey, almond-shaped eyes sparkle as he turns them
upon the young Queen riding at his side. Mary is seated on a dark
palfrey. She is dressed in a white robe, fastened from the neck
downwards with jewelled buttons. The robe itself is studded with gold
embroidery and trimmed with ermine. A ruff of fine lace, and a chain of
gold, from which hangs a medallion, are round her slender throat. Her
hair is drawn back from her forehead, and a little pointed cap, set with
jewels, to which is attached a thin white veil falling behind, sets off
the chiselled features, the matchless eyes, and exquisite complexion of
her fair young face.
Catherine and the Duc de Guise, the Cardinal de Lorraine and the Duc de
Nemours follow. Behind them the gay multitude of a luxurious Court fills
up the causeway. Francis has a prepossessing face, but looks pale and
ill. As they ride, side by side, Mary watches him with tender anxiety.
Her sweet eyes rest on him as she speaks, and she caressingly places her
hand upon his saddle-bow as they ascend the rocky steep leading to the
castle.
When they dismount, the Queen-mother--her hard face set into a
frown--passes, without speaking a word, into her own apartments. The Duc
de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine also retire with gloomy looks. Not
a single word do either of them address to Francis or to Mary. The
young sovereigns enter the royal chambers, a stately suite of
apartments, the lofty windows of which, reaching from ceiling to floor,
overlook the river. Folding doors open into a gallery wainscoted with
oak richly gilt, with a carved ceiling richly emblazoned with
coats-of-arms. The walls are covered with crimson brocade set in heavy
frames of carved gold; chandeliers of glittering pendants hang from open
rafters formed of various-coloured wood arranged in mosaic patterns.
Beyond is a retiring room, hung with choice tapestry of flowers and
fruit on a violet ground, let into arabesque borders of white and gold.
Inlaid tables of marble bear statues and tazzas of alabaster and enamel.
Clustered candelabra of coloured Venetian glass hold perfumed candles,
and the flowers of the spring are placed in cups and vases of rarest
pottery.
Mary, with a wave of her hand, dismisses her attendants. Francis sinks
into a chair beside an open window, utterly exhausted. He sighs, leans
back his head, and closes his eyes.
“_Mon amour_,” says Mary, throwing her arms round him, and kissing his
white lips, “you are very weary. Tell me--why is the Queen-mother so
grave and silent? When I spoke she did not answer me. My uncles, too,
frighten me with their black looks. Tell me, Francis, what have I done?”
“Done, sweetest?--nothing,” answered Francis, unclosing his eyes, and
looking at her. “Our mother is busied with affairs of state, as are also
your uncles. There is much to disquiet them.” Francis draws her closer
to him, laying his head upon her shoulder wearily, and again closing his
eyes. “It is some conspiracy against her and your uncles--the
Guises--_mignonne_,” added he, whispering into her ear.
“Conspiracy! Holy Virgin, how dreadful! Why did you not tell me this
before we left Blois?”
“I feared to frighten you, dear love, ere we were safe within the thick
walls of this old fortress.”
Mary starts up and seizes his hand.
“Tell me, tell me,” she says, in an unsteady voice, “what is this
conspiracy?”
“A plot of the Huguenots, in which Condé and the Coligni are concerned,”
replies Francis, roused by her vehemence into attention. “Did you not
mark how suddenly our uncle, Francis of Guise, appeared at Blois, and
that he was closeted with her Majesty for hours?” Mary, her eyes
extended to their utmost limit and fixed on his, bows her head in
assent. “Did we not leave immediately after the interview for Amboise?
Did not that make you suspicious?”
“No, Francis; for you said that we came here to hold a joust and to hunt
in the forest of Chanteloup. How could I doubt your word? Oh! this is
horrible!”
“We came to Amboise, _ma mie_, because it is a stronghold, and Blois is
an open town.”
“Do you know no more? or will you still deceive me?” asks Mary eagerly,
looking at him with tearful eyes.
“My mother told me that the Duc de Guise was informed by the Catholics
of England (which tidings have been since confirmed), that the Huguenots
are arming in force, that they are headed by Condé, that they are
plotting to imprison the Queen-mother and your uncles, and to carry you
and me to Paris by force.”
“By force? Would they lay hands on us? Oh, Francis, are we safe in this
castle?” exclaims Mary, clasping her hands. “Will our guards defend us?
Are the walls manned? Is the town faithful? Are there plenty of troops
to guard the bridges?”
As she speaks, Mary trembles so violently that she has slid from her
chair and sinks upon the ground, clinging to Francis in an agony of
fear.
“Courage, my _reinette_! rise up, and sit beside me,” and Francis raises
her in his arms and replaces her on her chair. “Here we are safe. This
conspiracy is not directed against us, Mary. The people say my mother
and the Guises rule, not I, the anointed King. The Huguenots want to
carry us off to Paris for our good. _Pardieu!_ I know little of the plot
myself as yet; my mother refused to tell me. Anyhow, we are secure here
at Amboise from Turk, Jew, or Huguenot, so cheer up, my lovely queen!”
As Mary looks up again further to question him, he stops her mouth with
kisses.
“Let us leave all to the Queen-mother. She is wise, and governs for us
while we are young. She loves not to be questioned. Sweetest, I am
weary, give me a cup of wine; let me lie in your closet, and you shall
sing me to sleep with your lute.”
“But, Francis,” still urges Mary, gently disengaging herself from his
arms as he leads her away, “surely my uncles must be in great danger; a
conspiracy perhaps means an assassination. I beseech you let me go and
question them myself.”
“_Nenni_,” answers Francis, drawing her to him. “You shall come with me.
I will not part with you for a single instant. Ah! _mignonne_, if you
knew how my head aches, you would ask me no more questions, or I shall
faint.”
Mary’s expressive face changes as the April sunshine. Her eyes fill with
tears of tenderness as she leads Francis to a small closet in a turret
exclusively her own,--a _chinoiserie_, quaint and bright as the plumage
of a bird,--and seats him, supported by a pile of pillows, on a
couch--luxurious for that period of stiff-backed chairs and wooden
benches.
“Talk to me,” says Francis, smoothing her abundant hair, which hung in
dark masses on her shoulders as she knelt at his feet, “or, better
still, sing to me, I love to hear your soft voice; only, no more
politics--not a word of affairs of state, Mary. Sing to me those verses
you showed to Ronsard, about the knight who leapt into a deep stream to
pluck a flower for his love and was drowned by the spell of a jealous
mermaid who watched him from among the flags.”
Mary rises and fetches her lute. All expression of fear has left her
face. Reassured by Francis and occupied alone by him, she forgets not
only the Huguenots and the conspiracy, but the whole world, beside the
boy-husband, who bends lovingly over her as she tries the strings of her
instrument. So let us leave them as they sit, two happy children, side
by side, bathed in the brief sunshine of a changeful day in March, now
singing, now talking of country fêtes, especially of a _carrousel_ to
take place on the morrow in the courtyard of the castle, in which the
Grand Prieur is to ride disguised as a gipsy woman and carry a monkey on
his back for a child!
CHAPTER XIII.
A TRAITOR.
The Queen-mother sits alone; a look of care overshadows her face; her
prominent eyes are fixed and glassy. From her window she can gaze at an
old familiar scene, the terrace and parterre bordered by lime walks,
planted by Francis I., where she has romped in many a game of
_cache-cache_ with him.
Presently she rises and summons an attendant from the antechamber.
“Call hither to me Maître Avenelle,” says she to the dainty page who
waits her command.
Avenelle, a lawyer and a Huguenot, is the friend of Barri, Seigneur de
la Renaudie, the nominal leader of the Huguenot plot; of which the Duc
de Guise has been warned by the Catholics of England. Avenelle has, for
a heavy bribe, been gained over in Paris by the Duke’s secretary,
Marmagne; he has come to Amboise to betray his friends “of the religion”
by revealing to the Queen-mother all he knows of this vast Huguenot
conspiracy, secretly headed by the Prince de Condé and by Admiral
Coligni.
Avenelle enters and bows low before the Queen who is seated opposite to
him at a writing-table. He is sallow and wasted-looking, with a grave
face and an anxious eye; a tremor passes over him as he suddenly
encounters the dark eyes of Catherine fixed upon him.
“Have you seen the Duc de Guise?” says she haughtily, shading her face
with her hand the better to observe him, as he stands before her,
motionless, and pale with fear.
“Yes, madame,” replies he, again humbly bowing; “I come now from his
chamber, whither I was conducted by M. Marmagne, his secretary.”
“And you have confided to him all you know of this plot?”
“I have, madame, all.”
“Is it entirely composed of Huguenots?”
“It is, madame.”
“What are the numbers?”
“Perhaps two thousand, your Majesty.”
Catherine starts, the lines on her face deepen, and her eyes glitter
with astonishment and rage.
“Who is at the head of these rebels?” she asks suddenly, after pausing a
few moments.
Avenelle trembles violently; the savage tone of her voice and her
imperious manner show him his danger. His teeth chatter, and drops of
moisture trickle down his forehead. So great is his alarm that, in spite
of his efforts to reply, his voice fails him. Catherine, her eyes
riveted on his, waves her hand with an impatient gesture.
“Why do not you answer me, Maître Avenelle? If you are waiting to invent
a lie with which to deceive me, believe me, such deceit is useless. The
torture-chamber is at hand; the screw will make you speak.”
“Oh, madame,” gasps Avenelle, making a successful effort to recover his
voice, “I had no intention to deceive your Majesty; I am come to tell
you all I know. It was a passing weakness that overcame me.”
“Who, then, I again ask,” says the Queen, taking a pen in her hand in
order to note his reply, “who is at the head of this plot?”
“Madame, it is secretly headed by that heretic, the Prince de Condé.
Coligni knows of it, as does also his brother d’Andelot, and the
Cardinal de Châtillon. The nominal leader, Barri de la Renaudie, is but
a subordinate acting under their orders.”
“Heretics do you call them; are not you, then, yourself a Huguenot?”
“Madame, I was,” replies Avenelle, obsequiously, with an effort to look
fearless, for Catherine’s glittering eyes are still upon him; “but his
Highness, the Duc de Guise, has induced me to recant my errors.”
“Ah!” says Catherine, smiling sarcastically; “I did not know our cousin
of Guise troubled himself with the souls of his enemies. But this La
Renaudie, was he not your friend? Did he not lodge with you in Paris?”
“He did lodge, for a brief space, in my house in Paris, madame; but I
have no friend that is not a loyal subject to your Majesty.” Avenelle
now speaks more boldly.
Catherine eyes him from head to foot with a glance of infinite contempt.
“I am glad to hear this for your own sake, Maître Avenelle,” she replies
drily. “What is the precise purpose of this plot?”
“Madame, it is said by the Huguenots that your Majesty, not your son,
his Majesty Francis II., governs, and that under your rule no justice
will ever be done to those of ‘the religion’; that your Majesty seeks
counsel of the Duc de Guise and of his brother, the Cardinal de
Lorraine, who are even more bitterly opposed than yourself to their
interests. Therefore they have addressed themselves to the Prince de
Condé, who is believed to share their opinions both political and
religious, for present redress. The conspirators propose, madame, to
place his Highness the Prince de Condé on the throne as Regent, until
such measures are taken as will insure their independence; imprison your
Majesty; send the young King and Queen to some unfortified place--such
as Blois or Chenonceau--and banish the noble Duke and his brother the
Cardinal from France.”
While Avenelle, speaking rapidly, gives these details, Catherine sits
unmoved. As he proceeds her eyes never leave him, and her hands,
singularly small and delicate, are clenched upon her velvet robe. When
he has done speaking a look of absolute fury passes over her face. There
is a lengthened silence, during which her head sinks on her breast and
she remains lost in thought. When she looks up all passion has faded out
of her face. She appears as impassible as a statue, and speaks in a
clear metallic voice which betrays no vestige of emotion.
“Have these conspirators many adherents, Maître Avenelle?”
“I fear so, madame. Nearly two thousand are gathering together, from
various points, at Nantes. On the 15th of the present month of March
they would have attacked Blois. Had your Majesty not received timely
warning and retreated to this fortified castle, these rebellious
gentlemen would have captured your sacred person and that of our
Sovereign and the young Queen. They would have kept you imprisoned
until you had consented to abdicate the throne or to dismiss our great
Catholic Princes of Lorraine, to whom and to your Majesty all evil
influence is attributed.”
“Influence? Yes, influence enough to punish traitors, heretics, and
_spies_!” exclaims Catherine, and she darts a fierce look at Avenelle,
who, though still pale as death, is now more composed, and meets her
glance without flinching. He knows his life is in the balance, and he
thinks he reads the Queen-mother rightly, that he may best ensure it by
showing no cowardice.
“Is this all you know, Maître Avenelle?” says the Queen, coldly.
“Yes, madame; and I trust you will remember that I have been the means
of saving your Majesty and the young King from imprisonment, perhaps
from death.”
Catherine turns her terrible eyes full upon Avenelle. “Maître Avenelle,
I appreciate both your disinterestedness and your loyalty,” replies she,
with a bitter sneer. “You, sir, will be kept a prisoner in this castle
until his Majesty’s council have tested the truth of what you say. We
may _use_ such as you, but we mistrust them and we despise them. If you
have spoken the truth, your life shall be spared, but you will leave
France for ever. If you have lied, you will die.” As these words fall
from her lips and are echoed through the lofty chamber, she strikes on a
sharp metal placed before her. Two guards immediately enter and remove
Avenelle in custody.
Catherine again strikes on the metal instrument, summons her attendant,
and desires that Francis,
[Illustration: SPIRAL STAIRCASE, CHÂTEAU OF BLOIS.
(By permission of Neurdein, Paris.)]
Duc de Guise, and the Cardinal de Lorraine shall attend her.
In this interview between the heads of the Catholic party their plan of
action is decided. A council of state is to be at once called at
Amboise, to which the Huguenot chiefs, the Prince of Condé, the Admiral
Coligni, his brother d’Andelot, the Cardinal de Châtillon, and others
are to be invited to attend; and a conciliatory edict in favour of the
Calvinists, signed by the King, is to be proclaimed.
Thus the Reformed party will be thrown completely off their guard, and
La Renaudie and the conspirators, emboldened by the apparent security
and ignorance of the government, will gather about Amboise, the better
to carry out their designs of capturing the King, the Queen, and the
Queen-mother, and banishing or killing the Guises, her supposed evil
counsellors. But another and secret condition is appended to this edict
which would at once, if known, have awakened the suspicions and driven
back from any approach to Amboise both the conspirators and the great
chiefs of the Huguenot party.
This secret condition is that Francis, Duc de Guise, shall be forthwith
nominated Lieutenant-General of the kingdom, and be invested with almost
absolute power.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE COUNCIL OF STATE.
The council assembles in a sombre chamber panelled with dark oak,
crossed by open rafters--a chamber that had remained unaltered since the
days of Louis XI. A long table stands in the centre surrounded with
leather chairs heavily carved, on which are seated the members of the
council. Condé, who is of royal blood, takes the highest place on the
Calvinist side. He is somewhat below middle height and delicately
formed. His complexion is fair, his face comely; his dark eyes, sunk
deep in his head, bright with the power of intellect, are both cunning
and piercing. Nevertheless, it is a veiled face and betrays nothing. His
dress is dark and simple, yet studiously calculated to display to the
best advantage his supple and elegant figure. There is an air of
authority about him that betrays itself unwittingly in every glance he
casts around the room. He is a man born to command.
Next to him is a man older, sturdier, rougher; a powerfully built man,
who sits erect and firm in his chair. His head is covered with long
white hair; he has overhanging eyebrows, a massive forehead, and a
firmly-closed mouth. His weather-beaten face and sunken cheeks show that
he has lived a life of exposure and privation--a man thus to meet
unmoved peril or death. He wears a homely suit of black woollen stuff
much worn, and as he sits he leans forward, plunged in deep thought.
This is Admiral Coligni. Beside him is his brother D’Andelot, slighter
and much younger: he is dressed with the same simplicity as the Admiral,
but wants that look of iron resolve and fanatic zeal which at the first
glance stamps Coligny as a hero. Châtillon has placed himself beside his
brother prelate of Lorraine. Each wears the scarlet robe of a cardinal,
over which falls a deep edging of open guipure lace; their broad red
hats, tasselled with silken cords, lie on the table before them.
Lorraine is thin and dark, with a treacherous eye and a prevailing
expression of haughty unconcern. Châtillon is bland and mild, but withal
shrewd and astute; a smile rests upon his thin lips as his eyes travel
round the table, peering into every face, while from time to time he
whispers some observation to the Cardinal de Lorraine, the Minister of
State, who effects not to hear him.
A door opens within a carved recess or dais raised one step from the
floor, and Francis and Mary appear. The whole council rises and salutes
the young King and Queen. They seat themselves under a purple velvet
canopy embroidered in gold with fleurs-de-lys and the oriflamme. They
are followed by Catherine and Francis Duc de Guise, a man of majestic
presence and lofty stature. He is spare, like the Cardinal, but his
eager eye and sharply cut features, on which many a wrinkle has
gathered, proclaim the man of action and the warrior, ardent in the path
of glory, prompt, bold, and unscrupulous. At the sight of Coligni,
Condé, and Châtillon he knits his brows, and a sinister expression
passes over his face which deepens into a look of actual cruelty as he
silently takes his place next to Catherine de’ Medici.
The young King and Queen sit motionless side by side, like two children
who are permitted to witness a solemn ceremony upon the promise of
silence and tranquillity. They are both curious and attentive. Not all
Mary Stuart’s questions have elicited further information from her
uncles, and Francis, too feeble in health to be energetic, is satisfied
with the knowledge that the Queen-mother occupies herself with affairs
of state.
The Queen-mother, with a curious smile upon her face, stands for a few
moments on the estrade facing the council-chamber. She coldly receives
the chiefs of the Reformed faith, but her welcome is studiously polite.
With the same grave courtesy she greets the Guises, Nemours, and the
other Catholic princes. All are now seated in a circle of which Francis
and Mary, motionless under the canopy of state, form the centre.
Catherine rises from her chair and in a guarded address speaks of danger
to the Crown from the Huguenot party, darkly hinting at a treasonable
plot in which some near the throne are implicated, and she calls on
those lords favourable to the Reformed religion for advice and support
in this emergency.
As she speaks an evil light gathers in her eye, especially when she
declares that she has at this time summoned her son’s trusty counsellors
of the Calvinist faith in order to consider an edict of pacification,
calculated to conciliate _all_ his Majesty’s subjects, and to rally
_all_ his faithful servants round his throne.
Her composed and serious countenance, the grave deliberation of her
discourse, her frank yet stately avowal of peril to the State and
desire for counsel in an hour of danger, are all so admirably simulated
that those not aware of her perfidy are completely duped.
Francis, her son, listens with wonder to his mother’s words, believing,
as he does, that she is both indignant and alarmed at the machinations
of that very party she has called to Amboise and which she now proposes
to propitiate.
The Duc de Guise, who perfectly understands her drift, secretly smiles
at this fresh proof of the dissimulation and astuteness of his cousin
who caresses ere she grasps her prey. When she has ended he loudly
applauds her conciliatory resolutions, and by so doing astonishes still
more the unsuspicious Francis, as well as his niece Mary whose wondering
eyes are fixed on him.
As to Coligni and the other Protestants, they fall blindfolded into the
snare spread for them by Catherine, all save the Prince de Condé, who,
crafty and treacherous himself, is more suspicious of others. He has
marked, too, the Queen-mother’s words, “some near the throne,” and
thinks he knows to whom they are applied. However, he immediately rises
and in a few well-chosen phrases declares himself ready to defend the
royal cause with his life. The Admiral next speaks, and in an eloquent
harangue he unsuspectingly dilates on his own views of the present
administration, and reproves the ambition of those princes who usurp the
government of France. “There are two millions of Protestants in the
kingdom,” he says, “who look to the heads of their own faith for relief
from the tyranny and injustice under which they have long languished.
Two millions,” repeats Coligni in a grave, sad voice, looking
steadfastly round the circle, “who seek to live at peace, industrious,
tranquil, loyal. But these two millions demand that they shall enjoy
equal privileges with the least of his Majesty’s Catholic subjects. This
is now refused. They ask to be neither suspected, watched, nor wilfully
persecuted. If any conspiracy exists, such as is known to her Majesty
the Queen-mother--and I accept her statement as true with the deepest
sorrow--it can only arise from the bitter feeling engendered by the
disgrace of these Calvinistic subjects of this realm who are uniformly
treated as aliens, and repulsed with cruel persistency from such places
of trust and honour as their services have entitled them to enjoy. Let
these heavy grievances be removed, let his Majesty reign for himself
_alone_”--and Coligni’s eye rests on the Duc de Guise and the
Queen-mother--“with equal favour over both parties, Catholic as well as
Protestant. Let the conciliatory edict now before the council be made
public, and I, Gaspard de Coligni, bind myself upon my plighted word as
a noble and upon my conscience as a devout Calvinist, that the House of
Valois will for ever live in the hearts of our people, and receive from
them as entire a devotion as ever animated subject to his sovereign.”
A deep silence follows Coligni’s address, and the Duc de Guise and the
Cardinal de Lorraine exchange glances of indignation.
Francis has become more and more mystified. Timid and inexperienced, he
fears to betray his absolute ignorance of state affairs, and perhaps
incense his mother by indiscreet questions. But when the parchment,
heavy with seals of state, is produced and borne to him by the
Chancellor for signature, he can no longer conceal his astonishment that
he should be called on to sign an edict giving both liberty and
protection to those very persons whom the Queen-mother and his uncles
had represented to him as his mortal enemies. He looks so long and
earnestly at Catherine, that she, fearing that by one mistaken word he
is about to destroy the whole fabric of her masterly dissimulation,
rises quickly from the arm-chair in which she sits, and advancing
quickly towards him with a commanding look and imperious gesture, takes
the pen from the hand of the Chancellor and presents it to him herself.
“Sign, my son,” says she, “this edict which has been framed by the
unanimous advice of your council in favour of your loyal subjects. Fear
not to sanction this royal act of mercy. Your Majesty is still too young
to understand the far-seeing wisdom of the act. Take it on my word,
Sire, take it _now_ on my word. You will understand it better later.”
“Truly, madame,” replies the King, “I call God to witness that I desire
the good of all my subjects, Huguenot and Catholic.” So saying he takes
the pen and signs the edict. The council forthwith breaks up, and with
what wondering curiosity on the part of the King and Mary, who dare ask
no questions, cannot be told.
CHAPTER XV.
CATHERINE’S VENGEANCE.
Meanwhile the conspirators, emboldened by the news of the edict of
Amboise, carried out their purpose exactly as the Queen-mother intended,
with perfect confidence and little concealment. Catherine’s object was
to draw them towards Amboise and there destroy them. Band after band, in
small detachments the better to avoid suspicion, rode up from Nantes
where they lay, to concentrate in force on the Loire and within Amboise
itself. When sufficiently strong they proposed to carry off the King and
Queen by a _coup-de-main_, make away with the Jesuitical Guises, banish
the Queen-mother to some distant fortress, and place Condé on the throne
as Regent.
They came through the plains of Touraine, halting beside solitary farms,
in the vineyards, under the willows and tufted underwood that border the
rivers, and through the dark forests that lie on the hills behind
Amboise. Band after band reached certain points, halted at the spots
indicated to them, and met other detachments with whom they were to act;
but not one of them was heard of more.
The walls of the castle of Amboise bristled with troops, and the open
country towards Loches was full of soldiers. Trusty guards stationed on
the double bridge across the Loire were instructed by the Duc de Guise,
who wielded absolute power and who had now gained minute knowledge of
the plot, to take all
[Illustration: COUÇY.]
suspected persons prisoners, or if needful, slay them as they stood.
Crowds of prisoners poured into Amboise, tied together and driven like
cattle to the shambles. Those who were known were reserved for a further
purpose, the rest--the herd--were either hanged or drowned. The Loire
was full of floating corpses.
Condé, wary with the wariness of his race, ventured not again to
Amboise. Coligni and his brother knew not how to oppose a power
exercised in the royal name, but Jean Barri de la Renaudie, the
ostensible leader of the conspiracy and a bold adventurer, alarmed at
the mysterious disappearance of party after party of his followers, set
out in rash haste towards Amboise. He too was watched for and expected
among the wooded hills of the forest of Château Renaud.
La Renaudie had encamped in the woods towards morning after advancing
under cover of the night from Niort. Suddenly his detachment was
approached by two or three horsemen, who, after reconnoitring for a few
moments, retreated. These were evidently the advance guard of the royal
forces. La Renaudie immediately broke up his camp and dashed on towards
Amboise, concealed by the overhanging trees on the banks of a stream
which flowed through a wild defile. In a hollow of the river, among beds
of stone and sand, he was fallen upon by a regiment of royal troops who
had tracked and finally caught him as in a trap. His own cousin
Pardilliac commanded the attack, he recognised him by the flag. A deadly
struggle ensued, in which both cousins fell. La Renaudie’s corpse,
carried in triumph to Amboise, was hung in chains over the bridge.
Then Condé, Coligni, and the other Calvinists came fully to understand
what the edict of conciliation really meant.
The Castle of Amboise during all this time had been strictly guarded;
every door was watched, every gallery was full of troops; the garden and
the walled plateau, within which stands the beautiful little votive
chapel erected by Anne of Brittany, was like a camp. Silence, suspicion,
and terror were on every face. Although the Queen-mother, with her
crafty smiles and unruffled brow, affected entire ignorance and exhorted
“la petite reinette,” as she called Mary, to hunt in the adjoining
forest, and to assemble the Court in the state rooms with the usual
banquets and festivities, Mary, pale and anxious, remained shut up with
Francis in her private apartments.
“My uncle,” said Francis to the Duc de Guise whom he met leaving the
Queen-mother’s retiring-room, “I must know what all these precautions
mean. Why are so many troops encamped about the castle, the guards
doubled, and the gates closed? Why do you avoid me and the Queen? Uncle,
I insist on knowing more.”
“It is nothing, Sire--nothing,” faltered the Duke, who, dissembler as he
was, could scarcely conceal the confusion the King’s questions caused
him. “A trifling conspiracy has been discovered, a few rebels have been
caught, your Majesty’s leniency has been abused by some false Huguenots.
These troops assembled about the castle are your Majesty’s trusty guards
brought here to ensure the maintenance of the terms of the edict.”
“But, uncle, the Queen and I hear the clash of arms and firing on the
bridges as against an enemy. I cannot sleep, so great is the tumult.
What have I done that my people should mistrust me? Huguenots and
Catholics are alike my subjects. Are you sure, uncle, that it is not you
and my mother that they hate? I would that you would all go away for a
while and let me rule alone, then my people would know me.”
When all the Huguenot conspirators, about two thousand in number, were
either massacred or imprisoned, Catherine threw off the mask. She called
to her Francis and the young Queen. “My children,” said she, “a plot has
been discovered by which the Prince de Condé was to be made Regent. You
and the Queen were to be shut up for life, or murdered perhaps. Such as
remain unpunished of the enemies of the House of Valois are about to be
executed on the southern esplanade of the castle. You are too young to
be instructed in all these details, but, my son, when you signed that
edict, I told you I would afterwards explain it--now come and behold the
reason. Mary, my _reinette_, do not turn so pale, you will need to learn
to be both stern and brave to rule your rough subjects the Scotch.”
Catherine, erect and calm, led the way to the state apartments
overlooking on either side the garden, terrace, and river. Large
mullioned windows had by the command of Francis I. taken the place of
the narrow lights of the older fortress. He had changed the esplanade
and southern terraced front within the walls and the balconied windows
to the north overlooking the town, into that union of _manoir_ and
château which he first created.
The boy-King and Queen followed tremblingly the steps of their mother,
who strode on in front with triumphant alacrity. Without, on the
pleasant terrace bordered by walls now bristling with guns and alive
with guards and archers, on the pinnacles and fretted roof of the votive
chapel, which stands to the right in a tuft of trees inside a bastion,
the sun shone brightly, but the blue sky and the laughing face of nature
seemed but to mock the hideous spectacle in front. Close under the
windows of the central gallery, a scaffold was erected covered with
black, on which stood an executioner masked, clothed in a red robe. Long
lines of prisoners packed closely together, a dismal crowd, wan and
emaciated by imprisonment in the loathsome holes of the mediæval castle,
stood by hundreds ranged against the outer walls and those of the
chapel, guarded by archers and musketeers; as if such despairing
wretches, about to be butchered like cattle in the shambles, needed
guarding! The windows of the royal gallery were wide open, flags
streamed from the architraves, and a loggia, or covered balcony, had
been prepared, hung with crimson velvet, with seats for the royal
princes.
Within the gallery the whole Court stood ranged against the sculptured
walls. Catherine entered first. With an imperious gesture she signed to
Mary, who clung, white as death, to her husband, to take her place under
a royal canopy placed in the centre of the window. Francis she drew into
a chair beside herself, the Chancellor, the Duc de Guise, his brother
the Cardinal, and the Duc de Nemours seated themselves near. Their
appearance was the signal to begin the slaughter. Prisoner after
prisoner was dragged up beneath the loggia to the scaffold and hastily
despatched. Cries of agony were drowned
[Illustration: THE GARDENS OF THE TUILERIES, PARIS]
in the screeching of fifes and the loud braying of trumpets. The
mutilated bodies were flung on one side to be cast into the river, the
heads borne away to be placed upon the bridge. Blood ran in streams and
scented the fresh spring breezes. The executioner wearily rested from
his labour, and another masked figure, dressed like himself, in red from
head to foot, took his place.
Spellbound and speechless sat the young Queen. A look of horror was on
her face. She had clutched the hand of Francis as she sat down, and ere
a few minutes had passed, she had fainted.
Catherine, who, wholly unmoved, was contemplating the death of her
enemies the Huguenots, turned with a terrible frown towards her son,
handing him some strong essence with which to revive Mary. As her senses
returned, even the basilisk eyes of her dreaded mother-in-law could not
restrain her. One glance at the awful spectacle gave her courage; she
gave a wild scream, and rushing forward, flung herself passionately at
the feet of her uncle, Francis of Guise.
“Uncle, dear uncle, stay this fearful massacre. Speak to the Queen, or I
shall die. Oh! why was I brought here to behold such a sight?”
“My niece,” answered the Duke solemnly, raising her from the ground, and
tenderly kissing her on the cheek, “have courage; these are but a few
pestilent heretics who would have dethroned you and your husband, the
King, and set up a false religion. By their destruction we are doing
good service to God and to the blessed Virgin. Such vermin deserve no
pity. You ought to rejoice in their destruction.”
“Alas! my mother,” said Francis, also rising, “I too am overcome at this
horrible sight, I also would crave your highness’s permission to retire;
the blood of my subjects, even of my enemies, is horrible to see. Let us
go!”
“My son, I command you to stay!” broke in Catherine, furious with
passion, and imperiously raising her hand to stay him. “Duc de Guise,
support your niece, the Queen of France. Teach her the duty of a
sovereign.”
Again Francis, intimidated by his mother’s violence, reseated himself
along with the unhappy Mary, motionless beside him. Again the steel of
the axe flashed in the sunshine, and horrible contortions writhed the
bodies of the slain. It was too much. Mary, young, tender,
compassionate--afraid to plead for mercy as though committing a crime,
again fainted, and was again recovered. The Queen-mother, to whom the
savage scene was a spectacle of rapture, again commanded her to be
reseated; but Francis, now fully aroused by the sufferings of his wife,
interposed.
“My mother, I can no longer permit your Majesty to force the Queen to be
present. You are perilling her health. Govern my kingdom and slay my
subjects, but let me judge what is seemly for my wife.”
So, bearing her in his arms, with the assistance of her ladies, Francis
withdrew.
When the butchery was over, and the headless bodies were floating in the
river or strung up on the branches of the trees or piled in heaps about
the castle, Catherine retired. She commanded that the remains of the
chief conspirators should be hung in chains from the iron balustrades of
the stone balcony which protects the windows of the royal gallery and
which still remains intact, on the north front of the castle, towards
the river. The remainder were to be thrown into the Loire. This stone
balcony borders now, as then, the whole length of the state apartments
towards the river. A fall of some hundred feet down a sheer mass of grey
rock on which the castle stands makes the head dizzy. Over this
precipice the headless bodies dangled, swaying to and fro in the March
wind, a hideous and revolting sight. No one could pass through any of
the apartments of the castle without beholding it. But despised humanity
in the shape of the murdered Huguenots asserted its claim on the
attention of the Court, and the stench of these bodies hung to the
balcony, and of those strung up on the trees, and the rotting corpses
that dammed up the river, soon became so overwhelming, that even
Catherine herself was forced to retreat, and accompany her son and the
young Queen to Chenonceau. The shock and excitement were, however, too
much for the sickly Francis. Rapidly he pined and died; no physician was
found who could cure a nameless malady.
Mary Stuart, a widow at eighteen, passionate and romantic, clung fondly
to that “pleasant land” where she had spent such happy days with the
gracious Francis. She had been created Duchesse de Touraine at her
marriage, and craved earnestly to be allowed to enjoy that apanage
rather than be banished to reign in a barren land, which she dreaded
like a living tomb. But her ambitious uncles, the Duc de Guise and the
Cardinal de Lorraine, who were to her as parents, obstinately insisted
on her departure for Scotland. So she sailed from Calais; and, from the
deck of the ship that bore her across the seas, as the shores of
France--which she was never more to see--gradually faded from her view,
she sang to her lute that plaintive song, so identified with her
memory:--
“Adieu, oh plaisant pays!
Adieu! oh ma patrie,
La plus chérie, qui a nourri
Ma Belle enfance,--Adieu!”
CHAPTER XVI.
THE ASTROLOGER’S CHAMBER.
Wherever Catherine chose to reside, either in Paris or in Touraine, an
observatory for the stars was always at hand, and Cosmo Ruggiero, who
had attended her from Italy, never left her. Cosmo was the Queen’s
familiar demon; he was both astrologer, alchemist, and philosopher. He
fed the glowing furnaces with gold and silver, sometimes with dead men’s
bones; concocted essences, powders, and perfumes; drew horoscopes, and
modelled wax figures in the likeness of those who had incurred the
Queen’s enmity. These were supposed to suffer pangs from each stab
inflicted on their images, and to waste away as their wax similitudes
melted in the flames. Cosmo was also purveyor of poisons to her
Majesty, and dealt largely in herbs and roots fatal to life. His
apartments and the observatory were always near those of the Queen and
connected with them by a secret stair.
We are at the Tuileries.[10] It stands on a plot of ground outside
Paris--where tiles were baked and rubbish shot--given by Francis I. to
his mother, Louise de Savoie. Charles IX., who has succeeded his
brother--Francis II.--inhabits the Louvre, now entirely rebuilt by
Francis I. The Queen-mother desired to live alone. She therefore
commanded Philippe de Lorme to erect a new palace for her use,
consisting of a central pavilion, with ample wings. Catherine is now
middle-aged; her complexion is darker, the expression of her face
sterner and more impassive. She seldom relaxes into a smile except to
deceive an enemy. In her own person she dislikes and despises the luxury
of dress, and principally wears black since the death of her husband.
But on fitting occasions of state she, too, robes herself in royal
apparel. She stands before us in a long black dress, tightly fitting her
shape. She has grown much stouter though she is still upright and
majestic. Her active habits and her extraordinary capacity for mental
labour are the same. A stiff ruff is round her neck and a black coif
upon her head. Jewels she rarely uses. Her suite of rooms at the
Tuileries, hung with sombre tapestry or panelled with dark wood, are
studiously plain. She loves artists and the arts, but pictures and
statues are not appropriate to the state business she habitually
transacts. There is a certain consistent grandeur in her plain,
unadorned _entourage_; a sense of subdued power--hidden yet
apparent--that makes those who approach her tremble. Her second son
Charles, now King of France, is wholly under her influence. He was only
ten years old when he ascended the throne at the death of his brother
Francis, and his mother has carefully stamped out every good quality in
his naturally frank and manly nature. Now he is rough and cruel, loves
the sight of blood, and has become a perfect Nimrod. He blows the horn
with such violence, so often and so loud, that he has injured his lungs.
Charles knows much more about the bears, wolves, deer, and wild boars of
France, than of his Christian subjects.
The Princess Marguerite is now grown into a woman, “a noble mind in a
most lovely person,” says the flattering Brantôme. Her mother encourages
Marguerite’s taste for intrigue, and throws her into the company of
women, such as Madame de Sauve, the court Ninon de l’Enclos of that day.
Catherine contemplates her beauty, not with the profound affection of a
mother, but as a useful bait to entrap those whom she desires to gain.
When she was young herself the Queen never allowed any tender passion to
stand in her way, but ruthlessly sacrificed all who were either useless
or troublesome.
When the palace is quiet, and the sighing of the winter wind without, as
it sweeps along the quays and ruffles the surface of the river, is only
broken by the challenge of the sentinels on the bastion bordering the
Seine, Catherine rises from her chair. She passes over her black dress a
long white mantle, puts her feet into silken slippers, lights a scented
bougie, takes from her girdle a golden key--which is hid there along
with a poisoned dagger in case of need--draws aside the tapestry,
unlocks a hidden door, and mounts a secret stair. Cosmo Ruggiero is
seated on a folding stool in a small laboratory under the roof. He is
reading an ancient manuscript. A lamp illuminates the page, and he is,
or affects to be, so profoundly absorbed that he does not hear his
terrible mistress enter. She glides like a ghost beside him and laying
her hand on his shoulder rouses him. Ruggiero rises hastily and salutes
her. Catherine draws a stool beside him, seats herself, and signs him to
do so also.
“Well, Cosmo! always studying; always at work in my service,” says she,
in a low metallic voice.
“Yes, madame, I have no other pleasure than in your Majesty’s service.”
“Yes, yes! you serve the Queen for love, and science out of interest--I
understand. Disinterestedness is the custom of our country, my friend.”
“Your Majesty mistakes; I serve her as a loyal servant and countryman
should.”
“La! la!” says Catherine, “we know each other, Cosmo,--no professions.
Is the poison ready I ordered of you, the subtle powder to sprinkle on
gloves or flowers? It is possible I may want it shortly.”
Ruggiero rises and hands a small sealed packet, enclosed in satin, to
the Queen, who places it in her bosom.
“Madame,” he says, “beware! this poison is most powerful.”
“So much the worse for those for whom it is destined,” replied
Catherine; and a cruel smile lights up her face for a moment. “It will
serve me the quicker. But to business, Cosmo. What say the stars? Have
you drawn the horoscopes?”
“Here, madame, are the horoscopes”; and he draws from his belt a bundle
of papers. “Here are the celestial signs within the House of Life of all
the royal persons concerned, traced by the magic pencil from the dates
you furnished me.”
Catherine glances at the papers. “Explain to me their import,” says she,
looking at him with grave attention.
“Your present design, madame, to marry Madame Marguerite to the King of
Navarre appears favourable to the interests of France. A cloud now rests
upon the usually brilliant star of the King of Navarre, but another
night, madame, perhaps----”
“This is all very vague, Ruggiero, I want an absolute prediction,” says
Catherine, fixing her black eyes full upon the soothsayer. “Among all
these illustrious personages is there not one whose horoscope is clear
and defined?”
“Assuredly, madame; will your Majesty deign to interrogate me as to the
future? I will unfold the purposes of the stars as I have read them.”
“You have spoken of the Princess. Does she love the young Duc Henri de
Guise?”
“Madame, her highness affects the Duke; but she is unstable in her
affections.”
“The Queen of Navarre--will she still forward this marriage?”
“It will cause her death.”
“How?”
“By poison.”
“Where?”
“At Paris.”
“That is well,” answers the Queen, and deep thought darkens her swarthy
face. “Her son, the King of Navarre--what of him?”
“He, madame, is safe for awhile, though he will shortly be exposed to
extreme peril.”
“But is he destined to die violently?”
“Perhaps; but long years hence. His hair will be gray before the poniard
I see hovering over him strikes. But, as I have said to-night, there is
a cloud upon his star. Long he will certainly escape steel, fire,
illness, or accident; he will bear a charmed life. Madame, the King of
Navarre will be a proper husband for Madame Marguerite.”
“But how of that bold man, the Duc de Guise, who dares without my leave
to aspire to the hand of the Princess?” asked Catherine.
“Henri de Guise, madame, will die a violent death, as will his father
and Coligni. The Admiral will be stabbed in his own house. This is
certain.”
The Queen smiles, and for a time is silent.
“Tell me,” at length she almost whispers, “have you discovered anything
more about myself and my sons?”
“Madame, I tremble to reply,” replies Ruggiero, hesitating.
“Speak, I command you, Cosmo.”
Catherine rises, and lays her hand heavily upon his arm. Her eyes meet
his.
“If I must reveal the future of your Majesty and the royal princes,
well, let it be done. Your Majesty can but kill me. I fear not death.”
“Fool, your life is safe!”
“You, madame, will live; but the Princes, your sons----” and he stops
and again hesitates.
“Speak!” hisses Catherine between her set teeth. “Speak, or, _pardieu_!
I will force you,” and she raises her hand aloft, as if to strike him.
“Madame,” replies Ruggiero, quite unmoved by her violence, rising from
his stool, and moving towards the wall, “you yourself shall see the
future that awaits them.” He withdraws a black curtain covering an
arched recess and revealed a magic mirror. “The kings your sons, madame,
shall pass before you. Each shall reign as many years as he makes the
circuit of that dark chamber you see reflected on the polished steel.
There is your eldest son, Francis. See how feebly he moves, how pale he
looks. He never lived to be a man. Twice he slowly passes round, and he
is gone. The next is Charles, ninth of that name. Thirteen times he
turns around, and as he moves a mist of blood gathers about him. Look,
it thickens--it hides him. He shall reign thirteen years, and die a
bloody death, having caused much blood to flow. Here is Henri, Duc
d’Anjou, who shall succeed him. A few circuits, and then behold--a
muffled figure--a monk, springs on him from behind. He falls and
vanishes.”
There is a pause.
“What! Cosmo,” whispers Catherine, who stood supporting herself on the
back of a high chair opposite the magic mirror. “Francis, Charles, Henry
are gone, but do they leave no child?”
“None, madame.”
“Where, then, is D’Alençon, my youngest boy? Let me see him.”
“Madame,” falters Ruggiero, “his highness is not destined to reign. The
successor of your sons is before you”; and on the magic glass rises up,
clear and distinct, the image of the King of Navarre. With strong, firm
steps he circles the mystic chamber of life twenty times. As he passes
on the twenty-first round, a mist gathers round him; he falls and
vanishes.
At the sight of Henry of Navarre, the Queen’s composure utterly forsakes
her. She trembles from head to foot and sinks into a chair. A sombre
fire shoots from her eyes.
“I will take care _that_ shall never be!” gasps she, unable to speak
with rage.
After a few moments she rose, took up her light, and without one other
word descended as she had come.
CHAPTER XVII.
AT CHENONCEAU.
The Château of Chenonceau, so greatly coveted by Catherine de’ Medici in
her youth, still remains to us. It lies in a rural district of the
Touraine, far from cities and the traffic of great thoroughfares.
Spared, from its isolated position, by the First Revolution, this
monument of the Renaissance, half palace half château, is as beautiful
as ever--a picturesque mass of pointed turrets, glistening spires,
perpendicular roofs, lofty pavilions, and pillared arches. It is partly
built over the river Cher, at once its defence and its attraction.
Henry II., as also his father, Francis, who specially loved this sunny
_plaisance_ and often visited it in company with his daughter-in-law,
Catherine, and his mistress, the Duchesse d’Étampes, had both lavished
unknown sums on its embellishment.
Chenonceau is approached by a drawbridge over a moat fed by the river.
On the southern side a stately bridge of five arches has been added by
Diane de Poitiers in order to reach the opposite bank, where the high
roofs and pointed turrets of the main building are seen to great
advantage, rising out of scattered woods of oak and ash, which are
divided into leafy avenues leading into fair water-meadows beside the
Cher. By Catherine’s command this bridge has been recently covered and
now forms a spacious wing of two stories, the first floor fitted as a
banqueting hall, the walls broken by four embayed windows, opening on
either side and looking up and down the stream.
A fresh-breathing air comes from the river and the forest, a scent of
moss and flowers extremely delicious. The cooing of the cushat doves,
the cry of the cuckoo, the flutter of the breeze among the trees, and
the hum of insects dancing in the sunbeams are the voices of this sylvan
solitude. The blue sky blends into the green woods, and the white
clouds, sailing over the tree-tops, make the shadows come and go among
the arches of the bridge and the turrets of the château.
[Illustration: A Gate of the Louvre, after St. Bartholomew’s Day]
A sudden flourish of trumpets breaks the silence. It is Catherine, in
the early summer, coming, like Jezebel, to possess herself of her fair
domain. She is habited in black and wears a velvet toque with an ostrich
plume. A perfect horsewoman, she rides with a stately grace down the
broad avenue leading from the high road, followed by her maids of
honour--a bevy of some forty beauties, the _escadron volant de la
reine_, who serve her political intrigues by fascinating alike Huguenots
and Catholics.
To the right of the Queen-mother rides Madame Marguerite, her
daughter--by-and-by to become infamous as Queen of Navarre, wife of
Henry IV.--now a laughter-loving girl, who makes her brown jennet
prance, out of pure high spirits. She is tall, like all the Valois, and
finely formed. Her skin is very fair and her eyes full of expression;
but there is a hard look on her delicately-featured face that belies her
attractive appearance.
On the other side of the Queen-mother is her son, the young King,
Charles IX. He has a weak though most engaging countenance. Naturally
brave and witty and extremely frank and free, the artifices of his
mother’s corrupt Court have made him what he now is--cruel, violent, and
suspicious. Catherine has convinced him that he is deceived by all the
world except herself, and leads him at her will. He is to marry shortly
the daughter of the Emperor Maximilian. Beside him is the vicious and
elegant Duc d’Anjou, his next brother, of whom Charles is extremely
jealous. Already Henry has been victor at Jarnac, and almost rivals
Henry of Navarre in the number of battles he fights. He is to be elected
King of Poland during his brother’s life. Henry is handsomer than
Charles, but baby-faced and effeminate. He wears rouge, and is as gay as
a woman in his attire. Catherine’s youngest son, D’Alençon, long-nosed,
ill-favoured, and sullen, rides beside his sister.
Behind the royal Princess, is Francis, Duc de Guise, a man, as we have
seen, of indomitable will and unflinching purpose; fanatical in his
devotion to the Catholic Church, and of unbounded ambition. He secretly
cherishes the settled purpose of his house,--destruction to the race of
Valois. Ere long he will be assassinated at Orléans, by Poltrot, a
Huguenot, a creature of Coligni, who firmly believes he will ensure his
salvation by this crime. Such is Christianity in the sixteenth century!
There are also two cardinals mounted on mules. Lorraine, a true Guise,
most haughty and unscrupulous of politicians and of churchmen; and
D’Este, newly arrived from Ferrara, insinuating, treacherous, and
artistic. He has brought in his train from Italy the great poet Tasso,
who follows his patron, and wears a garbadine and cap of dark satin.
Tasso looks sad and careworn, spite of the high favour shown him by his
countrywoman, the Queen-mother. Ronsard, the court poet, is beside
Tasso, and Châtelard, who, madly enamoured of the widowed Queen, Mary
Stuart, is about to follow her to Scotland, and to die of his
presumptuous love ere long at Holyrood.
As this brilliant procession passes down the broad avenue through
pleasant lawns forming part of the park, at a fast trot, a rider is seen
mounted on a powerful black horse, who neither entirely conceals
himself nor attempts to join the Court. As he passes in and out among
the underwood skirting the adjoining forest, many eyes are bent upon
him. The Queen-mother specially, turns in her saddle the better to
observe him, and then questions her sons as to whether they recognise
this solitary cavalier, whose face and figure are completely hidden by a
broad Spanish hat and heavy riding-cloak.
At the moment when the Queen-mother has turned her head to make these
inquiries and is speaking earnestly to Francis of Guise, whom she has
summoned to her side, the unknown rider crosses the path of the Princess
Marguerite (who in frolicsome mood is making her horse leap over some
ditches in the grass), and throws a rose before her. Marguerite looks up
with a gleam of delight, their eyes meet for an instant; she raises her
hand, kisses it, and waves it towards him. The stranger bows to the
saddle-bow, bounds into the thicket, and is seen no more. The royal
party cross the drawbridge through two lines of attendants, picquers,
retainers, pages, and running footmen, and dismount at the arched
entrance from which a long stone passage leads to the great gallery, the
staircase, and the various apartments.
Leaving the young King and the Princes, his brothers, to the care of the
chamberlains who conduct them to their various apartments, the
Queen-mother turns to the left, followed by the Princess, who is
somewhat alarmed lest her mother should have observed her recognition of
the disguised cavalier. They pass through the guard-room--a lofty
chamber, with raftered ceilings and walls hung with tapestry, on which
cuirasses, swords, lances, casques, shields, and banners are suspended,
fashioned into various devices.
Beyond is a saloon, and through a narrow door in a corner is a small
writing-closet within a turret. Catherine, who knows the château well,
has chosen this suite of rooms apart from the rest. She enters the
closet alone, closes the door, seats herself beside the casement, and
gazes at the broad river flowing beneath. Her eyes follow the current
onwards to where the stream, by a graceful bend, loses itself among
copses of willow and alder. She smiles a smile of triumph. All is now
her own. Then she summons her chamberlain, and commands a masque on the
river for the evening, to celebrate her arrival. None shall say that
she, a Medici, neglects the splendid pageantry of courts. Besides, the
hunting parties, banquets, and masques are too precious as political
opportunities to be disregarded.
Having dismissed her chamberlain, who with his white wand of office bows
low before her, she calls for writing materials, bidding the Princess
and a single lady-in-waiting, Charlotte de Presney, her favourite
attendant, remain without in the saloon.
This is a large apartment, used by Catherine as a sleeping-room, with a
high vaulted ceiling of dark oak, heavily carved, the walls panelled
with rare marbles, brought by the Queen’s command from Italy. Busts on
sculptured pedestals, ponderous chairs, carved cabinets and inlaid
tables, stand around. In one corner there is a bedstead of walnut-wood
with heavy hangings of purple velvet which are gathered into a diadem
with the embossed initials “C. M.,” and an antique silver
[Illustration: CHARLES IX.
FROM THE PAINTING BY CLOUET.]
toilet-table, with a mirror in Venetian glass set in a shroud of lace.
The polished floor has no carpet, and there is not a chair that can be
moved without an effort. A window, looking south towards the river and
the woods, is open. The summer breezes fill the room with fragrance.
Under a ponderous mantelpiece of coloured marbles Marguerite seats
herself on a narrow settee. Her large, sparkling eyes and animated face,
her comely shape, and easy though stately bearing, invite, yet repel,
approach. She still wears her riding-dress of emerald velvet laced with
gold, and a plumed cap lies beside her. Her luxuriant hair, escaped from
a golden net, covers her shoulders. She is a perfect picture of youth
and beauty, and as fresh as her namesake, the daisy.
Charlotte de Presney, at least ten years older than the Princess, is an
acknowledged belle. Her features are regular, her complexion brilliant,
and her face full of intelligence; but there is a cunning expression
about her dimpling mouth that greatly mars her beauty.
“Have you nothing for me, Charlotte?” whispers the Princess, stretching
out her little hand glistening with precious stones. “I know you have.
Give it me. His eyes told me so when he passed me in the avenue.”
“Your highness must not ask me. Suppose her Majesty opens that door and
sees me in the act of giving you a letter?”
“Oh! _méchante_, why do you plague me? I know you have something hidden;
give it me, or I will search you,” and she jumps up and casts her soft
arms round the lady-in-waiting.
Charlotte disengages herself gently, and with her eyes fixed on the low
door leading into the Queen’s closet sighs deeply, and takes a letter
from her bosom, bound with blue silk, and sealed with the arms of Guise.
“Ah! my colours! Is he not charming, my lover?” mutters Marguerite, as
her eager eyes devour the lines. “He says he has followed us, disguised,
from Tours; not even his father knows he has come, but believes him to
be in Paris, in case he should be questioned by the Queen-mother,--Charlotte,
do you think her Majesty recognised him in the avenue? He was admirably
disguised.”
“Your highness knows that nothing escapes the Queen’s eye. The sudden
appearance of a stranger in this lonely spot must have created
observation.”
“Ah! is he not adorable, Charlotte, to come like a real knight-errant to
gaze at his lady-love? How grand he looked--my noble Guise, my warrior,
my hero!” and Marguerite leans back pensively on the settee, as though
calling up his image before her.
“Her Majesty will be very angry, madame, if she recognised him. I saw
her questioning the Duke, his father, and pointing towards him as he
disappeared into the wood,” answered Charlotte, with the slightest
expression of bitterness in her well-modulated voice.
“Henry has discovered,” continues Marguerite, still so lost in reverie
that she does not heed her remark, “that the Queen has a masque to-night
on the river. He will be disguised, he tells me, as a Venetian nobleman,
in a yellow brocaded robe, with a violet mantle, and a red mask. He will
wear my colours--blue, heavenly blue, the symbol of hope and faith--on
his shoulder-knot. Our watchword is to be ‘Eternal love.’ ”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaims Charlotte, with alarm, laying her hand on
Marguerite’s shoulder, “your highness will not dare to meet him?”
“Be silent, _petite sotte_,” breaks in the Princess. “We are to meet on
the southern bank of the river. Charlotte, you must help me; I shall be
sure to be watched, but I must escape from the Queen by some device.
Change my dress, and then--and then----” and she turns her laughing eyes
on the alarmed face of Charlotte, “under the shady woods, by the
parterre near the grotto, I shall meet him--and, alone.”
“And what on earth am I to say to the Queen if she asks for your
highness?” replies Charlotte, turning away her face that the Princess
might not see the tears that bedew her cheeks.
“Anything, my good Charlotte; you have a ready wit, or my mother would
not favour you. I trust to your invention, it has been often exercised,”
and she looked archly at her. “Tell the Queen that I am fatigued, and
have retired into the château until the banquet, when I will rejoin her
Majesty. There is no fear, _ma mie_, especially as the Comte de Clermont
is at Chenonceau. Her Majesty, stern and silent though she be, unbends
to him and greatly affects his company,” and she laughs softly and
points towards the closed door.
“I trust there is, indeed, no fear of discovery, Princess,” returns
Charlotte; “for her Majesty would never forgive me.” At which Marguerite
laughs again.
“Princess,” says Charlotte, looking very grave, and seating herself on
a stool at her feet, “tell me, truly, do you love the Duc de Guise?”
Charlotte’s fine eyes are fixed intently on Marguerite as she asks this
question.
“_Peste!_ you know I do. He is as great a hero as Rinaldo in the Italian
poet’s romance of _Orlando_. Somewhat sedate, perhaps, for me, but so
handsome, spite of that scar. I even love that scar, Charlotte.”
“Does the Duke love you?” again asks Charlotte, with a trembling voice.
“_Par exemple!_ do you think the man lives who would not return my
love?” and the young Princess colours, and tosses the masses of waving
brown curls back from her brow, staring at her companion in unfeigned
astonishment.
“I was thinking,” continues Charlotte, avoiding her gaze, and speaking
in a peculiar voice, “I was thinking of that poor La Molle, left alone
in Paris. How jealous he was! You loved him well, madame, a week ago.”
“Bah! that is ancient history--we are at Chenonceau now. When I return
to Paris it is possible I may console him. Poor La Molle! one cannot be
always constant. Charlotte,” said the Princess, after a pause, looking
inquisitively at her, “I believe you are in love with the Balafré
yourself.”
Charlotte colours, and, not daring to trust her voice in reply, shakes
her head and bends her eyes on the ground.
Marguerite, too much occupied with her own thoughts to take much heed of
her friend’s emotion, pats her fondly on the cheek, and proceeds--
“You are dull, _ma mie_; amuse yourself like me, now with one, then with
another. Be constant to none. Regard your own interest and inclination
only. But leave Guise alone; he is my passion. His proud reserve pleases
me. His stately devotion touches me. He is a king among men. I love to
torment the hero of Jarnac and Moncontour. He is jealous, too--jealous
of the very air I breathe; but in time, that may become wearisome. I
never thought of that,” adds she, musing.
“Your highness will marry soon,” says Charlotte, rising and facing the
Princess, “and then Guise must console himself----”
“With you, _par exemple, belle des belles_? You need not blush so,
Charlotte, I read your secret. But, _ma mie_, I mean to marry Henri de
Guise myself, even if my mother and the King, my brother, refuse their
consent. They may beat me--imprison me--or banish me; I will still marry
Henri de Guise.”
“Her Majesty will never consent to this alliance, madame.”
“You are jealous, Charlotte, or you would not say so. Why should I not
marry him, when my sister-in-law, the young Queen of Scots, is of the
House of Lorraine?”
“Yes, madame, but the case is altogether different; she is a
Queen-regnant. The house of Lorraine is already too powerful.”
“Ah!” exclaims the volatile Marguerite, starting up, “I love freedom;
freedom in life, freedom in love. Charlotte, you say truly, I shall
never be constant.”
“Then, alas, for your husband! He _must_ love you, and you will break
his heart.”
“Husband! I will have no husband but Henri de Guise. Guise or a convent.
I should make an enchanting nun!” And she laughs a low merry laugh,
springs to her feet, and turns a _pirouette_ on the floor. “I think the
dress would suit me. I would write Latin elegies on all my old lovers.”
“You will hear somewhat of that, madame, later from the Queen,”
Charlotte replies, with a triumphant air. “A husband is chosen for you
already.”
“Who? Who is he?”
“You will learn from her Majesty very shortly.”
“Charlotte, if you do not tell me this instant, I will never forgive
you;” and Marguerite suddenly becomes grave and reseats herself. “Next
time you want my help I won’t move a finger.”
“I dare not tell you, madame.”
“Then I will tell Guise to-night you are in love with him,” cries she,
reddening with anger.
“Oh, Princess,” exclaims Charlotte, sinking at her feet, and seizing her
hand; “you would not be so cruel!”
“But I will, unless you tell me.”
At this moment, when Marguerite was dragging her friend beside her on
the sofa, determined to obtain an avowal from her almost by force, the
low door opens, and Catherine stands before them.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A DUTIFUL DAUGHTER.
The two girls were startled and visibly trembled; but, recovering from
their fright, rose and made their obeisance. For a moment Catherine
gazed earnestly at them, as if divining the reason of their
discomposure; then beckoning to the Princess, she led her daughter into
her writing-room, where she seated herself beside a table covered with
despatches and papers.
“My daughter,” said the Queen, contemplating Marguerite with
satisfaction, as the Princess stood before her, her cheeks flushed by
the fright that Catherine’s sudden entrance had occasioned. “I have
commanded a masque to-night on the river, and a banquet in the
water-gallery, to celebrate my return. You will attend me and be careful
not to leave me, my child. Strangers have been seen among the woods. Did
you not mark one as we approached riding near us?” And Catherine gave a
searching glance at Marguerite. “I have given strict orders that all
strangers (Huguenots, probably, with evil designs upon his Majesty)
shall be arrested and imprisoned.”
Again Catherine turned her piercing eyes upon Marguerite, who suddenly
grew very pale.
“My daughter, you seem indisposed, the heat has overcome you--be
seated.”
Marguerite sank into a chair near the door. She knew that her mother had
recognised the Duke, and that it would be infinitely difficult to keep
her appointment with him that evening. Neither mother nor daughter spoke
for some moments. Catherine was studying the effect of her words on
Marguerite, and Marguerite was endeavouring to master her agitation.
When the Queen next addressed her, the Princess was still pale but
perfectly composed.
“My daughter, you passed much of your time before you left the Louvre
with the Comte la Molle. I know he is highly favoured by my son Anjou.
Does his company amuse you?”
Marguerite’s cheeks became scarlet.
“Your Majesty has ever commanded me,” replied she in a firm voice, “to
converse with those young nobles whom you and my brother the King have
called to the Court.”
“True, my child, you have done so, I acknowledge freely, and, by such
gracious bearing you have, doubtless, forwarded his Majesty’s
interests.” There was again silence. “Our cousin, the young Duc Henri de
Guise, is also much in your company,” Catherine said at length, speaking
very slowly and turning her eyes full upon Marguerite who, for an
instant, returned her gaze boldly. “I warn you, Marguerite, that neither
the King my son, nor I, will tolerate more alliances with the ambitious
House of Lorraine. They stand too near the throne already.”
Marguerite during this speech did not look up, not daring to meet the
steadfast glance of the Queen.
“Surely,” said she, speaking low, “your Majesty has been prejudiced
against the Duke by my brother Charles. His Majesty hates him. He is
jealous of him.”
“My child, speak with more respect of his Majesty.”
“Madame, the King has threatened to beat me if I dared to love the Duc
de Guise. But I am your Majesty’s own child,” and Marguerite turned
towards Catherine caressingly. “I fear not threats.” Catherine smiled
and curiously observed her. “But your Majesty surely forgets,” continued
Marguerite, warmly, “that our cousin of Guise is the chief pillar of the
throne, a hero who, at sixteen, vanquished Coligni at Poitiers; and that
at Massignac and Jarnac, in company with my brother Anjou, he performed
prodigies of valour.”
“My daughter, I forget nothing. You appear to have devoted much time to
the study of the Duke--our cousin’s life. It is a brilliant page in our
history. I have, however, other projects for you. You must support the
throne by a royal marriage.”
“Oh, madame!” exclaimed Marguerite, heaving a deep sigh, and clasping
her hands as she looked imploringly at her mother, who proceeded to
address her as though unconscious of this appeal.
“Avoid Henri de Guise, Princess. I have already remonstrated with his
father on his uninvited presence here, of which he professes entire
ignorance--for he _is here_, and you know it, Marguerite”--and she shot
an angry glance at the embarrassed Princess. “Avoid the Duke, I say, and
let me see you attended less often by La Molle, or I must remove him
from Court.”
“Madame!” cried Marguerite, turning white, and looking greatly alarmed,
well knowing what this _removal_ meant; “I will obey your commands. But
whom, may I ask, do you propose for my husband? Unless I can choose a
husband for myself”--and she hesitated, for the Queen bent her eyes
sternly upon her and frowned--“I do not care to marry at all,” she added
in a low voice.
“Possibly you may not, my daughter. But his Majesty and the council have
decided otherwise. Your hand must ultimately seal a treaty important to
the King your brother, in order to reconcile conflicting creeds and to
conciliate a powerful party.”
All this time Marguerite had stood speechless before the Queen. At this
last sentence, fatal to her hopes of marrying the Duc de Guise, the
leader of the Catholic party, her lips parted as if to speak, but she
restrained herself and was silent.
“The daughters of France,” said Catherine, lifting her eyes to the
ceiling, “do not consider personal feelings in marriage, but the good of
the kingdom. My child, you are to marry very shortly the King of
Navarre. I propose journeying myself to the Castle of Nérac to conclude
a treaty with my sister, Queen Jeanne, his mother. Henri de Béarn will
demand your hand. He will be accepted when an alliance is concluded
between the Queen of Navarre and myself.”
“But, my mother,” answered Marguerite, stepping forward in her
excitement, “he is a heretic. I am very Catholic. Surely your Majesty
will not force me----”
“You will convert him,” replied Catherine.
“But, madame, the Prince is not to my taste. He is rough and unpolished.
He is a mountaineer--a Béarnois.”
“My daughter, he will be your husband. Now, Marguerite, listen to me.
This marriage is indispensable for reasons of state. The King, your
brother, and I myself like the King of Navarre as little as you do. That
little kingdom in the valleys of the Pyrenees is a thorn in our side
which we must pluck out. Those pestilent and accursed heretics must be
destroyed. We call them to our Court; we lodge them in the Louvre--not
for love, Marguerite--not for love. Have patience, my daughter. I cannot
unfold to you the secrets of the council; but it is possible that Henry
of Navarre may not live long. Life is in the hands of God,--and of the
King.” She added in a lower voice. “Console yourself. A day is coming
that will purge France of Huguenots; and if Henry do not accept the
mass----”
“Madame,” said Marguerite, archly (who had eagerly followed her mother’s
words), “I trust that the service of his Majesty will not require me to
_convert_ the King of Navarre?”
“No, Princess,” said Catherine, with a sinister smile. “My daughter,”
continued she, “your dutiful obedience pleases me. The King may, in the
event of your marriage, create new posts of honour about the King of
Navarre while he lives. Monsieur la Molle, a most accomplished
gentleman, shall be remembered. _Au revoir_, Princess. Send Charlotte de
Presney to me. Go to your apartments, and prepare for the masque on the
river I have commanded to-night in honour of our arrival.”
So Marguerite, full of thought, curtseying low before her mother, kissed
her hand, and retired to her apartments.
As the sun sets and the twilight deepens, torch after torch lights up
the river and the adjacent woods. Every window in the château is
illuminated, and the great beacon-fires flash out from the turrets. The
sound of a lute, the refrain of a song, a snatch from a hunting-chorus,
are borne upon the breeze, as, one by one, painted barges shoot out from
under the arches of the bridge along the current.
As night advances the forest on both sides of the river is all ablaze.
On the southern bank, where the parterre is divided from the woods by
marble balustrades, statues, and hedges of clipped yew, festoons of
coloured lamps hang from tree to tree, and fade away into sylvan bowers
deep among the tangled coppice. The fountains, cunningly lit from below,
flash up in streams of liquid fire. Each tiny streamlet that crosses the
mossy lawns is a thread of gold. Tents of satin and velvet, fringed with
gold, border broad alleys and marble terraces of dazzling whiteness. The
river, bright as at midday with the light of thousands of torches, is
covered with gondolas and fantastic barques. Some are shaped like
birds--swans, parrots, and peacocks; others resemble shells, and
butterflies whose expanded wings of glittering stuff form the sails. All
are filled with maskers habited in every device of quaint disguisement.
Not a face or form is to be recognised. See how rapidly the fairy fleet
cleaves the water, now dashing into deep shadows, now lingering in the
torchlight that glances on the rich silks and grotesque features of the
maskers. Yonder a whole boat’s crew is entangled among the water lilies
that thickly fringe the banks under the over-arching willows. Some
disembark among the fountains, or mount the broad marble steps leading
to the arcades; some descend to saunter far away into the illuminated
woods. Others, tired of the woods, are re-embarking on the river. In the
centre of the stream is a barge with a raised platform covered with
velvet embroidered in gold, on which are placed the Queen’s musicians,
who wake the far-off echoes with joyous symphonies. Beyond, in the
woods, are maskers who dance under silken hangings spread among the
overhanging branches of giant oaks, or recline upon cushions piled upon
rich carpets beside tables covered with choice wines, fruit, and
confectionery. The merry laughter of these revellers mixes with strains
of voluptuous music from flutes and flageolets, played by concealed
musicians placed in pavilion orchestras hidden among the underwood,
tempting onwards those who desire to wander into the dark and lonely
recesses of the forest.
Among the crowd which thickly gathers on the parterre, a tall man of
imposing figure, habited in a Venetian dress of yellow satin and wrapped
in a cloak of the same colour, paces up and down. He is alone and
impatient. He wears a red mask; conspicuous on his right shoulder is a
knot of blue and silver ribbons. As each boat approaches to discharge
its gay freight upon the bank he eagerly advances and mixes with the
company. Then, as though disappointed, he returns into the shadow
thrown by the portico of a shell grotto. Wearied with waiting, he seats
himself upon the turf. “She will not come!” he says, and then sinks back
against a tree and covers his face with his hands. The fountains throw
up columns of fiery spray; the soft music sighs in the distance; crowds
of fluttering maskers pace up and down the plots of smooth grass or
linger on the terrace--still he sits and waits.
A soft hand touches him, and a sweet voice whispers, “Eternal love!” It
is the Princess, who, disguised in a black domino procured by Charlotte
de Presney, has escaped from the Queen-mother and stands before him.
For an instant she unmasks and turns her lustrous eyes upon him.
Henri de Guise (for it is he) leaps to his feet. He kneels before her
and kisses her hands. “Oh! my Princess, what condescension!” he murmurs,
in a low voice. “I trembled lest I had been too bold. I feared that my
letter had not reached you.”
A gay laugh answers his broken sentences.
“My cousin, will you promise to take on your soul all the lies I have
told my mother in order to meet you?”
“I will absolve you, madame.”
“Ah, my cousin, I have ill news! My mother and the King are determined
to marry me to the King of Navarre.”
“Impossible!” exclaims the Duke; “it would be sacrilege!”
“Oh, Henry!” replies the Princess, in a pleading voice, and laying her
hand upon his arm, “my cousin, bravest among the brave, swear by your
own sword that you will save me from this detestable heretic!”
The Duke did not answer, but gently drew her near the entrance of the
grotto. It was now late, and the lights within had grown dim.
“Marguerite,” he says, in a voice trembling with passion, “come where I
may adore you as my living goddess--come where I may conjure you to give
me a right to defend you. Say but one word, and to-morrow I will ask
your hand in marriage; the King dare not refuse me.”
“Alas! my cousin, my mother’s will is absolute.”
“It is a vile conspiracy!” cries the Duke, in great agitation. “The
House of Lorraine, my Princess, save but for the Crown, is as great as
your own. My uncle, the Cardinal, shall appeal to the Holy See.
Marguerite, do but love me, and I will never leave you! Marguerite, hear
me!” He seizes her hands--he presses her in his arms, drawing her each
moment deeper into the recesses of the grotto. As they disappear, a
voice is heard without, calling softly--
“Madame! Madame Marguerite! for the love of heaven, come, come!”
In an instant the spell is broken. Marguerite extricates herself from
the arms of the Duke and rushes forward.
It is Charlotte de Presney, disguised like herself in a black domino.
“Not a moment is to be lost,” she says, hurriedly. “Her Majesty has
three times asked for your highness. She supposes I am in the château
seeking you.” Charlotte’s voice is unsteady. She wore her mask to
conceal her face, for it was bathed in tears.
In an instant she and the Princess, followed by the Duke, cross the
terrace to where a boat is moored under the shade of some willows, and
are lost in the crowd.
The Duke dashes into the darkest recesses of the forest, and is seen no
more.
CHAPTER XIX.
BEFORE THE STORM.
Henry, King of Navarre, accompanied by the Prince de Condé and his wife,
and attended by eight hundred Huguenot gentlemen dressed in black (for
his mother, Queen Jeanne, had died suddenly at Paris, while he was on
the road), has just arrived at the Louvre to claim the hand of the
Princess Marguerite. The two Princes and the Princesse de Condé are
received with royal honours and much effusion of compliments by King
Charles and Catherine; they are lodged in the Palace of the Louvre.
Whatever Marguerite’s feelings are, she carefully conceals them.
Insinuating, adroit, clever, gifted with a facile pen and a flattering
tongue, she is too ambitious to resist, too volatile to be constant. She
lives in a world of intrigue, as she tells us in her memoirs, and
piquing herself on being “so Catholic, so devoted to the ‘sacred faith
of her fathers,’ ” and she pendulates between Henri de Guise and La
Molle, amid a thousand other flirtations. She lives in a family divided
against itself. Sometimes she
[Illustration: HENRI DE GUISE.
FROM A DRAWING IN THE LOUVRE.
(By permission of A. Giraudon, Paris.)]
takes part with the Duc d’Anjou and watches the Queen-mother in his
interests, in order to report every word she says to him; or she
quarrels with D’Anjou and swears eternal friendship with her youngest
brother, D’Alençon--all his life the puppet of endless political
conspiracies; or she abuses the King (Charles) because he listens to her
enemy, De Gaust, and tells her that she shall never marry the Duc de
Guise, because she would reveal all the secrets of state to him, and
make the House of Lorraine more dangerous than it is already. This
greatest princess of Europe, young and beautiful, a “noble mind in a
lovely person,” as Brantôme says of her, is agitated, unhappy, and
lonely. “Let it never be said,” writes she, “that marriages are made in
heaven; God is not so unjust. All yesterday my room echoed with talk of
weddings. How can I purge it?”
The Duc de Guise no longer whispers in her ear “Eternal love.” The great
Balafré, stern in resolve, firm in affection, is disgusted at her
_légèreté_. He has ceased even to be jealous. His mind is now occupied
by those religious intrigues which he developed later as leader of the
Holy Catholic League. Guise dislikes and distrusts the Valois race. He
especially abhors their unholy coquetting with heretics in the matter of
Marguerite’s approaching marriage. He has now adopted the motto of the
House of Lorraine, “Death to the Valois! Guise upon the throne!”
Moreover, he looks with favour on a widow--the Princesse de Porcian,
whom he marries soon after. Guise only remains at Court to fulfil the
vow of vengeance he has sworn against Coligni for his suspected
connivance in the murder of his illustrious father, Francis of Guise, of
which accusation Coligni could never clear himself.[11] The great
Admiral is now at Court. He is loaded with favours. Charles IX. has
requested his constant attendance at the council to arrange the details
of a war with Spain. He has also made him a present of a thousand
francs. The friends of Coligni warn him to beware. His comrade and
friend Montmorenci refuses to leave Chantilly. The Admiral, more honest
than astute, is completely duped. It is whispered among the Catholics
that revenge is at hand, and that the Protestant princes and Coligni are
shortly coming to their death. It is said also that the marriage
liveries of the Princess will be “crimson,” and that “more blood than
wine will flow at the marriage feast.”
And the Queen? Serene and gracious, she moves with her accustomed
majesty among these conflicting parties. She neither sees, nor hears,
nor knows aught that shall disarrange her projects. Silent, inscrutable,
her hands hold the threads of life. Within her brain is determined the
issue of events. Her son Charles is a puppet in her hands. This once
frank, witty, brave, artistic youth, who formerly loved verses and
literature,--when not a roaring Nimrod among the royal forests,--is
morose, cruel, and suspicious; convinced that the whole world is playing
him false, all perjured but his mother. She has told him, and she has
darkly hinted in the council, that events are approaching a crisis. She
has secured the present support of the young Duc de Guise and the
powerful House of Lorraine, ever foremost when Catholic interests are at
stake. She can now sit down calmly and marshal each act in the coming
drama, as a general can marshal those regiments which are to form his
battle-front. Fifteen hundred Protestants were slaughtered at Amboise
alone, but there are thousands upon thousands remaining, and she has
promised Philip II., her awful son-in-law, and his minister, the Duke of
Alva, that she will cut off the head of heresy within the realm of
France. She has tried both parties, intrigued with both--with Coligni
and the Condés, with Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine--and she finds
that at present orthodoxy answers her purpose best.
Besides, there is personal hatred, fear, and offence towards the
Huguenots. Did not Coligni dare to criticise her government at the
Council of Amboise? Did not Condé (that cautious Bourbon) escape her?
The King of Navarre, too, her future son-in-law, is he to be lured to
Court and married to the fascinating Marguerite for _nothing_? Has not
Ruggiero shown her that his life crossed the life of her sons? Does she
not hate him? Is he not adored by the people, who, grown cold towards
the House of Valois, extol his vigour, courage, and ability? Yes, he
shall marry. Then he shall die along with all rebels, heretics, and
traitors! A general massacre of the Huguenots throughout France can
alone satisfy her longings and secure Charles on the throne.
Thus came to be planned that most tremendous crime, fixed for the
festival of St. Bartholomew, ostensibly for the triumph of the Catholic
Church, but in reality to compass the death of the Queen’s political
enemies--Navarre, Condé, and Coligni--and to crush the freedom of
thought and opinion brought in by liberty of conscience and a purer
faith.
This was the Court to which Henry of Navarre came, to be lodged under
the roof of the Louvre, and to marry the Princess Marguerite!
The marriage took place on the 18th of August, 1572, at Notre-Dame.[12]
The outspoken Charles had said that, in giving his sister _Margot_ to
the King of Navarre, he gave her to all the Huguenots in his kingdom.
The Princess tells us she wore a royal crown and a state mantle of blue
velvet, wrought with gold embroidery, four yards long. It was held up by
three princesses; and she further wore a corset, forming the body of her
dress, covered with brilliants, and the crown jewels. The streets
through which she passed were dressed with scaffoldings, lined with
cloth of gold, to accommodate the spectators, all the way from the
Archbishop’s palace to Notre-Dame.
A few nights after, Admiral Coligni was shot at, with an arquebuse, by a
man standing at a barred window in the street of the Fossés
Saint-Germain, as he returned from playing a game of rackets with the
King, at the Louvre, to his lodgings at the Hôtel de Saint-Pierre, in
the Rue Béthisy. He was walking along slowly, reading a paper; the
finger of his right hand was broken, and he was otherwise grievously
wounded. The assassin, Maurévert, was a fellow known to be in the pay of
Henri, Duc de Guise. The house from which the shot was fired
[Illustration: NOTRE DAME, PARIS]
belonged to the Duke’s tutor. The King of Navarre and Condé were
overcome at the news. Charles IX., along with the Queen-mother, visited
the Admiral next day, and stayed an hour with him. Before leaving,
Charles folded him in his arms and wept. “You, my father,” he said,
“have the wound, but I suffer the pain. By the light of God, I will so
avenge this act that it shall be a warning as long as the world lasts.”
A few hours after the shot was fired, the Huguenot chiefs assembled in
Navarre’s apartments to deliberate what means should be taken to punish
the assassin. About the same time a secret council was called by the
Queen-mother, to decide whether or no Navarre and Condé should be
massacred. Charles IX., the Duc de Guise--who, however hostile
otherwise, join issue to destroy Navarre and Condé--Anjou, Nevers, and
D’Angoulême were present. It was resolved that the King of Navarre and
the Prince de Condé should die, and that the massacre should take place
that very night, before the Huguenots--alarmed by the attempt on
Coligni--had time to concert measures of defence. Under pretence of
protecting them from further violence, all hotels and lodging-houses
were diligently searched, and a list made of the name, age, and
condition of every Protestant in Paris. Orders were also given for the
troops to be under arms, during the coming night, throughout the city.
Every outlet and portal of the Louvre were closed and guarded by Swiss
Guards, commanded by Cossein. The Hôtel de Saint-Pierre, in the Rue
Béthisy, where Coligni lay, was also surrounded by troops, “for his
safety,” it was said. No one could go in or out. At a given signal, the
tocsin was to sound from all places where a bell was hung. Chains were
to be drawn across the streets and bonfires lighted. White cockades,
stitched on a narrow white band to be bound round the right arm, were
distributed, in order that the Catholics might be recognised in the
darkness. The secret, known to hundreds, was well kept; the Huguenots
were utterly unprepared. “No one told me anything,” said Marguerite.[13]
“They knew that I was too humane. But the evening before, being present
at the _coucher_ of my mother the Queen, and sitting on a coffer near my
sister Claude, who seemed very sad, the Queen, who was talking to some
one, turned round and saw I was not gone. She desired me to retire to
bed. As I was making my obeisance to her, my sister took me by the arm
and stopped me. Then, sobbing violently, she said, ‘Good God, sister, do
not go!’ This alarmed me exceedingly. The Queen, my mother, was watching
us, and, looking very angry, called my sister to her and scolded her
severely. She peremptorily desired her to say no more to me. Claude
replied that it was not fair to sacrifice me like that, and that danger
might come to me.
“ ‘Never mind,’ said the Queen. ‘Please God, no danger will come to her;
but she must go to bed at once in order to raise no suspicions.’ But
Claude still disputed with her, although I did not hear their words. The
Queen again turned to me angrily and commanded me to go. My sister,
continuing her sobs, bade me ‘good-night.’ I dared ask no questions.
So, cold and trembling, without the least idea of what was the matter, I
went to my rooms and to my closet, where I prayed to God to save me from
I knew not what. The King, my husband, who had not come to bed, sent
word to me to do so.” (They occupied the same room, she tells us, but
separate beds.) “I could not close my eyes all night,” she adds;
“thinking of my sister’s agitation, and sure that something dreadful was
coming. Before daylight my husband got up. He came to my bed-side,
kissed me, and said that he was going to play a game of rackets before
the King was awake. He said he would have justice in the matter of the
attempt on the Admiral’s life. Then he left the room. I, seeing the
daylight, and overcome by sleep, told my nurse to shut the door, that I
might rest longer.”
This took place on Saturday evening, the 23d of August, being the eve of
St. Bartholomew.
CHAPTER XX.
ST. BARTHOLOMEW.
A signal sounded from the belfry of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. It was
answered by the great bell of the Palace of Justice on the opposite bank
of the Seine. Catherine and her two sons, Charles IX. and the Duc
d’Anjou, had risen long before daylight. Catherine dared not leave
Charles to himself. He was suddenly grown nervous and irresolute. He
might yet countermand everything. Within a small closet over the gate
of the Louvre, facing the quays, the mother and her two sons stood
huddled together. Charles was tallest of the three. The window was open;
it was still dark; the streets were empty; not a sound was heard save
the crashing of the bells. They listened to the wild clamour without;
but not a word was spoken. Catherine felt Charles tremble. She clutched
him tightly, and, dreading to hear the echo of her own voice, she
whispered in his ear, “My son, God has given your enemies into your
hands. Let them not escape you.”
“_Mort de Dieu_, mother, do you take me for a coward?” whispered back
Charles, still trembling.
Suddenly a shot was fired on the Quays. The three conspirators started
as if the weapon had been levelled against themselves.
“Whence this pistol shot came, who fired it, or if it wounded any one, I
know not,” writes the Duc d’Anjou, who as well as his sister has left an
account of the massacre; “but this I know, that the report struck terror
into our very souls. We were seized with such sudden dread at the
horrors we had ourselves invoked, that even the Queen-mother was
dismayed. She despatched one of the King’s gentlemen who waited without,
to command the Duc de Guise to stay all proceedings and not to attack
Admiral Coligni.” This counter order came too late. The Duke had already
left his house.
All the bells in Paris were now ringing furiously; the quays and streets
were rapidly filling with citizens bearing flambeaux. Multitudes came
pouring in from every opening, every window was filled with persons
holding lights, and the crackling of firearms, loud curses, piercing
screams, and wild laughter were heard on every side. In the midst of
this uproar, Henri de Guise, thirsting for revenge upon the supposed
murderer of his father, accompanied by Nevers and D’Angoulême, and a
company of Catholic nobles, made his way to the Hôtel Saint-Pierre, in
the Rue Béthisy, where Coligni lodged.
Coligni, who had the night before been embraced by his sovereign, lay
asleep on his bed. Some of his Protestant friends, Guerchi, Teligny,
with Cornaton and Labonne his gentlemen, who had hastened to him upon
the news of the attempted assassination, lingered in the anteroom. Paré,
the surgeon who had dressed his wounds, had not yet left the hotel. The
Admiral had been conversing with him and with his chaplain Merlin, who
had offered up a thanksgiving for his deliverance. Within the Court five
Swiss Guards stood behind the outer doors; without, in the darkness of
the night, crouched Cossein with fifty arquebusiers, who had been gained
over by the Duc de Guise.
Suddenly, out of the stillness of the night a voice is heard calling
from without, “Open the door--open in the name of the King!” At the
King’s name the street-door is immediately unbarred; Cossein and his men
rush in, poniard the five guards, break open the inner door, and dash up
the stairs. The noise disturbs Cornaton, who descends the stairs; he is
pushed violently backwards amid cries of “_De par le Roi!_” Now the
whole house is aroused, Merlin has risen, and Coligni awakened from his
sleep, calls loudly from the door of his room, “Cornaton, what does this
noise mean?” “My dear Lord,” cries Cornaton hurrying up to him,
wringing his hands, “it means that it is God who summons you! The hall
below is carried by your enemies--Cossein is a traitor--we cannot save
you--we have no means of defence!”
“I understand,” replies Coligni, unmoved. “It is a plot to destroy me
now that I am wounded and cannot defend myself. I have long been
prepared to die. I commend my soul to God. Cornaton, Merlin, and the
others, if the doors are forced you cannot save me, save yourselves.”
Coligni returns to his room.
By this time the Admiral’s retainers are aroused and enter his chamber,
but no sooner does he repeat the words, “Save yourselves, you cannot
save me,” than they lose not a moment in escaping to the leads of the
house. One man only remains with his master; his name is Nicolas Muso.
The door is then shut, barred, and locked.
Meanwhile Cossein, heavily mailed and sword in hand, having slain all he
has found in his way, is on the landing. Besme, a page of the Duc de
Guise, Attin, and Sarbaloux are with him; they force open the door of
Coligni’s room.
The Admiral, his long white hair falling about his shoulders, is seated
in an arm-chair. There is a majesty about him even thus wounded, unarmed
and alone, that daunts his assailants. The traitor Cossein falls back.
Besme advances brandishing his sword.
“Are you Admiral Coligni?” he cries.
“I am,” replies the veteran, following with his eyes the motion of the
sword. “Young man, respect my grey hairs and my infirmities,” and he
[Illustration: ADMIRAL GASPARD DE COLIGNY.
FROM A DRAWING BY FRANÇOIS CLOUET.
(By permission of A. Giraudon, Paris.)]
signs to his arm bound up and swathed to his side. Besme makes a pass at
him. “If I could have died by the hands of a gentleman and not of this
varlet!” exclaims the Admiral. Besme for answer plunges his sword up to
the hilt into Coligni’s breast.
A voice is now heard from without under the window--“Besme, you are very
long; is all over?”
“All is over,” answers Besme, thrusting his head out and displaying his
bloody sword.
“Sirrah, here is the Duc de Guise, and I, the Chevalier d’Angoulême. We
will not believe it until we see the body. Fling it out of the window,
like a good lad.”
With some difficulty the corpse is raised and thrown into the street
below. The gashed and bleeding remains of the old hero fall heavily upon
the pavement. Henri de Guise stoops down to feast his eyes upon his
enemy. The features are so veiled with blood he cannot recognise them.
He takes out his handkerchief and wipes the wrinkled face clean. “I know
you now--Admiral Coligni,” says he, “and I spurn you. Lie there,
poisonous old serpent that murdered my father. Thou shalt shed no more
venom, reptile!” and he kicks the corpse into a corner, amidst the dirt
and mud of the thoroughfare. (Coligni’s dead body[14] is carried to the
gallows at Montfaucon, where it hangs by the feet from a chain of iron.)
Guise then turns to the fifty arquebusiers behind him. “En avant--en
avant, mes enfants!” he shouts; “you have made a good beginning--set
upon the others--slaughter them all--men, women--even infants at the
breast--cut them down.” Sword in hand Guise rushes through the streets
with Nevers, D’Angoulême, and Tavannes, as well as Gondi and De Retz,
who have now joined him, at his back.
Meanwhile, Marguerite de Valois is awakened by some one beating
violently with feet and hands against her door crying out, “Navarre!
Navarre!” “My nurse,” writes she, “thinking it was the King, ran and
opened the door; but it was M. de Séran, grievously wounded and closely
pursued by four archers, who cried out, ‘Kill him; kill him! spare no
one.’ De Séran threw himself on my bed to save himself. I, not knowing
who he was, jumped out, and he with me, holding by me tightly. We both
screamed loudly; I was as frightened as he was, but God sent M. de
Nançay, Captain of the Guards, who finding me in this condition, could
not help laughing. He drove the archers out and spared the life of this
man, whom I put to bed in my closet and kept there till he was well. I
changed my night-dress, which was covered with blood. M. de Nançay
assured me that my husband was safe and with the King. He threw over me
a cloak, and took me to my sister Claude, in whose room I arrived more
dead than alive; specially so when, as I set my foot in the antechamber,
a gentleman named Bourse dropped, pierced by a ball, dead at my feet. I
fell fainting into the arms of M. de Nançay, thinking I was killed also.
A little recovered, I went into the small room beyond where my sister
slept. While I was there, two gentlemen-in-waiting, who attended my
husband, rushed in, imploring me to save their lives. So I went to the
King and to the Queen, my brother and my mother, and falling on my
knees begged that these gentlemen might be spared, which was granted to
me.”
“Having,” continues Marguerite, “failed in the principal purpose, _which
was not so much against the Huguenots as against the Princes of the
blood--the King my husband, and the Prince of Condé_--the Queen, my
mother, came to me and ‘_asked me to break my marriage_.’ But I replied
that I would not; being sure that she only proposed this in order to
murder my husband.”[15]
The magic mirror of Ruggiero had revealed the truth; Henry of Navarre
led a charmed life. Of his escape, against the express command of the
all-powerful Catherine, various accounts are related. He is said to have
been saved by his wife, but of this _she_ says nothing. It is believed
on good authority that, with the Prince de Condé, he went out unusually
early, before daybreak even, in order to prepare for playing that
identical game of rackets, of which he spoke to Marguerite and which
probably saved his life. When it is discovered that these two princes,
Condé and Navarre, are both alive, they are summoned to the King’s
presence. They find Charles, arquebuse in hand, within the same small
closet over the gate of the Louvre. He has been there since daybreak. A
page stands by him, ready to reload his weapon. He is mad with
exultation and excitement; he leans out of window to watch the crowds of
fugitives rush by and to shout to the Swiss Guards below--“Kill--kill
all--cut them all in pieces!” “_Pardieu!_ see,” he roars out, pointing
to the river, “there is a fellow yonder escaping. By the mass,
look--one, two, three--they are swimming across the Seine--at them, at
them--take good aim--shoot them down, the carrion!” Volleys of shot are
the reply. Charles had recovered his nerves; he now looks on Huguenots
as game, and has been potting them with remarkable precision from the
window. With hideous mirth, he boasts to Navarre and Condé how many
heretics he has brought down with his own hand. He counts upon his
fingers the names of the Huguenot chiefs already slaughtered. He yells
with fiendish laughter when he describes how Coligni, whom the night
before he had called “father,” looked when dead. “By the light of God,
it is a royal chase!” shrieks Charles, as the page quickly reloads his
arquebuse. “That last shot was excellent. Not a heretic shall be left in
France.” Again he points his gun and shoots; a piercing cry follows.
Charles nods his head approvingly. “We will have them all--babies and
their mothers. ‘Break the eggs and the nest will rot.’ Our mother says
well--we must reign. We will no longer be contradicted by our subjects.
We will teach them to revere us as the image of the living God. You,
Princes,”--and as he turns to address the King of Navarre and Condé, his
tall, gaunt figure, distorted countenance, bleared and bloodshot eyes,
and matted hair are repulsive to look upon--“You, Princes, I have called
hither, out of compassion for your youth, to give you a chance for your
lives, _as you are alive_,--but by the holy Oriflamme, _I thought you
were both dead already_. You are, both of you, rebels, and sons of
rebels. You must instantly recant and enter the true Church or you must
die. So down on your knees, both of you. Purge yourselves from your
accursed sect. Give me your parole, and your swords too, Princes, that
you will not leave the Louvre; or, _Dieu des Dieux_, you shall be
massacred like the rest!”
Thus did Henry IV. and the Prince de Condé escape death, unknown to, and
contrary to the express orders of Catherine.
Without, Paris is a charnel-house. The streets are choked up by murdered
Huguenots. Carts and litters full of dead bodies, huddled together in a
hideous medley, rumble along the rough causeways, to be shot into the
Seine. The river runs red with blood; its current is dammed up with
corpses. But the Court is merry. Catherine triumphs. Her ladies--_la
petite bande de la Reine_--go forth and pick their way in the gory mud,
to scrutinise the dead, piled in heaps against the walls and in the
courts of the Louvre, to recognise friends or lovers.
On the 6th September the news of the massacre reaches Rome by letters
from the Nuncio. Gregory XIII. commands solemn masses and thanksgivings
to God for the event. The cannon of St. Angelo booms over the papal
city; _feux de joie_ are fired in the principal streets; a medal is
struck; a jubilee is published; a legate is sent into France; a
procession, in which the Pope, Cardinals, and Ministers to the See of
Rome appear, visit the great Basilicas; the Cardinal de Lorraine, uncle
to the Balafré, then at Rome, is present, and in the name of his master,
Charles IX., congratulates his Holiness on the efficacy of his prayers
these _seventeen years past_ for the destruction of heretics.
Blood calls for blood![16] Charles IX., whose royal mandate authorised
the massacre (which lasted seven days and seven nights), falls sick two
years after at the Castle of Vincennes. “I know not what has befallen
me,” he says to his surgeon, Ambrose Paré; “my mind and body both burn
with fever. Asleep or awake, I see the mangled Huguenots pass before me.
They drip with blood; they make hideous faces at me; they point to their
open wounds and mock me. Holy Virgin! I wish, Paré, I had spared the old
and the infirm and the infants at the breasts.” Aged twenty-four,
Charles died, abhorring the mother whose counsels had led him to this
execrable deed--abhorring her so intensely that he could not even bear
her in his sight. In her place he called for the King of Navarre, and
confided to him his last wishes. He died, poor misguided youth, piously
thanking God that he left no children. The blood actually oozed from the
pores of his skin. His cries and screams were horrible.
Thus another King of France passed into the world of spirits, bringing
Henry of Navarre one step nearer the throne. Charles, according to the
prediction of Ruggiero, had died young, bathed in his own blood.
And Catherine? Calm, undaunted, still handsome, she inaugurated a new
reign--that of her third and best beloved son, Henri, Duc d’Anjou and
King of Poland, popularly known by the style and title of Henry III.,
“_by the favour of his mother inert King of France_.”
CHAPTER XXI.
THE END OF CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI.
Fifteen years have passed. The Queen-mother is now seventy. She suffers
from a mortal disease, and lies sick at the Château of Blois.
Hither her son Henry III. and his Court have come to meet the
States-General. Trouble is in the kingdom; for the great Balafré,
supported by Rome and Spain, is in rebellion; Henry totters on his
throne.
And what a throne! What a monarch! Henry, who in his youth was learned,
elegant, sober, who fought at Jarnac and Moncontour[17] like a Paladin,
has become effeminate, superstitious, and vicious. His sceptre is a
cup-and-ball; his sword, a tuft of feathers; he paints and dresses like
a woman, covers himself with jewels, and passes his time in arranging
ecclesiastical processions, or in festivals, pageants, masques, and
banquets. His four favourites (“minions” they are called, and also
“beggars,” from their greed and luxury), De Joyeuse, D’Epernon,
Schomberg, and Maugiron, govern him and the kingdom. They are handsome
and satirical, and think to kill the King’s enemies with ridicule and
_jeux de mots_. But Henri de Guise, who sternly rebukes their ribaldry
and abhors their dissolute manners, is not the man to be conquered by
such weapons as words. He has placed himself at the head of the Catholic
League, negotiates with Spain, and openly aspires to the throne.
For a moment there is peace. Henry before leaving Paris, by the advice
of his mother summoned the Duc de Guise from Nancy to Paris. The Balafré
enters the capital in disguise. The cry, “The Duke is with us!” spreads
over the city like lightning. The populace, who adore Guise and detest
Henry, tear off his mask and cloak and lead him through the streets in
triumph. Catherine, although very ill, is so alarmed at the threatening
aspect of affairs, that she causes herself to be carried out to meet
him, borne in a chair, and so brings him to the Louvre into the presence
of the King. His insolent bearing transports Henry with rage. The
citizens, not to be pacified, fall out with the King’s guards, and there
is a fearful uproar in the city. The Louvre is besieged. Henry, haughty
and obstinate, is no longer safe in Paris. Maréchal d’Ornano offers to
assassinate the Duc de Guise, but the King, by advice of D’Epernon,
affects to yield to the policy of his mother, and to accept the
supremacy of Guise. Under pretence, however, of a walk in the Tuileries
Gardens, then newly planted, he orders his horses to be saddled, and
escapes out of Paris, by way of Montmartre, attended only by his
favourites. He reaches Chartres in safety. At Chartres he is joined by
Catherine, and a treaty is signed--a treaty of false peace, for already
D’Epernon and Joyeuse are whispering into the King’s ear that “the Duc
de Guise must die.”
The treaty stipulates that Henry be declared Head of the Catholic
League; that all Huguenots be banished--notably the King of Navarre,
heir-presumptive to the throne; and that the Duc de
[Illustration: CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI.]
Guise be Lieutenant-General of the kingdom. The States-General are to be
immediately assembled; and Henri de Guise, once the poetic lover, now
hardened into the cold, ambitious bigot--ready to usurp the throne of
France to ensure the triumph of the Catholic party, and exclude the King
of Navarre--canvasses France, to insure a majority for the Holy League
against those pertinacious enemies of orthodoxy, Condé and Navarre.
The King, meanwhile, overridden and humiliated, agrees to everything,
and listens complacently to D’Epernon, who tells him, “He will never be
king while Guise lives.” So, for the moment, there is peace.
Now the King has left Chartres, and is at Blois. The Balafré and his
brother the Cardinal are also there to attend the Parliament, which is
summoned, and to make known their grievances. So the sunny little town
of Blois, sloping sweetly downwards to the Loire, with its superb castle
marked by towers, turrets, broad flat roofs, painted windows, and ample
courts, is the theatre on which the great battle is to be fought between
the rival houses of Guise and Valois. All the chiefs on either side are
to be present at a council which is to precede the meeting of the
Assembly. Henry--at the instigation of D’Epernon--the better to play his
perfidious game has communicated at the same altar with the Balafré and
his brother the Cardinal, and given them the kiss of peace to seal their
reconciliation.
Catherine’s apartments are on the first floor of the château,--a
gallery-saloon, the diamonded windows set in painted arches overlooking
the town, the dark walls, decorated with a crowned C and a monogram in
gold; her oratory, with a large oval window where an altar stands; her
writing-closet, with many concealed drawers and _secrets_ in the
walls--a hidden stair leading to an observatory, and a sleeping-room
with a recess for her bed. So unaltered are these rooms that the
presence of Catherine still haunts them; she faces one at every step.
In her bed within that recess the great Queen lies dying. She is old and
broken, and her mind wanders at times through excess of pain. But she
cannot die in peace, for she knows that her son Henry--the last of her
race--meditates a hideous crime; a crime in which she would have gloried
once, but now, racked with bodily suffering and mental anguish, with
remorse for the past and terror for the future, she shudders at the very
thought.
She calls him to her. Henry, her beloved Anjou! As he enters her
chamber, she struggles upright on her bed. No one would have recognised
the majestic Queen in the hideous skeleton that now speaks.
“What are you about to do, my son?” she asks in a tremulous voice;
“answer me, Henry. I fear I know too well what is on your mind. God
grant you may succeed, but I fear evil will come of it. The Duke and his
brother are too powerful.”
“The very reason they should die, my mother. I shall never be King of
France while they live.”
“But, Henry,” gasps Catherine, trembling from weakness and excitement,
as she clasps her son’s hand, “have you taken measures to assure
yourself of the cities? Have you communicated with the Holy Father? Do
this, do it at once!”
“Madame, good measures have been taken; trouble not yourself further.”
“But, my son,” continues Catherine with increasing agitation, “the
Cardinal de Guise has been here to visit me; they are full of suspicion.
The Cardinal says that I have betrayed them. I replied, ‘May I die, my
cousin, if I have anything to do with any treason whatever.’ My son, I
am in great agony,” and she groans and turns her eyes glowing with fever
full upon him; “do not listen to D’Epernon; let there be peace while I
live, and after.”
“What!” cries Henry, disengaging himself from her and striding up and
down the room. “What! spare, when Guise, triumphant among the citizens
of Paris, dared to lay his hand on the hilt of his sword in our very
presence at the Louvre! Spare him who drove me a fugitive from the
capital! Spare the chief of the League, who, assisted by Spain, is
dismembering France! Spare them, when they will both be within this
castle to-night, to attend the council! Spare _them_ who never spared
ME! No, my mother, I will NOT spare them! Your sickness has weakened
your courage. ‘A nut for a nut’ was once your motto. It is mine. If the
Balafré and the Cardinal enter these doors to-morrow they shall not go
hence alive; they shall die like rebels as they are.”
“Alas! my son,” says the Queen in a very low voice,--she has fallen back
exhausted upon the bed,--“alas! it is easy to cut the thread of life;
but once cut, can you mend it? Shed no more blood, Henry, for my sake,
for I am dying. Let my last hour be undisturbed. I have much that
troubles me,” and she heaves a deep sigh. “Too much blood has flowed
already. Spare them, Henry, spare them.”
“My mother, _you_ never spared an enemy when within your power, nor will
I. Either Guise or I must die. You have taught me that all means are
good to save the sovereign and support his authority. My brother
Charles, by your order, spared not Coligni and massacred the Huguenots
at the festival of St. Bartholomew. _I helped him._ The Guises, madame,
must die.”
“But, my son,” replies Catherine, wringing her bony hands, and
struggling again to raise herself upright, “it is sacrilege. You have
sworn peace upon the altar; you have eaten together the body of the
Lord.”
Catherine’s voice is so feeble, that the King either does not hear, or
does not heed her. He still strides up and down the room, speaking from
time to time as if to himself.
“Every detail is arranged; we cannot fail. To-morrow the guards within
the walls will be doubled; a hundred Swiss will be posted at the
entrance in the courtyard and on the grand staircase. When the Duke
arrives, Crillon will see that the outer gates are closed. As soon as
Guise enters the council-chamber, I will send for him into my closet.
When he has passed through the guard-room to reach it, Nambre will bar
the door, that he may not return. My trusty Dalahaide and the
guards--the 45th--who will be hidden on the secret stair behind the
arras, will then rush down, fall upon the traitor as he passes through
the guard-room, and finish him.”
Catherine, with haggard eyes, listens breathlessly. When the King has
ceased speaking and looks round for a reply, she has fainted.
* * * * *
The next morning the sky was black with clouds. The month was December.
It rained violently, and the wind howled round the corners of the
château. Catherine, lying in the uneasy slumber of disease, was awakened
at eight o’clock by the sound of heavy footsteps overhead. The state
apartments are on the second floor, immediately over and corresponding
with those of the Queen-mother. They still remain, gloomy and
ill-omened, haunted by evil memories. Every plank has its history--each
corner a ghastly detail. There is the hidden stair within the wall,
concealed by tapestry, where Dalahaide and the guards hid; the door
against which the great Balafré fell, stabbed by Malines in the breast,
where he was spurned by the heel of the King, as he himself had spurned
Coligni, and where he lay long uncovered, until an old carpet was found
in which to wrap his corpse.
* * * * *
Catherine, listening breathlessly, hears the council assembling. Heavy
footsteps are passing backwards and forwards through the guard-room
overhead to the royal gallery where the council is to meet. Then all is
hushed, and the face of the dying queen flushes with hope, and her hands
clasp themselves in prayer, if, perchance, at the last moment Henry has
relented and listened to her entreaties to spare the Duke.
A moment after a door closes violently. She hears a single footstep--a
powerful and firm footstep. It crosses the floor. Then came loud
tramplings, as of a rush of armed men, a clash of weapons, a fall as of
a heavy body; then a terrible cry--
“À moi, mes amis!--trahison!--à moi, Guise,--je me meurs.”
The dying woman knows that all is over; she sinks back on her bed raving
in delirium. In a few days she was dead.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE LAST OF THE VALOIS.
We are at Saint-Cloud. The time, the wars of the League. At the head of
the Leaguers is the Duc de Mayenne, only living brother of the Guises.
Henry III. commands the royal forces. With him is Henry of Navarre.
Since the Queen-mother’s death the King of France has become reconciled
to his brother-in-law. He shows himself almost a hero. They are both
defending the Crown to which Mayenne aspires. Eight months have passed
since the murder of the Balafré. That treacherous deed has done the King
no good; Mayenne lives to avenge his brother’s death, and the Catholic
party is still more alienated from the King since he has called a
heretic into his councils. The royal troops are lying encamped among the
hilly woodlands of the park towards Ville d’Avray and Meudon, then, as
now, pleasant to the eye.
On the 1st August, 1589, Henry sat in the long gallery of the palace
(until lately lined with pictures and gorgeously decorated), playing at
cards with his attendants. He holds himself so upright, that he moves
neither his head nor his feet, and his hands as little as possible. A
hood hangs upon his shoulders; a little cap, with a flower stuck in it,
is placed over one ear; round his neck, suspended by a broad blue
ribbon, is a basket of gold wickerwork, full of little puppies.
Monsieur d’O, Seigneur of Fiesnes and Maillebois, first gentleman of the
bed-chamber, and Governor of Paris, has been joking him about the
predictions of an astrologer, named Osman, who has arrived that evening
at Saint-Cloud in company with some noblemen.
“By our Ladye-mother! let us have him in and hear what he can say,”
cries the King. “These fellows are diverting. I will question him
myself.”
Osman is sent for; but startled at so sudden and unexpected an interview
with the King himself in such a whimsical attire, scarcely knows how to
reply to the gibes his Majesty addressed to him.
“Come, come,” says the King, “let us hear what you can do. They tell me
you draw horoscopes. Let me have a specimen of your skill.”
“Sire,” replies Osman, somewhat recovered from his confusion, “I will
obey you; but, as sure as fate, the heavens this night are unpropitious.
The light of the moon is veiled; there are signs of mourning among the
stars; lamentations and woe are written in the planets; a great
misfortune hangs over you--Beware!”
“By St. Denis!” cries the King, “the fellow is glib enough with his
tongue; but tell me, good heathen, are the stars in mourning for a king
or for an emperor?”
“Sire, they mourn over the approaching extinction of your race.”
“Heaven preserve us!” answers the King, with affected consternation,
caressing his puppies. “But tell me now, if you have any knowledge, what
do the celestial powers think of those accursed rebels, the Leaguers,
and their chief, the Duc de Mayenne? Is that bold traitor in favour
among the stars?”
Osman does not at once reply; but, advancing to the window, throws open
the sash, and silently observes the heavens.
“Sire, I see one star shining brightly in the firmament.”
“Where?” asks the King.
“Just over the Camp of Meudon, where Henry of Navarre lies this night.
But look, your Majesty, at that other star there over the woods. It
blazes for a moment; and now, see--it falls; it has disappeared behind
the palace!”
“By the mother of God,” says the King, reddening either with terror or
passion, “I have had enough of this gibberish. Hark ye, you wandering
Jew! no more of these ugly portents, or, by St. Louis, the guardian of
our race, we will hold you warrant for all that may happen to our
person.”
Osman shrunk back from the window, trembling with fright. He does not
wait for permission to depart, but as the King rises to address some
gentlemen he glides from the gallery.
“If ever I heard a voice hoarse with blood, it is his,” mutters the
astrologer, pointing to the King as he crept away. “By the brightness of
the celestial bodies, there will be evil this night. I will never draw
horoscope more, if to-morrow’s sun finds Henry of Valois alive. There is
blood on him, but he sees it not. His star has fallen, he beheld it; but
he understood not the portent.”
As Osman crosses the circular hall opening from the gallery and leading
to the principal staircase, he meets the Comte d’Auvergne[18] conversing
with a Dominican monk, whose sinister countenance expressed every evil
passion. A crowd of attendants had assembled and are listening to the
conversation.
“Good father,” says M. d’Auvergne, addressing the Dominican, “you must
not, at this late hour, insist on seeing his Majesty; he is engaged.”
“But, indeed, monseigneur, I do insist upon seeing him without a
moment’s delay, and alone. It is on a matter of life and death.” The
monk’s bold words and determined bearing evidently impress M. d’Auvergne
in his favour.
“Are you the bearer of any despatches for his Majesty?” he asks. “Those
might be delivered, although his Majesty has just retired and is at this
moment in his oratory, busy with his devotions.”
As he spoke, D’Auvergne scans him curiously; the monk perceives the
look, draws his cowl closer over his face, and withdraws from the full
glare of the lights on the staircase.
“I am the bearer of letters of the greatest importance,
monseigneur--letters from the President Harlay, now a prisoner of the
League; but I am charged to deliver them in person, and into the hand of
his Majesty alone. Nor is that all; I have a secret communication to
make, which it behoves the King to hear without delay. Good gentlemen,”
and he faces round to the courtiers who are gathered about him, “I pray
you, one of you, go to the King and tell him what I say.”
“Impossible,” replies the Count d’O, who came from the gallery at that
moment, and hears the last few words; “impossible. His Majesty is now
alone; I have just left him. He is fatigued, and desired not to be
disturbed.”
“Good God!” cries the monk, clasping his hands, “if I do not see him
to-night, I shall never see him.”
“And why not, I pray?” asks the Comte d’Auvergne. “Come and sup with my
people to-night; and to-morrow, as early as you please, I will take you
to his Majesty. Follow me.”
“I wash my hands of all the evil this delay will cause,” exclaims the
monk, following him reluctantly. “On your head be it, monseigneur.” They
quitted the hall together.
All this time Osman had stood near watching them. He had not lost a
syllable of the conversation. “Did I not say that there was blood?” he
mutters half aloud; “is it not true? The knowledge of it came to me in a
vision. Now I have read it also in the stars. The blood of the King is
on that monk. His robes are spotted with it. In his hand, while he
spoke, there was a dagger. None else beheld it; but I saw it, and the
point streamed with the King’s life-blood. Woe! woe! woe! Would that I
could
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE BLOIS.]
speak! Would that they would listen! Before many hours, death will be
within these walls. Alas! it is given to me to avert it if they would
but hear me.”
The astrologer slowly follows the steps of the Comte d’Auvergne and the
Dominican, descending the stairs after them. They enter a suite of rooms
on the ground floor of the palace. The monk had now thrown back his cowl
and displayed a face yet young, but seamed and wrinkled with deep lines.
His eyes are dull and bloodshot; his thin hair scarcely shades his
projecting forehead. He stands in the centre of the apartment, silent,
sullen, and preoccupied.
“What is your name?” asks the Count sternly, turning towards him.
“Jacques Clément,” is the short rejoinder.
“You say you are the bearer of letters to the King?”
“Yes,” replies he, “from Monsieur de Brienne and the President Harlay,
now both prisoners in the Bastille. There is my passport; you see it is
signed by Monsieur de Brienne.”
“Show me the President’s letter,” says D’Auvergne; “his writing is as
familiar to me as my own. If you are a spy, you will meet with no mercy
here,” and he measured him from head to foot with eyes full of doubt and
suspicion.
The monk draws forth a parcel of unsealed letters, which the Count reads
and examines.
“It is well,” he says. “These are proofs that you are a messenger from
the King’s friends. But how did you, carrying such dangerous
credentials, contrive to pass the gates of Paris? Answer me that, my
father.”
“My habit protected me,” replies the monk, devoutly crossing himself,
“our Blessed Lady gave me courage and address to escape from those
Philistines. Once past the gates, I came here in company with Monsieur
de la Guesle’s people.”
“You say, then, that you will answer with your head that two gates of
Paris will open to the King if he advances?”
“I swear before God that this is the truth,” replies the monk, again
crossing himself; “and my God is not that false one worshipped by the
Huguenot dogs under Henry of Navarre, but the true God of the Holy
Catholic Church. Let the King trust to his loyal Catholic subjects, and
beware of the heretics that are in his council and amongst his troops.”
And the monk scowls around. His eyes meet those of Osman the astrologer,
which are fixed on him with the intensity of a cat ready to spring.
Jacques Clément trembles. For an instant his courage forsakes him and he
turns pale.
“Well, father,” says D’Auvergne, laughing, “you are true to your
trade--a steady Catholic. We understand; you can smell a heretic a mile
off, I’ll be sworn.”
The monk makes no reply, and to avoid further discussion turns to a
table on which supper is spread, and sitting down, begins to eat.
The Attorney-General de la Guesle having been told of the arrival of a
mysterious monk, enters the room and confirms what he had said of their
meeting outside the gates of Paris.
The Comte d’Auvergne, after scrutinising Jacques Clément for some
minutes, turns aside to Monsieur de la Guesle, and whispers--
“I do not know why, but I have a strange suspicion of that fellow. All
he says seems fair enough and his papers are properly signed; but there
is something about his dark, sinister face and surly answers that alarms
me.”
Osman, seeing them converse apart, advances eagerly from the bottom of
the room, and addresses them in a low voice, “If monseigneur will only
listen to me, he will not admit this monk within a hundred miles of his
Majesty. The stars, Count, are----”
“Confound the stars!” interrupts Monsieur de la Guesle. “Do you take us
for a parcel of fools? Go prate elsewhere.”
The noblemen seat themselves at the upper end of the supper-table. The
Comte d’Auvergne, Monsieur de la Guesle, and other gentlemen are served
by an old valet who, after pouring out the wine all round, stands behind
the chair of his master, the Count. His eyes are fixed on Jacques
Clément, who had drawn forth from the folds of his sleeve a large dagger
with which he cuts up his meat.
“May it please monseigneur,” the valet whispers into the Count’s ear,
“the reverend father knows how to travel in these stormy times. He has
not forgotten to bring a goodly dagger with him; though perhaps the
breviary, being less useful, is forgotten.”
“Not so, brother,” answers the monk who, overhearing his whisper, draws
out a missal from his bosom; “I never travel without the one and the
other--defences for the body and the soul--whichever may most need it.”
But the garrulous old servant, once set talking, is not to be silenced.
He begins a long account, in a low voice, addressed to the Count, of how
the monk, on arriving, had entertained him and his fellows in the
courtyard with a history of the death of Holofernes the tyrant, by the
hands of a Jewish maiden Judith, the saviour of her country.
“A bloody tale, forsooth,” says M. de la Guesle, eying the monk.
“Ay, blood, blood!” mutters Osman who is seated below the salt, next the
Comte d’Auvergne. “See you not, my lord,” he continues, half aloud to
the Count, holding up his hand warningly, “that this monk is a mad
fanatic? Admit him to no speech with the King, I entreat you; he is mad,
monseigneur.”
“Oh,” answers the Count, in low voice, “I will watch over his Majesty.
As the bearer of letters of importance I cannot refuse him an audience,
but I will answer that no mischief comes of the meeting.”
Soon after, supper being ended, the party separates. The monk is
conducted to a bed; and Osman, heaving many heavy sighs, retires to the
room appropriated to him, where he consults the stars, until the dawn of
day obliterates them and ends his labour.
The next day is the 2d of August, and the King, who has been informed of
the arrival of a monk with letters over night, commands his early
attendance in his bed-chamber. The Comte d’Auvergne conducts Jacques
Clément into the presence of Henry, who sits in an arm-chair, only
partially dressed, close to the bed. As the communication is to be
private, the King signs to D’Auvergne, Clermont, and the other
attendants present, to retire to the farther end of the room; then he
stretches out his hand to receive the packet from Jacques Clément, who
in presenting it bows his head, and stands motionless, his arms crossed
on his breast.
As Henry’s attention is absorbed and his eyes are bent upon the page,
Jacques Clément suddenly draws out the dagger he carried concealed in
his sleeve, springs forward, and plunges it up to the hilt in the King’s
abdomen.
“Help!” groans the King, with difficulty plucking out the weapon and
flinging it on the floor. “Help! the wretch has stabbed me. I am
killed--kill him!”
D’Auvergne rushes forward. The pages and gentlemen in attendance, the
guards outside, and Monsieur de la Guesle, who is waiting for an
audience, all burst into the room.
The King is lying back in the arm-chair; a pool of blood stains the
floor from a deep wound; Jacques Clément still stands immovable before
him. Swords flash in the air; some fly to support the dying monarch,
some to raise an alarm over the palace; others, transported with fury,
fall upon the monk, who offers no resistance. He is speedily despatched.
Osman, hearing the uproar, enters. “What!” cries he, “is the King dead?”
“Not quite,” is the reply.
“Who did it?”
“Jacques Clément.”
“Sainte Marie!” groans the astrologer, wringing his hands, “if you had
listened to me this would never have happened. Did I not say there was
blood on that monk? Did I not say that the star of the House of Valois
had fallen? Alas! alas! If you had but listened!”
At this moment M. d’O and the Comte d’Auvergne leave the King’s room to
send for a surgeon.
“Why did you kill the assassin? We might have tortured him, and
discovered his accomplices,” says M. d’O, while they await the messenger
whom they had despatched.
“I did not kill him,” answered the Comte d’Auvergne. The King was seated
when he entered, and, taking the wretch’s papers in his hands, was busy
reading them. M. Clermont and I were present, but had retired a little
to leave his Majesty more at liberty. As he rose from his seat and was
addressing the monk, the traitor drew a dagger from his sleeve and
plunged it into the King’s stomach. The King cried out, “Kill him--he
has killed me!” and, drawing forth the dagger from the wound, gave two
or three cuts at the assassin, and then fell. We rushed to his aid, and
smote the fellow, who was unarmed, right and left. At the noise, the
doors burst open, and the gentlemen and pages in their rage finished him
with a hundred blows. Seeing that he was dead, I ordered him to be
stripped and thrown out of the window, in order to be recognised if
possible.”
“What does it matter who recognises him?” answers M. d’O. “Have the
papers that he showed the King disappeared also?”
Before the Count could reply the surgeon appears. He desires that every
one shall be turned out of the King’s bedroom whilst he examines him. He
pronounces the wound mortal; the dagger was poisoned. Henry, after great
anguish, expires in a few hours. The letters were forgeries. The body of
Jacques Clément, having first been drawn by four horses through the
streets of Saint-Cloud, is burned by the common hangman. He is much
lauded, however, at Rome, where Sixtus V. reigns as Pontiff; at Paris
his effigy is placed upon the altars beside the Host.
Meanwhile the King of Navarre is within his quarters at Meudon. His
minister Sully lodges a little way down the hill, in the house of a man
called Sauvat. Sully is just sitting down to supper, when his secretary
enters and desires him to go instantly to his master.
Henry of Navarre tells him that an express has arrived from Saint-Cloud,
and that the King is already dead, or dying. “Sully,” he says, “for what
I know, I may be at this very instance King of France. Yet, who will
support me? Half my army will desert if Henry be really dead. Not a
prince of the blood--not a minister will stand by me. I am here, as it
were, in the midst of an enemy’s country, with but a handful of
followers. What is to be done?”
“Stay where you are, Sire, is my advice,” answers Sully. “If you are,
indeed, now King of France, remain with such as are faithful to you. A
monarch should never fly. But let us go to Saint-Cloud and hear the
truth.”
“That is just what I desire,” answers Henry. “We will start as soon as
our horses are saddled.”
As they enter the gates of Saint-Cloud, a man rushes by them, shouting,
“The King is dead--the King is dead!” Henry reins up his horse. The
Swiss Guard, posted round the château, perceive him. They throw down
their arms and cast themselves at his feet. “Sire,” they cry, “now you
are our King and master, do not forsake us.” Biron, the Duc de
Bellegarde, the Comte d’O, M. de Châteauvieux, and De Dampierre come up;
they all warmly salute Henry as their sovereign.
But the bonfires that already blaze in the streets of Paris at the news
of the death of the King, warn Henry of Navarre that he must fight as
many battles to gain the Crown, as he has already done to secure his
personal liberty.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DON JUAN.
The wars of the League rage fiercer than ever. By the death of the last
Valois, Henry III., Henry IV., a Bourbon, is King of France.[19] But he
is only acknowledged by his Protestant subjects. To the Catholics he is
but a rebel, and still only King of Navarre. The Duc de Mayenne (a
Guise, brother of the Balafré), subsidised with money and troops by
Spain, is the orthodox pretender to the
[Illustration: HENRY IV.
FROM A CONTEMPORARY PAINTING IN THE MUSEUM AT VERSAILLES.]
throne. The capital, Paris, is with him. The two Henries, reconciled
after the death of Catherine de’ Medici, encamped with their respective
forces at Saint-Cloud, were about to invest the city. But now Henry III.
is dead. His successor, Henry of Navarre, weakened in influence, troops,
and money, is forced to raise the siege and retire. Henry IV. had at
this time but 3,000 troops, while the army of Mayenne numbered 32,000
men. Then came help from England. The victory of Ivry was gained, Henry
again invested Paris and encamped on the heights of Montmartre. It was
now he uttered that characteristic _mot_:--“I am like the true mother in
the judgment of Solomon,--I would rather not have Paris at all than see
it torn to pieces.”
At this time the fortune of war called the King in many places. He loved
an adventurous life. Brave to a fault, he rode hither and thither like a
knight-errant, regardless of his personal safety, accompanied only by a
few attendants.
Although a warrior and a statesman, Henry was a true child of the
mountains. Born under the shadows of the Pyrenees, he would as soon
encamp under a hedge as lie on a bed of down; would rather eat dried ham
spiced with garlic than dine sumptuously at Jarnet’s Palace, at the
Marais or at “Le Petit More,” the polite _traiteur_ of that day; would
quaff the _petit cru_ of his native grape with more relish than the
costliest wines from the vineyards of Champagne or Bordeaux. Henry was
not born upon the banks of the Garonne, but a more thorough Gascon never
lived,--his hand upon his sword, his foot in the stirrup, his gun slung
across his shoulder, the first in assault, the last in retreat, ready
to slay the wild boar of his native forests, or lute in hand to twang a
roundelay in honour of the first Dulcinea he encountered. Boastful,
fearless, capricious; his versatility of accomplishments suited the
changing aspects of the times. He was plain of speech, rough in
manner--with a quaint jest alike for friend or foe; irregular in his
habits, eating at no stated times, but when hungry voraciously devouring
everything that pleased him, especially fruit and oysters; negligent,
not to say dirty, in his person, and smelling strong of garlic. A man
who called a spade a spade, swore like a trooper, and hated the parade
of courts; was constant in friendship, fickle in love, promised
everything freely, especially marriage, to any beauty who caught his
eye; a boon companion among men, a libertine with women, a story-teller,
cynical in his careless epicureanism, and so profound a believer in “the
way of fate,” that reckless of the morrow he extracted all things from
the passing hour.
He is now thirty-three years old, of middle height, broad-shouldered,
and coarsely made. His swarthy skin is darkened by constant exposure; he
looks battered, wrinkled, and dissipated. His long nose overhangs his
grisly moustache, and a mocking expression lurks in the corners of his
mouth. The fire of his eyes is unquenched, and the habit of command is
stamped on every motion.
He is with his army at Mantes. It is evening; he is surrounded by a few
friends, and from talk of war the conversation turns to women. The Duc
de Bellegarde, captain of light horse, the close friend and constant
companion of the King, sits beside him. He has a noble presence, is
supple, graceful, gentle in speech and generous in nature.
Bellegarde speaks boastingly of the beauty of a certain lady whom he is
engaged to marry, Gabrielle d’Estrées, daughter of the Marquis
d’Estrées.
“_Cap de Dieu!_” exclaims Henry, after listening to Bellegarde in
silence; “I have heard of the lady, one of the daughters of our brave
general of artillery, Antoine d’Estrées; but I will back my bewitching
Abbess of Montmartre, Marie de Beauvilliers, against your Gabrielle.”
“Not if your Majesty saw her, believe me,” replies Bellegarde, warmly.
“You are a boaster, Bellegarde. You dare not produce your paragon.”
“On the contrary, Sire, I only desire that Mademoiselle d’Estrées should
be seen, for then alone she can be appreciated.”
“Say you so, Bellegarde? That is fair; will you bet a thousand crowns on
Gabrielle against Marie?”
“I accept, Sire; but how can we decide!”
“You see the lady. It is easily managed. Do you visit her often?”
“Your Majesty seemingly forgets I am engaged to marry her.”
“I understand. Now, Bellegarde, I forbid you, as your sovereign and
master, to see this fair lady, except in my company. _Par Dieu!_ I will
refuse you leave of absence.”
Bellegarde’s heart misgave him. The King’s vehemence alarms him. He saw
too late the mistake that he has made.
“Now, Bellegarde, don’t look like a doctor of the Sorbonne in a fix;
Mademoiselle d’Estrées will not object if I go in your company?”
“Your Majesty must consider that I have no excuse for introducing you,”
replies he, with some hesitation. “Besides, consider, Sire, the roads
are unsafe and skirmishers are abroad.”
“Tut! tut! man; when did I ever care for that when a fair lady was in
the way? I insist upon going, or you shall not either. Both or none.
Listen how it shall be managed. I will disguise myself as--well, let me
see--a Spaniard; no one will suspect me in that character. You shall
introduce me as an Hidalgo, Don Juan, we will say”; and a wicked leer
lights up his countenance. “Don Juan, your prisoner,--taken in a
_mêlée_, now on parole; and my poor Chicot[20] shall go with us, too,
for company.”
Gabrielle was then living at the paternal Castle of Cœuvres, which
stood on a wooded height between Soissons and Laon, with her father and
her sisters. She was passionately attached to the seductive Bellegarde,
and anticipated their speedy union with all imaginable happiness.
One evening, while she was indulging in those agreeable musings proper
to the state called “being in love,” Bellegarde was abruptly announced.
He was accompanied by two gentlemen: one, short in stature, with a
comical expression of countenance, was introduced as Monsieur Chicot;
the other, by name “Don Juan,” neither tall nor short, but with very
broad shoulders, had greyish hair, highly coloured cheeks, a swarthy
skin, and was remarkable for a prominent nose and exceedingly audacious
eyes.
Gabrielle rose in haste and was about to fling her arms round
Bellegarde, but, on seeing his two companions, she drew back, welcoming
them all with a more formal courtesy.
Gabrielle was eighteen, tall, slim, and singularly graceful. The
severity of her aquiline features was relieved by the bluest eyes and a
most delicate pink and white complexion; webs of auburn hair flowed over
her shoulders. She cast a curious glance at her lover’s singular
companions; she was surprised and vexed that Bellegarde had not come
alone, and to find him cold and reserved. However, any shortcomings on
his part were amply made up by the cordial accolade of the Spanish Don,
who extolled her beauty to her face, and, without asking permission,
kissed her on the cheek.
Gabrielle’s delicacy was hurt at this freedom; she reproached herself
for the frankness with which she had received strangers, believing them
to be friends of her lover. Casting a helpless glance at him, she looked
down, blushed and retreated to a distant part of the room, where she
seated herself.
“Pray, madame, excuse our friend,” said Chicot, seeing the confusion of
Gabrielle at such unexpected familiarity; “he is a Spaniard, only newly
arrived in France; he is quite unacquainted with the usages of the
country.”
“By the mass!” cried Bellegarde, evidently ill at ease, and placing
himself in front of his love, “Spaniard, indeed! I, for my part, know no
country in the world where gentlemen are permitted, thus uninvited, to
salute the ladies--at least, in civilised latitudes. It is well
Mademoiselle’s father was not present.”
His annoyance was, however, quite lost on the Don, who, his eyes fixed
in bold admiration on Gabrielle, did not heed it.
“Bellegarde,” said Gabrielle, blushing to her forehead, seeing his
deeply-offended look, “excuse this stranger, I entreat, for my sake; I
am sure he meant no offence. Let not the joy I feel at seeing you be
overcast by this little occurrence.” And she rose, advanced to where he
stood, looked fondly at him, and took his hand in both of hers.
This appeal was enough. Bellegarde, though anxious, was no longer angry,
and, upon Gabrielle’s invitation, the party seated themselves, Gabrielle
placing herself beside Bellegarde.
“This gentleman, madame,” said Chicot, turning towards Gabrielle, “whose
admiration of you has led him to offend, is our prisoner; he surrendered
to us yesterday in the _mêlée_ at Marly, and, his ransom paid, to-morrow
morning he will start to join the army of the Duke of Parma. Though
somewhat hot-headed and wilful he is an excellent soldier; he knows how
to behave in the battle-field, if his manners are otherwise too free,”
and Chicot turned round his head and winked at Don Juan, who laughed.
“At least, gentlemen, now you are here,” said Gabrielle, “by whatever
chance--and the chance must be good that brings you to me” (and her blue
eyes turned towards Bellegarde)--“you will partake of some refreshment.
I beg you to do so in the
[Illustration: DIANA DE POITIERS, BY JEAN GOUJON.
FROM THE CHÂTEAU OF ANET, NOW IN THE LOUVRE.
(By permission of Levy, Paris.)]
name of Monsieur de Bellegarde, my affianced husband, my father being
absent.”
“Fair lady,” said the Spaniard, breaking silence for the first time, and
speaking in excellent French, “I never before rejoiced so much in being
able to understand the French tongue as spoken by your dulcet voice;
this is the happiest moment of my life, for it has introduced me to the
fairest of your sex. I repeat it deliberately--the fairest of your sex;”
and he looked significantly at Bellegarde. “I accept your invitation,
readily. Were I fortunate enough to be your prisoner instead of the
Captain’s, my ransom would never be paid, I warrant.”
“_Cap de Dieu!_” exclaimed Chicot, grinning from ear to ear, “the
Spanish Dons well merit their reputation for gallantry, but our friend
here, Don Juan, outdoes them all, and, indeed, every one of his nation.”
“Madame,” broke in the Spaniard, very red in the face and speaking with
great vehemence, not appearing to hear this remark, and still addressing
Gabrielle, on whom his eyes were riveted, “I declare if any one, be he
noble or villein, knight or king, dare to say that any woman under God’s
sun surpasses you in beauty or grace, I declare him to be false and
disloyal, and with fitting opportunity I will prove, in more than words,
that he lies to the teeth.”
“Come, come, my good friend,” interrupted Bellegarde, much discomposed,
“do not, I beseech you, go into these heroics; you will alarm this lady.
If you heat yourself in this way, the night air will give you cold.
Besides, remember, Señor, this lady, Mademoiselle d’Estrées, is my
affianced bride, and that certain conditions were made between us before
I introduced you, which conditions you swore to observe”; and Bellegarde
looked reproachfully at him.
Don Juan felt the implied reproof, and, for the first time since he had
entered, moved his eyes to some other object than the smiling face of
Gabrielle.
Her sisters now joined them. Although they much resembled her, and would
have been comely in any other company, Gabrielle so far exceeded them as
to throw them altogether into the shade. They were both immediately
saluted with nearly equal warmth by the Spanish Don, who evidently would
not reform his manners in this particular. Like Gabrielle, they were
quite abashed and retreated to the farther side of the room.
“Let me tell you, ladies,” said Chicot, advancing towards them, “if you
were to see our friend, Don Juan, in a justaucorps of satin and
glittering with gold and precious stones, with a white panache in his
velvet cap, you would not think he looked so much amiss. But are you
going to give us nothing to eat? What has the Don done that he is to be
starved? Though he be a Spaniard, and serves against Henry of Navarre,
he is a Christian, and has a stomach like any other.”
On this hint the whole party adjourned to the eating-room. Gabrielle
carefully avoided the Don and kept close to Bellegarde, who looked the
picture of misery. Her sisters clung to her, Chicot was bursting with
ill-suppressed laughter, and the Don was fully occupied in endeavouring
to place himself beside Gabrielle, on whom his eyes were again intently
fixed. At table, spite of Bellegarde’s manœuvres, he contrived to
place himself beside her. He eat and drank voraciously; perpetually
proposed toasts in Gabrielle’s honour, and confused her to such a
degree, that she heartily repented having invited him to remain,
particularly as the annoyance of Bellegarde did not escape her. In this
state of general misunderstanding, the merry Chicot again came to the
rescue.
“Let us drink to the health of the King of France and Navarre!” cried
he. “Come, Don Juan, forget your politics and join us: here’s prosperity
and success to our gallant Henry--long may he live!”
“This is a toast we must drink standing and in chorus,” said Bellegarde,
rising.
The Spaniard smiled.
“But why,” observed Gabrielle, “does Don Juan bear arms against the King
of France if he is his partisan?”
“Fair lady, your remark is just,” replied the Don, “but the fortune of
war drives a soldier into many accidents; however, I only wish all
France was as much the King’s friend as I am.”
Chicot now took up a lute which lay near, tried the strings, and in a
somewhat cracked voice sang the following song, wagging his head and
winking at the Spaniard as he did so:--
“Vive Henri Quatre,
Vive ce roi vaillant;
Ce diable à quatre,
A le triple talent
De boire et de battre
Et d’être vert galant.”
“Long live the King! Vive Henri Quatre!” was drunk, with all the
honours, in a chorus of applause. The Spaniard wiped a tear from his
eye, and sat down without speaking.
“_Cap de Dieu!_” cried Chicot, “the right cause will triumph at last.”
“Yes,” replied Bellegarde, “sooner or later we shall see our brave King
enter Paris and his noble palace of the Louvre in state; but meanwhile
he must not fool away his time in follies and amours while the League is
in strength.”
“There you speak truth,” said Chicot; “he is too much given to such
games; he’s a very Sardanapalus: and,” continued he, squinting at the
Don with a most comical expression, “if report speak true, at this very
moment his Majesty is off on some adventure touching the rival beauty of
certain ladies, to the manifest neglect of his Crown and the ruin of his
affairs.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Gabrielle, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “if some
second Agnes Sorel would but appear, and, making like her a noble use of
the King’s love and her influence, incite him to conquer himself, to
forsake all follies, and to devote his great talents in fighting heart
and soul against the rebels and the League!”
“Alas!” sighed Don Juan, “those were the early ages; such love as that
is not to be found now--it is a dream, a fantasy. Henry will find no
Agnes Sorel in these later days.”
“Say not so, noble Don,” replied Gabrielle; “I for my part adore the
King--I long to know him.”
The Spaniard’s eyes flashed, and Bellegarde started visibly.
“Love,” continued Gabrielle, flushing with excitement, “love is of all
times and of all seasons. True love is immortal. But I allow that it is
rare, though not impossible, to excite such a passion.”
“If it is a science to be learnt, will you teach me, fair lady?” asked
the Spaniard tenderly.
At this turn in the conversation Bellegarde again became painfully
agitated, and the subject dropped. The Don now addressed his
conversation to the sisters of Gabrielle, and at their request took up
the lute and sang an improvised song with considerable taste, in a fine
manly voice, which gained for him loud applauses all around. The words
were these:
“Charmante Gabrielle,
Percé de mille dards,
Quand la gloire m’appelle
A la suite de Mars,
Cruelle départie.
Que ne suis-je sans vie
Ou sans amour?”
Gabrielle looked, perhaps, a trifle too much pleased at the somewhat
free admiration expressed in these verses, and spite of Bellegarde,
approached the Don to thank him after he had finished.
“Lady, did my song please you?” said he softly, trying to kiss her hand.
“If it had any merit you inspired me.”
“Yes,” replied she musingly. “You wished just now you were my prisoner.
Had you been, I should long ago have freed you if you had sung to me
like that, I am sure.”
“And why?” asked he.
“Because you have something in your voice I should have feared to hear
too often,” said she in a low voice, lest Bellegarde should hear her.
“Then in that case I would always have remained your voluntary captive,
_ma belle_.”
How long this conversation might have continued authorities do not
state; but Bellegarde, now really displeased, approached the whispering
pair, giving an indignant glance at Gabrielle and a look full of
reproach at the Don.
“Come, come, Don Juan!” said he. “It is time to go. Where are our
horses? The day wears on, we shall scarce reach the camp ere sundown.”
“_Ventre Saint Gris!_” said the Spaniard, starting, “there is surely no
need for such haste.”
“Your promise,” muttered Bellegarde in his ear.
“Confound you, Bellegarde! You have introduced me into paradise, and now
you drag me away just when the breath of heaven is warming me.” Don Juan
looked broken-hearted at being obliged to leave, and cast the most
loving glances towards Gabrielle and her handsome sisters.
“I opine we ought never to have come at all,” said Chicot, winking
violently and looking at Gabrielle, who with downcast eyes evidently
regretted the necessity of the Don’s departure.
“_Mère de Dieu!_” muttered the latter to Bellegarde, “you are too hard
thus to bind me to my cursed promise.”
“Gabrielle,” said Bellegarde, drawing her aside, and speaking in a low
voice, “one kiss ere I go. You are my beloved--my other self, the soul
of my soul. Adieu! This has been a miserable meeting. You have grieved
me, love; but perhaps it is my own fault. I ought to have come alone.
That Spaniard is disgusting”--Gabrielle turned her head away--“But I
will soon return. In the meantime, a caution in your ear. If this same
Don Juan comes again during my absence to pay you a second visit, send
him off I charge you, by the love I know you bear me. Give him his
_congé_ without ceremony; hold no parley, I entreat you; he is a sad
good-for-nothing, and would come with no good intentions. I could tell
you more. He is----, but next time you shall hear all. Till then,
adieu!”
“I will obey you, Bellegarde,” replied Gabrielle somewhat coldly; “but
the Spaniard seems to me an honest gentleman, and looks born to
command.”
The whole party then proceeded to the courtyard, where the three horses
were waiting.
“Adieu, most adorable Gabrielle!” cried the Spaniard, vaulting first
into the saddle. “Would to heaven I had never set eyes on you, or that,
having seen you, I might gaze to eternity on that heavenly face.”
“Well,” said Bellegarde gaily, for his spirits rose as he saw the
Spaniard ready to depart, “you need only wait until peace be made, and
then I will present you at Court, Don Juan, where Madame la Duchesse de
Bellegarde, otherwise La Belle Gabrielle, will shine fairest of the
fair.”
“You are not married yet, Duke, however,” rejoined the Spaniard, looking
back, “and remember, you must first have his Majesty’s leave and
licence--not always to be got. Ha, ha, my friend, I have you there!”
laughed the Don. “Adieu, then, once more, most beautiful ladies, adieu
to you all! Bellegarde, _you have gained your bet_.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHARMANTE GABRIELLE.
After this meeting Don Juan soon contrived to return, and the lady,
forgetful of her lover’s advice, received him. This was sufficient
encouragement for so audacious a cavalier, and an intimacy sprang up
between them ending in a confession of his being the King. Gabrielle was
charmed, for she had always been his devoted partisan. What at first
appeared bold and free in his manner she now ascribed to a proper sense
of his own rank, born as he was to command and to be obeyed. Their
romantic introduction and the disguise he had condescended to assume on
that occasion captivated her imagination almost as much as his unbounded
admiration of her person flattered her vanity. Henry, too, was a fit
subject for devoted loyalty at that time, closely beset as he was by the
troops of the League, unable to enter Paris, and only maintaining his
ground by prodigies of valour and the most heroic perseverance.
Should she, then, be unkind, and repulse him, when he vowed to her, on
his knees, that his only happy moments were spent in her society? The
image of Bellegarde grew fainter and fainter; their meetings became
colder and more unsatisfactory. He reproached her for her unbecoming
encouragement of a libertine monarch; Gabrielle defended herself by
declaring that her heart was her own, and that she might bestow it where
she thought proper. As yet, however, there had been no formal rupture
between them. Bellegarde loved the fascinating girl too fondly to
renounce her lightly; and she herself, as yet undecided, hesitated
before resigning a man whose attachment was honourable and legitimate,
and whose birth and position were brilliant, to receive the dubious
addresses of a married monarch. True, the shameful excesses of
Marguerite de Valois, his Queen, excused and almost exonerated the King;
Henry urged this circumstance with passionate eloquence, promising
Gabrielle, spite of state reasons, to marry her as soon as, settled on
the throne, he had leisure legally to prove the scandalous conduct of
his wife and to obtain a papal divorce. This, to a vain and beautiful
woman like Gabrielle, was a telling argument.
Still, Gabrielle had not broken with Bellegarde; she delighted to
irritate the passion of the King by yet professing some love for her old
admirer. At times she refused to see Henry at all, and actually went on
a visit to her aunt, Madame de Sourdis, without even bidding him adieu.
This coquetry made the King desperate. He was so overcome at her sudden
departure, that he was ready, according to his habit, to promise
anything she asked. The difficulty was how to reach her, for he must
start from Mantes, at the gravest risk, passing through two outposts and
seven leagues of open country occupied by the League. But now he was
wrought up to such a pass that he was ready to sacrifice his Crown or
his head to win her. As soon, therefore, as he ascertained that
Gabrielle had returned to Cœuvres he swore a solemn oath to see her
or die. The country was covered with troops; alone he dared not
venture; with attendants he compromised his beloved. Such obstacles were
maddening. At last he decided to set forth on horseback, accompanied
only by a few devoted followers. With this escort he rode four leagues
through the most dangerous part of the route, then left them at a
certain spot to await his return. Towards Cœuvres he wandered on
alone until he found a roadside house. There he offered a peasant some
gold pieces to lend him a suit of clothes, in order, as he told the man,
the more safely to deliver some letters of importance to the Seigneur of
Cœuvres. The peasant readily consented to his proposal. In those
boisterous days of internecine warfare nothing of this kind caused
astonishment, spies, in every species of disguise, continually passing
to and fro between the two armies. So Henry IV., in the garb of a
peasant, pushed on alone.
The day was fast falling, deep shadows gathered in the forest and around
the castle. Gabrielle sat within in the twilight embroidering a scarf.
She was thinking over all the difficulties of her position, divided as
she was between regard for the generous Bellegarde and her passion each
day growing stronger for the King. Suddenly her maid Louise came into
the room and begged her, as she had passed all day in the house, to take
a little fresh air.
“Come, madame, while there is yet a little light; come, at least, to the
balcony that looks out over the terrace, where the breeze is so
pleasant, and see the sun set over the tree-tops.”
“No, no,” replied Gabrielle, shaking her head sadly. “Leave me alone. I
have enough to think
[Illustration: THE CASCADE OF ST. CLOUD.
From an engraving by Rigaud.]
about, and I want to finish my scarf, or it will not be done by the time
I promised Bellegarde. Besides I do not fancy open balconies in the
month of November; it is too cold.”
“Oh! but,” pleaded Louise, “the day has been so splendid--like summer in
the forest. Pray come, madame.”
“Why do you plague me so? I never remember your great desire for open
air before.” And Gabrielle rose. She was no sooner on the balcony,
watching the last streaks of golden light glittering among the branches
and lighting up the plain beyond in a ruddy mist, than all at once she
heard a rustling noise, and on looking down saw, just under the balcony,
on the grass-plot, a peasant on a horse, laden with a bundle of straw.
The peasant stopped and gazed at her for some time, then, throwing away
the straw, he flung himself from his horse and fell on his knees before
her, clasping his hands, as if about to worship at some shrine.
Juliette, Gabrielle’s sister, now joined her on the balcony.
Readier-witted than she, Juliette whispered--
“Gabrielle, it is the King--he is disguised!”
Louise burst into a loud laugh at their surprise and ran away. It was
now apparent why she was so anxious to make Gabrielle go on the balcony
to see the sun set. Gabrielle had not dreamt of seeing the King, who was
reported to be encamped at some distance. Her first feeling was one of
anger for his utter want of dignity. To kneel on the wet grass, and in
the dress of a peasant! Besides, this disguise was most unbecoming to
him. He looked positively hideous.
Juliette retired, and Gabrielle was left standing alone on the balcony
before the King. As yet she had not spoken.
“What! not a word to greet me?” cried Henry, rising. “Why, _vrai Dieu_,
many a lady of our Court would have flung herself down headlong to
welcome me, and never cared if she broke her neck! Come, _belle des
belles_, look down graciously upon your devoted slave, whose only desire
is to die at your feet.”
“Sire,” replied Gabrielle, “for heaven’s sake go away. Return to Mantes,
and never let me see you again so vilely dressed. Always wear your white
panache and your scarlet mantle when you come. Without it you are not
Henre Quatre. Better stay away altogether, for you know well your
enemies are prowling about in this neighbourhood. Besides, who can tell?
Bellegarde may come. Pray, I entreat you, go away directly.”
“_Ma foi!_” replied the King, “let them come, Leaguers or Spaniards,
Bellegarde or the devil, what care I, if La Belle Gabrielle looks kindly
on me? Come down to me, Gabrielle.”
“Kind I will certainly not be if your Majesty do not at once depart.
Kneeling in that manner is too ridiculous. I will not come down. I shall
go away. I am no saint to be prayed to, heaven knows. If your Majesty
won’t remount, I shall really go away.”
“You could not have the heart, Gabrielle,” replied Henry, “when I have
run such risks to see you for a moment.”
His horse stood by cropping the grass. The King leaving the bundle of
straw on the ground, sprang into the saddle without even touching the
stirrup, and again addressed her. She was terrified at the idea of being
surprised by any one, especially Bellegarde, who would have been so
incensed, that he might have forgotten himself towards his Majesty.
For a moment Gabrielle was overcome. Tears came into her eyes out of
sheer vexation and fear of consequences, both to him, who might fall
into an ambuscade, and to herself. As she lifted up her hands to wipe
the tears away, the scarf she had been embroidering, and which she still
held, slipped out of her hand, and borne by the wind, after fluttering
for a few moments, dropped on the King, who, catching it, exclaimed--
“_Ventre Saint Gris!_ what have we here?”
“Oh, Sire!” cried Gabrielle, “it is my work--a scarf; it is all but
finished, and now I have dropped it.”
“By all the rules of war, fair lady,” said Henry, “what falls from the
walls of a besieged city belongs to the soldier; so, by your leave, dear
Gabrielle, the scarf is mine; I will wear it.”
“Oh!” replied she, leaning over the balcony, “do give it me back; it is
for Monsieur de Bellegarde, and he knows it. Should he see your Majesty
with it, what will he think? He would never believe but that I gave it
to you.”
“By the mass! it is too good for him; I will keep it without any
remorse, and cover with a thousand kisses these stitches woven by your
delicate fingers.”
“But, indeed, Sire, it is promised--Monsieur de Bellegarde will ask me
for it; what am I to say?”
“Bellegarde shall never have it, I promise you. Tell him that, like
Penelope, you undid in the night what you worked in the day. Come, come,
now, Gabrielle, confess you are not in reality so much attached to
Bellegarde as you pretend, and that if I can prove to you he is unworthy
of your love and inconstant into the bargain, you will promise to give
me his place in your heart. Besides, his position is unworthy of your
beauty; there is but one ornament worthy of that snowy brow--Bellegarde
cannot place it there; but I know another able and willing, when the
cursed League is dispersed, to give that finishing touch to your
loveliness.”
“Sire,” replied she, “I must not listen to what you say. I cannot
believe anything against Bellegarde; I have known him all my life, and
he has never deceived me. Nothing but the most positive evidence shall
convince me that he is false.”
“How now? _Saints et Saintes!_ you doubt my word--the word of a king!
But, Gabrielle, I can give you proofs, be assured.”
“Oh, Sire, it is not for me to talk of proofs or to reproach him. Poor
Bellegarde! my heart bleeds when I think of him.” Her head fell upon her
bosom; again the tears gathered in her eyes. Then she looked up, and
becoming aware all at once that it had grown quite dusk, she forgot
every other feeling in fear for the King’s safety. “Sire, go away, I
implore you, return to your quarters as fast as your horse can carry
you. If I have been cold, remember what you are risking--your life and
my good name! for you will be seen by some one.”
“Gabrielle, do you drive me away thus, when to leave you costs me such
a pang! Heaven knows when this war will allow us again to meet! I never
know from day to day but that some rebel of a Leaguer may finish me by a
stray shot; much less do I know where or how I may be. The present is
all I have--let me enjoy it.”
“Ah, Sire! only put down that atrocious League, and we will meet when
you please. I shall offer up no end of prayers that it may be so.”
“Whatever comes out of those ruby lips will not fail of being heard; as
to your slave Henry, the very knowledge that such a divinity stoops to
interest herself in his fate will serve as a talisman to shield him from
every danger.”
“Your Majesty speaks like a poet,” and a soft laugh was heard out of the
darkness. “Now adieu, Sire! I wish you a safe journey wherever you go,
and may you prevail against your foes. When you see Monsieur de
Bellegarde, assure him of my love.”
“Ungrateful Gabrielle! thus to trifle with me. But I have proofs, _vrai
Dieu_! I have proofs that shall cure you of that attachment.”
“Sire, why should you seek to make me unhappy? You know that for years I
have been engaged to Bellegarde, and that I look forward to my marriage
with the utmost delight. Why, then, endeavour to separate us?”
“_Par exemple, ma belle,_ you give me credit for being vastly
magnanimous, upon my word! What then, Gabrielle, would you have me
resign you without a struggle?--nay, am I expected to bring about your
marriage with a rival? That is a little too much, forsooth!”
“Nenni, Sire; I only ask you not to prevent it. Such artifice would be
unworthy so generous a monarch to a faithful servant like poor
Bellegarde, to whom I am--” and she could not help again laughing, so
dismal was the look of the King--“to whom I am bound in all honour. Then
there is your Majesty’s wife, the Queen of Navarre--for, Sire, you seem
to forget that you have a wife.”
“Yes, as I have a Crown, which I am never to wear. That infernal
Marguerite is keeping her state with a vengeance, and forgetting, _par
Dieu, she has a husband_. The people of Usson, in Auvergne, call shame
on her; they know what she is better than I do.”
“Sire, I beg of you to speak at least with respect of Madame Marguerite
de France.”
“Why should I not be frank with you, _ma belle_, at least? _Ah, Margot,
la reine Margot, à la bonne heure!_ I only wish she were in her coffin
at Saint-Denis along with her brothers. I shall be quit of a wife
altogether until I enter Paris, and then we shall see--we shall see who
will be crowned with me. But, _mignonne_, I must indeed bid you adieu.
_Morbleu!_ my people will think I am lost, and besiege the château.
Adieu until I can next come. I will write to you in the meantime.
Remember to forget Bellegarde, as you value the favour of your
Sovereign.”
And kissing the scarf he had stolen from her, the King put spurs to his
horse and galloped away into the darkness.
Gabrielle d’Estrées followed his pernicious counsel but too readily, as
the sequel will show. Unable to resist the continued blandishments of
the King, and silencing her conscience by a belief in his promise of
marriage, she sacrificed her lover, the Duc de Bellegarde, sincerely and
honourably attached to her for many years and whom she had once really
loved, for the sake of the gallant but licentious Henry. She followed
the King to Mantes, in company with her father, whom the King made
General of Artillery and loaded with honours. After this Henry would not
hear of her returning to the Château of Cœuvres, a place, he said,
too remote and difficult of access. He finally prevailed on her to
accompany him to the camp at Saint-Germain.
The Duc de Bellegarde was banished.
In the autumn she was still at Saint-Germain, where the King, in his
brief intervals of leisure, showed more and more delight in her society.
One day he entered Gabrielle’s apartment, and dismissing his attendants
sank into a chair without saying a word. He heaved a deep sigh.
Gabrielle looked up at him, wondering at his silence--she perceived that
he was weeping. Surprised at his emotion, she asked him, with an
offended air, if the sight of her had caused those tears, for if such
were the case she would go back to the Castle of Cœuvres, if it so
pleased his Majesty.
“_Mignonne_,” replied Henry very gravely, taking her hand and kissing
it, “it is indeed you who are partly the cause of my grief, but not
because you are here. Seeing you makes me envy the happiness of the
poorest peasant in my dominions, living on bread and garlic, who has the
woman he loves beside him, and is his own master. I am no king, I am
nothing but a miserable slave, jostled between Calvinists and
Catholics, who both distrust me.”
“Come, come, Sire, dismiss these fancies, at least while you are with
me,” answered she.
“On the contrary, Gabrielle, it is the sight of you that recalls them.
You have escaped from the control of a father to live with me, while my
chains press about me tighter than ever. I cannot, I dare not break
them,--and be wholly yours. You gain and I lose--that is all.”
“Sire,” said she, sadly, “I am not sure of that. Women, I believe, are
best in the chains you speak of. I shall see. If I have gained, you will
keep your promise to me. I am not so certain of it; all I know is,
whatever has been or is to be, that I love you,” and she turned her
languishing blue eyes full upon him.
“Gabrielle, I swear I will keep my promise. Does not every act of my
life prove my devotion?”
“Well then, Sire, succeed in putting down that odious League, march on
to Paris, and I shall be happy. To see you crowned and anointed at
Rheims I would give my life!”
“Never fear, sweet; this will come about shortly. I am certain. There,
are, however, more difficulties than you are aware of. If I become a
Catholic, as all my nobles wish me to do--and beautiful France is well
worth a mass--then the Calvinists will at once reorganise this cursed
League; and, if I persist in my faith, which my poor mother reared me up
to love sincerely--why then I shall be forsaken by all the Catholics; a
fact they take care to remind me of every day of my life. _Vrai Dieu!_ I
only wish I were once again Prince of Navarre, free and joyous,
fighting and hunting, dancing and jousting, without an acre of land, as
I was formerly.”
“Sire, all will be well; be more sanguine, I entreat you. If my poor
words have any power over you,” she added, encouragingly, “dismiss such
gloomy thoughts. Believe me, the future has much in store for you and
for me.”
“Ah! dear Gabrielle, when I am far away over mountains and valleys,
separated from those lovely eyes that now beam so brightly on me, I feel
all the torments of jealousy. Away from you, happiness is impossible.”
“Well, Sire, if it is only my presence you want, I will follow you to
the end of the world--I will go anywhere;” Gabrielle spoke with
impassioned ardour.
“_Ma mie!_ it is this love alone that enables me to bear all the
anxieties and troubles that surround me on every side. I value it more
than the Crown of France; but this very love of yours, entire as I
believe it to be, is the one principal cause of my misery.”
“How can that be?” answered she caressingly; “I love you--I will ever be
constant, I swear it solemnly, Henry.”
“Yes,” replied he thoughtfully, “but I have promised you marriage--you
must sit beside me as Queen of France. Do you forget that I have the
honour of being the husband of a queen--the sister of three defunct
monarchs--the most abandoned, the most disgraceful, the most odious----”
“Sire, you need not think about her; you are not obliged to be a
witness of her disorders. Let her enjoy all her gallantries at the
Castle of Usson. You can easily divorce her when you please----and then
nothing can part us.”
“_Ventre Saint Gris!_ cursed be the demon who dishonours me by calling
herself my wife! that wretch who prevents my marrying the angel whom I
love so entirely--your own sweet self!”
“Henry, my heart at least is yours.”
“Yes, dearest; but not more mine than I am yours eternally--and I would
recompense your love as it deserves. But know, Gabrielle, that
Marguerite de Valois absolutely refuses to consent to a divorce that I
may marry you. She declares she acts in my interests; but I believe her
odious pride is offended at being succeeded by a gentlewoman of honest
and ancient lineage, a thousand times better than all the Valois that
ever lived, a race born of the Devil, I verily believe. I have
threatened her with a state trial; the proofs against her are flagrant.
She knows that she would in that case be either beheaded or imprisoned
for life. Not even that shakes her resolve, so inveterate is she against
our union.”
“Alas! poor lady--did she ever love you?”
“Not a whit; she was false from the beginning. Let us speak of her no
more,” said the King, rising and walking up and down the room. Then
stopping opposite Gabrielle, who, dismayed at what she heard, sat with
her face buried in her hands, he asked her, “How about Bellegarde?”
Gabrielle shrank back, then looked up at him.
“Are you sure he is entirely banished from your remembrance?”
“As much as if I had never known him,” replied she promptly.
“I depend upon your pledge of meeting him no more, because, good-natured
as I am--and I am good natured, _Par Dieu!_--I am somewhat choleric and
hot (God pardon me), and if by chance I ever surprised you together,
why, _vrai Dieu_, if I had my sword I might be sorry for the
consequences.”
“Sire, there is no danger; you may wear your sword for me. If such a
thing ever occurred, it is I who would deserve to die.”
“Well, _ma mie_, I must draw the trenches nearer the walls of Paris. In
my absence remain at Mantes,” said Henry. “Then I must advance upon
Rouen. I expect a vigorous resistance, and God only knows how it will
end. I leave all in your care, and invest you, fair Gabrielle, with the
same power as if you were really queen. Would to heaven you
were--confound that devil of a Margot! I will return to you as often as
I can, and write constantly. Now I must say that sad word, adieu. Adieu!
adieu! _ma mie_.”
Gabrielle consoled the King as best she could, and after much ado he
took his departure, always repeating, “_adieu, ma mie_.”
After he had passed down the great gallery, Gabrielle rushed to one of
the windows overlooking the entrance, to catch the last sight of him.
She saw him vault on horseback, and ride down the hill with a brilliant
retinue; that excellent creature, Chicot the jester, as faithful as
Achates, but whom he had the misfortune soon after to lose, close at his
side.
CHAPTER XXV.
ITALIAN ART.
Years have passed. The wars of the League are over, and Henry is
undisputed master of France. He has proved himself a hero in a hundred
battles, but has acquired nothing heroic in his appearance. Still in the
prime of life, he has the keenest sense of enjoyment, the warmest heart,
the old love of danger and contempt of consequences. His time is divided
between hunting in the forest of Fontainebleau and the society of
Gabrielle d’Estrées, and her little son Cæsar, created Duc de Vendôme.
Gabrielle has nominally been married to the Sieur de Liancourt, in
accordance with court etiquette, which did not permit a single lady
permanently to form part of a Court without a Queen. Henry has been
severely commented on for this marriage mockery, for husband and wife
parted at the church door. Gabrielle, who has been created Duchesse de
Beaufort, is exceedingly unpopular. The divorce from “la reine Margot”
is still incomplete, that obstinate princess objecting to conclude the
needful formalities on the ground that Gabrielle is not of royal blood.
Conquered by her prayers, her sweetness, and her devotion, Henry is
still resolved to marry his lovely duchess. In vain he urges, threatens,
and storms; the tyrant Queen will not consent. By Gabrielle’s advice he
has become a Catholic. “Ma Gabrielle,” he writes from Paris, “I have
yielded to your entreaties. I have spoken to the bishops; on Sunday I
make the _perilous leap_. I kiss my angel’s hand.”
A strong political party opposed the marriage. Sully was dead against
it. Gabrielle, it was argued, however fascinating and correct in
conduct, was no match for Henry the Great. Besides, as being already the
mother of two children by the King, a disputed succession would be
certain. The Court of Rome had plans of its own, too, about the King’s
marriage, and already the name of Marie de’ Medici had been mentioned as
a fitting consort. The Pontiff himself favoured the match, and he alone
could solve every difficulty with regard to the divorce. Sully looked
askance at the excessive influence Gabrielle exercised over his master.
The Florentine marriage was approved by him, and the negotiations had
already begun. Marie de’ Medici fulfilled every requirement. She was
young, beautiful, rich, and allied to the throne of France by her
relative, Catherine de’ Medici. As long as Gabrielle lived there was no
chance of inducing the King to consider seriously any other alliance.
Must she die? Poor Gabrielle! there were not wanting foreign noblemen
like Maréchal d’Ornano, besides a host of low Italian usurers and Jews
brought to France by Catherine de’ Medici--mere mushrooms who had
acquired enormous wealth by pillaging the Court--who lent the King money
and pandered to his desires, ready and willing to forward his marriage
with a richly dowered princess, their countrywoman, even by a crime.
Gabrielle is at Fontainebleau. She expects the King, who is in Paris. An
extraordinary depression, a foreboding of evil, overwhelms her. She
knows but too well of the powerful party arrayed against her,--that
Sully is her enemy, that the Pope is inflexible about granting the
divorce, even if Marguerite de Valois should consent, which she will not
whilst Gabrielle lives; she knows that all France is reluctant to
receive her as its queen. But there is the King’s promise of marriage,
repeated again and again with oaths of passionate fondness. Will he keep
that promise of marriage? That is the question. She knows he loves her;
but love is but an episode in the chequered life of a soldier-king. How
many others has he not loved? How many promises of marriage has he not
broken? True, she is always treated as his wife. She lodges in the
apartments assigned to the Queen of France in the “Oval Court.” She is
seated beside him on occasions of state; every favour she asks is
granted, all who recommend themselves to her intercession are pardoned.
The greatest ladies of the Court--the Duchesse de Guise and her witty
daughter, the Duchesse de Retz, even the austere Duchesse de Sully--are
proud to attend upon her. Bellegarde, the faithful Bellegarde, restored
to favour, now her devoted servant, watches over her interests with
ceaseless anxiety. Yet her very soul is heavy within her; her position
is intolerable. After all, what is she but the mistress of the King? She
shudders at the thought.
The season is spring. The trees are green; their tender foliage but
lightly shades the formal walks ranged round a fountain in a little
garden (still remaining) that Henry has made for her under the palace
walls. The fountain, in the centre of a parterre of grass and flowers,
catches the rays of the April sun, glitters for an instant in a flood of
rainbow tints, then falls back in showers of spray into a marble basin
supported by statues.
Gabrielle is dressed in a white robe; the long folds trail upon the
ground. Her auburn hair, drawn off her face, is gathered into a coronet
of gold; rich lace covers her bosom, and a high ruff rises from her
shoulders; on her neck is a string of pearls, to which is attached a
miniature of the King. With the years that have passed the bloom of
youth is gone; the joyous expression of early days has died out of those
soft pleading eyes. Lovely she is still; her complexion is delicately
fair, and the pensive look in her face is touching to the last degree.
Graceful and gracious as ever, there is a sedate dignity, a tempered
reserve, in her address, befitting the royal station which awaits her.
She stops, sighs, then listens for the sound of horses’ feet. There is
not a breath stirring, save the hum of insects about the fountain and
the murmur of the breeze among the trees. She takes from her bosom a
letter. It is in the King’s handwriting and shows manifest signs of
having been often handled. She kisses the signature, and reads these
words:--
“You conjured me to take with me as much love for you as I know I
leave with you for me. Now in two hours after you receive this you
shall behold a knight who adores you. People call him King of
France and of Navarre, but he calls himself your subject and your
slave. No woman can compare to you in judgment or in beauty. I
cherish and honour you beyond all earthly things.”
A dreamy smile comes over her face. Again she raises her head to listen,
and again hears nothing. Wearily she paces round and round the fountain,
holding the letter still in her hands. Then she enters the palace by an
arcaded corridor, and mounting a flight of steps, seats herself in the
vestibule to await the King’s arrival. At length he enters the court
named “The White Horse.” Gabrielle is on the terrace to receive him.
“You are late, Sire.”
“Yes, sweetheart. I thought I should never get here. The Seine was
swollen and we had a saucy ferryman. Come hither, Gabrielle, and I will
tell you what he said, while he pulled us across the river. He was a
funny rogue.”
“Did he not know you then, Sire?”
“No. How should he in this grey doublet and with only a single
gentleman? He asked me if we were gallants for the Court. I said yes, we
were bound to Fontainebleau to hunt with the King. ‘People say we have a
hero for a King,’ he said; ‘but, _morbleu!_ this hero taxes everything.
Even the very boat your excellency sits in is taxed. We will pay for him
nevertheless; he is an honest King. But it is his mistress, folks say,
who wants the money to pay for her fine gauds and dresses. She is but a
plain gentlewoman born, after all. If she were a princess now, why then
I’d forgive her.’ So you see, Gabrielle, when you are a queen, the
people will love you and pay the taxes willingly.” And
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF FONTAINEBLEAU.
FROM AN OLD PRINT.]
Henry laughs and looks at Gabrielle, who has changed colour; but the
King does not observe it and continues his story. “ ‘Sirrah,’ I said to
him, ‘you malign a charming lady.’ ‘Devil take her!’ replied the
churlish ferrymen; ‘I wish she were in heaven.’ So I rode away without
paying my toll. The fellow bellowed after me, and ran, but could not
catch me. We will call this _drôle_ hither, and divert ourselves with
him.”
As Henry proceeds with his story, Gabrielle’s look of pain has deepened.
“I pray your Majesty to do nothing of the kind,” she answers sharply; “I
do not love coarse jokes.” Henry looks at her with surprise.
“I am wretched enough already, heaven knows, without being mocked by the
ribaldry of a low bargeman, who, after all, has reason for what he says.
Why did you tell me this story, Henry?” she adds in a plaintive tone,
bursting into tears. “Am I not degraded enough already?”
“How, Gabrielle, this from you? when, spite of every obstacle, within a
few weeks you will be crowned my queen?”
A knock is now heard at the door, and Sully enters. He looks hot and
surly. He barely salutes the King, and scowls at Gabrielle, who
instantly retreats to the farther corner of the room. Sully wears a
threadbare doublet, his grey hair is uncombed over his forehead, and he
carries some papers in his hand.
“Sire,” he says, addressing the King abruptly and unfolding these
papers, “if you pass this document, you had better declare yourself at
once the husband of her grace there, the Duchesse de Beaufort.” Sully
points at Gabrielle, who cowers in the corner.
Poor Gabrielle is thunderstruck, and trembles at the certainty of a
violent scene. She had often had to bear at different times roughness,
and even rudeness, from Sully, but such language as this she had never
heard. What does it mean?
The King takes the papers in his hand.
“What are these, Sully?” he says, looking grave. “Bills for the
entertainment given by the Duchesse de Beaufort for the baptism of my
second son, Alexandria, son of France, eight thousand francs!
Impossible! Baptismal fees for a son of France? There is no son of
France. I wish to God there were! What does all this mean, Sully?”
“It means, Sire, that if you sign that paper, I shall leave the Court.”
“Come, come, my good Rosny, you forget that the Duchess is present”; and
he glances at Gabrielle, who lay back on the arm-chair, weeping
bitterly.
“No, Sire; I mean what I say. My advice is disregarded; I am superseded
by a council of women”; and he turns fiercely towards the Duchesse. “The
nation groans under heavy taxes. Complaints reach me from every quarter.
What am I to do, if the revenues are squandered like this?”
Gabrielle’s sobs had now become audible. Henry, still holding the paper,
looks greatly perplexed.
“The amount is certainly enormous. Some enemy of her grace must have
done this. Tell me, Gabrielle, you cannot have sanctioned it? There are
no ‘sons of France.’ Say to me, Gabrielle, that you were ignorant of all
this.”
Gabrielle neither speaks nor moves, save that she shakes with sobs.
Sully gazes at her with a cynical air as of a man who would not be
deceived.
“You see, Rosny,” whispers the King into his ear, “that she does not
govern me, much as I love her. You do me wrong to say so.” Sully
shrugged his shoulders. “No, she shall not control you, who only live
for my service. I must make her feel that I am displeased. Speak,
Gabrielle,” he continues aloud, in a voice which he endeavours to make
severe, “speak.” Receiving no answer he turns away with affected
unconcern. Yet in spite of his words, he glances over his shoulder to
watch her. Had Sully not been present, he would have flown to her on the
spot and yielded. This Sully well knew; so he did not stir.
There is an awkward pause. Horrible suspicions rush into Gabrielle’s
mind. That strange story of the ferryman and the taxes; Sully’s
audacious language; the King’s coldness: it could only mean one thing,
and as this conviction comes over her, her heart dies within her.
“Sire,” she answers at last, suppressing her sobs as she best could and
approaching where Henry stood, affecting not to notice her, “I see that
you have permitted the Duc de Sully to come here in order to insult me.
You want to abandon me, Sire. Say so frankly; it is more worthy of you.
But remember that I am not here by my own wish, save for the love I bear
you.” As she utters these words her voice nearly failed her; but by a
strong effort she continues, “No one can feel more forlorn than I do.
Your Majesty has promised me marriage against the advice of your
ministers. This scene is arranged between you to justify you in breaking
your sacred word, else you could never allow the lady whom you design
for so high an honour to be thus treated in your very presence.”
Henry, placed between Sully and Gabrielle, is both angry and
embarrassed. Her bitter words have stung him to the quick. He knows that
she has no cause to doubt his loyalty.
“_Pardieu_, madame, you have made me a fine speech. You talk all this
nonsense to make me dismiss Rosny. If I must choose between you, let me
tell you, Duchesse, I can part with you better than with him.” Gabrielle
turns very pale, and clings to a chair for support. “Come, Rosny, we
will have a ride in the forest, and leave the Duchesse to recover her
usually sweet temper”; and without one look at her, Henry strode towards
the door.
These bitter words are more than his gentle mistress can bear. With a
wild scream she rushes forward, and falls flat upon the floor at the
King’s feet. Henry, greatly moved, gathers her up tenderly in his arms.
Even the stern Sully relents. He looks at her sorrowfully, shakes his
head, collects his papers, and departs.
The Holy-week is at hand. Gabrielle, who is to be crowned within a
month, is to communicate and keep her Easter publicly at Paris, while
the King remains at Fontainebleau. An unaccountable terror of Paris and
a longing desire not to leave the King overwhelm her. Again and again
she alters the hour of her departure. She takes Henry’s hand and wanders
with him to the Orangery, to the lake where the carp are fed, to the
fountain garden, and to the Salle de Diane, which he is building. She
cannot tear herself from him. She speaks much to him of their children,
and commends them again and again to his love. She adjures him not to
forget her during her absence.
“Why! _ma belle des belles!_” exclaims the King, “one would think you
were going round the world; remember, in ten days I shall join you in
Paris, and then my Gabrielle shall return to Fontainebleau as Queen of
France. I have ordered that _bon diable_ Zametti, to receive you at
Paris as though you were already crowned.”
Now Zametti was an Italian Jew from Genoa, who had originally come to
France in the household of Catherine de’ Medici, as her shoemaker. He
had served her and all her sons in that capacity, until Henry III.,
amused by his jests, and perceiving him to be a man of no mean talents,
gave him a place in the Customs. Zametti’s fortune was made, and he
became henceforth usurer and money-lender in chief to the reigning
monarch.
“I love not Zametti,” replies Gabrielle, shuddering. “I wish I were
going to my aunt, Madame de Sourdis, she always gives me good advice.
Cannot your Majesty arrange that it should be so still?”
“It is too late, sweetheart. I do not like Madame de Sourdis; she is not
a fitting companion for my Gabrielle. Zametti has, by my orders, already
prepared his house for your reception, and certain _parures_ for your
approval; besides, what objection can you have to Zametti, the most
courteous and amusing of men?”
“Alas! Henry, I cannot tell; but I dread him. I would I were back again.
I feel as though I were entering a tomb. I am haunted by the most dismal
fancies.”
She drives through the forest accompanied by the King, who rides beside
her litter, attended by the Ducs de Retz, Roquelaure, Montbazon, and the
Maréchal d’Ornano, to Mélun, where a royal barge awaits her, attended by
a flotilla of boats decorated with flags and streamers in the Venetian
style. Here they take a tender farewell; again and again Gabrielle
throws herself upon the King’s neck and whispers through her tears that
they will never meet again. Henry laughs, but, seeing her agitation,
would have accompanied her and have braved the religious prejudices of
the Parisians, had it not been for the entreaties of D’Ornano. Almost by
force is he restrained. Gabrielle embarks; he stands watching her as the
barge is towed rapidly through the stream; one more longing, lingering
look she casts upon him, then disappears from his sight. Downcast and
sorrowful the King rides back to Fontainebleau.
All night long Gabrielle is towed up the river. She arrives at Paris in
the morning. Zametti, the Italian usurer and jeweller, with a numerous
suite of nobles and attendants, is waiting on the quay to receive her.
She is carried to Zametti’s house, or rather palace, for it was a
princely abode, near the Arsenal, in the new quarter of Paris then
called the Marais.
Here unusual luxuries await her, such as were common only in Italy and
among Italian princes: magnificent furniture, embroidered stuffs,
delicious perfumes, rich dishes. She rests through the day (the evening
having been passed in the company of the Duchesse de Guise and her
daughter), and the first night she sleeps well. Next day she rises early
and goes to church. Before she leaves the house, Zametti presents her
with a highly decorated filigree bottle, containing a strong perfume.
Before the service is over she faints. She is carried back and placed,
by her own desire, in Zametti’s garden, under a tuft of trees. She calls
for refreshments. Again in the garden she sinks back insensible. This
time it is very difficult to revive her. When she recovers, she is
undressed and orders a litter to be instantly prepared to bear her to
her aunt’s house, which is situated near Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois,
close to the Louvre.
In the meantime her head aches violently, but she is carried to her
aunt’s, where she is put to bed. Here she lies with her sweet eyes wide
open and turned upward, her beautiful face livid, and her mouth
distorted. In her anguish she calls incessantly for the King. He cannot
come, for it is Holy-week, which he must pass out of her company. She
tries to write to him, to tell him of her condition. The pen drops from
her hand. A letter from him is given her; she cannot read it.
Convulsions come on, and she expires insensible.
That she died poisoned is certain. Poisoned either by the subtle perfume
in the filigree bottle, or by some highly flavoured dish of Zametti’s
Italian _cuisine_.
CHAPTER XXVI.
BIRON’S TREASON.
The scene is again at Fontainebleau. Henry’s brow is knit. He is gloomy
and sad. With slow steps he quits the palace by the Golden Gate, passes
through the parterre garden under the shadow of the lime _berceau_ which
borders the long façade of the palace, and reaches a pavilion under a
grove of trees overlooking the park and the canal. This pavilion is the
house he has built for Sully. The statesman is seated writing in an
upper chamber overlooking the avenues leading to the forest.
The King enters unannounced; he throws his arms round Sully, then sinks
into a chair. Sully looks at him unmoved. He is accustomed to outbreaks
of passion and remorse caused by the King’s love affairs, and he
mentally ascribes his master’s present trouble to this cause. “Sully,”
says Henry, speaking at last, “I am betrayed, betrayed by my dearest
friend. _Ventre de ma vie!_ Maréchal Biron has conspired against me,
with Spain.”
“How, Sire?” cries Sully, bounding from his chair; “have you proofs?”
“Ay, Sully, only too complete; his agent and secretary Lafin has
confessed everything. Lafin is now at Fontainebleau. I have long doubted
the good faith of Biron, but I must now bring myself to hold him as a
traitor.”
“If your Majesty has sufficient proofs,” said Sully, re-seating himself,
“have him at once arrested. Allow him no time to communicate with your
enemies.”
“No, Sully, no; I cannot do that: I must give my old friend a chance. Of
his treason, there is, however, no question. He has intrigued for years
with the Duke of Savoy and with Spain, giving out as his excuse that the
Catholic faith is endangered by my heresy, and that I am a Calvinist. He
has entered into a treasonable alliance with Bouillon and D’Auvergne;
and worse, oh, far worse than all, during the campaign in Switzerland he
commanded the battery of St. Catherine’s Fort to be pointed against
me.--God knows how I was saved.”
“Monstrous!” cries Sully, casting up his hands. “And your Majesty
dallies with such a miscreant?”
“Yes, I can make excuses for him. He has been irritated against me by
the base insinuations of the Duke of Savoy. Biron is vain, hot-tempered,
and credulous. I know every detail. He shall come here to Fontainebleau:
I have summoned him. The sight of his old master will melt his heart. He
will confide in me; he will confess, and I shall pardon him.”
“I trust it may be as your Majesty wishes,” answers Sully; “but you are
playing a dangerous game, Sire. God help you safe out of it.”
Biron, ignorant of the treachery of Lafin, arrives at Fontainebleau. He
reckons on the King’s ignorance and their old friendship, and trusts to
a confident bearing and a bold denial of all charges. They meet--the
Maréchal and the King--in the great parterre, where, it being the month
of June, sweetly scented herbs and gay flowers fill the diamonded
beds--under the lime _berceau_ surrounding the garden. Biron, perfectly
composed, makes three low obeisances to the King, then kisses his hand.
Henry salutes him. His eyes are moist as he looks at him. “You have done
well to confide in me,” he says; “I am very glad to see you, Biron,” and
he passes his arm round the Maréchal’s neck, and draws him off to
describe to him the many architectural plans he has formed for the
embellishment of the château, and to show him the great “gallery of
Diana” which is in course of decoration. He hopes that Biron will
understand his feelings, and that kindness will tempt him to confess his
crime. Biron, however, is convinced that if he braves the matter out, he
will escape; he ascribes Henry’s clemency to an infatuated attachment to
himself. He wears an unruffled brow, is cautious and plausible though
somewhat silent, carefully avoids all topics which might lead to
discussion of any matters touching his conduct, and pointedly disregards
the hints thrown out from time to time by the King. Henry is miserable;
he feels he must arrest the Maréchal. Sully urges him to lose no time.
Still his generous heart longs to save his old friend and companion in
arms.
Towards evening the Court is assembled in the great saloon. The King is
playing a game of _primero_. Biron enters. He invites him to join; Biron
accepts, and takes up the cards with apparent unconcern. The King
watches him; is silent and absent, and makes many mistakes in the game.
The clock strikes eleven, Henry rises, and taking Biron by the arm,
leads him into a small retiring-room or cabinet at the bottom of the
throne-room, now forming part of that large apartment. The King closes
the door carefully. His countenance is darkened by excitement and
anxiety. His manner is so constrained and unnatural that Biron begins to
question himself as to his safety; still he sees no other resource but
to brave his treason out. “My old companion,” says the King, in an
unsteady voice, standing in the centre of the room, “you and I are
countrymen; we have known each other from boyhood. We were playfellows.
I was then the poor Prince de Béarn, and you, Biron, a cadet of Gontaut.
Our fortunes have changed since then. I am a great king, and you are a
Duke and Maréchal of France.” Biron bows; his confident bearing does not
fail him.
“Now, Biron,” and Henry’s good-natured face grows stern--“I have called
you here to say, that if you do not instantly confess the truth (and all
the truth, instantly, mind), you will repent it bitterly. I was in hopes
you would have done so voluntarily, but you have not.--Now I can wait no
longer.”
“Sire, I have not failed in my duty,” replies Biron haughtily; “I have
nothing to confess; you do me injustice.”
“Alas, my old friend, this denial does not avail you. I know
_all_!”--and Henry sighs and fixes his eyes steadfastly upon him. “I
conjure you to make a voluntary confession. Spare me the pain of your
public trial. I have kept the matter purposely secret. I will not
disgrace you, if possible.”
“Sire,” answers Biron, with a well-simulated air of offended dignity. “I
have already said I have nothing to confess. I can only beseech your
Majesty to confront me with my accusers.”
“That cannot be done without public disgrace--without danger to your
life, Maréchal. Come, Biron,” he adds, in a softer tone, and turning his
eyes upon him where he stands before him, dogged and obstinate; “come,
my old friend, believe me, every detail is known to me; your life is in
my hand.”
“Sire, you will never have any other answer from me. Where are my
accusers?”
“Avow all, Biron, fearlessly,” continues Henry, in the same tone, as if
not hearing him. “Open your heart to me;--I can make allowances for you,
perchance many allowances. You have been told lies, you have been sorely
tempted. Open your heart,--I will screen you.”
“Sire, my heart is true. Remember it was I who first proclaimed you
king, when you had not a dozen followers at Saint-Cloud,” Biron speaks
with firmness, but avoids the piercing glance of the King; “I shall be
happy to answer any questions, but I have nothing to confess.”
“_Ventre Saint Gris!_” cries Henry, reddening, “are you mad? Confess at
once--make haste about it. If you do not, I swear by the crown I wear to
convict you publicly as a felon and a traitor. But I would save you,
Maréchal,” adds Henry in an altered voice, laying his hand upon his arm,
“God knows I would save you, if you will let me. _Pardieu!_ I will
forgive you all!” he exclaims, in an outburst of generous feeling.
“Sire, I can only reply--confront me with my accusers. I am your
Majesty’s oldest friend. I have no desire but the service of your
Majesty.”
“Would to God it were so!” exclaims the King, turning upon Biron a look
of inexpressible compassion. Then moving towards the door he opens it,
and looks back at Biron, who still stands where he has left him, with
his arms crossed, in the centre of the room. “Adieu, _Baron_ de
Biron!”--and the King emphasises the word “Baron,” his original title
before he had received titles and honours--“adieu! I would have saved
you had you let me--your blood be on your own head.” The door
closed--Henry was gone.
Biron gave a deep sigh of relief, passed his hand over his brow, which
was moist with perspiration, and prepared to follow.
As he was passing the threshold, Vitry, the Captain of the Guard, seized
him by the shoulder, and wrenched his sword from its scabbard. “I arrest
you, Duc de Biron!”
Biron staggered, and looked up with astonishment. “This must be some
jest, Vitry!”
“No jest, monseigneur. In the King’s name, you are my prisoner.”
“As a peer of France, I claim my right to speak with his Majesty!” cried
Biron, loudly. “Lead me to the King!”
“No, Duke; the King is gone--his Majesty refuses to see you again.”
Once in the hands of justice, Biron vainly solicited the pardon which
Henry would gladly have granted. He was arraigned before the parliament,
convicted of treason, and beheaded at the Bastille _privately_, the
only favour he could obtain from the master he had betrayed.
* * * * *
The pleasant days are now long past when Henry wandered, disguised as a
Spaniard or a peasant, together with Bellegarde and Chicot, in search of
adventures--when he braved the enemy to meet Gabrielle, and escaped the
ambuscades of the League by a miracle. He lives principally at the
Louvre, and is always surrounded by a brilliant Court. He has grown
clumsy and round-shouldered, and shows much of the Gascon swagger in his
gait. He is coarse-featured and red-faced; his hair is white; his nose
seems longer--in a word, he is uglier than ever. His manners are
rougher, and he is still more free of tongue. There is a senile leer in
his eyes, peering from under the tuft of feathers that rests on the brim
of his felt hat, as cane in hand, he passes from group to group of
deeply curtseying beauties in the galleries of the Louvre. He has
neither the chivalric bearing of Francis I., nor the refined elegance of
the Valois Princes. Beginning with his first wife, “la reine Margot,”
the most fascinating, witty, and depraved princess of her day, his
experience of the sex has been various. The only woman who really loved
him was poor Gabrielle, and to her alone he had been tolerably constant.
Her influence over him was gentle and humane, and, although she sought
to legalise their attachment by marriage, she was singularly free from
pride or personal ambition.
Now she is dead. He has wedded a new wife, Marie de’ Medici, whose ample
charms and imperious ways are little to his taste. “We have married
you,
[Illustration: MARIE DE MEDICIS
FROM A STEEL ENGRAVING]
Sire,” said Sully to him, entering his room one day, bearing the
marriage contract in his hand, “you have only to affix your signature.”
“Well, well,” Henry had replied, “so be it. If the good of France
demands it, I will marry.” Nevertheless, he had bitten his nails
furiously and stamped up and down the room for some hours, like a man
possessed. Ever reckless of consequences, he consoles himself by
plunging deeper than ever into a series of intrigues which compromise
his dignity and create endless difficulties and dangers.
What complicated matters was his readiness to promise marriage. He would
have had more wives than our Henry VIII. could he have made good all his
engagements. Gabrielle would have been his queen in a few weeks had not
the subtle poison of Zametti, the Italian usurer, cleared her from the
path of the Florentine bride. Even in the short interval between her
death and the landing of Marie de’ Medici at Marseilles, he had yielded
to the wiles of Henriette de Balsac d’Entragues, half-sister to the
Comte d’Auvergne, son of Charles IX., and had given her a formal promise
of marriage.
Henriette cared only for the sovereign, not for the man, who was old
enough to be her father. In the glory of youth and insolence of beauty,
stealthy, clever, and remorseless, a finished coquette and a reckless
_intrigante_, she allured him into signing a formal contract of
marriage, affianced though he was to a powerful princess proposed by the
reigning Pontiff, whose good-will it was important to the King, always a
cold Catholic, to secure.
The new favourite claimed to be of royal blood through her mother,
Marie Touchet, and, therefore, a fitting consort for the King. She
showed her “marriage lines” to every one--did not hesitate to assert
that she, not Marie de’ Medici, was the lawful wife; that the King would
shortly acknowledge her as such, and send the Queen back whence she
came, together with the hated Concini, her chamber-women and secretary,
along with all the jesters and mountebanks who had come with her from
Italy. Endless complications ensued with the new Queen. Quarrels,
recriminations, and reproaches ran so high that Marie on one occasion
struck the King in the face. Henry was disgusted with her ill-temper,
but was too generous either to coerce or to control her. Her Italian
confidants, Concini and his wife, however, made capital of these
dissensions to incense Marie violently against her husband, and at the
same time to gain influence over herself. Henry was watched,--no very
difficult undertaking, as he had assigned a magnificent suite of rooms
in the Louvre to his new mistress, between whose apartments and those of
the wife there was but a single corridor.
Henrietta meanwhile lived with all the pomp of a sovereign; there were
feasts at Zametti’s, balls, and jousts, and hunting-parties at
Saint-Germain and Fontainebleau. Foreign ambassadors and ministers
scoured the country after the King; so engaged was he in pleasure and
junketing.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A COURT MARRIAGE.
The great gallery of the Louvre is just completed. It is on the first
floor, and approached through a circular hall with a fine mosaic floor;
it has painted walls and a vaulted ceiling. The gallery is lighted by
twelve lofty windows looking towards the quays and the river, which
glitters without in the morning sun. Every inch of this sumptuous
apartment is painted and laden with gilding; the glittering ceiling
rests upon a cornice, where Henry’s initials are blended with those of
the dead Gabrielle. A crowd of lords-in-waiting and courtiers walk up
and down, loll upon settees, or gather in groups within the deep
embrasures of the windows, to discuss in low tones the many scandals of
the day, as they await his Majesty’s lover. Presently Maréchal
Bassompierre enters. Bassompierre, the friend and confidant of Henry, as
great a libertine as his master, who has left behind him a minute
chronicle of his life, is a tall, burly man; his face is bronzed by the
long campaigns against the League, and his bearing as he moves up and
down, his sword clanging upon the polished floor, has more of the
swagger of the camp than the refinement of the Court. He wears the
uniform of the Musketeers who guard the person of the King, and on his
broad breast is the ribbon of the Order of the “Saint-Esprit.” He is
joined by the Duc de Roquelaure. Now Roquelaure is an effeminate-looking
man, a gossip and a dandy, the retailer of the latest scandal, the
block upon which the newest fashions are tried. He wears a doublet of
rose-coloured Florence satin quilted with silk, stiff with embroidery
and sown with seed-pearls. The sleeves are slashed with cloth of silver;
a golden chain, with a huge medallion set in diamonds, hangs round his
neck. Placed jauntily over his ear is a velvet cap with a jewelled clasp
and white ostrich plume. Broad golden lace borders his hose, and
high-heeled Cordovan boots--for he desires to appear tall--of amber
leather, with huge golden spurs, complete his attire. Being a man of low
stature--a pigmy beside the Marshal--as the sun streams upon him from
the broad window-panes, he looks like a gaudy human butterfly.
“Well, Bassompierre,” says the Duke eagerly, standing on the points of
his toes, “is it true that your marriage with the incomparable Charlotte
de Montmorenci is broken off?”
Bassompierre bows his head in silence, and a sorrowful look passes over
his jovial face.
“_Pardieu!_ Marshal, for a rejected lover you seem well and hearty. Are
you going to break your heart, or the Prince of Condé’s head--eh,
Marshal?”
A malicious twinkle gathers in Roquelaure’s eye, for there is a certain
satisfaction to a man of his inches in seeing a giant like Bassompierre
unsuccessful.
“Neither, Duke,” replies Bassompierre drily. “I shall in this matter, as
in all others, submit myself to his Majesty’s pleasure.”
“Mighty well spoken, Marshal; you are a perfect model of our court
virtue. But how can a worshipper of ‘the great Alexander,’ at the court
of ‘Lutetia,’ in the very presence of the divine Millegarde, the superb
Dorinda, and all the attendant knights and ladies, tolerate the affront,
the dishonour of a public rejection?” And Roquelaure takes out an
enamelled snuff-box, taps it, and with a pinch of scented snuff between
fingers covered with rings awaits a reply. “Not but that any gentleman,”
continues he, receiving no answer, “who marries the fair Montmorenci
will have perforce to submit to his Majesty’s pleasure--eh, Marshal, you
understand?” and Roquelaure takes his pinch of snuff and dusts his
perfumed beard.
“I cannot allow the lady to be made a subject for idle gossip, Duke,”
replies Bassompierre, drawing himself up to his full height and eying
the other grimly. “Although I am not to have the honour of being her
husband, her good name is as dear to me as before.”
“But, _morbleu_! who blames the lady?”
“Not I--I never blamed a lady in my life, let her do what she may--it is
my creed of honour.’
“But his Majesty’s passion for her is so unconcealed. Perhaps, Marshal,
the King understood that this marriage must break up your ancient
friendship?”
Bassompierre scowls, but makes no reply.
“The King has grown young again,” continues Roquelaure. “Our noble Henri
Quatre,--he orders new clothes every day, wears embroidered collars,
sleeves of carnation satin--(I brought in the mode)” and he glances at
his own--“and scents and perfumes his hair and beard. We are to have
another tournament to-morrow in honour of the marriage of the Prince de
Condé--in reality to show off a suit of armour his Majesty has received
from Milan. Will you have the heart to be present, Marshal?”
“Yes, Duke, I shall attend his Majesty as usual,” replies Bassompierre,
turning away with an offended air.
“Come, Marshal, between such old friends as you and I these airs of
distance are absurd”; and the Duke lays his hand on the other’s arm to
detain him. “Own to me honestly that this marriage with the Prince de
Condé gives you great concern----”
Bassompierre hangs down his head and plays with his sword-knot. “I
should have desired a better husband for her, truly,” answers he in a
low voice. “The Prince is a shabby fellow, with an evil temper. I fear
Mademoiselle de Montmorenci can never affect him,” and a deep sigh
escapes him.
“Never, never,” rejoins Roquelaure, looking round to note who arrives,
“it is an ill-assorted union. You, Bassompierre, would have loved her
well. It was possible she might have reformed your manners. Ha! I have
you there, Marshal. Pardon my joke,” adds he, as he sees a dark scowl
again gathering on the Marshal’s face. “But Condé, the _rustre_, he
hates women--I never saw him address one in his life; a cold, austere
fellow, as solitary as an owl; a miser, and silent too--if he does speak
he is rude and ungracious; and with the temper of a fiend. If he does
right, it is only through obstinacy. I am told he suspects the lady
already, and has set spies to watch her. A pretty match for the fair
Montmorenci truly, who has lived with a sovereign at her feet.”
“Duke,” cries Bassompierre fiercely, secretly writhing under the Duke’s
malicious probing of a heart-wound which still bled, “I have already
observed that any inuendoes touching Mademoiselle de Montmorenci
displease me.”
“Inuendoes! why, Marshal, even Condé confessed the other day that rich
as was the prize, and surpassing the lady, he hesitated to accept ‘one
whom the King’s attention had made so notorious!’ ”
Bassompierre’s eyes flash. He is about to make an angry rejoinder when a
page approaches and summons them to attend his Majesty.
The marriage between Charlotte de Montmorenci and the Prince de Condé
was, as had been anticipated, a failure. Condé, devoured by jealousy,
shut up his wife at Chantilly, or at the still more remote Château of
Muret. The petted beauty, accustomed to the incense of a Court and the
avowed admiration of an infatuated sovereign, scolded and wept, but in
vain. The more bitterly they quarrelled, the more deep and dangerous
became Condé’s enmity to Henry. Disloyalty was the tradition of his
race, rebellious practices with Spain the habit of his house. We have
seen how a Condé was ready to usurp the throne under pretence of a
Regency, during the conflict with the Huguenots at Amboise. His son,
“the great Condé,” is by-and-by to head the standard of revolt, and at
the head of Spanish troops to bring France to the brink of ruin. Avarice
had led him to accept the hand of Charlotte de Montmorenci--avarice and
poverty--and he had counted upon constant espionage and absence from
Court as sufficient precautions. But he was young: he had yet to learn
the wilfulness of his wife and the audacity of the King. As he gradually
discovered that the Princess was neither to be soothed nor coerced, his
rage knew no bounds. Sully, seriously alarmed at the rumours that
reached him respecting the Prince’s language, requested a visit from him
at the Arsenal.
Sully is seated in a sombre closet--looking towards the towers of
Notre-Dame--at a table covered with papers. Condé is tall, thin, and
slightly made. He is singularly ill-favoured, with dark hair and swarthy
skin, a nose quite out of proportion with the rest of his face, and a
sinister expression in his eyes. On entering he cannot conceal his
uneasiness.
“Be seated, monseigneur,” says Sully, scanning him from under his heavy
eyebrows. “I have no time to spare--therefore I must use plain words.
You speak of the King my master in terms that do you little credit. You
are playing the devil, Prince. The King’s patience is well-nigh
exhausted. I am commanded to keep back the payment of the pension you
receive to mark his Majesty’s displeasure. If this has no effect upon
you, other means must be tried.”
While Sully speaks, Condé sits opposite to him unmoved, save that his
dark face hardens, and he fixes his sullen eyes steadfastly upon Sully.
“If I am what you say,” replies he at last doggedly, “if I speak ill of
his Majesty, am I not justified? He is determined to ruin me. He
persecutes me because I choose to keep my wife in the country. It is my
desire to leave France--then I shall no longer give his Majesty
offence.”
“Impossible, monseigneur! As a Prince of the blood your place is at
Court, beside the Sovereign.”
“What! have I not liberty even to visit my own sister, the Princess of
Orange, at Breda, in company with the Princess, my wife? That can be no
affront to his Majesty. Surely, Monsieur de Sully, you cannot advise the
King to refuse so reasonable a request?”
“I shall advise him to refuse it, monseigneur, nevertheless. Persons of
your rank cannot leave the kingdom--the very act is treason.”
Condé casts up his eyes, and his hands--
“Was ever a man so ill used? My personal liberty denied me! My very
allowance stopped!”
“It is said, Prince, that you have plenty of Spanish doubloons at
Chantilly,” returns Sully significantly.
“It is false--tales to ruin me. Ever since my marriage I have been
pursued by informers. It was by his Majesty’s command I married. Now he
desires to seduce my wife--that is the truth. If I appear ungrateful,
there is my reason.”
“His Majesty assures me, Prince,” breaks in Sully, “that his sentiments
towards your illustrious consort are those of a father.”
“A father! Why, then, does he come disguised to Chantilly? He has been
seen hiding in the woods there and at Muret. A pretty father, indeed! By
the grace of God, I will submit to the tyranny of no such a father. It
is a thraldom unbecoming my birth, my position, and my honour! While the
King acts thus I will not come to Court, to be an object of pity and
contempt!”
“You speak of tyranny, Prince, towards yourself. It may be well for your
highness to consider, however, that the King, my master, has to a
certain extent justified your accusation.” Condé looks up at him
keenly. “But it is tyranny exercised in your favour, Monsieur le Prince,
not to your prejudice.”
Sully’s eyes are bent upon the Prince. While he speaks a half smile
flitters about his mouth.
“I do not understand you, Duke. Explain yourself,” replies Condé, with
real or affected ignorance; but something in the expression of Sully’s
face caused him to drop the tone of bravado he had hitherto assumed.
“His Majesty, Prince, has justified your accusation of tyranny by having
hitherto insisted, nay even compelled, those about him to acknowledge
you--well--_for what you are not_!”
Condé almost bounds from his seat. There was a horrible suspicion that
his mother had shortened his father’s life, and this suspicion had cast
doubts upon his legitimacy.
Sully sits back in his chair and contemplates Condé at his ease.
“Your highness will, I think, do well for the future to consider how
much you owe to his Majesty’s bounty in many ways.” And these last words
are strongly emphasised. Condé is silent. “Again, I say, as your
highness is fortunately accepted as a Prince of the blood, you must bear
the penalties of this high position.”
Condé, who has turned ashy pale, rises with difficulty--he even holds
the table for support.
“Have you more to say to me, Duc de Sully, or is our interview ended?”
He speaks in a suppressed voice, and looks careworn and haggard.
“Monseigneur, I have now only to thank you for the honour you have done
me in coming here,” replies Sully, rising, a malicious smile upon his
face. “I commend to your consideration the remarks I have had the honour
to make to you. Believe me, you owe everything to the King, my master.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE PREDICTION FULFILLED.
Henry was seated in his closet playing at cards, with Bassompierre, the
Comtes de Soissons, Cœuvres, and Monseigneur de Lorraine. It was
late, and the game was almost concluded, when Monsieur d’Ellène, a
gentleman-in-waiting, entered hurriedly, and whispered something in the
King’s ear. In an instant Henry’s face expressed the utmost
consternation. He threw down his cards, clenched his fists with passion,
and rose hastily; then, leaning over upon Bassompierre’s shoulder, who
sat next to him, he said in a low voice--
“Marshal, I am lost. Condé has fled with his wife into the woods. God
knows whether he means to murder her, or carry her out of France. Take
care of my cards. Go on playing. I must learn more particulars. Do the
same, and follow me as soon as you can.” And he left the room.
But the sudden change in the King’s face and manner had spread alarm in
the circle. No one would play any more, and Bassompierre was assailed
with eager questions. He was obliged to reply that he believed the
Prince de Condé had left France. At this astounding news every tongue
was let loose. Bassompierre then retired, and after having made himself
master of every particular, joined the King, in order to inform him.
Henry listened with horror to Bassompierre’s narrative. Meanwhile, late
as it was (midnight), he commanded a council of state to be called. The
ministers assembled as quickly as was possible. There were present the
Chancellor, the President Jeannin, Villeroy, and the Comtes de
Cœuvres and De Cremail. Henry hastily seated himself at the top of
the table.
“Well, Chancellor, well,--you have heard this dreadful news,” said he,
addressing him. “The poor young Princess! What is your advice? How can
we save her?”
Bellièvre, a grave lawyer, looked astounded at the King’s vehemence.
“Surely, Sire, you cannot apprehend any personal danger to the
illustrious lady?” said he, with hesitation. “The Princesse de Condé is
with her husband, he will doubtless act as is fitting.”
“_Ventre Saint Gris!_” cried the King, boiling with passion. “I want no
comments--the remedy. What is the remedy? How can we rescue her?”
“Well, Sire, if you have reason to misdoubt the good faith of the Prince
de Condé, if her highness be in any danger, you must issue edicts,
proclaim fines, and denounce all persons who harbour and abet him; but I
would advise your Majesty to pause.”
Henry turned away with a violent gesture.
“Now, Villeroy, speak. If the Princess is out of the kingdom, what is to
be done?”
“Your Majesty can do nothing then but through your ambassadors.
Representation must be made to the Court of the country whither the
Prince has fled. You must demand the Prince’s restitution as a rebel.”
The King shrugged his shoulders with infinite disgust. Such slow
measures little suited his impetuous humour.
“Now, President Jeannin,” said Henry, “let us hear your opinion. These
other counsels are too lengthy. God knows what mischief may ere this
have happened.”
“I advise your Majesty,” replied the President, “to send a trusty
officer after the Prince and bring him back along with his wife, if
within the realm. He is doubtless on his way to Flanders. If he has
passed the frontier, the Archduke, who would not willingly offend your
Majesty, will, doubtless, dismiss the Prince at your desire.”
Henry nodded his head approvingly, and turned quickly round to issue
orders at once to follow this advice, which suited the urgency of the
case; all at once he remembered that Sully was not present, and he
hesitated.
“Where is Sully?” cried he.
“Monsieur de Praslin,” replied Bassompierre, who had just left him, “has
been again despatched to fetch him from the Arsenal; but he is not yet
arrived.”
At this moment the door opened, and Sully appeared. It was evident that
he was in one of his surliest moods. Henry, preoccupied as he was,
observed this, and, fearing some outburst, dismissed the Council and
Bassompierre, and carefully shut the door.
“Sully, what am I to do? By the mass! that monster, my nephew, has fled,
and carried off my dear Charlotte with him!”
This was not, as has been seen, the first time that the grave statesman
Sully had been consulted in his master’s love affairs. He had passed
very many hours in endeavouring to cajole Henriette d’Entragues to give
up the fatal marriage contract signed by the King; he had all but
quarrelled with his master in opposing his marriage with Gabrielle
d’Estrées; and he had been called up in the dead of night to remonstrate
with the Queen when, in consequence of a violent quarrel, she had sworn
that she would leave the Louvre. Sully, like the King, had grown old,
and was tired of acting adviser to a headstrong master, whose youthful
follies never seemed to end. Now he gave a grunt of disapproval.
“I am not surprised, Sire. I told you the Prince would go. If he went
himself, it was not likely he would leave his wife behind him--was it?
That would have been too complaisant in his highness. If you wanted to
secure him, you should have shut him up in the Bastille.”
“Sully, this raillery is ill-timed. I am distressed beyond all words.
The Princess is in an awful predicament. Laperrière’s son brought the
news. His father was their guide. He left them in the middle of a dismal
forest. He shall be paid a mine of gold for his information.”
[Illustration: COUCY--INTERIOR, SHOWING THICKNESS OF WALLS.]
Sully shook his head and cast up his hands.
“God help us!” muttered he.
“Never was anything more dreadful,” continued the King. “My beloved
Charlotte was lured from Muret under the pretence of a hunting-party.
She was to be carried to the rendezvous in a coach. The dear creature
started before daylight, says Laperrière’s son, and as the morning
broke, found herself in a strange part of the country--in a plain far
from the forest. She stopped the coach, and called to Virrey, who rode
by the door, and asked him whither they were going? Virrey, confused,
said he would ride on and ask the Prince, who was in advance, leading
the way, the cowardly scoundrel!” and Henry shook his fist in the air.
“My nephew came up, and told her she was on her road to Breda, upon
which the sweet soul screamed aloud, says Laperrière, and lamented,
entreating to be allowed to return. But that ruffian, Condé, rode off
and left her in the middle of the road, bidding the driver push forward.
At last they came to Couçy, where they changed horses. Just as they were
about again to start the coach broke down.”
“Praised be God!” ejaculated Sully. “I hope no one was found to mend
it.”
“Sully, I believe you are without heart or feeling,” cried the King,
reproachfully.
“Not at all, Sire; but my heart and my feelings also are with your
Majesty, not with the Princess. Proceed, Sire, with this touching
narrative.”
“Condé then, says Laperrière, the night beginning to fall, purchased a
pillion at Couçy, and mounted his wife behind him on horseback.” Sully
shook with laughter; but fearing to offend his master, suppressed it as
well as he could. “Her two attendants mounted behind two of the suite,
the guides being in advance. It rained heavily. _Pardieu!_ I can hardly
bear to speak of it. My dear Charlotte in such a condition! The night
was dark; but Condé rode on like a devil incarnate to Castellin, the
first village across the frontier. When she was taken down, Charlotte
fainted.” The tears ran down Henry’s cheeks as he said this. “She
fainted; and then Laperrière, convinced of some treason on the part of
my nephew, despatched his son to tell me these particulars. Now, Sully,”
and the King rose suddenly and seized his hand, shaking off the sorrow
that had overcome him during the narrative, “now tell me, what am I to
do? I would lose my Crown rather than not succour her.”
“Do nothing, Sire,” replied Sully quietly.
“How, Sully! Do nothing?”
“Yes, Sire; I advise you--I implore you, do nothing. If you leave Condé
to himself he will be laughed at. Even his friends will ridicule his
escapade. In three months he will be back again at Court with the
Princess, ashamed of himself. Meantime Madame la Princesse will see
foreign Courts, acquire the Spanish manner from the Archduchess, and
return more fascinating than ever. On the other hand, if you pursue him,
you will exalt him into a political victim; all your Majesty’s enemies
will rally round him.”
Excellent advice, which the King was too infatuated to follow!
Forgetting all decency, and even the law of nations, he insisted on
punishing Condé as a rebel, and called on the Spanish Government
formally to release the Princess. Spain refused; and this ridiculous
passion may be said to have been the approximate cause of that
formidable alliance against Spain in which, at the time of his death,
Henry was about to engage.
The favour which Henry had shown his Protestant subjects had long
rankled in the minds of the Catholics. He was held to be a renegade and
a traitor. It was affirmed that his conversion was a sham, to which he
lent himself only the more effectually to advance the interests of the
reformed faith. While he gave himself up to amorous follies and prepared
for foreign wars, a network of hate, treachery, and fanaticism was fast
closing around him. Enemies and spies filled the Louvre, and dogged his
every movement. Already the footsteps of the assassin approached.
After the birth of the Dauphin a strong political party had gathered
round Marie de’ Medici. Her constant dissensions with the King, her
bitter complaints, and the scandal of his private life, afforded
sufficient grounds for elevating her into a kind of martyr.
The intrigues of Concini, whose easy manners, elegant person, and
audacious counsels had raised him from a low hanger-on at Court into the
principal adviser of his royal mistress, gradually contrived to identify
her interests with those of the great feudal princes, still absolute
sovereigns in their own territory. The maintenance of the Catholic
Church against heresy, and the security of the throne for her son, were
the ostensible motives of this coalition. But the bond between Marie
and her chief supporters, the powerful Ducs de Bouillon and d’Epernon,
was in reality a common hatred of Henry and a bitter jealousy of Sully,
whose clear intellect and firm hand had directed with such extraordinary
sagacity the helm of state throughout Henry’s long and stormy reign.
Evil influences, which displayed themselves in predictions, warnings,
and prophesies, were abroad. The death of the King would at once raise
Marie, as Regent for her son, to sovereign power, and throw the whole
control of the State into the hands of her adherents. How far Marie was
implicated in the events about to happen can never be known, and whether
she listened to the dark hints of her Italian attendants, _that by the
King’s death alone_ she could find relief. But undoubtedly the barbarous
cruelty with which Concini and his wife were afterwards murdered by
Henry’s friends had regard to this suspicion. Whether the Duc d’Epernon
knew beforehand of the conspiracy, and insured his master’s death by a
final thrust when he had already been struck by the assassin, or whether
Henriette d’Entragues, out of revenge for the King’s passion for the
Princesse de Condé, herself instigated Ravaillac to the act, must ever
remain a mystery.
Marie de’ Medici, urged by the Concini, and advised by her friend the
Duc d’Epernon, was at this time unceasing in her entreaties to the King
to consent to her coronation at Saint-Denis. According to her varying
mood she either wept, raved and stamped about the room, or kissed,
coaxed, and cajoled him. And there was cause for her pertinacity.
Henry’s weak compliances with Henriette d’Entragues’ pretensions, her
residence in the Louvre, and her boastings of that unhappy promise of
marriage, had given occasion for questions to arise touching the
legitimacy of the Dauphin. Those who were politically opposed to the
King would be ready, at any moment after his death, to justify rebellion
on the pretence of a prior contract invalidating his present marriage.
Such an idea drove the Queen frantic. There was no peace for Henry until
he consented to her coronation. Yet he was strangely reluctant to
comply. An unaccountable presentiment of danger connected with that
ceremony pursued him. He had never been the same since the loss of the
Princesse de Condé. Now he was dull, absent, and indifferent, ate little
and slept ill. Nothing interested or pleased him, save the details of
his great campaign against Spain, which was about to convulse all
Europe.
“Ah, my friend,” said he to Sully, “how this ceremony of the coronation
distresses me. Whenever I think about it I cannot shake off sinister
forebodings. Alas! I fear I shall never live to head my army. I shall
die in this city of Paris. I shall never see the Princesse de Condé
again. Ah, cursed coronation! I shall die while they are about it.
Bassompierre tells me the maypole, which was set up in the court of the
Louvre, has just fallen down. It is an evil omen.”
“Well, Sire,” returned Sully, “postpone the ceremony.”
“No, Sully, no; it shall not be said that Henry IV. trembled before an
idle prophecy. For twenty years, Sully, I have heard of predictions of
my death. After all, nothing will happen to me but what is ordained.”
“My God, Sire!” exclaimed Sully, “I never heard your Majesty speak so
before. Countermand the coronation, I entreat you. Let the Queen not be
crowned at all rather than lose your peace of mind. What does it matter?
It is but a woman’s whim.”
“Ah, Sully, what will my wife say? I dare not approach her unless I keep
my word;--her heart is so set upon being crowned.”
“Let her say what she pleases, Sire; never heed her. Allow me to
persuade her Majesty to postpone the ceremony.”
“Try, Sully; try, if you please:--you will find what the Queen is. She
will not consent to put it off.”
The King spoke truly. Marie de’ Medici flew into a violent rage, and
positively refused to listen to any postponement whatever. The
coronation was fixed to take place on Thursday, the 13th of May.
It is certain that the King was distinctly warned of his approaching
death. The very day and hour were marked with a cross of blood in an
almanack sent to him anonymously. A period of six hours on the 14th of
May was marked as fatal to him. If he survived that time, on that day--a
Friday--he was safe. The day named for his death was that preceding the
public entry of the Queen into Paris, after her coronation at
Saint-Denis. He rose at six o’clock in the morning on that day, Friday,
the 14th of May. On his way down-stairs, he was met by the Duc de
Vendôme, his son by Gabrielle d’Estrées. Vendôme held in his hand a
paper, which he had found lying on his table. It was a horoscope, signed
by an astrologer called La Brosse, warning the King that the
constellation under which he was born threatened him with great danger
on the 14th of May. “My father,” said Vendôme, standing in his path, “do
not go abroad; spend this day at home.”
“La Brosse, my boy,” replied Henry, looking at the paper, “is an old
fox. Do you not see that he wants money? You are a young fool to mind
him. My life is in the hands of God, my son,--I shall live or die as he
pleases,--let me pass.”
He heard mass early, and passed the day as usual. At a quarter to four
o’clock in the afternoon he ordered his coach, to visit Sully at the
Arsenal, who was ailing. The streets were much crowded. Paris was full
of strangers, assembled for the coronation, and to see the spectacle of
the Queen’s public entry. Stages and booths blocked up the
thoroughfares. Henry was impatient for the arrival of his coach, and
took his seat in it immediately it arrived. He signed to the Duc
d’Epernon to seat himself at his right hand. De Liancourt and Mirabeau,
his lords in waiting, placed themselves opposite to him. The Ducs de
Lavardin, Roquelaure, and Montbazon, and the Marquis de la Force, took
their places on either side. Besides these noblemen seated inside, a few
guards accompanied him on horseback, but when he reached the _hôtel_ of
the Duc de Longueville, the King stopped and dismissed all his
attendants, save those lords in the coach with him. From the Rue
Saint-Honoré, which was greatly crowded, they entered the Rue de la
Ferronnière, on the way to the Arsenal. This was a narrow street, and
numbers of wooden stalls (such as are still seen on the boulevards in
Paris) were ranged along a dead wall, on one of the sides. There was a
block of carts about these booths, and the royal coach was obliged to
draw up close against the dead wall. The running footmen went forward to
clear the road; the coach halted close to the wall. Ravaillac now
slipped between the wall and the coach, and jumping on one of the
wheels, stabbed the King twice in the breast and ribs. The knife passed
through a shirt of fine cambric, richly embroidered _à jour_. A third
time the assassin raised his hand to strike, but only ripped up the
sleeve of the Duc de Montbazon’s doublet, upon whom the King had fallen.
“I am wounded,” gasped Henry, “but it is nothing--” Then the Duc
d’Epernon raised his royal master in his arms. Henry made a convulsive
effort to speak, he was choked by blood, and fell back lifeless. He was
brought back dead to the Louvre. There he lay in state, clothed in his
coronation robes, the crown upon his head.
The bloody almanack had told true. Henry had circled twenty times the
magic chamber of life!
CHAPTER XXIX.
LOUIS XIII.
It is related that the night after the assassination of Henri Quatre by
Ravaillac, and while his body lay in the Louvre, his little son, Louis
XIII., screaming with terror, cried out that he saw the same men who had
murdered his father coming to kill him. Louis was not to be pacified
until he was carried to his mother’s bed, where he passed the rest of
the night.
To this infantine terror, this early association with death and murder,
may be traced the strange character of Louis; weak in body and mind,
timid, suspicious, melancholy, superstitious, an undutiful son, a bad
husband, and an unworthy king. The fame of his great father, and the
enthusiasm his memory inspired, instead of filling him with emulation,
crushed and depressed him. He became a complete “_Roi fainéant_.” His
reign was the reign of favourites, and nothing was heard of the monarch
but in connection with them, save that, with a superstition worthy of
the Middle Ages, he formerly placed France “under the protection of the
Virgin.”
His early favourite, Albret the Gascon, created Duc de Luynes and
Constable of France, was his tyrant. As long as he lived Louis both
hated and feared him. He hated his mother, he hated Richelieu, he hated
his wife, Anne of Austria. Louis, surnamed “the Just,” had a great
capacity for hatred.
Poor Anne of Austria, to whom he was married at fifteen, she being the
same age, what a lot was hers!
Her personal charms actually revolted the half-educated, awkward boy,
whom all the world thought she would govern despotically. He could not
help acknowledging her exceeding loveliness; but she was his superior,
and he knew it. He shrank back, terrified, at her vivacity and her
talents. Her innocent love of amusement jarred against his morbid
nature. Melancholy himself, he disliked to see others happy, and from
the day of their marriage he lived as much apart from her as state
etiquette permitted.
Maria de’ Medici, ambitious and unprincipled as ever, widened the breach
between them. She still sat supreme in the council, and regulated public
affairs. Richelieu, her favourite and minister during the Regency, in
continual dread of a possible reconciliation between Louis and his wife,
and in love with the young Queen himself, was rapidly rising to that
dictatorship which he exercised over France and the King until he died.
Both he and the Queen-mother roused Louis’s jealousy against his wife,
and dropped dark hints of danger to his throne, perhaps to his life.
They succeeded only too well; the King and Queen become more and more
estranged.
Anne of Austria uttered no complaint. She showed no anger, but her pride
was deeply wounded, and amongst her ladies and her friends her joyous
raillery did not spare the King. Reports of her flirtations also, as
well as of her _bon mots_ and her mimicry, heightened by the malice of
those whose interest it was to keep them asunder, reached Louis, and
alienated him more and more. Anne, too young to be fully aware of the
growing danger of her position, vain of her success, and without either
judicious friends or competent advisers, took no steps to reconcile
herself to her husband. Coldness and estrangement rapidly grew into
downright dislike and animosity; suspicions were exaggerated into
certainty, until at last she came to be treated as a conspirator and a
criminal.
The age was an age of intrigue, treachery, and rebellion. The growing
power of the nobles narrowed the authority of the throne. The incapacity
of the King strengthened the pretensions of the princes. Spain,
perpetually at war with France, sought its dismemberment by most
disloyal conspiracies. Every disaffected prince or rebellious noble
found a home at the Court of Philip, brother of Anne of Austria.
Thus Louis knew nothing of royalty but its cares and dangers. As a boy,
browbeaten and overborne by his mother, when arrived at an age when his
own sense and industry might have remedied defects of education, he took
it for granted that his ignorance was incapacity, his timidity
constitutional deficiency.
A prime minister was absolutely indispensable to such a monarch, and
Louis at least showed some discernment in selecting for that important
post the Bishop of Luçon (Cardinal Richelieu), the _protégé_ of his
mother.
Estranged from his wife, pure in morals, and correct in conduct, Louis,
still a mere youth, yearned for female sympathy. A confidante was as
necessary as a minister--one as immaculate as himself, into whose ear
he could, without fear of scandal, murmur the griefs and anxieties of
his life. Such a woman he found in Mademoiselle de Hautefort, maid of
honour to the Queen. Her modesty and her silence first attracted him.
Her manners were reserved, her speech soft and gentle. She was naturally
of a serious turn of mind, and had been carefully educated. She took
great apparent interest in all the King said to her. Her conversation
became so agreeable to him, that he dared by degrees to confide to her
his loneliness, his misery, and even his bodily infirmities, which were
neither few nor slight. This intimacy, to a solitary young King who
longed for affection, yet delicately shrunk from the slightest semblance
of intrigue, was alluring in the highest degree.
Long, however, ere Louis had favoured her with his preference she had
given her whole heart to her mistress, Anne of Austria. Every word the
King uttered was immediately repeated to the Queen, with such comments
as caused the liveliest entertainment to that lovely princess, who
treated the _liaison_ as an admirable joke, and entreated her maid of
honour to humour the King to the very utmost, so as to afford her the
greatest possible amount of amusement.
The Court is at Compiègne. Since the days of Clotaire it has been a
favourite hunting-lodge of the Kings of France. One vast façade
stretches along verdant banks sloping to the river Oise, across which an
ancient bridge (on which Jeanne d’Arc, fighting against the English, was
taken prisoner) leads into the sunny little town. On the farther side of
the château a magnificent terrace, bordered by canals, links it to the
adjoining forest. So close to this terrace still press the ancient trees
and woodland alleys, backed by rising hills crowned with lofty elms, and
broken by deep hollows where feathery beeches wave, that even to this
day the whole scene faithfully represents an ancient chase. So immense
is the château that the two Queens, Marie de’ Medici and Anne of
Austria, could each hold distinct Courts within its walls. Marie, in the
suite called the “Apartments of the Queens-dowager of France,” then hung
with ancient tapestry and painted in fresco, looking over the grassy
lawns beside the river and the town; Anne, in the stately rooms towards
the forest and the woodland heights.
Within a vaulted room, the walls hung with Cordova leather stamped in
patterns of gorgeous colours, Anne of Austria is seated at her toilette.
Before her is a mirror, framed in lace and ribbons, placed on a silver
table. She wears a long white _peignoir_ thrown over a robe of azure
satin. Her luxuriant hair is unbound and falls over her shoulders; Doña
Estafania, her Spanish dresser, who has never left her, assisted by
Madame Bertant, combs and perfumes it, drawing out many curls and
ringlets from the waving mass, which, at a little distance, the morning
sunshine turns into a shower of gold. Around her stand her maids of
honour, Mademoiselles de Guerchy, Saint-Mégrin, and de Hautefort. The
young Queen is that charming anomaly, a Spanish _blonde_. She has large
blue eyes that can languish or sparkle, entreat or command, pencilled
eyebrows, and a mouth full-lipped and rosy. She has the prominent nose
of her family; her complexion, of the most dazzling fairness, is
heightened by rouge. She is not tall, but her royal presence, even in
youth, lends height to her figure. When she smiles her face expresses
nothing but innocence and candour; but she knows how to frown, and to
make others frown also.
There is a stir among the attendants, and the King enters. He is
assiduous in saluting her Majesty at her lever when Mademoiselle de
Hautefort is present. Louis XIII. has inherited neither the rough though
martial air of his father, nor the beauty of his Italian mother. His
face is long, thin, and sallow; his hair dark and scanty. He is far from
tall, and very slight, and an indescribable air of melancholy pervades
his whole person. As Louis approaches her, Anne is placing a diamond
pendant in her ear; her hands are exquisitely white and deliciously
shaped, and she loves to display them. She receives the King, who
timidly advances, with sarcastic smiles and insolent coldness. While he
is actually addressing her, she turns round to her lady in waiting, the
Duchesse de Chevreuse, who stands behind her chair, holding a
hand-mirror set in gold, whispers in her ear and laughs, then points
with her dainty finger, bright with costly rings, to the King, who
stands before her. Louis blushes, waits some time for an answer, which
she does not vouchsafe to give; then, greatly embarrassed, retreats into
a corner near the door, and seats himself.
The Duchesse de Chevreuse, the friend and confidante of Anne of Austria,
widow of the King’s favourite the Duc de Luynes, now a second time
[Illustration: LOUIS XIII., KING OF FRANCE AND OF NAVARRE
FROM AN OLD PRINT]
Duchess, as wife of Claude Lorraine, Duc de Chevreuse, an adventuress
and an _intrigante_, is a gipsy-faced, bewitching woman, dark-skinned,
velvet-eyed, and enticing; her cheeks dimpling with smiles, her black
eyes dancing with mischief.
The King sits lost in thought, with an anxious and almost tearful
expression, gazing fixedly at Mademoiselle de Hautefort who stands
behind the Queen’s chair among the maids of honour. Suddenly he becomes
aware that all eyes are turned upon him. He rises quickly, and makes a
sign to Mademoiselle de Hautefort to approach him; but the eyes of the
maid of honour are fixed upon the ground. With a nervous glance towards
the door, he reseats himself on the edge of his chair. The Queen turns
towards him, then to Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and laughs, whilst the
maid of honour busies herself with some lace. A moment after she
advances towards the Queen, carrying the ruff in her hand which is to
encircle her Majesty’s neck.
Anne leans back, adjusts the ruff, and whispers to her--“Look,
mademoiselle, look at your despairing lover. He longs to go away, but he
cannot tear himself from you. I positively admire his courage. Go to
him, _ma belle_--he is devouring you with his eyes. Have you no mercy on
the anointed King of France?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort colours, and again turns her eyes to the
ground.
“Duchesse,” continues Anne in a low voice, addressing the Duchesse de
Chevreuse, “tell mademoiselle what you would do were you adored by a
great king. Would you refuse to look at him when he stands before
you--red, white, smiling, almost weeping, a spectacle of what a fool
even a sovereign may make of himself?” And the Queen laughs again
softly, and, for an instant, mimicks the grotesque expression of the
King’s face.
“Madame,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort, looking up and speaking
gravely, “the opinion of Madame la Duchesse would not influence me. We
take different views of life. Your Majesty knows that the King is not my
lover, and that I only converse with him out of the duty I owe your
Majesty. I beseech you, Madame,” adds she, in a plaintive voice, “do not
laugh at me. My task is difficult enough. I have to amuse a Sovereign
who cannot be amused--to feign an interest I do not feel. Her grace the
Duchesse de Chevreuse would, I doubt not, know how to turn the
confidence with which his Majesty honours me to much better account”;
and Mademoiselle de Hautefort glances angrily at the Duchess, who smiles
scornfully, and makes her a profound curtsey.
“You say true, mademoiselle,” replies she; “I should certainly pay more
respect to his Majesty’s exalted position, and perhaps I should feel
more sympathy for the passion I had inspired. However, you are but a
mere girl, new to court life. You will learn in good time,
mademoiselle--you will learn.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, about to make a bitter reply, is interrupted
by the Queen.
“Come, _petite sotte_,” says Anne, still speaking under her breath,
“don’t lose your temper. We all worship you as the modern Diana. Venus
is not at all in the line of our royal spouse. Look, he can bear it no
longer; he has left the room. There he stands in the anteroom, casting
one last longing look after you; I see it in the glass. Go,
mademoiselle, I dismiss you--go and console his Majesty with your
Platonic friendship.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort left the room, and was instantly joined by
Louis, who drew her into the embrasure of an oriel window.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE ORIEL WINDOW.
“You have come at last,” said Louis eagerly. “Why would you not look at
me? I have suffered tortures; I abhor the Queen’s ladies, a set of
painted Jezebels, specially the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a dangerous
intriguer, her Majesty’s evil genius. I saw them all mocking me. Why did
you not look at me? you knew I came for you,” repeated he, querulously.
“Surely, Sire, I could not be so presumptuous as to imagine that a visit
to her Majesty from her husband concerned me.”
“Her husband! would I had never seen her, or her friend the Duchesse.
They are both--well, I will not say what, certainly spies, spies of
Spain. My principles forbid me to associate with such women. You look
displeased, mademoiselle--what have I done?”--for Mademoiselle de
Hautefort showed by her expression the disapproval she felt at his
abuse of the Queen. “It is your purity, your sweetness, that alone make
the Court bearable. But you are not looking at me--cruel, selfish girl!
would you too forsake me?”
The maid of honour feeling that she must say something, and assume an
interest she did not feel, looked up into the King’s face and smiled. “I
am here, Sire, for your service. I am neither cruel nor selfish, but I
am grieved at the terms in which you speak of my gracious mistress. Let
me pray your Majesty, most humbly, not to wound me by such language.”
Her look, her manner, softened the irritable Louis. He took her hand
stealthily and kissed it. He gazed at her pensively for some moments
without speaking.
“How beautiful you are, and wise as you are beautiful!” exclaimed he at
length. “I have much to say to you, but not about my Spanish wife. Let
us not mention her.” His eyes were still riveted on the maid of honour;
his lips parted as if to speak, then he checked himself, but still
retained her hand, which he pressed.
“You hunted yesterday, Sire,” said she, confused at the King’s silence
and steadfast gaze; “what number of stags did you kill? I was not
present at the _curée_.” She gently withdrew her hand from the King’s
grasp.
“I did not hunt yesterday; I was ill,” replied Louis. “I am ill, very
ill.”
This allusion to his health instantly changed the current of his
thoughts, for Louis was a complete valetudinarian. He became suddenly
moody, and sank heavily into a seat placed behind a curtain, the thick
folds of which concealed both him and the maid of honour.
“I am harassed, sick to death of everything. I should die but for you. I
can open my heart to you.” And then suddenly becoming conscious that
Mademoiselle de Hautefort still stood before him, he drew a chair close
to his side, on which he desired her to seat herself.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, knowing well that the King would now go on
talking to her for a long time, assumed an attitude of pleased
attention. Louis looked pale and haggard. His sallow cheeks were shrunk,
his large eyes hollow. As he spoke a hectic flush went and came upon his
face.
“Will you not let me take your hand, mademoiselle?” said he, timidly. “I
feel I could talk much better if I did, and I have much to say to you.”
She reluctantly placed her hand in his. The King sighed deeply.
“What is the matter, Sire?”
“Ah, that is the question! I long to tell you. I sigh because I am weary
of my life. My mother, who still calls herself Regent, and pretends to
govern the kingdom, quarrels perpetually with Richelieu. The council is
distracted by her violence and ill-temper; affairs of state are
neglected. She reproaches Richelieu publicly for his ingratitude, as she
calls it, because he will not support her authority rather than the good
of the kingdom. The Duc d’Epernon supports her. He is as imperious as
she is. Her ambition embitters my life, as it embittered that of my
great father.”
“Oh, Sire, remember that the Queen-dowager of France is your mother.
Besides, Richelieu owes everything to her favour. Had it not been for
her he would have remained an obscure bishop at Luçon all his life. She
placed him at Court.”
“Yes, and he shall stay there. _Par Dieu!_ he shall stay there. If any
one goes it shall be my mother. I feel I myself have no capacity for
governing; I shrink from the tremendous responsibility; but I am better
able to undertake it than the Queen-mother. Her love of power is so
excessive she would sacrifice me and every one else to keep it--she and
the Duc d’Epernon,” he added, bitterly. “Richelieu is an able minister.
He is ambitious, I know, but I am safe in his hands. He can carry out no
measures of reform, he cannot maintain the dignity of the Crown, if he
is for ever interfered with by a fractious woman,--vain, capricious,
incompetent.”
“Oh, Sire!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort held up her hands to stop him.
“It is true, madame. Did not the Queen-mother and her creatures, the
Concini and the Duc d’Epernon, all but plunge France into civil war
during her regency? She was nigh being deposed, and I with her. What a
life I led until De Luynes rescued me! He presumed upon my favour, _le
fripon_, and brought boat-loads of Gascon cousins to Court from Guienne.
I never knew a man have so many cousins! They came in shoals, and never
one of them with a silken cloak to his back--a beggarly lot!”
“But, Sire,” said Mademoiselle de Hautefort, sitting upright in her
chair, and trying to fix the King’s wandering mind, “why do you need
either her Majesty the Queen-mother or the Cardinal de Richelieu?
Depend on no one. Govern for yourself, Sire.”
“Impossible, impossible. I am too weak. I have no capacity. I have none
of my great father’s genius.” And the King lifted his feathered hat
reverently from his head each time he named his father. “Richelieu rules
for me. He has intellect. He will maintain the honour of France. The
nation is safe in his hands. As for me, I am tyrannised over by my
mother, laughed at by my Spanish wife, and betrayed by my own brother. I
am not fit to reign. Every one despises me--except you.” And the King
turned with an appealing look towards Mademoiselle de Hautefort. “You, I
hope, at least, understand me. You do me justice.”
There was a melting expression in the King’s eyes which she had never
seen before. It alarmed her. She felt that her only excuse for the
treacherous part she was acting was in the perfect innocence of their
relations. A visible tremor passed over her. She blushed violently, a
look of pain came into her face, and her eyes fell before his gaze.
“You do not speak? Have I offended you?” cried Louis, much excited.
“What have I said? Oh, mademoiselle, do not lose your sympathy for me,
else I shall die! I know I am unworthy of your notice; but--see how I
trust you. The hours I spend in your society give me the only happiness
I enjoy. Pity, pity the King of France, who craves your help, who
implores your sympathy!”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, speaking in her usual quiet manner, entreated
him to be calm.
“Am I forgiven?” said he in a faltering voice, looking the picture of
despair. “Will you still trust me?”
“Yes, yes, Sire. I am ashamed to answer such a question. Your Majesty
has given me no offence.”
Louis reseated himself.
“It is to prepare you for an unexpected event that I wish to talk to
you. It is possible that I may shortly leave Compiègne suddenly and
secretly. I must tear myself away from you for a while.”
“Leave the Court, Sire! What do you mean?”
“The quarrels between my mother and Richelieu are more than I can
endure. They must end. One must go--I will not say which. You can guess.
I am assured by Richelieu, who has information from all parts of France,
that her Majesty is hated by the people. She is suspected of a knowledge
of my great father’s death; she has abused her position. No one feels
any interest in her fate.”
“But, surely, your Majesty feels no pleasure in knowing that it is so,
even if it be true, which I much doubt.”
“Well, her Majesty has deserved little favour of me,” replied he with
indifference. “Richelieu tells me that her exile would be a popular
act----”
“Her exile, Sire! You surely do not contemplate the exile of your own
mother?”
“Possibly not--possibly not; but a sovereign must be advised by his
ministers. It is indispensable to the prosperity of the State.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort was silent, but something of the contempt she
felt might have been seen in her expressive eyes.
“I do not feel disposed,” continued he, “to face the anger of the
Queen-mother when she hears my determination. She would use violent
language to me that might make me forget I am her son. Richelieu must
break it to her. He can do it while I am away. Agitation injures my
health, it deranges my digestion. I have enough to bear from my wife,
from whom it is not so easy to escape----”
Again he stopped abruptly, as if he were about to say more than he
intended.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, ever on the lookout for all that concerned
her mistress the Queen, glanced at him with sullen curiosity. Her eyes
read his thoughts.
“Your Majesty is concealing something from me?” she said.
“Well, yes,”--and he hesitated--“it is a subject too delicate to
mention.”
“Have you, then, withdrawn your confidence from me, Sire?” asked she,
affecting the deepest concern.
“No, no--never. I tell you everything--yet, I blush to allude to such a
subject.”
“What subject, Sire? Does it concern her Majesty?”
“By heaven it does!” cried the King, with unwonted excitement, a look of
rage on his face. “It is said--” and he stopped, and looked round
suspiciously, and became crimson. “Not here--not here,” he muttered,
rising. “I cannot speak of it here. It is too public. Come with me into
this closet.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, foreboding some misfortune to the Queen,
followed him, trembling in every limb, into a small retiring-closet
opening from the gallery where they had been seated. He drew her close
to the window, glanced cautiously around, and placed his hand on her
arm.
“It is said,”--he spoke in a low voice--“it is said--and appearances
confirm it--that”--and he stooped, and whispered some words in
Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s ear, who started back with horror. “If it be
so,” he added coolly, “I shall crave a dispensation from the Pope, and
send the Queen back to Madrid.”
“For shame, Sire! you are deceived,” cried Mademoiselle de Hautefort, an
expression of mingled disgust, anger, and terror on her face. She could
hardly bring herself to act out the part imposed upon her for the
Queen’s sake. She longed to overwhelm the unmanly Louis with her
indignation; but she controlled her feelings. “On my honour, Sire,” said
she firmly, “they do but converse as friends. For the truth of this I
wager my life--my salvation.”
“Nothing of the kind,” insisted Louis doggedly. “It is your exalted
virtue that blinds you to their wickedness. My mother, who hates
me--even my mother pities me; she believes in the Queen’s guilt.”
“Sire,” broke in the maid of honor impetuously, her black eyes full of
indignation, “I have already told you I will not hear my royal mistress
slandered; this is a foul slander. To me she is as sacred as your
Majesty, who are an anointed king.” Louis passed his hand over his brow,
and mused in silence. “I beseech you, Sire, listen to me,” continued
she, seeing his irresolution. “I speak the truth; before God I speak the
truth!” Louis looked fixedly at her. Her vehemence impressed, if it did
not convince him. “Your Majesty needs not the counsel of the
Queen-mother in affairs of state; do not trust her, or any one else, in
matters touching the honour of your consort.” And she raised her eyes,
and looked boldly at him. “Promise me, Sire, to dismiss this foul tale
from your mind.”
“All your words are precious, mademoiselle,” replied Louis evasively,
and he caught her hand and kissed it with fervour.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort dared not press him further. She withdrew her
hand. They were both silent, and stood opposite to each other. As Louis
gazed into her eyes, still sparkling with indignation, his anger melted
away.
“When I am gone, mademoiselle,” said he tenderly, “do not forget me. You
are my only friend. I will watch over you, though absent. Here is a
piece of gold, pure and unalloyed as are my feelings toward you,” and he
disengaged from his neck a medallion delicately chased. “See, I have
broken it. One half I will keep; the other shall rest in your bosom”;
and he pressed it to his lips, and placed it in Mademoiselle de
Hautefort’s hands. “As long as you hold that piece of gold without the
other half, know that as the token is divided between us, so is my
heart--the better half with you.”
Her conscience smote her as she received this pledge. Louis had such
perfect faith in her integrity, she almost repented that her duty to the
Queen forced her to deceive him.
“Your Majesty overwhelms me,” said she, making a deep reverence.
“The Court is full of intrigues,” continued Louis, “I have no wish to
control my minister; but remember this--obey no order, defy all
commands, that are delivered to you without that token.” The maid of
honour bowed her head. A tear stole down her cheek; the King’s
simplicity touched her in spite of herself. “Adieu, mademoiselle,” said
he, “my best, my only friend. I humbly crave your pardon for aught I may
have said or done to wound your delicacy. We will meet at Saint-Germain:
then, perhaps, you will fear me less. We will meet at Saint-Germain.”
He hesitated, and approached dangerously near to the handsome maid of
honour, whose confusion made her all the more attractive. As he
approached, she retreated.
Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a page entered the closet, and
announced--
“The Queen-dowager, who demands instant admittance to her son, the
King.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort disappeared in an instant through a door
concealed in the arras. The King, pale as death, put his hand to his
heart, sank into a chair, and awaited the arrival of his mother.
CHAPTER XXXI.
AN OMINOUS INTERVIEW.
Louis had not long to wait; scarcely a moment passed before Marie de’
Medici appeared. She entered hastily; marks of violent agitation were on
her countenance; her brows were knit; her eyes flashed. She was in the
prime of middle life, but grown stout and unwieldy; her delicate
complexion had become red and coarse, and her voice was loud and harsh;
but her height, and the long habit of almost absolute command, gave her
still an imposing presence. Louis involuntarily shuddered at her
approach; he had been long accustomed to tremble at her frown. His first
impulse was to fly by the same door through which Mademoiselle de
Hautefort had vanished. He rose, however, bowed low before her, and
offered her a seat.
“My son,” she cried in a husky voice, walking straight up to him, “I
have come to request you instantly to banish Richelieu. If you do not, I
shall return to Florence. The insolence of that villain whom I have made
your minister is intolerable. He has disobeyed my express commands!”
“What has Richelieu done, madame?”
“Is it not enough that I, your mother, who have governed France almost
from your birth, should declare to you my pleasure? Would you prefer a
lackey to your own mother?”[21] “Let it suffice that Richelieu has
offended me past forgiveness. Sit down, my son”--and she seized on the
terrified Louis, and almost forced him into a chair beside the
table--“here are my tablets; write instantly an order that within
twenty-four hours Richelieu leaves France forever.”
Louis took the tablets, but his trembling hands could not hold them. The
jewelled leaves of ivory, set in gold, fell on the ground with a crash.
There was a pause.
“What! Louis, you hesitate to obey me?” and the Queen’s fierce eyes
darted a look of fury at the King, whose slender figure positively
seemed to shrink as she laid her hand upon him.
“My mother,” he said, in a faltering voice, “you have told me nothing. A
great minister like Richelieu cannot be dismissed on the instant.”
“Yes, he can, if there be another to replace him, a better than he; one
who knows the respect due to the Queen-dowager of France, the widow of
Henry the Great, your mother, and still Regent of the kingdom.”
“But, Madame, what has Richelieu done to offend you?” and the King had
the courage to meet his mother’s glance unmoved.
“He has dared to disobey my positive orders. I had appointed the Duc
d’Epernon governor of Poitiers. He has placed there a creature of his
own. After this insult, you will understand, I can never again sit at
the Council with Richelieu.”
“Well, Madame, and suppose you do not!” rejoined the King, whose nervous
dread was rapidly giving place to resentment at his mother’s arrogance.
“I shall still be King of France, and Richelieu will be my minister.”
“Undutiful boy!” exclaimed Marie de’ Medici, and she raised her hand as
if to strike him; “You forget yourself.”
“No, Madame, it is you who forget that, if I am your son, I am also your
king. You may strike me, if you please, Madame,” added he in a lower
voice, “but I will not sign the exile of Richelieu.” The countenance of
Louis darkened with growing passion; the threatening aspect of his
mother standing before him with upraised arm, aroused him to unwonted
courage. “I will not exile Richelieu. I leave him to settle his
differences with you and your favourites--their claims do not concern
me. I will have no more _Concini_, madame; I would rather abdicate at
once.” And turning on his heel, without another word, or even saluting
the Queen, he left the room.
A sudden dizziness, an overwhelming conviction of something new and
strange in her position, sobered the passion of Marie de’ Medici the
instant the King was gone. She stood motionless where he had left her,
save that her uplifted arm dropped to her side. A mournful look--the
shadow of coming misfortunes--clouded her face. Silent and dejected, the
tears streaming from her eyes, she withdrew. When she had reached her
own apartments, she commanded that no one should be admitted.
That same day the King left Compiègne, taking with him only two
attendants. No one knew whither he was gone.
Early the next morning the Queen-mother’s ladies were startled by the
appearance of Cardinal Richelieu in her anteroom. It was long since he,
who was wont never to be absent from her service, had been seen there.
“Tell her Majesty,” he said to the Duchesse d’Epernon, “that I am come
on urgent state business, by the express command of the King, and that I
must speak with her in person.”
After some delay he was admitted into the Queen’s apartment.
Marie de’ Medici wears a long robe of black velvet, and a widow’s coif
upon her head. She looks old, worn, and anxious; she is neither
imperious nor angry. She begins to realise that power is passing from
her; she is intensely curious, not to say alarmed, as to what the
intelligence may be, of which the Cardinal is the bearer; and she now
secretly repents that she has quarrelled with him.
The Cardinal wears a close-fitting black _soutane_ bound with purple,
and a _beretta_ of the same colour on his head; he has nothing of the
churchman in his appearance. He is still a young man, upright in figure
and easy in manner, attractions which he owes to his early military
training. He has piercing black eyes, light brown hair that lies
straight upon his forehead, and a pale, thoughtful face, already lined
with wrinkles. His closely shutting mouth, thin-lipped and stern,
expresses inflexible determination. His manners are composed, almost
gentle; his voice melodious. He has not yet become the imperious
autocrat--the merciless butcher of the chivalrous nobles of France--of
after years. Chalais and Montmorenci have not yet fallen by his order on
the scaffold; and Cinq-Mars is a precocious lad, living with his mother
on the banks of the Loire. Without vanity he knows that he has genius to
conceive great deeds, and industry to elaborate every necessary detail.
Already the consciousness of growing greatness forces itself upon him.
The incompetence of the King, his indolent acquiescence in all his
measures, the jealousy between Louis and his mother whom the King has
hitherto not dared to check, his alienation from the young Queen his
wife, open before Richelieu’s mental vision a vista of almost boundless
power. Now he stands in the presence of his early benefactress, the
sovereign to whom he would have been faithful, had such fidelity been
consistent with the welfare of France and his own ambition. Spite of
habitual self-control, he is greatly moved at her forlorn condition. He
still hopes that he may save her from an overwhelming calamity.
Richelieu advances to where the Queen-mother is seated beside the
hearth, and after making a profound obeisance waits for her to address
him.
“You bear to me a message from my son. What can he have to say to me,
that he cannot speak himself?” Marie asks with dignity.
“Nothing, my most gracious mistress,” replies Richelieu, almost
submissively, “if your Majesty will deign to be guided by my counsel.”
“You call me your mistress, Cardinal,” says Marie bitterly; “but you
have left my service, and you disobey my positive commands. How can I
treat with such a hypocrite?”
“Madame, I beseech you, let not personal animosity towards myself--be I
innocent or guilty of what you accuse me--blind you to the danger in
which you now stand.”
“Danger! What do you mean? To what danger do you allude?”
“The danger that threatens you, Madame, in the displeasure of his
Majesty.”
“Ah, I perceive. My son strikes through you, my creature, that he may
crush me. I congratulate your eminence on your triumphant ingratitude.”
“Madame,” and the Cardinal wrings his hands and advances a step or two
nearer the Queen with an air of earnest entreaty, “hear me, I implore
you. Let us not lose precious time in mere words. I have come here in a
twofold character, as your friend and as minister of state. Permit me
first to address you as the former, Madame, your counsellor and your
sincere friend.” As he speaks his voice trembles, his manner is almost
humble as he seeks to allay the stormy passions that gather on the brow
of his royal mistress.
Marie de’ Medici is so much taken aback at this unusual display of
feeling in the stern Cardinal, that though her eyes glisten with anger
she makes no reply.
“Your Majesty, in honour and greatness,” continued Richelieu, “stands
next to the throne. Be satisfied, Madame, with the second place in the
kingdom. Your own age, Madame,”--Marie starts--“and the increased
experience of his Majesty, justify you in committing the reins of
government into his hands and into the hands of such ministers as he may
appoint.”
“Yourself, for instance,” breaks in Marie bitterly.
“Madame, I implore you, by the respect and the affection I bear you, not
to interrupt me. Withdraw, graciously and cheerfully, from all
interference with state affairs. Resign your place at the council.
Dismiss those nobles who, by their rebellious conduct, excite his
Majesty’s displeasure, specially the Duc d’Epernon.”
“Never!” exclaims Marie passionately. “I will not resign my place at the
council, nor will I sacrifice my supporter, the Duc d’Epernon. My son is
incapable of governing. He has ever been the tool of those about him. I
am his best substitute. This is a miserable plot by which you basely
seek to disgrace me by my own act--to rise by my fall.”
“Oh, Madame, to whom I owe so much,” pleads Richelieu, “whom I would now
serve while I can, hear me. I speak from my heart--I speak for the last
time. Be warned, I beseech you.” His hands are still clasped, his voice
falters, tears flow down his cheeks. Any one less obstinately blind than
the Queen would have been warned by the evidence of such unusual emotion
in a man ordinarily so cold and impassible as the Cardinal.
“Ha, ha, you are an admirable actor, Cardinal!” cries she. “But what if
I refuse to listen to a traitor? Who named me[22] ‘Mother of the
kingdom?’ Who vowed to me ‘that the purple with which I invested him
would be a solemn pledge of his willingness to shed his blood in my
service’? I know you, Armand de Plessis.”
For some minutes neither utters a word. When he addresses the Queen
again, Richelieu has mastered his feelings and speaks with calmness, but
his looks express the profoundest pity.
“I am no traitor, Madame, but the unwilling bearer of a decision that
will infinitely pain you, if you drive me to announce it. But if you
will condescend to listen to my counsel, to conciliate your son the
King, and disarm his wrath by immediate submission, then that terrible
decision never need be revealed. That you should be wise in time,
Madame,” adds he, in a voice full of gentleness, contemplating her with
the utmost compassion, “is my earnest prayer.”
Before he had done speaking the Cardinal sinks on his knees at her feet,
and draws forth from his breast a paper, to which are appended the royal
seals. Marie, whose usual insolence and noisy wrath have given place to
secret fear, still clings to the hope that she is too powerful to be
dispensed with, and that by a dauntless bearing she will intimidate
Richelieu, and, through him, the King, replies coldly--
“I have given you my answer. Now you can withdraw.” Then, rising from
her chair, she turns her back upon Richelieu--who still kneels before
her--and moves forward to leave the room.
“Stay, Madame!” cries Richelieu, rising, stung to the quick by her
arrogant rejection of his sympathy, and ashamed of the unwonted emotion
the forlorn position of his royal mistress had called forth; “stay and
listen to this decree, in the name of his Majesty.” And he unfolds the
parchment. “Once more, Madame, understand. Unless you will on the
instant resign your seat in the Council of State and dismiss the Duc
d’Epernon--a man suspected of a hideous crime, which you at least,
Madame, ought never to have forgotten--from his attendance on your
person, I am commanded by his Majesty----”
“Dismiss D’Epernon!--my only trusty servant, D’Epernon, who has defended
me from your treachery!”--breaks in Marie passionately, her voice rising
higher at every word--“Never--never! Let me die first! How dare you,
Cardinal Richelieu, come hither to affront the mother of your King? I
will NOT dismiss the Duc d’Epernon. It is you who shall be
dismissed!”--and she glares upon him with fury--“despised, dishonoured,
blasted, as you deserve.”
“If you refuse, Madame--and let me implore you to reflect well before
you do,” continues the Cardinal, quite unmoved by her reproaches--“I
have his Majesty’s commands to banish you from Court, and to imprison
you during his pleasure within this palace.”[23]
No sooner has he uttered these words than the Queen, who stands facing
the Cardinal, staggers backwards. A deadly pallor overspreads her face.
She totters, tries to grasp the arm of the chair from which she has
risen, and before Richelieu, who watches her agony with eyes rather of
sorrow than of anger, can catch her, she has fallen fainting on the
floor.
At his cries the Queen’s ladies appear. He leaves her to their care, and
proceeds to the apartments of Anne of Austria, whom, through Madame de
Chevreuse, he informs of what has occurred.
Anne of Austria, on hearing that the Queen-mother was disgraced, saw in
her unfortunate mother-in-law, who had never ceased to persecute her and
to arouse the jealousy of the King, only an unhappy parent. She flew to
her, threw herself into her arms, and readily promised to employ all the
influence she possessed to mitigate the royal wrath.
CHAPTER XXXII.
LOVE AND TREASON.
Anne of Austria has left Compiègne and the royal prisoner, and is now
at Saint-Germain. The château stands upon the crest of a hill, backed by
a glorious forest that darkens the heights encircling Paris.
It is spring; the air is warm and genial, the sky mildly blue; light
clouds temper the bright sunshine that plays upon the southern façade of
the palace, and glistens among the elms which form magnificent avenues
in the surrounding park.
The King has not yet returned, and the Queen and her ladies, relieved of
his dreary presence, revel in unusual freedom. Concerts, suppers,
dances, repasts in the forest, and moonlight walks on the terrace, are
their favourite diversions. Anne of Austria has not positively forgotten
the lonely captive at Compiègne, but is too much engrossed with her own
affairs to remember more than her promise to assist her. That atmosphere
of flattery a woman loves so well and accepts as an offering exacted by
her beauty breathes around her. Monsieur Gaston, Duc d’Orléans, the
King’s only brother, is always by her side. Monsieur is gay, polished,
gallant; tall and slight like his brother, and pale-faced, but not, as
with Louis, with the pallor of disease. He has much of his mother’s
versatile nature without her violent temper. Like her he is fickle,
weak, and treacherous, incapable of any deep or stable feeling.
Monsieur talks to the Queen of Madrid, and sympathises with her
attachment to her brother, to whom Anne writes almost daily long letters
in cipher (always committed to the care of the Duchesse de Chevreuse),
notwithstanding the war between France and Spain. The chivalrous Duc de
Montmorenci, more formal and reserved than Monsieur, but equally
devoted; the Duc de Bellegarde, no longer the ideal of manly beauty dear
to the heart of poor Gabrielle d’Estrées, but grey-headed and
middle-aged, though still an ardent servant of the fair, with the
chivalric manners and soldier-like freedom of the former reign; gallant,
rough, generous Bassompierre, who was to pay so dearly by twelve years’
imprisonment in the Bastille his opposition to the Cardinal; and
Maréchal d’Ornano, the _beau sabreur_ of that day, were also in
attendance, each one the object of the King’s morbid jealousy.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort rarely leaves the Queen. She rejoices almost
more than her mistress in the King’s absence. The Duchesse de Chevreuse,
bewitching and spiteful, closely attended by the Comtes Chalais and
Louvigni, whom she plays one against the other; the Duchesse de
Montbazon, her step-mother, whose imperious eyes demand worship from all
who approach her, ever in the company of De Rancé,[24]--by-and-by to
found the order of La Trappe,--are some of the Ladies who form the
Queen’s Court.
One moonlit night the Queen and her ladies had lingered late on the
stately terrace, built by Henry IV., which borders the forest and
extends for two miles along the edge of the heights on which the
château stands. The Queen and her brother-in-law, Monsieur Duc
d’Orléans, have seated themselves somewhat apart from the rest on the
stone balustrade that fronts the steep descent into the plains around
Paris. Vineyards line the hillside, which falls rapidly towards the
Seine flowing far beneath, its swelling banks rich with groves,
orchards, villas, and gardens. Beyond, the plain lay calm and still,
wrapped in dark shadows, save where the moonbeams fall in patches and
glints of silvery light. Of the great city which spreads itself beyond,
not a vestige is to be seen. All human lights are extinguished, but the
moon rides high in the heavens in fields of azure brightness, and the
stars shine over the topmost heights, where, on the very verge of the
horizon, and facing the terrace, the towers of the Cathedral of
Saint-Denis break the dusky sky-line.
A range of hills links this far-off distance with the sombre masses of
the adjoining forest. Great masses of trees surge up black in front,
swaying hither and thither in the night breeze; the rustling of their
leaves is the only sound that breaks the silence. For a time the Queen
sits motionless.
“What a lovely night,” she says at last, as she casts her eyes out over
the broad expanse of earth and sky. “Oh, that the world could be ever as
calm and peaceful!”
A sad look comes into her eyes,--she heaves a deep sigh, throws back her
head and gazes upwards. The softened rays of the moon shine upon her
face, light up the masses of her golden hair, and play among the folds
of a long white robe which encircles her to the feet. She sits framed,
as it were, in a circle of supernatural lustre. Monsieur is beside her,
rapt in admiration. The beautiful vision before him intoxicates his
senses. The landmarks of social restriction, of tyrannous etiquette,
have vanished, gone, with the sun and the daylight. He forgets that she
is a great queen, the wife of his brother--his Sovereign; he forgets
that their attendants, though invisible, are at hand, that a glittering
palace lies hid among the woods, with its attendant multitudes; he
forgets all save that she is there before him, a dazzling presence,
sprung, as it seems, out of the darkness of the night. He gazes at her
with speechless rapture. Words which had often before trembled on his
lips must now be uttered. He is about to speak, when the Queen,
unconscious of what is passing within him, awakes from her reverie and
points to the forest.
“See, Gaston, how the moon plays upon those branches. I could almost
believe that some fantastic shapes are gliding amongst the trees. Let us
go back; the forest is horribly dark, it frightens me.” And she
shudders.
“I can see nothing but you, my sister,” answers Monsieur, softly. “You
are the very goddess of the night.” And his eyes rest on her with an
impassioned gaze.
Anne of Austria still looks fixedly into the thicket, as if fascinated
by the mystery of the great woods. Again she shudders and wraps the
light mantle she wore closer around her.
“It is late, my brother,” she says, rising. “If I stay longer I shall
have evil dreams. Let us go.”
“Oh, my sister! oh, Anne!” cries the Duke, “let us stay here for ever.”
And he caught one of the folds of her white robe, kissed it, and gently
endeavoured to draw her, again, toward the balustrade.
“By no means,” replied the Queen, startled, for the first time meeting
his eyes. “Ah, my brother,” adds she, becoming suddenly much confused,
“are you sure you do not frighten me more than the strange shapes among
the trees?”
“Trust me,” cries Monsieur ardently, retaining her robe almost by force.
“Tell me you will trust me--now, always. Ah, my sister, my heart bleeds
for you. Never, never will you find one so devoted to you as I----”
There was a certain eloquence in his words, a truth in his protestings,
that seemed to touch her. Anne flushes from head to foot.
“Monsieur--Gaston--let me go.” And she disengages herself with
difficulty. Monsieur now rose. “Where is the Duchesse de Chevreuse?”
asks Anne, not knowing what to say.
“No fear for her: she is well attended,” replies Monsieur in a voice
full of vexation. “Every one is in good luck but me. I never saw a man
so madly in love as poor Chalais, and the Duchess returns it.”
The Queen is now walking onwards at as rapid a pace as the uncertain
light permitted, along the terrace. Monsieur follows her.
“Yes--in love,”--and Anne laughs her silvery laugh; “but that is not the
way I would give my heart if I gave it at all, which I don’t think I am
tempted to do.” And she looked back archly at Monsieur, whose
countenance fell. “Chalais is one among so many,” continues the Queen,
trying to resume her usual manner. “The Duchess is very benevolent.”
“Alas, my poor Henry!” answers Monsieur, “with him it is an overwhelming
passion. Louvigni and the others admire and court the Duchess; but they
are not like Chalais--he worships her. The Duchess is a coquette who
uses him for her own purposes. She is now inciting him to head a
dangerous conspiracy against the Cardinal. Chalais has opened the matter
to me; but they go far--dangerously far. I cannot pledge myself to them
as yet.”
“Oh, Gaston!” exclaims the Queen, stopping, and laying her hand eagerly
on his arm; “if you love me as you say you do, join in any conspiracy
against the Cardinal.”
The Queen speaks with vehemence. A sudden fire shot into her eyes, as
she turns towards Monsieur. Her delicate hand still rests for an instant
upon him, and is then withdrawn.
“Fair sister,” replies the Duke, “You cannot pretend to misunderstand
me. For your service I would risk anything--how much more a tussle with
an arrogant minister, who has outraged me--as much as he has you.
Perhaps, Anne, I would risk too much for your sake.” And the enamoured
look again comes into his eyes. But the Queen draws back, and turns her
head away. “Deign to command me, sister--Queen,” he adds, “only to
command me, and I will obey.”
Anne is now walking onwards. For a few moments she does not reply.
“If you would serve me--let Richelieu be banished,” says she at last
imperiously. “I care not whither. Nothing is too bad for him. He has
dared to insult me. You, Gaston, are safe, even if you fail. My brother
will receive you at Madrid; I will take care of that.”
“I am overcome by your gracious consideration for my welfare,” cries
Monsieur, catching at her words. “But, my sister,” continues he gravely,
“do you know what this plot means? Assassination is spoken of. At this
very moment I wager my life the Duchess is employing all her seductions
to draw Chalais into a promise of stabbing the Cardinal.”
“Stabbing the Cardinal? Impossible! Chalais would not commit a crime.
You make me tremble. The Duchess told me nothing of this. She must have
lost her head.”
“I know that Chalais is fiercely jealous. He is jealous of every one who
approaches the Duchess, and we all know that the Cardinal is not
insensible to her charms----”
“Odious hypocrite!” breaks in the Queen.
“As long as Richelieu lives,” continues Monsieur, “my mother will not be
set at liberty. He dreads her influence. He knows she has a powerful
party.”
“It is infamous!” exclaims Anne of Austria.
“The Cardinal persuades the King that he alone can govern France, and
that our mother desires to depose him and appoint a regency, which I am
to share with her; that you, my sister, conspire against him with Spain.
My brother, weak, irresolute, insensible to you, believes all that is
told him. I, my mother’s only friend, dare not assist her. You, his
wife, the loveliest princess in Europe--nay, in the whole world,”--and
his kindling eyes fix themselves upon her--“he repulses. You might as
well be married to an anchorite. Thank God, his Majesty’s health is
feeble, his life very uncertain. If he dies I shall be King of France,
and then----” He pauses, as if hesitating to finish the sentence. “Ah,
my sister!” he exclaims, stopping and trying to detain her. “Had I been
blessed with such a consort I would have passed my life at her feet.
Would that even now I might do so! The dark canopy of these ancient
trees--the silence, the solitude, make all possible. Speak to me, Anne;
tell me--oh, tell me that I may hope. Do not turn away from me----”
The Queen had stopped. She stands listening to him with her face turned
towards the ground.
The moon is fast sinking behind the distant tree-tops, and the deepest
shadows of the night darken their path which had now left the terrace,
and lay beneath the trees. The wind sighs and moans in the adjoining
forest, and an owl hoots from an ivy-covered tree. For some minutes the
Queen moves not. Her whole figure is in shadow. Was she listening to the
voices of the night? or was she deeply musing on what she had heard? Who
can tell?
Some sudden resolve seemed, however, to form itself in her mind. She
roused herself, and motions to Monsieur with her hand to go onwards.
“Alas, my brother,” she says with a deep sigh, “do not press me, I
beseech you. You know not what you say. Such words are treason.” And she
hurries onwards into the gloom. “Head the conspiracy against the
Cardinal,” she continues, moving quickly forward as if afraid to hear
more; “restrain the violence of Chalais, who loves you well and will
obey you. I will temper the indiscretion of the Duchess. She is an
excellent lieutenant, inspired in her readiness of resource and
ingenuity in intrigue; but--she is a bad general. We must be careful,
Gaston, or we shall all find ourselves prisoners in the Bastille.”
“No, by Saint Paul! not so, my sister,” and Monsieur laughs gaily, for
his facile nature dwelt upon nothing long, and his thoughts had now been
diverted into other channels. “No; but we will have Richelieu there!
Bassompierre and D’Ornano are with us; they swear that they will shut
him up in an iron cage--as Louis XI. did Cardinal Balue--for life, and
feed him on bread and water. _Corps de Dieu!_ I should like to see it.”
“But I will have no blood shed,” rejoins the Queen; “remember that.”
“My sister, your word is law. When I have learnt more from Chalais, I
will inform you of every detail.”
They had now reached the château. The windows shone with light. Torches
fixed in the ground burnt round the great quadrangle, and a guard of
musketeers, assembled near the entrance, presented arms as the Queen
passed.
A page appeared, and handed a despatch to Mademoiselle de Mérigny, who
had now joined the Queen. She presented it to her Majesty. Anne broke
the seals. As she read she coloured, then laughed. “Gaston,” whispered
she, turning to Monsieur, “this is the most extraordinary coincidence.
We have been talking of the Cardinal, and here is a letter from him in
which he craves a private audience. You shall learn by-and-by what it
means.”
“_Par Dieu!_” exclaimed Monsieur, full of wonder.
“Tell no one of this but Chalais,” again whispered the Queen. Then she
lightly laid her small hand within that of Monsieur; they mounted the
grand staircase together, and passed through the long suite of the royal
apartments. All were blazing with light; on either side of the great
gallery stood the Court, ranged in two lines, waiting her Majesty’s
pleasure. As she passed, led by Monsieur, she bowed slightly, and, with
a wave of the hand, dismissed the assembly. At the door leading to her
private apartment Monsieur pressed her hand, raised it to his lips, and,
glancing at her significantly, bowed and retired.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE CARDINAL DUPED.
Anne of Austria seated herself beside a fire which burnt on the
hearth. She signed to her attendants to withdraw.
“Send hither to me the Duchesse de Chevreuse, if she has returned to the
château,” said she to one of the pages in waiting. Then Anne drew from
her bosom the letter she had just received. “It is incredible,” said
she, speaking to herself, “that he should so compromise himself! Pride
has turned his brain. Now it is my turn, Monsieur le Cardinal.” The
Duchess entered hastily. “Read, _ma belle_, read,” cried Anne, holding
out the despatch to her, “the fates favour us. Let us a lay a trap for
this wicked prelate.”
“_Ma foi_” replied the Duchess, after having reperused the letter
contained in the despatch, “even I could not have contrived it better.
Here is the Cardinal craving a private audience of your Majesty in the
absence of the King. It will be a declaration in form--such as he made
to me.”
“A declaration to me, Duchess? He would not dare----”
“Madame, he has been a soldier, and has passed his life along with a
great queen. He believes himself irresistible. Who knows if Marie de’
Medici did not tell him so?” Anne of Austria looked displeased. “Pardon
me, Madame, this saucy Cardinal, whom I call the _Court-knave_, makes me
forget myself. Your Majesty must receive him graciously.”
“Yes, he shall come,” cried Anne; “he shall come and pay for his
audacity, the hypocrite! But tell me, Duchess, tell me instantly, how
can I best revenge myself? I have a long account to settle. Shall I
command my valets, Laporte and Putange, to hide behind the arras and
beat him until he is half dead?”
“No, Madame, that would be too dangerous; he might cut off your head in
revenge, _à la reine Anne Boleyn_. We must mortify him--wound his
vanity: no vengeance equal to that with a man like the Cardinal. He is
intensely conceited, and proud of his figure. He imagines that he is
graceful and alluring--perhaps he has been told so by her Majesty--I
beg your pardon, Madame”--and the Duchess stopped and pursed up her
lips, as if she could say more but dared not.
“Did Marion de l’Orme betray him?” asked the Queen slily, “or do you
speak on your own knowledge?”
“I have it!” cried Madame de Chevreuse--not noticing the Queen’s
question--and her mischievous eyes danced with glee. “I will meet him
when he comes to-morrow, and persuade him to appear in the dress of a
Spaniard, out of compliment to you. Stay, he shall dance, too, and we
will provide a mandoline to accompany his voice. I will tell him that
you have long admired him in secret, and that if he appears in so
becoming a costume he is sure to be well received. A Spanish costume,
too, for he knows how you adore Spain, the spy--then he shall dance a
_sarabande_, a _bolero à l’Espagnol_, or sing----”
“Ha! ha! Duchess, you are _impayable_” and the Queen laughed until the
tears ran down her cheeks. “But will he be fool enough to believe you?
If he does, I will kill him with scorn, the daring Cardinal!” and Anne
of Austria drew herself up, looked into an opposite mirror, shook her
golden curls, and laughed again.
The next morning, at the hour of the Queen’s lever, the Cardinal
arrived. The Duchesse de Chevreuse met him and conducted him to a room
near the Queen’s saloon. She carefully closed the door, begged him to be
seated, and, with an air of great mystery, requested him to listen to
her before his arrival was announced to her Majesty. The Cardinal was
greatly taken aback at finding himself alone with the Duchess. She
looked so seductive; the dark tints of her luxuriant hair, hanging about
her neck and shoulders, harmonised so well with her _brunette_
complexion, her brown eyes bent smilingly upon him, her delicate robe
clinging to her tall figure, that he was almost tempted to repent his
infidelity to her, and that he had come for any other than for her.
“Your eminence is surprised to see me,” said she, smiling, and speaking
in the softest voice, and with the utmost apparent frankness, “but I am
not in the least jealous,” and she shook her finger at him.
The Cardinal reddened, and looked confused.
“Do you, then, Duchess, guess on what errand I have come?”
“Perfectly, perfectly; when I heard you had requested a private audience
in the absence of the King, I understood the rest.”
“Perhaps I have been indiscreet,” said Richelieu, and he sighed, “but I
was anxious to explain my position to the Queen. I fear that she
misconceives me; that she looks on me as her enemy; that she imagines
that I prejudice the King against her. I desire to explain my feelings
to her; they are of a mixed nature.”
“So I would suppose,” answered Madame de Chevreuse, primly, almost
bursting with suppressed laughter.
“Do you think, then, madame, that her Majesty might be induced to lay
aside her silence, her reserve? Are you authorised to admit me to her
presence?”
“I am, Cardinal.”
Richelieu’s face flushed deep, his eyes glistened.
“To a certain extent,” continued the Duchess, “the Queen is gratified by
your homage. Her Majesty has noted your slim yet manly form, your
expressive eyes. She admires your great talents.”
“Do I dream?” exclaimed Richelieu. “You, madame, are indeed magnanimous.
I feared that you might be indignant at what you might consider my
inconstancy.”
“No, Cardinal, you could not be inconstant, for you were never loved.”
Richelieu started.
“By me--I mean to say, your eminence. You really should spare me,” added
she, affectedly; “but I suppose I must speak. Anne of Austria, the
daughter of a hundred kings, the wife of your Sovereign, secretly loves
you, monseigneur. It is astonishing your extraordinary penetration never
discovered this before. Since you went into the Church you must have
grown modest; but love is blind, says the motto,” and the Duchess was
obliged to hold her handkerchief to her face to hide her laughter.
“What words of ecstacy do you utter, adorable Duchess! But you must be
aware of the coldness, the insulting scorn which the lovely Queen has
hitherto shown towards me. How could I venture to guess----”
“Ah, Cardinal, it is easy to see you are not so advanced in the art of
love as of politics. Let me advise you to read Ovid--a little of _The
Art of Love_--_pour vous remettre_. Did you learn so little, then, from
her late Majesty, Marie de’ Medici, as not to know that where most
Cupid triumphs he most conceals his wicked little person? That very
coldness and scorn you speak of are but proofs of the Queen’s passion.
But let me tell you one thing: the Queen fears you may deceive--betray
her; and you must excuse her in this, when you remember, monseigneur,
certain tales of treachery--all utterly false, of course--but then
pardon a woman’s fears. You must, to speak plainly, give her some
undoubted proof of your love.”
“Madame, you cannot doubt after what I have just heard that I can
hesitate in promising to do all and everything my royal mistress can
desire.”
The Duchess confessed afterwards to the Queen, that it was with the
utmost difficulty she could keep her countenance, so absolutely farcical
were his transports.
“Have a care what you promise,” said the Duchess to the Cardinal; “the
Queen is very _bizarre_, and perhaps may require something
impracticable.”
“Madame,” replied Richelieu, “to _me_ nothing in this realm is
impracticable; speak only her Majesty’s wishes, and I hasten to obey
them.”
“Well, then, to-night you must come at dusk to her apartments.” The
Cardinal bounded from his chair with delight. “To-night; but not in this
sombre, melancholy dress; you must wear a toilette a little _convenable_
to the part you hope to act--something brilliant, gaudy--_un pantalon
vert, par exemple_.” The Cardinal started. “At your knees little bells
must be fastened. You must have a velvet jacket, scarlet scarf, and, in
fact, all the _et cæteras_ of a Spanish dress. It will please the Queen,
and pay her a delicate compliment, to which, believe me, she will not
be insensible.”
All this time Richelieu had listened to the Duchess in an agony of
surprise and amazement. “But, madame,” said he, at length, “this is
impossible. I, a dignitary of the Church, a Cardinal. Much as I desire
to show my devotion to the Queen, she herself cannot expect from me so
strange, so extraordinary a proof----”
“Certainly, monseigneur, it is an extreme proof of your devotion, and as
such the Queen will regard it. She will be gratified, and at the same
time will be thoroughly convinced of your sincerity. However, pray do as
you please,” and the Duchess shrugged her shoulders; “I merely mention
her Majesty’s wishes; you are quite at liberty to refuse. I shall
therefore,” and she rose, “report your refusal.”
“Stop, Duchess, stop, I entreat you!” interrupted Richelieu, “you are so
precipitate! I will--I must! (But what a fearful degradation! I, the
prime minister of France, a prince of the Church, to appear in the
disguise of a mountebank!) Ah, madame, her Majesty is too hard on me;
but I adore, I worship her too much to refuse. Yes,--her wishes are my
law; I cannot, I dare not refuse. Tell the Queen, at twilight this
evening, I will present myself in her apartments.”
The Duchess waited no longer, but flew to acquaint the Queen with her
success. Neither could for a long time articulate a single syllable,
they were so overcome with laughter. Music was introduced behind the
_arras_, for the Cardinal was to be prevailed on to dance a _sarabande_.
Then they impatiently awaited the moment of his arrival. At last,
enveloped in a Spanish cloak that entirely concealed his dress, the
Cardinal entered. He was hastily rushing towards the Queen--Heaven only
knows with what intentions--when Madame de Chevreuse interposed:
“Not yet, Cardinal--not yet; you must show us your dress first, then you
must dance a _sarabande_, a _bolero_--something. Her Majesty has heard
of your accomplishments and insists on it.”
“Yes,” cried Anne of Austria, “I insist on it, monseigneur, and have
provided the music accordingly.”
The violins now struck up. Richelieu looked confounded. He was almost on
the point of rushing out, when a few words whispered to him by the
Duchess arrested him; they acted like a charm. Casting one deep,
impassioned glance at the Queen, who sat at a little distance reposing
on a couch, ravishing in beauty, her rosy lips swelling with
ill-suppressed scorn, he threw down his cloak, displaying his
extraordinary dress, bells, scarlet scarf and all, and began to
dance--yes, to dance!
Poor man! he was no longer young, and was stiff from want of practice;
so after a few clumsy _entrechats_ and _pirouettes_, he stopped. He was
quite red in the face and out of breath. He looked horribly savage for a
few moments. The music stopped also, and there was a pause. Then he
advanced towards the Queen, the little bells tinkling as he moved.
“Your Majesty must _now_ be convinced of my devotion. Deign, most
adorable Princess, to permit me to kiss that exquisite hand.”
[Illustration: CARDINAL RICHELIEU.]
The Queen listened to him in solemn silence. The Duchess leaned behind
her couch, a smile of gratified malice on her face. The Cardinal,
motionless before them, awaited her reply. Then Anne of Austria rose,
and, looking him full in the face, measured him from head to foot.
Anger, contempt, and scorn flashed in her eyes. At last she
spoke--ineffable disgust and disdain in her tone--“Your eminence is, I
rejoice to see, good for something better than a _spy_. I had hitherto
doubted it. You have diverted me immensely. But take my advice; when you
next feel inclined to pay your addresses to the Queen of France, get
yourself shut up by your friends for an old fool. Now you may go.”
Richelieu, who had gradually turned livid while the Queen spoke, waited
to hear no more. He covered himself with his cloak and rushed headlong
from the room.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE MAID OF HONOUR.
The King returns to Saint-Germain as suddenly as he had departed; he
commands a hunt in the forest at noon. The château wears an air of
unusual gaiety. The King and Queen start together from the quadrangle,
but they do not address each other. Anne, who rides on in front,
attended by Monsieur, is positively dazzling in her sunny beauty. Her
delicate cheeks are flushed with excitement. A small velvet cap, with a
heron’s plume, rests on her head, and an emerald-coloured riding-dress,
bordered with gold, sets off her rounded figure. She is followed by her
ladies, many of whom wear masks to protect their complexions. The maids
of honour are in blue, with large hats overtopped by enormous feathers.
Near them rides the King. He is much too shy to address Mademoiselle de
Hautefort before such an assemblage; but his eyes constantly follow her,
and he is infinitely gratified by the reserve of her manner towards the
young gallants of the Court. Behind him rides the Grand Falconer,
followed by the huntsmen, the _piqueur_, the whippers-in, and the
falcons, hooded and chained to the wrists of their bearers. Last come
the dogs--the sad King’s special favourites. The brilliant cavalcade
flashes among the glades, which intersect the forest in every direction.
The gaily caparisoned steeds, and their still gayer riders, the
feathers, the lace, the embroidery, flutter in and out among the
openings of the wood, and are lost in the many paths, where every turn
is so like the other, yet each marked by some special beauty. Most of
the ladies are mounted on palfreys, but some prefer litters; others are
drawn up and down in cumbrous coaches, that threaten each moment to
overturn on the gnarled roots of beech and oak that break the sward. On
the riders dash between the giant tree-trunks, unhidden by the luxuriant
foliage that masses the woods in summer--for the season is spring--and
the trees are covered with but a slight shade of green leaves just
bursting from the grey boughs. Yonder they dart under a pine-tree that
darkens the ground, its spiky branches casting forth an aromatic
perfume. Then beneath a cherry-tree, white with snowy blossoms, on among
a maze of goss and yellow broom that streak the underwood with fire.
The birds sing in the bushes, the bees buzz among the blossoms, and the
horses’ hoofs crush the tender mosses and the early flowers that carpet
the ground. At the approach of the hunters hares and rabbits run lightly
away, and timid does, with their young at their side, scamper far into
the deepest recesses of the woods. Now the bugles sound, the dogs bay
loudly; they spread themselves from side to side and disappear among the
coppice, and the whole glittering company, gilded coaches, litters and
all follow them, and dash out of sight and are hidden among the trees.
It was arranged that the hunt should lead towards a noble mansion lying
on the confines of the forest, in the direction of Bondy, where the
host, apprized of the intended honour, had prepared an ample collation.
Etiquette demanded that the King and Queen should be served apart from
the rest. After their repast was finished and their attendants had
withdrawn, the Queen approached nearer to the King. He started up and
turned towards the door. Anne followed him. The long ride in the forest
had flushed her cheeks. She looked brilliant. “Your Majesty will not
refuse to speak to me, surely,” said she in the softest tones of her
naturally sweet voice, and she raised her glorious eyes, which would
have melted any other man but Louis, beseechingly.
The King shook his head sullenly.
“What have I done that your Majesty should scorn me?” said she,
stretching out her beautiful hand with the most winning gesture to
detain him.
Louis shrank from her touch, and turned his back upon her.
“Sire, will you not at least hear me, as you would hear the least of
your subjects?” and the Queen’s eyes filled with tears and her hand
dropped to her side.
“What have you to say to me?” asked Louis harshly, not looking at her.
“When I last saw your Majesty at Compiègne,” replied she with a
faltering voice, “your mother, the Queen-dowager”--at her name Louis
shuddered--“was mistress of the palace and of France. She sat at the
royal board; she presided at the Council of State; your Majesty obeyed
and loved her as a son. She is now a prisoner--disgraced, forsaken,
ill.” The Queen’s voice became so unsteady that she was obliged to stop,
and unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks. “What has this great Queen
done to deserve your Majesty’s displeasure?” she added after a pause.
“Madame, it is no affair of yours,” answered Louis gruffly. “I refuse to
give you my reasons. I act according to the advice of my council. Do not
detain me,” and he turned again to leave the room. Anne placed herself
in front of him; her head was thrown back, her figure raised to its full
height, the tears on her eyelids were dried; she was no longer timid,
but exasperated.
“If I have ventured to intercede for the Queen-mother,” said she with
dignity, “it is because she implored me to do so. She wept upon my
bosom. Her heart was all but broken. I comforted her as a daughter. I
promised her to use such feeble powers as I had, to soften your heart,
Sire. It is a sacred pledge I am discharging.”
“You are a couple of hypocrites!” exclaimed Louis with great irritation,
facing round upon her. “You hate each other. From my mother I have freed
myself; but you--” and he surveyed her savagely from head to foot--“you,
Madame Anne of Austria, you remain.”
“Yes, I remain,” returned Anne, “until, as I am told, you crave a
dispensation from the Pope and send me back to Madrid.” These last words
were spoken slowly and with marked emphasis. “I am a childless queen,”
and she shot a bitter glance at Louis, who now stood rooted to the spot
and listened to her with an expression of speechless amazement.
“Who told you, Madame, that I sought a dispensation from the Pope, and
to send you back to Madrid?” asked Louis sharply. Then, without waiting
for an answer, he put his hand to his forehead as if some sudden thought
had struck him, knit his brows, and was lost in thought.
“I have heard so, no matter how,” answered the Queen coolly, “and on
excellent authority. Sire,” she cried passionately, no longer able to
restrain her feelings, “you use me too ill--rather than suffer as I do I
will leave France for ever; I will not bear the mockery of being called
your wife--I would rather bury myself in a convent at Madrid.”
Louis was so completely abstracted, that although he had asked her a
question, he had forgotten to listen to her reply. Now he caught at her
last word.
“Madrid? Yes, Madame, I believe it. Your heart is there. I know it but
too well. Would you had never left Madrid! Ever since you came into
France you have desired my death that you might wed a comelier consort.”
Louis could scarcely articulate, so violently was he excited. Anne did
not stir, only her glowing eyes followed, as it were, each word he
uttered.
“You talk of the Queen-mother, do you know that she warned me long ago
that you were dishonouring me?”
“Oh, Sire, if you forget who I am,” exclaimed the Queen, “remember at
least that I am a woman!” and she burst into tears, and for a few
moments sobbed bitterly.
“Can you deny it, Madame,” continued the King, with rising fury, his
mouth twitching nervously, as was his wont when much agitated--“can you
deny it? Am I not become a jest among my own courtiers? You, the Queen
of France, openly encourage the addresses of many lovers. You are
wanting, Madame, even in the decency of the reserve becoming your high
station,” and Louis clenched his fist with rage.
“I deny what you say,” returned the Queen boldly; “I have discoursed
with no man to the dishonour of your Majesty.” She was trembling
violently, but she spoke firmly and with dignity. “If I am wanting in
concealment,” added she, “it is because I have nothing to conceal.”
“I do not believe you,” answered the King rudely.
“No, Sire, you do not, because you are my enemy. Your mind is poisoned
against me. You encourage the lies of Richelieu, you slander me to my
own attendants. Worse than all, you dare to couple my name with that of
the Duc d’Orléans, your own brother. It is a gross calumny.”
Her voice rose as she spoke; the power of truth and innocence was in her
look--it was impossible not to believe her. For an instant the King’s
suspicions seemed shaken. He followed eagerly every word she uttered;
but at the name of Monsieur a livid paleness overspread his face; for a
moment he looked as if he would have swooned. Then recovering himself
somewhat he came close up to her, and with a wild look he scanned her
curiously, as though to read some answer to his suspicions. “Who can
have told her? who can have told her?” he muttered half aloud--“a secret
of state too. It is not possible that--” The last words were spoken so
low that they were lost. Louis was evidently struggling with some
painful but overwhelming conviction. His head sunk on his breast. Again
he became lost in thought. Then, looking up, he saw that the Queen was
watching him. She was waiting for him to speak. This awakened him
suddenly to a consciousness of what was passing, and his anger burst
forth afresh.
“You say I am your enemy--yes, I am, and with reason. Are you not
devoted to the interests of Spain, now at war with France? Do you not
betray me in letters to your brother? Answer me.” It was now the Queen’s
turn to falter and turn pale. The King perceived it. “I have you there,
Madame Anne; I have you there;” and he laughed vindictively. “My life is
not safe beside you. Like my great father, I shall die by an assassin
whose hand will be directed by my wife!” A cold shiver passed over him.
“Richelieu has proofs. _Vrai Dieu_, Madame, he has proofs. It is
possible,” he added, with a sardonic smile, which made him look ghastly,
“that you may return to Madrid sooner than you imagine--you and the
Duchesse de Chevreuse, your accomplice.”
“Not sooner than I desire, Sire, after your unworthy treatment,”
exclaimed Anne, proudly, her anger overcoming her fears that her letters
might have been really deciphered. “I come of a race that cannot brook
insult; but I can bear disgrace.”
Louis, who felt that the Queen was getting the better of him, grew
furious--“I will have no more words, Madame,” shouted he; “we will deal
with facts. I shall appeal to my minister and to my council. For myself,
I am not fit to govern,” he added, in an altered voice, and with the
forlorn air of a man who cannot help himself.
“Speak not to me, Sire, of Richelieu and the council over which he
presides,” cried Anne, goaded beyond endurance. “Richelieu is a traitor,
a hypocrite, a libertine--not even his sovereign’s wife is sacred to
him!”
“Ah, Madame, it is natural that you and Richelieu should disagree,”
retorted the King, with an incredulous sneer. “He is a match for you and
for the Duchess your counsellor--the Duchess whose life disgraces my
Court.”
Anne had now thrown herself into a chair, her hands were crossed on her
bosom, her eyes bent steadily on the King, as if prepared for whatever
fresh extravagance he might utter. Even the enraged Louis felt the
influence of her fixed, stern gaze. He ceased speaking, grew suddenly
confused, paced up and down hurriedly, stopped, essayed again to address
her--then abruptly strode out of the room.
* * * * *
The Queen and her ladies are seated on a stone balcony that overlooks
the parterre and the park of Saint-Germain. Below, the King’s violins
are playing some music of his composition, set to words in praise of
friendship, full of covert allusions to Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The
Queen’s fair young face is clouded with care; she leans back listlessly
in her chair, and takes no heed of the music or of what is passing
around her. The Chevalier de Jars approaches her. There is something in
his air that alarms her; she signs to him to place himself beside her.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, conscious that every one is watching the
effect of the music and the words upon her, sits apart at the farther
end of the gallery, from which the balcony projects, almost concealed
from view. A door near her opens noiselessly, and the King puts in his
head. He peers round cautiously, sees that no one has perceived him, and
that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is alone, then he creeps in and seats
himself by her side. He looks saddened and perplexed.
“Why do you shun me?” he asks, abruptly.
“You have been absent, Sire.”
“Did you miss me?” His voice sounds so strange and hollow that
Mademoiselle de Hautefort looks up into his face. Something has
happened; what could it be? Some misfortune to the Queen is always her
first thought. Before she can reply, Louis sighs profoundly, so
profoundly that he almost groans, contemplating her, at the same time,
with looks of inexpressible sorrow. “Alas!” exclaims he at last, “I had
hoped so much from this interview when we parted at Fontainebleau; I
have lived upon the thought, and now--my dream is ended; all is over!”
The maid of honour grows alarmed: either he is gone mad, she thinks, or
something dreadful has happened.
“I cannot conceive what you mean, Sire?” she replies, not knowing what
to say.
“Are you, too, false?” he continues, “with those eyes so full of truth?
Yet it must be you, it can be no other. False like the rest; a devil
with an angel’s face!” The maid of honour is more and more amazed. “Yet
I trusted you; with my whole heart I trusted you,” and he turns to her
with a piteous expression, and wrings his hands. “I unfolded to you my
forlorn and desolate condition. It might have touched you. Tell me,” he
continues, in a tone of anguish, “tell me the truth; was it you who
betrayed me?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort is terribly confused. She understands now what
the King means; a mortal terror seizes her; what shall she say to him?
She is too conscientious to deny point-blank that she has told his
secret, so she replies evasively, “that she is his Majesty’s faithful
servant.”
“But, speak,” insists the King, “give me a plain
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU OF NANTES.]
answer. How does the Queen know a state secret, that I confided to you
alone, that I even whispered in your ear?”
“Sire, I--I do not know,” falters the maid of honour.
“Swear to me, mademoiselle, that you have not betrayed me to the Queen;
swear, and I will believe you. _Pardieu!_ I will believe you even if it
is not true!” Louis’s eyes shine with hidden fire; his slight frame
quivers.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, trembling for her mistress, with difficulty
controls herself. “Your Majesty must judge me as you please,” she
replies, struggling to speak with unconcern. “I call God to witness I
have been faithful to my trust.”
“I would fain believe it,” replies the King, watching her in painful
suspense; he seems to wait for some further justification, but not
another syllable passes her lips. Still the King lingers; his looks are
riveted upon her.
At this moment the music ceases. The maid of honour starts up, for the
Queen has left the balcony. The King had vanished.
Anne of Austria, quitting those around her, advances alone to the spot
where Mademoiselle de Hautefort had been talking with the King. “I am
going at once to the Val de Grâce,” she whispers in great agitation.
“Indeed, Madame; so suddenly?”
“Yes, at once. I have just heard from the Chevalier de Jars that Chalais
is arrested at Nantes. He accuses me and the Duchesse de Chevreuse of
conspiring with him. Richelieu meditates some _coup de main_ against
me. I shall be safe at the Val de Grâce. You and the Duchess will
accompany me. Here is a letter I have written in pencil to my brother;
it is most important. I dare not carry it about me; take care to deliver
it yourself to Laporte.”
The Queen drew from her pocket a letter, placed it in the maid of
honour’s hand, and hastened back to rejoin the company. Mademoiselle was
about to follow her, when Louis suddenly rose up before her, and barred
her advance.
“Mademoiselle de Hautefort,” he said, “I have heard all. I was concealed
behind that curtain. Give me that letter, written by my wife, I command
you.”
“Never, Sire, never!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort crushed the letter
in her hand.
“How--dare you refuse me? Give it to me instantly!” and he tried to tear
it from her grasp. She eluded him, retreated a few steps, and paused for
a moment to think, then, as if a sudden inspiration had struck her, she
opened the lace kerchief which covered her neck, thrust the letter into
her bosom, and exclaimed:--
“Here it is, Sire; come and take it!”
With outstretched arms she stood before him; her cheeks aglow with
blushes, her bosom wildly heaving. Wistfully he regarded her for a
moment, then thrust out his hand to seize the letter, plainly visible
beneath the gauzy covering. One glance from her flashing eye, and the
King, crimson to the temples, drew back; irresistibly impelled, he
advanced again and once more retreated, then with a look of baffled fury
shouted, “Now I _know_ you are a traitress!” and rushed from the
gallery.
CHAPTER XXXV.
AT VAL DE GRÂCE.
The ancient Benedictine abbey of the Val Profond, near Bièvre le Châlet,
three leagues from Paris, was founded by Robert, son of Hugh Capet. Soon
after her arrival in France, Anne of Austria bought the ground upon
which the then ruined abbey stood, moved the nuns to Paris, and placed
them in a convent called the Val de Grâce,[25] under the Mont Parnasse,
near the Luxembourg Gardens. To this convent of the Val de Grâce the
Queen often resorted to seek in prayer and meditation (for she was
eminently pious), consolation and repose. On these occasions she
occupied a suite of rooms specially set apart for her use.
It is a bright morning, and the sunshine streams through the painted
windows, and streaks the marble floor of the Queen’s oratory with
chequered colours. To the east, under a lofty window, stands an altar,
covered with a costly cloth, on which, in golden sconces, burn many
votive candles. Anne of Austria is seated in a recess, on a carved chair
of dark oak. She is dressed in black, her golden curls are gathered
under a sober coif; she looks pale, and ill at ease; her eyes, dulled by
want of sleep, are anxious and restless, but there is a resolution in
her bearing that shows she is prepared to meet whatever calamity awaits
her with the courage of her race. Mademoiselle de Hautefort sits on a
low stool at her feet. She is weeping bitterly.
“Ah! Madame,” she sobs, “this is Richelieu’s revenge. It is all his
doing. How could your Majesty listen to the advice of that wild Duchess,
and affront him so cruelly at Saint-Germain? Alas! he will persecute you
as long as he lives.”
“I cannot recall the past,” answers Anne sadly.
“Had you reposed confidence in me, Madame, this would never have
happened. Madame de Chevreuse has sacrificed you to her love of
intrigue.”
“My poor Chevreuse, she is no more to blame than I am. Where is the
Duchess, mademoiselle?”
While the Queen speaks a sound of wheels entering the courtyard from the
street of Saint-Jacques breaks the silence. A moment after Madame de
Chevreuse rushes into the oratory, so hidden in a black hood and a long
cloak that no one would have recognised her. She flings herself on her
knees before the Queen, and grasps her hands.
“Ah, my dear mistress, you are saved!” she cries, breathlessly. Anne
raises her and kisses her tenderly. “I am just come from the Bastille. I
went there disguised as a priest. I have seen Chalais. The Cardinal
interpreted what Chalais said--purposely, of course--into meaning an
attempt upon the life of the King.”
“Great God!” exclaims Anne, turning her glistening eyes to heaven, “what
wickedness!”
“The King has joined the Cardinal in a purpose to prosecute your Majesty
for treason. His Majesty is furious. He declares that he will repudiate
you, and send you back into Spain. He has commanded the Chancellor
Séguier and the Archbishop of Paris to repair here to the convent of the
Val de Grâce to search your private papers for proofs of your guilt and
of your treasonable intrigues with Spain. They are close at hand. I
feared lest they had already arrived before I could return and apprise
your Majesty.”
“But what of Chalais?” cries Anne. “Why did you visit him in the
Bastille?”
“To learn what had passed between him and the Cardinal. We must all tell
the same story. Chalais confesses to me that, in the confusion of his
arrest at Nantes, he did let fall some expressions connecting your
Majesty, Monsieur, and myself with the plot against Richelieu, and that
when questioned he avowed that he acted with your knowledge.”
“Ah, the coward!” cries Mademoiselle de Hautefort bitterly. “And you
love him.”
“No, mademoiselle, Chalais is no coward. He is a noble gentleman, whose
fortitude will yet save her Majesty. He has been betrayed by Louvigni,
the traitor, out of jealousy. Do not interrupt me, mademoiselle,”
continues the Duchess, seeing that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is again
about to break forth into reproaches against Chalais. “No sooner had
Chalais arrived at the Bastille than Richelieu visited him in his cell.
He offered him his life if he would consent to inculpate your Majesty in
the plot. Chalais refused, and declared that the plot of which you were
informed by Monsieur the Duc d’Orléans, was directed against himself;
and he told the Cardinal he might tear him in pieces with wild horses
before he would say one word to your Majesty’s prejudice.”
“Generous Chalais!” exclaims the Queen, clasping her hands. “Can he not
be saved?”
“No, Madame, my noble friend must die. He knows it, and places his life
at your feet.”
Anne sobs violently.
“Horrible! Oh, that I should cost those who love me so dear! Proceed,
Duchess.”
“The Cardinal had in the meantime, as soon as your Majesty left
Saint-Germain, sent to force your drawers and cabinets for papers.” Anne
rises to her feet, white with terror. “Never fear, Madame; I had thought
of that. Laporte had destroyed everything by my order. Only one letter
to your brother the King of Spain was found. It was written the day you
left, and confided by you, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, to Laporte,” and
the Duchess gives a spiteful glance at the maid of honour. “Before he
despatched it, Laporte was seized and searched.”
“There was nothing in that letter derogatory to me as Queen of France,”
says the Queen quickly. “I spoke of Richelieu’s insane passion for me,
and described the scene at Saint-Germain, and I told him I was about to
leave for the Val de Grâce; nothing more. The Cardinal will not show
that letter.”
“Yes, Madame, God be praised! it is so. But it was absolutely necessary
that I should tell Chalais that but one letter had been found, and that
perfectly innocent, before he was examined by the Cardinal. I have told
him. He knows he can save his Queen. He is content to die!” As the
Duchess speaks, the sound of wheels again interrupts them. “Hark! The
Chancellor and the Archbishop have arrived. Courage, your Majesty! All
now depends on your presence of mind. Nothing will be found in this
convent, and Laporte waits at the door without. He will suffer no one to
enter.”
Anne flings herself into the arms of the Duchess.
“You have saved me!” she cries, and covers her with kisses.
* * * * *
An hour has passed. Laporte knocks at the door, and enters. His looks
betray the alarm he tries to conceal.
“The Chancellor, Madame, has arrived, in company with the Archbishop of
Paris,” he says, addressing the Queen. “The Archbishop has commanded the
Abbess, the venerable Louise de Milli, and all the sisterhood, who went
out to meet him, to return each one within her cell, and not to exchange
a single word together during the time he remains in the convent, under
pain of excommunication.” The Queen and the Duchess exchange anxious
glances. Laporte speaks again with much hesitation, “I regret to say
that the Chancellor then proceeded to search all the cells. No papers
were found.” The Duchess clasps her hands with exultation. “How can I go
on?” Laporte groans, the tears coming into his eyes. “Forgive me,
Madame; I cannot help it.” The Queen makes an impatient gesture, and
Laporte continues: “The Chancellor craves your Majesty’s pardon, but
desires me to tell you that he bears a royal warrant, which he must
obey, to search your private apartment, and this oratory also.”
“Let him have every facility, my good Laporte,” answers the Queen
collectedly. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort, deliver up all my keys to
Laporte.”
“The Chancellor and the Archbishop desire to speak also to the
lady-in-waiting on your Majesty, the Duchesse de Chevreuse,” Laporte
adds.
“What new misfortune is this?” cries Anne of Austria, turning very pale.
“Go, dear Duchess; all is not yet over, I fear.”
Madame de Chevreuse leaves the oratory with Laporte. The Queen casts
herself on her knees before the sacred relics exposed on the altar. She
hides her face in her hands.
It is not long before the Duchess returns. Her triumphant air has
vanished. She tries to appear unconcerned, but cannot. Anne rises from
her knees, and looks at her in silence.
“Speak, Madame de Chevreuse; I can bear it,” she says meekly.
“Alas! my dear mistress, Richelieu’s vengeance is not yet complete. The
Chancellor has announced to me that a Council of State is about to
assemble in the refectory of the convent. You are summoned to appear, to
answer personally certain matters laid to your charge.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort utters a loud scream. The Queen, her eyes
riveted on the Duchess, neither moves nor speaks for some moments.
“You have more to say. Speak, Duchess,” she says at last in a low voice.
“Nothing whatever has been found--no line, no paper. I took care of
that,” and the Duchess smiles faintly.
“You have not yet told me all. I must hear it. Conceal nothing,” again
insists the Queen.
“Alas! it is indeed as you say. The Chancellor”--and her voice falls
almost to a whisper--“has express orders under the King’s hand to search
your Majesty’s _person_.”
“Search an anointed Queen!” exclaims Anne of Austria. “Never!” and she
stretches out her arms wildly towards the altar. “Holy Virgin, help me!”
she cries.
At this moment the sound of many footsteps is heard without in the stone
passage, approaching the door. Anne of Austria has risen; she stands in
the centre of the oratory; an unwonted fire glows in her eyes, a look of
unmistakable command spreads itself over her whole person. Never had she
looked more royal than in this moment of extreme humiliation. The
Duchess rushes to the door and draws the ponderous bolts. “Now let them
come,” cries she, “if they dare!” They all listen in breathless silence.
The voice of Laporte, who has returned to his post outside the door, is
heard in low but angry altercation. Then he is heard to say, in a loud
voice--
“No one can be admitted to her Majesty, save only the King, without her
permission.”
“We command you in the name of the law. Stand aside!” is the reply.
Then another voice speaks:--
“We are the bearers of an order from the King and the Council of State
to see her Majesty.” It is the Chancellor’s voice, and his words are
distinctly audible within.
“I know of no order but from the Queen my mistress. Your Grace shall not
pass. If you do, it shall be across my body,” Laporte is heard to
reply.
“We enter our solemn protest against this breach of the law; but we
decline to force her Majesty’s pleasure.” It was still the Chancellor
who spoke. Then the sound of receding footsteps told that he was gone.
“Where will this end?” asks Anne in a hollow voice, sinking into a
chair.
The Duchess and Mademoiselle de Hautefort fling their arms round her.
“Bear up, Madame, the worst is over. Be only firm; they can prove
nothing,” whispers the Duchess. “There is not a tittle of evidence
against you.”
“Ah, but, my friend, you forget that the King is eager to repudiate me.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort knows it from his own lips.”
“He cannot, without proofs of your guilt,” the Duchess answers
resolutely. “There are none. And if he does, _qu’importe_? Why mar that
queenly brow with sorrow, and wrinkle those delicate cheeks with tears?
Be like me, Madame, a citizen of the world--Madrid, Paris, London--what
matters? The sun shines as brightly in other lands as here. Life and
love are everywhere. You are young, beautiful, courageous. To see you is
to love you. Swords will start from their scabbards to defend you. Your
exile in your brother’s Court will be a triumph. You will rule all
hearts; you will still be the sovereign of youth, of poetry, and of
song!”
As she speaks the Duchess’s countenance beams with enthusiasm. Anne of
Austria shakes her head sorrowfully, and is silent.
“You are happy, Duchess, in such volatile spirits,” says Mademoiselle de
Hautefort contemptuously, her eyes all the while fixed on her royal
mistress; “but I cannot look on the disgrace of the Queen of France as
though it were the finale to a page’s roundelay.”
The sound of many heavy coaches thundering into the inner court of the
convent puts a stop to further conversation.
“The council is assembling!” exclaims the Duchess.
At these words the Queen rises mechanically; her large eyes, dilated and
widely open, are fixed on vacancy, as though the vision of some unspoken
horror, some awful disaster, had risen before her. She knows it is the
crisis of her life. From that chamber she may pass to banishment,
prison, or death. For a moment her mind wanders. She looks round wildly.
“Spare me! spare me!” she murmurs, and she wrings her hands. “Alas! I am
too young to die!” Then collecting her scattered senses, she moves
forward with measured steps. “I am ready,” she says, in a hollow voice.
“Unbar the door.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE QUEEN BEFORE THE COUNCIL.
The refectory of the convent of the Val de Grâce is a vast apartment,
dimly lit by rows of small lancet windows placed along the side walls.
These walls are bare, panelled with dark wood; great oaken rafters span
the tented roof. At the eastern end hangs a large crucifix of silver.
In the centre is a table, round which the three principal members of the
council are assembled. Alone, at the head, is the King, uneasily seated
on the corner of a huge chair. His whole body is shrunk and contracted,
as though he were undergoing some agonising penance. He never raises his
eyes; his pallid face works with nervous excitement. His hat is drawn
over his brow; his hands are clasped upon his knees. That he had come in
haste is apparent, for he wears his usual dark hunting-dress.
At his right hand is the Cardinal, wearing a long tightly fitting
_soutane_ of purple silk, with a cloak of the same colour. His
countenance is perfectly impassive, save that when he moves, and the
light from above strikes upon his dark eyes, they glitter. In his
delicate hands he holds some papers, to which he refers from time to
time: others lie on the table near him. Opposite the Cardinal are the
Archbishop of Paris and the Chancellor Séguier. At the farther end of
the council-table, facing the King, Anne of Austria is seated. The
colour comes and goes upon her downy cheeks; but otherwise no sovereign
throned in fabled state is more queenly than this golden-haired daughter
of the Cæsars.
The Cardinal turns towards her, but, before addressing her, his eyes are
gathered fixedly upon her. Then, in a placid voice, he speaks--
“Your Majesty has been summoned by the King here present to answer
certain matters laid to your charge.”
Anne of Austria rises and makes an obeisance, looking towards the King,
then reseats herself.
“I am here to answer whatever questions his Majesty sees good to put to
me,” she replies, in a clear, firm voice.
“His Majesty, Madame, speaks through _my_ voice,” answers Richelieu,
significantly, observing her pointed reference to the King’s presence;
“I am here as his _alter ego_. It is said,” he continues, in the same
impassive manner in which he had at first addressed her, “that you,
Madame Anne of Austria, consort of the King, hold a treasonable
correspondence in cipher with your brother, Philip, King of Spain, now
waging war against this realm of France, and that therein you betray to
him secrets of state to the manifest hurt and danger of the King’s
armies, by affording treacherous foreknowledge of their movements and of
the measures of his Government. What answer does your Majesty make to so
grave a charge?”
“If it be so, let these letters be produced,” answers the Queen boldly.
“I declare that beyond the natural love I bear my brother and his
consort, Elizabeth of France, sister to the King,--which love surely is
no crime,--I have never, by word or deed, betrayed aught that I might
know to the prejudice of the King, my husband, or of this great country
of which I am the Queen.”
“Why, then, Madame, if these letters were harmless did you write in a
cipher unknown to the King’s ministers?” asks the Cardinal, bending his
piercing eyes keenly upon her.
“Because,” replies the Queen, “I knew that spies were set, by the King’s
order, at _your_ instance,” and she points to the Cardinal, “to waylay
these letters, the writing of which has been to me, next to God, my
greatest comfort in much sorrow and persecution which I have suffered
wrongfully since I came into France.”
“Madame,” continues Richelieu, speaking with the same unmoved voice and
manner, “do you know Henry de Talleyrand, Comte de Chalais, Master of
the Robes to his Majesty, and once esteemed by him as his faithful
subject?”
“I do know him,” answers the Queen.
“Do you know also that this gentleman, the Comte de Chalais, has been
lately arrested at Nantes, and is now lying in the prison of the
Bastille, accused of having treacherously conspired against the sacred
person of his Majesty, with the design of placing on the throne, at his
death, Monseigneur, Duc d’Orléans--brother of the King; and that the
Comte de Chalais avers and declares, before witnesses, that he acted by
your order and by your counsel? What answer have you to make to this,
Madame?”
“That it is false, and unsupported by any evidence whatever, and that
you, Cardinal Richelieu, know that it is false.” Then Anne of Austria
raises her hands towards the crucifix hanging before her--“By the
blessed wounds of our Lord Jesus, I swear that I never knew that the
life of the King, my husband, was threatened; if it were so, it was
concealed from me.” A stifled groan is heard from the King. Both the
Chancellor and the Archbishop appear greatly impressed by the Queen’s
solemn declaration, and whisper together. Richelieu alone is unmoved.
Then the Queen rises, and for the first time, turns her large eyes full
upon the Cardinal, over whose frame a momentary tremor passes. “It was
of another plot that the Comte de Chalais spoke; and of another
assassination, not that of the King. His Majesty himself--if I mistake
not--knew and did not disapprove of _this other_ project, and of
removing _him_ whom I mean. Nevertheless I shrank from the proposal with
horror; I expressly forbade all bloodshed, although it would have
removed a deadly enemy from my path.” And the Queen, while she speaks,
fixes her undaunted gaze full on the Cardinal, who casts down his eyes
on the papers he holds in his hands. “Let his Majesty confront me with
Chalais; he will confirm the truth of what I say.” Anne of Austria stops
to watch the effect of her words. Something like a groan again escapes
from the King; he pulls at his beard, and moves uneasily in his chair,
as the Cardinal’s lynx eyes are directed, for an instant, towards him
with a malignant glare. The Cardinal stoops to consult some documents
that lie upon the table, and for a few moments not a word was uttered.
Then resuming his former placid voice and manner, Richelieu faces the
Queen, and proceeds:--
“Further, Madame, it is averred, and it is believed by his Majesty, that
you, forgetting the duty of a wife, and the loyalty of a Queen, have
exchanged love-tokens with the said prince of the blood, Gaston, Duc
d’Orléans, now for his manifest treason fled into Spain,”--at these
words, to which she listens with evident horror, Anne clasps her
hands;--“further, that you, Madame, and your lady of the bedchamber,
Marie de Lorraine, Duchesse de Chevreuse, did conspire, with Chalais and
others, for this unholy purpose.”
Anne’s face is suffused with a deep blush of shame while the Cardinal
speaks; for a moment her courage seems to fail her--then, collecting
herself, she stretches out her arms towards the King, and says solemnly,
“I call on his Majesty, Louis--surnamed the Just--my husband, to
confront me with my accusers: I am innocent of this foul charge.”
At this appeal the King half rises, as if with an intention to speak,
then sinks back again into his chair. His features twitch convulsively;
he never raises his eyes.
“Is that all you have to reply to the wicked and murderous project said
to be entertained by you of wedding, _from inclination_, with the King’s
brother, at his death, if by feeble health, or any other accident, his
Majesty had been removed?” and the Cardinal bends his glassy eyes
earnestly upon the Queen.
“I reply that I should have gained nothing by the change. The Duc
d’Orléans is as fickle and unworthy as his Majesty, who sits by unmoved,
and hears his consort slandered by her enemies.” Anne’s eyes flash fire;
her indignation had carried her beyond fear; she stands before the
council more like a judge than a criminal. “Have a care, Armand de
Plessis, Cardinal Minister and _tyrant_ of France, that you question me
not too closely,” the Queen adds in a lower voice, addressing herself
directly to Richelieu. As she speaks she puts her hand to her bosom, and
discloses, between the folds of her dark velvet robe a portion of a
letter, bound with purple cord, which Richelieu instantly recognises as
the identical one he had addressed to her at Saint-Germain, asking for a
private audience. The Cardinal visibly shudders; his whole expression
changes; his impassive look is turned to one of anxiety and doubt; he
passes his hands over his forehead, as if to shade his eyes from the
light, but in reality to give his fertile brain a few moments’ time in
which to devise some escape from the danger that threatens him should
the Queen produce that letter before the council. So rapid has been the
Queen’s action that no one else has perceived it. Something peculiar,
however, in the tone of her voice attracts the notice of the King, who,
rousing himself from the painful abstraction into which he has fallen,
gazes round for the first time, and bends his lustreless grey eyes
suspiciously on the Cardinal, and from him on the Queen; then shaking
his head doubtfully, he again resumes his former weary attitude.
Meanwhile the Queen, imagining that she perceives some compassion in
that momentary glance, rises and advances close to the edge of the
council-table. Grief, anger, and reproach are in her looks. With a
haughty gesture she signs to the Cardinal to be silent, clasps her small
hands so tightly that the nails redden her tender skin, and, in a
plaintive voice, addresses herself directly to the King. “Oh, Sire, is
not your heart moved with pity to behold a great princess, such as I,
your wife, and who might have been the mother of your children, stand
before you here like a criminal, to suffer the scorn and malice of her
enemies?”--she is so overcome that her voice falters, and she hastily
brushes the starting tears from her eyes. “I know,” she continues, with
her appealing eyes resting on the King, “I know that you are weary of
me, and that your purpose is, if possible, to repudiate me and send me
back into Spain; you have confessed as much to one of my maids of
honour, who, shocked at the proposal, repeated it to me. I appeal to
yourself, Sire, if this be not true?” and laying one hand on the table
she leans forward towards Louis, waiting for his reply; but, although he
does not answer her appeal, he whispers a few words into the ear of the
Archbishop, standing next to him, who bows. Then he falls back on his
chair, as if weary and exhausted by a hopeless struggle. “My lords, the
King cannot deny it,” says Anne of Austria triumphantly, addressing the
council; “My lords, I have never, since I came into France, a girl of
fifteen, been permitted to occupy my legitimate place in his Majesty’s
affections. The Queen-dowager, Marie de’ Medici, poisoned his mind
against me; and now Cardinal Richelieu, _her creature_,”--and Anne casts
a look of ineffable disdain at Richelieu--“continues the same policy,
because he dreads my influence, and desires wholly to possess himself of
the King’s confidence, the better to rule him and France.”
The Queen’s bold words had greatly impressed the council in her favour.
The Archbishop and the Chancellor consult anxiously together. At length
the Archbishop of Paris interposes.
“Her Majesty the Queen appears to have explained most satisfactorily all
the accusations made against her. I was myself present at the
examination of her private apartments within this convent of the Val de
Grâce. Nothing was found but proofs of her pious sentiments and devout
exercises, such as scourges, girdles spiked with iron to mortify the
flesh, books of devotion and missals. It is to be desired that all royal
ladies could disarm suspicion like her Majesty. If, therefore, the
evidence which the Cardinal holds be in accordance with her Majesty’s
declarations, all the charges may be withdrawn, and her Majesty be
returned to those royal dignities and honours which she so fitly adorns.
Speak, Cardinal Richelieu, do you hold counter evidence--yea, or nay?”
The Cardinal does not at once answer. He shuffles some papers in his
hands, then turns towards the King, and whispers in his ear. Louis makes
an impatient gesture of assent, and resumes his despondent attitude.
“I have his Majesty’s commands for replying,” answers Richelieu, “that
no letters implicating the Queen in treasonable correspondence with her
brother have been at present actually found, although his Majesty has
reason to believe that such exist. Also that the Count de Chalais’s
statements are in accord with those of her Majesty. Also that the King
acquits Madame Anne, his consort, of the purpose of marrying with his
brother, Monsieur Duc d’Orléans, on whom _alone_ must rest the onus of
such a crime. Usher of the court, summon the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting
to attend her. Your Majesty is free,” adds Richelieu, and the mocking
tone of his voice betrays involuntarily something of the inward rage he
labours to conceal. “Madame Anne of Austria, you are no longer a
prisoner of state under examination by the council, but are, as before,
in full possession of the privileges, powers, immunities, and revenues
belonging to the Queen Consort of France.”
Anne of Austria leaves her chair, salutes his Majesty with a profound
obeisance, of which Louis takes no other notice than to turn his eyes to
the ceiling, and then advances towards the door. The Chancellor and the
Archbishop rise at the same time from the council-table, and hasten to
open the door by which she is to pass out, bowing humbly before her.
“The royal carriages are in waiting, Madame,” whispered the Duchesse de
Chevreuse, who, with Mademoiselle de Hautefort, was waiting outside; and
she wrung the Queen’s hand. “My dear, dear mistress, I know you are
free!”
“Praised be God!” replied Anne, “I have escaped,” and she kissed her on
both cheeks, as also her maid of honour, who was so overcome she could
not say one word of congratulation.
“Come, Madame,” cried the Duchesse de Chevreuse, “let us leave this
dreadful place, I beseech you, lest the Cardinal should concoct some
fresh plot to detain you.”
“Duchess,” replied Anne gaily, “you shall command me. It is to you I owe
my liberty. But for your forethought those unhappy letters, wrung from
me in moments of anguish--ah! of despair, would have been found, and I
should at this moment have been on my way to the Bastille. My good
Hautefort, you have not spoken to me. You look sad. What is it?” and the
Queen took her hand.
“It is because I have contributed nothing towards your Majesty’s
freedom. Besides, a foreboding of coming evil overpowers me,” and she
burst into tears.
She again kissed her, and led her by the hand towards the cumbrous coach
which was to bear her to Paris. As Anne was preparing to mount into it,
assisted by her page and Laporte, who had reappeared, the Chevalier de
Jars approached hastily, and bowed before her.
“How now, Chevalier! any more ill news? What is your business here?”
asked Anne.
“It is with this lady,” said he, turning to the maid of honour.
“Mademoiselle de Hautefort, you cannot accompany her Majesty to Paris.”
“Why, Chevalier?” demanded Anne impatiently, still holding her hand.
“Because I am commanded to make known to you that Mademoiselle de
Hautefort is exiled from France during his Majesty’s pleasure. I am
charged, mademoiselle, to show you this token,” and he produced the
other half of the golden medallion which Louis had broken during their
interview at Fontainebleau. “The King bid me say that by this token he
himself commands your instant departure.”
The Queen clasped her in her arms.
“My poor Hautefort, is it indeed so? Must I lose my trusty friend?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort threw herself, weeping bitterly, at the
Queen’s feet.
“Alas! Madame,” sobbed she, “I am banished because I have been faithful
to you!”
“Have you got another order--for my arrest, _par exemple_, Chevalier?”
asked the Duchess archly. “I have also committed the awful crime of
faithfulness to her Majesty. I suppose I shall go next.”
The Chevalier shook his head.
“No, madame. You will accompany the Queen to the Louvre.”
* * * * *
The Duchesse de Chevreuse did accompany the Queen to the Louvre; but, on
arriving there, she found a _lettre de cachet_ banishing her from France
within twenty-four hours. A similar order was also served on the
Chevalier de Jars.
The Queen was free, but her friends were exiled.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
LOUISE DE LAFAYETTE.
Louise de Lafayette--the only child of Comte Jean de Lafayette, of
Hauteville, and of Margaret de Boulon-Busset, his wife--was the young
lady selected to fill the vacant post of maid of honour to the Queen,
_vice_ De Hautefort, banished.
So long a time had elapsed since the departure of the latter that it
seemed as though Anne of Austria never intended to replace her; however,
the new mistress of the robes, the Duchesse de Sennécy, a distant
relative of Mademoiselle de Lafayette, urged the Queen so strongly in
her favour, that the appointment was at last announced.
Louise de Lafayette had passed many years of her girlhood in a convent,
and was somewhat _dévote_, but she was sincere in her piety, and
good-natured to excess. Not only was she good-natured, but she was so
entirely devoid of malice that it actually pained her to be made
acquainted with the faults of others. Perhaps her chief characteristic
was an exaggerated sensibility, almost amounting to delusion. She
created an ideal world around her, and peopled it with creatures of her
own imagination, rather than the men and women of flesh and blood among
whom she lived--a defect of youth which age and experience would
rectify. She possessed that gift, so rare in women, of charming
involuntarily--without effort or self-consciousness. When most
attractive and most admired, she alone was unconscious of it; envy
itself was disarmed by her ingenuous humility.
Louise was twenty-three years old when she was presented to the Queen at
Fontainebleau by the Principessa di Mantua, during her morning
reception. The saloon was filled with company, and great curiosity was
felt to see the successor of Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The most
critical observers were satisfied. The new maid of honour, though modest
and a little abashed, comported herself with perfect self-possession.
She was superbly dressed, had a tall and supple figure, good features,
and a complexion so exquisitely fair and fresh, and such an abundance of
sunny hair, as to remind many in the circle of her Majesty when, in the
dazzling beauty of her fifteenth year, she came a bride into France. But
Anne of Austria never had those large appealing grey eyes, beaming with
all the confidence of a guileless heart, nor that air of maiden reserve
which lent an unconscious charm to every movement, nor that calm and
placid brow, unruffled by so much as an angry thought.
Why had not Mademoiselle de Lafayette married? was the general question
which passed round the circle.
“Because she has found no one worthy of her,” was the reply of her
friend and cousin, the Duchesse de Sennécy.
After the new maid of honour had made her curtsey to the Queen, who
received her very graciously, the King (who had as usual placed himself
almost out of sight, near the door, in order to ensure a safe retreat if
needful) emerged, and timidly addressed her.
Since the scene at the monastery of the Val de Grâce, and the discovery
of Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s treachery, Louis had never once appeared
at the Queen’s lever until this morning. At the few words of compliment
he found courage to say to her, Louise blushed and curtsied, but made no
reply.
The next day the King was again present at her Majesty’s lever. He did
not speak, but his eyes never for an instant left the new maid of
honour.
The Court was at this time greatly agitated by political events. The
Spaniards were making the most alarming progress in France; they had
penetrated in the north as far as Corbie, in Picardy; in the south they
were overrunning Provence. Troops and money were both wanting. The
position of the ministry was so critical that even Richelieu was at
fault. Louis, roused from his habitual apathy, suddenly remembered that
he was the son of a great warrior, and electrified the Council of State
by announcing that he intended at once to take the field in person. A
resolve so contrary to his usual habits excited great discussion and
general interest.
* * * * *
The Saloon of Saint-Louis, at Fontainebleau, opens from the royal
guard-room. It is a noble apartment, divided into a card-room and a
_with_-drawing, or, as we say, drawing-room. The decorations are the
same as those in the Gallery of Francis I.; the walls, painted in fresco
after designs by Primaticcio, are divided by sculptured figures, in high
relief, entwined by wreaths of flowers, fruit, and foliage. The ceiling
is blue, sown with golden stars. Lights blaze from the chandeliers
disposed on marble tables and in the corners of the room, and display
the artistic beauty of the various paintings and frescoes that cover the
walls.
The Queen is playing cards with the Bishop of Limoges. The Court groups
itself about the double rooms, and at the other card-tables. Near the
Queen are her favourites of the hour, the Principesse di Gonzaga and di
Mantua; the Duchesse de Sennécy is in attendance. The King is seated on
a settee in the darkest and most distant corner. Anne dares not now
treat him either with impertinence or _hauteur_. If she cannot bring
herself actually to fear him, she knows that he is capable of revenge.
She has learnt, however, both to fear and to dread his minister,
Richelieu, under whose insolent dominion Louis’s life is passed. Madame
de Chevreuse is no longer at hand to tempt her into rebellion, and she
has learnt to submit quietly, if not contentedly, to her lot. She has
perceived the impression made upon the King by her new maid of honour,
and looks on amused and indifferent. Of the absolute goodness and
perfect rectitude of Louise de Lafayette, no one, and certainly not the
Queen, could entertain a doubt.
As she pushes the cards towards the Bishop of Limoges to deal for her,
which he does after making her a low bow, she turns round, the better to
observe his Majesty. He has moved from the settee, and is now seated in
earnest conversation with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. A sneer gathers
about the corners of her rosy mouth, and her eyes dwell upon him for an
instant with an expression of intense contempt; then she shrugs her
snowy shoulders, leans back in her chair, takes up the cards that lie
before her, and rapidly sorts them. The conversation between Louis and
Mademoiselle de Lafayette is low and earnest. His naturally dismal face
expresses more lively interest, and his lack-lustre eyes are more
animated than they have been for years. As to the maid of honour, she
listens to him with every faculty of her being, and hangs upon his words
as though, to her at least, they are inspired.
“The condition of France,” the King is saying, “overwhelms me. Would
that I could offer up my life for my beloved country! Would that I
possessed my great father’s military genius to defend her! I go, perhaps
never to return! Alas! no one will miss me,” and he heaves a heavy sigh,
and the tears gather in his eyes.
The maid of honour longs to tell him all the interest she feels for him,
her genuine admiration, her devotion, her pity for his desolate
condition; but she is new to court life, and, like himself, she is too
timid as yet to put her feelings into words. She sits beside him
motionless as a statue, not daring even to lift up her eyes, lest they
may betray her.
“Happy, ah! happy beyond words is the man who feels he is beloved, who
feels that he is missed!”--here Louis stops, casts a reproachful glance
at the Queen, whose back was towards him, then a shy, furtive look at
Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whose heightened colour and quickened
breathing betrays the intensity of her feelings: “such a one,” continues
the King, “has a motive for desiring fame; he can afford to risk his
life in the front of the battle. Were I”--and his voice sinks almost
into a whisper--“were I dear to any one, which I know I am not, I should
seek to live in history, like my father. As it is,” and he sighs, “I
know that I possess no quality that kindles sympathy. I am betrayed by
those whom I most trust, and hated and despised by those who are bound
by nature and by law to love and honour me. My death would be a boon to
some,”--again his eyes seek out the Queen--“and a blessing to myself. I
am a blighted and a miserable man. Sometimes I ask myself why I should
live at all?” It was not possible for the human countenance to express
more absolute despair than does the King’s face at this moment.
“Oh, Sire!” was all Mademoiselle de Lafayette dare trust herself to
reply; indeed, she is so choked by rising sobs that it is not possible
for her to say more.
The King is conscious that her voice trembles; he notices also that her
bosom heaves, and that she has suddenly grown very pale. Her silence,
then, was not from lack of interest. Louis feels infinitely gratified by
the discovery of this mute sympathy. All that was surpressed and
unspoken had a subtle charm to his morbid nature. After a few moments of
silence, Louis, fearful lest the Queen’s keen eyes should be turned upon
them, rises. “I deeply deplore, mademoiselle, that this conversation
must now end. Let me hope that it may be again resumed before my
departure for the army.” Louise does not reply, but one speaking glance
tells him he will not be refused.
At supper, and when she attends the Queen in her private apartments, she
is so absent that her friend, Madame de Sennécy, reprimands her sharply.
The next morning the Duchess went to her young cousin’s room. Madame de
Sennécy had a very decided taste for intrigue, and would willingly have
replaced the Duchesse de Chevreuse in the confidence of Anne of Austria,
but she wanted her predecessor’s daring wit, her adroitness, witcheries,
and beauty; above all, she lacked that generous devotion to her
mistress, which turned her life into a romance. Now Madame de Sennécy
thought she saw a chance of advancing her interests by means of her
cousin’s growing favour with the King. She would gain her confidence,
and by retailing her secrets excite the jealousy and secure the favour
of the Queen.
“My dear child,” said she, kissing Louise on both cheeks, a bland smile
upon her face, “will you excuse my early visit?” She seated herself
opposite to Mademoiselle de Lafayette, the better to observe her.
“Excuse the warmth with which I spoke to you last night in the Queen’s
sleeping-room; but really, whatever attention the King may pay you, _ma
chère_, you must not allow yourself to grow careless in her Majesty’s
service. As mistress of the robes, I cannot permit it. All the world, my
dear cousin, sees he is in love with you”--Louise blushed to the roots
of her hair, shook her head, and looked confused and unhappy--“of course
he loves you in his fashion. I mean,” added Madame de Sennécy quickly,
seeing her distress, and not giving her time to remonstrate, “a
perfectly Platonic love, nothing improper, of course. He loves you
timidly, modestly, even in his most secret thoughts. I am told by his
attendants that the King shows every sign of a great passion, much more
intense than he ever felt for Mademoiselle de Hautefort, who, after all,
trifled with him, and never was sincere.”
“I do not know the King well enough, Duchess, to venture an opinion on
his character,” replied Mademoiselle de Lafayette, with diffidence, “but
I may say that if I had any prepossessions against his Majesty, I have
lost them; I am sure he is capable of the tenderest friendship; he longs
to open his heart to a real friend. His confidence has been hitherto
abused.”
“My dear child, I have come here to advise you to be--well--that
friend.”
“Oh! madame, I fear I am too inexperienced to be of use to him; but if
the King does ask my advice, which seems very presumptuous in me to
suppose, I shall conceal nothing that I think, neither facts nor
opinions.”
“Ah, my cousin, try to rouse him; make him reign for himself; tell him
to shake off that dreadful Cardinal.”
“That is, I fear, impossible; I am too ignorant of politics. Besides,
what can I do now? he is going away to the war.”
“Well, but, _petite sotte_, he will return, and you will meet again.”
“Oh, no,” replied Louise, again colouring under the scrutinising eye of
the mistress of the robes, “he will forget me long before that.”
“Nothing of the kind, Louise,” replied the Duchess, “the King never
forgets anything.”
“Dear Duchess, you really are talking nonsense. What on earth could make
the King care for me?” and she sighed deeply, and fell into a muse. “I
do pity him, though,” she added, speaking with great feeling; “I pity
him, I own. He is naturally good--brave--confiding,” and she paused
between each word.
“I am glad you find him so,” answered the Duchess drily.
“Yet he ill fulfils his glorious mission,” continued Louise, as if
speaking to herself. “He is conscious of it, and it pains him. I am sure
he suffers acutely.”
“Heal his wounds, then,” said the Duchess, with a cynical smile, but
speaking in so low a voice that Mademoiselle de Lafayette did not catch
the words.
“Ah! if he had but one true friend, he might emulate his great father!
Did you hear, Duchess, with what firmness he addressed the deputies
yesterday, who had refused to register the royal edicts for raising the
necessary funds for the army? ‘This money,’ he said, ‘is not for myself,
but for the nation, and to maintain the national honour. Those who
refuse it, injure France more than her enemies, the Spaniards. I will be
obeyed,’ he said. There was energy! Oh, it was noble!” and her eyes
glistened and cheeks glowed.
“I suppose the Cardinal had composed this neat little speech for him
beforehand,” replied the Duchess with a sneer, contemplating her cousin
with amused inquisitiveness. “You do not believe he ever spoke like that
himself? You do not know him as well as I do, else you would not be so
enthusiastic. However, it is all as it should be. I do not desire to
disenchant you, I am sure. _Au revoir_,” and the Duchess left the room.
The next morning, before his departure for the campaign, Louis went to
bid the Queen farewell. It was only a formal visit, and he stayed
scarcely a minute. The Queen did not affect to care what might become of
him. On leaving her audience-chamber he lingered in the anteroom in
which her attendants were assembled. Mademoiselle de Lafayette was
seated, with another maid, in a recess; she,--Mademoiselle de
Guerchy,--seeing the King’s anxious looks, at once rose and retired. He
immediately took her place, and signed to Louise to seat herself beside
him. Separated from her companion, and sitting apart with Louis, Louise
suddenly remembered that it was precisely thus the King had conversed
_tête-à-tête_ with Mademoiselle de Hautefort; she became greatly
embarrassed.
“I come,” said the King, turning towards her, and speaking in a
plaintive voice, “I come to bid you adieu.”
Louise bent her head, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Louis
started at seeing the big tears roll down her cheeks.
“I have enjoyed few moments of happiness in the course of my dreary
life,” continued he, pressing her hand, “but this is one.”
He broke off, overcome apparently by his feelings. Louise wiped the
tears from her eyes.
“Sire, believe me, I only feel the same emotion as thousands of your
faithful subjects at a moment when you are about to lead the campaign
against Spain. If you would condescend to inform yourself of general
opinion you would find it as I say.”
“It may be, mademoiselle; but I only wish now to know _your_ feelings.
If you will indeed be to me the devoted friend I have so long sought in
vain, my entire confidence shall be yours. I go to-morrow, but the most
tender recollections will cling to me.” As he spoke he took her hand in
his and kissed it with fervour. “Think of me, I implore you, with the
same interest you now display. Believe me, my heart echoes all you feel.
If I am spared, please God, your sympathy will be the consolation of my
life.”
At this moment the Duchesse de Sennécy opened the door, in order to
cross the anteroom. The King started up at the noise, and walked quickly
towards another door opposite. The Duchess stopped; looked first at
Mademoiselle de Lafayette seated alone, covered with blushes, then at
the retreating figure of the King. She took in the whole situation at a
glance. It was too tempting an opportunity to throw away. There was a
favour she specially desired to ask. This was the very moment. In his
present state of confusion the King, only to get rid of her, was sure to
grant it. She rushed after him, and before Louis could reach the door,
she had seized upon him and spoken.
When he had gone the Duchess ran up to Louise, who was now stitching at
some embroidery to hide her blushes, and burst out laughing.
“You are merry, Duchess,” said the maid of honour, glad that anything
should divert attention from herself.
“I am laughing, Louise, at the admirable presence of mind I have just
shown. As you are only a _débutante_, I will explain what I mean for
your special instruction. His Majesty does not exactly hate me, but
something very like it. No love is lost between us. He dreads my making
capital of all I see and hear to the Queen. He dreads my turning him
into ridicule--which is so easy. Of all the persons about Court whom he
would least have liked to have surprise him in the tender conversation
he was holding with you, I am the one. He tried to reach the door. I saw
my advantage, and pursued him. I knew he wanted to shake me off, so I
seized the opportunity to ask a favour--of great importance to me. It is
granted! Is not this clever? I am grateful, and will not repeat one word
of this little adventure to her Majesty.”
Louise shook her head, and affected not to understand her. “You are
altogether mistaken, Duchess. His Majesty simply honours me with such
friendship as he might feel towards any loyal subject devoted to his
interests. It is because the Court affects to despise him that I appear
singular in estimating him at his true value; nothing else.”
“You are a prude,” exclaimed the Duchess, bluntly. “I hate affectation,
especially of that kind.” Louise hung her head down, and played with
some pearls with which the grey silk dress she wore was trimmed.
“Besides, my little cousin, you must not sacrifice the interest of your
friends, who have a right to look to you for favour and patronage.”
“Oh, Duchess, what a vile thought!” cried Louise; reddening. “Do you
think I would make his Majesty’s friendship a matter of barter!”
“Oh, bah!” replied the Duchess, growing angry. “Louise, you are not so
simple as you pretend. If you ask me the question, I reply, certainly
your friends have a right to look to you--especially myself, who never
let the Queen rest until she appointed you her maid of honour. She had
almost made a vow never to fill up the place of her dear Mademoiselle de
Hautefort.” Louise stared at the Duchess with a troubled look.
Worldliness and meanness was a new and unpleasant experience--a fresh
page in the history of the Court--that pained and revolted her.
“When the King returns,” continued Madame de Sennécy, not condescending
to notice her disapprobation, “I shall expect you to give me all your
confidence. You shall have excellent advice in return. If you follow it,
in six months’ time you will revolutionise the Court, and banish
Cardinal Richelieu. You will by that one act secure the King’s
friendship and her Majesty’s favour. Eh, Louise? a brilliant position
for a little _provinciale_ like you! You must mind what you are about,
or the Queen will grow jealous. I will take care, on the first
opportunity, to assure her you are only acting in her interests.”
“Jealous of me! Impossible!” cried Louise. “Such a great Queen! so
beautiful, so fascinating! Oh, Duchess, you are joking.”
“Nothing of the kind. I warn you not to imagine that there is any joking
at Court, or you will find yourself mistaken. Now I shall leave you,
Louise. Think over what I have said. Remember what you owe to those
friends whose influence has placed you in your present high position.”
* * * * *
As soon as the Duchess left her, Mademoiselle de Lafayette hastened to
her room, locked the door and sat down to reflect calmly upon all that
had passed. She was disgusted with the coarse selfishness of the
Duchess, whom she determined for the future to avoid. Then her heart
melted within her as she recalled the King’s tender farewell. How
eagerly his eyes had, sought hers! How melodious was his tremulous
voice! How tenderly he had pressed her hand! He had spoken out: he
wanted a friend; he had made choice of her; he had promised her all his
confidence! Delicious thought!
No one had ever dreamed of attaching the slightest blame to his intimacy
with Mademoiselle de Hautefort. It would be therefore absurd to reject
his advances. She was safe, she felt, entirely safe in his high
principles, his delicacy, and his honour. If she could only teach him to
be as firm as he was winning, release him from the bondage of
favourites, emancipate him from the tyranny of Richelieu, and deserve
his gratitude--perhaps his affection! With what energy she would address
him on his return, and remonstrate with him on his indolence, his
indifference! With his courage, his powers of mind (in which she
sincerely believed), his sensibility and gentleness, guided by her
devoted far-seeing friendship, might he not equal his father as a
sovereign--surpass him, perhaps, as much as he now does in morals, as a
man? All these vague ideas floated through the brain of the
simple-minded girl as she sat musing within the solitude of her
chamber.
NOTES TO VOLUME I.
NOTE 1, p. 4.
Francis I., born at Cognac, was the only son of Charles d’Orléans, Duc
d’Angoulême. After the death of two sons, born to Louis XII. by his
wife, Anne de Bretagne, he created his relative, Francis, Duc de Valois,
married him to his daughter, Claude, and selected him as his successor
to the throne.
NOTE 2, p. 20.
Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, one of the oldest churches in France,
dedicated to St. Germain, Bishop of Paris, by Chilperic. Saint-Germain
l’Auxerrois, Saint-Etienne du Mont, the Hôtel de Clugny, and the Hôtel
de Sens, all dating from a very early period, still remain.
NOTE 3, p. 21.
Gentille Agnès plus de loy tu mérite,
La cause était de France recouvrir;
Que ce que peut dedans un cloître ouvrir,
Close nonnaine? ou bien dévot hermite?
NOTE 4, p. 30.
The Duc d’Alençon, husband of Marguerite de Valois, sister of Francis,
who commanded the left wing of the French army, was the only man who
showed himself a coward at Pavia. He turned and fled, with his whole
division.
NOTE 5, p. 45.
Triboulet had been court fool to Louis XII., who first discerned his
good qualities, and rescued him from a most forlorn position.
Triboulet’s sayings are almost a chronicle of the time, so much was he
mixed up with the life of the two sovereigns he served. Brusquet, who
compiled the “fool’s Calendar,” succeeded him in the office of jester to
Francis.
NOTE 6, p. 54.
Francis’s exact words, according to Du Bellay, were--“Les Guises
mettront mes enfans en pourpoint et mon pauvre peuple en chemise.” This
prophecy was poetised into the following verse:--
“François premier prédit ce mot,
Que ceux de la maison de Guise,
Mettraient ses enfans en pourpoint,
Et son pauvre peuple en chemise.”
NOTE 7, p. 58.
The Palace des Tournelles (so named from its many towers) stood in the
Rue Saint-Antoine, opposite the Hôtel de Saint-Paul, upon the site of
the Place Royal. Charles VI. was confined here when insane, by his wife,
Isabeau de Bavière. The Duke of Bedford, Regent of France for Henry VI.,
a minor, lodged here. After the expulsion of the English from Paris,
Charles VII. made it his residence. Louis XI. and Louis XII. inhabited
it. The latter monarch died here.
NOTE 8, p. 64.
Another contemporary says that the Queen of Navarre was invited to
Marcel’s, the Prévôt of Paris, where, having eaten some _confitures_,
she fell sick, and died five days afterwards.
NOTE 9, p. 68.
Charles de Guise, Cardinal de Lorraine, was Minister under Francis II.
and Charles IX. He endeavoured, without success, to introduce the
Inquisition into France.
NOTE 10, p. 95.
No sooner had Catherine de’ Medici built the Tuileries, than she left it
to inhabit the Hôtel de Soissons (then called Hôtel de la Reine), in the
parish of Saint-Eustache, in consequence of a prediction that she would
die at Saint-Germain. The Hôtel de Soissons, as well as the Hôtel de
Nesle, is now amalgamated into the Halle aux Blés. At the Hôtel de
Soissons, Catherine lived for some years before her death.
NOTE 11, p. 124.
Coligni was prosecuted as accessory to the murder of Francis, Duc de
Guise, by his widow, Anna di Ferrara, but no sentence was pronounced.
NOTE 12, p. 126.
Henri de Navarre then went to _le prêche_, Marguerite to mass.
NOTE 13, p. 128.
_Memoirs and Letters of Marguerite de Valois_ published by the Société
de l’Histoire de France, by M. Guessand, 1842.
NOTE 14, p. 144.
Coligni’s head was cut off, embalmed, and sent to Rome as a trophy. His
remains were collected and buried by his friend, Montmorenci, at
Chantilly. Before their removal from Montfaucon, Charles and all his
court rode to see them. One of the courtiers observed “that the body
smelt foul.” “Nay,” replied Charles, “the body of an enemy always smells
sweet.”
NOTE 15, p. 135.
SULLY’S ACCOUNT OF THE MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW.
“I felt myself awakened at three hours after midnight by the loud
ringing of all the bells, and the confused cries of the populace. My
governor, Saint-Just and my valet went out. I never heard any more of
them. I continued alone in my chamber, dressing myself, when in a few
moments I saw my landlord enter, pale and astonished. He was of the
reformed religion. He came to persuade me to go with him to mass. I did
not think proper to follow him, but resolved to try if I could gain the
College of Burgundy, where I studied, notwithstanding the distance it
was from the house where I lodged, which made the attempt very perilous.
I put on my scholar’s robe, and taking a large prayer-book under my arm,
I went out. Upon entering the street, I was seized with horror at the
sight of the furies who rushed from all parts, and burst open the
houses, bawling out ‘Slaughter, slaughter--massacre the Huguenots!’ the
blood which I saw shed before my eyes redoubled my terror. I fell into
the midst of a body of guards; they stopped me, questioned me, and were
beginning to use me ill, when, happily for me, the book that I carried
was perceived, and served me as a passport. At last I arrived at the
College of Burgundy, when a danger far greater than any I had yet met
with awaited me. The porter having twice refused me entrance, I remained
in the midst of the street, at the mercy of the Catholic furies, whose
numbers increased every moment, and who were evidently in quest of their
prey, when I bethought myself of calling for the principal of the
college, La Faye, a good man, who loved me tenderly. The porter, gained
by some small pieces of money which I put into his hand, did not fail to
make him come at once. This honest man led me into his chamber. Here two
inhuman priests, whom I heard make mention of the Sicilian Vespers,
wanted to force me from him, that they might cut me in pieces, saying:
‘The order was to kill to the very infants at the breast!’ All that La
Faye could do was to conduct me secretly to a remote closet, where he
locked me up. I was there confined three days, uncertain of my destiny,
receiving succour only from a domestic belonging to this charitable man,
who brought me from time to time something to preserve my life.”
NOTE 16, p. 138.
According to Dufresnay, _Tables Chronologiques_, vol. ii., seventy
thousand Huguenots perished in the massacre of St. Bartholomew, which
lasted seven days and seven nights. One man boasted that he had killed
four hundred with his own hand.
NOTE 17, p. 139.
It was the renown of these victories that gained for Henry the crown of
Poland.
NOTE 18, p. 149.
Comte d’Auvergne, son of Charles IX. by Marie Touchet, illegitimate
nephew of Henry III. and half-brother of Henrietta d’Entragues.
NOTE 19, p. 158.
Henry IV. was the son of Antoine de Bourbon, Duc de Vendôme, and of
Jeanne d’Albret, only daughter of Henri d’Albret, King of Navarre,
married to Marguerite Alençon, sister of Francis I., the widow of the
Duc d’Alençon.
NOTE 20, p. 162.
Chicot was a Gascon, jester to Henry IV. His _specialité_ was intense
hatred to the Duc de Mayenne, whom he constantly attempted to attack.
During an engagement at Bures, he made prisoner the Comte de Chaligny,
and carried him into Henry’s presence. “_Tiens!_” said he, “this is my
prisoner.” Chaligny was so enraged at having been captured by a buffoon,
that he poniarded Chicot on the spot.
NOTE 21, p. 253.
Marie de’ Medici died in poverty at Cologne, aged sixty-nine.
NOTE 22, p. 255.
The Duchesse de Montbazon died suddenly at Paris of measles. De Rancé
was in the country at the time; no one dared tell him what had happened.
On his return to Paris he ran up the stairs into her rooms, expecting to
find her. There he found an open coffin, containing the corpse of Madame
de Montbazon. The head was severed from the body (the coffin having been
made too short), and lay outside on the winding sheet. Such is the story
according to the _Véritable Motifs de la Conversion de l’Abbé de la
Trappe_. Other authorities contradict these details.
NOTE 23, p. 283.
Now the military hospital of the Val de Grâce, 277, Rue Saint-Jacques.
Anne of Austria having been married twenty-two years without issue,
vowed that she would build a new church within the convent, if she bore
an heir to the throne. After the death of her husband, Louis XIII., she
fulfilled her vow. The first stone of the present church was laid in
1645, by her son, Louis XIV.
END OF VOLUME I.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Note 1.
[2] See Note 2.
[3] See Note 3.
[4] See Note 4.
[5] See Note 5.
[6] See Note 6.
[7] See Note 7.
[8] See Note 8.
[9] See Note 9.
[10] See Note 10.
[11] See Note 11.
[12] See Note 12.
[13] See Note 13.
[14] See Note 14.
[15] See Note 15.
[16] See Note 16.
[17] See Note 17.
[18] See Note 18.
[19] See Note 19.
[20] See Note 20.
[21] Words used by Marie de’ Medici to Louis XIII.
[22] Richelieu used these precise words in speaking of Marie de’
Medici.
[23] See Note 21. o
[24] See Note 22.
[25] See Note 23.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
Under him Cardidinal=> Under him Cardinal {pg vii}
he lays his land=> he lays his hand {pg 24}
these significent lines=> these significant lines {pg 51}
This marriage is indipensable=> This marriage is indispensable {pg 117}
It is indespensable=> It is indispensable {pg 240}
twiching nervously=> twitching nervously {pg 276}
Annie of Austria=> Anne of Austria {pg 253}
of the preset church=> of the present church {pg 321}
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Off the Bluebush
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Title: Off the Bluebush
Verses for Australians West and East
Author: J. P. Bourke
Editor: A. G. Stephens
Illustrator: Ned Wethered
Release date: February 12, 2023 [eBook #70030]
Language: English
Original publication: Australia: Tyrrell's Limited
Credits: David Wilson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OFF THE BLUEBUSH ***
Off
The
Blue
Bush
By
J P Bourke
To the West
and the People of the West
TO WESTERN AUSTRALIA
Golden State of Golden Hearts
So Warm, So True
So Generous in their Welcome of a Wanderer
TO THE MEMORY OF OLD MATES
Women and Men
The Fondest and the Best
Who, even for me, Made Life a Brave Adventure
and
TO MY MOTHER
With all the Love that I shall never speak
This poor token of reverence,
All I could, for all I would
I humbly offer.
John Philip Bourke.
When I am dead
Bring me no roses white,
Nor lilies spotless
And immaculate,
But from the garden roses red,
Roses full blown
And by the noon sun kissed,
Bring me the roses
That my life has missed
When I am dead.
[Illustration: _J. P. BOURKE._]
OFF THE BLUEBUSH
VERSES FOR AUSTRALIANS
WEST AND EAST
BY
J. P. BOURKE
(“Bluebush”)
Edited by A. G. STEPHENS
Illustrated by NED WETHERED
SYDNEY
TYRRELL’S LIMITED
22 Castlereagh Street
1915.
_Copyright—First Edition. 2,000 copies, including 30 copies for
Subscribers separately printed and bound and numbered and 25
Superior copies separately bound and numbered, published 1st August,
1915.—Wholly set in type and printed in Australia by Morton’s Ltd.,
75 Ultimo Road, Sydney._
ACKNOWLEDGMENT.
J. P. Bourke’s verses were contributed originally to _The Sun_,
Kalgoorlie—chiefly during the editorship of Mr. C. W. Andrée Hayward,
for whose cultivated appreciation Western rough-writers owe much—and to
_The Sunday Times_, Perth.
The preliminary account of Bourke is reprinted, with some revision,
from a series of articles contributed to _The Leeuwin_, Perth.
The illustrations by Mr. Ned Wethered represent the promising effort
of a Western Australian designer and illustrator, almost wholly
self-taught, aged twenty. Their youthful defects are apparent; yet they
depict life, character, and scenery in a Western mining town with a
gusto that preserves faithfully the spirit of the verses.
On behalf of Bourke, I record his expressed gratitude for the help
which, contending with many difficulties, Ned Wethered gave to his
friend.
A. G. S.
[Decoration: Black swan]
CONTENTS:
_Preface_ 17
AMONGST THE RICKS OF HAY 117
ANOTHER SONG OF THE STAMPS 110
ANSWER TO “HIS LETTER FROM W.A.” 124
AT BUMMER’S CREEK 99
AT PENNYWEIGHT FLAT 103
AT PARTING 48
A-WHIZZING TOWARDS THE EAST 126
BEER BOOST, A 79
BEER IS ENOUGH 135
BEHIND M‘WHALAN’S BAR 141
BENDER AND SOME OF THE MOODS THAT LEAD UP TO IT, A 155
BETWEEN TWO GATES 174
BLOKE FROM MULLINGAR, A 149
BUNCH OF VIOLETS, A 137
BY A KOPI HILL 97
CHURNING COPY FOR THE PRESS 181
CURSE OF THE LAUNDRIED SHIRT, THE 81
DAN THE HATTER 94
DIAMOND WEDDING, THE 55
DIFFERENCES 145
DREAMS 31
DREAMING THE DREAM OF LIFE 41
DRUNK’S DEFIANCE, A 172
DRUNK’S RUBAIYAT, THE 147
END OF THE EPISODE, THE 45
GARLAND OF SIGHS, A 58
GLIMPSE OF SUMMER, A 43
GOLDEN AGE, THE 46
GOSPEL OF SHIRK, THE 37
HELL FOR LEATHER 74
HIS LETTER FROM W.A. 121
I HAVEN’T THE GUTS TO GO 107
I PROMISED SUE 179
KILDEA’S FLOWER FARM 119
LASS, A, A LOAF, AND A GOOD CIGAR 177
LAST SPRAT, THE 160
LEADEN HOOF, THE 49
[Decoration: Gold mining camp]
[Decoration: Man leading camel]
MAN WHO CAN TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT ALONE, THE 169
MY SWAG AND I 60
NEARLY A PESSIMIST 72
NO MORE VERSES IN PRAISE OF WINE 194
OLD BILL BATES 83
OLD FARM GATE, THE 129
ONLY A KISS 153
OUR GOLDFIELDS SPRING 69
OUR LIMITATIONS 196
PAY WASH 65
PILGRIMAGE, THE 51
RHYMES AND RHYMERS 186
SAY, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF IT NOW 162
SCRATCHING FOR A CRUST 77
SHATTERED ILLUSION, A 191
SONG OF COMPROMISE, A 189
SOAKER SMITH 63
STAR-GAZING 184
TILL DAY IS DONE 33
TOO OLD 92
TO THOSE WHO LOVE US MOST 131
TO YOU 36
UNDER THE HEEL OF FATE 39
VERSEMAKERS, THE 29
WAITING FOR THE CALL 59
WE TOOK THE PLEDGE TILL MAY 87
WESTERN WRITER TO HIS MUSE, THE 167
WHEN SUSY MAKES THE DUFF 170
WILD CATS AND HOURIS 158
WILL YOU LOVE ME THEN? 143
WISH FOR SYDNEY-SIDE, A 115
YOUR LEVEL BEST 198
_When I am dead_ 7
_With head erect I fought the fight_ 16
[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]
With head erect I fought the fight
Or mingled with the dance,
And now I merge into the night
With utter nonchalance.
JOHN PHILIP BOURKE.
We singers standing on the outer rim,
Who touch the fringe of poesy at times
With half-formed thoughts, rough-set in halting rhymes,
Through which no airy flights of fancy skim—
We write “just so,” an hour to while away,
And turn the well-thumbed stock still o’er and o’er,
As men have done a thousand times before,
And will again, just as we do to-day ...
If I could take that rosebud from its stem,
And weave its petals in a simple rhyme,
So you could hear the bells of springtime chime
And you could see the flower soul in them—
Or else, we’ll say, a magpie on the limb,
Greeting the sunrise with its matin song—
To catch the music as it floats along,
And link its spirit to a bush-child’s hymn.
Or, if—but then the limitations rise,
Like barriers across the mental plain,
And mists and things obscure the rhymer’s brain,
And dull his ears, and cloud his blinking eyes.
And so we write as Nature sets her gauge—
No worse than most, and better, p’raps, than some;
—But should a man remain for ever dumb
When only rhyming fills his aimless page?
J. P. BOURKE.
* * * * *
They say that, when Abraham Lincoln had seen Walt Whitman, he summed
his impression in the emphatic “This is a _man_.” That is what one
feels in reading the verses of Western Australian writers—“This is
a _man_.” The work of the tribe of pseudonymous writers in Western
newspapers—especially _Kalgoorlie Sun_ and _Perth Sunday Times_—the
work of “Bluebush” and “Dryblower,” “Crosscut,” “Prospect Good,” and
the rest—is the most virile and the most original poetry that has been
made in Australia since the Commonwealth began. “Here’s manhood,”
I say, and “Here’s Australian manhood.” For vigour and versatility
the East at the moment has few writers to rival this little Western
comradeship.
The East has more refined writers, more cultivated and more artistic
writers; but not more manly writers.
Poetry is a man’s work if it performs a man’s deeds. When, on the
night of 24th April, 1792, Rouget de l’Isle tramped his lodging-house
room “with a head of ice and fire” to compose “The Marseillaise,” how
many deeds were his exultant verses worth! How vainly he himself would
have fought to achieve the feats of swelling valour to which his art
inspired others. In a literary aspect the words are little more than a
rant:—
“Aux armes, citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!”
But this rant, as Carlyle says, when added to the stirring tune, “will
make the blood tingle in men’s veins; and whole armies and assemblages
will sing it with eyes weeping and burning, with hearts defiant of
death, despot, and devil.”
The vigorous Western Australian verses that I praise are of that kind
and approximate to that standard. They are written in peace, and cannot
gain the hottest of mortal ardours, the exultation of war. But if there
were Australian war, here are the men to write our marching songs.
There is a literature of art, and there is a literature of humanity.
The one kind does not exclude the other; the best poetry is human in
impulse, artistic in expression. Yet inevitably, as verse is written,
there are found writers with a languid pulse whose finest effects are
gained by a decorative use of language, and opposed to these are the
writers who use the oldest rhymes, the oldest rhythms, to give impetus
to the messages of emotion that fly hot from their hearts.
This Western Australian poetry is often inartistic; it is often a poor
thing considered as literature; but how broadly and strongly it appeals
to our humanity! how graphic it is! how humorous or tragic! and how
natural! It is written, for the greater part, not from a head to a
head, but from a heart to a heart; and in its most effective passages
it has the same force of sincerity, the same truth of vision, the same
sympathy, that make the old ballads a precious possession, and that
have captivated thirty centuries with the stories and descriptions of
Homer.
There must be allowed, also, to the little school of Western Australian
writers, besides their vigour and vivacity, a real singing talent, and
no slight mastery of striking phraseology. Often enough their subjects
are commonplace, yet it is rarely that their treatment of a subject
is entirely commonplace. Almost always there is found a personal
touch that in its way and to its extent is a true style, and a style
effective to move the readers to whom it is addressed. It is said that
the Arabs are careful not to tread on any scrap of written paper lest
it should contain the sacred name of Allah. In the same manner I think
that every lover of poetry is careful not to contemn the rudest rhyme
that may contain a heartbeat. That is to say that every lover of poetry
is a faithful Catholic. He may like some kinds of poetry better than
others, yet he finds every kind a good kind—however stiffly or crudely
it succeeds in transferring its content of emotion. If it does not
hold and convey emotion, then it is not poetry, no matter how fine its
form or how famous the name of its author. I value this little wild
garden of verses the more because it grows in Australia. Doubtless, its
Australian appeal detracts from its quality considered as universal
literature; yet that detraction is balanced by the additional
attraction it has for readers here and now. I am not concerned to
measure out comparative credit, but only to emphasise the point that we
have here something that is worthy our credit.
The opinion offered, the attitude taken, follow after reading some
hundreds of representative Western verses. The merit of those verses is
to be found in the impression one receives from the whole—an impression
gained from many patches of gold that shine in the quartz. An artist
may touch everything with mastery. These writers are not artists, but
men who utter the measures and rhymes that come to them often unsought;
they are poetical interpreters of life and manhood. Accept them in that
guise, and they need no justification from another’s hand: they justify
themselves.
John Philip Bourke, who wrote for _The Sun_, Kalgoorlie, scores of
stanzas that ring harshly or melodiously, but that ring true, has set
down his page of Western history over the signature of “Bluebush.”
Between East and West his honours are easy; for he springs from the
East, but it is the West that has inspired him. He was born in August,
1860, on the Peel River Diggings, New South Wales; he was born with
the wandering blood. At the age of seventeen he sold his first reef to
Clarke, of Gullandaddy station, for £600; then for seventeen years he
settled down as a school teacher. In 1894 he went West and roughed it
on the mining track.
He was pretty consistently lucky in making small “rises” of from £200
to £1000 (with a “record” of £1,250), but he never handled a wingless
coin. His old Hunter River stock was mostly of Irish blood: does that
account for a free hand and a blessing on a generous heart? Yet until
his death he faced the world with a roguish eye and with bright and
dark years of experience to write about. He died at Boulder, W.A., on
13th January, 1914.
_The Sun_ praised him justly. “He was a writer of verse that appealed
to everyone by its rugged force, its fertility of ideas, its truth and
the spirit of human sympathy and true mateship which permeated every
line. Straight as a gunbarrel and unfaltering in his denunciation of
all that savoured of the mean, the paltry, or the unjust, Bourke was
the whitest and the most lovable of men. Gifted with a keen insight
into human nature and unlimited power of happy expression, he was a
staunch friend and a true mate, and no man on the fields was more
personally popular.”
What did Bourke write? The verse that appeals to wanderers, to reckless
men, to men who have fought and lost, fought and won, fought and wasted
their winnings in all the ways of all the earth. Wasted? Not all
wasted; not most, it may be.
What is a purse? A thing to scatter free.
What is a talent but a gift for joy?
What is life’s lesson? To live heartily
To man’s utmost, like a happy boy.
It is a doctrine that must be preached cautiously; yet it is the best
doctrine of all. So many people miss life by not grasping it; in saving
other things they spend life itself: and at the end there is pity for
those who cannot say “_Vixi_!” Let Bourke express himself:
I have no wild desire to sing and sing
Or kneel at Nature’s feet, and be her mummer.
Poetic fancies are not rioting
For liberty, like prisoned birds in summer.
No thoughts, like maiden hair, climb round and cling
To rhyming roosters writing on a thrummer;
But frowsy devils, round the camp to-night,
Suggest alone the commonplace and trite.
There is no bubbling spring within my clay;
I hold no lyrics straining at the tether;
My bones would drift right into blanket hay
If it were not such rough financial weather.
I’d never pen a par, or lay a lay,
Or deck ambition’s cady with a feather
If I could clutch a whisky piping hot,
A plate of hash, a pension and a pot.
But Bourke does himself injustice. His is a strain of toiling life once
again made vocal—the real truth of real toil, as it may happen, as it
has happened to thousands who have struggled “to gain from the West
her glorious golden prize”—and who have gained and have squandered,
or have died struggling, or have “gone out on flukes,” as Bayley did,
“with the new life just begun.”
Got no time to ruminate! Got no time to read!
Got no time to foller on! Got no time to lead!
Got no time to stoop and pluck the daisies by the pad!
Got no time for triflin’, for hobby-horse or fad!
Got no time to pass remarks! Got no time to write!
Got no time to sky the wipe—only time to fight!
Only time for graft and grind, dog and dough and dust!
That’s the tune the music plays—scratchin’ for a crust.
From such a life as that stanza depicts, almost inevitably men turn
to intoxicating liquor for consolation or for oblivion. Any reader of
Western verses must see first how large a part liquor plays in life,
and secondly, how large a part of that life, that life in the desert,
in the sand, in the wilderness, can only be assuaged by liquor. Bourke
writes:
What’s the use of sittin’
Dry as blessed chips?
What’s the use of spittin’
Through our corn-beef lips?
What’s the use of drinkin’?
Well, that ain’t so clear
To my way of thinkin’—
Let us have a beer.
“A Drunk’s Defiance” is a human plea. But Bourke urges the other side
still more strongly—“No more verses in praise of wine!”
Shirking the fight that a man should fight,
Dodging the joys that a man should know,
Scorning the breath of a plumed thought’s flight—
Down with the swine and the husks below!
’Tis thus we reap from the seeds we sow—
Hearts grow withered and locks grow white,
Dodging the joys that a man should know,
Shirking the fight that a man should fight.
There are keen sight and shrewd sense underlying Bourke’s verses. There
is sentiment, too, intermingled with pathos, in many places—as in “His
Letter from W.A.”
It’s scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,
But seems longer than all of last year;
The moon ain’t so bright and the grass ain’t so green,
And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear.
Oh! I’d give all their towns to the very last brick,
And the mines with the forchins they yield,
Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,
And the rustle of corn in the field.
And “Her Letter” came back:
You mind the moss rose that grew over our gate,
Our old gate where we whispered “Good-bye”?
Oh, how often I go there and wonder if Fate
Has one blessing a girl’s wish could buy—
I am wearin’ a bunch in your favourite dress,
With the flounces and streamers of blue,
And though p’r’aps it is silly, I have to confess
I am wearin’ my heart out for you.
Is that not a sympathetic expression of honest feeling, of true
affection, that has gone out thousands of times to “the boys in
the West”? In pieces like “Old Bill Bates” the note of mateship is
struck; the note that has been the keynote of so many Western lives
linked in the hearty give-and-take comradeship of two men—two bound
closer, almost, than husband and wife, by long-shared years of effort
together. “At Bummer’s Creek” warrants all that has been said of the
manly virtue of Western poetry—and is there anyone who has worked with
men who has not found Dave’s mate?
We two were fitted, j’int for j’int,
And toiled and starved and spreed,
But one’d watch around the stump
When t’other one was treed,
The same when Luck was in full bloom
As when she run ter seed.
That is not refined poetry; but it is essentially poetry; and let us
never forget that all the refinements of life spring from precisely
such realities as are illustrated by this humble “battler.” That a lady
from whose body and mind every speck and thought of defilement are
kept, may walk sedately down the shady side of St. George’s Terrace,
some such man as Bill’s mate must have sweated crudely in the region of
Kalgoorlie. The fancy is far-fetched, but it has a real basis; a large
part of the burden of civilization is borne by “humble battlers;” and
it is to the breed of these “battlers” that we look for civilization’s
defence in the day of challenge. Let not the flower despise its roots.
The lines for “Our Goldfields Spring” are outspoken:
For here you are thus early soiled and tanned
A sorry subject for a verse creator,
A damned inverted pewter in your hand,
Some draggled immortelles around your crater.
They speak, somehow, of drought, and dust, and sand,
And summer’s hell that’s waiting for us later,
And flies innumerable and small black ants,
And several thousand other irritants.
“Beer is Enough” is another piece full of racy virtue, expressed with
perverse ingenuity:
Beer is enough. Let Love roost on his perch,
And coo and coo his breath away at will—
The bride in orange blooms—the ivied church—
The two-roomed kipsy sheltered by the hill—
Sweep them aside and fetch the frothing bowl
To warm the cockles of one’s inmost soul.
Beer is enough.
Or take this sardonic expression of the doubt of Love:
There’s a new chap born in the world to-day,
And an axe laid close to the root of doubt.
When I hear you speak in that soulful way
Of a love to last till the stars go out—
But Mignonette!
Will you love me yet
When the duns come in? ... ’Tis an even bet.
Will your faith still shine when the world grows grey?
When the Autumn comes, will your heart grow sere?
Will you wear the smile that you wear to-day
When you wear the hat you wore last year?
Many such stanzas may deserve to be called coarse. A man can defend
them and enjoy them, because they are not vulgar; they are not affected
or insincere; they express the primitive man as he is found—under more
or fewer layers of veneer—in every other man who is worth a woman’s
salt. The work of John Philip Bourke must be taken now and then with a
good deal of salt; but it holds the meat and mettle of manhood.
TOP BRANCH
THE VERSEMAKERS.
Just now and then when evenings creep
With languid feet to meet the sea,
The days go by to sleep their sleep
With all the past eternity—
When earth takes on the wondrous hue
Far shed from arcs beyond our ken,
We weave a vagrant verse or two,
Just now and then.
Just now and then, ere shadows fall
Across the threshold of the door,
And restless hands upon the wall
Retrace Ambition’s creed no more—
Apart from cankered strife and stress
That urge the stumbling feet of men,
We scrawl a verselet purposeless,
Just now and then.
Just now and then, though time glides on
From scene to scene, from year to year,
Till every “Cloth of Gold” is gone,
Till every leaf is brown and sere,
Life’s picture holds no glinting sheen,
We seek the inky shrine again
To paint our landscape gold and green,
Just now and then.
Just now and then a lilting thought
May break the reign of monotone
That claims our camp to hold its court,
That claims our chair to hold its throne.
Thrice welcome, then! on silent wing,
The friends who come from hill or glen
To overthrow life’s tyrant king,
Just now and then.
Just now and then, when skies are clear,
And winter evenings wilt and wane,
Beside the glowing hearth we hear
The echo of some old refrain—
Some half-remembered distant dream
That calls the rhymer’s halting pen
To mend a broken rhythmic theme
Just now and then.
[Decoration: Black swan]
DREAMS.
Away! Away!
Let sluggards stay
The sluggish ruck within,
While Beauty stands
With outstretched hands
To welcome those who win!
And gems divine
And wealth and wine
Are strewn upon the board,
Where life and love
Go hand and glove,
Like slaves before their lord!
The motors fly,
The ships go by,
The tram-cars whizz and whirr—
I see them pass
As in a glass,
Where dim-limned shadows stir:
I long to hail
Some friendly sail
Ere _all_ the throng be past—
Then failure’s sense
And indolence
Reach down and hold me fast.
Away! Away!
To act to-day!
The victor’s creed is _Now_—
A cloudless brain,
An easy rein,
A firm hand on the plough!
Aside is flung
The pall that hung
From damned Inaction’s mast ...
Then half-thought themes
And dreamer’s dreams
Reach down ... and hold me fast.
[Illustration: Man seated at desk]
TILL DAY IS DONE.
What does it matter
Though wealth pass by,
Where follies flatter
And red lips lie—
Though cloud shades darken
The spring-time sheen,
And dull threads mingle
Life’s woof between—
Which winds blow whither
O’er land and sea—
What does it matter
To you and me?
Here at the door of
Our Peace-thatched cot
Cosmea nods, and
Forget-me-not
Seems to say from
Its eyes of blue,
“Life is fairest
Where hearts are true!”
And far beyond, where
The world is wide,
Where wrecked lives drift on
An ebbing tide,
There is a garland
A queen may wear,
Of sweet boronia
And maidenhair.
Never grey thyme, or
A spray of rue
Tarnish the garland
I’ve twined for you!
Let love-fires light, in
Each fragrant gem
A setting fair for
Your diadem!
What though its petals
May, one by one,
Pale grow and pass with
The mid-day’s sun—
Though velvet fingers
At midnight’s hush
Shall paint your tresses
With silvered brush—
Though shadows creep, and
The earth grows wan,
Our love will last
As the years roll on!
With hand in hand, with
Our hearts that beat
Time to the music
Of twinkling feet—
Wrapped in a dream that
Will live and last
Into the night
When the day is past—
Though sails be set for
The shoreless sea—
What will it matter
To you and me?
[Decoration: Man with swag walking away]
TO YOU.
I love you, Sweetheart! better far than all;
And still will love, with love that makes or mars,
When round my head eternal curtains fall,
And sleep shall close the eyelids of the stars:
Though all the houris of celestial bars
Should lure me on with eyes of liquid light,
Joined to the wondrous music of guitars,
Without _you_ there, my blood were cold and white!
Beyond that phase of something some call death
I want to love you always, just as now—
To feel my cheek fanned by your clover breath,
And feel your hand press sometimes on my brow:
I would not turn one instant from the plough,
But follow on from starry fence to fence,
And question not the whither, whence, or how,
With _you_ as earnest of God’s providence!
And when at last my evening glooms and greys,
And when, at last, my last sun westward dips,
And I go out upon dim, unknown ways
Where men are borne on heavenly spirit-ships,
I’ll watch and wait their oft-returning trips,
Hoping for you to step upon the quay,
That I may clasp you heart to heart with me,
And kiss you ... _thus_ ... upon your rose-red lips!
THE GOSPEL OF SHIRK.
The strenuous rhymer appals me to-night
With the pitch of his strenuous song
That shrieks for the god or the goddess of Right!
Or that lashes the legions of Wrong
With a vicious and venomous thong—
By Crumbs!
With a knotted and merciless thong!
He points, with the pointer of arrogant rhyme,
To the pathway of Wealth and Renown,
Where weary fools falter and fall, as they climb
To their Goal, that so grimly looks down
From its gloomy and sinister crown—
Ah me!
From its blasted and desolate crown!
And still, on the stretch of the moon-silvered sand,
With the ripple of waves on the bar
There comes, from a point jutting down from the land,
A discordant Voice, echoing far:
“Steer your boat, steer your boat for a star!”
There you are!
And the Voice is quite sure of the star!
And to-night, dear Eileen! in our cockle-shell ship,
To our star that is constant and true,
We will float on the stream where the willow-boughs dip
’Neath a sky that is wondrously blue,
And a myriad eyes twinkle through—
All for you!
And for me, while I live loving you!
Let earnest men answer the crack of the whip,
With their shibbolethed banners aflap—
On the fur-covered planks of our cockle-shell ship,
As I lie with my head on your lap,
I do not care one Commonwealth rap
What may hap!
Not — one — blooming — young — Commonwealth — rap!
Let other hands delve ’mid the garbage and grime,
And let other lips puff till they blaze—
Oh! ’tis weary work marching when fools beat the time—
But ’tis easy to drift and to laze
All our nights and our jubilant days,
Sweet Eileen!
All our nights, starry nights, and our days!
UNDER THE HEEL OF FATE.
Stay we here as the crowd goes by,
Twining along the street—
Listless steps and a half-breathed sigh;
Laughter and twinkling feet:
Care-worn faces where Time has set
Pathos in every line:
Budding Hope with a dead Regret—
Rue and roses and mignonette
Bunched in a queer design!
One is clad in a purple gown;
One in a skirt of grey;
Brushing past where the lights beat down,
Following each her way:
One is marked by a barefoot son;
One by a florid beau,
Tangled still was the skein she spun—
She who slept when the day was done ...
Say—was it ordered so?
See who comes with the drunkard’s gait
Out from the taproom door!
He was born to a man’s estate,
White to his inmost core:
Few were turned from the Master’s hand
Fit to compare with Jim ...
Now by the world despised and banned,
Clear as day shows the damning brand
Destiny placed on him!
Fools may prate of a will that’s free,
Else of their strength and brain:
Know they not that the jarrah tree
Only splits with the grain?
Think they not that a man denies,
Or takes his faith on trust—
Not from the words of the foolish wise,
Not from the vision of sightless eyes—
But just because he _must_!
So pass they, while the music plays,
Tramping to God knows where:
Some goal His in the outer haze
Waiting the pilgrims there;
But if, as preachers aver, it be
Part of some changeless plan
Typed in the shop of Eternity,
Never a sentence, my friends, did we
Write for the play of “_Man_”!
DREAMING THE DREAM OF LIFE.
A fig for the world and its carping cares,
Its worry and wear and fret—
A fig for the poppies that passion wears,
Fast followed by dull regret:
A fig for the glitter, and gilt, and gaud
That’s won in a tawdry strife,
Filling the world with the clash of swords—
Marring the sweetest of human chords
Born in the valleys where dreamers wait,
Dreaming the dream of Life.
If I own no love for the arts that mould
The minds and the souls of men,
There lurks no charm in the miser’s gold,
Or the heft of the writer’s pen.
I wear no frown for the clod below,
No cringe for the clown above;
For I tread but the path where the roses blow,
And I pin one bud to her breast of snow,
And I weave a glorious wreath to crown
My goddess of Peace and Love.
Her liquid eyes are a hazel grey
And her lips are ruby red,
And the dusk of the night and the light of day
In the depths of her glance are wed.
The old world hustles on eager feet,
And its songs are the songs of strife,
But we stand aside from the glare and heat
And we draw the curtain of Love’s retreat—
This dainty spirit of youth and I
Dreaming the dream of Life.
A fig for the warrior’s crown of fame!
For the faithless world’s caress!
A fig for the poet’s or painter’s name
Whose haven is nothingness!
A fig for the transient light divine
That halos some godlike head!
For the Spring-time breaks and the stars all shine,
And the world goes round for this wife of mine ...
Oh, the spirit of languorous love will live
When the spirit of strife is dead!
[Decoration: Man leading camel]
A GLIMPSE OF SUMMER.
While the world’s a-bustle
On the upward grade—
Straining brain and muscle,
Plying pen and spade—
Let us go a-dreaming,
With your hair a-streaming ...
Cupid lies a-scheming
’Neath the mulga shade.
How the rabble clatters
As it hurries by!
Chasing Passion’s tatters,
Sighing Passion’s sigh.
Soft airs, sandal-scented,
Fan us: golden-tinted,
Like a landscape minted,
Plain and hill-top lie.
Willy-willies whirling
Play for me and you,
Curling up, and curling,
Till they reach the blue:
Like a giant sweeping,
Creeping on, and creeping
’Mongst the trees, a-sleeping
Mid-day’s languor through.
Bell-bird notes are swelling
Upward from the glade;
Lovelorn swains are telling
Love-tales worn and frayed:
Let them strain their tether!
You and I together
Never wilt a feather,
Lolling in the shade.
Earnest souls, or sighing,
Death has ever paid!
See pale Effort lying
Rue- and wreath-arrayed!
Come then, Jean, a-dreaming,
With your hair a-streaming ...
Cupid lies a-scheming
’Neath the mulga shade.
[Decoration: Mining equipment]
THE END OF THE EPISODE.
There is no need to say Good-bye,
And weep;
There is no call on us for tear or sigh.
Men say: “Just as ye sow, so shall ye reap.”
Is that, think you, a lie?
Now fate points out our different ways,
And so
We leave the spot where glamour clothed the days—
Leave for those duller worlds that lie below,
With something like amaze.
No use to curse: whatever crossed
Our way:
No need for words: when hearts are tempest-tossed—
But those alone may know the cost, who pay,
And bankrupt, pay the cost.
THE GOLDEN AGE.
Then life was young
And roses hung
In gay festoons from star to star,
And o’er the farm
A silvered charm,
The moonlight, flooded full and far—
The moonlight, telling wondrous tales
Of things that are not, and that are.
How strange the thrall
Around it all!
The subtle flapping of a wing!
You plainly hear
Each wheaten spear
Unto its neighbour whispering,
And almost catch their secrets, too—
Those kindred children of the Spring!
And, watching so,
The branches throw
Fantastic shadows on the grass:
How quaint and clear
Their lines appear!
A woven way where fancies pass—
Those secret bairns, that come to most,
And live and breathe—but die—alas!
No longer chimes
The gold of rhymes
That would make music, ay or nay!
I number still
The month, at will,
Clare gave to me a lilac spray ...
’Tis dead and withered now—how long?
An age, a year, or yesterday.
Thus rhyme and spray
Have turned to clay,
While Discord plays on life’s guitar ...
’Twere wise and meet
To book a seat,
A cushioned seat, in Daphne’s car,
While bright eyes shine, and roses twine
In gay festoons from star to star!
[Decoration: Gold mining camp]
AT PARTING.
I sit beside you, this last afternoon,
And watch the sunset’s change from gold to grey,
That mirrors well my life of yesterday
Where shadows, born of twilight, fell so soon.
And yet, you seemed so womanly and true—
I never guessed “’Twas but to kill the time!”
For I, who dwelt in Passion’s summer clime,
Played for a life that centred all in you.
I’ve spun no webs, as money-spiders spin,
Nor stacked the shining shekels row on row;
And yet I have one plea—I love you so!
And fatuously dreamed that love might win.
For me this old world smiled when you were by;
Life’s circles spread their limits wider yet;
There came no grey train-bearers of regret
To grace the triumph of hypocrisy.
My heart throbbed to the rustle of your dress;
My soul drank in each message of your eyes;
For Love, they say, is all our paradise,
And wanting Love, this life were nothingness.
But ere we part—O girl grown worldly-wise!—
I place one glory-rose amid your hair,
And kiss your lips, with something of despair:
For, Dear, I love you yet—and yet despise.
THE LEADEN HOOF.
What use to puff a blackened fire
Grown emberless within the grate?
What use to twang a damaged lyre
That’s only half articulate?
What use for dumb
Desire to thumb
The leaves of a curriculum
When other men matriculate?
’Tis vain to plan a fabric gay
With tangled warp and broken woof—
Just listen for a moment, pray,
—A magpie singing on the roof—
Just hear, and then
Throw down the pen:
The songs and wings of common men
Are anchored to a leaden hoof.
And yet, are other days, that bear
No weight of pessimistic sin—
A laurel leaf for me to wear,
A thought to stir, a smile to win;
And o’er the sea
There comes to me
The echo of a symphony
That sets the smiling world a-spin.
Now carmine-hued are Renée’s lips,
A thousand gleams light life’s old wine—
I tremble to the finger tips
To breathe devotion at her shrine;
But while I write,
Some blasting light
Reveals my rose an ashen white
That crumbles in these hands of mine.
What use to fret a halting brain
While inspiration holds aloof?
And hark! the voice bursts forth again,
—A magpie singing on the roof—
Just hear, and then
Throw down the pen:
The songs and wings of common men
Are tethered to a leaden hoof.
[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]
THE PILGRIMAGE.
For many a year we wandered
over hill and dale and mountain,
For ever pressing onward
till we’re nearly worn and old:
Searching for some spot Elysian
where the poets’ crystal fountain
Sings its songs of calm contentment
in a valley draped with gold:
Where the flowers bloom for ever
’neath the sun’s life-giving kisses,
But never droop ’neath thirsty skies
or feel the winter’s chill:
Where roses wreath an arbour
where no fatal adder hisses,
And the promise of our youthful dreams
our later days fulfil.
Then the purple flush of morning
thrilled our careless hearts with pleasure,
And the sunbeams shooting downward
with our spirit shared their glow:
Once every bell and buttercup
that blossomed was a treasure—
In those days that we have dreamed of,
in the misty long-ago.
But the joys of life would pall upon
the heart that they for ever,
Unbroken by a shadow,
lit with one eternal glare;
And the bonds of love are strengthened
by the thought that they may sever,
And are hallowed in the memory
of lives and loves that were.
The ropes of sand that bound us
then appeared so deftly woven
That we noticed not each single grain
the breezes swept away,
Nor underneath the robe of Beauty,
silken-cased, the cloven
Hoof of Time, that swept the garlands
into ruin and decay.
[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]
MIDDLE TWIGS
[Illustration: Elderly wife and husband]
THE DIAMOND WEDDING.
To-day is our diamond wedding, old wife!
Some seventy summers and more
Since first we paired off in this battle of life
On thirty a year, and the run of a knife ...
What! You say I’m a blessed old bore!
Oh, yes, now we are, I admit, pretty right;
But still to that hard-grafting time
My mind often wanders in quiet delight
’Way down from the tree of prosperity’s height
That our industry’s helped us to climb.
And I picture the day to the station we tramped
With our characters safe in the swags—
A long weary walk, and, by George! you were camped;
And don’t you remember the lads had me stamped
As one of Glint’s runaway lags?
Well! well! now I wonder is _he_ living still—
The super that then bossed the run,
You know he was “Captain,” and I “Bo’s’n Bill”
In those pleasant old days when we lived on the hill,
And I scarcely knew life had begun.
A fine lot of fellows now, wife! were they not?
And genuine, too, to the core;
And, if they weren’t quite on to the spot
In their speech—there’s one thing they never forgot:
To leave the latch key in the door!
But then one ne’er dreamed as one worked straight ahead
What the future held for us in store;
Nor that thrift would build up from this stringy-bark shed
A right little, tight little cottage instead,
With enough in the stocking—and more.
We hadn’t much then in the furniture line—
That’s not to call gorgeous, you know—
But still round it all there’s a glow of sunshine
That makes the blood dance in this old frame of mine
In a stream that naught else can make flow.
Some magic hangs round the old iron-hooped tongs
And the splutter the tallow-lamp made ...
All seem to my memory like beautiful songs
As they float on before me in numberless throngs
From the depths of a fifty years shade.
But you must remember how proudly you’d bring
Home the cheque at the end of the year:
Then you were a queen, lass! and I was a king;
Though we usedn’t to lunch off a butterfly’s wing
Or any of that kind of cheer.
Have those pleasures all vanished, old girl! did you say?
What! Tears in those precious old eyes!
No, lass! for you’re dearest and fairest to-day
When the golden-haired girl has grown wrinkled and grey ...
We’re together, and shall be for ever and aye
In our home up above in the skies.
[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]
A GARLAND OF SIGHS.
What is the use of a sheaf of regrets?
What is the use of a garland of sighs?
Ever is Destiny trailing her nets,
A smile on her lips, and with hate in her eyes.
Heedless the spirit, beseeching, that cries!
Helpless the mortal who sorrows and frets!
What is the use of a garland of sighs?
What is the use of a sheaf of regrets?
Cast in the midst of the limitless skies,
Lost in the æons that e’en God forgets.
Merely a life-light that flashes and dies,
Merely a soul-spark that glimmers and sets—
These are the glories that “being” begets,
Granted alike to the foolish and wise—
What is the use of a sheaf of regrets?
What is the use of a garland of sighs?
Ah! but philosophy always forgets—
Writ though the sentence, and cast though the dies—
Love may fly downward from God’s parapets,
Fanning Eternity’s breath as she flies!
Groundlings awake from their squalor and rise,
Destiny then may well gather her debts—
What is the use of a garland of sighs?
What is the use of a sheaf of regrets?
WAITING FOR THE CALL.
Though to-day may groan ’neath its weight of care,
and the sun be a raven’s wing
That darkens the faces of children fair
and saddens the songs they sing;
I know it will change at the faintest touch
from the hand of a God-sent Spring!
And I know, though the desert be grim and grey,
and its life be a Lethe’s pond
Whose waters of indolence hold alway
the spirits of men in bond,
Full well there is room for a strenuous life
in the Land that is Just Beyond.
Thus we wait for the touch of a magic string
and a glance of a love-lit eye:
For a breath from some spirit awakening
that passes us clearly by:
—We legion of dreamers that drift and live,
and dabble and drink—and die.
My Swag and I
[Illustration: Man with swag and campfire]
When I tramp forth attended by
A retinue of “blues,”
And all the world and all its wife
Are clothed in sombre hues,
Then life holds nothing much to win,
And nothing much to lose.
’Tis little use to preach and pray,
And none to fume and fret—
No solace dwells within the days
Of love and lush and debt—
’Tis then I throw the bundle off
And light a cigarette.
And seeking, so, some mental perch
Upon some mental crag,
I straightway run the colours up
Of self-assertion’s flag,
Assume a tragic air, and thus
Apostrophise the swag:
“You’ve tarried closer far than friends,
And closer too than foes;
You’re with me when the autumn falls,
And with the first spring rose;
Though whence such fond affection comes
The Devil only knows.
“You’ve driven me along the track
Like mankind’s primal curse;
You’ve driven me—behold the proof!—
To scrawling slipshod verse;
And every wrinkle in your face
Denotes an empty purse.
“I know you well from stem to stern,
From centrepiece to rim;
For many, many years ago
You cost a modest ‘jim’—
Those years, those sun-tipped years! that now
Live with the seraphim.
“Since then I’ve marched the dusty way
That better feet have trod,
But always found, my bride! in you,
An unresponsive clod;
Until we two have grown alike
As peas within a pod.
“And yet to flirt with you I left
A woman passing fair
(A pleasant girl who had for me
A smile or two to spare),
A half-a-dozen quid a week,
A couch and easy chair.
“I left——” But, ah! a wintry wind
Awakes Matilda’s charms:
I calmly spread the old girl out
And snuggle in her arms—
Untouched by sighs or sentiment,
Unscathed by love’s alarms.
SOAKER SMITH.
_He died of thirst._
They tell no tale lugubrious
Or horror finely spun,
Of martyr’s groans and human bones
A-bleaching in the sun;
But those who cut beneath the bark
May find the very pith
Of pathos, in the yarn they spin,
Concerning Soaker Smith.
He never dogged on Bayley’s tracks,
Nor battled through with Frost,
In wild times, when the souls of men
Were torn and tempest-tossed,
Nor bore the brunt, nor claimed the rank
Of fearless pioneer—
He was, in point of fact, a joint
Who played his life for beer.
Smith sat upon the shanty floor
With blazing eyes and brain,
While, from the sand, the impish band
Of fantods sprang again:
They mocked him with a phantom pot,
They laughed and lured and lied—
“A pint! or I,” he howled, “must die
Of thirst!”—and so he died.
Then all the tribe of whiskered wits
That nourishes up North,
From rub-a-dubs and frowsy pubs
Like one gay ghoul came forth;
And Blastus painted on a slab
A dead marine, reversed,
And wrote, the knave, beside his grave,
“Hic! jacet. Died of thirst.”
And still, around the shanty bar,
When wit and humour fly,
They greet the tale that ne’er grows stale
With wild hilarity;
But those who probe it to the core
May find the very pith
Of pathos, in the yarn they spin
Concerning Soaker Smith.
Pay Wash
[Illustration: Miners around mineshaft]
Did you ever drive on pay-wash in this land of boom and bust?
Did you ever see gold glitter in the dull light of the glim,
Where the face is specked and sprinkled with the best of sovereign-dust,
And you calkerlate your income at a pick-blow to the jim?
_Hello, on top! Hello!
Hook on, and let her go!
Or we’ll never make our tucker in a five-ounce show!_
Oh, the days go by like drinkin’—for it’s entertainin’ graft,
And you hear your mate discoursin’ to the crowd around the brace,
As he tugs away the hide, and it goes skimmin’ up the shaft,
While a smile ’ud trip a bullock jest illumernates his face—
_Hello, on top! Hello!
Ease off, and have a blow!
We’ve a crushin’ in the paddock, and there’s more below!_
Then you don’t dine any more on sodden flapjacks in the pan;
And you don’t back under cover when you see a bit of skirt;
For there’s something in the atmosphere that bulges out a man
When he’s drivin’ on the gutter, and there’s pay-gold in the dirt—
_Hello, on top! Hello!
Jest rosin up your bow!
For we’ve got no time for sleepin’ when there’s corn to hoe!_
But I’ll bet old Bill is dreamin’, and he’s driftin’ on the tide,
Where his wife and kids is waitin’ for a dozen lengthy years
On their cocky-patch, and hopin’ till the last hope nearly died—
And it’s safe to lay a dollar as his eyes is dim with tears—
_Hello, on top! Hello!
This is boshter sile to grow,
F’r I guess our plotch ’ll answer mor’n a ’tater to the row!_
But a man ain’t got no time to dream with plenty work in sight,
When he’s got the cream of all the lead right through from pay to pay;
For you can’t get rich on dreamin’, and you can’t shift dirt with skite,
And the gold stream only dribbles in a keg-o’-treacle way—
_Hello, on top! Hello!
Is’t frost up there or snow?
I’d back you ’gainst a fun’ral any day for goin’ slow!_
Some day when we’ve her bones picked bare, and got her gutted clean,
We’ll travel over East, and see what yaller dust can buy;
And old Bill and me, I reckon, will be right and all serene,
If we only keep our thirst at bay, and keep our powder dry—
_Hello, on top! Hello!
Let down the rope, and throw
The sling; you’d keep a man all night ’thout singin’ out “Yo, ho!”_
[Decoration: Man with swag walking away]
[Illustration: Miners outside hotel]
OUR GOLDFIELDS SPRING.
You come not with the dainty air and grace,
And wreathing smiles, that clothe the Eastern season—
A maiden lithe of form, and fair of face,
To wheedle lovers from the ranks of reason:
You do not come in riots of pink lace,
For Western bards to perpetrate a wheeze on,
And cover, in a frenzy, page on page
With all the rhymer’s threadbare persiflage.
We seek in vain the fern-wreaths on your gown,
The dew-drop jewels in your carpet spreading—
Those pæans from the bush-land and the town,
Suggestive, quaintly, of a fairy wedding:
We wait expectantly—then truckle down
To sleep on bags—no rose leaves for our bedding!
And wring our hands, and weep like anything ...
There is no copy in a Western Spring.
For here you are, thus early soiled and tanned,
A sorry subject for a verse creator;
A damned inverted pewter in your hand,
Some draggled immortelles around your crater:
They speak, somehow, of drought, and dust, and sand,
And summer’s hell, that’s waiting for us later,
And flies innumerable, and small black ants,
And several thousand other irritants.
I do not like your rude, precocious stare;
Your torrid temperature is disconcerting;
And, Lord! the frowsy draperies you wear
Might well be made of gunnybags, or shirting;
And one could bet you never learned the rare
And subtle art of scientific flirting—
To set the tune, and lead the boys a dance,
Through many a labyrinth of sweet romance.
Yet still our own! though scoffers mock and mar;
And at your feet I lay this sapless jingle,
That, if too dry, may moisten at the bar
Where sundry goddesses and groundlings mingle—
Where modest Martha’s conduct grows bizarre,
And Virtue’s self is often short a shingle:
And soaked, thus, in the dregs of beer and wine,
Once more I shy the garland at your shrine!
Yet, after all, the joyous feet of Spring
Trip to the tune the pipes of Pan are playing
In every clime where Youth may have its fling,
And Love, unweighted by life’s cares, goes straying.
Look not where last year’s rose lies withering!
Heed not the pessimistic asses braying!
But fetch your gauds, and place them on Her brow—
Life’s best delusion is beside you now.
[Decoration: Man leading camel]
NEARLY A PESSIMIST.
What’s the use o’ laughter,
What’s the use o’ strife,
To a gloomy shafter
In this team of Life?
Hear the whips a-crackin’
Through the atmosphere,
When the traces slacken—
Let us have a beer.
What’s the use o’ flayin’
Loathsome gads and drills?
What’s the use o’ payin’
Other people’s bills?
Let the missus hustle,
Let the kinchins clear;
I’m not goin’ to bustle—
Let us have a beer.
What’s the use o’ prayin’?
’Taint no use to curse;
What’s the use o’ layin’
’Gainst the winning hearse?
Man at best’s a rotter,
Fried and frizzled here;
Hell can’t be no hotter—
Let us have a beer.
What’s the use o’ sittin’
Dry as blessed chips?
What’s the use o’ spittin’
Through our corn-beef lips?
What’s the use o’ drinkin’?
Well, that ain’t so clear
To my way of thinkin’—
Let us have a beer.
What’s the use o’ frettin’
Cos you missed the pot?
What’s the use o’ gettin’
In a tied-up knot
Bet you can’t unravel
If you tried a year?
No, that cop don’t travel—
Let us have a beer.
What’s the——? Oh, _I’m_ toilin’
Down the Boulder way—
Only just been spoilin’
Arf a quid a day.
Now you bet I’m chargin’
Homewards at my top.
* * * * *
What’s the use o’ bargin’
With a white-eyed slop?
HELL FOR LEATHER
[Illustration: Miner with pick, pan and gravel]
What though the day
Be dull and grey,
The earth bestrewn with ashes—
Hope’s magic lamp
Lights up his camp
With rainbow-tinted flashes!
His eyes, with some unwonted beam,
Grow soft as any feather,
Since Luck slid through
The kipsy flue,
To smile on “Hell for Leather”!
The jade and he,
Since ’Ninety-three,
Had not so much as spoken:
The goods she sold
Were gilt—not gold—
And promises were broken;
But “Hell for Leather” scratched along
As desperation scratches,
A harlequin,
Beclobbered in
A rig of shreds and patches!
When Hunger grim
Shaped up to him,
He’d scorn to take it sitting;
But answered back,
With crack for crack,
Nor ever thought of quitting;
And oft he’d say, though buckled belt
And backbone came together,
“Some day, I’ll bet,
Will Fortune yet
Chum in with ‘Hell for Leather’!”
His frame was lean:
His eyes shone keen
Beneath their shaggy awning:
Somewhere ahead,
He always said,
A brighter day was dawning!
And oft, around the hatter’s camp,
Would fact with fancy scamper,
What time he’d munch
His frugal lunch
Of potted dog and damper.
But years, at last,
Must win the cast,
And locks grow white and whiter;
For Time is tough
To belt and cuff,
Though sturdy be the fighter:
Yet so it happed, ere Winter fell,
Like frost on Highland heather,
Good luck slid through
His chimney flue,
To smile on “Hell for Leather”!
And so the tale
With cakes and ale
Is garnished, ere ’tis ended;
And so the stress
And bitterness
With soothing oil are blended;
And far away, by out-back pads,
Where battlers stretch the tether,
And starve or roast,
They’ll drink the toast
Of “Good old ‘Hell for Leather’!”
SCRATCHIN’ FOR A CRUST.
Got no time to ruminate! Got no time to read!
Got no time to foller on! Got no time to lead!
Got no time to stoop and pluck daisies by the pad!
Got no time for triflin’ with hobby horse or fad!
Got no time to pass remarks! Got no time to write!
Got no time to sky the wipe!—only time to fight—
Only time for graft and grind, dog and dough and dust;
That’s the toon the music plays: scratchin’ for a crust.
Got no time to whine and pray! Got no time to curse!
Got no time for trickin’ thoughts out in shreds of verse!
Got no time to wear a smile—no, nor raise a laugh!
Got no time for siftin’ grains out of tons of chaff!
Got no time to touch the Muse on the funny bone!
(Got no chance indeed, at all, catchin’ her alone!)
Got no time to reason why—takin’ things on trust—
That’s the way we whistle it: scratchin’ for a crust.
Got no time to do a smoodge! Got no time to wed!
(Anyway it wouldn’t do—not on soda bread!)
Got no coin to treat a pal! Got no face to hum!
Nigh forgettin’ how they taste—tanglefoot and rum!
Got no time for feelin’ bad! Got no time to peg!
Got no time to shake a paw—let alone a leg!
Stoo-pan’s fallin’ out of use! brain-pan’s gone to rust!
That is how our programme reads: scratchin’ for a crust.
Got no time to argify! Politics is dead—
Happy Jack and Texas Green sittin’ on its head!
Got no time for livin’, scarce!—eatin’ dog and dirt;
Feel’s if ants was in my block, buzz-flies in my shirt!
(Got no time to shake ’em out! Got no time to scratch!)
Got no blanky oof to board! Got no guts to batch!
Guess there’ll have to be a change, else somethin’s bound to bust—
Sinkin’, drivin’, beltin’, blastin’, battlin’ for a crust.
[Decoration: Mining equipment]
A BEER BOOST.
Well, as you’re so pressing, don’t mind if I do—
What, a pint? Yes, a pint! I should smile at your query—
There’s a wonderful balm in the cream of a brew
For a soul that is fagged in a case that is weary.
It beats all your juggling illusions a mile,
Whilst it clear overshadows the magic of Moses,
And it clothes the grey plains of existence awhile
With the sunshine of spring and an odour of roses.
A pint! I should guess—we’ll increase it to two—
I will ne’er be a bigot where beer is in question,
For if merely you take a sound practical view,
It enhances the health and improves the digestion.
It smoothes the deep lines from the forehead of care,
Till your enemy looms in the light of a brother,
And there’s peace—that strange peace that is lisped in the prayer
Of the sleepy-eyed brat at the knee of his mother.
The old world chips in, in the guise of a friend,
As the solvent of hops humanises and mellows,
And the limits of brotherhood stretch and extend
Till the Devil himself seems the best of good fellows.
Then bring me a glass, or a tankard, or tank—
And the last, if permitted a voice in the choosing:
For, in all the crimes’ calendar, none is so rank
As the sin, the nigh obsolete sin, of refusing.
[Decoration: Gold mining camp]
THE CURSE OF THE LAUNDRIED SHIRT.
I came down here from the ’Back, last year,
For a spell and a high-toned drunk,
But I back and fill with a palsied will
As I lounge on a kapok bunk.
I laze and laze where a man’s life pays
For a kiss and a pint of squirt,
Like a weak-kneed slop in a draper’s shop—
’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!
I tire to death of the town’s close breath—
Of the pave, and the lighted street:
Its silken tiles, and its threadbare smiles—
Of the patter of kid-shod feet;
And thoughts tramp back where I lost the track
Of a “leader” of five-ounce dirt,
Before I knelt with a “Scheme”-cleansed pelt
At the shrine of a laundried shirt!
I came down here for a spell, last year,
And a brush with the town-bred folk—
For a bit of a change from my “moated grange”
(A camp by an outback soak):
But drift I still with a flagging will
And a spirit that grows inert—
A sagging jaw and a bleaching paw—
’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!
I’ve lit my camp with the moon’s soft lamp
And the light of the outback stars,
And drunk my fill of the Out-Back swill,
As I breasted the shanty bars:
I’ve made my bit, and have squandered it
In an island of dreams, rum-girt—
To fall at last with my flag half-mast,
’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!
The stampers roar to the tune no more
Of “Aboard for the Sydney-side!”
The merry hum of the windlass drum
’S like the song of the swan—that died:
My mulga maid, in whose eyes hope played—
With jewels adown her skirt,
She’s sailed a trip on some desert ship
From the chap in a laundried shirt!
OLD BILL BATES.
No, Mister, I’ve no messages ter send along the track
But I thank y’ fer enquiring, jest the same;
Fer it’s mighty near an age agone I wandered from Out-back,
And I dessay they’re forgettin’ this old frame:
But you’ll find a hearty welcome at the far end o’ the pad,
Where the rank and file is nothin’—only mates;
And I wish yer luck ... but stay!
If yer chance along his way,
Jest remember me to Old Bill Bates.
We both battled on together since the year o’ ’Ninety-two,
And we mostly hung around the outer rim,
And we drank, and fought, and made-up friends, as good as gold, and true,
Till the camp took us for brothers—me and him:
You will find him crush to sample, if you try him by the bulk,
And you’ll find the ’malgam ribbed along the plates;
Fer he’s pretty high-grade rock
From his flannel to his sock,
Is that sun-dried salamander, Old Bill Bates!
But in case yer fail ter reckernise his features at the pub,
(Fer he might be outer luck, or off the spree)
Yer can fossick through the workin’s till y’ find his rub-a-dub,
And then all yer got to do, is mention me:
And yer won’t want any witness to identerfy yer phiz.
Nor yer won’t need to projoos no days or dates,
If he doesn’t claim yer straight
F’r a white man and a mate,
Then that party isn’t Old Bill Bates!
Y’ might guess him fer a chap what wears a pretty stiffish lip,
And he user ter own a one-eyed spotted bitch,
And he’s mostly rags and air-holes—jest the picter of his kip—
So it’s hard ter tell (fer strangers) which is which;
But he’s grit right to the bottom, and the mate what’s tried his sand,
He ’ud swag it back from them ’ere Pearly Gates
With a longish stride, I’ll swear,
If they kep’ no lodger there
By the monniker of “Old Bill Bates.”
[Illustration: OLD BILL BATES]
No, thanks, Mister, I’ve no message—since I’ve opened out my drum,
Where a suit o’ tailor’s clobber pulls the strings;
But (I wouldn’t say it public) I am feelin’ pretty glum
When I start a-cogitatin’ about things:
But you’ll find a hearty welcome where the sky begins ter dip,
Out where mates is mostly men, and men is mates,
And I wish yer luck ... and say!
If yer chance upon his way,
Jest remember me to Old Bill Bates.
[Decoration: Black swan]
[Illustration: Men observing fantastic creatures]
WE TOOK THE PLEDGE TILL MAY.
Dave Barker is a mate of mine,
A solid mate and chum,
And when we’re out upon the wine
I guess we make things hum:
We go the pace all fair and square,
But rapid, I’ll allow;
And start from—well, just anywhere,
And wind up—anyhow.
When Dave and me’s out on the loose
We follers close and keen,
And samples every kind of juice
From rum to kerosene.
It’s all good fish comes to our net,
To Barker’s net and mine,
And our intentions are, you bet!
Most strictly genu_wine_.
We beats about upon the ramp,
And does up all our tin;
Then Dave—well, Dave strikes out for camp,
And I—well, I jines in.
And then the panoramy starts—
The queerest kind of fakes—
Fat little blokes and smaller tarts,
And funny bob-tailed snakes.
And presently, a big galoot
Drops down the chimbly flue,
And takin’ up Dave’s blucher boot,
Sez, “Lads! Here’s luck to you!”
But all the time it’s bilin’ hot,
And, spare me (crimson) days!
You never heerd such blanky rot
As what them fantods says.
Well, comin’ on this last old year,
I sez to David B.,
“Old chap, we pays a lot too dear
These fan-tod fakes ter see.
“We grafts and grinds and stints our grub,
But if we socked our rent
We soon could _buy_ a blanky pub,
Or stand for Parlyment.
“What say to puttin’ in the peg?
Swear off, old man!—what say?”
Sez Dave, “I’m on—we’ll spike the keg
Fer good and all, till May.”
And then our two right hands we clasps
The ’greement fer to bind;
And felt like them there “Army” chaps
Wot’s left all sin behind.
If any tries to pull our leg
This coming Hogmanay
We’ll shout, “No, no! we’ve driv’ the peg
Home flush and fast till May.”
Well, Dave and me, we saunters down
Along the bloomin’ street,
And every ’quaintance in the town
’Ud want to stand us treat.
They’d pull and press, and chaff and beg,
Till ’t last we’d break away,
A-shoutin’ “No! we’ve spiked the keg—
No booze for us, till May!”
Well, Dave, he comes from Aberdeen,
And Sandy Mac. was tight:
Sez Mac., “Old Scotland’s hills are green!
One drink on Scotia’s night!”
Then Dave he looks acrost at me,
And I looks ’crost at Dave—
It allus after seemed to be
A kind of mootual “cave.”
For Barker sidles to’rds the bar:
“A whisky from the bin,”
Sez he, “my gay young Lochinvar!”
And I—well, I chimes in.
That _was_ a night—we drank and stept,
And joined the Scotchy’s lilt,
Till all the rest were drunk or slept,
And all the casks a-tilt.
Then, as we staggered home at four,
It was a sight ter see
A-troopin’ from our “rubby” door
Our fan-tod familee!
They tended on us jest like kings,
And darnced around the bunk,
And seemed, the ’fectionate little things,
So glad to see us drunk!
One smilin’ dwarf with flowin’ beard,
He sang (as sure as sin)
The sweetest song you ever heerd—
“Our dad’s kem home agin!”
And you may all take this from me,
For gorspel truth to-day—
_The best way to injy a spree
Is, Take the pledge till May._
[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]
TOO OLD.
It is durned hard lines, when a man grows sere
And his whiskers are flecked with grey,
And he wears the boots that he wore last year
When he worked for a miner’s pay,
To be brushed aside, with a callous word,
By the arms of sturdier men,
As they rush and crush, with a hope deferred,
For the coveted three-pound-ten!
Oh! he sold his strength, and he sold his health,
And he bartered his manhood’s prime
As he toiled and moiled, in the stores of wealth—
Where they banter the whole crib-time;
And they sweat, and sweat, and they crack their jokes
To the tune that the “banjos” play;
For the world wags fine with the bow-yanged blokes
While they work for a miner’s pay!
And To-morrow’s left for To-morrow’s self
To provide for as best it can;
For there comes no dream of a workless shelf
To the brain of the miner man—
Not a whining call from the voice of Thrift!
Not a cramp in the open hand!
As they play and pay—and they drift and drift
To the ranks where the grey-heads stand.
But his kids are cold, and their feet are bare,
And the prospect is bleak and brown,
And the missus has never a hat to wear
That’s fit to be seen in the town;
And the spectres flock—that were held last year,
With the rattle of coin, at bay:
When the old man smiled at his old wife’s fear
While he worked for a miner’s pay.
There are none to heckle; there’s nought to blame
But the curse of a gambler’s quest!
And the men pass out, as they lose the game
That we play in the Golden West:
But their thoughts must turn as the days grow late.
In a dream, to some “cocky” patch
Where the old folk stand at their homestead gate,
And they laugh ’neath their whitening thatch.
[Illustration: An old gold miner with equipment]
DAN THE HATTER.
An Old North Country Identity.
I tramped again ’neath a blazing sky,
In a Western land where the deserts lie:
But the rush and roar, and the life we knew,
When the ’Nineties echoed the whole world through,
Were silent, or uttered their speech alone
With a drab and dreary monotone.
I sought a field where a thousand men,
Stout-limbed, strong-hearted, toiled madly then;
But the hessian flapped on the rotting camps,
And the rust was eating the silent stamps;
And of all the throng of that mildewed past
There was only one who stuck to the last.
Just one old man, and his beard of grey
Kept time with his chatter the live-long day.
“What luck, old friend?”—and he turned around,
Where his hopperings fell in a cone-shaped mound;
And he rested his arm on the shaker’s side,
With the air of a man when the world was wide—
And his tongue ran off with a ceaseless flow,
For the hermits talk of their cronies so.
He spoke, with a digger’s quenchless zest,
Of the early days of the Golden West:
Of a surging wave, of a seething tide,
That rolled to the fields from the Eastern side;
Of the wondrous slugs and the mighty men
Who answer not to the call again.
“And I was right in their midst,” said he,
“For I followed Bayley in ’Ninety-three.”
Then he led the way, and he led me far
With the changing trend of each dip and bar,
And he pointed out with a palsied hand
All the work he’d done, all the plans he’d planned;
“For there’s gold,” he yelled, “that would pave a street,
At the spot where the slate and granite meet.”
I chanced that track on my way once more,
And I sought my friend of a year before;
But his shaker cracked in the midday sun,
And the old man’s search for the joint was done,
For he’d stacked his tools, and had drawn his stake.
And had followed the army in Bayley’s wake.
Oh, I trust he’s gone—as the priests insist—
Where the streets are paved with the gold he missed;
And they’ll weave his crown, and they’ll string his lyre,
From the trusty strands of his shaker wire;
And they’ll let him fossick for dip and bar
In the likely places ’twixt star and star.
It will please old Dan, for a man was he
Not planned for an angel minstrelsy.
[Illustration: Headstone]
BY A KOPI HILL
He rests at the foot of a kopi hill
By the old Coolgardie track;
But whether his name was Claude, or Bill,
Or Clarence, or “Hell-fire Jack,”
There isn’t a legend at all to say—
And what does it signify, anyway?
There’s nought of funereal pomp or show—
Just a rough-hewn slab that states,
The leisurely chap that lies below
Had honestly paid his rates
Somewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four;
And then he came hither—to pay no more.
So he wearied soon of the storm and strife,
And he cast his swag aside,
When men were strong with the lust of life
And the world seemed opened wide.
Were the castles fair, that he built that day,
Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?
Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill,
Now the tale of his life is told?
Does a fear disturb his dreaming still,
Or a sigh strike through the mould?
Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait,
Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?
However it be, by the wind-swept hills
Of leisure he nothing lacks;
And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fills
For ever his earthly tracks.
—Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayer
In the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.
AT BUMMER’S CREEK.
I planted Dave at Bummer’s Creek
Somewhere in ’Ninety-five,
When all the country round about
Was like a busy hive—
And good blokes pegged like rotten sheep,
And wasters stopped alive.
And here, to-day, I’m t’ilin’ still
Beside the same old soak
Where we pitched camp twelve years agone,
Played out and stony broke;
And after work I think right back,
And smoke, and smoke, and smoke.
We two were fitted, j’int fer j’int,
And toiled and starved and spreed;
But one ’ud watch around the stump
When t’other one was treed;
The same when Luck was in full bloom,
As when she run to seed.
But now I’m getting old and hipped,
And kick against the ruts,
I often think I’ll have a pray,
But can’t sit down fer nuts—
And Dave ’ud say, “A prayin’ pea,
He’s never got no guts!”
D’ye think it’s true, this ’ere report
That parson blokes kin tell
As who is bound fer parrydise,
And who is booked fer ’ell?
Fer I’ve got dust enough to pay
If they’ve the noos to sell.
Y’ see, us partners never ’ad
Religion much in mind,
And didn’t think to make no plan
Fer ’im who stopped behind—
But ’course you tumble to my graft:
I’ve got an axe to grind.
D’ye think now if I went to town,
Got up all smart and sleek,
A short-necked shammy, just like that,
’Ud make them pilots speak
And say which track the battlers took
Who pegged on Bummer’s Creek!
[Illustration: AT BUMMER’S CREEK.]
Fer Dave an’ me, we never knoo
The rights of any sect,
Or ’ow these different pads cris-crossed,
And things in that respect;
Or, if we’d heer’d it years afore,
We didn’t ricollect.
I don’t say as I’d lift my ’at,
And cringe, and beg, and crave,
Nor don’t want them to speechify
About no soul ter save;
But there’s the dust! if they’ll pint out
Which track was took by Dave.
[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]
AT PENNYWEIGHT FLAT.
“Do you have any luck at the diggins?” I said
To a dryblower grizzled and grey—
“Does the nebulous fossicker’s star ever shed
On your shaker, one flickering ray?
Does Dame Fortune e’er toddle your way?”
But he deigned not a look nor an answer—not then—
And I felt most decidedly hurt,
And I marked, as he leaned o’er the hopper again,
To examine the rubble and dirt,
He had sugar-bag sleeves to his shirt.
Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string,
And his beard swept his chest like a mat,
And I noted his eyes were as clear as the Spring—
(That is, Springtime at Pennyweight Flat)—
He had corks, also, strung to his hat.
But I flushed to the hair, as he tossed in his hand
A large slug, from the gravel he mined,
And a midwinter smile I did not understand
Lit his weatherworn dial and lined,
As he carelessly toyed with his find.
Then I hurried across to congratulate Dad,
(Oh the slug! and its wondrous gold-red!)
And I spoke of the marvellous fortune he had,
When he wakened that sprite from its bed—
“Pshaw! A fly-speck—a fly-speck!”—he said.
And he sighed as he spoke, and his eyes gathered damp
(Ah, the depth of the pathos they wore!)
“I have plenty like that sowed away in the camp,
And because you’re true grit to the core
You may have the durned thing for a ‘score’!”
Quick I dived for my purse, and I counted the coin,
Ere I greedily gathered my prize—
Then our hands were as hands of old friends, when they join
And our eyes met as brotherly eyes—
Oh, we wept, as we mingled good-byes!
“What’s it worth? What’s it worth?” to the banker I cried,
As I came through the door at a run,
And I brushed seven customers waiting aside,
And the banker chap calmly begun,
“I should say about nine pounds a ton.”
[Illustration: AT PENNYWEIGHT FLAT
“PSHAW! A FLY SPECK—A FLY SPECK HE SAID”]
I will swear that my hair turned a peony red,
And my visage an emerald green,
As he scraped off the gilt from a pound weight of lead;
And a sadness fell over the scene
That but late wore a holiday sheen.
Then I rushed like a mad thing, on homicide bent;
And with anger that cut to the bone
I demolished the shaker, and ravaged the tent,
—But the hardened old sinner had flown;
And I sank to the earth with a groan.
Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string,
And his beard swept his chest like a mat—
I remarked that his eyes were as clear as the Spring,
(That is, Springtime at Pennyweight Flat)
He had corks, also, strung to his hat.
[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]
[Illustration: Despondent miner sitting on swag]
I HAVEN’T THE GUTS TO GO.
I want to be out where the battlers are,
Away from the tyrant pen,
Where the bell-bird sits on the morning star
To waken the mulga men;
I want to stand on the crazy brace,
Or hammer away below,
While Luck waits by with a shining face
So long as the “leader” pans a trace—
_But I haven’t the guts to go!_
I want to be fixed in the same old camp,
And sit by the sandal fire—
I can see it now in the flickering lamp:
It looks like a funeral pyre.
I want to be with the gods of graft,
The stars of an out-back sky,
Or follow on with a bushman’s craft,
With my bag and bundle before and aft—
_But I haven’t the guts to try!_
Oh, I know a place where the gold went down,
The spot where the “country” broke:
And the shaft is there near the ridge’s crown,
By the foot of an old bull-oak.
I know the metal is waiting still
For a lusty heart to buy,
For a trusty arm, and a tireless will,
Till the slug rolls out from the public mill—
_But I haven’t the guts to try!_
There’s a shanty, too, and a lodestone there—
A girl of the out-back type—
The midnight sleeps in her vagrant hair
And her lips are cherry-ripe:
The battlers vie at the kipsy bar,
And many a mulga beau;
And I want to be where the battlers are,
And bask in the light of my out-back star—
_But I haven’t the guts to go!_
There’s a fell disease in the touch of ink—
The shriek of a coastal train—
There’s a subtle curse in the draught we drink
That softens the bushman’s brain:
We weary fast of the gauds and guile,
Though strong are the bonds they weave,
And the glamour that circles the Golden Mile—
_But we haven’t the guts to leave!_
I want to up with my swag and hence,
Away from the tyrant pen,
Where the bell-bird calls from the morning’s fence
To waken the mulga men!
I want to stand on a crazy brace,
Or hammer away below,
While Luck looks on with a beaming face,
So long as the “leader” pans a trace—
_But I haven’t the guts to go!_
ANOTHER SONG OF THE STAMPS.
There’s another and brighter song to sing
That is caught on the writer’s quill,
Though ’tis told all day with a rhythmic swing
By the stamps of the ten-head mill:
They repeat no burden of cankered greed,
And they echo no anguished moan,
When they rattle the roofs
With their iron hoofs,
As they pound on your two-ounce stone!
There’s never a beat for the filching crew,
Not a chip from the workman’s crust;
There’s never a turn for the London Jew,
Nor a “weight” for the London “trust”;
There’s never a sigh for the wretched gnomes
Below in the seething stope,
And the walls resound,
As the cams go round,
With the clamour of new-born Hope!
There’s a battler seeing the parcel through;
And he stands in the lamplight dim,
And he bends his ear to the voice anew
For the message that comes to him:
And his bronzed cheek glows as the words grow clear.
For they quicken his pulse and thrill,
And memories stir
To the whizz and whir
Of the wheels of the ten-head mill.
There’s a king to-night in his dungarees,
And he’s quaffing an old, old wine—
Oh, he doffs no cap and he bends no knees
To the boss of the Bull-owned mine!
And he gives no thought to the fruitless quest
Where his years and his toil were cast,
While the stampers sing
The awakening
Of his Luck—that has come at last!
So the sky grows clear and the world grows wide,
And there’s melody in the air:
There’s a waiting ship for the Eastern side,
And a woman that’s waiting there:
There’s a proud disdain for the things that were,
And this planet is all his own—
And there’s good red blood
In the stamper’s thud
As it pounds on his two-ounce stone!
POINTING EAST
A WISH—FOR SYDNEY-SIDE.
I wish you a happy New Year,
O, faithful old mother of me!
May it come with a smile, not a tear,
Where Sydney looks out on the sea—
On the wings of some wind, blowing free,
Where the heads of Port Jackson rise sheer—
From the heart in my breast
And the heart of the West
I wish you a happy New Year!
While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin
And Fortune is ever a-fret,
From the voices of homeland and kin,
Come the clearest of messages yet:
And the nose of my dinghy is set
For the time the gods give me a win!
And I waft you a line,
Dear old mother of mine!
While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin.
But, though Fortune be good or be ill!
Though the guerdon be ashes or gold!
When the crushing has gone to the mill
And the tale of life’s effort is told,
Though the world be grown never so cold
There’s a heart that will beat for me still!
And a prayer to fend,
And a trust without end,
And an old hand to cancel the bill.
So I wish you a happy New Year,
O, well-loved old mother of me!
May it come with no trace of a tear
When it trips from Eternity’s sea!
Oh, for mine! and for thine! and for thee!
With a love that is deep and sincere,
From the heart in my breast,
In the heart of the West,
I wish you “A Happy New Year!”
AMONGST THE RICKS OF HAY.
When Western roads are rough and long,
and days are hot and dry:
When mulga branches cast no shade
against the brazen sky:
I throw “Matilda” by the pad
and let my fancy play—
A-skipping o’er the fields once more,
amongst the ricks of hay.
Oh, here they come! there’s Joe and Dan!
and May, and Kate, and Min.!
The old swing gate flies open wide
to let the rompers in:
For I am friends with all the lot,
and trusty chums are they,
And all a-troop for hide-a-hoop
amongst the ricks of hay.
We mashers dress in father’s pants—
our sweethearts’ trilbies bare—
For we are jolly farmer’s kids
with hayseeds in our hair!
And Joe Tresize takes after Kate,
and I takes after May,
And Dan and Min. like whirlies spin
amongst the ricks of hay.
And when the rush and romp are o’er
we go in twos and twos—
And oh! the undermining arts
we simple urchins use;
And oh, the saucy tricks and ways
of Kate, and Min., and May!
While life’s begun and hearts are won
amongst the ricks of hay.
Then safe behind the sheltering wing
these friendly ricks afford,
We swear we’re “deep as deep” in love!
we are “as true as Gord”!
And linked together Jack and Jill,
beneath the moonlight grey,
With hearts ablaze, we spoon our ways
amongst the ricks of hay.
Alas! just then a startling voice
through dream and mistland broke:
“A dozen weary mulga miles
to Jerry Hogan’s soak!”
A fig for that! The miles fly past
to spryer steps and gay—
I’ve spent a boyish hour or two
amongst the ricks of hay.
KILDEA’S FLOWER FARM.
I live where the shade is,
And rusted Life’s blade is—
The sand-drifts from Hades
Have tarnished each charm:
But, sober or shicker,
My heart-pulse beats quicker
Whenever I think of
Kildea’s flower farm!
’Twas not the green sward, or
The spangled disorder
Along the path border
That led to their gate;
Nor mazes and mazes
Of heartsease and daisies,
That blossomed so early
And lingered so late:
It was not the ringing
Of crimson bells swinging—
It was not the singing
Of elves in the corn—
Nor fairy beds, laden
With rose-wreaths from Aidenn,
That smiled like a child, in
The face of the morn!
Ah, the roses so bloomy
That held me and drew me—
The thrill that shot through me,
’Neath blue skies or grey—
The fear that oppressed me,
The hope that caressed me,
All dwelt ’neath the bonnet
Of Katy Kildea!
With callous years flying,
And Youth’s fountains drying,
One memory undying
Lives always attuned:
And, if plucked from its setting,
Forgot and forgetting,
The best of my being
Would flow through the wound!
I live where the shade is—
And rusted Life’s blade is—
The sand-drifts from Hades
Have tarnished its charm:
But, sober or shicker,
My heart-pulse beats quicker
Whenever I think of
Kildea’s flower farm.
HIS LETTER FROM W.A.
Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter you sent—
It was brought by the man from the store;
And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent,
Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor.
But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ of you—
Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went!
And I have to knock off every minute or two,
Just to glance through the letter you sent.
It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean,
But seems longer than all of last year;
And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green,
And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear:
Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick,
And their mines, with the forchins they yield,
Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick,
And the rustle of corn in the field.
There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”!
Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys!
And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts,
And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s!
And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spin
Like the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain!
Where the best of the prizes were kisses to win—
And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.
I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm,
As I wander about in the street;
And I long to be back once again on the farm,
With the rabbits and rust in the wheat.
Oh, then life would want neither a whip or a spur—
With a “string,” and a trigger to pull,
And just you at my side, and the possums astir,
And the moon, our old moon! at the full ...
But if I am dull, and my letters are crook,
It is certain that you should know why:
For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look,
At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!”
And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track,
There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim,
And they see a young chap with a “port” on his back—
That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.
[Illustration: HIS LETTER FROM W.A.]
ANSWER TO “HIS LETTER FROM W.A.”
Dear Charley, I dreamt of a letter last night
With the postmark of W.A.,
And it’s wonderful, reely, how soon it came right,
And I ought to feel happy to-day—
For your letter came home from that far-away shore,
But no matter however I try,
The difference, somehow, it always seems more
And I cannot do nothing but cry.
They’re all gone to Hogan’s to see their noo plough,
But I’m stayin’ behind from the rest,
For there doesn’t seem anything happenin’ now
Like before you cleared out to the West.
The voice from the crick’s like a human in pain
And a sigh seems ter come from the trees,
And there’s somethin’ I don’t understand on the plain
With the grass wavin’ up to your knees.
You mind the moss rose that grew over our gate,
Our old gate where we whispered, “Good-bye”?
Oh, how often I go there and wonder if Fate
Has one blessing a girl’s wish could buy—
I am wearin’ a bunch in your favourite dress
With the flounces and streamers of blue,
And though pr’aps it is silly, I have to confess
I am wearin’ my heart out for you.
All the country around is as green as a leaf
And there’s never no fires or no drought,
And they say it’s old weatherwise Riley’s belief
That the seasons is goin’ to hang out;
And they say that young fellers is fools to go West
When there’s whips of good land on the run—
And the stick-at-home policy’s always the best
When the summin’-up comes to be done.
Oh, Charley! come back to your sweetheart again!
She’s as dull as a girl in a trance:
And she hasn’t been out for a flutter since then
And she don’t care a dump for a dance;
And she’s watchin’ for someone who kissed her, and cried
“But a few little months for to wait!
When the time’ll pass by, and I’ll stand by your side
Where the roses twine over the gate.”
[Illustration: Man with luggage and moneybag hastily leaving camp]
A-WHIZZING TOWARDS THE EAST.
Hurrah! at last
Ill luck is past;
My shammy weighs a ton!
A drink or two,
A shake for you,
A smile for everyone!
My number’s up—
A stirrup cup!
No Death’s head at the feast!
As off I go
With veins aglow,
A-whizzing towards the East!
Yet, wait a shake!
Put on the brake,
And shut the damper down!
A kiss for you
With eyes of blue!
And you with eyes of brown!
’Tis oft declared
A joy that’s shared
Is seven-fold increased—
Then jump aboard
And trust the Lord,
A-whizzing towards the East!
The breezes tell—
The stars as well—
The tales I love to hear:
Their voices seem
As in a dream,
Those missed for many a year.
Then here with you!
My cronies true!
The nearest and the least!
I’ll clink a glass,
Then skim the grass,
A-whizzing towards the East!
With love and loot,
And youth to boot,
I’ll plough the ocean blue—
They’re waiting me
Upon the quay,
And gaze the mistland through:
Then shout afar,
“Hurrah! Hurrah!”
Like prisoners released—
With sails outspread
And “Steam ahead,”
We’re whizzing towards the East!
[Decoration: Man with swag walking away]
THE OLD FARM GATE.
There’s an all-pervading glamour and a glitter in the West;
There’s a market here for muscle or for brain:
And Success stands ever near us, with a blossom at her breast,
And a galaxy of beauty in her train!
There are prizes worth the winning, for the daring hearts and bold,
There are gauds and gear for those who work and wait,
But I’m often drifting, drifting, from the palling gleam of gold
Till I stand beside the old farm gate.
How the roses bloomed that Summer! with their petals white and red:
How the honeysuckle clustered near the porch!
The soft warm glow of sympathy around the place was shed,
For the god of sweet Contentment held the torch!
There were mountains in the distance, and a river at their base,
And when Summer evening fancies re-create
Then I go a-drifting, drifting, with a smile upon my face
Till I stand beside the old farm gate!
Ere the mocking days that hover ’twixt the dreams of then and now:
Ere the fevered years, that withered with their touch:
There was Hope! that never ceased to wear a flush upon her brow,
And that Hope still struggles onward—with a crutch!
But the harvest days are over, and asleep their merry men,
And I glean the ears of fantasy or Fate,
As I go a-drifting, drifting, till I find Eileen again
As I left her by the old farm gate.
[Decoration: Man leading camel]
TO THOSE WHO LOVE US MOST.
Oh, fill the sparkling crystal up
A beaker to the brim!
We sing no lays of fulsome praise
Of white-lipped seraphim:
No universal hymn of peace—
No puling, puking toast—
But clink a glass to those we love!
And those who love us most.
A love for love! a hate for hate!
Good old Mohammed’s creed—
That sears and brands the hearts and hands
Of every human breed:
We join in greetings to our foes—
No false-tongued canting host;
But drink a health to those we love!
And those who love us most!
To him whose hand would bear us down—
Whose fluent lie would mar—
We bear no hate inveterate,
No gall-tipped scimitar;
And little care, though glory crown,
Or hottest hell may roast—
But drain a glass to those we love
And those who love us most!
A white-haired woman o’er the sea—
A group within her gate,
Who bend to read the halting screed,
But half articulate—
Yet bearing on its blotted page,
From Austral coast to coast,
A word of love to those we love
And those who love us most.
To-night! oh, let no follies sway!
No gas-lit, luring eyes
Glint through the clear God’s atmosphere
That links eternities!
Wave back each wizened witch of care!
Wave back each peering ghost!
And breathe a heathen prayer for them—
“_The hearts that love us most!_”
NOR’WEST CORNER
BEER IS ENOUGH.
Beer is enough. Let us be satisfied,
Nor fret our hearts with longing after gin,
And bob saloons, and vanities beside,
That lead one to the shelving edge of sin ...
For wights who sit a-row along the pave,
With crackling skins, and drooping lives to save,
Beer is enough.
Beer is enough. Let Love roost on his perch,
And coo and coo his breath away at will ...
The bride in orange blooms—the ivied church—
The two-roomed kipsy sheltered by the hill ...
Sweep them aside, and fetch the frothing bowl
To warm the cockles of one’s inmost-soul.
Beer is enough.
Beer is enough. Though dreamers sigh and sigh
Of melting love, did love e’er quench a thirst?
Did ever Cupid, ’neath a brazen sky,
Hand out a pint to taper off a burst?
Can Daphne’s lips allay the wild desire
To wade in hops, when coppers are afire?
Beer is enough.
Beer is enough. The brightest and the best
Of all the gifts the gods have handed down!
A Nautch girl she! who graces all the West,
Dressed in her picture hat, and amber gown ...
There is no canker in her love—no lees
To weight one’s ghost through dim eternities.
Beer is enough.
[Decoration: Mining equipment]
A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.
The loungers eyed the Wreck askance,
—A seedy bloke was he,
Who bore upon his countenance
A boozer’s historee—
He wore a small pea-dodger hat
Upon his massive brow,
And everywhere
His sandy hair
Spread round the rim like tow.
“Oh! Charles Adolphus,” Hebe chipped
(The belle of Bung’s saloon)
“Old chap! you’re got me fairly hipped—
I’m dying for a spoon!”
“Stand off! Stand off!” the boozer yelled,
And dashed his pewter down:
“_Her_ eyes of grey,
Though dimmed to-day,
Glow warm from Sydney town!”
“Cheer up!” the barmaid cried, “Cheer up!
You’ll be a long time dead.”
“Ah! we have drained the bitter cup,
My girl and I,” he said;
“For she is ’neath the morning sun,
And I am where it sets—
On Sydney quay
She waits for me,
My bunch of vio-lets!”
“Girl! we were raised together, where
The Namoi winds along—
Corn tassels were not like her hair!
Or magpies like her song!”
—And so he waxed poetic, while
The barmaid bent her ear
(As women do
To listen to
The eloquence of beer.)
“Oh! shut your head, and do a get!”
The irate loungers cried:
“Last month I saw your Violet
Upon the Sydney side.
She wore a pretty rakish hat;
A Chow on either fin;
And loaded thus,
She wanted us
To fill her up with gin.”
[Illustration: A BUNCH OF VIO-LETS.]
He heard the insult where he stood:
A gleam lit up his eye:
“A lie!” he howled; “that calls for blood!
A damned and heartless lie!
But for my mother’s son, and her
Who lives across the sea,
If God is white
Himself, to-night
He’ll lend a hand with me!”
As willy-willies rush and tear
Their way through mulga scrubs—
As old-time pirates used to dare,
Aboard their wooden tubs—
As men still fight for those they love,
While weaklings dodge and spar—
With flying blows
And steel-shod toes
He cleared that private bar!
* * * * *
But one stood there with drooping head,
And sandy hair like tow—
“I reckon, Miss,” the Object said,
“I’ll try a pewter now.”
And when he sank upon the floor
Where Bacchus spreads his nets,
A flower spray
Fell where he lay—
’Twas Hebe’s vio-lets.
BEHIND M‘WHALAN’S BAR.
No theme for poet’s ecstasies,
No Phyllis fond and fair,
With sprouting wings and soulful eyes,
And sunglints in her hair;
No wood-nymph, clad in gossamer,
A-treading daisied meads,
No saintly nun, from sun to sun
A-telling of her beads:
She’s not the girl who wept upon
Our shirt-front on the quay!
She is no Frenchified Mignonne!
No Scotch lass frae the Dee!
No leaf culled from Romance’s page,
No scintillating star,
Is charming Luce—who jerks the juice
Behind M‘Whalan’s bar.
And yet the lads for miles and miles
From mulga camp and mine
Come in to bid for Lucy’s smiles
And worship at her shrine:
They dream of nectar from her lips,
But drain the whisky jar,
And leave their hearts’ own counterparts
Upon M‘Whalan’s bar.
She is no dreamy, droopy frond,
No white rose of regret;
But, oh! we leap in Lethe’s pond
From Virtue’s minaret
When deftly, with a flashing toe!
She tips our panama,
And in a whirl of clothes and girl
Vaults back across the bar.
She holds us with a silken thread,
This hypnotising flirt:
A wink that whispers, “Hope ahead!”
The frou-frou of her skirt;
But, Lord, it fairly breaks us up,
Our eyes grow large as moons,
When with despatch she strikes a match
Upon her pantaloons.
Then all the world may bow to-night
To Beauty’s peerless queen,
And all the world may fight its fight
For “God and Gwendoline”;
But we will lilt our serenade
To bright eyes flashing far,
And drink to Luce who jerks the juice
Behind M‘Whalan’s bar!
WILL YOU LOVE ME THEN?
There’s a new chap born in the world to-day,
And an axe laid close to the root of doubt,
When I hear you speak in that soulful way
Of a love to last till the stars go out——
But, Mignonette!
Will you love me yet
When the duns come in? ... ’Tis an even bet.
Ah! I try to think, as I feel your breath,
Like a perfume thrown from a Glory rose,
That our path will lead (as the poet saith)
In a pleasant field, where the wild thyme blows——
But, wife of mine!
Will your star still shine
When he’s loaded down to the Plimsoll line?
Oh, I like you thus, with your nut-brown hair
In a wilderness, as I saw you first;
And I love you much as a man may dare
Who is torn asunder ’twixt love and thirst——
Pray tell me, dear!
Will the wind-vane veer
When I hang my pants on the chandelier?
And will Passion’s flower still bloom as red,—
Will you shrink right over against the wall,—
When I tumble into the nuptial bed
With my harness on, and my boots and all?
Will you have resource
To a plain divorce
When I smell of hops like a brewer’s horse?
Will your faith still shine when the world grows grey?
When the Autumn comes, will your heart grow sere?
Will you wear the smile that you wear to-day
When you wear the hat that you wore last year?
Girl, keep your vow!
Things will shape somehow—
And we’ll take our toll from the lap of Now!
[Decoration: Gold mining camp]
DIFFERENCES.
Different men have different ways,
Different crooks have different lays,
Different girls wear different stays.
It’s just according to how you’re built
Whether you sing a dirge, or lilt,
Laugh, or cry, when the milk is spilt.
Different dogs have different yaps,
Different tarts have different chaps,
Different bees fill different caps.
The bloke who missed is a carper—hence
We find him sitting astride a fence,
Cursing like hell as a recompense.
Different hounds have different bays,
Different nags have different neighs,
Different priests have different prays.
Who’d have a world that was uniform
Timing its pulse to a damning norm?
Give me the varying calm and storm.
Different hooks have different eyes,
Different cooks make different pies,
Different stamps have different dies.
Little it matters, my friend! to you,
Though arms are clinging, or hearts are true,
Or gold be clotted around the shoe.
Different grocers use different sand—
That is the game that you understand!
Here is a genuine, good right hand.
[Illustration: ☟ hand, index finger pointing down]
Bring me a tangle of fairish dope
To widen a rhymer’s mental scope,
And I’ll write an ode to a bar of soap!
[Decoration: Black swan]
THE DRUNK’S RUBÁIYÁT
Awake! the Dawn is breaking rosy red;
The Flies their matin Hymns sing round your Head—
And here you’ve roosted on the Kerb all night,
And never paid a Stiver for your Bed.
Last Eve, no doubt, when primed with Beer and Wine,
The World at large was all your Ruby Mine;
But if you had to face the Beak to-day,
It’s odds you couldn’t pay a Dollar Fine.
Ah, then Life wore an amber-tinted Hue,
To dizzy Heights your hop-fed Fancy flew;
But now, alas! to damp a Soul of Clay
You’ll have, perforce, to try a weaker Brew.
Search well again! Perhaps some vagrant Sprat
Lies hid within the Lining of your Hat;
Or if a Thrummer, you’ve an even chance—
A hungry Bung will often come at that.
And, ah! see yonder open tap-room Door—
If Fate be kind, old chap! maybe you’ll score;
And if a foaming Pot materialise,
Soak up the Juice, and boldly ask for more.
Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent
Shanty and Pub, on gratis Beer intent;
But I (unlucky wayfarer) was oft
Shot out by the same Door that in I went.
And that perverted soul we call the Bung,
Whose Moods, in turn, are praised or cursed or sung—
I’ve often wondered in my Heart, why he
Remains uncanonised—or else unhung.
From some, indeed, the Milk of Kindness flows:
Another Churl the pointed Insult throws—
But when He cops a Oner on the Beak,
He knows about it all—He Knows—HE KNOWS!
But come! Let’s tap this caravanserai!
I hold a Bob, in case the Kite won’t fly;
But ask not how it haps—like Life and Death
I know not How, nor When, nor Whence, nor Why.
A BLOKE FROM MULLINGAR.
I met him nearly farthest out—
No matter when or where.
He carried in his ragged clothes
A kind of city air.
I said, “I’ve just been wondering
The devil who you are?”
And he replied, in broken tones,
“I’m all that’s left of Billy Jones,
The beau of Mullingar!”
“Brush up! brash up! my friend,” I cried,
“And bear it like a man.
Why, look at me, I’ve battled through
From Beersheba to Dan;
And yet may do the ‘buffer’ trick
When Fortune’s bogies jar,
And shade the truth
From callow youth
Who hail from Mullingar!
“Come, trot inside this shanty door!
This out-back mulga hell!
Where all our finer thoughts are damned,
And e’en our worst rebel.
But still when deathly monotone
Spreads over land and star,
Here, broken men
Oft dream again
Of some old Mullingar!”
He sighed, and took my hand in his—
The kind of flaccid clasp
That rankles through one’s very soul
And tears it like a rasp—
“Ah, yes, that talk is right enough
Beside a shanty bar;
But I’ve,” he said,
And bowed his head,
“A girl in Mullingar!”
“Remember this,” I laughed, “my lad!
The brave alone may win—
To her we’ll chink, where’er she be,
One foaming pannikin,
For Cupid’s cunning shafts, my lad,
They carry fast and far;
And girls are true
To me and you,
In hell—or Mullingar!
[Illustration: A BLOKE FROM MULLINGAR]
“Come, sink another pot to her!
A wizened soul and white
Would falter in its tracks by day,
And in its core by night.
For I, too, twenty years ago,
Beneath a luckless star,
Left, in a rage,
Life’s heritage
Behind at Mullingar!”
“Oh, yes,” he chortled with a sneer,
“I know, I know your kind
Of out-back bloke who babbles of
The girl he left behind—
Her face was quite a beauty show,
Her voice like a guitar.
I guess,” he grinned,
“The kind of wind
Blew you from Mullingar!
“For city men, like me, may read
The lying lines between,
Of blokes who bruise with hob-nailed feet
Love’s field of evergreen—
The car wherein _your_ goddess drives
May be Aspasia’s car!”
I hit him solid, fair and square,
And left the wastrel lying there—
That bloke from Mullingar.
ONLY A KISS.
“I shan’t,” cried the maiden, “I shan’t!”
With a dear little petulant cry;
But the Moon, the old Moon, looked aslant,
With a comical twist in her eye;
And the mulga bush, lingering near,
Caught up the defiant refrain,
And “I shan’t! Oh, I shan’t!”
In a musical chant,
Was re-echoed again and again.
“But Lucretia, my dearest, you will!”
Our Superbus persisted—and soon
His soft accents came back from the hill,
In the mellowing light of the moon;
And the salmon-gums, clustering round,
Sent the melody dancing along,
And “You will! Oh, you will!”
Was repeated, until
They were all out of breath with their song.
But the maiden was adamant still,
Though her lips were an edible red;
And when Tarquin insisted, “You will!”
“Oh, I shan’t! you deceiver!” she said.
And the mulga and salmon-gums all,
In this star-gazing argument caught,
Sang, “You will!” “Oh, I shan’t!”
In a soul-wrecking chant—
But they thought in their hearts that she ought.
[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]
A BENDER AND SOME OF THE MOODS THAT LEAD UP TO IT.
When days are long and nights are dull,
And life seems deathly still,
And wretched insects buzz and buzz
Against the window sill,
One balances the force of “Won’t”
Against the force of Will.
I live upon the outer edge,
And on the desert’s rim,
And sometimes query, in a tone
Quite humourless and grim,
Is life, indeed, a mere burlesque?
Some Potent Joker’s whim?
I give the Desert stare for stare,
We never fraternise;
For me the siren has no voice,
For her I have no eyes,
And whipcord couldn’t link us twain
In peaceful marriage ties.
She’s clothed in desolation’s garb,
And visaged like the Sphinx;
Too close communion oft begets
Those tortured mental kinks
That populate the upper end
Of men who mix their drinks.
She brings no help to sling a rhyme
That sniggers as it goes ...
Sometimes a thought comes limping in
With sand between its toes,
A well-developed polypus
Somewhere within its nose.
But when its wares are spread upon
The operating sheet
I mostly find them shadow hash,
With very little meat,
And so I shoot them out the door
To give the dog a treat.
There’s something in the very air
Of torture, finely spun;
The weight of care that bears me down
Weighs mighty near a ton;
The breakfast steak tastes like a brick,
The spuds are underdone.
The whole world’s badly out of joint,
And shaky at the knees;
And that old trouble with my back
It hints of Bright’s disease,
And barley-water in a ward,
And thumping doctors’ fees.
The touch of ’flu I caught last month
Grows daily worse and worse:
’Tis sure my plan to keep afloat
Till time and tide reverse,
Is, Take a load of beer aboard,
And jettison my purse!
For one must never count the cost
When health is in the scales
And dull-eyed devils roost upon
One’s mental boundary rails,
Nor bend an over-fearful ear
To timid travellers’ tales.
The same old wild and woolly whirl
Along the same old track,
Outpacing sundry ills I have,
To garner those I lack!
—And so, I slither down to hell
(But have to hoof it back).
Then Reason riots wild awhile,
With bells upon her cap,
Until the last resource is sped
Of coin, or kid, or strap;
And then—I come back smiling, a
Rejuvenated chap!
WILD CATS AND HOURIS.
My worthy friend, if you’d list to me,
I’d teach you the way of a millionaire:
Advice costs nothing; the class is free;
And the road is smooth and the game is fair
Where dame Fortune smiles
With a woman’s wiles,
And a golden comb in the jade’s back hair.
Pray listen to me as you love your life;
The old world trips to the Oof-bird’s song:
’Tis poverty cuts like a butcher’s knife,
And the stabs of the butcher rankle long—
Say are you, at most,
Like a chap on toast,
Held over the fire on the toaster’s prong?
The prizes are not for the swift alone:
There’s small demand on your brawn or brain:
Just a cast-steel chiv, and a hunk of stone,
And a thirst that can cut and come again—
A trifle of salt,
A barrel of malt,
And four good stout pegs in a mulga plain.
My worldly friend! if you’d list to me,
You’d cease to worry of duns and bills,
And practice the one philanthropy
That works the ranch that your ego fills—
For the mugs await
At your outer gate,
And the world is crying for gilded pills.
’Tis thus the prizes are lost or won,
And thus the guerdon is bought or sold;
For the game is fair when the coins are spun,
And the “heads” show up in the aureate mould—
And where is the sin,
When the flats chip in,
In flying a “nob” for their good red gold?
Well, that is the lore that I wish to teach,
And such is the way that I want to show,
For Daphne lies on the sanded beach
’Way down by the ocean at Cottesloe,
With a barrel of “fat”
And a tall silk hat,
And a tip-top time where the houris grow.
[Illustration: Man outside bar]
THE LAST SPRAT.
I’ve nursed it all a sultry summer night
This buffer ’twixt a rocky shore and me:
I elbow through the crowd upon my right
Of solvency.
Life still holds some potentialities!
I feel myself a unit amongst men!
But know, should thirst prevail, there wilts and dies
A citizen.
The clink of glasses floats upon the air—
Thirst’s fingers gripe me round the neck and choke—
One beerward step: and then a voice, “_Beware!
Dead broke! Dead broke!_”
Shallows to windward, breakers on the lee,
I weigh and weigh the question, cons and pros,
Till (wracked by indecision’s pangs) I see
The last pub close.
[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]
SAY, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF IT NOW?
Ye comrades in shicker and cobbers in sin,
Ye wrecks from the ranks of life’s crew,
Who’ve tickled each barmaid under the chin
And frivolled with nymphs in the Rue;
Who’ve painted the town a magnificent red
(All impressionist artists, I trow),
Look here, in the light of the aftermath shed,
Say, what do you think of it now?
Oh, you’ve had a gay and a festive debauch
In regions where sanity reels,
With Bacchus, wine-laden, ahead with his torch,
And Nemesis close at your heels.
And little you recked, as the glamour of wine
Smoothed the lines of Life’s puckering brow—
But own up and tell me, old cobbers of mine,
Say, what do you think of it now?
You’ve made the pace willing in numberless bars,
You have sung, and recited, and yapped;
You have slept a drunk’s sleep ’neath the pitying stars,
You have squandered and borrowed and strapped—
You have struck every note, the sublime to the lewd,
But, alas, from Despondency’s slough,
May I ask in a friendly and brotherly mood,
Say, what do you think of it now?
You have played the pied piper and danced the fool’s dance
’Mid the smiles of well-ballasted men
(By-and-by, when the devil is better perchance
You will cut the same caper again.)
But now, as you bare your scant locks to the blast,
And re-register vow upon vow,
May I ask, as a brother—the month that is past—
Say, what do you think of it now?
[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]
ODD LEAVES
[Illustration: Man seated at desk]
THE WESTERN WRITER TO HIS MUSE.
I have no wild desire to sing, and sing,
Or kneel at Nature’s feet, and be her mummer.
Poetic fancies are not rioting
For liberty, like prisoned birds in summer.
No thoughts, like maidenhair, climb round and cling
To rhyming roosters writing on a thrummer;
But frowsy devils, round the camp to-night,
Suggest alone the commonplace and trite.
There is no bubbling spring within my clay;
I hold no lyrics straining at the tether;
My bones would drift right into blanket hay
If it were not such rough financial weather.
I’d never pen a par, or lay a lay,
Or deck ambition’s cady with a feather
If I could clutch a whisky piping hot,
A plate of hash, a pension and a pot.
No, she will never set the Thames a-flame,
Nor even churn a Western willy-willy,
My Muse! now growing greasy-heeled and lame:
She never was too sprightly as a filly;
But now, God bless my stars! her fires are tame—
They wouldn’t even boil a blanky billy,
Or grill a steak, or mull a glass of stout,
Garnished around with oysters—or without.
Get up, old girl! and give yourself a try—
A snort, a cough, a whistle, or a whinny—
Some folk are waiting now outside to buy,
If you’d display the spirit of a jenny!—
Prick up your ears! Just look a trifle spry,
And we may catch the nimble half-a-guinea.
* * * * *
What! No? Well, dash my eyes, you are a cow,
To jib incontinently, here, and now!
THE MAN WHO “CAN TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT ALONE.”
“Now, you see,” said my friend, as we breasted a bar,
And he mentioned to Popsy, “A go of Three Star”—
“Now, you see, I am built on a different plan,
And avoid all extremes, like a moderate man—
But you! you can never touch liquor at all
Without kicking prudence right over the wall.
“You’ve a bad moral balance, a weakness somewhere,
A mental deficiency under your hair,
And large woolly rats get right into your ‘think’
The moment you open your gills for a drink—
Why not be like me? Have a will of your own,
And the firmness to take it or leave it alone.”
So we filled them again, and again, and some more,
While he started to probe the thing into the core;
Oh, he analysed drunkenness, torso and limb,
Till his phrases grew thick and his vision grew dim,
And he fully, but mildly, condemned as “a muff”
Any chap who said “Yes,” when he’d lowered enough.
“W’y the dickens,” he groaned and deplored, “cansh yer be
A (hic) moderate, senshible drinker, like me?
For”—he said as he sank to the floor with a groan—
“I’m a mansh (hic) can take it, or leave it alone.”
[Illustration: Woman presenting demonic pudding to man at table]
WHEN SUSY MAKES THE DUFF.
My Susy is a bird of Spring,
A home-bird sweet and shy,
With rainbow colours on her wing
And laughter in her eye:
My hopes in life flit round beneath
Her coronet of fluff:
One hidden thorn within the wreath—
She makes the Sunday duff!
_When Susy makes the duff,
If man were sterner stuff,
He’d kneel and plead at Mercy’s seat
When Susy makes the duff._
It is not that she loves me less—
That rare hymeneal sin!
It is not that her morning dress
Cuts out the nimble “fin.”
It is not that her eyes of blue
Convey the cold rebuff—
(Oh, let me, friend! confide in you)
She makes the Sunday duff!
_When Susy makes the duff!
Love’s motor waxes rough,
And all the world gets out of joint
When Susy makes the duff!_
I’ve tried all subtle arts and wiles
To lure her from her bent;
I’ve even said, ’twixt frowns and smiles,
That cooks are Devil-sent.
But “Oh,” she’ll say—and never show
The shadow of a huff—
“My dearest Jim, I know, I know—
_I’ll_ make your Sunday duff!”
_When Susy makes the duff
I groan “Enough, enough!”
A stricken dear, in frozen truth,
When Susy makes the duff!_
Oh, shall I sigh and suffer still
To act the martyr’s part?
Or shall I brave dyspepsia’s ill
And indigestion’s smart?
No need recurring dates to con,
Or write them on my cuff,
While Susy pins her apron on
To make the Sunday duff!
_Ah, when she makes the duff,
No grump be I, or gruff;
But put the white man’s burden down
When Susy makes the duff!_
A DRUNK’S DEFIANCE.
I would like to offer this word or two
In a straight and a manly way,
From the deadhead’s room, where a light shines through
With a dimmed and a sickly ray:
There are some folk born with a lucky caul,
And a hobby to ride at will,
While for others—it isn’t the Lord at all,
But the Devil, who drives the mill.
And though you may laugh on the mountain’s crown,
And though I may toil at the base,
It is neither he who is up nor down
Has himself to thank for his place;
But whether ’tis Fate, if you choose to say,
Or say, if you choose, ’tis chance—
No matter—the tune that their fingers play
Is exactly the step we dance.
Yet if all the tales that are told be wrong,
And though reason be topmost yet,
There’s a broken chord in the tempting song
And a “something” of cheap regret;
But a fig for the tones of the broken chord!
And a fig for the tempting voice!
For a man must fight with a wooden sword
Where he only has Hobson’s choice.
And so, with his hand to the pewter pot,
And a smile on his frothy lip,
He follows the way of the drunken sot
Like a dog to his master’s whip;
And at last, with a curse on the hopeless strife,
He will knock at the Border Gate
As he slings his hat in the face of Life,
And his boots in the teeth of Fate.
[Decoration: Man with swag walking away]
BETWEEN TWO GATES.
“Good-day! Good-day, my ancient friend!”
We threw our swags beside the track—
For twenty solid years on end,
Spent as Life’s spendthrifts only spend,
I’d not met Jack!
A battered wreck, and tempest tossed,
This friend and brother tramp of mine,
With tangled, matted beard of frost—
As rough as seas that he had crossed
Since Auld Lang Syne!
I watched him for an answering glance—
Some sprig of memory, fresh and green,
Of days when through our merry dance
We wove a rough and rare romance
At Ballandean!
“Old Jack!” I said; “Old Jack McQuade!”
And grasped his lean and palsied hand—
“However wide our lives have strayed,
You surely recognise the shade
Of Charlie Brand?”
But still he munched his blackened clay;
I felt no warmth within his palm;
He shook his matted head of grey,
And clutched his prisoned hand away
In half alarm.
“Ah, no!” he answered; “Stranger, no!
No other life than this I’ve known.
For forty years of sun and snow,
As seasons come, and seasons go,
I’ve been alone!”
“But hark you back, McQuade!” I said—
“The days, the happy days, old mate!
We plucked the gums for roseleaf beds,
And rung, we two, the Southern sheds
To Delegate!
“You never thought that hearts could break,
You never thought that love could mar,
When, Jack! a jolly roving rake,
You kissed Good-bye to Mary Blake
At Freney’s bar!
“Come, come, old boy! chase back the cold,
And warm your heart at Friendship’s fire—
Be still the self-same Jack of old—
As true as steel, as good as gold,
As tough as wire!”
A phantom smile a moment played
Around his visage, worn and wan—
“Ah, friend! you’ve dreamt a dream,” he said:
“I’ve had no mate! I’ve loved no maid!”
And wandered on.
“Oh, stay!” I cried; “a thousand themes
Come thronging back at Memory’s call—
The gum-fringed plains, the oak-girt streams—
A wondrous sunlight glows and gleams
Above them all!”
He faded through the twilight grey.
A chill shot through my very spine—
A deadly chill, that seemed to say,
“And even like to him, are they—
All dreams of thine!
“They flit above some fancied sphere,
Those eyes that smile, those lips that pray.
The silent winds that blew last year
Along the banks of Windermere
Are more than they.”
“Then why,” I shrieked, “do gods create?”
As nightfall near and nearer drew,
On either side, a closèd gate ...
I stood, an old man, desolate,
Between the two.
A LASS, A LOAF, AND A GOOD CIGAR.
Ye, who are caught in the bonds of debt!
Ye, who are whipt with the thongs of scorn!
Feeding the ghost of some old regret
Born in a world that was tempest torn!
List to the words of a creed benign
Preached through the ages by old Omar:
Content ye, then, with a flask of Wine,
A girl, a song—and a good cigar!
The years that vanish leave no redress;
Last evening never a bridge has spanned;
So loll we here in the wilderness
That Love has sown in the arid sand:
The bush-birds sing of a world divine
As Pomp rolls by in its gilded car;
And I sit just so—with your hand in mine,
A bottle of wine—and a good cigar.
Heed not the pestilent kill-joys’ screech
That dulls your ears to the voice of Sue!
Disdain the gospel that dour men preach
To hide the light of her eyes from you!
Why should we sorrow, and sit supine
Or clutch the rays of some mystic star
While Love hangs near, on its drooping vine—
And smoke-wreaths curl from a good cigar?
This is the moment of all the year,
Casting a rose as it passes by—
Catch it quick! ere the leaves grow sere,
Blushing now ’neath an Austral sky;
For its petals whisper of His design,
Its heart is bursting with Life’s attar:
“A shady nook, with a flask of wine,
A lass, a loaf—and a good cigar!”
[Decoration: Man leading camel]
[Illustration: Four men in a bar]
I PROMISED SUE.
The night is waning—Good-night! Good-night!
—I promised Sue to be home by nine:
A sacred promise, though amber wine
Sparkles and laughs in the crystal bright,
But the hours fly by with an eerie flight
When friends grow mellow and glasses clink,
And I’ll venture not to the tempting brink
When the night is waning—Good-night! Good-night!
No, _not_ another—the hop and vine
May wilt and wither like western grass;
Oh, well, if I must—in a final glass
I will drink a toast to a girl divine,
I will drink a toast to this wife of mine,
A queen, enthroned in the hearts of men!
Eh! What’s that striking? It can’t be ten,
For I promised Sue to be home by nine.
Pshaw! Sue is tucked in the sheets, I guess,
And Towzer guards at my outer gate
With a sleepless eye and a fang-girt pate,
Cruel and callous and pitiless.
Then, what of a night the more or less?
Come, fill up the glasses from heel to brim!
Till daylight nears and the stars grow dim,
And the new day yawns from its drowsiness.
For lives are merry while hearts are true,
Though the sun may wink through the window pane
And she’ll say “Algernon! drunk again!”
With a limpid tear in her eyes of blue,
But I’ll stroke her hair of a flaxen hue,
And I’ll kiss her lips of a rosebud red
And, harness and all, I will flop to bed
And dream of the promise I made to Sue!
CHURNING “COPY” FOR THE PRESS.
Men are rushing through the level, or are delving in the shaft,
Or a-belting like the devil at a moil—
With a bitter curse for Adam, as the pioneer of graft
And the bloke who took a patent out for toil.
But they ought to mark a ticket at a game of pak-a-pu,
Or assume the thankful mien of holiness,
Since the Managing Director found them other work to do
Than that of churning “copy” for the press!
For the misbegotten smudger wends along his inky way,
Haply dodging past the commonplace and trite
As he follows on the faintest scent of ‘incident’ by day,
And he notes it on his washing bill by night;
But what time the Sunday Sun comes out from press, all piping hot,
He is tempted sore to sky the blanky wipe,
When he hears the dullest dunces in the town cry, “Tommyrot!”
And the johnny push abolish it as “Tripe!”
For at times the breath of Life grows cold, the outlook brown and flat,
And without one touch of colour there at all;
And there’s nothing but a vacancy beneath a rhymer’s hat,
And the pictures all are “turned towards the wall.”
Then he reaches for a bottle of Glen Shicker on the shelf,
As a cobber who may share the strain and stress
With a very seedy poet, who pours piffle out for pelf,
In the columns of the western Sunday Press.
And when those two collaborate, a change comes o’er the scene,
(It happens so when kindred spirits meet)
For here and there, a patch of red! and here and there, of green!
And a chirpy crowd goes laughing down the street!
The genial face of Friendship ’gainst the window-pane is pressed,
And an optimist keeps boredom well at bay,
Whilst a maiden comes a-tripping, with a rosebud at her breast,
Adown his mental corridors of grey.
Then the murky fluid splashes, and his flagging pulses swell,
Till a neighbour’s rooster greets the morning star,
And a sound comes floating westward, like the echo of a bell,
Calling men to where the loaves and fishes are.
For crude, unbroken fancies get the bit between their teeth,
While the earth puts on a very different guise,
And even Sorrow’s self assumes a far less sombre wreath
When the poet and the snifter fraternise.
They are rushing through the levels, and are drumming in the stopes,
And a-cursing at the ‘presser’ and the hose;
But they never took to dancing where the Printer pulls the ropes
And the Editor blue-pencils half their prose,
And the proofman designates their airy, fairy verse as ‘slim,’
And the staff guard by the door with broken bricks,
As they tremulously venture to suggest a modest ‘jim’
For a ‘liquid’ poem, costing eight-and-six!
[Illustration: Man asleep outdoors]
STAR GAZING.
I camped last night in a desert grey
’Neath the eyes of a million stars,
For they all had come in their vestments gay,
Like a laughing host in the wake of day,
To the shrine of the midnight bars.
And satyrs slid on the glinting spars
Of light, through the halls of space,
And Venus served from the vintage jars,
And a blossom shone on the nose of Mars
And a smile on the old Moon’s face.
My castle’s roof was the spangled sky
And its carpet of sea-green moss;
And its walls were curtained with tapestry, ...
And the face of her I had kissed Good-bye
Was enshrined in the Southern Cross.
As I gazed, the stars kept clustering,
And closer and closer crept,
Until I and they, we were all a-swing,
When an owl flew down on a drowsy wing
And we blew out the light ... and slept.
[Decoration: Mining equipment]
RHYMES AND RHYMERS.
Do you know, if a chap could write and write,
As editors pay and pay,
There’d be whips of sport
For the “shingle short”
On the rhymer’s inky way—
If the theme be bright and the hand as light
As the touch of a skeeter’s wing,
There is good red gold
In the Press-ship’s hold
For the songs that the rhymers sing.
There are stacks of room in the ranks of rhyme
For the persifleurs to fill—
There are plums and perks
For the bloke who works
With a tireless, lilting quill—
There are “values,” set in the measured line,
And “jim” in the tuneful scrawl,
Where the ore falls thick
To the light pen-prick,
And the sky is a hanging-wall.
There are no high backs in the rhymer’s stope,
No depths in the rhyming vein—
Not a drop of sweat
In the deft coup-let,
Or ache in a whole quatrain;
And editor-men, with their bags of gold,
Come out from their inky lairs,
And they doff their caps
To the rhymer-chaps,
As they bid for the rhymer’s wares.
So we sit aloft in our cushioned chairs
And scrawl for the world below,
And we smile aloud
At the toiling crowd,
As the toilers come and go—
For they say, of all at the desk or mine
Who drudge for a daily wage,
There are scores of men
With a rhymer’s pen
Who could blazon the world’s wide page!
And we glean from the supercilious bard—
The tilt of a scornful nose—
That the joyous call
Of a madrigal,
The voice of a wild red rose,
Awake in his room when the lamp burns low,
And the buzz-flies sink to rest;
And his throbbing brain,
With a mad refrain,
Sings the Soul-Song of the West.
But we of the “Times” and the “Sunday Sin”
Are the recreants of rhyme,
For our hearts won’t thud
And our souls won’t bud
Till the Oof-bird calls the time.
And we write—just so—for the clink of coin
And the incense of a quid,
And the deathless name
On the scroll of fame,
My brothers! awaits your bid.
[Decoration: Black swan]
A SONG OF COMPROMISE.
If you cannot be the needle, be the thread;
If you cannot ride a motor, be a ped.;
If you cannot cut the figure
Of a bloke chockful of vigour,
Please be dead—
’Tis the softest snap of any to be dead.
If you cannot be a hero, be a skunk;
If you cannot be the barman, be the drunk;
If you cannot scale Parnassus
Flop right down among the asses,
Friend! kerplunk—
Like a flapjack on a platter, lob kerplunk.
If you cannot be the ocean, be a drop;
If you cannot be the sergeant, be a cop;
It is not the act of falling
That is said to be appalling,
But the stop—
There’s a prejudice, somehow, against the stop.
If you cannot win the heiress, take the cook;
If a failure as a burglar, be a “hook”;
’Tis the worst of all life’s phases,
If you’re on the road to blazes,
To go crook—
And the world just guys you worse for going crook.
If you can’t get gin and bitters, stick to rum;
If you cannot be a spendthrift, be a hum;
If your credit grows so slender
That you can’t dig up a bender,
Take a thrum—
There’s a dim religious light about the thrum.
If you cannot be the candle, be the moth;
If you cannot be the weaver, be the cloth;
If Life’s waitresses say “Dicken!”
When you reach out for the chicken,
Cop the broth—
There’s a deal of consolation in the broth.
Doesn’t matter if you’re single or you’re wed,
Still the rose-leaves always crumble in your bed;
But the sea ahead is placid,
Just a dose of prussic acid,
And you’re dead—
Those alternatives won’t matter when you’re dead.
A SHATTERED ILLUSION.
No heart-whole songs of the Golden West
Come ever at night to me,
Who suckled not at her broad, brown breast
Nor played at her giant knee,
Nor laughed or cried
By her ingle-side,
As a kid in his ain countree.
I find no warmth in the gleam of gold,
No soul in the West’s expanse;
And actors, cast in a heavy mould,
All people the day’s romance;
And pipe I still
With a right good will,
Yet the fays of the stage won’t dance!
I know full well that the fault is mine—
That the skies are just as blue,
That life is fair, and the lights that shine
In your sweetheart’s eyes are true;
And twilights gray
And the break of day
Have a message to tell to you.
But I hear it not, or only hear
As a dull and prosy theme—
Then drift away to a day somewhere
In the wake of Fancy’s team,
That travels straight
For an old swing gate,
By the side of an oak-girt stream.
’Twas not the lure of a gate that led,
Nor yet of an oak-fringed creek,
But the memory of a gold-thatched head
And a tear-besprinkled cheek—
A stifled sigh,
And a last good-bye
In the language that love can speak!
I pictured Kate at the cottage door,
Like a home-bird by her nest,
With the self-same summer dress she wore
On the day I moved out West—
The self-same shoes
And the same heart-bruise
And the same pink rose at her breast.
I urged my team with a supple wrist,
And they scampered over the grass ...
With Katie Clare I must keep the tryst
Of a lover with a lass ...
Oh, I minded well
Of her eyes’ soft spell;
But forgot how the years may pass!
I drew a rein ... ’Neath the trysting tree
Were a matron and her brood;
And I said, “My sweetheart waits for me
In this half-enchanted wood:
And the fairest fair
Is my Katie Clare,
Of the whole world’s sisterhood!”
Then the matron stared with a puzzled stare
That changed to a gloomy frown
(I marked her looks were the worse for wear,
And her heels were somewhat down),
And she snapped, “Ah! Kate?
She went out of date
When I married old Pigweed Brown.”
Then I thanked my stars, and left the team,
As I gripped the paw of Fate
And air-planed over the oak-girt stream,
And over the old swing gate—
And cried not crack
Till I landed back
In this hub of the Western State.
NO MORE VERSES IN PRAISE OF WINE!
No more verses in praise of Wine!
No more gauds for the gods of Woe!
Better by far to sit supine
Watching the current of strong life flow,
Crouched by a hearth where the false fires glow;
Conning the comedy, line by line—
No more gauds for the gods of Woe!
No more verses in praise of Wine!
Shirking the fight that a man should fight,
Dodging the joys that a man should know,
Scorning the breath of a plumed thought’s flight,
Down with the swine and the husks below—
’Tis thus we reap from the seed we sow!
Hearts grow withered and locks grow white,
Dodging the joys that a man should know,
Shirking the fight that a man should fight.
No more verses in praise of Wine!
Where are the glorious days we knew
Touched with the rays of a light divine,
Decked with a garland of thyme and rue?
Where is their glamour for yours and you?
Where is their laughter for me and mine?
Where are the glorious days we knew
Ere knees were bent to the gods of Wine?
See our boat, with a broken mast,
Cleaving a sea that is rough and grey!
Cargoes come to the port at last:
Ashes and Dead Sea fruit are they.
The climax this of a soul-less play—
We were the stars of a soul-less cast—
Over a sea that is rough and grey
Drifts our boat, with a broken mast.
No more verses in praise of Wine!
Yet, through a tangle of years and strife,
Constant still do her true eyes shine—
Mother, or sweetheart, or child, or wife.
Is there a haven where Hope is rife,
Holding a remnant of life’s design?
Is there a light on the shores of life,
Pointing a course from the sea of Wine?
OUR LIMITATIONS.
We singers standing on the outer rim,
Who touch the fringe of poesy at times
With half-formed thoughts, rough-set in halting rhymes,
Through which no airy flights of fancy skim—
We write just so, an hour to while away,
And turn the well-thumbed stock still o’er and o’er,
As men have done a thousand times before,
And will again, just as we do to-day.
We have no fire to set men’s brains aglow;
We have no tune to set the world a-swing;
There is no throb within the songs we sing
To flush the heart where passions ebb and flow.
We have no master’s hand to strike the keys;
We lay no claim at all to bardic bays,
But write (for coin) our topic-tinctured lays
And come, and go, like any evening breeze.
But I, for one, would never weep the lack
Of monumental works, and noble themes,
But rest content by slopes where Demos dreams
And leave Parnassus’ heights upon my back,
If I could write (as any man should write)
About the world within my garden wall,
And never dream inspired dreams at all
To live still on when I had sought the night.
If I could take that rosebud from its stem
And weave its petals in a simple rhyme,
So you could hear the bells of springtime chime,
And you could see the flower-soul in them—
Or else, we’ll say, a magpie on a limb,
Greeting the sunrise with its matin song—
To catch the music as it floats along,
And link its spirit to a bush-child’s hymn.
Or if—but, then, the limitations rise
Like barriers across the mental plain,
And mists and things obscure the rhymer’s brain
And dull his ears, and cloud his blinking eyes.
And so we write as Nature sets her gauge—
No worse than most, and better, p’raps, than some,
But should a man remain for ever dumb
When _only_ rhythm fills his aimless page?
YOUR LEVEL BEST.
When you stand within Life’s limelight to declaim your little piece—
Let your hearers chip and chivvy as they may—
And you go on nigh despairing, ’neath your mummer-paint and grease,
As you massacre the part you have to play:
_You may come before the curtain
And erect your ragged crest,
If you’re absolutely certain
That you’ve done your level best!_
If you’re put away like lumber, on the very topmost shelf,
And the phalanx of Success’s pets condemn,
Just remember most approval worth a cent comes from yourself,
And heave brick for brick, “Old Failure!” back at them:
_For no matter how they mutter,
You are worthy as the rest,
When you’re lying in the gutter,
If the gutter is your best!_
[Illustration:
_“Where no scallywag or sinner
May be counted as a guest.”_]
Mark the “pity for a failure!” as the motor-hog whisks by,
And the derelict steps quickly from his path:
See the supercilious patronage that lights the preacher’s eye!
As he maunders of a glowing aftermath,
_Where no scallywag or sinner
May be counted as a guest
When the trumpet sounds for dinner—
Though he did his level best!_
Never mind, old Rags and Tatters! when you reach the “golden stairs,”
You may meet a Godlike cobber, who will say,
“Though you’ve hobnobbed with the Devil, and forgot your vesper prayers,
You were only as I fashioned forth your clay—
_Whether scoffer who denied Me,
Or a saint who beat his breast,
Only he may stand beside me
Who has done his level best!”_
FINIS
[Illustration: Man with swag boiling a billy]
* * * * *
Morton’s Limited, Printers, 75 Ultimo Road, Sydney.
Transcriber’s Note
Inconsistent hyphenation (cocky patch/cocky-patch,
fantods/fan-tod, flower-soul/flower soul, Glory rose/glory-rose,
hobby-horse/hobby horse, inmost soul/inmost-soul, maiden
hair/maidenhair, outback/out-back, rose-leaves/rose
leaves/roseleaf, springtime/spring-time, taproom/tap-room, tempest
tossed/tempest-tossed, window pane/window-pane) and non-standard
spelling (smoothes, cris-crossed) retained.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of 唐诗三百首
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
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Title: 唐诗三百首
Compiler: Hengtangtuishi
Release date: June 13, 2016 [eBook #52323]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: Chinese
Credits: Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 唐诗三百首 ***
Title: 唐诗三百首 (Three Hundred Tang Poems)
Author: 孙洙 (Sun Zhu)
唐詩三百首
001
感遇（四首之一）
作者：張九齡
孤鴻海上來，
池潢不敢顧；
側見雙翠鳥，
巢在三珠樹。
矯矯珍木巔，
得無金丸懼？
美服患人指，
高明逼神惡。
今我遊冥冥，
弋者何所慕？
002
感遇（四首之二）
作者：張九齡
蘭葉春葳蕤，
桂華秋皎潔；
欣欣此生意，
自爾為佳節。
誰知林棲者，
聞風坐相悅。
草木有本心，
何求美人折？
003
感遇（四首之三）
作者：張九齡
幽人歸獨臥，
滯慮洗孤清。
持此謝高鳥，
因之傳遠情。
日夕懷空意，
人誰感至精？
飛沉理自隔，
何所慰吾誠？
004
感遇（四首之四）
作者：張九齡
江南有丹橘，
經冬猶綠林；
豈伊地氣暖？
自有歲寒心。
可以薦嘉客，
奈何阻重深！
運命惟所遇，
循環不可尋。
徒言樹桃李，
此木豈無陰？
005
下終南山過斛斯山人宿置酒
作者：李白
暮從碧山下，
山月隨人歸；
卻顧所來徑，
蒼蒼橫翠微。
相攜及田家，
童稚開荊扉；
綠竹入幽徑，
青蘿拂行衣。
歡言得所憩，
美酒聊共揮；
長歌吟松風，
曲盡河星稀。
我醉君復樂，
陶然共忘機。
006
月下獨酌
作者：李白
花間一壺酒，
獨酌無相親，
舉杯邀明月，
對影成三人。
月既不解飲，
影徒隨我身，
暫伴月將影，
行樂須及春。
我歌月徘徊，
我舞影零亂；
醒時同交歡，
醉後各分散。
永結無情遊，
相期邈雲漢。
007
春思
作者：李白
燕草如碧絲，
秦桑低綠枝；
當君懷歸日，
是妾斷腸時。
春風不相識，
何事入羅幃？
008
望岳
作者：杜甫
岱宗夫如何？
齊魯青未了。
造化鍾神秀，
陰陽割昏曉。
盪胸生層雲，
決眥入歸鳥。
會當凌絕頂，
一覽眾山小。
009
贈衛八處士
作者：杜甫
人生不相見，
動如參與商。
今夕復何夕？
共此燈燭光。
少壯能幾時？
鬢髮各已蒼。
訪舊半為鬼，
驚呼熱中腸。
焉知二十載，
重上君子堂。
昔別君未婚，
兒女忽成行；
怡然敬父執，
問我來何方？
問答乃未已，
驅兒羅酒漿。
夜雨剪春韭，
新炊間黃梁。
主稱會面難，
一舉累十觴；
十觴亦不醉，
感子故意長。
明日隔山岳，
世事兩茫茫。
010
佳人
作者：杜甫
絕代有佳人，
幽居在空谷。
自云良家子，
零落依草木。
關中昔喪亂，
兄弟遭殺戮；
官高何足論，
不得收骨肉。
世情惡衰歇，
萬事隨轉燭。
夫婿輕薄兒，
新人美如玉。
合昏尚知時，
鴛鴦不獨宿；
但見新人笑，
那聞舊人哭？
在山泉水清，
出山泉水濁。
侍婢賣珠迴，
牽蘿補茅屋。
摘花不插髮，
采柏動盈掬。
天寒翠袖薄，
日暮倚修竹。
011
夢李白（二首之一）
作者：杜甫
死別已吞聲，
生別常惻惻。
江南瘴癘地，
逐客無消息；
故人入我夢，
明我長相憶。
君今在羅網，
何以有羽翼？
恐非平生魂，
路遠不可測。
魂來楓林青，
魂返關山黑；
落月滿屋梁，
猶疑照顏色。
水深波浪闊，
無使蛟龍得。
012
夢李白（二首之二）
作者：杜甫
浮雲終日行，
遊子久不至；
三夜頻夢君，
情親見君意。
告歸常局促，
苦道來不易；
江湖多風波，
舟楫恐失墜。
出門搔白首，
若負平生志。
冠蓋滿京華，
斯人獨憔悴！
孰云網恢恢？
將老身反累！
千秋萬歲名，
寂寞身後事。
013
送別
作者：王維
下馬飲君酒，
問君何所之？
君言不得意，
歸臥南山陲。
但去莫復問，
白雲無盡時。
014
送綦毋潛落第還鄉
作者：王維
聖代無隱者，
英靈盡來歸，
遂令東山客，
不得顧採薇。
既至金門遠，
孰云吾道非？
江淮度寒食，
京洛縫春衣。
置酒長安道，
同心與我違；
行當浮桂棹，
未幾拂荊扉。
遠樹帶行客，
孤城當落暉。
吾謀適不用，
勿謂知音稀！
015
青谿
作者：王維
言入黃花川，
每逐青谿水；
隨山將萬轉，
趣途無百里。
聲喧亂石中，
色靜深松裡；
漾漾汎菱荇，
澄澄映葭葦。
我心素已閒，
清川澹如此。
請留盤石上，
垂釣將已矣。
016
渭川田家
作者：王維
斜光照墟落，
窮巷牛羊歸。
野老念牧童，
倚杖候荊扉。
雉雊麥苗秀，
蠶眠桑葉稀。
田夫荷鋤立，
相見語依依。
即此羨閒逸，
悵然吟式微。
017
西施詠
作者：王維
艷色天下重，
西施寧久微？
朝為越溪女，
暮作吳宮妃。
賤日豈殊眾？
貴來方悟稀。
邀人傅脂粉，
不自著羅衣。
君寵益嬌態，
君憐無是非。
當時浣紗伴，
莫得同車歸。
持謝鄰家子，
效顰安可希？
018
秋登蘭山寄張五
作者：孟浩然
北山白雲裡，
隱者自怡悅。
相望始登高，
心隨雁飛滅。
愁因薄暮起，
興是清秋發。
時見歸村人，
沙行渡頭歇。
天邊樹若薺，
江畔洲如月。
何當載酒來？
共醉重陽節。
019
夏日南亭懷辛大
作者：孟浩然
山光忽西落，
池月漸東上。
散髮乘夜涼，
開軒臥閑敞。
荷風送香氣，
竹露滴清響。
欲取鳴琴彈，
恨無知音賞！
感此懷故人，
中宵勞夢想。
020
宿業師山房待丁大不至
作者：孟浩然
夕陽度西嶺，
群壑倏已暝，
松月生夜涼，
風泉滿清聽。
樵人歸欲盡，
煙鳥棲初定，
之子期宿來，
孤琴候蘿徑。
021
同從弟南齋翫月憶山陰崔少府
作者：王昌齡
高臥南齋時，
開帷月初吐；
清輝淡水木，
演漾在窗戶。
苒苒幾盈虛？
澄澄變今古。
美人清江畔，
是夜越吟苦。
千里其如何？
微風吹蘭杜。
022
尋西山隱者不遇
作者：邱為
絕頂一茅茨，
直上三十里。
扣關無僮僕，
窺室惟案几。
若非巾柴車？
應是釣秋水。
差池不相見，
黽勉空仰止。
草色新雨中，
松聲晚窗裡。
及茲契幽絕，
自足蕩心耳。
雖無賓主意，
頗得清淨理。
興盡方下山，
何必待之子？
023
春泛若耶溪
作者：綦毋潛
幽意無斷絕，
此去隨所偶。
晚風吹行舟，
花路入溪口。
際夜轉西壑，
隔山望南斗。
潭煙飛溶溶，
林月低向後。
生事且瀰漫，
願為持竿叟。
024
宿王昌齡隱居
作者：常建
清溪深不測，
隱處唯孤雲。
松際露微月，
清光猶為君。
茅亭宿花影，
藥院滋苔紋。
余亦謝時去，
西山鸞鶴群。
025
與高適薛據登慈恩寺浮圖
作者：岑參
塔勢如湧出，
孤高聳天宮。
登臨出世界，
磴道盤虛空。
突兀壓神州，
崢嶸如鬼工；
四角礙白日，
七層摩蒼穹。
下窺指高鳥，
俯聽聞驚風。
連山若波濤，
奔湊如朝東。
青槐夾馳道，
宮館何玲瓏？
秋色從西來，
蒼然滿關中。
五陵北原上，
萬古青濛濛。
淨理了可悟，
勝因夙所宗。
誓將挂冠去，
覺道資無窮。
026
賊退示官吏
作者：元結
昔歲逢太平，
山林二十年。
泉源在庭戶，
洞壑當門前。
井稅有常期，
日晏猶得眠。
忽然遭時變，
數歲親戎旃。
今來典斯郡，
山夷又紛然。
城小賊不屠，
人貧傷可憐。
是以陷鄰境，
此州獨見全。
使臣將王命，
豈不如賊焉？
令彼徵歛者，
迫之如火煎。
誰能絕人命？
以作時世賢。
思欲委符節，
引竿自刺船，
將家就魚麥，
歸老江湖邊。
027
郡齋雨中與諸文士燕集
作者：韋應物
兵衛森畫戟，
宴寢凝清香。
海上風雨至，
逍遙池閣涼。
煩痾近消散，
嘉賓復滿堂。
自慚居處崇，
未睹斯民康。
理會是非遣，
性達形跡忘。
鮮肥屬時禁，
蔬果幸見嘗。
俯飲一杯酒，
仰聆金玉章。
神歡體自輕，
意欲淩風翔。
吳中盛文史，
群彥今汪洋。
方知大藩地，
豈曰財賦強？
028
初發揚子寄元大校書
作者：韋應物
悽悽去親愛，
泛泛入煙霧；
歸棹洛陽人，
殘鐘廣陵樹。
今朝為此別，
何處還相遇？
世事波上舟，
沿洄安得住？
029
寄全椒山中道士
作者：韋應物
今朝郡齋冷，
忽念山中客；
澗底束荊薪，
歸來煮白石。
欲持一瓢酒，
遠慰風雨夕。
落葉滿空山，
何處尋行跡？
030
長安遇馮著
作者：韋應物
客從東方來，
衣上灞陵雨。
問客何為來？
采山因買斧。
冥冥花正開，
颺颺燕新乳。
昨別今已春，
鬢絲生幾縷。
031
夕次盱眙縣
作者：韋應物
落帆逗淮鎮，
停舫臨孤驛。
浩浩風起波，
冥冥日沈夕。
人歸山郭暗，
雁下蘆洲白。
獨夜憶秦關，
聽鐘未眠客。
032
東郊
作者：韋應物
吏舍跼終年，
出郊曠清曙。
楊柳散和風，
青山澹吾慮。
依叢適自憩，
緣澗還復去。
微雨靄芳原，
春鳩鳴何處？
樂幽心屢止，
遵事跡猶遽。
終罷斯結廬，
慕陶真可庶。
033
送楊氏女
作者：韋應物
永日方慼慼，
出行復悠悠。
女子今有行，
大江泝輕舟。
爾輩苦無恃，
撫念益慈柔。
幼為長所育，
兩別泣不休。
對此結中腸，
義往難復留。
自小闕內訓，
事姑貽我憂。
賴茲託令門，
仁卹庶無尤。
貧儉誠所尚，
資從豈待周！
孝恭遵婦道，
容止順其猷。
別離在今晨，
見爾當何秋？
居閑始自遣，
臨感忽難收。
歸來視幼女，
零淚緣纓流。
034
晨詣超師院讀禪經
作者：柳宗元
汲井漱寒齒，
清心拂塵服。
閒持貝葉書，
步出東齋讀。
真源了無取，
妄跡世所逐。
遺言冀可冥，
繕性何由熟？
道人庭宇靜，
苔色連深竹；
日出霧露餘，
青松如膏沐。
澹然離言說，
悟悅心自足。
035
溪居
作者：柳宗元
久為簪組累，
幸此南夷謫。
閑依農圃鄰，
偶似山林客。
曉耕翻露草，
夜榜響溪石。
來往不逢人，
長歌楚天碧。
036
塞上曲
作者：王昌齡
蟬鳴空桑林，
八月蕭關道。
出塞復入塞，
處處黃蘆草。
從來幽并客，
皆向沙場老。
莫學遊俠兒，
矜誇紫騮好。
037
塞下曲
作者：王昌齡
飲馬渡秋水，
水寒風似刀。
平沙日未沒，
黯黯見臨洮。
昔日長城戰，
咸言意氣高。
黃塵足今古，
白骨亂蓬蒿。
038
關山月
作者：李白
明月出天山，
蒼茫雲海間；
長風幾萬里，
吹度玉門關。
漢下白登道，
胡窺青海灣。
由來征戰地，
不見有人還。
戍客望邊色，
思歸多苦顏；
高樓當此夜，
歎息未應閑。
039
子夜吳歌（春歌）
作者：李白
秦地羅敷女，
采桑綠水邊；
素手青條上，
紅妝白日鮮。
蠶飢妾欲去，
五馬莫留連。
040
子夜吳歌（夏歌）
作者：李白
鏡湖三百里，
菡萏發荷花；
五月西施采，
人看隘若耶。
回舟不待月，
歸去越王家。
041
子夜吳歌（秋歌）
作者：李白
長安一片月，
萬戶擣衣聲；
秋風吹不盡，
總是玉關情。
何日平胡虜，
良人罷遠征。
042
子夜吳歌（冬歌）
作者：李白
明朝驛使發，
一夜絮征袍；
素手抽鍼冷，
那堪把剪刀！
裁縫寄遠道，
幾日到臨洮？
043
長干行
作者：李白
妾髮初覆額，
折花門前劇；
郎騎竹馬來，
遶床弄青梅。
同居長干里，
兩小無嫌猜。
十四為君婦，
羞顏未嘗開；
低頭向暗壁，
千喚不一回。
十五始展眉，
願同塵與灰；
常存抱柱信，
豈上望夫臺？
十六君遠行，
瞿塘灩澦堆；
五月不可觸，
猿鳴天上哀。
門前遲行跡，
一一生綠苔；
苔深不能掃，
落葉秋風早。
八月蝴蝶來，
雙飛西園草。
感此傷妾心，
坐愁紅顏老。
早晚下三巴，
預將書報家；
相迎不道遠，
直至長風沙。
044
烈女操
作者：孟郊
梧桐相待老，
鴛鴦會雙死；
貞婦貴殉夫，
捨生亦如此。
波瀾誓不起，
妾心井中水。
045
遊子吟
作者：孟郊
慈母手中線，
遊子身上衣；
臨行密密縫，
意恐遲遲歸。
誰言寸草心，
報得三春暉。
046
登幽州臺歌
作者：陳子昂
前不見古人，
後不見來者；
念天地之悠悠，
獨愴然而涕下。
047
古意
作者：李頎
男兒事長征，
少小幽燕客，
賭勝馬蹄下，
由來輕七尺。
殺人莫敢前，
鬚如蝟毛磔。
黃雲隴底白雲飛，
未得報恩不能歸。
遼東小婦年十五，
慣彈琵琶解歌舞，
今為羌笛出塞聲，
使我三軍淚如雨。
048
送陳章甫
作者：李頎
四月南風大麥黃，
棗花未落桐葉長。
青山朝別暮還見，
嘶馬出門思故鄉。
陳侯立身何坦蕩？
虯鬚虎眉仍大顙。
腹中貯書一萬卷，
不肯低頭在草莽。
東門酤酒飲我曹，
心輕萬事皆鴻毛；
醉臥不知白日暮，
有時空望孤雲高。
長河浪頭連天黑，
津吏停舟渡不得。
鄭國遊人未及家，
洛陽行子空嘆息！
聞道故林相識多，
罷官昨日今如何？
049
琴歌
作者：李頎
主人有酒歡今夕，
請奏鳴琴廣陵客。
月照城頭烏半飛，
霜淒萬樹風入衣。
銅鑪華燭燭增輝，
初彈淥水後楚妃。
一聲已動物皆靜，
四座無言星欲稀。
清淮奉使千餘里，
敢告雲山從此始。
050
聽董大彈胡笳聲兼寄語弄房給事
作者：李頎
蔡女昔造胡笳聲，
一彈一十有八拍。
胡人落淚沾邊草，
漢使斷腸對歸客。
古戍蒼蒼烽火寒，
大荒沈沈飛雪白。
先拂商絃後角羽，
四郊秋葉驚摵摵。
董夫子，通神明，
深山竊聽來妖精。
言遲更速皆應手，
將往復旋如有情。
空山百鳥散還合，
萬里浮雲陰且晴。
嘶酸雛雁失群夜，
斷絕胡兒戀母聲。
川為靜其波，
鳥亦罷其鳴。
烏珠部落家鄉遠，
邏娑沙塵哀怨生。
幽音變調忽飄灑，
長風吹林雨墮瓦；
迸泉颯颯飛木末，
野鹿呦呦走堂下。
長安城連東掖垣，
鳳凰池對青瑣門，
高才脫略名與利，
日夕望君抱琴至。
051
聽安萬善吹觱篥歌
作者：李頎
南山截竹為觱篥，
此樂本自龜茲出。
流傳漢地曲轉奇，
涼州胡人為我吹。
傍鄰聞者多歎息，
遠客思鄉皆淚垂。
世人解聽不解賞，
長飆風中自來往。
枯桑老柏寒颼飀，
九雛鳴鳳亂啾啾，
龍吟虎嘯一時發，
萬籟百泉相與秋。
忽然更作漁陽摻，
黃雲蕭條白日暗。
變調如聞楊柳春，
上林繁花照眼新。
歲夜高堂列明燭，
美酒一杯聲一曲。
052
夜歸鹿門歌
作者：孟浩然
山寺鐘鳴晝已昏，
漁梁渡頭爭渡喧；
人隨沙路向江村，
余亦乘舟歸鹿門。
鹿門月照開煙樹，
忽到龐公棲隱處；
岩扉松徑長寂寥，
惟有幽人自來去。
053
廬山謠寄盧侍御虛舟
作者：李白
我本楚狂人，
鳳歌笑孔丘。
手持綠玉杖，
朝別黃鶴樓，
五岳尋仙不辭遠，
一生好入名山遊。
廬山秀出南斗傍，
屏風九疊雲錦張；
影落明湖青黛光，
金闕前開二峰長。
銀河倒挂三石梁，
香爐瀑布遙相望。
迴崖沓障淩蒼蒼，
翠影紅霞映朝日，
鳥飛不到吳天長。
登高壯觀天地間，
大江茫茫去不還。
黃雲萬里動風色，
白波九道流雪山。
好為廬山謠，
興因廬山發。
閑窺石鏡清我心，
謝公行處蒼苔沒。
早服還丹無世情，
琴心三疊道初成。
遙見仙人彩雲裡，
手把芙蓉朝玉京。
先期汗漫九垓上，
願接盧敖遊太清。
054
夢遊天姥吟留別
作者：李白
海客談瀛洲，
煙濤微茫信難求；
越人語天姥，
雲霓明滅或可睹。
天姥連天向天橫，
勢拔五嶽掩赤城，
天臺四萬八千丈，
對此欲倒東南傾。
我欲因之夢吳越，
一夜飛渡鏡湖月，
湖月照我影，
送我至剡溪。
謝公宿處今尚在，
淥水蕩漾清猿啼。
腳著謝公屐，
身登青雲梯，
半壁見海日，
空中聞天雞。
千巖萬壑路不定，
迷花倚石忽已暝。
熊咆龍吟殷巖泉，
慄深林兮驚層巔。
雲青青兮欲雨，
水澹澹兮生煙。
列缺霹靂，
邱巒崩摧，
洞天石扇，
訇然中開。
青冥浩蕩不見底，
日月照耀金銀臺。
霓為衣兮風為馬，
雲之君兮紛紛而來下，
虎鼓瑟兮鸞回車，
仙之人兮列如麻。
忽魂悸以魄動，
怳驚起而長嗟！
惟覺時之枕席，
失向來之煙霞。
世間行樂亦如此，
古來萬事東流水。
別君去兮何時還？
且放白鹿青崖間，
須行即騎訪名山，
安能摧眉折腰事權貴，
使我不得開心顏。
055
金陵酒肆留別
作者：李白
風吹柳花滿店香，
吳姬壓酒喚客嘗；
金陵子弟來相送，
欲行不行各盡觴。
請君試問東流水，
別意與之誰短長？
056
宣州謝朓樓餞別校書叔雲
作者：李白
棄我去者，
昨日之日不可留；
亂我心者，
今日之日多煩憂。
長風萬里送秋雁，
對此可以酣高樓。
蓬萊文章建安骨，
中間小謝又清發。
俱懷逸興壯思飛，
欲上青天覽明月。
抽刀斷水水更流，
舉杯銷愁愁更愁。
人生在世不稱意，
明朝散髮弄扁舟。
057
走馬川行奉送封大夫出師西征
作者：岑參
君不見走馬川行雪海邊，
平沙莽莽黃入天。
輪臺九月風夜吼，
一川碎石大如斗，
隨風滿地石亂走。
匈奴草黃馬正肥，
金山西見煙塵飛，
漢家大將西出師。
將軍金甲夜不脫，
半夜軍行戈相撥，
風頭如刀面如割。
馬毛帶雪汗氣蒸，
五花連錢旋作冰，
幕中草檄硯水凝。
虜騎聞之應膽懾，
料知短兵不敢接，
車師西門佇獻捷。
058
輪臺歌奉送封大夫出師西征
作者：岑參
輪臺城頭夜吹角，
輪臺城北旄頭落。
羽書昨夜過渠黎，
單于已在金山西。
戍樓西望煙塵黑，
漢兵屯在輪臺北。
上將擁旄西出征，
平明吹笛大軍行。
四邊伐鼓雪海湧，
三軍大呼陰山動。
虜塞兵氣連雲屯，
戰場白骨纏草根。
劍河風急雪片闊，
沙口石凍馬蹄脫。
亞相勤王甘苦辛，
誓將報主靜邊塵。
古來青史誰不見？
今見功名勝古人。
059
白雪歌送武判官歸
作者：岑參
北風捲地白草折，
胡天八月即飛雪；
忽如一夜春風來，
千樹萬樹梨花開。
散入珠簾濕羅幕，
狐裘不煖錦衾薄；
將軍角弓不得控，
都護鐵衣冷猶著。
瀚海闌干百丈冰，
愁雲黲淡萬里凝。
中軍置酒飲歸客，
胡琴琵琶與羌笛。
紛紛暮雪下轅門，
風掣紅旗凍不翻。
輪臺東門送君去，
去時雪滿天山路；
山迴路轉不見君，
雪上空留馬行處。
060
韋諷錄事宅觀曹將軍畫馬圖
作者：杜甫
國初以來畫鞍馬，
神妙獨數江都王。
將軍得名三十載，
人間又見真乘黃。
曾貌先帝照夜白，
龍池十日飛霹靂。
內府殷紅瑪瑙盤，
婕妤傳詔才人索。
盤賜將軍拜舞歸，
輕紈細綺相追飛；
貴戚權門得筆跡，
始覺屏障生光輝。
昔日太宗拳毛騧，
近時郭家獅子花，
今之新圖有二馬，
復令識者久歎嗟。
此皆騎戰一敵萬，
縞素漠漠開風沙。
其餘七匹亦殊絕，
迥若寒空雜煙雪；
霜蹄蹴踏長楸間，
馬官廝養森成列。
可憐九馬爭神駿，
顧視清高氣深穩。
借問苦心愛者誰？
後有韋諷前支遁。
憶昔巡幸新豐宮，
翠華拂天來向東；
騰驤磊落三萬匹，
皆與此圖筋骨同。
自從獻寶朝河宗，
無復射蛟江水中。
君不見金粟堆前松柏裡，
龍媒去盡鳥呼風！
061
丹青引
作者：杜甫
將軍魏武之子孫，
於今為庶為青門；
英雄割據雖已矣！
文采風流今尚存。
學書初學衛夫人，
但恨無過王右軍；
丹青不知老將至，
富貴於我如浮雲。
開元之中常引見，
承恩數上南薰殿；
凌煙功臣少顏色，
將軍下筆開生面。
良相頭上進賢冠，
猛將腰間大羽箭；
褒公鄂公毛髮動，
英姿颯爽猶酣戰。
先帝天馬玉花驄，
畫工如山貌不同；
是日牽來赤墀下，
迥立閶闔生長風。
詔謂將軍拂絹素，
意匠慘淡經營中；
斯須九重真龍出，
一洗萬古凡馬空。
玉花卻在御榻上，
榻上庭前屹相向；
至尊含笑催賜金，
圉人太僕皆惆悵。
弟子韓幹早入室，
亦能畫馬窮殊相；
幹惟畫肉不畫骨，
忍使驊騮氣凋喪。
將軍畫善蓋有神，
偶逢佳士亦寫真；
即今漂泊干戈際，
屢貌尋常行路人。
塗窮反遭俗眼白，
世上未有如公貧；
但看古來盛名下，
終日坎壈纏其身。
062
寄韓諫議
作者：杜甫
今我不樂思岳陽，
身欲奮飛病在床；
美人娟娟隔秋水，
濯足洞庭望八荒。
鴻飛冥冥日月白，
青楓葉赤天雨霜。
玉京群帝集北斗，
或騎麒麟翳鳳凰。
芙蓉旌旗煙霧落，
影動倒景搖瀟湘。
星宮之君醉瓊漿，
羽人稀少不在旁。
似聞昨者赤松子，
恐是漢代韓張良；
昔隨劉氏定長安，
帷幄未改神慘傷。
國家成敗吾豈敢？
色難腥腐餐楓香。
周南留滯古所惜，
南極老人應壽昌。
美人胡為隔秋水？
焉得置之貢玉堂！
063
古柏行
作者：杜甫
孔明廟前有老柏，
柯如青銅根如石；
霜皮溜雨四十圍，
黛色參天二千尺。
君臣已與時際會，
樹木猶為人愛惜；
雲來氣接巫峽長，
月出寒通雪山白。
憶昨路繞錦亭東，
先主武侯同閟宮；
崔嵬枝幹郊原古，
窈窕丹青戶牖空。
落落盤踞雖得地，
冥冥孤高多烈風；
扶持自是神明力，
正直元因造化功。
大廈如傾要梁棟，
萬牛迴首丘山重；
不露文章世已驚，
未辭剪伐誰能送。
苦心豈免容螻蟻，
香葉終經宿鸞鳳；
志士幽人莫怨嗟，
古來材大難為用！
064
觀公孫大娘弟子舞劍器行
作者：杜甫
昔有佳人公孫氏，
一舞劍器動四方；
觀者如山色沮喪，
天地為之久低昂。
霍如羿射九日落，
矯如群帝驂龍翔；
來如雷霆收震怒，
罷如江海凝清光。
絳唇珠袖兩寂寞，
晚有弟子傳芬芳。
臨潁美人在白帝，
妙舞此曲神揚揚。
與余問答既有以，
感時撫事增惋傷。
先帝侍女八千人，
公孫劍器初第一。
五十年間似反掌，
風塵澒洞昏王室。
梨園子弟散如煙，
女樂餘姿映寒日。
金粟堆前木已拱，
瞿塘石城草蕭瑟。
玳筵急管曲復終，
樂極哀來月東出。
老夫不知其所往？
足繭荒山轉愁疾。
065
石魚湖上醉歌
作者：元結
石魚湖，似洞庭，
夏水欲滿君山青。
山為樽，水為沼，
酒徒歷歷坐洲島。
長風連日作大浪，
不能廢人運酒舫。
我持長瓢坐巴邱，
酌飲四座以散愁。
066
山石
作者：韓愈
山石犖确行徑微，
黃昏到寺蝙蝠飛。
升堂坐階新雨足，
芭蕉葉大梔子肥。
僧言古壁佛畫好，
以火來照所見稀。
鋪床拂席置羹飯，
疏糲亦足飽我飢。
夜深靜臥百蟲絕，
清月出嶺光入扉。
天明獨去無道路，
出入高下窮煙霏。
山紅澗碧紛爛漫，
時見松櫪皆十圍。
當流赤足蹋澗石，
水聲激激風吹衣。
人生如此自可樂，
豈必局束為人鞿？
嗟哉吾黨二三子，
安得至老不更歸？
067
八月十五夜贈張功曹
作者：韓愈
纖雲四捲天無河，
清風吹空月舒波。
沙平水息聲影絕，
一杯相屬君當歌。
君歌聲酸辭且苦，
不能聽終淚如雨。
洞庭連天九疑高，
蛟龍出沒猩鼯號。
十生九死到官所，
幽居默默如藏逃。
下床畏蛇食畏藥，
海氣濕蟄熏腥臊。
昨者州前槌大鼓，
嗣皇繼聖登夔皋。
赦書一日行萬里，
罪從大辟皆除死；
遷者追回流者還，
滌瑕蕩垢清朝班。
州家申名使家抑，
坎軻祇得移荊蠻。
判司卑官不堪說，
未免捶楚塵埃間。
同時輩流多上道，
天路幽險難追攀。
君歌且休聽我歌，
我歌今與君殊科。
一年明月今宵多，
人生由命非由他，
有酒不飲奈明何？
068
謁衡岳廟遂宿嶽寺題門樓
作者：韓愈
五嶽祭秩皆三公，
四方環鎮嵩當中。
火維地荒足妖怪，
天假神柄專其雄。
噴雲泄霧藏半腹，
雖有絕頂誰能窮？
我來正逢秋雨節，
陰氣晦昧無清風。
潛心默禱若有應，
豈非正直能感通？
須臾靜掃眾峰出，
仰見突兀撐青空。
紫蓋連延接天柱，
石廩騰擲堆祝融。
森然魄動下馬拜，
松柏一逕趨靈宮。
紛牆丹柱動光彩，
鬼物圖畫填青紅。
升階傴僂薦脯酒，
欲以菲薄明其衷。
廟內老人識神意，
睢盱偵伺能鞠躬。
手持盃珓導我擲，
云此最吉餘難同。
竄逐蠻荒幸不死，
衣食纔足甘長終。
侯王將相望久絕，
神縱欲福難為功。
夜投佛寺上高閣，
星月掩映雲曈曨。
猿鳴鐘動不知曙，
杲杲寒日生於東。
069
石鼓歌
作者：韓愈
張生手持石鼓文，
勸我識作石鼓歌。
少陵無人謫仙死，
才薄將奈石鼓何？
周綱淩遲四海沸，
宣王憤起揮天戈；
大開明堂受朝賀，
諸侯劍佩鳴相磨。
蒐于岐陽騁雄俊，
萬里禽獸皆遮羅。
鐫功勒成告萬世，
鑿石作鼓隳嵯峨。
從臣才藝咸第一，
揀選撰刻留山阿。
雨淋日炙野火燎，
鬼物守護煩撝呵。
公從何處得紙本？
毫髮盡備無差訛。
辭嚴義密讀難曉，
字體不類隸與蝌。
年深豈免有缺畫？
快劍砍斷生蛟鼉。
鸞翔鳳翥眾仙下，
珊瑚碧樹交枝柯。
金繩鐵索鎖鈕壯，
古鼎躍水龍騰梭。
陋儒編詩不收入，
二雅褊迫無委蛇。
孔子西行不到秦，
掎摭星宿遺羲娥。
嗟予好古生苦晚，
對此涕淚雙滂沱。
憶昔初蒙博士徵，
其年始改稱元和。
故人從軍在右輔，
為我度量掘臼科。
濯冠沐浴告祭酒，
如此至寶存豈多？
氈包席裹可立致，
十鼓祇載數駱駝。
薦諸太廟比郜鼎，
光價豈止百倍過？
聖恩若許留太學，
諸生講解得切磋。
觀經鴻都尚填咽，
坐見舉國來奔波。
剜苔剔蘚露節角，
安置妥帖平不頗。
大廈深簷與蓋覆，
經歷久遠期無佗。
中朝大官老於事，
詎肯感激徒媕婀？
牧童敲火牛礪角，
誰復著手為摩挲？
日銷月鑠就埋沒，
六年西顧空吟哦。
羲之俗書趁姿媚，
數紙尚可博白鵝。
繼周八代爭戰罷，
無人收拾理則那。
方今太平日無事，
柄任儒術崇丘軻。
安能以此上論列？
願借辯口如懸河。
石鼓之歌止於此，
嗚呼吾意其蹉跎！
070
漁翁
作者：柳宗元
漁翁夜傍西巖宿，
曉汲清湘然楚竹。
煙銷日出不見人，
欸乃一聲山水綠。
迴看天際下中流，
巖上無心雲相逐。
071
長恨歌
作者：白居易
漢皇重色思傾國，
御宇多年求不得。
楊家有女初長成，
養在深閨人未識。
天生麗質難自棄，
一朝選在君王側。
回眸一笑百媚生，
六宮粉黛無顏色。
春寒賜浴華清池，
溫泉水滑洗凝脂；
侍兒扶起嬌無力，
始是新承恩澤時。
雲鬢花顏金步搖，
芙蓉帳暖度春宵；
春宵苦短日高起，
從此君王不早朝。
承歡侍宴無閑暇，
春從春遊夜專夜。
後宮佳麗三千人，
三千寵愛在一身。
金屋妝成嬌侍夜，
玉樓宴罷醉和春。
姊妹弟兄皆列土，
可憐光彩生門戶。
遂令天下父母心，
不重生男重生女。
驪宮高處入青雲，
仙樂風飄處處聞。
緩歌慢舞凝絲竹，
盡日君王看不足。
漁陽鼙鼓動地來，
驚破霓裳羽衣曲。
九重城闕煙塵生，
千乘萬騎西南行。
翠華搖搖行復止，
西出都門百餘里；
六軍不發無奈何？
宛轉蛾眉馬前死。
花鈿委地無人收，
翠翹金雀玉搔頭。
君王掩面救不得，
回看血淚相和流。
黃埃散漫風蕭索，
雲棧縈紆登劍閣。
峨嵋山下少人行，
旌旗無光日色薄。
蜀江水碧蜀山青，
聖主朝朝暮暮情。
行宮見月傷心色，
夜雨聞鈴腸斷聲。
天旋地轉迴龍馭，
到此躊躇不能去。
馬嵬坡下泥土中，
不見玉顏空死處。
君臣相顧盡霑衣，
東望都門信馬歸。
歸來池苑皆依舊，
太液芙蓉未央柳；
芙蓉如面柳如眉，
對此如何不淚垂？
春風桃李花開日，
秋雨梧桐葉落時。
西宮南內多秋草，
落葉滿階紅不掃。
梨園子弟白髮新，
椒房阿監青娥老。
夕殿螢飛思悄然，
孤燈挑盡未成眠。
遲遲鐘鼓初長夜，
耿耿星河欲曙天。
鴛鴦瓦冷霜華重，
翡翠衾寒誰與共？
悠悠生死別經年，
魂魄不曾來入夢。
臨邛道士鴻都客，
能以精誠致魂魄；
為感君王輾轉思，
遂教方士殷勤覓。
排空馭氣奔如電，
升天入地求之遍；
上窮碧落下黃泉，
兩處茫茫皆不見。
忽聞海上有仙山，
山在虛無縹緲間。
樓閣玲瓏五雲起，
其中綽約多仙子。
中有一人字太真，
雪膚花貌參差是。
金闕西廂叩玉扃，
轉教小玉報雙成。
聞道漢家天子使，
九華帳裡夢魂驚；
攬衣推枕起徘徊，
珠箔銀屏迤邐開。
雲鬢半偏新睡覺，
花冠不整下堂來。
風吹仙袂飄飄舉，
猶似霓裳羽衣舞。
玉容寂寞淚闌干，
梨花一枝春帶雨。
含情凝睇謝君王，
一別音容兩渺茫。
昭陽殿裡恩愛絕，
蓬萊宮中日月長。
回頭下望人寰處，
不見長安見塵霧。
唯將舊物表深情，
鈿合金釵寄將去。
釵留一股合一扇，
釵擘黃金合分鈿。
但教心似金鈿堅，
天上人間會相見。
臨別殷勤重寄詞，
詞中有誓兩心知，
七月七日長生殿，
夜半無人私語時。
在天願作比翼鳥，
在地願為連理枝。
天長地久有時盡，
此恨綿綿無絕期。
072
琵琶行
作者：白居易
潯陽江頭夜送客，
楓葉荻花秋瑟瑟。
主人下馬客在船，
舉酒欲飲無管絃；
醉不成歡慘將別，
別時茫茫江浸月。
忽聞水上琵琶聲，
主人忘歸客不發。
尋聲暗問彈者誰？
琵琶聲停欲語遲。
移船相近邀相見，
添酒回燈重開宴。
千呼萬喚始出來，
猶抱琵琶半遮面。
轉軸撥絃三兩聲，
未成曲調先有情。
絃絃掩抑聲聲思，
似訴平生不得志。
低眉信手續續彈，
說盡心中無限事。
輕攏慢撚抹復挑，
初為霓裳後六么。
大絃嘈嘈如急雨，
小絃切切如私語；
嘈嘈切切錯雜彈，
大珠小珠落玉盤。
閒關鶯語花底滑，
幽咽泉流水下灘。
水泉冷澀絃凝絕，
凝絕不通聲漸歇。
別有幽愁暗恨生，
此時無聲勝有聲。
銀瓶乍破水漿迸，
鐵騎突出刀鎗鳴。
曲終收撥當心畫，
四絃一聲如裂帛。
東船西舫悄無言，
唯見江心秋月白。
沈吟放撥插絃中，
整頓衣裳起斂容。
自言本是京城女，
家在蝦蟆陵下住。
十三學得琵琶成，
名屬教坊第一部。
曲罷曾教善才服，
妝成每被秋娘妒。
五陵年少爭纏頭，
一曲紅綃不知數。
鈿頭銀篦擊節碎，
血色羅裙翻酒汙。
今年歡笑復明年，
秋月春風等閒度。
弟走從軍阿姨死，
暮去朝來顏色故；
門前冷落車馬稀，
老大嫁作商人婦。
商人重利輕別離，
前月浮梁買茶去，
去來江口守空船，
繞船月明江水寒。
夜深忽夢少年事，
夢啼妝淚紅闌干。
我聞琵琶已嘆息，
又聞此語重唧唧。
同是天涯淪落人，
相逢何必曾相識？
我從去年辭帝京，
謫居臥病潯陽城。
潯陽地僻無音樂，
終歲不聞絲竹聲。
住近湓城地低濕，
黃蘆苦竹繞宅生。
其間旦暮聞何物？
杜鵑啼血猿哀鳴。
春江花朝秋月夜，
往往取酒還獨傾。
豈無山歌與村笛？
嘔啞嘲哳難為聽。
今夜聞君琵琶語，
如聽仙樂耳暫明。
莫辭更坐彈一曲，
為君翻作琵琶行。
感我此言良久立，
卻坐促絃絃轉急。
淒淒不似向前聲，
滿座重聞皆掩泣。
座中泣下誰最多，
江州司馬青衫濕。
073
韓碑
作者：李商隱
元和天子神武姿，
彼何人哉軒與羲。
誓將上雪列聖恥，
坐法宮中朝四夷。
淮西有賊五十載，
封狼生貙貙生羆。
不據山河據平地，
長戈利矛日可麾。
帝得聖相相曰度，
賊斫不死神扶持，
腰懸相印作都統，
陰風慘澹天王旗。
愬武古通作牙爪，
儀曹外郎載筆隨；
行軍司馬智且勇，
十四萬眾猶虎貔。
入蔡縛賊獻太廟，
功無與讓恩不訾。
帝曰汝度功第一，
汝從事愈宜為辭。
愈拜稽首蹈且舞：
金石刻畫臣能為，
古者世稱大手筆；
此事不係於職司。
當仁自古有不讓，
言訖屢頷天子頤。
公退齋戒坐小閣，
濡染大筆何淋漓。
點竄堯典舜典字，
塗改清廟生民詩。
文成破體書在紙，
清晨再拜鋪丹墀。
表曰臣愈昧死上，
詠神聖功書之碑。
碑高三丈字如斗，
負以靈鼇蟠以螭。
句奇語重喻者少，
讒之天子言其私。
長繩百尺拽碑倒，
麤沙大石相磨治。
公之斯文若元氣，
先時已入人肝脾；
湯盤孔鼎有述作，
今無其器存其辭。
嗚呼聖皇及聖相，
相與烜赫流淳熙。
公之斯文不示後，
曷與三五相攀追？
願書萬本誦萬過，
口角流沫右手胝；
傳之七十有二代，
以為封禪玉檢明堂基。
074
燕歌行
作者：高適
漢家煙塵在東北，
漢將辭家破殘賊。
男兒本自重橫行，
天子非常賜顏色。
摐金伐鼓下榆關，
旌旆逶迤碣石間。
校尉羽書飛瀚海，
單于獵火照狼山。
山川蕭條極邊土，
胡騎憑陵雜風雨。
戰士軍前半死生，
美人帳下猶歌舞。
大漠窮秋塞草衰，
孤城落日鬥兵稀。
身當恩遇常輕敵，
力盡關山未解圍。
鐵衣遠戍辛勤久，
玉筋應啼別離後；
少婦城南欲斷腸，
征人薊北空回首。
邊庭飄颻那可度？
絕域蒼茫更何有。
殺氣三時作陣雲，
寒聲一夜傳刁斗。
相看白刃血紛紛，
死節從來豈顧勳？
君不見沙場征戰苦？
至今猶憶李將軍。
075
古從軍行
作者：李頎
白日登山望烽火，
黃昏飲馬傍交河。
行人刁斗風沙暗，
公主琵琶幽怨多。
野雲萬里無城郭，
雨雪紛紛連大漠。
胡雁哀鳴夜夜飛，
胡兒眼淚雙雙落。
聞道玉門猶被遮，
應將性命逐輕車。
年年戰骨埋荒外，
空見葡萄入漢家。
076
洛陽女兒行
作者：王維
洛陽女兒對門居，
纔可容顏十五餘。
良人玉勒乘驄馬，
侍女金盤膾鯉魚。
畫閣朱樓盡相望，
紅桃綠柳垂簷向。
羅帷送上七香車，
寶扇迎歸九華帳。
狂夫富貴在青春，
意氣驕奢劇季倫。
自憐碧玉親教舞，
不惜珊瑚持與人。
春窗曙滅九微火，
九微片片飛花璅。
戲罷曾無理曲時，
妝成祇是薰香坐。
城中相識盡繁華，
日夜經過趙李家。
誰憐越女顏如玉，
貧賤江頭自浣紗。
077
老將行
作者：王維
少年十五二十時，
步行奪得胡馬騎。
射殺山中白額虎，
肯數鄴下黃鬚兒。
一身轉戰三千里，
一劍曾當百萬師。
漢兵奮迅如霹靂，
虜騎崩騰畏蒺藜。
衛青不敗由天幸，
李廣無功緣數奇。
自從棄置便衰朽，
世事蹉跎成白首。
昔時飛箭無全目，
今日垂楊生左肘。
路旁時賣故侯瓜，
門前學種先生柳。
蒼茫古木連窮巷，
寥落寒山對虛牖。
誓令疏勒出飛泉，
不似潁川空使酒。
賀蘭山下陣如雲，
羽檄交馳日夕聞。
節使三河募年少，
詔書五道出將軍。
試拂鐵衣如雪色，
聊持寶劍動星文。
願得燕弓射大將，
恥令越甲鳴吾君。
莫嫌舊日雲中守，
猶堪一戰取功勳。
078
桃源行
作者：王維
漁舟逐水愛山春，
兩岸桃花夾古津。
坐看紅樹不知遠，
行盡青溪不見人。
山口潛行始隈隩，
山開曠望旋平陸。
遙看一處攢雲樹，
近入千家散花竹。
樵客初傳漢姓名，
居人未改秦衣服。
居人共住武陵源，
還從物外起田園。
月明松下房櫳靜，
日出雲中雞犬喧。
驚聞俗客爭來集，
競引還家問都邑。
平明閭巷掃花開，
薄暮漁樵乘水入。
初因避地去人間，
及至成仙遂不還。
峽裡誰知有人事，
世中遙望空雲山。
不疑靈境難聞見，
塵心未盡思鄉縣。
出洞無論隔山水，
辭家終擬長遊衍。
自謂經過舊不迷，
安知峰壑今來變。
當時只記入山深，
青溪幾曲到雲林？
春來遍是桃花水，
不辨仙源何處尋？
079
蜀道難
作者：李白
噫吁戲！
危乎高哉！
蜀道之難難於上青天。
蠶叢及魚鳧，
開國何茫然。
爾來四萬八千歲，
始與秦塞通人煙。
西當太白有鳥道，
可以橫絕峨嵋巔。
地崩山摧壯士死，
然後天梯石棧相鉤連。
上有六龍回日之高標，
下有衝波逆折之迴川。
黃鶴之飛尚不得，
猿猱欲度愁攀援。
青泥何盤盤，
百步九折縈巖巒。
捫參歷井仰脅息，
以手撫膺坐長歎。
問君西遊何時還？
畏途巉岩不可攀。
但見悲鳥號古木，
雄飛雌從繞林間；
又聞子規啼夜月，
愁空山。
蜀道之難難於上青天，
使人聽此凋朱顏。
連峰去天不盈尺，
枯松倒掛倚絕壁。
飛湍瀑流爭喧豗，
砯崖轉石萬壑雷。
其險也如此！
嗟爾遠道之人，
胡為乎來哉？
劍閣崢嶸而崔嵬，
一夫當關，
萬夫莫開。
所守或匪親，
化為狼與豺。
朝避猛虎，
夕避長蛇。
磨牙吮血，
殺人如麻。
錦城雖云樂，
不如早還家！
蜀道之難難於上青天，
側身西望常咨嗟！
080
長相思（二首之一）
作者：李白
長相思，
在長安。
絡緯秋啼金井闌，
微霜淒淒簟色寒。
孤燈不明思欲絕，
卷帷望月空長歎！
美人如花隔雲端。
上有青冥之長天，
下有淥水之波瀾。
天長路遠魂飛苦，
夢魂不到關山難。
長相思，
摧心肝！
081
長相思（二首之二）
作者：李白
日色已盡花含煙，
月明欲素愁不眠。
趙瑟初停鳳凰柱，
蜀琴欲奏鴛鴦絃。
此曲有意無人傳，
願隨春風寄燕然。
憶君迢迢隔青天。
昔日橫波目，
今成流淚泉。
不信妾腸斷，
歸來看取明鏡前！
082
行路難（三首之一）
作者：李白
金樽清酒斗十千，
玉盤珍饈值萬錢。
停杯投箸不能食，
拔劍四顧心茫然。
欲渡黃河冰塞川，
將登太行雪暗天。
閑來垂釣碧溪上，
忽復乘舟夢日邊。
行路難！
行路難！
多歧路，
今安在？
長風破浪會有時，
直挂雲帆濟滄海。
083
行路難（三首之二）
作者：李白
大道如青天，
我獨不得出。
羞逐長安社中兒，
赤雞白狗賭梨栗。
彈劍作歌奏苦聲，
曳裾王門不稱情。
淮陰市井笑韓信，
漢朝公卿忌賈生。
君不見昔時燕家重郭隗，
擁篲折節無嫌猜；
劇辛樂毅感恩分，
輸肝剖膽效英才。
昭王白骨縈蔓草，
誰人更掃黃金臺？
行路難，
歸去來！
084
行路難（三首之三）
作者：李白
有耳莫洗潁川水，
有口莫食首陽蕨。
含光混世貴無名，
何用孤高比雲月；
吾觀自古賢達人，
功成不退皆殞身。
子胥既棄吳江上，
屈原終投湘水濱；
陸機雄才豈自保，
李斯稅駕苦不早。
華亭鶴唳詎可聞？
上蔡蒼鷹何足道。
君不見吳中張翰稱達生，
秋風忽憶江東行。
且樂生前一杯酒，
何須身後千載名？
085
將進酒
作者：李白
君不見黃河之水天上來，
奔流到海不復回；
君不見高堂明鏡悲白髮，
朝如青絲暮成雪。
人生得意須盡歡，
莫使金樽空對月。
天生我材必有用，
千金散盡還復來。
烹羊宰牛且為樂，
會須一飲三百杯。
岑夫子，
丹丘生，
將進酒，
君莫停。
與君歌一曲，
請君為我側耳聽：
鐘鼓饌玉不足貴，
但願長醉不願醒。
古來聖賢皆寂寞，
惟有飲者留其名。
陳王昔時宴平樂，
斗酒十千恣讙謔。
主人何為言少錢，
徑須沽取對君酌。
五花馬，
千金裘，
呼兒將出換美酒，
與爾同消萬古愁！
086
兵車行
作者：杜甫
車轔轔，
馬蕭蕭，
行人弓箭各在腰。
耶孃妻子走相送，
塵埃不見咸陽橋。
牽衣頓足攔道哭，
哭聲直上干雲霄。
道旁過者問行人，
行人但云點行頻。
或從十五北防河，
便至四十西營田。
去時里正與裹頭，
歸來頭白還戍邊。
邊亭流血成海水，
武皇開邊意未已。
君不聞漢家山東二百州，
千村萬落生荊杞？
縱有健婦把鋤犁，
禾生隴畝無東西。
況復秦兵耐苦戰，
被驅不異犬與雞。
長者雖有問，
役夫敢申恨？
且如今年冬，
未休關西卒。
縣官急索租，
租稅從何出？
信知生男惡，
反是生女好；
生女猶得嫁比鄰，
生男埋沒隨百草。
君不見青海頭，
古來白骨無人收？
新鬼煩冤舊鬼哭，
天陰雨濕聲啾啾。
087
麗人行
作者：杜甫
三月三日天氣新，
長安水邊多麗人。
態濃意遠淑且真，
肌理細膩骨肉勻。
繡羅衣裳照暮春，
蹙金孔雀銀麒麟。
頭上何所有？
翠微□葉垂鬢唇。
背後何所見？
珠壓腰衱穩稱身。
就中雲幕椒房親，
賜名大國虢與秦。
紫駝之峰出翠釜，
水精之盤行素鱗。
犀箸饜飫久未下，
鸞刀縷切空紛綸。
黃門飛鞚不動塵，
御廚絡繹送八珍。
簫鼓哀吟感鬼神，
賓從雜遝實要津。
後來鞍馬何逡巡！
當軒下馬入錦茵。
楊花雪落覆白蘋，
青鳥飛去銜紅巾。
炙手可熱勢絕倫，
慎莫近前丞相嗔。
088
哀江頭
作者：杜甫
少陵野老吞生哭，
春日潛行曲江曲。
江頭宮殿鎖千門，
細柳新蒲為誰綠？
憶昔霓旌下南苑，
苑中景物生顏色。
昭陽殿裡第一人，
同輦隨君侍君側。
輦前才人帶弓箭，
白馬嚼齧黃金勒。
翻身向天仰射雲，
一箭正墜雙飛翼。
明眸皓齒今何在？
血污遊魂歸不得。
清渭東流劍閣深，
去住彼此無消息。
人生有情淚沾臆，
江水江花豈終極？
黃昏胡騎塵滿城，
欲往城南望城北。
089
哀王孫
作者：杜甫
長安城頭頭白烏，
夜飛延秋門上呼；
又向人家啄大屋，
屋底達官走避胡。
金鞭斷折九馬死，
骨肉不待同馳驅。
腰下寶玦青珊瑚，
可憐王孫泣路隅。
問之不肯道姓名，
但道困苦乞為奴。
已經百日竄荊棘，
身上無有完肌膚。
高帝子孫盡龍準，
龍種自與常人殊。
豺狼在邑龍在野，
王孫善保千金軀。
不敢長語臨交衢，
且為王孫立斯須。
昨夜東風吹血腥，
東來橐駝滿舊都。
朔方健兒好身手，
昔何勇銳今何愚？
竊聞天子已傳位，
聖德北服南單于。
花門剺面請雪恥，
慎勿出口他人狙。
哀哉王孫慎勿疏，
五陵佳氣無時無。
090
經魯祭孔子而歎之
作者：唐玄宗
夫子何為者？
栖栖一代中。
地猶鄹氏邑，
宅即魯王宮。
歎鳳嗟身否，
傷麟怨道窮。
今看兩楹奠，
當與夢時同。
091
望月懷遠
作者：張九齡
海上生明月，
天涯共此時。
情人怨遙夜，
竟夕起相思。
滅燭憐光滿，
披衣覺露滋。
不堪盈手贈，
還寢夢佳期。
092
送杜少府之任蜀川
作者：王勃
城闕輔三秦，
風煙望五津。
與君離別意，
同是宦遊人。
海內存知己，
天涯若比鄰。
無為在歧路，
兒女共沾巾。
093
在獄詠蟬
作者：駱賓王
西陸蟬聲唱，
南冠客思深。
不堪玄鬢影，
來對白頭吟。
露重飛難進，
風多響易沉。
無人信高潔，
誰為表予心？
094
和晉陵陸丞相早春遊望
作者：杜審言
獨有宦遊人，
偏驚物候新。
雲霞出海曙，
梅柳渡江春。
淑氣催黃鳥，
晴光轉綠蘋。
忽聞歌古調，
歸思欲霑巾。
095
雜詩
作者：沈佺期
聞道黃龍戍，
頻年不解兵。
可憐閨裡月，
長在漢家營。
少婦今春意，
良人昨夜情。
誰能將旗鼓，
一為取龍城？
096
題大庾嶺北驛
作者：宋之問
陽月南飛雁，
傳聞至此回。
我行殊未已，
何日復歸來？
江靜潮初落，
林昏瘴不開。
明朝望鄉處，
應見隴頭梅。
097
次北固山下
作者：王灣
客路青山外，
行舟綠水前。
潮平兩岸闊，
風正一帆懸。
海日生殘夜，
江春入舊年。
鄉書何處達？
歸雁洛陽邊。
098
題破山寺後禪院
作者：常建
清晨入古寺，
初日照高林。
曲徑通幽處，
禪房花木深。
山光悅鳥性，
潭影空人心。
萬籟此俱寂，
惟餘鐘磬音。
099
寄左省杜拾遺
作者：岑參
聯步趨丹陛，
分曹限紫薇。
曉隨天仗入，
暮惹御香歸。
白髮悲花落，
青雲羨鳥飛。
聖朝無闕事，
自覺諫書稀。
100
贈孟浩然
作者：李白
吾愛孟夫子，
風流天下聞。
紅顏棄軒冕，
白首臥松雲。
醉月頻中聖，
迷花不事君。
高山安可仰？
徒此挹清芬。
101
渡荊門送別
作者：李白
渡遠荊門外，
來從楚國遊。
山隨平野盡，
江入大荒流。
月下飛天鏡，
雲生結海樓。
仍憐故鄉水，
萬里送行舟。
102
送友人
作者：李白
青山橫北郭，
白水遶東城。
此地一為別，
孤蓬萬里征。
浮雲游子意，
落日故人情。
揮手自茲去，
蕭蕭班馬鳴。
103
聽蜀僧濬彈琴
作者：李白
蜀僧抱綠綺，
西下峨眉峰。
為我一揮手，
如聽萬壑松。
客心洗流水，
餘響入霜鐘。
不覺碧山暮，
秋雲暗幾重？
104
夜泊牛渚懷古
作者：李白
牛渚西江夜，
青天無片雲。
登舟望秋月，
空憶謝將軍。
余亦能高詠，
斯人不可聞。
明朝挂帆去，
楓葉落紛紛。
105
月夜
作者：杜甫
今夜鄜州月，
閨中只獨看。
遙憐小兒女，
未解憶長安。
香霧雲鬟濕，
清輝玉臂寒。
何時倚虛幌，
雙照淚痕乾。
106
春望
作者：杜甫
國破山河在，
城春草木深。
感時花濺淚，
恨別鳥驚心。
烽火連三月，
家書抵萬金。
白頭搔更短，
渾欲不勝簪。
107
春宿左省
作者：杜甫
花隱掖垣暮，
啾啾棲鳥過。
星臨萬戶動，
月傍九霄多。
不寢聽金鑰，
因風想玉珂。
明朝有封事，
數問夜如何？
108
至德二載甫自京金光門出，問道歸鳳翔。乾元初從左
拾遺移華州掾。與親故別，
因出此門。有悲往事。
作者：杜甫
此道昔歸順，
西郊胡正繁。
至今殘破膽，
應有未招魂。
近侍歸京邑，
移官豈至尊？
無才日衰老，
駐馬望千門。
109
月夜憶舍弟
作者：杜甫
戍鼓斷人行，
秋邊一雁聲。
露從今夜白，
月是故鄉明。
有弟皆分散，
無家問死生。
寄書長不達，
況乃未休兵。
110
天末懷李白
作者：杜甫
涼風起天末，
君子意如何？
鴻雁幾時到？
江湖秋水多。
文章憎命達，
魑魅喜人過。
應共冤魂語，
投詩贈汨羅。
111
奉濟驛重送嚴公四韻
作者：杜甫
遠送從此別，
青山空復情。
幾時杯重把？
昨夜月同行。
列郡謳歌惜，
三朝出入榮。
將村獨歸處，
寂寞養殘生。
112
別房太尉墓
作者：杜甫
他鄉復行役，
駐馬別孤墳；
近淚無乾土，
低空有斷雲。
對棋陪謝傅，
把劍覓徐君。
唯見林花落，
鶯啼送客聞。
113
旅夜書懷
作者：杜甫
細草微風岸，
危檣獨夜舟。
星垂平野闊，
月湧大江流。
名豈文章著，
官應老病休。
飄飄何所似，
天地一沙鷗。
114
登岳陽樓
作者：杜甫
昔聞洞庭水，
今上岳陽樓。
吳楚東南坼，
乾坤日夜浮。
親朋無一字，
老病有孤舟。
戎馬關山北，
憑軒涕泗流。
115
輞川閑居贈裴秀才迪
作者：王維
寒山轉蒼翠，
秋水日潺湲。
倚杖柴門外，
臨風聽暮蟬。
渡頭餘落日，
墟里上孤煙。
復值接輿醉，
狂歌五柳前。
116
山居秋暝
作者：王維
空山新雨後，
天氣晚來秋。
明月松間照，
清泉石上流。
竹喧歸浣女，
蓮動下漁舟。
隨意春芳歇，
王孫自可留。
117
歸嵩山作
作者：王維
清川帶長薄，
車馬去閒閒。
流水如有意，
暮禽相與還。
荒城臨古渡，
落日滿秋山。
迢遞嵩高下，
歸來且閉關。
118
終南山
作者：王維
太乙近天都，
連山接海隅。
白雲迴望合，
青靄入看無。
分野中峰變，
陰晴眾壑殊。
欲投人處宿，
隔水問樵夫。
119
酬張少府
作者：王維
晚年惟好靜，
萬事不關心。
自顧無長策，
空知返舊林。
松風吹解帶，
山月照彈琴。
君問窮通理，
漁歌入浦深。
120
過香積寺
作者：王維
不知香積寺，
數里入雲峰。
古木無人徑，
深山何處鐘？
泉聲咽危石，
日色冷青松。
薄暮空潭曲，
安禪制毒龍。
121
送梓州李使君
作者：王維
萬壑樹參天，
千山響杜鵑。
山中一夜雨，
樹杪百重泉。
漢女輸橦布，
巴人訟芋田。
文翁翻教授，
不敢倚先賢。
122
漢江臨眺
作者：王維
楚塞三湘接，
荊門九派通。
江流天地外，
山色有無中。
郡邑浮前浦，
波瀾動遠空。
襄陽好風日，
留醉與山翁。
123
終南別業
作者：王維
中歲頗好道，
晚家南山陲。
興來美獨往，
勝事空自知。
行到水窮處，
坐看雲起時。
偶然值林叟，
談笑無還期。
124
臨洞庭上張丞相
作者：孟浩然
八月湖水平，
涵虛混太清。
氣蒸雲夢澤，
波撼岳陽城。
欲濟無舟楫，
端居恥聖明。
坐觀垂釣者，
空有羨魚情。
125
與諸子登峴山
作者：孟浩然
人事有代謝，
往來成古今。
江山留勝跡，
我輩復登臨。
水落魚梁淺，
天寒夢澤深。
羊公碑字在，
讀罷淚沾襟。
126
宴梅道士山房
作者：孟浩然
林臥愁春盡，
開軒覽物華。
忽逢青鳥使，
邀入赤松家，
丹灶初開火，
仙桃正發花。
童顏若可駐，
何惜醉流霞？
127
歲暮歸南山
作者：孟浩然
北闕休上書，
南山歸敝廬。
不才明主棄，
多病故人疏。
白髮催年老，
青陽逼歲除。
永懷愁不寐，
松月夜窗虛。
128
過故人莊
作者：孟浩然
故人具雞黍，
邀我至田家。
綠樹村邊合，
青山郭外斜。
開軒面場圃，
把酒話桑麻。
待到重陽日，
還來就菊花。
129
秦中寄遠上人
作者：孟浩然
一丘嘗欲臥，
三徑苦無資。
北土非吾願，
東林懷我師。
黃金燃桂盡，
壯志逐年衰。
日夕涼風至，
聞蟬但益悲。
130
宿桐廬江寄廣陵舊遊
作者：孟浩然
山暝聽猿愁，
滄江急夜流。
風鳴兩岸葉，
月照一孤舟。
建德非吾土，
維揚憶舊遊。
還將兩行淚，
遙寄海西頭。
131
留別王維
作者：孟浩然
寂寂竟何待？
朝朝空自歸。
欲尋芳草去，
惜與故人違。
當路誰相假？
知音世所稀。
祗應守寂寞，
還掩故園扉。
132
早寒有懷
作者：孟浩然
木落雁南渡，
北風江上寒。
我家襄水曲，
遙隔楚雲端。
鄉淚客中盡，
孤帆天際看。
迷津欲有問，
平海夕漫漫。
133
秋日登吳公臺上寺遠眺
作者：劉長卿
古臺搖落後，
秋日望鄉心。
野寺人來少，
雲峰隔水深。
夕陽依舊壘，
寒磬滿空林。
惆悵南朝事，
長江獨至今。
134
送李中丞歸漢陽別業
作者：劉長卿
流落征南將，
曾驅十萬師。
罷官無舊業，
老去戀明時。
獨立三邊靜，
輕生一劍知。
茫茫江漢上，
日暮欲何之？
135
餞別王十一南遊
作者：劉長卿
望君煙水闊，
揮手淚霑巾。
飛鳥沒何處，
青山空向人。
長江一帆遠，
落日五湖春。
誰見汀洲上，
相思愁白蘋？
136
尋南溪常道士
作者：劉長卿
一路經行處，
莓苔見屐痕。
白雲依靜渚，
春草閉閑門。
過雨看松色，
隨山到水源。
溪花與禪意，
相對亦忘言。
137
新年作
作者：劉長卿
鄉心新歲切，
天畔獨潸然。
老至居人下，
春歸在客先。
嶺猿同旦暮，
江柳共風煙。
已似長沙傅，
從今又幾年？
138
送僧歸日本
作者：錢起
上國隨緣住，
來途若夢行。
浮天滄海遠，
去世法舟輕。
水月通禪寂，
魚龍聽梵聲。
惟憐一燈影，
萬里眼中明。
139
谷口書齋寄楊補闕
作者：錢起
泉壑帶茅茨，
雲霞生薜帷。
竹憐新雨後，
山愛夕陽時。
閒鷺栖常早，
秋花落更遲。
家僮掃蘿徑，
昨與故人期。
140
淮上喜會梁川故人
作者：韋應物
江漢曾為客，
相逢每醉還。
浮雲一別後，
流水十年間。
歡笑情如舊，
蕭疏鬢已斑。
何因不歸去？
淮上對秋山。
141
賦得暮雨送李曹
作者：韋應物
楚江微雨裡，
建業暮鐘時。
漠漠帆來重，
冥冥鳥去遲。
海門深不見，
浦樹遠含滋。
相送情無限，
沾襟比散絲。
142
酬程近即事見贈
作者：韓翃
長簟迎風早，
空城澹月華。
星河秋一雁，
砧杵夜千家。
節候看應晚，
心期臥亦賒。
向來吟秀句，
不覺已鳴鴉。
143
闕題
作者：劉春虛
道由白雲盡，
春與青溪長。
時有落花至，
遠隨流水香。
閑門向山路，
深柳讀書堂。
幽映每白日，
清輝照衣裳。
144
江鄉故人偶集客舍
作者：戴叔倫
天秋月又滿，
城闕夜千重。
還作江南會，
翻疑夢裡逢。
風枝驚暗鵲，
露草覆寒蟲。
羈旅長堪醉，
相留畏曉鐘。
145
送李端
作者：盧綸
故關衰草遍，
離別正堪悲。
路出寒雲外，
人歸暮雪時。
少孤為客早，
多難識君遲。
掩泣空相向，
風塵何所期？
146
喜見外弟又言別
作者：李益
十年離亂後，
長大一相逢。
問姓驚初見，
稱名憶舊容。
別來滄海事，
語罷暮天鐘。
明日巴陵道，
秋山又幾重？
147
雲陽館與韓紳宿別
作者：司空曙
故人江海別，
幾度隔山川。
乍見翻疑夢，
相悲各問年。
孤燈寒照雨，
深竹暗浮煙。
更有明朝恨，
離杯惜共傳。
148
喜外弟盧綸見宿
作者：司空曙
靜夜四無鄰，
荒居舊業貧。
雨中黃葉樹，
燈下白頭人。
以我獨沉久，
愧君相訪頻。
平生自有分，
況是霍家親。
149
賊平後送人北歸
作者：司空曙
世亂同南去，
時清獨北還。
他鄉生白髮，
舊國見青山。
曉月過殘壘，
繁星宿故關。
寒禽與衰草，
處處伴愁顏。
150
蜀先主廟
作者：劉禹錫
天地英雄氣，
千秋尚凜然。
勢分三足鼎，
業復五銖錢。
得相能開國，
生兒不象賢。
淒涼蜀故妓，
來舞魏宮前。
151
沒蕃故人
作者：張籍
前年戍月支，
城下沒全師。
蕃漢斷消息，
死生長別離。
無人收廢帳，
歸馬識殘旗。
欲祭疑君在，
天涯哭此時。
152
草
作者：白居易
離離原上草，
一歲一枯榮。
野火燒不盡，
春風吹又生。
遠芳侵古道，
晴翠接荒城。
又送王孫去，
萋萋滿別情。
153
旅宿
作者：杜牧
旅館無良伴，
凝情自悄然。
寒燈思舊事，
斷雁警愁眠。
遠夢歸侵曉，
家書到隔年。
滄江好煙月，
門繫釣魚船。
154
秋日赴闕題潼關驛樓
作者：許渾
紅葉晚蕭蕭，
長亭酒一瓢。
殘雲歸太華，
疏雨過中條。
樹色隨關迥，
河聲入海遙。
帝鄉明日到，
猶自夢漁樵。
155
早秋
作者：許渾
遙夜汎清瑟，
西風生翠蘿。
殘螢栖玉露，
早雁拂銀河。
高樹曉還密，
遠山晴更多。
淮南一葉下，
自覺老煙波。
156
蟬
作者：李商隱
本以高難飽，
徒勞恨費聲。
五更疏欲斷，
一樹碧無情。
薄宦梗猶汎，
故園蕪已平。
煩君最相警，
我亦舉家清。
157
風雨
作者：李商隱
淒涼寶劍篇，
羈泊欲窮年。
黃葉仍風雨，
青樓自管絃。
新知遭薄俗，
舊好隔良緣。
心斷新豐酒，
銷愁斗幾千。
158
落花
作者：李商隱
高閣客竟去，
小園花亂飛。
參差連曲陌，
迢遞送斜暉。
腸斷未忍掃，
眼穿仍欲歸。
芳心向春盡，
所得是沾衣。
159
涼思
作者：李商隱
客去波平檻，
蟬休露滿枝。
永懷當此節，
倚立自移時。
北斗兼春遠，
南陵寓使遲。
天涯占夢數，
疑誤有新知。
160
北青蘿
作者：李商隱
殘陽西入崦，
茅屋訪孤僧。
落葉人何在，
寒雲路幾層。
獨敲初夜磬，
閑倚一枝藤。
世界微塵裡，
吾寧愛與憎？
161
送人東遊
作者：溫庭筠
荒戍落黃葉，
浩然離故關。
高風漢陽渡，
初日郢門山。
江上幾人在，
天涯孤棹還。
何當重相見？
樽酒慰離顏。
162
灞上秋居
作者：馬戴
灞原風雨定，
晚見雁行頻。
落葉他鄉樹，
寒燈獨夜人。
空園白露滴，
孤壁野僧鄰。
寄臥郊扉久，
何年致此身？
163
楚江懷古
作者：馬戴
露氣寒光集，
微陽下楚丘。
猿啼洞庭樹，
人在木蘭舟。
廣澤生明月，
蒼山夾亂流。
雲中君不見，
竟夕自悲秋。
164
書邊事
作者：張喬
調角斷清秋，
征人倚戍樓。
春風對青塚，
白日落梁州。
大漠無兵阻，
窮邊有客遊。
蕃情似此水，
長願向南流。
165
除夜有懷
作者：崔塗
迢遞三巴路，
羈危萬里身。
亂山殘雪夜，
孤獨異鄉人。
漸與骨肉遠，
轉於僮僕親。
那堪正飄泊，
明日歲華新。
166
孤雁
作者：崔塗
幾行歸塞盡，
片影獨何之？
暮雨相呼失，
寒塘欲下遲。
渚雲低暗渡，
關月冷相隨。
未必逢矰繳，
孤飛自可疑。
167
春宮怨
作者：杜荀鶴
早被嬋娟誤，
欲妝臨鏡慵。
承恩不在貌，
教妾若為容？
風暖鳥聲碎，
日高花影重。
年年越溪女，
相憶採芙蓉。
168
章臺夜思
作者：韋莊
清瑟怨遙夜，
繞絃風雨哀。
孤燈聞楚角，
殘月下章臺。
芳草已云暮，
故人殊未來。
鄉書不可寄，
秋雁又南迴。
169
尋陸鴻漸不遇
作者：皎然
移家雖帶郭，
野徑入桑麻。
近種籬邊菊，
秋來未著花。
扣門無犬吠，
欲去問西家。
報到山中去，
歸來每日斜。
170
黃鶴樓
作者：崔顥
昔人已乘黃鶴去，
此地空餘黃鶴樓。
黃鶴一去不復返，
白雲千載空悠悠。
晴川歷歷漢陽樹，
芳草萋萋鸚鵡洲。
日暮鄉關何處是？
煙波江上使人愁。
171
行經華陰
作者：崔顥
岧嶢太華俯咸京，
天外三峰削不成，
武帝祠前雲欲散，
仙人掌上雨初晴，
河山北枕秦關險，
驛樹西連漢畤平。
借問路傍名利客，
無如此處學長生？
172
望薊門
作者：祖詠
燕臺一去客心驚，
簫鼓喧喧漢將營。
萬里寒光生積雪，
三邊曙色動危旌。
沙場烽火侵胡月，
海畔雲山擁薊城。
少小雖非投筆吏，
論功還欲請長纓。
173
送魏萬之京
作者：李頎
朝聞遊子唱驪歌，
昨夜微霜初度河。
鴻雁不堪愁裡聽，
雲山況是客中過。
關城樹色催寒近，
御苑砧聲向晚多。
莫見長安行樂處，
空令歲月易蹉跎。
174
九月登望仙臺呈劉明府
作者：崔曙
漢文皇帝有高臺，
此日登臨曙色開。
三晉雲山皆北向，
二陵風雨自東來。
關門令尹誰能識？
河上仙翁去不回。
且欲竟尋彭澤宰，
陶然共醉菊花杯。
175
登金陵鳳凰臺
作者：李白
鳳凰臺上鳳凰遊，
鳳去臺空江自流。
吳宮花草埋幽徑，
晉代衣冠成古邱。
三山半落青山外，
二水中分白鷺洲。
總為浮雲能蔽日，
長安不見使人愁。
176
送李少府貶峽中王少府貶長沙
作者：高適
嗟君此別意何如？
駐馬銜杯問謫居。
巫峽啼猿數行淚，
衡陽歸雁幾封書。
青楓江上秋帆遠，
白帝城邊古木疏。
聖代即今多雨露，
暫時分手莫躊躇。
177
和賈至舍人早朝大明宮之作
作者：岑參
雞鳴紫陌曙光寒，
鶯囀皇州春色闌。
金闕曉鐘開萬戶，
玉階仙仗擁千官。
花迎劍珮星初落，
柳拂旌旗露未乾。
獨有鳳凰池上客，
陽春一曲和皆難。
178
和賈至舍人早朝大明宮之作
作者：王維
絳幘雞人送曉籌，
尚衣方進翠雲裘。
九天閶闔開宮殿，
萬國衣冠拜冕旒。
日色纔臨仙掌動，
香煙欲傍袞龍浮。
朝罷須裁五色詔，
珮聲歸向鳳池頭。
179
奉和聖製從蓬萊向興慶閣道中留春雨中春望之作應
制
作者：王維
渭水自縈秦塞曲，
黃山舊遶漢宮斜。
鑾輿迥出千門柳，
閣道迴看上苑花。
雲裡帝城雙鳳闕，
雨中春樹萬人家。
為乘陽氣行時令，
不是宸遊玩物華。
180
積雨輞川莊作
作者：王維
積雨空林煙火遲，
蒸藜炊黍餉東菑。
漠漠水田飛白鷺，
陰陰夏木囀黃鸝。
山中習靜觀朝槿，
松下清齋折露葵。
野老與人爭席罷，
海鷗何事更相疑？
181
酬郭給事
作者：王維
洞門高閣靄餘輝，
桃李陰陰柳絮飛。
禁裡疏鐘官舍晚，
省中啼鳥吏人稀。
晨搖玉珮趨金殿，
夕奉天書拜瑣闈。
強欲從君無那老，
將因臥病解朝衣。
182
蜀相
作者：杜甫
丞相祠堂何處尋？
錦官城外柏森森。
映階碧草自春色，
隔葉黃鸝空好音。
三顧頻煩天下計，
兩朝開濟老臣心。
出師未捷身先死，
長使英雄淚滿襟。
183
客至
作者：杜甫
舍南舍北皆春水，
但見群鷗日日來。
花徑不曾緣客掃，
蓬門今始為君開。
盤飧市遠無兼味，
樽酒家貧只舊醅。
肯與鄰翁相對飲，
隔籬呼取盡餘杯。
184
野望
作者：杜甫
西山白雪三城戍，
南浦清江萬里橋。
海內風塵諸弟隔，
天涯涕淚一身遙。
唯將遲暮供多病，
未有涓埃答聖朝。
跨馬出郊時極目，
不堪人事日蕭條。
185
聞官軍收河南河北
作者：杜甫
劍外忽傳收薊北，
初聞涕淚滿衣裳。
卻看妻子愁何在，
漫卷詩書喜欲狂。
白日放歌須縱酒，
青春作伴好還鄉。
即從巴峽穿巫峽，
便下襄陽向洛陽。
186
登高
作者：杜甫
風急天高猿嘯哀，
渚清沙白鳥飛迴。
無邊落木蕭蕭下，
不盡長江滾滾來。
萬里悲秋常作客，
百年多病獨登臺。
艱難苦恨繁霜鬢，
潦倒新停濁酒杯。
187
登樓
作者：杜甫
花近高樓傷客心，
萬方多難此登臨。
錦江春色來天地，
玉壘浮雲變古今。
北極朝庭終不改，
西山寇盜莫相侵。
可憐後主還祠廟，
日暮聊為梁父吟。
188
宿府
作者：杜甫
清秋幕府井梧寒，
獨宿江城蠟炬殘。
永夜角聲悲自語，
中天月色好誰看？
風塵荏苒音書絕，
關塞蕭條行路難。
已忍伶俜十年事，
強移棲息一枝安。
189
閣夜
作者：杜甫
歲暮陰陽催短景，
天涯霜雪霽寒霄。
五更鼓角聲悲壯，
三峽星河影動搖。
野哭千家聞戰伐，
夷歌數處起漁樵。
臥龍躍馬終黃土，
人事音書漫寂寥。
190
詠懷古跡（五首之一）
作者：杜甫
支離東北風塵際，
漂泊西南天地間。
三峽樓臺淹日月，
五溪衣服共雲山。
羯胡事主終無賴，
詞客哀時且未還。
庾信平生最蕭瑟，
暮年詩賦動江關。
191
詠懷古跡（五首之二）
作者：杜甫
搖落深知宋玉悲，
風流儒雅亦吾師。
悵望千秋一灑淚，
蕭條異代不同時。
江山故宅空文藻，
雲雨荒臺豈夢思？
最是楚宮俱泯滅，
舟人指點到今疑！
192
詠懷古跡（五首之三）
作者：杜甫
群山萬壑赴荊門，
生長明妃尚有村。
一去紫臺連朔漠，
獨留青塚向黃昏。
畫圖省識春風面，
環珮空歸月下魂。
千載琵琶作胡語，
分明怨恨曲中論。
193
詠懷古跡（五首之四）
作者：杜甫
蜀主征吳幸三峽，
崩年亦在永安宮。
翠華想像空山裡，
玉殿虛無野寺中。
古廟杉松巢水鶴，
歲時伏臘走村翁。
武侯祠屋常鄰近，
一體君臣祭祀同。
194
詠懷古跡（五首之五）
作者：杜甫
諸葛大名垂宇宙，
宗臣遺像肅清高。
三分割據紆籌策，
萬古雲霄一羽毛。
伯仲之間見伊呂，
指揮若定失蕭曹。
運移漢祚終難復，
志決身殲軍務勞。
195
江州重別薛六柳八二員外
作者：劉長卿
生涯豈料承優詔？
世事空知學醉歌。
江上月明胡雁過，
淮南木落楚山多。
寄身且喜滄洲近，
顧影無如白髮何！
今日龍鐘人共老，
媿君猶遣慎風波。
196
長沙過賈誼宅
作者：劉長卿
三年謫宦此棲遲，
萬古惟留楚客悲。
秋草獨尋人去後，
寒林空見日斜時。
漢文有道恩猶薄，
湘水無情弔豈知？
寂寂江山搖落處，
憐君何事到天涯？
197
自夏口至鸚鵡洲夕望岳陽寄元中丞
作者：劉長卿
汀洲無浪復無煙，
楚客相思益渺然。
漢口夕陽斜渡鳥，
洞庭秋水遠連天。
孤城背嶺寒吹角，
獨戍臨江夜泊船。
賈誼上書憂漢室，
長沙謫去古今憐。
198
贈闕下裴舍人
作者：錢起
二月黃鸝飛上林，
春城紫禁曉陰陰。
長樂鐘聲花外盡，
龍池柳色雨中深。
陽和不散窮途恨，
霄漢長懷捧日心。
獻賦十年猶未遇，
羞將白髮對華簪。
199
寄李儋元錫
作者：韋應物
去年花裡逢君別，
今日花開又一年。
世事茫茫難自料，
春愁黯黯獨成眠。
身多疾病思田里，
邑有流亡愧俸錢。
聞道欲來相問訊，
西樓望月幾回圓？
200
同題仙游觀
作者：韓翃
仙臺初見五城樓，
風物淒淒宿雨收。
山色遙連秦樹晚，
砧聲近報漢宮秋。
疏松影落空壇靜，
細草香閑小洞幽。
何用別尋方外去？
人間亦自有丹丘。
201
春思
作者：皇甫冉
鶯啼燕語報新年，
馬邑龍堆路幾千。
家住層城鄰漢苑，
心隨明月到胡天。
機中錦字論長恨，
樓上花枝笑獨眠。
為問天戎竇車騎，
何時返旆勒燕然？
202
晚次鄂州
作者：盧綸
雲開遠見漢陽城，
猶是孤帆一日程。
估客晝眠知浪靜，
舟人夜語覺潮生。
三湘愁鬢逢秋色，
萬里歸心對月明。
舊業已隨征戰盡，
更堪江上鼓鼙聲！
203
登柳州城樓寄漳汀封連四州刺史
作者：柳宗元
城上高樓接大荒，
海天愁思正茫茫。
驚風亂颭芙蓉水，
密雨斜侵薜荔牆。
嶺樹重遮千里目，
江流曲似九迴腸。
共來百越文身地，
猶自音書滯一鄉。
204
西塞山懷古
作者：劉禹錫
王濬樓船下益州，
金陵王氣黯然收。
千尋鐵鎖沈江底，
一片降旛出石頭。
人世幾回傷往事，
山形依舊枕寒流。
從今四海為家日，
故壘蕭蕭蘆荻秋。
205
遣悲懷（三首之一）
作者：元稹
謝公最小偏憐女，
自嫁黔婁百事乖。
顧我無衣搜藎篋，
泥他沽酒拔金釵。
野蔬充膳甘長藿，
落葉添薪仰古槐。
今日俸錢過十萬，
與君營奠復營齋。
206
遣悲懷（三首之二）
作者：元稹
昔日戲言身後事，
今朝都到眼前來。
衣裳已施行看盡，
針線猶存未忍開。
尚想舊情憐婢僕，
也曾因夢送錢財。
誠知此恨人人有，
貧賤夫妻百事哀。
207
遣悲懷（三首之三）
作者：元稹
閑坐悲君亦自悲，
百年都是幾多時。
鄧攸無子尋知命，
潘岳悼亡猶費詞。
同穴窅冥何所望，
他生緣會更難期。
惟將終夜長開眼，
報答平生未展眉。
208
自河南經亂，關內阻饑，兄弟離散，各在一處。因望
月有感，聊書所懷，
寄上浮梁大兄，於潛七兄，烏江十五兄，兼示符離及
下邽弟妹。
作者：白居易
時難年荒世業空，
弟兄羈旅各西東。
田園寥落干戈後，
骨肉流離道路中。
弔影分為千里雁，
辭根散作九秋蓬。
共看明月應垂淚，
一夜鄉心五處同。
209
錦瑟
作者：李商隱
錦瑟無端五十絃，
一絃一柱思華年。
莊生曉夢迷蝴蝶，
望帝春心託杜鵑。
滄海月明珠有淚，
藍田日暖玉生煙。
此情可待成追憶，
只是當時已惘然。
210
無題
作者：李商隱
昨夜星辰昨夜風，
畫樓西畔桂堂東。
身無綵鳳雙飛翼，
心有靈犀一點通。
隔座送鉤春酒暖，
分曹射覆蠟燈紅。
嗟余聽鼓應官去，
走馬蘭臺類轉蓬。
211
隋宮
作者：李商隱
紫泉宮殿鎖煙霞，
欲取蕪城作帝家。
玉璽不緣歸日角，
錦帆應是到天涯。
於今腐草無螢火，
終古垂楊有暮鴉。
地下若逢陳後主，
豈宜重問後庭花？
212
無題（二首之一）
作者：李商隱
來是空言去絕蹤，
月斜樓上五更鐘。
夢為遠別啼難喚，
書被催成墨未濃。
蠟照半籠金翡翠，
麝熏微度繡芙蓉。
劉郎已恨蓬山遠，
更隔蓬山一萬重。
213
無題（二首之二）
作者：李商隱
颯颯東風細雨來，
芙蓉塘外有輕雷。
金蟾齧璅燒香入，
玉虎牽絲汲井迴。
賈氏窺簾韓掾少，
宓妃留枕魏王才。
春心莫共花爭發，
一寸相思一寸灰。
214
籌筆驛
作者：李商隱
猿鳥猶疑畏簡書，
風雲常為護儲胥。
徒令上將揮神筆，
終見降王走傳車。
管樂有才原不忝，
關張無命欲何如？
他年錦里經祠廟，
梁父吟成恨有餘。
215
無題
作者：李商隱
相見時難別亦難，
東風無力百花殘。
春蠶到死絲方盡，
蠟炬成灰淚始乾。
曉鏡但愁雲鬢改，
夜吟應覺月光寒。
蓬萊此去無多路，
青鳥殷勤為探看。
216
春雨
作者：李商隱
悵臥新春白袷衣，
白門寥落意多違。
紅樓隔雨相望冷，
珠箔飄燈獨自歸。
遠路應悲春晼晚，
殘宵猶得夢依稀。
玉璫緘札何由達，
萬里雲羅一雁飛。
217
無題（二首之一）
作者：李商隱
鳳尾香羅薄幾重，
碧文圓頂夜深縫。
扇裁月魄羞難掩，
車走雷聲語未通。
曾是寂寥金燼暗，
斷無消息石榴紅。
斑騅只繫垂楊岸，
何處西南任好風？
218
無題（二首之二）
作者：李商隱
重帷深下莫愁堂，
臥後清宵細細長。
神女生涯原是夢，
小姑居處本無郎。
風波不信菱枝弱，
月露誰教桂葉香？
直道相思了無益，
未妨惆悵是清狂。
219
利洲南渡
作者：溫庭筠
澹然空水對斜暉，
曲島蒼茫接翠微。
波上馬嘶看棹去，
柳邊人歇待船歸。
數叢沙草群鷗散，
萬頃江田一鷺飛。
誰解乘舟尋范蠡？
五湖煙水獨忘機。
220
蘇武廟
作者：溫庭筠
蘇武魂銷漢使前，
古祠高樹兩茫然。
雲邊雁斷胡天月，
隴上羊歸塞草煙。
迴日樓臺非甲帳，
去時冠劍是丁年。
茂陵不見封侯印，
空向秋波哭逝川。
221
宮詞
作者：薛逢
十二樓中盡曉妝，
望仙樓上望君王。
鎖銜金獸連環冷，
水滴銅龍晝漏長。
雲髻罷梳還對鏡，
羅衣欲換更添香。
遙窺正殿簾開處，
袍褲宮人掃御床。
222
貧女
作者：秦韜玉
蓬門未識綺羅香，
擬託良媒益自傷。
誰愛風流高格調，
共憐時世儉梳妝。
敢將十指誇鍼巧，
不把雙眉鬥畫長。
苦恨年年壓金線，
為他人作嫁衣裳。
223
獨不見
作者：沈佺期
盧家少婦鬱金香，
海燕雙棲玳瑁梁。
九月寒砧催木葉，
十年征戍憶遼陽。
白狼河北音書斷，
丹鳳城南秋夜長。
誰為含愁獨不見，
更教明月照流黃。
224
鹿柴
作者：王維
空山不見人，
但聞人語響；
返景入深林，
復照青苔上。
225
竹里館
作者：王維
獨坐幽篁裡，
彈琴復長嘯；
深林人不知，
明月來相照。
226
送別
作者：王維
山中相送罷，
日暮掩柴扉；
春草明年綠，
王孫歸不歸？
227
相思
作者：王維
紅豆生南國，
春來發幾枝；
願君多采擷，
此物最相思。
228
雜詩
作者：王維
君自故鄉來，
應知故鄉事。
來日綺窗前，
寒梅著花未？
229
送崔九
作者：裴迪
歸山深淺去，
須盡丘壑美。
莫學武陵人，
暫遊桃源裡。
230
終南望餘雪
作者：祖詠
終南陰嶺秀，
積雪浮雲端；
林表明霽色，
城中增暮寒。
231
宿建德江
作者：孟浩然
移舟泊煙渚，
日暮客愁新。
野曠天低樹，
江清月近人。
232
春曉
作者：孟浩然
春眠不覺曉，
處處聞啼鳥。
夜來風雨聲，
花落知多少。
233
夜思
作者：李白
床前明月光，
疑是地上霜。
舉頭望明月，
低頭思故鄉。
234
怨情
作者：李白
美人捲珠簾，
深坐蹙蛾眉；
但見淚痕濕，
不知心恨誰？
235
八陣圖
作者：杜甫
功蓋三分國，
名成八陣圖。
江流石不轉，
遺恨失吞吳。
236
登鸛雀樓
作者：王之渙
白日依山盡，
黃河入海流；
欲窮千里目，
更上一層樓。
237
送靈澈
作者：劉長卿
蒼蒼竹林寺，
杳杳鐘聲晚。
荷笠帶斜陽，
青山獨歸遠。
238
彈琴
作者：劉長卿
泠泠七絃上，
靜聽松風寒；
古調雖自愛，
今人多不彈。
239
送上人
作者：劉長卿
孤雲將野鶴，
豈向人間住？
莫買沃洲山，
時人已知處。
240
秋夜寄邱員外
作者：韋應物
懷君屬秋夜，
散步詠涼天。
空山松子落，
幽人應未眠。
241
聽箏
作者：李端
鳴箏金粟柱，
素手玉房前。
欲得周郎顧，
時時誤拂絃。
242
新嫁娘
作者：王建
三日入廚下，
洗手作羹湯；
未諳姑食性，
先遣小姑嘗。
243
玉臺體
作者：權德輿
昨夜裙帶解，
今朝蟢子飛。
鉛華不可棄，
莫是□砧歸。
244
江雪
作者：柳宗元
千山鳥飛絕，
萬徑人蹤滅；
孤舟簑笠翁，
獨釣寒江雪。
245
行宮
作者：元稹
寥落古行宮，
宮花寂寞紅。
白頭宮女在，
閒坐說玄宗。
246
問劉十九
作者：白居易
綠螘新醅酒，
紅泥小火爐。
晚來天欲雪，
能飲一杯無？
247
何滿子
作者：張祜
故國三千里，
深宮二十年。
一聲何滿子，
雙淚落君前。
248
登樂遊原
作者：李商隱
向晚意不適，
驅車登古原。
夕陽無限好，
只是近黃昏。
249
尋隱者不遇
作者：賈島
松下問童子，
言師採藥去。
只在此山中，
雲深不知處？
250
渡漢江
作者：李頻
嶺外音書絕，
經冬復立春。
近鄉情更怯，
不敢問來人。
251
春怨
作者：金昌緒
打起黃鶯兒，
莫教枝上啼。
啼時驚妾夢，
不得到遼西。
252
哥舒歌
作者：西鄙人
北斗七星高，
哥舒夜帶刀。
至今窺牧馬，
不敢過臨洮。
253
長干行（二首之一）
作者：崔顥
君家何處住，
妾住在橫塘。
停船暫借問，
或恐是同鄉。
254
長干行（二首之二）
作者：崔顥
家臨九江水，
來去九江側。
同是長干人，
生小不相識。
255
玉階怨
作者：李白
玉階生白露，
夜久侵羅襪。
卻下水晶簾，
玲瓏望秋月。
256
塞下曲（四首之一）
作者：盧綸
鷲翎金僕姑，
燕尾繡蝥弧；
獨立揚新令，
千營共一呼。
257
塞下曲（四首之二）
作者：盧綸
林暗草驚風，
將軍夜引弓；
平明尋白羽，
沒在石稜中。
258
塞下曲（四首之三）
作者：盧綸
月黑雁飛高，
單于夜遁逃；
欲將輕騎逐，
大雪滿弓刀。
259
塞下曲（四首之四）
作者：盧綸
野幕蔽瓊筵，
羌戎賀勞旋；
醉和金甲舞，
雷鼓動山川。
260
江南曲
作者：李益
嫁得瞿塘賈，
朝朝誤妾期；
早知潮有信，
嫁與弄潮兒。
261
回鄉偶書
作者：賀知章
少小離家老大回，
鄉音無改鬢毛衰；
兒童相見不相識，
笑問客從何處來？
262
桃花谿
作者：張旭
隱隱飛橋隔野煙，
石磯西畔問漁船；
桃花盡日隨流水，
洞在清谿何處邊？
263
九月九日憶山東兄弟
作者：王維
獨在異鄉為異客，
每逢佳節倍思親。
遙知兄弟登高處，
遍插茱萸少一人。
264
芙蓉樓送辛漸
作者：王昌齡
寒雨連江夜入吳，
平明送客楚山孤。
洛陽親友如相問，
一片冰心在玉壺。
265
閨怨
作者：王昌齡
閨中少婦不知愁，
春日凝妝上翠樓；
忽見陌頭楊柳色，
悔教夫婿覓封侯。
266
春宮曲
作者：王昌齡
昨夜風開露井桃，
未央前殿月輪高。
平陽歌舞新承寵，
簾外春寒賜錦袍。
267
涼州詞
作者：王翰
葡萄美酒夜光杯，
欲飲琵琶馬上催。
醉臥沙場君莫笑，
古來征戰幾人回？
268
送孟浩然之廣陵
作者：李白
故人西辭黃鶴樓，
煙花三月下揚州。
孤帆遠影碧空盡，
惟見長江天際流。
269
下江陵
作者：李白
朝辭白帝彩雲間，
千里江陵一日還；
兩岸猿聲啼不住，
輕舟已過萬重山。
270
逢入京使
作者：岑參
故園東望路漫漫，
雙袖龍鐘淚不乾。
馬上相逢無紙筆，
憑君傳語報平安。
271
江南逢李龜年
作者：杜甫
岐王宅裡尋常見，
崔九堂前幾度聞。
正是江南好風景，
落花時節又逢君。
272
滁州西澗
作者：韋應物
獨憐幽草澗邊生，
上有黃鸝深樹鳴。
春潮帶雨晚來急，
野渡無人舟自橫。
273
楓橋夜泊
作者：張繼
月落烏啼霜滿天，
江楓漁火對愁眠。
姑蘇城外寒山寺，
夜半鐘聲到客船。
274
寒食
作者：韓翃
春城無處不飛花，
寒食東風御柳斜；
日暮漢宮傳蠟燭，
輕煙散入五侯家。
275
月夜
作者：劉方平
更深月色半人家，
北斗闌干南斗斜。
今夜偏知春氣暖，
蟲聲新透綠窗沙。
276
春怨
作者：劉方平
紗窗日落漸黃昏，
金屋無人見淚痕。
寂寞空庭春欲晚，
梨花滿地不開門。
277
征人怨
作者：柳中庸
歲歲金河復玉關，
朝朝馬策與刀環。
三春白雪歸青塚，
萬里黃河繞黑山。
278
宮詞
作者：顧況
玉樓天半起笙歌，
風送宮嬪笑語和。
月殿影開聞夜漏，
水晶簾捲近秋河。
279
夜上受降城聞笛
作者：李益
回樂峰前沙似雪，
受降城外月如霜。
不知何處吹蘆管？
一夜征人盡望鄉。
280
烏衣巷
作者：劉禹錫
朱雀橋邊野草花，
烏衣巷口夕陽斜；
舊時王謝堂前燕，
飛入尋常百姓家。
281
春詞
作者：劉禹錫
新妝宜面下朱樓，
深鎖春光一院愁。
行到中庭數花朵，
蜻蜓飛上玉搔頭。
282
宮詞
作者：白居易
淚濕羅巾夢不成，
夜深前殿按歌聲。
紅顏未老恩先斷，
斜倚薰籠坐到明。
283
贈內人
作者：張祜
禁門宮樹月痕過，
媚眼惟看宿鷺窠。
斜拔玉釵燈影畔，
剔開紅燄救飛蛾。
284
集靈臺（二首之一）
作者：張祜
日光斜照集靈台，
紅樹花迎曉露開。
昨夜上皇新授籙，
太真含笑入簾來。
285
集靈臺（二首之二）
作者：張祜
虢國夫人承主恩，
平明騎馬入宮門。
卻嫌脂粉污顏色，
淡掃蛾眉朝至尊。
286
題金陵渡
作者：張祜
金陵津渡小山樓，
一宿行人自可愁。
潮落夜江斜月裡，
兩三星火是瓜州。
287
宮中詞
作者：朱慶餘
寂寂花時閉院門，
美人相並立瓊軒。
含情欲說宮中事，
鸚鵡前頭不敢言。
288
近試上張水部
作者：朱慶餘
洞房昨夜停紅燭，
待曉堂前拜舅姑。
妝罷低聲問夫婿，
畫眉深淺入時無。
289
將赴吳興登樂遊原
作者：杜牧
清時有味是無能，
閒愛孤雲靜愛僧。
欲把一麾江海去，
樂遊原上望昭陵。
290
赤壁
作者：杜牧
折戟沈沙鐵未銷，
自將磨洗認前朝。
東風不與周郎便，
銅雀春深銷二喬。
291
泊秦淮
作者：杜牧
煙籠寒水月籠沙，
夜泊秦淮近酒家。
商女不知亡國恨，
隔江猶唱後庭花。
292
寄揚州韓綽判官
作者：杜牧
青山隱隱水迢迢，
秋盡江南草未凋。
二十四橋明月夜，
玉人何處教吹簫？
293
遣懷
作者：杜牧
落魄江湖載酒行，
楚腰纖細掌中輕。
十年一覺揚州夢，
贏得青樓薄倖名。
294
秋夕
作者：杜牧
銀燭秋光冷畫屏，
輕羅小扇撲流螢。
天階夜色涼如水，
坐看牽牛織女星。
295
贈別（二首之一）
作者：杜牧
娉娉嫋嫋十三餘，
豆蔻梢頭二月初。
春風十里揚州路，
卷上珠簾總不如。
296
贈別（二首之二）
作者：杜牧
多情卻似總無情，
唯覺樽前笑不成。
蠟燭有心還惜別，
替人垂淚到天明。
297
金谷園
作者：杜牧
繁華事散逐香塵，
流水無情草自春。
日暮東風怨啼鳥，
落花猶似墜樓人。
298
夜雨寄北
作者：李商隱
君問歸期未有期，
巴山夜雨漲秋池。
何當共剪西窗燭，
卻話巴山夜雨時？
299
寄令狐郎中
作者：李商隱
嵩雲秦樹久離居，
雙鯉迢迢一紙筆。
休問梁園舊賓客，
茂陵秋雨病相如。
300
為有
作者：李商隱
為有雲屏無限嬌，
鳳城寒盡怕春宵。
無端嫁得金龜婿，
辜負香衾事早朝。
301
隋宮
作者：李商隱
乘興南遊不戒嚴，
九重誰省諫書函？
春風舉國裁宮錦，
半作障泥半作帆。
302
瑤池
作者：李商隱
瑤池阿母綺窗開，
黃竹歌聲動地哀。
八駿日行三萬里，
穆王何事不重來？
303
嫦娥
作者：李商隱
雲母屏風燭影深，
長河漸落曉星沈。
嫦娥應悔偷靈藥，
碧海青天夜夜心。
304
賈生
作者：李商隱
宣室求賢訪逐臣，
賈生才調更無倫。
可憐夜半虛前席，
不問蒼生問鬼神。
305
瑤瑟怨
作者：溫庭筠
冰簟銀床夢不成，
碧天如水夜雲輕。
雁聲遠過瀟湘去，
十二樓中月自明。
306
馬嵬坡
作者：鄭畋
玄宗回馬楊妃死，
雲雨難忘日月新。
終是聖明天子事，
景陽宮井又何人？
307
已涼
作者：韓偓
碧闌干外繡簾垂，
猩色屏風畫折枝；
八尺龍鬚方錦褥，
已涼天氣未寒時。
308
金陵圖
作者：韋莊
江雨霏霏江草齊，
六朝如夢鳥空啼。
無情最是臺城柳，
依舊煙籠十里堤。
309
隴西行
作者：陳陶
誓掃匈奴不顧身，
五千貂錦喪胡塵；
可憐無定河邊骨，
猶是深閨夢裡人。
310
寄人
作者：張泌
別夢依依到謝家，
小廊回合曲闌斜。
多情只有春庭月，
猶為離人照落花。
311
雜詩
作者：無名氏
盡寒食雨草萋萋，
著麥苗風柳映堤。
等是有家歸未得，
杜鵑休向耳邊啼。
312
渭城曲
作者：王維
渭城朝雨浥輕塵，
客舍青青柳色新。
勸君更盡一杯酒，
西出陽關無故人。
313
秋夜曲
作者：王維
桂魄初生秋露微，
輕羅已薄未更衣。
銀箏夜久殷勤弄，
心怯空房不忍歸。
314
長信怨
作者：王昌齡
奉帚平明金殿開，
且將團扇共徘徊。
玉顏不及寒鴉色，
猶帶昭陽日影來。
315
出塞
作者：王昌齡
秦時明月漢時關，
萬里長征人未還；
但使龍城飛將在，
不教胡馬渡陰山。
316
清平調（三首之一）
作者：李白
雲想衣裳花想容，
春風拂檻露華濃；
若非群玉山頭見，
會向瑤臺月下逢。
317
清平調（三首之二）
作者：李白
一枝紅豔露凝香，
雲雨巫山枉斷腸。
借問漢宮誰得似？
可憐飛燕倚新妝。
318
清平調（三首之三）
作者：李白
名花傾國兩相歡，
常得君王帶笑看。
解釋春風無限恨，
沈香亭北倚闌干。
319
出塞
作者：王之渙
黃河遠上白雲間，
一片孤城萬仞山。
羌笛何須怨楊柳，
春風不度玉門關。
320
金縷衣
作者：杜秋娘
勸君莫惜金縷衣，
勸君惜取少年時。
花開堪折直須折，
莫待無花空折枝。
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Fatalità
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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Title: Fatalità
Author: Ada Negri
Author of introduction, etc.: Sofia Bisi Albini
Release date: May 27, 2011 [eBook #36239]
Language: Italian
Credits: Produced by Maria Grazia Gentili and the online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATALITÀ ***
Produced by Maria Grazia Gentili and the online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
This file was produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive
ADA NEGRI
――――
_Fatalità_
MILANO
FRATELLI TREVES, EDITORI
1911
PROPRIETÀ LETTERARIA.
――――
_I diritti di riproduzione e di traduzione sono_
_riservati per tutti i paesi, compresi la Svezia, la_
_Norvegia e l’Olanda._
――――
Tip. Fratelli Treves.--1911
Indice
PREFAZIONE ........................................................
FATALITÀ ..........................................................
SENZA NOME ........................................................
NON MI TURBAR.... .................................................
VA L’ONDA.... .....................................................
BIRICHINO DI STRADA ...............................................
SON GELOSA DI TE!... ..............................................
STORIA BREVE ......................................................
AUTOPSIA ..........................................................
NEVICATA ..........................................................
NEBBIE ............................................................
NOTTE .............................................................
FIN CH’IO VIVA E PIÙ IN LÀ ........................................
SULLA BRECCIA .....................................................
BUON DÌ, MISERIA ..................................................
VEGLIARDO .........................................................
IL CANTO DELLA ZAPPA ..............................................
I VINTI ...........................................................
MANO NELL’INGRANAGGIO .............................................
LA MACCHINA ROMBA .................................................
POPOLANA ..........................................................
FIOR DI PLEBE .....................................................
BACIO PAGANO ......................................................
CAVALLO ARABO .....................................................
TE SOLO ...........................................................
SINITE PARVULOS.... ...............................................
NENIA MATERNA .....................................................
NELL’URAGANO ......................................................
LUCE ..............................................................
PORTAMI VIA .......................................................
PUR VI RIVEDO ANCOR.... ...........................................
STRANA ............................................................
PERCHÈ ............................................................
SFIDA .............................................................
SALVETE ...........................................................
PIETÀ!... .........................................................
VA ................................................................
NO ................................................................
CANTO D’APRILE ....................................................
MADRE OPERAIA .....................................................
NON POSSO .........................................................
FANTASMI ..........................................................
VIAGGIO NOTTURNO ..................................................
ANIMA .............................................................
AFA ...............................................................
TU VUOI SAPER?... .................................................
VIENI AI CAMPI... .................................................
FRA I BOSCHI CEDUI ................................................
CASCATA ...........................................................
MISTICA ...........................................................
HAI LAVORATO? .....................................................
A MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF ..............................................
IN ALTO ...........................................................
SOLA ..............................................................
SPES ..............................................................
VEDOVA ............................................................
ROSA APPASSITA ....................................................
DEFORME ...........................................................
VOCE DI TENEBRA ...................................................
MARCHIO IN FRONTE .................................................
VATICINIO .........................................................
LARGO! ............................................................
[pg!v]
PREFAZIONE
ADA NEGRI¹
――――
Sta a Motta-Visconti. Questo lo si sa perchè tutte le sue poesie portano
ai piedi, a sinistra, questa indicazione. Ma chi è Ada Negri? Perchè non
scrive che sull’_Illustrazione Popolare?_ Perchè non esce fuori in piena
luce e nessuno l’aiuta a uscir fuori?
Io mi dibatto, maledico e piango,
Ma passa il mondo e ride o non mi sente.
¹ È ormai costume generale presentare conferenzieri e poeti, la
prima volta che compariscono dinanzi al pubblico. A presentare Ada
Negri, ricorriamo ad un mezzo semplicissimo e che ci pare il
migliore: riprodurre l’articolo che già nel dicembre scorso
un’altra gentile e valente scrittrice le dedicò nel _Corriere
della Sera_.
(_Nota degli Editori_)
Perchè nessuno l’ascolta?
Questo si chiedevano, soltanto pochi mesi fa, gli abbonati del _Corriere
della Sera_, e dell’_Illustrazione Popolare_; anche quelli che di versi
non s’intendono, e non si curano, ma tutti, davanti alla poesia di Ada
Negri, s’erano sentiti presi e scossi.
Strano davvero che, così conosciuta e ammirata _privatamente_, ella non
trovasse modo di sbucar dalla siepe che fiancheggiava il suo sentiero e
non potesse uscir fuori liberamente sulla strada maestra.
Ma forse è stato per il suo meglio: questa lotta contro ostacoli che non
sapeva che fossero, questa sete di gloria non mai appagata, aiutarono
certo ad accendere in lei quella fiamma che riscalda ormai tutta la sua
poesia, dandole un’impronta così sentita, così nuova, così sua.
I suoi lettori sono andati man mano comprendendo che il dolore dei suoi
versi è dolore vero, che questa creatura giovane deve aver sofferto come
se avesse già vissuto una lunga vita, e finirono col tenersi sicuri che,
conscia del suo ingegno com’essa è, forte della sua triste esperienza,
sarebbe balzata fuori da un momento all’altro al sole di quella gloria
che sogna con tanto ardore.
La «bieca figura» che le appare una notte al capezzale e si chiama
sventura, dopo averla atterrita col profetarle tutto quello che è
destinata a soffrire, le dice:
.... A chi soffre e sanguinando crea
Sola splende la gloria.
Vol sublime il dolor scioglie all’idea.
Ed ella, che l’aveva respinta, le risponde: Resta.
La sventura! come si sente ch’essa fu la compagna della giovinezza di
Ada Negri! forse fin da bambina seppe
.... le notti insonni e l’inquïeto
Pensier della dimane.
fors’anche conobbe «i giorni senza pane»...
Crebbi col buio intorno e qui nel core
Una feroce nostalgia di sole.
A diciott’anni saluta sua madre e parte da Lodi per il suo posto di
maestra a Motta-Visconti: una grossa e grassa borgata _della bassa_ dove
però non arrivano ancora neppure le rotaie di un tram; è là come
dimenticata sul ciglione del Ticino dove si stendono boscaglie
conosciute dai cacciatori milanesi, e dove Ada Negri va ad ascoltare le
voci del vento che sale,
Punge, penètra, sibila, travolge,
Fiero scotendo l’ale.
Ada Negri, quando i tuoi versi usciranno raccolti in volume, molte cose
si vorranno dire e si inventeranno intorno alla tua persona e alla tua
vita. Lascia ch’io dica prima almeno un poco della melanconica verità;
essa è un onore per te, e alla tua povertà un giorno tu ripenserai con
dolcezza e con gratitudine, poichè ad essa devi in gran parte quello che
sei.
Lasciaci dunque attraversare il vasto cortile fangoso, su cui s’aprono
le stalle e dove guazzano le oche, per venir a bussare al tuo uscio
screpolato, salendo i due alti scalini di mattoni rotti. Noi veniamo a
salutarti nella tua stanza dove la luce è fioca perchè alla finestra non
vi sono vetri ma impannate di carta, dove il mobile più elegante è la
cassa de’ tuoi libri che ti serve da divano.... Il nostro cuore si
stringe al primo momento, ma poi s’allarga, gonfio di commozione e
d’ammirazione.
*
È in un giornale letterario, se non sbaglio, che uscì _Madre operaia_,
la descrizione di quel lanificio dove lavora senza posa una povera donna
stanca e affievolita, la cui fronte patita è come illuminata da una
nobile fierezza perchè essa lavora per suo figlio che deve studiare:
.... Suo figlio, il solo,
L’immenso orgoglio della sua miseria,
Cui ne la vasta e seria
Fronte del Genio essa divina il volo.
Chi, leggendo, non ha pensato che forse si doveva dire _una figlia_?
La povera donna stanca e malata che ha lavorato tutta la vita, ora è là
rifugiata presso la figliuola e attende, trepida e pensosa, l’avvenire
luminoso in cui la bruna testa sarà cinta «di oro e di lauro».
Sta forse per arrivare il gran giorno? Ecco che da ogni parte d’Italia
giungono lettere, giornali e libri, e il nome della sua figliola è
dappertutto, e il pavimento n’è ingombro ed ella vi cammina sopra con
venerazione.
Sì, il nome della tua figliola è conosciuto, ma nessuno sa chi ella sia
ed ella non conosce nessuno, e dovrà ancora per qualche tempo andarsene
in zoccoli alla sua scola, dove un’ottantina di ragazzi le strillano il
buongiorno e mettono a prova la sua pazienza coi nasi che colano e
l’ostinazione di voler gridare tutti insieme le lettere dell’alfabeto.
Sua madre la vede tornare col viso pallido, colle mani che bruciano, gli
occhi che balenano, e trema per paura che sia malata. È l’intenso sforzo
di vivere due vite, di ascoltare due voci: mentre ode quelle del di
fuori, e parla e risponde e compie rigida e ferma il suo dovere, dentro
ha mille altre voci che le parlano, una musica strana che le sale
dall’anima e vorrebbe prorompere, ma non lo può che nella notte alta,
quando tutto tace intorno a lei e il dovere della sua giornata è
compiuto.
È allora che un immenso radiante orizzonte le si apre dinanzi. Chi legge
i suoi versi può pensare ch’ella ha tutto visto e conosciuto: ma non
conosce che la solitudine e la sventura: un mondo buio e freddo dal
quale la luce del di fuori appare abbagliante, e più dolce e tepido che
non sia, il mondo dei fortunati.
Ada Negri ha letto pochissimi libri moderni ma li conosce tutti dalle
varie opposte critiche dei giornali letterari, ed è curioso come del
male e del bene che se ne dice ella afferra il vero! Non ha mai visto un
teatro, ma è entusiasta della Duse ed è presa in questi giorni da una
smania di sentirla e vederla che non lascia pensare ad altro: sono
sempre i suoi giornali che la informano; un fascio; quasi tutti quelli
d’Italia che riceve da due anni ogni settimana col bollo postale di
Milano, da un ammiratore che non le si è mai fatto conoscere.
Ada Negri non ha mai visto il mare, non conosce le montagne, neppure le
colline o un lago: pochi mesi fa poteva dire neppure una grande città,
poichè non faceva che attraversar Milano da Porta Ticinese a Porta
Romana per andar a Lodi a passar le vacanze con sua madre.
Quest’estate alcuni amici la vollero trattenere per due giorni e fu
tutta una nuova vita spalancatasi ai suoi occhi nella gran città
popolosa, nella stagione in cui le corse e le esposizioni la rendevano
così brillante. I gaudenti le sfilarono davanti col barbaglio del lusso,
della bellezza, dell’eleganza. L’arte ch’ella intravvide a Brera la
sbalordì, la commosse, la trasportò; il magico incanto di terre lontane
e genti nuove la sedusse là fra quegli egiziani e quei cavalli, davanti
a quelle brune almée dagli occhi dipinti.
Due giorni di sogno: tutta la sua personcina esile vibrava e i suoi
grandi occhi neri fiammeggiavano come per febbre, tanto che gli amici si
chiesero se non avevano commesso una cattiva azione mostrandole ciò di
cui non avrebbe potuto godere a lungo.
Ella tornò laggiù a riprendere i suoi zoccoli; tornò a insegnar a
compitare ai suoi ottanta bambini rumorosi e cocciuti, ma pur troppo non
seppe più essere tranquilla e rassegnata al suo oscuro destino.
Vi sarà chi, leggendo il suo libro, dirà che c’è una nota insistente,
troppe volte ripetuta: è vero, ella stessa lo sente e lo dice: ma è
così, è lei, ora; è la campana lugubre, incessante che invoca al
soccorso, è la sua giovinezza che si ribella al dolore che l’ha sempre
accompagnata, è il grido dell’ingegno che lotta per non essere
seppellito vivo.
Son poeta, poeta, e non m’arride
Luce di gloria.
Pure come triste e dolce si fa il suo canto qualche volta: come la sua
giovinezza, stanca di anelare all’avvenire, torna al passato, e si
riposa ridiventando bambina alle ginocchia di sua madre.
Madre, qui—nel silenzio—a te vicina!
E chiede:
Dimmi, perchè si soffre e si perdona.
Perchè nel cor, con luminoso incanto,
L’amore come alato inno risuona,
Poi tutto crolla come sogno infranto?
Dimmi, perchè si soffre e si perdona?
La nota dolce della lirica di Ada Negri sgorga sempre e sola dal ricordo
della fanciullezza cullata dall’amore di sua madre, o dall’amor materno
che le appare come un lontano miraggio di pace. La desolazione non
accascia però mai a lungo Ada Negri; ella scatta come una molla
d’acciaio; l’amarezza dello sconforto si muta sempre in un lampo di
sfida, in un impeto di audace speranza. Par che la sua personcina
diventi più alta, quando sfidando la miseria, «spettro sdentato dalle
scarne braccia», esclama:
È mia la giovinezza, è mia la vita!
Nella pugna fatale
Non mi vedrai, non mi vedrai sfinita.
Su le sparse rovine e su gli affanni
Brillano i miei vent’anni!
E che profonda commozione proviamo quando, povera creatura, dice:
Vedi laggiù nel mondo
Quanta luce di sole e quante rose,
Senti pel ciel giocondo
I trilli de le allodole festose,
Che sfolgorìo di fedi e d’ideali,
Quanto fremito d’ali!
Ma l’ammirazione ci riempie, quando questa fanciulla coraggiosa, altera
della sua virtù e del suo ingegno, soggiunge:
Voglio il lavor che indìa,
E con nobile imper tutto governa,
e salutando fieramente la «maga nera» dice:
.... dai lacci tuoi balzando ardita,
Canto l’inno alla vita!
Se c’è poesia sentita da tutti è questa di Ada Negri, essenzialmente
moderna e democratica. Qui dentro è il «turbinoso presente» invocato da
Arturo Graf, qui rigurgita davvero «l’onda immensa di voci che ci
ingombrano di stupore, ci empiono di pietà, ci infiammano d’entusiasmo,
ci rattristano a morte».
dicembre 1901
_Sofia Bisi Albini._
[pg!1]
FATALITÀ
Questa notte m’apparve al capezzale
Una bieca figura.
Ne l’occhio un lampo ed al fianco un pugnale,
Mi ghignò sulla faccia.—Ebbi paura.—
Disse: «Son la Sventura.»
«Ch’io t’abbandoni, timida fanciulla,
Non avverrà giammai.
Fra sterpi e fior, sino alla morte e al nulla,
Ti seguirò costante ovunque andrai.»
—Scostati!... singhiozzai.
Ella ferma rimase a me dappresso.
Disse: «Lassù sta scritto.
Squallido fior tu sei, fior di cipresso,
Fior di neve, di tomba e di delitto.
Lassù, lassù sta scritto.»
Sorsi gridando:—Io voglio la speranza
Che ai vent’anni riluce,
Voglio d’amor la trepida esultanza,
Voglio il bacio del genio e della luce!...
T’allontana, o funesta.—
Disse: «A chi soffre e sanguinando crea,
Sola splende la gloria.
Vol sublime il dolor scioglie all’idea,
Per chi strenuo combatte è la vittoria.»
Io le risposi:—Resta.—
[pg!3]
SENZA NOME
Io non ho nome.—Io son la rozza figlia
Dell’umida stamberga;
Plebe triste e dannata è mia famiglia,
Ma un’indomita fiamma in me s’alberga.
Seguono i passi miei maligno un nano
E un angelo pregante.
Galoppa il mio pensier per monte e piano,
Come Mazeppa sul caval fumante.
Un enigma son io d’odio e d’amore,
Di forza e di dolcezza;
M’attira de l’abisso il tenebrore,
Mi commovo d’un bimbo alla carezza.
Quando per l’uscio de la mia soffitta
Entra sfortuna, rido;
Rido se combattuta o derelitta,
Senza conforti e senza gioie, rido.
Ma sui vecchi tremanti e affaticati,
Sui senza pane, piango;
Piango su i bimbi gracili e scarnati,
Su mille ignote sofferenze piango.
E quando il pianto dal mio cor trabocca,
Nel canto ardito e strano
Che mi freme nel petto e sulla bocca,
Tutta l’anima getto a brano a brano.
Chi l’ascolta non curo; e se codardo
Livor mi sferza o punge,
Provocando il destin passo e non guardo,
E il venefico stral non mi raggiunge.
[pg!7]
NON MI TURBAR....
Se qualche volta i tuoi detti d’amore,
Assorta, io non ascolto,
E m’ardon gli occhi, e insolito pallore
M’imbianca il labbro e il volto;
Se, di tutto dimentica, reclino
La bruna testa, e penso,
Non mi turbar—dinanzi a me, divino,
Si schiude un mondo immenso.
Da le nubi squarciate io vedo il sole
Cinger, nudo e ridente,
Il suol ricco di mirti e di viole
In abbraccio possente;
E dai fieni falciati, e da le messi
Mareggianti all’aperto,
Da le chiome de l’elci e dei cipressi,
Da l’arido deserto,
Dai grandi boschi urlanti al vento iroso
Con grido appassionato,
Dal fremito d’amor voluttuoso
Che ravviva il creato,
Sento, sento salir coi voli erranti
D’aligere sperdute
Soffi larghi, novelli e trionfanti
Di forza e di salute.
E non più sangue, non più sangue allaga
La dolorosa terra,
Non più, feroce ed inflessibil maga,
Spiana il fucil la guerra;
Ma tutto il mondo è patria e tutti un santo
Entusiasmo avviva,
E di pace solenne e mite un canto
Vola di riva in riva.
Non più il pazzo furor de la mitraglia
Eruttano i cannoni,
Non più volan fra mezzo a la battaglia
Le belliche canzoni;
Fuma il vapor; rompe l’aratro il cuore
A le zolle feraci,
Rimbomba de le macchine il fragore,
Rosseggian le fornaci;
E sul ruggito leonino e rude
De la terra in fermento
Libertà le sue bianche ali dischiude
Fiera squillando al vento.
[pg!12]
VA L’ONDA....
Fra l’alte rive, irrefrenata e cieca,
Va l’onda, e piange.—Il plumbeo cielo ascolta.
Non ha sorrisi la quieta vôlta.
Non l’aura un soffio ne la notte bieca.
Va l’onda, e piange. E nel suo grembo porta
E via trascina con mestizia greve
Il giovin corpo inanimato e lieve
D’una leggiadra suicida smorta.
Va l’onda, e piange.—In quel lamento accolto
È l’eco d’un mister torbido e strano;
Da quel pianto s’eleva il grido umano
D’un disperato amor vinto e travolto.
[pg!13]
BIRICHINO DI STRADA
Quando lo vedo per la via fangosa
Passar sucido e bello,
Colla giacchetta tutta in un brandello,
Le scarpe rotte e l’aria capricciosa;
Quando il vedo fra i carri o sul selciato
Coi calzoncini a brani,
Gettare i sassi nelle gambe ai cani,
Già ladro, già corrotto e già sfrontato;
Quando lo vedo ridere e saltare,
Povero fior di spina,
E penso che sua madre è all’officina,
Vuoto il tugurio e il padre al cellulare,
Un’angoscia per lui dentro mi serra;
E dico: «Che farai,
Tu che stracciato ed ignorante vai
Senz’appoggio nè guida sulla terra?...
De la capanna garrulo usignuolo,
Che sarai fra vent’anni?
Vile e perverso spacciator d’inganni,
Operaio solerte, o borsaiuolo?
L’onesta blusa avrai del manovale,
O quella del forzato?
Ti rivedrò bracciante o condannato,
Sul lavoro, in prigione, o all’ospedale?...»
.... Ed ecco, vorrei scender nella via
E stringerlo sul core,
In un supremo abbraccio di dolore,
Di pietà, di tristezza e d’agonia:
Tutti i miei baci dargli in un istante
Sulla bocca e sul petto,
E singhiozzargli con fraterno affetto
Queste parole soffocate e sante:
«Anch’io vissi nel lutto e nelle pene.
Anch’io son fior di spina;
E l’ebbi anch’io la madre all’officina,
E anch’io seppi il dolor.... ti voglio bene.»
[pg!17]
SON GELOSA DI TE!...
Ti vidi un giorno—e di sospetto un palpito
M’arse la solitaria alma sdegnosa,
Senza saper perchè:
Or ti conosco, e t’odio, e son gelosa,
Son gelosa di te!...
Va, sirena, e trionfa. A te di grazie
Molli e procaci ben concesse Iddio
Il fulgido tesor:
Va—sei bella e fatal come il desìo,
Bianca fanciulla da le trecce d’ôr!...
Perchè venisti? Di repente al fascino
Di tua fiorente giovinezza audace
Fuggì mia speme a vol;
E il mio splendido sogno infranto giace,
L’ali spezzate, al suol.
Se tu sapessi come punge l’anima
L’acuta spina d’un dolor profondo,
Quando fugge l’amor....
Come par vuoto e desolato il mondo.
Quando negletto e senza meta è il cor!...
Oh, potessi scordar l’alate e rosee
Larve del sogno appassionato e stolto
De la mia gioventù;
Su le rovine de l’amor sepolto
Non ridestarmi più!
.... Va, sirena, e trionfa.—A te di gioie
Intime il riso, e la bugiarda festa
Di dolci voluttà;
Ma se cupo abbandono a me sol resta,
L’ira del fato su te pur cadrà.
Quando, solinga, cercherai fra i ruderi
Muti e dispersi de l’amor languente
L’ebbrezza che svanì,
Quando, fra i geli, invocherai l’ardente
Felicità d’un dì,
Ritta e proterva mi vedrai risorgere
Come vindice larva a te dinante,
Lieta del tuo dolor;
E riderò su le tue gioie infrante,
Bianca fanciulla da le trecce d’ôr:
Poichè, superba di tue molli grazie,
Tu calpestasti il sogno mio di rosa
Sotto l’audace piè,
T’odio, balda sirena, e son gelosa,
Son gelosa di te!...
[pg!22]
STORIA BREVE
Ella pareva un sogno di poeta;
Vestìa sempre di bianco, e avea nel viso
La calma d’una sfinge d’oriente.
Le cadea sino ai fianchi il crin di seta;
Trillava un canto nel suo breve riso,
Era di statua il bel corpo indolente.
Amò—non riamata. In fondo al core,
Tranquilla in fronte, custodì la ria
Fiamma di quell’amor senza parole.
Ma quel desìo la consumò—ne l’ore
D’un crepuscol d’ottobre ella morìa,
Come verbena quando manca il sole.
[pg!23]
AUTOPSIA
Magro dottore, che con occhi intenti
Per cruda, intensa brama,
Le nude carni mie tagli e tormenti
Con fredda, acuta lama,
Odi. Sai tu chi fui?... Del tuo pugnale
Sfido il morso spietato;
Qui ne l’orrida stanza sepolcrale
Ti narro il mio passato.
Sui sassi de le vie crebbi. Non mai
Ebbi casa o parenti;
Scalza, discinta e senza nome errai
Dietro le nubi e i venti.
Seppi le notti insonni e l’inquïeto
Pensier della dimane,
L’inutil prece e il disperar segreto,
E i giorni senza pane.
Tutte conobbi l’improbe fatiche
E le miserie oscure,
Passai fra genti squallide e nemiche,
Fra lagrime e paure;
E finalmente un dì, sovra un giaciglio
Nitido d’ospedale,
Un negro augello dal ricurvo artiglio
Su me raccolse l’ale.
E son morta così, capisci, sola,
Come un cane perduto,
Così son morta senza udir parola
Di speme o di saluto!...
Come lucida e nera e come folta,
La mia chioma fluente!...
Senza un bacio d’amor verrà sepolta
Sotto la terra algente.
Come giovine e bianco il flessuoso
Mio corpo, e come snello!
Or lo disfiora il cupido, bramoso
Bacio del tuo coltello.
Suvvia, taglia, dilania, incidi e strazia,
Instancabile e muto.
Delle viscere mie godi, e ti sazia
Sul mio corpo venduto!...
Fruga, sinistramente sorridendo.
Che importa?... Io son letame.
Cerca nel ventre mio, cerca l’orrendo
Mistero della fame!...
Scendi col tuo pugnale insino all’ime
Viscere, e strappa il cuore.
Cercalo nel mio cor, cerca il sublime
Mistero del dolore!...
Tutta nuda così sotto il tuo sguardo,
Ancor soffro; lo sai?...
Colle immote pupille ancor ti guardo,
Nè tu mi scorderai:
Poi che sul labbro mio, quale conato
Folle di passïone,
Rauco gorgoglia un rantolo affannato
Di maledizïone.
[pg!29]
NEVICATA
Sui campi e su le strade
Silenzïosa e lieve,
Volteggiando, la neve
Cade.
Danza la falda bianca
Ne l’ampio ciel scherzosa,
Poi sul terren si posa
Stanca.
In mille immote forme
Sui tetti e sui camini,
Sui cippi e nei giardini
Dorme.
Tutto dintorno è pace:
Chiuso in oblìo profondo,
Indifferente il mondo
Tace....
Ma ne la calma immensa
Torna ai ricordi il core,
E ad un sopito amore
Pensa.
[pg!33]
NEBBIE
Soffro—Lontan lontano
Le nebbie sonnolente
Salgono dal tacente
Piano.
Alto gracchiando, i corvi,
Fidati all’ali nere,
Traversan le brughiere
Torvi.
Dell’aere ai morsi crudi
Gli addolorati tronchi
Offron, pregando, i bronchi
Nudi.
Come ho freddo! Son sola;
Pel grigio ciel sospinto
Un gemito d’estinto
Vola;
E mi ripete: Vieni,
È buia la vallata.
O triste, o disamata,
Vieni!...
[pg!35]
NOTTE
Sul giardino fantastico
Profumato di rosa
La carezza dell’ombra
Posa.
Pure ha un pensiero e un palpito
La quiete suprema;
L’aria, come per brivido,
Trema.
La luttuosa tenebra
Una storia di morte
Racconta a le cardenie
Smorte?
Forse—perchè una pioggia
Di soavi rugiade
Entro i socchiusi petali
Cade.—
.... Su l’ascose miserie,
Su l’ebbrezze perdute,
Sui muti sogni e l’ansie
Mute,
Su le fugaci gioie
Che il disinganno infrange,
La notte le sue lagrime
Piange.
[pg!37]
FIN CH’IO VIVA E PIÙ IN LÀ
Ella mi disse: «Tu non ridi mai;
Imprecan sempre i versi tuoi mordaci.
Tu il cantico non sai
Ove il gaudio folleggia e vibra al sole
La musica dei baci.
Tu non conosci la canzon febèa
Che ignuda erompe dal pagano ammanto
Come un’antica dea,
E in alto vola, nuvole spargendo
Di glicine e d’acanto.»
Ella mi disse ancora: «Ove sei nata,
Poetessa fatal del malaugurio?...
Quale perversa fata
Ti stregò ne la culla?...»—A lei risposi:
«Io nacqui in un tugurio.
Io sbocciai da la melma.—Ed attraverso
Al trionfo del sole ed ai ferventi
Inni de l’universo,
A me giunge da presso e da lontano
Un’eco di lamenti.
A me goccia sul cuore in accanita
Pioggia vermiglia il sangue degli eletti
Che gettaron la vita
Ove crollante libertà chiedea
Baluardo di petti.
Dalle case operaie ove si pigia
Una folla agitata e turbolenta,
Una pleiade grigia
Che al pan che le guadagna la fatica
Famelica s’avventa;
Da le fabbriche scure ove sbuffando
Vanno, mostri d’acciaio, le motrici,
E l’acre aër filtrando
Pei pori, il roseo sangue intisichito
Rode a le tessitrici;
Da l’umide risaie attossicate,
Dai campi e da sterili radure,
Da le case murate
Ove in nome di Dio s’immolan tante
Inerti creature,
A me giunge, a me giunge il pianto alterno
Che mi persegue e che cessar non vuole,
Lugùbre, sempiterno,
Vipistrello che al buio sbatte l’ali,
Nube che offusca il sole!
Fuggon dinanzi a me gioia e bellezza,
Fugge la luce a novo dì ridesta.
La temeraria ebbrezza
Fugge d’amore e l’estasi del bacio....
Solo il dolor mi resta!...
Ma è dolor che non cede e non s’inclina,
È il dolor che pugnando a Dio s’innalza;
È la virtù divina
Che Promèteo sostenne incatenato
Su la selvaggia balza.
E tetro vola il canto mio sonante
Sopra l’intenta folla impallidita,
Come cala gigante
Su la ghiacciaia ove s’indura il gelo
Un’aquila ferita.»
[pg!43]
SULLA BRECCIA
Passan, compatti, tragici, severi,
Colla testa scoperta.
La cassa dell’estinto è ricoperta
Di lunghi veli fluttuanti e neri.
Un pensoso dolor fra ruga e ruga
Su le fronti s’incide.
Su loro invan da l’alto il ciel sorride;
Sgorga tacito il pianto, e niun l’asciuga.
Fra le travi inchiodate egli riposa,
Rattratto e sfracellato.
Lavorava sul tetto; e s’è spaccato,
Cadendo, il capo su la via sassosa.
Pieno di speme e di gagliarda vita,
Bello come un Titano,
Cadde.—Or la fredda e raggrinzata mano
Stringe il cor d’una vedova sfinita;
E via lo porta nei recessi austeri
Del sonno e dell’oblio.—
Sotto il dito terribile d’un Dio
Passan, compatti, tragici, severi;
E pensano.—O destin!... Com’egli è morto
Forse anch’essi morranno.
Il bracciante è soldato; essi lo sanno.—
Gonfiasi il petto, e il volto si fa smorto.
Erculei sono e coraggiosi, ed hanno
Ai lor sogni una meta,
Una famiglia e una casetta lieta,
E forse, sul lavor, doman cadranno
Da un tetto, nel fragor d’un opificio,
Sotto un crollo di vôlta;
Ma il grido di chi muor nessuno ascolta,
Niun comprende il supremo sacrificio.
Sorgono i vivi al posto degli estinti:
Sul lutto è la speranza:
Sconfinato è l’esercito che avanza,
Serenamente calpestando i vinti:
E come corron su le fosse mute
I bambini festanti,
Vanno le turbe, ignare e rimugghianti,
Sui resti de le vittime cadute.—
[pg!49]
BUON DÌ, MISERIA
_A Sofia Bisi Albini._
Chi batte alla mia porta?...
... Buon dì, Miseria; non mi fai paura.
Fredda come una morta
Entra: io t’accolgo rigida e secura.
Spettro sdentato da le scarne braccia,
Guarda!... ti rido in faccia.
Non basta ancor?... T’avanza,
T’avanza dunque, o spettro maledetto.
Strappami la speranza,
Scava coll’ugne adunche entro il mio petto;
Stendi l’ala sul letto di dolore
Di mia madre che muore.
T’accanisci: che vale?
È mia la giovinezza, è mia la vita!
Nella pugna fatale
Non mi vedrai, non mi vedrai sfinita.
Su le sparse rovine e su gli affanni
Brillano i miei vent’anni.
Tu non mi toglierai
Questa che m’arde in cor forza divina,
Tu non m’arresterai
Ne l’irruente vol che mi trascina.
Impotente è il tuo rostro.—O tetra Iddia,
Io seguo la mia via.
Vedi laggiù nel mondo
Quanta luce di sole e quante rose,
Senti pel ciel giocondo
I trilli de le allodole festose:
Che sfolgorìo di fedi e d’ideali,
Quanto fremito d’ali!...
Vecchia megera esangue
Che ti nascondi nel cappuccio nero,
Io nelle vene ho sangue,
Sangue di popolana ardente e fiero.
Vive angosce calpesto, e pianti, ed ire,
E movo all’avvenire.
Voglio il lavor che indìa,
E con nobile imper tutto governa.
Il sogno e l’armonia,
D’arte la giovinezza sempiterna;
Riso d’azzurro e balsami di fiori,
Astri, baci e splendori.
Tu passa, o maga nera,
Passa come funesta ombra sul sole.
Tutto risorge e spera,
E sorridon fra i dumi le vïole:
Ed io, dai lacci tuoi balzando ardita,
Canto l’inno alla vita!....
[pg!53]
VEGLIARDO
_.... in chiesa.—_
Prega—sei solo.—Il tardo
Passo qual triste idea qui t’ha guidato,
O pallido vegliardo?
Forse ti parla ne la chiesa oscura
Quel Dio che ti fe’ grande e sventurato,
Quel tremendo Signor che t’impaura?...
Passan ne la tua mente
Le rimembranze de l’età fuggita,
Passan, gelidamente:
Ed il tetro squallor del tempo antico
E il calvario crudel de la tua vita,
La tua vita di servo e di mendico.
Prega. Sfiorîr cogli anni
Di tua lontana gioventù solinga
Voti, speranze, inganni.
E pur fidavi—e ti cantava in core,
E ti spronava sulla via raminga
Il fresco inno gentil d’un primo amore.
Per quel nemico, acerbo
Destin che sotto un giogo empio curvava
Il capo tuo superbo;
Per la tua mesta gioventù schernita,
Pe’ tuoi laceri panni ella t’amava,
E l’orme seguitò de la tua vita....
Era bionda e sottile,
E come raggio le parlava in fronte
Il cor grande e gentile.
Con te divise degli affanni il pondo,
De la tua povertà gli strazi e l’onte,
E la sprezzante carità del mondo;
Poi.... s’addormì. L’assorta
Dolce pupilla al bacio tuo chiudea,
Piccola fata smorta.
Ove fuggiva?... In qual plaga profonda,
In qual lembo di ciel si nascondea
La tua boema innamorata e bionda?...
.... Prega—sei solo.—Il tardo
Passo ben triste idea qui t’ha guidato,
O tremulo vegliardo!
Forse ti parla ne la chiesa oscura
Quel tremendo Signor che pur t’ha dato
Il sorriso di lei ne la sventura?...
Svanîr calma e tempesta;
Ormai la tua giornata è giunta a sera,
Nulla quaggiù ti resta.
Su te mendico, servo e dispregiato,
Senza posa gravò la sferza fiera
D’un avverso destin.... ma fosti amato!...
[pg!57]
IL CANTO DELLA ZAPPA
Ruvida spada io son che il terren fende;
Son forza ed ignoranza.
In me stride la fame e il sol s’accende;
Son miseria e speranza.
Io conosco la sferza arroventata
Dei meriggi brucianti,
Dell’uragan che scroscia a la vallata
Le nubi saettanti.
Io so gli olezzi liberi e feraci
Che maggio da la terra
Con aulenti corolle, insetti e baci
Trionfando disserra:
E nell’opra d’ogni ora e d’ogni istante
Io più m’affilo e splendo;
Rassegnata, fortissima, costante,
Vo il duro suol rompendo.
Ne le basse casupole sconnesse,
Nel rozzo cascinale
Ove penètra per le imposte fesse
La ràffica invernale,
Ove del foco sul tizzon che geme
L’ignavia s’accovaccia,
E la pellagra insazïata freme
Gialla e sparuta in faccia,
Entro e guardo.—E in un canto abbandonata,
Ne l’alta e paurosa
Notte che incombe a l’umida spianata
E a la stanza fumosa,
Mentre la febbre di risaia scote
Feminei corpi affranti,
E più non s’odon che le torve note
Dei villici russanti,
Veglio, ed un soffio di desir m’infiamma.
.... Sogno la nova aurora,
Quando, dritta qual rustico orifiamma
Nel sol che l’aure indora,
Serenamente splendida, brandita
Da un’inspirata plebe,
Sorgerò, bella di vigor, di vita,
Da le feconde glebe.
Ma le lame saran pure di sangue,
E bianchi gli stendardi;
Conculcato morrà de l’odio l’angue
Sotto i colpi gagliardi;
E dalla terra satura d’amore,
Olezzante di rose.
Purificata dal novello ardore
De le gare animose,
Fino a l’azzurro ciel tutto un tumulto
Di rozze voci umane
Salirà come un inno ed un singulto:
«Pace!... lavoro!... pane!....»
[pg!61]
I VINTI
Sono cento, son mille, son milioni.
Son orde sconfinate.
Sommesso rombo di lontani tuoni
Han le file serrate.
S’avanzan sotto il rigido rovaio
Con passo uguale e tardo.
Nuda è la testa, l’abito è di saio,
Febbricitante il guardo.
Essi cercano me.—Tutti son giunti.—
Fluttuando com’onda
Di grigie forme e di volti consunti,
La turba mi circonda.
Mi pigia, mi nasconde, m’imprigiona;
Sento i rôchi respiri,
Il lungo pianto che nel buio suona,
Le bestemmie, i sospiri.
«Noi veniam dalle case senza fuoco,
Dai letti senza pace,
Ove il corpo domato a poco a poco
Piega, s’arrende, giace.
Veniam dagli angiporti e dalle tane,
Veniam dai nascondigli,
E gettiam su la terra un’ombra immane
Di lutto e di perigli.
Noi lo cercammo un ideal di fede,
Ed esso ci ha traditi.
Noi cercammo l’amor che spera e crede,
Ed esso ci ha traditi.
Noi l’oprar che rigenera e rafforza
Cercammo, e ci ha respinti.
Ov’è dunque la speme?... Ove la forza?...
Pietà!... Noi siamo i vinti.
.... Sopra e d’attorno a noi, del sol raggiante
Ne la gran luce d’oro,
Scoppia e trasvola il vasto inno festante
Del bacio e del lavoro:
Ferreo serpe, il vapor passa e rimbomba
Sotto montana vôlta,
Chiama l’industria con guerriera tromba
Menti e braccia a raccolta:
Mille bocche si cercan desïose
Innamoratamente,
Mille vite si lancian generose
Nella fornace ardente;
E inutili siam noi!..—Chi ci ha gettato
Su la matrigna terra?...
Il sospiro del cor chi ci ha negato?
Chi ne opprime e ne atterra?...
Qual odio pesa su di noi?... Qual mano
Ignota ci ha respinti?...
Perchè il cieco destin ci grida: Invano?...
Pietà!... Noi siamo i vinti.»
[pg!65]
MANO NELL’INGRANAGGIO
Rôtan le cinghie, stridono le macchine;
Indefessi ne l’opre, allegri canti
Vociano i lavoranti.
Ma un dissennato grido a un tratto levasi;
E pare lacerante urlo di belva
Ferita in una selva.
Fra i denti acuti un ingranaggio portasi
—Povera donna bionda e mutilata!...—
Una mano troncata.
... Rôtan le cinghie, stridono le macchine;
Ma le ruvide voci i lavoranti
Più non sciolgono ai canti.
Stillan, confuse col sudor, le lacrime;
Da lontano rombando, la motrice
Cupe leggende dice.
E senza tregua appare agli occhi torbidi
—Povera donna bionda e mutilata!...—
Quella mano troncata.
[pg!67]
LA MACCHINA ROMBA
La macchina romba.—S’eleva ruggendo
Il vasto solenne rumor,
Qual forte avoltoio che, l’aure fendendo,
Si slancia a le nuvole d’ôr.
La macchina romba.—Son gli urli selvaggi
Di chi fra i suoi denti spirò:
Di chi stritolata fra gl’irti ingranaggi
La giovine vita lasciò.
Di cinghie, d’acciaio, di morse, di foco,
Di spire temuto signor,
Il mostro sbuffante nel vigile loco
Si nutre d’immenso clamor:
Folleggia, sghignazza, divampa, s’allenta,
Stridendo si frena e ristà:
Poi torna all’assalto, si snoda, ed avventa
Nel cielo il fatidico hurrà.
«Avanti, campioni de l’opre venture,
Scendete nel nobile agon:
Di sega, di zappa, di picca, di scure
Vi chiami l’onesta tenzon.
Bollenti di vita le turgide vene,
Baciati nel viso dal sol,
Spiranti l’ambrosia de l’aure serene,
Nudriti da fertile suol,
Osate, o campioni di novi ardimenti,
V’aspetta la libera età....»
.... La macchina romba: nel cielo, fra i venti
Si slancia il fatidico hurrà.
[pg!69]
POPOLANA
Giran le spole, il fil s’attorce, io canto:
Ho diciott’anni in core,
Due begli occhi, un telaio ed un amore,
Vesto d’indiana e non conosco il pianto.
S’io snodo e sciolgo la mia treccia rossa
Ove un raggio sfavilla,
Nel guardo a chi m’affisa una scintilla
S’accende, e in petto elettrica una scossa!
Ma passo noncurante, e rido in viso
Ai tentator loquaci;
Serbo per l’amor mio tutti i miei baci,
E il mondo venderei pel suo sorriso.
Io l’amo;—egli è il signor della fucina,
Egli è il re del martello:
Alto, robusto, nerboruto e bello,
A lui dappresso sembro una bambina.
Quand’egli batte il ferro arroventato
Dinanzi alla fornace,
E sul volto ha i riflessi della brace,
E s’inturgida il collo denudato,
Io m’esalto per lui tutta d’orgoglio,
E per lui tutto oblìo;
Il mio demone egli è come il mio Dio,
E per me sola, per me sola il voglio!....
E s’io l’attendo ne la mia soffitta,
E l’ora è già trascorsa,
Mi si strozza il respir dentro una morsa,
E mi sento qui al sen come una fitta:
Ma un passo già risuona sulle scale....
Già l’uscio si spalanca....
La mano trema e il labbro mi s’imbianca,
Ma per corrergli incontro ai piedi ho l’ale....
Nero di polve e splendido d’amore,
Affranto e sorridente,
Ecco, ei m’avvolge in una stretta ardente,
E sento sul mio cor battergli il core.
[pg!75]
FIOR DI PLEBE
Tu la vedesti mai?... Sembra di rame
La sua pelle morata.
È una dea che ha per letto il nudo strame,
Una dea folleggiante ed abbronzata.
Sorride sempre ed ha sì bianchi i denti,
E il labbro sì vermiglio,
Che ti provoca ai baci.—In cor tu senti
L’alta malìa del luminoso ciglio;
E un turbamento che spiegar non sai
Le tue viscere afferra.
Ma d’esser bella ella non seppe mai,
E non ama che me sopra la terra!...
.... Tutte le sere, sola, essa m’attende
Su quel canto di via.
Quando mi vede, l’occhio suo s’accende,
La sua voce diventa melodìa;
Ed all’orecchio mi bisbiglia cento
Folli e semplici cose.—
Il batter lesto del suo core io sento,
L’alito de le labbra desïose;
E sento che benchè ricco soltanto
Io sia d’un saldo braccio.
Ella sarà felice a me daccanto,
Niuno la strapperà da questo abbraccio!...
.... Sai?... Le dissero un dì ch’io la tradìa;
E le dissero il nome
Da la nemica.—Tacita s’avvia.
Anelante il respir, sfatte le chiome;
La vede, la minaccia, s’accapiglia.
La sfregia con un morso;
Come indòmo cavallo che si sbriglia.
Tutta la rabbia sua disfrena il corso.
.... Io ritorno alla sera.—A me s’avvince
Ella, tutta tremante;
E colla voce che ogni sdegno vince,
Col grand’occhio bagnato e supplicante,
Scomposta, paurosa, scarmigliata,
Bellissima d’amore,
Umil come una schiava appassionata,
Ammalïante come schiuso fiore,
«Perdonami,» susurra,—e colla mano
Carezzando mi viene—
«Non disamarmi, non fuggir lontano....
Mi vendicai perchè ti voglio bene.»
[pg!79]
BACIO PAGANO
Fra l’auree spiche, in faccia al rutilante
Sole che tutta incendia la vallata,
Nel solco fumicante,
Su la tepida bocca ei l’ha baciata.
Ride il ciel senza nube e ride il grano
A la coppia rapita;
Inneggia intorno al bacio schietto e sano
Potentemente l’universa vita.
Sanguigne olezzan le corolle schiuse
Come bocche anelanti nell’amore;
Sale per l’aure effuse
Il canto allegro de la terra in fiore.
S’abbraccian sorridendo in mezzo al verde
I due giovani amanti,
Mentre un trillo di rondine si perde
Sotto l’arco dei cieli azzurreggianti;
E dappertutto, nei cespugli ombrosi,
Nei calici dei fiori, entro la bionda
Messe e nei nidi ascosi,
Freme il bacio che avviva e che feconda.
[pg!81]
CAVALLO ARABO
Sogni tu forse le gialle radure,
Sogni tu forse le calde pianure
Arse dal sol?
Vasti miraggi di sabbie cocenti,
Corse d’audaci cavalli nitrenti
Sul patrio suol?
Quando tu scoti la folta criniera,
E punti a terra la zampa guerriera
Mordendo il fren,
Quando tu nitri con urlo selvaggio,
Subita brama di novo viaggio
M’avvampa in sen.
Non sai?... M’attiran le plaghe serene;
Non sai?... M’attiran le nitide arene
Arse dal sol.
Vien, ch’io ti salti su l’agile groppa;
Bruno corsiero, galoppa, galoppa,
Divora il suol!...
Fuggi le nebbie stagnanti sui piani,
Su questa ignobile folla d’umani
Passa col piè:
Fendi correndo l’irsuta ramaglia.
Fuggi, galoppa per valle e boscaglia,
Libero e re!
Dietro ti lascia gli abissi e le frane,
Gonfî torrenti, spezzate liane,
Calpesti fior.
Avanti sempre, se lunga è la strada,
Fin ch’io con te ne la polvere cada,
Mio corridor!...
O fiamme rosee di vesperi queti,
O visïoni di snelli palmeti
Riflessi in mar;
Scabri e rocciosi profili di monti,
D’arabe nenie pei glauchi orizzonti
Fioco vibrar!...
Sprizza scintille la sabbia infocata;
Ahmed, galoppa!... La corsa sfrenata
Più non ristà.
Verso l’ignoto ti slancia, t’avventa;
Tutto disfido se in faccia mi venta
La libertà!...
[pg!87]
TE SOLO
Qui.... te solo, te solo.—Oh, lascia, lascia
Ch’io sfoghi sul tuo cor tutti i singulti
Da tant’anni nel petto accumulati,
Tutti gli affanni e i desiderî occulti....
Ho bisogno di pianto.
Sul tuo sen palpitante, oh, lascia, lascia
Ch’io riposi la testa affaticata,
Come timido augello sotto l’ala,
Come rosa divelta e reclinata....
Ho bisogno di pace.
Sul tuo giovine fronte, oh, lascia, lascia
Ch’io prema il labbro acceso e trepidante,
Ch’io ti susurri l’unica parola
Che t’incateni a me per un istante....
Ho bisogno d’amore.
[pg!91]
SINITE PARVULOS....
_Oh, si vouz rencontrez quelque part sous les cieux...._
_V. Hugo._
Se nel crocicchio d’una via deserta
O in mezzo al mondo gaio e spensierato
Incontrate un bambino abbandonato,
Pallido il viso e la pupilla incerta;
Che d’una madre il bacio ed il consiglio
Abbia perduto, e pianga su una bara
La memoria più santa e la più cara,
Oh, portatelo a me!... Sarà mio figlio.
Io lo terrò con me, per sempre.—A sera
Gli metterò le sue manine in croce.
Con lui, per lui dicendo a bassa voce
De’ miei anni più belli la preghiera.
La parola che eleva e che conforta
Io gli dirò con placida fermezza;
La gelosa e veggente tenerezza
Avrò per lui de la sua mamma morta.
Io gli dirò che la vita è lavoro,
Gli dirò che la pace è nel perdono;
Di tutto ciò che è giusto e grande e buono
Farò nella sua mite alma un tesoro.
La forza di pensier che Dio m’ha data
Tutta trasfonderò ne la sua mente;
Presso a lui sfiorirà tranquillamente
La mia vita raccolta e scolorata.
Mentr’io declinerò verso l’oblìo,
E avrò la cuffia e metterò gli occhiali,
Ei salirà, lo spirto agl’ideali,
Le braccia alla fatica e il cuore a Dio.
Fidente ei moverà verso l’aurora.
Ingranaggio vital nell’universo,
Irrequïeto augello al sol converso,
Giovane stelo che nel sol s’infiora:
E in pace io morirò.... poichè sofferto
Non avrò indarno, e non indarno amato;
E da un petto di figlio e di soldato
Cadrà un sospiro su l’avello aperto.
[pg!95]
NENIA MATERNA
Quando, bimba felice, a l’origliere
Desiosa di sonno, io m’affidava,
Curva su l’ago ne le lunghe sere
La madre mia vegliava.
Cantando ella vegliava—era una dolce
Cantilena gentil come di fata,
Donde il fioco ricordo ancor mi molce
Nell’anima turbata.
Nel silenzio vanìan le note lente
Come tremando d’intima dolcezza,
Vanìan per l’ampia oscurità dormente.
Lievi come carezza;
Ed io.... sognava.—Intorno a la mia culla
Aleggiava di miti angeli un coro,
D’amor parlanti a l’anima fanciulla,
Belli nei nimbi d’oro.
*
Or più non canti. Ma nel verno algente
Cruda miseria strazia, inesorata,
La tua stanca vecchiezza e l’impossente
Mia gioventù spezzata.
Or più non canti, o madre.—Ad una ad una
Svanîr le gioie—e pur, calma nei guai,
A l’insulto crudel de la fortuna
Non imprecasti mai;
Ma nel torvo del cor sdegno profondo,
Io lancio ai dardi de la sorte infida,
A l’onta nera, a la miseria, al mondo,
Una superba sfida.
.... Pur, quando a la mia fronte austera e smorta
Tacitamente, o madre mia, tu miri,
Come in amare ricordanze assorta,
Poi, timida, sospiri;
Di lontane memorie una dolcezza,
Di battiti segreti un’armonia,
Mi spinge a ricercar la tua carezza
Appassionata e pia.
Ne la penombra dell’ora quïeta,
Sotto il tuo caro sguardo, a te vicina,
Madre, vorrei scordar che son poeta,
E ritornar bambina.
Vorrei sentirle ancor le nenie lente
Che un dì, chinata su tranquilla cuna,
Calma ne l’ampia oscurità dormente,
Fidavi a l’aura bruna;
E ribaciando la tua fronte bianca,
Che tristezza d’amor tutta scolora,
Fra le tue braccia, come bimba stanca,
Addormentarmi ancora.
[pg!99]
NELL’URAGANO
Quando de la procella scapigliata
Rugge l’ira e gialleggia il lividor,
Ed Eolo come furia scatenata
Fischia dei lampi al vivido baglior,
Vorrei nel turbinìo dell’uragano,
Fra le saette d’ôr,
Perdermi tutta, perdermi lontano,
Così, stretta al tuo cor!...
*
In questa febbre di cielo e di terra,
Con te sospinta nell’immensità,
Dirti l’antica ed ostinata guerra
Che tu in me non sospetti e Dio non sa;
A me d’intorno l’ulular del vento,
Buio, schianto, furor;
Sotto ai piè la ruina e lo spavento,
La testa sul tuo cor....
[pg!103]
LUCE
A fasci s’effonde
Per l’aria tranquilla.
Colora, sfavilla,
La mite frescura
Del verde ravviva,
S’ingemma giuliva
Per terra e per ciel,
Vittorïosa, calda e senza vel.
Son perle iridate
Danzanti nell’onde,
Son nozze di bionde
Farfalle e di rose,
La vita pagana
Dolcissima emana
Dai baci dei fior...
Il mondo esulta e tutto grida: Amor!...
Mi sento nell’anima
La speme fluire,
L’immenso gioire
Di vivere sento.
Qual schiera di rondini
I sogni ridenti
Fra i raggi lucenti
Si librano a vol....
Son milionaria del genio e del sol!...
[pg!107]
PORTAMI VIA
Oh, portami lassù, lassù fra i monti,
Ove lampeggia e indura il gel perenne,
Ove, fendendo i ceruli orizzonti,
L’aquila spiega le sonanti penne;
Ove il suol non è fango; ove del mondo
Più non mi giunga l’odïata voce;
Ov’io risenta men gravoso il pondo
Di questa che mi curva arida croce.
Oh, portami lassù!... Ch’io possa amarti
In faccia a l’acri montanine brezze,
Fra i ciclami e gli abeti, e inebbriarti
Di sorrisi d’aurora e di carezze!...
Qui grigia nebbia sul mio cor ristagna;
Nelle risaie muor la poesia;
Voglio amarti lassù, de la montagna
Nel silenzio immortal.... portami via!...
[pg!109]
PUR VI RIVEDO ANCOR....
Pur vi rivedo ancor, povere stanze,
Linde stanzette de la madre mia:
Oh, nel mio sen, che folla di speranze,
Quando, ricca di sogni, io ne partìa!...
Pur vi rivedo ancor, povere stanze.
O bianco letto ove dormii bambina,
O vaghi fiori, o ninnoli gentili,
Soavemente, con virtù divina,
Voi mi parlate dei trascorsi aprili;
O bianco letto ove dormii bambina!...
La speranza nel cor si rinnovella,
Care memorie, in voi mirando—e al muto
Labbro la fede, più gagliarda e bella,
Chiama il sorriso ch’io credea perduto....
.... La speranza nel cor si rinnovella.
Madre, qui, nel silenzio, a te vicina,
Chinar la testa fra le tue carezze,
Sui tuoi ginocchi ritornar bambina,
Dirti del cor l’indomite tristezze....
Madre, qui, nel silenzio—a te vicina!...
Oh, non lasciarmi, non lasciarmi mai,
Solo conforto ai miei tristi vent’anni!...
Tutti, presso di te, mamma, tu il sai,
L’anima scorda i paventati affanni....
Oh, non lasciarmi, non lasciarmi mai!...
Move da l’aure un alito di pace;
Palpitante di stelle è il firmamento,
Ed ogni umana sofferenza tace
Come dormono i fiori e tace il vento:
.... Move da l’aure un alito di pace....
[pg!111]
STRANA
Treman le foglie con brivido lento:
Al bosco verde che bisbiglia e posa
Narra una storia il vento.
E comincia così: C’era una volta....
E, trepidando all’alitante spiro,
Il bosco verde ascolta.
*
Era un’errante e fervida gitana:
Avea la bocca rossa e fulvo il crine,
E si chiamava: Strana.
Un giorno amò.—Fu spasmo e fu dolcezza,
Fu sorriso e delirio, ombra e splendore
Di quell’amor l’ebbrezza.
Un altro giorno attese, ed ei non venne.
Attese a lungo, palpitante e muta.
Non venne più.... non venne.
Ed essa allor, chinando il volto assorto,
Disse: A che serve trascinar la vita,
Quando l’amore è morto?
.... Un alito passò tra fronda e fronda.
D’infinito riposo a lei parlava
L’acqua limpida e fonda;
D’oblìo parlava!... E su come lamento
Un susurro venìa: Tutto si spegne
Quando l’amore è spento.—
.... La moritura si drizzò fremendo,
Col teso pugno un’adorata, infida
Larva maledicendo;
Poi com’ebra slanciossi. E su l’effuse
Chiome, e sul niveo corpo disfiorato
La fredda onda si chiuse.
*
Narra il vento così. La notte densa
Cala, cinta di nubi, a la foresta,
Che abbrividendo pensa.
Ed ecco, a poco a poco il vento sale,
Punge, penètra, sibila, travolge,
Fiero scotendo l’ale.
Ed è voce di pianto alta e suprema,
Ed è lungo e gemente urlo d’angoscia,
E la foresta trema.
Son palpiti di fronde e son sussulti.
Parole d’ira sibilate a volo,
Aneliti, singulti....
Squallida e nuda, ad un ricordo avvinta,
Via per la selva turbinando gira
L’anima d’un’estinta;
E par che gema tra le foglie attorte;
No, non v’è pace!... Amor che avvampa in vita
Spasima nella morte.
[pg!117]
PERCHÈ
I.
L’uno ha vent’anni—è bello, innamorato,
Dolce signor d’armonïosi canti,
E sul suo labbro acceso ed inspirato
Fioriscono per me gl’inni vibranti.
Ei che descrive nel suo verso alato
Splendidamente de l’amor gl’incanti,
Egli, vinto, sommesso, affascinato,
Trema come un fanciullo a me davanti.
E mi susurra al piè queste follìe:
Darei la gloria pe’ tuoi cari accenti,
Per te che sola al mondo adoro e bramo...
E de l’arte le mistiche armonie,
Sogni, voti, sorrisi, estri ferventi,
Tutto a’ miei piè depone, e pur.... non l’amo!...
II.
L’altro drizza la fronte imperiosa
Come tronco di quercia a la procella.
Tace—ma tutta in lui leggo l’ascosa
Poesia de la schiva alma rubella.
Non mi parla d’amor—forse non osa.
Ma l’acuto suo sguardo, ignea facella,
Con secreta carezza e dolorosa
Mi ripete ch’ei m’ama e che son bella.
Quando langue sui vetri il dì che manca,
Ed ei m’affisa ne la smorta faccia,
E pensa, e soffre, e non sa dirmi: Io t’amo,
Io chino il volto con ebbrezza stanca;
Ed un desìo mi spinge a le sue braccia,
Come trepido augello al suo richiamo.
[pg!121]
SFIDA
O grasso mondo di borghesi astuti
Di calcoli nudrito e di polpette,
Mondo di milionari ben pasciuti
E di bimbe civette;
O mondo di clorotiche donnine
Che vanno a messa per guardar l’amante,
O mondo d’adulterî e di rapine
E di speranze infrante;
E sei tu dunque, tu, mondo bugiardo,
Che vuoi celarmi il sol de gl’ideali,
E sei tu dunque, tu, pigmeo codardo.
Che vuoi tarparmi l’ali?...
Tu strisci, io volo; tu sbadigli, io canto:
Tu menti e pungi e mordi, io ti disprezzo:
Dell’estro arride a me l’aurato incanto,
Tu t’affondi nel lezzo.
O grasso mondo d’oche e di serpenti,
Mondo vigliacco, che tu sia dannato!
Fiso lo sguardo ne gli astri fulgenti,
Io movo incontro al fato;
Sitibonda di luce, inerme e sola,
Movo.—E più tu ristai, scettico e gretto,
Più d’amor la fatidica parola
Mi prorompe dal petto!...
Va, grasso mondo, va per l’aer perso
Di prostitute e di denari in traccia:
Io, con la frusta del bollente verso,
Ti sferzo in su la faccia.
[pg!125]
SALVETE
Penso agli atleti della vanga—ai forti
Che disfidando urlanti nembi e soli,
Strappano a l’arsa tormentata gleba
Misero un pane.
Penso agli atleti del piccone—ai macri
De la miniera poderosi atleti,
Ne l’ombra nera ed imprecata ansanti
Senza riposo.
.... Un sordo rombo ecco serpeggia—e crolla
Precipitando con fragor la vôlta,
E tutto è polve e cieco abisso e lunghi
Gemiti e morte....
Ma il sen squarciato del pietroso monte
Fende il vapor vittorioso, e passa;
E lo saluta al trionfato varco
Fulgido il sole.—
.... Penso agli atleti dell’idea, che, accesi
D’ansia febbril la generosa mente,
Martiri e duci, fra le turbe ignare
Tuonano a pugna:
Penso a chi veglia, s’affatica e muore
Disconosciuto.... e dal mio seno irrompe
Alto echeggiando su la terra un grido:
Forti, salvete!—
*
Salvete, o petti scamiciati e ferrei,
Ruvidi corpi e muscolose braccia
Infaticate nel clamor ruggente
De l’officine:
Salvete, o voi, cui del lavoro infiamma
Il santo orgoglio, e nel lavor morrete,
Voi, del pensier, del maglio e della scure
Strenui campioni.
A me dinanzi in visïon severa
Passan profili d’operaie smorte,
Passan le navi ruinanti a l’urto
De la procella;
E bimbi stanchi e incanutite fronti,
E mozzi corpi e sfigurati volti,
E tutta, tutta un’infinita, affranta,
Lurida plebe.
Sento da lungi un romorìo di voci.
Colpi di zappe, di martelli e d’aste:
Io, fra il tumulto che la terra avviva,
Libera canto;
Te canto, o sparsa, o dolorosa, o grande
Famiglia umana!... Va, combatti e spera,
Tenta, t’adopra e non posar giammai;
Breve è la vita.
Su le tenzoni del lavor; sul capo
Dei vincitori e l’agonie dei vinti,
Sguardo sereno ed immortal di Dio,
Sfolgora il Sole.
[pg!131]
PIETÀ!...
Io t’invoco, o Signore,
Che nel buio mi guardi.
Batte da lungi l’ore
La bronzea squilla. È tardi.
Spiega la notte l’ale....
Io prego, inginocchiata,
Convulsa, al capezzale
Di mia madre malata.
Pietà!...
Sul terreo viso immoto
Cala come un sudario.
Dio dell’ombra e del vuoto,
Che salisti il Calvario,
Che portasti la croce,
Che cingesti le spine,
Ascolta la mia voce,
Allontana la fine,
Pietà!
Pietà di lei che soffre,
Pietà di lei che muore.
Che vuoi da me?... M’avvinghia,
O implacabil Dolore;
Copri di strazi e d’onte
I miei tristi vent’anni,
Scavami sulla fronte
Le rughe degli affanni,
Fa che d’amor, di gioie,
Fa che di tutto priva
Io sia, tranne di lagrime....
Ma che mia madre viva.
Pietà!...
[pg!135]
VA
Tu che sei bello, generoso e forte,
Tu amor mi chiedi?... Oh, bada.
Se gaudio e speme a te reca la sorte,
Non ti gettar su la mia fosca strada.
Va, di pace e d’amor ricca è la terra:
Fanciullo, io son la guerra.
T’arde la fiduciosa alma ne gli occhi,
E amor mi chiedi?... Oh, bada.
Non trascinarti dunque a’ miei ginocchi,
Non ti gettar su la mia fosca strada.
Se gaudio e speme a te reca la sorte,
Ti scosta—io son la morte.
De la mia madre sulla grigia testa
E sul mio capo bruno
Scatenarsi vid’io nembo e tempesta,
E cumular gli affanni ad uno ad uno.
Esile ed avvilita, in vesti grame,
Piansi di freddo e fame.
Crebbi così, racchiusa in un dolore
Torvo, senza parole;
Crebbi col buio intorno e qui nel core
Una feroce nostalgia di sole.
D’occulti pianti e di sconforto vissi,
Soffersi e maledissi.
E quando penso a mia madre, che un lento
Vorace morbo uccide,
Al focolar de la mia casa spento,
Al lauto mondo che gavazza e ride,
Un odio, un infrenato odio mortale,
Spiega a’ miei versi l’ale.
E tu mi chiedi amor?... Parti, m’oblìa,
Fanciullo!... Oh, tu non sai
L’ansie de la rovente anima mia
In lotta sempre e non placata mai?...
Lascia ch’io fugga, disamata e smorta,
Ove il destin mi porta.
Lascia ch’io fugga tra i sassi e le spine
Sin che la vita muore,
Ch’io fugga senza tregua e senza fine,
Colla febbre nel sangue e Dio nel cuore....
.... Va, di pace e d’amor ricca è la terra:
Fanciullo, io son la guerra.
[pg!139]
NO
Io lo respinsi e dissi: «Non t’amai,
Non t’amo, no. Che tenti?
Viva o morta ch’io sia, tu non m’avrai.»
Egli rispose: «Menti.»
Io lo respinsi e dissi: «No—non mai.
S’io t’ami, Iddio m’annienti.
Per sempre dal mio cor ti cancellai...»
Egli rispose: «Menti.»
«Indarno, indarno, o pallido infelice,
L’anima mia tu chiami.
Sigilla il cuore ciò che il labbro dice....»
Egli rispose: «M’ami.»
In volto lo mirai, scossa, non vinta.
«Pel tuo fatale amore,
Per la memoria di tua madre estinta,
Per me, pel mio dolore,
Per Dio che tutto vede e tutto sente,
Pel tuo bieco passato,
Per questa vita mia breve e morente
Non ribellarti al fato;
Lasciami e scorda. Oh, nulla ti trattenga:
Favelli in te l’orgoglio.
Vano ricordo io pel tuo cor divenga...»
Egli disse: «Ti voglio.»
*
Inutilmente in quel desìo raccolto
Infatti egli restò.
Ma ancora, ancor gli sibilo sul volto:
«Che fai? che aspetti?... No!...»
[pg!141]
CANTO D’APRILE
O amore, amore, amor!... Tutto ti sento
Divinamente palpitar nel sole,
Nei soffii larghi e liberi del vento,
Nel mite olezzo trepidante e puro
De le prime vïole!
Come linfa vital, caldo e ferace
Vivi e trascorri nei nascenti steli;
Con le allodole canti; angelo audace
Fra mille atomi d’ôr voli, e cospargi
Di luce i mondi e i cieli.
O amore, amore, amor!... Tutto ti sento
Nell’esultanza de l’april risorto;
Dai profumi a le rose ed ali al vento,
Copri la terra di raggi e di baci...
Ma nel mio cor sei morto.
[pg!143]
MADRE OPERAIA
Nel lanificio dove aspro clamore
Cupamente la vôlta ampia percote,
E fra stridenti rôte
Di mille donne sfruttasi il vigore,
Già da tre lustri ella affatica.—Lesta
Corre a la spola la sua man nervosa,
Nè l’alta e fragorosa
Voce la scote de la gran tempesta
Che le scoppia dattorno.—Ell’è sì stanca
Qualche volta; oh, sì stanca e affievolita!...
Ma la fronte patita
Spiana e rialza, con fermezza franca;
E par che dica: Avanti ancora!...—Oh, guai,
Oh, guai se inferma ella cadesse un giorno,
E al suo posto ritorno
Far non potesse, o sventurata, mai!...—
Non lo deve; nol può.—Suo figlio, il solo,
L’immenso orgoglio de la sua miseria,
Cui ne la vasta e seria
Fronte del genio essa divina il volo,
Suo figlio studia.—Ed essa all’opificio
A stilla a stilla lascierà la vita,
E affranta, rifinita,
Offrirà di sè stessa il sacrificio;
E la tremante e gelida vecchiaia
Offrirà, come un dì la giovinezza,
E salute, e dolcezza
Di riposo offrirà, santa operaia;
Mio il figlio studierà.—Temuto e grande
Lo vedrà l’avvenire; ed a la bruna
Sua testa la fortuna
D’oro e di lauro tesserà ghirlande!...
*
.... Ne la stamberga ove non giunge il sole
Studia, figlio di popolo, che porti
Scritte ne gli occhi assorti
De l’ingegno le mistiche parole,
E nei muscoli fieri e nella sana
Verde energia de le tue fibre serbi
Gli ardimenti superbi
De la indomita razza popolana.
Per aprirti la via morrà tua madre;
All’intrepido suo corpo caduto
Getta un bacio e un saluto,
E corri incontro a le nemiche squadre,
E pugna colla voce e colla penna,
D’alti orizzonti il folgorar sublime,
Nove ed eccelse cime
Addita al vecchio secol che tentenna:
E incorrotto tu sia, saldo ed onesto...
Nel vigile clamor d’un lanificio
Tua madre il sacrificio
De la sua vita consumò per questo.
[pg!147]
NON POSSO
Perchè, quando con dolce e malïardo
Labbro mi narri di tua vita errante,
L’innamorato e cerulo tuo sguardo
Par che tutto mi sugga il cor pulsante?...
No, non chiamarmi ai morti sogni e ai baci....
Non posso, taci!...
Quando, raccolta e pensierosa, ascolto
La voce tua che come un’arpa vibra,
Perchè sale una vampa a te sul volto,
Corre un brivido a me per ogni fibra?...
No, non chiamarmi ai morti sogni e ai baci....
Non posso, taci!...
Altro fato m’incalza.—Oh, mai nell’ora
Voluttuosa in cui tutto s’oblìa,
E nel delirio rapida s’infiora.
Labbro d’amante mi dirà: Sei mia.
Su la mia bocca giovanile e pura
Bacio è sciagura.
Tu mai non pensi l’amor mio?... Raggiante
Luce sarebbe di gioia e di gloria,
Riso di giovinezza trionfante,
Inno di speme e canto di vittoria:
D’anima e di pensier, di mente e d’ossa
Magica scossa.
E pur, vedi, ti scaccio e m’allontano,
Rigida e casta, ne la notte fonda;
Non mi chieder perchè di questo strano
Tirannico mister che mi circonda;
Non richiamarmi ai morti sogni e ai baci....
Non posso, taci!...
[pg!149]
FANTASMI
Io mirai l’onda che rompeasi al lido;
E di veder mi parve
Rasentar leggermente il flutto infido
Una schiera di larve.
*
Eran vestite d’alighe spioventi:
Avean sciolti i capelli,
Disfatti i volti, occhi stravolti o spenti.
Sotto ai lor piè l’acqua turbata avea
Balenii di coltelli.
Da quelle labbra scolorate uscìa
Bava e un gemito rôco.
Misto al rombo del mare esso venìa
A parlarmi nel core.—Sui ginocchi
Io caddi a poco a poco.
Eran fracidi corpi d’annegati;
Suicidi gettati
Da volontà demente ai flutti e ai fati;
Vittime con un ferro in mezzo al petto,
Naufraghi scarmigliati.
Mi disser: «Che si fa sopra la terra?»
Io risposi: «Si piange.
Ipocrisia trionfa, odio si sferra.
Oh, più felici voi su gl’irti scogli
Ove l’acqua si frange!...»
Mi disser: «Scendi ai placidi riposi
Fra l’alghe serpentine.
Nascondigli d’amor sono i marosi
Inesplorati, e sol nel nulla è pace.
Scendi;—qui v’è la fine.»
*
.... Ed io mirai su le verdastre larve
Il tramonto morire:
Ne la penombra il queto mar mi parve
Un letto per dormire.
[pg!153]
VIAGGIO NOTTURNO
Si parte: è mezzanotte.—È pigra la cavalla,
Su le malferme rôte il veicol traballa:
Su, frusta, o carrettier!...
Per noi, dell’avventura lieti e securi figli,
Non ha minaccie il bosco, l’ombra non ha perigli,
Sassi non ha il sentier.
Tutto si cela e dorme—su, frusta, o carrettier!...
Fuor da una nube occhieggia, sogghignando, la luna;
Vecchia malizïosa, per la pianura bruna
Ella spiando va.
Al ciel velato gli alberi tendono i rami storti,
Come preganti braccia di scheletri contorti:
Che narri, o immensità?...
.... Fuor da una nube l’algida luna spiando va.
Ritta, commossa e pallida, l’occhio smarrito e fisso,
Io, coi capelli al vento, interrogo l’abisso.
Inghiotte il tenebror
Preci e rancori d’anime, baci di labbra amanti,
Sogni, delitti e lacrime, carezze deliranti
D’avvelenati amor.
Passan sospiri e brividi traverso al tenebror!...
«Che fai? che vuoi?...» mi chiedono, sôrte da fossa impura
Fatue fiammelle erranti presso le basse mura
D’un àtro cimiter.
Non so; cerco il destino. Forse eterno è il viaggio,
Forse eterna è la notte; non importa. Ho coraggio.
Su, frusta, o carrettier!...
Io non vi temo, fatui spirti del cimiter.
Nel silenzio tranquillo de l’assopito vano,
Misteriosa scôlta, veglia il pensiero umano,
Com’angelo immortal.
Veglia, e coll’ali fatte di sogno e d’ardimento,
sfiora la cieca terra, le nuvole d’argento,
La fossa e l’ideal.
Vola, o pensier, sui ruderi, com’angelo immortal!...
[pg!159]
ANIMA
_A Nice Turri_.
Era grande ed oscuro. Un divo soffio
Di genio la sua fronte irrequïeta
Baciava. Ai sogni, ai palpiti
Cresciuto de l’idea,
Bello, gentile, libero, poeta,
Incompreso dal volgo, egli vivea.
A lui gli astri e la luce—a lui la mistica
Armonia de le cose un sovrumano,
Un fervido linguaggio
Parlava.—Ei che ghirlande
Non chiedeva a la gloria, a un cuore invano
Mendicò amor.—Gli fu negato.—Grande
Ed oscuro, moriva!... In solitudine
Fosca, moriva.—Ride il sol lucente
Su l’invocato tumulo;
Lunge, trilla e si perde
Un canto alato come augel fuggente
Per la serena maestà del verde;
Sotto, fra i chiodi de la cassa, sfasciasi
La domata materia.—A la feconda
Terra, la terra ignobile
Torna.—De la tua mesta
E commovente poesia profonda,
Del tuo genio, di te, vate, che resta?...
*
Tu, tu sola che amavi, e viva e rosea
Del sol bevesti i luminosi rai,
Tu che ne i lunghi spasimi
D’intenso ardor fremesti,
Tu, sanguinante ma non vinta mai,
Sconosciuta e virile anima, resti!...
Quando tace la terra, e nel silenzio
Cala il bacio de gli astri al fior sopito,
E come alito d’angeli
Via per gli spazi immensi
Un sospiro d’amor corre infinito,
Tu in quell’alito vivi, e guardi, e pensi.
Quando il nembo s’addensa, e il vento indomito
Fischia, e pei boschi impazza la bufera,
E rossi lampi guizzano
Su ne l’accesa vôlta,
Con la procella minacciosa e nera
Tu soffri e gemi, nei ricordi avvolta.
Quando, vanendo per le limpide aure,
Sale un canto di donna al ciel gemmato,
E di carezze e d’impeti
E di desii supremi
Parla e si lagna nel ritmo inspirato,
Tu in quel canto, vibrante anima, tremi!
Fin che sui rivi ondeggieranno i salici
Fin che tra i muschi fioriran le rose,
Fin che le labbra al bacio
E a la rugiada il fiore
Aneleranno, e le create cose
Avviverà, febèa scintilla, amore:
Ne le nozze dei gigli, ne la gloria
Irrefrenata dei meriggi ardenti,
In alto, de le tremule
Stelle nei bianchi rai,
Ne gli abissi del mar, librata ai venti,
Nel mistero del cosmo, alma, vivrai.
[pg!165]
AFA
Il sole sta. Sta l’aura
D’atomi d’ôr cosparsa.
L’erma pianura immobile,
Tutta di foco e polve,
Nella luce si avvolve
Arsa.
L’afa morta, implacabile,
Pesantemente piomba.
Ne la tristezza fiammea
Posa la terra stanca,
Come un’immane e bianca
Tomba.
.... Pace—Sognante vergine
Assetata d’amore,
Chino il riarso calice
Sotto la vampa afosa,
Un’appassita rosa
Muore.
Rugiade invoca e pioggie
Quell’agonia pel suolo:
La dolcezza d’un bacio,
La voluttà d’un’ora,
Per chi soffre e lavora
Solo.
Ma tutto brucia e sfolgora,
Tutto è riposo e oblìo;
Nell’alidor terribile
Sopra la terra ignava
Solennemente grava
Dio.
[pg!169]
TU VUOI SAPER?...
Tu vuoi saper chi io sia?... Fanciullo, senti.
In deserta prigion chiuso e dannato
Io sono augello dall’ali possenti;
E chiedo il folgorar dei firmamenti,
E qui m’agito e soffro incatenato.
Biondo fanciullo, senti.
Io sogno nozze di silvestri fiori
Ne l’ombra secolar de la foresta,
E de le belve i deliranti amori
Su le sabbie del tropico; e gli ardori
Del sole e il turbinar de la tempesta,
Raggi, procelle e fiori.
E qualche volta, vedi, audacemente
Io mi dibatto, maledico, piango;
Ma passa il mondo e ride o non mi sente,
Ed io, testardo prigionier furente,
Contro i ferri l’aperte ali m’infrango,
E il mondo non mi sente!...
Oh, chi mi spèzza l’ìnvide ritorte.
Chi mi dona la luce e l’infinito,
Chi mi dischiude le tenaci porte?
Io voglio, io voglio errar, garrulo e forte,
Nella luce del sole ebbro e rapito....
O libertade, o morte.
[pg!173]
VIENI AI CAMPI...
Vieni ai campi con me!... Bagna nel verde
La rugiada i miei sandali di seta.
De la campagna che il mattin rinverde
Vo’ coglier tutti i fior....
Vieni con me nei boschi, o mio poeta,
Ma non dirmi d’amor!...
Una rondin traversa il ciel di rosa,
L’umide foglie sembran dïamanti;
Brillan gl’insetti nell’erba muscosa,
Ringiovanisce il pian;
Guarda che luce, che festa, che incanti...
Dio non esiste invan!...
.... Non parlarmi d’amor.—Di quei fulgori
L’anima nostra è un pallido riflesso.
Guarda che forza di divini ardori
Circonfondente il suol;
Che amor possente e che possente amplesso
De la terra col sol!...
Tu dar non mi potrai quel bacio eterno.—
.... Fatto di debolezza e gelosia,
Di fosche nubi e di rose d’inverno,
Di febbre e di timor,
Dell’infinito innanzi all’armonia,
Di’, che vale il tuo amor?...
Io voglio, io voglio i campi sterminati
Ove fremono germi e sboccian fiori,
Come snella puledra in mezzo ai prati
Io voglio, io voglio andar;
Dell’iride vogl’io tutti i colori,
Tutti i gorghi del mar!...
Strappar le fronde e calpestar gli steli,
Goder l’eccelsa libertà montana,
Sul vergin picco che si slancia ai cieli
Batter felice il piè;
E assopirmi nel sol, come sultana
Ne le braccia d’un re!...
[pg!179]
FRA I BOSCHI CEDUI
Fra i boschi cedui
Infuria un demone.
Sghignazza, avventasi,
Piega le quercie,
Rompe ogni stel,
Sinistre nuvole
Chiama pel ciel.
Fra i boschi cedui
Sghignazza un demone.
Tutta ravvivasi
La selva ed ansima,
Tutta contorcesi:
Riscote ed anima
L’immensità
Un urlo magico:
«Fatalità.»
Tutta contorcesi
La selva ed ansima.
Narra la ràffica
Bizzarre istorie
D’amor, di lagrime,
D’ebbrezze adultere
Che Dio punì;
Colpe e misterii
D’antichi dì.
Narra la ràffica
Storie di lagrime.
Prendimi, portami,
Spirto malefico:
Su l’audacissime
Ali indomabili,
Tra nubi e fulmini,
Pel cieco orror,
Portami, involami,
Come la gracile
Foglia d’un fior....
In alto, in alto sempre, in alto ancor!...
[pg!184]
CASCATA
Da che eccelse scaturigini tu nasci,
O cascata impetuosa?...
Rimbalzante sulla china perigliosa,
Tu scrosciando volgi al mar;
Spumi, brilli, ridi, spruzzi, e niun t’arresta
Ne la corsa secolar.
*
Da che eccelse scaturigini tu nasci,
O pensiero zampillante?
A te beve, secco il labbro e il petto ansante,
L’assetata umanità;
In te il sole si rispecchia, e niun t’arresta
Ne l’immensa eternità.
[pg!185]
MISTICA
Ella amava le gotiche navate
Dei templi solitari;
I ceri agonizzanti sugli altari,
Il biascicar dei mistici
Rosarî.
Ella pregava sempre, pei dolori
Che ancor non conoscea:
Come un giglio era bella e nol sapea:
Non di carne, ma d’etere
Parea.
Una sera, nell’ombra d’un’arcata,
Uno sguardo l’avvolse,
Ella chinò la testa e non si volse.
Ma nelle fibre un tremito
La colse.
Un’altra sera ancor, nel tempio vuoto,
Ella incontrò quel viso.
Prometteva l’inferno e il paradiso....
Il cor le battè rapido,
Conquiso.
Ed una voce su la bocca: Io t’amo,
Le disse, ed ella pianse....
Un angelo dall’alto la compianse;
Sull’altare una lampada
S’infranse.
[pg!189]
HAI LAVORATO?
Dunque tu m’ami. Hai confessato; or, trepido,
Taci ed attendi, e ti scolora il viso
Un’onda di pallor.
Vuoi dal mio labbro un bacio ed un sorriso.
Vuoi di mia fresca giovinezza il fior!...
Ma dimmi: L’ansie, le battaglie e gl’impeti
Sai tu d’un ideal che mai non langue?
Sai tu che sia soffrir?...
Che ti val la tua forza ed il tuo sangue,
L’anima tua, la mente, il tuo respir?...
Hai lavorato?... Le virili insonnie
De la notte in severe opre vegliata,
Di’, non conosci tu?...
A qual fede o vessillo hai consacrata
La tua florida e bella gioventù?...
Non mi rispondi.... oh, vattene. Fra gli ozî
Lieti di sonnolente ore perdute
Torna, vitello d’ôr.
Torna fra balli, carte e prostitute;
Io non vendo i miei baci ed il mio cor.
Oh, se tu fossi affaticato e lacero,
Ma coll’orgoglio del lavoro in faccia,
E una scintilla in sen;
Se stanche avessi l’operose braccia,
Ma t’ardesse nel grande occhio un balen;
Se tu fossi plebeo, ma sovra gli uomini
Cui preme e sfibra il vile ozio codardo
Ergessi il capo altier,
E nel tuo vasto cerebro gagliardo
Avvampasse la febbre del pensier,
Io t’amerei, sì!... T’amerei per l’opre
Tue vigorose e la tua vita onesta.
Pel sacro tuo lavor;
Sovra il tuo petto chinerei la testa.
Forte di stima e pallida d’amor!...
Ma tu chi sei?... Da me che speri, o debole
Schiavo languente fra dorato lezzo?
Sgombrami il passo, e va.
Non m’importa di te—va—ti disprezzo,
Fiacco liberto d’una fiacca età!...
[pg!195]
A MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF
Da l’ampia tela, ammaliante e fisso
Mi persegue il tuo sguardo; e a sè m’attira
Come bocca d’abisso.
Sotto la chioma d’ôr fina e fluente
Sei tutta bianca, e le rosate nari
Vibran nervosamente:
Dice il labbro serrato: «Io penso e voglio:»
Dice la fronte non curvata mai:
«Io nacqui al lauro e al soglio.»
.... Senti. È ver che sei morta, o bionda Slava,
Che tesori d’ingegno a noi portasti
Dai ghiacci di Poltawa;
Che nel silenzio de le tristi nevi
Come rosa sbocciasti, e inconsumata
Sete di gloria avevi?...
Del genio coll’ignoto a te la guerra;
A te la fantasia che tutto sfiora,
E irruendo si sferra;
A te la melodia che ha preci e schianti.
Che parla, erompe, impreca e si contorce
Su le corde pulsanti;
A te la tela ove gioia e dolore,
E carne e sole ed anima diventa
Lo sprazzo del colore.
Che trionfo di vita e di baldanza.
Quanta grandezza in te, quanto futuro,
Che soffio di speranza!...
Fiore di landa fra le nevi aperto,
Tu sognavi, sul verde agile stelo,
I cieli del deserto:
Gracil patrizia, tu gli abeti foschi
Sospiravi de l’Alpe, il mar di spuma,
La libertà dei boschi.
.... Or di te che rimane, o battagliera
Figlia de l’Arte?... Una ferrata cassa
Sotto la terra nera;
Su la cassa una croce esposta ai venti;
Dentro, fra i vermi, il tuo teschio che ride,
Ride, mostrando i denti.
*
.... Null’altro?...—Calma senza fine grava
Nella notte, dintorno.—Io su la tela
Ti miro, o bionda Slava.
Il cangiante tuo sguardo m’incatena:
Qualchecosa di te m’entra nel core,
E tutta m’avvelena.
Una elettrica forza si sprigiona
Dalla regal tua forma—e mi serpeggia
Per tutta la persona;
Ed io mi sento _te_.—Del martellante
Desìo d’ignoto che il tuo sen minava
Sento l’alito ansante.
Sento l’innata facoltà che crea;
Sento pulsar nel cérebro l’acuta
Vertigin dell’idea.
Vedo la morte rotear da lunge
Già guatando il mio capo; algida larva
S’appressa e mi raggiunge;
Come in te, tutto stralcia e tutto annienta.
Cala il corvo a gracchiar su la rovina:
Fuma la torcia spenta.
Nulla dunque di noi, nulla più resta?...
Io lancio a te l’angoscïoso grido
Dell’anima in tempesta.
Ma la terra non sa, Dio non risponde!...
Ne l’infinito il gemito s’inghiotte
Come sasso ne l’onde.
Mentre su i dubbi de l’ignare genti,
O trapassata, il teschio tuo sorride
Mostrando i tersi denti,
Del tuo spirto la vivida scintilla
Ne l’esser mio che morirà tra poco
Penètra, arde e sfavilla.
[pg!203]
IN ALTO
Sogno.—Dinanzi al mio vagante sguardo
Una turba fantastica traluce
Tutta ravvolta ne la rossa luce
Del tramonto di giugno austero e tardo.
Son macri volti e petti strazïati,
Teste coperte di polve e di spine,
Sfolgoranti d’amor luci divine,
Corpi da interne piaghe divorati.
Ed io domando: Ma chi siete voi,
Che accennando sfilate a me davanti,
E m’arridete, taciti e raggianti,
Nella gloria del sol?...—«Noi siam gli eroi,
Siam l’inspirata e tragica coorte
Che sui campi di guerra e sugli spaldi
Fra cozzo d’armi e risuonar di caldi
Inni, i petti robusti offerse a morte.
Gli sventurati eroi siam del pensiero,
Siam la falange macera e sfinita
Che invanamente consumò la vita
Ne la ricerca del fuggente vero.
Soldati fummo, martiri e giganti:
Nostre le pugne, i sacrifici e l’onte.
Nemico ferro ci squarciò la fronte,
E pur cadendo singhiozzammo: Avanti!
E plebi insane inferocîr su noi,
E vilipesi fummo e lapidati,
Crocifissi, derisi, torturati,
Senza tregua o quartier!... Noi siam gli eroi.»
.... Ed io sorgo ed esclamo: Oh, perchè mai
Tanti sospiri e tante vite infrante,
E tante ambasce e tanto lutto, e tante
Serie infinite d’infiniti guai?...
Perchè s’insegue con rovente ardore
Un ideal che balenando sfugge,
Perchè piangendo l’anima si strugge
Nel desìo, ne l’inganno e nell’amore?...
Perchè?...—Dinanzi al mio sognante sguardo
La fantastica turba ancor traluce,
Tutta ravvolta ne la rossa luce
Del tramonto di giugno austero e tardo:
Dai volti radïosi e senza velo
Spira una calma che non è terrena:
Schiudendo la pupilla ampia e serena
Segnan col dito, sorridendo, il Cielo.
[pg!209]
SOLA
Langue d’autunno il solitario vespero
De l’âtre nebbie fra i cinerei veli;
Scendon l’ombre a le verdi solitudini
Giù dai lividi cieli.
Cadon le foglie, volteggiando aeree
Da la fredda portate ala del vento,
Quai morti sogni. Erra per l’aure un brivido
Come di bacio spento.
Sui capelli di lei, ravvolti e morbidi,
Muta agonizza l’ultima vïola.
Ella guarda laggiù, fra i nudi platani,
Ritta, scultoria—sola.
Ella guarda laggiù. Pensa a le nivee
Placide culle ove, chinato il biondo
Capo sui lini, i sorridenti pargoli
Dormon sonno profondo:
Veglian le madri—e a la commossa tenebra,
Come voci di ciel blande, serene,
Sciolgono, i sonni a raddolcir degli angeli,
Le lunghe cantilene.
Ne la queta foresta, entro il pacifico
Nido, l’augel s’appressa a la compagna,
E s’addorme così... nè spira un alito
Per la brulla campagna:
Solo a le basse, immensurate nebbie
Rabbrividendo il vizzo ultimo fiore,
Sovra l’erbe, in un bacio, il roseo calice
Piega—e quel bacio è amore.
O dolcezze!... Ella sogna. Assorta in candidi
Pensier, presso gentil cuna modesta,
D’una lampa al chiaror, curva su l’agile
Ago la bella testa;
E mentr’ei tenta con le forti braccia
Cinger le caste flessuose forme,
A lui susurra con carezza timida:
Silenzio!... Il bimbo dorme.
Vane grida del cor, parvenze splendide,
Di sorrisi e d’amor larve gioconde,
V’estinguete laggiù fra i nudi platani
E le brume profonde!...
Foglia al ramo caduta, occulta lacrima,
L’ultima speme dal suo cor s’invola;
O nidi, o fiori, o baci, o culle nivee,
Vi celate.—Ella è sola.
Cala d’autunno il nebuloso vespero,
Col lontano de i corvi acre lamento,
Sovra gli aridi boschi e a lei ne l’anima,
Inesorato e lento;
.... Cala.—Superba come greca statua,
Al plumbeo cielo ella solleva i rai....
Scote la brezza di novembre un brivido
Che le susurra: Mai!
[pg!214]
SPES
Quando, senza pietà, pungente e rude
In noi penètra il duol,
L’anima le sue grandi ali dischiude
Librata a vol.
In alto, insanguinata aquila altera,
Posa, ove tutto è gel,
Ove l’urlo non san de la bufera
La vetta e il ciel.
Pur, mentre impreca e sogghignando nega,
Angiol ribelle, il cor,
Mite una voce dal profondo prega:
Amore, amor!...
[pg!215]
VEDOVA
Vedova triste che silente stai
Nel tuo gramo tugurio affumicato,
E cuci, e cuci, e non riposi mai
Presso il letto del tuo figlio malato;
Che su la faccia scolorita e mesta
D’un antico dolor serbi le impronte,
E sei tanto infelice e tanto onesta,
Vedi, vorrei baciarti sulla fronte.
De la finestra tua sul davanzale
Un geranio vermiglio s’incolora.
T’oppresse il fato, e pur tu serbi l’ale;
Hai tanto pianto, e pur tu speri ancora.
Ch’io m’inginocchi presso te: m’apprendi
La virtù che sopporta e che perdona:
Tu che l’odio e il livor mai non comprendi,
Benedicimi, o grande, o vera, o buona.
Mai come qui con più commossa mente
Io ricordai mia madre—e dentro il core
Mi penetrò la fiera e pazïente
Dignità del dolore.
[pg!219]
ROSA APPASSITA
Forse ella ha troppo amato:
Ora è stanca e riposa.
Forse ha sofferto molto:
Sul gambo ripiegato
Or china con un tremito
La testa dolorosa.
Forse ella soffre ancora:
La nausea de la vita,
L’ebbrezza de la morte
Nell’agonia de l’ora
Parlan fra i vizzi petal....
Forse ella fu tradita.
Non so che storia ascosa
Mi narri il dì che cade,
Il penetrante balsamo
De la sfiorita rosa,
La stanza solitaria
Che la penombra invade.
L’anima d’un ignoto
Presso la mia respira:
Aleggiare la sento
Come un bacio nel vuoto,
Mister di luce e d’ombra
Che tutta a sè m’attira.
Ed un desìo mi nasce:
Essere morsa al cuore,
Esser baciata in bocca,
Provar gioie ed ambasce,
La follìa del trionfo,
La follìa del dolore.
Batte un rintocco:—è l’Ave.
O triste fior sfogliato
Consunto di dolcezza,
O fior mite e soave,
Senti: non vo’ morire
Prima d’avere amato.
[pg!223]
DEFORME
Ascoltate, signor.—Da lunge, al porto,
Il mar si lagna con muggente voce.
Mi guardaste?... L’atroce
Ghigno d’un demon mi creava; io sono
D’una furia l’aborto.
Coll’immortal malinconia del mare
Il mio si fonde irrimediabil duolo.
Piangetemi, son solo:
Non ho moglie, non figli, non amici,
Freddo è il mio focolare.
E un giorno anch’io, capite, anch’io cercai
Un astro folgorante alla mia sera:
Cercai la donna.... Ell’era
Una vagante e splendida boema;
La raccolsi e l’amai.
Quella donna mentiva, io lo sapea;
Ma quando sul suo bianco, statuario
Petto di marmo pario
Io reclinava il deformato volto,
Il mio cor si struggea!...
Ell’era noncurante ed io geloso,
Ferocemente, ineluttabilmente,
Del suo crin rilucente,
De la sua bocca e del suo sen velato,
Del suo riso festoso!...
M’abbandonò.—Cercò il piacer, l’aurora,
Il maggio e la beltà!... Non l’ho seguita.
Ma verso la svanita
Sua forma io vile, sfigurato e irriso
Tendo le braccia ancora!...
Oh, s’io potessi smantellar le porte
Di questa vita maledetta e lenta!
Ma il nulla mi spaventa:
La debole e vigliacca anima teme
L’al di là della morte.
.... Come de le schiumanti onde il fragore
Commove l’aura e fa tremar la riva!...
Non s’ode anima viva;
Questa notte assomiglia al mio destino.—
.... Addio dunque, signore.
[pg!229]
VOCE DI TENEBRA
_A Raffaello Barbiera._
Solitudin di gelo.—La tenèbra
Qui nel bosco m’ha côlta.
Infoscansi le nubi, ed io com’ebra
Sto, ma non temo.—O fredda aura sconvolta,
Aura fredda del vespro in agonia,
Parla all’anima mia!
.... Ed essa parla. Parla con le arcane
Voci de la boscaglia,
Rumoreggianti per la selva immane
Come ululìo di spiriti in battaglia:
E mi dice: «Che fai su l’ardua piaggia,
O zingara selvaggia?
Cerchi forse la pace?... O il glacïale
Rude schiaffo dei venti?
Nulla qui, nulla a soggiogarti vale?
Che temi tu, se al buio ti cimenti?
Di che razza sei tu, se non t’adombra
Il velame dell’ombra?
Nata alle aurore fiammeggianti e ai voli
Dell’aquila fuggente,
Nata a le vampe dei bollenti soli
Sovra gli aurei deserti d’Oriente,
Fra ciniche bestemmie e stanche fedi
Un ideal tu chiedi!
Ma t’annoda pei polsi una catena,
Ti circonda la bruma,
E la vita ti rode e t’avvelena
L’inutile desir che ti consuma.
Fatalità su la tua testa grava,
E sei ribelle e schiava.
Pur tu combatterai, gagliarda figlia
Di lutto e di disdetta:
Senza freno irrompente e senza briglia
La tua strofe sarà grido e saetta.
Andrai fra gl’irti scogli del dolore
Inneggiando all’amore;
Andrai coi piè nel fango e l’occhio altero
Nella luce rapito,
Le magnifiche larve del pensiero
Cercando per le vie dell’infinito:
Da una possa virile andrai sospinta,
Più grande ancor se vinta.»
*
Così mi parla la tenèbra—ascolta
L’anima mia pensosa.
Son pianti e lampi ne la notte folta,
Tetri misteri ne la selva ombrosa:
Ma il respiro d’un Dio forte e sereno
Sento aleggiarmi in seno.
[pg!235]
MARCHIO IN FRONTE
Una zingara snella in vesti rosse
Mi toccò in fronte con un dito, e rise.
Un tremito mi scosse.
Ella disse: «Tu porti un marchio in fronte,
Inciso in forma di bizzarra croce.
Tu porti un marchio in fronte.
Degli anni tuoi nel fortunoso giro
Sempre l’avrai con te—poi che l’impresse
Il morso d’un vampiro.
Ei della vita tua la miglior parte
Avido succhia, e il fuoco di tue vene;
E quel vampiro è l’Arte.
Nelle tue veglie solitarie, oh, quante,
Quante volte esso venne al tuo guanciale,
Famelico e guatante!...
Tu d’Apollo nascesti al vieto regno;
Ma in questo secol bottegaio e tristo
È un delitto l’ingegno.
Su, denuda nel verso prepotente
Le vive piaghe del tuo cor; sul viso
Ti riderà la gente.
Ricca di gioventù sana e dorata.
Libra un inno d’amore; e ti diranno
Fantastica e spostata.
Critici e sofi con insulti vani
T’inseguiran come lupi la preda
Per mangiarsela a brani;
Ma cancellar quel marchio invan vorrai,
Favilla di pensier più il non si spegne,
Più mai, più mai, più mai....»
*
Disse. E, proterva ne la rossa vesta,
Ritta dinanzi a me, parve il destino.
.... Ed io curvai la testa.
[pg!241]
VATICINIO
Raccoglie le pesanti ombre la sera
Sovra il giaciglio dove il bimbo posa.
Preme nel sonno una tristezza fiera
La bocca dolorosa.
Soavissima e cara un dì venìa
D’una madre la voce a questa cuna,
E, qual canto d’amor, lenta salìa,
Trillando, a l’aura bruna;
Ed aleggiando per le chete stanze,
De la notte fra l’alte ombre perduta,
Di sorrisi parlava e di speranze....
Or quella voce è muta.
.... Povero bimbo senza madre, oh, posa,
Posa le membra sul diserto strame.
Domani, a la frizzante alba nevosa,
Ti sveglierà la fame.
Bello ne l’ingiocondo occhio superbo,
Nel serio labbro e nella fronte scura
Cui segna il fosco, inesorato, acerbo
Stigma de la sventura,
Predestinato del dolor, vivrai,
Sconosciuto dal mondo, a Dio sol noto,
Pensosamente sollevando i rai
Su, ne l’immenso ignoto:
E, solo, errante, macero, fremendo
D’inconscio sdegno fra le vesti grame,
A quell’ignoto chiederai l’orrendo
Perchè de la tua fame.
Pur, qual vergine palma infra i deserti,
Qual fior che, sôrto da silvestri dumi.
Soavemente innalza ai cieli aperti
Aerei profumi
Tu, d’abbandono e di dolor nudrito,
Tu, condannato da la sorte rea,
Lo spirto librerai nell’infinito
Su l’ali dell’idea.
Tu poeta sarai! Come invadente
Luce d’incendio nel silenzio nero,
Splendida sorgerà ne la tua mente
La fiamma del pensiero;
Poichè, se riso di beltà non resta,
Se tutto al suolo le sue spoglie rende,
Sola del Genio la possanza mesta
Fra le procelle splende.
Tu poeta sarai—coi gravi incanti
De la schietta, virile arpa sovrana,
Evocherai le veglie e i lunghi pianti
De l’infanzia lontana;
E gli schianti ribelli, e l’impossente
Tua giovinezza, e la miseria atroce
E la secreta nostalgia struggente
De la materna voce:
E qual fiero singulto, o qual lamento
D’onda che al lido querula si frange,
D’un popol tutto il doloroso accento
Che s’affatica e piange.
Te, poeta dei miseri, vissuti
Oscuramente col destino in guerra,
Dei martiri, dei prodi e dei caduti
Saluterà la terra:
Tutto un mondo che passa e soffre e tace,
Tutto un mondo di laceri e d’affranti,
Di suprema rivolta un grido audace
Avrà dentro i tuoi canti:
Per te, sôrto dal nulla a la vittoria,
Della lotta su l’erta aspra e fatale,
Innamorata serberà la Gloria
Il suo bacio immortale.
[pg!247]
LARGO!
Largo!... Da le sonore vôlte de l’officine,
Dai rilucenti aratri, de l’orride fucine
Da gl’infernali ardor,
Dagli antri dove un popolo tesse, martella e crea,
Da le miniere sorgo—e, libera plebea,
Sciolgo un inno al lavor.
Largo!... Dai boschi pieni di nidi e di bisbigli,
Dai cespugli di mirto, dai freschi nascondigli.
Dal fecondato suol,
Da l’acque azzurre dove il mite alcion sorvola
Cinta di fiori sorgo—e, balda campagnola,
Sciolgo un peana al sol.
Chi arresta la corrente nel suo corso sfrenato,
Chi ferma a vol l’allodola sciolta pel ciel rosato,
Chi il già partito stral?
Il torrente che scroscia, la freccia scintillante,
L’augel canoro io sono; or rondine vagante,
Or gufo sepolcral!
Arte, per te combatto:—avvenire, t’attendo.
E il rigoglio d’affetti che, qual vampa fervendo,
M’arde la mente e il cor,
Ne la gemmata veste de la strofe volante,
Io getto al mondo e al cielo, qual fascio rutilante
Di fulmini e di fior!...
_Fine._
Nota dei trascrittori
I seguenti refusi sono stati corretti (tra parentesi il testo
originale):
[pg 17]_ Bianca fanciulla da le trecce d’ôr [or]
[pg 23]_ Seppi le notti insonni e l’inquïeto [inquieto]
[pg 49]_ E sorridon fra i dumi le vïole [viole]
[pg 61]_ Mille bocche si cercan desïose [desiose]
[pg 117]_ Dolce signor d’armonïosi [armoniosi] canti
[pg 209]_ Muta agonizza l’ultima vïola [viola]
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of History of the Reformation in Europe in the Time of Calvin. Vol. 2 (of 8)
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Title: History of the Reformation in Europe in the Time of Calvin. Vol. 2 (of 8)
Author: J. H. Merle d'Aubigné
Release date: August 23, 2019 [eBook #60152]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Brian Wilson, David Edwards, Colin Bell, Chris
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORY OF THE REFORMATION IN EUROPE IN THE TIME OF CALVIN. VOL. 2 (OF 8) ***
Transcriber's note:
Obvious printer errors corrected silently.
Hyphenation has been rationalised. Inconsistent spelling (including
accents) has been retained.
Small capitals have been replaced by full capitals. Italics are
indicated by _underscores_.
Running headers, at the top of each right-hand page, have been converted
into Sidenotes and moved in front of the paragraphs to which they refer.
THE
REFORMATION IN EUROPE
IN THE TIME OF CALVIN.
VOL. II.
LONDON
PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO.
NEW-STREET SQUARE
HISTORY
OF
THE REFORMATION IN EUROPE
IN THE TIME OF CALVIN.
BY J. H. MERLE D'AUBIGNÉ, D.D.
AUTHOR OF THE
'HISTORY OF THE REFORMATION OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY' ETC.
'Les choses de petite durée ont coutume de devenir fanées, quand elles
out passé leur temps.
'Au règne de Christ, il n'y a que le nouvel homme qui soit florissant,
qui ait de la vigueur, et dont il faille faire cas.'
CALVIN.
VOL. II.
GENEVA AND FRANCE.
LONDON:
LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, ROBERTS, & GREEN.
1863.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
BOOK II.
FRANCE. FAVOURABLE TIMES.
CHAPTER XIII.
JOHN CALVIN, A STUDENT AT THE UNIVERSITY OF ORLEANS.
(1527-1528.)
Calvin's Friend—The Students at Orleans—Pierre de l'Etoile—Opinions
concerning Heretics—Calvin received in the Picard Nation—Calvin
nominated Proctor—Procession for the Maille de Florence—Distinguished by
the Professors—His Friends at Orleans—Daniel and his Family—Melchior
Wolmar—Calvin studies Greek with him—Benefit to the Church of God
PAGE 1
CHAPTER XIV.
CALVIN, TAUGHT AT ORLEANS OF GOD AND MAN, BEGINS TO
DEFEND AND PROPAGATE THE FAITH.
(1528.)
Wolmar teaches him about Germany—Orleans in 1022 and 1528—Calvin's
Anguish and Humility—What made the Reformers triumph—Phases of Calvin's
Conversion—He does not invent a new Doctrine—I sacrifice my Heart to
Thee—His Zeal in Study—He supplies Pierre de l'Etoile's place—Calvin
sought as a Teacher—He seeks a Hiding-place for Study—Explains the
Gospel in Private Families—His first Ministry
14
CHAPTER XV.
CALVIN CALLED AT BOURGES TO THE EVANGELICAL WORK.
(1528-1529.)
Calvin at his Father's Bed-side—His first Letter—Beza arrives at
Orleans—Calvin goes to Bourges—Brilliant Lessons of Alciati—Wolmar and
Calvin at Bourges—Wolmar calls him to the Evangelical Ministry—The
Priest and the Minister—Calvin's Hesitation—He evangelises—Preaches at
Lignières—Recalled by his Father's Death—Preachings at Bourges—Tumult
27
CHAPTER XVI.
BERQUIN, THE MOST LEARNED OF THE NOBILITY, A MARTYR
FOR THE GOSPEL.
(1529.)
Margaret's Regret—Complaints of Erasmus—Plot of the Sorbonne against
Berquin—His Indictment prepared—The Queen intercedes for him—Berquin at
the Conciergerie—Discovery of the Letter—He is imprisoned in a strong
Tower—Sentence—Recourse to God—Efforts of Budæus to save him—His Earnest
Appeals to Berquin—Fall and Uprising of Berquin—Margaret writes to the
King—Haste of the Judges—Procession to the Stake—Berquin joyous in the
presence of Death—His Last Moments—Effect on the Spectators—Murmurs,
Tricks, and Indignation—Effect of his Death in France—The Martyrs'
Hymn—The Reformer rises again from his Ashes
41
CHAPTER XVII.
FIRST LABOURS OF CALVIN AT PARIS.
(1529.)
Calvin turns towards a Christian Career—His old Patrons—Calvin's Sermon
and Hearers—Determines to go to Paris—Focus of Light—Coiffart's
Invitation—Professor Cop goes to see him—Visit to a Nunnery—An Excursion
on horseback—Devotes himself to Theology—Speaks in the Secret
Assemblies—Movement in the _Quartier Latin_—Writings put into
circulation—Calvin endeavours to bring back Briçonnet—Fills the Vessels
with costly Wine—Efforts to convert a young Rake—Beda attacks the King's
Professors—Calvin's Scriptural Principles—Small Beginnings of a great
Work
63
CHAPTER XVIII.
MARGARET'S SORROWS AND THE FESTIVITIES OF THE COURT.
(1530-1531.)
Margaret promotes Unity—Progress of the Reformation—Death of the Queen's
Child—Orders a _Te Deum_ to be sung—Marriage of Francis I. and
Eleanor—Crowd of learned Men—Margaret in the Desert—The Fountain Pure
and Free—Fatal Illness of Louisa of Savoy—Margaret's Care and
Zeal—Magnificent but chimerical Project
82
CHAPTER XIX.
DIPLOMATISTS, BACKSLIDERS, MARTYRS.
(1531.)
Charles V. accuses the Protestants—The German Protestants to Francis
I.—The King sends an Envoy to them—The Envoy's Imprudence and
Diplomacy—Queen Margaret's Prayer-book—Lecoq's Sermon before the
King—_Sursum Corda_—Lecoq's Interview with the King—Lecoq's
Fall—Fanaticism at Toulouse—Jean de Caturce finds Christ—Twelfth-night
Supper—Caturce arrested—His Degradation—He disputes with a Monk—Two
Modes of Reformation
93
CHAPTER XX.
CALVIN'S SEPARATION FROM THE HIERARCHY: HIS FIRST
WORK, HIS FRIENDS.
(1532.)
Daniel tries to bind Calvin to the Church—Calvin resists the
Temptation—His Commentary on Seneca's _Clemency_—His Motives—His
Difficulties and Troubles—Zeal in making his Book known—Calvin's Search
for Bibles in Paris—An unfortunate _Frondeur_—Calvin receives him
kindly—Various Attacks-The Shop of La Forge—Du Tillet and his
Uncertainty—Testimony rendered to Calvin—Relations between Queen
Margaret and Calvin—He refuses to enter the Queen's Service—The Arms of
the Lord
110
CHAPTER XXI.
SMALKALDE AND CALAIS.
(MARCH TO OCTOBER 1532.)
William du Bellay and his Projects—Luther opposed to War—Alliance of
Smalkalde-Assemblies at Frankfort and Schweinfurt—Luther's Opposition to
Diplomacy—No Shedding of Blood—Du Bellay's Speech—Du Bellay and the
Landgrave—The Wurtemberg Question—Peace of Nuremberg—Great Epochs of
Revival—Francis I. unites with Henry VIII.—Confidential Intercourse at
Bologna—Plan to emancipate his Kingdom from the Pope—Message sent by
Francis to the Pope—Christendom will separate from Rome
126
CHAPTER XXII.
A CAPTIVE PRINCE ESCAPES FROM THE HANDS OF THE EMPEROR.
(AUTUMN 1532.)
Alarm occasioned by this Conference—Christopher of Wurtemberg—His
Adversity—The Emperor and his Court cross the Alps—Christopher's
Flight—He is sought for in vain—Claims the Restoration of Wurtemberg
142
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE GOSPEL PREACHED AT THE LOUVRE AND IN THE
METROPOLITAN CHURCHES.
(LENT 1533.)
Roussel invited to preach in the Churches—His Fears—Refusal of the
Sorbonne—Preachings at the Louvre—Crowded Congregations—Effects of these
Preachings—Margaret again desires to open the Churches—Courault and
Berthaud preach in them—Essence of Evangelical Preaching—Its
Effects—Agitation of the Sorbonne—They will not listen—Picard, the
Firebrand—Sedition of Beda and the Monks—The People agitated—God holds
the Tempests in his Hand
150
CHAPTER XXIV.
DEFEAT OF THE ROMISH PARTY IN PARIS, AND MOMENTARY
TRIUMPH OF THE GOSPEL.
(1533.)
The Chiefs of the two Parties imprisoned—Beda traverses Paris on his
Mule—Indignation of the King—He insults the Deputies of the
Sorbonne—Duprat imprisons Picard—Priests and Doctors summoned—Francis
resolves to prosecute the Papists—Condemnation of the three Chiefs—Is
the Cause of Rome lost?—Grief and Joy—Illusions of the Friends of the
Reform—A Student from Strasburg—The four Doctors taken away by the
Police—Belief that the Reform has come—The Students' Satire—Their Jokes
upon Cornu—Appeal of the Sorbonne—Fresh Placards—Progress of the
Reform—If God be for us, who can be against us?—Agitation—Siderander at
the Gate of the Sorbonne—Desires to speak to Budæus—Fresh Attacks
prepared
165
CHAPTER XXV.
CONFERENCE OF BOLOGNA. THE COUNCIL AND CATHERINE DE MEDICI.
(WINTER 1532-1533.)
The Parties face to face—The Emperor demands a Council—Reasons of the
Pope against it—Moral Inertia of the Papacy—The Pope's
Stratagems—Italian League—Tournon and Gramont arrive—They try to win
over the Pope—A great but sad Affair—Catherine de Medici—Offer and
Demand of Francis I.—The Pope's Joy—Thoughts of Henry VIII. on the
proposed Marriage—Advantages to be derived from it
188
CHAPTER XXVI.
INTRIGUES OF CHARLES V., FRANCIS I., AND CLEMENT VII. AROUND
CATHERINE.
(WINTER 1532-1533.)
Doubts insinuated by Charles V.—Let the Full Powers be demanded—The
King's Hesitation—The Full Powers arrive—The Emperor's new Manœuvres—His
Vexation—Charles V. demands a General Council—Francis I. proposes a Lay
Council—Importance of that Document—True Evangelical Councils—Charles
condemns and Francis justifies—Secularisation of the Popedom—The Pope
signs the Italian League—Cardinals' Hats demanded—Vexation of Charles V.—
Projected Interview between the King and the Pope—The Marriage will take
place
202
CHAPTER XXVII.
STORM AGAINST THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE AND HER
MIRROR OF THE SOUL.
(SUMMER 1533.)
Uneasiness and Terror of the Ultramontanes—Plot against the Queen of
Navarre—_The Mirror of the Sinful Soul_—Beda discovers Heresy in
it—Denounces it to the Sorbonne—Assurance of Salvation—The Queen
attacked from the Pulpits—Errors of Monasticism—The _Tales_ of the
Queen of Navarre—Search after and Seizure of the _Mirror_—Rage of
the Monks against the Queen—Margaret's Gentleness—Comedy acted at the
College of Navarre—The Fury Megæra—Transformation of the Queen—
Montmorency tries to ruin her—Christians made a Show
219
CHAPTER XXVIII.
TRIUMPH OF THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE.
(AUTUMN 1533.)
Montmorency—The Prior of Issoudun—The Police at the College—Arrest of
the Principal and the Actors—Judgment of the Sorbonne denounced to the
Rector—Speech of Rector Cop—The Sorbonne disavows the Act—Le Clerq's
Speech—The University apologises—Reform Movement in France—Men of
Mark—New Attacks
236
CHAPTER XXIX.
CATHERINE DE MEDICI GIVEN TO FRANCE.
(OCTOBER 1533.)
The Marriage announced to the Cardinals—Stratagems of the Imperialists
to prevent it—The Swiss—The Moors—The Pope determines to go—Catherine in
the Ships of France—The Pope sails for France—Various Feelings—The
Pope's Arrival at Marseilles—Nocturnal Visit of the King to the
Pope—Embarrassment of the First President—Conferences between the King
and the Pope—The Bull against the Heretics—The Wedding—Catherine's
Joy—What Catherine brings—The Pope's Health declines—The Modern Janus
247
CHAPTER XXX.
ADDRESS OF THE RECTOR TO THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS.
(NOVEMBER 1533.)
Calvin and Cop share the Work—Inaugural Sitting of the University in
1533—Calvin's Address—The Will of God is manifested—Effect of the
Address—Indignation of the Sorbonne—One only Universal Church—The
University divided—Interest felt by the Queen—Calvin summoned by the
Queen—No one shall stop the Renewal of the Church—The Rector going in
State to the Parliament—Stopped by a Messenger—Cop's Flight—Order to
arrest Calvin—He is entreated to flee—Calvin's Flight—Disguise—
Probability of the Story—Goes into Hiding—Many Evangelicals leave
Paris—Margaret's Farewell
264
CHAPTER XXXI.
CONFERENCE AND ALLIANCE BETWEEN FRANCIS I. AND PHILIP
OF HESSE AT BAR-LE-DUC.
(WINTER 1533-1534.)
Christopher applies to Francis—Will the King unite with the
Protestants?—Du Bellay urges him—Du Bellay passes through
Switzerland—His Speech to Austria—Christopher's Friends—Du Bellay pleads
for him—His Threats—The French Envoy triumphs—The Landgrave's
Projects—Luther opposes them—Conversation between Luther and
Melanchthon—Their Efforts with the Landgrave—Conference between the
Landgrave and the King—Philip and Francis come to an Understanding—
Francis asks for Melanchthon—The Treaty signed—Contradictions in
Francis I
285
CHAPTER XXXII.
TRIUMPH AND MARTYRDOM.
(WINTER 1533-1534.)
The Churches of Paris closed against the Gospel—Private
Assemblies—Dispersed by Morin—New Attack against the Faculty of
Letters—Lutherans threatened with the Stake—Three hundred Evangelicals
sent to Prison—Disputation between Beda and Roussel—Beda's Book
exasperates the King—Margaret intercedes for the Evangelicals—They are
set at liberty—Alexander at Geneva and in Bresse—He preaches at
Lyons—His Activity and Prudence—He is believed to possess Satanic
Powers—Margaret at Paris—The Populace hinder Roussel from
preaching—Alexander preaches at Lyons at Easter—Seized and condemned to
Death—Journey from Lyons to Paris—Appears before the Parliament—Put to
the Torture—Sacerdotal Degradation—Martyrdom—Testimony rendered to
Alexander
303
CHAPTER XXXIII.
WURTEMBERG GIVEN TO PROTESTANTISM BY THE KING OF FRANCE.
(SPRING 1534.)
Interview between Du Bellay and Bucer—The great Fusion is
preparing—Francis I. aids it—His Hopes—Fears and Predictions in
Germany—Austria invokes the Help of the Pope—Sanchez's Interview with
Clement VII.—Consequences of the Temporal Power—The Landgrave advances
with his Army—Melanchthon's Trouble—The Landgrave's Victory—Terror at
Rome—Joy at the Louvre—Wurtemberg restored to its Princes—Religious
Liberty established by the Treaty—Accessions to the Reform
326
CHAPTER XXXIV.
SITTING AT THE LOUVRE FOR THE UNION OF TRUTH AND CATHOLICISM.
(SUMMER 1534.)
A Student of Nismes arrives at Wittemberg—Melanchthon's Letter to
Margaret—Conversation between Margaret and Baduel—Francis I. sends
Chelius into Germany—Melanchthon's Anguish—Chelius received with
Joy—Melanchthon's Zeal—Diverse Opinions on the Union—Bucer's Approval
and Sincerity—Memoirs of the three Doctors—Sitting at the Louvre—Bucer
and Melanchthon denounce the Blemishes of Popery—Moderation—The Church
must have a Government—One single Pontiff—Justification and the Mass—The
Sacraments—Protest against Abuses—Melanchthon's Prayer
342
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE GHOST AT ORLEANS.
(SUMMER 1534.)
Death of the Provostess of Orleans—The Provost and the Friars—Vengeance
invented by the Cordeliers—First Appearance of the Ghost—Second
Appearance—The Provostess tormented for her Lutheranism—The Official's
Investigation—The Students in the Chapel—The Provost appeals to the
King—Arrest of the Monks—They are taken to Paris—The Novice confesses
the Trick—Condemnation—End of the Matter
361
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FRANCIS I. PROPOSES A REFORMATION TO THE SORBONNE.
(AUTUMN 1534.)
Francis acknowledges his Mistakes in Religion—Promises Help to the
German Protestants—French Edition of the Articles communicated to Rome
and the Sorbonne—Alarm of the Sorbonne—The French Spirit—Discussion
between the King's Ministers and the Sorbonne—The Bishops and the Roman
Pontiff—Indifferent Matters—Prayers to the Saints and Saints' Days—The
Mass-mongers—Restoration of the Lord's Supper—Communion with Christ by
Faith—Transubstantiation and the Monasteries—An Assembly of Laymen and
Divines—Peril of Catholicism—England and France—Fresh Efforts of the
Sorbonne—Is Protestantism to be feared by Kings?—Uneasiness of Calvin's
Friends—Dangers of these Conciliations—An Event about to change the
State of Things
375
BOOK III.
FALL OF A BISHOP-PRINCE, AND FIRST EVANGELICAL
BEGINNINGS IN GENEVA.
CHAPTER I.
THE RENAISSANCE, THE REFORMATION, THE MIDDLE AGES.
(1526.)
The Crisis—The Means of Salvation—The Nations behindhand—New Position of
Geneva—The Castles and the neighbouring Seigneurs—Pontverre against the
Swiss Alliance—The Gentlemen on the Highway—Violence and Contempt—
Sarcasms and Threats—The Genevans under arms—Moderation of the
Genevans towards the Disloyal—Favre's Mission to Berne—Cartelier's
Condemnation—Pardoned by the Bishop—The Bishop's Hesitation and Fear
397
CHAPTER II.
THE GOSPEL AT GENEVA AND THE SACK OF ROME.
(JANUARY TO JUNE 1527.)
Laymen and Ecclesiastics—Councillor Ab Hofen, the Friend of Zwingle, at
Geneva—His Christian Conversations—The Priests—The Politicians—Zwingle's
Encouragement—He cheers up Ab Hofen—Opposition and Dejection—Ab Hofen's
Departure, Death, and Influence—The Sack of Rome—Effects of this
Catastrophe—The Genevans compare the Pope and their Bishop—Union of
Faith and Morality
412
CHAPTER III.
THE BISHOP CLINGS TO GENEVA, BUT THE CANONS DEPART.
(SUMMER 1527.)
The Bishop desires to ally with the Swiss—The Swiss refuse—Plot of the
Duke against the Bishop—The Duke's Scheme—Preparations and Warning—The
Bishop escapes—Failure of the Plot—Terror of the Bishop—The Huguenots
wish to get rid of the Canons—The Bishop puts the Canons in prison—The
Bishop desires to become a Citizen—The Syndics call for Lay
Tribunals—The Bishop grants them—Joy of the Citizens—Prerogatives of the
Bishop questioned—The Duke's Irritation—A Ducal Envoy releases the
Canons—They quit Geneva—Various Opinions about their Departure
425
CHAPTER IV.
THE BISHOP-PRINCE FLEES FROM GENEVA.
(JULY AND AUGUST 1527.)
Bishopers and Commoners—Complaints against the Priests—A Young Woman
kidnapped by the Bishop—The People compel him to restore her—Right of
Resistance—Quarrels of the two Parties—The Duke's Threats—The Bishop's
Fears—He determines to quit Geneva—His Night Escape—He arrives at St.
Claude—Hugues returns in safety—The Hireling abandons his Flock
443
CHAPTER V.
EXCOMMUNICATION OF GENEVA AND FUNERAL PROCESSION OF POPERY.
(AUGUST 1527 TO FEBRUARY 1528.)
The Duke tries to gain the Bishop—The State of Geneva constituted—The
Ducal Arms fall at Geneva—Geneva excommunicated—Geneva interdicts the
Papal Bulls—Funeral Procession of Popery—Complaints of the
Priests—Attempt to deprive Bonivard of St. Victor's—Bonivard on
Excommunication—The Duke claims Authority in Matters of Faith—Resolute
Answer of the Genevans—Canons sharply reprimanded by the Duke—Intentions
of Charles
456
CHAPTER VI.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE SPOON LEAGUE AGAINST GENEVA AT THE CASTLE OF
BURSINEL.
(MARCH 1528.)
Complaints of Bonivard about Geneva—Certain Huguenots go to St.
Victor's—Bonivard's Address to them—Faults to be found in it—Huguenots
eat Meat in Lent—The Meeting at Bursinel—Pontverre and the Spoon—The
Fraternity of the Spoon—Alarm in Geneva—Rights of Princes and
Subjects—Bonivard defends Cartigny—The Savoyards take the
Castle—Bonivard fails to retake it—Progress of the Gospel in Geneva—Duke
and Bishop reconciled—The City looks upon the Bishop as an Enemy
469
CHAPTER VII.
INTRIGUES OF THE DUKE AND THE BISHOP.
(SPRING AND SUMMER 1528.)
The Bishop desires to withdraw the Criminal Administration from the
Syndics—Noble Answer of the Genevans—The Bishop's Irritation—His furious
Reception of a Genevan Envoy—Calm of the Genevans—The Duke convokes a
Synod—Speech of Bishop Gazzini—Coldness of the Swiss—Ducal Intrigues in
the Convents—The Order of the Keys—The Syndics at the Dominican Convent
484
CHAPTER VIII.
DEATH OF PONTVERRE.
(OCTOBER 1528 TO JANUARY 1529.)
Pontverre plunders Bonivard—Convokes the Fraternity at Nyon—Insolence of
Pontverre when passing through Geneva—Conference at the Castle of
Nyon—Resolutions adopted there—Pontverre desires to take Geneva by
Treachery—Again attempts to pass through Geneva—His Insolence, Jests of
the Genevans—Struggle on the Rhone Bridge—Pontverre flees—Last Struggle
and Death—Act of Divine Justice—Honours paid him—Violence of the Nobles
increases—Courageous Enterprise of Lullin and Vandel—A Genevan
crucified—The Night of Holy Thursday—The Day of the Ladders
495
CHAPTER IX.
THE REFORMATION BEGINS TO FERMENT IN GENEVA, AND THE OPPOSITION
WITHOUT.
(APRIL 1529 TO JANUARY 1530.)
Disorders and Superstitions in Geneva—Speech on the Saints'
Bodies at St. Gervais—The Souls from Purgatory in the Cemetery—Protest
at St. Gervais—Negative Reform—Representations
of the Bishop—Genevans trust in God—The Cantons cool
towards Geneva—The Swiss propose to revoke the Alliance—Energetic
Refusal of the Genevans—They incline towards the
Reform—Gazzini asks an Audience of the Pope—His Speech
about Geneva and Savoy—The Pope's Answer—Letter of
Charles V. to the Genevans—Emperor and Pope unite against
Geneva
513
CHAPTER X.
VARIOUS MOVEMENTS IN GENEVA AND SECOND IMPRISONMENT OF
BONIVARD.
(MARCH TO MAY 1530.)
The Procurator-Fiscal's Complaints to the Council—Penalty denounced
against the Lutherans, and against Impure Priests—Building the Wall of
St. Gervais—Discourse of the Evangelical Swiss—Vandel wishes for a
Preacher at St. Victor's—Bonivard claims his Revenues—His difficult
Position—The Duke covets St. Victor's—Bonivard visits his sick
Mother—Bonivard's Enemies at Geneva—He goes to Friburg—Determines to
give up his Priory—Bellegarde welcomes Bonivard—Bonivard and his Guide
in the Jorat—He is treacherously arrested—Bonivard at Chillon—His Future
529
CHAPTER XI.
THE ATTACK OF 1530.
(AUGUST, SEPTEMBER, OCTOBER.)
Arrest of the Fiscal Mandolla—The Bishop takes his part—Hastens his
Plans against Geneva—Bishop's Appeal to the Knights—He gives them their
Instructions for the War—Crusade to maintain the Holy Faith—Prisoners in
the Castles—Projects at Augsburg and Gex—De la Sarraz at the head of the
Knights—Troops march against Geneva—Plans of the Enemy—A Friburg Herald
maltreated—The Savoyard Army occupies the Suburbs—Preparations for the
Assault—The Emperor receives Intelligence of the War—The Army
retires—What is the Cause?—The Mercy of God—15,000 Swiss
arrive—Soldierly Controversy—Burning of the Convent of Belle Rive—Good
Catholics quartered at St. Claire—Mass at St. Claire; Preachings at St.
Pierre—Castles taken and burnt—Devotedness of the Nuns of St.
Claire—Truce of St. Julian
547
CHAPTER XII.
GENEVA RECLAIMED BY THE BISHOP, AND AWAKENED BY THE
GOSPEL.
(NOVEMBER 1530 TO OCTOBER 1531.)
Emperor's Letter to the Genevans—Their Answer—Fresh Armaments of the
Duke—Decision of the Diet of Payerne—Pardon and Pilgrimage to St.
Claire—Pilgrims sent back—Fresh Pardon; Religious Liberty—Repasts of the
Pilgrims and Sarcasms of the Genevans—Angels protect St. Claire—The
Pardon followed by an Awakening—_De Christo meditari_—Farel watches
Geneva—Comprehends its Wants—Desires to send Toussaint to Geneva—He
shrinks from the Struggle—Zwingle's Prayer; Fears of the
Genevans—Examination of the Suspected—Friburg and Berne—Allies of the
two Parties at Cappel
573
CHAPTER XIII.
DANGERS TO WHICH THE DEFEAT AT CAPPEL EXPOSES GENEVA.
(OCTOBER 1531 TO JANUARY 1532.)
Geneva attacked because elected of God—Defeat of Cappel—Triumph of the
Romanists—Berne turns her back on Geneva—The Duke and his Army
approach—Reply of Geneva to Berne—Seven Black Knights without Heads—God
prepares Geneva by Trials—Effects produced within by Evils from
without—The Swiss Patricians desire to rescind the Treaty—Geneva appeals
to the People of Berne—The Great Councils are for Geneva—Retirement and
Death of Hugues
591
CHAPTER XIV.
AN EMPEROR AND A SCHOOLMASTER.
(SPRING 1532.)
The Emperor desires to give Geneva to the Duke's Son—Zeal of the Duke,
Firmness of the Genevans—The two Spheres of Christianity—Insufficiency
of Negative Protestantism—Olivétan at Chautemps' House—His Piety, Zeal,
and Courage—Conversations and Sermons—Olivétan's Discourse—The
Judge—Carnal Men—Intellectual Men—Redemption by Blood—The Spirit of
Jesus Christ—The Pioneer—Olivétan's Work
603
CHAPTER XV.
THE PARDON OF ROME AND THE PARDON OF HEAVEN.
(JUNE AND JULY 1532.)
Roman Jubilees—Fermentation at Geneva—A Power which devours everything
that is given to it—Gospel Pardon of all Sins—Tumult around the
Placards—Fight in the City—Catholic Intervention of Friburg—The Council
strives to give Satisfaction—Reaction of the Evangelicals—Order to
preach without Fables—The Nuncio and the Archbishop at Chambéry—Joy of
the Evangelicals out of the City—The little Flock of Payerne—Letter of
the Lovers of the Holy Gospel—The Standard-bearers of the Gospel of
Christ—The Standard raised in Geneva—Geneva attacked by both
Parties—Which will prevail?—The Struggle grows fiercer every day—The
Strong Things of this World destroyed by the Weak
615
HISTORY
OF THE
REFORMATION IN EUROPE
IN THE TIME OF CALVIN.
BOOK II.
FRANCE. FAVOURABLE TIMES.
CHAPTER XIII.
JOHN CALVIN A STUDENT AT THE UNIVERSITY OF ORLEANS.
(1527-1528.)
Calvin, whom his father's wishes and his own convictions urged to
abandon the priestly career, for which he was preparing, had left Paris
in the autumn of 1527, in order to go to Orleans and study jurisprudence
under Pierre de l'Etoile, who was teaching there with great credit.
'Reuchlin, Aleander, and even Erasmus, have professed in this city,'
said his pupils; 'but the Star (Etoile) eclipses all these suns.' He was
regarded as the prince of French jurists.[1]
When Calvin arrived in that ancient city to which the Emperor Aurelian
had given his name, he kept himself apart, being naturally timid, and
repelled by the noisy vivacity of the students. Yet his loving
disposition sighed after a friend; and such he found in a young scholar,
Nicholas Duchemin, who was preparing himself for a professorship in the
faculty of letters.[2] Calvin fixed on him an observing eye, and found
him modest, temperate, not at all susceptible, adopting no opinion
without examination,[3] of equitable judgment, extreme prudence, and
great mildness, but also a little slow in his movements. Duchemin's
character formed a striking contrast with the vivacity, ardour,
severity, activity, and, we will add, the susceptibility of Calvin. Yet
he felt himself attracted towards the gentle nature of the young
professor, and the very difference of their temperaments shed an
inexpressible charm over all their intercourse. As Duchemin had but
moderate means, he received students in his house, as many of the
citizens did. Calvin begged to be admitted also, and thus became one of
the members of his household. He soon loved Duchemin with all the energy
of a heart of twenty, and rejoiced at finding in him a Mommor, an
Olivétan, and even more. He wanted to share everything with Nicholas, to
converse with him perpetually; and they had hardly parted, when he began
to long to be with him again. 'Dear Duchemin!' he said to him, 'my
friend, you are dearer to me than life.'[4] Ardent as was this
friendship, it was not blind. Calvin, true to his character, discovered
the weak point of his friend, who was deficient, he thought, in energy;
and he reproved him for it. 'Take care,' he said, 'lest your great
modesty should degenerate into indolence.'[5]
[Sidenote: THE STUDENTS AT ORLEANS]
The scholar of Noyon, consoled by this noble friendship, began to
examine more closely the university population around him. He was
surprised to see crowds of students filling the streets, caring nothing
for learning, so far as he could tell. At one time he would meet a young
lord, in tight hose, with a richly embroidered doublet, small Spanish
cloak, velvet cap, and showy dagger. This young gentleman, followed by
his servant, would take the wall, toss his head haughtily, cast
impertinent looks on each side of him, and want every one to give way to
him. Farther on came a noisy band composed of the sons of wealthy
tradesmen, who appeared to have no more taste for study than the sons of
the nobility, and who went singing and 'larking' to one of the numerous
tennis-courts, of which there were not less than forty in the city. Ten
_nations_, afterwards reduced to four, composed the university. The
German nation combined with 'the living and charming beauty of the body'
that of a mind polished by continual study. Its library was called 'the
abode of the Muses.'[6]
Calvin made a singular figure in the midst of the world around him. His
small person and sallow face formed a strong contrast with the ruddy
features and imposing stature of Luther's fellow-countrymen. One thing,
however, delighted him: 'The university,' he said, 'is quite a
republican oasis in the midst of enslaved France.' The democratic spirit
was felt even by the young aristocrats who were at the head of each
nation, and the only undisputed authority in Orleans was that of Pierre
de l'Etoile.
[Sidenote: ÉTOILE ON HERETICS.]
This 'morning-star'[7] (as the registers of the Picard nation call him)
had risen above the fogs and was shining like the sun in the schools.
The great doctor combined an eminently judicial mind with an
affectionate heart; he was inflexible as a judge, and tender as a
mother. His manner of teaching possessed an inexpressible charm. As
member of the council of 1528, he had advocated the repression of
heresy; but he had no sooner met Calvin at Orleans than, attracted by
the beauty of his genius and the charms of his character, he loved him
tenderly. Although opposed to the young man's religious opinions, he was
proud of having him as his pupil, and was his friend to the last: thus
giving a touching example in the sixteenth century of that noble
christian equity which loves men while disapproving of their opinions.[8]
Calvin, sitting on one of the benches in the school, listened
attentively to the great doctor, and imbibed certain principles whose
justice no one at that time in all christendom thought of disputing.
'The prosperity of nations,' said Pierre de l'Etoile, 'depends upon
obedience to the laws. If they punish outrages against the rights of
man, much more ought they to punish outrages against the rights of God.
What! shall the law protect a man in his body and goods, and not in his
soul and his most precious and eternal inheritance?... A thief shall not
be able to rob us of our purses, but a heretic may deprive us of
heaven!' Jurists and students, nobles and people, were all convinced
that the law ought equally to guarantee temporal and spiritual goods.
'Those insensate and furious men,' said the code which Pierre de
l'Etoile was expounding to his pupils, 'who proclaim heretical and
infamous opinions, and reject the apostolic and evangelical doctrine of
the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, in one only Godhead and one holy
Trinity, ought first to be delivered up to divine vengeance, and
afterwards visited with corporal punishment.[9] Is not that a _public
offence_?' added the code; 'and although committed against the
religion of God, is it not to the prejudice of all mankind?'[10]
Pierre de l'Etoile's youthful hearers received from these words those
deep impressions which, being made while the character is forming, are
calculated to last through life. The mind of man required time to throw
off these legal prejudices, which had been the universal law of the
understanding for more than a thousand years.[11] Could it be expected
that a young disciple, rising up against the most venerable teachers,
should draw a distinction between the temporal and the spiritual sphere,
between the old and the new economy, and insist that, inasmuch as grace
had been proclaimed by virtue of the great sacrifice offered to eternal
justice, it was repugnant to the Gospel of Christ for man to avenge the
law of God by severe punishments? No: during the sixteenth, and even the
seventeenth century, almost all enlightened minds remained, in this
respect, sunk in lamentable error.
Calvin, bashful and timid at first, gradually came round; his society
was courted, and he conversed readily with all. He was received into the
Picard nation. 'I swear,' he said, 'to guard the honour of the
university and of my nation.'[12] Yet he did not suffer himself to be
bound by the university spirit: he had a larger mind than his
fellow-students, and we find him in relation with men of all nations,
towards whom he was drawn by a community of affection and study. Etoile
gave his lessons in the monastery of Bonne Nouvelle. Calvin listened
silently to the master's words, but between the lessons he talked with
his companions, went in and out, or paced up and down the hall like the
rest. One day, going up to one of the pillars, he took out his knife and
carved a C, then an A, and at last there stood the word CALVIN, as the
historian of the university informs us. It was _Cauvin_ perhaps,
his father's name, or else _Calvinus_, for the students were fond
of latinising their names. It was not until some time after, when the
Latin word had been retranslated into French, that the Reformer bore the
more familiar name. This _Calvin_ long remained on the pillar where
the hand of the young Picard had cut it—a name of quarrels and
discussions, insulted by the devout, but respected by many. 'This
precious autograph has disappeared,' says the historian, 'with the last
vestiges of the building.'[13]
[Sidenote: CALVIN HEAD OF THE PICARD NATION.]
The Picards, proud of such a colleague, raised him to the highest post
in the nation—that of proctor. Calvin was thus in the front rank in the
public processions and assemblies of the university. He had to convene
meetings, examine, order, decide, execute, and sign diplomas. Instead of
assembling his _nationals_ at a jovial banquet, Calvin, who had been
struck by the disorders which had crept into these convivial meetings,
paid over to the treasurer the sum which he would have expended, and
made a present of books to the university library.[14] Erelong his
office compelled him to display that firmness of character which
distinguished him all his life. This hitherto unknown incident is worthy
of being recorded.
Every year, on the anniversary of the Finding of the Body of St. Firmin,
the inhabitants of the little town of Beaugency, near Orleans, appeared
in the church of St. Pierre, and, after the epistle had been chanted,
handed to the proctor of the Picard nation a piece of gold called
_maille de Florence_, of two crowns' weight.[15] 'The origin of
this ancient custom,' they told Calvin, 'was this. On the 13th of
January, 687, the body of St. Firmin the martyr having been solemnly
exhumed, a marvellous change took place in nature. The trees put forth
fresh leaves and blossoms, and at the same time a supernatural odour
filled the air. Simon, lord of Beaugency, who suffered from leprosy,
having gone to the window of his castle to witness the ceremony, was
restored to health by the sweet savour. In token of his gratitude he
settled an annual offering of a gold _maille_, payable at first to
the chapter of Amiens, and afterwards to the Picard students embodied in
their nation at Orleans.'[16]
Calvin, who blames 'the old follies and nonsense which men substitute
for the glory of Jesus Christ,' did not place great faith in this
miracle. However, as the tribute was not paid in 1527, he resolved to go
with his 'nation' and demand it. He assembled his fellow-students, and
placing a band of music and the beadles in front, he led the procession;
all his 'nationals' followed after him in a line, and in due course the
joyous troop arrived at Beaugency, where the _maille_ was placed in
his hand. It bore in front an image of John the Baptist, and on the
reverse a fleur-de-lys with the word _Florentia_. The Picard
students were satisfied, and, with their illustrious chief at their
head, resumed the road to Orleans, bringing back the golden
_maille_ in triumph, as Jason and the Argonauts had in days of yore
returned from Colchis with the golden fleece. The procession reentered
the city amid the shouts of the university. Calvin was one day to rob
the _dragon_ of a more magnificent treasure, and nations more
numerous were to show their joy by louder shouts of gladness.[17]
[Sidenote: CALVIN'S STUDIES AND FRIENDS.]
Although Calvin would not separate from his fellow-students, he often
suffered in the midst of this noisy and dissolute multitude, and turned
with disgust from the duels, intrigues, and excesses which filled so
large a space in the student life. He preferred study, and had applied
to the law with his whole heart.[18] The vivacity of his wit, the
strength of his memory, the remarkable style in which he clothed the
lessons of his masters, the facility with which he caught up certain
expressions, certain sentences, which fell from their lips, 'the starts
and flashes of a bright mind, which he displayed at intervals,'—all
this, says a Roman-catholic historian, soon made him distinguished by
the professors.[19]
But he was destined to find something better on the banks of the Loire:
the work begun at Paris was to be strengthened and developed at Orleans.
Calvin, always beloved by those who knew him, made numerous friends,
especially among certain men attacked by the priests, and whose faith
was full of christian meekness. Every day he had a serious conversation
with Duchemin.[20] In order to lessen his expenses, he had shared his
room with a pious German, formerly a grey friar, who having learnt, as
Luther said, that it is not the cowl of St. Francis which saves, but the
blood of Jesus Christ, had thrown off his filthy frock[21] and come to
France. The Picard student talked with him of Germany and of the
Reformation; and some persons have thought that this was what first
'perverted Calvin from the true faith.'[22]
[Sidenote: DUCHEMIN, DANIEL, WOLMAR.]
Next to the house of Duchemin where the wind of the new doctrine was
blowing; next to the library, whose curator, Philip Laurent, became his
friend: Calvin loved particularly to visit the family of an advocate
where three amiable, educated, and pious ladies afforded him the charms
of agreeable conversation. It was that of Francis Daniel, 'a person,'
says Beza, 'who, like Duchemin, had a knowledge of the truth.' He was a
grave and influential man, possessing inward christianity, and (perhaps
his profession of lawyer had something to do with it) of a very
conservative mind, holding both to the forms and ordinances of the
Church. Calvin, on leaving the schools, the library, and his study, used
to seek relaxation in this house. The company of educated and pious
women may have exercised a happy influence over his mind, which he would
have sought in vain in the society of the learned. And accordingly,
whenever he was away, he did not fail to remember his friend's mother,
wife, and sister Frances.[23]
In the company of these ladies he sometimes met a young man for whom he
felt but little sympathy: he was a student from Paris, Coiffard by name,
lively, active, intelligent, but selfish.[24] How much he preferred
Daniel, in whom he found a mind so firm, a soul so elevated, and with
whom he held such profitable conversations! The two friends were agreed
on one point—the necessity of a Reformation of the Church; but they soon
came to another point which at a later day occasioned a wide divergence
between them. 'The reformation,' said the advocate, 'must be
accomplished in the Church; we must not separate from the Church.' The
intercourse between Calvin and Duchemin gradually became less frequent;
the latter, being naturally rather negligent, did not reply to his
friend's letters.[25] But Calvin's attachment for Daniel grew stronger
so long as the reformer remained in France, and to him almost all the
letters are addressed which he wrote between 1529 and 1536.
But all these friendships did not satisfy Calvin; at Daniel's, at
Duchemin's, at the library, and wherever he went, he heard talk of a man
whom he soon burned to know, and who exercised over him more influence
than all the rest. A poor young German of Rotweil, named Melchior
Wolmar, had come to Paris, and, being forced to work for a living, had
served for some time as corrector for the press.[26] Greedy of
knowledge, the youthful reader quitted his proofs from time to time, and
slipped among the students who crowded round the illustrious John
Lascaris, Budæus, and Lefèvre. In the school of the latter he became a
sincere christian; in the school of the former, a great hellenist. When
he took his degree of M.A. along with a hundred others, he occupied the
first place. Having one day (when in Germany) to make a speech in his
mother-tongue, Wolmar asked permission to speak in Greek, because, he
said, that language was more familiar to him. He had been invited to
Orleans to teach Greek; and being poor, notwithstanding his learning, he
took into his house a small number of young children of good family. 'He
was my faithful instructor,' says one of them, Theodore Beza; 'with what
marvellous skill he gave his lessons, not only in the liberal arts, but
also in piety!'[27] His pupils did not call him _Melchior_, but
_Melior_ (better).
[Sidenote: STUDY OF GREEK.]
Calvin, whose exalted soul was attracted by all that is beautiful,
became attached to this distinguished professor. His father had sent him
to study civil law; but Wolmar 'solicited him to devote himself to a
knowledge of the Greek classics.' At first Calvin hesitated, but yielded
at last. 'I will study Greek,' he said, 'but as it is you that urge me,
you also must assist me.' Melchior answered that he was ready to devote
to him abundantly, not only his instruction, but his person, his life,
himself.[28] From that time Calvin made the most rapid progress in Greek
literature. The professor loved him above all his pupils.[29] In this
way he was placed in a condition to become the most illustrious
commentator of Scripture. 'His knowledge of Greek,' adds Beza, 'was of
great service to all the Church of God.' What Cordier had been to him
for Latin, Wolmar was for Greek.
[Footnote 1: 'Jurisconsultorum Gallorum princeps.'—Bezæ _Vita
Calvini_.]
[Footnote 2: 'Jam dedisti nomen inter rei litterariæ professores.'—
Calvinus Chemino, Berne MSS. This letter will be found in the _Letters
of John Calvin_, published in English at Philadelphia, by the learned
Dr. Jules Bonnet, to whom I am indebted for the communication of the
Latin manuscripts.]
[Footnote 3: 'In ea natus es dexteritate, quæ nihil imprudenter
præjudicare soleat.'—Calvinus Chemino.]
[Footnote 4: 'Mi Chemine! amice mi! mea vita charior!'—Calvinus Chemino.]
[Footnote 5: 'Vide ne desidem te faciat tuus pudor!'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 6: Le Maire, _Antiquités d'Orléans_, i. p. 388.—_Theod.
Beza_ von Baum, i. p. 27.]
[Footnote 7: 'Ille quasi stella matutina in medio nebulæ et quasi sol
refulgens emicuit.'—Bimbenet, _Histoire de l'Université des Lois
d'Orléans_, p. 357.]
[Footnote 8: Ibid. pp. 354-357.]
[Footnote 9: 'Hæretici divina primum vindicta, post etiam ... ultione
plectendi.'—_Justiniani Codicis_ lib. i. tit. i.: _De summa Trinitate,
et ut nemo de ea publice contradicere audeat_.]
[Footnote 10: 'Publicum crimen, quia quod in religionem divinam
committitur in omnium fertur injuriam.'—Ibid. tit. v.: _De Hæreticis_.]
[Footnote 11: The Justinian code dates from 529 A.D., just a thousand
years before the time of Calvin's studies; but the greater part of the
laws contained in it were of older date.]
[Footnote 12: Bimbenet, _Hist. de l'Univ. des Lois d'Orléans_, p. 30.]
[Footnote 13: Bimbenet, _Hist. de l'Univ. d'Orléans_, p. 358. The
prefecture now occupies the site of Bonne Nouvelle.]
[Footnote 14: Ibid. pp. 40, 41, 51, 52, 358.]
[Footnote 15: This _maille_ was probably the gold florin of Florence.
The _giglio fiorentino_ is the badge of this city, and John the Baptist
its patron.
'La lega suggellata del Batista,'
says Dante in the _Inferno_, xxx. 74.]
[Footnote 16: M. Bimbenet, chief greffier to the Imperial Court of
Orleans, gives this tradition in his _Hist. de l'Univ. d'Orléans_,
pp. 161, 162, 179-358.]
[Footnote 17: _Hist. de l'Univ. d'Orléans_, pp. 173, 176, 179.]
[Footnote 18: 'Ut patris voluntati obsequerer, fidelem operam impendere
conatus sum.'—Calv. _in Psalm_.]
[Footnote 19: 'Singularem ingenii alacritatem,' &c.—Flor. Rémond, _Hist.
de l'Hérésie_, liv. vii. ch. ix.]
[Footnote 20: 'Longa consuetudine diuturnoque usu.'—Bezæ _Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 21: 'Läusige Kappe.']
[Footnote 22: _Remarques sur la Vie de Calvin, Hérésiarque_, by J.
Desmay, vicar-general, p. 43.]
[Footnote 23: 'Saluta matrem, uxorem, sororem Franciscam.'—Calvinus
Danieli, Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 24: 'De Coiffartio quid aliud dicam, nisi hominem esse sibi
natum?'—Calvinus Danieli, Geneva MSS.]
[Footnote 25: _Calvin's Letters_, Philadelphia, i. p. 32.]
[Footnote 26: Wolmar, _Commentaire sur l'Iliade_.]
[Footnote 27: Beza, _Vie de Calvin et Histoire des Eglises Réformées_,
i. p. 67.]
[Footnote 28: 'Quam liberaliter paratus fueris te mihi officiaque tua
impendere.'—Calv. _in 2ᵃᵐ Ep. ad Cor._]
[Footnote 29: 'Præ cæteris discipulis diligere ac magnifacere eum
cœpit.'—Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, liv. vii. ch. ix.]
CHAPTER XIV.
CALVIN TAUGHT AT ORLEANS OF GOD AND MAN; BEGINS TO
DEFEND AND PROPAGATE THE FAITH.
(1528.)
Calvin was to receive something more from Wolmar; he was about to begin,
under his guidance, the work of all his life—to learn and to teach
Christ. The knowledge which he acquired at the university of Orleans,
philosophy, law, and even Greek, could not suffice him. The moral
faculty is the first in man, and ought to be the first in the university
also. The object of the Reformation was to found, not an intellectual,
but a moral empire; it was to restore holiness to the Church. This
empire had begun in Calvin; his conscience had been stirred; he had
sought salvation and found it; but he had need of knowledge, of increase
in grace, of practice in life, and these he was about to strive after.
[Sidenote: WOLMAR AND CALVIN STUDY THE EPISTLES.]
Melchior, like Melanchthon, had set himself to study the Holy Scriptures
in the original languages, and in them had found light and peace.
Calvin, on his side, 'having acquired some taste for true piety,' as he
informs us, 'was burning with a great desire to advance.'[30] The most
intimate confidence and the freest communication were established
between the professor and the scholar. Melchior spoke to Calvin of
Germany and the Reformation; he read the Greek Testament with him, set
before him the riches of Christ announced therein, and, when studying
the Epistles of St. Paul, explained to him the doctrine of imputed
righteousness which forms the essence of their teaching. Calvin, seated
in his master's study, listened in silence, and respectfully embraced
that mystery so strange and yet so profoundly in harmony with the
righteousness of God!... 'By faith,' said Wolmar, 'man is united to
Christ and Christ to him, so that it is no longer man whom God sees in
the sinner, but his dearly beloved Son himself; and the act by virtue of
which God makes the sinner an inheritor of heaven, is not an arbitrary
one. The doctrine of justification,' added Wolmar, 'is in Luther's
opinion the capital doctrine, _articulus stantis vel cadentis
Ecclesiæ._'[31]
But Calvin's chief teacher was God. At Orleans he had more of those
struggles, which are often prolonged in strong natures. Some take him
simply for a metaphysical thinker, a learned and subtle theologian; on
the contrary, no other doctor has had more experience of those tempests
that stir up the heart to its lowest deeps. 'I feel myself pricked and
stung to the quick by the judgment of God. I am in a continual battle; I
am assaulted and shaken, as when an armed man is forced by a violent
blow to stagger a few steps backwards.' The light which had rejoiced him
so much when he was in college at Paris, seemed almost to have faded
away. 'I am like a wretched man shut up in a deep dungeon, who receives
the light of day obliquely and in part, only through a high and narrow
loop-hole.' He persevered, however; he fixed his eyes on Jesus, and was
soon able to say: 'If I have not the full and free sight of the sun, I
distinguish however his light afar, and enjoy its brightness.'[32]
People at Orleans soon found out that there was something new and
strange in this young man. It was in this city, in the year 1022, that
the revival of modern times, if we may so speak, had begun among the
heads of a school of theology at that time very celebrated. Priests and
canons had told the people who listened to them, both in Orleans and in
the neighbouring towns, 'that they ought to be filled with the gift of
the Holy Spirit; that this Spirit would reveal to them all the depths
and all the dignity of the Scriptures;[33] that they would be fed with
heavenly food and refreshed by an inward fulness.'[34] These
_heretics_ had been put to death at Orleans. Would they be seen
rising again, after more than five centuries, in the city and even in
the university? Many doctors and students opposed Calvin: 'You are a
schismatic,' they said; 'you are separating from the Church!' Calvin,
alarmed at these accusations, was a prey to fresh anguish.
[Sidenote: CALVIN'S ANGUISH AND HUMILITY.]
Then, as he informs us, he began to meditate on the Psalms, and in the
struggles of David he found an image of his own: 'Ah!' he exclaimed,
'the Holy Spirit has here painted to the life all the pains, sorrows,
fears, doubts, hopes, anxieties, perplexities, and even the confused
emotions with which my mind is wont to be agitated.... This book is an
anatomy of all the parts of the soul.... There is no affection in man
which is not here represented as in a glass.'[35] This man, whom the
Romish and other legends describe as vain, proud, and insensible,
desired to see himself as he was, without screening any of his faults.
'Of the many infirmities to which we are subject,' he said, 'and of the
many vices of which we are full, not one ought to be hidden. Ah! truly
it is an excellent and singular gain, when all the hiding-places are
laid open, and the heart is brought into the light and thoroughly
cleansed of all hypocrisy and foul infection.'[36]
Such are the principles by which the Reformation has triumphed. Its
great organs desired that men's hearts should be 'cleansed of all foul
infection.' It is a singular delusion of those writers who, seeing
things otherwise than they are, ascribe this divine work to vile
interests and base passions. According to them, its causes were jealousy
of the Augustine monks, the ambition of princes, the greed of nobles,
and the carnal passions of priests, which, however, as we have seen, had
but too free scope during the middle ages. A searching glance into the
souls of the Reformers lays bare to us the cause of the revival. If the
writers of whom I have spoken were right, the Reformation ought not to
have waited until Luther for its accomplishment; for there had existed
for ages in christendom ambitious princes, greedy nobles, jealous monks,
and impure priests. But what was really a new thing was to find men who,
like the reformers, opened their hearts to the light of the Holy Spirit,
believed in the Word of God, found Jesus Christ, esteemed everything in
comparison with him as loss, lived the life of God, and desired that
'all hiding-places should be laid open,' and men's hearts cleansed of
all hypocrisy. Such were the true sources of the Reformation.
The adversaries of the Gospel understood the danger incurred by the
Church of Rome from the principles professed by Calvin; and hence they
called him wicked and profane, and, as he says, 'heaped upon his head a
world of abuse.' They said that he ought to be expelled from the Church.
Then the student, 'cast down but not destroyed,' retiring to his
chamber, would exclaim: 'If I am at war with such masters, I am not,
however, at war with thy Church, O God! Why should I hesitate to
separate from these false teachers whom the apostles call thy
enemies?[37]... When cursed by the unrighteous priests of their day, did
not thy prophets remain in the true unity of thy children? Encouraged by
their example, I will resist those who oppress us, and neither their
threats nor their denunciations shall shake me.'[38]
[Sidenote: PHASES OF CALVIN'S CONVERSION.]
The conversion of Calvin, begun at Paris, was completed at Orleans.
There are, as we have said, several phases in this work. The first is
that of the conscience, where the soul is aroused; the second is that of
the understanding, where the mind is enlightened; then comes the last,
where the new man is built up, where he strikes deeper root in Christ,
and bears fruit to God. At Paris, Calvin had heard in his heart the
divine voice calling him to eternal life; at Orleans, he constantly
studied the Holy Scriptures,[39] and became 'learned in the knowledge of
salvation,' as Theodore Beza tells us. The Church herself has gone
through similar phases: the first epoch of her history, that of the
apostolic fathers,[40] was that of simple piety without the scientific
element; the second, the age of the apologists, was that of a christian
understanding seeking to justify its faith in the eyes of reason. Calvin
had followed this road; but he did not give way to an intellectualism
which would have brought back death into his heart. On the contrary, the
third phase began immediately, and from day to day the christian life
became in him more spiritual and more active.
The conversion of Calvin and of the other reformers—we must insist upon
this point—was not simply a change wrought by study in their thoughts
and in their system. Calvin did not set himself the task of inventing a
new theology, as his adversaries have asserted. We do not find him
coldly meditating on the Church, curiously examining the Scriptures, and
seeking in them a means of separating a portion of christendom from
Rome. The Reformation was not the fruit of abstract reasoning; it
proceeded from an inward labour, a spiritual combat, a victory which the
reformers won by the sweat of their brow, or rather ... of their heart.
Instead of composing his doctrine chapter after chapter, Calvin,
thirsting for righteousness and peace, found it in Christ. 'Placed as in
the furnace of God (they are his own words), the scum and filth of his
faith were thus purified.' Calvin was put into the crucible, and the new
truth came forth, burning and shining like gold, from the travail of his
melted soul. In order to comprehend the productions of nature or of art,
we must study closely the secrets of their formation. We have on a
former occasion sought to discover the generative principle of the
Reformation in the heart of Luther; we are now striving to discern it in
Calvin also. Convictions, affections, intelligence, activity—all these
were now in process of formation in that admirable genius under the
life-giving rays of truth.
[Sidenote: 'I SACRIFICE MY HEART TO THEE.']
There came a moment when Calvin, desirous of possessing God alone,
renounced the world, which, from that time, has never ceased to hate
him: 'I have not sued thee by my love, O Christ,' he said; 'thou hast
loved me of thy free will. Thou hast shone into my soul, and then
everything that dazzled my eyes by a false splendour immediately
disappeared, or at least I take no count of it. As those who travel by
sea, when they find their ship in danger, throw everything overboard, in
order that, having lightened the vessel, they may arrive safely in port;
in like manner I prefer being stripped of all that I have, rather than
be deprived of thee. I would rather live poor and miserable than be
drowned with my riches. Having cast my goods into the waves, I begin to
have hope of escape since the vessel is lightened.... I come to thee
naked and empty.... And what I find in thee is not a trifling vulgar
gain: I find everything there.'[41] Thus lifting up his hands to God,
Calvin offered the sacrifice of a heart burning with love. He made this
grand thought the charter of his nobility, his blazon, and engraving
this design on his seal, a hand presenting a heart in sacrifice, he
wrote round it: _Cor meum velut mactatum Domino in sacrificium
offero_—'O Lord, I offer unto thee as a sacrifice my heart immolated to
thee.' Such was his device—such was his life.
The eyes of many began already to be turned upon him with admiration.
The surprising clearness of his mind, the powerful convictions of his
heart, the energy of his regenerated will, the strength of his
reasoning, the luminous flashes of his genius, and the severe beauties
of his eloquence—all betokened in him one of the great men of the age.
'A wonderful mind!' says Florimond de Rémond, one of his chief
adversaries, 'a mind keen and subtle to the highest degree, prompt and
sudden in its imaginations! What a praiseworthy man he would have been,
if, sifting away the vices (heresy), the virtues alone could have been
retained!'[42] There was doubtless something wanting in Calvin: he may
not have had that smiling imagination which, at the age he had now
reached, generally gilds life with the most brilliant colours; the world
appeared to him one wide shipwreck. But, possessing the glance of the
eagle, he discovered a deliverance in the future, and his powerful hand,
strengthened by God, was about to prepare the great transformations of
the Church and of the world.
He was indefatigable in labour. When the day was ended, and his
companions indulged in dissipation or in sleep, Calvin, restricting
himself to a slight repast for fear of oppressing his head, withdrew to
his room and sat down to study the Scriptures. At midnight he
extinguished his lamp,[43] and early in the morning, when he awoke and
before he left his bed, he 'ruminated,' says Beza, on what he had read
and learnt the night before.[44] 'We were his friends, we shared his
room with him,' said Theodore Beza's informants. 'We only tell you what
we have seen.'—'Alas!' adds the reformer, 'these long vigils, which so
wonderfully developed his faculties and enriched his memory, weakened
his health, and laid the foundation of those sufferings and frequent
illnesses which shortened his days.'[45]
[Sidenote: CALVIN SOUGHT AS A TEACHER.]
His taste for Holy Scripture did not divert Calvin from the study of
law. He was unwilling that the labours of his profession should suffer
in any degree from the labours of piety. He made such remarkable
progress in jurisprudence that he was soon looked upon, by both students
and professors, as a master and not as a scholar.[46] One day, Pierre de
l'Etoile begged him to give a lesson in his place; and the young man of
nineteen or twenty discharged his duty with so much skill and clearness,
that he was considered as destined to become the greatest jurist in
France. The professors often employed him as their substitute.[47]
To knowledge he joined communion. While still continuing to follow the
lessons of Etoile, Calvin 'sought the company of the faithful servants
of God,' as he tells us. All the children of God (he thought) should be
united together by a bond of brotherly union. He mixed also with
everybody, even with the gainsayers, and if they attacked the great
doctrines of Gospel truth, he defended them. But he did not put himself
forward. He could discern when, how far, and to whom it was expedient to
speak, and never exposed the doctrine of Christ to the jeers of the
unbeliever by imprudence or by the fears of the flesh. When he opened
his mouth, every one of his words struck home. 'Nobody can withstand
him,' they said, 'when he has the Bible in his hand.'
Students who felt a difficulty in believing, townspeople who could not
understand, went and begged him to teach them.[48] He was abashed. 'I am
but a poor recruit,' he said, 'and you address me as if I were a
general.'[49] As these requests were constantly renewed, Calvin tried to
find some hiding-place where he could read, meditate, and pray, secure
from interruption.[50] At one time it was the room of a friend, a nook
in the university library, or some shady retreat on the banks of the
river. But he was hardly absorbed in meditation or in the study of
Scripture, before he found himself surrounded by persons eager to hear
him, and who refused to withdraw. 'Alas!' he exclaimed, 'all my
hiding-places are turned into public schools.'[51]
Accordingly he sought still more private retreats; for he wished to
understand before he taught. The French love to see clearly into things;
but their defect in this respect is that they often do not go deep
enough, or fail to observe that by going deep they arrive at truths in
whose presence the most eminent minds ought to confess their
insufficiency and believe in the revelation from God. In the middle ages
there had been men who wished to bring the mysteries of the catholic
faith to the test of reason;[52] Abelard was at the head of that
phalanx. Calvin was not a new Abelard. He did not presume to fathom
impenetrable mysteries, but sought in Scripture the light and the life
of his soul.
[Sidenote: HE TEACHES IN PRIVATE FAMILIES.]
His admirers returned to him. Several citizens of Orleans opened their
houses to him, saying: 'Come and teach openly the salvation of man.'
Calvin shrank back. 'Let no one disturb my repose,' he said; 'leave me
in peace.' His repose, that is to say his studies, were his only
thought. But these souls, thirsting for truth, did not yield so easily.
'A repose of darkness!' replied the most ardent; 'an ignoble peace![53]
Come and preach!' Calvin remembered the saying of St. Chrysostom:
'Though a thousand persons should call you, think of your own weakness,
and obey only under constraint.'[54] 'Well, then, we constrain you,'
answered his friends. 'O God! what desirest thou of me?' Calvin would
exclaim at such moments. 'Why dost thou pursue me? Why dost thou turn
and disturb me, and never leave me at rest? Why, despite my disposition,
dost thou lead me to the light and bring me into play?'[55] Calvin gave
way, however, and understood that it was his duty to publish the Gospel.
He went to the houses of his friends. A few men, women, and young people
gathered round him, and he began to explain the Scriptures. It was quite
a new order of teaching: there were none of those distinctions and
deductions of scholastic science, at that time so familiar to the
preachers. The language of the young man possessed an admirable
simplicity, a piercing vitality, and a holy majesty which captivated the
heart. 'He teaches the truth,' said his hearers as they withdrew, 'not
in affected language, but with such depth, solidity, and weight, that
every one who hears him is struck with admiration.' These are the words
of a contemporary of Calvin, who lived on the spot, and in the very
circle in which the Reformer then moved. 'While at Orleans,' adds this
friend, Theodore Beza, 'Calvin, chosen from that time to be an
instrument of election in the Lord's work, wonderfully advanced the
kingdom of God in many families.'[56]
It was at Orleans, therefore, that Calvin began his evangelist work and
manifested himself to the world as a christian. Calvin's activity in
this city is a proof that he was then converted to the Gospel, and that
he had been so for some time; for his was not one of those expansive
natures which immediately display externally what is within them. This
first ministry of the reformer negatives the hypotheses which place
Calvin's conversion at Orleans, or at Bourges somewhat later, or, even
later still, during his second residence at Paris.
Thus the young doctor, growing in knowledge and acting in love, refuted
the objections of the gainsayers, and led to Christ the humble souls who
thirsted for salvation. A domestic event suddenly withdrew him from this
pious activity.
[Footnote 30: Calvin, _Préface aux Psaumes_.]
[Footnote 31: ('The touch-stone of a standing or of a falling Church.')
'Wolmarus lutheranum virus Calvino instillabat.'—Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de
l'Hérésie_, liv. vii. ch. ix.]
[Footnote 32: Calvin, _Institution_, liv. iii. ch. ii. 17-19.]
[Footnote 33: 'Sancti Spiritus dono repleberis, qui scripturarum omnium
profunditatem ac veram dignitatem te docebit.'—Mansi, _Gesta Synodi
Aurelianensis_, xix. p. 376.]
[Footnote 34: 'Deinde cœlesti cibo pastus, interna satietate
recreatus.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 35: Calvin, _Préface des Commentaires sur les Psaumes_.]
[Footnote 36: Ibid.]
[Footnote 37: 'Quos pronuntiabant apostoli esse habendos pro hostibus,
ab iis cur dubitassem me sejungere?'—_Opusc. Lat._ p. 124; _Franç._
p. 169.]
[Footnote 38: _Opuscules._]
[Footnote 39: 'Interea tamen ille sacrarum litterarum studium simul
diligenter excolere in quo tantum etiam promoverat.'—Bezæ _Vita
Calvini_.]
[Footnote 40: From 70 to 130 A.D.]
[Footnote 41: Calvin, _in Ep. Johan._; _Pauli ad Philip._ &c.]
[Footnote 42: Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, liv. vii. ch. x.]
[Footnote 43: 'Ad mediam usque noctem lucubrare.'—Bezæ _Vita
Calvini_.]
[Footnote 44: 'Mane vero, quæ legisset, in lecto veluti concoquere.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 45: 'Et tandem etiam intempestivam mortem attulit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 46: 'Doctor potiusquam auditor haberetur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 47: 'Quum sæpissime obiret ipsorum doctorum vices.'—Bezæ
_Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 48: 'Omnes purioris doctrinæ cupidi ad me, discendi causa,
ventitabant.'—_Præf. in Psalm._]
[Footnote 49: 'Novitium adhuc et tyronem.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 50: 'Tunc latebras captare.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 51: 'Ut mihi secessus omnes instar publicæ scholæ essent.'—
_Præf. in Psalm._]
[Footnote 52: 'Catholicæ fidei mysteria ratione investiganda.'—Abelard,
_Introd. ad Theol._ p. 1059.]
[Footnote 53: 'Ignobile otium colere.'—_Præf. in Psalm._]
[Footnote 54: Chrysostomus, _De Sacerdotio_, lib. iv.]
[Footnote 55: Calv. _Præf. in Psalm._ p. 3.]
[Footnote 56: Théod. de Bèze, _Histoire des Eglises Réformées_, p. 6.]
CHAPTER XV.
CALVIN CALLED AT BOURGES TO THE EVANGELICAL WORK.
(1528-1529.)
[Sidenote: CALVIN LEAVES ORLEANS.]
One day, probably at the beginning of April 1528, about the Easter
holidays, Calvin received a letter from Noyon. He opened it: it
contained sad news! his father was seriously ill. He went at once to
Duchemin in great agitation: 'I must depart,' he said. This friend, and
many others, would have wished to keep him in a place where he had
become so useful; but he did not hesitate. He must go to his father; he
would, however, only stay as long as was necessary; as soon as the sick
man was better, he would come back. 'I promise you to return shortly,'
he said to Duchemin.[57] Calvin, therefore, bade farewell to his
cherished studies, to his beloved friends, and those pious families in
which he was advancing the kingdom of God, and returned to Picardy.
We have but few particulars of his sojourn at Noyon. Assuredly his
filial piety indulged at his father's bedside in what has been termed
with reason the sweetest form of gratitude. Yet the weak condition of
the episcopal secretary was prolonged, without any appearance of
imminent danger. A question began to rise up in the young man's heart:
shall he go, or shall he stay?[58] Sometimes, when seated by the sick
man's pillow during the watches of the night, his thoughts would
transport him to Orleans, into the midst of his studies and the society
of his friends; he felt himself impelled, as by a vigorous hand, towards
the places that were so dear to him, and he made in his mind all the
arrangements necessary for his return.[59]... Suddenly his father's
disease grew worse, and the son did not quit the sufferer's bedside. The
old secretary, 'a man of sound understanding and good counsel,' says
Beza, was much respected by those around him, and love for the author of
his days was profoundly engraven in the young man's soul. 'The title of
father belongs to God,' he said; 'when God gives it to a man, he
communicates to him some sparks of his own brightness.'[60]
[Sidenote: CALVIN'S FIRST LETTER.]
Erelong a crisis appeared to take place; the doctors held out hopes: the
patient might recover his health, they said.[61] Calvin's thoughts and
desires were turned once more towards Orleans; he would have wished to
go there instantly,[62] but duty was still the strongest, and he
resolved to wait until his father's convalescence was complete. Thus one
day after another glided away.[63] Alas! the doctors were deceived.
'There is no longer any hope of a cure,' they soon told him; 'your
father's death cannot be far off.'[64] Calvin, therefore, determined
(14th of May, 1528) to write to Duchemin, which he had not yet done
since his departure. It is the first of the reformer's letters that has
been handed down to us. 'You know,' he says, 'that I am very exact in my
correspondence, and that I carry it even to importunity.[65] You will be
astonished, perhaps, that I have been wanting in my extreme punctuality;
but when you know the cause, you will restore to me your friendship,
should I perchance have forfeited it.' He then tells Duchemin of his
father's condition, and adds: 'Happen what may, I will see you
again.'[66] What did happen is not very clear. Calvin was at Noyon, as
we have seen, on the 14th of May, 1528; perhaps he remained all the
summer with the sick man. It has been concluded from this letter to
Duchemin that Gerard Calvin died shortly after the 14th of May; at that
time _the approach of death_ was certain, according to the doctors;
but doctors may be mistaken. According to Theodore Beza, he died during
his son's residence at Bourges, nine or ten months later, and a passage
from Calvin, which we shall quote further on, confirms Beza's testimony,
of itself so decisive.
One circumstance, which has some interest, seems to show that Calvin was
not at Orleans during the latter part of this year. On the 5th of
December, 1528,[67] eight months after his sudden departure, a boy eight
or nine years old arrived at Melchior Wolmar's house in that city. He
had a sickly look, but was a well-made child, playful and well-bred,
with a keen glance and lively wit. This boy, who was one day to be
Calvin's best friend, belonged to a Burgundian family. His father,
Pierre de Beza, was bailli of Vezelay, a very old town, where the child
was born on the 24th of June, 1519,[68] and received the name of
Theodore. One of his uncles, named Nicholas, seignior of Cette and of
Chalonne, and councillor of parliament, having paid the bailli a visit a
few months after the child's birth, adopted him, being an unmarried man,
and took him to Paris, although he had not been weaned.[69] Nine years
later (1528), at the recommendation of an Orleanese, who was connected
with the Bezas and a member of the royal council, the uncle sent his
nephew to Wolmar, who was described to him as very learned in Greek and
of great experience in education. Nothing in Calvin's biography written
by Beza indicates that the latter met Calvin at that time at Orleans.
When Margaret of Valois, who was Duchess of Berry, endeavoured about
this time to gather together a number of pious and learned men in her
university of Bourges, she invited Wolmar there;[70] and it was here
that young Beza saw Calvin for the first time.
[Sidenote: CALVIN GOES TO BOURGES.]
The scholar, set at liberty by the apparent restoration of his father's
health, had once more turned his thoughts towards his studies. He
desired to take advantage of the instruction of a doctor whose
reputation surpassed even that of Pierre de l'Etoile. All the learned
world was at that time talking of Alciati of Milan, whom the king had
invited to Bourges, and to attend whose brilliant lessons the academic
youth flocked from every quarter. Calvin had other motives besides this
for going to that city. Under Margaret's influence, Berry had become a
centre of evangelisation. Returning, therefore, to Orleans, he made
known his intention of going to Bourges, and the professors of the
university where he had studied, and even taught with credit,
unanimously offered him the degree of doctor. It would appear that his
modesty did not permit him to accept it.[71]
There were fewer resources at Bourges than at Orleans. 'As we cannot
live as we wish,' said the students, 'we live as we can.' Everything was
dear: board alone cost one hundred francs a year.[72] 'France is truly a
golden country,' bitterly remarked a poor scholar, 'for without gold you
can get nothing.' But the Noyon student cared little for the comforts of
life; intellectual and spiritual wealth satisfied him. He was anxious to
hear Alciati, and was surprised to find him a tall corpulent man, with
no very thoughtful look. 'He is a great eater,' said one of his
neighbours, 'and very covetous.'[73] Intelligence and imagination,
rather than sentiment, were his characteristics: he was a great jurist
and also a great poet. Mingling literature with his explanation of the
laws, and substituting an elegant style for barbarism of language, he
gave quite a new _éclat_ to the study of the law. Calvin listened
with admiration. Five years later Alciati returned to Italy, allured by
greater emoluments and greater honours.
Erelong Calvin gave himself up entirely to other thoughts. Bourges had
become, under Margaret's government, the centre of the new doctrine in
France; and he was accordingly struck by the movement of the minds
around him. There was discussing, and speaking, and assembling, wherever
the sound of the Gospel could be heard. On Sunday students and citizens
crowded the two churches where Chaponneau and Michel preached. Calvin
went with the rest, and found the christian truth pretty fairly set
forth 'considering the time.'[74] During the week, evangelical truth was
taught in the university by Gamaire, a learned priest, and by
Bournonville, prior of St. Ambrose.
[Sidenote: WOLMAR'S APPEAL TO CALVIN.]
But nothing attracted Calvin like Wolmar's house. It would appear that
this scholar had arrived at Bourges before him.[75] It was there that
Calvin met young Beza, and then began in Theodore's heart that filial
piety which continued all his life, and that admiration which he
professed afterwards in one of his Latin poems, where he calls Calvin
Romæ ruentis terror ille maximus.[76]
And truly Calvin was training for this. If Wolmar at Orleans had
confirmed the christian faith in him, Wolmar at Bourges was the first
who invited him distinctly to enter upon the career of a reformer. The
German doctor communicated to the young man the books which he received
from beyond the Rhine—the writings of Luther, Melanchthon, and other
evangelical men.[77] Wolmar, modest, gentle, and a foreigner, did not
think himself called to do in France what these illustrious servants of
God were doing in Germany: but he asked himself whether there was not
some Frenchman called by God to reform France; whether Lefèvre's young
fellow-countryman, who united a great understanding with a soul so full
of energy, might not be the man for whom this work was reserved.
Wolmar seems to have been to Calvin what Staupitz was to Luther; both
these doctors felt the need of minds of a strong temper for the great
things that were about to take place in the world. One day, therefore,
the professor invited the student to take a walk with him, and the two
friends, leaving behind them that old city, burnt down by Cæsar and
Chilperic, rebuilt by Charlemagne, and enlarged by Philip Augustus, drew
near the banks of the Auron, at its confluence with the Yèvre, and
strolled here and there among the fertile plains of Berry.[78] At last
Wolmar said to Calvin, 'What do you propose doing, my friend? Shall the
Institutes, the Novels, the Pandects absorb your life? Is not theology
the queen of all sciences, and does not God call you to explain his Holy
Scriptures?'[79] What new ideas then started up before Calvin! At Paris
he had renounced the priesthood, and at Bourges Wolmar urged him to the
ministry.... What should he do?
This was quite another calling. In the theocratic and legal Church, the
priest is the means by which man is restored to communion with God. The
special priesthood, with which he is invested, is the condition on which
depends the virtue of the sacraments and of all the means of grace.
Possessed of a magical power, he works the greatest of miracles at the
altar, and whoever does not partake in the ministrations of this
priesthood can have no share in redemption. The Reformation of the
sixteenth century, by setting aside the formal and theocratic Church of
Rome, which was shaped in the image of the Jewish theocracy, and by
substituting for it the Evangelical Church, conformably to the
principles of Christ and his apostles, transformed the ministry also.
The service of the Word became its centre—the means by which, with the
aid of the Holy Ghost, all its functions were discharged. This
evangelical ministry was to work its miracles also; but whilst those of
the legal ministry proceed from a mysterious virtue in the priesthood,
and are accomplished upon earthly elements, those of the evangelical
ministry are wrought freely by the divine Word, and by a heartfelt faith
in the great love of God, which that ministry proclaims,—strange
spiritual miracles, effected within the soul, transforming the man and
not the bread, and making him a new creature, destined to dwell
eternally with God.
[Sidenote: CALVIN HESITATES.]
Did Calvin at this time see clearly the difference between the Roman
priesthood and the Gospel ministry? We doubt it. It was not until later
that his ideas became clear upon this important point. The notion,
however, of abandoning not only the priesthood, but also the study of
the law for the Gospel, was not new to him. More than once in his
retirement, he had already asked himself: 'Shall I not preach Christ to
the world?' But he had always shrunk away humble and timid from this
ministry. 'All men are not suited for it,' he said; 'a special vocation
is necessary, and no one ought to take it upon himself rashly.'[80]
Calvin, like St. Augustin, the ancient doctor whom he most resembled
(the irregularities excepted which mark the youth of the bishop of
Hippona), feared to undertake a charge beyond his strength. He thought
also that his father would never consent to his abandoning the law and
joining the heretics. And yet he felt himself daily more inclined to
entertain the great questions of conscience and christian liberty, of
divine sovereignty and self-renunciation. 'So great a desire of
advancing in the knowledge of Christ consumed me at that time,' he said,
'that I pursued my other studies very coldly.'[81] A domestic event was
soon to give him liberty to enter upon the new career to which God and
Wolmar were calling him.[82]
Nor was this the only call he received at Bourges. Wolmar had spoken of
him, and several families invited him to their houses to edify them.
This took the young man by surprise, as it had done at Orleans; he
remained silent, lost in the multitude of his thoughts. 'I am quite
amazed,' he said, 'at seeing those who have a desire for pure doctrine
gather round me to learn, although I have only just begun to learn
myself!' He resolved, however, to continue at Bourges the evangelical
work which he had timidly commenced on the banks of the Loire; and he
brought more time and more decision to the task.
[Sidenote: THE PREACHERS IN BERRY.]
Calvin accordingly entered into relations with students and townspeople,
nobles and lawyers, priests and professors. The family of the Colladons
held at that time a considerable station in Berry. Two brothers, Leo and
Germain, and two sisters, Mary and Anne, were the first to embrace the
Gospel in Berry. Leo and Germain were advocates, and one of their
cousins, styled Germain II. in the genealogies, now eighteen years old,
afterwards became Calvin's intimate friend at Geneva. These ties of
friendship had probably begun at Bourges.[83]
The evangelist soon extended his christian activity beyond the walls of
the city. Many natives of Berry, who had heard him at Bourges, had been
charmed with his addresses. 'Come and preach these beautiful words to
us,' they said. Calvin gradually laid aside his natural timidity, and
being cheerful and fond of walking, he visited the castles and
villages.[84] He introduced himself affectionately into all the houses
at which he stopped. 'A graceful salutation,' he said in after years,
'serves as an introduction to converse with people.'[85] He delivered
several sermons in these hamlets and country-seats.
On the banks of the Arnon, ten leagues from Bourges, there stands a
little town named Lignières, at that time the seat of a considerable
lordship.[86] Every year certain monks came to preach in the parish
church, and were bountifully received at the château, where they
complained of their wretchedness in the most pitiable tone. This
offended the lord of Lignières, who was not of a superstitious
character. 'If I am not mistaken,' he said, 'it is with a view to their
own gain that these monks pretend to be such drudges.'[87] Disgusted
with their hypocrisy, M. de Lignières begged Calvin to come and preach
in their stead. The law-student spoke to an immense crowd with such
clearness, freedom, depth, and vitality, that every one was moved.[88]
'Upon my word,' said the lord to his wife, 'Master John Calvin seems to
me to preach better than the monks, and he goes heartily to work
too.'[89]
[Sidenote: RELIGIOUS MOVEMENT AT BOURGES.]
When the priests saw the young evangelist so well received, they cried
out and intrigued against him, and did all in their power to get him put
into prison.[90] It was at Bourges that Calvin began to see that
'everything among men is full of vexation.' He said: 'By the assaults
made against them, Christ sounds the trumpet to his followers, in order
that they may prepare themselves more cheerfully for battle.'[91]
In this way Calvin laboured in the town, in the villages, and in the
châteaux, conversing tenderly with children, preaching to adults, and
training heroes and martyrs. But the same circumstance which had taken
him away from Orleans, suddenly occurred at Bourges. One day he received
a letter from Noyon, written probably by his brother Anthony. Alas! his
father was dead! and he was far from him, unable to lavish upon him the
attentions of his filial piety. 'While he was at Bourges his father
died,' says Theodore Beza, 'and he was obliged to return to Noyon.'[92]
The death was very sudden.[93] Calvin did not hesitate; he bade farewell
to Berry, to those pious families which he had edified, to his studies,
and to his friends. 'You held out your hand to me,' he said to Wolmar,
'and were ready to support me from one end to the other of my course;
but my father's death takes me away from our conversations and our
lessons.'[94]
Bourges did not fall back into darkness after Calvin's departure. A
venerable doctor, named Michel Simon, perhaps that _Michel_ whom we
have already mentioned, displayed a holy boldness notwithstanding his
age. One day a Pelagian cordelier (as all the doctors of that order are)
had effrontery enough to maintain that man can be saved by his natural
strength alone. Simon confronted him, and succeeded in getting it laid
down that in the public disputations every proposition must be
established by the text of Scripture. This gave a new impulse to
theological studies.
The priests came to an understanding with one another, and made their
preparations without saying a word. On the following Sunday, Michel
Simon, having entered the pulpit, was about to begin his sermon, when
the curé, with his vicars and choristers, entered the choir, and began
to chant the office for the dead. It was impossible either to preach or
to hear. The exasperated students rushed into the choir, threw the books
about, upset the lecterns, and drove out the priests, who ran off 'in
great disorder.' Simon, who remained master of the field, delivered his
sermon, and, to the surprise of his hearers, ended by repeating the
Lord's prayer _in French_, without adding the _Ave Maria_! Whereupon a
man, sitting in one of the upper stalls (he was the king's proctor),
stood up, and with a sonorous voice began: _Ave Maria, gratia_.... He
could not complete the sentence. A universal shout interrupted him; the
women, who are easily excited, caught up their little stools, crowded
round the proctor, and shook them over his head. These people were
catholics, disgusted with the priests, not with the disciples of the
Saviour.
While the student of Noyon was devoting himself to the preaching of the
Gospel, extreme danger threatened him who had been his forerunner in
this work.
[Footnote 57: 'Quod tibi promiseram discedens me brevi adfuturum.'—
Calvinus Chemino, May 14, 1528, Berne MS.]
[Footnote 58: 'Ea me expectatio diutius suspensum habuit.'—Calvinus
Chemino.]
[Footnote 59: 'Nam dum reditum ad vos meditor.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 60: Calvini _Opera_.]
[Footnote 61: 'Sed cum medici spem facerent posse redire in prosperam
valetudinem.'—Calvinus Chemino.]
[Footnote 62: 'Nihil aliud visum est quam tui desiderium.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 63: 'Interim dies de die trahitur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 64: 'Certum mortis periculum.'—Calvinus Chemino.]
[Footnote 65: 'In litteris missitandis plus satis officiosum, ne dicam
importunum.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 66: 'Utcunque res ceciderit, ad vos revisam.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 67: 'Factum est ut ad te pervenirem anno Domini 1528, nonis
Decembris.'—Letter of Theodore Beza to Wolmar, Preface to the
_Confessio Fidei Christianæ_.]
[Footnote 68: 'Anno Domini 1519 die 24 junii, placuit Deo O. M. ut mundi
lucem aspicerem.'—Letter of Theodore Beza to Wolmar, Preface to the
_Confessio Fidei Christianæ_.]
[Footnote 69: 'Ut me quamvis adhuc a nutricis uberibus pendentem.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 70: 'Aureliæ primum, deinde Biturigibus, quum in eam urbem
regina Navarræ te evocasset.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 71: 'Eique discedenti doctoratus insignia absque ullo pretio
offeruntur.'—Bezæ _Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 72: _Conrad Gessner_ von Hanhait, p. 22. _Theodor. Beza_ von
Baum, p. 12.]
[Footnote 73: 'Vir fuit corpulentus, proceræ staturæ. Auri avidus
habitus est et cibi avidior.'—Panzivole, _De claris Legum Interpret._
lib. ii.]
[Footnote 74: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. des Eglises Réformées_, p. 6.]
[Footnote 75: Ibid.]
[Footnote 76: 'Of Rome in its decline the greatest dread.'—Bezæ
_Icones_.]
[Footnote 77: 'Libros quos e Germania acceperat, mittebat.'—Flor.
Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, ii. liv. vii.]
[Footnote 78: 'Die quodam cum discipulo magister, animi gratia,
deambulans.'—Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_.]
[Footnote 79: 'Ut posito Justiniani codice ad Theologiæ omnium
scientiarum reginæ studium, animum applicaret.'—Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de
l'Hérésie_, liv. vii. ch. ix. Florimond Rémond was so hostile to the
Reformation which he had abjured, that he cannot be trusted when his
prejudices are concerned; but he ought to be believed when his
predilections do not mislead him. I cannot see what object he could have
had in inventing this conversation. 'The Calvinists, in order to be
avenged of this writer,' says Moreri, 'have endeavoured to traduce his
memory.' The most sensible course is to hold a just mean between the
Romish apologists and the protestant detractors.]
[Footnote 80: 'Non omnes esse Verbi ministerio idoneos ... requiritur
specialis vocatio.'—Calv. _Opera_.]
[Footnote 81: 'Tanto proficiendi studio exarsi, ut reliqua studia
quamvis non abjicerem, frigidius tamen sectarer.'—Calv. _Præf._ in
Psalm.]
[Footnote 82: 'Acriter exhortans ut de reformanda atque illustranda Dei
ecclesia cogitationem ac curam serio inciperet.'—Flor. Rémond, _Histoire
de l'Hérésie_.]
[Footnote 83: Leo Colladon died at Geneva on the 31st of August, 1552.
His son Nicholas took refuge there in 1553, and in 1556 succeeded Calvin
in the chair of divinity. Germain II., made free of the city in 1555,
was the compiler of the Genevese code. Galiffe, _Généalogie des Familles
Genevoises_. Haag, _France Protestante_, article _Colladon_.]
[Footnote 84: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. des Eglises Réformées_, p. 7.]
[Footnote 85: Calvin, _Commentaire sur Mathieu_, ch. x.]
[Footnote 86: In the reign of Louis XIV. this lordship belonged to
Colbert.]
[Footnote 87: 'Contrefont les marmitons.']
[Footnote 88: 'Nonnullas interdum conciones in agro Biturigum, in
oppidulo quod _Linerias_ vocant.'—Bezæ _Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 89: Bèze, _Hist. des Eglises Réformées_, p. 7.]
[Footnote 90: 'Nisi me ab ipsis prope carceribus mors patris
revocasset.'—Calvinus Volmario, _in 2ᵃᵐ Ep. ad Corinth_.]
[Footnote 91: _Commentaire sur Mathieu_, ch. x.]
[Footnote 92: Théod. de Bèze, _Vie de Calvin_ (French text), p. 11.
'In agro Biturigum ... mors patris nuntiata in patriam vocavit.'—Ibid.
in Latin text.]
[Footnote 93: 'Repentina mors patris,' says Beza. This _sudden_ death
proves that Calvin's father did not die, as some assert, of the long
illness described in the letter to Duchemin.]
[Footnote 94: _Dédicace de la 2ᵉ aux Corinthiens._]
CHAPTER XVI.
BERQUIN, THE MOST LEARNED OF THE NOBILITY, A MARTYR FOR THE GOSPEL.
(1529.)
When Calvin passed through the capital on his way from Bourges to Noyon,
on the occasion of his father's death, he might have remarked a certain
agitation among his acquaintances. In fact, the Sorbonne was increasing
its exertions to destroy Berquin, who, forsaken by almost everybody, had
no one to support him but God and the Queen of Navarre.
[Sidenote: MARGARET'S SORROWS.]
Margaret, who was at St. Germain-en-Laye, enjoyed but little repose. The
brilliant court of Francis I. filled the noble palace with their
pastimes. Early in the morning every one was afoot; the horns sounded,
and the king set off, accompanied by the King of Navarre, a crowd of
nobles, the Duchess of Etampes, and many other ladies, and joined one of
those great hunting parties of which he was so fond. Margaret, remaining
alone, recalled her sorrows, and sought the _one thing needful_. Her
husband sometimes indulged in gaming, and the queen entreated
Montmorency to give him good advice. Henry, who thought his wife rather
too pious, complained of this with all the impetuosity of his character.
It was not Margaret's only vexation. At first her mother had appeared to
take part with the Reformation. One day, in December 1522, Louisa of
Savoy had said to her daughter, who was delighted to hear it: 'By the
grace of the Holy Ghost, my son and I are beginning to know these
hypocrites, white, black, grey, and all colours.... May God, by his
mercy and infinite goodness, defend us from them; for, if Jesus Christ
is not a liar, there is no such dangerous brood in all human
nature.'[95] But this princess, whose morality was more than doubtful,
had now become reconciled, and even leagued with these 'hypocrites
black, white, and grey,' and the king was beginning to give them his
support. Thus Margaret saw the three objects of her tenderest affection
alienating themselves from God; and remaining at the palace while
Francis with his lords and ladies and his hounds was chasing the wild
animals, she walked sadly in the park, saying to herself:
Father and mother I have none;
Brother and sister—all are gone,
Save God, in whom I trust alone,
Who rules the earth from his high throne.
All these loved ones I would forget;
Parents and friends, the world, its joys,
Honour and wealth however great,
I hold my deepest enemies!
Hence, ye delights!
Whose vanity
Jesus the Christ has shown to me!
But God, God only is my hope;
I know that he is all in all,
Dearer than husband to the wife—
My father, mother, friend, my all!
He is my hope,
My resting-place,
My strength, my being, and my trust,
For he hath saved me by his grace.
Father and mother I have none;
Brother and sister—all are gone,
Save God, in whom I trust alone,
Who rules the earth from his high throne.[96]
[Sidenote: SORBONNE PLOTS AGAINST BERQUIN.]
Whilst Margaret was seeking consolation in God, there came a support
which she had not expected. Erasmus was growing uneasy; the letters
which he received were full of alarming news; he saw that Francis I., on
whom he had so much relied, was stumbling and ready to fall. This would
give the victory to the Sorbonne. Having a presentiment that the
ultramontanists were daring revolutionists, prepared to sacrifice not
only literature and the Gospel, but royalty itself, he laid aside his
usual prudence, and resolved to tear the veil from the king's eyes,
which concealed the perverted designs of the Roman party, and to show
him conspirators in those who called themselves the supporters of the
throne. 'These men,' he wrote, 'under the cloak of the interests of the
faith, creep into all sorts of dark ways. Their only thought is of
bringing the august heads of monarchs under their yoke and of suspending
their power. Wait a little. If a prince resists them, they call him a
favourer of heresy, and say that it is the duty of the Church (that is
to say, of a few apocryphal monks and false doctors) to dethrone him.
What! shall they be permitted to scatter their poisons everywhere, and
we be forbidden to apply the antidote?'[97]
This epistle from the prince of letters, who with so much discernment
placed his finger on the sore, soon became known; and when it reached
the Sorbonne, the doctors, dismayed that a man so moderate and respected
should reveal their secrets so boldly, saw no other means of saving
their cause than by striking their enemies with terror. They dared do
nothing against the sage of Rotterdam, who was besides out of their
reach; but they swore that his friend Berquin should pay for his master.
The theologians of the Sorbonne demanded that this gentleman should be
brought to trial; Duprat, Louisa of Savoy, and Montmorency supported
their petition. There was no means of evading it, and twelve judges were
nominated by the pope and by the king.[98] These men were greatly
embarrassed, for Berquin's irreproachable life, amiable character,
inexhaustible charity, and regular attendance at public worship, had won
universal esteem. However, as the first president De Selva, the fourth
president Pailot, and some others, were either weak or fanatical
persons, the Sorbonne did not lose all hope. One alone of the twelve
caused any fear: this was William Budæus, called by Erasmus 'the prodigy
of France;' an enlightened man, who, while professing a great respect
for the Catholic Church, had more than once betrayed certain evangelical
tendencies to his wife and children. The twelve judges proceeded with
their investigation, without requiring the accused man to be shut up in
prison. Berquin went and came as he pleased; he spoke to the judges and
parliament, and convinced them of his innocence. But terror began to
paralyse the weak minds among them; they were afraid of the righteous
man; they would have nothing to do with 'that sort of people,' and
turned their backs upon him.
[Sidenote: MARGARET INTERCEDES FOR BERQUIN]
Berquin now resolved to address the king and to get Margaret to support
him. 'It was generally reported,' says one of the enemies of the Reform,
'that the Queen of Navarre took wondrous pains to save those who were in
danger, and that she alone prevented the Reformation from being stifled
in the cradle.'[99] Berquin went to the palace, and made his danger
known to the queen. He found in Margaret the compassion which failed him
elsewhere. She knew that we ought not 'to stand aside from those who
suffer persecution for the name of Christ, and would not be ashamed of
those in whom there was nothing shameful.'[100] Margaret immediately
took up her pen, and sitting down at that table where she had so often
pleaded both in prose and verse the cause of Christ and of christians,
she wrote the king the following letter:—
'Monseigneur,—The unhappy Berquin, who maintains that God, through your
goodness, has twice saved his life, presents himself before you, to make
manifest his innocence to you, having no one else to whom he can apply.
Knowing, Monseigneur, the esteem in which you hold him, and the desire
which he has now and always has had to serve you, I fear not to entreat
that you will be pleased to have pity upon him. He will convince you
that these heretic-finders are more slanderous and disobedient towards
you than zealous for the faith. He knows, Monseigneur, that you desire
to maintain the rights of every one, and that the just man needs no
advocate in the eyes of your compassion. For this cause I shall say no
more. Entreating Him who has given you such graces and virtues to grant
you a long and happy life, in order that he may long be glorified by you
in this world and everlastingly in the world to come,
'Your most obedient and most humble subject and sister,
'MARGARET.'[101]
Having finished, the queen rose and gave the letter to Berquin, who
immediately sought an audience of the king. We know not how he was
received, or what effect Margaret's intercession had upon Francis. It
would seem, however, that the king addressed a few kind words to him. We
know at least that Beda and the Sorbonne were uneasy, and that, fearing
to see their victim once more escape them, they increased their
exertions, and brought one charge after another against him. At last the
authorities gave way; the police received orders to avoid every
demonstration calculated to alarm him, lest he should escape to Erasmus
at Basle. All their measures were arranged, and at the moment when he
least expected it, about three weeks before Easter (in March 1529),
Berquin was arrested and taken to the Conciergerie.
[Sidenote: BERQUIN'S LETTER DISCOVERED.]
Thus then was 'the most learned of the nobles,' as he was termed, thrown
into prison in despite of the queen. He paced sadly up and down his
cell, and one thought haunted him. Having been seized very unexpectedly,
he had left in his room at Paris certain books which were condemned at
Rome, and which consequently might ruin him. 'Alas!' he exclaimed, 'they
will cost me serious trouble!'[102] Berquin resolved to apply to a
christian friend whom he could trust, to prevent the evil which he
foresaw; and the next day after his incarceration, when the domestic,
who had free access to him, and passed in and out on business, came for
orders, the prisoner gave him, with an anxious and mysterious air, a
letter which he said was of the greatest importance. The servant
immediately hid it under his dress. 'My life is at stake,' repeated
Berquin. In that letter, addressed to a familiar friend, the prisoner
begged him without delay to remove the books pointed out to him and to
burn them.
The servant, who did not possess the courage of a hero, departed
trembling. His emotion increased as he proceeded, his strength failed
him, and as he was crossing the Pont au Change, and found himself in
front of the image of Our Lady, known as _la belle ymage_, the poor
fellow, who was rather superstitious, although in Berquin's service,
lost his presence of mind and fainted. 'A sinking of the heart came over
him, and he fell to the ground as if in a swoon,' says the catholic
chronicler.[103] The neighbours and the passers-by gathered round him,
and lifted him up. One of these kind citizens, eager to assist him,
unbuttoned his coat to give him room to breathe, and found the letter
which had been so carefully hidden. The man opened and read it; he was
frightened, and told the surrounding crowd what were its contents. The
people declared it to be a miracle: 'He is a heretic,' they said. 'If he
has fallen like a dead man, it is the penalty of his crime; it was Our
Lady who did it.'—'Give me the letter,' said one of the spectators; 'the
famous Jacobin doctor who is preaching the Lent sermons at St.
Bartholomew's dines with me to-day. I will show it to him.' When the
dinner-hour came, the company invited by this citizen arrived, and among
them was the celebrated preacher of the Rue St. Jacques in his white
robe and scapulary and pointed hood. This Jacobin monk was no holiday
inquisitor. He understood the great importance of the letter, and,
quitting the table, hastened with it to Beda, who, quite overjoyed at
the discovery, eagerly laid it before the court. The christian gentleman
was ruined. The judges found the letter very compromising. 'Let the said
Berquin,' they ordered, 'be closely confined in a strong tower.' This
was done. Beda, on his side, displayed fresh activity; for time pressed,
and it was necessary to strike a decisive blow. With some the impetuous
syndic spoke gently, with others he spoke loudly; he employed threats
and promises, and nothing seemed to tire him.
From that hour Berquin's case appeared desperate. Most of his friends
abandoned him; they were afraid lest Margaret's intervention, always so
powerful, should now prove unavailing. The captive alone did not give
way to despair. Although shut up in a strong tower, he possessed liberty
and joy, and uplifting his soul to God, he hoped even against hope.
[Sidenote: BERQUIN'S SENTENCE.]
On Friday, the 16th of April, 1529, the inquiry was finished, and at
noon Berquin was brought into court. The countenance of Budæus was
sorrowful and kind; but the other judges bore the stamp of severity on
their features. The prisoner's heart was free from rancour, his hands
pure from revenge, and the calm of innocence was on his face. 'Louis
Berquin,' said the president, 'you are convicted of belonging to the
sect of Luther, and of having written wicked books against the majesty
of God and of his glorious mother. Wherefore we condemn you to do public
penance, bareheaded and with a lighted taper in your hand, in the great
court of our palace, asking pardon of God, of the king, and of justice,
for the offence you have committed. You shall then be taken, bareheaded
and on foot, to the Grève, where you shall see your books burnt. Next
you shall be led to the front of the church of Notre Dame, where you
shall do penance to God and the glorious Virgin, his mother. Afterwards
you shall have your tongue pierced—that instrument of unrighteousness by
which you have so grievously sinned.[104] Lastly, you shall be taken to
the prison of Monsieur de Paris (the bishop), and be shut up there all
your life between four walls of stone; and we forbid you to be supplied
either with books to read, or pen and ink to write.'
Berquin, startled at hearing such a sentence, which Erasmus terms
'atrocious,' and which the pious nobleman was far from expecting,[105]
at first remained silent, but soon regaining his usual courage, and
looking firmly at his judges,[106] he said: 'I appeal to the
king.'—'Take care,' answered his judges; 'if you do not acquiesce in our
sentence, we will find means to prevent you from ever appealing again.'
This was clear. Berquin was sent back to prison.
Margaret began to fear that her brother would withdraw his support from
the evangelicals. If the Reformation had been a courtly religion,
Francis would have protected it; but the independent air that it seemed
to take, and, above all, its inflexible holiness, made it distasteful to
him. The Queen of Navarre saw that the unhappy prisoner had none but the
Lord on his side. She prayed:
Thou, God, alone canst say:
Touch not my son, take not his life away.
Thou only canst thy sovereign hand outstretch
To ward the blow.[107]
Everything indicated that the blow would be struck. On the afternoon of
the very day when the sentence had been delivered, Maillard, the
lieutenant-criminal, with the archers, bowmen, and arquebusiers of the
city, surrounded the Conciergerie. It was thought that Berquin's last
hour had come, and an immense crowd hurried to the spot. 'More than
twenty thousand people came to see the execution,' says a
manuscript.[108] 'They are going to take one of the king's officers to
the Grève,' said the spectators. Maillard, leaving his troops under
arms, entered the prison, ordered the martyr's cell to be opened, and
told him that he had come to execute the sentence. 'I have appealed to
the king,' replied the prisoner. The lieutenant-criminal withdrew.
Everybody expected to see him followed by Berquin, and all eyes were
fixed upon the gate; but no one appeared. The commander of the troops
ordered them to retire; the archers marched back, and 'the great throng
of people that was round the court-house and in the city separated.' The
first president immediately called the court together, to take the
necessary measures. 'We must lose no time,' said some, 'for the king has
twice already rescued him from our hands.' Was there no hope left?
[Sidenote: BUDÆUS TRIES TO SAVE BERQUIN.]
There were in France at that time two men of the noblest character, both
friends of learning, whose whole lives had been consecrated to doing
what was right: they were Budæus on the bench, and Berquin in his cell.
The first was united to the second by the purest friendship, and his
only thought was how to save him. But what could he do singly against
the parliament and the Sorbonne? Budæus shuddered when he heard of his
friend's appeal; he knew the danger to which this step exposed him, and
hastened to the prison. 'Pray do not appeal!' said he; 'a second
sentence is all ready, and it orders you to be put to death. If you
accept the first, we shall be able to save you eventually. Pray do not
ruin yourself!' Berquin, a more decided man than Budæus, would rather
die than make any concession to error. His friend, however, did not
slacken his exertions; he desired at whatever risk to save one of the
most distinguished men of France. Three whole days were spent by him in
the most energetic efforts.[109] He had hardly quitted his friend before
he returned and sat down by his side or walked with him sorrowfully up
and down the prison. He entreated him for his own safety, for the good
of the Church, and for the welfare of France. Berquin made no reply;
only, after a long appeal from Budæus, he gave a nod of dissent.
Berquin, says the historian of the University of Paris, 'sustained the
encounter with indomitable obstinacy.'[110]
[Sidenote: BERQUIN'S FALL AND RECOVERY]
Would he continue firm? Many evangelicals were anxiously watching the
struggle. Remembering the fall of the apostle Peter at the voice of a
serving-maid, they said one to another that a trifling opposition was
sufficient to make the strongest stumble. 'Ah!' said Calvin, 'if we
cease but for an instant to lean upon the hand of God, a puff of wind,
or the rustling of a falling leaf, is enough ... and straightway we
fall!' It was not a puff of wind, but a tempest rather, by which Berquin
was assailed. While the threatening voices of his enemies were roaring
around him, the gentle voice of Budæus, full of the tenderest affection,
penetrated the prisoner's heart and shook his firmest resolutions. 'O my
dear friend,' said Budæus, 'there are better times coming, for which you
ought to preserve yourself.' Then he stopped, and added in a more
serious tone: 'You are guilty towards God and man if by your own act you
give yourself up to death.'[111]
Berquin was touched at last by the perseverance of this great man; he
began to waver; his sight became troubled. Turning his face away from
God, he bent it to the ground. The power of the Holy Spirit was
extinguished in him for a moment (to use the language of a reformer),
and he thought he might be more useful to the kingdom of God by
preserving himself for the future, than by yielding himself up to
present death. 'All that we ask of you is to beg for pardon. Do we not
all need pardon?' Berquin consented to ask pardon of God and the king in
the great court of the palace of justice.
Budæus ran off with delight and emotion to inform his colleagues of the
prisoner's concession. But at the very moment when he thought he had
saved his friend, he felt a sudden sadness come over him. He knew at
what a price Berquin would have to purchase his life; besides, had he
not seen that it was only after a struggle of nearly sixty hours that
the prisoner had given way? Budæus was uneasy. 'I know the man's mind,'
he said. 'His ingenuousness, and the confidence he has in the goodness
of his cause, will be his ruin.'[112]
During this interval there was a fierce struggle in Berquin's soul. All
peace had forsaken him; his conscience spoke tumultuously. 'No!' he said
to himself, 'no sophistry! Truth before all things! We must fear neither
man nor torture, but render all obedience to God. I will persevere to
the end; I will not pray the leader of this good war for my discharge.
Christ will not have his soldiers take their ease until they have
conquered over death.'
Budæus returned to the prison shortly afterwards. 'I will retract
nothing,' said his friend; 'I would rather die than by my silence
countenance the condemnation of truth.'[113] He was lost! Budæus
withdrew, pale and frightened, and communicated the terrible news to his
colleagues. Beda and his friends were filled with joy, being convinced
that to remove Berquin from the number of the living was to remove the
Reformation from France. The judges, by an unprecedented exercise of
power, revised their sentence, and condemned the nobleman to be
strangled and then burnt on the Grève.
Margaret, who was at St. Germain, was heartbroken when she heard of this
unexpected severity. Alas! the king was at Blois with Madame ——....
Would there be time to reach him? She would try. She wrote to him again,
apologising for the very humble recommendations she was continually
laying before him, and adding: 'Be pleased, Sire, to have pity on poor
Berquin, who is suffering only because he loves the Word of God and
obeys you. This is the reason why those who did the contrary during your
captivity hate him so; and their malicious hypocrisy has enabled them to
find advocates about you to make you forget his sincere faith in God and
his love for you.'[114] After having uttered this cry of anguish, the
Queen of Navarre waited.
[Sidenote: THE EXECUTION HURRIED ON.]
But Francis gave no signs of life. In his excuse it has been urged that
if he had at that time been victorious abroad and honoured at home, he
would have saved Berquin once more; but the troubles in Italy and the
intrigues mixed up with the treaty of Cambray, signed three months
later, occupied all his thoughts. These are strange reasons. The fact
is, that if the king (as is probable) had desired to save Berquin, he
had not the opportunity; the enemies of this faithful christian had
provided against that. They had scarcely got the sentence in their
hands, when they called for its immediate execution. They fancied they
could already hear the gallop of the horse arriving from Blois, and see
the messenger bringing the pardon. Beda fanned the flame. Not a week's
delay, not even a day or an hour! 'But,' said some, 'this prevents the
king from exercising the right of pardon, and is an encroachment upon
his royal authority.'—'It matters not! put him to death!'—The judges
determined to have the sentence carried out the very day it was
delivered, '_in order that he might not be helped by the king_.'[115]
In the morning of the 22nd of April, 1529,[116] the officers of
parliament entered the gloomy cell where Berquin was confined. The pious
disciple, on the point of offering up his life voluntarily for the name
of Jesus Christ, was absorbed in prayer; he had long sought for God and
had found him; the Lord was near him, and peace filled his soul. Having
God for his father, he knew that nothing would be wanting to him in that
last hour when everything else was to fail him: he saw a triumph in
reproach, a deliverance in death. At the sight of the officers of the
court, some of whom appeared embarrassed, Berquin understood what they
wanted. He was ready; he rose calm and firm, and followed them. The
officers handed him over to the lieutenant-criminal and his sergeants,
who were to carry out the sentence.
Meanwhile several companies of archers and bowmen were drawn up in front
of the Conciergerie. These armed men were not alone around the prison.
The news had spread far and wide that a gentleman of the court, a friend
of Erasmus and of the Queen of Navarre, was about to be put to death;
and accordingly there was a great commotion in the capital. A crowd of
common people, citizens, priests and monks, with a few gentlemen and
friends of the condemned noble, waited, some with anger, others with
curiosity, and others with anguish, for the moment when he would appear.
Budæus was not there; he had not the courage to be present at the
punishment. Margaret, who was at St. Germain, could almost see the
flames of the burning pile from the terrace of the château.
When the clock struck twelve, the escort began to move. At its head was
the grand penitentiary Merlin; then followed the archers and bowmen, and
after them the officers of justice and more armed men. In the middle of
the escort was the prisoner. A wretched tumbrel was bearing him slowly
to punishment. He wore a cloak of velvet, a doublet of satin and damask,
and golden hose, says the Bourgeois of Paris, who probably saw him
pass.[117] The King of heaven having invited him to the wedding, Berquin
had joyfully put on his finest clothes. 'Alas!' said many as they saw
him, 'he is of noble lineage, a very great scholar, expert and quick in
learning ... and yet he has gone out of his mind!' There was nothing in
the looks or gestures of the reformer which indicated the least
confusion or pride. He neither braved nor feared death: he approached it
with tranquillity, meekness, and hope, as if entering the gates of
heaven. Men saw peace unchangeable written on his face. Montius, a
friend of Erasmus, who had desired to accompany this pious man even to
the stake, said in the highest admiration: 'There was in him none of
that boldness, of that hardened air which men led to death often assume;
the calmness of a good conscience was visible in every feature.'—'He
looks,' said other spectators, 'as if he were in God's house meditating
upon heavenly things.'[118]
[Sidenote: BERQUIN'S MARTYRDOM.]
At last the tumbrel had reached the place of punishment, and the escort
halted. The chief executioner approached and desired Berquin to alight.
He did so, and the crowd pressed more closely round the ill-omened spot.
The principal officer of the court, having beckoned for silence with his
hand, unrolled a parchment, and read the sentence 'with a husky voice,'
says the chronicler. But Berquin was about to die for the Son of God who
had died for him; his heart did not flinch one jot; he felt no
confusion, and wishing to make the Saviour who supported him in that
hour of trial known to the poor people around him, he uttered a few
christian words. But the doctors of the Sorbonne were watching all his
movements, and had even posted about a certain number of their creatures
in order to make a noise if they thought it was necessary. Alarmed at
hearing the soft voice of the evangelist, and fearing lest the people
should be touched by his words, these 'sycophants' hastily gave the
signal. Their agents immediately began to shout, the soldiers clashed
their arms, 'and so great was the uproar that the voice of the holy
martyr was not heard in the extremity of death.' When Berquin found that
these clamours drowned his voice, he held his peace. A Franciscan friar,
who had accompanied him from the prison, eager to extort from him one
word of recantation, redoubled his importunities at this last moment;
but the martyr remained firm. At length the monk was silent, and the
executioner drew near. Berquin meekly stretched out his head; the
hangman passed the cord round his neck and strangled him.
[Sidenote: EFFECT ON THE SPECTATORS.]
There was a pause of solemn silence ... but not for long. It was broken
by the doctors of the Sorbonne and the monks, who hastily went up and
contemplated the lifeless body of their victim. No one cried 'Jesus!
Jesus!'—a cry of mercy heard even at the execution of a parricide. The
most virtuous man in France was treated worse than a murderer. One
person, however, standing near the stake, showed some emotion, and,
strange to say, it was the grand penitentiary Merlin. 'Truly,' he said,
'so good a christian has not died these hundred years and more.' The
dead body was thrown into the flames, which mounted up and devoured
those limbs once so vigorous and now so pale and lifeless. A few men,
led away by passion, looked on with joy at the progress of the fire,
which soon consumed the precious remains of him who should have been the
reformer of France. They imagined they saw heresy burnt out, and when
the body was entirely destroyed, they thought that the Reformation was
destroyed with it, and that not a fragment of it remained. But all the
spectators were not so cruel. They gazed upon the burning pile with
sorrow and with love. The christians who had looked upon Berquin as the
future reformer of France, were overwhelmed with anguish when they saw
the hero in whom they had hoped reduced to a handful of dust. The temper
of the people seemed changed, and tears were seen to flow down many a
face. In order to calm this emotion, certain rumours were set afloat. A
man stepped out of the crowd, and going up to the Franciscan confessor,
asked him: 'Did Berquin acknowledge his error?'—'Yes, certainly,'
answered the monk, 'and I doubt not that his soul departed in peace.'
This man was Montius; he wrote and told the anecdote to Erasmus. 'I do
not believe a word of it,' answered the latter. 'It is the usual story
which those people invent after the death of their victims, in order to
appease the anger of the people.'
Some such stratagems were necessary, for the general agitation was
increasing. Berquin's innocence, stamped on his features and on all his
words, struck those who saw him die, and they were beginning to murmur.
The monks noticed this, and had prepared themselves beforehand in case
the indignation of the people should break out. They penetrated into the
thickest of the crowd, making presents to the children and to the common
people; and having worked them up, they sent them off in every
direction. The impressionable crowd spread over the Grève and through
the neighbouring streets, shouting out that Berquin was a heretic. Yet
here and there men gathered in little groups, talking of the excellent
man who had been sacrificed to the passion of the theological faculty.
'Alas!' said some with tears in their eyes, 'there never was a more
virtuous man.'[119] Many were astonished that a nobleman who held a high
place in the king's affections should be strangled like a criminal.
'Alas!' rejoined others indignantly, 'what caused his ruin was the
liberty which animated him, which is always the faithful companion of a
good conscience.'[120] Others of more spirit exclaimed: 'Condemn,
quarter, crucify, burn, behead ... that is what pirates and tyrants can
do; but God is the only just judge, and blessed is the man whom he
pardoneth.' The more pious looked for consolation to the future. 'It is
only through the cross,' they said, 'that Christ will triumph in this
kingdom.'[121] The crowd dispersed.
[Sidenote: THE MARTYRS' HYMN.]
The news of this tragedy soon spread through France, everywhere causing
the deepest sorrow. Berquin was not the only person struck down; other
christians also suffered the last punishment. Philip Huaut was burnt
alive, after having his tongue cut out; and Francis Desus had both hand
and head cut off. The story of these deaths, especially that of Berquin,
was told in the shops of the workmen and in the cottages of the
peasants. Many were terrified at it; but more than one evangelical
christian, when he heard the tale at his own fireside, raised his head
and cast a look towards heaven, expressive of his joy at having a
Redeemer and a _Father's house_ beyond the sky. 'We too are ready,'
said these men and women of the Reformation to one another, 'we are
ready to meet death cheerfully, setting our eyes on the life that is to
come.' One of these christian souls, who had known Berquin best, and who
shed most tears over him, was the Queen of Navarre. Distressed and
alarmed by his death and by the deaths of the christians sacrificed in
other places for the Gospel, she prayed fervently to God to come to the
help of his people. She called to mind these words of the Gospel:
_Shall not God avenge his own elect, which cry day and night unto
him?_[122] A stranger to all hatred, free from every evil desire of
revenge, she called to the Lord's remembrance how dear the safety of his
children is to him, and implored his protection for them:
O Lord our God, arise,
Chastise thy enemies
Thy saints who slay.
Death, which to heathen men
Is full of grief and pain,
To all who in heaven shall reign
With thee is dear.
They through the gloomy vale
Walk firm, and do not quail,
To rest with thee.
Such death is happiness,
Leading to that glad place
Where in eternal bliss
Thy sons abide.
Stretch out thy hand, O Lord,
Help those who trust thy Word,
And give for sole reward
This death of joy.
O Lord our God, arise,
Chastise thy enemies
Thy saints who slay.[123]
This little poem by the Queen of Navarre, which contains several other
verses, was the martyrs' hymn in the sixteenth century. Nothing shows
more clearly that she was heart and soul with the evangelicals.
Terror reigned among the reformed christians for some time after
Berquin's martyrdom. They endured reproach, without putting themselves
forward; they did not wish to irritate their enemies, and many of them
retired to _the desert_, that is, to some unknown hiding-place. It
was during this period of sorrow and alarm, when the adversaries
imagined that by getting rid of Berquin they had got rid of the
Reformation as well, and when the remains of the noble martyr were
hardly scattered to the winds of heaven, that Calvin once more took up
his abode in Paris, not far from the spot where his friend had been
burnt. Rome thought she had put the reformer to death; but he was about
to rise again from his ashes, more spiritual, more clear, and more
powerful, to labour at the renovation of society and the salvation of
mankind.
[Footnote 95: _Journal de Louise de Savoie._]
[Footnote 96: _Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. p. 502.]
[Footnote 97: 'Illis licere venena sua spargere, nobis non licere
admovere antidota.'—Erasmi _Epp._ p. 1109.]
[Footnote 98: _Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris sous François I._
p. 380.]
[Footnote 99: Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, p. 348.]
[Footnote 100: Calvin.]
[Footnote 101: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, ii. p. 96.]
[Footnote 102: _Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris_, p. 381.]
[Footnote 103: Ibid.]
[Footnote 104: 'Lingua illi ferro perfoderetur.'—Erasmi _Epp._ p. 1277.
_Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris_, p. 382.]
[Footnote 105: 'Audita præter expectationem atroci sententia.'—Erasmi
_Epp._]
[Footnote 106: 'Constanti vultu.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 107: _Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. p. 444.]
[Footnote 108: _Chronique du Roi François I._ p. 76, note.]
[Footnote 109: 'Budæum triduo privatim egisse cum Berquino.'—Erasmi
_Epp._]
[Footnote 110: Crévier, v. p. 206.]
[Footnote 111: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, p. 103, verso.]
[Footnote 112: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, p. 103, verso.]
[Footnote 113: 'At ego mortem subire, quam veritatis damnationem, vel
tacitus approbare velim.'—Bezæ _Icones_.]
[Footnote 114: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, ii. p. 99.]
[Footnote 115: _Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris_, p. 383.]
[Footnote 116: Crespin and Theodore Beza speak of the month of November;
the Bourgeois de Paris mentions the 17th of April, but most of the
authorities give the 22nd.]
[Footnote 117: 'Des chausses d'or.'—_Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris_,
p. 384.]
[Footnote 118: 'Dixisses illum in templo de rebus cœlestibus cogitare.'—
Erasmi _Epp._ p. 1277.]
[Footnote 119: 'Prædicant eo nihil fuisse integrius.'—Erasmi _Epp._
p. 1313.]
[Footnote 120: 'Libertas, bonæ conscientiæ comes, perdidit virum.'—Ibid.
p. 113.]
[Footnote 121: 'Christo, nonnisi sub cruce, in Gallis triumphaturo.'—
Bezæ _Icones_.]
[Footnote 122: Luke xviii. 7.]
[Footnote 123:
'Reveille-toi, Seigneur Dieu,
Fais ton effort,
Et viens venger en tout lieu
Des tiens la mort.'
_Les Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. p. 508.]
CHAPTER XVII.
FIRST LABOURS OF CALVIN AT PARIS.
(1529.)
[Sidenote: CALVIN REVISITS NOYON.]
Calvin, having bid farewell to the towns and châteaux of Berry, had
arrived in the midst of those hills and plains, those green pastures and
noble forests, which stretch along both sides of the Oise. He approached
that little city of Noyon, which had been one time the capital of the
empire of Charlemagne, and where Hugues Capet, the head of the third
race, had been elected king. But his thoughts were not on these things:
he was thinking of his father. As soon as he caught a glimpse of that
beautiful Gothic cathedral, beneath whose shadow he had been brought up,
he said to himself that its pavement would never more be trodden by his
father's feet. He had never before returned to Noyon in such deep
emotion. The death of Berquin, the death of his father, the future of
the Church and of himself—all oppressed him. He found consolation in the
affection of his family, and especially in the devoted attachment of his
brother Anthony and of his sister Mary, who were one day to share his
exile. Bowed down by so many afflictions, he would have sunk under the
burden, 'like a man half dead, if God had not revived his courage while
comforting him by his Word.'[124]
His father—that old man with mind so positive, with hand so firm, and
whose authority he had venerated—was not there to guide him: he was
free. Gerard had decided that his son should devote himself to the law,
by which he might rise to a high position in the world. Calvin aspired,
indeed, to another future, but from obedience he had renounced his most
ardent desires; and now, finding himself at liberty, he turned towards
that christian career in which he was to be, along with Luther, the
greatest champion of modern times. 'Earthly fathers,' he said on one
occasion, 'must not prevent the supreme and only Father of all from
enjoying his rights.'[125]
As yet, however, Calvin did not meditate becoming a reformer in the same
sense as Luther. At that time he would have liked to see all the Church
transformed, rather than set himself apart and build up a new one. The
faith which he desired to preach was that old christian truth which Paul
had preached at Rome. The scribes had substituted for it the false
traditions of man, but this was only one reason the more for proclaiming
in the Church the doctrine which had founded the Church. After the first
phase of christian life, in which man thinks only of Christ, there
usually comes a second, where the christian does not voluntarily worship
with assemblies opposed to his convictions. Calvin was now in the first
of these phases. He thought only of preaching the Gospel. Did he not
possess a pulpit in this very neighbourhood, and was it not his duty to
glorify God from it? Had it been in his power, he would have done so in
St. Peter's at Rome; why, then, should he refrain in his own church?
[Sidenote: CALVIN'S PROMOTION AND PREACHING.]
Calvin had friends in Picardy, even among the dignitaries of the clergy.
Early attached to their young fellow-townsman, these men had received
him with joy; they had found him more advanced in piety and learning,
and had observed nothing in him opposed to their opinions. They thought
that he might become one of the pillars of the Church. The circumstance
that he had studied the law did not check them; it rendered him, in
their eyes, fitter still to maintain the interests of the faith ... and
of the clergy. Far from repelling him, his former patrons endeavoured to
bind him still closer to them. That noble friend of his boyhood, Claude
de Hangest of Momor, now abbot of St. Eloy, offered to give him the
living of Pont L'Evêque in exchange for that of St. Martin of
Marteville. Calvin, seeing in this offer the opportunity of preaching in
the very place where his ancestors had lived, accepted; and then
resigned, in favour of his brother Anthony, the chapel of La Gésine, of
which he had been titulary for eight years. The act is dated the 30th of
April, 1529.[126]
The same persons who presided over these several changes encouraged
Calvin to preach. When a young man who has gone through his studies for
the ministry of the Word returns to his native place, every one is
anxious to hear him. Curiosity was still more keenly aroused in Calvin's
case, for his reputation had preceded him, and some little charge of
heresy, put forward from time to time, served but to increase the
general eagerness. Everybody wanted to hear the son of the episcopal
secretary, the cooper's grandson. The men and women who knew him
hastened to the church; people even came from Noyon. The holy place was
soon filled. At last a young man, of middle height, with thin pale face,
whose eyes indicated firm conviction and lively zeal, went up into the
pulpit and explained the Holy Scriptures to his fellow-townsmen.[127]
The effects of Calvin's preaching were various. Many persons rejoiced to
hear, at last, a living word beneath that roof which had reechoed with
so much vain and useless babbling. Of this number were, no doubt,
certain notable men who were seen pressing round the preacher: Laurent
of Normandy, who enjoyed great consideration in that district;
Christopher Lefèvre, Lancelot of Montigny, Jacques Bernardy, Corneille
de Villette, Nicholas Néret, Labbé surnamed Balafré, Claude Dupré, and
Nicholas Picot, Anthony Calvin's brother-in-law. All were afterwards
accused of having embraced the new doctrine, and were condemned by the
parliament of Paris to be drawn on hurdles and burnt in the great square
of Noyon; but they had already quitted the kingdom.[128]
The words of the young speaker did not merely communicate fresh
knowledge—they worked a transformation of the heart and life. But there
were men present quite ready to receive certain evangelical ideas, who
yet did not mean to change either their life or their heart. The same
word thus produced faith in some and opposition in others: it _divided
the light from the darkness_.[129] Certain bigots and priests, in
particular, inveighed against the preaching of that serious-looking,
earnest young man, and exclaimed: 'They are setting wolves to guard the
sheep!'[130]
[Sidenote: DECIDES ON GOING TO PARIS.]
Calvin stayed only two or three months at Noyon. Perhaps a growing
opposition forced him to depart. He desired also to continue his Greek
studies; but instead of returning to Orleans or Bourges, he resolved to
go to Paris. The moment was favourable. Classical studies were at that
time making great progress in the capital. Francis I., at the request of
Budæus and Du Bellay, had just founded (1529) several professorships for
teaching Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. It was a complete revolution, and
Paris was full of animation when Calvin arrived. The fantastical
framework which the scholastics, theologians, jurists, and philosophers
had erected during the middle ages, fell to the ground in the midst of
jeering and laughter, and the modern learning arose amid the unanimous
applause of the rising generation. Pierre Danès, a pupil of Budæus and
Lascaris, and afterwards a bishop, taught Greek;[131] Francis Vatable
introduced young scholars to the knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures,
although he failed himself to find the counsel of God therein;[132]
other illustrious professors completed this precious course of
instruction. Paris was a centre whence light emanated; and this was the
reason which induced Calvin to forsake Noyon, Bourges, and even Orleans,
and hasten his steps thither.
The journey was a painful one; Calvin (whether on horseback or on foot
is unknown) arrived in Paris about the end of June, quite worn out with
fatigue. 'It is impossible,' he said next morning, 'for me to go out of
doors;'[133] indeed, he did not leave his room for four days. But the
news of his arrival soon spread; his friends and admirers hastened to
his inn, and during these four days his room was never empty.[134] All
the agitation of the schools seemed to be transported thither.
[Sidenote: CALVIN'S VISITORS.]
They talked of Budæus, Vatable, and Danès, of Greek and Hebrew, and of
the sun of learning then shining over the old Lutetia.... Calvin
listened and learnt the state of men's minds. One of the first who
hurried to him was Coiffard, his fellow-collegian at Orleans, who
brought his father with him. People contended for the student of Noyon,
who had already become celebrated. 'Come and stay with us,' said the
young Parisian; and when Calvin declined, 'I entreat you,' said Coiffard
in the most affectionate manner, 'to grant me this favour.'[135] The
father also insisted, for the worthy citizen knew what a steady friend
his rather frivolous son would find in the Picardin student. 'There is
nothing in the world I desire so much,' he said, 'as to see you
associate with my son.'[136]—'Come, do come,' urged the son, 'and be my
companion.' Calvin was touched by this affection; but he feared the
interruptions of the family, its distance from college, and he had but
one object—study. 'I would accept your offer with both hands,' he said,
'but that I intend to follow Danès' Greek course, and his school is too
far from your house.'[137] The father and son went away greatly
disappointed.
Not long after this, a more important personage entered the room. It was
Nicholas Cop, professor at St. Barbe, whose father, a native of Basle,
had just been appointed physician to the king. Both father and son were
strongly suspected of belonging to the 'new opinions;' but at that time
Francis cared little about them. The elder Cop had translated Galen and
Hippocrates, and the king had confided to him the care of his health. A
strict friendship erelong united Calvin and the son. The latter,
although a professor in the university, listened to the student of Noyon
as a disciple listens to his master; it is one of those marks of
Calvin's superiority, which every one recognised instantly. He showed
his friend 'how Christ discharges the office of physician, since he is
sent by the Father to quicken the dead.'
The conversations which these two young men then held together resulted
in after years in an event which exercised a certain influence over the
destiny of the reformer and of the Reform itself.
[Sidenote: VISIT TO A CONVENT.]
An object of less importance occupied them now: it was Calvin's first
business in Paris, and the account he gives of it throws a new light on
the future legislator. The custom of shutting up in convents the young
persons who had any tendency towards the Gospel had already begun. 'Our
friend Daniel, the advocate,' said Calvin to Cop, 'has a sister in a
nunnery at Paris; she is about to take the veil, and Daniel wishes to
know if it is with her full consent.'—'I will accompany you,' said the
professor, and on the following Sunday, Calvin having recovered from his
fatigue, the two friends set out for the convent. The future reformer,
who was already opposed to monastic vows, especially when taken under
constraint, cleverly devised a plan for learning whether any restriction
was placed upon the young lady's liberty. 'Converse with the abbess,' he
said to Cop, as they were going to the nunnery, 'and contrive that I may
be able to talk privately with our friend's sister.' The abbess,
followed by the girl, entered the parlour. 'We have granted her,' said
the former, 'the privilege of taking the solemn vows.'[138] According to
his instructions Cop began to talk with the superior on different
subjects which had no connection with the matter in hand. During this
time, Calvin, who believed he saw a victim before him, took advantage of
the opportunity, and said to Daniel's sister: 'Are you taking this yoke
upon you willingly, or is it placed on your neck by force?[139] Do not
fear to trust me with the thoughts that disturb you.' The girl looked at
Calvin with a thoughtless air, and answered him with much volubility:
'The veil is what I most desire, and the day when I shall make my vow
can never come too soon.' The future reformer was astonished: he had
before him a giddy young person, who had been led to believe that she
would find great amusement in the cloister. 'Every time she spoke of her
vows,' said Calvin, 'you might have fancied she was playing with her
doll.'[140] He desired, however, to address one serious word to her:
'Mademoiselle,' he said to her, 'I beg of you not to trust too much to
your own strength: I conjure you to promise nothing as if you could
accomplish it yourself. Lean rather on the strength of God, in whom we
live and have our being.'[141] Perhaps Calvin thought that by speaking
so seriously to the young girl, she would renounce her rash undertaking;
but he was mistaken.
He returned to his inn, and two days after (the 25th of June) he wrote
to Daniel an account of his visit to the convent. Having finished, he
was beginning another letter to a canon of Orleans,[142] when one of his
friends arrived, who had come to take him for a ride. We might suppress
this incident as being of no importance; but it is perhaps also an
unexpected feature in Calvin's habits. He is generally represented as
absorbed in his books or reprimanding the disorderly. And yet he was no
stranger to the decent relaxations of life: he could ride on horseback
and took pleasure in the exercise. He accepted his friend Viermey's
offer. 'I shall finish the letter on my return,' he said,[143] and the
two students set off on their excursion in the neighbourhood of Paris. A
few days later Calvin hired a room in the college of Fortret, where he
was near the professors, and resumed his study of languages, law, and
philosophy.[144] He desired to learn. Having received the knowledge of
divine things, he wished to acquire a true understanding of the world.
But erelong the summons from on high sounded louder than ever in his
heart. When he was in his room, surrounded by his law books, the voice
of his conscience cried to him that he ought to study the Bible. When he
went out, all his friends who felt a love for pure religion begged of
him to devote himself to the Gospel.[145] Calvin was one of those
fortresses that are not to be taken at the first assault. As he looked
upon the books scattered about his study, he could not make up his mind
to forsake them. But whenever in the course of his life God spoke
clearly to him, he repressed his fondest desires. Thus urged from within
and from without, he yielded at last. 'I renounce all other sciences,'
he said, 'and give myself up entirely to theology and to God.'[146] This
news spread among the secret assemblies of the faithful, and all were
filled with great satisfaction.
A mighty movement had taken place in Calvin's soul; but it must be
understood that there was no plan laid down in his mind. He had no
ambition, no art, no _rôle_; but he did with a strong will whatever
God set before him. The time he now spent in Paris was his
apprenticeship. Having given himself to God, he set to work with the
decision of an energetic character and the firmness of a persevering
mind. He studied theology with enthusiasm. 'The science of God is the
mistress-science,' he said; 'the others are only her servants.' He gave
consistency to that little chosen band who, in the midst of the crowd of
scholars, turned lovingly towards the Holy Scriptures. He excited young
and noble minds; he studied with them and endeavoured to explain their
difficulties.
[Sidenote: SPEAKS AT SECRET MEETINGS.]
He did more. Berquin's death had struck all his friends with terror. 'If
they have burnt this green wood,' said some, 'they will not spare the
dry.' Calvin, not permitting himself to be checked by these alarms,
began to explore that city which had become so dangerous. He joined the
secret assemblies which met under the shadow of night in remote
quarters,[147] where he explained the Scriptures with a clearness and
energy of which none had ever heard the like. These meetings were held
more particularly on the left bank of the Seine, in that part of the
city which the catholics afterwards termed _Little Geneva_, and
which, on the other hand, is now the seat of Parisian catholicism. One
day the evangelicals would repair mysteriously to a house on the
property of the abbey of St. Germain des Prés; another day they would
meet in the precincts of the university, the _quartier latin_ of
our times. In the room would be a few wooden benches, on which the poor
people, a few students, and sometimes one or two men of learning, took
their seats. They loved that simple-hearted young man, who so
effectually introduced into their minds and hearts the truths he found
in the Scriptures. 'The Word of Christ is always a fire,' they said;
'but when he explains it, this fire shines out with unusual brilliancy.'
Young men formed themselves on his model; but there were many who rushed
into controversy, instead of seeking edification as Calvin did. In the
university quarter the pupils of Daniel and Vatable might be seen, with
the Hebrew or Greek Testaments in their hands, disputing with everybody.
'It is thus in the Hebrew text,' they said; 'and the Greek text reads so
and so.' Calvin did not, however, disdain polemics; following the
natural bent of his mind, he attacked error and reprimanded the guilty.
Some who were astonished at his language asked: 'Is not this the curé of
Pont l'Evêque, the friend of Monseigneur de St. Eloy?' But, not allowing
himself to be checked by these words, he confounded alike the
superstitious papists and the incredulous innovators. 'He was wholly
given up to divinity and to God, to the great delight of all
believers.'[148]
[Sidenote: HE CIRCULATES INFORMATION.]
It was already possible to distinguish in him, in some features at
least, the character of chief of the Reform. As he possessed great
facility of correspondence, he kept himself informed, and others also,
of all that was passing in the christian world. He made about this time
a collection of papers and documents relating to the most recent facts
of the Reformation, and sent them to Duchemin, but not for him to
keep.[149] 'I send them to you on this condition,' wrote Calvin, 'that,
in accordance with your good faith and duty, they may pass through your
hands to our friends.'[150] To this packet he added an epitome,[151]
some commentaries, and a collection of notes made probably by Roussel
during his residence at Strasburg. He purposed adding an appendix:[152]
'But I had no time,' he said.[153] Calvin desired that all the friends
of the Gospel should profit by the light which he himself possessed. He
brought the new ideas and new writings into circulation. A close
student, an indefatigable evangelist, this young man of twenty was, by
his far-seeing glance, almost a reformer.
He did not confine his labours to Paris, Orleans, Bourges, or Noyon: the
city of Meaux occupied his attention. Meaux, which had welcomed Lefèvre
and Farel, which had heard Leclerc, the first martyr, still possessed
Briçonnet. This former protector of the evangelicals would indeed no
longer see them, and appeared absorbed in the honours and seductions of
the prelacy. But some men thought that at the bottom of his heart he
still loved the Gospel. What a triumph if the grace of God should once
more blossom in his soul! Daniel had friends at Meaux; Calvin begged of
him to open the door (or, to use his own expression, _the window_) of
this city for him. In the number of these friends was a certain
_Mæcenas_. The young doctor, writing from Meaux, gives a portrait of
this individual which exactly fits the bishop. He does not name
Briçonnet; but as he often suppresses names, or employs either initials
or pseudonyms, we might almost say that the name was not necessary here.
Daniel accordingly wrote to Mæcenas, who returned a very cold
answer.[154] 'I cannot walk with those people,' he said; 'I cannot
conform my manners to theirs.'[155] Daniel insisted; but it was all of
no use: the timid Mæcenas would on no account have anything to do with
Calvin. Briçonnet, we learn, was surrounded by friends who were
continually repeating to him: 'A bishop ought to have no commerce with
persons suspected of innovation.'[156] Calvin, animated by the noblest
ambition, that of bringing back to God a soul that was going astray,
finding himself denied every time he knocked at the gate of this great
personage, at last gave up his generous enterprise, and, shaking the
dust from his feet, he said with severity: 'Since he will not be with
us, let him take pleasure in himself, and with a heart full, or rather
inflated by his own importance, let him pamper his ambition.'[157]
[Sidenote: CALVIN'S MISSIONARY ZEAL.]
Calvin did not, however, fail completely at Meaux: 'You have given me
prompt and effectual aid,' he wrote to Daniel; 'you have opened me a
window, and have thus given me the privilege of being in future an
indiscreet petitioner.'[158] He took advantage of this opening to
propagate the Gospel. 'I will do it,' he said, 'without imprudence or
precipitation.' And, calling to mind that 'the doctrine of Christ is
like old wine, which has ceased working, but which nevertheless gives
nourishment to the body,'[159] he busied himself in filling vessels with
this precious drink: 'I will take care,' he wrote to Daniel, 'that the
inside shall be well filled with wine.'[160] He ended his letter by
saying: 'I want the _Odyssey_ of Homer which I lent Sucquet: pray
tell him so.'[161] Luther took Plautus and Terence into the convent with
him; Calvin asked for Homer.
He soon returned to Paris, which opened a wider field of labour to him.
On the 15th of January, 1530, he wrote Daniel a letter which he dated
from the _Acropolis_, as if Paris were to him the citadel of catholicism
or the Parthenon of France.[162] He was always trying to save some lost
sheep, and such a desire filled his mind on the 15th of January. On that
day he expected two friends to dinner. One of them, Robert Daniel,
brother to the advocate of Orleans, an enthusiastic young man, was
burning with desire to see the world. Calvin, who had already done all
in his power to win him over, flattered himself that he would succeed
that day; but the giddy young fellow, suspecting perhaps what awaited
him, did not come. Calvin sent a messenger to Robert's lodging. 'He has
decamped,' said the landlord; 'he has left for Italy.' At Meaux Calvin
had desired to win over a great personage; at Paris he had hoped to win
over a young adventurer: in both cases he failed. 'Alas!' he said, 'I am
but a dry and useless log!' And once more he sought fresh strength in
Christ.
[Sidenote: BEDA ATTACKS THE PROFESSORS.]
Meanwhile the Sorbonne, proud of the victory it had gained in bringing
Berquin to the stake, decided to pursue its triumphs. The war was about
to begin again. It was Beda who renewed the combat—that Beda of whom
Erasmus said: 'There are three thousand priests in that man alone!' He
did not attack Calvin, disdaining, or rather ignoring him. He aimed at
higher game, and having triumphed over one of the king's gentlemen, he
attacked the doctors whom Francis had invited to Paris for the
propagation of learning. Danès, Vatable, and others having been cited
before the parliament, the fiery syndic rose and said: 'The king's
doctors neglect Aristotle, and study the Holy Scriptures only.... If
people continue to occupy themselves with Greek and Hebrew, it is all
over with faith. These folks desire to explain the Bible, and they are
not even theologians!... The Greek and Hebrew books of the Holy
Scriptures come mostly from Germany, where they may have been altered.
Many of the persons who print Hebrew books are Jews.... It is not,
therefore, a sufficient argument to say: It is so and so in the
Hebrew.[163] These doctors ought to be forbidden to interfere with Holy
Scripture in their courses; or at least they should be ordered first to
undergo an examination at the university.' The king's professors did not
hold back in the cause of knowledge. They boldly assumed the offensive.
'If the university of Paris is now in small esteem among foreign
nations,' they said to the parliament, 'it is because instead of
applying themselves to the study of the Holy Gospels and of the ancient
fathers—Cyprian, Chrysostom, Jerome, and Augustin—its theologians
substitute for this true knowledge a science teaching nothing but craft
and sophistry. It is not thus that God wills to enlighten his people. We
must study sacred literature, and drink freely of all the treasures of
the human mind.'[164] Beda had gone too far. At court, and even in
parliament, numerous voices were raised in behalf of learning and
learned men. Parliament dismissed the charges of the syndic of the
Sorbonne.
The exasperated Beda now employed all his eloquence to get the
professors condemned by the Sorbonne. 'The new doctors,' he exclaimed,
'horrible to say! pretend that Holy Scripture cannot be understood
without Greek, Hebrew, and other such languages.' On the 30th of April,
1530, the Sorbonne did actually condemn as rash and scandalous the
proposition of the professors which Beda had denounced.[165]
[Sidenote: SMALL BEGINNINGS OF A GREAT WORK.]
Calvin anxiously observed in all its phases this struggle between his
teachers and the doctors of the Sorbonne. All the students were on the
watch, as was Calvin also in his college; and when the decision of the
parliament became known there, it was received with loud acclamations.
While the Sorbonne placed itself on the side of tradition, Calvin placed
himself still more decidedly on the side of Scripture. He thought that
as the oral teaching of the apostles had ceased, their written teaching
had become its indispensable substitute. The writings of Matthew and
John, of Peter and Paul, were, in his opinion, the living word of these
great doctors, their teaching for those ages which could neither see nor
hear them. It appeared to Calvin as impossible to reform the Church
without the writings of the apostles, as it would have been to form it
in the first century without their preaching. He saw clearly that if the
Church was to be renewed, it must be done by faith and by Scripture—a
twofold principle which at bottom is but one.
But the hour had not yet come when Calvin was to proclaim these great
truths with the authority of a reformer. A modest and devout man, he was
now performing a more humble work in the remotest streets and loneliest
houses of the capital. One would have taken him for the most
insignificant of men, and yet he was already a conqueror. The light of
Scripture, with which his mind was saturated, was one day to shine like
the lightning from east to west; and no man since St. Paul was to hold
the Gospel torch so high and with so firm a hand. When that student, so
thin, pale, and obscure, in appearance so mean, in manner so timid,
passed down the street of St. Jacques or of the Sorbonne; when he crept
silently past the houses, and slipped unobserved into one of them,
bearing with him the Word of life, there was not even an old woman that
noticed him. And yet the time was to come when Francis I., with his
policy, conquests, priests, court, and festivities, would only call up
frivolous or disgusting recollections; while the work which this poor
scholar was by God's grace then beginning, would increase day by day for
the salvation of souls and prosperity of nations, and would advance
calmly but surely to the conquest of the world.
[Footnote 124: Calvini _Opusc._]
[Footnote 125: 'Unico omnium patri suum jus integrum maneat.'—Calvin
_in Matthæum_.]
[Footnote 126: Desmay, _Vie de Calvin_, pp. 40-42. Drelincourt, _Défense
de Calvin_, pp. 167, 168.]
[Footnote 127: 'Quo loco constat Calvinum ... ad populum conciones
habuisse.'—Bezæ _Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 128: Archives Générales, x. 8946. _France Protestante_,
article _Normandie_.]
[Footnote 129: Genesis i. 5.]
[Footnote 130: Desmay, _Vie de Calvin_, p. 41. Drelincourt,
_Défense de Calvin_, p. 168.]
[Footnote 131: Crévier, _Hist. de l'Université de Paris_, v. p. 245.]
[Footnote 132: 'Quo alios introduxisti, nusquam ipse ingressus.'—Bezæ
_Icones_.]
[Footnote 133: 'Lassus de itinere pedem extrahere domo non potui.'—
Calvinus Danieli, Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 134: 'Proximos quatuor dies, cum me ægre adhuc sustinerem.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 135: 'Multis precibus, iisque non frigidis, sæpe institit.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 136: 'Nihil magis appetere quam me adjungi filio.'—Calvinus
Danieli, Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 137: 'Nihil unquam magis ambabus ulnis complexus sum, quam
hanc amici voluntatem.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 138: 'Eam obtinuisse ex solenni more voti nuncupandi
potestatem.'—Calvinus Danieli, Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 139: 'Num jugum illud molliter exciperet? num fracta potius
quam inflexa cervix?'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 140: 'Diceres eam ludere cum puppis, quoties audivit voti
nomen.'—Calvinus Danieli, Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 141: 'Omnia reponeret in Dei virtute in quo sumus et
vivimus.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 142: 'Habeo litteras inchoatas ad canonicum.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 143: 'Viermæus cum quo equum ascendo.'—Calvinus Danieli, Berne
MSS.]
[Footnote 144: 'In collegio Forterestano domicilium habuit.'—Flor.
Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, ii. p. 246.]
[Footnote 145: Theodore Beza, _Vie de Calvin_, in French text, p. 12.
'Omnibus purioris religionis studiosis.'—Ibid. Latin text.]
[Footnote 146: 'Ab eo tempore sese Calvinus, abjectis reliquis studiis,
Deo totum consecravit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 147: 'Qui tunc Lutetiæ occultos cœtus habebant.'—Bezæ _Vita
Calvini_.]
[Footnote 148: Beza, _Vie de Calvin_, French text, p. 12. 'Summa piorum
omnium voluptate.'—Ibid. Latin text.]
[Footnote 149: 'Mitto ad te rerum novarum collectanea.'—Calvinus
Chemino, Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 150: 'Hac tamen lege, ut pro tua fide officioque per manus
tuas ad amicos transeant.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 151: 'Mitto Epitomem alteram G. nostri.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 152: 'Cui velut appendicem assuere decreveram.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 153: 'Nisi me tempus defecisset.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 154: 'Supinum illum Mæcenatem.'—Calvinus Danieli Aureliano,
Idibus Septembris 1529. Geneva MSS. Calvin borrows this expression from
Juvenal, i. 65:
'Multum referens de Mæcenate supino.']
[Footnote 155: 'Non potest mores suos nobis accommodare.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 156: Maimbourg, _Histoire du Calvinisme_, liv. ii.]
[Footnote 157: 'Sit assentator suus, et pleno, seu verius turgido
pectore, foveat ambitionem.'—Calvinus Danieli, Geneva MSS.]
[Footnote 158: 'Apertam esse fenestram, ne post hæc simus verecundi
petitores.'—Calvinus Danieli, Geneva MSS. An expression imitated from
Suetonius, lib. xxviii.]
[Footnote 159: Calvin, _in Lucam_, ch. v. 39.]
[Footnote 160: 'Interim tamen penum vino instruendum curabo.'—Calvinus
Danieli, Geneva MSS. This passage presents some difficulty. 'Penus' in
Persius means a _safe_ where meat is kept; in Festus and Lampridius, the
_sanctuary_ of the temple.]
[Footnote 161: 'Odysseam Homeri quam Sucqueto commodaveram, finges a me
desiderari.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 162: _Calvin's Letters_, i. p. 30. Philadelphia, edit. J.
Bonnet.]
[Footnote 163: 'Ita habent Hebræa.'—_Actes du Parlement._]
[Footnote 164: Crévier, _Hist. de l'Université de Paris_, v. p. 249.]
[Footnote 165: 'Hæc propositio temeraria est et scandalosa.'—D'Argentré,
_Collectio Judiciorum de novis Erroribus_, ii. p. 78.]
CHAPTER XVIII.
MARGARET'S SORROWS AND THE FESTIVITIES OF THE COURT
(1530-1531.)
When was France to turn herself towards the Word of God? At the time of
her brother's return from his Spanish captivity, Margaret had solicited
him to grant liberty of preaching the Gospel, and the king, as will be
remembered, had deferred the matter until his sons were restored to
freedom. That moment seemed to have arrived. In order to recover his
children, Francis had sacrificed at Cambray (June 1529), in _the Ladies'
Peace_, the towns he had conquered, the allies who had been faithful to
him, and two millions of crowns besides.
It was not, however, until ten months later that the children of France
returned. All the royal family hurried to the Spanish frontier to
receive them; all, except Margaret. 'As it would be difficult to take
you further without danger,' said her mother, 'the king and I have
determined to leave you behind for your confinement.'[166] Margaret,
uneasy and perhaps a little jealous, wrote to Montmorency: 'When the
King of Navarre is with you, I pray you to advise him; but I much fear
that you will not be able to prevent his falling in love with the
Spanish ladies.'[167] At the beginning of July the king's children were
restored to their father; Margaret was transported with joy, and showed
it by her enthusiastic letters to Francis I.[168] She loved these
princes like a mother. More serious thoughts soon filled her mind: the
epoch fixed by her brother had arrived, but would he keep his promise?
[Sidenote: MARGARET PROMOTES UNITY.]
Margaret lost no time. Being left alone at Blois, she endeavoured to
strengthen the good cause, and carried on an active correspondence with
the leaders of the Reform. 'Alas!' said the priests, 'while King Francis
is labouring to protect his kingdom from the inundations of the Rhine
(that is, the Reformation), his sister the Queen of Navarre is trying to
break the dykes and throw down the embankments.'[169] There was one work
above all which Margaret had at heart; she wished to put an end to the
divisions among the evangelicals. She entreated the Frenchmen who were
at Strasburg, 'waiting for the consolation of Israel,' to do all in
their power to terminate the disunion; she even commanded Bucer to do
so.[170] Bucer's fine talents, benevolent character, and cultivated
understanding, the eloquence of his language, the dignity of his
carriage, the captivating sound of his voice, his discerning of spirits,
his ardent zeal—all seemed to fit him for a peace-maker. He set to work
without delay, and informed Luther of the princess's injunctions. 'If
our opinions are compared with yours,' he said, 'it will be easily seen
that they are radically the same, although expressed in different terms.
Let us not furnish our enemies with a weapon with which to attack
truth.'[171]
If Margaret had confidence in Bucer, he too had confidence in her. He
admired the sincerity of her faith, the liveliness of her piety, the
purity of her manners, the beauty of her understanding, the charms of
her conversation, and the abundance of her good works. 'Never was this
christian heroine found wanting in her duty,' he wrote to Luther.[172]
The Strasburgers thought that if Luther and the Germans on one side, and
Margaret and the French on the other, were united, the cause of the
Reformation would be triumphant in Europe. Whenever any good news
arrived from France, Bucer thrilled with joy; he ran to communicate it
to Capito, to Hedion, to Zell, and to Hohenlohe; and then he wrote to
Luther: 'The brethren write to us from France, dear doctor, that the
Gospel is spreading among them in a wonderful manner. A great number of
the nobility have already received the truth.[173] There is a certain
district in Normandy where the Gospel is spread so widely that the enemy
call it _Little Germany_.[174] The king is no stranger to the good
doctrine;[175] and as his children are now at liberty, he will no longer
pay such regard to what the pope and the emperor demand. Christ will
soon be publicly confessed over the whole kingdom.'[176]
[Sidenote: DEATH OF MARGARET'S CHILD.]
The Queen of Navarre was obliged to discontinue her correspondence with
the reformers of Germany; great joys and great anguish gave another
direction to her thoughts. About a fortnight after the return of the
children of France, Margaret became the mother of a fine boy at the
castle of Blois. When the king passed through that place on his return
from the Pyrenees, he took his sister with him, after her churching, to
Fontainebleau. But erelong bad tidings of her child summoned Margaret to
Alençon, where he was staying with his nurse; he died on Christmas day,
1530, at the age of five months and a half. The mother who had watched
near him, who had felt his sweet breath upon her cheek, saw him now
lying dead in his little cradle, and could not turn away her eyes from
him. At one time she thought he would revive, but alas! he was really
dead. The queen felt as if her life had been torn from her; her strength
was exhausted; her heart bled, but God consoled her. 'I place him,' she
said, 'in the arms of his Father;' and as she felt the necessity of
giving glory to God publicly, she sent for one of her principal
officers, and, with a voice stifled by tears and sighs, ordered that the
child's death should be posted up in the principal quarters of the city,
and that these words should be at the foot of the notice:
THE LORD GAVE, AND THE LORD HATH TAKEN AWAY.
A sentiment of joy mingled, however, with her inexpressible sorrow; and,
confident that the little child was in the presence of God, the pious
mother ordered a _Te Deum_ to be sung.[177] 'I entreat you both,' she
wrote to her brother and to her mother, 'to _rejoice at his glory_, and
not give way to any sadness.'[178] Francis, who had not long before lost
two daughters, was moved at this solemn circumstance, and replied to his
sister: 'You have borne the grief of mine, as if they were your own lost
children; now I must bear yours, as if it were my own loss. It is the
third of yours and the last of mine, whom God has called away to his
blessed communion, acquired by them with little labour, and desired by
us with such great travail.'[179] There are afflictions from God which
awaken deep feelings, even in the most frivolous hearts, and lips which
are ordinarily dumb sometimes utter harmonious sounds in the presence of
death. Other consolations were not wanting to the queen. Du Bellay, at
that time Bishop of Bayonne, and afterwards of Paris, hastened to
Alençon: 'Ah!' said Margaret, 'but for our Lord's help, the burden would
have been more than I could bear.'[180] The bishop urged her, on the
part of the king, to go to St. Germain, where preparations were making
for the coronation of Queen Eleanor, the emperor's sister. Margaret, who
always obeyed her brother's orders, quitted Alençon, though with sorrow,
in order to be present at his marriage.
[Sidenote: MARRIAGE OF FRANCIS AND ELEANOR.]
The court had never been more brilliant. The less happiness there was in
this marriage, the more pomp the king desired to display; joy of the
heart was replaced by the sound of the fife and drum and of the hautboy.
The dresses were glittering, the festivities magnificent.
There were mysteries and games, and the streets were gaily drest,
And the roads with flowers were strewn of the sweetest and the best;
On every side were galleries, and, if 't would pleasure yield,
We'd have conjured up again for thee a new Elysian field.[181]
Princes, archbishops, bishops, barons, knights, gentlemen of parliament,
and the magistrates of the city, were assembled for this illustrious
marriage; scholars and poets were not wanting. Francis I. would often
repeat the proverb addressed by Fouquet, Count of Anjou, to Louis IV.:
Un roi non lettré
Est un âne couronné.[182]
Philologers, painters, and architects had flocked to France from foreign
countries. They had met in Paris men worthy to receive them. William
Budæus, the three brothers Du Bellay, William Petit, the king's
confessor; William Cop, the friend of Lascaris and Erasmus; Pierre du
Châtel, who so gracefully described his travels in the East; Pellicier,
the learned commentator on Pliny, whose papers have not, however, been
printed;[183] Peter Danès, whose talents and knowledge Calvin esteemed
so highly: all these scholars, who entertained sympathies, more or less
secret, for the Reform, were then at court. These men of letters passed
among the Roman party as belonging to Luther's flock.[184] Somewhat
later, indeed, when one of them, Danès, was at the Council of Trent, a
French orator inveighed strongly against the lax morals of Rome. The
Bishop of Orvieto said with contempt: '_Gallus cantat!_'—'_Utinam_,'
sharply retorted Danès, then ambassador for France, '_utinam ad galli
cantum Petrus resipisceret!_'[185] But the cock has often crowed, and
Peter has shed no tears.
In the midst of all these men of letters was
Margaret, the fairest flower
That ever grew on earth,
as Ronsard called her. But although her fine understanding enjoyed this
select society, more serious thoughts occupied her mind. She could not
forget, even in the midst of the court, the little angel that had flown
away from her; she was uneasy about the friends of the Gospel; the
worldly festivities around her left her heart depressed and unsatisfied.
She endeavoured to pierce the thick clouds that hung over her, and
soaring in spirit to the 'heavenly kingdom,' she grasped the hand that
Christ stretched out to her from on high. She returned to the well of
Jacob, where she had drunk when she was so tired with her journey. She
had been as a parched and weary land, having neither dew nor moisture,
and the Lord had refreshed her with the clear springs of his Holy
Spirit. 'A continual sprinkling (to use her own words) kept up in her a
heavenly eternity;' and she would have desired all who gathered round
her to come to that well where she had so effectually quenched her own
thirst. Accordingly, in the midst of the worldly agitation of the court,
and of all the honours lavished on her rank and her wit, the poor
mother, whose heart was bruised but consoled, looked out in silence for
some lamb which she could recall from its wandering, and said:
[Sidenote: THE FOUNTAIN PURE AND FREE.]
'Come to my fountain pure and free,
Drink of its stream abundantly.'
Hasten, sinners, to the call
Of your God, who speaks to all:
'Come and drink—it gives relief
To every form of mortal grief;
Come and drink the draught divine,
Out of this new fount of mine.
Wash away each mortal stain
In the blood of Jesu slain.
No return I seek from thee
But works of love and charity.'
Hasten, sinners, to the brink
Of this stream so pure, and drink!
Fill your hearts, so that ye may
Serve God better every day.
Then, well washed of every stain
That of earth might yet remain,
By Jesu's love at last set free,
Live in heaven eternally.
'Come to my fountain pure and free,
Drink of its stream abundantly!'
Listen, sinners, to the call
Of your God, who speaks to all.[186]
These appeals were not unavailing. The Reformation was advancing in
France by two different roads: one was on the mountains, the other in
the plain. The Gospel gained hearts among the sons of labour and of
trial; but it gained others also among the learned and high-born, whose
faculty of inquiry had been aroused, and who desired to substitute truth
in the place of monastic superstitions. Margaret was the evangelist of
the court and of the king. Her mother, with Duprat and Montmorency,
ruled in the council-chamber, the Duchess of Etampes in the court
festivities, but the gentle voice of the Queen of Navarre supported
Francis in his frequent periods of uneasiness and dejection. Yet not to
the king alone did Margaret devote at this time the attentions of her
ardent charity. All the affections of her heart were just now
concentrated on a single object.
[Sidenote: LOUISA OF SAVOY DYING.]
She had not recovered from the death of her child, when another blow
fell upon the Queen of Navarre. The brilliant and gay festivities of the
court were succeeded by the sullen silence of the grave; and the icy
coldness, which had presided over the marriage of Francis with his
enemy's sister, was followed by the keen anguish and the bitter sorrows
of the tenderest of daughters. About the end of the year 1531 the Isle
of France was visited by an epidemic. Louisa of Savoy was taken
seriously ill at Fontainebleau, where the children of the king were
staying. Margaret hurried thither immediately. Louisa, that great enemy
of the Reformation, weakened by her dissolute life, was suffering from a
severe fever, and yet, imagining that she would not die, she continued
to attend to business of importance, and, between the paroxysms of the
disease that was killing her, dictated her despatches to the king. Never
had mother so depraved and daughter so virtuous felt such love for each
other. As soon as she saw the Duchess of Angoulême, the Queen of Navarre
anticipated 'the greatest of misfortunes,' and never left her side. The
king's children afforded their grandmother some diversion. Charles, Duke
of Angoulême, then nine years old, thought only of his father. 'If I
only meet him,' said the boy one day, 'I will never let go his
hand.'—'And if the king should go to hunt the boar?' said his
aunt.—'Well! I shall not be afraid; papa will be able to take care of
me.'—'When Madame heard these words,' wrote Margaret to her brother,
'she burst into tears, which has done her much good.'
In the midst of all these mournful occupations, Margaret kept watch over
the friends of the Gospel. 'Dear nephew,' she wrote to the grand-master
Montmorency, 'that good man Lefèvre writes to me that he is
uncomfortable at Blois, because the folks there are trying to annoy him.
For change of air, he would willingly go and see a friend of his, if
such were the king's good pleasure.' Margaret, finding that the enemies
of the Reform were tormenting the old man, gave him an asylum at Nerac
in her own states. We shall meet with him there hereafter.
On the 20th of September, Louisa, feeling a little better, left
Fontainebleau for Romorantin; but she had hardly reached Grez, near
Nemours, when her failing voice, her labouring breath, and her words so
sad 'that no one could listen to them, gave her daughter a sorrow and
vexation impossible to describe.'[187] 'It is probable that she will
die,' wrote Margaret to the king. Louisa, notwithstanding her weakness,
still busied herself with affairs of state; she wished to die governing.
Deep sorrow filled her daughter's heart. It was too much for her, this
sight of a mother whom she loved with intense affection, trifling on the
brink of the grave, strengthening herself against death by means of her
power and her greatness, 'as if they would serve her as a rampart and
strong tower,' forgetting that there was another besides herself, who
disposed of that life of which she fancied herself to be the mistress.
Margaret did not rest content with only praying for her mother; she sat
by her and spoke to her of the Saviour. 'Madame,' she said, 'I entreat
you to fix your hopes elsewhere. Strive to make God propitious to
you.'[188] This woman, so ambitious, clever, false, and dissolute, whose
only virtue was maternal love, does not appear to have opened her heart
to her daughter's voice. She breathed her last on the 29th of September,
1531, in the arms of the Queen of Navarre.
Thoughts of a different order were soon to engross Margaret's attention.
Hers was a sincere and living piety, but she had an excessive fear of
contests and divisions, and, like many eminent persons of that epoch,
she desired at any cost, and even by employing diplomatic means, to
achieve a reform which should leave catholicity intact. To set before
herself a universal transformation of the Church was certainly a noble
and a christian aim; but Calvin, Luther, Farel, and others saw that it
could only be attained at the expense of truth. The Queen of Navarre's
fault was her readiness to sacrifice everything to the realisation of
this beautiful dream; and we shall see what was done in France (Francis
lending himself to it from mere political motives) to attain the
accomplishment of this magnificent but chimerical project.
[Footnote 166: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 247.]
[Footnote 167: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 246.]
[Footnote 168: Ibid. ii. p. 105.]
[Footnote 169: Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, p. 487.]
[Footnote 170: 'Jussu reginæ Navarræ, ut hoc tandem dissidium
tollatur.'—Buceri _Opera Anglicana_, fᵒ 693. Gerdesius, ii. p. 33.]
[Footnote 171: 'Præbetur telum hostibus.'—Gerdesius, iv. p. 33.]
[Footnote 172: 'Nunquam suo officio deest christianissima illa heroīna,
regis soror.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 173: 'Procerum magnus numerus jam veritati accessit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 174: 'Ut cœperint eam vocare _parvam Allemaniam_.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 175: 'Rex a veritate alienus non est.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 176: 'Bona spes est, brevi fore, ut Christus publicum apud
ipsos obtineat.'—Gerdesius, iv. p. 33.]
[Footnote 177: Charles de Sainte-Marthe, _Oraison funèbre de
Marguerite_.]
[Footnote 178: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 269.]
[Footnote 179: Ibid.]
[Footnote 180: Ibid. i. pp. 272, 273.]
[Footnote 181: Marot, _Chronique de François I._ p. 90.]
[Footnote 182: 'An unlettered king is a crowned ass.' A.D. 936.]
[Footnote 183: Teissier, _Eloge des Hommes savants_, i. p. 200.]
[Footnote 184: Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, p. 884.]
[Footnote 185: The Latin word _gallus_ signifies both _Frenchman_ and
_cock_. 'The Frenchman crows,' said the bishop. 'Would to God,' retorted
Danès, 'that Peter (the pope) would repent at the crowing of the cock!'
Sismondi, _Hist. des Français_, xvi. p. 359.]
[Footnote 186: _Les Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. pp. 505-508.]
[Footnote 187: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 280; ii. p. 120.]
[Footnote 188: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 269.]
CHAPTER XIX.
DIPLOMATISTS, BACKSLIDERS, MARTYRS.
(1531.)
[Sidenote: CHARLES SLANDERS THE PROTESTANTS.]
The royal trio was now broken up. Margaret, knowing well that her mother
had always influenced her brother in favour of popery, hoped to profit
by an event that had cost her so many tears, and immediately attempted
to incline her brother to the side of the Reform. But there were other
influences at work at court: the Sorbonne, the bishops, Montmorency, and
even the emperor endeavoured to set Francis against the evangelicals.
Charles V. especially desired to take advantage of the alliance which
drew him closer to France, in order to turn its sovereign against
Luther. His envoy, Noircarmes, had very positive instructions on this
point. One day, when this ambassador had gone to present his homage to
the king, they had a long conversation together, and Noircarmes gave
utterance to all the usual calumnies against the Reformation. Francis
did not know what answer to make, but fixed the diplomatist's
accusations in his memory, with the intention of repeating them to his
sister. He paid her a visit, while still in a state of excitement.
'Madame,' said he angrily, 'do you know that your friends the
protestants preach the community of goods, the nullity of the marriage
tie, and the subversion of thrones? Noircarmes says that if I do not
destroy Lutheranism, my crown will be in danger.'[189] To justify the
innocent was one of the tasks which the Queen of Navarre had imposed
upon herself. 'Sire,' she said to the king, 'the reformers are
righteous, learned, peaceful men, who have no other love than that of
truth, no other aim than the glory of God, and no other thought than to
banish superstition and to correct morals.' The Queen of Navarre was so
gracious, so true, so eloquent, that the king left her completely
changed—at least for the day.[190] But it was not long before perfidious
insinuations again roused his anger.
[Sidenote: REINHOLD AND THE COURTIERS.]
Margaret, either by her own hand or through her agents, informed the
protestants of Germany of the charges brought against them by Charles's
ambassador, and called upon them to contradict Noircarmes. This they did
immediately. One of them, Matthew Reinhold, a man devoted to the Gospel
and a clever diplomatist, arrived in Paris about the middle of April
1531, and having been received by the king, attended by his lords and
his bishops, he handed in a letter from the Elector of Saxony, the
Landgrave of Hesse, and their allies. Francis opened it and appeared to
read it with interest. 'Sire,' wrote the princes, 'a few monks (Tetzel
and his friends) having through avarice hawked their indulgences about
the country to the dishonour of Christ and the ruin of souls,[191]
certain just and wise men have reproved them; the sun has risen upon the
Church, and has brought to light a world of scandals and errors. Help
us, Sire, and use such means that these disputes may be settled, not by
force of arms, but by a lawful judgment, which shall do no violence to
the consciences of christians.'[192]
While Francis was reading this letter, the lords and prelates of his
court eyed the Lutheran from head to foot. They went up to him and asked
the strangest questions. 'Is it true,' said a bishop, 'that the women in
your country have several husbands?'—'All nonsense!' replied the German
envoy. To other questions he returned similar answers; the eagerness of
the speakers increased, and the conversation was becoming animated, when
the king, who had finished the letter, declared that he thought it very
reasonable, and, to the great surprise of the court, smiled graciously
upon Reinhold.[193] A few days later (21st April) he gave the envoy an
answer: 'In order to heal the sores of the christian republic,' he said,
'there must be a council; provided the Holy Ghost, who is the lord of
truth, has the chief place in it.' Then he added: 'Do not fear the
calumnies of your enemies.'[194] The first step was taken.
The grand idea of the counsellors of Francis I., and of the king
himself, was, at this time, to substitute for the old policy of France a
new and more independent policy, which would protect it against the
encroachments of the papacy. Melanchthon was charmed at the king's
letter. 'The Frenchman answered us in the most amiable manner,' he
said.[195] A council guided by the Spirit of God was precisely what the
German protestants demanded: they thought themselves on the point of
coming to an understanding with the King of France. This hope took
possession of Margaret also, and of the powerful party in the royal
council who thought, like her, that the union of France, Germany, and
England would lead to an internal and universal reform of christendom.
The king, urged to form an alliance with the German princes, resolved to
send an ambassador on his part, and selected for this mission one
Gervais Waim. The choice was an unlucky one: Waim, a German by birth,
but long resident in Paris,[196] desired that everything in Germany
should remain as he had left it. A blind partisan of the ancient state
of things, he regarded any change as an outrage towards the German
nation, and was full of prejudices against the Reformation. Accordingly,
he had hardly arrived at Wittemberg (this was in the spring of 1531),
when he sought every opportunity of gratifying his blind hatred. He met
with a grand reception; banquets and entertainments were given in his
honour. One day there was a large party, at which Luther was present
with his friends and many evangelical christians, who were desirous of
meeting the envoy of the King of France. The latter, instead of
conciliating their minds, grew warm, and exclaimed: 'You have neither
church nor magistrate nor marriage; every man does what he pleases, and
all is confusion as among the brutes. The king my master knows it very
well.'[197] On hearing this extravagant assertion, the company opened
their eyes. Some got angry, others laughed, many despaired of ever
coming to an understanding with Francis I. Melanchthon changed his
opinion entirely. 'This man,' he said, 'is a great enemy of our
cause.... The kings of the earth think of nothing but their own
interest; and if Christ does not provide for the safety of the Church,
all is lost.'[198] He never said a truer thing. Waim soon found that he
had not been a good diplomatist, and that he ought not to have shocked
the protestant sentiment; he therefore confined himself to his duty, and
his official communications were of more value than his private
conversations.[199] We shall see presently the important steps taken by
France towards an alliance with evangelical Germany.
[Sidenote: IMPRUDENCE OF THE FRENCH DEPUTY.]
Margaret, believing that the triumph of the good cause was not far off,
determined to move forward a little. She had struck out of her
prayer-book all the prayers addressed to the Virgin and to the saints.
This she laid before the king's confessor, William Petit, Bishop of
Senlis, a courtier, and far from evangelical, though abounding in
complaisance for the sister of his master. 'Look here!' she said; 'I
have cut out all the most superstitious portions of this
book.'[200]—'Admirable!' exclaimed the courtier; 'I should desire no
other.' The queen took the prelate at his word: 'Translate it into
French,' she said, 'and I will have it printed with your name.' The
courtier-bishop did not dare withdraw; he translated the book, the queen
approved of it, and it appeared under the title of _Heures de la Royne
Marguerite_ ('Queen Margaret's Prayer-book'). The Faculty of Divinity
was angry about it, but they restrained themselves, not so much because
it was the queen's prayer-book, as because the translator was a bishop
and his Majesty's confessor.
[Sidenote: LECOQ'S SERMON BEFORE THE KING.]
Nor did the Queen of Navarre stop here. There was at that time in Paris
a curé, named Lecoq, whose preaching drew great crowds to St. Eustache.
Certain ladies of the court, who affected piety, never missed one of his
sermons. 'What eloquence!' said they, speaking of Lecoq, one day when
there was a reception at St. Germain; 'what a striking voice! what a
flow of words! what boldness of thought! what fervent piety!'—'Your fine
orator,' said the king, who was listening to them, 'is no doubt a
Lutheran in disguise!'—'Not at all, Sire,' said one of the ladies; 'he
often declaims against Luther, and says that we must not separate from
the Church.' Margaret asked her brother to judge for himself. 'I will
go,' said Francis. The curé was informed that on the following Sunday
the king and all his court would come to hear his sermon. The priest was
charmed at the information. He was a man of talent, and had received
evangelical impressions; only they were not deep, and the breath of
favour might easily turn him from the right way. As this breath was just
now blowing in the direction of the Gospel, he entered with all his
heart into this conspiracy of the ladies, and began to prepare a
discourse adapted, as he thought, to introduce the new light into the
king's mind.
When Sunday came, all the carriages of the court drew up before the
church of St. Eustache, which the king entered, followed by Du Bellay,
Bishop of Paris, and his attendant lords and ladies. The crowd was
immense. The preacher went up into the pulpit, and everybody prepared to
listen. At first the king observed nothing remarkable; but gradually the
sermon grew warmer, and words full of life were heard. 'The end of all
visible things,' said Lecoq, 'is to lead us to invisible things. The
bread which refreshes our body tells us that Jesus Christ is the life of
our soul. Seated at the right hand of God, Jesus lives by his Holy
Spirit in the hearts of his disciples. _Quæ sursum sunt quærite_, says
St. Paul, _ubi Christus est in dextera Dei sedens_. Yes, _seek those
things which are above_! Do not confine yourselves during mass to what
is upon the altar; raise yourselves by faith to heaven, there to find
the Son of God. After he has consecrated the elements, does not the
priest cry out to the people: _Sursum corda!_ lift up your hearts! These
words signify: Here is the bread and here is the wine, but Jesus is in
heaven. For this reason, Sire,' continued Lecoq, boldly turning to the
king, 'if you wish to have Jesus Christ, do not look for him in the
visible elements; soar to heaven on the wings of faith. _It is by
believing in Jesus Christ that we eat his flesh_, says St. Augustin. If
it were true that Christ must be touched with the hands and devoured by
the teeth,[201] we should not say _sursum_, upwards! but _deorsum_,
downwards! Sire, it is to heaven that I invite you. Hear the voice of
the Lord: _sursum corda_, Sire, _sursum corda!_'[202] And the sonorous
voice of the priest filled the whole church with these words, which he
repeated with a tone of the sincerest conviction. All the congregation
was moved, and even Francis admired the eloquence of the preacher. 'What
do you think of it?' he asked Du Bellay as they were leaving the
church.—'He may be right,' answered the Bishop of Paris, who was not
opposed to a moderate reform, and who was married.—'I have a great mind
to see this priest again,' said the king.—'Nothing can be easier,'
replied Du Bellay.
[Sidenote: FALL OF LECOQ.]
Precautions, however, were taken that this interview should be concealed
from everybody. The curé disguised himself and was introduced secretly
into the king's private cabinet.[203] 'Leave us to ourselves,' said
Francis to the bishop.—'Monsieur le curé,' continued he, 'have the
goodness to explain what you said about the sacrament of the altar.'
Lecoq showed that a spiritual union with Christ could alone be of use to
the soul. 'Indeed!' said Francis; 'you raise strange scruples in my
mind.'[204] This encouraged the priest, who, charmed with his success,
brought forward other articles of faith.[205] His zeal spoilt
everything; it was too much for the king, who began to think that the
priest might be a heretic after all, and ordered him to be examined by a
Romish doctor. 'He is an arch-heretic,' said the inquisitor, after the
examination. 'With your Majesty's permission I will keep him locked up.'
The king, who did not mean to go so far, ordered Lecoq 'to be set at
liberty, and to be admitted to prove his assertions by the testimony of
Holy Scripture.'
Upon this the Cardinals of Lorraine and Tournon, 'awakened by the
crowing of the cock,'[206] arranged a conference. On one side was the
suspected priest, on the other some of the most learned doctors, and the
two cardinals presided as arbiters of the discussion. Tournon was one of
the ablest men of this period, and a most implacable enemy of the
Reformation; in later years he was the persecutor of the Waldenses, and
the introducer of the Jesuits into France. The discussion began.
'Whoever thought,' said the doctors of the Sorbonne to Lecoq, 'that
these words _sursum corda_ mean that the bread remains bread? No;
they signify that your heart should soar to heaven in order that the
Lord may descend upon the altar.' Lecoq showed that the Spirit alone
gives life; he spoke of Scripture; but Tournon, who had been the means
of making more than one pope, and had himself received votes for his own
election to the papacy, exclaimed in a style that the popes are fond of
using: 'The Church has spoken; submit to her decrees. If you reject the
authority of the Church, you sail without a compass, driven by the winds
to your destruction. Delay not!... Save yourself! Down with the yards
and furl the sails, lest your vessel strike upon the rocks of error, and
you suffer an eternal shipwreck.'[207] The cardinals and doctors
surrounded Lecoq and pressed him on every side. Here a theologian fell
upon him with his elaborate scholastic proofs; there an abbé shouted in
his ears; and the cardinals threw the weight of their dignity into the
scales. The curé of St. Eustache was tossed to and fro in indecision. He
had some small taste for the Gospel, but he loved the world and its
honours more. They frightened and soothed him by turns, and at last he
retracted what he had preached. Lecoq had none of the qualities of a
martyr: he was rather one of those weak minds who furnished backsliders
to the primitive Church.
Happily there were in France firmer christians than he. While, in the
world of politics, diplomatists were crossing and recrossing the Rhine;
while, in the world of Roman-catholicism, the most eloquent men were
becoming faithless to their convictions: there were christian men in the
evangelical world, among those whose faith had laid hold of redemption,
who sacrificed their lives that they might remain faithful to the Lord
who had redeemed them. It was a season when the most contrary movements
were going on.
Toulouse, in olden times the sanctuary of Gallic paganism, was at this
period filled with images, relics, and 'other instruments of Romish
idolatry.' The religion of the people was a religion of the eye and of
the ear, of the hands and of the knees—in short, a religion of
externals; while within, the conscience, the will, and the understanding
slept a deep sleep. The parliament, surnamed 'the bloody,' was the
docile instrument of the fanaticism of the priests. They said to their
officers: 'Keep an eye upon the heretics. If any man does not lift his
cap before an image, he is a heretic. If any man, when he hears the
_Ave Maria_ bell, does not bend the knee, he is a heretic. If any
man takes pleasure in the ancient languages and polite learning, he is a
heretic.... Do not delay to inform against such persons.... The
parliament will condemn them, and the stake shall rid us of them.'[208]
A celebrated Italian had left his country and settled at Agen. Julius
Cesar della Scala, better known by the name of Scaliger, belonged to one
of the oldest families of his native country, and on account of the
universality of his knowledge, many persons considered him the greatest
man that had ever appeared in the world. Scaliger did not embrace the
reformed faith, as his son did, but he imported a love of learning,
particularly of Greek, to the banks of the Garonne.
[Sidenote: CATURCE AT TOULOUSE.]
The licentiate Jean de Caturce, a professor of laws in the university,
and a native of Limoux, having learnt Greek, procured a New Testament
and studied it. Being a man of large understanding, of facile eloquence,
and above all of thoughtful soul, he found Christ the Saviour, Christ
the Lord, Christ the life eternal, and adored him. Erelong Christ
transformed him, and he became a new man. Then the Pandects lost their
charm, and he discovered in the Holy Scriptures a divine life and light
which enraptured him. He meditated on them day and night. He was
consumed by an ardent desire to visit his birthplace and preach the
Saviour whom he loved and who dwelt in his heart. Accordingly he set out
for Limoux, which is not far from Toulouse, and on All Saints' day,
1531, delivered 'an exhortation' there. He resolved to return at the
Epiphany, for every year on that day there was a great concourse of
people for the festival, and he wished to take advantage of it by openly
proclaiming Jesus Christ.
[Sidenote: THE TWELFTH-NIGHT SUPPER.]
Everything had been prepared for the festival.[209] On the eve of
Epiphany there was usually a grand supper, at which, according to
custom, the king of the feast was proclaimed, after which there was
shouting and joking, singing and dancing. Caturce was determined to take
part in the festival, but in such a way that it should not pass off in
the usual manner. When the services of the day in honour of the three
kings of the East were over, the company sat down to table: they drank
the wine of the south, and at last the cake was brought in. One of the
guests found the bean, the gaiety increased, and they were about to
celebrate the new royalty by the ordinary toast: _the king drinks!_
when Caturce stood up. 'There is only one king,' he said, 'and Jesus
Christ is he. It is not enough for his name to flit through our
brains—he must dwell in our hearts. He who has Christ in him wants for
nothing. Instead then of shouting _the king drinks_, let us say
this night: _May Christ, the true king, reign in all our
hearts!_'[210]
The professor of Toulouse was much esteemed in his native town, and many
of his acquaintances already loved the Gospel. The lips that were ready
to shout _the king drinks_ were dumb, and many sympathised, at least by
their silence, with the new 'toast' which he proposed to them. Caturce
continued: 'My friends, I propose that after supper, instead of loose
talk, dances, and revelry, each of us shall bring forward in his turn
one passage of Holy Scripture.' The proposal was accepted, and the noisy
supper was changed into an orderly christian assembly. First one man
repeated some passage that had struck him, then another did the same;
but Caturce, says the chronicle, 'entered deeper into the matter than
the rest of the company,' contending that Jesus Christ ought to sit on
the throne of our hearts. The professor returned to the university.
This Twelfth-night supper produced so great a sensation, that a report
was made of it at Toulouse. The officers of justice apprehended the
licentiate in the midst of his books and his lessons, and brought him
before the court. 'Your worships,' he said, 'I am willing to maintain
what I have at heart, but let my opponents be learned men with their
books, who will prove what they advance. I should wish each point to be
decided without wandering talk.' The discussion began; but the most
learned theologians were opposed to him in vain, for the licentiate, who
had the Divine Word within him, answered 'promptly, pertinently, and
with much power, quoting immediately the passages of Scripture which
best served his purpose,' says the chronicle. The doctors were silenced,
and the professor was taken back to prison.[211]
The judges were greatly embarrassed. One of them visited the
_heretic_ in his dungeon, to see if he could not be shaken. 'Master
Caturce,' said he, 'we offer to set you at full liberty, on condition
that you will first retract only three points, in a lecture which you
will give in the schools.' The chronicler does not tell us what these
three points were. The licentiate's friends entreated him to consent,
and for a moment he hesitated, only to regain his firmness immediately
after. 'It is a snare of the Evil one,' he replied. Notwithstanding
this, his friends laid a form of recantation before him, and when he had
rejected it, they brought him another still more skilfully drawn up. But
'the Lord strengthened him so that he thrust all these papers away from
him.' His friends withdrew in dismay. He was declared a heretic,
condemned to be burnt alive, and taken to the square of St. Etienne.
Here an immense crowd had assembled, especially of students of the
university who were anxious to witness the degradation of so esteemed a
professor. The 'mystery' lasted three hours, and they were three hours
of triumph for the Word of God. Never had Caturce spoken with greater
freedom. In answer to everything that was said, he brought some passage
of Scripture 'very pertinent to reprove the stupidity of his judges
before the scholars.' His academical robes were taken off, the costume
of a merry-andrew was put on him, and then another scene began.
[Sidenote: THE DOMINICAN SILENCED.]
A Dominican monk, wearing a white robe and scapulary, with a black cloak
and pointed cap, made his way through the crowd, and ascended a little
wooden pulpit which had been set up in the middle of the square. This by
no means learned individual assumed an important air, for he had been
commissioned to deliver what was called 'the sermon of the catholic
faith.' In a voice that was heard all over the square, he read his text:
_The Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall
depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of
devils_.[212] The monks were delighted with a text which appeared so
suitable; but Caturce, who almost knew his Testament by heart,
perceiving that, according to their custom of distorting Scripture, he
had only taken a fragment (_lopin_) of the passage, cried out with
a clear voice: 'Read on.' The Dominican, who felt alarmed, stopped
short, upon which Caturce himself completed the passage: _Forbidding
to marry, and commanding to abstain from meats, which God hath created
to be received with thanksgiving of them which believe_. The monks
were confounded; the students and other friends of the licentiate
smiled. 'We know them,' continued the energetic professor, 'these
deceivers of the people, who, instead of the doctrine of faith, feed
them with trash. In God's service there is no question of fish or of
flesh, of black or of grey, of Wednesday or Friday.... It is nothing but
foolish superstition which requires celibacy and abstaining from meats.
Such are not the commandments of God.' The Dominican in his pulpit
listened with astonishment; the prisoner was preaching in the midst of
the officers of justice, and the students heard him 'with great favour.'
The poor Dominican, ashamed of his folly, left his sermon unpreached.
After this the martyr was led back to the court, where sentence of death
was pronounced upon him. Caturce surveyed his judges with indignation,
and, as he left the tribunal, exclaimed in Latin: 'Thou seat of
iniquity! Thou court of injustice!' He was now led to the scaffold, and
at the stake continued exhorting the people to know Jesus Christ. 'It is
impossible to calculate the great fruit wrought by his death,' says the
chronicle, 'especially among the students then at the university of
Toulouse,' that is to say, in the year 1532.[213]
Certain preachers, however, who had taught the new doctrine, backslided
deplorably at this time, and checked the progress of the Word in the
south; among them were the prothonotary of Armagnac, the cordelier Des
Noces, as well as his companion the youthful Melchior Flavin, 'a furious
hypocrite,' as Beza calls him. One of those who had received in their
hearts the fire that warmed the energetic Caturce, held firm to the
truth, even in the presence of the stake: he was a grey friar named
Marcii. Having performed 'wonders' by his preaching in Rouergue, he was
taken to Toulouse, and there sealed with his blood the doctrines he had
so faithfully proclaimed.[214]
[Sidenote: TWO MODES OF REFORMATION.]
We must soon turn to that external reformation imagined by some of the
king's advisers, under the inspiration of the Queen of Navarre, and by
certain German protestants who, under the influence of motives partly
religious, partly political, proposed to reform Christendom by means of
a council, without doing away with the Romish episcopate. But we must
first return to that humble and powerful teacher, the noble
representative of a scriptural and living reformation, who, while urging
the necessity of a spiritual unity, set in the foremost rank the
imprescriptible rights of truth.
[Footnote 189: Seckendorf, pp. 1170, 1171.]
[Footnote 190: 'Fratris iras pro viribus moderavit.'—Bezæ _Icones_.]
[Footnote 191: 'Propter quæstum, cum contumelia Christi et cum periculo
animarum.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 472.]
[Footnote 192: Sleidan, ch. viii.]
[Footnote 193: 'Ihm eine gnädige Mine gemacht.'—Seckendorf, p. 118.]
[Footnote 194: Sleidan, ch. viii. p. 232.]
[Footnote 195: 'Gallus rescripsit humanissime.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 503.]
[Footnote 196: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, iv. p. 167.]
[Footnote 197: 'Sondern gienge alles unter einander wie das Viehe.—
Schelhorn, p. 289.]
[Footnote 198: 'Illi reges sua agunt negotia.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 518.]
[Footnote 199: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 167.]
[Footnote 200: Bèze, _Hist. Eccl._ i. p. 8.]
[Footnote 201: 'Corpus et sanguinem Domini, in veritate, manibus
sacerdotum tractari, frangi, et fidelium dentibus atteri.' (The formula
which Pope Nicholas exacted of Bérenger.)—Lanfranc, _De Euchar._ cap. v.]
[Footnote 202: 'Speciebus illis nequaquam adhærendum, sed fidei alis ad
cœlos evolandum esse. Illud subinde repetens: _Sursum corda! sursum
corda!_'—Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, ii. p. 225. See also
Maimbourg, _Calvinisme_, pp. 22-24.]
[Footnote 203: 'Bellaii opera, Gallus hic in secretiorem locum
vocatus.'-Flor. Rémond, ii. p. 225.]
[Footnote 204: 'Regi scrupulos non leves injecit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 205: 'Idem de aliis quoque fidei articulis.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 206: A play upon the priest's name, both in French and in
Latin. 'Lotharingus et Turnonius cardinales Galli hujus cantu
excitati.'—Flor. Rémond, ii. p. 225.]
[Footnote 207: 'Antennas dimittite ac vela colligite, ne ad errorum
scopulos illisa navi æternæ salutis naufragium faciatis.'—Flor. Rémond,
_Hist. de l'Hérésie_, ii. p. 225.]
[Footnote 208: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. Eccl._ i. p. 7.]
[Footnote 209: This _jour des Rois_ corresponds with our _Twelfth
day_.]
[Footnote 210: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. Eccl._ i. p. 7. Crespin,
_Martyrologue_, fol. 106.]
[Footnote 211: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. Eccl._ i. p. 7. Crespin,
_Martyrologue_, fol. 106.]
[Footnote 212: 1 Timothy iv. 1.]
[Footnote 213: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. Eccl._ i. p. 7. Crespin,
_Martyrologue_, fol. 106.]
[Footnote 214: Ibid.]
CHAPTER XX.
CALVIN'S SEPARATION FROM THE HIERARCHY: HIS FIRST WORK, HIS FRIENDS.
(1532.)
Lecoq had been caught in the snares of the world; Caturce had perished
in the flames; some elect souls appeared to be falling into a third
danger—a sort of christianity, partly mystical, partly worldly, partly
Romanist. But there was a young man among the evangelicals who was
beginning to occasion some uneasiness in the lukewarm. Calvin—for it is
of him we speak—was successively attacked on these three sides, and yet
he remained firm. He did more than this, for every day he enlarged the
circle of his christian activity. An advocate, a young _frondeur_,
a pious tradesman, a catholic student, a professor of the university,
and the Queen of Navarre—all received from him at this time certain
impulses which carried them forward in the path of truth.
[Sidenote: DANIEL'S VIEWS FOR CALVIN.]
The advocate Daniel loved him dearly, and desired to keep him in the
Romish communion. His large understanding, his energetic character, his
indefatigable activity seemed to promise the Church a St. Augustin or a
St. Bernard; he must be raised to some important post where he would
have a prospect of making himself useful. The advocate, who thought
Calvin far less advanced in the ways of liberty than he really was, had
an idea of obtaining for him an ecclesiastical charge which, he
imagined, would perfectly suit his young friend: it was that of official
or vicar-general, empowered to exercise episcopal jurisdiction. Would
Daniel succeed? Would he rob the Reformation of this young and brilliant
genius? Influential men were ready to aid him in establishing Calvin in
the ranks of the Romish hierarchy. Accordingly the first temptation to
which he was exposed proceeded from clerical ambition.
An ecclesiastic of high birth, John, Count of Longueville and Archbishop
of Toulouse, had been appointed Bishop of Orleans in 1521, with
permission to retain his archbishopric.[215] In 1532 a new bishop was
expected at Orleans, either because Longueville was dead, or because, on
account of his illness, a coadjutor had become necessary. The pluralist
prelate was a fellow-countryman of Calvin's.[216] Daniel, thinking that
he ought to seize this opportunity of procuring the post of official for
the young scholar, made the first overtures to Calvin on the 6th of
January, 1532. 'I never will abandon,' he said, 'the old and mutual
friendship that unites us.' And then, having by this means sought to
conciliate his favourable attention, he skilfully insinuated his wishes.
'We are expecting the bishop's arrival every day; I should be pleased
if, by the care of your friends, you were so recommended to him that he
conferred on you the charge of official or some other post.'[217] There
was much in this to flatter the self-love of a young man of
twenty-three. If Calvin had been made vicar-general at so early an age,
he would not have stopped there; that office often led to the highest
dignities, and his brilliant genius, his great and strong character,
would have made him a bishop, cardinal, who can say? ... perhaps pope.
Instead of freeing the Church he would have enslaved it; and instead of
being plain John Calvin he might perhaps have been the Hildebrand of his
age.
What will Calvin do? Although settled as regards doctrine, he was still
undecided with regard to the Church: it was a period of transition with
him. 'On the one hand,' he said, 'I feel the call of God which holds me
fast to the Church, and on the other I fear to take upon myself a burden
which I cannot bear.... What perplexity!'[218] Erelong the temptation
presented itself. 'Consider!' whispered an insidious voice; 'an easy,
studious, honoured, useful life!'—'Alas!' he said, 'as soon as anything
appears which pleases us, instantly the desires of the flesh rush
impetuously after it, like wild beasts.' We cannot tell whether these
'wild beasts' were roused in his ardent soul, but at least, if there was
any covetousness within, 'which tempted the heart,' he forced it to be
still. Strong decision distinguishes the christian character of Calvin.
The new man within him rejected with horror all that the old man had
loved. Far from entering into new ties, he was thinking of breaking
those which still bound him to the Roman hierarchy. He therefore did not
entertain Daniel's proposal. Of the two roads that lay before him, he
chose the rougher one, and gave himself to God alone.
[Sidenote: CALVIN'S COMMENTARY ON SENECA.]
Having turned his back on bishops and cardinals, Calvin looked with love
upon the martyrs and their burning piles. The death of the pious Berquin
and of other confessors had distressed him, and he feared lest he should
see other believers sinking under the same violence. He would have
desired to speak in behalf of the dumb and innocent victims. 'But,
alas!' he exclaimed, 'how can a man so mean, so low-born, so poor in
learning as I, expect to be heard?'[219] He had finished his commentary
upon Seneca's treatise of _Clemency_. Being a great admirer of that
philosopher, he was annoyed that the world had not given him the place
he deserved, and spoke of him to all his friends. If one of them entered
his little room and expressed surprise at seeing him take such pains to
make the writings of a pagan philosopher better known, Calvin, who
thought he had discovered a vein of Gospel gold in Seneca's iron ore,
would answer: 'Did he not write against superstition? Has he not said of
the Jews, that the conquered give laws to their conquerors? When he
exclaims: "We have all sinned, we shall all sin unto the end!"[220] may
we not imagine that we hear Paul speaking?'
Another motive, however, as some think, influenced Calvin to select the
treatise on _Clemency_. There was a similarity (and Calvin had noticed
it) between the epochs of the author and of the commentator. Seneca, who
lived at the time of the first persecutions against the christians, had
dedicated his treatise on _Clemency_ to a persecutor. Calvin determined
to publish it with a commentary, in the hope (it has been said) that the
king, who was fond of books, would read this legacy of antiquity.
Without absolutely rejecting this hypothesis, we may say that he was
anxious to compose some literary work, and that he displayed solid
learning set off by an elegant and pleasing style which at once gave him
rank among the literati of his day.
These are the words of Seneca, which, thanks to Calvin, were now heard
in the capital of the kings of France: 'Clemency becomes no one so much
as it does a king.—You spare yourself, when you seem to be sparing
another. We must do evil to nobody, not even to the wicked; men do not
harm their own diseased limbs. It is the nature of the most cowardly
wild beasts to rend those who are lying on the ground, but elephants and
lions pass by the man they have thrown down.[221] To take delight in the
rattling of chains, to cut off the heads of citizens, to spill much
blood, to spread terror wherever he shows himself—is that the work of a
king? If it were so, far better would it be for lions, bears, or even
serpents to reign over us!'[222]
[Sidenote: THE YOUNG AUTHOR'S DIFFICULTIES.]
As soon as the work was finished, Calvin thought of publishing it; but
the booksellers turned their backs on him, for an author's first work
rarely tempts them. The young commentator was not rich, but he came to a
bold resolution. He felt, as it would appear, that authorship would be
his vocation, that God himself called him, and he was determined to take
the first step in spite of all obstacles. He said: 'I will publish the
book on _Clemency_ at my own expense;' but when the printing was
finished, he became uneasy. 'Upon my word,' he said, 'it has cost me
more money than I had imagined.'[223]
The young author wrote his name in Latin on the title-page of the first
work he published, _Calvinus_, whence the word _Calvin_ was derived,
which was substituted for the family name of _Cauvin_. He dedicated his
book to the abbot of St. Eloy (4th April, 1532), and then gave it to the
world. It was a great affair for him, and he was full of anxiety at its
chances and dangers. 'At length the die is cast,'[224] he wrote to
Daniel on the 23rd of May; 'my Commentary on _Clemency_ has appeared.'
Two thoughts engrossed him wholly at this time: the first concerned the
good that his book might do. 'Write to me as soon as possible,' said he
to his friend, 'and tell me whether my book is favourably or coldly
received.[225] I hope that it will contribute to the public good.' But
he was also very anxious about the sale: all his money was gone. 'I am
drained dry,' he said; 'and I must tax my wits to get back from every
quarter the money I have expended.'
Calvin showed great activity in the publication of his first work; we
can already trace in him the captain drawing out his plan of battle. He
called upon several professors in the capital, and begged them to use
his book in their public lectures. He sent five copies to his friends at
Bourges, and asked Sucquey to deliver a course of lectures on his
publication. He made the same request to Landrin with regard to the
university of Orleans.[226] In short, he lost no opportunity of making
his book known.
Daniel had asked him for some Bibles. Probably Calvin's refusal to
accept office in the Church had not surprised the advocate, and this
pious man desired to circulate the book which had inspired his young
friend with such courage and self-denial. But it was not easy to execute
the commission. There was Lefèvre's Bible, printed in French at Antwerp
in 1530; and the Latin Bible of Robert Stephens, which appeared at Paris
in 1532. The latter was so eagerly bought up, that the doctors of the
Sorbonne tried to prohibit the sale. It was probably this edition which
Calvin tried to procure. He went from shop to shop, but the booksellers
looked at him with suspicion, and said they had not the volume. Calvin
renewed his inquiries in the Latin quarter, where at last he found what
he sought at a bookseller's who was more independent of the Sorbonne and
its proclamations than the others. 'I have executed your commission
about the Bible,' he wrote to Daniel; 'and it cost me more trouble than
money.'[227] Calvin profited by the opportunity to entreat his friend to
deliver a course of lectures on the _Clemency_. 'If you make up your
mind to do so,' he wrote, 'I will send you a hundred copies.' These
copies were, no doubt, to be sold to Daniel's hearers. Such were the
anxieties of the great writer of the sixteenth century at the beginning
of his career. Calvin's first work (it deserves to be noted) was on
_Clemency_. Did the king read the treatise?... We cannot say; at any
rate, Calvin was not more fortunate with Francis I. than Seneca had been
with Nero.
[Sidenote: AN UNHAPPY FRONDEUR.]
Another case of a very different nature occupied his attention erelong.
Calvin had a great horror of falsehood: calumny aroused his anger,
whether it was manifested by gross accusations, or insinuated by
equivocal compliments. Among his friends at the university there was a
young man whom he called his excellent brother, whose name has not been
preserved. All his fellow-students loved him; all the professors
esteemed him;[228] but occasionally he showed himself a little rough.
This unknown student, having received the good news of the Gospel with
all his soul, felt impelled to speak about it out of the abundance of
his heart, and rebelled at the obligation he was under of concealing his
convictions. There was still in him some remnant of the 'old man,' and
feeling indignant at the weakness of those around him, and being of a
carping temper, he called them cowards. He could not breathe in the
atmosphere of despotism and servility in which he lived. He loved
France, but he loved liberty more. One day this proud young man said to
his friends: 'I cannot bend my neck beneath the yoke to which you so
willingly submit.[229] Farewell! I am going to Strasburg, and renounce
all intention of returning to France.'
Strasburg did not satisfy him. The eminent men who resided there
sometimes, and no doubt with good intentions, placed peace above truth.
The caustic opinions of the young Frenchman displeased Bucer and his
friends. He was a grumbler by nature, and spoke out bluntly on all
occasions.[230] He had a sharp encounter with a Strasburger, whose name
Calvin does not give, and who was perhaps just as susceptible as the
Parisian was hasty. The young Frenchman was declaiming against baptismal
regeneration, when on a sudden his adversary, whom Calvin judges with
great moderation, began to accuse the poor refugee of being an
anabaptist. This was a dreadful reproach at that time. Wherever he went
the Strasburger scattered his accusations and invectives. Every heart
was shut against the poor fellow; he was not even permitted to make the
least explanation. He was soon brought to want, and claimed the
assistance of friends whom he had formerly helped. It was all of no use.
Reduced to extreme necessity, having neither the means of procuring food
nor of travelling, he managed however to return to France in a state of
the greatest destitution. He found Calvin at Noyon, where the latter
chanced to be at the beginning of September 1532.
[Sidenote: CALVIN RECEIVES HIM KINDLY.]
The young man, soured and disappointed, drew a sad picture of Strasburg.
'There was not a single person in the whole city from whom I could
obtain a penny,' he said. 'My enemy left not a stone unturned;
scattering the sparks of his wrath on every side, he kindled a great
fire.... My sojourn there was a real tragedy, which had the ruin of an
innocent man for its catastrophe.' Calvin questioned him on baptism, and
the severe examination was entirely to the advantage of the young
refugee. 'Really,' said the commentator on _Clemency_, 'I have never met
with any one who professed the truth on this point with so much
frankness.' Calvin did not lose a moment, but sat down (4th of
September) to write to Bucer, whom he styled the _bishop_ of Strasburg.
'Alas!' he said, 'how much stronger calumny is than truth! They have
ruined this man's reputation, perhaps without intention, but certainly
without reason. If my prayers, if my tears have any value in your eyes,
dear Master Bucer, have pity on the wretchedness of this unfortunate
man![231] You are the protector of the poor, the help of the orphan; do
not suffer this unhappy man to be reduced to the last extremity.'
Shortly after writing this touching appeal, Calvin returned to Paris. As
for the young man, we know not what became of him. He was not, however,
the only one who first attacked and then called for pity.
The literary movement of the capital manifested itself more and more
every day in a biblical direction. Guidacerio of Venice, devoting
himself to scriptural studies, published a commentary on the _Song of
Solomon_, and an explanation of the _Sermon on the Mount_,[232] to the
great annoyance of the doctors of the Sorbonne, who were angry at seeing
laymen break through their monopoly of interpreting Scripture. Priests
in their sermons, students in their essays, put forward propositions
contrary to the Romish doctrine; and Beda, who was beside himself,
filled Paris with his furious declamations. He soon met with a cutting
reply. Some young friends of learning gave a public representation of a
burlesque comedy entitled: 'The university of Paris is founded on a
monster.'[233] Beda could not contain himself: 'They mean me,' he
exclaimed, and called together the Faculties. They laid the matter
before the inquisitors of the faith, who had the good sense to let it
drop.[234]
[Sidenote: THE MERCHANT DE LA FORGE.]
When Calvin returned to Paris, he did not join this literary world,
which was jeering at the attacks of the priests: he preferred the narrow
and the thorny way. Every day he attended the meetings which were held
secretly in different parts of the capital. He associated with pious
families, sat at the hearths of the friends of the Gospel, and
discoursed with them on the truth and on the difficulties which the
Reformation would have to encounter in France. A pious and open-hearted
merchant, a native of Tournay, Stephen de la Forge by name, particularly
attracted him at this time. When he entered his friend's warehouse, he
was often struck by the number of purchasers and by the bustle around
him. 'I am thankful,' said La Forge, 'for all the blessings that God has
given me; and I will not be sparing of my wealth, either to succour the
poor or to propagate the Gospel.' In fact, the merchant printed the Holy
Scriptures at his own expense, and distributed copies along with the
numerous alms he was in the habit of giving. Noble, kind-hearted, ready
to share all that he possessed with the poor, he had also a mind capable
of discerning error. He was good, but he was not weak. Certain doctors,
infidel and immoral philosophers, were beginning at that time to appear
in Paris, and to visit at La Forge's, where Calvin met them. The latter
asked his friend who these strange-looking people were: 'They pretend to
have been banished from their country,' said La Forge; 'perhaps.... But
if so, believe me it was for their misdeeds and not for the Word of
God.'[235] They were the chiefs of the sectarians afterwards known by
the name of _Libertines_, who had just come from Flanders. La Forge
not only gave his money, but was able somewhat later to give himself,
and to die confessing Jesus Christ. When Calvin remembered at Geneva the
sweet conversations they had enjoyed together, he exclaimed with a
sentiment of respect: 'O holy martyr of Jesus Christ! thy memory will
always be sacred among believers.'[236]
Besides La Forge, Calvin had another intimate friend at Paris, whose
personal character possessed a great attraction for him, although the
tendency of his mind was quite different from that of his own. Louis du
Tillet was one of those gentle moderate christians, who fear the cross
and are paralysed by the opinion of the world. The _frondeur_ and
he were two extremes: Calvin was a mean between them. Du Tillet wished
to maintain the Catholic Church, even when reforming it, for he
respected its unity. The reformer had been struck with his charity, his
humility, and his love of truth; while Louis, on the other hand,
admiring 'the great gifts and graces which the Lord had bestowed on his
friend,' was never tired of listening to him. He belonged to a noble
family of Angoulême; his father was vice-president of the Chamber of
Accounts; his eldest brother was the king's valet-de-chambre; and his
other brother was second chief-registrar to the parliament. He was
continually fluctuating between Calvin and his own relatives, between
Scripture and tradition, between God and the world. He would often leave
Calvin to go and hear mass; but erelong, attracted by a charm for which
he could not account, he returned to his friend, whose clear ideas threw
some little light into his mind. Du Tillet exclaimed: 'Yes, I feel that
there is much ignorance and darkness within me.' But the idea of
forsaking the Church alarmed him, and he had hardly uttered such words
as these when he hurried off again to confess.
Calvin, thanks to the numerous friends who saw him closely, began to be
appreciated even by those who calumniated his faith. 'This man at least
leads an austere life,' they said: 'he is not a slave to his belly; from
his youth he has abhorred the pleasures of the flesh;[237] he indulges
neither in eating nor drinking.[238]... Look at him ... his mind is
vigorous; his soul unites wisdom with daring.... But his body is thin
and spare; one clearly sees that his days and nights are devoted to
abstinence and study.'—'Do not suppose that I fast on account of your
superstitions,' said Calvin. 'No! it is only because abstinence keeps
away the pains that disturb me in my task.'
[Sidenote: CALVIN AND COP.]
Professor Nicholas Cop, son of that William Cop, the king's physician,
the honour of whose birth (says Erasmus) both France and Germany
disputed,[239] had recognised an inward life in Calvin, and a vigorous
faith which captivated him, and he never met him in the neighbourhood of
the university without speaking to him. They were often seen walking up
and down absorbed in talk, while the priests looked on distrustfully.
These conversations disturbed them: 'Cop will be spoilt,' they said, and
they endeavoured to prejudice him against his friend; but their intimacy
only became stricter.
Calvin's reputation, which was beginning to extend, reached the ears of
the Queen of Navarre, and that princess, who admired men of genius and
delighted in agreeable conversation, wished to see the young literary
christian. Thus there was an early intercourse between them. The
christian and learned scholar undertook the defence of the sister of
Francis I. in a letter written to Daniel in 1533, and this princess
afterwards made known to him the projected marriage of her daughter
Jeanne d'Albret—circumstances which indicate an intimate connection
between them. During the time when the piety of the Queen of Navarre was
the purest, a mutual respect and affection united these two noble
characters. 'I conjure you,' said Margaret to Calvin, 'do not spare me
in anything wherein you think I can be of service to you. Rest assured
that I shall act with my whole heart, according to the power that God
has given me.'[240]
[Sidenote: MARGARET AND CALVIN.]
'A man cannot enter the ministry of God,' says Calvin, 'without having
been proved by temptation.' The queen's wit, the court of St. Germain,
intercourse with men of genius and of rank, the prospect of exercising
an influence that might turn to the glory of God—all these things might
tempt him. Would he become Margaret's chaplain, like Roussel? Would he
quit the narrow way in which he was treading, to enter upon that where
christians tried to walk with the world on their right hand and Rome on
their left? The queen's love for the Saviour affected Calvin, and he
asked himself whether that was not a door opened by God through which
the Gospel would enter the kingdom of France.... He was at that moment
on the brink of the abyss. What likelihood was there that a young man,
just at the beginning of his career, would not gladly seize the
opportunity that presented itself of serving a princess so full of piety
and genius—the king's sister? Margaret, who made Roussel a bishop, would
also have a diocese for Calvin. 'I should be pleased to have a servant
like you,' she told him one day. But the rather mystical piety of the
princess, and the vanities with which she was surrounded, were offensive
to that simple and upright heart. 'Madame,' he replied, 'I am not fitted
to do you any great service; the capacity is wanting, and also you have
enough without me.... Those who know me are aware that I never desired
to frequent the courts of princes; and I thank the Lord that I have
never been tempted, for I have every reason to be satisfied with the
good Master who has accepted me and retains me in his household.'[241]
Calvin had no more longing for the semi-catholic dignities of the queen
than for the Roman dignities of the popes. Yet he knew how to take
advantage of the opportunity offered him, and nobly conjured Margaret to
speak out more frankly in favour of the Gospel. Carried away by an
eloquence which, though simple, had great power, she declared herself
ready to move forward.
An opportunity soon presented itself of realising the plan she had
conceived of renewing the universal Church without destroying its unity;
but the means to be employed were not such as Calvin approved of. They
were about to have recourse to carnal weapons. 'Now the only foundation
of the kingdom of Christ,' he said, 'is the humiliation of man. I know
how proud carnal minds are of their vain shows; but the arms of the
Lord, with which we fight, will be stronger, and will throw down all
their strongholds, by means of which they think themselves
invincible.'[242]
Luther now appears again on the scene; and on this important point
Luther and Calvin are one.
[Footnote 215: 'Cum facultate retinendi simul archiepiscopatum
tolosanum.'—_Gallia Christiana._]
[Footnote 216: 'Scis nos episcopum nationis tuæ habere.'—Daniel Calvino,
Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 217: 'Ut officialis dignitate aut aliqua alia te ornaret.'—
Daniel Calvino, Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 218: Calvin, _Lettres Françaises_.]
[Footnote 219: 'Unus de plebe, homuncio mediocri seu potius modica
eruditione præditus.'—Calvinus, _Præf. de Clementia_.]
[Footnote 220: 'Peccavimus omnes ... et usque ad extremum ævi
delinquemus.'—_De Clementia_, lib. i.]
[Footnote 221: 'Ferarum vero, nec generosarum quidem, præmordere et
urgere projectos.'—_De Clementia_, cap. v.]
[Footnote 222: 'Si leones ursique regnarent.'—Ibid. cap. xxvi.]
[Footnote 223: 'Plus pecuniæ exhauserunt.'—Calvinus Danieli, Geneva
MSS.]
[Footnote 224: 'Tandem jacta est alea.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 225: 'Quo favore vel frigore excepti fuerint.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 226: 'Ut Landrinum inducas in protectionem.'—Calvinus Danieli,
Geneva MSS.]
[Footnote 227: 'De Bibliis exhausi mandatum tuum.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 228: 'Ita se gessit, ut gratiosus esset apud ordinis nostri
homines.'—Calvinus Bucero, Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 229: 'Cum non posset submittere diutius cervicem isti
voluntariæ servituti.'—Calvinus Bucero, Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 230: 'Cassait toutes les vitres.']
[Footnote 231: 'Si quid preces meæ, si quid lacrimæ valent, hujus
miseriæ succurras.'—Calvinus Bucero, Berne MSS.]
[Footnote 232: _Versio et Commentarii_, published at Paris in 1531.]
[Footnote 233: 'Academiam parisiensem super monstrum esse fundatam.'—
Morrhius Erasmo, March 30, 1532.]
[Footnote 234: 'Res delata est ad inquisitores fidei.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 235: 'Quod ex Stephano a Fabrica (_De la Forge_) intellexi,
istos potius ob maleficia ... egressos esse.'—_Adv. Libertinos._]
[Footnote 236: Ibid.]
[Footnote 237: 'Calvinus strictiorem vivendi disciplinam secutus
est.'—Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, ii. p. 247.]
[Footnote 238: 'Cibi ac potus abstinentissimus.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 239: 'Illum incomparabilem, quem certatim sibi vindicant, hinc
Gallia, hinc Germania.'—Erasmi _Epp._ p. 15.]
[Footnote 240: _Calvin's Letters_, i. p. 342. Philadelphia, ed. J.
Bonnet.]
[Footnote 241: _Lettres Françaises de Calvin. A la Reine de Navarre_,
i. p. 114, ed. J. Bonnet.]
[Footnote 242: Calvin, _in 2ᵃᵐ Epist. ad Corinth._ ch. x.]
CHAPTER XXI.
CONFERENCES AT SMALCALD AND CALAIS.
(MARCH TO OCTOBER 1532.)
[Sidenote: DU BELLAY'S PROJECTS.]
France, or at least the king and the influential men, appeared at this
time to be veering towards a moderate Reform. Francis I. seemed to have
some liking for his sister's religion; but there were other motives
inclining him to entertain these ideas. Finding himself without allies
in Europe, he endeavoured to gain the friendship of the protestants,
hoping that with their help he would be in a condition to oppose the
emperor and restore the French preponderance in Italy. One man in
particular set himself the task of directing his country into a new
path; this was William du Bellay, brother to the Bishop of Paris, and
'one of the greatest men France ever had,' says a catholic
historian.[243] A skilful, active, and prudent diplomatist, Du Bellay
called to mind the memorable struggles that had formerly taken place
between the popes and the kings of France; he believed that christendom
was in a state of transition, and desired, as the Chancellor de
l'Hôpital did in later years, that the new times should be marked with
more liberty, and not with more servitude, as the Guises, the Valois,
and the Bourbons would have wished. He went even farther: he thought
that the sixteenth century would substitute for the papacy of the middle
ages a form of christianity, catholic of course, but more in conformity
with the ancient Scriptures and the modern requirements. From that hour
his dominant idea, his chief business, was to unite catholic France to
protestant Germany.
Having received the instructions of Francis I., Du Bellay left Honfleur,
where the king was staying,[244] on the 11th of March, 1532, and crossed
the Rhine about the middle of April. At Schweinfurth-on-the-Maine,
between Wurtzburg and Bamberg, he found an assembly composed of a few
protestant princes on one side, and a few mediators on the other, among
whom was the elector-archbishop of Mayence. As this brings us into
Germany, it is necessary that we should take a glance at what had
happened there since the great diet of Augsburg in 1530.[245]
The catholics and protestants had made up their minds at that time for a
contest, and everything foreboded the bursting of the storm in the next
spring (1531). There were, so to say, two contrary currents among the
friends of the Reformation in Germany. One party (the men of prudence)
wished that the evangelical states should seek powerful alliances and
prepare to resist the emperor by force of arms; the other (the men of
piety) called to mind that the Reformation had triumphed at Augsburg by
faith, and added that from faith all its future triumphs were to be
expected. These two parties had frequent meetings at Wittemberg, Torgau,
and elsewhere. One man especially, with open countenance and firm look,
whose lips seemed always ready to speak, made his clear and sonorous
voice heard: this was Luther. 'To God alone,' he told the elector,
'belongs the government of the future; your Highness must therefore
persevere in that faith and confidence in God which you have just
displayed so gloriously at Augsburg.'[246] But the jurists of Torgau
were not entirely of that opinion, and they endeavoured to prove that
their rights in the empire authorised the protestants to repel force by
force. Luther was not to be shaken. 'If war breaks out,' he replied, 'I
call God and the world to witness, that the Lutherans have in no wise
provoked it; that they have never drawn the sword, never thrown men into
prison, never burnt, killed, and pillaged, as their adversaries have
done; and, in a word, that they have never sought anything but peace and
quietness.'[247] The politicians smiled at such enthusiasm, and said
that in real life things must go on very differently. A conference was
appointed for the consideration of what was to be done, and in the
meanwhile great efforts were made to win over new allies to the
protestant cause.
[Sidenote: ALLIANCE OF SMALCALD.]
On the 29th of March, 1531, the deputies of the protestant states met at
Smalcald, in the electorate of Hesse. In the eyes of the peace party
this was a place of evil omen: the town was fortified, and there were
iron mines in the neighbourhood, from which arms have been manufactured
and cannons founded. As the deputies proceeded to the castle of
Wilhelmsburg, built on a hill near the town, they wore a mournful
anxious look. They were disappointed in the hope they had entertained of
seeing Denmark, Switzerland, Mecklenburg, and Pomerania join them.
Nevertheless they did not hesitate, notwithstanding their weakness, to
assert their rights against the power of Charles V. Nine princes and
eleven cities entered into an alliance for six years 'to resist all who
should try to constrain them to forsake the Word of God and the truth of
Christ.'
This resolution was received with very different sentiments. Some said
that it was an encroachment on the spirituality of the Church; others
maintained that since liberty of conscience was a civil as well as a
religious right, it ought to be upheld, if necessary, by force of arms.
They soon went farther. Some persons proposed, with a view of making the
alliance closer, to introduce into all the evangelical churches a
perfect uniformity both of worship and ecclesiastical constitution; but
energetic voices exclaimed that this would be an infringement of
religious liberty under the pretence of upholding it. When the deputies
met again at Frankfort, on the 4th of June, these generous men said
boldly: 'We will maintain diversity for fear that uniformity should,
sooner or later, lead to a kind of popery.' They understood that the
inward unity of faith is better than the superficial unity of form.[248]
After various negotiations the evangelicals met at Schweinfurth to
receive the proposals of their adversaries; and it was during this
conference (April and May 1532) that the ambassador of the King of
France arrived. When the protestants saw him appear, they were rather
embarrassed; but still they received him with respect. He soon found out
in what a critical position the men of the confession of Augsburg were
placed. True, the mediators offered them peace, but it was on condition
that they made no stipulations in favour of those who might embrace the
Gospel hereafter. This proposal greatly irritated the Landgrave of
Hesse, his chancellor Feig, and the other members of the conference.
'What!' exclaimed the Hessians, 'shall a barrier be raised between
protestantism and popery, and no one be allowed to pass it?... No! the
treaty of peace must equally protect those who now adhere to the
confession of Augsburg and those who may hereafter do so.'—'It is an
affair of conscience,' wrote the evangelical theologians, and Urban
Regius in particular; 'this is a point to be given up on no
account.'[249] The electoral prince himself was resolved to adopt this
line of conduct.
[Sidenote: LUTHER OPPOSES DIPLOMACY AND WAR.]
Luther was not at Schweinfurth, but he kept on the look-out for news. He
spoke about the meeting to his friends; he attacked the schemes of the
politicians; all these negotiations, stipulations, conventions,
signatures, ratifications, and treaties in behalf of the Gospel annoyed
him. When he learnt what they were going to do at Schweinfurth, he was
dismayed. To presume to save the faith with protocols was almost
blasphemous in his eyes! One of his powerful letters fell like a
bomb-shell into the midst of the conference. 'When we were without any
support,' he said, 'and entirely new in the empire, with struggles and
combats all around us, the Gospel triumphed and truth was upheld,
despite the enemies who wished to stifle them both. Why should not the
Gospel triumph now with its own strength? Why should it be necessary to
help it with our diplomacy and our treaties? Is not God as mighty now as
then? Does the Almighty want us to vote the aid that we mean to give him
in future by our human stipulations?'...
These words of Luther caused general consternation. People said to one
another that 'the Doctor had been ill, and that he had consoled his
friends by saying: "Do not be afraid; if I were to sink now, the papists
would be too happy; therefore I shall not die." They added that his
advice against treaties was no doubt a remnant of his fever; the great
man is not quite right in his mind; the prince-electoral and the
excellent chancellor Bruck wrote to the elector, who was in Saxony, that
everybody was against Luther, who appeared to have no understanding of
business.' But the reformer did not suffer himself to be checked; on the
contrary, he begged the elector to write a sharp letter to his
representatives. 'The princes and burgesses have embraced the Gospel at
their own risk and peril,' he said, 'and in like manner every one must
in future receive and profess it at his own expense.' At the same time
he began to agitate Wittemberg, and drew up an opinion which Pomeranus
signed with him. In it he said: 'I will never take upon my conscience to
provoke the shedding of blood, even to maintain our articles of faith.
It would be the best means of destroying the true doctrine, in the midst
of the confusions of war.'[250] The reformer thought that if the
Lutherans and the Zwinglians, the Germans and the Swiss united, they
would feel so strong, that they would assume the initiative and draw the
sword—which he wished to avert by all means in his power.
[Sidenote: DU BELLAY'S OVERTURES.]
But the politicians were not more inclined to give way than the
theologians. On the contrary, they made preparations for receiving the
ambassador of France, in which, however, there was some difficulty. The
diplomatist's arrival compromised them with the imperialists; they could
not receive him in the assembly at Schweinfurth, since catholic princes
would be present. The protestants therefore went a few miles off, to the
little town of Königsberg in Franconia, between Coburg, Bamberg, and
Schweinfurth. Here they formed themselves into a secret committee and
received the ambassador. 'Most honoured lords,' said Du Bellay, 'the
king my master begs you will excuse him for not having sent me to you
sooner. That proceeds neither from negligence nor from want of
affection, but because he desired to come to some understanding with the
King of England, who also wishes to help you in your great enterprise.
The negotiations are not yet ended; but my august master, desirous of
avoiding longer delay, has commissioned me to say that you will find him
ready to assist you. Yes, though he should do it alone; though his
brother of England (which he does not believe) were to refuse; though
the emperor should march his armies against you, the king will not
abandon you. On the honour of a prince, he said. I have received ample
powers to arrange with you about the share of the war expenses which his
Majesty is ready to pay.'[251]
The circumstances were not favourable for the proposals of Francis I.
The pacific ideas of Luther prevailed. The Elector of Saxony, who was
then ill, desired to die in peace. He therefore sided with the reformer,
and it was agreed to name in the act of alliance the princes and cities
that had already adhered to the confession of Augsburg, and that they
alone should be included in the league. These peaceful ideas of the
protestants did not harmonise with the warlike ideas of King Francis. Du
Bellay was not discouraged, and skilfully went upon another tack; while
the Saxon diplomatists were compelled to yield to the will of their
master, Du Bellay remarked a young prince, full of spirit and daring,
who spared nobody and said aloud what he thought. This was the Landgrave
of Hesse, who complained unceasingly either of Luther's advice, or of
the resolution of the conference. 'The future will show,' he told
everybody, 'whether they have acted wisely in this matter.' The minister
of Francis I., who was of the landgrave's opinion, entered into
communication with him.
An important question—the question of Wurtemberg—at that time occupied
Germany. In 1512 Duke Ulrich, annoyed because he had not more influence
in the Suabian league, had seceded from it, quarrelled with the emperor,
thrown that prince's adherents into prison, burdened his subjects with
oppressive taxes, and caused trouble in his own family. In consequence
of all this, the emperor expelled him from his states in 1519 and 1520,
and he took refuge in his principality of Montbéliard. It seemed that
adversity had not been profitless to him. In 1524, when Farel went to
preach the Reformation at Montbéliard, Ulrich (as we have seen[252])
defended religious liberty. When the emperor was at Augsburg in 1530,
wishing to aggrandise the power of Austria, he had given the duchy of
Wurtemberg to his brother Ferdinand, to the great indignation of the
protestants, and especially of the landgrave. 'We must restore the
legitimate sovereign in Wurtemberg,' said this young and energetic
prince: 'that will take the duchy from the catholic party and give it to
the protestants.' But all the negotiations undertaken with this view had
failed. If, however, one of the great powers of Europe should take up
the cause of the dukes of Wurtemberg, their restoration would be easier.
Francis I. had not failed to see that he could checkmate the emperor
here. 'As for the Duke of Wurtemberg,' said Du Bellay to the Königsberg
conference, 'the king my lord will heartily undertake to serve him to
the utmost of his power, without infringing the treaties.'[253] The
landgrave had taken note of these words, and their result was to
establish the Reformation in a country which is distinguished by its
fervent protestantism and its zeal in propagating the Gospel to the ends
of the world.
[Sidenote: PEACE OF NUREMBERG.]
A mixed assembly of catholics and protestants having met at Nuremberg in
the month of May, the protestants demanded a council in which everything
should be decided 'according to the pure Word of God.' The members of
the Romish party looked discontented: 'It is a captious, prejudiced, and
anti-catholic condition,' they said. Yet, as the Turks were threatening
the empire, it was necessary to make some concessions to the
Reformation, in order to be in a condition to resist them. The violent
fanatics represented to no purpose that Luther was not much better than
Mahomet; peace was concluded at Nuremberg on the 23rd of July, 1532, and
it was agreed that, while waiting for the next free and general council,
the _status quo_ should be preserved, and all Germans should exercise a
sincere and christian friendship. This first religious peace cheered
with its mild beams the last days of the elector John of Saxony. On the
14th of August, 1532, that venerable prince, whom even the imperialists
styled 'the Father of the German land,' was struck with apoplexy. 'God
help me!' he exclaimed, and immediately expired. 'Wisdom died with the
elector Frederick,' said Luther, 'and piety with the elector John.'
Yet Du Bellay was always harassed by the desire of emancipating from
Rome that France which the Medici, the Guises, the Valois, and
afterwards the Bourbons, were about to surrender to her. He therefore
increased his exertions among the protestants to induce them to accept
the friendship, if not the alliance, of his master. But they had no
great confidence in 'the Frenchman;' they were afraid that they would be
surprised, deceived, and then abandoned by Francis; they 'shook with
fear.' The ambassador was more urgent than ever; he accepted the
conditions of the protestants, and the two parties signed a sort of
agreement. Du Bellay returned to Francis I., who was then in Brittany,
and the king having heard him, sent him instantly to England, to give
Henry VIII. a full account of all his negotiations with the protestant
princes.[254]
Thus politicians were intriguing on every side. In Germany, France, and
England, the princes imagined that they could conquer by means of
diplomacy; but far different were the forces by which the victory was to
be gained. In the midst of all this activity of courts and cabinets,
there was an inner and secret activity which stirred the human mind and
excited in it a burning thirst, which the truth and the life of God
alone could quench. Centuries before, as early as 1020, the revival had
begun in Aquitaine, at Orleans, and on the Rhine. Men had proclaimed
that christians 'ought to be filled with the Holy Ghost; that God would
be with them, and would give them the treasures of his wisdom.'[255]
This inward movement had gone on growing from age to age. The Waldenses
in the twelfth century, the purest portion of the Albigenses in the
thirteenth, Wickliffe and the Lollards in the fourteenth, and John Huss
and his followers in the fifteenth, are the heroes of this noble war.
This christian life arose, increased, and spread; if it was extinguished
in one country, it reappeared in another. The religious movement of the
mind gained strength; the electricity was accumulated in the battery;
the mine was charged, and the explosion was certain erelong. All this
was being accomplished under the guidance of a sovereign commander. He
applied the match in the sixteenth century by the hand of Luther; once
more he sprang the mine by the powerful preaching of Calvin, Knox, and
others. It was this that won the victory, and not diplomacy. However, we
have not yet done with it.
[Sidenote: MEETING OF FRANCIS AND HENRY.]
At this time Francis I. was enraptured with Henry VIII., calling him his
'good brother' and 'perpetual ally.' Wearied of the pope and of the
popedom, which appeared as if unable to shake off the tutelage of
Charles V., the King of France saw Germany separating from Rome, and
England doing the same, and Du Bellay was continually asking him why he
would not conclude a triple alliance with these two powers? Such a
coalition, formed in the name of the revival of learning and of reform
in the Church, would certainly triumph over all the opposition made to
it by ignorance and superstition. Francis I. had not made up his mind to
break entirely with the pope, though he was resolved to unite with the
pope's enemies. In order to conclude a close alliance with Henry, he
chose the moment when that prince was most out of humour with the court
of Rome. The articles were drawn up on the 23rd of June, 1532.[256]
The two kings were not content with making preparations only for the
great campaign they meditated against the emperor and Rome: they
determined to have an interview. On the 11th of October, 1532, the
gallant Henry, accompanied by a brilliant court, crossed the Channel and
arrived at Calais, at that time an English possession; while the elegant
Francis, attended by his three sons and many of his nobles, arrived at
Boulogne one or two days later. The great point with Francis was glory—a
victory to be gained over Charles V.; the great point with Henry was to
gratify his passions, and as Clement VII. thwarted him, he had a special
grudge against the pope. With such hatreds and such intentions, it was
easy for the two kings to come to an understanding.
Their first meeting was at Boulogne, in the abbot's palace, where they
stayed four days under the same roof. Francis was inexhaustible in
attentions to his guest; but the important part of their business was
transacted in one of their closets, where these impetuous princes
confided to each other their anger and their plans. The King of England
gave vent to 'great complaints and grievances' against Clement VII. 'He
wants to force me to go to Rome in person. If he means to institute an
inquiry, let him send his proctors to England. Let us summon the pope
(he added) to appear before a free council empowered to inquire into the
abuses under which princes and people suffer so severely, and to reform
them.'[257]
Francis, who also had 'goodwill to complain,' filled the abbot's palace
with his grievances: 'I have need of the clergy-tenths (the tenth part
of the Church revenues), in order that I may resist the Turk; but the
holy father opposes my levying them. I have need of all the resources of
my subjects; but the holy father is continually inventing new exactions,
which transfer the money of my kingdom into the coffers of the popedom.
He makes us pay annates, maintain pontifical officers at a great
expense, and give large presents to prothonotaries, valets,
chamberlains, ushers, and others. And what is the consequence? The
clergy are poor; the ruined churches are not repaired; and the indigent
lack food.... Most assuredly the Roman government is only _a net to
catch money_. We must have a council.'[258]
The two princes resolved to 'take from the pope the obedience of their
kingdoms,' as Guicciardini says.[259] However, before resorting to
extreme measures, Francis desired to begin with milder means, and Henry
was forced to consent that France should forward his grievances to Rome.
[Sidenote: THE MASKED LADY.]
After living together for four days at Boulogne, Henry and Francis went
to Calais, where the latter found his apartments hung with cloth of
gold, embroidered with pearls and precious stones. At table, the viands
were served on one hundred and seventy dishes of solid gold. Henry gave
a grand masked ball, at which the King of France was considerably
tantalised by a masked lady of very elegant manners with whom he danced.
She spoke French like a Frenchwoman, abounded in wit and grace, and
knew, in its most trifling details, all the scandal of the court of
France. The king declared the lady to be charming, and her neck the
prettiest he had ever seen. He little imagined then that this neck would
one day be severed by the orders of Henry VIII. At the end of the dance,
the King of England, with a smile, removed the lady's mask, and showed
the features of Anne Boleyn, Marchioness of Pembroke, who (it will be
recollected) had been brought up at the court of the French king's
sister.[260]
Pleasure did not make the two princes forget business. They were again
closeted, and signed a treaty, in accordance with which they engaged to
raise an army of 65,000 infantry and 15,000 cavalry, intended apparently
to act against the Turks.[261] Du Bellay's policy was in the ascendant.
'The great king,' he said, 'is staggering from his obedience.'[262]
[Sidenote: FRANCIS THREATENS SEPARATION.]
Wishing to make a last effort before determining to break with the pope,
Francis summoned Cardinals de Tournon and de Gramont, men devoted to his
person, and said to them: 'You will go to the holy father and lay before
him in confidence both our grievances and our dissatisfaction. You will
tell him that we are determined to employ, as soon as may be advisable,
all our alliances, public as well as private, to execute great things ...
from which much damage may ensue and perpetual regret for the
future. You will tell him that, in accord with other christian princes,
we shall assemble a council without him, and that we shall forbid our
subjects in future to send money to Rome. You will add—but as a secret
and after taking the pope aside—that in case his holiness should think
of censuring me and forcing me to go to Rome for absolution, I shall
come, but _so well attended_ that his holiness will be only too eager to
grant it me....
'Let the pope consider well,' added the king, 'that the Germans, the
Swiss League, and several other countries in Christendom, have separated
from Rome. Let him understand that if two powerful kings like us should
also secede, we should find many imitators, _both Italians and
others_;[263] and that, at the least, there would be a greater war in
Europe than any known in time past.'[264]
Such were the proud words France sent to Rome. The two kings separated.
A young prince, held captive by Charles V., gave them the first
opportunity of acting together against both emperor and pope.
[Footnote 243: Le Grand, _Hist. du Divorce de Henri VIII._ i. p. 20.]
[Footnote 244: 'Ex oppido unde fluctu Lexoviorum.'—Rommel, _Philippe le
M._ ii. p. 259.]
[Footnote 245: _History of the Reformation of the Sixteenth Century_,
vol. iv. bk. xiv. ch. xii.]
[Footnote 246: Lutheri _Epp._ iv. p. 201—Dec. 1530.]
[Footnote 247: _Warnung an seine lieben Deutschen._ Lutheri _Opp._ lib.
xx. p. 298.]
[Footnote 248: Seckendorf, pp. 1174-1192, sqq.]
[Footnote 249: Urban Regius to the Landgrave.]
[Footnote 250: Lutheri _Epp._ iv. pp. 335, 337, 369, 372, sqq.]
[Footnote 251: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, pp. 168, 169, Paris, 1588. The
historian is very well informed, especially on everything concerning his
brother's missions.]
[Footnote 252: _Hist. of the Ref. of the Sixteenth Cent._ vol. iii. bk.
xii. chap. xi.]
[Footnote 253: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, pp. 171, 172.]
[Footnote 254: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, pp. 171, 172.]
[Footnote 255: 'Deus tibi comes nunquam deerit, in quo sapentiæ thesauri
atque divitiarum consistunt.' See Ademarus, monk of Angoulême in 1029,
_Chronic._ _Gesta Synodi Aurelianensis_, &c.]
[Footnote 256: The articles are given in Herbert's _Life of Henry VIII._
p. 366, sqq. Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 171.]
[Footnote 257: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 173.]
[Footnote 258: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, pp. 173, 174.]
[Footnote 259: Guicciardini, _Hist. des Guerres d'Italie_, ii. liv. xx.
p. 893.]
[Footnote 260: 'The French king talked with the marchioness a space.'—
_Hall_, p. 794.]
[Footnote 261: Le Grand, _Hist. du Divorce de Henri VIII._ p. 238.]
[Footnote 262: Brantôme, _Mémoires_, i. p. 235.]
[Footnote 263: The words _tant italiens que autres_, are not in the
speech delivered at Calais according to Du Bellay; but they are in the
written instructions given to the two cardinals. _Preuves des Libertés_,
p. 260.]
[Footnote 264: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, pp. 175, 176, sqq.]
CHAPTER XXII.
A CAPTIVE PRINCE ESCAPES FROM THE HANDS OF THE EMPEROR.
(AUTUMN 1532.)
The news of the meeting of Francis I. and Henry VIII. alarmed Germany,
Italy, and all Europe. 'The kings of France and England,' it was said,
'are going to take advantage of the emperor's campaign against the
Turks, to unite their armies with those of the protestants and gain a
signal victory.'[265] But nobody was more alarmed than the pope.
Abruptly addressing the Bishop of Auxerre, the minister of France, he
made the bitterest complaints to him.[266] Already he saw France, like
England, shaking off the yoke of Rome. 'I have it from good authority,'
says Brantôme, 'that the King of France was on the point of renouncing
the pope, as the King of England had done.'[267]
On leaving Boulogne, Francis went to Paris, where he spent the winter
and took his measures for 'the great effort' with which he threatened
the pope. The priests were very uneasy, and began to dread a reform
similar to that in England. Calling to mind that in Denmark, Sweden, and
elsewhere, a great part of the ecclesiastical property had been
transferred to the treasury of the State, they granted the king all he
asked; and the prince thus obtained between five and six hundred
thousand ducats, which put him in a condition to do 'the great things'
with which the cardinals were to menace the pontiff.[268] An unexpected
event furnished the opportunity of employing the priests' money in
favour of the Reformation.
[Sidenote: CHARLES V. HASTENS TO ITALY.]
The haughty Soliman had invaded Hungary, in July 1532, at the head of
numerous and terrible hordes. Displaying a luxury without precedent, he
gave audience on a golden throne, with a crown of solid gold at his
side, and the scabbards of his swords covered with pearls. But erelong
the sickly Charles succeeded in terrifying this magnificent barbarian.
Having raised an army which combined the order and strength of the
German lansquenets with the lightness and impetuosity of the Italian
bands and the pride and perseverance of the Spanish troops, he forced
Soliman to retreat. The emperor was all the more delighted, as the
conference between Henry and Francis made him impatient to settle with
the Mussulmans. It was even said in the empire that it was this
conference which brought Charles back, as he desired to join the pope in
combating projects which threatened them both. The emperor passed the
Alps in the autumn of 1532.[269]
Among the nobles and warriors who accompanied him, was a young prince of
eighteen, Christopher, son of Duke Ulrich of Wurtemberg. He was only
five years old when his father was expelled from his duchy by the
Austrians; and the latter, wishing to make him forget Wurtemberg,
resolved to separate him from his country and his parents. The little
boy and his guardians having left Stuttgard, stopped to pass the night
in a town near the frontier. A lamb was gambolling in the yard; the poor
boy, delighted with the gentleness of the animal, ran and took it up in
his arms, and began to play with it. In the morning, just as they were
leaving, little Christopher, less distressed at their taking away his
sceptre than at their separating him from his pet companion, kissed it
with tears in his eyes, and said to the host: 'Pray take care of it, and
when I return I will pay you for your trouble.'
Christopher was taken to Innsbruck, where his life was a hard one. The
young prince who, in later times, filled his country with evangelical
schools, had no one to cultivate his mind, and he who was one day to sit
at the table of kings was often half-starved; his dress was neglected,
and even the beggars, when they saw him, were moved with compassion.
From Innsbruck he was transferred to Neustadt (Nagy-Banya) in Hungary,
beyond the Theiss. One day a troop of Turkish horsemen, having crossed
the Carpathians, scoured the country that lay between the mountains and
the river, and, catching sight of the prince, rushed upon him to carry
him off. But a faithful follower, who had observed their movements,
shouted for help, and succeeded in saving Christopher from the hands of
the Mussulmans. And thus the heir of Wurtemberg grew up in the bosom of
adversity.
[Sidenote: THE PRINCE AND HIS GOVERNOR.]
The noble-hearted man who had saved him at the peril of his own life was
Michael Tifernus. In his early childhood he had been carried off by the
Turks, and, being abandoned by them, he had succeeded in reaching a
village near Trieste, where some kind people took care of him. Tifernus
(who derived this name from the place of his adoption, for his parents'
name was never known) was sent to a school in Vienna, where he received
a sound education. King Ferdinand, who was guilty of negligence towards
Christopher rather than of ill-will, gave him Tifernus for tutor. The
latter attached himself passionately to the prince, who, under his care,
became an accomplished young man. In the midst of the splendours of the
court of Austria and of the Roman worship, grew up one who was erelong
to rescue Wurtemberg from both Austria and Rome. An important
circumstance occurred to agitate the young prince deeply, and throw a
bright light over his dark path.
Christopher accompanied the emperor in 1530 to the famous diet of
Augsburg. He was struck by the noble sight of the fidelity and courage
of the protestants. He heard them make their confession of faith; his
elevated soul took the side of the oppressed Gospel; and when, at this
very diet, Charles solemnly invested his brother Ferdinand with the
duchy of Wurtemberg,—when Christopher saw the standard of his fathers
and of his people in the hands of the Austrian archduke—the feeling of
his rights came over him; he viewed the triumphant establishment of the
evangelical faith in the country of his ancestors as a task appointed
him. He would recover his inheritance, and, uniting with the noble
confessors of Augsburg, would bring an unexpected support to the
Reformation.
The emperor, after the war against the Turks, desired the prince to
accompany him to Italy and Spain; perhaps it was his intention to leave
him there; but Christopher made no objection. He had arranged his plans:
two great ideas, the independence of Wurtemberg and the triumph of the
Reformation, had taken possession of his mind, and while following the
emperor and appearing to turn his back on the states of his fathers, he
said significantly to his devoted friend Tifernus: 'I shall not abandon
my rights in Germany.'[270]
[Sidenote: PRINCE CHRISTOPHER'S ESCAPE.]
Charles V. and his court were crossing the Alps in the autumn of 1532.
The young duke on horseback was slowly climbing the passes which
separate Austria from Styria, contemplating the everlasting snows in the
distance, and stopping from time to time on the heights from whose base
rushed the foaming torrents which descend from the sides of the
mountains. He had a thoughtful look, as of one absorbed by some great
resolution. The news of the interview of Francis I. and Henry VIII.,
which had alarmed Austria, had inflamed his hopes; and he said to
himself that now was the time for claiming his states. He had conversed
with his governor about it, and it now remained to carry the daring
enterprise into execution. To escape from Charles V., surrounded by his
court and his guards, seemed impossible; but Christopher believing that
God can _deliver out of the mouth of the lion_, prayed him to be his
guide during the rest of his life. As etiquette was not strictly
observed in these mountains, Christopher and his governor lagged a
little in the rear of their travelling companions. A tree, a rock, a
turn in the road sufficed to hide them from view. Yet, if one of the
emperor's attendants should turn round too soon and look for the
laggards, the two friends would be ruined. But no one thought of doing
so: erelong they were at some distance from the court, and could see the
imperial procession stretching in the distance, like a riband, along the
flanks of the Norican Alps. On a sudden the two loiterers turned their
horses, and set off at full gallop. They asked some mountaineers to show
them a road which would take them to Salzburg, and continued their
flight in the direction indicated. But there were some terrible passes
to cross; Christopher's horse broke down, and it was impossible to
proceed. What was to be done? Perhaps the imperialists were already on
their track.
The two friends were not at a loss. There was a lake close at hand; they
dragged the useless animal by the legs towards it, and buried it at the
bottom of the water, in order that there might be no trace of their
passage. 'Now, my lord,' said his governor, 'take my horse and proceed;
I shall manage to get out of the scrape.' The young duke disappeared,
and not before it was time. 'What has become of Prince Christopher?'
asked Charles's attendants. 'He is in the rear,' was the reply; 'he will
soon catch us up.' As he did not appear, some of the imperial officers
rode back in search of him. The little lake into which the prince's
horse had been thrown was partly filled with tall reeds, among which
Tifernus lay concealed. Presently the imperialists passed close by him;
he heard their steps, their voices; they went backwards and forwards,
but found nothing. At last, they returned and mournfully reported the
uselessness of their search. It was believed that the two young men had
been murdered by brigands among the mountains. The court continued its
progress towards Italy and Rome. All this time Christopher was fleeing
on his governor's horse, and by exercising great prudence he reached a
secure asylum without being recognised, and here he kept himself in
concealment under the protection of his near relatives the dukes of
Bavaria. Tifernus joined him in his retreat.
[Sidenote: CHRISTOPHER CLAIMS HIS STATES.]
The report of Christopher's death was circulated everywhere; the
Austrians, who had no doubt about it, felt surer than ever of
Wurtemberg; they were even beginning to forget the prince, when a
document bearing his name and dated the 17th of November, 1532,[271] was
suddenly circulated all over Germany. Faithful to his resolution, the
young prince in this noble manifesto gave utterance to the bitterest
complaints, and boldly claimed his inheritance in the face of the world.
This paper, which alarmed Ferdinand of Austria, caused immense joy in
Wurtemberg and all protestant Germany. The young prince had everything
in his favour: an age which always charms, a courage universally
acknowledged, virtues, talents, graceful manners, an ancient family, a
respected name, indisputable rights, and the love of his subjects. They
had not seen him, indeed, since the day when he had bedewed the pet lamb
with his tears; but they hailed him as their national prince who would
recover their independence. Protected by the Duke of Bavaria, by the
Landgrave of Hesse, and by the powerful King of France, Christopher had
all the chances in his favour. He had more: he had the support of God.
As a friend of the Gospel, he would give fresh strength to the great
cause of the Reformation. Du Bellay would use all his zeal to
reestablish him on the throne, and thus procure an ally for France who
would help her to enter on the path of religious liberty.
We must now return to the country of Margaret of Navarre, and see how
this princess began to realise her great project of having the pure
Gospel preached in the bosom and under the forms of the Roman Catholic
Church.
[Footnote 265: 'The people was marvellously affrayed less you would have
joined armies.'—Hawkins to Henry VIII., Nov. 21, 1532. _State Papers_,
vii. p. 388.]
[Footnote 266: 'Hys Holynes taketh it greatly for ill.'—Ibid. p. 381.]
[Footnote 267: Brantôme, _Mémoires_, p. 235.]
[Footnote 268: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 174. _Relation des Ambassadeurs
Vénitiens_, i. p. 52.]
[Footnote 269: Hammer, iii. p. 118. Schoertlin, _Lebens Beschreibung_.
Ranke, _Deutsche Geschichte_, iii. p. 425.]
[Footnote 270: 'Entschlossen seine Gerechtigkeiten in Deutschland nicht
zu verlassen.'—Ranke, _Deutsche Geschichte_, iii. pp. 448-451. This
narrative is based upon Gabelkofer, extracted by Sattler and Pfister.]
[Footnote 271: This document will be found in Sattler, ii. p. 229. See
also Ranke, _Deutsche Geschichte_, iii. p. 450.]
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE GOSPEL PREACHED AT THE LOUVRE AND IN THE METROPOLITAN CHURCHES.
(LENT 1533.)
The alliance with England, and the hope of being able, sooner or later,
to triumph over Charles V., filled the King of France with joy; and
accordingly the carnival of the year 1533 was kept magnificently at
Paris. The court was absorbed in entertainments, balls, and banquets.
The young lords and ladies thought of nothing but dancing and
intriguing, at which soberer minds were scandalised. 'It is quite a
Bacchanalia,' said the evangelicals.[272] As soon as the carnival was
ended, Francis started for Picardy; leaving the King and Queen of
Navarre at Paris. Margaret now breathed more freely. She had been
compelled, willingly or unwillingly, to take part in all the court
fêtes; and she now determined to make up for it by organising a great
evangelical preaching instead of the 'bacchanalia' at which she had
sometimes been present. Was not Francis holding out his hand to the King
of England and to the protestants of Germany? The opportunity should be
seized of preaching the new doctrine boldly. The Queen of Navarre sent
for Roussel and communicated her intention to him. She will open the
great churches of the capital, and from their pulpits the inhabitants of
Paris shall hear the mighty summons. The poor almoner, in whom courage
was not the most prominent virtue, was alarmed at first. In the handsome
saloons of Margaret he might indulge in his pious and rather mystical
aspirations; but to enter the pulpits of Paris ... the very thought
dismayed him, and he begged the queen to find some other person. Roussel
did not deny that it was right to preach the Gospel publicly, but
declared himself to be incompetent for the work. 'The minister of the
Gospel,' he said, 'ought to possess an invincible faith.[273] The enemy
against which he fights is the kingdom of hell with all its
powers.[274]... He must defend himself on the right hand and on the
left.... What do you require of me? To preach peace, but under the
cross! To bring in the kingdom of God, but among the strongholds of the
devil.... To speak of repose in the midst of the most furious tempests,
of life in the midst of death, of blessedness in the midst of hell! Who
is fitted for such things?... Doubtless it is a noble task, but no one
ought to undertake it unless he is called to it. Now I feel nothing in
me which a minister of the Gospel of Christ ought to possess at this
moment.'[275]
[Sidenote: ROUSSEL'S HESITATION.]
Such a man as Calvin would certainly have been preferable, but Margaret
would neither have dared nor wished to put him in the front. These
sermons undoubtedly formed part of the chaplain's duty; and hence the
Queen, an energetic and impulsive woman, being determined to profit by
the opportunity of giving the Gospel free entrance into Paris, persisted
with Roussel, promised him the help of her prayers and of her favour,
and at last prevailed on him to preach. In truth, his modesty is an
honour to him: no doubt there was boldness wanted; but many humble and
candid souls would have hesitated like him. He was fitter than he
imagined for the work which the Queen of Navarre had taken in hand.
This obstacle having been surmounted, Margaret met with another. It was
the custom for the Sorbonne to appoint the preachers, and it was
impossible to get them to accept Roussel. 'They will nominate some
furious and insolent monks,' says Calvin, 'who will make the churches
ring with their insults against truth.'[276] The struggle began, and
despite the absence of Francis, despite the influence of the Queen of
Navarre, the Sorbonne gained the day, and the pulpits of the capital
were closed against the almoner. Margaret was very indignant at these
doctors, who looked upon themselves as the doorkeepers of the kingdom of
heaven, and by their tyranny prevented the door from being opened; but
Roussel was by no means sorry to be prohibited from a work beyond his
strength.
[Sidenote: PREACHINGS AT THE LOUVRE.]
But nothing could stop the queen. Being resolved to give the Gospel to
France, she said to herself that it must be done now or never. Her zeal
carried her to an extraordinary act. The Sorbonne closed the doors of
the churches against Roussel: Margaret opened to him the palace of the
king. She had a saloon prepared in the Louvre, and gave orders to admit
all who desired to enter. Was the king informed of this? It is possible,
and even probable, that he was. He did not fear to show the pope and
Charles V. how far his alliance with Henry VIII. and the protestants
would extend. He would not have liked to appear schismatic and
heretical; but he sometimes was pleased that his sister should do so;
and he could always vindicate himself on the ground of absence.
A Lutheran sermon at the Louvre! That was truly a strange thing; and
accordingly the crowd was so great that there was not room for them.
Margaret threw open a larger hall, but that too was filled, as well as
the corridors and ante-chamber.[277] A third time the place of meeting
was changed.[278] She had vainly selected the largest hall; the
galleries and adjoining rooms were filled, and room was wanting still.
These evangelical preachings at the Louvre excited a lively curiosity in
Paris. They were all the fashion, and the worthy Roussel, to his great
surprise, became quite famous. He preached every day during Lent,[279]
and every day the crowd grew larger. Nobles, lawyers, men of letters,
merchants, scholars, and tradespeople of every class flocked to the
Louvre from all parts of Paris, especially from the quarters of the
University and St. Germain. At the hour of preaching, the citizens
poured over the bridges in a stream, or crossed the Seine in boats. Some
were attracted by piety, some by curiosity, and others by vanity. Four
or five thousand hearers crowded daily round Roussel.[280]
When the worthy citizens, students, and professors had climbed the
stairs at the Louvre, crossed the antechambers, and reached the door of
the principal saloon, they stopped, opened their eyes wide, and looked
wonderingly on the sight presented to them in the monarch's palace. The
King and Queen of Navarre were in the chief places, seated in costly
chairs, whence the active Margaret cast a satisfied glance on all those
courtiers, those notables of the city, those curious Parisians, those
friends of Reform, who were flocking to hear the Word of God. There were
people of every rank: John Sturm, already so decided for the Gospel, was
seen by the side of the elegant John de Montluc, afterwards Bishop of
Valence. At length the minister appeared; he prayed with unction, read
the Scriptures with gravity, and then began his exhortations to the
hearers. His language was simple, but it stirred their hearts
profoundly. Roussel proclaimed the salvation obtained by a living faith,
and urged the necessity of belonging to the invisible Church of the
saints. Instead of attacking the Roman religion, he addressed his
appeals to the conscience; and this preaching of the Gospel (rather
softened down as it was) won, instead of irritating, men's minds.
Accustomed as they were to the babbling of the monks, the congregation
listened seriously to the practical preaching of the minister of God.
Here were no scholastic subtleties, no absurd legends, no amusing
anecdotes, no burlesque declamations, and no unclean pictures: it was
the Gospel.[281] As they quitted the Louvre, men conversed about the
sermon or the preacher. Sturm of Strasburg and John de Montluc, in
particular, often talked together.[282] The satisfaction was general.
'What a preacher!' they said; 'we have never heard anything like it!
What freedom in his language! what firmness in his teaching!'[283] Some
of his hearers wrote in their admiration to Melanchthon, who informed
Luther, Spalatin, and others of it.[284] Germany rejoiced to see France
begin to move at last.
Margaret, who had a lively imagination and warm heart, was all on fire.
She spoke to the worldlings of that 'peace of God which passeth all
understanding.' She said to the friends of the Gospel: 'The Almighty
will graciously complete what he has graciously begun through us.' She
added: 'I will spend myself in it.' She excited and stirred up everybody
about her, and the crowded congregations of the Louvre were in great
measure the result of her incessant activity. She knew how by a word or
a message to attract courtiers whose only thoughts were of debauchery,
and catholics whose only wish was for the pope. Like a sabbath-bell, she
called Paris to hear the voice of God, and drew the crowd. Possessing in
the highest degree, so long as her brother did not check it, that energy
which women often show in religious matters, she was resolved to
prosecute her work and win the prize of the contest.
She returned to her first idea. She said to herself that the best way to
effect a reform in the Church without occasioning a schism, was for the
Gospel to be preached in the churches of Paris and of France. The
ceremonies of the Roman worship and the jurisdiction of the bishops
would remain, but Christ would be proclaimed. This system, which was
fundamentally that of Melanchthon and even of Luther at this time,[285]
she did her best to realise. The victory she had just achieved at the
Louvre doubled her courage; she determined to have the churches which
had been refused to her at first. She therefore began to work upon the
king, and, as he was thinking only of his alliances with Henry VIII. and
the protestants, she obtained from him an order authorising the Bishop
of Paris to appoint whom he pleased to preach in his diocese.[286] The
prelate, who was a brother of the diplomatist Du Bellay, passed like him
for a friend of the Reformation. At Margaret's request he named two
evangelical Augustine monks—Courault and Berthaud. 'Strange!' said the
public voice; 'here are men of the order to which Luther belonged going
to preach the doctrine of the great reformer in the capital of France.'
All the evangelicals were overjoyed and wrote to their friends
everywhere that 'Paris was supplied with three excellent preachers,
announcing the truth ... with a little more boldness than was
customary.'[287]
[Sidenote: ESSENCE OF EVANGELICAL PREACHING.]
Courault, a sincere scriptural christian, who did not participate in
Margaret's subtleties, preached at St. Saviour's. The inhabitants of the
quarter of St. Denis and from other parts crowded to this church. Many
persons who had said of the preachings at the Louvre, 'They are not for
us,' hastened to the place which belonged to the people. The man who
occupied the pulpit was about the middle age; he did not possess
Roussel's grace, he was even somewhat rough, and preached the Gospel
without reserve and without disguise. His lively and aggressive style,
his expressive and rather threatening gestures arrested attention. He
attacked unsparingly the errors of the Church and the vices of
christians. Courault did not come, as the Roman preachers had done up to
that very hour, to impose on his hearers certain laws, ceremonies, and
acts of worship by means of which they could be reconciled to God and
merit his favour. He spoke not of feasts, or of dedications, or of
customs, or of those mechanical prayers and chantings, in which the
understanding and the heart have no share, and with which the Church
burdened believers. He had a special horror of all that mixes up the
worship of the creature with the adoration of God, and would not suffer
the perfect work of Christ to be obscured by the invocation of other
mediators. He preached that the true worship of the New Testament was
faith in the Gospel, and the love which proceeds from faith; that it was
communion with Christ, patience under the cross, and a holy activity in
doing good, accompanied by the constant prayers of the heart. This
preaching, so new in the capital, attracted an immense crowd. The
enthusiasm was universal. 'This man is in the first rank among good
men,' was the general opinion.[288] 'He is like a sentinel on a tower
who, with his eyes fixed on the east, proclaims that the sun, so long
hidden, will shine at last upon the earth.'[289] Light beamed from
Courault's discourses. His sight was weak, and in after years, during
his exile in Switzerland, where he was Calvin's colleague, he became
quite blind; but his language was always marked by great clearness. It
was said of him that 'although blind he enlightens the soul.'[290] Among
his hearers was Louis du Tillet, Calvin's friend, and the youthful canon
was deeply excited by the living faith of the aged Augustine. 'Oh! what
piety I found in him!' he exclaimed on a later occasion.[291]
Berthaud, the other preacher named by the bishop, subsequently deserted
the Gospel and died a canon of Besançon: so that each of them reminds us
of our Saviour's words: _There shall two be in the field; the one shall
be taken, and the other left_.[292]
These evangelical preachings in the palace of the king and in the
churches of Paris were important facts, and there has been nothing like
it since in France. The alarm was consequently at its height. People
asked whether the sentinels of the Church were asleep, and whether the
bark of St. Peter would founder, while the Gospel ship seemed floating
onwards in full sail.
[Sidenote: AGITATION OF THE SORBONNE.]
But the doctors of the Sorbonne were not asleep; on the contrary, they
were on the watch, they sent their spies into the evangelical
assemblies, received their reports, and took counsel together every day.
The members of this society, the principal, the prior, the senior, the
recorder, the professors, the proctors, and the librarians declared
boldly and unanimously that all was lost if they did not make haste to
check the evil. The evangelicals and the men of letters were informed of
these fanatical discussions. 'What a horde of scribes and pharisees!'
they exclaimed.[293] But that did not stop the horde. 'What must be
done?' they asked; and Beda replied: 'Let the preachers be seized and
put to death like Berquin.' Some, more moderate or more politic, knowing
that Roussel was preaching by order of the king's sister, shrank from
this proposal, fearing they would offend their sovereign.[294] 'What
foolish policy!' exclaimed Beda, 'what ineffable cowardice!... Is not
the Sorbonne the oracle of Europe? Shall it render ambiguous answers,
like the pagan oracles of old?'
Beda prevailed, and Roussel was denounced to the king. 'Apply to my
chancellor,' said Francis, who did not wish to say either yes or no. The
Sorbonne delegates then waited upon Duprat. 'Apply to the bishop,' said
the cardinal, who was afraid of displeasing the king. The Sorbonnists
went to their diocesan, rather anxious about the reception they would
receive from him; and with good reason, for the liberal Du Bellay only
laughed at them.[295] The exasperated but indefatigable doctors now
turned to the first president, who was one of their party; but that
magistrate, believing the Sorbonne to be in disgrace, was not anxious to
support their cause. The wrath of the doctors now became unbounded.
Would there no longer be any justice in France for the champions of the
papacy? The friends of letters, who had carefully noted all these
repulses, smiled at the confusion of the priests; and Sturm in
particular, the reviver of learning at Strasburg, and now professor at
Paris, did not spare them: 'Look at these _Thersites_!' he said,
comparing them to the ugliest, most cowardly, and most ridiculous of the
Grecian host at Troy. 'They are at the end of their tether and cannot
succeed,' continued Sturm; 'for those who can help them will not, and
those who will cannot.'[296]
The doctors of the Sorbonne now lost all moderation. 'The king,' said
they, 'who publicly supports the heretics, his sister and the Archbishop
of Paris, who protect them, are as guilty as they.' Orders were sent
through all the camp: every pulpit became a volcano. Furious
declamations, superstitious sermons, scholastic discourses, violent and
grotesque speeches—the supporters of Rome made use of all. 'Do you know
what an heretical minister is?' asked a monk. 'He is a pig in a pulpit,
decorated with cap and surplice, and preaching to a congregation ... of
asses.'[297]
[Sidenote: THE FIREBRAND LE PICARD.]
The most active firebrand in this conflagration was Le Picard, a
bachelor of divinity, professor of the college of Navarre, and
subsequently dean of St. Germain l'Auxerrois. He was twenty-nine years
old, of a 'stormy' temper if ever there was one, and in truth he did
'storm' in the churches and at the meetings of the priests. He went into
the pulpit to oppose Courault; and the people who had gone to hear the
Augustine monk, crowded also to hear his opponent. The latter
gesticulated much, shouted loudly, invoked the Virgin, and attacked the
king, accusing him bluntly of heresy. He was a true precursor of those
who advised the massacre of St. Bartholomew; and indeed he made a
proposal, not long after, worthy of the Guises and the Medici. 'Let the
government pretend to be Lutheran,' he said, 'in order that the reformed
may assemble openly; then we can fall upon them and clear the kingdom of
them once for all.'[298] A monk, charmed with his virtues, has written
his life under the title of _The Perfect Ecclesiastic_.[299]
[Sidenote: SEDITION OF BEDA AND MONKS.]
Yet if Le Picard was the most active champion, Beda was still general.
Placed as on a hill, he overlooked the field of battle, examined where
it was necessary to send help, wrote every day to the orators of his
party—to Le Picard, Maillard, Ballue, Bouchigny, and others, and
conjured them not to relax for an instant in their attacks. 'Stir up the
people by your discourses,' he said.[300] It was a critical moment: it
was in the balance whether France would remain catholic or become
heretic. 'Though the monarch deserts the papacy,' he said, 'agitate,
still agitate!' Then the fanatical monks went into the pulpits and
aroused the people by their fiery eloquence: 'Let us not suffer this
heresy, the most pestilential of all, to take root among us.... Let us
pluck it up, cast it out, and annihilate it.'[301]
All the forces of the papacy were engaged at this time as in a battle
where the general launches his reserves into the midst of the struggle.
The mendicant friars, those veteran soldiers of the popedom, who had
access into every family, were set to work. Dominicans, Augustines,
Carmelites, and Franciscans, having received their instructions, entered
the houses of Paris. The women and children, who were used to them,
saluted them with 'Good morning, friar John or friar James;' and while
their wallet was being filled, they whispered in the ears of the
citizens: 'The pope is above the king.... If the king favours the
heretics, the pope will free us from our oaths of fidelity.'
They went still further. Whenever it is felt desirable to arouse the
people, they require to be excited by some spectacle. A _neuvaine_ was
ordered in honour of St. James. The crowd flocked to adore the good
saint with his long pilgrim's staff; and for nine days the devout of
both sexes, kneeling round his image, crossing themselves and employing
other usual ceremonies, loudly called upon the saint to give a
knock-down blow with his staff to those who protected the heretics.
These incendiary discourses and bigoted practices succeeded. The people
began to be restless and to utter threats.[302] They paraded in bands
through the streets, they collected in groups in the public places, and
cries were heard of: 'The pope for ever! down with his enemies!...
Whoever opposes the holy father, even if he be a king, is a knave and a
tyrant, to whom the Grand Turk is preferable.... We will dye our streets
with the blood of those people.'... There was already in the veins of
the inhabitants of Paris the blood of the men of the Reign of Terror.
The crowds who filled the streets stopped before the booksellers' shops,
where books and pictures, defamatory of the reformers and even of the
Queen of Navarre, were displayed. Among the books was a 'stage play'
aimed at the king's sister: it was probably that entitled: _The Malady
of Christendom, with thirteen characters_.[303]
But even that was not sufficient. There was still wanting a theological
decision from the first academical authority of christendom, which
should place Roussel in the same rank as the arch-heretic Luther. The
Sorbonne, wishing to strike a decisive blow, published a certain number
of the so-called pernicious and scandalous doctrines imputed to Roussel,
and condemned them as being similar to the errors of Luther. The alarm
and agitation were now at their height; the people fancied they could
see the monk of Wittemberg breathing his impious doctrines over Paris.
Rome fought boldly, and everything was in confusion.[304]
What became of Calvin during all this uproar? 'What is this madness,' he
said on a later occasion, 'which impels the pope and his bishops, the
priests and the friars, to resist the Gospel with such obstinate
rebellion?... The servants of God must be furnished with invincible
constancy in order to sustain without alarm the commotions of the
people. We are sailing on a sea exposed to many tempests; but nothing
ought to turn us aside from doing our duty conscientiously.[305] The
Lord consoles and strengthens his servants when they are thus
agitated.... He has in his hand the management of every whirlwind and of
every storm, and appeases them whenever it seems good to him.... We
shall be roughly handled, but he will not suffer us to be drowned.'[306]
[Footnote 272: 'Bacchanalia factis multis regiis conviviis.'—Siderander
Bedroto, Strasburg MSS. ed. Schmidt.]
[Footnote 273: 'Exigit invictum fidei robur.'—Roussel to Œcolampadius,
_Ep. Ref. Helvet._ p. 20.]
[Footnote 274: 'Adversus totum inferorum regnum, a dexteris et a
sinistris.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 275: 'Nihil minus in me sentiam quam quod ad evangelicum
dispensatorem et ministrum attinet.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 276: 'Quisque erat clamosissimus et stolido furore præditus.'—
Calvinus Danieli, _Epp._ p. 3. Genève, 1575.]
[Footnote 277: 'Vix enim locus inveniebatur qui satis capax esset.'—
Letter dated Paris, May 28, 1533, by Peter Siderander. Strasburg MSS.
Schmidt, _G. Roussel_, p. 201.]
[Footnote 278: 'Adeo ut ter mutare locum coactus sit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 279: 'Concionatus est autem quotidie per totam hanc
quadragesimam.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 280: 'Ut nulla fere concio facta fuerit quin hominum quatuor
vel quinque millia adfuerint.'—Siderander, Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 281: Schmidt, _G. Roussel_, p. 85.]
[Footnote 282: See Sturm to Montluc, June 17, 1562.]
[Footnote 283: 'Gerardus libere docet Evangelium in ipsa Lutetia ... in
aula reginæ Navarræ magna animi constantia.'—Melanchthon, _Corp. Ref._
ii. p. 658.]
[Footnote 284: 'Hæc certa sunt et mihi, ex Parisiis, ab optimis viris
diligenter perscripta.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 285: Negotiations of Smalcald, Aug. 1531.]
[Footnote 286: 'Allatum est regium diploma quo parisiensi episcopo
permittitur præficere quos velit singulis parochiis concionatores.'—
Calvini _Epp._ p. 3.]
[Footnote 287: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. des Eglises Réformées_, i. p. 9.]
[Footnote 288: 'Qui inter bonos postremus non erat.'— Calvini _Epp._
p. 3.]
[Footnote 289: 'In specula nostra, donec appareat quod nunc absconditum
est.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 290: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. des Eglises Réformées_, i. p. 9.]
[Footnote 291: _Correspondance de Calvin et Du Tillet_, p. 78.]
[Footnote 292: Matthew, xxiv. 40.]
[Footnote 293: 'Turba illa scribarum et pharisæorum.'—Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 294: 'Non facile contra regem temere ausi sunt certamen
suscipere.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 295: 'Hic aperte eos illusit.'—Sturm to Bucer, ed. Strobel, p.
106.]
[Footnote 296: Isti Thersitæ . . . hi qui possunt nollent, et qui
cuperent non auderent adesse.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 297: One of the stalls in a church at Toulouse represents a
similar scene, with these words: _Calvin the pig preaching_.]
[Footnote 298: Labitte, _Démocratie des Prédicateurs de la Ligue_, p.
3.]
[Footnote 299: H. de Coste, _Le parfait Ecclésiastique, ou Histoire de
Le Picard_, 12mo, Paris, 1658.]
[Footnote 300: 'Beda sollicitabat suos oratores ut ne cessarent in suis
demegoriis concitare populum.'—Sturm to Bucer. Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 301: 'Populum stimulare ne hæresim hanc pestilentissimam
radices agere pateretur.'—Siderander Bedroto. Ibid.]
[Footnote 302: 'Ad extremum populus etiam mussitare et minari cœpit.'—
Sturm to Bucer.]
[Footnote 303: Typographi in suis pægmatis scriptura et pictura et ludo
scenico læserunt reginam.'—Ibid. _The Moralité de la Maladie de la
Chrétienté_, 8vo, appeared at Paris this very year (1533). The learned
biographer of Roussel and of Sturm supposes, very reasonably as it
appears to me, that this is the _ludus scenicus_, the play of which
Sturm speaks.]
[Footnote 304: 'Omnino res cœpit esse θορυβώδης.'—Sturm to Bucer.]
[Footnote 305: 'En rondeur de conscience.'—Calv. _Opusc._]
[Footnote 306: Calvin, _in Acta_ xix.]
CHAPTER XXIV.
DEFEAT OF THE ROMISH PARTY IN PARIS AND MOMENTARY
TRIUMPH OF THE GOSPEL.
(1533.)
[Sidenote: FRANCIS PUNISHES BOTH PARTIES.]
Margaret and her husband, with the Bishop du Bellay, alarmed at the
storm, resolved to lay their complaints before Francis I. The kingly
authority was threatened; these hot-headed 'wallet-bearers' were the
predecessors of those who instigated the murders of Henry III. and Henry
IV. The King of Navarre on the one hand, and the Bishop of Paris on the
other, laid before their sovereign an alarming picture of the state of
the capital. 'The blood of Berquin does not satisfy these fanatics,'
they said; 'they are calling for fresh acts of cruelty.... And who will
be their victims now?... They are planning a crime, a revolt!'[307] But
while Francis was listening to his sister's denunciations with one ear,
he was receiving those of the Sorbonne in the other. 'Sedition!' said
one party. 'Heresy!' cried the other. 'Sire,' repeated the theologians
incessantly, 'shut the pulpits against Roussel and his colleagues.'[308]
Thus pulled in different directions, the king, puzzled which to believe,
resolved to punish both parties alike. 'I will confine them all to their
houses,' he said; 'Beda with his orators on one side, and Gerard Roussel
with his preachers on the other. We shall then have some peace and be
able at our leisure to examine these contradictory accusations.'[309]
Thus, at the same moment, Beda, Maillard, Ballue, and Bouchigny of the
church party, and Roussel, Courault, and Berthaud of the evangelical
party, received orders not to leave their houses. The schoolmaster thus
punished the quarrelsome boys by putting them in opposite corners.
Preparations were made for investigating the two cases, but the matter
was not so easy as the king had imagined. The theologians were indignant
at finding themselves placed in the same rank with the Lutherans. Far
from submitting to be prosecuted for sedition, they claimed to prosecute
the others for heresy. They would not be the accused or even the
accusers; they took their stand as inquisitors of the faith and as
judges.[310]
[Sidenote: BEDA BREAKS LOOSE.]
The terrible Beda, shut up in the college of Montaigu,[311] and not
daring to go out, found himself condemned, considering his restless
temper, to the severest penance. At first he was content to keep his
agents at work, who were ready at any moment to bear his orders. But
when he learnt that his right to judge was disputed, and that he was to
be put in the same rank with Roussel, the turbulent doctor could
restrain himself no longer. His room was too narrow to contain his
anger. He made light of the king's commands, and, disobeying his orders,
mounted his mule and rode into the city. From time to time he stopped.
The catholic tribune, the defender of the pope, was soon recognised; a
crowd gathered round him; he addressed the people from his mule, and did
his best to arouse their fanatical passions. While the catholics flocked
round him, some evangelicals were watching the orator and his audience
from a distance. 'I saw him riding on his mule,' says Siderander.[312]
Beda thought himself stronger than the king, and in some respects he
was; he reigned over the savage appetites of an ignorant and fanatical
populace. Such was the power in the sixteenth century by which the pope
triumphed more than once in the capital of France and elsewhere.
Beda was vigorously supported by all his subalterns: Le Picard
especially, who had not been put under arrest, expressed his indignation
in his fanatical discourses that the king should desire to hold the
balance even between the Church and heresy; and advocated a resort to
force to insure the triumph of the oppressed papacy. A riot seemed about
to break out. The friends of learning and of the king were alarmed.
Might not the Roman party take advantage of Francis's absence to
establish another power than his in Paris, and to treat this monarch as
the Seize in after years treated his grandson Henry III.?
The King of Navarre and the Bishop of Paris hastened to Meaux, where
Francis was staying with his court, and informed him that Beda, Le
Picard, and their colleagues had thrown aside all reserve, and that,
unless energetic measures were taken, the public tranquillity and
perhaps his crown might be endangered. The king gave way to a paroxysm
of anger. Beda's freak of parading the streets of Paris on his mule,
notwithstanding the prohibition, was one of those insults that Francis
felt very keenly. He ordered Cardinal Duprat and the Bishop of Senlis to
make all haste to Paris, and stop the intrigues of the Sorbonne and the
promenades of Beda, and also arrest Le Picard. 'As for the inquiry about
heresy,' said the king, 'I reserve that for myself.'[313] Heresy was
treated with more tenderness than the first catholic faculty of
christendom. Francis began to find the Lutherans gentle as lambs in
comparison with the hot-headed papists. Certain personages, whose
arrival was soon to be announced by the officers of his court, confirmed
him in this opinion.
[Sidenote: SORBONNE THREATENS FRANCIS.]
Scarcely had the two prelates left Meaux, when a deputation from the
Sorbonne arrived. When Francis received them, he was evidently in a bad
humour, but he did not address them sharply, as the courtiers had
expected. The theologians approached him with all the required
formalities; they desired, if possible, to win him by meekness. But by
degrees they raised their tone; they beset him with their accusations,
and irritated him with their pretensions, repeating again and again that
it was the prerogative of the Sorbonne, and not of the prince, to give
their opinion in a matter of heresy. There was some truth in this, but
the truth did not please Francis, who claimed to be master in
everything. Still he contained himself, until the doctors, coming to
threats of revolt, and shouting their loudest, reminded him of the
possibility of a deposition of kings by the popes.[314] These
recollections of the middle ages, with which they menaced the haughty
monarch, who claimed to begin a new era, and who desired that the
Reformation should serve at least to abate the pretensions of Rome, and
emancipate princes from its yoke, made the king shudder, and aroused a
terrible fit of anger. His face grew red, his eyes flashed fire, and
putting aside his usual courtesy, he drove the reverend fathers from his
presence, calling them beasts, and saying: 'Get about your business, you
donkeys!'[315] At this moment Francis inaugurated modern times—though
certainly in a fashion rather cavalier.
However, Cardinal Duprat was on the road. What would he do, this vile
courtier of the popes, who at their demand had destroyed the bulwark of
the Gallican liberties, and who hated the Reformation? The Sorbonne
placed their hope in him. But Duprat served his master before all
things, and he could not hide from himself that the hot-headed catholics
were threatening the king's crown. He resolved to strike heavily. As
soon as he reached Paris, he had Le Picard arrested, as being the most
compromised. He confined him in his own palace, seized his books and
papers, and had him interrogated by the advocate-general. The seditious
bachelor raved in his prison, and protested aloud against the indignity
of such treatment; but all his storming was of no use. He was condemned
to be shut up in the abbey of St. Magloire, and forbidden to teach.[316]
Nor did Duprat stop here. He was shocked that paltry priests should dare
speak against that royal majesty of Francis I. for which he, a cardinal
and chancellor, had nothing but humble flatteries. He never ceased to be
the mortal enemy of the Gospel, and originated many a measure of
persecution against the reformed; but his chief quality was a slavish
devotion to the wishes of his master. To the mendicant monks sent out by
the Sorbonne he opposed 'inquirers'—the name he gave to the spies who
were in every parish, and who skilfully interrogated men and women,
nobles and sacristans, to find out whether the preachers or the friars
had attacked the king's government in their hearing. Many of the
townspeople were unwilling to say anything; yet the clever and dreaded
minister attained his ends, and having discovered the most refractory
priests, he summoned them before him. This summons from a cardinal of
the holy Church, from the most powerful person in the kingdom, alarmed
these violent clerics; on a sudden their courage collapsed, and they
appeared before his eminence with downcast eyes, trembling limbs, and
confused manner. 'Who permitted or who authorised you to insult the king
and to excite the people?' asked the haughty Duprat.[317] The priests
were too much terrified to conceal anything: 'It was with the consent
and the good pleasure of our reverend masters,' they replied.[318]
The theologians of the Sorbonne were now summoned in their turn. They
were quite as much alarmed as their creatures, and, seeing the danger,
denied everything.[319] They managed to take shelter behind certain
clever reservations: they had _hinted_ the insult, but they had not
_commanded_ it. At heart both chiefs and followers were all equally
fanatical, and not one of them needed any stimulus to do his duty in
this holy war. These reverend gentlemen, having thus screened themselves
under denials, withdrew, fully convinced that no one would dare lay
hands upon them. But a hundred Bedas would not have stopped the terrible
cardinal. In the affair of the concordat, had he taken any notice of the
fierce opposition of the sovereign courts, of the universities, or even
of the clergy of France? Duprat smiled at his own unpopularity, and
found a secret pleasure in attracting the general hatred upon himself.
Catholics and evangelicals—he will brave and crush them all. He went to
the bottom of the matter, and having discovered who were the Æoluses
that had raised these sacerdotal tempests, he informed the king of the
result.
[Sidenote: FRANCIS ACTS VIGOROUSLY.]
Francis had never been so angry with the catholics. He had met with men
who dared resist him!... It was his pride, his despotism, and not his
love of truth, that was touched. Besides, was he not the ally of
Henry VIII., and was he not seeking to form a league with the
protestants of Germany? Severe measures against the ultramontane bigots
would convince his allies of the sincerity of his words. He had another
motive still: Francis highly valued the title 'patron of letters,' and
he looked upon the friars as their enemy. He put himself forward as the
champion of the learning of the age, and not of the Gospel; but for a
moment it was possible to believe in the triumph of the Reformation
under the patronage of the Renaissance.
[Sidenote: CONDEMNATION OF BEDA.]
On the 16th of May, 1533, the indefatigable Beda, the fiery Le Picard,
and the zealous friar Mathurin, the three most intrepid supporters of
the papacy in France, appeared before the parliament. An event so
extraordinary filled both university and city with surprise and emotion.
Devout men raised their eyes to heaven; devout women redoubled their
prayers to Mary; but Beda and his two colleagues, proud of their Romish
orthodoxy, appeared before the court, and compared themselves with the
confessors of Christ standing before the proconsuls of Rome. No one
could believe in a condemnation; was not the King of France the eldest
son of the Church? But the disciples of the pope did not know the
monarch who then reigned over France. If they wanted to show what a
priest was like, the sovereign wanted to show what a king was like. When
signing the letters-royal in which Francis had suggested the arrest to
parliament, he exclaimed: 'As for Beda, on my word, he shall never
return to Paris!'[320] The king's ordinance had been duly registered;
the court was complete; and not a sound could be heard, when the
president, turning to the three doctors, said: 'Reverend gentlemen, you
are banished from Paris, and will henceforward live thirty leagues from
this capital; you are at liberty, however, to select what residences you
please, provided they be at a distance from each other. You will leave
the city in twenty-four hours. If you break your ban, you will incur the
penalty of death. You will neither preach, give lessons, nor hold any
kind of meeting, and you will keep up no communication with one another,
until the king has ordered otherwise.'
Beda, Le Picard, Mathurin, and their friends, were all terrified.
Francis had, however, reserved for the last a decision which must have
abated their courage still more. As if he wished to show the triumph of
evangelical ideas, he cancelled the injunction against Roussel; and
Margaret's almoner was able once more to preach the Gospel in the
capital. 'If you have any complaint against him,' said the king to the
Sorbonne, 'you can bring him before the lawful tribunals.'[321]
This decree of the parliament fell like a thunderbolt in the midst of
the Sorbonne. Stunned and stupefied, unable to say or do anything, the
doctors shook off their stupor only to be seized with a fit of terror.
They visited each other, conversed together, and whispered their alarms.
Had the fatal moment really come which they had feared so long? Was
Francis about to follow the example of Frederick of Saxony and Henry of
England? Would the cause of the holy Roman Church perish under the
attacks of its enemies? Would France join the triumphal procession of
the Reformation?... The old men, pretty numerous at the Sorbonne, were
overwhelmed. One of them, a broken-down, feeble hypochondriac, was so
terribly disturbed by the decree, that he fairly lost his senses. He
suffered a perpetual nightmare. He fancied he saw the king and the
parliament, with all France, destroying the Sorbonne, and trampling on
the necks of the doctors while their palace was burning. The poor man
expired in the midst of these terrible phantoms.[322] Yet the blow which
stunned some, aroused others. The more intrepid doctors met and
conferred together, and strove to encourage their partisans and to
enlist new ones: they took no rest night or day.[323] Unable to believe
that this decree really expressed the king's will, they determined to
send a deputation to the south of France, whither he had gone; but
Francis had not forgotten their hint about the deposition of kings by
the popes, and, angry as ever, he rejected every demand.
[Sidenote: HOPES OF THE REFORMERS.]
Nor was the Sorbonne alone agitated: all the city was in commotion, some
being against the decree, others for it. The bigots, in their compassion
for 'the excellent Beda,'[324] exclaimed: 'What an indignity, to expose
so profound a divine, so high-born a man, to such a harsh
punishment!'[325] But, on the other hand, the friends of learning leapt
for joy.[326] A great movement seemed to be accomplishing; it was a
solemn time. Some of the most intelligent men imagined that France was
about to be regenerated and transformed.... Sturm in his college was
delighted. What news to send to Germany, to Bucer, to Melanchthon!... He
ran to his study, took up his pen, and wrote in his transport: 'Things
are changing, the hinges are turning.... It is true there still remain
here and there a few aged Priams, surrounded by servile creatures, who
cling to the things that are passing away.... But, with the exception of
this small number of belated men, no one any longer defends the cause of
the Phrygian priests.'[327] The classic Sturm could only compare the
spirit of the ultramontanists to the superstition and fanaticism of the
priests of Phrygia, so notorious for those qualities in ancient times.
But the friends of the Reform and of the Renaissance were indulging in
most exaggerated illusions. A few old folks, mumbling their _Ave-Marias_
and _Pater-nosters_, seemed to them to constitute the whole strength of
the papacy. They had great hopes of the new generation: 'The young
priests,' they said, 'are rushing into the shining paths of
wisdom.'[328] Francis I. having shown an angry face to the Sorbonne,
every Frenchman was about to follow his example, according to the belief
of the friends of letters. They indulged in transports of joy, and, as
it were, a universal shout welcomed the opening of a new era. But alas!
France was still far distant from it; she was not judged worthy of such
happiness. Instead of seeing the triple banner of the Gospel, morality,
and liberty raised upon her walls, that great and mighty nation was
destined, owing to Romish influence, to pass through centuries of
despotism and wild democracy, frivolity and licentiousness, superstition
and unbelief.
[Sidenote: THE FOUR DOCTORS EXILED.]
In the midst of the contrary movements now agitating Paris, there was a
certain number of spectators who, while leaning more to one party than
to the other, set about studying the situation. In one of the colleges
was a student of Alsace, the son of an ironmonger at Strasburg, who,
wishing to give himself a Greek or Latin name, called himself
_Siderander_, 'man of iron.' Such, however, was not his nature; he was
particularly curious; he had a passion for picking up news, and his
great desire to know other people's business made him supple as the
willow, rather than hard as the metal. Siderander was an amiable
well-educated young man, and he gives us a pretty faithful picture of
the better class of students of that day. On Monday, May 26, he was
going to hear a lecture on logic by Sturm, who, leaving the paths of
barren scholasticism, was showing by example as well as by precept how
clearness of thought may be united with elegance of language. Just as
the Alsatian was approaching the college of Montaigu, where Sturm
lectured, he met with a piece of good-luck. He saw an immense crowd of
students and citizens collected in front of the college, where they had
been waiting since the morning to witness the departure of the Hercules
of the Sorbonne.[329] He ran as fast as he could, his heart throbbing
with joy at the thought of seeing Beda, the great papist, going into
banishment.... For such a sight, the student would have walked from
Strasburg. The rumour had spread through Paris that the three or four
disgraced doctors were to leave the capital on that day. Everybody
wished to see them: some for the joy they felt at their disgrace;
others, to give vent to their sorrow. But, sad misfortune! the lucky
chance which had delighted the student failed him. The government was
alarmed, and fearing a riot, the exiles did not appear. The crowd was
forced to disperse without seeing them, and Siderander went away in
great disappointment. The next morning, at an early hour, the four
culprits, Beda, Le Picard, Mathurin, and a Franciscan, came forth under
guard and without noise. The doctors, humiliated at being led out of the
city like malefactors, did not even raise their heads. But the
precautions of the police were useless: many people were on the
look-out, the news spread in a moment through the quarter, and a crowd
of burgesses, monks, and common people filled the streets to see the
celebrated theologians pass, dejected, silent, and with downcast eyes.
The glory of the Sorbonne had faded; even that of Rome was dimmed; and
it seemed to many as if the papacy was departing with its four
defenders. The devout catholics gave way to sighs and groans,
indignation and tears; but at the very moment when these bigots were
paying the last honours to popery, others were saluting the advent of
the new times with transports of joy. 'They are sycophants,' said some
among the crowd, 'banished from Paris on account of their lies and their
traitorous proceedings.'[330]
The disciples of the Gospel did not confine themselves to words. Matters
were in good train, and it was desirable to persevere until the end was
reached. While the Sorbonne bent its head, the Reformation was looking
up. The Queen of Navarre and her husband, with many politicians and men
of rank, encouraged Roussel, Courault, and others to preach the Gospel
fearlessly; even these evangelists were astonished at their sudden
favour. Roussel in particular advanced timidly, asking whether the
Church would not interpose its _veto_? But no; Bishop du Bellay, the
diplomatist's brother, did not interfere. During the whole period of the
king's absence, Paris was almost like a country in the act of reforming
itself. Men thought themselves already secure of that religious liberty
which, alas! was to cost three centuries of struggle and the purest
blood, and whose lamentable defeats were to scatter the confessors of
Jesus Christ into every part of the world. When a great good is to be
bestowed on the human race, the deliverance is only accomplished by
successive efforts. But at this time men thought they had attained the
end at a single bound. From the pulpits that were opened to them in
every quarter of Paris, the evangelists proclaimed that the truth had
been revealed in Jesus Christ; that the Word of God, contained in the
writings of the prophets and apostles, did not require to be sanctioned
or interpreted by an infallible authority; and that whoever listened to
it or read it with a sincere heart, would be enlightened and saved by
it. The tutelage of the priests was abolished, and emancipated souls
were brought into immediate contact with God and his revelation. The
great salvation purchased by the death of Christ upon the cross was
announced with power, and the friends of the Gospel, transported with
joy, exclaimed: 'At last Christ is preached publicly in the pulpits of
the capital, and all speak of it freely.[331] May the Lord increase
among us day by day the glory of his Gospel!'[332]
[Sidenote: SATIRES OF THE STUDENTS.]
The most serious causes always find defenders among trivial men, who do
not thoroughly understand them, but yet despise their adversaries. The
Reformation has no reason to be proud of some of its auxiliaries in the
sixteenth century. A serious cause ought to be seriously defended; but
history cannot pass by these manifestations, which are as much in her
domain as those of another kind. Satire was not spared in this matter.
The students especially delighted in it: they posted up a long placard,
written carefully with ornamented letters in French verse, in which the
four theologians were described in the liveliest and most fantastic
colours.[333] Two of their colleagues were also introduced, for the four
doctors on whom the king's wrath had fallen were not the only criminals.
A cordelier especially was notorious for his curious sermons, full of
bad French and bad Latin, and still more notorious for the clever and
popular eloquence he displayed, whenever a collection was to be made in
favour of his order. This Pierre Cornu, who had been nicknamed _des
Cornes_, was wonderfully touched off in the poem of the students. Groups
of scholars, burgesses, and Parisian wits gathered round the placards,
some bursting with laughter and others with anger. The vehement and
ridiculous Cornu especially excited the mirth of the idlers. A profane
author who had nothing to do with the Reformation, speaks of him in his
writings:—'Ha! ha! Master Cornu,' said one, 'you are not the only man to
have horns.... Friend Bacchus wears a pair; and so do Pan, and Jupiter
Ammon and hosts besides.'—'Ha! ha! dear Master Cornibus,' said another,
'give me an ounce of your sermon, and I will make the collection in your
parish.' Strange circumstance! The public voice seemed at this time
opposed to these forerunners of the preachers of the League. The
Sorbonne, however, had friends who replied to these jests by bursts of
passion. 'The man who wrote these verses is a heretic,' they
exclaimed.[334] From insults they passed to threats; from threats they
came to blows, and the struggle began. The bigots wished to pull down
the placard. A creature of the Faculty succeeded; springing into the
air, he tore it down and ran off with his spoil.[335] Then the crowd
dispersed.
[Sidenote: SORBONNE CALLS FOR THE STAKE.]
In that age placards played a great part, similar to that played by
certain pamphlets in later times. There was no need to buy them at the
bookseller's; everybody could read the impromptu tracts at the corners
of the streets. Rome was not in the humour to leave these powerful
weapons in the hands of her enemies, and the Sorbonne determined to
appeal to the people against the abhorred race of innovators. It did not
jest, like the youth of the schools; it went straight to the point, and
invoked the stake against its adversaries. Two days after that on which
the former placard was posted up, another was found on the walls,
containing these unpolished verses:
To the stake! to the stake! with the heretic crew,
That day and night vexes all good men and true.
Shall we let them Saint Scripture and her edicts defile?
Shall we banish pure science for Lutherans vile?
Do you think that our God will permit such as these
To imperil our bodies and souls at their ease?
O Paris, of cities the flower and the pride,
Uphold that true faith which these heretics deride;
Or else on thy towers storm and tempest shall fall....
Take heed by my warning; and let us pray all
That the King of all kings will be pleased to confound
These dogs so accursed, where'er they be found,
That their names, like bones going fast to decay,
May from memory's tablets be clean wiped away.
To the stake! to the stake! the fire is their home!
As God hath permitted, let justice be done.
A crowd equally great assembled before this placard, as cruel as it was
crafty. The writer appealed to the people of Paris; he entitled them
'the flower and pride of cities,' knowing that flattery is the best
means of winning men's minds; and then he called for the stake. The
'stake' was the argument with which men opposed the Reform. 'Burn those
who confute us!' This savage invocation was a home-thrust. Many of the
citizens, kneeling down to write, copied out the placard, in order to
carry it to every house: the press is less rapid, even in our days.
Others committed the verses to memory, and walked along the streets
singing the burden:
To the stake! to the stake! the fire is their home!
As God hath permitted, let justice be done!
These rude rhymes became the motto of their party; this cruel ballad of
the sixteenth century erelong summoned the champions of the Church in
various quarters to fatten the earth with the ashes of their enemies.
Pierre Siderander happened to be in the crowd; noticing several papists
copying the incendiary verses, the Strasburg student did the same, and
sent copies to his friends. By this means they were handed down to our
times.[336]
The next day there was a fresh placard. The Sorbonne, finding the people
beginning to be moved, wished to arouse them thoroughly. This ballad was
not confined to a general appeal to the stake; Roussel was mentioned by
name as one who deserved to be burnt. The fanatical placards of the
Sorbonnists were not so soon torn down as the satirical couplets of
their pupils. They could be read for days together, such good watch did
the sacristans keep over them.
But the Sorbonne did not limit themselves to a paper war; they worked
upon the most eminent members of the parliament. Their zeal displayed
itself on every side. 'Justice! justice!' they exclaimed; 'let us punish
these detestable heretics, and pluck up Lutheranism, root and
branch.'[337] The whole city was in commotion; the most odious plots
were concocted; and the _matéologues_, as the students called the
defenders of the old abuses, took counsel at the Sorbonne every day.
[Sidenote: PROGRESS OF THE REFORM.]
In the midst of all this agitation the Reformation was advancing quietly
but surely. While the Queen of Navarre boldly professed her living piety
in the palace, and preachers proclaimed it from their pulpits to the
believing crowd, evangelical men, still in obscurity, were modestly
propagating around them a purer and a mightier faith. At this period
Calvin spent four years in Paris (1529-1533), where he at first engaged
in literature. It might have been thought that he would appear in the
world as a man of letters, and not as a reformer. But he soon placed
profane studies in the second rank, and devoted himself to the service
of God, as we have seen. He would have desired not to enter forthwith
upon a career of evangelical activity. 'During this time,' he said, 'my
sole object was to live privately, without being known.' He felt the
necessity of a time of silence and christian meditation. He would have
liked to imitate Paul, who, after his conversion and his first preaching
at Damascus, passed several quiet years in Arabia and Cilicia;[338] but
he had to combat error around him, and he soon took a step in advance.
While Courault and Roussel were preaching in the churches to large
audiences and dealing tenderly with the papacy, Calvin, displaying great
activity,[339] visited the different quarters of Paris where secret
assemblies were held, and there proclaimed a more scriptural, a more
complete, and a bolder doctrine. In his discourses he made frequent
allusions to the dangers to which those were exposed who desired to live
piously; and he taught them at the same time 'what magnanimity believers
ought to possess when adversity draws them on to despair.'—'When things
do not go as we wish,' he said, 'sadness comes over the mind and makes
us forget all our confidence. But the paternal love of God is the
foundation of an invincible strength which overcomes every trial. The
divine favour is a shelter against all storms, from whatever quarter
they may come.' And he usually ended his discourses, we are told, with
these words: '_If God be for us, who can be against us?_'[340]
Mere preaching did not satisfy Calvin: he entered into communication
with all who desired a purer religion,[341] made them frequent visits,
and conversed seriously with them. He avoided no one, and cultivated the
friendship of those whom he had formerly known. He advanced step by
step, but he was always busy, and the doctrine of the Gospel made some
progress every day. All persons rendered the strongest testimony to his
piety.[342] The friends of the Word of God gathered round him, and among
them were many burgesses and common people, but there were nobles and
college professors also.
These christians were full of hope, and even Calvin entertained the bold
idea of winning the king, the university, and indeed France herself,
over to the Gospel. Paris was in suspense. Every one thought that some
striking and perhaps sudden change was about to take place in one
direction or another. Will Rome or will the Reformation have the
advantage? There were strong reasons for adopting the former opinion,
and reasons hardly less powerful for adopting the latter. Discussions
arose upon this point, even among friends. Men were on the look-out for
anything that might help them to divine the future, and the more curious
resorted to the various places where they hoped to pick up news. Public
attention was particularly turned towards the Sorbonne, when it was
known that the heads of the Roman party were holding council.
[Sidenote: PIERRE SIDERANDER.]
On the 23rd of May, 1533, Pierre Siderander (who was naturally
inquisitive), instigated by a desire to learn what was going to happen,
and wishing in particular to know what was doing in the theological
clubs (for from them, he doubted not, would proceed the blow that would
decide who should be the victors), stole into the buildings belonging to
the faculty of divinity.[343] He did not dare penetrate farther than the
great gate: stopping there like any other lounger, he began to look at
the pictures that were sold at the entrance of the building.[344] But,
with all his innocent air, his eyes and ears were wide open, trying to
pick up a word or two that would tell him what was going on; for the
doctors, as they went in or out talking together, must necessarily pass
close by him. Pierre wasted his time sauntering about before the
pictures of the saints and of the Virgin (which he looked upon as
idolatrous). On a sudden he saw the illustrious Budæus coming out of the
Sorbonne.[345] At that time Budæus was playing the same part as the
noble Chancellor l'Hôpital afterwards did: he was present in every place
where it was necessary to moderate, enlighten, or restrain the
hot-headed. He passed Siderander without saying a word, and quitted the
building; but the curious student could not resist; he left his post and
began to follow the celebrated hellenist, wishing to look at him at his
ease, and hoping no doubt to learn something.[346] 'Am I not,' he said,
'the friend of his two sons who like myself attend the course of
Latomus? Has not the eldest invited me to come and see his museum?[347]
Did not I go there the other day, and ought he not to return my visit
along with his brother?' Siderander, who burnt with desire to know what
was said in the assembly which the founder of the college of France had
just left, quickened his pace; the words were already on his lips, when
he suddenly stopped intimidated. Timidity was stronger than curiosity,
and he soon lost sight of the man whom Erasmus called 'the prodigy of
France.' And yet, had he asked him, he would perhaps have learnt what
the Roman party was plotting, and been able to tell his friends the
probable issue of the crisis. He had often asked the sons of Budæus what
their father was planning.[348] 'He is much with the bishop,' answered
they, 'but he is planning nothing.'[349] Thus Siderander did all he
could, but to no purpose, to elicit some interesting communication and
to learn some rare news. He was unable to satisfy his extreme curiosity.
'And that is not all,' he said to himself, 'for if, instead of losing my
time under the portico of the Sorbonne, I had been elsewhere, I might
have learnt something.' He desired to be everywhere, and yet was
nowhere. 'Ha!' he said with vexation as he returned from running after
Budæus, 'while I throw my hook in at one place, the fish goes to
another. Things occur in our quarter which the inhabitants of the others
know nothing about, and we know nothing of what takes place
elsewhere.[350] Alas! everything assumes a threatening aspect;
everything announces a violent storm.'[351]
[Sidenote: SIDERANDER'S CURIOSITY.]
The Sorbonne, the religious orders, and all fervent catholics, being
convinced that the innovators, by exalting Jesus Christ and his Word,
were humbling the Church and the papacy, were determined to wage a
deadly war against them. They thought that if they first struck down the
most formidable of their adversaries, they could easily disperse the
rest of the rebel army. But against whom should the first blow be aimed?
This was the subject of deliberation in those councils which the curious
Siderander desired so much to overhear.
Before we learn what was preparing at the Sorbonne, we must enter more
illustrious council-chambers, and transport ourselves to Bologna.
[Footnote 307: 'Rex Navarræ instinctu uxoris et episcopus regem
sollicitare ... seditionis crimen intendere.'—Sturm to Bucer.]
[Footnote 308: 'Gerardum removeat a concionibus.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p.
648.]
[Footnote 309: 'Placuit regi ut Beda cum suis oratoribus et G. Rufus,
quisque in suis ædibus, tanquam privata custodia detineretur.'—Sturm to
Bucer.]
[Footnote 310: 'Ut ne accusatores viderentur, sed opinatores tantum, et
inquisitores hæreticæ pravitatis.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 311: 'Tum bonus noster Beda in Monte suo Acuto manere coactus
est.'—Siderander Bedroto.]
[Footnote 312: 'In mulo suo equitantem vidi.'—Siderander Bedroto.]
[Footnote 313: 'Judicium de hæresi sibi reservavit.'—Sturmius Bucero.]
[Footnote 314: 'Vociferati sunt seditiosissime, regi minantes ipsi.'—
Melanchthon to Spalatin, _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 685.]
[Footnote 315: 'Rex, quoniam esset exacerbatus, irrisit tanquam
Arcadicorum pecorum.'—Sturm to Bucer.]
[Footnote 316: H. de Coste, _Le parfait Ecclésiastique_, p. 73.]
[Footnote 317: 'Cujus vel permissu vel jussu populum commovissent et
læsissent regem.'—Sturm to Bucer, ed. Schmidt.]
[Footnote 318: 'Responderunt ex consensu et placito magistrorum
nostrorum.'—Sturm to Bucer, ed. Schmidt.]
[Footnote 319: 'Theologi cum pericula animadverterent, negabant.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 320: 'Nunquam velit Bedam reverti.'—Sturm to Bucer.]
[Footnote 321: 'Gerardus libere concionatur; et imperatum theologis, si
quid habeant negotii adversus eum, ut jure agant.'—Melanchthon to
Spalatin, July 22. _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 658.]
[Footnote 322: 'Senex quidem theologus hanc contumeliam theologici
ordinis adeo ægre tulit, ut delirio vitam amiserit.'—Melanchthon to
Spalatin. _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 658.]
[Footnote 323: 'Ὁι θεολόγοι non die, non nocte, unquam cessant ab
opere.'—Siderander, Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 324: 'Illi miserantur optimi Bedæ.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 325: 'Hominem tam grandem natu, exilium tam durum pati
oportere.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 326: 'Audias alios qui gaudio exultent.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 327: 'Vide rerum commutationem ... Praeter senes Priamos et
paucos alios, nemo est qui faveat istis sacerdotibus Phrygiis.'—Sturm to
Bucer.]
[Footnote 328: 'Juniores theologi jam sapere incipiunt.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 329: 'Maximam turbam ante collegium Montis Acuti vidi.'—
Siderander Bedroto.]
[Footnote 330: 'Beda urbe pulsus cum aliis quibusdam sycophantis.'—
Melanchthon to Spalatin, _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 658.]
[Footnote 331: 'Palam prædicare Christum quidam cœperunt, omnes loqui
liberius.'—Bucer to Blaarer. Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 332: 'Christus evangelii gloriam augeat.'—Melanchthon to
Spalatin. _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 658.]
[Footnote 333: 'In qua pulcherrime suisque coloribus omnes isti theologi
depingebantur.'—Siderander Bedroto.]
[Footnote 334: 'Alii auctorem clamabant esse hæreticum.'—Siderander
Bedroto.]
[Footnote 335: 'Tandem nescio quis delator dilaceravit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 336: 'Quos cum viderem, descripsi et ipse,' and here follow
the verses. Schmidt, _G. Roussel. Pièces Justificatives_, p. 205.]
[Footnote 337: 'Ut supplicium de detestandis illis hæreticis sumat,
eosque extirpet funditus.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 338: Galatians i. 17-21.]
[Footnote 339: 'Nec ei mox defuit in quo sese strenue exerceret.'—Bezæ
_Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 340: Bezæ _Vita Calvini_. Herzog, _Real Encyclopädie_, art.
_Calvin_. Schmidt, _G. Roussel_, p. 94.]
[Footnote 341: 'Omnibus purioris religionis studiosis innotuit.'—Bezæ
_Vita Calv._]
[Footnote 342: 'Non sine insigni pietatis testimonio.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 343: 'Heri videre volui quidnam in Sorbonna ageretur.'—
Siderander Bedroto.]
[Footnote 344: 'Picturas et imagines quæ ibi venduntur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 345: 'Budæum egredientem video.'—Siderander Bedroto.]
[Footnote 346: 'Quem relicto instituto secutus sum.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 347: 'Me rogavit ut musæum suum viderem.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 348: 'Quid novi jam pater moliretur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 349: 'Negabat quicquam moliri.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 350: 'Quod nos ignoramus.'—Siderander Bedroto.]
[Footnote 351: 'Nemo est qui possit expiscari omnia ... Omnia tumultum
minari videntur.'—Ibid.]
CHAPTER XXV.
CONFERENCE OF BOLOGNA. THE COUNCIL AND CATHERINE DE MEDICI.
(WINTER 1532-1533.)
The emperor, having descended the Italian slopes of the Alps and crossed
the north of Italy, arrived at Bologna on the 5th of December, 1532,
somewhat annoyed at the escape of Duke Christopher, but not suspecting
that it would lead to any serious consequences. This city, afterwards
made famous by Guido, Domenichino, the two Caracci, and by Benedict XIV.,
one of the most distinguished popes of the eighteenth century, grew more
animated every day. The pope had arrived there: princes, nobles,
prelates, and courtiers filled its splendid palaces; a new world was in
motion around the churches, the Asinelli, the fountain of Neptune, and
the other monuments which adorn that ancient city. The emperor had
desired a conference with the pope, with the intention of uniting
closely with him, and through him with the other catholic princes, to
act together against their two enemies, France and the Reformation. But
Charles was mistaken if he thought to find himself alone with the pope
at Bologna. He was to meet with opponents who would hold their own
against him: a struggle was about to begin around Clement VII. between
France and the empire. Francis I., who had just had a conference with
Henry VIII., did not care, indeed, to meet Charles; but his place in
Italy was to be supplied by men who would do his work better than he
could do it himself. On the 4th of January, 1533, Cardinals de Tournon
and de Gramont, sent by Francis to Clement to threaten him with a
certain 'great injury' which he might have cause to regret for ever,
arrived in this city. Would the presence of the two cardinals thwart
Charles's plans?
[Sidenote: PLANS OF CHARLES V.]
The first point which the emperor desired to carry was the convocation
of a general council. A grave man and always occupied with business, he
possessed a soul greedy of dominion. Ferdinand and Isabella having
founded their power in Spain by restoring that country to unity, he
desired to do in central Europe what they had done in the peninsula,
that is, unite it under his patronage, if not under his sceptre. And lo!
Germany is suddenly broken in his hands and divided into two parts. Sad
humiliation! When he had crossed the Alps, after Soliman's retreat, he
had no longer that unlimited confidence in his genius and authority
which he had felt two years before, when going to the diet of Augsburg.
He had come from Spain to crush that new sect which thwarted the dreams
of his ambition; and instead of crushing it, he had been forced to
recognise it. After the retreat of the Turks, Charles found himself at
the head of a numerous and triumphant army, and men asked one another if
he would not fall upon the protestants with it; but the best soldiers of
that army were protestant themselves. Other means must be resorted to in
order to bring the schism to an end. He weighed everything carefully,
and brought to this business that nice and calm attention which always
distinguished him. Knowing that the result of an appeal to arms was
uncertain, and that instead of restoring concord he might stir up a
hatred that nothing could extinguish, he decided in favour of a council
to restore unity, and made his demand to the pope at Bologna. But
Clement VII. feared a council as much as Charles desired it. 'They would
want to redress grievances,' he said to his confidants, 'and reform
abuses, quite as much as to extirpate heresy.' Possessing great
intelligence and rare ability, vain, cunning, false, and with no
elevation of soul, Clement determined to put off this assembly
indefinitely, although always promising it. While the emperor recognised
the inefficiency of temporal arms, the pope felt still more keenly the
inefficiency of spiritual arms. Each of these two personages distrusted
the power of which he had most experience. The humble Gospel of the
reformers intimidated both Church and Empire. Clement conferred on the
subject with the Archbishop of Cortona, governor of Bologna, with the
legate Campeggio, and with the nuncio Gambara: all agreed with him, and
declared that to desire to bring back protestants to the Romish faith
otherwise than by force was a very perilous enterprise.
[Sidenote: CLEMENT AGAINST A COUNCIL.]
As, however, neither the pope nor the emperor would give way, they
desired a conference, at which each would endeavour to convince the
other. A day, therefore, was appointed, and the two potentates met in
the palace of Bologna. Charles represented to Clement, that 'a great
number of catholics desired and demanded a council as necessary to
destroy the heresy of Luther, which was gaining strength every day, and
to suppress the numerous disorders that existed in the Church.'[352] But
the pope replied: 'If we assemble a council, and permit the protestants
to be present and to question the doctrines sanctioned by the Church,
they will attack them all, and numberless innovations will be the
result. If, on the contrary, we do not allow them to speak, they will
say that they are condemned unheard; they will leave the assembly, and
the world will believe that we are in the wrong. As the protestants
reject the decisions of past councils, how can we hope that they will
respect the decisions of future councils? Do we not know their
obstinacy? When we put forward the authority of the Church, do they not
set the authority of Holy Scripture in its place? They will never
acknowledge themselves defeated, which will be a great scandal. If the
council decrees that the pope is above the council (which is the truth),
the heretics will hold another, and will elect an anti-pope (Luther,
perhaps). Sire, the remedy which you propose will give rise to greater
evils than those which we have now to cure.'[353]
The papacy in the sixteenth century had fallen into a state of inertia.
It was active enough as a political power; but as a spiritual power it
was nothing. It had great pretensions still, as far as appearances went;
but it was satisfied if certain preferences and a certain pomp were
conceded to it. It was afraid of everything that possessed any vitality,
and feared not only those it called heretics, but even an assembly
consisting of prelates of the Roman Church. And while the papacy was
thus affected with a general weakness as regards spiritual powers, the
Reformation was full of vigour and of life. It was a young warrior
attacking a decrepid veteran. Besides these general causes, there were
private motives which added to Clement's inactivity; but these he kept
to himself. When he was alone in his chamber, he called to mind that his
birth was not legitimate; that the means he had used to obtain the
popedom had not been irreproachable; and that he had often employed the
resources of the Church for his own interest ... in waging a costly war,
for instance. All this might be brought against him in a council, and
endanger his position. But as his position was dearer to him than the
unity of the Church, he would grant nothing, and so reduced Charles to
despair by his evasions.
The hatred which the emperor bore to the pope was still further
increased by the pontiff's resistance.[354] In his anger he appealed to
the cardinals. At first he succeeded, having brought powerful
inducements into play, and a consistory decided in favour of the
immediate convocation of a council. The alarmed Clement set to work to
bring back the misguided cardinals, and he was successful; for a second
consistory, held on the 20th of December, coincided with the pope. 'We
cannot think of assembling a council,' said the sacred college, 'before
we have reconciled all the christian princes.'[355] The emperor openly
expressed his dissatisfaction. Wait until Henry VIII., Francis I., and
Charles V. are agreed ... as well put it off to the Greek calends!
Clement endeavoured to pacify him. He would assemble it at _a suitable
time_, he said; and then, as he feared that the Germans, on hearing of
his refusal, would hold a _national_ council, he sent off envoys to
prevent it, at the same time hinting to the emperor that they were
empowered to prepare that nation for a general council.[356] Was
Charles V. the pope's dupe? It is a doubtful point. Clement, an
enthusiastic disciple of his fellow-countryman Machiavelli, was,
conformably to the instructions of his master, supple and false, without
conscience and without faith. But the emperor knew full well that such
were the precepts of the illustrious Florentine.
[Sidenote: ITALIAN LEAGUE.]
For some time past Charles had been silently meditating another project
which, he thought, could not fail to render him master of Italy. It was
the formation of a defensive Italian league against Francis. He
communicated his plan to the pope with the reserve and ability that
characterised him, and set himself up as the defender of Rome. Clement,
however, did not believe in his generosity, but on the contrary feared
that this confederation would give him a master; nevertheless he
appeared to be charmed with it. 'Yes!' he exclaimed, 'Italy must set
itself against the ambition of France.' At the same time he informed the
ambassador of Venice that he had said these things, not as being his own
opinion, but the emperor's. 'Report this prudently to your lords,' he
added.[357] The pontiff had always two faces and two meanings.
In reality, he did not know what course to pursue. At one time he was
ready to throw himself into Charles's arms and run the same chances with
him; and then, on learning what had taken place at Boulogne and Calais,
he trembled lest the King of France should throw off his obedience.
These two terrible monarchs made a shuttlecock of the pope, and drove
him to despair. But he remembered how Machiavelli had said, that the
world is governed by two things—force and cunning; and leaving the
former to the emperor, he took refuge in the latter. 'Accordingly
Clement determined to move softly,' says Du Bellay, 'temporising,
quibbling, waiting, and stopping to see what the French cardinals would
bring him.' They arrived just at this critical moment. It was an
ill-omened embassy for France, since no event of the sixteenth century
did more to strengthen the dominion of intrigue, cowardice, debauchery,
crime, and persecution in that country.
[Sidenote: THE FRENCH ENVOYS AND CLEMENT.]
Cardinal de Tournon, the most influential of the two ambassadors, was a
skilful priest, devoted to the pope and popery, cruel, the accomplice of
the Guises in after years, and all his life one of the greatest enemies
of religious liberty. His colleague, Cardinal de Gramont, Bishop of
Tarbes and afterwards Archbishop of Toulouse, was a more pliable
diplomatist, and had been employed in England at the time of the
dissolution of Henry's marriage with Catherine of Arragon. The first of
these two men was the more hierarchical, the second the more politic;
but both had the interests of their master Francis at heart. Their
mission was difficult, and they had many a consultation about what was
to be done. Tournon was ready to sacrifice everything, truth in the
first place, in order to unite the king with the pope. 'It is to be
feared,' he said to his colleague, 'that if we let the holy father know
all the discontent of the two kings, we shall but increase his despair;
and that the emperor, profiting by our threats, will gain him over and
do with him as he likes, which would lead to the disturbance of
christendom.' Instead of carrying out the Calais resolutions, Tournon
and Gramont determined to put them aside. They thought that Francis I.
was going wrong, and desired to be more royalist than the king himself.
To win the pope from Charles V. and give him to Francis I. was the great
work they resolved to attempt at Bologna. The emperor was there, and he
was a stout antagonist; but the two priests were not deficient in skill.
To save catholicism threatened in France, and to lay the kingdom at the
pope's feet, was their aim. 'Let us carry out our instructions,' they
said, 'by beginning with the last article. Instead of employing severity
first and mildness last, we will do just the contrary.'[358]
The two cardinals having been received by the pontiff, paid him every
mark of respect, and tried to make him understand that, for the good of
the holy see, he ought to preserve the goodwill of the most christian
king. They therefore proposed an interview with Francis, and even with
the King of England, that prince being eager to put an end to the
difficulties of the divorce. 'Finally,' they added, laying a slight
stress upon the word, 'certain proposals, formerly put forward in the
king's name, might be carried out.'[359]—'These proposals,' says Du
Bellay, 'would lead, it must be understood, to the great exaltation of
the pope and his family.' The last argument was the decisive stroke
which gained Clement VII.
Francis, even while desiring to throw off the Roman tutelage, wished to
gain the support of the pope in order to humiliate Charles V. He had
therefore revived a strange idea, which he had once already hinted at,
without overcoming, however, the excessive repugnance which it caused
him. But he saw that the moment was critical, and that, to ally himself
with both Henry and Clement, he must make some great sacrifice. He had
therefore sent a special ambassador to Bologna, to carry out a scheme
which would fill all Europe with surprise: a deplorable combination
which by uniting the pope, indissolubly as it appeared, to the interests
of the Valois, was sooner or later to separate France from England,
change the channel that divides them into a deep gulf, infuse Florentine
blood into the blood of France, introduce the vilest Machiavellism into
the hearts of her kings who boasted of their chivalrous spirit, check
the spread of learning, turn back on their hinges the gates that were
beginning to open to the sun, confine the people in darkness, and
install an era of debauchery, persecution, and assassination both
private and public.
The special ambassador charged with the execution of this scheme was
John, Duke of Albany, qualified by his illustrious birth for transacting
the great affair. Alexander Stuart, son of James II., King of Scotland,
having been exiled by his eldest brother James III., had gone to France
in 1485. His son John, the last Duke of Albany, attached himself to
Louis XII., and followed him into Italy. Being recalled to Scotland, he
was made regent of the kingdom in 1516, and again quitted his country to
follow Francis I. into Lombardy. This royal personage, supported by
Gramont and Tournon, was commissioned by the King of France to propose
to the pope the marriage of his son Henry, Duke of Orleans, with a girl
of fourteen, a relative of the popes, and who was named Catherine de
Medici.
[Sidenote: CATHERINE DE MEDICI.]
Catherine was the daughter of Lorenzo II. de Medici, nephew of Leo X.,
and invested by his uncle in 1516 with the duchy of Urbino. Lorenzo, who
had made himself hateful by his despotism, died the very year of his
daughter's birth (1519). The duchy reverted to Leo X., and subsequently
to its former masters the Della Rovera, and Catherine was left a
portionless orphan. A marriage with this girl, descended from the rich
merchants of Florence, was a strange alliance for the son of a king, and
it was this that made Francis hesitate; but the desire of winning the
pope's favour from his rival helped him at last to overcome his haughty
disgust. Clement, who held (says Du Bellay) his family 'in singular
esteem,' was transported with delight at the offer. A Medici on the
throne of France!... He could not contain himself for joy. At the same
time Francis intended to make a good bargain. He asked through the Duke
of Albany, whose wife was Catherine's maternal aunt, that the pope
should secure to his son Henry a fine Italian state composed of Parma,
Florence, Pisa, Leghorn, Modena, Urbino, and Reggio; besides (said the
secret articles) the duchy of Milan and the lordship of Genoa, which,
added the French diplomatists, 'already belong to the future husband.'
In order to fulfil these engagements the pope was to employ his
influence, his negotiations, his money, and his soldiers. Clement said
that the conditions were very reasonable.[360] He knew perfectly well
that he could not give these countries to his niece; but that was the
least of his cares. The preceding year, when he was speaking to
Charles's ambassador of the claims of Francis upon Italy, the Austrian
diplomatist had said abruptly: 'The emperor will never _yield_ either
Milan or Genoa to the King of France.'—'Impossible, no doubt!' answered
the pope, 'but could not they be _promised_ to him?'[361]... The scion
of the Medici brought to France neither Genoa nor Milan, nor Parma, nor
Piacenza, nor Pisa, but in their stead she gave it the imbecile
Francis II., the sanguinary Charles IX., the abominable Henry III., the
infamous Duke of Anjou, and also that woman, at once so witty and
dissolute, who became the wife of Henry IV., and in comparison with whom
Messalina appears almost chaste. Four children of the Medici are among
the monsters recorded in history, and they have been the disgrace and
the misery of France.
[Sidenote: PROPOSALS OF MARRIAGE.]
The pope stalked proudly and haughtily through the halls of his palace,
and gave everybody a most gracious reception. This good-luck, he
thought, had come from heaven. Not only did it cover all his family with
glory, but secured to him France and her king, whose reforming caprices
began to make him uneasy; 'and then,' adds Du Bellay, 'he was very
pleased at finding this loophole, to excuse himself to the emperor, who
was pressing him so strongly to enter into the Italian league.'[362]
Nevertheless the pope stood in awe of Charles V., who seemed eager to
set himself up for a second Constantine, and he appeared anxious and
embarrassed.
Charles, whom nothing escaped, immediately remarked this, and thought to
himself that some new wind had blown upon the pontiff. In order to find
it out, he employed all the sagacity with which he was so eminently
endowed. 'The emperor knew from the language and countenance of the holy
father,' says Du Bellay, 'that he was less friendly towards him than
before, and suspected whence the change proceeded.'[363] Charles had
heard something about this marriage some time before; but the ridiculous
story had only amused him. The King of France unite himself with the
merchants of Florence!... And Clement can believe this!... 'Hence
Charles V., thinking,' as Du Bellay tells us, 'that the affair would
never be carried out, had advised the pope to consent.'[364]
[Sidenote: HENRY'S OPINION OF THE MARRIAGE.]
Meanwhile Francis lost no time. He had commissioned Du Bellay, the
diplomatist, to communicate his intentions to his good brother the King
of England, who had a claim to this information, as he was godfather to
the future Henry II.—worthy godfather, and worthy godson! The
self-conceit of the Tudor was still more hurt than that of the Valois.
He said to Lord Rochford, whom he despatched to the King of France: 'You
will tell the Most Christian King, our very dear brother, the great
pleasure that we enjoy every day by calling to mind the pure, earnest,
and kind friendship he feels for us.'[365] He added: 'Since our good
brother has asked us, we are willing to declare, that truly (as we know
how he himself considers it), having regard to the low estate and family
from which the pope's niece is sprung, and to the most noble and most
illustrious blood, ancestry, and royal house of France, from which
descends our very dear and very beloved cousin and godson, the Duke of
Orleans, the said marriage would be very ill-matched and unequal; and
for this reason we are by no means of opinion that it ought to be
concluded.'[366] At the same time, after Henry had given his advice as a
sovereign, he could not fail to consult his personal interests; and
Rochford (Anne Boleyn's father) was to say to the King of France: 'If,
however, by this means our brother should receive some great advantage,
which should redound to the profit and honour both of himself and us; if
the pope should do or concede anything to counterbalance and make up for
the default of noble birth ... let him be pleased to inform us of it; he
will find us very prompt to execute whatever shall be thought advisable,
convenient, and opportune by him and us.'[367] Henry, therefore,
consented that Francis should deal with the pope about his godson: he
only wished that he might be sold dear. His full restoration to the
favour of the court of Rome after his marriage with Anne Boleyn was the
price that he asked. And then the royal godfather, who was at heart the
most papistical of kings, would have declared himself fully satisfied
and the pope's most humble servant.
[Footnote 352: 'Concilii, desiderati da molti, come necessarii per la
eresia di Lutero, che ogni di ampliava e per molti discordini che sono
nella chiesa.'—Guicciardini, _Discorsi politici, Opere inedite_, i. p.
388.]
[Footnote 353: 'Al contrario, remedio e piu pericoloso et poi partorire
maggiori mali.'—_Lettere di Principi_, ii. p. 197. Du Bellay,
_Mémoires_, pp. 183-185.]
[Footnote 354: 'Il papa con chi forse avea odio.'—Guicciardini, _loc.
cit._]
[Footnote 355: Despatch of the Bishop of Auxerre, ambassador of France,
dated December 24, 1532.]
[Footnote 356: Instructions for the nuncio Rangoni. Pallavicini, liv.
iii. ch. xiii.]
[Footnote 357: Despatch of the Bishop of Auxerre, dated January 1,
1533.]
[Footnote 358: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 177.]
[Footnote 359: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 178.]
[Footnote 360: The secret articles are in the Bibliothèque Impériale at
Paris. MSS. Béthune, No. 8541, fol. 36. Ranke, _Deutsche Geschichte_,
iii. p. 439.]
[Footnote 361: Bucholz, ix. p. 101. Ranke, _Deutsche Geschichte_, iii.
p. 439.]
[Footnote 362: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 178.]
[Footnote 363: Ibid. p. 179.]
[Footnote 364: Ibid. p. 180.]
[Footnote 365: Henry's instructions are in French. _State Papers_, vii.
p. 423.]
[Footnote 366: Ibid. p. 428.]
[Footnote 367: Ibid.]
CHAPTER XXVI.
INTRIGUES OF CHARLES V., FRANCIS I., AND CLEMENT VII.,
AROUND CATHERINE.
(WINTER 1532-1533.)
When the emperor was informed of these matters, he began to knit his
brows. A flash of light revealed to him the ingenious plans of his
rival, and he took immediate steps to prevent the dangerous union.
Charles V., Francis I., Henry VIII., and the pope were all in commotion
at the thought of this marriage, and little Catherine was the Briseis
around whom met and contended the greatest powers of the world.
[Sidenote: DOUBTS INSINUATED BY CHARLES.]
At first the emperor endeavoured to instil into the pope's mind
suspicions of the good faith of the King of France. That was no
difficult matter. 'Clement dared not feel confident,' says Du Bellay,
'that the king really wished to do him such great honour.'[368]—'The
Orleans marriage would certainly be very honourable and advantageous,'
said Charles V. and his ministers; 'but his holiness must not rely upon
it; the king makes the proposal only with the intention of _befooling_
him and using him to his own benefit.'[369] And when the pope repeated
the promises of Albany, Gramont, and Tournon, the ministers of Charles
kept silence, and replied only by a slight smile. The blow had told.
Clement, who always tried to deceive, was naturally inclined to believe
that the king was doing the same.
When the emperor and the diplomatists saw that they had made a breach,
they attempted a new assault. Charles asked the young lady's hand for
Francis Sforza, Duke of Milan. This scheme was worthy of that exuberant
genius which Charles always displayed in the invention of means
calculated to secure the success of his policy. This union would, in
fact, have the double advantage of wresting Catherine and the Milanese
from France at one blow. Charles hinted to her uncle that he would do
much better to accept for his young relative a _real_ marriage than to
run after a shadow. 'It is a great offer, and the match is a good one,'
said Clement; 'but the other is so grand and so honourable for my house,
regard being had to dignities, that I never could have hoped for such
honour ... and so much progress has been made, that I cannot listen to
any other proposal without offending the king.'[370]
Clement had become hard to please. If the Medici were the descendants of
a merchant, the Sforzas came from a peasant, a leader of free troops, a
_condottiere_. Clement looked down upon the Duke of Milan. 'Besides,'
says Guiccardini, 'he burnt with desire to marry his niece to the second
son of Francis I.'[371] This is what he always came back to. Charles
told him that Francis wanted, by this offer, to break up the Italian
league, and when that was done, the marriage would be broken off
too.[372] But Clement maintained that the king was sincere in his offer.
'Good!' said the emperor to the pope; 'there is a very simple means of
satisfying yourself on that point. Ask the two cardinals to procure
immediately from France the powers necessary for settling the marriage
contract. You will soon see whether his proposal is anything better than
base money which they want to palm off upon you.'[373]
The emperor's remarks were not without their effect upon Clement: he was
thoughtful and uneasy. The French ambassadors had been lavish of words,
but there was nothing written: _verba volant_. The pope caught at the
idea suggested by Charles. If the full powers do not arrive, the king's
treachery is unveiled; if they arrive, the game is won. Clement asked
for them. 'Nothing is more easy,' said Tournon and Gramont, who wrote to
their master without delay.[374]
[Sidenote: THE KING'S HESITATION.]
Francis I. was startled when he received their despatch. His proposal
was sincere, for he thought it necessary to his policy; but the remarks
of Charles V. and Henry VIII. about the daughter of the Florentine
merchant, and the astonishment of Europe, which unanimously protested
against 'such great disparity of degree and condition,'[375] had sunk
into his mind. He, so proud of his blood and of his crown ...
countenance a misalliance! He hesitated; he would only proceed slowly ...
step by step ... and with a long interval after each.[376] If
Charles, who was impatient to return to Spain, should leave Italy
without banding it against France ... then ... new facts, new counsel ...
he would consider. But now he was driven to the wall: the question
must be answered. Shall Catherine de Medici come and sit on the steps of
the throne of St. Louis, or shall she remain in Italy? Shall she
continue to receive abominable lessons from her relative Alexander de
Medici, a detestable prince who exiled and imprisoned even the members
of his own family, and confiscated their property, and was addicted to
the most scandalous debauchery? ... or shall she come to France to put
in practice those lessons among the people of her adoption? The king
must make up his mind: the courier was waiting. One thing decided him.
His old gaoler, the emperor, said that this marriage proposal was a
trick. If Francis refused what the pope asked, Charles would triumph,
and turn against him both pope and Italy. The king's ambition was
stronger than his vanity, and coming to a desperate resolution, he had
the full powers drawn up, signed, and sent off.[377]
They arrived at Bologna about the middle of February. Albany, Gramont,
and Tournon carried them in triumph to the pope, who immediately
communicated them to the emperor. The latter read the procuration, which
contained 'an express clause for settling the marriage of the Duke of
Orleans with the Duchess of Urbino,' and was greatly surprised.[378]
'You see,' said Clement, 'there is no hole by which he can creep out.'
Charles could not believe it. 'The king has only sent this document for
a _show_,' he said to Clement; 'if you press the ambassadors to go on
and conclude the treaty, they will not listen to you.'[379] A little
while ago there had been nothing but words, and now there was only a
piece of _paper_.... The new propositions were communicated to the duke
and the two cardinals, who replied: 'We offer to stipulate forthwith the
clauses, conditions, and settlements that are to be included in the
contract.'[380]
[Sidenote: THE EMPEROR'S NEW MANŒUVRES.]
Clement breathed again, and believed in the star of the Medici. If that
star had placed his ancestors the Florentine merchants at the head of
their people, it might well raise Catherine, the niece of two popes, the
daughter and grand-daughter of dukes, to the throne of France. He
informed the emperor that everything was arranged, and that the terms of
the contract were being drawn up. Clement's face beamed with joy. The
emperor began to think the matter serious, 'and was astonished and vexed
above all,' says Du Bellay, 'at the frustration of his plan, which was
to excite the holy father against the king.' Charles saw that the
impetuosity of Francis had been too much for his own slowness; but he
knew how to retrace his steps, and the fecundity of his genius suggested
a last means of breaking up 'this detestable cabal.'—'Since it is so,'
he said, 'I require your holiness at least to include among the
conditions of the contract now drawing up, the four articles agreed to
between us, the first time you spoke to me of this marriage.' Clement
appeared surprised, and asked what articles they were. 'You promised
me,' said Charles, 'first that the king should bind himself to alter
nothing in Italy; second, to confirm the treaties of Cambray and Madrid;
third, to consent to a council; and fourth, to get the King of England
to promise to make no innovations in his country until the matter of his
divorce was settled at Rome.' The King of France would never agree to
such conditions; the pope was dismayed. Would he be wrecked just as he
had reached the harbour?—'I made no such promises,' he exclaimed
eagerly. 'The holy father,' says Du Bellay, 'formally denied ever having
heard of these matters.'[381] The altercation between the two chiefs of
christendom threatened to be violent. Which of them was the liar?
Probably the pope had said something of the kind, but only for form's
sake, in order to pacify Charles, and without any intention of keeping
his promise. He was the first to recover his calmness; he detested the
emperor, but he humoured him. 'You well know, Sire,' he said, 'that the
profit and honour accorded by the king to my family in accepting my
alliance, are so great, that it belongs to him and not to me to propose
conditions.'[382] He offered, however, to undertake that everything
should remain in 'complete peace.' The emperor, a master in
dissimulation, tried to conceal his vexation, but without success; this
unlucky marriage baffled all his plans. Francis had been more cunning
than himself.... Who would have thought it? The King of France had
sacrificed the honour of his house, but he had conquered his rival.
Confounded, annoyed, and dejected, Charles paced up and down with his
long gloomy face, when an unexpected circumstance revived his hopes of
completely embroiling the pope and the King of France.
We have witnessed the conferences that took place between Clement and
Charles on the subject of a general council. The emperor had asked for
one in order 'to bring back the heretics to union with the holy faith,
and he observed that if it were not called, it was to be feared that the
heretics would unite with the Turks; that they would fancy themselves
authorised to lay hands upon the property of the Church, and would
succeed in living in that liberty which they called _evangelical_, but
which,' added Charles, 'is rather _Mahometan_, and would cause the ruin
of christendom.'[383] The pope, who thought much more of himself and of
his family than of the Church, had rejected this demand. He had smiled
at seeing the great potentate's zeal for the religious and evangelical
question.... Clement never troubled himself about the Gospel:
Machiavelli was the gospel of the Medici. They cherished it, and
meditated on it day and night; they knew it by heart, and put it into
admirable practice. Clement and Catherine were its most devoted
followers and most illustrious heroes.
[Sidenote: A LAY COUNCIL PROPOSED.]
The policy of the King of France was quite as interested, but it was
more frank and honest. Even while politically uniting with the pope, he
did not mean to place himself ecclesiastically under his guardianship.
He had, like Henry VIII., the intention of emancipating kings from the
pontifical supremacy, and desired to make the secular instead of the
papal element predominate in christian society. For many centuries the
hierarchical power had held the first rank in Europe: it was time that
it gave way to the political power. Francis, having come to a knowledge
of the opposite opinions of the pope and the emperor touching the
council, slipped between the two and enunciated a third, which filled
the emperor with astonishment and the pontiff with alarm. It was one of
the greatest, most original, and boldest conceptions of modern times: we
recognise in it the genius of Du Bellay and the aspirations of a new
era. 'It is true, as the holy father affirms,' said the King of France,
'that the assembling of a council has its dangers. On the other hand,
the reasons of the emperor for convoking it are most worthy of
consideration; for the affairs of religion are reduced to such a pass
that, without a council, they will fall into inextricable confusion, and
the consequence will be great evils and prejudice to the holy father and
all christian princes. The pope is right, yet the emperor is not wrong;
but here is a way of gratifying their wishes, and at the same time
preventing all the dangers that threaten us.[384] Let all the christian
potentates, whatever be their particular doctrine (the King of England
and the protestant princes of Germany and the other evangelical states,
were therefore included), first communicate with one another on the
subject, and then let each of them send to Rome as soon as possible
ambassadors provided with ample powers to discuss and draw up by common
accord all the points to be considered by the council. They shall have
full liberty to bring forward anything that they imagine will be for the
unity, welfare, and repose of christendom, the service of God, the
suppression of vice, the extirpation of heresy, and the uniformity of
our faith. No mention shall be made of the remonstrances of our holy
father, or of the decisions of former councils; which would give many
sovereigns an opportunity or an excuse for not attending.[385] When the
articles are thus drawn up by the representatives of the various states
of christendom, each ambassador will take a duplicate of them to his
court, and all will go to the council, at the time and place appointed
by them, well instructed in what they will have to say. If those who
have separated from the Roman Church agree with the others, they will in
this way take the path of salvation. If they do not agree, at least they
will not be able to deny that they have been deaf to reason, and refused
the council which they had called for so loudly.'[386]
This is one of the most remarkable documents that we have met with in
relation to the intercourse between France and Rome, and it has not
attracted sufficient attention. In it Francis makes an immense stride.
Convinced that the new times ought to tread in a new path, he
inaugurates a great revolution. He emancipates the political power, so
far as regards religious matters, and desires that it shall take
precedence of the pontifical power in everything. If his idea had been
carried out, great ecclesiastical questions would no longer have been
decided in the Vatican, but in the cabinets of princes. This system,
indeed, is not the true one, and yet a great step had been taken in the
path of progress. A new principle was about to influence the destinies
of the Church.
Up to this time the clerical element had reigned in it alone; but now
the lay element claimed its place. The new society was unwilling that
priests alone should govern christians, just as shepherds lead their
flocks. But this system, we repeat, was not the true one. Christian
questions ought not to be decided either by pope or prince, but by the
ministers of the Church and its members, as of old in Jerusalem by the
_apostles_, _elders_, and _brethren_.[387] For this we have the
authority of God's Word. That evangelical path is forbidden to the
Roman-catholic Church; for it is afraid of every christian assembly
where the opinions of believers are taken into account, and finds itself
miserably condemned to oscillate perpetually between the two great
powers—the pope and the king.
[Sidenote: THE LAY COUNCIL REJECTED.]
It was very near the end of February when the emperor received at
Bologna this singular opinion of the French king. Having failed in his
attempts to prevent the Orleans marriage, he was busy forming the
Italian league, and preparing to leave for Spain. Charles instinctively
felt the encroachment of modern times in this project of Du Bellay's. To
deprive the pope and clergy of their exclusive and absolute authority
would lead (he thought) to taking it away from kings also. It seemed to
him that popery rendered liberty impossible not only in the Church but
also among the people. Francis, or rather Du Bellay, had imagined that
Charles would say (as one of his successors said[388]): 'My trade is to
be a king,' and that he would grasp at the institution of a _diplomatic_
papacy. But whether Charles wished to profit by this opportunity 'to
fish up again' the pope who had plunged into French waters, or simply
yielded to his Spanish catholic nature and the desire he felt for
unlimited power, he rejected Francis's proposal. 'What!' he exclaimed,
'shall the ambassadors of christian kings and potentates lay down
beforehand the points to be discussed in the council?... That would be
depriving it of its authority by a single stroke. Whatever is to be
discussed in the council ought to depend entirely on the inspiration of
the Holy Ghost and not on the appetites of men.'[389]
[Sidenote: SECULARISATION OF THE POPEDOM.]
This answer vexed Francis considerably. His proposition failing, it
became a weapon in the hands of his rival to destroy him. He therefore
sought to justify himself. 'I cannot help being surprised,' he said,
'that, with a view to calumniate me, my opinion has been misrepresented
to the emperor. Is it not more reasonable to have this business managed
by ambassadors who can arrive speedily in Rome, than to wait for a
council which at the soonest cannot meet within a year?... And as for
everything depending upon the Holy Ghost, assuredly my proposal has been
wickedly and malignantly interpreted; for as we shall send ambassadors
guided by a sincere affection for the Church, is it not evident that
this assembly cannot be without the Holy Ghost?'[390] Thus the king, in
defending himself, took shelter under the _inspiration_ of his
diplomatists. We may well admit that the Holy Ghost was less with the
pope than with the king; but He was really with neither of them.
Thus for a moment the idea of Francis I. fell to the ground; it was
premature, and only began to be realised in after days by the force of
circumstances and in the order of time. It was in 1562, when the council
which had been so much discussed, and which opened at Trent in 1545, met
for the third time, that this new fashion was introduced into Roman
catholicism. The prelates could not come to an understanding, the
Italian deputies wishing to maintain everything, while the French and
German deputies demanded important concessions with a view to a
reconciliation between the princes and their subjects. There were
struggles, jests, and quarrels: they came to blows in the streets. The
majority of the council were angry because the Roman legates regularly
delayed to give their opinions until the courier arrived from Rome.
'Their Inspiration,' said the French, who were always fond of a joke,
'their Inspiration comes to Trent in a portmanteau.' The meeting was
about to be broken up, when the papacy, being obliged to choose between
two evils, resolved to come to an understanding with the princes. The
pope agreed that all important questions should be previously discussed
in the secular courts, and the secondary questions be left to the
council, provided that all proper respect was shown to the papacy. Rome
triumphed within the walls of Trent, but she ceased to be a pure
hierarchy. From that hour the political element has had the precedence,
and the papacy has become more and more dependent on the secular power.
The scheme of Francis I. has been partly realised. There remains,
however, one step more to be taken. Instead of the interested decisions
of kings, it is the sovereign and unchangeable Word of God which ought
to be placed on the throne of the Church.
Charles V. hoped that the singular opinion of the King of France would
incline Clement to enter into the Italian league; but the pope was not
very susceptible in religious matters. Still, as the emperor was
impatient, Clement resolved to give him this trifling satisfaction. Why
should he refuse to enter into a league whose object was to exclude
Francis I. from Italy? As at that very time he was signing secret
articles by which he bound himself to give to France Parma, Piacenza,
Urbino, Reggio, Leghorn, Pisa, Modena, and even Milan and Genoa, there
was no reason why the worthy uncle of Catherine should not sign another
treaty with Charles which stipulated exactly the contrary. Francis would
not be alarmed at the pontiff's entering the league; he would understand
that it was simply an honorary proceeding, a diplomatic measure. The
marriage of the pope's niece caused the poor emperor so much annoyance,
that he deserved at least this consolation. Besides, when the pope gave
his signature to Charles V., he was doing (as he thought) a very honest
thing, for he had not the least intention of keeping the solemn promises
he had made to Francis.[391]
It was now the 28th of February, and the imperial equipage was ready:
horses, mules, carriages, servants, officers, noblemen, were all waiting
the moment of departure. The ships that were to convey the mighty
Charles and his court to Spain were in the harbour of Genoa, ready to
weigh anchor. This very day had been fixed for signing the act of the
Italian league. The high and mighty contracting powers met in the palace
of Bologna. The document was read aloud before the delegates of the
princes and sovereigns of Italy included in it. Every one assented, the
signatures were affixed, and Clement eagerly added his name, promising
himself to sign another contract very shortly with the King of France.
[Sidenote: CARDINALS' HATS ASKED AND GIVEN.]
Everything seemed as if it would pass off in a regular way, without
Charles allowing his vexation to break out. That prince, who knew so
well how to restrain himself, raised a sensation, however, among the
great personages around him. Addressing the pope, he demanded a
cardinal's hat for three of his prelates: it was a trifling compliment
(he thought) which Clement might well concede him; but the pope granted
one hat only. The ambassador of France then came forward, and, on behalf
of his master, demanded one for John, Bishop of Orleans and uncle of the
Duke of Longueville, which was granted. Then the same ambassador,
growing bolder, begged, _on_ _behalf of the King of England_, a
cardinal's hat for the Bishop of Winchester. This was too much for
Charles. 'What! ask a favour for a king who has put away my aunt
Catherine, who is quarrelling with the pope and rushing into schism!'...
'The emperor took this request,' says Du Bellay, 'in very bad part.'—'We
can see clearly,' said Charles to those around him, 'that the affairs of
these two kings are in the same scales; that one does not less for the
other than for himself.' Then, throwing off his usual reserve, he openly
expressed his disapprobation. 'This request of a hat for England,' said
he, 'displeases me more than if the ambassador of France had asked
_four_ for his master.'[392] The diplomatists there present could not
turn away their eyes from that face, usually so placid, and now so
suddenly animated; they were secretly delighted at seeing any feeling
whatever, especially one of ill-humour, on the features of that powerful
monarch, all whose words and actions were the result of cold reflection
and calculated with the nicest art. But no one was so rejoiced as
Hawkins, the English ambassador: 'The emperor departed from hence
evil-contented,' he wrote to Henry forthwith, 'and satisfied in nothing
that he came for. All he did was to renew an old league, lest he should
be seen to have done nothing.'[393] Charles was eager to leave the city
where he had been duped by the pope and checkmated by the king, and
already he repented having shown his displeasure. He descended the steps
of the palace, threw himself into his carriage, and departed for Milan,
where he had some business to settle before going to Genoa and Spain. It
was, as we have said, Friday, the 28th of February.[394]
[Sidenote: MEETING OF FRANCIS AND CLEMENT.]
The pope remained ten days longer at Bologna. There was a talk of an
interview between him and the King of France, to whom he had written
with his own hand. The papal nuncio had proposed to the king that the
emperor should be present also. 'Provided the King of England be the
fourth,' answered Francis.[395] 'We should be unwilling, the King of
England and I,' added he, 'to be present at the interview except with
forces equal to those of the emperor, for fear of a surprise.... Now it
might happen that, the escorts of these _not very friendly_ princes
being together, we should begin a war instead of ratifying a
peace.'[396] They accordingly fell back upon the conference of _two_,
pending which the marriage should be completed. Nice was at first
selected as the place of meeting; but the Duke of Savoy, who did not
like to see the French at Nice, objected. 'Well, then,' said the pope,
'I will go to Antibes, to Fréjus, to Toulon, to Marseilles.' To ally
himself with the family of France, he would have gone beyond the columns
of Hercules. Francis, on his side, desired that the pope, who had waited
for the emperor in Italy, should come and seek him in his own kingdom.
The pope thus showed him greater honour than he had shown Charles—on
which point he was very sensitive. Marseilles was agreed upon.
At last all was in proper train. The blood of the Valois and of the
Medici was about to be united. The clauses, conditions, and conventions
were all arranged. The marriage ceremony was to be magnificently
celebrated in the city of the Phocæans. The pope was at the summit of
happiness, and the bride's eyes sparkled with delight. The die was cast;
Catherine de Medici would one day sit on the throne of France; the St.
Bartholomew was in store for that noble country, the blood of martyrs
would flow in torrents down the streets of Paris, and the rivers would
roll through the provinces long and speechless trains of corpses, whose
ghastly silence would cry aloud to heaven.
But that epoch was still remote; and just now Paris presented a very
different spectacle. It is time to return thither.
[Footnote 368: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 179.]
[Footnote 369: Ibid. p. 180.]
[Footnote 370: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 180. Guicciardini, _Wars of
Italy_, ii. bk. xvi. pp. 894-897.]
[Footnote 371: Guicciardini, _ibid._]
[Footnote 372: 'Cæsar arbitratus illud conjugium quasi per simulationem
a rege oblatum.'—Pallavicini, _Hist. Concil. Trid._ lib. iii. cap. ii.
p. 274.]
[Footnote 373: 'Adulterinam esse monetam qua rex ipsum commercari
studebat.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 374: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 180. Pallavicini, _ibid._
Guicciardini, _Wars of Italy_, ii. p. 898.]
[Footnote 375: Guicciardini, ii. p. 898.]
[Footnote 376: 'Quo fortasse magis dubitanter ac pedetentim
processisset.'—Pallavicini, _Hist. Concil. Trid._ i. p. 274.]
[Footnote 377: 'Gallus explorato æmuli consilio, ut ipsum eluderet, eo
statim properavit.'—Ibid. Du Bellay, _Mémoires_. Guicciardini, _Wars of
Italy_.]
[Footnote 378: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 182.]
[Footnote 379: Ibid.]
[Footnote 380: Ibid. Guicciardini. Pallavicini.]
[Footnote 381: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 182.]
[Footnote 382: Ibid. pp. 182, 183.]
[Footnote 383: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 186.]
[Footnote 384: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 185.]
[Footnote 385: The protestant sovereigns.]
[Footnote 386: Du Bellay, _Mém._ pp. 186, 187.]
[Footnote 387: Acts xv. 23.]
[Footnote 388: The Emperor Joseph II.]
[Footnote 389: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 189.]
[Footnote 390: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 187.]
[Footnote 391: Guicciardini. Du Bellay.]
[Footnote 392: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 189.]
[Footnote 393: _State Papers_, vii. p. 439.]
[Footnote 394: 'The 28th the emperor departed from hens' (_State
Papers_, viii. p. 438), 'and went to Milan' (p. 447).]
[Footnote 395: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 189.]
[Footnote 396: Ibid.]
CHAPTER XXVII.
STORM AGAINST THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE AND HER 'MIRROR
OF THE SINFUL SOUL.'
(SUMMER 1533.)
[Sidenote: UNEASINESS OF THE ULTRAMONTANES.]
The Romish party would not be comforted under its defeat. Beda, Le
Picard, and Mathurin in exile; evangelical sermons freely preached in
the great churches of the capital; the new doctrines carried through
Paris from house to house; and the Queen of Navarre seated, as it were,
upon the throne during her brother's absence, protecting and directing
this Lutheran activity—it was too much! The anxiety and alarm of the
ultramontanists increased every day: they held numerous conferences; and
if the young Alsatian whom we saw at the gate of the Sorbonne, or any
other inquisitive person, could have crept into these catholic
committees, he would have heard the most violent addresses. 'It is not
only the approach of the enemy that alarms us,' they said: 'he is
there ... the revolutionary, immoral, impious, atheistic, abominable,
execrable monster!' Other epithets were added, to be found only in the
popish vocabulary. 'He is making rapid progress; unless we resist him
vigorously, it is all over! The world will perhaps see crumbling under
his blows those ancient walls of Roman catholicism under which the
nations have taken shelter for so many ages.' And hence the Sorbonne was
of the same opinion with the priests and the most hot-headed laymen,
that, overlooking for the moment secondary persons, it was necessary to
strike the most dangerous. In their eyes the Queen of Navarre was the
great enemy of the papacy; the monks, in particular, whose disorders she
had not feared to expose, were full of fury against her; their clamours
were heard in every quarter. 'The queen,' they said, 'is the modern Eve
by whom the new revolt is entering into the world.'—'It is the nature of
women to be deceived,' said one; and to prove it he quoted St. Jerome.
'Woman is the gate of the devil,' said another, citing the authority of
Tertullian. 'The wily serpent,' said the greatest doctors, 'remembers
that memorable duel fought in Paradise. Another fight is beginning, and
he is again putting in practice the stratagems that succeeded so well
before. At the beginning of the world and now, it is always against
woman—that tottering wall, that _pannel_ so weak and easy to break
down—that he draws up his battery. It is the Queen of Navarre who
supports the disciples of Luther in France; she has placed them in
schools; she alone watches over them with wonderful care, and saves them
from all danger.[397] Either the king must punish her, or she must
publicly recant her errors.' The ultramontanists did not restrict
themselves to words: they entered into a diabolical plot to ruin that
pious princess.
[Sidenote: PLOTS AGAINST MARGARET.]
This was not an easy thing to do. The king loved her, all good men
revered her, and all Europe admired her. Yet, as Francis was very
jealous of his authority, the priests hoped to take advantage of his
extreme susceptibility and set him at variance with a sister who dared
to have an opinion of her own. Besides, the Queen of Navarre, like every
other eminent person, had powerful enemies at court, 'people of Scythian
ingratitude,' who, having been received in her household and raised by
her to honours, secretly did all in their power to bring her into
discredit with the king and with her husband.[398] The most dangerous
enemy of all was the grand-master Montmorency, an enterprising, brave,
and imperious man, skilful in advancing his own fortune, though unlucky
with that of the kingdom; he was besides coarse and uncultivated,
despising letters, detesting the Reformation, irritated by the
proselytism of the Queen of Navarre, and full of contempt for her books.
He had great influence over Francis. The Sorbonne thought that if the
grand-master declared against her, it would be impossible for Margaret
to retain the king's favour.
An opportunity occurred for beginning the attack, and the Sorbonne
caught at it. The Queen of Navarre, sighing after the time when a pure
and spiritual religion would displace the barren ceremonial of popery,
had published, in 1531, a christian poem entitled: _The Mirror of the
Sinful Soul, in which she discovers her Faults and Sins, as also the
Grace and Blessings bestowed on her by Jesus Christ her Spouse_.[399]
Many persons had read this poem with interest, and admired the queen's
genius and piety. Finding that this edition, published in a city which
belonged to her, had made no noise, aroused no persecution, and had even
gained her a few congratulations, she felt a desire to issue her pious
manifesto to a wider circle. Encouraged, moreover, by the position which
her brother had just taken up, she made an arrangement with a bookseller
rather bolder than the rest, and in 1533 published at Paris a new
edition of her book, without the author's name, and without the
authorisation of the Sorbonne.
The poem was mild, spiritual, inoffensive, like the queen herself; but
it was written by the king's sister, and accordingly made a great
sensation. In her verses there were new voices, aspirations towards
heaven long unknown; many persons heard them, and here and there certain
manifestations showed themselves of a meek and inward piety long since
forgotten. The alarmed Sorbonne shouted out—'heresy!' There was, indeed,
in the _Mirror_ something more than aspirations. It contained nothing,
indeed, against the saints or the Virgin, against the mass or popery,
and not a word of controversy; but the essential doctrine of the
Reformation was strongly impressed on it, namely, salvation by Jesus
Christ alone, and the certain assurance of that redemption.
[Sidenote: BEDA DISCOVERS HERESY IN THE POEMS.]
At the time of which we are writing, Beda had not been banished. At the
beginning of 1533 he had been intrusted by the Sorbonne with the
examination of all new books. The fiery syndic discovered the _Mirror_,
and with excess of joy he fell upon it to seek matter of accusation
against the king's sister. He devoured it; he had never been so charmed
by any reading, for at last he had proof that the Queen of Navarre was
really a heretic.[400] 'But understand me well,' he said; 'they are not
dumb proofs nor half proofs, but literal, clear, complete proofs.' Beda
prepared therefore to attack Margaret. What a contrast between the
formal religion of the Church and that of this spiritual poem! St.
Thomas and the other chiefs of the schools teach that man may at least
possess merits of _congruity_; that he may perform supererogatory works,
that he must confess his sins in the ear of the priest, and satisfy the
justice of God by acts of penance, _satisfactio operis_. But according
to the _Mirror_, religion is a much simpler thing ... all is summed up
in these two terms: man's sin and God's grace. According to the queen,
what man needs is to have his sins remitted and wholly pardoned in
consequence of the Saviour's death; and when by faith he has found
assurance of this pardon, he enjoys peace.... He must consider all his
past life as being no longer for him a ground of condemnation before
God: these are the _glad tidings_. Now these _tidings_ scandalised Beda
and his friends exceedingly. 'What!' he exclaimed, holding the famous
book open before them, 'what! no more auricular confessions,
indulgences, penance, and works of charity!... The cause of pardon is
the reconciliatory work of Christ, and what helps us to make it our own
is not the Church, but faith!' The syndic determined to make the
'frightful' book known to all the venerable company.
The Sorbonne assembled, and Beda, holding the heretical poem in his
hand, read the most flagrant passages to his colleagues. 'Listen,' he
said, and the attentive doctors kept their eyes fixed on the syndic.
Beda read:
Jesus, true fisher thou of souls!
My only Saviour, only advocate!
Since thou God's righteousness hast satisfied,
I fear no more to fail at heaven's gate.
My Spouse bears all my sins, though great they be,
And all his merits places upon me....
Come, Saviour, make thy mercies known....
Jesus for me was crucified:
For me the bitter death endured,
For me eternal life procured.[401]
It has been said that Margaret's poems are theology in rhyme. It is true
that her verses are not so elegant as those of our age, and that their
spirit is more theological than the poetry of our days; but the theology
is not that of the schools, it is that of the heart. What specially
irritated the Sorbonne was the peace and assurance that Margaret
enjoyed, precious privilege of a redeemed soul, which scholasticism had
condemned beforehand. The queen, leaning upon the Saviour, seemed to
have no more fear. 'Listen again,' said Beda:
Satan, where is now thy tower?
Sin, all withered is thy power.
Pain or death no more I fear,
While Jesus Christ is with me here.
Of myself no strength have I,
But God, my shield, is ever nigh.[402]
[Sidenote: ASSURANCE OF SALVATION.]
Thus, argued the doctors of the Sorbonne, the queen imagines that sins
are remitted gratuitously, no satisfaction being required of sinners.
'Observe the foolish assurance,' said the syndic, 'into which the new
doctrine may bring souls. This is what we find in the _Mirror_:
'Not hell's black depth, nor heaven's vast height,
Nor sin with which I wage continual fight,
Me for a single day can move,
O holy Father, from thy perfect love.'[403]
This simple faith, supported by the promises of God, scandalised the
doctors. 'No one,' said they, 'can promise himself anything certain as
regards his own salvation, unless he has learnt it by a special
revelation from God.' The council of Trent made this declaration an
article of faith. 'The queen,' continued her accuser, 'speaks as if she
longed for nothing but heaven:
'How beautiful is death,
That brings to weary me the hour of rest!
Oh! hear my cry and hasten, Lord, to me,
And put an end to all my misery.'[404]
Some one having observed that the Queen of Navarre had not appended her
name to the title of her work, her accuser replied: 'Wait until the end,
the signature is there;' and then he read the last line:
The good that he has done to me, his Margaret.[405]
In a short time insinuations and accusations against the sister of the
king were heard from every pulpit. Here a monk made his hearers shudder
as he described Margaret's wicked _heresies_; and there another tried to
make them laugh. 'These things,' says Theodore Beza, 'irritated the
Sorbonne extremely, and especially Beda and those of his temper, and
they could not refrain from attacking the Queen of Navarre in their
sermons.'[406]
Other circumstances excited the anger of the monks. Margaret did not
love them. Monachism was one of the institutions which the reformers
wished to see disappear from the Church, and the Queen of Navarre, in
spite of her conservative character, did not desire to preserve it. The
numerous abuses of the monastic life, the constraint with which its vows
were often accompanied, the mechanical vocation of most of the
conventuals, their idleness and sensuality, their practice of mendicancy
as a trade, their extravagant pretensions to merit eternal life and to
atone for their sins by their discipline, their proud conviction that
they had attained a piety which went beyond the exigencies of the divine
law, the discredit which the monastic institution cast upon the
institutions appointed by God, on marriage, family, labour, and the
state politic; finally, the bodily observances and macerations set above
that living charity which proceeds from faith, and above the fruits of
the Spirit of God in man:—all these things were, according to the
reformers, entirely opposed to the doctrine of the Gospel.
[Sidenote: THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE'S TALES.]
Margaret went further still. She had not spared the monks, but on the
contrary had scourged them soundly. If Erasmus and Ulrich von Hutten had
overwhelmed them with ridicule, the Queen of Navarre had in several
tales depicted their grovelling character and dissolute life. She had,
indeed, as yet communicated these stories to few besides her brother and
mother, and never intended publishing them; but, some copies having been
circulated among the attendants of the court, a few leaves had fallen
into the hands of the monks, and this was the cause of their anger.
Margaret, like many others of her time, was mistaken—such at least is
our opinion—as to the manner in which the vices of the monasteries ought
to be combated. Following the example of Menot, the most famous preacher
of the middle ages, she had described faithfully, unaffectedly, and
sometimes too broadly the avarice, debauchery, pride, and other vices of
the convents. She had done better than this, however; to the silly
nonsense and indecent discourses of the grey friars she had opposed the
simple, severe, and spiritual teaching of the Gospel. 'They are moral
tales,' says a contemporary author (who is not over favourable to
Margaret); 'they often _degenerate_ into real sermons, so that each
story is in truth only the _preface to a homily_.'[407] After a
narrative in illustration of human frailty, Margaret begins her
application thus: 'Know that the first step man takes in confidence in
himself, by so much he diverges from confidence in God.' After
describing a false miracle by which an incestuous monk had tried to
deceive Margaret's father, the Count of Angoulême, she added: 'His faith
was proof against these external miracles. We have but one Saviour who,
by saying _consummatum est_ (it is finished), showed that we must wait
for no successor to work out our salvation.' No one but the monks
thought, in the sixteenth century, of being scandalised by these tales.
There was then a freedom of language which is impossible in our times;
and everybody felt that if the queen faithfully painted the disorders of
the monks and other classes of society, she was equally faithful in
describing the strict morality of her own principles and the living
purity of her faith. It was her daughter, the austere Jeanne d'Albret,
who published the first correct edition of these _Novels_; and certainly
she would not have done so, if such a publication had been likely to
injure her mother's memory.[408] But times have changed; the book,
harmless then, is so no longer; in our days the tales will be read and
the sermons passed over: the youth of our generation would only derive
harm from them. We acquit the author as regards her intentions, but we
condemn her work. And (apologising to the friends of letters who will
accuse us of barbarism) if we had to decide on the fate of this book, we
would willingly see it experience a fate similar to that which is spoken
of in the Bible, where we are told that _many Corinthians brought their
books together and burned them_.[409]
[Sidenote: THE MIRROR SEIZED BY THE SORBONNE.]
Let us return to the _Mirror_, in which the pious soul of Margaret is
reflected.
The Faculty decided that the first thing to be done was to search every
bookseller's shop in the city and seize all the copies found there.[410]
Here Beda disappeared: he no longer played the principal part. It is
probable that the proceedings against him had already begun; but this
persecution, by removing its leader, helped to increase the anger of the
Romish party, and consequently the efforts of the Sorbonne to ruin the
Queen of Navarre. As Beda was absent, the priest Le Clerq was ordered to
make the search. Accompanied by the university beadles, he went to every
bookseller's shop, seized the _Mirror of the Sinful Soul_, wherever the
tradesman had not put it out of sight, and returned to the Sorbonne
laden with his spoils. After this the Faculty deliberated upon the
measures to be taken against the author.
This was no easy matter: they knew that the king, so hasty and violent,
had much esteem and affection for his sister. The most prudent members
of the Faculty hesitated. Their hesitation exasperated the monks, and
the rage with which the more fanatical were seized extended even to the
provinces. A meeting of the religious orders was held at Issoudun in
Berry to discuss what ought to be done. The superior of the grey friars,
an impetuous, rash, and hardly sane person, spoke louder than all the
rest. 'Let us have less ceremony,' he exclaimed; 'put the Queen of
Navarre in a sack and throw her into the river.'[411] This speech, which
circulated over France, having been reported to the Sorbonne doctors,
alarmed them, and many counselled a less violent persecution, to which a
Dominican friar answered: 'Do not be afraid; we shall not be alone in
attacking this heretical princess, for the grand-master is her mortal
enemy.'[412]
Montmorency, who next to Francis was now the most important personage in
the kingdom, concealed under the cloak of religion a cruel heart and
peevish disposition, and was feared by everybody, even by his friends.
If he were gained over, the Queen of Navarre, attacked simultaneously by
the priestly and the political party, must necessarily fall.
Margaret supported these insults with admirable mildness. At this very
time she was carrying on an almost daily correspondence with
Montmorency, and subscribed all her letters: '_Your good aunt and
friend_.' Full of confidence in this perfidious man, she called on him
to defend her. 'Dear nephew,' she wrote, 'I beg you to believe that, as
I am just now away from the king, it is necessary for you to help me in
this matter. _I rely upon you_; and in this trust, which I am sure can
never fail me, confides your good aunt and friend, Margaret.' The queen
made some allusion to the violent language of the monks, but with great
good-humour. 'I have desired the bearer,' she said, 'to speak to you
about _certain nonsense_ that a Jacobin monk has uttered in the faculty
of theology.' This was all: she did not make use of one bitter
word.[413] Montmorency, that imperious courtier who before long
persecuted the protestants without mercy, began to think himself strong
enough to ruin Margaret, and we shall soon see what was the result of
his perfidious insinuations. The Sorbonne deliberated as to what was to
be done. According to the decrees of Sixtus IV. and Alexander VI., no
books, treatises, or writings whatsoever[414] could be printed without
an express authorisation; but the Queen of Navarre had printed her book
without any such permission. The society, without pretending to know the
author, declared the _Mirror of the Sinful Soul_ prohibited, and put it
in the _Index Librorum Prohibitorum_.
[Sidenote: THE PRIESTS' COMEDY.]
This was not enough. The priests excited the students; but while the
former were playing a tragedy, the latter (or rather their teachers)
resorted to satire. The scholars of the college of Navarre, who passed
from the grammar to the logic class, were in the habit of giving a
dramatic representation on the 1st of October. The clerical heads of the
college, wishing to render the queen hateful to the people and
ridiculous to the court, composed a drama. The parts were distributed
among the pupils; the rehearsals began, and those who were admitted to
them agreed that the author had so seasoned the plot with gall and
vinegar, that success was certain.[415] The report spread through the
Latin quarter: and even Calvin heard of it, for he kept himself well
informed of all that took place in the schools. While applying himself
constantly to the work of God, he kept watch also upon the work of the
adversary. There was so much talk about this play, that, when the day of
the representation arrived, there was a rush for admission, and the hall
was crammed. The monks and theologians took their seats in front, and
the curtain rose.
A queen, magnificently dressed and sitting calmly on the stage, was
spinning, and seemed to be thinking of nothing but her wheel. 'It is the
king's sister,' said the spectators; 'and she would do well to keep to
her distaff.'
Next a strange character appeared: it was a woman dressed in white,
carrying a torch and looking fiercely around her. Everybody recognised
the fury Megæra. 'That is Master Gerard,' they said, 'the almoner of the
king's sister.'[416] Megæra, advancing cautiously, drew near the queen
with the intention of withdrawing her from her peaceful feminine
occupation, and making her lay aside her distaff. She did not show her
enmity openly, but came slily forward, putting on a smiling look, as if
bringing additional light. She walked round and round the queen, and
endeavoured to divert her attention by placing the torch boldly before
her eyes.[417]
At first the princess takes no heed, but continues spinning; at length,
alas! she stops and permits herself to be attracted by the false light
before her; she gives way, she quits her wheel.... Megæra has conquered,
and in exchange for the distaff she places the Gospel in the queen's
hand.[418] The effect is magical; in a moment the queen is transformed.
She was meek, she becomes cruel; she forgets her former virtuous habits;
she rises, and, glaring around with savage eyes, takes up a pen to write
out her sanguinary orders, and personally inflicts cruel tortures on her
wretched victims. Scenes still more outrageous than these follow. The
sensation was universal! 'Such are the fruits of the Gospel!' said some
of the spectators. 'It entices men away to novelties and folly; it robs
the king of the devoted affection of his subjects, and devastates both
Church and State.'[419]
[Sidenote: SUCCESS OF THE COMEDY.]
At last the play was ended. The Sorbonne exulted; the Queen of Navarre,
who had formerly lashed the priests and monks, was now scourged by them
in return.
Shouts of approbation rose from every bench, and the theologians clapped
the piece with all their might; such applause as that of these reverend
doctors had never been heard before.[420] There were, however, a few
reasonable men to whom such a satire written against the king's sister
appeared unbecoming. 'The authors have used neither veil nor figure of
speech,' they said: 'the queen is openly and disgracefully insulted in
the play.'[421] The monks, finding they had gone too far, wished to hush
up the matter; but in a short time the whole city was full of it, and a
few days after a mischievous friend went and spoke of it at court,
describing the whole play, scene after scene, to the queen herself.[422]
The Sorbonne, the highest authority in the Church after the pope, had
struck the first blow; the second had been given in the colleges; the
third was to be aimed at Margaret by the court. By ruining this princess
in the eyes of her brother, the enemies of the Reformation would cause
her the most unutterable sorrow, for she almost adored Francis.
Afterwards they would get her banished to the mountains of Béarn.
Montmorency lent himself to this intrigue; he advanced prudently,
speaking to the king about heresy, of the dangers it was bringing upon
France, and of the obligation to free the kingdom from it for the
salvation of souls. Then, appearing to hesitate, he added: 'It is true,
Sire, that if you wish to extirpate the heretics, you must begin with
the Queen of Navarre.'[423]... And here he stopped.
Margaret was not informed of this perfidious proceeding immediately; but
everybody told her that if she allowed the impertinence of the monks and
the condemnation of the Sorbonne to pass unpunished, she would encourage
their malice. She communicated what had taken place to her brother,
declared herself to be the author of the _Mirror_, and insisted on the
fact that it contained nothing but pious sentiments, and did not attack
the doctrines of the Church: 'None of us,' she said, 'have been found
_sacramentarians_.' Finally, she demanded that the condemnation by the
theological faculty should be rescinded, and the college of Navarre
called to account.
[Sidenote: CHRISTIANS MADE A SHOW.]
Calvin watched the whole business very closely; it might almost be said,
after reading his letter, that he had been among the spectators. He
censured the behaviour of both scholars and masters.[424] 'Christians,'
he said later, 'are made a show of, as when in a triumph the poor
prisoners are paraded through the city before being taken to prison and
strangled. But the spectacle made of believers is no hindrance to their
happiness, for in the presence of God they remain in possession of
glory, and the Spirit of God gives them a witness who dwells steadfast
in their hearts.'[425]
[Footnote 397: Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, pp. 847-849.]
[Footnote 398: Sainte-Marthe, _Oraison funèbre de Marguerite_, p. 45.]
[Footnote 399: The first edition of the _Miroir de l'Ame pécheresse_,
was published at Alençon, by Simon Dubois.]
[Footnote 400: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. des Eglises Réformées_, i. p. 8.
Génin, _Notice sur Marguerite d'Angoulême_, p. iii. Freer, _Life of
Marguerite d'Angoulême_, ii. p. 112.]
[Footnote 401: _Les Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. p. 60.]
[Footnote 402: Ibid. p. 63.]
[Footnote 403: _Les Marguerites_, i. p. 65.]
[Footnote 404: Ibid. pp. 51, 57.]
[Footnote 405: Ibid. p. 70.]
[Footnote 406: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. des Eglises Réformées_,
i. pp. 8, 9.]
[Footnote 407: Génin, _Notice sur Marguerite d'Angoulême_, p. 95,
preceding her letters.]
[Footnote 408: _Marguerite de Valois, Reine de Navarre, étude
historique_, 1861.]
[Footnote 409: Acts xix. 19.]
[Footnote 410: 'Quum excuterent officinas bibliopolarum.'—Calvini _Epp._
p. 2; Genève, 1617.]
[Footnote 411: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 282. Freer, _Life
of Marguerite_, ii. p. 118. Castaigne, _Notice sur Marguerite_.]
[Footnote 412: Lettre de la Reine Marguerite à Montmorency. _Lettres de
la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 282.]
[Footnote 413: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. pp. 282, 283.]
[Footnote 414: 'Libri, tractatus aut scripturæ quæcunque.'—Raynald,
_Annales Eccl._ xix. p. 514.]
[Footnote 415: 'Fabula felle et aceto, ut ait ille, plusquam mordaci
conspersa.'—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 416: The word _Megæra_ is made up of the first syllables of
_Magister Gerardus_. 'Megæram appellant alludens ad nomen Magistri
Gerardi.']
[Footnote 417: 'Tunc Megæra illi faces admovens, ut acus et colum
abjiceret.'—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 418: 'Evangelia in manus recepit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 419: Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, p. 844.]
[Footnote 420: 'Mirabiliter applaudentibus theologis.'—Sturmius Bucero.]
[Footnote 421: 'Quam non figurate, nec obscure, conviciis suis
proscindebant.—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 422: 'Re ad reginam delata.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 423: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 58.]
[Footnote 424: 'Indigna prorsus ea muliere.'—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 425: Calvini _Opp._ passim.]
CHAPTER XXVIII.
TRIUMPH OF THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE.
(AUTUMN 1533.)
Francis was not at Paris when the storm broke out against his sister. In
the summer of 1533, says the chronicle, 'the king visited his states and
lordships of Languedoc, and made his triumphal entry into the city of
Toulouse.'[426] It was by letter, therefore, that he heard of what was
taking place. All were asking what he would do. On the one hand, he had
a great affection for the queen; but, on the other, he did not like his
tranquillity to be disturbed; he protected learning, but he detested the
Gospel. His better self gained the upper hand; his hatred of the
absurdities of the monks was aroused; his great susceptibility made him
take the affronts offered to his sister as if they had been offered to
himself; and one after another he gave Margaret's enemies a forcible
lesson.
The first whom he taught his place was Montmorency. When the latter
endeavoured to instil his perfidious insinuations into the king's mind,
Francis silenced him: 'Not a word more about it,' he said: 'she is too
fond of me to take up with any religion that will injure my
kingdom.[427] Margaret was informed subsequently of the attempt of the
grand-master, 'whom she never liked more,' adds Brantôme.
[Sidenote: THE FRANCISCAN FRIAR.]
The second to feel the king's hand was the prior of the Franciscans who
had proposed to sew Margaret in a sack and throw her into the Seine.
'Let him suffer the punishment he desired to inflict upon the queen,' he
exclaimed. On hearing of this sentence the monks became irritated, and
the populace, according to one historian, got up a riot. But the queen
interceded for the wretch, and his life was spared; he was simply
deprived of his ecclesiastical dignities and sent to the galleys for two
years.[428]
The play represented against the queen, as well as the priests who had
composed it and superintended the representation, next engaged the
king's attention; he resolved not to spare them, and at the least to put
them in a terrible fright. He issued his orders, and immediately the
lieutenant of police marched out and appeared at the head of a hundred
archers before the college of Navarre.[429] 'Surround the building,' he
said, 'so that no one can escape.'[430] The archers did as they were
ordered. For this narrative we are again indebted to Calvin, who
continued to take the deepest interest in the whole affair. The orders
of the lieutenant were not executed without noise, and some of the
professors and pupils, attracted to the windows, had watched the
movements of the municipal officers. The author of the drama, who had
expected nothing like this, and who was very vain and continually
boasting of his pious exploit, happened to be in the room of a friend,
joking about the queen and the famous comedy, when suddenly he heard an
unusual noise.[431] He looked out, and, seeing the college surrounded by
soldiers, became alarmed and confused. 'Hide me somewhere,' he
exclaimed. He was put in a place where it was supposed nobody could find
him: there are always good hiding-places in colleges. 'Stay there,' said
his friends, 'until we find an opportunity for your escape.'[432] And
then the door was carefully shut.
[Sidenote: ARRESTS IN THE COLLEGE OF NAVARRE.]
Meanwhile the lieutenant of police had entered with a few of his
archers, and demanded the surrender of the author of the satire against
the Queen of Navarre. The head of the college, a man of distinction,
profound learning, and great influence, whom Calvin styles 'the great
Master Lauret,' and Sturm 'the king of the wise,' did not deserve his
name. He refused everything. Upon this, the sergeants began to search
the building for the culprit; and professors and students were in great
anxiety. But every nook and corner was explored in vain; they found
nothing.[433] The lieutenant thereupon ordered his archers to lay hands
upon the actors in default of the author, and he himself arrested one of
the persons who had taken a part in the play. This was the signal for a
great tumult. Master Lauret, knowing himself to be more guilty than
those youths, rushed upon the lieutenant and endeavoured to rescue the
scholar;[434] the students, finding themselves supported by their chief,
fell upon the archers, and kicked and beat them, some even pelting them
with stones.[435] There was a regular battle in the college of Navarre.
But the law prevailed at last, and all the beardless actors fell into
the hands of the police.
The lieutenant was bent on knowing the nature of their offence. 'Now,'
said he to the juvenile players, 'you will repeat before me what you
said on the stage.'[436] The unlucky youths were forced to obey; in
great confusion and hanging their heads, they repeated all their
impertinence. 'I have not done,' resumed the lieutenant, turning to the
head of the college; 'since the author of the crime is concealed from
me, I must look to those who should have prevented such insolence.
Master Lauret, you will go with me as well as these young scamps. As for
you, Master Morin (he was the second officer of the college), you will
keep your room.' He then departed with his archers; Lauret was taken to
the house of a commissary, and the students were sent to prison.
The most important affair still remained—the decision come to by the
Sorbonne against Margaret's poem. The king, wishing to employ gentle
means, simply ordered the rector to ask the faculty if they had really
placed the _Mirror_ in the list of condemned books,[437] and in that
case to be good enough to point out what they saw to blame in it. To the
rector, therefore, was confided the management of the affair. A new
rector had been elected a few days before (10th of October); and whether
the university perceived in what direction the wind was blowing, or
wished to show its hostility to the enemies of the light, or desired to
court the king's favour by promoting the son of one of his favourites,
the chief physician to the court, they had elected, in spite of the
faculty of theology, Nicholas Cop, a particular friend of Calvin's.
'Wonderful!' said the friends of the Gospel: 'the king and his sister,
the rector of the university, and even, as some say, the Bishop of
Paris, lean to the side of the Word of God; how can France fail to be
reformed?'
The new rector took the affair vigorously in hand. Won over to the
Gospel by Calvin, he had learnt, in conversation with his friend, that
sin is the great disease, the loss of eternal life the great death, and
Jesus Christ the great physician. He was impatient to meet the enemies
of the Reform, and the king gave him the desired opportunity.... He had
several conversations with Calvin on the subject, and convened the four
faculties on the 24th of October, 1532. The Bishop of Senlis, the king's
confessor, read his Majesty's letter to them; after which the youthful
rector, the organ of the new times, began to speak, and, full of the
ardour which a recent conversion gives, he delivered (Calvin tells us) a
long and severe speech,[438] a christian philippic, confounding the
conspirators who were plotting against the Word of God. 'Licence is
always criminal,' he said; 'but what is it when those who violate the
laws are those whose duty it is to teach others to observe them?... Now
what have they done? They have attacked an excellent woman, who is alike
the patroness of sound learning and mother of every virtue.[439] They
penetrate into the sanctuary of the family of our kings, and encroach
upon the sovereign majesty... What presumptuous temerity, what imprudent
audacity!... The laws of propriety, the laws of the realm, the laws of
God even, have all been violated by these impudent men... They are
seditious and rebellious subjects.' Then turning to the faculty of
theology, the rector continued: 'Put an end, Sirs, to these foolish and
arrogant manners; or else, if you have not committed the offence, do not
bear the responsibility. Do you desire to encourage the malice of those
who, ever ready to perpetrate the most criminal acts, wipe their mouths
afterwards and say: "It is not I who did it! it is the university!"
while the university knows nothing about it?[440] Do not mix yourselves
up in a matter so full of danger, or ... beware of the terrible anger of
the king.'[441]
[Sidenote: THE SORBONNE DISAVOWS ITS ACT.]
This speech, the terror inspired by the king's name, and the
recollection of Beda's imprisonment, disturbed the assembly. The
theologians, who were all guilty, basely abandoned their colleague, who
had only carried out a general resolution, and exclaimed unanimously:
'We must disavow the rash deed.'[442] The four faculties declared they
had not authorised the act of which the king complained, and the whole
responsibility fell on Le Clerq, curé of St. André, who had taken the
most active part in the matter. He was the Jonah to be thrown into the
sea.
Le Clerq was very indignant. He had gone up and down the city in the
sight of everybody, he had ransacked the booksellers' shops to lay hold
of the heretical _Mirror_; the booksellers, if necessary, could depose
against him; but when he found himself abandoned by those who had urged
him on, he was filled with anger and contempt. Still, he endeavoured to
escape the danger that threatened him, and seeing among the audience
several officers of the court, he said in French, so that all might
understand him: 'In what words, Sirs, can I sufficiently extol the
king's justice?[443] Who can describe with what unshaken fidelity this
great prince has on all occasions shown himself the valiant defender of
the faith?[444] I know that misguided men[445] are endeavouring to
pervert the king's mind, and conspiring the ruin of this holy faculty;
but I have a firm conviction that their manœuvres will fail against his
majesty's heroic firmness. I am proud of the resistance I make them. And
yet I have done nothing of myself; I was delegated by an order of the
university for the duty I have fulfilled.[446] And do you imagine that
in discharging it, I had any desire to get up a plot against an august
princess whose morals are so holy, whose religion is so pure,[447] as
she proved not long ago by the respect with which she paid the last
honours to her illustrious mother? I consider such obscene productions
as _Pantagruel_ ought to be prohibited; but I place the _Mirror_ simply
among the suspected books, because it was published without the
approbation of the faculty. If that is a crime, we are all guilty—you,
gentlemen,' he said, turning towards his colleagues, 'you as well as
myself, although you disavow me.'[448]
[Sidenote: THE UNIVERSITY APOLOGISES.]
This speech, so embarrassing to the doctors of the faculty, secured the
triumph of the queen. 'Sirs,' said the king's confessor, 'I have read
the inculpated volume, and there is really nothing to blot out of it,
unless I have forgotten all my theology.[449] I call, therefore, for a
decree that shall fully satisfy her majesty.' The rector now rose again
and said: 'The university neither recognises nor approves of the censure
passed upon this book. We will write to the king, and pray him to accept
the apology of the university.' Thereupon the meeting broke up.
Thus did Margaret, the friend of the reformers, come out victorious from
this attack of the monks. 'This matter,' says Beza, 'somewhat cowed the
fury of our masters (_magistri_), and greatly strengthened the small
number of believers.'[450] The clear and striking account which Calvin
has left us, has enabled us to watch the quarrel in all its phases. As
we read it, we cannot help regretting that the reformer did not
sometimes employ his noble talents in writing history.[451]
An astonishing change was taking place in France. Calvin and Francis
appeared to be almost walking together. Calvin watched with an observing
eye the movements of men's minds, and his lofty understanding delighted
in tracing out the approaching consequences. What did he see in the year
1533? The different classes of society are in motion; men of the world
begin to speak more freely;[452] students, with the impetuosity of
youth, are rushing towards the light; many young professors perceive
that Scripture is above the pope; one of his most intimate friends is at
the head of the university; the fanatical doctors are in exile; and the
most influential men both in Church and State are favourable to the
Reform. The Bishop of Senlis, confessor to the king; John du Bellay,
Bishop of Paris, who possesses the king's entire confidence; his brother
William, one of the greatest men in France, seem all to be placing
themselves at the service of evangelical truth. William du Bellay, in
particular, excited the greatest hopes among the reformers at this time;
they entertained, indeed, exaggerated ideas about him. As Berquin was no
more, and Calvin had hardly appeared, it was Du Bellay, in their
opinion, who would reform France. 'O that the Lord would raise up many
heroes like him!' said the pious Bucer; 'then should we see Christ's
kingdom appearing with the splendour of the sun.[453] The Sire de Langey
(William du Bellay) is ready to suffer everything for Jesus Christ.'[454]
[Sidenote: REFORM MOVEMENT IN FRANCE.]
The most earnest men believed in the salutary influences which the
Reformation would exert. In fact, by awakening the conscience and
reviving faith, it was to be a principle of order and liberty; and the
religious activity which it called into existence could not but be
favourable to education and morality, and even to agriculture,
manufactures, and commerce. If Francis I. had turned to the Gospel, the
noblest minds would have followed him, and France would have enjoyed
days of peace and marvellous prosperity.
Among the enlightened men of whom we are speaking, we must include
Philip de Chabot, seignior of Brion, admiral of France, a favourite with
the king, and inclined to the cause of the Reform;[455] Maure Musée,
groom of the chamber, also won over to the Gospel; and the pious Dame de
Cany, who influenced her sister, the Duchess of Etampes, in favour of
the reformed.[456] That frivolous woman was far from being converted;
but if the Reform was reproached with the protection she afforded it,
the evangelicals called to mind that Marcia, mistress to the Emperor
Commodus, as the duchess was to the king, had protected the early
christians, and primitive Christianity was none the less respected for
it.
Calvin did not place his hope in the powers of the world: 'Our wall of
brass,' he said, 'is to have God propitious to us. _If God be for
us_—that is our only support. There is no power under heaven or above
which can withstand his arm, and having him for our defender we need
fear no evil.'[457] And yet the blows which Francis I. had warded from
the head of the queen were to fall upon Cop and Calvin himself. But
before we come to these persecutions, we must follow the king, who,
quitting Toulouse and Montpellier, proceeded to Marseilles to meet the
pope.
[Footnote 426: _Chronique du Roi François I._ p. 98.]
[Footnote 427: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 88.]
[Footnote 428: Castaigne, _Notice sur Marguerite_. Freer, _Life of
Marguerite_.]
[Footnote 429: 'Prætor stipatus centum apparitoribus gymnasium adit.'—
Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 430: 'Suis jussis domum circumcidere, ne quis elaberetur.'
—Ibid.]
[Footnote 431: 'Sed cum forte in amici cubiculo esset, tumultum prius
exaudisse.'—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 432: 'E quibus per occasionem fugeret.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 433: 'Autor sceleris deprehendi non poterat.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 434: 'Dum vult obsistere gymnasiarcha.'—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 435: 'Lapides a nonnullis pueris conjecti sunt.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 436: 'Quod pro scena recitassent jussit repetere.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 437: 'Improbatæ religionis.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 438: 'Longa et acerba oratione.'—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 439: 'In reginam virtutum omnium et bonarum literarum matrem
arma sumere.'—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 440: 'Ut dicant Academiam fecisse.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 441: 'Ne se immiscerent tanto discrimini, ne regis iram
experiri vellent.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 442: 'Omnium sententia fuit factum abjurandum.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 443: 'Magnificis verbis regis integritatem.'—Calvini _Epp._
p. 1.]
[Footnote 444: 'Fidei animosum protectorem.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 445: 'Aliquos sinistros homines.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 446: 'Se quidem fuisse delegatum Academiæ decreto.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 447: 'Fœminam tam sanctis moribus, tam pura religione
præditam.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 448: 'Omnes esse culpæ affines, si qua esset, quantumvis
abnegarent.'—Calvini _Epp._ p. 1.]
[Footnote 449: 'Nisi oblitus esset suæ theologiæ.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 450: Théodore de Bèze, _Hist. Eccl._ p. 9.]
[Footnote 451: This letter is the first in the collection published by
Theodore Beza, and will be the tenth in that to be published by Dr.
Bonnet.]
[Footnote 452: 'Omnes cœperunt loqui liberius.'—Bucer to Blaarer.
Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 453: 'Dominus excitet multos isti heroï similes.'—Bucer to
Chelius, quoted by Schmidt.]
[Footnote 454: 'Quidvis pati pro Christo.'—Sturm to Bucer. Ibid.]
[Footnote 455: 'Admiralius adest, qui unice nobis favet.'—Sturm to
Bucer, quoted by Schmidt.]
[Footnote 456: _Lettres de Jean Calvin_, i. p. 335, edit. J. Bonnet.]
[Footnote 457: Calvini _Opp._ passim.]
CHAPTER XXIX.
CATHERINE DE MEDICI GIVEN TO FRANCE.
(OCTOBER 1533.)
This interview of the pope with the king might be more injurious to the
Gospel than all the attacks of the Sorbonne. If Clement united sincerely
with Francis against Charles; if Catherine de Medici became the pledge
of union between Rome and France; would not the Reformation soon be
buried by the mournful glare of the pale torches of this fatal marriage?
Yet men still hoped that the projected interview would not take place.
In fact, Henry VIII. and the emperor did all they could to prevent
Francis from meeting the pope.[458]
[Sidenote: THE INTENDED MARRIAGE.]
But Clement VII., more charmed than ever with a matrimonial union
between the family of the Florentine merchants and that of St. Louis,
cared naught for the emperor or the king of England; and about the end
of April 1533, he convoked a sacred college at Rome, to whom he
communicated his plans. They already knew something about them: the
Roman cardinals smiled and congratulated his Holiness, but the Spanish
cardinals looked very much out of humour. The pope tried to persuade
them that he only desired this marriage for the glory of God and of the
Church. 'It is for _holy opportunities_,' he told them. No one dared
oppose it openly; but, on leaving the meeting, the emperor's cardinals
hurried to his ministers and informed them of the pontifical
communication. The latter lost no time; they called upon all their
friends, managed them with great ability, and, by dint of energy and
stratagem, succeeded in holding a congregation at the beginning of June,
at which none of the French cardinals were present. Not daring to oppose
the marriage itself, Charles's prelates displayed extreme sensibility
for the honour and welfare of the pope. They appeared to be suddenly
seized with a violent affection for Clement. 'What! the pope in France!'
they exclaimed. 'Truly it must be something more than the marriage of a
niece to _move a pope from his seat_.' Then, as if Clement's health was
very precious to them, and the Roman air excellent, the crafty Spaniards
brought forward sanitary reasons. 'Such a journey would be dangerous,
_considering the extreme heat of Provence_.'—'Never mind that,'
cunningly answered the pope; 'I shall not start until after the first
rains.'
[Sidenote: IMPERIAL OBSTACLES.]
Charles then sought other means to prevent the conference. He will
contrive that the pope shall delay his departure from week to week,
until the winter sets in, and then it is not to be thought of. A very
natural occasion for these delays presented itself. The marriage of
Henry VIII. with Anne Boleyn having been made public, the emperor
haughtily demanded that justice should be done to the queen, his aunt.
Here, certainly, was matter enough to occupy the court of Rome for
months; but Clement, who had let the English business drag along for
years, being eager to finish the _other_ marriage, hastily assembled a
consistory, and pronounced against Henry VIII. all the censures which
Charles V. demanded. Then, in his zeal forgetting his usual cunning, he
made Catherine's marriage the peroration of his speech, and having done
with England and its king, he ended by saying: 'Gentlemen, if any of you
desire to make the voyage with me, you must hold yourselves in readiness
for departure.'[459]
Immediate preparations were made for fitting up the galleys of Rhodes in
which the pope was to sail. All was bustle in the harbour. Those long
low barks were supplied with everything necessary for subsistence, for
sailing, and even for attack and defence. The oars were fixed in their
places; the yards and sails were set; the flags were hoisted.... Then
the imperialists, trying to outwit the pope, had recourse to a new
stratagem; they were smitten with a sudden fondness for Coron.—'Coron,
that city in the south of Greece,' they said to the pope, 'a city of
such great importance to christendom, is attacked by the Turks; we
require the galleys of Rhodes to defend it; we must deliver the Greeks
our brothers from slavery, and restore the empire of the East.'... The
pope understood; it was difficult to beat him in cunning. 'Well, well,'
said he, 'make haste; fly to the help of christendom.... I will lend you
the said galleys, and will add my own ... and ... I will make the
passage on board the galleys of France.'[460]
Then the emperor turned to the Swiss; the Dukes of Savoy and Milan,
also, fearing that at the projected interview something would be
_brewed_ to their detriment, united with him. These three princes
attempted to induce the catholic cantons to enter the Italian league. If
these terrible Helvetic bands pass the Alps, all idea of travelling will
be abandoned by the pope. How could he expose himself to pikes and
arquebuses? Clement VII. had not the warlike disposition of Julius II.
'The King of France favours the protestants,' said Charles's deputies to
the catholic cantons; 'he desires to put the evangelical cantons in a
condition to avenge the defeat at Cappel; but if you join us, you have
nothing to fear.' At these words the catholics became eager[461] to
enter the league against the king and the pope; but Francis sent them
money to keep quiet, and they did not move.[462]
Were all his manœuvres to fail? Never had a marriage been heard of
against which so many obstacles had been raised; but it was written in
the book of fate, said many; the arms forged against it could not
succeed; and the haughty Charles vainly agitated all Europe—Swiss,
Germans, Greeks, and Turks. His ministers now had recourse to another
stratagem. Everybody knew that the pope was not brave. They revived
their tender affection for his person; and as Switzerland was not to be
tempted, they turned to Africa. 'Let your Holiness beware,' they said;
'if you undertake this voyage, you will certainly fall into the hands of
the Moors.[463]... A fleet of pirates, lurking behind the islands of
Hyères, will suddenly appear, fall on the ship in which you are sailing,
and carry you off.'[464] This time the pope was staggered. The terror
inspired by the barbarian ships was at that time very great. To be
carried away by the Moors! A pope captive in Algiers or Tunis! What a
dreadful thought!
Will he go or will he not? was the question Europe set itself. But the
matter was violently canvassed at Rome, where Guelphs and Ghibelines
almost came to blows. Arguments for the marriage, and consequently for
the voyage, were not wanting. 'The time has come,' said the papists,
'for a bold stroke to prevent France from being lost like Germany and
England.' There were loud discussions in the convents and churches, and
even in the public places. A Franciscan of the Low Countries, Herbom by
name, a monk of fiery fanaticism, stirred up the pontifical city.
'Luther, Zwingle, and Œcolampadius,' he said, 'are soldiers of Pilate;
they have crucified Jesus Christ.... But, alas! alas! this crime is
repeated in our days ... at Paris. Yes, even at Paris, by certain
disciples of Erasmus.' It was clearly necessary for the pope and his
little niece to hasten to France, in order to prevent what these
blaspheming monks dared to call the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.
[Sidenote: THE POPE DETERMINES TO GO.]
At last Clement made up his mind. He would brave the fury of the waves,
and risk the attacks of the corsairs, in order to conquer the _soldiers
of Pilate_ and give a royal husband to his niece. The galleys of France,
commanded by the Duke of Albany, left Marseilles in September to fetch
the pope, who had gone to Pisa, making a boast, wherever he went, of the
most noble disinterestedness. 'I am going to this interview,' he said,
'in order to procure the peace of Europe, to prepare an expedition
against the infidels, to lead back the King of England to the right
path, and, in a word, solely for the interests of christendom.' Then,
after thus disguising himself, like the wolf in the fable, under a
borrowed dress, he showed the tip of his ear, and begged the Duke of
Albany to escort _their common relative_ to Nice, where she would wait
for further orders. The honour done to his family was so great that
doubts were continually arising in his mind about the trustworthiness of
the French king's promises. He would not take his niece with him to
Marseilles, for fear he should have to bring her back. He will see
Francis alone first; he will speak to him and sound him. Clement
believed that his piercing eye would read the king's heart to the very
bottom. When all his fears are removed, Catherine shall come to France;
but until then, she shall only go part of the way.[465]
The young lady departed for Nice, and people said, pointing to her as
they saw her going on board ship: 'There is the real cause of the
strange journey of a pope to France! If it were a matter touching the
safety of the Church, Clement would not do so much; but it is to place a
Medici beside a throne, and perhaps set her upon it.'... The French
fleet put to sea: the ship, on whose mainmast the standard of France had
been hoisted, exhibited a sight at once gay and sad. Beneath the flags
and banners, at the side of the Duke of Albany, and in the midst of a
brilliant retinue, might be seen a kind of little fairy, who was then
making her first appearance in the world. She was a young creature, of
middle stature, with sparkling eyes and bell-like voice, who appeared to
possess some supernatural power, and singularly fascinated every one
that came near her. Her enchantments and her philtres were the subtle
poison on which the papacy relied for destroying heresy. This child,
between thirteen and fourteen years of age, skipped with joy about the
stately ship. 'I am going to be the daughter-in-law of the glorious King
of France,' she said to herself. Death, with whom this strange creature
seemed to have made a secret and terrible treaty, was in truth erelong
to raise her to the summit of power. The galleys of Albany, after having
conveyed _the girl_ to Nice (it is Guicciardini's word), returned to
Leghorn, the port of Pisa, and on the 4th of October the pope, with the
cardinals and all his household, put to sea.
[Sidenote: PAPAL PLANS, FRENCH HOPES.]
The papal fleet, all fluttering with banners, had a smooth passage.[466]
Clement could without interruption meditate on a thousand different
projects. Marry Catherine to the son of the King of France; free
himself, thanks to the support of this prince, from the patronage of the
emperor whom he detested; put off indefinitely the council which Charles
had been so bold as to promise to the protestants; and finally crush the
Reformation, both in France and elsewhere.... Such were Clement's
projects during the voyage. Before leaving Rome, he had drawn up (1st of
September) a bull against the heretics; he had it on board the ship, and
he purposed demanding its immediate execution from Francis, as a wedding
present. The winds blew softly in the direction of Marseilles; all
congratulated themselves on the beauty of the passage; but this fleet,
in appearance so inoffensive, which glided so smoothly over the waters
of the Mediterranean, carried, like the bark of Ulysses, stores of
future tempests.
Opinions were much divided in France about the pope's voyage. If Clement
satisfied Francis, the Reform was ruined; if he thwarted the king,
France would follow the example of England. Everybody admitted the
hypothesis that pleased him best. 'Francis and Clement,' said the
reformed, 'follow such opposite courses, that it is impossible for them
to coincide.'—'The king and the pope,' said the ultramontanists, 'are
about to be united by indissoluble bonds, and popery will be restored in
France in all its exclusive supremacy.'[467] There were however some of
the school of Erasmus who remained in doubt. 'As for me,' wrote
Professor Sturm to Bucer, 'I desire much that popery should be
overthrown, but ... I fear greatly that it will be restored.'[468] Sturm
did not compromise himself. To which side will Marseilles make
Francis I. incline? Historians have decided that he was won over to
Rome; but after hearing the historians, we must listen to history.
[Sidenote: THE POPE AT MARSEILLES.]
At the beginning of October 1533, the ancient city of the Phocæans was
in a state of great excitement; the King of France and the pope were
coming; what an honour! It is well known that the inhabitants of that
city are quick, enthusiastic, and fond of show and parade. Watchmen had
been placed on the highest points to telegraph the approaching fleet. At
length, on the 4th of October, the castles of If and Notre Dame de la
Garde suddenly gave the looked-for signals. One cry only was heard in
the streets of Marseilles: 'The flotilla with the pope on board has come
in sight.'[469] A feverish agitation pervaded the city; the sound of
trumpets, clarions, and hautboys filled the air; the people hurried to
the harbour. Nobles and prelates went on board the ships that had been
kept ready; their sails were unfurled, and in a short time this
extemporised fleet saluted that of the pope with deafening acclamations.
Many devout catholics trembled with joy and admiration; they could
hardly believe their eyes. 'Behold the real representative of Christ,'
they said, 'the father of all christians, the only man who can at will
give new laws to the Church;[470] the man who has never been mistaken
and never will be; whose name is alone in the world, _vice-God_ upon
earth.'[471] Clement smiled: in Italy he had never heard such
exclamations or witnessed such enthusiasm. O France! truly art thou the
eldest daughter of the Church! He did not know that vanity, curiosity,
love of pomp, and a fondness for noise had much to do with this rapture,
and that France, like her king Clovis, worships what it has cast down,
and casts down what it has worshipped. The pope had no leisure to
indulge in such reflections. At the moment his galley entered the
harbour, three hundred pieces of artillery fired a salute. Notre Dame de
la Garde, the tower of St. John, the abbey of St. Victor, the harbour
and its vicinity were all on fire.[472]
Francis was not to be seen among the vast and brilliant crowd which
filled Marseilles. There were princes of the blood, prelates,
diplomatists, magistrates, courtiers, and warriors; but the king,
although at the gates of the city, kept himself in the background and
apart. However, when the night came, and everybody had retired to their
quarters to rest after so fatiguing a day, a man, wrapped up in a cloak,
entered the city, glided mysteriously along the dark streets, and
stopped at the gate of the palace where the pope was lodging. This man
was immediately introduced into the apartments where Clement was
preparing to take his repose: it was the King of France.[473]... What
was the object of this nocturnal visit? Was it because the king wished
to sound the pontiff in secret, before receiving him officially? Was it
the etiquette of the time? However that may be, Francis, after a secret
and confidential conversation, returned with the same mystery, wearing a
very satisfied look. The pope had promised everything, all the rights,
all the possessions,—in a word, whatever he had made up his mind not to
give.
The next day the pope, dressed in his pontifical robes, and seated in a
magnificent chair borne on men's shoulders, made his solemn entry,
attended by his cardinals, also in all the brilliancy of their costume,
and by a great number of lords and ladies of France and Italy.[474]
[Sidenote: LATIN ADDRESS TO THE POPE.]
Early in the morning, and while the streets were echoing with cries of
joy, the president of the parliament, living in one of the handsomest
houses of Marseilles, was pacing his room with anxious brow,
gesticulating and carefully repeating some Latin phrases. That
magistrate had been commissioned, as a great orator, to deliver an
address to the pope; but as unfortunately Latin was not familiar to him,
he had had his speech written out beforehand, and by dint of labour he
had so far committed it to memory, as to be able to repeat it
off-hand—provided there was no change made in it.
At the same moment, a messenger from the pope appeared at the king's
levée with a paper, and requested, on behalf of the pontiff, who had a
great fear of the terrible Charles V., that the said oration should be
delivered as it was written on the paper he brought with him, so as to
give the emperor no offence. Francis despatched Clement's draft to the
president. What a disappointment! The new address was precisely the
contrary of what he had been learning by heart. The famous orator became
confused: he did not know what to do.... Alas! he had but a few minutes
to spare, and the sonorous words which would have offended the great
emperor, and which he had counted on reciting in his loudest voice, kept
recurring to his mind. He fancied himself in the presence of that
magnificent assembly of proud Roman prelates who knew Latin so well....
There could be no doubt about it ... he would become embarrassed, he
would stammer, he would not remember what he had to say, and would break
down. He was quite in a fever. The president, no longer master of
himself, hurried off to the king, and begged him to give the office to
some one else. 'Very well, then,' said Francis to Bishop du Bellay, 'you
must undertake it.' At that moment the procession started. It reached
its destination; the Bishop of Paris, although taken unawares, put a
bold face upon the matter; and being a good Latin scholar and able
orator, he executed his commission wonderfully well.[475]
The official conferences began shortly after, and neither king nor pope
spared protestations, stratagems, or falsehoods: the pope particularly
excelled in the latter article. 'He used so much artifice in the
business,' says Guicciardini,[476] 'that the king confided marvellously
in him.' What Francis required to compensate him for the misalliance was
not much: he asked for the duchies of Urbino and Milan, Pisa, Leghorn,
Reggio, Modena, Parma, Piacenza, and Genoa. But if the king was
inexhaustible in his demands, the pope was equally so in his promises,
being the more liberal as he intended to give nothing. Clement, touched
by the good-nature of Francis, who appeared to believe all that was told
him, sent at last to Nice for the youthful Catherine.
[Sidenote: BULL AGAINST HERETICS.]
It was not decorous for the pope to appear to have come so far only to
give away a young lady. He proposed, therefore, in order to conceal his
intrigues, to issue the bull against the heretics which he had brought
with him. It was his wedding present, and nothing could better
inaugurate Catherine's entry into France. But the diplomatist, William
du Bellay, did all in his power to prevent this truly Roman transaction.
He had several very animated conversations on this subject with the
cardinals and with the pope himself. He represented to him the necessity
of satisfying the protestants of Germany: 'A free council and mutual
concessions,' he said; but Clement was deaf. Du Bellay would not give
way; he struggled manfully with the pontiff, and conjured him not to
attempt to put down the Reformation with violence.[477] He used similar
language to Francis, and laid before him some letters which he had
recently received from Germany; but the king replied that he was taking
the matter too seriously. The bull of excommunication was simply a
_manner_, a papal form ... and nothing more. The bull was published, and
there was a great noise about it. Francis and Clement, each believing in
the other's good faith, were deceiving one another. The only truth in
all this Marseilles business was the gift the pope made to France of
Catherine de Medici. That was quite enough certainly.
As soon as the pope's niece arrived, preparations were made for the
marriage. The ministers of the king and of the pope took the contract in
hand, and the latter having spoken of an annuity of one hundred thousand
crowns: 'It is very little for so noble an alliance,' said the
treasurers of Francis I.—'True,' replied Strozzi, one of Clement's most
able servants; 'but observe that her grace the Duchess of Urbino brings
moreover three rings of inestimable value ... Genoa, Milan, and
Naples.'[478] These diamonds, whose brilliancy was to dazzle the king
and France, never shone on Catherine's fingers or on the crown of Henry
II.
[Sidenote: MARRIAGE OF CATHERINE AND HENRY.]
The ceremony was conducted with great magnificence. The bride advanced,
young, brilliant, radiant with joy, with smiling lips and sparkling eyes,
her head adorned with gold, pearls, and flowers; and in her train ...
Death.... Death, who was always her faithful follower, who served
her even when she would have averted his dart; who, by striking the
dauphin, was to make her the wife of the heir to the crown; by striking
her father-in-law, to make her queen; and by striking down successively
her husband and all her sons, to render her supreme controller of the
destinies of France. In gratitude, therefore, towards her mysterious and
sinister ally, the Florentine woman was forty years later, and in a
night of August, to give him a magnificent entertainment in the streets
of Paris, to fill a lake with blood that he might bathe therein, and
organise the most terrible festival that had ever been held in honour of
Death. Catherine approached the altar, trembling a little, though not
agitated. The pope officiated, desirous of personally completing the
grandeur of his house, and tapers without number were lighted. The King
and Queen of France, with a crowd of courtiers dressed in the richest
costumes, surrounded the altar. Catherine de Medici placed her cold hand
in the faithless hand of Henry of Valois, which was to deprive the
Reform of all liberty, and France herself, in the _Unhappy Peace_, of
her glory and her conquests. Clement gave his pontifical blessing to
this tragic pair. The marriage was concluded; the _girl_, as
Guicciardini calls her, was a wife; her eyes glanced as with fire. Was
it a beam of happiness and pride? Probably. We might ask also if it was
not the joy of the hyena scenting from afar the graves where it could
feast on the bodies of the dead; or of the tiger espying from its lair
in the African desert the groups of travellers upon whom it might spring
and quench its raging thirst for blood. But although the appetites which
manifested themselves in the St. Bartholomew massacre already existed in
the germ in this young wife, there is no evidence (it must be
acknowledged) that she allowed herself to be governed at Marseilles by
these cruel promptings.
There are creatures accursed of God, who, under a dazzling veil and fair
outward show, impart to a nation an active power of contagion, the venom
of corruption, an invisible principle of death which, circulating
through the veins, infects with its morbid properties all parts of the
body, and strikes the physical powers with general prostration. It was
thus at the commencement of the history of the human race that a fallen
being deceived man; by him sin entered into the world, and _death by
sin_. This first scene, which stands alone, has been repeated, however,
from time to time in the world, though on a smaller scale. It happened
to France when the daughter of the Medici crept into the family of its
kings. No doubt the disease was already among the people, but
Catherine's arrival was one of those events which bring the corruption
to a head. This woman, so false and dissolute, so vile as to crawl at
the feet of her husband's mistress and pick up secrets for her; this
woman, who gave birth to none but enervated, idiotic, distempered, and
vicious children, not only corrupted her own sons, but infected an
entire brilliant society that might have been noble and just (as Coligny
showed), and instilled her deadly venom into its veins. The niece of the
pope poisoned France.
'Clement's joy was incredible,' says Guicciardini.[479] He had even a
feeling of gratitude, and resolved to give the king four _hats_ for four
French bishops. Did he intend that these hats should supply the place of
Urbino, Genoa, Milan, and Naples? Nobody knows. One of the new cardinals
was Odet de Chatillon, then eleven years old, brother of the immortal
Coligny, and subsequently one of the supporters of protestantism in
France. The king, wishing to appear grateful for so many favours, wrote
to the Bishop of Paris, that 'as the crime of heresy increased and
multiplied, he should proceed to act against the heretics.'—'Do not
fail,' he added.[480] But the Bishop of Paris, brother of the
diplomatist Du Bellay, was the least inclined of all the prelates in
France to persecution. Francis knew this well, and for that very reason,
perhaps, gave him the order.
[Sidenote: THE POPE'S HEALTH DECLINES.]
The pope, delighted at having made so good a bargain in the city of
merchants, embarked on the 20th of November to return to Rome. Excess of
joy was hurtful to him, as it had been to his cousin Leo X. The threats
of the emperor, who demanded a council; the pressure of Francis I., who
claimed Catherine's _three rings_;[481] the quarrels of his two nephews,
who were fighting at Florence,—all filled poor Clement with uneasiness
and sorrow. He told his attendants that his end was near; and
immediately after his return, he had the ring and the garments prepared
which are used at the burial of the popes.[482] His only consolation,
the approaching destruction of the protestants, seemed to fail him in
his last days. Even during his interview with the pope, Francis was
secretly intriguing to unite with the most formidable of the enemies of
Rome. After embracing the old papacy with apparent emotion, the
chivalrous king gallantly held out his hand to the young Reformation. In
the space of two months he had two interviews as opposite as possibly
could be. These two contradictory conferences point out one of the
traits that best characterise the versatile and ambitious Francis. This
modern Janus had a head with two faces. We have just seen that which
looked backwards into the past; we shall soon see that which looked
forwards into the future. But before we follow the King of France in his
oscillation towards Germany and the protestants, we must return to
Calvin. In October 1533, Francis and Clement had met at Marseilles; and
on the 1st of November, while those princes were still diplomatising, a
great evangelical demonstration took place at Paris.
[Footnote 458: Henry VIII. to Norfolk, Aug. 8, 1533. _State Papers_,
vii. p. 493.]
[Footnote 459: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 195.]
[Footnote 460: Ibid. p. 185.]
[Footnote 461: 'En grand branle.']
[Footnote 462: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 195.]
[Footnote 463: 'Non licere ejus Sanctitati sine Maurorum periculo illuc
accedere.'—Vanner to Cromwell. _State Papers_, vii. p. 508.]
[Footnote 464: 'Ob insulas de Yeres, ubi piratarum classis posset ad
intercipiendum pontificem in insidiis latitare.'—Vanner to Cromwell,
_State Papers_, vii. p. 508.]
[Footnote 465: Guicciardini, _Wars of Italy_, ii. bk. xx.]
[Footnote 466: Guicciardini, _Wars of Italy_, ii. bk. xx. p. 901.]
[Footnote 467: 'Papam aut subversum, aut restitutum iri in suam et
inveteratam tyrannidem.'—Sturm to Bucer. Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 468: 'Alterum ego expecto magno cum desiderio, alterum non
mediocriter extimesco.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 469: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 204.]
[Footnote 470: 'Quod illi soli licet pro temporis necessitate novas
leges condere.'—_Dict. Gregorii._]
[Footnote 471: 'Veri Dei vicem gerit in terris.'—_De Translatione
Episc._]
[Footnote 472: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 205. _State Papers_, vii. p. 515.]
[Footnote 473: Guicciardini, _Wars of Italy_, ii. bk. xx. p. 901.]
[Footnote 474: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 205.]
[Footnote 475: Du Bellay, _Mém._ p. 206.]
[Footnote 476: _Wars of Italy_, ii. bk. xx. p. 901.]
[Footnote 477: 'Legatum vehementer contendisse cum romano pontifice
Massiliæ, ne violenter agat.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 721.]
[Footnote 478: Guicciardini, _Hist. des Guerres d'Italie_, ii. liv. xx.
p. 901.]
[Footnote 479: _Guerres d'Italie_, ii. liv. xx. p. 901.]
[Footnote 480: _Lettre close à l'évêque de Paris_, p. 21.]
[Footnote 481: 'S. M. Christᵐᵃ dimando che da sua Santᵃ li fussino
osservate le promesse.'—Soriano, Ranke, _Päpste_, i. p. 127.]
[Footnote 482: Guicciardini, _Guerres d'Italie_, i. liv. xx. p. 902.]
CHAPTER XXX.
ADDRESS OF THE RECTOR TO THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS.
(NOVEMBER 1533.)
Calvin had not quitted Paris. He was at one moment on the boulevards
with the merchant De la Forge, at another in the university quarter with
Cop; in the dwellings of the poor, and the mansions of the nobles,
'increasing greatly the work of the Lord,' says Beza, 'not only by
teaching truth, but also by opposing the heretics.'[483] He then retired
to his chamber and meditated. He turned his piercing glance upon the
future, and fancied he could see, in a time more or less remote and
through certain clouds, the triumph of the Gospel. He knew that the
cause of God in general advances painfully; that there are rocks in the
way; that interest, ignorance, and servility check it at every moment;
that it stumbles and falls, and men may think it ruined. But Calvin
believed that He who is its Head would help it to overcome all its
enemies. 'Only,' he said, 'those who bear its standard must mount to the
assault with unflinching courage.' Calvin, thinking that the time for
the assault had come, desired that in the university itself, from that
pulpit which all Europe respected, the voice of truth should be heard
after centuries of silence. A very natural opportunity occurred.
[Sidenote: THE CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHY.]
During the month of October Cop was much occupied with a task that had
fallen to him. It was the custom of the university for the rector to
deliver an inaugural address in Latin on All Saints' Day in one of the
churches of Paris. Calvin thought that it was his duty to take advantage
of this opportunity to proclaim the Gospel boldly in the face of France.
The rector replied that he was a physician, and that it was difficult
for him to speak like a divine: 'If, however, you will write the
address,' he said, 'I will promise to deliver it.' The two young men
were soon agreed; they understood the risk they ran, but were ready to
incur it, without presumption however, and with prudence. They agreed to
explain the essence of the Gospel before the university, giving it the
academic name of _Christian Philosophy_. 'Christ,' says Calvin, 'desires
us to be like serpents, careful to avoid all that may hurt us; and yet
like doves, who fly without fear and without care, and who offer
themselves innocently to the fowlers who are laying snares for
them.'[484]
All Saints' Day, 1533, having arrived, the university assembled with
great pomp in the Mathurins' church; many were impatient to hear Cop,
whose conduct in the case of the Queen of Navarre had made him an object
of suspicion to the Sorbonne. A great number of monks, and especially of
Franciscans, took their places and opened their ears. There were however
scattered about the church many steadfast friends of the Gospel, who had
come to be present at the assault and perhaps witness the triumph of
their faith. Among them, and on a bench apart, sat a young man of humble
appearance, calm, modest, and attentive to all that was said. Nobody
suspected that it was he (Calvin) who was about to set the university,
and indeed all France, in commotion. The hour having come, all the
dignitaries, professors, and students fixed their eager eyes upon Cop as
he rose to speak. He pronounced the opening address 'in a very different
fashion,' says Theodore Beza, 'from what was usual.' There was a
simplicity and life in his delivery which contrasted strongly with the
dryness and exaggeration of the old doctors. The discourse is of
importance in the history of the Reformation; we shall give it,
therefore, in part, all the more because it has lain unknown until this
hour among the manuscripts of the library of Geneva, and is now first
presented to the christian public.[485]
[Sidenote: COP'S INAUGURAL DISCOURSE.]
'Christian philosophy is a great thing,' said the rector; 'a thing too
excellent for any tongue to express and even for any mind to conceive
its value. The gift of God to man by Jesus Christ himself, it teaches us
to know that true happiness which deceives nobody, making us believe and
comprehend that we are truly the sons of God.... The brightness of the
splendour of this wisdom of God eclipses all the glimmerings of the
wisdom of the world. It places its possessors as far above the common
order of men, as that order is itself above the brutes.[486] The mind of
man, opened and enlarged by the divine hand, then understands things
infinitely more sublime than all those which are learnt from our feeble
humanity. How admirable, how holy must this divine philosophy be, since,
in order to bring it to men, God was willing to become man, and, to
teach it to us, the Immortal put on mortality! Could God better manifest
his love to us than by the gift of his eternal Word? What stronger and
tenderer bond could God establish between himself and us than by
becoming a man such as we are? Sirs, let us praise the other sciences, I
approve of it; let us admire logic, natural philosophy, and ethics, in
consideration of their utility; but who would dare compare them with
that other philosophy, which explains what philosophers have long been
seeking after and never found ... the will of God? And what is the
hidden will that is revealed to us here? It is this: _The grace of God
alone remits sins.[487]... The Holy Ghost, which sanctifies all hearts
and gives eternal life, is promised to all christians._[488] If there is
any one among you who does not praise this science above all other
sciences, I would ask him, what will he praise? Would you delight the
mind of man, give him repose of heart, teach him to live holy and
happily? Christian philosophy abundantly supplies him with these
admirable blessings; and, at the same time, it subdues, as with a
wholesome rein, the impetuous movements of the soul.[489] Sirs, since
the dignity and glory of this Gospel are so great, how I rejoice that
the office with which I am invested calls upon me to lay it before you
to-day!'
This appeared a strange exordium to a great number of hearers: What! not
a word about the saints whom all catholics glorify on this day?... Let
us wait, however, and see.
The rector then announced that according to custom he would explain the
Gospel of the day, that is, the beatitudes pronounced by Jesus on the
mountain. 'But first of all,' he said, 'unite with me in earnest prayer
to Christ, who is _the true and only intercessor with the Father_, in
order that by his fertilising Spirit he may enlighten our
understandings, and that _our discourse may praise him, savour of him,
be full of him, and reflect his image, so that this divine Saviour,
penetrating our souls, may water them with the dew of his heavenly
grace_!'[490]
Then the rector explained the happiness of those who are _poor in
spirit_, who _mourn_, who _hunger and thirst after righteousness_.
[Sidenote: THE DISCOURSE CAUSES A SENSATION.]
The university had never heard the like. An admirable proportion was
observed throughout the address; it was academical and yet evangelical—a
thing not often seen. Calvin had discovered that tongue of the wise
which useth knowledge aright. But the enemies of the Gospel were not
deceived. Through the thin veil with which he had covered the grandeur
of divine love, they discovered those heights and depths of grace which
are a source of joy to the true christian, but an object of abhorrence
to the adversary. There was an indescribable uneasiness among the
auditory. Certain of the hearers exchanged glances, in this way
indicating to one another the passages which seemed to them the most
reprehensible. University professors, priests, monks, and students—all
listened with astonishment to such unusual language. Here and there in
the congregation signs of approbation might be observed, but far more
numerous signs of anger. Two Franciscans, in particular, were so excited
that they could scarcely keep their seats; and when the assembly broke
up they were heard expressing their indignation in loud terms: 'Grace ...
God's pardon ... the Holy Ghost ... there is abundance of all that
in the rector's discourse; but of penance, indulgences, and meritorious
works ... not a word!' It was pointed out to them that the rector,
according to custom, had ended his exordium with the salutation which
the angel had addressed to Mary; but that, in the opinion of the monks,
was a mere form. The words being in Scripture, how could the rector
refuse to pronounce them? Had he not besides begun by saying that Christ
is the _only true_ intercessor, _verus et unus apud Patrem
intercessor_?... What is left then to Mary, except that she is the
mother of the Saviour? The Sorbonne was filled with anger and alarm....
To select the day of the festival of _All Saints_, in order to proclaim
that there is _only one_ intercessor! Such a crime must not remain
unpunished. If Cop wished to produce a sensation, the monks will produce
one also! The two Franciscans having consulted with their friends, their
opinion was that the university was not to be trusted. Consequently they
hastened to the parliament and laid the rector's heretical propositions
before it.
Cop and Calvin had each retired separately, and been visited in their
respective apartments by many of their friends. Some of them did not
approve of these great manifestations; they would have wished the
evangelicals to be content with a few small conventicles here and there
in retired places. Calvin did not agree with them. In his opinion there
was one single universal christian Church, which had existed since the
time of the apostles, and would exist always. The errors and abuses
abounding in christendom, profane priests, hypocrites, scandalous
sinners, do not prevent the Church from existing. True, it is often
reduced to little more than a small humble flock; but the flock exists,
and it must, whenever it has the opportunity, manifest itself in
opposition to a fallen catholicism. The reformers themselves, though it
is frequently forgotten, maintained the doctrine of a universal Church;
but while Rome counts among the number of signs which characterise it 'a
certain pomp and temporal possessions,'[491] the evangelical doctors, on
the contrary, reckon persecution and the cross as a mark of the true
Church. Cop and Calvin were to make the experiment in their own persons.
[Sidenote: DEBATES IN THE UNIVERSITY.]
The rector was not inclined to give way to the monks: he resolved to
join battle on a question of form, which would dispose his colleagues in
his favour, and perhaps in favour of truth. It was a maxim received in
the university, that all its members, and _a fortiori_ its head, must be
tried first by the corporation, and that it was not permissible to pass
over any degree of jurisdiction.[492] Accordingly, on the 19th of
November, the rector convoked the four faculties, and, having undertaken
the defence of his address, complained bitterly that certain persons had
dared to carry the matter before a foreign body. The privileges of the
university had thus been attacked. 'It has been insulted by this
denunciation of its chief to the parliament,' said Cop; 'and these
impudent informers must give satisfaction for the insult.'
These words excited a great commotion in the assembly. The theologians,
who had hung down their heads in the case of the Queen of Navarre,
... N'osant approfondir
De ces hautes puissances
Les moins pardonnables offenses,
resolved to compensate themselves by falling with their whole strength
upon a plain doctor, who was besides by birth a Swiss. Every one of them
raised a cry against him. The university was divided into two distinct
parties, and the meeting reechoed with the most contradictory appeals.
The theologians shouted loudest: 'Time presses,' they said; 'the crisis
has arrived. If we yield, the Romish doctrine, vanquished and expelled
from the university, will give place to the new errors. Heresy is at our
gates; we must crush it by a single blow!'—'The Gospel, philosophy, and
liberty!' said one party.—'Popery, tradition, and submission!' said the
other. The noise and disturbance became such that nothing could be
heard. At last the question was put to the vote: two faculties, those of
letters and medicine, were for Cop's proposition; and two, namely, law
and divinity, were against it. The rector, to show his moderation,
refused to vote, being unwilling to give the victory to himself.[493]
The meeting broke up in the greatest confusion.
The rector's address, and the discussions to which it gave rise, made a
great noise at court as well as in the city; but no one took more
interest in it than the Queen of Navarre. The question of her poetry had
been the first act; Calvin's address was the second. Margaret knew that
he was the real author of the discourse. She always granted her special
patronage to the students trained in any of her schools. She watched the
young scholars with the most affectionate interest, and rejoiced in
their successes. There was not one of them that could be compared with
Calvin, who had studied at Bourges, Margaret's university. The purity of
his doctrine, the boldness of his profession, the majesty of his
language, astonished everybody, and had particularly struck the queen.
Calvin was one of her students for whom she anticipated the highest
destinies. That princess was not indeed formed for resistance; the
mildness of her character inclined her to yield; and of this she was
well aware. About this time, being commissioned by the king to transact
certain business with one of her relations, a very headstrong woman, she
wrote to Montmorency, 'Employ a head better steeled than mine, or you
will not succeed. She is a Norman woman, and smells of the sea; I am an
Anjoumoise, sprinkled with the soft waters of the Charente.'[494] But,
mild as she was, she took this matter of Cop and Calvin seriously to
heart. When the friends of the Gospel placed the candle boldly on the
candlestick to give light to all France, should a violent wind come and
extinguish it?
[Sidenote: INTERVIEW OF CALVIN AND MARGARET.]
The Queen of Navarre summoned Calvin to the court, Beza informs
us.[495]... The news circulated immediately among the evangelical
christians, who entertained great hopes from it. 'The Queen of Navarre,'
they said, 'the king's only sister, is favourable to true religion.
Perhaps the Lord, by the intervention of that admirable woman, will
disperse the impending storm.'[496] Calvin accordingly went to court.
The ladies-in-waiting having introduced him into the queen's apartment,
she rose to meet him, and made him sit down by her side, 'receiving him
with great honour,' says Beza, 'and hearing him with much
pleasure.'[497] The two finest geniuses which France then possessed were
thus brought face to face—the man of the people and the queen, so
different in outward appearance and even as to the point of view from
which they regarded the Reform, but yet both animated with an ardent
desire to see the triumph of the Gospel. They communicated their
thoughts to each other. Calvin, notwithstanding the persecution, was
full of courage. He knew that the Church of Christ is exposed to changes
and error, like all human things, and the state of christendom, in his
opinion, showed this full clearly; but he believed that it possessed an
incorruptible power of life, and that, at the very moment when it seemed
entirely fallen and ruined, it had by the Holy Spirit the ability to
rise again and be renewed. The hour of this renewal had arrived, and it
was as impossible for men to retard it as to prevent the spring-time
from budding and covering the earth with leaves, blossoms, and fruit.
Yet Calvin was under no delusion as to the dangers which threatened
evangelical christianity. 'When the peril is imminent,' he said, 'it is
not the time to indulge ourselves like silly, careless people; the fear
of danger, serving as an incentive, should lead us to ask for God's
help, and to put on our armour without trembling.' The queen promised to
use all her influence to calm the storm. Calvin was conducted out of the
palace with the same attentions that had been paid him when he entered
it. He afterwards spoke about this interview to Theodore Beza, who has
handed it down to us.[498]
Still the sky became more threatening. The parliament, paying no respect
to the privileges of the university, had entertained the complaint of
the monks; the rector, therefore, received a message from this sovereign
court summoning him to appear before it. Calvin knew quite well that a
similar process would soon reach him; but he never shrank back either
from before the despotism of an unjust power, or from the popular fury.
'We are not in the school of a Plato,' he said, 'where, sitting in the
shade, we can indulge in idle discussions. Christ nobly maintained his
doctrines before Pilate, and can we be so cowardly as to forsake
him?'[499] Cop, strengthened by his friend, determined to appear to the
summons of the parliament. That body had great power, no doubt; but the
rector said to himself that the university possessed incontestable
privileges, and that all learned Europe had been for many centuries
almost at its feet. He resolved to support its rights, to accuse his
accusers, and to reprimand the parliament for stepping out of the lawful
course. Cop, therefore, got himself ready to appear, as became the head
of the first university of the christian world. He put on his academical
robes, and preceded by the beadles and apparitors, with their maces and
gold-headed staves,[500] set out with great ceremony for the Palace of
Justice.
[Sidenote: COP GOES IN STATE TO THE PARLIAMENT.]
He was going to his death. The parliament, as well as Calvin, had
understood the position, but had arrived at very different conclusions.
It saw that the hour was come to strike the blow that would crush the
Reformation, and had resolved to arrest the rector even in the court.
The absence of the king was an opportunity of which they must hasten to
take advantage. A signal vengeance, inflicted in full parliament, was to
expiate a crime not less signal, committed in the presence of the whole
university. A member of the court, converted to the Gospel, determined
to save the unfortunate Cop, and sent a trusty man to warn him of the
impending danger. As he quitted the great hall, the messenger caught
sight of the archers who had been sent for to arrest the rector: might
it not be too late to save him? Cop was already on the road and
approaching the palace, accompanied by a crowd of students, citizens,
and common people, some full of good wishes, others curious to learn the
issue of this singular duel between the parliament and the university.
The man sent to forewarn the rector arrived just as the university
procession was passing through a narrow street. Taking advantage of a
momentary confusion occasioned by the crowd, he approached Cop, and
whispered in his ear: 'Beware of the enemy;[501] they intend shutting
you up in the Conciergerie; Berquin's fate awaits you; I have seen the
officers authorised to seize you; if you go farther, you are a dead
man.' ... What was to be done?... If it had been Calvin instead of Cop,
he would perhaps have gone on. I cannot tell; for the peril was
imminent, and it appeared doubtful if anything would be gained by
braving it. However that may be, Cop was only Calvin's double; it was
his friend's faith that urged him forward more perhaps than his own. To
stand firm in the day of tempest, man must cling to the rock without
human help; Cop, overtaken by this news of death at the very moment he
fancied he was marching to victory, lost his presence of mind, stopped
the procession, was suddenly surrounded by several friends, and, the
disorder being thus augmented, he escaped and hastily returned home.[502]
[Sidenote: THE RECTOR'S FLIGHT.]
Where shall he go now? There could be no doubt that the parliament would
seize him wherever he could be found; his friends therefore insisted
that he should quit France. He was strongly inclined to do so: Basle,
the asylum of his master Erasmus, was his native place, and he was sure
of finding a shelter there. Cop flung off the academical dress, the cap
and gown, which would have betrayed him;[503] caught up hurriedly what
was necessary for his journey, and by mistake, some say, carried away
the university seal with him.[504] I rather believe he did so
designedly; compelled to yield to force, he desired, even when far from
Paris, to retain the insignia of that illustrious body. His friends
hurried him; at any moment the house might be surrounded; he quitted it
stealthily, escaped out of Paris, and fled along the road which leads to
Basle, using every precaution to conceal himself from the pursuit of his
enemies. When the archers went to his house, they searched it in vain:
the rector had disappeared.
The parliament, exasperated at this escape, promised a reward of three
hundred crowns to any one who should bring back the fugitive rector,
_dead or alive_.[505] But Cop in his disguise eluded every eye; he
succeeded through innumerable dangers in getting safely out of the
kingdom, and arrived in Switzerland. He was saved; but the Reformation
was threatened with a still more terrible blow.
The Roman party consoled themselves a little for this escape by saying
that Cop was only a puppet, and that the man who had pulled the strings
was still in their power. 'It is Calvin,' they said, 'whom we must seize.
He is a daring adventurer, a rash determined man, resolved to make the
world talk of him like that incendiary of the temple of Diana, of whom
history speaks. He will keep all Europe in disquietude, and will build
up a new world. If he is permitted to live, he will be the Luther ...
the firebrand of France.'[506]
The lieutenant-criminal, Jean Morin, had kept his eye for some time upon
the young doctor. He had discovered his activity in increasing the
heretical sect, and also his secret conferences with Cop. His agents
were on his track whenever Calvin went by night to teach from house to
house.[507]... Cop was the shadow, said the monks; if the shadow escapes
us, let us strike the substance. The parliament ordered the
lieutenant-criminal to seize the reformer and shut him up in the
Conciergerie.
[Sidenote: FLIGHT OF CALVIN.]
Calvin, trusting to his obscurity and, under God, to the protection of
the Queen of Navarre, was sitting quietly in his room in the college of
Fortret.[508] He was not however free from emotion; he was thinking of
what had happened to Cop, but did not believe that the persecution would
reach him. His friends, however, did not share in this rash security.
Those who had helped Cop to escape, seeing the rector out of his
enemies' reach, said to themselves that the same danger threatened
Calvin.[509] They entered his chamber at a time when they were least
expected. 'Fly!' they said to him, 'or you are lost.' He still
hesitated. Meanwhile the lieutenant-criminal arrived before the college
with his sergeants. Several students immediately hurried to their
comrade, told him what was going on, and entreated him to flee. But
scarcely have they spoken, when heavy steps are heard: it is no longer
time.... The officers are there! It was the noise made by them at
Calvin's door (says an historian) which made him comprehend the danger
that threatened him. Perhaps the college gate is meant, rather than the
door of the reformer's own room.[510] In either case, the moment was
critical; but if they could manage to gain only a few minutes, the young
evangelist might escape. His noble, frank, and sympathetic soul
conciliated the hearts of all who knew him. He always possessed devoted
friends, and they did not fail him now. The window of his room opened
into the street of the Bernardins. They lost not a moment: some of those
who came to warn him engaged the attention of Morin and his officers for
a few minutes; others remaining with Calvin twisted the bed-clothes into
a rope, and fastened them to the window. Calvin, leaving his manuscripts
scattered about, caught hold of the sheets and lowered himself down to
the ground.[511] He was not the first of Christ's servants who had taken
that road to escape death. When the Jews of Damascus conspired against
Paul, 'the disciples took him by night and let him down by the wall in a
basket.'—'Thus early,' says Calvin, 'Paul went through his
apprenticeship of carrying the cross in after years.'[512]
He had hardly disappeared when the lieutenant-criminal, notorious for
his excessive cruelty,[513] entered the room, and was astonished to find
no one there. The youthful doctor had escaped like a bird from the net
of the fowler. Morin ordered some of his sergeants to pursue the
fugitive, and then proceeded to examine carefully all the heretic's
papers, hoping to find something that might compromise other Lutherans.
He did lay his hand on certain letters and documents which afterwards
exposed Calvin's friends to great danger, and even to death.[514] Morin
docketed them, tied them up carefully in a bundle, and withdrew. The
cruel hatred which animated him against the evangelical christians had
been still further increased by his failure.
Calvin, having landed in the street of the Bernardins, entered that of
St. Victor, and then proceeded towards the suburb of that name. At the
extremity of this suburb, not far from the open country (a catholic
historian informs us), dwelt a vine-dresser, a member of the little
church of Paris. Calvin went to this honest protestant's and told him
what had just happened. The vine-dresser, who probably had heard him
explain the Scriptures at their secret meetings, moved with a fatherly
affection for the young man, proposed to change clothes with him.
Forthwith, says the canon to whom we are indebted for the account,
Calvin took off his own garments and put on the peasant's old-fashioned
coat. With a hoe on one shoulder, and a wallet on the other, in which
the vine-dresser had placed some provisions, he started again. If Morin
had sent his officers after him, they might have passed by the fugitive
reformer under this rustic disguise.
[Sidenote: CALVIN IS RECOGNISED.]
He was not far beyond the suburbs of Paris, however, when he saw a canon
whom he knew coming towards him. The latter with astonishment fixed a
curious look on the vine-dresser, and fancying him to be very unlike a
stout peasant, he drew near, stopped, and recognised him. He knew what
was the matter, for all Paris was full of it. The canon immediately
remonstrated with him: 'Change your manner of life,' he said; 'look to
your salvation, and I will promise to procure you _a good appointment_.'
But Calvin, 'who was hot-headed,' replied: 'I shall go through with it
to the last.'[515] The canon afterwards related this incident to the
Abbot de Genlis, who told it to Desmay.[516]
Is this a story invented in the idle talk of a cloister? I think not.
Some of the details, particularly the language of the canon, render it
probable. It was also by the promise of a 'good appointment' that
Francis de Sales endeavoured to win over Theodore Beza. Simony is a sin
so _innocent_ that three priests, a canon, an abbot, and a doctor of the
Sorbonne, combine to relate this peccadillo. If the language of the
canon is in conformity with his character, Calvin's answer, 'I will go
through with it to the last,' is also in his manner. Although we may
have some trouble to picture the young reformer disguised as a peasant,
with his wallet and hoe, we thought it our duty to relate an incident
transmitted to us by his enemies. The circumstance is really not
singular. Calvin was then beginning an exodus which has gone on
unceasingly for nearly three centuries. The disciples of the Gospel in
France, summoned to abjure Christ, have fled from their executioners by
thousands, and under various disguises. And if the gravity of history
permitted the author to revert to the stories that charmed his
childhood, he could tell how many a time, seated at the feet of his
grandmother and listening with attentive ear, he has heard her describe
how her mother, a little girl at the time of the Revocation in 1685,
escaped from France, concealed in a basket which her father, a pious
huguenot, disguised as a peasant, carried carefully on his back.
Calvin, having escaped his enemies, hurried away from the capital, from
his cherished studies and his brethren, and wandered up and down,
avoiding the places where he might be recognised. He thought over all
that had happened, and his meditative mind drew wholesome lessons from
it. He learnt from his own experience by what token to recognise the
true Church of Christ. 'We should lose our labour,' he said in later
days, thinking perhaps of this circumstance, 'if we wished to separate
Christ from his cross; it is a natural thing for the world to hate
Christ, even in his members. There will always be wicked men to prick us
like thorns. If they do not draw the sword, they spit out their venom,
and either gnash their teeth or excite some great disturbance.' The
sword was already 'drawn' against him: acting, therefore, with prudence,
he followed the least frequented roads, sleeping in the cottages or the
mansions of his friends. It is asserted that being known by the Sieur de
Hasseville, whose château was situated beyond Versailles, he remained
there some time in hiding.[517]
The king's first movement, when he heard of Cop's business and the
flight of Calvin, was one of anger and persecution. Duprat, formerly
first president of parliament, was much exasperated at the affront
offered to that body. Francis commanded every measure to be taken to
discover the person who had warned Cop of his danger; he would have had
him punished severely as a favourer of heresy.[518] At the same time, he
ordered the prosecution of those persons whom the papers seized in
Calvin's room pointed out as partisans of the new doctrine.
[Sidenote: MANY EVANGELICALS QUIT PARIS.]
There was a general alarm among the evangelicals, and many left Paris. A
Dominican friar, brother of De la Croix, feeling a growing thirst for
knowledge, deliberated in his convent whether he ought not to remove to
a country where the Gospel was preached freely.[519] He was one of those
compromised by Calvin's papers. He therefore made his escape, reached
Neufchatel, and thence proceeded to Geneva, where we shall meet him
again.
The greater part of the friends of the Gospel, however, remained in
France: Margaret exerted all her influence with her brother to ward off
the impending blow, and succeeded in appeasing the storm.[520] Francis
was always between two contrary currents, one coming from Duprat, the
other from his sister; and once more he followed the better.
The Queen of Navarre, exhausted by all these shocks, disgusted with the
dissipations of the court, distressed by the hatred of which the Gospel
was the object among all around her, turned her face towards the
Pyrenees. Paris, St. Germain, Fontainebleau, had no more charms for her;
besides, her health was not strong, and she desired to pass the winter
at Pau. But, above all, she sighed for solitude, liberty, and
meditation; she had need of Christ. She therefore bade farewell to the
brilliant court of France, and departed for the quiet Béarn.
Adieu! pomps, pleasures, now adieu!
No longer will I sort with you!
Other pleasure seek I none
Than in my Bridegroom alone!
For my honour and my having
Is in Jesus: him receiving,
I'll not leave him for the fleeting!...
Adieu, adieu![521]
Margaret arrived in the Pyrenees.
[Footnote 483: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. Eccl._ i. p. 9.]
[Footnote 484: Calvini _Opera_.]
[Footnote 485: The document is in the library of Geneva (MS. 145). It
has on the margin: 'Hæc Johannes Calvinus _propria manu_ descripsit, et
est _auctor_.' Dr. Bonnet came upon it in the course of his researches
for his edition of Calvin's Letters, and gave the author a copy.]
[Footnote 486: 'Hac qui excellunt, tantum prope reliquæ hominum
multitudini præstare mihi videntur, quantum homines belluis
antecedunt.'—Geneva MSS. 145.]
[Footnote 487: 'Sola Dei gratia peccata remittit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 488: 'Spiritum sanctum, qui corda sanctificat et vitam æternam
adfert, omnibus christianis pollicetur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 489: 'Motus animi turbulentos, quasi habenis quibusdam.'—
Geneva MS.]
[Footnote 490: 'Ut tota nostra oratio illum laudet, illum sapiat, illum
spiret, illum referat. Rogabimus ut in mentes nostras illabatur, nosque
gratiæ cœlestis succo irrigare dignetur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 491: Bellarmine, _De Controversiis_.]
[Footnote 492: Crévier, _Hist. de l'Université_, v. p. 275.]
[Footnote 493: Crévier, _Hist. de l'Université_, v. p. 276.]
[Footnote 494: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 287.]
[Footnote 495: 'In aulam.'—Bezæ _Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 496: 'Hanc tempestatem Dominus, reginæ Navariensis, piis tunc
admodum faventis, intercessione, dissipavit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 497: 'Ibique perhonorifice ab ea accepto et audito Calvino.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 498: Théod. de Bèze, _Vie de Calvin_, p. 14. Calvini _Opera_,
passim.]
[Footnote 499: Calvini _Opera_, i. pars iii. pp. 1002, 1003.]
[Footnote 500: 'Citatus rector sese quidem in viam cum suis
apparitoribus dedit.'—Bezæ _Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 501: 'Ut sibi ab adversariis caveret.'—Bezæ _Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 502: 'Domum reversus.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 503: Maimbourg, _Hist. du Calvinisme_, p. 58.]
[Footnote 504: 'Ablato secum, forte per imprudentiam, signo
universitatis.'—Bucer to Blaarer, Jan. 18, 1534.]
[Footnote 505: 'CCC coronatos ei qui fugitivum rectorem, vivum vel
mortuum adducat.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 506: Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, liv. vii. ch. viii.]
[Footnote 507: Maimbourg, _Hist. du Calvinisme_, p. 58.]
[Footnote 508: Gaillard, _Hist. de François I._ iv. p. 274.]
[Footnote 509: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. des Egl. Réf._ i. p. 9.]
[Footnote 510: Varillas, _Hist. des Revolutions Religieuses_,
ii. p. 467. This writer is not always correct.]
[Footnote 511: Drelincourt, _Défense de Calvin_, pp. 35, 169.]
[Footnote 512: Acts ix. 25.]
[Footnote 513: 'Morinus, cujus adhuc nomen ab insigni sævitia
celebratur.'—Bezæ _Vita Calvini_.]
[Footnote 514: 'Deprehensis, inter schedas, multis amicorum litteris, ut
plurimi in maximum vitæ discrimen incurrerent.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 515: 'Je poursuivrai tout outre.']
[Footnote 516: Desmay, _Jean Calvin Hérésiarque_, p. 45. Drelincourt,
_Défense de Calvin_, p. 175.]
[Footnote 517: Casan, _Statistique de Mantes_. _France Protestante_, i.
p. 113.]
[Footnote 518: Registres du Parlement.]
[Footnote 519: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 106.]
[Footnote 520: Gaillard, _Hist. de François I_. iv. p. 275.]
[Footnote 521: _Les Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. p. 518.]
CHAPTER XXXI.
CONFERENCE AND ALLIANCE BETWEEN FRANCIS I. AND PHILIP
OF HESSE AT BAR-LE-DUC.
(WINTER 1533-34.)
[Sidenote: PROPOSED GERMAN ALLIANCE.]
Almost about the same time, Francis bent his steps towards the Rhine.
The establishment of the Reform throughout Europe depended, as many
thought, on the union of France with protestant Germany. This union
would emancipate France from the papal supremacy, and all christendom
would then be seen turning to the Gospel. The king was preparing to hold
a conference with the most decided of the protestant princes of Germany.
Rarely has an interview between two sovereigns been of so much
importance.
Francis I. had hardly quitted Marseilles and arrived at Avignon, when he
assembled his council (25th of November, 1533), and communicated to it
the desire for an alliance which the German protestants had expressed to
him. A certain shame had prevented him from moving in the matter, amid
the caresses which papacy and royalty were lavishing upon each other at
Marseilles. But now that Clement was on board his galleys, nothing
prevented the King of France, who had given his right hand to the
pontiff, from giving his left to the heretics.[522] There were many
reasons why he should do so. The clergy were not allies for whose
support he was eager: the best orthodoxy, in his eyes, was the iron arm
of the lansquenets. Besides, the opportunity was unprecedented: in fact,
he could at one stroke gain the protestants to his cause, and inflict an
immense injury on Austria—that is to say, on Charles V.
It will no doubt be remembered that the young Prince of Wurtemberg, whom
the emperor was leading in his train across the Alps, having escaped
with his governor, had loudly demanded back the states of which Austria
had robbed his father. Francis was chiefly occupied about him at
Avignon. 'At this place,' says the historian Martin du Bellay, 'the king
assembled his council, and deliberated on a request made to him not only
by young Duke Christopher of Wurtemberg and his father, but by his
uncles, Duke William and Duke Louis of Bavaria. Christopher himself had
written to Francis I.: "Sire," he said, "during the great and long
calamity of my father and myself, what first made hope spring up in our
hearts was the thought that you would interpose your influence to put an
end to our misery.... Your compassion for the afflicted is well known. I
doubt not that, by your assistance, we shall soon be restored to our
rights."'[523]
Francis, always on the watch to injure his rival, was delighted at this
proceeding, and did not conceal his joy from the privy council. 'I
desire much,' he said, 'to see the dukes of Wurtemberg restored to their
states, and should like to help them, as much to weaken the emperor's
power as to acquire new friendships in Germany. But,' he added, 'I would
do it under so _colourable a pretext_, that I may affirm that I have
infringed no treaty.'[524] To humble the emperor and to exalt the
protestants, without appearing to have anything to do with it, was what
Francis desired.
[Sidenote: DU BELLAY SENT TO GERMANY.]
William du Bellay urged the king to return the duke a favourable answer.
A friend of independence and sound liberty, he was at that time the
representative of the old French spirit, as Catherine de Medici was to
become the representative of the new—that is to say, of the Romish
influence under which France has unhappily suffered for nearly three
centuries. It has been sometimes said that the cause of France is the
cause of Rome; but the noblest aspirations of the French people and its
most generous representatives condemn this error. Popery is the cause of
the pope alone; it is not even the cause of Italy; and if the contrary
opinion still exists in France, it is a remnant of the influence of the
Medici.
The transition from Marseilles to Avignon was, however, a little abrupt.
To ally the eldest son of the Church with the protestants at the very
moment he left the pope's arms, in a city which belonged to the holy
see, and in the ancient palace of the pontiffs, seemed strange to the
French, whose eyes were still fascinated by the pomp of Rome. This was
noticed by Du Bellay, who, wishing to facilitate the transition,
explained to the council 'that a diet was about to be held at Augsburg,
where the reparation of a great injustice would be discussed; that an
innocent person implored the king's assistance; that it was the practice
of France to succour the oppressed everywhere; that precious advantages
might result from it ... besides, there could be no doubt of success,
and as the cause of Duke Christopher would be conducted in the diet
according to the rights, usages, immunities, and privileges of the
German nation, the emperor could not prevent justice being done.... Let
us send an ambassador,' added Du Bellay, 'to support the claims of the
dukes of Wurtemberg, and Austria must either restore these princes to
their states, or arouse the hostility of all Germany against it.'[525]
Francis was already gained. He hoped not only to take Wurtemberg from
Austria, but also to get up a general war in Germany between the
protestants and the empire, of which he could take advantage to seize
upon the states which he claimed in Italy. When his detested rival had
fallen beneath their combined blows, the religious question should be
settled. The king, who had meditated all this in the intervals of his
conferences with Clement VII., ordered Du Bellay to proceed to Augsburg
forthwith, and charged him 'to do everything in his power, _with a
sufficiently colourable pretext_, towards the re-establishment of the
dukes of Wurtemberg.'[526] Du Bellay was satisfied. He wished for more
than the king did; he desired to emancipate France from the papal
supremacy, and with that object to draw Francis and protestantism closer
together. That was difficult; but this Wurtemberg affair, which
presented itself simply as a political question, would supply him with
the means of overcoming every difficulty. This was where he would have
to set the wedge in order to split the tree. He thought that he could
make use of it to counteract the effects of the conference which the
king had just held with the pope by contriving another between the two
most anti-papistical princes in Europe. Du Bellay departed, taking the
road through Switzerland.
[Sidenote: DU BELLAY IN SWITZERLAND.]
He had his reasons for adopting this route. The emperor and his brother
consented, indeed, that their rights should be discussed in the diet,
but it was only that they might not appear to refuse to do justice:
everybody knew that Ferdinand had no intention of restoring Wurtemberg.
The balance was at that time pretty even in Germany between Rome and the
Gospel, and the restitution of Wurtemberg would make it incline to the
side of the Reformation. If Austria would not give way, she would have
to be constrained by force of arms. Du Bellay desired, therefore, to
induce the protestant cantons of Switzerland, bordering on Wurtemberg,
to unite their efforts with those of protestant Germany in wresting that
duchy from the Austrian rule. Francis, who knew how to manage such
matters, had conceived the design of placing in the hands of the
Helvetians, probably through Du Bellay, a certain sum of money to cover
the expenses of the campaign. But it seems that the protestant cantons
did not agree to the arrangement.[527]
When Du Bellay arrived at Augsburg, he met the young Duke Christopher.
He entered into conversation with him, and they were henceforth
inseparable: this prince, so amiable, but at the same time so firm, was
his man. He is to be the lever which the counsellor of Francis I. will
use to stir men's minds, and to unite Germany and France.... The first
thing to be done was to restore him to his throne. The French ambassador
paid a visit to the delegates from Austria. 'The king my master,' he
said, 'is delighted that this innocent young man has at last found a
harbour in the midst of the tempest. His father and he have suffered
enough by being driven from their home.... It is time to restore the son
to the father, the father to the son, and to both of them the states of
their ancestors. If entreaties are not sufficient,' added Du Bellay
firmly, 'the king my master will employ all his power.'[528] Thus did
France take up her position as the protector of the distressed; but
there was something else underneath: the chief object of the king was to
strike a blow at the emperor; that of Du Bellay, to strike the pope.
Christopher, who received encouragement from every quarter, appeared
before the diet on the 10th of December, 1533. He was no longer the
captive prince whom Charles had led in his train. The poor young man,
who not long ago had been compelled to flee, leaving his companion
behind him, hidden among the reeds of a marsh in the Norican Alps, stood
now before the German diet, surrounded by a brilliant throng of nobles,
the representatives of the princes who supported his claims, and having
as _assistants_ (that is, as espousing his quarrel) the delegates of
Saxony, Prussia, Brunswick, Mecklenburg, Luneburg, Hesse, Cleves,
Munster, and Juliers. The King of Hungary pleaded his cause in person:
'Most noble seigniors,' he began, 'when we see the young Duke
Christopher of Wurtemberg deprived of his duchy without having done
anything to deserve such punishment, disappointed by the Austrians in
all the hopes they had given him, unworthily treated at the imperial
court,[529] compelled to make his escape by flight, imploring at this
moment by earnest supplications your compassion and your help—we are
profoundly agitated. What! because his father has done wrong, shall this
young man be reduced to a hard and humiliating life? Has not the voice
of God himself declared that the son shall not bear the iniquities of
the father?'
[Sidenote: UNION TO ASSIST WURTEMBERG.]
The Austrian commissioners, finding their position rather embarrassing,
began to temporise, and proposed that Christopher should accept as
compensation some town of small importance. He refused, saying: 'I will
never cease to claim simply and firmly the country of my fathers.'[530]
But Austria, fearing the preponderance of protestantism in Germany,
closed her ears to his just request. At this point France intervened
strongly in favour of the two protestant princes. Du Bellay, after
reminding the diet that Ulrich had confessed his faults, and that he was
much altered by age, long exile, and great trials, continued thus: 'Must
the duke see his only son, a young and innocent prince, who ought to be
the support of his declining years, for ever bearing the weight of his
misfortunes? Will you take into consideration neither the calamitous old
age of the one, nor the unhappy youth of the other? Will you avenge the
sins of the father upon the child who was then in the cradle? The dukes
of Wurtemberg are of high descent. Their punishment has been permitted,
but not their destruction. Help this innocent youth (Christopher),
receive this penitent (Ulrich), and reestablish them both in their
former dignity.'[531]
The Austrians, who were annoyed at seeing the ambassador of the King of
France intermeddling in their affairs, held firm. The deputies of
Saxony, Hesse, Prussia, Mecklenburg, and the other states, now made up
their minds to oppose Austria; they told the young duke that they were
ready to cast their swords in the balance, and Christopher himself
requested Du Bellay 'to change his congratulatory oration into a
comminatory one.'[532]
[Sidenote: DU BELLAY PLEADS AND MENACES.]
When the French envoy was admitted again before the diet, he assumed a
higher tone: 'My lords,' he said, 'will you lend your hands to the ruin
of an innocent person?... If you do so ... I tell you that you will
bring a stain upon your reputation that all the water in the sea will
not be able to wash out. This prince, in heart so proud, in origin so
illustrious, will not endure to live miserably in the country whose
sovereign he is by birth; he will go into a foreign land. And in what
part soever of the world he may be, what will he carry with him?... The
shame of the emperor, the shame of King Ferdinand, the shame of all of
you. Every man, pointing to him, will say: That is he who formerly....
That is he who now.... That is he who through no fault of his own....
That is he who, being compelled to leave Germany.... You understand, my
lords, what is omitted in these sentences; I willingly excuse myself
from completing them ... you will do it yourselves. No! you will not be
insensible to such great misery.... I see your hearts are touched
already.... I see by your gestures and your looks that you feel the
truth of my words.'
Then, making a direct attack upon the emperor and his brother, he said:
'There are people who, very erroneously in my opinion, consult only
their wicked ambition and unbridled covetousness, and who think that, by
oppressing now one and now another, they will subdue all Germany.'
Turning next to the young Prince of Wurtemberg, the representative of
Francis I. continued: 'Duke Christopher, rely upon it the Most Christian
King will do all that he can in your behalf, without injury to his
faith, his honour, and the duties of blood. The court of France has
always been the most liberal of all—ever open to receive exiled and
suffering princes. With greater reason, then, it will not be closed
against you who are its ally ... you who, by the justice of your cause
and by your innocence, appear even to your enemies worthy of pity and
compassion.'[533]
The members of the diet had listened attentively to this speech, and
their countenances showed that they were convinced.[534] The cause was
won: the Swabian league, the creature of Austria and the enemy of the
Reformation, was not to be renewed. Du Bellay left Augsburg, continued
his journey through Germany, and endeavoured to form a new confederation
there[535] against Austria, which Francis I. and Henry VIII. could join.
'If any one should think of invading England,' the latter was told, 'we
would send you soldiers _by the Baltic sea_.'[536] It is to be feared
that this succour by way of the Baltic would have arrived rather late in
the waters of the Thames. But the main thing in Du Bellay's eyes was
action, not diplomatic negotiations. His idea was to unite Francis I.
and the protestants of Germany in a common movement which would lead
France to throw off the ultramontane yoke; but there were only two men
of sufficient energy to undertake it. The first was the king his master,
to whom we now return.
Francis, after leaving Avignon, had gone into Dauphiny, thence to Lyons
and other cities in the east of France. In January 1534, he reached
Bar-le-Duc, thus gradually drawing nearer to the German frontier. The
winter this year was exceedingly severe, but for that the king did not
care: he thought only of uniting France and the protestants by means of
Wurtemberg, as the marriage of Catherine had just united France and the
pope.
[Sidenote: THE LANDGRAVE'S PROJECT.]
The second of the princes from whom an energetic course might be
expected was the Landgrave of Hesse. Of all the protestant leaders of
Germany he was the one whose heart had been least changed by the Gospel.
Without equalling Francis I. in sensuality, he was yet far from being a
pattern of chastity. But, on the other hand, none of the princes
attached to the Reformation equalled him in talent, strength, and
activity. By his character he was the most important man of the
evangelical league, and more than once he exercised a decisive influence
on the progress of the protestant work. Philip, cousin of the Duke of
Wurtemberg, often had him at his court; Ulrich had even taken part in
the famous conference of Marburg. Moved by the misfortunes of this
prince, delighted at the trick Christopher had played the emperor,
touched by the loyalty of the Wurtembergers, who claimed their dukes and
their nationality, impatient to win this part of Germany to the
evangelical faith, he desired to take it away from Austria. To find the
men to do it was easy, if only he had the money ... but money he had
none.
Du Bellay saw that there lay the knot of the affair, and he made haste
to cut it. The clergy of France had just given the king a considerable
sum: could a better use be made of it than this? The French envoy let
Philip know that he might obtain from his master the subsidies he
needed. But more must be done: he must take advantage of the opportunity
to bring together the two most enterprising princes of the epoch. If
they saw and heard one another, they would like each other and bind
themselves in such a manner that the union of France and protestant
Germany would be effected at last. Philip of Hesse received all these
overtures with delight.
[Sidenote: LUTHER OPPOSES THE WAR.]
But fresh obstacles now intervened. The theologians of the Reformation
detested these foreign alliances and wars, which, in their opinion,
defiled the holiest of causes. Luther and Melanchthon waited upon the
elector, conjuring him to oppose the landgrave's rash enterprise; and Du
Bellay found the two reformers employing as much zeal to prevent the
union of Francis and Philip as he to accomplish it. 'Go,' said the
elector to Luther and Melanchthon, 'and prevail upon the landgrave to
change his mind.'
The two doctors, on their way from Wittemberg to Weimar, where they
would meet Philip, conversed about their mission and the landgrave: 'He
is an intelligent prince,' said Luther, 'all animation and impulse, and
of a joyous heart. He has been able to maintain order in his country, so
that Hesse, which is full of forests and mountains where robbers might
find shelter, sees its inhabitants travelling and roaming about, buying
and selling without fear.... If one of them is attacked and robbed,
forthwith the landgrave falls upon the bandits and punishes them. He is
a true man of war—an Arminius. His star never deceives him, and he is
much dreaded by all his adversaries.'[537] 'And I too,' said
Melanchthon, 'love the _Macedonian_' (for so he called Philip of Hesse,
because, in his opinion, that prince had all the shrewdness and courage
of his namesake of Macedon); 'for that reason,' he added, 'I am
unwilling that, being so high, he should risk so great a fall.'[538] The
two theologians had no doubt that a war undertaken against the powerful
house of Austria would end in a frightful catastrophe to the protestants.
When they reached Weimar the two reformers saw the landgrave, and
employed 'their best rhetoric,' says Luther, to dissuade him.[539] The
doctor held very decided opinions on this subject. An alliance with the
King of France, what a disgrace! A war against the emperor, what
madness! 'The devil,' he said, 'desires to govern the nation by making
everybody draw the sword. With what eloquence he strives to convince us
that it is lawful and even necessary! Somebody is injuring these people,
he says; let us make haste to strike and save them! Madman! God sleeps
not, and is no fool; he knows very well how to govern the world.[540] We
have to contend with an enemy against whom no human strength or wisdom
can prevail. If we arm ourselves with iron and steel, with swords and
guns, he has only to breathe upon them, and nothing remains but dust and
ashes.... But if we take upon us the armour of God, the helmet, the
shield, and the sword of the Spirit, then God, if necessary, will hurl
the emperor from his throne,[541] and will keep for us all he has given
us—his Gospel, his kingdom.' Luther and Melanchthon persevered in their
representations to the landgrave, in order to thwart Du Bellay's plans.
'This war,' they said, 'will ruin the cause of the Gospel, and fix on it
an indelible stain. Pray do not disturb the peace.' At these words the
prince's face grew red; he did not like opposition, and gave the two
divines an angry answer.[524] 'They are people who do not understand the
affairs of this world,' he said; and, returning to Hesse, he pursued his
plans with vigour.
He had not long to wait for success. The King of France invited the
landgrave to cross into Lorraine to come to an understanding with him:
he added, 'without forgetting to bring Melanchthon.'[543] Then Philip
held back no longer: a conference with the mighty King of France seemed
to him of the utmost importance. He started on his journey, reached
Deux-Ponts on the 18th of January, 1534; and shortly afterwards that
daring prince, who, by quitting Augsburg in 1530, had thrown the diet
into confusion, and alarmed the cabinet of the emperor,—the most warlike
chief of the evangelical party, the most brilliant enemy of popery,
Philip of Hesse, arrived at Bar-le-Duc, where Francis received him with
the smile which had not left his lips since his meeting with
Clement.[544]
[Sidenote: CONFERENCE OF PHILIP AND FRANCIS.]
The two princes first began to scrutinise each other. The landgrave was
thirty years old, and Francis forty. Philip was short, his eyes large
and bold, and his whole countenance indicated resolution of character.
Politics and religion immediately occupied their attention. The king
expressed himself strongly in favour of the ancient liberties of the
Germanic empire, which Austria threatened, and pronounced distinctly for
the restoration of the dukes of Wurtemberg. Coming then to the grand
question, he said, 'Pray explain to me the state of religious affairs in
Germany; I do not quite understand them.'[545] The landgrave explained
to the king, as well as he could, the causes and true nature of the
Reformation, and the struggles to which it gave rise. Francis I.
consented to hear from the mouth of a prince a statement of those
evangelical principles to which he closed his ears when explained to him
by Zwingle or by Calvin. It is true that Philip presented them rather in
a political light. Francis showed himself favourable to the protestant
princes. 'I refused my consent to a council in Italy,' he said; 'I
desire a neutral city, and instead of an assembly in which the pope can
do what he pleases, I demand a free council.' 'These are the king's very
words,' wrote the landgrave to the elector.[546] Philip of Hesse was
delighted. Assuredly, if Germany, France, England, and other states
should combine against the emperor and the pope, all Europe would be
transformed. 'That is not all,' added the landgrave; 'the king told me
certain things ... which I am sure will please your highness.'[547]
The secret conference being ended: 'Now,' said Francis to the landgrave,
'pray present Melanchthon to me.' He had begged the German prince, as we
have seen, to bring this celebrated doctor with him; the King of France
wished for something more than a diplomatic conference, he desired a
religious one. But the landgrave had not forgotten the interview at
Weimar; and far from inviting Melanchthon, he had carefully concealed
from the Elector of Saxony the resolution he had formed, notwithstanding
his representations, to unite with the King of France in hostilities
against Austria. Philip having answered that Melanchthon was not with
him: 'Impossible!' exclaimed the king, and all the French nobles echoed
the word. 'Impossible! you will not make us believe that Melanchthon is
not with you!'—'Everybody wished to convince us that we had Philip with
us,' said the landgrave.—'Show him to us,' they exclaimed, 'almost using
violence towards us.'[548]
It was indeed a great disappointment. Melanchthon was the most esteemed
representative of the Reformation. Some of those who accompanied the
king had reckoned upon him for a detailed explanation of the evangelical
principles; there were some even who desired to consult him on the best
means of insuring their success in France. In their eyes Melanchthon was
as necessary as Philip. 'As he is not here,' said they, 'you must send
for him.'—'Really,' said the landgrave, smiling, 'these Frenchmen desire
so much to see Melanchthon, that, if we could show him to them, they
would give us as much money as Tetzel and all the indulgence vendors
ever gained with their sanctimonious paper rubbish.'[549]
[Sidenote: THE TREATY SIGNED.]
They consoled themselves for this disappointment by holding a new
conference on the mode of delivering Wurtemberg. The king said that he
could not furnish troops, as that would be contrary to the treaty of
Cambray. 'I do not require soldiers,' answered the landgrave, 'but I
want a subsidy.' But to supply funds for a war against Charles V. was
equally opposed to the treaty. An expedient was sought and soon found.
Duke Ulrich shall sell Montbéliard to France for 125,000 crowns; but it
shall be stipulated, in a secret article, that if the duke repays this
sum within three years (as he did) Francis will give back Montbéliard.
It would appear that England also had something to do with the
subsidy.[550] The treaty was signed on the 27th of January, 1534. It is
worthy of notice that the French historians, even those free from
ultramontane prejudices, do not speak of this conference.
Several other interviews took place. The landgrave was not the best type
of the true Reformation, but he had with him some good evangelicals,
who, in their pious zeal, could show the King of France, as Luther would
have done, the way of salvation. Solemn opportunities are thus given men
of leaving the low grounds in which they live, and rising to the heights
where they will see God. Francis I. closed his eyes. That prince
possessed certain excellent gifts, but his religion 'was nothing but
vanity and empty show.' At Bar-le-Duc he took the mailed hand of the
landgrave, but had no desire for the hand of Jesus Christ.
The landgrave went back into Germany, and the King of France to the
interior of his states. Returning from the two interviews, he
congratulated himself on having embraced the pope at Marseilles and the
protestants at Bar-le-Duc. In proportion as the conference with Clement
had been public, that with Philip had been secret; but, on the other
hand, it had been more confidential and more real. These two meetings,
these two facts in appearance so different, had been produced by the
action of the same law. That law, which Francis wore in his heart, was
hatred and ruin to Charles V. Were not the pope and the landgrave two of
the princes of Europe who detested the emperor most? It was therefore
quite logical and in harmony with the science of Machiavelli for the
king to give one hand to Clement and the other to Philip. Internal
contradictions could not fail to show themselves erelong. In fact, the
Landgrave of Hesse, supported by France, was about to attack Austria,
and establish protestantism in Wurtemberg in the place of popery....
What would Clement say? But before we follow the landgrave upon this
perilous enterprise, let us return into France with the king.
[Footnote 522: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 206.]
[Footnote 523: Martin du Bellay gives Duke Christopher's letter.
_Mémoires_, pp. 207, 208.]
[Footnote 524: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 208.]
[Footnote 525: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 209.]
[Footnote 526: Ibid. p. 210.]
[Footnote 527: 'Regem Franciæ deposuisse certam pecuniæ summam in bellum
pro restitutione junioris ducis Wurtembergensis apud Helvetios.'—_State
Papers_, vii. p. 539.]
[Footnote 528: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 211.]
[Footnote 529: 'Coactus qui fuerit ex ea curia in qua tam indigne
tractabatur, sese subducere.'—Johannes rex Hungariæ, manu propria,
_State Papers_, vii. p. 538.]
[Footnote 530: Ranke, after Gabelkofer and Pfister, iii. p. 453.]
[Footnote 531: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, pp. 213-219. He gives his
brother's speech at full length.]
[Footnote 532: 'Changer son oraison gratulatoire en oraison
comminatoire.']
[Footnote 533: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, pp. 220-232.]
[Footnote 534: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, p. 232.]
[Footnote 535: 'Eum (Du Bellay) laborare inter certos Germaniæ
principes, ut fœdus novum inter se creent.'—Mont to Henry VIII., _State
Papers_, vii. p. 539.]
[Footnote 536: 'Ipsi vero militem per mare Balticum nobis mitterent, si
quis Majestatem Vestram invadere vellet.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 537: 'Der Landgraf ist ein Kriegsmann, ein Arminius.'—Lutheri
_Opp._ xxii. p. 1842.]
[Footnote 538: 'Ego certe τὸν Μακεδόνα non possum non amare et nolim
cadere.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 727.]
[Footnote 539: 'Und brauchten dazu unsere beste Rhetorica.'—Lutheri
_Opp._ xxii. p. 1843.]
[Footnote 540: 'Gott schläfet nicht, ist auch kein Narr: Er weiss sehr
wohl wie man regieren soll.'—Ibid. x. p. 254.]
[Footnote 541: 'Den Kayser von seinem Stuhl stürzen.'—Ibid. xi. p. 434.]
[Footnote 542: 'Da ward S. F. G. gar roth und erzumte sich drüber.']
[Footnote 543: 'Der König von Frankreich an uns beghert hat, das wir zu
Ihm kommen wolten.'—The Landgrave to the Elector, Rommel's
_Urkundenbuch_, p. 53.]
[Footnote 544: Sleidan, i. liv. ix. p. 358.]
[Footnote 545: 'Wie doch die Saclien und Zwiespalten der Religion
standen.'—The Landgrave to the Elector, Rommel's _Urkundenbuch_, p. 53.]
[Footnote 546: 'Und sind das eben die Worte des Konigs.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 547: 'Es haben sich zwischen dem Könige und uns Reden
zugetragen ... daran E. L. gut gefallen haben werden.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 548: 'Der König und die grossen Herrn und jedermann wolten uns
_mit Gewald uberreden_, wir hätten Philippum bey uns.'—The Landgrave to
the Elector, Rommel's _Urkundenbuch_, p. 53.]
[Footnote 549: Rommel's _Urkundenbuch_, p. 53.]
[Footnote 550: _State Papers_, vii. p. 568.]
CHAPTER XXXII.
TRIUMPH AND MARTYRDOM.
(WINTER 1533-34.)
[Sidenote: THE GOSPEL IN THE PARIS CHURCHES.]
The consequences of the meeting at Marseilles were to be felt at Paris.
After Calvin's flight, the Queen of Navarre, as we have seen, had
succeeded in calming the storm; and yet the evangelical cause had never
been nearer a violent persecution. The prisons were soon to be filled;
the fires of martyrdom were soon to be kindled. During the year 1533
_Lutheran_ discourses had greatly multiplied in the churches. 'Many
notable persons,' says the chronicler, 'were at that time preaching in
the city of Paris.'[551] The simplicity, wisdom, and animation of their
language had moved all who heard them. The churches were filled, not
with formal auditors, but with men who received the glad-tidings with
great joy. 'Drunkards had become sober; libertines had become chaste;
the fruits which proceeded from the preaching of the Gospel had
astonished the enemies of light and truth.'
The doctors of the Sorbonne did not wait for the king's orders to attack
the evangelicals; his interview with the pope, and the news of the bull
brought from Rome, had filled the catholic camp with joy. 'What!' they
exclaimed, 'the king is uniting with the pope at Marseilles, and in
Paris the churches are opened to heresy! ... let us make haste and close
them.'
In the meanwhile Du Bellay, the Bishop of Paris, who had made such a
fine Latin speech to Clement VII., and who went at heart half-way with
his brother, arrived in the capital. The leaders of the Roman party
immediately surrounded him, urged him, and demanded the realisation of
all the hopes which they had entertained from the interview at
Marseilles. The bishop was embarrassed, for he knew that his brother and
the king were just then occupied with a very different matter. Yet it
was the desire of Francis that, for the moment, they should act in
conformity with his apparent and not with his real action. The bishop
gave way. The pious Roussel, the energetic Courault, the temporising
Berthaud, and others besides, were forbidden to preach, and one morning
the worshippers found the church doors shut.[552]
[Sidenote: PRIVATE MEETINGS.]
Great was their sorrow and agitation. Many went to Roussel and Courault,
and loudly expressed their regret and their wishes. The ministers took
courage, and 'turned their preaching into private lectures.' Little
meetings were formed in various houses in the city. At first none but
members of the family were present; but it seemed that Christ, according
to his promise, was in the midst of them, and erelong friends and
neighbours were admitted. The ministers set forth the promises of Holy
Scripture, and the worshippers exclaimed: 'We receive more blessings now
than before.'
There were others besides Parisian faces which Courault, Roussel, and
their friends saw on the humble benches around their little table: there
were persons from many provinces of France, and even from the
neighbouring countries. Among them was Master Pointet, a native of
Menton, near Annecy, in Savoy, 'who practised the art of surgery in the
city of Paris.' He had been brought to a knowledge of the Gospel in a
singular way. 'Monks and priests,' says the chronicler, 'used to come to
him to be cured of the diseases peculiar to those who substitute an
impure celibacy for the holy institution of marriage.'[553] Pointet,
observing that godliness was not to be found among the priests, sought
for it in the Scriptures; and, having discovered it there, began to
remonstrate seriously with those unhappy men. 'These punishments,' he
told them, 'proceed from your accursed celibacy: they are your wages,
and you would do much better to take a wife.' Pointet, while reading
these severe lessons, loved to go and learn in the lowly assemblies held
by the humble ministers of the Word of God, and no one listened with
more attention to the preaching of Roussel and Courault.
The Sorbonnists, having heard of these conventicles, declared 'that they
disliked _these lectures_ still more than the sermons.' In fact, if the
preaching in the churches had been a loud appeal, the Divine Word in
these small meetings spoke nearer to men's hearts, enlightening them and
making them fast in Jesus Christ; and accordingly the conversions
increased in number. The lieutenant-criminal once more took the field:
he posted his agents at the corners of the more suspected streets, with
orders to watch the Lutherans and ferret them out. These spies
discovered that on certain days and hours many suspicious-looking
persons, most of them poor, were in the habit of frequenting certain
houses. Morin and his officers set to work immediately: they made the
round of these conventicles, seizing the pastors and dispersing the
flocks. 'We are deprived of everything,' said the worshippers; 'we
remain without teaching and exhortation. Alas! poor sheep without
shepherds, shall we not go astray and be lost?' Then with a sudden
impulse they exclaimed: 'Since our guides are taken away from us here,
let us seek them elsewhere!' Many French evangelicals fled into foreign
countries.
While the poor reformed[554] who remained in Paris were thus forsaken
and sorrowful, the Sorbonne loudly demanded the return of Beda and the
other exiles. The theologians canvassed the most influential members of
the parliament, and besieged Cardinal Duprat. The king and the pope had
just met solemnly at Marseilles; one of the Medici had just entered the
family of the Valois; a royal letter, despatched from Lyons, ordered
proceedings to be taken against the heretics: could they leave the
champions of the papacy in disgrace? The demand was granted, and the
impetuous Beda returned in triumph to the capital with his friends. That
wicked little fairy Catherine had, unconsciously, and by her mere
presence, restored him to liberty.
[Sidenote: FRESH EFFORTS OF THE SORBONNE.]
The wrath and fanaticism of Beda, excited by exile, knew no bounds. The
repression of obscure _preachers_ did not satisfy him; he determined to
renew the attack he had formerly made upon the learned. 'I accuse the
king's readers in the university of Paris,' he said to the parliament.
These were the celebrated professors Danès, Paul Paradis, Guidacieri,
and Vatable, learned philologists, esteemed by Francis and honoured over
all literary Europe. 'Their interpretations of the text of Scripture,'
continued Beda, 'throw discredit on the Vulgate, and propagate the
errors of Luther. I demand that they be forbidden to comment on the Holy
Scriptures.'[555]
Beda did not stand alone. Le Picard had returned from exile with his
master, and the Sorbonne, wishing to give him a striking mark of their
esteem, had conferred on him the degree of doctor of divinity. Beda and
Le Picard took counsel together with some other priests. War was
resolved upon, the legions were mustered, the plan of the campaign drawn
up, and the various battle-fields allotted among the combatants. They
took possession of the pulpits from which the preachers of the Reform
had been expelled, and loud voices were heard everywhere giving
utterance to violent harangues against 'the Lutherans.' Beda, Le Picard,
and their followers denounced the heretics as enemies of the altar and
the throne. In the Gospel, the germ of every liberty, they saw the cause
of every disorder. 'It is not enough to put the Lutheran evangelists in
prison,' said these forerunners of the preachers of the League; 'we must
go a step further, and burn them.'[556]
The arrests were begun immediately; but early in the year 1534 the
burning pile was declared to be the best answer to heresy. The
parliament of Paris published an edict, according to which whoever was
convicted of Lutheranism on the testimony of two witnesses, should be
burnt forthwith.[557] That was the surest way: the dead never return.
Beda immediately demanded that the decree should be applied to the four
evangelists: Courault, Berthaud, Roussel, and one of their friends.
Notwithstanding his moderation and his concessions, Roussel particularly
excited the syndic's anger. Was he not Margaret's chaplain? The terror
began to spread. Whilst Francis at Bar-le-Duc was endeavouring to please
the most decided of the protestants, the evangelicals of Paris, alarmed
by the inquiries of the police, shut themselves up in their humble
dwellings. 'Really,' they said, 'this is not much unlike the Spanish
inquisition.'[558] The Sorbonne dared not, however, burn Roussel and his
friends without the consent of the king.
[Sidenote: THREE HUNDRED EVANGELICAL PRISONERS.]
In the meanwhile the ultramontane party formed the design of catching
all the Lutherans in Paris in one cast of the net. Morin set to work: he
urged on his hounds; his sergeants entered the houses, went down into
the cellars and up into the garrets, taking away, here the husband from
the wife; there, the father from the children; and in another place, the
son from the mother. Some of these poor creatures hid themselves, others
escaped by the roofs; but the chase was successful upon the whole. The
alguazils of the Sorbonne lodged about _three hundred prisoners_ in the
Conciergerie.[559] When this news spread, with its concomitants of
terror and distress, the flight recommenced on a larger scale: some were
stopped on the road, but many succeeded in crossing the frontier. Among
their number was a christian courtier, Maurus Musæus, a gentleman of the
king's chamber, who took refuge at Basle, whence he wrote describing his
numerous perplexities to Bucer.[560]
All this was done by the Sorbonne and parliament, as the king had not
yet spoken out. At last he returned to the capital, and everybody
thought he would be eager to fulfil the promises he had made the pope;
but, on the contrary, he hesitated and affected to be scrupulous. The
evil spirit that he had received from Clement VII. under the form of a
Medici, was too young to have any influence over him. Besides, he was
thinking much more just then of his alliance with the protestants of
Germany than of his union with the pope, and the attacks made against
his professors in the university annoyed him.
Beda was not discouraged: he got some persons, who had access to the
king, to beg that Roussel and his friends might be burnt. But how could
that prince send the Lutherans of France to the stake at the very time
he was seeking an alliance with the Lutherans of Germany? 'Nobody is
condemned in France,' he said, 'without being tried. Beda wishes to have
Roussel and his friends burnt; very well! let him first go to the
Conciergerie and reduce them to silence.'[561] This was not what Beda
wanted: he knew that it was easier to burn the chaplain than to refute
him. But the king compelled him to go to the prison; and there the
impetuous Beda and the meek Roussel stood face to face. The disputation
began in the presence of witnesses. The prisoner brought forward, with
much simplicity, the Scriptures of God; the syndic of the Sorbonne
replied with scholastic quibbles and ridiculous trifling.[562] His own
friends were embarrassed; everybody saw his ignorance; Beda left the
prison overwhelmed with shame, and Roussel was not burnt.[563]
[Sidenote: THE KING'S IRRITATION.]
While Beda and Roussel were disputing in the Conciergerie, a different
scene was passing at the Louvre. A friend of letters, belonging to the
royal household, knowing the king's susceptibility, placed a little book
elegantly bound on a table near which the king was accustomed to sit.
Francis approached, took up the book heedlessly, and looked at it. He
was greatly surprised on reading the title: _Remonstrance addressed to
the King of France by the three doctors of Paris, banished and
relegated, praying to be recalled from their exile_. It was a work
published by Beda before his return to Paris, and had been carefully
concealed from the monarch. 'Ho! ho!' said he, 'this book is addressed
to me!' He opened and read, and great was his anger on seeing how he was
insulted and slandered.... 'Francis I. regards neither pope nor Medici:
in his eyes, the chief infallibility is always his own.' 'Send those
wretches to prison,' he exclaimed; and immediately Beda, Le Picard, and
Le Clerq were shut up in the bishop's prison on a charge of high
treason.[564]
And now the chiefs of both causes were in confinement: Gerard Roussel,
Courault, and Berthaud on one side; Beda, Le Picard, and Le Clerq on the
other. Would any one dare affirm that the King of France did not hold
the balance even between the two schools? Who shall be released? who
shall remain a prisoner? was now the question. It would have been better
to set them all at large; but neither Francis nor his age had attained
to religious liberty. Contrary winds agitated that prince, and drove him
by turns towards Rome and towards Wittemberg. One or other of them,
however, must prevail. Margaret, believing the time to be critical,
displayed indefatigable activity. She pleaded the cause of her friends
to the king and to his ministers. Still mistaken, or seeming to be
mistaken, as regards Montmorency, she begged this treacherous friend to
save the very persons whose destruction he had sworn. 'Dear nephew,' she
wrote to him, 'they are just now completing the proceedings against
Master Gerard, and I hope the king will find him worthy of something
better than the stake, and that he has never held any opinion deserving
such punishment, or savouring of heresy. I have known him these five
years, and, believe me, if I had seen anything doubtful in him, I should
not so long have put up with such a pagan.'[565] The king could not
resist his sister's earnest solicitations and the desire of making
friends among the protestants of Germany. In the month of March 1534 he
published an ordinance vindicating the evangelical preachers from the
calumnies of the theologians, and setting them at liberty.[566]
Surprising thing! Roussel, Courault, and Berthaud at liberty; Beda, Le
Picard, and Le Clerq in prison! The champions of heresy triumph, and the
champions of the Church are in chains! And this, too, after the king's
return from Marseilles (the interview at Bar-le-Duc was not known at
Paris), and four months after the marriage of Henry of France with the
pope's niece!... Where are the promises made to Clement VII.? Both the
city and the Sorbonne were deeply excited by this measure.[567] The
greater the hopes aroused by the union with the papacy, the greater the
fears caused by the king's conduct towards its most intrepid defenders.
Would Francis I. become a Henry VIII.? Would Roman catholicism be ruined
in France? The priests were afraid—many of them even despaired.
The evangelicals, on the contrary, were delighted. The Word of God was
about to triumph, they thought, not only in Paris, but also throughout
France. Surprising news indeed came from Lyons, where an invisible
preacher kept the whole population in suspense.
[Sidenote: ALEXANDER AT GENEVA.]
The friar De la Croix, whom we have already mentioned, having abandoned
Paris, his convent, his cowl, and his monkish title, had reached Geneva
under the name of Alexander. Cordially welcomed by Farel and Froment, he
had been instructed by their care in the knowledge of the truth. His
transformation had been complete. Christ had become to him 'the sun of
righteousness; he had a burning zeal to know him, and great boldness in
confessing him. Incontinent, he showed himself resolute, and resisted
all gainsayers.' Accordingly the Genevan magistracy, which was under the
influence of the priests, had condemned him to death as a heretic; the
sentence had, however, been commuted, 'for fear of the King of France,'
who would not suffer a Frenchman, even if heretical, to be maltreated,
and Alexander was simply turned out of the city. When on the high-road
beyond the gates, and near the Mint, he stopped and preached to the
people who had followed him. Such was the power of his language that it
inspired respect in all around him. 'Nobody could stop him,' says
Froment, 'so strongly did his zeal impel him to win people to the
Lord.'[568]
Alexander first went to Berne with Froment, and then, retracing his
steps, seriously reflected whether he ought not to return into France.
He did not deceive himself: persecution, imprisonment, death, awaited
him there. Then ought he not rather, like so many others, to preach the
Gospel in Switzerland? But France had so much need of the light and
grace of God.... should he abandon her? To preach Christ to his
countrymen, Alexander was ready to bear all manner of evil, and even
death. One single passion swallowed up all others. 'O my Saviour! thou
hast given thy life for me; I desire to give mine for thee!' He crossed
the frontier; and, learning that Bresse and Maconnais (Saône-et-Loire),
where Michael d'Aranda had preached Christ in 1524, were without
evangelists, he began to proclaim the forgiveness of the Gospel to the
simple and warm-hearted people of that district, among whom fanaticism
had so many adherents. He did not mind this: wandering along the banks
of the Bienne, the Ain, the Seille, and the Saône, he entered the
cottages of the poor peasants, and courageously scattered the seed of
the Gospel.[569] A rumour of his doings reached Lyons, where certain
pious goldsmiths, always ready to make sacrifices for their faith,
invited Alexander to come and preach in their city.
[Sidenote: HIS WORK AT LYONS.]
It was a wider field than the plains of Bresse. Alexander departed,
arrived at Lyons, and entered the goldsmiths' shops. He conversed with
them, and made the acquaintance of several _poor men of Lyons_, who were
rich in faith; they edified one another, but this did not satisfy him.
The living faith by which he was animated gave him an indefatigable
activity. He was prompt in his decisions, full of spirit in his
addresses, ingenious in his plans. He began to preach from house to
house; next 'he got a number of people together here and there, and
preached before them, to the great advancement of the Word.' Opposition
soon began to show itself, and Alexander exclaimed: 'Oh that Lyons were
a free city like Geneva!'[570] Those who desired to hear the Word grew
more thirsty every day; they went to Alexander, and conversed with him;
they dragged him to their houses, but the evangelist could not supply
all their wants. He wrote to Farel, asking for help from Geneva, but
none came; the persecution was believed to be so fierce at Lyons, that
nobody dared expose himself to it. Alexander continued, therefore, to
preach alone, sometimes in by-streets, and sometimes in an upper
chamber. The priests and their creatures, always on the watch,
endeavoured to seize him, but the evangelist had hardly finished his
sermon when the faithful, who loved him devotedly, surrounded him,
carried him away, and conducted him to some hiding-place. But Alexander
did not remain there long: wistfully putting out his head, and looking
round the house, to see that there was no one on the watch, he came
forth to go and preach at the other extremity of the city. He had hardly
finished when he was carried away again, and the believers took him to
some new retreat, 'hiding him from one house to another,' says the
chronicler, 'so that he could not be found.'[571] The evangelist was
everywhere and nowhere. When the priests were looking after him in some
suburb in the south, he was preaching in the north, on the heights which
overlook the city. He put himself boldly in the van, he proclaimed the
Gospel loudly, and yet he was invisible.
Alexander did more than this: he even visited the prisons. He heard one
day that two men, well known in Geneva, who had come to Lyons on
business, had been thrown into the bishop's dungeons on the information
of the Genevan priests: they were the energetic Baudichon de la
Maison-Neuve, and his friend Cologny.[572] The gates opened for
Alexander: he entered, and that mysterious evangelist, who baffled the
police of Lyons, was inside the episcopal prison. If one of the agents
who are in search of him should recognise him, the gates will never open
again for him. But Alexander felt no uneasiness; he spoke to the two
Genevans, and exhorted them; he even went and consoled other brethren
imprisoned for the Gospel, and then left the dungeons, no man laying a
hand on him. The priests and their agents, bursting with vexation at
seeing the futility of all their efforts, met and lamented with one
another. 'There is a Lutheran,' they said, 'who preaches and disturbs
the people, collecting assemblies here and there in the city, whom we
must catch, for he will spoil all the world, as everybody is running
after him; and yet we cannot find him, or know who he is.'[573] They
increased their exertions, but all was useless. Never had preacher in so
extraordinary a manner escaped so many snares. At last they began to say
that the unknown preacher must be possessed of satanic powers, by means
of which he passed invisible through the police, and no one suspected
his presence.
[Sidenote: MARGARET AND ROUSSEL.]
Thus the Gospel was proclaimed in the first and in the second city of
France. The Sorbonne and the catholic party had been intimidated by the
king, and the Easter festival of 1534, which was approaching, might give
the evangelicals of Paris a striking opportunity of proclaiming their
faith. This was what the Queen of Navarre desired. She had passed some
time at Alençon, and also at Argentan, not far from Caen, with her
sister-in-law, Catherine d'Albret, abbess of the convent of the Holy
Trinity; at length she had returned to Paris. The priests dared not name
her, but they made certain allusions to her in their sermons which their
hearers very well understood. These things were reported to Margaret,
who cared neither to pacify nor to punish her accusers, and answered
them only by endeavouring still more to advance the cause of piety in
France. The little conventicles only half pleased her: she wanted the
evangelical doctrine to enter the kingdom by the churches, and not by
the 'upper chambers.' She would have desired for France a reformation
similar to that of England, which, while giving it the Word of God,
preserved its archbishops and bishops, its cathedrals, its liturgy, and
its grandeur. Queen of France, she would have been its Elizabeth; but
doubtless with more grace. Her ambition was to install the Gospel at
Notre Dame. She paid a visit to the king; she spoke to the bishop ...
Roussel shall preach there. He was not a Farel in boldness, but Margaret
encouraged him; besides, the idea of preaching the Gospel to the people
of Paris in that old cathedral was pleasing to him. He determined,
therefore, to comply with the queen's wishes.
The report of Margaret's intentions had hardly become known, when the
canons were in commotion. How scandalous! What! shall these
evangelicals, of whom they wished to purge France, assemble in the
cathedral?... A disciple of Luther ... in the temple ennobled by so many
holy bishops!... Finding themselves betrayed by the king, the priests
resolved to turn to the people. These fanatics did not scruple to become
mob-leaders; they traversed the city and the suburbs, entered the shops,
distributed little handbills, and stuck up placards: under the
excitement of this mission the oldest Sorbonnists regained all the
activity of youth. 'We must resist these scandalous meetings at any
cost,' they said. 'Let the people crowd before the gates of Notre Dame,
and hinder the evangelicals from entering; or, if they do not succeed,
let them fill the cathedral, and prevent Roussel from ascending the
pulpit, and drown his heretical voice by the shouts of the believers.'
When the day came, a great movement took place among the citizens of
Paris. An immense crowd hastened from all the neighbouring quarters, who
surrounded Notre Dame and filled the interior of the church. The
Lutherans could not get in, and Roussel was forced to give up his
sermon.[574]
A favourable wind seemed generally to be breathing over the Reformation:
its enemies were still in prison and its friends at liberty; Francis
appeared to be more than ever in harmony with his sister and with the
protestants of Germany; and an evangelical orator was authorised to
preach at Notre Dame: a violent hurricane, however, suddenly burst upon
the metropolis. A pious and active christian was there to lose his life,
and Paris was to witness at the same time—a triumph and a martyrdom.
[Sidenote: ALEXANDER AT LYONS.]
One day, a few weeks after Easter, a man loaded with chains entered the
capital: he was escorted by archers, all of whom showed him much
respect. They took him to the Conciergerie. It was Alexander Canus,
known among the Dominicans by the name of Father Laurent de la Croix. At
Lyons, as at Paris, Easter had been the time appointed by the
evangelicals for boldly raising their banner. The goldsmiths, who were
to Alexander what the Queen of Navarre was to Roussel, were no longer
satisfied with preachings in secret. Every preparation was made for a
great assembly; the locality was settled; pious christians went through
the streets from house to house and gave notice of the time and place.
Many were attracted by the desire of hearing a doctrine that was so much
talked about, and on Easter-day the ex-dominican preached before a large
audience.[575] Was it in a church, in some hall, or in the open air? The
chronicler does not say. Alexander moved his hearers deeply, and it
might have been said that Christ rose again that Easter morn in Lyons,
where he had so long lain in the sepulchre. All were not, however,
equally friendly; some cast sinister glances. Alexander was no longer
invisible: the spies in the assembly saw him, heard him, studied his
physiognomy, took note of his _blasphemies_, and hurried off to report
them to their superiors.[576]
While the police were listening to the reports and taking their
measures, there were voices of joy and deliverance in many a humble
dwelling. A divine call had been heard, and many were resolved to obey
it. Alexander, who had belonged to the order of _Preachers_, combined
the gift of eloquence with the sincerest piety. Accordingly, his hearers
requested him to preach again the second day of Easter. The meeting took
place on Monday, and was more numerous than the day before. All eyes
were fixed on the evangelist, all ears were attentive, all faces were
beaming with joy; here and there, however, a few countenances of evil
omen might be seen: they were the agents charged to seize the mysterious
preacher. The assembly heard a most touching discourse; but just when
Alexander's friends desired, as usual, to surround him and get him away,
the officers of justice, more expeditious this time, came forward, laid
their hands upon him, and took him to prison. He was brought before the
tribunal and condemned to death. This cruel sentence distressed all the
evangelicals, who urged him to appeal; he did appeal, which had the
effect of causing him to be transferred to Paris. 'That was not done
without great mystery,' says Froment, 'and without the great providence
of God.'[577] People said to one another that Paul, having appealed to
the emperor, won over a great nation at Rome; and they asked whether
Alexander might not do the same at Paris. The evangelist departed under
the escort of a captain and his company.
The captain was a worthy man: he rode beside Alexander, and they soon
entered into conversation. The officer questioned him, and the
ex-dominican explained to him the cause of his arrest. The soldier
listened with astonishment; he took an interest in the story, and by
degrees the words of the pious prisoner entered into his heart. He heard
God's call and awoke; he experienced a few moments of struggle and
doubt, but erelong the assurance of faith prevailed. 'The captain was
converted,' says Froment, 'while taking him to Paris.' Alexander did not
stop at this; he spoke to each of the guards, and some of them also were
won over to the Gospel. The first evening they halted at an inn, and the
prisoner found means to address a few good words to the servants and the
heads of the household. This was repeated every day. People came to see
the strange captive, they entered into conversation with him, and he
answered every question. He employed in the service of the Gospel all
the skill that he possessed in discussion. 'He was learned in the
doctrine of the sophists,' says a contemporary, 'having profited well
and studied long at Paris with his companions (the Dominicans).' Now and
then the people went and fetched the priest or orator of the village to
dispute with him; but they were easily reduced to silence. Many of the
hearers were enlightened and touched, and some were converted. They
said, as they left the inn: 'Really we have never seen a man answer and
confound his adversaries better by Holy Scripture.'[578] The crowd
increased from town to town. At last Alexander arrived in Paris:
'Wonderful thing!' remarks the chronicler, 'he was more useful at the
inns and on the road than he had ever been before.'[579]
[Sidenote: A PRISONER IN PARIS.]
This remarkable prisoner was soon talked of in many quarters of Paris.
The case was a very serious one. 'A friar, a Dominican, an inquisitor,'
said the people, 'has gone over to the Lutherans, and is striving to
make heretics everywhere.' The monks of his own convent made the most
noise. The king, who detained Beda in prison, desired to preserve the
balance by giving some satisfaction to the catholics. He was not uneasy
about the German protestants; he had observed closely the landgrave's
ardour, and had no fear that the fiery Philip would break off the
alliance for a Dominican monk. Francis, therefore, allowed matters to
take their course, and Alexander appeared before a court of parliament.
'Name your accomplices,' said the judges; and as he refused to name the
accomplices, who did not exist, the president added: 'Give him the
boot.' The executioners brought forward the boards and the wedges, with
which they tightly compressed the legs of the evangelist. His sufferings
soon became so severe that, hoping they had converted him, they stopped
the torture, and the president once more called upon him to name all
who, like himself, had separated from the Church of Rome; but he was not
to be shaken, and the punishment began again. 'He was severely tortured
several times,' say the _Actes_, 'to great extremity of cruelty.' The
executioners drove the wedges so tightly between the boards in which his
limbs were confined, that his left leg was crushed. Alexander groaned
aloud: 'O God!' he exclaimed, 'there is neither pity nor mercy in these
men! ... oh that I may find both in thee!'—'Keep on,' said the head
executioner. The unhappy man, who had observed Budæus among the
assessors, turned on him a mild look of supplication, and said: 'Is
there no Gamaliel here to moderate the cruelty they are practising on
me?'[580] The illustrious scholar, an honest and just man, although
irresolute in his proceedings, kept his eyes fixed on the martyr,
astonished at his patience. 'It is enough,' he said: 'he has been
tortured too much; you ought to be satisfied.' Budæus was a person of
great authority; his words took effect, and the _extraordinary gehenna_
ceased. 'The executioners lifted up the martyr, and carried him to his
dungeon a cripple.'[581]
[Sidenote: ALEXANDER TORTURED.]
It was the custom to deliver sentence in the absence of the accused, and
to inform him of it in the Conciergerie through a clerk of the criminal
office. The idea occurred of pronouncing it in Alexander's presence;
perhaps in his terror he might ask for some alleviation, and by this
means they might extort a confession. But all was useless. The court
made a great display, and a crowd of spectators increased the solemnity,
to no purpose: Alexander Canus, of Evreux, in Normandy, was condemned to
be burnt alive. A flash of joy suddenly lit up his face. 'Truly,' said
the spectators, 'is he more joyful than he was before!'[582]
The priests now came forward to perform the sacerdotal degradation. 'If
you utter a word,' they told him, 'you will have your tongue cut
out.'—'The practice of cutting off the tongue,' adds the historian,
'began that year.' The priests took off his sacerdotal dress, shaved his
head, and went through all the _usual mysteries_. During this ceremony
Alexander uttered not a word; only at one of the absurdities of the
priests he let a smile escape him. They dressed him in the _robe de
fol_—a garment of coarse cloth, such as was worn by the poorer
peasantry. When the pious martyr caught sight of it, he exclaimed, 'O
God, is there any greater honour than to receive this day the livery
which thy Son received in the house of Herod?'[583]
A cart, generally used to carry mud or dust, was brought to the front of
the building. Some Dominicans, his former brethren, got into it along
with the humble christian, and all proceeded towards the Place Maubert.
As the cart moved but slowly, Alexander, standing up, leant over towards
the people, and 'scattered the seed of the Gospel with both hands.' Many
persons, moved even to tears, exclaimed that they were putting him to
death wrongfully; but the Dominicans pulled him by his gown, and annoyed
him in every way. At first he paid no attention to this; but when one of
the monks said to him coarsely: 'Either recant, or hold your tongue,'
Alexander turned round and said to him with firmness: 'I will not
renounce Jesus Christ.... Depart from me, ye deceivers of the people!'
At last they reached the front of the scaffold. While the executioners
were making the final preparations, Alexander, observing some lords and
ladies in the crowd, with common people, monks, and several of his
friends, asked permission to address a few words to them. An
ecclesiastical dignitary, a chanter of the Sainte Chapelle, carrying a
long staff, presided over the clerical part of the ceremony, and he gave
his consent. Then, seized with a holy enthusiasm, Alexander confessed,
'with great vehemence and vivacity of mind,'[584] the Saviour whom he
loved so much, and for whom he was condemned to die. 'Yes,' he
exclaimed, 'Jesus, our only Redeemer, suffered death to ransom us to God
his Father. I have said it, and I say it again, O ye christians who
stand around me, pray to God that, as his son Jesus Christ died for me,
he will give me grace to die now for him.'
[Sidenote: ALEXANDER'S TRIUMPHANT DEATH.]
Having thus spoken, he said to the executioner: 'Proceed.' The officers
of justice approached, they bound him to the pile and set it on fire.
The wood crackled, the flames rose, and Alexander, his eyes upraised to
heaven, exclaimed: 'O Jesus Christ, have pity on me! O Saviour, receive
my soul!' He saw the glory of God; by faith he discerned Jesus in
heaven, who received him into his kingdom. 'My Redeemer!' he repeated,
'O my Redeemer!' At last his voice was silent. The people wept; the
executioners said to one another: 'What a strange criminal!' and even
the monks asked: 'If this man is not saved, who will be?' Many beat
their breasts, and said: 'A great wrong has been done to that man!' And
as the spectators separated, they went away thinking: 'It is wonderful
how these people suffer themselves to be burnt in defence of their
faith.'[585]
The Romish party having obtained this satisfaction, the political party
thought only of overthrowing popery in one of the states of Germany, and
of paving the way for its decline in the kingdom of St. Louis.
[Footnote 551: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 111.]
[Footnote 552: Théod. de Bèze, _Hist. Eccl._ i. p. 9.]
[Footnote 553: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 107 verso.]
[Footnote 554: The words _reform_ and _reformed_ apply especially to the
religious movement in France.]
[Footnote 555: Crévier, _Hist. de l'Université de Paris_ v. p. 278.]
[Footnote 556: 'Hos Beda vellet incendio tradere.'—Myconius to
Bullinger, _Ep. Helvet. Ref._ p. 121, 8vo.]
[Footnote 557: 'Edictum, omnem qui duobus testibus convinceretur
lutheranus, statim exurendum esse.'—Bucer to Blaarer, Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 558: 'Res erit non absimilis inquisitioni Hispaniæ.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 559: 'Nunc circa trecentos Parisiis jam captos.'—Bucer to
Blaarer, Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 560: His letters are preserved in the Seminary at Strasburg.]
[Footnote 561: 'Tum _coegit_ Bedam ut privatim cum eis congredi
oporteret.'—Letter of Oswald Myconius, _Ep. Helvet. Ref._ p. 121.]
[Footnote 562: 'Pessime enim nugas suas ad scripturas Dei adhibuit.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 563: 'Inscitiam suam ostendere, quod et ei cessit in magnam
ignominiam.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 564: 'Beda conjectus est in carcerem, accusatus criminis læsæ
majestatis.'—Cop to Bucer, Strasb. MSS. See also H. de Coste, p. 77.
Schmidt, p. 106.]
[Footnote 565: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, i. p. 299.]
[Footnote 566: 'Prorsus liberatus est theologorum calumniis, ac decreto
regis absolutus.'—Cop to Bucer, Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 567: 'Quo multi commoti sunt et perturbati.'—Cop to Bucer,
Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 568: Froment, _Actes et Gestes de Genève_, p. 76.—The Mint was
near the present railway station.]
[Footnote 569: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 106.]
[Footnote 570: Froment, _Actes et Gestes_, p. 74.]
[Footnote 571: Ibid.]
[Footnote 572: Froment, _Actes et Gestes_, p. 75.]
[Footnote 573: Ibid. p. 74.]
[Footnote 574: Coste, _Hist. de Le Picard_, p. 46; Schmidt, _Mémoires de
Roussel_, p. 107.]
[Footnote 575: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 106.]
[Footnote 576: Froment, _Actes et Gestes_, p. 75.]
[Footnote 577: _Actes et Gestes_, p. 75.]
[Footnote 578: Froment, _Actes et Gestes_, p. 75.]
[Footnote 579: Ibid.]
[Footnote 580: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 107.]
[Footnote 581: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 107.]
[Footnote 582: Ibid.]
[Footnote 583: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 107. Froment, _Actes et
Gestes_, p. 76.]
[Footnote 584: Ibid.]
[Footnote 585: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, fol. 107 verso. Froment, _Actes
et Gestes_, p. 78.]
CHAPTER XXXIII.
WURTEMBERG GIVEN TO PROTESTANTISM BY THE KING OF FRANCE.
(SPRING 1534.)
The idea of correcting the errors of the Church without changing its
government was not new in France. By the Pragmatic Sanction in 1269, St.
Louis had founded the liberties of the Gallican Church; and the great
idea of reform had been widely spread since the time of the council of
Constance (1414), of Clemengis, and of Gerson. The two Du Bellays, with
many priests, scholars, and noblemen, thought it was the only means of
calming down the agitations of christendom, and Margaret of Valois had
made it the great business of her life.
[Sidenote: INTERVIEW OF DU BELLAY AND BUCER.]
William du Bellay, on his way back from Augsburg, where he had delivered
such noble speeches in favour of the protestant dukes of Wurtemberg, had
stopped at Strasburg, and had several meetings with the pacific Bucer.
His success in Germany, his conversations with the evangelical princes
and doctors, who took him for as sound a protestant as themselves, had
filled him with hope. In no place could those who desired to take a
middle course meet with more sympathy than at Strasburg; there was quite
a system of compromises there with the Swiss and with Luther; why not
with Rome also? 'Since Luther will not give way in anything,' Bucer had
said, 'I will accommodate myself to his terminology; only I will avoid
every expression that may indicate a too local and too gross presence of
the body of Christ in the bread.'[586] Accordingly Bucer, with his pious
and moderate friends Capito, Hedio, and Zell, received the diplomatic
mediator with great pleasure. They retired to the reformer's library,
where Du Bellay explained his great project with all the seriousness of
a man convinced. 'It is a greater work,' he said to Bucer, 'than this
union of Zwinglians and Lutherans which has hitherto been your sole and
constant occupation. We wish to effect a fusion between catholicism and
the Reformation. We shall maintain the _unity_ of the former; we shall
uphold the _truth_ of the latter.' Du Bellay's plan was at bottom, we
see, the same as Leibnitz endeavoured to get Bossuet and Louis XIV. to
accept. Bucer was in ecstasies: it was what he had sought so long; the
diplomatist appeared to him as if surrounded with a halo of glory. And
hence he often said: 'If the Lord would raise up many men like this
_hero_, the kingdom of Christ would soon come out of the pit.'[587]
According to Bucer, Du Bellay was meditating a very perilous but still a
great enterprise: it was a labour worthy of Hercules.... The counsellor
of the King of France was satisfied to find the great pacificator
agreeing with him, and hastened to Paris, flattering himself that he
would gain a victory more striking than that of Francis I. at Marignan,
or of Charles V. at Pavia.
Everything seemed favourable: Francis, delighted at his conference with
the landgrave, had never been better disposed for conciliation. Du
Bellay endeavoured to convince him that Germany was quite ready for the
_great fusion_. Melanchthon, whom all Germany venerated, was (in his
opinion) the man of the hour, by whose agency the two contrary currents
would mingle their waters and form but one stream bearing life to every
part. Was it not he who said: 'Preserve all the old ceremonies that you
can: every innovation is injurious to the people?' Had he not declared
at Augsburg that no doctrine separated him from the Roman Church; that
he respected the universal authority of the pope, and desired to remain
faithful to Christ and the Church of Rome? Margaret of Navarre also
spoke to her brother of this great and good man: 'Melanchthon's
mildness,' she said, 'contrasts with the violent temper of Zwingle and
Luther.' Other persons observed to the king that what distinguished
France from all catholic nations was its attachment to those liberties
of the Church, which were on that account denominated _Gallican_. 'It
would thus be a thoroughly French enterprise,' they said, 'to strip the
pope of his usurped privileges.'
Francis listened. To be king both in Church and State, to imitate his
dear brother of England, who at heart was more catholic than
himself,—this was his desire. Du Bellay, noticing this disposition,
laboured vehemently (to use his own expression)[588] to introduce the
Melanchthonian ideas into France. He spoke of them at court and in the
city, sometimes even to the clergy, and met everywhere with almost
universal approbation.[589] 'Only make a forward movement,' he was told.
The king resumed the reading of the Bible, which he had laid aside after
the first days of the Reformation. It was not that he relished the Word
of God, but the Bible was a weapon that would help him to gain the
victory over the emperor. When conversing with the persons around him,
he would quote some phrase of Scripture. He particularly liked the
passages where St. Paul speaks of _breastplates_, _shields_, _helmets_,
and _swords_. He found the apostle, indeed, a little too spiritual and
mystical; and in his heart he preferred the helmet of a soldier to the
_helmet of salvation_; but he appeared every day better disposed towards
the Holy Scriptures.[590] Margaret was transported with joy. 'I agree
with the German protestants,' said the king to Du Bellay. 'Yes, I agree
with them in _all_ points ... except _one_!' Du Bellay wrote immediately
to Bucer, and added: 'You know what that means.'[591] Francis desired to
remain in union with Rome for form's sake, if it were only by a thread.
But Rome is not contented with a thread.
[Sidenote: FRANCIS COOPERATES WITH THEM.]
An approaching event seemed destined to decide whether or not a
semi-reformation would be established in France. The king and his
minister kept their eyes fixed on Germany, and waited impatiently to
learn if the enterprise decided upon at Bar-le-Duc for the restoration
of the protestant princes to the throne of Wurtemberg would be crowned
with success. In their eyes Wurtemberg was the field of battle where the
cause of the papacy would triumph or be crushed. Francis hoped that, if
the protestants were victorious, they would enter upon a war that would
become general. If the empire and the papacy fell beneath the blows of
their enemies, new times would begin. Europe would be emancipated from
both pope and emperor, and Francis would profit largely, both for
himself and France, by this glorious emancipation.
The landgrave prepared everything for the great blow he was about to
strike. At once prudent and active, he did not write a word that could
compromise him, but sent his confidential counsellors in every
direction. He went in person to the Elector of Trèves and the
elector-palatine, and promised them that if Wurtemberg was restored to
its lawful princes, Charles's brother should be compensated by being
recognised King of the Romans. These measures succeeded with Philip, who
immediately made known this happy commencement to Francis I.
On Easter Monday (1534) the Louvre displayed all its magnificence; many
officers of the court were on foot, for Francis was to give audience to
the agent of the Waywode (hospodar) of Wallachia, who had been
dispossessed by Austria, like the Duke of Wurtemberg. The king's eyes
sparkled with delight: 'The Swabian league is dissolved,' he told the
envoy. 'I am sending money into Germany.... I have many friends
there.... My allies are already in arms.... We are on the point of
carrying our plan into execution.'[592] Francis was so happy that he
could not keep his secret.
[Sidenote: FEARS IN GERMANY.]
All was not, however, so near as he imagined. An old obstacle came up
again, and seemed as if it would check the landgrave. The other
evangelical princes and doctors did all they could to thwart an
enterprise which would, in Philip's opinion, secure their triumph. 'The
restoration of the Duke of Wurtemberg,' said the wise Melanchthon, 'will
engender great troubles. Even the Church will be endangered by them. You
know my forebodings.[593] All the kings of Europe will be mixed up in
this war. It is a matter full of peril, not only to ourselves, but to
the whole world.'[594] Astrology interfered in the matter, and spread
terror among the people. Lichtenberg, a famous astrologer, published
some predictions, to which he added certain 'monstrous pictures,'[595]
and said: 'The Frenchman (Francis) will again fall into the emperor's
hands;[596] and all who unite with him in making war will be destroyed.
The lion will want help, and will be deceived by the lily.'[597] In such
terms the German prophecy declared that France (the lily) would deceive
Hesse (whose device is a lion): this shows how little confidence Germany
had in the French monarch.
Ferdinand of Austria distrusted the prophecy, and thought the
landgrave's attack close at hand. Sensible of his own weakness, he turned
to the pope and said to him through his envoy Sanchez: 'The landgrave's
expedition is a danger which threatens the Church and Italy ...
the spirituality and the temporality.' The pope promised everything,
but (as was his custom) with the determination to do nothing. A war that
might weaken Charles was gratifying to him, even though protestantism
should profit by it. Clement, however, convoked the consistory;
described to them in very expressive language the danger of the empire
and the Church; but of helping them, not a word.... Ferdinand, still
more alarmed, became more importunate, and the matter was brought before
a congregation: 'Alas!' said Clement to the cardinals, 'it is impossible
to conceal from you the dangers that threaten King Ferdinand and the
Austrian power. They are attacked by so severe a disease that a simple
medicine would be insufficient to effect a cure.... It requires an
energetic remedy ... but where can it be found?' The cardinals agreed
with their chief; they thought that, as the danger threatened Austria
alone, it was for Austria to get out of it as she could. The
recollection of the sack of Rome by the imperialists in 1527 was not yet
effaced from the hearts of these Roman priests, and they were not sorry
to see the emperor punished by an heretical scourge. They resolved that
as Rome could not give a subsidy sufficiently large, they would give
none at all. 'This expedition,' said Clement VII. to Ferdinand's envoy,
with a certain frankness, 'is only a private matter.... But if the
landgrave touches the Church, you may reckon then upon my help.'
Sanchez, seeing the pontiff's lukewarmness, and moved by sorrow and
indignation,[598] forcibly replied: 'Be not deceived, holy father....
This matter is not so small as you suppose.... It will cost the Church
of Rome dear ... and not the Church only, but the city and all Italy.'
[Sidenote: THE POPE AND AUSTRIA.]
Sanchez thought, like Francis and the politicians, that the protestants,
victorious in Wurtemberg, would not stop in so glorious a career; that
they would raise a large army; and that, aided by France, they would
cross the Alps and go to Rome to dethrone the successor of St. Peter,
and put an end to what they regarded as the power of antichrist. This
suggestion exasperated Clement: he felt the tiara shaking on his head,
and angrily exclaimed: 'And where is the emperor? What is he doing? Why
does he not watch over his brother's states and the peace of Germany?'
Charles V., quite unconcerned about a project which might, however,
insure his rival's triumph, was calmly enjoying his repose beneath the
smiling sky of Spain, reclining on the banks of its beautiful rivers,
under the shade of its orange and citron trees and of its gigantic
laurels. The pope took courage from his example to do the same. If he
did nothing to stop the protestant army, the papacy might suffer; but if
he did anything, he might turn aside from the house of Austria the
terrible blow about to fall on it, and save from a reverse that imperial
power which he detested. The pontiff sank back into his apostolic chair,
and prepared for a luxurious slumber, thinking it would be time enough
to wake up ... when danger was at his own door. 'Alas!' said sincere
catholics, 'why are the successors of St. Peter, the fisherman and
apostle, _clothed in soft raiment_, which is for those who are _in
kings' houses_? Why do they covet these courtly pomps and effeminacies?
Why do they imitate _the princes of the Gentiles who exercise dominion
over them_? Christ bore the cross.' The political passions of
Clement VII. extinguished his ecclesiastical zeal. The temporal power of
the popes has never been other than a clog upon their spiritual power,
preventing it from working freely. The judgments of God were about to be
executed.
At the beginning of May everything was astir in Hesse, Pomerania,
Mecklenburg, Brunswick, Westphalia, and on the banks of the Rhine; the
landgrave was preparing to march against Austria. Omens threatened,
indeed, to detain him. At Cassel, the chief town of Hesse, a monster was
seen walking mysteriously and silently upon the water during the
night.[599] 'It is a sure warning,' said the old crones and a few
citizens, 'that the prince ought to stop.' But Philip replied coldly:
'These visions are not worthy of belief.' Without heeding the monster,
Philip, mounted on horseback and carrying a lance in his hand, reviewed
his army on Wednesday, the 6th of May, after midnight, and then gave the
order to march. Almost all the officers and a great many of the soldiers
belonged to the evangelical confession. It was, alas! the first
politico-religious army of the sixteenth century, and this campaign was
the first Germanico-European opposition to the house of Austria.[600]
History shrouds herself beneath a veil of mourning as she points to this
epoch; for the employment of human force in the interests of religion,
the armed struggle between the new and the old times, began then.
[Sidenote: PHILIP DEFEATS THE AUSTRIAN.]
The Austrian government, deserted by the pope, saw that it must help
itself, and had made great exertions on its part. All the convents,
chapters, and towns of Wurtemberg had been forced to contribute large
sums of money, and the most experienced generals of the Italian wars had
been placed at the head of the imperial army. The soldiers of Austria
marched to Laufen on the Neckar, and there waited for the enemy. The
landgrave's army, full of hope and courage, uttered loud shouts of joy
when they heard of it.
It was not so at Wittemberg. Melanchthon was more grieved than ever, and
many persons sympathised with him. On the one hand, the theologians of
the Reformation detested war; but on the other, they said to themselves
at certain moments: 'Still ... if Philip takes up arms it is to restore
legitimate princes to the throne of their fathers, and secure a free
course to the Word of God!'—'Oh, what cruelties in the Roman Church,'
added Melanchthon, 'what idolatries, and what obstinacy in defending
them! Who knows but God desires to punish their defenders, if not
utterly to destroy such notorious evils for ever?[601] Oh that the issue
of this war may be beneficial to the Church of Christ!' Some time after,
when Melanchthon was told of the advance of the army of Philip of Hesse,
that peaceful christian gave way once more to his anguish: 'These
movements are quite against our advice,' he said, and then shutting
himself up in his closet, he exclaimed: 'In the midst of the dangers and
sorrows to which God exposes us, we have nothing else to do but to call
upon Christ and to feel his presence.'[602] He then fell upon his knees
before God; and God, who saw him in secret, rewarded him openly. But
while the christians were weeping and praying, the politicians were
rejoicing and acting. Du Bellay, in particular, did not doubt that an
early victory would cement the union of France with German
protestantism; and perceiving the consequences that would follow from
the enfranchisement of his country, he gave utterance to his joy.
The impetuous landgrave, taking a spring, cleared, as at one bound, the
country which separated him from the Neckar, arrived unexpectedly on the
banks of that river near Laufen, where the imperial army was posted, and
attacked it with spirit. At first the Austrians courageously sustained
the fight; but the count palatine, their commander, having been wounded
by a cannon-shot, they retired precipitately. Early the next morning,
the landgrave, putting himself at the head of his cavalry and artillery,
fell upon them as they were beginning to retreat, and drove part of them
into the Neckar.[603]
Wurtemberg was gained, and Duke Ulrich, accompanied by Prince
Christopher, reappeared in the country of his fathers. The people,
excited at the thought of seeing their national princes once more after
so many years, assembled in the open country near Stuttgard, and
received them with immense acclamation. The landgrave, not allowing
himself to be retarded by the warm reception of the people whom he had
restored to independence, followed up his plan, and on the 18th of June
reached the Austrian frontier. Everybody thought that he would march on
Vienna, and overthrow that insolent dynasty which desired to be the
master of the world.
[Sidenote: ALARM AT THE VATICAN.]
Great was the consternation in all the catholic world, but particularly
in the Vatican. On the 10th of June, 1534, Clement, who was sick, went
sorrowful, downcast, and tottering, to the college of cardinals, and
laid before them the pitiful letters he had received from King
Ferdinand.[604] The cardinals, as they read them, were struck with
terror. Would Vienna, that had resisted the Turks, fall under the
assault of the protestants? Would a victorious army, crossing the Alps,
come and perpetrate a second sack of Rome which, as the work of
heretics, might not be more compassionate than that of the catholic
Charles V.? The cardinals saw no other remedy than that to which Rome
had recourse when her ducats and arquebuses were gone. 'A general
council,' they exclaimed, 'is the only remedy that can save us from
heresy and all the calamities by which christendom is distressed.'
While there was mourning at Rome, there were great rejoicings at the
Louvre. It was a long time since the emperor had received such a check.
About the end of June a courier from Germany brought Francis the
despatches announcing the arrival of Philip of Hesse on the Austrian
frontier. He could not repress the outburst of his joy. He spoke to
himself, to his councillors, to his courtiers.... 'My friends,' he
exclaimed, 'my friends have conquered Wurtemberg.' Then, as if the
landgrave and his victorious army were before him, he exclaimed in a
tone of command: 'Forward! forward!' His dream was about to be realised;
the war would become general; he already saw the landgrave at Vienna;
and, what was better still, he saw himself at Genoa, Urbino, Montferrat,
and Milan. All his life through he forgot France for Italy, which he
never possessed. But he was mistaken as to the landgrave's intentions.
Much as Francis desired to see the war become general, Philip of Hesse
laboured to keep it local. Satisfied with having restored Wurtemberg to
its princes, he meant to respect the empire. The kings of France and
England were seriously vexed: 'The Duke of Wurtemberg, restored by my
help and yours,' said Henry VIII. to Francis I., 'is only seeking how to
make peace with the emperor.'[605] It would appear by the evidence
derived from the _State Papers_, that the gold of England as well as of
France had contributed to despoil Austria of Wurtemberg. Henry, more
perhaps than Francis I., had hoped that the blow struck upon the banks
of the Neckar would be, to emperor as well as to pope, the commencement
of sorrows; but they were both mistaken. The temptation, no doubt, was
great for a prince of thirty, full of decision and energy, who believed
that nothing would make the triumph of protestantism so secure as the
humiliation of Austria; but Philip's loyalty resisted the temptation.
[Sidenote: WURTEMBERG RESTORED.]
On the 27th of June the peace of Cadan put an end to all differences,
and restored Wurtemberg to its national princes, with a voice in the
council of the empire. If there had never been a war more energetically
conducted, there had never been a peace so promptly concluded. The
landgrave had displayed a spirit and talents which, men thought, might
in future prove troublesome to the puissant Charles.[606]
The emperor having received his lesson, the pope's turn came next. As
the state of Wurtemberg had been wrested from the hands of Austria, the
Church was to be saved from the clutches of the papacy. At the diet of
Augsburg, in 1530, Duke Christopher had seen the landgrave, his relation
and friend, come forward as the most intrepid champion of the
Reformation. His generous heart had been won to a cause which included
such a noble defender, and his desire was to see it triumph in
Wurtemberg. On the other hand, King Ferdinand, when renouncing his
authority over the duchy, desired at least to maintain that of the pope;
and he therefore proposed to insert in the treaty of peace an article
forbidding any change in religious matters. But the dukes, the
landgrave, and the Elector of Saxony unanimously declared that the
Gospel ought to have free course in the duchy, and the electoral
chancellor wrote this word on the margin, by the side of the article
proposed by the King of the Romans: _Rejected_.[607] 'You are in no
respect bound as to the faith,' said the evangelical princes to Ulrich;
while the papal nuncio Vergerio entreated King Ferdinand not to give way
to the Lutherans. All the efforts of the Romish party were useless. The
important victory of the landgrave (and of Francis I.) was about to open
the gates of Wurtemberg to the Reformation, and consequently those of
other Roman-catholic countries.
Ulrich and Christopher, being quite as desirous of bringing souls to the
knowledge of the Word of God as of replacing their subjects under the
sceptre of the ancient house of Emeric,[608] set to work immediately.
They invited to their states Ambrose Blaarer, the friend of Zwingle and
Bucer, and Ehrard Schnepf, the friend of Luther, converted by his means
at Heidelberg at the beginning of the Reformation.[609] Their labours
and those of other servants of God spread the evangelical light over the
country.[610] Nor was that all: if the defeat at Cappel had restored
many cities to the Romish creed,[611] the victory of Laufen allowed many
to come to the evangelical faith. Baden, Hanau, Augsburg, Pomerania,
Mecklenburg, and other places began, advanced, or completed their
reformation about this time. French money had never before returned such
good interest.
[Sidenote: A KINGLY PROJECT.]
France was now about to undertake a still greater task. We have seen
that there were at that time two systems of reform: Margaret's system
and Calvin's. It was in the order of things that the one which remained
nearest to catholicism should be tried first. If the most eminent
persons of the age, who sought in this middle course the last and
supreme resource of christendom, did not see their efforts crowned with
success, it would be necessary to undertake, or rather to continue
spiritedly, a more simple, more scriptural, more practical, and more
radical reform. When Margaret failed, there remained Calvin. The
realisation of this specious but illusory system, recommended in after
years to Louis XIV. by a great protestant philosopher of Germany, was
about to be tried by Francis I. The narrative of this experiment ought
to occupy a remarkable place in the religious history of the sixteenth
century.
[Footnote 586: Rœhrich, _Reform in Elsass_, ii. p. 274.]
[Footnote 587: 'Dominus excitet multos isti heroï similes.'—Bucer to
Chelius.]
[Footnote 588: 'Adhuc vehementer laboratur.'—Du Bellay to Bucer.]
[Footnote 589: 'Omnes enim bene sperare jubent.'—Du Bellay to Bucer.]
[Footnote 590: 'Etiam rex ipse, cujus animus _erga meliores litteras_
magis ac magis augetur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 591: 'Una tamen in re vehementer a Germanis abhorret.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 592: Béthune MSS. 8493. Ranke, iii. p. 456.]
[Footnote 593: 'Restitutio ducis Wurtembergensis brevi magnos motus
pariet. Divinationes meas nosti.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 706.]
[Footnote 594: 'Magna et periculosa res universo orbi terrarum ac
præcipue nobis.'—Ibid. p. 728.]
[Footnote 595: 'Mit monstrosen Figuren.'—Seckendorf, p. 833.]
[Footnote 596: 'Gallum iterum venturum in potestatem imperatoris
Caroli.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 597: 'Leo carebit auxilio et decipietur a lolio.'—Ibid. The
correct reading is evidently _lilium_ (lily) and not _lolium_ (tares).
The preposition _a_ indicates that the word is taken in a symbolical
sense.]
[Footnote 598: 'Dolore et indignatione accensus replicui.'—Sanchez'
report to Ferdinand: Bucholz. Ranke.]
[Footnote 599: 'Cassellæ nescio quid memorant noctu, super aquis monstri
visum esse.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 729.]
[Footnote 600: Ranke, _Deutsche Geschichte_, iii. p. 459.]
[Footnote 601: 'Quid si Deus illa publica vitia tum punire, tum aliqua
ex parte tollere decrevit?'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 729.]
[Footnote 602: 'Ut Christum invocare et præsentiam ejus experiri
discamus.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 730.]
[Footnote 603: Sleidan, i. liv. ix p. 365. Ranke, iii. p. 461. Rommel,
ii. p. 319.]
[Footnote 604: 'In senatum pontifex venit, lectæque ibi sunt litteræ
fratris Caroli.'—Pallavicini, _Conc. Trid._ i. p. 294.]
[Footnote 605: 'The Duke of Wyttemberg lately restored by his and his
good brother's meanes.'—_State Papers_, vii. p. 568.]
[Footnote 606: Sleidan, i. pp. 366-368. Ranke, iii. pp. 465-468.]
[Footnote 607: 'Soll aussen bleiben.'—Sattler, iii. p. 129. Sleidan,
iii. p. 369. Ranke, iii. p. 481.]
[Footnote 608: The house of Wurtemberg boasts its descent from Emeric,
mayor of the palace under Clovis.]
[Footnote 609: _Hist. of the Ref. of the Sixteenth Century_, vol. i. bk.
iii. ch. ii.]
[Footnote 610: 'Snepfius Stuttgardiæ pastor ecclesias in illo ducatu
reformavit.'—Melch. Adami _Vitæ Germanorum Theologorum_, p. 322.]
[Footnote 611: _Hist. of the Ref. of the Sixteenth Century_, vol. iv.
bk. xvi. ch. x.]
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CONFERENCE AT THE LOUVRE FOR THE UNION OF TRUTH AND
CATHOLICITY IN THE CHURCH.
(1534.)
The Wurtemberg affair being ended, Du Bellay thought of nothing but his
great plan; that is, a Reformation according to the ideas of the Queen
of Navarre—the combination of catholicism and truth by the union of
France and Germany. They were not the only persons who entertained such
thoughts: Roussel, Bucer, and many other evangelical christians asked
themselves whether the great success obtained in Germany would not
decide the reformation of France. Intercourse was much increased between
the two countries. Frenchmen and Germans were continually crossing and
recrossing the Rhine.
[Sidenote: A WITTEMBERG STUDENT.]
In the month of July 1534, the Queen of Navarre was in one of the
chambers of her palace: before her stood a bashful timid young man, and
she had a letter in her hand which she appeared to be reading with the
liveliest interest. The young man was a native of Nîmes, Claude Baduel
by name. He had just come from Wittemberg, where he had found, at the
feet of Melanchthon and Luther, the knowledge of the Saviour. He was not
an ordinary student. Of reserved manners,[612] generous heart, rare
disinterestedness, and great firmness in the faith, he had at the same
time a highly cultivated mind. He spoke Latin not only with purity, but
with great elegance, and his discourses were as full of matter as of
harmony.[613]
Like many other young scholars, Baduel was very poor, not having the
means of studying and scarcely of living. Often during his residence at
Wittemberg, he found himself in his little room reduced to the last
extremity. He had uttered many a groan, and had prayed to that heavenly
Father who feedeth the birds of the air. As the moment of his departure
approached, his distress had increased. How could he perform the
journey? What would become of him in France? He had asked himself with
sorrow whether he ought not to abandon letters and devote himself to
some manual labour. On a sudden, he conceived the idea of applying to
the Queen of Navarre; and going to Melanchthon, he said to him: 'Ill
fortune compels me to forsake the liberal arts for vulgar occupations,
which my nature and my will abhor with equal energy.[614] In vain have I
zealously devoted myself to the study of Holy Scripture and of
eloquence; in vain have I ardently desired to make further progress; a
cruel enemy—poverty—lays its barbarous hands upon me, and compels me to
renounce a vocation which transported me with joy.[615] Yet I
am determined to make a last and supreme attempt. The Queen of Navarre
is a sort of providence, almost a divinity for the friends of letters
and of the arts.[616]... Pray, dear master, give me a letter to her.'
Melanchthon, grieved at the destitute condition of a young man whose
fine understanding he appreciated, did not hesitate to accede to his
request. In those days there was less etiquette and formality and more
familiarity between princes and the friends of letters than there has
been since. On the 13th of June, 1534, a month after the battle of
Laufen, the master of Germany wrote to the sister of Francis, to
introduce the scholar to her. It was this letter which Baduel had
delivered to the queen, and which she, delighted at entering into direct
communication with Melanchthon, was reading with the greatest interest.
'It is certainly a great boldness,' wrote the illustrious reformer, 'for
a man like me, of low condition and unknown to your highness,[617] to
dare recommend a friend to you; but the reputation of your eminent
piety, spread through all the world,[618] does not permit me to refuse
an upright and learned man the service he begs of me. The liberal arts
can never be supported except by the generosity of princes.' Melanchthon
ended by saying: 'Never will alms more royal or more useful have been
bestowed. The Church, scattered over the world, has long counted your
highness among the number of those queens whom the prophet Isaiah calls
the _nursing mothers_ of the people of God, and will take care to hand
down the remembrance of your kindnesses to the most distant
generations.'[619] But the student, that living message of the
reformers, interested Margaret no less than the letter itself. Baduel
had seen and heard them, in their homes, in the street, and in the
pulpit. 'Talk to me,' she said with that amiable grace which
distinguished her, 'talk to me about Melanchthon and Luther; tell me how
they teach and how they live, what are their relations with their
pupils, and what they think of France.' Margaret desired to know
everything. She questioned him on several points, a knowledge of which
might be useful for the projects she had conceived in conjunction with
Du Bellay.
[Sidenote: MARGARET'S PATRONAGE.]
The queen did not forget the young man himself: observing the beauty of
his mind, the liveliness of his faith, and the elevation of his soul,
she thought that to protect Baduel was to prepare a chosen instrument to
propagate evangelical principles in France. Thanks to her care, the
young man, recommended by Melanchthon, became erelong a professor at
Paris. Subsequently, when a college of arts was founded at Nîmes, the
youthful doctor resolved to sacrifice the advantageous post he held in
the capital to devote his services to the city of his birth. The queen
recommended him to the consuls of that city for rector of their new
institution. 'I provided for his studies,' she told them. But
persecution did not allow Baduel to serve France unto the end; he was
obliged to take refuge at Geneva, where he became professor in the
academy founded by Calvin.[620]
[Sidenote: THE MISSION OF CHELIUS]
The communications of the young man of Nîmes strengthened Margaret, the
king, and Du Bellay in their plans, and Francis resolved to send across
the Rhine a confidential person, empowered to ask the doctors of the
Reformation for a sketch of the means best suited to found an
evangelical catholicism in Europe. It was not Baduel whom Du Bellay
selected for this mission: he was too young. The diplomatist cast his
eyes on Ulric Chelius, a doctor of medicine and native of Augsburg, at
that time living at Strasburg, a great friend of Sturm and Bucer, and
more than once employed by the King of France in various negotiations.
Intelligent, active, and animated like Bucer with the double desire of
reforming and at the same time of uniting christendom, Chelius was well
suited for such a work. Although a German, and consequently knowing
Germany thoroughly, he had all the promptitude of a Frenchman; and the
circumstance that he was not of exalted rank rendered him fitter still
for entering into negotiations that were to be carried on secretly. He
left Strasburg and arrived at Wittemberg in July 1534.
Melanchthon was at that time greatly agitated. The divisions which
separated catholicism from reform, and the quarrels between the
Zwinglians and the Lutherans, filled him with anguish. He often stole
away from that crowd of every age, condition, and country which
continually filled his house, eager to see him.[621] His wife's anxious
heart was wrung when she saw her husband's sadness, and even the
children could scarcely cheer him by their innocent smiles. The future
alarmed him.... 'What sad times are hanging over us,' he exclaimed,
'unless there be somebody to remedy the existing disorders!... We are
moving to our destruction.... They will have recourse to arms ... and
State and Church will perish!'[622]
As soon as Chelius reached Wittemberg, he called upon Melanchthon. 'King
Francis,' he said, 'desires truth and unity. In almost every particular he
is in accord with you, and approves of your book of _Common-places_.[623]
I am authorised to ask you for a plan to put an end to the religious
dissensions which disturb christendom; and I can assure you that the
King of France is doing, and will do, all he can with the pope to
procure harmony and peace.'[624] Nothing was better adapted to captivate
Melanchthon. At this period the _moderates_ had not yet renounced the
idea of preserving external unity; they desired to maintain catholicity:
even Melanchthon saw no other safety for divided and agitated
christendom. Accordingly, never had message arrived at a more suitable
time. Chelius was to him like an angel come from heaven; a beam of joy
lighted up the great doctor's clouded brow. He went to see Luther, and
conversed with him and other friends about the proposals of the King of
France. 'If a few good and learned men,' said he, 'brought together by
certain sovereigns, were to confer freely and amicably together, it
would be easy, believe me, to come to an understanding with each
other.[625] Ignorant men know nothing about the matter, and make the
evil greater than it is.'[626]
[Sidenote: DIFFERENT OPINIONS ON THE UNION.]
Melanchthon thought that he could unite catholics and protestants. We
must not be surprised at it, for in our days very estimable, though not
very clear-sighted men, entertain the same idea. Truth was dear to the
doctor of Germany, but concord, unity, and catholicity were not less so.
The Church, according to Melanchthon and his friends, ought to be
universal; for redemption is appointed for all men, and all have need of
it. The Church ought therefore to strive to unite all the children of
Adam in communion with God, on the foundation of Christ, the only
Redeemer. It possesses a power which can embrace all humankind and keep
all differences in subjection. Such were the thoughts by which
Melanchthon was inspired: if there were any sacrifices to be made to
preserve the catholicity of the Church, he would gladly make them; he
would recognise the bishops, and even the head of the bishops, rather
than destroy unity. 'There is no question of abolishing the government
of the Church,' he said; 'the chief men among us ardently desire that
the received forms should be preserved as much as possible.'[627]
Luther's friend took the matter so much to heart that he began to
address Du Bellay personally: 'I entreat you,' he said, 'to prevail upon
the great monarchs to establish a concord which shall be consistent with
piety.[628] The dangers which threaten us are such that so great a man
as you ought not to be wanting in the cause of the State and of the
Church.... But what am I doing?... What need to urge you to walk who are
running already?'[629] _Catholicity and truth_: such was the device
graven on the arms borne by the champions who, under the auspices of the
King of France, were to appear between the two camps of Rome and the
Reformation.
Melanchthon busied himself with sketching the plan of the new Church,
which, with God's help and the support of the _great monarchs_
(Francis I., Henry VIII., and probably Charles V.), was to become the
Church of modern times. It might be eventually one of the most important
labours ever undertaken by man. Not only the politicians, but all pious,
loving, and perhaps feeble hearts, who feared controversy more than
anything, ardently hoped for the success of this heroic attempt. The
_chief men_, said Melanchthon, shared his opinion and encouraged his
projects. Yet there were simple, earnest, christian men, with minds
determined to set truth above everything, who saw with uneasiness these
theologico-diplomatic negotiations. Neither Farel, nor Calvin, nor
probably Luther, was among those who rallied round the standard raised
by Du Bellay and grasped by Melanchthon.
That pious man, however, was far from wishing to sacrifice the truth. 'I
am quite of your opinion,' said he to Bucer, 'that there can be no
agreement between us and the Bishop of Rome.[630] But, to satisfy the
worthy men who are endeavouring to bring this great matter to a happy
issue, I shall lay down what ought to be the essential points of
agreement.' Melanchthon then believed, and many evangelical christians
in France, and particularly in Germany, believed also, that if a reform,
though incomplete, were once established, the power of truth would soon
bring about a complete reform. He therefore finished his sketch and gave
it to Chelius.
[Sidenote: NOTES OF THE THREE DOCTORS.]
The latter, imagining that he held the salvation of the Church in his
hands, hastened to Strasburg to communicate Melanchthon's project to his
friends. On arriving at Bucer's house (17th of August), he found him
writing his answer to the _Catholic Axiom_ of the Bishop of Avranches, a
great enemy of protestantism. Bucer put aside his own papers and took
those of the Wittemberg doctor, which he was impatient to see. He read
them eagerly over and over again. 'Really there is nothing here to
offend anybody,' he said, 'if people have the least idea of what the
reign of Christ means. But, my dear Chelius,' he added, 'a union is
possible only among those who truly believe in Christ. That there should
be a superior authority, well and good! but it must be a holy authority
in order that every man may obey it with a good conscience.[631] If we
are to unite, all additions must be cut away, and we must return simply
to the doctrine of Scripture and of the Fathers.'
Chelius desired Bucer to give him his opinion in writing. The reformer
hastily drew up a memoir, which, being approved by his colleagues, he
handed to his friend on the 27th of August.[632] Francis's agent had
fixed that day for his departure; but at the last moment he changed his
mind, and remained twenty-four hours longer in Strasburg. There was
another doctor in that city, a meek, pious, and firm man, an old friend
of Zwingle's:[633] it was Hedio, and Chelius asked him for his opinion
also. Then, taking with him the memoirs of the three doctors, he started
without delay for Paris, convinced that catholicity and truth were about
to be saved.
On reaching the capital Chelius gave the papers to William du Bellay,
who immediately laid them before the king. The latter ordered that the
Bishop of Paris and certain of the nobles, men of letters, and
ecclesiastics, who desired to see a united but reformed Church, should
have these documents communicated to them. The arrival of this ultimatum
of the Reformation was an event of great importance; and accordingly the
memoirs of the three doctors were anxiously perused at the Louvre, in
the bishop's palace, and in other houses of the capital. Perhaps history
has made a mistake in taking so little note of this. Three of the
reformers, with England, Francis I., and some of the most eminent men of
the epoch, demanded one only catholic but reformed Church. A great
evangelical unity seemed on the point of being realised. Shall we not
set forth in some detail a proposal of such high interest? There are
individuals, we are aware, who are always looking for facts and
sensations, never troubling themselves about principles and doctrines;
but the wise, on the contrary, know that the world is moved by ideas,
and, whatever may be the objections of curious minds, history must
perform her task, and give to opinions the place that belongs to them.
At this time several meetings of an extraordinary kind were held at the
Louvre, and upon them, as some thought, the future of christendom
depended. The opinions of Melanchthon, Bucer, and Hedio, demanded by the
king, brought by Chelius, and laid before the monarch by Du Bellay, were
in his majesty's closet. The walls of the Louvre, which had witnessed
such levity of morals, and which hereafter were to witness so many
crimes, heard those holy truths explained in which everlasting life is
to be found. Around the table on which these documents lay, there were
politicians no doubt who in this investigation looked only to temporal
advantages, and Francis was at their head; but there were also serious
men who desired for the new Church both unity and reform. We will let
the reformers speak. They were not present in person, it will be
understood, before the King of France; it is their written advice which
he had asked for, and which was probably read by one of the Du Bellays.
But, for brevity's sake, we shall designate these memoirs by the names
of their authors, since it is the authors themselves who speak, and not
the historian.
[Sidenote: THE PROPOSALS EXAMINED.]
Francis I., eager both to emancipate France from its subordination to
the papacy, and to form in Europe a great united party capable of
vanquishing and thwarting Austria, listened with goodwill to Melanchthon
and his friends; yet he found the language of the reformers a little
more severe and _heretical_ than he had imagined. Some of the persons
around him were pleased; some were astonished, and others were
scandalised, and not without reason. To place the moderate Melanchthon
by the side of the pacific Bishop of Paris, well and good! but to hope
to unite the unyielding Luther and the fiery Beda, the pious elector and
the worldly Francis ... what a strange undertaking! Let us listen,
however; for these personages have taken their seats, and the inquiry is
about to begin.[634]
BUCER.
'There can be no concord in the Church except between those who are
really of the Church.[635] There is nothing in common between Christ and
Belial. We cannot unite God and the world.... Now, what are the majority
of bishops and priests?... I grieve to say.'
This introduction appeared to the king rather high-flown; but he said to
himself that Bucer doubtless wished to make protestation of his loyalty
at the very outset. Perhaps his colleagues will be more conciliating.
MELANCHTHON.
'The catholic doctrine, say some, has a few trifling blemishes here and
there; while we and our friends have been making a great noise without
any cause.... That is a mistake. Let not the pontiff and the great
monarchs of christendom shut their eyes to the diseases of the
Church.[636] They ought, on the contrary, to acknowledge that these
pretended trifling blemishes destroy the essential doctrines of the
faith, and lead men into idolatry and manifest sin.'
BUCER.
'If you wish to establish christian concord, apply to those who truly
believe in Christ.[637] Those who do not listen to the Word cannot
explain the Word.... What errors have been introduced by wicked priests!
Shall we apply to other priests to correct them, who perhaps surpass the
former in wickedness?'
Really the pacific Bucer and Melanchthon speak as boldly as Luther and
Farel. The king and his councillors were beginning to be alarmed, but
more conciliatory words revived their hopes.
BUCER.
'All that can be conceded, while maintaining the faith and the love of
God, we will concede. Every salutary custom, observed by the ancients,
we will restore. We have no desire to upset everything that is standing,
and we know very well that the Church here below cannot be without
blemish.'[638]
[Sidenote: CHURCH GOVERNMENT.]
The satisfaction of the king and his councillors increased when they
came to Church government. There must be order in the Church, said the
protestants. There must be a ministry of the Word; an inspection of the
pastors and of the flocks, in order to secure discipline and peace. The
service, the time appointed for worshipping in common, the place where
the Church should assemble, the holy offices, the temporal aid necessary
for the support of the ministry, the care of the poor: all these things
require an attentive and faithful administration. These principles were
set forth by the reformers, the Strasburg doctor insisting most on this
point.
BUCER.
'The kingdom of Christ ought not to be without a government. In no place
ought order to be stricter, obedience more complete, and power more
respected.'
Francis I. and his councillors heard these declarations with pleasure.
They had been told that the _pretended_ Church of the protestants was
composed of atoms that had no cohesion with each other. Others affirmed
that the only superior power recognised in it was that of certain
theocratic prophets, like Thomas Munzer and others. Francis, therefore,
was satisfied to learn that while they acknowledged a universal
priesthood, by virtue of which every believer approached God in prayer,
protestantism maintained a special evangelical ministry. But what was
this ministry, this government? This the king and his advisers desired
to know. Here, in our opinion, the mediating divines went wrong: the
king's wishes were to be almost satisfied.
MELANCHTHON.
'As a bishop presides over several Churches, no one can think it wrong
for a pontiff to preside at Rome over several bishops. The Church must
have leaders to examine those who are called to the ministry, to judge
in ecclesiastical causes, and watch over the teaching of the
ministers.... If there were no such bishops, they ought to be
created.[639] One sole pontiff may even serve to maintain harmony of
faith between the different nations of christendom.'
Francis was delighted; but the more decided evangelicals looked upon
this idea of an _evangelical_ pope as a dream to be consigned to the
Utopia described by Sir Thomas More. An accessory declaration of another
kind was to please the king even more.
MELANCHTHON.
'As for the Roman pontiff's claim to transfer kingdoms from one prince
to another, that concerns neither the Gospel nor the Church; and it is
the business of kings to combat that unjust pretension.'
Now that these concessions were granted, the reformers were about to
make the loud voice of the Reformation heard.
BUCER.
'The first of doctrines is the justification of sinners.'
MELANCHTHON.
'Remission of sins ought to be accompanied by a change of life; but this
remission is not given us because of this new life; it comes to us only
through mercy, and is given to us solely because of Christ.'
BUCER.
'Thus, then, we have done with the merits ascribed to the observances
and prayers of the monks and priests: we have done with all vain
confidence in our own works. Let the grace of God be obscured no longer,
and the righteousness of Christ be no more diminished! It is on account
of the blood of his only Son that God forgives us our sins.'
[Sidenote: JUSTIFICATION AND THE MASS.]
Francis and his advisers thought that _orthodox_ enough. Even the
schoolmen (they said) have used this language in some of their books.
They raised no opposition to the opinion of the reformers upon
justification by faith.[640] But one point made them uneasy.... What
will they say of the mass? This important subject was not forgotten.
BUCER.
'What! to be present every day at mass without repentance, without
piety, even without thinking of the mysteries connected with it, will
suffice to obtain all kinds of grace from God!... No! when we celebrate
the sacrament of our Lord's body and blood, there must be a living
communion between Christ and the living members of Christ.'[641]
[Sidenote: PROTEST AGAINST ABUSES.]
MELANCHTHON.
'The mass is the only knot we cannot untie;[642] for it contains such
horrible abuses ... invented for the profit of the monks. All impious
rites must be interdicted, and others established in conformity with the
truth.'
'The mass must be preserved,' said Francis; 'but the stupid, absurd, and
foolish legends abolished.'[643]
The Frenchmen were anxious to learn the doctrine of the reformers on the
sacraments: it was, in fact, the embarrassing point, in consequence of
the different opinions of different doctors. The enemies of the
Reformation spread the rumour through France that the sacraments were to
protestants mere ceremonies only, by which christians show that they
belong to the Church. 'No,' said the doctors, 'these outward forms are
means by which grace works inwardly in our souls. Only this working does
not proceed from the disposition of the priest administering the
sacrament, but from the faith of him who receives it.' And here came the
great question: 'Is Christ present or not in the communion?' Bucer and
his friends cleverly extricated themselves from this difficulty.
BUCER.
'The body of Christ is received in the hands of the communicants, and
eaten with their mouths, say some. The body of Christ is discerned by
the soul of the believer and eaten by faith, say others. There is a way
of putting an end to this dispute by simply acknowledging that, whatever
be the manner of eating, there is a real _presence of Christ_ in the
Lord's Supper.'[644]
By degrees the reformers became more animated.
MELANCHTHON.
'We must teach the people that the saints are not more merciful than
Jesus Christ, and that we must not transfer to them the confidence due
to Christ alone.
'The monasteries must be converted into schools.
'Celibacy must be abolished, for most of the priests live in open
uncleanness.'[645]
BUCER.
'The Church must have a constitution in which everything will be decided
by Scripture; and a conference of learned and pious men is wanted to
draw it up.'
HEDIO.
'That assembly must not be composed of divines only, but of laymen also;
and, above all things, no forward step should be taken so long as the
pope and the bishops persist in their errors, and even defend them by
force.'[646]
When the reformers drew up these articles, they had gradually begun to
feel some hope. It is possible, perhaps probable, that unity will be
restored.... Moved at the thought, they lifted their eyes towards the
mighty arm from which they expected help.
MELANCHTHON.
'O that the Lord Jesus Christ would look down from heaven and restore
the Church for which he suffered to a pious and perpetual union, which
may cause his glory to shine afar!'[647]
Francis and his councillors were satisfied upon the whole;[648] but the
doctors of Rome looked with an uneasy eye upon these (to them)
detestable negotiations. There was agitation at the Sorbonne and even at
the Louvre. All the leaders of the Roman party who had a voice at court
made respectful representations. Cardinal de Tournon added
remonstrances. Du Bellay held firm; but it was not so with Francis. He
hesitated and staggered. An event occurred to give him a fresh impulse,
and to legitimatise in his eyes the reforms demanded by his minister.
[Footnote 612: 'Mores modestissimi.'—Melanchthon to the Queen of
Navarre, _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 733.]
[Footnote 613: 'Non solum mundities et elegantia singularis, sed etiam
quædam non insuavis copia.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 614: 'Ad quasdam alias operas, a quibus et natura et voluntate
abhorret.'—Ibid. p. 735.]
[Footnote 615: 'Paupertas, quasi manus injecit.'—Ibid. p. 752.]
[Footnote 616: 'Velut in quodam numine.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 752.]
[Footnote 617: 'Homo infimæ sortis et ignotus Celsitudini tuæ.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 618: 'Fama tuæ eximiæ pietatis quæ totum terrarum orbem
pervagata est.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 619: 'Et recensebit ad posteros universa ecclesia.'—_Corp.
Ref._ ii. p. 733.]
[Footnote 620: He died there in 1561. See Senebier, _Hist. Litt. de
Genève_. Ch. le Fort, _Livre du Recteur_, p. 371. Haag, _France
Protestante_, which contains a list of Baduel's numerous writings.]
[Footnote 621: 'Videres in ædibus illis perpetuo accedentes et
discedentes atque exeuntes aliquos.'—Camerarius, _Vita Melanchthonis_,
p. 40.]
[Footnote 622: 'Quanta dissipatio reipublicæ et ecclesiæ.'—_Corp. Ref._
ii. p. 740.]
[Footnote 623: 'In plerisque dicebat regem esse non alienum a libro
Philippi quo _locos_ ille tractat _communes_.'—Gerdesius, _Hist. Evang.
renov._ iv. p. 114.]
[Footnote 624: 'Regem Gallorum apud pontificem de pace et mitigatione
tantarum rerum acturum esse.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 976.]
[Footnote 625: 'Si monarchæ aliqui efficerent ut aliqui boni et docti
viri amanter et libere inter se colloquerentur.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p.
740.]
[Footnote 626: 'Et interdum præter rem tumultuantur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 627: 'Usitatam ecclesiæ formam conservare, quantum possibile
est.—Ibid.]
[Footnote 628: 'Ut Celsitudo tua, propter Christi gloriam, hortetur
summos monarchas.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 740.]
[Footnote 629: 'Sed nihil opus est, _te currentem_, ut dici solet,
adhortari.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 630: 'Assentior tibi, mi Bucere, desperandam esse concordiam
cum pontifice romano.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 275.]
[Footnote 631: 'Dass die obere Gewalt eine heilige sey.'—Schmidt,
_Zeitschrift für Hist. Theol._]
[Footnote 632: 'Consentientibus symmistis meis.'—Consilium Buceri,
Strasburg MSS.]
[Footnote 633: _Hist. of the Ref. of the Sixteenth Century_, vol. ii.
bk. viii. ch. viii.]
[Footnote 634: Melanchthon's memoir will be found in the _Corpus
Reformatorum_, published by Dr. Bretschneider, ii. pp. 743-766. I am
indebted to Professor Schmidt for a copy of Bucer's memoir, which is in
the Strasburg library. The volume containing Hedio's memoir has
disappeared from the archives; we have, however, found a few extracts.]
[Footnote 635: 'Concordia esse non potest nisi inter eos qui sunt de
ecclesia.'—Consilium Buceri MS.]
[Footnote 636: 'Pontifex et summi reges agnoscant ecclesiæ morbos.'—
_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 743.]
[Footnote 637: 'Nisi inter eos qui Christo vere credunt.'—Consilium
Buceri.]
[Footnote 638: 'Nec etiam ut nulla omnino labes tolleretur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 639: 'Creari tales oporteret.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 746.]
[Footnote 640: 'Locum de justificatione, ut a nostris tractatur,
_probare regem_.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 1017.]
[Footnote 641: 'Viva vivorum membrorum Christi communione.'—Buceri
Consilium MS.]
[Footnote 642: 'Hic unus nodus de missa videtur inexplicabilis esse.'—
_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 781.]
[Footnote 643: 'Orationes et legendas multas ineptas et impias
abrogandas aut saltem emendandas.'—Ibid. p. 1015.]
[Footnote 644: 'Veram Christi in cœna præsentiam exprimi.'—Buceri Cons.]
[Footnote 645: 'Plurimi in manifesta turpitudine vivunt.'—_Corp. Ref._
ii. p. 764.]
[Footnote 646: Schmidt, _Zeitschrift für Hist. Theolog._ 1850, p. 35.]
[Footnote 647: 'Ut Christus ecclesiam suam ... redigat in concordiam
piam et perpetuam.'—_Corp. Ref._]
[Footnote 648: 'Hos articulos Francisco regi non displicuisse multa sunt
quæ suadent.'—Gerdesius, _Hist. Evang. renov._ iv. p. 124.]
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE APPARITION AT ORLEANS.
(SUMMER 1534.)
[Sidenote: THE PROVOST'S WIFE.]
Calvin, as it will be remembered, had studied and evangelised at
Orleans, and his teaching had left deep traces, particularly among the
students and with certain ladies of quality. The wife of the city
provost seems to have been one of the souls converted by the ministry of
the young reformer. The narrative he has devoted to her, the full
details into which he enters, show the interest he took in her
conversion.[649] This woman, who occupied a distinguished rank in the
city, had found peace for her soul in faith in Christ; she had believed
in the promises of the Word which Calvin had explained; she had felt
keenly the nothingness of Roman pomps and superstitions; the grace of
God was sufficient for her; and caring little for _outward adorning_,
she strove after that _which is not corruptible_, the ornament of the
_women who trusted in God_. 'She is a Lutheran,' said some; 'she belongs
to those who have listened to the teaching of Luther's disciples.' Her
husband the provost, a person of influence, a great landowner, an
esteemed magistrate, a man of upright, prompt, and energetic character,
was touched by the purity of his wife's conduct, and, without being
converted to the Gospel, had become disgusted with the Roman
superstitions, and despised the monks.
The provostess (to adopt the language of the manuscripts) fell ill, sent
for a lawyer, and dictated her will to him. Lying on a bed of sickness,
which she was never to leave again, full of a living faith in Christ,
she felt certain of going to her Saviour, and experienced an
insurmountable repugnance to the performance over her grave of any of
the superstitious ceremonies for which devout women have ordinarily such
a strong liking. Accordingly, while the notary, pen in hand, was waiting
the dictation of her last will, she said: 'I forbid all bell-ringing and
chanting at my funeral, and no monks or priests shall be present with
their tapers. I desire to be buried without pomp and without torches.'
The lawyer was rather surprised, but he wrote down the words; and her
husband, who remained near her and knew her faith, promised that her
wishes should be kept sacred. When she died, the mortal remains of this
pious woman were laid in the tomb of her father and grandfather, with no
other accompaniment than the tears of all who had known her, and the
prayers of the children of God who formed the little evangelical flock
of Orleans.
[Sidenote: THE PROVOST AND THE MONKS.]
When the ceremony was over, the provost proceeded to the convent of the
Franciscans, in whose cemetery the burial had taken place. He was a
liberal man, and, though despising the monks, did not wish to do them
wrong, even in appearance. The friars, already much irritated, did not
understand what the magistrate wanted with them, and received him very
coldly. 'As you were not called upon to do duty,' he told them, 'here
are six gold crowns by way of compensation.' The monks, who had reckoned
on the death of this lady as a great windfall, were by no means
satisfied with the six gold pieces; and, even while taking them, looked
sulkily at the widower, and swore to be revenged.
Not long after this, the provost having determined upon cutting down a
wood he possessed near Orleans, was giving directions to his workmen,
when two monks, following the narrow lanes running through the forest,
arrived at the spot where the owner and the woodmen were at work, boldly
addressed the former, and demanded in the name of the convent permission
to send their waggon once a day during the felling to lay up their
store. 'What!' answered the provost, whom the avarice of the monks had
always disgusted, 'a waggon a day! Send thirty, my reverend fathers, but
(of course) with ready money. All that I want, I assure you, is good
speed and good money.'[650]
The two cordeliers returned abashed and vexed, and carried the answer to
their superiors. This was too much: two affronts one after the other!
The monks consulted together; they desired to be revenged by any means;
such _heresies_, if they were tolerated, would be the ruin of the
convents. They deliberated on the best manner of giving a striking
lesson to the provost and to all who might be tempted to follow the
example of his wife. 'These gentlemen, to be revenged, proceeded to
devise a fraud,' says Calvin. Two monks particularly distinguished
themselves among the speakers: brother Coliman, provincial and exorcist
of great reputation among the grey friars, and brother Stephen of Arras,
'esteemed a great preacher.' These two doctors, wishing to teach the
city that monks are not to be offended with impunity, invented a
'tragedy,' which, they thought, would everywhere excite a horror of
Lutheranism.
Brother Stephen undertook to begin the drama: he shut himself up in his
cell and composed, in a style of the most vulgar eloquence, a sermon
which he fancied would terrify everybody. The news of a homily from the
great preacher circulated through the city, and when the day arrived, he
went up into the pulpit and delivered before a large congregation (for
the church was crammed) a 'very touching' discourse, in which he
pathetically described the sufferings of the souls in purgatory.... 'You
know it,' he exclaimed, 'you know it. The unhappy spirits, tormented by
the fire, escape; they return after death, sometimes with great tumult,
and pray that some consolation may be given them. Luther, indeed,
asserts that there is no purgatory.... What horror! what abominable
impiety!' 'The friar forgot nothing,' says Beza, 'to convince his
audience that spirits return from purgatory.' The congregation dispersed
in great excitement; and after that the least noise at night frightened
the devout. The way being thus prepared, the impudent monks arranged
among themselves the horrible drama which was to avenge them on the
provost and his wife.
[Sidenote: THE APPARITION IN THE CONVENT.]
On the following night the monks rose at the usual hour and entered the
church, carrying their antiphonaires or anthem-books in their hands.
They began to chant; their hoarse voices were intoning matins ... when
suddenly a frightful tumult was heard, coming from heaven as it seemed,
or at least from the ceiling of the church. On hearing this 'great
uproar,' the chanting ceased, the monks appeared horrified, and Coliman,
the bravest, moved forward, armed with all the weapons of an exorcist,
and _conjured_ the evil spirit; but the spirit said not a word. 'What
wantest thou?' asked Coliman. There was no answer. 'If thou art dumb,'
resumed the exorcist, 'show it us by some sign.' Upon this the spirit
made another uproar. The hearers, not in the secret, were
terror-stricken. 'All is going on well,' said Coliman, Stephen, and
their accomplices; 'now let us circulate the news through Orleans.' The
next day the friars visited some of the most considerable personages of
the city who were among the number of their devotees. 'A misfortune has
happened to us,' they said, without mentioning what it was; 'will you
come to our help and be present at our matins?'
These worthy citizens, anxious to know what was the matter, did not go
to bed, and went to the convent at midnight. The monks had already
assembled in the church to chant their collects, anthems, and litanies;
they provided good places for the devout laymen, and with trembling
voices began to intone:
_Domine! labia_...
The words had hardly been uttered, when a frightful noise interrupted
the chanting. 'The ghost! the ghost!' exclaimed the terrified monks.
Then Coliman, who had 'the usual equipment when he wished to speak to
the devil,' came forward, and, playing his part admirably, said, 'Who
art thou?'—Silence.—'What dost thou want?'—Silence.—'Art thou
dumb?'—Silence.—'If thou art not permitted to speak,' said Coliman,
'answer my questions by signs.... For _Yes_, give two knocks; and three
for _No_. Now, tell me ... art thou not the ghost of a person buried
here?' The ghost began to knock _Yes_. Then resumed Coliman: 'Art thou
the ghost of such a one, or such a one?' naming in succession many of
those who were buried in the church; but to each question the ghost
answered _No_. After a long circuit, the exorcist came at last to the
point he desired: 'Art thou the ghost of the provostess?' The spirit
replied with a loud _Yes_. The mystery seemed about to be cleared up: a
new act of the comedy began. 'Spirit, for what sin hast thou been
condemned?' asked the exorcist: 'Is it for pride?'—_No!_ 'Is it for
unchastity?'—_No!_ Coliman, after running through all the sins
enumerated in Scripture, bethought himself at last, and said: 'Art thou
condemned for having been a Lutheran?' Two knocks answered _Yes_, and
all the monks crossed themselves in alarm. 'Now tell us,' continued the
exorcist, 'why thou makest such an uproar in the middle of the night? Is
it for thy body to be exhumed?'—_Yes!_ There could no longer be any
doubt about it: the provostess was suffering for her Lutheranism. The
report had been prepared beforehand, but a few witnesses refused to sign
it, suspecting some trick. The provincial concealed his vexation, and
wishing to excite their imaginations still more strongly, he exclaimed:
'The place is profaned; let us leave it ... as the papal canons
command.' Forthwith one of the monks caught up the pyx containing the
_corpus Domini_; another seized the chalice; others took the relics of
the saints and 'the rest of their tools;'[651] and all fled into the
chapter-room, where divine service was thenceforward celebrated.
[Sidenote: INQUEST ON THE SPIRIT.]
The news of this affair soon reached the ears of the bishop's official,
and there was much talk about it at the palace. The Franciscans were
pretty well known there. 'There is some monkish trick at the bottom,'
said the official, an estimable and upright clergyman. He could not
conceal his disgust at this cheat of the friars. He thought that these
impetuous cordeliers would compromise, and perhaps ruin the cause of
religion, instead of advancing it, by their pretended miracles. It was
to be one of the peculiarities of protestantism to unveil the cunning,
avarice, and hypocrisy of the priests, the workers of miracles.
Extraordinary acts of the divine power were manifested at the time of
the creation of the Church, as at the time when the heavens and the
earth were first made by the Word of God. Is not all creation a miracle?
But the Reformation turned away with disgust from the tricks and cheats
of the Roman mountebanks, who presumed to ape the power of God. There
were even in the Catholic Church men of good sense who shared this
opinion. Of this number was the official of Orleans, the man who filled
the place which some had destined for Calvin.
He took with him a few honest people, and went to the grey friars'
church to inquire more particularly into the fact. He called the monks
together: brother Coliman gravely told the whole story, and the
official, after hearing their tales, said: 'Well, my brethren, I now
order these conjurations to be performed in my presence.—You,
gentlemen,' he said to some of his party, 'will mount to the roof and
see if any ghost appears.'—'Do nothing of the kind,' exclaimed friar
Stephen of Arras, in great alarm; 'you will disturb the spirit!' The
official insisted that the conjuration should be performed; but it was
not possible; the exorcist and the ghost both remained dumb. The
episcopal judge withdrew, confirmed in his views. 'Here's a ghost that
appears only to the monks,' he said to his companions; 'it is frightened
at the official.' This affair, which made some tremble and others smile,
soon became known throughout the city; the news reached the dark and
winding streets where the students lived: one told it to another, and
all hurried off to the university. Everything was in commotion there:
some were for the monks, the majority against them. 'Let us go and see,'
exclaimed this young France. Off they started, and arriving in a large
body, says Calvin, soon filled the church. They raised their heads, they
fixed their eyes on the roof that had become so celebrated; but they
waited in vain, it uttered no sound. 'Pshaw!' said they, 'it is a plot
the friars have wickedly contrived to be revenged of the provost and his
wife. We will find out all about it.' These curious and rather
frolicsome youths rushed to the roof in search of the ghost; they looked
for it in every corner, they called it, but the phantom was determined
to be neither seen nor heard, and the students returned to the
university, joking as they went.
[Sidenote: THE PROVOST APPEALS TO THE KING.]
There was one person, however, in Orleans who did not joke: it was the
provost. Irritated at the insult offered to his wife, he had recourse to
the law: a written summons was left at the convent, but the monks
refused to put in an answer, pleading the immunities they enjoyed in
their ecclesiastical quality. The provost, true to his character, was
not willing to lose this opportunity of giving the friars a severe
lesson. 'What!' he exclaimed, 'shall these wretches make her, who rests
at peace in the grave, the talk of the whole city? If she had been
accused in her lifetime, I would have defended her, much more will I do
so after her death!' He determined to lay the matter before the king,
and set out for Paris.
The story of the ghost who appeared with a great noise in a convent at
Orleans, had already reached the capital, and been repeated at court.
The monks, in general, were not in high favour there. The courtiers
called to mind the words of the king's mother, who thanked God for
having taught her son and herself to know 'those hypocrites, white,
grey, black, and of all colours.' Du Bellay especially and his friends
gladly welcomed a story which set in bold relief the vices of the old
system and the necessity of a reform. As soon as the provost reached the
capital, he had an audience of the king. Francis, who was not famed for
his conjugal affections, could not understand the emotion of the
widower; but despising the monks at least as much as his mother and
sister did, and delighted to put in practice the new reforming ideas
which were growing in his mind, he resolved to seize the opportunity of
humbling the insolence of the convents. He granted all the provost
asked; he nominated councillors of parliament to investigate the matter;
and as the cordeliers pleaded their immunities, Duprat, in his quality
of legate, gave, by papal authority, power to the commissioners to
proceed.
The day when the royal agents arrived at Orleans was a day of sorrow to
one part of the inhabitants of that city, but of joy to the greater
number. People looked with astonishment on these gentlemen from Paris,
who would be stronger than the monks, and would punish them for their
long tyranny. A crowd followed them to the convent, and when they had
entered, waited until they came out again. Oh! how every one of them
would have liked to see what was going on within those gloomy walls! The
officers of the parliament spoke to the monks with authority, exhibited
their powers, and arrested the principal culprits, to the great
consternation of all the other monks. Some wretched carts stood at the
gate of the monastery; the archers brought out the insolent friars; and
the crowd, to its unutterable amazement, saw them mount like vulgar
criminals into these poor vehicles, which the maréchaussée was preparing
to escort. What inexpressible disgrace for the disciples of St. Francis!
[Sidenote: THE MONKS TAKEN TO PARIS.]
The news of the arrest had spread to all the sacristies, parsonages, and
convents of the city, and a cry of persecution arose everywhere. At the
moment of departure, a bigoted and excited crowd collected round the
carts in which sat the reverend fathers, quite out of countenance at
their misfortune. These people, some of whom no doubt were fanatics, but
amongst whom were many who felt a sincere affection for the monks, wept
bitterly; they uttered loud lamentations, and put money into the friars'
hands, 'as much to make good cheer with,' says Calvin, 'as to help in
their defence.'[652] But in the midst of this dejected crowd might be
observed some citizens and jeering students, who exclaimed: 'Fine
champions, indeed, to oppose the Gospel!' Certain sayings of Luther had
crossed the Rhine, and were circulating among the youths of the schools:
'Who made the monks?' asked one. 'The devil,' answered another. 'God
having created the priests, the devil (as is always the case) wished to
imitate him, but in his bungling he made the crown of the head too
large, and instead of a priest he turned out a monk.'[653] Such was the
exodus of the reverend fathers: they arrived in Paris, and there they
were separated and confined in different places, in order that they
might not confer with one another.
The deception was manifest, but it was impossible to obtain a
confession. The monks had sworn to keep profound silence, in order to
preserve the honour of their order and of religion, and also to save
themselves. They called to mind what had happened in the Dominican
convent at Berne in 1500: how a soul had appeared there in order to be
delivered from purgatory; how the five wounds of St. Francis had been
marked on a poor novice; and how, at the request of the papal legate,
four of the guilty monks had been burnt alive.[654] Might not the same
punishment be inflicted on a monk of Orleans? They trembled at the very
thought. In vain, therefore, did the councillors of parliament begin
their inquiry; in vain did they go from one house to another, and enter
the rooms where these reverend fathers were confined: the monks were
sullen, unfathomable, and more silent than the ghost itself.
The judges determined to try what they could with the novice who had
acted the part of the ghost; but if the monks were silent, sullen, and
immovable, the novice was agitated and frightened out of his senses. The
friars had uttered the most terrible threats; and hence, when he was
interrogated, 'he held firm,' says the Geneva manuscript, 'fearing, if
he spoke, that the cordeliers would kill him.' The judges then reminded
him of the power of the parliament and the protection of the king. 'You
shall never return into the hands of the monks,' they told him. At these
words the poor young fellow began to breathe; he recovered from his
great fright; his tongue was loosened, and he 'explained the whole
affair to the judges,' says Beza. 'I made a hole in the roof,' he said,
'to which I applied my ear, to hear what the provincial said to me from
below. Then I struck a plank which I held in my hand, and I hit it hard
enough for the noise to be heard by the reverend fathers underneath.
That was all the _fun_,' he added.
[Sidenote: THEIR CONDEMNATION.]
The friars were then confronted with the novice, who stoutly maintained
the cheat got up by them. They were both indignant and alarmed at seeing
this pitiful varlet turning against their reverences; but as it was now
impossible to deny the fact, they began to protest against their judges,
and to plead their privileges once more. They were condemned; the
indignation was general, the king especially being greatly irritated.
All his life long he looked upon the monks, black or white, as his
personal enemies. Besides, the hatred he felt against that lazy and
ignorant herd was, he thought, one of his attributes as the Father of
Letters. His anger broke out in the midst of his court: 'I will pull
down their convent!' he exclaimed, 'and build in its place a palace for
the duke!' (that is, for the Duke of Orleans, Catherine's husband). All
the councillors of parliament, both lay and clerical, were assembled.
The haughty Coliman, the eloquent brother Stephen, and their accomplices
were forced to stand at the bar, and sentence was solemnly delivered.
They were to be taken to the Chatelet prison at Orleans; there they
would be stripped of their frocks, be led into the cathedral, and then,
set on a platform with tapers in their hands, they were to confess
'that, with certain fraud and deliberate malice, they had plotted such
wickedness.' Thence they were to be taken to their convent, and
afterwards to the place of public execution, where they would again
confess their crime.
This promised the idlers of Orleans a still more extraordinary spectacle
than that given them when the friars got into their carts. Every day
they expected to see the sentence carried out; but the government feared
to appear too favourable to the Lutherans. The matter was protracted;
some of the monks died in prison; the others were suffered to escape;
and thus ended an affair which characterises the epoch, and shows the
weapons that a good many priests used against the Reformation. If the
sentence was never executed, the moral influence of the story was
immense, and we shall presently see some of its effects.
[Footnote 649: Calvin's manuscript narrative, recently discovered in the
Geneva library by Dr. J. Bonnet, has been printed in the _Bulletin de
l'Histoire du Protestantisme Français_, iii. p. 33.]
[Footnote 650: This affair is mentioned by Sleidan and Theodore Beza,
both of whom appear to have seen Calvin's narrative.]
[Footnote 651: Calvin, _Hist. de l'Esprit des Cordeliers d'Orléans_.
Geneva MS. (_Bulletin de l'Histoire du Protestantisme Français_, iii.)
Beza, _Hist. Eccles._ p. 11. Sleidan, i. p. 361.]
[Footnote 652: Calvin's MS. _Bulletin de l'Hist. du Prot. Fran._ iii.
p. 36.]
[Footnote 653: Lutheri _Opp._ xxii. p. 1463.]
[Footnote 654: _History of the Reformation of the Sixteenth Century_,
vol. ii. bk. viii. ch. ii.]
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FRANCIS PROPOSES A REFORMATION TO THE SORBONNE.
(AUTUMN 1534.)
[Sidenote: FRANCIS CONFESSES HIS ERRORS.]
The disgust inspired by the imposture of the cordeliers of Orleans, and
the jests lavished upon the monks in the Louvre and throughout Paris,
were further encouragements to the king to prosecute his alliances with
protestantism. He had, however, little need of a fresh incentive; the
reform proposed by Melanchthon was in his view acceptable and
advantageous, because it diminished the power of the pope, and corrected
abuses incompatible with the new light, at the same time that it left
untouched that catholicism from which the king had no desire to secede.
In his private conversations with Du Bellay, Francis, laying aside all
reserve, acknowledged frankly that the Romish Church was upon the wrong
track, and said in a confidential tone, that 'Luther was not so far
wrong as people said.' He did not fear to add that it was himself rather
who had been mistaken. The King of France, and the country along with
him, thus appeared to be in a good way for reform.
Francis determined to acquaint the protestant princes with his
sentiments on Melanchthon's memoir. 'My envoy, on his return to Paris,'
he wrote, 'having laid before me the opinions of your doctors on the
course to be pursued, I entertain a hope of seeing the affairs of
religion enter upon a fair way at last.'[655] Du Bellay, well satisfied
on his part with the impression made on his master by the opinions of
the evangelical divines, informed the magistrates of Augsburg, Ulm,
Nuremberg, Meiningen, and other imperial cities, that the King of France
approved of the Lutheran doctrines, and would protect the protestants.
The Melanchthonian reformation was therefore in progress, and already
men were preparing the stones for the edifice of the reformed Catholic
Church. The French government did not confine itself to writing letters;
but, strange to say! the sovereign, the absolute monarch, did not fear
to make an acknowledgment of his errors, and to express his regret: he
sent a thorough palinode into Germany. He who was putting the Lutherans
to death was not far from declaring himself a Lutheran. In October and
November 1534, an agent from Francis I. visited the cities of the
Germanic empire, announcing everywhere that 'the king now saw his
mistake in religious matters,'[656] and that the Germans who followed
Luther _thought correctly as regards the faith that is in Christ_.[657]
The worthy burgomasters and councillors of Germany were amazed at such
language, and looked at one another with an incredulous air; but the
French envoy assured them repeatedly that the King of France desired a
reform even in his own country.... 'The emperor,' he added, 'wishes to
constrain the protestants by force of arms to keep to the old doctrine;
but the King of France will not permit it. He has sent me into Germany
to form an alliance with you to that intent.' Such was the strange news
circulated beyond the Rhine. It reached the ears of the Archbishop of
Lunden, who immediately forwarded it to Charles V.
When Francis I. annulled the pragmatic sanction at the beginning of his
reign, he had reserved the right of appointing bishops, and had thus
made the Church subordinate to the State. The time seemed to have
arrived for taking a second step. It was necessary to put an end to the
popish superstitions and abuses, condemned by the friends of letters,
whose patron he claimed to be, and thus satisfy the protestants; and, by
a wise reform, maintain in Europe the catholicity of the Church, which
the popes were about to destroy by their incredible obstinacy. The king
would thus appear to be a better guardian of European catholicism than
even the pope, and secure for himself that European preponderance which
Charles V. had hitherto possessed.
[Sidenote: FRENCH VERSION OF THE ARTICLES.]
He must set his hand to the work and begin with the clergy. The king,
seeing that it would be unwise to communicate to them unreservedly the
opinions of the reformers, as they had been read at the Louvre, resolved
to have a new edition of them prepared, which should contain the
essential ideas. It would appear that he confided this task to a
numerous commission.[658] William du Bellay and his brother the Bishop
of Paris were doubtless the two chief members. The commissioners set to
work, correcting, suppressing, adding, hitting certain popular
superstitions a little harder even than the reformers, and at length
they prepared a memoir which may be considered as a statement of what
the French government meant by the proposed reformation.[659] The
changes made by the French excited much discontent among the German
protestants, and Melanchthon himself complained of them bitterly.[660]
The king, who carried into every pursuit the courage and fire of which
he had given so many proofs on the field of battle, appeared at first to
attack the papacy with the same resolution that he would have employed
in attacking one of Charles's armies. It must be clearly remembered
that, in his idea, the reform which he was preparing carried with it the
cessation of schism, and that his plan would restore the catholicity
torn to pieces by Roman insolence and imprudence. This remark, if duly
weighed, justifies the king's boldness. He sent the project to Rome, we
are assured, asking the pope to support or to amend it.[661] We may
imagine the alarm of the Vatican on reading this heretical memoir. Then
Du Bellay, taking the Sorbonne in hand, had a conference with the
deputies of that illustrious body, whose whole influence was ever
employed in maintaining the factitious unity that characterises the
papacy. 'Gentlemen,' he said to them, 'by the king's commands I have
endeavoured to prevail upon the German churches to moderate the
doctrines on which they separated from the Roman Church, wishing thus to
lead them back to union. By order, therefore, of my master, I hand you
the present articles, to receive instruction from you as to what I shall
have to say to the German doctors.'[662] The deputies having received
the paper from Du Bellay, forwarded it to the sacred faculty. The latter
delegated to examine it 'eminent men, doctors of experience in such
matters,'[663] who immediately set to work.
[Sidenote: TERROR OF THE SORBONNE.]
The secretary of the Sorbonne began to read the articles: the doctors
listened and soon began to look at each other and ask if they had heard
correctly. The venerable committee was agitated like the surface of the
sea by a sudden squall. They knew Francis; they knew he did not think
there existed in his kingdom any society daring enough to set limits to
his power. He expected that a word from his mouth would be considered as
a decree from God. The doctors came to the conclusion, therefore, that
if the king desired such a reform, nothing in the world could prevent
him from establishing it. They saw the Church laid waste, and Rome in
ruins.... It was the beginning of the end. Their terror and alarm
increased every minute. All the sacred faculty, all the Church must rise
and exclaim: 'Stop, Sire, or we perish!'
The French autocrat, however, took his precautions, and even while
meditating how he could strip the pope of his power, he put on a
pleasant face, and ascribed to others the blows aimed by his orders
against Rome. 'They are _Melanchthonian_ articles,' said his
ministers.[664] True, but behind Melanchthon was Du Bellay, and behind
him was the king. The tactics employed at this moment by Francis I. are
of all times; and if the multitude is sometimes deceived, intelligent
minds have always recognised the thoughts of the supreme mover under the
pen of the humble secretary. The movement of Francis towards
independence is in no respect surprising: the outburst is quite French
if it is not christian. There has always existed in France a spirit of
liberty so far as concerns the Church; and the most pious kings, even
St. Louis, have defended the rights of their people against the holy
see. The Gallican liberties, although they are nothing more than a
dilapidated machine, are still a memorial of something; and what is
dilapidated to-day may be restored to-morrow. It was therefore a truly
French feeling,—it was that hidden chord which vibrates at the bottom of
every generous heart, from the Channel to the Mediterranean Sea, whose
harmonious sound was heard at this important period of the reign of
Francis I.
The venerable company had some difficulty to recover from their alarm.
What! really, not in a dream, not figuratively, heresy is at the gates
of the Church of France, introduced by the king ... who courteously
offers her his hand!... The terrified Sorbonne raised a cry of horror,
and mustered all their forces to prevent the _heretic_ from entering.
They turned over the volumes of the doctors; they opposed the _Summa_ of
St. Thomas to the Epistles of St. Paul; they sought by every means in
their power to defend stoutly the scholastic doctrine in the presence of
Francis. A fireship had been launched by the guilty hand of the king:
did that prince imagine he would see the glorious vessel, which had so
long been mistress of the seas, in a hurry to lower her flag? The crew
were valiant, determined upon a deadly resistance, and ready to blow
themselves into the air with the ship, rather than capitulate. The
struggle between the king and the corporation was about to begin. Alas!
Beda was no longer there to support them, and recourse must be had to
others. 'Master Balue was elected to go to court, carrying the
registers, and Master Jacques Petit was given him as his
associate.'[665] The Sorbonne was poor in resources: the strong men were
in the camp of Luther, Calvin, and Melanchthon.
[Sidenote: THE MINISTERS AND THE SORBONNE.]
What was said at court between Master Balue, Master Petit, and the King
of France, has not been recorded; but we have the memoir sent by the
king to the Sorbonne, and the answer returned by that body to the king.
These documents may enlighten us as to what passed at the conference,
and we shall allow them to speak for themselves, arranging the former
under the name of the king's ministers. William du Bellay, his brother
the Bishop of Paris, and others probably were the persons empowered by
the king to confer with Master Balue and Master Jacques Petit. They were
champions of very different causes—the men who then met, probably at the
Louvre, in the presence of Francis I., and whom we are about to hear.
THE KING'S MINISTERS.
'To establish a real concord in the Church of God, we must all of us
first look at Christ; we must subject ourselves to him, and seek his
glory, not our own.'[666]
SORBONNE.
'We have heard his Majesty's good and holy words, for which we all thank
God, praying him to give the king grace to persevere.'[667]
This was doubtless a mere compliment.
[Sidenote: QUESTIONS DISCUSSED.]
MINISTERS.
'Above all things, let us remember that the doctors of the Word of God
ought not to fight like gladiators, and defend all their opinions
_mordicus_ (tooth and nail);[668] but rather, imitating St. Augustin in
his _Retractations_, they should be willing to give way a little to one
another ... without prejudice to truth.'
SORBONNE.
'Open your eyes, Sire; the Germans desire, in opposition to your
catholic intention, that we should give way to them by retrenching
certain ceremonies and ordinances which the Church has hitherto
observed. They wish to draw us to them, rather than be converted to
us.'[669]
MINISTERS.
'You are mistaken: important concessions have been obtained. The Germans
are of opinion that bishops must hold the chief place among the
ministers of the Churches, and that a pontiff at Rome should hold the
first place among the bishops. But, on the other hand, the pontifical
power must have respect for consciences, consult their wants, and be
ready to concede to them some relaxation.'[670]
SORBONNE.
'It must not be forgotten that the ecclesiastical hierarchy is of divine
institution, and will last until the end of time; that man can neither
establish nor destroy it, and that every christian must submit to
it.'[671]
MINISTERS.
'Having established the catholicity of the Church, let us consider what
reforms must be effected in order to preserve it. First, there are
indifferent matters, such as food, festivals, ecclesiastical vestments,
and other ceremonials, on which we shall easily come to an
understanding. Let us beware of constraining men to fast by commandments
which nobody observes ... and _least of all those who make them_.'[672]
SORBONNE.
'None resist them but men corrupted by depraved passions.'[673]
[Sidenote: SAINTS AND MASS-MONGERS.]
MINISTERS.
'Certain doctors of the Church, making use of a holy prosopopœia, have
introduced into their discourses the saints whom they were eulogising,
and have prayed for their intercession as if they were present before
them;[674] but they only desired by this means to excite admiration for
these godly persons, rather than to obtain anything by their
intercession.... Let the people, then, be exhorted not to transfer to
the saints the confidence which is due to Jesus Christ alone. It is
Christ's will to be invoked and to answer prayer.'[675]
Here the French mind indulged in a sly hit which would not have occurred
to the German mind; and the king's councillors, determining to strike
hard, continued:
'What abuses and disorders have sprung out of this worship of man!
Observe the words, the songs, the actions of the people on the saints'
days, near their graves or near their images! Mark the eagerness with
which the idle crowd hurries off to banquets, games, dances, and
quarrels. Watch the practices of all those paltry, ignorant, greedy
priests, who think of nothing but putting money in their purses; and
then ... tell us whether we do not in all these things resemble pagans,
and revive their shameful superstitions?'[676]
Not a word of this popular description of saints' days will be found in
Melanchthon's memoir: it is entirely the work of Francis and his
councillors.
SORBONNE.
'Let us beware how we forsake ancient customs. Let us address our
prayers directly to the saints who are our patrons and intercessors
under Jesus Christ. To assert that they have not the prerogative of
healing diseases, is in opposition to your Majesty's personal experience
and the gift you have received from God of curing the king's evil....
Let us also pay our devotions to statues and images, since the seventh
general council commands them to be adored.'[677]
When the Sorbonne, in order to defend the prerogatives of the saints,
cited the miraculous powers of the king, they employed an argument to
which it was dangerous to reply; and, accordingly, we find nothing on
this point in the answers of the opponents of the faculty. The
discussion, getting off this shoal, turned to the act which is the
essence of the Romish doctrine, and priests were once more lashed by the
royal hand, which was even more skilful at this work than in curing the
evil.
MINISTERS.
'There ought to be in the Church a living communion of the members of
Christ.[678] But, alas! what do we find there? A crowd of ignorant and
filthy priests, the plague of society, a burden to the earth, a slothful
race who can do nothing but say mass, and who, while saying it, do not
even utter those five intelligible words, preferable, as St. Paul
thinks, to ten thousand words in an unknown tongue.... We must get rid
of these mercenaries, these mass-mongers, who have brought that holy
ceremony into contempt, and we must supply their place with holy,
learned, and experienced men.[679] Then perhaps the Lord's Supper will
recover the esteem it has lost. Then, instead of an unmeaning babble, we
shall have psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs. Then we shall sing to
the Saviour, and every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is the
Lord, to the glory of God the Father.... What false confidence, what
wretched delusion is that which leads so many souls to believe that by
attending mass every day, even when piety is neglected, they are
performing an act useful to themselves and their friends, both for this
life and for that which is to come!'[680]
[Sidenote: THE LORD'S SUPPER.]
The Sorbonne contended for the external mechanism of the sacramental
act, to which their opponents desired to impart a spiritual and living
character, and defended without shame or scruple the material advantages
the clergy derived from it.
SORBONNE.
'The mass is a real sacrifice, of great benefit to the living and the
dead, and its excellence is founded on the passion of Jesus Christ. It
is right, therefore, to bestow temporal gifts on those who celebrate it,
be they good or bad; and the priests who receive them ought not to be
called mass-mongers, even though they are paid.'[681]
The king's ministers now came to the much disputed doctrine of the
presence of Christ in the communion.
MINISTERS.
'Let us put aside the disputes that have divided us so long.[682] Let us
all confess that in the eucharist the Lord truly gives believers his
body to eat and his blood to drink to feed our souls in life
everlasting; and that in this manner Christ remains in us and we in
Christ. Whether this sacrament be called the Lord's Supper, the Lord's
bread and wine, mass, eucharist, love-feast, or sacrifice, is of little
moment. Christians ought not to dispute about names, if they possess the
things; and, as the proverb says, "When we have the bear before us, let
us not look after his track."[683] Communion with Christ is obtained by
faith, and cannot be demonstrated by human arguments. When we treat of
theology, let us not fall into matæology.'[684]
The Sorbonne could not overlook this side-blow aimed at the scholastic
style.
SORBONNE.
'It is very useful, and often very necessary for the extirpation of
heresy, to employ words not to be found in Scripture, such as
_transubstantiation_, &c.[685] Yes, the bread and the wine are truly
changed in substance, preserving only the accidents, and becoming the
body and blood of Christ. It is not true that the _panitas_ or
_corporitas_ of the bread combines with the _corporitas_ of Christ. The
transubstantiation is effected _in instanti_ and not _successivè_; and
it is certain that neither laymen nor women can accomplish this
miraculous act, but priests only.'
The controversy next turned on confession, justification, faith, works,
and free-will; after which they came to practical questions.
MINISTERS.
'Good men do not ask that the monasteries should be destroyed, but be
turned into schools;[686] so that thus the liberality of our brethren
may serve to maintain, not idle people, but men who will instruct youth
in sound learning and morality.'
SORBONNE.
'What! the pope should permit the friars to leave their monasteries
whenever they wish! This clearly shows us that the Germans are aiming at
the overthrow, the ruin of all religion.'[687]
MINISTERS.
'And what prevents our restoring liberty of marriage to the ministers of
the Church? Did not Bishop Paphnucius acknowledge at the Nicene council
that those who forbid it encourage licentiousness? In that great crowd
of priests and monks it is impossible for purity of life to be restored
otherwise than by the divine institution which dates from Eden.'[688]
SORBONNE.
'An article quite as dangerous as the secularisation of monks.'
[Sidenote: AN ASSEMBLY OF LAITY AND CLERGY.]
MINISTERS.
'In this age, when everything is in a ferment,[689] and when so many
sects are raising their heads in various places, the interest of the
christian Church requires that there should be an assembly composed not
only of priests and theologians, but also of laymen and upright,
sensible, courageous magistrates, who have at heart the glory of the
Lord, public morality, and general usefulness.... Ah! it would be easy
to agree if we thought of Christ's glory rather than of our own!'[690]
The doctors of the Sorbonne had no great liking for deliberative
assemblies where they would sit with laymen and even with heretics.
SORBONNE.
'Beware! ... it is to be feared that, under the pretext of uniting with
us, the heretics are conspiring to lead the people astray.... Have we
not seen such assemblies in Germany, called together on a pretence of
concord, produce nothing but divisions, discord, and infinite ruin of
souls?'[691]
But the Sorbonne warned the king in vain. Francis at this time, through
policy no doubt, was opposed to the doctrines maintained by the priests.
He desired to be freed at home from that papal supremacy which presumed
to direct the policy and religion of his kingdom; and abroad he knew
that a league with England and Germany could alone destroy the
overwhelming preponderance of Charles V. And hence the meetings of the
Sorbonne grew more and more agitated; the doctors repeated to one
another all the alarming reports they had heard; there was sorrow and
anger; never, they thought, had Roman-catholicism in France been
threatened with such terrible danger. It was no longer a few obscure
sects; no longer a Brueys, a Henry of Lausanne, a Valdo, Albigenses, or
Waldenses, who attacked the Church: no! powerful states, Germany and
England, were separating from the papacy, and the absolute monarch of
France was endeavouring to introduce revolutionary principles into his
kingdom. The Church, as its Head had once been, was deserted by its
friends. The grandees who were subsequently to form a league around the
Guises, were silent now; the rough and powerful Montmorency himself
seemed dumb; and, accordingly, agitation and alarm prevailed in the
corporation. Certain ultramontane fanatics proposed petitioning the king
to put down heresy by force, and to uphold the Roman dogmas by fire and
sword. More moderate catholics, observing with sorrow the catholicity so
dear to them rent by schism, sought for more rational means of restoring
the unity destroyed by the Reformation. Everybody saw clearly that the
enemy was at the gate, and that no time must be lost in closing it.
[Sidenote: DANGER OF CATHOLICISM.]
Alas! they had to deal with others besides heretics. All reflecting
minds in Europe, and especially in France, were struck with the example
set by the King of England, and the members of the Roman party thought
that Francis was about to adopt the same course in his kingdom. There
was indeed a difference between the systems of these two princes. Henry
desired the doctrine of Rome, but not its bishop; Francis accepted the
bishop, but rejected the doctrine. Nevertheless, as each of these
reforms was a heavy blow aimed at the system of the middle ages, they
were looked upon as identical. The success which Henry's plan had met
with in England was an indication of what Francis's plan would meet with
in France. The two monarchs who reigned on each side of the Channel were
equally absolute.
The Roman doctors, finding that their controversy had not succeeded,
resolved to go to work in a more cunning way, and, without seeming to
reject a union with Germany, to oppose the heretics by putting them out
of court. 'Sire,' they said to Francis, 'your very humble servants and
most obedient subjects of the Faculty of Theology pray you to ask the
Germans whether they confess that the Church militant, whose head (under
Jesus) is Peter and his successors, is infallible in faith and morals?
whether they agree to obey him as his subjects, and are willing to admit
all the books contained in the Bible,[692] as well as the decisions of
the councils, popes, and doctors?'[693] Obedience to the pope and to
tradition, without discussing doctrines, was their summary of the
controversy. It did not succeed.
[Sidenote: SHOULD KINGS FEAR PROTESTANTISM?]
The doctors of the faculty, finding that the king would not aid them,
applied to the papal nuncio. They found him also a prey to fear. They
began to consult together on the best means of keeping France in
communion with the holy see. As Francis was deaf to theological
arguments, the Sorbonne and the nuncio agreed that some other means must
be used. The prelate went to the Louvre, carrying with him a suggestion
which the Sorbonne had prompted. 'Sire,' he said, 'be not deceived. The
protestants will upset all civil as well as religious order.... The
throne is in as much danger as the altar.... The introduction of a new
religion must necessarily introduce a new government.'[694]
That was indeed the best way of treating the affair; the nuncio had
found the joint in the armour, and the king was for a moment staggered;
but the pope's conduct restored his confidence. Rome began to proceed
against Henry VIII. as she had formerly done against kings in the middle
ages. This proceeding, so offensive to the royal dignity, drew Francis
towards the Reformation. If there is danger towards royal power, it
exists on both sides, he thought. He believed even that the danger was
greater on the side of Rome than of Germany, since the protestants of
that country showed their princes the most loyal submission, and the
most religious and profound respect. He had observed, that while the
pope desired to deprive the King of England of his states and release
his subjects from their obedience, the reformation which that prince had
carried out had not prejudiced one of his rights; that there was a talk,
indeed, of insurrections against Henry VIII., but they were got up by
Rome and her agents. Enlightened men suggested to Francis, that while
popery kept the people in slavery, and caused insurrection and rebellion
against the throne, the Reformation would secure order and obedience to
kings, and liberty to the people. He seems to have been convinced ...
for the moment at least. 'England and I,' he said, 'are accustomed to
keep together and to manage our affairs in harmony with each other, and
we shall continue to do so.'[695]
This new movement on the part of Francis emboldened the evangelicals.
They hoped that he would go on to the end, and would not leave the pope
even the little place which he intended to reserve for him. If a prince
like Louis IX. maintained the rights of the Gallican Church in the
thirteenth century; if a king like Charles VII. restored ecclesiastical
liberty in the fifteenth; shall we not see in this universal revival of
the sixteenth century a monarch like Francis I. emancipating France from
the Roman yoke? At a great sacrifice he has just done much for
Wurtemberg, and will he do nothing for his own kingdom? The friends of
the Reformation encouraged one another to entertain the brightest hopes.
'What a noble position!' they said.[696] Whenever they met, whether in
the university, in the country, or in the town, they exchanged
congratulations.[697] In their opinion, old things had passed away.
[Sidenote: UNEASINESS OF THE REFORMERS.]
But there were other evangelicals—men more decided and more
scriptural—who looked with a distrustful eye upon these mysterious
conferences between Francis and the protestants of Germany. Those fine
speeches of Du Bellay, and that remarkable conference at Bar-le-Duc,
were in their eyes policy and diplomacy, but not religion. They felt
uneasy and alarmed; and when they met to pray in their obscure
conventicles, these humble christians said to one another with terror:
'Satan is casting his net to catch those who are not on the watch. Let
us examine the colours in which he is disguised.' Astonished and even
distressed, they asked if it was not strange to assert, as Melanchthon
had done, 'that no good man would protest against the monarchy of the
Roman bishop,[698] and that, in consideration of certain reforms, we
should hasten to recognise him!' No, the Roman episcopate will never be
reformed, they said. Remodel it as you like, it will always betray its
domineering spirit, revive its ancient tricks, and regain its
ascendency, even by fire. We must be on our guard.... Between Rome and
the Reformation it is a matter of mere yes or no: the pope or Jesus
Christ! Unable to conquer the new Church in fair fight, they hope to
strangle it in their embraces. Delilah will lull to sleep in her lap the
prophet whom the strong men have been unable to bind with green withes
and new ropes. Under the pretence of screening the Reform from evil
influences, they desire to set it, like a flower of the field, in some
place without light and air, where, fading and pining away ... it will
perish. Thanks to the protection of the Queen of Navarre, the gallant
and high-spirited charger that loved to sport in the meadows is about to
be taken to the king's stable, where it will be adorned with a
magnificent harness ... but its mouth will be deformed by the bit, its
flanks torn by the spur, and even the plaits of its mane will bear
witness to its degradation.
This future was not reserved for the Reform. While the mild and prudent
voices of Melanchthon and Bucer were soothing it to sleep, innocently
enough no doubt, bolder and freer voices, those of a Farel and a Calvin,
were preparing to arouse it. While the papers of the conciliating
theologians were lying on the velvet cover of the royal table, another
paper, whose lines of fire seemed penned by the thunderbolt, was about
to circulate through the kingdom, and be posted even at the door of the
king's chamber by a too daring hand, which was to arouse in that prince
one of the most terrible bursts of passion ever recorded in history. A
loud peal of thunder would be heard, and the heavy atmosphere which
stifled men's minds would be followed by a pure and reviving air. There
would be furious tempests; but the christians of the scriptural,
practical, and radical Reformation rejoiced at witnessing the failure of
this specious but impossible project, which aimed at reforming the
Church even while preserving Roman-catholicism. The system of the Queen
of Navarre will have to be abandoned; that of Calvin will prevail. To
uphold truth, the evangelicals were about to sacrifice unity. No doubt
furious persecutions would be the consequence, but they said to each
other that it was better to live in the midst of hurricanes that awaken,
than in mephitic vapours which lull men into the sleep of death.
We shall describe hereafter the event which had so notable an influence
on the destinies of the Reformation in France. They were Frenchmen who
caused it; it was a Frenchman who was the principal author; but it was
from Switzerland, as we shall see, that this formidable blow was to
come, and to that country we must now return.
[Footnote 655: 'Dadurch Ich in gute Hoffnung kommen die Sachen sollten
auf gute Wege gerichtet werden.' This German translation of the king's
letter is given in the _Corp. Ref._ ii. pp. 828-835.]
[Footnote 656: 'Rex suus cognoscit nunc errorem suum in religione.'—
Lanz, _Correspondance de l'Empereur Charles-Quint_, ii. p. 144.]
[Footnote 657: 'Quod isti Germani Lutherum sequentes de Christo et de
fide illius recte sentiant.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 658: 'Fuerunt illi (Melanchthonis articuli) a _quamplurimis_
in Gallia excerpti, sed non integri verum mutilati.'—Gerdesius, _Hist.
Evang. renov._ iv. p. 124.]
[Footnote 659: This memoir is printed in the _Corpus Reformatorum_,
ii. pp. 765-775; and while Melanchthon's is entitled _Consilium Gallis
Scriptum_, this is headed _Idem Scriptum a Gallis editum_.]
[Footnote 660: 'Qua de re Melanchthon ipse conqueritur.'—Gerdesius,
iv. p. 124.]
[Footnote 661: 'Eosdem articulos Romam misisse dicitur, quo pontificis
ipsius quoque impetraret vel emendationem vel consensum.'—Gerdesius,
_Hist. Evang. renov._ iv. p. 124.]
[Footnote 662: D'Argentré, _De novis Erroribus_, i. p. 3553. Gerdesius,
iv. App. xiii.]
[Footnote 663: Letter from the Faculty of Theology to Francis I.
D'Argentré, i. p. 3953. Gerdesius, iv. App. xiii.]
[Footnote 664: D'Argentré, i. p. 3953. Gerdesius, iv. App. xiii.]
[Footnote 665: Gerdesius, i. App. xiii. p. 75.]
[Footnote 666: 'Necessarium ut in Christum omnes spectemus.'—Scriptum a
Gallis editum, _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 765.]
[Footnote 667: _Facultatis Theologiæ Parisiensis Responsum ad Regem
Franciscum_, D'Argentré, i. p. 3953.—Gerdesius, iv. App. p. 75.]
[Footnote 668: 'Nec geramus alterutri gladiatorios animos nostra
mordicus defendendi.'—Scriptum a Gallis editum, _Corp. Ref._ ii. p.
765.]
[Footnote 669: _Facultatis Theol. Paris. Resp. ad Regem._ Gerdesius, iv.
App. p. 75.]
[Footnote 670: 'Ut consulat conscientiis, aliquando concedere
relaxationem.'-Scriptum a Gallis editum, _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 766.]
[Footnote 671: 'Jure divino institutam, quæ usque ad consummationem
sæculi perduratura est.'—Gerdesius, iv. App. p. 78.]
[Footnote 672: 'Quæ tamen nemo observat, atque hi minime omnium qui
præcipiunt.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 767.]
[Footnote 673: D'Argentré, i. p. 397. Gerdesius, iv. App. p. 79.]
[Footnote 674: 'Pia mortuorum facta prosopopœia ... quasi præsentes a
præsentibus orasse.'—Scriptum a Gallis editum, _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 768.]
[Footnote 675: 'Qui et velit invocari et velit exaudire.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 676: 'Videbimus nos minime abesse a superstitione
Ethnicorum.'—Scriptum a Gallis editum, _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 768.]
[Footnote 677: 'Statuas et imagines sanctorum quas adorandas sept. œcum.
synodus decernit.'—_Facultatis Theol. Paris. Resp._]
[Footnote 678: 'Viva membrorum Christi communione.'—Scriptum a Gallis
ed. _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 769.]
[Footnote 679: 'Semotis his missarum conducticiis nundinatoribus.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 680: 'Præpostera ejus operis fiducia quæ plerosque sic
seduxit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 681: 'Vocari non debent nundinatores.'—_Facult. Theol. Paris
Resp._]
[Footnote 682: 'Sublatis quæ inter nos diu viguerunt altercationibus.'—
Script. a Gallis ed., _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 770.]
[Footnote 683: 'Præsente urso, quod dicitur, vestigia non quæramus.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 684: 'Theologiam sic tractemus ut non incidamus in
matæologiam.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 685: 'Utile et necessarium certa verborum forma uti, in sacra
scriptura non expressa.'—_Facult. Theol. Paris. Resp._ p. 82.]
[Footnote 686: 'Non petunt boni ut monasteria deleantur, sed ut sint
scholæ.'—Script. a Gallis ed., _Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 773.]
[Footnote 687: _Facultatis Theologiæ Parisiensis Responsum._ Gerdesius,
_Hist. Evang. renov._ p. 76.]
[Footnote 688: 'In tanta sacerdotum et monachorum turba restitui aliter
vitæ puritas non poterit.'—Scriptum a Gallis editum, _Corpus
Reformatorum_, ii. p. 774.]
[Footnote 689: 'Hoc fermentato sæculo.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 690: 'Perfacile autem coalescere possumus.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 691: _Facultatis Theologiæ Parisiensis Responsum._ Gerdesius,
_Hist. Evang. renov._ p. 77.]
[Footnote 692: Including the apocryphal books.]
[Footnote 693: _Facultatis Theologiæ Parisiensis Responsum._ Gerdesius,
_Hist. Evang. renov._ iv. App. p. 77.]
[Footnote 694: Du Bellay, _Mémoires_, ed. Petitot, Introd. p. 123.
Schmidt, _Hist. Theol._ p. 36 (ed. 1850).]
[Footnote 695: 'England und Ich pflegen zusammen zu halten und sämmtlich
unsere Sachen vornehmen.'—Rex Galliæ ad principes protest. _Corp. Ref._
ii. p. 830.]
[Footnote 696: 'Quam pulchre staremus.'—Sturm to Melanchthon, MS.]
[Footnote 697: Ibid.]
[Footnote 698: 'Neque bonus ullus erit, qui reclamet in pontificis
monarchiam.—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 762.]
BOOK III.
FALL OF A BISHOP-PRINCE, AND FIRST EVANGELICAL
BEGINNINGS IN GENEVA.
CHAPTER I.
THE RENAISSANCE, THE REFORMATION, THE MIDDLE AGES.
(1526.)
The Reformation was necessary to christian society. The Renaissance,
daughter alike of ancient and of modern Rome, was a movement of revival,
and yet it carried with it a principle of death, so that wherever it was
not transformed by heavenly forces, it fell away and became corrupted.
The influence of the humanists—of such men as Erasmus, Sir Thomas More,
and afterwards of Montaigne—was a balmy gale that shed its odours on the
upper classes, but exerted no power over the lower ranks of the people.
In the elegant compositions of the men of letters, there was nothing for
the conscience, that divinely appointed force of the human race. The
work of the Renaissance, had it stood alone, must of necessity,
therefore, have ended in failure and death. There are persons in these
days who think otherwise: they believe that a new state of society would
have arisen without the Reformation, and that political liberty would
have renewed the world better than the Gospel. This is assuredly a great
error. At that time liberty had scarcely any existence in Europe, and
even had it existed, and the dominion of conscience not reappeared along
with it, it is certain that, though powerful enough, perhaps, to destroy
the old elements of order prevailing in society, it would have been
unable to substitute any better elements in their place. If, even in the
nineteenth century, we tremble sometimes when we hear the distant
explosions of liberty, what must have been the feeling in the sixteenth?
The men who were about to appear on the theatre of the world were still
immersed in disorder and barbarism. Everything betokened great virtues
in the new generation, but also tumultuous passions; a divine heroism,
but also gigantic crimes; a mighty energy, but at its side a languishing
insensibility. A renewed society could not be constituted out of such
elements. It wanted the divine breath to inspire high thoughts, and the
hand of God to establish everywhere the providential order.
At the end of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century,
society was in a state of excitement. The world was in suspense, as when
the statuary is about to create a work that shall be the object of
universal admiration. The metal is melted, the mass flows from the
furnace like glowing brass; but the approaching lava alarms, and not
without reason, the anxious spectators. At this period we witness
struggles, insurrections, and reaction. The perfumed spirit of the
Renaissance was unable to check the evil and to establish order and
liberty. Society had appeared to grow young again under the breath of
antiquity; but wherever a knowledge of the Gospel was not combined with
the cultivation of letters, that purity, boldness, and elevation of
youth, which at first had charmed contemporaries, disappeared. The
melting was checked, the metal grew cold, and instead of the masterpiece
that had been expected, there appeared the repulsive forms of servility,
immorality, and superstition.
[Sidenote: CRISIS AND MEANS OF SALVATION.]
Was there any means of preventing so fatal a future? How, in the midst
of the old society, which was crumbling to pieces, could a new one be
formed, with any certain prospect of vitality? In religion only the
coming age was to find its living force. If the conscience of man was
awakened and sanctified by christianity, then and then only the world
would stand.
Was it possible to look for this regenerating element in the society
which was expiring? That would be to search among the dead for the
principle of life. It was necessary to have recourse to the primitive
sources of faith. The Gospel, more human than literature, more divine
than philosophy, exerts an influence over man that these two things
cannot possess. It goes down into the depths—that is, into the
people—which the Renaissance had not done; it rises towards the high
places—that is, towards heaven—which philosophy cannot do. When the
Gospel lifted up its voice in the days of the Reformation, the people
listened. It spoke to them of God, sin, condemnation, pardon,
everlasting life—in a word, of Christ. The human soul discovered that
this was what it wanted; and was touched, captivated, and finally
renewed. The movement was all the more powerful because the doctrine
preached to the people had nothing to do with animosities, traditions,
interests of race, dynasties, or courts. True, it got mixed up with
these things afterwards; but in the beginning it was simply the voice of
God upon earth. It circulated a purifying fire through corrupted
society, and the new world was formed.
The old society, whose place was about to be occupied, did all in its
power to resist the light. A terrible voice issued from the Vatican; a
hand of iron executed its behests in many a country, and strangled the
new life in its cradle. Spain, Italy, Austria, and France were the chief
theatres of the deplorable tragedies, whose heroes were Philip II. and
the Guises. But there were souls, we may even say nations, protected by
the hand of God, who have been ever since like trees whose leaves never
wither.[699] Intelligent men, struck by their greatness, have been
alarmed for the nations that are not watered by the same rivers. Against
such a danger there is, however, a sure remedy; it is that all people
should come and drink at those fountains of life which have given
protestant nations 'all the attributes of civilisation and power.'[700]
Or do they perchance imagine that by shutting their windows against the
sun, the light will spread more widely?... A new era is beginning, and
all lingering nations are now invited to the great renovation of which
the Gospel is the divine and mighty organ.
[Sidenote: NEW SITUATION OF GENEVA.]
In 1526 Geneva was in a position which permitted it to receive the new
seed of the new society. The alliance with the cantons, by drawing that
city nearer to Switzerland, facilitated the arrival of the intrepid
husbandmen who brought with them the seeds of life. At Wittemberg, at
Zurich, and even in the upper extremities of Lake Leman, in those
beautiful valleys of the Rhone and the Alps which Farel had evangelised,
the divine sun had poured down his first rays. When the Genevans made
their alliance with the Swiss, they had only thought of finding a
support to their national existence; but they had effected more: they
had opened the gates of day, and were about to receive a light which,
while securing their liberties, would guide their souls along the path
of eternal life. The city was thus to acquire an influence of which none
of its children had ever dreamt, and by the instrumentality of Calvin,
one of the noblest spirits that ever lived, 'she was about to become the
rival of Rome,' as an historian says (perhaps with a little
exaggeration), 'and wrest from her the dominion of half the christian
world.'[701]
If the alliance with the cantons opened Geneva on the side of
Switzerland, it raised a wall of separation between that city and
Savoy—which was not less necessary for the part she was called upon to
play in the sixteenth century. The valley of the Leman was at that time
dotted with châteaux, whose ruins may still be seen here and there. As
invasion, pillage, and murder formed part of social life in the middle
ages, the nobles surrounded their houses with walls, and some even built
their dwelling-places on the mountains. From Geneva might be descried
the castle of Monnetier standing on immense perpendicular rocks on Mont
Salève....
J'aimais tes murs croulants, vieux moutier ruiné!
_Naître, souffrir, mourir!_ devise triste et forte . . .
Quel châtelain pensif te grava sur la porte?[702]
Further on, and near Thonon, on an isolated hill, shaded by luxuriant
chestnut trees, stood the vast castle of Allinges, which is still a
noble ruin. The lords of these places, energetic, rude, freebooting, and
often cruel men, growing weary of their isolation and their idleness,
would collect their followers, lower their drawbridges, rush into the
high roads in search of adventures, and indulge in a life of raids and
plunder, violence and murder.
The towns, with their traders and travellers, were especially the
abhorrence of these gentlemen robbers. From the tenth century the
Genevan travellers and foreign merchants, passing through Geneva with
their goods, often fell a prey to the plundering vagabondage of the
neighbouring lords. This was not without important consequences for
civilisation and liberty. Seeing the nobles perpetually in insurrection
against social order, the burghers learnt to revolt against despotism,
murder, and robbery. Geneva received one of these lessons, and profited
by it better than others.[703]
[Sidenote: PONTVERRE AND THE SAVOYARD NOBLES.]
In all the castles of Genevois, Chablais, and the Pays de Vaud, it was
said, in 1526, that the alliance of Geneva with the free Swiss cantons
menaced the rights of Savoy, the temporal (and even the spiritual) power
of the bishop, and Roman-catholicism. And hence the irritated nobles
ruminated in their strongholds upon the means of destroying the union,
or at least of neutralising its effects. François de Ternier, seigneur
of Pontverre, whose domains were situated between Mont Salève and the
Rhone, about a league from Geneva, thought of nothing else night or day.
A noble, upright, but violent man; a fanatical enemy of the burgher
class, of liberty, and of the Reformation; and a representative of the
middle ages, he swore to combat the Swiss alliance unto death, and he
kept his oath. Owing to the energy of his character and the nobility of
his house, François possessed great influence among his neighbours. One
day, after long meditation over his plans, he left his residence,
attended by a few horsemen, and visited the neighbouring castles. While
seated at table with the knights, he made his apprehensions known to
them, and conjured them to oppose the accursed alliance. He asked them
whether it was for nothing that the privilege of bearing arms had been
given to the nobles. 'Let us make haste,' he said, 'and crush a new and
daring power that threatens to destroy our castles and our churches.' He
sounded the alarm everywhere; he reminded the nobles that they had a
right to make war whenever they pleased;[704] and forthwith many lords
responded to his energetic appeals. They armed themselves, and, issuing
from their strongholds, covered the district around Geneva like a cloud
of locusts. Caring little for the political or religious ideas with
which Pontverre was animated, they sought amusement, plunder, and the
gratification of their hatred against the citizens. They were observed
at a distance, with their mounted followers, on the high roads, and they
were not idle. They allowed nobody to enter the city, and carried off
property, provisions, and cattle. The peasants and the Genevan
merchants, so disgracefully plundered, asked each other if the tottering
episcopal throne was to be upheld by _banditti_.... 'If you return,'
said these noble highwaymen, 'we will _hang you up by the neck_.' Nor
was that all: several nobles, whose castles were near the water,
resorted to piracy on the lake: they pillaged the country-houses near
the shore, imprisoned the men, insulted the women, and cut off all
communication with Switzerland.
[Sidenote: NOBLES TURN HIGHWAYMEN.]
One difficulty, however, occurred to these noble robbers: they chanced
to maltreat, without their knowing it, some of their own party, who were
coming from German Switzerland. Having been much reproached for this,
they took counsel on the road: 'What must we do,' they asked, 'to
distinguish the Genevans?' They hit upon a curious shibboleth. As soon
as they caught sight of any travellers in the distance, they spurred
their horses, galloped up, and put some ordinary question to the
strangers, 'examining in this way all who passed to and fro.' If the
travellers replied in French, the language of Geneva, the knightly
highwaymen declared they were _huguenots_, and immediately carried them
off, goods and all. If the victims complained, they were not listened
to; and even when they came from the banks of the Loire and the Seine,
they were taken and shut up in the nearest castle. Many messengers from
France to the Swiss cantons, who spoke like the Genevans, were arrested
in this way.
France, Berne, and Geneva complained bitterly; but the lords (for the
most part Savoyards) took no notice of it. By chastising these burghers,
they believed they were gaining heaven. They laughed among themselves at
the universal complaints, and added sarcasm to cruelty. One day a
Genevan deputy having appeared before Pontverre, to protest against such
brigandage, the haughty noble replied coldly: 'Tell those who sent you,
that in a fortnight I will come and set fire to the four corners of your
city.' Another day, De la Fontaine, a retired syndic and mameluke, as he
was riding along the high road, met a huguenot, and said to him: 'Go and
tell your friends that we are coming to Geneva shortly, and will throw
all the citizens into the Rhone.' As the Genevan walked away, the
mameluke called him back: 'Wait a moment,' he said, and then continued
maliciously: 'No, I think it will be better to cut off their heads, in
order to multiply the relics.' This was an allusion to Berthelier's
head, which had been solemnly buried. In the noisy banquets which these
nobles gave each other in their châteaux, they related their feats of
arms: anecdotes akin to those just quoted followed each other amid roars
of laughter: the subject was inexhaustible. The politicians, although
more moderate in appearance, were not less decided. They meditated over
the matter in cold blood. 'I will enter Geneva sword in hand,' said the
Count of Genevois, the duke's brother, 'and will take away six score of
the most rebellious patriots.'[705]
Thus the middle ages seemed to be rising in defence of their rights. The
temporal and spiritual authority of the bishop-prince was protected by
bands of highwaymen. But while these powers, which pretended to be
legitimate, employed robbery, violence, and murder, the friends of
liberty prepared to defend themselves lawfully and to fight honourably,
like regular troops. Besançon Hugues, reelected captain-general three
days after the alliance with the Swiss, gave the signal. Instantly the
citizens began to practise the use of arms in the city; and in the
country, where they were placed as outposts, they kept strict watch over
all the movements of the gentlemen robbers. Fearing that the latter, to
crown their brigandage, would march against Geneva, the syndics had iron
gratings put to all the windows in the city walls, built up three of the
gates, placed a guard at the others, and stretched chains across every
street. At the same time they brought into the harbour all the boats
that had escaped the piratical incursions of the nobles, placed a sentry
on the belfry of St. Pierre, and ordered that the city should be lighted
all the night long. This little people rose like one man, and all were
ready to give their lives to protect their goods and trade, their wives
and children, and to save their old liberties and their new
aspirations.[706]
[Sidenote: GENEVAN DEPUTATION TO BERNE.]
While thus resolute against their enemies in arms, the citizens showed
moderation towards their disarmed foes. Some of those who were most
exasperated, wishing to take their revenge, asked permission to
_forage_, that is, to seize the property of the disloyal and fugitive
mamelukes. 'It is perfectly fair,' they said, 'for their treason and
brigandage have reduced Geneva to extreme misery: we shall only get back
what they have taken from us.' But Hugues, the friend of order as well
as of liberty, made answer: 'Let us commence proceedings against the
accused; let us condemn them in penalties more or less severe; but let
us refrain from violence, even though we have the appearance of right in
our favour.'—'The ducal faction,' replied these hot-headed men, 'not
only plundered us, but conspired against the city, and took part in the
tortures and murders inflicted upon the citizens.' The syndics were not
convinced, and the property of the offenders was respected; but after a
rigorous investigation, they were deprived of the rights of
citizenship.[707]
The Swiss cantons, discontented because the Genevans, who were in great
straits, had not repaid the expenses incurred on their behalf, asked
more for the mamelukes than the council granted: they demanded that they
should all be allowed to return to the city. But to receive those who
were making war against them, seemed impossible to the Genevans. They
sent two good huguenots to Berne, François Favre and Baudichon de la
Maison-Neuve, to make representations in this matter. The deputies were
admitted to the great council on the 5th of June, 1526. De Lullins, the
Savoyard governor, was also received on the same day, and in the duke's
name he made great complaints against Geneva. Favre, a quick, impatient,
passionate man, replied in _coarse terms_. The Bernese firmly adhered to
their resolution, and reprimanded the Genevan deputy, who candidly
acknowledged his fault: 'Yes,' he said, 'I am _too warm_; but I answered
rather as a private individual than as an ambassador.' On returning to
his inn, he thought that the payment of the sum claimed by the Bernese
would settle everything, and the same day he wrote to the council of
Geneva: 'Your humble servant begs to inform you that you must send the
money promised to my lords of Berne. Otherwise, let him fly from the
city who can! Do you think you can promise and not be bound to keep your
word? Find the money, or you are lost. I pray you warn my wife, that she
may come to Lausanne. I am serving at my own expense, and yet I must pay
for others also. Do not ruin a noble cause for such a trifle. If Berne
is satisfied, we shall be all right with the mamelukes.'[708]
[Sidenote: CARTELIER'S CONDEMNATION.]
Robber nobles were not the only supporters of the middle ages. That
epoch has had its great men, but at the time of its fall it had but
sorry representatives. The knights of the highway had their companions
in the intriguers of the city. Among the latter we may include
Cartelier, who had played his part in the plots got up to deliver Geneva
to Savoy.[709] This man, who hated independence and the Reformation even
more than Pontverre did, was, through the anger of the citizens and the
avarice of the bishop, to suffer for the crimes of which his party was
guilty. Being utterly devoid of shame, he went up and down the city as
if he had nothing to fear, and when he chanced to meet the indignant
glance of a huguenot, he braved the anger with which he was threatened
by assuming an air of contempt and defiance. Rich, clever, but of low
character, he had contrived to be made a citizen in order to indulge in
the most perfidious intrigues. One day he was apprehended,
notwithstanding his insolent airs, and put into prison. A thrill ran
through all the city, as if the hand of God had been seen striking that
great criminal. Amblarde, Berthelier's widow, and his two children;
John, Lévrier's brother; and a hundred citizens who had all just cause
of complaint against the wretch, appeared before the council, and called
for justice with cries and tears: 'He has spilt the blood of our
fathers, our brothers, and our husbands,' said the excited crowd. 'He
wished to destroy our independence and subject us to the duke.'
Convicted of conspiring against the State, the wretch was condemned to
death. The executioner, putting a rope round his neck, led him through
the city, followed by an immense crowd. The indignant people were
delighted when they saw the rich and powerful stranger reduced to such
humiliation. Proud and pitiless, he had plotted to ruin the city, and
now he was expiating his crimes. Things did not stop here: while
moderate men desired to remain in the paths of justice, the more
hot-headed of the party of independence _derided_ him, says a
chronicler, and some mischievous boys pelted him with mud. The unhappy
man, whose fall had been so great, thus arrived at the place of
execution, and the hangman prepared to perform his duty.
Cartelier had but a few minutes more to live, when the bishop's steward
was seen hurrying forward with letters of grace, commuting the capital
punishment into a fine of six thousand golden crowns payable to the
prelate and to the city. To spare the life of the wretched man might
have been an act of mercy and equity, especially as his crimes were
political; but the angry youths who surrounded the criminal ascribed the
bishop's clemency to his covetousness and to the hatred he bore the
cause of independence. They desired the execution of the condemned man.
Twice the hangman removed the rope, and twice these exasperated young
men replaced it round Cartelier's neck. They yielded at last, however,
and were satisfied with having made the conspirator feel all the anguish
of death. Cartelier was set at liberty. When the bishop was informed of
what had happened, he became afraid, imagining his authority compromised
and his power endangered. 'It was for good reasons,' he wrote to the
syndics, 'that I pardoned Cartelier; however, write and tell me if the
people are inclined to revolt on account of this pardon.'[710] The
people did not revolt, and the rich culprit, having paid the fine,
retired quietly to Bourg in Bresse, whence he had come.
[Sidenote: THE BISHOP'S HESITATION.]
The bishop, who had first sentenced, then pardoned, and then repented of
his pardon, was continually hesitating, and did not know what party to
side with. He was not devoted body and soul to the duke, like his
predecessor. Placed between the Savoyards and the huguenots, he was at
heart, equally afraid of both, and by turns flung himself into the arms
of opposite parties. He was like a stag between two packs of hounds,
always afraid and panting. 'I write _angrily_,' he says in his letters:
he was, indeed, always angry with one party or the other. Even the
canons, his natural friends, and the members of his council aroused his
fears, and not without cause; for these reverend persons had no
confidence either in the bishop's character or in the brigandage of the
gentry of the neighbourhood. Messieurs De Lutry, De Montrotier, De
Lucinge, De St. Martin, and other canons said that the temporal
authority of the prelate was too weak to maintain order; that the sword
of a secular prince was wanted, and at the bottom of their hearts they
called for the duke. 'Ah!' said La Baume to Hugues, 'the chapter is a
_poisoned_ body;' he called the canons thieves and robbers: _Ille fur et
latro est_, he said of one of them. The episcopal office appeared a
heavy burden to him; but it put him in a position to give good dinners
to his friends, and that was one of the most important duties of his
life. 'I have wine for the winter,' he wrote in a postscript to the
letter in which he made these complaints, 'and plenty to entertain you
with.'[711] Such were his episcopal consolations.
[Footnote 699: Psalm i.]
[Footnote 700: M. Michel Chevalier, on the Prosperity of Protestant
Nations.]
[Footnote 701: Galiffe, _Matériaux pour l'Histoire de Genève_, ii. p.
xxviii.]
[Footnote 702: Galloix, _Salève_. The author remembers reading, since
the time of his boyhood, these three words on the ruins that have been
since restored, _Nasci, pati, mori_.]
[Footnote 703: Spon, _Hist. de Genève_. Gautier MS. Guizot,
_Civilisation en France et en Europe_. Froment.]
[Footnote 704: Ordonnance de Louis Hutin. Guizot, _Civilisation en
France_, v. p. 138.]
[Footnote 705: Registres du Conseil du 3 décembre. Lettres de Messieurs
de Berne. Galiffe fils, _Besançon Hugues, Pièces Justificatives_, p.
487.]
[Footnote 706: Registres du Conseil des 15, 16, 23, 24, 28 mars.]
[Footnote 707: Roset, _Chron._ MS. liv. ii. ch. ii. Registres du Conseil
du 7 septembre 1526. Spon, _Histoire de Genève_, ii. p. 396. Bonivard,
_Chroniq._ ii. pp. 446, 447. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 708: This letter will be found in Galiffe, _Matériaux pour
l'Histoire de Genève_, ii. p. 489.]
[Footnote 709: See above, vol. i. p. 228.]
[Footnote 710: Archives de Genève. Lettre de Pierre de la Baume aux
syndics, du 24 janvier 1527.]
[Footnote 711: Registres du Conseil de décembre 1526, de janvier et
avril 1527. Roset MS. bk. ii. ch. v. Galiffe, _Matériaux pour l'Histoire
de Genève_, ii. pp. 264, 437, 439, 440. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp.
452-454. _Mém. d'Archéologie_, ii. p. 11. La Sœur de Jussie, _Le Levain
du Calvinisme_.]
CHAPTER II.
THE GOSPEL AT GENEVA, AND THE SACK OF ROME.
(JANUARY TO JUNE 1527.)
The bishop was about to have enemies more formidable than the duke and
the League. The Reformation was approaching. There is a characteristic
trait in the history of Geneva; the several surrounding countries were
by turns to scatter the seeds of life in that city; in it was to be
heard a concert of voices from France, Italy, and German Switzerland. It
was the last of these that began.
[Sidenote: LAYMEN AND CLERGY.]
At the time when treason was expelled from the city in the person of
Cartelier, the Gospel entered it in that of an honest Helvetian, one of
the Bernese and Friburg deputies who went there in 1527 about the
affairs of the alliance concluded in 1526. Friburg would not have
permitted a heretic preacher to accompany the deputation; even Berne
would not have desired it just yet; but one of the Bernese ambassadors,
a pious layman, who was coming to give a valuable support to national
independence, was to call the Genevese to spiritual liberty. The lay
members of the Church occupied in the time of the apostles, as is well
known, a marked station in the religious community;[712] but by degrees
the dominion of the clergy had been substituted for evangelical liberty.
One of the principal causes of this revolution was the inferiority of
the laity; for many centuries ecclesiastics were the only educated men.
But if this state of things should change, if the laity should attain to
more knowledge and more energy than the clergy, a new revolution would
be effected in an opposite direction. And this is really what happened
in the sixteenth century. The christian layman who then arrived at
Geneva was Thomas ab Hofen, a friend of Zwingle, whom we have already
mentioned.[713] In the year 1524 he had declared at Berne in favour of
the Reformation. The Zurich doctor, hearing of his departure for the
shores of Lake Leman, was rejoiced, for the piercing eye of his faith
had fancied it could perceive a ray of evangelical light breaking over
those distant hills. He desired that the Genevans, now united to
Switzerland, should find in her not only liberty but truth.
'Undoubtedly,' wrote Zwingle to the excellent Bernese, 'undoubtedly this
mission may be of extraordinary advantage to the citizens of Geneva, who
have been so recently received into alliance with the cantons.'[714]
Ab Hofen did not go to Geneva with the intention of reforming it; his
mission was diplomatic; but he was one of that 'chosen generation' of
whom St. Peter speaks—one of those christians who are always ready to
'show forth the praises of Him who has called them to his marvellous
light.'[715] As he entered the city, he said to himself that he would do
with earnestness whatever work God might set before him, as his Zurich
friend had prayed him. Simple-minded, moderate, and sensitive, Ab Hofen
placed the kingdom of heaven above the things of the earth; but he was
subject to fits of melancholy, which occasionally made him
faint-hearted. When he arrived at Geneva, he visited many citizens,
attended the churches and the meetings of the people, and, having
reflected upon everything, he thought to himself that there was much
patriotism in the city, but unfortunately little christianity, and that
religion was the weak side of Genevan emancipation. He was distressed,
for he had expected better things. With a heart overflowing with sorrow
he returned to his inn (17th of January, 1527), and feeling the
necessity of unburdening himself on the bosom of a friend, he sat down
and wrote to the great reformer of Zurich: 'The number of those who
confess the doctrine of the Gospel must be increased.'[716] There were,
therefore, at this time in Geneva christians who confessed salvation by
Jesus Christ, and not by the ceremonies of the Church; but their number
was not large.
[Sidenote: AB HOFEN'S CHRISTIAN CONVERSATION.]
Ab Hofen determined to do his best to remedy this evil. He had a loving
heart and practical mind, and with indefatigable zeal took advantage of
every moment of leisure spared him by his official duties. As soon,
therefore, as a conference with the Genevan magistrates was ended, or a
despatch to the Bernese government finished, he laid aside his
diplomatic character and began to visit the citizens, conversing with
them, and telling them of what was going on at Zurich and preparing at
Berne. Being received into the families of some of the principal
huguenots, and seated with them round the hearth, at the severest
portion of the year (January 1527), he spoke to them of the Word of God,
of its authority, superior (he said) to the pope's, and of the salvation
which it proclaimed. He taught them that in the Gospel God gives man
full remission of his sins. These doctrines, unknown for so many ages,
and subversive of the legal and ceremonial religion of Rome, were heard
at Geneva with astonishment and pleasure.
At first the priests received the evangelist magistrate rather
favourably. The rank which he bore made him honourable in their eyes;
and he, far from being rude towards them, like certain huguenots, was
amiable and sympathising. Some ecclesiastics, believing him to belong to
their coterie, because he spoke of religion, did not conceal their
uneasiness from him, and described to him, very innocently, the fine
times when presents of bread, wine, oil, game, and tapers were plentiful
in their kitchen, and when they used to say, with a gracious tone, to
the believers who brought these donations in white napkins: _Centuplum
accipietis et vitam æternam possidebitis_.[717] Then they added, with
loud complaints: 'Alas! the faithful bring us no more offerings, and
people do not run so ardently after indulgences as they used to do.'[718]
The Bernese envoy, inwardly delighted at these candid avowals, which he
did not fail to transmit to Zwingle, apparently avoided all controversy,
and continued to announce the simple Gospel. The citizens listened to
him; they sought his company, and invited him to take a seat in their
family circle, or in some huguenot assembly, and to speak of the noble
things that were doing at Zurich. These successes encouraged him: his
eyes sparkled, he accosted the citizens freely, and his words flowed
copiously from his lips. 'I will not cease proclaiming the Gospel,' he
wrote to Zwingle; 'all my strength shall be devoted to it.'[719] Erelong
the well-disposed men who had gathered round him were joined by other
citizens, exclusively friends of liberty; they listened to him with
interest; but when he began to blame certain excesses, and to require
certain moral reforms, he met with coldness and even determined
opposition from them, and they turned their backs on him. Ab Hofen,
although a man of zeal and piety, did not possess the faith which moves
mountains; he returned dispirited to his inn, shut himself up in his
room, and, heaving deep sighs, wrote all his trouble to Zwingle. The
latter, who possessed a sure glance, saw that the opportunity was
unique. To establish the Reformation at the two extremities of
Switzerland, at Zurich and Geneva, appeared to him a most important
work. Would not these two arms, as they drew together, drag all
Switzerland with them, especially if the powerful Berne lent its support
in the centre? But he knew Ab Hofen, and fearing his dejection, he wrote
to him: 'Take care that the work so well begun is not stopped. While
transacting the business of the republic, do not neglect the business of
Jesus Christ.[720] You will deserve well of the citizens of Geneva if
you put in order not only their laws and their rights, but their souls
also.[721] Now what can put the soul in order except it be the Word and
the teaching of Him who created the soul?'[722]
[Sidenote: ZWINGLE ENCOURAGES AB HOFEN.]
Zwingle went further than this, and, in order to revive Ab Hofen's
fainting heart, made use of an argument to which the politician could
not be insensible. The reformer of Zurich was the friend of liberty as
well as of the Gospel, and he believed that a people could be governed
in only one of two ways: either by the Bible or by the sword, by the
fear of God or by the fear of man. In his opinion Geneva could protect
her independence against the attacks of Savoy, France, and all foreign
powers, only by submitting to the King of heaven. 'O my dear Thomas,' he
wrote to his friend, 'there is nothing I desire so much as to see the
doctrine of the Gospel flourishing in that republic (Geneva). Wherever
that doctrine triumphs, the boldness of tyrants is restrained.'[723] At
the same time, not wishing to offend the Bernese deputy, Zwingle added:
'If I write these things, it is not to awaken one who sleeps, but to
encourage one who runs.'[724] He ended his letter with a fraternal
salutation to the evangelical christians of Geneva: 'Salute them all in
my name,' he said.
Ab Hofen was not insensible to this appeal; if he was easily cast down,
he was as easily lifted up. He therefore redoubled his zeal, and pressed
Geneva to imitate Zurich and Berne; but he perceived that his
evangelical exertions were appreciated by a very small number only, and
regarded with coldness, and even with displeasure and contempt, by the
majority of politicians. Citizens, who had at first given him the
warmest welcome, scarcely saluted him when he met them, and if he went
to any meeting his presence put a restraint upon the whole assembly. He
soon encountered opposition of a more hostile nature; the priests eyed
him angrily, and the confidence which some ecclesiastics had placed in
him was succeeded by a violent hatred. The clergy proclaimed a general
crusade against heresy; the canons put themselves at the head of the
opposition; priests and monks filled the streets, going from house to
house, and bade the citizens be on their guard against the evangelical
addresses of the Bernese envoy. They cried down, abused, and
anathematised the doctrines he taught, and made war against the New
Testament wherever they found it. They encouraged one another, and
frightened the women especially. According to their representations, the
city would be ruined if it listened to the heretical diplomatist.
[Sidenote: AB HOFEN'S INFLUENCE AND DEATH.]
Ab Hofen now fell into a state of discouragement more serious than the
former. 'All my efforts are vain,' he wrote to Zwingle; 'there are about
_seven hundred_ clergymen in Geneva who do their utmost to prevent the
Gospel from flourishing here.[725] What can I do against such numbers?
And yet a wide door is opened to the Word of God.... The priests do not
preach; and as they are unable to do so, they are satisfied with saying
mass in Latin.... Miserable nourishment for the poor people!... If any
preachers were to come here, proclaiming Christ with boldness, the
doctrine of the pope would, I am sure, be soon overthrown.'[726]
But such preachers did not appear. Convinced of his insufficiency, and
continually repeating that true ministers, like Zwingle and Farel, were
wanted in that city; finding that many of the Genevans desired to be
liberated not only from the vexations of Savoy, the shuffling of the
bishop, and the doctrines of the pope, but also from the laws of
morality; struck with the evils he saw ready to burst upon Geneva, and
which the Gospel alone could avert,—this simple-minded, pious, and
sensitive man returned heartbroken to Berne. Had this disappointment any
effect upon his health? We cannot say; but he died not long after, in
the month of November, 'as a christian ought to die,' it was said. It
was found after his departure that his exertions had not been useless,
and that some Genevans at least had profited by his teaching: among
their number were counted Besançon Hugues and Baudichon de la
Maison-Neuve. Some astonishment may be felt at seeing these two names
together, for they are those of the chiefs of two opposite parties; but
there is nothing improbable about it, for Hugues must have been
frequently brought into contact with Ab Hofen, and it is not impossible
that he listened to his religious conversation. Hugues was a serious
man; he was, moreover, a statesman, and must have desired to know
something about the religious opinions which seemed at that time likely
to be adopted by the whole confederation; but his policy consisted in
maintaining the rights of the bishop-prince on one side, and those of
the citizens on the other; as for his religion, he was a catholic, and
we do not see that he changed in either of those relations. What he
might have been, if he had been living at the time when the Reformation
was carried through, no one can say. De la Maison-Neuve, on the
contrary, was a decided huguenot, and certainly needed the Gospel to
moderate the ardour of his character. William de la Mouille, the
bishop's chamberlain and confidant, appears to have been the person who
profited most by the teaching of the layman of Berne.
[Sidenote: SACK OF ROME.]
While the Gospel was entering Geneva, desolation was entering Rome. It
is a singular circumstance, the meeting of these two cities in history:
one so powerful and glorious, the other so small and obscure. That,
however, is capable of explanation: the great things of the world have
always come from great cities and great nations; but the great things of
God have usually small beginnings. Conquerors must have treasures and
armies; but evangelical christianity, which undertakes to change man,
nations, and the whole human race, has need of the strength of God, and
God affects little things. In the first century, he chose Jerusalem; in
the middle ages, the Waldensian valleys; in the sixteenth century,
Wittemberg and Geneva. 'God hath chosen the weak things of the world to
confound the things which are mighty.'[727]
In the month of May (1527) a rumour of startling importance suddenly
spread through the world: 'Rome has just been destroyed,' said the
people, 'and there is no more pope.' The troops of Charles V. had taken
and sacked the pontifical city, and if the pope was still alive, he was
in concealment and almost in prison. The servants of the Church, who
were terrified at first, soon recovered their breath, and directly their
alarm was dissipated, avarice and covetousness took its place. In the
presence of the ruins of that ancient city, its friends thought only of
dividing its spoils. The Bishop of Geneva, in particular, found himself
surrounded by petitioners, who sought to be collated to the benefices
hitherto held by clergymen resident in Rome. 'They have all perished,'
he was told; 'their benefices are vacant: give them to us.' The bishop
granted everything; and he even conferred on himself (Bonivard tells us)
the priory of St. Jean-lez-Genève, which belonged to a cardinal. Seldom
had so many deaths made so many people happy.[728]
The sack of Rome had more important results for Geneva and the
protestant nations. When they saw the ruin of that city, it appeared to
them that the papacy had fallen with it. The huguenots never grew tired
of listening to the wonderful news and of commenting upon it. Struck
with the example set them by Charles V., they thought to themselves that
'if the emperor had set aside the bishop and prince of Rome, they might
well abandon the prince and bishop of Geneva.' Their right to do so was
far clearer. The pope-king had at least been elected at Rome, and in
conformity with ancient custom; while the bishop-prince had not been
elected at Geneva and by Genevans, in accordance with the ancient
constitutions, but by a foreign and unlawful jurisdiction. The huguenots
promised even to be more moderate than his catholic majesty. Finally,
the acts which impelled them to turn Pierre de la Baume out of the city,
were far more vexatious in their eyes than those which had induced
Charles to expel Clement VII. from Rome. 'Are we not much more oppressed
by ecclesiastical tyranny,' they said, 'than by secular tyranny? Are we
not forced to pay, always to pay, and is it not our money that makes the
bishop's pot boil?'[729] Further, the shameful conduct of many of the
ecclesiastics seemed to them a sufficient motive for putting an end to
their rule.
A scandal which occurred just at this time increased the desire felt by
certain huguenots to withdraw themselves from the government of the
monks and priests. On the 10th of May, certain inhabitants of St. Leger
appeared before the council. For some time past their sleep had been
disturbed by noises and shouting, in which the cordeliers, jacobins, and
other friars were concerned; and they desired to put an end to it. 'Some
disorderly women have settled in our quarter,' they told the council,
'and certain monks frequent their houses.'[730]... 'If you observe the
monks going there at night-time,' replied the council, 'give information
to the syndics and the captain-general. The watch will immediately go
and take them.' The citizens withdrew half satisfied with the answer,
but fully determined to call the watch as soon as the disorder was
renewed.
[Sidenote: UNION OF FAITH AND MORALITY.]
These scandals—an acknowledged thing at Rome—greatly exasperated the
citizens of Geneva, and made the better disposed long for a reformation
of faith and morals. They said that soldiers use their arms as their
officers command them: that the monks and priests (they should have said
all christians) ought also to use their lives as their chief orders
them; and that if they make a contrary use of them, they enlist under
the standard of vice and avow themselves its soldiers. The worthy
citizens of Geneva could not make that separation between religion and
morality, of which the greater part of the clergy set the example. In
proportion as the Reformation made progress in the world, the opposition
increased against a piety which consisted only in certain formulas,
ceremonies, and practices, but was deprived of its true substance—living
faith, sanctification, morality, and christian works. Christianity, by
the separation which Rome had made between doctrines and morals, had
become like one of those spoilt and useless tools that are thrown aside
because they can no longer serve in the operations for which they were
made. The reformers, by calling for a living, holy, active faith, were
again to make christianity in modern times a powerful engine of light
and morality, of liberty and life.
[Footnote 712: Acts i. 15; vi. 5; xv.]
[Footnote 713: See above, vol. i. p. 371.]
[Footnote 714: 'Nunc vero cum te Gebennæ reipublicæ gratia abesse
constat ... reficiemur. Utilitatem autem non vulgarem recens factis
civibus per te comparari.'—Zwingle to Thomas ab Hofen, 4 Jan. 1527.
_Epp._ ii. p. 9.]
[Footnote 715: 1 Peter ii. 9.]
[Footnote 716: 'Hic Genevæ numerus Evangelii doctrinam confitentium
augeri incipiat.'—Ab Hofen to Zwingle, January 17, 1527. Zwinglii _Epp._
ii. p. 15.]
[Footnote 717: 'You shall receive a hundredfold, and shall possess
everlasting life.']
[Footnote 718: 'Clerici queruntur homines neque amplius sacra dona
præbere velle, neque tam vehementer ad indulgentias currere.'—Ab Hofen
to Zwingle. Zwinglii _Epp._ ii. p. 16.]
[Footnote 719: 'Quousque meæ vires valeant, in ea re nequaquam me
defecturum esse.'—Ab Hofen to Zwingle. Zwinglii _Epp._ ii. p. 15.]
[Footnote 720: 'In mediis reipublicæ negotiis, Christi negotiorum minime
sis negligens.'—Zwinglii _Epp._ ii. p. 9.]
[Footnote 721: 'Optime de Gebennæ civibus merebere, si non tantum leges
eorum ac jura, quantum animos componas.'—Ibid. p. 10.]
[Footnote 722: 'Animos autem quid melius componet, quam ejus sermo atque
doctrina qui animos ipse formavit?'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 723: 'Hæ enim ubi crescunt, tyrannorum audacia coerceretur.'—
Ibid.]
[Footnote 724: 'Non quasi torpentem sim expergefacturus; sed currentem
adhortor.'—Zwinglii _Epp._ ii. p. 10.]
[Footnote 725: 'In hac urbe clerici sunt ad 700, qui manibus pedibusque
impediunt, quominus Evangelii doctrina efflorescat.'—Zwinglii _Epp._ ii.
p. 10.]
[Footnote 726: 'Si prædicatores haberent, fore puto ut pontificia
doctrina labefactetur.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 727: 1 Cor. i. 27.]
[Footnote 728: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 461.]
[Footnote 729: 'Ne sont-ce pas nos écus qui font bouillir le pot de
l'évêque?']
[Footnote 730: 'Querelaverunt de putanis et certis religiosis qui ibidem
affluunt.'—Registres du Conseil du 10 mai 1527.]
CHAPTER III.
THE BISHOP CLINGS TO GENEVA, BUT THE CANONS DEPART.
(SUMMER 1527.)
[Sidenote: THE BISHOP'S NEW SCHEMES.]
The sack of Rome had made a great sensation in catholic countries.
Pierre de la Baume almost believed that the reign of popery had come to
an end, and was much alarmed for himself. If a prince so powerful as the
pope had succumbed, what would become of the Bishop of Geneva? The
alliance with the cantons, and the Gospel which a Swiss magistrate had
just been preaching, seemed to him the forerunners of his ruin. He had
no lansquenets before him, like those who had compelled Clement VII. to
flee, but he had huguenots, who, in his eyes, were more formidable
still. Liberty seemed to be coming forth, like the sun, from the night
of the middle ages; and the bishop thought the safest course would be to
turn towards the rising orb, and to throw himself into the arms of the
liberals. He had a strong preference for the Savoyard despotism; but, if
his interests required it, he was ready to pay court to liberty. Other
instances of this have been seen. The bishop, therefore, sanctioned the
sequestration of the property of the mamelukes, and made Besançon Hugues
a magnificent present. He conferred on him the perpetual fief of the
fishery of the lake, the Rhone, and the Arve, reserving to himself
(which showed the value of the gift) the right of redemption for two
thousand great ducats of gold.[731] All this was but a step towards the
accomplishment of a strange design.
The bishop had taken it into his head that he would form an alliance
with the Swiss, feeling convinced that they alone could protect him
against the impetuosity of the huguenots and the tyranny of the Duke of
Savoy. He therefore sent Robert Vandel to Friburg and Basle, to entreat
these states to admit him into their citizenship. This move caused the
greatest surprise among the Genevans. 'What!' said they, 'is Monseigneur
turning huguenot?' The Swiss rudely rejected the Romish prelate's
request. 'We will not have the bishop for our fellow-citizen,' they made
answer, 'and that for four reasons: first, he is fickle and changeable;
second, he is not beloved in Geneva; third, he is imperialist and
Burgundian; and fourth, he is a _priest_!' The cantons did not mention
the strongest reason. Friburg and Berne, allies of the city, could not
be at the same time the allies of the bishop, for how could they have
supported the rights of the Genevans against him?[732]
The bishop was not discouraged. At one time he felt his throne shaking
beneath him, and, fearing that it would fall, he clung to liberty with
all his might; at another, he fancied he could see the phantom of heresy
approaching with slow but sure step, and erelong taking its seat on his
throne ... and the sight increased his fear. He therefore sent Besançon
Hugues to Berne—a more influential diplomatist than Vandel—who was
received with consideration in the aristocratic circles, but had to bear
all kinds of reproach. The proud Bernese were indignant at his becoming
the advocate of a person so little esteemed as the bishop. One day, in
the presence of these energetic men who had witnessed so many struggles,
as Hugues was warmly pleading the prelate's cause, his listener suddenly
turned away with horror, and, as if he had been waving aside with his
hand some satanic vision, he said: 'The name of the bishop is more
hateful among us than that of the devil himself.' This was enough for
Hugues, who returned to Geneva greatly disheartened. Pierre de la Baume,
a vain and frivolous priest, soon consoled himself for this
discomfiture, laughing at the reproaches uttered against him. He amused
himself with the objections of the Swiss, and was continually repeating
to those about him: 'What would you have?... How could the Helvetians
receive me into their alliance? I am a priest and Burgundian!'... Thus,
at one time trembling, at another laughing, the Bishop of Geneva was
moving towards his ruin.[733]
[Sidenote: THE DUKE PLOTS AGAINST THE BISHOP.]
For some time Charles III., Duke of Savoy, had been watching the
prelate, and noting with vexation the interested and (in his opinion)
culpable overtures he was making to the Genevans and the confederates.
The news that the bishop had sent two envoys in succession to the Swiss
put a climax to the prince's anger. It is not sufficient for the
citizens to desire to emancipate themselves; even the bishops, whom the
dukes have always regarded as their agents, presume to tread in their
footsteps. This deserves a terrible punishment. The duke conferred with
his advisers on the nature of the lesson to be given the prelate. One of
the most decided of Charles's ministers proposed that he should be
kidnapped; the motion was supported, and the resolution taken. In order
to carry it into execution, it was necessary to gain some of the clergy
about him. The canons were sounded, and many of them, already sold to
the duke, promised their good offices. 'The bishop is a great devotee of
the Virgin,' they said; 'on Saturday, the day dedicated to St. Mary, he
generally goes to hear mass at Our Lady of Grace, outside the city. He
rides on a mule in company with other members of the cloth. Now, as this
church is separated from Savoy only by a bridge, the captain of his
highness's archers has simply to lie in ambush near the river to snap up
(_happer_) Monseigneur. The priests and officers about him, being bribed
or men of no courage, will run away. Let him be dragged hastily to the
other side of the Arve, and, once in the territory of Savoy, he can be
put to death as a traitor.' Everything was arranged by good catholics,
and the Archbishop of Turin probably had a share in it. The reformers
never went to work in so off-hand a manner as regards bishops.
[Sidenote: THE DUKE'S AMBUSCADE.]
Thus war broke out between the two great enemies of Geneva. The Genevans
knew not how to get rid of the prelate, and here was Charles, like
another Alexander, cutting the Gordian knot. The bishop once carried
off, one of the most formidable obstacles to independence, morality,
religion, and civilisation will be removed. So long as he is there,
nothing that is good can be done in Geneva; and when he is no longer
there, the city will become free. This, however, was not his highness's
plan: having 'snapped up' the duke, he expected to 'snap up' the city
also. This was his scheme for taking Geneva. 'As soon as the Savoyard
archers have kidnapped the bishop, certain of his highness's creatures
will go to the belfry of Notre Dame and ring the great bell. All the
bells of the adjoining villages will answer the signal; the nobles will
rush sword in hand from their castles, the country-people will take up
their scythes or other weapons, and all will march to Geneva. The
Genevans are hot and hasty: when they learn that the Savoyards have
crossed the Arve and violated their territory, they will take up arms
and march into the domains of Savoy to avenge the offence; but they will
find Pontverre and all his friends there ready to meet them. In the
midst of this agitation the duke will have a capital excuse for entering
the city and taking possession of it. And when he is established there,
he will cut off the heads of Hugues, the syndics, the councillors, M. de
Bonmont, and many others. Finally, Geneva shall have a bishop who will
occupy himself with refuting the heretics, and his highness will
undertake to make the hot-headed republicans bow beneath the sword of
the temporal power, and expel for ever from the city both reformers and
Reformation.'[734] The duke, charmed with this plan, made immediate
preparations for its execution. To prevent Pierre de la Baume from
escaping into Burgundy, he posted soldiers in all the passes of the
Jura, whilst his best captains were stationed round the city to carry
out the ambuscade.
[Sidenote: THE DUKE'S PLOT FAILS.]
These various measures could not be taken without something creeping
out. Geneva had friends in the villages, where an unusual agitation
indicated the approaching execution of some act of treachery. On
Thursday, the 11th of July, a man, making his way along by-paths,
arrived from Savoy, and said to the people of Geneva: 'Be on your
guard!' Two days later, Saturday the 13th, which was the day appointed
for action, another man, crossing the bridge of Arve, came and told one
of the syndics, between eight and nine in the morning, that some horse
and foot soldiers had been secretly posted at Lancy, only half a league
from the city. The syndics did not trouble themselves much about it; and
the bishop, who was naturally a timid man, but whom these warnings had
not reached, mounted his mule—it was the day when he went to make
adoration to the Virgin—rode out to Our Lady's, took his usual place,
and the mass began. Charles's soldiers were already advancing in the
direction of the bridge, in order to seize the prelate directly he left
the church. Some devout persons had pity on him, and just as the priest
had celebrated the mystery, a man, with troubled look, entered the
building (whether he came from Geneva or Savoy is unknown), walked
noiselessly to the place where the bishop was sitting, and whispered in
his ear: 'Monseigneur, the archers of Savoy are preparing to clutch you
(_gripper_).' At these words the startled La Baume turned pale and
trembled. He did not wait for the benediction; fear gave him wings; he
got up, rushed hastily out of the church, and leaped upon his mule
'without putting his foot in the stirrup, for he was a very nimble
person,' says Bonivard; then, using his heels for spurs, he struck the
animal's flanks, and galloped off full speed, shouting, at the top of
his voice, to the guards as he passed: 'Shut the gates!' The prelate
reached the city out of breath and all of a tremble.[735]
The city was soon in commotion. Besançon Hugues, the captain-general,
who was sincerely attached to La Baume, and strongly opposed to the
usurpations of Savoy, had divined the duke's plot, and, with his usual
energy, began to pass through the streets, saying: 'Close your shops,
put up the chains, bolt the city gates, beat the drum, sound an alarm,
and let every man take his arquebuse.' Then, leaving the streets, Hugues
went to St. Pierre's, and, notwithstanding the opposition of the canons,
accomplices in the conspiracy, he ordered the great bell to be rung. A
rumour had already spread on the other side of the Arve that the plot
had failed, and that the bishop had escaped on his mule. The men-at-arms
of Savoy were disconcerted; the village bells were not rung, the nobles
remained in their castles, the peasants in their fields. 'Our scheme has
got wind,' said the Savoyard captains; 'all the city is under arms; and
we must wait for a better opportunity.'
The canons, though siding with the duke, had concealed their game, and
employed certain creatures of Savoy to carry out the plot. These people
were known; they became alarmed, and saw no other means of escaping
death than by leaving the city. But all the gates were shut!... What of
that: despair gave them courage. At the very moment when the armed men
of Savoy were retiring, several persons were seen to run along the
streets, jump into the ditches of St. Gervais, scale the palisades, and
scamper away as fast as their legs could carry them. They were the
traitors who had corresponded with the enemy outside.
As for La Baume, he had lost his presence of mind. Rejected by the
Swiss, despised by the Genevans, persecuted by the duke, what should he
do? If he could but escape to his benefices in Burgundy, where the
people are so quiet and the wine is so good!—but, alas! all the passes
of the Jura are occupied by Savoyard soldiers. He was in great distress.
Not thinking himself safe in his palace, he had taken refuge in the
house of one of his partisans when he returned on his mule from his
visit to Our Lady's. He expected that the duke would follow up his plan,
would enter Geneva, and seek him throughout the city. Accordingly, he
remained quiet in the most secret hiding-place of the house which had
sheltered him. It was only when he was told that the Savoyard soldiers
had really retired, that all was tranquil outside the city, and that
even the huguenots did not think of laying hands on him, that he took
courage, came out of his hiding-place, and returned to the palace.
Nevertheless, he looked stealthily out of the window to see if the
huguenots or the ducal soldiers were not coming to seize him even in his
own house. The Genevans smiled at his terror; but everybody, the
creatures of Charles excepted, was pleased at the failure of the duke's
treachery. Religious men saw the hand of Heaven in this deliverance.
'They gave God thanks,' says Balard.[736]
This attack, abortive as it was, had one important consequence; it
delivered the city from the canons, and thus paved the way for the
Reformation. These men were in Geneva the representatives and supporters
of all kinds of religious and political tyranny. To save catholicism, it
would have been necessary for the clergy, and particularly for the
canons, who were their leaders, to unite with the laity, and, while
maintaining the Roman ceremonial, to demand the suppression of certain
episcopal privileges and ecclesiastical abuses. Some of the huguenot
chiefs—those who, like Hugues, loved the bishop, and those also who
subsequently opposed Calvin's reformation—would probably have entered
with joy into this order of things. For the execution of such a plan,
however, the priests ought to have been upright and free. But the
absolute authority of the Church, which had enfeebled the vigour of the
human mind, had specially degraded the priests. The clergy of Geneva had
fallen too low to effect a transformation of catholicism. Many of the
canons and even of the curés could see nothing but the act of a
revolutionist or even of a madman in the bishop's desire to ally himself
with the Swiss, and had consequently entered into Charles's scheme,
which was so hateful to the Genevans.
[Sidenote: THE BISHOP IMPRISONS THE CANONS.]
The huguenots hastened to take advantage of it. If the ducal plot had
not delivered them from the bishop, it must at least free them from the
canons. These ecclesiastical dignitaries never quitted Geneva, while the
bishop often absented himself to intrigue in Italy or to amuse himself
in Burgundy. They were besides more bigoted and fanatical than the
worldly prelate, and therefore all the more dangerous. And then, if they
desired to get rid of the bishop, was it not the wisest plan to begin
with his council? Shortly after the famous alert, some Genevan liberal
went to the palace and said to La Baume: 'The canons, my lord, are the
duke's spies: so long as they remain in Geneva, Savoy will have one foot
in the city.' The poor bishop was too exasperated against the canons not
to lend an ear to these words, and after ruining himself with the duke,
he took steps to ruin himself with the clergy, and to throw overboard
the most devoted friends of the Roman institutions. 'Yes,' said he,
'they intrigue (_grabugent_) against the Church!... Let them be
arrested.... It is they who wished to see me kidnapped.... Let them be
put in prison!' The next morning the procurator-fiscal, with his
sergeants, knocked at the doors of the most influential of the canons,
Messieurs De la Madeleine, De Montrotier, De Salery, De Veigy, and
others, arrested them, and, to the indescribable astonishment of the
servants and neighbours of these reverend gentlemen, carried them off to
prison.[737]
As soon as the gates were shut upon the canons, the bishop began to
reflect on the daring act he had just achieved. Still flushed with
anger, he did not repent, but he was uneasy, distressed, and amazed at
his own courage. If the duke sought to kidnap him but the other day,
what will this terrible prince do, now that he, La Baume, has boldly
thrown his most devoted partisans into prison?... All Savoy will march
against him. He sent for the captain-general, imparted to him all his
fears; and Besançon Hugues, his most faithful friend, wishing to
dissipate his alarm, placed watchmen on the tower of St. Pierre, on the
walls, and at every gate. They had instructions to inform the
commander-in-chief if a single horseman appeared on the horizon in the
direction of Savoy.
[Sidenote: HE DESIRES TO BE MADE FREE OF THE CITY.]
La Baume began to breathe again; yet he was not entirely at his ease. He
smiled to himself at the _watch_ of Besançon Hugues. What can these few
armed citizens do against the soldiers of the nephew of Francis I. and
brother-in-law of Charles V.? The Duke of Savoy was prowling round him
like a wild beast eager to devour him; the bishop thought that the bear
of Berne alone could defend him. But alas! Berne would have nothing to
do with him, because he was a _priest_ and a _Burgundian_!... He turned
all this over in his mind. He, so wary a politician, he whom the emperor
employed in his negotiations—shall not he find some outlet, when it is a
question of saving himself? On a sudden he hit upon a scheme for
becoming an ally of Berne, in spite of Berne. He will get himself made a
_citizen of Geneva_, and, by virtue of the general co-citizenship, he
will thus become the ally of the cantons. Delighted at this bright idea,
he communicated it to his intimate friends, and, unwilling to lose a
day, ordered the council-general to be convened for the morrow.[738]
On the next morning (15th of July) the bells of the cathedral rang out;
the burgesses, girding on their swords, left their houses to attend the
general council, and the bishop-prince, accompanied by his councillors
and officers, appeared in the midst of the people, and sat down on the
highest seat. Entirely absorbed by the strange ambition of becoming a
plain burgess of the city in which he was prince, he was profuse in
salutations; and to the huguenots he was particularly gracious. 'I
recall,' he said, 'my protest against the alliance with the Swiss. I
know how you cling to it; well! ... I now approve of it; I am willing to
give my adhesion to it; and, the more clearly to show my approval, I
desire that I may be made a freeman of the city.' Great was the
astonishment of the people. A bishop made a citizen of Geneva! Such a
thing had never been heard of. All the friends of independence, however,
were favourable to the scheme. Some wished to gratify the bishop; others
were pleased at anything that could separate him more completely from
the duke; all agreed that if the bishop were made a citizen of Geneva,
and united with their friends the confederates, great advantage would
result to the city. If he begins with turning Swiss, who knows if he
will not turn protestant? The general council therefore granted his
request.
[Sidenote: HE CONCEDES THE CIVIL JURISDICTION.]
Wishing to make him pay for his freedom, and not to lose an opportunity
of recovering their liberties, the syndics begged him to transfer all
civil suits to lay jurisdiction. Laymen judges in an ecclesiastical
principality!... It was a great revolution, and three centuries and more
were to pass away before a similar victory was gained in other states of
that class. The bishop understood the great importance of such a
request; he fancied he could already hear the endless appeals of the
clergy who found themselves deprived of their honours and their profits;
but at this time he was acting the part of a liberal pope, while the
canons were playing the incorrigible cardinals. He said Yes. It was an
immense gain to the community, for interminable delays and crying abuses
characterised the ecclesiastical tribunals at Geneva as well as at Rome.
The syndics, transported with joy, manifested all their gratitude to the
prelate. They told him he had nothing to fear, either from the Genevans
or even from the duke. Then turning to the people, they said: 'Let every
citizen draw his sword to defend Monseigneur. If he should be attacked,
we desire that, at the sound of the tocsin, all the burgesses, and even
the priests, should fly to arms.'—'Yes, yes!' shouted the citizens; 'we
will be always faithful to him!' A transformation seemed to have been
effected in their hearts. They knew the great value of the sacrifice the
bishop had made, and showed their thankfulness to him. Upon this, the
bishop, 'raising his right hand towards heaven, and placing his left on
his breast (as was the custom of prelates),' said: 'I promise, on my
faith, loyally to perform all that is required of a citizen, to prove
myself a good prince, and never to separate myself from you!' The
delighted people also raised their hands and exclaimed: 'And we also, my
lord, will preserve you from harm as we would our own heads!'[739] The
poor prelate would have sacrificed still more to protect himself from
Charles's attacks, which filled him with indescribable terror.
It seemed as if this concession, by uniting the bishop and the Genevans
more closely, ought to have put off the Reformation; but it was not so.
In proportion as the Genevans obtained any concession, they desired
more; accordingly, when the citizens had returned home, or when they met
at one another's houses, they began to say that it was something to have
obtained the civil judicature from the bishop, but that there were other
restitutions still to be made. Some men asked by what right he held the
temporal authority; and others—those who knew best what was passing at
Zurich—desired to throw off the spiritual jurisdiction of the prelate in
order to acknowledge only that of Holy Writ.
Opposition to ecclesiastical principalities began, then, three centuries
ago at Geneva. 'The bishop grants us the civil jurisdiction,' said
Bonivard; 'an act very damaging to himself, and very profitable to
us.... But ... this is an opening to deprive him entirely of his
authority. Neither La Baume nor the other bishops were lawfully elected,
that is to say by the clergy at the postulation of the people. They were
thrust into the see by the pope.... They are but tyrants set over us by
other tyrants. We can therefore reject them without danger to our souls;
and since they came in by the caprice of arbitrary power, it is lawful
for us to expel them by the free authority of the city. Geneva has never
acknowledged other princes than those whom the people themselves
elected.' Some were astonished at Bonivard's language; but the larger
number listened to him with enthusiasm. The catholics, growing more and
more uneasy, anticipated great disasters. The edifice of popery,
continually undermined in Geneva, was tottering; its pillars and
buttresses were giving way; and the keystone of the arch, the episcopal
power itself, was on the point of crumbling to dust. Alas! catholic
Geneva was a dismantled fortress.[740]
[Sidenote: THE DUKE'S IRRITATION.]
When the duke heard of the bishop's concessions, he was seized with one
of his fits of anger. And not without cause: by transferring the civil
authority to a lay tribunal, La Baume had been guilty of a new offence
against the duke; for it was in reality the jurisdiction of the vidame
(that is to say, of the duke) which the bishop had thus ceded; and hence
it was that he had been induced to do it so readily.
Charles had no need of this new grievance. When they learnt at the court
of Turin that the canons had been put in prison by the prelate, there
was a violent commotion; the friends and relatives of those reverend
gentlemen made a great noise, and the duke resolved to send the most
urgent remonstrances to the Genevans, reserving the right to have
recourse to more energetic measures if words did not suffice. He
commissioned M. de Jacob, his grand equerry, to go and set this little
people to rights, and the ducal envoy arrived in Geneva about the middle
of July. He carried his head very high, and behaved with great reserve,
as if he had been injured: he had come with the intention of making that
city, so small and yet so arrogant, feel how great is the power of a
mighty prince. On the 20th of July, the Sire de Jacob being introduced
before the council, haughtily represented to them, not that the reverend
fathers imprisoned as criminals were innocent, but that they belonged to
high families and were his highness's subjects, and added that the duke
consequently ordered them to be immediately set at liberty. 'Otherwise,'
added the ambassador in an insolent tone, 'my lord will see to it, as
shall seem good to him.' The tone and look of the ducal envoy explained
his words, and every one felt that Charles III. would come and claim the
canons at the head of his army. The embarrassed magistrates and prelates
answered the envoy by throwing the blame upon one another. The former
declared that they had not interfered in the matter, which concerned
Monseigneur of Geneva only; and the bishop, in his turn, laid all the
blame on the people. 'I was obliged to do so,' he said, 'to save the
canons from being killed.' Nevertheless, he showed himself merciful. The
avoyer of Friburg, who had been delegated for this purpose by his
council, added his entreaties to the ducal summons; and, pressed at once
by Switzerland and Savoy, the bishop thought he could not resist. The
arrest of the canons was in reality, on his part, an act of passion as
much as of justice. 'I release them,' he said; 'I pardon them. I leave
vengeance to God.'
The canons quitted the place where they had been confined, bursting with
anger and indignation. Having had time to reflect on what was passing in
Geneva, on the impetuous current that was hurrying the citizens in a
direction contrary to Rome, they had made up their minds to quit a city
where they had been so unceremoniously thrown into the receptacle for
criminals. De Montrotier, De Veigy, and their colleagues had hardly
returned to their houses when they told everybody who would listen to
them that they would leave Geneva and the Genevans to their miserable
fate. This strange resolution immediately spread through the city, and
excited the people greatly; it was important news, and they could hardly
believe it. The canons of Geneva were a very exalted body in the opinion
of catholicity. In order to be received among them, the candidate must
show titles of nobility or be a graduate in some famous university; and
since the beginning of the century their number included members of the
most illustrious families of Savoy—De Gramont, De la Foret, De
Montfalcon, De Menthon, De la Motte, De Chatillon, De Croso, De Sablon,
and others as noble as they.[741]
[Sidenote: THE CANONS LEAVE THE CITY.]
The canons kept their word. As soon as they had made the necessary
arrangements for their departure, they mounted their mules or got into
their carriages, and set off. The Genevans, standing at the doors of
their houses and in groups in the streets, watched these Roman
dignitaries thus abandoning their homes, some with downcast heads,
others with angry looks, who moved along sad and silent, and went out by
the Savoy gate with hearts full of resentment against a city which they
denounced as ungrateful and rebellious. Out of thirty-two, only seven or
eight remained.[742] The citizens, assembling in various places, were
agitated with very different thoughts. The huguenots said to themselves
that these high and reverend clerks, true cardinals, who supported the
papacy much better than the bishop, would no longer be there to prevent
the new generation from throwing off the shackles of the middle ages;
that this unexpected exodus marked a great revolution; and that the old
times were departing, and the Reformation beginning. On the other hand,
the creatures of Rome felt a bitter pang, and flames of vengeance were
kindled in their hearts. Lastly, those citizens who were both good
Genevans and good catholics, were seized with fear and melancholy. 'No
more canons, erelong perhaps no more bishop!... Will Geneva, without its
canons and bishops, be Geneva still?' But the great voice, which drowned
all the rest, was that of the partisans of progress, of liberty, of
independence, and of reform, who desired to see political liberty
developed among the community, and the Church directed by the Word of
God and not by the bulls of the pope. Among them were Maison-Neuve,
Bonivard, Porral, Bernard, Chautemps, and others. These men, the
pioneers of modern times, felt little respect and no regret for the
canons. They said to one another that these noble and lazy lords were
pleased with Geneva so long as they could luxuriously enjoy the
pleasures of life there; but that when the hour of combat came, they
fled like cowards from the field of battle. The canons did fly in fact;
they arrived at Annecy, where they settled. As for Geneva, they were
never to enter it again.
[Footnote 731: 'Pro summa ducatorum auri largorum duorum millia.'—
Galiffe fils, _Besançon Hugues_, p. 454; _Pièces Justificatives_, No. 4.]
[Footnote 732: Spon, _Hist. de Genève_, i. p. 407, note.]
[Footnote 733: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 468. _Journal de Balard_, p.
112. Gautier MS. _Mém. d'Archéologie_, iv. p. 161.]
[Footnote 734: In his journal recently published, Balard, one of the
most respected and most catholic magistrates of the time, describes this
plot at full length, pp. 117, 118. See also Bonivard, _Police de
Genève_, p. 396.]
[Footnote 735: _Journal de Balard_, p. 118. Bonivard, _Police de
Genève_, p. 396.]
[Footnote 736: 'On regratia Dieu.'—_Journal de Balard_, p. 117.
Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 467.]
[Footnote 737: _Journal de Balard_, p. 119. Registres du Conseil, _ad
locum_.]
[Footnote 738: Registres du Conseil des 13 et 14 juillet 1527. Bonivard,
_Chroniq._ ii. p. 467. Galiffe, _Matériaux pour l'Histoire de Genève_,
ii. pp. 421, 517. _Journal de Balard_, p. 119.]
[Footnote 739: Registres du Conseil du 15 juillet 1527. Bonivard,
_Chroniq._ ii. p. 471. _Journal de Balard_, p. 119.]
[Footnote 740: Registres du Conseil du 15 juillet 1527. _Journal de
Balard_, p. 119. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ pp. 471, 472.]
[Footnote 741: Besson, _Mémoire du Diocèse de Genève_, p. 87.]
[Footnote 742: Registres du Conseil des 18, 19, 23, 24 juillet 1527.
Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 468. _Journal de Balard_, pp. 121-124.]
CHAPTER IV.
THE BISHOP-PRINCE FLEES FROM GENEVA.
(JULY AND AUGUST 1527.)
[Sidenote: BISHOPERS AND COMMONERS.]
From this time parties in Geneva took new forms and new names. There
were not simply, as before, partisans of the foreign domination and
Savoy, and those of independence and Switzerland: the latter were
divided. Some, having Hugues and Balard as leaders, declared for the
bishop; others, with Maison-Neuve and Porral at their head, declared for
the people. They desired not only to repel the usurpations of Savoy, but
also to see the fall of the temporal power of the bishop in Geneva.
'Now,' said Bonivard, 'that the first division into mamelukes and
huguenots has almost come to an end, we have the second—that of
bishopers (_évêquains_) and commoners (_communiaires_).' These two
parties had their men of sense and importance, and also their hotheaded
adherents; as, for instance, De la Thoy on the side of the commoners,
and Pécolat, the man of whom it would have been least expected, among
the bishopers. A singular change had been effected in this former martyr
of the bishop: the _jester_ had joined the episcopal band. Was it
because he was at heart catholic and even superstitious (he had
ascribed, it will be remembered, the healing of his tongue to the
intervention of a saint), or because, being a thorough parasite, he
preferred the well-covered tables of the bishopers? We know not. These
noisy partisans, the vanguard of the two parties, were frequently
quarrelling. 'They murmured, jeered, and made faces at each other.'
At the same time this new division marked a step made in advance by this
small people. Two great questions were raised, which sooner or later
must rise up in every country. The first was _political_, and may be
stated thus: 'Must we accept a traditional dominion which has been
established by trampling legitimate rights under foot?' (This was the
dominion of the bishop.) The second was _religious_, and may be
expressed thus: 'Which must we choose, popery or the Gospel?' Many of
the _commoners_, seeing the bishop and the duke disputing about Geneva,
said that these two people were fighting for what belonged to neither of
them, and that Geneva belonged to the Genevans. But there were
politicians also among them, lawyers for the most part, who founded
their pretensions on a legal basis. The bishops and princes of Geneva
ought by right, as we have seen, to be elected at Geneva and not at
Rome, by Genevans and not by Romans. The issue of the struggle was not
doubtful. How could the bishop make head against magistrates and
citizens relying on positive rights, and against the most powerful
aspirations of liberty that were awaking in men's hearts? How could the
Roman doctrine escape the floods of the Reformation? Certain scandals
helped to precipitate the catastrophe.
On the 12th of July some huguenots appeared before the council. 'The
priests of the Magdalen,' they said, 'keep an improper house, in which
reside several disorderly women.' There were among the Genevans, and
particularly among the magistrates, men of good sense, who had the fear
of God before their eyes and confidence in him in their hearts. These
respectable laymen (and there may have been priests who thought the
same) had a deep conviction that one of the great defects of the middle
ages was the existence of popes, bishops, priests, and monks, who had
separated religion from morality. The council attended to these
complaints to a certain extent. They banished from Geneva the persons
who made it their business to facilitate illicit intercourse, obliged
the lewd women to live in a place assigned them, and severely
remonstrated with the priests.[743] The first breath of the Reformation
in Geneva attacked immorality. It was not this affair, however, which
gave the bishop his death-blow; it was a scandal occasioned by himself,
and in his own house. 'Halting justice' was about to overtake the guilty
man at last.
[Sidenote: ABDUCTION OF A YOUNG WOMAN.]
One day a report suddenly got abroad which put the whole city in
commotion. 'A young girl, of respectable family,' said the crowd, 'has
just been carried off by the bishop's people: we saw them dragging her
to the palace.' It was an electric spark that set the whole populace on
fire. The palace gates had been immediately closed upon the victim, and
the bishop's servants threatened to repel with main force the persons
who demanded her. 'Does the bishop imagine,' said some of the patriots,
'that we will put up with his beatings as quietly as the folks of St.
Claude do?' It would seem that La Baume permitted such practices among
the Burgundians, who did not complain of them. The girl's mother,
rushing into the street, had followed her as fast as possible, and had
only stopped at the closed gates of the episcopal palace. She paced
round and round the building, roaring like a lioness deprived of her
whelp. The citizens, crowding in front of the palace, exclaimed: 'Ha!
you are now throwing off the mask of holiness which you held up to
deceive the simple. In your churches you kiss God's feet, and in your
life you daringly spit in his face!' Many of them called for the bishop,
summoning him to restore the young woman to her mother, and hammering
violently at the gate.
The prelate, who was then at dinner, did not like to be disturbed in
this important business; being puzzled, moreover, as to the course which
he ought to adopt, it appeared that the best thing he could do was to be
deaf. He therefore answered his servants, who asked him for orders, 'Do
not open the door;' and raising the glass to his lips, he went on with
his repast. But his heart was beginning to tremble: the shouts grew
louder, and every blow struck against the gate found an echo in the soul
of the guilty priest. His servants, who were looking stealthily out of
the windows, having informed him that the magistrates had arrived,
Pierre de la Baume left his chair, paler than death, and went to the
window. There was a profound silence immediately, and the syndics made
the prelate an earnest but very respectful speech. The bishop, terrified
at the popular fury, replied: 'Certainly, gentlemen, you shall have the
young woman.... I only had her carried off for a harper, who asked me
for her in return for his services.' Monseigneur had not carried off the
girl in the violence of passion, but only to pay the wages of a
musician! It was not more guilty, but it was more vile. The palace gates
were opened, and the girl was restored to her mother. Michael Roset does
not mention the harper, and leads us to believe that the bishop had
taken her for himself. This scandalous abduction was the last act done
in Geneva by the Roman bishops.[744]
From that moment the deposition of the bishop was signed, as it were, in
the hearts of most of the citizens. 'These, then, are the priests'
works,' they said, 'debauchery and violence!... Instead of purifying the
manners of the people, they labour to corrupt them! Ha! ha! you
bishopers, a fine religion is that of your bishop!'
Opposition to a corrupt government soon began to appear a duty to them.
The right of resistance was one of the principles of that society in the
middle ages, which some writers uphold as a model of servility. In the
Great Charter of England, the king authorised his own subjects, in case
he should violate any one of their liberties, 'to pursue and molest him
to the uttermost of their power, by seizing his castles, estates,
possessions, and otherwise.' In certain cases, the vassals could
separate themselves entirely from their suzerain. Some vassals, it is
true, might carry this principle too far, and claim to throw off the
feudal authority _whenever it pleased them_; but the law made answer:
'No, not unless there is _reasonable cause_.'[745] When freeing herself
from the bishop-princes, who had so often violated the franchises and
connived with the enemies of the city, Geneva thought she was acting
with very reasonable cause, and not going beyond the bounds of legality.
The ruin of the bishops and princes of Geneva, already prepared by their
political misdeeds, was completed by their moral disorders.
But if the friends of law and morality desired to break by legal means
the bonds which united them to the bishop-prince, other persons, the
wits and brawlers, envenomed against his partisans, began to get up
quarrels with the bishopers. One day 'the young men of Geneva,'
returning from a shooting match, where, says the chronicler, they had
'had many a shot at the pot' (that is, had drunk deeply), determined to
give a smart lesson to two of the bishop's friends, Pécolat and Robert
Vandel. The latter, at that time attached personally to Pierre de la
Baume, afterwards became one of the most zealous patriots. 'They are at
St. Victor's,' somebody said; 'let us go and fetch them.' The party,
headed by a drummer, went to the priory, where Bonivard told the
ringleaders that the two bishopers and others were diverting themselves
at Plainpalais. Just as the band arrived, the episcopals were entering
the city: one of the 'sons of Geneva,' catching sight of Pécolat and
Vandel, exclaimed: 'My lord, you have traitors among you there!' The
bishop spurred his mule and rode off; Pécolat drew his sword; his
opponent, De la Thoy, did the same, and they began to cut at each other.
The fray was so noisy that the guards in alarm shut the gates, when a
few reasonable men parted the combatants. A more serious movement was
accomplishing in the depths of men's minds. Nothing but secularisation
and reformation could put an end to the almost universal discontent.[746]
[Sidenote: THE DUKE'S MENACES.]
The Duke of Savoy wished for another solution. His councillors
represented to him that the bishop had lost his credit among the nobles
and clergy, through his desire to ally himself with the Swiss; that he
was ruined with the citizens by his unedifying mode of life; and that
the moment had come for giving these restless people a _stronger
shepherd_, who would cure them of their taste for political and religious
liberty. In consequence of this, the duke summoned the Genevans, on the
30th of July, to recognise his claims, and his ambassadors added that,
if the citizens refused, 'Charles III. would come in person with an
army, and then they would have to keep their city ... if they could.'
The Genevans made answer: 'We will suffer death rather.' The Bernese,
informed of the threats of Savoy, sent ambassadors to Chambéry to
admonish (_admonester_) the duke. 'I have a grudge against the city,' he
said, 'and against the bishop also, and I will do my pleasure upon him
in defiance of all opposition.'—'Keep a good look-out,' said the Bernese
ambassadors to the syndics, on their return, 'for the duke is preparing
to carry off the bishop and confiscate the liberties of the city.' The
bishop and the citizens were exceedingly agitated. Men, women, and
children set to work: they cut down the trees round the walls, pulled
down the houses, and levelled the gardens, while four gangs worked at
the fortifications. 'We would rather die defending our rights,' said the
Genevans, 'than live in continual fear.'[747]
It might have been imagined that the duke, by declaring war at the same
time against the bishop and the city, would have brought them nearer
each other; but the popular irritation against the bishop and clergy was
only increased by it. The citizens said that all the misfortunes of
Geneva proceeded from their having a bishop for a prince; and La Baume
saw a conspirator in every Genevan. More than one bishop, the oppressor
of the liberties of his people, had fallen during the middle ages under
the blows of the indignant burgesses. For instance, the wretched Gaudri,
bishop of Laon in the twelfth century, having trampled the rights of the
citizens under foot, had been compelled to flee from their wrath, and
hide himself in a cask in the episcopal cellar. But, being discovered
and dragged into the street, he was killed by the blow of an axe, and
his body covered with stones and mud.[748] If good _catholics_ had
practised such revenge upon their bishop, what would _huguenots_ do?
[Sidenote: THE BISHOP RESOLVES TO LEAVE GENEVA.]
La Baume had other fears besides. An intriguing woman, his cousin Madame
de Besse, generally known as Madame de la Gruyère, being gained over by
the duke, alarmed the bishop by insinuating that he was to be kidnapped,
and that this time his mule would not save him. That lady had scarcely
left the palace when the Bernese entered and said to the frightened
bishop: 'Make haste to go! for the duke is coming to take you.' They may
have said this with a mischievous intention, desiring to free the city
from the bishop. La Baume had not a minute of repose afterwards. His
servants, threatened by the huguenots, began to be afraid also, and thus
increased their master's alarm. He passed the day in anguish, and awoke
in the night uttering cries of terror. At times he listened as if he
heard the footsteps of the men coming to carry him off. He did not
hesitate: his residence in the episcopal city had become insupportable.
He had too much sense not to see that the cause of his temporal
principality was lost, and, to add to his misfortune, the only prince
who could defend him was turning against him. Whatever the risk, he must
depart. 'Whereat the bishop was so vexed,' says Bonivard, 'that he
meditated retiring from Geneva into Burgundy.' He flattered himself that
he would be quiet in the midst of his good vassals of St. Claude, and
happy near his cellars of Arbois![749]
It was, however, no easy thing to do. He would have to get out of
Geneva, pass through the district of Gex, and cross the Jura mountains,
all filled with armed men. Feeling the want of some one to help him, he
determined to apply to Besançon Hugues. He invited him to come to the
palace, but in the night, so that no one might see him. When Hugues got
there, the wretched and guilty prelate squeezed his hand, and told him
all his troubles. 'I can no longer endure the wrong, violence, and
tyranny which the duke does me,' he said. 'I know that he is plotting to
kidnap me and shut me up in one of his monasteries. On the other hand, I
mistrust my own subjects, for they are aiming at my life. I am day and
night in mortal torment. You alone can get me out of the city, and I
hope you will manage so that it shall not be talked of.' Besançon Hugues
was touched when he saw the man whom he recognised as his lord agitated
and trembling before him. How could he refuse the alarmed priest the
favour he so earnestly demanded?... He left the bishop, telling him that
he would go and make preparations for a nocturnal flight.[750]
[Sidenote: FLEES BY NIGHT TO ST. CLAUDE.]
In the night of the 1st and 2nd of August, 1527, Hugues went secretly to
the palace, accompanied by Michael Guillet, a leading mameluke. The
prelate received his friends like liberating angels. They all three went
down into the vaults, where La Baume ordered a private door to be opened
which led into the street now called the Rue de la Fontaine. He had to
go along this street to reach the lake; but might not some of those
terrible huguenots stop him in his flight? He crept stealthily and in
disguise out of the palace, put himself between his two defenders, and,
a prey to singular alarm, went forward noiselessly. On arriving at the
brink of the water, the fugitive and his two companions descried through
the darkness the boatmen whom Hugues had engaged. La Baume and Besançon
entered the boat, while Michael Guillet returned to the city. The
boatmen took their oars, and crossed the lake at the point where the
Rhone flows out of it. La Baume looked all round him; but he could see
nothing, could hear nothing but the dull sound of the oars. The danger,
however, was far from being passed. The right bank might be occupied by
a band of his enemies.... When the boat touched the shore, La Baume
caught sight of two or three men with horses. They were friends. Hugues
and the bishop got into their saddles without a moment's loss, and
galloped off in the direction of the Jura. The bishop had never better
appreciated his good luck in being one of the best horsemen of his day;
he drove the spurs into his steed, fancying at times that he heard the
noise of Savoyard horses behind him. In this way the bishop and his
companion rode on, all the night through, along by-roads and in the
midst of great dangers, for all the passes were guarded by men-at-arms.
At last the day appeared. In proportion as they advanced, La Baume
breathed more freely. After four-and-twenty hours of cruel fright, the
travellers arrived at St. Claude. Pierre de la Baume was at the summit
of happiness.[751]
The day after his departure, the news of the bishop's flight suddenly
became known in Geneva, where it caused a great sensation. 'Alas!' said
the monks in their cloisters, 'Monseigneur, seeing the approaching
tribulation, has got away by stealth across the lake.' The patriots, on
the contrary, collecting in groups in the public places, rejoiced to
find themselves delivered by one act both from their bishop and their
prince. At the same time the Savoyard soldiers, posted round Geneva,
were greatly annoyed; they had been on the watch night and day, and yet
the bishop had slipped through their fingers. To avenge themselves, they
swore to arrest Besançon Hugues on his return. The latter, making no
stay at St. Claude, reappeared next morning at daybreak in the district
of Gex, when he soon noticed that gentlemen and soldiers were all
joining in the chase after him. The bells were rung in the village
steeples, the peasants were roused, and every one shouted: 'Hie! hie!
the traitor Besançon!' It seemed impossible for him to escape. Having
descended the mountain, he followed the by-roads through the plain, when
suddenly a number of armed men fell upon him. Hugues had great courage,
a stout sword, and a good horse; fording the water-courses, and
galloping across the hills, he saved himself, 'as by a miracle,' says
his friend Balard.[752]
[Sidenote: THE HIRELING FORSAKES THE SHEEP.]
The Genevans were very uneasy about him, for they all loved him. The
drums beat, the companies mustered under their officers, and they were
about to march out with their arms to protect him, when suddenly he
arrived, panting, exhausted, and wounded. They would have liked to speak
to him, and, above all, to hear him; but Hugues, hardly shaking hands
with his friends, rode straight to his own house and went to bed; he was
completely knocked up. The syndics went to his room to investigate the
circumstances of which he had to complain. But erelong the brave man
recovered from his fatigue, and the city was full of joy. The bishop's
flight still further increased their cheerfulness: it snapped the bonds
of which they were weary. 'The _hireling_,' they said, 'leaveth the
sheep, and fleeth, when he seeth the wolf coming.'[753] 'Therefore,'
they added, 'he is not the shepherd.'
[Footnote 743: Registres du Conseil du 12 juillet 1527.]
[Footnote 744: Roset MS. _Chronol._ liv. ii. ch. xv. Bonivard,
_Chroniq._ ii. p. 455.]
[Footnote 745: Beaumanoir, _Coutumes de Beauvaisis_, p. 61. Guizot,
_Histoire de la Civilisation en France_, iv. p. 72.]
[Footnote 746: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 464.]
[Footnote 747: Registres du Conseil des 30 juillet et 25 août 1527.
_Journal de Balard_, pp. 125, 126.]
[Footnote 748: 'Quot saxis, quot et pulveribus corpus oppressum.'—G. de
Novigento, _Opp._ p. 507.]
[Footnote 749: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 473. Spon, _Hist. de Genève_,
ii. p. 410. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 750: Savyon, _Annales_, p. 139. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p.
474. Galiffe, _Matériaux pour l'Histoire de Genève_, pp. 427, 428, &c.]
[Footnote 751: _Journal de Balard_, p. 126. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p.
474. _Mém. d'Archéol._ ii. p. 12.]
[Footnote 752: _Journal de Balard_, p. 127. Registres du Conseil du 6
août 1527, La Sœur de Jussie, p. 4.]
[Footnote 753: John x. 12.]
CHAPTER V.
EXCOMMUNICATION OF GENEVA AND FUNERAL PROCESSION OF
POPERY.
(AUGUST 1527 TO FEBRUARY 1528.)
The Duke of Savoy was the wolf. When he heard of the bishop's flight,
his vexation was greater than can be imagined. He had told the Bernese:
'I shall have Monsieur of Geneva at my will,'[754] and now the wily
prelate had escaped him a second time. At first Charles III. lost all
self-control. 'I will go,' he said, 'and drag him across the Alps with a
rope round his neck!' After which he wrote to him: 'I will make you the
poorest priest in Savoy;' and, proceeding to gratify his rage, he seized
upon the abbeys of Suza and Pignerol, which belonged to La Baume.
Gradually his anger cooled down; the duke's counsellors, knowing the
bishop's irresolute and timid character, said to their master: 'He is of
such a changeable disposition[755] that it will be easy to bring him
over again to the side of Savoy.' The prince yielded to their advice,
and sent Ducis, governor of the Château de l'Ile, to try to win him
back. It appeared to the ducal counsellors that Pierre de la Baume,
having fled from Geneva, could never return thither, and would have no
wish to do so; and that the time had come when a negotiation, favourable
in other respects to the prelate, might put the duke in possession of a
city which he desired by every means to close against heresy and liberty.
[Sidenote: THE DUKE TRIES TO WIN THE BISHOP.]
The bishop, at that moment very dejected, was touched by the duke's
advances; he sent an agent to the prince, and peace seemed on the point
of being concluded. But Charles had uttered a word that sounded ill in
the prelate's ears. 'The duke wishes me to subscribe myself _his
subject_,' he wrote to Hugues. 'I think I know why.... It is that he may
afterwards lay hands on me.' Nevertheless, the duke appeared to restrain
himself. 'I will give back all your benefices,' he told the bishop, 'if
you contrive to annul the alliance between Geneva and Switzerland.' La
Baume consented to everything in order to recover his abbeys, whose
confiscation made a large gap in his revenues. He did not care much
about living at Geneva, but he wished to be at his ease in Burgundy. At
this moment, as the duke and the Genevans left him at peace, he was
luxuriously enjoying his repose. Instead of being always in the presence
of huguenots and mamelukes, he walked calmly in his garden 'among his
pinks and gilly-flowers.'[756] He ordered some beautiful fur robes,
lined with black satin, for the winter; he kept a good table, and said:
'I am much better supplied with good wine here than we are at
Geneva.'[757]
The bishop having fled from his bishopric like a hireling,—the prince
having run away from his principality like a conspirator,—the citizens
resolved to take measures for preserving order in the State, and to make
the constitution at once stronger and more independent. The general
council delegated to the three councils of Twenty-five, Sixty, and
Two-Hundred the duty of carrying on the necessary business, except in
such important affairs as required the convocation of the people. A
secret council was also appointed, composed of the four syndics and of
six of the most decided huguenots. A distinguished historian says that
the Genevan constitution was then made democratic;[758] another
historian affirms, on the contrary, that the power of the people was
weakened.[759] We are of a different opinion from both. In proportion as
Geneva threw off foreign usurpation, it would strengthen its internal
constitution. Undoubtedly, this little nation desired to be free, and
the Reformation was to preserve its liberties; there is a democracy in
the Reform. Philosophy, which is satisfied with a small number of
disciples, has never formed more than an intellectual aristocracy; but
evangelical christianity, which appeals to all classes, and particularly
to the lowly, develops the understanding, awakens the conscience, and
sanctifies the hearts of those who receive it, in this way spreading
light, order, and peace all around, and forming a true democracy on
earth, very different from that which does without Christ and without
God. But Geneva, at that time surrounded by implacable enemies,
required, as necessary to its existence, not only liberty, but order,
power, and consequently authority.
[Sidenote: THE DUCAL ARMS FALL AT GENEVA.]
The bishop had hardly disappeared from Geneva when the insignia of ducal
power disappeared also. Eight years before this, Charles III. had caused
the white cross of Savoy, carved in marble, to be placed on the Château
de l'Ile, 'at which the friends of liberty were much grieved.'—'I have
placed my arms in the middle of the city as a mark of sovereignty,' he
had said haughtily, 'and have had them carved in hard stone. Let the
people efface them if they dare!' On the morning of the 6th of August
(five days after the bishop's flight), some people who were passing near
the castle perceived to their great astonishment that the ducal arms had
disappeared.... A crowd soon gathered to the spot, and a lively
discussion arose. Who did it? was the general question. 'Oh!' replied
some, 'the stone has accidentally fallen into the river;' but although
the water was clear, no one could see it. 'It was you,' said the duke's
partisans to the huguenots, 'and you have hidden it somewhere.'
Bonivard, who stood thoughtful in the midst of the crowd, said at last:
'I know the culprit.'—'Who is it? who is it?' 'St. Peter,' he replied.
'As patron of Geneva, he is unwilling that a secular prince should have
any ensign of authority in his city!' This incident, the authors of
which were never known, made a great impression, and the most serious
persons exclaimed: 'Truly, it is a visible sign, announcing to us a
secret and mysterious decision of the Most High. What the hand of God
hath thrown down, let not hand of man set up again!'[760]
The Genevans wanted neither duke nor bishop; they went farther still,
and being harassed by the court of Rome, they were going to show that
they did not care for the pope. They had hardly done talking of La
Baume's flight and of the Savoy escutcheon, when they were told strange
news. A report was circulated that an excommunication and interdict had
been pronounced against them, at the request of the mamelukes. This
greatly excited such citizens as were still attached to the Roman
worship. 'What!' said they; 'the priests will be suspended from their
functions, the people deprived of the benefit of the sacraments, divine
worship, and consecrated burial ... innocent and guilty will be involved
in one common misery.'... But the energy of the huguenots, whom long
combats had hardened like steel, was not to be weakened by this new
attack. The most determined of them resolved to turn against Rome the
measure plotted against Geneva. The council, being resolved to prevent
the excommunication from being placarded in the streets,[761] ordered 'a
strict watch to be kept at the bridge of Arve, about St. Victor and St.
Leger, and that the gates should be shut early and opened late.' This
was not enough. Five days later (the 29th of December, 1527), the
people, lawfully assembled, caused the _Golden Bull_ to be read aloud
before them, which ordered that, with the exception of the emperor and
the bishop, there should be no authority in Geneva. Then a daring
proposition was made to the general council, namely, 'that no
metropolitan letters, and further still no apostolical letters (that is
to say, no decrees emanating from the pope's courts), should be executed
by any priest or any citizen.'—'Agreed, agreed!' shouted everybody. It
would seem that the vote was almost unanimous. In this way the bishop on
the banks of the Tiber found men prepared to resist him on the obscure
banks of the Leman.
This vote alarmed a few timid persons of a traditional tendency.
Advocates of the _status quo_ entreated the progressionists to restrain
themselves; but the latter had no wish to do so. They answered that the
Reformation was triumphing among the Swiss; that Zwingle, Œcolampadius,
and Haller were preaching with daily increasing success at Zurich,
Basle, and Berne. They added that on the 7th of January, 1528, the
famous discussion had begun in the last-named city, and that the Holy
Scriptures had gained the victory; that the altars and images had been
thrown down 'with the consent of the people;' that a spiritual worship
had been substituted in their place, and that all, including children
fourteen years old, had sworn to observe 'the Lutheran law.' The
huguenots thought that if excommunication came to them from Rome,
absolution would come to them from Berne—or rather from heaven.
[Sidenote: FUNERAL PROCESSION OF POPERY.]
The more light-hearted among them went further than this. For ages the
Roman Church had accustomed its followers to unite masquerades with the
most sacred recollections. In some cantons there had been great
rejoicings over the abolition of the mass. Such a fire could not be
kindled in Switzerland without scattering a few sparks over Geneva.
Baudichon de la Maison-Neuve, a great enemy to superstition, an active
and even turbulent man, and daring enough to attempt anything, resolved
to organise a funeral procession of the papacy. He would attack Rome
with the weapons that the Roman carnival supplied him, and would arrange
a great procession. Whilst serious men were reading the epistle from
heaven (the Gospel), which absolved them from the excommunication of its
pretended vicar, the young and thoughtless were in great excitement;
they dressed themselves in their houses in the strangest manner; they
disguised themselves, some as priests, some as canons, and others as
monks; they came out, met together, drew up in line, and soon began to
march through the streets of the city. There were white friars, grey
friars, and black friars, fat canons, and thin curates. One was begging,
another chanting; here was one scourging himself, there another
strutting solemnly along; here a man carrying a hair shirt, there a man
with a bottle. Some indulged in acts of outrageous buffoonery; others,
the more completely to imitate the monks, went so far as to take
liberties with the women who were looking on, and when some fat friar
thus made any burlesque gesture, there was loud applause, and the crowd
exclaimed: 'That is not the worst they do.' In truth the reality was
more culpable than the burlesque. When they saw this tumultuous
procession and heard the doleful chanting, mingled with noisy roars of
laughter, every one said that popery was dying, and singing its _De
profundis_, its burial anthem.
The priests took the jest in very bad part, and the procession was
hardly over before they hurried, flushed with anger, to complain to the
syndics of 'the enmity raised against them by Baudichon and others.' The
syndics referred their complaint to the episcopal council, and the
latter severely reprimanded the offenders. But Maison-Neuve and his
friends withdrew, fully convinced that the priests were in the wrong,
and that the victory would ultimately be on their side.[762]
[Sidenote: BONIVARD AT THE PRIORY.]
They were beginning in Geneva to estimate a papal excommunication at its
proper value. No one knew more on this subject than Bonivard, and he
instructed his best friends on this difficult text. Among the number was
François Favre, a man of ardent character, prompt wit, and rather
worldly manners, but a good citizen and determined huguenot. Favre was
one day, on a famous occasion, to be at the head of Bonivard's
liberators. He went sometimes to the priory, where he often met Robert
Vandel, a man of less decision than his two friends. Vandel, who still
kept on good terms with the bishop, was at heart one of the most
independent of men, and Bonivard had made him governor of the domain of
St. Victor.
These Genevans and others continued the conversations that Bonivard had
formerly had with Berthelier in the same room and at the same table.
They spoke of Berne, of Geneva, of Switzerland, of the Reformation, and
of excommunication. Bonivard found erelong a special opportunity of
enlightening his two friends on the acts of the Romish priesthood.
[Sidenote: BONIVARD ON EXCOMMUNICATION.]
There was no one in Geneva whom the papal party detested more than him.
The ultramontanists could understand why lawyers and citizens opposed
the clergy; but a prior!... His enemies, therefore, formed the project
of seizing the estates of St. Victor, and of expelling Bonivard from the
monastery. The huguenots, on hearing of this, ardently espoused his
cause, and the council gave him, for his protection (20th of January,
1528) six arquebuses and four pounds of gunpowder. These were hardly
monastic weapons; but the impetuous Favre hastened to offer him his
heart and his arm; and, to say the truth, Bonivard in case of need could
have made very good use of an arquebuse. He had recourse, however, to
other defenders; he resolved to go and plead his cause before the
League. But this was not without danger, for the duke's agents might
seize him on the road, as he afterwards had the misfortune to know.
Favre, ever ready to go where there was any risk to be run, offered to
accompany him to Berne. Vandel had to go as governor of St. Victor: they
set off. Arriving at a village in the Pays de Vaud, the three huguenots
dismounted and took a stroll while their horses were resting. Bonivard,
as he was riding along, had noticed some large placards on the doors of
the churches, and being curious to know what they were about, he went up
to them, and immediately called his friends; 'Come here,' he said; 'here
are some curious things—letters of excommunication.' He was beginning to
read them, when one of his companions cried out: 'Stop! for as soon as
you have read them, you will thereby be excommunicate!' The worthy
huguenot imagined that the best plan was to know nothing about such
anathemas, and then to act as if the excommunication did not exist—which
could not be done if they were read. Bonivard, a man of great good
sense, profited by the opportunity to explain to his friends what these
earthly excommunications were worth. 'If you have done what is wrong,'
he told them, 'God himself excommunicates you; but if you have acted
rightly, the excommunication of priests can do you no harm. There is
only one tribunal which has power over the conscience, and that is
heaven. The pope and the devil hurt only those who are afraid of them.
Do therefore what is right, and fear nothing. The bolts which they may
hurl at you will be spent in the air.' Then he added with a smile: 'If
the pope or the metropolitan of Vienne excommunicate you, pope Berthold
of Berne will give you absolution.'[763] Bonivard's words were repeated
in Geneva, and the papal excommunications lost credit every day.
This became alarming: the episcopal officers informed the bishop; but
the latter, who was enjoying himself in his Burgundian benefices, put
aside everything that might disturb his meals and his repose. It was not
the same with the duke and his ministers. That prince was not content
with coveting the prelate's temporal power; looking upon La Baume as
already dispossessed of his rights, he made himself bishop, nay almost
pope, in his place. The cabinet of Turin thought that if the principles
of civil liberty once combined with those of religious liberty, Geneva
would attempt to reform Savoy by means of conversations, letters, books,
and missionaries. Charles III. therefore sent a message to the council,
which was read in the Two-Hundred on the 7th of February. 'I hear,' said
the prince, 'that the Lutheran sect is making way among you.... Make
haste to prevent the ravages of that pestilence, and, to that intent,
send on the 17th two men empowered by you to hear some very important
things concerning _my authority in matters of faith_.'
What would the Genevans answer? If a bishop is made prince, why should
not a prince be made bishop? The confusion of the two provinces is a
source of continual disturbance. Christianity cannot tolerate either
Cæsars who are popes, or popes who are Cæsars; and yet ambition is
always endeavouring to unite these two irreconcilable powers. The duke
did not presume to abolish definitively the episcopal power and confer
it on himself; but he wished to take advantage of the bishop's flight to
acquire an influence which he would be able to retain when the episcopal
authority was restored. He spoke, therefore, like a Roman pontiff ... of
his authority in matters of faith.
'Really,' said the council, 'we have had enough and too much even of one
pope, and we do not care to have two—one at Rome and the other at our
very gates.' The citizens were so irritated at Charles's singular claim,
that they did not return an answer in the usual form. 'We will not write
to the duke,' said the syndics; 'we will delegate no one to him, seeing
that we are not his subjects; but we will simply tell the bearer of his
letter that _we are going on very well_, and that the duke, having no
authority to correct us, ought to _mind his own business_.' Such is the
minute recorded in the council register for this day. As for La Baume,
the poor prelate, who did not trouble himself much either about pope or
Lutheranism, wrote the same day to the Genevans, that he permitted them
'to eat milk-food during the coming Lent.' This culinary permission was
quite in his way, and it was the most important missive from the bishop
at that time.[764]
[Sidenote: THE DUKE REPRIMANDS THE CANONS.]
When the episcopal council heard of the syndics' answer, they were in
great commotion. They thought it rude and unbecoming, and trembled lest
Charles should confound them with these arrogant burgesses. They
therefore sent M. de Veigy, one of the most eminent canons, to the duke,
in order to pacify him. The reverend father set off, and while on the
road, he feared at one moment Charles's anger, and at another enjoyed in
anticipation the courtesies which the ducal court could not fail to show
him. But he had scarcely been presented to the duke, and made a profound
bow, when Bishop de Belley, standing at the left of his highness, and
commissioned to be the interpreter of his sentiments, addressed him
abruptly, and, calling him traitor and huguenot, insulted him just as De
la Thoy might have done. But this abuse was nothing in comparison with
Charles's anger: unable to restrain himself, he burst out, and, giving
utterance to the terrible schemes he had formed against Geneva, declared
he would reduce that impracticable city to ashes, and ended by saying:
'If you do not come out of it, you will be burnt in it with all the
rest.' The poor canon endeavoured to pacify his highness: 'Ah, my lord,'
he said, 'I shall not remain there: all the canons now in the city are
about to leave it!' And yet De Veigy was fond of Geneva, and thought
that to reside in Annecy would be terribly dull. Accordingly, on his
return to the city, he forgot his terror and his promises, whereupon he
received this short message from Charles III.: 'Ordered, under pain of
death, to quit Geneva in six days.'—'He left on the 3rd of March, and
with great regret,' adds Balard.[765] Charles wished to put the canons
in a place of safety, before he burnt the city.
[Footnote 754: 'Que qui en volisse contredire' (whatever any one may do
to oppose it), he added.—_Journal de Balard_, p. 124.]
[Footnote 755: 'Il est d'un esprit si changeant.'—_Hist. de Genève_, MS.
of the 17th century. Bibliothèque de Berne, _Hist. Helvét._ v. p. 12.]
[Footnote 756: Letter from La Baume to Hugues. Galiffe, _Matériaux_.]
[Footnote 757: Galiffe, _Matériaux_, ii. pp. 424-475. _Mém.
d'Archéologie_, ii. pp. 14, 15.]
[Footnote 758: Mignet, _Réforme à Genève_, p. 34.]
[Footnote 759: James Fazy, _Hist. de la République de Genève_, p. 158.]
[Footnote 760: _Journal de Balard_, p. 127. Roset MS. _Chronol._ liv.
ii. ch. xx. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 448. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 761: Registres du Conseil des 24 et 29 décembre 1527.
Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp. 473, 474. Gautier MS. _Journal de Balard_.]
[Footnote 762: Registres du Conseil des 15 et 17 janvier 1528. _Journal
de Balard_, p. 146. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 763: 'Hominum anathemata a Bertholdo papa facile solvenda.'—
Spanheim, _Geneva Restituta_, p. 35.]
[Footnote 764: Registres du Conseil du 7 février 1528. _Journal de
Balard_, p. 147.]
[Footnote 765: Registres du Conseil du 7 février et du 3 mars 1528.
_Journal de Balard_, pp. 147-149.]
CHAPTER VI.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE SPOON LEAGUE AGAINST GENEVA
AT THE CASTLE OF BURSINEL.
(MARCH 1528.)
[Sidenote: BONIVARD COMPLAINS OF GENEVA.]
The partisans of absolutism and the papacy rose up on every side against
Geneva, as if the Reformation were already established there. It was not
so, however. Although Geneva had come out of Romanism, it had not yet
entered Reform: it was still in those uncertain and barren places, that
land of negations and disputes which lies between the two. A few persons
only were beginning to see that, in order to separate really from the
pope, it was necessary, as Haller and Zwingle said, to obey Jesus
Christ. Bonivard, a keen critic, was indulging in his reflections, in
his large arm-chair, at the priory of St. Victor, and carefully studying
the singular aspect Geneva at that time presented. 'A strange
spectacle,' he said; 'everybody wishes to command, and no one will obey.
From tyranny we have fallen into the opposite and worse vice of
anarchy.... There are as many tyrants as heads ... which engenders
confusion. Everybody wishes to make his own profit or private pleasure
out of the common weal; profit tends to avarice; and pleasure consists
in taking vengeance on him whom you hate. Men are killed, but they are
not the real enemies of Geneva.... If you wound a bear, he will not
spring upon the man who wounded him, but will tear the first poles or
the first tree in his way.... And this, alas! is what they are doing
among us. Having groaned under a tyrannical government, we have the love
of licence instead of the love of liberty. We must be apprentices before
we can be masters, and break many strings before we can play upon the
lute. The huguenots have driven out the tyrant, but have not driven out
tyranny. It is not liberty to do whatever we desire, if we do not desire
what is right. O pride! thou wilt be the ruin of Geneva! Pride has
always envy for its follower; and when pride would mount too high, the
old crone catches her by the tail and pulls her back, so that she falls
and breaks her neck.... The huguenot leagues are not sufficient; the
Gospel must advance, in order that popery may recede.' It is Bonivard
himself who has transmitted these wise reflections.[766]
He was not the only person who entertained such thoughts. The affairs of
the alliance often attracted Bernese to Geneva; and being convinced that
the Reformation alone could save that city, they continued Ab Hofen's
work. Being admitted into private families, they spoke against human
traditions and extolled the Scriptures. 'God speaks to us of the
Redeemer,' they said, 'and not of Lent.' But the Friburgers, thrusting
themselves into these evangelical conferences, exclaimed: 'Obey the
Church! If you separate from the Church, we will break off the
alliance!'[767]
[Sidenote: BONIVARD'S ANSWER TO THE HUGUENOTS.]
The _bishopers_ were with Friburg, the _commoners_ with Berne. The
latter were divided into three classes: there were politicians, to whom
religion was only a means of obtaining liberty; serious and peaceful
men, who called for true piety (Bonivard mentions Boutelier as one of
these); and, lastly, the enemies of the priests, who saw the Reformation
from a negative point of view, and regarded it essentially as a war
against Roman superstitions. One day these sincere but impatient men
said they could wait no longer, and went out to St. Victor to invite the
prior to put himself at their head. They rang at the gate of the
monastery, and the janitor went and told Bonivard, who ordered them to
be admitted: 'We wish to put an end to all this papal ceremony,'
they told him; 'we desire to drive out all its ministers, priests, and
monks ... all that papistical rabble; and then we mean to invite the
ministers of the Gospel, who will introduce a true christian reformation
among us.'
The prior smiled as he heard these words: 'Gentlemen,' he said, in a
sarcastic tone, 'I think your sentiments very praiseworthy, and confess
that all ecclesiastics (of whom I am one) have great need to be
reformed. But ought not those who wish to reform others to begin by
reforming themselves? If you love the Gospel, as you say you do, you
will live according to the Gospel. But if you wish to reform us without
reforming yourselves, it is evident that you are not moved by love for
the Gospel, but by hatred against us. And why should you hate us? It is
not because our manners are contrary to yours, but because they are like
them. Aristotle says in his _Ethics_,' continued the learned prior, 'and
experience confirms the statement, that animals which eat off the same
food naturally hate each other. Two horses do not agree at the same
manger, nor two dogs over the same bone. It is the same with us. We are
unchaste, and so are you. We are drunkards, and so are you. We are
gamblers and blasphemers, and so are you. Why then should you be so
opposed to us?... We do not hinder you from indulging in your little
pleasures; pray do the same by us. You desire to expel us, you say, and
put Lutheran ministers in our place.... Gentlemen, think well of what
you are about: you will not have had them two years before you will be
sorry for it. These ministers will permit you to break the commandments
of the pope, but they will forbid your breaking those of God. According
to their doctrines, you must not gamble or indulge in debauchery, under
severe penalty.... Ah! how that would vex you!... Therefore, gentlemen,
you must do one of two things: either leave us in our present condition;
or, if you wish to reform us according to the Gospel, reform yourselves
first.'
These remarks were not quite so reasonable as they appeared to be. _It
is the sick that have need of a physician_, and as these 'sons of
Geneva' wished to invite the ministers of the Gospel, _in order to
introduce a true christian reform_, Bonivard should have encouraged
instead of opposing them. These worldly men might have had a real desire
for the Gospel at the bottom of their hearts. Reprimanded by the prior,
they withdrew. Bonivard watched them as they retired. 'They are going
off with their tails between their legs.[768] Certainly, I desire a
reformation; but I do not like that those who are more qualified to
deform than to reform should presume to be its instruments.'
[Sidenote: DETERMINATION TO EAT MEAT IN LENT.]
When they got home, these huguenots deliberated whether they would allow
themselves to be stopped by Bonivard's irony; they resolved to follow
out his precept—to reform themselves first; but, not knowing that
reformation consists primarily in reestablishing faith and morality in
the heart, they undertook simply to prune away certain superstitions. As
the episcopal letter permitted them to take milk in Lent, De la
Maison-Neuve and his friends said: 'We are permitted to take milk, why
not meat?' Then repeating the lesson which the Bernese had taught
them—Do not the Scriptures say, _Eat of all that is sold in the
shambles_?—they resolved to eat meat every day. The council saw this
with uneasiness, and forbade the new practice under pain of three days'
imprisonment on bread and water and a fine of five sols.[769] But
wishing to hold the balance even, they had hardly struck one side before
they struck the other, and condemned the forty-four fugitive mamelukes
to confiscation and death.
This last sentence aroused the anger of all the adjacent country; the
Sire de Pontverre, in particular, thought the time had come for drawing
the sword, and immediately messengers were scouring the country between
the Alps and the Jura. They climbed painfully up the rocky roads that
led to the mountain castles; they crossed the lake, everywhere summoning
the gentlemen, the friends of the mamelukes. The knights did not need to
be pressed; they put on their armour, mounted their coursers, left their
homes, and proceeded towards the appointed rendezvous, the castle of
Bursinel, near Rolle, on the fertile slope which, running out from the
Jura, borders the lake opposite Mont Blanc. These rough gentlemen
arrived from La Vaux, Gex, Chablais, Genevois, and Faucigny: one after
another they alighted from their horses, crossed the courtyard, and
entered the hall, which echoed with the clash of their arms; then,
shaking hands, they sat down at a long table, where they began to feast.
The audacity of the Genevans was the principal subject of conversation,
'and heaven knows how they of Geneva were picked to pieces,' says a
contemporary.[770]
Of all these nobles, the most hostile to Geneva was the Sire de
Pontverre. Of athletic frame, herculean strength, and violent character,
bold and energetic, he was, from his marked superiority, recognised as
their chief by the gentlemen assembled at the castle of Bursinel. If
these men despised the burgesses, the latter returned the compliment.
'They are holding a meeting of bandits and brigands at Bursinel,' said
some of the Genevans. We must not, however, take these somewhat harsh
words too literally. The depredations of these gentlemen doubtless
undermined the social organisation, and it was time to put an end to
these practices of the middle ages. Many of them were, however, good
sons and husbands, good fathers, and even good landlords; but they had
no mercy for Geneva. As they sat at table they said that the princes had
succeeded in France and elsewhere in destroying the franchises of the
municipal towns, and that this free city, the last that survived,
deserved a similar fate much more than the others, since it was
beginning to add a new vice to its former vices ... it was listening to
Luther. 'A contest must decide,' they added, 'whether the future times
shall belong to the knights or to the burgesses, to the Church or to
heresy.' If Geneva were overthrown, they thought they would be masters
of the future. Pontverre has been compared to the celebrated Roman who
feared the Carthaginians, and, like him, never forgot to repeat at every
meeting of the nobles: _Delenda Carthago_.[771]
[Sidenote: THE ORDER OF THE SPOON.]
The dinner was drawing to an end; the servants of the lord of Bursinel
had brought the best wines from the castle cellars; the libations were
numerous, and the guests drank copiously. 'It chanced,' says Bonivard,
'that some rice (_papet_) was brought in, with as many spoons as there
were persons at table.'[772] Pontverre rose, took up a spoon with the
same hand that wielded the sword so vigorously, plunged it into the dish
of rice, and, lifting it to his mouth, ate and said: 'Thus will I
swallow Geneva and the Genevese.' In an instant all the gentlemen,
'heated with wine and anger,' took up their spoons, and exclaimed as
they ate, 'that they would make but one mouthful of all the huguenots.'
Pontverre did not stop at this: he took a little chain, hung the spoon
round his neck, and said: 'I am a _knight of the Spoon_, and this is my
decoration.'—'We all belong to the same order,' said the others,
similarly hanging the spoons on their breasts. They then grasped each
other's hands, and swore to be faithful to the last. At length the party
broke up; they mounted their horses, and returned to their mansions; and
when their neighbours looked with surprise at what hung round their
necks, and asked what the spoon meant, they answered: 'We intend to eat
the Genevans with it; will you not join us?' And thus the fraternity was
formed which had the conquest of Geneva for its object.
The Spoon was taken up everywhere, as in the time of the crusades men
took up the Cross: the decoration was characteristic of these
loud-spoken free-living cavaliers. Meetings took place every week in the
various castles of the neighbourhood. New members joined the order, and
hung the spoon round their necks, saying: 'Since the commonalty (the
Genevans and Swiss) form alliances, surely the nobles may do so!' They
drew up 'statutes and laws for their guidance, which were committed to
writing, as in public matters.'[773] Erelong the 'gentlemen of the
Spoon,' as they called themselves, proceeded to perform their vow; they
issued from their castles, plundered the estates of the Genevans,
intercepted their provisions, and blockaded them closer and closer every
day. When they came near the city, on the heights of Pregny, Lancy, and
Cologny, they added derision to violence; they took their spoons and
waved them in the air, as if they wished to use them in swallowing the
city which lay smiling at their feet.
[Sidenote: ALARM AT GENEVA.]
The alarm increased every day in Geneva; the citizens called the Swiss
to their aid, fortified their city, and kept strict watch. Whenever any
friends met together, the story of the famous dinner at Bursinel was
repeated. The Genevans went so far, says a chronicle, as to be unwilling
to make use of the innocent spoon, such a horror they felt at it. Many
of those who read the Scriptures began to pray to God to save Geneva;
and on the 23rd of March, the council entered the following words in
their register: 'May we be delivered from the evils we endure, may we
conquer and have peace!... May the Almighty be pleased to grant it to
us!'[774]
Pontverre was not a mere adventurer; he possessed a mind capable of
discerning the political defects of his party. Two men in Geneva
especially occupied his thoughts at this time: they were the bishop and
the prior. In his opinion, they ought to gain the first and punish the
other.
He began with Bonivard; no one was more detested by the feudal party
than he was. That the head of a monastery should side with the huguenots
seemed a terrible scandal. No one besides, at that time, advocated more
boldly than the prior the principles opposed to absolute power; and this
he showed erelong.
At Cartigny, on the left bank of the Rhone, about two leagues from
Geneva, he possessed a fief which depended on the dukes of Savoy: 'It is
a mere pleasure-house, and not a fortress,' he said; and yet he was in
the habit of keeping a garrison there. The duke had seized it during his
vassal's captivity, and to Bonivard's frequent demands for its
restoration he replied 'that he dared not give it up for fear of being
excommunicated by the pope.' Michaelmas having come, the time at which
the rent was collected, the Savoy government forbade the tenants to pay
it to the prior; the latter felt indignant, and the principles he then
laid down deserve to be called to mind. 'The rights of a prince and his
subjects are reciprocal,' he said. 'If the subject owes obedience to his
prince, the prince owes justice to his subject. If the prince may
constrain his subject, when the latter refuses obedience in a case
wherein it is lawfully due, the subject has also the right to refuse
obedience to his prince, when the latter denies him justice. Let the
subject then be without fear, and rest assured that God is for him. Men,
perhaps, will not be on his side; but if he has strength to resist men,
I can answer for God.'[775]
Bonivard, who was determined to obtain justice, laid before the council
of Geneva the patents which established his rights, and prayed their
help in support of his claim. His petition at first met with some little
opposition in the general council. 'The city has enough to do already
with its own affairs,' said many, 'without undertaking the prior's;' but
most of the huguenots were of a contrary opinion. 'If the duke has at
St. Victor a lord after his fashion,' they said, 'it might be a serious
inconvenience to us. Besides, the energetic prior has always been firm
in the service of the city.' This consideration prevailed and the
general council decided that they would maintain Bonivard's rights by
force of arms if necessary.
The prior now made his preparations. 'Since I cannot have civil
justice,' he said, 'I will have recourse to the law of nations, which
authorises to repel force by force.' The petty sovereign of St. Victor,
who counted ten monks for his subjects, who no longer possessed his
uncle's culverins, and whose only warlike resources were a few
arquebusiers, hired by a Bernese adventurer, besides four pounds of
powder, determined to march against the puissant Duke of Savoy, prince
of Piedmont, and even to brave that pope-king who once upon a time had
only to frown to make all the world tremble. Perish St. Victor rather
than principles!
[Sidenote: BONIVARD DEFENDS CARTIGNY.]
Bonivard sent for a herald and told him: 'The Duke of Savoy has usurped
my sovereignty; you will therefore proceed to Cartigny and make
proclamation through all my lordship, in these terms: "No one in this
place shall execute either ducal or papal letters under pain of the
gallows.'" We see that Bonivard made a large use of his supreme power.
The herald, duly escorted, made the terrible proclamation round the
castle; and then a captain, a commissioner, and a few soldiers, sent by
Bonivard, took possession of the domain in his name, _under the nose of
the pope and the duke_.[776] He was very proud of this exploit. 'The
pope and the duke have not dared send men to prevent my captain from
taking possession,' he said good-humouredly; for Bonivard, though
sparkling with wit, was also a good-tempered man.
The fear ascribed to the duke did not last long. The lands of Cartigny
were near those of Pontverre, and the order of the Spoon was hardly
organised when an expedition directed against the castle was the prelude
to hostilities. A ducal provost, with some men-at-arms, appeared before
the place on the 6th of March, 1528. Bonivard had vainly told his
captain to defend himself: the place was taken. The indignant prior
exclaimed: 'My people allowed themselves to be surprised.' He believed,
as the Genevans also did, that the duke had bribed the commandant: 'The
captain of Cartigny, after eating the fig, has thrown away the basket,'
said the huguenots in their meetings.
The prior of St. Victor, being determined to recover his property from
his highness's troops, came to an understanding with an ex-councillor of
Berne, named Boschelbach, a man of no very respectable character, who
had probably procured him the few soldiers of his former expedition, and
who now, making greater exertions, raised for him a corps of twenty men.
Bonivard put himself at the head of his forces, made them march
regularly, ordered them to keep their matches lighted, and halted in
front of the castle. The prior, who was a clever speaker, trusted more
to his tongue than to his arms: he desired, therefore, first to explain
his rights, and consequently the ex-councillor, attended by his servant
Thiebault, went forward and demanded a parley on behalf of the prior. By
way of answer the garrison fired, and Thiebault was shot dead.
That night all Geneva was agitated. The excited and exasperated citizens
ran armed up and down the streets, and talked of nothing but marching
out to Cartigny to avenge Thiebault's death. 'Be calm,' said
Boschelbach; 'I will make such a report to my lords of Berne that
Monsieur of Savoy, who is the cause of all the mischief, shall suffer
for it.'[777] The syndics had not promised to attack Savoy, which would
have been a serious affair, but only to defend Bonivard. In order,
therefore, to keep their word, they stationed detachments of soldiers in
the other estates belonging to St. Victor, with orders to protect them
from every attack. Cartigny was quite lost to the prior; but he was
prepared to endure even greater sacrifices. He had his faults, no doubt;
and, in particular, he was too easy in forming intimacies with men far
from estimable, such as Boschelbach; but he had noble aspirations. He
knew that by continuing to follow the same line of conduct he would lose
his priory, be thrown into prison, and perhaps put to death: 'But what
does it matter,' he thought, 'if by such a sacrifice right is maintained
and liberty triumphs?'[778]
[Sidenote: BISHOP AND DUKE RECONCILED.]
The lord of Pontverre was occupied with a scheme far more important than
Bonivard's destruction. He wished, as we have said, to win back the
bishop. Possessing much political wisdom, seeing farther and more
clearly than the duke or the prelate, he perceived that if the war
against the new ideas was to succeed, it would be necessary for all the
old powers to coalesce against them. Nothing, in his opinion, was more
deplorable than the difference between Charles III. and Pierre de la
Baume: he therefore undertook to reconcile them. He showed them that
they had both the same enemies, and that nothing but their union would
put it in their power to crush the huguenots. He frightened the bishop
by hinting to him that the Reformation would not only destroy
Catholicism, but strip him of his dignities and his revenues. He further
told him that heresy had crept unobserved into his own household and
infected even his chamberlain, William de la Mouille, who at that time
enjoyed his entire confidence.[779] La Baume, wishing to profit
immediately by Pontverre's information, hastened to write to La Mouille:
'I will permit no opportunity for breeding in my diocese any wicked and
accursed sect—such as I am told already prevails there. _You have been
too slow in informing me of it._... Tell them boldly that I will not put
up with them.'[780]
The prelate's great difficulty was to become reconciled with the duke.
Having the fullest confidence in his talent for intrigue, he thought
that he could return into friendly relations with his highness without
breaking altogether with Hugues and the Genevans. 'He is a fine jockey,'
said Bonivard; 'he wants to ride one and lead the other by the bridle!'
The bishop began his manœuvres. 'I quitted Geneva,' he informed the
duke, 'in order that I might not be forced to do anything displeasing to
you.' It will be remembered, on the contrary, that he had run away to
escape from Charles III., who wanted to 'snap him up;' but that prince,
satisfied with seeing La Baume place himself again under his guidance,
pretended to believe him, and cancelled the sequestration of his
revenues. Being thus reconciled, the bishop and the duke set to work to
stifle the Reformation. 'Good,' said Bonivard; 'Pilate and Herod were
made friends together, for before they were at enmity between
themselves.'
[Sidenote: BISHOP HATEFUL TO THE CITY.]
The bishop soon perceived that he could not be both with the duke and
Geneva; and, every day drawing nearer to Savoy, he turned against his
own subjects and his own flock. And hence one of the most enlightened
statesmen Geneva ever possessed said in the seventeenth century, to a
peer of Great Britain who had put some questions to him on the history
of the republic: 'From that time the bishop became very hateful to the
city, which could not but regard him as a declared enemy.'[781] It was
the bishop who tore the contract that had subsisted between Geneva and
himself.
[Footnote 766: Bonivard, _Police_, &c. pp. 398-400; _Chroniq._ ii. p.
473. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 767: Ibid.]
[Footnote 768: 'La queue entre les jambes.'—Bonivard, _Advis des
difformes Réformateurs_, pp. 149-151.]
[Footnote 769: Registres du Conseil des 11 et 26 février 1528. Bonivard,
_Chroniq_. ii. p. 479.]
[Footnote 770: 'Dieu sait comme ceux de Genève étaient déchiquetés.']
[Footnote 771: 'Ne taschait, fors à la ruine de Genève.'—Bonivard,
_Chroniq._ ii. p. 482.]
[Footnote 772: Ibid.]
[Footnote 773: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 483.]
[Footnote 774: Registres du Conseil des 14, 23, 24 mars. _Journal de
Balard_, p. 156. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp. 482, 486, etc.]
[Footnote 775: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 477.]
[Footnote 776: 'A la barbe du pape et du duc.']
[Footnote 777: 'En portera la pâte au four.']
[Footnote 778: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp. 475, 480, 502. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 779: See nineteen letters from the bishop to William de la
Mouille, his chamberlain, printed in Galiffe, _Matériaux pour l'Histoire
de Genève_, ii. pp. 461-485.]
[Footnote 780: Galiffe, ii. p. 477.]
[Footnote 781: _Memoir to Lord Townshend on the History of Geneva_, by
Mr. Secretary Chouet. Berne MSS. vi. 57.]
CHAPTER VII.
INTRIGUES OF THE DUKE AND THE BISHOP.
(SPRING AND SUMMER 1528.)
The first measure Charles exacted from his new ally was to revoke the
civil rights he had conceded to the citizens. The bishop consented. In
order to deprive the secular magistrate of his temporal privileges, he
resolved to employ spiritual weapons. Priests, bishops, and popes have
always found their use very profitable in political matters; princes of
great power have been known to tremble before the documents launched
into the world by the high-priest of the Vatican. The bishop, therefore,
caused an order to be posted on the church doors, forbidding the
magistrates to try civil causes under pain of excommunication and a fine
of one hundred pounds of silver. It seems that the bishop had thought it
prudent to attack the purses of those who were not to be frightened by
his _pastorals_. 'Remove these letters,' said the syndics to the
episcopal secretary, 'and carry them back to the bishop, for they are
contrary to our franchises.' At the same time they said to the judges:
'You will continue to administer justice, notwithstanding the
excommunication.' This, be it remarked, occurred at Geneva in the
beginning of the sixteenth century.
[Sidenote: THE BISHOP AND THE SYNDICS.]
When informed of these bold orders, the bishop-prince roused himself....
One might have fancied that the spirit of Hildebrand and Boniface had
suddenly animated the weak La Baume. 'What! under the pretence of
maintaining your liberties,' he wrote to the Genevans, 'you wish to
usurp our sovereignty!... Beware what you do, for if you persevere, we
will with God's help inflict such a punishment that it shall serve for
an example to others.... The morsel you desire to swallow is harder to
digest than you appear to believe.... We command you to resign the
administration of justice; to receive the vidame whom the duke shall be
pleased to send you; to permit him to exercise his power, as was done in
the time of the most illustrious princes his grace's predecessors; and
finally to remit to his highness and us the whole case of the fugitives.
If within a fortnight you do not desist from all opposition to our
authority, we will declare you our enemies, and will employ all our
resources and those of our relations and friends to punish you for the
outrage you are committing against us, and we will strive to ruin you
totally, whatever may be the place to which you flee.'
Great was the commotion in the city at hearing such words addressed by
the pastor of Geneva to his flock; for if the bishop made use of such
threats, it was with the intention of establishing the authority of a
foreign prince among them. The true huguenots, who wanted neither duke
nor bishop, were silent under these circumstances, and allowed the
episcopal party, of which Hugues was the chief, to act. Two ambassadors
from the bishop having been introduced before the general council on the
14th of June, 1528, the premier syndic said to them: 'If the bishop
desires to appoint a vidame to administer justice among us, we will
accept him; but the dukes of Savoy have never had other than an unlawful
authority in Geneva. We have no prince but the bishop. Has he forgotten
the great misfortunes that have befallen the city in consequence of
these Savoyard vidames?... Citizens perpetually threatened, many of them
imprisoned and tortured, their heads cut off, their bodies quartered....
But God has helped us, and we will no longer live in such misery....
No!' continued the speaker with some emotion, 'we will not renounce the
independence which our charters secure to us.... Rather than lose it, we
will sacrifice our lives and goods, our wives, and our children.... We
will give up everything, to our last breath, to the last drop of our
blood.'... Such words, uttered with warmth, always excite the masses;
and, accordingly, as soon as the people heard them, they cried as with
one voice: 'Yes! yes! that is the answer we will make.'
This declaration was immediately sent into Switzerland; and, strange to
say, such patriotic enthusiasm was received with ridicule by some
persons in that noble country. Geneva was so small and so weak, that her
determination to resist a prince so powerful as the duke seemed mere
folly: the Swiss had forgotten that their ancestors, although few in
number, had vanquished Austria and Burgundy. 'These Genevans _are all
mad_,' said they. When they heard of this insult, the council of Geneva
was content to enter in its registers the following simple and spirited
declaration: 'Considering our ambassadors' report of what the Swiss say
of us, it is ordered that they be written to and told that we _are all
in our right minds_.'[782]
On hearing of these proceedings, La Baume, who was at the Tour de May in
Burgundy, flew into a violent passion. He paced up and down his room,
abused his attendants, and uttered a thousand threats against Geneva. He
included all the Genevans in the same proscription, and had no more
regard for conservatives like Besançon Hugues than for reformers like
Baudichon de la Maison-Neuve. He was angry with the citizens who
disturbed him with their bold speeches in the midst of his peaceful
retreat. 'In his opinion the chief virtue of a prelate was to keep a
plentiful and dainty table, with good wines; and,' says a person who
often dined with him, 'he had sometimes more than he could carry.[783]
He was, moreover, liberal to women of doubtful character, very stately,
and fond of great parade.'
[Sidenote: THE BISHOP AND THE MESSENGER.]
One day, as he was leaving the table where he had taken too much wine,
he was told that a messenger from Geneva, bearing a letter from the
council, desired to speak with him. 'Messieurs de Genève, remembering,'
says Balard, 'that _dulce verbum frangit iram_,[784] wrote to him in
friendly terms.' The messenger, Martin de Combes, having been admitted
to the bishop, bowed low, and, courteously approaching, handed him the
letters of which he was the bearer. But the mere sight of a Genevan made
the bishop's blood boil, and, losing all self-control, he said 'in great
fury:' 'Where do you come from?'—'From Geneva.'—'It is a lie,' said the
bishop; and then, forgetting that he was contradicting himself, he
added: 'You have changed the colour of your clothes at Geneva;' wishing
apparently to accuse the Genevans of making a revolution or a
reformation. 'Come hither,' he continued; 'tell the folks in Geneva that
they are all traitors—all of them, men, women, and children, little and
big; that I will have justice done shortly, and that it will be
something to talk about. Tell them never to write to me again....
Whenever I meet any persons from that city, I will have them put to
death.... And as for you, get out of my sight instantly!' The poor
messenger, who trembled like a leaf, did not wait to be told twice.
La Baume, who had forgotten Plutarch's treatise, _De cohibenda ira_,
could not recover from his emotion, and kept walking up and down the
room with agitated step. Suddenly, remembering certain cutting
expressions, uttered in Switzerland by Ami Girard, a distinguished,
well-read, and determined huguenot, who was generally envoy from Geneva
to Berne and Friburg, he said to his servants: 'Bring that man back.'
Poor De Combes was brought back like a criminal whose rope has once
broken, and who is about to be hanged again. 'Mind you tell those folks
at Geneva all that I have ordered you,' exclaimed the bishop. 'There is
one of them (I know him well—it is Ami Girard) who said that I wish to
bridle Geneva in order that Monsieur of Savoy may ride her.... I will be
revenged on him ... or I will die for it.... Out of my sight instantly.
Be off to your huguenots.'
[Sidenote: CALM OF THE GENEVESE.]
De Combes retired without saying a word, and reported in Geneva the
prelate's violent message. He had committed nothing to writing; but the
whole scene remained graven in his memory. 'What!' exclaimed the
huguenots, 'he said all that?' and then they made him tell his story
over again. The murmurs now grew louder: the Genevans said that 'while
in the first centuries the ministers of the Church had conciliated
general esteem by their doctrine and character, modern priests looked
for strength in alliances with the princes of this world; formerly the
vocation of a bishop was martyrdom, but now it is eating and drinking,
pomp, white horses, and ... bursts of anger.' All this was a deadly blow
to the consideration due to the clergy. The council was, however, wiser
than the prelate; they ordered that no answer should be returned him.
This decision was indeed conformable to custom, as the report had been
made to the syndics _viva voce_, and not by official letter. La Baume,
at the time he gave audience to the envoy from Geneva, was too confused
to hold a pen or to dictate anything rational to his secretary; but the
magistrates of Geneva, on the other hand, were always men of rule and
law.[785]
While the bishop was putting himself into a passion like a soldier, the
Duke of Savoy was convoking a synod like a bishop. It was not enough for
the evangelical doctrine to _infect_ Geneva—it was invading his states.
It already numbered partisans in Savoy, and even the Alps had not proved
a sufficient barrier against the new invasion. Some seeds of the Gospel,
coming from Switzerland, had crossed the St. Bernard, in despite of the
opposition of the most zealous prelate in Piedmont—we may even say in
all Italy. This was Pierre Gazzini, Bishop of Aosta, who was afterwards
to contend, in his own episcopal city, with the disciples of Calvin, and
with Calvin himself. Gifted with a lofty intelligence, great energy of
character, and ardent catholicism, Gazzini was determined to wage war to
the death against the heretics, and it was in accordance with his advice
that a synod had been convoked. When the assembly met on the 12th of
July, 1528, Gazzini drew a deplorable picture of the position. 'My
lords,' he said, 'the news is distressing from every quarter. Switzers
and Genevans are circulating _the accursed book_. Twelve gentlemen of
Savoy adhere scrupulously to the doctrines of Luther. All our parishes
between Geneva and Chambéry are infected by forbidden books. The people
will no longer pay for masses or keep the fasts; men go about everywhere
saying that the property of the abbots and prelates ought to be sold to
feed the poor and miserable!' Gazzini did not confine himself to
pointing out the disease; he sought for the cause. 'Geneva,' he said,
'is the focus,' and he called for the most violent measures in order to
destroy it.[786] The duke determined to employ every means to extinguish
the fire, 'which (they said) was continually tossing its burning flakes
from Geneva into Savoy.'
[Sidenote: SYNOD CONVOKED BY THE DUKE.]
Charles III. had been ruminating for some time over a new idea. Seeing
the difficulties that the annexation of Geneva to Savoy would meet with
on the part of the Swiss, he had conceived another combination; that is,
to make his second son, a child four years old, count or prince of
Geneva. Circumstances were favourable to this scheme. Pierre de la Baume
was designated successor to the Archbishop of Besançon; he, doubtless,
would not want much pressing to give up his bishopric when he was
offered an archbishopric. The duke therefore sent commissioners to the
emperor and the pope to arrange the matter with them. Hugues, ever ready
to sacrifice himself to save his country, started immediately, with
three other citizens, for Berne and Friburg; but he found the
confederates much cooled with regard to Geneva. 'You are very proud,'
said the avoyer of Berne to the envoys in full council, and, adds
Hugues, 'they gave us a good scolding.'[787] The duke had set every
engine to work, and, covetous as he was, had distributed profusely his
crowns of the sun. 'Ha!' said the Genevan, 'Monsieur of Savoy never
before sent so much money here at one time,' and then sarcastically
added, with reference to the lords of Berne: 'The _sun_ has blinded
them.'[788]
The Genevans found themselves alone; the monarchical powers of
Christendom—Piedmont, France, and the Empire—were rising against their
dawning liberty; even the Swiss were forsaking them; but not one of them
hesitated. Ami Girard and Robert Vandel, at that time ambassadors to
Switzerland, quivered with indignation, and, filled with an energy that
reminds us of old Rome, they wrote to their fellow-citizens: 'Sooner
than do what they ask you, set fire to the city, and _begin with our
houses_.'[789]
The duke now prepared to support his pretensions by more energetic
means. His agents traversed the districts round Geneva; they went from
door to door, from house to house, and said to the peasants: 'Do not
venture to carry provisions to Geneva.' Others went from castle to
castle, and told the lords: 'Let every gentleman equip his followers
with uniform and arms, and be ready at the sound of the alarm-bell.'
[Sidenote: DUCAL INTRIGUES IN THE CONVENTS.]
But the duke did not confine his intrigues to the outside of the city;
he employed every means inside. Gentlemen of Savoy made visits, gave
dinners, and tampered with certain private persons, promising them a
great sum of money 'if they would do _their duty_.' The monks, feeling
assured that their knell would ring erelong, redoubled their efforts to
secure the triumph of Savoy in Geneva. Three of them, Chappuis, superior
of the Dominicans, a man deep in the confidence of his highness, who had
lodged in his monastery, with Gringalet and Levrat, simple monks, held
frequent conferences in the convent of Plainpalais, in the prior's
chamber, round a table on which lay some little silver keys; by their
side were lists containing the names of the principal Genevese
ecclesiastics and laymen from whom Chappuis believed he might hope for
support. The three monks took up the keys, looked at them complacently,
and then placed them against certain names. The duke, knowing that
intrigue and vanity are the original sins of monks, had sent the prior
these keys (the arms of Faucigny, a province hostile to Geneva):
'Procure for us friends in the convents and the city,' he had told them;
'and for that purpose distribute these keys with discretion. Whoever
wears them will belong to us.' It was a mysterious decoration, by means
of which the duke hoped to gain partisans for the annexation. Chappuis
and Levrat began to tamper with the laity of the city, while Gringalet
undertook to gain the monks. In spite of all the skill they employed,
their manœuvres were not always crowned with success. One day Gringalet
went up to two monks, Bernard and Nicholas, and showed them the
talisman; but they looked coldly on such _toys_, manifesting no desire
to possess them. The ducal monk, perceiving that the keys had no virtue,
said to his colleagues: 'If we do not succeed in our scheme; if Savoy
and the papacy do not triumph in Geneva, we will abandon the ungrateful
city; we will transfer the property of our convent to some other place,
and leave nothing but the bare walls behind!' Bernard and Nicholas, who
inclined to the side of light, were alarmed, and, judging it to be a
matter of high importance, denounced the plot to the council: 'This,
then, is the use of monks,' said the syndics. 'They are traitors, ready
to deliver the city to the foreigner. We will put all to rights.' They
ordered the two monks to say nothing, and when night came the council
proceeded to the Dominican monastery. The beadles knocked at the gate;
the porter opened it, and looked with astonishment at the noble company.
The syndics ordered all the convent to assemble. The monks were greatly
alarmed: Chappuis, Gringalet, and Levrat trembled, having no doubt that
they had been betrayed. They made haste to hide the little keys, and
then proceeded anxiously to the common hall, where the brethren had
already assembled: 'We have heard of your intrigues,' said the premier
syndic; 'we know why you are distributing in Geneva the keys of those
Turks (_Turcanorum_), the Faucignerans.... You had better say your
prayers and not meddle with politics. You pretend to renounce the world,
reverend brethren, and then do nothing else but intrigue for the things
of this world. You intend, we hear, to carry away your property, your
relics, and your jewels; gently ... we will spare you that trouble; we
will take care of them in the grotto of St. Pierre, and put your persons
in a place of safety.'... The council ordered an inventory of the goods
of the convent to be drawn up, and generously left the monks three
chalices for the celebration of mass. They banished Chappuis, Gringalet,
and Levrat, and placed the other brethren under the surveillance of two
deputies of the council. The monks had their wings clipped, and the
Reformation was beginning.[790]
[Footnote 782: Registres du Conseil des 23 et 30 avril; 24 mai; 2, 9, 14
juin; 7 août. _Journal de Balard_, pp. 160-170. La Baume's letters,
_Archéologie_, ii. p. 15. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 493. Gautier MS.
Bonivard, _Ancienne et nouvelle Police de Genève_, p. 384.]
[Footnote 783: 'Il s'en donnait jusqu'à _passer trente et un_.' This
proverbial expression refers, possibly, to the months whose days never
exceed thirty-one.]
[Footnote 784: 'A soft answer turneth away wrath.']
[Footnote 785: Registres du Conseil du 25 août. _Journal de Balard_, p.
178. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 495.]
[Footnote 786: Gazzini, _Mémoire au Saint Père_. Archives of Turin,
Roman Correspondence. Gaberel, _Hist. de l'Eglise de Genève_, i. p. 95.]
[Footnote 787: 'Ils nous lavèrent bien la tête.']
[Footnote 788: Letter of B. Hugues. Galiffe, _Matériaux_, ii. pp. 525,
526.]
[Footnote 789: Letters of Vandel and Girard. Galiffe, _Matériaux_, ii.
p. 533.]
[Footnote 790: Registres du Conseil des 10, 11 et 20 octobre 1528.
_Journal de Balard_, p. 183.]
CHAPTER VIII.
DEATH OF PONTVERRE.
(OCTOBER 1528 TO JANUARY 1529.)
[Sidenote: PONTVERRE MOWS FOR BONIVARD.]
Chappuis, Gringalet, and Levrat filled the places through which they
passed with their complaints, and all the bigots looked upon them as
martyrs. The knights of the Spoon, being informed of the fate with which
monastic institutions were threatened in Geneva, resolved to avenge
religion and do all the injury they could to the audacious burgesses.
Pontverre had already opened the campaign by a little scene of pillage,
which is of no importance except to show the manners of the age. Wishing
to spoil and plunder the Genevans _under their noses_, he had ordered
his tenants to sharpen their scythes. One day in the beginning of June,
the peasants shouldered their scythes; Pontverre put himself at their
head, his men-at-arms surrounded them, and all marched towards the
meadows of the Genevans on the left bank of the Arve, about a quarter of
an hour's walk from the city. The mowers arrived, whetted their
instruments, and then proceeded to cut down the new grass. At last they
came to a meadow which belonged to Bonivard: to rob the prior was a
_dainty thing_ for Pontverre. Meanwhile the Genevans, having heard of
what was going on, had hurried to the spot, and discovered by the side
of the mowers a body of men whose arms flashed in the rays of the sun.
Bonivard easily recognised the seigneur of Ternier. The huguenots could
hardly contain themselves. The chief of the knights of the Spoon, having
charged his people not to leave a blade of grass standing, approached
the bridge of Arve which separates the two countries, and, calling out
to the Genevans assembled on the right bank, began to insult and defy
them. 'Come, come, cheer up!' he said; 'why don't you cross the bridge
and fetch the hay we have cut for you?' The citizens loaded their arms,
and the two bands began to fire at each other with their arquebuses.
'Let us take him at his word,' said some of the huguenots; 'let us go
over the bridge and drive away the robbers.' Already several young men
were preparing to cross the river; but Bonivard did not think a few
loads of hay worth the risk of a battle that might not end well for
Geneva. 'I dissuaded them,' says he, 'and led them back to the
city.'[791]
The Genevans, seeing the danger with which they were threatened by the
knights, energetically prepared for resistance, and solicited aid from
Berne and Friburg. Two _enseignes_, that is, eight hundred men,
principally from Gessenay, arrived in Geneva and were quartered among
the inhabitants, but especially on the churchmen and in the convents.
The duke, who attached great importance to the Swiss alliance, and
feared to come into collision with their men-at-arms, now permitted
provisions to be carried to the market of Geneva, and, the semblance of
peace having been restored, the allied troops quitted the city on the
30th of October, 1528.
[Sidenote: THE MEETING AT NYON.]
Pontverre's humour was not so pacific. One of the last representatives
of feudal society, he saw that its elements were on the verge of
dissolution, and its institutions about to disappear. Power, which had
long ago passed from the towns to the country, was now returning from
the country to the towns; Geneva, in particular, seemed as if it would
nullify all the seigneurs in its neighbourhood. And, further still, the
Church which puts forward creeds in an absolute manner, so that no
person has the right to examine them, was attacked by the religious
revolution beginning in Geneva. Pontverre desired to preserve the
ancient order of things, and, with that object, to take and (if
necessary) destroy that troublesome city. He therefore, as prior of the
order, convened a general assembly of the knights of the Spoon at Nyon,
in order to arrange, in concert with the duke, the requisite measures
for capturing the city. The bailiwick of Ternier, the lordship of
Pontverre, was situated about a league from Geneva, between the verdant
flanks of the Salève and the smiling shores of the Rhone. It would have
been easy, therefore, for that chief to cross the river between Berney
and Peney, and thus get on the right bank of the lake; but he thought it
more daring and heroic to traverse Geneva. They represented to him, but
to no purpose, the danger to which he would expose himself, for if he
was always quick to provoke the Genevans, they were equally quick to
reply. Pontverre would listen to nothing. There was a treaty by which
Savoyard gentlemen had the right of free passage through the city; and,
armed with a sword, he feared nobody. It was in the month of December,
when, presenting himself at daybreak at the Corraterie gate, Pontverre
passed in; he rode quietly through the city, looking to the right and to
the left at the shops which were still closed, and did not meet a single
huguenot. On arriving at the Swiss gate, by which he had to leave the
city, he found it shut. He summoned the gate-keeper, who, as it appears,
was not yet up. The horse pawed the ground, the rider shouted, and the
porter loitered: he ran out at last and lowered the chain. The impatient
Pontverre paid him by a slap in the face, and said: 'Rascal, is this the
way you make gentlemen wait?' He then added with violent oaths: 'You
will not be wanted much longer. It will not be long before we pull down
your gates and trample them under foot, as we have done before.' He then
set spurs to his horse and galloped away. The porter, exasperated by the
blow he had received, made his report, and the Genevans, who were
irritable folk, became very angry about it. 'It is not enough,' they
said, 'for these Savoyards to do us all sorts of injury outside the
walls, but they must come and brave us within. Wait a little! We will
pay them off, and chastise this insolent fellow.' The council, while
striving to restrain the people, ordered sentinels to be stationed
everywhere.[792]
[Sidenote: CONFERENCE AT NYON.]
The gentry of the district who had taken part in the meeting at
Bursinel, had immediately begun to canvass their neighbours, and a great
number of persons, incensed against Geneva, had taken the Spoon, as in
the time of the crusades men took the Cross. The second meeting,
therefore, promised to be more numerously attended than the first. From
all quarters, from Gex and Vaud and Savoy, the knights arrived at Nyon,
a central situation for these districts, where they usually held their
councils of war. Climbing the hill, they entered the castle, from whose
windows the lake, its shores, and the snowy Alps of Savoy were visible
in all their magnificence. Having taken their places in the great hall,
they began their deliberations. These unpolished gentlemen, descended
from the chevaliers of the middle ages, who thought it enough to build a
tower upon a rock and to pass their lives in crushing the weak and
plundering the innocent, still preserved something of the nature of
their ancestors. Pontverre, who was their president, had no difficulty
in carrying them with him. Feudalism and even catholicism exercised
great influence over him, and gave to his words an energy and deep
conviction which it was hard to resist. He pointed out to these lords
that the authority of the prince and of the pope, religious and
monarchical order, the throne and the altar, were equally threatened by
an insolent bourgeoisie. He showed them how monstrous it was that
lawyers, that men of low birth and no merit, and that even shopkeepers
should presume to take the place of the bishop and the duke. 'We must
make haste,' he said, 'to disperse and crush the seeds of rebellion, or
you will see them spreading far and wide.' The knights of the castle of
Nyon were unanimous. The right of resistance had been the characteristic
of the feudal system; and never had the exercise of that right been more
necessary. One lord exercised it in the middle ages against another
lord, his neighbour. But what were these isolated adversaries compared
with that universal and invisible enemy which threatened the old society
in all its parts, and which, to be surer of triumph, was inaugurating a
new religion? In the valley of the Leman, Geneva was the stronghold of
this new and terrible adversary. 'Down with Geneva! Rome and Savoy for
ever!' was the cry that rose from every heart. It was agreed that all
the gentlemen and their followers should meet at a certain time and
place, armed with sword and lance, in order to seize upon the city and
put an end to its liberties.
Pontverre, delighted at seeing the success of his appeal, sat silent,
and appeared for a time lost in deep meditation. He had a subtle mind,
he did not fear to resort to stratagem, and hoped that an assault would
not be necessary. With the greatest secresy he had gained friends who
occupied a house in the Corraterie, the back door of which opened to the
outside of the city. It would seem that this house belonged to the
hospital of the Pont du Rhone, situated between that bridge and the
Mint, and placed under the patronage of the canons of the
cathedral.[793] The council rose. Pontverre was particularly intimate
with the Sire de Beaufort, governor of Chillon, one of the most valiant
knights of the assembly. Taking him aside, and enjoining secresy, he
said: 'We have a gate in Geneva at our orders. No one knows of it; but
do not fear. I will undertake that you shall all enter.'—'Pontverre did
indeed enter,' said Bonivard, some time after, when he heard of this
remark; 'he went in, but he did not come out.'[794]
[Sidenote: PONTVERRE'S INSOLENCE.]
The knights mounted their horses, and each one rode off to his castle to
prepare for the great enterprise. Pontverre did the same; but, always
daring, and taking a delight in braving the people of Geneva, he
resolved to pass through the city again. His friends reminded him that
the citizens were now on their guard; that he had offended them some
days before; that if he attempted such an imprudent act, he was a dead
man; and that his life was necessary to their enterprise. It was all to
no purpose. 'His hour was come,' says the chronicler of St. Victor, 'and
it pleased God so.'—'Fear not,' answered the daring soldier to his
brothers in arms; 'I will pass through by night, and wrap my face up in
my cloak, so that no one can recognise me. Besides, if they attack me, I
have my sword.' One of his friends, the Sire de Simon, resolved to
accompany him, and some armed attendants followed them. The knights who
remained behind, watched him as he galloped off towards Geneva, and
wondered anxiously what would happen.
Pontverre, checking the speed of his horse, reflected on the work he was
about to undertake. He thought it worthy of the name he bore, and of the
memory of his ancestors. By lending his sword to the Duke of Savoy and
to the pope, he would make absolutism in the Church and in the State
triumphant in Geneva; at one blow he would crush in that restless city
both independence and the Reformation. He reached Geneva between four
and five o'clock in the afternoon of Saturday, the 2nd of January, 1529,
and night had set in. Pontverre hid his face in his cloak, presented
himself with his escort at the Pâquis gate, and passed through. He
entered the streets. The commander of an army which purposed capturing
and destroying Geneva, was traversing, like an ordinary traveller, the
city he was about to surround with his forces, besiege, and perhaps
burn.... Such impudent assurance has perhaps never been witnessed in
modern times. He was hardly inside the city, when, no longer able to
contain himself (for pride and anger prevailed over discretion), he put
aside all precaution, threw off his cloak, and, drawing his sword,
'uttered threats and insults out of his haughtiness and insolence.'[795]
He went even further than this: the streets of Geneva, and the presence
of the detested huguenots whom he saw moving about, made his wrath boil
over; and striking one of the citizens on the head with his sword, he
exclaimed with a round oath: 'We must kill these traitors!' The
assaulted citizen turned round, and others ran up: this took place in
the Rue de Coutance, which has witnessed many other fights since then,
even in very recent times.[796] The huguenots surrounded the horseman,
and, recognising him, called out: 'It is Pontverre! it is Pontverre!'
The crowd increased and blocked up the bridge over the Rhone, which the
chief of the knights of the Spoon would have to cross.
[Sidenote: FIGHT ON THE BRIDGE.]
For several days past the citizens had been talking in Geneva about the
conference at Nyon; they said that these gentlemen of the Spoon were
planning some new attack, that they were going once more to plunder and
kill, and that this time they would probably try to carry fire and sword
into Geneva itself. The irritation was excessive among the people; some
of the citizens, meeting in the public places or in their own houses,
were talking about the gentlemen assembled at Nyon, and many jokes were
made upon them. 'These gentlemen!' said one huguenot. 'Call them rob-men
(_gens-pille-hommes_),' said a second; 'or kill-men (_gens-tue-hommes_),'
added a third; and despite the serious state of affairs, they all began
to laugh. On a sudden, here before them, in their very city, was the
leader of the enterprise, the man who never ceased harassing them: he
had drawn his sword and struck one of the citizens. The latter drew in
their turn, and just as the bold cavalier had crossed the suburb of St.
Gervais, and was coming upon the bridge, they surrounded him, and one of
them struck him in the face. The representative of feudalism was
fighting almost alone with the representatives of the bourgeoisie. The
old power and the new were struggling on the Rhone bridge. And while the
blue waters were flowing beneath, as they had ever done; while the old
waters were running on to be lost in the sea, and the new ones were
coming, loosened from the Alpine glaciers by the beams of the sun,—on
the bridge above there were other ancient things passing away, and other
new ones appearing in their place. Amid the flashing of swords and the
shock of arms, amid the indignant shouts of the citizens and the oaths
of the knight, a great transformation was going on; society was passing
over to the system of freedom and abandoning the system of feudalism.
The Sire de Pontverre, seeing the number of his enemies increasing,
spurred his horse, dashed through the crowd, and reached the Corraterie
gate, by which he desired to leave the city, and which led to the Black
Friars' monastery. But the Genevans had got there before him.... The
gate, alas! was shut. In this extremity, Pontverre did not falter. Close
at hand was the house, dependent on the hospital, the back gate of which
led outside the city, and by which he designed introducing the Savoyards
by night. Thanks to his horse, he was a little in advance of his
pursuers; he lost not a moment, he turned back, and reached the house in
question. To get at the door it was necessary to go up several steps.
The Genevans were now rushing after him in a crowd, shouting:
'Pontverre! Pontverre!'... The latter faced his enemies, and, without
dismounting, backed his horse up the steps, at the same time using his
sword against his pursuers. At this moment the syndic Ami Girard
arrived; he found the Sire de Simon, and the other horsemen who had
accompanied their chief, beset on all sides. The syndic begged that they
might not be hurt; and as the horsemen surrendered their arms, they were
lodged in a place of safety. Pontverre dismounted on reaching the top of
the steps, and, hoping to escape by the door we have mentioned, rushed
into the house. His face was covered with blood, for, says an
eye-witness, 'he had a sword-cut on his nose;' his eyes were wild; he
heard the feet of the huguenots close behind him. Had he no time to
reach the door, or did he find it shut? We cannot tell. Seeing that he
could not escape, he appears to have lost his presence of mind. Had he
still been himself, he would no doubt have faced his enemies and sold
his life dearly, but, for the first time in his life, he became
frightened; he dashed into one of the apartments, threw himself on the
floor, and crept hastily under a bed: a child might have done the same.
What a hiding-place for the most valiant knight whom the Alps and the
Jura had seen perhaps for centuries!
[Sidenote: THE DEATH-STRUGGLE.]
At this moment, the Genevans who were pursuing him rushed into the house
and began to search it; they entered the room where the man lay hid who
had threatened to swallow Geneva as if it were a spoonful of rice. At
their head was Ami Bandière, one of the huguenots who had been compelled
to flee to Berne at the same time as Hugues and the leaders of the
party—the man, it will be remembered, whose father and children had
appeared before the council in 1526, when it was necessary to defend the
huguenots who had taken refuge in Switzerland. Bandière, an upright,
determined, and violent man, an enthusiast for liberty, noticed the bed;
he thought that the proud gentleman might possibly be hidden beneath it.
'They poked their swords underneath,' says Bonivard, 'and the wretched
man hidden there received a stab.'[797] This was too much: the Sire de
Pontverre was aroused: being an active and powerful man, he rushed out
of his hiding-place in a fury, and, springing to his feet, seized
Bandière with his vigorous arms, threw him on the bed, and stabbed him
in the thigh with a dagger. The shouts now grew louder. If he had
surrendered no harm would have been done him; but Bandière's friends,
excited by the blood of their brother, were eager to avenge him. They
rushed upon Pontverre. Alone in the middle of the room, this athletic
man received them boldly: he swung his sword round him, now striking
with the edge, and now with the point; but a citizen, inflamed by anger,
aimed a violent blow at him, and the captain-general of the knights of
the Spoon fell dead. At this moment the syndic Ami Girard entered,
exclaiming: 'Stop! stop!' but it was too late.
Thus died François de Ternier, lord of Pontverre, whose ancestors had
always been enemies of Geneva, 'and who himself had been the worst,'
says one of his contemporaries. He fell a martyr to feudalism, say some;
a victim to his own insolence, say others. His sole idea had been to
ruin Geneva, to disperse its inhabitants, to throw down its walls; and
now he lay dead a few yards from the place where, in 1519, he was
present at the head of his troopers to take part in the murder of
Berthelier, and in the very place by which he had arranged to enter and
destroy the city by fire and sword.—'A memorable instance of divine
justice,' said some of the citizens; 'a striking deliverance for Geneva;
a terrible lesson for its enemies!' There is a great difference, it must
be observed, between the martyrs of liberty and right, and those of
feudalism and the papacy. Arbitrary power perfidiously seized the
greatest citizens, the Bertheliers and Lévriers, in the midst of an
inoffensive life, and put them to death by the vile hand of the common
headsman, after a sham trial, which was a disgraceful mockery of
justice; but it was only when provoked by the champions of feudalism,
and at the risk of their own lives, that the men of liberty struck their
adversaries. Pontverre died in a contest in which he had been the first
to draw the sword.
[Sidenote: HONOURS TO THE DEAD.]
As the Genevans wished to show every mark of respect to their dead
enemy, the council ordered that he should be buried with the usual rites
by the Franciscans in a chapel of the convent of Rive, which had been
founded by his family, and where some of his ancestors had been laid.
After this ceremony had taken place according to the forms of the Roman
ritual, an inquest was made into the cause of this tragical death, 'to
do justice therein, if there should be need.' All the cool-headed people
in Geneva were seriously grieved: 'Alas!' said they, 'what a pity that
he would not live in peace, for he was a virtuous cavalier, except that
he was so pugnacious! It would have been better to make him prisoner; it
would have been the means of obtaining a perpetual treaty!' The officers
of justice found letters on his person which had reference to the plot
hatched against Geneva, and in which the knights of the Spoon were
ordered to assemble 'with swords and spears' against the city. It was
made evident that he had been the chief of the bands which pillaged and
killed without mercy the citizens and inhabitants of the country, and
that he was to blame, having first wounded Bandière: the magistrates,
therefore, came to the conclusion that there were no grounds for
bringing any one to trial. The Sire de Simon and the other companions of
the famous captain were conducted uninjured to the frontier of
Savoy.[798]
One would have thought that, as the head of the league against Geneva
had fallen, the league itself would have been weakened; but, on the
contrary, Pontverre's death added fuel to the rage of the brethren of
the Spoon. Disorder and violence increased around the city, and the very
next day, Sunday, the 3rd of January, the gentry, wishing to avenge
their chief, kept the field everywhere. 'We will kill all the Genevans
we can find,' said they.—'They fell upon the first they met, committing
violence and murder.' It seemed as if Pontverre's soul had revived, and
was impelling his former colleagues to offer sacrifices without number
to his shade. An early attack was expected; the alarm spread through
Geneva, and the council met. 'François de Ternier's death,' said one of
the members, 'has thrown oil upon the fire instead of extinguishing it.
Alone, we cannot resist the attack of Savoy and of the knights. Let us
make haste to inform Berne and Friburg.'—'It is impossible,' said
another councillor; 'all the gentlemen of Vaud are in arms; no one can
cross the province. Our envoys would be stopped at Versoy, Coppet, Nyon,
and Rolle; and whoever is taken will be put to death to avenge the fall
of the illustrious chief.'
But a free people always finds citizens ready to sacrifice themselves.
Two men stood up: they were two of the bravest huguenots, Jean Lullin
and Robert Vandel. 'We will go,' they said. They embraced their
relatives, and got into a boat, hoping to reach some place on the lake
where they could land without danger. But they had hardly left the shore
when they were recognised and pursued by some of the enemies' boats,
well manned and armed. As soon as the two Genevans observed them, they
saw their danger, and, catching up the spare oars, assisted the boatmen
with their vigorous arms, and rowed off as fast as they could. They kept
gaining on the Savoyard boats; they passed unmolested within sight of
several harbours occupied by their enemies, and at last reached Ouchy,
dripping with perspiration. The people of Lausanne, who were well
disposed towards the Genevans, assisted them. They got to Friburg, 'by
subtle means,' probably in disguise, and told their old friends of the
increasing dangers to which the city was exposed, especially since the
death of Pontverre.[799]
[Sidenote: THE SIRE DE VIRY.]
The place of the latter was now filled by the Sire de Viry, whose
castle, like Pontverre's, was situated between Mont Salève and the lake
(between Chancy and Léluiset), and whose family had always supplied
Savoy with fanatical partisans. Viry was furious at the escape of Lullin
and Vandel; and, accordingly, on the next day, the servants of these two
Genevans, who had been ordered to take their masters' horses to
Lausanne, having passed through Coppet, were thrown into prison by his
orders. He did not stop at this. 'The gentlemen assaulted every Genevan
they met with their daggers and battle-axes, striking them on the loins,
the shoulders, and other parts, and many died thereof.'—'All the
territory of Monseigneur of Savoy is in arms,' said people at Geneva in
the beginning of March 1529, 'and no one can leave the city except at
great risk.'
The ducal party, desirous of defying the Genevans in every way, resolved
to send them, not a written but a living message, which would show them
the fate that awaited them. On the 14th of March, the people who were
leaving the church of Our Lady of Grace, saw a strange figure coming
over the bridge of Arve. He had at his back a wooden plank reaching from
his feet to above his head, to which he was fastened; while his
outstretched arms were tied to a cross piece which was placed on a level
with his shoulders. The gentlemen had thought it a pretty jest to
crucify a Genevan, without doing him any great injury, and they left his
feet at liberty, so that he could return home thus singularly arrayed.
'What is that?' asked the people, stopping at the foot of the bridge.
They thought they recognised an inhabitant of the city. 'They have made
a cross of him front and back,' said the spectators. The man came over
the bridge, approached his fellow-citizens, and told them his story. 'I
had gone to the village of Troinex on business, when the enemy caught
me, trussed me up in this manner, and compelled me to return in this
condition to Geneva.' The people hardly knew whether to laugh or be
angry; however, they unbound their crucified fellow-citizen, and all
returned together to the city.
This was only a little joke of the young ones among the knights; the
Sire de Viry and his colleagues had more serious thoughts. The attack
upon Geneva, resolved upon at the castle of Nyon, was to be put into
execution. The lords issued with their armed retainers from all the
castles in the great valley, and on the 24th of March some peasants from
the banks of the Arve came and told the syndics that there was a great
concourse of gentlemen and soldiers at Gaillard; that these armed men
intended on the following night to secretly scale the walls of the city,
and that there was a strong guard upon all the roads to detain everybody
who ventured out of Geneva. At that time the whole garrison consisted
but of fifty soldiers, 'keeping watch and ward by turns,' as Bonivard
informs us. How was it possible to resist with such a few men? Yet two
powers kept the walls: the energy of the citizens and the providence of
God.
[Sidenote: THE DAY OF THE LADDERS.]
At midnight on Holy Thursday (25th of March), the knights of the Spoon,
with about four thousand Savoyard troops and the fugitive mamelukes,
moved forward as secretly as possible to take Geneva by surprise. The
citizens, accustomed to false alarms, had not paid much attention to the
warning they had received. At the head of the band that was to lead the
assault were a certain number of men carrying long ladders which had
been made at Chillon. The men-at-arms who followed them wore white
shirts over their armour in order to be recognised in the darkness; they
had even sent to their friends in Geneva certain tokens which the latter
were to fasten to the ends of their spears in order that the assailants
might know them in the confusion. The city clocks had struck two when a
few Savoyards arrived at the foot of the wall: not a sound was heard,
the night was dark, and everything promised complete success. Meanwhile
the main body had halted a quarter of a league from the city, and
hesitated to make the attack. Pontverre was no longer among them, and
Viry had not inherited his influence. 'At the moment of execution, a
spirit of fear fell upon the Savoyards,' says a chronicler; 'God took
away their courage, so that they were not able to come near.'—'We are
not strong enough to carry out our enterprise,' said one.—'If we fail,'
said another, 'Messieurs of the Swiss League will not fail us.' They
consequently withdrew, and, in order to conceal their disgrace, said
that the duke or the bishop had forbidden them to advance. Might not the
duke, influenced by the cantons, have really given them the order to
retreat at the last moment? That alone appears to explain this
retrograde movement. However, the Genevans ascribed their deliverance to
a higher cause; they entered on the registers of the council the
following simple words which we copy: 'The gentlemen (_gentils_) had
undertaken to attack the city, _which God has preserved hitherto_.' The
25th of March was called _the day of the ladders_.[800]
[Footnote 791: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 507. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 792: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 517.]
[Footnote 793: _Mém. d'Archéologie_, iii. p. 201.]
[Footnote 794: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 522.]
[Footnote 795: _Journal de Balard._ _Mém. d'Archéologie_, x. p. 189.]
[Footnote 796: July and December 1862, between radicals and liberals.]
[Footnote 797: 'A belles épées nues on fourgonna dessous, et le
malheureux qui y était caché reçut un coup d'estoc.']
[Footnote 798: Registres du Conseil _ad annum_. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii.
pp. 520-525. Spon, _Hist. de Genève_, i. p. 425. Savyon MS. Balard,
_Mém. d'Archéologie_, x. p. 189. _Le Levain du Calvinisme ou
Commencement de l'Hérésie de Genève_, par Révérende Sœur Jeanne de
Jussie, publié en 1853, par M. G. Revilliod, p. 11.]
[Footnote 799: Registres du Conseil des 2, 3 et 6 janvier 1529. _Journal
de Balard_, p. 189. Spon, _Hist. de Genève_, ii. pp. 422-426. Gautier
MS.]
[Footnote 800: Registres du Conseil du 25 mars 1529. _Journal de
Balard_, pp. 216, 219, 221, 222. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 533. La
Sœur de Jussie, p. 6.]
CHAPTER IX.
THE REFORMATION BEGINS TO FERMENT IN GENEVA, AND THE
OPPOSITION WITHOUT.
(APRIL 1529 TO JANUARY 1530.)
[Sidenote: SUPERSTITIONS IN GENEVA.]
While the men of the old times were taking fright and retreating, the
men of the new times were taking courage and advancing. They sat down at
the firesides of the burgesses of Geneva, and, leading the way to
religious conversation, gradually scattered new ideas in the city and
new seed in men's hearts. Of these _Lutherans_, as they were called,
some were Genevans, others Bernese; and the witty Bonivard occasionally
joined in this familiar talk. Some of them, truly pious men, told their
listeners that they ought to look for salvation to the cross alone, and
that, just as the sun transforms the earth and causes it to produce
fruit, so the light of the Gospel would transform their hearts and lead
them to perform new works. Others, who were sarcastic and simply
negative men, confined themselves to pointing out the abuses of Rome and
of its clergy. They said openly what hitherto they had dared to utter
only in secret. If they saw a cordelier passing, with ruddy face, long
beard, brown frock, and disgusting aspect, they pointed at him and said:
'These monks creep not only into the consciences of the citizens, but
into their houses, and defile the city by their scandals and
adultery.[801] Our grated windows and bolted doors can hardly keep out
their unbridled vices, and protect the chastity of our wives and
daughters.[802] God has given them up to the lusts of their hearts.'
Such conversations as these were continually taking place among the
Genevans and the Bernese during the interval between the reformation of
Berne and that of Geneva. When a Genevan invited a Switzer to his house,
the former would volunteer, after dinner, to show his guest the
curiosities of the city. 'We will first go and have a look at the church
of St. Pierre,' said he. 'See what a fine cathedral it is; admire these
pillars, these arches, that vaulted roof; but there are other things
besides. Here is a shrine containing an invaluable treasure—the arm of
St. Anthony.... On holidays it is brought out for the adoration of the
people, who kiss the relic with holy reverence. But,' added the Genevan,
in a whisper to his companion, 'this arm some people affirm to be only
one of the members of a stag. Come with me to the high altar; you see
the box in which the brains of St. Peter are preserved!... To doubt this
is a frightful heresy, and not to adore them abominable impiety; but ...
between you and me ... these brains of the apostle are only
pumice-stone.'[803]
[Sidenote: MONKISH TRICKS.]
Sometimes Swiss and Genevans crossed the river and climbed the street
leading to the ancient church of St. Gervais. 'What are those old women
about, putting their ears to that hole?' asked one of them. A number of
priests and women had collected there. 'The bodies of St. Gervais, St.
Nazaire, St. Celsus, and St. Pantaleon are buried under this altar,'
said the priests to the women. 'These holy bodies desire to quit their
vault; come and listen at this hole, and you will hear them.' The simple
women approached, and heard a noise like that of men talking together.
'We can hear them,' they said.—'Alas!' continued the priests, 'in order
to raise the body of a saint, we require bishops, ceremonies, silver
utensils, and we have nothing!' As they wished to deliver these holy
personages, these good women immediately cast their offerings into the
church box ... and the priests gathered them up. 'Do you know,' said a
huguenot, 'incredulous people affirm that the noise which proceeds, as
the priests say, from the conversation of St. Pantaleon and his friends,
is caused by certain pipes, cleverly arranged, which, immediately the
hole is opened and the air flows in, give out the sounds that are
heard?'[804]
'Have you ever seen souls out of purgatory? Nothing is easier at Geneva,'
said a huguenot after supper. 'It is quite dark; let us go to the cemetery,
and I will show them to you.... Here we are.... Do you see those little
flames creeping slowly here and there among the scattered bones?... They
are souls (the priests tell us) which, having left their place of
anguish, crawl slowly about the cemetery at night, and entreat their
relatives to pay the priests for masses and prayers to free them from
purgatorial fires.... Wait a little ... there is one coming near us ...
I will deliver it.' He stooped, and, picking it up, showed it to his
companions: 'Ha! ha! upon my word, these souls are curiously made ...
they are crabs, and the priests have fastened little wax tapers to their
backs.'[805]
'That is one of the tricks of our clergy,' said a learned huguenot.
(Bonivard often took part in these conversations.) 'They are buffoons in
their repasts, fools in all difficult discussions, snails in work,
harpies in exaction, leopards in friendship, bulls in pride, minotaurs
in devouring, and foxes in cunning.'[806]
The Genevans went further still. One day—it was Tuesday, the 4th of
January, 1530—when several huguenots had met together, and the relics
and impositions of the priests had formed the subject of conversation,
some of them, living in St. Gervais, indignant at the frauds of the
clergy, who metamorphosed the bodies of saints into mines of gold,
determined to protest against these abuses. They went out of the house
in a body, marched up and down the different streets, and, stopping at
certain places, assembled the people in the usual manner, when,
surrounded by a large crowd, they held (says the council register) 'an
auction of an unusual sort, by way of derision.' Perhaps they offered
the bodies to the highest bidder; but, in any case, they themselves were
sent to prison.
This scene had greatly amused the inhabitants of the suburb. Old
superstitions were giving way in Geneva and falling to the ground amid
the applause of the people. The huguenots claimed the right of free
inquiry, and desired that the human understanding should have some
authority in the world. These experiments of liberty, which alarmed the
Church, delighted the citizens. The inhabitants of St. Gervais, animated
with generous sentiments, went in great numbers to the hôtel-de-ville.
'We desire that the prisoners be set at liberty,' said they to the
syndics, 'and we offer to be bail for them.' The magistrates still clung
to the old order of things.—'I ought to reprimand you severely for your
disorders,' said the premier syndic. 'We will have no tumult or sedition
here. Let the relatives of the prisoners come before the council
to-morrow, and we will hear them.' On the 9th of January, the
Two-Hundred resolved to pardon the prisoners, and to tell them that this
folly, if they ever committed another like it, should count double
against them.[807]
[Sidenote: A NEGATIVE REFORM.]
The beginning of the Reformation at Geneva had a negative character. Men
everywhere in the sixteenth century felt the need of thinking and
judging.... The Genevans, more than others, wished to reform the abuses
which successive usurpations had introduced into the State: how could
they fail to demand a reform of the abuses introduced into the Church?
Not only isolated grievances and local annoyances, but popery itself,
would be struck down by a reform. This course, natural as it seemed, was
not the best, however. The external, that is to say, government, rites,
and ceremonies, are not essentials in christianity; but the internal,
namely, faith in the teaching of the Word of God, change of heart, and a
new life—these are essential. When we wish to reform a vicious man, it
is not enough to take off his filthy clothes and wash the dirt from his
face: his will must be transformed. At Wittemberg the Reformation began
in the person of Luther with the internal; at Geneva it began in the
huguenots with the external. This would have been a great disadvantage,
if religion at Geneva had not become, under the influence of Calvin, as
internal as in Germany. The Genevese reform would have perished if it
had preserved the character it assumed at first. But the tendency we
have pointed out was a useful preparation for that change which realises
the grand announcement of Christ: '_The kingdom of God is within you_.'
The bishop, who was still in Burgundy, desired neither internal nor
external reform. He was alarmed at what was taking place at Geneva, and,
finding himself unable alone to check the torrent which threatened to
sweep away both mitre and principality, he complained to the duke, the
emperor, and even the syndics. On the 8th of August, a messenger from
the prelate appeared before the council, and ordered them, in his name,
'to desist from what they had begun, and to send ambassadors to
Charles V., who would put everything to rights.' In October, the bishop,
annoyed that they paid no attention to his complaints, made fresh
demands, in a severe and threatening tone. He gave them to understand
that he would destroy Geneva rather than permit any abuses to be
reformed. His letters were read in the council, and their contents
communicated to the people. Threatened with the anger of the duke, the
pope, and the emperor, and reduced to the greatest weakness, what would
they do? 'Geneva,' they said, 'is in danger of being destroyed.... But
God watches over us.... Better have war and liberty than peace and
servitude. We do not put our trust in princes, and to God alone be the
honour and glory.'[808] With such confidence nations never perish.
[Sidenote: THE GENEVANS TRUST IN GOD.]
Geneva required it much. Her enemies said that violent revolutions were
at the gate; that they had begun in Saxony, where at least they had not
touched the political authority; while, on the contrary, in this city of
the Alps, civil revolution was advancing side by side with religious
revolution. The Swiss were beginning to be tired of a city so weak and
yet so obstinate, which had not strength to defend itself and too much
pride to submit. Excited and influenced by the Duke of Savoy, they
determined to propose a revocation of the alliance. This news spread
consternation through the city. 'Alas!' said the huguenots, 'if the
sheep give up the dogs, the wolves will soon scatter them;' and, without
waiting to receive notice of this fatal determination, the patriots
stretched out their hands towards that Switzerland from which the duke
wished to separate them, and exclaimed: 'We will die sooner!'... But, at
the same time, the few mamelukes who still remained in the city,
thinking that the end was at hand, made haste to join the ducal army.
The end seemed to be really approaching. On the 1st of May, an imposing
embassy from the five cantons of Zurich, Basle, Soleure, Berne, and
Friburg, arrived at Geneva, and was soon followed by delegates from
Savoy. The Genevans saw with astonishment the Swiss and the Savoyards
walking together in the streets, lavishing marks of courtesy on each
other, and looking at the huguenots with a haughty air. What! the
descendants of William Tell shaking hands with their oppressors! The
thoughts of the citizens became confused: they asked each other if there
could be any fellowship between liberty and despotism.... They were
forced to drain the cup to the dregs. On the 22nd of May the embassy
appeared before the council. Their spokesman was Sebastian de Diesbach,
a haughty Bernese, eminent magistrate, distinguished diplomatist, and
celebrated soldier. He refused to call the Genevans his co-burghers,
bluntly demanded the revocation of the alliance, and proposed a peace
which would have sacrificed the independence of the citizens to the
duke. At the same time he gave them to know that the Swiss were not
singular in their opinion, and that the great powers of Europe were
making a general arrangement. In truth, Francis I., changing his policy,
supported the demands of his uncle the duke, and declared that, in case
of refusal, he would unite the armies of France with those of Savoy.
Charles V. was quite ready to repay himself for his inability to destroy
the protestants of Germany, by indulging in the pleasure of crushing
this haughty little city. Even the King of Hungary sent an ambassador to
Geneva in the Savoy interest. Would this little corner of the world
presume to remain free when Europe was resolved to crush it under its
iron heel?[809]
While the powerful princes around Geneva were oscillating between two
opinions—so that at times it was hard to say whether Charles was for the
pope or against him, and whether Francis was for the protestants or against
them—the Genevans, those men of iron, had but one idea, liberty ...
liberty both in State and Church. The huguenots showed themselves
determined, and kept a bold front in the presence of the ambassadors.
'Take care, gentlemen,' said De Lussey, De Mezere, and others; 'we shall
first exercise strict justice against the city, and, if that is not
sufficient, strict war; while, if you restore to the duke his old
privileges, he will forgive everything, and guarantee your
liberties.'—'Yes,' added the Swiss, 'under a penalty of ten thousand
crowns if he does the contrary.' ... But, 'marvellous sight,' says a
contemporary, 'the more the ambassadors threatened and frightened, the
more the Genevans stood firm and constant, and exclaimed: "We will die
sooner!"'
[Sidenote: SWISS PROPOSE TO BREAK THE ALLIANCE.]
On the 23rd of May the Sire de Diesbach proposed the revocation of the
alliance to the Council of Two Hundred; and on the following day, the
council-general having been summoned, the premier syndic, without losing
time in endless explanations, plainly answered the deputies of the
cantons: 'Most honoured lords, as the alliance with the League was not
concluded hastily (_à la chaude_), we hope in God and in the oath you
made to us that it will never be broken. As for us, we are determined to
keep ours.' The magistrate then turned towards the people and said: 'I
propose that whosoever speaks of annulling the alliance with the Swiss
shall have his head cut off without mercy, and that whosoever gets
information of any intrigue going on against the alliance, and does not
reveal it, shall receive the strappado thrice.' The general council
carried this resolution unanimously.
Diesbach and his colleagues were confounded, and looked at one another
with astonishment. 'Did not Monsieur of Savoy assure us,' they said,
'that, except some twenty-five or thirty citizens, all the people were
favourable to him?'—'And I too know,' said a stranger, whose name has
not been handed down to us, 'that if the alliance had been broken, the
duke would have entered Geneva and put thirty-two citizens to
death.'[810] 'Come with us,' said the most respected men in Geneva; and,
laying their charters before the ambassadors, they proved by these
documents that they were free to contract an alliance with the cantons.
The delegates from Berne, Friburg, Zurich, Basle, and Soleure ordered
their horses to be got ready. Some huguenots assembled in the street,
and shouted out, just as the Bernese lords were getting into their
saddles: 'We would sooner destroy the city, sooner sacrifice our wives,
our children, and ourselves, than consent to revoke the alliance.' When
Diesbach made a report of his mission at Berne, he found means to gloss
over his defeat a little: 'There were a thousand people at the general
council,' he said with some exaggeration; 'only _one_ person [he meant
the president] protested against the rupture of the alliance; upon which
_all the rest joined in with him_!'... Did he not know that it was quite
regular for a proposition to be made by _one_ person, and to be carried
by a whole nation?[811]
[Sidenote: FIRMNESS OF THE GENEVANS.]
A new spirit, unknown to their ancestors, now began to animate many of
the Genevans. Ab Hofen's mission had not been without effect. Besides a
goodly number of persons, who were called indeed 'by the name of
Luther,' but whose sole idea of reform was not to fast in Lent and not
to cross themselves during divine worship, there were others who desired
to receive the Word of God and to follow it. The Romish clergy
understood this well. 'If these Genevans cling so much to the Swiss,'
said the priests at their meetings, 'it is in order that they may
profess _heresy_ freely. If they succeed, we shall perhaps see Savoy,
Aosta, and other countries of Italy reforming themselves likewise.'
The duke, being determined to extinguish these threatening flames,
resolved to claim the influence of the pope, with his treasures and even
his soldiers; for the _vicar_ of Him who forbade the sword to be drawn
possesses an army. Besides, Clement VII. was one of the cleverest
politicians of the age, and his advice might be useful. As Pietro
Gazzini, Bishop of Aosta, was then at Rome, the court of Turin
commissioned that zealous ultramontanist to inform the pope of what was
going on at Geneva. Gazzini begged an audience of Clement, and having
been introduced by the master of the ceremonies on the 11th of July,
1529, he approached the pope, who was seated on the throne, and,
kneeling down, kissed his feet. When he arose, he described all the acts
committed by the Lutherans at Geneva and in the _valleys of Savoy_. 'O
holy father,' said he, 'the dangers of the Church are imminent, and we
are filled with the liveliest fears. It is from Upper Burgundy and the
country of Neufchatel that this accursed sect has come to Geneva. And
now, alas! what mischief it has done there!... Already the bishop dares
not remain in his diocese; already Lent is abolished, and the heretics
eat meat every day; and, worse still, they read forbidden books (the New
Testament), and the Genevans set such store by them that they refuse to
give them up, even for money. These miserable heretics are doing extreme
mischief, and not at Geneva only; Aosta and Savoy would have been
perverted long since, had not his highness beheaded twelve gentlemen who
were propagating these dangerous doctrines. But this wholesome severity
is not enough to stop the evil. Although his highness has forbidden,
under pain of death, any one to speak of this sect and its abominable
dogmas, there is no lack of _wicked babblers_ who go about circulating
these accursed doctrines all over his territories. They say that his
highness is not their king; and, making a pretence of the great expenses
of the war, they vehemently call upon us to sell the little
ecclesiastical property we possess.... The duke, my lord and master, is
everywhere destroying this sect. _He is the barrier that closes Italy
against it_, and in this way he renders your holiness the most signal
service; but we need your help.' Gazzini closed his address with a
demand for a subsidy.
[Sidenote: BISHOP OF AOSTA AND THE POPE.]
Clement had listened with great attention; he understood the mischief
and the danger which the Bishop of Aosta had pointed out, and the
dignitaries and other priests around him seemed still more affected.
Thoroughly versed in philosophical and theological questions, endowed
with a perspicacity that penetrated to the very heart of the most
difficult matters, the pope saw how great the danger would be if
_heresy_ should find in the south, at Geneva, a centre that might become
far more _pernicious_ than even Wittemberg; he felt also the necessity
of having a prince, a zealous catholic, to guard the French and Italian
slopes of the Alps. This pontiff, perhaps the most unlucky of all the
popes, saw the Reformation spreading under his eyes over Europe without
having the power to stop it, and whatever he did to oppose it served but
to propagate it more widely still. Now, however, he met with a
sympathising heart. He wished to prevent Geneva from being reformed, and
to save a fortress from being delivered up to the enemy; while a
powerful prince offered to carry out the necessary measures. Clement
therefore received Gazzini's overtures very graciously; and yet he was
ill at ease. In the Piedmontese ambassador's speech there was a word,
one word only, that embarrassed him—the subsidy: in fact, he had not
recovered from the sack of Rome. Clement VII. replied: 'I look upon his
highness as my dearest son, and I thank him for his zeal; but as for
money, it is impossible for me to give him any, considering the
emptiness of the treasury.' Then, appealing to the wants of the Church
and the duty of princes, who ought to be ready to sacrifice for it their
wealth, their subjects, and their lives, the pope added: '_I pray the
duke to keep his eye particularly upon Geneva. That city is becoming far
too Lutheran, and it must be put down at any risk._'[812] Gazzini,
having been attended to the gates of the palace by the pontifical
officers, regretted his failure in the matter of the subsidy. His chief
object, however, had been attained: the papacy was warned; it would
watch Geneva as a general watches the enemy.
[Sidenote: INTERFERENCE OF THE EMPEROR.]
As the pope was won, it next became necessary to influence the emperor.
That was an easier task for the duke, as Charles V. was his
brother-in-law, and the empress and the Duchess of Savoy, who were
sisters, and strongly attached to Rome, could write to each other on the
subject. The protest drawn up at Spires by the evangelical princes, in
April 1529, had irritated that monarch exceedingly; and he therefore
prepared, in accordance with the oath he had sworn at Barcelona, to
apply 'a suitable antidote against the pestilent malady under which
christendom was suffering.' When Geneva was mentioned to him, his first
thought was that it was a long way off; yet, as it was an imperial city,
he determined to include it in the plan of his campaign, and resolved
immediately to take a preliminary step to restore it to the papacy. On
the 16th of July, 1529, the emperor dictated to his secretary the
following letter, addressed to the syndics of Geneva:—
'FAITHFUL FRIENDS,
'We have been informed that several preachers hold private and public
meetings in your city and in the frontier countries, that they propagate
the errors of Luther, and that you tolerate these proceedings. These
practices cause the Church most serious damage, and the pontifical
majesty, as well as the imperial dignity, is grievously insulted by your
conduct. Wherefore we order you to arrest the said preachers, and punish
them according to the tenor of the severest edicts. By this means you
will extirpate impiety from your country, and will do an act agreeable
to God and conformable to our express will.
'CAROLUS, Imp.'[813]
This letter, which savoured so strongly of the absolute monarch, excited
much astonishment in Geneva. The citizens did not deny that the emperor
might claim a certain authority over them, since theirs was an imperial
city. They have resisted the bishop-prince, they have resisted the duke:
will they also resist this powerful sovereign? His demand was clear, and
some of them said that to oppose so great a prince would be the height
of madness, in a little city of merchants. But the Genevans did not
hesitate, and, without any bravado, returned the emperor this simple
message: 'Sire, we intend to live, as in past times, according to God
and the law of Jesus Christ.'
Upon this, Charles promised to assist the duke with an armed force. The
pope, too, changed his mind, in spite of his refusal to Gazzini, and
found _in the emptiness of his treasury_ a subsidy of four thousand
Spanish livres. The two mightiest personages in christendom united
against this little city their influence, their excommunications, their
cunning, their wealth, and their soldiers; and everything was got ready
for the meditated attack.
[Footnote 801: 'Et in domos et toros grassabantur.'—_Geneva Restituda_,
p. 21.]
[Footnote 802: 'Vix ac ne vix tot admissariorum prurentium ardores
arceri poterant.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 803: 'Pro cerebro Petri pumex repertus.'—Ibid. See also
Calvin's _Inventaire des Reliques_.]
[Footnote 804: 'Reperti tubi, tanta arte inter se commissi, ut excitatum
ab adstantibus sonum statim exciperent.'—_Geneva Restituta_, p. 26.
Registres du Conseil du 8 décembre 1535. Froment, _Actes et Gestes
merveilleux de la Cité de Genève nouvellement convertie à l'Evangile_,
publiés par M. G. Revilliod, p. 49.]
[Footnote 805: 'Sed his spectris, propius vestigatis, animæ crustosæ et
testaceæ deprehensæ ... ellychniis succensis dorsorum crustæ
alligatis.'—_Geneva Restituta_, p. 27. Froment, _Actes et Gestes de
Genève_, p. 150.]
[Footnote 806: 'In exactionibus harpias, ad superbiendum tauros, ad
consumendum minotauros.'—_Geneva Restituta_, p. 28.]
[Footnote 807: 'Leur serait comptée pour deux.'—Registres du Conseil des
4 et 9 janvier 1530.]
[Footnote 808: 'Melius est bellum cum libertate quam pacifica servitus.
Nolite confidere in principibus; soli Deo honor et gloria!'—_Journal de
Balard_, pp. 226, 264, 267. Registres du Conseil des 17 avril, 8 août,
17 octobre, 14 novembre, &c.]
[Footnote 809: Registres du Conseil de Genève du 23 mai 1529. _Journal
de Balard_, p. 229.]
[Footnote 810: Registres du Conseil des 23 et 24 mai 1529. _Journal de
Balard_, pp. 331-336. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 811: Registres du Conseil des 23 et 24 mai 1529. _Journal de
Balard_, pp. 331-336. Gautier MS. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 535.
Galiffe fils, _Besançon Hugues_, p. 364.]
[Footnote 812: Archives de Turin, Correspondance romaine; Dépêches du 12
juillet 1529 et du 23 décembre 1530. Gaberel, _Pièces Justificatives_,
p. 31.]
[Footnote 813: Archives de Turin, première catégorie, p. 11, nᵒ 63.
Gaberel, i. p. 101.]
CHAPTER X.
VARIOUS MOVEMENTS IN GENEVA, AND BONIVARD CARRIED
PRISONER TO CHILLON.
(MARCH TO MAY 1530.)
[Sidenote: THE FISCAL'S COMPLAINTS.]
The courage of the defenders of catholicism in Geneva was revived by the
news they received from without; and the emperor, the pope, and the duke
declaring themselves ready to do their duty, the episcopal officers
prepared to do theirs also. But one circumstance might paralyse all
their efforts: 'God, of his goodness, began at this time,' says a
manuscript, 'to implant a knowledge of the truth, of his holy Gospel,
and of the Reformation in the hearts of some individuals in Geneva, by
the intercourse they had with the people of Berne.'[814] These huguenots
boldly professed the protestant ideas they had imbibed, and, though
possessing no very enlightened faith, felt a pleasure in attacking with
sarcasm and ridicule the priests and their followers. Curés and friars
waited every day upon the episcopal vicar, and complained bitterly of
these _Lutherans_, as they called them, who, in their own houses, or in
the public places, and even in the churches, as they walked up and down
the aisles, spoke aloud of the necessity of a reformation.[815] On the
22nd of March, the vicar, eager to do his duty in the absence of the
bishop, sent for the procurator-fiscal, and consulted with him on the
defence of the faith. The procurator appeared before the council.
'Heresy is boldly raising its head,' he said; 'the people eat meat in
Lent, according to the practice of the Lutheran sect. Instead of
devoutly listening to the mass, they promenade (_passagiare_) the church
during divine service.... If we do not put a stop to this evil, the city
will be ruined.... I command you, in behalf of my lord the bishop, to
punish these rebels severely.' The Berne manuscript adds, 'He made great
complaints, accompanied with reproaches and threats.' The Duke of Savoy
supported him by advising the council to take precautions against the
Lutheran errors that were making their way into the city. The
magistrates were fully inclined to check religious innovation: 'We must
compel everybody,' they said, 'to listen to the mass with respect.' The
huguenots pointed out the danger of attending in any degree to the
duke's wishes, for in that case he would fancy himself the sovereign of
Geneva. What was to be done? A man of some wit proposed a singular and
hitherto unheard-of penalty for suppressing heresy, which was adopted
and published in spite of the opposition of the most determined
huguenots: 'Ordered, that whoever eats meat in Lent, or walks about the
churches, shall be condemned to build _three toises of the wall_ of St.
Gervais.' The city was building this wall as a means of defence against
the duke.[816]
[Sidenote: THE HUGUENOTS SENTENCED.]
This decree raised a storm against the Roman clergy. There have been at
all times estimable men among the catholic priests, and even christians
who, with great self-sacrifice, have dedicated themselves to the
alleviation of human misery. The party spirit that represents a whole
class of men as hypocrites, fanatics, and debauchees, is opposed to
justice as well as to charity. It must be confessed, however, that there
were not at this time in Geneva many of those pious and zealous priests
who have been found in the Roman-catholic Church since it was awakened
by the Reformation. 'What!' exclaimed the members of council who
inclined towards protestantism, and saw their friends condemned, 'the
Church forbids us to eat food which God created for our use, and permits
priests to gratify an insatiable lewdness, against which God has
pronounced a severe condemnation!... Ha! ha! Messieurs du clergé, you
wish us to eat nothing but fish, and you live in habitual intercourse
with harlots.... Hypocrites! you strain at the gnat and swallow the
camel.' At the same time these citizens exposed the irregularities of
the priests and monks, pointed out their resorts for debauchery, and
described the scandals occasioned by their lusts. This description,
which every one knew to be true, made a deep impression. The good
catholics who were on the council saw the injury done to religion by the
immorality of the clergy; while certain practical men were inclined to
consider the great movement then going on in the Church as essentially a
reform of morals. 'The Lutheran sect increases and prospers,' said a
catholic councillor, 'because of the scandal of the priests, who live
openly with women of evil life.'[817]
[Sidenote: PRIESTS SENTENCED.]
The council sent for the vicar-general: 'We have a great complaint to
make,' they told him. 'No remedy has been applied to the depravity and
scandalous conduct of the ecclesiastics, who are the cause of all kinds
of irregularity. Exert your authority without waiting until the secular
power is compelled to interfere.' It would appear that, as the vicar
held out no great hopes of amendment, the council were of opinion that,
after condemning the laymen who walked about in the churches, they ought
also to condemn the priests who were caught in disorderly houses. One
councillor imagined it would be but fair to yoke, so to say, these two
different kinds of delinquents to the same car. A second resolution was
therefore adopted by the council, which, never losing sight of the
necessity of protecting the city against Savoy, ordered 'that the
priests should forthwith forsake their evil ways under penalty of
building three toises of the wall of St. Gervais, in company with the
others.'[818] Thus the forerunners of protestantism and the profligate
priests were ordered to labour together at the same task in the fosses
of St. Gervais. The latter were indignant at being placed in the same
rank with the former, and thought their dignity compromised by the
singular decree which forced them to supply the heretics with mortar. It
would appear, however, that the two orders were not very strictly
observed, that wicked ecclesiastics continued to gratify their
appetites, and that the wall advanced but slowly. 'The canons, priests,
and friars are incorrigible,' said the people; 'they are jovial fellows,
fond of drinking, and rear their bastard children openly. How can the
Church be scandalised at such a course of life, when even the popes set
the example?'[819]
Although this decree of the council showed great impartiality and a
certain amount of good sense, we cannot put in the same rank the two
classes whom it affected. The huguenots, seeing that the Holy Scriptures
call that a _doctrine of devils_ which commands men '_to abstain from
meats which God hath created to be received with thanksgiving_,'[820]
did what the Word of God directs, while the evil priests indulged in the
most scandalous disorders. Negative protestantism, however, is not true
piety; and hence it was that the evangelical christians of Zurich and
Berne, taking advantage of the frequent journeys the Genevans made to
these two cities on public or private business, were constantly urging
them to receive the true essence of the Gospel. In the visits they made
to each other, in their friendly walks on the shore of the lake of
Zurich or on the hills which overlook the Aar, these pious reformers of
German Switzerland said to the huguenots: '_The kingdom of God is not
meat and drink; but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy
Ghost._[821] Jesus Christ, the eternal Son of God, but born as a man,
has become our Redeemer by his death and by his resurrection. He alone
satisfies completely the religious wants of mankind. Unite yourselves to
Him by faith, and you will experience in yourselves that the pure
religion of the Gospel is not only the first among all religions
professed by men, but, as coming from God, is perfect.'
[Sidenote: PLAN FOR PREACHING AT ST. VICTOR.]
The four Vandels, without entirely breaking with Rome, had been for more
than three years among the most decided of the so-called Lutheran party.
Hugues Vandel was sent into Switzerland as ambassador (this is the name
usually given to the envoys in the official documents of the period). At
Zurich, 'the Zwinglians gave him a hearty welcome;' the friends of
Haller did the same at Berne, where he happened to be in June 1530. All
of the evangelicals in these two cities were earnest in their wishes to
see a vital christianity displace the few negative reforms in Geneva.
'The majority in the city of Geneva would like to be evangelical,'
answered Vandel; 'but they want to be shown the way, and no one would
dare preach the Gospel in the churches for fear of Friburg.' What is to
be done? thought he. Day and night he tried to find the means of having
the Gospel preached to his fellow-citizens; at last a bright idea
suddenly occurred to him; he spoke about it to the Zwinglians at Zurich,
and to Berthold Haller at Berne; he wrote about it to Farel, to
Christopher Fabry, and also to his brother Robert at Geneva. His idea
was this: It will be remembered that St. Victor was a little independent
principality at the gates of the city. 'Suppose it were made over to my
lords of Berne,' said Vandel; 'they would like to have a bailiff there
and _a preacher who would be our great comfort_.' It is true that the
church of St. Victor was old, and would probably 'tumble down' erelong,
but Berne would be able to rebuild it. All the evangelicals of Geneva,
forsaking the mass in the city churches, and crossing St. Antoine, would
go in crowds to hear Christ preached in the church of Bonivard.... Thus
that Renaissance of which the prior was the representative, would be
truly for Geneva the gate of the Reformation. An event which had just
taken place may have suggested this idea to Vandel. It was a scheme
suggested by the pope, and carried out by the duke.[822]
Bonivard, deprived of his benefice at the time of Berthelier's death,
had recovered his priory but not his revenue. Endowed, as he was, with
resolution and invention rather than perseverance, holding that the
detention of his property by the duke was an injustice, desiring to be
restored to full possession of his little principality, and not a little
ashamed of having to tell his servant that he had nothing in his purse
when the latter came and asked for money to purchase the necessaries of
life—Bonivard had girded on his sword, taken a musquetoon, mounted his
horse, and, thus equipped and accompanied by a few men-at-arms, had made
several raids into the duke's territory to levy his rents. But he had to
deal both with the duke and the pope. He had been replaced in his priory
by the bishop and the council, but without the consent of the courts of
Rome and Turin, which had illegally despoiled him of it. Consequently a
pontifical proctor, attended by an escort, made his appearance to
prevent the prior from recovering his property. Bonivard, who was
naturally impetuous, looked upon this man as a robber come to plunder
him; he therefore rushed forward, caught up his arms, and discharged his
musquetoon at the Roman official. The latter, who was terrified, rode
off as fast as he could; for Bonivard with his firelock had wounded the
horse.[823] Both pope and duke were loud in their complaints, and
Clement even issued a brief against him. In consequence of this, the
council of Geneva forbade Bonivard to indulge in these military freaks;
and as he had no means of living, the magistrates granted him four
crowns and a half a month, to pay his expenses and those of his servant,
until he was in a better position. 'Alas!' said the prior, 'four crowns
a month! ... it is so little, that I can hardly keep myself and my
page.' However, he remained patient, but he was not left in peace.
The Roman proctor, taking up the matter again, claimed the priory, in
the name of Clement, on behalf of the priest who had been invested with
it after the death of the traitor Montheron. Bonivard, desiring to place
his benefice beyond the reach of fresh attacks, annexed it to the
hospital of Geneva, which was to receive the revenues for him as prior.
But the duke had other views. More than four hundred persons, carrying
arms, and assembling by night before the hôtel-de-ville, had demanded
justice on certain monks of St. Victor, who were accused of plotting to
betray the convent to the partisans of Savoy. Besançon Hugues and Thomas
Vandel, the procurator-fiscal, were the bearers of this request, and
Bonivard had the monks shut up in prison. When the duke was informed of
the annexation of the priory to the hospital of Geneva, his anger was
increased, for he had a great desire to possess St. Victor's, which
would give him a footing close to the gates of the city. His agents
therefore solicited the prior 'daily' to revoke this act, and promised
him 'seas and mountains' if he would consent; but Bonivard shook his
head, saying: 'I do not trust him!' Charles now determined to get rid of
a man who was an obstacle in his path in all his enterprises against
Geneva.[824]
[Sidenote: BONIVARD'S FILIAL AFFECTION.]
The prior, usually so cheerful, had been for some time dejected and
thoughtful. It was not only his priory, his poverty, and his enemies
that threw a shade over his countenance, formerly so animated: his
mother was seriously ill. To Bonivard filial piety was the most natural
of obligations, the first and sweetest form of gratitude. He thought:
'How correctly Plato writes that there are no Penates more sacred, there
is no worship more acceptable to the gods, than that of a father or
mother bending under the weight of years.' His Genevese friends, who
went daily to St. Victor's, observed his sadness, and asked him the
reason. 'Alas!' he said, 'I should like to see my aged mother once more
before she dies. I have not seen her these five years, and she is on the
brink of the grave.' To one of them who inquired where she was, he
replied: 'At Seyssel, in our ancestral house.' Seyssel was in the states
of Savoy, and Charles would not fail to have the prior seized if he
ventured to appear there.
Bonivard fancied, however, he could see the means of gratifying his
dearest wishes. He determined to take advantage of the solicitations
addressed to him by Charles to ask for a safe-conduct. 'I will go and
see my mother and brother at Seyssel,' he said, 'and ask their advice.
We will consult together on this business.' The duke sent Bonivard the
required passport, stipulating, however, that it should be available for
the month of April only. Charles, delighted at seeing Bonivard quit the
neighbourhood of Geneva and venture into the middle of his territories,
determined that if this journey did not give him the priory, it should
at least give him the prior.... Bonivard's friends, whose judgment was
not influenced by filial affection, were justly alarmed when they heard
of his approaching departure, and tried to detain him; he could think of
nothing, however, but seeing his mother before she died. He accordingly
departed, passed the Fort de l'Ecluse, the Perte du Rhone, and reached
the little town where the 'ancient dame,' as he called her, resided. The
mother, who loved the name, the talents, the glory, and the person of
her son, clasped him in her arms with fond affection; but her joy soon
gave way to fear, for she knew Charles's perfidy, she remembered
Lévrier's story ... and trembled for her child.[825]
[Sidenote: BONIVARD'S VISIT TO HIS MOTHER.]
Meanwhile Bonivard's enemies in Geneva had not delayed to take advantage
of his departure. Some of them were mamelukes. To embroil him with the
huguenots seemed likely to be of service to their cause; and they
therefore began to report in the city that he had gone to surrender St.
Victor's to the duke, and that he was betraying the people and revealing
their secrets. The intimate friends of the prior indignantly
contradicted the calumny; but his enemies continued repeating it, and,
as the most ardent men are often the most credulous, a few huguenots
gave credit to these assertions. Bonivard wrote to the council of
Geneva, complaining of the injury done him, and reminded them that there
was not a man in the city more devoted to its independence than himself.
What should he do? He was exceedingly embarrassed. Should he return to
Geneva? He feared the anger of those among the huguenots in whose eyes
it was a crime to go to Savoy. Should he remain at Seyssel? As soon as
the month of April was ended, he would be seized by the duke. His mother
conjured him to put himself out of the reach of his enemies, both duke
and Genevans....
'Et qui refuserait une mère qui prie?...
He determined to go to Friburg. The council of Geneva had indeed told
him not to disquiet himself about the foolish stories of his enemies,
and added: 'Let him come, if he pleases, and he will be treated
well.'[826] This was not a very pressing invitation, and Besançon
Hugues, the most influential man in the city, was against him. Hugues, a
catholic and episcopalian, might very well have no great liking for the
prior of a monastery who was coming round entirely to the new ideas. It
seems, however, that these catholic prejudices were mixed up with some
human weaknesses. 'Bonivard,' says a manuscript, 'often had disputes
with Besançon Hugues, who hoped to obtain for his son the investiture of
the priory of St. Victor.'[827] The prior was not ignorant of this
hostile disposition. 'Alas!' he said, 'a councillor, and he not one of
the least, is exciting the council and the people against me.' On the
other hand, he could not make up his mind to turn thoroughly to the side
of the Reformation; he still remained in the neutral ground of Erasmus,
and indulged in jests against the huguenots, which indisposed them
towards him. He belonged neither to one party nor to the other, and
offended both. He was not anxious, therefore, to return to Geneva just
now, fearing that his enemies would be stronger than his friends. The
month of April being ended, he begged the duke to prolong his
safe-conduct during the month of May, and it was granted. Bonivard now
took leave of his aged mother, whom he left full of anguish about the
fate of her son. She never saw him again.
The Count of Chalans, president of the council of Savoy, and friend of
the Bishop of Aosta, was, though a layman, as bigoted to
Roman-catholicism as Gazzini was, as a priest. At that time he was
holding a _journée_ or diet at Romont, between Lausanne and Friburg. The
avoyer of Friburg, who was Bonivard's friend, happening to be at Romont,
Bonivard repaired thither; and, related as he was to the nobility of
Savoy, he presented his homage to the count, who received him kindly.
Bonivard skilfully sounded De Chalans on what he might have to fear; for
once already, and not far from that place, he had been seized and thrown
into a ducal prison. The count pledged his honour, both verbally and in
writing, that he would run no danger in the duke's territories during
the month of May, and, he added, even during the month of June.
Bonivard, thus set at ease, began to reflect on his position. It was a
strange thing for a man, so enlightened as he was on the abuses of
popery and monasticism, to be at the head of a monastic body. Moreover,
in addition to the pope and the duke, he had a new adversary against
him. 'I fear the duke on the one hand,' he said, 'and on the other the
madness of the people of Geneva, to whom I dare not return without the
strongest pledges.'
[Sidenote: DETERMINES TO GIVE UP THE PRIORY.]
Bonivard, having weighed everything, determined upon a great sacrifice.
He started for Lausanne, and proposed to the Bishop of Montfaucon to
resign to him the priory of St. Victor, on condition of receiving a
pension of four hundred crowns. The bishop accepted the proposal,
provided Geneva and Savoy would consent. Bonivard thought this an easy
matter, and as René de Chalans was then holding another _journée_ at
Moudon, he determined to go thither to arrange the great affair. He
arrived on the 25th of May. The count received him courteously, and
appeared to enter into his ideas; but at the same time this lord and
certain officers of Savoy held several private conferences, the result
of which was that they sent a messenger to Lausanne. Bonivard was
invited to sup with the president, who gave him the seat of honour.
There was a large party, the repast was very animated, and the prior,
whose gaiety was easily revived, amused all the company by his wit.
There was, however, one officer at his highness's table who annoyed him
considerably: it was the Sire de Bellegarde, Lévrier's murderer. This
wretch, as if he desired to efface that disagreeable impression, was
most obliging and attentive. At last they left the table. There were so
many gentlemen assembled in the little town of Moudon, that all the
bed-rooms were occupied—so at least it was stated. Upon this,
Bellegarde, in a jovial tone, said to Bonivard: 'Well, then, my friend,
I will share my room with you.' Bonivard accepted the offer, but not
without some uneasiness. The next morning he prepared to set out for
Lausanne in order to arrange his business with the bishop. 'I am afraid
that you will lose your way, and that something may happen to you,' said
Bellegarde. 'I will send a servant on horseback along with you.' The
confiding Bonivard departed with the sergeant of his highness's steward.
Bellegarde varied his treachery. He had kidnapped Lévrier as he was
leaving the cathedral, and had conveyed him in person to the castle
where he was to meet his death. This time he preferred to keep out of
sight, and for that reason a message had been despatched to Lausanne.
After watching over Bonivard during the night, lest he should escape, as
Hugues had escaped from Châtelaine, Bellegarde took leave of him, giving
him a very courteous embrace, and strongly recommending him to the care
of the sergeant. The road from Moudon to Lausanne runs for about five
leagues through the Jorat hills, which at that period were wild and
lonely. Gloomy thoughts sprang up from time to time to disturb Bonivard.
He remembered how Lévrier had been seized by Bellegarde at the gates of
St. Pierre.... If a similar fate awaited him!... His confidence soon
revived, and he went on.
[Sidenote: BONIVARD TREACHEROUSLY KIDNAPPED.]
It was a fine day in May, this Thursday, the 26th. Early in the morning
Messire de Beaufort, captain of Chillon, and the Sire du Rosey, bailli
of Thonon, having received their instructions from Moudon, had quitted
Lausanne, followed by twelve to fifteen well-armed horsemen. On reaching
the heights of the Jorat, near the convent of St. Catherine, they hid
themselves in a wood of black pines, which still remains;[828] and there
both leaders and soldiers waited silently for the unfortunate Bonivard.
He was provided, indeed, with a safe-conduct from the duke; but John
Huss's had been violated, and why should they observe that of the prior
of St. Victor? 'No faith ought to be kept with heretics,' had been said
at Constance, and was repeated now at Moudon. Erelong De Beaufort and Du
Rosey heard the tramp of two horses; they gave a signal to their
followers to be ready, and peered out from among the trees where they
lay hid to see if their victim was really coming. At last the guide on
horseback appeared, then came Bonivard on his mule; De Bellegarde's
servant led him straight to the appointed place. Just as the unlucky
prior, wavering between confidence and fear, was passing the spot where
Beaufort, Du Rosey, and their fifteen companions were posted, the latter
rushed from the wood and sprang upon Bonivard. He put his hand to his
sword, and clapped spurs to his mule in order to escape, calling out to
his guide: 'Spur! spur!' But, instead of galloping forwards, the
sergeant turned suddenly upon the man he should have protected, caught
hold of him, and 'with a knife which he had ready' cut Bonivard's
sword-belt. All this took place in the twinkling of an eye. 'Whereupon
these honest people fell upon me,' said the prior when he told the story
in after years, 'and made me prisoner in the name of Monseigneur.' He
made all the resistance he could; produced his papers, and showed that
they were all in order; but his safe-conduct was of no avail with the
agents of Bellegarde and De Chalans. Taking some cord from a bag they
had brought with them, they tied Bonivard's arms, and bound him to his
mule, as they had once bound Lévrier, and in this way passing through
Lausanne, near which the outrage had been committed, they turned to the
left. The prior crossed Vaux, Vevey, Clarens, and Montreux; but these
districts, which are among the most beautiful in Switzerland, could not
for an instant rouse him from his deep dejection. 'They took me, bound
and pinioned, to Chillon,' he says in his _Chronicles_, 'and there I
remained six long years.... It was my second passion.'[829]
[Sidenote: THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.]
Nine years before, almost day for day (May 1521), Luther had also been
seized in a wood for the purpose of being taken to a castle; but he had
been carried off by friends, while _the prisoner of Chillon_ was
perfidiously taken by enemies. Bonivard, a reformer of a negative and
rather philosophical character, was much inferior to Luther, the
positive and evangelical reformer; but Bonivard's imprisonment far
exceeded in severity that of the Saxon doctor. At first, indeed, the
prior of St. Victor was confined in a room and treated respectfully; but
Charles the Good, after visiting him and holding some conversation with
him, ordered, as he left the castle, that the prisoner should be treated
harshly. He was transferred to one of those damp and gloomy dungeons cut
out of the rock, which lie below the level of the lake. It is probable
that the duke gave this cruel order because the prisoner, true to light
and liberty, had refused to bend before him. Bonivard's seizure was a
severe blow to his mother, to his friends, and even to the magistrates
of Geneva, who, on hearing of it, saw all the duke's perfidy and the
prior's innocence, and restored to him their affection and esteem. For
some time it was uncertain whether Bonivard was alive or dead; all that
people knew was that he had been seized, in defiance of the
safe-conduct, on the hills above Lausanne. However, John Lullin and the
other envoys of Geneva present at the _journée_ held at Payerne at
Christmas 1530, being better informed, did all in their power to obtain
the liberation of a man who had done such good service to liberty; but
the agents of Savoy pretended ignorance of the place of his imprisonment.
A brilliant existence was thus suddenly interrupted. What humour, what
originality, what striking language, what invention, what witty
conversations were abruptly cut short! Bonivard never recovered from
these six years of the strictest captivity. When he came out of Chillon
he was a different man from what he was when he entered it. He was like
a bird which, while giving utterance to the sweetest song, is caught by
a gust of wind and beaten to the ground; ever after it miserably drags
its wings, and utters none but harsh unpleasing sounds. St. Victor
wanted the _one thing needful_; he was not one of those of whom it is
said: _their youth is renewed like the eagle's_. The brightness of the
Reformation eclipsed him. The latter part of his life was as sad as his
early part had been brilliant. It would have been better for his fame
had he been put to death in the castle-yard of Chillon, as Lévrier had
been in that of Bonne.
[Footnote 814: Berne MS. _Hist. Helvet._ v. p. 12.]
[Footnote 815: Michel Roset, _Chroniq._ MS. liv. ii. ch. xiv.]
[Footnote 816: Registres du Conseil des 22 et 29 mars. Bonivard,
_Chroniq._ ii. p. 551. Berne MS. _Hist. Helvet._ v. p. 12.]
[Footnote 817: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 551.]
[Footnote 818: 'Quod presbyteri ab inde debeant relinquere eorum
lupanaria, lubricitates et meretrices, sub simili pœna (facere in muris
Sancti Gervasii tres teysias muri.)'—Registres du Conseil du 1ᵉʳ avril.]
[Footnote 819: Galiffe, _Matériaux pour l'Histoire de Genève_, ii. p.
vii. The note contains a long list of the illegitimate children of
popes, archbishops, inquisitors, and other churchmen.]
[Footnote 820: 1 Timothy iv. 1-3.]
[Footnote 821: Romans xiv. 17.]
[Footnote 822: Lettre de Vandel du 23 juin 1530. Galiffe fils, _Besançon
Hugues_, note to page 395.]
[Footnote 823: 'Procuratorem prosequentem scopettis invasisse, et equum
super quo fugiebat vulnerasse.'—Brief of Clement VII., dated January 24,
1528.]
[Footnote 824: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp. 485, 547, 572. _Mém.
d'Archéologie_, tom. v. p. 162.]
[Footnote 825: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp. 572,573. _Mém.
d'Archéologie_, iv. p. 171.]
[Footnote 826: 'Fuit lecta missiva Domini Sancti Victoris. Rescribatur
ei ut veniat, si velit, et illum bene tractabimus.'—Council Register,
May 2, 1530.]
[Footnote 827: Gautier MS. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 573.]
[Footnote 828: The convent of St. Catherine occupied the site of the
_Chalet à Gobet_, an inn situated on the road from Lausanne to Berne.]
[Footnote 829: 'Ce fut ma seconde passion.'—Bonivard, _Chroniq._]
CHAPTER XI.
THE ATTACK OF 1530.
(AUGUST, SEPTEMBER, AND OCTOBER.)
[Sidenote: ARREST OF THE FISCAL MANDOLLA.]
Bonivard's arrest was not an isolated act, but the first skirmish of a
general engagement. The duke and the bishop were reconciled, and their
only thought was how they could reduce Geneva by force of arms. A
singular resolution for a pastor! Fortunately for him, the Genevans gave
him a pretext calculated in some measure to justify his warlike cure of
souls.
The iniquitous conduct of the Duke of Savoy towards Bonivard refuted the
unjust accusations brought against him, and the Genevans at once
manifested their sympathy with the unhappy prisoner of Chillon. They
were indignant at the duke's violation of the safe-conduct that he
himself had given. 'You see his bad faith,' they said. Thinking that
when the innocent were put in prison, it was time to punish the guilty,
they determined to have their revenge.
There was at Geneva a man named Mandolla, a procurator-fiscal and
thorough-going partisan of the duke and the bishop. 'He was a bastard
priest of evil name and fame,' say the chronicles of the times, 'who
indulged in exactions, and in plundering and arbitrarily imprisoning
those who displeased him.' The vicar-general, Messire de Gingins, abbot
of Bonmont, an upright and benevolent man, often remonstrated with him,
but Mandolla answered him with insolence. Nor was this all; for, having
the temporal authority under his jurisdiction, he was continually
intriguing to deliver up Geneva to the duke. The citizens, irritated at
these encroachments on their rights, addressed several strong
remonstrances to the abbot of Bonmont against the foreign priest who was
trying to rob them of their independence. It was a serious accusation:
Mandolla's conscience told him it was just; he took the alarm, and,
wishing to escape justice, hastily quitted Geneva, and fled for refuge
to the castle of Peney.
The Genevans now complained louder than ever. 'Remove this thorn from
the city,' said they to the vicar-general. The abbot acknowledged the
justice of their demand, and the council, the guardians of the rights of
the city, came to his assistance; for they recollected how, at the
election of the syndics in 1526, that man had intrigued to carry the
list which contained the name of the infamous Cartelier. Some armed men
were sent to the castle of Peney, where they seized Mandolla, bound him
to a horse, as Lévrier and Bonivard had been bound, and on the 24th of
June he was brought back to Geneva, surrounded by guards who led him to
prison. A procurator-fiscal treated like a criminal! it was a thing
unprecedented. The people stopped in the streets as he passed, and
looked at him with astonishment. The unhappy Mandolla's mind was in a
state of great confusion. He wondered if they would avenge on him the
deaths of Lévrier and Berthelier and the captivity of Bonivard. He felt
that he was guilty, but trusted in his powerful protectors. His friends
did not, indeed, lose a moment, but wrote to the bishop, who was at
Arbois.
[Sidenote: THE BISHOP PLOTS AGAINST GENEVA.]
Mandolla had hardly been three days in prison, when 'a severe and
threatening letter' from the bishop arrived at Geneva. The prelate was
indignant that the citizens should dare lay hands upon a clerk, who was
one of his officers, and especially on that fiscal who, as Bonivard
says, _brought the water to his mill_. 'Not content with the
unseasonable innovations you have made in our jurisdiction,' he wrote to
the syndics on the 27th of June, 'you have caused our procurator to be
arrested in the discharge of his functions.... And you do not like to be
called traitors!... We condemn the outrage as much as if you had done it
to our own person. Set our fiscal at liberty, without any damage to his
person; make amends for the outrage you have committed; otherwise we
shall employ all the means God has placed in our hands to obtain
vengeance.' The council were greatly astonished on reading this letter:
'The bishop forgets,' they said, 'that this is a case simply of robbery
and treason. How long has it been the custom to threaten with the
vengeance of God and man the magistrates who prosecute a thief?'—'My
lord,' answered the magistrates, 'Mandolla you well know to be a traitor
and a robber.' And, giving no heed to the episcopal summons, they drew
up an indictment against the fiscal. When this was told to La Baume, he
could not contain himself. His twofold title of prince and bishop filled
him with pride, and he could not bear the thought that these citizens of
Geneva disregarded his orders.
This affair only served to hasten the execution of his plans. His mind
was full of bitterness on account of the heresy he had discovered in the
city, and he thought but of punishing those whom he looked upon as
traitors. It did not occur to the bishop that Geneva, after undergoing a
great transformation, was one day to become the most active focus of the
Reform. But, without foreseeing such a future, he thought that if the
Reformation were established there, as at Zurich and Berne, the
provinces of Savoy, and others besides, would erelong fall a prey to the
contagion. He made up his mind to oppose it in every way, and it must be
confessed that he had a right to do so; but two things are to be
regretted: the unholy mixing up of the catholic cause with that of a
traitor and thief, and the means that the prelate employed.
[Sidenote: THE BISHOP APPEALS TO THE KNIGHTS.]
These means he sought in violence. In order to punish the huguenots he
must have allies. Where could he look for them except among the knights
of the Spoon? As prince and bishop of Geneva, he would give a shape to
this fraternity, and organise it against his own episcopal city. He
forthwith entered into communication with its principal leaders: John de
Viry, sire of Alamogne; John Mestral, sire of Aruffens; John de
Beaufort, baron of Rolle; Francis, sire of St. Saphorin; the sire of
Genthod, a village situated between Geneva and Versoix; and especially
Michael, baron of La Sarraz, whom the bishop called 'his dearly beloved
cousin.' Without waiting for these powerful lords to attack the city, he
began to carry on a little war himself. He put into prison two Genevan
cattle-dealers, who chanced to be in the territory of St. Claude;
ordered the Genevan _goats and cows_ to be seized, which were grazing on
the hills of Gex; and posted armed men on all the roads leading from
Geneva to Lyons, with instructions to stop his _subjects_ and their
friends, and to seize their goods.[830]
After this little war, the bishop turned his thoughts to the great one.
At first he wished to set in motion his own vassals, friends, and allies
on the western slopes of the Jura. 'Brother,' said he to the Baron of
St. Sorlin, 'call out our Burgundians.' His negotiations with La Sarraz,
Viry, and others having succeeded, he issued a general appeal to the
knights of the Spoon. 'Gentlemen and neighbours of my episcopal city,'
he said, 'I have been informed of your friendly disposition to aid me in
punishing my rebellious subjects of Geneva. And now, knowing that it
will be a meritorious work before God and the world to do justice upon
such evil-doers, I pray and require you to be pleased to help me in this
matter.' Many of these gentlemen crossed the Jura to come to an
arrangement with him, and filled Arbois with their indignation.
The 20th of August was an important day at the residence of the
prince-bishop; he had determined to make war upon his flock, and this
moment had been chosen for the declaration. Pierre de la Baume was not
so cruel as his predecessor, the bastard of Savoy; but his irritation
was now at its height. If he chanced to meet any Genevans who addressed
him in respectful language, he would smile graciously upon them, but 'it
was all grimace,' says the pseudo-Bonivard.[831] When they had quitted
him, La Baume once more indulged in angry and threatening words. The
convents, the commandery of Malta, and the college of the canons of
Arbois were still more violent in their complaints. On the 20th of
August a meeting took place at the priory. The knights of the Spoon, who
had found the wine of Arbois excellent, arrived with their swords, their
coats of mail, and their cloaks. The bishop, proud of having such
defenders, invited them near the chair where he was seated, and
graciously handed them their commissions to make war upon his subjects.
'We, Pierre de la Baume,' they ran, 'bishop and prince of Geneva, having
regard to the insolence, rebellion, treason, and conspiracies that some
of our subjects of Geneva are daily committing against us and our
authority ... imprisoning our subjects and our officers without orders,
assuming our rights of principality, and threatening to do worse; ...
being resolved _to maintain our Church in her authority and to uphold
our holy faith_, have commissioned and required our friends and
relatives to aid us in punishing the rebels, and, if need be, to proceed
by force of arms.' (Here follow the names of these friends, the Baron of
La Sarraz, and the other lords mentioned above.) The prelate ended the
document by a declaration that these gentlemen 'had full authority from
him, and that, in confirmation, he had written these letters with his
own hand at Arbois, on this 20th of August in the year 1530.' He had
signed the papers: _Bishop of Geneva_. The gentlemen thanked the
prelate, promised to do all in their power, and, quitting Franche-Comté,
returned to their castles to make ready for the campaign, repeating to
one another, as they rode along, that it was very necessary to maintain
_the authority of the Roman Church_ in Geneva, and to uphold _the holy
faith_, and seeming very proud that such was the object of the crusade
they were about to undertake.[832]
[Sidenote: LUTHERANS IMPRISONED.]
The bishop's alarm was not without foundation. The huguenots, even those
most inclined to protestantism, did not possess much evangelical light;
they were struck rather with the superstitions of Rome than with their
own sins and the grace of God. There were nevertheless some Genevans and
a few foreigners living in Geneva, who displayed great zeal, and replied
to the bishop's violence by going about from place to place seeking to
enlighten souls. The gentlemen of Savoy, who had just made an alliance
with the bishop, had seen this with their own eyes. 'They enter the
cottages, and even venture into our castles,' said the knights,
'everywhere preaching what they call the Word of God.' The peasants
listened rather favourably to the addresses of these evangelists; but,
says Balard, 'the gentlemen could not be prevented from taking vengeance
on such excesses.' When any of these daring pioneers of the Reformation
arrived at a castle, or even at the village or town which depended on
it, the lord, exasperated that the heretics should dare come and preach
their doctrines to his servants and vassals, seized them and threw them
into his dungeons.
Some envoys from Friburg who were going to Chambéry, having halted on
the road at the castle of one of their friends, heard of these doings;
it happened, too, that some of these huguenot prisoners (they may have
come from Berne) were confined in the place at which they were stopping.
As the Friburgers, although good catholics, were not in favour of
employing brute force in matters of religion, they found means to touch
the hearts of their persecutors, and succeeded in having these fervent
evangelists set at liberty. They then continued their journey to
Chambéry. But the duke had hardly given them audience before he said to
them with bitterness: 'I have to complain, gentlemen, that you go about
in search of prisoners in my country, and that the people of Geneva are
trying to make my people as bad as themselves.... I will not put up with
such disorders.... I cannot prevent my nobles from taking
vengeance.'[833] But the Genevans were equally unwilling to submit to
the ill-treatment to which some of their number had been exposed, and
accordingly Robert Vandel and John Lullin were despatched in all haste
to Berne and Friburg to urge on the arrival of these noble auxiliaries.
It is probable, however, that certain serious rumours which were
beginning to circulate in Geneva were the principal cause of their
mission.[834]
It was the autumn of 1530, and as the chiefs of German catholicism had
assembled at Augsburg to deliberate upon the means of destroying
protestantism in the empire, the duke and the bishop, the two great
enemies of Geneva, appointed a meeting at Gex, at the foot of the Jura,
to deliberate on the means of expelling both liberty and the Gospel from
the city of the Leman. 'Lutheranism is making considerable progress in
Geneva,' said the bishop to the duke; 'attack the city; for my part I
will employ in this work the revenues of my see and of my abbeys, and
even all my patrimony.'[835] The duke might have had reasons for
delaying the war. His brother-in-law the emperor, and the other catholic
princes assembled at Augsburg, thought they could not be ready before
the spring, and desired that protestantism should then be attacked on
all points at once. But passion prevailed with Charles III. Aspiring to
the sovereignty of Geneva, it was important for him to play the
principal part in the attack against that city; and when once Geneva was
taken, he would prove to all the world that, in accordance with the
system of the cardinals, it would be necessary to establish there some
ruler more powerful than a bishop, in order to prevent future
revolts.[836]
[Sidenote: LA SARRAZ HEADS THE KNIGHTS.]
The Baron of La Sarraz was already at work; he was a man fitted to
succeed Pontverre. Prejudiced like him against Geneva, liberty, and the
Reformation, he was less noble, less virtuous, and less headstrong than
that unhappy gentleman, but surpassed him in genius and in ability. He
had sworn that either he or Geneva should give way and perish.... The
oath was accomplished, but not in the manner he had anticipated. The
knights of the Spoon, summoned by the bishop, excited by La Sarraz,
supported by the fugitive mamelukes, and approved of by the duke, took
the field immediately. They intercepted the provisions intended for
Geneva, and sharp skirmishes occurred every day. If any citizen went
beyond the walls to look after his farm or attend to his business, the
knights would fall upon him and beat him, shut him up in one of their
castle dungeons, and sometimes kill him. But all this was a mere
prelude. The bishop came to an understanding with the Baron of La
Sarraz, through his cousin, M. de Ranzonière. Another conference took
place at Arbois towards the middle of September 1530. After a long
conversation about the heresy and independence of Geneva, and the
strange changes and singular perils to which that city and the
surrounding provinces were exposed, they decided upon a general
attack.[837]
On the 20th of September, the men-at-arms of the knights of the Spoon,
the Burgundians of the bishop, and the ducal troops, made arrangements
to surprise Geneva. On the 24th of September, some well-disposed people
came and told the citizens that the Duke of Nemours was at Montluel in
Bresse, three leagues from Lyons, with a large army. It was the Count of
Genevois, younger brother of the Duke of Savoy, whom his sister, the
mother of Francis I., had created Duke of Nemours in 1515. He was, as we
have already remarked, an able man, and, even while courting the
Genevans, desired nothing better than to destroy their city. His sister,
Louisa of Savoy, whose hostile disposition towards the Gospel we have
seen, thought it a very laudable thing to crush a place in which the
protestants, persecuted by her in France, might find an asylum. The six
captains of Geneva, on hearing this alarming intelligence, assembled
their troops and addressed them in a touching proclamation. This was on
Sunday, the 25th of September. 'We have been informed,' they said, 'that
our enemies will attack us very shortly. We pray you therefore to
forgive one another, and be ready to die in the defence of your rights.'
The citizens unanimously replied to these noble words: 'We are willing
to do so.'[838]
[Sidenote: TROOPS MARCH AGAINST GENEVA.]
The next day, Monday, the 26th of September, a man of Granson, coming
from Burgundy, confirmed the news of the danger impending over the city.
'Everything is in motion on our side,' he told them. 'M. de St. Sorlin
has declared that _God and the world_ are enraged against Geneva (it was
the favourite expression of his family); companies of arquebusiers are
about to cross the Jura; the gentlemen of the Spoon are approaching with
a large number of armed men, and the day after the feast of St. Michael
they will enter Geneva by force, to kill the men, women, and children,
and plunder the city.' The man of Granson, at the request of the
syndics, hurried off to carry the news to Berne and Friburg.[839]
It was a singular thing, this expedition against Geneva in behalf of the
_holy faith_, for there was not a church in the city where mass was not
sung, and not one where the Gospel was preached. It was still a catholic
city; but, we must confess, it contained little really worthy of the
name, except old walls, old ceremonies, and old priests. Mass was
performed, but the huguenots, instead of listening to it, walked up and
down the aisles. The Reformation was everywhere in Geneva, and yet it
was nowhere. The bishop, the duke, and even the emperor, who were not
very acute judges, confounded liberty with the Gospel; and seeing that
liberty was in Geneva, they doubted not that the Gospel was there also.
[Sidenote: GENEVA BLOCKADED.]
On Friday, the 30th of September, the enemy's army debouched on all
sides of Geneva. The six captains of Geneva and their six hundred men
got their arms ready. At this moment envoys arrived from Friburg,
wishing to see, hear, and advise the councils. They had hardly entered
the city, when the troops of Savoy, Burgundy, and Vaud were seen
preparing to blockade it. A Friburg herald left immediately, to carry
the news to his lords; but at Versoix the ducal soldiers were on their
guard; the messenger was seized and conducted to the knight of the Spoon
who commanded in the castle. It was to no purpose that he declared
himself to be a Friburger: 'You wear neither the arms nor the colours of
Friburg,' was the reply; 'go back to Geneva.' And as the herald insisted
upon passing (he had had good reasons for not putting on his uniform),
the knights maltreated him and drove him before them close up to the
drawbridge of Geneva, insulting him from time to time in a very
offensive manner. The night was then approaching; the steps of the
horses and the shouts of the horsemen could be heard in the city; it was
believed that the assault was about to be made, and some citizens ran
off to ring the tocsin. The alarm continued through the night.
The enemy had pitched their camp at Saconnex, on the right bank of the
Rhone and the lake, about half a league from Geneva, in the direction of
Gex and the Jura. On Saturday, the 1st of October, they sallied forth
early in the morning, pillaged the houses round the city, set fire to
several farms, and returned to their camp: this was a petty prelude to
the meditated attack. At this moment a second herald, coming from
Friburg, was brought in. He had been stopped at Versoix, for nobody
could pass that post in either direction. The Friburgers, uneasy at
receiving no news from Geneva, had sent this man to learn whether their
friends were really in danger or not. 'What is your business?' asked the
officers. The herald, who had learnt the story of his colleague, had
recourse to a stratagem which the usages of war justify, but christian
truth condemns. 'I am ordered,' he said, 'to go and tell our ambassadors
that they must return immediately; and that if Monsieur of Savoy needs
the help of my lords of Friburg, they will assist him.' The Savoyards,
delighted at the mission of the Friburger, hastened to set him at
liberty; he went on to Geneva, and told the whole affair to the
ambassadors of his canton. The latter, extremely pleased at his
dexterity, asked him if he could once more make his way through the
triple barrier that the cavaliers had raised between Geneva and Friburg.
He was to report that the state of affairs was as bad as could be; and
that Geneva, attacked by superior forces, was on the point of falling.
'We have no time to write,' they added, for they feared their letters
would be intercepted; 'but we give you our rings as a token. Go
speedily, and tell the lords of the two cities (Berne and Friburg), that
if they wish to succour the city of Geneva, _they must do so now or_
_never_.' Prompt help from the Swiss could alone preserve the liberties
of Geneva. The cunning Friburger departed; but even should he succeed in
making his way through the Savoyard troops lying between Friburg and
Geneva, what might not happen before a Swiss army could arrive?[840]
The next day, Sunday, the 2nd of October, the episcopal army was put in
motion; it surrounded the city; a part of the Savoyard troops occupied
the suburb of St. Leger and the monasteries of St. Victor and Our Lady
of Grace; another part was drawn up opposite the Corraterie. The
Genevans could no longer restrain themselves: the gates of the
Corraterie were thrown open, and a number of the more intrepid sallied
out upon the Savoyards, who received them with their arquebuses: one
citizen was shot dead, and the others returned into the city. Erelong
similar skirmishes took place on every side, and the trainbands of
Geneva, firing upon the enemy from the wall, killed several of them.
Masters of the suburbs, the Savoyard army waited until night to make the
assault. _Death and plunder_ was the pass-word given by the leaders.
The situation of Geneva became more critical every hour. In the evening,
just as the bell was ringing for vespers, there was a gleam of light in
the stormy sky. Ambassadors arrived from Berne; they had passed through
the enemy's lines, doubtless in consequence of their diplomatic
character. They immediately visited their Friburg colleagues, who made
known to them all their fears: 'Yet a few hours more,' they said, 'and
Romish despotism will perhaps triumph over the Genevese liberties.' The
Swiss did not lose a moment, but despatched a herald, post-haste, to
demand immediate support. A part of the defenders of Geneva went to
their homes to take some slight repose.
[Sidenote: NIGHT ASSAULT.]
The night closed in, but a bright moon permitted every movement to be
observed which took place without the city. At midnight the moon set:
darkness and silence for some time reigned upon the walls. This was the
hour fixed for the assault. The bands of Savoy and Burgundy and the
knights of the Spoon moved forward without noise, and soon reached the
ditch, in readiness to attack the city. It was easy for them to break in
the gates and to scale the walls. The sentries on the ramparts listened,
and tried to make out the movements of the enemy. The Genevans were all
determined to sacrifice their lives, but they were too few to defend
their homes against such an army. They had to fear enemies still more
formidable. It was asserted that the governor of the Low Countries, the
pope, the Dukes of Lorraine and Gueldres, and the King of France were
all pushing forward troops against the city. The alarm had been given in
the courts of Europe by a recent act of the Landgrave of Hesse. He was
negotiating a treaty with the cantons of Zurich and Basle, by the terms
of which each of the contracting parties was bound to support the others
in case of violence against the cause of the Gospel. 'Might not Philip
do the same with Berne and Geneva?' said some. 'Might not the latter
city become an asylum of the Reformation in the south, for the
populations of the Latin tongue?... No time must be lost in destroying
it.'[841]
People were talking of these things at Augsburg. The protestant princes
and doctors had quitted that city, where the famous diet had just ended:
a month had been given them to become reconciled with Rome. But
Charles V., who did not reckon much upon this _entente cordiale_ between
the pope and Luther, had declared that he would terminate the
controversy with the sword, and had given orders to raise a powerful
army to crush both protestants and protestantism: that, however, was not
to be done before the spring of next year. One day, when the emperor was
conversing about Geneva with Duke Frederick and other catholic
princes,[842] despatches were brought him announcing the march of
different armed bodies against Geneva. Charles always displayed a
prudence and reserve in his plans, which proceeded as much from nature
as from habit. As his faculties had been developed slowly, he had
accustomed himself to ponder upon everything with close attention; he
had decided in particular that not a shot ought to be fired in Europe
against the protestants before the spring of 1531, and had instructed
his brother-in-law of Savoy to that effect. Accordingly, when he learnt,
in October, that an attack was preparing against Geneva, he gave
utterance to his vexation. 'Ha!' he exclaimed, 'the Duke of Savoy is
beginning this business too soon!'[843] 'These words give cause for
reflection,' said the deputies of Nuremberg, who reported them to their
senate. After Geneva, their own turn would come, no doubt.
[Sidenote: MYSTERIOUS RETREAT OF THE SAVOYARDS.]
Meanwhile, about one o'clock on a pitch-dark night, the troops of the
duke, the bishop, and the knights of the Spoon had come up close to the
ditch. But, strange to say, they remained inactive. They neither broke
down the gates nor mounted the walls: on the contrary, 'the nearer they
approached,' says Balard, who was in the city, '_the more their hearts
failed them._' Besides the knights of Vaud and the leaders of the
Burgundian bands, there were in the besieging army a certain number of
officers holding their commissions immediately from his highness the
duke. On a sudden these Savoyard captains drew back; they moved away,
and left the others at the edge of the ditch. This unexpected defection
surprised every one: the soldiers asked what it meant.... The troops
fell into disorder, a panic soon ran through their ranks, and in a
moment there was a general flight, their only exploit being the
plundering of the suburbs.
The officers of Savoy, as they retired, said that the duke 'had
commanded them to withdraw under pain of death.' He had indeed received
the emperor's orders not to begin the war before the spring; but he
could not resolve to arrange his plans in harmony with those of his
illustrious ally. Always anxious to make himself master of Geneva, he
had let things take their course. A more pressing message from the
emperor had arrived. The duke, much vexed, had communicated it with a
bad grace to his captains. Had it only reached them at the moment they
were making the attack? or did they hesitate at the very time when,
blinded by hatred, they were about to escalade the walls in defiance of
the orders of the puissant emperor? Had their courage failed them at the
last step? This seems the most probable conclusion. There is, however, a
certain mystery in the whole incident which it is difficult to
penetrate. Geneva, alone in the presence of a gallant and numerous army,
was defended during this memorable night by an unknown and invisible
power. The Genevans believed it to be the hand of the Almighty. Did they
not read in Scripture that a city, inhabited by the people of God,
having been compassed by horses, and chariots, and a great host, the
mountain round about was miraculously filled with horses and chariots of
fire in far greater numbers?[844] None of these indeed had been seen
upon the Alps, but the arm of the Lord had put the enemy to the rout.
'The bark of God's miracles' had been once more saved in the midst of
the breakers. The citizens reiterated in their homes, in the streets,
and in the council, the expression of their gratitude. 'Ah!' said syndic
Balard, 'the faint heart, the sudden discouragement of those who had
conspired against the city, came from the grace and pity of God!'[845]
The citizens wished to open the gates and follow in pursuit of the
enemy; but the ambassadors of Berne and Friburg restrained them. The
flight was so extraordinary that these warlike diplomatists feared that
it was a stratagem. 'You do not know,' they said, 'how great is the
cunning of the enemy. Wait until you receive help from our masters,
which we hope will soon arrive.'
[Sidenote: FIFTEEN THOUSAND SWISS ARRIVE.]
In fact, fifteen thousand of those soldiers who were the terror of
Europe were then entering the Pays de Vaud with ten pieces of cannon and
colours flying, and were marching to Geneva. Some of the citizens
regretted the arrival of these troops, who came (they said) when they
were not wanted, and who would be an expense to the city; but the more
far-sighted thought their presence still necessary. The enemies of the
new order of things still threatened Geneva on every side, and were even
in Geneva, always ready to renew the attack. It was necessary to put a
stop to the violence of these feudal lords and the intrigues of the
monks; it was necessary to free the country once for all from the
robbers who spread desolation all around; and the Swiss army was looked
upon as called to accomplish this work. This was also what the Bernese
and Friburgers said, and they spared no pains to deliver the inhabitants
of the shores of the Leman from their continual alarms. They did no harm
to the peasants, except that they 'lived upon the good man;'[846] but
they captured, plundered, and burnt the castles of the knights of the
Spoon. The garrisons fled at their approach, carrying away baggage,
treasures, and artillery across the lake to Thonon: boats were
continually passing from one shore to the other. The priests and friars
were not looked upon with very friendly eyes by the _Lutherans_, and
here and there they had their gowns torn; but not one of them was
wounded. One hundred and twenty Genevans, encouraged by this news, put
to flight at Meyrin eight hundred soldiers of Savoy and Gex.
At noon on Monday, the 10th of October, the Swiss army, with the avoyer
D'Erlach at its head, marched into Geneva. But where could they put
fifteen thousand soldiers in that little city? The citizens received a
great number; a part were quartered in the convents. 'Come, fathers,
make room,' said the quartermasters to the Dominicans. The monks gave up
their dormitories very unwillingly; but that did not matter: six
companies, '_all Lutherans_,' were lodged in the convent, and two
hundred horses were turned loose in their burial-ground to feed upon the
grass. The Augustine and Franciscan monasteries, as well as the houses
of the canons and other churchmen, were also filled with troops. These
men carried on the controversy in their own fashion—that is, in a
military and not an evangelical manner. A great number of them had to
bivouac in the open air. The Bernese artillerymen, who were posted round
the Oratory, situated between the city and Plainpalais, felt cold during
the night. They first began to examine the chapel, and then entered it,
and took away the altar and the wooden images, with which they made a
good fire. They were not, however, yet at their ease: these rough
Helvetians, having no desire to lie down or to remain standing all
night, broke up a large cross, and with the fragments made seats on
which they sat round the fire. Some Friburgers, observing what they
considered to be a sacrilege, went up to the Bernese and reprimanded
them sharply, asking them why they did not go and look for wood
somewhere else. 'The wood from the churches is usually very dry,' coolly
answered the artillerymen. These catholic Friburgers were no doubt
superstitious; but perhaps the Bernese were not very pious, and most of
them, while destroying the _idols_ without, left those standing that
were within.
[Sidenote: THE NUNS OF ST. CLAIRE.]
The Genevans anxiously looked about for quarters for their guests, being
unwilling to leave these confederates without shelter, who had quitted
everything for them. As the city was not large enough, the country was
laid under contribution. At the extremity of a fine promontory which
stretches from the southern shore into the lake, at Belle Rive, about a
league from the city, stood a convent of Cistercian nuns, staunch
partisans of the duke, and who were suspected of intriguing in his
favour, and of having been greatly delighted when the Savoyard army had
beleaguered the city not long before. 'Come with us,' said certain young
huguenots to a Swiss company bivouacking in the open air; 'we will
provide you comfortable quarters, situated in a beautiful locality.'
They marched off immediately. The nuns, whose hearts palpitated with
fear, were on the watch, and, looking from their windows, they saw a
body of soldiers advancing by the lake. Hastily throwing off their
conventual dress, they disguised themselves and took refuge in the
neighbouring cottages. At last the troop arrived. Were the Genevans and
Bernese irritated by this flight, or did they intend to follow the
custom of burning the houses of those who plotted against the State? We
cannot tell; but, be that as it may, they set fire to the convent, not,
however, to the church, and the house itself suffered but little, for
the nuns returned to it soon after. When the flames were seen from
Geneva, they occasioned much excitement; but nothing could equal that of
the sisters of St. Claire.[847] The poor nuns, huddling together in
their garden, looked at the fire with terror, and exclaimed: 'It is a
sword of sorrow to us, like that which pierced the Virgin.' They ran
backwards and forwards, they entered the church, they returned to the
garden, and fell down at the foot of the altar, and then, looking again
at the flames, devoutly crossed themselves. 'We must depart,' they said,
and immediately the best scholars among them drew up, as well as their
emotion permitted, a humble petition addressed to the syndics. 'Fathers
and dear protectors,' said they, 'on our bended knees and with uplifted
hands, we, being greatly alarmed, entreat you by the honour of our
Redeemer, of his virgin mother, of Monsieur St. Pierre, and Madame St.
Claire, and all the saints of paradise, to be pleased to allow us to go
out from your city in safety.' Three of the most devout members of the
council went to the convent to comfort them. 'Fear nothing,' they said,
'for the city has not the least intention of becoming Lutheran.'[848]
A certain consideration was shown towards the sisters, by requiring them
to find quarters for only twenty-five soldiers, all Friburgers, 'good
catholics,' says one of the nuns, 'and hearing mass willingly.' But
alas! the mass did not make them more merciful. 'They were as thievish
as the others,' says the same nun. Shortly after their arrival they
threatened to break down the doors and the walls, if the nuns did not
supply them with as much to eat and drink as they wanted. It is true
that the sisters put the soldiers upon spare diet, giving them only a
few peas.[849] This little garrison, however, was of advantage to the
church of St. Claire: it was the only place in Geneva where the Roman
worship was performed. The Friburgers, at the request of the sisters,
took post at the door, and prevented the _heretics_ from entering, but
gave admission _by order_ to all the priests and monks of Geneva who
showed themselves. The latter came dressed as laymen, carrying their
robes under their arms; they went into the vestry, put on their clerical
costume, entered the chapel, drew up round the altar, and chanted mass
_in pontificalibus_. When the service was over, the nuns congratulated
each other: 'What glory Madame St. Claire has over Madame Magdalen,
Monsieur St. Gervais, and even M. St. Pierre!' It was a great
consolation and indescribable honour to them.
The mass, however, was not to have all its own way in Geneva. The
Bernese desired to have the Word of God preached; consequently, on
Tuesday, the 11th of October, they proceeded to the cathedral with their
evangelical almoner, and ordered the doors to be opened. Some of them
went into the tower and rang the episcopal bells, after which the
almoner went up into the pulpit, read a portion of Scripture, and
preached a sermon. A great number of Genevans had gone to the church and
watched this new worship from a distance. They did not fully understand
it; but they saw that the reading of God's Word, its explanation, and
prayer were the essential parts, and they liked that better than the
Roman form. From that time, the evangelical service was repeated daily,
and 'no other bell, little or big, rang in Geneva.' The priests consoled
themselves by thinking that 'the accursed minister preached in German.'
The _German_, however, went further: he had brought with him some copies
of the Holy Scriptures in French, and French translations of several of
the writings of Zwingle, Luther, and other reformers; and when the
Genevans who had heard him without understanding him went to pay him a
visit, he gave them these books, after shaking hands with them, and in
this way prepared their minds for the work of the Reformation.
[Sidenote: CASTLES TAKEN AND BURNT.]
While these books might be producing some internal good, the Genevans
were anxious for another reform. They wished to purge the country of the
outrages, robberies, and murders which the nobility in the neighbourhood
of Geneva, still more than those in the Pays de Vaud, had made the
peaceful burghers endure so long. This also was a reform, though
different from that of Luther and Farel. 'Come along with us,' they said
to the terrible bands of Friburg and Berne, 'and we will lead you to
these brigands' nests.' The Swiss troops, guided by the Genevans,
appeared successively before the castles of Gaillard, Vilette,
Confignon, Sacconex, and others. They captured and set fire to many of
these haunts, where the noble robbers had so often hidden their plunder
and their prey. The terror of the partisans of the old order of things
now became extreme. The sisters of St. Claire thought that everything
was on fire round Geneva. 'Look!' said they, standing on the highest
part of their garden, 'look! although the weather is fair, the sky is
darkened by the smoke.' They fancied it was the last day. 'Of a surety,'
they added, 'the elements are about to be dissolved.' The desolation was
still greater in the country. The captain-general had issued an order
forbidding all marauding, but the soldiers rarely attended to it. The
peasantry were seen running away like sheep before the wolf; the
gentlemen hid themselves in the woods or the mountains; and several
noble dames, who had taken refuge in miserable huts, 'were brought to
bed there very wretchedly.'[850]
Although certain accusations have been brought against them, the nuns of
St. Claire were sincere in their devotion, and moral in their conduct;
and while the dissolute friars kept silence, these superstitious but
virtuous women appeared to stand alone by the side of popery in its
agony. Desiring to appease the wrath of heaven, they made daily
processions in their garden, barefooted in the white frost, chanting low
the litanies of the Virgin and the saints 'to obtain mercy.' They passed
all the night in vigils, 'praying to God in behalf of his holy faith and
the poor world.' After matins they lighted the tapers, and scourged
themselves; then bending to the earth, they exclaimed: _Ave, benigne
Jesu!_ 'hail, gentle Jesus!' Sister Jeanne affirms that by these means
they worked miracles. Indeed, one of the _mahometists_ (huguenots),
having flung a consecrated wafer into a cemetery, it could not be found
again: 'the angels had carried it away and put it in some unknown
place.'[851] It was not very miraculous that so small an object could
not be found among the grass and between the graves of a cemetery. A
miracle more real was worked.
The Duke of Nemours, brother of the Duke of Savoy, who, as we have seen,
had come from France with his men-at-arms to attack Geneva, laid aside
his warlike humour when he found the Swiss in the city, and, wishing to
conciliate the Genevans, repeated to all who came near him that he had
never intended to do them any harm, and would punish severely everybody
who was guilty of violence towards them. A truce was concluded at St.
Julien. The definitive treaty of peace was referred to a Swiss diet to
be held at Payerne. The bishop released the merchants, the cows, and the
goats he had seized, and the Genevans set Mandolla at liberty; 'but,'
adds Bonivard, 'I was not taken out of Chillon.'[852]
[Footnote 830: _Journal de Balard_, pp. 274-280. Registres du Conseil
des 23 juin; 5, 8, 19 juillet; 9 août. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 576.
Galiffe fils, _Besançon Hugues_, pp. 398, 399. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 831: MS. _Hist. of Geneva_ in the Berne library, erroneously
ascribed to Bonivard.]
[Footnote 832: _Journal de Balard_, pp. 274-280. Registres du Conseil
des 23 juin; 5, 8, 19 juillet; 9 août. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 576.
Galiffe fils, _Besançon Hugues_, pp. 398, 399. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 833: _Journal de Balard_, p. 280.]
[Footnote 834: Roset MS. _Chroniq._ liv. ii. ch. xlix. Registres du
Conseil du 4 juillet et du 12 août.]
[Footnote 835: Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp. 577, 578. Besson, _Mémoires
du Diocèse de Genève_, p. 62. Gautier MS.]
[Footnote 836: See vol. i. p. 69.]
[Footnote 837: Gautier MS. Besson, _Mémoires du Diocèse de Genève_.
Galiffe fils, _Besançon Hugues_, p. 400. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp.
577, 578.]
[Footnote 838: _Journal de Balard_, p. 286.]
[Footnote 839: Ibid. p. 287.]
[Footnote 840: _Journal de Balard_, p. 289.]
[Footnote 841: Sleidan, _Hist. de la Réformation_, liv. vii. _Journal de
Balard_, p. 289.]
[Footnote 842: 'Als der Kayser mit Herzog Friedrichen und andern Fürsten
des Krieges vor Genf zu reden worden.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 421.]
[Footnote 843: 'Hat der Kayser unter andern in Französisch geredet: Ey,
der Herzog hat die Sache zu früh angefangen.'—_Corp. Ref._ ii. p. 421.]
[Footnote 844: 2 Kings vi. 17.]
[Footnote 845: _Journal de Balard_, pp. 289, 290.]
[Footnote 846: 'Ils vivaient sur le bon homme.' _Bon homme_ was a term
applied by the nobles to the peasantry. Hence the war of _Jacques
Bon-homme_ in France.]
[Footnote 847: Their convent was in the upper part of the city where the
palace of justice now stands, in the Bourg de Four.]
[Footnote 848: La Sœur J. de Jussie, pp. 11-14.]
[Footnote 849: La Sœur J. de Jussie, p. 18.]
[Footnote 850: La Sœur J. de Jussie, p. 21.]
[Footnote 851: La Sœur J. de Jussie, pp. 23-25.]
[Footnote 852: Ibid. pp. 20-25. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. p. 586. Gautier
MS.]
CHAPTER XII.
GENEVA RECLAIMED BY THE BISHOP AND AWAKENED BY THE
GOSPEL.
(NOVEMBER 1530 TO OCTOBER 1531.)
[Sidenote: IMPERIAL LETTER TO GENEVA]
Thus had failed the attack of the bishop-prince against his city; and it
was much to be feared that such an act, instead of restoring his power,
would only accelerate his fall. Pierre de la Baume saw this, and
resolved to employ other means to regain in Geneva the authority he had
lost.
The thought that the Helvetic league was to be the arbiter between
Geneva and her bishop-prince oppressed him like a nightmare: he did not
doubt that the diet would pronounce against him. A clever idea occurred
to him. 'If,' said he, 'I could but have the emperor as arbiter, instead
of the Swiss.... Surely the monarch, who is preserving the papacy in
Germany, will preserve it also at Geneva.' Charles V. and the catholic
party were still at Augsburg; and the bishop would have desired to
substitute a congress of princes for a diet of republicans. 'In truth,'
said the emperor, when this petition was laid before him, 'we should not
like the rights of the most reverend father in God, the Bishop of
Geneva, to be prejudiced.... They are of imperial foundation; and it is
our duty, therefore, to maintain them.' Charles had never been more
irritated against the protestants than he was now. It was the middle of
November: the imperial _recess_ had just been rejected by the
evangelicals, because the emperor (they said) had not authority to
command in matters of faith.[853] The deputies of Saxony and Hesse had
left without waiting for the close of the diet. The imperialists assured
the friends of the Bishop of Geneva that he could not have chosen a
better time, and that his cause was gained. On the 19th of November
proclamation was to be made in Augsburg of the re-establishment 'of one
and the same faith throughout the empire.' On the evening before, while
this was being drawn up, the emperor called his secretary, and dictated
to him the following letter, addressed to the people of Geneva:—
'DEAR LIEGEMEN,
'We have been informed that there is a question between you and our
cousin, the Duke of Savoy, about matters touching the rights of our
well-beloved cousin and counsellor, the Bishop of Geneva. We have
desired to write to you about that, enjoining you very expressly to send
to our imperial authority persons well informed on all points in dispute
between the bishop and yourselves. We shall demand the same of the said
lords, the duke and the bishop, our cousins, for the settlement of your
differences, which will be for the welfare and tranquillity of both
parties. You will thus learn the desire we have that _our subjects_
should live in peace, friendship, and concord.
'Dear liegemen, may God watch over you!
'At Augsburg, 18th of November, 1530.
'CHARLES.'
[Sidenote: ANSWER OF THE GENEVESE.]
This letter from his imperial majesty created a great sensation in
Geneva. It was known that Charles V. was preparing to reduce mighty
princes, and every one perceived the danger that threatened the city.
'What!' said the people, 'we are to send deputies to Augsburg, and
perhaps to Austria, where they will meet those of the bishop and the
duke ... and the emperor will be our judge!' The councils assembled
frequently without coming to any decision as to the answer to be
returned. First one and then another was commissioned to draw it up.
Councillor Genoux produced a draft signed 'Your very humble
subjects.'—'We are not subjects,' exclaimed the huguenots. At length
they decided on writing as follows:—
'Most serene, most invincible, very high and mighty Prince Charles,
always august. For this long time past, we, in defence of the authority
and franchises of our prince-bishop and city of Geneva, have suffered
many vexations, great charges, expenses, and dangers, proceeding from
the most illustrious duke. Quite recently we were surrounded by armed
men, his subjects, and outrageously attacked. Nevertheless, by God's
will and the kind succour of the magnificent lords of Berne and Friburg,
we have been preserved from this assault—to relate which would be
wearisome to your majesty.' The council added that, as the settlement
which the emperor desired to undertake would be arranged at Payerne
before the Swiss diet, they could not profit by his good intentions, and
concluded by commending to him the city of Geneva, 'which, from desiring
to observe its strict duty, would have been almost destroyed but for the
grace of God.'[854]
Thus did the little city boldly decline the intervention of the great
emperor. The duke and the bishop had hoped that Charles V., who was in
their opinion called to destroy the Reformation in Germany, would begin
by crushing it in Geneva. Accordingly, when the news of the Genevese
refusal reached the ears of the duke and the bishop, their indignation
knew no bounds. 'Since these rebels reject the peaceful mediation of the
emperor,' they said, 'we must bring the matter to an end with the
sword.' They once more resolved to take the necessary steps, but with as
much secresy as possible, so that the Swiss should not be informed of
them. The Duke of Nemours, who had not made use of his army, instructed
ten thousand lansquenets who were at Montbéliard to move as quietly as
they could behind the Jura, arrive at St. Claude, descend as far as Gex,
and, two days before the opening of the diet of Payerne which the bishop
so much dreaded, _suddenly take Geneva by storm, set it on fire_, and,
leaving a heap of ashes behind them, retire rapidly into Burgundy before
the Swiss could have time to arrive. At the same time messengers were
sent to all the castles of the Pays de Vaud, inviting the gentlemen to
hold themselves in readiness. On his side, the Duke of Savoy, who was
then at Chambéry, made 'great preparation' of armed men and adventurers,
both Italian and French. Everything, he said, was to be completed with
the greatest secresy.
[Sidenote: DECISION OF THE DIET OF PAYERNE.]
But Charles was less discreet than his brother; he could not keep
silence, but boasted of the clever _coup de main_ that he was preparing.
On the other hand, a man coming from Montbéliard to Berne reported that
he had seen ten thousand soldiers reviewed in that town. At this
intelligence, the energetic lords of Berne desired all the cantons to
hold themselves in readiness to succour Geneva, and threatened the
gentry of the Pays de Vaud to waste their country with fire and sword if
they moved. Meanwhile the council called out all the citizens. Thus the
mine was discovered, the blow failed, and the duke, once more
disappointed in his expectations, left Chambéry for Turin.[855] The diet
which met at Payerne, even while conceding the vidamy to the duke (which
he was not in a condition to reclaim), maintained the alliance of
Geneva, Berne, and Friburg, and condemned Charles III. to pay these
three cities 21,000 crowns. Geneva and Berne desired more than this:
they demanded that Bonivard should be set at liberty—'if perchance he be
not dead,' they added. The Count of Chalans replied that M. St. Victor
was 'a lawful prisoner.'[856]
As neither war nor diplomacy had succeeded in restoring the
prince-bishop to his see, he had recourse to less secular means: he
turned to the pope, who determined to grant the city a marvellous favour
by which he hoped to attach once more the bark of Geneva to the ship of
St. Peter. The heroism which the sisters of St. Claire had shown when
the Swiss had come to the help of the city in October 1530, had touched
the pontiff: among the conventuals of Geneva the only men were the
women. The pope therefore granted a general pardon to all who should
perform certain devotions in the church of that convent. On Annunciation
Day (March 25) this remarkable grace was published throughout the
country.
[Sidenote: PILGRIMAGE TO ST. CLAIRE.]
An immense crowd from all the Savoyard villages flocked to the city, 'in
great devotion,' on the first day. Chablais, Faucigny, Genevois, and Gex
were full of devotees strongly opposed to the Reformation; they were
delighted at going to pay homage in Geneva itself to the principles for
which they had so often taken up arms. As they saw these long lines
approach their walls, the citizens felt a certain fear. 'Let us be on
our guard,' they said, 'lest under the dress of pilgrims the knights and
men-at-arms of the Spoon should be concealed.' They suddenly closed the
city gates. The pilgrims continuing to arrive soon made a crowd, and,
being fatigued with their long march, exclaimed in a pitiful voice:
'Pray open the gates, for we have come from a distance.' But the
Genevans were deaf. Then appeared the pilgrims from Faucigny, energetic
and vigorous men, who got angry, and finding words of no avail, they
forced the gates, and proceeded to the church of St. Claire, where they
began unceremoniously to say their _Paters_ and _Aves_. According to a
bull of Adrian VI., it was sufficient to repeat five of these to obtain
seventy thousand years of pardon.[857] The colour mounted to the cheeks
of some of the huguenots, who would have resisted the unlawful
intrusion; but the Faucignerans continued their devotions as calmly as
if they had been in their own villages. Then the syndics went to St.
Claire (it was the hour of vespers), accompanied by their sergeants
'with drawn swords and stout staves,' and made the usual summons for
these strangers to leave the city. Upon the refusal of the Savoyards,
the public force interfered; the Faucignerans resisted, blows were
exchanged, and finally these extraordinary pilgrims were compelled to
retire without having gained their pardon. This scene increased the
dislike of the Genevans to the Romish ceremonies. To publish indulgences
was a curious means of strengthening catholicism in Geneva. Pope
Clement VII. forgot that Leo X. had thus given the signal for the
Reformation.[858]
When these scenes were described at Rome, they excited great irritation.
The sacred college determined to try again, and to exhibit in the very
midst of this heretic population a still more striking act of Roman
devotion. Clement VII. called his secretary and dictated to him, 'of
divine inspiration,' a new pardon, to which the Bishop of Geneva affixed
his _placet_, and which inflicted the penalty of excommunication on any
who should oppose it. This bull was published in the Savoyard country
adjacent to Geneva. The parish priests had scarcely announced the pardon
from their pulpits, ere the villages were astir, and men and women, old
and young, made their arrangements to go and seek the glorious grace
offered them in the city of the huguenots. The Genevans, friends of
religious liberty and legality, determined to offer no hindrance to
these devotions. But they took their precautions, and the
captain-general called out a strong guard. The pilgrims approached,
staff in hand, some carrying a cross on their shoulders; and erelong a
great crowd of Savoyards appeared before the walls. Here they were
compelled to halt. At each gate were arquebusiers, a great many of them
huguenots, who searched the pilgrims lest they should carry swords
beneath their clothes, in addition to their staves. The examination was
made, not without much grumbling, but no arms were found.
Then the devoted multitude rushed into the city, and crowded into the
church of St. Claire as if it had been that of Our Lady of Loretto. The
Genevans suffered the pilgrims to go through all their forms without
obstruction. If the Savoyards wished to perform their devotions, they
reckoned also, as is usual in affairs of this kind, upon eating and
drinking, and that abundantly. The crowd for this part of the pilgrimage
was so great, that the tavern-keepers, for want of room, were forced to
set tables in the open air. This mixture of praying and drinking made
the spectators smile, and some of the huguenots gave vent to their
sarcastic humour: 'Really,' said one, 'this pardon is quite an
ecclesiastical fair' (_nundinæ ecclesiasticæ_)! 'The fair,' said
another, 'is more useful than people imagine. By these pilgrimages the
priests revive the flagging zeal of their flocks. They are nets in which
the simple birds come and are caught.' 'I very much fear,' added a
third, 'that in order to sell her indulgences, the Church makes many
promises which God certainly will not fulfil.... It is a pious fraud, as
Thomas Aquinas says.'—'Let them alone,' said others, 'let them bring
their money ... and then, when the plate is well filled, we will empty
it.' They did not proceed to such extremities: the syndics merely
forbade the money to be spent out of the city.[859]
[Sidenote: PRIDE OF THE NUNS OF ST. CLAIRE.]
The sisters of St. Claire rejoiced. The pope had honoured them in the
sight of all christendom; their monastery was on the way to become a
celebrated place. They believed themselves to be the favourites of God
and of the heavenly intelligences, and imagined that angels would come
to their assistance. As the plague was then raging in Geneva, they
saw—surprising miracle!—the hosts of heaven leaving their glorious
abodes to preserve the convent: the plague did not visit it. All the
nuns were convinced that this was due to a miraculous intervention. And
when the sisters, in church or in refectory, at vespers or at matins,
conversed about this great grace, they whispered to one another: 'Three
wondrously handsome and formidable knights, each having a beautiful
shining cross on his forehead, keep watch before the gate.... And when
the wicked plague appears, she sees them straight in front of her, and
flees away, fearing the brightness of their faces.' Sister Jeanne de
Jussie informs us of this miraculous fact, and concludes her narrative
with this pious exclamation: 'To God be the honour and praise!' Some
sensible men afterwards asked why these knights, 'with the shining cross
on their foreheads,' had not stationed themselves at the gates of Geneva
to prevent the entrance of that other plague (as Rome called it), the
Reformation?
The means which the pope had selected for reannexing Geneva to Rome, had
quite a different effect: they produced a revival of religion. The Roman
indulgence aroused the Genevans, and made them seek for a real pardon.
Had not Luther, fourteen years before, proclaimed at Wittemberg that
'_every true christian participates in all the blessings of Christ, by
God's gift, and without a letter of indulgence_?'—'This doctrine,' said
certain huguenots who had returned from a journey through the cantons,
'is received in Switzerland, and not at Zurich and Berne alone. There
are many people of Lucerne and Schwytz even, who prefer God's pardon to
the pardons of the pope.'
An invisible hand was at that time stretched over the city, and holding
a blessing in reserve for it. Farel, who was on the shores of the lake
of Neufchatel, was informed of the evangelical movement which followed
the noisy devotions of the Faucignerans, and wrote about it immediately
to Zwingle, his friend and counsellor. This was in October 1531: yet a
few more days, and the reformer of Zurich was to meet his death on the
battle-field of Cappel. This awakening of Geneva was the last news which
came to rejoice his oppressed soul. 'Many in that city,' wrote Farel,
'feel in their hearts holy aspirations after true piety.'[860] And,
according to this energetic reformer, it was something more than vague
movements of the soul that they felt. 'Several Genevans,' he wrote
another day to Zwingle, 'are meditating on the work of Christ.'[861]
[Sidenote: 'DE CHRISTO MEDITARI.']
Thus, then, did that city of Geneva, which had been so engrossed with
political independence, begin to reflect on Jesus Christ. It was the new
topic which the Reformation presented everywhere to the consideration of
earnest men. In Germany, Switzerland, France, and England, still more
than at Geneva, serious minds were beginning to meditate on Christ—_de
Christo meditari_. Some did so in a superficial manner; others devoted
themselves to it in the depths of their soul; and holy thoughts found a
home in the houses of the citizens, in the colleges, in obscure cells,
and even on the throne. 'Christ is the Redeemer of the world,' thought
these meditative minds, 'the restorer of the union with God, which sin
destroyed.... Christ came to establish the kingdom of God upon earth....
But no one can enter that kingdom unless God pardons his sins.... In
order that we may find peace, not only must our souls be relieved from
the penalty, but our consciences must be delivered from the feeling of
the sin that keeps it apart from its God.... An atonement is
necessary.... Christ, like those whom he came to save, a man like them,
is at the same time of an eternal and divine nature, which has given him
power to ransom the entire people of God, and to be the principle of a
new life.... He took upon himself the terrible penalty which we
deserved.... His whole life was one continuous expiatory suffering....
But the crowning of his sorrows, and what gave them truly the character
of expiation, was his death.... Christ, uniting himself to humanity
through love for us, suffered death under a form which bears in the most
striking manner the character of a punishment, that is to say, the pain
of a malefactor condemned by a human tribunal.... He, the Holy One,
wishing to save his people, was made sin upon the cross.... He was
treated as the representative of sinful humanity.... He, the beloved of
the Father, endured for rebellious men the most deadly anguish, the
entire abandonment by God.... From that hour the people of God enjoy the
remission of their sins, they are reconciled with God, they have free
access to the Father.... That sacrifice is of universal
comprehensiveness; no one is excluded from it ... and yet no one
receives the benefit of it, except by a personal appropriation, by being
united to Jesus Christ, by participating, through faith, in his holy and
imperishable life.'
Such, in the sixteenth century, were the meditations of elect souls in
many a secret chamber, and it is in this way that the Reformation was
accomplished. Perhaps one or two Genevans had similar thoughts; but,
generally, their knowledge was not very advanced, and most of the
huguenots desired rather to be delivered from the bishop and the duke
than from sin and condemnation. Farel did not conceal from Zwingle his
anxieties in this respect, and said, in his letter from Granson: 'As for
the degree of fervour with which the Genevans seek after piety—it is
known only to the Lord.'[862]
[Sidenote: FAREL FEELS THE WANTS OF GENEVA.]
No one interested himself more than Farel in the reformation of Geneva.
That year he was at Avenche, Payerne, Orbe, Granson, and other places;
and everywhere he ran the risk of losing his life. In one place a
sacristan threatened him with a pistol; in another, a friar tried to
kill him with a knife concealed under his frock; but Farel never thought
of himself. Of intrepid heart and indomitable will, always burning with
desire to promote the triumph of the Gospel, and prepared to confront
the most violent opposition, he felt himself strongly drawn to Geneva as
soon as he heard that the Reformation had to contend with powerful
adversaries there. He then fixed his eyes on that city, and during his
long career never turned them away from it. In the midst of his labours
at Granson, by the side of the lake, near the old castle, on the famous
battle-field, Geneva occupied his thoughts. He reflected that although
it already had a reputation for heresy, there was in reality no true
reform. What! shall the Reformation die there before it is born? He
desired to see the Word of God preached there publicly, in an
appropriate, vivifying, effective manner, and, as Calvin said, 'by
pressing the people importunately.' He desired to see the pulpit become
the seat of the prophets and apostles, the throne of Christ in his
Church. No time must be lost. The Reformation would be ruined in Geneva,
and the new times would perish with it, if the huguenots, who had ceased
to listen to the mass, were contented, as their only worship, with
walking up and down the church while the priests were chanting. The
ardent passions and warlike humour of the Genevese alarmed him. 'Alas!'
he said, 'there is no other law at Geneva than the law of arms.'[863] He
desired to establish the law of God there. He would have liked to go
there himself, and perhaps he would have carried away some by his lively
eloquence, and alarmed others by the thunders of his voice; but he owed
himself at this time to the places he was evangelising at the peril of
his life. If he quitted the work, Rome would regain her lost ground. He
therefore looked about him for a man fitted to scatter through the city
the seeds of the Word of God.
[Sidenote: CALLS TOUSSAINT TO GO THERE.]
Pierre Toussaint, the young canon of Metz, had quitted France, at the
invitation of Œcolampadius, after his sojourn at the court of the Queen
of Navarre, and had joined Zwingle at Zurich.[864] Farel came to the
determination of sending Toussaint to Geneva: they had occasionally
preached the Gospel together since 1525. 'Make haste to send him into
the Lord's vineyard,' he wrote to Zwingle, 'for you know how well fitted
he is for this work. I entreat you to extend a helping hand.'[865] And,
as if he foresaw the importance of the reformation of Geneva, he added:
'It is no small matter: see that you do not neglect it.[866] Urge
Toussaint to labour strenuously, so as to redeem by his zeal all the
time he has lost.'[867] Zwingle executed the commission. Toussaint, one
of the most amiable among the secondary personages of the Reform,
listened attentively to the great doctor, and at first showed himself
inclined to accept the call.[868] Zwingle spared no pains to bring him
to a decision: he set before him what the Gospel had already done in
Geneva, and what remained to be done. 'Enter into this house of the
Lord,' he said. 'Rend the hoods in pieces, and triumph over the
shavelings.... You will not have much trouble, for the Word of God has
already put them to flight.'[869] He did not mean that Toussaint should
literally tear the friars to pieces, for the expression is figurative;
but the energy of Farel and Zwingle, and what he heard of the Genevan
persecutions, alarmed the poor young man. He had quitted the court of
Francis I. because of the worldliness and cowardice he had encountered
there; and now, seeing in Geneva monks and priests, _bishopers_ and
_commoners_, huguenots and mamelukes, he shrank back in terror, as if
from a den of wild beasts. He had said 'No' to the court, he said 'No'
to the energetic and impetuous city. Geneva wanted heroes—men like Farel
and Calvin. The project failed.
Farel was vexed. He who had never shrunk from any summons could not
succeed in sending an evangelist into this city!... He called to mind
that all help comes from a God of mercy, and in his anguish turned to
the Lord: 'O Christ,' he said, 'draw up thy army according to thy good
pleasure; pluck out all apathy from the hearts of those who are to give
thee glory, and arouse them mightily from their slumber.'[870] The
moment was soon to arrive when he would go himself to Geneva; but before
he appeared there, his prayer would be answered. God, whom he had
invoked, was to send there within a few months a strong and modest man,
who would prepare the way for Farel, Calvin, and the Reformation.
Meanwhile several Genevans, who did not understand that a conversion of
the heart is necessary, wished to effect at least a negative reform,
which would have consisted in doing away with the mass, images, and
priests. The more daring asked why Geneva should not do like Zurich,
Berne, and Neufchatel. 'Yes,' answered the more prudent, 'if the
Friburgers would permit.'[871]
These desires for reform, weak as they were, alarmed the Romish party.
Friars, priests, and bigots got up an agitation, and, going in great
numbers before the procurator-fiscal, conjured him to lay aside his
apathy, seeing that this new religion would change everything in Geneva,
and deprive the bishop not only of his spiritual jurisdiction, but of
his secular authority also. The fiscal, who was empowered to watch over
the rights of the prince, called for a severe inquiry upon all suspected
persons.[872] At these words there was silence in the assembly: some of
the members of the council looked at one another, and felt ill at ease,
for they were among the number of the suspected. The fiscal spoke out
more plainly, and filled the hall with complaints and clamour. 'Let us
destroy heresy!' he repeated.[873] The council, perplexed to the highest
degree, evaded the matter by doing nothing either for or against it.
[Sidenote: BERNE AND FRIBURG AT GENEVA.]
The fervent catholics next proceeded to the hotel where the Friburg
ambassadors were staying. 'If Geneva is reformed,' said the latter,
'there is an end to the alliance.' The Friburgers did more than this:
leaving their lodgings, they accosted the more decided liberals, and
repeated to them in a firm tone: 'If Geneva is reformed, there is an end
to the alliance!' The huguenots hurried off to the Bernese ambassadors;
but the battle of Cappel was not far off, and it was a matter of doubt
whether the Reformation could be preserved even in Berne and Zurich. The
Bernese received the Genevans coldly, and the latter returned astonished
and incensed. 'Alas!' said Farel, 'the Bernese show less zeal for the
glory of Christ than the Friburgers for the decrees of the pope.'[874]
A new difficulty arose. The huguenots would have desired to march to the
deliverance of Zurich and the reformed, while the catholics wished to
support Lucerne and the smaller cantons. On the 11th of October—the very
day of the battle of Cappel, but it was not yet known—Berne demanded a
hundred arquebusiers of Geneva; and the next day Friburg wrote desiring
them to send all the help they could against the heretical cantons.
Which side should Geneva take? 'Let us refuse Friburg,' said some. 'Let
us refuse Berne,' said others. The former called to mind the assistance
which the most powerful republic in Switzerland had sent them; the
latter remembered that Friburg had espoused the cause of Geneva when
Berne was against them. The council, impelled in contrary directions,
resolved to preserve a just balance, and extricated themselves from
their embarrassment by the strangest middle course. They resolved that a
hundred Genevans should go and fight in favour of the Reformation, and
appointed Jean Philippe, one of the most zealous huguenots, to command
them; after which they also gave Friburg a favourable answer, and
elected syndic Girardet chief of the auxiliaries intended for the
catholics.[875]
[Footnote 853: _Hist. of the Ref. of the Sixteenth Century_, vol. iv.
bk. xiv. ch. xii.]
[Footnote 854: See the emperor's letter of Nov. 18, 1530, and the answer
of the Council, Dec. 10. Registers, December 9, 1530. Bonivard,
_Chroniq._ ii. pp. 591-594.]
[Footnote 855: _Journal de Balard_, pp. 306-309.]
[Footnote 856: Ibid. pp. 312, 313. Bonivard, _Chroniq._ ii. pp. 595,
607. Galiffe fils, _Besançon Hugues_, p. 407. Ruchat, ii. p. 305.]
[Footnote 857: Chais, _Lettres sur les Jubilés_, ii. p. 583.]
[Footnote 858: La Sœur J. de Jussie, p. 25.]
[Footnote 859: La Sœur J. de Jussie, p. 28.]
[Footnote 860: 'Sunt qui ad pietatem aspirant.'—Farel to Zwingle,
October 1, 1531, _Epp._ ii. p. 647. This letter, written from Granson
eleven days before Zwingle's death, was the last the Zurich reformer
ever received. That which comes after, dated simply from Orbe, 1531, is
evidently anterior to that from Granson.]
[Footnote 861: 'Apud Gebennenses non nihil audio de Christo
meditari.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 862: 'Sed quanto fervore novit Dominus.'—Zwingl. _Epp._ ii.
p. 647.]
[Footnote 863: 'Jus est in armis.'—Zwingl. _Epp._ ii. p. 647.]
[Footnote 864: 'Petrus Tossanus per Œcolampadium sæpe suis vocatus
literis, quibus nostras frequentes addidimus. E Gallis pulsus ad te se
contulit.'—Farel to Zwingle, Orbe, _Epp._ ii. p. 648.]
[Footnote 865: 'Quantum agnoscis idoneum, tantum adige in vineam Domini
properare.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 866: 'Res non parva est, neque contemnenda.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 867: 'Strenue laborare, id studio et diligentia compenset,
quod diu cessans omisit.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 868: 'Petrum sperabam in messem Domini venturum.'—Farel to
Zwingle, _Epp._ ii. p. 648.]
[Footnote 869: 'Fractis cuculatis aliisque rasis, quos pridem Verbum
fugasset.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 870: 'Christus pro sua bona voluntate disponat omnia!
Socordiam omnem et veternum excutias a pectoribus eorum, per quos
Christi honor procurandus venit.'—Farel to Zwingle, Orbe, _Epp._ ii. p.
648.]
[Footnote 871: 'Et si per Friburgenses liceret, asserit excipiendum
prompte Evangelium.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 872: 'In hæreticæ pravitatis suspectos severa diligentia
inquireretur.'—Spanheim, _Geneva Restituta_, p. 37.]
[Footnote 873: 'Clamosa quiritatione et crebro convitio.'—Spanheim,
_Geneva Restituta_, p. 37.]
[Footnote 874: 'Bernenses non ea diligentia laborant pro Christi gloria,
qua Friburgenses pro pontificiis placitis.'—Zwingl. _Epp._ ii. p. 648.]
[Footnote 875: Registres du Conseil des 11, 13, 14 octobre 1531.]
CHAPTER XIII.
DANGER TO WHICH GENEVA IS EXPOSED BY THE DEFEAT OF
CAPPEL.
(OCTOBER 1531 TO JANUARY 1532.)
[Sidenote: GENEVA AGAIN IN DANGER.]
The news of the war between the catholics and the reformed having
reached Turin, the duke thought it a favourable opportunity for
attacking Geneva. It was reported that five thousand lansquenets were
approaching on the side of Burgundy, ten thousand Italians on the side
of the Alps, and that all the states of his highness beyond the
mountains were in motion to fall upon the city. 'There are certain heads
in Geneva,' said the duke, 'that I purpose to set flying.' The Genevans
lost not a moment. 'Let everything be destroyed that may obstruct the
defence of the city,' said the council. 'Let all the suburbs be
levelled—Eaux Vives on the left shore of the lake; St. Victor, at the
other side of St. Antoine; St. Leger, up to the Arve; and the Corraterie
as far as the Rhone. Let every man keep a good look-out; let no one be
absent without leave; let those who are away return to defend the city;
and let solemn prayers and processions be made for three days.'[876]
Thus, while Lucerne and the smaller cantons were attacking Zurich, the
Duke of Savoy and the gentlemen of the Leman were preparing to attack
Geneva. These two cities were in the sixteenth century the capitals of
protestantism in Switzerland. Geneva, however, was still filled with
priests and monks, while the choirs of all the churches reechoed with
the matins and other chants of the Romish ritual,
De pieux fainéants y laissant en leur lieu,
A des chantres gagés, le soin de louer Dieu.
How did it happen that Geneva was at this time coupled with Zurich? It
is because that city, though not yet won over to the Reformation, was
predestined to be so: a solitary example, probably, of a state exposed
to great dangers, not so much on account of what it is, as on account of
what it will be. The beginnings of the evangelical faith to be found
there were so very small, that they would not have sufficed to draw upon
it the anathemas of the bishop and the armies of the duke; but the
election of God was brooding over it; God prepared it, tried it, and
delivered it, because of the great things for which he destined it. The
adversaries of the Gospel seemed to have a secret presentiment of this;
and they desired therefore to destroy by the same blow the city of
Zwingle and that which was to be the city of Calvin.
[Sidenote: DEFEAT AT CAPPEL: TRIUMPH OF ROME.]
All the citizens were afoot. Some armed with arquebuses mounted guard;
others marched out with their mattocks to level the suburbs. At this
moment a messenger arrived from Switzerland announcing the defeat at
Cappel: Zurich had succumbed.... At first the huguenots could not
believe the mournful news; they made the messenger repeat it; but it was
soon confirmed from various quarters, and the friends of independence
and of the Reformation bent their heads in sorrow. The arm in which they
had trusted was rudely broken. The protestant party throughout
Switzerland was disheartened, while the Roman party rejoiced. It was
told at Geneva that the mass had been restored at Bremgarten,
Rapperschwyl, and Soleure, and in all the free bailiwicks, and that the
monks were returning in triumph to their deserted cells. Was it possible
for the Reformation to plant its banners on the shores of Lake Leman, at
the very moment when it was expelled from those places where it seemed
to have been so firmly established?
The Genevan catholics anticipated their triumph. The death of the Swiss
reformer was (they thought) the end of the Reformation; they had only to
strike the final blow. Their secret meetings became more numerous;
detestable plots were concocted. The heroes of the old episcopal party,
resuming their arrogant look, walked boldly in the streets of Geneva,
some rattling their swords, others sweeping the ground with their long
robes. If they chanced to meet any _suspected_ persons, they made
contemptuous gestures at them, picked quarrels with them, insulted, and
even struck them, and the outrages remained unpunished.[877] The
Friburgers, in particular, thought everything was lawful against the
evangelicals,[878] and desiring to subdue Geneva, emulous of the
Waldstettes at the Albis, they marched through the streets in small
bands, and whenever they discovered any huguenot, they surrounded him,
carried him off, and threw him into prison without trial.[879] In this
way the partisans of the bishop expected to restore him to his episcopal
throne. Pierre de la Baume was getting ready to ascend it again.
The huguenots, astonished at the perpetration of such outrages in the
presence of the Swiss, and even by the Swiss, applied once more to the
Bernese, but in vain. The latter were unwilling to countenance a
struggle in Geneva which they were checking in other quarters. 'Let
there be no petulance, no violence,' they said; 'we have the orders of
the senate.' But, as the Genevans were not disposed to remain quiet, the
envoys of Berne assumed a grave countenance, and, putting on a
magisterial haughtiness, dismissed their unseasonable visitors. The
Genevans withdrew murmuring: 'What scandalous neglect and cowardice!'
they said; 'Messieurs of Berne think a great deal more of this world
than of the world to come.'—'The senate of Berne,' repeated Farel,
'would not put up with the slightest insult to one of their ambassadors,
and yet they make light of serious insults offered to the Gospel of
Christ.'[880]
[Sidenote: APPROACH OF THE DUKE AND HIS ARMY.]
The defeat of Zurich redoubled the energy of Duke Charles. Desirous of
adorning his brows with laurels similar to those of the victors at
Cappel, he gave orders for a general attack. The troops of Vaud and
Savoy surrounded Geneva, and cut off the supplies; the boats were seized
on both shores of the lake, and the duke arrived at Gex, three leagues
from the city, with a strong force of cavalry to superintend the
assault. Under these gloomy auspices the year 1532 began in Geneva. The
danger appeared such that, at seven in the evening of the 2nd of
January, all the heads of families assembled and resolved to keep night
and day under arms, to wall up the gates, and to die rather than
renounce the Swiss alliance and their dearest liberties. A greater
misfortune was about to befall them.[881]
On the 7th of January, five days after this courageous resolution, three
Bernese deputies, De Diesbach, De Watteville, and Nägueli, appeared
before the council. Sadness was depicted on their faces, and everything
betokened that they were the bearers of a distressful message. 'We are
come from Gex, where the duke is lying,' they said. 'He consents to
treat with you, if you will first renounce the alliance with the
cantons. Remember, he is a mighty prince, and able to do you much harm.
You have not yet paid for the last army we sent you; we cannot set
another on foot. We conjure you to come to some arrangement with his
highness.'
During this speech the Genevans flushed with anger and indignation. They
could not understand how the proud canton of Berne could ask them to
renounce the cause of independence and the Swiss alliance. The deputy
having ended his address—the general council of the people had been
convened to hear it—the premier syndic replied: 'We will listen to no
arrangement except how to preserve the alliance. The more we are
threatened, the firmer we shall be. We will maintain our rights even
till death. We trust in God and in Messieurs of the two cities. And if,
to pay you what we owe, we must pawn our property, our wives, and our
children, we will do so. As for the alliance, we are resolved to live
and die for it.' The syndic had scarcely done speaking, when all the
people cried out: 'So be it! We will do nothing else—we will die first!'
The arquebusiers of Jean Philippe and of Richardet were of the same
mind. The ambassadors thought it strange that they should dare to resist
Berne. 'We will carry your answer back to our lords,' they said, 'and
they will do what pleases them.' They then retired. The people held up
their hands, and all swore to be faithful to the alliance.
The Bernese envoys had left. The people were in great agitation. The
cause of liberty had just been vanquished at Cappel; the armies of the
duke surrounded the city, and the Swiss desired to cancel the alliance.
Geneva was not exempt from secret terrors: the women shed tears, and
even the men felt an oppression like that of the nightmare; but
enthusiasm for liberty prevailed over every fear. Deprived of the help
of men, the Genevans raised their eyes to heaven. Many of them
experienced extraordinary emotions, and were the victims of strange
spectral hallucinations. One night, the sentries posted on the walls saw
seven headless horsemen, dressed in black, keeping guard around the
city. They were dressed in black, for all Geneva was in mourning; they
were without heads, for no one could reckon upon preserving his own; and
then these Genevans fancied, in their enthusiasm, that they could defend
Geneva, even when their heads were off. The duke, having learnt that
some mysterious allies had come to the help of the city, quitted Gex,
and hurried off to Chambéry. It is probable, however, that his
conference with the three lords of Berne had more influence in arresting
the execution of his designs, than the apparition of the seven black
horsemen.[882]
[Sidenote: GOD PREPARES GENEVA BY TRIAL.]
The trials, the terrors, the repeated attacks that Geneva was forced to
undergo at the hands of her enemies, are the characteristics of her
history at the epoch of the Reformation. Her citizens, plundered, hunted
down, captured, thrown into the dungeons of the castles, always between
life and death, lived continually in the apprehension of an assault, and
almost every year their fears were changed into terrible realities; of
this we have seen several instances, and we shall see more. There is
probably no city of the sixteenth century which arrived at the
possession of truth and liberty through such great perils. When their
supplies failed, when their communications, with Switzerland were
interrupted, when no one could leave the city, when all around the arms
of the Savoyards were seen flashing in the rays of the sun, the citizens
no doubt displayed an heroic courage; but yet the women and the aged
men, and even men in the vigour of life, felt a mortal fear and anguish.
'Christians are not logs of wood,' it was said subsequently in this
city, and we may well apply the words to the Genevans of this epoch;
'they are not so devoid of human feeling, that they are not touched by
sorrow, that they do not fear danger, that poverty is not a burden to
them, and persecution sharp and difficult to bear. This is why they feel
sad when they are tried.'[883] Long ago in the early days of
Christianity, famines, earthquakes, plagues, persecution, and
afterwards, at the period of the invasion of the barbarians, the
devastations with which that calamity was attended, made serious souls
feel the presence of God, and led them to the cross. An earthquake which
threw down part of the city of Philippi, terrified a gaoler, until then
hardened in superstition, humbled him, and made him listen to the
teaching of the disciples which he had previously despised;[884] and,
later still, a similar calamity in Africa brought a great number of
pagans to confess the Gospel and be baptised.
It was by such trials as these that Geneva was now prepared. God was
ploughing the field which he wished to sow. Distresses and deliverances
continually repeated revealed to thoughtful men the power of God: to
this even the Registers of the Council bear witness. Did this rough
school lead any souls further? Were there any who sought beyond the
world for life incorruptible?... The inward travail of men's minds is
generally concealed, and the chroniclers give us no information on this
point (it is not their department); but we cannot doubt that the end for
which God sent the trial was attained. Perhaps at that time there were
souls which, in the midst of the evils they saw around them, were led to
discover in themselves the supreme evil—sin; perhaps in some private
chamber humble voices were then raised to heaven; perhaps the judgments
of God, which were suspended over their heads and those of their wives
and children, induced some to dread the last judgment; and perhaps there
were many who embraced the eternal love, that inexhaustible source of
salvation, who believed in the Gospel of the Son of God and found peace
therein. We know not what took place in the secret depths of men's
hearts; but certainly the times which we are describing were times of
trial which contributed to make Geneva what it subsequently became: it
was a 'burning furnace from which came forth fine brass.'[885] If Geneva
shone out in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it was partly
because at the epoch of the Reformation it had been sorely tried, and,
if the expression be allowable, 'brightly burnished.'—'We are as it were
annealed in the furnace of God,' may be said of this city, 'and the scum
of our faith has been thus purged away.'[886]
[Sidenote: SWISS PATRICIANS CANCEL THE ALLIANCE.]
On the 7th of February, 1532, five ambassadors—two from Berne, and three
from Friburg—with Sebastian de Diesbach at their head, appeared at
Geneva before the Council of Two Hundred; they were the representatives
of the Swiss aristocracy, of those proud captains who figured in battles
and appeared in the courts of kings. They discharged their mission with
as little ceremony as they observed in taking cities, and demanded that
Geneva should renounce its alliance with the Swiss and put the Duke of
Savoy again in possession of his supremacy.... What will the Genevans
do? Even Friburg, which had at first appeared favourable to them, failed
them now.... Two hundred voices exclaimed: 'We will die sooner!' The
next day, when the general council was assembled, the greatest
excitement prevailed among them; everybody seemed eager to speak at
once; loud clamours arose on every side: 'All the people began to
shout,' say the minutes of this assembly. The language of Diesbach was
urgent, imperative, and threatening.... A hurricane was blowing over
Geneva; the tree must bend or break. But it neither bent nor broke. The
ambassadors, amazed and indignant, returned to their own country.[887]
The Genevans, left alone, asked what was to be done.... The cup was
overflowing. Suddenly a happy idea crossed the minds of certain
patriots. Although the patricians and pensioners are opposed to the
rights of Geneva, will not the people, and the grand council which
represents them, be in favour of liberty? When the Reformation was
established at Berne, in 1528, the noblest resolutions were formed. The
indigent had been clothed with the church ornaments, the pensions of the
princes renounced, and the military capitulations which bound the Swiss
to the service of foreign powers abolished. Then the enthusiasm had
cooled down; the pensioners regretted the old times; they tampered with
the more influential people of the city, and exasperated them against
the alliance with Geneva which displeased their old master the duke.
'Let us make an attempt,' exclaimed some of the Genevese, 'to revive in
Berne the noble aspirations for Reform and liberty.' Robert Vandel and
two other deputies departed for the banks of the Aar.
Vandel was well suited for this mission. Ever since the day when he saw
his aged father illegally seized by the bishop and thrown into prison,
he had given his heart to independence, as he subsequently gave it to
the Gospel. He knew that the people had retained their sympathy for
Geneva, and that if the patricians prevailed in the little council, the
citizens prevailed in the great council: he therefore appeared before
this body. He explained to them the dangers of the Genevans, their love
of independence, and their resolution to risk everything rather than
separate from the Swiss. His language moved the hearts of the Bernese,
and the good cause prevailed. 'We will maintain the alliance,' they
said; 'and, if necessary, we will march to defend your rights.' Friburg
adopted the resolutions of Berne.[888] Thus after the trial came the
deliverance; Geneva began to breathe freely. Yet another sorrow was in
store for it.
[Sidenote: RESIGNATION AND DEATH OF HUGUES.]
On the 20th of February, Besançon Hugues appeared before the council and
resigned all his functions. 'I am growing old,' he said (he was only
forty-five); 'I have many children, and I desire to devote myself to my
own affairs.' There is no doubt that the motives assigned by Hugues had
some part in his determination; we may, however, ask if they were the
only ones. He watched attentively the movement of men's minds in Geneva,
and, being devoted to Roman-catholicism and the bishop, he could not
help seeing that the opposite party was gaining more followers every
day. He had spared neither time, trouble, fortune, nor health to bring
about the alliance with the Swiss. Seeing that it existed no longer
solely in the parchments of the archives, but in the hearts of the
people, he thought that he had fulfilled his task, and that for the new
work Geneva ought to have new leaders. If Hugues was not old, he was
ailing; he already felt the approaches of that disease which carried him
off a few months later. He declined rapidly, and breathed his last
towards the end of the year.
The death of Besançon Hugues did not proceed from an ordinary sickness:
he died of a broken heart. Although still a catholic, at the moment when
the Reform was about to enter his country, a crown ought to be laid upon
his grave. The continual anxiety which the perils of Geneva had caused
him; more than forty official missions; his incessant labours in the
Genevan cause; the new burdens continually imposed upon him; the
reverses which rent his heart; his precipitate flight, his dangers on
the roads and in the cities, cold, watchings, and the cares of a
family—('I commend to you my poor household,' he said sometimes in his
letters to the council); his disappointments; the reproaches he had to
endure from both parties; his struggles with the pensioners, the agents
of Savoy, the knights of the Spoon, and some of his fellow-citizens—all
these vexations contributed to his disease and death. The head of
Besançon Hugues did not fall under the sword of the executioner, like
those of Berthelier and Lévrier; but the pacific hero sank under the
weight of fatigue and sorrow. An invisible sword struck him; and it may
be said that the deaths of the three great men of Genevan emancipation
were the deaths of martyrs.
[Footnote 876: Registres du Conseil du 11 octobre 1531.]
[Footnote 877: 'Alii impune injuria afficiuntur.'—Zwingl. _Epp._ ii. p.
648.]
[Footnote 878: 'Nihil pene non licet Friburgensibus in pios.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 879: 'Indicta causa, rapiuntur in carceres.'—Zwingl. _Epp._
ii. p. 648.]
[Footnote 880: 'Non putarim senatum Bernensem olim ita laturum levem
injuriam in nuntium sicut gravem in Evangelium perfert.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 881: Registres du Conseil du 2 janvier 1532.]
[Footnote 882: Registres du Conseil des 7, 8, 9 janvier 1532. Savyon,
_Annales_.]
[Footnote 883: Calvin on 1 Peter i. 7.]
[Footnote 884: Acts xvi. 23, 24.]
[Footnote 885: Revelation i. 15.]
[Footnote 886: Calvin.]
[Footnote 887: Registres du Conseil des 4, 7, 8 février 1532.]
[Footnote 888: _History of the Reformation of the Sixteenth Century_,
bk. xv. ch. iii. Ruchat, ii. p. 83. Galiffe fils, _B. Hugues_, p. 442.]
CHAPTER XIV.
AN EMPEROR AND A SCHOOLMASTER.
(SPRING 1532.)
[Sidenote: THE EMPEROR'S NEW SCHEME.]
Just as the noble citizen, who had defended with such devotedness the
independence of his country, had retired from the stage of the world,
new plots were got up against Geneva; but new strength came also to her
help. An emperor was rising against the city, and a schoolmaster was
bringing it the everlasting Word.
The imperial court was then at Ratisbon, where the Germanic diet was to
assemble. The Duke and Duchess of Savoy, who could not make up their
minds to resign Geneva, had ordered their ambassador accredited to
Charles V. to solicit the influence of that prince in order to induce
the bishop, his partisan, to cede his temporal principality to the
duke's second son. The duchess, who appears to have been anxious to
bring about this cession, made every possible exertion to attain her
object. The emperor, who was very fond of Beatrice, answered: 'I desire
this arrangement, because of the singular love, goodwill, and affection
I feel towards my dearly beloved cousin and sister-in-law.' He added,
moreover, that he desired it also 'in the interest of the holy faith and
for the preservation of mother Church.' He undertook to persuade Pierre
de la Baume to transfer his temporality to the young prince; and, that
he might bring the negotiation to a favourable issue, he applied to the
Count of Montrevel, the head of the bishop's family. On the 14th of
April, 1532, he dictated and forwarded the following letter to that
nobleman: 'The emperor, king, duke, and count of Burgundy, to his very
dear liegeman: We require and order you very expressly, that as soon as
possible, and at the earliest opportunity and convenience, you proceed
to the Bishop of Geneva, and tell him, as you may see most fitting, the
desire we have that he should _please our said cousins_, the duke and
duchess; employing with him soft words of persuasion, according to your
accustomed prudence. He can all the easier yield to our prayer, because,
as the successor-designate of the Archbishop of Besançon, he must
necessarily leave Geneva to reside in that city.' The emperor, moreover,
used his influence with the Marshal of Burgundy, the Baron of St.
Sorlin, Pierre de la Baume's brother. The prelate was to be attacked on
every side. Charles's recommendations could hardly have been more urgent
if the safety of the German empire had been at stake.[889]
The duke, who was delighted at these letters of the emperor, began to
take such measures as would enable him to profit by them. Since the
puissant Charles V. gives Geneva to his son, he will go in quest of the
young prince's new states. In the following month (May 1532) everything
foreboded that some new attack was preparing against Geneva. There was
great commotion in the castles; trumpets were sounding, banners flying,
and priests raising loud their voices. It might have been imagined that
they were preparing for a crusade like those which had taken place of
yore against the Albigenses or the Saracens. The Genevans, who had not a
moment's repose, mournfully told one another the news. 'In the states of
Savoy there are loud rumours of war,' they said; 'the nobles are enraged
against the evangelicals, whom they call _Lutherans_; and some of the
gentry are assembled already, and going to and fro under arms.' The
citizens did not give way to dejection; on the contrary, the knowledge
of these intrigues and preparations made them long the more earnestly
for the emancipation of Geneva. They said that from the day when the
pope had deprived the citizens of the choice of their ruler, and had
nominated creatures or members of the house of Savoy as bishops at
Geneva, there had been in the city nothing but disorders, violence,
extortion, imprisonment, confiscations, tortures, and cruel punishments.
They asked if it was not time to return to the primitive form of
Christianity, to the popular organisation of the Church; they repeated
that Geneva would never secure her independence and her liberty, except
by trusting to the great principles of the Reformation. 'Zurich,' they
said, 'has resumed the rights which Rome had taken away: it is time that
Geneva followed her example.'[890]
[Sidenote: NEGATIVE PROTESTANTISM INSUFFICIENT.]
The Reformation was neither a movement of liberty nor a philosophical
development, but a christian, a heavenly renewal. It sought after God,
and, having found him, restored him to man: that was its work. But, at
the same time, wherever it was established, at least under the
Calvinistic form, civil liberty followed it. We must acknowledge,
however, that the reformers, with the exception of Zwingle, did not
trouble themselves much about this. It was grace that filled them with
enthusiasm. It was the great idea of a free pardon, and not artillery,
which shattered the power of the pope. Every man was then invited to the
foot of the cross, to receive immediately from Christ, and through no
sacerdotal channel, an inestimable gift. But Christianity, which the
priesthood had monopolised, vitiated, and made a trade of during the
middle ages, became common property in the sixteenth century. It passed
from the pomps of the altar to men of humble and contrite heart, from
the gloomy and solitary cloisters to the domestic hearth, from isolated
Rome to universal society. Once more launched into the midst of the
nations, it everywhere restored to man faith, hope, and morality, light,
liberty, and life.
[Sidenote: OLIVÉTAN ARRIVES AT GENEVA.]
At the very time when a beautiful princess was coveting Geneva, an
ambitious duke intriguing, and courtiers agitating, and when a puissant
monarch was granting his imperial favours, a humble schoolmaster arrived
in the city. And while all those pomps and ceremonies were among the
number of things worn out and passing away, this teacher brought with
him the principles of a new life. Farel, as we have seen, ardently
desired that the Word of God should be circulated and even publicly
preached at Geneva. He thought that then only would the Reformation be
truly established and independence secured. It is probable that the
person who arrived in this city, and whom he had long known, was sent by
him; but we have no proof that such was the case. However, this man was
not, properly speaking, a preacher; he was merely a schoolmaster, and
yet he was to perform a work greater than that of the emperor. At that
time Geneva passed for protestant; but her protestantism was limited to
throwing off despotism and superstition. But it is not sufficient to
reject what is false; the truth preached by Christ and the apostles must
be believed. _Faith_ is the principle of the Reformation. There was at
Geneva, to some extent, that negative protestantism which rejects not
only the abuses of popery, but also evangelical truth itself; which can
create nothing, and which is little else than a form—and certainly one
of the least interesting forms—of philosophy. If Geneva was to be
reformed, to become a centre of light and morality, and to maintain her
political independence, she must have a positive and living
christianity; and it was this that Olivétan, Farel, and Calvin were
about to bring her.
[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF CHAUTEMPS.]
In the street of the Croix d'Or, not far from the Place du Molard, lived
an enlightened, wealthy, and influential citizen, Jean Chautemps, a
member of council. He was a quiet and conscientious man, yielding
unhesitatingly to his convictions. Chautemps valued learning highly, and
having sons desired to see them well educated. People spoke to him of a
Frenchman, born at Noyon, in Picardy, who, after a long residence at
Paris, had been compelled to leave France in consequence of one of the
attacks so frequently made upon the _Lutherans_ at that time. 'Besides,'
added his informant, 'he is a very learned man.' Indeed, without being
either a Reuchlin in Hebrew or a Melanchthon in Greek, he had a sound
knowledge of both languages; it was his practice to read the Holy
Scriptures in the original text, and he was fond of inserting in his
writings passages from the Old Testament, where they still appear in
beautiful Hebrew characters, in the midst of his antiquated French. His
name was Peter Robert Olivétan—the same who, during his residence in
Paris, had had the happiness of bringing to a knowledge of evangelical
truth one of his cousins and fellow-townsmen, John Calvin. Chautemps,
considering it fortunate to have such a master for his children,
received him into his house.
Calvin's cousin boldly set to work. He taught his patron's children,
and, as it would appear, some others that had been placed with them. He
taught with love and clearness, according to 'the right mode' of
Mathurin Cordier, whom he had known at Paris. He believed, as Calvin
says, that 'roughness and servile austerity excite children to
rebellion, and extinguish in them the holy affections of love and
reverence,' and he strove 'by moderate and kind treatment to increase in
them the will and readiness to obey.'[891]
The schoolmaster, as he is termed in the Registers of the Council of
Geneva, did not restrict himself to teaching Latin and Greek. He was
simple and modest, and calls himself, in the preface to the book which
has immortalised him (the translation of the Bible), '_the humble and
lowly translator_.' But God had kindled a divine fire in his heart. He
believed that the christian ought to carry a lighted lamp in his hand to
show others the way of life, and he never failed to do so. He sometimes
accompanied Chautemps to the churches, and was observed to be deeply
moved by the errors which he heard there; he would leave the temple in
agitation, return home, and, seated with his patron, refute by Holy
Scripture the opinions of the priests, and faithfully explain the true
Christian doctrine. The councillor, who had early sided with those who
inclined towards the Reformation, was struck with these conversations,
and, far from resisting the truth that was set before him, joyfully
yielded himself to it. He presently displayed, according to Froment's
testimony, 'if not a perfect knowledge, at least a great desire for
learning, with much love and zeal to show himself as a friend of the
Reformation.'[892] From that hour the pious councillor always came
forward whenever there was a question of upholding the evangelical cause
in Geneva. When that great missionary, Farel, arrived, Chautemps was
among the first to welcome him. When a dispute occurred with the curate
of St. Magdalen's, he was one of those who defended the teaching of the
Scriptures.[893] And subsequently he boldly declared, in full council,
that he desired to live according to the Gospel and the Word of God.[894]
Olivétan's zeal was not confined to the house in which he lived; he
laboured to make the Gospel known to the councillor's friends, and even
to everybody whom he found accessible to the Divine Word. He exerted
himself, and overcame obstacles; by means of the Scriptures he
endeavoured to 'point out _with gentleness_' to the priests the errors
which they taught, and would not allow himself to be hindered by any
fear. Such zeal was not without danger, for the priests had still much
power in Geneva. Chautemps and his friends accordingly advised Olivétan
to be prudent, lest he should come to harm; but the schoolmaster said
like his cousin: 'It is God's will that his truth should be proclaimed,
happen what may; it must be published, even should the depths of hell
pour forth their rage against it.[895] Olivétan once reproved a priest
with so much boldness that the latter stirred up all the clergy against
him, and he was ordered (without being brought to trial) to leave the
city; but this belongs to a later time.
Conversation did not suffice, and if any persons showed a desire to
learn the new doctrine, Olivétan explained it to them. He did not do so
before large audiences; it was generally to small parties. Yet a
document speaks of assemblies held not only in private houses, but in
public, in the open places, and in front of the churches.[896] Olivétan,
therefore, like his illustrious relative, called to mind that in the
beginning of christianity the doctrine of the Lord did not remain
'hidden as it were in little comers, and that never was thunder heard so
loud and so piercing as the sound of the preaching of the Gospel,
reverberating from one end of the world to the other.'[897] He sometimes
quitted the humble conventicle and preached the Word of truth under the
vault of heaven. Alarmed at the great disorders in which those men
indulged who were one day to bear the name of 'libertines,' he attacked
the conscience with holy intrepidity.
[Sidenote: OLIVÉTAN'S MISSION.]
One day, one of those 'private assemblies' was held, of which the
emperor had complained to the syndics. It was, we may suppose, in the
house of Chautemps or some other huguenot (public meetings were, I
think, rare exceptions) in the street of the Croix d'Or or of the
_Allemands_, so called because some German Switzers, friends of the
Reformation, lived in it. A few men and women, most of them known to the
master of the house, came and took their seats on the benches in front
of the evangelist. Olivétan, who saw before him souls slumbering in
false security and heedless of the Supreme Judge, 'magnificently
discharged the embassy intrusted to him' (according to Calvin's
expression). 'One day,' he said, 'when thou shalt hear the Lord calling
thee to judgment, will there be found anything in thee but fear and
trembling, flight and concealment? Look! Access to the Lord is cut off,
because of sin. With whom wilt thou take refuge? In what place wilt thou
find relief? God, the avenger of sin, from whom nothing can be hid, is
everywhere present ... and everywhere terrifies the guilty conscience.'
Then, imagining that he saw some of those Genevans, whose morals, as
depraved as those of the monks, alienated them from the Gospel, he
exclaimed: 'The flesh excludes the Spirit, and stops the way, so that
the entrance of the heart is not opened to it. The flesh desires present
pleasures, it follows vanity, it carefully seeks after the delights of
the body, by eating and drinking, by idleness, licentious pursuits, and
other such things, in which it is entirely absorbed. Reason, illumined
by the Spirit, strives after good things, and fights against the flesh;
but the sensual man is nothing more than a brute, and gives himself up
entirely to things that belong to brutes.'
Among those who sat on the humble benches and listened to the preacher,
were also some of those intellectual men, numerous in Geneva, who would
have liked to come to the faith, but whom the doctrine of Christ
astonished and even alarmed. 'You believe,' said the evangelist, 'and
yet you do not believe. You willingly hear the words of salvation, and
yet you are terrified at them. There is nothing that we hear from the
mouth of the Saviour which, without a mediator, should not be terrifying
to us, and the flesh is quite dismayed that it should be necessary to
possess such faith.'
Then the schoolmaster raised the trumpet of the Gospel to his lips and
announced the great mystery of Redemption, without concealing what the
Greeks would have called its _foolishness_. 'Let us turn then,' he
exclaimed, 'to the Mediator, who has consummated the alliance and
purified us by his own blood, with which our consciences are sprinkled
and watered. The Old Covenant always depended on the blood of beasts;
the New Covenant depends on new blood. Eternal Redemption was effected
by an eternal sacrifice. The alliance is indissoluble, perpetual, and
perfect through the eternal blood which was of God.... The kingdom of
the Messiah has no end; its king must therefore be immortal; and the new
men, also immortal, are citizens of an everlasting kingdom.'
The huguenots were fond of debating, even unseasonably. Some of those
seated in front of Olivétan were astonished at hearing this doctrine of
Christ's sacrifice set forth, and maintained that, if they were to judge
from facts, it did not do much to free man from sin. 'No doubt,' said
Olivétan, 'if the Holy Ghost does not teach us. We cannot attain true
holiness if the Holy Ghost, who is the reformer of hearts, is absent. By
the Spirit of Jesus Christ the remains of sin in us diminish little by
little. The Spirit of Christ burns gently and cleanses away the stains
of the heart.... What a profound mystery! He who was hung upon the
cross, who even ascended into heaven to finish everything, comes and
dwells in us, and there accomplishes the perfect work of eternal
Redemption.'[898]
Thus spoke the tutor of Councillor Chautemps' children.
Olivétan was a mysterious personage, a singular reformer. At Paris he
called Calvin to the Gospel, and gave him to Christianity as the apostle
of the new times. At Geneva, he was the forerunner of his illustrious
relative; like a pioneer in the forest, he cut down the secular trees,
and prepared the soil into which his pious and mighty successor so
copiously scattered the seed. Later, as we shall see, he gave to the
reformed French Church its first Bible, a translation which, revised by
Calvin, so greatly advanced the kingdom of God. Perhaps Olivétan, during
his residence in Geneva, may have thought that his cousin would
hereafter occupy this post. He appears in history only as the precursor
of the reformer, and Calvin had hardly set foot in this city when
Olivétan crossed the Alps, went to Italy, even to the city of the
pontiffs, as if he desired now to accomplish a new work, to come to
close quarters with the papacy, and prepare Rome for the Reformation as
he had prepared Geneva. But there he suddenly disappeared—poisoned, as
some say. There is a veil over his death as over his life. He is spoken
of no more, and scarcely any one appears to know either his work or his
name. But we must not anticipate: we shall meet him again erelong.
Olivétan certainly played an important part in the great change which
has renewed modern society, and his name deserves to be enrolled among
those which are carved on the foundation-stones of the vast temple of
the Reformation.
[Footnote 889: The emperor's letter to the Count of Montrevel. Galiffe
fils, _B. Hugues, Pièces Justificatives_, p. 494.]
[Footnote 890: Zwinglii _Opp._ iii. p. 439. _Archives de Genève._ James
Fazy, _Précis de l'Histoire de la République de Genève_, pp. 183-191.]
[Footnote 891: Calvini _Opera_.]
[Footnote 892: Froment, _Actes et Gestes de Genève_, p. 4.]
[Footnote 893: Registres du Conseil du 31 décembre 1532.]
[Footnote 894: Ibid. du 8 janvier 1534.]
[Footnote 895: Calvin, _Comm. sur les Actes_.]
[Footnote 896: _Archives de Genève, Pièces Historiques_, nᵒ 7069, 8
juillet 1532.]
[Footnote 897: Calvin, on Matthew x. 36.]
[Footnote 898: Olivétan. Introduction to his French translation of the
Bible. Fol. Neuchatel, 1535.]
CHAPTER XV.
THE PARDON OF ROME AND THE PARDON OF HEAVEN.
(JUNE AND JULY 1532.)
Olivétan's teaching had not been fruitless. There occurred erelong an
evangelical manifestation in Geneva, which was an important step, and
the first public act of Reform. Calvin's cousin may have been the
instrument, though Clement VII. was the proximate cause.
[Sidenote: THE JUBILEE.]
The pope was preparing at that time to publish, not a local pardon like
that of St. Claire, but a universal jubilee. It was the general topic of
conversation in many places, and some told how it had originated. 'On
the eve of the new year, 1300,' said a scholar, jeeringly, 'a report
spread suddenly through Rome (no one knew from whence it came) that a
plenary indulgence would be granted to all who should go next morning to
St. Peter's. A great crowd of Romans and foreigners hurried there, and
in the midst of the multitude was an aged man who, stooping and leaning
on his staff, wished also to take part in the festival. He was a hundred
and seven years old, people said. He was conducted to the pope, the
proud and daring Boniface VIII. The old man told him how, a century
before, an indulgence of a hundred years had been granted on account of
the jubilee; he remembered it well, he said. Boniface, taking advantage
of the declaration of this man, whose mind was weakened by age, decreed
that there should be a plenary indulgence every hundred years.'[899] The
great gains which were made out of it, led to the jubilee being
appointed to be held successively every fifty years, thirty-three years,
and twenty-five years. But the jubilee of the twenty-fifth year did not
always hinder that of the thirty-third.[900]
At Geneva people were already beginning to talk much about the coming
jubilee. Olivétan and his friends were scandalised at it. The heart of
this just and upright man was distressed at seeing the pardon of God set
aside in favour of a festival of human invention, in which, in order to
obtain remission of sins, it was necessary to frequent the churches
during a fixed number of days, and perform certain works, and whose
surest effect was a large increase to the revenues of the pope. The
schoolmaster maintained that if any one sought to find repose of
conscience in such inventions, he would waste his time; his heart would
be lulled to sleep in forgetfulness of God, or be full of fear and
trembling until it had found repose in Jesus Christ. 'Christ alone is
our peace,' he said, 'and alone gives our conscience the assurance that
God is appeased and reconciled with it.'
Men's minds were soon in a great ferment in Geneva. People met and
talked about it in the streets, and everywhere began to murmur. 'A fine
tariff is the pope's!' said the more decided of the huguenots. 'Do you
want an indulgence for a false oath? Pay 29 livres 5 sols. Do you want
an indulgence for murder? A man's life is cheaper; a murder will only
cost you 15 livres 2 sols 6 deniers.' They added, 'that the pretended
treasury of indulgences, from which the pope took the wares he sold to
every comer, was an invention of the devil.'
[Sidenote: ENCROACHMENTS OF THE CLERGY.]
It was thus that the christians, whom preceding ages had kept down,
began to reappear in the Church. The lay spirit was manifested in
Geneva. Baudichon de la Maison-Neuve, one of the most determined
huguenots, had frequent conversations with other good _Lutherans_, all
of whom complained of the domineering spirit of the clergy, who had
monopolised everything. Such complaints were, however, universal
throughout christendom. In the earliest times, said the people, the
_priests_ began by confiscating the rights of the laity; and erelong
these shepherds had nothing but silly _sheep_ under their crooks.... But
while the priests were engrossed in this work, another was going on
behind their backs which they did not observe. The _bishops_ did to the
priests what the priests had done to the laity; and when the inferior
functionaries of the Church had succeeded in catching the flocks in
their trap, they found in their turn that they had fallen into the
bishops' pitfall. At the Council of Cologne (A.D. 346) there were ten
priests, presbyters, or elders, in addition to the fourteen bishops; but
that was the last time. At the Councils of Poitiers, Vaison, Paris, and
Valence (all held in the latter half of the fourth century), none but
bishops were present. Subsequently, indeed, a _delegated_ priest was
found in three councils; but at last this single priest was politely
dismissed. While the bishops were busied with this conquest, another was
going on; and they had no sooner confiscated the rights of the priests
(as the priests had confiscated those of the laity), than they found
their own confiscated by the _pope_. All rights had come to an end.
Flocks, priests, bishops—all had lost their liberty. The pope was the
Church. One monster had swallowed the other, to be swallowed in its
turn. Nothing is more sad, nothing more disastrous, than this tragic
history. _Quod des devorat._[901] The Romish hierarchy devours
everything that is given to it. The Reformation was to restore that
christian society which the clerical society had put out of sight.
[Sidenote: GOD'S PARDON.]
And so it happened at Geneva. Their rights as christians were among the
first claimed by these Genevans, who were so enamoured of their rights
as citizens. 'If the pope _sells_ indulgences,' said they, 'the Gospel
_gives_ a free pardon. Since Rome advertises her pardon, let us
advertise that of the Lord.' These reformers, who were probably among
the number of Olivétan's hearers, drew up, conjointly, a 'heavenly
proclamation,' in simple and evangelical terms: it is possible that
Olivétan himself was the author. Baudichon de la Maison-Neuve took the
draft, hurried off with it to a printer, and ordered him to print it in
bold characters. After that, certain huguenots, the most zealous of whom
were Maison-Neuve and Goulaz, arranged their plans; and early in the
morning of the 9th of June they posted on the walls, in different parts
of the city, the _great general pardon_ _of Jesus Christ_,[902] at such
a height that every one could read it. At that time there was in front
of St. Pierre's a pillar on which the clerical notices were displayed;
Goulaz went to it, and over one of the announcements of the Roman
jubilee he fastened the proclamation of Gospel pardon.
The sun had risen above the Alps: it was already broad daylight; the
city woke from its slumbers; windows and doors were opened, and the
people began to pass through the streets. They stared and stood still in
surprise before these proclamations.... Men and women, priests and
friars, crowded in front of the placards, and read with amazement the
following words, which sounded strange to them:—
GOD, OUR HEAVENLY FATHER
PROMISES
A GENERAL PARDON OF ALL HIS SINS
TO EVERY ONE WHO FEELS SINCERE REPENTANCE,
AND POSSESSES
A LIVELY FAITH IN THE DEATH AND PROMISES
OF
JESUS CHRIST.
'This cannot surely be a papal indulgence,' said certain huguenots, 'for
money is not mentioned in it. Salvation given gratuitously must
certainly come from heaven.' But the priests thought differently; they
looked upon the placard as a defiance of the pope's pardon, and their
wrath grew fiercer than ever. They insulted those whom they believed to
be the authors of the proclamation, overwhelmed them with abuse, and
attacked them not only with their fists, but with the weapons which they
had provided.[903] 'The clergy made a great uproar,' says the
pseudo-Bonivard; 'and when the priests tried to tear down the said
placards, the believers, whom they called _Lutherans_, showed themselves
and prevented them, which caused a great commotion among the
people.'[904] In a short time the parties were organised: the burghers
gathered together in groups. On one side were the citizens, who defended
the placards; on the other, the priests and their followers, who wanted
to pull them down.
A canon, named Wernly, a native of Friburg, had remained in Geneva; he
was a stout active man, of hasty temper, a fanatical papist, who could
handle the sword as skilfully as the censer, and give a blow as readily
as he gave holy water. Having heard the tumult, he ran out of his house,
went towards the cathedral, and just as he was about to enter he caught
sight of the placard which Goulaz had fastened to the pillar. He flew
into a rage, rushed up to the paper, and tore it down with a coarse
oath. Goulaz, one of those bold spirits who brave those whom they
despise, was standing close by, watching all that took place. Seeing
what the canon had done, he went up to the pillar, and calmly put
another paper in the place of that which Wernly had pulled down.
Immediately the Friburger lost all self-control: the heretic and not the
paper was the object of his rage. He rushed at Goulaz, dealt him a
violent blow; and then, not content with this chastisement, drew his
sword (for the canons wore swords at that time), and would have struck
him. Goulaz was by no means a man of patient temper, and, seeing the
canon's sword, immediately drew his own, put himself on the defensive,
and in the struggle wounded Wernly in the arm. There was a great uproar
immediately; the partisans of the priests fell upon the audacious man
who had dared defend himself against that holy personage; the huguenots,
on their part, rallied round Goulaz, and defended him.
[Sidenote: STRUGGLE BETWEEN THE TWO POWERS.]
A battle between the priest and the layman, a struggle between clerical
and secular society, then occurred in Geneva. The priests had determined
that the placards should be torn down everywhere; and, accordingly,
there was a loud noise of discord and battle, not only in front of the
porch of St. Pierre's, but through great part of the city. 'Nothing
could be seen,' says a writer, 'but strife, conflicts, and drawn
swords.'[905] Two men of the priests' party were wounded in the Bourg de
Four. The magistrates, being informed of what was going on, hurried to
the spot, and separated the combatants.
Goulaz certainly did not represent the Reform; he was merely a Genevese
patriot, and somewhat hasty; but the Romish Church could not disown a
canon; he was truly its representative, and men asked whether the Church
intended to combat the Gospel with sword and fist. During this sharp
skirmish between the ultramontanes and the huguenots, one party held
aloof and rejoiced in secret: they were the partisans of Savoy. They
imagined that since the two great Genevan parties were quarrelling, they
would be found erelong, wearied with civil discord, bending the knee to
the absolute government of his most serene highness. Division would be
their strength.[906]
The news of this battle soon reached Friburg. People there had already
begun to talk of a certain schoolmaster who was preaching the Gospel at
Geneva, and the placard which had set all the city in commotion was
(they thought) the result of his sermons. Friburg was excited, for in
this matter there was something far more alarming than a blow dealt at a
Friburger—it was a blow aimed against the papacy.
[Sidenote: THE INTERDICT OF THE COUNCIL.]
On the 24th of June, Councillor Laurent Brandebourg arrived at Geneva,
and having been introduced to the council, he complained, in the name of
the catholic canton, of what had taken place, and particularly of the
books and placards which led men to 'the new law,' and threw contempt on
the authority of the bishop and the pope. 'Everybody assures us,' he
said, 'that you belong to the Lutheran party. If it be so, gentlemen, we
shall tear up the act of alliance and throw the pieces at your feet.'
These words, accompanied by a corresponding gesture, alarmed the
council. 'The Friburg alliance has never been more necessary than now,'
they whispered to one another. There were still among the Genevans many
zealous Roman-catholics; the evangelicals were the rare exceptions; a
great number, as we have said, held to a certain negative middle way.
The threats of Friburg disturbed the magistrates. 'We are not
Lutherans,' answered the premier syndic. 'Well, then,' resumed the
catholic Brandebourg, 'summon Goulaz before the ecclesiastical court.'
The council replied that the _general pardons_ had been stuck up without
their knowledge, that they disapproved of such excesses, that Goulaz had
only struck the canon in self-defence, after having received a blow and
seen him draw his sword, and that, nevertheless, he had been fined. The
council added that they would go further to satisfy Friburg. Immediately
they forbade, by sound of trumpet, any papers to be posted up without
their permission; and then, as the priests cried out louder against
Olivétan than against Goulaz, the syndics ordered that, 'for the
present, _the schoolmaster_ should discontinue preaching the
Gospel.'[907] They fancied they had thus completely rooted out the evil.
The ultramontane party, delighted at this triumph, thought the moment
had arrived for effecting a thorough reaction. The priests began to
search after the Holy Scriptures, visiting every family, and demanding
the surrender of their New Testaments.
The people began to murmur. 'The priests want to rob us of the Gospel
of Jesus Christ,' said the huguenots, 'and in its place they will give
us ... what?... Romish fables.... We must begin again to read the stories
in the Golden Legend. Really it is quite enough to hear them at church.'
Baudichon de la Maison-Neuve and his friends urged the council to show
themselves christians. They represented that it was shameful to see
priests and monks set so little store by the gospels and epistles, and
fill the ears of their congregations with human inventions. Olivétan had
often told them that there was no intention of introducing a new
religion, but of reestablishing an old one—that of the apostles. This
idea, so simple and so true, was easily understood. The triumph of which
the priests had dreamt was changed into a triumph for the Gospel. 'The
party of the _Lutherans_,' says an ancient manuscript, 'or, as they
called themselves, of the _evangelicals_, became more numerous and
stronger every day among the magistrates and people.'[908] The friends
of the Reformation who were on the council began to speak out boldly of
the rights of the Word of God. Others who were not Lutherans were
generally honest men, and they thought it very christian-like, and even
quite catholic, to preach the Gospel, and not mere fables. They were
unwilling that it should be said of the Church to which they belonged,
that it was supported by visions and sham miracles. The council
therefore ordered (unanimously, as it would appear) the grand vicar, De
Gingins of Bonmont, 'to take measures that in every parish and convent
the Gospel should be preached _according to the truth, without any
mixture of fables_ or other human inventions.'[909] The evangelicals, in
their turn, were delighted at this order. They knew that the magistrates
did not intend abolishing the Roman worship; yet it was the first
official act in Geneva in a direction favourable to the Reformation.
They accordingly showed great respect for the syndics under whom this
decree was passed: they were Guillaume Hugues, Besançon's brother;
Claude Savoie, a man of great energy; Claude du Molard, and Ami Porral,
a clever, intelligent man, already gained to the Gospel.
[Sidenote: NUNCIO AND ARCHBISHOP AT CHAMBÉRY.]
Without the city, men's opinions were very different. The preachings 'in
the houses of Geneva, the _abominable Lutheran heresy_ that was taught
even in the schools,'[910] had caused a lively emotion in the catholic
provinces adjoining the city, which was increased by the _general pardon
of Jesus Christ_. At Chambéry people's minds were greatly agitated.
Some, losing all self-control, would have liked to see the thunderbolts
of heaven hurled against Geneva; others, more merciful and perhaps more
prudent, would have entreated the Genevese, even with tears, to remain
faithful to the papacy. There happened at this time to be a great crowd
of priests at the palace of the Bishop of Chambéry; a papal nuncio was
passing through that city, and the archbishop, the nuncio, and his
attendants had some conversation about Geneva, loudly deploring its
apostasy. The nuncio, a violent Romanist, would immediately have brought
the facts to the knowledge of the pope, in order that the court of Rome
should take proceedings in conformity with the severity of the
ecclesiastical laws. The archbishop checked him; he preferred making a
prior application to the council. Accordingly he wrote a letter to the
syndics, in which, after mentioning the various charges against the
Genevese, he added: 'Can it be true that such things are taking place in
a city so long renowned for its faith?... This would be so serious a
matter that we should be compelled to report it immediately to Rome....
Put it in our power to tell the holy father that you will preserve a
perpetual confidence in the holy apostolic see.'[911]
The syndics, who had no desire to declare either in favour of Rome or of
Wittemberg, were greatly embarrassed. One of them, however, found a way
of getting out of the difficulty. 'Let us make no reply,' he said. When
the archbishop's messenger came for their answer, the syndics called him
before them, and gave him this verbal message: 'Tell Monseigneur that we
desire to live in a christian manner, and in accordance with the law of
Christ.' The archbishop, the nuncio, and the pope might understand that
as they pleased. It was soon seen that Rome and Savoy had no intention
of permitting Geneva to live according to that _law of Christ_ which the
city had invoked.
But if the papacy was uneasy, evangelical christians rejoiced. They
believed that an important position had been gained by the Reformation,
and, supposing the Genevese to be more advanced in the faith than they
really were, rejoiced in anticipation over the victories which these new
members of the evangelical body would win for their common standard.
'The Genevans,' said one of them, 'are true _christian knights_, who,
having no respect for men who will soon pass away, do not fear to offend
their superiors, the enemies of truth.'—'The Genevans,' said another,
'are energetic men: if they embrace the Gospel, they will know how to
propagate it elsewhere.'[912]
The old evangelicals went further than this: they felt full of love for
the new brethren. They desired to give them a welcome, to stretch out
the hand of brotherhood to them, to receive them, with the charity of
Christ, into that small and humble Church which was to increase from
year to year and from age to age. They were not too sanguine, however:
they knew the moral state of the Genevans; they knew that the little
flock was still weak, and but just beginning to pronounce the name of
Christ and to walk in his way. These old christians desired, therefore,
to approach it as a father approaches his child, to take it by the hand,
to point out the dangers by which it was surrounded, and to conjure it
to remain firm, and to increase in that faith which it was beginning to
confess boldly.
[Sidenote: LETTER FROM THE BRETHREN AT PAYERNE.]
Between the Alps and the Jura, on the road leading from Lausanne to
Berne, is situated a small town, clustered ages ago round an abbey which
the famous Queen Bertha had declared exempt from all suzerainty, even
from that of the pope, and which, in 1208, had resisted the Emperor
Rodolph of Hapsburg. In one of the houses of this town of Payerne, some
pious christians assembled in June 1532, under their pastor Anthony
Saunier of Moirans, in Dauphiny, a friend of Farel. They conversed about
_the destruction of the papistical realm_, and the news they had
received from Geneva, and were full of hope that that city would
contribute erelong towards the so much desired destruction. One of them
proposed to send a letter to the Genevese. They began to write it
immediately, and here are the words which these simple-minded christians
addressed to the episcopal city:—
'We have heard that the glory of God has visited you, of his grace, as
his elect children, and that he is now calling you with his
everlastingly saving voice. Beloved in Jesus Christ, receive the word of
the Great Shepherd, who gave himself once and was offered up a living
host (sacrifice) for the salvation of all believers. God is manifesting
to you the great riches of his glory; he invites us to forsake the
doctrine of men, and to follow that of our only Saviour Jesus Christ,
which makes us new creatures and heirs of the kingdom of God. Believe in
this doctrine with all your heart, without shame or fear of men; having
the assurance that it is good, holy, and alone able to save, and that
all others which are opposed to it are wicked and damnable. Fear not the
great number and power of your enemies; but, for the love of Jesus
Christ, who has perfected your redemption, and who has granted us
remission of all our sins, be ready not only to abandon your honour,
your goods, and your families, but even to renounce yourselves,
declaring with St. Paul, that neither glory, nor tribulation, nor death,
nor life, shall separate you from the Gospel of salvation....
'Now we, your brethren in the second and spiritual birth, pray the
Father of lights to complete what he has begun in you, and to illumine
the eyes of your heart by the true Gospel light, to the end that you may
know the great and inexpressible riches prepared for those who are
sanctified by the blood of Christ. Renounce, therefore, the king of this
world, and all his followers, under whose banner you and we once walked,
and acknowledge our Lord as your only master, your only God and Saviour,
who gives us the kingdom of heaven without money and without price.
Follow not what appears good and pleasant to you, but the commandment of
God our Father, adding nothing, and taking nothing away. May his grace
be written in your hearts, and may you impart it to those who are still
ignorant and weak, by means of a meek and tender teaching, so that the
flock of Jesus Christ may be increased by you daily. Our Lord God is for
you, and the whole world cannot prevail against him. Be the
standard-bearers upon earth of the colours of our Saviour, so that by
your means the Holy Gospel may be borne into many countries.'
The council deposited the letter among the city archives, where it may
still be seen.[913]
[Sidenote: STANDARD RAISED AT GENEVA.]
Geneva was still far from the pure and living Christianity which
breathes in this letter. The fight between Goulaz and Wernly, the tumult
occasioned in the city by the placards of Baudichon de la Maison-Neuve
and his friends, had little resemblance (impartiality compels us to
acknowledge) to that picture, so full of gentleness, which Jesus Christ
himself drew for us, when he described the servant of God: '_He shall
not strive nor cry, neither shall any man hear his voice in the
streets._'[914] But it is only by degrees that the old man disappears
and the new man takes his place. It would have been too much, perhaps,
to expect that these energetic huguenots, who defended their liberty
with the courage of lions, should suddenly become meek as lambs. But
already there were to be found in that city souls who prized above
everything the _great pardon of Jesus Christ_. The proclamation of
salvation by grace, which we have described, marks an important epoch in
the history of the Reformation of Geneva. All human religions represent
salvation as to be gained by the works and ceremonies of man; the only
divine religion, the Gospel, declares that God gives it, that he gives
it through Jesus Christ, and that whosoever receives this assurance into
his heart becomes a new creature. Such was the standard raised in Geneva
in 1532. The servants of God, whether natives of that city or refugees,
were to be, according to the beautiful language of the letter from
Payerne, 'standard-bearers upon earth;' and, grasping the banner of the
Gospel with a firm hand, they were to be called, perhaps more than
others, in the sixteenth century 'to bear it into many countries.'
Everything gave token that the renovation of Geneva was advancing; but
it had still numerous obstacles to overcome, and great works to achieve.
Powerful instruments were about to appear to accomplish them.
Hitherto the breath of the Reformation has blown to Geneva from the
plains of France and the mountains of Switzerland. The men of God who
were to labour most at the transformation of this city, Farel
especially, have acted upon it from without only. But yet two months
more, and that great-hearted evangelist will enter the city of the
huguenots; others will follow him; they will be expelled from it by the
friends of Rome; but they will return with fresh determination, and
labour with indefatigable zeal, until, after long darkness, we shall at
last see the light of Jesus Christ shining in it.
[Sidenote: GENEVA ATTACKED BY TWO PARTIES.]
The ancient city had not at this time to contend with a single party: it
was attacked by two antagonistic bands at once, by the bishop on the one
hand, and by the reformers on the other. Which of these two armies will
conquer it?—Geneva, strange to say, rejects both. Will that city be
destined to belong neither to the Gospel nor to Rome? It could not be
so, and various symptoms appeared at this time to indicate an
approaching solution.
The fanaticism of the Genevese clergy, the respect felt by the
magistrates for existing institutions, the energy with which one portion
of the people rejected the Reformation, seemed to show that the movement
by which Geneva was then agitated would end simply in the abolition of
the temporal authority of the bishop.
But other signs appeared to point to another conclusion. In proportion
as the love of God's Word increased in men's hearts, respect for the
Romish religion diminished. The evangelical christians said that
salvation was a thing for eternity, while a government, even if
ecclesiastical, was only a temporal thing; that the rights of truth took
precedence of all clerical pretensions, and that the authority of
Scripture was superior to that of the pontiff.
Moreover, a new element appeared. Ecclesiastical society had sunk into
slumber and death; in the sixteenth century the Reformation aroused it
and restored it to activity and life. Farel is one of the most
remarkable types of this christian animation; his unbounded ardour, his
indefatigable labours were, with God's help, to secure the victory.
It is true that this new force soon turned against the Reform. The
Romish Church woke up also, and put itself in motion, particularly after
the foundation of the order of the Jesuits; but its activity differed
widely from that of the reformers. The latter descended from on high;
that of the Roman clergy came from below. At all events, popery soon
became as energetic as protestantism. There was danger in this, but
there was probably a benefit also. If its adversaries had continued to
slumber, the Reformation might have ended by falling asleep likewise.
Activity is far better than inactivity without hope. Let us not be
afraid then. By struggles the Church is purified, the christian grows
stronger, and the cause of truth and of humanity triumphs.
[Sidenote: THE STRUGGLE IN GENEVA.]
Geneva was about to have greater experience of such contests, and the
agitation within her walls was to become fiercer from day to day.
Combats without and combats within. The dawning Reformation and the
ancient (yet new) liberty will see arrayed against them the bishop, the
duke, the emperor, the gentry and their vassals, and the Savoyard
troops, besides veteran Italian bands, commanded by some of the ablest
captains of the age.... At the same time the battle will rage furiously
within. Popery, alarmed at seeing one of its oldest fortresses
threatened, will utter a cry of rage; all the friends of the Romish
priesthood will be aroused, will agitate, and fight; a furious
opposition will raise its angry head. There will be not only secret
councils, traitorous conspiracies, fanatical preachings, and fierce
discussions; but also riots in the streets, armed men endeavouring to
stop the preaching of the Word, cannons planted in the public squares,
assaults with the sword, the arquebuse, and the dagger, imprisonment,
exile, and poisoning.... At the sight of these violent combats and
repeated calamities, the thoughts of the historian become troubled and
confused. It appears to him that the powers of darkness are marshalling
their forces in the ancient city. He fancies he can see that mysterious
being, whom a great poet describes in his immortal verse as plotting the
ruin of the world, at the very moment when, smiling with innocence and
glory, it left the hands of the Creator—he can see Satan descending, as
he once did into Eden, and casting the immense shade of his 'sail-broad
vans' over the gigantic Alps, over their white tops, their calm clear
lakes and smiling hills, and swooping down upon the towers of the old
cathedral to fight against the counsels of the King of Heaven, and, by
scattering his wiles and fury all around, oppose the new creation of a
new world.[915]
But to all these efforts of the powers of darkness the men of the Gospel
will oppose the resplendent army of light. They will proclaim the love
of God, they will announce the work of Christ, they will publish grace.
They will repeat with Jesus Christ that _the flesh profiteth nothing_;
that is to say, that the grandeur of the proud hierarchy of Rome, the
power of its temporal kingdom, the multitude of its servants in so many
countries and under such various uniforms, the pomps by which its
worship strives to captivate the senses, the oracles of its traditions,
sometimes adorned with the seductions of human philosophy—that all is
profitless; but that power belongs to God, that salvation is in the
foolishness of the cross, and that it is _the Spirit that quickeneth_.
And, thanks to the spiritual weapons they employ, two or three humble
instruments of the Word of God will scatter the councils of their
terrible adversary, destroy his fortresses, and humble even to the dust
the barriers he had raised against the knowledge of God. The rough
Farel, the gentle Viret, the weak Froment, will overcome the powers of
Rome in Geneva, even before Calvin, the great captain, appears. God
chooses the weak things of the world to confound the things which are
mighty, and the things which are not to bring to nought things that
are.[916]
[Footnote 899: See the Bull _Antiquorum habet_ in the _Extravagant.
Commun._ lib. v. tit. ix. cap. 1.]
[Footnote 900: In our time Leo XII. celebrated a jubilee in 1825, and
Gregory XVI. in 1833.]
[Footnote 901: Plautus.]
[Footnote 902: Roset says positively (liv. ii. chap, lxvi.) that these
placards were printed. See also Berne MSS., _Hist. Helvet._ v. p. 12.]
[Footnote 903: 'Exarsit hic statim furor, nec verbis tantum erupit, sed
et armis.—_Geneva Restituta_, p. 37.]
[Footnote 904: History under the name of Bonivard, Berne MSS. _Hist.
Helvet._ v. p. 12.]
[Footnote 905: 'Hinc rixæ, conflictus, et enses utrinque expediti.'—
_Geneva Restituta_, p. 37.]
[Footnote 906: 'Dissidiis civilibus fessa imperium acciperet.'—_Geneva
Restituta_, p. 38.]
[Footnote 907: 'De prædicante Evangelii.'—Registres du Conseil des 24,
27, 30 juin, et du 25 juillet. Spon, _Hist. de Genève_, ii. p. 463.]
[Footnote 908: Berne MSS. _Hist. Helvet._ v. p. 12.]
[Footnote 909: Registres du Conseil des 30 juin, 12 juillet, 20 août.
Spon, _Hist. de Genève_, ii. pp. 464-466.]
[Footnote 910: Archives de Genève, No. 1069.]
[Footnote 911: Archives de Genève, No. 1069. Spon, _Hist. de Genève_, i.
p. 466. Gaberel, i. p. 110.]
[Footnote 912: Ruchat, iii. pp. 136-140. 'Epître des amateurs de la
sainte Evangile de Payerne à ceux de Genève.' Archives de Genève, No.
1070. _France Protestante_, art. _Saunier_.]
[Footnote 913: Archives, No. 1070. 'Epître des amateurs de la sainte
Evangile de Payerne.']
[Footnote 914: Matthew xii. 19.]
[Footnote 915:
'He wings his way
Directly towards the new-created world,
And man there placed, with purpose to assay
If him by force he can destroy, or, worse,
By some false guile pervert.'
_Paradise Lost_, bk. iii.]
[Footnote 916: 1 Corinthians i. 27, 28.]
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Modern Symposium
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Title: A Modern Symposium
Author: G. Lowes Dickinson
Release date: November 9, 2009 [eBook #30432]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN SYMPOSIUM ***
Produced by Al Haines
A MODERN SYMPOSIUM
BY
G. LOWES DICKINSON
"LIFE LIKE A DOME OF MANY-COLOURED GLASS
STAINS THE WHITE RADIANCE OF ETERNITY"
LONDON
GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD
MUSEUM STREET
FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1905
REPRINTED 1930
REPRINTED 1934
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
UNWIN BROTHERS LTD., WOKING
FRATRUM SOCIETATI
FRATRUM MINIMUS
THE SPEAKERS
LORD CANTILUPE
A TORY
ALFRED REMENHAM
A LIBERAL
REUBEN MENDOZA
A CONSERVATIVE
GEORGE ALLISON
A SOCIALIST
ANGUS MACCARTHY
AN ANARCHIST
HENRY MARTIN
A PROFESSOR
CHARLES WILSON
A MAN OF SCIENCE
ARTHUR ELLIS
A JOURNALIST
PHILIP AUDUBON
A MAN OF BUSINESS
AUBREY CORYAT
A POET
SIR JOHN HARINGTON
A GENTLEMAN OF LEISURE
WILLIAM WOODMAN
A MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS
GEOFFRY VIVIAN
A MAN OF LETTERS
A MODERN SYMPOSIUM
SOME of my readers may have heard of a club known as the Seekers. It
is now extinct; but in its day it was famous, and included a number of
men prominent in politics or in the professions. We used to meet once
a fortnight on the Saturday night, in London during the winter, but in
the summer usually at the country house of one or other of the members,
where we would spend the week-end together. The member in whose house
the meeting was held was chairman for the evening; and after the paper
had been read it was his duty to call upon the members to speak in what
order he thought best. On the occasion of the discussion which I am to
record, the meeting was held in my own house, where I now write, on the
North Downs. The company was an interesting one. There was Remenham,
then Prime Minister, and his great antagonist Mendoza, both of whom
were members of our society. For we aimed at combining the most
opposite elements, and were usually able, by a happy tradition
inherited from our founder, to hold them suspended in a temporary
harmony. Then there was Cantilupe, who had recently retired from
public life, and whose name, perhaps, is already beginning to be
forgotten. Of younger men we had Allison, who, though still engaged in
business, was already active in his socialist propaganda. Angus
MacCarthy, too, was there, a man whose tragic end at Saint Petersburg
is still fresh in our minds. And there were others of less note;
Wilson, the biologist, Professor Martin, Coryat, the poet, and one or
two more who will be mentioned in their place.
After dinner, the time of year being June, and the weather unusually
warm, we adjourned to the terrace for our coffee and cigars. The air
was so pleasant and the prospect so beautiful, the whole weald of
Sussex lying before us in the evening light, that it was suggested we
should hold our meeting there rather than indoors. This was agreed.
But it then transpired that Cantilupe, who was to have read the paper,
had brought nothing to read. He had forgotten, or he had been too
busy. At this discovery there was a general cry of protest.
Cantilupe's proposition that we should forgo our discussion was
indignantly scouted; and he was pressed to improvise something on the
lines of what he had intended to write. This, however, he steadily
declined to attempt; and it seemed as though the debate would fall
through, until it occurred to me to intervene in my capacity as
chairman.
"Cantilupe," I said, "certainly ought to be somehow penalized. And
since he declines to improvise a paper, I propose that he improvise a
speech. He is accustomed to doing that; and since he has now retired
from public life, this may be his last opportunity. Let him employ it,
then, in doing penance. And the penance I impose is, that he should
make a personal confession. That he should tell us why he has been a
politician, why he has been, and is, a Tory, and why he is now retiring
in the prime of life. I propose, in a word, that he should give us his
point of view. That will certainly provoke Remenham, on whom I shall
call next. He will provoke someone else. And so we shall all find
ourselves giving our points of view, and we ought to have a very
interesting evening." This suggestion was greeted, if not with
enthusiasm, at least with acquiescence. Cantilupe at first objected
strongly, but yielded to pressure, and on my calling formally upon him
rose reluctantly from his seat. For a minute or two he stood silent,
humping his shoulders and smiling through his thick beard. Then, in
his slow, deliberate way, he began as follows:
"Why I went into politics? Why did I? I'm sure I don't know.
Certainly I wasn't intended for it. I was intended for a country
gentleman, and I hope for the rest of my life to be one; which,
perhaps, if I were candid, is the real reason of my retirement. But I
was pushed into politics when I was young, as a kind of family duty;
and once in it's very hard to get out again. I'm coming out now
because, among other things, there's no longer any place for me.
Toryism is dead. And I, as you justly describe me, am a Tory. But you
want to know why? Well, I don't know that I can tell you. Perhaps I
ought to be able to. Remenham, I know, can and will give you the
clearest possible account of why he is a Liberal. But then Remenham
has principles; and I have only prejudices. I am a Tory because I was
born one, just as another man is a Radical because he was born one.
But Remenham, I really believe, is a Liberal, because he has convinced
himself that he ought to be one. I admire him for it, but I am quite
unable to understand him. And, for my own part, if I am to defend, or
rather to explain myself, I can only do so by explaining my prejudices.
And really I am glad to have the opportunity of doing so, if only
because it is a satisfaction occasionally to say what one thinks; a
thing which has become impossible in public life.
"The first of my prejudices is that I believe in inequality. I'm not
at all sure that that is a prejudice confined to myself--most people
seem to act upon it in practice, even in America. But I not only
recognize the fact, I approve the ideal of inequality. I don't want,
myself, to be the equal of Darwin or of the German Emperor; and I don't
see why anybody should want to be my equal. I like a society properly
ordered in ranks and classes. I like my butcher or my gardener to take
off his hat to me, and I like, myself, to stand bareheaded in the
presence of the Queen. I don't know that I'm better or worse than the
village carpenter; but I'm different; and I like him to recognize that
fact, and to recognize it myself. In America, I am told, everyone is
always informing you, in everything they do and say, directly or
indirectly, that they are as good as you are. That isn't true, and if
it were, it isn't good manners to keep saying it. I prefer a society
where people have places and know them. They always do have places in
any possible society; only, in a democratic society, they refuse to
recognize them; and, consequently, social relations are much ruder,
more unpleasant and less humane than they are, or used to be, in
England. That is my first prejudice; and it follows, of course, that I
hate the whole democratic movement. I see no sense in pretending to
make people equal politically when they're unequal in every other
respect. Do what you may, it will always be a few people that will
govern. And the only real result of the extension of the franchise has
been to transfer political power from the landlords to the trading
classes and the wire-pullers. Well, I don't think the change is a good
one. And that brings me to my second prejudice, a prejudice against
trade. I don't mean, of course, that we can do without it. A country
must have wealth, though I think we were a much better country when we
had less than we have now. Nor do I dispute that there are to be found
excellent, honourable, and capable men of business. But I believe that
the pursuit of wealth tends to unfit men for the service of the state.
And I sympathize with the somewhat extreme view of the ancient world
that those who are engaged in trade ought to be excluded from public
functions. I believe in government by gentlemen; and the word
gentleman I understand in the proper, old-fashioned English sense, as a
man of independent means, brought up from his boyhood in the atmosphere
of public life, and destined either for the army, the navy, the Church,
or Parliament. It was that kind of man that made Rome great, and that
made England great in the past; and I don't believe that a country will
ever be great which is governed by merchants and shopkeepers and
artisans. Not because they are not, or may not be, estimable people;
but because their occupations and manner of life unfit them for public
service.
"Well, that is the kind of feeling--I won't call it a principle--which
determined my conduct in public life. And you will remember that it
seemed to be far more possible to give expression to it when first I
entered politics than it is now. Even after the first Reform
Act--which, in my opinion was conceived upon the wrong lines--the
landed gentry still governed England; and if I could have had my way
they would have continued to do so. It wasn't really parliamentary
reform that was wanted; it was better and more intelligent government.
And such government the then ruling class was capable of supplying, as
is shown by the series of measures passed in the thirties and forties,
the new Poor Law and the Public Health Acts and the rest. Even the
repeal of the Corn Laws shows at least how capable they were of
sacrificing their own interests to the nation; though otherwise I
consider that measure the greatest of their blunders. I don't profess
to be a political economist, and I am ready to take it from those whose
business it is to know that our wealth has been increased by Free
Trade. But no one has ever convinced me, though many people have
tried, that the increase of wealth ought to be the sole object of a
nation's policy. And it is surely as clear as day that the policy of
Free Trade has dislocated the whole structure of our society. It has
substituted a miserable city-proletariat for healthy labourers on the
soil; it has transferred the great bulk of wealth from the
country-gentleman to the traders; and in so doing it has more and more
transferred power from those who had the tradition of using it to those
who have no tradition at all except that of accumulation. The very
thing which I should have thought must be the main business of a
statesman--the determination of the proper relations of classes to one
another--we have handed over to the chances of competition. We have
abandoned the problem in despair, instead of attempting to solve it;
with the result, that our population--so it seems to me--is daily
degenerating before our eyes, in physique, in morals, in taste, in
everything that matters; while we console ourselves with the increasing
aggregate of our wealth. Free Trade, in my opinion, was the first
great betrayal by the governing class of the country and themselves,
and the second was the extension of the franchise. I do not say that I
would not have made any change at all in the parliamentary system that
had been handed down to us. But I would never have admitted, even
implicitly, that every man has a right to vote, still less that all
have an equal right. For society, say what we may, is not composed of
individuals but of classes; and by classes it ought to be represented.
I would have enfranchised peasants, artisans, merchants, manufacturers,
as such, taking as my unit the interest, not the individual, and
assigning to each so much weight as would enable its influence to be
felt, while preserving to the landed gentry their preponderance. That
would have been difficult, no doubt, but it would have been worth
doing; whereas it was, to my mind, as foolish as it was easy simply to
add new batches of electors, till we shall arrive, I do not doubt, at
what, in effect, is universal suffrage, without having ever admitted to
ourselves that we wanted to have it.
"But what has been done is final and irremediable. Henceforth,
numbers, or rather those who control numbers, will dominate England;
and they will not be the men under whom hitherto she has grown great.
For people like myself there is no longer a place in politics. And
really, so far as I am personally concerned, I am rather glad to know
it. Those who have got us into the mess must get us out of it.
Probably they will do so, in their own way; but they will make, in the
process, a very different England from the one I have known and
understood and loved. We shall have a population of city people,
better fed and housed, I hope, than they are now, clever and quick and
smart, living entirely by their heads, ready to turn out in a moment
for use everything they know, but knowing really very little, and not
knowing it very well. There will be fewer of the kind of people in
whom I take pleasure, whom I like to regard as peculiarly English, and
who are the products of the countryside; fellows who grow like
vegetables, and, without knowing how, put on sense as they put on flesh
by an unconscious process of assimilation; who will stand for an hour
at a time watching a horse or a pig, with stolid moon-faces as
motionless as a pond; the sort of men that visitors from town imagine
to be stupid because they take five minutes to answer a question, and
then probably answer by asking another; but who have stored up in them
a wealth of experience far too extensive and complicated for them ever
to have taken account of it. They live by their instincts not their
brains; but their instincts are the slow deposit of long years of
practical dealings with nature. That is the kind of man I like. And I
like to live among them in the way I do--in a traditional relation
which it never occurs to them to resent, any more than it does to me to
abuse it. That sort of relation you can't create; it has to grow, and
to be handed down from father to son. The new men who come on to the
land never manage to establish it. They bring with them the isolation
which is the product of cities. They have no idea of any tie except
that of wages; the notion of neighbourliness they do not understand.
And that reminds me of a curious thing. People go to town for society;
but I have always found that there is no real society except in the
country. We may be stupid there, but we belong to a scheme of things
which embodies the wisdom of generations. We meet not in
drawing-rooms, but in the hunting-field, on the county-bench, at
dinners of tenants or farmers' associations. Our private business is
intermixed with our public. Our occupation does not involve
competition; and the daily performance of its duties we feel to be
itself a kind of national service. That is an order of things which I
understand and admire, as my fathers understood and admired it before
me. And that is why I am a Tory; not because of any opinions I hold,
but because that is my character. I stood for Toryism while it meant
something; and now that it means nothing, though I stand for it no
longer, still I can't help being it. The England that is will last my
time; the England that is to be does not interest me; and it is as well
that I should have nothing to do with directing it.
"I don't know whether that is a sufficient account of the question I
was told to answer; but it's the best I can make, and I think it ought
to be sufficient. I always imagine myself saying to God, if He asks me
to give an account of myself: 'Here I am, as you made me. You can take
me or leave me. If I had to live again I would live just so. And if
you want me to live differently, you must make me different.' I have
championed a losing cause, and I am sorry it has lost. But I do not
break my heart about it. I can still live for the rest of my days the
life I respect and enjoy. And I am content to leave the nation in the
hands of Remenham, who, as I see, is all impatience to reply to my
heresies."
REMENHAM in fact was fidgeting in his chair as though he found it hard
to keep his seat; and I should have felt bound in pity to call upon him
next, even if I had not already determined to do so. He rose with
alacrity; and it was impossible not to be struck by the contrast he
presented to Cantilupe. His elastic upright figure, his firm chin, the
exuberance of his gestures, the clear ring of his voice, expressed
admirably the intellectual and nervous force which he possessed in a
higher degree than any man I have ever come across. He began without
hesitation, and spoke throughout with the trained and facile eloquence
of which he was master. "I shall, I am sure, be believed," he said,
"when I emphatically assert that nothing could be more distressing to
me than the notion--if I should be driven to accept it--that the
liberal measures on which, in my opinion, the prosperity and the true
welfare of the country depends should have, as one of their incidental
concomitants, the withdrawal from public life of such men as our friend
who has just sat down. We need all the intellectual and moral
resources of the country; and among them I count as not the least
valuable and fruitful the stock of our ancient country gentlemen. I
regretted the retirement of Lord Cantilupe on public as well as on
personal grounds; and my regret is only tempered, not altogether
removed, when I see how well, how honourably and how happily he is
employing his well-deserved leisure. But I am glad to know that we
have still, and to believe that we shall continue to have, in the great
Council of the nation, men of his distinguished type and tradition to
form one, and that not the least important, of the balances and
counter-checks in the great and complicated engine of state.
"When, however, he claims--or perhaps I should rather say desires--for
the distinguished order of which he is a member, an actual and
permanent preponderance in the state, there, I confess, I must part
company with him. Nay, I cannot even accept the theory, to which he
gave expression, of a fixed and stable representation of interests. It
is indeed true that society, by the mysterious dispensation of the
Divine Being, is wonderfully compounded of the most diverse elements
and classes, corresponding to the various needs and requirements of
human life. And it is an ancient theory, supported by the authority of
great names, by Plato, my revered master, the poet-philosopher, by
Aristotle, the founder of political science, that the problem of a
statesman is so to adjust these otherwise discordant elements as to
form once for all in the body-politic a perfect, a final and immutable
harmony. There is, according to this view, one simple chord and one
only, which the great organ of society is adapted to play; and the
business of the legislator is merely to tune the instrument so that it
shall play it correctly. Thus, if Plato could have had his way, his
great common chord, his harmony of producers, soldiers and
philosophers, would still have been droning monotonously down the ages,
wherever men were assembled to dwell together. Doubtless the concord
he conceived was beautiful. But the dissonances he would have
silenced, but which, with ever-augmenting force, peal and crash, from
his day to ours, through the echoing vault of time, embody, as I am apt
to think, a harmony more august than any which even he was able to
imagine, and in their intricate succession weave the plan of a
world-symphony too high to be apprehended save in part by our grosser
sense, but perceived with delight by the pure intelligence of immortal
spirits. It is indeed the fundamental defect of all imaginary
polities--and how much more of such as fossilize, without even
idealizing, the actual!--that even though they be perfect, their
perfection is relative only to a single set of conditions; and that
could they perpetuate themselves they would also perpetuate these,
which should have been but brief and transitory phases in the history
of the race. Had it been possible for Plato to establish over the
habitable globe his golden chain of philosophic cities, he would have
riveted upon the world for ever the institutions of slavery and caste,
would have sealed at the source the springs of science and invention,
and imprisoned in perennial impotence that mighty genius of empire
which alone has been able to co-ordinate to a common and beneficent end
the stubborn and rebellious members of this growing creature Man. And
if the imagination of a Plato, permitted to work its will, would thus
have sterilized the germs of progress, what shall we say of such men as
ourselves imposing on the fecundity of nature the limits and rules of
our imperfect mensuration! Rather should we, in humility, submit
ourselves to her guidance, and so adapt our institutions that they
shall hamper as little as may be the movements and forces operating
within them. For it is by conflict, as we have now learnt, that the
higher emerges from the lower, and nature herself, it would almost
seem, does not direct but looks on, as her world emerges in painful
toil from chaos. We do not find her with precipitate zeal intervening
to arrest at a given point the ferment of creation; stretching her hand
when she sees the gleam of the halcyon or the rose to bid the process
cease that would destroy them; and sacrificing to the completeness of
those lower forms the nobler imperfection of man and of what may lie
beyond him. She looks always to the end; and so in our statesmanship
should we, striving to express, not to limit, by our institutions the
forces with which we have to deal. Our polity should grow, like a
skin, upon the living tissue of society. For who are we that we should
say to this man or that, go plough, keep shop, or govern the state?
That we should say to the merchant, 'thus much power shall be yours,'
and to the farmer, 'thus much yours?' No! rather let us say to each
and to all, Take the place you can, enjoy the authority you can win!
Let our constitution express the balance of forces in our society, and
as they change let the disposition of power change with them! That is
the creed of liberalism, supported by nature herself, and sanctioned, I
would add with reverence, by the Almighty Power, in the disposition and
order of His stupendous creation.
"But it is not a creed that levels, nor one that destroys. None can
have more regard than I--not Cantilupe himself--for our ancient crown,
our hereditary aristocracy. These, while they deserve it--and long may
they do so!--will retain their honoured place in the hearts and
affections of the people. Only, alongside of them, I would make room
for all elements and interests that may come into being in the natural
course of the play of social forces. But these will be far too
numerous, far too inextricably interwoven, too rapidly changing in
relative weight and importance, for the intelligence of man to attempt,
by any artificial scheme, to balance and adjust their conflicting
claims. Open to all men equally, within the limits of prudence, the
avenue to political influence, and let them use, as they can and will,
in combined or isolated action, the opportunities thus liberally
bestowed. That is the key-note of the policy which I have consistently
adopted from my entrance into public life, and which I am prepared to
prosecute to the end, though that end should be the universal suffrage
so dreaded by the last speaker. He tells me it is a policy of reckless
abandonment. But abandonment to what? Abandonment to the people! And
the question is, Do we trust the people? I do; he does not! There, I
venture to think, is the real difference between us.
"Yes, I am not ashamed to say it, I trust the People! What should I
trust, if I could not trust them? What else is a nation but an
assemblage of the talents, the capacities, the virtues of the citizens
of whom it is composed? To utilize those talents, to evoke those
capacities, to offer scope and opportunity to those virtues, must be
the end and purpose of every great and generous policy; and to that
end, up to the measure of my powers, I have striven to minister, not
rashly, I hope, nor with impatience, but in the spirit of a sober and
assured faith.
"Such is my conception of liberalism. But if liberalism has its
mission at home, not less important are its principles in the region of
international relations. I will not now embark on the troubled sea of
foreign policy. But on one point I will touch, since it was raised by
the last speaker, and that is the question of our foreign trade. In no
department of human activity, I will venture to say, are the intentions
of the Almighty more plainly indicated, than in this of the interchange
of the products of labour. To each part of the habitable globe have
been assigned its special gifts for the use and delectation of Man; to
every nation its peculiar skill, its appropriate opportunities. As the
world was created for labour, so it was created for exchange. Across
the ocean, bridged at last by the indomitable pertinacity of art, the
granaries of the new world call, in their inexhaustible fecundity for
the iron and steel, the implements and engines of the old. The
shepherd-kings of the limitless plains of Australia, the Indian ryot,
the now happily emancipated negro of Georgia and Carolina, feed and are
fed by the factories and looms of Manchester and Bradford. Pall Mall
is made glad with the produce of the vineyards of France and Spain; and
the Italian peasant goes clad in the labours of the Leicester artisan.
The golden chain revolves, the silver buckets rise and fall; and one to
the other passes on, as it fills and overflows, the stream that pours
from Nature's cornucopia! Such is the law ordained by the Power that
presides over the destinies of the world; and not all the interferences
of man with His beneficent purposes can avail altogether to check and
frustrate their happy operation. Yet have the blind cupidity, the
ignorant apprehensions of national zeal dislocated, so far as was
possible, the wheels and cogs of the great machine, hampered its
working and limited its uses. And if there be anything of which this
great nation may justly boast, it is that she has been the first to
tear down the barriers and dams of a perverted ingenuity, and to admit
in unrestricted plenitude to every channel of her verdant meadows the
limpid and fertilizing stream of trade.
"Verily she has had her reward! Search the records of history, and you
will seek in vain for a prosperity so immense, so continuous, so
progressive, as that which has blessed this country in the last
half-century of her annals. This access of wealth was admitted indeed
by the speaker who preceded me. But he complained that we had taken no
account of the changes which the new system was introducing into the
character and occupations of the people. It is true; and he would be a
rash man who should venture to forecast and to determine the remoter
results of such a policy; or should shrink from the consequences of
liberty on the ground that he cannot anticipate their character. Which
of us would have the courage, even if he had the power, to impose upon
a nation for all time the form of its economic life, the type of its
character, the direction of its enterprise? The possibilities that lie
in the womb of Nature are greater than we can gauge; we can but
facilitate their birth, we may not prescribe their anatomy. The evils
of the day call for the remedies of the day; but none can anticipate
with advantage the necessities of the future. And meantime what cause
is there for misgiving? I confess that I see none. The policy of
freedom has been justified, I contend, by its results. And so
confident am I of this, that the time, I believe, is not far distant,
when other countries will awake at last to their own true interests and
emulate, not more to their advantage than to ours, our fiscal
legislation. I see the time approaching when the nations of the world,
laying aside their political animosities, will be knitted together in
the peaceful rivalry of trade; when those barriers of nationality which
belong to the infancy of the race will melt and dissolve in the
sunshine of science and art; when the roar of the cannon will yield to
the softer murmur of the loom, and the apron of the artisan, the blouse
of the peasant be more honourable than the scarlet of the soldier; when
the cosmopolitan armies of trade will replace the militia of death;
when that which God has joined together will no longer be sundered by
the ignorance, the folly, the wickedness of man; when the labour and
the invention of one will become the heritage of all; and the peoples
of the earth meet no longer on the field of battle, but by their chosen
delegates, as in the vision of our greatest poet, in the 'Parliament of
Man, the Federation of the World.'"
WITH this peroration Remenham resumed his seat. He had spoken, as
indeed was his habit, rather as if he were addressing a public meeting
than a company of friends. But at least he had set the ball rolling.
To many of those present, as I well knew, his speech and his manner
must have been eminently provocative; and naturally to none more than
to Mendoza. I had, therefore, no hesitation in signalling out the
Conservative chief to give us the opposite point of view. He responded
with deliberation, lifting from his chest his sinister Jewish face, and
slowly unfolding his long body, while a malicious smile played about
his mouth.
"One," he began, "who has not the privilege of immediate access to the
counsels of the Divine Being cannot but feel himself at a disadvantage
in following a man so favoured as my distinguished friend. The
disadvantage, however, is one to which I have had, perforce, to grow
accustomed during long years of parliamentary strife, I have resigned
myself to creeping where he soars, to guessing where he prophesies.
But there is compensation everywhere. And, perhaps, there are certain
points which may be revealed to babes and sucklings, while they are
concealed from beings more august. The worm, I suppose, must be aware
of excrescences and roughnesses of the soil which escape the more
comprehensive vision of the eagle; and to the worm, at least, these are
of more importance than mountain ranges and oceans which he will never
reach. It is from that humble point of view that I shall offer a few
remarks supplementary to, perhaps even critical of, the eloquent
apostrophe we have been permitted to enjoy.
"The key-note of my friend's address was liberty. There is no British
heart which does not beat higher at the sound of that word. But while
I listened to his impassioned plea, I could not help wondering why he
did not propose to dispense to us in even larger and more liberal
measure the supreme and precious gift of freedom. True, he has done
much to remove the barriers that separated nation from nation, and man
from man. But how much remains to be accomplished before we can be
truly said to have brought ourselves into line with Nature! Consider,
for example, the policeman! Has my friend ever reflected on all that
is implied in that solemn figure; on all that it symbolizes of
interference with the purposes of a beneficent Creator? The policeman
is a permanent public defiance of Nature. Through him the weak rule
the strong, the few the many, the intelligent the fools. Through him
survive those whom the struggle for existence should have eliminated.
He substitutes the unfit for the fit. He dislocates the economy of the
universe. Under his shelter take root and thrive all monstrous and
parasitic growths. Marriage clings to his skirts, property nestles in
his bosom. And while these flourish, where is liberty? The law of
Nature we all know:
The good old rule, the ancient plan
That he should take who has the power,
And he should keep who can!
"But this, by the witchcraft of property, we have set aside. Our walls
of brick and stone we have manned with invisible guards. We have
thronged with fiery faces and arms the fences of our gardens and parks.
The plate-glass of our windows we have made more impenetrable than
adamant. To our very infants we have given the strength of giants.
Babies surfeit, while strong men starve; and the foetus in the womb
stretches out unformed hands to annex a principality. Is this liberty?
Is this Nature? No! It is a Merlin's prison! Yet, monstrous, it
subsists! Has our friend, then, no power to dissolve the charm? Or,
can it be that he has not the will?
"Again, can we be said to be free, can we be said to be in harmony with
Nature, while we endure the bonds of matrimony? While we fetter the
happy promiscuity of instinct, and subject our roving fancy to the
dominion of 'one unchanging wife?' Here, indeed, I frankly admit,
Nature has her revenges; and an actual polygamy flourishes even under
the aegis of our law. But the law exists; it is the warp on which, by
the woof of property, we fashion that Nessus-shirt, the Family, in
which, we have swathed the giant energies of mankind. But while that
shirt clings close to every limb, what avails it, in the name of
liberty, to snap, here and there, a button or a lace? A more heroic
work is required of the great protagonist, if, indeed, he will follow
his mistress to the end. He shakes his head. What! Is his service,
then, but half-hearted after all? Or, can it be, that behind the mask
of the goddess he begins to divine the teeth and claws of the brute?
But if nature be no goddess, how can we accept her as sponsor for
liberty? And if liberty be taken on its own merits, how is it to be
distinguished from anarchy? How, but by the due admixture of coercion?
And, that admitted, must we not descend from the mountain-top of
prophecy to the dreary plains of political compromise?"
Up to this point Mendoza had preserved that tone of elaborate irony
which, it will be remembered, was so disconcerting to English
audiences, and stood so much in the way of his popularity. But now his
manner changed. Becoming more serious, and I fear I must add, more
dull than I had ever heard him before, he gave us what I suppose to be
the most intimate exposition he had ever permitted himself to offer of
the Conservative point of view as he understood it.
"These," he resumed, "are questions which I must leave my friend to
answer for himself. The ground is too high for me. I have no skill in
the flights of speculation. I take no pleasure in the enunciation of
principles. To my restricted vision, placed as I am upon the earth,
isolated facts obtrude themselves with a capricious particularity which
defies my powers of generalization. And that, perhaps, is the reason
why I attached myself to the party to which I have the honour to
belong. For it is, I think, the party which sees things as they are;
as they are, that is, to mere human vision. Remenham, in his haste,
has called us the party of reaction. I would rather say, we are the
party of realism. We have in view, not Man, but Englishmen; not ideal
polities, but the British Constitution; not Political Economy, but the
actual course of our trade. Through this great forest of fact, this
tangle of old and new, these secular oaks, sturdy shrubs, beautiful
parasitic creepers, we move with a prudent diffidence, following the
old tracks, endeavouring to keep them open, but hesitating to cut new
routes till we are clear as to the goal for which we are asked to
sacrifice our finest timber. Fundamental changes we regard as
exceptional and pathological. Yet, being bound by no theories, when we
are convinced of their necessity, we inaugurate them boldly and carry
them through to the end. And thus it is that having decided that the
time had come to call the people to the councils of the nation, we
struck boldly and once for all by a measure which I will never
admit--and here I regret that Cantilupe is not with me--which I will
never admit to be at variance with the best, and soundest traditions of
conservatism.
"But such measures are exceptional, and we hope they will be final. We
take no delight in tinkering the constitution. The mechanism of
government we recognize to be only a means; the test of the statesman
is his power to govern. And remaining, as we do, inaccessible to that
gospel of liberty of which our opponents have had a special revelation,
we find in the existing state of England much that appears to us to
need control. We are unable to share the optimism which animates
Remenham and his friends as to the direction and effects of the new
forces of industry. Above the whirr of the spindle and the shaft we
hear the cry of the poor. Behind our flourishing warehouses and shops
we see the hovels of the artisan. We watch along our highroads the
long procession of labourers deserting their ancestral villages for the
cities; we trace them to the slum and the sweater's den; we follow them
to the poorhouse and the prison; we see them disappear engulfed in the
abyss, while others press at their heels to take their place and share
their destiny. And in face of all this we do not think it to be our
duty to fold our arms and invoke the principle of liberty. We feel
that we owe it to the nation to preserve intact its human heritage, the
only source of its greatness and its wealth; and we are prepared, with
such wisdom as we have, to legislate to that end, undeterred by the
fear of incurring the charge of socialism.
"But while we thus concern ourselves with the condition of these
islands, we have not forgotten that we have relations to the world
outside. If, indeed, we could share the views to which Remenham has
given such eloquent expression, this is a matter which would give us
little anxiety. He beholds, as in a vision, the era of peace and
good-will ushered in by the genius of commerce. By a mysterious
dispensation of Providence he sees cupidity and competition furthering
the ends of charity and peace. But here once more I am unable to
follow his audacious flight. Confined to the sphere of observation, I
cannot but note that in the long and sanguinary course of history there
has been no cause so fruitful of war as the rivalries of trade. Our
own annals at every point are eloquent of this truth; nor do I see
anything in the conditions of the modern world that should limit its
application. We have been told that all nations will adopt our fiscal
policy. Why should they, unless it is to their interest? We adopted
it because we thought it was to ours; and we shall abandon it if we
ever change our opinion. And when I say 'interest' I would not be
understood to mean economic interest in the narrower sense. A nation,
like an individual, I conceive, has a personality to maintain. It must
be its object not to accumulate wealth at all costs, but to develop and
maintain capacity, to be powerful, energetic, many-sided, and above all
independent. Whether the policy we have adopted will continue to
guarantee this result, I am not prophet enough to venture to affirm.
But if it does not, I cannot doubt that we shall be driven to revise
it. Nor can I believe that other nations, not even our own colonies,
will follow us in our present policy, if to do so would be to jeopardy
their rising industries and unduly to narrow the scope of their
economic energies. I do not, then, I confess, look forward with
enthusiasm or with hope to the Crystal Palace millennium that inspired
the eloquence of Remenham. I see the future pregnant with wars and
rumours of wars. And in particular I see this nation, by virtue of its
wealth, its power, its unparalleled success, the target for the envy,
the hatred, the cupidity of all the peoples of Europe. I see them
looking abroad for outlets for their expanding population, only to find
every corner of the habitable globe preoccupied by the English race and
overshadowed by the English flag. But from this, which is our main
danger, I conjure my main hope for the future. England is more than
England. She has grown in her sleep. She has stretched over every
continent huge embryo limbs which wait only for the beat of her heart,
the motion of her spirit, to assume their form and function as members
of one great body of empire. The spirit, I think, begins to stir, the
blood to circulate. Our colonies, I believe, are not destined to drop
from us like ripe fruit; our dependencies will not fall to other
masters. The nation sooner or later will wake to its imperial mission.
The hearts of Englishmen beyond the seas will beat in unison with ours.
And the federation I foresee is not the federation of Mankind, but that
of the British race throughout the world."
He paused, and in the stillness that followed we became aware of the
gathering dusk. The first stars were appearing, and the young moon was
low in the west. From the shadow below we heard the murmur of a
fountain, and the call of a nightingale sounded in the wood. Something
in the time and the place must have worked on Mendoza's mood; for when
he resumed it was in a different key.
"Such," he began, "is my vision, if I permit myself to dream. But who
shall say whether it is more than a dream? There is something in the
air to-night which compels candour. And if I am to tell my inmost
thought, I must confess on what a flood of nescience we, who seem to
direct the affairs of nations, are borne along together with those whom
we appear to control. We are permitted, like children, to lay our
hands upon the reins; but it is a dark and unknown genius who drives.
We are his creatures; and it is his ends, not ours, that are furthered
by our contests, our efforts, our ideals. In the arena Remenham and I
must play our part, combat bravely, and be ready to die when the crowd
turn down their thumbs. But here in a moment of withdrawal, I at least
cannot fail to recognize behind the issues that divide us the tie of a
common destiny. We shall pass and a new generation will succeed us; a
generation to whom our ideals will be irrelevant, our catch-words
empty, our controversies unintelligible.
Hi motus animorum atque haec certamina tanta
Pulveris exigui jactu compressa quiescunt.
"The dust of oblivion will bury our debates. Something we shall have
achieved, but not what we intended. My dream may, perhaps, be
furthered by Remenham, and his by me, or, it may be, neither his nor
mine by either. The Providence whose purposes he so readily divines is
dark to me. And perhaps, for that reason, I am able to regard him with
more charity than he has always been willing, I suspect, to extend to
me. This, at any rate, is the moment of truce. The great arena is
empty, the silent benches vanish into the night. Under the glimmer of
the moon figures more than mortal haunt the scene of our ephemeral
contests. It is they which stand behind us and deal the blows which
seem to be ours. When we are laid in the dust they will animate other
combatants; when our names are forgotten they will blazon others in
perishable gold. Why, then, should we strive and cry, even now in the
twilight hour? The same sky encompasses us, the same stars are above
us. What are my opinions, what are Remenham's? Froth on the surface!
The current bears all alike along to the destined end. For a moment
let us meet and feel its silent, irresistible force; and in this moment
reach across the table the hand of peace."
With that he stretched his hand to Remenham, with a kind of pathos of
appeal that the other, though I think he did not altogether like it,
could hardly refuse to entertain. It was theatrical, it was
un-English, but somehow, it was successful. And the whole episode, the
closing words and the incomparable gesture, left me with a sense as
though a curtain had been drawn upon a phase of our history. Mendoza,
somehow, had shut out Remenham, even more than himself, from the field
on which the issues of the future were to be fought. And it was this
feeling that led me, really a little against my inclination, to select
as the next speaker the man who of all who, made up our company, in
opinions was the most opposed to Remenham, and in temperament to
Mendoza. My choice was Allison, more famous now than he was then, but
known even at that time as an unsparing critic of both parties. He
responded readily enough; and as he began a spell seemed to snap. The
night and the hour were forgotten, and we were back on the dusty field
of controversy.
"THIS is all very touching," he began, "but Mendoza is shaking hands
with the wrong person. He's much nearer to me than he is to Remenham,
and I don't at all despair of converting him. For he does at least
understand that the character of every society depends upon its law of
property; and he even seems to have a suspicion that the law, as we
have it, is not what you would call absolute perfection. It's true
that he shows no particular inclination to alter it. But that may
come; and I'm not without hope of seeing, before I die, a
Tory-Socialist party. Remenham's is a different case, and I fear
there's nothing to be made of him. He does, I believe, really think
that in some extraordinary way the law of property, like the Anglican
Church, is one of the dispensations of Providence; and that if he
removes all other restrictions, leaving that, he will have what he
calls a natural society. But Nature, as Mendoza has pointed out, is
anarchy. Civilization means restriction; and so does socialism. So
far from being anarchy, it is the very antithesis of it. Anarchy is
the goal of liberalism, if liberalism could ever be persuaded to be
logical. So the scarecrow of anarchy, at least, need not frighten away
any would-be convert to socialism. There remains, it is true, the
other scarecrow, revolution; and that, I admit, has more life in it.
Socialism is revolutionary; but so is liberalism, or was, while it was
anything. Revolution does not imply violence. On the contrary,
violence is the abortion of revolution. Do I, for instance, look like
a Marat or a Danton? I ask you, candidly!"
He certainly did not. On the contrary, with his short squat figure,
pointed beard and spectacles, he presented a curious blend of the
middle-class Englishman and the German savant. There was a burst of
laughter at his question, in which he joined himself. But when he
resumed it was in a more serious tone and somewhat in the manner of a
lecturer. It was indeed, at that time, very largely by lectures that
he carried on his propaganda.
"No," he said, "socialism may roar; but, in England at any rate, it
roars as gently as any sucking-dove. Revolution I admit is the goal;
but the process is substitution. We propose to transform society
almost without anyone knowing it; to work from the foundation upwards
without unduly disturbing the superstructure. By a mere adjustment of
rates and taxes we shall redistribute property; by an extension of the
powers of local bodies we shall nationalize industry. But in all this
there need be no shock, no abrupt transition. On the contrary, it is
essential to our scheme that there should not be. We are men of
science and we realize that the whole structure of society rests upon
habit. With the new organization must therefore grow the new habit
that is to support it. To precipitate organic change is merely to
court reaction. That is the lesson of all revolution; and it is one
which English socialists, at any rate, have learnt. We think,
moreover, that capitalist society is, by its own momentum, travelling
towards the goal which we desire. Every consolidation of business upon
a grand scale implies the development of precisely those talents of
organization without which the socialistic state could not come into
being or maintain itself; while at the same time the substitution of
monopoly for competition removes the only check upon the power of
capital to exploit society, and brings home to every citizen in his
tenderest point--his pocket--the necessity for that public control from
which he might otherwise be inclined to shrink. Capitalist society is
thus preparing its own euthanasia; and we socialists ought to be
regarded not as assassins of the old order, but as midwives to deliver
it of the child with which it is in travail.
"That child will be a society not of liberty but of regulation. It is
here that we join issue not only with doctrinaire liberals, but with
that large body of ordinary common-sense Englishmen who feel a general
and instinctive distrust of all state interference. That distrust, I
would point out, is really an anachronism. It dates from a time when
the state was at once incompetent and unpopular, from the days of
monarchic or aristocratic government carried on frankly in the
interests of particular classes or persons. But the democratic
revolution and the introduction of bureaucracy has swept all that away;
and governments in every civilized country are now moving towards the
ideal of an expert administration controlled by an alert and
intelligent public opinion. Much, it is true, has yet to be done
before that ideal will be realized. In some countries, notably in the
United States, the necessity of the expert has hardly made itself felt.
In others, such as Germany, popular control is very inadequately
provided for. But the tendency is clear; and nowhere clearer than in
this country. Here at any rate we may hopefully look forward to a
continual extension both of the activity and of the intelligence of
public officials; while at the same time, by an appropriate development
of the representative machinery, we may guard ourselves against the
danger of an irresponsible bureaucracy. The problem of reconciling
administrative efficiency with popular control is no doubt a difficult
one; but I feel confident that it can be solved. This perhaps is
hardly the place to develop my favourite idea of the professional
representative; but I may be permitted to refer to it in passing. By a
professional representative I mean one trained in a scientific and
systematic way to elicit the real opinion of his constituents, and to
embody it in practicable proposals. He will have to study what they
really want, not what they think they want, and to discover for himself
in what way it can be obtained. Such men need not be elected; indeed I
am inclined to think that the plan of popular election has had its day.
The essential is that they should be selected by some test of
efficiency, such as examination or previous record, and that they
should keep themselves in constant touch with their constituents. But
I must not dwell upon details. My main object is to show that when
government is in the hands of expert administrators, controlled by
expert representatives, there need be no anxiety felt in extending
indefinitely the sphere of the state.
"This extension will of course be primarily economic, for, as is now
generally recognized, the whole character of a society depends upon its
economic organization. Revolution, if it is to be profound, must begin
with the organization of industry; but it does not follow that it will
end there. It is a libel on the socialist ideal to call it
materialistic, to say that it is indifferent or hostile to the higher
activities. No one, to begin with, is more conscious than a true
socialist of the importance of science. Not only is the sociology on
which his position is based a branch of science; but it is a
fundamental part of his creed that the progress of man depends upon his
mastery of Nature, and that for acquiring that mastery science is his
only weapon. Again, it is absurd to accuse us of indifference to
ethics. Our standards, indeed, may not be the same as those of
bourgeois society; if they were, that would be their condemnation; for
a new economic régime necessarily postulates a new ethic. But every
régime requires and produces its appropriate standards; and the
socialist régime will be no exception. Our feeling upon that subject
is simply that we need not trouble about the ethic because it will
follow of itself upon the economic revolution. For, as we read
history, the economic factor determines all the others. 'Man ist was
er isst,' as the German said; and morals, art, religion, all the
so-called 'ideal activities,' are just allotropic forms of bread and
meat. They will come by themselves if they are wanted; and in the
socialist state they will be better not worse provided for than under
the present competitive system. For here again the principle of the
expert will come in. It will be the business of the state, if it
determines that such activities ought to be encouraged, to devise a
machinery for selecting and educating men of genius, in proportion to
the demand, and assigning to them their appropriate sphere of activity
and their sufficient wage. This will apply, I conceive, equally to the
ministers of religion as to the professors of the various branches of
art. Nor would I suggest that the socialist community should establish
any one form of religion, seeing that we are not in a position to
determine scientifically which, or whether any, are true. I would give
encouragement to all and several, of course under the necessary
restrictions, in the hope that, in course of time, by a process of
natural selection, that one will survive which is the best adapted to
the new environment. But meantime the advantage of the new over the
old organization is apparent. We shall hear no more of genius starving
in a garret; of ill-paid or over-paid ministers of the gospel; of
privileged and unprivileged sects. All will be orderly, regular, and
secure, as it should be in a civilized state; and for the first time in
history society will be in a position to extract the maximum of good
from those strange and irregular human organizations whose subsistence
hitherto has been so precarious and whose output so capricious and
uncertain. A socialist state, if I may say so, will pigeon-hole
religion, literature and art; and if these are really normal and
fruitful functions they cannot fail, like other functions, to profit by
such treatment.
"I have thus indicated in outline the main features of the socialist
scheme--an economic revolution accomplished by a gradual and peaceful
transition and issuing in a system of collectivism so complete as to
include all the human activities that are really valuable. But what I
should find it hard to convey, except to an audience prepared by years
of study, is the enthusiasm or rather the grounds for the enthusiasm,
that animates us. Whereas all other political parties are groping in
the dark, relying upon partial and outworn formulae, in which even they
themselves have ceased to believe, we alone advance in the broad
daylight, along a road whose course we clearly trace backward and
forward, towards a goal distinctly seen on the horizon. History and
analysis are our guides; history for the first time comprehended,
analysis for the first time scientifically applied. Unlike all the
revolutionists of the past, we derive our inspiration not from our own
intuitions or ideals, but from the ascertained course of the world. We
co-operate with the universe; and hence at once our confidence and our
patience. We can afford to wait because the force of events is bearing
us on of its own accord to the end we desire. Even if we rest on our
oars, none the less we are drifting onwards; or if we are checked for a
moment the eddy in which we are caught is merely local. Alone among
all politicians we have faith; but our faith is built upon science, and
it is therefore a faith which will endure."
WITH that Allison concluded; and almost before he had done MacCarthy,
without waiting my summons, had leapt to his feet and burst into an
impassioned harangue. With flashing eyes and passionate gestures he
delivered himself as follows, his Irish accent contrasting pleasantly
with that of the last speaker.
"May God forgive me," he cried, "that ever I have called myself a
socialist, if this is what socialism means! But it does not! I will
rescue the word! I will reclaim it for its ancient nobler
sense--socialism the dream of the world, the light of the grail on the
marsh, the mystic city of Sarras, the vale of Avalon! Socialism the
soul of liberty, the bond of brotherhood, the seal of equality! Who is
he that with sacrilegious hands would seize our Ariel and prison him in
that tree of iniquity the State? Day is not farther from night, nor
Good from Evil, than the socialism of the Revolution from this of the
desk and the stool, from this enemy wearing our uniform and flaunting
our coat of arms. For nigh upon a century we have fought for liberty;
and now they would make us gaolers to bind our own souls. 1789, 1830,
1848--are these dates branded upon our hearts, only to stamp us as
patient sheep in the flock of bureaucracy? No! They are the symbols
of the spirit; and those whom they set apart, outcasts from the
kingdoms of this world and citizens of the kingdom of God, wherever
they wander are living flames to consume institutions and laws, and to
light in the hearts of men the fires of pity and wrath and love. Our
city is not built with Blue books, nor cemented with office dust; nor
is it bonds of red-tape that make and keep it one. No! it is the
attraction, uncompelled, of spirits made free; the shadowing into
outward form of the eternal joy of the soul!"
He paused and seemed to collect himself; and then in a quieter tone:
"Socialism," he proceeded, "is one with anarchy! I know the terrors of
that word; but they are the terrors of an evil conscience; for it is
only an order founded on iniquity that dreads disorder. Why do you
fear for your property and lives, you who fear anarchy? It is because
you have stolen the one and misdevoted the other; because you have
created by your laws the man you call the criminal; because you have
bred hunger, and hunger has bred rage. For this I do not blame you,
any more than I blame myself. You are yourselves victims of the system
you maintain, and your enemy, no less than mine, if you knew it, is
government. For government means compulsion, exclusion, distinction,
separation; while anarchy is freedom, union and love. Government is
based on egotism and fear, anarchy on fraternity. It is because we
divide ourselves into nations that we endure the oppression of
armaments; because we isolate ourselves as individuals that we invoke
the protection of laws. If I did not take what my brother needs I
should not fear that he would take it from me; if I did not shut myself
off from his want, I should not deem it less urgent than my own. All
governing persons are persons set apart. And therefore it is that
whether they will or no they are oppressors, or, at best, obstructors.
Shut off from the breath of popular instinct, which is the breath of
life, they cannot feel, and therefore cannot think, rightly. And, in
any case, how could they understand, even with the best will in the
world, the multifarious interests they are expected to control? A man
knows nothing but what he practises; and in every branch of work only
those are fitted to direct who are themselves the workers.
Intellectually, as well as morally, government is eternally bankrupt;
and what is called representative government is no better than any
other, for the governors are equally removed in sympathy and knowledge
from the governed. Nay, experience shows, if we would but admit it,
that under no system have the rulers been more incompetent and corrupt
than under this which we call democratic. Is not the very word
'politician' everywhere a term of reproach? Is not a government office
everywhere synonymous with incapacity and sloth? What a miserable
position is that of a Member of Parliament, compelled to give his vote
on innumerable questions of which he does not understand the rudiments,
and giving it at the dictation of party chiefs who themselves are
controlled by the blind and brainless mechanism of the caucus! The
people are the slaves of their representatives, the representatives of
their chiefs, and the chiefs of a conscienceless machine! And that is
the last word of governmental science! Oh, divine spirit of man, in
what chains have you bound yourself, and call it liberty, and clap your
hands!
"And then comes one and says, 'because you are free, tie yourself
tighter and tighter in your own bonds!' Are these hands not yours that
fasten the knots? Why then do you fear? Here is a limb free; fasten
it quick! Your head still turns; come, fix it in a vice! Now you are
fast! Now you cannot move! How beautiful, how orderly, how secure!
And this, and this is socialism! And it was to accomplish this that
France opened the sluices that have deluged the earth with blood!
What! we have broken the bonds of iron to bind ourselves in tape! We
have discrowned Napoleon to crown ... to crown...."
He looked across at Allison, and suddenly pulled himself up. Then,
attempting the tone of exposition, "There is only one way out of it,"
he resumed, "the extension of free co-operation in every department of
activity, including those which at present are regulated by the State.
You will say that this is impracticable; but why? Already, in all that
you most care about, that is the method you actually adopt. The
activities of men that are freest in the society in which we live are
those of art and science and amusement. And all these are, I will not
say regulated by, but expressed in, voluntary organizations, clubs,
academies, societies, what you will. The Royal Society and the British
Association are types of the right way of organizing; and it is a way
that should and must be applied throughout the whole structure. Every
trade and business should be conducted by a society voluntarily formed
of all those who choose to engage in it, electing and removing their
own officials, determining their own policy, and co-operating by free
arrangement with other similar bodies. A complex interweaving of such
associations, with order everywhere, compulsion nowhere, is the form of
society to which I look forward, and which I see already growing up
within the hard skin of the older organisms. Rules there will be but
not laws, rules gladly obeyed because they will have been freely
adopted, and because there will be no compulsion upon anyone to remain
within the brotherhood that approves and maintains them. Anarchy is
not the absence of order, it is absence of force; it is the free
outflowing of the spirit into the forms in which it delights; and in
such forms alone, as they grow and change, can it find an expression
which is not also a bondage. You will say this is chimerical. But
look at history! Consider the great achievements of the Middle Age!
Were they not the result of just such a movement as I describe? It was
men voluntarily associating in communes and grouping themselves in
guilds that built the towers and churches and adorned them with the
glories of art that dazzles us still in Italy and France. The history
of the growth of the state, of public authority and compulsion, is the
history of the decline from Florence and Nuremberg to London and New
York. As the power of the state grows the energy of the spirit
dwindles; and if ever Allison's ideal should be realized, if ever the
activity of the state should extend through and through to every
department of life, the universal ease and comfort which may thus be
disseminated throughout society will have been purchased dearly at the
price of the soul. The denizens of that city will be fed, housed and
clothed to perfection; only--and it is a serious drawback--only they
will be dead.
"Oh!" he broke out, "if I could but get you to see that this whole
order under which you live is artificial and unnecessary! But we are
befogged by the systems we impose upon our imagination and call
science. We have been taught to regard history as a necessary process,
until we come to think it must also be a good one; that all that has
ever happened ought to have happened just so and no otherwise. And
thus we justify everything past and present, however palpably in
contradiction with our own intuitions. But these are mere figments of
the brain. History, for the most part, believe me, is one gigantic
error and crime. It ought to have been other than it was; and we ought
to be other than we are. There is no natural and inevitable evolution
towards good; no co-operating with the universe, other than by
connivance at its crimes. That little house the brain builds to
shelter its own weakness must be torn down if we would face the truth
and pursue the good. Then we shall see amid what blinding storms of
wind and rain, what darkness of elements hostile or indifferent, our
road lies across the mountains towards the city of our desire. Then
and then only shall we understand the spirit of revolution. That there
are things so bad that they can only be burnt up by fire; that there
are obstructions so immense that they can only be exploded by dynamite;
that the work of destruction is a necessary preliminary to the work of
creation, for it is the destruction of the prison walls wherein the
spirit is confined; and that in that work the spirit itself is the only
agent, unhelped by powers of nature or powers of a world beyond--that
is the creed--no, I will not say the creed, that is the insight and
vision by which we of the Revolution live. By that I believe we shall
triumph. But whether we triumph or no, our life itself is a victory,
for it is a life lived in the spirit. To shatter material bonds that
we may bind closer the bonds of the soul, to slough dead husks that we
may liberate living forms, to abolish institutions that we may evoke
energies, to put off the material and put on the spiritual body, that,
whether we fight with the tongue or the sword, is the inspiration of
our movement, that, and that only, is the true and inner meaning of
anarchy.
"Anarchy is identified with violence; and I will not be so hypocritical
and base as to deny that violence must be one of our means of action.
Force is the midwife of society; and never has radical change been
accomplished without it. What came by the sword by the sword must be
destroyed: and only through violence can violence come to an end. Nay,
I will go further and confess, since here if anywhere we are candid,
that it is the way of violence to which I feel called myself, and that
I shall die as I have lived, an active revolutionary. But because
force is a way, is a necessary way, is my way, I do not imagine that
there is no other. Were it not idle to wish, I could rather wish that
I were a poet or a saint, to serve the same Lord by the gentler weapons
of the spirit. There are anarchists who never made a speech and never
carried a rifle, whom we know as our brothers, though perhaps they know
not us. Two I will name who live for ever, Shelley, the first of
poets, were it not that there is one greater than he, the mystic
William Blake. We are thought of as men of blood; we are hounded over
the face of the globe. And who of our persecutors would believe that
the song we bear in our hearts, some of us, I may speak at least for
one, is the most inspired, the most spiritual challenge ever flung to
your obtuse, flatulent, stertorous England:
Bring me my bow of burning gold,
Bring me my arrows of desire,
Bring me my spear; O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till I have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
"England! No, not England, but Europe, America, the world! Where is
Man, the new Man, there is our country. But the new Man is buried in
the old; and wherever he struggles in his tomb, wherever he knocks we
are there to help to deliver him. When the guards sleep, in the
silence of the dawn, rises the crucified Christ. And the angel that
sits at the grave is the angel of Anarchy."
THUS abruptly he brought to a close his extraordinary peroration, to
which I fear the written word has done but poor justice. A long
silence followed; in it there was borne to us from below the murmur of
the hidden fountain, the wail of the nightingale. It was night now;
the moon had set, and the sky was thick with stars. Among them one
planet was blazing red, just opposite where I sat; and I saw the eyes
of my neighbour, Henry Martin, fixed upon it. He was so lost in
thought that he did not hear me at first when I asked him whether he
would care to follow on. But he assented willingly enough as soon as
he understood. And as he rose I could not help admiring, as I had
often done before, the singular beauty of his countenance. His books,
I think, do him injustice; they are cold and academic. But there was
nothing of that in the man himself; never was spirit so alert; and that
alertness was reflected in his person and bearing, his erect figure,
his brilliant eyes, and the tumultuous sweep of his now whitening
beard. He stood for a moment silent, with his eyes still fixed on the
red star; then began to speak as follows:
"If," he said, "it be true, as certain mystics maintain, that the world
is an effect of the antagonisms of spiritual beings, having their
stations in opposite quarters of the heavens, then, I think, MacCarthy
and myself must represent such a pair of contraries, and move in an
antithetic balance through the cycle of experience. I, perhaps, am the
Urthona of his prophet Blake, and he the Urizen, or vice versa, it may
be, I cannot tell. But our opposition involves, on my part at least,
no hostility; and looking across to his quarter of the sky I can
readily conceive how proud a fate it must be to burn there, so red, so
sumptuous, and so superb. My own light is pale by comparison, a mere
green and blue; yet it is equally essential; and without it there might
be a danger that he would consume the world. I speak in metaphors,
that I may effect as gently as possible the necessary transition, so
cold and abrupt, from the prophet to the critic. But you, sir, in
calling upon me, knew what you were doing. You knew well that you were
inviting Aquarius to empty his watering-pot on Mars. And Mars, I am
sure, will pardon me if I obey. Unlike all the previous speakers, I
am, by vocation, a sceptic; and the vocation I hold to be a noble one.
There are people who think, perhaps, indeed, there is almost nobody who
does not think, that action is the sole end of life. Criticism, they
hold, is a kind of disease to which some people are subject, and which,
in extreme cases, may easily be fatal. The healthy state, on the other
hand, they think, is that of the enthusiast; of the man who believes
and never doubts. Now, that such a state is happy I am very ready to
admit; but I cannot hold that it is healthy. How could it be, unless
it were based upon a sound, intellectual foundation? But no such
foundation has been or will be reached except through criticism; and
all criticism implies and engenders doubt. A man who has never
experienced, nay, I will say who is not constantly reiterating, the
process of criticism, is a man who has no right to his enthusiasm. For
he has won it at the cost of drugging his mind with passion; and that I
maintain is a bad and wrong thing. I maintain it to be bad and wrong
in itself, and quite apart from any consequences it may produce; for it
is a primary duty to seek what is true and eschew what is false. But
even from the secondary point of view of consequences, I have the
gravest doubts as to the common assumption that the effects of
enthusiasm are always preponderantly if not wholly good. When I
consider, for example, the history of religion, I find no warrant for
affirming that its services have outweighed its disservices. Jesus
Christ, the greatest and, I think, the sanest of enthusiasts, lit the
fires of the Inquisition and set up the Pope at Rome. Mahomet deluged
the earth with blood, and planted the Turk on the Bosphorus. Saint
Frances created a horde of sturdy beggars. Luther declared the Thirty
Years War. Criticism would have arrested the course of these men; but
would the world have been the worse? I doubt it. There would have
been less heat; but there might have been more light. And, for my
part, I believe in light. It may, indeed, be true that intellect
without passion is barren; but it is certain that passion without
intellect is mischievous. And since these powers, which should be
united, are, in fact, at war in the great duel which runs through
history, I take my stand with the intellect. If I must choose, I would
rather be barren than mischievous. But it is my aim to be fruitful and
to be fruitful through criticism. That means, I fear, that I am bound
to make myself unpleasant to everybody. But I do it, not of malice
prepense, but as in duty bound. You will say, perhaps, that that only
makes the matter worse. Well, so be it! I will apologize no more, but
proceed at once to my disagreeable task.
"Let me say then first, that in listening to the speakers who have
preceded me, while admiring the beauty and ingenuity of the
superstructures they have raised, I have been busy, according to my
practice, in questioning the foundations. And this is the kind of
result I have arrived at. All political convictions vary between the
two extremes which I will call Collectivism and Anarchy. Each of these
pursues at all costs a certain end--Collectivism, order, and Anarchy,
liberty. Each is held as a faith and propagated as a religion. And
between them lie those various compromises between faith and
experience, idea and fact, which are represented by liberalism,
conservatism, and the like. Now, the degree of enthusiasm which
accompanies a belief, is commonly in direct proportion to its freedom
from empirical elements. Simplicity and immediacy are the
characteristics of all passionate conviction. But a critic like myself
cannot believe that in politics, or anywhere in the field of practical
action, any such simple and immediate beliefs are really and wholly
true. Thus, in the case before us, I would point out that neither
liberty nor order are sufficient ends in themselves, though each, I
think, is part of the end. The liberty that is desirable is that of
good people pursuing Good in order; and the order that is desirable is
that of good people pursuing Good in liberty. This is a correction
which, perhaps, both collectivist and anarchist would accept. What
they want, they would say, is that kind of liberty and that kind of
order which I have described. But as liberty and order, so conceived,
imply one another, the difference between the two positions ceases to
be one of ends and becomes one of means. But every problem of means is
one of extreme complexity which can only be solved, in the most
tentative way, by observation and experiment. And opinions based upon
such a process, though they may be strongly held, cannot be held with
the simplicity and force of a religious or ethical intuition. We
might, conceivably, on this basis adopt the position either of the
collectivist or of the anarchist; but we should do so not as
enthusiasts, but as critics, with a full consciousness that we are
resting not upon an absolute principle, but upon a balance of
probabilities.
"This, then, is the first point I wished to make, that the whole
question is one to be attacked by criticism, not by intuition. But
now, tested by criticism, both the extreme positions suggest the
gravest possible difficulties and doubts. In the case of anarchy,
especially, these force themselves upon the most superficial view. The
anarchist maintains, in effect, that to bring about his ideal of
ordered liberty all you have to do is to abolish government. But he
can point to no experience that will justify such a belief. It is
based upon a theory of human nature which is contradicted by all the
facts known to us. For if men, were it not for government, might be
living in the garden of Eden, how comes it that they ever emerged from
that paradise? No, it is not government that is the root of our
troubles, it is the niggardliness of Nature and the greed of man. And
both these are primitive facts which would be strengthened, not
destroyed, by anarchy. Can it be believed that the result would be
satisfactory? The anarchist may indeed reply that anything would be
better than what exists. And I can well understand how some generous
and sensitive souls, or some victims of intolerable oppression, may be
driven into such counsels. But they are surely counsels of despair.
Or is it possible really to hold--as MacCarthy apparently does--that on
the eve of a bloody revolution, whereby all owners of property will be
summarily deprived of all they have, the friendly and co-operative
instincts of human nature will immediately come into play without
friction; that the infinitely complex problems of production and
distribution will solve themselves, as it were, of their own accord;
that there will be a place ready for everybody to do exactly the work
he wants; that everybody will want to work at something, and will be
contented with the wage assigned him, that there will be no shortage,
no lack of adaptation of demand to supply; and all this achieved, not
by virtue of any new knowledge or new capacity, but simply by a
rearrangement of existing elements? Does anyone, does MacCarthy
really, in a calm moment, believe all this? And is he prepared to
stake society upon his faith? If he be, he is indeed beyond the reach
of my watering-pot. I leave him, therefore, burning luridly and
unsubdued, and pass on to Allison.
"Allison's flame is gentler; and I would not wish, even if I could,
altogether to extinguish it. But I am anxious, I confess, to temper
it; for in colour, to my taste, it is a little ghastly; and I fear that
if it increased in intensity, it might even become too hot, though I do
not suggest that that is a present danger. To drop the metaphor, my
objections to collectivism are not as fundamental as my objections to
anarchy, nor are they based upon any lack of appreciation of the
advantages of that more equitable distribution of the opportunities of
life which I take to be at the bottom of the collectivist ideal. I do
not share--no man surely who has reflected could share--the common
prejudice that there is something fundamental, natural, and inevitable
about the existing organization of property. On the contrary, it is
clear to me that it is inequitable; and that the substitution of the
system advocated by collectivists would be an immense improvement, if
it could be successfully carried out, and if it did not endanger other
Goods, which may be even more important than equality of opportunity.
Nor do I hold that in a collectivist state there need be any dangerous
relaxation of that motive of self-interest which every reasonable man
must admit to be, up to a point, the most potent source of all
practical energy. I do not see why the state should not pay its
servants according to merit just as private companies do, and make the
rewards of ambition depend on efficiency. In this purely economic
region there is not, so it seems to me, anything absurd or chimerical
in the socialist ideal. My difficulty here is of a different kind. I
do not see how, by the democratic machinery contemplated, it will be
possible to secure officials sufficiently competent and disinterested
to be entrusted with functions so important and so difficult as those
which would be demanded of them under the socialist régime. In a
democracy the government can hardly rise above--in practice, I think,
it tends to fall below--the average level of honesty and intelligence.
In the United States, for example, it is notorious that the whole
machinery of government, and especially of local government, where the
economic functions are important, is exploited by the more unscrupulous
members of the community; and this tendency must be immensely
accentuated in every society in proportion as the functions of
government become important. A socialist state badly administered
would, I believe, be worse than the state under which we live, to the
same degree in which, when well administered, it would be better. And
I do not, I confess, see what guarantees socialists can offer that the
administration will be good. I have far less confidence than Allison
in mere machinery; and I am sure that no machinery will produce good
results in a society where a large proportion of the citizens have no
other idea than to exploit the powers of government in their own
interest. But such, I believe, is the case in existing societies; and
I do not see by what miracle they are going to be transformed.
"Such is my first difficulty with regard to collectivism. And though
it would not prevent me from supporting, as in fact I do support,
cautious and tentative experiments in the direction of practical
socialism, it does prevent me from looking to a collectivist future
with anything like the breezy confidence which animates Allison. And I
will go further: I will say that no man who possesses an adequate
intelligence, and does not deliberately stifle it, has a right to any
such confidence. Setting aside, however, for the sake of argument,
this difficulty, and admitting the possibility of an honest and
efficient collectivist state, I am confronted with a further and even
graver cause of hesitation. For while I consider that the distribution
of the opportunities of life is, under the existing system, in the
highest degree capricious and inequitable, yet I would prefer such
inequity to the most equitable arrangement in the world if it afforded
a better guarantee for the realization of certain higher goods than
would be afforded by the improved system. And I am not clear in my own
mind, and I do not see how anyone can be clear, that collectivism gives
as good a security as the present system for the realization of these
higher goods. And this brings me back to the question of liberty. On
this point there is, I am well aware, a great deal of cant talked, and
I have no wish to add to it. Under our present arrangements, I admit,
for the great mass of people, there is no liberty worth the name;
seeing that they are bound and tied all their lives to the meanest
necessities. And yet we see that out of the midst of all this chaos of
wrong, there have emerged and do emerge artists, poets, men of science,
saints. And the appearance of such men seems to me to depend on the
fact that a considerable minority have the power to choose, for good or
for evil, their own life, to follow their bent, even in the face of
tremendous difficulties, and perhaps because of those difficulties, in
the more fortunate cases, to realize, at whatever cost of suffering,
great works and great lives. But under the system sketched by Allison
I have the gravest doubts whether any man of genius would ever emerge.
The very fact that everybody's career will be regulated for him, and
his difficulties smoothed away, that, in a word, the open road will
imply the beaten track, will, I fear, diminish, if not destroy, the
enterprise, the innate spirit of adventure, in the spiritual as in the
physical world, on which depends all that we call, or ought to call,
progress. A collectivist state, it is true, might establish and endow
academies; but would it ever produce a Shakespeare or a Michelangelo?
It might engender and foster religious orthodoxy; but would it have a
place for the reformer or the saint? Should we not have to pay for the
general level of comfort and intelligence, by suppressing the only
thing good in itself, the manifestation of genius? I do not say
dogmatically that it would be so: I do not even say dogmatically that,
even if it were, the argument would be conclusive against the
collectivist state. But the issue is so tremendous that it necessarily
makes me pause, as it must, I contend, any candid man, who is not
prejudiced by a preconceived ideal.
"Now, it is not for the sake of recommending any opinion of my own that
I have dwelt on these considerations. It is, rather, to illustrate and
drive home the point with which I began, that the intellect has its
rights, that it enters into every creed, and that it undermines, in
every creed, all elements of mere irrational or anti-rational faith;
that this fact can only be disguised by a conscious or unconscious
predetermination, not to let the intellect have its say; and that such
predetermination is a very serious error and vice. It is without shame
and without regret, on the contrary it is with satisfaction and
self-approval, that I find in my own case, my intelligence daily more
and more undermining my instinctive beliefs. If, as some have held, it
were necessary to choose between reason and passion, I would choose
reason. But I find no such necessity; for reason to me herself is a
passion. Men think the life of reason cold. How little do they know
what it is to be responsive to every call, solicited by every impulse,
yet still, like the magnet, vibrate ever to the north, never so tense,
never so aware of the stress and strain of force as when most
irremovably fixed upon that goal. The intensity of life is not to be
measured by the degree of oscillation. It is at the stillest point
that the most tremendous energies meet; and such a point is the
intelligence open to infinity. For such stillness I feel myself to be
destined, if ever I could attain it. But others, I suppose, like
MacCarthy, have a different fate. In the celestial world of souls, the
hierarchy of spirits, there is need of the planet no less than of its
sun. The station and gravity of the one determines the orbit of the
other, and the antagonism that keeps them apart also knits them
together. There is no motion of MacCarthy's but I vibrate to it; and
about my immobility he revolves. But both of us, as I am inclined to
think, are included in a larger system and move together on a remoter
centre. And the very law of our contention, as perhaps one day we may
come to see, is that of a love that by discord achieves harmony."
THE conclusion of Martin's speech left me somewhat in doubt how to
proceed. All of the company who were primarily interested in politics
had now spoken; and I was afraid there might be a complete break in the
subject of our discourse. Casting about, I could think of nothing
better than to call upon Wilson, the biologist. For though he was a
specialist, he regarded everything as a branch of his specialty; and
would, I knew, be as ready to discourse on society as on anything else.
Although, therefore, I disliked a certain arrogance he was wont to
display, I felt that, since he was to speak, this was the proper place
to introduce him. I asked him accordingly to take up the thread of the
debate; and without pause his aggressive voice began to assail our ears.
"I don't quite know," he began, "why a mere man of science should be
invited to intervene in a debate on these high subjects. Politics, I
have always understood, is a kind of mystery, only to be grasped by a
favoured few, and then not by any processes of thought, but by some
kind of intuition. But of late years something seems to have happened.
The intuition theory was all very well when the intuitions did not
conflict, or when, at least, those who were possessed by one, never
came into real intellectual contact with those who were possessed by
another. But here, to-night, have we met together upon this terrace,
been confronted with the most opposite principles jostling in the
roughest way, and, as it seems to the outsider, simply annihilating one
another. Whence Martin's plea for criticism; a plea with which I most
heartily sympathize, only that he gave no indication of the basis on
which criticism itself is to rest. And perhaps that is where and why I
come in. I have been watching to-night with curiosity, and I must
confess with a little amusement, one building after another laboriously
raised by each speaker in turn, only to collapse ignominiously at the
first touch administered by his successor. And why? For the ancient
reason, that the structures were built upon the sand. Well, I have
raised no building myself to speak of. But I am one of an obscure
group of people who are working at solid foundations; which is only
another way of saying that I am a man of science. Only a biologist, it
is true; heaven forfend that I should call myself a sociologist! But
biology is one of the disciplines that are building up that general
view of Nature and the world which is gradually revolutionizing all our
social conceptions. The politicians, I am afraid, are hardly aware of
this. And that is why--if I may say so without offence--their
utterances are coming to seem more and more a kind of irrelevant
prattle. The forces that really move the world have passed out of
their control. And it is only where the forces are at work that the
living ideas move upon the waters. Politicians don't study science;
that is the extraordinary fact. And yet every day it becomes clearer
that politics is either an applied science or a charlatanism. Only,
unfortunately, as the most important things are precisely the last to
be known about, and it is exactly where it is most imperative to act
that our ignorance is most complete, the science of politics has hardly
yet even begun to be studied. Hence our forlorn paralysis of doubt
whenever we pause to reflect; and hence the kind of blind desperation
with which earnest people are impelled to rush incontinently into
practice. The position of MacCarthy is very intelligible, however much
it be, to my mind--what shall I say?--regrettable. There is, in fact,
hardly a question that has been raised to-night that is at present
capable of scientific determination. And with that word I ought
perhaps, in my capacity of man of science, to sit down.
"And so I would, if it were not that there is something else, besides
positive conclusions, that results from a long devotion to science.
There is a certain attitude towards life, a certain sense of what is
important and what is not, a view of what one may call the commonplaces
of existence, that distinguishes, I think, all competent people who
have been trained in that discipline. For we do think about politics,
or rather about society, even we specialists. And between us we are
gradually developing a sort of body of first principles which will be
at the basis of any future sociology. It is these that I feel tempted
to try to indicate. And the more so, because they are so foreign to
much that has been spoken here to-night. I have had a kind of feeling,
to tell the truth, throughout this whole discussion, of dwelling among
the tombs and listening to the voices of the dead. And I feel a kind
of need to speak for the living, for the new generation with which I
believe I am in touch. I want to say how the problems you have raised
look to us, who live in the dry light of physical science.
"Let me say, then, to begin with, that for us the nineteenth century
marks a breach with the whole past of the world to which there is
nothing comparable in human annals. We have developed wholly new
powers; and, coincidentally and correspondingly, a wholly new attitude
to life. Of the powers I do not intend to speak; the wonders of steam
and electricity are the hackneyed theme of every halfpenny paper. But
the attitude to life, which is even more important, is something that
has hardly yet been formulated. And I shall endeavour to give some
first rough expression to it.
"The first constituent, then, of the new view is that of continuity.
We of the new generation realize that the present is a mere transition
from the past into the future; that no event and no moment is isolated;
that all things, successive as well as coincident, are bound in a
single system. Of this system the general formula is causation. But,
in human society, the specifically important case of it is the nexus of
successive generations. We do not now, we who reflect, regard man as
an individual, nor even as one of a body of contemporaries; we regard
him as primarily a son and a father. In other words, what we have in
mind is always the race: whereas hitherto the central point has been
the individual or the citizen. But this shifting in the point of view
implies a revolution in ethics and politics. With the ancients, the
maintenance of the existing generation was the main consideration, and
patriotism its formula. To Marcus Aurelius, to the Stoics, as later to
the Christians, the subject of all moral duties was the individual
soul, and personal salvation became for centuries the corner-stone of
the ethical structure. Well, all the speculation, all the doctrine,
all the literature based upon that conception has become irrelevant and
meaningless in the light of the new ideal. We no longer conceive the
individual save as one in a chain of births. Fatherless, he is
inconceivable; sonless, he is abortive. His soul, if he have one, is
inseparable from its derivation from the past and its tradition to the
future. His duty, his happiness, his value, are all bound up with the
fact of paternity; and the same, mutatis mutandis, is true of women.
The new generation in a word has a totally new code of ethics; and that
code is directed to the end of the perfection of the race. For, and
this is the second constituent of the modern view, the series of births
is also the vehicle of progress. It is this discovery that gives to
our outlook on life its exhilaration and zest. The ancients conceived
the Golden Age as lying in the past; the men of the Middle Ages removed
it to an imaginary heaven. Both in effect despaired of this world; and
consequently their characteristic philosophy is that of the tub or the
hermitage. So soon as the first flush of youth was past, pessimism
clouded the civilization of Greece and of Rome; and from this
Christianity escaped only to take refuge in an imaginary bliss beyond
the grave. But we, by means of science, have established progress. We
look to a future, a future assured, and a future in this world. Our
eyes are on the coming generations; in them centres our hope and our
duty. To feed them, to clothe them, to educate them, to make them
better than ourselves, to do for them all that has hitherto been so
scandalously neglected, and in doing it to find our own life and our
own satisfaction--that is our task and our privilege, ours of the new
generation.
"And this brings me to the third point in our scheme of life. We
believe in progress; but we do not believe that progress is fated. And
here, too, our outlook is essentially new. Hitherto, the conceptions
of Fate and Providence have divided the empire of the world. We of the
new generation accept neither. We believe neither in a good God
directing the course of events; nor in a blind power that controls them
independently and in despite of human will. We know that what we do or
fail to do matters. We know that we have will; that will may be
directed by reason; and that the end to which reason points is the
progress of the race. This much we hold to be established; more than
this we do not need. And it is the acceptance of just this that cuts
us off from the past, that makes its literature, its ethics, its
politics, meaningless and unintelligible to us, that makes us, in a
word, what we are, the first of the new generation.
"Well, now, assuming this standpoint let us go on to see how some of
the questions look which have been touched upon to-night. Those
questions have been connected mainly with government and property. And
upon these two factors, it would seem, in the opinion of previous
speakers, all the interests of society turn. But from the point where
we now stand we see clearly that there is a third factor to which these
are altogether subordinate--I mean the family. For the family is the
immediate agent in the production and rearing of children; and this, as
we have seen, is the end of society. With the family therefore social
reconstruction should start. And we may lay down as the fundamental
ethical and social axiom that everybody not physically disqualified
ought to marry, and to produce at least four children. The only
question here is whether the state should intervene and endeavour so to
regulate marriages as to bring together those whose union is most
likely to result in good offspring. This is a point on which the
ancients, I am aware, in their light-hearted sciolism laid great
stress. Only, characteristically enough, they ignored the fundamental
difficulty, that nothing is known--nothing even now, and how much less
then!--of the conditions necessary to produce the desired result. If
ever the conditions should come to be understood--and the problem is
pre-eminently one for science; and if ever--what is even more
difficult--we should come to know clearly and exactly for what points
we ought to breed; then, no doubt, it may be desirable for government
to undertake the complete regulation of marriage. Meantime, we must
confine our efforts to the simpler and more manageable task of securing
for the children when they are born the best possible environment,
physical, intellectual and moral. But this may be done, even without a
radical reconstruction of the law of property simply by proceeding
further on the lines on which we are already embarked, by insisting on
a certain standard, and that a high one, of house-room, sanitation,
food, and the like. We could thus ensure from the beginning for every
child at least a sound physical development; and that without
undermining the responsibility of parents. What else the state can do
it must do by education; a thing which, at present, I do not hesitate
to say, does not exist among us. We have an elementary system of cram
and drill directed by the soulless automata it has itself produced; a
secondary system of athletics and dead languages presided over by
gentlemanly amateurs; and a university system which--well, of which I
cannot trust myself to speak. I wish only to indicate that, in the
eyes of the new generation, breeding and education are the two cardinal
pillars of society. All other questions, even those of property and
government, are subordinate; and only as subordinate can they be
fruitfully approached. Take, for example, property. On this point we
have no prejudices, either socialistic or anti-socialistic. Property,
as we view it, is simply a tool for producing and perfecting men.
Whether it will serve that purpose best if controlled by individuals or
by the state, or partly by the one and partly by the other, we regard
as an open question, to be settled by experiment. We see no principle
one way or the other. Property is not a right, nor a duty, nor a
privilege, either of individuals or of the community. It is simply and
solely, like everything else, a function of the chain of births.
Whoever owns it, however it is administered, it has only one object, to
ensure for every child that is born a sufficiency of physical goods,
and for the better-endowed all that they require in the way of training
to enable them to perform efficiently the higher duties of society.
"And as property is merely a means, so is government. To us of the new
generation nothing is more surprising and more repugnant, than the
importance attached by politicians to formulae which have long since
lost whatever significance they may once have possessed. Democracy,
representation, trust in the people and the rest, all this to us is the
idlest verbiage. It is notorious, even to those who make most play
with these phrases, that the people do not govern themselves, that they
cannot do so, and that they would make a great mess of it if they
could. The truth is, that we are living politically on a tradition
which arose when by government was meant government by a class, when
one man or a few exploited the rest in the name of the state, and when
therefore it was of imperative importance to bring to bear upon those
who were in power the brute and unintelligent weight of the mass. The
whole democratic movement, though it assumed a positive intellectual
form, was in fact negative in its aim and scope. It meant simply, we
will not be exploited. But that end has now been attained. There is
no fear now that government will be oppressive; and the only problem of
the future is, how to make it efficient. But efficiency, it is
certain, can never be secured by democratic machinery. We must, as
Allison rightly maintains, have trained and skilled persons. How these
are to be secured is a matter of detail, though no doubt of important
detail; and it is one that the new generation will have to solve. What
they will want, in any case, is government. MacCarthy's idea of
anarchy is--well, if he will pardon my saying so, it is hardly worthy
of his intelligence. You cannot regulate society, any more than you
can spin cotton, by the light of nature and a good heart. MacCarthy
mistakes the character of government altogether, when he imagines its
essence to be compulsion. Its essence is direction; and direction,
whatever the form of society, is, or should be, reserved for the wise.
It is for wise direction that the coming generations cry; and it is our
business to see that they get it.
"I have thus indicated briefly the view of social and political
questions which I believe will be that of the future. And my reason
for thinking so is, that that view is based upon science. It is this
that distinguishes the new generation from all others. Hitherto the
affairs of the world have been conducted by passion, interest,
sentiment, religion, anything but reasoned knowledge. The end of that
régime, which has dominated all history, is at hand. The old
influences, it is true, still survive, and even appear to be supreme.
We have had ample evidence to-night of their apparent vitality. But
underneath them is growing up the sturdy plant of science. Already it
has dislodged their roots; and though they still seem to bear flower,
the flower is withering before our eyes. In its place, before long,
will appear the new and splendid blossom whose appearance ends and
begins an epoch of evolution. That is a consummation nothing can
delay. We need not fret or hurry. We have only to work on silently at
the foundations. The city, it is true, seems to be rising apart from
our labours. There, in the distance, are the stately buildings, there
is the noise of the masons, the carpenters, the engineers. But see!
the whole structure shakes and trembles as it grows. Houses fall as
fast as they are erected; foundations sink, towers settle, domes and
pinnacles collapse. All history is the building of a dream-city,
fantastic as that ancient one of the birds, changeful as the sunset
clouds. And no wonder; for it is building on the sand. There is only
one foundation of rock, and that is being laid by science. Only wait!
To us will come sooner or later, the people and the architects. To us
they will submit the great plans they have striven so vainly to
realize. We shall pronounce on their possibility, their suitability,
even their beauty. Caesar and Napoleon will give place to Comte and
Herbert Spencer; and Newton and Darwin sit in judgment on Plato and
Aquinas."
WITH that he concluded. And as he sat down a note was passed along to
me from Ellis, asking permission to speak next. I assented willingly;
for Ellis, though some of us thought him frivolous, was, at any rate,
never dull. His sunburnt complexion, his fair curly hair, and the
light in his blue eyes made a pleasant impression, as he rose and
looked down upon us from his six feet.
"This," he began, "is really an extraordinary discovery Wilson has
made, that fathers have children, and children fathers! One wonders
how the world has got on all these centuries in ignorance of it. It
seems so obvious, once it has been stated. But that, of course, is the
nature of great truths; as soon as they are announced they seem to have
been always familiar. It is possible, for that very reason, that many
people may under-estimate the importance of Wilson's pronouncement,
forgetting that it is the privilege of genius to formulate for the
first time what everyone has been dimly feeling. We ought not to be
ungrateful; but perhaps it is our duty to be cautious. For great ideas
naturally suggest practical applications, and it is here that I foresee
difficulties. What Wilson's proposition in fact amounts to, if I
understand him rightly, is that we ought to open as wide as possible
the gates of life, and make those who enter as comfortable as we can.
Now, I think we ought to be very careful about doing anything of the
kind. We know, of course, very little about the conditions of the
unborn. But I think it highly probable that, like labour, as described
by the political economists, they form throughout the universe a single
mobile body, with a tendency to gravitate wherever the access is freest
and the conditions most favourable. And I should be very much afraid
of attracting what we may call, perhaps, the unemployed of the universe
in undue proportions to this planet, by offering them artificially
better terms than are to be obtained elsewhere. For that, as you know,
would defeat our own object. We should merely cause an exodus, as it
were, from the outlying and rural districts. Mars, or the moon, or
whatever the place may be; and the amount of distress and difficulty on
the earth would be greater than ever. At any rate, I should insist,
and I dare say Wilson agrees with me there, on some adequate test. And
I would not advertise too widely what we are doing. After all, other
planets must be responsible for their own unborn; and I don't see why
we should become a kind of dumping-ground of the universe for everyone
who may imagine he can better himself by migrating to the earth. For
that reason, among others, I would not open the gate too wide. And,
perhaps, in view of this consideration, we might still permit some
people not to marry. At any rate, I wouldn't go further, I think, than
a fine for recalcitrant bachelors. Wilson, I dare say, would prefer
imprisonment for a second offence, and in case of contumacy, even
capital punishment. On such a point I am not, I confess, an altogether
impartial judge, as I should certainly incur the greater penalty.
Still, as I have said, in the general interests of society, and in view
of the conditions of the universal market, I would urge caution and
deliberation. And that is all I have to say at present on this very
interesting subject.
"The other point that interested me in Wilson's remarks was not,
indeed, so novel as the discovery about fathers having children, but it
was, in its way, equally important. I mean, the announcement made with
authority that the human race really does, as has been so often
conjectured, progress. We may take it now, I suppose, that that is
established, or Wilson would not have proclaimed it. And we are,
therefore, in a position roughly to determine in what progress
consists. This is a task which, I believe, I am more competent to
attempt perhaps even than Wilson himself, because I have had unusual
opportunities of travel, and have endeavoured to utilize them to clear
my mind of prejudices. I flatter myself that I can regard with perfect
impartiality the ideals of different countries, and in particular those
of the new world which, I presume, are to dominate the future. In
attempting to estimate what progress means, one could not do better, I
suppose, than describe the civilization of the United States. For in
describing that, one will be describing the whole civilization of the
future, seeing that what America is our colonies are, or will become,
and what our colonies are we, too, may hope to attain, if we make the
proper sacrifices to preserve the unity of the empire. Let us see,
then, what, from an objective point of view, really is the future of
this progressing world of ours.
"Perhaps, however, before proceeding to analyse the spiritual ideals of
the American people, I had better give some account of their country.
For environment, as we all know now, has an incalculable effect upon
character. Consider, then, the American continent! How simple it is!
How broad! How large! How grand in design! A strip of coast, a range
of mountains, a plain, a second range, a second strip of coast! That
is all! Contrast the complexity of Europe, its lack of symmetry, its
variety, irregularity, disorder and caprice! The geography of the two
continents already foreshadows the differences in their civilizations.
On the one hand simplicity and size; on the other a hole-and-corner
variety; there immense rivers, endless forests, interminable plains,
indefinite repetition of a few broad ideas; here distracting
transitions, novelties, surprises, shocks, distinctions in a word,
already suggesting Distinction. Even in its physical features America
is the land of quantity, while Europe is that of quality. And as with
the land, so with its products. How large are the American fruits!
How tall the trees! How immense the oysters! What has Europe by
comparison! Mere flavour and form, mere beauty, delicacy and grace!
America, one would say, is the latest work of the great artist--we are
told, indeed, by geologists, that it is the youngest of the
continents--conceived at an age when he had begun to repeat himself,
broad, summary, impressionist, audacious in empty space; whereas Europe
would seem to represent his pre-Raphaelite period, in its wealth of
detail, its variety of figure, costume, architecture, landscape, its
crudely contrasted colours and minute precision of individual form.
"And as with the countries, so with their civilizations. Europe is the
home of class, America of democracy. By democracy I do not mean a mere
form of government--in that respect, of course, America is less
democratic than England: I mean the mental attitude that implies and
engenders Indistinction. Indistinction, I say, rather than equality,
for the word equality is misleading, and might seem to imply, for
example, a social and economic parity of conditions, which no more
exists in America than it does in Europe. Politically, as well as
socially, America is a plutocracy; her democracy is spiritual and
intellectual; and its essence is, the denial of all superiorities save
that of wealth. Such superiorities, in fact, hardly exist across the
Atlantic. All men there are intelligent, all efficient, all energetic;
and as these are the only qualities they possess, so they are the only
ones they feel called upon to admire. How different is the case with
Europe! How innumerable and how confusing the gradations! For
diversities of language and race, indeed, we may not be altogether
responsible; but we have superadded to these, distinctions of manner,
of feeling, of perception, of intellectual grasp and spiritual insight,
unknown to the simpler and vaster consciousness of the West. In
addition, in short, to the obvious and fundamentally natural standard
of wealth, we have invented others impalpable and artificial in their
character; and however rapidly these may be destined to disappear as
the race progresses, and the influence of the West begins to dominate
the East, they do, nevertheless, still persist, and give to our effete
civilization the character of Aristocracy, that is of Caste. In all
this we see, as I have suggested, the influence of environment. The
old-world stock, transplanted across the ocean, imitates the
characteristics of its new home. Sloughing off artificial
distinctions, it manifests itself in bold simplicity, broad as the
plains, turbulent as the rivers, formless as the mountains, crude as
the fruits of its adopted country."
"Yet while thus forming themselves into the image of the new world, the
Americans have not disdained to make use of such acquisitions of the
Past as might be useful to them in the task that lay before them. They
have rejected our ideals and our standards; but they have borrowed our
capital and our inventions. They have thus been able--a thing unknown
before in the history of the world--to start the battle against Nature
with weapons ready forged. On the material results they have thus been
able to achieve it is the less necessary for me to dilate, that they
keep us so fully informed of them themselves. But it may be
interesting to note an important consequence in their spiritual life,
which has commonly escaped the notice of observers. Thanks to Europe,
America has never been powerless in the face of Nature; therefore has
never felt Fear; therefore never known Reverence; and therefore never
experienced Religion. It may seem paradoxical to make such an
assertion about the descendants of the Puritan Fathers; nor do I forget
the notorious fact that America is the home of the sects, from the
followers of Joseph Smith to those of Mrs. Eddy. But these are the
phenomena that illustrate my point. A nation which knew what religion
was, in the European sense; whose roots were struck in the soil of
spiritual conflict, of temptations and visions in haunted forests or
desert sands by the Nile, of midnight risings, scourgings of the flesh,
dirges in vast cathedrals, and the miracle of the Host solemnly veiled
in a glory of painted light--such a nation would never have accepted
Christian Science as a religion. No! Religion in America is a
parasite without roots. The questions that have occupied Europe from
the dawn of her history, for which she has fought more fiercely than
for empire or liberty, for which she has fasted in deserts, agonized in
cells, suffered on the cross, and at the stake, for which she has
sacrificed wealth, health, ease, intelligence, life, these questions of
the meaning of the world, the origin and destiny of the soul, the life
after death, the existence of God, and His relation to the universe,
for the American people simply do not exist. They are as inaccessible,
as impossible to them, as the Sphere to the dwellers in Flatland. That
whole dimension is unknown to them. Their healthy and robust
intelligence confines itself to the things of this world. Their
religion, if they have one, is what I believe they call
'healthy-mindedness.' It consists in ignoring everything that might
suggest a doubt as to the worth of existence, and so conceivably
paralyse activity. 'Let us eat and drink,' they say, with a hearty and
robust good faith; omitting as irrelevant and morbid the discouraging
appendix, 'for to-morrow we die.' Indeed! What has death to do with
buildings twenty-four stories high, with the fastest trains, the
noisiest cities, the busiest crowds in the world, and generally the
largest, the finest, the most accelerated of everything that exists?
America has sloughed off religion; and as, in the history of Europe,
religion has underlain every other activity, she has sloughed off,
along with it, the whole European system of spiritual life.
Literature, for instance, and Art, do not exist across the Atlantic. I
am aware, of course, that Americans write books and paint pictures.
But their books are not Literature, nor their pictures Art, except in
so far as they represent a faint adumbration of the European tradition.
The true spirit of America has no use for such activities. And even
if, as must occasionally happen in a population of eighty millions,
there is born among them a man of artistic instincts, he is immediately
and inevitably repelled to Europe, whence he derives his training and
his inspiration, and where alone he can live, observe and create. That
this must be so from the nature of the case is obvious when we reflect
that the spirit of Art is disinterested contemplation, while that of
America is cupidous acquisition. Americans, I am aware, believe that
they will produce Literature and Art, as they produce coal and steel
and oil, by the judicious application of intelligence and capital; but
here they do themselves injustice. The qualities that are making them
masters of the world, unfit them for slighter and less serious
pursuits. The Future is for them, the kingdom of elevators, of
telephones, of motor-cars, of flying-machines. Let them not idly hark
back, misled by effete traditions, to the old European dream of the
kingdom of heaven. '_Excudent alii_,' let them say, 'for Europe,
Letters and Art; _tu regere argento populos, Morgane, memento_, let
America rule the world by Syndicates and Trusts!' For such is her true
destiny; and that she conceives it to be such, is evidenced by the
determination with which she has suppressed all irrelevant activities.
Every kind of disinterested intellectual operation she has severely
repudiated. In Europe we take delight in the operations of the mind as
such, we let it play about a subject, merely for the fun of the thing;
we approve knowledge for its own sake; we appreciate irony and wit.
But all this is unknown in America. The most intelligent people in the
world, they severely limit their intelligence to the adaptation of
means to ends. About the ends themselves they never permit themselves
to speculate; and for this reason, though they calculate, they never
think, though they invent, they never discover, and though they talk,
they never converse. For thought implies speculation; discovery,
reflection; conversation, leisure; and all alike imply a
disinterestedness which has no place in the American system. For the
same reason they do not play; they have converted games into battles;
and battles in which every weapon is legitimate so long as it is
victorious. An American football match exhibits in a type the American
spirit, short, sharp, scientific, intense, no loitering by the road, no
enjoyment of the process, no favour, no quarter, but a fight to the
death with victory as the end, and anything and everything as the means.
"A nation so severely practical could hardly be expected to attach the
same importance to the emotions as has been attributed to them by
Europeans. Feeling, like Intellect, is not regarded, in the West, as
an end in itself. And it is not uninteresting to note that the
Americans are the only great nation that have not produced a single
lyric of love worth recording. Physically, as well as spiritually,
they are a people of cold temperament. Their women, so much and, I do
not doubt, so legitimately admired, are as hard as they are brilliant;
their glitter is the glitter of ice. Thus happily constituted,
Americans are able to avoid the immense waste of time and energy
involved in the formation and maintenance of subtle personal relations.
They marry, of course, they produce children, they propagate the race;
but, I would venture to say, they do not love, as Europeans have loved;
they do not exploit the emotion, analyse and enjoy it, still less
express it in manners, in gesture, in epigram, in verse. And hence the
kind of shudder produced in a cultivated European by the treatment of
emotion in American fiction. The authors are trying to express
something they have never experienced, and to graft the European
tradition on to a civilization which has none of the elements necessary
to nourish and support it.
"From this brief analysis of the attitude of Americans towards life,
the point with which I started will, I hope, have become clear, that it
is idle to apply to them any of the tests which we apply to a European
civilization. For they have rejected, whether they know it or not, our
whole scheme of values. What, then, is their own? What do they
recognize as an end? This is an interesting point on which I have
reflected much in the course of my travels. Sometimes I have thought
it was wealth, sometimes power, sometimes activity. But a poem, or at
least a production in metre, which I came across in the States, gave me
a new idea upon the subject. On such a point I speak with great
diffidence; but I am inclined to think that my author was right; that
the real end which Americans set before themselves is Acceleration. To
be always moving, and always moving faster, that they think is the
beatific life; and with their happy detachment from philosophy and
speculation, they are not troubled by the question, Whither? If they
are asked by Europeans, as they sometimes are, what is the point of
going so fast? their only feeling is one of genuine astonishment. Why,
they reply, you go fast! And what more can be said? Hence, their
contempt for the leisure so much valued by Europeans. Leisure they
feel, to be a kind of standing still, the unpardonable sin. Hence,
also, their aversion to play, to conversation, to everything that is
not work. I once asked an American who had been describing to me the
scheme of his laborious life, where it was that the fun came in? He
replied, without hesitation and without regret, that it came in
nowhere. How should it? It could only act as a brake; and a brake
upon Acceleration is the last thing tolerable to the American genius.
"The American genius, I say: but after all, and this is the real point
of my remarks, what America is, Europe is becoming. We, who sit here,
with the exception, of course, of Wilson, represent the Past, not the
Future. Politicians, professors, lawyers, doctors, no matter what our
calling, our judgments are determined by the old scale of values.
Intellect, Beauty, Emotion, these are the things we count precious; to
wealth and to progress we are indifferent, save as conducing to these.
And thus, like the speakers who preceded me, we venture to criticize
and doubt, where the modern man, American or European, simply and
wholeheartedly accepts. For this it would be idle for us to blame
ourselves, idle even to regret; we should simply and objectively note
that we are out of court. All that we say may be true, but it is
irrelevant. 'True,' says the man of the Future, 'we have no religion,
literature, or art; we don't know whence we come, nor whither we go;
but, what is more important, we don't care. What we do know is, that
we are moving faster than any one ever moved before; and that there is
every chance of our moving faster and faster. To inquire "whither" is
the one thing that we recognize as blasphemous. The principle of the
Universe is Acceleration, and we are its exponents; what is not
accelerated will be extinguished; and if we cannot answer ultimate
questions, that is the less to be regretted in that, a few centuries
hence, there will be nobody left to ask them.'
"Such is the attitude which I believe to be that of the Future, both in
the West and in the East. I do not pretend to sympathize with it; but
my perception of it gives a peculiar piquancy to my own position. I
rejoice that I was born at the end of an epoch; that I stand as it were
at the summit, just before the plunge into the valley below; and
looking back, survey and summarize in a glance the ages that are past.
I rejoice that my friends are Socrates and Plato, Dante, Michelangelo,
Goethe instead of Mr. Carnegie and Mr. Pierpont Morgan. I rejoice that
I belong to an effete country; and that I sit at table with almost the
last representatives of the culture, the learning and the ideals of
centuries of civilization. I prefer the tradition of the Past to that
of the Future; I value it the more for its contrast with that which is
to come; and I am the more at ease inasmuch as I feel myself divested
of all responsibility towards generations whose ideals and standards I
am unable to appreciate.
"All this shows, of course, merely that I am not one of the people so
aptly described by Wilson as the 'new generation.' But I flatter
myself that my intellectual apprehension is not coloured by the
circumstances of my own case, and that I have given you a clear and
objective picture of what it is that really constitutes progress. And
with that proud consciousness in my mind, I resume my seat."
THE conclusion of this speech was greeted with a hubbub of laughter,
approval, and protest confusedly mixed; in the midst of which it
occurred to me that I would select Audubon as the next speaker. My
reason was that Ellis, as I thought, under cover of an extravagant fit
of spleen, had made rather a formidable attack on the doctrine of
progress as commonly understood by social reformers. He had given us,
as it were, the first notes of the Negative. But Audubon, I knew,
would play the tune through to the end; and I thought we might as well
have it all, and have it before it should be too late for the possible
correctives of other speakers. Audubon was engaged in some occupation
in the city, and how he came to be a member of our society I cannot
tell; for he professed an uncompromising aversion to all speculation.
He was, however, a regular attendant and spoke well, though always in
the sense that there was nothing worth speaking about. On this
occasion he displayed, as usual, some reluctance to get on to his feet;
and even when he was overruled began, characteristically, with a
protest.
"I don't see why it should be a rule that everybody must speak. I
believe I have said something of the kind before"--but here he was
interrupted by a general exclamation that he had said it much too
often; whereupon he dropped the subject, but maintained his tone of
protest. "You don't understand," he went on, "what a difficult
position I am in, especially in a discussion of this kind. My
standpoint is radically different from that of the rest of you; and
anything I say is bound to be out of key. You're all playing what you
think to be the game of life, and playing it willingly. But I play
only under compulsion; if you call it playing, when one is hounded out
to field in all weathers without ever having a chance of an innings.
Or, rather, the game's more like tennis than cricket, and we're the
little boys who pick up the balls--and that, in my opinion, is a damned
humiliating occupation. And surely you must all really think so too!
Of course, you don't like to admit it. Nobody does. In the pulpit, in
the press, in conversation, even, there's a conspiracy of silence and
bluff. It's only in rare moments, when a few men get together in the
smoking-room, that the truth comes out. But when it does come out it's
always the same refrain, 'cui bono, cui bono?' I don't take much
account of myself; but, if there is one thing of which I am proud, it
is that I have never let myself be duped. From the earliest days I can
remember I realized what the nature of this world really is. And all
experience has confirmed that first intuition. That other people don't
seem to have it, too, is a source of constant amazement to me. But
really, and without wishing to be arrogant, I believe the reason is
that they choose to be duped and I don't. They intend, at all costs,
to be happy, or interested, or whatever it is that they prefer to call
it. And I don't say they are not wise in their generation. But I'm
not made like that; I just see things as they are; and I see that
they're very bad--a point in which I differ from the Creator.
"Well, now, to come to to-night's discussion, and my attitude towards
it. You have assumed throughout, as, of course, you were bound to do,
that things are worth while. But if they aren't, what becomes of all
your aims, all your views, all your problems and disputes? The basis
on which you are all agreed, however much you may differ in detail, is
that things can be made better, and that it's worth while to make them
so. But if one denies both propositions, what happens to the
superstructure? And I do deny them; and not only that, but I can't
conceive how anyone ever came to accept them. Surely, if one didn't
approach the question with an irrational bias towards optimism, one
would never imagine that there is such a thing as progress in anything
that really matters. Or are even we here impressed by such silly and
irrelevant facts as telephones and motor-cars? Ellis, I should think,
has said enough to dispel that kind of illusion; and I don't want to
labour a tedious point. If we are to look for progress at all we must
look for it, I suppose, in men. And I have never seen any evidence
that men are generally better than they used to be; on the contrary, I
think there is evidence that they are worse. But anyhow, even granting
that we could make things a bit better, what would be the use of doing
it in a world like this? If the whole structure of the universe is
bad, what's the good of fiddling with the details? You might as well
waste your time in decorating the saloon of a sinking ship. Granting
that you can improve the distribution of property, and raise the
standard of health and intelligence and all the rest of it, granting
you could to-morrow introduce your socialist state, or your liberal
state, or your anarchical co-operation, or whatever the plan may
be--how would you be better off in anything that matters? The main
governing facts would be unaltered. Men, for example, would still be
born, without being asked whether they want it or no. And that alone,
to my mind, is enough to condemn the whole business. I can't think how
it is that people don't resent more than they do the mere insult to
their self-respect involved in such a situation. Nothing can cure it,
nothing can improve it. It's a fundamental condition of life.
"If that were all it would be bad enough. But that's only the
beginning. For the world into which we are thus ignominiously flung
turns out to be incalculable and irrational. There are, of course, I
know, what are called the laws of nature. But I--to tell the honest
truth--I don't believe in them. I mean, I see no reason to suppose
that the sun will rise to-morrow, or that the seasons will continue to
observe their course, or that any of our most certain expectations will
be fulfilled in the future as they have been in the past. We import
into the universe our own prejudice in favour of order; and the
universe, I admit, up to a point appears to conform to it. But I don't
trust the conformity. Too many evidences abound of frivolous and
incalculable caprice. Why should not the appearance of order be but
one caprice the more, or even a crowning device of calculated malice?
And anyhow, the things that most concern us, tempests, epidemics,
accidents, from the catastrophe of birth to the deliverance of death,
we have no power to foresee or to forestall. Yet, in face of all this,
borne home to us every hour of every day, we cling to the creed of
universal law; and on the flux of chaos write our 'credo quia
impossibile.'
"Well, that is a heresy of mine I have never found anyone to share.
But no matter. My case is so strong I can afford to give it away point
by point. Granting then, that there were order in the universe, how
does that make it any better? Does it not rather make it worse, if the
order is such as to produce evil? And how great that evil is I need
not insist. For it has been presupposed in everything that has been
said to-night. If it were a satisfactory world you wouldn't all be
wanting to alter it. Still, you may say--people always do--'if there
is evil there is also good.' But it is just the things people call
good, even more than those they admit to be evil, that make me despair
of the world. How anyone with self-respect can accept, and accept
thankfully, the sort of things people do accept is to me a standing
mystery. It is surely the greatest triumph achieved by the Power that
made the universe that every week there gather into the churches
congregations of victims to recite their gratitude for 'their creation,
preservation, and all the blessings of this life.' The blessings!
What are they? Money? Success? Reputation? I don't profess, myself,
to be anything better than a man of the world; but that those things
should be valued as they are by men of the world is a thing that passes
my understanding. 'Well, but,' says the moralist, 'there's always duty
and work.' But what is the value of work if there's nothing worth
working for? 'Ah, but,' says the poet, 'there's beauty and love.' But
the beauty and love he seeks is something he never finds. What he
grasps is the shadow, not the thing. And even the shadow flits past
and eludes him on the stream of time.
"And just there is the final demonstration of the malignity of the
scheme of things. Time itself works against us. The moments that are
evil it eternalizes; the moments that might be good it hurries to
annihilation. All that is most precious is most precarious. Vainly do
we cry to the moment: 'Verweile doch, du bist so schön!' Only the
heavy hours are heavy-footed. The winged Psyche, even at the moment of
birth, is sick with the pangs of dissolution.
"These, surely, are facts, not imaginations. Why, then, is it that men
refuse to look them in the face? Or, if they do, turn at once away to
construct some other kind of world? For that is the most extraordinary
thing of all, that men invent systems, and that those systems are
optimistic. It is as though they said: 'Things must be good. But as
they obviously are not good, they must really be other than they are.'
And hence these extraordinary doctrines, so pitiful, so pathetic, so
absurd, of the eternal good God who made this bad world, of the
Absolute whose only manifestation is the Relative, of the Real which
has so much less reality than the Phenomenal. Or, if all that be
rejected, we transfer our heaven from eternity to time, and project
into the future the perfection we miss in the present or in the past.
'True,' we say, 'a bad world! but then how good it will be!' And with
that illusion generation after generation take up their burden and
march, because beyond the wilderness there must be a Promised Land into
which some day some creatures unknown will enter. As though the evil
of the past could be redeemed by any achievement of the future, or the
perfection of one make up for the irremediable failure of another!
"Such ideas have only to be stated for their absurdity to be palpable.
Yet none the less they hold men. Why? I cannot tell. I only know
that they do not and cannot hold me; that I look like a stranger from
another world upon the business of this one; that I am among you, but
not of you; that your motives and aims to me are utterly
unintelligible; that you can give no account of them to which I can
attach any sense; that I have no clue to the enigma you seem so lightly
to solve by your religion, your philosophy, your science; that your
hopes are not mine, your ambitions not mine, your principles not mine;
that I am shipwrecked, and see around me none but are shipwrecked too;
yet, that these, as they cling to their spars, call them good ships and
true, speak bravely of the harbour to which they are prosperously
sailing, and even as they are engulfed, with their last breath, cry,
'lo, we are arrived, and our friends are waiting on the quay!' Who,
under these circumstances is mad? Is it I? Is it you? I can only
drift and wait. It may be that beyond these waters there is a harbour
and a shore. But I cannot steer for it, for I have no rudder, no
compass, no chart. You say you have. Go on, then, but do not call to
me. I must sink or swim alone. And the best for which I can hope is
speedily to be lost in the silent gulf of oblivion."
OFTEN as I had heard Audubon express these sentiments before, I had
never known him to reveal so freely and so passionately the innermost
bitterness of his soul. There was, no doubt, something in the
circumstances of the time and place that prompted him to this personal
note. For it was now the darkest and stillest hour of the night; and
we sat in the dim starlight, hardly seeing one another, so that it
seemed possible to say, as behind a veil, things that otherwise it
would have been natural to suppress. A long silence followed Audubon's
last words. They went home, I dare say to many of us more than we
should have cared to confess. And I felt some difficulty whom to
choose of the few who had not yet spoken, so as to avoid, as far as
possible, a tone that would jar upon our mood. Finally, I selected
Coryat, the poet, knowing he was incapable of a false note, and hoping
he might perhaps begin to pull us, as it were, up out of the pit into
which we had slipped. He responded from the darkness, with the
hesitation and incoherence which, in him, I have always found so
charming.
"I don't know," he began, "of course--well, yes, it may be all very
bad--at least for some people. But I don't believe it is. And I doubt
whether Audubon really--well, I oughtn't to say that, I suppose. But
anyhow, I'm sure most people don't agree with him. At any rate, for my
part, I find life extraordinarily good, just as it is, not mine only, I
mean, but everybody's; well, except Audubon's, I suppose I ought to
say, and even he, perhaps finds it rather good to be able to find it so
bad. But I'm not going to argue with him, because I know it's no use.
Its all the other people I want to quarrel with--except Ellis, who has
I believe some idea of the things that really count. But I don't think
Allison has, or Wilson, or most of the people who talk about progress.
Because, if you project, so to speak, all your goods into the future,
that shows that you don't appreciate those that belong to life just as
it is and wherever it is. And there must, I am sure, be something
wrong about a view that makes the past and the present merely a means
to the future. It's as though one were to take a bottle and turn it
upside down, emptying the wine out without noticing it; and then plan
how tremendously one will improve the shape of the bottle. Well, I'm
not interested in the shape of bottles. And I am interested in wine.
And--which is the point--I know that the wine is always there. It was
there in the past, it's here in the present, and it will be there in
the future; yes, in spite of you all!" He flung this out with a kind
of defiance that made us laugh. Whereupon he paused, as if he had done
something indiscreet, and then after looking in vain for a bridge to
take him across to his next starting-place, decided, as it seemed, to
jump, and went on as follows: "There's Wilson, for instance, tells us
that the new generation have no use for--I don't know that he used that
dreadful phrase, but that's what he meant--that they have 'no use for'
the Greeks, or the Romans, or the Middle Ages, or the eighteenth
century, or anything but themselves. Well, I can only say I'm very
sorry for them, and very glad I'm not one of them. Why, just think of
the extraordinary obliquity, or rather blindness of it! Because you
don't agree with Plato, or Marcus Aurelius, or Saint Francis, you think
they're only fit for the ash-heap. You might as well say you wouldn't
drink any wine except what was made to-day! The literature and art of
the past can never be dead. It's the flask where the geni of life is
imprisoned; you've only to open it and the life is yours. And what
life! That it's different from ours is just its merit. I don't mean
that it's necessarily better; but it preserves for us the things we
have dropped out. Because we, no more than the men of the past,
exhaust all the possibilities. The whole wonderful drama of life is
unfolded in time, and we of this century are only one scene of it; not
the most passionate either or the most absorbing. As actors, of
course, we're concerned only with this scene. But the curious thing
is, we're spectators, too, or can be if we like. And from the
spectator's point of view, many of the episodes in the past are much
more interesting, if not more important, than those of the present. I
mean, it seems to me so stupid--I oughtn't to say stupid, I suppose,
because of course you aren't exactly----" Whereat we laughed again,
and he pulled himself up. "What I mean is, that to take the philosophy
or the religion of the past and put it into your laboratory and test it
for truth, and throw it away if it doesn't answer the test, is to
misconceive the whole value and meaning of it. The real question is,
What extraordinary, fascinating, tragic or comic life went to produce
this precious specimen? What new revelation does it give of the
possibilities of the world? That's how you look at it, if you have the
sense of life. You feel after life everywhere. You love it when you
touch it. You ask it no questions about being good or bad. It just
is, and you are akin to it. Fancy, for instance, a man being able to
walk through the British Museum and pass the frieze of the Parthenon,
and say he has no use for it! And why? Because, I suppose, we don't
dress like that now, and can't ride horses bareback. Well, so much the
worse for us! But just think. There shrieking from the wall--no, I
ought to say singing with the voice of angels--is the spirit of life in
its loveliest, strongest, divinest incarnation, saying 'love me,
understand me, be like me!' And the new generation passes by with its
nose in the air sniffing, 'No! You're played out! You didn't know
science. And you didn't produce four children a-piece, as we mean to.
And your education was rhetorical, and your philosophy absurd, and your
vices--oh, unmentionable! No, no, young men! Not for us, thank you!'
And so they stalk on, don't you see them, with their rational costume,
and their rational minds, and their hard little hearts, and the empty
place where their imagination ought to be! Dreadful, dreadful! Or
perhaps they go, say, to Assisi, and Saint Francis comes to talk to
them. And 'Look,' he says, 'what a beautiful world, if you'd only get
rid of your encumbrances! Money, houses, clothes, food, it's all so
much obstruction! Come and see the real thing; come and live with the
life of the soul; burn like a flame, blossom like a flower, flow like a
mountain stream!' 'My dear sir,' they reply, 'you're unclean, impudent
and ignorant! Moreover you're encouraging mendicancy and superstition.
Not to-day, thank you!' And off they go to the Charity Organisation
Committee. It's--it's----" He pulled himself up again, and then went
on more quietly. "Well, one oughtn't to get angry, and I dare say I'm
misrepresenting everybody. Besides, I haven't said exactly what I
wanted to say. I wanted to say--what was it? Oh, yes! that this kind
of attitude is bound up with the idea of progress. It comes of taking
all the value out of the past and present, in order to put it into the
future. And then you _don't_ put it there! You can't! It evaporates
somehow, in the process. Where is it then? Well, I believe it's
always there, in life, and in every kind of life. It's there all the
time, in all the things you condemn. Of course the things really are
bad that you say are bad. But they're so good as well! I mean--well,
the other day I read one of those dreadful articles--at least, of
course they're very useful I suppose--about the condition of the
agricultural labourer. Well, then I took a ride in the country, and
saw it all in its setting and complete, with everything the article had
left out; and it wasn't so bad after all. I don't mean to say it was
all good either, but it was just wonderful. There were great horses
with shaggy fetlocks resting in green fields, and cattle wading in
shallow fords, and streams fringed with willows, and little cheeping
birds among the reeds, and larks and cuckoos and thrushes. And there
were orchards white with blossom, and little gardens in the sun, and
shadows of clouds brushing over the plain. And the much-discussed
labourer was in the midst of all this. And he really wasn't an
incarnate grievance! He was thinking about his horses, or his bread
and cheese, or his children squalling in the road, or his pig and his
cocks and hens. Of course I don't suppose he knew how beautiful
everything was; but I'm sure he had a sort of comfortable feeling of
being a part of it all, of being somehow all right. And he wasn't
worrying about his condition, as you all worry for him. I don't mean
you aren't right to worry, in a way; except that no one ought to worry.
But you oughtn't to suppose it's all a dreadful and intolerable thing,
just because you can imagine something better. That, of course, is
only one case; but I believe it's the same everywhere; yes, even in the
big cities, which, to my taste, look from outside much more repulsive
and terrible. There's a quality in the inevitable facts of life, in
making one's living, and marrying and producing children, in the ending
of one and the beginning of another day, in the uncertainties and fears
and hopes, in the tragedies as well as the comedies, something that
arrests and interests and absorbs, even if it doesn't delight. I'm not
saying people are happy; sometimes they are and sometimes they aren't.
But anyhow they are interested. And life itself is the interest. And
that interest is perennial, and of all ages and all classes. And if
you leave it out you leave out the only thing that counts. That's why
ideals are so empty; just because, I mean, they don't exist. And I
assure you--now I'm going to confess--that often, when I come away from
some meeting or from reading some dreadful article on social reform, I
feel as if I could embrace everything and everyone I come across,
simply for being so good as to exist--the 'bus-drivers, the cabmen, the
shop-keepers, the slum-landlords, the slum-victims, the prostitutes,
the thieves. There they are, anyhow, in their extraordinary setting,
floating on the great river of life, that was and is and will be,
itself its own justification, through whatever country it may flow.
And if you don't realize that--if you have a whole community that
doesn't realize it--then, however happy and comfortable and equitable
and all the rest of it you make your society, you haven't really done
much for them. Their last state may even be worse than the first,
because they will have lost the natural instinctive acceptance of life,
without learning how to accept it on the higher plane.
"And that is why--now comes what I really do care about, and what I've
been wanting to say--that is why there is nothing so important for the
future or the present of the world as poetry. Allison, for instance,
and Wilson would be different men if only they would read my works!
I'm not sure even if I may say so, that Remenham himself wouldn't be
the better." Remenham, however, smilingly indicated that he had read
them. Whereat Coryat rather comically remarked, "Oh, well! Yes!
Perhaps then my poetry isn't quite good enough. But there's
Shakespeare, and Milton, and--I don't care who it is, so long as it has
the essential of all great poetry, and that is to make you feel the
worth of things. I don't mean by that the happiness, but just the
extraordinary value, of which all these unsolved questions about Good
and Evil are themselves part. No one, I am sure, ever laid down a
great tragedy--take the most terrible of all, take 'Lear'--without an
overwhelming sense of the value of life; life as it is, life at its
most pitiless and cruel, with all its iniquities, suffering,
perplexity; without feeling he would far rather have lived and had all
that than not have lived at all. But tragedy is an extreme case. In
every simpler and more common case the poet does the same thing for us.
He shows us that the lives he touches have worth, worth of pleasure, of
humour, of patience, of wisdom painfully acquired, of endurance, of
hope, even I will say of failure and despair. He doesn't blink
anything, he looks straight at it all, but he sees it in the true
perspective, under a white light, and seeing all the Evil says
nevertheless with God, 'Behold, it is very good.' You see," he added,
with his charming smile, turning to Audubon, "I agree with God, not
with you. And perhaps if you were to read poetry ... but, you know,
you must not only read it; you've got to feel it."
"Ah," said Audubon, "but that I'm afraid is the difficulty."
"I suppose it is. Well--I don't know that I can say any more."
And without further ado he dropped back into his seat.
SITTING next to Coryat was a man who had not for a long time been
present at our meetings. His name was Harington. He was a wealthy
man, the head of a very ancient family; and at one time had taken a
prominent part in politics. But, of late, he had resided mainly in
Italy devoting himself to study and to the collection of works of art.
I did not know what his opinions were, for it so happened that I had
never heard him speak or had any talk with him. I had no idea,
therefore, when I called upon him, what he would be likely to say, and
I waited with a good deal of curiosity as he stood a few moments
silent. It was now beginning to get light, and I could see his face,
which was unusually handsome and distinguished. He had indeed the air
of a seventeenth-century nobleman, and might, except for the costume,
have stepped out of a canvas of Van Dyck. Presently he spoke in a rich
mellow voice and with a gravity that harmonized with his bearing.
"Let me begin with a confession, perhaps I ought even to say an
apology. To be among you again after so many years is a privilege; but
it is one which brings with it elements of embarrassment. I have lived
so long in a foreign land that I feel myself an alien here. I hear
voices familiar of old, but I have forgotten their language; I see
forms once well known, but the atmosphere in which they move seems
strange. I am fresh from Italy; and England comes upon me with a
shock. Even her physical aspect I see as I never saw it before. I
find it lovely, with a loveliness peculiar and unique. But I miss
something to which I have become accustomed in the south; I miss light,
form, greatness, and breadth. Instead, there is grey or golden haze,
blurred outlines, tender skies, lush luxurious greenery. Italy rings
like metal; England is a muffled drum. The one has the ardour of
Beauty; the other the charm of the Picturesque. I dwell upon this
because I seem to see--perhaps I am fanciful--a kindred distinction
between the north and the south in quality of mind. The Greek
intelligence, and the Italian, is pitiless, searching, white as the
Mediterranean sunshine; the English and German is kindly, discreet,
amiably and tenderly confused. The one blazes naked in a brazen sky;
the other is tempered by vapours of sentiment. The English, in
particular, I think, seldom make a serious attempt to face the truth.
Their prejudices and ideals shut them in, like their green hedges; and
they live, even intellectually, in a country of little fields. I do
not deny that this is soothing and restful; but I feel it--shall I
confess--intolerably cooping. I long for the searching light, the wide
prospect; for the vision of things as they really are. I have
consorted too long with Aristotle and Machiavelli to find myself at
home in the country of the Anglican Church and of Herbert Spencer."
Here he paused, and seemed to hesitate, while we wondered what he could
be leading up to. Then, resuming, "This may seem," he went on, "a long
introduction; but it is not irrelevant; though I feel some hesitation
in applying it. But, if the last speaker will permit me to take my
text from him, I would ask him, is it not a curiously indiscriminate
procedure to affirm indifferently value in all life? A poet
surely--and Coryat's practice, if he will allow me to say so, is
sounder than his theory--a poet seeks to render, wherever he can find
it, the exquisite, the choice, the distinguished and the rare. Not
life, but beauty is his quest. He does not reproduce Nature, he
imposes upon her a standard. And so it is with every art, including
the art of life itself. Life as such is neither good nor bad, and,
Audubon's undistinguishing censure is surely as much out of place as
Coryat's undistinguishing approval. Life is raw material for the
artist, whether he be the private man carrying out his own destiny, or
the statesman shaping that of a nation. The end of the artist in
either case is the good life; and on his own conception of that will
depend the value of his work.
"I recall to your minds these obvious facts, at the risk of being
tedious, because to-night, seeing the turn that our discussion has
taken, we must regard ourselves as statesmen, or as would-be statesmen.
And I, in that capacity, finding myself in disagreement with everybody,
except perhaps Cantilupe, and asking myself the reason why, can only
conclude that I have a different notion of the end to be pursued, and
of the means whereby it can be attained. All of you, I think, except
Cantilupe, have assumed that the good life, whatever it may be, can be
attained by everybody; and that society should be arranged so as to
secure that result. That is, in fact, the democratic postulate, which
is now so generally accepted not only in this company but in the world
at large. But it is that postulate that I dispute. I hold that the
good life must either be the privilege of a few, or not exist at all.
The good life in my view, is the life of a gentleman. That word, I
know, has been degraded; and there is no more ominous sign of the
degradation of the English people. But I use it in its true and noble
sense. I mean by a gentleman a man of responsibility; one who because
he enjoys privileges recognizes duties; a landed proprietor who is
also, and therefore, a soldier and a statesman; a man with a natural
capacity and a hereditary tradition to rule; a member, in a word, of a
governing aristocracy. Not that the good life consists in governing;
but only a governing class and those who centre round them are capable
of the good life. Nobility is a privilege of the nobleman, and
nobility is essential to goodness. We are told indeed, that Good is to
be found in virtue, in knowledge, in art, in love. I will not dispute
it; but we must add that only a noble man can be virtuous greatly, know
wisely, perceive and feel finely. And virtue that is mean, knowledge
that is pedantic, art that is base, love that is sensual are not Goods
at all. A noble man of necessity feels and expresses himself nobly.
His speech is literature, his gesture art, his action drama, his
affections music. About him centres all that is great in literature,
science, art. Magnificent buildings, exquisite pictures, statues,
poems, songs, crowd about his habitation and attend him from the cradle
to the grave. His fine intelligence draws to itself those of like
disposition. He seeks genius, but he shuns pedantry; for his knowledge
is part of his life. All that is great he instinctively apprehends,
because it is akin to himself. And only so can anything be truly
apprehended. For every man and every class can only understand and
practise the virtues appropriate to their occupations. A professor
will never be a hero, however much he reads the classics. A
shop-walker will never be a poet, however much he reads poetry. If you
want virtue, in the ancient sense, the sense of honour, of courage, of
self-reliance, of the instinct to command, you must have a class of
gentlemen. Otherwise virtue will be at best a mere conception in the
head, a figment of the brain, not a character and a force. Why is the
teaching of the classics now discredited among you? Not because it is
not as valuable as ever it was, but because there is no one left to
understand its value. The tradesmen who govern you feel instinctively
that it is not for them, and they are right. It is above and beyond
them. But it was the natural food of gentlemen. And the example may
serve to illustrate the general truth, that you cannot revolutionize
classes and their relations without revolutionizing culture. It is
idle to suppose you can communicate to a democracy the heritage of an
aristocracy. You may give them books, show them pictures, offer them
examples. In vain! The seed cannot grow in the new soil. The masses
will never be educated in the sense that the classes were. You may
rejoice in the fact, or you may regret it; but at least it should be
recognized. For my own part I regret it, and I regret it because I
conceive that the good life is the life of the gentleman.
"From this it follows that my ideal of a polity is aristocratic. For a
class of gentlemen presupposes classes of workers to support it. And
these, from the ideal point of view, must be regarded as mere means. I
do not say that that is just; I do not say it is what we should choose;
but I am sure it is the law of the world in which we live. Through the
whole realm of nature every kind exists only to be the means of
supporting life in another. Everywhere the higher preys upon the
lower; everywhere the Good is parasitic on the Bad. And as in nature,
so in human society. Read history with an impartial mind, read it in
the white light, and you will see that there has never been a great
civilization that was not based upon iniquity. Those who have eyes to
see have always admitted, and always will, that the greatest
civilization of Europe was that of Greece. And of that civilization
not merely an accompaniment but the essential condition was slavery.
Take away that and you take away Pericles, Phidias, Sophocles, Plato.
Dismiss Greece, if you like. Where then will you turn? To the Middle
Ages? You encounter feudalism and serfdom. To the modern world? You
run against wage-labour. Ah, but, you say, we look to the future. We
shall abolish wage-labour, as we have abolished slavery. We shall have
an equitable society in which everybody will do productive work, and
nobody will live at the cost of others. I do not know whether you can
do this; it is possible you may; but I ask you to count the cost. And
first let me call your attention to what you have actually done during
the course of the past century. You have deposed your aristocracy and
set up in their place men who work for their living, instead of for the
public good, merchants, bankers, shop-keepers, railway directors,
brewers, company-promoters. Whether you are better and more justly
governed I do not pause to enquire. You appear to be satisfied that
you are. But what I see, returning to England only at rare intervals,
and what you perhaps cannot so easily see, is that you are ruining all
your standards. Dignity, manners, nobility, nay, common honesty
itself, is rapidly disappearing from among you. Every time I return I
find you more sordid, more petty, more insular, more ugly and
unperceptive. For the higher things, the real goods, were supported
and sustained among you by your class of gentlemen, while they deserved
the name. But by depriving them of power you have deprived them of
responsibility, which is the salt of privilege; and they are rotting
before your eyes, crumbling away and dropping into the ruck. Whether
the general level of your civilization is rising I do not pronounce. I
do not even think the question of importance; for any rise must be
almost imperceptible. The salient fact is that the pinnacles are
disappearing; that soon there will be nothing left that seeks the
stars. Your middle classes have no doubt many virtues; they are, I
will presume, sensible, capable, industrious, and respectable. But
they have no notion of greatness, nay, they have an instinctive hatred
of it. Whatever else they may have done, they have destroyed all
nobility. In art, in literature, in drama, in the building of palaces
or villas, _nihil tetigerunt quod non faedaverunt_. Such is the result
of entrusting power to men who make their own living, instead of to a
class set apart by hereditary privilege to govern and to realize the
good life. But, you may still urge, this is only a temporary stage.
We still have a parasitic class, the class of capitalists. It is only
when we have got rid of them, that the real equality will begin, and
with it will come all other excellence. Well, I think it possible that
you might establish, I will not say absolute equality, but an equality
far greater than the world has ever seen; that you might exact from
everybody some kind of productive work, in return for the guarantee of
a comfortable livelihood. But there is no presumption that in that way
you will produce the nobility of character which I hold to be the only
thing really good. For such nobility, as all history and experience
clearly shows, if we will interrogate it honestly, is the product of a
class-consciousness. Personal initiative, personal force, a freedom
from sordid cares, a sense of hereditary obligation based on hereditary
privilege, the consciousness of being set apart for high purposes, of
being one's own master and the master of others, all that and much more
goes to the building up of the gentleman; and all that is impossible in
a socialistic state. In the eternal order of this inexorable world it
is prescribed that greatness cannot grow except in the soil of
iniquity, and that justice can produce nothing but mediocrity. That
the masses should choose justice at the cost of greatness is
intelligible, nay it is inevitable; and that choice is the inner
meaning of democracy. But gentlemen should have had the insight to
see, and the courage to affirm, that the price was too great to pay.
They did not; and the penalty is that they are ceasing to exist. They
have sacrificed themselves to the attempt to establish equity. But in
that attempt I can take no interest. The society in which I believe is
an aristocratic one. I hold, with Plato and Aristotle, that the masses
ought to be treated as means, treated kindly, treated justly, so far as
the polity permits, but treated as subordinate always to a higher end.
But your feet are set on the other track. You are determined to
abolish classes; to level down in order to level up; to destroy
superiorities in order to raise the average. I do not say you will not
succeed. But if you do, you will realize comfort at the expense of
greatness, and your society will be one not of men but of ants and bees.
"For Democracy--note it well--destroys greatness in every kind, of
intellect, of perception, as well as of character. And especially it
destroys art, that reflection of life without which we cannot be said
to live. For the artist is the rarest, the most choice of men. His
senses, his perception, his intelligence have a natural and inborn
fineness and distinction. He belongs to a class, a very small, a very
exclusive one. And he needs a class to appreciate and support him. No
democracy has ever produced or understood art. The case of Athens is
wrongly adduced; for Athens was an aristocracy under the influence of
an aristocrat at the time the Parthenon was built. At all times Art
has been fostered by patrons, never by the people. How should they
foster it? Instinctively they hate it, as they hate all superiorities.
It was not Florence but the Medici and the Pope that employed
Michelangelo; not Milan but Ludovic the Moor that valued Leonardo. It
was the English nobles that patronized Reynolds and Gainsborough; the
darlings of our middle class are Herkomer and Collier. There have been
poets, it is true, who have been born of the people and loved of them;
and I do not despise poetry of that kind. But it is not the great
thing. The great thing is Sophocles and Virgil, a fine culture wedded
to a rich nature. And such a marriage is not accomplished in the
fields or the market-place. The literature loved by democracy is a
literature like themselves; not literature at all, but journalism,
gross, shrieking, sensational, base. So with the drama, so with
architecture, so with every art. Substitute the mass for the patron,
and you eliminate taste. The artist perishes; the charlatan survives
and flourishes. Only in science have you still an aristocracy. For
the crowd sees that there is profit in science, and lets it go its way.
Because of the accident that it can be applied, it may be
disinterestedly pursued. And democracy hitherto, though impatiently,
endures an ideal aim in the hope of degrading its achievement to its
own uses.
"Such being my view of democratic society I look naturally for elements
that promise not to foster, but to counteract it. I look for the germs
of a new aristocracy. They are hard to discover, and perhaps my
desires override my judgment. But I fancy that it will be the very
land that has suffered most acutely from the disease that will be the
first to discover the remedy. I endorse Ellis's view of American
civilization; but I allow myself to hope that the reaction is already
beginning. I have met in Italy young Americans with a finer sense of
beauty, distinction, and form, than I have been able to find among
Englishmen, still less among Italians. And once there is cast into
that fresh and unencumbered soil the seed of the ideal that made Greece
great, who can prophecy into what forms of beauty and thought it may
not flower? The Plutocracy of the West may yet be transformed into an
Aristocracy; and Europe re-discover from America the secret of its past
greatness. Such, at least, appears to me to be the best hope of the
world; and to the realization of that hope I would have all men of
culture all the world over unite their efforts. For the kingdom of
this earth, like that of heaven, is taken by violence. We must work
not with, but against tendencies, if we would realize anything great;
and the men who are fit to rule must have the courage to assume power,
if ever there is to be once more a civilization. Therefore it is that
I, the last of an old aristocracy, look across the Atlantic for the
first of the new. And beyond socialism, beyond anarchy, across that
weltering sea, I strain my eyes to see, pearl-grey against the dawn,
the new and stately citadel of Power. For Power is the centre of
crystallization for all good; given that, you have morals, art,
religion; without it, you have nothing but appetites and passions.
Power then is the condition of life, even of the life of the mass, in
any sense in which it is worth having. And in the interest of
Democracy itself every good Democrat ought to pray for the advent of
Aristocracy."
ALL of our company had now spoken except two. One was the author,
Vivian, and him I had decided to leave till the last. The other was
John Woodman, a member of the Society of Friends, and one who was
commonly regarded as a crank, because he lived on a farm in the
country, worked with his hands, and refused to pay taxes on the ground
that they went to maintain the army and navy. If Harington was
handsome, Woodman was beautiful, but with beauty of expression rather
than of features, I had always thought of him as a perfect example of
that rare type, the genuine Christian. And since Harington had just
revealed himself as a typical Pagan, I felt glad of the chance which
brought the two men into such close juxtaposition. My only doubt was,
whether Woodman would consent to speak. For on previous occasions I
had known him to refuse; and he was the only one of us who had always
been able to sustain his refusal, without unpleasantness, but without
yielding. To-night, however, he rose in response to my appeal, and
spoke as follows:
"All the evening I have been wondering when the lot would fall on me,
and whether, when it did, I should feel, as we Friends say, 'free' to
answer the call. Now that it has come, I am, I think, free; but not,
if you will pardon me, for a long or eloquent speech. What I have to
say I shall say as simply and as briefly as I can; and you, I know,
will listen with your accustomed tolerance, though I shall differ even
more, if possible, from all the other speakers, than they have differed
from one another. For you have all spoken from the point of view of
the world. You have put forward proposals for changing society and
making it better. But you have relied, for the most part, on external
means to accomplish such changes. You have spoken of extending or
limiting the powers of government, of socialism, of anarchy, of
education, of selective breeding. But you have not spoken of the
Spirit and the Life, or not in the sense in which I would wish to speak
of them. MacCarthy, indeed, I remember, used the words 'the life of
the spirit.' But I could not well understand what he meant, except
that he hoped to attain it by violence; and in that way what I would
seek and value cannot be furthered. Coryat, again, and Harington spoke
of the good life. But Coryat seemed to think that any and all life is
good. The line of division which I see everywhere he did not see at
all, the line between the children of God and the children of this
world. I could not say with him that there is a natural goodness in
life as such; only that any honest occupation will be good if it be
practised by a good man. It is not wealth that is needed, nor talents,
nor intellect. These things are gifts that may be given or withheld.
But the one thing needful is the spirit of God, which is given freely
to the poor and the ignorant who seek it. Believing this, I cannot but
disagree, also, with Harington. For the life of which he spoke is the
life of this world. He praises power, and wisdom, and beauty, and the
excellence of the body and the mind. In these things, he says, the
good life consists. And since they are so rare and difficult to
attain, and need for their fostering, natural aptitudes, and leisure
and wealth and great position, he concludes that the good life is
possible only for the few; and that to them the many should be
ministers. And if the goods he speaks of be really such, he is right;
for in the things of the world, what one takes, another must resign.
If there are rulers there must be subjects; if there are rich, there
must be poor; if there are idle men there must be drudges. But the
real Good is not thus exclusive. It is open to all; and the more a man
has of it the more he gives to others. That Good is the love of God,
and through the love of God the love of man. These are old phrases,
but their sense is not old; rather it is always new, for it is eternal.
Now, as of old, in the midst of science, of business, of invention, of
the multifarious confusion and din and hurry of the world, God may be
directly perceived and known. But to know Him is to love Him, and to
love Him is to love His creatures, and most all of our fellow-men, to
whom we are nearest and most akin, and with and by whom we needs must
live. And if that love were really spread abroad among us, the
questions that have been discussed to-night would resolve themselves.
For there would be a rule of life generally observed and followed; and
under it the conditions that make the problems would disappear. Of
such a rule, all men, dimly and at moments, are aware. By it they were
warned that slavery was wrong. And had they but read it more truly,
and followed it more faithfully, they would never have made war to
abolish what they would never have wished to maintain. And the same
rule it is that is warning us now that it is wrong to fight, wrong to
heap up riches, wrong to live by the labour of others. As we come to
heed the warning we shall cease to do these things. But to change
institutions without changing hearts is idle. For it is but to change
the subjects into the rulers, the poor into the rich, the drudges into
the idle men. And, as a result, we should only have idle men more
frivolous, rich men more hard, rulers more incompetent. It is not by
violence or compulsion, open or disguised, that the kingdom of heaven
comes. It is by simple service on the part of those that know the law,
by their following the right in their own lives, and preaching rather
by their conduct than by their words.
"This would be a hard saying if we had to rely on ourselves. But we
have God to rely on, who gives His help not according to the measure of
our powers. A man cannot by taking thought add a cubit to his stature;
he cannot increase the scope of his mind or the range of his senses; he
cannot, by willing, make himself a philosopher, or a leader of men.
But drawing on the source that is open to the poorest and the weakest
he can become a good man; and then, whatever his powers, he will be
using them for God and man. If men do that, each man for himself, by
the help of God, all else will follow. So true is it that if ye seek
first the kingdom of heaven all these things shall be added unto you.
Yes, that is true. It is eternal truth. It does not change with the
doctrines of Churches nor depend upon them. I would say even it does
not depend on Christianity. For the words would be true, though there
had never been a Christ to speak them. And the proof that they are
true is simply the direct witness of consciousness. We perceive such
truths as we perceive the sun. They carry with them their own
certainty; and on that rests the certainty of God. Therein is the
essence of all religion. I say it because I know. And the rest of
you, so it seems to me, are guessing. Nor is it, as it might seem at
first, a truth irrelevant to your discussion. For it teaches that all
change must proceed from within outward. There is not, there never has
been, a just polity, for there has never been one based on the love of
God and man. All that you condemn--poverty, and wealth, idleness and
excessive labour, squalor, disease, barren marriages, aggression and
war, will continue in spite of all changes in form, until men will to
get rid of them. And that they will not do till they have learnt to
love God and man. Revolution will be vain, evolution will be vain, all
uneasy turnings from side to side will be vain, until that change of
heart be accomplished. And accomplished it will be in its own time.
Everywhere I see it at work, in many ways, in the guise of many
different opinions. I see it at work here to-night among those with
whom I most disagree. I see it in the hope of Allison and Wilson, in
the defiance of MacCarthy, in the doubt of Martin, and most of all in
the despair of Audubon. For he is right to despair of the only life he
knows, the life of the world whose fruits are dust and ashes. He
drifts on a midnight ocean, unlighted by stars, and tossed by the winds
of disappointment, sorrow, sickness, irreparable loss. Ah, but above
him, if he but knew, as now in our eyes and ears, rises into a crystal
sky the first lark of dawn. And the cuckoo sings, and the blackbird,
do you not hear them? And the fountain rises ever in showers of silver
sparks, up to the heaven it will not reach till fire has made it
vapour. And so the whole creation aspires, out of the night of
despair, into the cool freshness of dawn and on to the sun of noon.
Let us be patient and follow each his path, waiting on the word of God
till He be pleased to reveal it. For His way is not hard, it is joy
and peace unutterable. And those who wait in faith He will bless with
the knowledge of Himself."
As he finished it was light, though the sun had not yet risen. The
first birds were singing in the wood, and the fountain glistened and
sang, and the plain lay before us like a bride waiting for the
bridegroom. We were silent under the spell; and I scarcely know how
long had passed before I had heart to call upon Vivian to conclude.
I have heard Vivian called a philosopher, but the term is misleading.
Those who know his writings--and they are too few--know that he
concerned himself, directly or indirectly, with philosophic problems.
But he never wrote philosophy; his methods were not those of logic; and
his sympathies were with science and the arts. In the early age of
Greece he might have been Empedocles or Heraclitus; he could never have
been Spinoza or Kant. He sought to interpret life, but not merely in
terms of the intellect. He needed to see and feel in order to think.
And he expressed himself in a style too intellectual for lovers of
poetry, too metaphorical for lovers of philosophy. His Public,
therefore, though devoted, was limited; but we, in our society, always
listened to him with an interest that was rather enhanced than
diminished by an element of perplexity. I have found it hard to
reproduce his manner, in which it was clear that he took a conscious
and artistic pleasure. Still less can I give the impression of his
lean and fine-cut face, and the distinction of his whole personality.
He stood up straight and tall against the whitening sky, and delivered
himself as follows:
"Man is in the making; but henceforth he must make himself. To that
point Nature has led him, out of the primeval slime. She has given him
limbs, she has given him brain, she has given him the rudiment of a
soul. Now it is for him to make or mar that splendid torso. Let him
look no more to her for aid; for it is her will to create one who has
the power to create himself. If he fail, she fails; back goes the
metal to the pot; and the great process begins anew. If he succeeds,
he succeeds alone. His fate is in his own hands.
"Of that fate, did he but know it, brain is the lord, to fashion a
palace fit for the soul to inhabit. Yet still, after centuries of
stumbling, reason is no more than the furtive accomplice of habit and
force. Force creates, habit perpetuates, reason the sycophant
sanctions. And so he drifts, not up but down, and Nature watches in
anguish, self-forbidden to intervene, unless it be to annihilate. If
he is to drive, and drive straight, reason must seize the reins; and
the art of her driving is the art of Politics. Of that art, the aim is
perfection, the method selection. Science is its minister, ethics its
lord. It spares no prejudice, respects no habit, honours no tradition.
Institutions are stubble in the fire it kindles. The present and the
past it throws without remorse into the jaws of the future. It is the
angel with the flaming sword swift to dispossess the crone that sits on
her money-bags at Westminster.
"Or, shall I say, it is Hercules with the Augean stable to cleanse, of
which every city is a stall, heaped with the dung of a century; with
the Hydra to slay, whose hundred writhing heads of false belief, from
old truth rotted into lies, spring inexhaustibly fecund in creeds,
interests, institutions. Of which the chief is Property, most cruel
and blind of all, who devours us, ere we know it, in the guise of
Security and Peace, killing the bodies of some, the souls of most, and
growing ever fresh from the root, in forms that but seem to be new,
until the root itself be cut away by the sword of the spirit. What
that sword shall be called, socialism, anarchy, what you will, is small
matter, so but the hand that wields it be strong, the brain clear, the
soul illumined, passionate and profound. But where shall the champion
be found fit to wield that weapon?
"He will not be found; he must be made. By Man Man must be sown. Once
he might trust to Nature, while he was laid at her breast. But she has
weaned him; and the promptings she no longer guides, he may not blindly
trust for their issue. While she weeded, it was hers to plant; but she
weeds no more. He of his own will uproots or spares; and of his own
will he must sow, if he would not have his garden a wilderness. Even
now precious plants perish before his eyes, even now weeds grow rank,
while he watches in idle awe, and prates of his own impotence. He has
given the reins to Desire, and she drives him back to the abyss. But
harness her to the car, with reason for charioteer, and she will grow
wings to waft him to his goal. That in him that he calls Love is but
the dragon of the slime. Let him bury it in the grave of Self, and it
will rise a Psyche, with wings too wide to shelter only the home. The
Man that is to be comes at the call of the Man that is. Let him call
then, soberly, not from the fumes of lust. For as is the call, so will
be the answer.
"But for what should he call? For Pagan? For Christian? For neither,
and for both. Paganism speaks for the men in Man, Christianity for the
Man in men. The fruit that was eaten in Paradise, sown in the soul of
man, bore in Hellas its first and fairest harvest. There rose upon the
world of mind the triple sun of the Ideal. Aphrodite, born of the
foam, flowered on the azure main, Tritons in her train and Nereids,
under the flush of dawn. Apollo, radiant in hoary dew, leapt from the
eastern wave, flamed through the heaven, and cooled his hissing wheels
in the vaporous west. Athene, sprung from the brain of God, armed with
the spear of truth, moved grey-eyed over the earth probing the minds of
men. Love, Beauty, Wisdom, behold the Pagan Trinity! Through whose
grace only men are men, and fit to become Man. Therefore, the gods are
eternal; not they die, but we, when we think them dead. And no man who
does not know them, and knowing, worship and love, is able to be a
member of the body of Man. Thus it is that the sign of a step forward
is a look backward; and Greece stands eternally at the threshold of the
new life. Forget her, and you sink back, if not to the brute, to the
insect. Consider the ant, and beware of her! She is there for a
warning. In universal Anthood there are no ants. From that fate may
men save Man!
"But the Pagan gods were pitiless; they preyed upon the weak. Their
wisdom was rooted in folly, their beauty in squalor, their love in
oppression. So fostered, those flowers decayed. And out of the
rotting soil rose the strange new blossoms we call Faith, and Hope, and
Charity. For Folly cried, 'I know not, but I believe'; Squalor, 'I am
vile, but I hope'; and the oppressed, 'I am despised, but I love.'
That was the Christian Trinity, the echo of man's frustration, as the
other was the echo of his accomplishment. Yet both he needs. For
because he grows, he is dogged by imperfection. His weakness is mocked
by those shining forms on the mountain-top. But Faith, and Hope, and
Charity walk beside him in the mire, to kindle, to comfort and to help.
And of them justice is born, the plea of the Many against the Few, of
the nation against the class, of mankind against the nation, of the
future against the present. In Christianity men were born into Man.
Yet in Him let not men die! For what profits justice unless it be the
step to the throne of Olympus? What profit Faith and Hope without a
goal? Charity without an object? Vain is the love of emmets, or of
bees and coral-insects. For the worth of love is as the worth of the
lover. It is only in the soil of Paganism that Christianity can come
to maturity. And Faith, Hope, Charity, are but seeds of themselves
till they fall into the womb of Wisdom, Beauty, and Love. Olympus lies
before us, the snow-capped mountain. Let us climb it, together, if you
will, not some on the corpses of the rest; but climb at least, not
fester and swarm on rich meadows of equality. We are not for the
valley, nor for the forests or the pastures. If we be brothers, yet we
are brothers in a quest, needing our foremost to lead. Aphrodite,
Apollo, Athene, are before us, not behind. Majestic forms, they gleam
among the snows. March, then, men in Man!
"But is it men who attain? Or Man? Or not even he, but God? We do
not know. We know only the impulse and the call. The gleam on the
snow, the upward path, the urgent stress within, that is our certainty,
the rest is doubt. But doubt is a horizon, and on it hangs the star of
hope. By that we live; and the science blinds, the renunciation maims,
that would shut us off from those silver rays. Our eyes must open, as
we march, to every signal from the height. And since the soul has
indeed 'immortal longings in her' we may believe them prophetic of
their fruition. For her claims are august as those of man, and appeal
to the same witness. The witness of either is a dream; but such dreams
come from the gate of horn. They are principles of life, and about
them crystallizes the universe. For will is more than knowledge, since
will creates what knowledge records. Science hangs in a void of
nescience, a planet turning in the dark. But across that void Faith
builds the road that leads to Olympus and the eternal gods."
By the time he had finished speaking the sun had risen, and the glamour
of dawn was passing into the light of common day. The birds sang loud,
the fountain sparkled, and the trees rustled softly in the early
breeze. Our party broke up quietly. Some went away to bed; others
strolled down the gardens; and Audubon went off by appointment to bathe
with my young nephew, as gay and happy, it would seem, as man could be.
I was left to pace the terrace alone, watching the day grow brighter,
and wondering at the divers fates of men. An early bell rang in the
little church at the park-gate; a motor-car hooted along the highway.
And I thought of Cantilupe and Harington, of Allison and Wilson, and
beyond them of the vision of the dawn and the daybreak, of Woodman, the
soul, and Vivian, the spirit. I paused for a last look down the line
of bright statues that bordered the long walk below me. I fancied them
stretching away to the foot of Olympus; and without elation or
excitement, but with the calm of an assured hope, I prepared to begin
the new day.
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
AFTER TWO THOUSAND YEARS
PLATO AND HIS DIALOGUES
THE MEANING OF GOOD
JUSTICE AND LIBERTY
A POLITICAL DIALOGUE
RELIGION AND IMMORTALITY
RELIGION: A CRITICISM AND A FORECAST
THE GREEK VIEW OF LIFE
LETTERS FROM JOHN CHINAMAN
APPEARANCES: BEING NOTES ON TRAVEL
AN ESSAY ON THE CIVILIZATIONS OF INDIA, CHINA AND JAPAN
CONTRIBUTION OF ANCIENT GREECE TO MODERN LIFE
THE INTERNATIONAL ANARCHY, 1904-1914
EVOLUTION IN RE-ACTION IN MODERN FRANCE 1789-1871
THE EUROPEAN ANARCHY
WAR: ITS NATURE, CAUSE AND CUBE
CAUSES OF INTERNATIONAL WAR
THE CHOICE BEFORE US
DOCUMENTS AND STATEMENTS RELATING TO PEACE
PROPOSALS AND WAR AIMS, DECEMBER 1916-1918
ETC.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Geschichte der Zoologie
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Title: Geschichte der Zoologie
Author: Rudolf Burckhardt
Release date: April 10, 2024 [eBook #73374]
Language: German
Original publication: Leipzig: Göschen'sche Verlagshandlung
Credits: Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GESCHICHTE DER ZOOLOGIE ***
####################################################################
Anmerkungen zur Transkription
Der vorliegende Text wurde anhand der Buchausgabe von 1907 so weit
wie möglich originalgetreu wiedergegeben. Typographische Fehler
wurden stillschweigend korrigiert. Ungewöhnliche und heute nicht mehr
verwendete Schreibweisen bleiben gegenüber dem Original unverändert;
fremdsprachliche Ausdrücke wurden nicht korrigiert.
Die beiden Fußnoten wurden an das Ende der jeweiligen Abschnitte
versetzt. Die Buchanzeigen wurden der Übersichtlichkeit halber an das
Ende des Buches verschoben.
Personennamen werden im Original teils gesperrt, teils mit normaler
Schriftweite gedruckt. Die vorliegende Ausgabe folgt hierin der
gedruckten Version; es wurde keine Harmonisierung vorgenommen.
Die in der Originalausgabe verwendete Frakturschrift unterscheidet
nicht zwischen den Großbuchstaben ‚I‘ und ‚J‘; daher wurden im
Register die Begriffe mit beiden Anfangsbuchstaben gleichberechtigt
eingefügt. In der vorliegenden Version wurden diese Einträge dagegen
getrennt angegeben.
Besondere Schriftschnitte werden im vorliegenden Text mit Hilfe der
folgenden Symbole gekennzeichnet:
fett: =Gleichheitszeichen=
gesperrt: +Pluszeichen+
Antiqua: ~Tilden~
kleinere Schrift
im laufenden Text: _Unterstriche_
####################################################################
Sammlung Göschen
Geschichte der Zoologie
Von
Prof. ~Dr.~ Rud. Burckhardt
Direktor der Zoologischen Station des Berliner Aquariums
in Rovigno
[Illustration]
+Leipzig+
G. J. Göschen’sche Verlagshandlung
1907
+Alle Rechte, insbesondere das Übersetzungsrecht, von der
Verlagshandlung vorbehalten.+
Spamersche Buchdruckerei in Leipzig.
Inhaltsverzeichnis.
Seite
Literatur 5
=I. Einleitung=: Systematik der zoologischen Wissenschaft 7
=II. Urgeschichte=:
1. Anfänge der Zoologie. 9
2. Zoologie der asiatischen Völker 10
=III. Antike Zoologie=:
1. Vor Aristoteles 14
2. Aristoteles 20
3. Griechische Zoologie nach Aristoteles 32
4. Römische Zoologie 34
5. Alexandrinische Anatomie 38
=IV. Mittelalterliche Zoologie=:
1. Patristik 40
2. Hohes Mittelalter 43
3. Ausgehendes Mittelalter 45
=V. Neuzeitliche Zoologie bis zur Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts=:
~A.~ +Periode der Zoographie+:
1. Philologische Zoologie 48
2. Blütezeit der Zoographie 50
3. Aufsplitterung der Zoographie 54
4. Zootomie des 16. Jahrhunderts 56
5. Zootomie des 17. Jahrhunderts 58
~B.~ +Periode der Systematik+:
1. Praktische und theoretische Organisation der Zoologie 66
2. John Ray 67
3. Vermehrung der Tierkenntnis 70
4. Biologische Dogmatik 71
5. C. von Linné 73
6. Pallas 77
7. Zootomie des 18. Jahrhunderts 78
VI. =Französische Zoologie von der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts an= 82
1. Buffon 83
2. Lamarck 85
3. Et. Geoffroy St. Hilaire 88
4. G. Cuvier 90
5. Nachfolger Cuviers 96
6. Nachfolger Et. Geoffroys 99
7. Italienische Zoologie dieses Zeitraums 101
VII. =Deutsche Zoologie von der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts an:= 101
1. Aufklärungsperiode 102
2. Naturphilosophie 105
3. Empiriker 109
4. Zellenlehre 119
~VIII.~ =Englische Zoologie von der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts
an:=
1. Zoologie, mit Ausschluß der Reisen und des Darwinismus 123
2. Darwinismus in England 128
3. Darwinismus in Deutschland 137
4. Amerikanische Zoologie 142
IX. =Zoographie nach der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts:=
1. Fortbildung der Klassifikation 143
2. Reisen und Meeresforschung 148
3. Geschichte und Bibliographie der Zoologie 151
Register 154
Literatur[1].
I. +Allgemeine Literatur der Geschichte der Zoologie+:
+Spix, J.+, Geschichte und Beurteilung aller Systeme in der Zoologie.
Nürnberg 1811.
+Cuvier, G.+, ~Histoire des sciences naturelles~. Paris 1841-45.
+Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, I.+, ~Histoire naturelle générale~. 1854.
Bd. I.
+Schmidt, O.+, Die Entwicklung der vergleichenden Anatomie. Jena 1855.
+Carus, J. B.+, Geschichte der Zoologie. 1873.
+Perrier, E.+, ~La philosophie zoologique avant Darwin~. 1884.
Außerdem sind für die Geschichte der Zoologie die Handbücher der
Medizingeschichte von +K. Sprengel+, +H. Haeser+, +Th. Puschmann+
(Neuburger und Pagel), die Geschichte der Botanik von +Ernst Meyer+ und
die Geschichte der Geologie und Paläontologie von +K. A. von Zittel+
beizuziehen.
II. +Spezielle Literatur für einzelne Abschnitte der Geschichte.+
1. +Altertum+.
+Windelband, W.+, u. +S. Günther+, Geschichte der alten Philosophie.
1894.
+Gomperz, Th.+, Griechische Denker. I. Leipzig 1897.
+Grant, Sir Alex.+, Aristoteles. Übers. v. Imelmann. Berlin 1878.
+Lewes, G. H.+, Aristoteles. Übers. v. J. B. Carus. 1865.
+Meyer, J. B.+, Aristoteles’ Tierkunde. Berlin 1855.
+Levysohn, L.+, Die Zoologie des Talmuds. 1858.
Ferner die literaturhistorischen und philosophisch-historischen Werke
von +Ritter+, +Brandis+, +Zeller+, +Susemihl+, +Teuffel+, +Krumbacher+.
2. +Mittelalter+.
+Pouchet, F. A.+, ~Histoire des sciences naturelles au moyen-âge~.
Paris 1853.
+Harnack, A.+, Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur. 1893.
+Medici, M.+, ~Compendio storico della scuola anatomica di Bologna~.
1857.
+Schneider, J. G.+, ~Reliqua librorum Frederici~ II. Lipsiae 1788.
3. +Neuzeit+:
Die Literatur der Neuzeit hat mehr vorwiegend biographischen
Charakter, daher für die Kenntnis der einzelnen Zoologen jeweilen
die Biographien zu konsultieren sind. Außerdem ist die obenerwähnte
allgemeine Literatur entsprechend ihrer Orientierung auf die jedesmal
aktuelle Zoologie für das 18. und 19. Jahrhundert ausführlicher als
für das Altertum, und für die neueste Zeit enthält begreiflicherweise
die zoologische Literatur selbst hinreichende Hinweise auf die
nächstliegende Vergangenheit.
Für das biographische Material sind am besten zu konsultieren die Allg.
Deutsche Biographie, die ~Biographie universelle~, das ~Dictionary
of National Biography~, woselbst auch die Nachweise ausführlicherer
Biographien zu finden sind.
+Hartmann, E. v.+, Die Abstammungslehre seit Darwin. Annal. d.
Naturphilos. Bd. II.
+Wigand, Alb.+, Der Darwinismus. Bd. III. 1877.
Zahlreiche Schriften +W. Mays+ in den neuesten Jahrgängen der Verh.
des Naturw. Vereins Karlsruhe, sowie desselben Autors, Die Ansichten
über die Entstehung der Lebewesen. Karlsruhe 1905.
+Hertwig, O.+, Die Entwicklung der Biologie im 19. Jahrhundert. Verh.
Ges. D. Naturf. u. Ärzte. 1900.
+Wasielewski, W. von+, Goethe und die Deszendenzlehre. Frankfurt a.
M. 1904 (enthält die frühere Literatur).
+Camerano, L.+, ~Materiali per lo studio di Zoologia in Italia
nella prima metà secolo XIX~. (Ebenda Angabe der früheren Arbeiten
desselben Autors.)
+Graff, L. von+, Die Zoologie seit Darwin. Graz 1896.
+Dannemann, Fr.+, Grundriß d. Gesch. d. Naturwissenschaften. 1896.
+Marcou, J.+, ~La science en France~. 1869.
+Radl, E.+, Geschichte der biologischen Theorien seit dem Ende des
17. Jahrhunderts. 1905.
+Flower, W.+, ~Essays on Museums. London~. 1898.
+Romanus, J.+, Darwin und nach Darwin (deutsch). 1892.
+Boelsche, W.+, E. Haeckel, ein Lebensbild. 1905.
+Goethe+, +Humboldt+, +Darwin+, +Haeckel+ von W. May. 1904.
[1] Von Aufzählung der Quellen, die vom Verf. mit wenigen Ausnahmen
selbst beigezogen worden sind, mußte Abstand genommen werden;
ebenso von der Erwähnung einer großen Zahl von Spezialarbeiten,
schon weil die Mehrzahl derselben nicht auf Quellenstudium beruht.
I. Einleitung.
Systematik der zoologischen Wissenschaft.
Wollen wir die Leitlinien in der Entwicklung einer Wissenschaft
verfolgen, so bedarf es der Kenntnis auch der obersten Gliederung
dieser Wissenschaft selbst. Geschichte und Systematik der Zoologie sind
also ohne einander undenkbar. Wir schicken daher die Grundzüge einer
Systematik der Zoologie voraus, ehe wir ihre geschichtliche Entwicklung
zu skizzieren suchen.
Als =Biologie= bezeichnet man den +Inbegriff aller Wissenschaften
vom organischen Leben+, dem gegenwärtigen und vergangenen, in all
seinen Äußerungen, also die organischen Naturwissenschaften. Man
zerlegt sie nach dem üblichen +Unterschiede von Pflanze und Tier+ in
=Botanik= und =Zoologie=. Die Zoologie zerlegt man wiederum je nach
+den Teilen des Tierreiches+ in Teilgebiete, für die man mehr oder
weniger eingebürgerte Bezeichnungen gebraucht. Man redet häufiger
von =Anthropologie= (Lehre vom Menschen), =Ornithologie= (Lehre
von den Vögeln), =Entomologie= (Insektenkunde), =Helminthologie=
(Lehre von den Würmern), als etwa von =Karzinologie= (Lehre von den
Krebsen), =Mammalogie= (Lehre von den Säugetieren), =Protistologie=
(Lehre von den einzelligen Tieren und Pflanzen); doch werden viele
Bezeichnungen für Teilgebiete innerhalb der speziell beteiligten
Kreise der Forscher gebraucht. Die Zoologie wird aber auch in
anderer Weise in Spezialgebiete getrennt. Wie ein höherer Organismus
in Organe, Gewebe, Zellen zerlegt werden kann, so werden auch
+Teilgebiete+ nach +diesen Teilen+ des Organismus abgesondert: die
=Organologie= (Organlehre), die =Histologie= (Gewebelehre), die
=Zytologie= (Zellenlehre). Aber nicht nur aus der Gliederung des
Objektes selbst, der Tierwelt und des Einzelorganismus, werden die
Unterabteilungen der Zoologie abgeleitet, sondern auch die +Gliederung
des Erforschungsprozesses+ wird zum Einteilungsprinzip erhoben. Dabei
wird jedoch stets nur die Bezeichnung der Wissenschaft +nach dem
jedesmal vorherrschenden Gesichtspunkt+ gewählt. Demnach unterscheidet
man als =Zoographie= die Beschreibung und bildliche Wiedergabe der
Tiere. Die Zergliederung derselben wird =Zootomie= genannt. Zoographie
und Zootomie weisen zunächst +die Formen des Organismus+ nach. Unter
dem Gesichtspunkt der Form beides zusammenfassend spricht man daher
von einer =Morphologie= (Lehre von der Form), und stellt ihr zur
Seite die Lehre von den +Verrichtungen+, auf die seit der Neuzeit
die im Altertum für die gesamte Naturforschung übliche Bezeichnung
=Physiologie= übertragen wurde. Das Studium der Seelenäußerungen der
Tiere nach Analogie des Menschen pflegt die =Tierpsychologie=. Für die
+vergleichende Betrachtung der Organe erwachsener Tiere+ kam mit dem
17. Jahrhundert die Bezeichnung „+vergleichende Anatomie+“ auf. Ebenso
wurde auch für eine +vergleichende Betrachtung der Verrichtungen+
die Bezeichnung „+vergleichende Physiologie+“ gebräuchlich. Als
=Entwicklungsgeschichte= (+Embryologie+, +Ontogenie+) sondert man
die Lehre vom +Bau und den Verrichtungen des sich entwickelnden
Organismus+ aus. Als =Paläontologie= wird seit dem Anfang des 19.
Jahrhunderts die Wissenschaft von +den ausgestorbenen Organismen+
bezeichnet. Seitdem man die Lebewelt als eine Einheit von gemeinsamer
Abstammung und Verwandtschaft betrachtet, wird die synthetisch
gewonnene hypothetische Darstellung dieser Einheit oder +die Anwendung
des Entwicklungsgedankens auf die organische Natur als+ =Phylogenie=
(+Stammesgeschichte+, +Haeckel+) unterschieden. Mit +der räumlichen
Verbreitung der Tiere+ befaßt sich die =Tiergeographie=, mit den
+Beziehungen des Organismus+ zu +seiner+ leblosen und lebenden
+Umgebung+ die =Ökologie= (Haeckel) oder die Lehre vom Haushalt in
der Natur. Das Bedürfnis, +die Tierwelt nach logischen Normen zu
ordnen+, erzeugte die =Klassifikation= der Tiere (oft irrtümlich mit
dem Oberbegriff „zoologische Systematik“ bezeichnet). Auch in der
Zoologie hat sich die +Namengebung oder Benennung+ der Objekte zu einem
besonderen Zweig, der =Nomenklatur=, ausgebildet.
Ganz im allgemeinen ist zu bemerken, daß diese +Klassifikation der
zoologischen Wissenschaften+ erst seit Anfang des 19. Jahrhunderts
bewußt entwickelt worden ist, und daß der Sprachgebrauch in ihr
vielfach Verwirrung stiftet (z. B. wenn Biologie statt Ökologie
gebraucht oder die Physiologie der Biologie überhaupt gleichgesetzt
wird).
II. Urgeschichte.
1. Anfänge der Zoologie.
Als Urgeschichte unserer Wissenschaft sondert sich dasjenige Stadium
ab, in welchem +Völker längst entschwundener Zeiten, Naturvölker
unserer Tage, niedere Schichten der Kulturvölker und Kinder+
übereinstimmen. Eine bestimmte Aufmerksamkeit gegenüber der Eigenart
lebender Wesen fehlt; demgemäß auch eine bestimmte Bezeichnung und
Beachtung unterscheidender Merkmale. Im Gegenteil, dem Tier werden
seine spezifischen Eigenschaften genommen und es wird als Karikatur
menschlichen Wesens erfaßt, wie in der Tierfabel. Daneben bildet
es ein Stück des erweiterten Hausrates, als den der Urmensch die
Natur betrachtet, wird auf Nutzen und Schaden geprüft, ja, auch in
kultische Gebräuche einbezogen. Erst wo der Mensch sich das lebende
Tier und seine Produkte dienstbar macht und in Zusammenhang mit
Pflanzenkultur entsteht Tierzucht, eine der ältesten und tiefsten
Quellen für zoologische Beobachtung. Löst sich aus der +Kulturpraxis+
die Tierkenntnis an diesem Punkte ab, so ist eine andere Quelle für
sie in +Jagden und Reisen+ zu suchen. Eine dritte rinnt aus der
+Medizin+, besonders der Kenntnis des menschlichen Körpers und seiner
Teile, endlich auch aus der +Opferschau+. Aber auch allgemeinere
Beziehungen knüpfen den Anfang der Zoologie an Urzeiten und Urzustände,
religiöse Vorstellungen über die Zusammensetzung der Körperwelt, über
Veränderungen in ihr, über Entstehung der belebten und unbelebten
Welt überhaupt. Ja, diese +außerhalb der Tierkenntnis entstandenen+,
der kosmologischen Spekulation entspringenden +Verallgemeinerungen+
kehren mit zwingender Notwendigkeit wieder und teilen sich mit den
Interessen der Praxis wie Tierzucht und Medizin zeitweise in die
Beherrschung zoologischen Wissens auch späterer Zeiten. Dieses erste
Entwicklungsstadium der Zoologie, das mit einer gewissen Regelmäßigkeit
sich wiederholt, hat seine ältesten bleibenden Spuren bereits in
Denkmälern der westasiatischen Völker hinterlassen.
2. Zoologie der asiatischen Völker.
So wissen wir, daß schon Wu-Wang, der Ahnherr der +chinesischen+
Tschendynastie (ca. 1150 v. Chr.), einen „Park der Intelligenz“
anlegte, der noch im 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr. bestand und Säugetiere,
Vögel, Schildkröten und Fische enthielt.
Die Vorstufe des biblischen Schöpfungsberichts sowie die Lehre
von der Sintflut und den vier Elementen finden sich schon bei den
+Babyloniern+. Der Verstand hat seinen Sitz im Herzen, die Leber ist
das Zentralorgan fürs Blut, das in Blut des Tages (arterielles?)
und der Nacht (venöses?) unterschieden wird. Wo die Körperteile des
Menschen aufgezählt werden, wird die Reihenfolge vom Kopf bis zu
den Füßen beobachtet. Modelle einzelner Eingeweide, in Terrakotta
nachgebildet, verraten nicht nur Kenntnis der Anatomie in Babylon,
sondern auch den Zusammenhang mit der altetrurischen Plastik. Die
Existenz von Tierärzten mit geregelten Standesverhältnissen, wie sie
die Codices Hammurabi melden, lassen auf den hohen Stand der Tierzucht
schließen. Eine stattliche Anzahl von Tiernamen verzeichnet die
Keilschrifttafel von Onima. Bedenkt man, daß für andere Zweige der
Wissenschaft Babylon den Ägyptern, den Hebräern und den griechischen
Küstenbewohnern maßgebend war, so wird auch ein gewisser Bestand
zoologischer Erfahrung mit überliefert worden sein.
Aus der weit jüngeren Kultur +Assyriens+ kennen wir eine
„Jagdinschrift“, die wahrscheinlich auf Asurnasirabal Bezug hat
(884-860 v. Chr.), und die davon zu berichten weiß, daß der König
allerlei Tiere in seiner Stadt Asur zusammenbrachte: „Kamele sammelte
er, ließ sie gebären. Ihre Herden zeigte er den Leuten seines Landes.
Einen großen Pagutu hatte der König aus Ägypten dahin gesandt. Von den
übrigen vielen Tieren und den geflügelten Vögeln des Himmels, der Jagd
des Feldes, den Werken seiner Hand ließ er den Namen sowie alle übrigen
zur Zeit seiner Väter nicht aufgeschriebenen Tiernamen aufschreiben,
ebenso ihre Zahl.“ Ferner ist nachgewiesen, daß zu Sardanapals Zeiten
(ca. 670 v. Chr.) in Assur eine Menagerie bestand mit gesonderten
Zellen für Kamele, Pferde, Esel, Ziegen, Maultiere, Rinder, Schafe,
Hirsche, Gazellen, Hasen, Vögel. Noch zu den Zeiten griechischer
Überlieferung stand Uruk als Ärzteschule in hohem Ansehen, welches
schon 1980 v. Chr. Universitäts- und Bibliotheksstadt war.
Reichlicher fließen die Quellen für die Fühlung +Ägyptens+ mit
der organischen Natur. In alter Zeit herrschten die Sitten der
Leichenzerstückelung und der Skelettpräparation, die erst durch das
Eindringen der Einbalsamierung aus Nubien verdrängt wurden. Damit war
die Möglichkeit für Anatomie von Menschen und Tieren abgeschnitten.
Neben der Aufzählung der menschlichen Körperteile vom Kopf zum Fuß geht
eine solche nach ritueller Ordnung her. Das Herz ist Sitz der Vernunft.
Der Papyrus Ebers (ca. 1550 v. Chr.) bringt die ersten Berichte über
die Entwicklung des Skarabäus aus dem Ei, der Schmeißfliege aus der
Larve, des Frosches aus der Kaulquappe. Tierhaltung, Tierzucht und
Tierverehrung blühten hier auf. Besonders interessiert das Heer von
Parasiten und veranlaßte zu näherer Erforschung der niederen Tierwelt.
Man kann auch Spuren einer zoologischen Klassifikation darin erblicken,
daß gewisse Tierzeichen zugleich als Gesamtbezeichnungen galten. So
erhielt man vier größere Abteilungen, die zugleich den vier Elementen
entsprachen, und zwar:
1. abgezogenes Tierfell = Quadruped Erde
2. Gans = Vogel Luft
3. Fisch = Wassertier Wasser
4. Wurm = alle niederen Tiere Feuer
Es existieren zahlreiche Tierzeichen, die eine nähere Präzisierung
von etwa 30 höheren Tieren verraten, ferner werden gegen 20 Parasiten
namhaft gemacht. Eine tiefere wissenschaftliche Verarbeitung dieses
schon recht stattlichen Wissens fand jedoch nicht statt.
Die +jüdische+ Zoologie ist im Alten Testament und für die spätere
Zeit in den nicht genau zeitlich zu bestimmenden Schriften des Talmud
niedergelegt.
Das erste Buch Mose enthält die Schöpfungsgeschichte in einer Form,
die an die babylonische anschließt und die ins 6. Jahrhundert v. Chr.
datiert wird. Stärker als in anderen antiken Schriftwerken wird die
Eigenart einer jeden Tierform betont. Der Schöpfungsakt ist ein
Willensakt Gottes, der im übrigen die geschaffene Lebewelt sich
selbst überläßt, aber den Menschen nach seinem Ebenbilde schafft,
zum Herrn über die gesamte Schöpfung, und zwar Mann und Weib. „Wie
der Mensch allerlei lebendige Tiere nennen würde, so sollten sie
heißen.“ Als Tiere werden die Vögel des Himmels, die Wale und allerlei
Wassertiere, die Tiere der Erde, Vieh, Gewürm aufgezählt. Bei Anlaß
der Sintflut wird eine Neuschöpfung erspart, indem die Land- und
Lufttiere, in Noahs Arche gesammelt, die Katastrophe überdauern.
Unterscheidungen in reine und unreine Tiere, Opfervorschriften,
Tierplagen, Vorschriften der Tierzucht verraten keine eigenartige, den
vorderasiatischen Völkern sonst etwa fremde Verhältnisse praktischer
oder theoretischer Art zwischen Mensch und tierischer Lebewelt. Zu
ausführlicherer Aufzählung von Tierarten geben die Speisegebote (III.
Mose 11) Veranlassung, gleichzeitig auch zu allgemeinere Gruppen
zusammenfassenden Unterscheidungen (Spaltung der Hufe, Wiederkäuer,
Flossen und Schuppen besitzende Wasserbewohner). Die Vogelwelt wird in
einzelnen Charakterformen aufgezählt, wobei die Fledermaus einbezogen
ist und die eßbaren Insekten (Heuschrecken) angeschlossen werden. Vor
ihnen werden die Haustiere, hinter ihnen die wilden kleinen Säugetiere,
mit Einschluß der Amphibien und Reptilien, erwähnt. In einer zweiten
Aufzählung wird die Reihenfolge: zahme und wilde Säuger, Wassertiere,
Vögel innegehalten. Zu irgendwelcher wissenschaftlicher Betrachtung
der Tierwelt kam es nicht, auch schlossen die Anschauungen über die
Berührung unreiner Tiere und Unreinheit des Toten jede anatomische
Beobachtung aus.
Die Zoologie des Talmud zeigt weder ein einheitliches Bild, noch ein
wissenschaftlicheres Gepräge als die übrige vorderasiatische Zoologie;
darin finden sich Gemengteile griechischen Wissens mit den bekannten
des Alten Testaments verschmolzen.
Die gesamte jüdische Zoologie ist für die Entwicklung der
wissenschaftlichen Zoologie von großer historischer Bedeutung geworden,
nicht weil von ihr fruchtbare Neuerungen ausgegangen wären, sondern
weil sie als Grundlage christlich-dogmatischer Anschauungen zu jenen
Widerständen gehörte, die erst von der Neuzeit überwunden wurden.
III. Antike Zoologie.
1. Vor Aristoteles.
Wie für jede andere philosophische Disziplin, sind auch für unsere die
Grundlagen in Griechenland gelegt worden. Immer deutlicher hebt sich
beim Studium der antiken Literatur ab, wie die ersten Gedankenreihen
der Zoologie sich dort bildeten. Es ist weniger die Kenntnis neuer
Tiere, als die Vertiefung in ihren Bau und die logische Gestaltung des
Beobachteten, durch die auf hellenischem Boden die wissenschaftliche
Betrachtung der organischen Natur entstand und sich entwickelte. Die
Tierpflege, Tierhaltung, Jagd, Fischerei erlitt keinerlei Einbuße,
wenn sie sich in Griechenland auch in bescheidenerem Maßstab bewegte,
als vorher in den vorderasiatischen Despotenhöfen und nachher in Rom.
Die großen Unterschiede der griechischen Zoologie im Vergleich zur
vorausgehenden vorderasiatischen und zur nachfolgenden bis zur Neuzeit
liegen in folgenden Richtungen: Einmal wurde eine planmäßige Vermehrung
der Tierkenntnis, insbesondere nach der marinen Fauna hin, angestrebt,
sodann trat neben die Lehre von der äußeren Gestalt die vom Bau und von
den Verrichtungen der Organe. Tier und Tierwelt wurden dem Weltganzen
eingegliedert und nach Normen beurteilt, wie sie auch für dieses sich
als fruchtbar erwiesen hatten. Wurde dadurch ein oft fast zu enges
Band um die organische und anorganische Natur zugleich geschlungen,
so kam anderseits aber auch die Eigentümlichkeit der organischen
Natur zur Würdigung ihrer Eigenart. Quellen für die antike Zoologie
sind reichlich vorhanden. Wenn auch nicht an zoologischem Inhalt, so
doch an Umfang und Alter steht an erster Stelle die hippokratische
Schriftensammlung (5-4. Jahrhundert v. Chr.), ferner Galens Werke (2.
Jahrhundert v. Chr.), alles überragend aber die Aristotelischen Werke
(4. Jahrhundert v. Chr.). In zweiter Linie sind zu nennen Herodot,
die vorsokratischen Philosophen, die alexandrinischen Kompilatoren
und der Römer Plinius d. J. Aber es gibt beinahe überhaupt keinen
antiken Schriftsteller, dem nicht interessante Einzelangaben zu
entnehmen wären, die uns verständlich werden lassen, daß mit der Höhe
griechischer Lebenshaltung auch die Wissenschaft vom Leben stets neue
Nahrung erhielt.
Flüchtiger Vögel leichten Schwarm
Und wildschweifende Tier im Wald,
Auch die wimmelnde Brut des Meers
Fängt er, listig umstellend, ein
Mit netzgeflochtenen Garnen,
Der vielbegabte Mensch.
Sophokl. Antigone V. 342.
Auch von einem modernen Standpunkte aus betrachtet, erscheinen die
Beobachtungen und Verallgemeinerungen der ältesten griechischen
Philosophen, der sog. +Vorsokratiker+, höchst beachtenswert.
+Anaximander+ hat schon die Annahme vertreten, die Tiere seien aus
dem Meerschlamm hervorgegangen und hätten beim Übergang zum Leben auf
dem Lande ihren Hautpanzer abgelegt. Nach +Pythagoras+ sollte alles
tierische Leben aus Samen, nicht aus faulenden Stoffen entstehen.
+Philolaos+ sucht, entgegen der herrschenden Ansicht, die den Sitz
der Seele ins Zwerchfell zu verlegen pflegte, diesen im Hirn.
Ebenso +Alkmäon von Kroton+, der den Zusammenhang zwischen Hirn und
Sinnesorganen, sowie wahrscheinlich auch die Ohrtrompete kannte,
ferner durch Tierexperiment feststellte, daß das Rückenmark nach dem
Koitus unverletzt gefunden wird. +Anaxagoras+ spricht von der Atmung
der Fische und Schaltiere durch die Kiemen und der Zweckmäßigkeit und
Teilbarkeit der Organe. Mit Embryologie finden wir fast jeden der
älteren Naturphilosophen beschäftigt, insbesondere Alkmäon, +Hippon
von Rhegium+ und +Empedokles+. Auf das Lehrgedicht des letzteren gehen
viele der später gültigen Anschauungen zunächst zurück, wenn sie auch
vielfach noch älteren Ursprungs sein mögen; so die Lehre von den vier
Elementen: Feuer, Wasser, Luft, Erde als den Grundstoffen der gesamten
Natur. Nach ihm ist die Verschiedenheit der Organismen so zustande
gekommen, daß die einzelnen Teilstücke sich in Liebe oder Haß vereinigt
hätten. Dadurch sucht er auch die Mißbildungen auf natürliche Weise
zu erklären. Ihm ist das Labyrinth im Ohr bekannt; er erörtert die
chemische Zusammensetzung der Knochen. „Eins ist Haar und Laub und
dichtes Gefieder der Vögel.“ Eine Auswahl früherer Anschauungen gibt
auch +Diogenes von Apollonia+, so eine Schilderung des Gefäßsystems.
Eine Andeutung des biogenetischen Grundgesetzes mag man auch in dem von
ihm ausgesprochenen Satze sehen, daß kein dem Wechsel unterworfenes
Wesen von einem anderen verschieden sein kann, ohne ihm vorher ähnlich
gewesen zu sein. Als eigentlich kritisch forschender Geist gilt
+Demokrit von Abdera+ (geb. ca. 470 v. Chr.), dem schon im Altertum die
Trennung der Tierwelt in Bluttiere (Wirbeltiere in unserem Sinne) und
Blutlose (Wirbellose) zuerkannt wurde. Schriften über die Ursachen der
Natur im allgemeinen und der Tiere im besonderen, sowie eine Anatomie
des Chamäleons wurden ihm zugeschrieben. Auf ihn geht die Betrachtung
von Lebenserscheinungen nach mechanischen Prinzipien am allermeisten
zurück. Damit wird er der Vater ähnlicher Bestrebungen im späteren
Altertum sowohl wie im Beginn der Neuzeit, deren Schriftsteller, wie
z. B. Severino, sich geradezu auf ihn berufen.
Neben all diesen mehr auf einheitliche Erfassung der organischen Natur
und auf den Nachweis ihrer Übereinstimmung mit der anorganischen
gerichteten Bestrebungen wandte sich aber auch der offene Blick der
Griechen dem Reichtum der Tierwelt zu, namentlich auch derjenigen
Asiens und Ägyptens. Schon im 5. Jahrhundert weiß +Herodot+ von einer
großen Anzahl von Tieren, ihrem Vorkommen und ihrer Lebensgeschichte
zu erzählen, ferner +Ktesias+; endlich die attischen Komödiendichter,
besonders +Epicharm+ und +Aristophanes+. Aber mit dem Sinn und der
Freude an der belebten Natur war es nicht getan. Während in den älteren
hippokratischen Schriften die Tiere in ähnlicher Weise, wie etwa bei
Mose, nach dem Medium ihres Vorkommens aufgezählt werden, existiert
in der Schrift „Über die Diät“ eine Aufzählung von 52 Tieren, die man
füglich als eine systematische Reihenfolge, das +koische Tiersystem+
(ca. 410 v. Chr.), bezeichnen kann. Es scheint einem verschollenen
Autor entlehnt zu sein und behandelt die Tiere in absteigender
Reihenfolge, und zwar: Säugetiere, zahme, wilde, unter letzteren nach
der Größe geordnet, Vögel des Landes und Wassers, Fische: Küstenfische,
Wanderfische, Selachier, Schlammbewohner, Fluß- und Teichfische
(Weichtiere), Muscheltiere, Krebse. Von größeren Gruppen fehlen nur
Reptilien und Insekten, da sie nicht genossen wurden. Die Bedeutung
dieses Systems besteht vor allem in der Abtrennung der Fische von den
übrigen Wirbeltieren und der Wirbellosen von ihnen, wodurch diese
Klassifikation einige nicht selbstverständliche und bedeutungsvolle
Züge des Aristotelischen Systems vorwegnimmt. Die Gruppenbildungen
dieses Systems wirken aber besonders da nach, wo mehr im Anschluß an
die medizinische Literatur Kategorien von Tieren aufgezählt werden, bei
Galen und den Ichthyographen des 16. Jahrhunderts.
Weit wichtiger als um die Zoologie sind die Verdienste der
+hippokratischen Ärzte+ um Anatomie und Physiologie, wobei begreiflich
der Mensch und die Haustiere im Vordergrund des Interesses stehen.
Auch auf diesen Gebieten sind Ansätze zu systematischer Ordnung des
Stoffes unverkennbar, Einteilung des Körpers nach der Siebenzahl, von
der Peripherie nach dem Zentrum, vom Scheitel zur Zehe. Bedeutungsvoll
ist für die spätere Medizin die Lehre von den vier Säften geworden.
Aber auch Vergleiche zwischen körperlichen Einrichtungen und Produkten
der Technik, zwischen anatomischen Zuständen verschiedener Art bei
verwandten Tieren, Experimente an lebenden Tieren, planmäßige Bebrütung
von Hühnereiern zum Studium der Entwicklung, Parallelen zwischen
der Entwicklung von Pflanze, menschlichen und tierischen Embryonen,
Zeugungstheorien, worunter namentlich die später als Pangenesis
bezeichnete, Anklänge an die Lehre vom Überleben der kräftigsten
Organismen, die Annahme der Vererbung erworbener Eigenschaften -- all
das deutet nicht nur auf umfangreiches Wissen, sondern auf einen hohen
Zustand von dessen Verwertung im Dienste der Biologie hin. Wenn man
bedenkt, wie lange die Zoologie durchaus an die Medizin gekettet und
wie mächtig und grundlegend der Einfluß der hippokratischen Literatur
nicht nur auf die nächstliegende antike, sondern auch auf die spätere
moderne war, so wird man die Bedeutung dieser Errungenschaften schon
auf so früher Stufe der Entwicklung unserer Wissenschaft nicht
verkennen.
Diese aussichtsvolle Entwicklung der Vorstufen einer wissenschaftlichen
Zoologie wurde dadurch jählings unterbrochen, daß die Naturphilosophie
hinter der Ethik zurückzutreten begann, ein Vorgang, der mit der
Sophistik seinen Anfang nahm und in +Plato+ seinen literarischen
Abschluß fand. Plato gibt uns im Timäus eine Schilderung der
Weltbildung mit Einschluß der organischen Natur und des Menschen,
aus der alle Mystik und Teleologie späterer Jahrhunderte ihre
Nahrung sog. Der Timäus bedeutet aber im Vergleich zur vorangehenden
ihres kritischen Geistes bewußt werdenden Naturauffassung einen
gewaltigen Rückschritt von der Forschung in die Poesie. So wenig sein
Erkenntniswert in Betracht kommt, so ist er doch dadurch und infolge
der späteren Gegensätzlichkeit zwischen der Aristotelischen und
Platonischen Philosophie von großer geschichtlicher Bedeutung geworden.
Die organische Natur erscheint im Timäus als Degeneration des Mannes,
den der Weltenschöpfer aufs vollkommenste geschaffen hat, wobei Plato
die Pythagoreische Zahlenmystik mit der Geometrie des Organismus in
Verbindung setzt und die teleologische Erklärung der einzelnen Organe
im Dienste der Seele durchführt. Anderseits scheint das Verdienst,
Naturerscheinungen nach Gattung (~genus~) und Art (~species~) zu
gliedern und damit auf dem Wege der Induktion Allgemeinbegriffe zu
schaffen, ebenfalls auf Plato zurückzugehen. Die genannten Begriffe
stehen zwar bei ihm in komplizierterem gegenseitigen Verhältnis,
als in unserer Logik; doch bleibt wohl der Aufbau von Systemen mit
ihrer Hilfe Gemeingut der Platonischen Schule, die zum Teil infolge
mangelnder Erweiterung ihrer positiven Kenntnisse in der künstlichen
Ausbildung dichotomischer Gliederungen (nach Art unserer botanischen
und zoologischen Bestimmungstabellen) verfiel, zum Teil aber auch die
Stärke der Aristotelischen Systematik wurde.
2. Aristoteles.
+Aristoteles+, geb. 384 v. Chr. zu Stagiros in Mazedonien als
Sohn des Nikomachos, des Leibarztes von König Amyntas, und einer
thrakischen Mutter Phästis, wandte sich nach dem Tode des Vaters,
achtzehnjährig, Athen zu, wo er in den Kreis der Schule des damals
in Sizilien befindlichen Plato eintrat. Nach 20 Jahren des Lernens
und Lehrens begab er sich zu seinem Freunde Hermias, dem Herrscher
von Atarneus, heiratete dessen Tochter Pythias, hielt sich in
Mytilene und Lesbos auf und wurde 343 durch Philipp von Mazedonien
zur Erziehung des damals dreizehnjährigen Alexanders (des Großen)
an den mazedonischen Hof berufen. Vier Jahre später wurde Alexander
Reichsverweser. Aristoteles blieb in Mazedonien, baute seine
Vaterstadt wieder auf und gab ihr eine Verfassung. 335 kehrte er nach
Athen zurück, bezog das Lykeion, in dessen Laubgängen (Peripatoi)
er seine philosophische Schule einrichtete, morgens einem engeren,
nachmittags einem weiteren Kreise zugänglich. In die folgenden zwölf
Jahre fällt das Schwergewicht seiner literarischen und akademischen
Tätigkeit. Nach Alexanders Tode entfloh er einem Prozeß wegen
Gotteslästerung nach Chalkis auf Euböa und starb daselbst 322,
nachdem er zuvor +Theophrast+ zu seinem Erben und wissenschaftlichen
Nachfolger eingesetzt hatte.
Die +zoologischen Schriften+ des Aristoteles bilden nur einen Teil
seiner biologischen und einer viel umfangreicheren Gesamtheit
seiner naturwissenschaftlichen Schriften. Diese selbst ordnen sich
nach Form und Inhalt wieder seinen etwa viermal umfangreicheren
Werken ein. Zoologie, allgemeine Biologie, Entwicklungsgeschichte,
Mißbildungslehre, Physiologie treten bei ihm zuerst in Gestalt
systematisch entwickelter und nach dem damaligen Stande des Wissens
ausgebauter Wissenschaften auf. Die anatomischen und botanischen
Werke sind verloren gegangen. Der Umfang des Wissens, das uns in
den zoologischen Schriften entgegentritt, ist vielfach wohl schon
voraristotelisch, die literarische Abrundung der verschiedenen Teile
eine sehr ungleichwertige, indem sie zwischen Notizsammlungen,
Vorlesungen und wissenschaftlichen Monographien schwanken. Eine
letzte einheitliche Redaktion fehlt; anderseits sind ganze Bücher
als gefälscht erwiesen. Immerhin steht fest, daß die zoologischen
Schriften des Aristoteles +bis ins 16. Jahrhundert+ (Aldrovandi
resp. Gesner) +an Reichtum des Beobachtungsmaterials, bis auf
Linné+ in bezug auf +systematische Durcharbeitung+ unübertroffen
waren und +bis auf die Gegenwart+ es noch sind in Hinsicht auf
+philosophische Begründung der wissenschaftlichen Prinzipien für die
Biologie+. Als Hauptschrift hat bis zu Anfang des 19. Jahrhunderts
die Tiergeschichte gegolten. Erst seither ist auch unter Führung
Hegels und seiner Schule sowie der Berliner Akademie in Deutschland
und durch Barthélemy St. Hilaire in Frankreich zum Verständnis der
übrigen Schriften ein Grund gelegt worden. Der zoologischen Literatur
der Gegenwart ist jedoch der Einfluß der Aristotelischen Zoologie und
Philosophie auf die Entwicklung der biologischen Wissenschaften noch
nicht hinreichend bekannt.
Die +Hauptschriften für die Zoologie+ sind:
1. +Tiergeschichte+ (8 Bücher), eine erstmalige Sammlung
zoologischen Materials, vorwiegend im Sinne beschreibender Zoologie
gehalten.
2. +Teile der Tiere+ (4 Bücher, wovon vielleicht das erste als
eine prinzipielle Einleitung für die Gesamtheit der biologischen
Schriften zu betrachten ist), eine systematische vergleichende
Anatomie und Physiologie. Materiell würden sich hier anschließen:
Über die +Ortsbewegung der Tiere+, Über +Sinneswahrnehmung+
und eine Reihe kleinerer Schriften über +Gesamtfunktionen+ des
Organismus.
3. +Zeugungs- und Entwicklungsgeschichte+ (5 Bücher), eine
Embryologie mit Einschluß der Mißbildungslehre, von stark
theoretischem Anstrich.
4. +Über die Seele+ (3 Bücher), eine theoretische Biologie mit
Einschluß der Psychologie.
Die Anordnung der ersten drei Hauptschriften entspricht dem
Grundsatz, es sei notwendig, damit anzufangen, die +Erscheinungen+
jeder Gattung, dann die Ursachen und zuletzt die +Entstehung+ zu
besprechen.
+In gleicher Vollkommenheit ist nie mehr die Absicht durchgeführt
worden, die Biologie als Teil der Allgemeinwissenschaft einzugliedern,
sie aber auch andererseits als Ganzes aus den Erscheinungen
systematisch durch eigene Beobachtung, Aufnahme fremder mündlich und
literarisch überlieferter Angaben aufzubauen, der Mannigfaltigkeit der
Natur ebenso gerecht zu werden, wie ihrer Einheit und dadurch zwischen
Realismus und Idealismus eine Mitte einzuhalten, wie sie bei gleicher
Stoffülle nie mehr wiedergewonnen worden ist.+ Mangelhaftigkeit
der Beobachtung, Leichtgläubigkeit, Fehlen geeigneter Hilfsmittel,
Unsicherheit der Bestimmung der dargestellten Gegenstände, stellenweise
allzu große Breite in der Behandlung des Stoffes, Übertragung der
Verallgemeinerungen aus der anorganischen Naturforschung in die
organische, Unterbleiben der letzten redaktionellen Überarbeitung
des Gesamtwerks, Verlust erheblicher Stücke -- all diese Schäden der
Aristotelischen Werke sind nicht zu leugnen und fordern zu großer
Vorsicht in ihrer Beurteilung auf. Daher können sie einem modernen
Empiriker nicht ohne weiteres verständlich sein. Ihrem Eigenwerte und
ihrer historischen Bedeutung aber geschieht dadurch kein Eintrag und
die Urteile von Buffon und Cuvier, daß die Aristotelische Zoologie in
ihrer Art das vollkommenste sei, werden auch für die Zukunft zu Recht
bestehen.
Der +Tierbestand+, über den die Aristotelischen Schriften sich
erstrecken, beläuft sich auf etwa 520 unterschiedene Formen, welche
Gattungen in unserem Sinne entsprechen. Abgesehen von zwei, mit
Vorbehalt erwähnten Fabelwesen, ist es der Grundstock der Fauna des
Ägäischen Meeres und seiner Umgebung, vermehrt durch einzelne Vertreter
der ägyptischen Fauna. Neben der reichlichen Küstenfauna werden
auch zahlreiche pelagische und der Tiefsee angehörende Vorkommnisse
aufgeführt. Mit besonderer Ausführlichkeit gelangen der Mensch, die
Haustiere, die Fische, die Zephalopoden, die niederen Wirbellosen zur
Behandlung. Die Schilderung dieser Tierwelt erstreckt sich auf alle
Lebensäußerungen möglichst ebenmäßig, bald mehr auf die Lebensweise,
die Charaktereigenschaften, bald mehr auf die Form, den Habitus sowohl
wie die Teile: Proportionen, Organe, Gewebe. Unterstützt wurden die
Ausführungen seiner Werke gelegentlich durch Illustrationen. Auf diesem
zoographischen und zootomischen Wege wird analytisch ein Tatbestand von
gewaltigem Umfange aus der organischen Natur gewonnen, den es nun zu
ordnen und nach außen zu verknüpfen gilt. Bei diesen beiden Aufgaben
verhält sich Aristoteles verschieden. Während er bei der Einreihung der
Lebewelt in das Gesamtbild seiner Wissenschaft wohl weniger originell
erscheint, als Plato, und wenige Gesichtspunkte einzunehmen weiß,
die nicht nur wie eine geschickte Auswahl aus denen seiner Vorgänger
erscheinen, behauptet er seine Selbständigkeit am allermeisten, solange
er auf dem Gebiet der Biologie selbst bleibt.
Die wichtigsten seiner +metaphysischen Prinzipie+n sind, soweit sie
für die Zoologie in Betracht kommen, etwa folgende: Die Natur ist der
Inbegriff von Ursache und Zweck. Sie tut alles wegen des Notwendigsten
und Schönsten, schafft aus dem vorhandenen Stoff das Schönere und
Bessere und flieht das Unendliche und Planlose. Sie richtet die Organe
zu für das gesamte Werk, dabei geht sie ökonomisch vor, schafft
gleichwie Gott nichts vergeblich oder doppelt und verwendet dasselbe
Werkzeug zu mehreren Verrichtungen. Überall sucht sie das Mannigfaltige
zur Einheit zu führen und schreitet stetig fort, obschon sie dabei
den Dingen Perioden setzt, deren Modifikationen jedoch von der
Beschaffenheit des Stoffes abhängig sind. Wie weit dieser Naturbegriff
sich mit seinem Gottesbegriff des stofflosen Geistes deckt, ist schwer
abzugrenzen. Immerhin war ihm die göttliche Ursächlichkeit der letzte
unbedingte Grund der Weltordnung. Aber die Naturkausalität ist auch
nach unten begrenzt. Die Schranken des Stoffes vereiteln teilweise ihre
Entwürfe und zwingen sie in den Bann des Zufalls und Mißlingens.
Aristoteles unterscheidet viererlei Ursachen: 1. die Materie, 2. die
Form, 3. die bewegende Ursache und 4. die Endursache, den Zweck.
Wie er sich das Verhältnis dieser Ursachen zueinander dachte, kann
hier nicht eingehend erörtert werden. Es ist nur hervorzuheben, daß
seine Vorstellung vom Zweck, im Gegensatz zu der späterer Autoren,
den Zweck eines Objektes zunächst in dessen eigener vollentwickelter
Form selbst sah (immanenter Zweck), nicht in irgend einer Nützlichkeit
außerhalb des Objektes. Der vollendete Zustand ist die oberste
Ursache, auf die alle Entwicklung orientiert ist. Die drei letzten
der genannten Ursachen machen die Seele aus, die sich der obersten
materiellen Qualitäten der Wärme und der Kälte bedient, um ihren Plan
zu realisieren.
Zum ersten Male bei Aristoteles tritt als Forschungsprinzip die
+möglichst umfangreiche Beobachtung+ auf. „Hat man nicht ausreichende
Beobachtungen, aber sollten diese gemacht werden, so muß man der
Beobachtung mehr Glauben schenken als der Theorie und dieser nur, wenn
sie zum gleichen Resultat führt, wie die Erscheinungen.“ Erst aus den
Tatsachen leitet Aristoteles durch +Induktion+ (Epagoge) allgemeine
Sätze ab, die zu Gattungsbegriffen führen. Daher finden sich bei ihm
z. B. viele Sätze über Korrelation der Organe und der Funktionen und
bei der Heerschau der Lebewelt mehr oder weniger scharf umschriebene,
aber allgemein verwendete Gruppenbildungen, die sich gegenseitig über-
und unterordnen. Dadurch wird Aristoteles zum Schöpfer der biologischen
Systematik. Hat er auch der Klassifikation der Tiere nicht einen
formalen Abschluß zu geben verstanden, wie es später mit Ray beginnend
bis zu Cuvier versucht wurde, so entschädigt er anderseits durch die
+Breite seiner Systematik, die sich auch auf die Teile der Tiere,
ihre Funktionen und die Entwicklungsstufen des individuellen Lebens
erstreckt+. Am deutlichsten hebt sich sein Verdienst um die Methodik
der Biologie ab, wo wir ihn im Kampfe mit Platos Nachfolgern sehen.
Ihnen gegenüber stützt er sich auf das +Prinzip der Anatomie+, die die
Induktion aus den äußeren Erscheinungen nimmt. Hat er auch menschliche
Leichen nie seziert, so teilt er so reichliche und vielfach richtige
Beobachtungen über die Anatomie der Tiere mit, daß nur ausgedehnte
Anwendung anatomischer Technik in den Besitz derselben kann gesetzt
haben. Auch +Vivisektion und Experiment+ wandte er, wenn auch wohl
in bescheidenerem Maße als seine hippokratischen Vorgänger, an.
Neben der Induktion geht die +Deduktion+ her, namentlich da, wo die
Beobachtung versagte. So zieht Aristoteles im Anschluß an Empedokles
die vermeintlichen Elementarqualitäten warm, kalt, trocken, feucht und
deren Mischung zur Erklärung der schwierigsten organischen Prozesse
bei. Er überträgt mit Plato die Geometrie und die Lehre vom Primat
der Teile in seine Biologie. Die bewußte Durchführung der von ihm als
richtig erkannten Prinzipien gelangt also bei ihm selbst noch nicht zum
vollen Ausdruck, insbesondere, da auch das in seinen Schriften gehäufte
Material ungleichmäßig verarbeitet ist. Ohne die letzte Bearbeitung
erfahren zu haben, werden ältere Teile einer durch Tradition auf ihn
übergehenden Wissenschaft von jüngeren überschichtet.
Einzelne bei Aristoteles verzeichnete Tatsachen, die zunächst imstande
waren, späteren Zoologen Bewunderung für ihn einzuflößen, können wir
hier nicht aufzählen, um so weniger, da sie vielfach von Irrtümern
aufgewogen werden, über deren kritiklose Wiedergabe man erstaunt sein
konnte. Man hat während der Herrschaft der Linnéschen Klassifikation in
der Unschärfe des Artbegriffes von Aristoteles einen Mangel gesehen;
die Gegenwart urteilt anders und begreift, daß eine so scharfe
Formulierung dieses Begriffes, wie wir sie allein noch zu praktischen
Zwecken brauchen, der Aristotelischen Biologie kaum zugute gekommen
wäre.
Eine der größten Schwierigkeiten für die Beurteilung der
Aristotelischen Biologie ist der +Mangel an einer der unsern
entsprechenden Terminologie+. Spezielle Bezeichnungen für die von uns
heute leicht unterscheidbaren Naturerscheinungen fehlen. Anderseits
werden Vulgärbezeichnungen in einer für uns schwer zu umschreibenden
Weise gebraucht, z. B. die Bezeichnungen Wärme, Kochung, die es fast
unmöglich machen, unseren Vorstellungskreis mit dem Aristotelischen
zu vergleichen. Sodann werden Ausdrücke wie Gattung und Art wohl
zur Zusammenfassung von Individuen, nicht aber im heutigen Sinne
gebraucht, wenngleich die Bezeichnung Gattung vorwiegend im Sinne der
oberen Gruppen des Systems verwendet wird. Nicht geringer sind die
Schwierigkeiten da, wo einzelne Lebewesen bezeichnet werden sollen und
wo später die Vervollkommnung der Zoologie durch Linné daher auch am
meisten empfunden wurde.
Das +Resultat der Aristotelischen Zoologie+ ist in den Hauptzügen
etwa folgendes: In der Natur findet ein allmählicher Übergang vom
Unbeseelten zum Beseelten statt. Zunächst folgen die Pflanzen, die
beseelter sind als die anorganische Natur, aber weniger beseelt als
die Tiere, zu denen sie durch niedere Meertiere allmählich übergehen.
Den Pflanzen ist die Ernährung eigen, zugleich auch die Zeugung,
die nur eine spezielle Art von Ernährung ist, ferner Regeneration
und Teilbarkeit durch Stecklinge und Wurzelbrut. Der Schlaf ist ihr
üblicher Zustand, aktive Ortsbewegung fehlt ihnen. Eine Art von
Wärme haben sie auch, wie alles, was eine Seele hat. Sie sind, wie
alle niederen Lebensformen, an Feuchtigkeit gebunden. Da sie nur
wenige Funktionen ausüben, besitzen sie auch nur wenige Organe. Ihre
Gewebe sind Holz, Rinde, Blatt, Wurzel. Das Oben der Pflanzen ist
die Wurzel, da von dort die Ernährung ausgeht. Dadurch stehen sie
im Gegensatz zu den Tieren, bei denen vielfach die Verrichtungen
keine andern sind, als bei den Pflanzen. Die Tiere besitzen aber
außer der „ernährenden Seele“ der Pflanzen auch eine „empfindende
Seele“. Diese bedarf einer größeren Wärme, welche durch Kochung
erzeugt wird und die Nahrungsmittel im Körper verwandelt, teils in
dessen Bestandteile, teils in Ausscheidungen. Außerdem kommt den
Tieren, wenigstens den höheren, Ortsbewegung zu, gewissermaßen als
aktive Leistung, die der passiven, der Empfindung, parallel geht
und die das spezifisch Animalische ist. Daher rührt die Bezeichnung
der neueren Physiologie: animalische und vegetative Funktionen.
Beide Grundfunktionen entsprechen übrigens den späteren Begriffen
des Kraftwechsels (physikalische) und des Stoffwechsels (chemische
Physiologie). Für die höheren Tiere und den Menschen kommt hinzu die
„intelligente Seele“, der Mensch allein besitzt Vernunft. Dadurch kommt
eine psychologisch abgestufte Reihenfolge der Naturkörper zustande,
der Aristoteles in der Behandlung dieses oder jenes Problems folgt und
die nun mehr oder weniger im einzelnen ausgeführt wird. Angesichts der
Resultate der neueren Phylogenie wird man auch daraus keinen Vorwurf
gegen ihn ableiten, daß diese Reihenfolge nicht immer dieselbe ist und
z. B. innerhalb der Wirbellosen die großen Abteilungen verschieden
aufgezählt werden. Dagegen muß scharf betont werden, daß für ihn die
Art als ewig galt und deren Umwandlung stets nur ideal gedacht wird,
nicht real. Doch entging ihm nicht, daß die höheren Lebewesen in ihrer
Embryonalentwicklung Entwicklungsstufen, die niederen Tierformen
entsprechen, durchlaufen. Die großen Umrisse des Aristotelischen
Tiersystems lassen sich übersichtlich folgendermaßen zusammenfassen:
(Unsere Bezeichnungen)
~A.~ =Bluttiere= =Wirbeltiere=
~a~) +Lebendiggebärende Vierfüßer+ +Säugetiere+
1. Mensch
2. Affen
3. Vielspaltfüßige Raubtiere, Nager,
Insektenfresser
4. Zweihufer
5. Hauerzähnige Schweine
6. Einhufer
7. Wassersäugetiere Wale, Robben
8. Flatterhäutige Fledermäuse
Nicht in Gruppen zu bringen sind: Elefant, Hippopotamus, Kamel, sowie
einige unbestimmbare und fabelhafte Wesen.
~b~) +Vögel+ +Vögel+
1. Krummklauige Raubvögel
nächtliche Nachtraubvögel
2. Würmerfresser
3. Distelfresser
4. Holzkäferfresser Spechte usw.
5. Tauben Tauben
6. Spaltfüßige Sumpfvögel usw.
7. Ruderfüßige Schwimmvögel
8. Erdvögel Hühner usw.
~c~) +Eierlegende Vierfüßer+ +Reptilien+
1. Beschuppte Vierfüßer Saurier, Schildkröten
2. Beschuppte Schlangen Schlangen
3. Unbeschuppte Vierfüßer Lurche
~d~) +Fische+ +Fische+
1. Selachier, Knorpelfische
~a~) spindelförmige Haie
~b~) flache Rochen
2. +Grätenfische+ Knochenfische
~B.~ =Blutlose= =Wirbellose=
~a~) +Weichtiere+ Zephalopoden
1. kurzbeinige mit 2 langen Armen Dekapoden
2. langbeinige Oktopoden
~b~) +Weichschaltiere+ Krustazeen
1. scherentragende Astaci
2. scherenlose Langusten
3. scherenlose, mehr als zehnfüßige Caridina
4. kurzschwänzige Brachyuren
5. Karzinien Einsiedlerkrebse
~c~) +Insekten+
1. Koleopteren Käfer
2. Vierflügelige Hinterstachler Hymenopteren
3. Zweiflügelige Vorderstachler Dipteren
4. Epizoen und Modertiere
5. Lange Vierfüßler Myriapoden
6. Spinnenartige Arachniden z. T.
7. Helminthen Würmer
~d~) +Schaltiere+ Mollusken u. niedere
Tiere
1. Konchylien
~a~) einschalige Einschaler
~b~) zweischalige Zweischaler
~c~) gewundene Schnecken
2. Seeigel Echiniden
3. Seesterne Asteriden u.
Ophiuriden
4. Schallose, frei lebende Holothurien, Velellen
5. Schallose, angewachsene Schwämme, Aktinien
Physiologische und anatomisch begründete Zusammengehörigkeit der Tiere
ist also noch nicht scharf geschieden. Es fehlen manche Gruppen, die
wir erwarten würden, z. B. die Schmetterlinge. Schwankend sind die
Fledermäuse und Strauße, die eine Mittelstellung zwischen Säugetieren
und Vögeln einnehmen sollen, ebenso die Wassersäugetiere, die zwar
anatomisch als Säugetiere nachgewiesen, aber in eine Mittelstellung
zwischen diese und die Fische gebracht werden. Besonders scharf
gesondert treten die Fische als kiementragend und mit Flossen
versehen auf und werden nach ihrem Skelett eingeteilt. Die Umgrenzung
derselben ist später oft durchbrochen worden, hat ja auch Linné noch
Schwierigkeiten bereitet, und die Scheidung in zwei große Gruppen
ist bis heute beibehalten worden. Was die Wirbellosen betrifft, so
hat erst Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts die Systematik hier wesentliche
Fortschritte gemacht. Ihre Abtrennung von den Fischen und die vielen
anatomischen und biologischen Schilderungen derselben gehören zu den
hervorragendsten Merkmalen der Aristotelischen Zoologie. Als oberste
Einteilungsprinzipien wählt er +anatomische+. „Zuerst nun werden wir
die Teile, aus denen die Tiere bestehen, zu erörtern haben. Denn
in ihnen liegen die größten und ersten Unterschiede auch für das
Gesamttier, je nach Besitz oder Abwesenheit gewisser Teile, nach
Lage und Anordnung, nach Gestalt, Überschuß, Analogie, Gegensatz
der zufälligen Eigenschaften.“ Dies führt ganz selbstverständlich
hinüber zu ausgedehnterer Verarbeitung anatomischer Einzelheiten,
seien es nun solche, die auf Aristoteles’ eigene Beobachtungen oder
die seiner Vorgänger zurückzuführen sind. Damit ist aber auch der
Anstoß zu einer vergleichend über die ganze Tierwelt ausgedehnten
Anatomie und Physiologie gegeben. So stuft denn Aristoteles auch
innerhalb des einzelnen Individuums die Teile ab. Er unterscheidet
Grundstoffe, gleichartige Teile (Gewebe), ungleichartige Teile
(Organe), berücksichtigt auch die Proportionen und endlich den
Habitus. Die schwächste Seite ist neben vielen anatomischen Irrtümern
seine +Physiologie+, da sie von unzulänglichen physikalischen
Vorstellungen ausgeht. Es ist hier nicht der Ort, die große Zahl
irriger und oberflächlicher Kenntnisse und Begriffe vom Bau und von
den Verrichtungen des menschlichen Körpers, die er der Betrachtung
der übrigen Organismen zugrunde legt, aufzuzählen. Nur nebenbei mag
auch erwähnt werden, daß viele Einzelbeobachtungen, die sich in seinen
Werken finden, später bestätigt wurden. Von besonderer Tragweite ist
Aristoteles’ Wertung des Herzens geworden, das er schlechthin als das
Zentrum der ganzen Organisation, weil es das der Ernährung und Bewegung
sei, mithin auch als das der Seelenfunktionen auffaßte, während ihm
das Hirn nur ein Kühlapparat für die aufsteigende Wärme zu sein schien.
Das Herz ist das erste und letzte, was sich bewegt; die Luft das Agens
der Bewegung. Zur Kenntnis der Bewegungsfunktion fehlte ihm eine klare
Vorstellung von den Muskeln und ihrer Wirkung.
Weitaus am wertvollsten sind innerhalb der Physiologie die Ausführungen
über die +Entwicklungsgeschichte+, weil hier die Naturauffassung wie
die Beobachtungsmittel von Aristoteles am weitesten führen konnten.
Von der Zeugung sind vier Arten zu unterscheiden: die Urzeugung,
wodurch Lebewesen aus faulenden Stoffen entstehen sollten, die
Sprossung niederer Tiere, die hermaphroditische, die geschlechtliche
Zeugung. Die dritte Form, ein Mittelding zwischen dem, was wir als
Hermaphroditismus und Parthenogenese unterscheiden, schreibt er außer
den Pflanzen den Bienen und einigen Fischen zu. Bei den höheren Tieren
herrscht sonst Zweigeschlechtigkeit als eine Folge der Ortsbewegung und
führt zu einer Differenzierung der Geschlechter, die von prinzipieller
Bedeutung für die ganze Organisation des Individuums ist (Wirkung der
Kastration). Beim Männchen ist der Zeugungsstoff die Samenflüssigkeit,
die aber nicht pangenetisch gedacht wird, beim Weibchen das Ei oder
die Katamenialflüssigkeit. Als vollkommene Eier erscheinen die
dotterreichen. Bei der Befruchtung liefert das Weibchen den Stoff,
das Männchen das gestaltende Prinzip, das nicht einmal stofflich zu
sein braucht, sondern als rein mechanisch wirksam gedacht wird. Es
soll eine Bewegung übertragen und einen Ernährungsprozeß einleiten
und die weiblichen Geschlechtsprodukte in einen Keim überführen, der
bald im Ei, bald ein „Wurm“ ist. Im Verlaufe der weiteren Entwicklung
entstehen die Organe nicht gleichzeitig, obschon sie der Möglichkeit
nach vorhanden sind, sondern sukzessive in größter Zweckmäßigkeit
nach dem Endzustand, der erreicht werden soll. Der Embryo ist beseelt,
zunächst zwar nur mit einer „ernährenden Seele“, erst später treten die
höheren Stufen des Seelenlebens auf. So besitzt er denn auch zuerst nur
generelle, erst später mehr spezielle und individuelle Eigenschaften.
Die Ernährung des Embryo ist eine Fortsetzung der Zeugung. Die
Fruchtbarkeit steht in Korrelation mit der Form der Ernährung,
der Größe der Eier usw. Aristoteles findet hier die Gelegenheit,
ausgedehnten Erfahrungen über die vergleichende Entwicklungsgeschichte
Raum zu geben. Die Reihenfolge, in der die Organe auftreten, richtet
sich nach der physiologischen Bedeutung der Organe. Daher entsteht
zuerst das wichtigste Organ, das Herz, wie sich am Hühnerembryo sehen
läßt, wo es als „der springende Punkt“ imponiert. Dann entstehen die
großen Gefäße und der Kopf mit den schon früh großen Augen. Sind die
Grundstoffe nicht genügend, so geht die Entwicklung in Mißbildung aus.
Den einzelnen Formen der Mißbildung widmet Aristoteles ein ausgedehntes
Kapitel, das als die Grundlage der späteren +Teratologie+ zu betrachten
ist, da in ihm die pathologischen Erscheinungen auf natürliche Ursachen
zurückgeführt sind. An Beobachtungen über die Entwicklung der einzelnen
Organe, namentlich auch an genauen Angaben über die Zeugungs-,
Gestations- und Entwicklungsfunktionen der Haussäugetiere findet sich
ein großer Reichtum in den verschiedenen Aristotelischen Schriften.
3. Griechische Zoologie nach Aristoteles.
Noch hatte nach Aristoteles Theophrast das Lebenswerk seines
Lehrers nach wesentlichen Seiten hin ausgebaut und ergänzt. Nach
der zoologischen Seite war er zweifellos tätig, doch ist von ihm
nur ein Buch erhalten, nämlich dasjenige, welches als das IX. der
Tiergeschichte von Aristoteles gegolten hat, das aber keineswegs mehr
auf der Höhe des Meisters steht. So gingen denn die von Aristoteles
aufgestellten und teilweise durchgeführten Grundsätze verloren,
unverstanden und unbenützt, geschweige daß sie weiter verfolgt,
erprobt, ausgebaut worden wären. Die von ihm zum wissenschaftlichen
Prinzip erhobene Verknüpfung von Anatomie, Physiologie,
Entwicklungsgeschichte des gesunden und kranken Organismus lockerte
sich rasch. Die Tierwelt zog nicht mehr als wissenschaftliches Objekt
an, sondern interessierte nur noch mit Beziehung auf den Menschen,
seine praktischen, dekorativen oder magischen Bedürfnisse.
Es sind nur wenige Stätten, an denen die antike Biologie auslebt:
Alexandria, Rom, Pergamon. In Alexandria erwiesen sich die
Ptolemäer, namentlich der zweite, Philadelphus, und der siebente,
naturwissenschaftlichen Studien günstig. Neben Büchern über Jagd und
Fischfang verdient der Vogelkatalog von +Kallimachos von Kyrene+ (ca.
310-325) Erwähnung, ferner die umfangreich erhaltene Tiergeschichte des
+Aristophanes von Byzanz+ (ca. 257-180), die wesentlich durch Auszüge
aus Aristoteles, Theophrast u. a., nicht ohne Fabeln aus Wunderbüchern,
aber auch wahrscheinlich im Anschluß an die alexandrinischen Sammlungen
entstanden. Ebenfalls zur Grundlage für seine Wundergeschichten
benützte +Antigonos von Karystos+ (geb. ca. 290) die Tiergeschichte von
Aristoteles.
+Alexander von Myndos+ (im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrhundert) wird
das Vorbild jener Fabelschriftsteller, die bis zum Erwachen erneuter
Kritik zu Beginn der Neuzeit die Welt mit Wundergeschichten, wahren
und erlogenen, von den Tieren unterhielten. Von wissenschaftlicher
Schulung war keine Rede mehr. Das pseudo-aristotelische Tierwerk,
welches einem bereits ähnlich gerichteten Geschmack durch Auszüge aus
Aristoteles Rechnung trug, bot Alexander von Myndos die Grundlage,
auf der er sich schriftstellerisch betätigte. So wurde z. B. der
wissenschaftlichen Schilderung des Vogels, wie Aristoteles sie gegeben
hatte, die mythologische und wahrsagerische Bedeutung erklärend
beigefügt, sodann die Sagen über die Verwandlung usw. In Alexandria
bildete sich auch das Lehrgedicht in derjenigen Form aus, wie es in
der Folgezeit griechischer und römischer Wissenschaft auf zoologische
Gegenstände neben der Prosa besonders reichlich Verwendung fand. Die
in Alexandria geprägte Form der Zoologie beherrscht denn auch mit
mehr oder weniger Abwechslung über die spätgriechische Wissenschaft
hinaus die +byzantinische+ bis zum Beginn der Neuzeit. „Neben einem
m. w. vereinzelten Studium der Alten herrscht in der Botanik und
Zoologie eine phantastische, wesentlich durch paradoxographische und
geheimnisvolle Gesichtspunkte bestimmte Tätigkeit“ (Krumbacher).
4. Römische Zoologie.
Die +römische Zoologie+ steht bei weitem nicht auf der Höhe der
griechischen. Schon hatten die spätesten Produkte der letzteren einen
Zug angenommen, der sie weit von Naturbeobachtung und Wahrheit der
Darstellung weggeführt hatte und der auch nicht mehr zur Kritik der
mündlichen und schriftlichen Überlieferung befähigte. An diesem Punkte
tritt Rom die Erbschaft an. Noch am ehesten ist es Plinius, der unsere
Beachtung verdient und wäre es auch nur um der geschichtlichen Wirkung
willen, die seine Naturgeschichte getan hat.
Die umfangreichste naturwissenschaftliche Leistung älteren Datums
ist das Lehrgedicht „Über die Natur der Dinge“ von +T. Lucretius
Carus+. Römertum und epikureische Philosophie wirken in ihm ein
Naturgemälde von großem Wurf und einheitlicher Stimmung. Doch zeigt
dieses Bild mehr die Sehnsucht nach Befreiung von den Banden des
Aberglaubens und Ausdeutung eines naturwissenschaftlichen Inhaltes
von einer biologisch sehr eng begrenzten Fassung nach den Schemata
der materialistischen Mystik. In Beobachtung und theoretischer
Deutung geht Lucrez indes nicht über seine griechischen Vorbilder
hinaus. Der verarbeitete Tierbestand ist ein dürftig zu nennender.
Einheit der Schöpfung kommt nur insofern zur Geltung, als für Lucrez
die Erde die Allmutter ist, die jedwede Art entsprießen ließ. Einst
erzeugte sie Riesengeschlechter, heute bringt sie nur noch kleines
Getier hervor. Unter dem Atomismus, der im Vordergrund steht,
verwischt sich die Grenze zwischen anorganischer und organischer Natur
vollständig; so kommen Samen auch den anorganischen Naturkörpern, ja
sogar den Grundkräften zu. Auch die Anatomie entspricht nicht mehr
den alexandrinischen Erfahrungen. Das Herz ist Sitz der nervösen
Erregungen. Obschon die Gewebe der Tiere gleich zu sein scheinen, sind
sie doch bei jeder Art verschieden. Diese Verschiedenheit ist lediglich
eine solche der Verbindung der Stoffe, nicht ihrer Beschaffenheit.
Anregungen für die Zoologie konnten aus diesem Werke ebenso wenig
hervorgehen, wie etwa aus Schillers „Spaziergang“, trotz dem hohen
poetischen Gehalt dieser Dichtung, die zu den besten auf römischem
Boden gewachsenen gehört.
Unter den römischen Schriftstellern nimmt für die Zoologie an
geschichtlicher Bedeutung +Plinius d. Ä.+ (_geb. 23 n. Chr. zu
Verona, gest. 79 beim Ausbruch des Vesuv_) den ersten Rang ein. Von
seiner enzyklopädischen Vielschreiberei geht uns nur der auf die
Naturgeschichte bezügliche Teil an, die 37 Bücher der Naturgeschichte,
die auch wieder nur zum Teil die Zoologie betreffen. Nach Plinius
eignen Angaben stellt dieses Werk den Auszug von 20000 Tatsachen aus
2000 Bänden anderer Schriftsteller vor. Mit der Natur verband ihn kaum
eigene Berührung, ja auch die Schriftsteller, die er exzerpierte, waren
nicht in erster Linie die selbständigen Forscher, sondern selbst
schon Kompilatoren dritten und vierten Ranges. So kam denn dieses
„Studierlampenbuch“ (Mommsen) zustande, das als Quelle für zoologisches
Wissen sozusagen wertlos ist, aber auf Jahrhunderte hinaus eine
unverdiente Geltung behauptete.
Plinius hat einige Tiere mehr als Aristoteles aufgeführt. Eine logische
Ordnung der Tierwelt ist bei ihm nicht durchgeführt. Dazu fehlte vor
allem das Ordnungsprinzip der Anatomie. Mit dem Menschen, den Plinius
im Gegensatz zu Aristoteles aus dem Tierreich heraushebt, wird der
Anfang gemacht. „Des Menschen wegen scheint die Natur alles erzeugt
zu haben, oft um hohen Preis für ihre zahlreichen Geschenke, so daß
sich kaum unterscheiden läßt, ob sie dem Menschen eine bessere Mutter
oder schlimmere Stiefmutter sei.“ Dann folgen die Säuger, untermischt
mit den Reptilien; ferner die Wassertiere, die Vögel, die Insekten
und die niederen Tiere. Innerhalb der einzelnen Abteilungen, die
lediglich der literarischen Einteilung zuliebe gemacht sind, werden die
Tiere nach ihrer Größe abgehandelt. Der Elefant steht an der Spitze
der Säugetiere, die Wale an der der Wassertiere, der Strauß an der
der Vögel. Über die Dimensionen einzelner Tiere, über Lebensweise,
Beziehungen zum Menschen werden die unvernünftigsten und kritiklosesten
Angaben gemacht. Eine geordnete Beschreibung auch einfachster Formen
fehlt. Trotz all dieser Mängel und der Abwesenheit jedes Vorzuges hat
die Naturgeschichte von Plinius eine gewaltige historische Wirkung
getan. Der naiven Neugier des Mittelalters und eines guten Teiles der
Neuzeit genügte sie und ließ Aristoteles in den Hintergrund treten, der
Unwissenden viel schwerer verständlich war. Der Wundersucht bot Plinius
reichere Nahrung als Aristoteles. Seine Darstellung des Menschen und
die Annäherung der Tierfolge an die der Bibel, sowie die nachfolgende
Wunderliteratur, die sich ihm anschloß oder annäherte, machte ihn
zum Beherrscher der zoologischen Literatur für die Folgezeit. Noch
Buffon steht ganz unter dem Banne von Plinius, und Cuvier nennt ihn auf
gleicher Höhe mit Aristoteles!
Fast märchenhaft lauten die Berichte über +Veranstaltungen von
Tierhaltung und Tierzucht+ bei den reichen Römern. Schon zur Zeit
des zweiten Punischen Krieges begann Fulvius Hirpinus Tierzwinger
(Leporarien) anzulegen, mit Hasen, Kaninchen, Rehen, Hirschen und
Wildziegen. Acht ganze Eber zierten einst die Tafel des Antonius.
Lemnius Strabo legte große Vogelbehälter an (Aviarien), und
die Pfauenzucht wurde industriell ausgebeutet. Neben seltenen
Taubenvarietäten, Gänseleber, Krammetsvögeln und Störchen zierten
Flamingozungen und Straußgehirne die Tafel. Zum größten Luxus gedieh
die Fischzucht, wovon noch die großen Fischbehälter (Piscinen) in
Puzzuoli (der sogen. Serapistempel) aufs beredteste Zeugnis ablegen.
Einzelne große Exemplare von Fischen wurden mit Gold aufgewogen. Nicht
minder reich war die Tierwelt, die zu den Gladiatorenkämpfen aufgeboten
wurde. Elefant, Rhinozeros, Giraffe, Hippopotamus, Auerochs, Löwe,
Tiger, Panther, Krokodil wurden zu Dutzenden und Hunderten vorgeführt.
Kunststücke durch Zähmung standen hinter den heutigen Leistungen nicht
zurück. Und all dieser Aufwand an Tieren führte doch weder zu tieferer
Kenntnis, noch vermochte er wissenschaftliche Interessen zu wecken.
Die ganze spätrömische +Literatur+ ist durch Aufzählungen mediterraner
und fremdländischer Tiere charakterisiert, deren Identität vielfach
kaum mehr festzustellen ist; insbesondere grassieren in ihr Fabelwesen,
wie Martichoras, Greif, Phönix, Chimära, Einhorn usw., und fabulöse
Darstellungen bekannter Tiere. Das Tier selbst verliert seinen Wert
als Glied im wissenschaftlichen System; es interessiert nur noch
Liebhaber und Schaulustige und wird daher entweder wie ein Stück
Hausrat oder Schmuck der Natur, oder als gastronomische und dekorative
Staffage einer ohnehin raffinierten Lebenshaltung, als Kuriosität, als
Zucht- und Jagdobjekt, als außermenschlicher Träger von menschlichen
Eigenschaften, die ihm angedichtet werden, behandelt. Die schon bei
den alexandrinischen Schriftstellern und Plinius aufgelöste Ordnung
des Tierreichs zerfällt weiter und weicht später einer alphabetischen.
Die Anatomie macht nicht nur keine Fortschritte, sondern schon das
längst Bekannte fällt weg, und das wirklichkeitsfremde Naturbild der
Literatur wird immer mehr dazu angetan, allem Wunderglauben Tür und
Tor zu öffnen, Zauberei und Magie aufleben zu lassen. Auch in der
literarischen Form beruht die spätrömische Zoologie meist nur auf
Nachahmung griechischer Vorbilder.
+Ovids+ Halieutika sind ein Fragment, das in trockener Aufzählung vom
Fischfang im Schwarzen Meere berichtet. Ein Wundergeschichten- und
Fabelbuch, worin etwa 130 meist verloren gegangene Autoren ausgezogen
werden, ist uns von +Älian+ erhalten. Sein Inhalt geht meist auf
entsprechende Berichte alexandrinischer Autoren zurück und zeigt
eine ganz erstaunliche Unordnung des Stoffes. Auf weitaus höherem
Standpunkt stehen die dem +Oppian+ zugeschriebenen Gedichte über Jagd
der Landtiere und Seetiere. Insbesondere dieses gibt eine lebensvolle
und bunte Darstellung der marinen Fauna und ihrer Lebensweise, die
neben eingestreuten Mythen und moralischen Reflexionen ein gutes Stück
frischer Naturbeobachtung enthält. Ähnlich gehalten sind das Buch des
+Marcellus+ von den Fischen, die Paraphrase zu +Dionysos+ von den
Vögeln und zahlreiche ähnliche Lehrgedichte.
5. Alexandrinische Anatomie.
Neben dem wenig erfreulichen Bild der absterbenden wissenschaftlichen
Zoologie bietet Alexandria aber auch dasjenige gewaltigen
+Aufschwunges der Anatomie+. Wenn nun auch dieser Aufschwung nicht
auf die Zoologie unmittelbar zurückwirkte, so tat er es doch
mittelbar. Denn in Alexandria wurde der Grund für die pergamenische
Anatomie gelegt, die selbst wiederum im ausgehenden Mittelalter und
im Beginn der Neuzeit zum Wiederaufleben der Zootomie führte. Zu den
wissenschaftlichen Instituten Alexandrias gehörte u. a. eine Anatomie,
wo sicher tierische und menschliche Leichen seziert, vielleicht auch
Vivisektionen von Verbrechern ausgeführt wurden. Unter einer großen
Anzahl wissenschaftlicher Ärzte ragen hervor +Herophilos+ (unter
Ptolemäus I. und II.) und +Erasistratos+ (geb. ca. 325). +Herophilos+
vertiefte die anatomische Beobachtung in vorher ungewohnter Weise.
Er erkannte in den Nerven besondere Organe, deren Ursprung auf die
Zentren zurückführe und die der Empfindung und Willensäußerung dienen;
er beschrieb die Adergeflechte und Hirnhöhlen, Auge und Sehnerv, die
Chylusgefäße, den Zwölffingerdarm; er begründete die Pulslehre in
einer besonderen Schrift und führte aus, daß das Herz den Arterienpuls
veranlasse. +Erasistratos+ erkannte den Unterschied von Empfindungs-
und Bewegungsnerven, verglich die Windungen des Hirns bei Tieren und
Menschen, beschrieb die Herzklappen und die Sehnenfäden, korrigierte
vielfach im einzelnen die Ansichten von Herophilos. Von hier wurde die
Anatomie später nach Pergamon übertragen.
Die wissenschaftliche Gesamtleistung der antiken Biologie und Medizin,
soweit sie in Einklang mit den damaligen Allgemeinanschauungen
möglich war, faßte zusammen und formulierte für die Zukunft +Galenos+
von Pergamon (geb. 131 n. Chr.). Tiergeschichte im Sinne der
Aristotelischen enthalten seine Werke nicht mehr. Im Vordergrund
stehen der Mensch, die Anatomie und die Physiologie. Denn anschließend
an Aristoteles sieht Galen in der Seele die oberste Einheit des
Organismus, die sich der einzelnen Organe nur bedient, um ihre Ziele
zu erreichen. Die Organe sind die Instrumente; Aufgabe der Anatomie
ist, festzustellen, wozu jedes diene. Damit wird Galen der Begründer
der Teleologie auf dem Gebiet der organischen Naturforschung und
daher der Physiologie. Tieranatomie, Experiment und Vivisektion
sind in seiner Hand wichtige, von ihm ausführlich beschriebene
und ausgiebig verwendete Hilfsmittel zur Forschung und im Dienste
des Unterrichts. Mit seiner Erfahrung knüpft er vorwiegend an die
voraufgehenden Alexandriner an; literarisch sucht er den Anschluß in
erster Linie an Hippokrates. Die Tierwelt zieht er da in den Kreis
seiner Betrachtungen, wo sie zur Erläuterung des Menschen dient. Dabei
gibt er vielfach interessante und lebensvolle Schilderungen derselben.
Seine Einteilung des menschlichen Körpers nach den Hauptorgansystemen
ist die Grundlage für die spätere Mondinos und Vesals geworden. Von
den einzelnen Teilen der Seele, den Lebensgeistern, hat der psychische
seinen Sitz im Gehirn, der vitale im Herzen, der physische in der
Leber. Endlich sei nicht vergessen, daß er die epikureischen Lehren
von der Rolle des Zufalls bei der Entstehung der Organismen eingehend
und mit Argumenten bekämpft hat, die auch gegen den Darwinismus wieder
geltend gemacht wurden.
IV. Mittelalterliche Zoologie.
1. Patristik.
Im +frühen Mittelalter+, das mit der Patristik einsetzt, finden sich
zunächst noch kaum erhebliche Unterschiede von der voraufgehenden
Zeit. Die größte Schicht zoologischer Literatur besteht aus jenen
Wunderbüchern des ausgehenden Altertums. Die Zoologie lag so sehr
danieder, daß das erwachende Christentum in ihr keine feindliche
Macht erblickte. Und doch bedeutet die Organisation der christlichen
Wissenschaft zugleich die Organisation mächtiger Widerstände, die
sich dem später aufwachenden Trieb nach Naturkenntnis mit dem
ganzen Rüstzeug einer scharfen Gelehrsamkeit widersetzten, während
hinwiederum die Kirche die Tradition des Wissens vom Altertum in die
Neuzeit rettete. Die bewußte Abkehr von dieser Welt ließ alsbald
im menschlichen Körper und im Tier etwas Niedriges empfinden. Die
Polemik gegen die antiken Naturphilosophen und der Assimilationsprozeß
der heidnischen Ethik durch die christliche konzentrierte den Rest
naturhistorischer Interessen auf wenige Punkte, für deren theoretische
Betrachtung jetzt die Richtlinien vorgezeichnet wurden, die bis
heute für alle vulgär oder neuplatonisch philosophierende Zoologie
die maßgebenden geblieben sind. Es erhielten ihre Formulierung die
Probleme der Schöpfung, des Ursprunges des Lebens, der Vererbung, der
Individualität, der Entstehung des Menschen, des Zusammenhanges von
Leib und Seele. Während also zu dieser Zeit die zoologische Forschung
ruht, gestalteten sich die Punkte aus, die stets zu brennenden
werden, sowie die zoologische Wissenschaft mit dem christlichen
Glauben sich freundlich oder feindlich auseinandersetzt. Mehr als
andere altchristliche Schriftsteller, die sich mit der Naturforschung
beschäftigten, gehen auf die menschliche Anatomie und Physiologie
ein: Tertullian, Lactantius, Nemesius von Emesa; doch ist das
Verhältnis zur Mannigfaltigkeit der organischen Natur ein ähnliches,
wie wir es etwa bei Lucrez oder Galen antreffen, es bewegt sich im
Rahmen der stoischen Philosophie. Den Charakter eines großartigen
naturphilosophischen Systems hat erst die Lehre +Augustins+ (354-430),
die einen Ausgleich zwischen der Platonischen Philosophie und der
mosaischen Schöpfungsgeschichte herstellt, der, für alle Zeiten
maßgebend, auch heute noch den Kern der christlichen Naturphilosophie
bildet. Seinem Grundsatze entsprechend, daß Naturphilosophie auf
Naturwissenschaft zu fußen habe, rückt er in den Vordergrund seine
Lehre von der Entstehung der Organismen, die Seminaltheorie. Nach
dieser sind die Samen erstens ewig als Ideen im Logos Gottes, sodann
vorgebildet als Ursamen in den Elementen der Welt vor ihrer Entfaltung,
drittens in den ersten Individuen jeder Art, viertens in allen wirklich
existierenden Individuen. Die zweite Form der Samen ist es, die durch
Gottes Schöpferwort ins Dasein gelangen, oder mit Thomas von Aquino
zu reden: die aktiven und passiven Kräfte, welche die Prinzipien des
Werdens und der Bewegung in der Natur sind. Entsprechend damaligem
Wissen behandelte Augustin die ~Generatio aequivoca~ (Entstehung von
Organismen aus dem Anorganischen) und erblickt in ihr ein reales
Analogon zu der idealen Darstellung des mosaischen Schöpfungsberichtes.
In bezug auf den Menschen sucht er den spezifischen Unterschied in der
Seele des Menschen, der in körperlicher Hinsicht nichts vor dem Tiere
voraushabe. „Denn wie Gott über jedes Geschöpf, so ist die Seele durch
die Würde ihrer Natur über jedes körperliche Geschöpf erhaben.“
Ein Werk von bedeutendem Einfluß auf die Zoologie des Mittelalters
hat +Isidor von Sevilla+ (Anfang des 7. Jahrhunderts) verfaßt. Sonst
aber fand das Bedürfnis nach Zoologie Genüge in dem als +Physiologus+
bekannten, im frühen Mittelalter entstandenen, bis ins 14. Jahrhundert
maßgebenden, in die meisten Sprachen der damaligen Kulturwelt
übersetzten Werke. Ursprünglich enthielt es wahrscheinlich nur ein
Verzeichnis der biblischen Tiere nebst deren Beschreibung. Allmählich
aber schlichen sich fabelhafte Erzählungen aus der antiken Literatur
ein, wurden mit christlicher und kabbalistischer Symbolik verbrämt und
beliebig ausgeschmückt oder erweitert.
Ein hervorragender literarischer Anteil an der Zoologie des
Mittelalters kommt den Arabern zu. Zwar sind bis jetzt aus ihren
Schriftwerken keine Ansätze zu selbständiger Erfassung des Stoffes
nachgewiesen; wohl aber gebührt ihnen das Verdienst, die Werke
Aristoteles’ und Galens berücksichtigt, unter sich überliefert und
der wiedererwachenden Wissenschaft des Abendlandes vornehmlich
durch Übersetzungen und durch den Unterricht an ihren hohen Schulen
übermittelt zu haben. Ferner hat in ihnen der Gedanke an Einheit
des Weltalls, die Einsicht in die Materie als eine letzte Ursache
natürlichen Geschehens lebhafte und scharfsinnige Verteidiger gefunden
(Avicenna, Averrhoës). Endlich ist der europäischen Zoologie durch
+Abu Soleimans+ Reisen nach Indien und China, durch +Edrisis+ an
die Ostküste von Afrika (im 12. Jahrhundert), durch +Kaswinis+ nach
Südasien neue Kenntnis von fremden Tierwelten zugeflossen.
2. Hohes Mittelalter.
Die Zeitströmungen, die das +hohe Mittelalter+ bewegt haben, sind in
ihrem Wert für das Wiedererwachen der Zoologie außerordentlich schwer
abzuschätzen. Ein beschränkter und vielfach zerfabelter Bestand an
zoologischem Wissen ist nie ganz untergegangen, schon rein praktische
Interessen der Ernährung, der Jagd und der Heilkunst hielten ihn wach.
Sollen wir aber die wissenschaftliche Neugestaltung und Mehrung dieses
Wissens erleben, so muß eine gründliche Veränderung in der Stellung
des Menschen zur Natur voraufgehen. Diese Veränderung erscheint als
Folge weit auseinanderliegender historischer Ereignisse, die hier
kaum mehr als gestreift werden können. Dahin gehört das Erwachen des
Naturgefühls, wie es der Tradition zufolge in einem +Franz von Assisi+
und seinen Tausenden von Nachfolgern Platz griff. In der Kreatur waltet
Gott. Umbrien erscheint ihm als ein Paradies, dessen Tiere er als
Brüder verehrt, den Regenwurm rettet er vor dem Zertreten und stellt
für die hungrigen Bienen im Winter Honiggefäße hin. Die Unterhaltung
mit der Lebewelt ist ein Teil nur seines liebevollen Überschwanges,
den er in die gesamte Natur hineinträgt. Ihm folgt das gerettete
Häslein auf Schritt und Tritt, die Zikade läßt sich vom Baum herab
auf seine Hand, um mit ihm den Schöpfer zu preisen, und die Schwalben
verstummen, um das Wort Gottes aus seinem Munde anzuhören. Neben der
akademisch-dialektischen, aber der Beobachtung fremden arabischen und
der volkstümlich mystischen, aber unwissenschaftlichen Linie geht
eine dritte, die durch eine der mächtigsten Persönlichkeiten des
Mittelalters bezeichnet wird, durch +Friedrich+ II. von Hohenstaufen,
den mystisch beanlagten, wissensdurstigen, unter arabischem Einfluß
gereiften Zweifler und Philosophen auf dem Kaiserthrone. Unter ihm
erblüht aufs neue die medizinische Schule von Salerno. Er ordnet ihren
Lehrgang und den der Universität zu Neapel und verlangt menschliche
Anatomie als Vorbereitungsfach für Mediziner (1240). Er wirft die
Probleme auf, ob Aristoteles die Ewigkeit der Welt bewiesen habe,
was die Ziele und Wege der Theologie und der Wissenschaft überhaupt
seien. Für ihn muß Michael Scotus die Tiergeschichte von Aristoteles
übersetzen. Auf seinen Befehl müssen seltene Tiere aus Asien und
Afrika herbeigeschafft, die Untiefen der Meerenge von Messina durch
Taucher untersucht werden. Ja, harmlose Gemüter, denen all solche
Neugier verhaßt war, beschuldigten ihn begreiflicherweise der
Vivisektion von Menschen. Seine Schöpferkraft kommt in der Zoologie
am schönsten zur Geltung durch sein Buch über die Kunst, mit Falken
zu jagen. Das Thema war nicht neu und wurde schon von byzantinischen
Schriftstellern behandelt. Im Werke des Kaisers aber spricht zu uns
eine ausgedehnte Kenntnis nicht nur des angezeigten Gegenstandes,
sondern der Ornithologie im allgemeinen, der der erste Teil gewidmet
ist. Reiche Erfahrungen des Vogellebens, der Anatomie und Physiologie
der Vögel finden hier eine planmäßige Darstellung; das Skelett wird
genau beschrieben und entgegen Aristoteles die Extremitätenknochen
richtig gedeutet, wie denn auch Friedrich vielfach seine von
Aristoteles abweichende Meinung ausdrückt; der Mechanismus des Fluges,
die Wanderungen der Zugvögel, ja auch die Anatomie der Eingeweide
werden abgehandelt. Durch das ganze Werk erhebt sich Friedrich zum
ersten Male auf eine Stufe der Zoographie, wie sie eigentlich erst drei
Jahrhunderte nach ihm wieder zu vollem Bewußtsein erwachte. Mochte er
auch immerhin selbst die Anleitung zu seinen Beschreibungen aus der
Anatomie des Menschen und der Haustiere, wie sie zu Salerno gepflegt
wurde, geschöpft haben.
3. Ausgehendes Mittelalter.
Die Zoologie des +ausgehenden Mittelalters+ erhält ihre Physiognomie
durch folgende Erscheinungen: Durch die Wiederbelebung der
Wissenschaft im Anschluß an die Schriftwerke von Aristoteles wurde
eine philosophische Richtung erzeugt, die man als Scholastik
bezeichnet, und damit werden sowohl die Aristotelischen Prinzipien der
Naturbetrachtung, wie auch deren Resultate aufs neue Gegenstand der
Literatur. +Wilhelm von Moerbecke+ übersetzte 1260 die Tiergeschichte
von Aristoteles ins Lateinische und erschloß sie damit der
scholastischen Literatur. Unter Benützung von Aristoteles suchten das
Wissen ihrer Zeit in umfassender Form drei Dominikaner darzustellen:
+Thomas von Cantimpré+ (1186-1263), +Albert von Bollstädt, der Große+
(1193-1280) und +Vincent de Beauvais+. Von diesen hat jedoch nur der
zweite auf Grund eigener Kenntnisse im wesentlichen Aristoteles’
Tierkenntnis von der Vorherrschaft des Bestandes an Tierfabeln etwas
geläutert. Der erste ist von Bedeutung dadurch geworden, daß er die
Anregung zu +Konrad von Megenbergs+ Buch der Natur gab, einem der
wertvollsten Vorboten neuzeitlicher Naturbeobachtung. Dieses Werk,
zunächst als Übersetzung kritisch ausgewählter Abschnitte aus Thomas
ca. 1350 entstanden, war bis zum 16. Jahrhundert ungemein verbreitet
und wurde vor 1500 schon sechsmal, zum Teil illustriert gedruckt.
Ähnlich, aber älter ist „Der Naturen Bloeme“ von +Jakob van Maerlandt+.
Von Salerno aus hatten sich unterdessen die medizinischen Studien
unter starker Betonung der Anatomie über ganz Italien verbreitet.
Zum intensivsten und vielseitigsten Herd derselben wurde +Bologna+
gegen Ende des 13. Jahrhunderts, nachweisbar unter dem Einfluß der
Verordnungen Friedrichs II. und des Studiums von Galens Schriften und
Aristoteles’ Schrift über die Teile der Tiere. +Alderotto+, +Saliceto+
und +Varignana+ gingen voraus. +Mondino+ (1315) folgte und schuf die
bis auf Vesal maßgebende Anatomie, deren besonderes Verdienst es war,
wenigstens in die Beschreibung Ordnung zu bringen. Verwendung von
Spiritus, Injektion der Blutgefäße, Mazeration, Trocknung, Abbildung
und wohl noch andere technische Vervollkommnungen nahmen von hier
aus ihren Weg allmählich über ganz Europa. Neben dem Menschen wurden
vielfach Tiere zergliedert.
Nur kurz ist zu erwähnen, daß +Marco Polo+ unter den Resultaten seiner
Reisen (1275-1292) eine Reihe von Schilderungen exotischer Tiere
gegeben hat, die den Kreis der vorder- und zentralasiatischen Fauna
bedeutend erweiterten. Die Wissenschaft war aus den Klostermauern
heraus, an die Höfe, an die hohen Schulen, ja ins Volk getreten. Nach
Naturbetrachtung und Naturbeobachtung sehnten sich gleicherweise
der Arzt wie der Künstler. Und wie der Beginn der großen Seefahrten
eine unendliche Erweiterung des Materialzuwachses brachte, so mußte
die Wiederbelebung der antiken Literatur zu erneuter Ordnung des
neuentdeckten Reichtums der Natur führen.
So leiten denn manche Erscheinungen des 15. Jahrhunderts zu einer neuen
Periode hinüber, die auch für die Geschichte unserer Wissenschaft mit
der zweiten Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts anhebt. Als wichtige Ereignisse
auf dieser letzten Staffel vor der Neuzeit sind hervorzuheben der
Beginn von mehr oder weniger naturgetreuen Darstellungen der Tiere,
wie z. B. +P. Giovios+ Fische des römischen Marktes (1524), oder der
Pflanzen, wie bei der ganzen Reihe zisalpiner, zum Teil in Italien
geschulter Botaniker, die auch die Tierwelt nicht ganz unberücksichtigt
ließen, wie der „Gart der Gesundheit“, +Bock+, +Brunfels+, +Fuchs+
u. a., die unter allen Umständen mit dem Sinn für die Pflanzen auch
den für die Mannigfaltigkeit des Tierreichs weckten. Ein mächtiger
Vorstoß zur bildlichen Erfassung der Natur geschah durch +Leonardo
da Vinci+ (1452-1519), dessen künstlerische Vielseitigkeit sich auch
die Naturgeschichte des Menschen, der Haustiere und der Pflanzen
untertan machte. Mit der Buchdruckerkunst beginnt die Reproduktion und
Verbreitung der antiken Literatur, wobei Hippokrates, Aristoteles,
Plinius, Galen ein mächtiges Kontingent stellten und zur Kritik ihrer
Angaben herausforderten. Anderseits schädigt die Buchdruckerkunst
noch auf lange Zeit hinaus unsere Wissenschaft durch zahlreiche
Auflagen von Konrad von Megenberg, Bartholomäus Anglicus und dem
sog. Elucidarius, welche den Physiologus als Wunderbücher abgelöst
hatten. Den von Äneas Sylvius eröffneten kosmographischen Interessen
kam Johannes Leo Africanus mit seiner Schilderung nordafrikanischer
Tiere nach. So reifte denn jene Zeit der Ernte heran, die, von den
1550er Jahren beginnend, auf einige Zeit einen großen, aber kurzen
Aufschwung naturhistorischer Studien und Publikationen und damit eine
schärfere Umgrenzung der Zoologie als einer selbständigen Wissenschaft
herbeiführte.
V. Neuzeitliche Zoologie bis zur Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts.
~A.~ Periode der Zoographie.
Neuzeit.
Schon hatte in Italien die Renaissance den Zenit überschritten und
war in Deutschland mit der Reformation ein neuer Geist zum Durchbruch
gekommen, unsere Wissenschaft hatte es noch nicht über ein vorläufiges
Stadium hinaus gebracht. Alle die wertvollen im vorigen Kapitel
geschilderten Ansätze hatten noch keine größeren Gedankenreihen
erzeugt, die eine ähnliche Durchdringung der belebten Natur verraten
hätten, wie sie in andern Gebieten der Erkenntnis bereits wirksam war.
1. Philologische Zoologie.
Vorerst tritt mit einer gewissen Geschlossenheit nur die +philologische
Zoologie+ auf den Plan. Die Erstausgabe von Aristoteles war unter
Anleitung von +Th. Gaza+ 1497 zu Venedig erschienen. Neben Aristoteles
wurden indes Plinius, Älian, Oppian u. a. als gleichwertig betrachtet.
Verehrung des Altertums befahl ihr Studium, ohne daß man die Tatsachen
zu kontrollieren gerüstet gewesen wäre. +P. Gyllius+ schrieb Älian
zusammen, +Massaria+ verfaßte einen Kommentar zu Plinius’ IX. Buch
(1537), +Longolinus+ einen Dialog über die Synonymik der Vogelnamen
in den klassischen Sprachen und im Deutschen. Reifere Früchte dieser
Richtung sind indes erst über die späteren Jahrhunderte zerstreut,
und als solche sind besonders zu erwähnen ein Kommentar zu der
Aristotelischen Schrift über die Teile der Tiere von +Furlanus+ (1574),
die Ausgabe der Tiergeschichte von +Scaliger+ (1619), die Ausgabe des
Plinius von +Hardouin+ (1723), des Älian von +Gronovius+ (1744).
Selbstverständlich wirkte auch die Herausgabe von Hippokrates und Galen
auf die philologische Zoologie zurück.
Damit ist die eine Linie gezeichnet, welche schon für die literarische
Darstellung und Wiedergabe neuer Befunde zu Beginn der Neuzeit von
größerer Bedeutung sein mußte, als heute. Eine zweite Linie führt von
der Erneuerung der Anatomie zu der der Zoologie, ohne daß gerade ein
unmittelbarer Zusammenhang, etwa durch die Zootomie, vermittelt würde.
Das grundlegende Werk für die Anatomie der Neuzeit, die ~Corporis
humani fabrica~ von +Andreas Vesal+ (1514-1565), war im Jahre 1543
erschienen. Es gab das Vorbild für alle anatomischen Beschreibungen
und Illustrationen ab. Dadurch gelang es Vesal, den blinden Glauben
an die umfangreichen Werke Galens und damit überhaupt an die
wissenschaftliche Tradition zu brechen. Hatten die Bologneser Anatomen
Galen gegenüber den Arabern hergestellt, so kehrte Vesal, wie es Galen
selbst vorgeschrieben hatte, zur Natur zurück und lehrte aufs neue
die Biologen das wissenschaftliche Sehen. Dabei lehnt er sich in der
obersten Gliederung seines Stoffes noch stark an Galen an und legt der
Anatomie ein System zugrunde, das noch heute nicht nur die menschliche,
sondern auch die vergleichende Anatomie beherrscht (Knochen,
Bänder, Muskeln, Nerven, Sinne, Darm, Respirations-, Zirkulations-,
Urogenitalsystem). Vergessen wir nicht, daß mit dem Buchdruck der
Holzschnitt die bildliche Wiedergabe ermöglichte und damit ein neues
Bindeglied zwischen der Anschauung und der Überlieferung geschaffen
war, dessen das Mittelalter so gut wie ganz entbehrt hatte.
Die Zoologie nahm indes ihren Ursprung von der Beobachtung und
Beschreibung der Gesamttiere und ihren Eigenschaften aus, vom Habitus
und von der Lebensweise. Das literarische Modell lieferte Plinius in
dominierender, Aristoteles nur in untergeordneter Weise. Der Anfang
dieser Periode wird bezeichnet durch ein williges Eingehen auf die
Mannigfaltigkeit der Tierwelt und einen unbegrenzten Drang, unsere
Kenntnis von ihr zu bereichern. Die einheimische, die fernerliegende
und die überseeische Fauna treten nach und nach in den Kreis der
Beschreibung, Abbildung und Vergleichung. Die Ordnung der Objekte
und ihr Bau tritt zunächst zurück, ebenso die Kontrolle älterer
Angaben auf ihre Wahrheit. Mit der Kuriosität der Gegenstände, ihrem
Nutzen für die menschliche Ökonomie und der Absicht, die Angaben
antiker Schriftsteller zu bestätigen, rechtfertigen sich die ersten
zoologischen Bemühungen.
Bei dem Umfang der antiken biologischen Literatur, die im Druck und in
Übersetzungen erschien, wurde die Glanzzeit der Renaissance noch mit
philologischen Diatriben über Hippokrates, Aristoteles, Galen, Älian,
Oppian usw. verbracht, ehe man an die Natur selbst ging. Die Anregung,
die aus jenen Schriftwerken entsprang, ist nicht zu unterschätzen, aber
ihre Festlegung im Druck errichtete zunächst nur ein Bollwerk gegen die
naive Naturforschung. Als diese durchbrach, setzte sie sich wesentlich
nur mit dem Inhalt, nicht aber mit der Methodik des Altertums
auseinander, und dem Fortblühen des Geisteslebens der Renaissance
warfen sich bereits erhebliche Widerstände entgegen.
2. Blütezeit der Zoographie.
So beginnt denn die Zeit größter Fruchtbarkeit für die Zoologie
der Renaissance sehr spät, erst mit den fünfziger Jahren des 16.
Jahrhunderts. Obenan stehen drei Forscher, die sich fast ausschließlich
der +Darstellung der marinen Fauna+ widmeten: +Belon+, +Rondelet+,
+Salviani+; der erstgenannte verdient außerdem als Ornithologe
geschätzt zu werden. Alle ihre Werke erschienen 1551-1555 reichlich
illustriert, das Salvianis sogar mit vorzüglichen Kupferstichen; sie
enthalten Beschreibungen der marinen Tierwelt, die damit zuerst den
binnenländischen Forschern vermittelt wurde. Andererseits blieben
diese Autoren in ihren allgemeinen Anschauungen auf einem nicht
sehr hohen Standpunkt, indem sie nicht einmal den von Aristoteles
gegebenen Begriff „Fisch“ genau nahmen. Noch Salviani gab ausführliche
synonymische Tabellen, in denen er die Meertiere der antiken Autoren
zu identifizieren suchte. Rondelet zog wenigstens schon anatomische
Unterscheidungsmerkmale für die Ordnung seines Fischbestandes bei. Er
wird von Cuvier als bester Kenner der Mittelmeerfischwelt beurteilt.
Die Zahl der von ihm beschriebenen Fische beläuft sich bereits auf
264 (wovon 239 abgebildet). Zu gleicher Zeit erschien das Werk des
Engländers +E. Wotton+ (1492-1555): Über die Unterschiede der Tiere,
eine theoretisch gehaltene und an Aristoteles’ und Galens Methode
anschließende Zoologie, die vom Gesichtspunkt aus geschrieben ist,
ordnende Hand an die Mannigfaltigkeit der Tierwelt und ihres Baues zu
legen.
Alle diese Richtungen wurden zusammengebogen und zu dem Typus der
Renaissancezoologie verschmolzen durch +Konrad Gesner+ (_geb. 1516
in Zürich, studiert in Frankreich, Straßburg, Basel Medizin und
Philologie, erst Lehrer der Naturgeschichte, später Arzt in Zürich,
stirbt 1565 an der Pest_). Gesners Plan war auf eine allumfassende
Kenntnis der Tierwelt angelegt, wobei er die kritische Kompilation
aus anderen Schriftstellern als selbständige Kunst spielen ließ und
sich zur Aufgabe machte, alles Berücksichtigenswerte zu vereinigen
und womöglich durch eigne Anschauung zu prüfen. Übersichtlichkeit
geht ihm über innere Gliederung des Stoffes. Die oberste Einteilung
seines Hauptwerkes, das nach Tausenden von Seiten zählt, der ~Historia
animalium~ (1551-1558), wird nach Aristoteles durchgeführt und folgt
den Klassen der Wirbeltiere. Innerhalb dieser Abteilungen werden
die einzelnen Tiere alphabetisch abgehandelt und geschildert nach
Namen, Vorkommen, Habitus, Ortsbewegung, Krankheiten, Geistesleben,
Nutzen und Haltung, Symbolik, Fabeln, Sprichwörtern. Dabei herrscht
das literarische Interesse vor, die Anatomie fehlt. Die reichlichen
Holzschnitte, wofern sie auf Beobachtung begründet waren, stammten
von guten Meistern (das Nashorn z. B. von Albr. Dürer) und verdienen
noch heute Anerkennung. Von besonderem Wert für Gesner waren die
obenerwähnten Werke der südländischen Ichthyologen, deren Inhalt er
unbedenklich seinem Rahmen einspannte. Auch stand ihm bereits ein Teil
der Reiseliteratur zur Verfügung, außerdem zahlreiche Beobachtungen
befreundeter Forscher in allen Teilen Europas. Als umfassendes
Sammelwerk ist Gesners Tiergeschichte von grundlegender Bedeutung
für alle späteren Beschreiber bis auf Buffon geworden. Es wurde als
Gesamtwerk oder in einzelnen Teilen bis 1621 vielfach mit Ergänzungen
herausgegeben. Der Mensch war von dieser Naturchronik ausgeschlossen
und blieb es bis auf Linné.
Gesner folgte ein Mann nach, der sich mit ihm in den Ruhm teilt, der
bedeutendste Zoologe des 16. Jahrhunderts gewesen zu sein: +Ulysses
Aldrovandi+ von Bologna (_geb. 1522, studiert von 1539 ab in Bologna
und Padua, wird 1549 als Gefangener der Inquisition nach Rom gebracht,
empfängt dort von Rondelet Anregungen zur Zoologie, lehrt von 1554 in
Bologna Logik und Arzneimittellehre, setzt 1568 die Gründung eines
botanischen Gartens durch, legt 1600 sein Amt als Professor nieder und
stirbt 1605_). Wie in ihrer Gesamtheit die Zoologie der Neuzeit eine
Frucht der Anatomie und Botanik ist, so auch im Leben Aldrovandis, das
lange genug dauerte, um ein viel breiter als bei Gesner angelegtes
Unternehmen wenigstens zu einem großen Teile zur Vollendung zu bringen.
Erst 1599 erschien der erste von den drei Bänden, die ~Ornithologia~,
dem die weiteren Folianten über die Vierfüßer, die Schlangen und
Drachen, die Fische, die Wirbellosen und die Monstra (von Uterverius
und Dempster besorgt) bis 1642 folgten. Aldrovandi bemüht sich, alles
Wissenswerte über jedes einzelne Tier mit einem außerordentlichen
Apparat von Gelehrsamkeit zusammenzutragen. Er verarbeitet in reicherem
Maße schon die fremden Faunen, stellt nicht mehr nach dem Alphabet,
sondern nach natürlichen Gruppen zusammen. Merkwürdig wenig kommt bei
ihm, trotz seiner Abkunft von Bologna, wo damals noch die Anatomie
in hoher Blüte stand und sich die Entdeckung des Blutkreislaufs
vorbereitete, die Anatomie zur Geltung, kaum mehr als etwa bei
Friedrich II. oder Belon. Bei jedem einzelnen Tier wird nicht nur
eine zoologische Beschreibung gegeben, sondern womöglich ausführlich
abgehandelt: verschiedene Bedeutung des Namens, Synonyme, Habitus,
Sinne, Geschlechtsverschiedenheit, Aufenthalt, Fundort, Sitten,
Gelehrigkeit, Stimme, Nahrung, Begattung, Jagd, Kämpfe, Antipathien,
Krankheiten, Geschichte, Mystik, Moral, Hieroglyphik, Heraldik,
Fabeln, Sprichwörter, medizinischer Nutzen, Verwendung im Haushalt des
Menschen. Diese schwerfällige Art der Behandlung ließ keine genauere
Ordnung der also beschriebenen Tierwelt zu. Immerhin ist ein Vorzug,
daß sozusagen alle ältere Literatur, sofern sie sich auf Einzelheiten
der Tiere bezieht, in Aldrovandis Werken verarbeitet ist. Insofern hat
er etwas Vollständigeres, im einzelnen wohl aber weniger Gesichtetes
als Gesner geleistet. Aldrovandis zoologische Sammlung gehört zu den
ältesten und verdient als solche erwähnt zu werden. Im Anschluß an
ihn mag +Jonstonus+ mit seinen fünf der organischen Natur gewidmeten
Büchern der Thaumatographie (1633) genannt werden, sowie mit einem in
der Form an Gesner und Aldrovandi anschließenden großen Sammelwerk,
das von 1650-1773 erschienen, vielfach herausgegeben und sogar zum
Teil übersetzt worden ist. Jonston beschränkt den Text mehr aufs rein
Zoologische, erhebt sich aber im prinzipiellen Standpunkt nicht über
seine Vorgänger und hält sich auch der Anatomie völlig fern.
3. Aufsplitterung der Zoographie.
Aber auch auf andern Gebieten regte es sich mächtig. Die Beschreibung
neuer Lebewesen, besonders im Anschluß an +Reisen in ferne Länder+,
die Wirkung der zu Beginn der fünfziger Jahre einsetzenden Literatur,
die engere Fühlung der Zoologie mit der Anatomie des Menschen, die
sich nur sehr allmählich und gelegentlich herstellte, beherrschen den
nachfolgenden Zeitraum. Dabei löst sich die Schilderung des Tierreichs
allmählich in die seiner einzelnen Abteilungen bis zur +Monographie
wirklicher und fabelhafter Geschöpfe+ auf. Als eine vorzügliche Arbeit
dieser Art ist +Ruinos+ Schilderung des Pferdes zu nennen (1598). Die
Tradition mit den antiken Schriftstellern lockert sich, je mehr man
in der Beobachtung sich über sie erhob. Doch hatte man es in dieser
Hinsicht wiederum nicht so weit gebracht, um ein wirklich historisches
Urteil über sie zu gewinnen. In der Zootomie klebte man noch immer
an den von der menschlichen Anatomie und Physiologie gestellten
Problemen, die man noch ganz im Sinne des Galenismus mit Hilfe der
Untersuchung der Tierwelt zu lösen hoffte. Inzwischen war die Reaktion
gegen die Reformation eingetreten und legte den Naturforschern die
größte Zurückhaltung auf. Von Forschern des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts
mögen, ohne daß ihnen auf die innere Entwicklung dieser Wissenschaft
eine große Bedeutung zukäme, sondern mehr, weil sie als Sammler und
Beschreiber Neues beitrugen, hier noch folgende Leistungen genannt
werden: +Olaf der Große+ (1555), +Michovius+ (1532) und +Herbenstein+
(1549) schildern die Tierwelt Skandinaviens und Rußlands. Um die
Kenntnis der vorderasiatischen und afrikanischen Landtiere machte sich
der obengenannte +Belon+ verdient. +Clusius+ von Arras, +Oviedo+
und +Hernandez+ trugen zur Kenntnis der amerikanischen Lebewelt bei.
+Piso+ und +Marcgrav+, welche Brasilien, sowie +Bontius+, welcher in
Verbindung mit letzterem die ostindische Fauna bearbeitete, fallen
schon in die Mitte des 17. Jahrhunderts. Auf die Arbeiten über einzelne
Tiere kann hier nicht eingegangen werden, aber beispielsweise mag
angeführt werden, daß den Schlangen dickleibige Bände gewidmet wurden,
ferner den brieftragenden Vögeln, dem Elefanten, dem Pferd, dem Orang,
dem Nilpferd; aber auch dem Einhorn, dem Phönix ganze Monographien.
Noch hatte +Cäsalpin+ dem Aristoteles die stärksten Anregungen für
seine botanisch und damit allgemein biologischen Ausführungen entnommen
und Aldrovandi um dieselbe Zeit von Hippokrates die Anregung zu
methodisch angeordneter Embryologie empfangen, dann wurden die antiken
Autoren vergessen oder um unrichtiger Angaben willen bekämpft. Anstatt
derselben organisierte sich nunmehr eine „+biblische Zoologie+“, die
zu bedeutendem Umfange anschwoll. In lehrhaftem, moralisierendem Tone
pries man den Schöpfer um der an den Tieren offenbarten Weisheit
willen, die unvernünftige Kreatur wurde dem sündhaften Menschen zum
warnenden Beispiel vorgehalten, dem Geistlichen zur Bereicherung seiner
mit der Reformation beginnenden Redefron durch Symbolistik aller Art
Gelegenheit gegeben. Die Tierwelt, die im Vordergrund des Interesses
dieser Richtung stand, war die der Bibel. Dadurch kam es dann auch
gelegentlich zu jenen höchst gelehrten Ausführungen über die biblische
Tierwelt in jeder literarischen Richtung; die Typen hierfür sind +S.
Borcharts+ ~Hierozoicon~ (1663) und +Athan. Kirchers+ ~Arca Noe~
(1675). Die übrige hierher gehörende Literatur, die bis tief ins 18.
Jahrhundert reicht, ist würdig, vergessen zu werden.
4. Zootomie des 16. Jahrhunderts.
Man würde nach heutigen Begriffen glauben, die Entwicklung der Anatomie
vom 13. Jahrhundert ab, die Herbeiziehung von Tieren zu anatomischen
und vivisektorischen Zwecken, die Bereicherung der Kenntnis von
Tierarten, die nicht mehr nach Hunderten, sondern nach Tausenden
zählten, hätten die +Zootomie+ im Sinne der Aristotelischen früh zum
Durchbruch bringen müssen. Das geschah nicht. Wenn wir daher von
einer Zootomie der Neuzeit reden, so ist dabei zu berücksichtigen,
daß sie noch durchaus im Sinne Galens zum Zwecke der Medizin und der
menschlichen Anatomie betrieben wurde, ausnahmsweise im Anschluß an die
Zoologie und da erst, nachdem die äußere Form der Tiere den „kuriösen“
Neigungen der Neugier nicht mehr genügte. Auf diesem voraristotelischen
Standpunkt beharrt sie bis ans Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts.
Die oben gekennzeichnete reformatorische Tätigkeit Vesals mußte auch
mit der Zeit der Zootomie zugute kommen. Doch blieb ihr die volle
Wirkung versagt, weil Vesal nur mit dem Inhalt, nicht mit der Form
des Galenismus brach, was bei seiner Jugend und den nach Erscheinen
seines Werkes über ihn hereinbrechenden Verpflichtungen auch nicht
wohl zu erwarten war. Erst spät nach ihm konnte der Geist, in dem er
gewirkt hatte, aufwachen und weiter wirken. Die an ihn anschließenden
oder wenigstens zeitlich ihm folgenden Anatomen haben nicht nur
das von ihm gegebene Bild vom Bau des Menschen ergänzt, sondern
wesentliche Beiträge zur Zootomie geleistet. Da sind zu nennen:
+Eustachio+ (_Rom, gest. 1574_), dem wir eine vorzügliche Schilderung
des Gebisses beim Menschen und seiner Entwicklung verdanken, +R.
Colombo+ (_Vesals Nachfolger in Padua, gest. 1559_), der bereits den
kleinen Blutkreislauf kannte, +C. Varolius+, der die Organsysteme des
menschlichen Körpers zuerst nach ihren Funktionen, nicht nach der
Leichenzergliederung und der medizinischen Propädeutik ordnete, +Phil.
Ingrassias+ (1510-1580), der zu Neapel Tierarzneikunde lehrte und die
Osteologie aufs sorgfältigste ausbaute; dessen Schüler +Jasolini+
aus Epirus, der Lehrer Severinos, +G. Fabrizio ab Aquapendente+
(_Padua, 1537-1619_), der erste Embryologe der Neuzeit, der auch die
einzelnen Funktionen zuerst durch eine Reihenfolge tierischer Formen
hindurch verfolgt, +G. Casserio+ (1561-1616), der die Sinnesorgane
in aufsteigender Reihenfolge und vergleichend bearbeitete, +Adrian
Spigelius+ (_Brüssel 1578-1625_), der den Zwischenkiefer des Menschen
entdeckte. +Volcher Coiter+ (_1535-1600, geb. in Groningen studiert an
den oberitalienischen Universitäten_) gibt nicht nur Abbildungen des
Affenskeletts, sondern von etwa zwei Dutzend Skeletten der Warmblüter
und Reptilien, ohne indes die Vergleichung eingehender durchzuführen.
Die erste ausschließlich der Zootomie gewidmete Schrift stammt von
+Marco Aurelio Severino+, einem Kalabresen (_1580-1656 Professor der
Anatomie in Neapel_). Er wagte es, in der ~Zootomia democritaea~ (erst
1645 erschienen) für die Zootomie eine selbständige Stellung im Kreise
der der Medizin nützlichen Fächer zu erkämpfen. Die Zootomie sei
nötig I. nicht nur 1) für Psychologie und Technik, 2) für Ethik und
Religion, sondern auch II. für sämtliche Zweige der Medizin und zwar
sowohl 1. den der allgemeinen Biologie (Lehre von den Temperamenten,
Säften, Funktionen, Organen), mit Einschluß der Anthropotomie, als
auch 2. zur Verteidigung von Hippokrates und Galen, wie 3. wegen der
praktischen Medizin. Die tiefe Abneigung gegen Aristoteles, die er aus
der philosophischen Schule von Telesius und Campanella mitbrachte und
der Severino auch durch ein besonderes Werk (~Antiperipatias~) Ausdruck
verlieh, beraubte ihn leider der Basis für seine eigenen zootomischen
Studien, wie er sie in den Aristotelischen Schriften gefunden hätte.
Im Tone scholastischer Disputationen geschrieben, enthält dieses
Buch manche gute Beobachtungen und noch bessere Urteile, z. B.: man
beginne das Studium der Anatomie besser mit einfacheren Körpern, als
dem des Menschen, der den kompliziertesten, übrigens den Tieren sehr
ähnlichen Bau besitze. Severino verwendet den Begriff des Architypus
oder Bauplans. Im Bau der niederen Wirbellosen steckten noch größere
Geheimnisse, als man glaube. Er gibt Zusammenfassungen der anatomischen
Merkmale der Säugetiere, der Vögel, der Fische, sodann von zahlreichen,
wenn auch primitiven Skizzen begleitete anatomische Befunde, die sich
über etwa 80 Tiere erstrecken. Als technisches Hilfsmittel empfiehlt
Severino die Hand an erster Stelle, dann aber auch das neuerfundene
Mikroskop. Severino ist ein Spätling der ganzen Renaissancezoologie,
sein Werk zu spät erschienen, um zu einer Wirkung zu gelangen, wie sie
unter günstigeren äußeren Verhältnissen notwendig hätte erfolgen müssen.
5. Zootomie des 17. Jahrhunderts.
Die nachfolgende zweite Periode der Neuzeit, die wir etwa vom Jahre
1625 an datieren können, zeigt einen wesentlich anderen Charakter als
die vorangehende. Die weltgeschichtlichen Bedingungen, unter denen sie
einsetzt, sind einmal die Verwüstung Mittel- und Nordeuropas durch
den Dreißigjährigen Krieg, wodurch die wissenschaftliche Produktion
auf Jahrzehnte stillgelegt war, sodann der mächtige Einfluß, den
die exakten Naturwissenschaften, besonders die Physik, nach +Baco+,
+Galilei+ und +Kepler+ auf die organischen Naturwissenschaften gewannen
und zwar auf zweierlei Wegen: 1. durch Erfinden von Technizismen
zur Untersuchung der vorher unbekannten winzigen Organismen und
der Struktur der Gewebe (Mikroskop ca. 1590, Thermometer ca. 1600,
Anwendung der Injektion), 2. durch Vergleichung organischer
Verrichtungen mit Mechanismen, aus der man wiederum für die Technik
Nutzen zog. In dieser mechanistischen Tendenz der Biologie kommt aber
derselbe Gedanke zum Ausdruck, der sich auch in der Organisation des
Wissenschaftsbetriebes durch Sammlungen und gelehrte Gesellschaften,
sowie durch das Emporblühen der Systematik ausspricht, der Gedanke
nach praktischer und theoretischer Beherrschung der nach und nach
schon durch die voraufgehende Zeit ausgebreiteten Mannigfaltigkeit
der Natur durch die Macht menschlichen Geistes. Bestrebungen, wie die
+F. Bacos+ um die Erneuerung der Wissenschaften durch Beobachtung und
Experiment (schlug er doch schon vor, man sollte die Bildung der Arten
in besonderen Tiergärten experimentell nachzuweisen versuchen), konnten
nicht ohne Einwirkung auf die Zoologie bleiben. Bezeichnenderweise ist
indes der Weg unserer Wissenschaft während des 17. Jahrhunderts ein
zweispuriger. Am meisten gedeiht die zootomische und allmählich in ihr
dominierend die mikroskopische Richtung. Mit dem steigenden Einfluß
der exakten Wissenschaften nimmt die erstere, philosophisch durch
+Descartes+ bestimmt, vorwiegend einen physiologischen Charakter an,
wogegen die letztere die deskriptiven Traditionen der Zoologie des 16.
Jahrhunderts weiter kultiviert. Aus diesen wachsen dann mit infolge der
Zunahme der Tierkenntnis die systematischen Versuche heraus.
An der Schwelle dieser Zeit begegnet uns der Engländer und
Aristoteliker mit Bologneser Schulung, +William Harvey+, der die von
ihm festgestellte Lehre vom Blutkreislauf seit 1619 vortrug und 1628
publizierte. Wenn seiner Entdeckung auch für Physiologie und Pathologie
eine ungemein große Bedeutung zukommt und sie, besonders nachdem
auch +Aselli+ 1622 die Chylusgefäße und 1647 +Pecquet+ den ~Ductus
thoracicus~ zufällig entdeckt hatten, den wesentlichsten Zuwachs zur
Physiologie der Menschen in der Neuzeit bildete, so war sie doch auf
die Zoologie nicht von unmittelbarer Wirkung. Viel bedeutungsvoller
waren in dieser Richtung Harveys embryologische Untersuchungen, die
sich über die Klassen der Wirbeltiere, aber auch über Krustazeen,
Insekten, Mollusken ausdehnten und die Harvey zur Verallgemeinerung
führten, daß alles Leben, auch das des Menschen, einem Ei entstamme.
Auch er ließ die höheren Organismen Stufen durchlaufen, welche den
niederen entsprechen sollten. In dieselbe Zeit fällt die erste
methodische Verwendung des Mikroskops in der Biologie durch +Fr.
Stelluti+ (1625), welcher mit Hilfe dieses Instrumentes den Bau der
Biene untersuchte.
Im ganzen Laufe des 17. Jahrhunderts vollzog sich die Ausbreitung und
Festsetzung der Zootomie in den nordischen Ländern. Außer England, wo
wir nach Harvey zunächst +Glisson+ und +Grew+ aufzuführen haben, sind
Holland, Dänemark (die Dynastie der +Bartholine+), Schweden hieran
am meisten und wirkungsvollsten beteiligt. Nachdem um die Mitte des
Jahrhunderts die Produktion beinahe den Nullpunkt erreicht hatte,
bricht sie sich in überraschender Breite von den sechziger Jahren ab
neue Bahn in einer bedeutenden und fast ein Jahrhundert beherrschenden
Literatur.
Die Maschinentheorie des Lebens, wie sie in klassischer Weise von
Descartes vertreten wurde, reifte die ersten biomechanischen Schriften
eines +Steno+ (1669), eines +Borelli+ (1680), eines +Claude Perrault+
(1680), worin einmal die Prinzipien der Statik und Mechanik im Sinne
der modernen Physik auf den Menschen und die übrigen Lebewesen
angewandt sind. Perrault ließ es sich besonders angelegen sein, die
zahlreichen an Technizismen erinnernden Einrichtungen der Tiere
darzustellen und zu vergleichen. In der mechanischen Erklärung der
Funktionen erblickt Perrault geradezu die Hauptaufgabe der Biologie.
Die Gliederung der Funktionen in seiner ~Mécanique des animaux~ folgt,
entsprechend der selbständigen Gestaltung der Chemie durch Boyle und
Mayow und in Anlehnung an Aristoteles, dem Schema: Stoffwechsel und
Kraftwechsel; dabei läßt Perrault die Funktionen des Formwechsels oder
die Entwicklungsmechanik außer Spiel. Eine Parallele dazu bildet der
Vorstoß auf biochemischem Gebiete, den +Mayow+ (1674) unternahm und
der besonders dem Chemismus der Zirkulation galt. Auch eröffnete die
Untersuchung des Zitterrochens durch +Redi+ (1671) und +Lorenzini+
(1678) die Bahn für die Anschauungen über tierische Elektrizität.
Aber auch abgesehen von diesen an die Zootomie anknüpfenden
Erklärungsversuchen, sammelt sich allmählich ein reicher Bestand an
zootomischem Wissen an, das in mannigfacher Weise bald mehr an die
menschliche Anatomie, bald mehr an die der niederen Tiere anlehnte. Vor
allem traten jetzt diejenigen Lebewesen in den Kreis der zootomischen
Beschreibung, deren Bau in seiner reichen Mannigfaltigkeit dem Altertum
gänzlich unbekannt geblieben war, und die nun erst mit Hilfe des
Mikroskops erobert wurden, die Insekten und die verwandten Stämme. Sie
wurden auf einige Zeit hinaus das Lieblingsobjekt all derer, die in der
Zootomie „Augen- und Gemütsergötzung“ suchten. Mit ihrer Bearbeitung
war die Zoologie der Wirbellosen nicht mehr auf die Meeresufer
beschränkt und erfuhr zugleich mit der deskriptiven Zoologie eine
beispiellose Erweiterung.
Durch ihre zootomischen Leistungen zeichnen sich abgesehen von den
obengenannten Mechanisten aus die +Bartholine+, die die Anatomie auf
allen Gebieten gleichmäßig bereicherten: +N. Steno+ durch anatomische
Untersuchungen über die Fische, +N. Grew+ durch die vergleichende
Anatomie der Verdauungsorgane. +Caldesis+ Anatomie der Schildkröte
(1687) so gut wie +Redis+ Untersuchungen über die Viper (1664) und
+Lorenzinis+ (1678) über den Zitterrochen verraten einen mächtigen
Fortschritt der Zootomie. Zu den bedeutendsten Leistungen auf diesem
Gebiet gehören auch die Arbeiten von +Thomas Willis+ (1622-1675). In
seinen Hauptschriften (~Cerebri anatome~ 1666 und ~De anima brutorum~
1674) hat er nicht nur zuerst in ausgiebigerem Maße die vergleichende
Anatomie des Nervensystems gepflegt. (Den Namen ~Anatomia comparata~
hat er in Abänderung des von Baco ihm ursprünglich beigelegten Sinnes
für die Morphologie eingeführt.) Er will mit dieser Methode nicht
nur die Funktionen ergründen, sondern auch die tierische Psychologie
pflegen. Dabei entging ihm die Verschiedenheit der psychischen Begabung
der Tiere nicht; aber im Zeichen Harveys stehend, teilt er nach den
Respirationsorganen ein: Insekten, Fische, Vögel, Vierfüßer, Mensch.
Seine Beschreibungen (Regenwurm, Krebs, Auster) und Vergleichungen
gehören zu den methodisch bestdurchgeführten, ganz abgesehen davon,
daß er den ersten großen Schritt in der Neurologie über Galen hinaus
getan hat. In diese Phalanx nordischer Anatomen reiht sich auch +Olaf
Rudbeck+ ein, der an der Seite der Bartholine den neuen Anschauungen
über die Zirkulation Geltung erkämpfte. Auch seien die zootomischen
Studien an der neugegründeten Akademie in Paris namentlich von +J. G.
Duverney+ (Abhandlungen 1676 und 1732 erschienen) nicht vergessen,
ebenso die Anatomien von +E. Tyson+ (Beuteltier, Delphin, Schimpanse),
deren letztere 1699 kulturhistorische Bedeutung erlangte. So ist
denn dieser Zeitraum geradezu eine Blütezeit der Zootomie zu nennen,
und demgemäß fehlte es in ihm auch nicht an zusammenfassenden
Darstellungen. Eine solche, die wesentlich in einer Kompilation der
voraufgehenden Zootomen bestand, gab +G. Blasius+ (~Anatome animalium~,
Amsterdam 1681). Umfangreicher und in eingehendstem Zusammenhange mit
der menschlichen behandelte +S. Collins+ (1685) die tierische Anatomie.
Als drittes Sammelwerk ist endlich das viel jüngere ~Amphitheatrum
zootomicum~ von +B. Valentini+ (1720) schon an dieser Stelle
aufzuführen.
Als ein Resultat gesteigerter Kritik infolge der Zootomie darf wohl
auch betrachtet werden, daß man begann, Fossilien mit lebenden
Organismen zu vergleichen. Der obengenannte +Steno+ erklärte die
Glossopetren (1669) für versteinerte Zähne von Haifischen und sah
auch in den fossilen Resten von Muscheln und Schnecken Überbleibsel
einstiger Faunen, aber nicht mehr „Naturspiele“ oder Niederschläge des
gesteinbildenden Saftes der Erde. Lebhafte Unterstützung fand er darin
von +A. Scilla+ 1670. Namentlich waren es Engländer, worunter besonders
+J. Woodward+, die um die Wende des Jahrhunderts für eine vernünftige
Auffassung der Fossilien eintraten.
Wie oben erwähnt, verfolgen die +Mikroskopiker+ von allen Zootomen den
selbständigsten und eigenartigsten Weg. Auch ihre Leistungen fallen
der Hauptsache nach ins letzte Drittel des 17. Jahrhunderts. Allen
voran leuchtet das Dreigestirn +M. Malpighi+ (1628-1694, Bologna), +J.
Swammerdam+ (1637-1680, Leiden) und +A. van Leeuwenhoeck+ (1632-1723,
Delft). +Malpighi+ (~Opera omnia~ 1687) war einer der ersten, die es
verstanden, zootomische Studien zu einer selbständigen, nicht von der
medizinischen Praxis abhängigen Beschäftigung zu erheben. Insbesondere
wandte er sich dem Studium menschlicher und tierischer Gewebe zu. Die
Entdeckung des Baues vieler Drüsen führte ihn dazu, die Allgemeinheit
drüsiger Struktur zu überschätzen, z. B. auch dem Gehirn drüsigen
Bau zuzuschreiben. Von großer Bedeutung wurde für die Zoologie
seine Monographie des Seidenwurms, da sie die erste anatomische und
embryologische eines Insektes war. Die eingehende Schilderung der
Tracheen der Insekten ist sein Verdienst. Dann aber wandte er auch
zuerst das Mikroskop auf die Entwicklungsgeschichte, speziell des
Hühnchens an. Obschon Malpighi vielfach auch die Injektionstechnik
zu Hilfe nahm, so wurde er in der Ausführung derselben von +Ruysch+
(1638-1731, Haag) übertroffen, der durch den Verkauf geschickt
injizierter und sorgfältig präparierter Sammlungen viel zur Verbreitung
feinerer anatomischer Technik beitrug. Ihm auch gelang es zuerst, die
Klappen in den Lymphgefäßen nachzuweisen (1665). Eine höchst sonderbare
Persönlichkeit, das Vorbild aller derer, die in der Hingabe an die Welt
des Mikroskopischen zu allen Zeiten Glück und Erlösung von irdischen
Mühsalen suchten, ist +J. Swammerdam+. Seine Biographie, die +Boerhave+
dem erst nach Swammerdams Tode erschienenen Hauptwerke (Bybel der
Nature, Leiden 1737) voraussetzte, verrät ein Leben voll Schwärmerei,
Polemik und Enttäuschungen. Er arbeitete mit dem subtilsten Rüstzeug
an selbstverfertigten Instrumenten und stellte das Gesehene in
wunderbar künstlerischer, auch heute noch mustergültiger Weise dar. Die
Zergliederungen von Mollusken (Sepia und Helix) blieben bis auf Cuvier
unübertroffen. Mit besonderer Liebe und Andacht sind die Insekten
nach Bau und Entwicklung dargestellt, deren Unterscheidung nach dem
Grade der Vollkommenheit ihrer Entwicklung von ihm herrührt. Erfahrung
durch Beobachtung und Experiment sind auch ihm die Grundlage seiner
unvergänglichen Arbeit, doch durchzieht sie ein mystischer Faden, der,
an die obengeschilderte biblische Zoologie anknüpfend, ihn sein letztes
Genügen in der Bewunderung von Gottes Güte und in der Versenkung in sie
suchen läßt. Die Zeugungs- und Entwicklungsgeschichte hat Swammerdam
namentlich durch seine Studien über das Urogenitalsystem der Frösche
und seine Befruchtungsexperimente an Amphibien gefördert.
Eine Parallele zu ihm bildet +A. v. Leeuwenhoeck+, der, zum Kaufmann
bestimmt, sich der Liebhaberei, starkvergrößernde Linsen herzustellen,
hingab und nun, ohne besonderen Plan, als Dilettant mikroskopische
Studien betrieb. Trotz seiner mangelhaften Vorbildung ist die Zahl
seiner Entdeckungen nicht unbedeutend; so sah er die Blutkörperchen,
den Kapillarkreislauf des Froschlarvenschwanzes, die Querstreifung des
Muskels u. a. m. Unter seiner Leitung arbeitete der Student Ludwig von
Ham, der 1677 die Samentierchen (Spermatozoen) entdeckte, in denen nun
+Leeuwenhoeck+ den wesentlichen Bestandteil bei der Befruchtung zu
erkennen glaubte, womit er zum Haupt der sog. Schule der Animalkulisten
wurde. Von größter Wichtigkeit für die Zoologie wurde die Entdeckung
der Protozoen durch ihn, die von nun an ein Lieblingsobjekt der
mikroskopierenden Dilettanten waren.
Durch all diese Untersuchungen und Entdeckungen war eine Basis gegeben,
auf der für die alten Probleme von der Zeugung und Vererbung neue
und, wie man glaubte, abschließende Tatsachen gediehen. +G. Needham+
schrieb 1667 seine berühmte Schrift über die Entstehung des Fötus,
worin er besondere Sorgfalt den Eihäuten zuwandte. +Redi+ erbrachte
1668 den Beweis auf experimentellem Wege dafür, daß die Tiere nicht
aus den Stoffen, worin sie leben, entstünden, sondern, wie +Harvey+
behauptet hatte, nur aus Eiern. Daraus erwuchsen wiederum die größten
Schwierigkeiten, die Übereinstimmung mit der unantastbaren biblischen
Tradition herzustellen. Was Wunder, wenn +Malebranche+ (1688) auf den
Gedanken der Präformation, der Vorbildung des fertigen Wesens im Keime,
verfiel, der nun für die Folgezeit zur Herrschaft gelangte?
Mit alledem hatte die Zootomie ihre Grenzen ausgedehnt, Wirbellose
und die Entwicklung aufs neue in den Kreis ihrer durch zweckmäßige
Instrumente unterstützten Tätigkeit gezogen und war zu ungeahnter
Breite ausgewachsen. Nebenher ging die Erweiterung des Tierbestandes
im Sinne der Beschreiber des 16. Jahrhunderts durch Reisende oder
Forscher, die sich die Fauna ihrer Heimat zum Vorwurf nahmen.
~B.~ Periode der Systematik.
1. Praktische und theoretische Organisation der Zoologie.
Mit der Würdigung der Objekte, über die man schrieb und lehrte,
stellte sich früh schon das Bedürfnis ein, +Sammlungen+ anzulegen.
Hierin gingen den Zoologen die Botaniker voran, da sie es mit leichter
zu konservierenden Objekten zu tun hatten. +Clusius+ von Arras
und +Aldrovandi+ werden als erste zoologische Sammler aufgeführt;
jedenfalls nahm im 17. Jahrhundert die Lust zum Sammeln zu und
in allen Kuriositätenkabinetten fanden sich neben allen anderen
Gegenständen auch zoologische ein. Befördert wurde das Sammeln durch
den Zusammenschluß der Gelehrten zu Gesellschaften und Akademien, die
der Pflege der Sammlungen besonders oblagen. Vielfach wurden von diesen
Sammlungen ausführliche und illustrierte Kataloge publiziert, so von
der des Collegium Romanum 1678 und der Royal Society von London 1681;
doch lag die Konservierungskunst noch zu sehr im argen, als daß der
Wissenschaft bleibender Gewinn aus diesen Versuchen erwachsen wäre.
+Gelehrte Gesellschaften+ entstanden zuerst in Italien, aber auch in
Deutschland, wo einige Ärzte 1651 sich zuerst zu der später (1677)
privilegierten ~Academia Naturae Curiosorum~ zusammentaten, um sich
mit Naturgeschichte zu beschäftigen, und in England, wo seit 1645 die
Anfänge der Royal Society existierten. In dieselbe Zeit fällt die
Gründung der Académie des Sciences in Paris, die die hervorragendste
Zentrale gerade für zootomische Publikationen wurde. Diesem Vorbilde
der großen Kulturzentren folgten alle bedeutenderen Städte, in denen
Wissenschaft gepflegt wurde. Sie hatten den Vorzug, daß sie den
Gelehrten teure Materialien zugänglich machten, wozu auch die Gründung
von Menagerien, besonders des ~Jardin du roy~ unter Ludwig ~XIII.~,
beitrugen.
Der +praktischen Organisation zoologischer Forschung+ ging die
+theoretische+ zur Seite. Der Stoff hatte nachgerade unheimliche
Dimensionen angenommen; aber er lag chaotisch da. Es fehlte vor allem
an einem Unterscheidungsmittel rein äußerer Art für das Ähnliche und
doch konstant Verschiedene! Andererseits machte sich das Bedürfnis
geltend, die Gesamtheit des Bestandes an Tieren und Pflanzen nach einem
natürlichen Prinzip, wie es die Botaniker schon seit der Renaissance
suchten, zu ordnen. Dazu kam die solchen Strömungen günstige
Zeitstimmung. Die Organisation der Kirche hatte unter den Jesuiten den
Höhepunkt erreicht, Ludwig XIV. organisierte den Typus des europäischen
Staates, Leibniz den des philosophischen Systems; braucht man sich
da zu wundern, daß sich der Drang nach Organisation der Kenntnis von
den Lebewesen, die den größten Bestand an damals bekannten konkreten
Objekten darstellten, in gesteigertem Maße geltend machte?
2. John Ray.
+John Ray+, geboren 1628, studierte von 1644 in Cambridge Theologie,
traf dort den etwas jüngeren +Fr. Willughby+ (1635-72) mit dem er
sich intim befreundete, verlor als Nichtkonformist 1662 seine Stelle
am Trinity College, reiste auf dem Kontinent 1663, zog sich von
1669 ab zu Willughby zurück, übernahm von 1672 an die Erziehung von
Willughbys verwaisten Kindern, gab 1675 Willughbys Ornithologie, 1682
seine ~Methodus plantarum nova~, 1686 seine ~Historia plantarum~,
1693 seine Synopsis der Vierfüßer heraus und starb 1705. Um sich von
Rays Gedankenkreis eine Vorstellung zu machen, muß man wissen, daß
er Griechisch konnte, ohne bindende Verpflichtungen sich ganz seinen
Aufgaben widmete und ein vielgelesenes Buch schrieb, worin er die
Weisheit Gottes aus der Schöpfung bewies.
Rays Verdienste liegen fast vollständig auf methodischem Gebiete
und gehören der gesamten Biologie an. Aber er beschränkte sich
nicht darauf, seine Prinzipien aufzustellen, sondern er betätigte
sich auch an den größten Gruppen der Lebewesen. Den Zeit- und
Streitfragen der damaligen Biologie durchaus nicht fremd, suchte er
in entgegengesetzter Weise wie die Mechanisten die Vereinfachung des
biologischen Tatbestandes zu erreichen, Übersicht und Ordnung in die
Mannigfaltigkeit tierischen Lebens zu bringen. Dabei lehnt er sich in
höherem Grade, als dies seit Cäsalpin der Fall gewesen war, bewußt
an Aristoteles an, sowohl in den allgemeinen Ausführungen über das
Tier, wie auch im speziellen Modus der Gliederung der Tierwelt. Die
beifolgende Übersicht bringt, abgesehen von der Erwähnung der Manati,
geradezu nur den klassifikatorischen Inhalt der Aristotelischen
Schriften in tabellarischer Form. +Ray+ scheute sich geradezu, die
Wale den Säugetieren einzureihen, weil Aristoteles es nicht getan
hatte, oder er behält die Bezeichnung genus für die größeren Gruppen
bei, ohne deren Stufenfolge entsprechend zu charakterisieren. Und doch
besteht ein großer Fortschritt: +Ray+ machte die Klassifikation zu
einer selbständigen wissenschaftlichen Aufgabe; dadurch allein wurde
der durch den Zuwachs an neuen Objekten drohenden Verwirrung Einhalt
geboten. Sodann vollzog sich in +Rays+ Arbeiten wieder einmal der
Prozeß, daß ihm für die Einteilung die Formmerkmale wichtiger wurden,
als die Funktionsmerkmale, ohne daß er sich dessen bewußt war. Es
war ein rein praktisches Verdienst Rays, daß er die Art (Spezies)
definierte und gewissermaßen zur Norm, zur kleinsten Einheit des
Systems erhob. Er selbst faßte die Feststellung des Artbegriffes als
ein Hilfsmittel der Klassifikation auf. „Welche Formen der Spezies nach
verschieden sind, behalten diese ihre spezifische Natur beständig, und
es entsteht die eine nicht aus dem Samen einer andern und umgekehrt.“
Nun ist aber dieses Zeichen der spezifischen Übereinstimmung, obschon
ziemlich konstant, doch nicht beständig und untrüglich. Denn „daß
einige Samen degenerieren und, wenn auch selten, Pflanzen erzeugen,
welche von der Spezies der mütterlichen Form verschieden sind, daß
es also bei Pflanzen eine Umwandlung der Spezies gibt, beweisen die
Versuche“. Es lag also vollkommen außerhalb der Absicht Rays, dem
Artbegriff die dogmatisch starre Deutung zu geben, welche später
beliebte. Seine Klassifikation kann hier nicht im einzelnen verfolgt
werden, doch traf sie schon durch Anwendung des Aristotelischen
Grundsatzes, Ähnliches zusammenzustellen und Unähnliches zu trennen,
bei dem erweiterten Tierbestande, der jetzt vorlag, vielfach das
Richtige und bedeutete im einzelnen einen wichtigen Schritt vorwärts.
Bei den Insekten gründete Ray im Anschluß an Swammerdam die Einteilung
auf den Vollkommenheitsgrad der Metamorphose. Ray überging den
Menschen im Gegensatz zu seinen sonstigen Anlehnungen an Aristoteles
vollständig. Er brach dagegen zuerst mit der Tradition, welche die
alten Fabelwesen mitschleppte, und nahm nur positiv erwiesene Tiere in
seine Verzeichnisse auf. Er dehnte seine Tätigkeit jedoch innerhalb
der Wirbellosen nicht über die Insekten hin aus. +Martin Lister+,
sein Freund, behandelte nach Rays Prinzipien die Mollusken. Hier mag
auch noch +W. Charleton+ (1619-1707) um seiner Verdienste für die
Nomenklatur willen aufgeführt sein. Er suchte zuerst einer zweckmäßigen
Terminologie für die verschiedenen Eigenschaften der Form, Farbe usw.
Eingang zu verschaffen.
Allgemeine Übersicht der Tiere (1693):
Tiere sind
{ =Bluttiere= und zwar
{ { =Lungenatmer= mit Herzventrikeln und zwar mit
{ { { deren =zwei=
{ { { { =Lebendiggebärende=
{ { { { { =Wassertiere=, Gruppe der +Wale+
{ { { { { =Landtiere=, +Vierfüßer+, oder, um auch die
{ { { { { Manati einzuschließen,
{ { { { { +Haartragende+, mit Einschluß
{ { { { { der amphibisch Lebenden
{ { { { =Eierlegende=, +Vögel+
{ { { deren =einem=, +Eierlegende Vierfüßer+ und
{ { { +Schlangen+
{ { =Kiemenatmer=, Blutführende +Fische+ außer den Walen
{ =Blutlose=
{ =Große= und zwar
{ { =Weichtiere=, Polyp, Tintenfisch, Posthörnchen
{ { =Krustentiere=, Heuschreckenkrebs, Flußkrebs, Taschenkrebs
{ { =Schaltiere=, Einschaler, Zweischaler, Schnecken
{ =Kleine= Insekten.
3. Vermehrung der Tierkenntnis.
Daß diesem gewaltigen Aufschwunge der Zoologie am Ende des 17.
Jahrhunderts ein bedeutender Niederschlag von neuen Leistungen,
die sich die großen Meister zum Muster nahmen, folgen mußte, ist
nicht überraschend. Nur in Kürze seien hier einige der wichtigsten
zoologischen Werke aus dieser beschaulichen Periode (bis 1750)
hervorgehoben.
Die +Tierkenntnis+ nahm teils durch Ausdehnung der Zootomie über
seltene oder fremdländische Formen zu: +M. Sarasin+ (Biber, Vielfraß),
+P. Blair+ (Elefant), +Jussieu+ (Hippopotamus), +Vallisneri+
(Chamäleon), oder aber durch Beschreibung neuer Arten und ihrer
Lebensweise: +Rumph+, +Seba+, +Petiver+ (Südasien), +Kämpfer+
(Japan), +Pr. Alpin+, +Tournefort+, +Shaw+ (Orient und Nordafrika),
+Sloane+ (Zentralamerika), +S. Merian+ (Surinam); insbesondere gewann
die mitteleuropäische Fauna durch die Darstellungen von +Marsigli+
(Donau 1726), +Cysat+ (Schweizerseen 1661), +Breyn+ (Schaltiere).
Das Lieblingsobjekt aber bildeten die Insekten, und den großen
Publikationen des 17. Jahrhunderts folgte +R. A. F. de Réaumur+
mit seinen durch vielseitige Berücksichtigung der Biologie und
Entwicklungsgeschichte klassischen Abhandlungen zur Naturgeschichte
der Insekten (1734 bis 1742), der sich nebenbei auch um die
Naturgeschichte der niederen Tiere, namentlich der Polypen, verdient
gemacht hat. Das von ihm in Paris angelegte Museum ging später an den
Jardin des Plantes über. Von verdienstvollen Arbeiten über Wirbellose
sind hervorzuheben diejenigen von +J. H. Linck+ (1733) über die
Seesterne, von +Marsigli+ (1711) über die Polypen und die Edelkoralle.
Großes Aufsehen erregten die Experimente +Trembleys+ (1744) am
Süßwasserpolypen.
4. Biologische Dogmatik.
Aus den Experimenten und Entdeckungen über niedere Tiere sowie
über Eier und Spermatozoen, aus den mechanistischen Tendenzen der
Physiologie und aus der Herrschaft der materialistischen Richtung
in der Philosophie bildete sich zu Beginn des 18. Jahrhunderts eine
bis in die zweite Hälfte desselben hineinreichende theoretisierende
Biologie heraus, die mit scholastischer Dialektik die Probleme vom
Ursprung des organischen Lebens, von der Vererbung, von den Beziehungen
zwischen organischer und anorganischer Welt fortspann und das von der
Stellung des Menschen wenigstens streifte. Sie ist als die +biologische
Dogmatik+ zu bezeichnen. Die von +Malebranche+ behauptete Präformation
der Keime, wonach bereits entweder im Samentier oder im Ei der fertige
Organismus mit all seinen Teilen nebst zukünftigen Generationen sollte
eingeschachtelt sein, fand infolge der Kombination von Beobachtungen
an Insekten und des Glaubens an die Artkonstanz unerschütterliche
Anhänger in +Ch. Bonnet+ (1720-1793) und +Albr. von Haller+, bis
+C. Fr. Wolff+ (1759) mit seiner ~Theoria generationis~ an Stelle
der Präformationslehre, die sich außerdem mit dem Augustinismus
deckte, wieder die von Aristoteles und Malpighi vertretene Epigenese
setzte. Nach dieser Theorie entstehen die Organe erst innerhalb des
Embryonallebens. Der Streit, ob das Ei oder das Samentierchen den
eigentlichen Keim enthalte, welcher die Theoretiker in das Lager
der +Ovulisten+ (Malpighi, Swammerdam, Vallisneri, Bonnet, Haller,
Spallanzani) und das der +Animalkulisten+ trennte (Leeuwenhoeck,
Leibniz, Boerhave), wurde scheinbar zugunsten der ersteren entschieden,
als +Bonnet+ die Parthenogenese der Blattläuse entdeckte. Der
endgültige Abschluß dieses Streites erfolgte aber erst in der zweiten
Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts. Über die Beziehungen zwischen organischer
und anorganischer Natur dachte man sehr verschieden. +Buffon+ nahm
keine solche Beziehungen an, wohl aber winzige Elementarorganismen,
organische Partikeln, welche sich zusammentun und neue Organismen
bilden sollten, da Buffon nach ungenauen Versuchen Needhams an die
Urzeugung glaubte, die einwandfrei erst von Spallanzani (1786)
endgültig widerlegt wurde. Andererseits leugnete z. B. +Maupertuis+
die prinzipielle Verschiedenheit der organischen und der anorganischen
Natur. Die Theorie der Pangenesis fand für diesen Zeitraum die meisten
Anhänger (Maupertuis, Buffon, später auch Oken); nach ihr sollten
in die Zeugungsstoffe kleinste Teile aus allen Organen des Körpers
eingehen und auf diese Weise die elterlichen Eigenschaften übertragen,
wie dies schon Hippokrates ausgesprochen hatte. Aus alledem ist
ersichtlich, daß durch die Kombination der tierischen Mechanik und
der mikroskopischen Anatomie die Postulate des Neuplatonismus einen
breiten Tummelplatz fanden, der, außerdem durch den Kampf zwischen
den christlichen Dogmen und der modernen Skepsis durchfurcht, ein bis
heute ertragreiches und namentlich in den letzten zwei Dezennien wieder
viel kultiviertes Saatfeld gab. „Das Tier, ein System verschiedener
organischer Moleküle, welche den Anstoß eines dumpfen Empfindens, das
der Schöpfer der Materie ihnen erteilt hat, sich kombiniert haben, bis
daß jedes seinen geeigneten Platz für seine Form und sein Gleichgewicht
gefunden hat“ (+Diderot+ 1751). Über das Verhältnis der Tierwelt zur
Erdgeschichte wurden die verschiedensten Hypothesen laut. +Bonnet+
sah die seit der Schöpfung vorhandenen Keime für alle Wesen vom Atom
zum Cherubim sich allmählich zu einer Stufenleiter der Lebewesen
auswachsen, die sich in drei großen Etappen folgen sollten. Wie er an
das Gesetz der Kontinuität von Leibniz anknüpfte, so auch +Robinet+
(1768), ein moderner Vertreter des Hylozoismus, der eine sukzessive
Vervollkommnung der Schöpfung annimmt, die Arten verwirft, nur durch
unmerkliche Übergänge miteinander verbundene Individuen annimmt und dem
Menschen eine große Zukunft in Aussicht stellt. Mehr an die Tatsachen,
namentlich der Paläontologie, hielt sich +de Maillet+ (1748), der einer
Entwicklung des Planeten und seiner Organismen, namentlich aber der
Umbildung der letzteren aus primitiven Meerbewohnern das Wort redet.
5. C. von Linné.
Zu welchem Mißbrauch systematische Versuche führen konnten, wenn
sie ohne tieferes Eindringen in die Wirklichkeit, rein auf logische
Schemata hin unternommen wurden, das bewiesen aufs schlagendste die von
einem hohlen und oberflächlichen Dilettantismus getragenen Arbeiten
des Stadtsekretärs von Danzig, +J. Th. Kleins+ (1685-1759). Würden sie
nicht eine vollkommene Analogie zu den dichotomistischen Spielereien
in der Schule Platos bilden, so wären sie höchstens noch als
Zeugnisse eines ungebrochenen, aber seinen Anhängern verhängnisvollen
vielseitigen Eifers für die Tiere erwähnenswert. Sie stehen weit hinter
der von Ray glücklich eingeleiteten Entwicklung der Klassifikation
zurück, halten sich lediglich an Äußerliches unter Verachtung der
Anatomie und konnten höchstens dazu beitragen, das Ansehen von Linné,
dem sich +Klein+ in beständiger Feindseligkeit entgegenwarf, zu
erhöhen.
Die von Ray gebrochene Bahn betrat als eigentlicher Vollender und
Gesetzgeber +Carl von Linné+. (_1707 in Rashult als Sohn eines
Predigers geboren, besuchte er ohne Erfolg die Schule von Wexiö,
studierte zu Lund Medizin, siedelte 1728 nach Upsala über, wo er als
Schüler Rudbecks für diesen von 1730 ab Vorlesung hielt und sich mit
+Peter Artedi+ [1705-1735] aufs innigste befreundete. 1732 trat er
eine Reise nach Lappland und 1735 nach Holland an, wo er promovierte.
In demselben Jahre veranlaßte Gronov in Amsterdam den erstmaligen
Druck des ~Systema naturae~, das bis 1758 zehn Auflagen erlebte.
1738 gab er das Werk des inzwischen verstorbenen Artedi über die
Fische heraus, reiste nach Paris und kehrte alsdann nach Schweden
zurück. 1741 Professor der Medizin in Upsala, errichtete er 1745 ein
naturhistorisches Museum, von 1747 sandte er mehrere Schüler auf
Forschungsreisen, 1750 erschien die ~Philosophia botanica~. 1764 zog er
sich nach Hammarby zurück und starb daselbst 1778._)
Linnés größtes Verdienst beruht in der Präzision, die er erst
der naturgeschichtlichen Sprache verliehen hat. Damit hat er
Schwierigkeiten beseitigt, die für die ganze Biologie ein Hindernis
waren. Seine scharfe und klar gefaßte Kunstsprache sucht einen für
jede Beobachtung adäquaten Ausdruck. Dadurch wurde man erst fähig, mit
kurzen Diagnosen ein Tier, eine Pflanze zu kennzeichnen. Nicht minder
bedeutungsvoll war die Abstufung der Gruppen (Gattungen Rays und der
Alten) des Systems in Reiche, Klassen, Ordnungen, Gattungen, Arten und
Varietäten, Bezeichnungen, deren höhere er dem Zivilstand entnahm.
Mit diktatorischer Gewalt stellte Linné den Begriff der Art fest: Es
gibt so viele Arten, als ursprünglich erschaffen worden sind, nach den
Gesetzen der Vererbung bringen sie stets Ähnliches hervor. Es sind
ihrer heute also so viele, als sich der Form nach unterscheiden lassen.
Die Art ist ein Produkt der Natur, ebenso die Gattung; die Varietät ein
solches der Kultur; Klasse und Ordnung ein solches der Kunst. Linné
glaubte indes, daß Bastardzeugung neue Arten zu bilden imstande sei,
wie er denn überhaupt in späteren Jahren annahm, die verschiedenen
Arten seien aus gemeinsamen Grundformen entstanden (1763). Er führte
als Bezeichnung für jede Art die binäre Nomenklatur (doppelte
Namengebung) durch, die seit ihm Gemeingut geblieben ist. In der Natur
unterscheidet er drei Reiche, die er, Aristotelischen Prinzipien
folgend, also begrenzt: „Die Steine wachsen, die Pflanzen wachsen und
leben, die Tiere wachsen, leben und empfinden.“
Hatte Linné in den neun ersten Auflagen die sechs von ihm
unterschiedenen Tierklassen mehr nach äußeren Merkmalen eingeteilt,
so legte er später den Hauptakzent auf die Merkmale der Kreislaufs-
und Atmungsorgane. So erhält er denn die sechs Klassen: Vierfüßer,
Vögel, Amphibien, Fische, Insekten, Würmer. Mit dieser obersten
Gliederung weniger glücklich als Ray, tat er den ungeheuer folgereichen
Schritt über ihn hinaus, den Menschen wiederum zum ersten Male seit
dem Altertum dem Tierreich und zwar bei den Säugetieren den Affen
einzureihen mit der lakonischen Bemerkung: ~Nosce te ipsum.~ Die
Einzelheiten seines Systems zu erläutern, würde uns bei dem Wechsel,
dem es von Auflage zu Auflage unterlag, zu weit führen. Mehr als
Ray legte er bei der Anordnung der Säugetiere auf die Merkmale des
Gehirns Gewicht, reihte die Wale den Säugern endgültig ein; beging
aber in der zehnten Auflage den unbegreiflichen Mißgriff, daß er die
Knorpelfische den Amphibien einreihte, zu denen er daneben Frosch,
Eidechse, Schlange, Schildkröte und Blindwühle zählte. Gehen auf Artedi
auch die wichtigsten Unterscheidungen von Ordnungen der Fische zurück,
wie sie bis in die neueste Zeit maßgebend sind, so bleibt von ihnen
doch nur das eine bemerkenswert, daß sie auf anatomischen Bau gegründet
waren, wie die Bezeichnungen (~Branchiostegii~, ~Malacopterygii~,
~Acanthopterygii~, ~apodes~, ~jugulares~, ~thoracici~, ~abdominales~)
verraten. Als Insekten werden, wie bei Ray, die ~Entoma~ von
Aristoteles festgehalten, denen er die Spinnen und Myriapoden
einverleibt und die Krebse zuweist. Dadurch, daß er als weitere Klasse
die Würmer unterscheidet, tritt er entsprechend seiner binnenländischen
Herkunft hinter Aristoteles und Ray zurück. Die Zoophyten sind ihm wohl
Übergangsformen von den Pflanzen zu den Tieren, deren Polypen er mit
Blüten vergleicht, aber es fehlt an jeder genügenden Beobachtung zur
Beurteilung des Gesehenen.
Man sieht schon daraus, daß Linné vielleicht weniger methodisch
beanlagt war und weniger systematischen Spürsinn gehabt hat, als
Ray, ja, daß das Schwergewicht seiner Verdienste mehr auf die
Nomenklatur als auf die Systematik fällt, auch wenn er zuerst mit
Hilfe der Systematik die gesamte Lebewelt in einen wohlgeordneten und
übersichtlichen Zusammenhang gebracht hat. Mit seinem Natursystem
schuf er ein praktisches Hilfsmittel, das ermöglichte und die Lust
weckte, neuen Zuwachs an Arten beizubringen. Glückliche, praktische
Folgen davon waren die allgemeine Beschäftigung Gebildeter mit
Naturgeschichte, Abtrennung des naturgeschichtlichen Studiums vom
medizinischen, Aussendung von Expeditionen zum Zwecke der Erforschung
von Flora und Fauna, endlich ein durch gemeinsame Namengebung
erleichterter Verkehr der Gelehrten untereinander. Die theoretischen
Folgen machten sich schon darin geltend, daß man an der Spezies
eine Norm zu haben vermeinte und daß der Begriff daher um so mehr
der Erstarrung ausgesetzt war, als sich in den anorganischen
Naturwissenschaften die Präzision immer mehr verlohnte, die hier der
Natur Gewalt antat. Fernerhin entnahm von jetzt an die Systematik
der Zootomie denjenigen Teil, der sich ihren Zwecken unterordnete;
die intime Fühlung mit der Physiologie aber, die durch die Zootomie
vermittelt worden war, ging um so mehr verloren, als auch die
Physiologie selbst sich der Hilfsmittel der Physik bediente und sich
nicht mehr mit Schlußfolgerungen aus anatomischen Befunden begnügte.
Endlich wurde durch die Systematik mehr als durch irgend eine andere
Richtung in der Zoologie selbst der Boden vorbereitet, auf dem der ganz
spezifisch moderne Gedanke der realen Einheit der Organismenwelt durch
Blutsverwandtschaft, der Entwicklungslehre, wachsen sollte.
6. P. S. Pallas.
An Linné schließt in mancher Hinsicht ein Forscher an, der hinwiederum
in anderen Beziehungen einzig dasteht durch die mannigfache Ausdehnung
seiner Studien sowohl, wie durch sein tiefes und eigenartiges
Verständnis für die Zoologie als Wissenschaft. Es ist dies +P. S.
Pallas+ (_geboren 1741 in Berlin, studierte in Leyden, reiste in
England, doktorierte 1760 und folgte 1767 einem Rufe nach Petersburg,
da er in Berlin nicht beachtet wurde; von 1768 reiste er nach
Sibirien bis zum Baikalsee und setzte seine Reise fort bis 1794; nach
vorübergehendem Aufenthalt auf seinen Gütern in der Krim kehrte er 1810
nach Berlin zurück und starb 1811_). Der Name von Pallas ist besonders
bekannt als der desjenigen Zoologen, der die erste große Ausbeute aus
Sibirien brachte. Freilich war ihm schon eine stattliche Zahl von
Reisenden, aber mit wechselndem Schicksal in diese noch unbekannten
Regionen vorangegangen, Messerschmidt, Gmelin, Bering, Steller (der
Entdecker des ausgestorbenen Borkentieres), Güldenstedt, Amman, deren
Vorarbeiten er zum Teil benutzte. Doch ist er glücklicher gewesen,
als die meisten seiner Vorgänger, im Erfolge seines Sammelns, wenn
auch seine groß angelegten Werke nicht zu Ende gediehen sind, da er
nebenbei auch ungeheure botanische, ethnographische und linguistische
Materialien zu sammeln und zu verarbeiten hatte. So besteht denn
der Zuwachs, den er der Zoographie brachte, besonders darin, daß
er die kleinen von Buffon vernachlässigten Säugetiere eingehend
beschreibt. Was aber der Zoologie zugute kam, das war weniger die
Verarbeitung seiner Reisen, als die früheren Arbeiten, zu denen ihm
die holländischen und englischen Sammlungen die Materialien geliefert
hatten. In Holland war es, wo er 1766 seinen ~Elenchus zoophytorum~
herausgab. In diesem Werk vertrat er zuerst eine richtige Auffassung
des Polypenstocks als eines Einzeltieres und gab die systematische
Übersicht der Zoophyten überhaupt. Nach der Menagerie des Prinzen von
Oranien schilderte er eine Menge von Tieren, namentlich Afrikas, die
Buffon unzugänglich waren. Auch bekämpfte er die Stufenleiter der
Lebewesen und faßte die Tierwelt im Sinne eines reich verzweigten
Stammbaumes auf. Ferner übte Pallas Kritik an Linnés Klasse der
Würmer, nachdem er schon zu Beginn seiner Studien durch Versuche
und Beobachtungen den Beweis zu erbringen gesucht hatte, daß die
Eingeweidewürmer von außen in den Wirt gelangten. Pallas hat es
verstanden, beinahe an allen Punkten, die zu seiner Zeit die Zoologie
besonders intensiv beschäftigten, wichtige Beiträge zu liefern
und dabei fast alle übrigen beschreibenden Naturwissenschaften
zu bereichern, auch wenn über dem Abschluß seiner Hauptwerke ein
Verhängnis schwebte, das den Ertrag seiner Arbeit nicht zu voller
Geltung kommen ließ.
7. Zootomie des 18. Jahrhunderts.
Für die +Zootomie+ bedeutete, sofern sie nicht physiologisch orientiert
war, das 18. +Jahrhundert+ eine Zeit stiller und ruhiger Entwicklung.
Die Vervollkommnung der menschlichen Anatomie, insbesondere durch +B.
S. Albinus+ (_1697 bis 1770, von 1721 Professor in Leiden_), zog auch
eine sorgfältigere Beschreibung der tierischen Anatomie nach sich.
Noch wuchs der Kreis der neu darzustellenden Formen unablässig, wenn
auch die Freude an Zootomie vorzugsweise durch die an mikroskopischer
Anatomie, an Studien experimenteller Art über Insekten und, von der
Mitte des Jahrhunderts ab, an der Physiologie des Menschen in den
Schatten gestellt wurde. Eine scharfe Trennung zwischen all diesen
Zweigen der Zoologie war indes nicht durchgeführt, namentlich tritt
von der Mitte des Jahrhunderts ab eine Spaltung zwischen der auf die
Physiologie des Menschen orientierten Zootomie und der im Dienste
der Systematik stehenden ein. So stark auch die Rückwirkungen der
Physiologie +Hallers+, später +Bichats+, +Magendies+, +Claude
Bernards+, +Joh. Müllers+ und vieler anderer waren, so kann hier nur
auf diese Rückwirkungen hingewiesen werden, ohne daß wir sie weiter
noch verfolgen.
Die vorangehende Periode der vergleichenden Anatomie hatte mit drei
Sammelwerken abgeschlossen, deren letztes (~Valentini Amphiteatrum~)
1720 erschienen war. Der erste Zootom, den wir nun vorzugsweise
mit der Anatomie der höheren Tiere beschäftigt finden, ist +Peter
Camper+ (1722 bis 1789), „ein Meteor von Geist, Wissenschaft, Talent
und Tätigkeit“ (Goethe). Ein gewandter Zeichner, weit gereist, fein
gebildet, aber unruhigen Geistes, hielt er es nirgends lange aus, und
hinterließ denn auch zahlreiche treffliche Monographien, aber keine
größere systematische Leistung; so eine Arbeit über den Orang-Utan,
über die Anatomie des Elefanten, über die Wale, Renntier, Rhinozeros.
Dazu kam eine starke Tendenz, auch den Menschen naturhistorisch zu
erfassen, und die Fühlung der vergleichenden Anatomie mit der Ästhetik
in einer Form zu suchen, die später durch Goethe beliebt wurde. In
Edinburg lehrten +Alex. Monro, der Vater+ (1697 bis 1767), dem wir das
erste Handbuch der vergleichenden Anatomie verdanken, und +der Sohn+
(1732-1817), der sich besonders mit dem Bau der Fische -- wiewohl
wesentlich unter dem vergleichend die Wirbeltiere überschauenden
Gesichtspunkte -- befaßt, und von dem auch die sorgfältige Anatomie
des Seeigels herrührt. +Albrecht von Haller+ selbst (1708 bis 1777)
ist für die vergleichende Anatomie bedeutungsvoll wegen seiner
ausgedehnten Kenntnisse, seiner Einzelarbeiten über die vergleichende
Anatomie des Nervensystems, über Mißbildungen, sowie um seiner mit
der ganzen Macht seiner Autorität vertretenen, der christlichen
Dogmatik genehmen präformationistischen Entwicklungslehre, durch die
er den Fortschritt der von +Harvey+ neubelebten Epigenese auf lange
Zeit hinaus hemmte. Wohl den größten Überblick über die Zootomie
besaß +John Hunter+ (1728-1793), der Begründer der auch jetzt noch
größten und am meisten nach vergleichend-physiologischen Prinzipien
angelegten Sammlung der Welt, die dann in den Besitz des Royal College
of Surgeons in London überging. Nur in dieser bisher unübertroffenen
Schöpfung tritt uns die Organisation der gesamten Tierwelt nach den
Funktionen elementarster Art entgegen. Neben einer unendlichen Zahl
von Einzelbeobachtungen gab Hunter die erste bedeutendere Schrift
über die Zähne und deren Entwicklung heraus, stellte eine Menge
vergleichend-physiologischer Experimente an und hinterließ ein Werk
über tierische Ökonomie, das erst R. Owen 1861 nach einer Abschrift,
die Clift sich von den später durch Home verbrannten Manuskripten
Hunters angefertigt hatte, herausgeben konnte. Einen illustrierten
Katalog der Hunterschen Sammlung sowie sein Handbuch gab +Everard Home+
(1756-1832) heraus. Eine der interessantesten Persönlichkeiten ist
+F. Vicq d’Azyr+ (1748-1794), der in Paris als Arzt und Naturforscher
wirkte und lehrte und wesentlich Vergleichung der Wirbeltiere bis
in die äußersten Einzelheiten empfahl, um damit eine Basis für die
Erklärung der Funktionen im Sinne von Hallers Physiologie, aber in
größerer Ausdehnung, über die Tierwelt zu schaffen. Neben +Buffon+
ist er Vertreter der Einheit der Organisation. Diese begründet er
vor allem aus der Übereinstimmung der elementaren Funktionen, nähert
sich also damit am meisten +John Hunter+. Sein Hauptwerk ist sein
~Traité d’anatomie et de physiologie~, Paris 1786. Insbesondere galten
seine Bemühungen der vergleichenden Anatomie des Schädels und der
Extremitäten. Noch dunkel sind die Einflüsse der Iatromechanik und
Iatrochemie, sowie des Animismus auf die Entwicklung der Zoologie und
Zootomie in dieser ganzen Periode.
In Deutschland sind als vergleichende Anatomen von bedeutenden
Verdiensten im 18. Jahrhundert insbesondere zwei zu nennen: +J. F.
Blumenbach+ und +Kielmeyer+. Ersterer (1752-1840) behandelte in der
Hauptsache Buffonsche Probleme, insbesondere die Naturgeschichte des
Menschen, vertrat in seiner witzigen Schrift „Über den Bildungstrieb“
den Vitalismus, las von 1785 als erster auf einer deutschen Hochschule
(Göttingen) vergleichende Anatomie und schrieb über denselben Stoff
das erste deutsche Handbuch. +K. F. Kielmeyer+ (1765-1844) war als
Professor an der Karlsschule von entscheidendem Einfluß auf Cuviers
Entwicklung. Ein Vorbote der Naturphilosophie und doch stark im
Gefolge der Hallerschen Reizlehre, sammelte er umfangreiches Material
als Vorstand der wissenschaftlichen Sammlungen in Stuttgart, um „die
Zoologie auf vergleichende Anatomie und Physiologie zu gründen und eine
möglichst vollständige Vergleichung der Tiere unter sich nach ihrer
Zusammensetzung und nach der Verschiedenheit ihrer organischen Systeme
und deren Funktionen durchführen zu können“. A. von Humboldt schätzte
ihn als den „ersten Physiologen Deutschlands“.
VI. Französische Zoologie von der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts an.
Als die +französische Zoologie+ können wir einen Ausschnitt aus der
Geschichte unserer Wissenschaft bezeichnen, der im Zeitraume von etwa
1750-1860 sich vorwiegend in Paris abspielt. Daß Zoologen sich zu
gemeinsamer Arbeit verbündeten (z. B. Ray, Willughby, Lister), oder
Schüler die Werke der Lehrer herausgaben oder an ihnen mitarbeiteten,
kam ja auch sonst vor. Aber eine Organisation unserer Wissenschaft an
einem Ort durch mehrere selbständige Forscher und auf die Dauer von
vier Generationen hin, verbunden mit einer entsprechenden Wirkung nach
außen, das war ein geschichtliches Ereignis, das einzig dasteht und
daher eine einheitliche Betrachtung erheischt.
Der Schauplatz dieses Ereignisses bildete das erste und zeitweise
hervorragendste naturwissenschaftliche Institut Mitteleuropas. Aus
einem im 15. Jahrhundert zu pharmazeutischen Zwecken angelegten
Garten entwickelte sich ein botanischer Garten, der, 1635 von den
Ärzten Ludwigs ~XIII.~ neu organisiert, neben den Heilmitteln auch
Exemplare aller naturhistorischen Kuriositäten enthalten sollte.
Dieser „Garten des Königs“, später „Pflanzengarten“ genannt,
diente schon früh auch als Mittelpunkt zoologischer Bestrebungen.
Duverney war sein erster Anatom, du Fay, Buffons Vorgänger,
ruinierte sich an diesen Sammlungen. Reiche Schenkungen flossen
ihnen im 18. Jahrhundert zu. 1793 wurde er durch Verordnung des
Nationalkonvents reorganisiert, mit einer Bibliothek versehen, zwölf
Unterrichtskurse an ihm eingerichtet und ihm die Bezeichnung „Museum
für Naturgeschichte“ beigelegt. In der Revolutionszeit bildete er
einen kleinen Freistaat, dessen Selbstherrlichkeit niemand anzutasten
wagte. Ja sogar Napoleons Maßregeln widersetzte sich das Museum
gelegentlich mit Erfolg, und 1815 wurden die Sammlungen auf A. von
Humboldts Intervention gegen jeden Eingriff geschützt. Die Blütezeit
fällt ins erste Drittel des 19. Jahrhunderts. Später wurde die
Vereinigung aller Zweige der Naturgeschichte ein Hindernis für die
Konkurrenz mit spezieller ausgebildeten Anstalten des Auslandes.
Abgesehen von den Publikationen der einzelnen noch zu nennenden
Autoren, nahmen am Pflanzengarten große und vorbildliche literarische
Unternehmen ihren Ursprung. So die ~Encyclopédie Méthodique~
(begonnen 1782, aufgehört 1832), die ~Annales~ (später ~Mémoires~)
~du Museum~ (1802), die ~Annales de Sciences naturelles~ (1824).
1. Buffon.
An der Schwelle des Aufschwunges der französischen Zoologie begegnet
uns +Buffon+, ein Zeitgenosse Linnés. _G. L. Leclerc, nach seiner
Besitzung in der Bourgogne +de Buffon+ genannt, später in den
Grafenstand erhoben, geboren 1707, wurde nach mathematischen Studien
1733 Mitglied der Pariser Akademie, 1739 Intendant des Pflanzengartens,
unterstützt von dem jüngeren Arzt +L. M. Daubenton+ (1716-1799) und
anderen Mitarbeitern. 1749 erschien die ~Histoire naturelle~, 1778 die
~Epoques de la nature~; er starb 1788._ Im Anschluß an Leibniz und
die Enzyklopädisten empfand Buffon das Bedürfnis, die Tierwelt dem
Weltganzen als Teilerscheinung einzugliedern, und zwar nicht nur als
Teil des Bestandes, sondern des Entstehens der Welt. Ausgehend vom
feurigen Zustand des Erdballes, entwarf er eine Entstehungsgeschichte
der Erde, die in der Geologie revolutionierend wirkte trotz oder
vielleicht wegen ihres stark hypothetischen Charakters. Auf dem
Schauplatz der Erdoberfläche entwirft er die erste ins Große gehende
Übersicht der Faunen, insbesondere der kontinentalen, deren Charakter
er zuerst festlegt und auf erdgeschichtliche Erscheinungen zurückführt;
so läßt er sie mit der Abkühlung der Pole dem Äquator zu wandern
und setzt die Konstitution der Lebewesen im einzelnen mit ihren
Lebensbedingungen, natürlichen Grenzen, Klima usw. in Zusammenhang.
Durch Urzeugung läßt er im Anschluß an die Materialisten kleinste
organische Teile entstanden sein (man würde vor 50 Jahren gesagt haben:
Zellen; heute: Biophoren), aus denen heute noch Protozoen hervorgehen
sollten. Dieselben organischen Moleküle sollten als Überschuß der
Nahrung des erwachsenen Organismus zu den Zeugungsstoffen werden, die
Entwicklung wäre dem Kristallisationsprozeß zu vergleichen. Damit wurde
Buffon zum Epigenetiker und Vorgänger C. Fr. Wolffs. Neben dieser
hypothetischen Kosmogonie verdanken wir Buffon aber die Schilderung
der Organismenwelt, die für die ganze Folgezeit mustergültig ist und
bleiben wird. Einer der ersten Prosaschriftsteller Frankreichs, hat
er der Naturbeschreibung ihre eigentliche Form gegeben. Während man
z. B. von der Vogelwelt vor ihm nur sehr wenig gute Darstellungen
besaß, hat er die lebendigsten und stimmungsvollsten Bilder entworfen;
ebenso sind seine Beschreibungen der Säugetiere wahre Kunstwerke,
vorab die des Menschen, der vor Buffon niemals Gegenstand einer
speziellen, die mannigfachen Erscheinungen und die Beziehungen zur
Außenwelt gleichmäßig berücksichtigenden Naturgeschichte gewesen ist.
Das Bild Buffons ist lange Zeit durch seine Stellung zu Linné und der
Systematik verdunkelt worden. Dessen Vereinfachung des Ausdruckes für
eine Lebensform und ihren Reichtum fand bei Buffon keine Gnade. Seine
Polemik gegen Linné, die dieser unbeantwortet ließ, und gegen die
Künstlichkeit der Formen der Systematik ist uns heute verständlicher,
weil wir wiederum mehr die Klüfte sehen, die die Lebewesen der
Gegenwart voneinander trennen. Und doch mußte Buffon vor dem, was an
Linnés System natürlich war, insofern kapitulieren, als er später die
Beschreibungen verwandter Arten aneinanderreihte. Und die Annahme einer
Verwandtschaft des Ähnlichen trat ihm sowohl wie Linné in späteren
Jahren immer mehr in den Vordergrund, so daß er zur Überzeugung kam,
wenn man Pflanzen- und Tierfamilien zulasse, so müsse man auch den
Menschen und die Affen zu derselben Familie zählen, ja annehmen,
daß alle Tiere nur von einem abstammen, das im Laufe der Zeit durch
Vervollkommnung und Degeneration alle Formen der übrigen Tiere erzeugt
habe. Buffon hat der Zoologie unvergleichliche Dienste durch die
Popularisierung und die Form, in der sie geschah, getan. Das Erscheinen
der Naturgeschichte erregte in ganz Europa das größte Aufsehen; Fürsten
und Völker versenkten sich in sie und an ihrer Hand in die Rätsel
der belebten Natur. Es war sein Werk, daß während der Französischen
Revolution die Blüte unserer Wissenschaft kaum eine Unterbrechung
erfahren hat.
Daubenton ergänzte Buffon durch die sorgfältigsten Beschreibungen
von Habitus und Anatomie der höheren Tiere, durch eingehendere
Vergleichungen des Skelettes der Säugetierabteilungen, als sie zuvor
üblich waren. +Lacepède+ (1756 bis 1825), unter Anlehnung an Linné und
Buffon zugleich, ist als der Ergänzer von Buffons Arbeit nach der Seite
der Ichthyologie bemerkenswert.
2. Lamarck.
Der bedeutendste französische Forscher, der sich an Buffon anschloß,
war J. de Monet, später Chevalier +de Lamarck+ (_geboren 1744 in
der Pikardie, 1760 Offizier, später pensioniert, 1779 Mitglied der
Pariser Akademie, von 1793 an Professor am ~Jardin des Plantes~
für Wirbellose, gestorben 1829_). In seinen Anschauungen unter
unmittelbarem Einflusse von Buffon stehend, ließ er der Hypothese
einen noch breiteren Spielraum und überraschte durch seine glänzenden
Einfälle, die mit einer ausgedehnten Kenntnis der Zoologie der lebenden
und fossilen Wirbellosen verbunden auftraten. Noch mehr als bei
Buffon brach sich bei Lamarck die Überzeugung Bahn, daß die Tierwelt
auf gemeinsame Urformen zurückgehe. In den Urorganismen hätten die
Bedürfnisse mit der Außenwelt in Beziehung zu treten versucht, und
so sei unter dem Einfluß von Gebrauch und Nichtgebrauch, sowie der
Vererbung erworbener Eigenschaften höhere Organisation entstanden,
die einen Organe hätten zugenommen, die anderen seien verkümmert,
dadurch, daß ein innerer Antrieb die Säfte mehr nach den derselben
bedürftigen Stellen dirigiert hätten. Lamarck denkt sich den Ablauf
streng mechanisch auf Grund der Annahme, das Leben beruhe auf zwei
Agenzien: Wärme und Elektrizität. Mit Buffon nimmt Lamarck an, die
Existenzform sei aus den Anforderungen der Umgebung an den Organismus
entstanden, nicht auf sie eingerichtet. Im Formenkreis der fossilen
Mollusken findet er allmähliche Übergänge, die zu den lebenden
hinüberleiten, wie er denn überhaupt den Schwerpunkt der Forschung
auf die niederen, weil einfacheren, Organismen verlegt. Urzeugung
nimmt er nur für die niedersten Wesen an, die höheren sind aus diesen
entstanden. Er protestiert zuerst vom Standpunkt der Umwandlung der
Arten gegen die Begriffe der Klassifikation; diese sind vielmehr nur
Schranken unseres Wissens. Der Mensch gilt ihm als das vollkommenste
Lebewesen, und er schildert, wie seine Abstammung vom höchsten Affen
zu denken +wäre+ -- +wenn+ wir nicht wüßten, daß er anderer Abkunft
wäre als die Tiere. Mit diesen Anschauungen konnte Lamarck nicht den
Glauben an unveränderliche Arten vereinigen; seine Bemühungen zielten
infolgedessen dahin, die Veränderlichkeit der Arten zu erweisen. Die
natürliche Ordnung der Organismen ist nicht (wie mit Bonnet) in einer
fortlaufenden Reihenfolge der Lebewesen zu suchen, sondern sie kann nur
die sein, in der die Organismen wirklich entstanden sind. Demgemäß hat
denn auch Lamarck zuerst das Schema des Stammbaumes gewählt, um die
Verwandtschaft der Organismen zum Ausdruck zu bringen.
Lamarck erweitert die Zahl der Klassen der „+Wirbellosen+“, die er
zuerst den „+Wirbeltieren+“ unter dieser Bezeichnung gegenüberstellt.
Er kommt 1809 auf die Einteilung der ersteren in Mollusken, Krustazeen,
+Arachniden+, Insekten, +Würmer+, +Strahltiere+, +Polypen+,
+Rankenfüßler+, +Ringelwürmer+, +Aufgußtiere+ (die gesperrten seit
Ray neu), wobei er überall der Systematik eine anatomisch begründete
Unterlage gibt. Abgesehen von den zahl- und umfangreichen Arbeiten
Lamarcks kommen insbesondere in Betracht die Naturgeschichte der
wirbellosen Tiere, seine Hydrogeologie 1801 und die ~Philosophie
zoologique~ 1809.
Tabelle, um den Ursprung der verschiedenen Tiere darzutun.
Würmer Infusorien
| Polypen
| Radiaten
|
| Insekten
+-------------+----------- Spinnen
| Krebse
|
Ringelwürmer
Rankenfüßler
Mollusken
|
|
Fische
Reptilien
|
|
+--------------+------------+
| |
Vögel Amphibische Säugetiere
Schnabeltiere |
+----- Wale
|
+----- Huftiere
|
Krallentiere.
Lamarck ist von seinen Zeit- und Arbeitsgenossen als Phantast mit
Achselzucken betrachtet worden. Er stand am Pflanzengarten nicht an
erster Stelle. Mild und nachgiebig, daher auch nicht mit der Tradition
der mosaischen Schöpfungslehre brechend, gedrückt von schweren äußeren
Schicksalen, so lebte er nur in der Spezialwissenschaft fort, bis seine
Ideen zeitgemäß und geradezu für eine naturphilosophische Schule, den
Neo-Lamarckismus, zum Leitstern wurden.
3. Etienne Geoffroy St. Hilaire.
In die geistige Führung am Pflanzengarten teilten sich +Cuvier+
und +Etienne Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire+, ein Mann, der nicht nur als
Forscher, sondern auch als Mensch an erster Stelle steht und stehen
wird. _Geboren 1772, begab er sich, nachdem er die juristischen
Studien aufgegeben, nach Paris, um unter Brisson, Haüy, Daubenton
sich naturhistorischen Studien zu widmen. Nach Lacepèdes Rücktritt
wurde er Assistent, 1793, erhielt im gleichen Jahre einen Lehrstuhl
für Zoologie der Wirbeltiere und hielt die ersten Vorlesungen in
Frankreich über dieses Gebiet, 1793 organisierte er die „Menagerie“
des Pflanzengartens, rief 1795 Cuvier an dasselbe Institut, begleitete
1798-1804 die Expedition Napoleons nach Ägypten, ging 1808 als
wissenschaftlicher Kommissar auf die Pyrenäenhalbinsel. Ins Jahr
1830 und folgende fällt der epochemachende Streit mit Cuvier, 1838
legte er die Leitung der Menagerie nieder, trat 1840 zurück und starb
1844._ Etienne Geoffroy hat während der Dauer seines ganzen Lebens
die Zoologie nach all ihren Seiten mit einer großen Fülle von streng
wissenschaftlich gehaltenen Monographien beschenkt. Wo es immer die
Gelegenheit ergab, gewann er dem Stoffe besonders durch anatomische
Vergleichung neue Seiten ab. Er legte den Grund zur Anatomie der
Säugetiere, deren seltenere Formen damals dem Pflanzengarten zuflossen,
er erschloß die Fauna Ägyptens, wo er Polypterus entdeckte, was nach
Cuviers Urteil allein eine ägyptische Expedition gerechtfertigt hätte;
neben Cuviers nehmen auch Geoffroys paläontologische Arbeiten einen
hohen Rang ein. Die Vergleichung des Schädels, der Gehörknöchelchen,
des Kiemenskeletts durch die Reihe der Wirbeltiere, aber auch anderer
Organsysteme bildet einen großen Teil seiner Spezialarbeiten. Die
Anatomie führte ihn zur Entwicklungsgeschichte und zu der Lehre von
den Mißbildungen, die ihn zu ihren Neubegründern zählt. Ferner kam er
nach der Richtung der vergleichenden Physiologie auf die Einwirkung
der Außenwelt auf den Organismus, die Lehre von der Tierzüchtung.
Außer diesen Hunderten von Monographien sind als Hauptwerke besonders
hervorzuheben: ~Philosophie anatomique~ 1818, ~Principes de Philosophie
zoologique~ 1830, sowie sein Anteil an den Publikationen der
ägyptischen Expedition.
Et. Geoffroys allgemeine Ansichten lehnen sich zumeist an die
Buffons an. In der Verwendung der Spekulation geht er weniger weit
ins Unbekannte der Weltschöpfung hinaus als Buffon und Lamarck;
er beschränkt sich auf die Organismenwelt. Hier schwebt ihm eine
allgemeine Gesetzmäßigkeit von Sein und Werden vor, eine Art
einheitliches Gesetz der organischen Natur, das in verschiedenen
Prinzipien zum Ausdruck kommt. Dadurch berührt er sich mit der
deutschen Naturphilosophie. Anders als die Analytiker Linné und
Cuvier, ist er synthetisch gerichtet und sucht überall die Einheit,
sowohl in der Organisation selbst wie in den Einflüssen der Außenwelt.
Die Gleichmäßigkeit, womit Geoffroy alle Beziehungen der von ihm
geschilderten Organismen untersucht, womit er die Logik auf alle
Erscheinungen anwendet, verleiht seinen Arbeiten etwas Unvergängliches.
Mit Lamarck nimmt Geoffroy die Veränderlichkeit der Organismen an,
aber nicht eine unbegrenzte. Er verlegt nicht mit Lamarck die Ursache
der Veränderung in Gebrauch und Nichtgebrauch, sondern in den Einfluß
des umgebenden Mediums. Im Gegensatz zu Cuvier ist ihm die Form das
Bestimmende für die Funktion und Lebensweise; so allein erhalten
die rudimentären Organe einen Sinn. Demgemäß hält Geoffroy die
Umwandlung der Art für möglich, den Transformismus für eine zulässige
Hypothese. Die individuelle Entwicklungsgeschichte zieht er zunächst
für die vergleichende Anatomie des Schädels bei. Auch ihm ist die
Embryonalentwicklung ein Auszug des Weges, den die Arten bis zu ihrem
heutigen Zustand zurückgelegt haben. 1820, ein Jahr vor J. F. Meckel,
tritt er mit seiner Lehre von den Mißbildungen hervor, die er in
vollem Umfange als Entwicklungsstörungen, Verzögerung und Stillstand,
betrachtet, während noch Winslöw und Haller diese Erklärungen nur
zum Teil zugelassen, zum Teil aber Präformation mißbildeter Keime
angenommen hatten. Aber er begnügt sich nicht mit Beschreibung und
Klassifikation der Mißbildungen, sondern da er sie durch Einflüsse der
Umgebung erklärt, sucht er durch ebensolche Einflüsse auf künstlichem
Wege Mißbildungen hervorzurufen (Schüttelversuche, Luftabschluß
usw.). Als Epigenetiker hat er die Präformation auch der mißbildeten
Keime endgültig beseitigt und die Teratologie den organischen
Naturwissenschaften eingereiht. Aus der ungemein breiten Erfahrung und
der Einheit der Betrachtungsweise ergaben sich für Et. Geoffroy einige
Erfahrungssätze allgemeiner Art, deren Anwendung nur deswegen oft etwas
Künstliches oder Gewaltsames an sich hatte, weil die Klassifikation
der lebenden Tiere noch zu sehr als eine natürliche Reihenfolge
aufgefaßt wurde. Nach dem Prinzip der Analogie sollten sich die Teile
bei verschiedenen Tieren entsprechen, nach dem des Gleichgewichts der
Organe bei Zunahme der einen Teile andere zurücktreten (Extremitäten
des Straußes). Sein Ideal ist, es sollten Tiere unter ganz veränderte
Lebensbedingungen gebracht und dadurch konstante Varietäten erzeugt
werden, da der Einfluß der Umgebung ein geradezu allmächtiger sei.
So ließ er denn auch bereits einen seiner Schüler permanente Larven
der Wassersalamander auf experimentellem Wege darstellen. Mit alledem
ist Etienne Geoffroy der vielseitigste und innerlich freieste dieser
Forscher gewesen, dessen Arbeiten auch heute noch in jeder Hinsicht
belehrend wirken.
4. G. Cuvier.
Gleichzeitig und neben, später in sich steigerndem Gegensatz zu Et.
Geoffroy wirkte am Pflanzengarten +Georges Cuvier+.
Geboren zu Mömpelgardt als Angehöriger einer aus dem Jura stammenden
Familie, genoß er seine Erziehung hauptsächlich an der Karlsschule
in Ludwigsburg, zu deren ausgezeichnetsten Schülern er gehörte. Im
Hinblick auf seine naturwissenschaftlichen Neigungen ergriff er
das Studium der Kameralwissenschaften, wurde dann 1788 Erzieher
des Grafen d’Héricy in Fiquainville bei Caen, begann hier an der
Meeresküste mit den bescheidensten Hilfsmitteln Studien über
Pflanzen, Insekten und Anatomie der Meerestiere; letzteres namentlich
im Anschluß an die Lektüre von Aristoteles, in dem er auch später
den Meister der Zoologie für alle Zeiten verehrte. Nach Proben
großen Lehrtalents ging er 1794 auf Veranlassung von Et. Geoffroy
nach Paris, wurde daselbst 1795 Professor der Naturgeschichte
an der ~Ecole centrale~, nach Daubentons Tode von 1800 an auch
am ~Collège de France~, 1802 nach Mertruds Tode Professor der
vergleichenden Anatomie am Pflanzengarten. Von da an stieg er in
der Restaurationszeit in die höchsten Stellen der Kultus- und
Unterrichtsverwaltung und benützte seinen Einfluß zur staatlichen
Organisation der französischen Zoologie. 1831 Pair von Frankreich,
starb er 1832. Sein Bruder Friedrich Cuvier (1773-1838) sowie ein
ganzer Stab von Schülern und Mitarbeitern standen ihm während eines
großen Teiles seiner Tätigkeit zur Seite und unterstützten ihn durch
Einzeluntersuchungen und Ausarbeitung seiner Pläne.
Cuviers Entwicklung stand unter ähnlichen Einflüssen wie die
Et. Geoffroys. Buffon und Linné, ferner sein Lehrer Kielmeyer
wirkten mächtig auf ihn ein. Deutsche Schulung, ein griechisches
Vorbild, mit dem er sich gern parallelisierte, ein hervorragendes
Organisationstalent, das eine einzigartige Gelegenheit zur Entfaltung
fand, über Hilfsmittel und Hilfskräfte souverän verfügte, der denkbar
größte äußere Erfolg, das sind die wesentlichen Bedingungen, die
Cuviers Namen zum glänzendsten der Zoologie machten.
In die neunziger Jahre fallen hauptsächlich Cuviers Arbeiten über
die Insekten im Sinne Linnéscher Systematik und die Anatomie der
Wirbellosen, insbesondere der Mollusken. Mit Veränderung seiner
Stellung und zunächst in Anschluß an Et. Geoffroy wendet er sich aber
auch den Wirbeltieren, speziell den Säugetieren zu. In Ausführung
seiner Vorlesungen läßt er die vergleichende Anatomie von +Duméril+
und +Duvernoy+ zuerst zusammenfassen. Dabei nimmt er keinen eigenen
Standpunkt ein, sondern arbeitet die Organsysteme nach der Vesalschen
Systematik unter Benützung des ganzen voraufgehenden literarischen
Materials über die Wirbeltiere in vollem Umfange auf. Im weiteren hat
er diese Wissenschaft nicht ihrer Struktur nach ausgebaut, sondern
besonders in den Dienst der zoologischen Systematik lebender und
ausgestorbener Tiere gestellt, und damit die Arbeit Linnés in einem
Zeitpunkte und auf einer Linie fortgesetzt, wo sie dringend neuer
Stützen bedurfte. Seine Leistungen finden also da ihre Grenze, wo die
Beziehungen zwischen der vergleichenden Anatomie und der Physiologie
anfangen und wo Et. Geoffroy weitergebaut hat. In steigendem
Widerspruch zu ihm wird Cuvier zum Vertreter eines reinen Empirismus,
der unermeßliche Materialien sammelt, beschreibt, ordnet, aber nicht
mehr die Einzelerscheinung als Teil im stetigen Werden der Natur
erfaßt. Da liegt Cuviers Stärke und Schwäche zugleich, die Ursache
auch seines Gegensatzes zu Et. Geoffroy und noch mehr zu Lamarck. Mit
zunehmendem Alter klammert sich Cuvier immer stärker an die Linnésche
Systematik und wird dadurch zum Hauptvertreter der Artkonstanz, zum
Hauptgegner des Transformismus. Die Gebiete, auf denen uns seine Arbeit
am meisten vorwärts gebracht hat, sind die Wirbeltierpaläontologie,
die Klassifikation des lebenden Tierreichs, die Geschichte der
Naturwissenschaft. Ihnen entsprechen die drei vorzüglichsten Werke
Cuviers: 1. die ~Recherches sur les ossements fossiles~ (1. Aufl.
1812, 4. Aufl. 1834-36); 2. das ~Règne animal distribué d’après son
organisation~ (1. Aufl. 1817, 2. Aufl. 1829/30); 3. die ~Histoire
des sciences naturelles~ 1841-45, herausgegeben von Magdeleine de
Saint-Agy. Hatte Linné es verstanden, der Naturgeschichte allgemeine
Achtung zu erkämpfen, so gehört es zu den persönlichsten Verdiensten
Cuviers, Napoleon sowohl wie den revolutionären Regierungen Förderung
und staatlich unterstützte Organisation der Naturgeschichte und der
Zoologie im besonderen abgerungen und die Museen zu Heimstätten der
Forschung auch für fremde Gelehrte gemacht zu haben.
Cuviers Wissen war von einer erstaunlichen Breite, seine Fähigkeit,
zu beobachten und charakterisierend zu beschreiben, unübertroffen,
seine Energie, stets neue Gestalten in den Bereich seiner Forschung
zu ziehen, den Stoff theoretisch durch Verallgemeinerung aus den
Einzelerfahrungen zu gestalten, praktisch zu Museumszwecken zu
verwerten, unermüdlich. Den prächtigsten Beweis hierfür liefert das
~Règne animal~, das die vollendetste Heerschau über das gesamte
Tierreich vorstellt, soweit es in Wort und Bild festzuhalten war. Aber
immer mehr, wieweit im Zusammenhang mit ähnlichen philosophischen
Richtungen, muß dahingestellt bleiben, erblickte er die Aufgabe
der Zoologie in der Artbeschreibung und Präzision der Charaktere,
überhaupt in der Ansammlung von Tatsachen (Positivismus) mehr als
in der Entwicklung einheitlicher Gedanken. Damit wurde er der
eifrigste Vorkämpfer der Artkonstanz, kam immer mehr vom Plane einer
Einheit der Organismen ab und endete dabei, daß er im Tierreich vier
völlig voneinander geschiedene Stämme (Wirbeltiere, Gliedertiere,
Weichtiere, Strahltiere) unterschied. Die Varietäten galten ihm als
nebensächliche Abänderungen der Art. Für die Arten hielt er an einer
Schöpfung fest; die Übereinstimmung der ägyptischen Mumien mit den
heute lebenden Individuen derselben Art schien ihm ein besonderes
Zeugnis der Artkonstanz. Bestärkt wurde er in dieser Auffassung durch
seine Studien an den ausgestorbenen Wirbeltieren, namentlich den
Säugetieren. Dadurch, daß er diese in größerer Menge zur Verfügung
hatte und nach seinen Prinzipien der Systematik darstellte, wurde er
zum eigentlichen Schöpfer der Wirbeltierpaläontologie und legte den
Grund zu jeglicher weiteren Arbeit auf diesem Gebiet, solange sie im
Beginn ihrer Entwicklung ein rein beschreibendes Stadium durchmachen
mußte. Ihm blieb nicht verborgen, daß die Faunen älterer Erdschichten
sich in ihrem Gepräge immer mehr von den heutigen entfernten, und
da er sich mit dem Gedanken an eine sukzessive Verwandlung nicht
vertraut machen konnte, griff er zu der Theorie, wonach die Erde eine
Reihe von Revolutionen erlebt habe, deren jede an der Erdoberfläche
einer neuen Fauna Existenzbedingungen besonderer Art geschaffen habe
(Kataklysmentheorie). Erst mit der letzten dieser Katastrophen sei der
Mensch auf den Plan getreten. Es existierte also ein Schöpfungsplan,
den Gott allmählich realisiert hat. Ihm nachzudenken, ist Aufgabe
einer natürlichen Systematik im Gegensatz zu der künstlichen Linnés.
Mit dieser ganzen Auffassung wird das Wesentliche des Tieres in dessen
ausgebildeten Zustand verlegt. Die umwandelnden Einflüsse und die
Entwicklungsgeschichte haben für Cuvier gar keine Bedeutung; ja, die
letztere wird von ihm geflissentlich ignoriert.
Nicht alle Merkmale sind ihm von gleichem Wert. Die, welche den
größten Einfluß auf die anderen ausüben (früher nahm er dafür die
Zirkulations-, später die Zeugungsorgane, zuletzt das Nervensystem),
dominieren und sind daher die entscheidenden (Prinzip der Unterordnung
der Organe), denen sich die übrigen sukzessive unterordnen. Nach dem
Nervensystem und dessen Lage teilt er daher auch das Tierreich ein.
Jedes Tier besitzt, was es zur Existenz braucht, und nicht mehr, als
es braucht (Prinzip der Zweckursachen). Die Teile der Tiere sind unter
sich so eng verbunden, daß, wenn eines sich ändert, alle anderen sich
auch ändern, daß man daher aus einem bestimmten Organ auf die anderen
schließen kann (Prinzip der Korrelation der Organe nach Aristoteles).
So kommt bei Cuvier eine Gesamtauffassung der organischen Natur
zustande, die der von Et. Geoffroy und Buffon direkt zuwiderläuft, und
die auch von der nachfolgenden Entwicklung der Zoologie Schritt für
Schritt weichen mußte.
Die verschiedene Geistesart von Et. Geoffroy und Cuvier verschärfte
die Gegensätze zwischen beiden mit zunehmendem Alter. So kam es
denn zu dem berühmten, von Goethe mit lebhaftestem Interesse als
europäischem Ereignis beurteilten Streite im Schoße der Akademie
zu Paris im Frühjahr 1830. Die innerlich wahre, philosophisch
orientierte Umwandlungslehre war -- vielleicht nicht mit voller
Geschicklichkeit -- durch Et. Geoffroy vertreten, die innerlich
widerspruchsvolle, mittelalterlichen Traditionen entsprungene
und Vorschub leistende Konstanzlehre mit aller äußerlichen Macht
einer glänzenden Persönlichkeit durch Cuvier in Szene gesetzt. Der
Gegensatz zwischen beiden Männern hatte sich schon seit Beginn
des Jahrhunderts ausgebildet. Damals brach Geoffroy mit den
klassifikatorischen Arbeiten ab und überließ sie Cuvier, da nach
seiner Überzeugung eine natürliche Methode der Klassifikation gar
nicht existieren könne. Cuvier hinwiederum sah in einer vollkommenen
Klassifikation das Ideal der Wissenschaft und in deren Resultat den
vollendeten Ausdruck der Natur selbst. Geoffroy schaute immer mehr
und deutlicher das Leben in seiner Bewegung mit rastlos verwegenem
Hochflug der Gedanken; doch stets an strenge Beobachtung gebunden,
überschaute er die Lebewelt aus der Vogelperspektive. Cuvier sah
das Sein der Lebenserscheinungen, vertiefte und verlor sich in der
Einzelbeobachtung, förderte unermeßliche Reichtümer an Tatsachen
zutage, verfiel aber einer gewissen Enge der Auffassung des Ganzen.
So bedurfte es denn nur eines verhältnismäßig geringen Anlasses, um
den Streit zu entfachen. Et. Geoffroy legte der Akademie die Arbeit
zweier junger Gelehrter vor, die die Übereinstimmung zwischen dem Bau
der Tintenfische und der Wirbeltiere dadurch erweisen wollten, daß
erstere gewissermaßen in der Bauchlinie geknickte Wirbeltiere seien.
Zwar ist diese Hypothese irrig, doch nicht gewagter als manche, die uns
über Verwandtschaftsverhältnisse anderer Tiere aufgeklärt hat. Jetzt
schlug das schon lange glimmende und aus früheren Beurteilungen der
Arbeiten Geoffroys hervorleuchtende Feuer Cuviers empor, und mit einer
Erörterung über Einheit des Bauplanes und Einheit der Zusammensetzung
erklärte er, Et. Geoffroy sehe für neue Prinzipien das an, was
Aristoteles der Zoologie schon längst als Basis gegeben habe. Schon
zuvor hatte Cuvier mehrfach die Ansicht vertreten, der Naturforscher
habe sich nur an die Beobachtung der Tatsachen zu halten. Hatte er in
diesem speziellen Falle mit seinem Widerspruch auch recht, so schnitt
er doch mit der nun monatelang andauernden Polemik gegen Geoffroy der
Entwicklungslehre den Faden ab. An dem Streit in der Akademie nahm
Presse und Publikum Anteil, und, wenn auch Cuvier als Sekretär der
Akademie Sieger blieb und der Streit sich allmählich in Nichtigkeiten
auflöste, so kamen dadurch doch Geoffroys Ideen hinaus und fanden
vielfach Verständnis. Indessen führte die praktische Präponderanz
Cuviers zu häßlichen Nachspielen auch nach seinem Tode. Sinnlosen
Angriffen auf Geoffroy in der Akademie folgte eine Intrige Friedrich
Cuviers, der, von Et. Geoffroy Georges Cuvier zuliebe dem Dunkel des
Uhrmacherberufs entrissen und an der Menagerie des Museums angestellt,
seinen alternden Gönner von der Mitleitung dieser seiner eigenen
Gründung verdrängte. Nach dem wenige Monate später erfolgten Tode Fr.
Cuviers wurde freilich Et. Geoffroy wieder in seine Rechte eingesetzt.
5. Nachfolger Cuviers.
_Im Anschluß an diese im Vordergrund stehenden Persönlichkeiten
des Pflanzengartens sind nun noch einige ihrer Mitarbeiter und
Nachfolger zu nennen: +P. A. Latreille+ (1762-1833, seit 1799 am
Museum angestellt), der neben den Würmern und Krebsen besonders
die Insekten pflegte und zum eigentlichen Begründer der modernen
Entomologie geworden ist. Ferner seine Nachfolger +J. V. Audouin+
(1797-1841) und +E. Blanchard+ (1820-1889), die beide wesentlich
zur Kenntnis des Baues und der Physiologie der Insekten und Spinnen
beitrugen. +Ducrotay de Blainville+ (1777-1850) begann seine
naturwissenschaftlichen Studien unter Cuvier, wurde 1812 Professor
an der ~Faculté des Sciences~, erhielt 1830 Lamarcks und von 1832 an
Cuviers Professur. Trotz des Zerwürfnisses mit dem Meister ist er
der echteste Schüler und Nachfolger Cuviers gewesen. Er lehnt wieder
mehr an Geoffroy an durch Berücksichtigung der Physiologie. Bei der
Klassifikation stellt er die Gesamtgestalt des Bauplans mehr in den
Vordergrund und führt den Begriff Typus für die höheren, auf Baupläne
begründeten Abteilungen ein. Sein verdienstvollstes Werk ist die
Osteographie der Wirbeltiere (1839). Lacepèdes Bearbeitung der Fische
wurde weit überholt durch das von Cuvier mit einer historischen und
anatomischen Einleitung ausgerüstete Werk von +Valenciennes+ (1828-49)
über die Knochenfische. +A. Dumérils+ (1812-1870) Bearbeitung der
Knorpelfische erschien erst 1865. Der Vater +Duméril+ (geb. 1774,
der erste Professor für die drei unteren Wirbeltierklassen am Museum
1825, gest. 1860) und +Bibron+ bearbeiteten im Sinne Cuviers die
Amphibien und Reptilien (~Herpétologie générale~ 1835-50). Die
Ornithologie war seit Buffons Zeiten in Frankreich heimisch und fand
hauptsächlich Vertreter in +Levaillant+, +Veillot+ und +Des Murs+,
später besonders im jüngeren +A. Milne-Edwards+ (geb. 1834, 1876
Nachfolger seines Vaters, 1891 Direktor des Museums, starb 1900),
der der fossilen Avifauna Frankreichs und derjenigen Madagaskars und
der Maskarenen besondere Werke widmete. Unter den um die Anatomie
der Wirbellosen verdienten französischen Forschern sind besonders
hervorzuheben: +H. Milne-Edwards+, der mehrere Gruppen der Wirbellosen,
insbesondere die Krustazeen, aufs eingehendste bearbeitete, ferner +H.
de Lacaze-Duthiers+ und +de Quatrefages+, +F. Dujardin+ (Protozoen),
+Savigny+ (Anneliden). Von großer Bedeutung sind die Arbeiten der
Reisenden von Anfang des 19. Jahrhunderts geworden (s. S. 148). Durch
sie wurden die reichen Materialien für die Arbeiten der Gelehrten am
Museum zusammengetragen. Im ganzen bewegte sich aber die französische
Biologie in gewiesenen Bahnen vorwärts, und nur wenige Namen bezeichnen
Forscher von hervorragender Bedeutung in der geschichtlichen
Entwicklung unserer Wissenschaft. Unter denen der letzten Dezennien
seien genannt: +E. Blanchard+, der die Typen der Würmer und
Arthropoden, insbesondere auch in anatomischer Richtung, untersuchte,
aber sich auch um die landwirtschaftliche Zoologie verdient machte.
+A. de Quatrefages+ (1810-1892) unternahm faunistische Studien an den
französischen Küsten gemeinsam mit +H. Milne-Edwards+, wurde 1855
Professor der Anatomie und Ethnologie, und hat als solcher gegen
Darwins Abstammungslehre Stellung genommen. Praktisch förderte er die
Fischzucht in hohem Maße. +H. de Lacaze-Duthiers+ (1821-1901, Schüler
von +H. Milne-Edwards+, von 1865 Professor am Museum und von 1868 an
der Universität) wandte zuerst in ausgedehnterem Maße die verfeinerte
Experimentalphysiologie auf die niedere Tierwelt an. 1873 gründete er
die zoologische Station Roscoff, später die in Banyuls, und erwarb
sich damit nicht nur für Frankreich ein hervorragendes Verdienst. Ein
Nachfolger Cuviers in mancherlei Hinsicht ist +Louis Agassiz+. Geboren
1807 zu Motier in der Schweiz, studierte er zuletzt in München und
gab 1829 die Beschreibung der Ausbeute an Fischen Brasiliens von Spix
und Martius heraus. 1833-42 erschien sein Hauptwerk, „Die fossilen
Fische“, welches nach einer Seite, die Cuvier offen gelassen hatte, die
Paläontologie der Wirbeltiere erweiterte. 1833 Professor in Neuchâtel,
siedelte Agassiz 1846 nach Nordamerika über, wo er der eigentliche
Popularisator der Naturgeschichte wurde. Mit erstaunlichem Geschick
pflanzte er dort die Tradition, große Summen für naturgeschichtliche
Zwecke flüssig zu machen. Er gründete nach dem Muster des Pariser
Museums das ~Museum of Comparative Zoology~ an der Harvard-Universität,
organisierte Unterricht und wissenschaftliche Arbeit. Seine allgemeinen
Ansichten legte er im ~Essay on Classification~ nieder, sowie in
zahlreichen populären Darstellungen. Er starb 1873. Im wesentlichen
unterscheidet er sich von Cuvier durch eine noch stärker theosophische
Färbung seiner Fassung der Konstanztheorie. Jede Art ist konstant
und der Ausfluß einer Idee des Schöpfers. Der Urzweck des Schöpfers
bei Schöpfung der Tier- und Pflanzenarten war die beharrliche
Erhaltung seiner eigenen Gedanken. Mehr als Cuvier nimmt Agassiz
auf die Embryologie Rücksicht; er betont den Parallelismus zwischen
geologischer und embryologischer Reihenfolge der höheren Tiere, ohne
einen realen Zusammenhang beider Parallelen zuzugeben. Ein heftiger
Gegner des Darwinismus, trug er lange dazu bei, den Widerstand gegen
die Entwicklungslehre zu verstärken._ Anderer Art ist das Bild von
+Henri Milne-Edwards+.
(_Geboren 1800 zu Bruges, wurde er 1823 Doktor der Medizin, folgte
Friedrich Cuvier 1838 als Mitglied der Akademie, wurde 1841 Professor
der Entomologie am Museum, übernahm 1861 nach Et. Geoffroys Tode die
höheren Wirbeltiere, von 1843 an las er an der ~Faculté des Sciences~
vergleichende Anatomie und Physiologie, starb 1886._) Anfänglich an
Cuvier anlehnend, übertrug er die Homologisierung der Mundteile,
wie sie Savigny für die Insekten gegeben hatte, auf die Krustazeen.
Er entwickelte namentlich die Ansicht von der Vervollkommnung der
Organismen durch Arbeitsteilung, wobei er den anatomisch erkennbaren
Teilen eine gewisse Selbständigkeit der Funktion zuerkannte. In
höherem Alter (1879) trennte er sich vollständig von den Anhängern
der Konstanztheorie. Das Hauptwerk von +H. Milne-Edwards+ bleiben die
~Leçons de physiologie et d’anatomie comparée~ (1857-83), worin nicht
nur die Erfahrungen der gesamten Zootomie sorgfältig und kritisch
abgestuft vor uns treten, sondern auch die Verbindung mit der während
eines Jahrhunderts nicht minder blühenden Physiologie Frankreichs und
des Auslandes zu voller Entfaltung kommt. Unsere Wissenschaft hat
seither kein besseres in dieser Richtung liegendes Werk erlebt. Ein
Hauptverdienst von H. Milne-Edwards endlich besteht darin, daß er ein
ausgezeichnetes für die französischen Schulen bestimmtes Lehrbuch
verfaßt hat. In ähnlicher Richtung verdient auch +Ach. Comte+ einen
Ehrenplatz neben ihm. Überhaupt ist zu betonen, daß die französischen
Zoologen allezeit sich in den Dienst der Verbreitung des Wissens und
der praktischen Anwendung der Zoologie gestellt haben.
6. Nachfolger Et. Geoffroys.
An Et. Geoffroy und die französischen Physiologen schließt mit einer
eklektisch gehaltenen vergleichenden Physiologie 1839 +A. Dugès+
(1797-1838, Professor in Montpellier) an. Hatte Et. Geoffroy die
Ansicht vertreten, die Gliedertiere entsprechen den Wirbeltieren
unter Umkehrung von Rücken und Bauch, so suchte Dugès im Anschluß an
die 1827 erschienene Monographie des Blutegels von +Moquin-Tandon+
die Übereinstimmung des Baues vom gesamten Bauplan in die Teilstücke
des Körpers, die Zooniten (Somiten) zu verlegen. Dadurch, daß er auch
die Radiaten aus solchen Zooniten bestehen läßt, wurden die Klüfte
zwischen den vier Cuvierschen Tierstämmen überbrückt und Dugès wird
zum Metamerentheoretiker für die Invertebraten. Zugleich aber wird
durch ihn die Frage nach der tierischen Individualität aufgerollt. Als
vergleichender Anatom reiht sich hier ein +A. Serres+ (_1786-1868, von
1839 an Professor der vergleichenden Anatomie am Museum_), der um die
vergleichende Anatomie und Physiologie, insbesondere des Nervensystems,
hervorragende Verdienste hatte. Einen gewissen natürlichen Abschluß
der Geoffroyschen Schule bildet der Sohn Etiennes, +Isidore Geoffroy
St. Hilaire+ (_1805-61, seit 1841 Professor am Museum_). Aufgewachsen
in der großen Tradition von Jugend an, ebensowohl nach der empirischen
wie der philosophischen Seite ausgebildet, ein glänzender Stilist,
hat er in seiner ~Histoire naturelle générale~ (1854 bis 1862) die
vielleicht sorgfältigste Eingliederung der allgemeinen Zoologie in den
Kreis der Wissenschaften unternommen, leider nicht ohne von Comtes
Philosophie beeinflußt zu sein. Wie +H. Milne-Edwards’+ vergleichende
Physiologie für Cuviers Richtung abschließende Bedeutung besitzt,
so dieses Werk für die Richtung Geoffroys. Aber noch mehr: beide
ergänzen sich zu einer Einheit, die nicht nur eine Basis für die
nachfolgende französische Zoologie geworden ist und ihr eine erneute
Aufsplitterung erlaubte, sondern die auch noch für die Zukunft den
vollkommensten wissenschaftlichen Querschnitt der Zoologie einer
bestimmten Periode gibt. Isidore Geoffroys Bemühungen galten im
übrigen dem Transformismus, insbesondere der Haustiere, und mit der
von ihm gegründeten Akklimatisationsgesellschaft wurde der bisher
ansehnlichste Vorstoß in der Richtung der Züchtungslehre unternommen.
So gehört denn auch Isidore Geoffroy nicht nur zu den unmittelbaren
Vorläufern Darwins, sondern er wurde von diesem auch als solcher
rückhaltlos anerkannt. Aber auch sonst ist kaum eine Frage der Zoologie
zu nennen, die nicht von ihm mit der größten Erudition behandelt worden
wäre. Ein biographisches Meisterwerk hat er uns über seinen Vater
hinterlassen (1847).
7. Italienische Zoologie dieses Zeitraumes.
In der Blütezeit der französischen Zoologie verhielt sich die
italienische vorwiegend rezeptiv. Die Ideen der Pariser Zoologen
fanden begeisterte und beredte Vertreter in Italien, wie +Fr.
Cetti+ (1726-78), der Buffon großes Verständnis entgegenbrachte und
die Eigentümlichkeiten der sardinischen Fauna durch die insulare
Abschließung zu erklären versuchte; namentlich war es Lamarck, dessen
Ansichten durch +A. Bonelli+ (1784-1830, Professor in Turin) und
+Fr. Baldassini+, ferner durch +O. G. Costa+, der in schwierigen
Zeitläuften zu Neapel die alte zoologische Tradition aufrechthielt,
vertreten wurden. Der Naturphilosophie trat der durch viele
zoologische Arbeiten verdiente +Poli+ (1827) kritisch entgegen.
+Cavolini+, +delle Chiaje Bonaparte+, später besonders +Panceri+
(1833-77) förderten in der von Cuvier gebahnten Richtung die Kenntnis
der italienischen Land- und Meerfauna. In allem aber hielt sich die
italienische Zoologie innerhalb bereits vorgezeichneter Linien, wenn
auch in neuester Zeit erst wieder italienische Forscher in den Gang
der Geschichte entscheidend eingegriffen haben.
VII. Deutsche Zoologie von der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts an.
Ungefähr um die Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts löst sich die +deutsche
Zoologie+ von der universellen ab und beginnt ihre eigenen Gestalten
anzunehmen. Auf eine einleitende Periode, die etwa bis Ende des
Jahrhunderts reicht, folgt die Periode der Naturphilosophie, die
man etwa bis 1830 ansetzen kann, dann wiederum dreißig Jahre
der Ernüchterung und empirischen Vertiefung und von 1860 ab die
Periode des deutschen Darwinismus. Im Vergleich zur französischen
Zoologie desselben Zeitraumes ist die Entwicklung eine weniger
stetige, das Schwergewicht der Leistungen fällt nicht wie dort auf
reich dotierte praktische Schöpfungen, die sich auf eine größere
Zentrale konzentrieren; vielmehr ist es kühner Flug der Gedanken,
der intuitiv-konstruktiv wirkt; später Fleiß und Gründlichkeit, die
nachfolgen; beides gebunden an die bescheidensten Arbeitsmittel der
damaligen Kleinstaaten. Erst mit der Periode des Darwinismus nimmt die
deutsche Zoologie einen Aufschwung auf eine Höhe, die zu beurteilen
hier nicht der Ort und der Zukunft anheimzugeben ist.
1. Aufklärungsperiode.
An der Schwelle dieser Periode treffen wir +A. von Haller+, der seinem
geistigen Gepräge nach weit eher ein Endglied der vorangehenden
genannt zu werden verdient, und dessen Verdienste vorwiegend auf das
Gebiet der menschlichen Physiologie fallen. Der durch seine Autorität
zur absoluten Herrschaft gelangten Lehre von der Präformation trat
+C. Fr. Wolff+ (1735-1794) entgegen, ohne indes von seiner Zeit
gewürdigt zu werden. In seiner ~Theoria generationis~ (1759) wahrt
er die Rechte der Beobachtung gegenüber der Spekulation, schildert
kurz die Geschichte der Entwicklungstheorien bis auf seine Zeit
und stellt den Satz auf, daß der lebende Organismus nicht im Keime
vorgebildet ist, sondern erst in der Embryonalentwicklung entsteht
(Epigenesis). Seine Schrift ist voll von reicher Einzelbeobachtung
und geschickter Verallgemeinerung, wie er denn z. B. die Bildung
von Darm und Nervenrohr bereits als Faltungsprozeß der Keimblätter
auffaßt. Im allgemeinen steht er auf dem Boden des von +Stahl+
begründeten Vitalismus, der Lehre von der Eigenart der organischen
Erscheinungen. Außer +C. Fr. Wolff+ war es besonders +Blumenbach+, der
in Aristotelischem Sinne und mit viel Geist die Präformationslehre
bekämpfte. Neben diesem Kampf um die Zeugungsphysiologie war es eine
andere Linie, auf der sich die deutsche Zoologie bewegte. Die Probleme
der geographischen Verbreitung, die Buffon aufgestellt hatte, fanden
Widerhall in +Kants+ physischer Geographie, die für die Zoologie
weniger bedeutete, als seine scharfe Scheidung zwischen organischer
und anorganischer Natur und die deszendenz-theoretisch interessanten
Gedanken in seiner „Kritik der Urteilskraft“ (1790). Mehr noch in
den Werken von +E. A. W. Zimmermann+ (Versuch einer Anwendung der
zoologischen Geographie auf die Geschichte der Erde 1783) und +J. G.
Herder+ (Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit 1784).
Beide sind von höchster Poesie getragene Ausblicke auf den Reichtum
der Tierwelt zu Land und Meer, beide Versuche, die Mannigfaltigkeit
des Lebens als Teil im Gesamtwesen des Kosmos zu erfassen und die
zahlreichen Beziehungen der Kreatur unter sich und auf dem Schauplatz
der Erde darzustellen. Zimmermann legt dabei den Hauptakzent auf die
Tierwelt und wagt namentlich zum ersten Male, ein Gesamtbild vom Leben
der Meeresfauna zu entwerfen. Bei ihm finden sich die schönsten Ansätze
zur Lehre vom Haushalt der Natur (Ökologie). Die Gedanken an Einfluß
des Klimas, Breite der Anpassung, Verbreitungsgeschichte finden hier
schon Verwendung. Zimmermann polemisiert gegen die naive Linnésche
Erklärung der Tierverbreitung und weist entgegen Buffons Theorie von
der äquatorial gerichteten Wanderung der Tiere infolge von Abkühlung
der Pole auf die Unterschiede der südlich-hemisphärischen Landfauna
von der nördlichen hin. Zimmermann ist der erste kritisch arbeitende
Geist in der Tiergeographie und +Alexander von Humboldts+ direkter
Vorgänger. Hatte Linné den Menschen den Säugetieren eingeordnet, ohne
sich darüber weiter auszusprechen, so sucht +Herder+ ihn der Lebewelt
auf Grund seiner körperlichen Eigenschaften einzuordnen, ihn als das
vollkommene, zur Vernunfttätigkeit bestimmte Lebewesen zu schildern,
und doch die bedeutungsvollen Übereinstimmungen mit den anthropomorphen
Affen nicht zu unterdrücken. Wie mächtig die Anregungen Herders
wirkten, erhellt wohl mit am besten aus +Goethes+ Beschäftigung mit der
organischen Natur, die ihn freilich das übernommene Gut selbständig
weiterbilden ließ. Tiefstes Naturempfinden, ein rastloser Trieb, die
Natur kennen zu lernen, lebhafteste Teilnahme an den Fortschritten
der Naturforschung, ein überlegenes Urteil über den historischen
und kulturellen Wert derselben und ihrer Vertreter, eine Abneigung
gegen alles Spezialistisch-Kleinliche und ein untrüglicher Sinn
für das Ewig-Große in der Natur und ihrer Wissenschaft -- das sind
die Züge, die Goethe eine große Bedeutung für die Geschichte der
Zoologie verleihen. An seinem Genius haben sich nicht nur zahlreiche
Zeitgenossen gesonnt, sondern er ist auch später namentlich als
Panazee Haeckels geschichtlich von größter Bedeutung geworden. Die von
Buffon ausgesprochenen Gedanken der Einheit der organischen Natur,
E. Geoffroys Geistesrichtung, die ganze vergleichende Anatomie des
18. Jahrhunderts fanden in ihm einen begeisterten und weitblickenden
Herold. „Dieses also hätten wir gewonnen, ungescheut behaupten zu
dürfen: daß alle vollkommeneren organischen Naturen, worunter wir
Fische, Vögel, Säugetiere und an der Spitze der letzteren den Menschen
sehen, alle nach einem Urbild geformt seien, das nur in seinen sehr
beständigen Teilen mehr oder weniger hin und her weicht und sich noch
täglich durch Fortpflanzung aus- und umbildet.“ „Das Gesetz der inneren
Natur, wodurch sie konstituiert werden, und das Gesetz der äußeren
Umstände, wodurch sie modifiziert werden,“ sind für ihn bei der Bildung
der Formen wirksam. Seine Deduktionen des Zwischenkiefers beim Menschen
(1784), der Lehre vom Wirbelbau des Schädels und der Metamorphose der
Pflanze (1790) dürfen wahrlich nicht als einziger Maßstab für seine
Verdienste um die Zoologie und vergleichende Anatomie (der er den Namen
Morphologie beilegte) genommen werden. Wenn Goethes Entwicklungspoesie
in späteren Jahren einen Zug annimmt, der uns wenig verständlich ist,
so ist zu bedenken, daß er mit seinem Vorstellungskreis bereits in die
Höheperiode der Naturphilosophie hineinreicht.
2. Naturphilosophie.
Die +Naturphilosophie+ beruht auf der Voraussetzung: Natur und
Geist sind identisch, sie sind nur die beiden Pole des Absoluten.
Der negative Pol ist die Natur, welche anorganische und organische
Erscheinungen zu einem Gesamtorganismus verknüpft, wobei die Kräfte der
organischen Natur sich in höherer Potenz in der organischen vorfinden.
Der positive Pol ist der Geist in drei Stufen seines Verhaltens, dem
theoretischen, praktischen, künstlerischen. Das auf diesen Prinzipien
beruhende philosophische System, verbunden mit religiösen Dogmen und
kabbalistischem Einschlag, enthielt ein in dieser Stärke neues Element:
die Entwicklungsidee, die besonders auf die organische Naturforschung
überaus befruchtend wirkte, so schwer die ganze Geistesrichtung
zeitweise und in gewissen Köpfen der Naturforschung gefährlich wurde.
Jedenfalls wirkte sie in einem Sinne vorteilhaft: man begann die großen
Linien der Biologie aufs neue zu ziehen, und zunehmende Erfahrung
mußte schon die vorschnellen Verallgemeinerungen auf ein richtiges Maß
zurückführen. Wenn wir nicht +Schellings+ Naturphilosophie als Urbild
wählen, sondern die +Okens+, so geschieht dies, weil doch Oken auch
die ausgedehnteste Sachkenntnis zur Verfügung stand. Das Tierreich ist
ein großes Tier, die Tiere nur Teile desselben, das Tierreich nur das
zerstückelte höchste Tier, der Mensch. Wie dieser vom ersten Keim an in
der Befruchtung entsteht und allmählich Bläschen, Darm, Kieme, Leber,
Geschlechtsteil, Kopf wird, so auch das Tierreich. Es gibt Tiere,
welche dem Menschen während der Schwangerschaft, dem Embryo, dem Fötus
entsprechen. Eine Blüte, welche, vom Stamme getrennt, durch eigene
Bewegung sich selbst den galvanischen Prozeß oder das Leben erhält, die
ihren Polarisationsprozeß nicht von einem außer ihr liegenden oder mit
ihr zusammenhängenden Körper hat, sondern nur von sich selbst -- solche
Blüte ist ein Tier. Die Pflanze ist in die Erde, das Wasser, die Luft
eingetaucht, dagegen sind diese drei Elemente in das Tier eingetaucht.
Der Urschleim ist der Meerschleim, der in ihm ursprünglich ist. Alles
Leben stammt aus dem Meere. Die höheren organischen Formen sind an den
seichten Stellen des Meeres entstanden. Die Gestalt des Urorganischen
ist die der Kugel, die ersten organischen Punkte sind Bläschen, die
organische Welt ist eine Unendlichkeit solcher Bläschen. Besteht die
organische Grundmasse aus Infusorien, so muß auch die organische
Welt sich aus Infusorien entwickeln. Pflanzen und Tiere können nur
Metamorphosen aus Infusorien sein. Das Verfaulen ist eine Reduktion
des höheren Lebens auf das Urleben. Der Mensch ist nicht erschaffen,
sondern entwickelt. Die naturphilosophische Methode ist nicht die
wahrhaft ableitende, sondern die gewissermaßen diktatorische, aus der
die Folgen herausspringen, ohne daß man weiß, wie. Die Naturphilosophie
ist die Wissenschaft von der ewigen Verwandlung Gottes in die Welt.
Solche Sätze aus Okens Naturphilosophie (1809) mögen einen Begriff
von dem Vorstellungskreis geben, der dieser Richtung zu eigen ist;
aber auch von der Fruchtbarkeit des Entwicklungsgedankens, aus dem die
Zellenlehre, das biogenetische Grundgesetz u. a. m. hervorsprangen,
ehe die Empirie imstande war, der Philosophie zu folgen.
+Lorenz Oken+ (_geb. 1779 bei Offenburg, 1807 aus Göttingen nach
Jena berufen, 1827 nach München, 1833 nach Zürich, gest. daselbst
1851_) entwickelte eine reiche literarische Tätigkeit, die zugleich
auf Popularisierung der Wissenschaft zielte; er hat eine große Zahl
der heute gebräuchlichen Bezeichnungen für die höheren Gruppen des
Tierreiches gebildet, war um die Durchführung rationeller Grundsätze
des Naturgeschichtsunterrichts bemüht, begründete die Versammlung der
deutschen Naturforscher und bot in seiner „Isis“ einen Tummelplatz der
Meinungen, auf dem alle regen Gelehrten seiner Zeit sich betätigten.
Untersuchungen hat er selbst wenige angestellt, wohl aber durch
seine Polemik höchst wertvoll gewirkt. Noch sei erwähnt, daß er auf
dem Gebiet der vergleichenden Anatomie mit der Wirbeltheorie einer
einheitlichen Betrachtung des Wirbeltierkopfes ebensowohl wie Goethe
vorgearbeitet hat.
An +Oken+ schließen sich neben Phantasten auch Forscher von bleibendem
Verdienst an oder gehen parallel zu ihm die Wege der Naturphilosophie.
Die umfassendste und reichste Natur unter ihnen war +C. G. Carus+
(_geb. 1789 in Leipzig, 1811 daselbst Professor der vergleichenden
Anatomie, der erste selbständige Vertreter dieses Faches in
Deutschland, 1814 Professor der Geburtshilfe an der Medizinischen
Akademie Dresden, 1827 Leibarzt des Königs, gestorben 1869_).
Die empirische wie die literarische Tätigkeit von Carus erstreckte
sich fast über alle Gebiete der Biologie. Außer den Lehrbüchern über
Geburtshilfe, Chirurgie und Tierpsychologie, Zootomie (1818) und
vergleichende Anatomie, seinen Atlanten über die Proportionenlehre
des menschlichen Körpers und vergleichende Anatomie besitzen wir von
ihm eine Reihe von empirisch wohlbegründeten Arbeiten über Aszidien,
Kreislauf der Insekten, vergleichende Anatomie des Nervensystems;
daneben beschäftigte er sich im Anschluß an die Oken-Goethesche
Schädeltheorie in mehr phantastischer Weise mit der Homologie der
Skeletteile, wobei er, im Gegensatz zu Geoffroy, der sich an die
Knochenfische hielt, die Bedeutung des Schädels der Knorpelfische
für die vergleichende Anatomie besonders hervorhob. Sein System
der Tierwelt, das prinzipiell dem Okenschen verwandt, aber besser
durchgeführt war, mag hier als Typus eines solchen wiedergegeben werden:
I. +Eitiere+ (mit dominierendem Charakter des menschlichen Eies):
Infusorien, Zölenteraten, Echinodermen.
II. +Rumpftiere+ (mit vorwiegend vegetativem Leben):
~a.~ Bauch- und Darmtiere (Gasterozoa): Mollusken;
~b.~ Brust- und Gliedertiere (Thorakozoa): Artikulaten.
III. +Hirn- und Kopftiere+: Vertebraten.
~a.~ Kopfgeschlechtstiere: Fische.
~b.~ Kopfbauchtiere: Reptilien.
~c.~ Kopfbrusttiere: Vögel.
~d.~ Kopfkopftiere: Säugetiere.
In seinen Schriften „Psyche“ und „Physis“ tat Carus tiefe Einblicke
in die Natur des Menschen, und wußte seiner Psychologie eine auch von
philosophischer Seite anerkannte Fassung zu geben. Mit Goethe verband
ihn das gemeinsame Interesse für Morphologie, das auch in einem
beachtenswerten Briefwechsel seinen Ausdruck fand.
Mit einem vielgelesenen Aufsatz über die Lebenskraft eröffnete +J.
C. Reil+ (1759-1803) sein Archiv für Physiologie, an dem sich auch
später +Autenrieth+ (1772-1835) beteiligte. Unter dem Einflusse Kants
stehend, suchte Reil die Grundlagen der theoretischen Biologie auf
vitalistischem Boden zu begründen. In ähnlichem Sinne wirkte +Fr.
Tiedemann+ (1781-1856), der, wie übrigens auch die Brüder +L. C.+
und +G. R. Treviranus+ (1779-1864 und 1776-1834), die wertvollsten
zootomischen Arbeiten hervorbrachte. Neben den Genannten trat +K.
F. Burdach+ (1776-1847) in Wort und Schrift für die Bedeutung der
vergleichenden Anatomie ein und legte seine Ansichten in einem größeren
Werke: „Physiologie als Erfahrungswissenschaft“ nieder. Um die
Systematik der Histologie machte sich +F. Heusinger+, der Anatom von
Marburg, verdient, indem er eine vergleichende Übersicht der Gewebe
durch die Tierreiche gab. +K. Asmund Rudolphi+ (1771-1832) begründete
das zoologische Museum zu Berlin, zeichnete sich durch viele und
streng empirische Arbeiten über Wirbeltiere und Helminthen aus, und
war einer der erfolgreichsten Lehrer der Zoologie damaliger Zeit. Den
Namen eines „deutschen Cuvier“ erwarb sich durch die Meisterschaft in
der vergleichenden Anatomie +Joh. Fr. Meckel+ (1781-1833, einer um
die Anatomie hochverdienten Familie entstammend, Schüler Kielmeyers).
Von Cuvier angeregt, vermehrte er die Sammlung seines Vaters,
die, nach dem Vorbild der Hunterschen Sammlung geschaffen, zu den
größten Privatsammlungen Deutschlands gehörte. In seinem System der
vergleichenden Anatomie (1821-35) sucht er die Bildungsgesetze der
organischen Natur auf Mannigfaltigkeit und Einheit zurückzuführen,
orientiert die vergleichende Anatomie nach den Schwesterwissenschaften
hin, zieht insbesondere (gleichzeitig mit Et. Geoffroy, aber unabhängig
von ihm) die Lehre von den Mißbildungen in den Kreis der Morphologie,
die er theoretisch-methodisch im Sinne der Naturphilosophie erörtert.
Auch für ihn existiert der Parallelismus zwischen der individuellen
Entwicklung und der der Tierreihe. Meckel erfreute sich als Lehrer
eines glänzenden Rufes.
3. Empiriker.
Vereinigten schon die genannten Zoologen Empirie und Philosophie
in solchem Grade, daß man manche, z. B. Rudolphi, von den
Naturphilosophen ausschalten könnte, so erwiese sich dies doch nicht
als tunlich. Dagegen stellen die nachfolgenden die Kerntruppe der
allmählich steigenden +Empirie+ der deutschen Zoologie in der Folgezeit
dar, die sich vor allem um die Entwicklungsgeschichte des Individuums,
die Embryologie, konzentrierte. An ihr fand das phantastisch
entwickelte Gedankenleben der damaligen Entwicklungstheoretiker
einen realen Boden, auf den sich allmählich die nüchternen Gelehrten
gerne zurückzogen, je mehr die Naturphilosophie auf Abwege geriet.
Dahin gehört +Ign. Döllinger+ (1770-1841), ein Schüler Schellings,
ein mächtiger Förderer der mikroskopischen Anatomie, der Lehrer +C.
E. von Baers+. Ferner +Chr. H. Pander+ (1793-1865, aus Riga, später
Akademiker in Petersburg), welcher die Grundlagen der mikroskopischen
Paläontologie legte, im Verein mit +d’Alton+ (1772-1840) den Atlas
der vergleichenden Osteologie (1821-31) herausgab und die Lehre von
der Entwicklung sämtlicher Organe aus drei Keimblättern mit Hilfe
der Entwicklungsgeschichte des Hühnchens begründete. +M. H. Rathke+
(1793-1860) hat die sorgfältigsten embryologischen Monographien seiner
Zeit geliefert; klassisch geblieben sind seine Entwicklungsgeschichte
der Natter, der Schildkröte, des Krokodils, des Flußkrebses, seine
Studien über die Umwandlung des Kiemenskeletts innerhalb der
Wirbeltierreihe.
+C. E. von Baer+ (_geb. 1792 in Estland, studiert von 1810 an in
Dorpat unter Burdach, geht 1814 nach Wien und Würzburg, wendet sich
hier, von der medizinischen Praxis enttäuscht, den embryologischen
Studien unter Döllinger zu; von 1817 an unter Burdachs Leitung an der
Anatomie in Königsberg, wurde er 1819 Professor der Naturgeschichte,
siedelte 1834 nach Petersburg als Akademiker über, kehrt nach größeren
Reisen in Nord-Rußland und Kaspien nach Dorpat zurück, wo er 1876
starb_) zählte zu den Naturforschern von größter Vielseitigkeit
der Kenntnisse und von ruhigstem Urteil. Seine archäologischen,
linguistischen, geographischen, anthropologischen Arbeiten haben für
uns ganz aus dem Spiel zu bleiben. Er griff das von seinem Freunde
Pander bald verlassene Gebiet der Entwicklungsgeschichte des Hühnchens
auf und erweiterte es in der Folgezeit zu der der Tiere überhaupt, der
grundlegenden Monographie der Embryologie (1828-37). 1827 spielte ihm
der Zufall die Entdeckung des menschlichen Eies in die Hände. In Sachen
des Streites um die Präformation nimmt er eine vermittelnde Stellung
ein, da er die erste Entstehung als einen Umbildungsprozeß deutet. In
der Auffassung von der Zeugung als einem „Wachstum über das Individuum
hinaus“, und daß die Wesenheit der zeugenden Tierform die Entwicklung
der Frucht beherrsche, stellt er sich auf Aristotelischen Boden. Im
Anschluß an Cuviers Typenlehre betont er das frühzeitige Auftreten
der typischen Unterschiede und die gegenseitigen Lagebeziehungen der
Organe. Auch führt ihn dies zur Annahme verschiedener Ausbildungsgrade
des Typus, wodurch z. B. die Vögel höher organisiert sind als der
Mensch. Auch dem biogenetischen Grundgesetz gegenüber hat v. Baer sich
in vorsichtiger Reserve gehalten und bestritten, daß die Embryonen
höherer Tiere in ihrer Entwicklung bekannte bleibende Tierformen
durchliefen. Auch zahlreiche Arbeiten über Wirbellose und deren
Anatomie zeugen von Baers weitem Blick und von dem Ebenmaß in seiner
Devise: „Beobachtung und Reflexion“.
Neben Baer ist der imposanteste deutsche Zoologe +Johannes Müller+
(_geb. 1801 in Koblenz, studierte er in Bonn, habilitierte sich 1824
daselbst nach kurzem Aufenthalt in Berlin, 1826 Professor daselbst, kam
nach Rudolphis Tode 1833 als Anatom und Physiologe nach Berlin, starb
1858_). Je mehr die Sterne der Naturphilosophie und ihre Gründungen
erloschen, um so mehr begann +Joh. Müller+ die führende Persönlichkeit
in unserem Fache zu werden. Aus der Schule der Naturphilosophen
hervorgegangen, kämpfte er zeitlebens gegen die übertriebene
Spekulation und erntete die reiche Frucht, die eines philosophisch
geschulten Empirikers zu harren pflegt. Daher enthielt er sich der
Einmischung in die große theoretische Abrechnung zwischen Cuvier und
Geoffroy, und suchte in der Ausdehnung der Studien auf das Erforschbare
Ersatz. Er legte den Grund zu einer Sammlung von über 20000 Präparaten
in der Art des Hunterschen Museums, die jedoch später aufgeteilt
worden ist, suchte überall mit schärfster Methodik die Klassifikation
durch Anatomie zu stützen. Wenn dabei manche früher hochgeschätzte
Verallgemeinerung nicht standhielt (Ganoiden, Schreivögel), so sind
doch hinwiederum manche von größerer Dauer gewesen, weil er durch einen
staunenerregenden Überblick über die Tierwelt zu weitester Verknüpfung
der beobachteten Erscheinungen befähigt war. Sein Meisterwerk ist
die Monographie der Myxinoiden (1835-1845), welche die bedeutendste
Monographie auf dem Gebiete der vergleichenden Anatomie geblieben ist,
weil Müller die Erkenntnis der typischen Bedeutung der Fische für die
Wirbeltiere nicht nur in ihr niedergelegt hat, sondern auch durch
weitere Untersuchungen, eigene und solche seiner Schüler, erhärtet
hat. Nicht nur verdankt jedes Gebiet der vergleichenden Anatomie der
Wirbeltiere Müller nachhaltige Förderung, sondern auch die Kenntnis der
Wirbellosen (Aufstellung der Gruppe Radiolarien, Entwicklungsgeschichte
der Echinodermen, der Würmer, Auge, Gehörorgan der Insekten usw.).
In der zoologischen Systematik freilich lehnte sich Müller wie in
der vergleichend-anatomischen an Cuvier an, in der physiologischen
an Haller und die französischen Physiologen. Bei seinen übermäßig
ausgedehnten Spezialuntersuchungen vernachlässigte er die oberste
Gliederung seines Stoffes und schlug dadurch eine für Deutschland um
die Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts fatale Richtung ein.
Neben Joh. Müller stehen als Zootomen an erster Stelle +H. Stannius+
(1808-1883) und +C. Th. von Siebold+ (1804 bis 1885); jener als
Verfasser des gebräuchlichsten und zuverlässigsten Lehrbuches der
vergleichenden Anatomie der Wirbeltiere (1846), sowie zahlreicher
zootomischer Abhandlungen von größter Exaktheit; dieser, der
Sproß einer bedeutenden Gelehrtenfamilie, der von 1853 ab in
München eine überaus fruchtbare Tätigkeit entfaltete, nachdem er
1848 zum ersten Male die vergleichende Anatomie der Wirbellosen
dargestellt hatte. Die Hauptverdienste erwarb sich indes Siebold
um die Kenntnis der Parthenogenese sowie um die Helminthologie,
die sich nach mächtigen Impulsen von +Rudolphi+ um die Mitte des
Jahrhunderts zum bedeutendsten Zweig der medizinischen Zoologie
auszuwachsen begann. In dieser Linie steht an Siebolds Seite vor
allem +Rud. Leuckart+ (1822-1898, von 1850 an Professor in Gießen,
von 1869 an in Leipzig), der die Gebiete der Zeugungsphysiologie,
der Helminthologie, der Systematik und Anatomie der Wirbellosen
durch eine große Fülle exakter Arbeiten förderte. Klassisch sind
seine Schriften über die Blasenwürmer (1856) und die Trichine (1860)
geworden, sowie Leuckarts zusammenfassendes Werk über die Parasiten
des Menschen (1. Aufl. 1863-76), womit er diesem praktisch wichtigen
Gebiet die vollkommenste systematische Darstellung angedeihen ließ
und auch seine theoretische Bedeutung hervorhob. Wie kaum ein
anderer akademischer Lehrer schulte Leuckart in seinem Laboratorium
auswärtige Zoologen nach deutscher Methode, und verschaffte damit
der herrschenden deutschen Zoologie die größte Anerkennung über den
ganzen Erdkreis zu einer Zeit, da die Zoologie erst begann, Gemeingut
auch der erst in die Kultur eintretenden Nationen zu werden.
+C. G. Ehrenberg+ (1795-1876), Professor der Medizin in Berlin,
bereiste mit W. Hemprich die Nilländer (1820-26), später mit A. von
Humboldt Asien bis zum Altai (1829). Daneben galten seine Studien
besonders den Infusorien, für die er das auch mit Illustrationen
reich ausgestattete bedeutendste Werk in der ersten Hälfte des
Jahrhunderts (1838) verfaßte. Seine Auffassung, daß die Infusorien
nach Art der höheren Tiere Organe hätten, hielt dem Fortschritt der
Protozoenforschung nicht stand.
Ein gewisses Bindeglied zwischen der französischen und der
deutschen Zoologie bildete +Karl Vogt+ (1817-95). In Gießen
aufgewachsen, schloß er sich später Agassiz an und schrieb für ihn
die Naturgeschichte der Süßwasserfische, ferner eine wertvolle
Entwicklungsgeschichte der Geburtshelferkröte (1892). Mit seinen
physiologischen Briefen betrat er 1845 die Bahn populärer
Darstellung, die er zeitlebens festhielt, und die in ihm einen
geistreichen und humoristischen Vertreter fand, namentlich vor
und in der Periode des Darwinismus, wo seine Zoologischen Briefe
(1851), die Tierstaaten (1851), Köhlerglaube und Wissenschaft
(1855) und die Vorlesungen über den Menschen (1863) die Stimmung
auf deutschem Boden vorbereiteten und heben halfen. Ursprünglich
Cuvierist, nahm er später im Lager des Darwinimus eine erste Stelle
ein, um jedoch dann eigene Wege zu gehen und namentlich an der
polyphyletischen Deszendenz festzuhalten. 1852 wurde er Professor
der Zoologie in Genf und starb daselbst 1895, nachdem er 1885-94
ein originell angelegtes Lehrbuch der praktischen vergleichenden
Anatomie in Gemeinschaft mit +E. Yung+, seinem Nachfolger im Amt,
herausgegeben hatte. Ebenfalls vorwiegend Popularisator der Zoologie
war +H. Burmeister+ (1807-1892). Nachdem er 1837 Professor in Halle
und 1852 in Breslau geworden, begann er Reisen in Südamerika zu
unternehmen, gründete 1861 das Museum in Buenos Aires. Er entfaltete
eine reiche schriftstellerische Tätigkeit. Neben zahlreichen
Arbeiten über südamerikanische lebende und ausgestorbene Tierwelt,
ferner über Insekten suchte er im Sinne von Humboldts Kosmos die
Schöpfungsgeschichte der Erde darzustellen (1851). Den folgenden
Autoren nähert er sich durch seine Zoonomischen Briefe (1856). In
ähnlicher Weise, wie Burmeister nach Argentinien, verpflanzte +R. A.
Philippi+ (1808-1904) sie nach Chile, wohin er 1850 übergesiedelt war.
Mit den umfassendsten Kenntnissen verband ein großes Talent zur
Systembildung +G. Bronn+ (1800-1862). Nachdem er sich besonders der
Paläontologie gewidmet hatte, wurde er 1833 Professor der Zoologie
in Heidelberg. Der erste Paläontologe in Deutschland zu seiner Zeit,
kannte er den ganzen damals bekannten Reichtum der erloschenen
organischen Natur und pflegte daneben die Zoologie der lebenden
Organismen. Seine von der Pariser Akademie preisgekrönte Schrift
über die Entwicklungsgesetze der organischen Natur (1854) und seine
morphologischen Studien über die Gestaltungsgesetze (1858) gehören zu
den wichtigsten Vorarbeiten, auf denen Haeckel fußte. Er übersetzte
zuerst Darwins Entstehung der Arten, wenn auch mangelhaft, und schuf
in seinen Klassen und Ordnungen (begonnen 1859) die erste große
Zusammenfassung der zoologischen Systematik nach Cuvier.
In der geistigen Signatur Bronn am ähnlichsten, aber mit Ausdehnung
nach anderen Richtungen steht +J. V. Carus+ da (1823-1903, von 1853
an Professor in Leipzig). In einer Bildungssphäre aufgewachsen, der ja
auch C. G. Carus entstammte, entfaltete V. Carus früh außergewöhnliche
Talente. Nach seinen Studien unter Siebold und Kölliker knüpfte er in
Oxford die Beziehungen an, die ihn später zu einem der wichtigsten
Bindeglieder zwischen deutscher und englischer Zoologie machten
(Übersetzung von Darwins, Lewes’ und Spencers Werken, Vertretung
von Professor Wyville Thompson während der Challenger-Expedition).
Neben einigen Arbeiten über Anatomie und Entwicklungsgeschichte der
Wirbellosen ist das erste größere Werk von V. Carus ein System der
tierischen Morphologie (1853), das neben einer bemerkenswerten Betonung
der Induktion und unter kritischer Auseinandersetzung mit Comte, Mill
und Lotze zwar gewisser Grundlagen entbehrt, aber dennoch zu den
besten biologisch-systematischen Versuchen des Jahrhunderts gehört.
Zeitweise Bibliothekar, ist er der bedeutendste Bibliograph für unsere
Wissenschaft geworden. 1846 begann er schon die ~Bibliotheca zoologica~
herauszugeben, begründete 1878 den Zoologischen Anzeiger, schuf den
~Prodromus faunae mediterraneae~ (1893) und machte sich besonders bei
der Feststellung der internationalen Nomenklatur und um die Gründung
der deutschen zoologischen Gesellschaft (1890) verdient. Seine
Tätigkeit hat wohl ihren zeitlichen Schwerpunkt in der Periode des
Darwinismus, ist aber so universeller Natur und setzt so früh ein, daß
V. Carus nicht zu den von Darwin und Haeckel wesentlich beeinflußten
Forschern zu zählen ist. Seiner Geschichte der Zoologie 1873 wird an
anderer Stelle gedacht.
Es ist wohl begreiflich, wenn die Naturphilosophie auch noch in
dem sonst ruhigeren Wasser der Klassifikation, das durch Linné und
Cuvier hinreichend eingedämmt war, Wellen schlug. Der Carusschen
Klassifikation wurde bereits oben als einer typischen gedacht.
+J. Hermann+ (1738-1800) trat für netzförmige Verwandtschaft der
Lebewesen ein. +Rudolphi+ versuchte ein System der Tierwelt auf das
Nervensystem zu begründen, +S. Voigt+ (1817) auf die Hartgebilde,
+Schweigger+ (1820) auf die Atmungsorgane, +Wilbrand+ (1814) auf das
Blut, +Ehrenberg+ wiederum auf das Nervensystem, +Goldfuß+ spaltete
das Tierreich nach den Organsystemen des Menschen, +Mac Leay+
(Engländer) begründete ein System auf die Fünfzahl, ebenso +Joh.
Jac. Kaup+; +P. J. van Beneden+ und +C. Vogt+ auf das Verhältnis
des Dotters zum Embryo. Unter diesen Umständen tat das Cuviersche
System der vier Typen immer noch die besten Dienste. Außerdem machte
der spezielle Ausbau der Klassifikation insofern die wichtigsten
Fortschritte nach den niederen Wirbellosen hin, indem Siebold die
Protozoen und Leuckart die Zölenteraten absonderten.
Sodann sei hier der Synopsis von +Leunis+ (1802-73) gedacht,
eines höchst zweckmäßigen Bestimmungs- und Nachschlagebuches für
klassifikatorische Zwecke.
Dieser Periode gehört auch vor allem als der beste Popularisator
der Zoologie an +Alfred Brehm+ (1829-84). Als Sohn eines bereits
um die Ornithologie hochverdienten Mannes (C. L. Brehm aus Schönau
bei Gotha, 1787-1864) unternahm er wiederholt Reisen in Oberägypten
und Abessinien, deren Resultate er auch in besonderen Schilderungen
niederlegte. 1876-79 erschien sein Tierleben, womit er in den
weitesten Kreisen Sinn für die ökologische Seite der Tierwelt
verbreitete.
Eine durchaus selbständige Stellung nimmt +Ludwig Rütimeyer+ ein.
Geboren 1825 im Kanton Bern, widmete er sich theologischen und
später medizinischen Studien, nach deren Abschluß er Studienreisen
nach Frankreich, England und Italien antrat; von 1855 ab Professor
der Zoologie in Basel, starb er daselbst 1895. Rütimeyer wandte die
Schulung des Pariser Pflanzengartens und der englischen Museen auf
Stoffe an, die ihm teils diese stets wieder von ihm besuchten Stätten,
teils sein Heimatland darbot. Lange Zeit geologische, anthropologische,
geographische Studien neben den zoologischen betreibend, besaß er
die Vorbedingungen zu klassischer Bearbeitung der Grenzgebiete.
1861 erschien seine Fauna der Pfahlbauten, über 20 Jahre dehnt
sich die Veröffentlichung seiner umfangreichen Studien über die
Naturgeschichte der lebenden und fossilen Huftiere aus, die zu den
sorgfältigsten und überzeugendsten phylogenetischen Spezialarbeiten
über große Formenreihen von Wirbeltieren gehören. Die geschichtlich
bedeutungsvollste Schrift Rütimeyers (Die Herkunft unserer Tierwelt
1867) verknüpft die Stammesgeschichte der höheren Landtiere und
Verbreitungsgeschichte derselben zu einem einheitlichen Gesamtbild,
das für die Verbindung und Wertung der verschiedenen Urkunden der
Tiergeschichte vorbildlich ist. Gegenüber dem Darwinismus hat Rütimeyer
einem vorsichtigen, die Unvollkommenheit der einschlägigen Materialen
kritisch beurteilenden, evolutionistischen Standpunkt gehuldigt, der am
meisten an denjenigen C. E. von Baers erinnert und wie er selbst ihn
schon im Anschluß an Is. Geoffroy vor dem Erscheinen der „Entstehung
der Arten“ eingenommen hatte.
Die vergleichende Anatomie vertrat in der darwinistischen Periode in
Deutschland besonders +Karl Gegenbaur+ (_1826 bis 1903, ein Schüler der
Würzburger medizinischen Schule in ihrer Glanzzeit, doktoriert 1851,
nach mehrfachen Studienreisen an die Meeresküste 1854 Privatdozent,
von 1855-73 Professor in Jena, dann in Heidelberg_). Gegenbaur ist,
auf streng empirischer Grundlage bleibend, im Anschluß an Joh. Müller
und H. Rathke als Fortsetzer der vergleichenden Anatomie in einer Zeit
zu bezeichnen, die dieser Wissenschaft nicht mehr günstig war. Seine
Arbeiten erstrecken sich über die Wirbellosen, namentlich die niederen
marinen Metazoen, sowie über die meisten Gebiete der Wirbeltieranatomie
mit Einschluß des Menschen. 1859 erschienen seine Grundzüge der
vergleichenden Anatomie, aus denen sich allmählich immer umfangreichere
Gesamtdarstellungen entwickelten. In zahlreichen Aufsätzen,
insbesondere in dem von ihm 1876 begründeten „Morphologischen
Jahrbuch“ behandelte er einzelne Probleme der Morphologie. Auf dem
Gebiet der Wirbeltiere beschäftigten ihn zunächst histogenetische
Fragen, bald aber wandte er sich dem Problem des Wirbeltierkopfes und
der Schädeltheorie zu, der er im Anschluß an R. Owen und Huxley und
insbesondere auf Grund der Studien über das Kopfskelett der Selachier
neue, der Entwicklungslehre entsprechende Formen zu geben anfing.
Seine umfassendste Untersuchungsreihe betraf das Extremitätenskelett.
Außer auf diesen Arbeitsgebieten nahm er jedoch an allen Punkten die
vergleichende Anatomie in Angriff. Als Begründer der größten Schule
auf dem Gebiete der Morphologie und in lebhaftem Gedankenaustausch
mit seinen Schülern gewann er die ausgedehnteste Übersicht über das
Gesamtgebiet dieser Wissenschaft, wie er sie in seiner 1898-1901
erschienenen „Vergleichenden Anatomie“ im Geiste der Entwicklungslehre
mit mächtiger Hand zusammenfaßte.
Als Zoologen der darwinistischen Periode sind ferner zu erwähnen:
+Oskar Schmidt+ (geb. 1823, doktorierte er 1846 zu Berlin, 1857
Professor in Graz, 1872 in Straßburg, starb 1886). Er veröffentlichte
1849 ein Handbuch der vergleichenden Anatomie, das in mehrfachen
Auflagen erschien, schrieb eine große Anzahl von Schriften über
Anatomie, Entwicklung, Verbreitung der Wirbellosen, insbesondere
der Spongien. An den politischen und sozialen Kämpfen seiner Zeit
nahm er regen Anteil und betätigte sich auf vielen Berührungspunkten
seiner Wissenschaft mit Fragen allgemeinerer Art im Sinne des
deutschen Darwinismus. +C. Claus+ (1835-1899, von 1860 ab Professor
der Zoologie in Würzburg, Marburg, Göttingen, Wien) machte sich
durch Spezialarbeiten über Zölenteraten und Krustazeen verdient.
Seinen Grundzügen der Zoologie (1866) und dem Lehrbuch der Zoologie
(1880) folgten weitere Auflagen, die sich namentlich durch
ebenmäßige Beherrschung des Stoffes und große Vorsicht gegenüber
den unabgeklärten Situationen der damaligen Naturphilosophie
auszeichneten.
+K. Semper+ (1832-93) bereiste nach Absolvierung zoologischer Studien
1859-64 die Philippinen, versah von 1868 an die Professur der
Zoologie in Würzburg. Die Resultate seiner Reisen veröffentlichte er
in groß angelegten Reisewerken, auf theoretischem Gebiete machte er
sich in einer nicht eben glücklichen Polemik gegen Haeckel Luft.
Ein Ehrenplatz in der Geschichte der neueren deutschen Zoologie gebührt
+K. A. von Zittel+, obschon sein Schwergewicht an das Grenzgebiet
nach der Geologie hin fällt. Er wurde geboren 1839 zu Bahlingen im
Kaiserstuhl, war Schüler Bronns und doktorierte in Heidelberg 1860,
nach Studien in Wien Professor der Geologie und Mineralogie am
Karlsruher Polytechnikum, kam als Oppels Nachfolger 1866 nach München,
wo er Paläontologie lehrte und das Museum zu einem der ersten in Europa
umgestaltete und mehrte, starb daselbst 1904. Von 1876 an begann von
Zittel mit der Publikation seines Handbuchs der Paläontologie, das,
1893 in fünf Bänden abgeschlossen, den ersten umfassenden Versuch einer
systematischen Bearbeitung des paläontologischen Stoffes vorstellt.
Die Paläontologie der Spongien hat er geradezu geschaffen. Er stand
auf deszendenztheoretischem Standpunkt, ohne indes die Lücken der
Paläontologie bedeutungslos erscheinen zu lassen. Zu seinem weiten
Schülerkreise zählen die hervorragendsten Paläontologen des Auslandes,
namentlich Nordamerikas in der Gegenwart. v. Zittel hat auch in seiner
musterhaften Art die Geschichte der Geologie und Paläontologie bis Ende
des 19. Jahrhunderts behandelt (1899) und damit vielfach einen Teil der
Geschichte der Zoologie berührt.
4. Zellenlehre.
Einen entscheidenden Wendepunkt für die Zoologie (und die Botanik)
bildete die Formulierung der +Zellenlehre+. Die Gewebe galten seit
dem Altertum als Elementarbestandteile. Einen neuen Aufschwung hatte
die Gewebelehre durch +X. Bichat+ (1771-1802) erhalten, für die
Zoologie war sie indes bisher wenig fruchtbar geblieben. Anderseits
kannte man Zellen, seit Hooke in seiner Monographie (1667) die des
Korkes beschrieben hatte, aber man verstand nicht ihre grundsätzliche
Bedeutung. Sodann existierte in der Naturphilosophie schon längst
theoretisch das Postulat, es müßten kleinste Lebenseinheiten
existieren, ob man sie sich nun als organische Moleküle (Buffon) oder
als Bläschen (Oken) dachte. Der Botaniker +Schleiden+ (1804-1881),
der eine gesunde, auf Induktion begründete Empirie vertrat, und
der belgische Zoologe +Schwann+ (1810-1882), letzterer in seinen
„Mikroskopischen Untersuchungen über die Übereinstimmung in der
Struktur und dem Wachstum der Tiere und Pflanzen“ (Berlin 1839), sind
als die Begründer der Zellenlehre zu bezeichnen. Sie wurde später
durch die Protoplasmatheorie +M. Schultzes+ (1860) ersetzt, welcher im
Anschluß an +F. Dujardin+ im Urschleim oder Protoplasma den Träger des
Lebens erkannte. Hauptsächlich +R. Remak+ (1815-1865) suchte mit Hilfe
der neuen Lehre die embryonale Entwicklung zu durchleuchten und ist
als eigentlicher Begründer der Histogenie zu betrachten. Auch gebührt
ihm das Verdienst, in ausgiebiger Weise die Hilfsmittel der Chemie in
den Dienst der Entwicklungsgeschichte gestellt zu haben. So erfuhr
denn die Lehre von den Geweben, die Histologie (die Bezeichnung stammt
von +F. J. R. Mayer+, 1819), eine Erweiterung zur Lehre von den Zellen
(Zytologie). Dadurch aber wurde die Einheit von Bau und Entwicklung
der Organismen mit einer realen Unterlage versehen, wo früher die
Spekulation allein nach ihr gesucht hatte. Ein großer Teil der
Bemühungen der späteren Zoologie, insbesondere in Deutschland, war nun
darauf gerichtet, den Nachweis dieser Einheit von Bau und Entwicklung
durch das ganze Tierreich durchzuführen. Der Ausbildung dieses Zweiges
der Zoologie entsprach die Vermehrung und Bereicherung der technischen
Hilfsmittel: des Mikroskops, der Härtung, des Färbens, des Schneidens,
der Rekonstruktion.
Die hauptsächlichsten Etappen des Entwicklungsganges sind durch
folgende Punkte bezeichnet:
1. +Mikroskop+: +G. B. Amici+ (Professor der Physik in Florenz)
erfindet das aplanatische Mikroskop (1827), nachdem die Gebrüder
Chevalier in Paris bereits achromatische Objektivsysteme hergestellt
hatten. Derselbe Amici erfindet 1850 die Immersion. Die 1846
gegründete Firma Zeiß in Jena beginnt mit Hilfe eines theoretisch
vorgebildeten Physikers, E. Abbes, 1866 das Mikroskop auf die
gegenwärtig erreichte Höhe zu bringen. 2. +Härtung+: Chromsäure wurde
seit Anfang des Jahrhunderts verwendet, um Härtung des Nervensystems
zu erzielen. Die eigentliche Härtungstechnik ist wohl hauptsächlich
+R. Remak+ zu verdanken. Von den späteren Entwicklungsmomenten
derselben ist wohl der wichtigste die Einführung der Osmiumsäure
durch +Fr. E. Schulze+ 1865. 3. +Färbung+: 1849 begann +Hartig+
karminsaures Ammoniak anzuwenden, 1863 führte +Waldeyer+ das
Hämatoxylin ein, 1862 +Benecke+ die Anilinfarben, 1881 +Ehrlich+
die vitale Färbung mit Methylenblau. 4. Während schon die älteren
Autoren Einzelabschnitte zarter Gewebe nach Härtung anfertigten, war
es 1842 +Stilling+, der die Vorteile der Schnittserien erkannte; an
Stelle des früher üblichen +Valentin+schen Doppelmessers empfahl
V. Hensen 1866 einen Querschnitter und 1870 +His+ das +Mikrotom+.
5. Von demselben Anatomen wurde schon in den 70er Jahren die
+Plattenrekonstruktionstechnik+ erfunden, deren Verbesserung in den
80er Jahren das Verdienst von +G. Born+ und +H. Strasser+ ist.
Die zootomische Richtung Deutschlands in dieser Periode besaß einen
Prototypus, der auch noch die ganze letzte Periode miterlebte,
in +Albert von Koelliker+ (1817-1906, geb. in Zürich, von 1846
an Professor in Würzburg für Anatomie). Kaum war die Zellenlehre
durch Schleiden und Schwann begründet worden, so vertrat Koelliker
schon 1844 die Lehre von der Zellnatur des Eies und trat mit in die
erste Reihe der vergleichend arbeitenden Histologen, ohne indes
den Zusammenhang mit der Anatomie und Physiologie zu verlieren. Er
suchte tatsächlich sich die Gewebe des ganzen Tierreichs durch eigene
Anschauung zugänglich zu machen, ebenso die Entwicklungsgeschichte und
bereicherte dabei diese Disziplinen nicht nur durch eine Überfülle
von Spezialarbeiten, sondern auch durch lange Zeit mustergültige
Lehrbücher (Entwicklungsgeschichte des Menschen und der Tiere 1861
und Gewebelehre, 1. Aufl. 1852, 4. Aufl. 1889 begonnen). Mit v.
Siebold schuf er die Zeitschrift für wissenschaftliche Zoologie
1847 und betätigte sich überhaupt in hervorragender Weise an der
Organisation und öffentlichen Vertretung unserer Wissenschaft. Seine
erstaunliche Frische ließ ihn noch in hohem Alter einem Gebiete,
das der histologischen Behandlung am längsten Widerstand geleistet
hatte, der Histologie des Nervensystems, seine Gestalt geben
helfen. Von hoher theoretischer Bedeutung ist seine Deutung der
Deszendenzlehre geworden, wonach wir die Entstehung der Arten uns
durch „sprungweise Entwicklung“, etwa analog den Formverwandlungen
beim Generationswechsel, zu denken hätten, womit er an Et. Geoffroy
anschließt.
So hatte sich also allmählich nach dem gewaltigen Aufschwung der
Spekulation und der Bildung allgemeiner, meist jedoch nicht dem
Studium der belebten Natur selbst entwachsener Systeme wieder eine
streng zootomische Richtung mit starkem Akzent auf der physiologischen
Deutung ausgebildet. Die mikroskopische Anatomie zerlegte sich in
Entwicklungsgeschichte und Histologie und erstreckte sich auch immer
mehr auf die Wirbellosen. Cuviersche Traditionen wirkten mächtig
ein und trugen den Sieg auch über die jüngeren naturphilosophischen
Bestrebungen davon, die sich später als fruchtbar erwiesen. Die
gesamte Zootomie löste sich entsprechend dem Charakter des deutschen
Wissenschaftsbetriebes und der mangelnden Zentralisation ab von der
Zoographie. Verbanden auch viele Autoren beides, so konzentrierte
sich bei dem Mangel an universal bedeutenden Museen die Wissenschaft
immer mehr in die zahlreicher werdenden Laboratorien. Der von Albr.
von Haller inaugurierte Laboratoriumsunterricht hatte reichliche
Gelegenheit zur Entfaltung auch bei bescheidenen Mitteln, solange
Histologie und Entwicklungsgeschichte an den zugänglichsten Objekten
betätigt werden konnten. Im Jahre 1826 erstattet Heusinger Bericht über
seine zootomische Anstalt, 1837 besaß bereits Rostock ein Laboratorium
unter Stannius. Vielfach kam auch die Personalunion von Anatomie,
Physiologie und Zoologie in der Hand eines Lehrers dem Blühen des
zoologischen Unterrichts und der Forschung zugute.
VIII. Englische Zoologie von der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts an.
1. Zoologie mit Ausschluß der Reisen und des Darwinismus.
Die englische Zoologie hielt in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts
gewiesene Bahnen ein. In der Zoographie dominierte Linné, in der
Zootomie herrschten die im 17. Jahrhundert geschaffenen Formen und
wurden wesentlich durch John Hunter vertreten. Ausgedehnte Reisen
trugen dazu bei, den Bestand an Tierformen zu vermehren und die meist
noch privaten Sammlungen anzuhäufen. Doch beginnt ein planmäßiges
Sammeln und Konservieren von Museumsobjekten erst etwa vom zweiten
Viertel des 19. Jahrhunderts ab. Von da an beginnen die Engländer die
großen Sammlungen anzulegen, durch die sie nach und nach alle anderen
Museen in Schatten stellen und sogar das Pariser Museum überholen.
Tritt daher die englische Zoologie weniger mit Worten als mit der
Tat auf den Plan, so wird verständlich, wie sie bei weniger großer
Literaturproduktion als die französische und weniger hohem spekulativen
Flug als die deutsche Zoologie sich rüstete, zur Herrschaft zu
gelangen und mehr als das, mit der Ausbildung der politischen
Weltherrschaft Englands auch die unserer Wissenschaft nach englischem
Schnitt zu etablieren. Die Wirkungen der englischen Zoologie sind
äußerst schwierig festzustellen, weil es vielfach am literarischen
Niederschlag für sie gebricht. Treten auch von Hunter bis zu Owen keine
wissenschaftlich stark ausgeprägten Persönlichkeiten hervor, so wäre es
völlig irrig, diesen Zeitraum für einen unfruchtbareren zu halten, als
etwa das 18. Jahrhundert. Weitere Schwierigkeiten für die Beurteilung
der englischen Zoologie ergeben sich daraus, daß die zoologischen
Interessen weit weniger isoliert und im Bussonschen Sinne verbunden
mit solchen der allgemeinen Naturgeschichte auftreten, oder sich dann
wieder an die äußerste Spezialität des Liebhabers und Sammlers und
Züchters binden.
Zu Beginn der englischen Zoologie dieser Periode ist ein Mann zu
nennen, der, obschon weder im Sinne damaliger Zeit, noch in dem der
Gegenwart als Zoologe zu bezeichnen und dennoch für die Geschichte
der Zoologie von größter Bedeutung geworden ist: +Erasmus Darwin+.
Geboren 1731 als Glied einer naturwissenschaftlich angeregten Familie,
studierte er Medizin und doktorierte zu Cambridge 1755. Er begann
eine Praxis in Nottingham, setzte seine medizinische Tätigkeit in
Lichfield, später in Derby fort. Er galt als Freidenker und war als
geistvoller, humanitär gesinnter Mann in England hoch angesehen.
Seiner Liebhaberei für Gartenbau und seinen pantheistischen Neigungen
entsprangen seine botanisch-ökonomischen Lehrgedichte. Sein Hauptwerk
ist jedoch die vierbändige Zoonomia, welche 1794-1796 entstand und
ins Französische und Deutsche übersetzt wurde. Er. Darwin starb 1802.
Wie hoch er schon früh bewertet wurde, zeigt die Würdigung seitens
Cuviers, der ihn den Neu-Stahlianern und Vitalisten einreiht. Erasmus
Darwin bewegten alle die Probleme, die später sein Enkel behandelte.
Er suchte eine Theorie der Entwicklung der Lebewelt aufzustellen,
doch nimmt er innere Ursachen als die treibenden für die Entstehung
neuer Lebewesen an, denen allerdings der Kampf ums Dasein und
Überleben des Passendsten zu Hilfe kommen. Er erörtert die anatomische
Übereinstimmung großer Formenkreise und gelangt zur Annahme gemeinsamer
Abstammung derselben. Liebe, Hunger und Sicherung der Existenz sind die
Triebe, die das Leben beherrschen. Die Formen der gezüchteten Rassen,
insektenfressende Pflanzen, Anpassung der Insekten an die Honigblüten,
rudimentäre Organe, Schutz- und Trutzmittel der Pflanzen, der Ausdruck
der Gemütsbewegungen des Menschen, all das sind Themata, die nach
dem Stand damaligen Wissens und aus einem tiefen Naturempfinden von
Erasmus Darwin seinem Weltbild eingegliedert wurden und in ihm eine
ähnliche Rolle spielten, wie in dem des Enkels. Erasmus Darwin ist
eine Parallelerscheinung zu dem großen Entwicklungspoeten Goethe auf
englischem Boden.
Als der umfassendste und wirkungsvollste Zootom Englands im 19.
Jahrhundert ragt +Richard Owen+ hervor (1804-1892). _Nach anatomischen
und medizinischen Studien in Edinburg unter Al. Monro III. und Barclay
wurde er Assistent von +W. Clift+, dem letzten Assistenten John
Hunters, begab sich zu Studien unter Cuvier und Et. Geoffroy nach
Paris, wurde 1842 unter der Leitung Clifts Konservator am „Kollegium
der Wundärzte“. Von 1856 ab nahm er eine leitende Stellung an der
naturhistorischen Abteilung des British Museum ein, für die er das neue
Heim erkämpfte. Im 80. Jahre zog er sich von der Leitung des Museums
zurück._ Owens erstaunliche Produktivität erstreckte sich über die
Anatomie lebender und fossiler, einheimischer und fremder Lebewesen
in gleichem Maße. Er selbst suchte sein Schwergewicht weniger nach
der klassifikatorischen Seite, wo er mit seinen Verallgemeinerungen
wenig Glück hatte und Irrtümer mit größter Zähigkeit festhielt,
als nach der deskriptiven Zootomie und der vergleichenden Anatomie
hin. Hier verdanken wir ihm die Beschreibung aller seltenen Typen
des Britischen Kolonialreiches, z. B. der Beuteltiere, der Moas,
der Apteryx, der Gruppe der Theromorphen usw. Den vier Quartbänden
von Präparaten der Hunterschen Sammlung (1833-1840) ließ er seine
Odontographie folgen (1840-1845), die umfassendste Darstellung der
Zähne und ihrer Struktur. Der Grundplan des Wirbeltierskeletts (1848)
und die Natur der Extremitäten (1849) ließen ihn Ansichten zum Ausdruck
bringen, die in der Richtung +Okens+ und +Et. Geoffroys+ lagen. In
ihnen trennte er auch den alten Aristotelischen Begriff der Homologie
in die physiologische Homologie oder Analogie (z. B. Flügel des
Vogels und der Fledermaus) und in die morphologische, für die die
Bezeichnung Homologie beibehalten wurde (z. B. Spritzloch der Wale
und Nase der übrigen Säugetiere). 1843 erschienen Owens Vorlesungen
über vergleichende Anatomie, 1866-1867 seine Anatomie und Physiologie
der Wirbeltiere, die umfassendste vergleichende Anatomie nach Cuvier
und Meckel. Daß er den Menschen nach zoologischen Gesichtspunkten
betrachtet wissen wollte, bewies er durch Eröffnung einer Galerie
für physische Ethnologie am Hunterschen Museum. In gewissem Sinne
nahm er einen Fortschritt der Artbildung an, sprach sich aber nicht
nur sehr vorsichtig über dieses Problem aus, sondern verwarf die
Selektionstheorie vollständig und suchte der Eigenart des Menschen
in anatomischer Hinsicht ein größeres Gewicht beizulegen, als wir
es heute tun. Unter allen Umständen bleibt ihm das Verdienst, die
vergleichende Anatomie der präevolutionistischen Periode im größten
Stile abgeschlossen und den Ruhm der Hunterschen Sammlung als der
ersten der Welt dauernd gesichert zu haben.
Neben Owen ist vor allem +J. E. Gray+ (1800-1875) als ein Förderer
der englischen Zoologie hervorzuheben. Er veröffentlichte eine große
Zahl zoologischer Monographien, bearbeitete unter anderen Materialien
auch die des Erebus und Terror und baute hauptsächlich die Entomologie
aus. 1840 wurde er Vorstand der zoologischen Abteilung am Britischen
Museum, und schon 1852 war die ihm unterstellte Sammlung als die größte
Europas anerkannt. Er selbst schrieb mehrere Bände der musterhaften
Kataloge des Museums und arbeitete unermüdlich in den Bahnen der
Linné-Cuvierschen Zoographie fort. Gray sah im Darwinismus lediglich
eine Wiederholung des Lamarckismus. 1875 nach seinem Tode nahm +A.
Günther+ (geb. 1833) die Stellung Grays am Britischen Museum ein,
nachdem er seit 1858 Gray unterstützt und 1865 den Zoological Record
begründet hatte. Günther erwarb sich, abgesehen von der Organisation
der zoologischen Abteilung des Britischen Museums, besondere Verdienste
um unsere Kenntnis der niederen Wirbeltiere; 1880 erschien seine
Einführung ins Studium der Fische.
Als hauptsächlicher Vertreter der modernen Embryologie in England hat
zu gelten +Fr. Balfour+ (_1851-82, von 76 ab Professor in Cambridge_).
Er bearbeitete insbesondere die Entwicklungsgeschichte der Selachier,
die für einige Zeit das klassische Material der Vertebratenembryologie
wurden, und gab ein vortreffliches Handbuch der Embryologie heraus
(1881).
In Owens Fußtapfen trat +William Flower+ (1831 bis 1899). 1861-1884
verwaltete und mehrte er die Huntersche Sammlung als deren Kurator,
1884 trat er die Direktion des Naturhistorischen Museums an, die er
bis 1898 versah. Seine Arbeiten gelten insbesondere der Zoologie
und vergleichenden Anatomie der Wirbeltiere. Daneben liegt sein
Hauptverdienst auf der Entwicklung neuer Grundsätze für die Einrichtung
von Museen, die er in einem besonderen Werk (~Essays on Museums~
1898) niederlegte. Sein Prinzip, Schausammlungen und Sammlungen des
wissenschaftlichen Unterrichts zu trennen, fand allgemeine Anerkennung.
Eine eigentümliche Stellung nahm +G. J. Mivart+ (1827 bis 1900) in
der englischen Zoologie ein. Zum Katholizismus übergetreten, wurde
er 1862 Professor am Marienhospital und blieb in dieser Stellung
bis 1884. 1890-1893 las er Philosophie der Naturgeschichte an der
Löwener Universität, zog sich aber nach Differenzen mit seiner Kirche
wieder nach London zurück. Mivart hat eine große Zahl zootomischer
Arbeiten geschrieben, dann sich aber hauptsächlich auf Kritik des
Darwinismus verlegt und sich mit einer eigenartigen Klassifikation
der Wissenschaften abgegeben. Er produzierte eine ausgedehnte
polemisch-apologetische Literatur (Die Entstehung der Art, 1871;
Natur und Gedanke 1882; Ursprung der Vernunft 1889; Grundlage der
Wissenschaften 1894), außerdem zahlreiche typisierende und nicht
strengeren Anforderungen genügende Unterrichtsbücher.
2. Darwinismus in England.
Eine ganz besondere Wendung nahm die englische Zoologie in den
fünfziger Jahren des 19. Jahrhunderts durch das Auftreten von +Charles
Darwin+, +A. R. Wallace+ und +Th. H. Huxley+. Die Lehre Darwins, der
Darwinismus, leitet eine Periode der Zoologiegeschichte ein, an der
die Zoologie nicht immer den hauptsächlichen Anteil nimmt, von der sie
aber den größten Vorteil hatte, wenn auch die treibenden Faktoren in
erster Linie außerhalb der Zoologie zu suchen sind. Noch ist das ganze
Ereignis in seinen Voraussetzungen so wenig durchsichtig, daß von einer
kritischen Anforderungen entsprechenden Ausführung desselben keine Rede
sein kann. Daher haben wir uns auch hier auf einige wenige Hauptlinien
zu beschränken, die den Darwinismus und seine Entwicklung kennzeichnen
mögen.
Des Großvaters von Charles Darwin, Erasmus, ist bereits oben gedacht
worden. Der Gedankenkreis, in dem er lebte und den er mit zahlreichen
Freunden teilte, wirkte zweifellos in seiner Umgebung fort. Wie weit
der Enkel von ihm beeinflußt war, ist kaum genau festzustellen. Ch.
Darwins Vorbereitung war nicht die eines Biologen seiner Zeit, sondern
trägt den Charakter einer nicht gerade universellen Selbstbelehrung,
die mehr aus der Intuition als aus der Erfahrung schöpft, mehr
vielseitig tastend als kritisch zu Werke geht. Bald springt von der
rein fermentativ wirkenden Person Darwins die Bewegung ab und wird
zu einem allgemeinen Zeitsymptom, das des auf einen relativ engen
Erfahrungskreis aufgebauten Verstandesinhaltes nicht mehr bedarf,
sondern Stimmungs- und Parteisache wird, eine Parallelerscheinung
zu anderen kulturellen Entwicklungen der zweiten Hälfte des 19.
Jahrhunderts. Die Hauptwirkungen der gesamten Erscheinung, die man
als Darwinismus bezeichnet, sind auf wissenschaftlichem Gebiete etwa
folgende: Es macht sich ein intensiv gesteigertes Bedürfnis nach einer
dem individuellen und sozialen Leben entsprechenden Wissenschaft
vom Leben geltend. Das Interesse für diese Wissenschaft wächst, je
mehr sie Gemeingut der früher an ihr nicht beteiligten Kreise wird.
In Verbindung damit und zugleich als Folge einer materialistischen
Geschichtsphilosophie verbreitet sie sich als Bestandteil einer
Weltanschauung über alle gebildeten Kreise Europas, sowie der
zivilisierten Welt. Damit Hand in Hand geht eine Umgestaltung der
wissenschaftlichen Biologie selbst. Sie nimmt zunächst bedeutend an
Breite der Erfahrung zu und damit an Komplikation der Beziehungen ihrer
einzelnen Teile unter sich und mit anderen Wissenschaften. Dann spalten
sich die Wege: Eine physiologische Richtung geht auf die von alters her
ventilierten Probleme vom Ursprung des Lebens, von der Vererbung, von
den gegenseitigen Beziehungen der Organismen, von der Tierpsychologie
zurück und knüpft vorwiegend an die von der Histologie und Embryologie
geschaffenen Grundlagen an. Eine genealogische (phylogenetische)
Richtung gestaltet die früher nur auf dem Wege der Logik angestrebte
Ordnung der Lebewelt auf Grund des Gedankens um, daß die Entwicklung
der Organismen als reales Faktum zu betrachten sei. Sie setzt an Stelle
einer logischen eine genealogische Systematik. Sie ist das eigentlich
neue und wesentliche Element, das in dieser Periode zum früheren
Grundstock der Zoologie hinzukommt.
+Charles Darwin+ war geboren zu Shrewsbury 1809, verbrachte daselbst
seine Jugend und studierte an der Seite eines Bruders von 1825
ab in Edinburg. Damals las er die Zoonomie seines Großvaters und
schreibt in einer Autobiographie (Gesammelte Werke, Bd. XIV) zwar
dieser Lektüre keine unmittelbare Wirkung zu. „Nichtsdestoweniger
ist es immerhin wahrscheinlich, daß der Umstand, daß ich früh im
Leben derartige Ansichten habe aufstellen und loben hören, es
begünstigt hat, daß ich dieselben in einer verschiedenen Form in
meiner ‚Entstehung der Arten‘ aufrechterhalten habe. In dieser Zeit
bewunderte ich die ‚Zoonomia‘ bedeutend, als ich sie aber nach einem
Zeitraume von 10 oder 15 Jahren wieder las, war ich enttäuscht;
das Mißverständnis zwischen der Spekulation und den mitgeteilten
Tatsachen ist darin so groß.“ 1828 bezog er Christ College in
Cambridge, wo er, da ihn die Anatomie und Chirurgie bleibend
abgeschreckt hatte, sich zum Theologiestudium entschloß. Doch lehnte
er sich an den Botaniker Henslow an, sammelte leidenschaftlich Käfer
und war im Begriff, geologische Studien zu ergreifen, als Kpt.
Fitzroy ihn als Naturforscher für die Reise des „Beagle“ (1831-36)
anwarb. Hier eröffneten sich ihm die Probleme der Erdgeschichte und
Tiergeschichte, die später Gegenstände besonderer Werke wurden. Nach
längerem Aufenthalt in London zur Ausarbeitung seiner Reiseergebnisse
(Korallenriffe 1842) und im Verkehr mit den bedeutendsten Männern
Londons, siedelte er auf ein Landhaus in Down über, verwandte
zunächst viel Zeit und Arbeit auf geologische Publikationen und
trat 1846 mit der Bearbeitung der Zirripedien hervor, veranstaltete
1845 eine Neuausgabe seiner Reise eines Naturforschers. Nach der
Lektüre von Malthus’ ~Essay on Population~ bildeten sich bei ihm
die ersten Ansätze seiner Lehre aus, die er in zwei Niederschriften
1842 und 1844 festlegte. Auf den Rat Lyells begann er 1856 mit
der Ausarbeitung, beschränkte sich aber auf die Form, in welcher
die „Entstehung der Arten“ 1859 erschien, nachdem Wallace ihn
1858 von seiner gleichlautenden Theorie durch Zuschrift aus dem
Malaiischen Archipel in Kenntnis gesetzt hatte. Die „Entstehung der
Arten“ wurde am Tage der Herausgabe vergriffen. 1862 erschien die
„Befruchtung der Orchideen“ und weitere botanische Schriften, 1868
das 1860 begonnene „Variieren der Tiere und Pflanzen im Zustande
der Domestikation“, 1871 die „Abstammung des Menschen“, 1872 der
„Ausdruck der Gemütsbewegungen“, 1876 „Über die Wirkungen der Kreuz-
und Selbstbefruchtung im Pflanzenreiche“, 1880 mehrere botanische
Arbeiten, 1881 die „Bildung der Ackererde durch die Tätigkeit der
Würmer“. Charles Darwin starb 1882 und wurde in der Westminsterabtei
beigesetzt.
In seiner „Entstehung der Arten“ zählt Darwin selbst eine lange Reihe
von Autoren auf, die er in irgendwelcher Hinsicht als seine Vorgänger
betrachtet. Die Zahl derer, die vor Darwin den Entwicklungsgedanken
aussprachen, den Artbegriff kritisierten, natürliche und künstliche
Zuchtwahl verglichen, hat sich noch erheblich vermehrt, seitdem
man durch den Darwinschen Gedankenkreis auf ältere Äußerungen
aufmerksam wurde. Man kann daher nicht von einer bewußten Fortbildung
der Wissenschaft durch Darwin reden; seine Macht beruht vielmehr
auf der Tiefe seiner Intuition, die sich in der Erfassung des
Entwicklungsgedankens bewährte, während gerade die ins Theoretische
gehende Zuchtwahllehre bald in Darwins eigenen Augen nicht leistete,
was er ursprünglich glaubte.
Schon die gleichzeitig von Wallace gegebene Fassung derselben
Lehre zeigt, daß sie ihre hauptsächlichen Wurzeln in der Tier- und
Pflanzenzucht hatte, wie sie in England üblich, in geographischer
Anschauung, wie sie den Engländern leichter zugänglich ist als anderen
Nationen, endlich im englischen philosophischen Realismus, der
gleichzeitig Stuart Mill und den Entwicklungsphilosophen H. Spencer
erzeugte. Ein weiteres förderliches Moment waren die von Ch. Lyell
(1797 bis 1875) entwickelten Prinzipien der Geologie, womit dieser
die Cuviersche Katastrophentheorie beseitigt und die auch heute
wirksamen geologischen Faktoren als Ursachen langsamer Umbildung des
Erdantlitzes hinstellte. Darwins Lehre läßt sich kurz in folgende Sätze
fassen[2]:
1. Die Arten, die wir bei Tieren und Pflanzen unterscheiden, sind
veränderlich, nicht konstant. Sie sind aus geologisch älteren
Arten durch allmähliche Umwandlung entstanden und nach Maßgabe
ihrer Formähnlichkeit auch verwandt. Alle Organismen, die heute
lebenden sowohl, wie die früherer Erdperioden, sind die Abkömmlinge
einheitlicher Urformen des organischen Lebens. Diese Lehre bezeichnet
man als Transformismus, Transformationstheorie, Deszendenztheorie,
Abstammungslehre. Vor Darwin ist sie am deutlichsten von Lamarck
vertreten worden. Sie bildet aber auch den Grundkern des
Entwicklungsgedankens, wie Goethe und die deutsche Naturphilosophie
ihn ausdrückten. Im Verlauf unserer geschichtlichen Betrachtung ist
er uns mehrfach begegnet, nur dachte man sich meist im Anschluß an
Plato die Entstehung der verschiedenen Urkeime als einen einmaligen
Schöpfungsakt, wie er sich auch mit der Lehre von der Artkonstanz
vertrug, nicht aber dachte man sich die Entwicklung der Lebewelt
als eine nach heute noch wirksamen Gesetzen sich abspielende
Selbstschöpfung.
2. Darwin will aber nicht nur diese Hypothesen von der Entstehung
der Lebewelt aufstellen. Er will auch die Erklärung dafür geben, auf
welche Weise dieser Umwandlungsprozeß der Arten vor sich gegangen sei
und noch vor sich gehe. Die kausale Verkettung der Umstände, die zur
Bildung neuer Arten führen, denkt sich Darwin etwa so: Wie der Tier-
und Pflanzenzüchter die Eigentümlichkeit der Organismen, Variationen
zu bilden, benützt und die zur Erzeugung einer Spielart geeigneten
Individuen ausliest, so geht in der Natur unbewußt eine Auslese
vonstatten. Der künstlichen Zuchtwahl entspricht eine natürliche
Zuchtwahl. Die Lehre, die sich auf diese Analogie stützt, ist die
Zuchtwahltheorie (Selektionstheorie). In der Natur spielt die Rolle
des Züchters der Kampf ums Dasein, der aus der übergroßen Zahl der
nach Entwicklung strebenden Keime die lebensfähigsten ausliest. Die
individuellen Merkmale, wodurch die passenderen Individuen überleben,
werden durch die Vererbung übertragen, befestigt und nach und nach
zu Formeigentümlichkeiten der Art, Gattung usw. Die Anpassung des
Organismus an seine Umgebung ist also lediglich eine natürliche Folge
des Züchtungsprozesses durch den Kampf ums Dasein.
In bezug auf diese zweite Theorie ist zu bemerken, daß Darwin ihr
nicht ausschließliche Gültigkeit beilegt; später noch weniger, als am
Anfang seiner Versuche, mit Hilfe derselben die Entstehung der Art
zu erklären. Er gibt zu, die Variationen erhielten ihre Qualität aus
innern Ursachen. Er nimmt die geschlechtliche Zuchtwahl zu Hilfe,
wonach die geschlechtlich reizenden Merkmale zu Artmerkmalen gezüchtet
werden, gibt indes später zu, auch die Bedeutung dieser Zuchtwahl
überschätzt zu haben. Die Prinzipien, welche Lamarck und Et. Geoffroy
für die Erklärung der Umwandlung der Arten beigezogen hatten, nämlich
Gebrauch und Nichtgebrauch der Organe und direkten Einfluß der Umgebung
auf den Organismus, verwendet er ebenfalls, gibt aber zu, daß in der
Regel individuell erworbene Eigenschaften sich nicht vererben.
In bezug auf die erste Theorie muß man sich vergegenwärtigen, daß
Darwin nicht über das anatomische und embryologische Wissen seiner Zeit
verfügte. Hier war eine große Lücke. Er kennt das sprunghafte Auftreten
mancher Variationen, mißt ihm aber nicht die Bedeutung bei, wie Et.
Geoffroy vor und Koelliker nach ihm. Den Versuch, die Entstehung der
Instinkte durch Zuchtwahl zu erklären, unterläßt er und bezeichnet
ihre Ursachen als unbekannt. Endlich kann er sich noch nicht zur
Annahme einer einzigen Urform des Lebens entschließen, sondern nimmt
noch getrennte Typen der Tiere an. Die Entwicklung ist ihm nicht nach
Art der deutschen Naturphilosophie ein Prozeß der Selbstschöpfung,
sondern er denkt sie sich nach Art des englischen Realismus als eine
zwangsweise erfolgte Anpassung an die Außenwelt.
Daher ist Darwin als in Hinsicht auf den Transformismus noch nicht auf
dem Punkte der deutschen und französischen Naturphilosophie stehend
zu bezeichnen, die diesen Einheitsgedanken konsequenter durchgeführt
hatte. Mit der Selektionstheorie hat er sich genötigt gesehen,
innerlich einander ausschließenden Prinzipien nebeneinander Raum zu
lassen und damit auch die vermeintliche mechanische Erklärung der
Entstehung der Art preiszugeben. Seiner großen Breite der Erfahrung und
der beharrlichen Geduld ausgedehnten und minutiösen Beobachtens und
Experimentierens mit Kulturtieren und Pflanzen entsprach weder seine
Kenntnis der anatomischen und physiologischen Wissenschaft seiner Zeit,
noch seine philosophische Beanlagung und Ausbildung. Die erste Wirkung
der „Entstehung der Arten“ war begeisterte Zustimmung von +Lyell+,
+Huxley+, +Hooker+ und +Asa Gray+ (Botaniker), +W. B. Carpenter+
(Physiologe). Diese Forscher warfen in geschlossenem Vorgehen durch die
englische Presse die von Darwin mit Zurückhaltung behandelten Fragen
ins Publikum. Dadurch entstand sofort eine öffentliche Diskussion, die
den wissenschaftlichen Boden verließ und zum Streit um christliche
Dogmen wurde, namentlich durch die Schuld der Gegner des Darwinismus,
die mit einer heute nicht mehr denkbaren Hartnäckigkeit die Lehre von
der Einheit der organischen Natur, namentlich aber die Deszendenz
des Menschen, die Darwin nur erst angedeutet hatte, zum Zentrum des
Kampfes wählten.
Wenn wir heute die Punkte bezeichnen sollen, an denen Darwin für
die Zoologie besonders fruchtbringend gewirkt hat, ganz abgesehen
von der indirekten Wirkung auf die Anerkennung der biologischen
Probleme im allgemeinen, so ist kaum ein Gebiet der Zoologie zu
nennen, dessen Pflege nicht vermehrt worden wäre. Doch ist es das
Studium der individuellen Variation, der Keimsubstanzen, der niederen
Lebensformen, namentlich auch unter dem Einfluß des Experiments,
der Lebensbedingungen, des tierischen Stammbaumes und einer
naturhistorischen Auffassung des Menschen gewesen, wo die größten
Anregungen von ihm ausgingen. Mit der Zeit hat die Transmutationslehre
immer mehr den Glauben an die Konstanz der Art verdrängt, der
tatsächlich von keinem Naturforscher mehr aufrechterhalten wird.
Dagegen ist die Selektionslehre zunächst durch eine zunehmende Anzahl
von Hilfsannahmen ergänzt worden. Dann wurde der Zuchtwahl noch
eine gewisse Bedeutung für die Reinerhaltung der Art zugeschrieben.
Während die Mehrzahl der Forscher auf diesem Standpunkt beharrt, ist
eine Gruppe von Forschern bemüht, sie so zu modifizieren, daß sie,
konsequent durchgeführt, das leisten sollte, was Darwin ihr nicht
zugetraut hat. Das Lamarcksche Prinzip von Gebrauch und Nichtgebrauch
ist von einer ganzen Schule, den Neo-Lamarckianern, an die Spitze
gestellt worden, die sich den Neo-Darwinisten an die Seite stellen. Mit
der eigenartigen Form, in der der englische Darwinismus seine Probleme
behandelte, hängt zusammen, daß die gesamte spekulative Entwicklung
des Darwinismus sich wenig an allgemein wissenschaftliche Normen der
philosophischen und historischen Kritik band. Das volle Verständnis für
diese Aufgaben, wie denn auch für die systematische Entwicklung des
Darwinismus selbst stellte sich erst in Deutschland ein.
Darwin steht in der Theorie anfänglich zunächst +A. R. Wallace+ (geb.
1822), doch führen ihre Wege im einzelnen weit auseinander. Nachdem
er 1848-52 ausgedehnte Reisen im Amazonasgebiete unternommen, widmete
er schon eine 1855 erschienene Arbeit dem „Gesetz, welches die
Entstehung der Arten reguliert hat“; 1854 trat er eine mehrjährige
Reise in den Malaiischen Archipel an, von der aus er seine Schrift:
„Über die Tendenz der Varietäten unbegrenzt von dem Originaltypus
abzuweichen“ 1858 nach London sandte. In der Beurteilung des
Instinktes der Tiere, der Entstehung des Menschen wich Wallace zwar
ab, ordnete sich aber später in der Verwertung der Theorien der
Zuchtwahl Darwin unter. Besondere Aufmerksamkeit widmete er der
Erscheinung der Mimikry in Verbindung mit seinem Reisegefährten +W.
Bates+ (1825-92), der Südamerika auch weiterhin bereiste. Für die
Entstehung des Menschen nahm Wallace eine Art künstlicher Zuchtwahl
höherer Art an. Außer den Beiträgen zur Zuchtwahltheorie (1871) und
dem Darwinismus (1889) sind es besonders die tiergeographischen
Arbeiten, die Wallace zu einem Hauptvertreter der modernen englischen
Zoologie stempeln. So vor allem seine Tiergeographie (1876), die das
Muster der späteren allgemeinen Zusammenfassungen dieses Gebietes
geworden ist, ferner ~Island life~ (1880).
Darwins Hauptmitkämpfer war +Th. H. Huxley+ (er nannte sich selbst
Darwins „Generalagenten“), zugleich einer der vielseitigsten und
regsten Geister der englischen Zoologie des 19. Jahrhunderts. Geboren
1825, absolvierte er 1842 seine Studien an der Londoner Universität,
begleitete dann als Schiffsarzt die „Rattlesnake“ (1846-1850). In diese
erste Periode seiner Studien fällt eine große Zahl von Arbeiten über
die niederen Metazoen des Meeres. Nach London zurückgekehrt, entfaltete
er seine großen Fähigkeiten als Popularisator der Naturwissenschaften
und als Universitätslehrer. Ihm ist geradezu die Methodik des
biologischen Universitätsunterrichts von England zu danken. In den
fünfziger Jahren bearbeitete er mehrfach fossile Wirbeltiere, stellte
auch seine Schädeltheorie und seine Lehre vom Archetypus der Form
auf. Beim Erscheinen der Entstehung der Arten von Darwin trat er aufs
nachdrücklichste in Wort und Schrift für die neue Lehre ein und zog
durch seine 1863 erschienene Schrift über die Stellung des Menschen
in der Natur die Konsequenz der Transmutationslehre für den Menschen
an einem Punkt, wo Darwin sich mit schüchternen Andeutungen begnügt
hatte. Neben rastloser Arbeit über zahlreiche Themata, die er zuerst
im Lichte der Entwicklungslehre erscheinen ließ (z. B. Abstammung der
Vögel von den Reptilien, Zusammenfassung beider Klassen als Sauropsida)
und die auch einen Niederschlag im Handbuch der vergleichenden
Anatomie der Wirbellosen fand, widmete sich Huxley der öffentlichen
Vertretung seines Faches auf allen Gebieten als Praktiker im Dienste
der Fischerei, der Bekämpfung der Infektionskrankheiten usw., ohne
indes seine glänzende oratorische und literarische Begabung im Dienste
des Darwinismus und namentlich im Kampfe für den „Agnostizismus“
gegen die Kirche von England aufzugeben. +Huxley+ starb 1895 und
hinterließ eine hervorragende Schülerschaft, die vorzugsweise in
kritisch-empiristischem Sinne die Zootomie pflegt. Die geistige
Erbschaft Darwins trat eine Reihe von jüngeren Forschern an, die
noch der Gegenwart angehören und die in bezug auf diese oder jene
Probleme der in England noch am stärksten verbreiteten Zuchtwahltheorie
allgemeine Gültigkeit zu erkämpfen suchten. An der deutschen Kritik
am Darwinismus ist indessen die englische Schule Darwins bisher
vorbeigegangen.
[2] Für eine ausführlichere Darstellung dieser Lehren sei auf Nr. 60
der Sammlung Göschen: Tierkunde von F. v. Wagner verwiesen.
3. Darwinismus in Deutschland.
In Deutschland war der Boden für den Darwinismus vorbereitet durch
die tiefen Furchen, welche der Materialismus und die Überwindung der
Naturphilosophie bereits gezogen hatten. Der erste Schritt war +G.
Bronns+ Übersetzung der „Entstehung der Arten“ (1860). Sodann trat
+Haeckel+ 1862 in seiner Monographie der Radiolarien und 1863 in einer
Rede an die Versammlung der deutschen Naturforscher zu Stettin für
die neue Lehre ein. 1863 erschienen +K. Vogts+ Vorlesungen über den
Menschen, 1864 +Fr. Müllers+ Schrift „Für Darwin“. Damit waren die
ersten Ansatzpunkte gegeben, von denen der deutsche Darwinismus seine
weitere Entwicklung nahm. +Ed. von Hartmann+ schildert den Ablauf
dieser historischen Erscheinung in den Worten: „In den sechziger
Jahren des 19. Jahrhunderts überwog noch der Widerstand der älteren
Forschergeneration gegen den Darwinismus; in den siebenziger Jahren
hielt dieser seinen Siegeslauf durch alle Kulturländer, in den
achtziger Jahren stand er auf dem Gipfel seiner Laufbahn und übte
eine fast unbegrenzte Herrschaft über die Fachkreise aus; in den
neunziger Jahren erhoben sich erst zaghaft und vereinzelt, dann immer
lauter und in wachsendem Chore die Stimmen, die ihn bekämpften;
im ersten Jahrzehnt des 20. Jahrhunderts scheint sein Niedergang
unaufhaltsam.“ So schematisch ist zwar dieser Ablauf nicht und auch
dann paßt er nicht auf das Verhalten der Zoologie in Frankreich und
England. Aber es wird dadurch etwa die Chronologie der ersten Welle
des Darwinismus, die über Deutschland ging, angegeben. Zunächst ist
zu scheiden zwischen dem Erfolg der Transmutationstheorie und dem der
Selektionstheorie. Die erstere hat sich in Deutschland allmählich
und stetig Bahn gebrochen und ihre Bedeutung wird heute nur noch von
wenigen Ausnahmen verkannt oder geleugnet. Die Selektionstheorie hat
stärkere Wandlungen durchgemacht. Sie hat einen künstlichen Ausbau und
vielfache Stützen durch verwandte Theorien erhalten, die, mit großer
Feinheit ausgesponnen, doch nicht zu einer Erklärung der Entstehung
der Art bisher führen konnten. Um diese spezielle Ausarbeitung der
Selektionstheorie sind besonders bemüht +A. Weismann+ und +L. Plate+.
Auf die Innenwelt des Organismus hat sie +W. Roux+ (Der Kampf der
Teile im Organismus 1881) übertragen. Zu ergänzen gesucht hat sie
+M. Wagner+ (1813-1887) durch seine Migrationstheorie (1868). Der
Unzulänglichkeit der Selektionstheorie suchten zahlreiche Forscher
durch andere Erklärungsversuche abzuhelfen, so +A. von Koelliker+ durch
die Lehre von der sprungweisen Entwicklung, +C. v. Nägeli+ durch seine
mechanisch-physiologische Theorie der Abstammungslehre (1884), +Th.
Eimer+ (1843-1898) durch die Lehre von der Orthogenese (1888), endlich
an der Wende des Jahrhunderts +H. de Vries+ durch die Mutationstheorie.
Die philosophisch-kritische Beurteilung des Darwinismus ist namentlich
von zwei Seiten unternommen worden: erstens von +Eduard von Hartmann+
und zweitens von +Albert Wigand+ (1821-1886). Ersterer hat 1866 in der
1. Auflage der Philosophie des Unbewußten eine Stellung präzisiert, die
er im wesentlichen noch am Ende des Jahrhunderts vertreten konnte und
die namentlich Gegenstand einer besonderen Schrift (Wahrheit und Irrtum
im Darwinismus 1874) geworden ist. Wigand hat vom Standpunkte des
Bibelglaubens aus in seinem Darwinismus (1874) eine Kritik gegeben, die
außer auf Darwin auf alle hervorragenderen am Darwinismus beteiligten
Vertreter der deutschen Naturforschung einging; das Werk kann, obschon
in seinem Widerstand gegen die Entwicklungslehre völlig verfehlt, doch
bisher nicht als durch die Kritik der Selektionstheoretiker widerlegt
bezeichnet werden. Was vor allem bisher fehlt, ist eine Beurteilung
des Darwinismus auf umfangreicher philosophiehistorischer Basis, und
bis diese gegeben ist, kann auch der Wert der ganzen Erscheinung als
eines zoologiehistorischen Ereignisses nicht präzisiert werden. Wir
beschränken uns daher darauf, hier nur noch diejenige Persönlichkeit
zu besprechen, die als Prototyp des deutschen Darwinismus unter allen
Umständen die größte Bedeutung behalten wird, die auch den Darwinismus
für die Zoologie am meisten fruchtbar gemacht hat, +Ernst Haeckel+.
+Ernst Haeckel+ ist geboren 1834 in Potsdam, studierte von 1852
ab Medizin und Naturwissenschaften in Würzburg, Berlin, Wien,
1859/60 widmete er sich namentlich dem Studium der marinen Fauna,
habilitierte sich 1861, wurde 1862 außerordentlicher und 1865
ordentlicher Professor an der Universität Jena, von der aus er
glänzende Berufungen ablehnte. Er unternahm zahlreiche Reisen ins
Ausland, namentlich auch in die Tropen (Indische Reisebriefe 1883).
Die literarische Produktion Haeckels ist eine sehr bedeutende,
umfangreiche und künstlerisch reich ausgestattete. Bearbeitungen
der Protozoen, Kalkschwämme, Hornschwämme, der Medusen und
Siphonophoren, der Korallen nehmen viele, teils dem Reisewerk der
Challenger-Expedition angehörende Bände in Anspruch. Der marinen
Zoologie, insbesondere auch dem Studium des Planktons galt zeitlebens
sein intensives Interesse. Die Haupttätigkeit Haeckels entfällt
jedoch auf die biologisch-theoretische Seite, teils in streng
wissenschaftlicher systematischer Bearbeitung (Generelle Morphologie
1866, Systematische Phylogenie 1894-95), teils in mehr oder weniger
dem Universitätsunterricht oder der Belehrung eines weiteren
Publikums angepaßten Werken (Natürliche Schöpfungsgeschichte, von
1868 an, Anthropogenie 1874, Welträtsel 1899, Lebenswunder 1904,
Kunstformen in der Natur 1904). Dazu kommen zahlreiche Streit- und
Gelegenheitsschriften, wie Ziele und Wege der Entwicklungsgeschichte
1875, Der Monismus 1892.
Die Stellung Haeckels in der Geschichte der Zoologie ist vor allem
darin begründet, daß er die Lehre Darwins und zugleich den Hauptinhalt
der deutschen Zootomie und Entwicklungsgeschichte, wie sie um die Mitte
des 19. Jahrhunderts vorlag, als Grundlagen zu einer Umgestaltung der
theoretischen Biologie benützte, wie sie in solchem Umfang in der
Neuzeit niemals war unternommen worden. Aus dem Darwinismus schaltete
er die Zuchtwahllehre, der er auch nie Spezialstudien zuwandte,
insofern aus, als er sie mit den übrigen als umbildend anzunehmenden
Prinzipien unter dem Begriff der Anpassung subsumierte. Dabei kam von
seiner Seite die erste begeisterte Zustimmung zur Umwandlungslehre,
deren systematisch über die ganze Lebewelt sich erstreckende
Durcharbeitung sein Verdienst ist. Haeckel blieb nicht mehr dabei
stehen, die Klassifikation der gesamten Organismen genealogisch zu
behandeln, mit kühner Hand Stammbäume für sie zu entwerfen, die als
provisorische Leitlinien die größten Dienste getan haben. Gedanken der
deutschen Naturphilosophie auf neuer empirischer Basis entwickelnd,
fing er an, auch die Organe, Gewebe, Zellen in genetischen Zusammenhang
einzuordnen, die genetische Betrachtung auch auf die Funktionen
auszudehnen, die biologischen Disziplinen in ihren gegenseitigen
Beziehungen zu untersuchen, ganze Gebiete der Wissenschaft erst
mit wohl gewählten Bezeichnungen auszurüsten. Rücksichtslos in der
Konsequenz des Entwicklungsgedankens, reihte er den Menschen mit vollem
Bewußtsein dem Natursystem ein. Er erweckte den Erfahrungsgrundsatz
des Parallelismus der ontogenetischen und phylogenetischen
(stammesgeschichtlichen) Entwicklung zu erneuter Bedeutung, wozu ihm
zahlreiche Vorarbeiten auch anderer Forscher (Fr. Müller, Kowalewski)
überzeugendes Material an die Hand gaben. Die Einheit der geweblichen
Entwicklung der höheren Tiere suchte er in der Gasträatheorie und
der Zölomtheorie zum Ausdruck zu bringen. Einer Menge von tierischen
Formen wies er auf Grund der genetischen Betrachtungsweise zuerst
ihre richtige Stellung im System an. Diese unbestreitbaren Verdienste
Haeckels, denen sich eine vielfach kleinliche und schwächliche
Opposition entgegenwarf, können auch diejenigen nicht anfechten, die
seinem Ringen nach Weltanschauung im Sinne der Entwicklungslehre
passiv oder negativ gegenüberstehen, oder die seine Bemühungen um
Popularisierung seiner Ansichten und Organisation Gleichgesinnter
wenig gerne sehen. Die Kunst des Wortes, der Schrift und des Stifts,
seine glänzende Persönlichkeit hat nicht nur in Deutschland, sondern
in der gesamten Welt, wo seine in alle Kultursprachen übersetzten
Werke wirkten, der deutschen Zoologie eine Anerkennung erzwungen,
die von keinem anderen Forscher in ähnlichem Maße ausging und die
höchstens der Wirkung Cuviers zu vergleichen ist. Als Lehrer hat
Haeckel eine ausgedehnte Schule von Entwicklungstheoretikern sowohl
wie von mehr empirisch tätigen Forschern begründet, der die Vertiefung
der Entwicklungslehre mit ihre wesentlichsten Züge verdankt. Der
Rahmen unserer Arbeit, sowie der Umfang und die Aktualität des Stoffes
verbietet uns, mehr als in diesen Andeutungen die geschichtliche
Stellung Haeckels zu umreißen.
Im Anschluß an Haeckel ist +W. Preyer+ (1841-1897) vor allem zu
nennen, als der Vertreter der Entwicklungslehre in der Physiologie. In
zahlreichen gedankenreichen Aufsätzen und Werken ist Preyer für sie
eingestanden und hat ihr gesucht auch auf praktisch wichtige Fragen
Einfluß zu verschaffen. Es sind hier besonders erwähnenswert: Die
Seele des Kindes (1882), Die spezielle Physiologie des Embryo (1884),
Naturforschung und Schule (1887), worin er im Bunde mit Haeckel der
Entwicklungslehre Eingang in die Schule zu erkämpfen sucht. Eine neue
Grundlage für die Systematik der Physiologie brachte Preyers Einleitung
in die allgemeine Physiologie (1883).
4. Amerikanische Zoologie.
Die amerikanische Zoologie setzt mit Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts
ein, mit +B. S. Barton+ (1766-1815), der über Faszination durch die
Klapperschlange und über das Opossum schrieb. 1808-1814 erschien die
Ornithologie von +A. Wilson+ (1766-1813), +Bonaparte+ komplettierte
1825-1833 Wilsons Werk. Gleichzeitig erschien +Rich. Harlans+ Fauna
von Amerika und +J. D. Godmans+ Werk über nordamerikanische Säugetiere
(1826-1828). 1847 tritt die Smithsonian Institution in Tätigkeit und
damit beginnen fortgesetzte zoologisch-systematische Studien. 1846
begründet +L. Agassiz+ das Studium der vergleichenden Anatomie und
Entwicklungsgeschichte nach europäischem Muster in Cambridge Mass.
Neue Impulse gehen sodann von Darwins Werken aus, insbesondere tritt
der hoch begabte und vielseitige +E. D. Cope+ (1840-1897) an die
Spitze der amerikanischen Entwicklungstheoretiker und Paläontologen.
Der wesentliche Bestand der amerikanischen Zoologie gehört der
unmittelbaren Gegenwart an und hat eine Ausdehnung angenommen, die für
die positivistisch zersetzte Wissenschaft Europas eine gefährliche und
ebenbürtige Konkurrenz bedeutet.
IX. Zoographie nach der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts.
1. Fortbildung der Klassifikation.
Wenn von der weiteren Entwicklung der Zoographie und Systematik von
Linné an im folgenden Abschnitt die Rede ist, so versteht sich von
selbst, daß die Hauptentwicklung sich innerhalb der französischen
Zoologie vollzieht und die Zoologie anderer Länder auch bei großartigen
Leistungen doch meistens nur als Partnerin, selten aber überlegen an
die Seite tritt. Daher fällt ein Teil des hierhergehörigen Stoffes mit
der in den vorhergehenden Abschnitten behandelten Geschichte zusammen.
Vergleichen wir die Zahl der beschriebenen Arten der wichtigsten
Tiergruppen zu Linnés Zeiten und in der Gegenwart, so erhellt daraus
eine solche Massenzunahme unserer Kenntnis, daß eine Aufsplitterung wie
bei der Zoographie bei der Systematik als notwendige Folge erscheint.
Einer Zusammenstellung von +Möbius+ zufolge haben von der zehnten
Auflage Linnés, also 1758-1898 im ganzen 2700 Autoren über 400000
Spezies von Tieren bekannt gemacht. Auf die einzelnen Gruppen entfallen
folgende Zahlen:
---------------------------+------------------+----------------
| Zahl der Spezies | Ungefähre
=Tierklassen= | in Linnés | Zahl der jetzt
| Systematik, | bekannten
| 10. Aufl. 1758 | Spezies
---------------------------+------------------+----------------
Säugetiere | 183 | 3500
Vögel | 444 | 13000
Reptilien und Amphibien | 181 | 5000
Fische | 414 | 12000
Schmetterlinge | 542 | 50000
Käfer | 595 | 120000
Hymenoptern | 229 | 38000
Diptern | 190 | 28000
Neuroptern | 35 | 2050
Orthoptern | 150 | 13000
Hemiptern | 195 | 30000
Spinnen | 78 | 20000
Tausendfüßler | 16 | 3000
Krebse | 89 | 8000
Pyknogoniden | -- | 150
Würmer | 41 | 8000
Manteltiere | 3 | 400
Moostiere | 35 | 1000
Mollusken und Brachiopoden | 674 | 50000
Echinodermen | 29 | 3000
Schwämme | 11 | 1500
Protozoen | 28 | 6000
---------------------------+------------------+--------------
Summe der Arten | 4236 | 418600
Wenn wir diesen Zeitraum überblicken, so hat sich die scheinbar
einfachste Arbeit, die sorgfältige Beschreibung und die Umgrenzung der
Arten nach übereinstimmenden konstanten Merkmalen, am meisten gelohnt,
in zweiter Linie die Wiedereinführung anatomischer Prinzipien in die
Klassifikation durch Cuvier, endlich die Verknüpfung mit den Tatsachen
der räumlichen und zeitlichen Verbreitung. Relativ geringer Wert
kommt aber den Resultaten der Klassifikation zu, da durchgehends das
reale Band der Blutsverwandtschaft, auch wo es geahnt wurde, vor 1860
nicht zu Schlußfolgerungen für die Systematik verwertbar wurde, dann
aber zu einer überraschenden Entwertung gerade der oberen Gruppen des
Systems führte, während die Art ihre praktische Bedeutung behielt. Es
kann daher nicht Aufgabe unserer kurzen Darstellung sein, die Resultate
der Klassifikation ausführlich zu behandeln, vielmehr sind nur die
wichtigsten Fortschritte der Klassifikation sowie die bedeutendsten
Vermehrungen und Bereicherungen unserer Kenntnis durch Reisen
hervorzuheben.
In diesen Dingen zeigt die Periode von Linné bis zur Mitte des
Jahrhunderts stark einheitliche Züge. Reisen zugunsten der Zoologie
werden jetzt nicht nur etwas häufiger, sondern man nimmt geschulte
Naturforscher mit an Bord. Doch ist ihre Tätigkeit noch in erster
Linie auf Sammlung für Museumszwecke berechnet, nicht mit zootomischen
oder physiologischen Absichten verbunden. Die Museen haben noch den
Charakter von Raritätenkammern, ihr Inhalt ist universal, sie enthalten
also nicht getrennte Abteilungen für Belehrung und wissenschaftliche
Arbeit und sind noch an die europäischen Kulturstätten gebunden,
nicht universal verbreitet mit lokal spezialisierten Absichten;
ebenso sind die Tiergärten noch Schaustellungen fürs Publikum, nicht
Versuchsstationen, wie sich denn auch die Laboratorien noch nicht von
den Museen ablösen und den Lebensbedingungen der zu erforschenden
Lebewelt anpassen. Alle die weiteren Entwicklungen gehören erst der
zweiten Hälfte des Jahrhunderts an.
Es versteht sich fast von selbst, daß die Schilderung einzelner
Tiergruppen unter steigender Spezialisierung an Umfang und Genauigkeit
zunahm. Es würde zu weit führen, wollten wir all dieser Monographien
gedenken, die, abgesehen von den geschichtlich bedeutungsvollen
Persönlichkeiten, eine Menge sorgfältiger und fleißiger Einzelarbeiter
beschäftigt haben. Nach verschiedenen Seiten sind indes die
+zoographischen Spezialgebiete+ zu allgemeinerer Bedeutung gelangt,
wovon hier kurz Notiz genommen werden muß.
Die Protozoen traten aus dem Zustande eines Lieblingsobjektes
dilettierender Mikroskopiker mit dem Auftreten der Zellenlehre; +von
Siebold+ bildete namentlich die Lehre von ihrer Einzelligkeit aus.
In ihrer Bedeutung für die Entwicklungslehre vielfach überschätzt,
gewannen sie wiederum gegen Ende des Jahrhunderts an Aktualität durch
den Einblick in ihren Wert als Krankheitserreger für die medizinische
Zoologie.
Über die Schwämme herrschten anfangs des Jahrhunderts noch sehr unklare
Vorstellungen, bis +Grant+ 1826 die Kenntnis ihres Baues zu fördern
begann und die Untersuchung ihrer Entwicklung sie den Zölenteraten nahe
brachte.
Die Gasträaden wurden als Übergangsgruppe zwischen Protozoen und
Metazoen 1876 von Haeckel aufgestellt.
Die Zölenteraten bildeten während des ganzen Jahrhunderts ein Hauptfeld
der Untersuchung für die Fragen des von +J. Steenstrup+ entdeckten
Generationswechsels, der tierischen Kolonien, der Ökologie des Meeres
(Korallen), sowie insbesondere der vergleichenden Histologie und
Physiologie.
Die Echinodermen erfuhren mit der Ausbildung der marinen Zoologie
konstanten Zuwachs an Arten und Typen (Krinoiden), bewährten sich als
eine der geeignetsten Gruppen zum Vergleich zwischen lebenden und
fossilen Formen. Die wichtigste Entdeckung auf diesem Gebiet glückte
+Joh. Müller+, der zuerst ihre Entwicklungsgeschichte aufhellte.
Die Würmer lösten sich als Gruppe immer mehr aus dem von Linné
geschaffenen Verbande mit den übrigen Wirbellosen, um jedoch
schließlich wieder ganze große Stämme in sich aufzunehmen (Bryozoa,
Brachiopoda). Mit +Rudolphi+, der ihre Artenzahl auf das Dreifache
steigerte, beginnt die Einsicht in die medizinische Bedeutung der
Schmarotzer und ihrer Entwicklungsstadien, die denn in der Folgezeit
die schönsten Entdeckungen zur Reife brachte. Die Helminthologie wurde
dadurch zur Basis einer umfassenderen Parasitenkunde, die heute die
Bakterien und Protozoen einschließt.
Das Studium der Insekten löste sich mit vermehrter Kenntnis der Arten
allmählich mehr aus dem Verbande der übrigen Zoologie, als je zuvor;
doch werden sie stets wieder von hoher theoretischer Bedeutung, sowie
allgemeinere Fragen in der Zoologie auftreten, so für die vergleichende
Anatomie am Anfang, für die Geographie und Ökologie mehr am Ende des
Jahrhunderts.
Die vereinzelten Formen, wie Peripatus, Zephalodiskus, Myzostoma usw.,
ja auch die Chordaten werden in ihrer hohen Bedeutung als Bindeglieder
sehr entfernter Stämme erst von der zweiten Hälfte des Jahrhunderts
ab gewürdigt (+A. Kowalewski+, Entwicklungsgeschichte der Aszidien
1866, von Amphioxus 1867, der Salpen 1868). Die Mollusken waren durch
Cuvier zu klassischen Objekten der Invertebratenanatomie geworden.
Immer mehr trat daher an Stelle der Konchyliologie, die nur die Schalen
berücksichtigte, das Studium des gesamten Molluskenorganismus und
seiner Entwicklung.
Die Klassifikation der Fische nahm durch +Valenciennes+ einen
glänzenden Anfang. Immer mehr gewannen die Fische an Wichtigkeit für
die Beurteilung des gesamten Vertebratentypus, wogegen die weitere
Klassifikation wenig Befriedigung brachte.
Die Reptilien und Amphibien der Gegenwart erhielten, nächst den
Säugetieren, am meisten ihre Beleuchtung von der Überfülle der fossilen
Formen, die zum Vorschein kamen. Dadurch fiel die auf Grund der
lebenden allein aufgestellte von +Brogniart+ 1799 vorgenommene Trennung
in Reptilien und Amphibien dahin.
Die Vögel boten realen Zuwachs an geographisch interessanten Formen,
namentlich an fossilen und subfossilen. Zu einer befriedigenden
Klassifikation derselben kam es nicht, trotz anerkennenswerter
Versuche, die Anatomie in den Dienst der Systematik zu stellen.
Wohl die größte Veränderung ist in der Kenntnis der Säugetiere im Laufe
des Jahrhunderts und namentlich gegen Ende desselben eingetreten. Die
Monotremen, die um die Wende des 18. Jahrhunderts entdeckt wurden,
erwiesen sich als Bindeglieder nach den Reptilien; mit Cuvier begann
die Beschreibung der fossilen Formen, deren Zahl sich am Ende des
Jahrhunderts auf ca. 4000 beläuft. Nimmt zunächst die Zahl der
Säugetierordnungen, namentlich auf Grund der Weichteilanatomie zu, so
reduziert sie sich wieder, je mehr fossile Bindeglieder bekannt werden,
deren Reichtum die heutige Säugetierwelt, mit Ausnahme weniger Gruppen
(Nager, Raubtiere, Paarhufer), als eine reduzierte erscheinen läßt. In
der Säugetierklasse bildet sich unsere Systematik am meisten zu einer
genealogischen um durch Kombination der Verbreitungsgeschichte mit der
Stammesgeschichte. Die Stellung des Menschen schwankt, bis sie durch
Haeckel endgültig fixiert wird.
2. Reisen und Meeresforschung.
Für Naturforscher, wie sie jetzt auf +Reisen+ mitgenommen werden,
hatte bereits +Buffon+ eine Anleitung verfaßt. In erster Linie stehen
denn auch hier die Franzosen da, so um die Wende des Jahrhunderts
+Péron+, +Lesueur+, +Lesson+, +Garnot+, +Quoy+ u. +Gaymard+ (1826-1829
Astrolabe), +Eydoux+ u. +Souleyet+ (1836-1837 Bonite); aber auch
Engländer, Russen (+Chamisso+ 1815-1818 auf dem Rurik), Nordamerikaner
(+Wilkes+ 1838-1842). +Azara+ bereiste Zentralsüdamerika von 1781-1801,
+Alexander von Humboldt+ mit +Bonpland+ das nördliche Südamerika
(1799-1804), der Prinz +Wied-Neuwied+ 1815-1821 Brasilien, 1817 drei
österreichische Naturforscher, darunter +Natterer+, sowie +Spix+ und
+Martius+, später +Rengger+ (1818-1826), +Pöppig+, +v. Tschudi+,
+Castelnau+ und +Schomburgk+ ebenfalls verschiedene Gebiete desselben
Kontinents. Auch die Tierwelt Nordamerikas wurde durch eine große Zahl
von Forschern fixiert. Australiens Tierwelt erschloß besonders +John
Gould+ von 1838 ab, die Sundainseln insbesondere +Raffles+, +Horsfield+
und die Holländer +Reinwardt+ und +Temminck+, Japan +Phil. von
Siebold+. Südafrika wurde von +A. Smith+ und +K. H. Lichtenstein+ (von
1811 ab Professor in Berlin), Ostafrika von +W. Peters+ (dem Nachfolger
Lichtensteins von 1856 ab in der Professur der Zoologie zu Berlin)
auf seine Fauna erforscht. Nordostafrika wurde eifrig von deutschen
Gelehrten untersucht, so von +Ehrenberg+, +Rüppell+, +v. Heuglin+,
Algier von +Moritz Wagner+ (1836-1838).
Das Studium der Küstenfauna fand namentlich im Mittelmeer erneute
Pflege. Um die Mitte des Jahrhunderts begannen auch +C. E. v.
Baer+, +Joh. Müller+, +K. Vogt+, +Agassiz+ u. a. zu zootomischen
und embryologischen Zwecken das Mittelmeer und die Nordsee
aufzusuchen, während ein ganz selbständiger Zweig der marinen
Zoologie in Skandinavien anzusetzen begann. Hier war es nämlich +M.
Sars+ (1805-1869, ursprünglich Theologe, von 1854 ab Professor der
Zoologie in Christiania), welcher die Küstenfauna Norwegens eingehend
untersuchte (1846), Tiefenzonen aufstellte, die Krinoiden als noch
heute existierende Tiefenformen nachwies. Auch der Engländer +Edw.
Forbes+ (1815-1854) hatte 1841-1843 im Ägäischen Meere Tiefenzonen der
Faunen festgestellt, welche namentlich auch von den Paläontologen zur
Erklärung der fossilen Faunen beigezogen wurden. +Sars+, sowie sein
Sohn nahmen von 1850 ab an verschiedenen arktischen Expeditionen teil
und brachten eine reiche Ausbeute an Tiefseeformen zurück. Wyville
Thompson sah dieses Material und bewog +B. Carpenter+, den Plan einer
Reise eigens zum Zwecke der Tiefseeforschung aufzunehmen. Infolge
des reichen, nördlich von Schottland gewonnenen Ertrages wurde die
+Challenger-Expedition+ ausgerüstet (1872-1876), an der außer +Wyv.
Thompson+ auch +John Murray+ teilnahm. Diese Expedition wurde die
wissenschaftlich erfolgreichste Seereise. Ihr folgten zahlreiche
ähnliche, aber kleinere Unternehmen in den siebziger und achtziger
Jahren. Neuere, mit großen Hilfsmitteln ausgerüstete Expeditionen
brachten weiteren überraschenden Zuwachs, namentlich an physiologisch
interessanten Lebewesen der Tiefsee. Das Bedeutendste leisteten
die +Siboga+-Expedition, (1898 u. ff.), die +Valdivia+-Expedition
(1898/1899 unter +C. Chun+) und die Fahrten des +Fürsten Albert I.
von Monaco+ (von 1887 an). Schon Johannes Müller hatte ein wachsames
Auge auf den „Auftrieb“ des Meeres, der sich mit feinen Netzen an
der Oberfläche fischen läßt. Dieser Auftrieb, das Plankton, wurde
insbesondere von +V. Hensen+, dem Kieler Physiologen, zum Gegenstand
besonderer, auch quantitativer Untersuchungen gewählt (von 1887 ab),
die mit Rücksicht auf die Ökonomie des Meeres unternommen wurden. +S.
Lovén+ (1809-1895, von 1840 ab Professor und Direktor des Museums
in Stockholm) brach der Untersuchung des Süßwasserplanktons Bahn.
+P. Müller+, ein Skandinavier, begann diese Studien 1870 im Genfer
See fortzusetzen, wodurch die früher an Hand der Flora gepflegten
geographischen Beziehungen zwischen alpiner und nordischer Lebewelt
neue Nahrung fanden.
Aus der Errichtung zoologischer Laboratorien erwuchs bald das
Bedürfnis, solche an die Meeresküste zu verlegen und sie speziell der
Erforschung der Meeresfauna zu widmen. Der Typus dieser Stationen ist
von +A. Dohrn+ (geb. 1840, ehemals Privatdozent in Jena) geschaffen
worden in der Zoologischen Station von Neapel, deren Gründung, 1870
begonnen, 1874 zur Eröffnung des Laboratoriums führte, das die
Metropole aller ähnlichen Unternehmungen in allen Weltteilen geworden
ist. Die Reihe der Stationen zur Untersuchung des Süßwassers wurde
mit Plön (+O. Zacharias+ 1891) eingeleitet. Anschließend mag hier
die Gründung von Seewasseraquarien im Binnenland erwähnt werden, so
namentlich die des Aquariums im Garten der Zoologischen Gesellschaft
von London (1853), desjenigen im Jardin d’Acclimatation (1861) sowie
des einzigen als selbständiges Institut errichteten Berliner Aquariums
durch +A. Brehm+ (1869).
So eröffnete sich denn auch für die Zoologie immer mehr eine Zukunft,
die auf dem Wasser liegt. Durch ganz besondere Methoden des Forschens
ist ein Gebiet erschlossen worden, dessen Betreten zu den geschichtlich
eigenartigsten Erscheinungen der Zoographie des 19. Jahrhunderts gehört.
3. Geschichte und Bibliographie der Zoologie.
Die Geschichte der Zoologie wurde erst spät ein Gegenstand
selbständiger Arbeiten. Das älteste Werk, das die Geschichte der
zoologischen Systeme behandelt, stammt, wenn wir von gelegentlicher
Berührung der Geschichte der Zootomie durch +A. von Haller+
(~Bibliotheca anatomica~ 1777) absehen, von +J. Spix+ (1811).
Ausführlicher und im Zusammenhang mit der Naturgeschichte überhaupt
stellte +Cuvier+ in Vorlesungen, die nach seinem Tode erst erschienen,
die Entwicklung der Zoologie dar (1841-1845). Einen vortrefflichen
Abschnitt bildet die Geschichte der Zoologie in +I. Geoffroy St.
Hilaires+ Werk (1854, Bd. I). Wichtige Beiträge zur Geschichte
der Zoologie lieferte +J. G. Schneider+. Auch +A. v. Humboldts+
geschichtliche Übersicht (Kosmos, Bd. II, 1847) ist noch immer
beachtenswert. Die Entwicklung der vergleichenden Anatomie, freilich
ohne deren Basis zu berühren, skizzierte +O. Schmidt+ (1855). 1873
erschien +J. V. Carus’+ Geschichte der Zoologie, ein Werk von sehr
ungleichem Wert seiner Teile, mit dem Hauptgewicht auf dem Mittelalter,
unter literarisch-grammatischer Behandlung des Stoffes und ohne
Kenntnis der antiken Literatur geschrieben. Eine Übersicht der neueren
Zoologie vor Darwin gab +E. Perrier+ (1884). Ein besonderes Verdienst
haben sich im Laufe des 19. Jahrhunderts die Philologen um die antiken
Texte unserer Wissenschaften erworben und damit historischer Behandlung
derselben Vorschub geleistet. Dies gilt besonders für Aristoteles,
dessen Bearbeitung bis 1870 durch deutsche Forscher (+J. B. Meyer+,
+Frantzius+, +Aubert+ und +Wimmer+) und in Frankreich durch +Barthélemy
St. Hilaire+ (bis 1890) große Fortschritte gemacht hat. Über mehrere
Zoologen der Neuzeit existieren zwar Biographien, doch ist der
Zusammenhang zwischen den Forschern und ihren Schulen, namentlich aber
die Berührung der Zoologie mit den übrigen Wissenschaften im ganzen
erstaunlich wenig bekannt.
Für die zoologische Bibliographie sind Fundgruben älteren Datums die
~Bibliotheca universalis~ von +K. Gesner+ (1545) und die ~Bibliotheca
anatomica~ von +A. von Haller+ (1774). Umfangreiche, im Stil der
Enzyklopädien gehaltene Lexika der Naturgeschichte entstanden am
Pariser Pflanzengarten 1782 und 1816. +L. Agassiz+ gab (1842-1846) eine
~Bibliotheca zoologica et palaeontologica~ heraus. Von hohem Werte ist
die Quellenkunde der vergleichenden Anatomie von +F. W. Aßmann+ (1847).
Die umfassendste Bibliographie schuf +A. Günther+ in dem von 1864 ab
erscheinenden ~Zoological Record~. Ihr zur Seite trat die Bibliographie
von +J. V. Carus+ im Zoologischen Anzeiger (von 1878 ab). Nachdem
bereits +Cuvier+ und +Joh. Müller+ zeitweise Jahresberichte von
beschränktem Umfange verfaßt hatten, organisierte +A. Dohrn+ (seit
1879) in den Jahresberichten seiner Station die Berichterstattung
in umfassender Weise. Ein besonders auch praktisch zweckmäßiges
Hilfsmittel richtete +H. Field+ (seit 1895) in seinem ~Concilium
bibliographicum~ ein.
Register.
Abbe, E. 121.
Agassiz, L. =98=, 113, 143, 149, 152.
Albert von Bollstädt, der Große 45.
Albert I. von Monaco 150.
Albinus, B. S. 78.
Alderotto 46.
Aldrovandi, U. 20, 52, 53, 66.
Alexander von Myndos 33.
Älian =38=, 48, 49, 50.
Alkmäon von Kroton 16.
Amman 77.
Anaximander 15.
Anaxagoras 16.
Antigonos von Karystos 33.
Aristophanes 17.
Aristophanes von Byzanz 33.
Aristoteles =20-32=, 33, 34, 36, 37, 44, 45, 47, 49, 51, 57, 61,
68, 71, 76, 91, 94, 96, 152.
Artedi, P. 74, 75.
Aselli 59.
Aßmann F. W. 152.
Asurnasirabal 11.
Aubert 152.
Audouin, J. V. 97.
Augustinus 41, 42.
Autenrieth 108.
Averrhoës 28.
Avicenna 43.
Azara 149.
Baco, Fr. 58, 59.
Baldassini 101.
Balfour, Fr. 127.
Baer, C. E. von =110=, =111=, 117, 149.
Barclay 125.
Barthélemy St. Hilaire 21, 152.
Bartholine 60, 61.
Bartholomäus Anglicus 47.
Barton 142.
Belon =50=, 53, 55.
Benecke 121.
Beneden, J. P. van 116.
Bering 77.
Bernard, Cl. 79.
Bibron 97.
Bichat 79, 119.
Blainville, Ducrotay de 97.
Blair 70.
Blanchard, E. 97, 98.
Blasius, G. 62.
Blumenbach, J. F. =81=, 103.
Bock 47.
Bonaparte 101, 142.
Bonelli, A. 101.
Bonnet, Ch. 71, 72, 73.
Bonpland 149.
Bontius 55.
Borchart 55.
Borelli 60.
Boerhave 64, 72.
Born, G. 121.
Brehm, A. 116, 151.
Brehm, C. L. 116.
Breyn 70.
Brisson 88.
Brogniart 148.
Bronn, G. =114=, 118, 137.
Brunfels 47.
Buffon, J. Leclerc de 22, 37, 53, 72, 78, 80, 82, =83-85=, 86,
91, 95, 120, 124.
Burmeister, H. 114.
Caldesi 61.
Campanella 57.
Camper, P. 79.
Carpenter, B. 134, 150.
Carus, C. G. =107=, =108=, 116.
Carus, J. V. =114=, =115=, 152, 153.
Cäsalpin 55.
Casserio 56.
Castelnau 149.
Cavolini 101.
Cetti 101.
Chiaje, delle 101.
Chun 150.
Claus 115.
Clift, W. 80, 125.
Clusius von Arras 55, 66.
Coiter 57.
Collins 62.
Colombo 56.
Comte, Ach. 99.
Cope, E. D. 143.
Costa, O. G. 101.
Cuvier, Fr. 91, 96, 99.
Cuvier, Georges 22, 37, 51, 88, 89, =90-96=, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97,
98, 99, 112, 113, 116, 124, 125, 126, 127.
Cysat 70.
Darwin, Charles 101, 114, 115, =128-135=, 136, 137, 138, 139.
Darwin, Erasmus =124=, =125=, 128, 130.
Daubenton 83, 85, 88, 91.
Demokrit von Abdera 16, 17.
Dempster 53.
Descartes 59.
Diderot 73.
Diogenes von Apollonia 16.
Dionysos 38.
Dohrn, A. 149, 153.
Döllinger, J. 110.
Dugès 99.
Dujardin, F. 97, 120.
Duméril, A. 97.
Duméril, E. 92, 97.
Duverney, J. G. 62, 82.
Duvernoy 92.
Edrisi 43.
Ehrenberg, C. G. 113, 149.
Eimer, Th. 139.
Elucidarius 47.
Empedokles 16.
Epicharm 17.
Erasistratos 39.
Eustachius 57.
Eydoux 148.
Fabricius ab Aquapendente 57.
Fay, du 82.
Field, H. 153.
Fitzroy 130.
Flower, W. 127.
Forbes, Ed. 149.
Frantzius 152.
Franz von Assisi 43.
Friedrich II. von Hohenstaufen =44=, 46, 52.
Fuchs, L. 47.
Fulvius, Hirpinus 37.
Furlanus 48.
Galenos 15, 18, =39=, =40=, 47, 49, 50, 51, 57.
Galilei 58.
Garnot 148.
Gaymard 148.
Gaza 48.
Gegenbaur, K. 117, 118.
Geoffroy St. Hilaire, Etienne =88-90=, 91, 92, 95, 96, 99, 104,
112, 122, 125, 126, 133, 134.
Geoffroy St. Hilaire, Isidore =100=, 101, 117, 151.
Gesner, K. 20, =51=, =52=, 53, 152.
Giovio 47.
Gmelin 77.
Godmann 142.
Goldfuß 116.
Goethe =104=, 105, 108, 125.
Gould, John 149.
Grant 146.
Gray, Asa 134.
Gray, J. E. 126, 127.
Grew, N. 61.
Gronovius 49, 74.
Güldenstadt 77.
Günther, A. 127, 152.
Gyllius 48.
Haeckel 9, 104, 115, 137, 139, =140-142=, 146, 148.
Haller, A. von 71, 72, 79, =80=, 90, 102, 122, 151.
Ham, L. von 65.
Hammurabi 11.
Hardouin 48.
Harlan 142.
Hartig 121.
Hartmann, Ed. von 138, 139.
Harvey, W. =59=, 60, 65, 80.
Haüy 88.
Hegel 21.
Hemprich 113.
Hensen, V. 150.
Henslow 130.
Herbenstein 54.
Herder, J. G. 103, 104.
Hermann, J. 116.
Hernandez 55.
Herodot 15, 17.
Herophilos 39.
Heuglin, von 149.
Heusinger 109, 123.
Hippokrates 17, =18=, 40, 47, 49, 50, 55, 57, 72.
Hippon von Rhegium 16.
His, W. 121.
Home, Ev. 80.
Hooke 119.
Hooker 134.
Horsfield 149.
Humboldt, A. von 81, 82, 103, 113, 149, 152.
Hunter, John =80=, 81, 109, 112, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127.
Huxley, Th. H. 118, 128, 134, =136=, =137=.
Ingrassias 57.
Isidor von Sevilla 42.
Jakob van Maerlandt 46.
Jasolini 57.
Johannes Leo Africanus 47.
Jonston 53.
Jussieu 70.
Kallimachos von Kyrene 33.
Kämpfer 70.
Kant 103.
Kaswini 43.
Kaup, J. 116.
Kepler 58.
Kielmeyer 81, 109.
Kircher, Ath. 55.
Klein, J. Ph. 73, 74.
Koelliker, A. von =121=, 122, 134, 139.
Konrad von Megenberg 46, 47.
Kowalewski, A. von 141, 147.
Ktesias 17.
Lacaze-Duthiers, A. de 97, =98=.
Lacepède 85, 88, 94.
Lactantius 41.
Lamarck, J. M. de 85-87, 89, 101, 135.
Latreille 96.
Leay, Mc. 116.
Leeuwenhoeck 63, =64=, =65=, 72.
Lemnius, Strabo 37.
Leonardo da Vinci 47.
Lesson 148.
Lesueur 148.
Leuckart, R. 113.
Leunis 116.
Levaillant 97.
Lichtenstein 149.
Linck, J. H. 71.
Linné, C. von 25, 29, =73-77=, 83, 84, 89, 91, 92, 94, 104, 115,
123, 127, 143.
Lister, M. 70, 82
Longolinus 48.
Lorenzini 61.
Lovén, So. 150.
Lucretius, T. C. 34, 35.
Lyell 130, 131, 134.
Magdeleine de St. Agy 92.
Magendie 79.
Maillet, de 73.
Malebranche 65, 71.
Malpighi, M. =63=, =64=, 71, 72.
Malthus 130.
Marcellus 38.
Marcgrav 55.
Marco Polo 46.
Marsigli 70, 71.
Martius, von 149.
Massaria 48.
Maupertuis 72.
Mayer, F. J. R. 120.
Mayow 61.
Meckel, F. 89, =109=, 126.
Merian, S. 70.
Mertrud 91.
Messerschmidt 77.
Meyer, J. B. 152.
Michael Scotus 44.
Michovius 54.
Mill, St. 131.
Milne-Edwards, Alphonse 97.
Milne-Edwards, Henri 97, 98, =99=, 100.
Mivart, G. J. 127, 128.
Möbius, K. 143.
Mondino 40, 46.
Monro, Alexander I. 79.
Monro, Alexander II. 79.
Monro, Alexander III. 125.
Moquin-Taudon 100.
Mose 13.
Müller, Fr. 138, 141.
Müller, Johannes 79, 111, =114=, 115, 117, 146, 149, 153.
Müller, P. 150.
Murray 150.
Murs, des 97.
Nägeli, C. von 139.
Napoleon I. 82, 88, 93.
Natterer 149.
Needham, G. 65, 72.
Nemesius von Emesa 41.
Oken, L. 72, =105-107=, 120, 126.
Olaf der Große 54.
Oppel 119.
Oppian 38, 48, 50.
Ovid 38.
Oviedo 35.
Owen, R. 80, 118, 124, 125, =126=, 127.
Pallas 77, 78.
Panceri 101.
Pander, Chr. H. 110, 111.
Pecquet 59.
Péron 148.
Perrault, Cl. 60, 61.
Peters, Ed. 149.
Petiver 70.
Philippi, R. A. 114.
Philolaos 16.
Physiologus 42.
Piso 55.
Plate, L. 138.
Plato =19=, 20, 23, 24, 25, 132.
Plinius d. Ä. 15, 34, =35=, =36=, 37, 38, 47, 48, 49, 50.
Poli 101.
Pöppig 149.
Preyer, W. 142.
Pythagoras 16.
Quatrefages, A. de 97, 98.
Quoy 148.
Raffles 149.
Rathke, M. 110, 117.
Ray, John =67-70=, 73, 75, 76, 82.
Réaumur 70, 71.
Redi 61, 65.
Reil 108.
Reinwardt 149.
Remak, R. 120, 121.
Rengger 149.
Robinet 73.
Rondelet 50.
Roux, W. 138.
Rudolphi, K. A. =109=, 110, 111, 113, 116, 147.
Ruino 54.
Rüppell 149.
Rütimeyer, L. 116, 117.
Ruysch 64.
Saliceto 46.
Salviani 50, 51.
Sarasin, M. 70.
Sardanapal 11.
Sars, M. 149, 150.
Savigny 97, 99.
Scaliger 48.
Schelling, W. 105.
Schleiden 120, 121.
Schmidt, O. 118, 152.
Schneider, J. G. 152.
Schomburgk 149.
Schultze, Max 120.
Schulze, F. E. 121.
Schwann 120, 121.
Scilla 63.
Seba 70.
Semper, K. 118.
Serres, A. 100.
Severino, Marc. Aurel. 17, 57, 58.
Shaw 70.
Siebold, C. Th. von 113, 122, 146.
Siebold, Phil. von 149.
Sloane 70.
Smith, A. 149.
Soleiman, Abu 43.
Souleyet 148.
Spallanzani 72.
Spencer, H. 131.
Spighelius 57.
Spix 149, 151.
Stahl 103.
Stannius, H. 113, 123.
Steenstrup 146.
Steller 77.
Stelluti 60.
Steno, N. 60, 61, 63.
Stilling 121.
Straßer 121.
Swammerdam, J. 63, =64=, 72.
Telesius 57.
Temminck 149.
Tertullian 41.
Theophrast 20, 32.
Thomas von Aquino 42.
Thomas von Cantimpré 45.
Thompson, Wyv. 114, 150.
Tiedemann 108.
Tournefort 70.
Trembley 71.
Treviranus (Gebrüder) 108.
Tyson 62.
Uterverius 53.
Valenciennes 97, 147.
Valentin 121.
Valentini, B. 63, 79.
Vallisneri 70, 72.
Varignano 46.
Varolius 56.
Vesal 40, 49, 57.
Vicq d’Azyr 80.
Vincent de Beauvais 45.
Vogt, K. =113=, =114=, 116, 138, 149.
Voigt 116.
Vries, H. de 139.
Wagner, M. 138, 139.
Waldeyer 121.
Wallace, A. R. 128, 130, 131.
Weismann, A. 138.
Wied-Neuwied, Prinz von 149.
Wigand, A. 139.
Wilbrand 116.
Wilhelm von Moerbecke 45.
Wilkes 149.
Willis, Th. 62.
Willughby 67, 82.
Wilson, A. 142.
Wimmer 152.
Winslöw 90.
Wolff, C. Fr. 71, 84, =102=, =103=.
Woodward, J. 63.
Wotton 51.
Wu-Wang 10.
Yung, E. 114.
Zacharias 151.
Zimmermann, E. A. W. 103.
Zittel, K. A. von 119.
Naturwissenschaftliche Bibliothek
=aus der Sammlung Göschen=
Jeder Band gebunden =1 Mark=
=Paläontologie und Abstammungslehre= von Prof. ~Dr.~ Karl Diener.
Mit 9 Abbildungen. Nr. 460.
=Das Plankton des Meeres= von ~Dr.~ Gustav Stiasny. Mit
83 Figuren. Nr. 675.
=Der menschliche Körper= von E. Rebmann. Mit Gesundheitslehre von
~Dr. med.~ H. Seiler. Mit 47 Abbildungen und 1 Tafel. Nr. 18.
=Urgeschichte der Menschheit= von Prof. ~Dr.~ M. Hoernes. Mit
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=Völkerkunde= von ~Dr.~ M. Haberlandt. Mit 51 Abbildungen. Nr. 73.
=Tierkunde= von Prof. ~Dr.~ F. v. Wagner. Mit 78 Abbild. Nr. 60.
=Geschichte der Zoologie= von Prof. ~Dr.~ Rud. Burckhardt. Nr. 357.
=Entwicklungsgeschichte der Tiere= von Prof. ~Dr.~ Johs. Meisenheimer.
-- -- =I=: Furchung, Primitivanlagen, Larven, Formbildung,
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-- -- =II=: Organbildung. Mit 46 Figuren. Nr. 379.
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=Tiergeographie= von Prof. ~Dr.~ A. Jacobi. Mit 2 Karten. Nr. 218.
=Das Tierreich I: Säugetiere= von Oberstudienrat Prof. ~Dr.~
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=Schmarotzer und Schmarotzertum in der Tierwelt= von Prof.
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=Die Pflanze= von Prof. ~Dr.~ E. Dennert. Mit 96 Abbild. Nr. 44.
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=Pflanzengeographie= von Prof. ~Dr.~ Ludwig Diels. Nr. 389.
=Pflanzenbiologie= von Prof. ~Dr.~ W. Migula. I: Allgemeine
Biologie. Mit 43 Abbildungen. Nr. 127.
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=Morphologie und Organographie der Pflanzen= von Prof. ~Dr.~
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=Pflanzenphysiologie= von Prof. ~Dr.~ Adolf Hansen.
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=Zellenlehre und Anatomie der Pflanzen= von Prof. ~Dr.~
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=Die Pilze. Eine Einführung in die Kenntnis ihrer Formenreihen=
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=Spalt- und Schleimpilze.= Eine Einführung in ihre Kenntnis
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=Algen, Moose und Farnpflanzen= von Professor ~Dr.~ H. Klebahn.
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=Die Flechten.= Eine Übersicht unserer Kenntnisse v. Prof.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Farmer's Veterinarian: A Practical Treatise on the Diseases of Farm Stock
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
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you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Farmer's Veterinarian: A Practical Treatise on the Diseases of Farm Stock
Author: Charles William Burkett
Release date: August 16, 2017 [eBook #55366]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Harry Lamé and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FARMER'S VETERINARIAN: A PRACTICAL TREATISE ON THE DISEASES OF FARM STOCK ***
Text printed in small capitals, bold face or italics are represented
here as ALL CAPITALS, between =equal signs= and between _underscores_,
respectively.
More Transcriber’s Notes may be found at the end of this text.
FARM LIFE SERIES
THE FARMER’S VETERINARIAN
By CHARLES WILLIAM BURKETT
HANDY FARM DEVICES AND HOW TO MAKE THEM
By ROLFE COBLEIGH
MAKING HORTICULTURE PAY
By M. G. KAINS
FARM CROPS
By CHARLES WILLIAM BURKETT
PROFITABLE STOCK RAISING
By CLARENCE A. SHAMEL
PROFITABLE POULTRY PRODUCTION
By M. G. KAINS
_Other Volumes in Preparation_
[Illustration: HEALTH]
The Farmer’s
Veterinarian
=A Practical Treatise on the Diseases of Farm Stock:= Containing Brief
and Popular Advice on the Nature, Cause and Treatment of Disease, the
Common Ailments and the Care and Management of Stock when Sick
_By_
CHARLES WILLIAM BURKETT
_Editor of American Agriculturist_
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
ORANGE JUDD COMPANY
1914
_Copyright, 1909_
ORANGE JUDD COMPANY
NEW YORK
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
PREFACE
A large class of people, by force of circumstances, are compelled to
treat their own animals when sick or disabled. Qualified veterinarians
are not always available; and all the ills and accidents incident to
farm animals do not require professional attendance. Furthermore, the
skilled stockman should be familiar with common diseases and the
treatment of them. He should remember, too, that the maintenance of
health and vigor in our farm stock is the direct result of well-directed
management. Too frequently this is neither understood nor admitted, and
an unreasonable lack of attention, when animals are ill or indisposed,
works out dire mischief in the presence of physical disorder and
infectious diseases. A fair acquaintance with the common ailments is
helpful to the owner and to his stock. This leads to health, to
prevention of disease, and to skill in attendance when disease is at
hand.
The volume herewith presented abounds in helpful suggestions and
valuable information for the most successful treatment of ills and
accidents and disease troubles. It is an everyday handbook of disease
and its treatment, and contains the best ideas gathered from the various
authorities and the experience of a score of practical veterinarians in
all phases of veterinary practice.
C. W. BURKETT.
NEW YORK, June, 1909.
Table of Contents
Page
INTRODUCTION
Facing Disease on the Farm 1
CHAPTER I.
How the Animal Body is Formed 9
CHAPTER II.
Some Physiology You Ought to Know 21
CHAPTER III.
The Teeth as an Indication of Age 34
CHAPTER IV.
Examining Animals for Soundness and Health 39
CHAPTER V.
Wounds and Their Treatment 54
CHAPTER VI.
Making a Post-Mortem Examination 62
CHAPTER VII.
Common Medicines and Their Actions 69
CHAPTER VIII.
Meaning of Disease 82
CHAPTER IX.
Diagnosis and Treatment of Disease 92
CHAPTER X.
Diseases of Farm Animals 101
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
1. Health Frontispiece
2. Common Sheep Scab 3
3. Hog House and Feeding Floor 5
4. Poulticing the Throat 8
5. How a Cell Divides 10
6. Bones of Skeleton of a Horse 16
7. One of the Parasites of the Hog 18
8. Circulation and Digestion 22
9. Diseased Kidney 25
10. Stomach of Ruminant 27
11. Circulation of Blood in Body 30
12. Lumpy Jaw (jaw bone) 36
13. Bad Attitude Due to Conformation 41
14. Ewe Neck 46
15. Anatomy of the Foot 49
16. Fractures 54
17. Bandaging a Leg 57
18. Rickets in Pigs 63
19. Round Worms in Hog Intestines 66
20. Tetanus Bacilli 71
21. Ready for the Drench 81
22. Bacteria As Seen Under the Microscope 85
23. Result of Bone Spavin 90
24. Feeling the Pulse 94
25. How Heat Affects Growth 96
26. Diseases of the Horse 102
27. Lumpy Jaw (external view) 105
28. Where to Tap in Bloating 118
29. Bog Spavin 122
30. Horse Bots in Stomach 124
31. Colic Pains 138
32. Retention of the Urine 141
33. Curb 145
34. Fistulous Withers 156
35. Foot Rot in Sheep 160
36. Founder 163
37. Bad Case of Glanders 170
38. Ventral Hernia 180
39. An Attack of Cholera 182
40. The Result of Hog Cholera 186
41. Kidney Worms in the Hog 205
42. Liver Fluke 207
43. Lockjaw 209
44. Lymphangitis 215
45. Natural Presentation of the Foal 225
46. Abnormal Presentation of the Foal 227
47. Quittor 235
48. A Cattle Bath Tub 241
49. Side Bones 244
50. Splint 248
51. Twisted Stomach Worms 252
52. Tuberculosis Germs 264
Health and Disease Plate 1
Making Post Mortem Examinations Plate 2
A Victim of Tuberculosis Plate 3
Exterior Points of the Horse; Castration Plate 4
Texas Fever Plate 5
A Typical Case of Foot and Mouth Disease Plate 6
INTRODUCTION
Facing Disease on the Farm
To call a veterinarian or not--that is the question. Whether your horse
or cow is sick enough for professional attendance, or just under the
weather a little, is a problem you will always be called upon to face.
And you must meet it. It has always faced the man who raises stock, and
it is a problem that always will. Like human beings, farm stock have
their ailments and troubles; and, in most cases, a little care and
nursing are all that will be required. With these troubles all of us are
acquainted; especially those who have spent much time with the flocks
and the herds on the farm. Through experience we know that often with
every reasonable care, some animals, frequently the healthiest-looking
ones, in the field, or stable, give trouble at the most unsuspected
times. So the fault is not always with the owner.
There is no reason, however, why an effort should not be made, just as
soon as any trouble is noticed, to assist the sick animal to recover,
and help nature in every way possible to restore the invalid to its
usual normal condition. The average observing farmer, as a rule, knows
just about what the trouble is; he usually knows if treatment is beyond
him, and if not, what simple medical aid will be effective in bringing
about a recovery with greater dispatch than nature unaided will effect.
Now, of course, this means that the farmer should be acquainted with his
animals; in health and disease their actions should be familiar to him.
If he be a master of his business he naturally knows a great deal about
his farm stock. No man who grows corn or wheat ever raises either crop
extremely successfully unless he has an intimate knowledge of the soil,
the seed, the details of fertilization and culture. He has learned how
good soils look, how bad soils look; he knows if soils are healthy,
whether they are capable of producing big crops or little crops.
So with his stock. He must know, and he does know, something as to their
state of health or ill health. With steady observation his knowledge
will increase; and with experience he ought to be able to diagnose the
common ailments, and not only prescribe for their treatment, but
actually treat many of them himself. Unfortunately, many farmers pass
health along too lightly and the common disorders too seriously. This is
wrong. The man who deals with farm animals should be well acquainted
with them, just as the engineer is acquainted with his engine. If an
engine goes wrong the engineer endeavors to ascertain the trouble. If it
is beyond his experience and knowledge he turns the problem over to an
expert. It should be so with the stock raiser. So familiar should the
owner be with his animals in case of trouble he ought to know of some
helpful remedy or to know that the trouble is more serious than
ordinary, in which case the veterinarian should be called.
All of this means that the art of observing the simple functions should
be acquired at the earliest possible moment--where to find the pulse of
horse or cow, how many heart beats in a minute, how many respirations a
minute, the color of the healthy nostril, the use of the thermometer and
where to place it to get the information, the character of the eye, the
nature of the coat, the passage of dung and water, how the animal
swallows, the attitude when standing, the habit of lying down and
getting up--all of these should be as familiar to the true stockman as
the simplest details of tillage or of planting or of harvesting.
[Illustration: COMMON SHEEP SCAB
Here is an advanced case and shows how serious the trouble may become. A
very small itch mite is the cause. The mites live and multiply under the
scurf and scab of the skin.]
Moreover, the stockman should be a judge of external characters, whether
natural or temporary. He should have a knowledge of animal conformation.
If to know a good plow is desirable, then to know a good pastern or foot
is desirable. If the art of selecting wheat is a worthy acquisition,
then the art of comparing hocks of different horses is a worthy
accomplishment also. If experience tells the grower that his corn or
potatoes or cotton is strong, vigorous and healthy or just the reverse,
observation and experience ought also to tell him when his stock are in
good health or when they lack thrift or are sick and need treatment.
LEARN TO RECOGNIZE ANIMAL DISEASES
Few farmers there are, indeed, who are not acquainted with crop
diseases. Smut is readily recognized when present in the wheat or corn
or oat field; so colic, too, should be recognized when your horse is
affected by it. The peach and the apple have their common ailments; so
have the cow and pig. In either case the facts ought to be familiar. So
familiar that as soon as diagnosed and recognized prompt measures for
treatment should be followed that the cure may be effected before any
particular headway is at all made. Handled in this way, many cases that
are now passed on to the veterinarian would never develop into serious
disturbances at all.
PREVENTION BETTER THAN CURE
The old saying, “Prevention is better than cure,” is both wisdom and a
splendid platform on which to build any branch of live stock work. Every
disease is the result of some disturbance, somewhere. It may be improper
food; the stockman must know. Moldy fodder causes nervous troubles in
the horse. Cottonseed meal, if fed continuously to pigs, leads to their
death. Hence, food has much to do with health and disease. Ventilation
of the stable plays its part. Bad air leads to weakness, favors
tuberculosis, and, if not remedied, brings about loss and death. Fresh
air in abundance is better than medicine; and the careful stockman will
see that it be not denied.
Good sanitation, including cleanly quarters, wholesome water and dry
stables, has its reward in more healthy animals. When not provided, the
animals are frequently ill, or are in bad health more or less. As these
factors--proper food, good ventilation, and effective sanitation--are
introduced in stable accommodations, diseases will be lessened and stock
profits will increase.
[Illustration: HOG HOUSE AND FEEDING FLOOR
This convenient hog house is inexpensive, and the feeding floor at the
side insures cleanliness and thorough sanitary conditions. A sanitary
hog house should be one of the chief improvements of the farm.]
DISINFECT FREQUENTLY; IT NEVER HURTS AND IT MAY DO A WORLD OF GOOD
As disease is better understood it becomes more closely identified with
germs and bacteria. Hence, to lessen disease we must destroy, so far as
possible, the disease-producing germs. For this purpose nothing is
better than sunlight and disinfectants. Sunlight is itself death to all
germs; therefore, all stables, and the living quarters for farm animals,
should be light and airy, and free from damp corners and lodgment places
for dust, vermin, and bacteria. Even when animals are in good health,
disinfection is a splendid means for warding off disease. For sometimes
with the greatest care germs are admitted in some manner or form. By
constantly disinfecting, the likelihood of any encroachment by germs is
greatly lessened.
Fortunately we have disinfectants that are easily applied and easily
obtained at small cost. One of these disinfecting materials is lime,
just ordinary slaked lime, the lime that every farmer knows. While it
does not possess the disinfecting power of many other agents, it is,
nevertheless, very desirable for sprinkling about stables and for
whitewashing floors, walls, and partitions. When so used the cracks and
holes are filled and the germs destroyed. Ordinary farm stables should
be whitewashed once or twice each year, and the crumbled lime sprinkled
on the litter or open ground. It is not desirable to use lime with
bedding and manure, for the reason that it liberates the nitrogen
contained therein. Hence the bedding and manure should be removed to the
fields as frequently as possible, where it can be more helpful to the
land. Thus scattered, the sunlight and purifying effects of the soil
will soon destroy the disease bacteria, if any are present in the
manure.
Another splendid disinfectant is corrosive sublimate, mercuric chloride,
as it is often called. Use one ounce in eight gallons of water. This
makes one-tenth of one per cent solution. In preparing this
disinfectant, allow the material to stand for several hours, so as to
permit the chemical to become entirely dissolved. This solution should
be carefully guarded and protected, since it is a poison and, if drunk
by animals, is liable to cause death. If infected quarters are to be
disinfected, see that the loose dirt and litter is first removed before
applying the sublimate.
Carbolic acid is another satisfactory disinfectant. Usually a five per
cent solution is recommended. It can be easily applied to mangers,
stalls, and feed boxes. Enough should be applied so that the wood or
iron is made wet and the cracks and holes more or less filled. Chloride
of lime is a cheap and an easily prepared disinfectant. Use ten ounces
of chloride of lime to two gallons of water. This makes a four per cent
solution, and should be applied in the same way as the corrosive
sublimate.
Formalin has come into prominence very recently as a desirable
disinfectant. A five per cent solution fills the bill. Floors and cracks
should be made thoroughly wet with it. By using one or more of these
agents the living quarters of farm animals can be kept wholesome, sweet,
and free from germ diseases. In fact, the use of disinfectants is one of
the best aids of the farmer in warding off disease and in lessening its
effects when once present.
PUT SICK ANIMALS OFF BY THEMSELVES
Many diseases are introduced into a herd or flock by thoughtlessness on
the part of the owner. I have known distemper to be introduced into
stables and among horses, Texas fever and tuberculosis into herds of
cattle, and hog cholera among hogs, because diseased animals, when
purchased, were not separated off by themselves, for a short time at
least. If this were done, farmers would lessen the chance of an
introduction of disease into their healthy herds. Consequently
quarantine quarters should be provided; especially is this true if new
animals are frequently purchased and brought to the farm where many
animals are raised and handled. These quarantine quarters need not be
expensive, and they ought to be removed far enough from the farm stock
so that there may be no easy means of infection. When newly purchased
animals are placed in the quarantine quarters they should be kept there
long enough to determine if anything strange or unusual is taking place.
[Illustration: POULTICING THE THROAT
The picture shows how to apply a poultice to the throat.]
CHAPTER I
How the Animal Body is Formed
The cell is the unit of growth. It is so with all forms of life--plant
or animal, insect or bacterium. In the beginning the start is with a
single cell, an egg, if you please. After fertilization has taken place,
this single cell enlarges or grows. Many changes now occur, all rather
rapidly, until the cell walls become too small, when it breaks apart and
forms two cells just like the first used to be. This is known as cell
division. As growth increases, the number of cells increases also--until
in the end there are millions.
=Nature of the Cell.=--The cell is very small. In most cases it cannot
be seen with the naked eye. The microscope is necessary for a study of
the parts, the nature and the character of the cell.
In the first place the cell is a kind of inclosed sac, in which are
found the elements of growth and life. Surrounding the cell is a thin
wall known as the cell membrane. In plants this cell wall is composed of
cellulose, a woody substance, which is thin and tender in green and
growing plants, but hard and woody when the plant is mature.
Within the limits of the cell is the protoplasm, the chief constituent
of the cell; locked up in this protoplasm is life, the vital processes
that have to do with growth, development, individual existence.
Embedded within the protoplasm is another part known as the nucleus and
recognized under the microscope by its density. Around the nucleus is
centered the development of new cells or reproduction--for the changes
that convert the mother-cell into offspring-cells are first noted in
this place.
[Illustration: HOW A CELL DIVIDES
The simple steps in cell division are pictured here. Starting with a
single cell, growth and enlargement take place, ending finally in cell
division or the production of two individual cells.]
So much for plant cells. Is this principle different in animals? For a
long time it was thought that plants and animals were different. But
upon investigation it was discovered that animals were comprised of
cells just as plants. And not only was this discovered to be true, but
also that animal cells corresponded in all respects to plant cells.
Hence in animals are to be found cells possessing the cell walls formed
of a rather thick membrane, the granular protoplasm or yoke, and the
nucleus established in the yoke.
The ovum, known as the female egg, is composed of the parts just
described. If it is not fertilized when ripe it passes away and dies. If
fertilized in a natural way, it enlarges in size and subsequently
divides into two cells; and these, passing through similar changes,
finally give rise to the various groups of cells from which the body is
developed.
=The Animal Body a Group Collection.=--The body is, therefore, a mass of
cells; not all alike, of course, but grouped together for the purpose of
doing certain special kinds of work. In this way we have various groups,
with each group a community performing its own function. The brain forms
one community; and these cells are concerned with mind acts. The muscle
cells are busy in exerting force and action. Another group looks after
the secretions and digestive functions, while another group is concerned
solely with the function of generation and reproduction. And so it is
throughout the body.
Both individual cells and group cells are concerned with disease. One
cell may be diseased or destroyed, but the surrounding ones may go on
just the same. It is when the group is disturbed that the greatest
trouble results.
=A Word About the Cells.=--The cell always possesses its three
parts--membrane, protoplasm, and nucleus. But there is no rule as to the
size or shape. Cells may be round or oblong, any shape. Substances pass
in and out of the cell walls; and they are in motion, many of them,
especially those that line the intestines and the air passages, and the
white corpuscles of the blood. More than this, some cells, Dr.
Jekyl-like, change their appearance and shape, send out finger-like
bodies to catch enemies or food, and even travel all around in the
body, often leaving it altogether.
BODY TISSUES
The animal body contains five forms of tissues: Epithelial, in which the
cells are very compact, forming either thin or thick plates; the
connective tissue, by which many organs are supported or embedded;
muscle tissue, either smooth or striated, and in which the cells are in
fibers that contract and shorten; nerve-tissue, that has to do with
nerve and ganglion cells by which mental impulses are sent; and blood
and lymph tissue or fluid tissues.
The first group is intimately connected with the secretory organs, or
those organs which secrete certain substances essential for the proper
work of the body. Thus we have salivary glands, mucous glands, sweat
glands, and the liver and pancreas. Connective tissue includes fibrous
tissue, fatty tissue, cartilage and bone. The fibrous connective tissue
is illustrated when the skin is easily picked up in folds. Fatty tissue
occurs where large amounts of fat are deposited in the cells. Cartilage
is found where a large amount of firm support is required. With muscle
we are all familiar; it is the real lean meat of the body.
=Blood and Lymph.=--The blood is a fluid in which many cells are to be
found. The fluid is known as serum or blood-plasma and the cells as
corpuscles, and are both red and white. The red cells give the
characteristic color. When observed under a microscope, they appear as
small, round disks. They are of great importance to the body work.
Because of the coloring matter in them the oxygen of the air is
attracted when it comes in contact with the blood in the lungs. Oxygen
is in reality absorbed, and on the blood leaving the lungs it is
distributed to all parts of the body. The oxygen supply of the body is,
therefore, in the keeping of the red corpuscles.
White corpuscles have a different work; they guard the body by picking
up poison, bacteria, and other undesirable elements and cast these out
through the natural openings of the body. Compared with the red cells,
they exist in far less numbers and may wander about through all parts of
the body.
Lymph is a fluid in which a few cells, lymph corpuscles, are suspended.
These cells are very much like the colorless corpuscles of the blood,
only no red blood cells are present. But the lymph attends to its own
business; it bathes the tissues and endeavors to keep them in a healthy
condition.
=Skin and Hair.=--Without a covering the delicate muscles would be
unprotected. The skin serves in this capacity. It does still more; out
of it is exuded poisonous substances, perspiration, and, at the same
time, the skin is a sort of respiratory organ, through which much of the
carbonic acid formed in the body escapes.
The skin possesses two general layers, the cutis and sub-cutis; in the
first is contained also epidermis. Developed in the skin are the outer
coverings like hair, wool, feathers, horns, claws, and hoofs.
THE FRAMEWORK OF THE BODY
The framework of the body undergoes a gradual development from birth to
maturity. It represents the bony structure of the body; and on it all
other parts depend for support and protection. The brief summary of its
parts and work that follows here has been adapted from Wilcox and Smith.
=The Skeleton.=--This consists of a backbone, skull, shoulder girdle,
pelvic girdle, and two pairs of appendages. The backbone may be
conveniently divided into regions, each comprising a certain number of
vertebræ. The cervical vertebræ include those from the skull from the
first rib. In all mammals except the sloth and sea cow the number of
cervical vertebræ is seven, being long or short, according as the neck
of the animal is relatively long or short. The first and second cervical
vertebræ, known as the atlas and axis, are especially modified so as to
allow free turning movements of the head.
The next region includes the dorsal or thoracic vertebræ, which are
characterized by having ribs movably articulated with them. The number
is 13 in the cat, dog, ox, sheep, and goat; 14 in the hog; 18 or 19 in
the horse and ass, and six or seven in domestic poultry. In mammals they
are so joined together as to permit motion in several directions, but in
poultry the dorsal vertebræ are more rigidly articulated, those next to
the sacrum often being grown together with the sacrum. The spines are
high and much flattened in all ungulates, long and slender in dogs and
cats. They slope backward, forming strong points of attachment for the
back muscles. Several ribs, varying in number in different animals, meet
and become articulated with the breast bone or sternum. The sternum
consists of seven to nine articulated segments in our domestic mammals,
while in fowls the sternum is one thin high bone furnished with a keel
of varying depth. The lumbar vertebræ lie between the dorsal vertebræ
and the sacrum. The number is five in the horse, six in the hog, ox and
goat, and seven in the sheep. The sacrum is made up of a certain number
of vertebræ, which are rigidly united and serve as an articulation for
the pelvic arch. The number of sacral vertebræ is five in the ox and
horse, four in sheep and hogs, and 12 to 17 in birds. The caudal or tail
vertebræ naturally vary in number according to the length of the tail (7
to 10 in sheep, 21 in the ox, 23 in hogs, 17 in the horse, 22 in the
cat, 16 to 23 in the dog).
In ungulates the anterior ribs are scarcely curved, the chest being very
narrow in front. The number of pairs of ribs is the same as the number
of dorsal vertebræ with which they articulate.
=The Skull.=--This part of the skeleton is really composed of a number
of modified vertebræ, just how many is not determined. The difference in
the shape of the skulls of different animals is determined by the
relative size of the various bones of the skull. In hogs, for example,
the head has been much shortened as a result of breeding, thus giving
the skull of the improved breeds a very different appearance from that
of the razorback.
The shoulder girdle consists of a shoulder blade, collar bone and
coracoid on either side. The fore leg (or wing, in case of birds)
articulates with the socket formed by the junction of these three bones.
In all the ungulates the shoulder blade is high and narrow, the coracoid
is never much developed, and the collar bone is absent. In fowls all
three bones of the shoulder girdle are well developed, the collar bone
being represented by the “wish bone.”
=The Pelvic Girdle.=--This consists of three bones on either side, viz.,
ilium, ischium, and pubis. The first two are directly articulated to the
spinal column, while the pubic bones of either side unite below to
complete the arch. The three bones of each side of the pelvis are
present in all our domestic animals, including the fowls.
[Illustration: BONES OF THE SKELETON OF A HORSE
1 Face Bones, 2 Neck Bones or Cervical Vertebræ, 3 Scapula or Shoulder
Blade, 4 Humerus or Arm Bone, 5 Radius or Bone of Forearm, 6 Carpus or
Knee, 7 Shank Bone or Cannon, 8 Upper Pastern, 9 Lower Pastern,
10 Coffin Bone, 11 Ulna or Elbow, 12 Cartilages of the Rib, 13 Costæ or
Ribs, 14 Dorsal Vertebræ or Bones of Back, 15 Lumbar Vertebræ or Bones
of Loin, 16 Candal Vertebræ or Bones of Tail, 17 Haunch, 18 Femur or
Thigh Bone, 19 Stifle Joint, 20 Tibia, 21 Tarsus or Hock, 22 Metatarsal
Bones, 23 Upper Pastern Bone, 24 Lower Pastern Bone, 25 Coffin Bone.]
=Legbones of Farm Animals.=--There is one formula for the bones of the
fore and hind legs of farm animals. The first segment is a single bone,
the humerus of the fore leg, femur of the hind leg. In the next segment
there are two bones, radius and ulna in the fore leg, tibia and fibula
in the hind leg. In the dog, cat, and Belgian hare the radius and ulna
are both well developed and distinct. In ungulates the humerus is short
and stout, while the ulna is complete in the pig, rudimentary and behind
the radius in ruminants and firmly united with the radius in the horse.
Similarly with the hind leg the fibula is a complete bone in the pig,
while in the horse there is merely a rudiment of it, attached to the
tibia.
=Feet.=--The mammalian skeleton has undergone the greatest modification
in the bones of the feet. In the horse there are only six of the
original ten wrist or carpal bones, and, since there is but one of the
original five toes, the horse has also but one metacarpal or cannon
bone. Splint-like rudiments of two other metacarpal bones are to be
found at the upper end of the cannon bone, or at the “knee” joint. Below
the cannon bone, and forming the shaft of the foot, we have the small
cannon bone, coronary bone, and coffin bone--the last being within the
hoof with the navicular bone behind it. The stifle joint of the horse
corresponds to the knee of man. The “knee” of the horse’s fore leg
corresponds to the hock of the hind leg, both being at the upper end of
the cannon bone. The fetlock joint is between the large and small cannon
bones, the pastern joint between the small cannon or large pastern
bones, and the coffin joint between the coronary and coffin bones. The
horse walks upon what corresponds to the nail of the middle finger and
middle toe of man.
In pigs four digits touch the ground, the first being absent and the
third and fourth larger and in front of the second and fifth. In
ruminants the third and fourth digits reach the ground, while the second
and fifth do not. In dogs the first digit appears on the side of the
leg, not in contact with the ground.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE PARASITES OF THE HOG
The thorn-headed worm attached to the anterior part of the small
intestine often causes death. Not more than five or six are usually
found in a single animal.]
In fowls the wing, which corresponds to the fore leg of mammals, shows a
well-developed humerus, radius and ulna, while only one carpal and one
metacarpal bone remain, along which the wing feathers are attached. In
the leg the femur and tibia are strong bones, but the fibula is a mere
splint. The tarsal bones are absent, while the shank consists of a
metatarsal bone (really three bones fused together), to which the four
toes are articulated.
=The Muscular System of Farm Animals.=--The muscular system is too
elaborate, the number of muscles too great, and their modifications for
different purposes too complex for consideration in detail in the
present volume. All muscles are either striped or unstriped (as examined
under the microscope), according as they are under the immediate control
of the will or not. The heart muscle forms an exception, for it is
striped though involuntary. The essential characteristic of muscle
fibers is contractility, which they possess in high degree. The typical
striped muscles are concerned in locomotion, being attached at either
end to a bone and extending across some movable joint. The most
important unstriped muscles are found in the walls of the intestines and
blood vessels.
=The Nervous System.=--In so far as our present purposes are concerned,
the nervous system may be disposed of in a few words. The central
nervous system consists of a brain and spinal cord. The microscopic
elements of this tissue are peculiarly modified cells, consisting of a
central body, from which fibers run in two or more directions. The cell
bodies constitute the gray matter, and the fibers the white matter of
the brain and spinal cord. The gray substance is inside the spinal cord
and on the surface of the brain, constituting the cortex. The most
important parts of the brain are the cerebrum, optic lobes, cerebellum,
and medulla. There are twelve pairs of cranial nerves originating in the
brain and controlling the special senses, movements of the face,
respiration, and pulse rate. From each segment of the spinal cord a pair
of spinal nerves arises, each of which possess both sensory and motor
roots. The sympathetic nervous system consists of a trunk on either
side, running from the base of the skull to the pelvis, furnished with
ganglionic enlargements and connected with the spinal nerves by small
fibers.
=The Respiratory Organs.=--These include the nose, larynx, trachea or
windpipe, and lungs. The trachea forks into bronchi and bronchioles of
smaller and smaller size, ending in the alveoli or blind sacs of the
lungs. In fowls there are numerous extensions of the respiratory system
known as air sacs, and located in the body cavity and also in the hollow
bones. The air sacs communicate with the lungs, but not with one
another.
=The Urinary Organs.=--These consist of kidneys connecting by means of
ureters with a bladder from which the urethra conducts the urine to the
outside. In the male the urethra passes through the penis and in the
female it ends just above the opening of the vagina. The kidneys are
usually inclosed in a capsule of fat. The right kidney of the horse is
heart-shaped, the left bean-shaped. Each kidney of the ox shows 15 to 20
lobes, and is oval in form. The kidneys of sheep, goats, and swine are
bean-shaped and without lobes.
=The Reproductive Apparatus.=--This consists of ovaries, oviducts,
uterus or womb, and vagina in the female; the testes, spermatic cords,
seminal vesicle and penis, together with various connecting glands,
especially prostate gland and Cowper’s gland, in the male. In fowls
there is no urinary bladder, but the ureters open into the cloaca or
posterior part of the rectum. The vagina and uterus are also wanting in
fowls, the oviducts opening directly into the rectum. The male
copulating organ is absent except in ducks, geese, swan, and the
ostrich.
CHAPTER II
Some Physiology You Ought to Know
A close relation exists between the soil, plant, and the animal. One
really cannot exist without the other to fulfill its destiny. A soil
without plant or animal growth is barren, devoid of life. The soil comes
first; the elements contained in it and the air are the basis of plant
and animal life. The body of the animal is made up of the identical
elements found in the plant, yet the growth of the plant is necessary to
furnish food for animal life. The plant takes from the soil and from the
air the simple chemical elements, and with these builds up the plant
tissue which, in its turn, is the food of the animal.
The animal cannot feed directly from the soil and air; it requires the
plant first to take the elements and to build them into tissue. From
this tissue animals get their food for maintenance and growth. Then the
animal dies; with its decay and decomposition comes change of animal
tissue, back to soil and air again; back to single simple elements, that
new plants may be grown, that new plant tissue may be made for another
generation of animal life.
Thus the plant grows out of the soil and air, and the decay of the
animal plant life furnishes food for the plant that the plant may
furnish food for the animal. Thus we see the cycle of life; from the
soil and air come the soil constituents.
[Illustration: CIRCULATION AND DIGESTION
1 Mouth, 2 Pharynx, 3 Trachea, 4 Jugular Vein, 5 Carotid Artery,
6 Œsophagus, 7 Posterior Aorta, 8 Lungs, 9 External Thoracic Artery,
10 Left Auricle, 11 Right Auricle, 12 Diaphragm, 13 Spleen, 14 Stomach,
15 Duodenum, 16 Liver, upper extremity, 17 Large Colon, 18 Left Kidney
and its Ureter, 19 Floating Colon, 20 Rectum, 21 Anus, 22 Bladder,
23 Urethra, 24 Small Intestine, 25 Cæcum, 26 Venous Supply to the Foot,
27 Posterior Tibial Artery, 28 Internal Metatarsal Vein, 29 Internal
Metatcarpal Vein, 30 Posterior Radial Artery, 31 Metacarpal Artery,
32 Vertebral Artery, 33 Superior Cervical Artery, 34 Anterior Dorsal
Artery.]
=Meaning of Plant Building.=--Before the single simple elements were
taken into the plant, they were of little value. The animal could not
use them for food, they could not be burned to furnish heat, and they
stored up no energy to carry on any of the world’s work. What a change
the plant makes of them! So used, they become the source of the animal
food, and, as food, they contain five principal groups with which the
animal is nourished. These five groups are the air, water, the protein
compounds, the nitrogen free compounds, such as starch, crude fiber,
sugar and gums, and the fat or ether extract, as it is called.
DIGESTION OF THE FOOD
Before these different constituents of the plant can be used as food for
animals, they must be prepared for absorption into the system of the
animal. This preparation takes place in the mouth, œsophagus tube, the
stomach, and the intestines, aided by the various secretions incident to
digestion and absorption. Any withholding of any essential constituent
has its result in inefficiency or illness of the animal.
Withhold ash materials, for instance, from the food, or supply an
insufficient quantity, and the fact will be evidenced by poor teeth,
deficient bone construction and poor health in general. Let the feeding
ration be short in protein, and the result will be shown in the flesh
and blood. Let the carbohydrates and fat be withheld or supplied
insufficiently, and energy will be denied and a thrifty condition will
not be possible.
The supply of these different constituents in the proper proportion
gives rise to the balanced ration; and is concerned in a treatise of
this kind only in so far as it has to do with disease or health. For,
remember this fact: live stock are closely associated with right
feeding. If foods be improperly prepared, or improperly supplied, or the
rations poorly balanced, with too much of one constituent and too little
of another, the effect will be manifest in an impoverished condition of
the system. That means either disease, or disease invited.
Not only must these facts be considered, but other matters given
recognition also. The greater part of the trouble of the stockman in the
way of animal diseases is due to some disturbance of the digestive
system, or to the water supply, or to ventilation, or to the use to
which the animal is put from day to day. Attention to the details of
digestion has its reward in thrifty, healthy stock; a lack of this
attention brings trouble and either a temporary ailment or a permanent
disease.
=Process of Mastication.=--Food is taken in the mouth, where it is
masticated by means of the teeth, lips, cheeks, and the tongue. While
the process of mastication is taking place there is being poured into
the mouth large quantities of saliva, which softens the food and starts
the process of digestion. The active principle of saliva is a soluble
ferment, called ptyalin, that converts the starch of food into sugar.
The amount of saliva that is poured into the food is very great, being
often as much as one-tenth of the weight of the animal. This ferment is
active after the teeth have been formed, which explains why it is not
advisable to feed much starchy food to children before their teeth have
begun development.
The food, after being ground and mixed with the saliva fluid, goes to
the stomach. With the horse and hog the stomach is a single sac not
capable of holding very large quantities of food; with the cow and
sheep, on the other hand, we find a large storehouse for holding food--a
storehouse that is divided into four compartments, the rumen or paunch,
reticulum, omasum, and the abomasum. The first three communicate with
the gullet by a common opening. The cud is contained in the first and
second stomachs, and, after it has been masticated a second time, it
passes to the third and fourth, and to the bowels, where the process of
digestion is continued.
[Illustration: DISEASED KIDNEY
The kidney of the hog is pictured here. As a rule it is usually
impossible to diagnose kidney troubles in hogs and similar lower
animals.]
=Gastric Juice.=--From this it will be noticed that chewing the cud is
an act in the process of digestion; it refers only to rechewing the food
so as to get it finer and better ground for digestion. While in the
stomach the saliva continues the digestion of the starchy matter and is
assisted by the gastric fluid that pours in from the lining of the
stomach, which converts the protein or albuminoids into peptones. The
fatty matter is not acted upon at this point. There are three
constituents of gastric juice, which affect the changes in the food.
These are pepsin, rennet, and acid. With rennet you are acquainted. It
is used in the kitchen, in the making of cheese, and is obtained from
the stomach of calves or other young animals. Pepsin, also obtained
directly from the stomach, is now a conspicuous preparation in medicine.
The food, after leaving the stomach, goes into the bowels and is acted
upon by secretions of the liver and pancreas or sweetbreads. It should
be noted in passing that no secretion enters the first three divisions
of the ruminant’s stomach. It is only in the fourth or true stomach that
the gastric juice is found.
=The Stomach Churn.=--While food is in the stomach it is subjected to a
constant turning movement that causes it to travel from the entrance to
the exit or intestines. When it passes into the small intestines it is
subjected to the action of bile and pancreatic juices, which have
principally to do with the breaking up of the fat compounds. Both
resemble, to a certain extent, saliva in their ability to change starch
into sugar.
The secretion of the bile comes from the liver and the pancreatic juice
from the pancreas or sweetbreads, and both are poured into the
intestines near the same point, so that they act together. The ferments
they contain act in the following ways: They change starch into sugar,
fat into fatty compounds, they curdle milk, and convert protein
compounds into soluble peptones.
The process of digestion is finally ended in the intestines, where
absorption into the system takes place. There is no opening at all from
the bowels into the body, but the digestive nutriment is picked up by
the blood when handed into the body from the intestines by means of
countless little cells called villi, that line the walls of the
intestines. These villi cells have little hair-like projections
extending into the intestines, which constantly move; these protrusions,
as they move about, catch on to the digested nutriment, draw it into
the cells themselves, where it is handed on to the blood, when it is
later on distributed to all parts of the body. You can realize that an
immense number of these absorption cells are present when the length of
the intestine is considered. In the ox the intestine is nearly 200 feet
long. After the nutriment is drawn from the food the undigested portions
are voided periodically as feces or dung.
[Illustration: STOMACH OF RUMINANT
The four main divisions of the ruminant’s stomach are pictured here. The
first three divisions are the store-houses for food until it is fully
prepared for the fourth stomach or abomasum.]
=Absorption of the Nutriment.=--Digestion, therefore, is a dissolving
process; food is admitted to the system by means of cells. You remember
that all plant food first passes into a soluble state before it can
enter the roots and be conveyed to the parts of the plants that require
additional food for growth. In the case of plants the entrance is by
means of the root hairs. In the case of the animal, entrance in the body
is by means of the villi cells that line the intestines. From this we
see that digestion is both an intricate and delicate process. Any loss
of appetite, any disturbance of the digestion work, and any irregularity
of the bowels bear decided results, one way or the other, to the rest of
the system; and any disturbance of the body at other points, although
having no direct relation to the digestion system, sooner or later
affects the digestion and in so doing causes additional trouble.
Directly affecting digestion may be improper food, either liquid or
solid; and over-exercise or not enough of it may prove troublesome, for
exercise is clearly related to digestion. When the digestion process is
disturbed, air or gas may accumulate in the stomach or bowels and give
rise to colic or hoven. A watery action of the intestines, due to
inflammation or irritation, may lead to dysentery and enteritis; or some
obstruction like a hair-ball or a clover fuzzy ball, or the knotting of
the intestines, may occur, temporarily or permanently impairing
digestion so seriously often as to cause death itself.
CIRCULATION
As water in the plant is the carrier of plant food throughout the plant,
so is blood the carrier and distributor of food in the animal. When food
is absorbed, it either passes into the lymphatic system or into the
capillaries of the blood system. If in the former, it is carried to the
thoracic duct, which extends along the spinal column and enters one of
the main blood vessels. If collected by the capillary system, it is
carried to the portable vein, thence to the liver and finally to the
heart, where it meets with the blue blood collected from all parts of
the body.
At this point, the blood contains both the nutriment and the waste
matter of the body. Before it can be sent through the body again the
waste material must be thrown out of the system by means of the lungs.
This is accomplished by the heart forcing to the lungs the impure blood
with its impurities collected from all parts of the body and also the
nutriment collected from the digestive tract.
The chief organs, therefore, of the circulatory system are the blood and
lymphatic vessels containing respectively blood and lymph. The only
difference between these two materials is in the fact that lymph is
blood without the red-blood corpuscles. The body, after all, really
depends upon this lymph for nourishment, since it wanders to all parts
of the body, surrounds all the cells in all of the tissues and in this
way carries to the cells the very kinds of food that they need.
=Lymph Passes Through Cell Walls.=--The blood vessels have no openings
into the body at all. In this respect the blood system is like the
digestive system; it is separate and distinct in itself. The blood,
however, does creep through the walls of the blood vessels. In so doing
the blood corpuscles are left behind and lymph is the result.
[Illustration: HOW THE BLOOD CIRCULATES THROUGH THE BODY]
The center of the blood system is the heart. It is the engine of the
body. Going out from it is the great aorta, which subdivides into
arteries and farther away further subdivides until there is a great
network of little arteries; these in turn become very tiny and take the
name of capillaries. Thus the red blood, by means of arteries and
capillaries, is carried to all parts of the body. This plan of
distribution would not be complete unless some way were provided for the
return of the blood to the heart and lungs for purification. And just
such an arrangement has been provided. Another kind of network collects
this scattered blood at the extremities into separate vessels, which
gradually increase in size and finally empty their possessions into the
heart. These are the veins of the body, and have to do with the impure
blood of the body.
=How the Heart Does Its Work.=--The power back of blood distribution is
the heart. It is an automatic pump, as it were, that sends blood to the
lungs and through the arteries to all parts of the body. The heart is
divided into four divisions: the left and right ventricles and the right
and left auricles. The right auricle receives the blood from the upper
half of the body through a large vein and the lower half of the body
through another large vein, and the blood from both lungs empties into
the left auricle through two left and two right pulmonary veins. The
large arteries of the heart which carry the blood from the heart to the
different organs arise from the ventricle.
The blood always flows in the same direction. It goes into the auricle
from the veins, and from this into the ventricle. It then passes into
the arteries, then to the veins and then to the capillaries.
The action of the heart is very much like a force pump; the dark blood
flows into the right auricle, which contracts; when this is done, the
blood is forced into the right ventricle; this in turn contracts and
forces the blood into the lungs, where oxygen is taken on and carbonic
acid gas and other impurities are thrown off. From the lungs the blood,
now red and pure, passes into the left auricle and thence into the left
ventricle, from which it is forced into the aorta to be distributed to
all parts of the body.
We now see the close connection existing between the digestive system
and the circulatory system. The digested food in the intestines is
gathered in by villi cells. The question can now be asked, What do these
cells do with this nutriment or digested food? They pour it into the
absorbent vessels or lymphs, as they are called; these in turn empty the
assimilated stores of food into larger and still larger vessels, which
continues until the whole of the nutritive fluid is collected into one
great duct or tube, which pours its contents into the large veins at the
base of the neck, from whence it is carried into the circulatory system,
the very basis of which is the blood.
RESPIRATION
The dark and impure blood, after returning to the heart, is sent to the
lungs. It is, when collected from the body, just before being sent to
the lungs dark, dull and loaded with worn-out matter. It must now be
sent to the lungs, where it may be spread over the delicate thin walls
of millions of vesicles, to be exposed to the air, which is inhaled by
the acts of breathing. The blood gives off the broken-down material and
carbonic acid gas very readily. It is both unpleasant and disagreeable,
and the blood cells find it very unattractive.
The cells of the blood, however, have a great attraction for oxygen,
consequently the cells absorb oxygen with greediness, so that when the
blood returns to the heart it is fresh and bright and ready to take its
journey back over the body again. This is done just about every three
minutes. This endless round continues until stopped forever by death.
The relation existing between the animal and plant functions is brought
to light in another way. When the plant was building tissue it released
oxygen and exhaled it into the air. At the same time, by means of
leaves, it gathered in the carbonic acid to use in plant building. Of
course this was got from the air. The animal in performing its functions
and in building its tissue inhales oxygen from and exhales carbonic acid
gas into the air. Thus it is that animals take up what is unnecessary to
the plant and the plant uses what is waste and poison to the animal.
CHAPTER III
The Teeth As An Indication of Age
When a colt is born the first and second temporary molars, three on each
jaw, are to be seen. These are large when compared with the size of
those that later replace them. In from five to ten days after birth the
two central incisors or nippers make their appearance. In three or four
weeks the third temporary molars appear, followed within a couple of
months by an additional incisor on each side of the first two,
both above and below. The corner incisors appear between the
ninth and twelfth months after birth. This makes the full set of
teeth--twenty-four in number.
There is now no change in number, although there is considerable change
taking place all the time; the incisor teeth, in rubbing against each
other, are more or less worn, giving rise to the expression “losing the
mark.”
The two molars present at birth remain until the animal is about three
years old, at which time they fall out of their sockets by the
protrusion of the second set, or permanent molars.
This change from temporary to permanent teeth takes place usually
without difficulty and without trouble. The permanent teeth push their
way up from below crowding those in view. While this pushing and
crowding is going on the temporary teeth are losing ground, for the
reason their roots are being absorbed, and a time comes when the cap
only is left attached to the gums. This cap drops out and the new or
permanent tooth soon is established in its place.
LOSING OF TEMPORARY TEETH
According to the observation of Mayo, the temporary incisors are
replaced by permanent teeth as follows: “The two central incisors are
shed at about two and a half years, and the permanent ones are up ‘in
wear’ at three years. The lateral incisors are shed at three and a half
and the permanent ones are up and in wear at four years. The corner
incisors are shed at four and a half and the permanent ones are up and
in wear at five.
“The molars are erupted and replaced as follows: The fourth molar on
each jaw (which is always a permanent molar) is erupted at ten to twelve
months; the fifth permanent molar at two to two and a half years, and
the sixth usually at four and a half to five. The first and second
molars, which are temporary, are shed and replaced by permanent ones at
two to three years of age. The third temporary molar is replaced by a
permanent one at three and a half years. In males, the canine or bridle
teeth are erupted at about four and a half years of age. At about five
years of age a horse is said to have a full mouth of permanent teeth.”
THE MARK IN THE TOOTH
Horsemen make use of the “mark in the tooth” for determining the age
between five and eleven. In examining teeth you observe that two bands
of enamel are to be seen; one exterior, that surrounds the tooth, the
other interior, which is termed the casing enamel. It is this latter, or
“date cavity,” that is used to tell the age.
The mark in the tooth is occasioned by the food blackening the hollow
pit. This is formed on the surface by the bending in of the enamel,
which passes over the surface of the teeth, and, by the gradual wearing
down of the enamel from friction, and the consequent disappearance of
it, the age can be determined for a period of several years.
[Illustration: LUMPY JAW
The disease is caused by the ray fungus. The result is local tumors in
the bones and other tissues.]
When a horse has attained his sixth year the mark on the central or
middle incisors or nippers of the lower jaw will be completely worn off,
leaving, however, a little difference of color in the center of the
teeth. The cement which fills the hole produced by the dipping in of the
enamel will be somewhat browner than that of the other portions of the
tooth, and will exhibit evident proofs of the edge being surrounded by
enamel.
At seven years the marks in the four middle incisors are worn out and
are speedily disappearing in the corner ones. These disappear entirely
at the age of eight; thus all marks are obliterated at this age on the
lower jaw; the surface of the teeth are level and the form of the teeth
changes to a more oval form.
The marks on the upper jaw are still present, since there has been less
friction and wear on them. At nine the marks disappear from the central
upper incisors, at ten from the adjoining two, and at eleven from the
corner teeth.
To tell the age of the horse beyond this period is difficult and
uncertain, except by those very much experienced in performing the
undertaking. The shape of the teeth, the color and the condition all
enter into the determination but there is no fast and fixed rules after
the marks have disappeared.
TEETH OF CATTLE
Cattle have no incisor teeth on the upper jaw. They have eight incisors
on the lower jaw. According to Mayo, the temporary incisors are as
follows: “The central incisors or nippers are up at birth, the internal
lateral at one week old, the external lateral at two weeks, and the
corner incisors at three weeks old. They are replaced by permanent
incisors approximately as follows, though they vary much more than in
the colt: The central incisors are replaced at 12 to 18 months; the
internal laterals at about two and a half years; the external laterals
at three to three and a half years; and the corner incisors at about
three and a half years. In the horned cattle, a ring makes its
appearance at three years of age, and a new ring is added annually
thereafter.”
TEETH OF SHEEP
Sheep, like cattle, have no incisor teeth on the upper jaw. Like cattle,
they have eight incisors on the lower jaw when the mouth has reached
full age. The change of the teeth occurs as follows: At birth the lamb
has two incisors, followed by two more very soon. At the end of two
weeks two more are out, making six incisors in all. At three weeks of
age two more have appeared, completing the appearance of the temporary
or milk teeth.
The permanent begin to replace the temporary teeth between one and one
and a half years. The two central milk teeth are first replaced by two
longer and stronger teeth. The lamb is now known as a yearling.
At two years the two teeth adjoining the central incisors are replaced
by permanent ones; at three the two adjoining these are replaced, making
now six permanent incisors.
Between four and four and a half the last two permanent incisors appear
and the sheep then has a full mouth.
CHAPTER IV
Examining Animals for Soundness and Health
In purchasing farm stock, it is a good plan to deal with reputable
people only. Leave the horse trader alone. He knows too many tricks, and
if you are a stranger to him you can be pretty certain that he will try
one on you--just for fun.
Fortunately farmers sell to strangers more frequently than they buy of
them, and when they seek new stock they deal largely with breeders, who,
like themselves, are farmers and not given to the tricks of low and
disreputable methods; nevertheless, every purchaser of stock should be
familiar with animal form and able to recognize defects and faults when
he sees them. This is as much his business as to breed, raise or feed
the stock on his farm.
LOOKING THE ANIMAL OVER
Know what form you want; draft and speed represent different types, so
do dairy and beef. With all classes of farm stock there are a few points
that are desirable in all stock. One of these is width between the eyes.
No animal of any breed or class possessed of a narrow forehead is at all
perfect. A wide forehead is one of the absolute beauties.
These are desirable characters of all farm animals; they represent
culture and refinement and good breeding. The purchaser or breeder,
therefore, should not only know conformation, but he should know
quality.
SPECIAL TYPE IN HORSES
Our breeds of horses may be divided into three general classes. Those
used for speed, those for draft and those with a mixture of the two--a
general purpose sort of horse. The speed or trotting horse has its
distinct type; it has been evolving and developing through a long series
of years.
Briefly, its conformation may be described as follows: A wide forehead,
fairly long head, a long neck that is thin and agile, a narrow chest as
you look at it from the front, but very deep as you look from the side,
long sloping shoulders, rather long back, a long horizontal croup, small
barrel, fairly long forearm, long cannon bones and feet that are well
shaped and perfect in every respect. Looking at the animal from the side
it should be as high over the hips or higher than over the withers.
The draft horse, on the other hand, has a different conformation. There
is not that elongation of his parts, although there is a symmetry of
parts and of proportion. There should be the width between the eyes; the
clean, neat face; a graceful neck, which should be shorter and more
heavily muscled than that of the speed horse. The chest should be wide,
both from the front and side, the back short but heavily muscled, the
croup strong and not so horizontal as with the speed type, the quarters
heavily muscled and the cannon bone short.
The feet should be as perfect as those of the speed horse. In both types
the knee should be thick, deep, and broad and the hocks wide. The narrow
hock is not so well able to stand heavy strain, consequently curb
diseases readily follow where the conformation shows narrow hocks.
Another difference between the two types is found in the muscles. The
speed type throughout has long, thin, narrow muscles--muscles that
stretch a long way and contract quickly.
[Illustration: BAD ATTITUDES DUE TO CONFORMATION
In the first, the toes are turned out. The middle picture shows in-kneed
attitude and the third shows in-turned toes. Whether standing or
traveling, the appearance is unpleasant and mitigates against the value
of the animals.]
With the draft horse it is different: the muscles are shorter, but they
are heavy; they are less quick in their action, but they are more
powerful. In both types good proportions are always desirable. The width
between the eyes should be as much or more than one-third the length of
the head. The distance from the point over the shoulders to the ground
should be about equal to the distance from the point over the hips to
the ground; and in turn this distance, whatever it is, should be about
equal to the length of the horse from the point of the shoulder to the
point of the buttock.
Looking at the horse in front if a line be dropped from the point of the
shoulder it should halve the fore leg, the knee, the cannon, and the
hoof. And the width of the third hoof, if placed between the two front
feet, should give the attitude that is desirable.
Looking at the horse from the rear, the same attitude is to be observed.
Of course, many horses do not possess these qualities and proportions;
and because they do not is the very reason that their beauty,
efficiency, and value are less.
EXAMINING ANIMALS IN THE STABLE
In going into the stable look the animals over quietly. Observe how they
stand, breathe, eat, and act generally. Are they nervous? Does one swing
his head from side to side? Does he kick, paw, put back his ears, or
does he have any of the other common stable vices that are unpleasant
and undesirable? As you look about and pass back and forth, you will get
the evidence of these stable vices, if such are to be found.
Look particularly for cribbing, wind sucking, kicking and crowding.
Pawing is just as bad. If you want animals with good stable manners pass
by those possessing these ugly faults. The next step is to examine the
animals individually; those that “look good” to you. No doubt you will
find some that do not interest you for one reason or another. These need
no further attention, unless you have overlooked some fact, in which
case your attention will likely be called to it.
In making the individual examination, go up to the animal in the stall,
place your hand on the hip, and gently press it. If no stringhalt
afflicts the horse, he will move over, allowing you to pass into the
stall. The same applies to the cow. If well trained, she will make room
for you by moving over at the same time, if you do this on the proper
side, and she will put back her hind foot, as if she were about to be
milked.
This casual observation would not be possible if force were used or the
animal excited by loud commands or by a whip or strap. The halter
teaches its lesson also. A heavy rope or leather suggests that the
animal has a pulling back vice, a habit you want to avoid. Light halters
for horses and cattle are to be preferred to chains, heavy leather, or
ropes.
REAL TEST IS OUT OF DOORS
Now that you have seen all of the animals for sale, ask the owner to
lead them out of doors for a more careful examination. In this you will
inspect the animal very carefully in order to be certain of the
conformation, defects, and blemishes, and to acquaint yourself
specifically as to health and disposition.
Cast your eyes over the animal, front, side, and rear. Pass around the
animal, keeping some distance away. By so doing you can judge of type
and conformation, of proportions and attitudes; for each of these is
important. A beefy-looking cow, with a thick neck, square body and small
udder will not suit you for milk. Neither will a cow with a long, thin
neck, open, angular body, thin thighs, and heavy, deep paunch meet your
needs if you are seeking breeding stock for beef production.
If you are examining a horse, keep in mind the purpose for which you are
selecting. Remember the long, thin neck, very oblique shoulder, long
cannon, long back, and long thin muscles are not adequate for draft. On
the other hand, if you want a horse for road purposes, avoid the heavy
muscles, the short neck, the heavy croup, and the heavy thighs. These
mean draft--an animal for heavy work.
SPECIAL TYPE IN CATTLE
The milk cow should have a very soft, mellow skin, and fine, silky hair.
The head should be narrow and long, with great width between the eyes.
This last-mentioned characteristic is an indication of great nervous
force, an important quality for the heavy milker. The neck of the good
dairy cow is long and thin, the shoulders thin and lithe and narrow at
the top. The back is open, thin, and tapering toward the tail. The hips
are wide apart and covered with little meat.
The good cow is also thin in the regions of the thigh and flank, but
very deep through the stomach girth, made so by long open ribs. The
udder is large, attached well forward on the abdomen, and high behind.
It should be full, but not fleshy. The lacteal or milk veins ought also
to be large and extend considerably toward the front legs.
The beef cow is altogether different: she is square in shape, full and
broad over the back and loins, and possesses depth and quality,
especially in these regions. The hips are even with flesh, the legs full
and thick, the under line parallel with the straight back. The neck is
full and short, the eyes bright, the face short, the bones of fine
texture, the skin soft and pliable, and the flesh mellow, elastic, and
rich in quality.
In other words, a beef cow is square and blocky, while the dairy cow is
wedge-shaped and angular. The one stores nutriment in her body; the
other gives it off. The one is a miser, and stores all that she gets
into her system; the other is a philanthropist and gives away all that
comes into her possession.
It will be seen, therefore, that the two types are radically different.
This difference is due to breeding, not to feeding, nor to management.
If you are seeking good milk cows, you must look for form and
conformation. If you are looking for beef cows, you must also look for
form and conformation, but of a different kind. With this knowledge to
back you up and to guide you, you are now ready to make an examination
of animals that will meet your purpose.
GOING OVER THE ANIMAL IN DETAIL
After making these general observations you are now ready to examine the
animal. Begin with the head. How is the eye? Dull, weak, without
animation? If so, be on your guard. The good eye shows brightness,
intelligence, and it must be free from specks. By placing the hand over
the eye for a few moments you will be able to detect its sensitiveness
to light. Do you find any discharge of any kind from the eye? If so,
some inflammation is present. Try to ascertain the cause.
=The Nostril As An Index.=--A large, open nostril is desirable. Look for
that character first. Now observe the color of the lining. To be just
right, it should be healthy-looking, of a bright rose-pink color, and it
should be moist. A healthy nostril is one free from sores, ulcers,
pimples, and any unpleasant odor. Be careful here; an unscrupulous
dealer can very easily remove discharges and odors by sponging and
washing, and you may be deceived.
[Illustration: EWE NECK
The neck is one of the beauty points of the horse. In purchasing animals
look carefully to conformation and quality. Let these also be guiding
principles in breeding.]
=Looking In the Mouth.=--Always look in the mouth; you have the tongue,
teeth, jaws, and glands to see. Naturally, you, like every other person,
consider the teeth first; you want to be certain of the age. This
feature is discussed elsewhere in this book, and all in addition that
needs to be said is in reference to the shape of the teeth, whether or
not they are diseased or worn away by age or by constant cribbing of the
manger. Of course these facts you will think of as you examine the
mouth.
Give the tongue a second of your time. If it is scarred and shows rough
treatment a harsh bit is likely the cause, due to its need in driving
and handling.
Then give a thought to the glands while here. Enlarged glands may
indicate some scrofulous or glanderous condition of the system.
=Neck and Throat.=--A beautiful neck and throat is an absolute beauty in
the horse or cow. The skin should be thin, mellow, and soft, and the
hair not over thick nor coarse. Look for poll-evil at the top of the
neck and head. See if swellings, lumps or hard places are to be found at
the sides of the neck, or underneath joining the throat. I have found
such very frequent with dairy cattle; and cases are not unusual with
horses.
Frequently scars are to be found on the sides or bottom of the neck.
These may be due to scratches caused by nails, barb-wire or some similar
accident, and again they may have been caused by sores, tumors, or other
bad quality of the blood.
=Body and Back.=--Passing the side, look over the withers for galls or
fistulæ, the shoulders for tumors, collar puffs, and swellings. Observe
at the same time if there is any wasting of the muscles on the outside
along the shoulder.
Now the back. Is it right as to shape? Do you find any evidence of sores
or tumors? Look for these along the sides and belly. Now stoop a bit and
look under; do you find anything different from what is natural? In
males look for tumor or disease of the penis; do the same with the
scrotum, and, in case of geldings scrutinize carefully to see if they
be ridgelings.
While making this examination, if the animal is nervous and fretful, you
can help matters along if an assistant holds up a fore leg. Take the
same precaution when examining the hind quarters and legs. By doing so,
you will avoid being kicked and can run over the parts more quickly and
satisfactorily.
Before leaving the body observe if the hips are equally developed, and
the animal evenly balanced in this region. Both horses and cattle are
liable to hip injury, one of the hips being frequently knocked down.
Make sure that both are sound and natural.
=Fore Legs and Front Feet.=--Now step to the front again for a careful
examination of the front legs and feet. Starting with the elbow, examine
for capped elbow; now the knee. It should be wide, long, and deep, and
at the same time free from any bony enlargements. The knees must stand
strong, too. Is the leg straight? Do you observe any tendency of the
knee to lean forward out of line, showing or indicating a “knee sprung”
condition? Just below the knee, do you find any cuts or bunches or scars
due to interference of the other foot in travel? Look here also for
splints; follow along with the fingers to see if splints are present--on
the inside of the leg.
Be particular about the cannon. The front should be smooth--you want no
bunches or scars. Just above the fetlock feel for wind puffs; and note
if about the fetlock and pastern joints there are any indications of
either ringbones, bunches, or puffs. Now look for side bones; if
present, you will find them just at the top of the hoof. They may be on
either side. Sidebones are objectionable, and are the lateral
cartilages changed into a bony structure.
Give the foot considerable attention. The old law of the ancients, “no
feet, no horse,” is certainly true in our day. You can overlook many
other imperfections and troubles in the horse, but if the feet are bad
you do not have much of a horse. A good foot is well shaped, with a
healthy-looking hoof and no indication of disease either now or ever
before.
See that the shape is agreeable. A concave wall is not to be desired,
and the heels are not to be contracted. The wall should be perfect--no
sand cracks, quarter crack, or softening of the wall at the toe of the
foot.
=Examine for Corns.=--These are both troublesome and cause much
lameness. A healthy frog, uninjured by the knife or the blacksmith or
other cause is very much to be preferred.
[Illustration: ANATOMY OF THE FOOT
The delicate nature of the foot is readily recognized when the various
parts are considered in their relation to each other.]
=Hind Legs and Feet.=--In examining these regions give the hocks of the
horse special attention. No defect is more serious than bone spavin. You
can, as a rule, detect this by standing in front of the horse just a
little to the side. If there is any question about the matter, step
around to the other side and view the opposite leg. This comparison will
let you out of the difficulty, as it is very unusual that this defect
should be upon both legs at the same point and developed to the same
degree.
A spavin is undesirable for the reason that it often produces serious
lameness, which frequently is permanent. As it is a bone enlargement, it
is something that cannot be remedied. If you are seeking good horses,
better reject such as have any spavin defect.
In this same region between the hock and the fetlock curbs troubles are
located. They appear at the lower part of the hock, directly behind. You
can readily detect any enlargement if you will step back five or six
feet. The curb, while it may not produce lameness, is altogether
undesirable. It looks bad; it shows a weakness in the hock region and
often is caused by overwork, consequently the animal with curb disease
is one that has not measured up to the work demanded of him.
Just above and to the rear of the hock the thorough-pin disease appears,
and just in front of and slightly toward the inner side of the hock bog
spavin is sometimes to be found. Lameness may come from either of these
diseases. Small tumors, puffs and other defects frequently show
themselves on the hind legs and the best way is to reject animals having
them. While some of these may be caused by accident, the most of them
are the result of bad conformation, due to heredity, unimproved blood
and bad ancestors.
EXAMINING FOR LAMENESS
Lameness comes from many causes; maybe from soreness, from disease or
from wounds. And lameness is hard to detect. Frequently it seems to be
in the shoulder, when in fact it is a puncture in the foot. Again it may
seem to be in the fetlock, but the trouble is in the shoulder or fore
leg. You must examine for lameness both in the stable and out of the
stable. If you find the horse standing squarely upon three feet and
resting the fourth foot, you should be suspicious. If you move the horse
about and he assumes the same attitude again and still again, you can be
certain that he is assuming that position because he wants to rest some
part of that member.
In testing out the horse for lameness, let no excitement prevail. Under
such excitement the horse forgets his lameness or soreness for the time
being, and you do not note the trouble. A quiet, slow walk or trot on as
hard a road as possible is a desirable sort of examination to give.
TESTING THE WIND
The free breathing of a horse may be interfered with, and for two
reasons. Roaring or whistling, as it is called, is a serious disease of
the throat, and, at the same time, an incurable disease. The second
disease is known as heaves or bellows, and is also a most serious
disease, because it is also incurable. By the use of drugs relief may be
given temporarily, but no permanent cure follows. Unscrupulous dealers
will resort to dosing for the time being, or until a sale is made.
You should guard against this trouble, however, for it is one of the
most serious that a horse can have. Upon this subject, Butler has the
following to say: “To test the wind and look for two serious conditions
and others which may be present, the animal should be made to run at
the top of his speed for some considerable distance--a couple hundred
yards or more. Practically this run or gallop should be up hill, which
will make the test all the better. After giving the horse this gallop,
stop him suddenly, step closely up to him and listen to any unusual
noise, indicating obstruction of the air passages, and also observe the
movements of the flanks for any evidence of the big double jerky
expulsion of the air from the lungs characteristic of heavers.”
TESTING OF THE PACES
No examination is complete that does not make a test of the paces. You
want to know how fast the horse can walk, how he trots or paces or how
he takes some other gait. Some horses make these movements very
gracefully; others very unmannerly. A well-acting horse is one that
moves smoothly, regularly, who picks up his feet actively and who places
them firmly in their position regardless of the ground or gait. Some
horses have a rolling movement of the legs. Avoid these. Others step on
the toe or heel. These, too, should be avoided. They suggest some defect
or bad conformation.
The testing of the paces brings all parts of the body into play and
assists in catching other blemishes or defects that you may have
overlooked in your previous examination. It gives you another
opportunity to examine the wind, to observe the respiration, the heart
beatings, the condition of the nostril after work; it shows you also how
the animal takes his pace and how he stands. All of this will be of
value as indicating the soundness and health of the individual under
observation.
CONSIDERING FOR A SPECIAL PURPOSE
Now, as a last factor of your examination, consider the uses to which
the animal is put. If you are looking for breeding animals be sure to
know that the udder is not injured. Of what use is a cow with a bad
udder? How often do we find a quarter of the udder destroyed or a teat
cut or so badly mangled as to be of little use! Some udders are dead,
heavy, fleshy; some are diseased, lumpy; and even though the animal is
otherwise good you must reject her.
If the udder is good, superior in many respects, and shows great milk
production, you can often afford to overlook other defects, especially
if the result of accident.
In the case of horses, a disease or blemish due to accident may be
overlooked, if the work to which the animal will be subjected does not
interfere, let us say, for breeding purposes. The horse has good
conformation, good quality, is healthy and very superior, but
unfortunately a leg was broken. Shall she be rejected as a breeder? No
heavy work will be required of her--she is wanted for colt raising. Take
her; of course you will pay less for her. This accident interferes in no
way with her value for breeding purposes. Many cases of accidental
injuries are similar to this example among cattle and horses.
A good rule is to reject those having defects or blemishes that
interfere with functional activity or the work to which you wish to put
them. Then, as breeders, reject all with constitutional defects, as bad
feet, narrow hocks, coarse disease-appearing bones, and bad conformation
and scrubby character.
CHAPTER V
Wounds and Their Treatment
[Illustration: FRACTURES
When a bone is broken into two or more parts it is said to be fractured.
These may be straight across, up and down, or oblique. Ordinary
fractures are easily treated by splints, but sometimes fractures are so
serious as to destroy the value of the animal.]
The stockman has all sorts of wounds with which to deal. He may guard
his animals with the care and caution of a mother and still find
constant bother and worry to face in the daily management of his stock.
Today it may be a wound caused by a nail puncture in the foot; tomorrow
a cut occasioned by a fence; and then almost immediately another, the
result of a kick or a hook; with patience nearly exhausted, now follow
bruises of many sorts and unexplainable lacerations.
These troubles occur on the best managed farms. There is but one thing
to do: meet each case as it occurs and lend such assistance as you can
that nature may repair the wrecked tissue at the earliest possible
moment.
THE KINDS OF WOUNDS
Wounds fall into four classes: the clean-cut kind made by something
sharp; the torn or lacerated, where ragged edges are left; the bruised,
the result of continued pressure or kicks or a knock; and the punctured,
like the entrance of a nail or splinter or gunshot.
The latter class is the most difficult in treating, for the reason of
the greater penetration that may likely occur. In the case of gunshot,
the wound may be on the surface, or it may extend entirely through the
region attacked, or even penetrate some vital organ like the heart or
the lungs or bowels, and either immediately or within a few days be the
cause of death. Fortunately such wounds are rare. The stockman may never
have to deal with them at all. There are punctured wounds that are
common, however; some, indeed, frequently lead to death. A nail wound is
the most serious, perhaps. It is likely that more cases of tetanus or
lockjaw are due to nail punctures than to all others combined.
After this class comes the lacerated kind. These heal slowly; the tissue
being torn and bruised is repaired only through the sloughing off of the
injured and now superfluous parts. As a result, even with the most
attentive surgical help, the injured part develops its exposed sore,
ending finally completely healed, but permanently marked. Bruises may be
equally bad, long delayed in healing and very painful. Do you remember
the stone bruises of boyhood days? How long it required to develop! And
the pain! I shall feel mine for ages to come.
The clean-cut wounds, if not too serious, are the least difficult in
treating.
FIRST STEP IN TREATING
The flow of blood is usually associated with ordinary wounds; other than
with some bruised and punctured wounds this is always true. Frequently a
nail puncture gives off no blood or it is not noticed. However, the
blood is present, for, from the very nature of the trouble, blood rushes
to the seat, this being nature’s way of repair. Your first step,
therefore, is to check the excessive blood flow.
[Illustration: BANDAGING A LEG
The method of applying the bandage is shown here. The bandage may be
wrapped directly over the hair or over cotton saturated with an
antiseptic and placed over the wound.]
If left to itself the blood might do it. Blood has the trick of
coagulating or clotting; and this in time will check the flow. But you
can assist in forming the clot very simply by applying some finely
ground material that the blood may be held on the spot. Absorbent cotton
is the best material to use. In case this is not available, use
something of like nature--something that is clean, not stored up with
germs. Tea is good, as is flour also. Cold water acts favorably, and for
the slight, ordinary surface wounds water is usually sufficient. A few
drops of some antiseptic in the water, if available, is always
advisable, for the freshest water carries its full quota of germs, some
of which may cause trouble. A tiny bit of alum powder will be found both
effective and not painful.
=Cleansing the Wound.=--After the flow of blood has been stopped,
cleansing the wound is next in order. All dirt should be carefully
removed, the injured flesh cleansed, the torn tissues brought together
and stitched, if need be, and antiseptics applied. The water used in
bathing the wounded flesh should contain an antiseptic, that the germs
present may be destroyed and no live ones admitted by water in cleansing
the wound. Any good commercial antiseptic will do; or the old common
ones, like corrosive sublimate, one part in a thousand parts of water,
or carbolic acid, a teaspoonful in a quart of water. Some powdered
antiseptic like iodoform is very desirable for dusting into the wound.
=Making the Bandage.=--Unless the wound is of little consequence it
should be covered and bandaged that no foreign elements be admitted and
that some pressure may be given to keep the broken parts together. To
secure this effect absorbent cotton, slightly moistened with the
antiseptic, should be laid on the wound, and firmly fastened by strips
of clean cotton cloth.
By winding this bandage around and about the wound, dressed in this
careful way, the wound will be protected, germs will be kept out and
nature, thus reinforced, will be enabled to make a rapid recovery.
Unless the bandage is disturbed in some way there is no need of changing
it under twenty-four or thirty-six hours. If, for any reason, the
bandage is displaced, dress as before, and bandage again.
=Special Treatment.=--When a cut wound is deep or large, stitching is
sometimes required, that the broken parts may be brought together for
more rapid healing. Nothing is better for this than a coarse needle and
heavy thread. Before stitching, however, the wound should be bathed as
previously described. The needle and thread should be soaked in the
antiseptic, that no germs may be introduced by means of them.
Now you are ready to make the stitches. Place the needle about an eighth
to a quarter of an inch from the edge of the wound across to the
opposite side. Bring the two ends together and tie, leaving the lips of
the wound as close together as possible. If more than a single stitch is
necessary, proceed in the same way, placing the second stitch about
three-quarters of an inch from the first one; continue as with the first
stitch if more are necessary.
In case a needle and thread are not available, pins may be used in the
emergency. Insert the pin through the two edges and bring the lips
together, making them fast by a thread or cord carried from one end to
the other several times, alternating to the right and left as presented
by the figure eight. Sometimes the wound enlarges and becomes feverish.
If such becomes very severe, remove the fastenings and bathe the wound
very gently, using a mild antiseptic wash of tepid water in which
carbolic acid has been placed.
[Illustration: HEALTH AND DISEASE
In the upper picture the pigs are treating themselves. Below are shown
hogs which died during shipment to market.]
Avoid any breaking of the healing tissue and do not have the washing
solution too strong, else it may injure the delicate tissue growth. A
teaspoonful of carbolic acid to a quart of water is strong enough. With
lacerated wounds the treatment is very similar. If the wound goes bad
and becomes spongy add a tablespoonful of acetate of lead and a
tablespoonful of sulphate of zinc to the antiseptic solution and apply
twice daily.
[Illustration: MAKING POST MORTEM EXAMINATIONS
The upper right hand picture shows the intestines of a healthy sheep. On
the left nodule disease is discovered. The bottom picture illustrates
how a carcass may be opened for the examination.]
=Nail Punctures.=--These very frequently cause trouble. You have no way
of observing the wound and your only way of judging is from the way the
animal walks or acts, and if the hoof is unduly hot. Locating lameness
in the stifle joint is a common but inexcusable error, as the action
resulting from lameness in the two parts is entirely different. The
so-called gravel which is said to enter the sole of the foot and then to
work out at the heel is usually the working out of the pus or the matter
resulting from a nail puncture or a bruise.
If an animal becomes suddenly and severely lame and there be no evidence
of any injury to any other part of the leg, such as swelling, heat and
pain upon pressure, it is always well to look for puncture in the foot.
If the animal stands with the lame foot extended and when walking places
the lame foot well forward and brings the well foot up to it, the
evidence of puncture is still stronger.
To examine the foot properly the shoe should be removed. It is not
sufficient to merely scrape the bottom of the foot clean, for if the
nail has pulled out and the horn sprung back in position, all trace of
its entrance may have been obliterated. To examine the foot properly,
tap the hoof with a hammer or knife and the exact spot may be definitely
located. If the injury is of a few days’ standing, additional heat in
the hoof and, perhaps, slight swelling of the coronet may also be
present.
In treating such wounds, pare away only such parts of the hoof as
necessity requires and introduce a bit of cotton cloth rolled as a
string by means of a probe of some kind. Both probe and cotton must be
treated with the antiseptic solution. This solution should be a little
stronger than for flesh wounds. Make the solution by using a teaspoonful
of carbolic acid to only a pint of water. After the cotton has been
inserted a few times and withdrawn, each time a fresh cord being used
and fully saturated, leave the last one in for a few hours and then
repeat the treatment. This should be done three or four times each day.
The main point in the treatment of nail puncture of the foot is to
provide free exit to all matter that may collect and keep the parts as
clean as possible. If this be done, the matter will not be compelled to
work out at the heels, and no separation or loss of hoof will occur.
Often a very severe wound is made and the treatment acts slowly.
In case proud flesh accumulates, it should be burned away by a hot iron.
After this operation has been performed, the cavity should be filled
with balsam of fir and cotton placed over it, a piece of heavy leather
fitted to the foot and held fast by the replaced shoe. This will usually
end the difficulty. A veterinarian should be called in case the wound is
severe or goes bad as the treatment progresses.
=Treating Bruises.=--In treating bruises a different procedure is
necessary. The broken tissue is concealed--beneath the skin and usually
under the surface muscles. Bathing with water and acetate of lead--a
quart of water and two tablespoonfuls of the acetate--will tend to
lessen the inflammation. In time you may have to open the swelling for
the pus to get out. After doing so, inject some wash for cleansing,
using one quart of water and a tablespoonful of chloride of zinc.
If the swelling remains, apply twice each month a salve made by using
one teaspoonful of biniodide of mercury and three tablespoonfuls of
lard. Wash occasionally, using the chloride of zinc solution.
=Leg Wounds.=--Cleanse the wound with a wash composed of one
tablespoonful of acetate of lead, one tablespoonful of sulphate of zinc,
four tablespoonfuls of tincture of arnica and one quart of water. Use
this wash frequently, every hour or so, during the first day. After that
three or four applications will be sufficient. The sore should be kept
lower than the skin during the healing process. If it tends to crowd up,
apply a tiny bit--as much as you can place on a one-cent piece--of
bichloride of mercury. This will assist in getting an even heal and the
skin will grow over, leaving no blemish or swelling.
=Maggots in Wounds.=--If the wound has been treated as suggested above
there is no possibility of any trouble from maggots. These come from a
lack of cleanliness and neglect. Of course, an animal often gets a wound
and the owner is not aware of the mishap. Wounds, more or less
infrequently treated, those made as the result of castration,
occasionally get infected with maggots.
When, for any cause, maggots are present, they must be got rid of at
once. A good plan is to use chloroform, either by spraying or by
throwing it in the wound in small drops from a sponge.
The danger from maggots can usually be avoided if a mixture composed of
one tablespoonful of turpentine, three tablespoonfuls of tar and two
tablespoonfuls of lard or fish oil be smeared all around the border of
the wound.
CHAPTER VI
Making a Post Mortem Examination
Even on the best-managed stock farms some animals do get sick and die.
Good care and good nursing may be given, but the sick animal frequently
does not recover--death often follows very quickly, before you have an
opportunity to observe the development of the disease or to secure the
services of a veterinarian. Then, again, after a lingering sickness an
animal dies, the disease being known or unknown as the case may be.
In any event, a post-mortem examination is usually desirable, if for no
other reason than that it serves to familiarize you with the organs of
the body. With a little experience you can become quite proficient in
examining a dead animal, and you can soon learn the difference between
healthy and unhealthy organs, between diseased and normal tissues and
the relation of the internal parts to the whole body. A post-mortem
examination thus enables you to know the cause of the disease--where it
is located or whether death is the result of accident or of some fatal
disturbance of the system.
This examination should be made as soon after death as possible; the
longer the delay the greater the changes due to decomposition of the
body and its decay back to the original elements from which it has come.
Soon after death the stiffening process takes place. This is known as
rigor mortis. It may occur within an hour after death and again it may
not be complete until twenty-five or thirty hours have passed. Soon
after the death stiffening has occurred the tissues soften and
decomposition rapidly follows.
FIRST THINGS TO DO
In making a post-mortem examination, in case the animal has not been
moved, the position of the body is to be observed. Look all about you.
Is there any evidence of a struggle? Does either the body or the ground
appear as if spasms have taken place? It may be a case of poisoning. If
such be true, the outward appearance may be further substantiated by the
internal condition. If inflammation and irritation of the stomach and
bowels are observed, this evidence helps to confirm the first
observation.
[Illustration: RICKETS IN PIGS
Rickets in pigs is due, as in man and other animals, to an improper
development of the bone, the result of insufficient mineral matter in
the food. The bones are weak and bend or break. It frequently appears
after the pigs are weaned. An abundant supply of wood ashes, charcoal,
lime and salt is always good for hogs.]
The appearance of the struggle, however, is not enough to establish a
case of poisoning; for struggling is a death characteristic of many
diseases. Of course, in making this preliminary examination you will
note if death could have been the result of some other reason. Has some
obstruction had anything to do with the trouble? Maybe the animal has
been caught in some way and not being able to move about has starved to
death, or maybe some over-exertion has had something to do with the
trouble.
Many animals choke, and, not being able to relieve themselves, die.
Thousands of farm animals, especially in the West and Southwest, die
annually from cold, and not a few from heat. All these things enter into
the case and must be considered in reaching a reasonable conclusion.
=Observe the Discharges.=--The next thing to do is to observe the
discharges from nose, mouth and other natural openings of the body.
External scars and wounds often bear a close relation to the disease and
these should be considered in examining the carcass. How do the eyes
look? Is there a discharge from the ears? Is the swelling of the abdomen
and the bloating more pronounced or different than should be the case in
ordinary death? Practice will indicate the lesson that each of these
teach.
=Accidents and Injury.=--Farm animals are often killed by stray shots
from the guns of hunters and trespassers. A casual observation will
indicate if death has been due to this. Again, animals may die from
distemper or be eaten up with lice or troubled with itch or mange--you
will note these facts as you go along with your work.
In the South, where Texas fever is so prevalent, you should look for
ticks, as these bring death to thousands of animals each year. Look for
the wee tiny ones--they cause the trouble. When cattle are fairly
covered with the large ticks death does not ordinarily follow, since the
animal has practically become immune to the poison caused by the tick.
These large ticks, however, are filled with blood and nutriment, both
obtained from the animal, and hence they may rob the animal of blood and
nutriment that it ought to have itself.
=After Removing the Skin.=--The skin is now to be removed, so that the
color of the tissues and the nature of the blood may be noted. If the
blood be thin or black, with a disagreeable odor, you can expect some
germ trouble like blood poisoning or an infectious and contagious
disease. If the white tissues are yellow you may be reasonably certain
that the liver has not done its work as it would have done had it been
in a thoroughly healthy condition.
In removing the skin and making other observations be cautious that you
do not prick your fingers with the knife, since you may convey in this
way disease to yourself. If by accident a cut or prick is made,
cauterize the wound at once, so as to destroy any germs transmitted in
this way to you.
EXAMINING THE INTERNAL ORGANS
The next step is to examine the internal organs. To do this, place the
animal on its side, remove the upper front leg and the ribs over the
chest region. The ribs should be removed as near as possible to the
backbone so as to give an unobstructed opening over the important
organs. This large opening now allows you free access for examination,
and an unimpaired view all about the vital organs, if these are entirely
exposed.
[Illustration: ROUND WORMS IN HOG INTESTINE
An infestation with intestinal worms, as shown here, leads to
unthriftiness and a loss of flesh. These worms may be expelled by giving
turpentine in doses of one teaspoonful in milk for three days in
succession.]
While making this opening, observe the watery fluid as it escapes. If a
large quantity is present, dropsy or a rupture of the bladder is
indicated. If the trouble is due to the latter, an odor in the urine
will be quickly noted. When the fluid is red in color, it indicates the
presence of blood or some inflammation of the abdomen or the bowels. A
large amount of watery fluid in the chest cavity is an indication of
some lung trouble; this is further indicated by the tiny attachments
running between the lungs and the chest wall.
=Stomach and Intestines.=--If the stomach and intestines be abnormally
red, congestion is indicated, and if they be quite dark, even purple in
color, you may be sure that some kind of inflammation has been the
trouble. You will note also if the stomach is hard and compacted; and,
if so, indigestion may have been the trouble. The intestines will also
show if they be hard and compacted or in any otherwise bad condition.
Pass the hands along to see if the intestines are knotted in any place
or if nails are present in the stomach. It is not likely that the nails
have been the direct cause of death, but this fact helps to indicate the
condition of the digestion trap.
Often hair balls or parasites will be found; either may clog up the
channel and may be the immediate cause of death. I have on more than one
occasion found that the fuzz of crimson clover, accumulating in the
intestines of horses, rolls up into a hard, compacted ball, and not
being able to pass out, becomes an obstruction in the passageway and
ultimately causes death.
=Kidneys and Bladder.=--The urine tells its tale also; a very
disagreeable odor indicates some disturbance; and a brownish or dark-red
color may indicate a local disease or a constitutional breakdown. Texas
fever in cattle produces a very dark or reddish urine, Azoturia in
horses, a similar color. Gallstones or gravel are often found in the
bladder, and these frequently cause serious disturbance, if not death.
=Lungs.=--Look the lungs over carefully. See if the natural color is
present and if the soft, spongy constituency responds to the same kind
of touch as does the thoroughly healthy lung. In health the lungs are a
very light pink color. If inflammation has been present this will be
indicated by the dark color and the hard density.
When the lung is cut apart with the knife further observation should be
made. A marble appearance indicates inflammation and hard lumps or
tubercles indicate tuberculosis. These tubercles, when cut open, show
pus and a cheeselike material, yellow in color--a true indication of the
disease.
=Other Observations.=--You should feel the heart to know if it is
natural or not, or to see if any of the valves are broken, or if some
inflammation has been back of the trouble. The sides of the open cavity
should be observed before leaving. Is it spotted, speckled? Are pink
spots seen about the ribs? This is an indication of hog cholera, and in
itself may lead to a correct interpretation of the disease.
CHAPTER VII
Common Medicines and Their Actions
The common medicines used in treating farm animals are named in the
following list, together with origin, action, use, and dose.
ACONITE
Tincture of aconite is derived from the root of a plant. When used, the
heart beats more slowly and the blood pressure is decreased, making the
medicine desirable in cases of inflammation.
Dose: For horses and cattle, from 10 to 30 drops, and sheep and hogs 5
to 10 drops.
ALOES
This is usually bought in a powder form. It is brown in color and bitter
in taste. Considerable time transpires before action in the bowels takes
place. Allow at least 24 hours. It is a physic and blood purifier.
Dose: For horses, 4 to 5 tablespoonfuls; cattle, 4 to 8 tablespoonfuls;
sheep, 1 to 2 tablespoonfuls; and pigs, 1 to 2 tablespoonfuls.
ALUM
This mineral salt is used in washes for sore mouth and throat, and
cleansing wounds. It may be dusted into wounds in powder form, and is
both drying and healing.
Dose: Use a tablespoonful to a pint of water.
ANISEED
This preparation is made from dried berries and ground. It stimulates
digestion, sweetens the stomach, and serves as a tonic and appetite
maker.
Dose: For horses and cattle, a tablespoonful, and for sheep and pigs, a
teaspoonful.
ARNICA
For wounds, sprains, and bruises, tincture of arnica is both cooling and
restful. It is made from the dried flowers of a plant, and is for
external use. Apply three or four times daily.
ARSENIC
This medicine comes from the mineral kingdom and is very powerful. In
using better get it in some standard medicinal form such as Fowler’s
Solution. It is used as a tonic when the stomach is bad and the system
run down.
Dose: Fowler’s Solution; for horses and cattle, 2 tablespoonfuls; sheep,
1 teaspoonful; pigs, one-half teaspoonful. In giving to stock mix with 4
tablespoonfuls of whiskey, and either use as a drench or add to mash or
gruel.
BELLADONNA
This is a tincture made from a plant. When used it soothes, softens, and
relaxes the parts to which applied. It checks inflammation and relieves
pain, but must be carefully used.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 teaspoonful; sheep, 10 drops; pigs, 5
drops.
BUTTER OF ANTIMONY
This preparation, taken from a mineral, is not used internally. It is a
powerful caustic. Its principal use is for curing thrush in horses’
feet.
[Illustration: TETANUS BACILLI
How the germs look under the microscope. The poison produced by them is
one of the most violent known in disease.]
BROMIDE OF POTASSIUM
This comes as a white crystal or powder, and is used to quiet the nerves
when some trouble like lockjaw has set in.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 teaspoonful; sheep and hogs, one-half
teaspoonful.
BINIODIDE OF MERCURY
This bright red powder is used chiefly for blistering purposes. It is
excellent when a spavin or splint or ringbone is just beginning. In
preparing, use one part of the mercury to nine parts of vaseline or
lard. Remember, it is a poison, and must be carefully handled, as is
true of some other preparations of mercury.
CAMPHOR
The camphor of commerce is in the form of a gum obtained from a tree by
boiling and evaporation. It is used in mixtures for coughs, sore throat,
and heaves. It is good also for colic and diarrhœa and assists in
lessening pain. It should be given in water.
Dose: For horses, 2 to 4 teaspoonfuls; cattle, 4 to 5 teaspoonfuls; pigs
and sheep, 2 teaspoonfuls.
CANTHARIDES OR SPANISH FLY
This is in the form of powder, and is an irritant. For use it should be
thoroughly mixed with lard or vaseline. One teaspoonful of the
cantharides to 4 tablespoonfuls of lard or vaseline. When so prepared it
is excellent as a blister. It can be applied for sweat thickenings or
lumps on any part of the body that is not on the bone. It should not be
used on curbs or tumors and is not used internally.
CARBOLIC ACID
This is got from coal tar and petroleum. When full strength and pure it
is in the form of crystals, but is generally bought as a liquid. It is a
disinfectant and an antiseptic, and while used internally for some
purposes, is largely used internally in washes and solutions. Its
principal use is in bathing wounds and sores. Care should be taken not
to have a wash contain too much of the acid, as it will burn the wound
and stop the healing action. It is a corroding poison taken internally.
It should be just strong enough to kill bacteria; say, 1 part to 1,000
parts of water. A very good healing salve is made when 5 drops of pure
carbolic acid is used to 4 tablespoonfuls of vaseline.
CORROSIVE SUBLIMATE
This is used externally as an antiseptic and disinfectant. Dissolve 1
part to 100 parts of water. It is a preparation of mercury, is
poisonous, but excellent for bathing wounds and open sores.
CASTOR OIL
This oil is pressed from castor beans. It is a mild physic similar to
raw linseed oil. It is not used much for live stock.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 pint; for sheep, one-quarter pint, and
for pigs, 4 tablespoonfuls.
CALOMEL
This is a heavy white powder and a mineral. Its principal action is as a
physic, and it has a cleansing effect on the liver. Hence it is used for
all kinds of liver troubles. When dusted in old sores, it is splendid
for healing and drying up.
Dose: For horses, one-half to 1 teaspoonful; cattle, 1 to 2
teaspoonfuls; sheep and pigs, one-eighth teaspoonful.
CROTON OIL
This oil is made from seeds, and is one of the most powerful physics
known. It should never be used until milder physics do not respond. Use
it as a last resort.
Dose: For horses, 15 to 20 drops; cattle, 30 to 40 drops; sheep, 5 to 10
drops; and pigs, 2 to 3 drops. In giving, it is best to use in
connection with raw linseed oil; of the linseed oil use 1 pint for
horses and cattle and one-quarter pint for sheep and pigs.
CAUSTIC POTASH
This chemical is most easily used when purchased in pencil-like sticks.
It is never given internally, but is used to burn warts and growths by
wetting the stick and rubbing it over them. It is also used for burning
poisonous wounds to kill the poison. It is commonly employed for
dishorning calves. When a week or ten days old, and the button of the
horn is just appearing, rub the potash over the horn. This usually
insures destruction of the horn substance. Wet the stick of potash. See
that drippings do not run down the animal’s head. In order to protect
the fingers, when using, wrap paper around the stick.
CREOLIN
This is the product of coal tar and comes in the form of a thick, dark
fluid, and, like tar, is harmless. It is frequently used as the basis of
salves for wounds, scratches, and like troubles. It is a very effective
remedy for killing lice, ticks, or fleas, and is used as a remedy when
sheep are afflicted with mange and scab.
Dose: Use from 2 to 4 tablespoonfuls to a pint of water and shake well
before using. Make up a small quantity at a time, as creolin thus made
loses its value after exposure. For disinfecting purposes, 1 part of
creolin to 100 parts of water is satisfactory.
GENTIAN
This is the root of a plant, dried and ground. It is used principally as
a tonic, and is very bitter; commonly found in condition powders and is
given to animals that are weak and run down. If used alone, give twice a
day in the food and place on the tongue with a spoon.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 tablespoonful; for sheep, a teaspoonful;
pigs, one-half teaspoonful.
GINGER
This is a dried root ground fine, secured from a plant, and acts as a
stimulant, relieving gases that accumulate in the stomach. It is an
excellent ingredient to use in colic and indigestion preparations. If
given alone, doses may be repeated every two or three hours.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 tablespoonful; sheep, 1 small
teaspoonful; pigs, one-half teaspoonful.
HYPOSULPHITE OF SODA
This salt is frequently used in combination with gentian, equal parts of
both, and in other recipes for condition powder. It cleans the blood and
builds up the system after weakening diseases. A common preparation is
made by using one-half of powdered gentian and one-half of hyposulphite
of soda. Mix all together and give two or three times a day to the
animal needing it.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 tablespoonful; sheep, 1 teaspoonful;
pigs, one-half teaspoonful.
IODINE
This dark brown tincture is not often used internally, but is used as a
sweat blister and for blistering thickened glands. In using, take a
feather, painting the iodine on the lump until it blisters; when the
blister appears, grease the part; after two or three days have passed,
wash the lump with warm water and soap and blister again.
IODIDE OF POTASSIUM
This white powder is obtained from the mineral kingdom. When given
internally it acts as an absorbent. It is commonly used in cases of
dropsy of the belly. In administering, use equal parts of ground gentian
root and give twice a day.
Dose: For horses and cattle a teaspoonful; for sheep and pigs, one-half
teaspoonful.
LINSEED OIL
This oil is obtained from flaxseed, and is excellent when a mild physic
is desired. The easiest and most effective way of giving to animals is
in the form of a drench. About 1 pint should be used for horses and
cattle. Raw linseed oil is usually preferred to the boiled.
LAUDANUM
This is made from opium and is used both internally and externally. It
is commonly used where there is pain, hence it is excellent for
relieving pain and spasms and assists also in checking inflammation.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 4 to 6 teaspoonfuls; sheep and pigs, 2 to 4
teaspoonfuls.
NUX VOMICA
This powder comes from ground seeds, and is used as a nerve stimulant.
It is very efficacious for strengthening weak, debilitated animals. A
common way is to mix equal parts of gentian and powdered nux vomica
thoroughly together. This may be given as a drench, or in the feed or
placed at the back of the tongue with a spoon.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 teaspoonful three times a day; for sheep
and pigs, one-half teaspoonful.
NITRATE OF SILVER
This comes in the form of white penciled sticks. It is excellent for
burning off warts, proud flesh in cuts and growths on any part of the
body. Just wet the stick and rub it on the parts. Of course, be careful
that your fingers are protected from the chemical. It is a poison taken
internally.
NITRATE OF POTASH
This is frequently called saltpeter, and comes as a white crystal or
powder. It is used for kidney, lung and blood troubles. It has a very
acute action on the kidneys, causing them to secrete an extra amount of
urine.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 teaspoonful; sheep and pigs, one-half
teaspoonful.
SULPHATE OF COPPER
This is commonly known as blue vitriol or bluestone. It is excellent
when given internally for checking discharges, especially those of a
chronic catarrhal nature. It may also be used as a wash for wounds, when
a weak solution is made, and may be dusted on the wound every day or two
in case proud flesh forms.
SULPHATE OF IRON
Green vitriol, or copperas, as it is commonly known, is a splendid
mineral tonic, and is commonly used in combination with gentian, equal
parts of the two. Use when the system is badly run down. It is also
excellent as a worm powder.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 teaspoonful three times a day; sheep and
pigs, one-half teaspoonful.
SUGAR OF LEAD
This is frequently called acetate of lead. It is seldom used internally,
but quite generally externally for healing washes, particularly for the
eye.
SWEET SPIRITS OF NITER
This sweet-tasting and smelling preparation is obtained from alcohol,
and is in the form of a clear liquid. It acts upon the kidneys and skin
and is commonly given in the drinking water of animals. It is used in
combination with other medicines for colic and indigestion. It thus acts
upon the bowels and stomach and relieves pain and dissipates the gases.
In giving to animals mix in a pint of lukewarm water and give as a
drench.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 2 to 4 tablespoonfuls; for sheep and pigs,
1 to 2 teaspoonfuls.
SPIRITS OF TURPENTINE
This is the ordinary turpentine known by all. It is excellent in cases
of acute indigestion and colic, and is destructive to bots and the long
round worms in horses. When used externally it is as a liniment. When
used internally a small quantity is given with raw linseed oil.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 4 tablespoonfuls; for sheep and pigs, 1
tablespoonful.
SALTS
The two common salts used for live stock are Epsom and Glauber. Epsom
salts are most frequently used, the chief action being as a physic.
Aloes take the places of salts for horses, as it is believed these are
much better than the mineral salts. In giving salts to cattle, the
drench is most satisfactory.
Dose: Use 1 quart of warm water in which place 1 tablespoonful of ginger
and 1 tablespoonful of common soda. To this add 1 pint to 1½ pints of
salts and dissolve by shaking or stirring. For sheep and pigs,
one-quarter of this amount is sufficient.
SULPHUR
This yellow powder is well known and is a great medicine when given
internally. It acts on the blood and purifies it. It is excellent also
for killing parasites or germs in the skin, hence it is good for all
diseases. When used internally it is best to combine with gentian root.
Give once a day for a short period.
Dose: For horses and cattle, 1 tablespoonful; sheep and pigs, 1
teaspoonful.
SOME COMMON PRESCRIPTIONS
=Colic Mixture.=--Laudanum, 16 tablespoonfuls; aromatic spirits of
ammonia, 12 tablespoonfuls; sulphuric ether, 2 tablespoonfuls; tincture
of aconite, 10 drops; ginger, 16 tablespoonfuls. Dissolve in a pint of
water. From 10 to 20 tablespoonfuls of this can be given in one-half
pint of water. If relief is not secured, repeat in a half hour, follow
with a third dose, then with another, giving the doses one-half to one
hour apart.
=Fly Blister.=--Powdered cantharides, 2 teaspoonfuls; gum camphor
powdered, 2 tablespoonfuls; lard, 8 tablespoonfuls. After thoroughly
mixing, rub in 5 to 10 minutes, depending on the severity of the blister
desired.
=Red Blister.=--Gum camphor powdered, 2 tablespoonfuls; biniodide of
mercury, 2 teaspoonfuls; lard, 8 tablespoonfuls. This should be rubbed
in from 5 to 10 minutes.
=Cough Mixture.=--Belladonna, 2 tablespoonfuls; pulverized opium, 2
tablespoonfuls; gum camphor, pulverized, 2 teaspoonfuls; chloride of
ammonia, 2 tablespoonfuls; sulphur, 4 tablespoonfuls. An easy way to
give this is to mix with molasses and flour until a paste is secured.
=Soothing Ointment.=--Laudanum, 8 tablespoonfuls; aconite, 4
tablespoonfuls. This is excellent for sprains, and relieves the pain and
soreness when applied to a part where there is much inflammation.
=Hoof Ointment.=--Raw linseed oil, one-quarter pound; crude petroleum
oil, one-quarter pound; neat’s-foot oil, one-quarter pound; pine tar,
one-quarter pound. Mix well and apply every night with a brush all over
and under the hoof. A little in the hair above will do no harm. Clean
out the hoof before applying.
=Physic Drench for Horses.=--Aloes, 8 teaspoonfuls; common soda, 1
teaspoonful; ginger, 1 teaspoonful. Dissolve these in a pint of lukewarm
water and give as a drench. The horse should be allowed rest the day
following its use.
[Illustration: READY FOR THE DRENCH
A simple device for giving drenches to horses.]
=Physic Drench for Cattle.=--Epsom salts, 1 pound; ginger, 1
tablespoonful; common soda, 1 tablespoonful. Dissolve in a quart of
lukewarm water and give as a drench. It is a splendid general physic for
cows, and can be given at any time when they are thought not to be
thriving as they should.
CHAPTER VIII
The Meaning of Disease
Any departure from a normal condition is disease. The body, composed of
different organs and parts, is in a healthy state when each of these
performs its natural functions. Thus the normal mind is concerned with
normal mental acts; any disturbances of the brain or spinal cords is
immediately manifested in the action of the animal; likewise frequently
a disturbance elsewhere may later have its effect on the mental system.
Disease may result from some external cause like from a wound, from food
causing poison or derangement of the digestive system, from water
introducing impurities, from parasites that disturb normal functions,
disorganize tissue or produce toxines, or from other abnormal
conditions--all of which interfere with the normal functions of one or
more organs, regions, or parts.
In most cases the disturbances are readily recognized. Swellings,
bruises and wounds are located at a glance. When blood passes from nose,
ears or intestines, a key to the trouble is at hand. Coughs have their
story. And vomiting, diarrhœa, convulsions, spasms, abnormal breathing
or temperature each indicates at what points an abnormal condition is
evident.
=Disease, Both General and Local.=--Some diseases lead to disturbance
throughout the entire body. For instance, pus may accumulate at some
point from which it finds its way into the blood, in the end reaching to
other parts of the body that in time also become affected.
Those diseases, with which fever is associated, are general in nature.
The nerve centers are influenced, the body heat is increased and a
weakened condition prevails. Back of this are the disease
poisons--chemical poisons or germ poisons.
When the temperature of the body, as a result of fever, rises too high
certain life principles are changed and death immediately follows. A
temperature of 106° or 107° is very high, and, therefore, very
dangerous. In treating disease the temperature is watched, that the
course of the fever may be followed. Treating a fever, then, is helpful
and a natural part of the treatment of the disease itself. The basis of
the curative process rests upon the principle of proper circulation and
the excretion of the impure substances.
CAUSES OF DISEASE
In the first place most diseases arise from mismanagement. The very
principles at the bottom of good health receive no consideration and
little thought. On some farms it is seldom that a case of disease is
heard of; on others, stock are under treatment at all times. Where order
prevails, where cleanliness is appreciated, where disease-producing
conditions are never allowed to accumulate or even gain an introduction,
health is the rule and disease the exception. When the latter appears,
it is due to some outside influence that gave it admission.
The greatest mischief in handling farm stock comes from improper food,
filthy or impure drinking water, bad ventilation of stables, overwork,
or lack of exercise and poor sanitary conditions.
Disease, therefore, is largely due to causes within control of the owner
of the farm stock. True, one source of trouble is due to mechanical
causes: horses get nail punctures, legs and necks and head are cut in
fences, blows bring bruises. But whose fault? Certainly not the animal.
Old boards with nails ought not to be left in all sorts of places,
fences should be protected, and stable fixtures, gates and harnesses
should be in such order that only in rare cases will injury result.
=Disease from Chemical Causes.=--Poisonous materials and poisonous
plants cause death to thousands of animals annually. Of great importance
to the stock interests is the rapid destruction of these harmful
products. Fortunately in the older sections these are about eliminated
now, and we are also understanding more about the molds that lead to bad
results when moldy forage is given as feed to farm animals. In time
disease will be considerably lessened when only clean, wholesome food
finds its way into the mangers and feed racks--then disease will depart
and more rapid gains will come.
=Heredity Plays a Part.=--Despite caution and care, health is often
disturbed because of hereditary influences. Thanks to science, we know
now that many of the old bugbears of the past, and once so entrenched,
have become dislodged, and their true import set right before the owner.
Tuberculosis, for instance, once so dreaded in both man and beast, is
now known not to be handed down from parent to progeny; it is a germ
disease, pure and simple, and gets its start just as many other
ailments--through breath, or drink, or feed. There are hereditary
troubles, however, that continue down through many generations. The
narrow hock of the horse invites curb diseases; the narrow chest is a
good breeding ground for tuberculosis germs; straight pasterns are bad
for the feet; poor conformation is not consistent with efficiency or
easy functional activity.
These examples clearly show that form and type and physical
characteristics have roles to play in animal economy and in health to
which the wise stockman will give heed.
[Illustration: BACTERIA AS SEEN UNDER THE MICROSCOPE
_a_, Spirillum. _b_, Micrococcus. _c_, Micrococcus. _d_, Streptococcus.
_e_, _f_, _g_, _h_, Rod-shaped bacteria. _i_ and _j_, Divisions.]
=Germs and Parasites.=--In addition to the above causes of disease,
another class is before us ready to inflict its injury at all times.
Indeed, it is a class of the greatest importance. I refer now to
parasites, bacteria, and germs, which cause more loss to live stock than
all others combined. Think of hog cholera, a germ disease; of
tuberculosis, a germ disease; of stomach worms, parasites; of staggers,
a mold disease; of abortion, a germ disease; and hundreds of like
nature, all due to parasites and germs, disease agents that disturb and
destroy the delicate organs or exposed regions, as the case may be,
regardless of age, value, or breed.
Of course, remedies and treatment are being worked out to meet these
individual diseases as they occur. Nevertheless, the best treatment is
prevention. It is far better to prevent than to cure; and that is the
line of action especially for this class. Indeed, it is far easier to
understand the simple laws of prevention than the complicated curative
processes. Especially is this true since germs are known and isolated,
and their rapid destruction with air, sunlight, and disinfectants
understood and available.
ORIGIN OF DISEASE
Enough has now been said to indicate that disease originates as a
reaction between the cause of it and the body. Withhold food, and
starvation--the disease--follows. Withhold fresh air and oxygen, and the
tissue breaks down; disease results as a reaction from the normal use of
air and the demands of the body for oxygen. Allow bacteria admission to
the body and settlement in the tissues or organs most agreeable to each
particular one, and these will grow, multiply, and, unless overcome by
the natural resistance of the body, will conquer and destroy, causing
sooner or later death and decay.
=Immunity Sought by Inoculation.=--Many diseases that now yield to no
curative treatment are being met by inoculation. By this method the body
is reinforced by serum injections, that disease germs and infections may
be warded off, or in case of attack, be so fortified against the disease
germs as to destroy them or render them inactive.
=Some Animals More Resistant to Disease.=--An infectious and contagious
disease may affect a herd or flock, destroying few or many. Some may
never be affected and yet be subjected to exposure and contagion; such
are immune and resist this particular disease. Others may suffer a mild
attack, but throw it off with no disastrous consequence; such are strong
and their organs ably fortified against any injurious inroad by the
disease. On the other hand the majority in a flock or herd is not so
able to throw off the disease for the reason of being predisposed by
nature to such attacks; their very susceptibility invites attack, and if
the infection is intensely virulent the affected body will most likely
yield and death follow.
THE COURSE OF DISEASE
Each disease possesses its own peculiar characteristics, which are more
or less conspicuous in each individual case. Then, too, some diseases
develop quickly and end quickly. Others run a course of several weeks;
and still others several months or even years. The first class is acute,
the second chronic. In both kinds nature is at work endeavoring always
to effect a cure; and, unless other complications arise, the result of
improper food, bad sanitary quarters, bad air, or conditions not
conducive to health, recovery will, in most cases, result. The great
drawback to rapid recovery comes from the outside influences that
counteract the curative processes of the body itself. Good nursing, good
air, proper food, are back of rapid recovery.
Most diseases have been carefully studied, and their course of
development has been mapped out. Our veterinarians know, in a general
way, how fever acts in live stock. If an animal is inoculated with
Texas fever germs, the veterinarian knows the course of the disease
beforehand. In a general way, he knows when the fever will begin, how
long it will last, when it will be at its highest point, and when it
will disappear. He knows all of this, even before he makes the
inoculation. Yet no disease invariably runs the same course in different
individuals. In fact, the virulence of bacteria have much to do with the
course; mild cases occur usually when the germ is weak, and severe cases
when the germs are very virulent. This explains why some attacks of
measles or Texas fever or hog cholera are more fatal than other attacks
in other places, or at other seasons of the year.
=Typical Courses the Rule.=--It is in rare cases only that a regular
course is not followed by most diseases. Take an infectious disease. The
period of incubation comes first; this follows up the infection. During
this period, no change in the animal is observed. He seems well, acts
well, and does his work well. Nevertheless, all the time, during this
period of infection, the germs are developing, multiplying, gaining
headway, and so entrenching themselves that illness and disorder will
soon follow. The period of infection varies in different animals and in
different diseases. It may take two or three weeks for development, or
as few as two or three days.
Following the period of infection comes the period of eruption. At this
stage the typical characteristics are observed. At the next step the
disease reaches its height with the animal under its complete dominion.
But only temporarily. If properly nursed and treated, with most
diseases, the animal will pass through the period and recover.
The final stage is the period of improvement. The battle that has been
waged between the body and the disease is now about ended. The disease
germs have been routed and the body has been victorious. All that now
remains is the clearing away of the débris. In this case it is scattered
throughout the body system. The damage that has been done is to be
repaired and left, if possible, as near to the original condition, as
the nature of the disease will allow. The period of improvement will
vary in different diseases and in different animals. Recovery may occur
in a few days, in some cases, and in others weeks and months will be
required. A change of feed or pasture or work is usually necessary if
the most rapid recovery would be had. In some cases, nothing other than
absolute rest will suffice.
THE TERMINATION OF DISEASES
After the disease has run its course, the body usually returns to its
former normal condition. There seems to be a limit to what the disease
can do. A healthy body may be attacked, but, in the end, disease
retires, having used itself up. There are diseases, however, that leave
their marks in many ways. And these become permanent marks. With many of
these all of us are acquainted. Smallpox is one. The pits over the face
record the fierce battle that was fought. The same is true of wasted
tissues, with scars that conspicuously mark the track along which blood
poison has traveled. The shrunken hoof of the foundered horse tells the
adverse termination of that disease.
While recovery may be more or less complete, the effect is to seriously
injure the worth and value of the individual. There is a long list of
this kind.
[Illustration: RESULT OF BONE SPAVIN
Pictured here is a natural hock free from disease and a diseased hock,
the result of bone spavin. The bone is seriously affected and the easy
action prevented.]
Other diseases act differently in another way. They progress slowly, are
not noticeable at first, but in the end are incurable. Take glanders as
a typical case. It quietly and silently develops, often taking months or
years in reaching the stage of eruption or before it becomes apparent.
During all this time, and even after the disease is recognizable, the
animal goes on about his duties with no apparent trouble. The disease,
however, is progressing all the time; in the end it conquers its victim,
the final stages are reached, and the animal dies.
The stock raiser is concerned with different diseases in so far as they
mean slow or rapid recovery, and particularly if they be contagious or
not. His entire herd will be impaired if glanders is introduced into it.
One tuberculosis cow will convey the disease to all susceptible
individuals in the herd to which she belongs, especially if stabled in a
tight barn during the winter seasons when little or no ventilation is
intentionally provided.
CHAPTER IX
Diagnosis and Treatment of Disease
Some diseases are not difficult to diagnose. Those resulting from wounds
or knocks are easily located, and their treatment readily outlined.
Others, however, are not so easy. Something is observed as wrong, the
animal acts strangely, does not take to its food, is fretful, stands or
walks unnatural--what is the matter? The stockman must ascertain the
trouble, and the quicker the better.
A review of the past few days is desirable. Where has the animal been?
What kind of food has it had? With what strange fellows has it
associated? Has it been put to excessive work or exposed to unusual
weather or conditions? What infectious diseases are prevalent in the
community? These and other questions will occur; in some instances the
answer will be at hand.
MAKE A PHYSICAL EXAMINATION
The stockman should at least know the fundamental principles of health
and of any departure from them that indicate disease. Hence a
superficial examination of the animal, as a whole, is in line of
diagnosing the disease. Note the general condition of the body. The
thermometer will advise you rightly. Is there pain? If possible
determine this point and locate the seat of it. Is the circulation
natural? An examination of the pulse will tell you if the blood is
racing rapidly or gliding slowly, and whether regular or rough. Is the
respiration as it should be? Count the number a minute that you may know
if the number is more or less, or is as it should be. On listening to
the lungs, heart, and blood vessels, certain sounds are heard which
change with disease--normal and heart murmurs. Whether or not an organ
contains air can be determined by percussion, since solid organs, the
lungs, for instance, in pneumonia, give a different sound from those
containing air as they are normally. Air-containing organs--lungs and
intestines--may thus be distinguished from the solid ones adjoining
them. In this way their varying size in health and disease may be
determined.
Your examination should go further and include the natural
discharges--the dung, the urine, the nose moisture and the “look of the
eye.” In cases of fever the urine is scanty and deeply colored. In Texas
fever, for instance, the urine is dark red. In azoturia in horses, it
varies from a light color to a deep brown or black. The nature of the
dung should be observed, if watery or dry, soft or hard, scanty or
profuse.
=Taking the Pulse.=--Stand at the left side of the horse and run the
finger along the lower jaw until you come to the point where the artery
crosses the jaw on its lower edge. This will be found about two inches
forward from its angle. Right here is the large muscle and at the front
edge the pulsations may be caught. To get the pulse of the cow, stand at
the left side, reach over the neck and take it from the right jaw.
In the horse the normal pulse beats are from 35 to 40 per minute and may
go to 100 in disease. In the cow the pulsations run from 45 to 50 in
health. The pulse relates its story very accurately and, with practice,
can be constantly used in diagnosing the nature of the ailment. For
instance, a soft pulse, one that is easily compressed by the finger,
indicates bronchitis. A hard pulse, one not easily depressed by the
finger, indicates acute inflammation. A hard pulse may be quick and
bounding and forceful. An irregular pulse, one that beats fast for a
time, then slowly, indicates a weakened heart condition. A slow, full
pulse, one that comes up gradually to the finger touch, indicates some
brain trouble.
[Illustration: FEELING THE PULSE
The heart beat, as it is called, may be felt by placing the finger over
any of the superficial arteries. The submaxillary artery as it passes
under the edge of the lower jaw close to the bone is a convenient vessel
for the purpose.]
=Taking the Temperature.=--While the heat of the body may be surmised by
touch and feeling this is not a reliable guide as to the temperature. A
self-registering thermometer, inserted into the rectum, is the only
reliable means for getting this desirable information. In a state of
health the temperature of the horse ranges from 100° to 102.5°.
When the temperature rises, inflammation is indicated. A fall in
temperature below normal denotes loss of strength, vitality, and death.
If the temperature rises three or four degrees above normal, the case is
serious, and a rise of five or six is very dangerous. Animals seldom
survive when the rise reaches above 107° or 108°.
A good clinical thermometer should be in the possession of every
stockman. It costs but little, and its aid in recognizing and treating
disease is helpful, if not absolutely indispensable.
=Taking the Respiration.=--In breathing two movements are
observed--taking in and sending out the air. In health the respiration
is usually constant, ranging from 10 to 14 in the horses, and from 15 to
20 in cattle. Breathing is faster in young animals; and exercise
increases the number of respirations per minute.
Any disease of the respiratory organs will cause the breathing to be
short and rapid and labored. If the number of respirations seem more
than normal, some disturbance is indicated. If the pulse is faster at
the same time, illness is at once indicated, and the trouble should be
sought at once.
THE TREATMENT OF DISEASE
The first effort in treating disease is to remove the cause. This is
sometimes done very easily. Mange and lice are quickly destroyed by
washes and disinfectants.
Bright, fresh, wholesome food and pure water easily replace bad food and
water to the permanent good of the stock. Cattle ticks quickly disappear
when the grease brush is applied. And so in every direction you take to
fight the disease: find the cause and then remove it, and half the
battle is fought.
If disease-producing germs cannot be killed at the moment, it is still
possible to diminish their number or to modify their virulence. Thus to
open an abscess is to remove the pus-producing bacteria, and hence to
hasten recovery. To wash a wound or open sore with antiseptics is the
simplest way to remove, diminish, and destroy the evil of the sore.
[Illustration: HOW HEAT AFFECTS GROWTH
At the end of 24 hours in _a_ but seven bacteria have developed, the
temperature being 50 degrees. In _b_ 700 have developed in the same
time, but in a temperature of 70 degrees.]
=Helping the Body Fight.=--When disease sets in a battle begins. One
combatant is the disease itself, the other the body. Your work is to
render assistance to the body. In many cases your help will not be
needed. In others you can render incalculable aid. Here is where medical
aid begins and ends: to care for and nurse and make the body strong that
it may be victorious, quickly, if possible, but without fail, in the
end. Medicines are helpful if they diminish the work of the diseased
organ, giving in this way time for the body cells to bring about a cure.
Therefore rest and quietness are advisable, that no organ may be called
upon for any effort but normal function and repair. A disease of the
heart calls for absolute rest, of the intestines for little or no
irritating or bulky or hard food, of the lungs for no exposure. At times
it is advisable to check the activity of an organ, in which case a drug
may be given, like opium, to quiet the intestines, or like aconite, to
diminish the rate of the blood flow.
In the same way external assistance may be rendered; as, for example,
sweating--to throw off poison in the tissue juices; and blanketing--to
maintain an even temperature and to protect from chill and draught.
ADMINISTRATION OF MEDICINES
Medicines are conveyed into the body as drenches, balls, enemas, and
injections under the skin or into the veins. There is nothing mysterious
about any of them.
=Giving Medicines in a Ball.=--The practice of giving medicines in a
ball is a very old one, and has much to recommend it. Many nauseous
agents as aloes, opium, arsenic, asafetida, are thus conveyed to the
stomach without causing annoyance and disgust to the patient. The balls
are wrapped in paper, dough, or gelatin capsules, and may weigh an ounce
or two. In giving a ball the following plan is usually followed: Hold
the ball between the thumb and first two fingers. Now seize the tongue
at about its middle and gently draw it out to the side of the mouth, in
such a way that the right hand may be inserted into the mouth and the
ball placed far back on the tongue, when the hand is withdrawn, the
tongue replaced and the halter or strap wrapped around the jaws until
the ball is swallowed.
=Giving Medicines in a Drench.=--The drench is usually employed for
liquid medicines. It is best to dilute the medicines with water, milk,
or oil that they may more readily reach the stomach and at the same
time exercise no injury to the structures through which they pass.
In giving a drench exercise as much patience as possible. To horses it
should be given slowly. If there is any disposition to cough, lower the
head, and then proceed as before.
=Poultices.=--These are made of a variety of things, bread, bran, and
linseed meal being the most common. Any substance that will hold water
and retain heat will serve the purpose.
=Mustard Plasters.=--These are made with mustard and water, cold water
being the most desirable. Mix to a thin paste. If the part to which the
plaster is to be applied is covered with thick, long hair, a very thin
plaster will more quickly soak into the skin. This kind of plaster is
most commonly applied to the throat, the windpipe, the sides of the
chest, the abdomen and over the region of the liver. To get the best
effect for the last named, apply on the right side at a point four or
five inches behind the back ribs.
=Blistering.=--The first step in blistering is the clipping of the hair
over the diseased part, and the removal of dirt and scurf attached to
the skin. The blister is to be worked into the skin, and usually ten
minutes of rubbing will be necessary to produce the desired results.
In the course of twenty-four hours blisters will form, and some swelling
in the region is likely to be manifest. On the third day bathe the part
with warm water and soap. After drying, apply vaseline, lard, or sweet
oil. The blister should be repeated if the results of the first blister
do not bring about a cure.
=Firing.=--The hot iron is a very useful agent in treating many cases of
chronic lameness and bone diseases. In performing such an operation
have the iron at a full red and white heat and touch the part gently
with just sufficient pressure to make a distinct impression. But one leg
should be fired at a time.
It is desirable to shave the hair closely to the skin before applying
the iron. The day following the firing spread over the wound any common
wound oil like neat’s-foot oil or vaseline. Daily applications are
called for until the swelling subsides. Unless a period of rest is given
after the operation, the best results will not be had. Many bone
diseases return, or are never cured, because complete recovery never
occurred in the first place. Work and exertion only aggravate the cases,
often leaving them in a worse condition than before the firing.
CARING FOR SICK ANIMALS
In the first place keep them clean. If necessary wash them daily,
especially the parts liable to get filthy and dirty. In fever cases a
gentle sponging, every few hours during the day, is desirable. Vinegar
added to tepid water is very good.
Animals in feverish or chilly condition can be assisted by blankets and
bandages. These are very helpful in warding off congestion of the
internal organs and in maintaining an even temperature of the body. Any
warm rug or blanket that is clean and light will serve.
In bandaging the legs, endeavor to get an equal pressure at all points.
A long roll is, therefore, best, and several layers should be wrapped
around the member. It is a good plan to remove the bandage, replacing
with another at least once a day, and two a day are better. When a
bandage is removed, the skin should be washed and rubbed with the hand
and fingers, and the covering replaced as promptly as possible.
=Food and Drink.=--During sickness only easily digestible food should be
provided. Offer something different from the ordinary, and let it be
prepared in an appetizing form. Nothing is better than gruels and
mashes. These are soft, nourishing, appetizing, and easily digested.
When active nutrition is demanded, milk and eggs can be added to the
ordinary gruels or mashes.
Water should be available at all times. Small amounts at frequent
intervals are better than large amounts at intervals far apart. In a few
instances only is it best to withhold the water. In treating dysentery,
diarrhœa and diabetes water is usually withheld, but in most diseases a
free use is allowable and desirable.
CHAPTER X
Diseases of Farm Animals
=ABORTION.=--The expulsion of the fetus at a period too young to live
exterior of its mother is known as abortion. This ailment may afflict
cows, mares, sows, and ewes, but is most common among cows.
Abortion may be divided into two classes, namely, accidental and
contagious. If we had nothing but the accidental form of abortion to
contend with we would hear very little about this disease, owing to the
fact that it is perfectly natural for animals to carry their young full
time, regardless of how much they may be punished or abused while in
this condition if their system be free from the germs of contagious
abortion. On the other hand, contagious abortion is a very destructive
disease, causing heavy losses to the stockmen of the United States as
well as to other countries. Contagious abortion is divided into two
classes, namely, acute and chronic. Cows afflicted with the acute form
of abortion may lose from one to three calves. Cows, after passing from
the acute to the chronic form of abortion, may carry their calves full
time, but are as badly affected with the germs of contagious abortion as
they were in the acute form, when they were losing their calves.
[Illustration: DISEASES OF THE HORSE
1 Poll Evil, 2 Swelling by Bridle Pressure, 3 Inflamed Parotid Gland,
4 Inflamed Jugular Vein, 5 Caries of the Lower Jaw, 6 Fistula of Parotid
Duct, 7 Bony Excrescence, 8 Fistula of Withers, 9 Saddle Gall, 10 Tumor
Caused by Collar, 11 Splint, 12 Malanders, 13 A Tread on the Coronet,
14 Sand Crack, 15 Quittor, 16 Knee Bunch, 17 Clap on Back Sinews,
18 Ring Bone, 19 Foundered Foot, 20 Ventral Hernia, 21 Rat Tail,
22 Spavin, 23 Curb, 24 Quarter Crack, 25 Thick Leg, 26 Malanders,
27 Capped Hock, 28 Swelled Sinews, 29 Grease, 30 Sand Crack, 31 Tumor of
Elbow.]
Perhaps the greatest damage brought about with cattle afflicted with the
chronic form of abortion is the shortage of milk. Animals afflicted with
accidental abortion show very few marked symptoms before they abort.
Animals afflicted with contagious abortion have a number of marked
symptoms, namely, little red patches of infection on the lining of the
vulva, and there may also be present a catarrhal discharge. The sheath
of the herd bull in the acute form of the disease has a catarrhal
discharge, while the symptoms of calves is a swelling of the glands of
the throat from ear to ear. These last named symptoms do not appear in
accidental abortion.
Owing to the fact that the germs of contagious abortion are found in the
mothers’ blood, in the genital organs of the cow and the bull, and in
the stables wherein they are housed, it has been positively decided that
the only reliable and effectual treatment for contagious abortion is the
hypodermic treatment, which destroys the germ in the mother’s blood. The
genital organs of the cow and bull should be washed out with the
antiseptic solution made of 1 pint of corrosive sublimate to 1,000 parts
of water, and the germs contained in the stables wherein afflicted
animals are housed should be destroyed by disinfectants. In this way the
disease is met at every turn, and it is impossible for the disease of
contagious abortion to exist when thus handled.
=ABSCESS.=--A collection of pus in a new-formed cavity in the body. It
has a well-defined wall surrounding it. An abscess is the result of
entrance of micro-organisms into the body. They may have entered through
wounds or into the hair follicles, or abscesses may result from
infectious diseases, as strangles or distemper in the horse. At the seat
of the abscess formation swelling occurs, the part feels warmer than the
surrounding tissue, is painful to touch, and hard. These conditions are
due to the inflammation of the part. Later it becomes soft, less
sensitive, and fluctuates, which shows that it is coming to a head, or
that the pus is collecting. If the skin is white it will show a yellow
color in the center, which is usually raised above the surface, and the
hair falls out. This soon breaks and discharges pus.
It is advisable to hasten the ripening of the abscess by hot
applications in form of poultices, or a large pack of cotton saturated
with hot bichloride of mercury 1 part to 1,000 parts of water, or use
some one of the coal tar dips 1 part to 50 parts of water. The
application of a light blister will often hasten ripening. When the pus
has collected or the abscess has come to a head, it should be opened at
the lowest part in order to give free drainage to the pus contained
within.
Great care should be used in opening abscesses--not to cut blood vessels
which might be in the vicinity. In case the abscess breaks of its own
accord, it is often necessary to enlarge the opening, in order to give
free drainage for the pus. If the abscess is large or deep-seated it
should be washed out each day with bichloride of mercury 1 part to water
1,000 parts, or with a 2 per cent solution of some one of the coal tar
dips. After it is opened do not apply bandages, as they prevent the free
escape of pus. Do not allow the opening to close until it heals from the
bottom; or, in other words, as long as it secretes pus, for there is
danger of its breaking out again. If the opening is too high up, or not
large enough, it may result in a running sore or fistula.
=ACTINOMYCOSIS.=--Called lumpy jaw, because of the frequency of the
swelling located on the jaw. It is due to the entrance of a specific
organism, a fungus, into the tissues. This causes an inflammation, with
an increase in the amount of tissue, as shown by the enlargement and in
which an abscess is formed. Adult cattle are the only animals commonly
affected with this disease, but occasionally nearly all classes of
domestic animals may be affected. A number of cases have also been
reported in man, but the disease in cattle, being localized to a small
region of body, usually the head, there is little danger of transmission
from animal to man in eating beef.
[Illustration: LUMPY JAW
An exterior view showing location of lumpy jaw.]
The symptoms are recognized by the characteristic tumor, usually
observed on the jaw, either of the bone or of the soft tissues in that
vicinity. It may, however, affect the tongue, or, in fact, nearly any of
the organs of the body. Its development is more or less of a slow,
constant growth, beginning with a very small nodule, but, when allowed
to run its course, may reach the size of a cocoanut, or larger. On
reaching some size, it usually ruptures and from it discharges a thick,
yellowish pus. It is to be distinguished very largely by its commonly
affecting cattle, its location, its slow growth and its firm, hard
consistency, and finally a discharge of pus from it.
Treatment consists, if of small size in the soft tissues, of complete
excision by the knife. But, if of larger size, or when the bone or large
blood vessels are involved, recourse should be had to the internal
administration of iodide of potash from one to two teaspoonfuls in a
drench of a quart of water, or, in some instances, it may be given in
the drinking water once daily. This should be continued for a week or
ten days, when the treatment should be discontinued for a like time,
and, if necessary, repeated several times.
=AFTERBIRTH, RETENTION OF.=--This is a condition resulting from the
failure of the mother to pass the membranes after the birth of her
young. It happens most frequently in cases of abortion, or when birth
occurs before time. There is usually more or less of a mass of the
membranes hanging from the opening, which occasionally reaches to below
the hock, or even to the ground. When fresh it looks somewhat like the
intestines, but if exposed to the air for some time it is grayish in
color, especially when it begins to decompose. The odor is very
offensive, and the discharge soils all the hind parts of the animal. In
these cases the health of the animal suffers, and fever frequently
results, with a loss of appetite and flow of milk. The fever and
inflammation of the parts may go so far as to cause the death of the
animal.
The afterbirth should never be allowed to remain over three days in the
cow, nor over twenty-four hours in the mare. In the mare, sow, or bitch
gently pulling on the membranes, at the same time twisting them easily,
will often bring them out without injury to the animal. With the cow it
is different. Here the membranes are “buttoned” on in tufts, and the
pulling, and especially the twisting, usually makes matters worse and
injures the uterus.
After removing the membranes there always remains in the uterus a
quantity of fluid, which should be washed out with water a little cooler
than the blood of the animal, adding about a teaspoonful of carbolic
acid or other good antiseptic to each gallon of water and mixing well.
The hands and arms of the operator should be absolutely clean, and
during the operation should be kept covered with carbolized oil or
carbolized soap and water. In mares, especially, care should be taken
not to injure the parts, as inflammation sets in very much quicker than
in the cow. Several gallons of the above solution should be injected as
soon as the condition is noticed, and a warm bran mash fed to the animal
occasionally will help her general health.
=ANEMIA.=--A deficiency of red blood corpuscles. The animal is scanty of
flesh, hide bound and in a general run-down and debilitated condition.
The disease is sometimes called hollow horn. Treatment consists of
better food and care. The feed should be of a nature such as will enrich
the blood and build up the system. Food of a succulent nature, like
roots, green grass, or ensilage, will help out. A tonic, made as
follows, will be helpful: Two teaspoonfuls of sulphate of iron, 1
teaspoonful of powdered nux vomica, and 4 tablespoonfuls of ground
gentian root. Add this to the food each day for a week or ten days.
=ANTHRAX, OR CHARBON.=--An acute, infectious disease of plant-eating
animals, which, under favorable conditions, attacks flesh-eating animals
as well. It is caused by a microbe which enters the circulating blood
and by multiplication therein causes its rapid destruction, and the
death of the animal. The disease is as old as human history. It exists
in all countries and in all latitudes. It was formerly very destructive
to human life, as well as to animals. There is no disease which attacks
more different kinds of animals than anthrax, nor one which is more
deadly. Also, there is no disease which is harder to deal with from the
sanitary point of view; nor harder to stamp out. The reasons for this
will be shown later on.
Soil is the prime factor in preserving and propagating the microbe, when
it is naturally wet, impermeable, and rich in decomposing animal and
vegetable matter. The microbe of anthrax may enter the body by several
channels. It may be taken in with the food or drink. It may be breathed
into the lungs. It may enter through abraded surfaces on the skin. It
may be inoculated into the body by biting insects.
There are several forms of the disease and these are determined by the
modes of entrance of the virus. One form, which occurs especially in
sheep and cattle, at the commencement of an outbreak, and which is
characterized by the suddenness of its onset and its high degree of
fatality, is known as the apoplectic, or fulminant form. Without showing
any previous symptoms, an animal will suddenly be seized with loss of
appetite, trembling, uneasiness, irregularity of movements, difficult
breathing, blueness of the nostrils, bellowing, convulsions and
hemorrhages from the natural openings. Death may occur in a few minutes
or in four or five hours.
Another type is known as anthrax fever, or internal anthrax. Here we
have distinct symptoms, the most important being high fever of from
three to four degrees, excitability and restlessness. Blood may ooze in
drops from the nose, eyes, or ears, and from inside of the forearm or
thigh, in sheep. There will be trembling, prostration, numbness of the
loins, thirst, grinding of the teeth, colicky pains, bloating, bloody
discharges, palpitation of the heart, difficult breathing, blueness of
the visible mucous membranes, jerking of the muscles of the back and
neck, and rolling of the eyes. The animal will die in comatose state, or
in convulsions, and death will occur in sheep in about a day. Cattle
will live from two to five days, and horses from one to six days.
A third form is external anthrax, which manifests itself in swelling of
the tongue, throat, rectum, and skin in cattle; and of the tongue,
throat, neck, shoulders, withers, flank, or thigh in horses. These
swellings have a firm, doughy feeling, are not painful generally, and
show a marked tendency to gangrene. They never suppurate. If cut (this
should never be done), they discharge a pale, straw-colored liquid. In
this may be found the microbe.
The rapidity with which putrefaction occurs in an anthrax carcass is
very marked. Another characteristic is, the blood loses its property of
clotting, is dark and tarry, and does not become light in color by
contact with air, like normal blood. In fulminant cases, however, these
characters are not so well marked. Other signs of the disease, if a
farmer should be so unfortunate as to open an anthrax carcass and
thereby spread the infection on his farm, will be great enlargement of
the spleen, or milt, and also of the liver. Bloody patches in the
tongue, throat, lungs, stomach, and intestines, caul, skin, and muscles,
or in fact in almost any part of the body, will be plainly visible.
=The Management of the Sick Animal= and disposal of the carcass are the
most important procedures in an outbreak of anthrax, from a sanitary
standpoint. Medicinal treatment is of little value. A vaccine has been
discovered that is very effective in preventing the disease. This has
been used very successfully in both this and European countries. If a
case of anthrax is suspected, call your veterinarian at once. The
disease will not pass through the air from a sick animal to a healthy
one, but the discharges which invariably occur during the progress of
the disease all contain the microbe, and everything soiled by them is
infectious material and capable of spreading the disease.
When an animal is infected, remove at once to the burial lot and tie it
near the place it is to be buried, to save handling and scattering the
infection. When it dies, dig the grave. Then saturate the animal with
kerosene or coal oil and set it afire. By means of ropes tied around the
fetlocks turn the animal, saturate the other side and fire that, and
also the soles of the feet. When every hair has been burned off,
dissolve a one-pound carton of chlorinated lime (freshly opened) in
sufficient water to make a fluid that will just pour from the cup. Fill
the nostrils with this, also the mouth and eyes, which should be pried
open with a stick dipped in solution. Saturate some cotton or rags with
the lime, and plug up the nostrils or mouth. Treat the rectum likewise.
Turn the animal into its grave, sprinkle the ground on which it has
stood and laid with a strong solution of chlorinated lime, and shovel
the top layers of this soil into the grave. Follow this with the grave
soil, banking it up, as in human graves. In cases where the animal is
found dead, the same method is to be pursued, except that the animal is
hauled to the grave on a sled (never dragged over the ground). In these
cases, also, the place where it died must be disinfected by the same
means, after hauling out all loose material and burning the same, as
near as possible to the place where the animal died. It would also be
necessary to disinfect the sled and all tools which came in contact with
the carcass.
=APOPLEXY.=--A ruptured blood vessel in the brain; usually causes
unconsciousness, at least for a time. The control of certain muscles is
lost and a general dullness prevails over the animal. In case the
apoplectic attack runs a favorable course, the muscles come more or less
under control again and the patient in time may recover. It is in rare
cases only, however, that animals recover to an extent to be worth much
after being affected with apoplexy. Fortunately the disease in animals
is rare.
=AZOTURIA, OR MONDAY MORNING DISEASE.=--This is a very peculiar
affection of the horse, in which the animal shows a special form of
lameness upon exercise, after having remained idle for a day or two. The
cause is not definitely known, and yet the circumstances under which the
disease develops are rather constant, such, for instance, as an animal
in vigorous condition, fed liberally upon nitrogenous feed, remaining
idle over Sunday, a holiday or at other times. Upon being taken out the
following morning the animal usually shows an excess of energy, but
before going far begins to go lame in one or both hind limbs until, if
urged further, becomes completely paralyzed behind, going down and
unable to rise. He also shows considerable pain, as though he might be
suffering from some form of colic, with a profuse sweating. On reaching
this point the animal usually ceases to void the urine, which, when
drawn, appears a very dark brown or coffee color. The pulse and
breathing are somewhat accelerated, and frequently there is considerable
nervous excitement. The muscles of the loin and thigh are tense and
rigid.
The treatment should begin as soon as the lameness shows itself. After a
few hours of rest, the distress will be over. The more exercise given
the animal after the lameness begins, the more severe the trouble, and
the more energetic means of treatment required. In a case showing signs
of nervous excitement, it should receive 2 tablespoonfuls of bromide of
potassium every three or four hours until becoming quiet. Sweating
should be induced by blanketing the animal well, preferably using
blankets wrung out of hot water and covered with a dry one. Allow all
the water the animal will drink and give it 4 tablespoonfuls sweet
spirits of niter three times a day if bladder is not paralyzed. If
unable to void the urine, the bladder must be emptied three times daily.
A laxative or purgative should be given early in the disease. If the
animal remains somewhat stiff, give a teaspoonful in the feed twice a
day of the following: Powdered nux vomica, 4 teaspoonfuls; powdered
sulphate of iron, 6 teaspoonfuls; powdered gentian root, 6
teaspoonfuls.
=BARRENNESS.=--Failure to breed is usually due to an acid secretion of
the genital organs, to the germs of contagious abortion, retention of
the afterbirth, or to an abnormal condition of the sexual organs of
either the male or female. The acid secretion of the genital organs
prevents conception by destroying the semen of the male; the germs of
contagious abortion set up a catarrhal inflammation and discharge, which
also prevents conception; retention of the afterbirth, whether it be
removed by force or permitted to slough away, usually leaves the womb in
a diseased and catarrhal condition, effecting a discharge; impotency may
be due to excessive use of the male, or to advancing age in both male
and female.
Any unnatural discharge irritates and scalds the mouth of the womb so
that when the discharge ceases the mouth of the womb heals, and it is
impossible to make a cow or mare breed without mechanical interference.
This kind of treatment is conducive to fertility by increasing the blood
supply to the part. Mechanical contrivances are now on the market for
the purpose of dilating the mouth of the womb. These increase the
probability of pregnancy. If the womb be opened just before service,
many troublesome cases can be corrected. This is done by inserting the
oiled hand and arm into the vagina, finding the opening into the womb,
and gradually dilating it by inserting one or more fingers until the
passage is open and free.
=BIG HEAD.=--Just why bones become soft and frequently are absorbed in
normal animals is not known, unless it is due to an absence of some
essential bone constituent in the food or water. The disease shows that
the bone is absorbed and its structure softened. As a consequence, the
bone enlarges, becomes spongy and light.
The disease usually starts as a swelling in the head, hence the name.
Often the lower jaws are enlarged, and, as the disease progresses, the
legs become affected. At the same time the animal loses weight. The
treatment consists of nourishing foods, rich in the mineral
constituents. Better consult a veterinarian when the disease is first
noticed.
=BIG JAW OF CATTLE.=--See Actinomycosis.
=BIG KNEE.=--Often cattle show large bunches over the knees. These may
be soft or hard. In cattle these big knees are caused by hard floors, in
lying down and getting up. Big knee in horses is a little different,
being more in the nature of spavin or ringbone, and in this case
occurring at the knee joints. In cattle the bunch may be localized in
the flesh and skin. With horses, it is an attack on the bony structure.
When first noticed a blister may be used.
=BIG LEG.=--See Lymphangitis.
=BITTER MILK.=--Frequently germs get into the udder, and, as a result,
bitter milk or blue milk or bad milk results. Sometimes the bad taste of
milk is due to the odor in the stable or to the food that the cows get
while pasturing. Turnips give a bad taste to the milk, as does garlic or
wild onions. If the bitter taste or the blue milk is due to disease
germs, then the remedy lies in the destruction of these germs. Just
after milking, and each quarter thoroughly emptied, inject a warm
solution of boric acid.
=BLACKHEAD.=--A germ disease affecting turkeys and chickens. It is
characterized by a dark purple appearance in the comb and wattles. Fowls
attacked by the disease show dullness and laziness; at the same time
indigestion disturbances and diarrhœa is observed. The best treatment is
to kill the fowls affected just as soon as they become affected. This
will prevent the disease from spreading. It is advisable to burn the
bodies of the dead so as to prevent the spreading of the germs. Thorough
disinfection is necessary.
=BLACKLEG.=--An infectious disease produced by the blackleg bacillus, a
parasite which lives and propagates in the soil of infected districts
and in the bodies of diseased animals. Certain kinds of soil are very
favorable to the existence of the parasite, and such, when once
infected, easily remain so permanently and thus constitute the source of
the disease. Years ago blackleg was regarded as a form of anthrax. This
has been proved erroneous, however, for blackleg and anthrax are two
distinct and independent diseases, each being caused by a specific germ.
One diseased animal does not transmit the disease directly to a healthy
one. When caused, it is the result of self-inoculation, that is, by the
germ entering a wound in the skin or mucous membrane of the body,
produced on the legs while the animals are roaming over the fields, or
at the mouth while grazing; these are the places by which the blackleg
germs get into the system.
An animal dying of blackleg is fairly alive with germs, which remain in
virulent condition for a long time. It behooves the farmer, therefore,
to completely destroy this kind of dead; not by burying, for then the
germs remain in the soil. The best way is to burn the animal right on
the spot where it died. If the animal is moved to another place, the
infection is spread, thereby, and not only the death place, but the
grass over which the animal has been moved, should be thoroughly
disinfected that no germs may survive. The disease is characterized in
the appearance of large swellings on various parts of the body, usually
on one of the upper portions of the legs, and never below the hock or
knee joints. Swellings vary in size, and are always formed by the
presence of gas that has collected in the tissue just beneath the skin.
This gas is a product of the germ. You will notice a peculiar crackling
sound when you pass your hand over these swellings. When punctured with
a knife these swellings emit a bloody fluid possessing a disagreeable
and sickening odor.
Associated with the disease are loss of appetite, high fever and
lameness. Death follows just a few days from the time of attack. So far
no medicinal treatment for cure has been discovered. Stock should not be
admitted to infected regions. The only safe practice in regions where
blackleg is prevalent is in the use of protective inoculation or
vaccination. Such vaccination renders the animals immune, and even if
attacked, there is almost no appearance of the disease at all.
=Using Blackleg Vaccine.=--The blackleg vaccine now so well known is
made from diseased flesh taken from a calf that has died from blackleg.
This flesh, after being dried and powdered, is then properly prepared
and injected into the animal. There are two kinds--a weak and a strong
vaccine and single and double vaccine. The single vaccine requires but
one inoculation. The latter is believed to be superior and gives better
protection. The vaccine is usually available from the state experiment
stations, or can be obtained through your veterinarian. About the only
skill required in doing the work is in having the instruments
thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. A hypodermic syringe is used and the
injection made on the underside of the tail, a few inches from the tip,
or just beneath the skin of the neck or shoulder. The point of the
syringe should not puncture the muscle at all; simply pick up the skin
and draw it away from the muscle and admit the fluid in the loose space
between the two.
When vaccinated, the treatment is supposed to last about a year. If
calves are vaccinated the operation should be repeated at about the age
of yearling. Two periods of vaccination are suggested: when turned to
pasture in the spring or when turned to dry food in the fall. Full
directions as to the use of vaccines always accompany the preparations
and further detail is unnecessary here.
Preventive medicines cannot be relied upon, although a common one is
used throughout the West, made as follows: 4 ounces of sulphur, 1 ounce
of saltpeter, 2 pounds of sulphate of iron, and 1 pound of air-slaked
lime. After being thoroughly pulverized and mixed, this is added to
one-third of a gallon of common salt and used in the place of salt.
=BLADDER, STONE IN.=--See Concretions or Calculi in Urinary Organs.
=BLIND STAGGERS.=--See Staggers.
=BLOATING IN CATTLE.=--This disease, sometimes called hoven, is
characterized by the distention of the paunch or rumen, and is due to
the accumulation of gas. It most frequently occurs when cattle or sheep
are pastured on clover or alfalfa, especially if it is moist just after
a rain, or when dew is on the ground, and when not accustomed to fresh
green food. I have known of many cases where cattle have bloated from
eating alfalfa hay during the winter season.
There is no mistaking the disease. The animal shows pain, goes off to
itself, and breathes with difficulty. Colic is often associated with
bloating. The most characteristic symptom, however, is the excessive
swelling due to the gas. The bloating is noticed even over the back of
the animal, the gas continues to form, and, unless relief is secured,
the animal will choke and die as the result. Or some suppression of the
vital processes will occur, even rupturing, with the same fatal ending.
[Illustration: WHERE TO TAP IN BLOATING
Insert the trocar and canula, or if these are not available a knife may
be used. Make the puncture downward and forward and plunge the
instrument into the rumen.]
Bloating may take one or two forms; a mild case in which recovery
gradually follows, and a very severe form, where the only salvation is
in tapping to release the gas. If it is an ordinary case of bloating,
not very severe, ordinary remedies will give relief. Turpentine in doses
of 8 or 10 tablespoonfuls is good. Some use 4 tablespoonfuls of
hyposulphide of soda dissolved in water, with excellent results. Some
veterinarians give doses consisting of 4 tablespoonfuls of aromatic
spirits of ammonia in water as a drench. Ginger is frequently given, as
much as 4 tablespoonfuls diluted in warm water as a drench. To keep the
animal moving about is excellent.
In severe cases it is advisable to tap with the trocar and canula.
Indeed, tapping is the last resort if you would save the animal. These
are inserted on the left side of the skin and pushed into the rumen or
paunch, the incision being made about half way between the point of the
hip and the last rib. In introducing the trocar push in and down.
After the insertion is made, the trocar is withdrawn and the canula is
left in to furnish an opening through which the gas can escape. In case
the canula gets clogged with partially digested feed, insert the trocar
so as to push away the material and withdraw it again. If the trocar and
canula are not available, then use a pocket knife. Of course, be careful
that the incision is not made too large.
Just a few simple precautions are suggested here as a prevention of this
trouble. There is always danger from bloating when cattle or sheep are
turned into green pastures, especially when not accustomed to such feed
and especially when wet. It is advisable, therefore, to keep stock from
the pasture until later in the day when the dew has disappeared. Stock
should have their regular morning feed just as usual before being turned
on the pasture. They will have less greedy appetites, will not like to
gorge themselves, and hence the trouble will not be brought on.
=BLOOD POISONING.=--When blood poisoning results from the entrance of
bacteria into the circulation, it is termed septic infection. This means
that the disease may be communicated to a healthy animal by inoculation.
Thus, an operator in making a post portem examination may bring on blood
poisoning because of an accidental prick of the skin. An animal may step
on a nail or get a splinter in a muscle or under the skin, and become
self-inoculated, in time becoming affected with septic infection.
Consequently bacteria are the direct inducing factors. The chemical
poisons produced as a result of the work of these bacteria, as those of
putrefaction, may induce what is known as septicæmia. On the other hand
where pus is produced, as in the abscesses which follow upon neglected
wounds in joints, a form of blood poisoning is produced known as pyæmia.
In either case blood poisoning may result, become very serious and may
cause the death of the victim.
At first chills may be noticed, then a rise of temperature, quick
respiration, rapid but weak pulse, and much prostration. All the time
the appetite is disappearing, until it becomes lost. The mucous
membranes of the eyes and nose take on a yellowish, red tint often
showing spots or blotches of blood and the tongue becomes coated and
clammy.
Quick treatment is necessary in every case of blood poisoning. As soon
as noticed, the source should be treated with disinfectants, thereby
arresting the supply of morbid matter. A strict employment of
antiseptics, so as to destroy the bacteria, is the first essential. We
look upon the prick from a rusty nail, or wound from a wire fence, or a
dirty stable splinter, as matters of frequent occurrence, yet a great
deal of danger lurks among these. They should be avoided as much as
possible and in all cases immediately treated. As soon as the poison is
admitted to the blood or tissue, the disease germs multiply and soon are
present in great numbers. Had the wound been cleansed with an antiseptic
like carbolic acid in the beginning, it would have been a simple matter
and the poison would have been neutralized, and the ingress of the
invaders made unattractive, if not altogether impossible.
In all cases of blood poisoning, look to a systematic and constant
application of suitable lotions to the injured parts, to careful
nursing, and to nourishing food. If the appetite has completely
departed, it is often advisable to force food like eggs and milk into
the stomach, so that the strength of the patient may never be dissipated
or weakened. With this treatment should go pure fresh air, cleanliness
and much sunshine. It usually is advisable to call a veterinarian as
early as possible.
[Illustration: BOG SPAVIN
The bulging outward of the soft tissues of the hock joint is due to the
secretion of joint oil or lubricating liquid in abnormal amounts.]
=BLOODY MILK.=--Sometimes, just after calving, bloody milk is observed.
The cause is generally due to a rupture of the small blood vessels in
the vicinity of the cells that secrete the milk. It may be due to a tiny
accident of some kind or it may be the result of disease, localized in
the udder. Bathing the udder with hot water will prove helpful and,
until the milk is normal, frequent milkings are desirable. If the
condition prevails for any length of time and the cow is not a very good
one, it is just as well to fatten her and send her to the butcher.
=BLOODY URINE.=--A condition of the urine peculiar to certain diseases
like Texas fever in cattle and azoturia in horses. In the latter disease
the urine is quite turbid and dark in color, sometimes almost black.
=BOG SPAVIN.=--A round, smooth tumor at the front and on the inside of
the hock. It is the result of sprains, bruises, or other injuries. When
these injuries occur, too much joint oil is secreted, causing a bulging
of the ligament. Lameness seldom accompanies a bog spavin. If lameness
be present other structures are certain to be affected, and some pain
and heat will be noticed, together with a stiffness of the joint.
Treatment consists of applications of cold water to the affected parts
and a lotion made of 2 tablespoonfuls of acetate of lead in a quart of
water. A blister made of 1 teaspoonful biniodide of mercury and 4
tablespoonfuls of lard rubbed in a little with the fingers and repeated
in ten days or two weeks and continued for some months will correct the
trouble. Wash the part having received the blister twenty-four hours
after application. It is also advisable to tie the horse’s head while
the blister is on, so that he cannot bite the part.
=BONE SPAVIN.=--See Spavin.
=BOT FLIES OR BREEZE FLIES.=--The larvæ or grub of all common bot flies
are thick, fleshy grubs and pass their life in some portion of the body.
When they are fully developed they leave the body by some route and bore
into the ground, where they go through another stage of their
development known as the pupa stage. When this stage is completed they
crawl out of the ground as a fly ready to deposit eggs.
=Horse Bot Fly.=--Everyone is familiar with the common nit fly and the
yellow nit that is attached to the hair on almost all parts of the
horse, but especially on the chest and legs. The young larvæ or even the
egg may be transferred from these regions of the body into the mouth by
the horse biting these parts. The grub passes into the stomach where it
attaches itself to the mucous lining and continues its development. The
bot is not so dangerous as it is popularly supposed to be. They may,
when attached in large numbers to the right side of the stomach,
interfere with digestion and be responsible for some of the digestive
disorders and colics. They are uniformly present in the stomach of all
horses that are kept in the open where flies can get at them. A
carefully groomed animal may be free from them. The eggs may be
destroyed by rubbing the body with a rag wet with kerosene. One of the
most common remedies for bots, and at the same time the most useless, is
a mixture of molasses and milk. Bots are hard to dislodge from the
stomach until they have completed their development there and pass out
of their own accord. Half-ounce doses of turpentine three hours apart
until three doses are given, followed by an ounce of powdered aloes as
a physic, is a good remedy and easily administered. Mix the turpentine
with half a pint of milk or gruel and give on an empty stomach. Carbon
bisulphide is a good remedy. Take two drachms or one-fourth of an ounce
of this and shake with a pint of cold water and drench. Repeat this
every two hours until an ounce of bisulphide is given, then give a
physic of aloes. These remedies should be given on an empty stomach.
[Illustration: HORSE BOTS IN STOMACH
The bot fly lays its eggs on the hair of the horse. These, taken into
the stomach, hatch out and give rise to horse bots or young maggots that
attach themselves to the walls of the stomach. After becoming grown they
loosen themselves and pass out with the feces.]
=Bot-Fly of Cattle or Warbles.=--It is now believed that eggs are
deposited near the feet and that the grub is taken into the mouth and
becomes partially developed in the digestive tract. It then burrows
through the tissue until it reaches the region of the back. The only
treatment that will amount to much is to destroy the grub as it is
developing under the skin. If farmers and stockmen will systematically
do this they can soon lessen the damage done. The heel fly annoys
cattle, and the grub, when it escapes from the back, leaves a hole in
the best part of the hide, causing loss in this way. After the grubs are
in the back no treatment helps the animal very much; but the grub can be
killed, thus preventing their developing into flies that would annoy
other cattle. The grubs may be squeezed out and destroyed. Mercurial
ointment may be rubbed through the hole and kill the grub, or
chloroform, or creoline, may be injected into the grub with a hypodermic
syringe. It does not require very much time to look after the number of
cattle usually found on a farm.
=The Bot-Fly of Sheep= is a very troublesome pest at times, and always
causes trouble and annoyance to the flock when present, and occasionally
causes considerable financial loss. The fly attacks sheep during the
warm months, July and August generally being the worst. The presence of
fly in the flock is easily told by the behavior of the sheep. The fly
looks much like a house fly, only it is longer and it always attempts to
lay its eggs just inside of the opening of the nose. As soon as the fly
begins to get near the nostril the sheep will begin to run, will hold
their noses close to the ground, and frequently huddle together as
closely as possible for protection. When the fly does succeed in
depositing the larvæ it begins immediately to work its way up the cavity
of the nose and finally gets into the small cavities in the head, where
development goes on. It is during this period of development in the head
that most of the damage is done. As the grubs grow larger a discharge
from the nostril is noticed, which may soon become very thick and
sticky, gumming up the nostrils and making breathing difficult. The
sheep will often carry their heads low, but will frequently raise their
heads and point their noses straight up.
The treatment may be either preventive or surgical. The first is within
the reach of everyone owning sheep. Where only a few sheep are owned
each individual should be caught and a mixture of tar and lard, or oil
of tar and lard, applied to the nostril with a brush. This can be done
in a short time and should be repeated every ten days or two weeks
during the warm months. Narrow salt troughs may be made and the edges
smeared with tar so that the sheep will get tar on their noses when they
take salt. Turpentine may be applied high up in the nostril by means of
a feather. Begin the preventive treatment early in the spring or
whenever you know by the action of the sheep that the fly is bothering
them, and you will have better success than to wait until the sheep are
affected and undertake to cure them.
=BOTS.=--See Bot Flies.
=BROKEN WIND.=--See Heaves.
=BRONCHITIS.=--A common disease of domestic animals attacking the
bronchial tubes. It may be chronic, but is usually acute, and may affect
one side or both. The most frequent causes of bronchial catarrh are
colds. A sudden cooling of a heated body by drenching, by the breathing
of cold damp air, may all bring on the disorder. Dust, smoke or gas,
when inhaled, often produces the same trouble. Acute bronchitis usually
sets in with a sudden rise of the temperature of the body, and the
animal seems to have a chill. This may be quite violent at times. The
cough is noticed very much as with people, being short, dry, and husky.
Later on, as the disease progresses, a frothy mucus follows the cough.
Associated with the disease is a loss of appetite, constipation, and
pains in the chest and rattling in the chest and throat. A favorite
position of the horse is standing and of other stock that of lying down.
Good care is essential in the treatment. That means, with good
treatment, dust, smoke, and bad air are to be severely avoided. Plenty
of good ventilation, but no draft; and warm, well-lighted quarters are
very desirable. The animal should be blanketed to be kept warm in the
early stages and a compress placed over the chest, with blankets over
the compress. Frequent changing of this compress is desirable, say a
change every hour or two. When the animal is suffering from a chill,
stimulants are excellent. A tablespoonful of whiskey in a pint of water
and given as a drench every half hour or hour will be helpful.
After the chill period is passed, small doses of tincture of aconite,
say 10 to 15 drops, in a little water as a drench will assist in
discharging the mucus. When the animal has become at ease, a mustard
plaster applied to the lungs will help you somewhat. From now on the
treatment should be good nursing and good food. Boiled flaxseed and
gruel will be very helpful. A very helpful preparation may be made of
the following: Nitrate of potash or saltpeter, tartar emetic, ground
gentian root, equal parts. A half pound or pound in all should be mixed
thoroughly, and then a teaspoonful given three times each day. When all
danger is passed, continue the careful handling and allow two or three
weeks’ complete rest.
=BUNCHES.=--Bunches are most generally enlargements of the bone. They
are most serious in the region of a joint. They are caused, as a rule,
by some injury, bruise, or wound. When first noticed they should be
treated with a blister to insure a hasty absorption of the enlarged
parts.
=BURNS.=--Occasionally animals are burned or scalded so badly as to
subject them to considerable pain. This may be relieved by the use of a
strong solution of common baking soda. Following the use of this, apply
an ointment made of one part of carbolic acid to 50 parts of vaseline.
If vaseline is not available, then use in its place linseed oil.
=CAKED BAG.=--See Mammitis.
=CAKED UDDER.=--A diseased condition of the udder, with the secretion of
milk altered, the udder hot, dry, and caked, and the glands inflamed.
The trouble may be due to external injury, to germs entering the teats
or to the milk being kept for too long a time in the udder. As soon as
noticed the udder should be bathed in hot water and massaged for several
minutes. After being dried with a cloth rub on a salve made of 2
tablespoonfuls of gum camphor dissolved in 12 tablespoonfuls of lard. At
the same time give 4 tablespoonfuls of saltpeter morning and night for
two or three days. See also Mammitis.
=CALF CHOLERA.=--When a new-born calf comes into the world weak, puny,
and listless, and dies in a few hours after scouring, bawling, and
blatting and has sunken eyes and bloated belly soon after death, the
disease by stockmen is called “calf cholera.” Many calves so affected
are really “living abortions.” They have just enough life at birth to
exist a few hours and show the symptoms described, and such calves are
usually the offspring of cows that, during pregnancy, have been
incompletely nourished upon timothy or swale hay, or coarse fodder,
without an adequate supply of other foods to balance the ration; or
similar calves may come from fat, flabby, corn-stuffed, beef-bred cows.
The trouble may be prevented by proper feeding of the pregnant cow, but
there is no cure. A majority of such cases, however, are due to germ
infection. Cows affected with contagious abortion may produce affected
calves; the afterbirth and navel cord are invaded by the germs in such
cases and the calf is improperly nourished in the womb. In other
instances, calf cholera is due to filth germs entering the calf’s system
by way of the raw navel cord stump at birth, or the mouth when the calf
nurses from a manure-contaminated udder.
Prevent infective cases by providing a clean, fresh-bedded, disinfected,
whitewashed, sunlighted, ventilated pen for the new-born calf, and
immediately wet its navel with a 1/500 solution of corrosive sublimate
and repeat the application twice daily until the cord dries up, drops
off and no raw spot remains. Also wash the hind parts of the cow and her
udder with a two per cent solution of coal tar disinfectant before the
calf is allowed to suck for the first time and repeat the washing twice
daily for at least a week. Isolate affected calves. Bury or burn the
dead.
=CALF SCOURS.=--See White Scours.
=CANCER.=--Malignant growths, the cause or causes of which are not
known; nor can it be said the disease is infectious. While a very
serious disease among human beings, it is, fortunately, however, more
rare among farm animals. The only treatment worth while is in surgical
removal of the growths. If this be done when the tumors are first
noticed and when they are small, their further appearance may not
result. It is a good plan, if the growths persist in presenting
themselves, to eliminate the affected animal from the herd. With cattle,
it is possible to prepare them for market long before any cancer growths
may reappear, and in this way the full market value may be secured with
no danger when consumed.
=CAPPED ELBOW.=--Frequently horses, in lying down, press the foot or the
shoe against the elbow. This, in time, causes inflammation and ends in a
tumor or shoe boil. The diseased condition is difficult to repair, as
there is little flesh or muscle at the joint of the elbow where the
trouble starts. Treatment consists of opening the boil and allowing the
fluid to escape. In case the swelling is hot and painful, an application
of lead acetate will prove comforting and helpful. In preparing the
lotion, use 2 tablespoonfuls of acetate of lead to a quart of water.
There is no objection to injecting a little of this into the opening. An
injection of a little tincture of iodine once a day into the opening is
desirable also. In treating cases of this kind, it is a good practice to
wrap about the horse’s foot a pad of straw or hay for cushioning the
foot. This prevents the wound from being further bruised, otherwise the
cure may be greatly delayed, if not indefinitely postponed.
[Illustration: A VICTIM OF TUBERCULOSIS
This cow, reacting to the tubercular test, was killed. The bottom
picture shows the extent to which tuberculosis had affected her lungs.
At least ten per cent of the cattle in the United States have this
dreaded and destructive disease.]
=CAPPED HOCK.=--An inflammation resulting in a separation of the cap
from the point of the bone of the hock. Cases of this kind are the
results of kicks or bruises. In the early stage, use 2 tablespoonfuls
of lead acetate in a quart of water and bathe the injured part. When
there is no longer any temperature, apply a blister composed of 1
teaspoonful of biniodide of mercury and 6 tablespoonfuls of lard. Apply
this every week or ten days for several months.
[Illustration: EXTERIOR POINTS OF THE HORSE
1 Lip, 2 Nostril, 3 Forehead, 4 Poll, 5 Cheek, 6 Ear, 7 Mane, 8 Neck,
9 Shoulder, 10 Point or Shoulder, 11 Breast, 12 Forearm, 13 Arm,
14 Knee, 15 Cannon, 16 Fetlock, 17 Pastern, 18 Foot, 19 Withers,
20 Back, 21 Side, 22 Underline, 23 Flank, 24 Croup, 25 Tail, 26 Haunch,
27 Thigh, 28 Stifle, 29 Hock, 30 Point of Hock, 31 Cannon, 32 Foot,
33 Coronet, 34 Fetlock, 35 Pastern]
[Illustration: CASTRATION]
=CAPPED KNEE.=--An enlarged condition of the knee most commonly found in
cattle. It is caused by cattle getting up and down on hard floors. It is
usually seen in stables where stanchions are used. A baggy tumor forms
at the front and just below the knee. In some instances this tumor
becomes very large and the cow walks about or moves with great
difficulty. Where hard floors are covered with bedding, no trouble of
this kind results. Applications of hot water are excellent. Liniment is
also very good. Where the tumor has long existed and is stubborn an
opening should be made at the bottom so that the fluid may be
discharged. A little tincture of iodine injected into the opening once a
day is good and at the same time an application of iodine rubbed over
the outside will assist in reducing the trouble. Use one part of iodine
to eight parts of lard and continue this treatment for a month or two.
=CASTRATION.=--The removal of the testicles from male animals.
Castration is practiced upon all the domestic animals. Only those male
animals possessing desirable characteristics are retained entire. The
operations are generally performed when the male animals become
troublesome. In horses the time is usually at one to three years old; in
cattle one to three months old; sheep at one to four months and pigs two
to four months old. Dogs, as a rule, become worthless if castrated.
Cats grow to an enormous size when castrated.
=Suggestions About the Operation.=--In the castration of all the
domestic animals some general suggestions will be beneficial. (1) Secure
the animal so he cannot injure himself or the attendants. (2) Do the
castration during the early spring. (3) Give the animal exercise after
castration. (4) Boil the instruments before operating, using warm water
and any good hand soap. (5) Disinfect the skin over the scrotum before
operating with corrosive sublimate 1/1000. (6) Wash the hands of the
operator with soap and water, then disinfect with corrosive sublimate.
(7) Great care should be exercised that no corrosive sublimate be left
that stock may drink, as it is a deadly poison.
When the instruments have been boiled (sharp castrating knife and
emasculator), cast (throw) the animal as carefully as possible. Secure
the hind legs so they will not hinder the operator. The operator having
his hands clean and the scrotum washed and both his hands disinfected,
and also the region to be operated upon, the animal is ready for the
operation. The lower testicle is grasped with the left hand and with the
right hand an incision is made over the testicle, down to the testicle.
The testicle is pulled upon until the cord is seen. Then the emasculator
is used to crush the cord. This emasculator should be placed on the cord
as high up as possible. Some like their horses castrated proud. This
consists in leaving part of the testicle. This last method is not safe,
as it allows the testicle to become infected and form what is commonly
known as water seeds. A tumor grows on the cord and may become the size
of a man’s head.
After the testicle is removed, then enlarge the first incision (cut)
that was made through the skin so as to give plenty drainage. This
incision should be about eight inches long for horses. By having a large
incision the upper part can heal first, and there will be good drainage
until the scrotum entirely heals. If possible turn the castrated horse
out to pasture after the operation, and it will exercise sufficiently to
keep the parts from swelling. Do not keep the animal in a dirty stable
after it is castrated, as there is so much danger from infection in the
dirty horse stable. If the horse is broken it can be put to light work a
week after the castration.
Bulls do not need to be thrown to be castrated. The incision is made
over each testicle, and the operation carried out in the same way as
with the horse. Bulls are not so susceptible to infection as the horse.
=CATARRH.=--Commonly known as a cold, catarrh is recognized as an
inflamed state of the upper portions of the air passages, with more or
less discharge from the mucous membranes. The eyes often sympathize with
this deranged condition, with a watery state as the result. The causes
of catarrh or colds in animals are very much the same as those causing
the same disturbance in human beings; as with people, so with animals,
the malady should be remedied as quickly as possible. Bad air is one of
the most frequently observed causes; consequently pure cold air with
proper blankets to keep the body warm is considered the best treatment
for simple catarrh when unaccompanied with other troubles.
One of the common symptoms is dullness and loss of appetite. The hair
stands out and looks rough, a slight cough may be noticed and sometimes
a rattling is heard in the head. For cattle a mild dose of physic,
consisting of one-half pound Epsom salts and 4 tablespoonfuls of sweet
spirits of niter mixed in a pint of lukewarm water and given as a
drench, is about all that is necessary. If the cold hangs on, mix
together one-half pound of nitrate of potash or saltpeter and one-half
pound of gentian root and give a teaspoonful of this three times a day
until the animal is better. Of course good food should go along with
this treatment. The horse should be fed soft food like bran mashes and
be kept quiet in a well-ventilated stable. If the cold hangs on with
him, mix one-half pound of saltpeter or nitrate of potash, one-half
pound of sulphur, and one-half pound of ground gentian root and give a
teaspoonful morning, noon and night.
=CATTLE SCAB.=--See Scab in Cattle.
=CEREBRO-SPINAL MENINGITIS.=--A disease fatal in violent attacks and not
well understood as to cause. It is believed to be non-contagious,
although frequently extensive outbreaks occur, suggesting that it may be
contagious. The symptoms are not well defined, due, perhaps, to the fact
that other diseases are included under the general name. Horses of all
ages of both sexes are affected, and temperament and physical condition
have nothing to do with susceptibility to the disease. Likewise mules
are affected and the mortality among them is equally as great as among
horses. The most acceptable belief as to cause centers around a
bacterial organism that works in the membranes of the brain. However,
some writers attribute the disease to ergot, smuts and molds supposed to
be taken with the food. Moldy corn and moldy hay are believed to be
associated with the disease. The symptoms are staggering gait, partial
or total inability to swallow, various muscular contractions and
delirium.
Treatment is seldom effected, especially in violent cases. Mild forms
frequently respond to cathartics, blisters on the neck, spine and
throat. These give some relief. Small doses of aconite are also believed
to be helpful. Some writers place choking, distemper, grass staggers,
and blind staggers along with this brain disorder.
=CHARBON.=--See Anthrax.
=CHEST FOUNDER.=--See Navicular Disease.
=CHICKEN CHOLERA.=--Chicken or fowl cholera is a germ disease, and
contagious. It attacks poultry of all kinds. Diarrhœa is a prominent
symptom of the disease. Bad food or improper food may aggravate the
trouble, but the germ introduced into the system either in food or
drink, is at the bottom of it. At first the droppings will take on a
whitish color. Diarrhœa will then result. The discharges will then
become thin and watery, to be at times frothy and greenish in
appearance. Fowls thus attacked soon lose their appetites and become
stupid and take on a sickly appearance. The head drops toward the body,
the eyelids fall, and the fowls stand around as if doped. Some recover,
but, unless checked, the flock will be materially injured.
Of course dead fowls must be burned at once and lime and other
disinfectants used to keep the disease from spreading. The well birds
must be kept apart from the infected quarters. Care must be exercised
that infection be not carried either by visitors or attendants from the
sick to the healthy quarters. A common remedy consists of 1 part of
sulphate of iron to 50 parts of water for drinking purposes. Another
common remedy is to mix a tablespoonful of sulphate of iron, 2
tablespoonfuls of dried blood, and 2 tablespoonfuls of tincture of opium
with a pint of water. This is given in the food in doses of 1 or 2
tablespoonfuls of this mixture three or four times a day to each sick
bird.
=CHOKING.=--Horses frequently choke from too rapid eating of oats, and
cattle are very commonly troubled on attempting to swallow apples,
turnips, or small pieces of ear corn. In either of these cases much
distress is occasioned and serious danger. In treating the horse, the
best treatment is to give it a little oil, after which rub the hand up
and down the gullet to scatter the accumulated oats. Sometimes it is
necessary to make an incision in the gullet through which the material
is removed. Better have a veterinarian do this. When food lodges in the
gullet of cattle, suffocation soon follows if it is serious and in the
upper part of the gullet. When such objects have lodged near the stomach
end there is less immediate danger. Of course the first treatment is to
try to force the object down by using the hand, if at all possible. If
this cannot be done a probang should be used. The probang should be very
limber, so as to bend easily, and it should be used with great caution.
Cattle often are killed by the accidental puncture of the gullet as the
probang is pressed down toward the mouth of the stomach. Consequently no
unyielding article like a broom handle or even a buggy whip should be
used. If a regular probang is not available, a rope a little less than
one inch in diameter can be inserted and gently worked down the gullet.
Before using the rope, grease it well and make a knob at the end to be
inserted. This knob can be made of cotton strings or muslin cloth.
=COFFIN JOINT LAMENESS.=--See Navicular Disease.
=COLDS.=--See Catarrh.
=COLIC.=--Colic is an inflammation of the bowels characterized by a
spasmodic contraction of the intestinal walls. It is a very common
disease in horses, and occasionally cattle and lambs are affected with
it. Both the small and large intestines may be afflicted or only one of
them. There are many causes, but feed and water are the controlling
factors. An animal just stopped from hard work and given a large
quantity of cold water, especially after eating, may be quickly
troubled. And the animal hot from work, on drinking very cold water,
often gets colic. Then, too, a change of food, or a change from dry feed
to green food or eating some root crop when the animal is not used to
it, may bring on the disease.
Then, again, some horses and cattle are more given to colic than others.
Some individuals are never troubled, and others are almost constantly
under its influence. If much inflammation sets in, a very serious case
is on your hands. Two kinds of colic are known--the spasmodic, a
contraction, commonly known as cramps of the bowels; and wind or
flatulent colic or bloating. Some authorities add a third, and call it
worm colic.
=Spasmodic Colic.=--This kind of colic is first noticed when the horse
begins to paw with his forefeet, cringes, bends his head around as if
looking at his side, lays on the ground and rolls as if in pain; then he
stands quietly for a while and repeats these performances again. During
the time between the spasms the animal is more at ease and frequently
eats a little. When the spasms come on again the shifting about and the
rolling are repeated. If the cramps are severe the animal breaks out
with sweat. The pulse is accelerated when the spasms are on, ranging
from 60 to 65 beats a minute. If inflammation has set in, the pulse
instead of rising and falling remains more constant and is high all the
time.
[Illustration: COLIC PAINS
A common attitude with colic. When seized with pains the horse paws,
scrapes the ground with his front feet, stamps and strikes the belly
with the hind ones, lays back his ears and looks around to his flank.]
When the spasms are on, pressing the bowels seems to relieve the pain
and please the animal, but if inflammation is present the pressure seems
to increase the pain. The best treatment is to relieve the pain with an
opiate, and next to obtain a free action of the bowels by a purge. Many
prescriptions have been suggested, among which is the following: 4
tablespoonfuls of sweet spirits of niter, 4 tablespoonfuls of laudanum,
1 tablespoonful of ginger and 1 tablespoonful of common soda. These are
added to a pint of warm water and given as a drench.
=Flatulent Colic.=--This form of colic, though not so acute, is much
more constant than the preceding form. The body is swollen in the region
of the bowels, the gas extending quite generally through the region.
There is also a tendency to inflammation. The pulse will be noticed as
more rapid, and at the same time more feeble, the breathing will be more
pronounced, and the animal less steady on its feet. In treating the
patient it is advisable to unload the rectum with greased hand and arm,
and the admission of warm water with soap in it, is also likely to be
beneficial. A little turpentine mixed with the soap and water is good.
The intestine is to be cleaned out as far as the arm will reach, but a
violent purge is unwise, as that only intensifies the inflammation.
Naturally the first thing is to mildly open the bowels. For this give 15
or 20 tablespoonfuls of linseed oil and 5 or 10 tablespoonfuls of spirit
of turpentine. If the case continues, it is advisable to call a
veterinarian, and it may be necessary to use the trocar and canula. If
the instrument is sterilized, no great risk attaches to the operation,
while immediate relief is secured as the gas passes out through the
tube, and the distention is visibly reduced. An excellent mixture for
this kind of colic consists of 6 tablespoonfuls of chloral hydrate, 6
tablespoonfuls of laudanum, 3 tablespoonfuls of sulphuric ether, 2
tablespoonfuls of turpentine, and 10 tablespoonfuls of ginger. Of this
give 2 or 3 tablespoonfuls in a half pint of warm water and repeat every
half hour for 3 or 4 doses and then place the doses an hour apart until
all danger has passed.
When there is a good deal of gas with considerable swelling an excellent
drench is made of 2 tablespoonfuls of powdered aloes, 4 tablespoonfuls
of spirits of ammonia and 4 tablespoonfuls of sulphuric ether. This
should be mixed with a pint of water and given promptly. In case of
considerable pain use this: 4 to 6 tablespoonfuls of hydrate of chloral
and eight tablespoonfuls of sugar mixed in a pint of water and give as a
drench.
=CONCRETIONS OR CALCULI OF URINARY ORGANS.=--The collection of solid
mineral matter in the urine may become lodged in the kidney, the ureter
(duct leading from the kidney), the bladder or urethra (the duct leading
from the bladder). All animals are more or less subject to these
conditions, and yet are not so affected as they are sometimes thought to
be. Many a case of so-called kidney colic is in reality an affection of
the digestive system. The cause for these mineral accumulations perhaps
varies under different conditions, yet the most common circumstance
under which they occur is during the time when animals are fed
exclusively or largely upon dry feed such as exists in the winter time
where silage is not fed. Wheat bran has been attributed as one of the
most sourceful means of bringing on this trouble. When it is fed with
succulent feeds and an abundance of water allowed these disorders do not
occur.
The symptoms do not differ a great deal from some forms of colic, due to
stomach or intestinal disturbances, especially in the frequent attempts
to empty the bladder. The animal usually shows more or less pain from
the restless condition, looks around at the flank, dribbles his urine
frequently, which is occasionally blood stained. There may be a complete
obstruction of the passages, in which case no urine is voided.
[Illustration: RETENTION OF THE URINE
By means of a catheter the greater portion of the urine can be drawn
off. The operation is shown in the picture.]
=Treatment varies= with the location of the trouble, in which little
can be accomplished when the gravel or stone is located in front of the
bladder. If within the bladder, not obstructing its outlet, it is not
likely to make its presence known. Agents should be given, however, to
overcome the pain and to relieve the frequently existing spasm at point
of obstruction, as far as possible, which may allow passage of stone.
Give 4 tablespoonfuls of laudanum or chloral to a dose and repeat in two
or three hours if any pain or trouble is still indicated. In inducing
the animal to drink liberal quantities of water the condition may be
somewhat relieved by making the urine more watery in character and
possibly dissolving a portion, allowing the remainder to pass along its
course. When the obstruction occurs within the urethra the removal
should be made by incising through the tissues on to or near the
obstruction, removing by forceps and suturing up the wound. A skilled
operator is required for this, hence the veterinarian should be called.
=CONSTIPATION.=--An infrequent movement of the bowels with the dung hard
and dry. The animal is said to be bound up or costive. Bad food,
improper feeding, lack of exercise, all contribute to the trouble.
Treatment is in the line of laxative and succulent food, such as wheat
bran, green grass, silage and linseed oil meal. If the case is one
requiring immediate action give any of the usual purgatives, but do not
continue their use as a regular thing. If green grass is not possible,
nor silage available, give one or two teaspoonfuls of the following
mixture in the food three times a day: Equal parts of ground gentian
root, powdered nux vomica, powdered ginger and sulphur.
=CORNS.=--Small swellings or tumors on the sensitive heel in the
triangular space between the bars and the wall of the heel. These are
found in the fore feet only, and almost always on the inside heel. They
are caused most frequently by bad shoeing or from wearing the shoe for
too long a time. These growths do not always cause lameness, although,
as a rule, they do. They are, however, always sensitive to pressure and
usually appear as tumors of a hard, corny character. Neglected corns are
liable to fester and must then be laid bare by the knife and be
poulticed. Neglect of this treatment results in the matter or pus
finding its way up through the coronet. Thus quittor may result.
Give the foot a careful dressing by paring the heel, and bathe the corn
with a weak carbolic acid solution. After doing this, place a fold of
muslin over the corn and then over all a bran and linseed poultice. A
complete rest from work, hard roads and shoes should now be given the
animal until the corn has entirely disappeared. When the feet are again
shod, leather should be used as a protection. Many corn salves are
recommended, but unless the corn be removed and the pressure taken from
the wound, there can be no cure, even though the tumor is pared away.
=CORNSTALK DISEASE.=--When cattle are allowed to run in stalk fields it
frequently happens that a large per cent die from various causes. All
these troubles are classed under the one term--cornstalk disease. In
some western fields where there is a second growth of cane stalk late in
the fall an early frost will at times develop in the stalk a deadly
poison (hydrocyanic acid), which kills the animal in a very few minutes
after eating it. This poison has not been found in the cornstalk.
In the last year or two some of our state experiment stations have been
investigating several molds which seem to affect not only cattle but
horses as well. These molds grow quite abundantly upon cornstalks,
alfalfa, and other forage crops. The death of a great number of animals
has been traced directly to the feeding of such affected fodder, hay, or
corn. These molds, however, must have a certain amount of moisture for
their growth, and it has been shown that when the feeds have been
properly harvested and sheltered no trouble has resulted. Only in
materials exposed to the weather, allowing the development of these
lower forms of plant life, has serious trouble been found.
In the treatment of these troubles nothing reliable can be given, as the
disease usually comes on without any warning and the animal dies
suddenly. Much of the trouble can be avoided by allowing the animals
only a limited amount of the feed or in the stalk field a few hours only
each day. It is necessary that plenty of pure water should be given
frequently and enough of other roughage to keep the animals from gorging
themselves on the fodder.
=COW POX.=--An infectious disease passed from one cow to another. It
affects herds in all parts of the world and is similar to smallpox in
the human being, only it is not so fatal. When first affected the cow is
feverish, slacks somewhat in the milk flow, and presents little red
pimple-like spots around the teats. In a day or two these become
enlarged and become blisters, containing within a watery fluid, which,
if not broken, dry up themselves and form scabs, leaving the teat in
time perfectly natural. Ordinarily, special treatment is not given.
There is no objection, however, to providing a simple tonic composed of
one-quarter pound saltpeter, one-quarter pound sulphur, and one-quarter
pound ground gentian root. Give a teaspoonful of this night and morning
in a mash. The teats should be bathed, just before milking, with any
common disinfecting solution. If the sores are slow in healing, sweet
oil, to which is added a little carbolic acid, will soon correct the
trouble.
=CRACKED HOOFS.=--See Sand Cracks.
=CRIBBING.=--A habit of biting the manger or other objects, often
sucking in the air at the same time. This bad habit is frequently called
wind sucking. It is the result of a habit formed when young. There is
really no cure when the habit is once formed, but different measures may
be employed to lessen the fault. A broad strap firmly placed around the
neck brings the desired effect with some individuals.
=CRIB SUCKERS.=--This bad habit usually begins in colt days. It may
arise from a sore tooth. The colt, to relieve the feeling, bites the
manger, and in so doing acquires the habit. When hanging on to the
manger, air is sucked in and this frequently brings on colic. The best
treatment is to break up the habit. Examine the mouth first to see if
anything is wrong with the teeth. Muzzle while standing in the stable.
The old cribbers never give up the habit.
=CRAMP COLIC.=--See Colic.
[Illustration: CURB
While common to all varieties of the horse, curbs are most frequently
seen in the lighter breeds and especially in roadsters and trotting
horses.]
=CURB.=--A sprain or injury to the ligament situated on the back part of
the hock joint. Anything that puts too much stress on this part, such as
holding back heavy loads going down hill, or backing up too heavy loads,
or the hind legs slipping too far under the horse’s body, may cause curb
disease. It is also caused by kicks or by the whiffletree striking
against the back of the hock joint.
There will be swelling and heat in the part and lameness. In some cases
there will be swelling, but no lameness. If the swelling is hot and
tender to the touch, mix half an ounce acetate of lead and two ounces
tincture of arnica with one quart of water. Shake up and apply a little
to the swollen part three times a day and continue until the heat and
swelling disappear. If there should be any swelling after the heat and
lameness have disappeared, mix 1 teaspoonful of biniodide of mercury
with 4 tablespoonfuls of lard. Rub on a little with the fingers, let it
remain on for 24 hours, then wash off with warm water and soap and
repeat the blister in three weeks if needed. In cases where there is
swelling, but no heat or lameness, the lotion would be of no use, but
the above blister should be used as directed. In old or long standing
cases of curb, if the animal is not lame, it is best to let it alone, as
medicines would be of no service.
=DIABETES; PROFUSE STALING.=--In man there are two forms of this trouble
seen rather frequently, but among domestic animals only the insipid form
is common. It is often simply a sign of some other disease, but not
infrequently occurs under similar circumstances; such as certain forms
of indigestion, the result of eating musty or damaged feed. The most
characteristic symptom, of course, is the frequent urination of liberal
quantities of urine. Associated with this is usually an unabating
thirst. The animal loses flesh rapidly, the flanks are tucked up, the
coat is dull, languid and staring, and great weakness is shown. If not
relieved, the animal may die from exhaustion. In the second form of
diabetes, the distinguishing feature is the presence of sugar in the
urine.
If in a working animal it should be laid off from work. Search should be
made for the cause of trouble. If any of the food appears suspicious it
should be substituted with wholesome food. To relieve the ardent thirst
and assist recovery, a teaspoonful of the crystals of iodine should be
given in a ball of linseed or other pasty material. It may be desirable
to repeat this in three or four days. Also give in the drinking water 4
tablespoonfuls of bicarbonate of soda three times daily.
=DIARRHOEA.=--See Dysentery.
=DIFFICULT PARTURITION.=--See Obstetrics.
=DIPPING LIVE STOCK.=--There are only two satisfactory methods of
treating animals with a dip. The first is hand treating, where the
number of animals are few and easy to handle. In hand treating the
animal the dip is applied with scrubbing brushes, sponges, etc., and all
parts of the body liable to infection should then be thoroughly and
vigorously rubbed. If hand treating is properly performed it is an
excellent method. The second method consists of immersing the diseased
animals in the dipping solution. There are two forms of vats in use for
this purpose. The cage vat is designed for comparatively few cattle. As
its name implies, it consists of a cage in which the animal is placed
and then lowered into a vat containing the dip. Where a large number of
animals are to be dipped, the swimming vat is very popular. The animals
are forced to pass through the vat, which contains sufficient dip to
completely immerse them when they plunge into the solution.
The coal-tar dips are made from some of the products of the distillation
of coal tar. When mixed with water they form a milky emulsion, having a
strong odor of coal tar. The coal-tar preparations, in addition to
being used as parasiticides, have become very popular disinfectants in
hospitals. These preparations are used with good success on all open
wounds, where a disinfectant is required. In poll evil and fistulous
withers they are extremely valuable, owing to the fact that in addition
to their power as a germicide they have been perfectly safe to place in
the hands of persons not accustomed to handling drugs, because of their
non-poisonous nature. They have been found quite efficient when used in
three per cent solution.
=DISHORNING.=--Some cattle breeds are hornless. Most, however, are not.
Removing the horns is done quickly and is more humane than to permit
them to remain, by which death frequently follows to stock and even to
people. The dishorning machine is intended for animals whose horns are
not removed when young. The simplest method of dishorning is to use a
stick of caustic potash. Apply it to the small horn button when a calf
is a few days old. Moistening this and rubbing the potash over the skin
will permanently destroy the horn tissue and no horns will result.
=DISTEMPER.=--See Strangles.
=DROPSY.=--A condition in which the fluid portion of the blood escapes
from the blood vessels and collects in the body cavities or under the
skin. Any sluggish condition of the blood occasioned by disease or
faulty nutrition may induce this collection in various parts of the
body. Dropsy is, therefore, not a disease, but a symptom of some other
disease. This being the case, treatment depends upon the original
disease, upon the nature of which depends in turn the possibility of
permanent or temporary cure.
A mild attack of dropsy is indicated when the legs of a horse swell up,
due to lack of exercise and poor circulation as occasioned by standing
in the stable. The first thing, of course, is to start better blood
circulation. Hand rubbing is good; bathing with hot water acts
similarly. Any medicine that stimulates the action of the kidneys will
prove helpful. Saltpeter is excellent for this. Use once a day for three
or four days in succession, and give 4 tablespoonfuls at a dose. In
connection with this treatment supply the animal with succulent or
laxative food, that the bowels may be kept free and open. Any of the
tonic condition powders will help.
=DYSTOKIA.=--See Obstetrics.
=ECZEMA.=--An inflammatory, non-contagious disease of the skin in which
eruptions may occur in the form of vesicles, pustules, crusts, scales,
or simple redness. Its principal victims are animals fed rich food, the
penalty being associated with some gastric or intestinal disturbance.
Treatment is both external and internal. The former should be in the
nature of washes for cleanliness and healing. Tar soap is recommended. A
wash made of 4 tablespoonfuls of carbonate of potassium dissolved in a
quart of water is also excellent. After a good rub with this, wash off
with warm water.
If itching causes any distress, prepare a wash consisting of 2
tablespoonfuls of acetate of lead, 8 tablespoonfuls of tincture of opium
and a quart of water. Where scales have formed and the skin is thick and
scurvy, rub in a little with the fingers some biniodide of mercury and
vaseline. Use 2 teaspoonfuls of the mercury and 8 tablespoonfuls of the
vaseline. One application will do the work. If the case is bad, several
parts being affected, treat only one part at a time with the mercury
salve. Be certain to have the animal tied so that he cannot get his
mouth to the treated region.
For internal treatment let the physic come first. For horses, mix 4
tablespoonfuls of aloes, 4 tablespoonfuls of ginger and 4 tablespoonfuls
of soda carbonate dissolved in a pint of boiling water. Let cool to
proper temperature and give as a drench. For cattle, give a pound of
Epsom salts and 4 tablespoonfuls of ginger in water as a drench.
Following the physic should come a good blood tonic. To prepare this,
mix 16 tablespoonfuls each of nitrate of potassium and sulphate of iron.
Give in doses of 1½ tablespoonfuls daily in a bran mash until all is
used.
=DYSENTERY.=--An inflammation of the lining membrane of the large
intestine near the rectum, accompanied with straining, discharge of
blood, and fever. Poisonous and irritating food causes it, stagnant and
foul water favors its development, but any exposure to cold or excessive
heat or overwork may bring it on. In cattle the acute form is attended
with shivering, arching of the back and tenderness about the loins. The
animal grunts, yawns, grinds its teeth, and, at short intervals,
discharges from its bowels a thin, ill-smelling dung mixed with blood
and pus. The thirst is excessive, the animal is dull and stupid, and
loses flesh rapidly. After the disease has gone on a few days, the hide
becomes rough and unhealthy, the teeth loose, the dung bloody and fetid,
the eyes sink in the head and dropsical swellings appear about the lower
jaws and legs, and usually the creature dies exhausted. For acute
dysentery, when seen early, give horses a drench consisting of 15
tablespoonfuls of castor oil, 8 tablespoonfuls of laudanum, and 1 pint
of linseed oil. The rectum and lower bowel should be washed out with
large injections of simple warm water. For chronic forms 10 grains of
calomel, a teaspoonful of opium, and 4 tablespoons each of gentian and
chalk are advised. These are to be mixed and given either as a ball or
as a drench once a day. Six tablespoonfuls of laudanum in a pint of
boiled starch every two hours until the straining ceases, is also very
good. When cattle are affected, remove from grass or other succulent
food, put on a dry diet and give a pint of linseed oil every day until
recovery. If the action of the bowels does not cease promptly, give 2
tablespoonfuls of powdered alum and 2 tablespoonfuls of powdered ginger
in a quart of milk once or twice a day until the discharge moderates. An
excellent medicine is 10 tablespoonfuls of castor oil and 4
tablespoonfuls of laudanum mixed with linseed gruel and given as a
drench.
=ENTERITIS.=--See Inflammation of the Bowels.
=EPILEPSY.=--See Fits.
=EPIZOOTIC.=--See Influenza.
=ERGOTISM.=--A parasitic fungus that grows on different species of grass
and produces in one stage of its development black or purple enlarged
spurs causes ergotism. The disastrous effect of ergot seems to appear in
the late fall and winter, when hay or straw infected with ergot are
continuously fed. The animals will be troubled with irritation of the
bowels and a sloughing off of the extremities. Frequently the animals
lose parts of their tails or ears or hoofs. In others, gangrenous sores
appear. In the early stages of the poisoning the symptoms are not
clearly marked. The best treatment is secured by an entire change of
food, so as to remove the cause, and then to follow with good laxative
food. Of course, medicinal treatment will not be satisfactory if an
important part of the animal like the hoof were to be destroyed. So much
expense would be connected with keeping the animal until a new hoof had
been formed that it is better at the beginning to destroy the animal
unless very valuable. Where sores only manifest themselves such
treatment as given an ordinary wound will be efficacious, provided food
absolutely free of ergot is supplied.
=ERYSIPELAS.=--An inflammation of the skin and tissues beneath. Owing to
a blood poison, it is characterized by a swelling and hardness of the
affected parts which has a tendency to spread and form abscesses. In
horses and cattle, erysipelas is nearly always the result of wounds and
generally of those in the legs of animals weakened by hard work and poor
food, or else in young animals whose blood is vitiated by the poison of
glanders or some other animal contamination. The disturbance is noticed
on the third or fourth day after the injury in the immediate
neighborhood of the wound. The skin is swollen, smooth, hot, tender, and
painful. The swelling gradually extends around it, sometimes deep into
the muscles. The surface is hard and tense, but often when the finger is
firmly pressed upon it and withdrawn a depression is left. In severe
cases chills occur, the pulse is weak and quick, the breathing hurried,
the bowels constipated and the urine scanty and highly colored. There is
considerable thirst, but no appetite. A brisk purge is the first step in
treating. Follow the purge with tincture of chloride of iron, 4
teaspoonfuls in a pint of water. Give this every three or four hours. At
the same time give internally 4 tablespoonfuls of hyposulphite of soda
in a pint of water three times a day. Externally bathe the wound with
the following mixture: Tincture of chloride of iron, 4 tablespoonfuls,
and alcohol one pint. Another good ointment is sugar of lead 4
tablespoonfuls in a pint of water. This should be applied with a wet
cloth to the diseased parts.
=FARCY.=--See Glanders.
=FEVER.=--Any rise in temperature above the normal. It is, as a rule, a
symptom of the body’s reaction to some form of infection. It is,
therefore, not a disease in itself, but an indication of some disorder
occasioned by infection or poison. To treat fever is not so necessary as
to remove the cause that brought about the disturbance in the first
place. It follows from this that fever is not a cause, but a result.
Germs come first, and fever is only a sign that tells of their presence.
Another thing brought to light in reference to fever is this: Germs are
less active, their vital energy is weakened and their power lessened
when the heat in the body is increased. Consequently they are less
active in their destructive tendencies as the temperature rises. Fever
is, therefore, a provision of self-defense, and the body’s plan of
bringing its forces together to battle against the germ foes that have
invaded it.
Just what degree of temperature is to be considered is difficult to
establish. Many things enter into the problem, like exercise, age, food,
and mode of living. In general, however, any special rise above the
normal, whatever that may be, is the signal of danger and infection. A
rise of a degree or two indicates a mild disturbance, hence a mild
fever; an elevation of two or three degrees indicates a slight fever; of
four or five, of considerable fever; and if six or seven, of high fever.
When the elevation reaches 108 degrees, the limit of life has just
about been reached. In some diseases there is a regular alternative
between morning and evening temperatures. In others, the course is
continuous, with slight variations, while in others the course is
intermittent. In this last named it varies at different portions of the
day, but reaches a normal at a certain time each day.
The pulse-rate usually bears a certain relation to the height of the
disease. Consequently the pulse should be taken in connection with the
fever height indicated by the thermometer. A fast pulse and a high fever
in general is more serious than a high fever with a pulse only slightly
above the normal number of beats. There are exceptions to this however,
as, for instance, in cerebro-spinal meningitis. In the early stages of
fever, the development cannot at the moment always be decided. In many
cases little treatment, if any, will be necessary. The caution should be
observed, nevertheless, of ascertaining the cause of the disturbance, if
possible. In any case, simple cathartics can be given, good air
provided, nourishing feed supplied, and time allowed for careful
observation of the system and of the actions and movements of the
animal.
=FISTULAE.=--A chronic discharge from some tubelike channel, with no
tendency to heal. Fistulæ are most common in horses. They may be located
on the withers (fistulous withers), on the side of the face (tooth
fistulæ), on the breast bone (sternal fistulæ), or on the lower jaw
(salivary fistulæ). Fistulous withers are caused from some external
injury (the animal rolling on a rock, ill-fitting collars, the saddle
pressing on the withers, or from being struck by a club). Tooth fistulæ
are caused by a decayed tooth. The pus in trying to get out of the body
takes the easiest course and eats through the bones of the face and
escapes, causing a chronic discharge. A sternal or breast fistula is
caused by some sharp object being run into the breast and striking the
breast bone, injuring it and causing decay and pus formation. A salivary
fistula is caused by an injury to the tube which carries the saliva from
the gland to the mouth.
=Symptoms of Fistulous Withers.=--At first a large swelling appears on
one or both sides of the withers. In about a week this enlargement
becomes soft, and the fluid contained in it can be distinctly felt. If
left to itself the swelling gets larger and softer, and in a month or so
breaks and discharges the contents. The fluid that comes from the
swelling is first thin and streaked with blood; later it contains
yellow-appearing masses. The last material is the pus. The sack that
formed at the time the fistula was caused is a hard, firm membrane. This
keeps the wound from healing. For this reason the discharge becomes
chronic. The wound may heal and there will be no pus discharged for a
month, then the old opening will be broken and the pus will flow out
again until the sack is emptied. This healing of the wound and then
breaking again may be kept up for years, unless the disease is properly
treated. As a general rule, the affected animal runs down in flesh.
[Illustration: FISTULOUS WITHERS
Sometimes only the skin and tissue immediately under it become affected.
In such cases little trouble need be anticipated; but if the cause is
not removed, the deeper structures, muscles and bones, may become
diseased.]
Treatment for fistulous withers consists of opening the swelling and
inserting muslin strips that have been dipped into terchloride of
antimony. Insert one and remove, inserting another and leave in the
opening for three or four hours. Repeat this operation every four or
five days for a month. In addition rub on the outside of the swelling
once every two weeks a mixture made of 2 teaspoonfuls of cantharides
and 4 tablespoonfuls of lard. The tooth fistula usually calls for the
removal of the tooth and thorough disinfection of the opening from the
face through to the mouth. With a sternal fistula the diseased bone may
need to be scraped and then antiseptic washes used daily. The salivary
fistula is more difficult to treat. Better have the veterinarian to
examine, and an operation may be necessary.
=FITS.=--Some horses are subject to fits, and with them it is incurable.
These should not be driven, because, when the attack comes on, injury
may result to the animal itself and to the occupants in the carriage.
The cause of the difficulty may be overfeeding, bad circulation or
indigestion. When an attack occurs the best treatment is to throw cold
water over the head. If this attack is repeated you had better consult a
veterinarian.
=FLATULENT COLIC.=--See Colic.
=FLEAS.=--Fleas are always a nuisance and always disagreeable. They live
in dry, filthy quarters and associate with dogs, hogs, and chickens. To
keep fleas away or to destroy them when at hand, clean the quarters
occupied by the animals, destroy the bedding and add lime and
disinfectants. Dogs may be washed in a creolin solution of, say, 2
tablespoonfuls of creolin to each pint of water. To disinfect chicken,
hog, and horse pens use in a hand spray any of the so-called sheep dips
or other preparations manufactured for lice, itch, mange, or insect
troubles.
=FLIES.=--These pests are a nuisance on every farm. While they do not
directly cause death they greatly worry and irritate farm stock,
especially in summer, and in this way greatly affect the results whether
along dairy or beef lines. It would be impossible to estimate the misery
these pests inflict on the stock of the country during a single year.
Aside from the pain that flies inflict on domestic animals, they are
carriers of disease, both to the human family and the beast family. A
great many common infectious diseases are spread by flies, including
such serious diseases as typhoid fever and tuberculosis. The only
treatment is in way of prevention. As the breeding places are in filth
and manure, it follows that if these be destroyed or removed, and not
permitted to accumulate, the floods of flies will disappear. The fly
remedies now on the market are excellent. When sprayed about the stable
premises and on the animals the flies stay away until the application
evaporates. Darkened stables are not attractive to flies, and by this
means the nuisance and annoyance is minimized.
=FLUKES, LIVER.=--See Liver Flukes.
=FOOT AND MOUTH DISEASE.=--This malady generally affects ruminants, but,
although found most often in cattle, sheep, and goats, it may be
transmitted to swine, and, in some instances, to horses, dogs, cats,
birds, or human beings. In most cases where proper disinfection is made
the animal recovers in about 15 days. The most dangerous thing about
foot and mouth disease is the fact that it spreads so rapidly. The virus
which transmits the disease may be carried by railroad cars, bedding,
feeds, dairy products, dogs, cats, birds, or persons. A dog running
through a pasture may be the means of infecting a whole herd.
The cause of the disease has not been satisfactorily determined, but it
is definitely known that the virus which reproduces the disease comes
from the ulcers and natural secretions and excretions of the body, such
as milk, saliva, perspiration, feces, urine, and exhalation. The
contagion is not harmful when dried. Infected animals lose the power of
transmitting the disease when the ulcers of the mouth, feet, and udder
have healed.
In from three to five days after infection the animal has a moderate
fever. The appetite is lost and the mouth is kept closed. There is a
dribbling of saliva, and in two or three days yellowish-white spots the
size of a hemp seed appear on the gums, the lower surface of the tongue,
lining of the mouth and on the lips. These eventually attain the size of
a silver dollar. They run together, burst and form painful,
foul-smelling ulcers. At this stage the saliva is more profuse and ropy
and the animal makes characteristic smacking noises with the mouth.
Infected animals lose flesh rapidly, in some cases as much as 100 pounds
in eight or ten days. The milk is thick, yellowish-white, has a bad
taste, and is with difficulty made into cheese or butter. The reduction
in milk yield during the sickness and for some time after recovery is 50
to 75 per cent.
Usually, a short time after an appearance of the disease in the mouth
parts, there is a redness, heat and swelling of the skin at its junction
with the hoof and especially between the toes and upon the soles of the
foot. Similar ulcers to those on the mouth appear on the feet and soon
burst. The animal becomes lame and moves stiffly and lies down a great
deal. These ulcers ordinarily heal up in one or two weeks.
In some cases the animal dies suddenly, in others lingers a few hours
with difficult breathing and discharge of blood from the nose, and
finally dies of paralysis of the heart and lungs. In still other cases
emaciation and reduction of milk flow is the only bad result. Sometimes
ulcers form at the root of the horn and cause the horn to drop off.
Owing to the nature of the disease, its contagion and danger, treatment
should be in line of prevention and in destruction of infected animals.
While the disease yields to treatment, our best suggestions when the
disease is suspected is in notification to the state officers and in
securing the services of a veterinarian who will be able to advise what
is best to do.
[Illustration: FOOT ROT
A disease usually associated with sheep. It is sometimes so serious that
the entire hoof rots away.]
=FOOT PUNCTURE.=--See Wounds and Their Treatment.
=FOOT ROT IN SHEEP.=--A chronic inflammation of the foot, marked by
ulceration, softening of the hoof, lameness, and the discharge of a
sticky material which has a very fetid odor. It is a contagious disease,
and is produced by a germ that lives in the soil and gains entrance to
the feet through wounds and surfaces chafed by barbed grasses and
stones, or by gritty clay, which becomes lodged between the toes and
hardens there.
The first symptom is a slight lameness. If the affected foot be
examined, that part just above the horny part of the cleft of the foot,
either in front or behind, will be found inflamed, feverish, and moist.
Erosions or ulcers soon appear, generally on the heel. These penetrate
the foot and burrow beneath the horny parts, causing fistulous tracts
from which exudes a foul-smelling pus possessing an odor sufficiently
characteristic to indicate the disease in a flock, even without a close
examination. In time, the foot becomes greatly overgrown and deformed,
the hoofs increasing in length and curling upward. In bad cases, the
suffering is so great the animal lies down most of the time, but when
only the front feet are diseased, it will crawl around on its knees.
That the disease is contagious is shown by the fact that it generally
starts in one foot and spreads to the others, and, at the same time, the
feet of other sheep in the same flock become diseased in the same way,
the outbreak covering a period of several months. In cases that recover
spontaneously the foot is deformed and the joint is stiffened. It is
only in virulent outbreaks where all the feet are diseased, or where
some complication, such as maggots, is present, that deaths occur.
Having as its cause a microbe, it is proper to take measures of
prevention as well as cure. In purchasing sheep, it is highly advisable
to keep them isolated for a week, as a test. All overgrown hoofs should
be trimmed. Sores or wounds, from any cause, should be carefully
disinfected daily. Low, boggy lands should not be used as pasture for
sheep, and dirty, unsanitary pens should be made sanitary, as these all
predispose to an outbreak of the disease.
As treatment, first isolate all affected animals. Mild cases are best
treated by making the sheep stand for several minutes daily in a trough
containing a disinfectant, or, better still, by arranging the trough of
suitable length with fenced-up sides and a widened entrance, so the
sheep can be easily started into the inclosure and made to wade through
the disinfectant.
In bad cases and where the hoof is underrun with pus, the horn and all
overgrowths must be cut away so as to expose the diseased parts to the
action of the disinfectant. The foot should then be dried, dusted with
finely powdered burnt alum, and bandaged to keep out the dirt. This
antiseptic treatment of the feet must be kept up daily as long as the
disease exists. Any of the following may be used: 1 pound chloride of
lime to 12 quarts of water; 1 pound of pure carbolic acid to 4 gallons
of water; a solution of creolin; a coal-tar disinfectant of the same
strength; or any good sheep dip containing these substances in the
proper amounts.
=FOUNDER.=--An inflammation of the sensitive or soft structures between
the hoof and bones of the foot. The popular belief that founder is to
any extent in the legs and chest is probably an error. The disease is in
the feet, and those symptoms which make it appear as a stiffness in the
legs and shoulder are but the natural results of soreness in the feet.
The same statement might be made regarding those cases which are
popularly described as “stove up in the shoulder.” Instead of the
soreness being in the shoulder in these cases, it is generally in the
feet, or at least below the knee.
It is somewhat difficult to explain how those influences or causes which
are known to produce founder bring about that condition, but observation
shows clearly that an irritation of the digestive tract, or in fact, any
extensive irritation of any mucous surface, may produce an inflammation
of the sensitive laminæ of the feet; that is, founder. Therefore founder
may be produced by a change of feed or excessive feeding, a change of
work or excessive work which results in exhaustion, large quantities of
feed or water when warm or fatigued, sudden changes of temperature such
as cooling too fast when sweating, and a long drive on hard roads,
especially without shoes. Excessive purging or diarrhœa may also produce
it. Founder also occasionally results from irritation of foaling, but
this is not common.
There is no essential difference in the nature of the disease determined
by the particular agent or condition which causes it. “Water founder,”
and that produced by over-feeding, concussion, or extreme fatigue are,
in so far as the character of the disease is concerned, one and the same
thing.
[Illustration: FOUNDER
In bad cases of founder the foot shrinks from the wasting of the
sensitive substances. A typical foundered foot is pictured here.]
=Founder May Occur= in the fore or hind feet or in both; but generally
the fore feet are those affected. A stiffness and disinclination to move
are perhaps the first symptoms noticed. The position in which the animal
stands is characteristic. The fore feet will be placed well forward, so
that the weight will be borne by the heels, while the hind feet are
brought well up under the body in order to take as much weight off the
front feet as possible. This position gives a rather unsteady appearance
to animal, and the hind feet are frequently shifted in order to maintain
as steady a position as possible. From this fact founder is frequently
mistaken by inexperienced persons for a disease of the kidneys. The body
temperature is usually considered increased; that is, there is fever--as
it is generally expressed--due to inflammation in the feet. As is usual
in the first stages of inflammation, the pulse beat is increased in
frequency and force. An increase of heat in the feet, with a
manifestation of pain when the hoofs are tapped with a hammer, are, when
taken with all the foregoing facts, sufficient evidence of founder.
When founder occurs in one foot, however, as it sometimes does, the
diagnosis may be more difficult for the inexperienced. When it occurs
only in the hind feet the position which the animal takes will not be
different from that taken with founder in only both fore feet but from
different causes. The hind feet are brought well forward under the body,
but for the purpose of throwing such little weight as is borne on them
on the heels.
=The Feet Should Be Kept Moist.=--Remove the shoes and apply moisture to
the feet. The latter may be done by standing the animal in water five or
six inches deep each day, several hours at a time, or by the application
of a poultice of wheat bran or some such material, or by wrapping the
feet with cloths and keeping them thoroughly saturated with water. The
animal should always be encouraged to lie down and take the weight off
his feet, which is beneficial. When this occurs, a poultice of some sort
must be used to apply moisture to the feet. It may be applied by the use
of a sack large enough to envelop the foot and hold sufficient of the
poultice to retain the moisture for some time. This application of
moisture to the feet should be continued until the severity of the
inflammation and the lameness have subsided.
Unless the founder be due to excessive purgation, a quart of raw linseed
oil should be given as a purgative. During the first 48 hours from 30 to
40 drops of tincture of aconite may be given every three or four hours.
Four tablespoonfuls of nitrate of potash (saltpeter) should also be
given three times a day in the feed or on the tongue. If the lameness
continues after the acute symptoms have subsided, a rest of several
weeks on a soft pasture and the application of a blister around the top
of the hoof are recommended. The following mixture has been useful as a
blister: Red iodide of mercury, 1 part; lard, 4 parts; cerate of
cantharides, 4 parts. Apply around the top of the hoof, except at the
heels, and rub for 10 to 15 minutes. The animal should be tied so that
it cannot get its mouth to the blistered part for several hours after
the medicine has been applied.
=CHRONIC FOUNDER.=--In a majority of cases the above treatment will be
followed by a good recovery, but an animal once foundered is probably
more likely to suffer from a subsequent attack. If the lameness does not
entirely disappear in a week or ten days, it is seldom that a complete
recovery takes place. In such cases the animal is likely to remain unfit
for road work and to continue to show more or less soreness. These are
the cases that are later said to have “chest founder,” or “stove up in
the shoulder,” owing to the fact that the muscles of the chest waste
away from lack of free use.
In some cases still more serious results follow an acute attack of
founder. The inflammation may be so severe that there is separation
between the hoof and structures, the formation of pus, and a descent of
the central organs of the foot, which causes a bulging of the sole. In
such cases, even though recovery takes place to such an extent that it
is advisable to allow the animal to live, it is not fit for work, and
can only be used for breeding purposes.
=FOWL CHOLERA.=--See Chicken Cholera.
=GAPES.=--A symptom caused by worms in the windpipe; oftenest seen in
young chicks and turkeys. Birds droop, cough, and lower their wings. A
feather moistened, but not dripping, with kerosene or oil of turpentine
is the commonest remedy. Cleanliness of food, water and quarters is the
great preventive. Poultry men who keep their chicks on ground not used
for chick raising the previous year, and who insist on strictest
cleanliness, report highly satisfactory results in avoiding gapes.
=GARGET.=--A swelling, accompanied by inflammation of the udder. It may
be caused by kicks or blows, by germs getting into the udder, or as a
result of holding the milk too long. Do not use the milk when the udder
is affected. For garget rub with hot camphorated oil twice a day. Give
as medicine 8 tablespoonfuls of hyposulphite of soda each day, either in
the feed or in a drench. Keep up the treatment for two weeks.
=GASTRITIS.=--A rather uncommon disease in domestic animals and the
result of a disturbance in the stomach, with inflammation following,
caused by irritating substances, usually of a poisonous nature. A common
symptom is nausea and pain like colic. Indeed, the ordinary outward
signs of colic are observed. At first the pulse is strong, which
weakens, and runs rapidly, from 80 to 100 beats a minute. As the disease
progresses the pulse becomes irregular and the animal dull and listless.
Treatment consists of simple agents. If the disturbance is due to some
potassium compound, give oil; if to ammonia, give vinegar; if from
turpentine, give oil and opium, the opium in teaspoonful doses every
couple hours. After recovery, let only easily digested food be provided.
=GID IN SHEEP.=--A disease of the brain due to a worm in the brain
substance. This worm, known as the bladder worm, is a form of the
tape-worm of the dog at an early stage of its existence. The eggs of
this worm, on being swallowed, are hatched in the stomach, from which
they enter into the circulation, finally lodging in the brain and spinal
cord. Those that lodge elsewhere, as in the heart and lungs, grow for a
time and then disappear. The most conspicuous symptom is the staggering,
stupefied condition of the affected animal.
In walking, if a single side is affected, a circle is described. The
feet are raised as if the animal did not see well. In many cases
blindness results. The growth of the worm is somewhat rapid. In about
three weeks after the appearance of the disease a softened condition of
the skull results, which may be found by pressing the fingers over it.
From this it will be observed that there is practically no treatment for
animals affected. Occasionally the skin is accidentally broken over the
point where the worm is encysted, out of which it emerges and the sheep
recovers.
Treatment, therefore, is along the line of this natural recovery. Find
the soft spot by pressing the fingers over the skull, then introduce the
trocar and canula. Withdraw the trocar, apply a syringe to the canula,
and withdraw the contents of the cyst within. Of course, inflammation of
the brain may set in and the sheep die from this, or another worm may be
present and grow, thus causing continued disease. Inasmuch as the
bladder worm of sheep is a stage of the tape-worm of the dog, it follows
that destroying all affected sheep, so as to prevent the dogs from
becoming reinfested from it, is the only really safe and satisfactory
method of warding off the trouble.
=GLANDERS.=--A contagious disease peculiar to the horse, ass, and mule,
and may be communicated to human beings, and also sometimes to
carnivorous animals in menageries, by means of infected horse flesh,
and also by means of inoculation to field mice, guinea pigs, dogs, cats,
goats, rabbits, and sheep. Pigs are not readily susceptible and cattle
appear to be immune. Like all diseases of a contagious or infectious
character, glanders is due to a specific organism, known as the bacillus
malleus.
The external manifestations of glanders differ and consequently the
disease is spoken of as glanders or farcy, depending upon the symptoms
presented. The disease is known as glanders when the horse suffering
from it has a discharge from the nose, ulcers on the septum nasi (the
partition dividing the nasal cavities) and enlarged submaxillary glands,
and is known as farcy when the affected animal has farcy “buds” or
ulcers on the skin, and corded lymphatic vessels running from one “bud”
to another. In farcy, the corded lymphatics, “buds” and ulcers on the
skin are very apt to be on the inside of one hind leg or the other, but
may appear on the inside of a fore leg, or on the neck or body.
Farcy was, in olden times, thought to be a different disease from
glanders, and was believed by many to be curable, while glanders has
always been generally believed to be incurable, but it is now known that
farcy is simply one manifestation of glanders. It has been found that a
horse with glanders may give another farcy, and vice versa. Guinea pigs
inoculated with the discharge from a glandered horse’s nose will develop
glanders, and pure cultures of the glanders bacillus can be obtained
from them, and in a similar way if guinea pigs are inoculated with the
discharge from a sore on a horse with farcy glanders may be produced in
these little experimental animals, and upon post mortem examination pure
cultures of the glanders bacillus can be obtained from the lesions of
the disease produced in them. Glanders and farcy may again be divided
into two forms, acute and chronic glanders, and acute and chronic farcy.
In the acute form the disease develops rapidly, the lesions form more
speedily and with greater rapidity than in the chronic form and the
animal loses strength and condition and dies within the course of a few
weeks, sometimes in the course of a week or two. It is not unusual to
meet with an animal showing symptoms of both glanders and farcy,
especially in the acute form.
In the chronic form the symptoms are not so well marked, and a horse may
go for months keeping in fairly good condition and able to do its work,
the disease developing very slowly, and at times showing a tendency to
recover; yet such an animal is a source of danger to other horses, and
also to the man taking care of him or driving him. A horse with chronic
glanders, or farcy, may give the disease to another in an acute form,
especially if the other one is more susceptible for some reason, such as
a less strong constitution or being run down by hard work.
Post mortem examination of horses with glanders, or farcy, nearly always
reveals the presence of glanders nodules or tubercles in the lungs, and,
in many instances, there is no doubt but what a horse may have the
tubercles of glanders in his lungs for some time before showing outward
symptoms of the disease, and in many cases the primary lesions of the
infection occur in the lungs. A horse with lung glanders may be a source
of danger to other horses and cause disease in them and yet go
unsuspected for some time. A case is said to have occurred in Boston a
number of years ago where a hack horse lost eight successive mates with
glanders; he was finally killed and his lungs were found to be full of
glanders nodules, and yet he never showed any external symptoms of
glanders. Such cases could be cited in large numbers if space permitted,
but one example will answer.
[Illustration: BAD CASE OF GLANDERS
The farcy form is shown here. The animal has not long to live. Except
for experimental purposes, every horse having glanders should be killed
as soon as the disease is discovered.]
A horse with lung glanders may have a little dry, spasmodic cough, may
look somewhat unthrifty, and if the temperature were taken it might be
slightly above normal, say, 101 degrees to 101½, the normal temperature
being 100 degrees. Yet such an animal might do its work, last for a long
time and not be suspected as a source of danger until several cases had
occurred in the stable, for which it was difficult to account.
While a well-marked case of glanders or of farcy is not difficult of
diagnosis, there are many obscure cases which escape detection for some
time. If a horse has a well-marked discharge from one or both nostrils,
with characteristic chancres visible upon the mucous membrane of the
septum nasi, and hard enlarged submaxillary glands in the intermaxillary
space, it is not a difficult matter to diagnose such a case, and any
horseman ought to recognize it. The same is true of a well-marked case
of farcy. When the lymphatic vessels on the inside of a leg, especially
a hind leg, are swelled and corded, with a chain of farcy buds along
their course, some of which have gathered and broken, leaving a
discharging open ulcer in the skin, it is quite evident that the animal
is suffering from farcy.
A peculiarity of glanders seems to be a tendency for the symptoms to
appear on the left side; in many cases of glanders the discharge and
ulceration is in the left nostril, and the left submaxillary gland is
enlarged; and in a large number of the cases of farcy met with it is the
left hind leg that shows the lesions of the disease. In obscure cases of
glanders or farcy the diagnosis is not always so easy, even for experts,
and then other methods for determining the trouble have to be resorted
to. These are the guinea pig test and the mallein test. The guinea pig
test consists of inoculating one or two of these little animals with the
discharge from a suspected horse’s nose, or from a farcy sore. If they
should develop glanders it would be proof positive that the suspected
horse had this disease; if they do not develop glanders it is not always
positive proof that the suspected horse is free from the disease.
Sometimes more than one test is necessary, or another method of
diagnosis may have to be resorted to. This is the mallein test.
Mallein is a product made from cultures of the glanders bacillus
analogous to tuberculin as made from cultures of the tubercle bacillus,
and is used for testing horses for glanders much as tuberculin is used
for testing cattle for tuberculosis. A horse infected with glanders will
react to a mallein test in much the same way as a cow infected with
tuberculosis will react to the tuberculin test. It is not customary in
some states to kill a horse that reacts to mallein unless it shows some
clinical evidence of disease. All horses that show clinical evidence of
glanders or farcy in some states are killed by the state authority, and
the law requires persons knowing or suspecting cases of this kind to
report in writing to the chief of the cattle bureau of the state board
of agriculture or to the inspector of animals in the city or town where
the disease is believed to exist, except in some cities where the city
board of health has full charge of glanders and farcy. Anyone selling,
removing, transporting, or concealing a horse knowing or having
reasonable cause to believe it has glanders or farcy is in most states
liable to a heavy penalty.
In stables where glanders exists, in some cases, all the horses are
tested and divided; the reactors are separated from the non-reactors,
and those that react are tested once a month until they cease to react,
or show physical indications of glanders and are killed. Used in this
way mallein seems to have a curative effect on incipient cases, and has
been very successfully used in freeing infected stables from the
disease. When a horse is killed because it has glanders or farcy the
stall should be thoroughly disinfected where it has been kept, as well
as the harness, blankets, currycomb and other utensils, and anything
that cannot be easily disinfected ought to be destroyed. Public watering
troughs where the horse has been watered should be emptied and cleaned
out, and the blacksmith ought to disinfect his shop where the horse was
shod.
There are various diseases that may be taken for glanders or farcy, and
there have also been numerous instances where glanders has been taken
for something else; for instance, chronic nasal catarrh. What many
old-time veterinarians used to call chronic nasal catarrh or nasal
gleet, were, in many instances, if not in nearly all, cases of chronic
glanders, and when one of these cases of nasal gleet was rounded up in a
locality, glanders disappeared in that neighborhood.
A horse with a chronic discharge from the nose as the result of a
decayed tooth may sometimes be mistaken for a case of glanders, and also
a horse with distemper or strangles; but the latter generally recovers
soon, and in strangles the gland under the jaw softens and breaks and
discharges while in glanders the gland remains firm and hard and
generally not sensitive to manipulation.
There is a disease that has been troublesome in Pennsylvania and parts
of Ohio the last two years called suppurative lymphangitis or epizootic
lymphangitis, which may be mistaken for farcy, but animals suffering
from it do not react to mallein, and guinea pigs inoculated with the
discharges do not develop glanders. There is not much glanders in the
Eastern states, except in the cities, and the disease is not of a great
deal of interest to farmers, except to avoid purchasing animals with it
at some of the unreliable sales stables. Where a case occurs on a farm,
except on some market gardener’s farm near a city, it is found, as a
rule, that the horse was purchased at some unscrupulous dealer’s stable
in the city, and, in some instances, other horses on the farm are
infected, and the farmer not only loses his new acquisition, but has two
or three other horses killed besides that have become infected.
Farmers buying new horses at city sales stables ought to endeavor to
deal with only reputable concerns, and to avoid cheats. It is well to
remember that a person cannot get something for nothing, and it is not
likely that anyone can buy a horse for $50 to $75 because it is afraid
of elevated railroad trains that would otherwise be worth $300 to $500,
or because a widow lady wants a good home for her late husband’s old
pet. Anyone buying horses from a fake coal company, or a humbug ice
company, or an unknown express company that is just going out of
business, is liable to invite a serious disease to his farm.
=GRAVEL OR DIRT IN FOOT.=--A collection of pus, or other fluid
containing gravel or dirt. It occurs most frequently in the foot, and is
associated with the horse and mule almost exclusively. The cause may be
from a bruise, but more frequently it is due to a punctured wound of the
foot by nail, wire, or other pointed object. Nearly always there will be
dirt carried into the wound with the offending object or shortly after
its removal. This dirt, infected with germs, sets up an inflammation of
the sensitive structures causing more or less lameness. In many
instances the nail hole becomes closed up and the collected matter may
have to seek an outlet above the hoof. To determine the trouble a very
careful examination of the hoof should be made, looking for any opening
leading into the foot, often detected by discoloration of the part, or
at an over-sensitive point in the foot.
Treatment should consist in making or enlarging the opening at a
dependent part of the hoof, if possible, so that all secretion formed in
the wound can find a ready escape to the outside. Without free opening
there is danger of tetanus (lockjaw) developing. The wound should be
thoroughly cleansed, and washed with some mild disinfectant, after which
a small quantity of oil of turpentine should be injected, and the wound
packed with calomel or iodoform and covered with a pledget of cotton. If
the wound is very deep or extensive it may be beneficial, after
thoroughly cleansing the foot, to apply a hot bran or flaxseed poultice.
Use poultice for several days and change daily.
=GREASE HEEL.=--A form of eczema that attacks the skin of the heel and
fetlock. Sometimes the disease becomes so severe as to crack open, from
which blood oozes out. A crust forms and later on becomes painful and
disagreeable. To remove the scurvy part that is noticed first, apply a
poultice, made of wheat bran or linseed meal. Change the poultices two
or three times during the day. After removal each time wash with warm
water, in which has been put some carbolic acid or creolin, and then
apply the poultice again. After the poulticing is ended apply a salve
made of 4 tablespoonfuls of oxide of zinc and 8 tablespoonfuls of
vaseline. If indigestion seems to be associated in any way, give the
horse a dose of physic, aloes being best for the purpose.
=GRUB IN THE HEAD.=--This condition is the presence of the larva (worm
stage) of the sheep bot fly, located in the frontal sinuses (cavities)
of the head. The trouble is confined to sheep and occasionally goats.
The so-called “grub” of the horse is found in its stomach, while the
“grub” of cattle is found along its back just underneath the skin. The
adult fly, which lays the living “sheep grub,” is of a yellowish-gray
color, slightly larger than a house fly. During the warmer part of the
summer days the fly goes about depositing its young in the nose of the
sheep. The young then work their way upward into cavities of the head
between the eyes, but not into the brain cavity. Here they attach
themselves to the lining, remaining when unmolested for some ten months,
then lose their hold and are sneezed out to the ground. Burrowing into
the ground they enter the pupa or dormant stage, when, after a month or
six weeks, they emerge as adult flies to replenish their kind.
When few grubs are in the head little trouble may be observed, but if
more numerous may cause free discharge of dirty white or yellowish,
thick fluid, loss of appetite, frequent coughing and sneezing, tossing
of head and weakened gait, and the animal may become too weak to rise,
and finally dies. With a special instrument (trephine) bore a hole into
the cavity containing grubs and remove them with forceps. When they are
present every year the sheep should be protected by keeping the nose
smeared with tar during summer months. This can be done by causing sheep
to lick salt from holes in a trough after placing tar about the holes.
=HAIR BALLS.=--True hair balls are seldom found in other animals than
cattle, resulting either from licking themselves or others; but
different kinds of indigestible balls or concretions are frequently
found in cattle and other animals, particularly the horse, in the
stomach or intestines. Dust balls are occasionally formed when animals
are fed upon mill cleanings. In sections where crimson clover is fed,
and frequently in over-ripe condition in large quantities, balls are
formed of parts of the indigestible heads. Again, calcareous or mineral
matter may accumulate about an indigestible substance as a nucleus.
These are not well-defined, in many instances, and the balls are often
present without making it known. So long as they do not irritate the
bowel too much, or do not occlude the opening from one portion of the
bowel to another, they are likely to escape notice. In case they do
obstruct the bowel they become serious obstacles, the greater number of
these cases terminating in death. The symptoms then become those of
colic from obstruction. In many cases no relief can be given, but
attempts should be made to cause the obstruction to pass by giving mild
purgatives and copious enemas.
=HEAVES.=--The term “heaves” is used to describe that disease of the
horse which otherwise is known as “broken wind,” or technically as
“emphysema of the lungs.” This ailment, which is incurable when
thoroughly established and to which a tendency is inherited by the
offspring of an affected sire or dam, is characterized by the following
symptoms: Double, bellows-like action of the abdominal muscles in
breathing; short, suppressed cough, usually accompanied by passage of
gas from the rectum; gluttonous appetite; harsh, staring coat of hair;
pot belly; weakness; lack of endurance, sweating, panting, or staggering
during work; dilated nostrils; frequent passage of gas and soft,
foul-smelling feces when starting from stable.
The disease begins with indigestion, affecting in time the
pneumo-gastric nerve of the stomach and then the branch nerves running
to the lungs. At first the air tubules and vesicles of the lungs become
dilated (aneurism); later they may break down into large air spaces and
the surrounding lung tissues become involved (interlobular emphysema).
Air then is easily inhaled, but is exhaled with difficulty and the
effort causes cough and expulsion of gas (flatus).
The distress may be relieved by treatment, but perfect recovery is
impossible when the lungs have become badly affected. Treat by
substituting wet oat straw for hay in winter and grass for hay in
summer. Allow double the usual rest period after a meal. Work when
stomach is not distended with food. Do not feed hay at noon. Use lime
water to wet all food. Once or twice a week give raw linseed oil in a
bran mash to open bowels. Give half an ounce of Fowler’s solution of
arsenic night and morning. Do not breed from affected horses.
=HEAT EXHAUSTION AND SUNSTROKE.=--The horse that is stricken with heat
exhaustion or which falls from heat, apoplexy or “sunstroke,” is sick or
out of sorts at the time of attack; otherwise he would withstand heat
and work. The middle horse of a three-horse team suffers most and is apt
to succumb to the ill-effects of the combined radiation of heat from his
mates and direct rays of the sun. Attacks are most apt to happen on the
third or fourth day of a spell of intensely hot weather characterized by
mugginess, electrical storms and moisture-saturated air. At such times
the horse that has indigestion, a heavy, unhealthy coat of hair, a skin
or kidney trouble or any affection of the brain or heart is the one that
must be most carefully watched and worked.
With the hope of preventing attacks feed light rations, no corn, no
mashes, no ground feed other than bran; avoid green grass, unless the
horses are on it all of the time; do not feed hay at noon; allow cool,
pure drinking water often when horses are at work; keep stables clean,
darkened, screened, and ventilated; shade the polls of the horses’ heads
during work time and in such a way that air passes freely under the
shading device.
In sunstroke the horse falls and soon succumbs. In heat exhaustion he
lags, stops sweating, pants, staggers, skin is dry, nostrils dilated,
membranes of eyes and nostrils red. High fever is present. Treat by
keeping cold, wet packs to the poll of head or letting a stream of cold
water run over it. Shower body with cold water from a sprinkling can.
Stand horse in shady place under a tree where air passes. Give
stimulants freely in water as a drench every hour at first, then less
often as symptoms abate. A suitable stimulant is whiskey in half pint
doses, or a mixture of one part of aromatic spirits of ammonia and two
parts each of alcohol and sweet spirits of niter. Dose is two ounces in
half pint water. Do not bleed horse or give aconite. Give half ounce
doses of saltpeter in water twice daily as horse recovers. Call the
veterinarian in sunstroke cases.
=HERNIA.=--A protrusion of any portion of the bowels or their coverings
through a break in the walls of the abdomen. A rupture, for that is the
popular term, is most common in horses. Often at birth they are seen
near the navel. These disappear in a few months without any treatment
being required. In mature horses the usual causes are blows, kicks or
some violent effort that tears the muscular structure.
[Illustration: VENTRAL HERNIA
It may occur in any part of the abdomen and varies in size with the
extent of the rupture.]
The characteristic symptom is the bulging out of the gut, tumorlike; and
this often can be slipped back where it belongs. If the rent be not
closed, even if the gut is returned, the least bit of strain is liable
to force it out again. Some kinds of hernia cause immense pain and the
animal shows it.
In treating, work the gut back to its place. This done, place a pad--a
flat piece of wood or leather will do--over the wound and fasten in such
a way as to keep it in place. This should be worn for a month until
recovery is complete. Such treatment will not serve in all cases of
hernia. An operation may be necessary, which should be made only by a
skillful veterinarian.
=HIDE-BOUND.=--This is not a disease at all, but an indication of poor
health, more particularly of poor nutrition; usually the result of
indigestion, improper food, worms or want of proper exercise. The skin
is hard, rough, papery, and cannot be picked up from the body with ease.
When the attempt is made, it suggests that the body is too large for the
skin. Of course treatment is in the nature of better food, that proper
nourishment may be secured. A good physic will be proper to start with
and then follow with a tonic, easily assimilable food of a nature that
will properly nourish the body.
=HIGH BLOWING.=--A sound produced in the act of breathing while the air
is being expelled from the lungs during forced respiration. It is a
fluttering sort of a sound. When horses are trotting or pacing the sound
is essentially a nasal one, and is not to be regarded as a state of
unsoundness. It is rather a measure of excitability, and associated with
horses of much spirit and good breeding.
=HIP JOINT LAMENESS.=--A disease of the hip, caused usually by some
injury as from a fall or kick. A slight swelling is observed just over
the hip, and lameness when the animal walks or trots. In severe cases,
the horse will hop and catch the lame leg. The best treatment is
absolute rest. Frequent applications of hot water are good. After each
application bathe with a solution made of 4 ounces of water, 2 ounces of
tincture of opium, 2 ounces of tincture of arnica and an ounce of
belladonna. If the lameness continues, use a blister made of 2
teaspoonfuls of cantharides and 4 tablespoonfuls of lard. Allow the
blister to remain for an entire day, then wash off with soap and water
and apply lard or vaseline. Repeat in a couple of weeks if necessary. If
the lameness disappears, give the horse rest for several weeks.
=HIPPED.=--A fracture at the point of the hip. The most common cause is
striking the point of the hip against a door post or pole. Sometimes a
kick is responsible. While recovery follows, as a rule, from the very
nature of the fracture, there is no treatment that will remedy the
broken point. After the soreness has passed no inconvenience results;
only a blemish is observed.
=HOG CHOLERA.=--The term hog cholera has become quite ambiguous, partly
on account of new discoveries concerning the cause of the disease and
partly on account of what have been supposed to be two different but
curiously related diseases being generally included under this general
term. Until within a year or two we have supposed that there were two
infectious diseases of hogs recognized under the general terms of hog
cholera and swine plague. It now seems probable that we will be able to
do away with the term swine plague entirely.
The disease considered here answers to the following requirements: (a)
Infectious by association or other natural exposure; (b) the animal
before death and the carcass after death show certain accepted symptoms
which are clearly recognized as pertaining to cholera; (c) the blood is
virulent and capable of reproducing the disease on inoculation into
susceptible hogs; (d) attack and recovery confer immunity. It is to be
understood that we might easily have diseases among swine where
characteristic “a” or even “b” might be present and yet the disease be
not true hog cholera.
[Illustration: AN ATTACK OF CHOLERA
One of the familiar attitudes assumed when the hog is affected with
cholera. When this far along, not many cases of recovery are observed.]
Until within recent years American authorities, bacteriologists and
veterinarians alike, have very generally accepted a certain germ, the
bacillus of Salmon and Smith, as the specific cause of hog cholera and
another somewhat similar germ as the cause of what was supposed to be a
distinct but curiously related disease--swine plague. But within a few
years workers in the Federal bureau of animal industry have apparently
demonstrated that hog cholera is caused by a living germ so small that
it passes easily through germ filters which remove all known forms of
the bacillus of Salmon and Smith.
It may be interesting to note further that this new germ is so small as
to be invisible to the highest available powers of the best microscope.
That it is a living organism and not a chemical poison may be very
easily demonstrated. The curious relations to this disease of the old
bacilli of hog cholera and of swine plague are not well understood, but
it seems quite possible that they may play some part in the later
development of the disease after the disease processes have been started
by the invisible germ. While our old theories and supposed information
concerning the cause of hog cholera have been very much disturbed by
newer work, it is important to remember that hog cholera is now just as
much as before to be recognized as a distinctly infectious disease. It
is important to remember also that this infection is absolutely
necessary, or there can be no cholera no matter how susceptible animals
may be. There can be no cholera without this primary and specific cause
any more than there can be plants in our wheat fields without the
previous presence of mustard seed. Conditions of soil and climate may
favor a rank growth of mustard. Conditions of feed and keep may favor
the development and spread of hog cholera. They may decrease resistance
and increase susceptibility, but cannot originally cause the disease. It
is a rather common experience that hogs kept closely housed and fed,
especially with such foods as corn, offer less resistance than do other
hogs. In our vaccine work we frequently find hogs of this type which die
readily under inoculation with blood of low grade virulence. Hogs of
hardier type may become slightly sick or not sick at all with
inoculation from the same infectious material. Pampered show herds
appear especially susceptible to both natural infection and artificial
inoculation.
The farmer, and for that matter the public in general, should bear in
mind that the cause of hog cholera is a living organism capable of
enormously rapid self-multiplication--actual, though very minute
particles of matter. This, fully understood, makes it apparent that
infection may be carried in any way that other fine particles of matter
may be carried. It thus becomes very apparent that the infection may be
carried by sick hogs or upon the legs and bodies of hogs not sick; it
may be carried in wagon boxes, in hog racks, in stock cars, or upon
shoes and clothing of people. It is very evident that the infection may
be carried down stream, especially in small creeks, and give rise to
other outbreaks.
So far as the sick hog is concerned, we are quite sure that the blood
and the manure are thoroughly infectious and there can be no question
concerning the infectiousness of fresh carcasses of dead hogs. Perhaps
we should say first of all that we rarely get all of the accepted
symptoms of hog cholera plainly shown in one case. It is important to
bear in mind that cases vary in virulence from those of very chronic
type where hogs live for weeks and finally die or recover, to very acute
cases where they die overnight.
The hog coming down with cholera is usually sluggish at first, lying
around in the shade and refusing feed. The hair may become rough. The
eyes early show symptoms of inflammation, with a sticky discharge. There
is usually a suppressed cough. The gait may become irregular and
uncertain, especially with the hind legs. After these preliminary
symptoms have been shown for a time, the skin becomes red, changing to
purple, especially noticeable in white-haired hogs. The hog is then
usually within a very few days of death.
As already explained, not all cases are typical. Sometimes hogs die in
an outbreak of cholera from undoubted hog cholera, and yet the ante
mortem or post mortem symptoms show very little upon which to base a
diagnosis. But we may easily demonstrate that these were cases of
cholera by injecting their blood into susceptible hogs and by thus
producing typical cholera.
[Illustration: THE RESULT OF HOG CHOLERA
A post mortem of a hog dying from cholera will show ulcers like those
pictured here. Look for them in the large intestine.]
At the autopsy of an ordinary case of cholera the first and perhaps the
most striking thing seen is the purpling of the skin. On opening the
carcass small blood spots may be found under the skin and in the fat cut
through. The glands along the intestines are intensely inflamed. The
mucous membrane of the stomach is frequently thickened and roughened and
in chronic cases there may be ulcers. On opening the intestines we see
areas here and there of intense inflammation in the acute cases or
numerous ulcers in cases of more chronic type. In very acute cases we
find areas intensely inflamed, even bloody in places. The slow chronic
cases develop characteristic hog cholera ulcers. These may appear at
almost any point on the lining membrane, but more particularly in the
blind pouch and around the point where the small intestine connects with
the large intestine. On stripping off a very thin transparent membrane
covering the kidneys, a typical case of hog cholera will usually show
minute red spots on the surface somewhat resembling the covering of a
turkey egg, which gives the common name of turkey egg kidney of hog
cholera.
=Preventing the Disease.=--Clearly there are certain things which the
owner of healthy hogs in a hog cholera district should do and a good
many things which he should not do. The same is equally true for the man
who has sick hogs in a neighborhood where there are uninfected herds.
The owner of healthy hogs and his family should keep away from public
stock yards, from all pens and yards on other farms whether sickness
among hogs prevails or not. It may easily occur that a neighbor’s hogs
may appear well but have recently received the infection and be already
capable of scattering the disease. We do not know at what period in the
development of this disease infected hogs become capable of
disseminating hog cholera.
During a hog cholera season the owner of healthy hogs should institute
something in the way of private quarantine and pleasantly, perhaps, but
firmly, ask visitors, especially stock buyers and threshing machine
crews, to keep at a reasonable distance from the pens and yards. It is
safer for one man to have exclusive care of healthy hogs during the hog
cholera season, and this man should be very careful where he goes with
reference to possible infection. Special fencing or other provisions
should be made wherever practical to keep dogs out of the pens and
yards, for, under certain conditions, dogs become very active agents in
spreading the disease.
The owner of a healthy herd should be very careful about buying in hogs
for feeding or breeding purposes, and, in the Western states especially,
all public stock yards and stock cars must be regarded as possible
sources of spread. Hogs coming into the herd for breeding purposes, if
by rail, should be shipped in other than stock cars, and should not be
unloaded so as to go through stock yards. All new hogs coming on to a
farm where the disease has not appeared, should be kept carefully apart
from the herd for from two to three weeks after arrival. The disease may
thus have time to develop, if the animals have been infected before
shipment or en route. It is decidedly worth while to be careful about
clean feeding, for it seems probable that this is a common method by
which infection enters the body. This being the case, troughs and
feeding floors should be frequently disinfected with steam, boiling
water, or a very dilute corrosive sublimate solution (1:1,000 dissolved
in water), with the troughs subsequently rinsed out with plain water. Or
the troughs and feeding floors may be disinfected with any of the coal
tar disinfectants if they are used in sufficient strength. These are not
poisonous in any probable quantity which hogs would get.
=A Disastrous Experience.=--The farmer should be especially careful
about buying hogs out of stock yards. Some years ago a certain Minnesota
farmer purchased a lot of feeders from Sioux City and took them home to
his farm. In about two weeks his hogs commenced dying. A little later
hogs previously on the farm began dying. In a little while he was losing
hogs at the rate of 25 a day, losing a total of about 200. This loss of
200 hogs was scarcely a drop in the bucket--too small for consideration
in comparison with the loss which this outbreak cost the state, for,
with some others coming into the state from Iowa and Nebraska, this
outbreak cost the state, as carefully estimated, about $1,250,000 during
that one year. As soon as the Minnesota farmer here referred to realized
that he had cholera and was liable to lose a large portion of his herd,
he shipped out a lot of fat hogs ready for market. These were yarded for
a time in the public stock yards of his town, and one of them died while
waiting for shipment. This hog was left for a day or so in the yard.
Later a carload of feeding hogs was shipped in from a point in South
Dakota, where they had never had hog cholera. These South Dakota hogs
were unloaded into the yards where the fat hog had died some time
before, and were sold out from there by auction.
It was a very interesting study to follow the resulting outbreaks; but a
very serious matter for the owner and for that entire portion of the
state. Practically every farmer who bought hogs at this sale, and very
many of those who walked around the yards looking at the hogs, but
without buying, had hog cholera on their farms in a very uniform period
after the sale. Surely the moral of this tale is so self-evident as to
need no further suggestion.
=Cleaning Up.=--Troughs and feeding floors, at least, and, if
practicable, the hog house also, should be kept clean and frequently
disinfected during an outbreak. When the outbreak appears to be over,
the owner must decide as to just what he will do in the way of
disinfection and cleaning up, or whether he will stay out of the hog
business for a year and allow the infection to die out. This is, of
course, without regard for the possibility of putting in vaccinated and
immune hogs. Feeding troughs and feeding floors and the hog house in
general, may be disinfected if of reasonably good construction, by a
thorough cleaning and then by one of the methods suggested under
prevention. If the sick hogs have been kept in an old straw shed or in
an old hog house that is about ready to fall down anyway, by all means
the best method of disinfection is by burning. Without disinfection or
burning the owner cannot be safe in putting in susceptible hogs within
much less than a year after the last hog died or recovered. The slow old
chronic cases that go dragging around at the end of an outbreak should
usually be killed and safely buried, for it is rarely profitable to put
such hogs in shape for market. It might possibly be worth while to hold
such a one over and nurse them along, in case of valuable brood sows,
for hogs having recovered from cholera are usually immune for life.
Brood sows which have had the disease and recovered usually give
something more than natural immunity to their offspring. But the degree
of immunity so conferred is so variable in degree and uncertain
otherwise that it cannot be depended upon as a routine method of
establishing immune herds. Yards may be practically disinfected by
plowing or by burning off a good layer of straw.
=Hog Cholera Vaccination.=--Generally stated, this vaccine consists of
two parts: (a) Blood serum from the body of a specially immunized hog;
and (b) virulent blood serum from the body of a hog about to die from
cholera. The general theory upon which this double vaccine is used is
that of giving the animal an infectious disease and at the same time a
treatment which enables the animal to resist the infection. When the hog
is through with it he is in exactly the same condition as though he had
gone through a natural exposure and recovered.
=General Method.=--We start this work with certain hogs that are immune
usually because they have passed through an outbreak. It has been shown
that when such immune hogs are treated with large injections of virulent
blood under the skin or into a vein, that they do not usually become
sick, but their own blood develops a peculiar property that gives
protection to other hogs that are naturally susceptible.
When the blood or rather blood serum from this specially treated immune
hog is injected into the bodies of healthy susceptible hogs, the latter
becomes likewise immune, but the immunity so gained lasts only a short
time, possibly four to six weeks, and is then gradually lost. If we give
a small injection of virulent blood at the same time, or soon after the
immunizing serum is given, then the treated hog becomes immune for a
long period, perhaps for life.
=The Serum Hog.=--The specially immunized hog which produces this
immunizing serum is known as a hyperimmune, and to save words will be
hereafter mentioned as such. The simply immune hog may be prepared for
producing serum in either one of three ways. (1) By three rapidly
increasing doses of virulent blood serum injected under the skin at
intervals of seven to ten days; (2) by one enormously large injection of
virulent serum under the skin; (3) by injecting virulent blood in
smaller doses directly into the blood circulation.
In this work an ordinary immune hog weighing 100 pounds is given a quart
of very virulent blood, a teaspoon of which similarly injected would
kill a hog that was not immune. In other words the immune, and
especially the hyperimmune hog, have developed certain properties in
their blood antagonistic to hog cholera virus.
=Vaccination.=--We have two possible methods of vaccinating or
immunizing susceptible hogs (a) Serum only. This is by the injection
under the skin of serum from the body of a hyperimmune hog and gives
immediate but temporary immunity lasting, as already stated, several
weeks. If this animal, during the period of immunity, is exposed to
natural infection, he becomes protected for a very long period, perhaps
for life. (b) Simultaneous. The second method of vaccination consists of
injecting immunizing blood serum into one thigh and a small amount of
disease-producing serum at the same time, or soon after, into the other
thigh, thus giving the animal the cholera and a cure for it at the same
time. If the immunizing serum is potent and the virulent serum is really
virulent, then the animal so treated becomes permanently immune.
The serum-only method is usually preferred in actual outbreaks and for
hogs not yet sick, because this gives immediate protection, and the
hogs, being naturally exposed, usually develop a permanent immunity. The
simultaneous method of vaccination is preferred where we are very
confident of the serum’s potency against the virulent blood, and for
hogs that have not yet been infected. It may yet be found wise to use
this method even in outbreaks.
=Vaccination Does Not Spread Cholera.=--Every intelligent stockman who
reads this will probably ask if there is not danger of scattering
cholera by this simultaneous vaccination into districts where it has not
yet appeared. A considerable amount of direct evidence on this point is
better than any amount of theorizing and personal opinions. This
evidence all agrees that unless the vaccinated hogs become distinctly
sick as a result of the vaccination (which can occur, and does very
often), that there is practically no danger of disseminating the
disease. This is especially true since all hogs on the farm are supposed
to have been treated and are immune, and, therefore, incapable of
developing cholera and so spreading the disease. It does occur, even
with good serum, perhaps, that an occasional hog may become a little
sick, and very rarely even die, as a result of vaccination. But with
good serum given in standard dose and virulent blood also given in
proper dose, the risk of this is so small that it may be safely
disregarded and especially when all hogs on the farm or that may be
exposed with such sick hogs have been treated.
=HOLLOW HORN.=--A common term to denote a diseased condition of the
blood. The horn is not hollow and never is. The old quack method of
boring a hole in the horn with a gimlet and squirting turpentine into
the orifice is both cruel and ridiculous. While in fact the temperature
of the horn is low, it is because of the general poverty of the blood of
the animal. There is no merit in this kind of treatment. The most common
symptoms are general debility, scanty flesh, scurvy coat and coarse
hair. The appetite is also irregular and at times greedy. Treatment is
in line of better food and general improvement of the system. If lice
are found on the body, they must be destroyed by disinfectants and
washes. A tonic, consisting of 2 teaspoonfuls of sulphate of iron, 1
teaspoonful of powdered nux vomica and 4 tablespoonfuls of ground
gentian root given each day in the food or as a drench, will be very
helpful in toning up the system and in enriching the blood. The most
important factor of the treatment, however, is in nutritious, wholesome
food.
=HOOF CRACKS.=--See Sand Cracks.
=HORN FLY.=--A small insect about half as large as the common house
flies, and very much like them in appearance. Horn flies swarm about the
head and settle near the base of the horn, where they bite and cause
much irritation. They also attack cattle on the back and sides and
flank. The fly mixtures that are commonly advertised, and applied by
means of a hand-spray, are excellent for keeping the pests away. A good
home mixture to apply at the base of the horns is made of pine tar,
kerosene, and fish oil. Use this in equal parts, and apply with a brush.
=HOVEN.=--See Bloating in Cattle.
=HYDROCEPHALUS.=--See Water in the Brain.
=HYDROPHOBIA=, also called rabies and mad dog, is an infectious disease
caused by some invisible organism. The disease is transmitted from one
animal to another by the bite of an animal which is suffering with the
disease or by direct inoculation. It is more common in the dog than any
other animal, from the fact that dogs run at large and have a tendency
to bite other dogs with which they come in contact while they are
suffering with the disease.
The dog shows two forms, furious and dumb. In the furious form the
animal at first seeks dark places, but is usually restless and will
move from one place to another. This condition lasts for a day or two,
after which time he becomes more restless and may go 30 miles in a day.
He will drink water, eat sticks, stones, and bite other dogs, horses,
and cattle, less often man. This condition will last from one to four
days, and then the dog becomes partly paralyzed, so that he can no
longer swallow, or his legs may be affected, so that he will lie in one
place, and usually dies after a few days longer. In the dumb form, the
animal seeks dark places, is rather restless, the throat and lower jaw
become paralyzed, he is unable to swallow or to close his mouth and,
therefore, cannot bite. Sometimes they will change from one form of
symptoms to the other.
In the horse the symptoms vary somewhat from those in the dog. The horse
is restless, usually violent and will kick and bite, oftentimes showing
sexual excitement. He may break his teeth on the manger and oftentimes
bites his own flesh at the place where he has been bitten by the dog.
The symptoms usually develop in from eight to twenty-eight days after
the animal is bitten, but may not develop for six months. The disease
runs its course in from two to ten days, with a fatal termination.
There is no treatment for the disease after the symptoms have developed.
In case man is bitten he should take the “Pasteur” treatment, which is a
preventive, and it should be taken in a very short time after being
bitten. After the symptoms begin to show it is too late to take
treatment.
=HYDROTHORAX.=--See Water in the Chest.
=IMPACTION OF RUMEN.=--A continued distention of the rumen caused by
large quantities of undigested material lodging in the rumen.
Inflammation often results, with distress and pain manifest. If relief
is not attained the walls of the rumen become paralyzed. Associated with
the disturbances the animal is dull, the left side swollen, the
breathing and pulse increase and the back aches. When lying down, the
left side is always up. In treating, cold water dashed over the back and
loins is recommended. A strong physic of Epsom salts and ginger will aid
in stimulating the secretions and may bring relief. If gas accumulates
so as to threaten the life of the animal, the trocar and canula should
be used. If these are not available, use the knife, as described for
hoven or bloat. In some cases the impaction becomes so pronounced as to
resist ordinary treatment, when extreme measures will be necessary if
the animal is to be saved. Better call your veterinarian and open the
rumen in order to remove the contents with the hand. The operation is as
follows: At the point midway between the point of the hip and the last
rib, and down about four inches from the backbone, an opening is made
large enough to admit the hand. After the opening is made the edges are
stitched to prevent any material from getting between the skin and the
rumen wall. Now remove the greater part of the accumulated material;
this done, the rumen, the muscles and the skin are each in turn
stitched, the wound dressed and the animal given stimulating medicines.
A splendid tonic consists of 4 tablespoonfuls each of ginger, tincture
of gentian and tincture of iron. Give this tonic daily and until the
animal has fully recovered.
=INDIGESTION.=--Failure to digest food with abdominal pains and
indisposition resulting. Bad food and improper management are back of
the trouble in most instances. Mild cases require no treatment. A
light, laxative diet is desirable for stubborn cases. If possible turn
the animals on fresh grass. Jamaica ginger is generally prescribed for
indigestion. Give 8 tablespoonfuls in a pint of warm water three times a
day as a drench. Follow this with condition powders, or some good
digestive tonic. After recovery see that the diet is varied and that
laxative and succulent foods are supplied.
=INFECTIOUS PNEUMONIA.=--As the name indicates, this is an infectious
trouble frequently extending over considerable areas and occurs among
both horses and cattle. It is very similar in its action to ordinary
pneumonia or inflammation of the lungs. However, it does not seem to be
so acute in its action. The same treatment is applied to cases of this
kind as to ordinary pneumonia. When its presence becomes known, it is
wise to remove all healthy animals to some other quarters. This lessens
the danger of infection to healthy animals. After the disease has run
its course, remove all litter and manure from the stables, thoroughly
air out, admit as much sunlight as possible, and disinfect all walls and
floors. A coat of whitewash on the ceiling and walls is desirable. The
floors should be literally wet with disinfectant fluid, which should be
admitted to all cracks and open spaces.
=INFECTIOUS ANEMIA IN HORSES.=--See Swamp Fever.
=INFLAMMATION OF THE BOWELS.=--Sometimes this disease is called
enteritis. It frequently follows severe cases of colic. It is the result
of inflammation caused by indigestible material lodging in the stomach
and intestines of animals. It may, however, result from other things
that irritate the bowels. When first noticed, a general depression
prevails, with signs of pain in the bowels; breathing is quickened and
frequently a chill shows itself. The horse acts very much as if he had a
case of colic. As the disease progresses the pain increases and the
pulse rises. In a few hours the pain becomes very severe and the animal
is in great agony all over; he breathes heavy, the legs and ears are
cold and clammy and the pulse very high. In severe cases the pulse
reaches to 100 and 105 beats a minute. The horse now is very ill indeed.
He shows great weakness. It is very unlikely that he will survive more
than a day or two. The disease usually runs from ten to fifteen hours,
and unless there is a change for the better, death results.
When far advanced there is little likelihood of successful treatment.
Success lies only in early work, taking the disease in time. A
satisfactory drench is made of 4 tablespoonfuls of tincture of laudanum,
10 to 15 drops of tincture of aconite, 1 tablespoonful of common soda,
and 1 tablespoonful of ginger. These are mixed in a pint of warm water
and given as a drench. Repeat this every hour until the animal gets
relief. A mustard plaster gives relief when applied to the belly. A
physic is not considered advisable, as it increases the
inflammation--just what is not wanted at all.
The most rational treatment consists in allaying the pain. Opium in
teaspoonful doses every hour until the pain is relieved is helpful. Some
veterinary practitioners use 10 grains of morphia and 4 tablespoonfuls
of chloral hydrate in syrup and water for each dose. This dose is
repeated every two or three hours until the symptoms abate.
The diet should be carefully watched in diseases of this kind. Bran
mashes made with linseed tea or slippery elm bark are suitable. Boiled
food is better than uncooked food. Good water frequently and in small
quantities is desirable. Skimmed milk is excellent and may be fed for a
week or two at a time. This food often effects a cure without any other
aid.
=INFLAMMATION OF THE LUNGS.=--This is a common disease in farm stock.
The disease occurs most frequently in late fall or winter or early
spring, and is due to exposure while the animal is still warm and hot;
bad ventilation influences it. Authorities now generally believe it to
be a germ disease and infectious. One of the first things noticed is the
shivering of the animal and then a fevered condition; the animal seems
to be hot, then cold; a peculiar breathing is noticed; the pulse
quickens, ranges from 60 to 70 beats a minute; the eyelids on the inside
take a scarlet hue. The animal does not eat, stands up much of the time
with the head down and the ears lopped over; a grating sound is noticed
when the ear is placed to the chest. Frequently distress is experienced
in the bowels; constipation follows and the temperature rises gradually
until it reaches 105 degrees, which is reached about the sixth or
seventh day. If recovery does not follow the appetite will disappear,
the mouth become cold, the breath heavy and disagreeable and the pulse
feeble, frequently not noticeable at all.
After the case assumes a more favorable aspect, an effort should be made
to keep the animal comfortable and in as good condition as possible. It
is therefore advisable to keep it well blanketed, the legs bandaged and
rubbed. The patient should be kept also in a warm stall where good air
is available. Good food that is nourishing and easily digested should be
provided. Sweet milk is good, and raw eggs mixed in the gruel are
excellent also. A compress over the lungs does much good. The compress
should be made out of heavy cloth, frequently rinsed in cold water and
then placed over the lungs where they are covered with heavy, dry
cloths. On recovery, rub the sides of the chest so as to thoroughly dry
the surface. A mustard plaster, after the compress has been removed, is
quite generally used. A stimulating medicine may be given during the
early stages. Use a drench, consisting of 8 tablespoonfuls of whiskey to
4 tablespoonfuls of sweet spirits of niter. If the animal is in very
great distress, give a drench every two or three hours consisting of 8
to 10 drops of Fleming’s tincture of aconite, 2 tablespoonfuls of
laudanum mixed with a pint of cold water.
After the animal is on the road to recovery, stop the use of these
medicines and give a tonic consisting of nitrate of potash or saltpeter
and ground gentian root, half and half. Give a teaspoonful three times a
day. While the animal is sick, a little boiled flaxseed mixed with a
soft food will keep the bowels regular. It is not wise to give
purgatives, hence it is wise to give an injection consisting of warm
soapy water, so as to empty the bowels. From two to four weeks of rest
and care should be allowed for complete recovery.
=INFLUENZA.=--A specific disease of the horse affecting the mucous
membrane of the air passages. When the mucous membrane of the eyelids is
affected, pink eye results. Sometimes the mucous membrane of the
intestines is affected, in which case colic or inflammation of the
bowels results. The common cause is exposure to cold. If no work be
required, plenty of fresh air be supplied, no drafts admitted and
careful nursing otherwise, the disease will run its course in from two
to three weeks and no medicines will be necessary. In cases where
considerable cough prevails, the custom of putting a piece of camphor
about the size of an egg in a pail of boiling water and holding the
horse’s head over it from a quarter to a half hour at a time is to be
commended. The bowels should be kept free and open. Any of the ordinary
purgatives will do. If weakness occurs, give 4 tablespoonfuls each of
tincture of ginger, ground gentian root and sweet spirits of niter in a
half pint of water three times a day. Two tablespoonfuls of nitrate of
potassium given once or twice each day in the drinking water is also
desirable. As the trouble abates, the medicines suggested before may be
dropped and in their place a teaspoonful of sulphate of iron and a
tablespoonful of ground gentian root may be given daily in a bran mash
or oatmeal gruel.
=INTESTINAL WORMS IN HORSES.=--Intestinal worms may be classed as large
and small. The large worms inhabit the small intestines, and the small
ones the large intestines, the larger class of worms being more readily
reached by worm destroyers than are the smaller ones, as the small
intestines begin at the stomach and as remedies leave the stomach, the
worm soon receives the dose prepared for it, while if one dose has to
pass through about 60 feet of intestines before reaching the smaller
worms in the larger intestines, much of the worm remedy is lost by
mingling with the food, and diluted by mixing with the digestive fluids.
Thus what is a remedy for the large species of worms will have little
effect upon the smaller ones.
As a farmer’s dose for the larger species of worms, none, perhaps, is
better than the following: Oil of turpentine, 2 ounces; extract or oil
of male fern, one half ounce, mixed with 4 ounces of castor oil and 8
ounces of pure raw linseed oil, with half a pint of new milk, and given
after the horse has fasted for about 14 hours. Repeat the dose in a
week; then follow with two worm powders, common smoking tobacco, eight
ounces; powdered worm seed, 6 ounces; powdered sulphate of iron, 4
ounces; mix with one-half pound each of salt and granulated sugar. Every
morning before the horse is fed any other food, place a heaping
tablespoonful of the powder in four quarts of wet wheat bran and allow
the horse to eat it; continue for ten days and the horse will be
practically rid of worms of the larger species. Colts should receive
smaller doses in proportion to age.
The small worms need the worm powder to be given in the wheat bran every
morning for fully two weeks. Then follow with an ounce dose of barbadoes
aloes and a tablespoonful of ginger given by mixing with about 12 ounces
of warm water and a gill of common molasses; wait a week and repeat the
powder treatment and follow with the aloes. In a case of the very small
or rectal worms (pin worms) always use rectal injections, a good enema
being made by steeping for two hours one pound of quassia chips in a
gallon of soft water; strain and add two ounces of common hard soap; use
the whole at once, using at about blood temperature after the soap has
dissolved. Repeat in three days and continue as long as worms are being
brought away by the enemas.
=INTESTINAL WORMS IN SHEEP.=--See Stomach and Intestinal Worms in Sheep.
=ITCH.=--See Scab in Cattle.
=JAUNDICE.=--Until of recent date the disease in the human so common at
certain seasons of the year was unknown among animals, or, at least, if
present had never been discovered by the veterinary profession. But be
that as it may, we are now finding it in plenty among horses of all
ages, from colts up to aged horses; very prevalent among sheep, and
quite frequent among cattle. The early writers on veterinary science
usually attributed the cause to gall stones. But that theory can hardly
be tenable in this country, where we find it essentially more prevalent
on low, marshy soils or on the hill lands that have been long unplowed,
where animals are pastured, or hays are cut. The general symptoms of it
are a general dullness, hanging of the head as though it ached, or
pressing the head, if the animal be a bovine or sheep, against the barn
or stall. The tongue will be found dry or covered with a thick, sticky
slime. The membranes of the eyeball of a yellowish cast. In horses the
tongue will usually have a black coating. The appetite in all animals is
capricious. They will eat well one day and scarcely touch food the next.
As a rule, they will manifest great thirst, yet will drink but little.
There are exceptions to this, however. The voidings are not uniform.
Sometime the urine is quite high colored; at other times not. But, as a
rule, it is scanty. The feces are sometimes quite hard and covered with
a shiny slime. At other times there will be extreme looseness of the
evacuations. These last symptoms are to be well considered in using a
treatment when the voidings are hard and slimy. In case it is a horse
that is ailing, a physic of aloes should be given, one ounce being the
dose for a thousand pounds of horse, and two teaspoonfuls of podophylin.
Give this dissolved in water and pour down as a drench, and follow with
a bitter tonic for from two to four weeks, or until the voidings are
normal and all scurf is removed from the tongue. As a tonic for this
none is better than a mixture of powdered gentian root, six ounces,
powdered golden seal 2 ounces, powdered sulphate of iron 4 ounces, well
mixed in 1 pound of common salt. Give in the feed a tablespoonful in
ground oats three times a day, until improvement takes place. Then drop
to twice a day and later once a day. In case of the bowels being very
loose always give a pint dose of a mixture of castor oil 4 ounces, pure
raw linseed oil 12 ounces. Then follow with the tonic powder named. The
symptoms in cattle are quite similar to those of the horse, except the
bovine’s eyes usually discharge some, yet not profusely, and there are
frequently puffy swellings beneath their lower jaws. In case their
bowels are abnormally loose, give the oil as for the horse. If
constipated give from one to two pounds of Epsom salts at one dose as
the physic, with the podophylin added as for the horse, and follow with
the same tonic powder. In the case of sheep, which are by nature
constipated animals, nothing equals a ten-grain dose of calomel,
followed the next day with a four or six-ounce dose of Epsom salts
(sulphate of magnesia), and as sheep are reluctant to eat any tonics in
their feed, we are compelled to pour their medicine down them. Mix
together 4 ounces each of the tincture of gentian, golden seal, ginger
and iron, and give a tablespoonful twice a day in a half pint of water.
But always give the calomel, as it will clean out the liver of a sheep
as no other known agent will. The symptoms are much the same as in
cattle. Begin treatment early or success will not follow.
=KIDNEY WORMS.=--The hog is mostly affected with these worms, although
they have been found in the dog also. Death does not, as a rule, follow
the infestation unless in an aggravated form. Obviously there is no
remedy.
[Illustration: KIDNEY WORMS IN THE HOG
While worms are occasionally found in the kidneys, they do not
frequently cause disease or death.]
=KNEE SPRUNG.=--A condition in which the knees bend forward as the
result of contraction of tendons located along the back of the leg. In
aggravated cases the tendons should be cut. If this is to be done only a
skilled surgeon should be allowed to perform the operation.
=LAMINITIS.=--See Founder.
=LICE.=--Farm animals, especially those housed in stables more or less
infested with insects and vermin, are commonly troubled with lice.
Animals in good health resist the insects, but those already in a
non-thrifty condition do not fare so well. Lice cause a good deal of
annoyance to farm stock, inasmuch as they bite the skin, suck out blood,
and thus cause considerable irritation. Lice can be seen with the naked
eye. Infestation, as a rule, takes place in filthy quarters, and the
best means of disinfecting such places is by the use of a spray of
kerosene. One of the best means of applying this to hogs consists in
rubbing posts, which are constantly smeared with kerosene. In this way
the hogs are induced to treat themselves. Infected hogs may also be
treated by pouring the kerosene directly over the infested parts, like
the neck, shoulder and back. Dipping tanks made of cement or wood are
frequently located in the run-yards, in which is placed some
disinfectant fluid. Hogs use these small tanks as wallows, and in this
way they disinfect themselves.
For horses and cattle a good remedy is made as follows: Boil for an hour
8 tablespoonfuls of arsenic, 8 tablespoonfuls of soda ash and 16
tablespoonfuls of soft soap in two gallons of water. After being
prepared by boiling, add enough water to make two gallons. When cool,
wet the animal all over with a little of it, using a brush or currycomb
to get it into the skin. Another good remedy is made of boiling
stavesacre seeds, 1 part to 20 parts of water, for an hour and let it
simmer for another hour; then add water to make it up to the original
bulk. This applied to the affected parts brings quick relief. It is
advisable to repeat the application in a week or ten days, so as to
catch any new lice from any eggs that were not caught by the first
application. A very common treatment is secured by mixing a pint of
linseed oil, 8 tablespoonfuls of oil of tar, and 8 tablespoonfuls of
sulphur. This is then rubbed on the affected parts once a day for two
days and allowed to remain for a few days, after which it is washed off
with soap and water. In serious cases, the application should be
repeated within a week or so.
=LIVER FLUKES.=--These are parasites usually found in the liver or its
ducts. At times they are present in great numbers, giving rise to a
serious disease called liver rot. When the fertilized eggs are
discharged in the excrement of diseased animals and fall in fresh water
they hatch out and are taken into the body by sheep and cattle, either
in the food or drink. In a short time thereafter they have entrenched
themselves in the liver of cattle or sheep.
[Illustration: LIVER FLUKE]
A few liver flukes in an animal causes little trouble, as the injury is
largely mechanical anyway. No peculiar symptoms are conspicuous when
only a few flukes are present. The greatest damage is done when hundreds
of flukes develop in a single individual. In these cases the flow of the
bike is checked. As result the health becomes impaired and the usual
penalties of malnutrition follow. Swelling of the jaws and diarrhœa are
often noticed in connection with the disease.
When the host is badly infected with the flukes and in a badly run-down
condition the trouble is always serious, and medicinal treatment is of
little real value. Tonics and good food may be given to help along--but
death usually follows. Salt is helpful as the flukes are sensitive to
it. If an animal that has succumbed to the disease be examined, the
liver will be observed to be fairly rotten as a result of the inroads of
the parasites.
Treatment is in line of prevention only. Clean, pure fresh water, free
of the eggs or the parasites, is necessary if the trouble is to be
eradicated. The old ponds, ordinarily filled with stagnant water, should
be drained. They harbor many bad parasites, and their harm is far beyond
their value. When water for sheep and cattle is taken from pure streams
or wells the trouble from liver flukes and other parasites is reduced to
a minimum.
=LOCKJAW.=--This disease, very frequently called tetanus, is an
infectious disease in which the body muscles are spasmodically
contracted or stiffened. The muscles that move the jaw are frequently
affected and the animal is unable to open the mouth. Because of this
condition the disease is commonly known as lockjaw.
The spread of the disease does not occur through healthy animals coming
in contact with animals having tetanus, but by inoculation. The germ of
tetanus is present in the soil, manure and dust. It enters the body by
way of wounds, especially punctured and bruised wounds. The injury may
result from stepping on a nail, and the germs are planted in the deeper
structures of the foot. Such a wound usually has poor drainage, the horn
of the hoof closing the mouth or opening. Here the germs grow and
produce a poisonous toxin that is said to be the most powerful produced
by any bacteria. This toxin acts on the nerve centers of the brain and
spinal cord, causing extensive spasmodic contraction of the body
muscles.
Tetanus sometimes occurs in the absence of any noticeable wound. It may
be in such cases that the seat of the infection is a slight abrasion of
the skin, or the lining membranes of the respiratory and digestive
tracts. The tetanus bacillus is a slender, spore-producing bacterium.
The spore is located at one end of the rod in the form of a round head,
that gives the organism a pin shape, hence the name of pin bacillus. It
is very resistant to outside conditions and the action of the chemical
disinfectants. It is because of its ability to resist the action of
disinfectants and the fact that it develops best when protected or
covered by the tissues and wound secretions, that this disease so often
follows ordinary wound treatment.
[Illustration: LOCKJAW
Note the rigid, tense position of the muscles.]
From a few days to several weeks may lapse from the time of infection
with the germs until the development of the stiffness and spasms.
Sometimes the wound by which the organism has entered the tissues has
healed before the symptoms of tetanus are manifested. In case the
symptoms develop a few days after the inoculation the disease is severe
or acute in form, and less violent or subacute if the symptoms are
manifested after the second week. The above statement does not hold true
in all cases, but it may be considered true in a general way.
Of the domestic animals the horse is the most commonly affected. The
symptoms shown by this animal are very characteristic. Any person that
has had the opportunity to see and examine a horse suffering from
tetanus should have no trouble in recognizing the disease in other
animals.
=The Characteristic Symptom= is the spasmodic contraction of the
muscles. This may vary in the different individuals, depending on the
susceptibility of the animal and the quantity of poisonous toxin present
in the system. There is at first a slight stiffness of the muscles of
the back, neck, head, and limbs, and the animal is more nervous than
common. A noise in the stable or a slap with the hand may increase the
stiffness and contractions temporarily. The contracted condition of the
muscles of the eye, are, perhaps, the most noticeable early in the
disease. These muscles pull the eyeball backwards, the fatty cushion is
pressed on and the third eyelid protrudes, covering at times from
one-third to two-thirds of the front part of the eye. In the severe form
of the disease the muscles feel hard, especially those of the back and
neck, and the animal moves with difficulty. In addition to the muscular
symptoms, the respiration and pulse beats are quickened and the body
temperature higher than normal. The evidence of suffering from the
contracted condition of the muscles is very marked, and, unless
supported in some way, the animal may fall to the floor. If the symptoms
develop a few days after infection, the animal usually dies. The acute
form is very fatal, but in the mild or subacute form the chance for
making a recovery is good.
=Tetanus Is a Preventable Disease.= It may be largely prevented by the
careful disinfection of wounds, and the use of anti-tetanic serum. In
most localities the proper treatment of the wound is a sufficient
preventive measure, but in localities and stables where the disease is
common the anti-tetanic serum should be used. Ordinary cleansing of a
wound, as practiced by most stockmen, is not sufficient to destroy the
bacillus of tetanus. The wound must be carefully cleaned, disinfected
and prepared for healing. This should be kept in mind when treating a
wound, and instead of using an agent that we know little about, we
should secure reliable information regarding the different commercial
disinfectants and methods of caring for wounds. That class known as tar
disinfectants is most commonly used. The better grade belonging to this
class should be used.
If anti-tetanic serum is used, it should be injected as soon after the
injury has occurred as possible. The injection is made hypodermically,
usually beneath the skin on the side of the neck. Large doses of
anti-tetanic serum given after the symptoms have developed may assist
recovery. However, in the severe form of the disease this treatment is
uncertain.
When the animal comes down with the disease, it should be made as
comfortable as possible. The quarters should be roomy, quiet, clean, and
well ventilated. It is advisable to support the horse with a sling
unless the animal is worried or made nervous by it. This prevents his
becoming tired and falling down. We should give the animal the best of
care in the way of regulating the diet, etc., but should avoid annoying
it by our attention. Medicinal treatment is of little benefit and should
be given a secondary place. In fact, dosing the animal with medicine,
especially if large doses are given, may do more harm than good in the
treatment of this disease.
=LOCO DISEASE.=--The word loco is a Spanish word, and means crazy. Loco
disease is a disease of the brain and nervous system, especially of
horses and cattle, but may also affect other animals. It results from
eating any one of a number of poisonous plants called loco which grow
upon the dry, sandy prairies of some parts of the Western United States.
In winter and early spring, when there is little or no grass, some
animals acquire an appetite for this plant, and soon refuse all other
kinds of food. When addicted to the weed an animal loses flesh rapidly,
the eyesight becomes affected--often it has no knowledge of
distance--and frequently when made to step over a board or rail will
jump over it as though it were several feet high. Later, in the course
of the disease, the brain becomes more affected and the animal acts more
or less crazy, at times quite violent, at others depressed and dull.
Should the animal live through the first attack it may linger for months
or even years, but it usually dies as a result of the attack. Frequently
some peculiar “foolish” habit follows the animals through life. Some
have a nervous fit when excited or warmed up, others will not lead and
some you cannot drive at all. There is no cure for the trouble. All that
can be done is to prevent the habit from being formed or by removing the
animal from temptation and furnishing wholesome, nutritious food.
=LUMPY JAW.=--See Actinomycosis.
=LUNGS, CONGESTION OF.=--A filling of the lungs with blood. This is very
common with horses in winter and is most frequently due to a chill.
Animals that have been put to heavy work, or are in a weakened
condition, are frequently susceptible if left standing in a draft while
still warm. Sluggishness is noticed, first followed by trembling at the
flank, heavy breathing; the pulse will be noted as quick, but weak; a
gurgling sound will be noted if the ear is placed against the chest. The
best treatment is such as gives quick relief. If at work, place the
horse at rest at once in the stable and cover with blanket. Have plenty
of fresh air admitted, but do not allow a draft to blow over the
patient. Assist circulation as much as possible by rubbing of the legs
and apply cold pad to the chest. A mustard plaster applied over the
chest is very good. A good drench consists of alcohol in 2 ounce doses,
well diluted in water; at the same time another drench consisting of 4
tablespoonfuls of sweet spirits of niter and 2 tablespoonfuls of
laudanum, mixed with a pint of water, is also very good. If the
conditions indicate that the lungs are full of blood, add 10 drops of
Fleming’s tincture of aconite to the drench. The drenches may be given
two or three hours apart until relief comes, at which time quiet is
advised, although a little gentle walking for exercise is advisable.
From this time on treat the animal as a patient, giving easily digested
foods. A tonic consisting of ground gentian root and nitrate of potash,
half and half, is excellent. Give a teaspoonful of this in the feed
three times a day.
=LUNG FEVER.=--See Inflammation of the Lungs.
=LUNG WORMS IN LAMBS AND CALVES.=--It has been proven in years gone by
that the common spirits of turpentine, when mixed with salt in
proportions of a gill of turpentine to four quarts of common fine salt
and placed in a covered box so constructed that sheep and calves can get
their head in and eat the salt (yet the salt be protected from the
weather), will practically prevent an infection. Some have advised the
mixing of a half pint of sublimed sulphur with the salt and turpentine.
There can be no objection to the sulphur when added in the proportions
named. This remedy is not a cure but a preventive. In fact there is no
cure, as these worms are in the bronchial tubes and lungs, where no worm
destroyer can reach them directly. But when the lamb or calf daily
partakes of even a few drops of turpentine, the whole system becomes, to
an extent, infected with the turpentine, and as the young worms come
into existence, their home in the lungs becomes a very unhealthy home
for them and they fail to mature. In some cases mature worms have been
removed by injecting a mixture of turpentine, chloroform and olive oil
into the windpipe, using about a teaspoonful of this mixture. Its effect
is to stupefy the worms that it touches, and they may be coughed out by
the suffering lamb or calf. The fumes of burning sulphur has also been
advised by some veterinarians. But both remedies are as liable to kill
as cure, and are by no means always successful. The farmer’s business
should be to prevent, not cure, diseases of this class; therefore
prepare the salt box.
[Illustration: LYMPHANGITIS
This kind of inflammation is usually seen in the hind legs. It is most
frequent in heavy draft horses, or in coarse plethoric individuals. It
occurs most frequently after a short period of idleness.]
=LYMPHANGITIS.=--An inflammation of the lymphatics, usually of the hind
legs. Hence the name “big legs.” It is the result of too rich feeding,
and too little work in many cases on the one hand, or of overwork and
insufficient food on the other. Lymphangitis often follows other
diseases like distemper, influenza, or pneumonia, in which cases the
system is weakened and the lymphatics in abnormal condition. It shows
itself after a short period of idleness and rest. It usually begins with
a chill and a rise of temperature, which may be as much as 105 degrees,
depending on the intensity of the attack. One or both hind legs may show
swelling and be so stiff and sore after standing during the night as to
be moved only with difficulty when the horse is taken out of the stable
in the morning. The horse in moving seems able to bear little or no
weight on the affected leg. At the same time, the pulse is full and
throbby, respiration is fast, the bowels are constipated and the
appetite is lost.
In some cases the legs swell to an enormous size. If the inflammation is
not relieved in a few days, the glands get badly diseased and blood
poison may result. The disease, however, if taken in time, is easily
treated. If it is caused by overfeeding, change this; give more
exercise. When the disease is first noticed, give the horse 4
tablespoonfuls of aloes, 4 tablespoonfuls of carbonate of soda and 4
tablespoonfuls of ginger. These should be dissolved in a half pint of
boiling water, then mixed with a half pint of cold water, and then given
as a drench. If the pulse is fast, it may be made easier and slower by
giving 20 to 30 drops of tincture of aconite, every couple of hours. A
couple of tablespoonfuls of nitrate of potash in the drinking water
three times a day will increase the urine. This is desirable to do in
this disease. The leg should be bathed for at least a half an hour and
then dried and a wash consisting of 2 tablespoonfuls of acetate of
lead, 8 tablespoonfuls of tincture of opium, and a quart of water should
be applied to the legs. This should be rubbed in well with the hand
every hour. In from 20 to 30 hours, a great change for the better will
be noticed the inflammation will have been reduced; the pain will have
disappeared and the bowels will be loose and active.
From now on give general exercise at frequent periods, during the day.
In cases caused by overwork or too little food or those following
debilitating diseases, like influenza or distemper, the treatment should
be more stimulating; therefore, nutritive foods and tonics are best.
Good hay and oats and other feed of a laxative nature should be
furnished.
A preparation, consisting of 4 tablespoonfuls, each, of tincture
chloride of iron, tincture of gentian, and ginger in a pint of water
three times a day will be found both stimulating and nourishing. If the
disease has progressed so far that the legs break and show that matter
is formed, wash them with warm water and follow with acetate of lead,
sulphate of iron and carbolic acid. Use 2 tablespoonfuls of each in a
quart of water and apply twice each day. If the swelling hangs on use
Fowler’s solution of arsenic, 4 tablespoonfuls to a dose in a bran mash
once a day. Continue this for four or five weeks. A salve made of 2
teaspoonfuls of iodide and 8 tablespoonfuls of vaseline should also be
rubbed on the leg twice a week.
=MAD DOG.=--See Hydrophobia.
=MAGGOTS.=--The grubs of the ordinary flesh-flies so common about
stables and houses. The adult fly deposits the minute larvæ in fresh
meat, in wounds, and frequently in dirty wool. These become the maggots
so well known about the farm. The distress caused by these when present
in a wound is considerable, and they endanger life.
The best treatment is in line of cleanliness. Keep old wounds clean by
means of antiseptic washes and tag the sheep that no filth and dirt may
accumulate. If for any reason maggots are found, open the infected part
and remove, if possible, both the maggots and sloughed tissue. Old sores
or wounds, if they will not lend themselves to complete removal of the
maggots, should be treated with a solution of carbolic acid and water.
On some, turpentine can be used. Chloroform may be sprayed on, or
injected into the wound with almost instant results. After the maggots
are destroyed follow up the treatment with a good disinfectant until the
wound has healed.
=MALLENDERS.=--An eruption of the skin above the feet in horses. The
disease at first is very much like eczema. In time the watery fluid
dries up and the sore parts become covered with hard crusts and scabs.
The sore spots should be washed with some good disinfectant and repeated
frequently enough to destroy the infection. A moderate purge is
advisable. See that only wholesome food is provided.
=MAMMITIS.=--Inflammation of the mammary gland or udder. The disease is
frequently called caked bag and garget. In the last named, the milk
secretion is altered and appears as a thick or a stringy fluid. Heavy
milkers are most commonly affected. The udder becomes swollen, hot and
somewhat tender just before calving. The swelling may extend forward
along the belly. It often gets so severe as to require treatment. It is
in this sense physiological. In a few days after calving, as a rule, the
swelling disappears and the normal condition is regained more quickly
if the calf is allowed to suck the cow. In the first stages bloody milk
is secreted and often pus is formed in one quarter or more of the udder.
The udder should be carefully milked, cleaned, and, if the milk ducts
are closed, it may be necessary to use a milk tube. This should be used
cautiously so as not to injure the tissue of the udder and should be
perfectly clean before inserting, otherwise serious inflammation may
result. In bathing, use hot water for 15 to 20 minutes at a time, after
which rub dry and apply an ointment made by dissolving 3 tablespoonfuls
of gum camphor and 4 tablespoonfuls of fluid extract of belladonna to a
pint of clean, fresh lard. This ointment should be applied three times a
day.
A more serious form of the disease is known as contagious mammitis, and
is due to invasion of the gland by bacteria. In cases of this kind the
inflammation is more extensive and the disorder calls for more careful
treatment. Since the milk contains bad bacteria, it is necessary to
destroy them so as to prevent spreading of the disease. The milker
should have clean hands and should wash them in a disinfecting solution
before milking another cow. The milk tube may be necessary in
withdrawing the milk. After the milk has been removed from the udder,
inject a solution of peroxide of hydrogen or dioxygen or a solution of
carbolic acid, 1 part to 50 parts of boiled water. After the solution
has acted for a few minutes, it should be milked out. The external
treatment for contagious mammitis should be similar to that of ordinary
mammitis.
=MANGE.=--See Scab in Cattle.
=MILK FEVER.=--It is a remarkable fact that this disease occurs most
commonly in cows which calved easily. This is explained by the fact
that in such cases the os uteri remains relaxed for a greater length of
time than it does in cases of difficult parturition. Milk fever
generally occurs in cows which are heavy milkers, and great eaters.
Keeping the animals in permanent stables, and feeding large quantities
of rich food while they are giving no milk are predisposing causes.
The disease makes its appearance usually in from 24 to 48 hours after
parturition. It seldom occurs after the third day, and some authors
state that it has never been recognized before the starting of the milk
secretion. The most salient symptoms to the average layman would,
perhaps, be the anxious expression of the animal, bellowing and mounting
into the manger. Later they become very weak, stagger and fall, and are
unable to rise. The members are usually extended in a rigid position. A
rattling or whistling noise is heard in case the larynx is paralyzed.
The feet, ears and horns feel cold to the touch. When a case is going to
recover we see improvement as early as the second or third day. Recovery
is usually complete at the end of from two to five days.
Milk fever is one of the cases where the old maxim, an ounce of
prevention is worth a pound of cure, is doubly applicable. If proper
precautions were taken a large number of cases could be prevented. Give
the pregnant animals daily exercise, and decrease their allowance of
food.
=Treatment Very Simple.=--Make the cow comfortable. Now give her a small
dose of Epsom salts from one-half to one pound, depending on her size.
This should be given as a drench. Animals afflicted with this ailment
swallow with difficulty. Use care that the drench does not get into the
lungs. Perhaps the most satisfactory medical treatment is to use what
is known as the Schmidt treatment. This is nothing more than injecting
into the udder a solution made by dissolving in one quart of clean
boiled water 3 teaspoonfuls of iodide of potash, after stripping all
milk from the udder. A very satisfactory way is to get a rubber tube,
attach it to a common milking tube which is placed into the teats in
turn and pour the solution into the tube by means of a funnel. By
massaging the udder the solution can be worked into each quarter in a
short time without difficulty.
In case iodide of potash is not available, inject air into the udder
after drawing out the milk. I have known of many cases where air has
been forced into the udder by means of a bicycle pump, and the animal
recovered in a very short time. If the disease does not respond to the
treatment with readiness, repeat in a few hours, say, anywhere from five
to ten hours after. Cold water or ice on the head is advisable. The use
of stimulants is also recommended. Whiskey can be given in doses of 10
to 15 tablespoonfuls and jamaica ginger 6 to 8 tablespoonfuls. Milk the
cow frequently and massage the udder, bathing in hot water.
After the cow is on the way to recovery, withhold milk-stimulating foods
for a few days and give some tonic like gentian and nux vomica, half and
half, 2 or 3 tablespoonfuls two or three times a day.
=MONDAY MORNING SICKNESS.=--See Azoturia.
=NASAL GLEET.=--When a cold or simple catarrh is neglected it may run
into a chronic condition giving rise to nasal gleet. A thin, bluish
discharge comes from the nose; and the membranes of the nostrils,
instead of being moist and pink in color, take on a leaden hue. The
coat at the same time shows unthriftiness. In such cases the face and
head may swell because the accumulated materials fail to pass out. When
these bunches are tapped with the fingers, a dull sound is heard.
Treatment consists of isolating the animals and giving them good care,
nutritious food and well-ventilated quarters. A bucket, filled with
boiling water, in which a half cup of turpentine is placed, and held
under the nose to steam the nostrils and face, is excellent. Any sort of
blanketing that will hold the steam about the head is very good to have
at hand at the time. For internal treatment give a teaspoonful of
sulphate of copper three times daily in a small bran mash; following
this drop the copper sulphate and give 2 tablespoonfuls of Fowler’s
solution of arnica twice a day in the mash. Should the bulges on the
face become large, it will be necessary to open them. Often a part of
the bone requires sawing out to get effective results. In these severe
cases it is best to have your veterinarian make the operation.
=NAVICULAR DISEASE.=--A disease of the navicular bone and the structures
surrounding it. It is called “coffin joint lameness.” This bone is
situated at the back and inferior part of the coffin joint, and acts as
a pulley over which the flexor tendon of the foot passes. Horses with
upright pasterns are most liable to it, as more weight is thrown on this
joint. Those shod with calkins on their shoes, which prevent the frog
from coming in contact with the ground, therefore causing a shock to
this joint, are also very liable to it. Some horses have hereditary
tendency to this disease. Nails penetrating too deep through the sole,
or anything that will cause inflammation of this joint, is likely to
produce navicular disease. The most prolific cause is bad shoeing. By
degrees the inflammation in a chronic form extends to other parts,
causing a shrinking of the soft parts, resulting in contraction of the
foot.
The lameness may appear suddenly and perhaps immediately after the horse
has been shod, and is then usually thought to be the fault of nailing on
the shoe. It is likely in this case that the smith has pared the sole
and frog too thin, and that the part has suffered from a bruise by the
horse stepping on something hard. After a rest it may disappear, to
return after the next drive. Sometimes the disease is of very slow
progress in one or both fore feet. The first thing that is noticed is
that the animal points its toe, and if both are affected, first one,
then the other. The animal may not be lame, but it does not step out so
well as it used to, and by degrees the part gets more tender, until the
animal begins to go lame, and the lameness gradually gets worse. There
is a form of this lameness where the animal shows stiffness and lameness
when first taken out of the stable, but, after being driven for a short
distance, it passes off, and after it stands for awhile it will start
off lame again. If this disease lasts for some time the muscles of the
chest and shoulders seem stiff and may shrink. This has been called
“chest founder” by horsemen. This is brought about by the soreness of
the feet. The horse is afraid to step out, giving it the appearance of
being stiff; the muscles of the chest and shoulders will shrink from
want of proper action, caused by the feet being sore. If there is heat
and tenderness in the hollow of the heel or a redness of the sole, and
an absence of any other disease of the foot or leg, we may consider
with almost a certainty that it is a case of navicular or coffin joint
lameness. The result is contraction of the foot.
Take off the shoes, so that the frog will rest on the ground, then
poultice the feet with bran, made up with cold water if it is a recent
case, but if it is of some months’ standing hot water is better than
cold; put the poultices into bags made a little larger than the foot;
put about two inches deep of the bran mash into the bag, then put the
foot in and fill in all around as high as the fetlock, and tie the bag
above the fetlock and around the ankle to keep it well on the foot. Wet
this several times a day and change it once daily. Continue this for two
weeks, and see that it is properly done; if not, it will be of no
service. Then blister the coronet with cantharides 2 teaspoonfuls and
lard 4 tablespoonfuls. Repeat in three weeks, and give the animal a long
rest.
=NITS.=--See Bot Flies.
=NODULAR DISEASE IN SHEEP.=--Nodules resembling those of tuberculosis
found in the intestines of sheep, are due to the presence of parasitic
worms. Profuse diarrhœa and a pronounced anemic condition prevail. A
post mortem examination of the intestines discloses the presence of
numerous nodules in the intestinal walls. If the worm is present, no
treatment is possible, for the reason that any medicine that would
affect the worm would also affect the tissues and lead to their
destruction. Prevention, therefore, is the only means of overcoming the
disease. Sheep must be kept off infested pastures, and infested pastures
must be plowed and given over to cultivated crops. Give lambs only clean
pastures to graze over. This means crop rotation in connection with
sheep husbandry. No feed that has been tramped over by infected sheep
should ever be supplied to lambs or sheep not infested with the disease.
=OBSTETRICS.=--Difficult parturition is common in some females. And
frequently others, less bothered as a rule with any difficulty at this
period, deliver their offspring only after great labor and much
difficulty. When such cases occur close vigilance not only frequently
hastens delivery, but often saves the life of either the mother or
offspring or both.
[Illustration: NATURAL PRESENTATION OF THE FOAL
In either of these cases delivery follows in the usual order without
delay or injury to the mother.]
In many instances the trouble is seated in the womb; the neck of the
womb remains closed, and even though long-continued and vigorous efforts
are made, the offspring does not arrive. In cases of this kind
assistance can be rendered which quickly removes the difficulty. First
oil the hand and forearm and work the fingers into the passage, gently
pressing it open. If the womb does not yield to this treatment saturate
a sponge or cloth with extract of belladonna and rub it around the neck,
leaving it thus for a little while. On removing the sponge the passage
will open.
=Manner of Delivery.=--The natural position of the fetus at birth calls
for the fore feet forward with the head resting on the knees. The fore
feet, therefore, in a normal delivery, are first presented and then the
head. If the fetus is not unduly large, the mother will likely force the
delivery without assistance. In case the struggle is extended gentle
assistance will be in order. This can be rendered by a gentle pull on
the legs and head. If this does not bring the offspring, you can
consider that something is wrong. However, do not be hasty, just give
time. Mares usually deliver in a few minutes and cows often require an
hour or so after labor begins. If you conclude that something is wrong
oil the hand and arm. Shove the fetus back and ascertain, if possible,
the trouble. If this examination shows dropsy of the abdomen--water in
the belly--puncture the abdomen with a knife in order that the fetus may
be delivered. If the trouble is with the head--water in the
brain--puncture the head that the water may run out, and then remove the
arm and hand. When the struggle pains come on again, give a gentle pull
and delivery will follow.
Frequently the position is changed. Sometimes but one fore foot appears
with the head, making it impossible to deliver the offspring. When a
case like this occurs, shove the fetus back and bring the unpresented
leg forward where it belongs, and then likely no further trouble will
result. If the legs are in proper place but the head turned backward, it
will be necessary to push the fetus back into the womb and bring the
head forward in position. In case the head resists your efforts, adjust
a noose over the head, and while you work with your hand inside, have an
assistant gently pull on the rope, in order to draw the head into the
proper position. After the head and fore feet are put in natural
position, delivery will follow without further difficulty.
When all four feet appear together it is necessary to push the fore feet
back into the womb just as far as it is possible to force them. This
done, pull now on the hind feet and bring the fetus out, hind feet
first. It is always a mistake to attempt delivery with the head first
when delivery has proceeded as suggested in cases of this nature.
[Illustration: ABNORMAL PRESENTATION OF THE FOAL
Delivery is not possible in either of the cases here illustrated. Where
such occur assistance must be rendered. See article on obstetrics for
treatment.]
Where delivery is attempted with the hind legs foremost, it is regarded
as safe, provided the feet come out as they should. If any difficulty is
encountered, shove the fetus back, straighten the legs, and then with
the renewal of the labor struggles assist the mother by a gentle pull on
the hind legs.
Another common presentation is where you feel nothing but the tail, rump
and hips. Adjust the fetus for proper delivery by shoving the hind end
upwards and towards the front of the womb, then slip the hand down and
get hold of the foot of the hind leg and lift upwards and backwards
until the legs are brought out into the passage. Now repeat the work for
the other leg and the job is done.
It is always a good plan, after difficult parturition, especially when
any abnormal discharge appears, to wash out the womb with warm water in
which a little carbolic acid or creolin is placed. Use this daily for a
few days.
=PALISADE WORM.=--The worms are found in the horse in two periods of
existence. The mature worms are usually found attached to the mucous
membrane of the intestinal wall of the large intestine, with the head
sunk deep for the purpose of sucking blood, which gives them the brown
or red color. The immature are found sometimes in the same organs, in a
small capsule covering, in small pellets of manure, in cavities or
cysts, varying in size from a pin-head to that of a hazel nut, in the
walls of the intestines, and also in the arteries and other structures
of the body.
When present in the kidneys or in the arteries leading to the kidneys,
or in the surrounding tissues, a horse is especially sensitive to
pressure over the loins. They have been known to cause paralysis. When
found in the brain, an animal, when working, suddenly begins to stagger,
the eyes become fixed, and the horse shows many of the symptoms of
“blind staggers.” When the large arteries of the abdomen are affected,
and this is their favorable location in the circulatory system, the
animal is frequently subject to colic, which often results in death.
This is also the case when found in great numbers in the intestines.
From a thorough investigation of a great many cases, both before and
after death, the conclusions are drawn that the parasite evolves a
poisonous substance (toxin), which, in many instances, stupefies the
brain or parts of the nervous system of the horse, and in that way
causes coma, paralysis and death of the animal.
Prevention is the best treatment. Hay and fodder from swampy land are to
be looked upon as suspicious. Pastures which are subject to overflow
should be avoided. Medicinal treatment consists of a prolonged, careful
use of some of the essential oils or other vermifuges. The ordinary
spirits of turpentine has proved a fairly good common remedy. An
ordinary animal will stand 8 tablespoonfuls of turpentine given in a
pint to a quart of raw linseed oil, thoroughly mixed. If the animal is
badly affected, the above dose may be given night and morning for two or
three days, then omit for a week or two and repeat. The remedy should be
discontinued as soon as the animal shows signs of irritation of the
kidneys.
=PARALYSIS.=--A loss of power over some of the muscles due to a
disordered state of the brain or nerves. This may result from disease or
injury or some irritation. In horses and cattle the hindquarters are not
infrequently affected in this way, the result of indigestion from
constipation or from attacks of colic. The animal shows weakness in one
hind limb, moving it with difficulty when the opposite limb may then
become affected. If the attack is very severe, the animal falls on its
haunches and may not be able to rise. Temperature, pulse and
respiration, all are rather normal. Treatment should be directed to
remove the cause of the disease. When there is colic or constipation,
give purges. A half teaspoonful of extract of nux vomica, given in a
pint of milk twice a day, is very good. Pouring cold water from a
height and then immediately hot water sometimes greatly strengthens the
muscles and has its use in treating. Rubbing the parts with mustard
stimulates them, and in some cases good results. Paralysis resulting
from injury usually disappears as the part returns to its normal state.
=PARASITES.=--These are living plants or animals that live temporarily
or continually in the bodies of other plants or animals and draw their
nourishment from their host. It is doubtful if there is a single farm
animal that does not harbor parasites at nearly all times during its
life. There may be many of these in the same individual at the same
time. Parasites may be harmful or not, as the case may be. Parasites may
be divided into two classes--plant parasites and animal parasites. The
bacteria and molds are the most important among the former, whereas in
the latter certain minute protozoa, certain forms of insects and certain
worms are the most commonly met. Such diseases as staggers,
tuberculosis, and typhoid fever are the result of bacterial diseases,
while Texas fever is an example of the protozoa class; and then the
insects and worms are types with which we are all acquainted. When a
disease is caused by either, discussion will be found under the name of
that disease.
=PARTURIENT APOPLEXY.=--See Milk Fever.
=PARTURITION, DIFFICULT.=--See Obstetrics.
=PERITONITIS.=--An inflammation of the membrane which lines the
abdominal cavity and which also invests the abdominal organs. It may be
caused from some exposure to cold after some weakening disease. Some
injury to the abdomen or belly may cause it, or it may start from some
inflammation that has attacked the stomach, liver, intestines, or the
spleen. When attacked, a slight pain is felt and the animal lies down,
stretches himself, sweats freely, and moans. Then he rises, walks about
somewhat, and all the time breathes heavy and shows much weakness. The
pulse runs up between 75 and 100 beats a minute. In time the legs and
ears get cold. A good treatment is a pint of raw linseed oil, 4
tablespoonfuls of laudanum, and 10 drops of aconite. Mix these and give
as a drench. A mustard plaster for the abdomen and something hot for the
back are desirable. In two hours, if the pain continues, give 4
tablespoonfuls of laudanum and 10 drops aconite in a pint of lukewarm
water. Use as a drench.
=PINK EYE.=--A contagious epidemic disease of the horse affecting the
animal all over and particularly the membranes of the air passages.
There is general debility, considerable cough, and a general discharge
from the nostrils. The transparent covering of the eyeball becomes
inflamed. At times the disease is very fatal, many horses succumbing to
it. It is most common in the spring.
One of the symptoms is the general weakness of the animal. He hangs his
head, and trembles; has little appetite and appears cold. The eyes show
a watery discharge and later a stare coat. The pulse at first is weak,
but quick, and later rising to 80 or 90 beats a minute. At this stage
the temperature is high, around 103 to 105 degrees. The breathing is
accelerated to about 50 times a minute. The bowels do not act, or act
very poorly, and the urine is very scanty. In treating, first isolate
the animal and disinfect the stables to prevent spreading. Any of the
common disinfectants will do.
Good nursing is necessary. Keep the horse warm with blankets. Give him
soft, nourishing food. The eyes should be bathed three or four times a
day with hot water. A little boric acid, say, a teaspoonful to a half
pint of water, is good to use as a wash for the eyes and nostrils. To
keep the kidneys active and to reduce the fever, give a tablespoonful of
nitrate of potash dissolved in water two or three times a day. If the
horse is very weak, one-half glass of whiskey in a pint of gruel three
times a day is stimulating and helpful. It is better not to give any
physic of any kind. After recovery, the horse should be given little or
no work. A long rest of several weeks is necessary.
=PLACENTA.=--The covering of the fetus, commonly called the afterbirth.
As a rule, this comes away with the birth of the offspring. Occasionally
in the cow it remains attached to the walls of the uterus, and if not
removed will cause trouble, if not sickness and death. Soon after the
birth of the calf, if the afterbirth remains, decomposition sets in and
as a result the system is more or less poisoned. The first symptoms
observed are the offensive odor, the reddish discharge and the decrease
in the milk flow.
If the afterbirth does not come away of itself, assistance is necessary.
Do this during the first or second day, or the third day at the latest.
To remove the afterbirth, tie up the cow and fasten her in a way that
she cannot jump around. Now introduce the hand and arm, after careful
washing and disinfecting and oiling, into the uterus and gradually and
gently break the buttons or attachments from the walls of the uterus
with the fingers. With patience these will come away and the whole
membrane be removed. An occasional injection is advisable. Use some good
disinfectant in the water, flush out thoroughly.
=PLEURISY.=--This disease occurs in the chest cavity and is found inside
the ribs and over the lungs. It is caused very much in the same way as
inflammation of the lungs, like exposure to cold, standing in a draft,
and cooling when warm. Some injury to the ribs may also cause the
trouble.
In the early stages the animal is noticed to shiver, the pulse is quick
and strong, and there is great pain. The breath is heavy, and this is
noticed as far back as the flanks. While the animal may lie down, its
disposition is to stand up most of the time. There is an inclination to
cough, but this is suppressed, because of the pain occasioned by it;
therefore the cough really ends in a groan rather than in a normal
cough. The extremities of the body become cold.
The best treatment endeavors to prevent the disease from developing. Do
just as you would in a case of inflammation of the lungs. Mustard
plasters for the chest on each side are good. Keep the body well
covered, including the legs and neck; have good ventilation in the
stable, but keep the patient out of any draft.
As soon as the disease is noticed, mix the following in a pint of cold
water, and give as a drench: Ten drops of aconite, a half teaspoonful of
belladonna and two tablespoonfuls of laudanum. These should be given
every two hours until the pain subsides. If the animal seems to be weak,
and needs a stimulant, give 4 tablespoonfuls of spirits of niter and a
half glass of whiskey. This may be given in a pint of cold water mixed
with the gruel and given as a drench three or four times a day.
At the same time use the following medicine to improve the kidney
action: One-fourth pound of saltpeter or nitrate of potash and
one-fourth of a pound of gentian root. These are to be mixed well
together and a teaspoonful given three or four times daily. Soft foods
are desirable. A small amount of water should be given frequently. Small
quantities at a time are preferable to large quantities at infrequent
intervals.
=PLEURO-PNEUMONIA.=--This is a very contagious disease of cattle
introduced in this country from Europe. At one time it was a very
serious menace to the cattle industry. Thanks to the very aggressive
work of the United States Department of Agriculture, the disease has, so
far as is known, been eradicated from this country. No cases of the
disease have been reported during the past dozen years.
=PNEUMONIA.=--See Inflammation of the Lungs.
=POLL EVIL.=--A swelling or soreness at the top of the head. Usually it
is caused by an injury, like bumping the head in a doorway, or from a
bruise made by the halter or bridle. It is first noticed by a swelling
or soreness, which frequently causes trouble by forming an abscess;
sometimes this works down and even affects the bone. Treatment is very
simple if handled in time. Remove the cause and then bathe with warm
water and vinegar twice a day and apply a liniment of some kind. If the
abscess is formed, it should be opened with a knife at the lowest point
to remove the matter. From now on for a few days bathe the opening with
warm water in which has been added some carbolic acid or creolin. If the
case causes much trouble, you had better consult a veterinarian, as bad
cases frequently leave the neck stiff so that the animals are not able
to eat off the ground.
=QUARTER CRACK.=--See Sand Crack.
=QUITTOR.=--A name given to a fistulous opening upon the heels and
quarters of the coronary band, and is caused by treads, pricks in
shoeing, bruises, and suppurating corns. Any injury which will cause
suppuration within the foot will usually cause matter to form at the
coronet, and may result in quittor. The disease is indicated by a
swelling upon the coronet where the hair and hoof meet, great lameness,
and a discharge of thin or thick curdy pus. There may be one or a number
of small openings leading down into the sensitive part of the foot. The
parts surrounding the quittor swell and become hard and take on an
unhealthy action and are difficult to cure, and may be permanently
diseased.
[Illustration: QUITTOR
Fistulous wounds on any part of the coronet are usually the result of a
tread or bruise. If neglected serious trouble may result.]
Clean the foot and put it into a bran poultice for several days, then
remove any horn that may be pressing on the sore part. If it is at the
heel remove the crust with a knife; if it is in front of the hoof rasp
it thin. Then probe the opening at the top to find the depth and
direction. Put a grain of bichloride of mercury into tissue paper and
roll it into a cone and press it down to the bottom of the opening.
Treat all the openings in the same way. Put the foot into a bag to
protect it from injury and let it alone for three days, then clean out
the openings and put in some more of the bichloride of mercury, and so
on for two weeks, or until the parts become healthy and the hard
swelling has decreased; then make up a bath of chloride of zinc one
ounce, cool water one gallon; put the foot into this twice a day for
twenty minutes at a time. As soon as the openings are healed blister the
coronet with the following: Mix 2 teaspoonfuls of cantharides with 4
tablespoonfuls of lard; repeat in two weeks if necessary. When it is
time to put on the shoe and work the horse, a bar shoe will be best. If
the animal has much fever in the early stages of the disease give a dose
of aloes, and follow this by giving 2 tablespoonfuls of nitrate of
potassium twice a day in bran mash. Later in the disease give a
teaspoonful of sulphate of iron once a day in bran mash as a tonic.
=RABIES.=--See Hydrophobia.
=RHEUMATISM.=--A disease which affects the muscles or joints, wandering
from one part of the body to another. It affects nearly all animals,
including the horse, ox, dog, hog, and sheep. Rheumatism of the muscles
is usually due to catching cold, while rheumatism of the joints is often
due to some micro-organism.
Stiffness, which usually comes on suddenly, is a characteristic symptom.
The animal may be able to move only with great difficulty. The joints
may crack when moved, the affected muscles are hard and painful to
touch, the soreness may shift from one part to another; and the animal
sometimes makes a quick recovery, only to be followed by another attack
in a short time or perhaps never again. These symptoms may be associated
with a rise in body temperature and increased pulse. The disease may
last for a long time or only for a few days. In chronic cases the
muscles decrease in size in the parts affected. In the dog it is very
painful when caused to move and he will howl, or even howl when he
thinks he is going to be moved. In sheep it seldom occurs except in
young lambs. Pigs are often affected in the legs or back, sometimes
becoming paralyzed in the hind legs.
=Rheumatism of the Joints= usually shows very rapid swelling, increased
heat, and is very painful. The animal is often so lame that it will not
put any weight on the foot of the affected limb.
For horses and cows, treatment consists of local applications of alcohol
50 parts and oil of mustard 1 part, rubbing it in well; or spirits of
camphor. Give at the same time internally 1 teaspoonful of potassium
iodide twice daily and not to exceed 12 doses; or salicylate of soda 4
tablespoonfuls daily. Keep the animal warm and in a well-ventilated
stable. Pigs or dogs, according to size, should be given from 4 to 16
grains of salol, also using the above local applications.
=RINGBONE.=--A growth of bone on the pastern bone, just above the hoof.
It causes lameness when it interferes with the joint or the passage of
any of the tendons. Some horses are predisposed to bony diseases from
the least injury, while others are not, and in selecting mares for
breeding purposes the former should be rejected. This disease results
from strains, bruises, or injuries to the cartilage of the joints. When
the membrane of the bone or cartilage becomes inflamed there may be
great lameness for several months before any enlargement takes place,
and it is somewhat difficult to detect. The absence of other diseases of
the foot, with some heat in the pasterns, and soreness on pressure or
moving the joints indicates this disease. In other cases the enlargement
may make its appearance for some time before the horse becomes lame, and
in some cases it may never cause any lameness, but should always be
looked upon with suspicion, as in the majority of cases it sooner or
later causes lameness. Ringbone is more difficult to cure on the fore
feet than on the hind ones, as the pasterns are more upright on the
former than on the latter, and, besides, the horse’s fore legs have to
bear two-thirds the weight of the body.
The horse should have rest, and the shoes should be removed and the foot
pared level. If there is heat in the part, keep it wet with the
following lotion by means of a bandage saturated with it: Acetate of
lead half an ounce and water one quart. Continue this for a few days,
then apply a blister composed of cantharides 2 teaspoonfuls, biniodide
of mercury 1 teaspoonful and lard 8 tablespoonfuls. Rub on a third of
this with the fingers. It is not necessary to cut off the hair if the
blister is well rubbed in. Let it remain on for 24 hours, then wash off
and rub on a little lard. Repeat every second week until three blisters
have been applied. Keep the horse’s head tied while the blister is on so
that he cannot get his mouth to the part. The horse should have a few
months’ rest after this treatment. If it does not cure the animal it is
best to have him fired by a qualified veterinarian.
=RINGWORM.=--This is common in the domestic animals, especially in
calves and young cattle, and is contagious. It depends upon the presence
of a vegetable parasite, which develops and grows rapidly when it finds
a suitable place for development. Ringworm may affect any part of the
body, but its favorite seat is around the eyes, the face, ears, and
neck of cattle, and sometimes the back and hindquarters.
A gray crust appears on the skin, and the hair drops out. This keeps
spreading in the form of a ring until around the eyes, the side of the
face, ears, or neck may be covered with it. It appears in the same way
on the back, hips, and inside of the hind legs. It does not seem to
affect the health of the animal, as it is found in the well-kept as well
as those poorly kept.
First remove the crusts by washing with warm water in which one ounce of
carbonate of potassium has been put to every quart of water. A brush
should be used in washing the parts. Then use the following: Iodine 2
teaspoonfuls and vaseline 4 tablespoonfuls. Rub a little of this on with
a gloved hand. Repeat in three days. Or mix carbolic acid 1 ounce with 2
ounces of alcohol and apply a little of this to the parts with a feather
once or twice; this last is very effective.
=ROARING.=--A disease, due to the wasting of the larynx; is
characterized by loud, unnatural sounds after any violent exertion. The
disease sometimes follows distemper and influenza or a local injury to
the throat. Once established the disease is incurable. In its early
stages repeated light blisters may help. A common blister can be made of
a half teaspoonful of cantharides, a half teaspoonful of biniodide of
mercury and 4 tablespoonfuls of vaseline or lard.
=ROUP.=--A disease of the mucous membrane in fowls. It is of the nature
of an inflammation, with a discharge from the eyes and nostrils usually
accompanying. Damp and unsanitary quarters favor the development and
spread of roup. It is clearly a germ disease, and, therefore,
contagious. It is spread by means of infected quarters and fowls. All
discharges must be destroyed by disinfection, and the diseased fowls
quarantined off by themselves. The dead should be burned. Keep the
quarters light and airy; admit an abundance of sunshine and fresh air.
Feed wholesome, nutritious food, that the poultry stock may ward off the
disease. The best treatment is that which prevents spreading to healthy
fowls. If an outbreak occurs, disinfect thoroughly, liberally, and
continuously. Antiseptics administered about the head will usually break
up the disease. Creolin is good--say, 1 part to 100 parts of water.
Kerosene is also recommended.
In a sense, roup is the result of neglected colds. The birds sneeze, and
manifest their uneasiness as animals do with common colds. A teaspoonful
of pure carbolic acid to each gallon of drinking water is an excellent
preventive and can be provided at small cost.
=SAND CRACK.=--A crack found in any part of the wall of the foot. The
crack is due to over-exertion. When the hoof is dry and hard and
brittle, the crack usually begins at the top and extends downward.
Frequently the sensitive tissue creeps into the crack, causing pain, and
from which blood frequently issues. When a crack is first seen, the feet
should be poulticed with linseed meal for a few days. This will remove
the inflammation and soften the hoof. The next step will be to pare out
a piece of the hoof at the top, separating it completely from the
coronary band a half inch or so on each side of the crack down to the
quick. Fill this hole with tar. A bar shoe attached so as not to rest on
the wall where the crack is located is very helpful.
[Illustration: A CATTLE BATH TUB
The tank here shown is used for dipping the cattle for treatment of
mange. The dipping tank is now generally used throughout the West.]
=SCAB IN CATTLE.=--Scab or itch, sometimes called mange of cattle, is
caused by a minute mite that lives upon the surface of the skin,
burrowing into it. Other animals are not attacked by this parasite,
although a similar one does afflict sheep. So long as cattle are doing
well on grass, no disturbance is noticed. As soon, however, as they are
placed on dry food and cold weather sets in, the disease appears, and,
if the cattle do poorly, develops into a very aggravating form. Old
cattle are less troubled, the attacks being more frequently on calves
and yearlings and two-year-olds out of condition. In the early stages
the itching of the skin in the region of the neck or shoulders is first
noticed. This is indicated by the animals digging at the skin with
teeth and horns and the constant rubbing against posts or barbed wire or
anything that may give relief at the time. The disease gradually spreads
along the back, sides and outside of legs. In the early stages the coat
looks rough, the skin has a scurvy appearance. In time, the hair comes
off or is rubbed off, presenting bald patches of thick, glazed and
wrinkled skin. After the hair comes off the parasites leave these
regions, seeking other quarters and then the hair grows in again. There
is a dejected and debilitated condition in animals thus afflicted and
they fail rapidly in flesh. Their appetites are poor and most of their
time is expended in scratching themselves.
Scab spreads rapidly through a bunch of cattle, especially if they are
not thrifty, and disseminates itself through a herd in four to six
weeks. The thrifty, vigorous animals resist the infection for some time,
but they gradually succumb. The disease is spread by direct contact and
by contact with infected quarters. While the mites will live a week or
ten days in protected places, they are almost immediately destroyed by
direct sunlight. As soon as the disease is discovered in a bunch of
cattle, the infected animal should be isolated and the infected quarters
and rubbing posts disinfected with a 5 per cent solution of carbolic
acid. Infected animals should be well fed and cared for, and be salted
with a mixture of 1 pound of flowers of sulphur mixed with 10 pounds of
common salt. External treatment is necessary to affect a cure. If a
large number of cattle are affected, a dipping wash through which the
animals must swim in the dip is the best means for destroying the mites.
The most efficient remedies, considering cost, are the coal tar products
advertised as dip solutions. A homemade dip that is both cheap and
effective for treating a small number of animals may be made of 3 pounds
of flowers of sulphur, 2½ pounds of unslaked lime, 15 gallons of water.
In making this unslaked lime into a thick paste, sift in the sulphur and
stir well. Put this mixture in a kettle with, say, five gallons of water
and boil for at least half an hour--a longer time is better. When the
chocolate-looking mass settles, the clear liquid is drawn off and water
enough is added to make 15 gallons. The dip will be more effective if
used when warm, just a bit hotter than the normal heat of the body.
After the animals are dipped, they should remain in the solution about
two minutes. This will be time enough to thoroughly saturate the scabs
and destroy them. A couple of ablutions are required for complete
eradication. When no treatment is resorted to, the dip should be applied
with a scrubbing brush, cloth or sponges and all scabs and crusts should
be thoroughly saturated. Warm sunny days are preferable for this kind of
work.
=SEPTIC NAVEL INFECTION.=--A diseased condition at the attachment of the
navel cord soon after birth. It is a good plan just after birth to apply
some septic powder to the navel at the breaking point. If trouble
arises, apply a solution of carbolic acid, 1 part to 20 parts of water,
after using some hydrogen peroxide. A little iodoform and alum, mixed
half and half, make a good dusting powder to use also.
=SHEEP BOTS.=--See Bot Flies.
=SIDE BONES.=--On either side of the coffin bone there is a cartilage
which may in certain cases become hardened by deposits of mineral
matters, which may thus lead to lameness. Side bones are situated on
one or both sides of the leg and bulge above the upper portion of the
hoof. They may be the result of inflamed conditions, bruises or troubles
like corns or hoof cracks. Slipping on the stony pavement is a frequent
cause, as well as the great weight of the bodies in heavy horses. If the
wagon tongue falls on the foot at this point, the cartilage may be
injured and induce the disease. The swelling is first noticed just above
the hoof or near the heel. Lameness soon follows.
[Illustration: SIDE BONES
When the cartilages on either side of the foot of a horse just at the
top of the hoof and close to the heel turn to bone, side bones are the
result.]
The treatment usually recommended for side bones consists in the free
use of cold foot baths or cold water bandages for a week or more.
Tincture of iodine applied to the swollen parts is very good. A blister
applied after the water applications have been made for a week or so, is
used by many veterinarians. The blister is made of 2 teaspoonfuls of
cantharides mixed with 4 tablespoonfuls of lard. It is rubbed in well
with the fingers and allowed to remain for 24 hours, when it is washed
off and applied a second time the following week. These applications are
continued until the lameness disappears. If this does not bring
permanent relief, then firing of the injured parts and several months’
rest will be necessary.
=SLOBBERING.=--Some kinds of food cause an unnatural flow of saliva.
Fresh crimson clover hay is one of these. Of course the continual flow
of saliva is undesirable and unpleasant. It is unnatural and should be
checked as soon as possible. This can be accomplished by changing the
feed and then washing the mouth out with alum water. If a change is not
observed soon, give a good physic. For horses use 8 teaspoonfuls of
bitter aloes, a teaspoonful of common soda and a teaspoonful of ginger.
Mix these in a pint of water and give as a drench. For cattle, dissolve
a pound of Epsom salts, a tablespoonful of common soda and a
tablespoonful of ginger in a quart of lukewarm water and give as a
drench.
=SPASMODIC COLIC.=--See Colic.
=SPAVIN.=--This disease, known in common language as bone spavin, is an
enlargement of the hock joint similar to a ringbone about the coronary
joint. It may affect the hock joint in such a way as to cement the small
joints together, not causing lameness, and apparently no blemish, but
the free movement of the limb is impaired. Any condition which favors
sprains, such as fast driving over hard or uneven roads, unequal paring
of the hoof, thus causing the weight to be unequally distributed in the
joints, and severe labor in early life, or blows, bruises, or any
injuries to tendons, ligaments, or joints may cause spavin. In addition
to these causes may be mentioned sprains caused by jumping, galloping,
or trotting animals faster than they are accustomed to; also straining
by starting a heavy load, slipping on an icy surface or sliding on a bad
pavement.
If the patient is examined before any bony growth has developed,
inflammation will be detected on the inside of the hock joint at the
junction of the cannon bone and the joint. While in the stable the horse
prefers to rest the diseased leg by setting the heel on the toe of the
opposite foot with the hock joint flexed. In traveling the patient is
very lame when first taken out of the barn, but after traveling for a
short distance goes sound. The diseased leg is not lifted clear from the
ground, but nicks the toe in the middle of the stride, which is very
noticeable on a pavement. A strained horse becomes very lame after being
allowed to stand for even a very short time, then moved again.
Preventive treatment consists in keeping horses’ feet trimmed properly,
not overworking colts while young, careful driving on hard or uneven
roads, and avoiding all injuries that are liable to strain tendons,
ligaments or joints of the limbs. Even after a spavin has developed it
may be cured by proper treatment of the feet, and applying a fly
blister. The fly blister is prepared by mixing thoroughly 4
tablespoonfuls of pulverized cantharides, 4 tablespoonfuls of biniodide
of mercury and 8 ounces of lard. The hair is clipped over the spavin and
the blister applied with considerable rubbing. The horse’s head should
be tied so as to avoid his biting the part blistered. A second
application of the blister is to be used about a month after the first.
If blistering fails to cure the spavin, point-firing may be resorted to.
It is necessary to “fire” rather deeply to secure good results, care
being taken not to fire into a joint. After firing, a fly blister should
be rubbed into the holes where the hot iron has been used.
=SPAYING.=--The removal of the ovaries to prevent breeding. Cast the
animal on her right side. Give an anesthetic to prevent pain. When the
animal is unconscious, free the limbs sufficiently to remove any
pressure from the abdomen. Now pinch up a fold of the skin in the left
side, midway between the prominent bone of the haunch or pelvis, and the
last rib, about 4 inches below the backbone. Make an incision in the
skin 5 or 6 inches long; now do likewise with the abdominal muscles
until the lining membrane of the abdominal cavity is exposed. This
membrane is then punctured and an incision made as long as that in the
skin and muscles. Now kneel down in close contact with the cow’s back
and insert the arm, passing the hand within the brim or cavity of the
pelvis. By so doing both ovaries can be secured and detached. This
ended, the operation of uniting the abdominal muscles follows by means
of stitches and sutures.
Great care is necessary in having the instruments boiled and washed in
antiseptics, and in having the fingers, hands, and arms severely clean
and well saturated with a strong antiseptic solution. The operation
should be made out in the open where neither dirt nor dust are to be
found. Extreme care about germs will remove much of the risk associated
with the operation.
In spaying a sow, she is laid on an inclined board with the hindquarters
up. The operator stands at the back of the sow. The hair is first
clipped from the skin where the incision is to be made, high up in the
flank and midway between the haunch and the last rib. The incision needs
to be just large enough to admit the two fingers. Ovaries are located,
pulled through the opening in the flank, and removed by tearing off with
the fingers. The flank incision is then closed by the necessary number
of stitches.
This operation is sometimes performed in mares. But being rather
uncommon the process is less understood. In this case it is best to call
your veterinarian or someone in the community well skilled in the
operation. In all cases of spaying let severe cleanliness be the rule
and practice, from the very beginning to the very end.
[Illustration: SPLINT]
=SPLINTS.=--Splints occur more commonly in the heavier breeds of horses
than in those that are light in the bone below the knee. It is rare that
splints occur anywhere except on the inside of the front cannon bone,
although they are sometimes seen on the outside of both the front and
hind legs. Any enlargement of the bone occurring on the inside of the
leg between the knee and fetlock comes under the name of splint. The
usual cause is concussion, that is, the impact of the foot on the hard
road. It may be the result of other causes, such as a blow, a twisting
strain or faulty conformation. Some animals are more liable to splints
than others. It is, after all, to a certain extent, dependent upon
heredity. At first the splint is hard to detect. If you notice a young
horse going lame while doing road work, it is well to examine for
splints. While working there seems to be no lameness at all, and when
standing there seems to be no pain, but when put to a trot the horse
shows lameness and may raise and lower his head.
If taken in time, a splint can be cured. The first thing to do with an
animal suffering from a splint is to give the animal rest and place in
such quarters where there is a soft floor, preferably the ground, and
when so quartered one very frequently effects a complete cure. The
application of cold water bandages acts well. If treatment of this sort
fails, apply a blister of red iodide of mercury, 1 tablespoonful to 2
tablespoonfuls of lard. This blister should be applied with rubbing
every day from two to four days, or until the area is well blistered.
Then wait until the little scabs fall off, and if the animal is still
lame, repeat the application of this blister. To apply the blister, clip
off the hair over the enlargement and wash with vinegar to remove
grease, then rub in blister with ends of fingers. Keep the animals tied
short for two to four days in order to prevent rubbing or biting the
leg. Four days after the last application of blister, wash carefully
with warm water and soap and over it apply every day or so a little
lard, to prevent drying and also to loosen the scabs.
=SPRAINS.=--Injuries to the ligaments of joints, tendons, or muscles.
They are caused by violence, as twisting, or from over-exertion; also
sprains are often the result of overwork. If an animal is worked until
tired or exhausted he is unable to use the proper muscle force, and more
strain has to be borne by the ligaments, resulting in sprains, which
often occur in young horses or even in old horses, when put to work
after long periods of rest. Swelling, heat, soreness, and partial or
complete loss of the use of the part, which is shown by the degree of
lameness, characterize the disorder. Sprains are most common in the
legs, at the fetlock joint, in the tendons just back and above the
fetlocks, but may occur in any part.
The first and most important thing in the treatment of sprains is rest,
as sprains are a long time in making a complete recovery. In the early
stages, that is, before swelling has taken place, applications of cold
water should be used, applications of hot water, or hot packs of water,
1,000 parts, and bichloride of mercury 1 part, are very good. This will
relieve the pain and reduce the swelling. Applications of liniments are
also very good. Should there be great heat and soreness in the part, it
is well to use cold applications. Never blister in the early stages. A
blister may be used after the swelling has gone down, and the part has
become cold, from two to four weeks after the injury occurred. This
should be followed by rest for some time after all lameness has
disappeared.
=STAGGERS.=--Staggers in horses is an affection of the brain showing
itself usually in one of two forms--sleepy or stomach staggers and blind
or mad staggers. In the first form the stomach is at fault. Sudden
change of feed, moldy or dirty food heavy work or fast driving right
after a heavy meal or severe exposure is liable to cause indigestion in
the stomach and this is reflected to the brain, causing the animal to
act dull or sleepy, sometimes showing symptoms of serious colic, with
gas forming from the fermentation of the food, frequently resulting in
death.
Blind or mad staggers is an inflammation of the brain and may affect any
of the lower animals. In the beginning of this form the symptoms closely
resemble those in the stomach form, but as the inflammation progresses
the animal becomes blind and violent and may roll, paw, kick, wander
around in a circle, usually going only one way, either to the left or
right, or it may walk or run in a straight line as near as possible for
hours at a time--paying no attention to injuries received in its
travels. In either case the animal may be drenched once daily with a
quart of raw linseed oil or a pound of Glauber salts, dissolved in
water, which sometimes gives relief.
=Staggers in Sheep= is mostly caused by the young stage of a tapeworm
which infests sheep dogs. The dog eats the infected brain of the sheep
and the sheep eats the egg of the tapeworm after it has passed through
the dog. After the egg hatches in the stomach of the sheep the young
worm passes through the bowels and other organs or tissues or circulates
through the blood and reaches the brain, where it develops and causes an
inflammation, resulting in disease. It is most common in young animals,
rarely occurring in sheep after their second year.
Prevention is about the only practical way of handling this trouble. The
grounds should be thoroughly drained, allowing the animals only pure,
fresh water to drink. It may be necessary to change pastures for a year
or two. The brains of all sheep killed and the heads of all dying with
the disease should be burned.
=STOMACH AND INTESTINAL WORMS IN SHEEP.=--If a box of salt is kept
covered in some place frequented by the sheep, to which they are allowed
to help themselves, and if said salt is saturated with spirits of
turpentine in proportions of a gill to every four quarts of salt, it
will wonderfully help to keep the worms from multiplying. It is well,
also, to have another box of larger size, where sheep can help
themselves at will, filled with tobacco stems. These stems should be cut
up in inch lengths and from time to time a quantity of wheat bran should
be put on top of the stems. When this is done the sheep soon
instinctively learn to use tobacco, and no young intestinal worm or
stomach worm, except the tapeworm, can stand the diet. This will not
kill mature worms. It will only prevent the worm family multiplying to
the extent of injuring the health of sheep.
[Illustration: TWISTED STOMACH WORMS
A common attitude observed when sheep are afflicted with twisted stomach
worms. The animal loses in flesh, and unless relief is found in time,
dies. The parasite is shown in the illustration.]
But no sheep owner should feel wholly satisfied by preventive treatment
of stomach worms. Twice a year the whole flock should be drenched with
some agent which will destroy the mature worms. There are two very
inexpensive drenches which will quite effectually do this. The one is
gasoline, the other coal tar creosote. The objection to gasoline is that
it needs to be so extremely carefully used or sheep will be killed by
it. The dose is 1 tablespoonful (never more at one dose) to a mature
sheep; mix with not less than 4 tablespoonfuls of raw linseed oil (never
boiled oil); then add a half pint of sweet milk. In giving, set the
sheep up on its haunches and shake the liquids well together until the
last minute it is administered, or the gasoline will separate and, if it
enters the stomach in the unmixed form, it will seriously injure and may
kill the sheep.
There is no direct vermifuge that will as effectually kill all species
of worms in a sheep’s stomach and intestines as will gasoline; yet the
coal tar creosote or the more refined class of sheep dips, if given
after a full 12-hour fast, before the flock is turned to pasture in the
spring, and again about November, will destroy a large number of the
mature worms. All lambs born in April or May should be drenched about
August or September following, to be certain of ridding them of worms
that may later cause their death. The dose of any of the sheep dips is a
dessertspoonful mixed in a full pint of water.
=STONE IN BLADDER.=--See Concretions or Calculi of Urinary Organs.
=STRANGLES.=--This trouble, commonly called colt distemper, affects
horses, and rarely mules and donkeys. It is such an infectious disease
that nearly all horses contract the disease when colts and usually
remain immune to future exposures. The cause is a very small organism or
germ which enters the system when a healthy colt comes in contact with
a diseased one or when fed and watered in infected vessels. The seat of
trouble is largely restricted to the respiratory organs, occasionally
causing difficulty in breathing, owing to swelling in region of throat
or to accumulations in air passages.
The symptoms start out with more or less sluggishness. The animal eats
little, and does not care to take much exercise. A little watery
discharge frequently appears from the eyes, and about the same time a
watery discharge from the nostrils, which soon becomes thicker and more
yellow in color. Usually the glands between the lower jawbones become
enlarged and undergo suppuration with a rupture of them and free
discharge of pus. The temperature of the animal may be slightly or very
greatly increased from 103° to 105°. The pulsations may also be
considerably quickened. When complications do not occur this disease
usually runs its course in two weeks, leaving the animal little the
worse for having passed through the affliction.
The milder forms of this disease will need little or no treatment other
than careful feeding and nursing. A laxative diet, with something green,
if possible, should be given. The colt should be placed in clean, airy,
and comfortable quarters, but not in a draft. To hasten the suppuration
of the glands a poultice of hot bran or flaxseed may be applied to that
region, and as soon as softening can be detected within, puncture the
gland containing abscess with a clean knife blade and allow the escape
of the collection of pus. During the course of the disease the animal
should not be worked and care should be taken that it be not exposed to
conditions likely to produce a cold.
=STRINGHALT IN HORSES.=--Stringhalt is an involuntary contraction of the
muscles that bring the hind leg or legs forward. The cause of stringhalt
is a deranged condition of the nerves supplying the muscles, causing the
leg or legs to be brought up with a jerk. In slight cases of stringhalt
it is necessary sometimes to turn the animal round from right to left,
and from left to right, in order to make him show signs of stringhalt,
the symptoms of the disease being exhibited as he turns one way only.
This disease sometimes comes on suddenly, but generally develops slowly.
It is an unsoundness, and depreciates the animal’s value and makes him
unfit for hard work or fast driving. There is no sure cure for
stringhalt; the animal can sometimes be relieved by giving him one ounce
bromide of potassium at a dose twice a day in bran mash, and continuing
it for one week, then skipping a week and giving again. It can sometimes
be relieved by cutting the tendon or tendons of the affected muscles,
but the operation should be performed by a qualified veterinarian.
=SUNSTROKE.=--See Heat Exhaustion and Sunstroke.
=SWAMP FEVER.=--This disease, by some called infectious anemia of
horses, is produced by an invisible organism, which is transmissible to
horses, mules, and asses. About the first symptoms noticed are a general
weakness of the animal; it tires very easily and is not able to do any
work. The loss of flesh is apparent in spite of the voracious appetite
which the animal has at times. The appetite usually remains good until
death, but the feed seems to do the animal no good. The temperature is
very irregular. Some days it runs quite high, at times to 107°; again it
is below normal. An animal may have several attacks of the trouble, but
each succeeding attack seems to be more severe. The blood becomes thin,
and the circulation impaired, and frequently there appears a swelling
under the chest or abdomen, or an enlargement of one or more legs. It is
quite easy to recognize the trouble, especially in the advanced stages.
The slow progress at the beginning, remittent fever, progressive
emaciation and anemia, unimpaired or ravenous appetite, staggering gait,
and excessive urination are usually all present to a greater or less
degree. Recovery takes place only when treatment is begun early and when
the disease is not too acute.
In treating, absolute rest until fully recovered is one of the primary
requisites, and purgatives are to be avoided. For the fever, the United
States Department of Agriculture recommends an antipyretic of quinine 40
grains, acetanilide 2 drams, and powdered nux vomica 30 grains, four
times daily. Cold water sponge baths and frequent copious rectal
injections of cold water also aid in reducing the fever. After the fever
subsides the following is recommended: Arsenious acid, 2 grams; powdered
nux vomica, 28 grams; powdered cinchona bark, 85 grams; powdered gentian
root, 110 grams. These should be well mixed and one-half teaspoonful
given at each feed of the affected animal.
As in the case of all other infectious diseases, the healthy should be
separated from the sick horses, and thorough disinfection of the
infected stable, stalls, litter, and stable utensils should be used by
mixing six ounces of any one of these chemicals with one gallon of
water. One of the approved coal-tar sheep dips might also be used to
advantage in a five per cent solution, and should be applied liberally
to all parts of the stable, and sufficient lime may be added to the
solution to make the disinfectant area conspicuous.
From the fact that the disease is more prevalent during wet seasons, it
is always best to guard against allowing the animals to graze upon
swampy land or to drink from ponds of stagnant water. The spread of the
disease has been traced along creeks from one farm to another, which
would suggest avoiding these places also. The draining of the low,
swampy lands is especially recommended.
=SWEENY.=--Wasting of the muscles covering the shoulder blade of the
horse is commonly called “sweeny,” and the cause may be any strain,
sprain, jerk, or bruise of the parts due to a bad fitting collar, or to
awkward steps of a colt plowing for the first time, and especially when
worked in the furrow. The great nerves of the shoulder are affected, and
in consequence nutrition is impaired and the muscles waste away. A
similar condition may affect the muscles of the hip, or of the space
between the stifle and hip.
Lameness seldom is a prominent feature in shoulder sweeny. Ordinarily
the wasting comes on some time after the causative injury; then the skin
alone appears to cover the bone (scapula) and the animal may have little
power for work. In this connection it should be remembered that wasting
of the shoulder muscles also may be due to any chronic lameness or
soreness of the foot, or leg, between foot and shoulder. Wasting
(atrophy) of muscles occurs when the muscles for any reason are not
fully exercised. It, therefore, is important to make sure whether the
cause is in the foot or in the shoulder before commencing treatment.
Treatment consists in stimulating flow of blood to the poorly nourished
parts, and if this can be done the muscles gradually grow in again and
regain their normal development and power. An old-fashioned plan is to
make incisions in the skin and then blow up the parts with air to
separate the skin from the bone. This should not be done. Setons
(rowels) of tape may be inserted under the skin, but they leave scars.
Better treatment consists in rubbing the parts twice daily with a
stimulating liniment, or blistering at intervals of three weeks with
cerate of cantharides, after removing the hair. A suitable liniment may
be made by mixing together four ounces of druggist’s soap liniment, one
ounce each of aqua ammonia and water to make one pint.
=SWINE PLAGUE.=--See Hog Cholera.
=TAPE WORMS.=--The flat worms of domestic animals. They are most serious
and common in sheep. Treatment is only partially satisfactory. To get
any reasonable result food must be withheld for several hours before the
medicine is given. Use the following: 1 teaspoonful of ethereal extract
of male fern in four ounces of castor oil. It is desirable to keep the
sheep inclosed, so that the ground can be disinfected after the worms
are expelled, otherwise infection will occur right over again.
=TETANUS.=--See Lockjaw.
[Illustration: TEXAS FEVER
The annual loss to the South, because of the cattle tick, extends into
many millions of dollars. Investigations show that a complete
extermination can be effected at a cost of $6 per farm.]
=TEXAS OR TICK FEVER.=--The earliest accounts that we have of this
disease date back to 1814. It was found that cattle driven from a
certain district in South Carolina to other parts of the state would
infect others with the disease, while they themselves seemed to be in
perfect health. The disease is known by various names in the different
sections of the country. It is often called red water, Spanish fever,
Australian tick fever, and murain.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL CASE OF FOOT AND MOUTH DISEASE
The disease shows itself about the mouth, the feet and the teats. When
an outbreak occurs all affected animals should be destroyed and all
quarters thoroughly disinfected.]
This is a specific fever, and is characterized by the peculiarity among
animal diseases that animals which scatter the infection are apparently
in good health, while those which sicken and die from it do not, as a
rule, infect others.
When the cattle are brought into the infected districts they usually
contract the disease during the first of the summer, and if they are
adult cattle, particularly milch cows or fat cattle, nearly all die;
calves are more likely to survive. The disease is one from which
immunity is acquired, and, therefore, calves which recover from the
disease are not again attacked, as a rule, even after they become adult.
When the disease is prevalent or scattered beyond the infected district
the roads, barns and pastures are dangerous until freezing weather, when
the disease disappears and cattle can be kept in the grounds or driven
over the roads without catching the disease. The midwinter months is the
only time that cattle can be safely driven from an infected area to a
non-infected area without spreading the disease.
=The Cause.=--Texas fever is caused by an organism which lives within
the red-blood corpuscles and breaks them up. It is not a bacteria, but a
protozoa, and belongs to the lowest forms of the animal kingdom. How it
gets into the blood corpuscles is not known. The fatality is due not so
much to the loss of blood corpuscles as to the difficulty which the
organs have in getting rid of the waste products arising from this
wholesale destruction.
=The Course of the Disease.=--After a period of exposure, which may vary
from 13 to 90 days, the disease first shows itself in dullness, loss of
appetite and a tendency to leave the herd and lie down alone. A few days
before these symptoms appear the temperature rises from 103° to 107°.
There is little change in temperature until death or recovery.
=Pathological Changes Observable After Death.=--The presence of small
ticks on the udder or escutcheon is a very important sign in herds north
of the Texas fever line. The watery condition of the blood. The spleen
or milt very much enlarged, and filled with a blackish pulp. Enlargement
of the liver, and its color changed to a mahogany color. The distended
gall-bladder, caused by an excessive amount of bile in it.
=The Cattle Tick= (_Boophilus bovis_) is the carrier of this disease.
Its life history is quite simple. It is unable to come to maturity and
reproduce its kind unless it becomes attached to the skin of cattle,
whence it may obtain its food. The eggs laid on the ground by the female
tick after falling off the cattle begin to develop at once. The time
required for hatching varies considerably, according to the temperature.
In the heat of summer about 13 days, and in the fall, under the same
conditions, from four to six weeks. On pastures these little creatures
soon find their way on to cattle. They attach themselves, by preference,
to the tender skin on the escutcheon, the inside of the thighs, and on
the base of the udder. When very numerous they may be found on various
parts of the body. They remain clinging to the cattle until mature, and
then fall off and lay their eggs and hatch more new ticks.
=How Prevention Is Possible.=--The spread of Texas fever can be
prevented by two ways--sanitary arrangements and by vaccination. Where
the cattle are infected with the tick, the ticks can be killed by
smearing the animals with a solution capable of killing the ticks
without harming the cattle. In large herds a large vat of crude
petroleum is used to immerse the cattle in. In small herds smear the
cattle with a mixture of equal parts of cottonseed oil and crude
petroleum.
How to rid the pastures of the tick without killing the vegetation on
them has for a long time been the problem. Divide the pasture in two
parts by a double parallel line of fence with a 10-foot space between,
to prevent ticks from crawling across. One of these pastures is then
kept free of cattle for two winters and one summer. After the second
winter it will be free of ticks and ready for tickless cattle, when the
other pasture is abandoned for the same time.
Vaccination is for the purpose of immunizing cattle that are brought
from a non-infected district to an infected district. Calves about six
to eight months old should be used, as they are more immune than adult
cattle. The immunity is caused by introducing the germ into the blood in
a weakened form. This may be done in two ways--by placing virulent young
ticks on the calves or by artificial vaccination. When this is
practiced, it should be done in two or three inoculations, as it gives
better results. The intervals should be about three weeks. The amount of
virulent blood should be small the first time and increased in the
following treatments.
The inoculation always results in a more or less serious attack of the
fever upon the animal treated. Some may die, but the proportion of
deaths resulting among animals taken directly into the infected
district is large to the proportion of deaths resulting from
vaccination. Medical treatment for this disease has proven
unsatisfactory in the acute form, although in some chronic cases some
good results may have been obtained by medical treatment.
=THICK LEG.=--See Lymphangitis.
=THOROUGHPIN.=--An enlargement situated on the sides and upper part of
the hock joint of the horse, arising from a derangement of the sheath of
the back tendon. The fluid with which it is filled can be pressed from
one side to the other, hence the term thoroughpin. It seldom causes
lameness. For treatment mix a teaspoonful of biniodide of mercury with 4
tablespoonfuls of lard. Rub on a little with the fingers, let it remain
on for 24 hours, then wash off and rub on a little lard or vaseline.
Repeat the blister every third week until the enlargement disappears.
The horse should have rest while under treatment.
=THRUSH.=--A diseased condition of the secreting surface of the fatty
frog in the foot. In severe cases the horny part often detaches from the
sensitive tissue within. Bad shoeing is a common cause of the trouble,
or anything else that prevents the frog from coming in contact with the
ground. Lameness is sometimes associated with the disease. Treatment
consists of careful cleaning, followed with linseed meal poultices if
lame. After the foot is made dry, insert calomel into the little
cavities. The calomel can be kept in and the dirt kept out by using
paper or cloth plugs. Follow this treatment until normal condition is
attained.
=THUMPS.=--This disease is limited in its action to pigs. Its cause is
not definitely known. It is recognized by a peculiar contraction of the
diaphragm in young pigs. While the pig may eat fairly well the
disturbance is associated with digestion. Such patients like to lie
around and take very little exercise. The disease is more common where
one kind of food like corn is fed. The old common method was to cut off
the ear. The common practice now is to give a purgative so as to relieve
the stomach and bowels of accumulated material. The food should be
changed and from 1 to 2 tablespoonfuls of Epsom salts should be given.
The jerking movement of the muscles may be relieved or stopped by using
laudanum, say, four drops to 1 or 2 teaspoonfuls of aromatic spirits of
ammonia in a half pint of water.
=TICK FEVER.=--See Texas Fever.
=TRICHINOSIS.=--A disease caused by the trichina, a minute worm that
affects people, hogs and rats. People become affected with the disease
from raw or partly cooked pork. These worms are killed by thorough
cooking or by the process of hot pickling and curing meat products.
Hogs become affected through eating offal and rats about the
slaughterhouses. Hogs that are fed on green grass and other wholesome
food, free from these minute worms, are less likely to have trichinæ
embedded in their flesh and muscles. Hogs do not seem to be bothered
with the trichinæ, but people suffer very severely, as both soreness in
the muscles and fever result.
A few days after eating the trichinæ, the worms multiply very rapidly in
the digestive tract, from which they migrate to other parts of the body
and work their way through the tissues. There is no remedy in way of
treatment when affected. Prevention is the one cure. Inasmuch as five to
ten per cent of hogs are affected, it is advisable that all pork or ham
be eaten only after most thorough cooking.
=TUBERCULOSIS.=--Tuberculosis is a disease resulting from the growth of
tubercle bacteria in the tissues of the animal. The bacteria, or germs,
of tuberculosis, usually gain entrance to the organs of the body by
being taken in with the food. Sometimes they penetrate through the
membranes in the throat and get into the glands of the head. Sometimes
they are taken into the digestive tract, where they pass through the
walls of the intestines into the lymph channels and are carried through
the large lymph vessel into the blood circulation. In some cases it
would seem that the bacteria get into the lungs on particles of dust
that are inhaled.
[Illustration: TUBERCULOSIS GERMS
These germs may be inhaled in the lungs with the air, admitted to the
stomach and intestines with food and drink, or established in the flesh
by inoculation through broken skin or mucous membrane.]
After getting into the body, tubercle bacteria multiply in the tissues
to which they have been carried and produce the changes in them which we
find on the examination of an animal suffering with tuberculosis.
Tuberculosis, therefore, is simply the outcome of the growth of the
tubercle bacteria in the organs.
=Where Tubercles Are to Be Found.=--Tuberculous areas may be found in
almost any part of the infected animal, but the organs that are usually
affected are the lymphatic glands, either in the throat, the bronchial
glands or those about the intestines and on the liver; the lungs; the
liver; the kidneys; intestines; udder and generative organs. The
membrane covering the lungs (pleura), the heart (pericardium), and
intestines (peritoneum), are frequently affected. It often happens that
a large mass, or masses, of tuberculous tissue grow over one or more of
these membranes. The most peculiar thing about bovine tuberculosis is
the fact that frequently an animal will appear to be perfectly well, but
when slaughtered will be found to have a large number of tuberculous
areas or masses on the membranes or in its organs. The reason for this
is that the diseased area is not at a vital point.
The organ or membrane affected depends upon the one to which the germ is
carried. Usually animals are infected in but one organ in the beginning,
and from this diseased area the germs spread through the blood vessels
or lymph channels to other organs. When the diseased area is restricted
to one organ or part, it is called “localized” tuberculosis, because it
appears at the point where the seed or germ was first planted. When the
germs spread through the circulation from this first or primary diseased
area to other organs and set up new tuberculous growths, the condition
is called “generalized” tuberculosis. When cattle are slaughtered for
food, if they are found to be afflicted with localized tuberculosis, the
flesh is considered to be fit for food, but if the disease is
generalized the carcass is condemned.
=The Symptoms of Tuberculosis= vary according to the location of the
disease. If it is in the glands of the throat it is suggested by their
enlargement. If it is in a gland about the lungs, which, because of its
enlargement, presses on the œsophagus (gullet), there might be bloating.
If the disease is in the lung tissue there would be, after it is
sufficiently advanced, coughing and perhaps difficult breathing. If the
disease is in the liver, it cannot be readily distinguished until it is
far advanced. If the disease is in the udder it manifests itself usually
by the organ becoming firm or hard, and when the tissues are
sufficiently broken down the milk from that quarter will be changed in
appearance; sometimes it is thick, containing pus, sometimes thin and
watery. It is very difficult to diagnose tuberculosis from the symptoms,
as many other causes may give rise to similar manifestations.
As tuberculosis is caused by a specific germ, the disease is spread by
the germs escaping from the diseased animals and getting into the bodies
of healthy ones. The tubercle bacteria escape from the infected animal
with some one or more of the natural discharges of the body. For
example, if the cow has a bad tuberculous area in the lung, the bacteria
may be discharged into one of the air tubes and coughed up into the
mouth. Some of them will escape with the saliva and infect mangers or
pastures. Some of them may be swallowed and escape from the body with
the feces. If the disease is in the udder the germs will escape with the
milk. There are some observations which indicate that sometimes the
bacteria will escape with the milk where the udder is not affected.
After the bacteria leave the diseased animal and are left in the manger,
or in the pasture, or on the surface of water in the drinking trough,
they can be readily taken up by healthy cattle that eat or drink after
them. If they escape with the milk, calves and pigs that are fed with it
readily become infected. After the germs get into the body of the
healthy animal they will multiply and produce the disease, just as the
seed of a noxious weed will, if blown into a new field, germinate and
produce the weed there. Tuberculosis spreads from animal to animal on
the same principle that weeds spread from one field to another.
In order to prevent the spread of tuberculosis it is simply necessary to
prevent healthy animals from coming in contact with the diseased ones or
eating or drinking after them.
As tuberculosis cannot be readily detected by a physical examination
until the disease is far advanced in the organs affected, it is
necessary, in order to determine which animals have the disease, to
apply some test or to find the germs of the disease in their excretions.
The simplest test that has thus far been discovered is the action of
tuberculin. When tuberculin is injected under the skin of the animals
affected with active tuberculosis the animals respond by a rise of
temperature, which follows a somewhat definite curve. By means of this
test it is possible to pick out the infected individuals so that they
can be separated from the healthy ones. The test should be repeated in
from six months to a year in order to detect any new cases which might
have developed from latent or arrested ones. We cannot always get all of
the infected animals with the first test any more than we can always
remove every weed from the garden by one hoeing.
=The Bang Method for the Control= of tuberculosis consists in separating
the animals that are infected from the well ones and keeping them for
breeding purposes. The calves are removed from their dams as soon as
born and fed with the milk of healthy cows, or the pasteurized milk of
the infected ones. It has been found that but a small percentage of
calves that are raised under proper precautions from such animals have
tuberculosis. By this means a sound herd of cattle may be developed from
tuberculous animals. This method was introduced by Prof. Bang of
Copenhagen, and it has been found to be very effective in Denmark and
other countries in Europe. It has been applied with much success in a
large number of individual herds in the United States. Its success
depends entirely upon the care which is taken in keeping tubercle
bacteria away from the calves.
In purchasing cattle for dairy or breeding purposes it is important that
they should be taken from herds that are free from tuberculosis. The
sound herd is the unit to be dealt with. Animals from such herds are far
more reliable than non-reactors from tuberculous herds.
=TUMORS.=--Abnormal growths of tissues. There are many kinds of tumors.
They are named from the kind of tissue of which they are composed, as
fibrous and fatty. Just why tumors should develop is not known.
Treatment is in the direction of direct removal; this means they are to
be cut out with a knife. Another method is to tie a strong cord around
the stem of the tumor, thus shutting off the blood supply. As soon as
this is effected, there will be a sloughing away, with a sore remaining,
which is to be treated as in an ordinary wound. Some tumors are burnt
off with caustics. Arsenic or corrosive sublimate are commonly used,
either singularly or combined. Better consult a veterinarian about the
removal of tumors on valuable animals.
=TUMORS IN PIGS AFTER CASTRATION.=--Bunches form on the cords of pigs
after castration as a result of infection from dirty instruments or
hands during the operation; or from leaving the cord too long, thus
increasing the liability of its becoming infected. These tumors continue
to grow, and in the worst cases attain the size of a man’s head. Cut
down on a tumor the same as in a simple case of castration. Separate the
skin from the tumor and then swallow up the cord with the hands. Cut the
cord off as high up as possible. The wound may be healed by the use of
any of the common disinfectants. A teaspoonful of carbolic acid in a
quart of water may be used once daily until the pigs are healed. Pigs
should be kept in a clean pen after the operation.
=WARBLES.=--These are lumps in the skin of cattle, caused by grubs or
warbles. A simple treatment is to cut the skin and squeeze out the grubs
where the lumps are noticed. If all the grubs are killed in this way,
there will be no mature flies to cause trouble later on. See article on
Bot Flies.
=WARTS.=--The cause of these little tumors of the skin is not definitely
known. They occur on all domestic animals, appearing most frequently on
horses and cattle. Pure acetic acid, dropped on the wart until it is
saturated and softened, destroys in the early stages. Warts about which
a small cord may be tied are most easily treated in that way. After they
have sloughed off, apply a little terchloride of antimony with a feather
or cotton. When the scab forms, remove it and apply the chemical again.
With a couple of applications the spot will be lower than the
surrounding skin. Now use an ointment, made of 4 tablespoonfuls of oxide
of zinc and 8 tablespoonfuls of lard. Apply this daily until the sore
spot is healed. Sometimes a form of warts suddenly appears on colts and
calves and scatter themselves about the lips, nose and face. They are
common and appear and disappear suddenly. No treatment is necessary.
=WATER IN THE BRAIN.=--Dropsy in the brain. A condition characterized by
an accumulation of fluid in the brain. The disease is either congenital
or arises during the first years of life. When it occurs the best thing
is to kill the young individual at once.
=WATER IN THE CHEST.=--Often after a case of pleurisy a reaction comes
and a very large quantity of water settles in the chest cavity, anywhere
from two to four pailfuls. When the disease comes on the animal has
difficulty in breathing; takes in the breath quickly. There is a
constant biting at the flanks; the pulse increases to a hundred beats a
minute. If you place your ear over the chest you will likely hear no
sound at all. Best treatment is wholesome food, boiled flaxseed, and
blisters for both sides of the chest. Use strong mustard plasters. A
good medicine to use is one-fourth of a pound of saltpeter or nitrate of
potash, one fourth of a pound of ground gentian and one-fourth of a
pound of sulphate of iron. These should be mixed and then 1 teaspoonful
given every four hours. You had better consult a veterinarian. Other
complications set in so readily that help may be secured in other ways.
Some veterinarians puncture the chest so as to draw off the surplus
water that has accumulated.
=WHITE SCOURS OF CALVES.=--Calves of several days or weeks old suffer
from indigestion, which is indicated by thriftlessness, and then
scouring. The discharges are white, sour, curdled and frequent at first
and then become watery, greenish and offensive, passing in stream often.
Calves live some days and fast lose flesh, showing all the symptoms of
ill health.
One of the commonest causes is feeding dirty, souring or decomposing
factory skim milk in large quantities at long intervals; even sweet skim
milk so fed may produce the trouble. To prevent scours give calves a
perfectly clean, airy, sunny pen and yard attached. Separate any calf
that scours. Avoid dirty, dark, damp, poorly ventilated pens in which
scouring calves have been. Give all food from clean, scalded, sun-dried
vessels. Feed small quantities of food often; and in milk mix lime water
freely two or three times a week as a preventive; and daily when
scouring has been experienced. Also see that the udders of cows nursing
calves do not become contaminated with manure or other filth.
Wash udders with a two per cent solution of coal tar disinfectant before
any calf is allowed to suck for the first time, and then repeat to keep
the udders clean. Also disinfect the navel of each calf at birth with a
1/500 solution of corrosive sublimate and repeat the application twice a
day until the navel is perfectly healed over. At the first sign of
scours give castor oil shaken up in milk. Two to 6 tablespoonfuls is the
dose according to the size and age of the calf. Follow two or three
times daily with a 1 to 2-teaspoonful dose of a mixture of one part of
salol and two parts of subnitrate of bismuth in milk or water. For
calves scouring on skim milk mix in each pint of milk 1 teaspoonful of a
mixture of half an ounce of formaldehyde in 15½ ounces of distilled
water, to be kept in an amber-colored bottle.
=WIND COLIC.=--See Colic.
=WIND PUFFS.=--An accumulation of synovia in the cavities between the
tendons of the legs, especially between the back tendons and the bone
just above the fetlock joint. The bulging out is on each side of the
tendon. Horses subjected to severe exertions, like hard work on the
roads, are most frequently affected. The puffs or galls seldom cause
lameness or interfere with the usual work. Unless treated the puffs will
become thicker and harder and sometimes solidified. When this happens
lameness occurs. In the early stages, pads and bandages, if applied so
as to cause pressure, will tend to remove the galls. If this treatment
is not sufficient, then use a teaspoonful of biniodide of mercury, and 4
tablespoonfuls of lard. When mixed, these should be rubbed on with the
fingers. After 24 hours remove with water and soap and repeat every
other week until the puffs disappear.
=WIND SUCKING.=--See Cribbing.
=WORMS.=--See Intestinal Worms in Horses and Sheep; and Stomach Worms.
=WORMS IN HOGS.=--Hogs with worms in the intestines run down in
condition, become very thin and lank, back is arched, eyes dull, refuse
feed, walk stiffly, and appear lifeless. The worms may be very numerous,
in bad cases completely filling the intestines. The pigs die if not
treated. To secure the best results, affected hogs should receive
individual treatment. Twenty-four hours before administering treatment
very little feed should be given them. Then give the following medicine
as a drench to each 100-pound hog; larger or smaller hogs should receive
a dose in proportion: 4 tablespoonfuls of oil of turpentine, one-half
teaspoonful of liquor ferri dialysatus and 6 ounces of raw linseed oil.
If necessary, repeat the dose in four days.
Index
Page
Abortion, 101
Abscesses, 103
Aconite, 69
Actinomycosis, 104
Afterbirth, 106
Aloes, 69
Alum, 69
Animal Body a Collection of Cells, 11
Animal Body, How Formed, 9
Animals, Caring for Sick, 99
Animal Diseases, Learn to Recognize, 4
Animals, Examining in the Stables, 42
Animals, Out of Doors Test, 44
Anthrax, 108
Antimony, 71
Apoplexy, 111
Anemia, 107
Aniseed, 70
Arnica, 70
Arsenic, 70
Azoturia, 111
Back, 47
Bandage, How to Make It, 57
Barrenness, 113
Belladonna, 70
Big Head, 113
Big Jaw of Cattle, 114
Big Knee, 114
Big Leg, 114
Bile, 26
Biniodide of Mercury, 71
Bitter Milk, 114
Blackhead, 114
Blackleg, 115
Blackleg Vaccine, 116
Bladder, 67
Bladder, Stone in, 117
Blind Staggers, 117
Blistering, 98
Bloating in Cattle, 117
Blood, 12
Blood Poisoning, 120
Bloody Milk, 121
Bloody Urine, 121
Body, 47
Body Tissues, 12
Bog Spavin, 122
Bone Spavin, 123
Bot Flies, 123
Bots, 126
Breeze Flies, 123
Broken Wind, 126
Bromide of Potassium, 71
Bronchitis, 126
Bruises, Treating, 60
Bunches, 128
Burns, 128
Caked Bag, 128
Caked Udder, 128
Calculi of Urinary Organs, 140
Calf Cholera, 128
Calf Scours, 129
Camphor, 72
Cancer, 129
Cantharides, 72
Capped Elbow, 130
Capped Hock, 130
Capped Knee, 131
Carbolic Acid, 72
Castration, 131
Catarrh, 133
Cattle Scab, 134
Cattle, Special Type in, 44
Caustic Potash, 74
Cell Division, 10
Cell, Nature of, 9
Cells, What They Are, 11
Cerebro-Spinal Meningitis, 134
Charbon, 135
Chest Founder, 135
Chicken Cholera, 135
Choking, 136
Chronic Founder, 165
Circulation of Blood, 28
Coffin Joint Lameness, 137
Colds, 137
Colic, 137
Colic Mixture, 80
Concretions, 140
Constipation, 142
Corns, 142
Corns, Examine for, 49
Cornstalk Disease, 143
Corrosive Sublimate, 73
Cough Mixture, 80
Cow Pox, 144
Cracked Hoofs, 144
Cramp Colic, 145
Creolin, 74
Cribbing, 144
Crib Suckers, 145
Croton Oil, 73
Curb, 145
Diabetes, 146
Diarrhoea, 147
Difficult Parturition, 147
Digestion of Food, 23
Dipping Live Stock, 147
Disease, Diagnosis and Treatment, 92
Disease on the Farm, 1
Disease, Physical Examination in, 92
Disease due to Heredity, 84
Disease from Chemical Causes, 84
Disease, Origin of, 86
Disease, The Causes of, 83
Disease, The Meaning of, 82
Disease, The Course of, 87
Disease, The Termination of, 89
Disease, The Treatment of, 95
Diseases of Farm Animals, 101
Dishorning, 148
Disinfect Frequently, 5
Disinfectants, 6
Distemper, 148
Dropsy, 148
Dysentery, 150
Dystokia, 149
Eczema, 149
Enteritis, 151
Epilepsy, 151
Epizootic, 151
Ergotism, 151
Erysipelas, 152
Examining Animals, 39
Farcy, 153
Feet, 17
Fever, 153
Firing, 98
Fistulæ, 154
Fits, 157
Flatulent Colic, 157
Fleas, 157
Flies, 157
Flukes, Liver, 158
Fly Blister, 80
Foot and Mouth Disease, 158
Foot Puncture, 160
Foot Rot in Sheep, 160
Fore Legs, 48
Founder, 162
Fowl Cholera, 165
Framework of the Body, 13
Front Feet, 48
Gapes, 165
Garget, 166
Gastric Juice, 25
Gastritis, 166
Gentian, 75
Germs, 85
Gid in Sheep, 166
Ginger, 75
Glanders, 167
Gravel or Dirt in Foot, 174
Grease Heel, 175
Grub in the Head, 176
Hair, 13
Hair Balls, 177
Heart, How it Works, 31
Heat Exhaustion, 178
Heaves, 177
Hernia, 179
Hide-Bound, 181
High Blowing, 181
Hind Feet, 49
Hind Legs, 49
Hip Joint Lameness, 181
Hipped, 182
Hog Cholera, 182
Hollow Horn, 193
Hoof Cracks, 194
Hoof Ointment, 80
Horn Fly, 194
Horses, Special Type in, 40
Hoven, 194
Hydrocephalus, 194
Hydrophobia, 194
Hydrothorax, 195
Hyposulphite of Soda, 75
Impaction of Rumen, 195
Indigestion, 196
Infectious Anemia in Horses, 197
Infectious Pneumonia, 197
Inflammation of the Bowels, 197
Inflammation of the Lungs, 199
Influenza, 200
Inoculation, 86
Internal Organs, 65
Intestinal Worms in Horses, 201
Intestinal Worms in Sheep, 251
Intestines, 66
Iodide of Potassium, 76
Iodine, 76
Itch, 202
Jaundice, 202
Kidneys, 67
Kidney Worms, 204
Knee Sprung, 205
Lameness, Examine for, 50
Laminitis, 205
Laudanum, 76
Leg Bones, 17
Leg Wounds, 61
Lice, 205
Linseed Oil, 76
Liver Flukes, 207
Lockjaw, 208
Loco Disease, 212
Lumpy Jaw, 213
Lung Fever, 214
Lungs, 67
Lungs, Congestion of, 213
Lung Worms in Calves, 214
Lung Worms in Lambs, 214
Lymph, 12
Lymphangitis, 214
Lymph Through Cells, 29
Mad Dog, 217
Maggots, 217
Maggots in Wounds, 61
Mange, 219
Mastication, 24
Medicines, 69
Medicines, Administration of, 97
Medicines, Giving in a Ball, 97
Medicines, Giving in a Drench, 97
Mallenders, 218
Mammitis, 218
Milk Fever, 219
Monday Morning Sickness, 221
Mouth, Examining the, 46
Muscular System, 19
Mustard Plasters, 98
Nasal Gleet, 221
Navicular Disease, 222
Neck, 47
Nervous System, 19
Nitrate of Potash, 77
Nitrate of Soda, 77
Nits, 224
Nodular Disease in Sheep, 224
Nostril, 45
Nutriment, How Absorbed, 27
Nux Vomica, 77
Obstetrics, 225
Paces, Testing of, 52
Palisade Worm, 228
Paralysis, 229
Parasites, 230
Parturient Apoplexy, 230
Parturition, Difficult, 230
Pelvic Girdle, 15
Peritonitis, 230
Physic Drench for Cattle, 81
Physic Drench for Horses, 81
Physiology You Ought to Know, 21
Pink Eye, 231
Placenta, 232
Plant Building, 21
Pleurisy, 233
Pleuro-Pneumonia, 234
Pneumonia, 234
Poll Evil, 234
Post-Mortem Examination, 62
Post-Mortem, First Things to Do, 63
Post-Mortem, Removing the Skin, 65
Post-Mortem, The Discharges, 64
Poultices, 98
Prescriptions, 80
Prevention Better than Cure, 4
Profuse Staling, 146
Protoplasm, 9
Pulse, Taking the, 93
Punctures, Nail, 59
Quarantine Quarters, 8
Quarter Crack, 235
Quittor, 235
Rabies, 236
Reproductive Apparatus, 20
Respiration, 32
Respiration, Taking the, 95
Respiratory Organs, 20
Rheumatism, 236
Ringbone, 237
Ringworm, 238
Roaring, 239
Roup, 239
Salts, 79
Sand Crack, 240
Scab in Cattle, 241
Septic Navel Infection, 243
Sheep Bots, 243
Sick Animals, 7
Side Bones, 243
Skeleton, 14
Skin, 13
Skull, 15
Slobbering, 245
Soothing Ointment, 80
Soundness, Examining Animals for, 39
Spasmodic Colic, 245
Spavin, 245
Spaying, 247
Spirits of Niter, 78
Splints, 248
Sprains, 249
Staggers, 250
Stomach, 66
Stomach Churn, 26
Stomach of Horse, 24
Stomach of Ruminants, 25
Stomach Worms in Sheep, 251
Stone in Bladder, 253
Strangles, 253
Stringhalt in Horses, 255
Sugar of Lead, 78
Sulphate of Copper, 78
Sulphate of Iron, 78
Sulphur, 79
Sunstroke, 255
Swamp Fever, 255
Sweeny, 257
Swine Plague, 258
Tape Worms, 258
Teeth, As an Indication of Age, 34
Teeth, Loosening of Temporary, 35
Teeth of Cattle, 37
Teeth of Sheep, 38
Temperature, Taking the, 94
Tetanus, 258
Texas Fever, 258
Thick Leg, 262
Thoroughpin, 262
Throat, 47
Thrush, 262
Thumps, 262
Tick Fever, 263
Tissues, Body, 12
Tooth, The Mark in, 35
Trichinosis, 263
Tuberculosis, 264
Tumors, 268
Tumors in Pigs After Castration, 268
Turpentine, 79
Urinary Organs, 20
Warbles, 269
Warts, 269
Water in the Brain, 270
Water in the Chest, 270
White Scours of Calves, 270
Wind Puffs, 271
Wind Sucking, 272
Wind, Testing the, 51
Worms, 272
Worms in Hogs, 272
Wound, Cleansing the, 56
Wounds, 54
Wounds, First Step in Treating, 56
Wounds, Kinds of, 55
Wounds, Special Treatment of, 58
Transcriber’s Notes
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have been retained.
The Plates have been added to the List of Illustrations.
Jekyl-like (page 11) and post portem (page 120) have not been
corrected.
Page 110 ff.: not all entries are listed in alphabetical order, this
has not been corrected.
Changes and corrections made:
Page 21: Æsophagus changed to Œsophagus
Page 183: ... characteristic “a” or even “b” ...: Letter “b” was
invisible in the source document
Page 186: On open- the carcass ... changed to On opening the carcass
...
Page 201: Intestinal Worms in Horses: capitalised as other section
headings
Page 275: Nail Punctures changed to Punctures, Nail.
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[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Spelling maintained as closely as possible to the
original document, while obvious typos have been corrected. Emdashes
in original text for negative temperatures changed to minus signs to
standardize temperatures.]
CLIMATIC CHANGES
THEIR NATURE AND CAUSES
PUBLISHED ON THE FOUNDATION
ESTABLISHED IN MEMORY OF
THEODORE L. GLASGOW
OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHORS
ELLSWORTH HUNTINGTON
A. _Four books showing the development of knowledge as to Historical
Pulsations of Climate._
The Pulse of Asia. Boston, 1907. Explorations in Turkestan.
Expedition of 1903. Washington, 1905.
Palestine and Its Transformation. Boston, 1911.
The Climatic Factor, as Illustrated in Arid America. Washington,
1914.
B. _Two books illustrating the effect of climate on man._
Civilization and Climate. New Haven, 1915.
World Power and Evolution. New Haven, 1919.
C. _Four books illustrating the general principles of Geography._
Asia: A Geography Reader. Chicago, 1912.
The Red Man's Continent. New Haven, 1919.
Principles of Human Geography (with S. W. Cushing). New York,
1920.
Business Geography (with F. E. Williams). New York, 1922.
D. _A companion to the present volume._
Earth and Sun: An Hypothesis of Weather and Sunspots. New Haven.
In press.
STEPHEN SARGENT VISHER
Geography, Geology and Biology of Southern Dakota. Vermilion, 1912.
The Biology of Northwestern South Dakota. Vermilion, 1914.
The Geography of South Dakota. Vermilion, 1918.
Handbook of the Geology of Indiana (with others). Indianapolis, 1922.
Hurricanes of Australia and the South Pacific. Melbourne, 1922.
CLIMATIC CHANGES
THEIR NATURE AND CAUSES
BY
ELLSWORTH HUNTINGTON
Research Associate in Geography in Yale University
AND
STEPHEN SARGENT VISHER
Associate Professor of Geology in Indiana University
[Illustration]
NEW HAVEN
YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD: OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
MDCCCCXXII
COPYRIGHT 1922 BY
YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS
Published 1922.
THE THEODORE L. GLASGOW MEMORIAL
PUBLICATION FUND
The present volume is the fifth work published by the Yale
University Press on the Theodore L. Glasgow Memorial Publication
Fund. This foundation was established September 17, 1918, by an
anonymous gift to Yale University in memory of Flight Sub-Lieutenant
Theodore L. Glasgow, R.N. He was born in Montreal, Canada, and was
educated at the University of Toronto Schools and at the Royal
Military College, Kingston. In August, 1916, he entered the Royal
Naval Air Service and in July, 1917, went to France with the Tenth
Squadron attached to the Twenty-second Wing of the Royal Flying
Corps. A month later, August 19, 1917, he was killed in action on
the Ypres front.
TO
THOMAS CHROWDER CHAMBERLIN
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO
WHOSE CLEAR AND MASTERLY DISCUSSION OF THE GREAT PROBLEMS
OF TERRESTRIAL EVOLUTION HAS BEEN ONE OF THE MOST INSPIRING
FACTORS IN THE WRITING OF THIS BOOK
_There is a toy, which I have heard, and I would not have it given
over, but waited upon a little. They say it is observed in the Low
Countries (I know not in what part), that every five and thirty
years the same kind and suit of years and weathers comes about
again; as great frosts, great wet, great droughts, warm winters,
summers with little heat, and the like, and they call it the prime;
it is a thing I do the rather mention, because, computing backwards,
I have found some concurrence._
FRANCIS BACON
PREFACE
Unity is perhaps the keynote of modern science. This means unity in
time, for the present is but the outgrowth of the past, and the future
of the present. It means unity of process, for there seems to be no
sharp dividing line between organic and inorganic, physical and mental,
mental and spiritual. And the unity of modern science means also a
growing tendency toward coöperation, so that by working together
scientists discover much that would else have remained hid.
This book illustrates the modern trend toward unity in all of these
ways. First, it is a companion volume to _Earth and Sun_. That volume is
a discussion of the causes of weather, but a consideration of the
weather of the present almost inevitably leads to a study of the climate
of the past. Hence the two books were written originally as one, and
were only separated from considerations of convenience. Second, the
unity of nature is so great that when a subject such as climatic changes
is considered, it is almost impossible to avoid other subjects, such as
the movements of the earth's crust. Hence this book not only discusses
climatic changes, but considers the causes of earthquakes and attempts
to show how climatic changes may be related to great geological
revolutions in the form, location, and altitude of the lands. Thus the
book has a direct bearing on all the main physical factors which have
molded the evolution of organic life, including man.
In the third place, this volume illustrates the unity of modern science
because it is preëminently a coöperative product. Not only have the two
authors shared in its production, but several of the Yale Faculty have
also coöperated. From the geological standpoint, Professor Charles
Schuchert has read the entire manuscript in its final form as well as
parts at various stages. He has helped not only by criticisms,
suggestions, and facts, but by paragraphs ready for the printer. In the
same way in the domain of physics, Professor Leigh Page has repeatedly
taken time to assist, and either in writing or by word of mouth has
contributed many pages. In astronomy, the same cordial coöperation has
come with equal readiness from Professor Frank Schlesinger. Professors
Schuchert, Schlesinger, and Page have contributed so materially that
they are almost co-authors of the volume. In mathematics, Professor
Ernest W. Brown has been similarly helpful, having read and criticised
the entire book. In certain chemical problems, Professor Harry W. Foote
has been our main reliance. The advice and suggestions of these men have
frequently prevented errors, and have again and again started new and
profitable lines of thought. If we have made mistakes, it has been
because we have not profited sufficiently by their coöperation. If the
main hypothesis of this book proves sound, it is largely because it has
been built up in constant consultation with men who look at the problem
from different points of vision. Our appreciation of their generous and
unstinted coöperation is much deeper than would appear from this brief
paragraph.
Outside the Yale Faculty we have received equally cordial assistance.
Professor T. C. Chamberlin of the University of Chicago, to whom, with
his permission, we take great pleasure in dedicating this volume, has
read the entire proof and has made many helpful suggestions. We cannot
speak too warmly of our appreciation not only of this, but of the way
his work has served for years as an inspiration in the preliminary work
of gathering data for this volume. Professor Harlow Shapley of Harvard
University has contributed materially to the chapter on the sun and its
journey through space; Professor Andrew E. Douglass of the University of
Arizona has put at our disposal some of his unpublished results;
Professors S. B. Woodworth and Reginald A. Daly, and Mr. Robert W.
Sayles of Harvard, and Professor Henry F. Reid of Johns Hopkins have
suggested new facts and sources of information; Professor E. R. Cumings
of Indiana University has critically read the entire proof;
conversations with Professor John P. Buwalda of the University of
California while he was teaching at Yale make him another real
contributor; and Mr. Wayland Williams has contributed the interesting
quotation from Bacon on page x of this book. Miss Edith S. Russell has
taken great pains in preparing the manuscript and in suggesting many
changes that make for clearness. Many others have also helped, but it is
impossible to make due acknowledgment because such contributions have
become so thoroughly a part of the mental background of the book that
their source is no longer distinct in the minds of the authors.
The division of labor between the two authors has not followed any set
rules. Both have had a hand in all parts of the book. The main draft of
Chapters VII, VIII, IX, XI, and XIII was written by the junior author;
his contributions are also especially numerous in Chapters X and XV; the
rest of the book was written originally by the senior author.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. The Uniformity of Climate 1
II. The Variability of Climate 16
III. Hypotheses of Climatic Change 33
IV. The Solar Cyclonic Hypothesis 51
V. The Climate of History 64
VI. The Climatic Stress of the Fourteenth Century 98
VII. Glaciation According to the Solar Cyclonic Hypothesis 110
VIII. Some Problems of Glacial Periods 130
IX. The Origin of Loess 155
X. Causes of Mild Geological Climates 166
XI. Terrestrial Causes of Climatic Changes 188
XII. Post-Glacial Crustal Movements and Climatic Changes 215
XIII. The Changing Composition of Oceans and Atmosphere 223
XIV. The Effect of Other Bodies on the Sun 242
XV. The Sun's Journey through Space 264
XVI. The Earth's Crust and the Sun 285
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Fig. 1. Climatic changes and mountain building 25
Fig. 2. Storminess at sunspot maxima vs. minima 54
Fig. 3. Relative rainfall at times of increasing and
decreasing sunspots 58, 59
Fig. 4. Changes of climate in California and in western
and central Asia 75
Fig. 5. Changes in California climate for 2000 years, as
measured by growth of Sequoia trees 77
Fig. 6. Distribution of Pleistocene ice sheets 123
Fig. 7. Permian geography and glaciation 145
Fig. 8. Effect of diminution of storms on movement of water 175
Fig. 9. Cretaceous Paleogeography 201
Fig. 10. Climatic changes of 140,000 years as inferred from
the stars 279
Fig. 11. Sunspot curve showing cycles, 1750 to 1920 283
Fig. 12. Seasonal distribution of earthquakes 299
Fig. 13. Wandering of the pole from 1890 to 1898 303
TABLES
PAGE
1. The Geological Time Table 5
2. Types of Climatic Sequence 16
3. Correlation Coefficients between Rainfall and Growth of
Sequoias in California 80
4. Correlation Coefficients between Rainfall Records in
California and Jerusalem 84
5. Theoretical Probability of Stellar Approaches 260
6. Thirty-Eight Stars Having Largest Known Parallaxes 276, 277
7. Destructive Earthquakes from 1800 to 1899 Compared with
Sunspots 289
8. Seasonal March of Earthquakes 295
9. Deflection of Path of Pole Compared with Earthquakes 305
10. Earthquakes in 1903 to 1908 Compared with Departures of
the Projected Curve of the Earth's Axis from the
Eulerian Position 306
CHAPTER I
THE UNIFORMITY OF CLIMATE
The rôle of climate in the life of today suggests its importance in the
past and in the future. No human being can escape from the fact that his
food, clothing, shelter, recreation, occupation, health, and energy are
all profoundly influenced by his climatic surroundings. A change of
season brings in its train some alteration in practically every phase of
human activity. Animals are influenced by climate even more than man,
for they have not developed artificial means of protecting themselves.
Even so hardy a creature as the dog becomes notably different with a
change of climate. The thick-haired "husky" of the Eskimos has outwardly
little in common with the small and almost hairless canines that grovel
under foot in Mexico. Plants are even more sensitive than animals and
men. Scarcely a single species can flourish permanently in regions which
differ more than 20°C. in average yearly temperature, and for most the
limit of successful growth is 10°.[1] So far as we yet know every living
species of plant and animal, including man, thrives best under definite
and limited conditions of temperature, humidity, and sunshine, and of
the composition and movement of the atmosphere or water in which it
lives. Any departure beyond the limits means lessened efficiency, and in
the long run a lower rate of reproduction and a tendency toward changes
in specific characteristics. Any great departure means suffering or
death for the individual and destruction for the species.
Since climate has so profound an influence on life today, it has
presumably been equally potent at other times. Therefore few scientific
questions are more important than how and why the earth's climate has
varied in the past, and what changes it is likely to undergo in the
future. This book sets forth what appear to be the chief reasons for
climatic variations during historic and geologic times. It assumes that
causes which can now be observed in operation, as explained in a
companion volume entitled _Earth and Sun_, and in such books as
Humphreys' _Physics of the Air_, should be carefully studied before less
obvious causes are appealed to. It also assumes that these same causes
will continue to operate, and are the basis of all valid predictions as
to the weather or climate of the future.
In our analysis of climatic variations, we may well begin by inquiring
how the earth's climate has varied during geological history. Such an
inquiry discloses three great tendencies, which to the superficial view
seem contradictory. All, however, have a similar effect in providing
conditions under which organic evolution is able to make progress. The
first tendency is toward uniformity, a uniformity so pronounced and of
such vast duration as to stagger the imagination. Superposed upon this
there seems to be a tendency toward complexity. During the greater part
of geological history the earth's climate appears to have been
relatively monotonous, both from place to place and from season to
season; but since the Miocene the rule has been diversity and
complexity, a condition highly favorable to organic evolution. Finally,
the uniformity of the vast eons of the past and the tendency toward
complexity are broken by pulsatory changes, first in one direction and
then in another. To our limited human vision some of the changes, such
as glacial periods, seem to be waves of enormous proportions, but
compared with the possibilities of the universe they are merely as the
ripples made by a summer zephyr.
The uniformity of the earth's climate throughout the vast stretches of
geological time can best be realized by comparing the range of
temperature on the earth during that period with the possible range as
shown in the entire solar system. As may be seen in Table 1, the
geological record opens with the Archeozoic era, or "Age of Unicellular
Life," as it is sometimes called, for the preceding cosmic time has left
no record that can yet be read. Practically no geologists now believe
that the beginning of the Archeozoic was less than one hundred million
years ago; and since the discovery of the peculiar properties of radium
many of the best students do not hesitate to say a billion or a billion
and a half.[2] Even in the Archeozoic the rocks testify to a climate
seemingly not greatly different from that of the average of geologic
time. The earth's surface was then apparently cool enough so that it was
covered with oceans and warm enough so that the water teemed with
microscopic life. The air must have been charged with water vapor and
with carbon dioxide, for otherwise there seems to be no possible way of
explaining the formation of mudstones and sandstones, limestones of vast
thickness, carbonaceous shales, graphites, and iron ores.[3] Although
the Archeozoic has yielded no generally admitted fossils, yet what seem
to be massive algæ and sponges have been found in Canada. On the other
hand, abundant life is believed to have been present in the oceans, for
by no other known means would it be possible to take from the air the
vast quantities of carbon that now form carbonaceous shales and
graphite.
In the next geologic era, the Proterozoic, the researches of Walcott
have shown that besides the marine algæ there must have been many other
kinds of life. The Proterozoic fossils thus far discovered include not
only microscopic radiolarians such as still form the red ooze of the
deepest ocean floors, but the much more significant tubes of annelids or
worms. The presence of the annelids, which are relatively high in the
scale of organization, is generally taken to mean that more lowly forms
of animals such as coelenterates and probably even the mollusca and
primitive arthropods must already have been evolved. That there were
many kinds of marine invertebrates living in the later Proterozoic is
indicated by the highly varied life and more especially the trilobites
found in the oldest Cambrian strata of the next succeeding period. In
fact the Cambrian has sponges, primitive corals, a great variety of
brachiopods, the beginnings of gastropods, a wonderful array of
trilobites, and other lowly forms of arthropods. Since, under the
postulate of evolution, the life of that time forms an unbroken sequence
with that of the present, and since many of the early forms differ only
in minor details from those of today, we infer that the climate then was
not very different from that of today. The same line of reasoning leads
to the conclusion that even in the middle of the Proterozoic, when
multicellular marine animals must already have been common, the climate
of the earth had already for an enormous period been such that all the
lower types of oceanic invertebrates had already evolved.
TABLE 1
THE GEOLOGICAL TIME TABLE[4]
COSMIC TIME
FORMATIVE ERA. Birth and growth of the earth. Beginnings of the
atmosphere, hydrosphere, continental platforms, oceanic basins,
and possibly of life. No known geological record.
GEOLOGIC TIME
ARCHEOZOIC ERA. Origin of simplest life.
PROTEROZOIC ERA. Age of invertebrate origins. An early and a late
ice age, with one or more additional ones indicated.
PALEOZOIC ERA. Age of primitive vertebrate dominance.
_Cambrian Period._ First abundance of marine animals and dominance
of trilobites.
_Ordovician Period._ First known fresh-water fishes.
_Silurian Period._ First known land plants.
_Devonian Period._ First known amphibians. "Table Mountain" ice
age.
_Mississippian Period._ Rise of marine fishes (sharks).
_Pennsylvanian Period._ Rise of insects and first period of marked
coal accumulation.
_Permian Period._ Rise of reptiles. Another great ice age.
MESOZOIC ERA. Age of reptile dominance.
_Triassic Period._ Rise of dinosaurs. The period closes with a
cool climate.
_Jurassic Period._ Rise of birds and flying reptiles.
_Comanchean Period._ Rise of flowering plants and higher insects.
_Cretaceous Period._ Rise of archaic or primitive mammalia.
CENOZOIC ERA. Age of mammal dominance.
_Early Cenozoic or Eocene and Oligocene time._ Rise of higher
mammals. Glaciers in early Eocene of the Laramide Mountains.
_Late Cenozoic or Miocene and Pliocene time._ Transformation of
ape like animals into man.
_Glacial or Pleistocene time._ Last great ice age.
PRESENT TIME
PSYCHOZOIC ERA. Age of man or age of reason. Includes the present or
"Recent time," estimated to be probably less than 30,000 years.
Moreover, they could live in most latitudes, for the indirect evidences
of life in the Archeozoic and Proterozoic rocks are widely distributed.
Thus it appears that at an almost incredibly early period, perhaps many
hundred million years ago, the earth's climate differed only a little
from that of the present.
The extreme limits of temperature beyond which the climate of geological
times cannot have departed can be approximately determined. Today the
warmest parts of the ocean have an average temperature of about 30°C. on
the surface. Only a few forms of life live where the average temperature
is much higher than this. In deserts, to be sure, some highly organized
plants and animals can for a short time endure a temperature as high as
75°C. (167°F.). In certain hot springs, some of the lowest unicellular
plant forms exist in water which is only a little below the boiling
point. More complex forms, however, such as sponges, worms, and all the
higher plants and animals, seem to be unable to live either in water or
air where the temperature averages above 45°C. (113°F.) for any great
length of time and it is doubtful whether they can thrive permanently
even at that temperature. The obvious unity of life for hundreds of
millions of years and its presence at all times in middle latitudes so
far as we can tell seem to indicate that since the beginning of marine
life the temperature of the oceans cannot have averaged much above 50°C.
even in the warmest portions. This is putting the limit too high rather
than too low, but even so the warmest parts of the earth can scarcely
have averaged much more than 20° warmer than at present.
Turning to the other extreme, we may inquire how much colder than now
the earth's surface may have been since life first appeared. Proterozoic
fossils have been found in places where the present average temperature
approaches 0°C. If those places should be colder than now by 30°C., or
more, the drop in temperature at the equator would almost certainly be
still greater, and the seas everywhere would be permanently frozen. Thus
life would be impossible. Since the contrasts between summer and winter,
and between the poles and the equator seem generally to have been less
in the past than at present, the range through which the mean
temperature of the earth as a whole could vary without utterly
destroying life was apparently less than would now be the case.
These considerations make it fairly certain that for at least several
hundred million years the average temperature of the earth's surface has
never varied more than perhaps 30°C. above or below the present level.
Even this range of 60°C. (108°F.) may be double or triple the range that
has actually occurred. That the temperature has not passed beyond
certain narrow limits, whatever their exact degree, is clear from the
fact that if it had done so, all the higher forms of life would have
been destroyed. Certain of the lowest unicellular forms might indeed
have persisted, for when dormant they can stand great extremes of dry
heat and of cold for a long time. Even so, evolution would have had to
begin almost anew. The supposition that such a thing has happened is
untenable, for there is no hint of any complete break in the record of
life during geological times,--no sudden disappearance of the higher
organisms followed by a long period with no signs of life other than
indirect evidence such as occurs in the Archeozoic.
A change of 60°C. or even of 20° in the average temperature of the
earth's surface may seem large when viewed from the limited standpoint
of terrestrial experience. Viewed, however, from the standpoint of
cosmic evolution, or even of the solar system, it seems a mere trifle.
Consider the possibilities. The temperature of empty space is the
absolute zero, or -273°C. To this temperature all matter must fall,
provided it exists long enough and is not appreciably heated by
collisions or by radiation. At the other extreme lies the temperature of
the stars. As stars go, our sun is only moderately hot, but the
temperature of its surface is calculated to be nearly 7000°C., while
thousands of miles in the interior it may rise to 20,000° or 100,000° or
some other equally unknowable and incomprehensible figure. Between the
limits of the absolute zero on the one hand, and the interior of a sun
or star on the other, there is almost every conceivable possibility of
temperature. Today the earth's surface averages not far from 14°C., or
287° above the absolute zero. Toward the interior, the temperature in
mines and deep wells rises about 1°C. for every 100 meters. At this rate
it would be over 500°C. at a depth of ten miles, and over 5000° at 100
miles.
Let us confine ourselves to surface temperatures, which are all that
concern us in discussing climate. It has been calculated by Poynting[5]
that if a small sphere absorbed and re-radiated all the heat that fell
upon it, its temperature at the distance of Mercury from the sun would
average about 210°C.; at the distance of Venus, 85°; the earth 27°; Mars
-30°; Neptune -219°. A planet much nearer the sun than is Mercury might
be heated to a temperature of a thousand, or even several thousand,
degrees, while one beyond Neptune would remain almost at absolute zero.
It is well within the range of possibility that the temperature of a
planet's surface should be anywhere from near -273°C. up to perhaps
5000°C. or more, although the probability of low temperature is much
greater than of high. Thus throughout the whole vast range of
possibilities extending to perhaps 10,000°, the earth claims only 60° at
most, or less than 1 per cent. This may be remarkable, but what is far
more remarkable is that the earth's range of 60° includes what seem to
be the two most critical of all possible temperatures, namely, the
freezing point of water, 0°C., and the temperature where water can
dissolve an amount of carbon dioxide equal to its own volume. The most
remarkable fact of all is that the earth has preserved its temperature
within these narrow limits for a hundred million years, or perchance a
thousand million.
To appreciate the extraordinary significance of this last fact, it is
necessary to realize how extremely critical are the temperatures from
about 0° to 40°C., and how difficult it is to find any good reason for a
relatively uniform temperature through hundreds of millions of years.
Since the dawn of geological time the earth's temperature has apparently
always included the range from about the freezing point of water up to
about the point where protoplasm begins to disintegrate. Henderson, in
_The Fitness of the Environment_, rightly says that water is "the most
familiar and the most important of all things." In many respects water
and carbon dioxide form the most unique pair of substances in the whole
realm of chemistry. Water has a greater tendency than any other known
substance to remain within certain narrowly defined limits of
temperature. Not only does it have a high specific heat, so that much
heat is needed to raise its temperature, but on freezing it gives up
more heat than any substance except ammonia, while none of the common
liquids approach it in the amount of additional heat required for
conversion into vapor after the temperature of vaporization has been
reached. Again, water substance, as the physicists call all forms of
H_{2}O, is unique in that it not only contracts on melting, but
continues to contract until a temperature several degrees above its
melting point is reached. That fact has a vast importance in helping to
keep the earth's surface at a uniform temperature. If water were like
most liquids, the bottoms of all the oceans and even the entire body of
water in most cases would be permanently frozen.
Again, as a solvent there is literally nothing to compare with water. As
Henderson[6] puts it: "Nearly the whole science of chemistry has been
built up around water and aqueous solution." One of the most significant
evidences of this is the variety of elements whose presence can be
detected in sea water. According to Henderson they include hydrogen,
oxygen, nitrogen, carbon, chlorine, sodium, magnesium, sulphur,
phosphorus, which are easily detected; and also arsenic, cæsium, gold,
lithium, rubidium, barium, lead, boron, fluorine, iron, iodine, bromine,
potassium, cobalt, copper, manganese, nickel, silver, silicon, zinc,
aluminium, calcium, and strontium. Yet in spite of its marvelous power
of solution, water is chemically rather inert and relatively stable. It
dissolves all these elements and thousands of their compounds, but still
remains water and can easily be separated and purified. Another unique
property of water is its power of ionizing dissolved substances, a
property which makes it possible to produce electric currents in
batteries. This leads to an almost infinite array of electro-chemical
reactions which play an almost dominant rôle in the processes of life.
Finally, no common liquid except mercury equals water in its power of
capillarity. This fact is of enormous moment in biology, most obviously
in respect to the soil.
Although carbon dioxide is far less familiar than water, it is almost as
important. "These two simple substances," says Henderson, "are the
common source of every one of the complicated substances which are
produced by living beings, and they are the common end products of the
wearing away of all the constituents of protoplasm, and of the
destruction of those materials which yield energy to the body." One of
the remarkable physical properties of carbon dioxide is its degree of
solubility in water. This quality varies enormously in different
substances. For example, at ordinary pressures and temperatures, water
can absorb only about 5 per cent of its own volume of oxygen, while it
can take up about 1300 times its own volume of ammonia. Now for carbon
dioxide, unlike most gases, the volume that can be absorbed by water is
nearly the same as the volume of the water. The volumes vary, however,
according to temperature, being absolutely the same at a temperature of
about 15°C. or 59°F., which is close to the ideal temperature for man's
physical health and practically the same as the mean temperature of the
earth's surface when all seasons are averaged together. "Hence, when
water is in contact with air, and equilibrium has been established, the
amount of free carbonic acid in a given volume of water is almost
exactly equal to the amount in the adjacent air. Unlike oxygen,
hydrogen, and nitrogen, carbonic acid enters water freely; unlike
sulphurous oxide and ammonia, it escapes freely from water. Thus the
waters can never wash carbonic acid completely out of the air, nor can
the air keep it from the waters. It is the one substance which thus, in
considerable quantities relative to its total amount, everywhere
accompanies water. In earth, air, fire, and water alike these two
substances are always associated.
"Accordingly, if water be the first primary constituent of the
environment, carbonic acid is inevitably the second,--because of its
solubility possessing an equal mobility with water, because of the
reservoir of the atmosphere never to be depleted by chemical action in
the oceans, lakes, and streams. In truth, so close is the association
between these two substances that it is scarcely correct logically to
separate them at all; together they make up the real environment and
they never part company."[7]
The complementary qualities of carbon dioxide and water are of supreme
importance because these two are the only known substances which are
able to form a vast series of complex compounds with highly varying
chemical formulæ. No other known compounds can give off or take on atoms
without being resolved back into their elements. No others can thus
change their form freely without losing their identity. This power of
change without destruction is the fundamental chemical characteristic of
life, for life demands complexity, change, and growth.
In order that water and carbon dioxide may combine to form the compounds
on which life is based, the water must be in the liquid form, it must be
able to dissolve carbon dioxide freely, and the temperature must not be
high enough to break up the highly complex and delicate compounds as
soon as they are formed. In other words, the temperature must be above
freezing, while it must not rise higher than some rather indefinite
point between 50°C. and the boiling point, where all water finally turns
into vapor. In the whole range of temperature, so far as we know, there
is no other interval where any such complex reactions take place. The
temperature of the earth for hundreds of millions of years has remained
firmly fixed within these limits.
The astonishing quality of the earth's uniformity of temperature becomes
still more apparent when we consider the origin of the sun's heat. What
that origin is still remains a question of dispute. The old ideas of a
burning sun, or of one that is simply losing an original supply of heat
derived from some accident, such as collision with another body, were
long ago abandoned. The impact of a constant supply of meteors affords
an almost equally unsatisfactory explanation. Moulton[8] states that if
the sun were struck by enough meteorites to keep up its heat, the earth
would almost certainly be struck by enough so that it would receive
about half of 1 per cent as much heat from them as from the sun. This is
millions of times more heat than is now received from meteors. If the
sun owes its heat to the impact of larger bodies at longer intervals,
the geological record should show a series of interruptions far more
drastic than is actually the case.
It has also been supposed that the sun owes its heat to contraction. If
a gaseous body contracts it becomes warmer. Finally, however, it must
become so dense that its rate of contraction diminishes and the process
ceases. Under the sun's present condition of size and density a radial
contraction of 120 feet per year would be enough to supply all the
energy now radiated by that body. This seems like a hopeful source of
energy, but Kelvin calculated that twenty million years ago it was
ineffective and ten million years hence it will be equally so. Moreover,
if this is the source of heat, the amount of radiation from the sun
would have to vary enormously. Twenty million years ago the sun would
have extended nearly to the earth's orbit and would have been so tenuous
that it would have emitted no more heat than some of the nebulæ in
space. Some millions of years later, when the sun's radius was twice as
great as at present, that body would have emitted only one-fourth as
much heat as now, which would mean that on the earth's surface the
theoretical temperature would have been 200° below the present level.
This is utterly out of accord with the uniformity of climate shown by
the geological record. In the future, if the sun's contraction is the
only source of heat, the sun can supply the present amount for only ten
million years, which would mean a change utterly unlike anything of
which the geological record holds even the faintest hint.[9]
Altogether the problem of how the sun can have remained so uniform and
how the earth's atmosphere and other conditions can also have remained
so uniform throughout hundreds of millions of years is one of the most
puzzling in the whole realm of nature. If appeal is taken to
radioactivity and the breaking up of uranium into radium and helium,
conditions can be postulated which will give the required amount of
energy. Such is also the case if it be supposed that there is some
unknown process which may induce an atomic change like radioactivity in
bodies which are now supposed to be stable elements. In either case,
however, there is as yet no satisfactory explanation of the _uniformity_
of the earth's climate. A hundred million or a thousand million years
ago the temperature of the earth's surface was very much the same as
now. The earth had then presumably ceased to emit any great amount of
heat, if we may judge from the fact that its surface was cool enough so
that great ice sheets could accumulate on low lands within 40° of the
equator. The atmosphere was apparently almost like that of today, and
was almost certainly not different enough to make up for any great
divergence of the sun from its present condition. We cannot escape the
stupendous fact that in those remote times the sun must have been
essentially the same as now, or else that some utterly unknown factor is
at work.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: W. A. Setchell: The Temperature Interval in the
Geographical Distribution of Marine Algæ; Science, Vol. 52, 1920,
p. 187.]
[Footnote 2: J. Barrell: Rhythms and the Measurements of Geologic Time;
Bull. Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 28, Dec., 1917, pp. 745-904.]
[Footnote 3: Pirsson and Schuchert: Textbook of Geology, 1915, pp.
538-550.]
[Footnote 4: From Charles Schuchert in The Evolution of the Earth and
Its Inhabitants: Edited by R. S. Lull, New Haven, 1918, but with
revisions by Professor Schuchert.]
[Footnote 5: J. H. Poynting: Radiation in the Solar System; Phil. Trans.
A, 1903, 202, p. 525.]
[Footnote 6: L. J. Henderson: The Fitness of the Environment, 1913.]
[Footnote 7: Henderson: _loc. cit._, p. 138.]
[Footnote 8: F. R. Moulton: Introduction to Astronomy, 1916.]
[Footnote 9: Moulton: _loc. cit._]
CHAPTER II
THE VARIABILITY OF CLIMATE
The variability of the earth's climate is almost as extraordinary as its
uniformity. This variability is made up partly of a long, slow tendency
in one direction and partly of innumerable cycles of every conceivable
duration from days, or even hours, up to millions of years. Perhaps the
easiest way to grasp the full complexity of the matter is to put the
chief types of climatic sequence in the form of a table.
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| TABLE 2 |
| |
| TYPES OF CLIMATIC SEQUENCE |
| |
| 1. Cosmic uniformity. 7. Brückner periods. |
| 2. Secular progression. 8. Sunspot cycles. |
| 3. Geologic oscillations. 9. Seasonal alternations. |
| 4. Glacial fluctuations. 10. Pleionian migrations. |
| 5. Orbital precessions. 11. Cyclonic vacillations. |
| 6. Historical pulsations. 12. Daily vibrations. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
In assigning names to the various types an attempt has been made to
indicate something of the nature of the sequence so far as duration,
periodicity, and general tendencies are concerned. Not even the rich
English language of the twentieth century, however, furnishes words with
enough shades of meaning to express all that is desired. Moreover,
except in degree, there is no sharp distinction between some of the
related types, such as glacial fluctuations and historic pulsations.
Yet, taken as a whole, the table brings out the great contrast between
two absolutely diverse extremes. At the one end lies well-nigh eternal
uniformity, or an extremely slow progress in one direction throughout
countless ages; at the other, rapid and regular vibrations from day to
day, or else irregular and seemingly unsystematic vacillations due to
cyclonic storms, both of which types are repeated millions of times
during even a single glacial fluctuation.
The meaning of cosmic uniformity has been explained in the preceding
chapter. Its relation to the other types of climatic sequences seems to
be that it sets sharply defined limits beyond which no changes of any
kind have ever gone since life, as we know it, first began. Secular
progression, on the other hand, means that in spite of all manner of
variations, now this way and then the other, the normal climate of the
earth, if there is such a thing, has on the whole probably changed a
little, perhaps becoming more complex. After each period of continental
uplift and glaciation--for such are preëminently the times of
complexity--it is doubtful whether the earth has ever returned to quite
its former degree of monotony. Today the earth has swung away from the
great diversity of the glacial period. Yet we still have contrasts of
what seem to us great magnitude. In low depressions, such as Turfan in
the central deserts of Eurasia, the thermometer sometimes ranges from
0°F. in the morning to 60° in the shade at noon. On a cloudy day in the
Amazon forest close to the seashore, on the contrary, the temperature
for months may rise to 85° by day and sink no lower than 75° at night.
The reasons for the secular progression of the earth's climate appear to
be intimately connected with those which have caused the next, and, in
many respects, more important type of climatic sequence, which consists
of geological oscillations. Both the progression and the oscillations
seem to depend largely on three purely terrestrial factors: first, the
condition of the earth's interior, including both internal heat and
contraction; second, the salinity and movement of the ocean; and third,
the composition and amount of the atmosphere. To begin with the earth's
interior--its loss of heat appears to be an almost negligible factor in
explaining either secular progression or geologic oscillation. According
to both the nebular and the planetesimal hypotheses, the earth's crust
appears to be colder now than it was hundreds or thousands of millions
of years ago. The emission of internal heat, however, had probably
ceased to be of much climatic significance near the beginning of the
geological record, for in southern Canada glaciation occurred very early
in the Proterozoic era. On the other hand, the contraction of the earth
has produced remarkable effects throughout the whole of geological time.
It has lessened the earth's circumference by a thousand miles or more,
as appears from the way in which the rocks have been folded and thrust
bodily over one another. According to the laws of dynamics this must
have increased the speed of the earth's rotation, thus shortening the
day, and also having the more important effect of increasing the bulge
at the equator. On the other hand, recent investigations indicate that
tidal retardation has probably diminished the earth's rate of rotation
more than seemed probable a few years ago, thus lengthening the day and
diminishing the bulge at the equator. Thus two opposing forces have been
at work, one causing acceleration and one retardation. Their combined
effect may have been a factor in causing secular progression of climate.
It almost certainly was of much importance in causing pronounced
oscillations first one way and then the other. This matter, together
with most of those touched in these first chapters, will be expanded in
later parts of the book. On the whole the tendency appears to have been
to create climatic diversity in place of uniformity.
The increasing salinity of the oceans may have been another factor in
producing secular progression, although of slight importance in respect
to oscillations. While the oceans were still growing in volume, it is
generally assumed that they must have been almost fresh for a vast
period, although Chamberlin thinks that the change in salinity has been
much less than is usually supposed. So far as the early oceans were
fresher than those of today, their deep-sea circulation must have been
less hampered than now by the heavy saline water which is produced by
evaporation in warm regions. Although this saline water is warm, its
weight causes it to descend, instead of moving poleward in a surface
current; this descent slows up the rise of the cold water which has
moved along in the depths of the ocean from high latitudes, and thus
checks the general oceanic circulation. If the ancient oceans were
fresher and hence had a freer circulation than now, a more rapid
interchange of polar and equatorial water presumably tended to equalize
the climate of all latitudes.
Again, although the earth's atmosphere has probably changed far less
during geological times than was formerly supposed, its composition has
doubtless varied. The total volume of nitrogen has probably increased,
for that gas is so inert that when it once becomes a part of the air it
is almost sure to stay there. On the other hand, the proportions of
oxygen, carbon dioxide, and water vapor must have fluctuated. Oxygen is
taken out constantly by animals and by all the processes of rock
weathering, but on the other hand the supply is increased when plants
break up new carbon dioxide derived from volcanoes. As for the carbon
dioxide, it appears probable that in spite of the increased supply
furnished by volcanoes the great amounts of carbon which have gradually
been locked up in coal and limestone have appreciably depleted the
atmosphere. Water vapor also may be less abundant now than in the past,
for the presence of carbon dioxide raises the temperature a little and
thereby enables the air to hold more moisture. When the area of the
oceans has diminished, and this has recurred very often, this likewise
would tend to reduce the water vapor. Moreover, even a very slight
diminution in the amount of heat given off by the earth, or a decrease
in evaporation because of higher salinity in the oceans, would tend in
the same direction. Now carbon dioxide and water vapor both have a
strong blanketing effect whereby heat is prevented from leaving the
earth. Therefore, the probable reduction in the carbon dioxide and water
vapor of the earth's atmosphere has apparently tended to reduce the
climatic monotony and create diversity and complexity. Hence, in spite
of many reversals, the general tendency of changes, not only in the
earth's interior and in the oceans, but also in the atmosphere, appears
to be a secular progression from a relatively monotonous climate in
which the evolution of higher organic forms would scarcely be rapid to
an extremely diverse and complex climate highly favorable to progressive
evolution. The importance of these purely terrestrial agencies must not
be lost sight of when we come to discuss other agencies outside the
earth.
In Table 2 the next type of climatic sequence is geologic oscillation.
This means slow swings that last millions of years. At one extreme of
such an oscillation the climate all over the world is relatively
monotonous; it returns, as it were, toward the primeval conditions at
the beginning of the secular progression. At such times magnolias,
sequoias, figs, tree ferns, and many other types of subtropical plants
grew far north in places like Greenland, as is well known from their
fossil remains of middle Cenozoic time, for example. At these same
times, and also at many others before such high types of plants had
evolved, reef-making corals throve in great abundance in seas which
covered what is now Wisconsin, Michigan, Ontario, and other equally cool
regions. Today these regions have an average temperature of only about
70°F. in the warmest month, and average well below freezing in winter.
No reef-making corals can now live where the temperature averages below
68°F. The resemblance of the ancient corals to those of today makes it
highly probable that they were equally sensitive to low temperature.
Thus, in the mild portions of a geologic oscillation the climate seems
to have been so equable and uniform that many plants and animals could
live 1500 and at other times even 4000 miles farther from the equator
than now.
At such times the lands in middle and high latitudes were low and small,
and the oceans extended widely over the continental platforms. Thus
unhampered ocean currents had an opportunity to carry the heat of low
latitudes far toward the poles. Under such conditions, especially if the
conception of the great subequatorial continent of Gondwana land is
correct, the trade winds and the westerlies must have been stronger and
steadier than now. This would not only enable the westerlies, which are
really southwesterlies, to carry more heat than now to high latitudes,
but would still further strengthen the ocean currents. At the same time,
the air presumably contained an abundance of water vapor derived from
the broad oceans, and an abundance of atmospheric carbon dioxide
inherited from a preceding time when volcanoes contributed much carbon
dioxide to the air. These two constituents of the atmosphere may have
exercised a pronounced blanketing effect whereby the heat of the earth
with its long wave lengths was kept in, although the energy of the sun
with its shorter wave lengths was not markedly kept out. Thus everything
may have combined to produce mild conditions in high latitudes, and to
diminish the contrast between equator and pole, and between summer and
winter.
Such conditions perhaps carry in themselves the seeds of decay. At any
rate while the lands lie quiet during a period of mild climate great
strains must accumulate in the crust because of the earth's contraction
and tidal retardation. At the same time the great abundance of plants
upon the lowlying plains with their mild climates, and the marine
creatures upon the broad continental platforms, deplete the atmospheric
carbon dioxide. Part of this is locked up as coal and part as limestone
derived from marine plants as well as animals. Then something happens so
that the strains and stresses of the crust are released. The sea floors
sink; the continents become relatively high and large; mountain ranges
are formed; and the former plains and emergent portions of the
continental platforms are eroded into hills and valleys. The large size
of the continents tends to create deserts and other types of climatic
diversity; the presence of mountain ranges checks the free flow of winds
and also creates diversity; the ocean currents are likewise checked,
altered, and diverted so that the flow of heat from low to high
latitudes is diminished. At the same time evaporation from the ocean
diminishes so that a decrease in water vapor combines with the previous
depletion of carbon dioxide to reduce the blanketing effect of the
atmosphere. Thus upon periods of mild monotony there supervene periods
of complexity, diversity, and severity. Turn to Table 1 and see how a
glacial climate again and again succeeds a time when relative mildness
prevailed almost everywhere. Or examine Fig. 1 and notice how the lines
representing temperatures go up and down. In the figure Schuchert makes
it clear that when the lands have been large and mountain-making has
been important, as shown by the high parts of the lower shaded area, the
climate has been severe, as shown by the descent of the snow line, the
upper shaded area. In the diagram the climatic oscillations appear
short, but this is merely because they have been crowded together,
especially in the left hand or early part. There an inch in length may
represent a hundred million years. Even at the right-hand end an inch is
equivalent to several million years.
The severe part of a climatic oscillation, as well as the mild part,
will be shown in later chapters to bear in itself certain probable seeds
of decay. While the lands are being uplifted, volcanic activity is
likely to be vigorous and to add carbon dioxide to the air. Later, as
the mountains are worn down by the many agencies of water, wind, ice,
and chemical decay, although much carbon dioxide is locked up by the
carbonation of the rocks, the carbon locked up in the coal is set free
and increases the carbon dioxide of the air. At the same time the
continents settle slowly downward, for the earth's crust though rigid as
steel is nevertheless slightly viscous and will flow if subjected to
sufficiently great and enduring pressure. The area from which
evaporation can take place is thereby increased because of the spread of
the oceans over the continents, and water vapor joins with the carbon
dioxide to blanket the earth and thus tends to keep it uniformly warm.
Moreover, the diminution of the lands frees the ocean currents from
restraint and permits them to flow more freely from low latitudes to
high. Thus in the course of millions of years there is a return toward
monotony. Ultimately, however, new stresses accumulate in the earth's
crust, and the way is prepared for another great oscillation. Perhaps
the setting free of the stresses takes place simply because the strain
at last becomes irresistible. It is also possible, as we shall see, that
an external agency sometimes adds to the strain and thereby determines
the time at which a new oscillation shall begin.
In Table 2 the types of climatic sequences which follow "geologic
oscillations" are "glacial fluctuations," "orbital precessions" and
"historical pulsations." Glacial fluctuations and historical pulsations
appear to be of the same type, except as to severity and duration, and
hence may be considered together. They will be treated briefly here
because the theories as to their causes are outlined in the next two
chapters. Oddly enough, although the historic pulsations lie much closer
to us than do the glacial fluctuations, they were not discovered until
two or three generations later, and are still much less known. The most
important feature of both sequences is the swing from a glacial to an
inter-glacial epoch or from the arsis or accentuated part of an
historical pulsation to the thesis or unaccented part. In a glacial
epoch or in the arsis of an historic pulsation, storms are usually
abundant and severe, the mean temperature is lower than usual, snow
accumulates in high latitudes or upon lofty mountains. For example, in
the last such period during the fourteenth century, great floods and
droughts occurred alternately around the North Sea; it was several times
possible to cross the Baltic Sea from Germany to Sweden on the ice, and
the ice of Greenland advanced so much that shore ice caused the Norsemen
to change their sailing route between Iceland and the Norse colonies in
southern Greenland. At the same time in low latitudes and in parts of
the continental interior there is a tendency toward diminished rainfall
and even toward aridity and the formation of deserts. In Yucatan, for
example, a diminution in tropical rainfall in the fourteenth century
seems to have given the Mayas a last opportunity for a revival of their
decaying civilization.
[Illustration: _Fig. 1. Climatic changes and mountain building._
(_After Schuchert, in The Evolution of the Earth and Its Inhabitants,
edited by R. S. Lull._) Diagram showing the times and probable extent of
the more or less marked climate changes in the geologic history of North
America, and of its elevation into chains of mountains.]
Among the climatic sequences, glacial fluctuations are perhaps of the
most vital import from the standpoint of organic evolution; from the
standpoint of human history the same is true of climatic pulsations.
Glacial epochs have repeatedly wiped out thousands upon thousands of
species and played a part in the origin of entirely new types of plants
and animals. This is best seen when the life of the Pennsylvanian is
contrasted with that of the Permian. An historic pulsation may wipe out
an entire civilization and permit a new one to grow up with a radically
different character. Hence it is not strange that the causes of such
climatic phenomena have been discussed with extraordinary vigor. In few
realms of science has there been a more imposing or more interesting
array of theories. In this book we shall consider the more important of
these theories. A new solar or cyclonic hypothesis and the hypothesis of
changes in the form and altitude of the land will receive the most
attention, but the other chief hypotheses are outlined in the next
chapter, and are frequently referred to throughout the volume.
Between glacial fluctuations and historical pulsations in duration, but
probably less severe than either, come orbital precessions. These stand
in a group by themselves and are more akin to seasonal alternations than
to any other type of climatic sequence. They must have occurred with
absolute regularity ever since the earth began to revolve around the sun
in its present elliptical orbit. Since the orbit is elliptical and since
the sun is in one of the two foci of the ellipse, the earth's distance
from the sun varies. At present the earth is nearest the sun in the
northern winter. Hence the rigor of winter in the northern hemisphere is
mitigated, while that of the southern hemisphere is increased. In about
ten thousand years this condition will be reversed, and in another ten
thousand the present conditions will return once more. Such climatic
precessions, as we may here call them, must have occurred unnumbered
times in the past, but they do not appear to have been large enough to
leave in the fossils of the rocks any traces that can be distinguished
from those of other climatic sequences.
We come now to Brückner periods and sunspot cycles. The Brückner periods
have a length of about thirty-three years. Their existence was suggested
at least as long ago as the days of Sir Francis Bacon, whose statement
about them is quoted on the flyleaf of this book. They have since been
detected by a careful study of the records of the time of harvest,
vintage, the opening of rivers to navigation, and the rise or fall of
lakes like the Caspian Sea. In his book on _Klimaschwankungen seit
1700_, Brückner has collected an uncommonly interesting assortment of
facts as to the climate of Europe for more than two centuries. More
recently, by a study of the rate of growth of trees, Douglass, in his
book on _Climatic Cycles and Tree Growth_, has carried the subject still
further. In general the nature of the 33-year periods seems to be
identical with that of the 11- or 12- year sunspot cycle, on the one
hand, and of historic pulsations on the other. For a century observers
have noted that the variations in the weather which everyone notices
from year to year seem to have some relation to sunspots. For
generations, however, the relationship was discussed without leading to
any definite conclusion. The trouble was that the same change was
supposed to take place in all parts of the world. Hence, when every sort
of change was found somewhere at any given sunspot stage, it seemed as
though there could not be a relationship. Of late years, however, the
matter has become fairly clear. The chief conclusions are, first, that
when sunspots are numerous the average temperature of the earth's
surface is lower than normal. This does not mean that all parts are
cooler, for while certain large areas grow cool, others of less extent
become warm at times of many sunspots. Second, at times of many sunspots
storms are more abundant than usual, but are also confined somewhat
closely to certain limited tracks so that elsewhere a diminution of
storminess may be noted. This whole question is discussed so fully in
_Earth and Sun_ that it need not detain us further in this preliminary
view of the whole problem of climate. Suffice it to say that a study of
the sunspot cycle leads to the conclusion that it furnishes a clue to
many of the unsolved problems of the climate of the past, as well as a
key to prediction of the future.
Passing by the seasonal alternations which are fully explained as the
result of the revolution of the earth around the sun, we may merely
point out that, like the daily vibrations which bring Table 2 to a
close, they emphasize the outstanding fact that the main control of
terrestrial climate is the amount of energy received from the sun. This
same principle is illustrated by pleionian migrations. The term "pleion"
comes from a Greek word meaning "more." It was taken by Arctowski to
designate areas or periods where there is an excess of some climatic
element, such as atmospheric pressure, rainfall, or temperature. Even if
the effect of the seasons is eliminated, it appears that the course of
these various elements does not run smoothly. As everyone knows, a
period like the autumn of 1920 in the eastern United States may be
unusually warm, while a succeeding period may be unseasonably cool.
These departures from the normal show a certain rough periodicity. For
example, there is evidence of a period of about twenty-seven days,
corresponding to the sun's rotation and formerly supposed to be due to
the moon's revolution which occupies almost the same length of time.
Still other periods appear to have an average duration of about three
months and of between two and three years. Two remarkable discoveries
have recently been made in respect to such pleions. One is that a given
type of change usually occurs simultaneously in a number of well-defined
but widely separated centers, while a change of an opposite character
arises in another equally well-defined, but quite different, set of
centers. In general, areas of high pressure have one type of change and
areas of low pressure the other type. So systematic are these
relationships and so completely do they harmonize in widely separated
parts of the earth, that it seems certain that they must be due to some
outside cause, which in all probability can be only the sun. The second
discovery is that pleions, when once formed, travel irregularly along
the earth's surface. Their paths have not yet been worked out in detail,
but a general migration seems well established. Because of this, it is
probable that if unusually warm weather prevails in one part of a
continent at a given time, the "thermo-pleion," or excess of heat, will
not vanish but will gradually move away in some particular direction. If
we knew the path that it would follow we might predict the general
temperature along its course for some months in advance. The paths are
often irregular, and the pleions frequently show a tendency to break up
or suddenly revive. Probably this tendency is due to variations in the
sun. When the sun is highly variable, the pleions are numerous and
strong, and extremes of weather are frequent. Taken as a whole the
pleions offer one of the most interesting and hopeful fields not only
for the student of the causes of climatic variations, but for the man
who is interested in the practical question of long-range weather
forecasts. Like many other climatic phenomena they seem to represent the
combined effect of conditions in the sun and upon the earth itself.
The last of the climatic sequences which require explanation is the
cyclonic vacillations. These are familiar to everyone, for they are the
changes of weather which occur at intervals of a few days, or a week or
two, at all seasons, in large parts of the United States, Europe, Japan,
and some of the other progressive parts of the earth. They do not,
however, occur with great frequency in equatorial regions, deserts, and
many other regions. Up to the end of the last century, it was generally
supposed that cyclonic storms were purely terrestrial in origin. Without
any adequate investigation it was assumed that all irregularities in the
planetary circulation of the winds arise from an irregular distribution
of heat due to conditions within or upon the earth itself. These
irregularities were supposed to produce cyclonic storms in certain
limited belts, but not in most parts of the world. Today this view is
being rapidly modified. Undoubtedly, the irregularities due to purely
terrestrial conditions are one of the chief contributory causes of
storms, but it begins to appear that solar variations also play a part.
It has been found, for example, that not only the mean temperature of
the earth's surface varies in harmony with the sunspot cycle, but that
the frequency and severity of storms vary in the same way. Moreover, it
has been demonstrated that the sun's radiation is not constant, but is
subject to innumerable variations. This does not mean that the sun's
general temperature varies, but merely that at some times heated gases
are ejected rapidly to high levels so that a sudden wave of energy
strikes the earth. Thus, the present tendency is to believe that the
cyclonic variations, the changes of weather which come and go in such a
haphazard, irresponsible way, are partly due to causes pertaining to the
earth itself and partly to the sun.
From this rapid survey of the types of climatic sequences, it is evident
that they may be divided into four great groups. First comes cosmic
uniformity, one of the most marvelous and incomprehensible of all known
facts. We simply have no explanation which is in any respect adequate.
Next come secular progression and geologic oscillations, two types of
change which seem to be due mainly to purely terrestrial causes, that
is, to changes in the lands, the oceans, and the air. The general
tendency of these changes is toward complexity and diversity, thus
producing progression, but they are subject to frequent reversals which
give rise to oscillations lasting millions of years. The processes by
which the oscillations take place are fully discussed in this book.
Nevertheless, because they are fairly well understood, they are deferred
until after the third group of sequences has been discussed. This group
includes glacial fluctuations, historic pulsations, Brückner periods,
sunspot cycles, pleionian migrations, and cyclonic vacillations. The
outstanding fact in regard to all of these is that while they are
greatly modified by purely terrestrial conditions, they seem to owe
their origin to variations in the sun. They form the chief subject of
_Earth and Sun_ and in their larger phases are the most important topic
of this book also. The last group of sequences includes orbital
precessions, seasonal alternations, and daily variations. These may be
regarded as purely solar in origin. Yet their influence, like that of
each of the other groups, is much modified by the earth's own
conditions. Our main problem is to separate and explain the two great
elements in climatic changes,--the effects of the sun, on the one hand,
and of the earth on the other.
CHAPTER III
HYPOTHESES OF CLIMATIC CHANGE
The next step in our study of climate is to review the main hypotheses
as to the causes of glaciation. These hypotheses apply also to other
types of climatic changes. We shall concentrate on glacial periods,
however, not only because they are the most dramatic and well-known
types of change, but because they have been more discussed than any
other and have also had great influence on evolution. Moreover, they
stand near the middle of the types of climatic sequences, and an
understanding of them does much to explain the others. In reviewing the
various theories we shall not attempt to cover all the ground, but shall
merely state the main ideas of the few theories which have had an
important influence upon scientific thought.
The conditions which any satisfactory climatic hypothesis must satisfy
are briefly as follows:
(1) Due weight must be given to the fact that changes of climate are
almost certainly due to the combined effect of a variety of causes, both
terrestrial and solar or cosmic.
(2) Attention must also be paid to both sides in the long controversy as
to whether glaciation is due primarily to a diminution in the earth's
supply of heat or to a _redistribution_ of the heat through changes in
atmospheric and oceanic circulation. At present the great majority of
authorities are on the side of a diminution of heat, but the other view
also deserves study.
(3) A satisfactory hypothesis must explain the frequent synchronism
between two great types of phenomena; first, movements of the earth's
crust whereby continents are uplifted and mountains upheaved; and,
second, great changes of climate which are usually marked by relatively
rapid oscillations from one extreme to another.
(4) No hypothesis can find acceptance unless it satisfies the somewhat
exacting requirements of the geological record, with its frequent but
irregular repetition of long, mild periods, relatively cool or
intermediate periods like the present, and glacial periods of more or
less severity and perhaps accompanying the more or less widespread
uplifting of continents. At least during the later glacial periods the
hypothesis must explain numerous climatic epochs and stages superposed
upon a single general period of continental upheaval. Moreover, although
historical geology demands cycles of varied duration and magnitude, it
does not furnish evidence of any rigid periodicity causing the cycles to
be uniform in length or intensity.
(5) Most important of all, a satisfactory explanation of climatic
changes and crustal deformation must take account of all the agencies
which are now causing similar phenomena. Whether any other agencies
should be considered is open to question, although the relative
importance of existing agencies may have varied.
I. _Croll's Eccentricity Theory._ One of the most ingenious and most
carefully elaborated scientific hypotheses is Croll's[10] precessional
hypothesis as to the effect of the earth's own motions. So well was this
worked out that it was widely accepted for a time and still finds a
place in popular but unscientific books, such as Wells' _Outline of
History_, and even in scientific works like Wright's _Quaternary Ice
Age_. The gist of the hypothesis has already been given in connection
with the type of climatic sequence known as orbital precessions. The
earth is 93 million miles away from the sun in January and 97 million in
July. The earth's axis "precesses," however, just as does that of a
spinning top. Hence arises what is known as the precession of the
equinoxes, that is, a steady change in the season at which the earth is
in perihelion, or nearest to the sun. In the course of 21,000 years the
time of perihelion varies from early in January through the entire
twelve months and back to January. Moreover, the earth's orbit is
slightly more elliptical at certain periods than at others, for the
planets sometimes become bunched so that they all pull the earth in one
direction. Hence, once in about one hundred thousand years the effect of
the elliptical shape of the earth's orbit is at a maximum.
Croll argued that these astronomical changes must alter the earth's
climate, especially by their effect on winds and ocean currents. His
elaborate argument contains a vast amount of valuable material. Later
investigation, however, seems to have proven the inadequacy of his
hypothesis. In the first place, the supposed cause does not seem nearly
sufficient to produce the observed results. Second, Croll's hypothesis
demands that glaciation in the northern and southern hemisphere take
place alternately. A constantly growing collection of facts, however,
indicates that glaciation does not occur in the two hemispheres
alternately, but at the same time. Third, the hypothesis calls for the
constant and frequent repetition of glaciation at absolutely regular
intervals. The geological record shows no such regularity, for sometimes
several glacial epochs follow in relatively close succession at
irregular intervals of perhaps fifty to two hundred thousand years, and
thus form a glacial period; and then for millions of years there are
none. Fourth, the eccentricity hypothesis provides no adequate
explanation for the glacial stages or subepochs, the historic
pulsations, and the other smaller climatic variations which are
superposed upon glacial epochs and upon one another in bewildering
confusion. In spite of these objections, there can be little question
that the eccentricity of the earth's orbit and the precession of the
equinoxes with the resulting change in the season of perihelion must
have some climatic effect. Hence Croll's theory deserves a permanent
though minor place in any full discussion of the causes of climatic
changes.
II. _The Carbon Dioxide Theory._ At about the time that the eccentricity
theory was being relegated to a minor niche, a new theory was being
developed which soon exerted a profound influence upon geological
thought. Chamberlin,[11] adopting an idea suggested by Tyndall, fired
the imagination of geologists by his skillful exposition of the part
played by carbon dioxide in causing climatic changes. Today this theory
is probably more widely accepted than any other. We have already seen
that the amount of carbon dioxide gas in the atmosphere has a decided
climatic importance. Moreover, there can be little doubt that the amount
of that gas in the atmosphere varies from age to age in response to the
extent to which it is set free by volcanoes, consumed by plants,
combined with rocks in the process of weathering, dissolved in the ocean
or locked up in the form of coal and limestone. The main question is
whether such variations can produce changes so rapid as glacial epochs
and historical pulsations.
Abundant evidence seems to show that the degree to which the air can be
warmed by carbon dioxide is sharply limited. Humphreys, in his excellent
book on the _Physics of the Air_, calculates that a layer of carbon
dioxide forty centimeters thick has practically as much blanketing
effect as a layer indefinitely thicker. In other words, forty
centimeters of carbon dioxide, while having no appreciable effect on
sunlight coming toward the earth, would filter out and thus retain in
the atmosphere all the outgoing terrestrial heat that carbon dioxide is
capable of absorbing. Adding more would be like adding another filter
when the one in operation has already done all that that particular kind
of filter is capable of doing. According to Humphreys' calculations, a
doubling of the carbon dioxide in the air would in itself raise the
average temperature about 1.3°C. and further carbon dioxide would have
practically no effect. Reducing the present supply by half would reduce
the temperature by essentially the same amount.
The effect must be greater, however, than would appear from the figures
given above, for any change in temperature has an effect on the amount
of water vapor, which in turn causes further changes of temperature.
Moreover, as Chamberlin points out, it is not clear whether Humphreys
allows for the fact that when the 40 centimeters of CO_{2} nearest the
earth has been heated by terrestrial radiation, it in turn radiates half
its heat outward and half inward. The outward half is all absorbed in
the next layer of carbon dioxide, and so on. The process is much more
complex than this, but the end result is that even the last increment of
CO_{2}, that is, the outermost portions in the upper atmosphere, must
apparently absorb an infinitesimally small amount of heat. This fact,
plus the effect of water vapor, would seem to indicate that a doubling
or halving of the amount of CO_{2}, would have an effect of more than
1.3°C. A change of even 2°C. above or below the present level of the
earth's mean temperature would be of very appreciable climatic
significance, for it is commonly believed that during the height of the
glacial period the mean temperature was only 5° to 8°C. lower than now.
Nevertheless, variations in atmospheric carbon dioxide do not
necessarily seem competent to produce the relatively rapid climatic
fluctuations of glacial epochs and historic pulsations as distinguished
from the longer swings of glacial periods and geological eras. In
Chamberlin's view, as in ours, the elevation of the land, the
modification of the currents of the air and of the ocean, and all that
goes with elevation as a topographic agency constitute a primary cause
of climatic changes. A special effect of this is the removal of carbon
dioxide from the air by the enhanced processes of weathering. This, as
he carefully states, is a very slow process, and cannot of itself lead
to anything so sudden as the oncoming of glaciation. But here comes
Chamberlin's most distinctive contribution to the subject, namely, the
hypothesis that changes in atmospheric temperature arising from
variations in atmospheric carbon dioxide are able to cause a reversal of
the deep-sea oceanic circulation.
According to Chamberlin's view, the ordinary oceanic circulation of the
greater part of geological time was the reverse of the present
circulation. Warm water descended to the ocean depths in low latitudes,
kept its heat while creeping slowly poleward, and rose in high latitudes
producing the warm climate which enabled corals, for example, to grow in
high latitudes. Chamberlin holds this opinion largely because there
seems to him to be no other reasonable way to account for the enormously
long warm periods when heat-loving forms of life lived in what are now
polar regions of ice and snow. He explains this reversed circulation by
supposing that an abundance of atmospheric carbon dioxide, together with
a broad distribution of the oceans, made the atmosphere so warm that the
evaporation in low latitudes was far more rapid than now. Hence the
surface water of the ocean became a relatively concentrated brine. Such
a brine is heavy and tends to sink, thereby setting up an oceanic
circulation the reverse of that which now prevails. At present the polar
waters sink because they are cold and hence contract. Moreover, when
they freeze a certain amount of salt leaves the ice and thereby
increases the salinity of the surrounding water. Thus the polar water
sinks to the depths of the ocean, its place is taken by warmer and
lighter water from low latitudes which moves poleward along the surface,
and at the same time the cold water of the ocean depths is forced
equatorward below the surface. But if the equatorial waters were so
concentrated that a steady supply of highly saline water kept descending
to low levels, the direction of the circulation would have to be
reversed. The time when this would occur would depend upon the delicate
balance between the downward tendencies of the cold polar water and of
the warm saline equatorial water.
Suppose that while such a reversed circulation prevailed, the
atmospheric CO_{2} should be depleted, and the air cooled so much that
the concentration of the equatorial waters by evaporation was no longer
sufficient to cause them to sink. A reversal would take place, the
present type of circulation would be inaugurated, and the whole earth
would suffer a chill because the surface of the ocean would become cool.
The cool surface-water would absorb carbon dioxide faster than the
previous warm water had done, for heat drives off gases from water. This
would hasten the cooling of the atmosphere still more, not only directly
but by diminishing the supply of atmospheric moisture. The result would
be glaciation. But ultimately the cold waters of the higher latitudes
would absorb all the carbon dioxide they could hold, the slow
equatorward creep would at length permit the cold water to rise to the
surface in low latitudes. There the warmth of the equatorial sun and the
depleted supply of carbon dioxide in the air would combine to cause the
water to give up its carbon dioxide once more. If the atmosphere had
been sufficiently depleted by that time, the rising waters in low
latitudes might give up more carbon dioxide than the cold polar waters
absorbed. Thus the atmospheric supply would increase, the air would
again grow warm, and a tendency toward deglaciation, or toward an
inter-glacial condition would arise. At such times the oceanic
circulation is not supposed to have been reversed, but merely to have
been checked and made slower by the increasing warmth. Thus
inter-glacial conditions like those of today, or even considerably
warmer, are supposed to have been produced with the present type of
circulation.
The emission of carbon dioxide in low latitudes could not permanently
exceed the absorption in high latitudes. After the present type of
circulation was finally established, which might take tens of thousands
of years, the two would gradually become equal. Then the conditions
which originally caused the oceanic circulation to be reversed would
again destroy the balance; the atmospheric carbon dioxide would be
depleted; the air would grow cooler; and the cycle of glaciation would
be repeated. Each cycle would be shorter than the last, for not only
would the swings diminish like those of a pendulum, but the agencies
that were causing the main depletion of the atmospheric carbon dioxide
would diminish in intensity. Finally as the lands became lower through
erosion and submergence, and as the processes of weathering became
correspondingly slow, the air would gradually be able to accumulate
carbon dioxide; the temperature would increase; and at length the
oceanic circulation would be reversed again. When the warm saline waters
of low latitudes finally began to sink and to set up a flow of warm
water poleward in the depths of the ocean, a glacial period would
definitely come to an end.
This hypothesis has been so skillfully elaborated, and contains so many
important elements that one can scarcely study it without profound
admiration. We believe that it is of the utmost value as a step toward
the truth, and especially because it emphasizes the great function of
oceanic circulation. Nevertheless, we are unable to accept it in full
for several reasons, which may here be stated very briefly. Most of them
will be discussed fully in later pages.
(1) While a reversal of the deep-sea circulation would undoubtedly be of
great climatic importance and would produce a warm climate in high
latitudes, we see no direct evidence of such a reversal. It is equally
true that there is no conclusive evidence against it, and the
possibility of a reversal must not be overlooked. There seem, however,
to be other modifications of atmospheric and oceanic circulation which
are able to produce the observed results.
(2) There is much, and we believe conclusive, evidence that a mere
lowering of temperature would not produce glaciation. What seems to be
needed is changes in atmospheric circulation and in precipitation. The
carbon dioxide hypothesis has not been nearly so fully developed on the
meteorological side as in other respects.
(3) The carbon dioxide hypothesis seems to demand that the oceans should
have been almost as saline as now in the Proterozoic era at the time of
the first known glaciation. Chamberlin holds that such was the case, but
the constant supply of saline material brought to the ocean by rivers
and the relatively small deposition of such material on the sea floor
seem to indicate that the early oceans must have been much fresher than
those of today.
(4) The carbon dioxide hypothesis does not attempt to explain minor
climatic fluctuations such as post-glacial stages and historic
pulsations, but these appear to be of the same nature as glacial epochs,
differing only in degree.
(5) Another reason for hesitation in accepting the carbon dioxide
hypothesis as a full explanation of glacial fluctuations is the highly
complex and non-observational character of the explanation of the
alternation of glacial and inter-glacial epochs and of their constantly
decreasing length.
(6) Most important of all, a study of the variations of weather and of
climate as they are disclosed by present records and by the historic
past suggests that there are now in action certain other causes which
are competent to explain glaciation without recourse to a process whose
action is beyond the realm of observation.
These considerations lead to the conclusion that the carbon dioxide
hypothesis and the reversal of the oceanic circulation should be
regarded as a tentative rather than a final explanation of glaciation.
Nevertheless, the action of carbon dioxide seems to be an important
factor in producing the longer oscillations of climate from one
geological era to another. It probably plays a considerable part in
preparing the way for glacial periods and in making it possible for
other factors to produce the more rapid changes which have so deeply
influenced organic evolution.
III. _The Form of the Land._ Another great cause of climatic change
consists of a group of connected phenomena dependent upon movements of
the earth's crust. As to the climatic potency of changes in the lands
there is practical agreement among students of climatology and
glaciation. That the height and extent of the continents, the location,
size, and orientation of mountain ranges, and the opening and closing of
oceanic gateways at places like Panama, and the consequent diversion of
oceanic currents, exert a profound effect upon climate can scarcely be
questioned. Such changes may be introduced rapidly, but their
disappearance is usually slow compared with the rapid pulsations to
which climate has been subject during historic times and during stages
of glacial retreat and advance, or even in comparison with the epochs
into which the Pleistocene, Permian, and perhaps earlier glacial periods
have been divided. Hence, while crustal movements appear to be more
important than the eccentricity of the earth's orbit or the amount of
carbon dioxide in the air, they do not satisfactorily explain glacial
fluctuations, historic pulsations, and especially the present little
cycles of climatic change. All these changes involve a relatively rapid
swing from one extreme to another, while an upheaval of a continent,
which is at best a slow geologic process, apparently cannot be undone
for a long, long time. Hence such an upheaval, if acting alone, would
lead to a relatively long-lived climate of a somewhat extreme type. It
would help to explain the long swings, or geologic oscillations between
a mild and uniform climate at one extreme, and a complex and varied
climate at the other, but it would not explain the rapid climatic
pulsations which are closely associated with great movements of the
earth's crust. It might prepare the way for them, but could not cause
them. That this conclusion is true is borne out by the fact that vast
mountain ranges, like those at the close of the Jurassic and Cretaceous,
are upheaved without bringing on glacial climates. Moreover, the marked
Permian ice age follows long after the birth of the Hercynian Mountains
and before the rise of others of later Permian origin.
IV. _The Volcanic Hypothesis._ In the search for some cause of climatic
change which is highly efficient and yet able to vary rapidly and
independently, Abbot, Fowle, Humphreys, and others,[12] have concluded
that volcanic eruptions are the missing agency. In _Physics of the Air_,
Humphreys gives a careful study of the effect of volcanic dust upon
terrestrial temperature. He begins with a mathematical investigation of
the size of dust particles, and their quantity after certain eruptions.
He demonstrates that the power of such particles to deflect light of
short wave-lengths coming from the sun is perhaps thirty times more than
their power to retain the heat radiated in long waves from the earth.
Hence it is estimated that if a Krakatoa were to belch forth dust every
year or two, the dust veil might cause a reduction of about 6°C. in the
earth's surface temperature. As in every such complicated problem, some
of the author's assumptions are open to question, but this touches their
quantitative and not their qualitative value. It seems certain that if
volcanic explosions were frequent enough and violent enough, the
temperature of the earth's surface would be considerably lowered.
Actual observation supports this theoretical conclusion. Humphreys
gathers together and amplifies all that he and Abbot and Fowle have
previously said as to observations of the sun's thermal radiation by
means of the pyrheliometer. This summing up of the relations between the
heat received from the sun, and the occurrence of explosive volcanic
eruptions leaves little room for doubt that at frequent intervals during
the last century and a half a slight lowering of terrestrial temperature
has actually occurred after great eruptions. Nevertheless, it does not
justify Humphreys' final conclusion that "phenomena within the earth
itself suffice to modify its own climate, ... that these and these alone
have actually caused great changes time and again in the geologic past."
Humphreys sees so clearly the importance of the purely terrestrial point
of view that he unconsciously slights the cosmic standpoint and ignores
the important solar facts which he himself adduces elsewhere at
considerable length.
In addition to this the _degree_ to which the temperature of the earth
as a whole is influenced by volcanic eruptions is by no means so clear
as is the fact that there is some influence. Arctowski,[13] for example,
has prepared numerous curves showing the march of temperature month
after month for many years. During the period from 1909 to 1913, which
includes the great eruption of Katmai in Alaska, low temperature is
found to have prevailed at the time of the eruption, but, as Arctowski
puts it, on the basis of the curves for 150 stations in all parts of the
world: "The supposition that these abnormally low temperatures were due
to the veil of volcanic dust produced by the Katmai eruption of June 6,
1912, is completely out of the question. If that had been the case,
temperature would have decreased from that date on, whereas it was
decreasing for more than a year before that date."
Köppen,[14] in his comprehensive study of temperature for a hundred
years, also presents a strong argument against the idea that volcanic
eruptions have an important place in determining the present temperature
of the earth. A volcanic eruption is a sudden occurrence. Whatever
effect is produced by dust thrown into the air must occur within a few
months, or as soon as the dust has had an opportunity to be wafted to
the region in question. When the dust arrives, there will be a rapid
drop through the few degrees of temperature which the dust is supposed
to be able to account for, and thereafter a slow rise of temperature. If
volcanic eruptions actually caused a frequent lowering of terrestrial
temperature in the hundred years studied by Köppen, there should be more
cases where the annual temperature is decidedly below the normal than
where it shows a large departure in the opposite direction. The contrary
is actually the case.
A still more important argument is the fact that the earth is now in an
intermediate condition of climate. Throughout most of geologic time, as
we shall see again and again, the climate of the earth has been milder
than now. Regions like Greenland have not been the seat of glaciers, but
have been the home of types of plants which now thrive in relatively low
latitudes. In other words, the earth is today only part way from a
glacial epoch to what may be called the normal, mild climate of the
earth--a climate in which the contrast from zone to zone was much less
than now, and the lower air averaged warmer. Hence it seems impossible
to avoid the conclusion that the cause of glaciation is still operating
with considerable although diminished efficiency. But volcanic dust is
obviously not operating to any appreciable extent at present, for the
upper air is almost free from dust a large part of the time.
Again, as Chamberlin suggests, let it be supposed that a Krakatoan
eruption every two years would produce a glacial period. Unless the most
experienced field workers on the glacial formations are quite in error,
the various glacial epochs of the Pleistocene glacial period had a joint
duration of at least 150,000 years and perhaps twice as much. That would
require 75,000 Krakatoan eruptions. But where are the pits and cones of
such eruptions? There has not been time to erode them away since the
Pleistocene glaciation. Their beds of volcanic ash would presumably be
as voluminous as the glacial beds, but there do not seem to be
accumulations of any such size. Even though the same volcano suffered
repeated explosions, it seems impossible to find sufficient fresh
volcanic debris. Moreover, the volcanic hypothesis has not yet offered
any mechanism for systematic glacial variations. Hence, while the
hypothesis is important, we must search further for the full explanation
of glacial fluctuations, historic pulsations, and the earth's present
quasi-glacial climate.
V. _The Hypothesis of Polar Wandering._ Another hypothesis, which has
some adherents, especially among geologists, holds that the position of
the earth's axis has shifted repeatedly during geological times, thus
causing glaciation in regions which are not now polar. Astrophysicists,
however, are quite sure that no agency could radically change the
relation between the earth and its axis without likewise altering the
orbits of the planets to a degree that would be easily recognized.
Moreover, the distribution of the centers of glaciation both in the
Permian and Pleistocene periods does not seem to conform to this
hypothesis.
VI. _The Thermal Solar Hypothesis._ The only other explanations of the
climatic changes of glacial and historic times which now seem to have
much standing are two distinct and almost antagonistic solar hypotheses.
One is the idea that changes in the earth's climate are due to
variations in the heat emitted by the sun and hence in the temperature
of the earth. The other is the entirely different idea that climatic
changes arise from solar conditions which cause a _redistribution of the
earth's atmospheric pressure_ and hence produce changes in winds, ocean
currents, and especially storms. This second, or "cyclonic," hypothesis
is the subject of a book entitled _Earth and Sun_, which is to be
published as a companion to the present volume. It will be outlined in
the next chapter. The other, or thermal, hypothesis may be dismissed
briefly. Unquestionably a permanent change in the amount of heat emitted
by the sun would permanently alter the earth's climate. There is
absolutely no evidence, however, of any such change during geologic
time. The evidence as to the earth's cosmic uniformity and as to secular
progression is all against it. Suppose that for thirty or forty thousand
years the sun cooled off enough so that the earth was as cool as during
a glacial epoch. As glaciation is soon succeeded by a mild climate, some
agency would then be needed to raise the sun's temperature. The impact
of a shower of meteorites might accomplish this, but that would mean a
very sudden heating, such as there is no evidence of in geological
history. In fact, there is far more evidence of sudden cooling than of
sudden heating. Moreover, it is far beyond the bounds of probability
that such an impact should be repeated again and again with just such
force as to bring the climate back almost to where it started and yet to
allow for the slight changes which cause secular progression. Another
and equally cogent objection to the thermal form of solar hypothesis is
stated by Humphreys as follows: "A change of the solar constant
obviously alters all surface temperatures by a roughly constant
percentage. Hence a decrease of the heat from the sun would in general
cause a decrease of the interzonal temperature gradients; and this in
turn a less vigorous atmospheric circulation, and a less copious rain or
snowfall--exactly the reverse of the condition, namely, abundant
precipitation, most favorable to extensive glaciation."
This brings us to the end of the main hypotheses as to climatic changes,
aside from the solar cyclonic hypothesis which will be discussed in the
next chapter. It appears that variations in the position of the earth at
perihelion have a real though slight influence in causing cycles with a
length of about 21,000 years. Changes in the carbon dioxide of the air
probably have a more important but extremely slow influence upon
geologic oscillations. Variations in the size, shape, and height of the
continents are constantly causing all manner of climatic complications,
but do not cause rapid fluctuations and pulsations. The eruption of
volcanic dust appears occasionally to lower the temperature, but its
potency to explain the complex climatic changes recorded in the rocks
has probably been exaggerated. Finally, although minor changes in the
amount of heat given out by the sun occur constantly and have been
demonstrated to have a climatic effect, there is no evidence that such
changes are the main cause of the climatic phenomena which we are trying
to explain. Nevertheless, in connection with other solar changes they
may be of high importance.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 10: James Croll: Climate and Time, 1876.]
[Footnote 11: T. C. Chamberlin: An attempt to frame a working hypothesis
of the cause of glacial periods on an atmospheric basis; Jour. Geol.,
Vol. VII, 1899, pp. 545-584, 667-685, 757-787.
T. C. Chamberlin and R. D. Salisbury: Geology, Vol. II, 1906, pp.
93-106, 655-677, and Vol. III, pp. 432-446.
S. Arrhenius (Kosmische Physik, Vol. II, 1903, p. 503) carried out some
investigations on carbon dioxide which have had a pronounced effect on
later conclusions.
F. Frech adopted Arrhenius' idea and developed it in a paper entitled
Ueber die Klima-Aenderungen der Geologischen Vergangenheit. Compte
Rendu, Tenth (Mexico) Congr. Geol. Intern., 1907 (=1908), pp. 299-325.
The exact origin of the carbon dioxide theory has been stated so
variously that it seems worth while to give the exact facts. Prompted by
the suggestion, of Tyndall that glaciation might be due to depletion of
atmospheric carbon dioxide, Chamberlin worked up the essentials of his
early views before he saw any publication from Arrhenius, to whom the
idea has often been attributed. In 1895 or earlier Chamberlin began to
give the carbon dioxide hypothesis to his students and to discuss it
before local scientific bodies. In 1897 he prepared a paper on "A Group
of Hypotheses Bearing on Climatic Changes," Jour. Geol., Vol. V (1897),
to be read at the meeting of the British Association at Toronto, basing
his conclusions on Tyndall's determination of the competency of carbon
dioxide as an absorber of heat radiated from the earth. He had
essentially completed this when a paper by Arrhenius, "On the influence
of carbonic acid in the air upon the temperature of the ground," Phil.
Mag., 1896, pp. 237-276, first came to his attention. Chamberlin then
changed his conservative, tentative statement of the functions of carbon
dioxide to a more sweeping one based on Arrhenius' very definite
quantitative deductions from Langley's experiments. Both Langley and
Arrhenius were then in the ascendancy of their reputations and seemingly
higher authorities could scarcely have been chosen, nor a finer
combination than experiment and physico-mathematical development.
Arrhenius' deductions were later proved to have been overstrained, while
Langley's interpretation and even his observations were challenged.
Chamberlin's latest views are more like his earlier and more
conservative statement.]
[Footnote 12: C. G. Abbot and F. E. Fowle: Volcanoes and Climate;
Smiths. Misc. Coll., Vol. 60, 1913, 24 pp.
W. J. Humphreys: Volcanic dust and other factors in the production of
climatic and their possible relation to ice ages; Bull. Mount Weather
Observatory, Vol. 6, Part 1, 1913, 26 pp. Also, Physics of the Air,
1920.]
[Footnote 13: H. Arctowski: The Pleonian Cycle of Climatic Fluctuations;
Am. Jour. Sci., Vol. 42, 1916, pp. 27-33. See also Annals of the New
York Academy of Sciences, Vol. 24, 1914.]
[Footnote 14: W. Köppen: Über mehrjährige Perioden der Witterung
ins besondere üzer die II-jährige Periode der Temperatur. Also,
Lufttemperaturen Sonnenflecke und Vulcanausbrüche; Meteorologische
Zeitschrift, Vol. 7, 1914, pp. 305-328.]
CHAPTER IV
THE SOLAR CYCLONIC HYPOTHESIS
The progress of science is made up of a vast succession of hypotheses.
The majority die in early infancy. A few live and are for a time widely
accepted. Then some new hypothesis either destroys them completely or
shows that, while they contain elements of truth, they are not the whole
truth. In the previous chapter we have discussed a group of hypotheses
of this kind, and have tried to point out fairly their degree of truth
so far as it can yet be determined. In this chapter we shall outline
still another hypothesis, the relation of which to present climatic
conditions has been fully developed in _Earth and Sun_; while its
relation to the past will be explained in the present volume. This
hypothesis is not supposed to supersede the others, for so far as they
are true they cannot be superseded. It merely seems to explain some of
the many conditions which the other hypotheses apparently fail to
explain. To suppose that it will suffer a fate more glorious than its
predecessors would be presumptuous. The best that can be hoped is that
after it has been pruned, enriched, and modified, it may take its place
among the steps which finally lead to the goal of truth.
In this chapter the new hypothesis will be sketched in broad outline in
order that in the rest of this book the reader may appreciate the
bearing of all that is said. Details of proof and methods of work will
be omitted, since they are given in _Earth and Sun_. For the sake of
brevity and clearness the main conclusions will be stated without the
qualifications and exceptions which are fully explained in that volume.
Here it will be necessary to pass quickly over points which depart
radically from accepted ideas, and which therefore must arouse serious
question in the minds of thoughtful readers. That, however, is a
necessary consequence of the attempt which this book makes to put the
problem of climate in such form that the argument can be followed by
thoughtful students in any branch of knowledge and not merely by
specialists. Therefore, the specialist can merely be asked to withhold
judgment until he has read all the evidence as given in _Earth and Sun_,
and then to condemn only those parts that are wrong and not the whole
argument.
Without further explanation let us turn to our main problem. In the
realm of climatology the most important discovery of the last generation
is that variations in the weather depend on variations in the activity
of the sun's atmosphere. The work of the great astronomer, Newcomb, and
that of the great climatologist, Köppen, have shown beyond question that
the temperature of the earth's surface varies in harmony with variations
in the number and area of sunspots.[15] The work of Abbot has shown that
the amount of heat radiated from the sun also varies, and that in
general the variations correspond with those of the sunspots, although
there are exceptions, especially when the spots are fewest. Here,
however, there at once arises a puzzling paradox. The earth certainly
owes its warmth to the sun. Yet when the sun emits the most energy, that
is, when sunspots are most numerous, the earth's surface is coolest.
Doubtless the earth receives more heat than usual at such times, and the
upper air may be warmer than usual. Here we refer only to the air at the
earth's surface.
Another large group of investigators have shown that atmospheric
pressure also varies in harmony with the number of sunspots. Some parts
of the earth's surface have one kind of variation at times of many
sunspots and other parts the reverse. These differences are systematic
and depend largely on whether the region in question happens to have
high atmospheric pressure or low. The net result is that when sunspots
are numerous the earth's storminess increases, and the atmosphere is
thrown into commotion. This interferes with the stable planetary winds,
such as the trades of low latitudes and the prevailing westerlies of
higher latitudes. Instead of these regular winds and the fair weather
which they bring, there is a tendency toward frequent tropical
hurricanes in the lower latitudes and toward more frequent and severe
storms of the ordinary type in the latitudes where the world's most
progressive nations now live. With the change in storminess there
naturally goes a change in rainfall. Not all parts of the world,
however, have increased storminess and more abundant rainfall when
sunspots are numerous. Some parts change in the opposite way. Thus when
the sun's atmosphere is particularly disturbed, the contrasts between
different parts of the earth's surface are increased. For example, the
northern United States and southern Canada become more stormy and rainy,
as appears in Fig. 2, and the same is true of the Southwest and along
the south Atlantic coast. In a crescent-shaped central area, however,
extending from Wyoming through Missouri to Nova Scotia, the number of
storms and the amount of rainfall decrease.
[Illustration: _Fig. 2. Storminess at sunspot maxima vs. minima._
(_After Kullmer._)
Based on nine years' nearest sunspot minima and nine years' nearest
sunspot maxima in the three sunspot cycles from 1888 to 1918. Heavy
shading indicates excess of storminess when sunspots are numerous.
Figures indicate average yearly number of storms by which years of
maximum sunspots exceed those of minimum sunspots.]
The two controlling factors of any climate are the temperature and the
atmospheric pressure, for they determine the winds, the storms, and thus
the rainfall. A study of the temperature seems to show that the peculiar
paradox of a hot sun and a cool earth is due largely to the increased
storminess during times of many sunspots. The earth's surface is heated
by the rays of the sun, but most of the rays do not in themselves heat
the air as they pass through it. The air gets its heat largely from the
heat absorbed by the water vapor which is intimately mingled with its
lower portions, or from the long heat waves sent out by the earth after
it has been warmed by the sun. The faster the air moves along the
earth's surface the less it becomes heated, and the more heat it takes
away. This sounds like a contradiction, but not to anyone who has tried
to heat a stove in the open air. If the air is still, the stove rapidly
becomes warm and so does the air around it. If the wind is blowing, the
cool air delays the heating of the stove and prevents the surface from
ever becoming as hot as it would otherwise. That seems to be what
happens on a large scale when sunspots are numerous. The sun actually
sends to the earth more energy than usual, but the air moves with such
unusual rapidity that it actually cools the earth's surface a trifle by
carrying the extra heat to high levels where it is lost into space.
There has been much discussion as to why storms are numerous when the
sun's atmosphere is disturbed. Many investigators have supposed it was
due entirely and directly to the heating of the earth's surface by the
sun. This, however, needs modification for several reasons. In the first
place, recent investigations show that in a great many cases changes in
barometric pressure precede changes in temperature and apparently cause
them by altering the winds and producing storms. This is the opposite of
what would happen if the effect of solar heat upon the earth's surface
were the only agency. In the second place, if storms were due
exclusively to variations in the ordinary solar radiation which comes to
the earth as light and is converted into heat, the solar effect ought to
be most pronounced when the center of the sun's visible disk is most
disturbed. As a matter of fact the storminess is notably greatest when
the edges of the solar disk are most disturbed. These facts and others
lead to the conclusion that some agency other than heat must also play
some part in producing storminess.
The search for this auxiliary agency raises many difficult questions
which cannot yet be answered. On the whole the weight of evidence
suggests that electrical phenomena of some kind are involved, although
variations in the amount of ultra-violet light may also be important.
Many investigators have shown that the sun emits electrons. Hale has
proved that the sun, like the earth, is magnetized. Sunspots also have
magnetic fields the strength of which is often fifty times as great as
that of the sun as a whole. If electrons are sent to the earth, they
must move in curved paths, for they are deflected by the sun's magnetic
field and again by the earth's magnetic field. The solar deflection may
cause their effects to be greatest when the spots are near the sun's
margin; the terrestrial deflection may cause concentration in bands
roughly concentric with the magnetic poles of the earth. These
conditions correspond with the known facts.
Farther than this we cannot yet go. The calculations of Humphreys seem
to indicate that the direct electrical effect of the sun's electrons
upon atmospheric pressure is too small to be of appreciable significance
in intensifying storms. On the other hand the peculiar way in which
activity upon the margins of the sun appears to be correlated not only
with atmospheric electricity, but with barometric pressure, seems to be
equally strong evidence in the other direction. Possibly the sun's
electrons and its electrical waves produce indirect effects by being
converted into heat, or by causing the formation of ozone and the
condensation of water vapor in the upper air. Any one of these processes
would raise the temperature of the upper air, for the ozone and the
water vapor would be formed there and would tend to act as a blanket to
hold in the earth's heat. But any such change in the temperature of the
upper air would influence the lower air through changes in barometric
pressure. These considerations are given here because the thoughtful
reader is likely to inquire how solar activity can influence storminess.
Moreover, at the end of this book we shall take up certain speculative
questions in which an electrical hypothesis will be employed. For the
main portions of this book it makes no difference how the sun's
variations influence the earth's atmosphere. The only essential point is
that when the solar atmosphere is active the storminess of the earth
increases, and that is a matter of direct observation.
Let us now inquire into the relation between the small cyclonic
vacillations of the weather and the types of climatic changes known as
historic pulsations and glacial fluctuations. One of the most
interesting results of recent investigations is the evidence that
sunspot cycles on a small scale present almost the same phenomena as do
historic pulsations and glacial fluctuations. For instance, when
sunspots are numerous, storminess increases markedly in a belt near the
northern border of the area of greatest storminess, that is, in southern
Canada and thence across the Atlantic to the North Sea and Scandinavia.
(See Figs. 2 and 3.) Corresponding with this is the fact that the
evidence as to climatic pulsations in historic times indicates that
regions along this path, for instance Greenland, the North Sea region,
and southern Scandinavia, were visited by especially frequent and severe
storms at the climax of each pulsation. Moreover, the greatest
accumulations of ice in the glacial period were on the poleward border
of the general regions where now the storms appear to increase most at
times of solar activity.
[Illustration: _Fig. 3A. Relative rainfall at times of increasing and
decreasing sunspots._
Heavy shading, more rain with increasing spots. Light shading, more rain
with decreasing spots. No data for unshaded areas.
Figures indicate percentages of the average rainfall by which the
rainfall during periods of increasing spots exceeds or falls short of
rainfall during periods of decreasing spots. The excess or deficiency is
stated in percentages of the average. Rainfall data from Walker:
Sunspots and Rainfall.]
[Illustration: _Fig. 3B. Relative rainfall at times of increasing and
decreasing sunspots._
Heavy shading, more rain with increasing spots. Light shading, more rain
with decreasing spots. No data for unshaded areas. Figures indicate
percentages of the average rainfall by which the rainfall during periods
of increasing spots exceeds or falls short of rainfall during periods of
decreasing spots. The excess or deficiency is stated in percentages of
the average. Rainfall data from Walker: Sunspots and Rainfall.]
Even more clear is the evidence from other regions where storms increase
at times of many sunspots. One such region includes the southwestern
United States, while another is the Mediterranean region and the
semi-arid or desert parts of Asia farther east. In these regions
innumerable ruins and other lines of evidence show that at the climax of
each climatic pulsation there was more storminess and rainfall than at
present, just as there now is when the sun is most active. In still
earlier times, while ice was accumulating farther north, the basins of
these semi-arid regions were filled with lakes whose strands still
remain to tell the tale of much-increased rainfall and presumable
storminess. If we go back still further in geological times to the
Permian glaciation, the areas where ice accumulated most abundantly
appear to be the regions where tropical hurricanes produce the greatest
rainfall and the greatest lowering of temperature at times of many
sunspots. From these and many other lines of evidence it seems probable
that historic pulsations and glacial fluctuations are nothing more than
sunspot cycles on a large scale. It is one of the fundamental rules of
science to reason from the known to the unknown, from the near to the
far, from the present to the past. Hence it seems advisable to
investigate whether any of the climatic phenomena of the past may have
arisen from an intensification of the solar conditions which now appear
to give rise to similar phenomena on a small scale.
The rest of this chapter will be devoted to a _résumé_ of certain
tentative conclusions which have no bearing on the main part of this
book, but which apply to the closing chapters. There we shall inquire
into the periodicity of the climatic phenomena of geological times, and
shall ask whether there is any reason to suppose that the sun's activity
has exhibited similar periodicity. This leads to an investigation of the
possible causes of disturbances in the sun's atmosphere. It is generally
assumed that sunspots, solar prominences, the bright clouds known as
faculæ, and other phenomena denoting a perturbed state of the solar
atmosphere, are due to some cause within the sun. Yet the limitation of
these phenomena, especially the sunspots, to restricted latitudes, as
has been shown in _Earth and Sun_, does not seem to be in harmony with
an internal solar origin, even though a banded arrangement may be normal
for a rotating globe. The fairly regular periodicity of the sunspots
seems equally out of harmony with an internal origin. Again, the solar
atmosphere has two kinds of circulation, one the so-called "rice
grains," and the other the spots and their attendant phenomena. Now the
rice grains present the appearance that would be expected in an
atmospheric circulation arising from the loss of heat by the outer part
of a gaseous body like the sun. For these reasons and others numerous
good thinkers from Wolf to Schuster have held that sunspots owe their
periodicity to causes outside the sun. The only possible cause seems to
be the planets, acting either through gravitation, through forces of an
electrical origin, or through some other agency. Various new
investigations which are described in _Earth and Sun_ support this
conclusion. The chief difficulty in accepting it hitherto has been that
although Jupiter, because of its size, would be expected to dominate the
sunspot cycle, its period of 11.86 years has not been detected. The
sunspot cycle has appeared to average 11.2 years in length, and has been
called the 11-year cycle. Nevertheless, a new analysis of the sunspot
data shows that when attention is concentrated upon the major maxima,
which are least subject to retardation or acceleration by other causes,
a periodicity closely approaching that of Jupiter is evident. Moreover,
when the effects of Jupiter, Saturn, and the other planets are combined,
they produce a highly variable curve which has an extraordinary
resemblance to the sunspot curve. The method by which the planets
influence the sun's atmosphere is still open to question. It may be
through tides, through the direct effect of gravitation, through
electro-magnetic forces, or in some other way. Whichever it may be, the
result may perhaps be slight differences of atmospheric pressure upon
the sun. Such differences may set in motion slight whirling movements
analogous to terrestrial storms, and these presumably gather momentum
from the sun's own energy. Since the planetary influences vary in
strength because of the continuous change in the relative distances and
positions of the planets, the sun's atmosphere appears to be swayed by
cyclonic disturbances of varying degrees of severity. The cyclonic
disturbances known as sunspots have been proved by Hale to become more
highly electrified as they increase in intensity. At the same time hot
gases presumably well up from the lower parts of the solar atmosphere
and thereby cause the sun to emit more heat. Thus by one means or
another, the earth's atmosphere appears to be set in commotion and
cycles of climate are inaugurated.
If the preceding reasoning is correct, any disturbance of the solar
atmosphere must have an effect upon the earth's climate. If the
disturbance were great enough and of the right nature it might produce a
glacial epoch. The planets are by no means the only bodies which act
upon the sun, for that body sustains a constantly changing relation to
millions of other celestial bodies of all sizes up to vast universes,
and at all sorts of distances. If the sun and another star should
approach near enough to one another, it is certain that the solar
atmosphere would be disturbed much more than at present.
Here we must leave the cyclonic hypothesis of climate and must refer the
reader once more to _Earth and Sun_ for fuller details. In the rest of
this book we shall discuss the nature of the climatic changes of past
times and shall inquire into their relation to the various climatic
hypotheses mentioned in the last two chapters. Then we shall inquire
into the possibility that the solar system has ever been near enough to
any of the stars to cause appreciable disturbances of the solar
atmosphere. We shall complete our study by investigating the vexed
question of why movements of the earth's crust, such as the uplifting of
continents and mountain chains, have generally occurred at the same time
as great climatic fluctuations. This would not be so surprising were it
not that the climatic phenomena appear to have consisted of highly
complex cycles while the uplift has been a relatively steady movement in
one direction. We shall find some evidence that the solar disturbances
which seem to cause climatic changes also have a relation to movements
of the crust.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 15: The so-called sunspot numbers to which reference is made
again and again in this book are based on a system devised by Wolf and
revised by A. Wolfer. The number and size of the spots are both taken
into account. The numbers from 1749 to 1900 may be found in the Monthly
Weather Review for April, 1902, and from 1901 to 1918 in the same
journal for 1920.]
CHAPTER V
THE CLIMATE OF HISTORY[16]
We are now prepared to consider the climate of the past. The first
period to claim attention is the few thousand years covered by written
history. Strangely enough, the conditions during this time are known
with less accuracy than are those of geological periods hundreds of
times more remote. Yet if pronounced changes have occurred since the
days of the ancient Babylonians and since the last of the post-glacial
stages, they are of great importance not only because of their possible
historic effects, but because they bridge the gap between the little
variations of climate which are observable during a single lifetime and
the great changes known as glacial epochs. Only by bridging the gap can
we determine whether there is any genetic relation between the great
changes and the small. A full discussion of the climate of historic
times is not here advisable, for it has been considered in detail in
numerous other publications.[17] Our most profitable course would seem
to be to consider first the general trend of opinion and then to take up
the chief objections to each of the main hypotheses.
In the hot debate over this problem during recent decades the ideas of
geographers seem to have gone through much the same metamorphosis as
have those of geologists in regard to the climate of far earlier times.
As every geologist well knows, at the dawn of geology people believed in
climatic uniformity--that is, it was supposed that since the completion
of an original creative act there had been no important changes. This
view quickly disappeared and was superseded by the hypothesis of
progressive cooling and drying, an hypothesis which had much to do with
the development of the nebular hypothesis, and which has in turn been
greatly strengthened by that hypothesis. The discovery of evidence of
widespread continental glaciation, however, necessitated a modification
of this view, and succeeding years have brought to light a constantly
increasing number of glacial, or at least cool, periods distributed
throughout almost the whole of geological time. Moreover, each year,
almost, brings new evidence of the great complexity of glacial periods,
epochs, and stages. Thus, for many decades, geologists have more and
more been led to believe that in spite of surprising uniformity, when
viewed in comparison with the cosmic possibilities, the climate of the
past has been highly unstable from the viewpoint of organic evolution,
and its changes have been of all degrees of intensity.
Geographers have lately been debating the reality of historic changes of
climate in the same way in which geologists debated the reality of
glacial epochs and stages. Several hypotheses present themselves but
these may all be grouped under three headings; namely, the hypotheses of
(1) progressive desiccation, (2) climatic uniformity, and (3)
pulsations. The hypothesis of progressive desiccation has been widely
advocated. In many of the drier portions of the world, especially
between 30° and 40° from the equator, and preëminently in western and
central Asia and in the southwestern United States, almost innumerable
facts seem to indicate that two or three thousand years ago the climate
was distinctly moister than at present. The evidence includes old lake
strands, the traces of desiccated springs, roads in places now too dry
for caravans, other roads which make detours around dry lake beds where
no lakes now exist, and fragments of dead forests extending over
hundreds of square miles where trees cannot now grow for lack of water.
Still stronger evidence is furnished by ancient ruins, hundreds of which
are located in places which are now so dry that only the merest fraction
of the former inhabitants could find water. The ruins of Palmyra, in the
Syrian Desert, show that it must once have been a city like modern
Damascus, with one or two hundred thousand inhabitants, but its water
supply now suffices for only one or two thousand. All attempts to
increase the water supply have had only a slight effect and the water is
notoriously sulphurous, whereas in the former days, when it was
abundant, it was renowned for its excellence. Hundreds of pages might be
devoted to describing similar ruins. Some of them are even more
remarkable for their dryness than is Niya, a site in the Tarim Desert of
Chinese Turkestan. Yet there the evidence of desiccation within 2000
years is so strong that even so careful and conservative a man as
Hann,[18] pronounces it "überzeugend."
A single quotation from scores that might be used will illustrate the
conclusions of some of the most careful archæologists.[19]
Among the regions which were once populous and highly civilized,
but which are now desert and deserted, there are few which were
more closely connected with the beginnings of our own civilization
than the desert parts of Syria and northern Arabia. It is only of
recent years that the vast extent and great importance of this lost
civilization has been fully recognized and that attempts have been
made to reduce the extent of the unexplored area and to discover
how much of the territory which has long been known as desert was
formerly habitable and inhabited. The results of the explorations
of the last twenty years have been most astonishing in this regard.
It has been found that practically all of the wide area lying
between the coast range of the eastern Mediterranean and the
Euphrates, appearing upon the maps as the Syrian Desert, an area
embracing somewhat more than 20,000 square miles, was more thickly
populated than any area of similar dimensions in England or in the
United States is today if one excludes the immediate vicinity of
the large modern cities. It has also been discovered that an
enormous desert tract lying to the east of Palestine, stretching
eastward and southward into the country which we know as Arabia,
was also a densely populated country. How far these settled regions
extended in antiquity is still unknown, but the most distant
explorations in these directions have failed to reach the end of
ruins and other signs of former occupation.
The traveler who has crossed the settled, and more or less
populous, coast range of northern Syria and descended into the
narrow fertile valley of the Orontes, encounters in any farther
journey toward the east an irregular range of limestone hills lying
north and south and stretching to the northeast almost halfway to
the Euphrates. These hills are about 2,500 feet high, rising in
occasional peaks from 3,000 to 3,500 feet above sea level. They are
gray and unrelieved by any visible vegetation. On ascending into
the hills the traveler is astonished to find at every turn remnants
of the work of men's hands, paved roads, walls which divided
fields, terrace walls of massive structure. Presently he comes upon
a small deserted and partly ruined town composed of buildings large
and small constructed of beautifully wrought blocks of limestone,
all rising out of the barren rock which forms the ribs of the
hills. If he mounts an eminence in the vicinity, he will be still
further astonished to behold similar ruins lying in all directions.
He may count ten or fifteen or twenty, according to the commanding
position of his lookout. From a distance it is often difficult to
believe that these are not inhabited places; but closer inspection
reveals that the gentle hand of time or the rude touch of
earthquake has been laid upon every building. Some of the towns are
better preserved than others; some buildings are quite perfect but
for their wooden roofs which time has removed, others stand in
picturesque ruins, while others still are level with the ground. On
a far-off hilltop stands the ruin of a pagan temple, and crowning
some lofty ridge lie the ruins of a great Christian monastery. Mile
after mile of this barren gray country may be traversed without
encountering a single human being. Day after day may be spent in
traveling from one ruined town to another without seeing any green
thing save a terebinth tree or two standing among the ruins, which
have sent their roots down into earth still preserved in the
foundations of some ancient building. No soil is visible anywhere
except in a few pockets in the rock from which it could not be
washed by the torrential rains of the wet season; yet every ruin is
surrounded with the remains of presses for the making of oil and
wine. Only one oasis has been discovered in these high plateaus.
Passing eastward from this range of hills, one descends into a
gently rolling country that stretches miles away toward the
Euphrates. At the eastern foot of the hills one finds oneself in a
totally different country, at first quite fertile and dotted with
frequent villages of flat-roofed houses. Here practically all the
remains of ancient times have been destroyed through ages of
building and rebuilding. Beyond this narrow fertile strip the soil
grows drier and more barren, until presently another kind of desert
is reached, an undulating waste of dead soil. Few walls or towers
or arches rise to break the monotony of the unbroken landscape; but
the careful explorer will find on closer examination that this
region was more thickly populated in antiquity even than the hill
country to the west. Every unevenness of the surface marks the site
of a town, some of them cities of considerable extent.
We may draw certain very definite conclusions as to the former
conditions of the country itself. There was soil upon the northern
hills where none now exists, for the buildings now show unfinished
foundation courses which were not intended to be seen; the soil in
depressions without outlets is deeper than it formerly was; there
are hundreds of olive and wine presses in localities where no tree
or vine could now find footing; and there are hillsides with ruined
terrace walls rising one above the other with no sign of earth near
them. There was also a large natural water supply. In the north as
well as in the south we find the dry beds of rivers, streams, and
brooks with sand and pebbles and well-worn rocks but no water in
them from one year's end to the other. We find bridges over these
dry streams and crudely made washing boards along their banks
directly below deserted towns. Many of the bridges span the beds of
streams that seldom or never have water in them and give clear
evidence of the great climatic changes that have taken place. There
are well heads and well houses, and inscriptions referring to
springs; but neither wells nor springs exist today except in the
rarest instances. Many of the houses had their rock-hewn cisterns,
never large enough to have supplied water for more than a brief
period, and corresponding to the cisterns which most of our recent
forefathers had which were for convenience rather than for
dependence. Some of the towns in southern Syria were provided with
large public reservoirs, but these are not large enough to have
supplied water to their original populations. The high plateaus
were of course without irrigation; but there are no signs, even in
the lower flatter country, that irrigation was ever practiced; and
canals for this purpose could not have completely disappeared.
There were forests in the immediate vicinity, forests producing
timbers of great length and thickness; for in the north and
northeast practically all the buildings had wooden roofs, wooden
intermediate floors, and other features of wood. Costly buildings,
such as temples and churches, employed large wooden beams; but wood
was used in much larger quantities in private dwellings, shops,
stables, and barns. If wood had not been plentiful and cheap--which
means grown near by--the builders would have adopted the building
methods of their neighbors in the south, who used very little wood
and developed the most perfect type of lithic architecture the
world has ever seen. And here there exists a strange anomaly:
Northern Syria, where so much wood was employed in antiquity, is
absolutely treeless now; while in the mountains of southern Syria,
where wood must have been scarce in antiquity to have forced upon
the inhabitants an almost exclusive use of stone, there are still
groves of scrub oak and pine, and travelers of half a century ago
reported large forests of chestnut trees.[20] It is perfectly
apparent that large parts of Syria once had soil and forests and
springs and rivers, while it has none of these now, and that it had
a much larger and better distributed rainfall in ancient times than
it has now.
Professor Butler's careful work is especially interesting because of its
contrast to the loose statements of those who believe in climatic
uniformity. So far as I am aware, no opponent of the hypothesis of
climatic changes has ever even attempted to show by careful statistical
analysis that the ancient water supply of such ruins was no greater than
that of the present. The most that has been done is to suggest that
there may have been sources of water which are now unknown. Of course,
this might be true in a single instance, but it could scarcely be the
case in many hundreds or thousands of ruins.
Although the arguments in favor of a change of climate during the last
two thousand years seem too strong to be ignored, their very strength
seems to have been a source of error. A large number of people have
jumped to the conclusion that the change which appears to have occurred
in certain regions occurred everywhere, and that it consisted of a
gradual desiccation.
Many observers, quite as careful as those who believe in progressive
desiccation, point to evidences of aridity in past times in the very
regions where the others find proof of moisture. Lakes such as the
Caspian Sea fell to such a low level that parts of their present floors
were exposed and were used as sites for buildings whose ruins are still
extant. Elsewhere, for instance in the Tian-Shan Mountains, irrigation
ditches are found in places where irrigation never seems to be necessary
at present. In Syria and North Africa during the early centuries of the
Christian era the Romans showed unparalleled activity in building great
aqueducts and in watering land which then apparently needed water almost
as much as it does today. Evidence of this sort is abundant and is as
convincing as is the evidence of moister conditions in the past. It is
admirably set forth, for example, in the comprehensive and ably written
monograph of Leiter on the climate of North Africa.[21] The evidence
cited there and elsewhere has led many authors strongly to advocate the
hypothesis of climatic uniformity. They have done exactly as have the
advocates of progressive change, and have extended their conclusions
over the whole world and over the whole of historic times.
The hypotheses of climatic uniformity and of progressive change both
seem to be based on reliable evidence. They may seem to be diametrically
opposed to one another, but this is only when there is a failure to
group the various lines of evidence according to their dates, and
according to the types of climate in which they happen to be located.
When the facts are properly grouped in both time and space, it appears
that evidence of moist conditions in the historic Mediterranean lands is
found during certain periods; for instance, four or five hundred years
before Christ, at the time of Christ, and 1000 A. D. The other kind of
evidence, on the contrary, culminates at other epochs, such as about
1200 B. C. and in the seventh and thirteenth centuries after Christ. It
is also found during the interval from the culmination of a moist epoch
to the culmination of a dry one, for at such times the climate was
growing drier and the people were under stress. This was seemingly the
case during the period from the second to the fourth centuries of our
era. North Africa and Syria must then have been distinctly better
watered than at present, as appears from Butler's vivid description; but
they were gradually becoming drier, and the natural effect on a
vigorous, competent people like the Romans was to cause them to
construct numerous engineering works to provide the necessary water.
The considerations which have just been set forth have led to a third
hypothesis, that of pulsatory climatic changes. According to this, the
earth's climate is not stable, nor does it change uniformly in one
direction. It appears to fluctuate back and forth not only in the little
waves which we see from year to year or decade to decade, but in much
larger waves, which take hundreds of years or even a thousand. These in
turn seem to merge into and be imposed on the greater waves which form
glacial stages, glacial epochs, and glacial periods. At the present time
there seems to be no way of determining whether the general tendency is
toward aridity or toward glaciation. The seventh century of our era was
apparently the driest time during the historic period--distinctly drier
than the present--but the thirteenth century was almost equally dry, and
the twelfth or thirteenth before Christ may have been very dry.
The best test of an hypothesis is actual measurements. In the case of
the pulsatory hypothesis we are fortunately able to apply this test by
means of trees. The growth of vegetation depends on many factors--soil,
exposure, wind, sun, temperature, rain, and so forth. In a dry region
the most critical factor in determining how a tree's growth shall vary
from year to year is the supply of moisture during the few months of
most rapid growth.[22] The work of Douglass[23] and others has shown
that in Arizona and California the thickness of the annual rings affords
a reliable indication of the amount of moisture available during the
period of growth. This is especially true when the growth of several
years is taken as the unit and is compared with the growth of a similar
number of years before or after. Where a long series of years is used,
it is necessary to make corrections to eliminate the effects of age, but
this can be done by mathematical methods of considerable accuracy. It is
difficult to determine whether the climate at the beginning and end of a
tree's life was the same, but it is easily possible to determine whether
there have been pulsations while the tree was making its growth. If a
large number of trees from various parts of a given district all formed
thick rings at a certain period and then formed thin ones for a hundred
years, after which the rings again become thick, we seem to be safe in
concluding that the trees have lived through a long, dry period. The
full reasons for this belief and details as to the methods of estimating
climate from tree growth are given in _The Climatic Factor_.
The results set forth in that volume may be summarized as follows:
During the years 1911 and 1912, under the auspices of the Carnegie
Institution of Washington, measurements were made of the thickness of
the rings of growth on the stumps of about 450 sequoia trees in
California. These trees varied in age from 250 to nearly 3250 years. The
great majority were over 1000 years of age, seventy-nine were over 2000
years, and three over 3000. Even where only a few trees are available
the record is surprisingly reliable, except where occasional accidents
occur. Where the number approximates 100, accidental variations are
largely eliminated and we may accept the record with considerable
confidence. Accordingly, we may say that in California we have a fairly
accurate record of the climate for 2000 years and an approximate record
for 1000 years more. The final results of the measurements of the
California trees are shown in Fig. 4, where the climatic variations for
3000 years in California are indicated by the solid line. The high parts
of the line indicate rainy conditions, the low parts, dry. An
examination of this curve shows that during 3000 years there have
apparently been climatic variations more important than any which have
taken place during the past century. In order to bring out the details
more clearly, the more reliable part of the California curve, from 100
B. C. to the present time, has been reproduced in Fig. 5. This is
identical with the corresponding part of Fig. 4, except that the
vertical scale is three times as great.
[Illustration: _Fig. 4. Changes of climate in California (solid line)
and in western and central Asia (dotted line)._
Note. The curves of Figs. 4 and 5 are reproduced as published in _The
Solar Hypothesis_ in 1914. Later work, however, has indicated that in
the Asiatic curve the dash lines, which were tentatively inserted in
1914, are probably more nearly correct than the dotted lines. Still
further evidence indicates that the Asiatic curve is nearly like that of
California in its main features.]
The curve of tree growth in California seems to be a true representation
of the general features of climatic pulsations in the Mediterranean
region. This conclusion was originally based on the resemblance between
the solid line of Fig. 4, representing tree growth, and the dotted line
representing changes of climate in the eastern Mediterranean region as
inferred from the study of ruins and of history before any work on this
subject had been done in America.[24] The dotted line is here reproduced
for its historical significance as a stage in the study of climatic
changes. If it were to be redrawn today on the basis of the knowledge
acquired in the last twelve years, it would be much more like the tree
curve. For example, the period of aridity suggested by the dip of the
dotted line about 300 A. D. was based largely on Professor Butler's data
as to the paucity of inscriptions and ruins dating from that period in
Syria. In the recent article, from which a long quotation has been
given, he shows that later work proves that there is no such paucity. On
the other hand, it has accentuated the marked and sudden decay in
civilization and population which occurred shortly after 600 A. D. He
reached the same conclusion to which the present authors had come on
wholly different grounds, namely, that the dip in the dotted line about
300 A. D. is not warranted, whereas the dip about 630 A. D. is extremely
important. In similar fashion the work of Stein[25] in central Asia
makes it clear that the contrast between the water supply about 200 B.C.
and in the preceding and following centuries was greater than was
supposed on the basis of the scanty evidence available when the dotted
line of Fig. 4 was drawn in 1910.
[Illustration: _Fig. 5. Changes in California climate for 2000 years,
as measured by growth of Sequoia trees._
Fig. 5 is the same as the later portion of Fig. 4, except that the
vertical scale has been magnified threefold. It seems probable that the
dotted line at the right is more nearly correct than the solid line.
During the thirty years since the end of the curve the general tendency
appears in general to have been somewhat upward.]
Since the curve of the California trees is the only continuous and
detailed record yet available for the climate of the last three thousand
years, it deserves most careful study. It is especially necessary to
determine the degree of accuracy with which the growth of the trees
represents (1) the local rainfall and (2) the rainfall of remote regions
such as Palestine. Perhaps the best way to determine these matters is
the standard mathematical method of correlation coefficients. If two
phenomena vary in perfect unison, as in the case of the turning of the
wheels and the progress of an automobile when the brakes are not
applied, the correlation coefficient is 1.00, being positive when the
automobile goes forward and negative when it goes backward. If there is
no relation between two phenomena, as in the case of the number of miles
run by a given automobile each year and the number of chickens hatched
in the same period, the coefficient is zero. A partial relationship
where other factors enter into the matter is represented by a
coefficient between zero and one, as in the case of the movement of the
automobile and the consumption of gasoline. In this case the relation is
very obvious, but is modified by other factors, including the roughness
and grade of the road, the amount of traffic, the number of stops, the
skill of the driver, the condition and load of the automobile, and the
state of the weather. Such partial relationships are the kind for which
correlation coefficients are most useful, for the size of the
coefficients shows the relative importance of the various factors. A
correlation coefficient four times the probable error, which can always
be determined by a formula well known to mathematicians, is generally
considered to afford evidence of some kind of relation between two
phenomena. When the ratio between coefficient and error rises to six,
the relationship is regarded as strong.
Few people would question that there is a connection between tree growth
and rainfall, especially in a climate with a long summer dry season like
that of California. But the growth of the trees also depends on their
position, the amount of shading, the temperature, insect pests, blights,
the wind with its tendency to break the branches, and a number of other
factors. Moreover, while rain commonly favors growth, great extremes are
relatively less helpful than more moderate amounts. Again, the roots of
a tree may tap such deep sources of water that neither drought nor
excessive rain produces much effect for several years. Hence in
comparing the growth of the huge sequoias with the rainfall we should
expect a correlation coefficient high enough to be convincing, but
decidedly below 1.00. Unfortunately there is no record of the rainfall
where the sequoias grow, the nearest long record being that of
Sacramento, nearly 200 miles to the northwest and close to sea level
instead of at an altitude of about 6000 feet.
Applying the method of correlation coefficients to the annual rainfall
of Sacramento and the growth of the sequoias from 1863 to 1910, we
obtain the results shown in Table 3. The trees of Section A of the table
grew in moderately dry locations although the soil was fairly deep, a
condition which seems to be essential to sequoias. In this case, as in
all the others, the rainfall is reckoned from July to June, which
practically means from October to May, since there is almost no summer
rain. Thus the tree growth in 1861 is compared with the rainfall of the
preceding rainy season, 1860-1861, or of several preceding rainy seasons
as the table indicates.
+-------------------------------------------------------------------+
| TABLE 3 |
| |
| CORRELATION COEFFICIENTS BETWEEN RAINFALL AND |
| GROWTH OF SEQUOIAS IN CALIFORNIA[26] |
| |
| (_r_) = _Correlation coefficient_ |
| (_e_) = _Probable error_ |
| (_r_/_e_) = _Ratio of coefficient to probable error_ |
| |
| A. SACRAMENTO RAINFALL AND GROWTH OF 18 SEQUOIAS IN DRY |
| LOCATIONS, 1861-1910 |
| |
| (_r_) (_e_) (_r_/_e_) |
| ------ ------ ----- |
| 1 year of rainfall -0.059 ±0.096 0.6 |
| 2 years of rainfall +0.288 ±0.090 3.2 |
| 3 years of rainfall +0.570 ±0.066 8.7 |
| 4 years of rainfall +0.470 ±0.076 6.2 |
| |
| B. SACRAMENTO RAINFALL AND GROWTH OF 112 SEQUOIAS MOSTLY IN |
| MOIST LOCATIONS, 1861-1910 |
| |
| 3 years of rainfall +0.340 ±0.087 3.9 |
| 4 years of rainfall +0.371 ±0.084 4.5 |
| 5 years of rainfall +0.398 ±0.082 4.9 |
| 6 years of rainfall +0.418 ±0.079 5.3 |
| 7 years of rainfall +0.471 ±0.076 6.2 |
| 8 years of rainfall (+0.520) ±0.071 7.3 |
| 9 years of rainfall +0.575 ±0.065 8.8 |
| 10 years of rainfall +0.577 ±0.065 8.8 |
| |
| C. SACRAMENTO RAINFALL AND GROWTH OF 80 SEQUOIAS IN MOIST |
| LOCATIONS, 1861-1910 |
| |
| 10 years of rainfall +0.605 ±0.062 9.8 |
| |
| D. ANNUAL SEQUOIA GROWTH AND RAINFALL OF PRECEDING 5 YEARS |
| AT STATIONS ON SOUTHERN PACIFIC RAILROAD |
| |
| 1 = _Years_ |
| 2 = _Altitude_ (_feet_) |
| 3 = _Rainfall_ (_inches_) |
| 4 = _Approximate distance from sequoias_ (_miles_) |
| |
| 1 2 3 4 (_r_) (_e_) (_r_/_e_) |
| --------- ---- ----- --- ------ ------ --------- |
| Sacramento, 1861-1910 70 19.40 200 +0.398 ±0.081 4.9 |
| Colfax, 1871-1909 2400 48.94 200 +0.122 ±0.113 1.1 |
| Summit, 1871-1909 7000 48.07 200 +0.148 ±0.113 1.3 |
| Truckee, 1871-1909 5800 27.12 200 +0.300 ±0.105 2.9 |
| Boca, 1871-1909 5500 20.34 200 +0.604 ±0.076 8.0 |
| Winnemucca, 1871-1909 4300 8.65 300 +0.492 ±0.089 5.5 |
| |
+-------------------------------------------------------------------+
In the first line of Section A a correlation coefficient of only -0.056,
which is scarcely six-tenths of the probable error, means that there is
no appreciable relation between the rainfall of a given season and the
growth during the following spring and summer. The roots of the sequoias
probably penetrate so deeply that the rain and melted snow of the spring
months do not sink down rapidly enough to influence the trees before the
growing season comes to an end. The precipitation of two preceding
seasons, however, has some effect on the trees, as appears in the second
line of Section A, where the correlation coefficient is +0.288, or 3.2
times the probable error. When the rainfall of three seasons is taken
into account the coefficient rises to +0.570, or 8.7 times the probable
error, while with four years of rainfall the coefficient begins to fall
off. Thus the growth of these eighteen sequoias on relatively dry slopes
appears to have depended chiefly on the rainfall of the second and third
preceding rainy seasons. The growth in 1900, for example, depended
largely on the rainfall in the rainy seasons of 1897-1898 and 1898-1899.
Section B of the table shows that with 112 trees, growing chiefly in
moist depressions where the water supply is at a maximum, the
correlation between growth and rainfall, +0.577 for ten years' rainfall,
is even higher than with the dry trees. The seepage of the underground
water is so slow that not until four years' rainfall is taken into
account is the correlation coefficient more than four times the probable
error. When only the trees growing in moist locations are employed, the
coefficient between tree growth and the rainfall for ten years rises to
the high figure of +0.605, or 9.8 times the probable error, as appears
in Section C. These figures, as well as many others not here published,
make it clear that the curve of sequoia growth from 1861 to 1910 affords
a fairly close indication of the rainfall at Sacramento, provided
allowance be made for a delay of three to ten years due to the fact that
the moisture in the soil gradually seeps down the mountain-sides and
only reaches the sequoias after a considerable interval.
If a rainfall record were available for the place where the trees
actually grow, the relationship would probably be still closer.
The record at Fresno, for example, bears out this conclusion so far as
it goes. But as Fresno lies at a low altitude and its rainfall is of
essentially the Sacramento type, its short record is of less value than
that of Sacramento. The only rainfall records among the Sierras at high
levels, where the rainfall and temperature are approximately like those
of the sequoia region, are found along the main line of the Southern
Pacific railroad. This runs from Oakland northeastward seventy miles
across the open plain to Sacramento, then another seventy miles, as the
crow flies, through Colfax and over a high pass in the Sierras at
Summit, next twenty miles or so down through Truckee to Boca, on the
edge of the inland basin of Nevada, and on northeastward another 160
miles to Winnemucca, where it turns east toward Ogden and Salt Lake
City. Section D of Table 3 shows the correlation coefficients between
the rainfall along the railroad and the growth of the sequoias. At
Sacramento, which lies fairly open to winds from the Pacific and thus
represents the general climate of central California, the coefficient is
nearly five times the probable error, thus indicating a real relation to
sequoia growth. Then among the foothills of the Sierras at Colfax, the
coefficient drops till it is scarcely larger than the probable error. It
rises rapidly, however, as one advances among the mountains, until at
Boca it attains the high figure of +0.604 or eight times the probable
error, and continues high in the dry area farther east. In other words
the growth of the sequoias is a good indication of the rainfall where
the trees grow and in the dry region farther east.
In order to determine the degree to which the sequoia record represents
the rainfall of other regions, let us select Jerusalem for comparison.
The reasons for this selection are that Jerusalem furnishes the only
available record that satisfies the following necessary conditions: (1)
its record is long enough to be important; (2) it is located fairly near
the latitude of the sequoias, 32°N versus 37°N; (3) it is located in a
similar type of climate with winter rains and a long dry summer; (4) it
lies well above sea level (2500 feet) and somewhat back from the
seacoast, thus approximating although by no means duplicating the
condition of the sequoias; and (5) it lies in a region where the
evidence of climatic changes during historic times is strongest. The
ideal place for comparison would be the valley in which grow the cedars
of Lebanon. Those trees resemble the sequoias to an extraordinary
degree, not only in their location, but in their great age. Some day it
will be most interesting to compare the growth of these two famous
groups of old trees.
+-------------------------------------------------------------------+
| TABLE 4 |
| |
| CORRELATION COEFFICIENTS BETWEEN |
| RAINFALL RECORDS IN CALIFORNIA |
| AND JERUSALEM |
| |
| (_r_) = _Correlation coefficient_ |
| (_e_) = _Probable error_ |
| (_r_/_e_) = _Ratio of coefficient to probable error_ |
| |
| A. JERUSALEM RAINFALL FOR 3 YEARS AND VARIOUS GROUPS OF |
| SEQUOIAS[27] |
| |
| (_r_) (_e_) (_r_/_e_)|
| ------ ----- ---------|
| 11 trees measured by Douglass +0.453 ±0.078 5.8 |
| 80 trees, moist locations, Groups IA, |
| IIA, IIIA, VA +0.500 ±0.073 6.8 |
| 101 trees, 69 in moist locations, 32 in |
| dry, I, II, III +0.616 ±0.061 10.1 |
| 112 trees, 80 in moist locations, 32 in |
| dry, I, II, III, V +0.675 ±0.053 12.7 |
| |
| B. RAINFALL AT JERUSALEM AND AT STATIONS IN CALIFORNIA AND NEVADA |
| |
| 1 = _Altitude_ (_feet_) |
| 2 = _Years_ |
| |
| -- 3 years -- -- 5 years -- |
| 1 2 (_r_) (_r_/_e_) (_r_) (_r_/_e_) |
| ---- --------- ------ ------- ------ ------- |
| Sacramento, 70 1861-1910 +0.386 4.7 +0.352 4.2 |
| Colfax, 2400 1871-1909 +0.311 3.1 +0.308 3.0 |
| Summit, 7000 1871-1909 +0.099 0.9 +0.248 2.3 |
| Truckee, 5800 1871-1909 +0.229 2.2 +0.337 3.3 |
|[A]Boca, 5500 1871-1909 +0.482 6.4 +0.617 8.6 |
| Winnemucca, 4300 1871-1909 +0.235 2.2 +0.260 2.4 |
| San Bernardino, 1050 1871-1909 +0.275 2.7 +0.177 1.8 |
| |
| C. RAINFALL FOR 3 YEARS AT CALIFORNIA AND NEVADA STATIONS, |
| 1871-1909 |
| |
| (_r_) (_r_/_e_) |
| ------ ------- |
| Sacramento and San Bernardino +0.663 10.7 |
| San Bernardino and Winnemucca +0.291 2.8 |
| |
+-------------------------------------------------------------------+
The correlation coefficients for the sequoia growth and the rainfall at
Jerusalem are given in Section A, Table 4. They are so high and so
consistent that they scarcely leave room for doubt that where a hundred
or more sequoias are employed, as in Fig. 5, their curve of growth
affords a good indication of the fluctuations of climate in western
Asia. The high coefficient for the eleven trees measured by Douglass
suggests that where the number of trees falls as low as ten, as in the
part of Fig. 4 from 710 to 840 B. C., the relation between tree growth
and rainfall is still close even when only one year's growth is
considered. Where the unit is ten years of growth, as in Figs. 4 and 5,
the accuracy of the tree curve as a measure of rainfall is much greater
than when a single year is used as in Table 4. When the unit is raised
to thirty years, as in the smoothed part of Fig. 4 previous to
240 B. C., even four trees, as from 960 to 1070, probably give a fair
approximation to the general changes in rainfall, while a single tree
prior to 1110 B. C. gives a rough indication.
Table 4 shows a peculiar feature in the fact that the correlations of
Section A between tree growth and the rainfall of Jerusalem are
decidedly higher than those between the rainfall in the two regions.
Only at Sacramento and Boca are the rainfall coefficients high enough to
be conclusive. This, however, is not surprising, for even between
Sacramento and San Bernardino, only 400 miles apart, the correlation
coefficient for the rainfall by three-year periods is only 10.7 times
the probable error, as appears in Section C of Table 4, while between
San Bernardino and Winnemucca 500 miles away, the corresponding figure
drops to 2.8. It must be remembered that in some respects the growth of
the sequoias is a much better record of rainfall than are the records
kept by man. The human record is based on the amount of water caught by
a little gauge a few inches in diameter. Every gust of wind detracts
from the accuracy of the record; a mile away the rainfall may be double
what it is at the gauge. Each sequoia, on the other hand, draws its
moisture from an area thousands of times as large as a rain gauge.
Moreover, the trees on which Figs. 4 and 5 are based were scattered over
an area fifty miles long and several hundred square miles in extent.
Hence they represent the summation of the rainfall over an area millions
of times as large as that of a rain gauge. This fact and the large
correlation coefficients between sequoia growth and Jerusalem rainfall
should be considered in connection with the fact that all the
coefficients between the rainfall of California and Nevada and that of
Jerusalem are positive. If full records of the complete rainfall of
California and Nevada on the one hand and of the eastern Mediterranean
region on the other were available for a long period, they would
probably agree closely.
Just how widely the sequoias can be used as a measure of the climate of
the past is not yet certain. In some regions, as will shortly be
explained, the climatic changes seem to have been of an opposite
character from those of California. In others the Californian or eastern
Mediterranean type of change seems sometimes to prevail but is not
always evident. For example, at Malta the rainfall today shows a
distinct relation to that of Jerusalem and to the growth of the
sequoias. But the correlation coefficient between the rainfall of
eight-year periods at Naples, a little farther north, and the growth of
the sequoias at the end of the periods is -0.132, or only 1.4 times the
probable error and much too small to be significant. This is in harmony
with the fact that although Naples has summer droughts, they are not so
pronounced as in California and Palestine, and the prevalence of storms
is much greater. Jerusalem receives only 8 per cent of its rain in the
seven months from April to October, and Sacramento 13, while Malta
receives 31 per cent and Naples 43. Nevertheless, there is some evidence
that in the past the climatic fluctuations of southern Italy followed
nearly the same course as those of California and Palestine. This
apparent discrepancy seems to be explained by our previous conclusion
that changes of climate are due largely to a shifting of storm tracks.
When sunspots are numerous the storms which now prevail in northern
Italy seem to be shifted southward and traverse the Mediterranean to
Palestine just as similar storms are shifted southward in the United
States. This perhaps accounts for the agreement between the sequoia
curve and the agricultural and social history of Rome from about
400 B. C. to 100 A. D., as explained in _World Power and Evolution_. For
our present purposes, however, the main point is that since rainfall
records have been kept the fluctuations of climate indicated by the
growth of the sequoias have agreed closely with fluctuations in the
rainfall of the eastern Mediterranean region. Presumably the same was
true in the past. In that case, the sequoia curve not only is a good
indication of climatic changes or pulsations in regions of similar
climate, but may serve as a guide to coincident but different changes in
regions of other types.
An enormous body of other evidence points to the same conclusion. It
indicates that while the average climate of the present is drier than
that of the past in regions having the Mediterranean type of winter
rains and summer droughts, there have been pronounced pulsations during
historic times so that at certain times there has actually been greater
aridity than at present. This conclusion is so important that it seems
advisable to examine the only important arguments that have been raised
against it, especially against the idea that the general rainfall of the
eastern Mediterranean was greater in the historic past than at present.
The first objection is the unquestionable fact that droughts and famines
have occurred at periods which seem on other evidence to have been
moister than the present. This argument has been much used, but it seems
to have little force. If the rainfall of a given region averages thirty
inches and varies from fifteen to forty-five, a famine will ensue if the
rainfall drops for a few years to the lower limit and does not rise much
above twenty for a few years. If the climate of the place changes during
the course of centuries, so that the rainfall averages only twenty
inches, and ranges from seven to thirty-five, famine will again ensue if
the rainfall remains near ten inches for a few years. The ravages of the
first famine might be as bad as those of the second. They might even be
worse, because when the rainfall is larger the population is likely to
be greater and the distress due to scarcity of food would affect a
larger number of people. Hence historic records of famines and droughts
do not indicate that the climate was either drier or moister than at
present. They merely show that at the time in question the climate was
drier than the normal for that particular period.
The second objection is that deserts existed in the past much as at
present. This is not a real objection, however, for, as we shall see
more fully, some parts of the world suffer one kind of change and others
quite the opposite. Moreover, deserts have always existed, and when we
talk of a change in their climate we merely mean that their boundaries
have shifted. A concrete example of the mistaken use of ancient dryness
as proof of climatic uniformity is illustrated by the march of Alexander
from India to Mesopotamia. Hedin gives an excellent presentation of the
case in the second volume of his _Overland to India_. He shows
conclusively that Alexander's army suffered terribly from lack of water
and provisions. This certainly proves that the climate was dry, but it
by no means indicates that there has been no change from the past to the
present. We do not know whether Alexander's march took place during an
especially dry or an especially wet year. In a desert region like
Makran, in southern Persia and Beluchistan, where the chief difficulties
occurred, the rainfall varies greatly from year to year. We have no
records from Makran, but the conditions there are closely similar to
those of southern Arizona and New Mexico. In 1885 and 1905 the rainfall
for five stations in that region was as follows:
+------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| _Mean rainfall |
| during period |
| _1885_ _1905_ since |
| observations |
| began_ |
| Yuma, Arizona, 2.72 11.41 3.13 |
| Phoenix, Arizona, 3.77 19.73 7.27 |
| Tucson, Arizona, 5.26 24.17 11.66 |
| Lordsburg, New Mexico, 3.99 19.50 8.62 |
| El Paso, Texas (on New |
| Mexico border), 7.31 17.80 9.06 |
| ---- ----- ----- |
| Average, 4.61 18.52 7.95 |
| |
+------------------------------------------------------------+
These stations are distributed over an area nearly 500 miles east and
west. Manifestly a traveler who spent the year 1885 in that region would
have had much more difficulty in finding water and forage than one who
traveled in the same places in 1905. During 1885 the rainfall was 42 per
cent less than the average, and during 1905 it was 134 per cent more
than the average. Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that the
average rainfall of southeastern Persia is six inches today and was ten
inches in the days of Alexander. If the rainfall from year to year
varied as much in the past in Persia as it does now in New Mexico and
Arizona, the rainfall during an ancient dry year, corresponding in
character to 1885, would have been about 5.75 inches. On the other hand,
if we suppose that the rainfall then averaged less than at present,--let
us say four inches,--a wet year corresponding to 1905 in the American
deserts might have had a rainfall of about ten inches. This being the
case, it is clear that our estimate of what Alexander's march shows as
to climate must depend largely on whether 325 B. C. was a wet year or a
dry year. Inasmuch as we know nothing about this, we must fall back on
the fact that a large army accomplished a journey in a place where today
even a small caravan usually finds great difficulty in procuring forage
and water. Moreover, elephants were taken 180 miles across what is now
an almost waterless desert, and yet the old historians make no comment
on such a feat which today would be practically impossible. These things
seem more in harmony with a change of climate than with uniformity.
Nevertheless, it is not safe to place much reliance on them except when
they are taken in conjunction with other evidence, such as the numerous
ruins, which show that Makran was once far more densely populated than
now seems possible. Taken by itself, such incidents as Alexander's march
cannot safely be used either as an argument for or against changes of
climate.
The third and strongest objection to any hypothesis of climatic changes
during historic times is based on vegetation. The whole question is
admirably set forth by J. W. Gregory,[28] who gives not only his own
results, but those of the ablest scholars who have preceded him. His
conclusions are important because they represent one of the few cases
where a definite statistical attempt has been made to prove the exact
condition of the climate of the past. After stating various less
important reasons for believing that the climate of Palestine has not
changed, he discusses vegetation. The following quotation indicates his
line of thought. A sentence near the beginning is italicized in order to
call attention to the importance which Gregory and others lay on this
particular kind of evidence:
Some more certain test is necessary than the general conclusions
which can be based upon the historical and geographical evidence of
the Bible. In the absence of rain gauge and thermometric records,
_the most precise test of climate is given by the vegetation; and
fortunately the palm affords a very delicate test of the past
climate of Palestine and the eastern Mediterranean_.... The date
palm has three limits of growth which are determined by temperature;
thus it does not reach full maturity or produce ripe fruit of good
quality below the mean annual temperature of 69°F. The isothermal of
69° crosses southern Algeria near Biskra; it touches the northern
coasts of Cyrenaica near Derna and passes Egypt near the mouth of
the Nile, and then bends northward along the coast lands of
Palestine.
To the north of this line the date palm grows and produces fruit,
which only ripens occasionally, and its quality deteriorates as the
temperature falls below 69°. Between the isotherms of 68° and 64°,
limits which include northern Algeria, most of Sicily, Malta, the
southern parts of Greece and northern Syria, the dates produced are
so unripe that they are not edible. In the next cooler zone, north
of the isotherm of 62°, which enters Europe in southwestern
Portugal, passes through Sardinia, enters Italy near Naples, crosses
northern Greece and Asia Minor to the east of Smyrna, the date palm
is grown only for its foliage, since it does not fruit.
Hence at Benghazi, on the north African coast, the date palm is
fertile, but produces fruit of poor quality. In Sicily and at
Algiers the fruit ripens occasionally and at Rome and Nice the palm
is grown only as an ornamental tree.
The date palm therefore affords a test of variations in mean annual
temperature of three grades between 62° and 69°.
This test shows that the mean annual temperature of Palestine has
not altered since Old Testament times. The palm tree now grows dates
on the coast of Palestine and in the deep depression around the Dead
Sea, but it does not produce fruit on the highlands of Judea. Its
distribution in ancient times, as far as we can judge from the
Bible, was exactly the same. It grew at "Jericho, the city of palm
trees" (Deut. xxxiv: 3 and 2 Chron. xxviii: 15), and at Engedi, on
the western shore of the Dead Sea (2 Chron. xx: 2; Sirach xxiv: 14);
and though the palm does not still live at Jericho--the last
apparently died in 1838--its disappearance must be due to neglect,
for the only climatic change that would explain it would be an
increase in cold or moisture. In olden times the date palm certainly
grew on the highlands of Palestine; but apparently it never produced
fruit there, for the Bible references to the palm are to its beauty
and erect growth: "The righteous shall flourish like the palm" (Ps.
xcii: 12); "They are upright as the palm tree" (Jer. x: 5); "Thy
stature is like to a palm tree" (Cant. vii: 7). It is used as a
symbol of victory (Rev. vii: 9), but never praised as a source of
food.
Dates are not once referred to in the text of the Bible, but
according to the marginal notes the word translated "honey" in
2 Chron. xxxi: 5 may mean dates....
It appears, therefore, that the date palm had essentially the same
distribution in Palestine in Old Testament times as it has now; and
hence we may infer that the mean temperature was then the same as
now. If the climate had been moister and cooler, the date could not
have flourished at Jericho. If it had been warmer, the palms would
have grown freely at higher levels and Jericho would not have held
its distinction as _the_ city of palm trees.[29]
In the main Gregory's conclusions seem to be well grounded, although
even according to his data a change of 2° or 3° in mean temperature
would be perfectly feasible. It will be noticed, however, that they
apply to temperature and not to rainfall. They merely prove that two
thousand years ago the mean temperature of Palestine and the neighboring
regions was not appreciably different from what it is today. This,
however, is in no sense out of harmony with the hypothesis of climatic
pulsations. Students of glaciation believe that during the last glacial
epoch the mean temperature of the earth as a whole was only 5° or 6°C.
lower than at present. If the difference between the climate of today
and of the time of Christ is a tenth as great as the difference between
the climate of today and that which prevailed at the culmination of the
last glacial epoch, the change in two thousand years has been of large
dimensions. Yet this would require a rise of only half a degree
Centigrade in the mean temperature of Palestine. Manifestly, so slight a
change would scarcely be detectable in the vegetation.
The slightness of changes in mean temperature as compared with changes
in rainfall may be judged from a comparison of wet and dry years in
various regions. For example, at Berlin between 1866 and 1905 the ten
most rainy years had an average precipitation of 670 mm. and a mean
temperature of 9.15°C. On the other hand, the ten years of least
rainfall had an average of 483 mm. and a mean temperature of 9.35°. In
other words, a difference of 137 mm., or 39 per cent, in rainfall was
accompanied by a difference of only 0.2°C. in temperature. Such
contrasts between the variability of mean rainfall and mean temperature
are observable not only when individual years are selected, but when
much longer periods are taken. For instance, in the western Gulf region
of the United States the two inland stations of Vicksburg, Mississippi,
and Shreveport, Louisiana, and the two maritime stations of New Orleans,
Louisiana, and Galveston, Texas, lie at the margins of an area about 400
miles long. During the ten years from 1875 to 1884 their rainfall
averaged 59.4 inches,[30] while during the ten years from 1890 to 1899
it averaged only 42.4 inches. Even in a region so well watered as the
Gulf States, such a change--40 per cent more in the first decade than in
the second--is important, and in drier regions it would have a great
effect on habitability. Yet in spite of the magnitude of the change the
mean temperature was not appreciably different, the average for the four
stations being 67.36°F. during the more rainy decade and 66.94°F. during
the less rainy decade--a difference of only 0.42°F. It is worth noticing
that in this case the wetter period was also the warmer, whereas in
Berlin it was the cooler. This is probably because a large part of the
moisture of the Gulf States is brought by winds having a southerly
component. Similar relationships are apparent in other places. We select
Jerusalem because we have been discussing Palestine. At the time of
writing, the data available in the _Quarterly Journal of the Palestine
Exploration Fund_ cover the years from 1882-1899 and 1903-1909. Among
these twenty-five years the thirteen which had most rain had an average
of 34.1 inches and a temperature of 62.04°F. The twelve with least rain
had 24.4 inches and a temperature of 62.44°. A difference of 40 per cent
in rainfall was accompanied by a difference of only 0.4°F. in
temperature.
The facts set forth in the preceding paragraphs seem to show that
extensive changes in precipitation and storminess can take place without
appreciable changes of mean temperature. If such changed conditions can
persist for ten years, as in one of our examples, there is no logical
reason why they cannot persist for a hundred or a thousand. The evidence
of changes in climate during the historic period seems to suggest
changes in precipitation much more than in temperature. Hence the
strongest of all the arguments against historic changes of climate seems
to be of relatively little weight, and the pulsatory hypothesis seems to
be in accord with all the known facts.
Before the true nature of climatic changes, whether historic or
geologic, can be rightly understood, another point needs emphasis. When
the pulsatory hypothesis was first framed, it fell into the same error
as the hypotheses of uniformity and of progressive change--that is, the
assumption was made that the whole world is either growing drier or
moister with each pulsation. A study of the ruins of Yucatan, in 1912,
and of Guatemala, in 1913, as is explained in _The Climatic Factor_, has
led to the conclusion that the climate of those regions has changed in
the opposite way from the changes which appear to have taken place in
the desert regions farther south. These Maya ruins in Central America
are in many cases located in regions of such heavy rainfall, such dense
forests, and such malignant fevers that habitation is now practically
impossible. The land cannot be cultivated except in especially favorable
places. The people are terribly weakened by disease and are among the
lowest in Central America. Only a hundred miles from the unhealthful
forests we find healthful areas, such as the coasts of Yucatan and the
plateau of Guatemala. Here the vast majority of the population is
gathered, the large towns are located, and the only progressive people
are found. Nevertheless, in the past the region of the forests was the
home of by far the most progressive people who are ever known to have
lived in America previous to the days of Columbus. They alone brought to
high perfection the art of sculpture; they were the only American people
who invented the art of writing. It seems scarcely credible that such a
people would have lived in the worst possible habitat when far more
favored regions were close at hand. Therefore it seems as if the climate
of eastern Guatemala and Yucatan must have been relatively dry at some
past time. The Maya chronology and traditions indicate that this was
probably at the same time when moister conditions apparently prevailed
in the subarid or desert portions of the United States and Asia. Fig. 3
shows that today at times of many sunspots there is a similar opposition
between a tendency toward storminess and rain in subtropical regions and
toward aridity in low latitudes near the heat equator.
Thus our final conclusion is that during historic times there have been
pulsatory changes of climate. These changes have been of the same type
in regions having similar kinds of climate, but of different and
sometimes opposite types in places having diverse climates. As to the
cause of the pulsations, they cannot have been due to the precession of
the equinoxes nor apparently to any allied astronomical cause, for the
time intervals are too short and too irregular. They cannot have been
due to changes in the percentage of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere,
for not even the strongest believers in the climatic efficacy of that
gas hold that its amount could fluctuate in any such violent way as
would be necessary to explain the pulsations shown in the California
curve of tree growth. Volcanic activity seems more probable as at least
a partial cause, and it would be worth while to investigate the matter
more fully. Nevertheless, it can apparently be only a minor cause. In
the first place, the main effect of a cloud of dust is to alter the
temperature, but Gregory's summary of the palm and the vine shows that
variations in temperature are apparently of very slight importance
during historic times. Again, ruins on the bottoms of enclosed salt
lakes, old beaches now under the water, and signs of irrigation ditches
where none are now needed indicate a climate drier than the present.
Volcanic dust, however, cannot account for such a condition, for at
present the air seems to be practically free from such dust for long
periods. Thus we now experience the greatest extreme which the volcanic
hypothesis permits in one direction, but there have been greater
extremes in the same direction. The thermal solar hypothesis is likewise
unable to explain the observed phenomena, for neither it nor the
volcanic hypothesis offers any explanation of why the climate varies in
one way in Mediterranean climates and in an opposite way in regions near
the heat equator.
This leaves the cyclonic hypothesis. It seems to fit the facts, for
variations in cyclonic storms cause some regions to be moister and
others drier than usual. At the same time the variations in temperature
are slight, and are apparently different in different regions, some
places growing warm when others grow cool. In the next chapter we shall
study this matter more fully, for it can best be appreciated by
examining the course of events in a specific century.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 16: Much of this chapter is taken from The Solar Hypothesis of
Climatic Changes; Bull. Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 25, 1914.]
[Footnote 17: Ellsworth Huntington: Explorations in Turkestan, 1905; The
Pulse of Asia, 1907; Palestine and Its Transformation, 1911; The
Climatic Factor, 1915; World Power and Evolution, 1919.]
[Footnote 18: J. Hann: Klimatologie, Vol. 1, 1908, p. 352.]
[Footnote 19: H. C. Butler: Desert Syria, the Land of a Lost
Civilization; Geographical Review, Feb., 1920, pp. 77-108.]
[Footnote 20: This is due to the fact that where these forests occur, in
Gilead for example, the mountains to the west break down, so that the
west winds with water from the Mediterranean are able to reach the inner
range without having lost all their water. It is one of the misfortunes
of Syria that its mountains generally rise so close to the sea that they
shut off rainfall from the interior and cause the rain to fall on slopes
too steep for easy cultivation.]
[Footnote 21: H. Leiter: Die Frage der Klimaanderung waherend
geschichtlicher Zeit in Nordafrika. Abhandl. K. K. Geographischen
Gesellschaft, Wien, 1909, p. 143.]
[Footnote 22: A most careful and convincing study of this problem is
embodied in an article by J. W. Smith: The Effects of Weather upon the
Yield of Corn; Monthly Weather Review, Vol. 42, 1914, pp. 78-92. On the
basis of the yield of corn in Ohio for 60 years and in other states for
shorter periods, he shows that the rainfall of July has almost as much
influence on the crop as has the rainfall of all other months combined.
See his Agricultural Meteorology, New York, 1920.]
[Footnote 23: See chapter by A. E. Douglass in The Climatic Factor; and
his book on Climatic Cycles and Tree-Growth; Carnegie Inst., 1919. Also
article by M. N. Stewart: The Relation of Precipitation to Tree Growth,
in the Monthly Weather Review, Vol. 41, 1913.]
[Footnote 24: The dotted line is taken from Palestine and Its
Transformation, pp. 327 and 403.]
[Footnote 25: M. A. Stein: Ruins of Desert Cathay, London, 1912.]
[Footnote 26: In the preparation and interpretation of this table the
help of Mr. G. B. Cressey is gratefully acknowledged.]
[Footnote 27: For the tree data used in these comparisons, see The
Climatic Factor P. 328, and A. E. Douglass: Climatic Cycles and Tree
Growth, p. 123.]
[Footnote A: One year interpolated.]
[Footnote 28: J. W. Gregory: Is the Earth Drying Up? Geog. Jour., Vol.
43, 1914, pp. 148-172 and 293-318.]
[Footnote 29: Geog. Jour., Vol. 43, pp. 159-161.]
[Footnote 30: See A. J. Henry: Secular Variation of Precipitation in the
United States; Bull. Am. Geog. Soc., Vol. 46, 1914, pp. 192-201.]
CHAPTER VI
THE CLIMATIC STRESS OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY
In order to give concreteness to our picture of the climatic pulsations
of historic times let us take a specific period and see how its changes
of climate were distributed over the globe and how they are related to
the little changes which now take place in the sunspot cycle. We will
take the fourteenth century of the Christian era, especially the first
half. This period is chosen because it is the last and hence the best
known of the times when the climate of the earth seems to have taken a
considerable swing toward the conditions which now prevail when the sun
is most active, and which, if intensified, would apparently lead to
glaciation. It has already been discussed in _World Power and
Evolution_, but its importance and the fact that new evidence is
constantly coming to light warrant a fuller discussion.
To begin with Europe; according to the careful account of Pettersson[31]
the fourteenth century shows
a record of extreme climatic variations. In the cold winters the
rivers Rhine, Danube, Thames, and Po were frozen for weeks and
months. On these cold winters there followed violent floods, so that
the rivers mentioned inundated their valleys. Such floods are
recorded in 55 summers in the 14th century. There is, of course,
nothing astonishing in the fact that the inundations of the great
rivers of Europe were more devastating 600 to 700 years ago than in
our days, when the flow of the rivers has been regulated by canals,
locks, etc.; but still the inundations in the 13th and 14th
centuries must have surpassed everything of that kind which has
occurred since then. In 1342 the waters of the Rhine rose so high
that they inundated the city of Mayence and the Cathedral "usque ad
cingulum hominis." The walls of Cologne were flooded so that they
could be passed by boats in July. This occurred also in 1374 in the
midst of the month of February, which is of course an unusual season
for disasters of the kind. Again in other years the drought was so
intense that the same rivers, the Danube, Rhine, and others, nearly
dried up, and the Rhine could be forded at Cologne. This happened at
least twice in the same century. There is one exceptional summer of
such evil record that centuries afterwards it was spoken of as "the
old hot summer of 1357."
Pettersson goes on to speak of two oceanic phenomena on which the old
chronicles lay greater stress than on all others:
The first [is] the great storm-floods on the coast of the North Sea
and the Baltic, which occurred so frequently that not less than
nineteen floods of a destructiveness unparalleled in later times are
recorded from the 14th century. The coastline of the North Sea was
completely altered by these floods. Thus on January 16, 1300, half
of the island Heligoland and many other islands were engulfed by the
sea. The same fate overtook the island of Borkum, torn into several
islands by the storm-flood of January 16, which remoulded the
Frisian Islands into their present shape, when also Wendingstadt, on
the island of Sylt, and Thiryu parishes were engulfed. This flood is
known under the name of "the great man-drowning." The coasts of the
Baltic also were exposed to storm-floods of unparalleled violence.
On November 1, 1304, the island of Ruden was torn asunder from Rugen
by the force of the waves. Time does not allow me to dwell upon
individual disasters of this kind, but it will be well to note that
of the nineteen great floods on record eighteen occurred in the cold
season between the autumnal and vernal equinoxes.
The second remarkable phenomenon mentioned by the chronicles is the
freezing of the entire Baltic, which occurred many times during the
cold winters of these centuries. On such occasions it was possible
to travel with carriages over the ice from Sweden to Bornholm and
from Denmark to the German coast (Lubeck), and in some cases even
from Gotland to the coast of Estland.
Norlind[32] says that "the only authentic accounts" of the complete
freezing of the Baltic in the neighborhood of the Kattegat are in the
years 1296, 1306, 1323, and 1408. Of these 1296 is "much the most
uncertain," while 1323 was the coldest year ever recorded, as appears
from the fact that horses and sleighs crossed regularly from Sweden to
Germany on the ice.
Not only central Europe and the shores of the North Sea were marked by
climatic stress during the fourteenth century, but Scandinavia also
suffered. As Pettersson puts it:
On examining the historic (data) from the last centuries of the
Middle Ages, Dr. Bull of Christiania has come to the conclusion that
the decay of the Norwegian kingdom was not so much a consequence of
the political conditions at that time, as of the frequent failures
of the harvest so that corn [wheat] for bread had to be imported
from Lübeck, Rostock, Wismar and so forth. The Hansa Union undertook
the importation and obtained political power by its economic
influence. The Norwegian land-owners were forced to lower their
rents. The population decreased and became impoverished. The revenue
sank 60 to 70 per cent. Even the income from Church property
decreased. In 1367 corn was imported from Lübeck to a value of
one-half million kroner. The trade balance inclined to the
disadvantage of Norway whose sole article of export at that time
was dried fish. (The production of fish increased enormously in
the Baltic regions off south Sweden because of the same changes
which were influencing the lands, but this did not benefit
Norway.) Dr. Bull draws a comparison with the conditions described
in the Sagas when Nordland [at the Arctic Circle] produced enough
corn to feed the inhabitants of the country. At the time of
Asbjörn Selsbane the chieftains in Trondhenäs [still farther north
in latitude 69°] grew so much corn that they did not need to go
southward to buy corn unless three successive years of dearth had
occurred. The province of Trondheim exported wheat to Iceland and
so forth. Probably the turbulent political state of Scandinavia at
the end of the Middle Ages was in a great measure due to
unfavorable climatic conditions, which lowered the standard of
life, and not entirely to misgovernment and political strife as
has hitherto been taken for granted.
During this same unfortunate first half of the fourteenth century
England also suffered from conditions which, if sufficiently
intensified, might be those of a glacial period. According to Thorwald
Rogers[33] the severest famine ever experienced in England was that of
1315-1316, and the next worst was in 1321. In fact, from 1308 to 1322
great scarcity of food prevailed most of the time. Other famines of less
severity occurred in 1351 and 1369. "The same cause was at work in all
these cases," says Rogers, "incessant rain, and cold, stormy summers. It
is said that the inclemency of the seasons affected the cattle, and that
numbers perished from disease and want." After the bad harvest of 1315
the price of wheat, which was already high, rose rapidly, and in May,
1316, was about five times the average. For a year or more thereafter it
remained at three or four times the ordinary level. The severity of the
famine may be judged from the fact that previous to the Great War the
most notable scarcity of wheat in modern England and the highest
relative price was in December, 1800. At that time wheat cost nearly
three times the usual amount, instead of five as in 1316. During the
famine of the early fourteenth century "it is said that people were
reduced to subsist upon roots, upon horses and dogs, and stories are
told of even more terrible acts by reason of the extreme famine." The
number of deaths was so great that the price of labor suffered a
permanent rise of at least 10 per cent. There simply were not people
enough left among the peasants to do the work demanded by the more
prosperous class who had not suffered so much.
After the famine came drought. The year 1325 appears to have been
peculiarly dry, and 1331, 1344, 1362, 1374, and 1377 were also dry. In
general these conditions do little harm in England. They are of interest
chiefly as showing how excessive rain and drought are apt to succeed one
another.
These facts regarding northern and central Europe during the fourteenth
century are particularly significant when compared with the conclusions
which we have drawn in _Earth and Sun_ from the growth of trees in
Germany and from the distribution of storms. A careful study of all the
facts shows that we are dealing with two distinct types of phenomena. In
the first place, the climate of central Europe seems to have been
peculiarly continental during the fourteenth century. The winters were
so cold that the rivers froze, and the summers were so wet that there
were floods every other year or oftener. This seems to be merely an
intensification of the conditions which prevail at the present time
during periods of many sunspots, as indicated by the growth of trees at
Eberswalde in Germany and by the number of storms in winter as compared
with summer. The prevalence of droughts, especially in the spring, is
also not inconsistent with the existence of floods at other seasons, for
one of the chief characteristics of a continental climate is that the
variations from one season to another are more marked than in oceanic
climates. Even the summer droughts are typically continental, for when
continental conditions prevail, the difference between the same season
in different years is extreme, as is well illustrated in Kansas. It must
always be remembered that what causes famine is not so much absolute
dryness as a temporary diminution of the rainfall.
The second type of phenomena is peculiarly oceanic in character. It
consists of two parts, both of which are precisely what would be
expected if a highly continental climate prevailed over the land. In the
first place, at certain times the cold area of high pressure, which is
the predominating characteristic of a continent during the winter,
apparently spread out over the neighboring oceans. Under such conditions
an inland sea, such as the Baltic, would be frozen, so that horses could
cross the ice even in the Far West. In the second place, because of the
unusually high pressure over the continent, the barometric gradients
apparently became intensified. Hence at the margin of the continental
high-pressure area the winds were unusually strong and the storms of
corresponding severity. Some of these storms may have passed entirely
along oceanic tracks, while others invaded the borders of the land, and
gave rise to the floods and to the wearing away of the coast described
by Pettersson.
Turning now to the east of Europe, Brückner's[34] study of the Caspian
Sea shows that that region as well as western Europe was subject to
great climatic vicissitudes in the first half of the fourteenth century.
In 1306-1307 the Caspian Sea, after rising rapidly for several years,
stood thirty-seven feet above the present level and it probably rose
still higher during the succeeding decades. At least it remained at a
high level, for Hamdulla, the Persian, tells us that in 1325 a place
called Aboskun was under water.[35]
Still further east the inland lake of Lop Nor also rose at about this
time. According to a Chinese account the Dragon Town on the shore of Lop
Nor was destroyed by a flood. From Himley's translation it appears that
the level of the lake rose so as to overwhelm the city completely. This
would necessitate the expansion of the lake to a point eighty miles east
of Lulan, and fully fifty from the present eastern end of the Kara
Koshun marsh. The water would have to rise nearly, or quite, to a strand
which is now clearly visible at a height of twelve feet above the modern
lake or marsh.
In India the fourteenth century was characterized by what appears to
have been the most disastrous drought in all history. Apparently the
decrease in rainfall here was as striking as the increase in other parts
of the world. No statistics are available but we are told that in the
great famine which began in 1344 even the Mogul emperor was unable to
obtain the necessaries of life for his household. No rain worth
mentioning fell for years. In some places the famine lasted three or
four years, and in some twelve, and entire cities were left without an
inhabitant. In a later famine, 1769-1770, which occurred in Bengal
shortly after the foundation of British rule in India, but while the
native officials were still in power, a third of the population, or ten
out of thirty millions, perished. The famine in the first half of the
fourteenth century seems to have been far worse. These Indian famines
were apparently due to weak summer monsoons caused presumably by the
failure of central Asia to warm up as much as usual. The heavier
snowfall, and the greater cloudiness of the summer there, which probably
accompanied increased storminess, may have been the reason.
The New World as well as the Old appears to have been in a state of
climatic stress during the first half of the fourteenth century.
According to Pettersson, Greenland furnishes an example of this. At
first the inhabitants of that northland were fairly prosperous and were
able to approach from Iceland without much hindrance from the ice. Today
the North Atlantic Ocean northeast of Iceland is full of drift ice much
of the time. The border of the ice varies from season to season, but in
general it extends westward from Iceland not far from the Arctic circle
and then follows the coast of Greenland southward to Cape Farewell at
the southern tip and around to the western side for fifty miles or more.
Except under exceptional circumstances a ship cannot approach the coast
until well northward on the comparatively ice-free west coast. In the
old Sagas, however, nothing is said of ice in this region. The route
from Iceland to Greenland is carefully described. In the earliest times
it went from Iceland a trifle north of west so as to approach the coast
of Greenland after as short an ocean passage as possible. Then it went
down the coast in a region where approach is now practically impossible
because of the ice. At that time this coast was icy close to the shore,
but there is no sign that navigation was rendered difficult as is now
the case. Today no navigator would think of keeping close inland. The
old route also went _north_ of the island on which Cape Farewell is
located, although the narrow channel between the island and the mainland
is now so blocked with ice that no modern vessel has ever penetrated it.
By the thirteenth century, however, there appears to have been a change.
In the Kungaspegel or _Kings' Mirror_, written at that time, navigators
are warned not to make the east coast too soon on account of ice, but no
new route is recommended in the neighborhood of Cape Farewell or
elsewhere. Finally, however, at the end of the fourteenth century,
nearly 150 years after the Kungaspegel, the old sailing route was
abandoned, and ships from Iceland sailed directly southwest to avoid the
ice. As Pettersson says:
... At the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth
century the European civilization in Greenland was wiped out by an
invasion of the aboriginal population. The colonists in the
Vesterbygd were driven from their homes and probably migrated to
America leaving behind their cattle in the fields. So they were
found by Ivar Bardsson, steward to the Bishop of Gardar, in his
official journey thither in 1342.
The Eskimo invasion must not be regarded as a common raid. It was
the transmigration of a people, and like other big movements of this
kind [was] impelled by altered conditions of nature, in this case
the alterations of climate caused by [or which caused?] the advance
of the ice. For their hunting and fishing the Eskimos require an at
least partially open arctic sea. The seal, their principal prey,
cannot live where the surface of the sea is entirely frozen over.
The cause of the favorable conditions in the Viking-age was,
according to my hypothesis, that the ice then melted at a higher
latitude in the arctic seas.
The Eskimos then lived further north in Greenland and North America.
When the climate deteriorated and the sea which gave them their
living was closed by ice the Eskimos had to find a more suitable
neighborhood. This they found in the land colonized by the Norsemen
whom they attacked and finally annihilated.
Finally, far to the south in Yucatan the ancient Maya civilization made
its last flickering effort at about this time. Not much is known of this
but in earlier periods the history of the Mayas seems to have agreed
quite closely with the fluctuations in climate.[36] Among the Mayas, as
we have seen, relatively dry periods were the times of greatest
progress.
Let us turn now to Fig. 3 once more and compare the climatic conditions
of the fourteenth century with those of periods of increasing rainfall.
Southern England, Ireland, and Scandinavia, where the crops were ruined
by extensive rain and storms in summer, are places where storminess and
rainfall now increase when sunspots are numerous. Central Europe and the
coasts of the North Sea, where flood and drought alternated, are regions
which now have relatively less rain when sunspots increase than when
they diminish. However, as appears from the trees measured by Douglass,
the winters become more continental and hence cooler, thus corresponding
to the cold winters of the fourteenth century when people walked on the
ice from Scandinavia to Denmark. When such high pressure prevails in the
winter, the total rainfall is diminished, but nevertheless the storms
are more severe than usual, especially in the spring. In southeastern
Europe, the part of the area whence the Caspian derives its water,
appears to have less rainfall during times of increasing sunspots than
when sunspots are few, but in an equally large area to the south, where
the mountains are higher and the run-off of the rain is more rapid, the
reverse is the case. This seems to mean that a slight diminution in the
water poured in by the Volga would be more than compensated by the water
derived from Persia and from the Oxus and Jaxartes rivers, which in the
fourteenth century appear to have filled the Sea of Aral and overflowed
in a large stream to the Caspian. Still farther east in central Asia, so
far as the records go, most of the country receives more rain when
sunspots are many than when they are few, which would agree with what
happened when the Dragon Town was inundated. In India, on the contrary,
there is a large area where the rainfall diminishes at times of many
sunspots, thus agreeing with the terrible famine from which the Moguls
suffered so severely. In the western hemisphere, Greenland, Arizona, and
California are all parts of the area where the rain increases with many
sunspots, while Yucatan seems to lie in an area of the opposite type.
Thus all the evidence seems to show that at times of climatic stress,
such as the fourteenth century, the conditions are essentially the same
as those which now prevail at times of increasing sunspots.
As to the number of sunspots, there is little evidence previous to about
1750. Yet that little is both interesting and important. Although
sunspots have been observed with care in Europe only a little more than
three centuries, the Chinese have records which go back nearly to the
beginning of the Christian era. Of course the records are far from
perfect, for the work was done by individuals and not by any great
organization which continued the same methods from generation to
generation. The mere fact that a good observer happened to use his
smoked glass to advantage may cause a particular period to appear to
have an unusual number of spots. On the other hand, the fact that such
an observer finds spots at some times and not at others tends to give a
valuable check on his results, as does the comparison of one observer's
work with that of another. Hence, in spite of many and obvious defects,
most students of the problem agree that the Chinese record possesses
much value, and that for a thousand years or more it gives a fairly true
idea of the general aspect of the sun. In the Chinese records the years
with many spots fall in groups, as would be expected, and are sometimes
separated by long intervals. Certain centuries appear to have been
marked by unusual spottedness. The most conspicuous of these is the
fourteenth, when the years 1370 to 1385 were particularly noteworthy,
for spots large enough to be visible to the naked eye covered the sun
much of the time. Hence Wolf,[37] who has made an exhaustive study of
the matter, concludes that there was an absolute maximum of spots about
1372. While this date is avowedly open to question, the great abundance
of sunspots at that time makes it probable that it cannot be far wrong.
If this is so, it seems that the great climatic disturbances of which we
have seen evidence in the fourteenth century occurred at a time when
sunspots were increasing, or at least when solar activity was under some
profoundly disturbing influence. Thus the evidence seems to show not
merely that the climate of historic times has been subject to important
pulsations, but that those pulsations were magnifications of the little
climatic changes which now take place in sunspot cycles. The past and
the present are apparently a unit except as to the intensity of the
changes.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 31: O. Pettersson: The connection between hydrographical and
meteorological phenomena; Quarterly Journal of the Royal Meteorological
Society, Vol. 38, pp. 174-175.]
[Footnote 32: A. Norlind: Einige Bemerkungen über das Klima der
historischen Zeit nebst einem Verzeichnis mittelaltlicher Witterungs
erscheinungen; Lunds Univ. Arsskrift, N. F., Vol. 10, 1914, 53 pp.]
[Footnote 33: Thorwald Rogers: A History of Agriculture and Prices in
England.]
[Footnote 34: E. Brückner: Klimaschwankungen seit 1700, Vienna, 1891.]
[Footnote 35: For a full discussion of the changes in the Caspian Sea,
see The Pulse of Asia, pp. 329-358.]
[Footnote 36: S. Q. Morley: The Inscriptions at Copán; Carnegie Inst. of
Wash., No. 219, 1920.
Ellsworth Huntington: The Red Man's Continent, 1919.]
[Footnote 37: See summary of Wolf's work with additional information by
H. Fritz; Zürich Vierteljahrschrift, Vol. 38, 1893, pp. 77-107.]
CHAPTER VII
GLACIATION ACCORDING TO THE SOLAR-CYCLONIC HYPOTHESIS[38]
The remarkable phenomena of glacial periods afford perhaps the best
available test to which any climatic hypothesis can be subjected. In
this chapter and the two that follow, we shall apply this test. Since
much more is known about the recent Great Ice Age, or Pleistocene
glaciation, than about the more ancient glaciations, the problems of the
Pleistocene will receive especial attention. In the present chapter the
oncoming of glaciation and the subsequent disappearance of the ice will
be outlined in the light of what would be expected according to the
solar-cyclonic hypothesis. Then in the next chapter several problems of
especial climatic significance will be considered, such as the
localization of ice sheets, the succession of severe glacial and mild
inter-glacial epochs, the sudden commencement of glaciation and the
peculiar variations in the height of the snow line. Other topics to be
considered are the occurrence of pluvial or rainy climates in
non-glaciated regions, and glaciation near sea level in subtropical
latitudes during the Permian and Proterozoic. Then in Chapter IX we
shall consider the development and distribution of the remarkable
deposits of wind-blown material known as loess.
Facts not considered at the time of framing an hypothesis are especially
significant in testing it. In this particular case, the cyclonic
hypothesis was framed to explain the historic changes of climate
revealed by a study of ruins, tree rings, and the terraces of streams
and lakes, without special thought of glaciation or other geologic
changes. Indeed, the hypothesis had reached nearly its present form
before much attention was given to geological phases of the problem.
Nevertheless, it appears to meet even this severe test.
According to the solar-cyclonic hypothesis, the Pleistocene glacial
period was inaugurated at a time when certain terrestrial conditions
tended to make the earth especially favorable for glaciation. How these
conditions arose will be considered later. Here it is enough to state
what they were. Chief among them was the fact that the continents stood
unusually high and were unusually large. This, however, was not the
primary cause of glaciation, for many of the areas which were soon to be
glaciated were little above sea level. For example, it seems clear that
New England stood less than a thousand feet higher than now. Indeed,
Salisbury[39] estimates that eastern North America in general stood not
more than a few hundred feet higher than now, and W. B. Wright[40]
reaches the same conclusion in respect to the British Isles.
Nevertheless, widespread lands, even if they are not all high, lead to
climatic conditions which favor glaciation. For example, enlarged
continents cause low temperature in high latitudes because they
interfere with the ocean currents that carry heat polewards. Such
continents also cause relatively cold winters, for lands cool much
sooner than does the ocean. Another result is a diminution of water
vapor, not only because cold air cannot hold much vapor, but also
because the oceanic area from which evaporation takes place is reduced
by the emergence of the continents. Again, when the continents are
extensive the amount of carbonic acid gas in the atmosphere probably
decreases, for the augmented erosion due to uplift exposes much igneous
rock to the air, and weathering consumes the atmospheric carbon dioxide.
When the supply of water vapor and of atmospheric carbon dioxide is
small, an extreme type of climate usually prevails. The combined result
of all these conditions is that continental emergence causes the climate
to be somewhat cool and to be marked by relatively great contrasts from
season to season and from latitude to latitude.
When the terrestrial conditions thus permitted glaciation, unusual solar
activity is supposed to have greatly increased the number and severity
of storms and to have altered their location, just as now happens at
times of many sunspots. If such a change in storminess had occurred when
terrestrial conditions were unfavorable for glaciation, as, for example,
when the lands were low and there were widespread epicontinental seas in
middle and high latitudes, glaciation might not have resulted. In the
Pleistocene, however, terrestrial conditions permitted glaciation, and
therefore the supposed increase in storminess caused great ice sheets.
The conditions which prevail at times of increased storminess have been
discussed in detail in _Earth and Sun_. Those which apparently brought
on glaciation seem to have acted as follows: In the first place the
storminess lowered the temperature of the earth's surface in several
ways. The most important of these was the rapid upward convection in the
centers of cyclonic storms whereby abundant heat was carried to high
levels where most of it was radiated away into space. The marked
increase in the number of tropical cyclones which accompanies increased
solar activity was probably important in this respect. Such cyclones
carry vast quantities of heat and moisture out of the tropics. The
moisture, to be sure, liberates heat upon condensing, but as
condensation occurs above the earth's surface, much of the heat escapes
into space. Another reason for low temperature was that under the
influence of the supposedly numerous storms of Pleistocene times
evaporation over the oceans must have increased. This is largely because
the velocity of the winds is relatively great when storms are strong and
such winds are powerful agents of evaporation. But evaporation requires
heat, and hence the strong winds lower the temperature.[B]
The second great condition which enabled increased storminess to bring
on glaciation was the location of the storm tracks. Kullmer's maps, as
illustrated in Fig. 2, suggest that a great increase in solar activity,
such as is postulated in the Pleistocene, might shift the main storm
track poleward even more than it is shifted by the milder solar changes
during the twelve-year sunspot cycle. If this is so, the main track
would tend to cross North America through the middle of Canada instead
of near the southern border. Thus there would be an increase in
precipitation in about the latitude of the Keewatin and Labradorean
centers of glaciation. From what is known of storm tracks in Europe, the
main increase in the intensity of storms would probably center in
Scandinavia. Fig. 3 in Chapter V bears this out. That figure, it will be
recalled, shows what happens to precipitation when solar activity is
increasing. A high rate of precipitation is especially marked in the
boreal storm track, that is, in the northern United States, southern
Canada, and northwestern Europe.
Another important condition in bringing on glaciation would be the fact
that when storms are numerous the total precipitation appears to
increase in spite of the slightly lower temperature. This is largely
because of the greater evaporation. The excessive evaporation arises
partly from the rapidity of the winds, as already stated, and partly
from the fact that in areas where the air is clear the sun would
presumably be able to act more effectively than now. It would do so
because at times of abundant sunspots the sun in our own day has a
higher solar constant than at times of milder activity. Our whole
hypothesis is based on the supposition that what now happens at times of
many sunspots was intensified in glacial periods.
A fourth condition which would cause glaciation to result from great
solar activity would be the fact that the portion of the yearly
precipitation falling as snow would increase, while the proportion of
rain would diminish in the main storm track. This would arise partly
because the storms would be located farther north than now, and partly
because of the diminution in temperature due to the increased
convection. The snow in itself would still further lower the
temperature, for snow is an excellent reflector of sunlight. The
increased cloudiness which would accompany the more abundant storms
would also cause an unusually great reflection of the sunlight and still
further lower the temperature. Thus at times of many sunspots a strong
tendency toward the accumulation of snow would arise from the rapid
convection and consequent low temperature, from the northern location of
storms, from the increased evaporation and precipitation, from the
larger percentage of snowy rather than rainy precipitation, and from the
great loss of heat due to reflection from clouds and snow.
If events at the beginning of the last glacial period took place in
accordance with the cyclonic hypothesis, as outlined above, one of the
inevitable results would be the production of snowfields. The places
where snow would accumulate in special quantities would be central
Canada, the Labrador plateau, and Scandinavia, as well as certain
mountain regions. As soon as a snowfield became somewhat extensive, it
would begin to produce striking climatic alterations in addition to
those to which it owed its origin.[41] For example, within a snowfield
the summers remain relatively cold. Hence such a field is likely to be
an area of high pressure at all seasons. The fact that the snowfield is
always a place of relatively high pressure results in outblowing surface
winds except when these are temporarily overcome by the passage of
strong cyclonic storms. The storms, however, tend to be concentrated
near the margins of the ice throughout the year instead of following
different paths in each of the four seasons. This is partly because
cyclonic lows always avoid places of high pressure and are thus pushed
out of the areas where permanent snow has accumulated. On the other
hand, at times of many sunspots, as Kullmer has shown, the main storm
track tends to be drawn poleward, perhaps by electrical conditions.
Hence when a snowfield is present in the north, the lows, instead of
migrating much farther north in summer than in winter, as they now do,
would merely crowd on to the snowfield a little farther in summer than
in winter. Thus the heavy precipitation which is usual in humid climates
near the centers of lows would take place near the advancing margin of
the snowfield and cause the field to expand still farther southward.
The tendency toward the accumulation of snow on the margins of the
snowfields would be intensified not only by the actual storms
themselves, but by other conditions. For example, the coldness of the
snow would tend to cause prompt condensation of the moisture brought by
the winds that blow toward the storm centers from low latitudes. Again,
in spite of the general dryness of the air over a snowfield, the lower
air contains some moisture due to evaporation from the snow by day
during the clear sunny weather of anti-cyclones or highs. Where this is
sufficient, the cold surface of the snowfields tends to produce a frozen
fog whenever the snowfield is cooled by radiation, as happens at night
and during the passage of highs. Such a frozen fog is an effective
reflector of solar radiation. Moreover, because ice has only half the
specific heat of water, and is much more transparent to heat, such a
"radiation fog" composed of ice crystals is a much less effective
retainer of heat than clouds or fog made of unfrozen water particles.
Shallow fogs of this type are described by several polar expeditions.
They clearly retard the melting of the snow and thus help the icefield
to grow.
For all these reasons, so long as storminess remained great, the
Pleistocene snowfields, according to the solar hypothesis, must have
deepened and expanded. In due time some of the snow was converted into
glacial ice. When that occurred, the growth of the snowfield as well as
of the ice cap must have been accelerated by glacial movement. Under
such circumstances, as the ice crowded southward toward the source of
the moisture by which it grew, the area of high pressure produced by its
low temperature would expand. This would force the storm track southward
in spite of the contrary tendency due to the sun. When the ice sheet had
become very extensive, the track would be crowded relatively near to the
northern margin of the trade-wind belt. Indeed, the Pleistocene ice
sheets, at the time of their maximum extension, reached almost as far
south as the latitude now marking the northern limit of the trade-wind
belt in summer. As the storm track with its frequent low pressure and
the subtropical belt with its high pressure were forced nearer and
nearer together, the barometric gradient between the two presumably
became greater, winds became stronger, and the storms more intense.
This zonal crowding would be of special importance in summer, at which
time it would also be most pronounced. In the first place, the storms
would be crowded far upon the ice cap which would then be protected from
the sun by a cover of fog and cloud more fully than at any other season.
Furthermore, the close approach of the trade-wind belt to the storm belt
would result in a great increase in the amount of moisture drawn from
the belt of evaporation which the trade winds dominate. In the
trade-wind belt, clear skies and high temperature make evaporation
especially rapid. Indeed, in spite of the vast deserts it is probable
that more than three-fourths of the total evaporation now taking place
on the earth occurs in the belt of trades, an area which includes about
one-half of the earth's surface.
The agency which could produce this increased drawing northward of
moisture from the trade-wind belt would be the winds blowing into the
lows. According to the cyclonic hypothesis, many of these lows would be
so strong that they would temporarily break down the subtropical belt of
high pressure which now usually prevails between the trades and the zone
of westerly winds. This belt is even now often broken by tropical
cyclones. If the storms of more northerly regions temporarily destroyed
the subtropical high-pressure belt, even though they still remained on
its northern side, they would divert part of the trade winds. Hence the
air which now is carried obliquely equatorward by those winds would be
carried spirally northward into the cyclonic lows. Precipitation in the
storm track on the margin of the relatively cold ice sheet would thus be
much increased, for most winds from low latitudes carry abundant
moisture. Such a diversion of moisture from low latitudes probably
explains the deficiency of precipitation along the heat equator at times
of solar activity, as shown in Fig. 3. Taken as a whole, the summer
conditions, according to the cyclonic hypothesis, would be such that
increased evaporation in low latitudes would coöperate with increased
storminess, cloudiness, and fog in higher latitudes to preserve and
increase the accumulation of ice upon the borders of the ice sheet. The
greater the storminess, the more this would be true and the more the ice
sheet would be able to hold its own against melting in summer. Such a
combination of precipitation and of protection from the sun is
especially important if an ice sheet is to grow.
The meteorologist needs no geologic evidence that the storm track was
shoved equatorward by the growth of the ice sheet, for he observes a
similar shifting whenever a winter's snow cap occupies part of the
normal storm tract. The geologist, however, may welcome geologic
evidence that such an extreme shift of the storm track actually occurred
during the Pleistocene. Harmer, in 1901, first pointed out the evidence
which was repeated with approval by Wright of the Ireland Geological
Survey in 1914.[42] According to these authorities, numerous boulders of
a distinctive chalk were deposited by Pleistocene icebergs along the
coast of Ireland. Their distribution shows that at the time of maximum
glaciation the strong winds along the south coast of Ireland were from
the northeast while today they are from the southwest. Such a reversal
could apparently be produced only by a southward shift of the center of
the main storm track from its present position in northern Ireland,
Scotland, and Norway to a position across northern France, central
Germany, and middle Russia. This would mean that while now the centers
of the lows commonly move northeastward a short distance north of
southern Ireland, they formerly moved eastward a short distance south of
Ireland. It will be recalled that in the northern hemisphere the winds
spiral into a low counter-clockwise and that they are strongest near the
center. When the centers pass not far north of a given point, the strong
winds therefore blow from the west or southwest, while when the centers
pass just south of that point, the strong winds come from the east or
northeast.
In addition to the consequences of the crowding of the storm track
toward the trade-wind belt, several other conditions presumably operated
to favor the growth of the ice sheet. For example, the lowering of the
sea level by the removal of water to form the snowfields and glaciers
interfered with warm currents. It also increased the rate of erosion,
for it was equivalent to an uplift of all the land. One consequence of
erosion and weathering was presumably a diminution of the carbon dioxide
in the atmosphere, for although the ice covered perhaps a tenth of the
lands and interfered with carbonation to that extent, the removal of
large quantities of soil by accelerated erosion on the other nine-tenths
perhaps more than counterbalanced the protective effect of the ice. At
the same time, the general lowering of the temperature of the ocean as
well as the lands increased the ocean's capacity for carbon dioxide and
thus facilitated absorption. At a temperature of 50°F. water absorbs 32
per cent more carbon dioxide than at 68°. The high waves produced by the
severe storms must have had a similar effect on a small scale. Thus the
percentage of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere was presumably
diminished. Of less significance than these changes in the lands and the
air, but perhaps not negligible, was the increased salinity of the ocean
which accompanied the removal of water to form snow, and the increase of
the dissolved mineral load of the rejuvenated streams. Increased
salinity slows up the deep-sea circulation, as we shall see in a later
chapter. This increases the contrasts from zone to zone.
At times of great solar activity the agencies mentioned above would
apparently coöperate to cause an advance of ice sheets into lower
latitudes. The degree of solar activity would have much to do with the
final extent of the ice sheets. Nevertheless, certain terrestrial
conditions would tend to set limits beyond which the ice would not
greatly advance unless the storminess were extraordinarily severe. The
most obvious of these conditions is the location of oceans and of
deserts or semi-arid regions. The southwestward advance of the European
ice sheet and the southeastward advance of the Labradorean sheet in
America were stopped by the Atlantic. The semi-aridity of the Great
Plains, produced by their position in the lee of the Rocky Mountains,
stopped the advance of the Keewatin ice sheet toward the southwest. The
advance of the European ice sheet southeast seems to have been stopped
for similar reasons. The cessation of the advance would be brought about
in such an area not alone by the light precipitation and abundant
sunshine, but by the dryness of the air, and also by the power of dust
to absorb the sun's heat. Much dust would presumably be drawn in from
the dry regions by passing cyclonic storms and would be scattered over
the ice.
The advance of the ice is also slowed up by a rugged topography, as
among the Appalachians in northern Pennsylvania. Such a topography
besides opposing a physical obstruction to the movement of the ice
provides bare south-facing slopes which the sun warms effectively. Such
warm slopes are unfavorable to glacial advance. The rugged topography
was perhaps quite as effective as the altitude of the Appalachians in
causing the conspicuous northward dent in the glacial margin in
Pennsylvania. Where glaciers lie in mountain valleys the advance beyond
a certain point is often interfered with by the deployment of the ice at
the mouths of gorges. Evaporation and melting are more rapid where a
glacier is broad and thin than where it is narrow and thick, as in a
gorge. Again, where the topography or the location of oceans or dry
areas causes the glacial lobes to be long and narrow, the elongation of
the lobe is apparently checked in several ways. Toward the end of the
lobe, melting and evaporation increase rapidly because the planetary
westerly winds are more likely to overcome the glacial winds and sweep
across a long, narrow lobe than across a broad one. As they cross the
lobe, they accelerate evaporation, and probably lessen cloudiness, with
a consequent augmentation of melting. Moreover, although lows rarely
cross a broad ice sheet, they do cross a narrow lobe. For example,
Nansen records that strong lows occasionally cross the narrow southern
part of the Greenland ice sheet. The longer the lobe, the more likely it
is that lows will cross it, instead of following its margin. Lows which
cross a lobe do not yield so much snow to the tip as do those which
follow the margin. Hence elongation is retarded and finally stopped even
without a change in the earth's general climate.
Because of these various reasons the advances of the ice during the
several epochs of a glacial period might be approximately equal, even if
the durations of the periods of storminess and low temperature were
different. Indeed, they might be sub-equal, even if the periods differed
in intensity as well as length. Differences in the periods would
apparently be manifested less in the extent of the ice than in the depth
of glacial erosion and in the thickness of the terminal moraines,
outwash plains, and other glacial or glacio-fluvial formations.
Having completed the consideration of the conditions leading to the
advance of the ice, let us now consider the condition of North America
at the time of maximum glaciation.[43] Over an area of nearly four
million square miles, occupying practically all the northern half of the
continent and part of the southern half, as appears in Fig. 6, the
surface was a monotonous and almost level plain of ice covered with
snow. When viewed from a high altitude, all parts except the margins
must have presented a uniformly white and sparkling appearance. Along
the margins, however, except to the north, the whiteness was irregular,
for the view must have included not only fresh snow, but moving clouds
and dirty snow or ice. Along the borders where melting was in progress
there was presumably more or less spottedness due to morainal material
or glacial débris brought to the surface by ice shearage and wastage.
Along the dry southwestern border it is also possible that there were
numerous dark spots due to dust blown onto the ice by the wind.
[Illustration: _Fig. 6. Distribution of Pleistocene ice sheets._
(_After Schuchert._)]
The great white sheet with its ragged border was roughly circular in
form, with its center in central Canada. Yet there were many departures
from a perfectly circular form. Some were due to the oceans, for, except
in northern Alaska, the ice extended into the ocean all the way from New
Jersey around by the north to Washington. On the south, topographic
conditions made the margin depart from a simple arc. From New Jersey to
Ohio it swung northward. In the Mississippi Valley it reached far south;
indeed most of the broad wedge between the Ohio and the Missouri rivers
was occupied by ice. From latitude 37° near the junction of the Missouri
and the Mississippi, however, the ice margin extended almost due north
along the Missouri to central North Dakota. It then stretched westward
to the Rockies. Farther west lowland glaciation was abundant as far
south as western Washington. In the Rockies, the Cascades, and the
Sierra Nevadas glaciation was common as far south as Colorado and
southern California, respectively, and snowfields were doubtless
extensive enough to make these ranges ribbons of white. Between these
lofty ranges lay a great unglaciated region, but even in the Great Basin
itself, in spite of its present aridity, certain ranges carried
glaciers, while great lakes expanded widely.
In this vast field of snow the glacial ice slowly crept outward,
possibly at an average speed of half a foot a day, but varying from
almost nothing in winter at the north, to several feet a day in summer
at the south.[44] The force which caused the movement was the presence
of the ice piled up not far from the margins. Almost certainly, however,
there was no great dome from the center in Canada outward, as some early
writers assumed. Such a dome would require that the ice be many
thousands of feet thick near its center. This is impossible because of
the fact that ice is more voluminous than water (about 9 per cent near
the freezing point). Hence when subjected to sufficient pressure it
changes to the liquid form. As friction and internal heat tend to keep
the bottom of a glacier warm, even in cold regions, the probabilities
are that only under very special conditions was a continental ice sheet
much thicker than about 2500 feet. In Antarctica, where the temperature
is much lower than was probably attained in the United States, the ice
sheet is nearly level, several expeditions having traveled hundreds of
miles with practically no change in altitude. In Shackleton's trip
almost to the South Pole, he encountered a general rise of 3000 feet in
1200 miles. Mountains, however, projected through the ice even near the
pole and the geologists conclude that the ice is not very thick even at
the world's coldest point, the South Pole.
Along the margin of the ice there were two sorts of movement, much more
rapid than the slow creep of the ice. One was produced by the outward
drift of snow carried by the outblowing dry winds and the other and more
important was due to the passage of cyclonic storms. Along the border of
the ice sheet, except at the north, storm presumably closely followed
storm. Their movement, we judge, was relatively slow until near the
southern end of the Mississippi lobe, but when this point was passed
they moved much more rapidly, for then they could go toward instead of
away from the far northern path which the sun prescribes when solar
activity is great. The storms brought much snow to the icefield, perhaps
sometimes in favored places as much as the hundred feet a year which is
recorded for some winters in the Sierras at present. Even the
unglaciated intermontane Great Basin presumably received considerable
precipitation, perhaps twice as much as its present scanty supply. The
rainfall was enough to support many lakes, one of which was ten times as
large as Great Salt Lake; and grass was doubtless abundant upon many
slopes which are now dry and barren. The relatively heavy precipitation
in the Great Basin was probably due primarily to the increased number of
storms, but may also have been much influenced by their slow eastward
movement. The lows presumably moved slowly in that general region not
only because they were retarded and turned from their normal path by the
cold ice to the east, but because during the summer the area between the
Sierra snowfields on the west and the Rocky Mountain and Mississippi
Valley snowfields on the east was relatively warm. Hence it was normally
a place of low pressure and therefore of inblowing winds. Slow-moving
lows are much more effective than fast-moving ones in drawing moisture
northwestward from the Gulf of Mexico, for they give the moisture more
time to move spirally first northeast, under the influence of the normal
southwesterly winds, then northwest and finally southwest as it
approaches the storm center. In the case of the present lows, before
much moisture-laden air can describe such a circuit, first eastward and
then westward, the storm center has nearly always moved eastward across
the Rockies and even across the Great Plains. A result of this is the
regular decrease in precipitation northward, northwestward, and westward
from the Gulf of Mexico.
Along the part of the glacial margins where for more than 3000 miles the
North American ice entered the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans, myriads
of great blocks broke off and floated away as stately icebergs, to
scatter boulders far over the ocean floor and to melt in warmer climes.
Where the margin lay upon the lands numerous streams issued from beneath
the ice, milk-white with rock flour, and built up great outwash plains
and valley trains of gravel and sand. Here and there, just beyond the
ice, marginal lakes of strange shapes occupied valleys which had been
dammed by the advancing ice. In many of them the water level rose until
it reached some low point in the divide and then overflowed, forming
rapids and waterfalls. Indeed, many of the waterfalls of the eastern
United States and Canada were formed in just this way and not a few
streams now occupy courses through ridges instead of parallel to them,
as in pre-glacial times.
In the zone to the south of the continental ice sheet, the plant and
animal life of boreal, cool temperate, and warm temperate regions
commingled curiously. Heather and Arctic willow crowded out elm and oak;
musk ox, hairy mammoth, and marmot contested with deer, chipmunk, and
skunk for a chance to live. Near the ice on slopes exposed to the cold
glacial gales, the immigrant boreal species were dominant, but not far
away in more protected areas the species that had formerly lived there
held their own. In Europe during the last two advances of the great ice
sheet the caveman also struggled with fierce animals and a fiercer
climate to maintain life in an area whose habitability had long been
decreasing.
The next step in our history of glaciation is to outline the
disappearance of the ice sheets. When a decrease in solar activity
produced a corresponding decrease in storminess, several influences
presumably combined to cause the disappearance of the ice. Most of their
results are the reverse of those which brought on glaciation. A few
special aspects, however, some of which have been discussed in _Earth
and Sun_, ought to be brought to mind. A diminution in storminess
lessens upward convection, wind velocity, and evaporation, and these
changes, if they occurred, must have united to raise the temperature of
the lower air by reducing the escape of heat. Again a decrease in the
number and intensity of tropical cyclones presumably lessened the amount
of moisture carried into mid-latitudes, and thus diminished the
precipitation. The diminution of snowfall on the ice sheets when
storminess diminished was probably highly important. The amount of
precipitation on the sheets was presumably lessened still further by
changes in the storminess of middle latitudes. When storminess
diminishes, the lows follow a less definite path, as Kullmer's maps
show, and on the average a more southerly path. Thus, instead of all the
lows contributing snow to the ice sheet, a large fraction of the
relatively few remaining lows would bring rain to areas south of the ice
sheet. As storminess decreased, the trades and westerlies probably
became steadier, and thus carried to high latitudes more warm water than
when often interrupted by storms. Steadier southwesterly winds must have
produced a greater movement of atmospheric as well as oceanic heat to
high latitudes. The warming due to these two causes was probably the
chief reason for the disappearance of the European ice sheet and of
those on the Pacific coast of North America. The two greater American
ice sheets, however, and the glaciers elsewhere in the lee of high
mountain ranges, probably disappeared chiefly because of lessened
precipitation. If there were no cyclonic storms to draw moisture
northward from the Gulf of Mexico, most of North America east of the
Rocky Mountain barrier would be arid. Therefore a diminution of
storminess would be particularly effective in causing the disappearance
of ice sheets in these regions.
That evaporation was an especially important factor in causing the ice
from the Keewatin center to disappear, is suggested by the relatively
small amount of water-sorted material in its drift. In South Dakota, for
example, less than 10 per cent of the drift is stratified.[45] On the
other hand, Salisbury estimates that perhaps a third of the Labradorean
drift in eastern Wisconsin is crudely stratified, about half of that in
New Jersey, and more than half of the drift in western Europe.
When the sun's activity began to diminish, all these conditions, as well
as several others, would coöperate to cause the ice sheets to disappear.
Step by step with their disappearance, the amelioration of the climate
would progress so long as the period of solar inactivity continued and
storms were rare. If the inactivity continued long enough, it would
result in a fairly mild climate in high latitudes, though so long as the
continents were emergent this mildness would not be of the extreme type.
The inauguration of another cycle of increased disturbance of the sun,
with a marked increase in storminess, would inaugurate another glacial
epoch. Thus a succession of glacial and inter-glacial epochs might
continue so long as the sun was repeatedly disturbed.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 38: This chapter is an amplification and revision of the
sketch of the glacial period contained in The Solar Hypothesis of
Climatic Changes; Bull. Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 25, 1914.]
[Footnote 39: R. D. Salisbury: Physical Geography of the Pleistocene, in
Outlines of Geologic History, by Willis, Salisbury, and others, 1910, p.
265.]
[Footnote 40: The Quaternary Ice Age, 1914, p. 364.]
[Footnote B: For fuller discussion of climatic controls see S. S.
Visher: Seventy Laws of Climate, Annals Assoc. Am. Geographers, 1922.]
[Footnote 41: Many of these alterations are implied or discussed in the
following papers:
1. F. W. Harmer: Influence of Winds upon the Climate of the Pleistocene;
Quart. Jour. Geol. Soc., Vol. 57, 1901, p. 405.
2. C. E. P. Brooks: Meteorological Conditions of an Ice Sheet; Quart.
Jour. Royal Meteorol. Soc., Vol. 40, 1914, pp. 53-70, and The Evolution
of Climate in Northwest Europe; _op. cit._, Vol. 47, 1921, pp. 173-194.
3. W. H. Hobbs: The Rôle of the Glacial Anticyclone in the Air
Circulation of the Globe; Proc. Am. Phil. Soc., Vol. 54, 1915, pp.
185-225.]
[Footnote 42: W. B. Wright: The Quaternary Ice Age, 1914, p. 100.]
[Footnote 43: The description of the distribution of the ice sheet is
based on T. C. Chamberlin's wall map of North America at the maximum of
glaciation, 1913.]
[Footnote 44: Chamberlin and Salisbury: Geology, 1906, Vol. 3, and W. H.
Hobbs: Characteristics of Existing Glaciers, 1911.]
[Footnote 45: S. S. Visher: The Geography of South Dakota; S. D. Geol.
Surv., 1918.]
CHAPTER VIII
SOME PROBLEMS OF GLACIAL PERIODS
Having outlined in general terms the coming of the ice sheets and their
disappearance, we are now ready to discuss certain problems of
compelling climatic interest. The discussion will be grouped under five
heads: (I) the localization of glaciation; (II) the sudden coming of
glaciation; (III) peculiar variations in the height of the snow line and
of glaciation; (IV) lakes and other evidences of humidity in unglaciated
regions during the glacial epochs; (V) glaciation at sea level and in
low latitudes in the Permian and Proterozoic eras. The discussion of
perhaps the most difficult of all climatic problems of glaciation, that
of the succession of cold glacial and mild inter-glacial epochs, has
been postponed to the next to the final chapter of this book. It cannot
be properly considered until we take up the history of solar
disturbances.
I. The first problem, the localization of the ice sheets, arises from
the fact that in both the Pleistocene and the Permian periods glaciation
was remarkably limited. In neither period were all parts of high
latitudes glaciated; yet in both cases glaciation occurred in large
regions in lower latitudes. Many explanations of this localization have
been offered, but most are entirely inadequate. Even hypotheses with
something of proven worth, such as those of variations in volcanic dust
and in atmospheric carbon dioxide, fail to account for localization. The
cyclonic form of the solar hypothesis, however, seems to afford a
satisfactory explanation.
The distribution of the ice in the last glacial period is well known,
and is shown in Fig. 6. Four-fifths of the ice-covered area, which was
eight million square miles, more or less, was near the borders of the
North Atlantic in eastern North America and northwestern Europe. The ice
spread out from two great centers in North America, the Labradorean east
of Hudson Bay, and the Keewatin west of the bay. There were also many
glaciers in the western mountains, especially in Canada, while
subordinate centers occurred in Newfoundland, the Adirondacks, and the
White Mountains. The main ice sheet at its maximum extension reached as
far south as latitude 39° in Kansas and Kentucky, and 37° in Illinois.
Huge boulders were transferred more than one thousand miles from their
source in Canada. The northward extension was somewhat less. Indeed, the
northern margin of the continent was apparently relatively little
glaciated and much of Alaska unglaciated. Why should northern Kentucky
be glaciated when northern Alaska was not?
In Europe the chief center from which the continental glacier moved was
the Scandinavian highlands. It pushed across the depression now occupied
by the Baltic to southern Russia and across the North Sea depression to
England and Belgium. The Alps formed a center of considerable
importance, and there were minor centers in Scotland, Ireland, the
Pyrenees, Apennines, Caucasus, and Urals. In Asia numerous ranges also
contained large glaciers, but practically all the glaciation was of the
alpine type and very little of the vast northern lowland was covered
with ice.
In the southern hemisphere glaciation at low latitudes was less striking
than in the northern hemisphere. Most of the increase in the areas of
ice was confined to mountains which today receive heavy precipitation
and still contain small glaciers. Indeed, except for relatively slight
glaciation in the Australian Alps and in Tasmania, most of the
Pleistocene glaciation in the southern hemisphere was merely an
extension of existing glaciers, such as those of south Chile, New
Zealand, and the Andes. Nevertheless, fairly extensive glaciation
existed much nearer the equator than is now the case.
In considering the localization of Pleistocene glaciation, three main
factors must be taken into account, namely, temperature, topography, and
precipitation. The absence of glaciation in large parts of the Arctic
regions of North America and of Asia makes it certain that low
temperature was not the controlling factor. Aside from Antarctica, the
coldest place in the world is northeastern Siberia. There for seven
months the average temperature is below 0°C., while the mean for the
whole year is below -10°C. If the temperature during a glacial period
averaged 6°C. lower than now, as is commonly supposed, this part of
Siberia would have had a temperature below freezing for at least nine
months out of the twelve even if there were no snowfield to keep the
summers cold. Yet even under such conditions no glaciation occurred,
although in other places, such as parts of Canada and northwestern
Europe, intense glaciation occurred where the mean temperature is much
higher.
The topography of the lands apparently had much more influence upon the
localization of glaciation than did temperature. Its effect, however,
was always to cause glaciation exactly where it would be expected and
not in unexpected places as actually occurred. For example, in North
America the western side of the Canadian Rockies suffered intense
glaciation, for there precipitation was heavy because the westerly winds
from the Pacific are forced to give up their moisture as they rise. In
the same way the western side of the Sierra Nevadas was much more
heavily glaciated than the eastern side. In similar fashion the windward
slopes of the Alps, the Caucasus, the Himalayas, and many other mountain
ranges suffered extensive glaciation. Low temperature does not seem to
have been the cause of this glaciation, for in that case it is hard to
see why both sides of the various ranges did not show an equal
percentage of increase in the size of their icefields.
From what has been said as to temperature and topography, it is evident
that variations in precipitation have had much more to do with
glaciation than have variations in temperature. In the Arctic lowlands
and on the leeward side of mountains, the slight development of
glaciation appears to have been due to scarcity of precipitation. On the
windward side of mountains, on the other hand, a notable increase in
precipitation seems to have led to abundant glaciation. Such an increase
in precipitation must be dependent on increased evaporation and this
could arise either from relatively high temperature or strong winds.
Since the temperature in the glacial period was lower than now, we seem
forced to attribute the increased precipitation to a strengthening of
the winds. If the westerly winds from the Pacific should increase in
strength and waft more moisture to the western side of the Canadian
Rockies, or if similar winds increased the snowfall on the upper slopes
of the Alps or the Tian-Shan Mountains, the glaciers would extend lower
than now without any change in temperature.
Although the incompetence of low temperature to cause glaciation, and
the relative unimportance of the mountains in northeastern Canada and
northwestern Europe throw most glacial hypotheses out of court, they are
in harmony with the cyclonic hypothesis. The answer of that hypothesis
to the problem of the localization of ice sheets seems to be found in
certain maps of storminess and rainfall in relation to solar activity.
In Fig. 2 a marked belt of increased storminess at times of many
sunspots is seen in southern Canada. A comparison of this with a series
of maps given in _Earth and Sun_ shows that the stormy belt tends to
migrate northward in harmony with an increase in the activity of the
sun's atmosphere. If the sun were sufficiently active the belt of
maximum storminess would apparently pass through the Keewatin and
Labradorean centers of glaciation instead of well to the south of them,
as at present. It would presumably cross another center in Greenland,
and then would traverse the fourth of the great centers of Pleistocene
glaciation in Scandinavia. It would not succeed in traversing northern
Asia, however, any more than it does now, because of the great
high-pressure area which develops there in winter. When the ice sheets
expanded from the main centers of glaciation, the belt of storms would
be pushed southward and outward. Thus it might give rise to minor
centers of glaciers such as the Patrician between Hudson Bay and Lake
Superior, or the centers in Ireland, Cornwall, Wales, and the northern
Ural Mountains. As the main ice sheets advanced, however, the minor
centers would be overridden and the entire mass of ice would be merged
into one vast expanse in the Atlantic portion of each of the two
continents.
In this connection it may be well to consider briefly the most recent
hypothesis as to the growth and hence the localization of glaciation. In
1911 and more fully in 1915, Hobbs,[46] advanced the anti-cyclonic
hypothesis of the origin of ice sheets. This hypothesis has the great
merit of focusing attention upon the fact that ice sheets are pronounced
anti-cyclonic regions of high pressure. This is proved by the strong
outblowing winds which prevail along their margins. Such winds must, of
course, be balanced by inward-moving winds at high levels. Abundant
observations prove that such is the case. For example, balloons sent up
by Barkow near the margin of the Antarctic ice sheet reveal the
occurrence of inblowing winds, although they rarely occur below a height
of 9000 meters. The abundant data gathered by Guervain on the coast of
Greenland indicate that outblowing winds prevail up to a height of about
4000 meters. At that height inblowing winds commence and increase in
frequency until at an altitude of over 5000 meters they become more
common than outblowing winds. It should be noted, however, that in both
Antarctica and Greenland, although the winds at an elevation of less
than a thousand meters generally blow outward, there are frequent and
decided departures from this rule, so that "variable winds" are quite
commonly mentioned in the reports of expeditions and balloon soundings.
The undoubted anti-cyclonic conditions which Hobbs thus calls to the
attention of scientists seem to him to necessitate a peculiar mechanism
in order to produce the snow which feeds the glaciers. He assumes that
the winds which blow toward the centers of the ice sheets at high levels
carry the necessary moisture by which the glaciers grow. When the air
descends in the centers of the highs, it is supposed to be chilled on
reaching the surface of the ice, and hence to give up its moisture in
the form of minute crystals. This conclusion is doubtful for several
reasons. In the first place, Hobbs does not seem to appreciate the
importance of the variable winds which he quotes Arctic and Antarctic
explorers as describing quite frequently on the edges of the ice sheets.
They are one of many signs that cyclonic storms are fairly frequent on
the borders of the ice though not in its interior. Thus there is a
distinct and sufficient form of precipitation actually at work near the
margin of the ice, or exactly where the thickness of the ice sheet would
lead us to expect.
Another consideration which throws grave doubt on the anti-cyclonic
hypothesis of ice sheets is the small amount of moisture possible in the
highs because of their low temperature. Suppose, for the sake of
argument, that the temperature in the middle of an ice sheet averages
20°F. This is probably much higher than the actual fact and therefore
unduly favorable to the anti-cyclonic hypothesis. Suppose also that the
decrease in temperature from the earth's surface upward proceeds at the
rate of 1°F. for each 300 feet, which is 50 per cent less than the
actual rate for air with only a slight amount of moisture, such as is
found in cold regions. Then at a height of 10,000 feet, where the
inblowing winds begin to be felt, the temperature would be -20°F. At
that temperature the air is able to hold approximately 0.166 grain of
moisture per cubic foot when fully saturated. This is an exceedingly
small amount of moisture and even if it were all precipitated could
scarcely build a glacier. However, it apparently would not be
precipitated because when such air descends in the center of the
anti-cyclone it is warmed adiabatically, that is, by compression. On
reaching the surface it would have a temperature of 20° and would be
able to hold 0.898 grain of water vapor per cubic foot; in other words,
it would have a relative humidity of about 18 per cent. Under no
reasonable assumption does the upper air at the center of an ice sheet
appear to reach the surface with a relative humidity of more than 20 or
25 per cent. Such air cannot give up moisture. On the contrary, it
absorbs it and tends to diminish rather than increase the thickness of
the sheet of ice and snow. But after the surplus heat gained by descent
has been lost by radiation, conduction, and evaporation, the air may
become super-saturated with the moisture picked up while warm. Hobbs
reports that explorers in Antarctica and Greenland have frequently
observed condensation on their clothing. If such moisture is not derived
directly from the men's own bodies, it is apparently picked up from the
ice sheet by the descending air, and not added to the ice sheet by air
from aloft.
The relation of all this to the localization of ice sheets is this. If
Hobbs' anti-cyclonic hypothesis of glacial growth is correct, it would
appear that ice sheets should grow up where the temperature is lowest
and the high-pressure areas most persistent; for instance, in northern
Siberia. It would also appear that so far as the topography permitted,
the ice sheets ought to move out uniformly in all directions; hence the
ice sheet ought to be as prominent to the north of the Keewatin and
Labradorean centers as to the south, which is by no means the case.
Again, in mountainous regions, such as the glacial areas of Alaska and
Chile, the glaciation ought not to be confined to the windward slope of
the mountains so closely as is actually the fact. In each of these cases
the glaciated region was large enough so that there was probably a true
anti-cyclonic area comparable with that now prevailing over southern
Greenland. In both places the correlation between glaciation and
mountain ranges seems much too close to support the anti-cyclonic
hypothesis, for the inblowing winds which on that hypothesis bring the
moisture are shown by observation to occur at heights far greater than
that of all but the loftiest ranges.
II. The sudden coming of glaciation is another problem which has been a
stumbling-block in the way of every glacial hypothesis. In his _Climates
of Geologic Times_, Schuchert states that the fossils give almost no
warning of an approaching catastrophe. If glaciation were solely due to
uplift, or other terrestrial changes aside from vulcanism, Schuchert
holds that it would have come slowly and the stages preceding glaciation
would have affected life sufficiently to be recorded in the rocks. He
considers that the suddenness of the coming of glaciation is one of the
strongest arguments against the carbon dioxide hypothesis of glaciation.
According to the cyclonic hypothesis, however, the suddenness of the
oncoming of glaciation is merely what would be expected on the basis of
what happens today. Changes in the sun occur suddenly. The sunspot cycle
is only eleven or twelve years long, and even this short period of
activity is inaugurated more suddenly than it declines. Again the
climatic record derived from the growth of trees, as given in Figs. 4
and 5, also shows that marked changes in climate are initiated more
rapidly than they disappear. In this connection, however, it must be
remembered that solar activity may arise in various ways, as will appear
more fully later. Under certain conditions storminess may increase and
decrease slowly.
III. The height of the snow line and of glaciation furnishes another
means of testing glacial hypotheses. It is well established that in
times of glaciation the snow line was depressed everywhere, but least
near the equator. For example, according to Penck, permanent snow
extended 4000 feet lower than now in the Alps, whereas it stood only
1500 feet below the present level near the equator in Venezuela. This
unequal depression is not readily accounted for by any hypothesis
depending solely upon the lowering of temperature. By the carbon dioxide
and the volcanic dust hypotheses, the temperature presumably was lowered
almost equally in all latitudes, but a little more at the equator than
elsewhere. If glaciation were due to a temporary lessening of the
radiation received from the sun, such as is demanded by the thermal
solar hypothesis, and by the longer periods of Croll's hypothesis, the
lowering would be distinctly greatest at the equator. Thus, according to
all these hypotheses, the snow line should have been depressed most at
the equator, instead of least.
The cyclonic hypothesis explains the lesser depression of the snow line
at the equator as due to a diminution of precipitation. The
effectiveness of precipitation in this respect is illustrated by the
present great difference in the height of the snow line on the humid and
dry sides of mountains. On the wet eastern side of the Andes near the
equator, the snow line lies at 16,000 feet; on the dry western side, at
18,500 feet. Again, although the humid side of the Himalayas lies toward
the south, the snow line has a level of 15,000 feet, while farther
north, on the dry side, it is 16,700 feet.[47] The fact that the snow
line is lower near the margin of the Alps than toward the center points
in the same direction. The bearing of all this on the glacial period may
be judged by looking again at Fig. 3 in Chapter V. This shows that at
times of sunspot activity and hence of augmented storminess, the
precipitation diminishes near the heat equator, that is, where the
average temperature for the whole year is highest. At present the great
size of the northern continents and their consequent high temperature in
summer, cause the heat equator to lie north of the "real" equator,
except where Australia draws it to the southward.[48] When large parts
of the northern continents were covered with ice, however, the heat
equator and the true equator were probably much closer than now, for the
continents could not become so hot. If so, the diminution in equatorial
precipitation, which accompanies increased storminess throughout the
world as a whole, would take place more nearly along the true equator
than appears in Fig. 3. Hence so far as precipitation alone is
concerned, we should actually expect that the snow line near the equator
would rise a little during glacial periods. Another factor, however,
must be considered. Köppen's data, it will be remembered, show that at
times of solar activity the earth's temperature falls more at the
equator than in higher latitudes. If this effect were magnified it would
lower the snow line. The actual position of the snow line at the equator
during glacial periods thus appears to be the combined effect of
diminished precipitation, which would raise the line, and of lower
temperature, which would bring it down.
Before leaving this subject it may be well to recall that the relative
lessening of precipitation in equatorial latitudes during the glacial
epochs was probably caused by the diversion of moisture from the
trade-wind belt. This diversion was presumably due to the great number
of tropical cyclones and to the fact that the cyclonic storms of middle
latitudes also drew much moisture from the trade-wind belt in summer
when the northern position of the sun drew that belt near the storm
track which was forced to remain south of the ice sheet. Such diversion
of moisture out of the trade-wind belt must diminish the amount of water
vapor that is carried by the trades to equatorial regions; hence it
would lessen precipitation in the belt of so-called equatorial calms,
which lies along the heat equator rather than along the geographical
equator.
Another phase of the vertical distribution of glaciation has been the
subject of considerable discussion. In the Alps and in many other
mountains the glaciation of the Pleistocene period appears to have had
its upper limit no higher than today. This has been variously
interpreted. It seems, however, to be adequately explained as due to
decreased precipitation at high altitudes during the cold periods. This
is in spite of the fact that precipitation in general increased with
increased storminess. The low temperature of glacial times presumably
induced condensation at lower altitudes than now, and most of the
precipitation occurred upon the lower slopes of the mountains,
contributing to the lower glaciers, while little of it fell upon the
highest glaciers. Above a moderate altitude in all lofty mountains the
decrease in the amount of precipitation is rapid. In most cases the
decrease begins at a height of less than 3000 feet above the base of the
main slope, provided the slope is steep. The colder the air, the lower
the altitude at which this occurs. For example, it is much lower in
winter than in summer. Indeed, the higher altitudes in the Alps are
sunny in winter even where there are abundant clouds lower down.
IV. The presence of extensive lakes and other evidences of a pluvial
climate during glacial periods in non-glaciated regions which are
normally dry is another of the facts which most glacial hypotheses fail
to explain satisfactorily. Beyond the ice sheets many regions appear to
have enjoyed an unusually heavy precipitation during the glacial epochs.
The evidence of this is abundant, including numerous abandoned strand
lines of salt lakes and an abundance of coarse material in deltas and
flood plains. J. D. Whitney,[49] in an interesting but neglected volume,
was one of the first to marshal the evidence of this sort. More recently
Free[50] has amplified this. According to him in the Great Basin region
of the United States sixty-two basins either contain unmistakable
evidence of lakes, or belong to one of the three great lake groups named
below. Two of these, the Lake Lahontan and the Lake Bonneville groups,
comprise twenty-nine present basins, while the third, the Owens-Searles
chain, contained at least five large lakes, the lowest being in Death
Valley. In western and central Asia a far greater series of salt lakes
is found and most of these are surrounded by strands at high levels.
Many of these are described in _Explorations in Turkestan_, _The Pulse
of Asia_, and _Palestine and Its Transformation_. There has been a good
deal of debate as to whether these lakes actually date from the glacial
period, as is claimed by C. E. P. Brooks, for example, or from some
other period. The evidence, however, seems to be convincing that the
lakes expanded when the ice also expanded.
According to the older glacial hypotheses the lower temperature which is
postulated as the cause of glaciation would almost certainly mean less
evaporation over the oceans and hence less precipitation during glacial
periods. To counteract this the only way in which the level of the lakes
could be raised would be because the lower temperature would cause less
evaporation from their surfaces. It seems quite impossible, however,
that the lowering of temperature, which is commonly taken to have been
not more than 10°C., could counteract the lessened precipitation and
also cause an enormous expansion of most of the lakes. For example,
ancient Lake Bonneville was more than ten times as large as its modern
remnant, Great Salt Lake, and its average depth more than forty times as
great.[51] Many small lakes in the Old World expanded still more.[52]
For example, in eastern Persia many basins which now contain no lake
whatever are floored with vast deposits of lacustrine salt and are
surrounded by old lake bluffs and beaches. In northern Africa similar
conditions prevail.[53] Other, but less obvious, evidence of more
abundant rainfall in regions that are now dry is found in thick strata
of gravel, sand, and fine silt in the alluvial deposits of flood plains
and deltas.[54]
The cyclonic hypothesis supposes that increased storminess accounts for
pluvial climates in regions that are now dry just as it accounts for
glaciation in the regions of the ice sheets. Figs. 2 and 3, it will be
remembered, illustrate what happens when the sun is active. Solar
activity is accompanied by an increase in storminess in the southwestern
United States in exactly the region where elevated strands of diminished
salt lakes are most numerous. In Fig. 3, the same condition is seen in
the region of salt lakes in the Old World. Judging by these maps, which
illustrate what has happened since careful meteorological records were
kept, an increase in solar activity is accompanied by increased rainfall
in large parts of what are now semi-arid and desert regions. Such
precipitation would at once cause the level of the lakes to rise. Later,
when ice sheets had developed in Europe and America, the high-pressure
areas thus caused might force the main storm belt so far south that it
would lie over these same arid regions. The increase in tropical
hurricanes at times of abundant sunspots may also have a bearing on the
climate of regions that are now arid. During the glacial period some of
the hurricanes probably swept far over the lands. The numerous tropical
cyclones of Australia, for example, are the chief source of
precipitation for that continent.[55] Some of the stronger cyclones
locally yield more rain in a day or two than other sources yield in a
year.
V. The occurrence of widespread glaciation near the tropics during the
Permian, as shown in Fig. 7, has given rise to much discussion. The
recent discovery of glaciation in latitudes as low as 30° in the
Proterozoic is correspondingly significant. In all cases the occurrence
of glaciation in low and middle latitudes is probably due to the same
general causes. Doubtless the position and altitude of the mountains had
something to do with the matter. Yet taken by itself this seems
insufficient. Today the loftiest range in the world, the Himalayas, is
almost unglaciated, although its southern slope may seem at first
thought to be almost ideally located in this respect. Some parts rise
over 20,000 feet and certain lower slopes receive 400 inches of rain per
year. The small size of the Himalayan glaciers in spite of these
favorable conditions is apparently due largely to the seasonal character
of the monsoon winds. The strong outblowing monsoons of winter cause
about half the year to be very dry with clear skies and dry winds from
the interior of Asia. In all low latitudes the sun rides high in the
heavens at midday, even in winter, and thus melts snow fairly
effectively in clear weather. This is highly unfavorable to glaciation.
The inblowing southern monsoons bring all their moisture in midsummer at
just the time when it is least effective in producing snow. Conditions
similar to those now prevailing in the Himalayas must accompany any
great uplift of the lands which produces high mountains and large
continents in subtropical and middle latitudes. Hence, uplift alone
cannot account for extensive glaciation in subtropical latitudes during
the Permian and Proterozoic.
[Illustration: _Fig. 7. Permian geography and glaciation._
(_After Schuchert._)]
The assumption of a great general lowering of temperature is also not
adequate to explain glaciation in subtropical latitudes. In the first
place this would require a lowering of many degrees,--far more than in
the Pleistocene glacial period. The marine fossils of the Permian,
however, do not indicate any such condition. In the second place, if the
lands were widespread as they appear to have been in the Permian, a
general lowering of temperature would diminish rather than increase the
present slight efficiency of the monsoons in producing glaciation.
Monsoons depend upon the difference between the temperatures of land and
water. If the general temperature were lowered, the reduction would be
much less pronounced on the oceans than on the lands, for water tends to
preserve a uniform temperature, not only because of its mobility, but
because of the large amount of heat given out when freezing takes place,
or consumed in evaporation. Hence the general lowering of temperature
would make the contrast between continents and oceans less than at
present in summer, for the land temperature would be brought toward that
of the ocean. This would diminish the strength of the inblowing summer
monsoons and thus cut off part of the supply of moisture. Evidence that
this actually happened in the cold fourteenth century has already been
given in Chapter VI. On the other hand, in winter the lands would be
much colder than now and the oceans only a little colder, so that the
dry outblowing monsoons of the cold season would increase in strength
and would also last longer than at present. In addition to all this, the
mere fact of low temperature would mean a general reduction in the
amount of water vapor in the air. Thus, from almost every point of view
a mere lowering of temperature seems to be ruled out as a cause of
Permian glaciation. Moreover, if the Permian or Proterozoic glacial
periods were so cold that the lands above latitude 30° were snow-covered
most of the time, the normal surface winds in subtropical latitudes
would be largely equatorward, just as the winter monsoons now are. Hence
little or no moisture would be available to feed the snowfields which
give rise to the glaciers.
It has been assumed by Marsden Manson and others that increased general
cloudiness would account for the subtropical glaciation of the Permian
and Proterozoic. Granting for the moment that there could be universal
persistent cloudiness, this would not prevent or counteract the
outblowing anti-cyclonic winds so characteristic of great snowfields.
Therefore, under the hypothesis of general cloudiness there would be no
supply of moisture to cause glaciation in low latitudes. Indeed,
persistent cloudiness in all higher latitudes would apparently deprive
the Himalayas of most of their present moisture, for the interior of
Asia would not become hot in summer and no inblowing monsoons would
develop. In fact, winds of all kinds would seemingly be scarce, for they
arise almost wholly from contrasts of temperature and hence of
atmospheric pressure. The only way to get winds and hence precipitation
would be to invoke some other agency, such as cyclonic storms, but that
would be a departure from the supposition that glaciation arose from
cloudiness.
Let us now inquire how the cyclonic hypothesis accounts for glaciation
in low latitudes. We will first consider the terrestrial conditions in
the early Permian, the last period of glaciation in such latitudes.
Geologists are almost universally agreed that the lands were
exceptionally extensive and also high, especially in low latitudes. One
evidence of this is the presence of abundant conglomerates composed of
great boulders. It is also probable that the carbon dioxide in the air
during the early Permian had been reduced to a minimum by the
extraordinary amount of coal formed during the preceding period. This
would tend to produce low temperature and thus make the conditions
favorable for glaciation as soon as an accentuation of solar activity
caused unusual storminess. If the storminess became extreme when
terrestrial conditions were thus universally favorable to glaciation, it
would presumably produce glaciation in low latitudes. Numerous and
intense tropical cyclones would carry a vast amount of moisture out of
the tropics, just as now happens when the sun is active, but on a far
larger scale. The moisture would be precipitated on the equatorward
slopes of the subtropical mountain ranges. At high elevations this
precipitation would be in the form of snow even in summer. Tropical
cyclones, however, as is shown in _Earth and Sun_, occur in the autumn
and winter as well as in summer. For example, in the Bay of Bengal the
number recorded in October is fifty, the largest for any month; while in
November it is thirty-four, and December fourteen as compared with an
average of forty-two for the months of July to September. From January
to March, when sunspot numbers averaged more than forty, the number of
tropical hurricanes was 143 per cent greater than when the sunspot
numbers averaged below forty. During the months from April to June,
which also would be times of considerable snowy precipitation, tropical
hurricanes averaged 58 per cent more numerous with sunspot numbers above
forty than with numbers below forty, while from July to September the
difference amounted to 23 per cent. Even at this season some snow falls
on the higher slopes, while the increased cloudiness due to numerous
storms also tends to preserve the snow. Thus a great increase in the
frequency of sunspots is accompanied by increased intensity of tropical
hurricanes, especially in the cooler autumn and spring months, and
results not only in a greater accumulation of snow but in a decrease in
the melting of the snow because of more abundant clouds. At such times
as the Permian, the general low temperature due to rapid convection and
to the scarcity of carbon dioxide presumably joined with the extension
of the lands in producing great high-pressure areas over the lands in
middle latitudes during the winters, and thus caused the more northern,
or mid-latitude type of cyclonic storms to be shifted to the equatorward
side of the continents at that season. This would cause an increase of
precipitation in winter as well as during the months when tropical
hurricanes abound. Many other circumstances would coöperate to produce a
similar result. For example, the general low temperature would cause the
sea to be covered with ice in lower latitudes than now, and would help
to create high-pressure areas in middle latitudes, thus driving the
storms far south. If the sea water were fresher than now, as it probably
was to a notable extent in the Proterozoic and perhaps to some slight
extent in the Permian, the higher freezing point would also further the
extension of the ice and help to keep the storms away from high
latitudes. If to this there is added a distribution of land and sea such
that the volume of the warm ocean currents flowing from low to high
latitudes was diminished, as appears to have been the case, there seems
to be no difficulty in explaining the subtropical location of the main
glaciation in both the Permian and the Proterozoic. An increase of
storminess seems to be the key to the whole situation.
One other possibility may be mentioned, although little stress should be
laid on it. In _Earth and Sun_ it has been shown that the main storm
track in both the northern and southern hemispheres is not concentric
with the geographical poles. Both tracks are roughly concentric with the
corresponding magnetic poles, a fact which may be important in
connection with the hypothesis of an electrical effect of the sun upon
terrestrial storminess. The magnetic poles are known to wander
considerably. Such wandering gives rise to variations in the direction
of the magnetic needle from year to year. In 1815 the compass in England
pointed 24-1/2° W. of N. and in 1906 17° 45' W. Such a variation seems
to mean a change of many miles in the location of the north magnetic
pole. Certain changes in the daily march of electromagnetic phenomena
over the oceans have led Bauer and his associates to suggest that the
magnetic poles may even be subject to a slight daily movement in
response to the changes in the relative positions of the earth and sun.
Thus there seems to be a possibility that a pronounced change in the
location of the magnetic pole in Permian times, for example, may have
had some connection with a shifting in the location of the belt of
storms. It must be clearly understood that there is as yet no evidence
of any such change, and the matter is introduced merely to call
attention to a possible line of investigation.
Any hypothesis of Permian and Proterozoic glaciation must explain not
only the glaciation of low latitudes but the lack of glaciation and the
accumulation of red desert beds in high latitudes. The facts already
presented seem to explain this. Glaciation could not occur extensively
in high latitudes partly because during most of the year the air was too
cold to hold much moisture, but still more because the winds for the
most part must have blown outward from the cold northern areas and the
cyclonic storm belt was pushed out of high latitudes. Because of these
conditions precipitation was apparently limited to a relatively small
number of storms during the summer. Hence great desert areas must have
prevailed at high latitudes. Great aridity now prevails north of the
Himalayas and related ranges, and red beds are accumulating in the
centers of the great deserts, such as those of the Tarim Basin and the
Transcaspian. The redness is not due to the original character of the
rock, but to intense oxidation, as appears from the fact that along the
edges of the desert and wherever occasional floods carry sediment far
out into the midst of the sand, the material has the ordinary brownish
shades. As soon as one goes out into the places where the sand has been
exposed to the air for a long time, however, it becomes pink, and then
red. Such conditions may have given rise to the high degree of oxidation
in the famous Permian red beds. If the air of the early Permian
contained an unusual percentage of oxygen because of the release of that
gas by the great plant beds which formed coal in the preceding era, as
Chamberlin has thought probable, the tendency to produce red beds would
be still further increased.
It must not be supposed, however, that these conditions would absolutely
limit glaciation to subtropical latitudes. The presence of early Permian
glaciation in North America at Boston and in Alaska and in the Falkland
Islands of the South Atlantic Ocean proves that at least locally there
was sufficient moisture to form glaciers near the coast in relatively
high latitudes. The possibility of this would depend entirely upon the
form of the lands and the consequent course of ocean currents. Even in
those high latitudes cyclonic storms would occur unless they were kept
out by conditions of pressure such as have been described above.
The marine faunas of Permian age in high latitudes have been interpreted
as indicating mild oceanic temperatures. This is a point which requires
further investigation. Warm oceans during times of slight solar activity
are a necessary consequence of the cyclonic hypothesis, as will appear
later. The present cold oceans seem to be the expectable result of the
Pleistocene glaciation and of the present relatively disturbed condition
of the sun. If a sudden disturbance threw the solar atmosphere into
violent commotion within a few thousand years during Permian times,
glaciation might occur as described above, while the oceans were still
warm. In fact their warmth would increase evaporation while the violent
cyclonic storms and high winds would cause heavy rain and keep the air
cool by constantly raising it to high levels where it would rapidly
radiate its heat into space.
Nevertheless it is not yet possible to determine how warm the oceans
were at the actual time of the Permian glaciation. Some faunas formerly
reported as Permian are now known to be considerably older. Moreover,
others of undoubted Permian age are probably not strictly
contemporaneous with the glaciation. So far back in the geological
record it is very doubtful whether we can date fossils within the limits
of say 100,000 years. Yet a difference of 100,000 years would be more
than enough to allow the fossils to have lived either before or after
the glaciation, or in an inter-glacial epoch. One such epoch is known to
have occurred and nine others are suggested by the inter-stratification
of glacial till and marine sediments in eastern Australia. The warm
currents which would flow poleward in inter-glacial epochs must have
favored a prompt reintroduction of marine faunas driven out during times
of glaciation. Taken all and all, the Permian glaciation seems to be
accounted for by the cyclonic hypothesis quite as well as does the
Pleistocene. In both these cases, as well as in the various pulsations
of historic times, it seems to be necessary merely to magnify what is
happening today in order to reproduce the conditions which prevailed in
the past. If the conditions which now prevail at times of sunspot minima
were magnified, they would give the mild conditions of inter-glacial
epochs and similar periods. If the conditions which now prevail at times
of sunspot maxima are magnified a little they seem to produce periods of
climatic stress such as those of the fourteenth century. If they are
magnified still more the result is apparently glacial epochs like those
of the Pleistocene, and if they are magnified to a still greater extent,
the result is Permian or Proterozoic glaciation. Other factors must
indeed be favorable, for climatic changes are highly complex and are
unquestionably due to a combination of circumstances. The point which is
chiefly emphasized in this book is that among those several
circumstances, changes in cyclonic storms due apparently to activity of
the sun's atmosphere must always be reckoned.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 46: W. H. Hobbs: Characteristics of Existing Glaciers, 1911.
The Rôle of the Glacial Anticyclones in the Air Circulation of the
Globe; Proc. Am. Phil. Soc., Vol. 54, 1915, pp. 185-225.]
[Footnote 47: R. D. Salisbury: Physiography, 1919.]
[Footnote 48: Griffith Taylor: Australian Meteorology, 1920, p. 283.]
[Footnote 49: J. D. Whitney: Climatic Changes of the Later Geological
Times, 1882.]
[Footnote 50: E. E. Free: U. S. Dept. of Agriculture, Bull. 54, 1914.
Mr. Free has prepared a summary of this Bulletin which appears in The
Solar Hypothesis, Bull. Geol. Sec. of Am., Vol. 25, pp. 559-562.]
[Footnote 51: G. K. Gilbert: Lake Bonneville; Monograph 1, U. S. Geol.
Surv.]
[Footnote 52: C. E. P. Brooks: Quart. Jour. Royal Meteorol. Soc., 1914,
pp. 63-66.]
[Footnote 53: H. J. L. Beadnell: A. Egyptian Oasis, London, 1909.
Ellsworth Huntington: The Libyan Oasis of Kharga; Bull. Am. Geog. Soc.,
Vol. 42, Sept., 1910, pp. 641-661.]
[Footnote 54: S. S. Visher: The Bajada of the Tucson Bolson of Southern
Arizona; Science, N. S., Mar. 23, 1913.
Ellsworth Huntington: The Basins of Eastern Persia and Seistan, in
Explorations in Turkestan.]
[Footnote 55: Griffith Taylor: Australian Meteorology, 1920, p. 189.]
CHAPTER IX
THE ORIGIN OF LOESS
One of the most remarkable formations associated with glacial deposits
consists of vast sheets of the fine-grained, yellowish, wind-blown
material called loess. Somewhat peculiar climatic conditions evidently
prevailed when it was formed. At present similar deposits are being laid
down only near the leeward margin of great deserts. The famous loess
deposits of China in the lee of the Desert of Gobi are examples. During
the Pleistocene period, however, loess accumulated in a broad zone along
the margin of the ice sheet at its maximum extent. In the Old World it
extended from France across Germany and through the Black Earth region
of Russia into Siberia. In the New World a still larger area is
loess-covered. In the Mississippi Valley, tens of thousands of square
miles are mantled by a layer exceeding twenty feet in thickness and in
many places approaching a hundred feet. Neither the North American nor
the European deposits are associated with a desert. Indeed, loess is
lacking in the western and drier parts of the great plains and is best
developed in the well-watered states of Iowa, Illinois, and Missouri.
Part of the loess overlies the non-glacial materials of the great
central plain, but the northern portions overlie the drift deposits of
the first three glaciations. A few traces of loess are associated with
the Kansan and Illinoian, the second and third glaciations, but most of
the America loess appears to have been formed at approximately the time
of the Iowan or fourth glaciation, while only a little overlies the
drift sheets of the Wisconsin age. The loess is thickest near the margin
of the Iowan till sheet and thins progressively both north and south.
The thinning southward is abrupt along the stream divides, but very
gradual along the larger valleys. Indeed, loess is abundant along the
bluffs of the Mississippi, especially the east bluff, almost to the Gulf
of Mexico.[56]
It is now generally agreed that all typical loess is wind blown. There
is still much question, however, as to its time of origin, and thus
indirectly as to its climatic implications. Several American and
European students have thought that the loess dates from inter-glacial
times. On the other hand, Penck has concluded that the loess was formed
shortly before the commencement of the glacial epochs; while many
American geologists hold that the loess accumulated while the ice sheets
were at approximately their maximum size. W. J. McGee, Chamberlin and
Salisbury, Keyes, and others lean toward this view. In this chapter the
hypothesis is advanced that it was formed at the one other possible
time, namely, immediately following the retreat of the ice.
These four hypotheses as to the time of origin of loess imply the
following differences in its climatic relations. If loess was formed
during typical inter-glacial epochs, or toward the close of such epochs,
profound general aridity must seemingly have prevailed in order to kill
off the vegetation and thus enable the wind to pick up sufficient dust.
If the loess was formed during times of extreme glaciation when the
glaciers were supplying large quantities of fine material to outflowing
streams, less aridity would be required, but there must have been sharp
contrasts between wet seasons in summer when the snow was melting and
dry seasons in winter when the storms were forced far south by the
glacial high pressure. Alternate floods and droughts would thus affect
broad areas along the streams. Hence arises the hypothesis that the wind
obtained the loess from the flood plains of streams at times of maximum
glaciation. If the loess was formed during the rapid retreat of the ice,
alternate summer floods and winter droughts would still prevail, but
much material could also be obtained by the winds not only from flood
plains, but also from the deposits exposed by the melting of the ice and
not yet covered by vegetation.
The evidence for and against the several hypotheses may be stated
briefly. In support of the hypothesis of the inter-glacial origin of
loess, Shimek and others state that the glacial drift which lies beneath
the loess commonly gives evidence that some time elapsed between the
disappearance of the ice and the deposition of the loess. For example,
abundant shells of land snails in the loess are not of the sort now
found in colder regions, but resemble those found in the drier regions.
It is probable that if they represented a glacial epoch they would be
depauperated by the cold as are the snails of far northern regions. The
gravel pavement discussed below seems to be strong evidence of erosion
between the retreat of the ice and the deposition of the loess.
Turning to the second hypothesis, namely, that the loess accumulated
near the close of the inter-glacial epoch rather than in the midst of
it, we may follow Penck. The mammalian fossils seem to him to prove that
the loess was formed while boreal animals occupied the region, for they
include remains of the hairy mammoth, woolly rhinoceros, and reindeer.
On the other hand, the typical inter-glacial beds not far away yield
remains of species characteristic of milder climates, such as the
elephant, the smaller rhinoceros, and the deer. In connection with these
facts it should be noted that occasional remains of tundra vegetation
and of trees are found beneath the loess, while in the loess itself
certain steppe animals, such as the common gopher or spermaphyl, are
found. Penck interprets this as indicating a progressive desiccation
culminating just before the oncoming of the next ice sheet.
The evidence advanced in favor of the hypothesis that the loess was
formed when glaciation was near its maximum includes the fact that if
the loess does not represent the outwash from the Iowan ice, there is
little else that does, and presumably there must have been outwash. Also
the distribution of loess along the margins of streams suggests that
much of the material came from the flood plains of overloaded streams
flowing from the melting ice.
Although there are some points in favor of the hypothesis that the loess
originated (1) in strictly inter-glacial times, (2) at the end of
inter-glacial epochs, and (3) at times of full glaciation, each
hypothesis is much weakened by evidence that supports the others. The
evidence of boreal animals seems to disprove the hypothesis that the
loess was formed in the middle of a mild inter-glacial epoch. On the
other hand, Penck's hypothesis as to loess at the end of inter-glacial
times fails to account for certain characteristics of the lowest part of
the loess deposits and of the underlying topography. Instead of normal
valleys and consequent prompt drainage such as ought to have developed
before the end of a long inter-glacial epoch, the surface on which the
loess lies shows many undrained depressions. Some of these can be seen
in exposed banks, while many more are inferred from the presence of
shells of pond snails here and there in the overlying loess. The pond
snails presumably lived in shallow pools occupying depressions in the
uneven surface left by the ice. Another reason for questioning whether
the loess was formed at the end of an inter-glacial epoch is that this
hypothesis does not provide a reasonable origin for the material which
composes the loess. Near the Alps where the loess deposits are small and
where glaciers probably persisted in the inter-glacial epochs and thus
supplied flood plain material in large quantities, this does not appear
important. In the broad upper Mississippi Basin, however, and also in
the Black Earth region of Russia there seems to be no way to get the
large body of material composing the loess except by assuming the
existence of great deserts to windward. But there seems to be little or
no evidence of such deserts where they could be effective. The
mineralogical character of the loess of Iowan age proves that the
material came from granitic rocks, such as formed a large part of the
drift. The nearest extensive outcrops of granite are in the southwestern
part of the United States, nearly a thousand miles from Iowa and
Illinois. But the loess is thickest near the ice margin and thins toward
the southwest and in other directions, whereas if its source were the
southwestern desert, its maximum thickness would probably be near the
margin of the desert.
The evidence cited above seems inconsistent not only with the hypothesis
that the loess was formed at the end of an inter-glacial epoch, but also
with the idea that it originated at times of maximum glaciation either
from river-borne sediments or from any other source. A further and more
convincing reason for this last conclusion is the probability and almost
the certainty that when the ice advanced, its front lay close to areas
where the vegetation was not much thinner than that which today prevails
under similar climatic conditions. If the average temperature of glacial
maxima was only 6°C. lower than that of today, the conditions just
beyond the ice front when it was in the loess region from southern
Illinois to Minnesota would have been like those now prevailing in
Canada from New Brunswick to Winnipeg. The vegetation there is quite
different from the grassy, semi-arid vegetation of which evidence is
found in the loess. The roots and stalks of such grassy vegetation are
generally agreed to have helped produce the columnar structure which
enables the loess to stand with almost vertical surfaces.
We are now ready to consider the probability that loess accumulated
mainly during the retreat of the ice. Such a retreat exposed a zone of
drift to the outflowing glacial winds. Most glacial hypotheses, such as
that of uplift, or depleted carbon dioxide, call for a gradual retreat
of the ice scarcely faster than the vegetation could advance into the
abandoned area. Under the solar-cyclonic hypothesis, on the other hand,
the climatic changes may have been sudden and hence the retreat of the
ice may have been much more rapid than the advance of vegetation. Now
wind-blown materials are derived from places where vegetation is scanty.
Scanty vegetation on good soil, it is true, is usually due to aridity,
but may also result because the time since the soil was exposed to the
air has not been long enough for the soil to be sufficiently weathered
to support vegetation. Even when weathering has had full opportunity, as
when sand bars, mud flats, and flood plains are exposed, vegetation
takes root only slowly. Moreover, storms and violent winds may prevent
the spread of vegetation, as is seen on sandy beaches even in distinctly
humid regions like New Jersey and Denmark. Thus it appears that unless
the retreat of the ice were as slow as the advance of vegetation, a
barren area of more or less width must have bordered the retreating ice
and formed an ideal source of loess.
Several other lines of evidence seemingly support the conclusion that
the loess was formed during the retreat of the ice. For example, Shimek,
who has made almost a lifelong study of the Iowan loess, emphasizes the
fact that there is often an accumulation of stones and pebbles at its
base. This suggests that the underlying till was eroded before the loess
was deposited upon it. The first reaction of most students is to assume
that of course this was due to running water. That is possible in many
cases, but by no means in all. So widespread a sheet of gravel could not
be deposited by streams without destroying the irregular basins and
hollows of which we have seen evidence where the loess lies on glacial
deposits. On the other hand, the wind is competent to produce a similar
gravel pavement without disturbing the old topography. "Desert
pavements" are a notable feature in most deserts. On the edges of an ice
sheet, as Hobbs has made us realize, the commonest winds are outward.
They often attain a velocity of eighty miles an hour in Antarctica and
Greenland. Such winds, however, usually decline rapidly in velocity only
a few score miles from the ice. Thus their effect would be to produce
rapid erosion of the freshly bared surface near the retreating ice. The
pebbles would be left behind as a pavement, while sand and then loess
would be deposited farther from the ice where the winds were weaker and
where vegetation was beginning to take root. Such a decrease in wind
velocity may explain the occasional vertical gradation from gravel
through sand to coarse loess and then to normal fine loess. As the ice
sheet retreated the wind in any given place would gradually become less
violent. As the ice continued to retreat the area where loess was
deposited would follow at a distance, and thus each part of the gravel
pavement would in turn be covered with the loess.
The hypothesis that loess is deposited while the ice is retreating is in
accord with many other lines of evidence. For example, it accords with
the boreal character of the mammal remains as described above. Again,
the advance of vegetation into the barren zone along the front of the
ice would be delayed by the strong outblowing winds. The common pioneer
plants depend largely on the wind for the distribution of their seeds,
but the glacial winds would carry them away from the ice rather than
toward it. The glacial winds discourage the advance of vegetation in
another way, for they are drying winds, as are almost all winds blowing
from a colder to a warmer region. The fact that remains of trees
sometimes occur at the bottom of the loess probably means that the
deposition of loess extended into the forests which almost certainly
persisted not far from the ice. This seems more likely than that a
period of severe aridity before the advance of the ice killed the trees
and made a steppe or desert. Penck's chief argument in favor of the
formation of loess before the advance of the ice rather than after, is
that since loess is lacking upon the youngest drift sheet in Europe it
must have been formed before rather than after the last or Würm advance
of the ice. This breaks down on two counts. First, on the corresponding
(Wisconsin) drift sheet in America, loess is present,--in small
quantities to be sure, but unmistakably present. Second, there is no
reason to assume that conditions were identical at each advance and
retreat of the ice. Indeed, the fact that in Europe, as in the United
States, nearly all the loess was formed at one time, and only a little
is associated with the other ice advances, points clearly against
Penck's fundamental assumption that the accumulation of loess was due to
the approach of a cold climate.
Having seen that the loess was probably formed during the retreat of the
ice, we are now ready to inquire what conditions the cyclonic hypothesis
would postulate in the loess areas during the various stages of a
glacial cycle. Fig. 2, in Chapter IV, gives the best idea of what would
apparently happen in North America, and events in Europe would
presumably be similar. During the nine maximum years on which Fig. 2 is
based the sunspot numbers averaged seventy, while during the nine
minimum years they averaged less than five. It seems fair to suppose
that the maximum years represent the average conditions which prevailed
in the past at times when the sun was in a median stage between the full
activity which led to glaciation and the mild activity of the minimum
years which appear to represent inter-glacial conditions. This would
mean that when a glacial period was approaching, but before an ice sheet
had accumulated to any great extent, a crescent-shaped strip from
Montana through Illinois to Maine would suffer a diminution in
storminess ranging up to 60 per cent as compared with inter-glacial
conditions. This is in strong contrast with an increase in storminess
amounting to 75 or even 100 per cent both in the boreal storm belt in
Canada and in the subtropical belt in the Southwest. Such a decrease in
storminess in the central United States would apparently be most
noticeable in summer, as is shown in _Earth and Sun_. Hence it would
have a maximum effect in producing aridity. This would favor the
formation of loess, but it is doubtful whether the aridity would become
extreme enough to explain such vast deposits as are found throughout
large parts of the Mississippi Basin. That would demand that hundreds of
thousands of square miles should become almost absolute desert, and it
is not probable that any such thing occurred. Nevertheless, according to
the cyclonic hypothesis the period immediately before the advent of the
ice would be relatively dry in the central United States, and to that
extent favorable to the work of the wind.
As the climatic conditions became more severe and the ice sheet
expanded, the dryness and lack of storms would apparently diminish. The
reason, as has been explained, would be the gradual pushing of the
storms southward by the high-pressure area which would develop over the
ice sheet. Thus at the height of a glacial epoch there would apparently
be great storminess in the area where the loess is found, especially in
summer. Hence the cyclonic hypothesis does not accord with the idea of
great deposition of loess at the time of maximum glaciation.
Finally we come to the time when the ice was retreating. We have already
seen that not only the river flood plains, but also vast areas of fresh
glacial deposits would be exposed to the winds, and would remain without
vegetation for a long time. At that very time the retreat of the ice
sheet would tend to permit the storms to follow paths determined by the
degree of solar activity, in place of the far southerly paths to which
the high atmospheric pressure over the expanded ice sheet had previously
forced them. In other words, the conditions shown in Fig. 2 would tend
to reappear when the sun's activity was diminishing and the ice sheet
was retreating, just as they had appeared when the sun was becoming more
active and the ice sheet was advancing. This time, however, the
semi-arid conditions arising from the scarcity of storms would prevail
in a region of glacial deposits and widely spreading river deposits, few
or none of which would be covered with vegetation. The conditions would
be almost ideal for eolian erosion and for the transportation of loess
by the wind to areas a little more remote from the ice where grassy
vegetation had made a start.
The cyclonic hypothesis also seems to offer a satisfactory explanation
of variations in the amount of loess associated with the several glacial
epochs. It attributes these to differences in the rate of disappearance
of the ice, which in turn varied with the rate of decline of solar
activity and storminess. This is supposed to be the reason why the Iowan
loess deposits are much more extensive than those of the other epochs,
for the Iowan ice sheet presumably accomplished part of its retreat much
more suddenly than the other ice sheets.[57] The more sudden the
retreat, the greater the barren area where the winds could gather fine
bits of dust. Temporary readvances may also have been so distributed and
of such intensity that they frequently accentuated the condition shown
in Fig. 2, thus making the central United States dry soon after the
exposure of great amounts of glacial débris. The closeness with which
the cyclonic hypothesis accords with the facts as to the loess is one of
the pleasant surprises of the hypothesis. The first draft of Fig. 2 and
the first outlines of the hypothesis were framed without thought of the
loess. Yet so far as can now be seen, both agree closely with the
conditions of loess formation.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 56: Chamberlin and Salisbury: Geology, 1906, Vol. III, pp.
405-412.]
[Footnote 57: It may have retreated soon after reaching its maximum. If
so, the general lack of thick terminal moraines would be explained. See
page 122.]
CHAPTER X
CAUSES OF MILD GEOLOGICAL CLIMATES
In discussions of climate, as of most subjects, a peculiar psychological
phenomenon is observable. Everyone sees the necessity of explaining
conditions different from those that now exist, but few realize that
present conditions may be abnormal, and that they need explanation just
as much as do others. Because of this tendency glaciation has been
discussed with the greatest fullness, while there has been much neglect
not only of the periods when the climate of the earth resembled that of
the present, but also of the vastly longer periods when it was even
milder than now.
How important the periods of mild climate have been in geological times
may be judged from the relative length of glacial compared with
inter-glacial epochs, and still more from the far greater relative
length of the mild parts of periods and eras when compared with the
severe parts. Recent estimates by R. T. Chamberlin[58] indicate that
according to the consensus of opinion among geologists the average
inter-glacial epoch during the Pleistocene was about five times as long
as the average glacial epoch, while the whole of a given glacial epoch
averaged five times as long as the period when the ice was at a maximum.
Climatic periods far milder, longer, and more monotonous than any
inter-glacial epoch appear repeatedly during the course of geological
history. Our task in this chapter is to explain them.
Knowlton[59] has done geology a great service by collecting the evidence
as to the mild type of climate which has again and again prevailed in
the past. He lays special stress on botanical evidence since that
pertains to the variable atmosphere of the lands, and hence furnishes a
better guide than does the evidence of animals that lived in the
relatively unchanging water of the oceans. The nature of the evidence
has already been indicated in various parts of this book. It includes
palms, tree ferns, and a host of other plants which once grew in regions
which are now much too cold to support them. With this must be placed
the abundant reef-building corals and other warmth-loving marine
creatures in latitudes now much too cold for them. Of a piece with this
are the conditions of inter-glacial epochs in Europe, for example, when
elephants and hippopotamuses, as well as many species of plants from low
latitudes, were abundant. These conditions indicate not only that the
climate was warmer than now, but that the contrast from season to season
was much less. Indeed, Knowlton goes so far as to say that "relative
uniformity, mildness, and comparative equability of climate, accompanied
by high humidity, have prevailed over the greater part of the earth,
extending to, or into, polar circles, during the greater part of
geologic time--since, at least, the Middle Paleozoic. This is the
regular, the ordinary, the normal condition." ... "By many it is thought
that one of the strongest arguments against a gradually cooling globe
and a humid, non-zonally disposed climate in the ages before the
Pleistocene is the discovery of evidences of glacial action practically
throughout the entire geologic column. Hardly less than a dozen of these
are now known, ranging in age from Huronian to Eocene. It seems to be a
very general assumption by those who hold this view that these evidences
of glacial activities are to be classed as ice ages, largely comparable
in effect and extent to the Pleistocene refrigeration, but as a matter
of fact only three are apparently of a magnitude to warrant such
designation. These are the Huronian glaciation, that of the
'Permo-Carboniferous,' and that of the Pleistocene. The others, so far
as available data go, appear to be explainable as more or less local
manifestations that had no widespread effect on, for instance, ocean
temperatures, distribution of life, et cetera. They might well have been
of the type of ordinary mountain glaciers, due entirely to local
elevation and precipitation." ... "If the sun had been the principal
source of heat in pre-Pleistocene time, terrestrial temperatures would
of necessity have been disposed in zones, whereas the whole trend of
this paper has been the presentation of proof that these temperatures
were distinctly non-zonal. Therefore it seems to follow that the sun--at
least the present small-angle sun--could not have been the sole or even
the principal source of heat that warmed the early oceans."
Knowlton is so strongly impressed by the widespread fossil floras that
usually occur in the middle parts of the geological periods, that as
Schuchert[3] puts it, he neglects the evidence of other kinds. In the
middle of the periods and eras the expansion of the warm oceans over the
continents was greatest, while the lands were small and hence had more
or less insular climates of the oceanic type. At such times, the marine
fauna agrees with the flora in indicating a mild climate. Large
colony-forming foraminifera, stony corals, shelled cephalopods,
gastropods and thick-shelled bivalves, generally the cemented forms,
were common in the Far North and even in the Arctic. This occurred in
the Silurian, Devonian, Pennsylvanian, and Jurassic periods, yet at
other times, such as the Cretaceous and Eocene, such forms were very
greatly reduced in variety in the northern regions or else wholly
absent. These things, as Schuchert[60] says, can only mean that Knowlton
is right when he states that "climatic zoning such as we have had since
the beginning of the Pleistocene did not obtain in the geologic ages
prior to the Pleistocene." It does not mean, however, that there was a
"non-zonal arrangement" and that the temperature of the oceans was
everywhere the same and "without widespread effect on the distribution
of life."
Students of paleontology hold that as far back as we can go in the study
of plants, there are evidences of seasons and of relatively cool
climates in high latitudes. The cycads, for instance, are one of the
types most often used as evidence of a warm climate. Yet Wieland,[61]
who has made a lifelong study of these plants, says that many of them
"might well grow in temperate to cool climates. Until far more is
learned about them they should at least be held as valueless as indices
of tropic climates." The inference is "that either they or their close
relatives had the capacity to live in every clime. There is also a
suspicion that study of the associated ferns may compel revision of the
long-accepted view of the universality of tropic climates throughout the
Mesozoic." Nathorst is quoted by Wieland as saying, "I think ... that
during the time when the Gingkophytes and Cycadophytes dominated, many
of them must have adapted themselves for living in cold climates also.
Of this I have not the least doubt."
Another important line of evidence which Knowlton and others have cited
as a proof of the non-zonal arrangement of climate in the past, is the
vast red beds which are found in the Proterozoic, late Silurian,
Devonian, Permian, and Triassic, and in some Tertiary formations. These
are believed to resemble laterite, a red and highly oxidized soil which
is found in great abundance in equatorial regions. Knowlton does not
attempt to show that the red beds present equatorial characteristics in
other respects, but bases his conclusion on the statement that "red beds
are not being formed at the present time in any desert region." This is
certainly an error. As has already been said, in both the Transcaspian
and Takla Makan deserts, the color of the sand regularly changes from
brown on the borders to pale red far out in the desert. Kuzzil Kum, or
Red Sand, is the native name. The sands in the center of the desert
apparently were originally washed down from the same mountains as those
on the borders, and time has turned them red. Since the same condition
is reported from the Arabian Desert, it seems that redness is
characteristic of some of the world's greatest deserts. Moreover, beds
of salt and gypsum are regularly found in red beds, and they can
scarcely originate except in deserts, or in shallow almost landlocked
bays on the coasts of deserts, as appears to have happened in the
Silurian where marine fossils are found interbedded with gypsum.
Again, Knowlton says that red beds cannot indicate deserts because the
plants found in them are not "pinched or depauperate, nor do they
indicate xerophytic adaptations. Moreover, very considerable deposits of
coal are found in red beds in many parts of the world, which implies the
presence of swamps but little above sea-level."
Students of desert botany are likely to doubt the force of these
considerations. As MacDougal[62] has shown, the variety of plants in
deserts is greater than in moist regions. Not only do xerophytic desert
species prevail, but halophytes are present in the salty areas, and
hygrophytes in the wet swampy areas, while ordinary mesophytes prevail
along the water courses and are washed down from the mountains. The
ordinary plants, not the xerophytes, are the ones that are chiefly
preserved since they occur in most abundance near streams where
deposition is taking place. So far as swamps are concerned, few are of
larger size than those of Seistan in Persia, Lop Nor in Chinese
Turkestan, and certain others in the midst of the Asiatic deserts.
Streams flowing from the mountains into deserts are almost sure to form
large swamps, such as those along the Tarim River in central Asia. Lake
Chad in Africa is another example. In it, too, reeds are very numerous.
Putting together the evidence on both sides in this disputed question,
it appears that throughout most of geological time there is some
evidence of a zonal arrangement of climate. The evidence takes the form
of traces of cool climates, of seasons, and of deserts. Nevertheless,
there is also strong evidence that these conditions were in general less
intense than at present and that times of relatively warm, moist climate
without great seasonal extremes have prevailed very widely during
periods much longer than those when a zonal arrangement as marked as
that of today prevailed. As Schuchert[63] puts it: "Today the variation
on land between the tropics and the poles is roughly between 110° and
-60°F., in the oceans between 85° and 31°F. In the geologic past the
temperature of the oceans for the greater parts of the periods probably
was most often between 85° and 55°F., while on land it may have varied
between 90° and 0°F. At rare intervals the extremes were undoubtedly as
great as they are today. The conclusion is therefore that at all times
the earth had temperature zones, varying between the present-day
intensity and times which were almost without such belts, and at these
latter times the greater part of the earth had an almost uniformly mild
climate, without winters."
It is these mild climates which we must now attempt to explain. This
leads us to inquire what would happen to the climate of the earth as a
whole if the conditions which now prevail at times of few sunspots were
to become intensified. That they could become greatly intensified seems
highly probable, for there is good reason to think that aside from the
sunspot cycle the sun's atmosphere is in a disturbed condition. The
prominences which sometimes shoot out hundreds of thousands of miles
seem to be good evidence of this. Suppose that the sun's atmosphere
should become very quiet. This would apparently mean that cyclonic
storms would be much less numerous and less severe than during the
present times of sunspot minima. The storms would also apparently follow
paths in middle latitudes somewhat as they do now when sunspots are
fewest. The first effect of such a condition, if we can judge from what
happens at present, would be a rise in the general temperature of the
earth, because less heat would be carried aloft by storms. Today, as is
shown in _Earth and Sun_, a difference of perhaps 10 per cent in the
average storminess during periods of sunspot maxima and minima is
correlated with a difference of 3°C. in the temperature at the earth's
surface. This includes not only an actual lowering of 0.6°C. at times of
sunspot maxima, but the overcoming of the effect of increased insolation
at such times, an effect which Abbot calculates as about 2.5°C. If the
storminess were to be reduced to one-half or one-quarter its present
amount at sunspot minima, not only would the loss of heat by upward
convection in storms be diminished, but the area covered by clouds would
diminish so that the sun would have more chance to warm the lower air.
Hence the average rise of temperature might amount to as much at 5° or
10°C.
Another effect of the decrease in storminess would be to make the
so-called westerly winds, which are chiefly southwesterly in the
northern hemisphere and northwesterly in the southern hemisphere, more
strong and steady than at present. They would not continually suffer
interruption by cyclonic winds from other directions, as is now the
case, and would have a regularity like that of the trades. This
conclusion is strongly reënforced in a paper by Clayton[64] which came
to hand after this chapter had been completed. From his studies of the
solar constant and the temperature of the earth which are described in
_Earth and Sun_, he reaches the following conclusion: "The results of
these researches have led me to believe: 1. That if there were no
variation in solar radiation the atmospheric motions would establish a
stable system with exchanges of air between equator and pole and between
ocean and land, in which the only variations would be daily and annual
changes set in operation by the relative motions of the earth and sun.
2. The existing abnormal changes, which we call weather, have their
origins chiefly, if not entirely, in the variations of solar radiation."
If cyclonic storms and "weather" were largely eliminated and if the
planetary system of winds with its steady trades and southwesterlies
became everywhere dominant, the regularity and volume of the
poleward-flowing currents, such as the Gulf Stream and the Atlantic
Drift in one ocean, and the Japanese Current in another, would be
greatly increased. How important this is may be judged from the work of
Helland-Hansen and Nansen.[65] These authors find that with the passage
of each cyclonic storm there is a change in the temperature of the
surface water of the Atlantic Ocean. Winds at right angles to the course
of the Drift drive the water first in one direction and then in the
other but do not advance it in its course. Winds with an easterly
component, on the other hand, not only check the Drift but reverse it,
driving the warm water back toward the southwest and allowing cold water
to well up in its stead. The driving force in the Atlantic Drift is
merely the excess of the winds with a westerly component over those with
an easterly component.
Suppose that the numbers in Fig. 8 represent the strength of the winds
in a certain part of the North Atlantic or North Pacific, that is, the
total number of miles moved by the air per year. In quadrant A of the
left-hand part all the winds move from a more or less southwesterly
direction and produce a total movement of the air amounting to thirty
units per year. Those coming from points between north and west move
twenty-five units; those between north and east, twenty units; and those
between east and south, twenty-five units. Since the movement of the
winds in quadrants B and D is the same, these winds have no effect in
producing currents. They merely move the water back and forth, and thus
give it time to lose whatever heat it has brought from more southerly
latitudes. On the other hand, since the easterly winds in quadrant C do
not wholly check the currents caused by the westerly winds of quadrant
A, the effective force of the westerly winds amounts to ten, or the
difference between a force of thirty in quadrant A and of twenty in
quadrant C. Hence the water is moved forward toward the northeast, as
shown by the thick part of arrow A.
[Illustration: _Fig. 8. Effect of diminution of storms on movement of
water._]
Now suppose that cyclonic storms should be greatly reduced in number so
that in the zone of prevailing westerlies they were scarcely more
numerous than tropical hurricanes now are in the trade-wind belt. Then
the more or less southwesterly winds in quadrant A´ in the right-hand
part of Fig. 8 would not only become more frequent but would be stronger
than at present. The total movement from that quarter might rise to
sixty units, as indicated in the figure. In quadrants B´ and D´ the
movement would fall to fifteen and in quadrant C´ to ten. B´ and D´
would balance one another as before. The movement in A´, however, would
exceed that in C´ by fifty instead of ten. In other words, the
current-making force would become five times as great as now. The actual
effect would be increased still more, for the winds from the southwest
would be stronger as well as steadier if there were no storms. A strong
wind which causes whitecaps has much more power to drive the water
forward than a weaker wind which does not cause whitecaps. In a wave
without a whitecap the water returns to practically the original point
after completing a circle beneath the surface. In a wave with a
whitecap, however, the cap moves forward. Any increase in velocity
beyond the rate at which whitecaps are formed has a great influence upon
the amount of water which is blown forward. Several times as much water
is drifted forward by a persistent wind of twenty miles an hour as by a
ten-mile wind.[66]
In this connection a suggestion which is elaborated in Chapter XIII may
be mentioned. At present the salinity of the oceans checks the general
deep-sea circulation and thereby increases the contrasts from zone to
zone. In the past, however, the ocean must have been fresher than now.
Hence the circulation was presumably less impeded, and the transfer of
heat from low latitudes to high was facilitated.
Consider now the magnitude of the probable effect of a diminution in
storms. Today off the coast of Norway in latitude 65°N. and longitude
10°E., the mean temperature in January is 2°C. and in July 12°C. This
represents a plus anomaly of about 22° in January and 2° in July; that
is, the Norwegian coast is warmer than the normal for its latitude by
these amounts. Suppose that in some past time the present distribution
of lands and seas prevailed, but Norway was a lowland where extensive
deposits could accumulate in great flood plains. Suppose, also, that the
sun's atmosphere was so inactive that few cyclonic storms occurred,
steady winds from the west-southwest prevailed, and strong,
uninterrupted ocean currents brought from the Caribbean Sea and Gulf of
Mexico much greater supplies of warm water than at present. The
Norwegian winters would then be warmer than now not only because of the
general increase in temperature which the earth regularly experiences at
sunspot minima, but because the currents would accentuate this
condition. In summer similar conditions would prevail except that the
warming effect of the winds and currents would presumably be less than
in winter, but this might be more than balanced by the increased heat of
the sun during the long summer days, for storms and clouds would be
rare.
If such conditions raised the winter temperature only 8°C. and the
summer temperature 4°C., the climate would be as warm as that of the
northern island of New Zealand (latitude 35°-43°S.). The flora of that
part of New Zealand is subtropical and includes not only pines and
beeches, but palms and tree ferns. A climate scarcely warmer than that
of New Zealand would foster a flora like that which existed in far
northern latitudes during some of the milder geological periods. If,
however, the general temperature of the earth's surface were raised 5°
because of the scarcity of storms, if the currents were strong enough so
that they increased the present anomaly by 50 per cent, and if more
persistent sunshine in summer raised the temperature at that season
about 4°C., the January temperature would be 18°C. and the July
temperature 22°C. These figures perhaps make summer and winter more
nearly alike than was ever really the case in such latitudes.
Nevertheless, they show that a diminution of storms and a consequent
strengthening and steadying of the southwesterlies might easily raise
the temperature of the Norwegian coast so high that corals could
flourish within the Arctic Circle.
Another factor would coöperate in producing mild temperatures in high
latitudes during the winter, namely, the fogs which would presumably
accumulate. It is well known that when saturated air from a warm ocean
is blown over the lands in winter, as happens so often in the British
Islands and around the North Sea, fog is formed. The effect of such a
fog is indeed to shut out the sun's radiation, but in high latitudes
during the winter when the sun is low, this is of little importance.
Another effect is to retain the heat of the earth itself. When a
constant supply of warm water is being brought from low latitudes this
blanketing of the heat by the fog becomes of great importance. In the
past, whenever cyclonic storms were weak and westerly winds were
correspondingly strong, winter fogs in high latitudes must have been
much more widespread and persistent than now.
The bearing of fogs on vegetation is another interesting point. If a
region in high latitudes is constantly protected by fog in winter, it
can support types of vegetation characteristic of fairly low latitudes,
for plants are oftener killed by dry cold than by moist cold. Indeed,
excessive evaporation from the plant induced by dry cold when the
evaporated water cannot be rapidly replaced by the movement of sap is a
chief reason why large plants are winterkilled. The growing of
transplanted palms on the coast of southwestern Ireland, in spite of its
location in latitude 50°N., is possible only because of the great
fogginess in winter due to the marine climate. The fogs prevent the
escape of heat and ward off killing frosts. The tree ferns in latitude
46°S. in New Zealand, already referred to, are often similarly protected
in winter. Therefore, the relative frequency of fogs in high latitudes
when storms were at a minimum would apparently tend not merely to
produce mild winters but to promote tropical vegetation.
The strong steady trades and southwesterlies which would prevail at
times of slight solar activity, according to our hypothesis, would have
a pronounced effect on the water of the deep seas as well as upon that
of the surface. In the first place, the deep-sea circulation would be
hastened. For convenience let us speak of the northern hemisphere. In
the past, whenever the southwesterly winds were steadier than now, as
was probably the case when cyclonic storms were relatively rare, more
surface water than at present was presumably driven from low latitudes
and carried to high latitudes. This, of course, means that a greater
volume of water had to flow back toward the equator in the lower parts
of the ocean, or else as a cool surface current. The steady
southwesterly winds, however, would interfere with south-flowing surface
currents, thus compelling the polar waters to find their way equatorward
beneath the surface. In low latitudes the polar waters would rise and
their tendency would be to lower the temperature. Hence steadier
westerlies would make for lessened latitudinal contrasts in climate not
only by driving more warm water poleward but by causing more polar water
to reach low latitudes.
At this point a second important consideration must be faced. Not only
would the deep-sea circulation be hastened, but the ocean depths might
be warmed. The deep parts of the ocean are today cold because they
receive their water from high latitudes where it sinks because of low
temperature. Suppose, however, that a diminution in storminess combined
with other conditions should permit corals to grow in latitude 70°N. The
ocean temperature would then have to average scarcely lower than 20°C.
and even in the coldest month the water could scarcely fall below about
15°C. Under such conditions, if the polar ocean were freely connected
with the rest of the oceans, no part of it would probably have a
temperature much below 10°C., for there would be no such thing as ice
caps and snowfields to reflect the scanty sunlight and radiate into
space what little heat there was. On the contrary, during the winter an
almost constant state of dense fogginess would prevail. So great would
be the blanketing effect of this that a minimum monthly temperature of
10°C. for the coldest part of the ocean may perhaps be too low for a
time when corals thrived in latitude 70°.
The temperature of the ocean depths cannot permanently remain lower than
that of the coldest parts of the surface. Temporarily this might indeed
happen when a solar change first reduced the storminess and strengthened
the westerlies and the surface currents. Gradually, however, the
persistent deep-sea circulation would bring up the colder water in low
latitudes and carry downward the water of medium temperature at the
coldest part of the surface. Thus in time the whole body of the ocean
would become warm. The heat which at present is carried away from the
earth's surface in storms would slowly accumulate in the oceans. As the
process went on, all parts of the ocean's surface would become warmer,
for equatorial latitudes would be less and less cooled by cold water
from below, while the water blown from low latitudes to high would be
correspondingly warmer. The warming of the ocean would come to an end
only with the attainment of a state of equilibrium in which the loss of
heat by radiation and evaporation from the ocean's surface equaled the
loss which under other circumstances would arise from the rise of warm
air in cyclonic storms. When once the oceans were warmed, they would
form an extremely strong conservative force tending to preserve an
equable climate in all latitudes and at all seasons. According to the
solar cyclonic hypothesis such conditions ought to have prevailed
throughout most of geological time. Only after a strong and prolonged
solar disturbance with its consequent storminess would conditions like
those of today be expected.
In this connection another possibility may be mentioned. It is commonly
assumed that the earth's axis is held steadily in one direction by the
fact that the rotating earth is a great gyroscope. Having been tilted to
a certain position, perhaps by some extraneous force, the axis is
supposed to maintain that position until some other force intervenes.
Cordeiro,[67] however, maintains that this is true only of an absolutely
rigid gyroscope. He believes that it is mathematically demonstrable that
if an elastic gyroscope be gradually tilted by some extraneous force,
and if that force then ceases to act, the gyroscope as a whole will
oscillate back and forth. The earth appears to be slightly elastic.
Cordeiro therefore applies his formulæ to it, on the following
assumptions: (1) That the original position of the axis was nearly
vertical to the plane of the ecliptic in which the earth revolves around
the sun; (2) that at certain times the inclination has been even greater
than now; and (3) that the position of the axis with reference to the
earth has not changed to any great extent, that is, the earth's poles
have remained essentially stationary with reference to the earth,
although the whole earth has been gyroscopically tilted back and forth
repeatedly.
With a vertical axis the daylight and darkness in all parts of the earth
would be of equal duration, being always twelve hours. There would be no
seasons, and the climate would approach the average condition now
experienced at the two equinoxes. On the whole the climate of high
latitudes would give the impression of being milder than now, for there
would be less opportunity for the accumulation of snow and ice with
their strong cooling effect. On the other hand, if the axis were tilted
more than now, the winter nights would be longer and the winters more
severe than at present, and there would be a tendency toward glaciation.
Thus Cordeiro accounts for alternating mild and glacial epochs. The
entire swing from the vertical position to the maximum inclination and
back to the vertical may last millions of years depending on the earth's
degree of elasticity. The swing beyond the vertical position in the
other direction would be equally prolonged. Since the axis is now
supposed to be much nearer its maximum than its minimum degree of
tilting, the duration of epochs having a climate more severe than that
of the present would be relatively short, while the mild epochs would be
long.
Cordeiro's hypothesis has been almost completely ignored. One reason is
that his treatment of geological facts, and especially his method of
riding rough-shod over widely accepted conclusions, has not commended
his work to geologists. Therefore they have not deemed it worth while to
urge mathematicians to test the assumptions and methods by which he
reached his results. It is perhaps unfair to test Cordeiro by geology,
for he lays no claim to being a geologist. In mathematics he labors
under the disadvantage of having worked outside the usual professional
channels, so that his work does not seem to have been subjected to
sufficiently critical analysis.
Without expressing any opinion as to the value of Cordeiro's results we
feel that the subject of the earth's gyroscopic motion and of a possible
secular change in the direction of the axis deserves investigation for
two chief reasons. In the first place, evidences of seasonal changes and
of seasonal uniformity seem to occur more or less alternately in the
geological record. Second, the remarkable discoveries of Garner and
Allard[68] show that the duration of daylight has a pronounced effect
upon the reproduction of plants. We have referred repeatedly to the tree
ferns, corals, and other forms of life which now live in relatively low
latitudes and which cannot endure strong seasonal contrasts, but which
once lived far to the north. On the other hand, Sayles,[69] for example,
finds that microscopical examination of the banding of ancient shales
and slates indicates distinct seasonal banding like that of recent
Pleistocene clays or of the Squantum slate formed during or near the
Permian glacial period. Such seasonal banding is found in rocks of
various ages: (a) Huronian, in cobalt shales previously reported by
Coleman; (b) late Proterozoic or early Cambrian in Hiwassee slate; (c)
lower Cambrian, in Georgian slates of Vermont; (d) lower Ordovician, in
Georgia (Rockmart slate), Tennessee (Athens shale), Vermont (slates),
and Quebec (Beekmantown formation); and (e) Permian in Massachusetts
(Squantum slate). How far the periods during which such evidence of
seasons was recorded really alternated with mild periods, when tropical
species lived in high latitudes and the contrast of seasons was almost
or wholly lacking, we have as yet no means of knowing. If periods
characterized by marked seasonal changes should be found to have
alternated with those when the seasons were of little importance, the
fact would be of great geological significance.
The discoveries of Garner and Allard as to the effect of light on
reproduction began with a peculiar tobacco plant which appeared in some
experiments at Washington. The plant grew to unusual size, and seemed to
promise a valuable new variety. It formed no seeds, however, before the
approach of cold weather. It was therefore removed to a greenhouse where
it flowered and produced seed. In succeeding years the flowering was
likewise delayed till early winter, but finally it was discovered that
if small plants were started in the greenhouse in the early fall they
flowered at the same time as the large ones. Experiments soon
demonstrated that the time of flowering depends largely upon the length
of the daily period when the plants are exposed to light. The same is
true of many other plants, and there is great variety in the conditions
which lead to flowering. Some plants, such as witch hazel, appear to be
stimulated to bloom by very short days, while others, such as evening
primrose, appear to require relatively long days. So sensitive are
plants in this respect that Garner and Allard, by changing the length of
the period of light, have caused a flowerbud in its early stages not
only to stop developing but to return once more to a vegetative shoot.
Common iris, which flowers in May and June, will not blossom under
ordinary conditions when grown in the greenhouse in winter, even
under the same temperature conditions that prevail in early summer.
Again, one variety of soy beans will regularly begin to flower in
June of each year, a second variety in July, and a third in August,
when all are planted on the same date. There are no temperature
differences during the summer months which could explain these
differences in time of flowering; and, since "internal causes" alone
cannot be accepted as furnishing a satisfactory explanation, some
external factor other than temperature must be responsible.
The ordinary varieties of cosmos regularly flower in the fall in
northern latitudes if they are planted in the spring or summer. If
grown in a warm greenhouse during the winter months the plants also
flower readily, so that the cooler weather of fall is not a
necessary condition. If successive plantings of cosmos are made in
the greenhouse during the late winter and early spring months,
maintaining a uniform temperature throughout, the plantings made
after a certain date will fail to blossom promptly, but, on the
contrary, will continue to grow till the following fall, thus
flowering at the usual season for this species. This curious
reversal of behavior with advance of the season cannot be attributed
to change in temperature. Some other factor is responsible for the
failure of cosmos to blossom during the summer months. In this
respect the behavior of cosmos is just the opposite of that observed
in iris.
Certain varieties of soy beans change their behavior in a peculiar
manner with advance of the summer season. The variety known as
Biloxi, for example, when planted early in the spring in the
latitude of Washington, D. C., continues to grow throughout the
summer, flowering in September. The plants maintain growth without
flowering for fifteen to eighteen weeks, attaining a height of five
feet or more. As the dates of successive plantings are moved forward
through the months of June and July, however there is a marked
tendency for the plants to cut short the period of growth which
precedes flowering. This means, of course, that there is a tendency
to flower at approximately the same time of year regardless of the
date of planting. As a necessary consequence, the size of the plants
at the time of flowering is reduced in proportion to the delay in
planting.
The bearing of this on geological problems lies in a query which it
raises as to the ability of a genus or family of plants to adapt itself
to days of very different length from those to which it is wonted. Could
tree ferns, ginkgos, cycads, and other plants whose usual range of
location never subjects them to daylight for more than perhaps fourteen
hours or less than ten, thrive and reproduce themselves if subjected to
periods of daylight ranging all the way from nothing up to about
twenty-four hours? No answer to this is yet possible, but the question
raises most interesting opportunities of investigation. If Cordeiro is
right as to the earth's elastic gyroscopic motion, there may have been
certain periods when a vertical or almost vertical axis permitted the
days to be of almost equal length at all seasons in all latitudes. If
such an absence of seasons occurred when the lands were low, when the
oceans were extensive and widely open toward the poles, and when storms
were relatively inactive, the result might be great mildness of climate
such as appears sometimes to have prevailed in the middle of geological
eras. Suppose on the other hand that the axis should be tilted more than
now, and that the lands should be widely emergent and the storm belt
highly active in low latitudes, perhaps because of the activity of the
sun. The conditions might be favorable for glaciation at latitudes as
low as those where the Permo-Carboniferous ice sheets appear to have
centered. The possibilities thus suggested by Cordeiro's hypothesis are
so interesting that the gyroscopic motion of the earth ought to be
investigated more thoroughly. Even if no such gyroscopic motion takes
place, however, the other causes of mild climate discussed in this
chapter may be enough to explain all the observed phenomena.
Many important biological consequences might be drawn from this study of
mild geological climates, but this book is not the place for them. In
the first chapter we saw that one of the most remarkable features of the
climate of the earth is its wonderful uniformity through hundreds of
millions of years. As we come down through the vista of years the mild
geological periods appear to represent a return as nearly as possible to
this standard condition of uniformity. Certain changes of the earth
itself, as we shall see in the next chapter, may in the long run tend
slightly to change the exact conditions of this climatic standard, as we
might perhaps call it. Yet they act so slowly that their effect during
hundreds of millions of years is still open to question. At most they
seem merely to have produced a slight increase in diversity from season
to season and from zone to zone. The normal climate appears still to be
of a milder type than that which happens to prevail at present. Some
solar condition, whose possible nature will be discussed later, seems
even now to cause the number of cyclonic storms to be greater than
normal. Hence the earth's climate still shows something of the great
diversity of seasons and of zones which is so marked a characteristic of
glacial epochs.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 58: Rollin T. Chamberlin: Personal Communication.]
[Footnote 59: F. H. Knowlton: Evolution of Geologic Climates; Bull.
Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 30, 1919, pp. 499-566.]
[Footnote 60: Chas. Schuchert: Review of Knowlton's Evolution of
Geological Climates, in Am. Jour. Sci., 1921.]
[Footnote 61: G. R. Wieland: Distribution and Relationships of the
Cycadeoids; Am. Jour. Bot., Vol. 7, 1920, pp. 125-145.]
[Footnote 62: D. T. MacDougal: Botanical Features of North American
Deserts; Carnegie Instit. of Wash., No. 99, 1908.]
[Footnote 63: _Loc. cit._]
[Footnote 64: H. H. Clayton: Variation in Solar Radiation and the
Weather; Smiths. Misc. Coll., Vol. 71, No. 3, Washington, 1920.]
[Footnote 65: B. Helland Hansen and F. Nansen: Temperature Variations in
the North Atlantic Ocean and in the Atmosphere; Misc. Coll., Smiths.
Inst., Vol. 70, No. 4, Washington, 1920.]
[Footnote 66: The climatic significance of ocean currents is well
discussed in Croll's Climate and Time, 1875, and his Climate and
Cosmogony, 1889.]
[Footnote 67: F. J. B. Cordeiro: The Gyroscope, 1913.]
[Footnote 68: W. W. Garner and H. A. Allard: Flowering and Fruition of
Plants as Controlled by Length of Day; Yearbook Dept. Agri., 1920, pp.
377-400.]
[Footnote 69: Report of Committee on Sedimentation, National Research
Council, April, 1922.]
CHAPTER XI
TERRESTRIAL CAUSES OF CLIMATIC CHANGES
The major portion of this book has been concerned with the explanation
of the more abrupt and extreme changes of climate. This chapter and the
next consider two other sorts of climatic changes, the slight secular
progression during the hundreds of millions of years of recorded earth
history, and especially the long slow geologic oscillations of millions
or tens of millions of years. It is generally agreed among geologists
that the progressive change has tended toward greater extremes of
climate; that is, greater seasonal contrasts, and greater contrasts from
place to place and from zone to zone.[70] The slow cyclic changes have
been those that favored widespread glaciation at one extreme near the
ends of geologic periods and eras, and mild temperatures even in
subpolar regions at the other extreme during the medial portions of the
periods.
As has been pointed out in an earlier chapter, it has often been assumed
that all climatic changes are due to terrestrial causes. We have seen,
however, that there is strong evidence that solar variations play a
large part in modifying the earth's climate. We have also seen that no
known terrestrial agency appears to be able to produce the abrupt
changes noted in recent years, the longer cycles of historical times, or
geological changes of the shorter type, such as glaciation.
Nevertheless, terrestrial changes doubtless have assisted in producing
both the progressive change and the slow cyclic changes recorded in the
rocks, and it is the purpose of this chapter and the two that follow to
consider what terrestrial changes have taken place and the probable
effect of such changes.
The terrestrial changes that have a climatic significance are numerous.
Some, such as variations in the amount of volcanic dust in the higher
air, have been considered in an earlier chapter. Others are too
imperfectly known to warrant discussion, and in addition there are
presumably others which are entirely unknown. Doubtless some of these
little known or unknown changes have been of importance in modifying
climate. For example, the climatic influence of vegetation, animals, and
man may be appreciable. Here, however, we shall confine ourselves to
purely physical causes, which will be treated in the following order:
First, those concerned with the solid parts of the earth, namely: (I)
amount of land; (II) distribution of land; (III) height of land; (IV)
lava flows; and (V) internal heat. Second, those which arise from the
salinity of oceans, and third, those depending on the composition and
amount of atmosphere.
The terrestrial change which appears indirectly to have caused the
greatest change in climate is the contraction of the earth. The problem
of contraction is highly complex and is as yet only imperfectly
understood. Since only its results and not its processes influence
climate, the following section as far as page 196 is not necessary to
the general reader. It is inserted in order to explain why we assume
that there have been oscillations between certain types of distribution
of the lands.
The extent of the earth's contraction may be judged from the shrinkage
indicated by the shortening of the rock formations in folded mountains
such as the Alps, Juras, Appalachians, and Caucasus. Geologists are
continually discovering new evidence of thrust faults of great magnitude
where masses of rock are thrust bodily over other rocks, sometimes for
many miles. Therefore, the estimates of the amount of shrinkage based on
the measurements of folds and faults need constant revision upward.
Nevertheless, they have already reached a considerable figure. For
example, in 1919, Professor A. Heim estimated the shortening of the
meridian passing through the modern Alps and the ancient Hercynian and
Caledonian mountains as fully a thousand miles in Europe, and over five
hundred miles for the rest of this meridian.[71] This is a radial
shortening of about 250 miles. Possibly the shrinkage has been even
greater than this. Chamberlin[72] has compared the density of the earth,
moon, Mars, and Venus with one another, and found it probable that the
radial shrinkage of the earth may be as much as 570 miles. This result
is not so different from Heim's as appears at first sight, for Heim made
no allowance for unrecognized thrust faults and for the contraction
incident to metamorphism. Moreover, Heim did not include shrinkage
during the first half of geological time before the above-mentioned
mountain systems were upheaved.
According to a well-established law of physics, contraction of a
rotating body results in more rapid rotation and greater centrifugal
force. These conditions must increase the earth's equatorial bulge and
thereby cause changes in the distribution of land and water. Opposed to
the rearrangement of the land due to increased rotation caused by
contraction, there has presumably been another rearrangement due to
tidal retardation of the earth's rotation and a consequent lessening of
the equatorial bulge. G. H. Darwin long ago deduced a relatively large
retardation due to lunar tides. A few years ago W. D. MacMillan, on
other assumptions, deduced only a negligible retardation. Still more
recently Taylor[73] has studied the tides of the Irish Sea, and his work
has led Jeffreys[74] and Brown[75] to conclude that there has been
considerable retardation, perhaps enough, according to Brown, to equal
the acceleration due to the earth's contraction. From a prolonged and
exhaustive study of the motions of the moon Brown concludes that tidal
friction or some other cause is now lengthening the day at the rate of
one second per thousand years, or an hour in almost four million years
if the present rate continues. He makes it clear that the retardation
due to tides would not correspond in point of time with the acceleration
due to contraction. The retardation would occur slowly, and would take
place chiefly during the long quiet periods of geologic history, while
the acceleration would occur rapidly at times of diastrophic
deformation. As a consequence, the equatorial bulge would alternately be
reduced at a slow rate, and then somewhat suddenly augmented.
The less rigid any part of the earth is, the more quickly it responds to
the forces which lead to bulging or which tend to lessen the bulge.
Since water is more fluid than land, the contraction of the earth and
the tidal retardation presumably tend alternately to increase and
decrease the amount of water near the equator more than the amount of
land. Thus, throughout geological history we should look for cyclic
changes in the relative area of the lands within the tropics and similar
changes of opposite phase in higher latitudes. The extent of the change
would depend upon (a) the amount of alteration in the speed of rotation,
and (b) the extent of low land in low latitudes and of shallow sea in
high latitudes. According to Slichter's tables, if the earth should
rotate in twenty-three hours instead of twenty-four, the great Amazon
lowland would be submerged by the inflow of oceanic water, while wide
areas in Hudson Bay, the North Sea, and other northern regions, would
become land because the ocean water would flow away from them.[76]
Following the prompt equatorward movement of water which would occur as
the speed of rotation increased, there must also be a gradual movement
or creepage of the solid rocks toward the equator, that is, a bulging of
the ocean floor and of the lands in low latitudes, with a consequent
emergence of the lands there and a relative rise of sea level in higher
latitudes. Tidal retardation would have a similar effect. Suess[77] has
described widespread elevated strand lines in the tropics which he
interprets as indicating a relatively sudden change in sea level, though
he does not suggest a cause of the change. However, in speaking of
recent geological times, Suess reports that a movement more recent than
the old strands "was an accumulation of water toward the equator, a
diminution toward the poles, and (it appears) as though this last
movement were only one of the many oscillations which succeed each other
with the same tendency, i.e., with a positive excess at the equator, a
negative excess at the poles." (Vol. II, p. 551.) This creepage of the
rocks equatorward seemingly might favor the growth of mountains in
tropical and subtropical regions, because it is highly improbable that
the increase in the bulge would go on in all longitudes with perfect
uniformity. Where it went on most rapidly mountains would arise. That
such irregularity of movement has actually occurred is suggested not
only by the fact that many Cenozoic and older mountain ranges extend
east and west, but by the further fact that these include some of our
greatest ranges, many of which are in fairly low latitudes. The
Himalayas, the Javanese ranges, and the half-submerged Caribbean chains
are examples. Such mountains suggest a thrust in a north and south
direction which is just what would happen if the solid mass of the earth
were creeping first equatorward and then poleward.
A fact which is in accord with the idea of a periodic increase in the
oceans in low latitudes because of renewed bulging at the equator is the
exposure in moderately high latitudes of the greatest extent of ancient
rocks. This seems to mean that in low latitudes the frequent deepening
of the oceans has caused the old rocks to be largely covered by
sediments, while the old lands in higher latitudes have been left more
fully exposed to erosion.
Another suggestion of such periodic equatorward movements of the ocean
water is found in the reported contrast between the relative stability
with which the northern part of North America has remained slightly
above sea level except at times of widespread submergence, while the
southern parts have suffered repeated submergence alternating with great
emergence.[78] Furthermore, although the northern part of North America
has been generally exposed to erosion since the Proterozoic, it has
supplied much less sediment than have the more southern land areas.[79]
This apparently means that much of Canada has stood relatively low,
while repeated and profound uplift alternating with depression has
occurred in subtropical latitudes, apparently in adjustment to changes
in the earth's speed of rotation. The uplifts generally followed the
times of submergence due to equatorward movement of the water, though
the buckling of the crust which accompanies shrinkage doubtless caused
some of the submergence. The evidence that northern North America stood
relatively low throughout much of geological time depends not only on
the fact that little sediment came to the south from the north, but also
on the fact that at times of especially widespread epicontinental seas,
the submergence was initiated at the north.[80] This is especially true
for Ordovician, Silurian, Devonian, and Jurassic times in North America.
General submergence of this kind is supposed to be due chiefly to the
overflowing of the ocean when its level is slowly raised by the
deposition of sediment derived from the erosion of what once were
continental highlands but later are peneplains. The fact that such
submergence began in high latitudes, however, seems to need a further
explanation. The bulging of the rock sphere at the equator and the
consequent displacement of some of the water in low latitudes would
furnish such an explanation, as would also a decrease in the speed of
rotation induced by tidal retardation, if that retardation were great
enough and rapid enough to be geologically effective.
The climatic effects of the earth's contraction, which we shall shortly
discuss, are greatly complicated by the fact that contraction has taken
place irregularly. Such irregularity has occurred in spite of the fact
that the processes which cause contraction have probably gone on quite
steadily throughout geological history. These processes include the
chemical reorganization of the minerals of the crust, a process which is
illustrated by the metamorphism of sedimentary rocks into crystalline
forms. The escape of gases through volcanic action or otherwise has been
another important process.
Although the processes which cause contraction probably go on steadily,
their effect, as Chamberlin[81] and others have pointed out, is probably
delayed by inertia. Thus the settling of the crust or its movement on a
large scale is delayed. Perhaps the delay continues until the stresses
become so great that of themselves they overcome the inertia, or
possibly some outside agency, whose nature we shall consider later,
reënforces the stresses and gives the slight impulse which is enough to
release them and allow the earth's crust to settle into a new state of
equilibrium. When contraction proceeds actively, the ocean segments,
being largest and heaviest, are likely to settle most, resulting in a
deepening of the oceans and an emergence of the lands. Following each
considerable contraction there would be an increase in the speed of
rotation. The repeated contractions with consequent growth of the
equatorial bulge would alternate with long quiet periods during which
tidal retardation would again decrease the speed of rotation and hence
lessen the bulge. The result would be repeated changes of distribution
of land and water, with consequent changes in climate.
I. We shall now consider the climatic effect of the repeated changes in
the relative amounts of land and water which appear to have resulted
from the earth's contraction and from changes in its speed of rotation.
During many geologic epochs a larger portion of the earth was covered
with water than at present. For example, during at least twelve out of
about twenty epochs, North America has suffered extensive
inundations,[82] and in general the extensive submergence of Europe, the
other area well known geologically, has coincided with that of North
America. At other times, the ocean has been less extensive than now, as
for example during the recent glacial period, and probably during
several of the glacial periods of earlier date. Each of the numerous
changes in the relative extent of the lands must have resulted in a
modification of climate.[83] This modification would occur chiefly
because water becomes warm far more slowly than land, and cools off far
more slowly.
An increase in the lands would cause changes in several climatic
conditions. (a) The range of temperature between day and night and
between summer and winter would increase, for lands become warmer by day
and in summer than do oceans, and cooler at night and in winter. The
higher summer temperature when the lands are widespread is due chiefly
to the fact that the land, if not snow-covered, absorbs more of the
sun's radiant energy than does the ocean, for its reflecting power is
low. The lower winter temperature when lands are widespread occurs not
only because they cool off rapidly but because the reduced oceans cannot
give them so much heat. Moreover, the larger the land, the more
generally do the winds blow outward from it in winter and thus prevent
the ocean heat from being carried inland. So long as the ocean is not
frozen in high latitudes, it is generally the chief source of heat in
winter, for the nights are several months long near the poles, and even
when the sun does shine its angle is so low that reflection from the
snow is very great. Furthermore, although on the average there is more
reflection from water than from land, the opposite is true in high
latitudes in winter when the land is snow-covered while the ocean is
relatively dark and is roughened by the waves. Another factor in causing
large lands to have extremely low temperature in winter is the fact that
in proportion to their size they are less protected by fog and cloud
than are smaller areas. The belt of cloud and fog which is usually
formed when the wind blows from the ocean to the relatively cold land is
restricted to the coastal zone. Thus the larger the land, the smaller
the fraction in which loss of heat by radiation is reduced by clouds and
fogs. Hence an increase in the land area is accompanied by an increase
in the contrasts in temperature between land and water.
(b) The contrasts in temperature thus produced must cause similar
contrasts in atmospheric pressure, and hence stronger barometric
gradients. (c) The strong gradients would mean strong winds, flowing
from land to sea or from sea to land. (d) Local convection would also be
strengthened in harmony with the expansion of the lands, for the more
rapid heating of land than of water favors active convection.
(e) As the extent of the ocean diminished, there would normally be a
decrease in the amount of water vapor for three reasons: (1) Evaporation
from the ocean is the great source of water vapor. Other conditions
being equal, the smaller the ocean becomes, the less the evaporation.
(2) The amount of water vapor in the air diminishes as convection
increases, since upward convection is a chief method by which
condensation and precipitation are produced, and water vapor removed
from the atmosphere. (3) Nocturnal cooling sufficient to produce dew and
frost is very much more common upon land than upon the ocean. The
formation of dew and frost diminishes the amount of water vapor at least
temporarily. (f) Any diminution in water vapor produced in these ways,
or otherwise, is significant because water vapor is the most essential
part of the atmosphere so far as regulation of temperature is concerned.
It tends to keep the days from becoming hot or the nights cold.
Therefore any decrease in water vapor would increase the diurnal and
seasonal range of temperature, making the climate more extreme and
severe. Thus a periodic increase in the area of the continents would
clearly make for periodic increased climatic contrasts, with great
extremes, a type of climatic change which has recurred again and again.
Indeed, each great glaciation accompanied or followed extensive
emergence of the lands.[84]
Whether or not there has been a _progressive_ increase from era to era
in the area of the lands is uncertain. Good authorities disagree widely.
There is no doubt, however, that at present the lands are more extensive
than at most times in the past, though smaller, perhaps, than at certain
periods. The wide expanse of lands helps explain the prominence of
seasons at present as compared with the past.
II. The contraction of the earth, as we have seen, has produced great
changes in the distribution as well as in the extent of land and water.
Large parts of the present continents have been covered repeatedly by
the sea, and extensive areas now covered with water have been land. In
recent geological times, that is, during the Pliocene and Pleistocene,
much of the present continental shelf, the zone less than 600 feet below
sea level, was land. If the whole shelf had been exposed, the lands
would have been greater than at present by an area larger than North
America. When the lands were most elevated, or a little earlier, North
America was probably connected with Asia and almost with Europe. Asia in
turn was apparently connected with the larger East Indian islands. In
much earlier times land occupied regions where now the ocean is fairly
deep. Groups of islands, such as the East Indies and Malaysia and
perhaps the West Indies, were united into widespreading land masses.
Figs. 7 and 9, illustrating the paleography of the Permian and the
Cretaceous periods, respectively, indicate a land distribution radically
different from that of today.
So far as appears from the scattered facts of geological history, the
changes in the distribution of land seem to have been marked by the
following characteristics: (1) Accompanying the differentiation of
continental and oceanic segments of the earth's crust, the oceans have
become somewhat deeper, and their basins perhaps larger, while the
continents, on the average, have been more elevated and less subject to
submergence. Hence there have been less radical departures from the
present distribution during the relatively recent Cenozoic era than in
the ancient Paleozoic because the submergence of continental areas has
become less general and less frequent. For example, the last extensive
epeiric or interior sea in North America was in the Cretaceous, at least
ten million years ago, and according to Barrell perhaps fifty million,
while in Europe, according to de Lapparent,[85] a smaller share of the
present continent has been submerged since the Cretaceous than before.
Indeed, as in North America, the submergence has decreased on the
average since the Paleozoic era. (2) The changes in distribution of land
which have taken place during earth history have been cyclic.
Repeatedly, at the close of each of the score or so of geologic periods,
the continents emerged more or less, while at the close of the groups of
periods known as eras, the lands were especially large and emergent.
After each emergence, a gradual encroachment of the sea took place, and
toward the close of several of the earlier periods, the sea appears to
have covered a large fraction of the present land areas. (3) On the
whole, the amount of land in the middle and high latitudes of the
northern hemisphere appears to have increased during geologic time. Such
an increase does not require a growth of the continents, however, in the
broader sense of the term, but merely that a smaller fraction of the
continent and its shelf should be submerged. (4) In tropical latitudes,
on the other hand, the extent of the lands seems to have decreased,
apparently by the growth of the ocean basins. South America and Africa
are thought by many students to have been connected, and Africa was
united with India via Madagascar, as is suggested in Fig. 9. The most
radical cyclic as well as the most radical progressive changes in land
distribution also seem to have taken place in tropical regions.[86]
[Illustration: _Fig. 9. Cretaceous Paleogeography._
(_After Schuchert._)]
Although there is much evidence of periodic increase of the sea in
equatorial latitudes and of land in high latitudes, it has remained for
the zoölogist Metcalf to present a very pretty bit of evidence that at
certain times submergence along the equator coincided with emergence in
high latitudes, and vice versa. Certain fresh water frogs which carry
the same internal parasite are confined to two widely separated areas in
tropical and south temperate America and in Australia. The extreme
improbability that both the frogs and the parasites could have
originated independently in two unconnected areas and could have
developed by convergent evolution so that they are almost identical in
the two continents makes it almost certain that there must have been a
land connection between South America and Australia, presumably by way
of Antarctica. The facts as to the parasites seem also to prove that
while the land connection existed there was a sea across South America
in equatorial latitudes. The parasite infests not only the frogs but the
American toads known as Bufo. Now Bufo originated north of the equator
in America and differs from the frogs which originated in southern South
America in not being found in Australia. This raises the question of how
the frogs could go to Australia via Antarctica carrying the parasite
with them, while the toads could not go. Metcalf's answer is that the
toads were cut off from the southern part of South America by an
equatorial sea until after the Antarctic connection between the Old
World and the New was severed.
As Patagonia let go of Antarctica by subsidence of the intervening
land area, there was a probable concomitant rise of land through
what is now middle South America and the northern and southern
portions of this continent came together.[87]
These various changes in the earth's crust have given rise to certain
specific types of distribution of the lands, which will now be
considered. We shall inquire what climatic conditions would arise from
changes in (a) the continuity of the lands from north to south, (b) the
amount of land in tropical latitudes, and (c) the amount of land in
middle and high latitudes.
(a) At present the westward drift of warm waters, set in motion by the
trade winds, is interrupted by land masses and turned poleward,
producing the important Gulf Stream Drift and Japan Current in the
northern hemisphere, and corresponding, though less important, currents
in the southern hemisphere. During the past, quite different sets of
ocean currents doubtless have existed in response to a different
distribution of land. Repeatedly, in the mid-Cretaceous (Fig. 9) and
several other periods, the present American barrier to the westward
moving tropical current was broken in Central America. Even if the
supposed continent of "Gondwana Land" extended from Africa to South
America in equatorial latitudes, strong currents must still have flowed
westward along its northern shore under the impulse of the peculiarly
strong trade winds which the equatorial land would create. Nevertheless
at such times relatively little warm tropical water presumably entered
the North Atlantic, for it escaped into the Pacific. At several other
times, such as the late Ordovician and mid-Devonian, when the isthmian
barrier existed, it probably turned an important current northward into
what is now the Mississippi Basin instead of into the Atlantic. There it
traversed an epeiric, or mid-continental sea open to both north and
south. Hence its effectiveness in warming Arctic regions must have been
quite different from that of the present Gulf Stream.
(b) We will next consider the influences of changes in the amount of
equatorial and tropical land. As such lands are much hotter than the
corresponding seas, the intensity and width of the equatorial belt of
low pressure must be great when they are extensive. Hence the trade
winds must have been stronger than now whenever tropical lands were more
extensive than at present. This is because the trades are produced by
the convection due to excessive heat along the heat equator. There the
air expands upward and flows poleward at high altitudes. The trade wind
consists of air moving toward the heat equator to take the place of the
air which there rises. When the lands in low latitudes were wide the
trade winds must also have dominated a wide belt. The greater width of
the trade-wind belt today over Africa than over the Atlantic illustrates
the matter. The belt must have been still wider when Gondwana Land was
large, as it is believed to have been during the Paleozoic era and the
early Mesozoic.
An increase in the width of the equatorial belt of low pressure under
the influence of broad tropical lands would be accompanied not only by
stronger and more widespread trade winds, but by a corresponding
strengthening of the subtropical belts of high pressure. The chief
reason would be the greater expansion of the air in the equatorial low
pressure belt and the consequent more abundant outflow of air at high
altitudes in the form of anti-trades or winds returning poleward above
the trades. Such winds would pile up the air in the region of the
high-pressure belt. Moreover, since the meridians converge as one
proceeds away from the equator, the air of the poleward-moving
anti-trades tends to be crowded as it reaches higher latitudes, thus
increasing the pressure. Unless there were a corresponding increase in
tropical cyclones, one of the most prominent results of the strengthened
trades and the intensified subtropical high-pressure belt at times of
broad lands in low latitudes would be great deserts. It will be recalled
that the trade-wind lowlands and the extra-tropical belt of highs are
the great desert belts at present. The trade-wind lowlands are desert
because air moving into warmer latitudes takes up water except where it
is cooled by rising on mountain-sides. The belt of highs is arid because
there, too, air is being warmed, but in this case by descending from
aloft.
Again, if the atmospheric pressure in the subtropical belt should be
intensified, the winds flowing poleward from this belt would necessarily
become stronger. These would begin as southwesterlies in the northern
hemisphere and northwesterlies in the southern. In the preceding chapter
we have seen that such winds, especially when cyclonic storms are few
and mild, are a powerful agent in transferring subtropical heat
poleward. If the strength of the westerlies were increased because of
broad lands in low latitudes, their efficacy in transferring heat would
be correspondingly augmented. It is thus evident that any change in the
extent of tropical lands during the geologic past must have had
important climatic consequences in changing the velocity of the
atmospheric circulation and in altering the transfer of heat from low
latitudes to high. When the equatorial and tropical lands were broad the
winds and currents must have been strong, much heat must have been
carried away from low latitudes, and the contrast between low and high
latitudes must have been relatively slight. As we have already remarked,
leading paleogeographers believe that changes in the extent of the lands
have been especially marked in low latitudes, and that on the average
there has been a decrease in the extent of land within the tropics.
Gondwana Land is the greatest illustration of this. In the same way, on
the numerous paleogeographic maps of North America, most
paleogeographers have shown fairly extensive lands south of the latitude
of the United States during most of the geologic epochs.[88]
(c) There is evidence that during geologic history the area of the lands
in middle and high latitudes, as well as in low latitudes, has changed
radically. An increase in such lands would cause the winters to grow
colder. This would be partly because of the loss of heat by radiation
into the cold dry air over the continents in winter, and partly because
of increased reflection from snow and frost, which gather much more
widely upon the land than upon the ocean. Furthermore, in winter when
the continents are relatively cold, there is a strong tendency for winds
to blow out from the continent toward the ocean. The larger the land the
stronger this tendency. In Asia it gives rise to strong winter monsoons.
The effect of such winds is illustrated by the way in which the
westerlies prevent the Gulf Stream from warming the eastern United
States in winter. The Gulf Stream warms northwestern Europe much more
than the United States because, in Europe, the prevailing winds are
onshore.
Another effect of an increase in the area of the lands in middle and
high latitudes would be to interpose barriers to oceanic circulation and
thus lower the temperature of polar regions. This would not mean
glaciation in high latitudes, however, even when the lands were
widespread as in the Mesozoic and early Tertiary. Students of glaciology
are more and more thoroughly convinced that glaciation depends on the
availability of moisture even more than upon low temperature.
In conclusion it may be noted that each of the several climatic
influences of increased land area in the high latitudes would tend to
increase the contrasts between land and sea, between winter and summer,
and between low latitudes and high. In other words, so far as the effect
upon high latitudes themselves is concerned, an expansion of the lands
there would tend in the same direction as a diminution in low latitudes.
In so far as the general trend of geological evolution has been toward
more land in high latitudes and less in low, it would help to produce a
progressive increase in climatic diversity such as is faintly indicated
in the rock strata. On the other hand, the oscillations in the
distribution of the lands, of which geology affords so much evidence,
must certainly have played an important part in producing the periodic
changes of climate which the earth has undergone.
III. Throughout geological history there is abundant evidence that the
process of contraction has led to marked differences not only in the
distribution and area of the lands, but in their height. On the whole
the lands have presumably increased in height since the Proterozoic,
somewhat in proportion to the increased differentiation of continents
and oceans.[89] If there has been such an increase, the contrast between
the climate of ocean and land must have been accentuated, for highlands
have a greater diurnal and seasonal range of temperature than do
lowlands. The ocean has very little range of either sort. The large
range at high altitudes is due chiefly to the small quantity of water
vapor, for this declines steadily with increased altitude. A diminution
in the density of the other constituents of the air also decreases the
blanketing effect of the atmosphere. In conformity with the great
seasonal range in temperature at times when the lands stand high, the
direction of the wind would be altered. When the lands are notably
warmer than the oceans, the winds commonly flow from land to sea, and
when the continents are much colder than the oceans, the direction is
reversed. The monsoons of Asia are examples. Strong seasonal winds
disturb the normal planetary circulation of the trade winds in low
latitudes and of the westerlies in middle latitudes. They also interfere
with the ocean currents set in motion by the planetary winds. The net
result is to hinder the transfer of heat from low latitudes to high, and
thus to increase the contrasts between the zones. Local as well as zonal
contrasts are also intensified. The higher the land, the greater,
relatively speaking, are the cloudiness and precipitation on seaward
slopes, and the drier the interior. Indeed, most highlands are arid.
Henry's[90] recent study of the vertical distribution of rainfall on
mountain-sides indicates that a decrease sets in at about 3500 feet in
the tropics and only a little higher in mid-latitudes.
In addition to the main effects upon atmospheric circulation and
precipitation, each of the many upheavals of the lands must have been
accompanied by many minor conditions which tended toward diversity. For
example, the streams were rejuvenated, and instead of meandering perhaps
over vast flood plains they intrenched their channels and in many cases
dug deep gorges. The water table was lowered, soil was removed from
considerable areas, the bare rock was exposed, and the type of dominant
vegetation altered in many places. An almost barren ridge may represent
all that remains of what was once a vast forested flood plain. Thus,
increased elevation of the land produces contrasted conditions of slope,
vegetation, availability of ground water, exposure to wind and so forth,
and these unite in diversifying climate. Where mountains are formed,
strong contrasts are sure to occur. The windward slopes may be very
rainy, while neighboring leeward slopes are parched by a dry foehn wind.
At the same time the tops may be snow-covered. Increased local contrasts
in climatic conditions are known to influence the intensity of cyclonic
storms,[91] and these affect the climatic conditions of all middle and
high latitudes, if not of the entire earth. The paths followed by
cyclonic storms are also altered by increased contrast between land and
water. When the continents are notably colder than the neighboring
oceans, high atmospheric pressure develops on the lands and interferes
with the passage of lows, which are therefore either deflected around
the continent or forced to move slowly.
The distribution of lofty mountains has an even more striking climatic
effect than the general uplift of a region. In Proterozoic times there
was a great range in the Lake Superior region; in the late Devonian the
Acadian mountains of New England and the Maritime Provinces of Canada
possibly attained a height equal to the present Rockies. Subsequently,
in the late Paleozoic a significant range stood where the Ouachitas now
are. Accompanying the uplift of each of these ranges, and all others,
the climate of the surrounding area, especially to leeward, must have
been altered greatly. Many extensive salt deposits found now in fairly
humid regions, for example, the Pennsylvanian and Permian deposits of
Kansas and Oklahoma, were probably laid down in times of local aridity
due to the cutting off of moisture-bearing winds by the mountains of
Llanoria in Louisiana and Texas. Hence such deposits do not necessarily
indicate periods of widespread and profound aridity.
When the causes of ancient glaciation were first considered by
geologists, about the middle of the nineteenth century, it was usually
assumed that the glaciated areas had been elevated to great heights, and
thus rendered cold enough to permit the accumulation of glaciers. The
many glaciers occurring in the Alps of central Europe where glaciology
arose doubtless suggested this explanation. However, it is now known
that most of the ancient glaciation was not of the alpine type, and
there is adequate proof that the glacial periods cannot be explained as
due directly and solely to uplift. Nevertheless, upheavals of the lands
are among the most important factors in controlling climate, and
variations in the height of the lands have doubtless assisted in
producing climate oscillations, especially those of long duration.
Moreover, the progressive increase in the height of the lands has
presumably played a part in fostering local and zonal diversity in
contrast with the relative uniformity of earlier geological times.
IV. The contraction of the earth has been accompanied by volcanic
activity as well as by changes in the extent, distribution, and altitude
of the lands. The probable part played by volcanic dust as a
contributory factor in producing short sudden climatic variations has
already been discussed. There is, however, another though probably less
important respect in which volcanic activity may have had at least a
slight climatic significance. The oldest known rocks, those of the
Archean era, contain so much igneous matter that many students have
assumed that they show that the entire earth was once liquid. It is now
considered that they merely indicate igneous activity of great
magnitude. In the later part of Proterozoic time, during the second
quarter of the earth's history according to Schuchert's estimate, there
were again vast outflowings of lava. In the Lake Superior district, for
example, a thickness of more than a mile accumulated over a large area,
and lavas are common in many areas where rocks of this age are known.
The next quarter of the earth's history elapsed without any
correspondingly great outflows so far as is known, though several lesser
ones occurred. Toward the end of the last quarter, and hence quite
recently from the geological standpoint, another period of outflows,
perhaps as noteworthy as that of the Proterozoic, occurred in the
Cretaceous and Tertiary.
The climatic effects of such extensive lava flows would be essentially
as follows: In the first place so long as the lavas were hot they would
set up a local system of convection with inflowing winds. This would
interfere at least a little with the general winds of the area. Again,
where the lava flowed out into water, or where rain fell upon hot lava,
there would be rapid evaporation which would increase the rainfall. Then
after the lava had cooled, it would still influence climate a trifle in
so far as its color was notably darker or lighter than that of the
average surface. Dark surfaces absorb solar heat and become relatively
warm when the sun shines upon them. Dark objects likewise radiate heat
more rapidly than light-colored objects. Hence they cool more rapidly at
night, and in the winter. As most lavas are relatively dark they
increase the average diurnal range of temperature. Hence even after they
are cool they increase the climatic diversity of the land.
The amount of heat given to the atmosphere by an extensive lava flow,
though large according to human standards, is small compared with the
amount received from the sun by a like area, except during the first few
weeks or months before the lava has formed a thick crust. Furthermore,
probably only a small fraction of any large series of flows occurred in
a given century or millennium. Moreover, even the largest lava flows
covered an area of only a few hundredths of one per cent of the earth's
surface. Nevertheless, the conditions which modify climate are so
complicated that it would be rash to state that this amount of
additional heat has been of no climatic significance. Like the
proverbial "straw that broke the camel's back," the changes it would
surely produce in local convection, atmospheric pressure, and the
direction of the wind may have helped to shift the paths of storms and
to produce other complications which were of appreciable climatic
significance.
V. The last point which we shall consider in connection with the effect
of the earth's interior upon climate is internal heat. The heat given
off by lavas is merely a small part of that which is emitted by the
earth as a whole. In the earliest part of geological history enough heat
may have escaped from the interior of the earth to exert a profound
influence on the climate. Knowlton,[92] as we have seen, has recently
built up an elaborate theory on this assumption. At present, however,
accurate measurements show that the escape of heat is so slight that it
has no appreciable influence except in a few volcanic areas. It is
estimated to raise the average temperature of the earth's surface less
than 0.1°C.[93]
In order to contribute enough heat to raise the surface temperature
1°C., the temperature gradient from the interior of the earth to the
surface would need to be ten times as great as now, for the rate of
conduction varies directly with the gradient. If the gradient were ten
times as great as now, the rocks at a depth of two and one-half miles
would be so hot as to be almost liquid according to Barrell's[94]
estimates. The thick strata of unmetamorphosed Paleozoic rocks indicate
that such high temperatures have not prevailed at such slight depths
since the Proterozoic. Furthermore, the fact that the climate was cold
enough to permit glaciation early in the Proterozoic era and at from one
to three other times before the opening of the Paleozoic suggests that
the rate of escape of heat was not rapid even in the first half of the
earth's recorded history. Yet even if the general escape of heat has
never been large since the beginning of the better-known part of
geological history, it was presumably greater in early times than at
present.
If there actually has been an appreciable decrease in the amount of heat
given out by the earth's interior, its effects would agree with the
observed conditions of the geological record. It would help to explain
the relative mildness of zonal, seasonal, and local contrasts of climate
in early geological times, but it would not help to explain the long
oscillations from era to era which appear to have been of much greater
importance. Those oscillations, so far as we can yet judge, may have
been due in part to solar changes, but in large measure they seem to be
explained by variations in the extent, distribution, and altitude of the
lands. Such variations appear to be the inevitable result of the earth's
contraction.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 70: Chas. Schuchert: The Earth's Changing Surface and Climate
during Geologic Time; in Lull: The Evolution of the Earth and Its
Inhabitants, 1918, p. 55.]
[Footnote 71: Quoted by J. Cornet: Cours de Géologie, 1920, p. 330.]
[Footnote 72: T. C. Chamberlin: The Order of Magnitude of the Shrinkage
of the Earth; Jour. Geol., Vol. 28, 1920, pp. 1-17, 126-157.]
[Footnote 73: G. I. Taylor: Philosophical Transactions, A. 220, 1919,
pp. 1-33; Monthly Notices Royal Astron. Soc., Jan., 1920, Vol. 80,
p. 308.]
[Footnote 74: J. Jeffreys: Monthly Notices Royal Astron. Soc., Jan.,
1920, Vol. 80, p. 309.]
[Footnote 75: E. W. Brown: personal communication.]
[Footnote 76: C. S. Slichter: The Rotational Period of a Heterogeneous
Spheroid; in Contributions to the Fundamental Problems of Geology, by
T. C. Chamberlin, _et al._, Carnegie Inst. of Wash., No. 107, 1909.]
[Footnote 77: E. Suess: The Face of the Earth, Vol. II, p. 553, 1901.]
[Footnote 78: Chas. Schuchert: The Earth's Changing Surface and Climate;
in Lull: The Evolution of the Earth and Its Inhabitants, 1918, p. 78.]
[Footnote 79: J. Barren: Rhythms and the Measurement of Geologic Time;
Bull. Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 28, 1917, p. 838.]
[Footnote 80: Chas. Schuchert: _loc. cit._, p. 78.]
[Footnote 81: T. C. Chamberlin: Diastrophism, the Ultimate Basis of
Correlation; Jour. Geol., Vol. 16, 1909; Chas. Schuchert: _loc. cit._]
[Footnote 82: Pirsson-Schuchert: Textbook of Geology, 1915, Vol. II, p.
982; Chas. Schuchert: Paleogeography of North America; Bull. Geol. Soc.
Am., Vol. 20, pp. 427-606; reference on p. 499.]
[Footnote 83: The general subject of the climatic significance of
continentality is discussed by C. E. P. Brooks: continentality and
Temperature; Quart. Jour. Royal Meteorol. Soc., April, 1917, and Oct.,
1918.]
[Footnote 84: Chas. Schuchert: Climates of Geologic Time; in The
Climatic Factor; Carnegie Institution, 1914, p. 286.]
[Footnote 85: A. de Lapparent: Traité de Géologie, 1906.]
[Footnote 86: Chas. Schuchert: Historical Geology, 1915, p. 464.]
[Footnote 87: M. M. Metcalf: Upon an important method of studying
problems of relationship and of geographical distribution; Proceedings
National Academy of Sciences, Vol. 6, July, 1920, pp. 432-433.]
[Footnote 88: Chas. Schuchert: Paleogeography of North America; Bull.
Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 20, 1910; and Willis, Salisbury, and others:
Outlines of Geologic History, 1910.]
[Footnote 89: Chas. Schuchert: The Earth's Changing Surface and Climate;
in Lull: The Evolution of the Earth and Its Inhabitants, 1918, p. 50.]
[Footnote 90: A. J. Henry: The Decrease of Precipitation with Altitude;
Monthly Weather Review, Vol. 47, 1919, pp. 33-41.]
[Footnote 91: Chas. F. Brooks: Monthly Weather Review, Vol. 46, 1918, p.
511; and also A. J. Henry and others: Weather Forecasting in the United
States, 1913.]
[Footnote 92: F. H. Knowlton: Evolution of Geologic Climates; Bull.
Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 30, Dec., 1919, pp. 499-566.]
[Footnote 93: Talbert, quoted by I. Bowman: Forest Physiography, 1911,
p. 63.]
[Footnote 94: J. Barrell: Rhythms and the Measurement of Geologic Time;
Bull. Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 28, 1917, pp. 745-904.]
CHAPTER XII
POST-GLACIAL CRUSTAL MOVEMENTS AND CLIMATIC CHANGES
An interesting practical application of some of the preceding
generalizations is found in an attempt by C. E. P. Brooks[95] to
interpret post-glacial climatic changes almost entirely in terms of
crustal movement. We believe that he carries the matter much too far,
but his discussion is worthy of rather full recapitulation, not only
for its theoretical value but because it gives a good summary of
post-glacial changes. His climatic table for northwest Europe as
reprinted from the annual report of the Smithsonian Institution for
1917, p. 366, is as follows:
_Phase_ _Climate_ _Date_
1. The Last Great Arctic climate. 30,000-18,000 B. C.
Glaciation.
2. The Retreat of the Severe continental 18,000-6000 B. C.
Glaciers. climate.
3. The Continental Phase. Continental climate. 6000-4000 B. C.
4. The Maritime Phase. Warm and moist. 4000-3000 B. C.
5. The Later Forest Phase. Warm and dry. 3000-1800 B. C.
6. The Peat-Bog Phase. Cooler and moister. 1800 B. C.-300 A. D.
7. The Recent Phase. Becoming drier. 300 A. D.-
Brooks bases his chronology largely on De Geer's measurements of the
annual layers of clay in lake bottoms but makes much use of other
evidence. According to Brooks the last glacial epoch lasted roughly from
30,000 to 18,000 B. C., but this includes a slight amelioration of
climate followed by a readvance of the ice, known as the Buhl stage.
During the time of maximum glaciation the British Isles stood twenty or
thirty feet higher than now and Scandinavia was "considerably" more
elevated. The author believes that this caused a fall of 1°C. in the
temperature of the British Isles and of 2°C. in Scandinavia. By an
ingenious though not wholly convincing method of calculation he
concludes that this lowering of temperature, aided by an increase in the
area of the lands, sufficed to start an ice sheet in Scandinavia. The
relatively small area of ice cooled the air and gave rise to an area of
high barometric pressure. This in turn is supposed to have caused
further expansion of the ice and to have led to full-fledged glaciation.
About 18,000 B. C. the retreat of the ice began in good earnest. Even
though no evidence has yet been found, Brooks believes there must have
been a change in the distribution of land and sea to account for the
diminution of the ice. The ensuing millenniums formed the Magdalenian
period in human history, the last stage of the Paleolithic, when man
lived in caves and reindeer were abundant in central Europe.[96] At
first the ice retreated very slowly and there were periods when for
scores of years the ice edge remained stationary or even readvanced.
About 10,000 B. C. the edge of the ice lay along the southern coast of
Sweden. During the next 2000 years it withdrew more rapidly to about
59°N. Then came the Fennoscandian pause, or Gschnitz stage, when for
about 200 years the ice edge remained in one position, forming a great
moraine. Brooks suggests that this pause about 8000 B. C. was due to the
closing of the connection between the Atlantic Ocean and the Baltic Sea
and the synchronous opening of a connection between the Baltic and the
White Seas, whereby cold Arctic waters replaced the warmer Atlantic
waters. He notes, however, that about 7500 B. C. the obliquity of the
ecliptic was probably nearly 1° greater than at present. This he
calculates to have caused the climate of Germany and Sweden to be 1°F.
colder than at present in winter and 1°F. warmer in summer.
The next climatic stage was marked by a rise of temperature till about
6000 B. C. During this period the ice at first retreated, presumably
because the climate was ameliorating, although no cause of such
amelioration is assigned. At length the ice lay far enough north to
allow a connection between the Baltic and the Atlantic by way of Lakes
Wener and Wetter in southern Sweden. This is supposed to have warmed the
Baltic Sea and to have caused the climate to become distinctly milder.
Next the land rose once more so that the Baltic was separated from the
Atlantic and was converted into the Ancylus lake of fresh water. The
southwest Baltic region then stood 400 feet higher than now. The result
was the Daun stage, about 5000 B. C., when the ice halted or perhaps
readvanced a little, its front being then near Ragunda in about latitude
63°. Why such an elevation did not cause renewed glaciation instead of
merely the slight Daun pause, Brooks does not explain, although his
calculations as to the effect of a slight elevation of the land during
the main period of glaciation from 30,000 to 18,000 B. C. would seem to
demand a marked readvance.
After 5000 B. C. there ensued a period when the climate, although still
distinctly continental, was relatively mild. The winters, to be sure,
were still cold but the summers were increasingly warm. In Sweden, for
example, the types of vegetation indicate that the summer temperature
was 7°F. higher than now. Storms, Brooks assumes, were comparatively
rare except on the outer fringe of Great Britain. There they were
sufficiently abundant so that in the Northwest they gave rise to the
first Peat-Bog period, during which swamps replaced forests of birch and
pine. Southern and eastern England, however, probably had a dry
continental climate. Even in northwest Norway storms were rare as is
indicated by remains of forests on islands now barren because of the
strong winds and fierce storms. Farther east most parts of central and
northern Europe were relatively dry. This was the early Neolithic period
when man advanced from the use of unpolished to polished stone
implements.
Not far from 4000 B. C. the period of continental climate was replaced
by a comparatively moist maritime climate. Brooks believes that this was
because submergence opened the mouth of the Baltic and caused the fresh
Ancylus lake to give place to the so-called Litorina sea. The
temperature in Sweden averaged about 3°F. higher than at present and in
southwestern Norway 2°. More important than this was the small annual
range of temperature due to the fact that the summers were cool while
the winters were mild. Because of the presence of a large expanse of
water in the Baltic region, storms, as our author states, then crossed
Great Britain and followed the Baltic depression, carrying the moisture
far inland. In spite of the additional moisture thus available the snow
line in southern Norway was higher than now.
At this point Brooks turns to other parts of the world. He states that
not far from 4000 B. C., a submergence of the lands, rarely amounting to
more than twenty-five feet, took place not only in the Baltic region but
in Ireland, Iceland, Spitzbergen, and other parts of the Arctic Ocean,
as well as in the White Sea, Greenland, and the eastern part of North
America. Evidences of a mild climate are found in all those places.
Similar evidence of a mild warm climate is found in East Africa, East
Australia, Tierra del Fuego, and Antarctica. The dates are not
established with certainty but they at least fall in the period
immediately preceding the present epoch. In explanation of these
conditions Brooks assumes a universal change of sea level. He suggests
with some hesitation that this may have been due to one of Pettersson's
periods of maximum "tide-generating force." According to Pettersson the
varying positions of the moon, earth, and sun cause the tides to vary in
cycles of about 9, 90, and 1800 years, though the length of the periods
is not constant. When tides are high there is great movement of ocean
waters and hence a great mixture of the water at different latitudes.
This is supposed to cause an amelioration of climate. The periods of
maximum and minimum tide-generating force are as follows:
Maxima 3500 B. C.--------2100 B. C.--------350 B. C.-------A. D. 1434
Minima ---------2800 B. C.--------1200 B. C.-------A. D. 530---------
Brooks thinks that the big trees in California and the Norse sagas and
Germanic myths indicate a rough agreement of climatic phenomena with
Pettersson's last three dates, while the mild climate of 4000 B. C. may
really belong to 3500 B. C. He gives no evidence confirming Pettersson's
view at the other three dates.
To return to Brooks' sketch of the relation of climatic pulsations to
the altitude of the lands, by 3000 B. C., that is, toward the close of
the Neolithic period, further elevation is supposed to have taken place
over the central latitudes of western Europe. Southern Britain, which
had remained constantly above its present level ever since 30,000 B. C.,
was perhaps ninety feet higher than now. Ireland was somewhat enlarged
by elevation, the Straits of Dover were almost closed, and parts of the
present North Sea were land. To these conditions Brooks ascribes the
prevalence of a dry continental climate. The storms shifted northward
once more, the winds were mild, as seems to be proved by remains of
trees in exposed places; and forests replaced fields of peat and heath
in Britain and Germany. The summers were perhaps warmer than now but the
winters were severe. The relatively dry climate prevailed as far west as
Ireland. For example, in Drumkelin Bog in Donegal County a corded oak
road and a two-story log cabin appear to belong to this time. Fourteen
feet of bog lie below the floor and twenty-six above. This period,
perhaps 3000-2000 B. C., was the legendary heroic age of Ireland when
"the vigour of the Irish reached a level not since attained." This, as
Brooks points out, may have been a result of the relatively dry climate,
for today the extreme moisture of Ireland seems to be a distinct
handicap. In Scandinavia, civilization, or at least the stage of
relative progress, was also high at this time.
By 1600 B. C. the land had assumed nearly its present level in the
British Isles and the southern Baltic region, while northern Scandinavia
still stood lower than now. The climate of Britain and Germany was so
humid that there was an extensive formation of peat even on high ground
not before covered. This moist stage seems to have lasted almost to the
time of Christ, and may have been the reason why the Romans described
Britain as peculiarly wet and damp. At this point Brooks again departs
from northwest Europe to a wider field:
It is possible that we have to attribute this damp period in
Northwest Europe to some more general cause, for Ellsworth
Huntington's curves of tree-growth in California and climate in
Western Asia both show moister conditions from about 1000 B. C. to
A. D. 200, and the same author believes that the Mediterranean lands
had a heavier rainfall about 500 B. C. to A. D. 200. It seems that
the phase was marked by a general increase of the storminess of the
temperate regions of the northern hemisphere at least, with a
maximum between Ireland and North Germany, indicating probably that
the Baltic again became the favourite track of depressions from the
Atlantic.
Brooks ends his paper with a brief résumé of glacial changes in North
America, but as the means of dating events are unreliable the degree of
synchronism with Europe is not clear. He sums up his conclusions as
follows:
On the whole it appears that though there is a general similarity in
the climatic history of the two sides of the North Atlantic, the
changes are not really contemporaneous, and such relationship as
appears is due mainly to the natural similarity in the geographical
history of two regions both recovering from an Ice Age, and only
very partially to world-wide pulsations of climate. Additional
evidence on this head will be available when Baron de Geer publishes
the results of his recent investigations of the seasonal glacial
clays of North America, especially if, as he hopes, he is able to
correlate the banding of these clays with the growth-rings of the
big trees.
When we turn to the northwest of North America, this is brought out
very markedly. For in Yukon and Alaska the Ice Age was a very mild
affair compared with its severity in eastern America and
Scandinavia. As the land had not a heavy ice-load to recover from,
there were no complicated geographical changes. Also, there were no
fluctuations of climate, but simply a gradual passage to present
conditions. The latter circumstance especially seems to show that
the emphasis laid on geographical rather than astronomical factors
of _great_ climatic changes is not misplaced.
Brooks' painstaking discussion of post-glacial climatic changes is of
great value because of the large body of material which he has so
carefully wrought together. His strong belief in the importance of
changes in the level of the lands deserves serious consideration. It is
difficult, however, to accept his final conclusion that such changes are
the main factors in recent climatic changes. It is almost impossible,
for example, to believe that movements of the land could produce almost
the same series of climatic changes in Europe, Central Asia, the western
and eastern parts of North America, and the southern hemisphere. Yet
such changes appear to have occurred during and since the glacial
period. Again there is no evidence whatever that movements of the land
have anything to do with the historic cycles of climate or with the
cycles of weather in our own day, which seem to be the same as glacial
cycles on a small scale. Also, as Dr. Simpson points out in discussing
Brooks' paper, there appears "no solution along these lines of the
problem connected with rich vegetation in both polar circles and the
ice-age which produced the ice-sheet at sea-level in Northern India."
Nevertheless, we may well believe that Brooks is right in holding that
changes in the relative level and relative area of land and sea have had
important local effects. While they are only one of the factors involved
in climatic changes, they are certainly one that must constantly be kept
in mind.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 95: C. E. P. Brooks: The Evolution of Climate in Northwest
Europe. Quart. Jour. Royal Meteorol. Soc., Vol. 47, 1921, pp. 173-194.]
[Footnote 96: H. F. Osborn: Men of the Old Stone Age, N. Y., 1915; J. M.
Tyler: The New Stone Age in Northwestern Europe, N. Y., 1920.]
CHAPTER XIII
THE CHANGING COMPOSITION OF OCEANS AND ATMOSPHERE
Having discussed the climatic effect of movements of the earth's crust
during the course of geological time, we are now ready to consider the
corresponding effects due to changes in the movable envelopes--the
oceans and the atmosphere. Variations in the composition of sea water
and of air and in the amount of air must almost certainly have occurred,
and must have produced at least slight climatic consequences. It should
be pointed out at once that such variations appear to be far less
important climatically than do movements of the earth's crust and
changes in the activity of the sun. Moreover, in most cases, they are
not reversible as are the crustal and solar phenomena. Hence, while most
of them appear to have been unimportant so far as climatic oscillations
and fluctuations are concerned, they seemingly have aided in producing
the slight secular progression to which we have so often referred.
There is general agreement among geologists that the ocean has become
increasingly saline throughout the ages. Indeed, calculations of the
rate of accumulation of salt have been a favorite method of arriving at
estimates of the age of the ocean, and hence of the earliest marine
sediments. So far as known, however, no geologist or climatologist has
discussed the probable climatic effects of increased salinity. Yet it
seems clear that an increase in salinity must have a slight effect upon
climate.
Salinity affects climate in four ways: (1) It appreciably influences the
rate of evaporation; (2) it alters the freezing point; (3) it produces
certain indirect effects through changes in the absorption of carbon
dioxide; and (4) it has an effect on oceanic circulation.
(1) According to the experiments of Mazelle and Okada, as reported by
Krümmel,[97] evaporation from ordinary sea water is from 9 to 30 per
cent less rapid than from fresh water under similar conditions. The
variation from 9 to 30 per cent found in the experiments depends,
perhaps, upon the wind velocity. When salt water is stagnant, rapid
evaporation tends to result in the development of a film of salt on the
top of the water, especially where it is sheltered from the wind. Such a
film necessarily reduces evaporation. Hence the relatively low salinity
of the oceans in the past probably had a tendency to increase the amount
of water vapor in the air. Even a little water vapor augments slightly
the blanketing effect of the air and to that extent diminishes the
diurnal and seasonal range of temperature and the contrast from zone to
zone.
(2) Increased salinity means a lower freezing temperature of the oceans
and hence would have an effect during cold periods such as the present
and the Pleistocene ice age. It would not, however, be of importance
during the long warm periods which form most of geologic time. A
salinity of about 3.5 per cent at present lowers the freezing point of
the ocean roughly 2°C. below that of fresh water. If the ocean were
fresh and our winters as cold as now, all the harbors of New England and
the Middle Atlantic States would be icebound. The Baltic Sea would also
be frozen each winter, and even the eastern harbors of the British Isles
would be frequently locked in ice. At high latitudes the area of
permanently frozen oceans would be much enlarged. The effect of such a
condition upon marine life in high latitudes would be like that of a
change to a warmer climate. It would protect the life on the continental
shelf from the severe battering of winter storms. It would also lessen
the severity of the winter temperature in the water for when water
freezes it gives up much latent heat,--eighty calories per cubic
centimeter. Part of this raises the temperature of the underlying water.
The expansion of the ice near northern shores would influence the life
of the lands quite differently from that of the oceans. It would act
like an addition of land to the continents and would, therefore,
increase the atmospheric contrasts from zone to zone and from
continental interior to ocean. In summer the ice upon the sea would tend
to keep the coastal lands cool, very much as happens now near the Arctic
Ocean, where the ice floes have a great effect through their reflection
of light and their absorption of heat in melting. In winter the virtual
enlargement of the continents by the addition of an ice fringe would
decrease the snowfall upon the lands. Still more important would be the
effect in intensifying the anti-cyclonic conditions which normally
prevail in winter not only over continents but over ice-covered oceans.
Hence the outblowing cold winds would he strengthened.[98] The net
effect of all these conditions would apparently be a diminution of
snowfall in high latitudes upon the lands even though the summer
snowfall upon the ocean and the coasts may have increased. This
condition may have been one reason why widespread glaciation does not
appear to have prevailed in high latitudes during the Proterozoic and
Permian glaciations, even though it occurred farther south. If the ocean
during those early glacial epochs were ice-covered down to middle
latitudes, a lack of extensive glaciation in high latitudes would be no
more surprising than is the lack of Pleistocene glaciation in the
northern parts of Alaska and Asia. Great ice sheets are impossible
without a large supply of moisture.
(3) Among the indirect effects of salinity one of the chief appears to
be that the low salinity of the water in the past and the greater ease
with which it froze presumably allowed the temperature of the entire
ocean to be slightly higher than now. This is because ice serves as a
blanket and hinders the radiation of heat from the underlying water. The
temperature of the ocean has a climatic significance not only directly,
but indirectly through its influence on the amount of carbon dioxide
held by the oceans. A change of even 1°C. from the present mean
temperature of 2°C. would alter the ability of the entire ocean to
absorb carbon dioxide by about 4 per cent. This, according to F. W.
Clarke,[99] is because the oceans contain from eighteen to twenty-seven
times as much carbon dioxide as the air when only the free carbon
dioxide is considered, and about seventy times as much according to
Johnson and Williamson[100] when the partially combined carbon dioxide
is also considered. Moreover, the capacity of water for carbon dioxide
varies sharply with the temperature.[101] Hence a rise in temperature of
only 1°C. would theoretically cause the oceans to give up from 30 to 280
times as much carbon dioxide as the air now holds. This, however, is on
the unfounded assumption that the oceans are completely saturated. The
important point is merely that a slight change in ocean temperature
would cause a disproportionately large change in the amount of carbon
dioxide in the air with all that this implies in respect to blanketing
the earth, and thus altering temperature.
(4) Another and perhaps the most important effect of salinity upon
climate depends upon the rapidity of the deep-sea circulation. The
circulation is induced by differences of temperature, but its speed is
affected at least slightly by salinity. The vertical circulation is now
dominated by cold water from subpolar latitudes. Except in closed seas
like the Mediterranean the lower portions of the ocean are near the
freezing point. This is because cold water sinks in high latitudes by
reason of its superior density, and then "creeps" to low latitudes.
There it finally rises and replaces either the water driven poleward by
the winds, or that which has evaporated from the Surface.[102]
During past ages, when the sea water was less salty, the circulation was
presumably more rapid than now. This was because, in tropical regions,
the rise of cold water is hindered by the sinking of warm surface water
which is relatively dense because evaporation has removed part of the
water and caused an accumulation of salt. According to Krümmel and
Mill,[103] the surface salinity of the subtropical belt of the North
Atlantic commonly exceeds 3.7 per cent and sometimes reaches 3.77 per
cent, whereas the underlying waters have a salinity of less than 3.5 per
cent and locally as little as 3.44 per cent. The other oceans are
slightly less saline than the North Atlantic at all depths, but the
vertical salinity gradients along the tropics are similar. According to
the Smithsonian Physical Tables, the difference in salinity between the
surface water and that lying below is equivalent to a difference of .003
in density, where the density of fresh water is taken as 1.000. Since
the decrease in density produced by warming water from the temperature
of its greatest density (4°C.) to the highest temperatures which ever
prevail in the ocean (30°C. or 86°F.) is only .004, the more saline
surface waters of the dry tropics are at most times almost as dense as
the less saline but colder waters beneath the surface, which have come
from higher latitudes. During days of especially great evaporation,
however, the most saline portions of the surface waters in the dry
tropics are denser than the underlying waters and therefore sink, and
produce a temporary local stagnation in the general circulation. Such a
sinking of the warm surface waters is reported by Krümmel, who detected
it by means of the rise in temperature which it produces at considerable
depths. If such a hindrance to the circulation did not exist, the
velocity of the deep-sea movements would be greater.
If in earlier times a more rapid circulation occurred, low latitudes
must have been cooled more than now by the rise of cold waters. At the
same time higher latitudes were presumably warmed by a greater flow of
warm water from tropical regions because less of the surface heat sank
in low latitudes. Such conditions would tend to lessen the climatic
contrast between the different latitudes. Hence, in so far as the rate
of deep-sea circulation depends upon salinity, the slowly increasing
amount of salt in the oceans must have tended to increase the contrasts
between low and high latitudes. Thus for several reasons, the increase
of salinity during geologic history seems to deserve a place among the
minor agencies which help to explain the apparent tendency toward a
secular progression of climate in the direction of greater contrasts
between tropical and subpolar latitudes.
Changes in the composition and amount of the atmosphere have presumably
had a climatic importance greater than that of changes in the salinity
of the oceans. The atmospheric changes may have been either progressive
or cyclic, or both. In early times, according to the nebular hypothesis,
the atmosphere was much more dense than now and contained a larger
percentage of certain constituents, notably carbon dioxide and water.
The planetesimal hypothesis, on the other hand, postulates an increase
in the density of the atmosphere, for according to this hypothesis the
density of the atmosphere depends upon the power of the earth to hold
gases, and this power increases as the earth grows bigger with the
infall of material from without.[104]
Whichever hypothesis may be correct, it seems probable that when life
first appeared on the land the atmosphere resembled that of today in
certain fundamental respects. It contained the elements essential to
life, and its blanketing effect was such as to maintain temperatures not
greatly different from those of the present. The evidence of this
depends largely upon the narrow limits of temperature within which the
activities of modern life are possible, and upon the cumulative evidence
that ancient life was essentially similar to the types now living. The
resemblance between some of the oldest forms and those of today is
striking. For example, according to Professor Schuchert:[105] "Many of
the living genera of forest trees had their origin in the Cretaceous,
and the giant sequoias of California go back to the Triassic, while
Ginkgo is known in the Permian. Some of the fresh-water molluscs
certainly were living in the early periods of the Mesozoic, and the
lung-fish of today (Ceratodus) is known as far back as the Triassic and
is not very unlike other lung-fishes of the Devonian. The higher
vertebrates and insects, on the other hand, are very sensitive to their
environment, and therefore do not extend back generically beyond the
Cenozoic, and only in a few instances even as far as the Oligocene. Of
marine invertebrates the story is very different, for it is well known
that the horseshoe crab (Limulus) lived in the Upper Jurassic, and
Nautilus in the Triassic, with forms in the Devonian not far removed
from this genus. Still longer-ranging genera occur among the
brachiopods, for living Lingula and Crania have specific representatives
as far back as the early Ordovician. Among living foraminifers, Lagena,
Globigerina, and Nodosaria are known in the later Cambrian or early
Ordovician. In the Middle Cambrian near Field, British Columbia, Walcott
has found a most varied array of invertebrates among which are
crustaceans not far removed from living forms. Zoölogists who see these
wonderful fossils are at once struck with their modernity and the little
change that has taken place in certain stocks since that far remote
time. Back of the Paleozoic, little can be said of life from the generic
standpoint, since so few fossils have been recovered, but what is at
hand suggests that the marine environment was similar to that of today."
At present, as we have repeatedly seen, little growth takes place either
among animals or plants at temperatures below 0°C. or above 40°C., and
for most species the limiting temperatures are about 10° and 30°. The
maintenance of so narrow a scale of temperature is a function of the
atmosphere, as well as of the sun. Without an atmosphere, the
temperature by day would mount fatally wherever the sun rides high in
the sky. By night it would fall everywhere to a temperature approaching
absolute zero, that is -273°C. Some such temperature prevails a few
miles above the earth's surface, beyond the effective atmosphere.
Indeed, even if the atmosphere were almost as it is now, but only lacked
one of the minor constituents, a constituent which is often actually
ignored in statements of the composition of the air, life would be
impossible. Tyndall concludes that if water vapor were entirely removed
from the atmosphere for a single day and night, all life--except that
which is dormant in the form of seeds, eggs, or spores--would be
exterminated. Part would be killed by the high temperature developed by
day when the sun was high, and part, by the cold night.
The testimony of ancient glaciation as to the slight difference in the
climate and therefore in the atmosphere of early and late geological
times is almost as clear as that of life. Just as life proves that the
earth can never have been extremely cold during hundreds of millions of
years, so glaciation in moderately low latitudes near the dawn of earth
history and at several later times, proves that the earth was not
particularly hot even in those early days. The gentle progressive change
of climate which is recorded in the rocks appears to have been only in
slight measure a change in the mean temperature of the earth as a whole,
and almost entirely a change in the distribution of temperature from
place to place and season to season. Hence it seems probable that
neither the earth's own emission of heat, nor the supply of solar heat,
nor the power of the atmosphere to retain heat can have been much
greater a few hundred million years ago than now. It is indeed possible
that these three factors may have varied in such a way that any
variation in one has been offset by variations of the others in the
opposite direction. This, however, is so highly improbable that it seems
advisable to assume that all three have remained relatively constant.
This conclusion together with a realization of the climatic significance
of carbon dioxide has forced most of the adherents of the nebular
hypothesis to abandon their assumption that carbon dioxide, the heaviest
gas in the air, was very abundant until taken out by coal-forming plants
or combined with the calcium oxide of igneous rocks to form the
limestone secreted by animals. In the same way the presence of sun
cracks in sedimentary rocks of all ages suggests that the air cannot
have contained vast quantities of water vapor such as have been assumed
by Knowlton and others in order to account for the former lack of sharp
climatic contrast between the zones. Such a large amount of water vapor
would almost certainly be accompanied by well-nigh universal and
continual cloudiness so that there would be little chance for the pools
on the earth's water-soaked surface to dry up. Furthermore, there is
only one way in which such cloudiness could be maintained and that is by
keeping the air at an almost constant temperature night and day. This
would require that the chief source of warmth be the interior of the
earth, a condition which the Proterozoic, Permian, and other widespread
glaciations seem to disprove.
Thus there appears to be strong evidence against the radical changes in
the atmosphere which are sometimes postulated. Yet some changes must
have taken place, and even minor changes would be accompanied by some
sort of climatic effect. The changes would take the form of either an
increase or a decrease in the atmosphere as a whole, or in its
constituent elements. The chief means by which the atmosphere has
increased appear to be as follows: (a) By contributions from the
interior of the earth via volcanoes and springs and by the weathering of
igneous rocks with the consequent release of their enclosed gases;[106]
(b) by the escape of some of the abundant gases which the ocean holds in
solution; (c) by the arrival on the earth of gases from space, either
enclosed in meteors or as free-flying molecules; (d) by the release of
gases from organic compounds by oxidation, or by exhalation from animals
and plants. On the other hand, one or another of the constituents of the
atmosphere has presumably decreased (a) by being locked up in newly
formed rocks or organic compounds; (b) by being dissolved in the ocean;
(c) by the escape of molecules into space; and (d) by the condensation
of water vapor.
The combined effect of the various means of increase and decrease
depends partly on the amount of each constituent received from the
earth's interior or from space, and partly on the fact that the agencies
which tend to deplete the atmosphere are highly selective in their
action. Our knowledge of how large a quantity of new gases the air has
received is very scanty, but judging by present conditions the general
tendency is toward a slow increase chiefly because of meteorites,
volcanic action, and the work of deep-seated springs. As to decrease,
the case is clearer. This is because the chemically active gases,
oxygen, CO_{2}, and water vapor, tend to be locked up in the rocks,
while the chemically inert gases, nitrogen and argon, show almost no
such tendency. Though oxygen is by far the most abundant element in the
earth's crust, making up more than 50 per cent of the total, it forms
only about one-fifth of the air. Nitrogen, on the other hand, is very
rare in the rocks, but makes up nearly four-fifths of the air. It would,
therefore, seem probable that throughout the earth's history, there has
been a progressive increase in the amount of atmospheric nitrogen, and
presumably a somewhat corresponding increase in the mass of the air. On
the other hand, it is not clear what changes have occurred in the amount
of atmospheric oxygen. It may have increased somewhat or perhaps even
notably. Nevertheless, because of the greater increase in nitrogen, it
may form no greater percentage of the air now than in the distant past.
As to the absolute amounts of oxygen, Barrell[107] thought that
atmospheric oxygen began to be present only after plants had appeared.
It will be recalled that plants absorb carbon dioxide and separate the
carbon from the oxygen, using the carbon in their tissues and setting
free the oxygen. As evidence of a paucity of oxygen in the air in early
Proterozoic times, Barrell cites the fact that the sedimentary rocks of
that remote time commonly are somewhat greyish or greenish-grey wackes,
or other types, indicating incomplete oxidation. He admits, however,
that the stupendous thicknesses of red sandstones, quartzite, and
hematitic iron ores of the later Proterozoic prove that by that date
there was an abundance of atmospheric oxygen. If so, the change from
paucity to abundance must have occurred before fossils were numerous
enough to give much clue to climate. However, Barrell's evidence as to
a former paucity of atmospheric oxygen is not altogether convincing. In
the first place, it does not seem justifiable to assume that there could
be no oxygen until plants appeared to break down the carbon dioxide, for
some oxygen is contributed by volcanoes,[108] and lightning decomposes
water into its elements. Part of the hydrogen thus set free escapes into
space, for the earth's gravitative force does not appear great enough to
hold this lightest of gases, but the oxygen remains. Thus electrolysis
of water results in the accumulation of oxygen. In the second place,
there is no proof that the ancient greywackes are not deoxidized
sediments. Light colored rock formations do not necessarily indicate
a paucity of atmospheric oxygen, for such rocks are abundant
even in recent times. For example, the Tertiary formations are
characteristically light colored, a result, however, of deoxidation.
Finally, the fact that sedimentary rocks, irrespective of their age,
contain an average of about 1.5 per cent more oxygen than do igneous
rocks,[109] suggests that oxygen was present in the air in quantity even
when the earliest shales and sandstones were formed, for atmospheric
oxygen seems to be the probable source of the extra oxygen they contain.
The formation of these particular sedimentary rocks by weathering of
igneous rocks involves only a little carbon dioxide and water. Although
it seems probable that oxygen was present in the atmosphere even at the
beginning of the geological record, it may have been far less abundant
then than now. It may have been removed from the atmosphere by animals
or by the oxidation of the rocks almost as rapidly as it was added by
volcanoes, plants, and other agencies.
After this chapter was in type, St. John[C] announced his interesting
discovery that oxygen is apparently lacking in the atmosphere of Venus.
He considers that this proves that Venus has no life. Furthermore he
concludes that so active an element as oxygen cannot be abundant in the
atmosphere of a planet unless plants continually supply large quantities
by breaking down carbon dioxide.
But even if the earth has experienced a notable increase in atmospheric
oxygen since the appearance of life, this does not necessarily involve
important climatic changes except those due to increased atmospheric
density. This is because oxygen has very little effect upon the passage
of light or heat, being transparent to all but a few wave lengths. Those
absorbed are chiefly in the ultra violet.
The distinct possibility that oxygen has increased in amount, makes it
the more likely that there has been an increase in the total atmosphere,
for the oxygen would supplement the increase in the relatively inert
nitrogen and argon, which has presumably taken place. The climatic
effects of an increase in the atmosphere include, in the first place, an
increased scattering of light as it approaches the earth. Nitrogen,
argon, and oxygen all scatter the short waves of light and thus
interfere with their reaching the earth. Abbot and Fowle,[110] who have
carefully studied the matter, believe that at present the scattering is
quantitatively important in lessening insolation. Hence our supposed
general increase in the volume of the air during part of geological
times would tend to reduce the amount of solar energy reaching the
earth's surface. On the other hand, nitrogen and argon do not appear to
absorb the long wave lengths known as heat, and oxygen absorbs so little
as to be almost a non-absorber. Therefore the reduced penetration of the
air by solar radiation due to the scattering of light would apparently
not be neutralized by any direct increase in the blanketing effect of
the atmosphere, and the temperature near the earth's surface would be
slightly lowered by a thicker atmosphere. This would diminish the amount
of water vapor which would be held in the air, and thereby lower the
temperature a trifle more.
In the second place, the higher atmospheric pressure which would result
from the addition of gases to the air would cause a lessening of the
rate of evaporation, for that rate declines as pressure increases.
Decreased evaporation would presumably still further diminish the vapor
content of the atmosphere. This would mean a greater daily and seasonal
range of temperature, as is very obvious when we compare clear weather
with cloudy. Cloudy nights are relatively warm while clear nights are
cool, because water vapor is an almost perfect absorber of radiant heat,
and there is enough of it in the air on moist nights to interfere
greatly with the escape of the heat accumulated during the day.
Therefore, if atmospheric moisture were formerly much more abundant than
now, the temperature must have been much more uniform. The tendency
toward climatic severity as time went on would be still further
increased by the cooling which would result from the increased wind
velocity discussed below; for cooling by convection increases with the
velocity of the wind, as does cooling by conduction.
Any persistent lowering of the general temperature of the air would
affect not only its ability to hold water vapor, but would produce a
lessening in the amount of atmospheric carbon dioxide, for the colder
the ocean becomes the more carbon dioxide it can hold in solution. When
the oceanic temperature falls, part of the atmospheric carbon dioxide is
dissolved in the ocean. This minor constituent of the air is important
because although it forms only 0.003 per cent of the earth's atmosphere,
Abbot and Fowle's[111] calculations indicate that it absorbs over 10 per
cent of the heat radiated outward from the earth. Hence variations in
the amount of carbon dioxide may have caused an appreciable variation in
temperature and thus in other climatic conditions. Humphreys, as we have
seen, has calculated that a doubling of the carbon dioxide in the air
would directly raise the earth's temperature to the extent of 1.3°C.,
and a halving would lower it a like amount. The indirect results of such
an increase or decrease might be greater than the direct results, for
the change in temperature due to variations in carbon dioxide would
alter the capacity of the air to hold moisture.
Two conditions would especially help in this respect; first, changes in
nocturnal cooling, and second, changes in local convection. The presence
of carbon dioxide diminishes nocturnal cooling because it absorbs the
heat radiated by the earth, and re-radiates part of it back again. Hence
with increased carbon dioxide and with the consequent warmer nights
there would be less nocturnal condensation of water vapor to form dew
and frost. Local convection is influenced by carbon dioxide because this
gas lessens the temperature gradient. In general, the less the gradient,
that is, the less the contrast between the temperature at the surface
and higher up, the less convection takes place. This is illustrated by
the seasonal variation in convection. In summer, when the gradient is
steepest, convection reaches its maximum. It will be recalled that when
air rises it is cooled by expansion, and if it ascends far the moisture
is soon condensed and precipitated. Indeed, local convection is
considered by C. P. Day to be the chief agency which keeps the lower air
from being continually saturated with moisture. The presence of carbon
dioxide lessens convection because it increases the absorption of heat
in the zone above the level in which water vapor is abundant, thus
warming these higher layers. The lower air may not be warmed
correspondingly by an increase in carbon dioxide if Abbot and Fowle are
right in stating that near the earth's surface there is enough water
vapor to absorb practically all the wave lengths which carbon dioxide is
capable of absorbing. Hence carbon dioxide is chiefly effective at
heights to which the low temperature prevents water vapor from
ascending. Carbon dioxide is also effective in cold winters and in high
latitudes when even the lower air is too cold to contain much water
vapor. Moreover, carbon dioxide, by altering the amount of atmospheric
water vapor, exerts an indirect as well as a direct effect upon
temperature.
Other effects of the increase in air pressure which we are here assuming
during at least the early part of geological times are corresponding
changes in barometric contrasts, in the strength of winds, and in the
mass of air carried by the winds along the earth's surface. The increase
in the mass of the air would reënforce the greater velocity of the winds
in their action as eroding and transporting agencies. Because of the
greater weight of the air, the winds would be capable of picking up more
dust and of carrying it farther and higher; while the increased
atmospheric friction would keep it aloft a longer time. The significance
of dust at high levels and its relation to solar radiation have already
been discussed in connection with volcanoes. It will be recalled that on
the average it lowers the surface temperature. At lower levels, since
dust absorbs heat quickly and gives it out quickly, its presence raises
the temperature of the air by day and lowers it by night. Hence an
increase in dustiness tends toward greater extremes.
From all these considerations it appears that if the atmosphere has
actually evolved according to the supposition which is here tentatively
entertained, the general tendency of the resultant climatic changes must
have been partly toward long geological oscillations and partly toward a
general though very slight increase in climatic severity and in the
contrasts between the zones. This seems to agree with the geological
record, although the fact that we are living in an age of relative
climatic severity may lead us astray.
The significant fact about the whole matter is that the three great
types of terrestrial agencies, namely, those of the earth's interior,
those of the oceans, and those of the air, all seem to have suffered
changes which lead to slow variations of climate. Many reversals have
doubtless taken place, and the geologic oscillations thus induced are
presumably of much greater importance than the progressive change, yet
so far as we can tell the purely terrestrial changes throughout the
hundreds of millions of years of geological time have tended toward
complexity and toward increased contrasts from continent to ocean, from
latitude to latitude, from season to season, and from day to night.
Throughout geological history the slow and almost imperceptible
differentiation of the earth's surface has been one of the most
noteworthy of all changes. It has been opposed by the extraordinary
conservatism of the universe which causes the average temperature today
to be so like that of hundreds of millions of years ago that many types
of life are almost identical. Nevertheless, the differentiation has gone
on. Often, to be sure, it has presumably been completely masked by the
disturbances of the solar atmosphere which appear to have been the cause
of the sharper, shorter climatic pulsations. But regardless of cosmic
conservatism and of solar impulses toward change, the slow
differentiation of the earth's surface has apparently given to the world
of today much of the geographical complexity which is so stimulating a
factor in organic evolution. Such complexity--such diversity from place
to place--appears to be largely accounted for by purely terrestrial
causes. It may be regarded as the great terrestrial contribution to the
climatic environment which guides the development of life.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 97: Encyclopædia Britannica, 11th edition: article "Ocean."]
[Footnote 98: C. E. P. Brooks: The Meteorological Conditions of an Ice
sheet and Their Bearing on the Desiccation of the Globe; Quart. Jour.
Royal Meteorol. Soc., Vol. 40, 1914, pp. 53-70.]
[Footnote 99: Data of Geochemistry, Fourth Ed., 1920; Bull. No. 695, U.
S. Geol. Survey.]
[Footnote 100: Quoted by Schuchert in The Evolution of the Earth.]
[Footnote 101: Smithsonian Physical Tables, Sixth Revision, 1914, p.
142.]
[Footnote 102: Chamberlin, in a very suggestive article "On a possible
reversal of oceanic circulation" (Jour. of Geol., Vol. 14, pp. 363-373,
1906), discusses the probable climatic consequences of a reversal in the
direction of deep-sea circulation. It is not wholly beyond the bounds of
possibility that, in the course of ages the increasing drainage of salt
from the lands not only by nature but by man's activities in agriculture
and drainage, may ultimately cause such a reversal by increasing the
ocean's salinity until the more saline tropical portion is heavier than
the cooler but fresher subpolar waters. If that should happen,
Greenland, Antarctica, and the northern shores of America and Asia would
be warmed by the tropical heat which had been transferred poleward
beneath the surface of the ocean, without loss _en route_. Subpolar
regions, under such a condition of reversed deep-sea circulation, might
have a mild climate. Indeed, they might be among the world's most
favorable regions climatically.]
[Footnote 103: Encyclopædia Britannica: article "Ocean."]
[Footnote 104: Chamberlin and Salisbury: Geology, Vol. II, pp. 1-132,
1906; and T. C. Chamberlin: The Origin of the Earth, 1916.]
[Footnote 105: Personal communication.]
[Footnote 106: R. T. Chamberlin: Gases in Rocks, Carnegie Inst. of
Wash., No. 106, 1908.]
[Footnote 107: J. Barrell: The Origin of the Earth, in Evolution of the
Earth and Its Inhabitants, 1918, p. 44, and more fully in an unpublished
manuscript.]
[Footnote 108: F. W. Clarke: Data of Geochemistry, Fourth Ed., 1920,
Bull. No. 695, U. S. Geol. Survey, p. 256.]
[Footnote 109: F. W. Clarke: _loc. cit._, pp. 27-34 et al.]
[Footnote C: Chas. E. St. John: Science Service Press Reports from the
Mt. Wilson Observatory, May, 1922.]
[Footnote 110: Abbot and Fowle: Annals Astrophysical Observatory;
Smiths. Inst., Vol. II, 1908, p. 163.
F. E. Fowle: Atmospheric Scattering of Light; Misc. Coll. Smiths. Inst.,
Vol. 69, 1918.]
[Footnote 111: Abbot and Fowle: _loc. cit._, p. 172.]
CHAPTER XIV
THE EFFECT OF OTHER BODIES ON THE SUN
If solar activity is really an important factor in causing climatic
changes, it behooves us to subject the sun to the same kind of inquiry
to which we have subjected the earth. We have inquired into the nature
of the changes through which the earth's crust, the oceans, and the
atmosphere have influenced the climate of geological times. It has not
been necessary, however, to study the origin of the earth, nor to trace
its earlier stages. Our study of the geological record begins only when
the earth had attained practically its present mass, essentially its
present shape, and a climate so similar to that of today that life as we
know it was possible. In other words, the earth had passed the stages of
infancy, childhood, youth, and early maturity, and had reached full
maturity. As it still seems to be indefinitely far from old age, we
infer that during geological times its relative changes have been no
greater than those which a man experiences between the ages of perhaps
twenty-five and forty.
Similar reasoning applies with equal or greater force to the sun.
Because of its vast size it presumably passes through its stages of
development much more slowly than the earth. In the first chapter of
this book we saw that the earth's relative uniformity of climate for
hundreds of millions of years seems to imply a similar uniformity in
solar activity. This accords with a recent tendency among astronomers
who are more and more recognizing that the stars and the solar system
possess an extraordinary degree of conservatism. Changes that once were
supposed to take place in thousands of years are now thought to have
required millions. Hence in this chapter we shall assume that throughout
geological times the condition of the sun has been almost as at present.
It may have been somewhat larger, or different in other ways, but it was
essentially a hot, gaseous body such as we see today and it gave out
essentially the same amount of energy. This assumption will affect the
general validity of what follows only if it departs widely from the
truth. With this assumption, then, let us inquire into the degree to
which the sun's atmosphere has probably been disturbed throughout
geological times.
In _Earth and Sun_, as already explained, a detailed study has led to
the conclusion that cyclonic storms are influenced by the electrical
action of the sun. Such action appears to be most intense in sunspots,
but apparently pertains also to other disturbed areas in the sun's
atmosphere. A study of sunspots suggests that their true periodicity is
almost if not exactly identical with that of the orbital revolution of
Jupiter, 11.8 years. Other investigations show numerous remarkable
coincidences between sunspots and the orbital revolution of the other
planets, including especially Saturn and Mercury. This seems to indicate
that there is some truth in the hypothesis that sunspots and other
related disturbances of the solar atmosphere owe their periodicity to
the varying effects of the planets as they approach and recede from the
sun in their eccentric orbits and as they combine or oppose their
effects according to their relative positions. This does not mean that
the energy of the solar disturbances is supposed to come from the
planets, but merely that their variations act like the turning of a
switch to determine when and how violently the internal forces of the
sun shall throw the solar atmosphere into commotion. This hypothesis is
by no means new, for in one form or another it has been advocated by
Wolfer, Birkeland, E. W. Brown, Schuster, Arctowski, and others.
The agency through which the planets influence the solar atmosphere is
not yet clear. The suggested agencies are the direct pull of
gravitation, the tidal effect of the planets, and an electro-magnetic
effect. In _Earth and Sun_ the conclusion is reached that the first two
are out of the question, a conclusion in which E. W. Brown acquiesces.
Unless some unknown cause is appealed to, this leaves an
electro-magnetic hypothesis as the only one which has a reasonable
foundation. Schuster inclines to this view. The conclusions set forth in
_Earth and Sun_ as to the electrical nature of the sun's influence on
the earth point somewhat in the same direction. Hence in this chapter we
shall inquire what would happen to the sun, and hence to the earth, on
their journey through space, if the solar atmosphere is actually subject
to disturbance by the electrical or other effects of other heavenly
bodies. It need hardly be pointed out that we are here venturing into
highly speculative ground, and that the verity or falsity of the
conclusions reached in this chapter has nothing to do with the validity
of the reasoning in previous chapters. Those chapters are based on the
assumption that terrestrial causes of climatic changes are supplemented
by solar disturbances which produce their effect partly through
variations in temperature but also through variations in the intensity
and paths of cyclonic storms. The present chapter seeks to shed some
light on the possible causes and sequence of solar disturbances.
Let us begin by scanning the available evidence as to solar disturbances
previous to the time when accurate sunspot records are available. Two
rather slender bits of evidence point to cycles of solar activity
lasting hundreds of years. One of these has already been discussed in
Chapter VI, where the climatic stress of the fourteenth century was
described. At that time sunspots are known to have been unusually
numerous, and there were great climatic extremes. Lakes overflowed in
Central Asia; storms, droughts, floods, and cold winters were unusually
severe in Europe; the Caspian Sea rose with great rapidity; the trees of
California grew with a vigor unknown for centuries; the most terrible of
recorded famines occurred in England and India; the Eskimos were
probably driven south by increasing snowiness in Greenland; and the
Mayas of Yucatan appear to have made their last weak attempt at a
revival of civilization under the stimulus of greater storminess and
less constant rainfall.
The second bit of evidence is found in recent exhaustive studies of
periodicities by Turner[112] and other astronomers. They have sought
every possible natural occurrence for which a numerical record is
available for a long period. The most valuable records appear to be
those of tree growth, Nile floods, Chinese earthquakes, and sunspots.
Turner reaches the conclusion that all four types of phenomena show the
same periodicity, namely, cycles with an average length of about 260 to
280 years. He suggests that if this is true, the cycles in tree growth
and in floods, both of which are climatic, are probably due to a
non-terrestrial cause. The fact that the sunspots show similar cycles
suggests that the sun's variations are the cause.
These two bits of evidence are far too slight to form the foundation of
any theory as to changes in solar activity in the geological past.
Nevertheless it may be helpful to set forth certain possibilities as a
stimulus to further research. For example, it has been suggested that
meteoric bodies may have fallen into the sun and caused it suddenly to
flare up, as it were. This is not impossible, although it does not
appear to have taken place since men became advanced enough to make
careful observations. Moreover, the meteorites which now fall on the
earth are extremely small, the average size being computed as no larger
than a grain of wheat. The largest ever found on the earth's surface, at
Bacubirito in Mexico, weighs only about fifty tons, while within the
rocks the evidences of meteorites are extremely scanty and
insignificant. If meteorites had fallen into the sun often enough and of
sufficient size to cause glacial fluctuations and historic pulsations of
climate, it seems highly probable that the earth would show much more
evidence of having been similarly disturbed. And even if the sun should
be bombarded by large meteors the result would probably not be sudden
cold periods, which are the most notable phenomena of the earth's
climatic history, but sudden warm periods followed by slow cooling.
Nevertheless, the disturbance of the sun by collision with meteoric
matter can by no means be excluded as a possible cause of climatic
variations.
Allied to the preceding hypothesis is Shapley's[113] nebular hypothesis.
At frequent intervals, averaging about once a year during the last
thirty years, astronomers have discovered what are known as novæ. These
are stars which were previously faint or even invisible, but which flash
suddenly into brilliancy. Often their light-giving power rises seven or
eight magnitudes--a thousand-fold. In addition to the spectacular novæ
there are numerous irregular variables whose brilliancy changes in every
ratio from a few per cent up to several magnitudes. Most of them are
located in the vicinity of nebulæ, as is also the case with novæ. This,
as well as other facts, makes it probable that all these stars are
"friction variables," as Shapley calls them. Apparently as they pass
through the nebulæ they come in contact with its highly diffuse matter
and thereby become bright much as the earth would become bright if its
atmosphere were filled with millions of almost infinitesimally small
meteorites. A star may also lose brilliancy if nebulous matter
intervenes between it and the observer. If our sun has been subjected to
any of these changes some sort of climatic effect must have been
produced.
In a personal communication Shapley amplifies the nebular climatic
hypothesis as follows:
Within 700 light years of the sun in many directions (Taurus,
Cygnus, Ophiuchus, Scorpio) are great diffuse clouds of nebulosity,
some bright, most of them dark. The probability that stars moving in
the general region of such clouds will encounter this material is
very high, for the clouds fill enormous volumes of space,--e.g.,
probably more than a hundred thousand cubic light years in the Orion
region, and are presumably composed of rarefied gases or of dust
particles. Probably throughout all our part of space such nebulosity
exists (it is all around us, we are sure), but only in certain
regions is it dense enough to affect conspicuously the stars
involved in it. If a star moving at high velocity should collide
with a dense part of such a nebulous cloud, we should probably have
a typical nova. If the relative velocity of nebulous material and
star were low or moderate, or if the material were rare, we should
not expect a conspicuous effect on the star's light.
In the nebulous region of Orion, which is probably of unusually high
density, there are about 100 known stars, varying between 20% and
80% of their total light--all of them irregularly--some slowly, some
suddenly. Apparently they are "friction variables." Some of the
variables suddenly lose 40% of their light as if blanketed by
nebulous matter. In the Trifid Nebula there are variables like those
of Orion, in Messier 8 also, and probably many of the 100 or so
around the Rho Ophiuchi region belong to this kind.
I believe that our sun could not have been a typical nova, at least
not since the Archeozoic, that is for perhaps a billion years. I
believe we have in geological climates final proof of this, because
an increase in the amount of solar radiation by 1000 times as in the
typical nova, would certainly punctuate emphatically the life cycle
on the earth, even if the cause of the nova would not at the same
time eliminate the smaller planets. But the sun may have been one of
these miniature novæ or friction variables; and I believe it very
probable that its wanderings through this part of space could not
long leave its mean temperature unaffected to the amount of a few
per cent.
One reason we have not had this proposal insisted upon before is
that the data back of it are mostly new--the Orion variables have
been only recently discovered and studied, the distribution and
content of the dark nebulæ are hardly as yet generally known.
This interesting hypothesis cannot be hastily dismissed. If the sun
should pass through a nebula it seems inevitable that there would be at
least slight climatic effects and perhaps catastrophic effects through
the action of the gaseous matter not only on the sun but on the earth's
own atmosphere. As an explanation of the general climatic conditions of
the past, however, Shapley points out that the hypothesis has the
objection of being vague, and that nebulosity should not be regarded as
more than "a possible factor." One of the chief difficulties seems to be
the enormously wide distribution of as yet undiscovered nebulous matter
which must be assumed if any large share of the earth's repeated
climatic changes is to be ascribed to such matter. If such matter is
actually abundant in space, it is hard to see how any but the nearest
stars would be visible. Another objection is that there is no known
nebulosity near at hand with which to connect the climatic vicissitudes
of the last glacial period. Moreover, the known nebulæ are so much less
numerous than stars that the chances that the sun will encounter one of
them are extremely slight. This, however, is not an objection, for
Shapley points out that during geological times the sun can never have
varied as much as do the novæ, or even as most of the friction
variables. Thus the hypothesis stands as one that is worth
investigating, but that cannot be finally rejected or accepted until it
is made more definite and until more information is available.
Another suggested cause of solar variations is the relatively sudden
contraction of the sun such as that which sometimes occurs on the earth
when continents are uplifted and mountains upheaved. It seems improbable
that this could have occurred in a gaseous body like the sun. Lacking,
as it does, any solid crust which resists a change of form, the sun
probably shrinks steadily. Hence any climatic effects thus produced must
be extremely gradual and must tend steadily in one direction for
millions of years.
Still another suggestion is that the tidal action of the stars and other
bodies which may chance to approach the sun's path may cause
disturbances of the solar atmosphere. The vast kaleidoscope of space is
never quiet. The sun, the stars, and all the other heavenly bodies are
moving, often with enormous speed. Hence the effect of gravitation upon
the sun must vary constantly and irregularly, as befits the geological
requirements. In the case of the planets, however, the tidal effect does
not seem competent to produce the movements of the solar atmosphere
which appear to be concerned in the inception of sunspots. Moreover,
there is only the most remote probability that a star and the sun will
approach near enough to one another to produce a pronounced
gravitational disturbance in the solar atmosphere. For instance, if it
be assumed that changes in Jupiter's tidal effect on the sun are the
main factor in regulating the present difference between sunspot maxima
and sunspot minima, the chances that a star or some non-luminous body of
similar mass will approach near enough to stimulate solar activity and
thereby bring on glaciation are only one in twelve billion years, as
will be explained below. This seems to make a gravitational hypothesis
impossible.
Another possible cause of solar disturbances is that the stars in their
flight through space may exert an electrical influence which upsets the
equilibrium of the solar atmosphere. At first thought this seems even
more impossible than a gravitational effect. Electrostatic effects,
however, differ greatly from those of tides. They vary as the diameter
of a body instead of as its mass; their differentials also vary
inversely as the square of the distance instead of as the cube.
Electrostatic effects also increase as the fourth power of the
temperature or at least would do so if they followed the law of black
bodies; they are stimulated by the approach of one body to another; and
they are cumulative, for if ions arrive from space they must accumulate
until the body to which they have come begins to discharge them. Hence,
on the basis of assumptions such as those used in the preceding
paragraph, the chances of an electrical disturbance of the solar
atmosphere sufficient to cause glaciation on the earth may be as high as
one in twenty or thirty million years. This seems to put an electrical
hypothesis within the bounds of possibility. Further than that we cannot
now go. There may be other hypotheses which fit the facts much better,
but none seems yet to have been suggested.
In the rest of this chapter the tidal and electrical hypotheses of
stellar action on the sun will be taken up in detail. The tidal
hypothesis is considered because in discussions of the effect of the
planets it has hitherto held almost the entire field. The electrical
hypothesis will be considered because it appears to be the best yet
suggested, although it still seems doubtful whether electrical effects
can be of appreciable importance over such vast distances as are
inevitably involved. The discussion of both hypotheses will necessarily
be somewhat technical, and will appeal to the astronomer more than to
the layman. It does not form a necessary part of this book, for it has
no bearing on our main thesis of the effect of the sun on the earth. It
is given here because ultimately the question of changes in solar
activity during geological times must be faced.
In the astronomical portion of the following discussion we shall follow
Jeans[114] in his admirable attempt at a mathematical analysis of the
motions of the universe. Jeans divides the heavenly bodies into five
main types. (1) Spiral nebulæ, which are thought by some astronomers to
be systems like our own in the making, and by others to be independent
universes lying at vast distances beyond the limits of our Galactic
universe, as it is called from the Galaxy or Milky Way. (2) Nebulæ of a
smaller type, called planetary. These lie within the Galactic portion of
the universe and seem to be early stages of what may some day be stars
or solar systems. (3) Binary or multiple stars, which are
extraordinarily numerous. In some parts of the heavens they form 50 or
even 60 per cent of the stars and in the galaxy as a whole they seem to
form "fully one third." (4) Star clusters. These consist of about a
hundred groups of stars in each of which the stars move together in the
same direction with approximately the same velocity. These, like the
spiral nebulæ, are thought by some astronomers to lie outside the limits
of the galaxy, but this is far from certain. (5) The solar system.
According to Jeans this seems to be unique. It does not fit into the
general mathematical theory by which he explains spiral nebulæ,
planetary nebulæ, binary stars, and star clusters. It seems to demand a
special explanation, such as is furnished by tidal disruption due to the
passage of the sun close to another star.
The part of Jeans' work which specially concerns us is his study of the
probability that some other star will approach the sun closely enough to
have an appreciable gravitative or electrical effect, and thus cause
disturbances in the solar atmosphere. Of course both the star and the
sun are moving, but to avoid circumlocution we shall speak of such
mutual approaches simply as approaches of the sun. For our present
purpose the most fundamental fact may be summed up in a quotation from
Jeans in which he says that most stars "show evidence of having
experienced considerable disturbance by other systems; there is no
reason why our solar system should be expected to have escaped the
common fate." Jeans gives a careful calculation from which it is
possible to derive some idea of the probability of any given degree of
approach of the sun and some other star. Of course all such calculations
must be based on certain assumptions. The assumptions made by Jeans are
such as to make the probability of close approaches as great as
possible. For example, he allows only 560 million years for the entire
evolution of the sun, whereas some astronomers and geologists would put
the figure ten or more times as high. Nevertheless, Jeans' assumptions
at least show the order of magnitude which we may expect on the basis of
reasonable astronomical conclusions.
According to the planetary hypothesis of sunspots, the difference in the
effect of Jupiter when it is nearest and farthest from the sun is the
main factor in starting the sunspot cycle and hence the corresponding
terrestrial cycle. The climatic difference between sunspot maxima and
minima, as measured by temperature, apparently amounts to at least a
twentieth and perhaps a tenth of the difference between the climate of
the last glacial epoch and the present. We may suppose, then, that a
body which introduced a gravitative or electrical factor twenty times as
great as the difference in Jupiter's effect at its maximum and minimum
distances from the sun would cause a glacial epoch if the effect lasted
long enough. Of course the other planets combine their effects with that
of Jupiter, but for the sake of simplicity we will leave the others out
of account. The difference between Jupiter's maximum and minimum tidal
effect on the sun amounts to 29 per cent of the planet's average effect.
The corresponding difference, according to the electrical hypothesis, is
about 19 per cent, for electrostatic action varies as the square of the
distance instead of as the cube. Let us assume that a body exerting four
times Jupiter's present tidal effect and placed at the average distance
of Jupiter from the sun would disturb the sun's atmosphere twenty times
as much as the present difference between sunspot maxima and minima, and
thus, perhaps, cause a glacial period on the earth.
On the basis of this assumption our first problem is to estimate the
frequency with which a star, visible or dark, is likely to approach near
enough to the sun to produce a _tidal_ effect four times that of
Jupiter. The number of visible stars is known or at least well
estimated. As to dark stars, which have grown cool, Arrhenius believed
that they are a hundred times as numerous as bright stars; few
astronomers believe that there are less than three or four times as
many. Dr. Shapley of the Harvard Observatory states that a new
investigation of the matter suggests that eight or ten is probably a
maximum figure. Let us assume that nine is correct. The average visible
star, so far as measured, has a mass about twice that of the sun, or
about 2100 times that of Jupiter. The distances of the stars have been
measured in hundreds of cases and thus we can estimate how many stars,
both visible and invisible, are on an average contained in a given
volume of space. On this basis Jeans estimates that there is only one
chance in thirty billion years that a visible star will approach within
2.8 times the distance of Neptune from the sun, that is, within about
eight billion miles. If we include the invisible stars the chances
become one in three billion years. In order to produce four times the
tidal effect of Jupiter, however, the average star would have to
approach within about four billion miles of the sun, and the chances of
that are only one in twelve billion years. The disturbing star would be
only 40 per cent farther from the sun than Neptune, and would almost
pass within the solar system.
Even though Jeans holds that the frequency of the mutual approach of the
sun and a star was probably much greater in the distant past than at
present, the figures just given lend little support to the tidal
hypothesis. In fact, they apparently throw it out of court. It will be
remembered that Jeans has made assumptions which give as high a
frequency of stellar encounters as is consistent with the astronomical
facts. We have assumed nine dark stars for every bright one, which may
be a liberal estimate. Also, although we have assumed that a disturbance
of the sun's atmosphere sufficient to cause a glacial period would arise
from a tidal effect only twenty times as great as the difference in
Jupiter's effect when nearest the sun and farthest away, in our
computations this has actually been reduced to thirteen. With all these
favorable assumptions the chances of a stellar approach of the sort here
described are now only one in twelve billion years. Yet within a hundred
million years, according to many estimates of geological time, and
almost certainly within a billion, there have been at least half a dozen
glaciations.
Our use of Jeans' data interposes another and equally insuperable
difficulty to any tidal hypothesis. Four billion miles is a very short
distance in the eyes of an astronomer. At that distance a star twice the
size of the sun would attract the outer planets more strongly than the
sun itself, and might capture them. If a star should come within four
billion miles of the sun, its effect in distorting the orbits of all the
planets would be great. If this had happened often enough to cause all
the glaciations known to geologists, the planetary orbits would be
strongly elliptical instead of almost circular. The consideration here
advanced militate so strongly against the tidal hypothesis of solar
disturbances that it seems scarcely worth while to consider it further.
Let us turn now to the electrical hypothesis. Here the conditions are
fundamentally different from those of the tidal hypothesis. In the first
place the electrostatic effect of a body has nothing to do with its
mass, but depends on the area of its surface; that is, it varies as the
square of the radius. Second, the emission of electrons varies
exponentially. If hot glowing stars follow the same law as black bodies
at lower temperatures, the emission of electrons, like the emission of
other kinds of energy, varies as the fourth power of the absolute
temperature. In other words, suppose there are two black bodies,
otherwise alike, but one with a temperature of 27° C. or 300° on the
absolute scale, and the other with 600° on the absolute scale. The
temperature of one is twice as high as that of the other, but the
electrostatic effect will be sixteen times as great.[115] Third, the
number of electrons that reach a given body varies inversely as the
square of the distance, instead of as the cube which is the case with
tide-making forces.
In order to use these three principles in calculating the effect of the
stars we must know the diameters, distances, temperature, and number of
the stars. The distances and number may safely be taken as given by
Jeans in the calculations already cited. As to the diameters, the
measurements of the stars thus far made indicate that the average mass
is about twice that of the sun. The average density, as deduced by
Shapley[116] from the movements of double stars, is about one-eighth the
solar density. This would give an average diameter about two and a half
times that of the sun. For the dark stars, we shall assume for
convenience that they are ten times as numerous as the bright ones. We
shall also assume that their diameter is half that of the sun, for being
cool they must be relatively dense, and that their temperature is the
same as that which we shall assume for Jupiter.
As to Jupiter we shall continue our former assumption that a body with
four times the effectiveness of that planet, which here means with twice
as great a radius, would disturb the sun enough to cause glaciation. It
would produce about twenty times the electrostatic effect which now
appears to be associated with the difference in Jupiter's effect at
maximum and minimum. The temperature of Jupiter must also be taken into
account. The planet is supposed to be hot because its density is low,
being only about 1.25 that of water. Nevertheless, it is probably not
luminous, for as Moulton[117] puts it, shadows upon it are black and its
moons show no sign of illumination except from the sun. Hence a
temperature of about 600°C., or approximately 900° on the absolute
scale, seems to be the highest that can reasonably be assigned to the
cold outer layer whence electrons are emitted. As to the temperature of
the sun, we shall adopt the common estimate of about 6300°C. on the
absolute scale. The other stars will be taken as averaging the same,
although of course they vary greatly.
When Jeans' method of calculating the probability of a mutual approach
of the sun and a star is applied to the assumptions given above, the
results are as shown in Table 5. On that basis the dark stars seem to be
of negligible importance so far as the electrical hypothesis is
concerned. Even though they may be ten times as numerous as the bright
ones there appears to be only one chance in 130 billion years that one
of them will approach the sun closely enough to cause the assumed
disturbance of the solar atmosphere. On the other hand, if all the
visible stars were the size of the sun, and as hot as that body, their
electrical effect would be fourfold that of our assumed dark star
because of their size, and 2401 times as great because of their
temperature, or approximately 10,000 times as great. Under such
conditions the theoretical chance of an approach that would cause
glaciation is one in 130 million years. If the average visible star is
somewhat cooler than the sun and has a radius about two and one-half
times as great, as appears to be the fact, the chances rise to one in
thirty-eight million years. A slight and wholly reasonable change in our
assumptions would reduce this last figure to only five or ten million.
For instance, the earth's mean temperature during the glacial period has
been assumed as 10°C. lower than now, but the difference may have been
only 6°. Again, the temperature of the outer atmosphere of Jupiter where
the electrons are shot out may be only 500° or 700° absolute, instead of
900°. Or the diameter of the average star may be five or ten times that
of the sun, instead of only two and one-half times as great. All this,
however, may for the present be disregarded. The essential point is that
even when the assumptions err on the side of conservatism, the results
are of an order of magnitude which puts the electrical hypothesis within
the bounds of possibility, whereas similar assumptions put the tidal
hypothesis, with its single approach in twelve billion years, far beyond
those limits.
The figures for Betelgeuse in Table 5 are interesting. At a meeting of
the American Association for the Advancement of Science in December,
1920, Michelson reported that by measurements of the interference of
light coming from the two sides of that bright star in Orion, the
observers at Mount Wilson had confirmed the recent estimates of three
other authorities that the star's diameter is about 218 million miles,
or 250 times that of the sun. If other stars so much surpass the
estimates of only a decade or two ago, the average diameter of all the
visible stars must be many times that of the sun. The low figure for
Betelgeuse in section D of the table means that if all the stars were as
large as Betelgeuse, several might often be near enough to cause
profound disturbances of the solar atmosphere. Nevertheless, because of
the low temperature of the giant red stars of the Betelgeuse type, the
distance at which one of them would produce a given electrical effect is
only about five times the distance at which our assumed average star
would produce the same effect. This, to be sure, is on the assumption
that the radiation of energy from incandescent bodies varies according
to temperature in the same ratio as the radiation from black bodies.
Even if this assumption departs somewhat from the truth, it still seems
almost certain that the lower temperature of the red compared with the
high temperature of the white stars must to a considerable degree reduce
the difference in electrical effect which would otherwise arise from
their size.
TABLE 5
THEORETICAL PROBABILITY OF STELLAR APPROACHES
---------------------------------------------------------------------
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
| | |_Average | |
| _Dark Stars_ | _Sun_ | Star_ |_Betelgeuse_|
---------------------------------------------------------------------
A. Approximate | | | | |
radius in miles | 430,000 | 860,000 | 2,150,000|218,000,000 |
| | | | |
B. Assumed | | | | |
temperature above| | | | |
absolute zero. | 900° C. | 6300° C.| 5400° C.| 3150° C. |
| | | | |
C. Approximate | | | | |
theoretical | | | | |
distance at which| | | | |
star would cause | | | | |
solar disturbance| | | | |
great enough to | | | | |
cause glaciation | | | | |
(billions[118] | | | | |
of miles). | 1.2 | 120 | 220 | 3200 |
| | | | |
D. Average | | | | |
interval between | | | | |
approaches | | | | |
close enough to | | | | |
cause glaciation | | | | |
if all stars |130,000,000,000| | | |
were of given |[119] | | | |
type. Years. | |130,000,000|38,000,000| 700,000 |
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Thus far in our attempt to estimate the distance at which a star might
disturb the sun enough to cause glaciation on the earth, we have
considered only the star's size and temperature. No account has been
taken of the degree to which its atmosphere is disturbed. Yet in the
case of the sun this seems to be one of the most important factors. The
magnetic field of sunspots is sometimes 50 or 100 times as strong as
that of the sun in general. The strength of the magnetic field appears
to depend on the strength of the electrical currents in the solar
atmosphere. But the intensity of the sunspots and, by inference, of the
electrical currents, may depend on the electrical action of Jupiter and
the other planets. If we apply a similar line of reasoning to the stars,
we are at once led to question whether the electrical activity of double
stars may not be enormously greater than that of isolated stars like the
sun.
If this line of reasoning is correct, the atmosphere of every double
star must be in a state of commotion vastly greater than that of the
sun's atmosphere even when it is most disturbed. For example, suppose
the sun were accompanied by a companion of equal size at a distance of
one million miles, which would make it much like many known double
stars. Suppose also that in accordance with the general laws of physics
the electrical effect of the two suns upon one another is proportional
to the fourth power of the temperature, the square of the radius, and
the inverse square of the distance. Then the effect of each sun upon the
other would be sixty billion (6 × 10^{10}) times as great as the present
electrical effect of Jupiter upon the sun. Just what this would mean as
to the net effect of a pair of such suns upon the electrical potential
of other bodies at a distance we can only conjecture. The outstanding
fact is that the electrical conditions of a double star must be
radically different and vastly more intense than those of a single star
like the sun.
This conclusion carries weighty consequences. At present twenty or more
stars are known to be located within about 100 trillion miles of the sun
(five parsecs, as the astronomers say), or 16.5 light years. According
to the assumptions employed in Table 5 an average single star would
influence the sun enough to cause glaciation if it came within
approximately 200 billion miles. If the star were double, however, it
might have an electrical capacity enormously greater than that of the
sun. Then it would be able to cause glaciation at a correspondingly
great distance. Today Alpha Centauri, the nearest known star about
twenty-five trillion miles, or 4.3 light years from the sun, and Sirius,
the brightest star in the heavens, is about fifty trillion miles away,
or 8.5 light years. If these stars were single and had a diameter three
times that of the sun, and if they were of the same temperature as has
been assumed for Betelgeuse, which is about fifty times as far away as
Alpha Centauri, the relative effects of the three stars upon the sun
would be, approximately, Betelgeuse 700, Alpha Centauri 250, Sirius 1.
But Alpha Centauri is triple and Sirius double, and both are much hotter
than Betelgeuse. Hence Alpha Centauri and even Sirius may be far more
effective than Betelgeuse.
The two main components of Alpha Centauri are separated by an average
distance of about 2,200,000,000 miles, or somewhat less than that of
Neptune from the sun. A third and far fainter star, one of the faintest
yet measured, revolves around them at a great distance. In mass and
brightness the two main components are about like the sun, and we will
assume that the same is true of their radius. Then, according to the
assumptions made above, their effect in disturbing one another
electrically would be about 10,000 times the total effect of Jupiter
upon the sun, or 2500 times the effect that we have assumed to be
necessary to produce a glacial period. We have already seen in Table 5
that, according to our assumptions, a single star like the sun would
have to approach within 120 billion miles of the solar system, or within
2 per cent of a light year, in order to cause glaciation. By a similar
process of reasoning it appears that if the mutual electrical excitation
of the two main parts of Alpha Centauri, regardless of the third part,
is proportional to the apparent excitation of the sun by Jupiter, Alpha
Centauri would be 5000 times as effective as the sun. In other words, if
it came within 8,500,000,000,000 miles of the sun, or 1.4 light years,
it would so change the electrical conditions as to produce a glacial
epoch. In that case Alpha Centauri is now so near that it introduces a
disturbing effect equal to about one-sixth of the effect needed to cause
glaciation on the earth. Sirius and perhaps others of the nearer and
brighter or larger stars may also create appreciable disturbances in the
electrical condition of the sun's atmosphere, and may have done so to a
much greater degree in the past, or be destined to do so in the future.
Thus an electrical hypothesis of solar disturbances seems to indicate
that the position of the sun in respect to other stars may be a factor
of great importance in determining the earth's climate.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 112: H. H. Turner: On a Long Period in Chinese Earthquake
Records; Mon. Not. Royal Astron. Soc., Vol. 79, 1919, pp. 531-539; Vol.
80, 1920, pp. 617-619; Long Period Terms in the Growth of Trees; _idem_,
pp.793-808.]
[Footnote 113: Harlow Shapley: Note on a Possible Factor in Geologic
Climates; Jour. Geol., Vol. 29, No. 4, May, 1921; Novæ and Variable
Stars, Pub. Astron. Soc. Pac., No. 194, Aug., 1921.]
[Footnote 114: J. H. Jeans: Problems of Cosmogony and Stellar Dynamics,
Cambridge, 1919.]
[Footnote 115: This fact is so important and at the same time so
surprising to the layman, that a quotation from The Electron Theory of
Matter by O. W. Richardson, 1914, pp. 326 and 334 is here added.
"It is a very familiar fact that when material bodies are heated they
emit electromagnetic radiations, in the form of thermal, luminous, and
actinic rays, in appreciable quantities. Such an effect is a natural
consequence of the electron and kinetic theories of matter. On the
kinetic theory, temperature is a measure of the violence of the motion
of the ultimate particles; and we have seen that on the electron theory,
electromagnetic radiation is a consequence of their acceleration. The
calculation of this emission from the standpoint of the electron theory
alone is a very complex problem which takes us deeply into the structure
of matter and which has probably not yet been satisfactorily resolved.
Fortunately, we can find out a great deal about these phenomena by the
application of general principles like the conservation of energy and
the second law of thermodynamics without considering special assumptions
about the ultimate constitution of matter. It is to be borne in mind
that the emission under consideration occurs at all temperatures
although it is more marked the higher the temperature.... The energy per
unit volume, _in vacuo_, of the radiation in equilibrium in an enclosure
at the absolute temperature, T, is equal to a universal constant, A,
multiplied by the fourth power of the absolute temperature. Since the
intensity of the radiation is equal to the energy per unit volume
multiplied by the velocity of light, it follows that the former must
also be proportional to the fourth power of the absolute temperature.
Moreover, if E is the total emission from unit area of a perfectly black
body, we see from p. 330 that E=A´T^{4}, where A´ is a new universal
constant. This result is usually known as Stefan's Law. It was suggested
by Stefan in the inaccurate form that the total radiant energy of
emission from bodies varies as the fourth power of the absolute
temperature, as a generalization from the results of experiments. The
credit for showing that it is a consequence of the existence of
radiation pressure combined with the principles of thermodynamics is due
to Bartoli and Boltzmann."]
[Footnote 116: Quoted by Moulton in his Introduction to Astronomy.]
[Footnote 117: Introduction to Astronomy.]
[Footnote 118: The term billions, here and elsewhere, is used in the
American sense, 10^{9}.]
[Footnote 119: The assumed number of stars here is ten times as great as
in the other parts of this line.]
CHAPTER XV
THE SUN'S JOURNEY THROUGH SPACE
Having gained some idea of the nature of the electrical hypothesis of
solar disturbances and of the possible effect of other bodies upon the
sun's atmosphere, let us now compare the astronomical data with those of
geology. Let us take up five chief points for which the geologist
demands an explanation, and which any hypothesis must meet if it is to
be permanently accepted. These are (1) the irregular intervals at which
glacial periods occur; (2) the division of glacial periods into epochs
separated sometimes by hundreds of thousands of years; (3) the length of
glacial periods and epochs; (4) the occurrence of glacial stages and
historic pulsations in the form of small climatic waves superposed upon
the larger waves of glacial epochs; (5) the occurrence of climatic
conditions much milder than those of today, not only in the middle
portion of the great geological eras, but even in some of the recent
inter-glacial epochs.
1. The irregular duration of the interval from one glacial epoch to
another corresponds with the irregular distribution of the stars. If
glaciation is indirectly due to stellar influences, the epochs might
fall close together, or might be far apart. If the average interval were
ten million years, one interval might be thirty million or more and the
next only one or two hundred thousand. According to Schuchert, the known
periods of glacial or semi-glacial climate have been approximately as
follows:
LIST OF GLACIAL PERIODS
1. Archeozoic.
(1/4 of geological time or perhaps much more)
No known glacial periods.
2. Proterozoic.
(1/4 of geological time)
a. Oldest known glacial period near base of Proterozoic in
Canada. Evidence widely distributed.
b. Indian glacial period; time unknown.
c. African glacial period; time unknown.
d. Glaciation near end of Proterozoic in Australia, Norway,
and China.
3. Paleozoic.
(1/4 of geological time)
a. Late Ordovician(?). Local in Arctic Norway.
b. Silurian. Local in Alaska.
c. Early Devonian. Local in South Africa.
d. Early Permian. World-wide and very severe.
4. Mesozoic and Cenozoic.
(1/4 of geological time)
a-b. None definitely determined during Mesozoic, although
there appears to have been periods of cooling (a) in the
late Triassic, and (b) in the late Cretacic, with at least
local glaciation in early Eocene.
c. Severe glacial period during Pleistocene.
This table suggests an interesting inquiry. During the last few decades
there has been great interest in ancient glaciation and geologists have
carefully examined rocks of all ages for signs of glacial deposits. In
spite of the large parts of the earth which are covered with deposits
belonging to the Mesozoic and Cenozoic, which form the last quarter of
geological time, the only signs of actual glaciation are those of the
great Pleistocene period and a few local occurrences at the end of the
Mesozoic or beginning of the Cenozoic. Late in the Triassic and early in
the Jurassic, the climate appears to have been rigorous, although no
tillites have been found to demonstrate glaciation. In the preceding
quarter, that is, the Paleozoic, the Permian glaciation was more severe
than that of the Pleistocene, and the Devonian than that of the Eocene,
while the Ordovician evidences of low temperature are stronger than
those at the end of the Triassic. In view of the fact that rocks of
Paleozoic age cover much smaller areas than do those of later age, the
three Paleozoic glaciations seem to indicate a relative frequency of
glaciation. Going back to the Proterozoic, it is astonishing to find
that evidence of two highly developed glacial periods, and possibly
four, has been discovered. Since the Indian and the African glaciations
of Proterozoic times are as yet undated, we cannot be sure that they are
not of the same date as the others. Nevertheless, even two is a
surprising number, for not only are most Proterozoic rocks so
metamorphosed that possible evidences of glacial origin are destroyed,
but rocks of that age occupy far smaller areas than either those of
Paleozoic or, still more, Mesozoic and Cenozoic age. Thus the record of
the last three-quarters of geological time suggests that if rocks of all
ages were as abundant and as easily studied as those of the later
periods, the frequency of glacial periods would be found to increase as
one goes backward toward the beginnings of the earth's history. This is
interesting, for Jeans holds that the chances that the stars would
approach one another were probably greater in the past than at present.
This conclusion is based on the assumption that our universe is like the
spiral nebulæ in which the orbits of the various members are nearly
circular during the younger stages. Jeans considers it certain that in
such cases the orbits will gradually become larger and more elliptical
because of the attraction of one body for another. Thus as time goes on
the stars will be more widely distributed and the chances of approach
will diminish. If this is correct, the agreement between astronomical
theory and geological conclusions suggests that the two are at least not
in opposition.
The first quarter of geological time as well as the last three must be
considered in this connection. During the Archeozoic, no evidence of
glaciation has yet been discovered. This suggests that the geological
facts disprove the astronomical theory. But our knowledge of early
geological times is extremely limited, so limited that lack of evidence
of glaciation in the Archeozoic may have no significance. Archeozoic
rocks have been studied minutely over a very small percentage of the
earth's land surface. Moreover, they are highly metamorphosed so that,
even if glacial tills existed, it would be hard to recognize them.
Third, according to both the nebular and the planetesimal hypotheses, it
seems possible that during the earliest stages of geological history the
earth's interior was somewhat warmer than now, and the surface may have
been warmed more than at present by conduction, by lava flows, and by
the fall of meteorites. If the earth during the Archeozoic period
emitted enough heat to raise its surface temperature a few degrees, the
heat would not prevent the development of low forms of life but might
effectively prevent all glaciation. This does not mean that it would
prevent changes of climate, but merely changes so extreme that their
record would be preserved by means of ice. It will be most interesting
to see whether future investigations in geology and astronomy indicate
either a semi-uniform distribution of glacial periods throughout the
past, or a more or less regular decrease in frequency from early times
down to the present.
2. The Pleistocene glacial period was divided into at least four epochs,
while in the Permian at least one inter-glacial epoch seems certain, and
in some places the alternation between glacial and non-glacial beds
suggests no less than nine. In the other glaciations the evidence is not
yet clear. The question of periodicity is so important that it
overthrows most glacial hypotheses. Indeed, had their authors known the
facts as established in recent years, most of the hypotheses would never
have been advanced. The carbon dioxide hypothesis is the only one which
was framed with geologically rapid climatic alternations in mind. It
certainly explains the facts of periodicity better than does any of its
predecessors, but even so it does not account for the intimate way in
which variations of all degrees from those of the weather up to glacial
epochs seem to grade into one another.
According to our stellar hypothesis, occasional groups of glacial epochs
would be expected to occur close together and to form long glacial
periods. This is because many of the stars belong to groups or clusters
in which the stars move in parallel paths. A good example is the cluster
in the Hyades, where Boss has studied thirty-nine stars with special
care.[120] The stars are grouped about a center about 130 light years
from the sun. The stars themselves are scattered over an area about
thirty light years in diameter. They average about the same distance
apart as do those near the sun, but toward the center of the group they
are somewhat closer together. The whole thirty-nine sweep forward in
essentially parallel paths. Boss estimates that 800,000 years ago the
cluster was only half as far from the sun as at present, but probably
that was as near as it has been during recent geological times. All of
the thirty-nine stars of this cluster, as Moulton[121] puts it, "are
much greater in light-giving power than the sun. The luminosities of
even the five smallest are from five to ten times that of the sun, while
the largest are one hundred times greater in light-giving power than our
own luminary. Their masses are probably much greater than that of the
sun." If the sun were to pass through such a cluster, first one star and
then another might come so near as to cause a profound disturbance in
the sun's atmosphere.
3. Another important point upon which a glacial hypothesis may come to
grief is the length of the periods or rather of the epochs which compose
the periods. During the last or Pleistocene glacial period the evidence
in America and Europe indicates that the inter-glacial epochs varied in
length and that the later ones were shorter than the earlier. Chamberlin
and Salisbury, from a comparison of various authorities, estimate that
the intervals from one glacial epoch to another form a declining series,
which may be roughly expressed as follows: 16-8-4-2-1, where unity is
the interval from the climax of the late Wisconsin, or last glacial
epoch, to the present. Most authorities estimate the culmination of the
late Wisconsin glaciation as twenty or thirty thousand years ago. Penck
estimates the length of the last inter-glacial period as 60,000 years
and the preceding one as 240,000.[122] R. T. Chamberlin, as already
stated, finds that the consensus of opinion is that inter-glacial epochs
have averaged five times as long as glacial epochs. The actual duration
of the various glaciations probably did not vary in so great a ratio as
did the intervals from one glaciation to another. The main point,
however, is the irregularity of the various periods.
The relation of the stellar electrical hypothesis to the length of
glacial epochs may be estimated from column C, in Table 5. There we see
that the distances at which a star might possibly disturb the sun enough
to cause glaciation range all the way from 120 billion miles in the case
of a small star like the sun, to 3200 billion in the case of Betelgeuse,
while for double stars the figure may rise a hundred times higher. From
this we can calculate how long it would take a star to pass from a point
where its influence would first amount to a quarter of the assumed
maximum to a similar point on the other side of the sun. In making these
calculations we will assume that the relative rate at which the star and
the sun approach each other is about twenty-two miles per second, or 700
million miles per year, which is the average rate of motion of all the
known stars. According to the distances in Table 5 this gives a range
from about 500 years up to about 10,000, which might rise to a million
in the case of double stars. Of course the time might be relatively
short if the sun and a rapidly moving star were approaching one another
almost directly, or extremely long if the sun and the star were moving
in almost the same direction and at somewhat similar rates,--a condition
more common than the other. Here, as in so many other cases, the
essential point is that the figures which we thus obtain seem to be of
the right order of magnitude.
4. Post-glacial climatic stages are so well known that in Europe they
have definite names. Their sequence has already been discussed in
Chapter XII. Fossils found in the peat bogs of Denmark and Scandinavia,
for example, prove that since the final disappearance of the continental
ice cap at the close of the Wisconsin there has been at least one period
when the climate of Europe was distinctly milder than now. Directly
overlying the sheets of glacial drift laid down by the ice there is a
flora corresponding to that of the present tundras. Next come remains of
a forest vegetation dominated by birches and poplars, showing that the
climate was growing a little warmer. Third, there follow evidences of a
still more favorable climate in the form of a forest dominated by pines;
fourth, one where oak predominates; and fifth, a flora similar to that
of the Black Forest of Germany, indicating that in Scandinavia the
temperature was then decidedly higher than today. This fifth flora has
retreated southward once more, having been driven back to its present
latitude by a slight recurrence of a cool stormy climate.[123] In
central Asia evidence of post-glacial stages is found not only in five
distinct moraines but in a corresponding series of elevated strands
surrounding salt lakes and of river terraces in non-glaciated arid
regions.[124]
In historic as well as prehistoric times, as we have already seen, there
have been climatic fluctuations. For instance, the twelfth or thirteenth
century B. C. appears to have been almost as mild as now, as does the
seventh century B. C. On the other hand about 1000 B. C., at the time of
Christ, and in the fourteenth century there were times of relative
severity. Thus it appears that both on a large and on a small scale
pulsations of climate are the rule. Any hypothesis of climatic changes
must satisfy the periods of these pulsations. These conditions furnish a
problem which makes difficulty for almost all hypotheses of climatic
change. According to the present hypothesis, earth movements such as are
discussed in Chapter XII may coöperate with two astronomical factors.
One is the constant change in the positions of the stars, a change which
we have already called kaleidoscopic, and the other is the fact that a
large proportion of the stars are double or multiple. When one star in a
group approaches the sun closely enough to cause a great solar
disturbance, numerous others may approach or recede and have a minor
effect. Thus, whenever the sun is near groups of stars we should expect
that the earth would show many minor climatic pulsations and stages
which might or might not be connected with glaciation. The historic
pulsations shown in the curve of tree growth in California, Fig. 4, are
the sort of changes that would be expected if movements of the stars
have an effect on the solar atmosphere.
Not only are fully a third of all the visible stars double, as we have
already seen, but at least a tenth of these are known to be triple or
multiple. In many of the double stars the two bodies are close together
and revolve so rapidly that whatever periodicity they might create in
the sun's atmosphere would be very short. In the triplets, however, the
third star is ordinarily at least ten times as far from the other two as
they are from each other, and its period of rotation sometimes runs into
hundreds or thousands of years. An actual multiple star in the
constellation Polaris will serve as an example. The main star is
believed by Jeans to consist of two parts which are almost in contact
and whirl around each other with extraordinary speed in four days. If
this is true they must keep each other's atmospheres in a state of
intense commotion. Much farther away a third star revolves around this
pair in twelve years. At a much greater distance a fourth star revolves
around the common center of gravity of itself and the other three in a
period which may be 20,000 years. Still more complicated cases probably
exist. Suppose such a system were to traverse a path where it would
exert a perceptible influence on the sun for thirty or forty thousand
years. The varying movements of its members would produce an intricate
series of cycles which might show all sorts of major and minor
variations in length and intensity. Thus the varied and irregular stages
of glaciation and the pulsations of historic times might be accounted
for on the hypothesis of the proximity of the sun to a multiple star, as
well as on that of the less pronounced approach and recession of a
number of stars. In addition to all this, an almost infinitely complex
series of climatic changes of long and short duration might arise if the
sun passed through a nebula.
5. We have seen in Chapter VIII that the contrast between the somewhat
severe climate of the present and the generally mild climate of the past
is one of the great geological problems. The glacial period is not a
thing of the distant past. Geologists generally recognize that it is
still with us. Greenland and Antarctica are both shrouded in ice sheets
in latitudes where fossil floras prove that at other periods the climate
was as mild as in England or even New Zealand. The present glaciated
regions, be it noted, are on the polar borders of the world's two most
stormy oceanic areas, just where ice would be expected to last longest
according to the solar cyclonic hypothesis. In contrast with the
semi-glacial conditions of the present, the last inter-glacial epoch was
so mild that not only men but elephants and hippopotamuses flourished in
central Europe, while at earlier times in the middle of long eras, such
as the Paleozoic and Mesozoic, corals, cycads, and tree ferns flourished
within the Arctic circle.
If the electro-stellar hypothesis of solar disturbances proves well
founded, it may explain these peculiarities. Periods of mild climate
would represent a return of the sun and the earth to their normal
conditions of quiet. At such times the atmosphere of the sun is assumed
to be little disturbed by sunspots, faculæ, prominences, and other
allied evidences of movements; and the rice-grain structure is perhaps
the most prominent of the solar markings. The earth at such times is
supposed to be correspondingly free from cyclonic storms. Its winds are
then largely of the purely planetary type, such as trade winds and
westerlies. Its rainfall also is largely planetary rather than cyclonic.
It falls in places such as the heat equator where the air rises under
the influence of heat, or on the windward slopes of mountains, or in
regions where warm winds blow from the ocean over cold lands.
According to the electro-stellar hypothesis, the conditions which
prevailed during hundreds of millions of years of mild climate mean
merely that the solar system was then in parts of the heavens where
stars--especially double stars--were rare or small, and electrical
disturbances correspondingly weak. Today, on the other hand, the sun is
fairly near a number of stars, many of which are large doubles. Hence it
is supposed to be disturbed, although not so much as at the height of
the last glacial epoch.
After the preceding parts of this book had been written, the assistance
of Dr. Schlesinger made it possible to test the electro-stellar
hypothesis by comparing actual astronomical dates with the dates of
climatic or solar phenomena. In order to make this possible, Dr.
Schlesinger and his assistants have prepared Table 6, giving the
position, magnitude, and motions of the thirty-eight nearest stars, and
especially the date at which each was nearest the sun. In column 10
where the dates are given, a minus sign indicates the past and a plus
sign the future. Dr. Shapley has kindly added column 12, giving the
absolute magnitudes of the stars, that of the sun being 4.8, and column
13, showing their luminosity or absolute radiation, that of the sun
being unity. Finally, column 14 shows the effective radiation received
by the sun from each star when the star is at a minimum distance. Unity
in this case is the effect of a star like the sun at a distance of one
light year.
It is well known that radiation of all kinds, including light, heat, and
electrical emissions, varies in direct proportion to the exposed
surface, that is, as the square of the radius of a sphere, and inversely
as the square of the distance. From black bodies, as we have seen, the
total radiation varies as the fourth power of the absolute temperature.
It is not certain that either light or electrical emissions from
incandescent bodies vary in quite this same proportion, nor is it yet
certain whether luminous and electrical emissions vary exactly together.
Nevertheless they are closely related. Since the light coming from each
star is accurately measured, while no information is available as to
electrical emissions, we have followed Dr. Shapley's suggestion and used
the luminosity of the stars as the best available measure of total
radiation. This is presumably an approximate measure of electrical
activity, provided some allowance be made for disturbances by outside
bodies such as companion stars. Hence the inclusion of column 14.
TABLE 6
THIRTY-EIGHT STARS HAVING LARGEST KNOWN PARALLAXES
Star
Code
1 Groombr. 34
2 ++[Greek: ê] Cassiop.
3
4 ++[Greek: k] Tucanæ
5 [Greek: t] Ceti
6 [Greek: d]_2 Eridani
7 ++[Greek: e] Eridani
8 ++40(0)^2 Eridani
9 Cordoba Z. 243
10 Weisse 592
11 ++[Greek: a] Can. Maj. (Sirius)
12 ++[Greek: a] Can. Min. (Procyon)
13 ++Fedorenko 1457-8
14 Groombr. 1618
15 Weisse 234
16 Lalande 21185
17 Lalande 21258
18
19 Lalande 25372
20 ++[Greek: a] Centauri
21 ++[Greek: x] Bootes
22 ++Lalande 27173
23 Weisse 1259
24 Lacaille 7194
25 ++[Greek: b] 416
26 Argel -0.17415-6
27 Barnard's star
28 ++70p Ophiuchi
29 ++[Greek: S] 2398
30 [Greek: s] Draconis
31 ++[Greek: a] Aquilæ (Altair)
32 ++61 Cygni
33 Lacaille 8760
34 [Greek: e] Indi
35 ++Krüger 60
36 Lacaille 9352
37 Lalande 46650
38 C. G. A. 32416
(++ Double star.)
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)
Right Declination Visual Spectrum Proper Radial
Star Ascension [Greek: d] Mag. m Motion Velocity
code [Greek: a] 1900 km. per
1900 sec.
------------------------------------------------------------------
1 0^h 12^m.7 +43°27' 8.1 Ma 2".89 + 3
2 43 .0 +57 17 3.6 F8 1 .24 + 10
3 43 .9 +4 55 12.3 F0 3 .01 .....
4 1 12 .4 -69 24 5.0 F8 .39 + 12
5 39 .4 -16 28 3.6 K0 1 .92 - 16
------------------------------------------------------------------
6 3 15 .9 -43 27 4.3 G5 3 .16 + 87
7 28 .2 - 9 48 3.8 K0 .97 + 16
8 4 10 .7 - 7 49 4.5 G5 4 .08 - 42
9 5 7 .7 -44 59 9.2 K2 8 .75 +242
10 26 .4 - 3 42 8.8 K2 2 .22 .....
------------------------------------------------------------------
11 6 40 .7 -16 35 -1.6 A0 1 .32 - 8
12 7 34 .1 + 5 29 0.5 F5 1 .24 - 4
13 9 7 .6 +53 7 7.9 Ma 1 .68 + 10
14 10 5 .3 +49 58 6.8 K5p 1 .45 - 30
15 14 .2 +20 22 9.0 ... .49 .....
------------------------------------------------------------------
16 57 .9 +36 38 7.6 Mb 4 .78 - 87
17 11 0 .5 +44 2 8.5 K5 4 .52 + 65
18 12 .0 -57 2 12.0 ... 2 .69 .....
19 13 40 .7 +15 26 8.5 K5 2 .30 .....
20 14 32 .8 -60 25 0.2 G 3 .68 + 22
------------------------------------------------------------------
21 14 46 .8 +19 31 4.6 K5p .17 + 4
22 51 .6 -20 58 5.8 Kp 1 .96 + 20
23 16 41 .4 +33 41 8.4 ... .37 .....
24 17 11 .5 -46 32 5.7 K .97 .....
25 12 .1 -34 53 5.9 K5 1 .19 - 4
------------------------------------------------------------------
26 37 .0 +68 26 9.1 K 1 .33 .....
27 52 .9 + 4 25 9.7 Mb 10 .30 - 80
28 18 0 .4 + 2 31 4.3 K 1 .13 .....
29 41 .7 +59 29 8.8 K 2 .31 .....
30 19 32 .5 +69 29 4.8 G5 1 .84 + 26
------------------------------------------------------------------
31 45 .9 + 8 36 1.2 A5 .66 - 33
32 21 2 .4 +38 15 5.6 K5 5 .20 - 64
33 11 .4 -39 15 6.6 G 3 .53 + 13
34 55 .7 -57 12 4.8 K5 4 .70 - 39
35 22 24 .4 +57 12 9.2 ... .87 .....
------------------------------------------------------------------
36 59 .4 -36 26 7.1 K 6 .90 + 12
37 23 44 .0 + 1 52 8.7 Ma 1 .39 .....
38 59 .5 -37 51 8.2 G 6 .05 + 26
(7) (9) (11) (13) (14)
Present Minimum Magnitude Luminosity Effective
Parallax Distance at Min. Dist. | radiation
[Greek: p] Light Yrs. | | at
| | | | minimum
| (8) | (10) | (12) | distance
Star | Maximum | Time of | Absolute | from sun
Code | Parallax | Minimum | Magnitude | |
| | | Distance | | | |
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
1 ".28 ".28 11.6 -4000 8.1 10.3 0.0063 0.000051
2 .18 .19 17.1 -47000 3.5 4.9 0.91 0.003110
3 .24 .... .... ...... .... 14.2 0.00017 ........
4 .16 .23 14.2 -264000 4.2 6.0 0.33 0.001610
5 .32 .37 8.8 +46000 3.3 6.1 0.30 0.003840
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
6 .16 .22 14.8 -33000 3.6 5.3 0.63 0.002960
7 .31 .46 7.1 -106000 3.0 6.3 0.25 0.004970
8 .21 .23 14.2 +19000 4.3 6.1 0.30 0.001470
9 .32 .68 4.8 -10000 7.6 11.7 0.0017 0.000074
10 .17 .... .... ...... .... 9.9 0.009 ........
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
11 .37 .41 8.0 +65000 -1.8 1.2 27.50 0.429000
12 .31 .32 10.2 +34000 0.5 3.0 5.25 0.051300
13 .16 .16 20.4 -24000 7.9 8.9 0.023 0.000055
14 .18 .23 14.2 +69000 6.3 8.1 0.048 0.000238
15 .19 .... .... ...... .... 10.4 0.0057 ........
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
16 .41 .76 4.3 +20000 6.2 10.7 0.0044 0.000238
17 .19 .22 14.8 -20000 8.2 9.9 0.009 0.000041
18 .34 .... .... ...... .... 14.7 0.00011 ........
19 .19 .... .... ...... .... 9.9 0.009 ........
20 .76 1.03 3.2 -28000 -0.5 4.6 1.20 0.117500
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
21 .17 .22 14.8 -598000 4.0 5.8 0.40 0.001815
22 .18 .19 17.1 -36000 5.6 7.1 0.12 0.000412
23 .18 .... .... ...... .... 9.7 0.011 ........
24 .19 .... .... ...... .... 7.1 0.12 ........
25 .17 .17 19.2 +21000 5.7 7.1 0.12 0.000329
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
26 .22 .... .... ...... .... 10.8 0.004 ........
27 .53 .70 4.7 +10000 9.1 13.3 0.0025 0.000114
28 .19 .... .... ...... .... 5.7 0.44 ........
29 .29 .... .... ...... .... 11.1 0.0030 ........
30 .20 .23 14.2 -49000 4.5 6.3 0.25 0.001238
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
31 .21 .51 6.4 +117000 -0.7 2.8 6.30 0.153600
32 .30 .38 8.6 +19000 5.1 8.0 0.053 0.000715
33 .25 .26 12.6 -11000 6.6 8.6 0.030 0.000189
34 .28 .31 10.5 +17000 4.6 7.0 0.13 0.001230
35 .26 .... .... ....... .... 11.3 0.0025 ........
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
36 .29 .29 11.2 -3000 7.1 9.4 0.014 0.000111
37 .17 .... .... ....... .... 9.9 0.009 ........
38 .22 .22 14.8 -7000 8.2 9.9 0.009 0.000041
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
On the basis of column 14 and of the movements and distances of the
stars as given in the other columns Fig. 10 has been prepared. This
gives an estimate of the approximate electrical energy received by the
sun from the nearest stars for 70,000 years before and after the
present. It is based on the twenty-six stars for which complete data are
available in Table 6. The inclusion of the other twelve would not alter
the form of the curve, for even the largest of them would not change any
part by more than about half of 1 per cent, if as much. Nor would the
curve be visibly altered by the omission of all except four of the
twenty-six stars actually used. The four that are important, and their
relative luminosity when nearest the sun, are Sirius 429,000, Altair
153,000, Alpha Centauri 117,500, and Procyon 51,300. The figure for the
next star is only 4970, while for this star combined with the other
twenty-one that are unimportant it is only 24,850.
Figure 10 is not carried more than 70,000 years into the past or into
the future because the stars near the sun at more remote times are not
included among the thirty-eight having the largest known parallaxes.
That is, they have either moved away or are not yet near enough to be
included. Indeed, as Dr. Schlesinger strongly emphasizes, there may be
swiftly moving, bright or gigantic stars which are now quite far away,
but whose inclusion would alter Fig. 10 even within the limits of the
140,000 years there shown. It is almost certain, however, that the most
that these would do would be to raise, but not obliterate, the minima on
either side of the main maximum.
[Illustration: _Fig. 10. Climatic changes of 140,000 years as inferred
from the stars._]
In preparing Fig. 10 it has been necessary to make allowance for double
stars. Passing by the twenty-two unimportant stars, it appears that the
companion of Sirius is eight or ten magnitudes smaller than that star,
while the companions of Procyon and Altair are five or more magnitudes
smaller than their bright comrades. This means that the luminosity of
the faint components is at most only 1 per cent of that of their bright
companions and in the case of Sirius not a hundredth of 1 per cent.
Hence their inclusion would have no visible effect on Fig. 10. In Alpha
Centauri, on the other hand, the two components are of almost the same
magnitude. For this reason the effective radiation of that star as given
in column 14 is doubled in Fig. 10, while for another reason it is
raised still more. The other reason is that if our inferences as to the
electrical effect of the sun on the earth and of the planets on the sun
are correct, double stars, as we have seen, must be much more effective
electrically than single stars. By the same reasoning two bright stars
close together must excite one another much more than a bright star and
a very faint one, even if the distances in both cases are the same. So,
too, other things being equal, a triple star must be more excited
electrically than a double star. Hence in preparing Fig. 10 all double
stars receive double weight and each part of Alpha Centauri receives an
additional 50 per cent because both parts are bright and because they
have a third companion to help in exciting them.
According to the electro-stellar hypothesis, Alpha Centauri is more
important climatically than any other star in the heavens not only
because it is triple and bright, but because it is the nearest of all
stars, and moves fairly rapidly. Sirius and Procyon move slowly in
respect to the sun, only about eleven and eight kilometers per second
respectively, and their distances at minimum are fairly large, that is,
8 and 10.2 light years. Hence their effect on the sun changes slowly.
Altair moves faster, about twenty-six kilometers per second, and its
minimum distance is 6.4 light years, so that its effect changes fairly
rapidly. Alpha Centauri moves about twenty-four kilometers per second,
and its minimum distance is only 3.2 light years. Hence its effect
changes very rapidly, the change in its apparent luminosity as seen from
the sun amounting at maximum to about 30 per cent in 10,000 years
against 14 per cent for Altair, 4 for Sirius, and 2 for Procyon. The
vast majority of the stars change so much more slowly than even Procyon
that their effect is almost uniform. All the stars at a distance of more
than perhaps twenty or thirty light years may be regarded as sending to
the sun a practically unchanging amount of radiation. It is the bright
stars within this limit which are important, and their importance
increases with their proximity, their speed of motion, and the
brightness and number of their companions. Hence Alpha Centauri causes
the main maximum in Fig. 10, while Sirius, Altair, and Procyon combine
to cause a general rise of the curve from the past to the future.
Let us now interpret Fig. 10 geologically. The low position of the curve
fifty to seventy thousand years ago suggests a mild inter-glacial
climate distinctly less severe than that of the present. Geologists say
that such was the case. The curve suggests a glacial epoch culminating
about 28,000 years ago. The best authorities put the climax of the last
glacial epoch between twenty-five and thirty thousand years ago. The
curve shows an amelioration of climate since that time, although it
suggests that there is still considerable severity. The retreat of the
ice from North America and Europe, and its persistence in Greenland and
Antarctica agree with this. And the curve indicates that the change of
climate is still persisting, a conclusion in harmony with the evidence
as to historic changes.
If Alpha Centauri is really so important, the effect of its variations,
provided it has any, ought perhaps to be evident in the sun. The
activity of the star's atmosphere presumably varies, for the orbits of
the two components have an eccentricity of 0.51. Hence during their
period of revolution, 81.2 years, the distance between them ranges from
1,100,000,000 to 3,300,000,000 miles. They were at a minimum distance in
1388, 1459, 1550, 1631, 1713, 1794, 1875, and will be again in 1956. In
Fig. 11, showing sunspot variations, it is noticeable that the years
1794 and 1875 come just at the ends of periods of unusual solar
activity, as indicated by the heavy horizontal line. A similar period of
great activity seems to have begun about 1914. If its duration equals
the average of its two predecessors, it will end about 1950. Back in the
fourteenth century a period of excessive solar activity, which has
already been described, culminated from 1370 to 1385, or just before the
two parts of Alpha Centauri were at a minimum distance. Thus in three
and perhaps four cases the sun has been unusually active during a time
when the two parts of the star were most rapidly approaching each other
and when their atmospheres were presumably most disturbed and their
electrical emanations strongest.
[Illustration: _Fig. 11. Sunspot curve showing cycles, 1750 to 1920._
_Note._ The asterisks indicate two absolute minima of sunspots in 1810
and 1913, and the middle years (1780 and 1854) of two periods when the
sunspot maxima never fell below 95. If Alpha Centauri has an effect on
the sun's atmosphere, the end of another such period would be expected
not far from 1957.]
The fact that Alpha Centauri, the star which would be expected most
strongly to influence the sun, and hence the earth, was nearest the sun
at the climax of the last glacial epoch, and that today the solar
atmosphere is most active when the star is presumably most disturbed may
be of no significance. It is given for what it is worth. Its importance
lies not in the fact that it proves anything but that no contradiction
is found when we test the electro-stellar hypothesis by facts which were
not thought of when the hypothesis was framed. A vast amount of
astronomical work is still needed before the matter can be brought to
any definite conclusion. In case the hypothesis stands firm, it may be
possible to use the stars as a help in determining the exact chronology
of the later part of geological times. If the hypothesis is disproved,
it will merely leave the question of solar variations where it is today.
It will not influence the main conclusions of this book as to the causes
and nature of climatic changes. Its value lies in the fact that it calls
attention to new lines of research.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 120: Lewis Boss: Convergent of a Moving Cluster in Taurus;
Astronom. Jour., Vol. 26, No. 4, 1908, pp. 31-36.]
[Footnote 121: F. R. Moulton: in Introduction to Astronomy, 1916.]
[Footnote 122: A. Penck: Die Alpen im Eiszeitalter, Leipzig, 1909.]
[Footnote 123: R. D. Salisbury: Physical Geography of the Pleistocene,
in Outlines of Geologic History, by Willis and Salisbury, 1910, pp.
273-274.]
[Footnote 124: Davis, Pumpelly, and Huntington: Explorations in
Turkestan, Carnegie Inst. of Wash., No. 26, 1905.
In North America the stages have been the subject of intensive studies
on the part of Taylor, Leverett, Goldthwait, and many others.]
CHAPTER XVI
THE EARTH'S CRUST AND THE SUN
Although the problems of this book may lead far afield, they ultimately
bring us back to the earth and to the present. Several times in the
preceding pages there has been mention of the fact that periods of
extreme climatic fluctuations are closely associated with great
movements of the earth's crust whereby mountains are uplifted and
continents upheaved. In attempting to explain this association the
general tendency has been to look largely at the past instead of the
present. Hence it has been almost impossible to choose among three
possibilities, all beset with difficulties. First, the movements of the
crust may have caused the climatic fluctuations; second, climatic
changes may cause crustal movements; and third, variations in solar
activity or in some other outside agency may give rise to both types of
terrestrial phenomena.
The idea that movements of the earth's crust are the main cause of
geological changes of climate is becoming increasingly untenable as the
complexity and rapidity of climatic changes become more clear,
especially during post-glacial times. It implies that the earth's
surface moves up and down with a speed and facility which appear to be
out of the question. If volcanic activity be invoked the problem becomes
no clearer. Even if volcanic dust should fill the air frequently and
completely, neither its presence nor absence would produce such peculiar
features as the localization of glaciers, the distribution of loess, and
the mild climate of most parts of geological time. Nevertheless, because
of the great difficulties presented by the other two possibilities many
geologists still hold that directly or indirectly the greater climatic
changes have been mainly due to movements of the earth's crust and to
the reaction of the crustal movements on the atmosphere.
The possibility that climatic changes are in themselves a cause of
movements of the earth's crust seems so improbable that no one appears
to have investigated it with any seriousness. Nevertheless, it is worth
while to raise the question whether climatic extremes may coöperate with
other agencies in setting the time when the earth's crust shall be
deformed.
As to the third possibility, it is perfectly logical to ascribe both
climatic changes and crustal deformation to some outside agency, solar
or otherwise, but hitherto there has been so little evidence on this
point that such an ascription has merely begged the question. If
heavenly bodies should approach the earth closely enough so that their
gravitational stresses caused crustal deformation, all life would
presumably be destroyed. As to the sun, there has hitherto been no
conclusive evidence that it is related to crustal movements, although
various writers have made suggestions along this line. In this chapter
we shall carry these suggestions further and shall see that they are at
least worthy of study.
As a preliminary to this study it may be well to note that the
coincidence between movements of the earth's crust and climatic changes
is not so absolute as is sometimes supposed. For example, the profound
crustal changes at the end of the Mesozoic were not accompanied by
widespread glaciation so far as is yet known, although the temperature
appears to have been lowered. Nor was the violent volcanic and
diastrophic activity in the Miocene associated with extreme climates.
Indeed, there appears to have been little contrast from zone to zone,
for figs, bread fruit trees, tree ferns, and other plants of low
latitudes grew in Greenland. Nevertheless, both at the end of the
Mesozoic and in the Miocene the climate may possibly have been severe
for a time, although the record is lost. On the other hand, Kirk's
recent discovery of glacial till in Alaska between beds carrying an
undoubted Middle Silurian fauna indicates glaciation at a time when
there was little movement of the crust so far as yet appears.[125] Thus
we conclude that while climatic changes and crustal movements usually
occur together, they may occur separately.
According to the solar-cyclonic hypothesis such a condition is to be
expected. If the sun were especially active when the terrestrial
conditions prohibited glaciation, changes of climate would still occur,
but they would be milder than under other circumstances, and would leave
little record in the rocks. Or there might be glaciation in high
latitudes, such as that of southern Alaska in the Middle Silurian, and
none elsewhere. On the other hand, when the sun was so inactive that no
great storminess occurred, the upheaval of continents and the building
of mountains might go on without the formation of ice sheets, as
apparently happened at the end of the Mesozoic. The lack of absolute
coincidence between glaciation and periods of widespread emergence of
the lands is evident even today, for there is no reason to suppose that
the lands are notably lower or less extensive now than they were during
the Pleistocene glaciation. In fact, there is much evidence that many
areas have risen since that time. Yet glaciation is now far less
extensive than in the Pleistocene. Any attempt to explain this
difference on the basis of terrestrial changes is extremely difficult,
for the shape and altitude of continents and mountains have not changed
much in twenty or thirty thousand years. Yet the present moderately mild
epoch, like the puzzling inter-glacial epochs of earlier times, is
easily explicable on the assumption that the sun's atmosphere may
sometimes vary in harmony with crustal activity, but does not
necessarily do so at all times.
Turning now to the main problem of how climatic changes may be connected
with movements of the earth's crust, let us follow our usual method and
examine what is happening today. Let us first inquire whether
earthquakes, which are one of the chief evidences that crustal movements
are actually taking place in our own times, show any connection with
sunspots. In order to test this, we have compared _Milne's Catalogue of
Destructive Earthquakes_ from 1800 to 1899, with Wolf's sunspot numbers
for the same period month by month. The earthquake catalogue, as its
compiler describes it, "is an attempt to give a list of earthquakes
which have announced changes of geological importance in the earth's
crust; movements which have probably resulted in the creation or the
extension of a line of fault, the vibrations accompanying which could,
with proper instruments, have been recorded over a continent or the
whole surface of our world. Small earthquakes have been excluded, while
the number of large earthquakes both for ancient and modern times has
been extended. As an illustration of exclusion, I may mention that
between 1800 and 1808, which are years taken at random, I find in
Mallet's catalogue 407 entries. Only thirty-seven of these, which were
accompanied by structural damage, have been retained. Other catalogues
such as those of Perry and Fuchs have been treated similarly."[126]
If the earthquakes in such a carefully selected list bear a distinct
relation to sunspots, it is at least possible and perhaps probable that
a similar relation may exist between solar activity and geological
changes in the earth's crust. The result of the comparison of
earthquakes and sunspots is shown in Table 7. The first column gives the
sunspot numbers; the second, the number of months that had the
respective spot numbers during the century from 1800 to 1899. Column C
shows the total number of earthquakes during the months having any
particular degree of spottedness; while D, which is the significant
column, gives the average number of destructive earthquakes per month
under each of the six conditions of solar spottedness. The regularity of
column D is so great as to make it almost certain that we are here
dealing with a real relationship. Column F, which shows the average
number of earthquakes in the month succeeding any given condition of the
sun, is still more regular except for the last entry.
TABLE 7
DESTRUCTIVE EARTHQUAKES FROM 1800 TO 1899 COMPARED WITH SUNSPOTS
A: _Sunspot numbers_
B: _Number of months per Wolf's Table_
C: _Number of earthquakes_
D: _Average number of earthquakes per month_
E: _Number of earthquakes in succeeding month_
F: _Average number of earthquakes in succeeding month_
A B C D E F
0-15 344 522 1.52 512 1.49
15-30 194 306 1.58 310 1.60
30-50 237 433 1.83 439 1.85
50-70 195 402 2.06 390 2.00
70-100 135 286 2.12 310 2.30
over 100 95 218 2.30 175 1.84
The chance that six numbers taken at random will arrange themselves in
any given order is one in 720. In other words, there is one chance in
720 that the regularity of column D is accidental. But column F is as
regular as column D except for the last entry. If columns D and E were
independent there would be one chance in about 500,000 that the six
numbers in both columns would fall in the same order, and one chance in
14,400 that five numbers in each would fall in the same order. But the
two columns are somewhat related, for although the after-shocks of a
great earthquake are never included in Milne's table, a world-shaking
earthquake in one region during a given month probably creates
conditions that favor similar earthquakes elsewhere during the next
month. Hence the probability that we are dealing with a purely
accidental arrangement in Table 7 is less than one in 14,400 and greater
than one in 500,000. It may be one in 20,000 or 100,000. In any event it
is so slight that there is high probability that directly or indirectly
sunspots and earthquakes are somehow connected.
In ascertaining the relation between sunspots and earthquakes it would
be well if we could employ the strict method of correlation
coefficients. This, however, is impossible for the entire century, for
the record is by no means homogeneous. The earlier decades are
represented by only about one-fourth as many earthquakes as the later
ones, a condition which is presumably due to lack of information. This
makes no difference with the method employed in Table 7, since years
with many and few sunspots are distributed almost equally throughout the
entire nineteenth century, but it renders the method of correlation
coefficients inapplicable. During the period from 1850 onward the record
is much more nearly homogeneous, though not completely so. Even in these
later decades, however, allowance must be made for the fact that there
are more earthquakes in winter than in summer, the average number per
month for the fifty years being as follows:
Jan. 2.8 May 2.4 Sept. 2.5
Feb. 2.4 June 2.3 Oct. 2.6
Mar. 2.5 July 2.4 Nov. 2.7
Apr. 2.4 Aug. 2.4 Dec. 2.8
The correlation coefficient between the departures from these monthly
averages and the corresponding departures from the monthly averages of
the sunspots for the same period, 1850-1899, are as follows:
Sunspots and earthquakes of same month: +0.042, or 1.5 times the
probable error.
Sunspots of a given month and earthquakes of that month and the
next: +0.084, or 3.1 times the probable error.
Sunspots of three consecutive months and earthquakes of three
consecutive months allowing a lag of one month, i.e., sunspots of
January, February, and March compared with earthquakes of February,
March, and April; sunspots of February, March, and April with
earthquakes of March, April, and May, etc.; +0.112, or 4.1 times the
probable error.
These coefficients are all small, but the number of individual cases,
600 months, is so large that the probable error is greatly reduced,
being only ±0.027 or ±0.028. Moreover, the nature of our data is such
that even if there is a strong connection between solar changes and
earth movements, we should not expect a large correlation coefficient.
In the first place, as already mentioned, the earthquake data are not
strictly homogeneous. Second, an average of about two and one-half
strong earthquakes per month is at best only a most imperfect indication
of the actual movement of the earth's crust. Third, the sunspots are
only a partial and imperfect measure of the activity of the sun's
atmosphere. Fourth, the relation between solar activity and earthquakes
is almost certainly indirect. In view of all these conditions, the
regularity of Table 7 and the fact that the most important correlation
coefficient rises to more than four times the probable error makes it
almost certain that the solar and terrestrial phenomena are really
connected.
We are now confronted by the perplexing question of how this connection
can take place. Thus far only three possibilities present themselves,
and each is open to objections. The chief agencies concerned in these
three possibilities are heat, electricity, and atmospheric pressure.
Heat may be dismissed very briefly. We have seen that the earth's
surface becomes relatively cool when the sun is active. Theoretically
even the slightest change in the temperature of the earth's surface must
influence the thermal gradient far into the interior and hence cause a
change of volume which might cause movements of the crust. Practically
the heat of the surface ceases to be of appreciable importance at a
depth of perhaps twenty feet, and even at that depth it does not act
quickly enough to cause the relatively prompt response which seems to be
characteristic of earthquakes in respect to the sun.
The second possibility is based on the relationship between solar and
terrestrial electricity. When the sun is active the earth's atmospheric
electrical potential is subject to slight variations. It is well known
that when two opposing points of an ionized solution are oppositely
charged electrically, a current passes through the liquid and sets up
electrolysis whereby there is a segregation of materials, and a
consequent change in the volume of the parts near the respective
electrical poles. The same process takes place, although less freely, in
a hot mass such as forms the interior of the earth. The question arises
whether internal electrical currents may not pass between the two
oppositely charged poles of the earth, or even between the great
continental masses and the regions of heavier rock which underlie the
oceans. Could this lead to electrolysis, hence to differentiation in
volume, and thus to movements of the earth's crust? Could the results
vary in harmony with the sun? Bowie[127] has shown that numerous
measurements of the strength and direction of the earth's gravitative
pull are explicable only on the assumption that the upheaval of a
continent or a mountain range is due in part not merely to pressure, or
even to flowage of the rocks beneath the crust, but also to an actual
change in volume whereby the rocks beneath the continent attain
relatively great volume and those under the oceans a small volume in
proportion to their weight. The query arises whether this change of
volume may be related to electrical currents at some depth below the
earth's surface.
The objections to this hypothesis are numerous. First, there is little
evidence of electrolytic differentiation in the rocks. Second, the outer
part of the earth's crust is a very poor conductor so that it is
doubtful whether even a high degree of electrification of the surface
would have much effect on the interior. Third, electrolysis due to any
such mild causes as we have here postulated must be an extremely slow
process, too slow, presumably, to have any appreciable result within a
month or two. Other objections join with these three in making it seem
improbable that the sun's electrical activity has any direct effect upon
movements of the earth's crust.
The third, or meteorological hypothesis, which makes barometric pressure
the main intermediary between solar activity and earthquakes, seems at
first sight almost as improbable as the thermal and electrical
hypotheses. Nevertheless, it has a certain degree of observational
support of a kind which is wholly lacking in the other two cases. Among
the extensive writings on the periodicity of earthquakes one main fact
stands out with great distinctness: earthquakes vary in number according
to the season. This fact has already been shown incidentally in the
table of earthquake frequency by months. If allowance is made for the
fact that February is a short month, there is a regular decrease in the
frequency of severe earthquakes from December and January to June. Since
most of Milne's earthquakes occurred in the northern hemisphere, this
means that severe earthquakes occur in winter about 20 per cent oftener
than in summer.
The most thorough investigation of this subject seems to have been that
of Davisson.[128] His results have been worked over and amplified by
Knott,[129] who has tested them by Schuster's exact mathematical
methods. His results are given in Table 8.[130] Here the northern
hemisphere is placed first; then come the East Indies and the Malay
Archipelago lying close to the equator; and finally the southern
hemisphere. In the northern hemisphere practically all the maxima come
in the winter, for the month of December appears in fifteen cases out of
the twenty-five in column D, while January, February, or November
appears in six others. It is also noticeable that in sixteen cases out
of twenty-five the ratio of the actual to the expected amplitude in
column G is four or more, so that a real relationship is indicated,
while the ratio falls below three only in Japan and Zante. The
equatorial data, unlike those of the northern hemisphere, are
indefinite, for in the East Indies no month shows a marked maximum and
the expected amplitude exceeds the actual amplitude. Even in the Malay
Archipelago, which shows a maximum in May, the ratio of actual to
expected amplitude is only 2.6. Turning to the southern hemisphere, the
winter months of that hemisphere are as strongly marked by a maximum as
are the winter months of the northern hemisphere. July or August appears
in five out of six cases. Here the ratio between the actual and expected
amplitudes is not so great as in the northern hemisphere. Nevertheless,
it is practically four in Chile, and exceeds five in Peru and Bolivia,
and in the data for the entire southern hemisphere.
TABLE 8
SEASONAL MARCH OF EARTHQUAKES
AFTER DAVISSON AND KNOTT
A: _Region_
B: _Limiting Dates_
C: _Number of Shocks_
D: _Maximum Month_
E: _Amplitude_
F: _Expected Amplitude_
G: _Ratio of Actual to Expected Amplitude_
A B C D E F G
Northern Hemisphere 223-1850 5879 Dec. 0.110 0.023 4.8
Northern Hemisphere 1865-1884 8133 Dec. 0.290 0.020 14.5
Europe 1865-1884 5499 Dec. 0.350 0.024 14.6
Europe 306-1843 1961 Dec. 0.220 0.040 5.5
Southeast Europe 1859-1887 3470 Dec. 0.210 0.030 7.0
Vesuvius District 1865-1883 513 Dec. 0.250 0.078 3.2
Italy:
Old Tromometre 1872-1887 61732 Dec. 0.490 0.007 70.0
Old Tromometre 1876-1887 38546 Dec. 0.460 0.009 49.5
Normal Tromometre 1876-1887 38546 Dec. 0.490 0.009 52.8
Balkan, etc. 1865-1884 624 Dec. 0.270 0.071 3.8
Hungary, etc. 1865-1884 384 Dec. 0.310 0.090 3.4
Italy 1865-1883 2350 Dec.(Sept.)0.140 0.037 3.8
Grecian Archip. 1859-1881 3578 Dec.-Jan. 0.164 0.030 5.5
Austria 1865-1884 461 Jan. 0.370 0.083 4.4
Switzerland, etc. 1865-1883 524 Jan. 0.560 0.077 7.3
Asia 1865-1884 458 Feb. 0.330 0.083 4.0
North America 1865-1884 552 Nov. 0.350 0.075 4.7
California 1850-1886 949 Oct. 0.300 0.058 5.2
Japan 1878-1881 246 Dec. 0.460 0.113 4.1
Japan 1872-1880 367 Dec.-Jan. 0.256 0.093 2.8
Japan 1876-1891 1104 Feb. 0.190 0.053 3.6
Japan 1885-1889 2997 Oct. 0.080 0.032 2.5
Zante 1825-1863 1326 Aug. 0.100 0.049 2.0
Italy, North 1865-1883 1513 Sept.(Nov.) 0.210 0.046 4.6
of Naples
East Indies 1873-1881 515 Aug., Oct., 0.071? 0.078 0.9
or Dec.?
Malay Archip. 1865-1884 598 May 0.190 0.072 2.6
New Zealand 1869-1879 585 Aug.-Sept. 0.203 0.073 2.8
Chile 1873-1881 212 July 0.480 0.122 3.9
Southern Hemisphere 1865-1884 751 July 0.370 0.065 5.7
New Zealand 1868-1890 641 March, May 0.050 0.070 0.7
Chile 1865-1883? 316 July, Dec. 0.270 0.100 2.7
Peru, Bolivia 1865-1884 350 July 0.480 0.095 5.1
The whole relationship between earthquakes and the seasons in the
northern and southern hemispheres is summed up in Fig. 12 taken from
Knott. The northern hemisphere shows a regular diminution in earthquake
frequency from December until June, and an increase the rest of the
year. In the southern hemisphere the course of events is the same so far
as summer and winter are concerned, for August with its maximum comes in
winter, while February with its minimum comes in summer. In the southern
hemisphere the winter month of greatest seismic activity has over 100
per cent more earthquakes than the summer month of least activity. In
the northern hemisphere this difference is about 80 per cent, but this
smaller figure occurs partly because the northern data include certain
interesting and significant regions like Japan and China where the usual
conditions are reversed.[131] If equatorial regions were included in
Fig. 12, they would give an almost straight line.
The connection between earthquakes and the seasons is so strong that
almost no students of seismology question it, although they do not agree
as to its cause. A meteorological hypothesis seems to be the only
logical explanation.[132] Wherever sufficient data are available,
earthquakes appear to be most numerous when climatic conditions cause
the earth's surface to be most heavily loaded or to change its load most
rapidly. The main factor in the loading is apparently atmospheric
pressure. This acts in two ways. First, when the continents become cold
in winter the pressure increases. On an average the air at sea level
presses upon the earth's surface at the rate of 14.7 pounds per square
inch, or over a ton per square foot, and only a little short of thirty
million tons per square mile. An average difference of one inch between
the atmospheric pressure of summer and winter over ten million square
miles of the continent of Asia, for example, means that the continent's
load in winter is about ten million million tons heavier than in summer.
Second, the changes in atmospheric pressure due to the passage of storms
are relatively sharp and sudden. Hence they are probably more effective
than the variations in the load from season to season. This is suggested
by the rapidity with which the terrestrial response seems to follow the
supposed solar cause of earthquakes. It is also suggested by the fact
that violent storms are frequently followed by violent earthquakes.
"Earthquake weather," as Dr. Schlesinger suggests, is a common phrase in
the typhoon region of Japan, China, and the East Indies. During tropical
hurricanes a change of pressure amounting to half an inch in two hours
is common. On September 22, 1885, at False Point Lighthouse on the Bay
of Bengal, the barometer fell about an inch in six hours, then nearly an
inch and a half in not much over two hours, and finally rose fully two
inches inside of two hours. A drop of two inches in barometric pressure
means that a load of about two million tons is removed from each square
mile of land; the corresponding rise of pressure means the addition of a
similar load. Such a storm, and to a less degree every other storm,
strikes a blow upon the earth's surface, first by removing millions of
tons of pressure and then by putting them on again.[133] Such storms, as
we have seen, are much more frequent and severe when sunspots are
numerous than at other times. Moreover, as Veeder[134] long ago showed,
one of the most noteworthy evidences of a connection between sunspots
and the weather is a sudden increase of pressure in certain widely
separated high pressure areas. In most parts of the world winter is not
only the season of highest pressure and of most frequent changes of
Veeder's type, but also of severest storms. Hence a meteorological
hypothesis would lead to the expectation that earthquakes would occur
more frequently in winter than in summer. On the Chinese coast, however,
and also on the oceanic side of Japan, as well as in some more tropical
regions, the chief storms come in summer in the form of typhoons. These
are the places where earthquakes also are most abundant in summer. Thus,
wherever we turn, storms and the related barometric changes seem to be
most frequent and severe at the very times when earthquakes are also
most frequent.
[Illustration: _Fig. 12. Seasonal distribution of earthquakes. (After
Davisson and Knott.)_
solid line ---- Northern Hemisphere.
dashed line .... Southern Hemisphere.]
Other meteorological factors, such as rain, snow, winds, and currents,
probably have some effect on earthquakes through their ability to load
the earth's crust. The coming of vegetation may also help. These
agencies, however, appear to be of small importance compared with the
storms. In high latitudes and in regions of abundant storminess most of
these factors generally combine with barometric pressure to produce
frequent changes in the load of the earth's crust, especially in winter.
In low latitudes, on the other hand, there are few severe storms, and
relatively little contrast in pressure and vegetation from season to
season; there is no snow; and the amount of ground water changes little.
With this goes the twofold fact that there is no marked seasonal
distribution of earthquakes, and that except in certain local volcanic
areas, earthquakes appear to be rare. In proportion to the areas
concerned, for example, there is little evidence of earthquakes in
equatorial Africa and South America.
The question of the reality of the connection between meteorological
conditions and crustal movements is so important that every possible
test should be applied. At the suggestion of Professor Schlesinger we
have looked up a very ingenious line of inquiry. During the last decades
of the nineteenth century, a long series of extremely accurate
observations of latitude disclosed a fact which had previously been
suspected but not demonstrated, namely, that the earth wabbles a little
about its axis. The axis itself always points in the same direction, and
since the earth slides irregularly around it the latitude of all parts
of the earth keeps changing. Chandler has shown that the wabbling thus
induced consists of two parts. The first is a movement in a circle with
a radius of about fifteen feet which is described in approximately 430
days. This so-called Eulerian movement is a normal gyroscopic motion
like the slow gyration of a spinning top. This depends on purely
astronomical causes, and no terrestrial cause can stop it or eliminate
it. The period appears to be constant, but there are certain puzzling
irregularities. The usual amplitude of this movement, as
Schlesinger[135] puts it, "is about 0".27, but twice in recent years it
has jumped to 0".40. Such a change could be accounted for by supposing
that the earth had received a severe blow or a series of milder blows
tending in the same direction." These blows, which were originally
suggested by Helmert are most interesting in view of our suggestion as
to the blows struck by storms.
The second movement of the pole has a period of a year, and is roughly
an ellipse whose longest radius is fourteen feet and the shortest, four
feet; or, to put it technically, there is an annual term with a maximum
amplitude of about 0".20. This, however, varies irregularly. The result
is that the pole seems to wander over the earth's surface in the spiral
fashion illustrated in Fig. 13. It was early suggested that this
peculiar wandering of the pole in an annual period must be due to
meteorological causes. Jeffreys[136] has investigated the matter
exhaustively. He assumes certain reasonable values for the weight of air
added or subtracted from different parts of the earth's surface
according to the seasons. He also considers the effect of precipitation,
vegetation, and polar ice, and of variations of temperature and
atmospheric pressure in their relation to movements of the ocean. Then
he proceeds to compare all these with the actual wandering of the pole
from 1907 to 1913. While it is as yet too early to say that any special
movement of the pole was due to the specific meteorological conditions
of any particular year, Jeffreys' work makes it clear that
meteorological causes, especially atmospheric pressure, are sufficient
to cause the observed irregular wanderings. Slight wanderings may arise
from various other sources such as movements of the rocks when
geological faults occur or the rush of a great wave due to a submarine
earthquake. So far as known, however, all these other agencies cause
insignificant displacements compared with those arising from movements
of the air. This fact coupled with the mathematical certainty that
meteorological phenomena must produce some wandering of the pole, has
caused most astronomers to accept Jeffreys' conclusion. If we follow
their example we are led to conclude that changes in atmospheric
pressure and in the other meteorological conditions strike blows which
sometimes shift the earth several feet from its normal position in
respect to the axis.
[Illustration: _Fig. 13. Wandering of the pole from 1890 to 1898._
(_After Moulton._)]
If the foregoing reasoning is correct, the great and especially the
sudden departures from the smooth gyroscopic circle described by the
pole in the Eulerian motion would be expected to occur at about the same
time as unusual earthquake activity. This brings us to an interesting
inquiry carried out by Milne[137] and amplified by Knott.[138] Taking
Albrecht's representation of the irregular spiral-like motion of the
pole, as given in Fig. 13, they show that there is a preponderance of
severe earthquakes at times when the direction of motion of the earth in
reference to its axis departs from the smooth Eulerian curve. A summary
of their results is given in Table 9. The table indicates that during
the period from 1892 to 1905 there were nine different times when the
curve of Fig. 13 changed its direction or was deflected by less than 10°
during a tenth of a year. In other words, during those periods it did
not curve as much as it ought according to the Eulerian movement. At
such times there were 179 world-shaking earthquakes, or an average of
about 19.9 per tenth of a year. According to the other lines of Table 9,
in thirty-two cases the deflection during a tenth of a year was between
10° and 25°, while in fifty-six cases it was from 25° to 40°. During
these periods the curve remained close to the Eulerian path and the
world-shaking earthquakes averaged only 8.2 and 12.9. Then, when the
deflection was high, that is, when meteorological conditions threw the
earth far out of its Eulerian course, the earthquakes were again
numerous, the number rising to 23.4 when the deflection amounted to more
than 55°.
TABLE 9
DEFLECTION OF PATH OF POLE COMPARED WITH EARTHQUAKES
_No. of _No. of _Average No.
_Deflection_ Deflections_ Earthquakes_ of Earthquakes_
0-10° 9 179 19.9
10-25° 32 263 8.2
25-40° 56 722 12.9
40-55° 19 366 19.3
over 55° 7 164 23.4
In order to test this conclusion in another way we have followed a
suggestion of Professor Schlesinger. Under his advice the Eulerian
motion has been eliminated and a new series of earthquake records has
been compared with the remaining motions of the poles which presumably
arise largely from meteorological causes. For this purpose use has been
made of the very full records of earthquakes published under the
auspices of the International Seismological Commission for the years
1903 to 1908, the only years for which they are available. These include
every known shock of every description which was either recorded by
seismographs or by direct observation in any part of the world. Each
shock is given the same weight, no matter what its violence or how
closely it follows another. The angle of deflection has been measured as
Milne measured it, but since the Eulerian motion is eliminated, our zero
is approximately the normal condition which would prevail if there were
no meteorological complications. Dividing the deflections into six equal
groups according to the size of the angle, we get the result shown in
Table 10.
TABLE 10
EARTHQUAKES IN 1903-1908 COMPARED WITH DEPARTURES OF THE PROJECTED
CURVE OF THE EARTH'S AXIS FROM THE EULERIAN POSITION
_Average angle of deflection_ _Average daily number
(_10 periods of 1/10 year each_) of earthquakes_
-10.5° 8.31
11.5° 8.35
25.8° 8.23
40.2° 8.14
54.7° 8.86
90.3° 11.81
Here where some twenty thousand earthquakes are employed the result
agrees closely with that of Milne for a different series of years and
for a much smaller number of earthquakes. So long as the path of the
pole departs less than about 45° from the smooth gyroscopic Eulerian
path, the number of earthquakes is almost constant, about eight and a
quarter per day. When the angle becomes large, however, the number
increases by nearly 50 per cent. Thus the work of Milne, Knott, and
Jeffreys is confirmed by a new investigation. Apparently earthquakes and
crustal movements are somehow related to sudden changes in the load
imposed on the earth's crust by meteorological conditions.
This conclusion is quite as surprising to the authors as to the
reader--perhaps more so. At the beginning of this investigation we had
no faith whatever in any important relation between climate and
earthquakes. At its end we are inclined to believe that the relation is
close and important.
It must not be supposed, however, that meteorological conditions are the
_cause_ of earthquakes and of movements of the earth's crust. Even
though the load that the climatic agencies can impose upon the earth's
crust runs into millions of tons per square mile, it is a trifle
compared with what the crust is able to support. There is, however, a
great difference between the cause and the occasion of a phenomenon.
Suppose that a thick sheet of glass is placed under an increasing
strain. If the strain is applied slowly enough, even so rigid a material
as glass will ultimately bend rather than break. But suppose that while
the tension is high the glass is tapped. A gentle tap may be followed by
a tiny crack. A series of little taps may be the signal for small cracks
to spread in every direction. A few slightly harder taps may cause the
whole sheet to break suddenly into many pieces. Yet even the hardest tap
may be the merest trifle compared with the strong force which is keeping
the glass in a state of strain and which would ultimately bend it if
given time.
The earth as a whole appears to stand between steel and glass in
rigidity. It is a matter of common observation that rocks stand high in
this respect and in the consequent difficulty with which they can be
bent without breaking. Because of the earth's contraction the crust
endures a constant strain, which must gradually become enormous. This
strain is increased by the fact that sediment is transferred from the
lands to the borders of the sea and there forms areas of thick
accumulation. From this has arisen the doctrine of isostasy, or of the
equalization of crustal pressure. An important illustration of this is
the oceanward and equatorial creep which has been described in Chapter
XI. There we saw that when the lands have once been raised to high
levels or when a shortening of the earth's axis by contraction has
increased the oceanic bulge at the equator, or when the reverse has
happened because of tidal retardation, the outer part of the earth
appears to creep slowly back toward a position of perfect isostatic
adjustment. If the sun had no influence upon the earth, either direct or
indirect, isostasy and other terrestrial processes might flex the
earth's crust so gradually that changes in the form and height of the
lands would always take place slowly, even from the geological point of
view. Thus erosion would usually be able to remove the rocks as rapidly
as they were domed above the general level. If this happened, mountains
would be rare or unknown, and hence climatic contrasts would be far less
marked than is actually the case on our earth where crustal movements
have repeatedly been rapid enough to produce mountains.
Nature's methods rarely allow so gradual an adjustment to the forces of
isostasy. While the crust is under a strain, not only because of
contraction, but because of changes in its load through the transference
of sediments and the slow increase or decrease in the bulge at the
equator, the atmosphere more or less persistently carries on the tapping
process. The violence of that process varies greatly, and the variations
depend largely on the severity of the climatic contrasts. If the main
outlines of the cyclonic hypothesis are reliable, one of the first
effects of a disturbance of the sun's atmosphere is increased storminess
upon the earth. This is accompanied by increased intensity in almost
every meteorological process. The most important effect, however, so far
as the earth's crust is concerned would apparently be the rapid and
intense changes of atmospheric pressure which would arise from the swift
passage of one severe storm after another. Each storm would be a little
tap on the tensely strained crust. Any single tap might be of little
consequence, even though it involved a change of a billion tons in the
pressure on an area no larger than the state of Rhode Island. Yet a
rapid and irregular succession of such taps might possibly cause the
crust to crack, and finally to collapse in response to stresses arising
from the shrinkage of the earth.
Another and perhaps more important effect of variations in storminess
and especially in the location of the stormy areas would be an
acceleration of erosion in some places and a retardation elsewhere. A
great increase in rainfall may almost denude the slopes of soil, while a
diminution to the point where much of the vegetation dies off has a
similar effect. If such changes should take place rapidly, great
thicknesses of sediment might be concentrated in certain areas in a
short time, thus disturbing the isostatic adjustment of the earth's
crust. This might set up a state of strain which would ultimately have
to be relieved, thus perhaps initiating profound crustal movements.
Changes in the load of the earth's crust due to erosion and the
deposition of sediment, no matter how rapid they may be from the
geological standpoint, are slow compared with those due to changes in
barometric pressure. A drop of an inch in barometric pressure is
equivalent to the removal of about five inches of solid rock. Even under
the most favorable circumstances, the removal of an average depth of
five inches of rock or its equivalent in soil over millions of square
miles would probably take several hundred years, while the removal of a
similar load of air might occur in half a day or even a few hours. Thus
the erosion and deposition due to climatic variations presumably play
their part in crustal deformation chiefly by producing crustal stresses,
while the storms, as it were, strike sharp, sudden blows.
Suppose now that a prolonged period of world-wide mild climate, such as
is described in Chapter X, should permit an enormous accumulation of
stresses due to contraction and tidal retardation. Suppose that then a
sudden change of climate should produce a rapid shifting of the deep
soil that had accumulated on the lands, with a corresponding
localization and increase in strains. Suppose also that frequent and
severe storms play their part, whether great or small, by producing an
intensive tapping of the crust. In such a case the ultimate collapse
would be correspondingly great, as would be evident in the succeeding
geological epoch. The sea floor might sink lower, the continents might
be elevated, and mountain ranges might be shoved up along lines of
special weakness. This is the story of the geological period as known to
historical geology. The force that causes such movements would be the
pull of gravity upon the crust surrounding the earth's shrinking
interior. Nevertheless climatic changes might occasionally set the date
when the gravitative pull would finally overcome inertia, and thus usher
in the crustal movements that close old geologic periods and inaugurate
new ones. This, however, could occur only if the crust were under
sufficient strain. As Lawson[139] says in his discussion of the "elastic
rebound theory," the sudden shifts of the crust which seem to be the
underlying cause of earthquakes "can occur only after the accumulation
of strain to a limit and ... this accumulation involves a slow creep of
the region affected. In the long periods between great earthquakes the
energy necessary for such shocks is being stored up in the rocks as
elastic compression."
If a period of intense storminess should occur when the earth as a whole
was in such a state of strain, the sudden release of the strains might
lead to terrestrial changes which would alter the climate still further,
making it more extreme, and perhaps permitting the storminess due to the
solar disturbances to bring about glaciation. At the same time if
volcanic activity should increase it would add its quota to the tendency
toward glaciation. Nevertheless, it might easily happen that a very
considerable amount of crustal movement would take place without causing
a continental ice sheet or even a marked alpine ice sheet. Or again, if
the strains in the earth's crust had already been largely released
through other agencies before the stormy period began, the climate might
become severe enough to cause glaciation in high latitudes without
leading to any very marked movements of the earth's crust, as apparently
happened in the Mid-Silurian period.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 125: E. Kirk: Paleozoic Glaciation in Alaska; Am. Jour. Sci.,
1918, p. 511.]
[Footnote 126: J. Milne: Catalogue of Destructive Earthquakes; Rep.
Brit. Asso. Adv. Sci., 1911.]
[Footnote 127: Wm. Bowie: Lecture before the Geological Club of Yale
University. See Am. Jour. Sci., 1921.]
[Footnote 128: Chas. Davisson: On the Annual and Semi-annual Seismic
Periods; Roy. Soc. of London, Philosophical Transactions, Vol. 184,
1893, 1107 _ff._]
[Footnote 129: C. G. Knott: The Physics of Earthquake Phenomena, Oxford,
1908.]
[Footnote 130: In Table 8 the first column indicates the region; the
second, the dates; and the third, the number of shocks. The fourth
column gives the month in which the annual maximum occurs when the crude
figures are smoothed by the use of overlapping six-monthly means. In
other words, the average for each successive six months has been placed
in the middle of the period. Thus the average of January to June,
inclusive, is placed between March and April, that for February to July
between April and May, and so on. This method eliminates the minor
fluctuations and also all periodicities having a duration of less than a
year. If there were no annual periodicity the smoothing would result in
practically the same figure for each month. The column marked
"Amplitude" gives the range from the highest month to the lowest divided
by the number of earthquakes and then corrected according to Schuster's
method which is well known to mathematicians, but which is so confusing
to the layman that it will not be described. Next, in the column marked
"Expected Amplitude," we have the amplitude that would be expected if a
series of numbers corresponding to the earthquake numbers and having a
similar range were arranged in accidental order throughout the year.
This also is calculated by Schuster's method in which the expected
amplitude is equal to the square root of "pi" divided by the number of
shocks. When the actual amplitude is four or more times the expected
amplitude, the probability that there is a real periodicity in the
observed phenomena becomes so great that we may regard it as practically
certain. If there is no periodicity the two are equal. The last column
gives the number of times by which the actual exceeds the expected
amplitude, and thus is a measure of the probability that earthquakes
vary systematically in a period of a year.]
[Footnote 131: N. F. Drake: Destructive Earthquakes in China; Bull.
Seism. Soc. Am., Vol. 2, 1912, pp. 40-91, 124-133.]
[Footnote 132: The only other explanation that seems to have any
standing is the psychological hypothesis of Montessus de Ballore as
given in Les Tremblements de Terre. He attributes the apparent seasonal
variation in earthquakes to the fact that in winter people are within
doors, and hence notice movements of the earth much more than in summer
when they are out of doors. There is a similar difference between
people's habits in high latitudes and low. Undoubtedly this does have a
marked effect upon the degree to which minor earthquake shocks are
noticed. Nevertheless, de Ballore's contention, as well as any other
psychological explanation, is completely upset by two facts: First,
instrumental records show the same seasonal distribution as do records
based on direct observation, and instruments certainly are not
influenced by the seasons. Second, in some places, notably China, as
Drake has shown, the summer rather than the winter is very decidedly the
time when earthquakes are most frequent.]
[Footnote 133: A comparison of tropical hurricanes with earthquakes is
interesting. Taking all the hurricanes recorded in August, September,
and October, from 1880 to 1899, and the corresponding earthquakes in
Milne's catalogue, the correlation coefficient between hurricanes and
earthquakes is +0.236, with a probable error of ±0.082, the month being
used as the unit. This is not a large correlation, yet when it is
remembered that the hurricanes represent only a small part of the
atmospheric disturbances in any given month, it suggests that with
fuller data the correlation might be large.]
[Footnote 134: Ellsworth Huntington: The Geographic Work of Dr. M. A.
Veeder; Geog. Rev., Vol. 3, March and April, 1917, Nos. 3 and 4.]
[Footnote 135: Frank Schlesinger: Variations of Latitude; Their Bearing
upon Our Knowledge of the Interior of the Earth; Proc. Am. Phil. Soc.,
Vol. 54, 1915, pp. 351-358. Also Smithsonian Report for 1916, pp.
248-254.]
[Footnote 136: Harold Jeffreys: Causes Contributory to the Annual
Variations of Latitude; Monthly Notices, Royal Astronomical Soc., Vol.
76, 1916, pp. 499-525.]
[Footnote 137: John Milne: British Association Reports for 1903 and
1906.]
[Footnote 138: C. G. Knott: The Physics of Earthquake Phenomena, Oxford,
1908.]
[Footnote 139: A. C. Lawson: The Mobility of the Coast Ranges of
California; Univ. of Calif. Pub., Geology, Vol. 12, No. 7, pp. 431-473.]
CONCLUSION
Here we must bring this study of the earth's evolution to a close. Its
fundamental principle has been that the present, if rightly understood,
affords a full key to the past. With this as a guide we have touched on
many hypotheses, some essential and some unessential to the general line
of thought. The first main hypothesis is that the earth's present
climatic variations are correlated with changes in the solar atmosphere.
This is the keynote of the whole book. It is so well established,
however, that it ranks as a theory rather than as an hypothesis. Next
comes the hypothesis that variations in the solar atmosphere influence
the earth's climate chiefly by causing variations not only in
temperature but also in atmospheric pressure and thus in storminess,
wind, and rainfall. This, too, is one of the essential foundations on
which the rest of the book is built, but though this cyclonic hypothesis
is still a matter of discussion, it seems to be based on strong
evidence. These two hypotheses might lead us astray were they not
balanced by another. This other is that many climatic conditions are due
to purely terrestrial causes, such as the form and altitude of the
lands, the degree to which the continents are united, the movement of
ocean currents, the activity of volcanoes, and the composition of the
atmosphere and the ocean. Only by combining the solar and the
terrestrial can the truth be perceived. Finally, the last main
hypothesis of this book holds that if the climatic conditions which now
prevail at times of solar activity were magnified sufficiently and if
they occurred in conjunction with certain important terrestrial
conditions of which there is good evidence, they would produce most of
the notable phenomena of glacial periods. For example, they would
explain such puzzling conditions as the localization and periodicity of
glaciation, the formation of loess, and the occurrence of glaciation in
low latitudes during Permian and Proterozoic times. The converse of this
is that if the conditions which now prevail at times when the sun is
relatively inactive should be intensified, that is, if the sun's
atmosphere should become calmer than now, and if the proper terrestrial
conditions of topographic form and atmospheric composition should
prevail, there would arise the mild climatic conditions which appear to
have prevailed during the greater part of geological time. In short,
there seems thus far to be no phase of the climate of the past which is
not in harmony with an hypothesis which combines into a single unit the
three main hypotheses of this book, solar, cyclonic, and terrestrial.
Outside the main line of thought lie several other hypotheses. Several
of these, as well as some of the main hypotheses, are discussed chiefly
in _Earth and Sun_, but as they are given a practical application in
this book they deserve a place in this final summary. Each of these
secondary hypotheses is in its way important. Yet any or all may prove
untrue without altering our main conclusions. This point cannot be too
strongly emphasized, for there is always danger that differences of
opinion as to minor hypotheses and even as to details may divert
attention from the main point. Among the non-essential hypotheses is the
idea that the sun's atmosphere influences that of the earth electrically
as well as thermally. This idea is still so new that it has only just
entered the stage of active discussion, and naturally the weight of
opinion is against it. Although not necessary to the main purpose of
this book, it plays a minor rôle in the chapter dealing with the
relation of the sun to other astronomical bodies. It also has a vital
bearing on the further advance of the science of meteorology and the art
of weather forecasting. Another secondary hypothesis holds that sunspots
are set in motion by the planets. Whether the effect is gravitational or
more probably electrical, or perhaps of some other sort, does not
concern us at present, although the weight of evidence seems to point
toward electronic emissions. This question, like that of the relative
parts played by heat and electricity in terrestrial climatic changes,
can be set aside for the moment. What does concern us is a third
hypothesis, namely, that if the planets really determine the periodicity
of sunspots, even though not supplying the energy, the sun in its flight
through space must have been repeatedly and more strongly influenced in
the same way by many other heavenly bodies. In that case, climatic
changes like those of the present, but sometimes greatly magnified, have
presumably arisen because of the constantly changing position of the
solar system in respect to other parts of the universe. Finally, the
fourth of our secondary hypotheses postulates that at present the date
of movements of the earth's crust is often determined by the fact that
storms and other meteorological conditions keep changing the load upon
first one part of the earth's surface and then upon another. Thus
stresses that have accumulated in the earth's isostatic shell during the
preceding months are released. In somewhat the same way epochs of
extreme storminess and rapid erosion in the past may possibly have set
the date for great movements of the earth's crust. This hypothesis, like
the other three in our secondary or non-essential group, is still so new
that only the first steps have been taken in testing it. Yet it seems to
deserve careful study.
In testing all the hypotheses here discussed, primary and secondary
alike, the first necessity is a far greater amount of quantitative work.
In this book there has been a constant attempt to subject every
hypothesis to the test of statistical facts of observation.
Nevertheless, we have been breaking so much new ground that in many
cases exact facts are not yet available, while in others they can be
properly investigated only by specialists in physics, astronomy, or
mathematics. In most cases the next great step is to ascertain whether
the forces here called upon are actually great enough to produce the
observed results. Even though they act only as a means of releasing the
far greater forces due to the contraction of the earth and the sun, they
need to be rigidly tested as to their ability to play even this minor
rôle. Still another line of study that cries aloud for research is a
fuller comparison between earthquakes on the one hand and meteorological
conditions and the wandering of the poles on the other. Finally, an
extremely interesting and hopeful quest is the determination of the
positions and movements of additional stars and other celestial bodies,
the faint and invisible as well as the bright, in order to ascertain the
probable magnitude of their influence upon the sun and thus upon the
earth at various times in the past and in the future. Perhaps we are
even now approaching some star that will some day give rise to a period
of climatic stress like that of the fourteenth century, or possibly to a
glacial epoch. Or perhaps the variations in others of the nearer stars
as well as Alpha Centauri may show a close relation to changes in the
sun.
Throughout this volume we have endeavored to discover new truth
concerning the physical environment that has molded the evolution of all
life. We have seen how delicate is the balance among the forces of
nature, even though they be of the most stupendous magnitude. We have
seen that a disturbance of this balance in one of the heavenly bodies
may lead to profound changes in another far away. Yet during the billion
years, more or less, of which we have knowledge, there appears never to
have been a complete cataclysm involving the destruction of all life.
One star after another, if our hypothesis is correct, has approached the
solar system closely enough to set the atmosphere of the sun in such
commotion that great changes of climate have occurred upon the earth.
Yet never has the solar system passed so close to any other body or
changed in any other way sufficiently to blot out all living things. The
effect of climatic changes has always been to alter the environment and
therefore to destroy part of the life of a given time, but with this
there has invariably gone a stimulus to other organic types. New
adaptations have occurred, new lines of evolutionary progress have been
initiated, and the net result has been greater organic diversity and
richness. Temporarily a great change of climate may seem to retard
evolution, but only for a moment as the geologist counts time. Then it
becomes evident that the march of progress has actually been more rapid
than usual. Thus the main periods of climatic stress are the most
conspicuous milestones upon the upward path toward more varied
adaptation. The end of each such period of stress has found the life of
the world nearer to the high mentality which reaches out to the utmost
limits of space, of time, and of thought in the search for some
explanation of the meaning of the universe. Each approach of the sun to
other bodies, if such be the cause of the major climatic changes, has
brought the organic world one step nearer to the solution of the
greatest of all problems,--the problem of whether there is a psychic
goal beyond the mental goal toward which we are moving with ever
accelerating speed. Throughout the vast eons of geological time the
adjustment of force to force, of one body of matter to another, and of
the physical environment to the organic response has been so delicate,
and has tended so steadily toward the one main line of mental progress
that there seems to be a purpose in it all. If the cosmic uniformity of
climate continues to prevail and if the uniformity is varied by changes
as stimulating as those of the past, the imagination can scarcely
picture the wonders of the future. In the course of millions or even
billions of years the development of mind, and perhaps of soul, may
excel that of today as far as the highest known type of mentality excels
the primitive plasma from which all life appears to have arisen.
INDEX
* Indicates illustrations.
Abbot, C. G., cited, 45, 52, 237, 238, 239.
Aboskun, 104.
Africa, earthquakes, 301;
East, _see_ East Africa;
lakes, 143;
North, _see_ North Africa.
African glaciation, 266.
Air, _see_ Atmosphere.
Alaska, glacial till in, 287;
Ice Age in, 221.
Albrecht, cited, 304.
Alexander, march of, 88 f.
Allard, H. A., cited, 183, 184.
Alpha Centauri, companion of, 280;
distance from sun, 262;
luminosity, 278;
speed of, 281;
variations, 282.
Alps, loess in, 159;
precipitation in, 141;
snow level in, 139.
Altair, companion of, 280;
luminosity, 278;
speed of, 281.
Amazon forest, temperature, 17.
Ancylus lake, 217.
Andes, snow line, 139.
Animals, climate and, 1.
Antarctica, mild climate, 219;
thickness of ice in, 125;
winds, 135, 161.
Anti-cyclonic hypothesis, 135 ff.
Appalachians, effect on ice sheet, 121.
Arabia, civilization in, 67.
Aral, Sea of, 108.
Archean rocks, 211.
Archeozoic, 3 f.;
climate of, 267.
Arctic Ocean, submergence, 219.
Arctowski, H., cited, 29, 46, 244.
Argon, increase of, 236.
Arizona, rainfall, 89, 108;
trees measured in, 73.
Arrhenius, S., cited, 36, 254.
Arsis, of pulsation, 24.
Asbjörn Selsbane, corn of, 101.
Asia, atmospheric pressure, 298;
central, changes of climate, *75;
central, post-glacial climate, 271;
climate, 66;
glaciation in, 131;
storminess in, 60;
western, climate in, 84 f.
Atlantic Ocean, storminess, 57.
Atmosphere, changes, 19 f., 229;
composition of, 223-241;
effect on temperature, 231.
Atmospheric circulation, glaciation and, 42.
Atmospheric electricity, solar relations of, 56.
Atmospheric pressure, earthquakes and, 298;
evaporation and, 237;
increase in, 239;
redistribution of, 49;
variation, 53.
Australia, East, mild climate, 219;
precipitation, 144.
Axis, earth's, 48;
wabbling of, 301.
Bacon, Sir Francis, cited, 27.
Bacubirito, meteor at, 246.
Baltic Sea, as lake, 217;
freezing of, 100;
ice, 26;
storm-floods, 99;
submergence, 219.
Bardsson, Ivar, 106.
Barkow, cited, 135.
Barometric pressure, solar relations of, 56.
Barrell, J., cited, 3, 200, 213, 234.
Bartoli, A. G., cited, 257.
Bauer, L. A., cited, 150.
Beaches, under water, 97.
Beadnell, H. J. L., cited, 143.
Beluchistan, rainfall, 89.
Bengal, Bay of, cyclones in, 149.
Bengal, famine in, 104 f.
Berlin, rainfall and temperature, 93.
Betelgeuse, 259 f.;
distance from sun, 262.
Bible, climatic evidence in, 91 f.;
palms in, 92.
Binary stars, 252.
Birkeland, K., cited, 244.
Black Earth region, loess in, 159.
Boca, Cal., correlation coefficients, 83, 85.
Boltzmann, L., cited, 257.
Bonneville, Lake, 142, 143.
Borkum, storm-flood in, 99.
Boss, L. cited, 268, 269.
Botanical evidence of mild climates, 167 ff.
Boulders, on Irish coast, 119.
Bowie, W., cited, 293.
Bowman, I., cited, 213.
Britain, forests, 220;
level of land, 220.
British Isles, height of land, 111;
temperature, 216.
Brooks, C. E. P., cited, 115, 143, 196, 215, 225.
Brooks, C. F., cited, 209.
Brown, E. W., cited, 191, 244.
Brückner, E., cited, 27.
Brückner periods, 27 f.
Bufo, habitat of, 202.
Buhl stage, 216.
Bull, Dr., cited, 100, 101.
Butler, H. C., cited, 66, 67 ff., 70, 76.
California, changes of climate, *75;
correlations of rainfall, 86;
measurements of sequoias in, 73, 74 ff.;
rainfall, 108.
Cambrian period, 4 f.
Canada, storminess, 53 f., 57;
storm tracks in, 113.
Cape Farewell, shore ice at, 105.
Carbon dioxide, erosion and, 119 f.;
from volcanoes, 23;
hypothesis, 139;
importance of, 9, 11 f.;
in Permian, 148;
in atmosphere, 20, 96, 238;
in ocean, 226;
nebular hypothesis and, 232;
theory of glaciation, 36 ff.
Caribbean mountains, origin of, 193.
Carnegie Institution of Washington, 74.
Caspian Sea, climatic stress, 104;
rainfall, 107 f.;
rise and fall, 27;
ruins in, 71.
Cenozoic, climate, 266;
fossils, 21.
Central America, Maya ruins, 95.
Chad, Lake, swamps of, 171.
Chamberlin, R. T., cited, 166, 233, 269.
Chamberlin, T. C., cited, 19, 36, 38, 39, 42 f., 48, 122, 125,
152, 156, 190, 195, 227, 269.
Chandler, S. C., cited, 301.
Chinese earthquakes, periodicity of, 245.
Chinese, sunspot observations, 108 f.
Chinese Turkestan, desiccation in, 66.
Chronology, glacial, 215.
Clarke, F. W., cited, 226, 235.
Clayton, H. H., cited, 173 f.
Climate, effect of contraction, 189 ff.;
affect of salinity, 224;
in history, 64-97;
uniformity, 1-15;
variability, 16-32.
Climates, mild, causes of, 166-187;
mild, periods of, 274.
Climatic changes, and crustal movements, 285 ff.;
hypotheses of, 33-50;
mountain-building and, *25;
post-glacial crustal movements and, 215-222;
terrestrial causes of, 188-214.
Climatic sequence, 16 f.
Climatic stages, post-glacial, 270.
Climatic stress, in fourteenth century, 98-109.
Climatic uniformity, hypothesis of, 65, 71 f.
Climatic zoning, 169.
Cloudiness, glaciation and, 114, 147.
Clouds, as protection, 197.
Colfax, Cal., correlation coefficients, 83.
Cologne, flood at, 99.
Compass, variations, 150.
Continental climate, variations, 103.
Continents, effect on climate, 111 f.
Contraction, effect on climate, 189 ff., 199, 207;
effect on lands, 207;
heat of sun and, 13 f.;
irregular, 195;
of the earth, 18;
of the sun, 249;
stresses caused by, 310.
Convection, carbon dioxide and, 239.
Corals, in high latitudes, 21, 39, 167, 178.
Cordeiro, F. J. B., cited, 181, 183, 186.
Correlation coefficients, earthquakes and sunspots, 291;
Jerusalem rainfall and sequoia growth, 83 ff.;
rainfall and tree growth, 79 ff.
Cosmos, effect of light, 185.
Cressey, G. B., cited, 80.
Cretaceous, lava, 211;
mountain ranges, 44;
paleogeography, *201;
submergence of North America, 200.
Croll, J., cited, 34 ff., 176.
Croll's hypothesis, snow line, 139.
Crust, climate and movements of, 63, 287, 310;
movements of, 43;
strains in, 22.
Currents and planetary winds, 174.
Cycads, 169.
Cyclonic hypothesis, 97;
loess and, 163;
Permian glaciation and, 148;
snow line, 139.
Cyclonic storms, in glacial epochs, 140 f.;
solar electricity and, 243 (_see_ Storms, Storminess).
Cyclonic vacillations, 30 f.;
nature of, 57 ff.
Daily vibrations, 28 f.
Danube, frozen, 98.
Darwin, G. H., cited, 191.
Daun stage, 217.
Davis, W. M., cited, 271.
Davisson, C., cited, 294, 295, 299.
Day, C. P., cited, 239.
Day, length of, 18, 191.
Dead Sea, palms near, 92.
Death Valley, 142.
De Ballore, M., cited, 297, 298.
Deep-sea circulation, rapidity, 227;
salinity and, 176;
solar activity and, 179.
De Geer, S., cited, 215, 221.
De Lapparent, A., cited, 200.
Denmark, fossils, 271.
"Desert pavements," 161.
Deserts, abundant flora of, 171;
and pulsations theory, 88 ff.;
red beds of, 170.
Devonian, climate, 266;
mountains, 209.
Dog, climate and, 1.
Donegal County, Ireland, 220.
Double stars, 272, 280;
electrical effect of, 261.
Douglass, A. E., cited, 28, 73, 74 f., 84, 85, 107.
Dragon Town, destruction of, 104, 108.
Drake, N. F., cited, 297, 298.
Droughts, and pulsations theory, 87 f.;
in England, 102;
in India, 104 f.
Drumkelin Bog, Ireland, log cabin in, 220.
Dust, at high levels, 240.
Earth, crust of and the sun, 285-317;
internal heat, 212;
nature of mild climate, 274;
position of axis, 181;
rigidity of, 307;
temperature gradient, 213;
temperature of surface, 8.
Earthquakes, and seasons, 294, 297;
and sunspots, 288 f.;
and tropical hurricanes, 300;
and wandering of pole, 304 f.;
cause of, 307;
compared with departures from Eulerian position, 306;
seasonal distribution of, 299;
seasonal march, 295.
"Earthquake weather," 298.
East Africa, mild climate, 219.
East Indies, earthquakes of, 296.
Eberswalde, tree growth at, 102 f.
Ecliptic, obliquity of, 217.
Electrical currents, in solar atmosphere, 261.
Electrical emissions, variation of, 275.
Electrical hypothesis, 150, 250 f., 256 ff.
Electrical phenomena, storminess and, 56.
Electricity, and earthquakes, 292;
solar, 243.
Electro-magnetic hypothesis, 244.
Electrons, solar, 56;
variation of, 256.
Electro-stellar hypothesis, 274.
Elevation, climatic changes and, 39.
Engedi, palms in, 92.
England, climatic stress, 101 f.;
storminess and rainfall, 107.
Eocene, climate, 266.
Equinoxes, precession of, 96.
Erosion, storminess and, 309.
Eskimo, in Greenland, 106.
Eulerian movement, 301, 304.
Euphrates, 67.
Europe, climatic stress, 98 ff., 102 f.;
climatic table, 215;
glaciation in, 131;
ice sheet, 121;
inundations of rivers, 99;
post-glacial climate, 271;
rainfall, 107;
submergence, 196, 200.
Evaporation, and glaciation, 112, 114;
atmospheric pressure and, 237;
from plants, 179;
importance, 129;
in trade-wind belt, 117;
rapidity of, 224.
Evening primrose, effect of light, 184.
Evolution, climate and, 20;
geographical complexity and, 241;
glaciation and, 33;
of the earth, 311.
Faculæ, cause of, 61.
False Point Lighthouse, barometric pressure at, 299.
Famine, cause of, 103;
in England, 101 f.;
in India, 104 f.;
pulsations theory and, 87 f.
Faunas, and mild climates, 168 f.;
in Permian, 152 f.
Fennoscandian pause, 216.
Flowering, light and, 184.
Fog, and glaciation, 116;
as protection, 197;
temperature and, 178.
Forests, climate and, 66.
Form of the land, 43 ff.
Fossil floras, and mild climates, 168;
in Antarctica, 273;
in Greenland, 273.
Fossils, 169, 230;
and loess, 158;
Archeozoic, 3 f.;
Cenozoic, 21;
dating of, 153;
glaciation and, 138;
in peat bogs, 271;
mild climate, 167;
Proterozoic, 4, 6 f.
Fourteenth century, climatic stress in, 98-109.
Fowle, F. E., cited, 45, 237, 238, 239.
Frech, F., cited, 36.
Free, E. E., cited, 142.
Freezing, salinity and, 224.
Fresno, rainfall record, 82.
"Friction variables," 247.
Frisian Islands, storm-flood, 99.
Fritz, H., cited, 109.
Frogs, distribution of, 202.
Fuchs, cited, 289.
Galaxy, 252.
Galveston, Tex., rainfall and temperature, 94.
Garner, W. W., cited, 183, 184.
Gasses, in air, 233.
Geographers, and climatic changes, 65 ff.
Geological time table, *5.
Geologic oscillations, 18 f., 21 ff., 188, 240.
Geologists, changes in ideas of, 64 f.
Germanic myths, 219.
Germany, forests, 220;
growth of trees in, 102;
storms in, 102.
Gilbert, G. K., cited, 143.
Glacial epochs, causes of, 268;
dates of, 216;
intervals between, 264 f.;
length of, 166 f.
Glacial fluctuations, 24 ff.;
nature of, 57 ff.
Glacial period, at present, 272;
ice in, 57 f.;
length of, 269;
list, 265;
temperature, 38.
Glaciation, and loess, 155 f.;
and movement of crust, 287;
conditions favorable for, 111;
extent of, 124;
hypotheses of, 33 ff.;
in southern Canada, 18;
localization of, 130 ff.;
Permian, *145;
solar-cyclonic hypothesis of, 110-129;
suddenness of, 138;
upper limit of, 141.
Goldthwait, J. W., cited, 271.
Gondwana land, 21, 204.
Gravitation, effect on sun, 250;
pull of, 244.
Great Basin, in glacial period, 126;
salt lakes in, 142.
Great Ice Age, see Pleistocene.
Great Plains, effect on ice sheet, 120.
Greenland, climatic stress, 105 ff.;
ice, 26;
rainfall, 108;
storminess, 57;
submergence, 219;
vegetation, 21, 37, 287;
winds, 135, 161.
Gregory, J. W., cited, 90 ff., 97.
Gschnitz stage, 216.
Guatemala, ruins in, 95.
Guervain, cited, 135.
Gyroscope, earth as, 181.
Hale, G. E., cited, 56, 62.
Hamdulla, cited, 104.
Hann, J., cited, 66.
Hansa Union, operations of, 100.
Harmer, F. W., cited, 115, 119.
Heat, and earthquakes, 292;
earth's internal, 18.
Hedin, S., cited, 88.
Heim, A., cited, 190.
Heligoland, flood in, 99.
Helland-Hansen, B., cited, 174.
Helmert, F. R., cited, 302.
Henderson, L. J., cited, 9, 10, 11, 12.
Henry, A. J., cited, 94, 208.
Hercynian Mountains, 45.
High pressure and glaciation, 115, 135.
Himalayas, glaciation, 144;
origin of, 193;
snow line, 139.
Himley, cited, 104.
Historic pulsations, 24 f.;
nature of, 57 ff.
History, climate of, 64-97;
climatic pulsations and, 26.
Hobbs, W. H., cited, 115, 125, 135, 161.
Hot springs, temperature of, 6.
Humphreys, W. J., cited, 2, 37 f., 45, 46, 50, 56, 238.
Hurricanes, in arid regions, 144;
sunspots and, 53.
Hyades, cluster in, 268.
Ice, accumulations, 57 f.;
advances of, 122;
distribution of, 131;
drift, 105.
Ice sheets, disappearance, 128;
limits, 120;
localization, 130 ff.;
rate of retreat, 165;
thickness, 125.
Iceland, submergence, 219.
Iowan ice sheet, rapid retreat, 165.
Iowan loess, 158.
India, drought, 104 f.;
famine, 104 f.;
rainfall, 108.
Indian glaciation, 266.
Inter-glacial epoch, Permian, 153.
Internal heat of earth, 212.
Ireland, Drumkelin Bog, 220;
in glacial period, 119;
level of land, 220;
storminess and rainfall, 107;
submergence, 219.
Irish Sea, tides, 191.
Irrigation ditches, abandoned, 97.
Isostasy, 307 ff.
Italy, southern, climate of, 86 f.
Japan, earthquakes of, 296.
Javanese mountains, origin of, 193.
Jaxartes, 108.
Jeans, J. H., cited, 251, 252, 253, 266, 272.
Jeffreys, H., cited, 302, 303, 306.
Jeffreys, J., cited, 191.
Jericho, palms in, 92.
Jerusalem, rainfall, 86;
rainfall and temperature, 94;
rainfall in, and sequoia growth, 83 ff.
Johnson, cited, 226.
Judea, palms in, 92.
Jupiter, and sunspots, 243;
effect of, 253;
periodicity of, 61 f.;
temperature of, 258;
tidal effect of, 250.
Jurassic, climate, 266;
mountain ranges, 44.
Kansas, variations of seasons, 103.
Kara Koshun marsh, Lop Nor, 104.
Keewatin center, 113;
evaporation in, 129.
Keewatin ice sheet, 121.
Kelvin, Lord, cited, 13 f.
Keyes, C. R., cited, 156.
Kirk, E., cited, 287.
Knott, C. G., cited, 294, 295, 297, 299, 304, 306.
Knowlton, F. H., cited 167, 169, 170, 212, 232.
Köppen, W., 47, 52, 140.
Krakatoa, glaciation and, 48;
volcanic hypothesis and, 45.
Krümmel, O., cited, 224, 228.
Kullmer, C. J., cited, 113, 115, 128;
map of storminess, *54.
_Kungaspegel_, sea routes described, 106.
Labor, price in England, 102.
Labradorean center of glaciation, 113.
Lahontan, Lake, 142.
Lake strands, _see_ Strands.
Lake Superior, lava, 211.
Lakes, during glacial periods, 141 f.;
in semi-arid regions, 60;
of Great Basin, 126;
ruins in, 97.
Land, and water, climatic effect of, 196 ff.;
distribution of, 200, form of, 43 ff.;
range of temperature and, 196.
Lavas, climatic effect of, 211.
Lawson, A. C., cited, 310.
Lebanon, cedars of, 83.
Leiter, H., cited, 71.
Leverett, F., cited, 271.
Life, atmosphere and, 229 f.;
chemical characteristic of, 12;
effect of salinity, 225;
of glacial period, 127;
persistence of forms, 230.
Light, effect of atmosphere on, 236;
effect on plants, 184 ff.;
ultra-violet, storminess and, 56;
variation of, 275.
Litorina sea, 218.
Loess, date of, 156 ff.;
origin of, 155, 165.
Lop Nor, rise of, 104;
swamps, 171.
Lows, and glacial lobes, 122;
movements of, 126;
see Storms and Cyclones.
Lulan, 104.
Lull, R. S., cited, 5, 188.
MacDougal, D. T., cited, 171.
McGee, W. J., cited, 156.
Macmillan, W. D., cited, 191.
Magdalenian period, 216.
Magnetic fields of sunspots, 56.
Magnetic poles, relation to storm tracks, 150.
Makran, climate, 89;
rainfall, 89.
Malay Archipelago, earthquakes of, 296.
Mallet, R., cited, 288.
Malta, rainfall, 86.
Manson, M., cited, 147.
Mayas, civilization, 26;
ruins, 95.
Mayence, flood at, 99.
Mazelle, E., cited, 224.
Mediterranean, climate of, 72;
rainfall records, 86;
storminess in, 60.
Mercury, and sunspots, 243.
Mesozoic, climate, 266;
crustal changes, 286;
emergence of lands, 287.
Messier, 8;
variables, 248.
Metcalf, M. M., cited, 202.
Meteorological factors and earthquakes, 300 f.
Meteorological hypothesis of crustal movements, 294.
Meteors, and sun's heat, 13, 246.
Michelson, A. A., cited, 259.
Middle Silurian, fauna in Alaska, 287.
Mild climates, _see_ Climates, mild.
Milky Way, 252.
Mill, H. R., cited, 228.
Milne, J., cited, 288, 290, 294, 304, 306.
Miocene, crustal changes, 287.
Mississippi Basin, loess in, 159.
Mogul emperor, and famine, 104.
Monsoons, character of, 146;
direction of, 208;
Indian famines and, 105.
Moulton, F. R., cited, 13, 258, 269.
Mountain building, climatic changes and, *25.
Mountains, folding of, 190;
rainfall, on, 208.
Multiple stars, 252.
Nansen, F., cited, 122, 174.
Naples, rainfall, 86.
Nathorst, cited, 169.
Nebulæ, 247.
Nebular hypothesis, 232, 267.
Neolithic period, 218.
Nevada, correlations of rainfall, 86.
New England, height of land, 111.
New Mexico, rainfall, 89.
New Orleans, La., rainfall and temperature, 94.
New Zealand, climate, 177;
tree ferns, 179.
Newcomb, S., cited, 52.
Nile floods, periodicity in, 245.
Nitrogen, in atmosphere, 19.
Niya, Chinese Turkestan, desiccation at, 66.
Nocturnal cooling, changes in, 238 f.
Norlind, A., cited, 100.
Norsemen, route to Greenland, 26.
Norse sagas, 219.
North Africa, climate of, 71;
Roman aqueducts in, 71.
North America, at maximum glaciation, 122 ff.;
emergence of lands, 193;
glaciation in, 131;
height of land, 111;
interior sea in, 200;
inundations, 196;
loess in, 155;
submergence of lands, 19, 21.
North Atlantic Ocean, salinity, 228.
North Sea, climatic stress, 98 ff.;
floods around, 26, 99;
rainfall, 107;
storminess, 57.
Northern hemisphere, earthquakes of, 294.
Norway, decay, 100;
temperature, 177.
Novæ, 247.
Oceanic circulation, carbon dioxide and, 39 ff.
Oceanic climate, characteristics, 103.
Oceanic currents, diversion, 44;
influence of land distribution, 203.
Oceans, age of, 223;
composition of, 223-241;
deepening of, 199;
salinity, 19, 223;
temperature, 6, 152, 180, 226.
Okada, T., cited, 224.
Old Testament, temperature, 92.
Orbital precessions, 27.
Ordovician, climate, 266.
Organic evolution, glacial fluctuations and, 26.
Orion, nebulosity near, 247;
stars near, 248.
Orontes, 67.
Osborn, H. F., cited, 216.
Owens-Searles, lakes, 142.
Oxus, 108.
Oxygen, in atmosphere, 20, 234;
in Permian, 152.
Ozone, cause of, 56.
Paleolithic, 216.
Paleozoic, climate, 266;
mountains in, 209.
Palestine, change of climate, 91 f.
Palms, climatic change and, 91 f.;
in Ireland, 179.
Palmyra, ruins of, 66.
Parallaxes of stars, 276 f.
Patrician center, 134.
Peat-bog period, first, 218.
Penck, A., cited, 139, 156, 157, 158, 269.
Pennsylvanian, life of, 26.
Periodicities, 245 f.
Periodicity, of climatic phenomena, 60 f.;
of glaciation, 268;
of sunspots, 243.
Permian, climate, 266;
distribution of glaciation, 152;
glaciation, 60, 144, *145, 226;
glaciation and mountains, 45;
life of, 26;
red beds, 151;
temperature, 146 f.
Perry, cited, 289.
Persia, lakes, 143;
rainfall, 89.
Pettersson, O., cited, 98 ff., 100 f., 103, 106, 219.
Pirsson, L. V., cited, 3, 196.
Planetary hypothesis, 253, 267.
Planetary nebulæ, 252.
Planets, and sunspots, 243;
effect of star on, 255;
sunspot cycle and, 62;
temperatures, 8 f.
Plants, climate and, 1 f.;
effect of light, 184 ff.
Pleion, defined, 29.
Pleionian migrations, 29 f.
Pleistocene, climate, 266;
duration of, 48;
glaciation, 110 ff.;
ice sheets, *123.
Pluvial climate, causes of, 143;
during glacial periods, 141.
Po, frozen, 98.
Polaris, 272.
Polar wandering, hypothesis of, 48 f.
Pole and earthquakes, 305.
Post-glacial crustal movements and climatic changes, 215-222.
Poynting, J. H., cited, 8.
Precessional hypothesis, 34 f.
Precipitation, and glaciation, 114, 133;
during glacial period, 118;
snow line and, 139;
temperature and, 94.
Procyon, companion of, 280;
luminosity, 278;
speed of, 281.
Progressive change, 241.
Progressive desiccation, hypothesis of, 65 ff.
Proterozoic, 4 f.;
fossils, 6 f.;
glaciation, 18, 144, 226, 266;
lava, 211;
mountains in, 209;
oceanic salinity, 42 f.;
oxygen in air, 234;
red beds, 151;
temperature, 146 f.
Pulsations, hypothesis of, 65, 72 ff.
Pulsatory climatic changes, 72 ff.
Pulsatory hypothesis, 272.
Pumpelly, R., cited, 271.
Radiation, variation of, 275.
Radioactivity, heat of sun and, 14 f.
Rainfall, changes in, 93 f.;
glaciation and, 50;
sunspots and, 53, *58, 59;
tree growth and, 79.
Red beds, 151, 170.
Rhine, flood, 99;
frozen, 98.
Rho Ophiuchi, variables, 248.
"Rice grains," 61.
Richardson, O. W., cited, 256.
Rigidity, of earth, 307.
Roads, climate and, 66.
Rogers, Thorwald, cited, 101.
Romans, aqueduct of, 71.
Rome, history of, 87.
Rotation, of earth, 18 f.
Ruden, storm-flood, 99.
Rugen, storm-flood, 99.
Ruins, as climatic evidence, 66;
rainfall and, 60.
Sacramento, correlation coefficients, 82 f., 85;
rainfall, 86;
rainfall record, 79.
Sagas, cited, 105 f.
St. John, C. E., cited, 236.
Salinity, deep-sea circulation and, 176;
effect on climate, 224;
in North Atlantic, 228;
ocean temperature and, 226;
of ocean, 19, 120.
Salisbury, R. D., cited, 111, 125, 129, 139, 156, 206, 269, 271.
Salt, in ocean, 223.
San Bernardino, correlation of rainfall, 85.
Saturn, and sunspots, 243;
sunspot cycle and, 62.
Sayles, R. W., cited, 183.
Scandinavia, climatic stress, 100 f.;
fossils, 271;
post-glacial climate, 271;
rainfall, 107;
storminess, 57, 107;
temperature, 216.
Scandinavian center of glaciation, 113.
Schlesinger, F., cited, 275, 278, 298, 301, 305.
Schuchert, C., cited, 3, 5, 23, *25, *123, 138, *145, 168, 169,
172, 188, 193, 196, 198, 200, *201, 206, 211, 230, 265.
Schuster, A., cited, 61, 244, 294, 296.
Sculpture, Maya, 96.
Sea level and glaciation, 119.
Seasonal alternations, 28 f.
Seasonal banding, 183 f.
Seasonal changes, geological, 183.
Seasons, and earthquakes, 294, 295, 297, 299;
evidences of, 169.
Secular progression, 17 ff., 188.
Seistan, swamps, 171.
Sequoias, measurements of, 74 ff.;
rainfall record, 79.
Setchell, W. A., cited, 1.
Shackleton, E., cited, 125.
Shapley, H., cited, 246, 247, 254, 256, 275.
Shimek, E., cited, 157, 161.
Shreveport, La., rainfall and temperature, 93 f.
Shrinkage of the earth, 190.
Siberia, and glaciation, 132.
Sierras, rainfall records, 82.
Simpson, G. C., cited, 222.
Sirius, companion of, 280;
distance from sun, 262;
luminosity, 278;
speed of, 281.
Slichter, C. S., cited, 192.
Smith, J. W., cited, 73.
Snowfall, glaciation and, 50, 114.
Snowfield, climatic effects of, 115.
Snow line, height of, 138;
in Andes, 139;
in Himalayas, 139.
Solar activity, cycles of, 245;
deep-sea circulation and, 179;
ice and, 134.
Solar constant, 114.
Solar-cyclonic hypothesis, 51-63, 287;
glaciation and, 110-129.
Solar prominences, cause of, 61.
Solar system, 252;
conservation of, 243;
proximity to stars, 63.
Solar variations, storms and, 31.
South America, earthquakes, 301.
South Pole, thickness of ice at, 125.
Southern hemisphere, earthquakes, 296;
glaciation in, 131 f.
Southern Pacific railroad, rainfall records along, 82.
Soy beans, effect of light, 185 f.
Space, sun's journey through, 264-284.
Spiral nebulæ, 251 f.;
universe of, 267.
Spitzbergen, submergence, 219.
Springs, climate and, 66.
Stars, approach to sun, 253;
binary, 252;
clusters, 252, 268;
effect on solar atmosphere, 63;
dark, 254;
parallaxes of, 276 f.;
tidal action of, 249.
Stefan's Law, 257.
Stein, M. A., cited, 78.
Stellar approaches, probability of, 260.
Storm belt in arid regions, 144.
Storm-floods, in fourteenth century, 99.
Storminess, and erosion, 309;
and ice, 134;
effect on glaciation, 112;
sunspots and, 163;
temperature and, 94, 173.
Storms, blows of, 300, 302;
increase, 60;
movement of, 125 f.;
movement of water and, *175;
origin of, 30 f.;
sunspots and, 28, 53;
_see_ Cyclones and Lows.
Storm tracks, during glacial period, 117;
location, 113;
relation to magnetic poles, 150;
shifting of, 119.
Strands, climate and, 66;
in semi-arid regions, 60;
of salt lakes, 142.
Suess, E., cited, 192.
Sun, and the earth's crust, 285-317;
approach to star, 253;
atmosphere of, 61, 274;
atmosphere of, and weather, 52;
cooling of, 49;
contraction of, 249;
disturbances of, 172;
effect of other bodies on, 242-263;
heat, 13;
journey through space, 264-284;
Knowlton's hypothesis of, 168.
Suncracks, 232.
Sunspot cycles, 27 f.
Sunspots, and earthquakes, 289;
causes of, 61;
magnetic field of, 261;
maximum of, 109;
mild climates and, 172;
number, 108 f.;
periodicity, 243;
planetary hypothesis of, 253;
records, 245;
storminess and, 163;
storms and, 300;
temperature of earth and, 52, 173.
Sunspot variations, 282.
Swamps, as desert phenomena, 171.
Sylt, storm-flood, 99.
Syria, civilization in, 67;
inscriptions in, 76;
Roman aqueducts in, 71.
Syrian Desert, ruins in, 66.
Talbert, cited, 213.
Tarim Basin, red beds, 151.
Tarim Desert, desiccation, 66.
Tarim River, swamps, 171.
Taylor, G., cited, 140, 144, 191, 271.
Temperature, change of in Atlantic, 174;
changes in, 93;
climatic change and, 49;
critical, 9;
geological time and, 3;
glacial period, 38;
glaciation and, 42, 132, 139;
gradient of earth, 213;
of ocean, 180;
in Norway, 177;
in Permian, 146 f.;
in Proterozoic, 146 f.;
limits, 6 ff.;
precipitation and, 94;
range of, 3, 8;
solar activity and, 140;
storminess and, 94, 112, 173;
sunspots and, 28, 173;
volcanic eruptions and, 46;
zones, 172.
Terrestial causes of climatic changes, 188-214.
Tertiary, lava, 211.
Thames, frozen, 98.
Thermal solar hypothesis, 49 f., 97.
Thermo-pleion, movements of, 30.
Thesis, of pulsations, 24.
Thiryu, storm-flood, 99.
Tian-Shan Mountains, irrigation in, 71.
Tidal action of stars, 249.
Tidal effect, of Jupiter, 253;
of planets, 244.
Tidal hypothesis, 251.
Tidal retardation, effect on land and sea, 191;
rotation of earth and, 18 f.;
stress caused by, 310.
Tides, cycles of, 219.
Time, geological, _see_ Geological time.
Toads, distribution of, 202.
Tobacco plant, effect of light, 184.
Topography, and glaciation, 132.
Transcaspian Basin, red beds, 151.
Tree ferns, in New Zealand, 179.
Tree growth, periodicity in, 245;
rainfall and, 79.
Trees, in California, 219;
measurement of, 73 ff.
Triassic, climate, 266.
Trifid Nebula, variables, 248.
Trondheim, wheat in, 101.
Trondhenäs, corn in, 101.
Tropical cyclones, in glacial epochs, 140 f.;
occurrence, 148;
solar activity and, 113.
Tropical hurricanes, earthquakes and, 300;
sunspots and, 149.
Turfan, temperature, 17.
Turner, H. H., cited, 245.
Tyler, J. M., cited, 216.
Tyndall, J., cited, 36, 37.
Typhoon region, "earthquake weather," 298.
Typhoons, occurrence, 300.
United States, rainfall and temperature in Gulf region, 93 f.;
salt lakes in, 142;
southwestern, climate, 66;
storminess, 53 f., 60.
Variables, 247.
Veeder, M. A., cited, 300.
Vegetation, theory of pulsations and, 90.
Venus, atmosphere of, 236.
Vesterbygd, invasion of, 106.
Vicksburg, Miss., rainfall and temperature, 93 f.
Volcanic activity, climate and, 210;
movement of the earth's crust and, 285;
times of uplifting lands and, 23.
Volcanic dust, climatic changes and, 97.
Volcanic hypothesis, climatic change and, 45 ff.;
snow line, 139.
Volcanoes, activity of, 96.
Volga, 108.
Walcott, C. D., cited, 4, 230.
Wandering of the pole, 302.
Water, importance, 9.
Water vapor, condensation of, 56;
effect on life, 231;
in atmosphere, 19.
Wave, effect on movement of water, 176.
Weather, changes of, 31 f.;
origin of, 174;
variations, 52.
Wells, H. G., cited, 35.
Wendingstadt, storm-flood, 99.
Westerlies, 21 f.
Wheat, price in England, 102.
White Sea, submergence, 219.
Whitney, J. D., cited, 142.
Wieland, G. R., cited, 169.
Williamson, E. D., cited, 226.
Willis, B., cited, 206.
Winds, at ice front, 162;
effect on currents, 174;
glaciation and, 133;
in Antarctica, 161;
in glacial period, 119;
in Greenland, 161;
planetary system of, 174;
velocity, 240.
Witch hazel, effect of light, 184.
Wolf, J. R., cited, 61, 109, 288.
Wolfer, cited, 244.
Wright, W. B., cited, 35, 111, 119.
Writing, among Mayas, 96.
Yucatan, Maya civilization, 26, 107;
rainfall, 108;
ruins, 95.
Yukon, Ice Age in, 221.
Zante, earthquakes of, 296.
Zonal crowding, 117.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of O poeta Chiado
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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Title: O poeta Chiado
Author: Alberto Pimentel
Release date: September 4, 2007 [eBook #22509]
Most recently updated: January 2, 2021
Language: Portuguese
Original publication: Lisboa: Empreza da Historia de Portugal. Sociedade editora Livraria Moderna R. Augusta, 95 Typographia 35, R. Ivens, 37, 1903
Credits: Produced by Pedro Saborano. (produced from scanned images
of public domain material from Google Book Search)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK O POETA CHIADO ***
Produced by Pedro Saborano. (produced from scanned images
of public domain material from Google Book Search)
O POETA CHIADO
ALBERTO PIMENTEL
O POETA CHIADO
(Novas investigações sobre a sua vida e escriptos)
Reverendo frei Chiado
de Virtude grande imigo,
sente tua alma comtigo
e verás se estas desculpado
d'isto que agora te digo.
AFFONSO ALVARES.
LISBOA
Empreza da Historia de Portugal.
_Sociedade editora_
LIVRARIA MODERNA
_R. Augusta, 95_
TYPOGRAPHIA
_35, R. Ivens, 37_
1903
I
As relações de amizade entre os vivos e os mortos são menos quebradiças
e ephémeras do que as dos vivos uns com outros.
E a razão é facil de explicar: quem vai, não volta.
Os mortos não falam, não intrigam, não atraiçôam, não desmerecem, por
isso, da estima e consideração em que uma vez os tomamos.
Affeiçôa-se a gente a um escriptor, a um _maestro_, a um pintor ou a um
estatuário, que morreu ha muitos annos ou ha longos seculos, e não
deixamos apagar nunca a lampada do seu culto: colleccionamos-lhe as
obras sem olhar a dinheiro, por mais raras que sejam; conservamol-as em
grande veneração como thesouros que um avarento aferrolha a sete chaves;
e estamos sempre promptos a combater de ponto em branco pela gloria e
belleza de suas producções, quando apparece algum zoilo a menosprezal-as
com azedume.
E se nas relações com os vivos fazemos selecção do caracter d'elles para
estabelecer convivencia e amizade, pouco nos importa a condição e
procedimento dos mortos quando os estimamos em suas creações artisticas
ou literarias com intransigente fanatismo.
O meu fallecido amigo visconde de Alemquer, que era um _gentleman_
distinctissimo, primoroso em maneiras e acções, além de ser um
biblióphilo digno de apreço e consulta, tomou tanto gosto pelas obras do
padre José Agostinho de Macedo, que passou a maior parte da existencia a
colleccional-as por bom preço e a muito custo.
Comtudo, havia tanta disparidade entre o caracter de um e do outro,
porque o auctor dos _Burros_ foi o mais atrabiliario, inconstante e
perigoso homem de letras de todo o nosso Portugal, que o visconde de
Alemquer, se houvesse sido contemporaneo do padre José Agostinho, nunca
teria podido ser seu amigo, nem seu defensor, nem jámais o quereria vêr
em intimidade de portas a dentro.
Pela minha parte, tambem sou obrigado a confessar um similhante fraco,
não pelo mesmo padre, mas por outro que, sob o ponto de vista da
disciplina monastica e da dignidade sacerdotal, não valia mais.
Refiro-me ao franciscano Antonio Ribeiro o Chiado, que tambem despiu o
habito e foi tunante irrequieto, sendo egualmente homem de letras.
Até 1889, anno em que logrei dar a lume as suas obras, quasi perdidas, e
geralmente desconhecidas[1], custou-me o Chiado bom trabalho e canceiras
para resuscital-o aos olhos do grande publico em toda a sua
individualidade literaria.
[1] _Obras do poeta Chiado_, colligidas, annotadas e prefaciadas por
Alberto Pimentel. Na officina typographica da Empreza Literaria de
Lisboa, calçada de S. Francisco, 1 a 7.
D'então para cá não deixei de pensar n'elle a investigar-lhe a
biographia, que é das mais obscuras e complicadas, e a procurar aquellas
de suas obras que até 1889 não consegui haver á mão por mais que as
desejasse e buscasse.
Alguma coisa achei n'este lapso de onze annos. Não é tudo ainda. Mas não
perdi o tempo, nem parei, porque me repugna a inercia, e porque,
verdade-verdade, tomei gosto ao Chiado, que não foi um vulto preeminente
nas letras, mas que tem relevo como bohemio e dizedor, como trovista
alegre e zombeteiro, farçante popularissimo, que a praça publica
applaudia e que os escriptores mais notaveis não desconsideravam.
Outros meus contemporaneos teem consagrado todo o seu tempo ao Chiado
rua, e talvez esses se riam de mim, que prezo mais o literato do que o
_Regent Street_ alfacinha.
Todavia, cumpre advertil-os de que a rua lembra o escriptor, e de que
foi elle, como julgo poder demonstrar agora, que deu nome á rua.
Eu já em 1889 pendia para esta opinião, comquanto, n'essa epocha, só
houvesse encontrado vestigios de que a rua tinha aquella denominação no
seculo XVIII.
Depois d'isso, alguem lembrou que já era assim chamada na primeira
metade do seculo XVII (1634) como se reconheceu por um documento digno
de fé[2].
[2] _Elementos para a historia do municipio de Lisboa_, tomo IV,
pag. 41. Ahi se vê que o conde de Atouguia morava «ao Chiado».
E eu proprio li, posteriormente, uma referencia mais antiga, porque é
relativa á primeira década do mesmo seculo XVII: «Outras casas do bairro
do Marquez ficavam situadas _ao Chiado_, quando se entra na rua Direita
da Porta de Santa Catharina (1610)[3]»
[3] Archivo Nacional. _Chancellaria de D. Filippe II_. livro XIX,
fol. 269.
Mas hoje cuido trazer prova convincente de que foi o poeta que, por
consenso espontaneo do povo, deu o nome de Chiado á antiga rua da Porta
de Santa Catharina ou a parte d'ella.
O povo baptiza melhor do que a camara municipal, porque baptiza com mais
acerto, quasi sempre com inteira razão de ser; por isso, nome que elle
ponha, péga, fica, perdura.
E, não obstante a camara municipal mudar em 1880 o nome á rua, de
_Chiado_ para _Garrett_, o povo não quiz saber de reviravoltas de
letreiros nas esquinas: continua a chamar-lhe _Chiado_; _Chiado_ é que
é, porque o povo quer que seja assim.
As novas descobertas que hoje tiro a lume sobre a vida azevieira do
poeta Chiado, anecdotas passadas entre o povo e com o povo, das quaes
resulta que elle foi um bohemio tão acabado e popular no seculo XVI como
Bocage o veiu a ser no seculo XVIII, essas novas descobertas, dizia eu,
acodem a reforçar a prova, que em documentos colhi, de haver sido elle
que celebrizou a rua em que morava e que por esse facto, sem que ninguem
o decretasse, mas porque todos assentiram, ficou a alcunha do poeta
tradicionalmente ligada á rua como um padrão de celebridade local[4].
[4] De todas as ruas de Lisboa o Chiado é a mais cantada e
decantada. Na literatura, além de infinitas referencias, tem
fornecido o titulo de algumas obras: _Do Chiado a Veneza_ por Julio
Cesar Machado (1867); _Viagens no Chiado_ por Beldemonio (Ed. de
Barros Lobo) 1857; _A campanha do Chiado_, scena comica; _Trez ao
Chiado_, cançoneta. No principio do anno de 1868 começou a
publicar-se em Lisboa um periodico com o titulo _O Chiado_, em
formato grande e excellente papel. Teve ephémera existencia. No n^o
5. correspondente a 6 de fevereiro, inseriu um artigo do sr. Brito
Rebello sobre o poeta Chiado. D'esse artigo recortamos os seguintes
periodos:
«Mas d'onde lhe veiu a alcunha: Eis os eruditos em duvida. A opinião
correntia até alguns annos era de que esta lhe proviera da rua onde
habitava, que era a parte da subida desde o Espirito Santo, hoje
palacio da casa de Barcellinhos, até á rua de S. Francisco
(_Ivens_). Ha porém um contra: em monumento ou documento algum
anterior ao seculo XVI, se encontra tal designação. É pois mais
natural a hypothese do sr. Alberto Pimentel, de que do poeta veiu o
nome á rua.»
A hypothese, formulada em 1889, é hoje uma these documentada.
II
Eu conjecturei em 1889 que--Chiado--era alcunha popular e nao appellido
de familia. Hoje possuo provas de ter havido no districto de Evora,
d'onde o poeta era natural, uma familia de appellido Chiado, anterior ao
poeta.
Bem pode ser que o appellido proviesse de alcunha, no sentido em que a
tomei[5], o que muitas vezes acontece. Mas não ha duvida que já no
seculo XV existiam Chiados no baixo Alemtejo.
[5] _Ver Obras do poeta Chiado_, pag. XXVIII a XXX.
Perante D. João II queixaram-se João Lopes Chiado e Francisco Lopes
Chiado, ambos eborenses e irmãos, contra a perseguição judicial que lhes
moviam Ayres Gamito e Gonçalo d'Elvas, serviçaes d'el-rei.
Por carta regia, datada de Evora, D. João mandou annullar-lhes a culpa
deixando-os illibados[6].
[6] Archivo Nacional. Chancellaria de D. João II, liv. 17, fl. 89,
v.
No seculo XVI havia em Montemor-o-Novo um Antonio Fernandes Chiado,
homem muito pobre, a quem D. João III perdoou o delicto (em 11 de
setembro de 1553) de ter caçado perdizes com boiz, contra o que
dispunham as Ordenações[7].
[7] Archivo Nacional. D. João III. Perdões e legitimações, liv, 19,
fl. 398, v.
Mas nenhuma d'estas noticias vale tanto como a de ter existido ao tempo
do poeta, no anno de 1567, em Lisboa, uma Catharina Dias, «dona viuva»,
mulher que foi de Gaspar Dias o Chiado, a qual residia «na rua Direita
da Porta de Santa Catharina.»
Colhi esta noticia n'um documento authentico[8].
[8] Archivo Nacional. _Collegiada de São Julião de Lisboa_, maço
unico n^o 14. Instrumento lacerado no fim. Transcrevemos apenas o
começo, por ser a parte que mais nos interessa:
«Em nome de deus amem sajbam quãtos este estromento de emnouacão de
prazo e nouo emprazamento vyrem que no Anno do nascymento de nosso
senhor Jesus Christo de myll e quinhentos e sesemta e sete Aos tres dias
do mes de Junho na cydade de llixboa demtro da parochiall Igreya de sam
Gjão estãdo ahy de presente o senhores lljonardo nardez de cyxo (sic)
prior da dita Igreya e guomcallo diaz e Jorge Rebejro e pedro ortyz e
ffrancisquo de lhãnes beneffyciados em ella todos presentes e
Imtaresemtes na dita ygreya e todos jumtos e cõgregados por som de
campam tãgjda em cabido e cabydo ffazemdo ffazemdo (sic) especyallmente
sobre o auto de que abayxo ffara memçam e todos de huã parte e da outra
estamdo a esto presente cateryna diaz dona veuua molher que ffoy de
gaspar diaz o chyado dalcunha vynhateyro que deus aja e ella vyue hora
nesta cidade na Rua derejta da porta de samta cateryna e lloguo por
elles senhores pryor e majs beneficiados ffoy dyto que amtre os majs
bens e propriadades que A dita Sua Igreja pertemce e de que ella esta de
pose como derejto senhoryo asy sam huas cassas que estão nesta cydade no
topo da callcada de pay de nabays na Rua derejta da porta de samta
cateryna as quoajs pessue hora como vtill senhoryo A dyta caterina diaz
por as nomear em ellas por segunda pessoa o dito gaspar diaz chyado que
nellas hera a primeira pessoa comfforme ao emprazameto que dellas lhe
ffoy ffeyto por A dyta Igreya pryor e benefficiados della e pagua de
fforo myl e trezemtos e cimquoenta reis em cada num Anno com galljnhas e
tudo e com outras majs comdjcões e obrigações de seu comtrato, etc.»
Ora ahi se diz textualmente a respeito d'aquella Catharina Dias: «molher
que ffoy de gaspar diaz o chyado dalcunha vynhateyro que deus aja.»
A falta de pontuação nos documentos antigos dá origem a muitas
escuridades e equivocos. Assim, na phrase que deixamos transcripta,
poderiam caber duas interpretações: que Gaspar Dias tinha a alcunha de
Chiado ou tinha a alcunha de Vinhateiro. Mas a anteposição do artigo á
palavra--Chiado--reforçaria por si mesma a hypothese de ser alcunha, se
a não confirmasse plenamente esta passagem que se encontra no texto do
documento:
«Aos seys dias do mes de junho de myll e quynhemtos e sesemta e sete
Annos na cydade de llixboa Rua derejta da porta de ssamta cateryna nas
cassas de caterina diaz _A chiada dalcunha_ donna veuua etc.»
Assim, pois, ficamos seguros de que o Gaspar Dias da rua Direita da
Porta de Santa Catharina não tinha o appellido de Chiado, como alguns
individuos do Alemtejo, mas sim a alcunha, e de que exercia a profissão
de «vinhateiro» por ser viticultor ou negociante de vinhos. Bem poderia
succeder que os vendesse a retalho na propria casa de residencia,
especie de estalagem talvez, onde admittisse hospedes.
N'elle era, portanto, alcunha o que n'outros fôra appellido de familia;
mas bem póde haver sido que a origem do appellido no Alemtejo proviesse
primitivamente de uma alcunha.
Quanto á significação da palavra _chiado_ não ha duvida. Na _Revista
Lusitana_ VI, 79, encontra-se um estudo intitulado--Dialecto
indo-português de Gôa--, auctor monsenhor Sebastião Rodolpho Dalgado
(_sic_), no qual estudo se lê: «_Chiado_, astuto, ladino. «Não é porque
eu seja mais chiado, mais astuto do que os outros». Do k., sansk
_chhadmin_.» Mas, sem recorrermos ao concani, o nosso verbo «chiar» e o
seu participio podem dar ideia de um sujeito de «ruidosa» reputação como
bargante e dizidor. No Brazil o nome--Camões--tomou a accepção popular
de--cego de um olho; e até me informam--ó sacrilegio!--que lá se diz,
por exemplo, «um cavallo camões». O povo tem um grande instincto de
generalisação: certos individuos seriam--chiados--por se assimilharem
moralmente. Da alcunha proviria talvez o appellido; mas não vale a pena
insistir n'este ponto.
O que faz ao nosso proposito é dizer que a Gaspar Dias fôram aforadas
pela collegiada de S. Julião umas casas sitas «no topo da calçada de Pai
de Nabaes na rua Direita da Porta de Santa Catharina» e que houve
renovação do prazo no tempo da viuva, segundo ella requereu e obteve.
A referida calçada é descripta em documentos antigos como sendo--de Payo
de Novaes--Pai de Navaes ou--Pai de Nabaes[9].
[9] «Calçada de Payo de Novaes--Corre a dita Calçada ao principio
quasi norte sul e contem seu comprimento desde o Largo da Cruz do
Azulejo thé donde volta 173 p. e de Largura 16 p. e voltando corre
Leste oeste, e contem thé intestar com a rua do Chiado donde parte o
destricto do Bayrro 42 p. e de Largura pello leste 42 p. e pello
oeste 25 p.». _Tombo da Cidade de Lisboa, Livro 10, Rocio fl. 20._
O _Mappa de Portugal_, III, 391, diz que a calçada de Payo de Novaes
pertencia á freguezia de S. Nicolau.
No livro 8 da _Extremadura_ lê-se, fl. 27: «na rua que vem da callçada
que vem de pay de nauaaes pera o poço do chãao e parten (_as casas_) de
hûa parte cõ a albergaria dos tanoeiros da outra cõ casas de S. Vicente
de Fora etc. e da outra cõ casas dos banhos do espitall de dona maria de
aboym etc. e com Rua pubrica». T em a data de 1467.
Na _Lisboa antiga_, de Julio de Castilho, vol. VI, vem um fragmento da
planta traçada por José Valentim, e ahi se póde vêr claramente qual era
a situação da calçada de Pai de Nabaes em relação á rua Direita da Porta
de Santa Catharina.
[Ilustração: Planta do Chiado por José Valentim]
Por este fragmento, que reproduzimos, reconhece-se que a calçada de Pai
de Nabaes ficava ao fundo do Chiado actual, entalada entre o palacio do
conde de Valladares e a egreja do Espirito Santo, e que foi do predio
ahi situado, onde residira Gaspar Dias, que se alastrou o nome de Chiado
para um trecho apenas da rua Direita da Porta de Santa Catharina,
conservando esta rua o seu antigo nome desde a Cordoaria Velha[10] até
propriamente á porta de Santa Catharina, isto é, até ao Loreto moderno.
[10] A Cordoaria Velha correspondia á rua de S. Francisco, hoje rua
Ivens.
Seria em casa de Catharina Dias a Chiada que o poeta Antonio Ribeiro se
hospedou. Não podêmos admittir que fosse o marido d'ella que désse o
nome á rua, a qual no tempo da viuva ainda tinha a designação antiga e
total--de rua Direita da Porta de Santa Catharina.
Pode ser que o poeta recebesse da propria casa de Pai de Nabaes, como
seu hospede ou freguez, a alcunha de Chiado, tanto mais que esta alcunha
lhe quadrava como astuto e ladino, e que elle, segundo uma accusação de
Affonso Alvares, se dava a frequentar lojas de bebidas:
E tu queres ser rufião
e beber como francez.
Pode ser que fosse parente, adherente ou intimo da viuva de Gaspar Dias,
e que por parte do povo tambem houvesse malicia em dar ao commensal a
alcunha que pertencêra ao marido.
A tradição diz que o poeta morou n'aquella rua e, segundo a maior
certeza possivel, parece poder agora ficar assente que foi elle, pela
notoriedade de que gosou, devida a suas ribaldarias e veia comica, que
deu o nome á rua.
É menos admissivel a hypothese de que o poeta, por singular
coincidencia, fosse um dos Chiados do Alemtejo, apesar de ter nascido no
districto de Evora, onde, na cidade capital do districto e na villa de
Montemor-o-Novo, existia aquelle appellido. No Alandroal, cêrca de seis
leguas ao sul de Evora, ha um _monte_ (casa de habitação de uma herdade)
que tem o nome de--Chiado[11]--e um logar chamado--Chiada. No districto
de Faro (Algarve) tambem ha um logar com a denominação de--Chiado,--como
se vê da _Chorographia_ de Baptista. Chiado é, pois, um vocabulo do sul.
Mas tanto o poeta como seu irmão Jeronymo, tambem poeta, assignavam
apenas o appellido--Ribeiro. O que me leva a crêr que Chiado fôra
alcunha posta a Antonio Ribeiro, bem assente n'elle, que a merecia; e
por ser alcunha a precediam de um artigo.
[11] Situado a dois kilometros da villa. Haverá um seculo pertenciam
este _monte_ e herdade a um individuo chamado Pedro Gonçalves.
Passando de paes a filhos, veio a propriedade a pertencer ao pai do
sr. Martins, do Redondo, actual proprietario.
Em resumo: antes do poeta a rua não tinha o nome de Chiado[12].
[12] Fica, pois, documentalmente contradictada a opinião, tantas
vezes repetida, de que o poeta recebeu o nome da rua. Ainda
recentemente disse a _Encyclopedia portugueza illustrada_: «Indo
para Lisboa (o poeta), foi morar para o Chiado, e d'ahi o ser
conhecido por este nome.» É verdade que a mesma _Encyclopedia_
tambem diz que o Chiado escreveu varios autos, sendo conhecidos
dois: _Auto de Gonçalo Chambão_ e _Auto da natural invenção_.»
justamente estes dois é que ninguem tem podido vêr. Dos trez que
publiquei em 1889, não fala: esses então é que são os desconhecidos!
III
Já agora seja-me permittida uma divagação, que reputo interessante, a
respeito do sitio do Chiado, que o nosso poeta tornou famoso.
Eu disse que a calçada de Pai de Nabaes ficava entalada entre o palacio
do conde de Valladares e a egreja do Espirito Santo da Pedreira.
«Da Pedreira», porque os alicerces d'este edificio foram assentes no
alto da escarpa, que impendia em tempos remotos sobre um esteiro do
Tejo, cidade dentro, e que ainda hoje se deixa adivinhar na enorme
differença de nivel que ha entre o fundo do Chiado e a rua do Crucifixo.
A egreja e hospital do Espirito Santo estão actualmente substituidos, no
mesmo local, pelo moderno palacio da familia Barcellinhos.
A egreja era muito antiga, pois que no anno de 1279 já tinha sido
fundada.
No seculo XVI foi reconstruida com donativos de el-rei D. Manoel e
outros bemfeitores. Ficou o templo com trez naves, e tinha uma
capella-mór artificiosamente lavrada, obra de muita estimação e riqueza.
O padre Carvalho, na _Chorographia Portuguesa_[13], dá larga noticia
d'esta egreja depois de reconstruida.
[13] Tomo III, pag. 445 e seguintes.
Junto ao templo, e com serventia para elle, havia o hospital do Santo
Espirito, que albergava permanentemente doze pessoas necessitadas, entre
as quaes «dez mulheres donzellas ou donas viuvas de boa vida».
A bem dizer, era mais um recolhimento do que um hospital.
E assim foi até o anno de 1672, em que os padres da Congregação do
Oratorio, que se tinham instituido alli perto, no sitio das Fangas da
Farinha, á rua do Almada, tiveram auctorização para tomar conta do
hospital do Santo Espirito, onde passaram a estabelecer-se dois annos
depois.
Alli permaneceram os oratorianos, tranquillos e contentes. Mas por
occasião do terremoto de 1755 a egreja e convento arderam, perdendo-se
os preciosos haveres d'aquelles padres. A congregação transferiu-se
então para o convento das Necessidades, que é hoje palacio real.
Ficaram apenas de pé as paredes dos dois edificios incendiados.
No frontispicio da egreja havia grandes columnas de cantaria, que o
leitor ainda hoje pode ver... aonde?
Aonde? Não em outro templo, mas na fachada de um theatro, porque as
pedras tambem teem seus fados. Estas transitaram, por caprichoso
destino, do sagrado para o profano. Estão agora na frontaria do theatro
de D. Maria II; são as mesmas columnas da egreja do Espirito Santo.
O leitor não acreditaria esta noticia, se eu não pudesse comproval-a com
um documento authentico.
Mas posso. Ahi vai o documento, que, por ser curioso, não quero que
fique esquecido entre os meus papeis velhos:
«Ministerio do Reino--3.^a Repartição--Havendo Manuel José d'Oliveira,
actual proprietario do edificio da supprimida Casa do Espirito Santo da
Congregação do Oratorio, cedido as grandes columnas de cantaria e seus
capiteis, que ornão o frontispicio d'aquella Igreja, para serem
empregadas na fachada do novo theatro nacional, que se projecta fazer;
com a condição de que não seja feito á sua custa o descimento e
conducção das mesmas columnas: Manda Sua Magestade a Rainha, que o
Conselheiro Fiscal das Obras Publicas faça preparar todo o apparelho
necessario para aquelle descimento, combinando com o mencionado Manuel
José d'Oliveira a occasião e dia em que elle deve ter logar; fazendo
depois conduzir as ditas columnas e capiteis para o Arsenal da Marinha,
onde achará as ordens necessarias para serem recolhidas e depositadas
até que se lhes dê o indicado destino: devendo outrosim o mesmo
Conselheiro Fiscal dar todas as providencias para que, tanto no acto do
descimento, como no da conducção, não soffram o menor damno as columnas
e particularmente os lavrados de seus capiteis. Palacio das Necessidades
em 9 de janeiro de 1836. (assignado) _L. M. S. de Albuquerque_».
Pois não é interessante o destino d'estas columnas?
Procurei saber quando foi que entraram em deposito no Arsenal de
Marinha, e quando sahiram de lá para o theatro.
Metti de empenho o meu illustre amigo sr. conde de Paço d'Arcos, que
gentilmente, como sempre costuma, se interessou pela minha solicitação.
Fez-se a pergunta ao Arsenal. Passaram mezes. Não veiu resposta. Não era
negocio de expediente ordinario; ficou para traz. Pois deixal-o ficar;
eu é que vou andando para deante, já aborrecido de esperar.
E agora tornemos ao nosso poeta.
IV
A popularidade de Antonio Ribeiro o Chiado proveiu não tanto da sua veia
poetica, aliás muito apreciada pelos entendidos, como das suas repetidas
tunantadas, de que o povo tinha directo conhecimento, porque as
presenceava em plena rua.
Era entre o povo, entre as classes humildes de que elle provinha, porque
lá diz Affonso Alvares no proposito de deprimil-o
Nasceste de regateira
e teu pai lançava solas;
era entre a arraya miuda que o Chiado localizava o theatro das suas
façanhas picarescas, dos seus feitos esturdios, das suas «partidas» e
«piadas», como hoje dizemos.
Um códice do Archivo Nacional, de que só agora tive conhecimento, revela
algumas das suas estroinices e chalaças, que não ficam a dever nada ás
mais gaiatas e desbragadas de Bocage.
O codice a que me refiro tem o n.^o 1817 e o titulo--_Diversas historias
e ditos facetos a diversos propositos._
É uma interessante collecção de anecdotas, que deve ser anterior ao anno
de 1617 e pertenceu á livraria do mosteiro de S. Vicente.
Vamos passar em revista as paginas que n'essa miscellanea dizem respeito
ao Chiado; e, onde fôr preciso, lançaremos um véo por decencia sobre as
anecdotas que entrarem no dominio da pornographia.
É claro que a palavra--véo--não promette mais do que um anteparo
diáphano.
* * * * *
Quiz o poeta comprar a uma regateira um peixe de estimação.
Offereceu-lhe apenas 7 réis e meio. Volveu-lhe a regateira por escarneo:
--Tomal-o-heis com um trapo quente.
N'esta resposta havia tanto desdem, que picou fundo o Chiado; certamente
elle se teria doído menos de uma descompostura destemperada, como
aquellas que as peixeiras de Lisboa não precisam ensaiar-se para
desfechar na cara de toda a gente. Mas a ironia, o desprezo da réplica,
abespinhou-o; suggeriu-lhe um plano de vingança, que logo poz em
execução.
Disfarçadamente aproximou-se do fogareiro de alguma assadeira de
castanhas ou quejando mister. Aqueceu um trapo, o primeiro que se lhe
deparou, e apossou-se violentamente do peixe, empregando o trapo na
tomadia.
Escarcéo da peixeira, que se dizia roubada. Agglomeração de povo, que
ria do caso exaltando a astucia do Chiado. Appêllo dos dois contendores
para a justiça, visto faltar ainda n'esse tempo o _bureau_ policial da
Parreirinha.
A varina fez a sua queixa. Chiado ponderou a circumstancia de se haver
apoderado do peixe com um trapo quente, condição imposta pela peixeira.
Decisão da justiça: que o poeta pagasse os 7 réis e meio que offerecera,
e ficasse com o peixe, pois que a condição do trapo havia sido
satisfeita, ficando salva a fé do contrato.
* * * * *
Era o Chiado ainda frade franciscano--porque depois despiu o habito por
indisciplina ou lh'o despiram por castigo--e começou a embirrar uma vez
com o magro caldo de lentilhas, que lhe deram no refeitorio.
Vai isto de accôrdo com a proverbial pobreza dos franciscanos.
Remexendo no caldo, não encontrou mais que uma lentilha. Pareceu-lhe
pouco nutritivo o singular, e começou a despir-se, como se quizesse
atirar-se a um charco. Reprehenderam-n'o com estranheza. Elle explicou:
que tinha visto apenas um legume no fundo da tigela e que o queria tomar
de mergulho.
* * * * *
D'outra vez--e aqui vai ser preciso o véo--apostou que em pleno Terreiro
do Paço, entre um grupo de dez ou doze picões (arruadores) que alli
estanceavam, era capaz de improvisar um _water closet_, sem que elles
protestassem.
Fingiu-se acossado pela justiça e, correndo direito aos faias (como hoje
diriamos) pediu-lhes que fizessem roda para o livrar de ser preso.
Cahiram no langará, elles, e cerraram-se em parede, de modo que o
supposto fugitivo não pudesse ser visto. Passado algum tempo, o Chiado
parte agradecendo, e só depois foi que, pelo olfacto ou pelos olhos, os
logrados reconheceram o logro.
* * * * *
Não havia aposta bréjeira que lhe não propozessem, e que elle não
acceitasse.
Se seria capaz de açoitar um vinagreiro que ia passando com dois ôdres
sobre a mula? Que sim. Dito e feito. Acercou-se do vinagreiro e
disse-lhe que desatasse um dos ôdres, pois queria provar o vinagre.
Tomou um bochecho e fez cara de não achar bom. Exigiu provar do outro
ôdre, segurando elle proprio no que já estava desatado. De repente finge
vêr alguem ao longe ou querer acudir de prompto a qualquer incidente.
Passa o ôdre ao vinagreiro, que ficou com um em cada mão, ambos
desatados. E então começa a açoitar o pobre homem, que não poderia
defender-se sem deixar perder o vinagre.
* * * * *
Conchavou-se o Chiado com outros tunantes da força d'elle para
engarampar um villão, que veiu a Lisboa comprar trigo. Disse-lhe que se
queria trigo bom o não podia achar melhor que o de um seu irmão, em
certa nau que estava á descarga; que fosse a bordo compral-o, mas que
para não sujar o sombreiro e a capa lh'os deixasse alli no caes, onde o
ficaria esperando. O villão pagou logo sete tostões pelo trigo, e deu a
capa e o sombreiro a guardar. Foi a bordo, em cabello e corpo bem feito.
Mas disseram-lhe lá que não tinham commissario em terra, e que só faziam
negocio com dinheiro na palma da mão. Voltou o homem ao caes, e já não
viu o Chiado; encontrou, porém, os outros guilhotes, os quaes lhe deram
uma carta de quitação que o Chiado deixára para o parocho do basbaque,
explicando tudo. Ora a carta dizia:
João Pires do Outeiro
Me deu a capa e o sombreiro,
Sete tostões em dinheiro,
E mais me dera
Se mais tivera.
* * * * *
Não tendo que jantar um dia, lobrigou certo mancebo a comprar peixe na
Ribeira. Chegou-se a elle, dizendo ser grande amigo de seu pai. Sob esta
côr o convidou a jantar. Foram os dois, mano a mano, para o local que o
Chiado indicou. Ahi, disse lhe que poizasse o peixe, que logo se
cozinharia, e que fôsse buscar qualquer tempêro que faltava. Quando o
ingénuo moço tornou, já não viu o Chiado nem o peixe.
* * * * *
D'outra vez chamou um polhastro e industriou-o a fingir-se vendilhão,
levando no fundo de uma panela excremento humano. O rapazola apregoava,
como o Chiado lhe ensinou: «Quem merca isto?» Alguns curiosos queriam
ver o que era para comprar. E, reconhecendo a mercadoria, diziam por
claro o nome que se lhe dá. O polhastro respondia enfadado: «Pois não é
outra cousa.»
* * * * *
Vem agora uma anecdota geralmente attribuida a Bocage, mas que não póde
ser sua, pois que o manuscripto d'onde a tomamos é anterior a 1617 e
portanto quasi seculo e meio anterior ao nascimento de Bocage.
Entraram ratoneiros em casa do Chiado, e levaram-lhe o melhor que tinha.
Elle viu-os a tempo de poder gritar por soccorro; mas, em vez de bradar,
poz ás costas o refugo que lhe deixaram e foi-os seguindo derreado sob a
carga. Os gatunos, espantados, fizeram alto e perguntaram-lhe para onde
ia. O Chiado respondeu tranquilamente: «Venho vêr para onde nos
mudamos.» Com o que desarmou a audacia dos amigos do alheio que,
rendidos á chalaça, lhe restituiram o bom que levavam.
* * * * *
Quando alguem queria engendrar uma bréjeirice, ia ter com o Chiado, que
era padre-mestre na materia.
Por isso o consultaram certos vaganaus sobre a «partida» que deveriam
fazer a um mulato fôrro que andava por Lisboa, e a quem tinham asca por
ser valentão e soberbão.
Aconselhou os o Chiado a que, logo que entrasse alguma nau ingleza, lhe
dessem aviso.
Chegou a occasião, veiu um navio inglez e o Chiado, fingindo-se fidalgo,
foi a bordo com alguns d'aquelles tunantes, que dizia seus criados.
Propoz ao capitão da nau que lhe comprasse um escravo mulato, que era
robusto para o trabalho do mar, mas que não podia amansar em terra.
Fez-se o ajuste, sob condição de que o escravo iria á mostra.
Os outros picões levaram-n'o a bordo, e como agradasse aos inglezes,
logo receberam d'elles o preço que fôra combinado.
Protestou o mulato não ser captivo, mas não foi acreditado, visto
terem-lhe posto fama de soberbão. Quiz reagir á viva força, mas
lançaram-lhe ferros, visto saberem n'o valente. E teria ido mar em fóra,
como escravo, se a justiça, informada da occorrencia, o não fosse
libertar a bordo, obrigando os vaganaus a restituir o dinheiro recebido
dos inglezes.
Não houve mais nenhum outro procedimento da justiça contra o inventor e
executores d'esta tunantada, que aos proprios magistrados pareceu
graciosa.
O Chiado sahiu incolume, porque foram os socios que pagaram por elle, e
porque a justiça prohibiu ao mulato que tirasse qualquer desfórra.
Palavras textuaes do manuscripto: «...com pena de morte ao negro, que
sobre aquella graça com o Chiado não entendesse, pois fôra tão bem
achada a graça.»
Tal era a cotação da jocosidade do poeta, que até a justiça se lhe
rendia; a natureza dera ao nosso bohemio todos os predicados de
gracioso, incluindo a facilidade de imitar simultaneamente as vozes de
muitas pessoas[14].
[14] «Parece que era ventriloquo, porque imitava ao mesmo tempo as
vozes de differentes pessoas.» _Dic. Popular_, vol. IV, pag 268.
* * * * *
Tinha o Chiado em casa um pote onde fazia os despejos. Um dia lembrou-se
de lhe pôr um tampão e embreal-o exteriormente no bocal e no bojo, de
modo a parecer vasilha para exportar. Chamando depois quatro mariolas,
encommendou-lhes que levassem aquelle pote de conservas á Ribeira, que o
queria embarcar, e que esperassem lá por elle para lhes pagar o frete.
Como o Chiado não tornasse a apparecer, foram os carrejões avisar a
justiça e requerer que lhes entregasse o pote por indemnisação de seu
trabalho.
Sendo-lhes entregue como cousa perdida, destaparam-n'o «e mettendo a mão
dentro--diz o manuscripto--acharam-se com a conserva que não imaginavam,
e logo viram que fôra lanço do Chiado.»
Logo viram que fôra lanço do Chiado: esta phrase testemunha quanto era
fecunda e inventiva em chistes e logros a imaginação do famoso bohemio
do seculo XVI.
Conheciam-n'o pelo dedo--como gigantesco entre os mais preeminentes
foliões do seu tempo.
* * * * *
Para concluir o extracto do manuscripto, que nos fornece todas estas
anecdotas, resta dizer que passando o Chiado pela porta da Sé viu um
grupo de muchachos e, dando-lhes attenção, ouviu-os dizer:
--Eu tomára ser bispo.
--Eu tomára ser pápa.
--Eu tomára ser rei.
O Chiado, acercando-se d'elles, interpellou-os dizendo:
--E sabeis vós o que eu tomára ser?
--?...
--Tomára ser melão para me beijardes... no sitio em que se beijam os
melões.
Com a differença que elle falou mais claro do que eu.
* * * * *
Aqui terminam os elementos anecdoticos fornecidos pelo manuscripto para
a reconstituição da biographia picaresca do poeta Chiado.
Mas estes, que já não são poucos, bastam a egualar o Chiado com Bocage
em materia de bréjeirices e tunantarias.
V
Entre as producções literarias de Chiado, que eu não pude encontrar em
1889, havia uma, que, pouco tempo depois, veiu casualmente ao meu
encontro.
Era aquella que o abbade Barbosa designa d'este modo na _Bibliotheca
Lusitana_:
«Carta que escreveu de Lisboa a Coimbra da entrada do bispo D. João
Soares, em Lisboa, quando foi á raia pela princeza. É jocosa, e se
conservava na bibliotheca do cardeal de Sousa».
Achei-a em copia n'uma miscellanea, que pertenceu ao convento da Graça,
de Lisboa, e que eu comprei ao Rodrigues do Pote das Almas por dez
tostões. Se exceptuarmos a carta de Chiado, a miscellanea vale pouco.
Mas eu, folheando-a, li o titulo da carta, passei-a rapidamente pela
vista, reconheci que o texto concordava com o titulo, e adquiri logo o
livro, que o Rodrigues teria vendido mais caro se pudesse adivinhar a
rasão por que eu o comprava.
D'isso era elle capaz, Deus lhe fale na alma.
Antes de transcrever a carta que o Chiado escreveu a um seu amigo de
Coimbra, preciso esclarecer o leitor sobre o assumpto que a inspirou e o
momento em que foi escripta.
O mallogrado principe D. João, filho de D. João III, desposou sua prima
a linda princeza D. Joanna de Castella, que veiu a ser mãe de D.
Sebastião o _Desejado_.
A princeza entrou em Portugal no fim de novembro de 1553[15].
[15] Francisco de Andrade diz que foi em 1552; Pedro de Mariz que
foi em 1554. Mas a carta de Chiado, que merece fé por ser um
documento da epoca, fixa o anno de 1553.
El-rei mandou que fossem buscal-a á fronteira D. João de Lencastre,
duque de Aveiro, e o bispo de Coimbra D. Frei João Soares, os quaes se
fizeram acompanhar de pessoas de categoria, entre as quaes D. Affonso de
Lencastre e D. Luiz de Lencastre, irmãos do duque de Aveiro.
Na fronteira, D. Diogo Lopes Pacheco, duque de Escalona, e D. Pedro da
Costa, bispo de Osma, fizeram entrega da princeza aos embaixadores
portuguezes.
D. Joanna entrou por Elvas, e d'ahi, após breve demora, seguiu em
jornadas até ao Barreiro, onde D. João III a foi esperar para
acompanhal-a a Lisboa.
O professor Manuel Bento de Sousa poz em relevo a fatalidade pathologica
que desde o berço condemnou D. Sebastião aos desatinos que veiu a
praticar em detrimento e ruina do paiz.
«D. Sebastião, diz o illustre e fallecido professor, é pela mãe neto de
um epileptico[16], e a accumulação da hereditariedade morbida
verificou-se sem perturbação.
«Sua mãe é filha de epileptico e neta de doidos[17], sua avó é irmã do
mesmo epileptico e filha dos mesmos doidos, sua bisavó é irmã e filha do
mesmo epileptico e dos mesmos doidos. Seu avô, por consequencia, é neto
de doidos, e seu pae é bisneto dos mesmos doidos.
«Como exemplo de nevropathia accumulada por herança não ha melhor[18]!»
[16] O imperador Carlos V.
[17] Joanna _a Doida_ e Filippe I, leviano, perdulario, incapaz de
governar.
[18] _O Doutor Minerva_, pag. 198.
Sobre a inconveniencia physiologica dos casamentos consanguineos,
repetidos de geração em geração entre as casas reaes de Portugal e
Hespanha, vieram accumular-se, pelo enlace do principe D. João com a
princeza D. Joanna, as taras hereditarias da epilepsia e da loucura que
os dois desposados, primos co-irmãos, tinham recebido dos seus proximos
ascendentes communs.
A mãe de D. Sebastião deu provas de uma exaltada hysteria, com
allucinações pavorosas, durante o periodo da gravidez.
Este casamento precipitou a morte do principe D. João e aggravou as
taras da princeza D. Joanna.
Eram duas creanças, ella de 18 annos[19] elle de 16[20], doentes dos
mesmos vicios constitucionaes, e apaixonados um pelo outro. Não
conheceram limites ás suas relações amorosas, entregaram-se a uma
«demasiada communicação» dilacerando-se carinhosamente em extremos de
prazer insaciavel.
[19] D. Joanna tinha nascido a 23 de junho de 1535.
[20] D. João nasceu em Evora a 3 de junho de 1537.
O principe ardia n'um fogo de voluptuosidade, que o devorou
prematuramente. Foi preciso separal-o da princeza, mas já era tarde.
Estava perdido na flor dos annos.
Os medicos d'aquella epocha classificaram a doença de--paixão hebetica.
Os chronistas explicam que o enfermo sentia uma sêde devoradora; e D.
Manuel de Menezes, na chronica que lhe é attribuida, filia esse
phenomeno pathologico no desregramento dos prazeres carnaes.
Ora o hebetismo--segundo a medicina do nosso tempo--é um estado morbido,
que inutiliza as faculdades intellectuaes, sem comtudo inutilizar a
acção dos sentidos: uma especie de embrutecimento devido a commoção
cerebral[21].
[21] _Dict. de medicine_, segundo o plano de Nysten, refundido por
Littré e Robin.
Assim devia ser, pois que o principe D. João precipitára a crise dos
seus males hereditarios com um exgotamento nervoso.
Mas a--sêde devoradora--_polydipsia_, é um symptoma da diabetes
saccharina, que anda muitas vezes ligada ás nevroses e, principalmente,
á epilepsia.
Não repugna acreditar que a sêde exagerada e continua, que abrazava o
principe, derivasse d'esse conjuncto pathologico recebido por herança e
aggravado por excessos.
E que os chronistas não empregavam a palavra sêde em sentido figurado,
vê-se d'estas palavras da chronica attribuida a D. Manuel de Menezes:
«mas elle (o principe) perseguido da sêde levantou-se uma manhã da cama
a beber agua da chuva, que achou empoçada ao pé de uma janella, por
descuido dos que lhe assistiam, que então o deixaram só, e sendo muita,
e choca, fez-lhe muito mais mal, e logo empeiorou, e morreu no dia
seguinte».
A princeza, excitada pelas sensações amorosas e pelos sobresaltos da
gravidez, redobrou de hysterismos, teve allucinadas visões, pavores
imaginarios, de que ficou noticia.
Na véspera do principe cahir doente, estando elle a dormir, julgou ella
vêr, á luz da tocha que allumiava a camara conjugal, surgir uma figura
de mulher vestida de luto, com larga touca, a qual mulher, crescendo em
vulto, ameaçadora, fez estrincar os dedos e, após um assopro que parecia
o halito quente d'uma féra, desappareceu.
A princeza ficou n'uma grande perturbação de terror, julgando verdadeira
a visão, e interpretou-a no sentido de que o assopro annunciava que
todas as suas esperanças haviam de desfazer-se em vento.
Quanto ao trinco com os dedos não interpretou coisa nenhuma ou as
chronicas o não dizem.
Tendo fallecido o principe D. João[22] sem que a princeza o soubesse ao
certo, posto o suspeitasse, e já nas vésperas do parto, as damas que
acompanhavam D. Joanna quizeram leval-a a espairecer na Varanda da
Pella, do Paço da Ribeira,
[22] O principe falleceu em terça feira 2 de janeiro de 1554,
dezoito dias antes do parto da princeza.
O palacio dos pricipes era o de Alvaro Peres de Andrade, junto ao Arco
dos Pregos, mas communicava interiormente com o palacio real.
A princeza, profundamente abatida, deixou-se conduzir. A noite e o
silencio favoreceram ainda d'esta vez o terror, sempre contagioso,
mórmente entre as impressionaveis damas, que os tristes acontecimentos
da côrte traziam sobresaltadas.
Bastaria, portanto, que a princeza tivesse uma visão, para que logo
fossem egualmente suggestionadas as suas damas, portuguezas e
castelhanas.
Assim, pois, todas julgaram vêr sahir pela Varanda d'El-rei, direitos ao
Forte[23], muitos homens vestidos á moirisca, com fatos de variegadas
cores, agitando tochas accêsas e soltando repetidas vozes de--_Ly, ly,
ly_. Eira uma especie de dança macabra, em que os moiros revoluteavam,
despedindo clarões e gritos; e quando a chorea, percorrendo a Varanda,
chegava ao Forte, os moiros precipitavam-se ao Tejo, deixando no
silencio da noite uma atmosphera soturna de terror e mysterio.
[23] O Forte, nome que depois conservou o torreão mandado construir
por Filippe II, rematava sobre o Tejo, uma vasta galeria com
terraço, a meio do qual se erguia uma torre ameiada.
As damas fizeram decerto alarma. Acudiria gente do Paço, que não soube
explicar a apparição sinistra dos moiros. Reconheceu-se que as portas
estavam fechadas; que o ingresso de estranhos era impossivel. Então
cresceria o pavor, e com elle a predisposição para repetir-se a
visualidade no mesmo local e nas mesmas condições.
Foi o que aconteceu. Poucos dias depois tornou a princeza á Varanda da
Pella, fez algum exercicio passeiando; depois sentou-se a uma das
janellas e então se lhe renovou a visão dos moiros, com os mesmos
trajes, as mesmas tochas, os mesmos gritos--na mesma farandola sinistra.
A princeza e as suas damas fugiram espavoridas sob a mesma suggestão,
pelo contagio do terror. Todas «tinham visto» segunda vez os moiros.
Lembra-nos, por analogia, um facto que Renan refere nos _Apostolos_.
Entre os protestantes perseguidos correu voz de que, nas ruinas de um
templo destruido recentemente, se ouviam psalmos cantados pelos anjos;
tanto bastou para que todos os protestantes que se aproximavam
d'aquellas ruinas, ouvissem os psalmos.
O rei e a rainha, informados do que se passava, recommendaram segredo.
Convinha não excitar mais a superstição popular, que já estava muito
exaltada por varios factos anteriores, taes como o desacato praticado
por um inglez, logo depois do casamento do principe na capella do Paço;
e a apparição de um meteóro luminoso que todas as noites era visivel em
Lisboa, quasi em cima da Sé, e parecia tomar a fórma de um athaúde.
Dos nove filhos legitimos de D. João III ficára apenas um, o principe D.
João, e o povo já sabia que elle tinha morrido tambem, posto se
occultasse a sua morte.
Se o parto da princeza se mallograsse, acabar-se-ia a successão directa.
Portugal perderia a sua independencia, não porque el-rei não tivesse
irmãos, que poderiam succeder-lhe no throno, mas porque pelo contrato de
casamento da princeza D. Maria, filha de D. João III, com Filippe II, a
corôa portugueza passaria para D. Carlos, filho d'aquella princeza.
Por isso o povo, cuidadoso de ver garantida a independencia do reino,
«desejava» que a princeza D. Joanna desse á luz um filho varão.
O arcebispo de Lisboa ordenára uma procissão de préces, que se
effectuaria logo que a princeza começasse a sentir as dores do parto.
Pela meia noite de 19 a 20 de janeiro[24] de 1554, quando os sinos dos
conventos tocavam a matinas, houve rebate de que a princeza
experimentava os primeiros symptomas do parto. Logo se organizou a
procissão, que sahiu da Sé para S. Domingos. Rompia a manhã quando a
procissão ia recolhendo á Sé e então se espalhou «a nova feliz de ter
nascido o _desejado_[25].»
[24] Dia de S. Sebastião, motivo por que recebeu este nome o
herdeiro da coroa.
[25] _Portugal cuidadoso e lastimado_, pag. 2.
Desejado foi em verdade D. Sebastião, e duas vezes o foi, antes de ter
nascido e depois de ter morrido.
Em taes circunstancias, o nascimento do herdeiro da corôa teve a
importancia de um acontecimento nacional, que profundamente interessou a
alma popular. Não foi apenas um regosijo privativo da familia real ou da
côrte, como acontece sempre que nasce «mais um» principe. Aquelle que
tinha nascido era «o unico» fiador possivel da autonomia de Portugal:
por isso tal acontecimento poz em jogo o brio, o orgulho, o amor patrio
de todos os portuguezes.
Antes do parto, organizam-se devoções propiciatorias, em que o povo se
mistura com o alto clero, fundindo suas preces.
Em Santarem até as creanças effectuam procissões nocturnas, piedosa
pratica infantil, que foi muito nossa, e que apparecia sempre nas
grandes crises nacionaes, revestindo um gracioso caracter de ingenuidade
religiosa e de fé simples.
Eram procissões minusculas, com pequenos andores, pequenas lanternas,
sendo o prestito constituido por homensinhos lilliputianos, rapazes da
rua, creanças do povo, que iam entoando ladainhas e psalmos numa
unisonancia de vozes ainda debeis e esganiçadas.
É peculiar á infancia o espirito de imitação, maiormente entre as
classes populares. Nos filhos do povo encontram sempre écco os
acontecimentos que tomam maior relevo na vida da nação. Dir-se-ia que
por viverem na rua são mais depressa sacudidos pela opinião publica do
que os filhos dos nobres. Por isso são as creanças da arraya miuda que
propagam, inconscientemente, as canções politicas, os hymnos
revolucionarios, e que muitas vezes se encarregam de fazer a critica e
inventar a parodia dos negocios do Estado e dos mais ruidosos conflictos
da administração publica.
As procissões infantis duraram seculos. Viram-n'as os contemporaneos de
D. João III. Viu-as Filinto Elysio, que nos descreve uma que todos os
annos, pela quaresma, vinha da Ajuda exhibir nas ruas de Lisboa muitos
«Senhorsinhos dos Passos» allumiados com rolinhos de cêra. Vi-as ainda
eu na minha infancia, que passei n'aquella devota, patriotica e antiga
cidade do Porto.
Foi bom termos tido occasião de falar do povo, pois que tomando por
assumpto uma celebridade das ruas, como era o poeta Chiado, já se ia
alongando de mais a narrativa sobre a vida da côrte, sem pausa nem
fôlego, que désse tempo a pensar em quem vegeta no infimo grau da escala
social--tal como no fundo de um poço escuro o musgo rasteiro.
Podemos agora tornar á côrte. D. João III, para não lançar maior
perturbação nos espiritos, já muito apprehensivos e agitados, ordenou,
pois, que se não divulgasse a visão da princeza na Varanda da Pella.
El-rei, receioso do futuro, sentia o peso de todas as suas
responsabilidades politicas, que eram enormes desde que, por um
imprudente contrato de casamento, a independencia do reino ficava
suspensa do nascimento de um successor varão.
Mas o que D. João III não podia prohibir era que a princeza D. Joanna
continuasse a ter visões, que aliás se repetiram.
Uma noite, na sua camara, tornou a princeza a vêr os moiros, que
entravam e sahiam em tropel. Cahiu logo desmaiada no regaço de uma dama,
e nem essa nem as outras receberam a suggestão, porque a princeza não
teve tempo de falar.
Pareceu a todas que apenas seria uma syncope propria da gravidez; mas
depois, explicado o caso, apurou-se que ainda mais uma vez tinham
«apparecido» os moiros.
A crença popular relaciona sempre o maravilhoso com a vida das altas
personagens e a realização dos grandes acontecimentos historicos. É um
fundo de superstição commum a todos os povos. Assim, entre nós,
encontrou-se uma relação sobrenatural entre a visão dos moiros e a
derrota de D. Sebastião em Alcacerquibir.
Que a princeza D. Joanna tivesse allucinações e visualidades pavorosas,
cabalmente o pode explicar a medicina; que os phantasmas que ella
julgava ver, fossem moiros, basta que o diga a lenda, urdida _a
posteriore_, depois da perda de D. Sebastião em Africa.
De outras visões falam ainda as chronicas, todas n'um sentido lugubre e
presago, como era proprio do estado morbido da princeza e das suas
condições physiologicas.
Accordava de noite em sobresalto, queixando-se de não ver nada, de ter
ouvido estrondos mysteriosos, vozes afflictivas, taes como suspiros
maguados, gemidos cortantes.
No leito de dois doentes foi gerado um filho doentissimo, cuja cabeça,
por desgraça nossa, havia de cingir a corôa de Portugal.
Depois do parto, o hysterismo da princeza tornou-se essencialmente
mystico, tanto em Portugal como em Castella, para onde voltou.
Contribuiram para esta evolução, aliás naturalissima em taes
circumstancias, as relações de D. Joanna com o padre Francisco de Borja,
primeiro em Lisboa, depois em Madrid. Essas relações, por demasiado
assiduas, chegaram a tornar-se suspeitas; e Francisco de Borja, que se
retirou para Portugal quando a suspeição cresceu, teve de procurar
justificar-se n'uma carta que, em 1561, dirigiu do Porto a Filippe II.
D. Joanna fundou em Madrid um convento á imitação do da Madre de Deus,
de Lisboa[26]; é o das _Descalzas Reales_, cuja historia Ricardo
Sepulveda traçou n'um dos capitulos da sua interessante obra _Madrid
viejo_.
[26] _Hist. Gen._, t. III, pag. 559
Tal foi a princeza que o bispo de Coimbra D. Fr. João Soares e o duque
de Aveiro foram receber á fronteira do Alemtejo, quando ella veiu
desposar o mallogrado principe D. João[27].
[27] D. Joanna morreu com 38 annos, no Escorial, a 7 de setembro de
1573.
VI
Por que foi que D. João III escolheu, entre todos os prelados
portuguezes, o bispo de Coimbra D. Frei João Soares, para ir á fronteira
esperar a princeza?
Houve, para isso, razões especiaes.
Frei João, religioso eremita de Santo Agostinho e varão distincto em
letras, tinha sido mestre do herdeiro da corôa e de seu irmão D.
Filippe[28], alem de ser prégador e confessor de el-rei, o que bastaria
a explicar a preferencia.
[28] D. Filippe foi o 6.^o filho de D. João III. Pela morte de seus
irmãos, chegou a ser jurado herdeiro do reino. Falleceu com seis
annos de edade.
Das virtudes que a _Historia genealogica_[29] attribue a D. Frei João
Soares, não se pode falar com tanta segurança como de suas letras;
Alexandre Herculano[30], baseando-se n'umas instrucções de Paulo III,
attribue lhe audacia e ambição; vida dissoluta; espirito de rebellião
contra a Santa Sé.
[29] Tom. III, pag. 552.
[30] _Da origem e estabelecimento da inquisição em Portugal._
É verdade que os diocesanos de Coimbra o estimaram; que os pobres e os
necessitados recebiam d'elle esmolas; que favoreceu a Misericordia
d'aquella cidade; que doou á respectiva Sé muitos guisamentos, entre os
quaes um valioso cális de oiro; e que na mesma Sé mandou construir a
capella do Santissimo, de galante e excellente architectura[31].
[31] _Noticia historica e descriptiva da Sé Velha de Coimbra_, por
A. M. Simões de Castro.
Toda a diocese o pranteou na morte, o que parece mostrar que era mais
estimado em Coimbra do que em Roma.
As instrucçóes de Paulo III, citadas por Herculano, tambem o dão como
frade de poucas letras.
Ora isto não é exacto. D Frei João Soares produziu obras varias[32], em
que affirmou competencia doutrinaria e dicção gentil. Como prégador, se
a principio não agradou em Portugal, porque discursava em castelhano
muito cerrado, pois havia estudado em Salamanca, chegou depois, quando
readquiriu o manejo da lingua portugueza, a ter grande fama e clientela.
Não se pode exceder o elogio que lhe faz Frei Luiz de Souza: «Foi
eminentissimo no ministerio do pulpito; tanto que os maiores pregadores
do seu tempo lhe reconheciam a vantagem, e como a segundo Demosthenes o
veneravam[33].»
[32] Veja-se _Dicc. Bib._, de Innocencio, vol. IV, pag. 38, vol. X,
pag. 350.
[33] _Vida de D. Frei Bartholomeu dos Martyres_, liv. II, cap. XVII.
Alem d'estes predicados literarios, possuia especial graça no dizer, dom
natural que não seria o menos attractivo para lhe conquistar sympathias
e facilidades na côrte.
D. Frei João Soares nasceu em S. Miguel de Urró, concelho de Arrifana,
hoje Penafiel. Parece que pertenceu a uma familia illustre, pois que
elle algumas vezes assignou tambem o appellido Albergaria.
Foi deputado do Santo-Officio, e governou a diocese de Coimbra desde
1545 até 1572; como prelado portuguez, assistiu ao concilio de Trento,
onde o respeitaram como orador e theologo.
Falleceu com 65 annos de edade a 26 de novembro de 1572. Por humildade
quiz ser sepultado no chão, fóra da capella do Santissimo que mandára
edificar.
Se algum defeito toma maior vulto na individualidade d'este prelado, é o
gosto pela ostentação.
Conta Frei Luiz de Sousa que se apresentou no concilio de Trento com um
fausto proprio de principe secular, fazendo-se representar com esplendor
e magnificencia notaveis.
«E porque se visse--diz o chronista dominicano--que fôra isto força do
estado, mais que de animo vão, passada a occasião do Concilio se poz em
caminho de Jerusalem recompensando com a moderação de peregrino
voluntaria, as superfluidades de senhor forçadas.»
Talvez que este procedimento fosse determinado por indicação ou censura
da Santa Sé, a qual, como já vimos, não lhe era demasiadamente affecta.
A tendencia do prelado conimbricense levava-o effectivamente para a
ostentação.
Na commissão que desempenhou com o duque de Aveiro, quando foi á raia de
Castella buscar a princeza D. Joanna, já havia pompeado o mesmo
esplendor e magnificencia que depois exhibiu no concilio de Trento.
Um manuscripto de Pedro Alvares Nogueira, existente no cartorio do
cabido de Coimbra, diz sobre o modo por que o bispo desempenhou aquella
commissão: «Levou muita gente de cavallo mui bem concertada, no que
gastou muito de sua renda».
A _Chronica_ attribuida a D. Manuel de Menezes ainda é mais explicita
quando diz:
«Não menos adornado (que o duque de Aveiro) veiu o Reverendo Bispo D.
Frei João Soares, com grande numero de cavalleiros, nobremente
ataviados, conforme o seu estado; e a sua divisa, que trazia nos
reposteiros eram suas Armas, e a letra que dizia: _Soli Deo honor et
gloria_, e quer dizer: _A honra e gloria se dê somente a Deus._ E isto
com muitas trombetas, e charamelas, e outros instrumentos, e cantores
para o effeito de tão regia funcção, como convinha».
O chronista Francisco de Andrade afina pelo mesmo diapasão, dizendo:
«O bispo de Coimbra tambem por sua parte se apercebeu para esta jornada
com o fausto e apparato, que se requeria para a honra d'este reino, para
a auctoridade de sua pessoa, e para o grave negocio para que fôra
eleito, porque ajuntou para o acompanhar muita e muito lustrosa gente de
cavallo, e os que o acompanhavam a pé tambem iam da mesma maneira, e não
lhe faltou então cousa alguma de quantas se uzam, e são importantes e
necessarias nos negocios d'esta qualidade, sem perdoar por isso a
grandes gastos e despesa».
Apenas uma voz zombeteira se levantou para tirar effeitos comicos do
apparato com que o bispo de Coimbra entrou em Lisboa quando se dirigia á
raia de Castella.
Apenas um carcaz despejou todas as suas settas, vibradas por adestrada
mão, em menoscabo do cortejo que rodeiava o bispo de Coimbra, conde de
Arganil, senhor de Coja, alcaide-mór de Avô.
Essa voz foi a de Antonio Ribeiro, o Chiado, cuja carta sobre este
assumpto lembra os artigos dos jornaes republicanos de hoje em dia
quando procuram amesquinhar a pompa das festas monarchicas.
N'aquelle tempo, não deixou de ser um acto de perigosa audacia a satyra
com que o Chiado visou tão alta personagem como era o bispo de Coimbra,
em occasião tão solemne para a côrte como era o casamento do principe
herdeiro da corôa.
Aggravado o bispo, el-rei o desagravaria contra quem quer que fosse, se
elle se queixasse.
Do valimento do prelado conimbricense junto de D. João III não ha que
duvidar; bastava a justifical-o a sua qualidade de confessor d'el-rei, e
não chega a ser preciso admittir, como se diz nas instrucções de Paulo
III, que a pretexto da confissão obtivesse a solução de muitos negocios.
Chiado era, porém, destemido como todos os bohemios e dizidores do seu
tempo, incluindo o proprio Camões. E a fortuna ajuda os audazes... pelo
menos algumas vezes. Não consta que Chiado fosse molestado por causa
d'esta sua satyra em prosa, de que talvez o bispo nem chegasse a ter
conhecimento.
Simula o auctor escrever a um seu amigo de Coimbra, visto que lhe
diz--«estas novas da entrada do vosso bispo.»
É um artificio literario, para justificar a origem da satyra.
Manifestamente, vindo o cortejo de Coimbra, não precisava ninguem
d'aquella diocese que lhe dessem novas do modo como vinha organizado. Lá
o saberiam perfeitamente ou perfeitamente o poderiam saber.
Tambem, por outro artificio literario, diz o Chiado «que não viu a
entrada do bispo em Lisboa». Mas tão minuciosamente a descreve que bem
se reconhece ter sido testemunha presencial. D'este modo, abria uma
valvula de segurança para o caso de lhe imporem a responsabilidade da
satyra: teria feito obra por informações inexactas.
Claramente se percebe que o Chiado viu a chegada do cortejo plantando-se
entre a multidão em alguma rua do transito e chasqueando no meio de um
grupo de clientes que lhe admiravam a veia sarcastica.
A sua narração é a de um impressionista, que surprehendeu o espectaculo
em flagrante.
E tal homem como o Chiado não poderia estar calado nem indifferente por
muito tempo, quando toda a população de Lisboa se alvoroçava para
assistir a um acontecimento anormal, muito annunciado e não menos
pomposo.
A carta de Chiado é, segundo o moderno falar, uma _charge_; pertence aos
dominios da caricatura escripta, que madrugou com os primeiros alvores
da nossa literatura, antecipando-se alguns seculos á caricatura
desenhada.
Assim é que já no _Cancioneiro da Vaticana_ encontramos a seguinte
chistosa caricatura de um cavalleiro da idade-média:
caval'agudo que semelha forom,
em cima d'el un velho selegon,
sem estrebeyras e con roto bardon,
nem porta loriga, nem porta lorigon,
nen geolheiras quaes de ferro son,
mays trax perponto roto sen algodon,
e cuberturas d'un velho zarelhon,
lança de pinh'e de bragal o pendon,
e chapel de ferro que x'i lhi mui mal pon;
e sobarçad' un velh' espadarron;
cuytel'a cachas, cintas sen forcilhom,
duas esporas destras, ca sestras non som,
maça de fusto que lhi pende do arçom.
Etc.
Este fragmento é o avô da caricatura portugueza nos dominios da
literatura.
Vamos vêr como Antonio Ribeiro o Chiado, navegando nas mesmas aguas,
caricaturou ao correr da penna a entrada do bispo de Coimbra em Lisboa
com todo o seu cortejo de pagens, escudeiros, varletes, azemolas,
trombetas, atabales e charamelas.
Diz o documento, tal como se me deparou na miscellanea, que pertenceu á
livraria do convento da Graça:
Carta que o Chiado escreveu a um seu amigo da entrada do Bispo de
Coimbra em Lisboa, quando veio para ir pela Princeza a Castella que
é mãe d'El-Rei D. Sebastião.
_Quereis saber quanto póde a importunação, que muito contra minha
vontade vos escrevo estas novas da entrada do vosso bispo n'esta
cidade, só por cumprir com o que tanto me tendes rogado. Vêde-as em
nome de quem quizerdes, que eu não quero senão fallar comvosco._
_Deixarei sua estada no Lumiar, que durou tres dias, onde preparou e
proveu de sapatos, de pescoços[34] e atacas[35] toda a sua gente,
que vinham algum tanto damnificados do caminho._
[34] Como quem diz--gargantilhas
[35] Ligas, correias, etc.
_N'este tempo foi Sua Senhoria mais nomeado por Lisboa que assada
quente[36] e todos com olhos longos por sua entrada, a qual eu não
vi. Dizem que a 25 de outubro de 553 annos ás tres horas depois do
meio dia entrou o vosso bispo, o qual vinha na maneira seguinte,
todos de dous em dous, como cachos em redea[37], sómente as
azemolas, se o eram, vinham um cacho por redea:--Primeiramente vinha
deante de tudo um villão, por nome Amador Colaço, a quem a natureza
negou barbas, o qual foi moço de pé d'este bispo, que a ventura bem
casou nessa cidade, em cima de um rocim de meia sela, chapeu branco,
vestido preto com peças d'ouro em certos logares, que denunciam
festa, o qual, como se o villão do almocreve, desordenava, tornava
atraz e tirava o pé do estribo, que era um madeiro, e pegava-lhe,
cousa que lhe fazia mostrar as bragas que o capotim de côr traria
coberto de más linguas._
[36] Allusão ao pregão das castanhas assadas.
[37] Restea de uvas; isto é, reste de cachos de pendura (Moraes).
Reste, corda feita de peças trançadas; v. g. uma reste de alhos, de
cebolas, etc.
_Quarenta bestas vinham n'esta ordem, suas mataduras cobertas com
reposteiros que lá se fizeram. Já sabeis quejandos eram._
_No couce vinham duas escolhidas para aquella hora, que traziam cama
e cofre, acompanhadas de seis villãos, cada um com sua partezana nas
mãos, tão frouxos que os desarmariam sem gafas[38]; e logo no rabo
vinha um estribeiro, que o outro bispo creou, tão triste e
descontente que parecia que se arrependera do que accettara._
[38] Sem gafas, o mesmo que--sem esforço, nem violencia. Gafa era o
gancho com que se puxava a corda da bésta para armal-a.
_Nas costas d'estes todos vinham a procissão da gente, onde não
faltaram cavallinhos fuscos. Só o sagitario esqueceu._
_Vinha deante um molho de trombetas; em vez de virem vermelhas
vinham amarellas, e logo os atabaleiros que já não traziam braços._
_Os das charamelas, já sabeis que são pão de rala, não puderam mudar
cor. Como uns acabavam uns versos, outros começavam, sempre os
ouvidos tinham que fazer, como os olhos que vêr. As cavalgaduras
d'estes todos eram ossos sem posta de polpa._
_Detraz vinham trinta moços da camara, todos almagrados,[39] os
quaes parece que os comprou o bispo por junto e lhes deram as
encavalgaduras todas em cima, e de chapeus brancos, como romeiros, e
os mais delles com calças e sapatos, sem espadas, gente religiosa,
algum tanto no vestir castelhanos, porque quem levava luvas
faltavam-lhe as esporas._
[39] Pintados de almagre ou almagra; isto é, de vermelho.
_E logo na dita ordem vinham os coimbrãos tão tristes e
descontentes, que pareciam que perderam todos suas fazendas. Nomear
um por um será muita honra sua e canceira minha e enfadamento vosso;
basta que alguns d'elles traziam frenos[40] de ouro, mas mal pelas
mulheres que ficam sem arrecadas, todos em cavallos de tornas,
tirando o chanceller que vinha momo feito, outrosim pagem do
arremeção,[41] que não havia mais no sel'o.[42]_
[40] Freios.
[41] Talvez pagem da lança, porque arremessão (melhor graphia que
arremeção) significava, segundo o Dic. da Academia, qualquer arma
missiva ou de arremesso, como lança, dardo etc.
[42] Isto é, mais acabado e perfeito.
_Inofre Francisco vinha bem acompanhado e bem encavalgado, todos os
seus feitos rosmaninhos[43] e bem encavalgados. A todos pareceu bem;
só um senão lhe acharam, que não levava o ferro do arremeção
esfolado._
[43] Engalanados. Hoje diriamos--uns palmitos.
_O meirinho Gaspar Dias não se achava ahi sem vara, acompanhado de
dous beleguins, que lhe foram sempre fieis, um lhe trazia um
cabresto com que vinha silhado, o outro lhe trazia uma ferradura que
lhe cahiu no campo de Alvalade.[44]_
[44] O Campo Grande actual, com a differença de que n'aquelle tempo
era bosque silvestre, muito povoado de rouxinoes, como se vê da
_Ulysippo_ de Jorge Ferreira de Vasconcellos, quando diz (acto IV,
scen. 5.^a): «Vós estaveis mais namorado que um rouxinol de
Alvalade.»
Só no reinado de D. Maria I foi que o campo de Alvalade começou a
ser transformado em alameda publica.
_Os mais, que aqui não vão, traziam tanto que dizer que será nunca
acabar. Quando nos virmos ambos, então vos representarei a farça._
_Passado este chuveiro d'escudeiros tornou melhor dia, Arthur de Sá
e Francisco Pereira, seu irmão, honestos no trajo, confiados na
fidalguia. Mas então disseram que trazia Arthur de Sá feita a
petição do morgado, perguntando uns aos outros quanto renderia o
praso._
_E n'isto appareceu Dom João, Bispo Conde, tres pessoas, um só
frade, cercado de vinte e tantos villãos, que todos pareciam paes
d'orfãos de Jesus, desazados, barbas d'estrigas, todos molares, sem
vir entre elles nenhum só duvazio, vestidos em uns alqueceres[45]
brancos e azues, que lhes davam pelos artelhos. O mais que de S.
S.^a disseram, não direi eu por não pôr a mão em sagrado._
[45] Alquice ou alquicer, capa mourisca.
_Toda a outra clerezia vinha má com boa, como romãs de Castella,
esta ordem levaram todos pela Rua dos que padecem martyrio,[46]
levando nas unhas[47] o Rocio e toda a Rua Nova[48] até chegarem ao
Terreiro do Paço, donde muitos descavalgaram sem criados, ficando os
ginetes tão mansos, que nem as apupadas dos rapazes, nem o rumor da
gente teve poder para os fazer rinchar._
[46] Era a rua que, tomando se por ponto de referencia o Rocio,
conduzia ao Campo de Santa Barbara, então chamado _da Forca_
(_Lisboa antiga_, 2.^a parte, tomo V, pag. 65 e 78; tomo VI, pag. 65
e 68.) Não quero asseverar que correspondesse á actual rua direita
dos Anjos, porque o Campo da Forca era muito mais vasto então;
estendia se desde o sitio dos Anjos até ao actual largo de Arroyos.
[47] Ainda hoje dizemos «na ponta da unha» para designar a maxima
velocidade.
[48] A Rua Nova dos Ferros correspondia, approximadamente, á actual
rua dos Capellistas. Diz-se que foi mandada construir por el-rei D.
Diniz.
_El-Rei nosso senhor, com a Rainha e Principe, os esperavam na
varanda, onde lhes S. S.^a beijou as mãos e lhe fizeram arrazoado
agazalhado. Acabado elle os dous irmãos Sá Pereira fizeram outro
tanto e apoz estes, «cabeça em cu, que não fique nenhu». Alvaro
Mendes, contador da Universidade, foi por cá._
_Acabado o officio, tornou-se Sua Senhoria a seus paços, e ao descer
da escada encostado a um pagem, que dizem ser seu sobrinho, o qual
fez muito ruins mesuras, vinha caiado de novo, trazia umas pontinhas
de ouro no capello da capa d'onde nunca tirou o olho, que tão
recatado vinha da tezoura._
_Ao bispo tornaram a arripiar carreira algum tanto a procissão
desfeita, fazendo cada um caminho para suas pousadas, e de maneira
os enguliu Lisboa, que nunca mais appareceram nem fizeram mossa._
_Isto tudo passou na verdade, que m'o disseram homens de respeito.
Se mais quizerdes peitae lampreas[49], que os homens d'essa terra
n'isso desenfornam todos seus cumprimentos. Nosso Senhor vos dê
muita saude e vida e muito dinheiro, e vos livre d'estas trovoadas
que o tiram e gastam.»_
[49] Comprai-me, subornai-me com lampreas. Vê-se que sempre tiveram
grande fama as lampreas do rio Mondego; e que de Coimbra as mandavam
como mimo para outras terras do paiz. Era gentileza vulgar dos
conimbricenses. A lamprea cozinhada na famosa estalagem do Paço do
Conde foi, em nossos dias, um piteo muito celebrado por estudantes.
Esta carta, que não pudemos encontrar em 1889, não completa ainda o
espolio literario do Chiado, porque não tem sido possivel encontrar
exemplares de outras especies, taes como o _Auto de Gonçalo Chambão_,
que, segundo Barbosa, teve nada menos de trez edições.
Mas constitue um achado, que reputei feliz, e que me deixou contente
quando se me deparou n'uma epoca em que eu versava com enthusiasmo
assumptos literarios.
Se hoje dou a lume esta carta de Chiado, foi porque para esse effeito
encontrei as maiores facilidades n'uma empreza editora, que se tem
assignalado por bons serviços ás letras patrias.
Não é que eu fie do exito d'esta monographia e fique imaginando que hão
de acudir a compral-a numerosas legiões de leitores.
Em Portugal só o romance francez tem procura no mercado.
Qualquer outra especie literaria representa um desastre de livraria.
Por haver chegado a esta convicção é que nunca pensei em fazer segunda
edição das _Obras do poeta Chiado_, que bem podia ter sido enriquecida
com a materia do presente opusculo e com varias correcções que me foram
indicadas, sobre a difficil interpretação dos textos, pelos srs.
visconde de Castilho, Antonio Francisco Barata e professor Epiphanio.
Mas seria perder tempo, e o tempo é a vida. Esperdiçal-a era desatino.
Poupemol-a.
Estou n'este ponto de vista ha muito tempo.
Lisboa, 9 de julho de 1901.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK O POETA CHIADO ***
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Nursery, No. 103, July, 1875. Vol. XVIII.
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
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you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Nursery, No. 103, July, 1875. Vol. XVIII.
Author: Various
Release date: November 15, 2006 [eBook #19821]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jacqueline Jeremy and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NURSERY, NO. 103, JULY, 1875. VOL. XVIII. ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jacqueline Jeremy and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
No. 103. JULY, 1875. Vol. XVIII
THE NURSERY
_A Monthly Magazine_
FOR YOUNGEST READERS.
BOSTON:
JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 BROMFIELD STREET.
AMERICAN NEWS CO., 119 NASSAU ST., NEW YORK.
NEW-ENGLAND NEWS CO., 41 COURT ST., BOSTON.
CENTRAL NEWS CO., PHILADELPHIA.
WESTERN NEWS CO., CHICAGO.
$1.60 a Year, in advance, Postage included. A single copy, 15 cts.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by JOHN L.
SHOREY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE.
PAGE
THE LOST RABBIT By _Aunt Emma's Niece_ 1
A TUG EXCURSION By _Aunt Nellie_ 3
TIT, TAT, TOE! By _Olive A. Wadsworth_ 5
THE KEEPER PUNISHED By _Uncle Charles_ 7
NEDDY'S SAND-BANK By _S. B. T._ 9
SURF-BATHING AT CONEY ISLAND By _F. H. W._ 13
A FUNNY FACT By _M. A. C._ 14
AN EXCITING SCENE By _Mr. Periwinkle_ 15
'MAKE A PIE' By _Mary's Mamma_ 16
A DRAWING LESSON 17
A BIG DOG By _Bouncer_ 18
THE BUTTERFLY By _Marian Douglas_ 19
THE YOUNG CRITIC By _Arthur Selwyn_ 20
PLAYING HORSE By _A. B. C._ 22
JACK By _A._ 25
A LETTER FROM CALIFORNIA By _Daisy_ 27
THE PARROT WHO PLAYED MASTER By _Victor Bluthgen_ 29
CATSKILL-MOUNTAIN HOUSE By _Anna Livingston_ 31
SLEEPING IN THE SUNSHINE (_Music by Robert Mills_) 32
EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO.
The present number begins the eighteenth half-yearly volume of "The
Nursery;" and we are happy to inform our friends that the magazine was
never so successful as it is to-day. Thus far, we have entered upon
every new volume with an increased circulation. We look for a still
larger increase in the future; for there are thousands and thousands of
children not yet supplied with the work, for whom no other magazine can
take its place. We have something in preparation for coming numbers
which will make the eyes of our little readers sparkle with delight. Now
is the time for canvassers to go to work with a will.
The illustration by Merrill of the "Three Little Culprits" who were kept
after school to study their spelling-lesson, is one of those happy
touches of nature that every one can appreciate. The poem by Miss
Wadsworth is worthy of the picture.
Children who are trying to learn to draw, will be pleased with the
beautiful subject in our present number. By giving half-an-hour a day to
drawing now, they will acquire a facility and a skill that will not only
be of service to them, but a great pleasure to them, all their lives.
If parents or teachers would like to know of two books by the use of
which teaching may be made a pleasure instead of a task to children,
they cannot do better than order "The Easy Book" and "The Beautiful
Book;" the former containing pieces in prose, and the latter, pieces in
verse, and both of them richly and copiously illustrated with
appropriate pictures. These books are published at "The Nursery" office
by John L. Shorey.
Children who enjoy making paper dolls, will find an advertisement at the
end of this number which is worthy of attention.
[Illustration]
THE LOST RABBIT.
Bunny was a little rabbit, the youngest of a large family. His home
was in an old wood, where the trees were very high, and wild-flowers
grew in great abundance. His mother had given him to understand that
he must not stray away from her, lest he should get lost, and not be
able to find her.
But Bunny, like some young children, was self-willed. He thought his
mother was over-careful; and so, one day, when nobody was watching him,
he slipped away from her, and sat down amid the grass, under two high
beech-trees.
He heard his mother calling him, but took no notice of her call. It was
a warm summer day, and he fell asleep. Soon he was startled by the loud
barking of dogs. He woke up, and, oh, how frightened he was!
Luckily for him, the dogs did not come where he lay crouching; for their
masters were shooting birds, not rabbits. Bunny thought the best thing
he could do now was to scamper back to his mother, his brothers and
sisters as fast as he could.
But it was not quite so easy to find them again. No sooner had he got
into the open path than a troop of boys caught sight of him; and at once
there was a volley of stones from their hands. By rare good luck he was
not hit by the stones. But he had not gone many paces farther, when a
man with a gun shot at him. Happily the man missed his aim, and the shot
went into some bushes.
Having escaped this new danger, Bunny leaped swiftly over the high
grass, till he came to the fallen trunk of a tree. Here he hoped to find
his mother; but, ah! there was no trace of her to be seen. Night came
on; and poor Bunny had to lie down all alone and go to sleep.
The next morning it rained heavily; and Bunny crept into the hollow
trunk of the tree, where he could keep warm and dry. But before noon
the sun came out beautifully; and the little rabbit, being very hungry,
ran out.
The first thing he saw was his mother and the rest of the family eating
their dinner. Oh, how glad he was! His mother did not scold him, but
gave him plenty to eat; and he made up his mind, that he never would
run away again from so good a mother.
AUNT EMMA'S NIECE.
[Illustration]
A TUG EXCURSION.
It was just after dinner when papa said, "Put on your hats quickly, and
we will go down to the dock, and perhaps we shall find a tug going out."
Ralph had something beside his hat to put on; for, contrary to mamma's
orders, he had taken off his shoes and stockings. But, with good
Maggie's help, that wrong was speedily righted, and we were soon on our
way to the dock.
There we found the stanch tug "Williams" just ready to leave. We jumped
on board. The ropes were cast off; and a few turns of the wheel took us
out on the broad expanse of Lake Michigan.
How delighted we all were with the beautiful picture there spread out
before us!--the broad blue waters, dotted here and there with white
sails; far away to the right, the smoke arising from a huge steamer on
her way from Chicago to Buffalo; and away, away, straight ahead of us,
two white specks, which Captain Charley told us were the vessels he was
going out for.
A look through the glass proved that the "specks" were _really_ vessels,
and huge ones too. While we were looking and talking, what do you
suppose one of the men brought forward for Ralph's amusement?--A dog?
No. A kitty? No. A parrot? No. I think you will have to give it up. A
bear! Just the cunningest little bear any one ever saw.
He was just about the size of a tan-terrier, and so full of play, that
he got himself into all sorts of shapes, and performed all the antics
imaginable. But the most laughable thing was to see him as a tight-rope
performer. I am sure he outdid any circus actor who ever travelled.
Ralph thought it jolly to play with a live bear. As one would suppose,
the bear was a great pet with all on board the tug. He had always been
handled with kindness; and the captain told us he had never yet bitten
any one.
All this time, we are nearing the vessels we are to tow back. See what a
huge cable is thrown out to join the vessels to the tug. Here we go,
homeward bound.
We must not forget to tell of the nice race we had with the steam barge
"Reitz," and how Ralph shouted when we came out ahead; nor about Ralph's
getting hungry, and going down into the cabin, and making friends with
the cook, and coming up with his pockets full of crackers and cookies,
which were so much better than any he ever ate before.
Don't you think just as we do, that we had a jolly time? Ralph says he
should like to live on board the tug; but I think he would want to come
home every night.
AUNT NELLIE.
[Illustration]
TIT, TAT, TOE!
Tit, tat, toe!
Three in a row!
The heavy schoolroom clock strikes loud and slow.
"Now every little one
May go and take his fun,"
The gentle teacher cries, "for the school is done."
Tit, tat, toe!
All in a row!
Out through the open door the merry children go,
Leaving only three,
Sad as sad can be,--
Wretched little culprits with their Spellers, as you see!
Tit, tat, toe!
Three in a row!--
Billy Bumble, Benny Bell, and little Kitty Coe.
Little Kitty sighs;
Little Benny cries;
And little Billy Bumble pokes his fingers in his eyes.
Tit, tat, toe!
Three in a row!
That's the game they played upon their slate, you know:
The 0's were made by Kate;
The crosses, by her mate;
While Billy kept the tally at the bottom of the slate.
When their class was heard,
They couldn't spell a word:
They put an "i" in burly, and they put a "u" in bird!
So, according to the rule,
They must study after school,
Or by and by they'll have to sit upon the dunce's stool.
Tit, tat, toe!
Three in a row!
The teacher's pencil taps on the desk broad and low.
"Now come," she says, "and spell;
I'm sure you'll do it well;
By the brightening of your faces, I readily can tell."
Tit, tat, toe!
Three in a row!
Straight to the teacher's desk the willing children go:
They say their lesson o'er,
Not missing as before,
Then fly away, determined to be idle never more.
Tit, tat, toe!
Three in a row!
Is a fascinating pastime the little people know;
But oh! it never pays
To walk in folly's ways;
For pleasure quickly passes, while pain much longer stays.
OLIVE A. WADSWORTH.
THE KEEPER PUNISHED.
Elephants, when kindly treated, become very much attached to their
keepers, and will obey their orders as readily as good children obey
their parents.
But sometimes the keepers are cruel men, and, instead of managing the
elephants by kindness, will goad them, and treat them badly.
One day a new keeper was set over an elephant named Tippoo, that had
been accustomed to good treatment. This new keeper, if he had been wise,
would have won the elephant's love by kindness.
Instead of that, the man kept thrusting his goad at the elephant, and
hurting him without any good cause. Tippoo bore it patiently for some
time; but at last, with his great trunk seizing his tormentor, he ran
with him down to the river that was near by.
Here, after ducking the man several times in the water, he laid him down
gently on the dry ground, as much as to say, "Now, sir, behave yourself,
and treat me like a gentleman, or I will give you a worse ducking than
that."
Finding that Tippoo was not to be trifled with, the man began to treat
him well, and the elephant soon forgave him, and at last grew quite fond
of him. Love wins love.
UNCLE CHARLES.
[Illustration: THE KEEPER PUNISHED.]
NEDDY'S SAND-BANK.
On lovely summer afternoons, when the sky is blue, and the sea bluer, I
take my books or work, and go out to sit under a great oak-tree that
stands at the top of a sand-bank, which slopes gently down to a broad,
white, beach.
[Illustration]
This sand-bank is a wonderful place for the children. Every fine day
Neddy takes his box of playthings, and marches off to the sand-bank; and
I think, as I kiss his dear rosy cheeks, what a nice, clean boy he is in
his linen blouse, broad-brimmed hat with blue ribbons, white stockings,
and neat buttoned boots. He returns after a few hours, looking like a
little savage.
"Just fit to go into the wash-tub," Dinah says; and she is right.
What do they play on the sand-bank? I will tell you what they did
yesterday, while I sat under the oak-tree and worked, and listened to
their prattle.
"Let's build cities to-day," said Tommy Abbott. "Oh, yes!" said Jamie
Newton. "I will build Boston," chimed in Neddy: "I don't know much about
other places." After each had selected a city to build, they were silent
for some time.
But by and by Neddy looked up, and called to me, "Oh, do come down here,
mamma, and see my Boston!" So I climbed down the bank to visit his city.
He had scooped a hole in the sand, lined it with clay, filled it with
sea-water, and stocked it with his shining tin fish. Of course I knew at
once this was the pond on Boston Common.
[Illustration]
Jamie Newton, who studies geography, and knows all about great cities
everywhere, made a model Philadelphia, with its long, wide streets.
Jamie's streets were so clean, and so beautifully shaded with sprigs of
evergreen, that Mary Whitman said her grandest doll, Arabella Rosetta,
should take a nice ride through them. So Rosetta was set up in her
carriage, and one tucked the crimson afghan about her dainty feet, while
another opened her _very best_ sky-blue parasol, (for Rosetta is
particular about her complexion), and Mary put on her hat with the blue
plumes, and pink roses, smoothed down her flounces, and said, "Be a good
girl, Rosy. Don't stay out after dark, for the dew will spoil your
clothes."
[Illustration]
By and by it grew late. The sun sank down into the sea; while the moon,
broad and full, rose from behind the hill; and I said, "Come, Neddy, we
must run home to tea."
But Tommy Abbott, who had built a most wonderful Chicago, begged for a
match to burn his city with. So the children gathered a heap of sticks
and dry leaves; and Tommy set fire to the pile, and up and away flamed
the beautiful city. Then we all went up to the hotel together, and very
soon tea was ready; and it was a wonderful thing to see how the children
disposed of bread and milk, baked sweet apples, and gingerbread.
After we went up to our room, I wrote this story, and read it to Neddy.
How his eyes sparkled with delight! "It's just as true as I live, every
word of it," he said as I finished.
[Illustration]
"But, mamma, you forgot little Rose Ellsworth's town. She made a real
hill, and covered it with grass, and dotted it all over with violets;
and Daisy lent her a cow from her 'Noah's Ark;' and we made it stand up
under a tree, and, if it had only whisked its tail, it would have looked
almost alive.
"I think, mamma," he continued, "that Rose is the nicest little girl
here. I've painted her picture in my album."
So I was not surprised, while looking over Neddy's pictures, to see that
he had wasted a great deal of paint in trying to display Rose's pink
cheeks and lovely golden hair: He had painted her cheeks redder than the
reddest cherries you ever saw.
S. B. T.
[Illustration]
SURF-BATHING AT CONEY ISLAND.
Coney Island, about eight miles from the city of New York, is four and a
half miles long and about half a mile in width. It is quite a resort in
summer for those who want to breathe the briny air of the ocean.
Charles and Laura had long been promised a visit to this famous
bathing-place, and one warm day in June their father drove them down to
the island; for there is a bridge connecting it with the main land.
As they drove along the beach, they saw the bathers in the water, and
Charles was very desirous of having a dip in the salt sea himself; but
he had no bathing-dress, and so he had to give it up.
It is very pleasant on a fine day in summer to stand on the beach, and
watch the waves as they come foaming up. The children were much
entertained at seeing a Newfoundland dog rush into the water after a
stick which his master would throw far out.
They will long remember their pleasant visit to Coney Island; but the
next time they go, they mean to take their bathing-dresses and have a
swim.
F. H. W.
[Illustration]
A FUNNY FACT.
Taddy Pole and Polly Wogg
Lived together in a bog:
Here you see the very pool
Where they went to swimming-school.
[Illustration]
By and by (it's true, but strange)
O'er them came a wondrous change:
Here you have them on a log,
Each a most decided frog.
M. A. C.
AN EXCITING SCENE.
Early last spring, Mistress Jenny Wren took possession of the little box
nailed to a tree immediately in front of Mr. Philip's house. She had not
really moved in, when who should peep in but Mr. English-Sparrow.
He was abroad house hunting, and never mistrusted that any one had got
this house before him. He was thinking how well it would suit himself
and mate, when _whir-r-r-r_! _whir-r-r-r_! up came Mrs. Jenny; and
before he could offer a word of excuse, she began with, "Fie, fie! I
took you for a gentleman! What business have you here?"
"My dear madam," began Mr. Sparrow; but Jenny would not hear him. "Out,
out with you, you saucebox, you interloper!" she screamed; and she
dashed at him and pecked him till he beat a speedy retreat.
The next day, however, he came round again; whether to express his
regrets in due form, or to buy her off, I cannot say; but Mrs. Jenny was
unwilling to accept anything but the most humble apology.
One look convinced her that he didn't want her pardon, but her house;
and out she flew at his very eyes, and on she chased as far as Mr.
Philip, who was sitting at the window, could see. But Mr. Sparrow was
seen no more.
I knew Jenny Wren was spirited; but I should hardly have thought that of
her; should you!
MR. PERIWINKLE.
"MAKE A PIE."
The summer before our Mary was two years old, she and her brother used
to make pies in the sand, cutting them out with the cover of a little
tin pail, always using water to mix them, if they could obtain it.
About this time, Bertie was learning,--
"Little drops of water, little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean, and the pleasant land."
One day, Mary thought she would say it with him, so she began,--
"Little drops of water, little grains of sand,
Make _a pie_."
"Make the mighty ocean, Mary," said her brother.
"No, _make a pie_," said Mary; and she could not be induced to say it
right till months afterwards.
MARY'S MAMMA.
[Illustration: From SIR EDWIN LANDSEER'S painting. In outline by
MR. HARRISON WEIR, as a drawing lesson. VOL. XVIII.--No. 1]
A BIG DOG.
I am a big dog, and my name is Bouncer. I want to tell you, little boys
and girls, how I spend my time all the day long. In the morning I am
always the first one awake: I take a walk around the house, and see if
every thing is right; then, perhaps, I am let into the house. I look
from one to another to see if all the family are at home; and I am much
pleased when somebody has a good word for me, or when I get a pull from
the baby's hand.
For breakfast, the kitten and I have the leavings from the table; but
there never is half enough for both of us: so I let her clean out the
platter, while I run to see my master off. When I get as far as the
gate, he says, "Go back!" I sit down and watch him till he is out of
sight.
Then there comes the milkman. I know him well; for he comes every
morning and fills the can, and I watch it until it is taken in. Perhaps,
when the door is open, a bone is thrown out to me. I hide it, quickly;
for I see another dog coming. He is a friend of mine. He comes quite
often to see me. We take a run around the house, and have a quiet talk
together; then he takes himself off.
By that time I hear a team coming. I run to see if it is coming to the
house. It is a man with a load of coal. I lie down and watch him.
Perhaps I take a nap; but I sleep with one eye open; and if it is warm,
and the flies trouble me, I have to switch my tail to keep them off.
Toward night, I station myself at the gate to watch for my master. I run
to meet him. He pats me on the head, and says, "Good Bouncer!" I jump up
and wag my tail, and try to let him know how glad I am to see him.
I hope you will be pleased with these extracts from the diary of
BOUNCER.
[Illustration]
THE BUTTERFLY.
Again, beside the roadside, blows
The pink, sweet-scented brier-rose;
Its purple head the clover raises;
And all the fields are full of daisies;
And in the sunshine flutters by
A little white-winged butterfly.
From flower to flower I watch him go;
He seems a floating flake of snow:
Now to a milkweed bloom he's clinging;
There on a buttercup he's swinging;
And now he makes a little stop
Upon a scented thistle-top.
Could we change places, he and I,
And I should turn a butterfly,
How gayly, then, I'd hover over
The elder-flowers and tufts of clover!
I'd feast on honey all the day,
With nobody to say me nay.
But, could I only honey eat,
'Twould grow as tiresome as sweet:
The pretty flowers would quickly wither;
And, all day flying hither, thither,
My wings would ache: I'm glad that I
Am not that little butterfly.
MARIAN DOUGLAS.
THE YOUNG CRITIC.
Ernest is five years old; and for three years he has been a subscriber
to "The Nursery," the pictures in which he has enjoyed very much.
Last autumn, his parents took him with them to France. In the great
city of Paris, they had rooms in a boarding-house, where they made
the acquaintance of a young American painter, who had a studio in
the building.
Ernest was such a quiet little fellow, and was so fond of pictures, that
Mr. Norton, the artist, was always glad to see him in his studio; for
Ernest did not trouble him, but would stand looking at the pictures for
a quarter of an hour at a time.
One day, as he stood admiring a painting in which some horses were
represented, he noticed a fault; for Ernest was a judge of horses: he
was himself the owner of one--made of wood. "Look here, Mr. Norton,"
said he, "isn't one of the hind-legs of this horse longer than
the other?"
Mr. Norton left his easel, and came and told Ernest to point out in the
painting what fault he meant. The little fellow did so; and the painter
exclaimed, "Why, you little chip of a critic, you are right as sure as
I'm alive! We must make a painter of you."
[Illustration]
Ernest is not quite old enough yet to decide whether he will make a
painter or a confectioner. The sight of the beautiful candies and cakes
which he has seen in some of the shops, inclines him to the belief that
a confectioner's lot is the more enviable one. He thinks it must be a
charming occupation to make molasses-candy, and be able to eat as much
as he wants. He must live and learn.
ARTHUR SELWYN.
PLAYING HORSE.
Among Ellen's playthings, there is none that pleases her more than the
bright worsted reins which her aunt bought for her at the May fair.
"Reins!--what does a girl do with reins?" I think I hear somebody ask.
Why, she plays horse with them, to be sure. She has a brother Charles.
He is the horse sometimes; and sometimes he is the driver, and Ellen is
the horse. Either way, it is good fun.
One fine June day, her elder brother, Ned, took part in the play. He
said there should be a span of horses. He and Charles would be the
span, and Ellen should drive. "No," said Ellen, "I would rather be one
of the horses."
[Illustration]
So Nelly and Ned were harnessed together, and Charley took the reins.
"Get up!" said he, and away they went. As they crossed the lawn, they
passed a lawn-mower, and the horse Ned shied badly. If he had not had
such a steady horse as Nell by his side, there might have been an
accident.
As it was, Charles held him in with a tight rein, and the two horses
came trotting back to the starting-point at full speed. If Charles had
had a watch to time them by, I think he would have found that they made
a mile in less than three minutes.
A. B. C.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
JACK.
Jack was not a handsome dog. His best friends could not call him a
beauty; but as he was a very wise, good dog, we were all very fond
of him.
One afternoon, some of the younger members of the family were sitting on
the piazza, waiting for papa, who was expected home on the five-o'clock
train. Jack was lying beside them.
At last, the whistle sounded in the distance; and the little
four-year-old "flower of the family" said, "Run, Jack, to meet papa at
the station." Jack looked up, listened intently for a moment, and then
lay down again with a sigh of disappointment.
"Oh, what a lazy fellow!" said six-year-old Annie. "If mamma would only
trust us to go to the station, we would not wait, or play sleepy." But
the train passed on, and papa had not come.
In a little while, another whistle sounded; and this time, without a
word of command, Jack sprung off the steps, dashed down the street, and
returned in a few moments, escorting his master.
How did Jack know that the time-table had been changed that day, and a
freight-train had taken the place of his master's train?
Another time, an uncle, who was visiting the family, had occasion to
stay in town until the last train. Jack refused to be shut up, and, at
eleven o'clock at night, went in the dark to the station, and escorted
our guest up to the house.
How did he know what train to meet? and what instinct impelled him to
do his part towards keeping up the courtesy of the family?
[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, LONDON.]
[Illustration]
A LETTER FROM CALIFORNIA.
Here we are in Santa Cruz, in a hotel right on the beach. We had such a
lovely stage-ride over the mountains, and enjoyed the mountain air so
much, that I was almost sorry when we arrived. I wish you could see the
great madroña-trees on the mountains with their dark-red wood and
beautiful green leaves. I do not believe you have any Eastern trees so
beautiful.
On the top of the Santa Cruz mountains, where we stopped to water the
horses, there is a little house, and while we waited there, out from the
house came a man whose face was all scarred and seamed. After we drove
away, the stage-driver told us that the man was a hunter, known as
"Mountain Charley," and that his scars were made by a grisly-bear.
Well, we have now been at Santa Cruz a week, and I have had a good time.
Every morning we go in bathing. It is a funny sight to see everybody
racing down into the waves, and catching hold of a big rope that is
stretched from the shore a good distance into the water. The undertow
here is so strong, that it is not safe to venture away from the rope.
Yesterday we all went to Moore's Beach to have a "clam-bake." We rode in
a big wagon; and the first thing we did, when we got to the beach, was
to pull off our shoes and stockings, and wade in the water. Papa and
Uncle John dug the clams; while the rest of us ran about hunting for
sea-urchins and shells.
As soon as the clams were boiled, we sat down on the beach, and unpacked
the lunch-baskets. Oh, how hungry we were! and how good every thing
tasted.
There was one lady in the party, who sat up high on the rocks, with her
kid gloves on, and her sunshade over her, while the rest of us were
running about with bare feet, and skirts tucked up. But at lunch-time
she came down from her high place, and I saw her eating clams with as
good a relish as any of us.
Next week we are going to Pescadero, and, perhaps, I will write to you
again from there.
DAISY.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE PARROT WHO PLAYED THE MASTER.
A STORY WITH A MORAL.
The master of the house had gone out on business. As he shut the door,
the parrot, whose place was on a perch in the room, thought to himself,
"Hi! Now I am master in this house, and I'll let people know it."
He thereupon threw his head proudly on one side, and spread himself in
a very pompous manner; then, as he had seen his master do, broke the
finest rose from the bush, and put the stem in his bill; then looked at
his gay-colored coat in the glass, and felt as grand as a born nobleman.
Near by, on the rug, two dogs, Ami and Finette, lay asleep. They were
well-trained, obedient dogs, clean-limbed and civil, expert in many
clever tricks, but not quite a match for the parrot in cleverness
and cunning.
As soon as the latter spied them, he cried out, imitating his master's
tones, "Finette, attention! Ami, make ready!" Whereupon Ami stood up on
his hind-legs, straight as a sentinel; while Finette hurried up,
expecting to have something thrown for him to bring back.
There stood and stood the poor simpletons, steadfastly looking up, while
Master Poll cried sternly all the while, "Ami, make ready! Finette,
attention!" Finette became almost wild with eagerness; and poor Ami
could hardly stand on his hind-legs any longer.
At last the master came home, and put an end to the torture of the
poor dogs.
The moral of my story is this: whenever a simpleton puts on airs and
plays the master, there are always other simpletons ready to obey
his commands.
VICTOR BLUTHGEN.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CATSKILL-MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
My little friend Mabel is passing the summer amid the Catskill
Mountains. These mountains are in the State of New York, on the west
side of the Hudson River.
Round Top and High Peak, two of the highest summits, are about
thirty-eight hundred feet above the level of the sea. They are well
covered with forests, and in autumn, when the leaves begin to change,
they make a very brilliant show.
The Catskill-Mountain House is finely situated on a rocky terrace,
twenty-two hundred feet above the river. It is twelve miles from the
village of Catskill, and is much resorted to in the summer season.
The prospect from this house is quite extensive. Mabel writes me that
the view of the sunrise is grand; the air is cool and bracing; and the
sight of the tops of trees rolling below, like a sea, for miles and
miles, is a thing to remember.
ANNA LIVINGSTON.
[Illustration]
SLEEPING IN THE SUNSHINE.
[Illustration: Music]
Words by MATTHIAS BARR. Music by ROBERT MILLS.
1.
Sleeping in the sunshine,
Fie, fie, fie!
While the birds are soar-ing,
High, high, high!
While the birds are op'-ning sweet
And the blossoms at your feet,
Look a smil-ing face to greet.
Fie, fie, fie!
2.
Sleeping in the sunshine,
Fie, fie, fie!
While the bee goes humming,
By, by, by!
Is there no small task for you,--
Nought for lit-tle hands to do;
Shame to sleep the morning through!
Fie, fie, fie!
* * * * *
[Illustration]
VIOLET TOILET WATER.
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SEEDS AND BULBS.
ILLUSTRATED SPRING CATALOGUE FOR 1875.
NOW READY.
Sent, with a specimen copy of THE AMERICAN GARDEN, a new Illustrated
Journal of Garden Art, edited by James Hogg, on receipt of ten cents.
BEACH, SON & CO., Seedsmen, 76 Fulton St., Brooklyn, N. Y.
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* * * * *
AGENTS WANTED.
[Illustration]
Men or women. $34 week. Proof furnished. Business pleasant and
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little help from parent or teacher.
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The most beautiful Primer in the market. Containing upwards of a
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FREE Sample copy of CHEAPEST PAPER IN AMERICA! Eight large pages,
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Address, enclosing price, and a three cent stamp,
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* * * * *
[Illustration]
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Prices.--Metal, very fine, $5. Black-Walnut, $5. Imitation
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Sent to any address on receipt of price, or C.O.D. Send for circular.
IRVING D. CLARK, Manufacturer, Gloversville, Fulton Co., New York.
[Illustration]
WHAT SPLENDID TEETH!
Is the exclamation that a perfect, even, and brilliant set of teeth
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[Illustration]
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Fathers and Mothers!)
Sons and Daughters! )
In these hard times get the most you can for your money.
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THE DEW DROP,
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THE NURSERY.
PREMIUM-LIST for 1875.
For three new subscribers, at $1.60 each, we will give any one of the
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following: a fine croquet-set, a powerful opera-glass, a toilet case,
Webster's Dictionary (unabridged), sheet-music or books worth $10.00.
***Any other articles equally easy to transport may be selected as
premiums, their value being in proportion to the number of subscribers
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premium worth $1.50; for four, a premium worth $2.00; for five, a
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we can always supply them at catalogue prices. Under this offer,
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Diamonds
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Title: Diamonds
Author: William Crookes
Release date: January 4, 2020 [eBook #61096]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by deaurider, John Campbell and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIAMONDS ***
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have been
placed at the end of the book.
A subscript is denoted by _{x}, for example C_{2}.
Basic fractions are displayed as ½ ⅓ ¼ etc; other fractions are
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Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
HARPER’S LIBRARY _of_ LIVING THOUGHT
[Illustration: (publisher colophon)]
[Illustration:
DIAMONDS
BY
SIR WILLIAM
CROOKES
HARPER &
BROTHERS
LONDON & NEW YORK]
[Illustration: THE CULLINAN DIAMOND.
From a photograph by the Author. (See pages 76-79.)
Frontispiece.]
·DIAMONDS·
BY
SIR WILLIAM CROOKES
LL.D., D.Sc., F.R.S.
Foreign Sec. R.S., Hon. LL.D. (Birmingham), Hon. Sc.D. (Camb.
and Dubl.), Hon. D.Sc. (Oxon. and Cape of Good Hope); Past Pres.
Chem. Soc., Brit. Assoc., Inst. Elect. Eng., Soc. Psych. Res.;
Hon. Mem. Roy. Phil. Soc. Glasgow, Roy. Soc. N.S.W., Pharm. Soc.,
Chem. Metall. and Mining Soc. of South Africa, Amer. Chem. Soc.,
Amer. Philos. Soc., Roy. Soc. Sci. Upsala, Deutsch. Chem. Gesell.
Berlin, Psychol. Soc. Paris, “Antonio Alzate” Sci. Soc. Mexico.
Sci. Soc. Bucharest, Reg. Accad. Zelanti, Aci Reale; Corresp.
Inst. de France (Acad. Sci.), Corresp. Mem. Bataafsch Genoots.
Rotterdam, Soc. d’Encouragement pour l’Indust. Paris, For. Mem.
Accad. Lincei Rome.
WITH 24 ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON AND NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS
45 ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1909
TO MY WIFE
MY COMPANION AND FRIEND OF
FIFTY-FOUR YEARS.
TO HER JUDGMENT AND ADVICE I OWE MORE
THAN I CAN EVER REPAY
AND TO HER I DEDICATE THIS BOOK.
PREFACE
The following pages are based on personal observations during two
visits to Kimberley, in 1896 and 1905, and on personal researches
on the formation and artificial production of diamonds. In 1896 I
spent nearly a month at Kimberley, when Mr. Gardner F. Williams,
the General Manager of the De Beers Consolidated Mines, and the
managers of neighbouring mines, did their utmost to aid in my
zealous quest for reliable information. They gave me free access
to all workings above and below ground, allowed me to examine at
leisure their stock and to take extracts from their books. I had
exceptional opportunities of studying the geology of the Diamond
and of noting the strange cataclysmal facts connected with the
birth, growth, and physics of the lustrous stones.
In 1905 with my wife I returned to Kimberley. We were members of
the British Association which held its meeting that year in South
Africa. I was asked to give one of the Association lectures at
Kimberley and it was natural for me to discourse “On Diamonds.”
During our stay we were the guests of Mr. Gardner Williams.
Returning to England after the visit of 1896, I gave two
lectures on Diamonds at the Imperial Institute and one at the
Royal Institution. These lectures, and the lecture delivered at
Kimberley, in 1905--hitherto only privately distributed--form
the basis of the present volume. On each visit I took abundant
photographs, many of which I now reproduce. A few are copied
from plans lent by Mr. Gardner Williams and one or two are from
photographs purchased at Kimberley.
In obtaining statistical information of the Diamond industry, I owe
much to the Annual Reports of the De Beers Company. I have also
quoted freely from Reunart’s valuable book on _Diamonds and Gold in
South Africa_; and I render my acknowledgments to the authors of
the following papers and memoirs.
_On a Visit to the Diamond Fields of South Africa, with Notices of
Geological Phenomena by the Wayside._ By John Paterson, Esq., M.A.
_On the Mode of Occurrence of Diamonds in South Africa._ By E. J.
Dunn.
_On the Origin and Present Position of the Diamonds of South
Africa._ By G. G. Cooper, Esq., of Graaf Reinet.
_On the Character of the Diamantiferous Rock of South Africa._
By Prof. N. Storey Maskelyne, F.R.S., Keeper, and Dr. W. Flight,
Assistant in the Mineral Department, British Museum.
_Further Notes on the Diamond Fields of South Africa._ By E. J.
Dunn.
_Notes on the Diamond Fields of South Africa, 1880._ By E. J. Dunn.
_Analogies between the Diamond Deposits in South Africa and those
in Meteorites._ By M. Daubrée.
_Notes on the Diamond-bearing Rock of Kimberley, South Africa._ By
Sir J. B. Stone, Prof. T. G. Bonney, and Miss Raisin.
_Notes on the Diamond Rock of South Africa._ By W. H. Hudleston.
_The Parent Rock of the Diamond in South Africa._ By the Reverend
Professor T. G. Bonney.
The Presidential Address, by Grove Carl Gilbert, to the Geological
Society of Washington, on _The Origin of Hypotheses. Illustrated by
the Discussion of a Topographical Problem._ 1896.
_Le Four Electrique._ By Henri Moissan. 1897.
_The Diamond Mines of South Africa._ By Mr. Gardner F. Williams.
(In this publication the story of the rise and development of the
industry is exhaustively narrated.)
_British Association, South African Meeting, 1896, Kimberley
Handbook._
_The Meteor Crater of Canyon Diablo, Arizona; its History, Origin,
and Associated Meteoric Irons._ By George P. Merrill. 1908.
In the present volume I have tried to give some idea of the
underground wonders of the Kimberley mines. I have pictured the
strenuous toil of the men who bring to the surface the buried
treasures, and I have given some idea of the skill and ingenuity
with which their labours are controlled. I have done my best to
explain the fiery origin of the Diamond, and to describe the
glowing, molten, subterranean furnaces where they first begin
mysteriously to take shape. I have shown that a diamond is the
outcome of a series of Titanic earth convulsions, and that these
precious gems undergo cycles of fiery, strange, and potent
vicissitudes before they can blaze on a ring or a tiara.
I am glad to have paid these two visits to South Africa. I always
recall with interest the dusky smiling natives at work and at
play. I am glad to have seen that Arabian Nights vision, the
strong-room of the De Beers Company. Above all, I have vividly
graven on my heart the friendly welcome, and the innumerable acts
of kindness shown us by our able, energetic, and enterprising
Colonial fellow-countrymen.
W. C.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PRELIMINARY 1
II. KIMBERLEY AND ITS DIAMOND MINES 14
III. KIMBERLEY MINES AT THE PRESENT DAY 34
IV. COLLECTING THE GEMS 55
V. THE DIAMOND OFFICE 73
VI. NOTEWORTHY DIAMONDS 76
VII. BOART, CARBONADO, AND GRAPHITE 81
VIII. PHYSICAL AND CHEMICAL PROPERTIES OF
THE DIAMOND 89
IX. GENESIS OF THE DIAMOND 115
X. THE NATURAL FORMATION OF THE DIAMOND 127
XI. METEORIC DIAMONDS 134
INDEX 141
LIST OF PLATES
The Cullinan Diamond, from a photograph by the
Author (see pp. 76-79) _Frontispiece_
FIG. FACING PAGE
1. River Washings at Klipdam 10
2. Plan of the Kimberley Diamond Mines 10
3. Kimberley Mine. The “Pipe” 18
4. Section of Kimberley Mine 18
5. Wesselton Diamond Mine. Open Workings 34
6. De Beers Compound 40
7. De Beers Mine. Underground Workings 40
8. De Beers Washing and Concentrating Machinery 48
9. Sorting Concentrates for Diamonds. De Beers 54
10. De Beers Diamond Office. 25,000 carats 72
11. De Beers Diamond Office. The Valuators’ Table 72
12. A group of large Diamond Crystals 76
13. Some Historic Diamonds 80
14. Crystalline forms of native Diamonds 86
15. Triangular Markings on natural face of a Diamond
Crystal 88
16. Triangular Markings artificially produced on a
Diamond Crystal 88
17. Diamond-cut Glass and Shavings 98
18. Diamonds in Röntgen Rays. A. Black Diamond
in gold frame. B. Pink Delhi Diamond.
C. Paste Imitation of B. 98
19. Curve of Vapour Pressure of Carbon _page_ 113
20. Moissan’s Electric Furnace 116
21. Artificial Diamond made by the Author from
molten iron 120
22. Moissan’s Artificial Diamonds 120
23. Diamonds from Canyon Diablo Meteorite 138
DIAMONDS
CHAPTER I
PRELIMINARY
From the earliest times the diamond has fascinated mankind. It
has been a perennial puzzle--one of the “riddles of the painful
earth.” It is recorded in _Sprat’s History of the Royal Society_
(1667) that among the questions sent by order of the Society to
Sir Philiberto Vernatti, Resident in Batavia, was one inquiring
“Whether Diamonds grow again after three or four years in the same
places where they have been digged out?” The answer sent back was,
“Never, or at least as the memory of man can attain to.”
In a lecture “On Diamonds,” fifty years ago,[1] Professor Maskelyne
said, “The diamond is a substance which transcends all others in
certain properties to which it is indebted for its usefulness in
the arts and its beauty as an ornament. Thus, on the one hand, it
is the hardest substance found in nature or fashioned by art. Its
reflecting power and refractive energy, on the other hand, exceed
those of all other colourless bodies, while it yields to none in
the perfection of its pellucidity.” He was constrained to add, “The
formation of the diamond is an unsolved problem.”
Diamonds are found in widely separated parts of the globe. In the
United States they have been found in Arkansas, where the work of
testing the deposits is now going on steadily and quietly. The
general geology and petrography of the area and the weathering of
the peridotite are described in a paper read before the American
Institute of Mining Engineers by Messrs. Kunz and Washington. In
tests made with a diamond drill the peridotite was proved to
depths of 200 feet. The green and yellow grounds underlying the
layer of black, sticky soil are found to extend down 40 feet in
places, and are estimated to average 20 feet in depth over the
area. The outcrop of the peridotite is estimated to cover about
40 acres, and may be larger. Some 540 diamonds have been found,
with an aggregate of 200 carats. The largest stone weighs about
6·5 carats, though the average size compares favourably with the
general run of most of the South African mines. There is a large
proportion of white stones, many of which are free from flaws and
are very brilliant. The genuineness of the occurrence of diamonds
in their matrix is again proved, one stone having been found
imbedded in the green ground at a depth of 15 feet. This peridotite
has the form of a volcanic pipe, and therefore its outcrop is
limited to one place.
In California authentic finds of diamonds are recorded in Butte
County, especially at Cherokee, above Orville. These diamonds,
however, have come from alluvial deposits and have been found
generally in washing for gold. As yet no authenticated discovery of
diamond in its original matrix in California is recorded.
In Brazil the diamond industry has been increasing of late years,
and the old mines in the Diamantina country are being worked by
American capital and by the American methods which have proved so
successful at De Beers. It is estimated that the annual value of
the diamonds exported from Brazil amounts to over £800,000, but
it is impossible to arrive at accurate figures owing to the large
quantities smuggled out of the country to avoid payment of the
export tax.
British Guiana produces a small quantity of diamonds, mostly,
however, of small size. Between January and September, 1907, 1564
carats were exported.
Indian diamonds chiefly come from the states of Panna, Charkhari,
and Ajaigarh. In 1905 India exported 3059 carats, valued at £5160.
CAPE COLONY
It is a standing surprise to the watchful outsider how little
attention is bestowed on some of our colonies. For instance, to
the Cape Colony, comprising vast, varied, and productive regions,
we have till recently manifested profound ignorance and consequent
indifference. When the Cape Colony was first incorporated with
the Empire, it was pronounced “a bauble, unworthy of thanks.” Yet
before the Suez Canal and the Waghorn overland route to India, the
Cape, as commanding our road to India, Australia, and China, had a
special importance. Even now it presents an alternative route which
under conceivable circumstances may be of capital moment.
The high grounds above Cape Town are rich in medicinal
health-giving waters. The districts where these springs occur
are high-lying, free from malaria, and admirably adapted for the
restoration of invalids. It needs only some distinguished power to
set the fashion, some emperor, prince, or reigning beauty to take
the baths and drink the waters, and the tide of tourists would
carry prosperity to Aliwal North, Fraserburg, Cradock, and Fort
Beaufort.
South Africa, as I shall endeavour to show in detail, is the most
important source of diamonds on the earth, and ranks with Australia
and California as one of the three great gold-yielding regions. But
the wealth of South Africa is not only in its gold and diamonds.
The province of Natal contains more coal than Britain ever owned
before a single bucket had been raised, and the beds extend over
the Orange River Colony, whilst valuable iron ores exist also in
large quantities.
In the year 1896 I spent nearly a month at Kimberley. Mr. Gardner
F. Williams, General Manager of the De Beers Consolidated Mines,
and the Managers of neighbouring mines, did their utmost to assist
me in my inquiries and to ply me with valuable information. I had
full access to all the workings, above and below ground, and was
able to examine at leisure their stock and take extracts from their
books.
Again, in the year 1905, I paid another visit to Kimberley as the
guest of Mr. Gardner Williams on the occasion of the meeting of the
British Association in South Africa.
RIVER WASHINGS
Besides the matrix mines, where the stones are found in pipes
supposed to be of volcanic origin, the alluvial deposits on the
Vaal River are of considerable importance. The terraces and gravels
along the Vaal River for about 200 miles have been worked for
diamonds, the deposits sometimes extending several miles on each
side of the river, and varying from a few inches to 40 or 50 feet
in thickness. The diamonds are found almost everywhere through the
gravel deposit.
Before describing the present mode of diamond extraction followed
in the important mines, I will commence with these “River
Washings,” where, in their primitive simplicity, can be seen the
modes of work and the simple machinery long since discarded in
the large centres of the industry. The drift or so-called “river
washings” present a very interesting phase of diamond industry. The
work is carried on in the primitive fashion adopted in the early
days of diamond discovery, every man working on his own little
claim, assisted by a few natives, and employing primitive machinery
(Fig. 1). The chief centre of the Vaal River washings is about 30
miles to the north-west of Kimberley, at a place called Klipdam
No. 2. There was originally a Klipdam a few miles further, and
here the miners congregated, but the exhaustion of their claims
made them migrate to others not far off and reported to be richer.
Here, accordingly, they re-erected their iron houses and called it
Klipdam No. 2.
It is a mistake to speak of “river washings.” The diamantiferous
deposits are not special to the old or recent river bed, but appear
to be alluvial deposits spread over a large tract of country by
the agency of water, which at some period of time subsequent to
the filling up of the volcanic pipes planed off projecting kopjes
from the surface of the country and scattered the debris broadcast
over the land to the north-west of Kimberley. The larger diamonds
and other heavy minerals would naturally seek the lowest places,
corresponding with the river bed, past and present. The fact that
no diamonds are found in the alluvial deposits near Kimberley
may perhaps be explained by supposing that the first rush was
sufficiently strong to carry the debris past without deposition,
and that deposition occurred when the stream slackened speed. At
Klipdam No. 2 the diamantiferous earth is remarkably like river
gravel, of a strong red colour--quite different from the Kimberley
blue ground--and forms a layer from 1 to 8 feet thick, lying over
a “hard pan” of amygdaloidal trap, the melaphyre of the Kimberley
mines.
[Illustration: FIG. 1. RIVER WASHINGS AT KLIPDAM.]
[Illustration: FIG. 2. PLAN OF THE KIMBERLEY DIAMOND MINES.
To face p. 10.]
When I was at Klipdam the miners had congregated at a spot
called “New Rush,” where some good finds of diamonds had been
reported. The gravel is dug and put into a machine resembling
the gold miner’s dolly, where it is rocked and stirred by rakes,
with a current of water flowing over it. Here all the fine stuff
is washed away and a rough kind of concentration effected. The
residual gravel is put on a table and sorted for diamonds--an
operation performed by the master. At one of the claims where
work was proceeding vigorously I asked the proprietor to let
me be present at the sorting out, as I should like to see river
diamonds. He willingly consented, but no diamonds were to be found.
On my expressing regret, he said he had not seen a diamond for a
fortnight! I remarked that the prospect was rather a poor one,
but he told me that a fortnight before he picked out one worth
£300, “and that,” he said, “will pay for several weeks’ wages of
my boys.” This is the kind of speculative gambling that goes on at
the river diggings. The miner may toil fruitlessly for months, and
then come across a pocket of stones, where they have been swept by
some eddy, by which he will net several thousands. Diamonds from
the “river washings” are of all kinds, as if contributed by every
mine in the neighbourhood. They are much rolled and etched, and
contain a good proportion of first-class stones; they are of very
good quality, as if only the better and larger stones had survived
the ordeal of knocking about. Diamonds from the drift fetch about
40 per cent more than those from Kimberley; taking the yield of the
Kimberley and De Beers mines as worth all round, large and small,
26s. 6d. a carat, those from the drift are worth 40s.
As a rule the better class of natives--the Zulus, Matabeles,
Basutos, and Bechuanas--when well treated, are very honest and
loyal to their masters. An amusing instance of the devotion of a
Zulu came to my knowledge at Klipdam. He had been superintending
a gang of natives on a small claim at the river washings. It
yielded but few stones, and the owner--my informant--sold the
claim, handing over the plant and small staff, our friend the
Zulu remaining to look after the business till the new owner took
possession. In the course of a few months the purchaser became
dissatisfied with his bargain, not a single diamond having turned
up since the transfer. One night the Zulu came to his old master
in a mysterious manner, and laying a handful of diamonds on the
table, said, “There, Baas, are your diamonds; I was not going to
let the new man have any of them!”
CHAPTER II
KIMBERLEY AND ITS DIAMOND MINES
The famous diamond mines in the neighbourhood are Kimberley, De
Beers, Dutoitspan, Bultfontein, and Wesselton (Fig. 2). They
are situated in latitude 28° 43´ South and longitude 24° 46´
East. Kimberley is practically in the centre of the present
diamond-producing area. Besides these mines others of some
importance of the Orange River Colony are known as Jaggersfontein
and Koffyfontein, Lace, and Monastery, besides two new mines, the
Roberts-Victor and the Voorspoed.
The areas of the mines are:
Kimberley 33 acres
De Beers 22 acres
Dutoitspan 45 acres
Bultfontein 36 acres
In 1907 the total number of carats raised from these mines was more
than two million and a half, the sales of which realised £6,452,597.
The most important mine outside the Kimberley group is the new
Premier Mine, about 20 miles West-North-West of Pretoria, where the
famous Cullinan diamond was found.
Other diamond mines are the Frank Smith, Wesselton, the Kamfersdam,
the Kimberley West, the Newlands, and the Leicester Mine.
The surface of the country round Kimberley is covered with a
ferruginous red, adhesive, sandy soil, which makes horse traffic
very heavy. Below the red soil is a basalt, much decomposed and
highly ferruginous, from 20 to 90 feet thick, and lower still
from 200 to 250 feet of black slaty shale containing carbon and
iron pyrites. These are known as the Kimberley shales; they are
very combustible, and in a part of the De Beers Mine where they
were accidentally fired they smouldered for over eighteen months.
Then follows a bed of conglomerate about 10 feet thick, and below
the conglomerate about 400 feet of a hard, compact rock of an
olive colour, called “Melaphyre,” or olivine diabase. Below the
melaphyre is a hard quartzite about 400 feet thick. The strata
are almost horizontal, dipping slightly to the north; in places
they are distorted and broken through by protruding dykes of trap.
There is no water nearer than the Vaal River, about 14 miles away,
and formerly the miners were dependent on rain-water and a few
springs and pools. Now, however, a constant and abundant supply of
excellent water is served to the town, whilst good brick houses,
with gardens and orchards, spring up on all sides. To mark the
rate of progress, Kimberley has an excellent club and one of
the best public libraries in South Africa. Parts of the town,
affectionately called “the camp” by the older inhabitants, are not
beyond the galvanised iron stage, and the general appearance is
unlovely and depressing. Reunert reckons that over a million trees
have been cut down to supply timber for the mines, and the whole
country within a radius of 100 miles has been denuded of wood with
the most injurious effects on the climate. The extreme dryness of
the air, and the absence of trees to break the force of the wind
and temper the heat of the sun, probably account for the dust
storms so frequent in summer. The temperature in the day frequently
rises to 100° in the shade, but in so dry a climate this is not
unpleasant, and I felt less oppressed by this heat than I did in
London the previous September. Moreover, in Kimberley, owing to the
high altitude, the nights are always cool.
The approach to Kimberley is deadly dull. The country is almost
treeless, and the bare veldt stretches its level length, relieved
only by distant hills on the horizon.
THE PIPES OR CRATERS
The five diamond mines or craters are all contained in a circle 3½
miles in diameter. They are irregularly shaped round or oval pipes,
extending vertically downwards to an unknown depth, retaining about
the same diameter throughout (Fig. 3). They are said to be volcanic
necks, filled from below with a heterogeneous mixture of fragments
of the surrounding rocks, and of older rocks such as granite,
mingled and cemented with a bluish-coloured, hard clayey mass, in
which famous blue clay the imbedded diamonds are hidden.
[Illustration: FIG. 3. KIMBERLEY MINE. THE “PIPE.”]
[Illustration: FIG. 4. SECTION OF KIMBERLEY MINE.
To face p. 18.]
The craters or mines are situate in depressions, which have no
outlets for the water which falls upon the neighbouring hills. The
watersheds of these hills drain into ponds, called pans or vleis.
The water, which accumulates in these ponds during the rainy
season, evaporates during the dry months, only one of them holding
water throughout the dry season. The rocks which surround the
craters are capped by red soil or calcareous tufa, and in places by
both, the red soil covering the tufa.
The diamantiferous breccia filling the mines, usually called “blue
ground,” is a collection of fragments of shale, various eruptive
rocks, boulders, and crystals of many kinds of minerals. Indeed,
a more heterogeneous mixture can hardly be found anywhere else
on this globe. The ground mass is of a bluish green, soapy to
the touch and friable, especially after exposure to the weather.
Professor Maskelyne considers it to be a hydrated bronzite with a
little serpentine.
The Kimberley mine is filled for the first 70 or 80 feet with what
is called “yellow ground,” and below that with “blue ground” (Fig.
4). This superposed yellow on blue is common to all the mines.
The blue is the unaltered ground, and owes its colour chiefly to
the presence of lower oxides of iron. When atmospheric influences
have access to the iron it is peroxidised and the ground assumes
a yellow colour. The thickness of yellow earth in the mines
is therefore a measure of the depth of penetration of air and
moisture. The colour does not affect the yield of diamonds.
Besides diamonds, there have been detected more than eighty species
of minerals in the blue ground, the more common being magnetite,
ilmenite, garnet, bright green ferriferous enstatite (bronzite),
a hornblendic mineral closely resembling smaragdite, calc-spar,
vermiculite, diallage, jeffreysite, mica, kyanite, augite, peridot,
eclogite, iron pyrites, wollastonite, vaalite, zircon, chrome
iron, rutile, corundum, apatite, olivine, sahlite, chromite,
pseudobrookite, perofskite, biotite, and quartz. The blue ground
does not show any signs of passing through great heat, as the
fragments in the breccia are not fused at the edges. The eruptive
force was probably steam or water-gas, acting under great pressure,
but at no high temperature. According to Mr. Dunn, in the Kimberley
Mine, at a depth of 120 feet, several small fresh-water shells were
discovered in what appeared to be undisturbed material.
A selection of thin sections of some of these rocks and minerals,
mounted as microscopic objects and viewed by polarised light, are
not only of interest to the geologist, but are objects of great
beauty.
The appearance of shale and fragments of other rocks testify that
the _mélange_ has suffered no great heat in its present condition,
and that it has been erupted from great depths by the agency of
water vapour or some similar gas.
The rock outside the pipes and encasing them is called “reef.”
Inside some of the mines occur large masses of “floating reef,”
covering an area of several thousand square feet. In the De Beers
Mine is what is called “the snake,” a dyke of igneous rock taking a
serpentine course across the mine, and standing like a vein nearly
vertical, varying in thickness from 2 to 7 feet. The main body of
the blue ground is entirely analogous to the snake rock, naturally
more decomposed, but in essential points the microscopic appearance
of the blue ground and of the “snake” is in an extraordinary degree
alike. Mr. Gardner Williams supposes that the “snake” is a younger
eruptive formation coming from the same volcanic source as the blue
ground. No diamonds have been found either in the “snake” or the
floating reef. The ground, however, is generally richer in diamonds
in the neighbourhood of the floating reef.
Before the discovery of the mines there was nothing in the
superficial appearance of the ground to indicate the treasures
below. Since the volcanic ducts were filled with the
diamantiferous ground, denudation has planed the surface and the
upper parts of the craters, and other ordinary signs of volcanic
activity being smoothed away, the superficial and ubiquitous red
sand covered the whole surface. The Kimberley Mine seems to have
presented a slight elevation above the surrounding flat country,
while the sites of other mines were level or even slightly
depressed. The Wesselton Mine, within a mile of Dutoitspan, has
only been discovered a few years. It showed a slight depression
on the surface, which had been used as a shoot for dry rubbish.
There are other diamantiferous pipes in the neighbourhood, but they
are small and do not contain stones in payable quantities. More
recently another diamantiferous pipe has been discovered about
40 miles off, near Klipdam, and is now worked as the Leicester
Mine. Other hoards of diamonds may also be near; where there are
no surface signs, and the pipe itself is hidden under 10 or 20
feet of recent deposits, it is impossible to prospect the entire
country. Accident has hitherto been the chief factor in the
discovery of diamond mines.
How the great pipes were originally formed is hard to say. They
were certainly not burst through in the ordinary manner of volcanic
eruption, since the surrounding and enclosing walls show no signs
of igneous action, and are not shattered or broken up even when
touching the “blue ground.” It is pretty certain these pipes were
filled from below after they were pierced and the diamonds were
formed at some previous time and mixed with a mud volcano, together
with all kinds of debris eroded from the rocks through which it
erupted. The direction of flow is seen in the upturned edges of
some of the strata of shale in the walls, although I was unable to
see any upturning in most parts of the walls of the De Beers Mine
at great depths.
THE KIMBERLEY MINE IN OLD DAYS
According to Mr. Paterson, who examined the diamond fields of
Kimberley soon after their discovery, “Wherever the diamond is
obtained perfect in form and smooth in finest smoothness of
surface, without depression, hump, or twist of any kind, such
diamonds were ever found in their own little moulds of finest
limey stuff,[2] and as if such mould of lime had been a necessity
to their perfect formation. And further, where the splinters of
diamonds, or boarty stuff, were chiefly met by the diggers, there
was much less presence of limey matter in the claim at the section
of it where such broken or fragmentary diamonds were found; and
that chiefly from among what the diggers termed ‘clay-ballast,’ or
‘burnt brick,’ were unearthed the bits or undeveloped crystals so
plentiful at New Rush.”[3]
In the first days of diamond mining there was no idea that
diamantiferous earth extended to any particular depth, and miners
were allowed to dig holes at haphazard and prospect where they
liked. When the Kimberley Mine was discovered a new arrangement was
made, and in July, 1871, it was cut up into about 500 claims, each
31 feet square, with spaces reserved for about fifteen roadways
across the mine. No person at first could hold more than two
claims--a rule afterwards modified.
The following quotation from a description of a visit to Kimberley
in 1872, by Mr. Paterson, taken from a paper read by him to the
Geologists’ Association, gives a graphic picture of the early days
of the Kimberley Mine:
“The New Rush diggings (as the Kimberley Mine was at first called)
are all going forward in an oval space enclosed around by the trap
dyke, and of which the larger diameter is about 1000 feet, while
the shorter is not more than 700 feet in length. Here all the
claims of 31 feet square each are marked out with roadways of about
12 feet in width, occurring every 60 feet. Upon these roadways, by
the side of a short pole fixed into the roadway, sits the owner of
the claim with watchful eye upon the Kafir diggers below, who fill
and hoist, by means of a pulley fixed to the pole above, bucketful
after bucketful of the picked marl stuff in which the diamonds are
found.
“Many of the claims are already sunk to a depth of 100 feet,
and still the diamonds continue to be found as plentifully as
ever. From the roadway above the marl is carted away to the
sorting-tables, outside the range of the diggings, among mounds of
marl stuff which seem like little hills. Here, amidst such whirls
of dust as are nowhere else seen, the marl stuff is pounded, sifted
from the finest powder of lime and clay, and from the residue put
on the sorting-tables, the diggers, with a piece of zinc 9 inches
long by 4 inches in breadth, search out in the successive layers
taken from the heap the precious gems. I need not tell you that
the search is by no means very perfect, or that perhaps as many
diamonds escape the digger’s eye as are discovered and taken out
by him, but you will perhaps confess with me that their aptness
in picking out the diamonds is by no means to be despised, when I
tell you that in one six months from the date of opening New Rush
diggings, little short of a million sterling in diamonds has been
extracted from them. At close of day the diggers take daily stock
of their finds, and between five and six o’clock in the afternoon
are to be seen hundreds and hundreds moving through the main street
of New Rush on visits to the tents of the buyers, seated behind
their little green baize tables, with scales all ready, and bags of
gold and silver and piles of banknotes, to buy the little gems.”
It may help to realise the enormous value of the Kimberley Mine if
I say that two claims, measuring together 62 by 31 feet and worked
to a depth of 150 feet, yielded 28,000 carats of diamonds.
The roadways across the mine soon, however, became unsafe.
Claims were sunk 100 or 200 feet each side of a roadway, and the
temptation to undermine roadways was not always resisted. Falls of
road frequently took place, followed by complete collapse, burying
mine and claims in ruin. At that time there were probably 12,000 or
15,000 men at work in the mine, and then came the difficulty how to
continue working the host of separate claims without interference
with each other. A system of rope haulage was adopted.
The following description of the work at the Kimberley Mine at this
stage of its history is given by Mr. Reunert:[4]
“A succession of tall, massive timber stagings was erected round
the margin of the mine. Each staging carried two or three platforms
one above the other, every platform serving as an independent level
from which to communicate with the claims below. Stationary ropes
were then stretched from the different levels of the stagings to
the claims, the ropes being anchored to the ground at both ends:
the upper platforms communicated with the claims in the centre of
the mine, the lower platforms with those nearer the margin. The
hauling ropes were attached to windlasses worked by Kafirs on the
several platforms, on which grooved guide wheels for the ropes were
also fixed, the buckets being swung from the stationary ropes by
little overhead runners and crooks. Arrived at the level of the
platform the bucket was tipped into a narrow shoot, down which the
ground ran into a bag held ready to receive it, in which it was
conveyed away to be sorted. The din and rattle of these thousands
of wheels and the twang of the buckets along the ropes were
something deafening, while the mine itself seemed almost darkened
by the thick cobweb of ropes, so numerous as to appear almost
touching. This mode of haulage continued in vogue during the whole
of 1873, and if the appearance of the mine was less picturesque
than when the roadways existed, it was, if anything, more unique.
By moonlight, particularly, it was a weird and beautiful sight.”
The mine was now threatened in two other quarters. The removal of
the blue ground took away the support from the walls of the pipe,
and frequent falls of reef occurred, not only covering up valuable
claims with rubbish, but endangering the lives of workers below.
Moreover, as the workings deepened, water made its appearance,
necessitating pumping. In 1878 one quarter of the claims were
covered by reef, and in 1879 over £300,000 were spent on removing
reef and water. In 1881 over £200,000 were thus spent, and in 1882
more than half a million sterling was needed to defray the cost of
reef removal. So matters went on until four million cubic yards
of reef had been removed, at a cost of two millions sterling, and
still little good was done, for out of 400 claims in the mine only
about fifty could be regularly worked. Ultimately, in November,
1883, the biggest fall of reef on record took place, estimated at
250,000 cubic yards, surging half across the mine, where the bulk
of it lies to this day. It became evident that open workings could
not be carried on at such depths, and after many experiments the
present system of underground working was devised.
During this time of perplexity, individual miners who could easily
have worked one or two claims near the surface could not continue
work in the face of harassing difficulties and heavy expenses.
Thus the claims gradually changed hands until the mine became the
property first of a comparatively small number of capitalists, then
of a smaller number of limited liability companies, until finally
the whole of the mines have practically become the property of the
“De Beers Consolidated Mines, Limited.”
CHAPTER III
KIMBERLEY MINES AT THE PRESENT DAY
The De Beers Consolidated Mines, Limited, was founded in 1888,
mainly through the genius of the late Cecil John Rhodes, for the
purpose of acquiring all-important diamond-mining interests in the
Kimberley area and thereby controlling the output. The two richest
mines, Kimberley and De Beers, have been actively worked ever
since, and have been the main contributors to an output which now
realises over five millions sterling annually. Dutoitspan Mine was
completely closed down, and practically the whole of Bultfontein
was kept idle for many years; but with a view to the requirements
of the future and the marked increase in the demand for diamonds,
notwithstanding the steady rise in prices that has taken place,
both these mines have now been equipped for underground working
on a grand scale. The youngest of the De Beers group of mines is
the Wesselton, which was discovered in 1890 by the late Mr. H. A.
Ward, and soon afterwards purchased by Mr. Rhodes on behalf of the
Company. The mine is now being worked opencast on a magnificent
scale and has largely exceeded original expectations (Fig. 5). The
success of the consolidation is proved by the fact that since it
was brought about £22,000,000 have been paid in dividends to the
shareholders, and it is roughly estimated that 40,000,000 carats of
diamonds have been produced of a total value of eighty millions.
[Illustration: FIG. 5. WESSELTON DIAMOND MINE. OPEN WORKINGS.
To face p. 34.]
At the four mines about 8000 persons are daily employed, namely,
1500 whites and 6500 blacks. The wages are, whites, £5 or £6 a
week; blacks, underground, 4s. to 5s. a day, and aboveground, 21s.
a week.
THE COMPOUND SYSTEM
With gems like diamonds, where so large an intrinsic value is
concentrated into so small a bulk, it is not surprising that
robbery has to be guarded against in the most elaborate manner. The
Illicit Diamond Buying (I.D.B.) laws are very stringent, and the
searching, rendered easy by the “compounding” of the natives--which
I shall describe presently--is of the most drastic character (Fig.
6). It is, in fact, very difficult for a native employee to steal
diamonds; even were he to succeed, it would be almost impossible to
dispose of them, as a potential buyer would prefer to secure the
safe reward for detecting a theft rather than run the serious risk
of doing convict work on the Cape Town Breakwater for a couple of
years. I heard of a native who, secreting a diamond worth several
hundreds of pounds, after trying unsuccessfully to sell it, handed
it back to the manager of his compound, glad to get the sixpence a
carat to which he was entitled. Before the passing of the “Diamond
Trade Act” the value of diamonds stolen reached nearly one million
sterling per annum.
A “compound” is a large enclosure about 20 acres in extent,
surrounded by rows of one-story buildings of corrugated iron.
These are divided into rooms holding each about twenty natives. A
high iron fence is erected around the compound, 10 feet from the
buildings. Within the enclosure is a store where the necessaries
of life are supplied to the natives at a reduced price, wood and
water being provided free of charge. In the middle is a large
swimming-bath, with fresh water running through it. The rest of
the space is devoted to recreation, games, dances, concerts, and
any other amusement the native mind can desire. I have to thank
the superintendents of the respective compounds, who spoke all
the native dialects, for their kindness in showing us round, and
suggesting dances and concerts, got up at ten minutes’ notice, for
the benefit of my camera. The dancing was more of the character
of attitudinising and marching to a monotonous tum-tum, the
“orchestra” consisting of various-sized drums and what they call
a piano--an octave or so of tuned slabs of wood held in order on
stretched strings and struck with a wooden hammer. The native music
as a rule is only marking time, but I have heard musical melodies
accompanying some of their songs. In case of accident or illness
there is a well-appointed hospital where the sick are tended.
Medical supervision, nurses, and food are supplied free by the
Company.
In the compound are to be seen representatives of nearly all the
picked types of African tribes. Each tribe keeps to itself, and
to go round the buildings skirting the compound is an admirable
object-lesson in ethnology. At one point is a group of Zulus; next
we come to Fingoes; then Basutos; beyond come Matabele, Bechuanas,
Pondos, Shangains, Swazis, and other less-known tribes, either
grouped or wandering around making friendly calls.
The clothing in the compound is diverse and original. Some of the
men are evident dandies, whilst others think that in so hot a
climate a bright-coloured handkerchief or “a pair of spectacles
and a smile” is as great a compliance with the conventions of
civilisation as can be expected.
The natives are not interfered with in their various amusements,
always provided they do not make themselves objectionable to their
neighbours. They soon learn that tribal animosities are to be left
outside the compound. One Sunday afternoon my wife and I walked
unattended about the compound, almost the only whites present among
1700 natives. The manners of the fold were so friendly, and their
smiles so cordial, that the idea of fear vanished. At one part a
Kafir was making a pair of trousers with a bright nickel-plated
sewing-machine, in which he had invested his savings; next to him
a “boy” was reading from the Testament in his own language to an
attentive audience; in a corner a party were engaged in cooking a
savoury mess in an iron pot; further on the orchestra was tuning
up and Zulus were putting the finishing touches to their toilet of
feathers and beads. One group was intently watching a mysterious
game. It is played by two sides, with stones and grooves and
hollows in the ground, and appears of most absorbing interest. It
seems to be universal throughout Africa; it is met with among the
ruins of Zimbabwe, and signs of it are recorded on old Egyptian
monuments. I wanted to learn it, and an intelligent Zulu player
offered to teach it to me in a few minutes. Captain Dallas,
however, with a more accurate opinion of my intelligence than my
friend the Zulu, assured me it would take months before I could
begin to know anything about it. He had tried for years and could
make nothing of it.
[Illustration: FIG. 6. DE BEERS COMPOUND.]
[Illustration: FIG. 7. DE BEERS MINE. UNDERGROUND WORKINGS.
To face p. 40.]
They get good wages, varying according to occupation. The work
is appreciated, and there are always more applicants than can be
accepted. On entering, the restrictions to which they must submit
are fully explained, and they are required to sign for three months
at least, during which time they must not leave the compound or
mine. A covered way and tunnel lead the workers underground to the
down shaft, while those working on the depositing floors go and
come under guard. It is seldom that a man does not return once he
has lived the life in the compound; some come again and again for
years, only leaving occasionally to spend accumulated savings.
The most careful men save money, and carry it at intervals to the
superintendent to keep for them. Occasionally they ask to look
at their savings, which may amount to £30 or £40, accumulated
by driblets. They are ignorant of savings banks or interest, and
are content if they see their own money in the original rags and
papers. The Kafir, on demand, must behold his coins just as he
handed them in, wrappings and all. Sometimes the superintendent
will have as much as £1000 of savings in his care.
On leaving, the men generally draw all their savings, and it is not
uncommon for a grateful Kafir to press £2 or £3 on Captain Dallas
in recognition of his trouble. They are astonished when their
offerings are declined; still more so when it is explained that if
they would put their savings in a bank they would have a few extra
pounds given to them for the privilege of taking care of it.
A shrewd young Pondo, who had been coming year after year, applied
for some of his savings, and gave as a reason that he wanted to buy
a wife. “But you said the same thing last year,” replied Captain
Dallas; “I hope nothing has happened.” “No,” said the man; “one
wife, she quarrel with me; two wives, they quarrel with each other;
me peace!”
UNDERGROUND WORKINGS
In the face of constant developments I can only describe the system
in use at the time of my own visits in 1896 and 1905. Shafts are
sunk in the solid rock at a sufficient distance from the pipe to
be safe against reef movements in the open mine. In 1903 the rock
shafts in the De Beers and Kimberley Mines reached depths of 2076
and 2599 feet respectively. Tunnels are driven from these shafts
at different levels, about 120 feet apart, to cross the mine from
west to east. These tunnels are connected by two other tunnels
running north and south, one near the west side of the mine and one
midway between it and the east margin of the mine. From the east
and west tunnels offsets are driven to the surrounding rock. When
near the rock the offsets widen into galleries, these in turn being
stoped on the sides until they meet, and upwards until they break
through the blue ground. The fallen reef with which the upper part
of the mine is filled sinks and partially fills the open space. The
workmen then stand on the fallen reef and drill the blue ground
overhead, and as the roof is blasted back the debris follows. When
stoping between two tunnels the blue is stoped up to the debris
about midway between the two tunnels. The upper levels are worked
back in advance of the lower levels, and the works assume the
shape of irregular terraces. The main levels are from 90 to 120
feet apart, with intermediate levels every 30 feet. Hoisting is
done from only one level at a time through the same shaft. By this
ingenious method every portion of blue ground is excavated and
raised to the surface, the rubbish on the top gradually sinking and
taking its place.
The scene below ground in the labyrinth of galleries is bewildering
in its complexity, and very unlike the popular notion of a diamond
mine (Fig. 7). All below is dirt, mud, grime; half-naked men, dark
as mahogany, lithe as athletes, dripping with perspiration, are
seen in every direction, hammering, picking, shovelling, wheeling
the trucks to and fro, keeping up a weird chant which rises in
force and rhythm when a greater task calls for excessive muscular
strain. The whole scene is more suggestive of a coal mine than a
diamond mine, and all this mighty organisation, this strenuous
expenditure of energy, this costly machinery, this ceaseless toil
of skilled and black labour, goes on day and night, just to win a
few stones wherewith to deck my lady’s finger! All to gratify the
vanity of woman! “And,” interposed a lady who heard this remark,
“the depravity of man!”
THE DEPOSITING FLOORS
Owing to the refractory character of blue ground fresh from the
mines, it has to be exposed to atmospheric influences before it
will pulverise under the action of water and mechanical treatment.
From the surface-boxes, into which the blue ground is tipped
when it reaches the top of the main shaft, it is transferred to
side-tipping trucks and sent to the depositing floors by means of
endless wire-rope haulage. The speed of the haulage varies from 2½
to 4 miles per hour. The trucks are counted automatically as they
are sent to the floor by a reciprocating engine-counter placed on
a frame near the tramline.
The depositing floors are prepared by removing the bush and
grass from a fairly level piece of ground; this ground is then
rolled smooth and hard. The floors extend over many square miles
of country and are surrounded by 7-foot barbed wire fences,
vigilantly guarded day and night. The De Beers floors, on
Kenilworth, are laid off in rectangular sections 600 yards long and
200 yards wide, each section holding about 50,000 loads. The ground
from the Kimberley Mine is the softest and only needs a few months’
exposure on the floors; the ground from De Beers is much harder and
requires at least six months’ exposure, while some ground is so
hard that it will not disintegrate by exposure to the weather under
one or two years. The De Beers Mine contains a much larger quantity
of this hard blue ground than the other mines, and in order to save
the loss of time consequent on keeping an enormous stock of blue
constantly on the floors, it has recently been decided to pass
the harder and more refractory stuff direct from the mine through
crushing mills.
For a time the blue ground remains on the floors without undergoing
much alteration. But soon the heat of the sun and moisture produce
a wonderful effect. Large pieces, hard as ordinary sandstone when
taken from the mine, commence to crumble. At this stage the winning
of the diamonds assumes more the nature of farming than mining.
The ground is frequently harrowed and occasionally watered, to
assist pulverisation by exposing the larger pieces to atmospheric
influences. The length of time necessary for the ground to weather
before it becomes sufficiently pulverised for washing depends on
the season of the year and the amount of rain. The longer the
ground remains exposed the better it is for washing.
[Illustration: FIG. 8. DE BEERS WASHING AND CONCENTRATING MACHINERY.
To face p. 48.]
It is curious to note that there is a marked difference in the
rapidity of disintegration of the blue ground in each of the four
mines. The longer the exposure, the more complete the pulverisation
and the better for washing. Under normal conditions soft blue
ground becomes sufficiently pulverised in from four to six
months, but it is better to expose it for a longer period, even for
a whole year.
WASHING AND CONCENTRATING MACHINERY
After the blue ground has been weathered for a sufficient time, it
is again loaded into trucks and hauled to the crushing machinery
(Fig. 8). The first or “comet” crushers reduce the ground so that
it will pass into hoppers and thence into revolving cylinders
covered with perforated steel plates, having holes 1¼ inches in
diameter which separate the finely crushed from the coarse pieces.
Pieces larger than 1¼ inches pass out of the end of the cylinders
and fall upon a conveyor belt, which takes them to the end of the
machine--these pieces are mostly waste rock which is found in the
blue ground.
The fine ground which passes through the holes in the cylinder,
together with a plentiful current of water, flows into the washing
pans. These pans are of iron, 14 feet in diameter, furnished with
ten arms each having six or seven teeth. The teeth are so set as
to form a spiral, so that when the arms revolve the teeth carry
the heavy deposit to the outer rim of the pan, while the lighter
material passes towards the centre and is carried from the pan
by the flow of water. The heavy deposit contains the diamonds.
It remains on the bottom of the pan and near its outer rim. This
deposit is drawn off every twelve hours by means of a broad slot
in the bottom of the pan. The average quantity of blue ground
passed through each pan is from 400 to 450 loads in ten hours. The
deposit left in each pan after putting the above number of loads
through amounts to three or four loads, which go to the pulsator
for further concentration.
About 14 per cent of all the ground sent to the depositing floors
is too hard to weather, so of late years crushing and concentrating
plant has been erected to deal effectually with the hard lumps,
thus saving the great lock-up of capital consequent on letting them
lie on the floor a year or two.
The hard lumps being hauled to the upper part of the machine,
are tipped into bins, whence they pass to crushing rollers which
so reduce them that they will pass through a ring two inches in
diameter. The coarse powder is screened through revolving cylinders
having ½-inch and 1¼-inch perforations. The stuff passing through
the finer holes goes to the finishing mill, while the coarser stuff
goes to smaller crushers. Before the coarse lumps are re-crushed
they pass over revolving picking tables, where any specially large
diamonds are rescued, thus preventing the risk of breakage. From
the picking tables the ground is scraped automatically into two
sets of rolls, and the pulverised product screened again and graded
into three sizes. The finest size, passing a ½-inch screen, goes
to the washing pans, and the two coarser sizes to jigs. Large
diamonds which have been separated from their envelope of blue are
retained in the jig. The ground still holding the smaller diamonds
passes out of the end of the jig and then through a series of
rolls, screens, and jigs until the diamantiferous gravel is drawn
from the bottom jigs into locked trucks running on tramways to the
pulsator for further concentration and sorting.
The pulsator is an ingeniously designed but somewhat complicated
machine for dealing with the diamantiferous gravel already reduced
one hundred times from the blue ground, the pulsator still further
concentrating it till the gravel is rich enough to enable the
stones to be picked out by hand. The value of the diamonds in a
load of original blue ground being about 30s., the gravel sent
to the pulsator from the pans, reduced a hundredfold, is worth
£150 a load. Stuff of this value must not be exposed to risk of
peculation.
The locked trucks are hoisted by a cage to a platform, where they
are unlocked and their contents fed into a shoot leading to a
cylinder covered with steel sieving with holes from 1/16 to ⅝ of an
inch in diameter. The five sizes which pass through the cylinder
flow upon a combination of jigs, termed at the mines the pulsators.
The bottoms of the jigs are covered with screens, or sieving, the
meshes of which are a little larger than the holes in the revolving
cylinder immediately at the back of them.
Over each screen is spread a layer of bullets to prevent the
rich deposit from passing too rapidly through the screens. The
jigs themselves are stationary, but from below an intermittent
stream of water passes in rapid pulsations with an up and down
movement. This pulsation keeps the diamantiferous gravel constantly
moving--“alive” is the expressive word used--and tends to sort out
the constituents roughly according to their specific gravity, the
heavier particles working to the bottom and the lighter material
washing off by the flow of water and passing into trucks, whence
it is carried to the tailings heap. The heavier portions, by the
up and down wash of the water, gradually work their way under the
bullets and pass through the screens into pointed boxes, whence
the heavy concentrates are drawn off upon endless belts. These
convey their precious load to small elevators by means of which the
concentrates are lifted into hoppers from which they are fed upon
shaking tables.
[Illustration: FIG. 9. SORTING CONCENTRATES FOR DIAMONDS. DE BEERS.
To face p. 54.]
CHAPTER IV
COLLECTING THE GEMS
The sorting room in the pulsator house is long, narrow, and
well lighted (Fig. 9). Here the rich gravel is brought in wet,
a sieveful at a time, and is dumped in a heap on tables covered
with iron plates. The tables at one end take the coarsest lumps,
next comes the gravel which passed the ⅜-inch holes, then the
next in order, and so on. The first sorting is done by thoroughly
trustworthy white men; for here the danger of robbery is greatest.
Sweeping the heap of gravel to the right, the sorter scrapes a
little of it to the centre of the table by means of a flat piece of
sheet zinc. With this tool he rapidly passes in review the grains,
seizes the diamonds and puts them into a little tin box in front
of him. The stuff is then swept off to the left and another lot
taken, and so on till the sieveful of gravel is exhausted, when
another is brought in. The stuff the sorter has passed to his left
as temporarily inspected is taken next to another part of the room,
where it is again scrutinised by native convicts again and again,
and whilst diamonds can be found in quantity sufficient to repay
the cost of convict labour, it is passed under examination.
The diamond has a peculiar lustre, and on the sorter’s table it is
impossible to mistake it for any other stone that may be present.
It looks somewhat like clear pieces of gum arabic, with a sort of
intrinsic lustre which makes a conspicuous shine among the other
stones.
AUTOMATIC DIAMOND COLLECTOR
A series of experiments was initiated by Mr. Gardner Williams with
the object of separating the diamonds from the heavy, valueless
concentrates with which they are associated. An ordinary shaking
or percussion table was constructed, and every known means of
separation was tried without success. One of the employees of De
Beers, Mr. Fred Kirsten, was in charge of the experimenting, under
the supervision of the late Mr. George Labram, the manager of the
large crushing plant, and afterwards mechanical engineer to the
Company. Notwithstanding the fact that the specific gravity of
the diamond (3·52) was less than that of several of the minerals
associated with it, so that its separation would seem a simple
matter, it was found in practice to be impossible owing to the
slippery nature of the diamond. The heavy concentrates carried
diamonds, and diamonds flowed away from the percussion table with
the tailings. When it seemed that every resource to do away with
hand-sorting had been exhausted, Kirsten asked to be allowed to
try to catch the diamonds by placing a coat of thick grease on the
surface of the percussion table with which the other experiments
had been made. Kirsten had noticed that oily substances, such as
axle grease and white or red lead, adhered to diamonds when they
chanced to come into contact, and, he argued to himself, if these
substances adhered to diamonds and not to the other minerals in
the concentrates, why should not diamonds adhere to grease on the
table and the other minerals flow away? In this way the remarkable
discovery was made that diamonds alone of all minerals contained
in the blue ground will adhere to grease, and that all others will
flow away as tailings over the end of the percussion table with
the water. After this was determined by thorough experiments,
more suitable shaking tables were constructed at the Company’s
workshops. These were from time to time improved upon, until now
all the sorting (except for the very coarse size) is done by these
machines, whose power of distinction is far superior to the
keenest eye of the native.
Only about ⅓ of 1 per cent of diamonds is lost by the first table,
and these are recovered almost to a stone when the concentrates are
passed over the second table. The discrimination of this sorter
is truly marvellous. Native workers, although experienced in the
handling of diamonds, often pick out small crystals of zircon, or
Dutch boart, by mistake, but the senseless machine is practically
unerring.
The grease containing the diamonds, together with a small
percentage of very heavy minerals, such as iron pyrites and
barytes, is scraped from the tables, placed in buckets made of
steel plates with fine perforations, and boiled or steamed. The
grease passes away to tanks of water, where it is cooled and is
again fit for use. The diamonds, together with small bits of iron
pyrites, brass nails from the miners’ boots, pieces of copper
from the detonator used in blasting, which remain on the tables
owing to their high specific gravity, and a very small admixture
of worthless deposit which has become mechanically mixed with the
grease, are then boiled in a solution containing caustic soda,
where they are freed from all grease. The quantity of deposit from
the size of ⅝ of an inch downwards, which now reaches the sorting
table, does not exceed 1 cubic foot for every 12,000 loads (192,000
cubic feet) of blue ground washed. As already stated, 5/12 of 1
per cent of the whole mass of blue formerly passed to the sorting
tables; or, from 12,000 loads, which is about the daily average of
the quantity washed at De Beers and Kimberley Mines, 800 cubic feet
had to be assorted by hand.
THE YIELD OF DIAMONDS
Sometimes as many as 8000 carats of diamonds come from the pulsator
in one day, representing about £20,000 in value.
When the bare statement is made that nearly 5,000,000 truck-loads,
or more than 4,000,000 tons of blue ground, have been washed in a
year, the mind only faintly conceives the prodigious size of the
mass that is annually drawn from the old craters and laboriously
washed and sorted for the sake of a few bucketfuls of diamonds. It
would form a cube of more than 430 feet, or a block larger than any
cathedral in the world, and overtopping the spire of St. Paul’s,
while a box with sides measuring 2 feet 9 inches would hold the
gems. From two to three million carats of diamonds are turned out
of the De Beers mines in a year, and as 5,000,000 carats go to the
ton, this represents half a ton of diamonds. To the end of 1892 10
tons of diamonds had come from this mine, valued at £60,000,000
sterling. This mass of blazing diamonds could be accommodated in a
box 5 feet square and 6 feet high.
The diamond is a luxury, and there is only a limited demand
for it throughout the world. From four to four and a half
millions sterling is as much as is spent annually in diamonds;
if the production is not regulated by the demand, there will be
over-production, and the trade will suffer. By regulating the
output the directors have succeeded in maintaining prices since the
consolidation in 1888.
The blue ground varies in its yield of diamonds in different mines,
but is pretty constant in the same mine. In 1890 the yield per load
of blue ground was:
CARATS
From the Kimberley Mine from 1·25 to 1·5
” De Beers Mine ” 1·20 ” 1·3
” Dutoitspan Mine ” 0·17 ” 0·5
” Bultfontein Mine ” 0·5 ” 0·33
VARIETIES OF DIAMONDS
FANCY STONES
Diamonds occur in all shades, from deep yellow to pure white and
jet black, from deep brown to light cinnamon, also green, blue,
pink, yellow, orange, and opaque.
Both in Kimberley and De Beers the blue ground on the west side
is poorer in diamonds than the blue ground in other parts of the
mines. The diamonds from the west side also differ somewhat from
those in other parts of the same mine.
The diamonds from each mine have a distinctive character, and so
uniform are the characteristics that an experienced buyer can
tell at once the locality of any particular parcel of stones. An
isolated stone may, of course, be found occasionally in any one
mine which is characteristic of some other source of production,
but this is the exception to the general rule.
There is a great similarity between the produce of the De Beers and
Kimberley mines. A day’s wash from either of these mines could be
distinguished from each other, but not so easily the majority of
the individual stones.
The Kimberley Mine produces a small percentage of white crystals,
octahedral in shape, is noted for its large macles, and, in common
with the De Beers Mine, it also yields a large percentage of
coloured and large yellow diamonds.
The De Beers Mine produces a comparatively small percentage of
really white diamonds, but is noted for its fine silvery capes.
The Dutoitspan Mine is noted for its fine white cleavages, silver
capes, large yellows, and an exceptional proportion of large stones
generally. It also produces a small proportion of fine white,
octahedral-shaped crystals and a comparatively small proportion of
diamonds below 0·2 of a carat in size.
The Bultfontein Mine produces a very large percentage of white
diamonds, mostly octahedral in shape and generally small in size.
It produces very few coloured stones, but a larger percentage of
flawed and spotted stones than any other mine. Even the apparently
pure stones from this mine frequently develop flaws in cutting,
which in the rough were imperceptible to the naked eye.
The Wesselton Mine diamonds are noted for an abnormally large
percentage of octahedral stones, a large proportion of which are
free from flaws. White and brown stones predominate in this mine;
there is almost an entire absence of the ordinary yellow, but very
fine golden-coloured fancy stones are unearthed occasionally,
invariably in the form of cleavage, and hardly ever exceeding 2
carats each in weight.
For “golden fancies” this mine is unrivalled. Wesselton diamonds
are easily distinguished from the produce of every other mine by a
decided gloss common to them.
Wesselton produces more stones of 10 carats each and over than
Bultfontein, but comparatively few large stones of over 50 carats
each. It produces a very large percentage of small diamonds under
0·2 of a carat. With Bultfontein it shares the distinction of
yielding cubical stones occasionally. It also produces a small
percentage of blue-whites.
The Frank Smith Mine produces very fine white diamonds, fairly
regular in shape, mostly octahedral, and hardly any coloured
stones. Many of the stones are grooved at the edges.
The Kamfersdam Mine yields diamonds of very inferior quality, dark
brown being the predominating colour, and even the majority of the
better-class stones from this mine are faintly tinged with brown.
The Kimberley West, formerly known as Theron’s Mine, situated about
30 miles due west of Kimberley, yields a very small percentage of
blue-whites, fine “silver capes,” and a large proportion of brown
diamonds, somewhat better in quality than Kamfersdam and more
regular in shape. The diamonds from this mine present a distinctly
“alluvial” appearance, but they are nevertheless distinctive in
character from river diamonds and much inferior in quality.
The diamonds from the Leicester Mine are of a distinctive
character; they are very much grooved, extremely bad shapes for
cutting, and many of the stones are cross-grained.
The Newlands Mine, West Griqualand, about 40 miles north-west
of Kimberley, is interesting on account of the occurrence of
diamond in what the Reverend Professor Bonney considers to be its
true matrix. The workmen occasionally come across well-rounded,
boulder-like masses of eclogite, a rather coarsely crystalline
rock, sometimes more than a foot in diameter. Some of these
boulders have diamonds imbedded in them. One piece examined by
Professor Bonney measured approximately 4 inches by 3 inches by
2 inches, and appeared to have been broken off a larger eclogite
boulder. In it were seen ten diamonds, mostly well-crystallised
octahedra, perfectly colourless, with brilliant lustre, four of
them being comprised within a space of a quarter of an inch square.
All these diamonds were on the surface. Probably others would have
been found inside, but it was not considered desirable to destroy
the specimen by breaking it up. It is now in the Natural History
Museum, having been presented by the Directors of the Newlands Mine.
Eclogite has been found in other diamond mines, but I am not aware
that diamonds have been found imbedded in it except in the Newlands
Mine.
Stones from Jagersfontein, in the Orange River Colony, display
great purity of colour and brilliancy, and they have the so-called
“steely” lustre characteristic of old Indian gems.
FALLING OFF OF YIELD WITH DEPTH
According to tables furnished by the De Beers Company, the yield
of the De Beers and Kimberley mines has declined as the depth
increases. At the same time the value of the stones has risen, and
diamonds are more expensive to-day than at any previous time.
NUMBER OF VALUE
YEAR CARATS[5] PER CARAT
PER LOAD _s._ _d._
1889 1·283 19 8·75
1890 1·15 32 6·75
1891 0·99 29 6
1892 0·92 25 6
1893 1·05 29 0·6
1894 0·89 24 5·2
1895 0·85 25 6
1896 0·91 26 9·4
1897 0·92 26 10·6
1898 0·80 26 6·2
1899 0·71 29 7·2
1900 0·67 35 10·2
1901 0·76 39 7
1902 0·76 46 5·7
1903 0·61 48 6·3
1904 0·54 48 11·8
STONES OTHER THAN DIAMONDS
Accompanying diamonds in the concentrates are a number of other
minerals of high specific gravity, and some of notable beauty.
Among these are the rich red pyrope (garnet), sp. gr. 3·7,
containing from 1·4 to 3 per cent of oxide of chromium; zircon,
in flesh-coloured grains and crystals, sp. gr. 4 to 4·7; kyanite,
sp. gr. 3·45 to 3·7, discernible by its blue colour and perfect
cleavage; chrome diopside, sp. gr. 3·23 to 3·5, of a bright green
colour; bronzite, sp. gr. 3·1 to 3·3; magnetite, sp. gr. 4·9 to
5·2; mixed chrome and titanium iron ore, sp. gr. 4·4 to 4·9,
containing from 13 to 61 per cent of oxide of chromium, and from
3 to 68 per cent of titanic acid, in, changeable quantities;
hornblende, sp. gr. 2·9 to 3·4; barytes, sp. gr. 4·3 to 4·7; and
mica. Some of the garnets are of fine quality, and one was recently
cut which resembled a pigeonblood ruby, and attracted an offer of
£25.
In the pulsator and sorting house most of the native labourers
are long-sentence convicts, supplied with food, clothing, and
medical attendance by the Company. They are necessarily well
guarded. I myself saw about 1000 convicts at work. I was told that
insubordination is very rare; apart from the hopelessness of a
successful rising, there is little inducement to revolt; the lot
of these diamond workers is preferable to life in the Government
prisons, and they seem contented.
[Illustration: FIG. 10. DE BEERS DIAMOND OFFICE. 25,000 CARATS.]
[Illustration: FIG. 11. DE BEERS DIAMOND OFFICE. THE VALUATORS’
TABLE.
To face p. 72.]
CHAPTER V
THE DIAMOND OFFICE
From the pulsator the diamonds are sent to the general office
in Kimberley to be cleansed in a boiling mixture of nitric and
sulphuric acids. A parcel of diamonds loses about half a part per
1000 by this treatment. On one of my visits to the diamond office
the door opened and in walked two young men, each carrying a large
enamelled saucepan containing something steaming hot. They went to
one of the zinc-covered tables and turned out from the saucepans a
lustrous heap of 25,000 carats of diamonds (Fig. 10). They had just
been boiled in acid and washed.
After purification the diamonds are handed to the valuators (Fig.
11), who sort them into classes, according to size, colour, and
purity. In the diamond office they are sorted into ten classes. In
the year 1895, in 1141·8 carats of stones, the proportions of the
different classes were as follows:
Close goods (best stones) 53·8
Spotted stones 75·8
Fine cleavage 79·1
Flats 39·5
Macles 36·5
Ordinary and rejection cleavage 243·4
Rejection stones 43·2
Light and brown cleavage 56·9
Rubbish 371·8
------
1000·0
------
Fine sand 141·8
------
1141·8
It is a sight for Aladdin to see the valuators at work in the
strong-room of the De Beers Company at Kimberley. The tables are
literally heaped with stones won from the rough blue ground--stones
of all sizes, purified, flashing, and of inestimable price; stones
that will be coveted by men and women all the world over; and
last, but not least, stones that are probably destined to largely
influence the development and history of a whole huge continent.
CHAPTER VI
NOTEWORTHY DIAMONDS
Prodigious diamonds are not so uncommon as is generally supposed.
Diamonds weighing over an ounce (151·5 carats) are not unfrequent
at Kimberley. Some years ago, in one parcel of stones, I saw eight
perfect ounce crystals, and one stone weighing 2 ounces (Fig.
12). The largest diamond from the Kimberley mines weighed 428½
carats, or nearly 4 ounces troy. It measured 1⅞ inch through the
longest axis and was 1½ inch square. After cutting it weighed 228½
carats, losing 200 carats in the process. The largest known diamond
was discovered in January, 1905, at the New Premier Mine, near
Pretoria. This mine is of the same type as the Kimberley mines, but
larger in size, and, in fact, is the largest known diamantiferous
pipe in the world--the pipe containing the “blue ground,” along
the longer diameter of its oval-shaped cross-section, measuring
over half a mile, and its area is estimated at 350,000 square
yards. This pipe breaks through felsitic rocks. The diamond, called
“Cullinan” from the name of one of the directors of the company
on whose farm it was discovered, was presented to King Edward on
his birthday by the people of the Transvaal. It weighed no less
than 3025¾ carats, or 9586·5 grains (1·37 lb. avoirdupois). It was
a fragment, probably less than half, of a distorted octahedral
crystal; the other portions still await discovery by some fortunate
miner. The frontispiece shows this diamond in its natural size,
from a photograph taken by myself. I had an opportunity of
examining and experimenting with this unequalled stone before it
was cut. A beam of polarised light passed in any direction through
the stone, and then through an analyser, revealed colours in all
cases, appearing brightest when the light passed along the greatest
diameter--about 4 inches. Here the colours were very fine, but
no regular figure was to be seen. Round a small black spot in
the interior of the stone the colours were very vivid, changing
and rotating round the spot as the analyser was turned. These
observations indicated internal strain.
[Illustration: FIG. 12. A GROUP OF LARGE DIAMOND CRYSTALS.
To face p. 76.]
The clearness throughout was remarkable, the stone being absolutely
limpid like water, with the exception of a few flaws, dark
graphitic spots, and coloured patches close to the outside. At one
part near the surface there was an internal crack, showing well
the colours of thin plates. At another point there was a milky,
opaque mass, of a brown colour, with pieces of what looked like
iron oxide. There were four cleavage planes of great smoothness and
regularity. On other parts of the surface the crystalline structure
was very marked. The edges were rounded in parts, and triangular
markings (depressions) were to be seen. I also noticed square
depressions, nearly as sharp and perfect as the triangular ones.
The cleaving and cutting and polishing of the Cullinan diamond
was entrusted to the firm of Asscher and Co., in Amsterdam. The
cleavage of the diamond was very successfully accomplished by Mr.
Joseph Asscher. An incision half an inch deep was made with a sharp
diamond point in the proper place, then a specially designed knife
blade was placed in the incision and it was struck a heavy blow
with a piece of steel. The diamond split through a defective spot,
part of which was left in each portion of the diamond.
Gigantic as is the Cullinan diamond, it represents in weight less
than half the daily output of the De Beers mines, which averages
about 7000 carats per day.
Next in size to the Cullinan comes the one which was found at the
Jagersfontein Mine. It weighed 970 carats--over half a pound.
The following table gives the names and weights of some historic
diamonds (Fig. 13):
1. Koh-i-noor, after the second cutting, 106 carats.
2. Loterie d’Angleterre, 49 carats.
3. Nizam of Hyderabad, 279 carats.
4. Orloff, 194 carats.
5. Koh-i-noor, after first cutting, 279 carats.
6. Regent or Pitt, 137 carats.
7. Duke of Tuscany, 133 carats.
8. Star of the South, 124 carats.
9. Pole Star, 40 carats.
10. Tiffany, yellow, 125 carats.
11. Hope, blue diamond, 44 carats.
12. Sancy, 53 carats.
13. Empress Eugenie, 51 carats.
14. Shah, 86 carats.
15. Nassak, 79 carats.
16. Pasha of Egypt, 40 carats.
17. Cullinan, 3025 carats.
18. Excelsior, Jagersfontein, 969 carats.
[Illustration: FIG. 13. SOME HISTORIC DIAMONDS.
To face p. 80.]
CHAPTER VII
BOART, CARBONADO, AND GRAPHITE
The black inclusions in some transparent diamonds consist of
graphite. On crushing a clear diamond showing such spots and
heating in oxygen to a temperature well below the point at which
diamond begins to burn, Moissan found that the grey tint of the
powder disappeared, no black spots being seen under the microscope.
There also occur what may be considered intermediate forms between
the well-crystallised diamond and graphite. These are “boart” and
“carbonado.” Boart is an imperfectly crystallised diamond, having
no clear portions, and therefore useless for gems. Shot boart is
frequently found in spherical globules, and may be of all colours.
Ordinary boart is so hard that it is used in rock-drilling,
and when crushed it is employed for cutting and polishing other
stones. Carbonado is the Brazilian term for a still less perfectly
crystallised form of carbon. It is equally hard, and occurs in
porous masses and in massive black pebbles, sometimes weighing two
or more ounces.
The ash left after burning a diamond invariably contains iron as
its chief constituent; and the most common colours of diamonds,
when not perfectly pellucid, show various shades of brown and
yellow, from the palest “off colour” to almost black. These
variations give support to the theory advanced by Moissan that
the diamond has separated from molten iron--a theory of which I
shall say more presently--and also explain how it happens that
stones from different mines, and even from different parts of the
same mine, differ from each other. Further confirmation is given
by the fact that the country round Kimberley is remarkable for
its ferruginous character, and iron-saturated soil is popularly
regarded as one of the indications of the near presence of diamonds.
GRAPHITE
Intermediate between soft carbon and diamond come the graphites.
The name graphite is given to a variety of carbon, generally
crystalline, which in an oxidising mixture of chlorate of potassium
and nitric acid forms graphitic oxide. This varies in colour
from green to brown or yellow, or it is almost without colour,
according to the completeness of the reaction. Graphites are of
varying densities, from 2·0 to 3·0, and generally of crystalline
aspect. Graphite and diamond pass insensibly into one another. Hard
graphite and soft diamond are near the same specific gravity. The
difference appears to be one of pressure at the time of formation.
Some forms of graphite exhibit the remarkable property by which
it is possible to ascertain approximately the temperature at
which they were formed, or to which they have subsequently been
exposed. Sprouting graphite is a form, frequently met with in
nature, which on moderate heating swells up to a bulky, very
light mass of amorphous carbon. Moissan has found it in blue
ground from Kimberley; my own results verify his. When obtained by
simple elevation of temperature in the arc or the electric furnace
graphites do not sprout; but when they are formed by dissolving
carbon in a metal at a high temperature and then allowing the
graphite to separate out on cooling, the sprouting variety appears.
The phenomenon of sprouting is easily shown. If a few grains are
placed in a test-tube and heated to about 170° C., the grains
increase enormously in bulk and fill the tube with a light form of
amorphous carbon.
The resistance of a graphite to oxidising agents is greater the
higher the temperature to which it has previously been exposed.
Graphites which are easily attacked by a mixture of fuming nitric
acid and potassium chlorate are rendered more resistant by strong
heat in the electric furnace.
I have already signified that there are various degrees of
refractoriness to chemical reagents among the different forms of
graphite. Some dissolve in strong nitric acid; other forms of
graphite require a mixture of highly concentrated nitric acid and
potassium chlorate to attack them, and even with this intensely
powerful agent some graphites resist longer than others. M. Moissan
has shown that the power of resistance to nitric acid and potassium
chlorate is in proportion to the temperature at which the graphite
was formed, and with tolerable certainty we can estimate this
temperature by the resistance of the specimen of graphite to this
reagent.
CRYSTALLISATION
The diamond belongs to the isometric system of crystallography; the
prevailing form is octahedral. It frequently occurs with curved
faces and edges. Twin crystals (macles) are not uncommon. Diamond
crystals are generally perfect on all sides. They seldom show
irregular sides or faces by which they were attached to a support,
as do artificial crystals of chemical salts; another proof that the
diamond must have crystallised from a dense liquid.
The accompanying illustration (Fig. 14) shows some of the various
crystalline forms of native diamonds.
[Illustration: FIG. 14. CRYSTALLINE FORMS OF NATIVE DIAMONDS.
To face p. 86.]
No. 1. Diamond in the form of a hexakis-octahedron (the forty-eight
scalenohedron), or a solid figure contained by forty-eight scalene
triangles. According to Professor Maskelyne, this occurs as a
self-existent form only in the diamond.
No. 2. Diamond in the form of a hexakis-octahedron and
octahedron. From Sudafrika.
No. 3. Diamond in the form of octahedron with intersections.
No. 4. Diamond from Brazil.
No. 5. Diamond from Kimberley.
No. 6. Diamond from Brazil.
No, 7. A macle or twin crystal, showing its formation from an
octahedron with curved edges.
* * * * *
Some crystals of diamonds have their surfaces beautifully marked
with equilateral triangles, interlaced and of varying sizes
(Fig. 15). Under the microscope these markings appear as hollow
depressions sharply cut out of the surrounding surface, and
these depressions were supposed by Gustav Rose to indicate the
probability that the diamonds had at some previous time been
exposed to incipient combustion. Rose pointed out that similar
triangular striations appeared on the surfaces of diamonds burnt
before the blowpipe. This experiment I have repeated on a clear
diamond, and I have satisfied myself that during combustion
before the blowpipe, in the field of a microscope, the surface is
etched with triangular markings different in character from those
naturally on crystals (Fig. 16). The artificial striæ are very
irregular, much smaller, and massed closer together, looking as
if the diamond during combustion flaked away in triangular chips,
while the markings natural to crystals appear as if produced by
the crystallising force as they were being built up. Many crystals
of chemical compounds appear striated from both these causes.
Geometrical markings can be produced by eroding the surface of a
crystal of alum with water, and they also occur naturally during
crystallisation.
[Illustration: FIG. 15. TRIANGULAR MARKINGS ON NATURAL FACE OF A
DIAMOND CRYSTAL.]
[Illustration: FIG. 16. TRIANGULAR MARKINGS ARTIFICIALLY PRODUCED
ON A DIAMOND CRYSTAL.
To face page 88.]
CHAPTER VIII
PHYSICAL AND CHEMICAL PROPERTIES OF THE DIAMOND
I need scarcely say the diamond is almost pure carbon, and it is
the hardest substance in nature.
When heated in air or oxygen to a temperature varying from 760°
to 875° C., according to its hardness, the diamond burns with
production of carbonic acid. It leaves an extremely light ash,
sometimes retaining the shape of the crystal, consisting of iron,
lime, magnesia, silica, and titanium. In boart and carbonado
the amount of ash sometimes rises to 4 per cent, but in clear
crystallised diamonds it is seldom higher than 0·05 per cent. By
far the largest constituent of the ash is iron.
The following table shows the temperatures of combustion in oxygen
of different kinds of carbon:
°C.
Condensed vapour of carbon 650
Carbon from sugar, heated in an electrical furnace 660
Artificial graphites, generally 660
Graphite from ordinary cast-iron 670
Carbon from blue ground, of an ochre colour 690
Carbon from blue ground, very hard and black 710
Diamond, soft Brazilian 760
Diamond, hard Kimberley 780
Boart from Brazil 790
Boart from Kimberley 790
Boart, very hard, almost impossible to cut 900
HARDNESS
Diamonds vary considerably in hardness, and even different parts
of the same crystal differ in their resistance to cutting and
grinding.
Beautifully white diamonds have been found at Inverel, New South
Wales, and from the rich yield of the mine and the white colour of
the stones great things were expected. In the first parcel which
came to England the stones were found to be so much harder than
South African diamonds that it was at first feared they would be
useless except for rock-boring purposes. The difficulty of cutting
them disappeared with improved appliances, and they now are highly
prized.
The famous Koh-i-noor, when being cut into its present form, showed
a notable variation in hardness. In cutting one of the facets near
a yellow flaw, the crystal became harder and harder the further
it was cut, until, after working the mill for six hours at the
usual speed of 2400 revolutions a minute, little impression was
made. The speed was increased to more than 3000, when the work
slowly proceeded. Other portions of the stone were found to be
comparatively soft, and became harder as the outside was cut away.
The intense hardness of the diamond can be illustrated by the
following experiment. On the flattened apex of a conical block
of steel place a diamond, and upon it bring down a second cone
of steel. On forcing together the two steel cones by hydraulic
pressure the stone is squeezed into the steel blocks without
injuring it in the slightest degree.
In an experiment I made at Kimberley the pressure gauge showed 60
atmospheres, and the piston being 3·2 inches diameter, the absolute
pressure was 3·16 tons, equivalent on a diamond of 12 square mm.
surface to 170 tons per square inch of diamond.
The use of diamond in glass-cutting I need not dwell on. So hard is
diamond in comparison to glass, that a suitable splinter of diamond
will plane curls off a glass plate as a carpenter’s tool will plane
shavings off a deal board. The illustration (Fig. 17) shows a few
diamond-cut glass shavings.
DENSITY OR SPECIFIC GRAVITY
The specific gravity of the diamond varies ordinarily from 3·514
to 3·518. For comparison, I give in tabular form the specific
gravities of the different varieties of carbon and of the minerals
found on the sorting tables:
SPECIFIC
GRAVITY.
Amorphous carbon 1·45-1·70
Hard gas coke 2·356
Hard graphite 2·5
Quartzite and granite 2·6
Beryl 2·7
Mica 2·8
Hornblende 3·0
Boart 3·47-3·49
Carbonado 3·50
Diamond 3·514-3·518
Garnet 3·7
Corundum 3·8
Zircon 4·4
Barytes 4·5
Chrome and titanic iron ore 4·7
Magnetite 5·0
There is a substance, the double nitrate of silver and thallium,
which, while solid at ordinary temperatures, liquefies at 75° C.
and then has a specific gravity of 4·5. Admixture with water lowers
the density to any desired point.
If a glass cell is taken containing this liquid diluted to a
density of about 3·6, and in it is thrown pieces of the above-named
minerals, all those whose density is lower than 3·6 will rise to
the surface, while the denser minerals will sink. If now a little
water is carefully added with constantly stirring until the density
of the liquid is reduced to that of the diamond, the heterogeneous
collection sorts itself into three parts. The graphite, quartz,
beryl, mica, and hornblende rise to the surface; the garnet,
corundum, zircons, etc., sink to the bottom, while the diamonds
float in the middle of the liquid. With a platinum landing-net I
can skim off the swimmers and put them into one dish; with the
same net I can fish out the diamonds and put them in a second
dish, while by raising a sieve at the bottom I can remove the heavy
minerals and put them into a third. The accurate separation of
diamonds from the heterogeneous mixture can be effected in less
time than is taken to describe the experiment.
The table shows that diamonds vary somewhat in density among
themselves, between narrow limits. Occasionally, however, diamonds
overpass these figures. Here is an illustration. In a test-tube of
the same dense liquid are three selected diamonds. One rises to the
top, another floats uncertain where to settle, rising and falling
as the temperature of the sorting liquid is raised or lowered,
whilst the third sinks to the bottom. Allowing the liquid to cool
a degree or two slightly increases the density and sends all three
to the surface.
PHOSPHORESCENCE OF DIAMOND
After exposure for some time to the sun many diamonds glow in
a dark room. Some diamonds are fluorescent, appearing milky in
sunlight. In a vacuum, exposed to a high-tension current of
electricity, diamonds phosphoresce of different colours, most South
African diamonds shining with a bluish light. Diamonds from other
localities emit bright blue, apricot, pale blue, red, yellowish
green, orange, and pale green light. The most phosphorescent
diamonds are those which are fluorescent in the sun. One beautiful
green diamond in the writer’s collection, when phosphorescing in a
good vacuum, gives almost as much light as a candle, and you can
easily read by its rays. But the time has hardly come when diamonds
can be used as domestic illuminants! The emitted light is pale
green, tending to white, and in its spectrum, when strong, can be
seen bright lines, one at about λ 5370 in the green, one at λ 5130
in the greenish blue, and one at λ 5030 in the blue. A beautiful
collection of diamond crystals belonging to Professor Maskelyne
phosphoresces with nearly all the colours of the rainbow, the
different faces glowing with different shades of colour. Diamonds
which phosphoresce red generally show the yellow sodium line on
a continuous spectrum. In one Brazilian diamond phosphorescing a
reddish-yellow colour I detected in its spectrum the citron line
characteristic of yttrium.
The rays which make the diamond phosphoresce are high in the
ultra-violet. To illustrate this phosphorescence under the
influence of the ultra-violet rays, arrange a powerful source
of these rays, and in front expose a design made up of certain
minerals, willemite, franklinite, calcite, etc.--phosphorescing
of different colours. Their brilliant glow ceases entirely when a
thin piece of glass is interposed between them and the ultra-violet
lamp.
I now draw attention to a strange property of the diamond, which
at first sight might seem to discount the great permanence and
unalterability of this stone. It has been ascertained that the
cause of phosphorescence is in some way connected with the
hammering of the electrons, violently driven from the negative
pole on to the surface of the body under examination, and so great
is the energy of the bombardment, that impinging on a piece of
platinum or even iridium, the metal will actually melt. When the
diamond is thus bombarded in a radiant matter tube the result is
startling. It not only phosphoresces, but becomes discoloured,
and in course of time becomes black on the surface. Some diamonds
blacken in the course of a few minutes, while others require an
hour or more to discolour. This blackening is only superficial,
and although no ordinary means of cleaning will remove the
discolouration, it goes at once when the stone is polished with
diamond powder. Ordinary oxidising reagents have little or no
effect in restoring the colour.
[Illustration: FIG. 17. DIAMOND-CUT GLASS AND SHAVINGS.]
[Illustration: FIG. 18. DIAMONDS IN RÖNTGEN RAYS.
A. BLACK DIAMOND IN GOLD FRAME.
B. PINK DELHI DIAMOND.
C. PASTE IMITATION OF B.
To face p. 98.]
The superficial dark coating on a diamond after exposure to
molecular bombardment I have proved to be graphite. M. Moissan has
shown that this graphite, on account of its great resistance to
oxidising reagents, cannot have been formed at a lower temperature
than 3600° C.
It is thus manifest that the bombarding electrons, striking the
diamond with enormous velocity, raise the superficial layer to the
temperature of the electric arc and turn it into graphite, whilst
the mass of diamond and its conductivity to heat are sufficient to
keep down the general temperature to such a point that the tube
appears scarcely more than warm to the touch.
A similar action occurs with silver, the superficial layers of
which can be raised to a red heat without the whole mass becoming
more than warm.
CONVERSION OF DIAMOND INTO GRAPHITE
Although we cannot convert graphite into diamond, we can change
the diamond into graphite. A clear crystal of diamond is placed
between two carbon poles, and the poles with intervening diamond
are brought together and an arc formed between. The temperature of
the diamond rapidly rises, and when it approaches 3600° C., the
vaporising point of carbon, it breaks down, swells, and changes
into black and valueless graphite.
TRIBO-LUMINESCENCE
A few minerals give out light when rubbed. In the year 1663 the
Hon. Robert Boyle read a paper before the Royal Society, in which
he described several experiments made with a diamond which markedly
showed tribo-luminescence. As specimens of tribo-luminescent bodies
I may instance sphalerite (sulphide of zinc), and an artificial
sphalerite, which is even more responsive to friction than the
native sulphide.[6]
Mrs. Kunz, wife of the well-known New York mineralogist, possesses,
perhaps, the most remarkable of all phosphorescing diamonds. This
prodigy diamond will phosphoresce in the dark for some minutes
after being exposed to a small pocket electric light, and if rubbed
on a piece of cloth a long streak of phosphorescence appears.
ABSORPTION SPECTRUM OF DIAMOND
On passing a ray of light through a diamond and examining it in a
spectroscope, Walter has found in all colourless brilliants of over
1 carat in weight an absorption band at wave-length 4155 (violet).
He ascribes this band to an impurity and suggests it may possibly
be due to samarium. Three other fainter lines were detected in the
ultra-violet by means of photography.
REFRACTIVITY
But it is not the hardness of the diamond so much as its optical
qualities that make it so highly prized. It is one of the most
refracting substances in nature, and it also has the highest
reflecting properties. In the cutting of diamonds advantage is
taken of these qualities. When cut as a brilliant the facets on
the lower side are inclined so that light falls on them at an
angle of 24° 13´, at which angle all the incident light is totally
reflected. A well-cut brilliant should appear opaque by transmitted
light except at a small spot in the middle where the table and
culet are opposite. All the light falling on the front of the
stone is reflected from the facets, and the light passing into the
diamond is reflected from the interior surfaces and refracted
into colours when it passes out into the air, giving rise to the
lightnings, the effulgence, and coruscations for which the diamond
is supreme above all other gems.
The following table gives the refractive indices of diamonds and
other bodies:
REFRACTIVE INDICES FOR THE D LINE
Chromate of lead 2·50-2·97
Diamond 2·47-2·75
Phosphorus 2·22
Sulphur 2·12
Ruby 1·78
Thallium glass 1·75
Iceland spar 1·65
Topaz 1·61
Beryl 1·60
Emerald 1·59
Flint glass 1·58
Quartz 1·55
Canada balsam 1·53
Crown glass 1·53
Fluor-spar 1·44
Ice 1·31
In vain I have searched for a liquid of the same refraction as
diamond. Such a liquid would be invaluable to the merchant, as
on immersing a stone the clear body would absolutely disappear,
leaving in all their ugliness the flaws and black specks so
frequently seen even in the best stones.
THE DIAMOND AND POLARISED LIGHT
Having no double refraction, the diamond should not act on
polarised light. But as is well known, if a transparent body which
does not so act is submitted to strain of an irregular character
it becomes doubly refracting, and in the polariscope reveals the
existence of the strain by brilliant colours arranged in a more or
less defined pattern, according to the state of tension in which
the crystal exists. I have examined many hundred diamond crystals
under polarised light, and with few exceptions the colours show how
great is the strain to which some of them are exposed. On rotating
the polariser, the black cross most frequently seen revolves round
a particular point in the inside of the crystal; on examining
this point with a high power we sometimes see a slight flaw, more
rarely a minute cavity. The cavity is filled with gas at enormous
pressure, and the strain is set up in the stone by the effort of
the gas to escape. I have already said that the great Cullinan
diamond by this means revealed a state of considerable internal
stress and strain.
So great is this strain of internal tension that it is not uncommon
for a diamond to explode soon after it reaches the surface, and
some have been known to burst in the pockets of the miners or when
held in the warm hand. Large crystals are more liable to burst than
smaller pieces. Valuable stones have been destroyed in this way,
and it is whispered that cunning dealers are not averse to allowing
responsible clients to handle or carry in their warm pockets large
crystals fresh from the mine. By way of safeguard against explosion
some dealers imbed large diamonds in raw potato to ensure safe
transit to England.
The anomalous action which many diamonds exert on polarised light
is not such as can be induced by heat, but it can easily be
conferred on diamonds by pressure, showing that the strain has not
been produced by sudden cooling, but by sudden lowering of pressure.
The illustration of this peculiarity is not only difficult, but
sometimes exceedingly costly--difficult because it is necessary to
arrange for projecting on the screen the image of a diamond crystal
between the jaws of a hydraulic press, the illuminating light
having to pass through delicate optical polarising apparatus--and
costly because only perfectly clear crystals can be used, and
crystals of this character sometimes fly to pieces as the pressure
rises. At first no colour is seen on the screen, the crystal not
being birefringent. A movement of the handle of the press, however,
gives the crystal a pinch, instantly responded to by the colours on
the screen, showing the production of double refraction. Another
movement of the handle brightens the colours, and a third may
strain the crystal beyond its power of resistance, when the crystal
flies to pieces.
THE DIAMOND AND RÖNTGEN RAYS
The diamond is remarkable in another respect. It is extremely
transparent to the Röntgen rays, whereas highly refracting glass,
used in imitation diamonds, is almost perfectly opaque to the rays.
I exposed for a few seconds over a photographic plate to the X-rays
the large Delhi diamond of a rose-pink colour weighing 31½ carats,
a black diamond weighing 23 carats, and a glass imitation of the
pink diamond (Fig. 18). On development the impression where the
diamond obscured the rays was found to be strong, showing that
most rays passed through, while the glass was practically opaque.
By this means imitation diamonds can readily be distinguished from
true gems.
ACTION OF RADIUM ON DIAMOND
The β-rays from radium having like properties to the stream of
negative electrons in a radiant matter tube, it was of interest to
ascertain if they would exert a like difference on diamond. The
diamond glows under the influence of the β-radiations, and crushed
diamond cemented to a piece of card or metal makes an excellent
screen in a spinthariscope--almost as good as zinc sulphide. Some
colourless crystals of diamond were imbedded in radium bromide and
kept undisturbed for more than twelve months. At the end of that
time they were examined. The radium had caused them to assume a
bluish-green colour, and their value as “fancy stones” had been
increased.
This colour is persistent and penetrates below the surface. It
is unaffected by long-continued heating in strong nitric acid and
potassium chlorate, and is not discharged by heating to redness.
To find out if this prolonged contact with radium had communicated
to the diamond any radio-active properties, six diamonds were put
on a photographic plate and kept in the dark for a few hours. All
showed radio-activity by darkening the sensitive plate, some being
more-active than others. Like the green tint, the radio-activity
persists after drastic treatment. To me this proves that
radio-activity does not merely consist in the adhesion of electrons
or emanations given off by radium to the surface of an adjacent
body, but the property is one involving layers below the surface,
and like the alteration of tint, is probably closely connected with
the intense molecular excitement the stone had experienced during
its twelve months’ burial in radium bromide.
A diamond that had been coloured by radium, and had acquired
strong radio-active properties, was slowly heated to dull redness
in a dark room. Just before visibility a faint phosphorescence
spread over the stone. On cooling and examining the diamond it was
found that neither the colour nor the radio-activity had suffered
appreciably.
BOILING- AND MELTING-POINT OF CARBON
On the average the critical point of a substance is 1·5 times its
absolute boiling-point. Therefore the critical point of carbon
should be about 5800° Ab. But the absolute critical temperature
divided by the critical pressure is for all the elements so far
examined never less than 2·5; this being about the value Sir James
Dewar finds for hydrogen. So that, accepting this, we get the
maximum critical pressure as follows, viz. 2320 atmospheres:
(5800° Ab.)/CrP = 2.5, or CrP = (5800 Ab.)/2.5,
or 2320 atmospheres.
Carbon and arsenic are the only two elements that have a
melting-point above the boiling-point; and among compounds carbonic
acid and fluoride of silicium are the only other bodies with
similar properties. Now the melting-point of arsenic is about
1·2 times its absolute boiling-point. With carbonic acid and
fluoride of silicium the melting-points are about 1·1 times their
boiling-points. Applying these ratios to carbon, we find that its
melting-point would be about 4400°.
Therefore, assuming the following data:
Boiling-point 3870° Ab.
Melting-point 4400°
Critical temperature 5800°
Critical pressure 2320 Ats.
the Rankine or Van der Waals formula, calculated from the
boiling-point and critical data, would be as follows:
log. P = 10·11 - 39120/T,
and this gives for a temperature of 4400° Ab. a pressure of 16·6
Ats. as the melting-point pressure. The results of the formula are
given in the form of a table:
Temperature Pressure
Ab. Ats.
3870° 1·00 Boiling-point.
4000° 2·14
4200° 6·25
4400° 16·6 Melting-point.
4600° 40·4
4800° 91·2
5000° 193
5200° 386
5400° 735
5600° 1330
5800° 2320 Critical point (15 tons per square inch).
[Illustration: FIG. 19. CURVE OF VAPOUR PRESSURE OF CARBON]
If, then, we may reason from these rough estimates, above a
temperature of 5800° Ab. no amount of pressure will cause carbon
vapour to assume liquid form, whilst at 4400° Ab. a pressure
of above 17 atmospheres would suffice to liquefy some of it.
Between these extremes the curve of vapour pressure is assumed to
be logarithmic, as represented in the accompanying diagram. The
constant 39120 which occurs in the logarithmic formula enables
us to calculate the latent heat of evaporation. If we assume the
vapour density to be normal, or the molecule in vapour as C_{2},
then the heat of volatilisation of 12 grms. of carbon would
be 90,000 calories; or, if the vapour is a condensed molecule
like C_{6}, then the 12 grms. would need 30,000 calories. In the
latter case the evaporation of 1 grm. of carbon would require
2500 calories, whereas a substance like zinc needs only about 400
calories.
CHAPTER IX
GENESIS OF THE DIAMOND
Speculations as to the probable origin of the diamond have been
greatly forwarded by patient research, and particularly by improved
means of obtaining high temperatures, an advance we owe principally
to the researches of the late Professor Moissan.
Until recent years carbon was considered absolutely non-volatile
and infusible; but the enormous temperatures placed at the disposal
of experimentalists by the introduction of electricity show
that, instead of breaking rules, carbon obeys the same laws that
govern other bodies. It volatilises at the ordinary pressure at a
temperature of about 3600° C., and passes from the solid to the
gaseous state without liquefying. It has been found that other
bodies, such as arsenic, which volatilise without liquefying at
the ordinary pressure, will easily liquefy if pressure is added to
temperature. It naturally follows that if along with the requisite
temperature sufficient pressure is applied, liquefaction of carbon
will take place, when on cooling it will crystallise. But carbon at
high temperatures is a most energetic chemical agent, and if it can
get hold of oxygen from the atmosphere or any compound containing
it, it will oxidise and fly off in the form of carbonic acid. Heat
and pressure therefore are of no avail unless the carbon can be
kept inert.
It has long been known that iron, when melted, dissolves carbon,
and on cooling liberates it in the form of graphite. Moissan
discovered that several other metals, especially silver, have
similar properties; but iron is the best solvent for carbon. The
quantity of carbon entering into solution increases with the
temperature.
[Illustration: FIG. 20. MOISSAN’S ELECTRIC FURNACE.
To face p. 116.]
For the artificial manufacture of diamond the first necessity is
to select pure iron--free from sulphur, silicon, phosphorus,
etc.--and to pack it in a carbon crucible with pure charcoal from
sugar. The crucible is then put into the body of the electric
furnace and a powerful arc formed close above it between carbon
poles, utilising a current of 700 ampères at 40 volts pressure
(Fig. 20). The iron rapidly melts and saturates itself with carbon.
After a few minutes’ heating to a temperature above 4000° C.--a
temperature at which the iron melts like wax and volatilises in
clouds--the current is stopped and the dazzling fiery crucible is
plunged beneath the surface of cold water, where it is held till
it sinks below a red heat. As is well known, iron increases in
volume at the moment of passing from the liquid to the solid state.
The sudden cooling solidifies the outer layer of iron and holds
the inner molten mass in a tight grip. The expansion of the inner
liquid on solidifying produces an enormous pressure, and under the
stress of this pressure the dissolved carbon separates out in
transparent forms--minutely microscopic, it is true--all the same
veritable diamonds, with crystalline form and appearance, colour,
hardness, and action on light, the same as the natural gem.
Now commences the tedious part of the process. The metallic ingot
is attacked with hot nitro-hydrochloric acid until no more iron
is dissolved. The bulky residue consists chiefly of graphite,
together with translucent chestnut-coloured flakes of carbon,
black opaque carbon of a density of from 3·0 to 3·5 and hard as
diamonds--black diamonds or carbonado, in fact--and a small portion
of transparent, colourless diamonds showing crystalline structure.
Besides these there may be carbide of silicon and corundum, arising
from impurities in the materials employed.
The residue is first heated for some hours with strong sulphuric
acid at the boiling-point, with the cautious addition of powdered
nitre. It is then well washed and for two days allowed to soak in
strong hydrofluoric acid in cold, then in boiling acid. After this
treatment the soft graphite disappears, and most, if not all, the
silicon compounds have been destroyed. Hot sulphuric acid is again
applied to destroy the fluorides, and the residue, well washed, is
attacked with a mixture of the strongest nitric acid and powdered
potassium chlorate, kept warm--but not above 60° C., to avoid
explosions. This treatment must be repeated six or eight times,
when all the hard graphite will gradually be dissolved and little
else left but graphitic oxide, diamond, and the harder carbonado
and boart. The residue is fused for an hour in fluorhydrate or
fluoride of potassium, then boiled out in water and again heated
in sulphuric acid. The well-washed grains which resist this
energetic treatment are dried, carefully deposited on a slide, and
examined under the microscope. Along with numerous pieces of black
diamond are seen transparent, colourless pieces, some amorphous,
others with a crystalline appearance. Fig. 21 B shows one of these
crystalline fragments. Although many fragments of crystals occur,
it is remarkable I have never seen a complete crystal. All appear
shattered, as if on being liberated from the intense pressure
under which they were formed they burst asunder. I have singular
evidence of this phenomenon. A fine piece of artificial diamond,
carefully mounted by me on a microscopic slide, exploded during
the night and covered the slide with fragments. Moissan’s crystals
of artificial diamond sometimes broke a few weeks after their
preparation, and some of the diamonds which cracked weeks or even
months after their preparation showed fissures covered with minute
cubes. I have explained that this bursting paroxysm is not unknown
at the Kimberley mines. So far, all such artificial diamonds are
microscopic. The largest artificial diamond is less than one
millimetre across.
[Illustration: FIG. 21. ARTIFICIAL DIAMOND MADE BY THE AUTHOR FROM
MOLTEN IRON.]
[Illustration: FIG. 22. MOISSAN’S ARTIFICIAL DIAMONDS.
To face p. 120.]
These laboratory diamonds burn in the air before the blowpipe to
carbonic acid. In lustre, crystalline form, optical properties,
density, and hardness they are identical with the natural stone.
In several cases Moissan separated ten to fifteen microscopic
diamonds from a single ingot. The larger of these are about 0·75
mm. long, the octahedra being 0·2 mm.
The accompanying illustrations (Fig. 22) are copied from drawings
in Moissan’s book _Le Four Electrique_.
Along with carbon, molten iron dissolves other bodies which possess
tinctorial powers. We know of blue, green, pink, yellow, and orange
diamonds. One batch of iron might contain an impurity colouring the
stones blue, another lot would tend towards the formation of pink
stones, another of green, and so on. Cobalt, nickel, chromium, and
manganese, all metals present in the blue ground, would produce
these colours.
A NEW FORMATION OF DIAMOND
I have long speculated as to the possibility of obtaining
artificially such pressures and temperatures as would fulfil the
above conditions. In their researches on the gases from fired
gunpowder and cordite, Sir Frederick Abel and Sir Andrew Noble
obtained in closed steel cylinders pressures as great as 95 tons
to the square inch, and temperatures as high as 4000° C. According
to a paper recently communicated to the Royal Society, Sir Andrew
Noble, exploding cordite in closed vessels, has obtained a pressure
of 8000 atmospheres, or 50 tons per square inch, with a temperature
reaching in all probability 5400° Ab.
Here, then, we have conditions favourable for the liquefaction of
carbon, and were the time of explosion sufficient to allow the
reactions to take place, we should certainly expect to get the
liquid carbon to solidify in the crystalline state.[7]
By the kindness of Sir Andrew Noble I have been enabled to work
upon some of the residues obtained in closed vessels after
explosions, and I have submitted them to the same treatment that
the granulated iron had gone through. After weeks of patient toil
I removed the amorphous carbon, the graphite, the silica,[8] and
other constituents of the ash of cordite, and obtained a residue
among which, under the microscope, crystalline particles could be
distinguished. Some of these particles, from their crystalline
appearance and double refraction, were silicon carbide; others
were probably diamonds. The whole residue was dried and fused at a
good red heat in an excess of potassium bifluoride, to which was
added, during fusion, 5 per cent of nitre. (Previous experiments
had shown me that this mixture readily attacked and dissolved
silicon carbide; unfortunately it also attacks diamond to a slight
degree.) All the operations of washing and acid treatment were
performed in a large platinum crucible by decantation (except the
preliminary attack with nitric acid and potassium chlorate, when a
hard glass vessel was used); the final result was washed into a
shallow watch-glass and the selection made under the microscope.
The residue, after thorough washing and then heating in fuming
sulphuric acid, was washed, and the largest crystalline particles
picked out and mounted.
From the treatment the residual crystals had undergone, chemists
will agree with me that diamonds only could stand such an ordeal;
on submitting them to skilled crystallographic authorities my
opinion is confirmed. Speaking of the largest crystal, one eminent
authority calls it “a diamond showing octahedral planes with
dark boundaries due to high refracting index.” After careful
examination, another authority writes of the same crystal diamond,
“I think one may safely say that the position and angles of its
faces, and of its cleavages, the absence of birefringence, and the
high refractive index are all compatible with the properties of the
diamond crystallising in the form of an octahedron. Others of the
remaining crystals, which show a similar high refractive index,
appeared to me to present the same features.”
It would have been more conclusive had I been able to get further
evidence as to the density and hardness of the crystals; but from
what I have already said I think there is no doubt that in these
closed vessel explosions we have another method of producing the
diamond artificially.
CHAPTER X
THE NATURAL FORMATION OF THE DIAMOND
An hypothesis is of little value if it only elucidates half a
problem. Let us see how far we can follow out the ferric hypothesis
to explain the volcanic pipes. In the first place we must remember
these so-called volcanic vents are admittedly not filled with the
eruptive rocks, scoriaceous fragments, etc., constituting the
ordinary contents of volcanic ducts.
Certain artificial diamonds present the appearance of an elongated
drop. I have seen diamonds which have exactly the appearance of
drops of liquid separated in a pasty condition and crystallised
on cooling. Diamonds are sometimes found with little appearance
of crystallisation, but with rounded forms similar to those
which a liquid might assume if kept in the midst of another
liquid with which it would not mix. Other drops of liquid carbon
retained for sufficient time above their melting-point would
coalesce with adjacent drops, and on slow cooling would separate
in the form of large perfect crystals. Two drops, joining after
incipient crystallisation, might assume the not uncommon form of
interpenetrating twin crystals.
Many circumstances point to the conclusion that the diamond of
the chemist and the diamond of the mine are strangely akin as to
origin. It is evident that the diamond has not been formed _in
situ_ in the blue ground. The genesis must have taken place at vast
depths under enormous pressure. The explosion of large diamonds
on coming to the surface shows extreme tension. More diamonds are
found in fragments and splinters than in perfect crystals; and it
is noteworthy that although these splinters and fragments must be
derived from the breaking up of a large crystal, yet in only one
instance have pieces been found which could be fitted together, and
these occurred at different levels. Does not this fact point to the
conclusion that the blue ground is not their true matrix? Nature
does not make fragments of crystals. As the edges of the crystals
are still sharp and unabraded, the _locus_ of formation cannot have
been very distant from the present sites. There were probably many
sites of crystallisation differing in place and time, or we should
not see such distinctive characters in the gems from different
mines, nor indeed in the diamonds from different parts of the same
mine.
I start with the reasonable supposition that at a sufficient
depth[9] there were masses of molten iron at great pressure and
high temperature, holding carbon in solution, ready to crystallise
out on cooling. Far back in time the cooling from above caused
cracks in superjacent strata through which water[10] found its way.
On reaching the incandescent iron the water would be converted
into gas, and this gas would rapidly disintegrate and erode the
channels through which it passed, grooving a passage more and more
vertical in the necessity to find the quickest vent to the surface.
But steam in the presence of molten or even red-hot iron liberates
large volumes of hydrogen gas, together with less quantities of
hydrocarbons[11] of all kinds--liquid, gaseous, and solid. Erosion
commenced by steam would be continued by the other gases; it would
be easy for pipes, large as any found in South Africa, to be
scored out in this manner.
Sir Andrew Noble has shown that when the screw stopper of his
steel cylinders in which gunpowder explodes under pressure is not
absolutely perfect, gas escapes with a rush so overpowering and a
temperature so high as to score a wide channel in the metal. To
illustrate my argument Sir Andrew Noble has been kind enough to try
a special experiment. Through a cylinder of granite he drilled a
hole 0·2 inch diameter, the size of a small vent. This was made the
stopper of an explosion chamber, in which a quantity of cordite was
fired, the gases escaping through the granite vent. The pressure
was about 1500 atmospheres and the whole time of escape was less
than half a second. The erosion produced by the escaping gases and
by the heat of friction scored out a channel more than half an
inch diameter and melted the granite along the course. If steel
and granite are thus vulnerable at comparatively moderate gaseous
pressure, it is easy to imagine the destructive upburst of hydrogen
and water-gas, grooving for itself a channel in the diabase and
quartzite, tearing fragments from resisting rocks, covering the
country with debris, and finally, at the subsidence of the great
rush, filling the self-made pipe with a water-borne magma in which
rocks, minerals, iron oxide, shale, petroleum, and diamonds are
violently churned in a veritable witch’s cauldron! As the heat
abated the water vapour would gradually give place to hot water,
which, forced through the magma, would change some of the mineral
fragments into the existing forms of to-day.
Each outbreak would form a dome-shaped hill; the eroding agency of
water and ice would plane these eminences until all traces of the
original pipes were lost.
Actions such as I have described need not have taken place
simultaneously. As there must have been many molten masses
of iron with variable contents of carbon, different kinds of
colouring matter, solidifying with varying degrees of rapidity,
and coming in contact with water at intervals throughout long
periods of geological time--so must there have been many outbursts
and upheavals, giving rise to pipes containing diamonds. And
these diamonds, by sparseness of distribution, crystalline
character, difference of tint, purity of colour, varying hardness,
brittleness, and state of tension, have the story of their origin
impressed upon them, engraved by natural forces--a story which
future generations of scientific men may be able to interpret with
greater precision than is possible to-day.
CHAPTER XI
METEORIC DIAMONDS
Sensational as is the story of the diamond industry in South
Africa, quite another aspect fixes the attention of the chemist.
The diamonds come out of the mines, but how did they get in? How
were they formed? What is their origin?
Gardner Williams, who knows more about diamonds than any man
living, is little inclined to indulge in speculation. In his
fascinating book he frankly says:
“I have been frequently asked, ‘What is your theory of the original
crystallisation of the diamond?’ and the answer has always been, ‘I
have none; for after seventeen years of thoughtful study, coupled
with practical research, I find that it is easier to “drive a coach
and four” through most theories that have been propounded than to
suggest one which would be based on any non-assailable data.’
All that can be said is that in some unknown manner carbon, which
existed deep down in the internal regions of the earth, was changed
from its black and uninviting appearance to the most beautiful gem
which ever saw the light of day.”
Another diamond theory appeals to the imagination. It is said
the diamond is a gift from Heaven, conveyed to earth in meteoric
showers. The suggestion, I believe, was first broached by A.
Meydenbauer,[12] who says, “The diamond can only be of cosmic
origin, having fallen as a meteorite at later periods of the
earth’s formation. The available localities of the diamond contain
the residues of not very compact meteoric masses which may,
perhaps, have fallen in prehistoric ages, and which have penetrated
more or less deeply, according to the more or less resistant
character of the surface where they fell. Their remains are
crumbling away on exposure to the air and sun, and the rain has
long ago washed away all prominent masses. The enclosed diamonds
have remained scattered in the river beds, while the fine light
matrix has been swept away.”
According to this hypothesis, the so-called volcanic pipes are
simply holes bored in the solid earth by the impact of monstrous
meteors--the larger masses boring the holes, while the smaller
masses, disintegrating in their fall, distributed diamonds
broadcast. Bizarre as such a theory appears, I am bound to say
there are many circumstances which show that the notion of the
heavens raining diamonds is not impossible.
The most striking confirmation of the meteoric theory comes from
Arizona. Here, on a broad open plain, over an area about five
miles in diameter, have been scattered one or two thousand masses
of metallic iron, the fragments varying in weight from half a ton
to a fraction of an ounce. There is no doubt these masses formed
part of a meteoric shower, although no record exists as to when
the fall took place. Curiously enough, near the centre, where most
of the meteorites have been found, is a crater with raised edges
three-quarters of a mile in diameter and about 600 feet deep,
bearing exactly the appearance which would be produced had a mighty
mass of iron struck the ground and buried itself deep under the
surface. Altogether, ten tons of this iron have been collected, and
specimens of the Canyon Diablo meteorite are in most collectors’
cabinets.
An ardent mineralogist--the late Dr. Foote--cutting a section of
this meteorite, found the tools were injured by something vastly
harder than metallic iron. He examined the specimen chemically,
and soon after announced to the scientific world that the Canyon
Diablo meteorite contained black and transparent diamonds. This
startling discovery was afterwards verified by Professors Moissan
and Friedel, and Moissan, working on 183 kilogrammes of the Canyon
Diablo meteorite, has recently found smooth black diamonds and
transparent diamonds in the form of octahedra with rounded edges,
together with green, hexagonal crystals of carbon silicide. The
presence of carbon silicide in the meteorite shows that it must at
some time have experienced the temperature of the electric furnace.
Since this revelation the search for diamonds in meteorites has
occupied the attention of chemists all over the world.
Fig. 23 A, C, and D, are reproductions of photographs of true
diamonds I myself have extracted from the Canyon Diablo meteorite.
[Illustration: FIG. 23. DIAMONDS FROM CANYON DIABLO METEORITE.
To face p. 138.]
Under atmospheric influences the iron would rapidly oxidise and
rust away, colouring the adjacent soil with red oxide of iron.
The meteoric diamonds would be unaffected and left on the surface
of the soil, to be found haphazard when oxidation had removed the
last proof of their celestial origin. That there are still lumps of
iron left at Arizona is merely due to the extreme dryness of the
climate and the comparatively short time that the iron has been on
our planet. We are here witnesses to the course of an event which
may have happened in geologic times anywhere on the earth’s surface.
Although in Arizona diamonds have fallen from the skies,
confounding our senses, this descent of precious stones is what may
be called a freak of nature rather than a normal occurrence. To
the modern student of science there is no great difference between
the composition of our earth and that of extra-terrestrial masses.
The mineral peridot is a constant extra-terrestrial visitor,
present in most meteorites. And yet no one doubts that peridot
is also a true constituent of rocks formed on this earth. The
spectroscope reveals that the elementary composition of the stars
and the earth are pretty much the same; and the spectroscope also
shows that meteorites have as much of earth as of heaven in their
composition. Indeed, not only are the selfsame elements present in
meteorites, but they are combined in the same way to form the same
minerals as in the crust of the earth.
It is certain from observations I have made, corroborated
by experience gained in the laboratory, that iron at a high
temperature and under great pressure--conditions existent at great
depths below the surface of the earth--acts as the long-sought
solvent for carbon, and will allow it to crystallise out in the
form of diamond. But it is also certain, from the evidence afforded
by the Arizona and other meteorites, that similar conditions have
existed among bodies in space, and that on more than one occasion a
meteorite freighted with jewels has fallen as a star from the sky.
INDEX
Able, Sir F., closed vessel experiments, 122
Absorption spectrum of diamond, 101
Aliwal North, 6
Alluvial deposits of diamonds, 9
Amygdaloidal trap, 10
Arizona meteor, 136
Arkansas, diamonds in, 2
Ash of diamond, 82, 89
Augite, 20
Automatic diamond collector, 56
Barytes, 71
-- density of, 93
Basalt, 15
Basutos, 12, 39
Bechuanas, 12, 39
Beryl, density of, 93
-- refractive index of, 103
Biotite, 20
Blackening of diamonds, 98
Blue ground, 10, 47
-- -- diamantiferous, 18, 19
Boart, 81,
-- combustion temperature of, 90
-- density of, 93
Boiling-point of carbon, 110
Bonney, Rev. Professor, 67
Boyle on the diamond, 100
Brazil, diamonds in, 4
Breakwater, Cape Town, 36
Breccia, diamantiferous, 19
Brilliant cut diamond, 102
British Association in South Africa, 7
British Guiana, diamonds in, 4
Bronzite, 20, 71
-- hydrated, 19
Bultfontein Mine, 14
-- -- characteristics of diamond from, 64
Bursting of diamonds, 105
Calcite, 20, 97
California, diamonds in, 3
Canada balsam, refractive index of, 103
Canyon Diablo meteorite, 136
Cape Colony, 5
Cape Town, 5
Carat, equivalent in grains, 69
Carbon, boiling and melting point of, 110
-- combustion temperature of, 90
-- critical point of, 110
-- density of, 93
-- dissolved in iron, 116
-- volatilisation of, 115
Carbonado, 81
-- density of, 93
Characteristics of diamonds from the different mines, 64
Chemical properties of diamond, 89
Chromate of lead, refractive index of, 103
Chrome diopside, 71
-- iron, 20
-- -- ore, 71
-- -- -- density of, 93
Chromite, 20
Classification of rough diamonds, 73
Cleavage of diamonds, 78
Coke, density of, 93
Colesberg Kopje, 26
Collecting the gems, 55
Coloured diamonds, 62, 82
Combustion of diamond, 89
-- temperatures of diamond, boart, graphite, and carbon, 90
“Comet” crushers, 49
Compound system, 36, 37
Concentrating and washing machinery, 49
Convict labourers, 71
Cordite, diamond from explosion of, 123
Corundum, 20
-- density of, 93
Cradock, 6
Craters or pipes, 18
Crown glass, refractive index of, 103
Crusher, “Comet,” 49
Crystallisation of diamond, 86
Crystals, octahedra, of diamond, 63, 86
Cullinan diamond, 15, 76, 80, 104
Dallas, Captain, 40
De Beers Consolidated Mines, 7, 33
-- -- floors at Kenilworth, 47
-- -- Mine, 14, 24, 34
-- -- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 64
-- -- strong-room, 74
Delhi diamond, 107
Density of diamond, 57, 93
-- of graphite, 83, 93
-- of stones accompanying diamond, 70, 71, 93, 95
Depositing floors, 46
Dewar, Sir J., conversion of diamond into graphite, 123
Diabase, olivine, 16
Diallage, 20
Diamond, absorption spectrum of, 101
-- and polarised light, 104
-- a new formation of, 122
-- ash of, 82, 89
-- collector, automatic, 56
-- combustion of, 89
-- -- temperature of, 90
-- converted into graphite, 100
-- density of, 57, 93
-- etched by burning, 88
-- explosion of, 120
-- genesis of the, 115
-- in meteors, 134
-- in Röntgen rays, 107
-- matrix of, 67
-- natural formation of, 127
-- Office at Kimberley, 73
-- physical and chemical properties of, 89
-- pipes or craters, 18
-- radio-activity of, 109
-- refractive index of, 103
-- Trade Act, 36
-- triangular markings on, 87
-- tribo-luminescence of, 100
Diamonds, coloured or fancy, 62, 82
-- Maskelyne on, 1
-- noteworthy, 76
-- phosphorescence of, 96
-- produced, weight, value of, 35
-- yield of, from De Beers, 60
Drift, diamonds from the, 12
Duke of Tuscany diamond, 80
Dutch boart, or zircon, 59
Dutoitspan Mine, 14, 23
-- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 64
Eclogite, 20
-- containing diamonds, 67
Electrons, bombardment by, 98
Emerald, refractive index of, 103
Empress Eugenie diamond, 80
Enstatite, 20
Explosion of diamonds, 120
Excelsior diamond, 80
Fancy stones, 62
Fingoes, 39
Flint glass, refractive index of, 103
“Floating Reef,” 21
Floors, depositing, 46
Fluor-spar, refractive index of, 103
Formation, new, of diamond, 122
Fort Beaufort, 6
Franklinite, 97
Frank Smith Mine, 15
-- -- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 66
Fraserburg, 6
Garnet, 20, 70
-- density of, 93
Genesis of the diamond, 115
“Golden fancies,” 65
Granite, 18
-- density of, 93
Graphite, 81, 83
-- combustion temperature of, 90
-- conversion of diamond into, 100
-- density of, 93
-- diamonds coated with, 99
Graphitic oxide, 83, 93
Grease, collecting diamonds by aid of, 57
Hard blue ground, 47
Hardness of diamond, 90
Haulage system, 46
Hexakis-octahedron crystal, 86
Hope blue diamond, the, 80
Hornblende, 71
-- density of, 93
Iceland spar, refractive index of, 103
Ice, refractive index of, 103
I.D.B. laws (Illicit Diamond Buying), 36
Ilmenite, 20
India, diamonds in, 4
Inverel diamonds, 91
Internal strain in diamonds, 104
Iron a solvent for carbon, 116
-- ore, density of, 93
-- pyrites, 20
Jagersfontein diamond, 79
-- Mine, 14
-- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 68
Jeffreysite, 20
Kafirs, 42
Kamfersdam Mine, 15
-- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 66
Kenilworth depositing floors, 47
Kimberley, 6
-- blue ground, 10
-- mines, 14, 23, 34
-- Mine in old days, 25
-- -- at the present day, 34
-- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 63
-- shales, 15
-- West Mine, 15
-- -- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 66
Kirsten’s automatic diamond collector, 57
Klipdam, 8, 23
Koffyfontein Mine, 14
Koh-i-noor diamond, 80
-- hardness of, 91
Kyanite, 20, 71
Lamp, ultra-violet, 97
Leicester Mine, 15, 23
-- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 67
Loterie d’Angleterre diamond, 80
Lustre of rough diamonds, 56
Machinery for washing and concentrating, 49
Macles, 86
Magnetite, 20, 71
-- density of, 93
Maskelyne on diamonds, 1
Matabele, 12, 39
Matrix of diamond, 67
Melaphyre, 10, 16
Melting-point of carbon, 110
Meteor, Canyon Diablo, 136
Meteoric diamonds, 134
Meydenbauer on meteoric diamonds, 135
Mica, 20, 71
-- density of, 93
Moissan’s experiments on the genesis of diamond, 115
Mud volcano, 24
Nassak diamond, 80
Natal, coal in, 6
Natural formation of diamond, 127
Newlands Mine, 15
-- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 67
New Rush diggings, 26
Nizam of Hyderabad diamond, 80
Noble, Sir A., experiments, 122, 131
Noteworthy diamonds, 76
Octahedral crystals of diamond, 63, 86
Olivine, 20
-- diabase, 16
Orange River Colony, coal in, 6
-- -- -- diamonds in, 14
Orloff diamond, 80
Pasha of Egypt diamond, 80
Paterson, Mr., description of Kimberley in old days, 25
Peridot, 20, 139
Peridotite, 3
Perofskite, 20
Phosphorescence of diamonds, 96
Phosphorus, refractive index of, 103
Physical properties of diamond, 89
Picking tables, 51
Pipes or craters, 18
Pitt diamond, 80
Polarised light and diamond, 104
Pole Star diamond, 80
Pondos, 39, 42
Premier Mine, 15, 76
Prodigious diamonds, 76
Pseudobrookite, 20
Pulsator, 52
Pyrope, 70
Quartzite, 16, 20
-- density of, 93
-- refractive index of, 103
Radio-activity of diamond, 109
Radium, action on diamond, 108
“Reef,” 21
Refractive indices, 103
Refractivity of diamond, 102
Regent diamond, 80
Reunert, Mr., description of Kimberley Mine, 30
Rhodes, Cecil John, 34
River washings, 7
Rock shafts, 43
Röntgen rays, diamond in, 107
Ruby, refractive index of, 103
Rutile, 20
Sahlite, 20
Sancy diamond, 80
Savings of the native workmen, 41
Scalenohedron diamond crystal, 86
Serpentine, 19
Shafts, rock, 43
Shah diamond, 80
Shales, Kimberley, 15
Shangains, 39
Shells in blue ground, 21
Shot boart, 81
Silver and thallium, nitrate of, 94
Smaragdite, 20
Soft blue ground, 47
Sorting the diamantiferous gravel, 55
Specific gravity, _see_ Density
Spectrum, absorption of diamond, 101
Sphalerite, 100
Spinthariscope, 108
Sprat’s _History of the Royal Society_, 1
Sprouting graphite, 84
Star of the South diamond, 80
Stones other than diamonds, 70, 71, 93, 95
Strain, internal, in diamonds, 104
Sulphur, refractive index of, 103
Swazis, 39
Ultra-violet lamp to show phosphorescence, 97
Underground workings, 43
United States, diamonds in, 2
Vaalite, 20
Vaal River, 8, 16
Valuators, 73
Value of diamonds per carat, 12, 69
Value of diamonds, progressive increase in, 69
Vermiculite, 20
Volatilisation of carbon, 115
Volcanic necks, 18
Volcano, mud, 24
Wages, scale of, 35
Washing and concentrating machinery, 49
Wesselton Mine, 14, 15, 23, 35
-- -- characteristics of diamonds from, 65
Willemite, 97
Wollastonite, 20
Workings, underground, 43
Yellow ground, diamantiferous, 19
Yield of diamonds, annual, 60
-- -- -- total, 35
-- falls off with depth, 68
-- per load of blue ground, 62
Zimbabwe ruins, 40
Zircon, 20, 59, 71
-- density of, 93
Zulus, 12, 39, 40
W. BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Chemical News_, Vol. I, p. 208.
[2] Mr. Paterson called “limey stuff” what is now termed “blue
ground.” It was also formerly called “marl stuff,” “blue stuff,”
and “blue clay.”
[3] The original name for the Kimberley Mine. It was also sometimes
known as “Colesberg Kopje.”
[4] _Diamonds and Gold in South Africa._ By T. Reunert.
Johannesburg, 1893.
[5] According to Gardner Williams the South African carat is
equivalent to 3·174 grains. In Latimer Clark’s _Dictionary of
Metric and other Useful Measures_ the diamond carat is given as
equal to 3·1683 grains = 0·2053 gramme = 4 diamond grains; 1
diamond grain = 0·792 troy grain; 151·5 diamond carats = 1 ounce
troy.
Webster’s _International Dictionary_ gives the diamond carat as
equal to 3⅕ troy grains.
_The Oxford English Dictionary_ says the carat was originally 1/144
of an ounce, or 3⅓ grains, but now equal to about 3⅕ grains, though
varying slightly with time and place.
The _Century Dictionary_ says the diamond carat is equal to about
3⅙ troy grains, and adds that in 1877 the weight of the carat was
fixed by a syndicate of London, Paris, and Amsterdam jewellers at
205 milligrammes. This would make the carat equal to 3·163 troy
grains. A law has been passed in France ordaining that in the
purchase or sale of diamonds and other precious stones the term
“metric carat” shall be employed to designate a weight of 200
milligrammes (3·086 grains troy), and prohibiting the use of the
word carat to designate any other weight.
[6] Artificial tribo-luminescent sphalerite:--
Zinc carbonate 100 parts
Flower of sulphur 30 ”
Manganese sulphate ½ per cent.
Mix with distilled water and dry at a gentle heat. Put in luted
crucible and keep at a bright red heat for from two to three hours.
[7] Sir James Dewar, in a Friday evening discourse at the Royal
Institution in 1880, showed an experiment proving that the
temperature of the interior of a carbon tube heated by an outside
electric arc was higher than that of the oxy-hydrogen flame. He
placed a few small crystals of diamond in the carbon tube, and,
maintaining a current of hydrogen to prevent oxidation, raised the
temperature of the tube in an electric furnace to that of the arc.
In a few minutes the diamond was transformed into graphite. At
first sight this would seem to show that diamond cannot be formed
at temperatures above that of the arc. It is probable, however, for
reasons given above, that at exceedingly high pressures the result
would be different.
[8] The silica was in the form of spheres, perfectly shaped and
transparent, mostly colourless, but among them several of a ruby
colour. When 5 per cent of silica was added to cordite, the residue
of the closed vessel explosion contained a much larger quantity of
these spheres.
[9] A pressure of fifteen tons on the square inch would exist not
many miles beneath the surface of the earth.
[10] There are abundant signs that a considerable portion of this
part of Africa was once under water, and a fresh-water shell has
been found in apparently undisturbed blue ground at Kimberley.
[11] The water sunk in wells close to the Kimberley mine is
sometimes impregnated with paraffin, and Sir H. Roscoe extracted a
solid hydrocarbon from the “blue ground.”
[12] _Chemical News_, vol. lxi, p. 209, 1890.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
All misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage,
have been retained: for example, unfrequent; clayey; friable;
slaty; imbed; stoped; peculation; situate.
In the Table of Contents, the Index page number ‘145’ has been
replaced by ‘141’.
In the Index, ‘Colesberg Copje’ has been replaced by
‘Colesberg Kopje’, and ‘DeBeers’ has been replaced by
‘De Beers’.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The cretaceous birds of New Jersey
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Title: The cretaceous birds of New Jersey
Author: Storrs L. Olson
David C. Parris
Release date: October 7, 2022 [eBook #69109]
Most recently updated: October 19, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Smithsonian Institution Press
Credits: Tom Cosmas compiled from materials made available at The Internet Archive and placed in the Public Domain.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRETACEOUS BIRDS OF NEW JERSEY ***
Transcriber Note: Text emphasis denoted as _Italics_ and =Bold=.
The Cretaceous Birds
of New Jersey
STORRS L. OLSON
and
DAVID C. PARRIS
SMITHSONIAN CONTRIBUTIONS TO PALEOBIOLOGY • NUMBER 63
SERIES PUBLICATIONS OF THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION
Emphasis upon publication as a means of "diffusing knowledge" was
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continuing with the following active series:
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_Smithsonian Contributions to Botany_
_Smithsonian Contributions to the Earth Sciences_
_Smithsonian Contributions to the Marine Sciences_
_Smithsonian Contributions to Paleobiology_
_Smithsonian Contributions to Zoology_
_Smithsonian Folklife Studies_
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Robert McC. Adams
Secretary
Smithsonian Institution
SMITHSONIAN CONTRIBUTIONS TO PALEOBIOLOGY · NUMBER 63
The Cretaceous Birds of New Jersey
Storrs L. Olson and David C. Parris
[Illustration]
SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION PRESS
Washington, D.C.
1987
ABSTRACT
Olson, Storrs L., and David C. Parris. The Cretaceous Birds of New
Jersey. Smithsonian Contributions to Paleobiology, number 63, 22
pages, 11 figures, 1987.--This is a revision of the fossil birds from
Late Cretaceous (Maastrichtian; Hornerstown and Navesink formations)
deposits in New Jersey. Material of previously named taxa, described
over a century ago, is augmented by more recently collected specimens
from a new locality at the Inversand Company marl pits near Sewell,
Gloucester County. With about 8 genera and 9 species, this is the most
diverse Cretaceous avifauna yet known. Most species belong to a group
of primitive Charadriiformes resembling in limb morphology the fossil
family Presbyornithidae and the living family Burhinidae. These are
tentatively referred to the “form family” Graculavidae Fürbringer,
1888, with its provisional synonyms Palaeotringinae Wetmore, 1940;
Telmatornithidae Cracraft, 1972, and Laornithidae Cracraft, 1972. The
species included are: _Graculavus velox_ Marsh, 1872; _Telmatornis
priscus_ Marsh, 1870 (synonyms: _Telmatornis affinis_ Marsh, 1870;
_Graculavus pumilis_ Marsh, 1872; _Palaeotringa vetus_ Marsh, 1870);
_Anatalavis rex_ (Shufeldt, 1915); _Laornis edvardsianus_ Marsh, 1870;
_Palaeotringa littoralis_ Marsh, 1870; _P. vagans_ Marsh, 1872; and
an undescribed genus and species probably different from any of the
preceding. _Anatalavis_ is proposed as a new genus for Telmatornis rex
Shufeldt, 1915. A new family, genus, and species (Tytthostonychidae,
_Tytthostonyx glauconiticus_) is proposed for a humerus showing
similarities to the Pelecaniformes and Procellariiformes and
tentatively referred to the latter, along with an ulna of a much
smaller species. The species in this fauna appear to be part of the
modern radiation of neognathous birds, but none can be referred to
modern families.
Official publication date is handstamped in a limited number of initial
copies and is recorded in the Institution's annual report, _Smithsonian
Year_. Series cover design: The trilobite _Phacops rana_ Green. /X
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Olson, Storrs
L. The cretaceous birds of New Jersey. (Smithsonian contributions
to paleobiology; no. 63) Bibliography: p. 1 Birds Fossil. 2.
Paleontology--Cretaceous. 3. Paleontology--New Jersey. I. Parris, David
C. II. Title. III. Series. QE701.S56 no. 63 560 s 86-29837 [QE871]
[568’.09749] X/
Contents
Page
Introduction 1
Acknowledgments 1
The Fossil Localities and Their Stratigraphy 1
Order Charadriiformes 4
“Form Family” Graculavidae Fürbringer, 1888 4
Genus _Graculavus_ Marsh, 1872 4
_Graculavus velox_ Marsh, 1872 4
_Graculavus velox?_ 6
Genus _Telmatornis_ Marsh, 1870 6
_Telmatornis priscus_ Marsh, 1870 6
Genus _Anatalavis_, new genus 11
_Anatalavis rex_ (Shufeldt, 1915), new combination 11
Genus _Laornis_ Marsh, 1870 12
_Laornis edvardsianus_ Marsh, 1870 12
Genus _Palaeotringa_ Marsh, 1870 12
_Palaeotringa littoralis_ Marsh, 1870 12
_Palaeotringa littoralis?_ 14
_Palaeotringa vagans_ Marsh, 1872 14
Graculavidae, Genus and Species Indeterminate 14
Order Procellariiformes? 14
Family Tytthostonychidae, new family 16
Genus _Tytthostonyx_, new genus 16
_Tytthostonyx glauconiticus_, new species 16
Family and Genus Indeterminate 16
Aves, incertae sedis 19
Discussion 19
Appendix 20
Literature Cited 21
The Cretaceous Birds of New Jersey
_Storrs L. Olson and David C. Parris_[1]
[Footnote 1: _Storrs L. Olson, Department of Vertebrate Zoology,
National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution,
Washington, D.C. 20560. David C. Parris, New Jersey State Museum, 205
West State Street, Trenton, New Jersey 08625-0530._]
Introduction
Fossils of Cretaceous birds are scarce and usually difficult
to interpret. The better known forms such as _Hesperornis_ and
_Ichthyornis_ belong to strange and archaic groups having little or
nothing to do with the modern avian radiation. The only areas that have
yielded Cretaceous birds of essentially modern aspect in sufficient
quantities to be regarded as avifaunal assemblages are the inland
deposits of the Lance Formation and strata of similar age in Wyoming
(Brodkorb, 1963a) and the marine deposits of New Jersey. Of these, the
assemblage from New Jersey is the more diverse.
Fossil birds were described from the Cretaceous greensands of southern
New Jersey over a century ago by Marsh (1870, 1872). These have been
carried, largely uncritically, in lists and compilations ever since
(e.g. Hay, 1902; Lambrecht, 1933; Rapp, 1943; Miller, 1955; Brodkorb,
1963b, 1967). Although some of these specimens were subsequently
re-examined and their status altered (Shufeldt, 1915; Cracraft, 1972,
1973), there has been no modern comprehensive revision of all of the
avian taxa that have been named from the Cretaceous of New Jersey. In
recent years, additional fossil birds have been recovered from these
deposits that add further to our knowledge of late Mesozoic avifaunas,
making a review of this material all the more desirable.
In spite of the relative diversity of the New Jersey Cretaceous
avifauna, the total number of specimens is still small. The decline
of the glauconite greensand industry and the difficulty of recovering
small fossils have contributed to this paucity of specimens. The
glauconite industry is now confined to a single operation, the
Inversand Company in Sewell, Mantua Township, Gloucester County, New
Jersey. Fortunately, the late owner of the company, Mr. Churchill
Hungerford, Jr., generously allowed fossils to be recovered on his
property by the New Jersey State Museum, which houses most of the newly
discovered specimens, the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia
being the repository of the rest. Another specimen came from a locality
in Upper Freehold Township, Monmouth County, New Jersey and was donated
to the New Jersey State Museum by Gerard R. Case.
Acknowledgments.--We gratefully acknowledge the late Churchill
Hungerford, Jr., for permitting fossil material to be recovered from
his property by the New Jersey State Museum (NJSM). We are much
indebted to John H. Ostrom, Peabody Museum of Natural History, Yale
University (YPM), and Gay Vostreys and Charles Smart of the Academy
of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia (ANSP) for their patience in
lending types and other material from their collections for a very
extended period. Pat V. Rich, Monash University, assisted Parris in
the early stages of this study. Comparative material of _Presbyornis_
was obtained from the collection of the University of California
Museum of Paleontology (UCMP), the University of Wyoming (UW), and the
National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution (USNM).
The photographs are by Victor E. Krantz, Smithsonian Institution. For
valuable comments on the manuscript we are grateful to Donald Baird,
Princeton University, and Jonathan Becker, Smithsonian Institution.
=The Fossil Localities and Their Stratigraphy=
The extensive deposits of Cretaceous age in eastern North America
have been widely studied for over 150 years. These generally poorly
consolidated sediments have provided valuable resources, notably
glauconite, fire clay, and chalk. As the publications by Morton (1829),
Vanuxem (1829), Conrad (1869), and other early authors showed, the
sediments are also quite fossiliferous.
In the eastern United States, significant Cretaceous deposits occur
from New Jersey to Texas (Figure 1), with extensive outcrop and
subsurface records in both Atlantic and Gulf coastal plains. The
surface distribution and correlations were first summarized by
Stephenson et al. (1942). Subsequent works by various authorities
have refined, but not substantially altered his views of outcrop
stratigraphy. Petroleum exploration has encouraged more recent restudy
of the subsurface stratigraphy, notably along the east coast (Minard et
al., 1974; Perry et al., 1975; Petters, 1976).
[Illustration: Figure 1.--Distribution of Cretaceous rocks in the
eastern United States. Arrow indicates New Jersey. (Modified after
Moore, 1958, fig. 15.2).]
In New Jersey, the latest Cretaceous deposits are remarkably rich
in glauconite, especially the Navesink and Hornerstown formations.
Besides providing a local industry in agricultural fertilizers, the
glauconite greensands, locally called “marl,” yielded many specimens to
the fiercely competitive vertebrate paleontologists of the nineteenth
century. Preservation of vertebrate fossils in a glauconite deposit may
be excellent, apparently due to autochthonous formation of the mineral
and the probable quiescence of the depositional environment. The
Hornerstown Formation, for example, contains few grains of terrigenous
origin and little evidence of disturbance by water currents.
Such depositional environments were apparently favorable for the
preservation of small and delicate bones. The accumulation of sediment
occurred during a period of marine transgression with the shoreline not
far to the northwest but at sufficient distance to prevent deposition
of terrigenous material.
During their great rivalry, E.D. Cope and O.C. Marsh sought greensand
fossils vigorously. Marsh, however, obtained all of the Cretaceous
birds (Marsh, 1870, 1872), largely due to efforts of marl pit owner
J.G. Meirs. Although in the years subsequent to Marsh's original
descriptions of the New Jersey birds from the Navesink and Hornerstown
formations there was some confusion regarding their probable age
(Wetmore, 1930), this was later definitely established as Cretaceous
by Baird (1967), who attributed the specimens to the Navesink and
Hornerstown formations.
The summary of Petters (1976) represents current ideas of the
Cretaceous stratigraphy of New Jersey. Baird's (1967) discussion is
consistent with Petters's view that the Hornerstown Formation is
regarded as partly Cretaceous and partly Tertiary. Some authors have
used the term New Egypt Formation instead of Navesink in more southerly
outcrops.
Cretaceous birds have been recovered from three geographically
distinct localities in New Jersey (Figure 2). With the exception of
_Laornis_, all of the specimens described by Marsh (1870, 1872) came
from Upper Freehold Township, Monmouth County, in the area including
the settlements of Hornerstown, Arneytown, and Cream Ridge. The Meirs
family operated a number of pits in this area and it is no longer
possible to ascertain the exact provenance of specimens labelled only
as being from Hornerstown. These could have come either from the
basal Hornerstown Formation or the underlying Navesink Formation,
both of which are Maastrichtian in age. Baird (1967:261) ascertained
that the holotype of _Palaeotringa vetus_, from “friable green marl
near Arneytown” was from the lower (i.e., Cretaceous) part of the
Hornerstown Formation. The holotypes of _Telmatornis priscus_ and _T.
affinis_, from the Cream Ridge Marl Company pits, on the other hand,
are from the Navesink Formation. A more recently collected specimen
from this area is the proximal end of an ulna (NJSM 11900) collected
by Gerard R. Case from “marl piles near junction of Rtes. 537 and
539 in Upper Freehold Twp., Monmouth County, near Hornerstown.” This
definitely came from the Hornerstown Formation but it cannot be said
whether from the Cretaceous or Paleocene sediments included therein.
[Illustration: Figure 2.--Localities in southern New Jersey of the
main fossiliferous deposits that have yielded Cretaceous birds. (The
bold line demarcates the inner and outer coastal plain physiographic
provinces; B = Birmingham; H = Hornerstown; S = Sewell.)]
The second general locality is near Birmingham, Burlington County,
where the type of _Laornis edvardsianus_ was obtained from “greensand
of the upper, Cretaceous marl bed ... in the pits of the Pemberton Marl
Company” (Marsh, 1870:208). There is nothing to be added to Baird's
(1967) conclusion that this specimen is latest Cretaceous in age.
The third locality, and that yielding most of the recently obtained
specimens, is the Inversand Company marl pit, located near Sewell,
Gloucester County. In accordance with the wishes of the Inversand
Company, the precise locality of this pit will not be disclosed,
although this information is preserved in records sufficient in number
and distribution to assure that it will not be lost. The Inversand
specimens came from the main fossiliferous layer within the basal
portion of the Hornerstown Formation (Figure 3). This layer is of late
Maastrichtian age (latest Cretaceous), on the basis of invertebrate
fossils, including three genera of ammonites, and a substantial
vertebrate fauna, including mosasaurs (see Appendix). It is probable
that the upper part of the Hornerstown Formation within the pit is of
Paleocene age, as it is known to be elsewhere, but most paleontologists
believe the basal portion to be Cretaceous in age (Gaffney, 1975; Koch
and Olsson, 1977). One avian specimen is from an unknown level in the
pit.
[Illustration: Figure 3.--Stratigraphic diagram of the Inversand
Company marl pit at Sewell, Gloucester County, New Jersey.]
=Order Charadriiformes=
=“Form Family” Graculavidae Fürbringer, 1888=
Type Genus.--Graculavus Marsh, 1872.
Included Genera.--_Graculavus_ Marsh, 1872; _Telmatornis_ Marsh, 1870;
_Anatalavis_, new genus; _Laornis_ Marsh, 1870; _Palaeotringa_ Marsh,
1870; and an additional unnamed genus.
Remarks.--Most of the birds from the New Jersey deposits belong with
what Olson (1985) has termed the “transitional Charadriiformes,” a
group that seemingly tends to connect the Gruiformes and the more
typical Charadriiformes. The only living family in this group that
has traditionally been considered charadriiform is the Burhinidae,
the thick-knees or stone curlews. Other apparent descendants include
ibises (Plataleidae) and the ducks and geese of the order Anseriformes.
The latter are linked with the “transitional Charadriiformes” through
the Paleocene and Eocene genus _Presbyornis_, which is known from
abundant material from widely scattered areas of the world (Olson and
Feduccia, 1980b; Olson, 1985). _Presbyornis_ combines a long-legged
shorebird-like body with the head of a duck. The fragmentary Cretaceous
fossils from New Jersey, all of which are postcranial, usually show
more similarity to _Presbyornis_ than to any modern group of birds
except the Burhinidae. Therefore, our comparisons have been made
chiefly with these two groups.
With the fragmentary material at hand it is difficult, well nigh
impossible, to make hard and fast taxonomic judgments concerning the
number of species, genera, or families represented. Birds with very
similar wing or leg elements could have had completely different
feeding adaptations and could represent ancestral forms leading to
different modern groups not considered to be closely related. For
example, without the skull, _Presbyornis_ could not be determined as
having anything to do with the Anseriformes (Olson and Feduccia, 1980b:
12-13).
Late Cretaceous fossil birds of modern aspect have been described in
a variety of genera, most of which have been used as the basis for
family-group names. Taxa from New Jersey that appear to belong with
the “transitional Charadriiformes” for which family-group names are
available include: Graculavinae Fürbringer, 1888; Palaeotringinae
Wetmore, 1940; Telmatornithidae Cracraft, 1972; and Laornithidae
Cracraft, 1973.
Taxa from Upper Cretaceous deposits in western North America that
appear to fall in the same category (Olson and Feduccia, 1980a)
include: Apatornithidae Fürbringer, 1888; Cimolopterygidae Brodkorb,
1963a; Torotigidae Brodkorb, 1963a; and Lonchodytidae Brodkorb, 1963a.
Tertiary taxa that may possibly be related to the “transitional
Charadriiformes” and that have been used as the basis of family-group
names are: Presbyornithidae Wetmore, 1926 (Nautilornithinae Wetmore,
1926, and Telmabatidae Howard, 1955, are definitely synonyms);
Scaniornithidae Lambrecht, 1933; and Dakotornithidae Erickson, 1975.
Doubtless there are others that we have overlooked. How many families
are actually represented here and what their interrelationships may
be is purely a matter of conjecture in the absence of better fossil
material. Because the entire skeleton of _Presbyornis_ is known, the
familial name Presbyornithidae may justifiably be retained and used for
that genus.
In the case of the Cretaceous birds under consideration here, we
have decided for the time being to adopt a version of paleobotanical
convention in recognizing a “form family” Graculavidae, which implies a
general similarity in morphology of the constituent taxa, although the
material available is simply not sufficient for determining phylogeny
or key adaptations.
=Genus Graculavus Marsh, 1872=
_Limosavis_ Shufeldt, 1915:19.
Type-Species.--_Graculavus velox_ Marsh 1872, by subsequent designation
(Hay, 1902).
Included Species.--Type species only.
Remarks.--_Limosavis_ Shufeldt, 1915, substitute name for _Graculavus_,
considered inappropriate; not used in direct combination with any
specific name when originally proposed.
=_Graculavus velox_ Marsh, 1872=
Figure 4 _b,d,f,h_
_Graculavus velox_ Marsh, 1872:363.
_Limosavis velox_ (Marsh).--Lambrecht, 1933:546.
Holotype.--Proximal end of left humerus, YPM 855.
Locality and Horizon.--From Hornerstown, Upper Freehold Township,
Monmouth County, New Jersey; collected by J.G. Meirs; Late Cretaceous
(Maastrichtian), either basal Hornerstown Formation or Navesink
Formation.
Measurements (in mm).--Proximal end of humerus, YPM 855: proximal width
through dorsal and ventral tubercles 21.1, depth through bicipital
surface and tuberculum ventrale 11.6, depth of head 5.7.
[Illustration: Figure 4.--Proximal ends of left humeri of _Graculavus
velox_ and related birds: _a_, _Esacus magnirostris_ (Burhinidae), USNM
19649; _b,d,f,h_, _Graculavus velox_, holotype, YPM 855; _c,e,g, i_,
_Presbyornis_ sp., UCMP 126205. _a-c_, anconal view; _d,e_, anconal
view with distal portion tilted upwards; _f,g_, palmar view; _h,i_,
proximal view. All figures × 2; specimens coated with ammonium chloride
to enhance detail.]
Comparisons.--Marsh (1872) originally described this as a species of
cormorant (Phalacrocoracidae, Pelecaniformes) and included the species
_G. pumilis_ Marsh, 1872, also from New Jersey, and _G. anceps_ Marsh,
1872, from the Late Cretaceous of Kansas, in the same genus. Marsh
(1880) later referred _G. anceps_ to the genus _Ichthyornis_, where it
has remained. Shufeldt (1915:17-19) went into considerable detail to
show that the species of _Graculavus_, particularly _G. velox_, were
not cormorants, instead being limicoline shorebirds with similarities
to the Burhinidae, Haematopodidae, and Charadriidae. Accordingly,
Lambrecht (1933:540, 546) placed these taxa among the charadriiform
birds, but rather inexplicably listed velox under Shufeldt's substitute
name _Limosavis_ in the suborder Laro-Limicolae, while retaining
_pumilis_ in the genus _Graculavus_ in the suborder Limicolae.
Brodkorb (1963b:249) ignored Shufeldt's assessment of relationships
and placed _G. velox_ and _G. pumilis_ in the Phalacrocoracidae,
subfamily Graculavinae. Cracraft (1972) did not examine the specimens
attributed to _Graculavus_ in his consideration of the relationships of
_Telmatornis_.
We have synonymized _Graculavus pumilis_ Marsh, 1872, with
_Telmatornis priscus_ Marsh, 1870, and discuss below the characters
by which _Graculavus_ (restricted to _G. velox_) may be separated
from _Telmatornis_. Shufeldt (1915) has already presented adequate
evidence that _Graculavus_ is not a cormorant and is instead a
charadriiform. The following combination of characters of the proximal
end of the humerus is shared by _Graculavus_ and _Presbyornis_ and
distinguishes these genera from other Charadriiformes: (1) lack of
a distinct lanceolate scar for M. coracobrachialis cranialis; (2)
lack of a distinctly excavated second (dorsal) tricipital fossa; (3)
presence of a distinct tumescence in the proximoventral portion of the
tricipital fossa; scars for (4) M. scapulohumeralis caudalis and (5)
M. scapulohumeralis cranialis very large and distinct; (6) attachment
of M. latissimus dorsi cranialis a well-defined, raised protuberance
situated dorsal to the median ridge of the shaft; (7) tuberculum
dorsale well defined, distinctly pointed. In most of the preceding
characters that it preserves, the single proximal end of humerus
referred to _Telmatornis_ (the holotype of _G. pumilis_) agrees with
_Graculavus_ and _Presbyornis_.
Among living families, the Burhinidae are the most similar to
_Graculavus_; both agree in characters 1, 2, 4, and 7, with certain
species of _Burhinus_ also having characters 3 and 6 present but less
developed. _Graculavus_ differs from Burhinus mainly in having (8) the
head not as deep and bulbous; (9) distance from head to tuberculum
dorsale greater; (10) tuberculum dorsale smaller, much less projecting;
(11) tuberculum ventrale in ventral view more elongate; and (12) scar
on tuberculum ventrale for M. coracobrachialis caudalis much larger and
more distinct.
_Graculavus_ is very similar to _Presbyornis_, agreeing with that
genus in characters 8 and 10 but differing in characters 11 and 12
and in (13) having the head more deeply undercut. _Presbyornis_ is
intermediate between _Graculavus_ and the _Burhinidae_ in character 9.
_Graculavus velox_ was a fairly large bird, being approximately the
size of _Presbyornis_ cf. _pervetus_ and somewhat larger than the large
living burhinid _Esacus magnirostris_.
=Graculavus velox?=
Figure 9_d_
Referred Material.--Abraded right carpometacarpus consisting mainly of
the major metacarpal, NJSM 11854.
Locality and Horizon.--Collected from the main fossiliferous layer of
the Inversand Company marl pit, Sewell, Gloucester County, New Jersey;
Hornerstown Formation, latest Cretaceous (Maastrichtian); collected 25
February 1976 by David C. Parris.
Measurements (in mm).--Length 51.0.
Comparisons.--Nothing can be said about this very poor specimen except
that it came from a bird with a carpometacarpus slightly larger than
that of a modern specimen of the burhinid _Esacus magnirostris_.
Because _Graculavus velox_ is the only bird yet known in the New Jersey
fossil fauna that was of this same size, the present specimen may
possibly be referable to that species.
=Genus _Telmatornis_ Marsh, 1870=
Type-Species.--_Telmatornis priscus_ Marsh, 1870, by subsequent
designation (Hay, 1902:528).
Included Species.--Type species only.
=_Telmatornis priscus_ Marsh, 1870=
Figures 5_b-j_, 6_c,e,g_, 7_a,d,g,j,n_
_Telmatornis priscus_ Marsh, 1870:210.
_Telmatornis affinis_ Marsh, 1870:211.
_Graculavus pumilis_ Marsh, 1872:364.
_?Palaeotringa vetus_ Marsh, 1870:209.
Holotype.--Distal end of left humerus (Figure 5_e,h_), YPM 840;
collected in pits of the Cream Ridge Marl Company, near Hornerstown,
New Jersey by J.G. Meirs. Navesink Formation, Maastrichtian, Late
Cretaceous (Baird, 1967).
Referred Specimens.--Distal end of right humerus (Figure 5_f,g_),
YPM 845 (holotype of _Telmatornis affinis_ Marsh 1870); same data as
holotype of _T. priscus_.
Proximal end of right humerus (Figure 5_b-d_), YPM 850, with distal
end of right carpometacarpus (Figure 5_i_) and several fragments of
shafts of long bones apparently associated (holotypical material of
_Graculavus pumilis_ Marsh, 1872); collected near Hornerstown, New
Jersey, by J.G. Meirs; probably from the basal Hornerstown Formation,
Maastrichtian, Late Cretaceous.
Distal end of left tibiotarsus (Figure 7_n_), ANSP 13361 (holotype
of _Palaeotringa vetus_), collected near Arneytown, on the
Monmouth-Burlington county boundary, New Jersey; Basal Hornerstown
Formation, Maastrichtian, Late Cretaceous (Baird, 1967).
Left humerus lacking proximal end (Figure 6_c,e,g_), ANSP 15360;
collected in 1971 from the Inversand Company marl pit, Sewell,
Gloucester County, New Jersey, by Keith Madden. Basal Hornerstown
Formation, Maastrichtian, Late Cretaceous.
Distal end of left tarsometatarsus (Figure 7_d,g,j_), NJSM 11853;
collected 27 March 1975 by David C. Parris from the main fossiliferous
layer of the Inversand Company marl pit.
[Illustration: Figure 5.--Wing elements of _Burhinus_ and
_Telmatornis_. _a_, _Burhinus vermiculatus_ (USNM 488870), proximal end
of right humerus, anconal view, _b-d_, Telmatornis priscus (holotype
of _Graculavus pumilis_, YPM 850), proximal end of right humerus
(_b_, anconal view; _c_, palmar view; _d_, proximal view), _e,h_, _T.
priscus_ (holotype, YPM 840), distal end of left humerus (_e_, anconal
view; _h_, palmar view), _f,g_, _T. priscus_ (holotype of _Telmatornis
affinis_, YPM 845), distal end of right humerus (_f_, aconal view; _g_,
palmar view), _i_, _T. priscus_ (associated with YPM 850), distal end
of left carpometacarpus, dorsal view; _j_, _T. priscus_ (NJSM 11900),
proximal end of right ulna. (All figures x 2; specimens coated with
ammonium chloride to enhance detail.)]
[Illustration: Figure 6.--Humeri of _Anatalavis_, new genus, and
_Telmatornis_. _a_, _Anatalavis rex_ (holotype, YPM 902), right
humerus, palmar view; × 1.5. _b,d,f_, _A. rex_, (YPM 948), left
humerus (_b_, palmar view, × 1.5; _d_, enlarged, anconal view, × 2;
_f_, enlarged, palmar view, × 2). _c,e,g_, _Telmatornis priscus_,
(ANSP 15360), left humerus (_c_, palmar view, × 1.5; _e_, enlarged,
anconal view, × 2; _g_, enlarged, palmar view, × 2); _h_, _Burhinus
vermiculatus_ (USNM 430630), left humerus, palmar view, × 2. (Specimens
coated with ammonium chloride to enhance detail.)]
[Illustration: Figure 7.--Hindlimb elements. _a,b_, Right pedal
phalanx 1 of digit II (_a_, _Telmatornis priscus_, ANSP 15541; _b_,
_Presbyornis_ sp., USNM uncatalogued; part of associated foot), _c-k_,
Distal end of left tarsometatarsus, anterior, posterior, and distal
views, respectively (_c,f,i_, _Presbyornis_ sp., UCMP 126178; _d,g,j_,
_T. priscus_, NJSM 11853; _e,h,k_, _Burhinus vermiculalus_, USNM
488870). _l-n_, Distal portions of left tibiotarsi (_l_, _Palaeotringa
littoralis_, holotype, YPM 830; _m_, _P. vagans_, holotype, YPM 835;
_n_, _T. priscus_, holotype of _P. vetus_, ANSP 13361). (All figures ×
2; specimens coated with ammonium chloride to enhance detail.)]
Right pedal phalanx 1 of digit II (Figure 7_a_), ANSP 15541; collected
in 1972 by Richard White at the Inversand Company marl pit.
Proximal end of right ulna (Figure 5_j_), NJSM 11900; collected 14
July 1978 from spoil piles near junction of Routes 537 and 539, near
Hornerstown, Upper Freehold Township, Monmouth County, New Jersey, by
Gerard R. Case; presumably from the Hornerstown Formation but whether
from Cretaceous or Tertiary sediments is not known.
Miller (1955) lists an additional specimen from near Arneytown under
the name _Palaeotringa vetus_ (YPM 2808). This was cataloged in 1937
as “part of a tibia” of “Eocene” age but the specimen cannot now be
located in the Yale collections and its age and identity must be
considered very doubtful.
Measurements (in mm).--Distal ends of humeri (YPM 840, YPM 845, ANSP
15360, respectively): distal width 10.9, 10.1, 11.3; depth through
dorsal condyle 5.7, 5.2, 5.5; width of shaft at proximal extent of
brachial fossa 6.3, 5.5,6.4; length from distal end of pectoral crest
to ventral condyle (ANSP 15360 only) 45.1; shaft width at midpoint
(ANSP 15360 only) 4.7.
Proximal end of humerus YPM 850: proximal width through dorsal and
ventral tubercles 13.1; depth through bicipital surface and ventral
condyle 7.5, depth of head approximately 3.5.
Proximal end of ulna NJSM 11900: depth through dorsal cotyla 7.0.
Distal end of carpometacarpus YPM 840: depth at distal end 5.3; shaft
width 2.9.
Distal end of tibiotarsus ANSP 13361: shaft width 3.5, approximate
depth through medial condyle 6.9.
Distal end of tarsometatarsus NJSM 11853: distal width 6.1+; shaft
width 2.7.
Pedal phalanx 1 of digit II: length 14.6; proximal width 3.0.
Comparisons.--This is evidently the most abundant bird in the
New Jersey Cretaceous deposits. Hitherto it had been known only
from the two distal ends of humeri that are the holotypes of
_Telmatornis priscus_ and _T. affinis_. Marsh (1870) did not clearly
place _Telmatornis_ with any living family but mentioned species
of Rallidae, Scolopacidae, and Ardeidae in his comparisons. Hay
(1902:528) listed the genus under the Rallidae. Shufeldt (1915:26)
considered that _Telmatornis_ was not a heron but might be related
either to rail-like or charadriiform birds, the material, according
to him, being insufficient for positive determination. He (1915:27)
also described a larger species, _Telmatornis rex_, which we have
removed to a new genus. Lambrecht (1933:489) maintained _Telmatornis_
as a genus incertae sedis in his order Ralliformes. Brodkorb (1967)
placed the genus in the family Rallidae, subfamily Rallinae, without
comment. Cracraft (1972) established that Telmatornis did not belong
in the Rallidae but was instead very similar to the Burhinidae. He
synonymized _T. affinis_ with _T. priscus_ and created a new family,
Telmatornithidae, for _T. priscus_ and _T. rex_.
We concur in synonymizing _T. affinis_ with _T. priscus_. The holotypes
and the new specimen of humerus (ANSP 15360), which is instructive in
that it preserves much more of the shaft (Figure 6_c_), are indeed
very similar to the humeri in the Burhinidae. In size they are closely
comparable to the small living species _Burhinus vermiculatus_ (cf.
Figure 6_g,h_). The fossils differ from _Burhinus_ in having (1) the
shaft less curved, both in dorsal and in lateral views; (2) brachial
depression shorter, wider, and slightly more distally located; in
distal view (3) the ventral condyle smaller and less rounded; and (4)
the dorsal tricipital groove shallower.
The distal portion of the humerus of _Telmatornis_ is similar to that
in _Presbyornis_ but differs in having (1) the dorsal condyle decidedly
more elongate; (2) olecranal fossa much shallower; (3) ventral
epicondyle in ventral view less distinctly demarcated but (4) more
protrudent in lateral or medial view.
The proximal end of humerus (YPM 850) that is the holotype of
_Graculavus pumilis_ was considered by Shufeldt (1915:19) definitely
to be from a limicoline charadriiform. It is from a bird exactly the
size of _Telmatornis priscus_ and its coloration and preservation would
not be incompatible with its being the opposite end of the same bone
as the holotype of _T. affinis_ (Figure 5_b,c,f,g_). The following
differences between the holotypical humeri of _G. velox_ and _“G.”
pumilis_ establish that these belong to different genera: (1) in
_velox_ the area dorsal to the ventral tubercle and distal to the head
is much more excavated, undercutting the head; (2) the dorsal tubercle
is more pronounced; (3) there is a distinct excavation distomedial to
the ventral tubercle, lacking in _pumilis_; (4) the ventral tubercle in
ventral view is much more produced in _velox_ than in _pumilis_.
The holotype of _G. pumilis_ is very similar to the humerus in the
Burhinidae but differs from that family and agrees with _Graculavus_
in characters 8, 9, and 10 (p. 6). It differs further from the
Burhinidae in having the area for the attachment of M. scapulohumeralis
caudalis extending farther distally in ventral view. It differs from
_Presbyornis_ mainly in lacking the excavation to and undercutting
the head. Because pumilis is not congeneric with _Graculavus velox_
and because of its size and similarities with the Burhinidae and
_Presbyornis_, we have no hesitation about considering Graculavus
pumilis Marsh, 1872, to be a junior subjective synonym of _Telmatornis
priscus_ Marsh, 1870.
The proximal end of an ulna, NJSM 11900 (Figure 5_j_), is from a bird
the size of _Burhinus vermiculatus_ and not too dissimilar to it
except that the shaft is more robust in the fossil. The specimen is
too imperfect to merit detailed study and is referred to Telmatornis
priscus only on size and probability.
The very fragmentary distal end of carpometacarpus associated with the
type of _G. pumilis_ (Figure 5_i_) is slightly larger and more robust
than in _Burhinus vermiculatus_, but not so much as to be incompatible
with _T. priscus_. Compared to _Burhinus_ (1) the symphysial area
is deeper and (2) the articular surface for the major digit is
proportionately larger, the specimen being somewhat more similar to the
carpometacarpus in _Presbyornis_.
The three specimens of _Palaeotringa_ Marsh from the Cretaceous of New
Jersey are based on poorly preserved distal ends of tibiotarsi. The
holotype of _Palaeotringa vetus_ Marsh, 1870 (Figure 7_n_) is similar
in size to the comparable element in _Burhinus vermiculatus_, though
with a relatively more slender shaft, and hence is from a bird the
size of _T. priscus_, being smaller than any of the other species of
_Palaeotringa_. It is more similar to _Presbyornis_ than to _Burhinus_.
Because it is from a charadriiform the size of _T. priscus_, as first
revisers we tentatively consider _Palaeotringa vetus_ Marsh, 1870,
to be a subjective synonym of _Telmatornis priscus_ Marsh, 1870. The
only alternative would be to consign it to Aves incertae sedis. It is
of passing historical interest to recall Marsh's (1870:209) comment
that the type of _Palaeotringa vetus_ “apparently was the first fossil
bird-bone discovered in this country,” having been mentioned both by
Morton (1834) and Harlan (1835) as belonging to the genus _Scolopax_
(Charadriiformes: Scolopacidae).
The distal portion of tarsometatarsus NJSM 11853 (Figure 7_d,g,f_)
is unfortunately quite abraded. It is from a small charadriiform and
has a shaft width about the same as in _Burhinus vermiculatus_. If
this fossil came from an individual of _Telmatornis priscus_, as we
assume, _T. priscus_ being the smallest and most abundant “graculavid”
in the New Jersey Cretaceous deposits, then it is a very instructive
specimen, for it differs much more from Burhinus than does the humerus
of Telmatornis. NJSM 11853 differs from the Burhinidae and agrees with
_Presbyornis_ in having (1) the distal foramen proportionately large
and oval, not very small and circular; (2) a large, well-developed scar
for the hallux (hallux absent in Burhinidae); (3) external trochlea
proximodistally more elongate. That which remains of the inner trochlea
indicates that it was (1) somewhat more posteriorly retracted than
in _Burhinus_ but (2) not nearly as elevated and retracted as in
_Presbyornis_.
Pedal phalanx ANSP 15541 (Figure 7_a_) is from a bird the size of _T.
priscus_. This specimen is much longer and more slender than phalanx 1
of digit II in _Burhinus vermiculatus_ but has almost exactly the shape
and proportions of the same element in _Presbyornis_ (Figure 7_b_),
although being much smaller. Although its assignment to _Telmatornis_
is very tentative, the length of this element seems to indicate a
wading bird as opposed to one with the terrestrially adapted shorter
toes of the Burhinidae.
=Genus _Anatalavis_, new genus=
Type-Species.--Telmatornis rex Shufeldt, 1915.
Included Species.--Type-species only.
Diagnosis.--Differs from _Telmatornis_ and _Presbyornis_ in (1) having
the shaft very short, stout, and much more curved, both in dorsoventral
and lateromedial views. Differs from _Telmatornis_ and agrees with
_Presbyornis_ in (2) having the distal end in distal view deeper, with
(3) a narrower and much deeper olecranal fossa. Also, (4) the brachial
depression is smaller and narrower than in _Telmatornis_ but not as
deep, nor as proximally situated as in _Presbyornis_.
Etymology.--“Duck-winged bird,” from Latin _anas_, duck, _ala_, wing,
and _avis_, bird. The gender is feminine.
=_Anatalavis rex_ (Shufeldt, 1915), new combination=
Figure 6_a,b,d_J
Telmatornis rex Shufeldt, 1915:27, fig. 101.
Holotype.--Right humerus lacking proximal end, YPM 902 (Figure 6_a_).
Locality and Horizon.--From Hornerstown, Upper Freehold Township,
Monmouth County, New Jersey; collected by W. Ross in 1878; probably
Late Cretaceous (Maastrichtian), basal Hornerstown Formation.
Referred Specimen.--Paratypical left humerus lacking proximal end,
YPM 948 (Figure 6_b,d,f_). From Hornerstown, Upper Freehold Township,
Monmouth County, New Jersey; collected by J.G. Meirs in 1869; probably
Late Cretaceous (Maastrichtian), basal Hornerstown Formation.
Measurements (in mm).--Humeri (YPM 902, YPM 948, respectively): distal
width 13.6, 13.2; depth through dorsal condyle 7.3, 7.5; width of shaft
at proximal extent of brachial fossa 7.2,7.5; length from distal end of
pectoral crest to ventral condyle 49.1, 50.7; shaft width at midpoint
5.4, 5.6.
Remarks.--Shufeldt (1915:27) described this species in the same genus
as _T. priscus_ and _T. affinis_ but correctly noted that the humerus
“is a short one ... its sigmoid curve very pronounced.” Cracraft
(1972:41) considered that “except for its decidedly larger size, _T.
rex_ does not differ from _T. priscus_ in any significant features.”
In fairness to these authors, it should be noted that the great
differences between Anatalavis and Telmatornis are much more apparent
in comparisons with the new humerus of _T. priscus_ (ANSP 15360), which
preserves much more of the shaft than the previously known specimens.
Both Shufeldt and Cracraft considered YPM 948 to belong to the same
species as the holotype of _T. rex_, and we concur.
The specimens of _A. rex_ are not comparable with the type of
_Graculavus velox_, which was from a larger bird. _Anatalavis rex_
was a larger, heavier bird than _Telmatornis priscus_, with the
humerus remarkably short and robust, so that the overall length of the
humerus in _A. rex_ would scarcely have exceeded that of _T. priscus_.
_Anatalavis_ must have been a bird of considerably different flight
habits from _Telmatornis_ or _Presbyornis_. The overall appearance of
its humerus is in fact rather duck-like, except for the more expanded
distal end. It is still quite short and stout even for a duck.
=Genus _Laornis_ Marsh, 1870=
Type-Species.--_Laornis edvardsianus_ Marsh, 1870, by monotypy.
Included Species.--Type species only.
=_Laornis edvardsianus_ Marsh, 1870=
Figure 8_a,c,e_
_Laornis edvardsianus_ Marsh, 1870:206.
Holotype.--Distal end of right tibiotarsus, YPM 820.
Locality and Horizon.--From pits of the Pemberton Marl Company at
Birmingham, Burlington County, New Jersey; collected by J.C. Gaskill;
Late Cretaceous (Maastrichtian), basal Hornerstown Formation.
Measurements (in mm).--Distal end of tibiotarsus, YPM 820: distal width
across condyles 22.6, depth of external condyle 19.3, depth of internal
condyle 21.1, least shaft width 11.7, least shaft depth 9.6.
Comparisons.--The very large size of this specimen has undoubtedly
been a factor in misleading those who have attempted to identify
it, as it came from a bird the size of a swan or a large crane.
The affinities of this fossil have long been questioned and the
species has for most of its history been in limbo. Marsh (1870:207)
concluded only that _Laornis_ “shows a strong resemblance in several
respects to the _Lamellirostres_ [Anseriformes], and also to the
_Longipennes_ [Charadriiformes (Lari) and Procellariiformes], but
differs essentially from the typical forms of both of these groups.” In
its own nebulous way, this assessment is concordant with our placement
of _Laornis_ in a charadriiform group that was near the ancestry of
the Anseriformes. Doubtless only on the strength of Marsh's comments.
Cope (1869-1870:237) placed _Laornis_ in the “Lamellirostres.” Hay
(1902:531) included _Laornis_ in the Anatidae. Shufeldt (1915:23)
hardly clarified matters when he characterized _Laornis_ as “at least
one of the generalized types of waders,” being a “remarkable type,
which seems to have, judging from this piece of the tibiotarsus,
Turkey, Swan, Crane, and even other groups all combined in it.”
Lambrecht (1933:526) included _Laornis_ as a genus incertae sedis in
his “Telmatoformes,” between the Aramidae and Otididae.
The type was restudied by Cracraft (1973:46) who put _Laornis_ in the
Gruiformes and created a new family (Laornithidae) and superfamily
(Laornithoidea) for it. He included it in his suborder Ralli, the only
other member of which was the Rallidae. After preliminary comparisons,
Olson (1974) ventured that _Laornis_ belonged in the suborder Lari
of the Charadriiformes. Brodkorb (1978:214) listed _Laornis_ under
Aves incertae sedis and guessed that it might be related to the
Pelecaniformes.
Except for the extreme difference in size, the tibiotarsus of _Laornis_
is in many respects similar to that of _Presbyornis_ (Figure 8),
especially in (1) the shape and position of the tubercle proximal to
the external condyle; (2) the transverse pit in the intercondylar
sulcus; and (3) the broad, shallow intercondylar sulcus as seen in
distal view. It differs in a seemingly minor but quite characteristic
feature, the large nutrient foramen situated in the groove for M.
peroneus brevis (Figure 8_c_). This is absent in _Presbyornis_ but is
present in both of the tibiotarsi from the Cretaceous of New Jersey
in which that portion of the bone is preserved (the holotypes of
Palaeotringa littoralis and _P. vagans_), as well as in a tibiotarsus
(Science Museum of Minnesota P75.22.25) from the type-locality of
_Dakotornis cooperi_ Erickson, 1975, that may be referable to that
graculavid-like species. The foramen in the peroneus brevis groove
may also be found in at least some specimens of Stercorariidae, which
is partly what led Olson (1974) to suggest a relationship between
_Laornis_ and the Lari. _Laornis_ appears to have been an extremely
large member of the “transitional Charadriiformes,” though where its
relationships may lie within that group cannot be determined.
=Genus _Palaeotringa_ Marsh, 1870=
Type-Species.--_Palaeotringa littoralis_ Marsh, 1870; by subsequent
designation (Hay, 1902:527).
Included Species.--_Palaeotringa littoralis_ Marsh, 1870, and
_Palaeotringa vagans_ Marsh, 1872.
=_Palaeotringa littoralis_ Marsh, 1870=
Figure 7_l_
_Palaeotringa littoralis_ Marsh, 1870:208.
Holotype.--Distal portion of left tibiotarsus lacking most of the inner
condyle, YPM 830.
Locality and Horizon.--Collected in the “middle marl beds” by Nicolas
Wain from his marl pits near Hornerstown, New Jersey; Late Cretaceous
(Maastrichtian), either basal Hornerstown Formation or Navesink
Formation.
Measurements (in mm).--Depth through outer condyle 8.2; width of shaft
just proximal to outer condyle 7.0.
Comparisons.--This specimen and that of _P. vagans_ are too fragmentary
for useful comparison. Both have the foramen in the groove for
M. peroneus brevis, mentioned above. Their overall similarity to
_Presbyornis_ and to charadriiform birds in general justifies retaining
them with the other “graculavids” but other than this little else can
be said. In size, _Palaeotringa littoralis_ would have been about
equal to _Burhinus bistriatus vocifer_ and smaller than _Esacus
magnirostris_. Hence it would seem to be too small to belong to the
same species as _Graculavus velox_ and is definitely too large to be
referable to _Telmatornis priscus_.
[Illustration: Figure 8.--Distal end of right tibiotarsus of (_a,c,e_)
_Laornis edvardsianus_, holotype, YPM 820, compared with (_b,d,f_) the
same element enlarged in _Presbyornis_ sp., UW BQ305: _a,b_, anterior
views; _c,d_, lateral views (note large foramen in peroneus brevis
groove of _Laornis_); _e,f_, distal views. (_a,c,e_, × 1.5, _b,d,f_, ×
4; specimens coated with ammonium chloride to enhance detail.)]
=_Palaeotringa littoralis?_=
Figure 9_a_
Referred Material.--Distal portion of a left humerus, NJSM 11303.
Locality and Horizon.--Collected from the main fossiliferous layer of
the Inversand Company marl pit, Sewell, Gloucester County, New Jersey;
Hornerstown Formation, latest Cretaceous (Maastrichtian); collected 27
September 1972 by David C. Parris.
Measurements (in mm).--Distal width 12.8, depth through dorsal condyle
6.9, width of shaft at proximal extent of brachial fossa 8.2.
Comparisons.--This interesting specimen, although considerably worn,
clearly has the overall “graculavid” morphology but shows sufficient
differences from the humeri of _Telmatornis_ or _Anatalavis_ to warrant
its generic separation from them. In size it is about equal to the
modern form _Burhinus bistriatus vocifer_ and hence would be compatible
with _P. littoralis_. It differs from _Telmatornis_, _Anatalavis_, or
_Presbyornis_, and is more similar to _Burhinus_ in having (1) the
brachial depression wider, shallower, and more proximally situated.
Although affected by wear, (2) the dorsal condyle is nevertheless
considerably smaller and not produced as far proximally as in any of
the preceding genera, although _Presbyornis_ is more similar in this
respect than the others. In distal view the specimen is more similar
to _Presbyornis_ than to the other Cretaceous humeri, although (3) the
olecranal fossa is shallower. If this specimen is correctly referred
to _Palaeotringa_, it shows that genus to be distinct from any of the
others yet known in the fauna except possibly _Graculavus_, for which
the distal end of the humerus is unknown.
=_Palaeotringa vagans_ Marsh, 1872=
Figure 7_m_
_Palaeotringa vagans_ Marsh, 1872:365.
Holotype.--Fragmented distal two-thirds of a left tibiotarsus lacking
the external condyle and the anterior portion of the internal condyle,
YPM 835.
Locality and Horizon.--From Hornerstown, Upper Freehold Township,
Monmouth County, New Jersey; collected by J.G. Meirs; Late Cretaceous
(Maastrichtian), “about ten feet below the surface of the marl” (Marsh,
1872:365), either basal Hornerstown Formation or Navesink Formation.
Measurements (in mm).--Width of shaft just proximal to external condyle
5.8.
Comparisons.--This very unsatisfactory specimen comes from a species
smaller than _P. littoralis_ and larger than _P. vetus_ (= _Telmatornis
priscus_). It differs from the latter and agrees with _P. littoralis_
in having the distal tendinal opening of a flattened oval shape, rather
than decidedly rounded. If we have correctly referred _P. vetus_ to
_Telmatornis priscus_, then it is certain that neither of the other
two species of _Palaeotringa_ can be referred to _Telmatornis_. In _P.
vagans_ the tendinal groove appears to be much narrower and the bridge
much deeper than in _P. littoralis_, but this is in part due to damage
and possible immaturity in the latter specimen, so it remains possible
that these species are in fact congeneric. The species _P. vagans_ can
be retained as it is smaller than any of the other graculavids in the
fauna except _T. priscus_, from which it is generically distinct.
=Graculavidae, Genus and Species Indeterminate=
Figure 9_b,c_
Referred Material.--Abraded distal end of left humerus and associated
proximal portion of humeral shaft, proximal end of radius, and fragment
of shaft of ulna, NJSM 11302.
Locality and Horizon.--Collected from the main fossiliferous layer of
the Inversand Company marl pit, Sewell, Gloucester County, New Jersey;
Hornerstown Formation, latest Cretaceous (Maastrichtian); collected 15
August 1972 by David C. Parris.
Measurements (in mm).--Humerus: distal width 19 mm, depth through
dorsal condyle 9.7, width of shaft at proximal extent of brachial fossa
11.0; greatest proximal diameter of radius 7.0.
Comparisons.--The distal end of the humerus is the only reasonably
diagnostic element in this assortment and indicates a large, robust
species that would have exceeded in size any of the others known in
this Cretaceous avifauna except _Laornis edvardsianus_, which was
much larger still. In size this bird would have approximated the
modern flamingo _Phoeniconaias minor_, which it somewhat resembles in
morphology as well. The humerus is not greatly different from that
of other Graculavidae in general aspect but is distinct in having a
larger, much deeper, and more proximally situated brachial depression.
It represents a species distinct from any of the others yet known
in the fauna and is certainly generically distinct from all except
possibly _Graculavus_, for which comparable elements are unknown.
=Order Procellariiformes?=
Among the newly collected material from the Inversand pit is a singular
avian humerus that cannot be assigned to the Graculavidae or to
any other known family, fossil or modern. Although it is generally
inadvisable to name even Paleogene birds on single elements, to say
nothing of Cretaceous ones, the specimen under consideration here is
superior to any of the other avian fossils yet collected from the
Cretaceous of New Jersey, both in preservation and in diagnostic
qualities, and it would seem incongruous to leave it innominate when
practically all the other fragments from the same deposits have
received names.
[Illustration: Figure 9.--Miscellaneous elements, _a_, _Palaeotringa
littoralis?_ (NJSM 11303), distal end of left humerus, palmar view;
_b_, Graculavidae, genus and species indeterminate (NJSM 11302),
distal end of left humerus, palmar view; _c_, proximal end of
radius associated with _b_; _d_, _Graculavus velox?_ (NJSM 11854),
right carpometacarpus; _e,f_, Procellariiformes?, genus and species
indeterminate (ANSP 15713), distal end of left ulna (_e_, external
view;/dorsal view); _g_, Aves, incertae sedis (NJSM 12119), distal end
of left femur, posterior view. (_a,b,c,d_, × 2; _e,f,g_, × 5; specimens
coated with ammonium chloride to enhance detail.)]
The most distinctive features of this specimen are the deep brachial
depression and the incipient ectepicondylar spur, thus calling to mind
both the Lari (Charadriiformes) and the Procellariiformes among modern
birds. Among the Pelecaniformes it also bears a resemblance to the
Phaethontidae and especially to the Eocene frigatebird _Limnofregata_
(Fregatidae) (Olson, 1977).
=Family Tytthostonychidae, new family=
Type Genus.--_Tytthostonyx_, new genus.
Included Genera.--Type genus only.
Diagnosis.--Differs from the Lari and other Charadriiformes in (1)
the low, narrow head; (2) the very large, long pectoral crest; (3)
the virtual absence of the incisura capitis or any excavation for M.
coracobrachialis cranialis; and (4) the shallow, indistinct tricipital
grooves. It agrees with the Procellariiformes and differs from
_Phaethon_ and _Limnofregata_ in characters 2 and 4, and in the large,
deeply excavated brachial depression. The ectepicondylar spur is better
developed than in any of the Pelecaniformes but not as well developed
as in the Procellariiformes. The apparently very broad pectoral crest
extends much farther distally than in any of the Procellariiformes or
even in _Limnofregata_, to which the fossil is somewhat more similar
in this respect. Tytthostonyx differs from any of the taxa compared in
having the ventral condyle very rounded, extending distally well past
the dorsal condyle.
=Genus _Tytthostonyx_, new genus=
Type-Species.--_Tytthostonyx glauconiticus_, new species.
Included Species.--Type species only.
Diagnosis.--As for the family.
Etymology.--Greek, _tytthos_, little, plus _stonyx_, any sharp point.
The name is masculine in gender and refers to the small, presumably
rudimentary, ectepicondylar spur. It should not be confused with the
coleopteran genus _Tytthonyx_, based on _onyx_, claw.
=_Tytthostonyx glauconiticus_, new species=
Figures 10, 11
Holotype.--Right humerus lacking the ventral tubercle, portions of the
pectoral crest, and other parts of the proximal end, where partially
reconstructed, NJSM 11341.
Locality and Horizon.--Main fossiliferous layer of the Inversand
Company marl pit, Sewell, Gloucester County, New Jersey; basal portion
of the Hornerstown Formation, latest Cretaceous (Maastrichtian);
collected 11 October 1973 by David C. Parris.
Measurements of Holotype (in mm).--Length as reconstructed, 110; width
and depth of shaft at midpoint 7.0 × 5.6; distal width 14.8; depth
through dorsal condyle 8.7.
Etymology.--From Latin, _glaucus_ (Greek, _glaukos_), bluish green
or gray, sea-colored, applied to greensands because of their color,
although appropriate because of their marine origins as well; in
reference to the holotype having been recovered from beds of glauconite.
Remarks.--A possible relationship between the Procellariiformes and
Pelecaniformes has been previously suggested (Sibley and Ahlquist,
1972:70; Olson, 1985:142), and among the pelecaniform taxa most often
mentioned as being procellariiform-like are the Fregatidae. It is
tempting to regard the humerus of _Tytthostonyx_ as being similar
to that possessed by the ancestral stock that gave rise to the
Procellariiformes. Its similarities also to the Eocene frigatebird
_Limnofregata_ would thus be seen as corroborating the primitiveness
of the Fregatidae within the Pelecaniformes. Whereas _Tytthostonyx_
definitely has not achieved the highly distinctive and presumably
derived morphology of the humerus of modern Procellariiformes, the
incipient development of the ectepicondylar spur and deep brachial
depression could be interpreted as tending in that direction.
On the other hand, we must admit that we are dealing with only a
single bone and one of very great age at that, so that the risk of
overinterpreting the fossil is correspondingly great. We can only
discern the overall similarities of the specimen and phylogenetic
inferences can therefore be only tentative at best.
=Family and Genus Indeterminate=
Figure 9_e,f_
Referred Material.--Distal portion of left ulna ANSP 15713.
Locality and Horizon.--Inversand Company marl pit, near Sewell,
Gloucester County, New Jersey; Hornerstown Formation, Late Cretaceous
(Maastrichtian); not found in situ, collected on shelf formed by “blue
bed”; collected 31 August 1977 by Richard S. White.
Measurements (in mm).--Distal width 2.6, distal depth 3.1, width and
depth of shaft near point of break 1.8 × 1.9.
Comparisons.--This specimen comes from a very small bird. The only
modern pelagic birds in this size range are the storm-petrels of
the family Oceanitidae and the fossil resembles this family in the
extremely straight shaft of the ulna, the shape and depth of the
tendinal grooves, and the relatively well-developed scars for the
attachment of the secondaries. It differs from the Oceanitidae in
having the ventral lip of the external condyle much more rounded and
protrudent past the plane of the shaft, whereas the carpal tubercle in
dorsal view is markedly smaller. On this basis, the fossil certainly
could not be referred to the Oceanitidae and that it should be
associated with the Procellariiformes may be doubted as well.
[Illustration: Figure 10.--_Tytthostonyx glauconiticus_, new genus
and species (holotype, NJSM 11341), right humerus: _a,b_, anconal and
palmar views of uncoated specimen to show reconstructed areas, × 0.8;
_c,d_, stereophotographs of coated specimen in anconal and palmar
views, × 1.3.]
[Illustration: Figure 11.--_Tytthostonyx glauconiticus_, new genus and
species (holotype, NJSM 11341), stereophotographs of distal end of
right humerus: _a_, anconal view; _b_, palmar view; _c_, ventral view;
_d_, dorsal view; _e_, distal view. (All figures × 2; specimens coated
with ammonium chloride to enhance detail.)]
=Aves, incertae sedis=
Figure 9_g_
Referred Material.--Distal end of left femur, NJSM 12119.
Locality and Horizon.--Inversand Company marl pit, Sewell, Gloucester
County, New Jersey; from processed spoil piles, precise stratum
unknown; collected 12 December 1981 by Cynthia Miller. Presumably
from the Hornerstown Formation but could be either Late Cretaceous or
Paleocene.
Measurements (in mm).--Distal width 4.3, distal depth 3.8.
Comparisons.--This is also from a very small bird, possibly the same
size as the species represented by the preceding ulna (ANSP 15713;
Figure 9_e,f_) but probably somewhat larger. It is characterized
by an extremely well-developed tubercle for the attachment of M.
gastrocnemius lateralis. A perfunctory perusal of modern taxa revealed
nothing similar.
=Discussion=
Because the specimens treated here are avian and of Mesozoic age, it is
almost certain that too much importance will be made of them by some
future authors. Indeed, it will probably be years before the literature
can be expunged of the records of presumed occurrences that arose from
previous misidentifications of these fossils. Therefore, in an effort
to forestall overenthusiasm for these fragments we shall present our
own brief assessment of their significance.
Unlike most other Cretaceous birds, such as the Hesperornithiformes,
Ichthyornithiformes, and Enantiornithiformes, which represent totally
extinct lineages (Olson, 1985), the Cretaceous birds of New Jersey are
of essentially modern aspect. However, there are no modern families
of birds represented in the fauna. The differences among the fossils
suggest that at least two orders are represented, but whether any or
all of the species can be placed in modern orders is more difficult
to say. This stems as much from the unsatisfactory state of the
ordinal classification of modern birds (Olson, 1981, 1985), as from
the incompleteness of the fossils. There are certain modern birds, for
example the Burhinidae, with sufficient similarities to some of the
Cretaceous fossils that there would be no problem with associating them
in the same ordinal-level taxon, though it would be more difficult to
say which other modern families should also be included.
The material is too poor to state how many families are represented
in the fauna, although if the various members of the “form-family”
Graculavidae were better known there can scarcely be any doubt that
more than one family would be recognized in this group. Within
the Graculavidae from New Jersey there appear to be six genera
(_Graculavus_, _Telmatornis_, _Palaeotringa_, _Laornis_, _Anatalavis_,
and an unnamed genus). These are diverse, ranging in size from the
smallest of the modern Burhinidae to that of a large crane. The very
short, robust, curved humeri of _Anatalavis_ indicate some diversity in
mode of flight as well. The greatest similarity of most of these forms
is to the early Paleogene bird _Presbyornis_, and then to the modern
family Burhinidae. Because these two groups are very different in their
habits and feeding adaptations we may expect that the various members
of the Graculavidae were probably as divergent from one another as are
_Presbyornis_ and _Burhinus_, their similarities being almost certainly
due to the retention of primitive characters.
Including the two genera and species that show some similarities to the
Procellariiformes, along with the small indeterminate femur, the total
avifauna from the New Jersey greensands comprises 8 or 9 genera and 9
or 10 species. As far as can be determined, all of the birds in this
assemblage were probably marine or littoral in habits. We certainly
would not interpret this as indicating that waterbirds are primitive
and that they gave rise to land birds, as suggested by Thulborn and
Hamley (1985) in their fantastic and highly improbable conjectures as
to the mode of life of _Archaeopteryx_. Indeed, just the opposite is
probably the case (Olson, 1985), the lack of Late Cretaceous fossils of
truly terrestrial or arboreal birds most likely being due to sampling
bias.
Appendix
The nonavian megafauna of the main fossiliferous layer (Basal
Hornerstown Formation), at the Inversand Company marl pit, Sewell,
Gloucester County, New Jersey is listed below. Also found in the
deposits were numerous coprolites of sharks and crocodilians, some
amber, phosphatized wood, and a few seeds. Voucher specimens are in the
collections of the New Jersey State Museum, Academy of Natural Sciences
of Philadelphia, and Yale University (Princeton University collections).
Brachiopoda
_Terebratulina atlantica_ (Morton)
Gastropoda
_Gyrodes abyssinus_ (Morton)
_Acteon cretacea_ Gabb
_Anchura abrupta_ Conrad
_Turbinella parva_ Gabb
_Lunatia halli_ Gabb
_Pyropsis trochiformis_ (Tuomey)
_Volutoderma ovata_ Whitfield
_Turbinella subconica_ Gabb
_Turritella vertebroides_ Morton
Pelecypoda
_Cardium tenuistriatum_ Whitfield
_Glycymeris mortoni_ (Conrad)
_Gryphaea convexa_ (Say)
_Gervilliopsis ensiformis_ (Conrad)
_Panopea decisa_ Conrad
_Veniella conradi_ Morton
_Crassatella vadosa_ Morton
_Cucullaea vulgaris_ Morton
_Lithophaga ripleyana_ Gabb
_Xylophagella irregularis_ (Gabb)
_Nuculana stephensoni_ Richards
_Etea delawarensis_ (Gabb)
Nautiloidea
_Eutrephoceras dekayi_ (Morton)
Ammonoidea
_Baculites ovatus_ Say
_Sphenodiscus lobatus_ (Tuomey)
_Pachydiscus_ (_Neodesmoceras_) sp.
Crustacea
cf. _Hoploparia_ sp.
Chondrichthyes
_Lamma appendiculata_ (Agassiz)
_Odontaspis cuspidata_ (Agassiz)
_Squalicorax pristodontus_ (Morton)
_Hexanchus_ sp.
_Edaphodon stenobryus_ (Cope)
_Edaphodon mirificus_ Leidy
_Ischyodus_ cf. _I. thurmanni_ Pictet and Campiche
_Squatina_ sp.
_Myliobatis_ cf. _M. leidyi_ Hay
_Ischyrhiza mira_ Leidy
_Rhinoptera_ sp.
cf. _Rhombodus levis_ Cappetta and Case
Osteichthyes
_Enchodus_ cf. _E. ferox_ Leidy
_Enchodus_ cf. _E. serrulalus_ Fowler
_Paralbula casei_ Estes
Chelonia
_Adocus beatus_ Leidy
_Osteopygis emarginatus_ Cope
_Taphrospys sulcatus_ (Leidy)
_Dollochelys atlantica_ (Zangerl)
Crocodilia
cf. _Procaimanoidea_ sp.
_Hyposaurus rogersii_ Owen
_Thoracosaurus_ sp.
_Bottosaurus harlani_ Meyer
_Diplocynodon_ sp.
Lacertilia
_Mosasaurus_ sp.
_Plioplatecarpus_ sp.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Die moderne Wohnung und ihre Ausstattung
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Title: Die moderne Wohnung und ihre Ausstattung
Author: Joseph Aug. Lux
Release date: October 15, 2015 [eBook #50221]
Most recently updated: October 22, 2024
Language: German
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIE MODERNE WOHNUNG UND IHRE AUSSTATTUNG ***
##################################################################
Anmerkungen zur Transkription
Der vorliegende Text wurde anhand der 1905 erschienenen Buchausgabe
erstellt. Satzzeichen wurden stillschweigend korrigiert. Ausdrucksweise
und Rechtschreibung sind oft stark regional gefärbt (z.B. ‚färbig‘
für ‚farbig‘, ‚ober‘ für ‚über‘, usw.); in Zweifelsfällen wurde die
hochdeutsche Form verwendet. Die Verwendung von ‚ß‘ bzw. ‚ss‘ ist im
Original nicht konsequent; dies wurde so belassen, wenn im Text keine
vorherrschende Variante festgestellt werden konnte.
Der Name des Architekten Max Benirschke wurde in den Bildunterschriften
gelegentlich fälschlicherweise ‚Bernischke‘ geschrieben. Dies wurde im
vorliegenden Text korrigiert.
Inkonsistente Schreibweisen wurden beibehalten (z.B. ‚Parvenü‘ und
‚Parvenu‘). Unwesentliche Abweichungen zwischen den Titeln des
Inhaltsverzeichnisses und der Kapitelüberschriften bleiben unkorrigiert.
Die in der ‚Druckfehler-Berichtigung‘ angegebenen Stellen wurden bereits
in den Text mit aufgenommen. Desweiteren wurden die folgenden Passagen
korrigiert:
S. 2: ‚eigenlich‘ → ‚eigentlich‘
S. 3: ‚jahrzehnte lang‘ → ‚jahrzehntelang‘
S. 20: ‚massvoll‘ → ‚maßvoll‘
S. 21: ‚Grosstun‘ → ‚Großtun‘
S. 26: ‚faßt‘ → ‚fasst‘
S. 27: ‚nocht‘ → ‚noch‘
S. 31: ‚Kasetten‘ → ‚Kassetten‘
S. 38: ‚Selbstständigkeit‘ → ‚Selbständigkeit‘ (harmonisiert)
S. 40: ‚von einer‘ → ‚vor einer‘
S. 67: ‚politierte‘ → ‚polierte‘
S. 88: ‚achzig‘ → ‚achtzig‘
S. 101: ‚von einen Ort‘ → ‚von einem Ort‘
S. 115: ‚Raum und Mitteln‘ → ‚Raum und Mittel‘
S. 117: ‚aus Maeterlincks mystischen‘ → ‚aus Maeterlincks
mystischem‘ S. 120: ‚aßgelenkt‘ → ‚abgelenkt‘
S. 124: ‚vernachläßigt‘ → ‚vernachlässigt‘; ‚unter dem Einfluß
gekommen‘ → ‚unter den Einfluß gekommen‘
S. 127: ‚uud‘ → ‚und‘
S. 139: ‚Arbeitstitsch‘ → ‚Arbeitstisch‘
S. 140: ‚austoben‘ → ‚sich austoben‘
S. 145: ‚Sonnenaufgang und -Untergang‘ → ‚Sonnenaufgang und
-untergang‘
S. 152: ‚Flaçon‘ → ‚Flacon‘
S. 164: ‚Körber‘ → ‚Körbe‘
S. 167: ‚überflüßig‘ → ‚überflüssig‘
S. 173: ‚der früheren Kapiteln‘ → ‚der früheren Kapitel‘
Gesperrt gedruckte Passagen sind mit Unterstrichen umgeben (_gesperrt_).
##################################################################
JOSEPH AUG. LUX
DIE MODERNE WOHNUNG
UND IHRE AUSSTATTUNG
JOSEPH AUG. LUX
DIE MODERNE WOHNUNG
UND IHRE AUSSTATTUNG
MIT 173 BILDERN UND 8 FARBIGEN
TAFELN NACH WERKEN UND ENTWÜRFEN
VON MODERNEN ARCHITEKTEN
UND IHREN SCHULEN
1905
WIENER VERLAG
WIEN UND LEIPZIG
DRUCK VON W. SCHLENKER, WIEN, IX., WÄHRINGERSTRASSE 26.
MEINER FRAU.
INHALT.
Seite
Tradition und Moderne 1
„Schmücke Dein Heim“ 17
Die Ästhetik der Miethswohnung 25
Wände und Decke, Vorhänge und Teppiche 31
Lichtkörper und Heizkörper 39
Vorzimmer und Dienerzimmer 44
Die Küche 50
Ästhetik des Eßtisches 55
Das Speisezimmer 64
Der Salon 69
Wie man Bilder hängt 77
Das Porträt im Wohnraum 84
Plastik im Zimmer 94
Junggesellenheim und Herrenzimmer 100
Das Musikzimmer 112
Schlafzimmer und Bad 121
Das Kinderzimmer 136
Das Spielzeug 144
Das Mädchenzimmer 151
Blumen am Fenster 158
Blumenkörbe 163
Die Offizierswohnung 165
Die Arbeiterwohnung 169
Tradition und Moderne.
[Illustration: Panneau von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
[Illustration: Möbel um 1820. Schloß Wetzdorf.]
Ein verblühtes Lächeln von Liebenswürdigkeit und lebensfrohem Behagen
ist an den Dingen der Biedermeierzeit abzulesen. Zu den hellgelben
Kirschholzmöbeln, oder nachgedunkelten Mahagonimöbeln, zu der
unerdenklichen Fülle von Formen, Schränken und Tischen aller Art,
Damenschreibtischen und Nähtischen, stummen Aufwärtern und Kommoden,
zu den großblumigen Möbelbezügen und den hellen Gardinen, den Blumen
am Fenster und den gestickten Glockenzügen, zu all der gefühlsseligen
Geburtstagslyrik, welche den Proben des häuslichen Kunstfleißes
von den Schlummerkissen bis zu des Hausvaters Samtkäppchen oder
Samtpantoffeln, eingewebt war, gehören die Locken an der Schläfe, unter
den bebänderten Florentinerhüten hervorquellend, die weißen duftigen
Tüllkleider oder schwere Seide in abgetönten sentimentalen Farben,
heliotrop, dunkellila, altrosa und schwarz. Schwind’s Frauengestalten
mag man sich dabei gerne vorstellen. Der spätgeborene Enkel blickt
mit einer gewissen affektierten, halb spöttischen, halb gönnerhaften
Überlegenheit, hinter der sich nur allzuoft eine unbefriedigte
Sehnsucht verbirgt, auf jene großelterlichen Tage zurück, in denen
sich das Bürgertum auf seine Art auslebte, und zu jener Einheit der
Lebensäußerungen gelangte, welche die Bezeichnung Stil verdient.
Eine spätere Zeit hat diesen Stil »Biedermeier« getauft. In diesem
Worte verdichtet sich für uns die Vorstellung einer vollkommen
durchgebildeten bodenständigen Kultur, die in ungebrochener Linie von
den gewöhnlichen Tageserscheinungen bis zu den Gipfelpunkten, welche
die Namen Grillparzer, Schubert, Schwind bezeichnen, emporsteigt. Und
ein sonnenhaftes Lächeln umspielt heute alle Lippen, welche dieses
Wort nennen. Man war nicht immer so freundlich gesinnt. Die jüngst
verwichene Zeit, welche dem Kultus der historischen Stile frönte,
hat in das Wort Biedermeier jenes Maß von unsäglicher Verachtung
hineingelegt, welche der Kosmopolit, auch der vermeintliche, für das
Spießbürgertum immer bereit hat. Das Wort war eigentlich nur gemünzt
als Bettelpfennig für alles Lächerliche, Gezierte, Hausbackene,
Philisterhafte, das man, wenn man durchaus will, der Schmachtlockenzeit
anmerken konnte. Aber die Zeiten haben sich gründlich geändert und
der Kosmopolitismus, der in allen Stilepochen lebte und einen wahren
Unrat von Geschmacklosigkeit und Widersinnigkeit aufhäufte, hat
einen gräßlichen Katzenjammer hinterlassen. Wir suchen heute alle
volkstümlichen Kunstlelemente auf, die wurzelhaft sind, sofern sie
nicht in den letzten fünfzig Jahren mit Stumpf und Stil ausgerottet
wurden. Wir knüpfen dort wieder an, um uns durch ihr Vorbild zu
stärken, damit auch wir zu Formen gelangen, in denen unser Volk
und unsere Zeit lebt und die vom gewöhnlichsten Alltag bis zu den
ergreifendsten Äußerungen festlicher Weihe nur eine ungebrochene Linie
aufweist.
[Illustration: Interieur um 1800. Schloß Wetzdorf.]
[Illustration: Schreibzimmer der Gräfin Molly Zichy-Ferraris Wien 1830
nach einem Gemälde von Albert Schindler.]
[Illustration: Empfangszimmer in einem Wiener Bürgerhause um 1840.]
[Illustration: Interieur um 1810 aus Schloß Wetzdorf.]
Und wie es oft erging, was anfänglich Schimpfwort war, ward späterhin
Ehrentitel. Biedermeiers Ehrenrettung kann nicht schlagender
dokumentiert werden, als durch den liebevollen Eifer, der das alte
Gerümpel vom Speicher, wohin es jahrzehntelang verbannt war, wieder
herunterholt und in den schönsten Zimmern aufstellt. Das ist gewiß
ein rührender, herzerfreuender Vorgang, wenn sie wirklich alter
Familienbesitz, wenn sie also echt sind. Zwar werden solche Zimmer,
die vollständig mit altem Hausrat angefüllt sind, den Eindruck eines
Museums machen, aber ein solches Familienmuseum, mit dem sich viele
freundliche Erinnerungen verknüpfen, wird immer ein besonderer Schatz
sein. Weit über den persönlichen Wert hinaus, besitzen sie die
Kraft eines lehrreichen Beispiels, welches für den Ausbau unserer
häuslichen Kultur in großem Sinne vorbildlich ist. Sie sind die
Vorläufer des modernen Möbels. Mit ihrer bezwingenden Einfachheit
und Anspruchslosigkeit waren die Räume geeignet, die Geberden und
Bewegungen jener gemüt- und geistvollen Menschen maßvoll aufzunehmen,
die Stimme des Geistes und Herzens austönen zu lassen, ohne sie durch
den Unrat der Geschmacklosigkeit, durch die Wirrnis von Schnörkel und
Stilbrocken, in denen babylonisch die Sprachen aller Völker und Zeiten
ertönen, zu beschämen und lächerlich zu machen. Aus allen Winkeln
jener Interieurs, zwischen dem ernsten, einfachen Hausrat, hinter den
weißen Gardinen und zwischen den Blumen am Fenster winkt der genius
loci freundlich hervor, und es ist kein Stuhl und kein Schrank, kein
Gegenstand des Gebrauches, der nicht den Geist der Vorfahren trüge,
ihre Taten, ihre Ideale, das Wesen ihrer Persönlichkeit und ihr
Gedächtnis überlieferte. So erscheint uns Späteren das großväterische,
anspruchslose Biedermeierzimmer als das traute Heim von Menschen,
denen die Heimat nicht nur ein Wort oder Begriff war, sondern der
gesetzmäßige künstlerische Ausdruck der Persönlichkeit in den
Gegenständen der Häuslichkeit. Die Interieurs früherer Epochen, die der
Biedermeierzeit vorausgehen, besitzen keine solche Vorbildlichkeit.
Auch nicht das Empire Möbel, in dem die große Historie des barocken
Zeitalters ausklingt. Denn die Voraussetzungen, die jene historischen
Formen geschaffen haben, sind von den heutigen grundverschieden. Hof
und Kirche herrschten auch in Kunst und Kunstgewerbe. Aber es ist für
die Einheit jener Kultur bezeichnend, daß die überladenen Formen, in
welchen das Machtbewußtsein der weltlichen und geistlichen Herrschaft
adäquaten Ausdruck fand, in einem Grade volkstümlich wurden, daß
sie schließlich bis in den einfachsten Haushalt eindrangen, als
Abglanz absolutistischer und sacerdotaler Herrlichkeit. Die Armut der
barocken Originalschöpfungen, die nicht über die Repräsentationsräume
hinausgingen und das persönliche oder private Leben in einem Zustand
der grenzenlosen Verlassenheit beließen, ist noch wenig beachtet.
Dem Parvenu am Ende des Jahrhunderts erging es wie den Kindern mit
dem Märchenkönig: »Wie wohnten doch die Könige schön!« ruft er in
den Prunksälen eines alten Barockschlosses aus, »so möchte ich es
auch haben!« Und alsbald hat er eine stilgerechte Einrichtung, alles
in billigster, banalster Nachahmung. Das Um und Auf der barocken
Interieurs bestand aus Stühlen und Tischen, aus dem Paradebett und dem
Sofa. Im Übrigen wohnten auch die Fürsten in einem denkbar schlechten
Zustand und entbehrten alle Bequemlichkeit, die heutzutage jedem
gewöhnlichen Sterblichen eine selbstverständliche und unentbehrliche
Sache ist. Wer die prunkenden Barockpaläste durchwandert, die von
den alten Adelsgeschlechtern noch bewohnt werden, findet am Ende der
überladenen Prunksäle, gewöhnlich im Obergeschoß, einige einfache, mit
bürgerlicher Behaglichkeit, meistens im Empire- oder Biedermeierstil
eingerichtete Gemächer. Das ist die eigentliche Wohnung des Fürsten. Es
liegt eine feine Ironie in dieser Erscheinung, daß der Fürst, um der
niederdrückenden Wucht seiner Repräsentationspflichten zu entgehen,
seine Zuflucht zur bürgerlichen Schlichtheit und Bequemlichkeit
nimmt, während der Parvenu des 19. Jahrhunderts all sein Behagen
hingibt für das bischen Talmiglanz einer »stilgerechten« Wohnung.
In der Tat mußte der ganze Reigen historischer Stile in atemloser
Hetze wiederkehren, ehe man wieder zu dem vernünftigen Standpunkte
zurückfand, auf dem bereits unsere Großeltern standen. Die ganze
Barocke hat nicht eine Form übriggelassen, die für die heutige Kultur
brauchbar wäre. Sie bedeutet einen Abschluß. Die Revolution hat sie
samt dem ganzen absolutistischen Königtum hinweggefegt. Ein strammer
militärischer Zug geht durch die nächsten Jahrzehnte. Der kaiserliche
Stil trägt den Bedürfnissen der Zeit Rechnung, aber Empire ist noch
sehr aristokratisch. Mit dem Glanz der Napoleonzeit verschwand auch
der Empire-Stil; aus dem Kosmopolitismus und seinem politischen
Katzenjammer flüchtete man ins alte romantische Land, Uhland,
Eichendorff, Schubert weckten die schwärmerische Liebe zur Natur, und
ein Einschlag des ländlichen Elements, wohl auch schon damals der
Einfluß Englands in Modedingen, führte zu den biederben, quadratischen
und zylindrischen Formen des Biedermeier-Möbels, an dem Reminiszenzen
aus dem Barock- und Empire-Stil als dekorative Details hängen blieben.
Das Bürgertum schafft die Formen, die es braucht. Es will nicht
glänzen, nicht präsentieren, sondern bequem und behaglich leben. Es
erfüllt seine Forderungen mit strenger Sachlichkeit und zugleich mit
einem Erfindungsreichtum, der erstaunlich ist. Unsere Möbeltypen
wurden damals geschaffen. Und es bewahrt meistens eine Feinsinnigkeit,
von der wir uns nicht immer einen richtigen Begriff gebildet haben. Es
ist die Zeit Adalbert Stifters. Er ist der vollgiltige Repräsentant
seiner Zeit. Biedermeier im besten Sinne. Er erschließt uns die
Interieurs seiner Zeit, und die Interieurs seiner Traumwelt, und läßt
uns alles miterleben, was wir beim Betreten eines Altwiener Raumes
heute noch nachzuempfinden vermögen. Alle Räume dieser Art sind schwer
zugänglicher Privatbesitz, nur mehr spärlich in Vollständigkeit
erhalten, meistens als Trödelgut verschleudert, da und dort ein Stück.
Die Museen die im Banne der Kunstgeschichte stehen, hielten sich
zu vornehm, diese Dinge zu sammeln, und auch die Lebensart unserer
Großeltern zu zeigen.
[Illustration: Fenster von Arch. Georg Winkler.]
[Illustration: Glasfenster von Prof. Kolo Moser.]
[Illustration: Tür mit Portière von Architekt Max Benirschke,
Düsseldorf.]
Nun wird die Frage laut, was wir mit diesen verjährten Dingen, die
so freundlich zu uns sprechen, anfangen sollen. Sie nachahmen? Das
hieße ein altes Laster, das wir beim Haupttor hinaustreiben, durch
ein Hinterpförtchen wieder hineinlassen und den Zirkel der Stilhetze
mit diesem letzten Glied schließen. Wie von allem Vergangenen,
trennt uns auch vom Biedermeier eine tiefe Kluft. Dennoch sind diese
Dinge wertvoll durch das Beispiel, das sie lehren. Sie lehren, wie
die Menschen von damals sichs bequem und gemütlich nach ihrer Art
einrichteten, und solcherart zu Ausdrucksformen gelangten, die
organisch aus dem Leben und seinen Forderungen hervorgegangen waren,
vielleicht hie und da ein bischen unbeholfen und schwerfällig, im
ganzen aber unbekümmert, treuherzig und bieder. Sie lehren, daß wir
es auch so machen müssen. Der Lebende behält Recht. Viele Dinge sind
konstruktiv so vollkommen, daß man sie fast unverändert aufnehmen
könnte, wenn nicht unsere Zeit doch wieder ihre eigene Art hätte,
sich auszuprägen. Was uns von Biedermeier trennt, sechzig, achtzig
Jahre einer technischen, sozialen, wirtschaftlichen, künstlerischen
Entwicklung müssen durchgreifende Veränderung des Lebensbildes
herbeiführen. Schämen wir uns der Gegenwart nicht. Während vor dem
Hause das Automobil, das Fahrrad, die elektrischen Bahnen vorbeirasen,
können wir im Innern des Hauses, wo wir alle technischen Vorteile
auszunützen suchen, vom Telephon bis zu den elektrischen Glühkörpern,
nicht den historischen Biedermeier spielen. Das hieße, da wir uns eben
altdeutsch gefühlt haben, eine Rolle mit der anderen vertauschen. Wohl
aber können wir Biedermeier im modernsten Sinne sein, indem wir uns
treu zu dem bekennen, was unserer Zeit gemäß ist, so wie es unsere
Großväter für ihre Zeit getan haben. Dann wird sich von selbst ein
gewisser verwandtschaftlicher Zug mit den vergangenen Dingen der Heimat
herausstellen, wie denn überhaupt alles Echte, aus wirklichem Bedürfnis
Herausgeborene, trotz großer zeitlicher Trennung verwandter ist, als
man denkt. Denn immer ist der Mensch das Maß der Dinge. Auch die Motive
aus alter Kultur wecken in unserem modernen Gefühl ein Echo.
[Illustration: Pfeiler von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
[Illustration: Pfeiler v. Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
Nicht von oben her wird heute der Stil diktiert, sondern von unten
her. Die heutigen Produktions-Verhältnisse, die Entwicklung der
Technik, der Industrie haben die neuen sozialen Grundlagen geschaffen,
aus denen die moderne Formensprache hervorgegangen ist. Welche
Umwälzung hat z. B. das neue Beleuchtungswesen auf dem Gebiete der
Metallindustrie hervorgerufen! Die Erfindung der Elektrizität allein
hat zu Beleuchtungskörpern geführt, deren Formen aus keiner Tradition
geholt werden konnten. So geht es auch mit den anderen Gebrauchsdingen.
Das Auswachsen der Städte zu Weltstädten hat zu neuen, bis dahin nie
gekannten Lebensformen geführt. Durch das Zusammendrängen so vieler
Menschen an einem Ort und den dadurch bedingten raschen Austausch und
Verbrauch der Güter, hat das Leben eine außerordentliche künstliche
Steigerung erfahren und den Typus des Stadtmenschen verschärft. Aus
diesen Verhältnissen ist eine spezifisch moderne Aufgabe erstanden,
nämlich die: inmitten des rasselnden Getriebes der Fabriken, des
Straßen- und Geschäftsverkehres den Zustand der Wohnlichkeit
herzustellen, Räume zu schaffen, welche die Urbanität der Sitten und
Lebensgewohnheiten verkörpern, und als friedliche Inseln inmitten
des hastigen Welttreibens das Gefühl der Heimat wachhalten. In der
Tat, die moderne Stadtwohnung ist unser jüngstes Problem. Früher
kannte man es nicht. Denn wie wir oben gesehen haben, waren die
Wohnungen der Bürger zuerst von den Ausstrahlungen des Hofes und des
kirchlichen Hochgefühls bestimmt und später von den wechselnden
allgemeinen Zeitideen des Kosmopolitismus, der Romantik und noch
vor einem Jahrzehnt von der Renaissance-Illusion, vom Kultus der
historischen Stile. Weltstädte im gegenwärtigen Sinne sind ein sehr
junges Erzeugnis. Sie haben die Wohnungsfrage neu geschaffen. Der
Kern dieser Frage ist Benützbarkeit, Zweckmäßigkeit, Bequemlichkeit.
Dazu ist die Ausnützung aller modernen Hilfsmittel, aller technischen
Errungenschaften Bedingung, die zu neuen Lösungen führt. Gerade die
praktischen Forderungen des Lebens geben fruchtbare Anregungen zu neuen
Schönheitsmöglichkeiten, die im Wesen der Dinge liegen. Auf diesem Wege
gelangen wir zu dem lange gesuchten volkstümlichen Stil, welcher der
Ausdruck unserer heutigen allgemeinen Lebensformen ist.
[Illustration: Portière von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
[Illustration: Schablone für Wandmalerei von Arch. Max Benirschke,
Düsseldorf.]
Die Forderungen, welche die heutige Zeit an die Zweckkunst stellt,
sind in allen Kulturländern dieselben. Aus den Übereinstimmungen
ergibt sich der Zeitstil, dessen wesentliche Merkmale heute sind:
Zurückgehen auf die konstruktiven Elemente, in denen das eherne
Gesetz der Zweckmäßigkeit wirksam ist, sinnfällige Ausnützung der
Materialwerte, welche hier die zusammenfassende Kraft des Eisens,
dort die Weichheit der Fichte, die zähe Wucht der Eiche etc. sichtbar
macht und aus ihren natürlichen Eigenschaften neue dekorative Werte
zieht. Die unmittelbare Anknüpfung an die Natur, an die funktionellen
Bedürfnisse und Gewohnheiten des Menschen schließt grundsätzlich die
Wiederholung gebrauchter historischer Formen aus und eröffnet ungeahnte
Gestaltungsmöglichkeiten, die eine lebendige organische Beziehung zu
unserem Wesen unterhalten. In diesem engen Anschluß an die natürlichen
Forderungen liegt also das Gemeinsame der heutigen angewandten Kunst,
aber zugleich auch das Differenzierende. Die Lebenserfordernisse,
soweit sie in den Gebrauchsdingen des Alltags, in den Gegenständen der
Häuslichkeit zum Ausdruck kommen, sind allgemeiner Natur, wenngleich
sie überall eine andere Sprache sprechen, einen anderen Dialekt. So
spüren wir bald in der allgemeinen Kultur die persönliche, in den
typischen Formen die Individualität, im Zeitstil den Geist der Heimat,
den genius loci. In England, in Deutschland und bei uns wird nach den
allgemeinen Grundsätzen gearbeitet, allerdings überall mit anderen
Ergebnissen. Daran ist die Ortstümlichkeit schuld, die Heimatkultur,
die als Obertöne im modernen Schaffen leise mitschwingen und die
lokale Färbung erzeugen. Das wird schließlich niemand leugnen: wir alle
haben von England gelernt. Das hatte England dem Kontinent voraus, es
besaß von altersher eine ununterbrochene bürgerliche Tradition und
die großen Neuerer in Kunst und Kunstgewerbe fanden von vorneherein
einen Boden vor, auf dem ein gut Gedeihen war. Denn die altenglische
Sitte, daß jeder Bürger sein Haus allein bewohnt, kommt den Absichten
der modernen Kunst hilfreich entgegen. Das ererbte Gut volkstümlicher
Sitten und Anschauungen einerseits, die immense Vorarbeit einzelner
leuchtender Geister, vor allem Dante Rosetti, John Ruskin und William
Morris, sind die Grundlagen der Künstler, die wir heute am Werke sehen.
[Illustration: Teppich von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
[Illustration: Läufer von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
Immer mehr richten sich die Blicke auf Wien. Dort ist ein neues
Künstlergeschlecht, das zum größtenteil aus der Wagnerschule
hervorgegangen ist, aufgestanden und hat mit selten gesehener Eintracht
und Geschlossenheit die moderne Raumkunst geschaffen. Künstlerisch und
wahlverwandtschaftlich steht es der Gruppe Mackintosh am nächsten.
Es hat den Vorzug der größten Frische und Natürlichkeit. Bei aller
strengen künstlerischen Konsequenz geht ein liebenswürdiger Wienerzug
durch das ganze Schaffen dieser Künstler, die zur Sezession gehören
oder sich zu ihren Anschauungen bekennen. Sie haben sich bereits das
Ausland erobert. Heute verlangt man schon den »Wiener Stil«. Josef
Olbrich hat ihm eine Insel im Ausland geschaffen. Prof. Josef Hoffmann
ist sicherlich die stärkste und konsequenteste Kraft unter den Neuen.
Prof. Kolo Moser schafft Werke von fast femininer Grazie. Vornehm
und zweckvoll sind Leopold Bauers Schöpfungen. Was die Schulen von
Prof. Hoffmann, K. Moser, A. Roller, Baron Mirbach, A. Böhm auf allen
Gebieten des Kunstgewerbes und der häuslichen Kunst leisten, wird
bahnbrechend wirken. Zahlreiche Schüler sind erfolgreich im Auslande
tätig. Unter diesen verdient Max Benirschke in Düsseldorf besondere
Erwähnung. Die Architekten und Kleinkunst gehen hier Hand in Hand und
erreichen solcherart die bewundernswerte Einheit eines Stils, der
unmittelbar aus dem Leben quillt und für das Leben schafft. Die moderne
Wohnung und ihre Ausstattung wird solcherart, ob sie nun einfachen oder
leichten Verhältnissen entspricht, den Stempel einer vornehmen Kultur
tragen, die Wesenszüge einer geschmackvollen, gebildeten, modernen
Persönlichkeit.
[Illustration: Diverse Läufer aus Bast von Architekt Hans Vollmer,
ausgef. Prag-Rudniker Korbwarenfabrikation.]
[Illustration: Läufer aus Bast. Prag-Rudniker Korbwarenfabrikation.]
Schmücke dein Heim!
Wohnräume spiegeln immer den Geist ihrer Bewohner. Gleichviel, ob sie
mit reichen oder geringen Mitteln ausgestattet sind. So werden sie zu
Verrätern, und der überflüssige Aufwand, der sogenannte Luxus, der
vielfach für Geschmack genommen wird, offenbart nur zu oft, was er eben
zu verhüllen strebt: die Geschmacklosigkeit. Das ist eine kapriziöse
Geschichte: Geschmack ist nicht immer für Geld zu haben. Auch nicht
für viel Geld. Die ärmste Hütte kann reicher sein als der prunkende
Palast. Denn Seelenadel kann auch unter dem fadenscheinigen Kleid
und unter dem rauhen Bauernkittel wohnen. Sicherlich wird er auf die
Umgebung ausstrahlen, auf die nächste häusliche Umgebung, und dort im
Stillen wirken. Ganz unauffällig, groben Sinnen nicht wahrnehmbar.
Das »Seelische« ist es, was an den Wohnräumen interessiert, das, was
menschlich an ihnen ist. Nicht wie sie eingerichtet, ob kostbar,
ob ärmlich. Wenn ich in einem weissgetünchten Bauernhaus sorglich
gepflegte Blumen am Fenster sehe, möchte ich am liebsten verweilen.
Wie man bei lieben, guten Menschen verweilt. Die kahlste Stube, darin
Reinlichkeit herrscht und ein paar Topfgewächse stehen oder ein
Blütenzweig im Glas, birgt einen Strahl von Schönheit wie heimliches
Licht.
[Illustration: Möbelstoffe von Backhausen & Söhne, Wien, nach Entwürfen
von Arch. Fr. Dietl und Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Möbelstoffe von Backhausen & Söhne, Wien, nach Entwürfen
von Prof. Joseph Hoffmann, Max Benirschke und Leopold Bauer.]
[Illustration: Möbelstoff von Prof. Joseph Hoffmann, ausgeführt von
Backhausen & Söhne, Wien.]
Allein das Zeugnis, das die Wohnungen für die persönliche Kultur
der Besitzer ablegen, ist nur in seltenen Fällen ein günstiges.
Ich habe die Wohnungen aller Stände gesehen und vor allem des
Mittelstandes, der den Hauptteil der Stadtbevölkerung ausmacht, und
ich habe fast durchwegs nur Variationen eines Themas gefunden, das
nichts Erquickendes bot. Auf die falsche Note des erborgten Luxus,
der den Schein höher stellt als das Sein, ist heute noch das meiste
gestimmt. Auf jeder Schwelle, die ich überschritt, hatte ich die
Empfindung, als schallte mir eine widerliche Reklamestimme entgegen:
»Schmücke Dein Heim!« Den traulichen Blumenflor, der uns die lebendige
Natur, den Frühling in die Stube zaubert, fand ich ersetzt durch
die künstliche Palme, eine erbärmliche Karikatur, die ihre starren
Blätterfinger verzweiflungsvoll nach allen Richtungen ausstreckt in
der offenbaren Absicht, das Makartbouquet traurigen Angedenkens an
Geschmackswidrigkeit zu übertrumpfen. Das beleidigte Auge, das sich
von diesem unwürdigen Anblick weg zum Fenster wendet, begegnet dort
einer neuen Schmach. Wohlfeile, klägliche Imitationen der Glasmalerei
hängen an den Scheiben und wehren dem spärlichen Tageslicht in den
engen, düsteren Gassen den Zutritt in die dämmerigen Stadtwohnungen.
Resigniert lasse ich mich auf die ach, so wohlbekannte Ripsgarnitur
nieder. Doch es könnte auch eine Plüschgarnitur sein oder eine solche
aus Halbseidendamast. Denn ich sehe sie nicht. Sie ist über und über
bedeckt mit Milieux und Schutzdeckerln aller Art, welche die »züchtige
Hausfrau, die Mutter der Kinder« in den langen Jahren des heiligen
Ehestandes gestickt und gehäkelt hat. Als ich mich wieder erhebe, habe
ich die Proben des häuslichen Kunstfleisses auf meinem Rücken hängen.
Die verlegene Miene der Hausfrau steigert meine eigene Verlegenheit,
als ich inne werde, dass die ausgenähten Lappen das Angenehme mit dem
Nützlichen verbinden, und nicht nur das Heim »schmücken«, sondern auch
als cache-misère die Blössen der verschossenen und zerschlissenen
Garnitur sorgsam verhüllen sollen. Ich bücke mich rasch, um die
verstreuten Fetzen aufzulesen, aber da hätte ich beinahe das Unglück
gehabt, von der nahen Konsole das Gelump des unnützen Kleinkrams, jene
»Kunstgegenstände« und Geschenkartikel, die wir aus den Schaufenstern
der Kronenbazare kennen, die niedlichen Schweinchen, Figürchen,
Tellerchen aus Glas und Porzellan, die für wenig Geld viel Geschrei
machen, herabzuwerfen und damit das Odium eines ungefügen Barbaren
auf mich zu lenken. Ich brauche kaum zu sagen, dass mich die erlogene
Eleganz verstimmte, dass mich die Enge drückte und dass die beständige
Gefahr, ein Unglück anzurichten, mein Benehmen unfrei und linkisch
machte. Aber ich fand es nirgends besser. Durchwegs Räume mit mehr oder
weniger Luxus, die unseren Geist und unseren Leib fesseln, die nicht
geeignet sind, unsere Bewegungen und Geberden maßvoll aufzunehmen, die,
angefüllt mit dem Unrat der Geschmacklosigkeit und einer babylonischen
Wirrnis von Stilbrocken und Schnörkeln, den Sinn für Einfachheit,
Wahrhaftigkeit und Echtheit ertöten. Ich nehme keinen Becher zur
Hand, ohne den Leib eines Mönchleins oder Gnomen zu umschliessen,
jeder Zigarrenabschneider wird mit dem Kopf Bismarck’s oder Moltke’s
maskiert, jedes Gefäss ist überladen mit Blattwerk und Guirlanden,
die Wände sind angefüllt mit schlechten Bildern, Fächern, japanischen
Schirmen und Photographien.
[Illustration: Bordüre von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
Die freundlichen Hausgötter der Gastlichkeit und Geselligkeit pflegen
nicht in Räumen zu wohnen, wo die Persönlichkeit sich im Widerspruch
zur häuslichen Umgebung befindet und wo selbst die Inwohner Fremdlinge
sind. Fremdlinge im eigenen Heim. An einem Herde ist nicht gut
rasten, wo unaufhörliche Dissonanzen herrschen. Die Talmi-Eleganz
unserer bürgerlichen Wohnungen, die unter der Devise »Schmücke dein
Heim!« stehen, all die billige Effekthascherei, all der anscheinende
Komfort, der keiner ist, weil er nur des Scheines wegen da ist, und
nur Plage macht, ohne für etwas gut und nützlich zu sein, mit einem
Wort: das Großtun, das ist die unaufhörliche Dissonanz. Wer mit feiner
Witterung begabt ist, spürt das schon an der Türschwelle. Und all
die Nichtigkeiten, die nur da sind, um über den wahren Zustand zu
täuschen, werden zu den schreiendsten Anklägern. Kann man wirklich
von dem »Geist« oder »Charakter« solcher Wohnräume auf das Wesen der
Menschen zurückschliessen und den einzelnen verantwortlich machen? Man
bedenke: ein Zahnarzt glaubt es sich schuldig, einen Empfangssalon à
la Louis XV. zu besitzen. Die Sache muss möglichst billig sein, darum
ist auch das Schlechteste gut genug. Aber immerhin, man sieht doch,
dass man auch wer ist! Vor einem ernsten Urteil wird der Zahnarzt kaum
als geschmackvoller oder auch nur als gebildeter Mann bestehen. Aber
seine Entschuldigung ist, dass es den Leuten gefällt, und die Masse
gibt Richtung. Im Grossen wie im Kleinen. Sie macht die Mode. Und sei
diese noch so absurd, ihrer suggestiven Kraft wird sich der Einzelne,
der Durchschnittliche, kaum entziehen. Man spricht vom Zeitstil und von
Kulturströmung, die eine Epoche charakterisiert. Der Einzelne folgt
dann seinem Herdeninstinkt. So mag man, wenn man nachsichtig sein will,
den ganzen Skandal von Lüge und Täuschung, von schäbiger Eleganz und
erlogener Vornehmheit, der in Geschmackdingen seit gut dreissig Jahren
herrscht, jener unpersönlichen Abstraktion, die man Zeitgeist nennt,
zuschreiben.
[Illustration: Flächenmuster von Architekt Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
Aber schließlich müssen es doch wieder die Einzelnen sein, die eine
Wendung anbahnen. Im richtigen Verstande müsste der marktschreierische
Imperativ »Schmücke dein Heim«! einen Widerwillen erzeugen, der zum
tüchtigen Kehraus führt. Die Schmucklosigkeit wäre zunächst der grösste
Schmuck, die Befreiung von dem angepriesenen putzmachenden Tand. Man
brauchte nur damit zu beginnen, statt der künstlichen Pflanzen lebende,
echte ins Zimmer zu bringen, um Freude an ihrer Echtheit und ihrem
Gedeihen zu gewinnen, und eine Revolution ist eingeleitet. Zuerst
würden die schweren, verdunkelnden Stoffgardinen fallen, um wieder
Licht und Luft in die dumpfen Räume einzulassen. Wir müssten den echten
Blumen, so wir sie erhalten wollen, dieses Opfer bringen, und es
wäre eine gerechte Wiedervergeltung, denn gerade diese verdüsternden
Stoffgardinen waren es, die zur Zeit, als der Makartsche Atelierstil
Mode wurde, unsere Blumen verdrängt haben. So nun aber das clair-obscur
jener romantischen Rembrandt-Stimmung vor der Tageshelle gewichen ist,
entpuppt sich die Lächerlichkeit des Stimmung machenden Krimskrams an
den Gesimsen, all der Krüge, die keinem Gebrauch dienen, die weder
Wasser noch Wein fassen, der Vasen, die keine Blumen aufnehmen können,
der Teller, die zu keiner Mahlzeit verwendet werden können, und die
sich als dürftiger Gschnas vor dem hellen Tage schämen, als nicht
minder die dunkel gehaltenen Wände, die so beliebt sind, weil man den
Schmutz darauf nicht sieht. Im Schmutze leben, das macht nichts, nur
sehen darf man ihn nicht!
[Illustration: Glasluster für elektr. Licht von Arch. Leopold Bauer.]
[Illustration: Beleuchtungskörper von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
Nun aber wird der ob seiner Nichtigkeit entlarvte Prunk unerträglich,
und es beginnt ein lustiger Umsturz, vor dem nichts niet- und
nagelfest ist. Vom Hundertsten käme man ins Tausendste. Vom Fenster
zu den Wänden und den Bildern, und von diesen zu den Möbeln, bis ins
Kleinste herab. Es ist fast unabweislich, in allen Einzelheiten des
Wohnraumes die neue Wohnungsästhetik zu erhärten. Der Ausgangspunkt
dieser neuen Ästhetik aber ist, dass wir allen sogenannten Luxus aus
unseren Häusern fortschaffen und zur Aufrichtigkeit und Einfachheit
zurückkehren, wenn wir wollen, dass die Kunst wieder im Hause beginne.
Epochen mit hochentwickelter volkstümlicher Kultur haben gezeigt, daß
die Kunst immer vom Hause ausgeht und von hier aus auch das äußere
Leben ergreift. Darum muß unsere Sorge darauf gerichtet sein, daß wir
nicht die goldene Regel verletzen, die uns William Morris gegeben:
»_Behalten Sie nichts in ihrem Heim, wovon Sie nicht wissen, daß es
nützlich ist, wovon Sie nicht glauben, daß es schön ist!_«
[Illustration: Die obere Partie einer Sitzecke mit elektrischen
Beleuchtungskörpern von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Die Ästhetik der Mietswohnung.
[Illustration: Elektr. Beleuchtungskörper v. Professor Joseph Hoffmann.]
[Illustration: Ofen von Arch. Georg Winkler.]
[Illustration: Kamin von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Kaminwand von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
Daß die Hausarchitektur im Zeichen des Umschwunges steht, wird niemand
mehr leugnen. Die Architektur, die schwerfälligste aller Künste, folgt
dem neuen Zug freilich zuletzt, denn sie hat nicht nur das größte
Trägheitsmoment, das Schwergewicht der Gewohnheit, sondern auch die
Gewissenlosigkeit des Bauspekulantentums und die Gleichgiltigkeit des
Publikums zu überwinden. Das leichtbewegliche Kunstgewerbe, das heute
führend vorangeht, konnte viel schneller das Feld erobern, und man
kann sagen, daß die Schwenkung, die auch im Hausbau zu spüren ist,
vom Kunstgewerbe veranlaßt, ja fast erzwungen worden ist. Denn das
Kunstgewerbe verlangt einen festen Stützpunkt, eine Führung, einen
Halt, und diesen kann nur die Architektur geben. Im Einzelwohnhaus
ist da und dort dieser ursächliche Zusammenhang von Architektur
und Handwerk, von Raum und Möbel, zwar schon hergestellt oder doch
angebahnt, aber im Miethaus der Stadt, also in der Stadtwohnung,
deren ästhetische Durchbildung doch eine der nächstliegenden Aufgaben
ist, sind wir nicht immer so glücklich daran. Wie notwendig es ist,
dass Kunstgewerbe und Hausbau Hand in Hand gehen, und wie eines
ohne das andere nicht bestehen kann, will ich an einem typischen
Fall nachweisen, der auf hunderte von Beispielen paßt, die sich in
der Stadt von Tag zu Tag mehren. Jemand war des im Mittelstande
eingebürgerten Atelierstils, des Markartbouquets, der künstlichen
Palme und der verpöbelten Renaissancemöbel überdrüssig, er entfernte
die Stoffgardinen, um wieder Luft und Licht in den dämmerigen Raum
zu lassen, Zimmerpflanzen ziehen zu können und Freundlichkeit zu
verbreiten. Aber die braunen Möbel vertragen die Helligkeit nicht,
ihre Häßlichkeit und Unzweckmäßigkeit, die Erbärmlichkeit des ganzen
unechten Luxus wurde mit einem Male unerträglich und sie wurden
ersetzt durch jene gefälligen neuen Möbel, deren Wesen Einfachheit
und Natürlichkeit ist, und die in dem sogenannten Biedermeiermöbel
unserer Groß- und Urgroßeltern vorgebildet waren, die also gewiß nichts
Fremdartiges, sondern etwas durchaus Heimatliches, Bodenständiges,
Trautes waren. Aber es nützt nicht, daß man den neuen Wein in die alten
Schläuche füllte. Das Mißverhältnis zwischen Raum und Möbel trat dann
erst grell zutage. Die Möbel waren gewiß zwecklich formal gebildet,
aber die Zimmer! Das Raumausmaß war groß genug und dennoch konnte man
nichts unterbringen. An ein geschmackvolles Stellen der Möbel war nicht
zu denken. Daran waren die Türen und Fenster schuld. Denn es gehört
schon einmal zu dem eingebürgerten Begriff von einer Stadtwohnung,
daß ein Zimmer zwei Fenster haben muß. Die Fensterwand geht natürlich
fast verloren, denn links und rechts bleibt kein nennenswertes Stück
Wand, und es erübrigt nur noch der Pfeiler, der einen dunklen Schatten
mitten ins Zimmer wirft. Die Beleuchtung wird dadurch noch schlechter,
daß die Fenster das Hauptlicht nicht von oben her geben, sondern von
den untern Flügeln, so daß nur der Fußboden vor dem Fenster die
Helle empfängt, was für das Auge das denkbar ungünstigste ist. Die
einfachste und natürlichste Lösung wäre nun die, ein einziges etwas
breiteres in der Mitte anzubringen, wobei nicht nur eine ausgezeichnete
Belichtung erzielt werden kann, sondern auch links und rechts tiefe
Ecken gewonnen werden, die es gestatten, gewisse Möbelstücke, das Sofa
zum Beispiel, quer anzuordnen, oder die Nische so auszubauen, daß das
Gefühl der Geschlossenheit und Geborgenheit erhöht wird. Viel ist auf
diese Weise gewonnen, aber noch lange nicht alles. Denn da sind noch
die Türen, die unseligen großen Flügeltüren, deren manches Zimmer drei
besitzt, und die von jeder Wand ein erhebliches Stück wegnehmen. Man
behalf sich früher mit einer Draperie, um sie wenigstens dekorativ
zu gestalten, was im Wohnraum einen nichts weniger als sympatischen
theatralischen Eindruck macht. Aber immer noch besser als die nackten,
überflüssig hohen und breiten Palasttüren mit dem widersinnigen braunen
Anstrich und der ebenso widersinnigen künstlichen Maserung. Daß der
Raum auch geräumig werde, günstige Raumverhältnisse besitze, hängt
also nicht allein vom Fenster, sondern auch von der Lage und Größe
der Türen ab. Das sind die zwei Angelpunkte, um die sich die neue und
vernünftige Raumgestaltung dreht. Noch ist dadurch fast gar nicht der
Grundriß tangirt, noch ist fast keine Forderung an den Erfindungsgeist
der Architektur gestellt, sondern erst ganz einfach eine gewisse
Empfindungsfeinheit verlangt, ein Mitgefühl für die Menschen, die in
den Räumen wohnen, und darinnen die Möglichkeit finden sollen, ihr
Leben behaglich zu gestalten. Es ist ja wahr, die meisten Menschen
verlangten die bisherigen Wohnungen gar nicht besser, sie haben nicht
das Bedürfnis, ihre Umgebung künstlerisch gestaltet zu sehen, aber
das hindert nicht, daß der Architekt, wofern er ein Künstler ist, den
früher oder später ja doch eintretenden künstlerischen Bedürfnissen
vorarbeiten und dergestalt die Prämissen einer höheren Kultur schaffen
soll. Für diese Kulturarbeit ist der Architekt einer der wichtigsten
Faktoren, und man kann sagen, ohne ihn kann nichts geschehen. Aber die
Empfindungsfeinheit, die von dem künstlerischen Architekten (der andere
kommt nicht in Betracht) verlangt werden muß, wird bei dieser Tat
nicht stehen bleiben. Er wird die bürgerlichen Menschen nicht allein
von dem überflüssigen und daher schädlichen und geschmackverderbenden
Luxus, der sich in den billigen albernen Ziraten oberhalb der Tür
und in den rein äußerlichen nur auf die Außenerscheinung berechneten
Zutaten an den Fenstern äußert, befreien, sondern er wird auch sein
Auge auf die Wände, den Boden und die Decke, endlich auf den Anstrich
der Holzteile richten, er wird die Teile nicht der Obsorge des
Zimmermalers und Anstreichers überlassen, die in Geschmacksdingen
auf dem tiefsten Niveau stehen; er wird vielmehr auch hier seinen
Einfluß geltend machen und damit das niedere Handwerk wieder heben.
Denn alle Handwerkskünste sind Bestandteile der Architektur. Es hat
sich gezeigt, daß die braunen Tür- und Fensterteile, die rote, grüne
oder sonst irgendwie schmutzigfarbene Ausmalung mit den so hässlichen
Dessins jedes anständige Möbel umbringen. Nun ist die Farbenempfindung
bei der großstädtischen Menschheit ein verlorenes Gut. Jeder Bauer im
Gebirge ist uns darin überlegen. Weil aber jede ästhetische Frage im
Kern eine praktische ist, so läßt sich dieser Sache vielleicht von der
hygienischen Seite beikommen. Warum sind die dunklen Schmutzfarben
unserer Wände so beliebt? Es ist schon gesagt worden. Weil man den
Schmutz darauf nicht sieht. Überdies ist das wiederholte Neuausmalen
oder Tapezieren für den kleinen Mann zu kostspielig. Einer solchen
kulturwidrigen Vornehmtuerei auf Kosten der Reinheit und Hygiene soll
in unseren Häusern nicht Vorschub geleistet werden. Man fragt sich oft,
warum unsere Wohnungen nichts Weißes enthalten. Warum hat man Wände
und Decke nicht im einfachen Weiß, mit einem schönen Fries, so daß man
sie um billiges Geld jährlich einmal frisch tünchen kann? Die Leute
vor 80 Jahren, die noch eine feine Kultur besaßen, haben Fenster und
Türen weiß gestrichen. Sie hatten auch weiße Gardinen und Topfpflanzen.
Die Bauern in vielen deutschen Gegenden haben das noch. Und wie
traut sind solche Räume! diesen Sinn für Reinlichkeit und Helligkeit
muß man wiederbeleben, sonst ist nicht vorwärts zu kommen. Altwien
besaß hübsche im Bogen ausgebauchte Fenster, die mit Geschick wieder
verwertet werden können. Dabei ist Bedacht zu nehmen, daß im Fenster
Blumen gezogen werden können, denn die allmählig wiedererwachende
Blumenfreude ist ein wichtiger Kulturfaktor und ein erfreuliches
Symptom der Rückkehr zur Natürlichkeit und Echtheit. Der Architekt
muß alle diese halbbewußten Regungen mit feinen Sinnen erfassen und
verwerten. Es gehört viel Liebe und Geduld und Menschenfreundlichkeit
dazu, aber ohne diese Eigenschaften ist in der Kunst nichts zu machen.
Nur das Mitgefühl, das Mitleben kann Formen schaffen, die nichts
Äußerliches sind, wie die Stuckherrlichkeit moderner Zinskasernen,
sondern etwas, das von innen nach außen gewachsen ist, und unsere
bisherigen Hundelöcher wieder in menschenwürdige Wohnungen umwandelt.
Auf diesem Wege dürften sich auch die notwendigen Grundrißänderungen
ergeben. Die Badezimmer, die heute schon bei kleineren Wohnungen zu
finden sind, sollten als Annex des Schlafraumes ausgestaltet werden.
Denn es ist widersinnig und gesundheitsgefährlich, aus dem Baderaum
durch das gewöhnlich sehr kalte Vorzimmer in den Schlafraum und
umgekehrt gehen zu müssen. Diese und noch viele Änderungen können
geschehen, ohne daß die Ertragsfähigkeit des Hauses nur im mindesten
herabgesetzt wird. Daß wir trotzdem das moderne Mietshaus noch nicht
haben, ist vielmehr eine Folge der herrschenden Teilnahmslosigkeit der
Bauherrn und des Publikums, das noch nicht gelernt hat, Bedürfnisse zu
haben. Die Mitarbeiterschaft von dieser Seite her ist freilich nicht zu
entbehren.
[Illustration: Heizkörper-Verkleidung von Professor Joseph Hoffmann.]
[Illustration: Fries und elektr. Beleuchtungskörper von A.
Sumestberger.]
[Illustration: Wandfries von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
Wände und Decke, Vorhänge und Teppiche.
[Illustration: Decke mit Schnürlarbeit von Mizzi Ebers (Kunstschule für
Frauen und Mädchen, Wien, Prof. A. Böhm).]
[Illustration: Decke mit Schnürlarbeit von Paula Roth (Kunstschule für
Frauen und Mädchen Wien, Prof. A. Böhm).]
[Illustration: Perlenstickerei auf Leinen von Minka Podhayska
(Kunstschule für Frauen und Mädchen, Wien, Prof. A. Böhm).]
[Illustration: Perlenstickerei auf Tüll mit Applikation von Minka
Podhayska (Kunstschule für Frauen und Mädchen, Wien, Prof. A. Böhm).]
Zu den schweren geschnitzten Kassetten-Decken altdeutscher Stuben
passte dunkles Getäfel der Wände und die Ledertapete. Wo man sie heute
noch im Bürgerhause vorfindet, ist sie nicht dem modernen Gefühl,
sondern einer posthumen Butzenscheibenromantik, die noch immer nicht
ausgestorben ist, entsprungen. Wie es noch Wotansenkel im schwarzen
Salonrock gibt, die wie die alten Deutschen »immer noch eins trinken«,
so gibt es eine große Kategorie, die in ihrer Gefühlsweise bei Hans
Sachs stecken geblieben ist und Räume liebt, »wo selbst das liebe
Himmelslicht trüb durch gemalte Scheiben bricht«. Die Sache gehört
ins Museum, wo man sie billig bewundern mag. Im Alltag und im grellen
Licht der Gegenwart sind solche abgestorbenen Lebensformen immer von
Übel. Abgesehen davon, daß in Mietswohnungen eine solche pompöse
Sache nur auf den Schein berechnet sein kann und eine Lüge ist,
weil in solchen Wohnungen, wo wir eigentlich immer auf dem Sprung
stehen, nichts von Ewigkeitsdauer geschafft werden kann, außer was
sich leicht fortschaffen, auf einem Möbelwagen verpacken und in einer
neuen Wohnung ebenso leicht und gefällig wieder aufstellen läßt. Auf
ein gewisses Nomadentum ist unser Leben in Mietswohnungen gestellt.
Aus ökonomischen, sozialen und hygienischen Gründen ergibt sich die
neue Ästhetik, die für unsere Wohnung glatten und weißen Verputz an
Wänden und Decke verlangt, die je nach Geschmack mit schablonirter
Malerei oder Tapete bedeckt wurden. Damit war aber zugleich ein freier
Spielraum für die gefährlichsten Ausschweifungen der künstlerischen
Phantasie unserer Tapezierer- und Zimmermalerjünglinge gegeben.
»Vernunft ward Unsinn, Wohltat Plage.« Das Ungeheuerlichste,
Wahnwitzigste ward Mode, wenn es unter der Flagge einer falschen
»Sezession« segelte. Auch diese Modekrankheit mußte überstanden werden
und schließlich setzte sich die Arbeit ernster und tüchtig vorwärts
strebender Künstler beim Publikum durch. Große Firmen der Tapeten-,
Teppich- und Textilbranche suchen die Entwürfe solcher Künstler
zu erwerben und Geschmackvolles in den Handel zu bringen. Heute
spürt man im großen Publikum schon ein erfreuliches Bestreben nach
vornehmer Einfachheit, das nur des Entgegenkommens künstlerischer und
industrieller Kreise bedarf, um zu einer allgemeinen Niveauerhöhung
des Geschmacks zu führen. Man zieht es vor, die Wände und Decke
entweder einfach zu weißen oder färbig zu streichen und einen hübschen
Fries aufzusetzen oder mit entsprechender Tapete zu bekleiden. Bei
der Wahl der Farbe wird Bedacht genommen, daß zur Farbe der Möbel
die Wände und Decke einen komplementären Gegensatz bilden, der die
Möbelstücke hervorhebt und mit diesen, was die farbige Erscheinung
betrifft, ein harmonisches Ganzes darstellt. Dem Dessin von Tapeten
oder schablonierten Wänden steht man mit Recht mißtrauisch gegenüber,
weil es sehr viel Takt erfordert, das Rechte zu finden, das diskret
genug ist, als Hintergrund von Möbel und Bildern nicht unruhig und
anspruchsvoll zu wirken und die Harmonie zu stören. Im allgemeinen gilt
auch für die gemusterten Wandflächen die Regel, daß sie in Farbe und
Zeichnung als bloße Fläche und Untergrund, der für sich allein keine
Geltung beanspruchen darf, zu wirken hat. Daß man die hellen Farben
vorzieht, ist in dem modernen hygienischen Bedürfnisse begründet, das
nach Licht und Luft heischt, die in der Stadt kostbare Güter sind. Aus
diesem Grunde hat man die Stoffgardinen durch Vorhänge aus leichtem
dünnen Zeug ersetzt, indischer Seide oder Leinen mit Aufnäharbeit,
daran sich der Kunstfleiß der Hausfrau zeigen mag. Für Aufnäharbeit
geben die Leistungen moderner Künstler und Kunstschulen glänzende
Vorbilder. Man wählt natürlich auch für diese leichten Vorhänge helle
Farben, entweder weißes Leinen, oder, wenn es sich um durchsichtige
Gaze oder indische Seide handelt, auch orange Farbe, die einen goldenen
Schein ins Zimmer legt. Die Vorhänge hängen in geraden, schlichten
Linien herab, sind seitlich zu ziehen und laufen in Ringen offen an
einer Messingstange.
[Illustration: Decke mit Kreuzstich von Elisabeth Toffler (Kunstschule
für Frauen u. Mädchen, Wien, Prof. A. Böhm).]
[Illustration: Decke mit Bändchenarbeit von Paula Roth (Kunstschule für
Frauen u. Mädchen, Wien, Prof. A. Böhm).]
Auch der Teppich ist auf diese anheimelnde einfach vornehme
Gesamtwirkung gestimmt. Es ist aber durchaus nicht »stilwidrig«, in
einem solchen Raum einen echten Perserteppich aufzubreiten. Überhaupt
was ist Stil? Wenn irgend ein antikisierender in Holz geschnitzter
Fries, bald auf Schränken und Betten aufgetragen und auseinandergezerrt
und dann wieder auf Nachtkästchen schmal zusammengedrängt wird, so
nennt man das im Möbelhändlerverstande »stilgerecht«. Wenn aber jemand
in seiner Wohnung heterogene Dinge zusammenträgt, die ihrer Entstehung
nach, räumlich und zeitlich, sehr getrennt sein mögen, aber durchaus
echt sind, so ergibt sich vermöge dieser Echtheit eine gewisse Einheit
und diese Einheit kann man füglich Stil, vielleicht den einzig wahren
und naturgemäßen Stil nennen. Darum beleidigt es unser Empfinden
nicht, wenn wir in der neuen Wohnungs-Ausstattung einen echten Perser
und an den Wänden gar echte Gobelins vorfinden. Die orientalischen
Teppiche haben schöne geometrische Muster und die liegen uns ästhetisch
wahrhaft näher, als alle plumpen Pflanzenstilisierungen, die man in
der wohlfeilen Teppichfabrikation antrifft. Überdies hat die Moderne
auch passende Teppiche geschaffen, die in ruhigen Farben gehalten sind,
eine strenge geometrische Zeichnung oder irgend eine phantasievolle
Linienführung aufweisen und die Stimmung solcher Räume harmonisch
abschließen, Teppiche von Kolo Moser, Josef Hoffmann, Josef Olbrich,
Leopold Bauer, Peter Behrens, Max Benirschke u. v. a.
[Illustration: Vitrage mit Stilstich von Paula Roth (Kunstschule für
Frauen und Mädchen, Wien, Prof. A. Böhm).]
Die weiblichen Handarbeiten, die in diesem Zusammenhange erwähnt werden
müssen, bedürfen gleichfalls einer künstlerischen Reform. Hier sollte
eigentlich der Ausgangspunkt der häuslichen Kunstpflege sein. Leider
hat auf diesem Gebiete die Schablone jede Regung von Selbständigkeit
und Geschmack erstickt. Die Arbeit ist zu einer ermüdenden, tötlich
langweiligen Übung, zum bloßen mechanischen Ausnähen von allerlei
Lappen herabgesunken und rechtfertigt die Verachtung, mit der die
radikal Gesinnten die geistlose Beschäftigung ablehnen. Trotzdem sind
sie nicht zu entbehren. Sie werden wieder ein Segen sein, wenn die rein
mechanische Handarbeit zur künstlerischen Arbeit geadelt ist, was der
Fall sein wird, wenn die »handarbeitenden« Frauen die Muster, die sie
ausführen, selbst entwerfen auf Grund klarer Kenntnis der Technik, des
Materials und des Zweckes.
[Illustration: Leinentischläufer mit Knoten und Stilstich von Paula
Roth (Kunstschule für Frauen und Mädchen, Wien, Prof. A. Böhm).]
Lichtkörper und Heizkörper.
[Illustration: Wartezimmer von Arch. Hans Stubner.]
Die moderne Lichtquelle, Elektrizität, hat zu Beleuchtungskörpern
geführt, deren Form keinem Vorbild entlehnt werden konnte, sondern
aus der Natur der Sache geschöpft werden mußte. Hier kann man die
lehrreiche Wahrnehmung machen, daß solchen rein sachlichen Lösungen
ein großer dekorativer Reiz innewohnt. Glühlampen an Leitungsdrähten
in wohlgemessenen Abständen von der Decke herabhängend, können durch
ihre Anordnung allein höchst erfreulich wirken. Hier bedarf es keines
weiteren Ornaments. Würde ein solches hinzutreten, so dürfte es leicht
störend empfunden werden. Die Tatsache, daß aus rein sachlichen
Lösungen die glücklichsten dekorativen Wirkungen abzuleiten sind, ließe
sich an allen bisher üblichen Beleuchtungskörpern demonstrieren, an
denen wir leider gewohnt sind, ein Übermaß der unsinnigsten Ornamente
zu sehen. Eine sachlich gelöste Petroleumlampe, die durch zweckmäßige
Form allein edel wirkt, gehört, wenn sie wirklich vorkommt, zu den
größten Seltenheiten. Für den Künstler ist hier noch immer ein Feld
offen. Für Gasbeleuchtung sind moderne Beleuchtungskörper geschaffen
worden, aus Metall und Opalscentglas, die formal zu den Schönsten
gehören, das wir in diesem Genre besitzen. Dagegen kommt es vor,
daß den Kerzenweibchen oder ehemaligen Kerzenlustern elektrische
Glühlampen aufgesetzt werden, die auf imitierten Kerzenschäften
stehen und solcherart den Anschein einer wirklichen Kerzenbeleuchtung
erwecken. Es können immer Fälle vorkommen, bei Festessen z. B.,
wo man sich lieber der edelsten Lichtquelle, der Kerze selbst
bedient, die wie kein anderes Beleuchtungsmaterial geeignet ist,
Festweihe und feierlichen Glanz zu verbreiten. Dann aber sollen es
wirkliche Kerzen sein. Aufrichtigkeit und ehrliches Bekennen, also
hier Materialbekennen, sind Grundlage jedes gesunden Geschmacks. An
elektrischen Tischglocken, Tastern, Lichtträgern und Leuchtern hat
die neue Zeit viel geschaffen. Aber auch hier ist vor einer gewissen
Überkunst zu warnen. Rein sachliche und geschmackvolle Lösungen sind
selten. Es muß dahin gestellt bleiben, ob es ein glücklicher Gedanke
ist, mit dem Zweckbegriff eine figurale Darstellung zu verbinden, die
mit der Sache eigentlich nichts zu tun hat. Wir sehen Leuchter in
Gestalt von Lichtträgerinnen, weibliche Gestalten, die Kerzen tragen,
bald schwer belastet, bald mit geschlossenen Augen hinschreitend,
als Symbol der Nacht, dann emporschwebend wie die züngelnde Flamme
oder hingekauert, den Kerzenschaft wie eine Säule umklammernd. Der
Plastiker lebt sich nur aus, wenn er an den Gebrauchsgegenständen, die
er formt, seine figuralen Ideen verkörpern kann. Unzählige Symbole
leitet seine Phantasie aus dem Lichtmotiv ab und umrankt es mit dem
üppigen Gespinnst seiner Formerfindung. Diesen Dingen gegenüber, die
ja zum Teil auch wirkliche Schönheit offenbaren, ist der Standpunkt
fernzuhalten, daß ein sehr gebildeter und disziplinirter Geschmack
die streng sachlichen Formen an allen Gebrauchsdingen vorzieht, damit
die eigentlichen Kunstwerke, die sich im Raum befinden, zu jener
unbestrittenen Geltung kommen können, die ihnen zukommt.
[Illustration: Warteraum von Arch. Alois Hollmann.]
[Illustration: Halle von Arch. Alois Hollmann.]
[Illustration: Vorzimmer von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
In Bezug auf die Heizkörper ist ähnliches zu sagen. Frühere Zeitalter,
die u. zw. Renaissance vor allem, hat Öfen gehabt, an denen die Freude
am Ornament wahre Orgien feierte. Jeder Kachel trug ein anderes
Ornament, eine andere figurale Darstellung, eine andere Farbengebung.
Das ganze war ein Wunderbau wie der babylonische Turm. Im Zeitalter
des Barock, Rokoko und Empire begegnet man weiß glasirten Öfen in
geschwungenen Linien, oder Obeliskenformen, die ein Postament für
plastische Gruppen vorstellten. Später kam die Hafnerkunst gänzlich
auf den Hund. Heute kann man dem Ofen und der Holz- und Kohlenheizung
nicht mehr das Wort reden. Eine neue Beheizungsart stellt sich vor: die
Zentralheizung durch erwärmtes Wasser oder Luft und die Gasheizung.
Gaskamine wendet man in Wohnungen sehr vorteilhaft an; man kann
sich des von der gerippten, blinkenden Metallfläche wiederstrahlten
Feuerscheins erfreuen, ein Hochgenuß für romantische Gemüter, die
nach der anheimelnden Poesie der »Fireside« der offenen Kamine,
eine unbezähmbare Sehnsucht empfinden. Sie können am Gaskamin ihrer
Sehnsucht fröhnen, ohne die Schattenseiten der begehrten Dinge zu
empfinden. Denn diese Einrichtungen sind technisch vorzüglich. Aber sie
sind vom ästhetischen Standpunkt aus unerträglich. Sie sind gewöhnlich
mit den heillosesten Stilschnörkeln verbrämt. Da hilft nur Eines: Man
gibt ihm eine hölzerne Umhüllung, weiß oder sonstwie lackiert, mit
einem Gesimse für kleine Kunstwerke versehen und mit Sitzgelegenheiten
rechts und links. Wir haben damit in unserer Stadtwohnung die
gemütlichste und traulichste Einrichtung gewonnen, wie man sie sonst
nur in einem englischen Hause zu finden gewohnt ist.
[Illustration: Vorzimmer von Arch. Karl Sumetsberger.]
Vorzimmer und Dienerzimmer.
[Illustration: Kleiderablage von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Kleiderschrank v. Arch. G. Winkler.]
[Illustration: Vorraum mit Sitzgelegenheit in der Fensterecke von Arch.
Max Benirschke.]
Der erste Schritt, den wir in eine Wohnung tun, belehrt uns gewöhnlich,
wessen Geistes dieses Heim ist. Der Vorraum, den wir zuerst betreten,
ist schon für alle anderen Räume bezeichnend. Die Persönlichkeit
färbt überall ab. Ein Haus, dessen Neben- und Nutzräume nicht in
Ordnung sind, wird auch nicht ein einziges Gemach besitzen, das volles
Behagen gewährt. Umgekehrt wird sich ein ordnender und liebenswürdiger
Hausgeist auch bis auf die äußerste Schwelle bemerkbar machen.
Praktisch betrachtet, hat ein Vorzimmer zwei Aufgaben zu erfüllen. Es
dient als Warteraum für den Besuch, der sich melden läßt, um nicht
unvermittelt in die Gemächer zu treten. Der angemeldete Besuch benützt
den Augenblick, Hut und Überkleider abzulegen und mit einem prüfenden
Blick in den Spiegel sich über die Ordnungsmäßigkeit seiner Toilette
zu versichern. Demnach ergeben sich als unerläßliche Möbelstücke: eine
Kleiderablage für Röcke, Hüte, Stöcke und Schirme, ein Wandspiegel,
der gewöhnlich damit in Verbindung steht, einige Sitzgelegenheiten,
am besten einfache Stühle und ein Tischchen mit Lade. Die Hausfrau
erkennt eine weitere Aufgabe des Vorzimmers darin, daß sie es zur
Aufnahme ihrer eigenen Kleiderschränke einrichtet. Denn bei den
heutigen beschränkten Raumverhältnissen in Mietshäusern und den neuen
Raumgestaltungsprinzipien sucht man derartige große Wandschränke aus
den Wohnzimmern zu bannen und ins Vorzimmer zu verlegen. So mag man
denn an allen Wänden gleichförmige Schränke finden, die aus einem
Stück, jedoch in viele Teile zerlegbar, bestehen können. Man wird aber
gut tun, die ganze Wandhöhe bis zum Plafond schrankartig abzubauen
und die oberen Fächer, die Separattüren ober der Kopfhöhe haben,
zur Aufnahme von allerlei Schachteln und sonstigen Effekten, wenig
benützten Kleidern u. s. w. zu verwenden, denn in einem Haushalt
werden leicht alle Fächer und Schränke zu wenig, um zu beherbergen,
was sich im Laufe der Zeit ansammelt. Es kann aber auch, um nicht eine
Wand für die Kleiderablage mit Spiegelteil opfern zu müssen, eine
solche Kleiderablage und der Spiegel vorne an einem oder mehreren der
Schränke angebracht, der Spiegel in eine der Schranktüren eingelassen,
die Kleiderhaken neben den Schranktüren befestigt und solcherart alle
vier Wände mit Schränken abgebaut werden. Selbstverständlich wird man
weiches Holz zu diesem Zweck verwenden und in einer Farbe, am besten
weiß, lackieren oder streichen. Als Bodenbelag findet man vielfach
Matten, die mit einfachem Muster von Künstlern entworfen, durch die
Prag-Rudniker Korbwarenfabrikation stark in den Handel gebracht werden
und sich vortrefflich bewähren. Ein solcherart ausgestatteter Vorraum
besitzt alle Vornehmheit und Anspruchslosigkeit, deren er bedarf,
wenn er den Besucher auf die gastlichen Haupträume vorbereiten will.
Unterordnung in den Hauptgedanken der Wohnungsausstattung ist hier
Gesetz. Im Vorraum pflegt man gute Bilder und sonstige Kunstwerke nicht
unterzubringen; schlechte soll man aus Geschmacksgründen noch weniger
hinstellen, weil der Raum keine Trödelkammer sein soll und da leicht
eine geringschätzige Meinung von den Inwohnern erwecken kann. Aber
es ist keineswegs Grundsatz, daß aus den Vorräumen Kunstwerke, wie
Bilder und Plastik, verbannt sein sollen, im Gegenteil, wenn das Haus
weitläufig genug ist, und das Vorzimmer, wie es heute geschieht, mehr
den Charakter einer »Hall« empfängt, fänden sie auch hier ausgezeichnet
Platz und trügen von dem Geist und der Vorliebe der Bewohner
freundliche Spuren über die Schwelle ihrer inneren Wohnräume hinaus und
dem Besucher einladend entgegen. Wir mögen uns da nur einmal Goethe’s
Beispiel vor Augen führen und sein Haus in Weimar rekonstruieren, wie
es anfangs des 19. Jahrhunderts ausgesehen hat. Ohne glänzend zu sein,
war alles höchst edel und einfach; auch deuteten verschiedene an der
Treppe stehende Abgüsse antiker Statuen auf Goethe’s besondere Neigung
zur bildenden Kunst und dem griechischen Altertum. Der Vorraum in der
I. Etage trug die Zeichen »Salve« als freundliches Willkommen und
einer der zwei Vorräume, wo man zu warten genötigt war, war durch ein
rotes Kanapee und Stühle von gleicher Farbe überaus heiter möbliert;
zur Seite stand ein Flügel und an den Wänden sah man Handzeichnungen
verschiedener Art und Größe.
[Illustration: Vorraum mit Treppe von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Dienstbotenzimmer von Architekt Prof. Josef Hoffmann.]
So bei Goethe. Freilich zwischen dem Alt-Weimarer Hause Sr. Exzellenz
und einer modernen Stadtwohnung, ist ein Unterschied.
[Illustration: Küche von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Zu jenen Räumen, für die man im Allgemeinen auch das Schlechteste
für gut genug hält, gehören die Dienerzimmer. Es ist ein trauriges
Zeichen schlechter sozialer Begriffe und unzureichender menschlicher
Einsicht, wenn man in einem Hause die Dienstleute, denen man doch
Treue und Anhänglichkeit zum Gesetz macht, schlecht versorgt findet.
Im Dienstverhältnis gibt es nach beiden Seiten hin Pflichten und
Rechte und kein Teil, weder Dienstgeber noch Dienstnehmer, dürfte
dem anderen etwas schuldig bleiben. Für menschenwürdige Zustände im
Hinblick auf das Dienstpersonal zu sorgen, ist auch eine der ersten
Pflichten der Hausfrau, wenn sie nicht Recht behalten sollte, daß sie
wirklich »bezahlte Feinde« im Hause habe. Guter Geschmack heißt hier
wie überall Reinlichkeit und Zweckdienlichkeit. Massiv eiserne Betten
(Hohlräume sind immer Aufenthalt unausrottbarer Ungeziefer), einfache
Möbel aus weichem Holz in irgend einer Farbe gestrichen, Tisch, Stuhl,
Schrank und Waschgelegenheit möblieren den Raum vollständig und können
ihn zugleich recht wohnlich machen. Wenn für das persönliche Wohl der
Dienstleute in mustergiltiger Weise gesorgt ist, ist das immer eine
Ehre für die Hausfrau.
Die Küche.
[Illustration: Küche von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
In einem Lobliede an die Küche meint Gilles Corrozet (1534), daß es
eine schöne Sache sei um ein geschmücktes Haus, um eine behagliche
Stube, um den wohlbestellten Speicher und Keller, daß aber ein Haus
trotzdem nichts Erquickliches böte, wenn man nicht auch eine gute
Küche sehe, die gute Küche, wo die freundlichen Götter Diana, Ceres
und Bachus ihre gesegneten Gaben niederlegen, wo der freundliche,
Zufriedenheit und Wohlbehagen spendende Hausgeist im Winkel am
Herde tront und leibliche Stärkung und Mehrung der Daseinsfreude
verheißungsvoll winken.
Der gute Corrozet ist ein praktischer Idealist; wer auf guten Tisch
hält, (und wer tut das nicht) muß vor allem auf gute Küche halten,
und darum gibt er seinen Zeitgenossen eine umständliche, in zierliche
Reime geflochtene Darstellung einer ganzen Kücheneinrichtung, in der er
auch nicht »die Lichtschneutzen« vergißt und daraus man leicht ersehen
kann, welche hervorragende Wichtigkeit die Küche im damaligen Haushalt
besaß. Sie ist die Urzelle des Hauses, aus der die anderen Räume erst
nach und nach hervorgegangen sind. Noch im XVIII. Jahrhundert vollzog
sich auf den seigneuralen Gütern Frankreichs das Leben vorzugsweise
in der Küche, während die übrigen Gemächer des Hauses als bloße
Repräsentationsräume nur gelegentlich benützt wurden.
[Illustration: Küche von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Sicherlich ist die Küche der am frühesten und am vollkommensten
ausgebildete Teil des Hauses gewesen. Über deren Einrichtung läßt uns
auch die »Nürnberger Haushälterin« nicht im Zweifel, die im Jahre 1716
über das deutsche Bürgerhaus schrieb: »Von einer wohlgebauten Küche
wird vornehmlich gefordert, daß sie nicht allzuweit von der Esstube
entfernt seye, damit nicht im Winter das Essen, wenn es weit getragen
werden muß, kalt auf den Tisch gebracht werde.« Man darf sich hierbei
wohl nicht eine Stadtwohnung mit gedrängten Räumen vorstellen, sondern
ein weitläufiges altdeutsches Bürgerhaus, wo möglicherweise die Küche,
wie in den heutigen Landhäusern und Villen, im Untergeschoß gelegen
war. Daher die Mahnung der »Nürnberger Haushalterin«, die zu ihrer Zeit
die vortreffliche Einrichtung von Speiseaufzügen nicht gekannt haben
dürfte.
[Illustration: Porzellanservice von Frl. Jutta Sicka.]
[Illustration: Porzellanservice von Frl. Jutta Sicka.]
Gegenüber den alten Küchen, so vollkommen sie auch mit Gerätschaften
versehen sein mochten, haben die heutigen, von modernen Architekten
eingerichteten Küchen entschieden bedeutende Vorzüge aufzuweisen. Das
Gebot der Zweckmäßigkeit und sanitäre Rücksichten erfordern, daß die
Küchen hell seien, in modernen Landhäusern legt man daher die Fenster
breit und ziemlich hoch an, selbst wenn dies nicht durch die tiefe
Lage des Raumes im Souterrain erforderlich sein sollte, damit die
Wandflächen für die Kücheneinrichtung gut ausgenützt werden können.
Unter diesen Fenstern befinden sich in der Regel die Schränke mit
möglichst viel Laden und Stellagen, die mit Glastüren verschlossen
sind. In der Mitte der Wand, unterhalb der Fenster finden wir häufig
den Anrichtetisch, in seinen Unterteilen als Schrank ausgenützt
und von einem Gesims mit verschließbaren Fächern gekrönt. Auf der
gegenüberliegenden Seite steht der Herd. Im Gegensatz zur Küche von
einst, die man erst dann für schön erachtete, wenn das blitzblanke
Messing- und Kupfergeschirr, die bunten Töpfe aus Steingut und
Porzellan, die Zinn- und Blechgefäße an Wänden und offenen Stellagen
zum Entzücken der Hausfrau prangend ausgestellt waren, liebt man es
heute, jegliches Küchenrequisit in den Schränken abzuschließen und
hat damit vollkommen recht. Denn so kann das Geschirr von Staub und
Fliegenunrat frei gehalten werden und man erspart ein Übermaß von
Reinigungsarbeit. Nur das Kupfergeschirr läßt man frei hängen. Eine
solche Küche sieht aber auch appetitlich genug aus, namentlich, wenn
die Wände weiß verkachelt sind, wie das neuestens oft der Fall ist.
Bis zu einer gewissen Höhe wenigstens sollen die Wände verkachelt
sein, soweit eben spritzendes Wasser reicht. An Stelle der Kacheln
werden auch dünne Marmorplatten verwendet und zwar nur weiße, weil es
aus begreiflichen Gründen Grundsatz ist, daß weiß vorherrsche. Darum
werden sämtliche Holzgegenstände, also die ganze Kücheneinrichtung weiß
lackiert, wobei man den Vorteil hat, durch einfaches Abwaschen jeden
Schmutz leicht zu entfernen. Daß man auf weiß jede Unreinlichkeit
sofort sieht, ist nur ein Vorzug, denn sie soll nirgends und am
allerwenigsten in der Küche geduldet werden. Will man durchaus ein
Ornament, so soll es nur ein Flachornament sein, aufschablonirt und
sparsam angewendet. Jede Schnitzerei ist zu verpönen, sie wirkt nur als
Staubfänger. Im Übrigen hat man Bedacht auf gradlinige einfache Formen
ohne Gesimse, und auf einfache ungeteilte Holzflächen, die durch bloßes
Abwischen rein gehalten werden können. Die Küchenmöbel sollen mit ihrer
Fläche bis auf den Fußboden herabgehen und auf diesem ohne Füße fest
aufstehen, damit sich unterhalb der Schränke keine unkontrollierbaren
Schmutzwinkel bilden können. Dagegen tut man gut, die Stuhl- und
Tischflächen, die oft gerieben werden müssen, überhaupt nicht zu
streichen, sondern bloß fein gehobelt im ursprünglichen Holzton stehen
zu lassen, und so einzurichten, daß sie abnehmbar sind. Auf diese Art
können sie am besten gewaschen und gerieben werden, wovon das Holz bald
ein blühweißes Aussehen bekommt. In Bezug auf den Fußboden hat man auch
zu bedenken, daß in Küchen immer Wasser verschüttet wird, und daß er
mit Wasser abgeschwemmt und solcherart leicht gereinigt werden soll.
Darum wird man den Steinboden dem bisherigen Brettelboden vorziehen.
Der Steinboden aber bedeutet einen Angriff auf die Gesundheit der
Köchinnen, die ohnehin meistens gichtisch sind. Da bietet denn das
Xylolith einen Ausweg. Xylolith ist ein Kunststein, der auf Holz
aufgetragen wird, nicht so hart wie Naturstein ist, aber sonst alle
seine Vorzüge aufweist und noch mehr. Er ist nämlich schon in allen
Farben zu haben und man kann ihn nach seinem persönlichen Geschmack
wählen. Zu dem blinkenden Weiß der Wände passt sehr gut ein roter oder
blauer Xylolithboden.
[Illustration: Theeservice aus Silber von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Die Französin des XVIII. Jahrhunderts mußte ihr Paradebett haben,
die deutsche Frau ihre Prunkküche. Das kennzeichnet zur Genüge den
Unterschied zweier Nationen. Heute existiert beides nicht mehr. Vieles
wird heute fertig ins Haus gebracht, was einst im Hause erzeugt werden
mußte. Selbst der Kohlenherd ist in Gefahr verdrängt zu werden. Gas und
Elektrizität, Centralversorgung, spielen eine immer größere Rolle.
Wenn auch die Küche heute nicht so umfangreich ist, wie die
altdeutschen Küchen waren, so bildet sie doch noch immer eine Macht
im Hause, von der das Glück im Heimwesen zum großen Teil abhängt.
An ihr sieht man, was die Hausfrau ist oder was sie nicht ist. Es
gibt Köchinnen, die einen Dienstort verlassen, wenn ihre Werkstätte,
die Küche, nicht der Würde und Bedeutung des Raumes entsprechend
ausgerüstet ist. Die schlechtesten Köchinnen sind das sicherlich nicht.
[Illustration: Vasen von Prof. Moser, ausgeführt von Bakalowits Söhne,
Wien.]
Ästhetik des Eßtisches.
[Illustration: Tafelaufsatz und Blumengefäße von Baronesse Falcke,
ausgeführt von Bakalowits Söhne, Wien.]
Es war eine geistreiche Dame, die bei einem Diner, das sie für eine
große Gesellschaft veranstaltete, folgendermaßen verfuhr: Nach dem
Grundsatze, den die Römer schon kannten, daß eine Tischgesellschaft
nicht weniger als die Zahl der Grazien und nicht mehr als die Zahl
der Musen betragen sollte, verteilte sie die zahlreichen Gäste an
ebensoviele Tische als nötig waren, um die gesegnete Zahl herzustellen.
Und sie stimmte jeden Tisch auf eine andere Farbe. Sie hatte sich mit
den Damen ins Einvernehmen gesetzt, und sie mußten ihre Toilette der
Farbe ihres Tisches anpassen. Selbst die Tischtücher mußten Farbe
bekennen, und man sah die ganze Skala des Regenbogens vertreten,
ja sogar ein schwarzes Tischtuch war vorhanden. Die Blumen wurden
dementsprechend gewählt und verteilt. Die geistreiche Dame hatte von
ihrer meisterhaften Anordnung eine außerordentliche Wirkung erwartet
und die Wirkung war außerordentlich. Sie war nämlich außerordentlich
geschmacklos. Sie war so geschmacklos, daß man wirklich sehr
geistreich sein muß, um dergleichen einmal begehen zu dürfen. Sie
hat es sicherlich nicht wieder getan. Die feine Lehre war daraus zu
ziehen, daß für das Gedeck nur eine Farbe existiert, die den Glanz
der Frische und der Appetitlichkeit gewährt, das festliche Weiß, als
der richtige Grundton, davon sich das Silber, Krystall, Porzellan und
die freudigen Farben der Blumen schön und erquicklich abheben und
zugleich ein Schmaus für das Auge sind. Die ästhetische Befriedigung
ist ein wesentlicher Bestandteil der Tafelfreude. Nebst dem feinen
weißen Linnen, das manche Frauen, wie namentlich in früherer Zeit,
hüten wie Silber, ist es die Blume, welche dem gedeckten Tisch den
Adel künstlerischer Schönheit verleiht. Wie bei allen Dingen, kommt
es auch hiebei nicht auf die Kostbarkeit oder Seltenheit der Blumen
an, sondern auf die Art, wie sie verwendet werden. Gerade unsere
einfachen heimischen Blumen, mit schlichter Treuherzigkeit Bauernblumen
genannt, können, klug gebraucht, zu den feinsten Wirkungen gebracht
werden, und man erinnere sich nur daran, was Lichtwark über den
Löwenzahn als Tischblume sagt. Der vielverachtete Löwenzahn, der den
ganzen Tisch auf Gelb stimmt, könnte eine unvergleichliche Tischblume
abgeben. Mit gelben Blumen näht die Hausfrau gerne ihren Tischläufer
aus, und eine unbewußte Anerkennung liegt darin, daß Gelb auf weißem
Tischzeug besonders schön steht. Aber gerade hier ist viel Takt in
der Anwendung erforderlich. Streublumen sind sehr beliebt, aber sie
sehen alsbald welk aus, verursachen häßliche Flecken und eine krause
Unordnung am Tisch, die ihr freundliches Aussehen von früher bald ins
Gegenteil verwandelt. Ein Künstler hatte den glücklichen Einfall, die
Schnittblumen in kleinen würfelartigen Glasgefäßen, die in regelmäßigen
Abständen eine Reihe in der Mitte des Tisches bildeten, aufzustellen,
und er hat damit das Rechte getroffen. Heute bekommt man zu diesem
Zwecke kleine Glasgefäße mit dreieckiger Basis, die man in beliebiger
Weise zu Gruppen mit hoch- und kurzstengeligen Blumen vereinigen kann.
Hohe Blumen- und Fruchtaufsätze, welche die einander gegenübersitzenden
Personen den Blicken entziehen, haben sich als unzweckmäßig und
geschmacklos überlebt.
[Illustration: Speisezimmer von der Vereinigung „Wiener Kunst im
Hause“.]
[Illustration: SPEISEZIMMER
MÖBEL AUS BLAUGRAUER EICHE -- WAND IST RAUHER PUTZ MIT EINGESETZTEN
KACHELN
Entwurf von Arch. Max Benirschke, Düsseldorf.]
[Illustration: Speisezimmer von Arch. Alois Hollmann.]
Die Reform des Tafelgedeckes beginnt schon bei der Serviette. Sie hat
heute noch eine Form, die ihre Gebrauchsart längst überlebt hat. Kein
Mensch von Lebensart wird sie heute noch mit einem Zipfel unter dem
Kinn in den Kragen stecken. Man legt sie heute einfach über den Schoß.
Die zweckentsprechende Form sollte demnach jene sein, welche etwa das
Handtuch besitzt: ein längliches Rechteck. Daß die Serviette weich und
lind sei, wird zwar in der Theorie immer verlangt, aber die Praxis
kennt nur damastene Servietten, die anfangs bocksteif sind und nach
längerem Gebrauch abhaaren. Die Zeiten sind wirklich vorüber, wo Linnen
dem Silber gleichgestellt war.
[Illustration: Zimmerecke von Arch. Franz Exler.]
Über das Glas wäre manches zu sagen. Gewöhnlich sitzt das Glas wie ein
Blumenkelch auf hohem dünnen Stengel, was zwar anmutig anzusehen, aber
in sehr hohem Maße unpraktisch ist. Erstens wird die Standfestigkeit
gering, bei leiser Berührung fällt das Glas um, und zweitens ist der
Stengel beim Reinigen allzuleicht abzudrehen. Aber auch dickes Glas
ist nicht zu empfehlen, weil nicht gut daraus zu trinken ist. Zwischen
Lippe und Flüssigkeit soll sich so wenig Glaswand befinden als immerhin
möglich. Aus dieser Voraussetzung ergibt sich die organische Form
des Trinkglases von selbst; es müßte einen starken, feststehenden,
starkwandigen Fuß und Stengel haben und müßte gegen den Rand ganz dünn
verlaufen, um als angenehmes Glas empfunden zu werden. Handsam soll das
Glas sein und mundgerecht. So einfach die Lösung scheint, ich habe ein
solides Glas noch nicht gefunden.
Dem Glase steht das Porzellan zunächst. Ich weiß, daß die meisten Leute
buntbemaltes Geschirr lieben. Es macht zwar nicht viel aus, ob das
Geschirr bemalt ist oder einfach weiß, nur ist zu bedenken, daß die
Bemalung häufig Schäden des Porzellans verdecken muß. Reliefartiger
Dekor am Tellerrand ist im höchsten Grade unzweckmäßig, aber alles
Unzweckmäßige ist am häufigsten anzutreffen. Ganz weißes Geschirr ohne
bunte Streifen ist sehr vornehm in der Wirkung, aber merkwürdigerweise
selten im Gebrauche zu finden.
[Illustration: Speisezimmer von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
[Illustration: Buffet von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Und nun das Silber. Es ist ja heute noch der Stolz jedes wohlhabenden
Hauses, der wohlgehütete Schatz, den man nur zu besonderen Festtagen
oder zu Ehren eines Gastes zu verwenden wagt. Die Silberlöffel
im Alltag zu gebrauchen, würde der Mehrzahl der Hausfrauen als
beispiellose Verschwendung erscheinen. Ich weiß wirklich nicht aus
welchem Grunde. Gerade für den Alltagsgebrauch ist echtes Edelmetall
wie Silber allein zu verwenden, weil es widerstandsfähiger und
sauberer zu halten ist als billiges Zeug, das oftmals erneuert werden
muß, immer übel aussieht und zuguterletzt viel höher zu stehen kommt
als Silber. Der wahrhaft ökonomische Sinn wird sich immer nur des
letzteren bedienen. Gewöhnlich aber ist für die Hausfrau das Silberzeug
bloß Gegenstand des platonischen Genusses, ohne weiteren Daseinszweck,
als »still im eigenen Glanz zu ruhen«, und als Brautgeschenke
gefühlsame Erinnerungen der Hausfrau zu bewahren. Den Kranz so frommer
Tugenden aber wollen unsere ungeweihten Hände nicht zerreißen. Sprechen
wir lieber von der Form, die das Silberzeug erhalten hat. Die Liebe
der Künstler hat sich ja dem Silber in besonderem Maße zugewendet, und
gerade in den letzten Jahren ist viel an dem Tafelbesteck probiert
worden. Bei der heutigen Art, Messer und Gabel leicht zu halten, hat
das Besteck auch jene Leichtigkeit und Zierlichkeit erhalten, die man
ihm wünschen mag. Jedermann hat sich schon über die Gabel geärgert, die
absolut keine Sauce fassen will. Als aber Oberbaurat Otto Wagner sein
Reformbesteck ausstellte, gab es dennoch eine kleine Erschütterung.
Man ist die alte Form schon so gewöhnt, daß die wenigsten Menschen
einsehen wollen, daß es da noch etwas zu reformieren gibt. Da gab aber
eines Tages ein einarmiger General den Anstoß zu einer Revolution. Der
wollte eine Gabel, mit der er nicht nur spießen, sondern auch schöpfen
und nötigenfalls auch schneiden konnte. Die Gabel wurde gefertigt; sie
besaß eine flache löffelartige Form mit drei kurzen Zinken, so daß man
damit bequem spießen und zugleich Sauce fassen konnte.
[Illustration: Standuhr von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Diese Gabel ist sicherlich der reformierteste Teil des Reformbesteckes.
Sie dürfte allgemeine Annahme finden, denn auch von der hygienischen
Seite her ist ihr Angenehmes wegen ihrer leichten Reinbarkeit
nachzusagen.
In den Ansprüchen, die wir in ästhetischer Hinsicht an den Eßtisch
stellen, prägt sich ein guter Teil unserer Erziehung und unserer
persönlichen Kultur aus. Die Mahlzeiten sind Feste des Leibes, die
bei Homer, der von seinen Helden getreulich berichtet, wann sie
die Hände zum lecker bereiteten Mahle erhoben, eine Art fröhlicher
Gottesdienst werden. Der Adel der Form kommt später hinzu. Es genügt
dem Kulturmenschen nicht, daß das Mahl lecker bereitet sei. Die
schöne Form ist nicht zu entbehren. Sie ist das halbe Essen. Die
ästhetische Forderung wird geradezu zur körperlichen. Eine gewisse
absolute Schönheit des Eßtisches hat sich herausgebildet, die sich mit
Einfachheit wohl verträgt und die nur eine Verschiebung hinsichtlich
der Kostbarkeit verträgt. Diese ist aber sicherlich zu entbehren.
Eine Sehnsucht nach Schönheit geht durch unser Zeitalter. Wenn nichts
fruchtet, will man wenigstens »in Schönheit sterben«. Das ist gewiß
sehr edel, aber anmutsreicher ist: »in Schönheit leben«. Und dazu
gehört: »in Schönheit essen«.
Das Speisezimmer.
[Illustration: Standuhr v. Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Vor Jahren sah es freilich noch anders aus. Wie es in den meisten
Wohnungen heute noch aussieht. Altdeutsch war es, oder was man darunter
versteht. Der Plüschdekorationsdivan trug die ach so bekannten
Dekorationsteller. Die altdeutsche Kredenz war geschnitzt, zwar sehr
roh und albern, aber im großen und ganzen trug das Möbel eine Façade
wie ein italienischer Palazzo. Säulen waren an jedem Türchen, aber sie
hatten nichts zu stützen. Sie waren angeklebt und bewegten sich mit der
Tür auf und zu. Ich erzähle das nur, um auf den Widersinn einer solchen
Ornamentik, die man an jedem derartigen Möbel finden kann, gebührend
aufmerksam zu machen. Die anderen Einrichtungsstücke paßten dazu --
insofern waren sie wirklich »stilgerecht«. Der massive Speisetisch
hatte unten eine kreuzweise Verspreizung, so daß man nie recht wußte,
wie man die eigenen Beine unter dem Tische unterbringen soll. Es war
zu wenig Platz, und sie auf die Verspreizung zu stellen, litt die
Hausfrau nicht. Die üblichen Speisezimmersesseln standen herum, mit
Sitzflächen aus Holz, das figurale Ornamente eingepreßt hatte, so daß
man sich nicht niedersetzen konnte, ohne sich einer schönen Marke
mitten ins Gesicht zu setzen -- herrlich! Natürlich war auch ein
Pfeilerspiegel da mit Trumeau, dunkle Vorhänge, um alles in allem die
beziehungsreiche, wurstrot- und sauerkrautfarbene Gesamtstimmung zu
erzeugen, die seit einer Generation in Speisezimmern so beliebt ist.
[Illustration: Schrank und Wandmalerei von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Buffet von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Schlägt man die Tageszeitungen auf, so findet man spaltenlange
Annoncen, darin solche Intérieurs angepriesen werden. Man mag daraus
ersehen, daß sie noch immer ein Publikum finden, das diese Mühe und
Kosten verlohnt.
[Illustration: Schrank von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: AUSGEFÜHRT IN WEIS, BLAU UND SCHWARZ GEBEIZT -- UND
POLIERTEM AHORNHOLZ
Standuhr von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
Beim Stuhl begann die Revolution. Man verlangte, daß er Bequemlichkeit
gewähre, und bestimmte die Sitzhöhe nach dem körperlichen Maß.
Eigentlich hat man das auch in Goethes Zeiten getan und vielleicht
schon zu Moses Zeiten, aber man hat seit der Zeit, da man fremde
Stile kopierte, darauf vergessen. Die Querleisten zwischen den Beinen
wurden als lästig empfunden und blieben weg. Dann kam die Lehne in
Betracht. Hiebei ist die Atmung zu berücksichtigen. Geht die Lehne im
Bogen, so muß sie unter den Schultern abschließen, sonst verursacht sie
Atembeklemmungen. Geht sie höher, so schließe sie besser gerade ab.
Doch soll sie möglichst niedrig sein, sonst bildet sie ein Hindernis
beim Servieren. Von der Stuhlform hängt der Tisch ab. Die richtige
Höhe ist bei Speisetischen sehr wichtig. Ausziehtische sind natürlich
bevorzugt, wenn sie auf guten Rollen laufen. Die Zarge darf nicht
so weit herabreichen, daß sie das Knie des Sitzenden beengt. Die
Querstangen sind absolut zu vermeiden. Man hat neuestens den Tischfuß
mit gehämmertem Messing umkleidet, darauf man unbekümmert die Füße
stellen kann. Buffet, Teetisch, Serviertisch ergänzen das Mobilar.
Das Ornament besteht höchstens in eingelegten Linien, im flachen
Dekor. Glatte polierte Formen, die anmutige Reflexlichter erzeugen,
den Glanz des Silberzeugs, die Weiße des Porzellans widerspiegeln,
sind durchaus beliebt. Die Tafelaufsätze sind niedrig, einfach und
zweckvoll. Den Hauptschmuck bilden die Blumen, auf der Tafel und am
Fenster. Dort hängen keine Stoffgardinen mehr, die Rembrandtstimmung
ist dahin, alles ist auf Luft und Licht und Farbe gestimmt, auf helle,
freundliche Farben. Durchsichtige Gardinen, seitlich aufzuziehen,
hängen in geraden Falten herab. Die Wände sind natürlich auch hell,
keine Tapeten, keine Dessinierung. Perlgrau zum Beispiel. Das Möbelwerk
gebeizt oder lackiert. Mahagoni ist schön und teuer. Rot gebeiztes
Holz tut es auch. Stühle und Tisch in diesem Ton, dagegen die Buffets,
die Kaminverkleidung, der Blumenständer etc. weiß lackiert. Das gibt
einen schönen Akkord. Unter Kaminverkleidung verstehe ich die Umhüllung
des Gaskamins, mit Fächern zur Aufnahme von allerlei Kleinkunst. Für
den Bodenbelag findet man heute schon gutes und billiges Zeug in
geeigneten Farben, entweder einfärbig oder gestreift oder sonst mit
einem ruhigen Linienornament. Wo elektrisches Licht ist, hat man den
Vorzug einer gleichmäßig verteilten Deckenbeleuchtung. Auch bei den
Beleuchtungskörpern lasse man es nur auf reine Zwecklichkeit ankommen
und verschmähe allen ornamentalen und figuralen Kram, der sich in
dieser Form immer wieder anpreist. Erst wenn man von jedem Ornament
absieht, wird man zu ruhigen, einheitlichen Wirkungen und zu einer
stillen und vornehmen Schönheit gelangen. Wenn man einmal so weit sein
wird, die Farbe zu würdigen, die ungebrochenen einfachen Farben, nicht
die schmutzig aussehenden, dann wird man im Raum glückliche Ergebnisse
erzielen, die man nur andeuten kann.
[Illustration: Standuhr v. Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Der Salon.
[Illustration: Buffet von Arch. Franz Exler.]
Die Hausfrau, der stets die Sorge um ein standesgemäßes Heim am Herzen
liegt, steht dieser Frage häufig ratlos gegenüber. Bei den anderen
Räumen gibt es keine solchen Schwierigkeiten, deren Einrichtung ergab
sich notgedrungen, aus dem Bedürfnisse heraus. Aber beim Salon --
das ist etwas anderes. Hier spricht das Bedürfnis nicht so laut; man
wohnt nicht darin; man hat ihn gewöhnlich nicht für sich, sondern
für die anderen. Also um darin zu repräsentieren. Es gehört zu den
Herkömmlichkeiten, daß selbst jede kleinere Wohnung ihren »Salon« hat.
Dazu wählt man fast immer das beste und größte Zimmer, die anderen
Räume werden ins Hintertreffen gerückt. Ich halte zwar die Gemächer,
die meinem persönlichen Dasein dienen, für weitaus wichtiger, aber das
gehört nicht hieher. Im Salon kann man zeigen, daß man auch »wer« ist,
und das erklärt alles. Also wendet sich die ratlose Hausfrau an ihr
Hausblättchen, von dem sie gewöhnlich auch die Kochrezepte bezieht:
»Bitte, wie richte ich meinen Salon ein?« und erhält alsogleich
probaten Rat in der herkömmlichen Form: »Man nimmt ein paar Stühle
verschiedener Form und Größe, mit beliebigem Seidenstoff gepolstert,
kleine Tischchen, ein Sopha, Fauteuils etc.« Die Durchschnittssalons
der bürgerlichen Wohnungen schmecken alle nach diesem Rezept.
Der Möbelhändler liefert den bric-à-brac, den billigen Tand, die
Gipsstatuen und all den Kram, der für wenig Geld viel Geschrei machen
soll.
[Illustration: Buffet von Arch. Hans Stubner.]
Dieselbe Öde und Langeweile, den Mangel jeder persönlichen Regung
findet man von Haus zu Haus. Was auch die praktischen Ratgeber
und Möbelhändler sagen mögen, _so richtet man einen Salon nicht
ein_. Wozu haben wir überhaupt einen Salon? Welche Aufgabe soll
er in dem Organismus unseres Hauses erfüllen? Soviel steht fest: In
der Form, wie wir ihn meistens finden, bildet er einen toten Raum.
Sollte der »Salon« nicht derart zu gestalten sein, daß er auch von dem
Leben erfüllt werde, das die anderen Räume beherrscht, daß er nicht
bloß einer unzulänglichen Repräsentanz diene, sondern wirklich der
Bedeutung gleichkomme, die man ihm auf Kosten der Bequemlichkeit in der
bürgerlichen Wohnung einräumt? Die Sache ist der Untersuchung wert.
[Illustration: Speisezimmer von Arch. R. Bräuer.]
Schon das Fremdwort »Salon« besagt, daß wir es mit einem Raume zu
tun haben, der aus einer fremden Kultur stammt. Die italienische
Renaissance veratmet in dem Wort. »Salone«, »großer Saal«, so hieß der
große Empfangsraum im italienischen Palazzo. Was wir heute unter dieser
Bezeichnung in unseren Durchschnittswohnungen finden, ist freilich eine
Farce auf den ursprünglichen Geist eines solchen Raumes. Soll der Salon
für unsere Verhältnisse wieder Sinn und Zweck bekommen, dann müssen wir
ihn seines anscheinend repräsentativen Charakters, der für die große
Mehrzahl ohnehin bedeutungslos ist, entkleiden, und ihm das Gepräge
eines persönlich intimen Raumes geben. Nach einer gesunden Auffassung
von der Sache hat aber der bürgerliche Salon die Aufgabe, alle Dinge
aufzunehmen, welche die Persönlichkeit, ihre Neigungen und ihre Ideale
charakterisieren. Jegliches Ding darin müßte von der Persönlichkeit
etwas auszusagen haben. Für die gebildete Hausfrau oder den gebildeten
Hausherrn wird der Salon recht eigentlich Bibliothek oder Arbeitszimmer
sein, wo die Lieblingsbücher stehen und die Studien gepflegt werden,
wo an den Wänden in geeigneten, zum Auswechseln gerichteten Rahmen
die Kunstblätter hängen, die Sammlungen aufgestellt sind und aus
allen Dingen die geistigen Wesenszüge der Bewohner sprechen. Hier,
wo man von allen Gegenständen seiner Neigungen umgeben ist, wird man
am angenehmsten plaudern, und die Langeweile, dieser tötliche Feind
aller Lebensfreude, wird solchen Räumen sicherlich fernbleiben. Die
Unterhaltung, die von diesen Gegenständen her Nahrung empfängt, wird
leicht und fesselnd sein, weil sie solcherart die Eigenart der
Bewohner auf unauffällige und sympathische Weise offenbart, und eine
anziehende Neuheit darin besitzt, daß sie sich nicht um die Schwächen
des abwesenden lieben Nächsten zu drehen braucht.
[Illustration: Buffet von Arch. Georg Winkler.]
Wo diese Auffassung platzgreift, stellen sich die neuen Grundsätze
für die zweckmäßige Einrichtung ungerufen ein. Die gute Hausfrau, die
bereits gemerkt hat, um was es sich handelt, weiß nun mit einemmal,
was sie für ihren Salon braucht. Sie wird Wände und Plafond in
einfachen ruhigen Farben halten, vielleicht einfärbig bloß mit einem
herumlaufenden Fries, oder sie wird, wenn sie Stofftapeten haben
will, zu einem modernen Muster greifen. In Stofftapeten ist auch mehr
Farbenfreude und Lebhaftigkeit der Zeichnung statthaft. Sie wird die
Möbel so einfach, aber auch so gediegen herstellen lassen als möglich,
vielleicht aus Mahagoni oder rotgebeiztem Holz, mit dem sich auch
weiße Lackmöbel gut verbinden lassen. Die Möglichkeiten sind nicht
auszudenken, der gute Geschmack wird mit allen Mitteln das richtige
treffen. Die Anordnung der Möbel wird selbstverständlich von der
bisherigen Aufstellung sehr verschieden sein müssen. Man wird in einem
solchen intimen Raum Wert darauf legen, eine gemütliche Plauderecke
zu besitzen, ein cozy-corner, das eine Ecke des Zimmers füllt, eine
halbkreisförmige gepolsterte Sitzgelegenheit enthält, und ein Tischchen
davor, wo man behaglich sitzen kann, den ganzen Raum beherrscht und
sich dennoch abgeschlossen und geborgen fühlt. Das Fenster, das bei der
Art unserer Zimmer leider so wenig Raum an der Wandseite läßt, wird
einfach zur unteren Hälfte verkleidet, wenn es sich nicht anders tun
läßt. Von diesem Platze aus ergibt sich die geschmackvolle Aufstellung
der anderen Möbelstücke, die immer nur nach Maßgabe des persönlichen
Bedürfnisses vorhanden sein werden, ganz leicht.
[Illustration: Speisezimmer von Arch. Karl Witzmann.]
[Illustration: Speisezimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Man glaube indessen nicht, daß die Sache so brandneu ist, daß man es
nicht wagen dürfe, sie aufzunehmen. Bei den Künstlern gehört es zur
Überlieferung, die ganz selbstverständlich ist, daß sie ihre Gäste im
Arbeitsraum, also in der Werkstatt, im Atelier empfangen. Das Atelier
ist zugleich ihr Salon. Darum unterhält man sich bei den Künstlern am
besten, weil man von ihrem geistigen Wesen ganz umgeben ist, von allen
Dingen, die diese Geistigkeit sichtbar machen. Auf diese Art kann es
jedermann halten. Nicht jeder ist Künstler, wird man sagen. Aber jeder
Gebildete hat geistige Interessen irgendwelcher Art oder treibt einen
geistigen Sport, musiziert, sammelt, liest. Oder sollte ich allzu
optimistisch sein? Man gebe einem Salon das Gepräge eines geistigen
Sammelpunktes. Wer aber in den neuen, oben dargestellten Grundsätzen
eine Festigung durch das Beispiel der altehrwürdigen Tradition braucht,
der lese die folgende Schilderung des idealen Zimmers, das sich
Adalbert Stifter einrichten wollte, den man in dieser Hinsicht ganz gut
als einen Vorläufer der Modernen betrachten kann.
[Illustration: Speisezimmer mit Erker von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Buffet von Arch. Georg Winkler.]
»Zwei alte Wünsche meines Herzens stehen auf. Ich möchte eine Wohnung
von zwei großen Zimmern haben, mit wohlgebohnten Fußböden, auf denen
kein Stäubchen liegt; sanft grüne oder perlgraue Wände, daran neue
Geräte, edel massiv, antik einfach, scharfkantig und glänzend; seidene
graue Fenstervorhänge, wie matt geschliffenes Glas, in kleine Falten
gespannt, und von seitwärts gegen die Mitte zu ziehen. In dem einen
der Zimmer wären ungeheuere Fenster, um Lichtmassen hereinzulassen,
und mit obigen Vorhängen für trauliche Nachmittagsdämmerung. Rings
im Halbkreise stände eine Blumenwildnis, und mitten darin säße ich
mit meiner Staffelei und versuchte endlich jene Farben zu erhaschen,
die mir eben im Gemüte schweben und nachts durch meine Träume dämmern
-- ach, jene Wunder, die in Wüsten prangen, über Ozeane schweben
und den Gottesdienst der Alpen feiern helfen. An den Wänden hinge
ein oder der andere Ruysdael oder ein Claude, ein sanfter Guido und
Kindergesichtchen von Murillo. In dieses Paphos und Eldorado ginge ich
dann nie anders, als nur mit der unschuldigsten, glänzendsten Seele,
um zu malen oder mir sonst dichterische Feste zu geben. Ständen noch
etwa zwischen dunkelblättrigen Tropengewächsen ein paar weiße ruhige
Marmorbilder alter Zeit, dann wäre freilich des Vergnügens letztes Ziel
und Ende erreicht.«
Wie man Bilder hängt.
Im »Turmalin«, einer Geschichte, so dunkel wie der Edelstein, nach
dem sie benannt ist, erzählt Adalbert Stifter von einem wunderlichen
Manne, der die vier Wände seines Wohn- und Arbeitszimmers vollständig
mit Bildnissen berühmter Männer behing. Es war kein Stückchen, auch
nur handgroß, das von der ursprünglichen Wand zu sehen gewesen wäre.
In der Sache lag System, und sie dürfte zu des seligen Biedermeiers
Zeiten Schule gemacht haben. Denn als ich einmal in einem Schlosse zu
Gast war, das in jenen Tagen eingerichtet wurde und die ursprüngliche
Einrichtung heute noch unverändert besitzt, sah ich ganze Wände mit
schmalen, einfachen Goldrahmen dicht behängt, darin Lithographien,
ebenfalls Bildnisse berühmter Männer, zumeist der Kriegsgeschichte
angehörig, zu sehen waren. Wie ich nachträglich hörte, hatte das Schloß
einem berühmten Feldherrn zum Aufenthalte gedient.
[Illustration: Sitzgelegenheit in einem Salon von Architekt Georg
Winkler.]
Diese Anordnung erscheint mir aus zwei Gründen beachtenswert. Erstens
waren es nur bedeutsame Bilder, die als Original-Lithographien einen
gewissen Wert besaßen und durch ihren Inhalt ein ganz bestimmtes
Verhältnis zu ihrem Besitzer ausdrückten, und zweitens war in dem
Arrangement eine klare, dekorative Absicht ausgeprägt.
Ich meine aber durchaus nicht, daß man die Sache nachahmen dürfte.
Sie ist nur deshalb sympathisch, weil sich in ihr überhaupt ein
Gestaltungsgrundsatz geltend macht. Im Übrigen könnte man sehr
viel Gegenteiliges einzuwenden haben, denn eine Sammlung von
Kunstblättern gehört doch viel eher in die Mappe, die man nur in
musenfreundlichen Stunden dem schönheitsuchenden Auge erschließt,
und dann genügt dieses briefmarkenähnliche Aufkleben nicht mehr dem
modernen Formsinn. Außerdem möchte ich der Gefahr begegnen, daß man
meine Sympathie zugunsten jener wigwamartig mit Trophäen behängten
Schauspielerwohnungen auslegt, wo die Wände über und über mit
Photographien in protzigen Goldrahmen bepflastert sind, die das liebe
Ich, von vorn und hinten gesehen und in allen möglichen und unmöglichen
Lebenslagen variiert, möglichst aufdringlich zur Schau stellen. Diesem
indianerhaften Zustand möchte ich nicht einmal den Schein eines
freundlichen Arguments gönnen.
[Illustration: Einfaches Speisezimmer von Architekt Prof. Joseph
Hoffmann.]
Kehren wir zu Biedermeier zurück und gestehen wir, daß die alte
Ordnung, wo sie noch unverfälscht in den Räumen von anno dazumal
vorhanden, recht artig aussieht. Im traurigen Gegensatz zu dieser Art
Bilder zu hängen, haben die Durchschnittswohnungen in den heutigen
Miethäusern kein Prinzip ausgebildet. Oder doch nur eines: nämlich
die Löcher in der Wand zu verdecken. Beim Beziehen einer neuen
Wohnung geben diese garstigen Löcher, mit Gyps verschmiert, aus der
schmierigen Wandbemalung grell hervorstechend, der ratlosen Hausfrau
die einzige und getreulich befolgte Auskunft auf die Frage: »Wie sollen
wir die Bilder hängen?«
[Illustration: Einfaches Buffet von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Und sind sie glücklich gehängt, gerade dort, wo der göttliche Zufall,
der für die Löcher sorgt, sie haben wollte, dann freut sich Groß und
Klein über die schöne Wohnung. Ich habe nichts so himmlisch und nichts
so verderblich gefunden, als diese Anspruchslosigkeit. Als ich einmal
über den ordinären Schund loszog, mit dem gewöhnlich die Wände der
Durchschnittswohnung angefüllt werden, schrieb mir eine Dame: »Da
haben Sie sich einmal gründlich blamiert! Sie dürften ganz gut wissen,
wozu die Bilder gehören! Oder ist es schöner, wenn überall die Löcher
hervorschauen? Glauben Sie vielleicht, daß sich jeder Erste Beste
einen Böcklin kaufen kann? u. s. w.« Die zeitgemäße Dame, die mir so
temperamentvoll widersprach, ahnte wahrscheinlich gar nicht, wie sehr
sie mir recht gab. Der Aufschrei war sicher ein Beweis, daß ich den
Finger auf eine Wunde gelegt hatte. Ich glaube wahrlich nicht, daß in
ein derartiges Milieu ein Böcklin besser passen würde, als etwa eines
jener fabriksmäßigen Ölbilder, die der Rahmenhändler als Draufgabe für
einen geschmacklosen und lärmenden Goldrahmen liefert. Dagegen ist um
dasselbe billige Geld gute und echte Kunst zu haben.
[Illustration: Einfaches Wohnzimmer v. Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Für die Hängung der Bilder ist entscheidend, daß nicht die Wand die
Hauptsache und das Bild der bloße hinzutretende Schmuck, sondern daß
die Wand bloß Hintergrund und das Bild die Beseelung und Belebung
der Fläche ist. Der Kunstfreund, der von diesem Grundsatze ausgeht,
wird bei der Hängung seiner Bilder nicht leicht einen Mißgriff
tun. Er wird die Wand als Hintergrund behandeln und sie daher so
anspruchslos halten, als immerhin möglich. Die beliebten Tapetenblumen
können der Bildwirkung immer nur schädlich sein. Er wird seine Wände
entweder weißen lassen, was am schönsten ist, oder er wird sie in
einfachen, ruhigen Farben halten und sich auf die ruhige Tonwirkung
beschränken, die allerdings ein feines Farbengefühl bedingt. Und er
wird staunen, welche Macht die sparsam verteilten Originalblätter der
Reproduktionskunst auf diesem Hintergrund gewinnen können. Sparsam
verteilt und in menschlich dimensionierter Höhe müssen sie gehalten
sein, denn sie sollen die Wandflächen gliedern und mit ihrem Inhalt
deutlich zu dem Beschauer sprechen.
Hier wäre es am Platze, ein Wort über den Rahmen zu sagen. Der Rahmen
hat die Bedeutung einer Grenze, die die Welt des Bildes von der
Umgebung abschließt. Er soll das Bild heben und daher selbst einfach
und anspruchslos sein. Um das Bild zu heben, hat man außer Gold auch
sonstige Farben versucht, die gute Wirkung haben, wobei freilich als
Grundsatz zu beachten ist, daß es eine Farbe sei, die im Bilde nicht
vorkommt und einen komplementären Gegensatz bildet. Der Form nach
werden immer die geraden Leisten am besten sein; vor den verzierten
Rahmen, die auf den Namen »Kunsthändler-Rahmen« lauten, ist durchaus
zu warnen. Es wird oft die Frage aufgeworfen, ob man den weißen Rand
an reproduzierten Blättern stehen lassen soll. Bei Radierungen, die
den Plattenrand haben, ist der weiße Rand sicherlich von großer
Berechtigung, in allen Fällen aber ist er an und für sich schon ein
Rahmen. Man muß sich in diesem Falle begnügen, einen ganz schmalen,
einfachen Holzrahmen herumzulegen, der ganz gut weiß sein kann, ja
man braucht nur einen schmalen Streifen Papier um den Glasplattenrand
umzukleben, um des vorteilhaftesten Aussehens gewiss zu sein.
[Illustration: Einfaches Wohnzimmer von Architekt Prof. Joseph
Hoffmann.]
Ich denke hiebei immer zuerst an die kleinere Wohnung in den
Miethäusern, wo ja die Misère am größten ist und oft mit geringen
Mitteln eine gewisse Schönheit erzielt werden könnte. Große
Wohnungsverhältnisse, in Einzelwohnhäusern und Villen, wo der Luxus für
einen ziemlichen Aufwand, wenn nicht notwendigerweise für Geschmack --
o, im Gegenteil! -- sorgt, kommen für uns zunächst nur in bedauernder
Hinsicht in Betracht, daß sie kaum mehr, wie in früheren Zeiten, das
große Wandbild aufweisen, das in Hallen, Loggien etc. seinen rechten
Platz fände, und solche Wände, wenn das Bild etwa nach Art der alten
Gobelins oder mit dem Geiste eines Puvis de Chavannes gemalt wäre,
mit der bezaubernden und ungestörten Harmonie edler Linien und großer
einfacher Farbenklänge erfüllen müßte. Solche Heimstätten müssten die
eigentliche Pflegestätte des großen Ölbildes und der Wandmalerei sein.
[Illustration: Bücherschrank v. Arch. Georg Winkler.]
Für die Durchschnittswohnung muß die Reproduktionskunst in den meisten
Fällen genügen, wenn überhaupt auf Kunst Wert gelegt wird. Wird nach
den gegebenen Anhaltspunkten verfahren, dann kann sich an den Wänden
eine ungeahnte Schönheit entfalten. Um die Kunstwerke mit größerer
Geschlossenheit zu vereinigen, wird in manchen Wohnungen in der
Augenhöhe eine Holzverkleidung geführt mit regelmäßigen, rahmenartigen
Ausschnitten, darin die Kunstblätter hinter Glas stehen und beliebig je
nach dem Inhalt der Mappe ausgewechselt werden können. Der Kunstfreund
ist solcherart stets im gegenwärtigen Genuß seiner Sammlung und kann
den Turnus wechseln, so oft es ihm beliebt, von der feinen dekorativen
Wirkung dieses Arrangements ganz zu schweigen. Ob man nun auf die
eine oder andere Art vorgeht, dafür sich immer neue und interessante
Gestaltungsmöglichkeiten in unseren modernen Ausstellungen lernen
lassen, man wird sich bald auf einem höheren Niveau demselben Ideal
nahe finden, das schon unseren Großvätern erstrebenswert schien, man
wird nämlich ein ganz bestimmtes Verhältnis zu dem Bilderbesitze mit
einer klaren dekorativen Absicht zu verbinden wissen. Diese feine Lehre
liegt im dunklen »Turmalin« und in manchem alten Räume, darin die
Ahnenstimme lebt.
Die bildmäßig dekorative Verwendung anderer Materialien, wie etwa
getriebene Paneele in Messing, Kupfer oder Silber, die Kachelschnitte,
Mörtelschnitte, Mosaikbilder, Email und Perlmutter etc., die in die
Mauer eingelassen werden, kann nur im eigenen Wohnhaus in Betracht
kommen, wo der Kunst ein viel größerer Spielraum gegeben ist.
[Illustration: ENTWÜRFE FÜR LACKMÖBEL
Tischchen von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Salonecke von Arch. Karl Bräuer.]
Das Porträt im Wohnraum.
[Illustration: Wohnzimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Sitzgelegenheit mit Bücherablage von Architekt Max
Benirschke.]
Eine Stadt, die hunderttausend Einwohner hat, kann keine zwei
Porträtmaler ernähren. Das gibt zu denken. Im Nebenzimmer hängt das
Porträt der Großmutter. Sie sieht aus, wie in ihren besten Jahren,
als Frau, da sie schon alle ihre Kinder gehabt hat. Acht an der Zahl.
Wie gut sie aussieht! Die dunklen Haare sind in der Mitte gescheitelt
und ziehen in schönem Schwung stark in die Schläfen herein. Das blaue
Seidenkleid ist tief ausgeschnitten, ein feines Spitzentuch trägt sie
darüber. Um den schönen Hals läuft eine neunfache Perlenschnur, vorne
von einer großen Brosche zusammengehalten. Sie trägt die großen, aber
ungemein fein und leicht gearbeiteten Ohrgehänge aus den Dreißiger-
und Vierziger-Jahren und schön gefaßte Ringe: Topas, Amethyst und
Chrysopras. Stundenlang könnte man sie ansehen. Wie schön sie ist!
Überallhin folgen einem ihre Blicke. Stellt man sich links, rechts, in
die Mitte, immer blickt sie einem an mit den braunen, klaren, gütigen
Augen. Der Maler ist gar nicht bekannt. Aber das Bild lernt man lieben,
und im Bilde die Frau. Bald hat sie einen unverlierbaren Platz in der
Seele und lebt mit uns, obzwar sie längst tot ist. Im Leben haben
wir sie nie gesehen. Ein Jugendbildnis ist noch da. Da war sie noch
Mädchen, trug einen bebänderten Florentinerhut und weiße, duftige
Tüllkleider. Ein Pastell, blaß und rührend anzusehen. Ausgebleicht,
aber rosig umhaucht, wie verdorrte Rosen. Das war eine kunstfrohe
Zeit, Großmutters Jugendtage. Aus allen Familien sind uns von damals
Bildnisse überliefert, Ölporträts, Pastelle, Lithographien, Miniaturen,
von Daffinger und Genossen auf Elfenbein kunstreich gemalt. Dieselben
Personen meistens in den verschiedensten Lebens-Epochen dargestellt,
Grillparzer, die Fröhlichs, Schubert, all die Großen ihrer Zeit, noch
aus ihren unberühmten Tagen, was das Bemerkenswerte ist. Von den
Bildnissen Unberühmter, die nur Familienwert haben, gar nicht zu
reden. Diese ganze Kunstblüte ist untergegangen.
[Illustration: Salonschrank von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Auf hunderttausend Einwohner kommen heute keine zwei Porträtmaler.
Wie werden wir unseren Enkeln im Gedächtnis bleiben! Wird unser Bild
in ihren Seelen leben, gegenwärtig sein, mitwirkend in ihrem Tun und
Lassen, geliebt und verehrt wie unsere selige Großmutter? Wir lassen
uns photographieren. In einer Anzahl von Jahren ist die Photographie
verblaßt, ausgeblasen, unkenntlich, eine Fratze. Vielleicht heben sie
die Nachkommen auf, vielleicht! Aber ansehen tut man sie nicht, zeigen
noch weniger. Es ist unerquicklich. Name sind wir dann, leerer Schall.
Und dann erst wirklich gestorben. Liebe Großmutter, du lebst! Nein, wir
lassen uns auch porträtieren. Wir gehen in eine große photographische
Anstalt, wo viele junge Maler im Taglohn angestellt sind, und bestellen
das »Porträt«. Es ist zwar nur ein photographischer Grund, aber schön
angefärbelt. Sehr süß und schmeichelhaft, als ob wir nicht Menschen,
sondern Porzellanpüppchen wären. Aber es gefällt den Leuten, und es ist
modern. Darum tut es nichts, daß dieser Schund siebzig bis achtzig
Gulden kostet. Meistens soll es eine Überraschung sein, ein Geschenk
für die Frau des Hauses, für den Ehegatten. O Glück! O Wonne! Alles
ist Festfreude. Am Geschenk darf man nicht mackeln, darum wird der
kritische Verstand beizeiten totgeschlagen, wofern er überhaupt da war.
Zum Schlusse liebt man, was man hat, und sieht nur das sündhafte Geld
darin, das es gekostet hat.
[Illustration: Schmuckkästchen von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Für dasselbe Geld bekommt man auch ein gutes Porträt. Man wende
sich an die Akademie, an die Kunstvereine, an die jungen, fertigen
Künstler. Die gehen mit Feuereifer daran, sie brauchen nicht mehr
unwürdige Arbeit tun, Bilderbogen kolorieren, Nikolo und Krampusse
für den Christkindlmarkt fabrizieren, um das Leben zu fristen. Alle
Porträtmaler hätten auf einmal zu tun. Und in jedem Hause könnten ein
paar Bildnisse sein, die einen wahren Familienschatz bilden.
[Illustration: Salon, Sitzecke von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Lackmöbel von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Aber dem steht manches entgegen. Leider zum Teil die jungen und
fertigen Künstler selbst. Die sind betört durch das Riesenphantom, das
»Künstlerpreis« heißt, den die Künstler von Ruf zu erzielen pflegen.
»Warum sollten wir nicht auch -- -- --?« Kommt man in eine von
jungen Künstlern veranstaltete Ausstellung, fällt nichts so sehr auf
als die hohen Preise. Es ist ein offenes Geheimnis, daß dieselben
Bilder um tatsächliche Kaufbeträge erhandelt werden, die zwergenhaft
sind im Vergleiche zu den verlangten Riesensummen. Mehrstellige
Künstlerpreise kommen mit dem steigenden Ansehen und Alter von selbst.
Während unsere Künstler darben, sind beispielsweise die französischen
Maler das Verkaufen gewöhnt. Das machen die billigen Preise.
[Illustration: Stuhl von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Und dann die Leute. Die sagen, die Photographie tut denselben Dienst.
Das ist nicht wahr. Die Photographie gibt zwar alle Einzelheiten genau
wieder, aber rein äußerlich, auf chemisch-mechanische Weise. Darum
hat sie immer etwas Mechanisches, Seelenloses. Ich finde es ganz
begreiflich, daß Leute die gelungenste Photographie mit den Worten
zurückweisen: »Das bin ich nicht!« In den photographischen Ateliers
kommt das täglich vor. Nicht wie wir im Auge des leblosen mechanischen
Apparates uns darstellen kommt es an, sondern darauf, wie wir im Auge
des Menschen erscheinen. Darauf ist unser Empfinden, ja unser ganzes
Sein gestellt. Darum kann die Photographie nie die Geltung eines
Porträts haben.
Da gibt es Leute, die behaupten, die Bildniskunst sei die niedrigste
Gattung der Malerei. Es ist gelegentlich schon geschrieben worden. Es
ist gesagt worden, daß es eigentlich recht widerwärtig sein müsse,
täglich fremde Augen, Ohren, Nasen zu malen, nichtssagende Gesichter,
die dem Maler doch langweilig und gleichgültig sein müssen. Da tut er
eben seine Pflicht, schafft treu und fleißig wie ein Handwerker, und
was derlei Aussprüche mehr sind.
[Illustration: Fauteuil von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Ich habe immer eine heimliche Sehnsucht gehabt, Porträtmaler zu sein.
Bildniskunst, sie ist der Gipfel der Malerei. Ich habe die ganz klare
Empfindung, daß ein Maler, der Künstler ist, nichts malt, was ihm
gleichgültig ist, daß er Psycholog genug ist, um in jedem Antlitz
einen Schimmer Seele zu entdecken, und daß er den Pinsel nicht eher
anrührt, bis er sich über den inneren Menschen klar geworden. Denn das
ist seine Kunst, daß er den Menschen nicht wie die Photographie in der
äußerlichen Zufälligkeit des Augenblicks darstellt, sondern dessen
innere Züge ergreift und den Charakter mit allen seinen Möglichkeiten
offenbart. Diese innere Ähnlichkeit ist künstlerisch wichtiger als
die bloß äußere. Ihm werden die feinen Linien und Fältchen des
Antlitzes, die der ungeschickte Photograph, der schmeicheln will, mit
Vorliebe wegretouchiert, besonders kostbar sein, und er wird das Auge,
das wir immer zuerst suchen, wie den Weg zur Seele, als wichtigste
Offenbarungsquelle behandeln. Das Porträt ist Geschichtsmalerei im
höchsten Sinne. Nicht allein für den Maler ist die Sache interessant,
auch für den Besteller. Der weiß, der Künstler malt aus innerer
Anschauung heraus, also das Bild, das er in seiner Seele von ihm
gewonnen hat. Er malt ihn, wie wir im Auge des Menschen erscheinen. Es
liegt darin etwas, das uns allen sehr nahe geht. Das Auge des Nächsten
ist in Wahrheit unser Wächter. Der einsame Mensch verwildert. Unsere
gesellschaftliche Kultur ist auf das fremde Auge gestellt. Sie spitzt
sich im Kerne auf die unausgesprochene Frage zu: »Werde ich gefallen?«
Das Maßgebendste aber wird sein, wie uns der Künstler mit seinen
verfeinerten und verschärften Sinnen auffaßt. Er wird uns mit keiner
Wahrheit verschonen. Wir werden in seiner Darstellung nicht aussehen
wie im stumpfen Alltag, sondern wie an einem Festtage des Lebens, etwa
in seinem höchsten Augenblick, in dem sich unser verborgenstes Wesen
zum stärksten Ausdruck sammelt.
[Illustration: Fauteuil und Tischchen von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Stuhl von Arch. Maurice Herrgesell.]
Kann das die Photographie leisten?
Ich habe von der Großmutter keine Photographie, das gab es zu ihrer
Zeit noch nicht. Angenommen, es gäbe eine solche, und ich besäße nichts
von ihr als diese Photographie, so würde sie wirken wie erblindete
Spiegel. Die Großmutter wäre sodann nie für mich gewesen. Die
Bildniskunst hat mich verehren gelehrt.
[Illustration: Plastik von Prof. Franz Metzner.]
Plastik im Zimmer.
Eine edle Plastik im Zimmer zu haben, ist immer eine Angelegenheit
kunstfroher Geister. Die Porträtplastik kommt im Hause zur
hervorragenden Geltung. Ebenso wie die nach dem Leben gearbeitete
Medaille. »Bloß zu beider Art Monumenten kann ich meine Stimme geben«,
sagt Goethe. »Was hat uns nicht das fünfzehnte, sechzehnte und
siebzehnte Jahrhundert für köstliche Denkmale dieser Art überliefert,
und wie manches Schätzenswerte auch das achtzehnte! Im neunzehnten
werden sich gewiß die Künstler vermehren, welche etwas Vorzügliches
leisten, wenn die Liebhaber das Geld, das ohnehin ausgegeben wird,
würdig anzuwenden wissen. -- Leider tritt noch ein anderer Fall ein.
Man denkt an ein Denkmal gewöhnlich erst nach dem Tode einer geliebten
Person, dann erst, wenn ihre Gestalt vorübergegangen und ihr Schatten
nicht mehr zu haschen ist. Nicht weniger haben selbst wohlhabende,
ja reiche Personen Bedenken, hundert bis zweihundert Dukaten an eine
Marmorbüste zu wenden, das doch das unschätzbarste ist, was sie ihrer
Nachkommenschaft überliefern können. Mehr weiß ich nicht hinzuzufügen,
es müßte denn die Betrachtung sein, daß ein solches Denkmal überdies
noch transportabel bleibt und zur edelsten Zierde der Wohnung gereicht,
anstatt daß alle architektonischen Monumente an den Grund und Boden
gefesselt, vom Wetter, vom Mutwillen, vom neuen Besitzer zerstört und,
so lange sie stehen, durch das An- und Einkritzeln der Namen geschändet
werden«.
[Illustration: Porträtplastik von Prof. Franz Metzner.]
Fünfzig Jahre später lebte noch ein Abglanz dieses überragenden
Geistes. Die Großelternzeit lebte in Goethe. Vom idealen Zimmer Adalb.
Stifters wurde schon erzählt. Ein Fernrohr durfte nicht fehlen, denn
das ist die Art der Dichter, daß sie immer wie durch Fernrohre sehen.
In die Zukunft hinein. Da ist die Rede von weißen ruhigen Marmorbildern
alter Zeit, die den Gipfel seiner Wünsche bilden.
[Illustration: Salonecke von Arch. Maurice Herrgesell.]
Die Wiener Kunstwanderungen erschlossen die Wohnungen, die den
Kunstsinn der letzten zwanzig bis dreißig Jahre offenbarten. Die Sache
war lehrreich genug. Von wirklich edler Plastik war wenig zu sehen.
Kaum hie und da eine Porträtplastik. Dagegen hatte die Galvanoplastik
einen breiten Raum. Man denke Michel Angelos’ Moses in einer
elektro-chemischen Wiedergabe, natürlich gegen das Original gemessen
aufs winzigste verkleinert, einem Tafelaufsatze nicht unähnlich.
Gypsstatuen mit Goldbronze belegt, standen umher. Jeder Sinn für
Echtheit ward verleugnet. Es war die Art, wie man in der Zeit des
Parvenü- und Protzentums die Kunst verstand und pflegte. Der ganze
Götterhimmel, der den Bildungsbezirk des Großbürgertums umstand,
hatte eine Wendung ins Operettenhafte gemacht. Soweit Offenbach’s
»Schöne Helena« von der Iliade entfernt ist, soweit entfernt sich
der Kunstverstand des Mrs. Jourdains anno 1870 von der Erkenntnis
Michel-Angelesker Größe.
[Illustration: Sitzecke von Arch. Karl Witzmann.]
[Illustration: Schreibmappe mit Lederschnitt von Fräulein Trethahn.]
Heute ist das Kunstgewissen weiterer Kreise wieder empfänglicher
geworden. Man lächelt über die Geschmacklosigkeiten unserer jüngsten
Vergangenheit. Man sagt sich wieder, das plastische Kunstwerk muß
sich in den Raum einordnen, soll an bedeutsamer Stelle steh’n, einen
Augenruhepunkt bilden und dem prüfenden Blick standhalten können.
Nachbildungen von räumlich größeren Kunstwerken sind durchaus
verwerflich. Größere plastische Werke haben im Wohnraum nicht Platz,
sie fallen aus dem Rahmen, sie stören die Harmonie empfindlich,
wenn sie mit der räumlichen Umgebung nicht im Einklang stehen. Die
Kleinplastik nahm in den letzten Jahren einen großen Aufschwung. Sie
liefert den plastischen Schmuck unserer Wohnung, wofern es nicht
auch eine gute Porträtplastik sein kann. Aber was die Bazare an
kleinplastischem Schmuck liefern, ist selten von künstlerischem Wert,
meist nur süßliche allgefällige Publikumsware. Man gewöhnt sich also
schon allmählich daran, zum Künstler selbst zu gehen, wie es in den
besten Kunstjahren war. Man braucht den Zwischenhändler nicht, der ja
niemals künstlerische Interessen, sondern nur Handelsinteressen hat,
oft zum Schaden des guten Geschmackes. Der Bevormundung durch den
unwissenden Verkäufer, der den ärgsten Plunder unter dem Schlagwort
»Modern« oder »Sezzessionistisch« den Kunden aufschwatzt, hat sich
das deutsche Publikum noch nicht zu entziehen gewußt. Irgend ein
einzelner Gegenstand ohne Kunstwert, in irgend einem Laden gekauft,
kostet meistens ebensoviel, als ein kleines Originalwerk im Atelier.
Die Segnungen einer solchen Kunstfreude würden nicht lange ausbleiben
und ihr erster Erfolg wäre der, daß Leute, die nicht in der Lage sind,
solche Kunstsachen zu besitzen, den häßlichen Plunder der Bazare,
der fälschlich für Wohnungsschmuck ausgegeben wird, lieber nicht
aufstellen, und wenigstens durch diese Enthaltsamkeit die erfreulichen
Zeichen eines gesunden Geschmackes geben, anstatt durch lächerliche
Surrogate das peinliche Gefühl wachzurufen, daß das Gewollte doch ganz
anders sein müßte.
[Illustration: Schreibmappe mit Lederschnitt von Fräulein Trethahn.]
[Illustration: Salonschrank von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Junggesellenheim u. Herrenzimmer.
Das Studium alter Kulturen hat uns gelehrt, daß je erhabener die
Kunst, desto größer die Einfachheit war. Wenn wir wollen, daß die
Kunst ihren Ausgangspunkt in dem Hause nehme, dann müssen wir
aus unseren Häusern alle überflüssigen und störenden Gegenstände
fortnehmen, den sogenannten Luxus, den Komfort, der in Wirklichkeit
gar kein Komfort ist, weil er nur unnötige Plage macht und für nichts
gut und nützlich ist. Der wirklichen Gebrauchsgegenstände sind
verhältnismäßig wenige. Wenden wir uns einmal an die kleinste Wohnung,
die von einer alleinstehenden Person bewohnt wird, an das sogenannte
Junggesellenheim, so finden wir in der Regel ein einziges Zimmer, in
dem geschlafen und gearbeitet wird, wobei eine Arbeit vorausgesetzt
ist, die nicht viel Unordnung verursacht. Wir finden darin einen
Bücherschrank, der eine Menge Bücher enthält, ein Bett, das mit weißen
weichen Leinenvorhängen, die mit Aufnäharbeit versehen, abnehmbar und
waschbar sind, verschlossen ist, und bei Tag, wenn die Vorhänge, die in
metallenen Ringen laufen, zurückgezogen sind, als Divan benützt werden
kann. Das Nachtkästchen, wie ein einfaches Schränkchen gebaut, dient
bei Tag als Bücherablage, als Ständer für Vasen und Rauchzeug. Dann
ein Tisch, der sicher steht, um daran zu schreiben oder zu arbeiten.
Mehrere Stühle, die sich leicht von einem Ort an den anderen bringen
lassen, ein Kleiderschrank mit Schubkästen für Wäsche und derlei,
und solche Bilder und Stiche, als es die Mittel erlauben, ja keine
Lückenbüßer, sondern wirkliche Kunstwerke, was heute unschwer für
wenig Geld zu haben ist; auch eine oder zwei Vasen gehören hieher, um
Blumen hineinzutun, namentlich wenn man in einer Stadt lebt. Ein Ofen
gehört natürlich ins Zimmer, aber man zieht einen kleinen Gaskamin vor,
der, artig von einem Holzgehäuse umgeben, an seinem Bord allerlei,
Gegenstände der Kleinkunst aufzunehmen geeignet ist.
[Illustration: Schrank von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Weiter ist nichts nötig, besonders wenn der Fußboden gut ist. Wenn dies
nicht der Fall ist, so würde ein kleiner Teppich, der in zwei Minuten
zur Reinigung aus dem Zimmer geschafft werden kann, gute Dienste
leisten; doch müßte dafür gesorgt sein, daß er schön ist, sonst würde
er schrecklich stören.
[Illustration: Schrank von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Das ist rein alles, was wir in unserem Junggesellenheim brauchen, wenn
wir nicht musikalisch sind und ein Klavier haben müssen (in Bezug auf
deren Schönheit wir übel daran sind), und wir können nur sehr wenig
zu diesen notwendigen Dingen hinzufügen, wenn wir nicht sowohl beim
Arbeiten wie beim Nachdenken und Ausruhen gestört sein wollen. Wenn
diese Dinge für die geringsten Kosten, für die sie gut und dauerhaft
ausgeführt werden können, hergestellt würden, würden sie nicht viel
Auslagen verursachen, und sie sind so wenig, daß die, welche die Mittel
haben, sie überhaupt anzuschaffen, sich auch bemühen könnten, sie
gut ausgeführt und schön anzuschaffen, und alle die, denen die Kunst
am Herzen liegt, sollten sich sehr bemühen, dies zu tun, und dafür
sorgen, daß keine Scheinkunst sie umgibt, nichts, dessen Herstellung
oder Verkauf einen Menschen herabgewürdigt hat. »Und ich bin fest
überzeugt, daß, wenn alle, denen die Kunst am Herzen liegt, sich
dieser Mühe unterzögen, dies einen großen Eindruck auf das Publikum
machen würde.« Mit diesen Worten entwirft der englische Kunstgewerbler
und Dichter William Morris, der als Apostel der neuen und eigentlich
uralten Glaubenssätze allerortens eine sich täglich mehrende Gemeinde
hat, einen solchen einfachen Raum und sagt: »Diese Einfachheit können
Sie andererseits so kostbar herstellen wie Sie wollen oder können;
Sie können Ihre Wände mit gewirkten Tapeten behängen, statt sie
zu weißen oder mit Papiertapeten zu bekleben; oder Sie können sie
mit Mosaikarbeiten verdecken, oder auch durch einen großen Maler
Freskomalerei darauf anbringen lassen -- all dies ist nicht Luxus,
wenn es um der Schönheit willen und nicht zum Zwecke der Schaustellung
geschieht.« Das kann man der Liebhaberei des Bestellers überlassen. Im
allgemeinen wird die größte Einfachheit auch hier das Zweckdienlichste
sein. Es gibt allerdings Leute, die sich ein prächtiges Studio
einrichten und darin allen erdenklichen Luxus anhäufen, um sich
Stimmung zur Arbeit zu machen. Sicher ist, daß in solchen Studios kaum
jemals ernstlich studiert wird. Wer ernst arbeitet, weiß, das man
im Arbeitszimmer nicht Zerstreuung braucht, sondern Sammlung. Hier
soll aber die größte Einfachheit walten. Man kann auf das Beispiel
Goethes hinweisen, das sich in diesem Zusammenhang einstellt. Den
meisten Besuchern Weimars einst und jetzt dürfte die Schlichtheit
seines Arbeitszimmers unliebsam aufgefallen sein, und man hört oft
Äußerungen der Verwunderung darüber, daß einem so großen Geiste die
Dürftigkeit des Raumes genügen mochte. Herr Dr. W. Bode spricht in
seinem Buche: »Goethes Lebenskunst« darüber aus: »Wir sind nicht wenig
erstaunt, wenn wir das Häuschen betreten, das sieben Jahre hindurch
dem Busenfreunde des Landesherrn, dem weithin berühmten Dichter des
»Werther« und »Götz«, das einzige Heim war. So bescheiden hätten
wir es uns doch nicht vorgestellt. Unten ist gar kein bewohnbares
Zimmer, höchstens kann man einen Raum, an dessen Wände Pläne von
Rom hängen, im Sommer wegen seiner Kühle schätzen; oben sind drei
Stuben und ein Kabinettchen, alle klein und niedrig, mit bescheidenen
Fensterchen und schlichten Möbeln; zuerst ein Empfangszimmer mit harten
steifen Stühlen, dann das Arbeitszimmer mit kleinem Schreibtisch,
daranschließend ein Bücherzimmer und zuletzt das Schlafzimmer, in dem
noch die Bettstelle steht, die zusammengeklappt und so als Koffer auf
die Reise mitgenommen wurde...
[Illustration: Rauchtisch von Architekt Franz Messner.]
[Illustration: Salontischchen von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
So ist das Gartenhaus eingerichtet. Aber auch vom Stadthause hat man
keinen anderen Eindruck. Nichts deutet auf einen vornehmen reichen
Besitzer. Die Studierstube, in der er seine unsterblichen Werke schuf,
würde heute nur Wenigen genügen, die sich zum Mittelstande rechnen; für
»standesgemäß« würde sie niemand halten. Alles darin ist zur Arbeit
bestimmt, zum Lesen, Schreiben oder Experimentieren; kein Sopha, kein
bequemer Stuhl, keine Gardinen, sondern nur einfachste dunkle Rouleaux.
Auch an den Büchern ist keine Pracht, seine gesammelten Werke sind
auf das schlichteste eingebunden, er nahm ja auch seine berühmtesten
Dramen oder Gedichte jahrzehntelang nicht wieder in die Hand. Nur ein
Möbel hatte Goethe in dieser Stube, das wir nicht kennen -- ein kleines
Korbgestell, das sein Taschentuch aufnahm. Und auf dem Tische lag ein
Lederkissen, auf das er die Arme legte, wenn er dem gegenübersitzenden
Schreiber diktierte....« Zu Eckermann äußerte Goethe einmal: »Prächtige
Gebäude und Zimmer sind für Fürsten und Reiche. Wenn man darin lebt,
fühlt man sich beruhigt, man ist zufrieden und will weiter nichts.
Meiner Natur ist es ganz zuwider. Ich bin in einer prächtigen Wohnung,
wie ich sie in Karlsbad gehabt, sogleich untätig und faul. Geringe
Wohnung dagegen, wie dieses schlechte Zimmer, worin wir sind, ein
wenig unordentlich ordentlich, ein wenig zigeunerhaft, ist für mich
das Rechte; es läßt meiner Natur volle Freiheit, tätig zu sein und aus
mir selber zu schaffen.« Und ein andermal sagte der Achzigjährige:
»Sie sehen in meinem Zimmer kein Sopha, ich sitze immer in meinem
alten hölzernen Stuhl und habe erst seit einigen Wochen eine Art
von Lehne für den Kopf anbringen lassen. Eine Umgebung von bequemen
anspruchsvollen Möbeln hebt mein Denken auf und versetzt mich in einen
passiven Zustand.« Einen Schmuck besaß die einfache Studierstube aber
doch, den höchsten und herrlichsten zugleich, der alle Dürftigkeit
überglänzte: Goethes Geist, der in diesem Raume schuf.
[Illustration: Entwürfe für ein Damenzimmer und ein Herrenzimmer von
Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Salonschrank von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Damensalon von Arch. Franz Exler.]
Ein Zusammenhang zwischen Junggesellenwohnung und Herrenzimmer ist
durch den Umstand gegeben, daß auch das letztere Wohn- und Arbeitsraum
oder auch Salon des Hausherrn ist, wie der Name »Herrenzimmer«
überdies schon sagt. Es kommt im Hauswesen dort vor, wo die Hausfrau
entweder ihren »Damensalon« oder ihr »Boudoir« hat, oder wo man
aus Ökonomie auf den »Salon« überhaupt verzichtet und das eine zu
erübrigende Gesellschaftszimmer vorzugsweise auf die Bedürfnisse des
Hausherrn hin zurechtmacht. Massive, dunkel gebeizte oder polierte
Möbel mit einfachen blanken Beschlägen finden sich darin, ein großer
Bücherschrank, ein entsprechender Arbeits- oder Schreibtisch, große
gepolsterte Sitzmöbel mit grauem oder braunem Lederüberzug, alles ernst
und einfach und von der gewissen Vornehmheit, die in der Gediegenheit
überhaupt liegt. Ist der Hausherr Waffensammler, so findet sich ein
Waffenschrank vor, überhaupt Möbel, die seinen besonderen Liebhabereien
oder Berufszwecken dienen. In einfachen Rahmen hängen Bilder oder
Stiche, manche kühne Modernität, »le Nu au Salon«, warum nicht? Ein
Tropfen Pikanterie vermengt sich mit dem Duft schwerer Zigarren. So
findet man es häufig. Aber das dominierende, ehrfurchteinflößende Möbel
ist der große Schreibtisch. An ihn werden heute die persönlichsten
Anforderungen gestellt, nicht weniger als an den guten Sessel. Hier
hat eine gute Tradition mitgearbeitet. Aus dem Anfang des neunzehnten
Jahrhunderts sind große, sorgfältig erdachte Schreibtische überliefert,
große Diplomatenschreibtische mit verschließbarem Pultdeckel, einfach
geistreich kombiniert, dem amerikanischen roll desk nicht unähnlich,
ferner eine Unzahl verschiedenartiger Damensekretäre mit zahlreichen
Fächern und durchaus verschließbar, als ein glänzendes Zeichen einer
geistig ungeheuer regsamen Zeit. Man schrieb fleißig Tagebücher,
unterhielt mit allen Zeitgenossen regen, brieflichen Verkehr. Auch
der Schreibtisch von damals bildet gewissermaßen ein menschliches
Dokument. Was so ein verwittertes Möbel nicht für Geheimnisse verbirgt,
und was so einem Kasten für anmutige Rätsel abzulesen sind, diesen
Läden, die einst vollgestopft waren mit Gedichten, Liebesbriefen,
Prozessen und Romanzen, schweren Locken und anderen Liebeszeichen,
gleich einem Riesensarg, der mehr Tote enthielt als mancher Gräberhain.
Sentimentalitäten, nicht wahr? Aber ein Persönlichkeitszug ging
durch die Dinge des Hausrats, das wollte festgestellt sein. Und
einen Persönlichkeitszug will man den Dingen heute wieder geben. Der
Schreibtisch sollte seinem Besitzer angemessen sein wie ein Kleid.
Konstruktiv besitzt der amerikanische verschließbare Schreibtisch
viele Vorteile, für das Privatzimmer ist er aber allzu bureaumäßig. Im
Halbkreis geht die Tischplatte um den Sitzenden, auch die äußersten
Enden in den Bereich seiner Hände rückend. Van de Velde’s Schreibtisch,
der diese Form aufwies, war eine Sensation.
[Illustration: Sitzgelegenheit mit seitlichen Schränken von Architekt
Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Billardzimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Rauchzimmer.]
[Illustration: Spielzimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Zimmerecke von Arch. Franz Exler.]
Allein er war kein Vorbild. Van de Velde’scher Stil hat nur für
einen einzigen Menschen in der Welt Berechtigung, für van de Velde
selbst. Er drückt ein allzu Persönliches aus, das, wenn es Mode
wird, aufs nachdrücklichste bekämpft zu werden verdient. Für die
Allgemeinheit hat van de Velde keine brauchbaren Typen geschaffen. Mit
dem Schreibtisch geht es uns wie mit dem Sessel. Wer einen passenden
Schreibtisch sucht, findet ihn nicht. Er muß mit seinem Architekten
oder Tischler beraten, um zu finden, was für seine Person das Beste
ist. Es ist der einzige Weg, der zum Rechten führt. Der Konsument
müßte in allen Dingen, die seine persönlichen Bedürfnisse angehen,
Mitarbeiter des Künstlers sein, was aber wohl voraussetzt, daß er ein
wohlunterrichteter, einsichtsvoller Mensch sei. Sieht er sich dann nach
einem passenden Schreibzeug um, dann hat er wieder seine liebe Not. Die
Dinge dieser Art, die sich im Handel vorfinden, sind fast nie sachlich
gelöst. Im besten Falle müssen Bureau-Utensilien herhalten. Ebenso
ergeht es einem mit den Rauchrequisiten. Hier ist fast alles erst zu
tun. Ein weites Feld steht für den Künstler der Kleinplastik offen,
wenn erst der Publikumsgeschmack zur strengen Sachlichkeit erzogen sein
wird. Einstweilen sind es nur einige moderne Architekten, die sich
ihrer erziehlichen und kulturellen Aufgabe vollends bewußt sind.
[Illustration: Salonschrank von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
Das Musikzimmer.
[Illustration: Klavier von Arch. K. Bräuer.]
[Illustration: Pianino von Arch. Georg Winkler.]
[Illustration: PIANINO SAMMT EINLEGEARBEIT
Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Der Zufall spielt mir die Reproduktion eines Bildes von Schwind in
die Hände. Schubert-Abend ist es betitelt. Eine Stimmung strömt
aus dem Blatt, zart wie der Duft verdorrter Rosen; ein Hauch der
legendären liebenswürdigen Wiener Geselligkeit weht durch den Raum. Es
ist ein Altwiener Bürgersalon, großväterischer Hausrat steht umher,
Gastlichkeit und Gemütlichkeit, der genius loci winkt aus allen Winkeln
hervor, ein Klavier steht in die Mitte des Zimmers herein, eines jener
spinettartigen Instrumente, zierlich und schlank, im wohltuenden
Gegensatz zu den Monstren unserer heutigen Klaviere, Schubert davor
und ein Kreis von Kunstsinnigen um ihn herum, die Schwestern Fröhlich,
selbstverständlich auch Grillparzer, dann der gefeierte Opernsänger
Vogel und alles, was damals zur geistigen Elite gehörte. Damals war
noch die Glanzzeit der Hausmusik. Die vielen Duos, Trios, Quartette und
Quintette, von den berühmten Tonkünstlern jener Zeit zu diesem Zwecke
verfaßt, und die Zusammenstellung der Instrumente sind an und für sich
ein sprechender Beweis für den eifrigen Betrieb der Hausmusik. Bach
und Händel waren in jedem Hause gekannt und geliebt. Finden wir heute
noch gute Hausmusik? Die Frage dürfte nicht ohneweiters zu bejahen
sein. Zwar findet sich in jeder Wohnung ein Klavier vor, fingerübende
Musikbeflissene bilden mehr denn je die Verzweiflung nervöser Nachbarn,
aber die Pflege der Hausmusik ist heutzutage seltener geworden. Man
geht lieber in den Konzertsaal, der in früheren Zeiten nicht so viel
des Abwechslungsreichen und Interessanten bot als die Neuzeit, die
jeden Tag eine beliebige Anzahl musikalischer Berühmtheiten auf das
Podium stellt. Da kann man auch Toiletten zeigen und sehen, und selber
gesehen werden. Bei den meisten weiß man kaum, was sie antreibt, die
Musik oder das andere. Die biedere, hausbackene, ehrsame Hausmusik
kommt in Verfall. Daran ist aber in Wahrheit nicht so sehr der
Konzertsaal schuld, als vielmehr der Verfall des Hauswesens selbst.
Die freundlichen Genien der Gemütlichkeit und Gastlichkeit, die man
vor fünfzig Jahren bei viel geringeren Lebensansprüchen noch unter
jedem Dache finden konnte, sind aus den Städten, Großstädten zumal,
meist entschwunden. Und in der Provinz? Die verzehrt sich in Sehnsucht
nach der gleißenden Pracht der Großstadt, der sie ihre besten Kräfte
abgibt. Kalt und ungastlich ist es fast an jedem Herde geworden. Hier
bringen auch die besten Tonwerke keine Harmonien hervor. Irgend ein
Gassenhauer, wild und gehackt, eine beliebte Nummer aus dem Varieté
deckt in der Regel das Bedürfnis nach musikalischen Genüssen. Bachs
gravitätische Gavotten, ein liebliches Adagio Mozarts, eine Sonate
Beethovens sind im Hause der Disharmonien bloßer Lärm. Verständnis und
Pflege guter Musik sind ebenso sehr Sache des gebildeten Geschmacks wie
gute Manieren und vorteilhafte gesellschaftliche Haltung. Also Teil der
persönlichen Kultur, die auch in der häuslichen Umgebung und in allen
Dingen, die im Bereich der Persönlichkeit liegen, zum Ausdruck kommt.
Man sollte glauben, daß ein feines Gefühl für die Ästhethik der Farben
und der Formen von vorneherein die Bedingungen zum Verständnis edler
Musik besitzen müßte. In einem Hauswesen, wo die edle Farbe herrscht
und die edle Linie, und der Sinn, der aus dem Zweckmäßigkeitsprinzip
des Alltags die Schönheit abzuleiten weiß, wird man in der Regel
auch gute Musik antreffen. Denn ein gemeinsamer künstlerischer
Grundzug führt von der sichtbaren Harmonie auf die hörbare. Eine nach
vernünftigen modernen Grundsätzen eingerichtete Stadtwohnung braucht
aus bloß ästhetischen Grundsätzen durchaus kein eigenes Musikzimmer
zu besitzen, abgesehen davon, daß Raum und Mittel hiefür selten
bereitstehen. Es wird mit den äußeren Merkmalen unserer mit edlem
Geschmack eingerichteten Wohnung nicht im Widerspruch stehen, wenn
wir im Speisezimmer oder im Raume, den wir gewöhnlich Salon nennen,
den unsterblichen Werken der höheren Tonkunst lauschen und in einem
dieser Zimmer das Klavier und den Notenschrank aufstellen. Aber da
sind wir schon in arger Verlegenheit. Das Klavier in seiner heutigen
ungeheuerlichen Form paßt zu den schlanken, raumsparenden Möbeln noch
viel weniger als es zu den altdeutschen oder sonstigen »stilgerechten«
Einrichtungen gepaßt hat. Es verstellt in den verhältnismäßig kleinen
Wohnzimmern den besten Raum, steht breit und sperrig da und zerstört
jede irgendwie versuchte harmonische und zweckvolle Gliederung des
Gemaches. Es ist überhaupt ein Möbel, das, zwar, wenn seine Seele
ausklingt, der mächtigsten, erschütterndsten und himmlischesten
Wirkungen fähig ist, in seiner äußerlichen Erscheinung ein wahres
Scheusal genannt werden muß, das wegen seiner höchst unpraktischen
Form am allerwenigsten als eigentliches Hausinstrument gedacht zu sein
scheint. In den Zeiten, da Schubert am Klavier saß, da hatte dieses
Instrument eine Form, die mit dem übrigen bürgerlichen Hausrat im
Einklang stand. Es hatte eine schmächtige, zierliche, fast elegante
Form und fiel nirgends plump aus dem Rahmen der gesamten Wohnungskunst,
wie es das heutige tut. Es wuchs sich selbständig und unabhängig aus
und gewann solcherart seine umfangreiche, wenig ansprechende Form. Die
Klavierfabrikanten haben bis heute wenig Lust gezeigt, sich mit ihren
Klavierformen der neuen Bewegung, welche im Hause so durchgreifende
Veränderungen herbeigeführt hat, anzuschließen und ein bischen darüber
nachzudenken, ob man nicht durch eine veränderte Konstruktion zu
gefälligeren, zierlicheren Gehäusen gelangen könnte. Vor dem Koloß
eines Klavieres heutiger Konstruktion steht auch der genialste
Entwurfskünstler in Verlegenheit da, er weiß sich nichts anzufangen.
Baut er ein Gehäuse, das der einfachen strengen Linienführung des
heutigen Möbels entspricht, so sieht es womöglich noch sperriger und
ungeheuerlicher aus. Der schottische Künstler Mackintosh hatte einem
Kunstfreunde ein Musikzimmer eingerichtet und es mit allen Finessen
einer raffinierten Künstlerschaft ausgestattet. Als dekoratives Motiv
dieses ganz in Weiß gehaltenen Raumes war eine symbolische Darstellung
»der sieben Prinzessinnen«, aus Maeterlincks mystischem Märchenspiel
verwendet. In einem wundersamen Linienklang kehrt dieses Motiv an
allen Teilen wieder als Paneele, als Verkröpfung an den Holzteilen, am
Kamin, an den hohen Stühlen, am Fenster, am Klavier. Alles ist Musik,
sichtbare Musik in dem eigenartigen Raum, der in mattem Elfenbeinweiß
strahlt, darin da und dort färbige Stücke eingesetzt sind, die in ihrer
dekorativen Linienfassung wie seltsame Märchenaugen aussehen und in
dem toten, starren Material ein geheimnisvolles Leben erwecken, als ob
draußen der leibhafte Prinz stünde und mit bangen, sehnlichen Blicken
durch die Scheiben ins Gemach sähe, wo wie bleiche schöne Schatten die
Prinzessinnen schlafen, wie der Wohllaut, der in den Saiten schläft,
angstvoll gehütet, daß kein Mißton von draußen ihr zartes Leben mordet.
[Illustration: Schrank (Lackmöbel) von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Schrank (Lackmöbel) von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Wohnzimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Schreibtisch von Architekt Alois Hollmann.]
Wenn ein Künstler sein Bestes getan hat, ist es nicht seine Schuld, daß
es trotzdem unverhältnismäßig hoch und breit und störrisch dasteht.
Klaviere sind einmal so. Man müßte, um einmal die wohltemperierte
Klavierform zu finden, sich einmal an George Logan in Greenock
(Schottland) wenden, von dem aus der Turiner Ausstellung 1902 ein
Musikzimmer bekannt ist, das uns der Künstler zwar nur als Aquarellbild
zeigen konnte. Aber es genügt, um den Traum eines Künstlers kennen zu
lernen. Eine heitere, kindlich fröhliche Mozartstimmung herrscht in
dem Raum, über den Teppich schreitet man wie auf einer blumigen Au,
an den weißgetäfelten Wänden stehen in hohen Vasen Blütenzweige, die
einen Frühling ins Gemach zaubern, und man mag es glauben, daß hier die
Töne hell und lustig fliegen wie muntere Spielbälle. Zwei sitzen am
Klavier, wahre Blumenerscheinungen, und das Klavier, aus Ebenholz mit
sparsam verteilten hellen Einlagen ist von ganz idealer Erscheinung.
Zart und einfach gebaut, fügt es sich harmonisch in den Raum ein.
Hier stört kein Mißton, auch kein sichtbarer. Ist es auch nur ein
Künstlertraum, so mag, da er greifbare Formen gefunden, die Möglichkeit
nicht fern sein, daß er ganz reale Wirklichkeit werde, wofern die
Klavierfabrikanten wollen. In bürgerlichen Wohnungen wird man sich mit
einem Pianino begnügen müssen, die bereits ganz moderne Formen, ohne
jeden Stilschnörkel aufweisen.
[Illustration: Stehpult von Arch. Karl Sumetsberger.]
Wenn Sie aber Lust und Mittel haben, ein eigenes Musikzimmer
einzurichten, dann versagen Sie sich jedwede ornamentale Ausstattung,
denn die bedarf, wenn die Sache nicht plump und aufdringlich werden
soll, eines höchst delikaten, künstlerischen Geschmackes, der zu
den größten Seltenheiten gehört. Vermeiden Sie also jeden Zierrat,
dulden Sie selbst keine Musikerbüsten oder Porträts, denn sie
tragen zur musikalischen Stimmung nichts bei, sie stören viel eher.
Bringen Sie lieber eine harmonische Wirkung durch die kunstreiche
Anwendung von Form und Farbe hervor und wirken Sie dadurch im Äußeren
musikalisch. Auch hiebei wird sich zeigen, daß in der Beschränkung die
Meisterschaft liegt. Halten Sie den Musiksalon bloß in ganz einfachem,
edlem, elfenbeinartigem Weiß, ohne jedweden Dekor, und stellen Sie
nichts hinein als ein schwarzpoliertes Piano, ein schwarzpoliertes
Notenschränkchen, einige Blütenzweige in Vasen und denken Sie sich in
diesem Raum eine schöne Stimme, ein paar kunstreiche Hände, die starke
goldene Töne ums Haupt winden, und Sie werden in diesem Raum unbeirrt
und von keinem fremden Eindruck abgelenkt, wahre Feste in Moll feiern.
[Illustration: Schreibkasten, geschl., v. Prof Kolo Moser.]
[Illustration: Schreibkasten, offen, von Prof. Kolo Moser.]
Schlafzimmer u. Bad.
[Illustration: Schreibkasten von Johanna Hollmann.]
Was für die Vorfahren das Schlafzimmer bedeutete, davon können wir uns
nach den heutigen Wohnungszuständen keinen rechten Begriff machen.
Das Schlafzimmer galt so ziemlich als der Hauptraum des Hauses.
Es sah aus wie ein Thronsaal. Das mächtige Bett, zu dem seitlich
Stufen emporführten und das baldachinartig überwölbt war, stand, mit
dem Kopfende an der Wand, mitten im Raum. Im Zeitalter der Gothik
und der Renaissance gab die Kunst ihren Segen dazu, wundervolle
Schnitzereien finden sich selbst an den Betten bürgerlicher Häuser
vor. Im siebzehnten Jahrhundert vollzieht sich ein guter Teil des
gesellschaftlichen Lebens im Schlafzimmer. Es ist Toilettenzimmer,
Wohnraum, Empfangsraum, Speisezimmer, sogar Küche, wenigstens für
die leichteren Speisen. Die Französin hatte ihr Paradebett, sie
empfieng den großen Besuch im Bette liegend oder sich ankleidend. Der
Barockstil hat darum auch keine anderen Möbel ausgebildet, als das
Himmelbett, den Schreibtisch, der nach unten zu Wäscheschrank ist,
und oben als Glasschrank Thee- und Kaffeeservice enthält, das Sopha
und die gepolsterten Stühle und das alles in Formen, die für unser
heutiges wahres Sein unverwendbar geworden sind. Sie gehören der
Historie an. Zur Zeit des Empire, um 1800, glich das Schlafzimmer einem
Tempel. Die Antike hatte es allen angetan. Man wollte frei sein von
der Überlieferung und geriet unversehens in die ärgste Sklaverei. Das
Schlafzimmer sollte nicht wie ein Schlafzimmer aussehen. Menschliche
Notwendigkeiten galten als durchaus unästhetisch. Es war die Zeit der
Götterpose. Das Bett fand häufig in einem Alkoven Platz, dessen Front
ein griechisches Tempelfries trug oder es war reich und kunstvoll
drapiert. Sinnreiche Symbole deuteten an, daß hier Aphroditens geweihte
Stätte sei. Das Nachtkästchen erhielt die Form eines Opferstockes. Der
Waschtisch war als Altar der Reinigung gleichfalls als Opferstätte
charakterisiert. Der praktisch bürgerliche Sinn der Biedermeierzeit
vertrug diesen ästhetischen Ballast nicht. Er reduzierte die Formen
auf das konstruktiv Notwendige, schuf sie nach seinen leiblichen
Bedürfnissen um. Könige sind damals Bürger geworden, sie entflohen
der Ungemütlichkeit der Schlösser und dem Druck der Repräsentation,
um sich in der »Eremitage« wieder menschlich zu fühlen. Heute möchte
der kleine Bürger wie ein König leben. Der Möbelspekulant ist der
große Hexenmeister, der alle Illusionen geben kann. Alle Stilarten
liefert er, die Gothik, die Renaissance, Barock, Rokoko, Empire. Nicht
um das Sein handelt es sich, sondern um den Schein. Die Möbel sind
darnach. Die Nutzräume treten zurück. Das Schlafzimmer ist die letzte,
erbärmlichste Kammer. Mein Gott, die kleine Wohnung erlaubt es nicht
anders! Und überhaupt! In’s Schlafzimmer kommt niemand hinein!
[Illustration: Arbeitszimmer (Bureau) einer Dame mit modernem Gobelin
von Arch. Karl Witzmann.]
[Illustration: Arbeitszimmer und Bibliothek von Arch. Hans Stubner.]
Ein englischer Architekt, Frank Brangwyn, A. R. A., sagt sehr
zutreffend, daß die meisten Schlafzimmer vom Standpunkte einer
zweckentsprechenden Ausstattungskunst betrachtet, vernachlässigt sind,
weil sie nicht den kritischen Blicken unserer Freunde und Bekannten
ausgesetzt sind. Sie werden selten von jemandem Andern gesehen, als
von ihren Eigentümern. Wenn die Schlafzimmer in dem Maße zugänglich
wären, wie die Gesellschaftsräume, so würden sie unter den Einfluß
jenes seltsamen Wetteifers gekommen sein, der seit den frühesten
Zeiten zur Ausschmückung jedes Gebrauchsgegenstandes geführt hat, der
der öffentlichen Beachtung ausgesetzt war und Neid oder Bewunderung
erregen konnte. Es würde sehr wenig Kunst geben, wenn die Menschen
unempfindlich wären für den Ansporn des Lobes oder der Nadelstiche des
Spottes und Neides. Die volkstümlichsten Kunstformen, wie etwa die
griechischen Statuen, und die Bilder italienischer Kirchen aus dem
fünfzehnten und sechzehnten Jahrhundert sind immer hervorgegangen aus
den besten Traditionen und folglich den größten Meistern. Weltfremde
Einsamkeit führt die Kunst hinweg von dem Hauptstrom des befruchtenden
Lebens, und landet sie in irgend einem ungesunden Sumpfwasser, wo sie
schwach und hinfällig wird, im kleinlichen Ehrgeiz eingebildeter Größe
befangen. Erinnern wir uns daher, daß die Kunst nichts so notwendig
braucht, als öffentliche Anerkennung und öffentliche Nachfrage.
[Illustration: Arbeitszimmer und Bibliothek von Arch. Hans Stubner.]
[Illustration: Arbeitszimmer von Arch. A. Hollmann.]
Bei dieser Sachlage ist es wichtig, daß die allgemeine Aufmerksamkeit
auf den schlechten Zustand der sehr schlechten Schlafzimmer gelenkt
wird, welcher heute in 99 von 100 Fällen vorkommt. In den meisten
Schlafzimmern findet man weit weniger Kunst, als in der roh zubehauenen
Holzhütte eines Südsee-Insulaners. Es ist seltsam, daß wir nach
Jahrhunderten des Fortschritts in anderen Dingen ein so geschmackloses
und achtloses Volk geblieben sind in Bezug auf die Dinge, die unserem
persönlichsten Gebrauch dienen.
Was soll ein Schlafzimmer sein? Ein paar praktische Betrachtungen
werden die Besonderheiten klarlegen.
1. Man kann annehmen, daß der Raum, der einem zur Verfügung steht,
klein ist, wie in den meisten Schlafzimmern. Man wird daher mit den
Dimensionen das Möglichste tun, um den Eindruck von Geräumigkeit und
Luftigkeit hervorzubringen. Der Raum soll nicht nur angenehm sein für
den Schlafenden, sondern auch für das Erwachen.
[Illustration: Herrenzimmer (Arbeitszimmer) von Arch. Petru Balan.]
2. Ein Schlafzimmer ist nicht nur ein Raum um darin zu schlafen,
sondern auch ein Raum, in welchem eine kranke Person für Wochen, ja
Monate liegen kann, und deshalb soll sich nichts Übertriebenes in der
Ausstattung vorfinden, nichts das sich dem Auge mit ermüdender und
langweiliger Beharrlichkeit aufdrängt. Aus demselben Grunde ist es
gut, das Bett so zu stellen, daß die kranke Person auf das Winterfeuer
im Kamin blicken kann und angeregt und erfreut wird von seinem
lustigen und hellen Flackern. Man mag vielleicht lächeln über diese
Kleinigkeiten, aber sie sind sehr wichtig.
[Illustration: Bureau von Arch. M. Herrgesell.]
3. Die bisherigen Betrachtungen haben rasch über die Grundzüge
des Entwurfes belehrt. Die Notwendigkeit, die man fühlt, das
Zimmer weiter, geräumiger und luftiger erscheinen zu lassen als es
wirklich ist, führt mit der Logik des gesunden Menschenverstandes zu
verschiedenen praktischen Lösungen. Man entscheidet sich zum Beispiel,
keine gemusterte Tapete zu nehmen. Wenn eine Wand über und über
gemustert ist, so lockt sie von allen Standpunkten die Aufmerksamkeit
auf sich, sie scheint sich dem Auge dadurch näher zu bringen und dem
Raum einiges von seiner Länge und Breite zu rauben. Man entscheidet
sich auch dafür, daß die Einrichtung nicht mehr Raum einnehmen darf,
als unbedingt erforderlich ist; daher muß die handwerkliche Leistung
die höchsten konstruktiven Vorzüge aufweisen, damit man den höchsten
Grad von Annehmlichkeit und Zweckmäßigkeit mit dem geringsten Aufwand
von Holz erreicht. Nachdem das Zimmer ein Schlafzimmer ist, hat man
ganz recht, das Bett als das wichtigste Möbelstück zu betrachten, und
es aus Holz herzustellen, teils weil gut gearbeitetes Holz so schön
und ruhig harmonisch wirkt, teils weil Messingbetten nicht immer
mit den Farben übereinstimmen, welche man im Auge hat, und endlich,
weil sich Metall zu frostig anfühlt. Das Bett wird nicht so niedrig
sein, daß sich die Magd versucht fühlen könnte, die Reinigung des
Fußbodens darunter zu vernachlässigen, noch wird es so hoch sein, daß
der Raum zwischen Matratze und Fußboden als Speicher für Schachteln
und für Staubansammlung geeignet erscheint. Wenn man zum Schluß das
Schlafzimmer als Krankenzimmer auffassen will, ist der Grundsatz
der Wohnlichkeit unerläßlich, ebenso eine ruhige Heiterkeit in der
Farbengebung.
[Illustration: Bureau der österr. Bedburger Linkrusta Werke Alfred
Hoffmann, von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
4. Man wird vielleicht Bilder in diesem Schlafzimmer anbringen wollen.
Man hänge keine goldenen Rahmen auf den Grund der Tapete, sondern
treffe eine solche Anordnung, daß die Malerei einen tektonischen Teil
der Wand selbst bildet. In andern Worten, man wähle einen Fries oder
ähnliche andere dekorative Malereien, die man seinem Urteile nach für
gut findet. Das Werk muß einigermaßen mehr sein als interessant; es muß
beitragen zur frischen und ursprünglichen Farbengebung, die man als
passend für ein Schlafzimmer findet, und man führt sie daher so durch,
daß die Malerei nicht aus der Mauer hervorspringt, sondern flächig
wirkt, und im ganzen eine ebenso wirkungsvolle als bescheidene Rolle
spielt.
[Illustration: Briefkassette von Architekt Otto Prutscher.]
5. Welches Holz soll man verwenden? Es ist klar, daß die dekorative
Verwendung von Materialien zwingt, streng und einfach zu sein; aber
der Strenge des Stils kann durch eine glückliche Wahl des Holzes
entgegen gewirkt werden. Nußholz würde zu schwer im Ton sein und Eiche
zu steif und unbiegsam in Substanz und Masse. Was man braucht, ist ein
leichteres Holz, freundlicher von Aussehen, und so scheint es nach
mancher Überlegung und manchen Versuchen empfehlenswert, Zuflucht zu
Kirschholz zu nehmen. Es hat eine schöne Textur, der Ton ist hell,
warm, freundlich und es hat auch eine Art von häuslicher Eleganz. Von
ebenso glücklicher Wirkung sind weißlackierte Möbel. Zu ihrem Lobe kann
nicht genug gesagt werden. Und wenn nun das Werk vollendet ist und die
Morgensonne in das Zimmer tritt, so wird man das Zimmer heimlich und
traut finden, als einen freundlichen Raum, sich darin anzukleiden und
dem Tag einen guten Anfang zu geben.
Glücklicherweise gewinnt diese gesunde Auffassung wieder Raum. Man
fühlt sich wieder, die Persönlichkeit wächst. Man hat persönliche
Bedürfnisse. Das Schlafzimmer braucht kein Thronsaal zu sein, auch kein
Tempel. Aber luftig soll es sein. Wir sind alle Fanatiker der Hygiene
geworden. Mit Luft, Licht, Sauberkeit und Einfachheit bestreiten wir
unsere Interieurstimmungen. Und siehe da, es wirkt ganz famos. Was
dem Körper zugute kommt, gibt auch der Seele Nahrung. Wenn wir auch
zum guten Glück auf das Ornament verzichtet haben, so gibt es für den
künstlerischen Geschmack doch noch sehr viel zu tun. Vielleicht mehr
als früher. Denn das Einfache, das ist doch das Allerkomplizierteste.
Die Anordnung der Massen, die Gliederung des Raumes, die Behandlung
der Farbe, die zwecklich formale Erfüllung der Bedürfnisse, das sind
Dinge, in denen sich das Persönliche klar ausspricht. Ist Harmonie in
der Persönlichkeit, dann wird sie auch im Raum sein. Und, das ist das
Allerwichtigste, der Einzelne, der angefangen hat nachzudenken, muß mit
seinem Tischler, mit seinem Architekten arbeiten, wenn er das Seine
haben will.
[Illustration: Herrenzimmer aus Wiener Kunst im Hause.]
Auf Licht und Luft also kommt es an. Man wird sich daher helle Farben
wünschen, die Wände ganz licht, die Betten und Schränke in hellgelbem
Kirschholz, oder weiß lackiert, oder in unverhüllter Naturfarbe, wobei
man die Flächen durch Einsetzen anders färbiger Holzstücke beleben
kann. Sonst hat man gerne eine Ottomane dem Bette am Fußende vorgelegt,
ja mit diesem auch in einem konstruktiv verbunden. Hat man einen
besonderen Toilettenraum, dann brauchen Wäsche- und Kleiderschränke
nicht im Schlafraume stehen. Die Einrichtung der modernen Schränke
dieser Art ist für den Inhalt genau ausgemessen. Der Hängeraum muß so
hoch sein, um die Röcke gut aufnehmen zu können. Oberhalb derselben im
Inneren befindet sich häufig auch ein Brett für die Hüte. Die Hosen und
Westen werden in die breiten Laden gelegt. Eine Lade für das Schuhwerk
befindet sich zu unterst. Kleinere separate Laden und Fächer sind da
für Spitzen, Bänder, Kravatten, Handschuhe, Krägen, Manschetten etc.
Für die Schmutzwäsche gibt es einen truhenähnlichen Behälter, der im
Vorzimmer steht und häufig als Sitzgelegenheit ausgenützt ist, mit
einem Deckel oben zur Aufnahme der Schmutzwäsche und der von unten
aufklappbaren Vorderseite zur Herausnahme derselben; alles versperrbar,
natürlich.
[Illustration: Bett von Prof. Kolo Moser.]
Das Nachtkästchen gibt ebenfalls Möglichkeiten zu neuen sinngemäßen
Lösungen. Man kann einen kleinen, glasschrankartigen Aufsatz damit
verbinden, der die Hausapotheke aufzunehmen hat. Leichte, helle
Vorhänge, seitlich aufzuziehen, schützen das Gemach gegen Blicke von
außen her, sperren aber nicht das Licht aus. Vor dem Fenster steht die
Toilette: ein vertikaler Spiegel mit zwei im Winkel stehenden Flügeln,
ein Gesimse davor, und links und rechts vom Sitz kleine Laden für die
gesammte Kosmetik. Das alles ist sehr zierlich, sehr einfach, sehr
elegant.
[Illustration: Schlafzimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Das Bad ist in unmittelbarer Nähe des Schlafzimmers zu halten. Jede
bessere Stadtwohnung hat ihr Badezimmer. Ein regelrechtes Bad,
mit seinen weißen glänzenden Kacheln, der vertieften Wanne, den
blankgeputzten Hähnen in der Marmorverschalung, den glänzenden
Apparaten, den technisch vorzüglich eingerichteten Waschtischen sieht
immer einladend aus. Im Schlafzimmer kann man sodann den Waschtisch
entbehren. Gerade was die Badeeinrichtung angeht, so haben wir eine
unbescholtene Vergangenheit. In den glanzvollen Zeiten des Hausrats
von der Gothik bis zum Rokoko ist keine Rede von Badeeinrichtungen.
Die »Kunst« befasste sich nicht damit, es blieb eine rein technische
Angelegenheit der neueren Zeit, darum haben wir es heute in vollkommen
von Stilarchitekturen unbeirrten, praktischen Formen vorgefunden.
Nur römische Vorbilder existieren und die sind sicherlich auch
mustergiltig. Früher war man weniger heikel in dieser Hinsicht. Heute
ist das Bad tägliches Bedürfnis für einen Menschen, der reine Wäsche
trägt.
[Illustration: Bett von Arch. Hans Stubner.]
Man sieht, ein vollkommener Wandel in der bürgerlichen Wohnung ist
im Zuge. Die Nutzräume treten wieder in den Vordergrund. Gesund zu
schlafen ist eine Vorbedingung des persönlichen Wohlseins. Man wird
wieder den geeignetesten Raum als Schlafzimmer einrichten, und die
anderen Räume in zweiter Linie und nach Maßgabe ihrer Wichtigkeit
bedenken. Bei diesen anderen Räumen aber ist Einschränkung am Platze.
Man muß keinen Salon haben; man kann das Wohnzimmer als solchen
benützen oder man kann das Wohnzimmer mit dem Speisezimmer verquicken,
den Salon mit dem Arbeitszimmer, was gewiß das allerrichtigste ist,
oder es kann auch, wenn es nicht anders geht, ein Raum für drei dienen,
Wohnzimmer, Salon und Speisezimmer in einem sein. Das Schlafgemach
muß hingegen ungeteilt bleiben, den Fremden verschlossen, der Ort
der Ruhe und der Träume. Der wahre Kulturgrad zeigt sich in seiner
Beschaffenheit.
[Illustration: Schlafzimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Schlafzimmer von Arch. Hans Stubner.]
Das Kinderzimmer.
[Illustration: Schlafzimmer von Arch. Hans Stubner.]
Ein Zimmer kenne ich, das eitel Freude ist. Kunst im vornehmen Sinne
hat wenig dort zu schaffen, aber das ist ganz recht. Die Kinder, denen
dieser Raum zum Aufenthalt dient, brauchen nicht zu fürchten, irgend
einen kostbaren Gegenstand zu beschädigen. Nichts hemmt die Freiheit
ihrer Bewegung. Sie müssen sich nicht benehmen, wie jene biblischen
vierzig Kinder, die sich samt und sonders betrugen wie eines, sondern
hier darf sich jedes Kind betragen, wie vierzig. Und das ist gut. Luft,
Licht und Freiheit muß das Kinderzimmer gewähren. Entweder die kleine
Schar tollt im Raum umher und erfüllt ihn mit fröhlichem Lärm, oder sie
hocken still zusammen, betrachten die kindlich einfachen Darstellungen
an dem herumlaufenden Wandfries, wo allerlei Tiere dargestellt sind, in
jenen primitiven flächig behandelten Formen, die der rege schaffenden
Phantasie der Kleinen noch genug freien Spielraum zur Selbstbetätigung
geben. Diese Bilder, ebenso wie das Spielzeug, das auf ähnliche
Weise primitiv und der kindlichen Anschauungsweise angemessen sein
muß, wollen die Sinne erziehen und vor allem das Auge. Darum ist im
Kinderzimmer die Farbe von so großer Wichtigkeit. Gottfried Keller’s
Wort gilt: »Die Erhaltung der Freiheit und Unbescholtenheit des Auges«.
Dazu gehört, daß man alles Häßliche, Verlogene und Imitierte aus der
Kinderstube fern hält. Eine Mutter stellte die Frage, wann sie mit
der Erziehung ihres vier Jahre alten Kindes beginnen sollte. Sie ist
aber nicht die Einzige, die es nicht weiß, daß mit der Erziehung des
Kindes vom ersten Schrei an, den es in der Welt tut, begonnen wird, und
daß die Umgebung, die Kinderstube, auf rein sachliche Art erziehlich
wirken muß. Die Erziehung der Farbenfreude beginnt hier, damit das Auge
einmal der getreue Hüter und Wächter des Paradieses der farbenvollen
Weltherrlichkeit werde, an dem die Meisten wie Ausgestoßene blind
vorübergehen. Darum wird es gut sein, im Kinderzimmer, dessen Wände
im einfachen Farbenton und sehr hell gehalten sein müssen, farbige
Wandbilder aufzuhängen, die in Rahmen zum Auswechseln angebracht sind,
damit man den Kindern von Zeit zu Zeit etwas Neues bieten und den
Kreis ihrer Anschauungen erweitern kann. Der schönste Märchen- und
Tierfries, der an die Wand gemalt ist, wird auf die Dauer langweilig
und die geheime Wirkungskraft, so groß sie auch Anfangs immer sein
mag, versagt schließlich ganz. Auf die Wandbilder, die im Verlage von
Teubner und Voigtländer, Dresden, Leipzig, erschienen sind, sei bei
dieser Gelegenheit empfehlend hingewiesen. Die Unternehmung bringt
farbige Original-Steinzeichnungen von hervorragenden Künstlern zu
wohlfeilen Preisen auf den Markt und man kann ihnen das Zeugnis eines
vortrefflichen, volkstümlichen Erziehungsmittels ausstellen. Die
Heimatkunde, die Sage, das Märchen, das Tierleben, Bilder aus Dorf und
Stadt bringen sie in gelungener Weise zur Anschauung und geben dem
kindlichen Gemüt reichen Vorstellungsinhalt.
[Illustration: Kleider- und Wäscheschrank von Architekt Hans Stubner.]
[Illustration: Schlafzimmer von Arch. A. Hollmann.]
[Illustration: Toilettegarnitur von Prof. Kolo Moser.]
Während der untere Teil der Wände eines Kinderzimmers am besten in
lichtem Holz getäfelt wird, entweder hell gebeizt oder lackiert oder
auch im Naturton gehalten, um abgerieben zu werden, setzt oberhalb
des Getäfels der farbige Fries ein, oder eine Reihe von Wandbildern,
in Leisten gefaßt, ziemlich außerhalb des Bereiches der Hände; die
Wand setzt sich oberhalb bis zur Decke in hellen Farben fort und
trägt ganz oben ein Blumenfries. Aber nicht einmal das ist nötig;
Wand und Decke können weiß bleiben. Zur Blumenpflege soll man Kinder
früh anregen, sie ist das beste Mittel zur Erziehung der Naturfreude
und der Beobachtungsgabe. Deshalb wird man gut tun, unterhalb des
Fensters ein Brett anzubringen, wo die Blumentöpfe stehen, die von den
Kindern selbst gewartet werden. Das Licht soll von oben her auf die
Pflanzen fallen, Tische und Stühle läßt man am besten nur säuberlich
gehobelt ohne Anstrich herstellen, um sie stets gut waschen und reiben
zu können, was im Kinderzimmer sicherlich sehr häufig notwendig ist.
Wo es möglich ist, läßt man ein kleines Turngerät anbringen. Ein
Arbeitstisch mit allerhand Werkzeugen ist hier gut am Platze, denn
zu bauen und zu arbeiten fangen Kinder frühzeitig an. Im Allgemeinen
soll aber das Kinderzimmer kein Kramladen sein. Namentlich mit
Spielsachen soll es nicht überhäuft werden. Sonst erzieht man zur
Sprunghaftigkeit und Zersplitterung der Aufmerksamkeit. Zu zeichnen
haben Kinder immer. Das ist die erste bildnerische Regung, die man
an ihnen beobachtet. Die Eindrücke auf die Kinderseele sind so stark
und plastisch, daß sie alle unwillkürlich ihre Gedanken graphisch
darzustellen streben. Dieser Kunsttrieb, der wie eine schwache Saat
aufsproßt und umsichtiger, sorgfältiger aber unaufdringlicher Pflege
bedürfte, wird leider selten mit Verständnis behandelt und verkümmert
allzufrüh. Man wird daher sehr gut tun, an einer Wandstelle eine
große Tafel mit Kreide und Schwamm anbringen zu lassen, daran der
bildnerische Sinn der Kleinen sich austoben mag. Vor allem aber lasse
man sie mit Farbe und Pinsel arbeiten. Nicht pedantisch nach Vorlagen
oder Vorbildern, sondern nach ihrer eigenen Lust und Wahl. Man lasse
ihnen darin volle Freiheit; sie sollen ihre Welt darstellen, so, wie
sie sie sehen. Was dabei herauskommt, ist das erste schwache Pflänzchen
eines künstlerischen und zugleich ursprünglichen Schaffens. Daß dieses
Pflänzchen nicht verkümmere oder erstickt werde, ist Sache einer
weiteren kunstpädagogischen Umsicht, die freilich schon außerhalb des
Kinderzimmers liegt. Feldblumen, bunte Steine, alles was die Kinder
im Freien sammeln und als kostbare Schätze daheim ausbreiten,
bringen die Märchenstimmung in das kleine Reich, das sie mit den
Gestalten ihrer ungebrochenen Phantasie bevölkern. Von der Zeit der
ersten Gehversuche bis zum zwölften Jahre ungefähr währt die fröhliche
Herrschaft. Wenn das Kind älter wird, tritt die illusionschaffende
Seite der Phantasie zurück, das Vorstellungsgewebe füllt sich immer
mehr aus und die Ansprüche werden größer. Sobald das Mädchen nicht mehr
den Schemel als Puppenbett verwenden will, die Knaben aus umgestürzten
Stühlen nicht mehr eine »wirkliche« Eisenbahn herstellen mögen oder
in einem Brett ein Schiff und im Fußboden das Meer erblicken, sobald
die Kinder sich nicht mehr mit Eifer in die Rolle eines Tieres
versetzen, seine Stimme und Bewegung nachahmen wollen und aufhören,
sich gelegentlich als Lokomotive oder Dampfschiff zu fühlen, wird ihnen
das Puppenheim zu eng. Sie fangen an, die Kinderschuhe auszutreten.
Das zwölfjährige Mädchen fühlt sich als Fräulein und bekommt ein neues
Zimmer, eine neue Welt. Die Buben »studieren«. Weit hinten liegt die
Kindheit, wie eine selige Insel und an ihr gestrandet eine ganze Arche
Noah’s voll Kindersächelchen, entseelt und entzaubert. Ein Reich in
Trümmern. Fernab und vergessen.
[Illustration: Toilette von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Schlafzimmer v. Arch. Georg Winkler.]
[Illustration: Schlafzimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Schlafzimmer von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Das Spielzeug.
[Illustration: Kinderspielzeug v. Maler Ferdinand Andri.]
Eine mittelalterliche Sage erzählt von einem zauberkräftigen Beryll,
der in seinem Spiegel alle vergangenen und künftigen Dinge zeigte, alle
Schönheit der Erde, ferne Länder und Meere. Doch bedurfte er eines
reinen gläubigen Gemüts, das von dem Weltgift des Zweifels noch nicht
angenagt war, um das holde Wunder zu sehen, sonst blieb der wundersame
Stein trüb und dunkel. Noch geschehen Wunder. Kinder erleben sie
täglich aufs Neue. Nicht einmal ein Beryll oder sonst ein kostbarer
Edelstein ist nötig, es genügt ein ganz wertloser Stein, den sie mit
der jungen Kraft ihrer ungebrochenen Phantasie begaben, das Mirakel zu
bewirken. Mit staunendem Ergötzen sehen sie in dem schillernden Ding
Sonnenaufgang und -untergang, eine große farbenreiche Welt von Wundern,
mit einem Wort, ihre eigene Welt. Mit Verwunderung sieht man sie oft
an kostbarem, mühsam ersonnenem Spielzeug achtlos vorübergehen und
an irgend ein unscheinbares Ding ihre Liebe hängen. Ein unbedachtes
Wort, Spott oder Vorwurf und die holde Wundergläubigkeit ist dahin,
das zauberhafte Juwel wird blind und taub und erscheint nur mehr
als das, was es ist, als wertloser Stein oder Glasscherben. Und ein
Stück Unschuld geht damit zugrunde. Man begnügt sich in der Regel,
zu sagen, daß Kinder leicht zufrieden zu stellen seien. Das ist ein
sehr oberflächliches Urteil. Ich bin viel eher geneigt zu glauben,
daß es kein schwerer zu befriedigendes Publikum gibt, als gerade die
Kleinen. Der Witz der Großen, die für sie denken und bilden, wird
an ihnen gewöhnlich zu schanden. Die schönsten Spielsachen finden
zumeist dann erst Wert in ihren Augen, wenn sie sie zertrümmert haben,
um sie in ihrem Sinne wieder aufzubauen. Sowohl diese als viele
andere Erscheinungen sind Beweise, daß das Kind in dem Spielzeug
das _Rohmaterial_ sucht, mit dem seine Phantasie freischaffend
verfährt. Der Wert des Spielzeuges liegt nicht in dem, was es ist,
sondern in dem, was es werden kann, was das Kind mit ihm machen soll.
Bedeutung und Beseelung, gleichsam den künstlerischen Ausbau, empfängt
es aus dem kindlichen Schaffenstrieb. Diesen anzuregen, zu heben und zu
kräftigen, ihm die rechten Mittel bereit zu stellen, ist der Zweck des
Spielzeuges.
[Illustration: Toilette v. Arch. Georg Winkler.]
[Illustration: Toilette von Arch. Georg Winkler.]
Auch die Kinderstube ist ein Spiegelbild ihrer Zeit. Eine Welt für
sich, die aber ihren Inhalt aus dem großen Leben empfängt und jeden
Kulturwandel mitmacht. Der Naturalismus der letzten Jahrzehnte
hat auch in dieser kleinen Welt ein Echo gefunden und in der
Spielzeug-Manufaktur jenen konsequenten Wirklichkeitssinn erzeugt,
der wohl den Verstand nährt, aber das Herz leer läßt. Puppen werden
erzeugt von panoptikumartiger Wirklichkeitstreue, den Babies zum
Verwechseln ähnlich, »stilgerechte« Steinbaukästen, Spielschiffe
und Eisenbahnen mit kompliziertem Betrieb, die ein getreues Modell
dieser Verkehrseinrichtungen darstellen. Wir leben ja im Zeitalter der
Technik, so mag der künftige Ingenieur schon in der Kinderstube sein
Talent an solchen Modellen nähren. Das ist die Meinung so mancher
Eltern, die bei der Geburt des Kindes schon seinen Beruf vorbestimmen
und den Fachmann bilden wollen, ehe sie den Menschen gebildet haben.
Von den Großen wird das Spielzeug gewählt, anstatt von den Kleinen.
Aber was das sentimentale Kindlichkeitsgefühl der Großen gutheißt,
billigt nicht immer der naive Sinn der Kleinen. Diese armen Kinder der
Reichen! In eine Kinderstubenwelt werden sie gestellt, die fertig ist
und ausgebaut und die nichts übrig läßt zu vollenden. Und nun heißt
es: spiele! Spielen um des Spielens willen? Für das Kind ist das Spiel
notwendige Arbeit, daran es seine Kräfte übt und entwickelt. In dieser
fertigen Welt beginnt die Arbeit mit dem Zertrümmern. Zertrümmern, um
neu aufzubauen. Um wie viel reicher sind oft die Kinder der Armen!
Ein Stück Holz wird zur Puppe, von der kleinen Mutter sorgfältig in
armselige Lappen gehüllt und aufs zärtlichste betreut. Mit der Sorge
wächst die Liebe. Man sage der Kleinen nicht, das ist keine Puppe,
das ist nur ein Stück Holz! Wo gewöhnliche Augen nur ein Stück Holz
sehen, da hat die kindliche Phantasie bereits ein Wunder bewirkt.
An dem selbsterschaffenen beseelten Gegenstand übt das junge Herz
seine Fähigkeiten. Und dieser Gegenstand hat alle Bedeutung, die es
hineinlegt. Er ist das rechte Spielzeug geworden.
[Illustration: Bad von Arch. Leopold Bauer.]
Die Jungen auf dem Dorfe kennen den Steinbaukasten und seine zwei bis
drei Gestaltungsmöglichkeiten nicht. Sie kennen nur den Lehmhügel am
Bach und den Sandhaufen, die der Baulust keine Grenze setzen. Hier hat
es der Formsinn leicht. Brücken entstehen, Wälle, Befestigung, Minen,
Werke der augenblicklichen Eingebung, die im nächsten Augenblicke
wieder anderen weichen. Immer ist es kurzweilig und zweckvoll. Der
willige Baustoff fügt sich jeder Regung des Schaffenstriebes. Und
die ungestörte Phantasie bevölkert alle diese Bauten, die Gruben
und Löcher, mit spukhaften Geheimnissen. Es ist die Zeit, da das
Märchen zur Wirklichkeit wird, die Wirklichkeit zum Märchen. Das
Spielzeug verhält sich zu den Dingen des Alltags wie das Märchen
zur Wirklichkeit. In beiden ist die reale Welt vorgebildet, aber
zugleich auf die einfachsten, sinnfälligsten Elemente reduziert. Die
gemeine Logik reicht gar nicht aus, um diese Elemente zu würdigen.
Man müßte denn die Welt mit den Augen des Kindes ansehen, naiv,
voraussetzungslos sagen wir künstlerisch. In diesem Betrachte ist auch
das Spielzeug künstlerisches Neuland. Es erfordert einfach organisierte
Seelen, wie es der Toymaker Caleb Plummer und seine blinde Tochter
in Dickens »Heimchen am Herde« sind. Solche Seelen wissen, daß eine
Reihe von Sardinenbüchsen, mit einem Bindfaden zusammengehalten, dem
Volk der Kleinen eine bessere Illusion von einem Eisenbahnzug gibt,
als das technisch vollkommenste Modell. In unseren Straßen gehen
arme Slovaken herum mit billigem Spielzeug, das sie selbst aus Holz
schneiden, nach ihrer eigenen unverbildeten, kindlichen Anschauung.
Der blasierte Großstädter kann diesen Dingen keinen Reiz abgewinnen,
er sagt, »es ist nichts d’ran«. Es ist allerdings nichts d’ran, als
eine entzückende Naivität, eine überraschende Kindlichkeit, die uns
Großen abgeht. Die Kleinen haben wohl ein anderes Urteil darüber, und
wie mich dünkt, ein weit richtigeres. Nehmen wir ihnen doch nicht schon
von der Kinderstube an jene Kindlichkeit, die ihr gutes Recht ist,
ihre Kraft und Schönheit. Sie zu hüten und für das Leben zu bewahren,
ist ein wichtiger Teil der Erziehung. Und im Dienste dieser Erziehung
steht das Spielzeug. Ferdinand Andri hat den immerhin interessanten
Versuch gemacht, Spielzeugtypen grotesker Art zu schaffen, die an den
primitiven Charakter der besprochenen alten volkstümlichen Spielsachen
anknüpfen.
[Illustration: Bad von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Badezimmer von Arch. Karl Bräuer.]
[Illustration: Waschgeschirr von Frl. Jutta Sicka. Porzellanmanufaktur
Joseph Böck, Wien.]
Das Mädchenzimmer.
[Illustration: Kinderschlafzimmer von Arch. Leopold Bauer.]
[Illustration: Badezimmer von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Kinderarbeitszimmer von Arch. Leopold Bauer.]
[Illustration: Mädchenzimmer-Ecke von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Die Stellung der Frau im heutigen Leben ist ein Kampf, ihr Kampf
ist ein Suchen. Ihr Streben ist Gleichberechtigung mit dem Manne in
sozialen, beruflichen und politischen Dingen. Auf allen Gebieten
wetteifert sie mit ihm als ebenbürtige Genossin -- oder Rivalin. Das
spürt man schon im Mädchenzimmer. Die Nervositäten des Tages vibrieren
bis in die Stille des jungfräulichen Gemaches. Der Studiengang ist von
fast männlicher Strenge und Härte, auf den künftigen Struggle for life
vorbereitend. Und dennoch liegt über den Dingen ein milder Abglanz
weiblicher Grazie, die die Frau auch in den Härten des Berufes als
unschätzbares Gut bewahren will. Die Zwittererscheinungen des dritten
Geschlechts gehören einer kurzen Uebergangsperiode an und sind mit dem
Fluche der Lächerlichkeit beladen von der Bildfläche verbannt. Das
Mädchenzimmer vor fünfzig Jahren ist gegen das heutige eine friedvolle
Welt. Das war damals ein liebliches Hindämmern an Bändern und Kram,
bis der Großvater kam und die Großmutter nahm. Vielleicht gleicht
das heutige Mädchenzimmer dem damaligen sehr stark an äußerlichen
Stimmungselementen, aber innerlich ist es von ganz anderem Leben
erfüllt. Eine satte, lavendelschwere Luft lag in dem Raum, wo durch
weiße Gardinen der Tag hell herein schien, der Schreibtisch mit den
dicken zylindrischen Füßen barg Schleifen und Andenken, himmelblaue
Vergißmeinnichtlyrik auf antikisierenden Wunschkarten gedruckt, ein
Päckchen Briefe voll lispelnder Ach!, in steifer Schrift geschrieben,
abgestandene Parfums entsendend, wie ein altes leeres Flacon, und aus
dem spindeldürren Spinet entstiegen in dünnen gebrechlichen Tönen
Mozarts graziöse Menuetts, Schuberts kindlich fröhliche Weisen, während
durch die Straßen die sentimentalen Klänge zogen: »wann’s Mailüfterl
säuselt...« Die Lavendelstimmung ist heute auch aus dem Mädchenzimmer
entschwunden. Im Notenständer neben dem Klavier finden wir Richard
Wagner, Hugo Wolf, Richard Strauß, Schubert und Beethoven sind
geblieben. Auf dem Tische häufen sich Bücher, sogar Zeitschriften,
Maeterlincks »Leben der Bienen« liegt da; es liegt nicht nur da, es
wird auch gelesen. Was unter dem Titel »Mädchenliteratur« einstens
beliebtes Lesefutter war, ist nicht vorzufinden. Das Nähtischchen im
Fenster mit dem Strickkörbchen im Fuße ist ebenfalls verschwunden, es
ist samt der »Mädchenlekture« in der Rumpelkammer der Vergangenheit
begraben. Blumen stehen am Fenster, wie es auch einst war, Rosen im
Glas und, wenn es die Jahrzeit will, auch weiße Lilien. Das ganze
Gemach ist darauf gestimmt, eine Symphonie in Weiß. Das Bett steht
unsichtbar hinter den weißen Vorhängen, die vom Plafond heruntergehen
und tagsüber zugezogen sind. Weiße feine Vorhänge, seitlich zu öffnen,
verhüllen das Fenster, weiß sind Decke und Wände, durch die bandartig
ein Fries geht, und an den Wänden hängen, in schmalen, glatten Rahmen
Reproduktionen nach Burne Jones, trauernde Frauengestalten mit
keuschem Leib und sehnsüchtigen Blicken, »love in ruins« und andere
schmachtende Legenden, die der knospenhaft unerschlossenen Gestalten
präraffaelitischer Meister, die nun seit einigen Jahren modern sind.
Schmalhüftige hochgezogene Möbel stehen herum, fußfrei, so daß man
unten bis zur Wand blickt, was den Raum größer erscheinen läßt,
ein weiter Bücherschrank, zierliche Schränkchen und Stühle, ein
Toilettetisch mit fazettiertem Glas ohne Rahmen und mit Laden, die
Toiletteartikel darin zu versperren, im übrigen alles blitzblank und
sauber anzusehen, hie und da ein erlesenes Stück eigenen Kunstfleißes,
ein Tischläufer, eine Schutzdecke, sauber ausgenäht, mit modernem
Muster. Der Bodenbelag ist einfärbig ohne Dessin, oder fast ohne
solchen, graublau im Ton und die Möbel sind lackirt. Blau steht zu
weiß sehr schön. Dunkles Rot kann auch verwendet werden. Hellgelbes
Kirschholz ist von bezwingender Anmut. Ein solches Gemach wirkt schon
durch die Farbe wie ein Frühling. Stehen ein paar feine Gläser am
Schränkchen, einige kleine Kunstgegenstände gut verteilt, Vasen,
Porzellan aus Kopenhagen, blank und schimmernd, dann mutet es an wie
ein Festtag im Mai.
[Illustration: Mädchenzimmer von Arch. Alois Hollmann.]
[Illustration: Toilette von Arch. Karl Bräuer.]
Solcherart erscheint das Mädchenzimmer als ein Spiegel der
Persönlichkeit, die darin lebt.
Und nicht nur der Persönlichkeit, sondern auch ihrer Zeit. Was die
Ideale, Wünsche und Hoffnungen der Gegenwart sind, kann und soll man
ja auch an diesem Ort verspüren. Die Zeiten sind jedenfalls vorbei,
wo die Mädchenerziehung kein anderes Ziel kannte, als unter die Haube
zu kommen. Nichtsdestoweniger ist es sehr erfreulich, wenn sich im
heutigen Mädchenzimmer auch ein Kochbuch vorfindet. Die genaue Kenntnis
des Hauswesens auf Grund eigener Betätigung ist auch für jede gebildete
Dame eine selbstverständliche Voraussetzung. Die Vorbereitung auf
irgend einen selbständigen Beruf und auf das Leben, das draußen harrt,
soll unter allen Umständen auch der Entwicklung häuslicher Tugenden
Raum gewähren. Was immer die Zukunft erheischen möge, das Leben dürfte
in diesen Raum nichts hereintragen, was irgendwie geschmackswidrig,
schmutzig und anstößig ist. Man muß nicht hausbacken und prüde sein,
aber man muß in allen Fällen auf _seelische Hygiene_ bedacht
sein, sowohl im Umgang mit Menschen, als mit Büchern und Dingen.
Im allgemeinen dürfte das Mädchenzimmer in allen Verhältnissen den
oben geschilderten Charakter empfangen, bald einfacher, bald reicher
ausgestattet, je nach den persönlichen Bedürfnissen und Möglichkeiten.
Seine besondere Prägung wird es natürlich von dem Geiste erhalten, der
darin haust. Die Wohnungspsychologie kann nicht leicht Fehlschlüsse
ziehen. Man wird es auf den ersten Blick erkennen, ob die Inwohnerin
Kunstgewerblerin, Beamtin oder Studentin ist. Die Individualität soll
ja in den Dingen der Häuslichkeit am stärksten sprechen. Reinheit und
Nettigkeit machen hier, wie überall den Hauptschmuck aus. Die Grazien
werden sicherlich auch das Gemach erfüllen, wenn sie die Inwohnerin mit
ihren Gaben beglückt haben, was natürlich nicht zu bezweifeln ist. Wenn
auch die junge Dame ein angehendes »Fräulein Doktor« ist, braucht ihre
Stube nicht auszusehen wie eine Studentenbude. Es ist eine bedenkliche
Atmosphäre, wo Parfum mit Zigarettenqualm vermischt ist.
[Illustration: Mädchenzimmer von Arch. Maurice Herrgesell.]
Blumen am Fenster.
Die Hausgärten sind aus unserer Stadt ziemlich verschwunden. Der
Utilitarismus der Bauunternehmer hat nicht bedacht, daß die Naturfreude
mit zu den täglichen Lebensbedürfnissen der Stadtmenschen zählt. In
dem Maße aber, als Garten und Feld zurückwichen und die Natur den
ungastlichen Mauern entfloh, erwuchs in der Trostlosigkeit dieser
Steinwüste eine seltsame, bleiche Stubenpflanze, die Natursehnsucht,
die recht eigentlich ein Großstadtprodukt ist. Und zugleich ein
wichtiger Faktor der Kultur. Wie tief diese Sehnsucht wurzelt, kann
man an Sonn- und Feiertagen sehen, wenn die Menge »aus der Straßen
quetschender Enge« ins Freie drängt, wenn sie an Waldungen und
Feldrainen Blumen errafft, um sie in die traurigen Stuben zu stellen,
wo sie sterbend noch einen Abglanz von Sonnenfreude und Sommerlust
verbreiten. Wenn es irgend ein Vollkommenes gibt, so ist es gewiß das
schöne, stille Sein der Pflanze und die Reinheit ihres Lebens. Und was
die Menschen für das Feinste ansehen, ist ihre Schönheit und ihr Duft.
Sie wirkt mit der Kraft eines Symbols. Ein einziger Zweig ins Zimmer
gebracht, und ein ganzer Frühling ist zu Gast!
[Illustration: Kassette von Arch. Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Rauchtisch von Architekt Max Benirschke.]
[Illustration: Blumenständer von Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Die unklare Natursehnsucht des Städters gibt einen klaren
Fingerzeig. Etwas sehr wertvolles liegt darin, vielleicht ein neuer
Zivilisationsfaktor, den man nur zu organisieren braucht. Anfänge
sind vorhanden, um in die naturverlassene Stadt wieder die Gärten
einzuführen. Jedermann in der Stadt kann seinen Garten vor dem Fenster
haben. Einen winzigen allerdings, aber ein Gärtchen immerhin. Einen
Meter lang, ein Drittel breit, nicht größer als es das Fenstergesimse
erlaubt, und die grün oder weiß gestrichene Einfassung, die dort
aufzustellen ist. Für wenig Geld liefert der Markt die schönsten
Blumen, und zwar je stärker die Nachfrage, desto billiger. Die Sache
hat auch eine volkswirtschaftliche Bedeutung. Ein wichtiger Zweig der
Landwirtschaft käme ins Aufblühen, die Blumenzucht. Man bedenke, was
die Blumenkultur in Holland und in Frankreich wirtschaftlich bedeutet.
Keine Stadt hat größeren Blumenbedarf als Paris und nirgends sind die
Blumen billiger. Die Blumenmärkte von Paris sind eine Sehenswürdigkeit.
Bei uns ist kaum noch der Sinn dafür aufgegangen, welche reiche Quelle
von Freuden ein solches Blumenbrett ist, ein gut bestandenes und
schön gepflegtes, natürlich. Wenn aus dem Gesimse eine Blumenwildnis
hervorblüht, die duftet und leuchtet in den prangendsten Farben, ist
die Stube mit einemmal verwandelt. Die freundlichen Hausgötter der
Traulichkeit und Wohnlichkeit sind plötzlich eingekehrt und walten mit
Zaubermacht, mag auch der Hausrat noch so ärmlich sein. Es ist nicht
nur eine liebliche Augenweide, o, noch viel mehr! Öffnet man am Morgen
das Fenster, dann wälzt der Lufthauch ganze Wolken von Wolgerüchen
herein, die das Gemach erfüllen. Und welche Labsal ist es, abends
hinter diesem Hausgarten zu sitzen! Eine Fülle von Segen strömt vom
Fenster her in die Stube und in das Herz der Inwohner und hilft wol
irgend ein Gutes im Leben zu fördern. Diese Blumenwildnis vor dem
Fenster ist zwar kein vollkommener Garten, nicht einmal eine Laube,
wie man sie einst hatte, aber sie ist etwas, was unter Umständen noch
viel mehr sein kann, weil sich ein persönliches damit verbindet. Denn
die Liebe, die auf dem Grunde eines jeden guten Werkes ist, muss sich
auch hier betätigen. Wer hier nicht säet, wird auch nicht ernten.
Die Blumen am Fenster gedeihen nicht ohne aufmerksame Pflege. Das
verursacht zwar eine kleine Mühe morgens und abends, aber was tut’s?
Kann man denn etwas lieben, um was man sich gar nicht zu bemühen
braucht? Zumindest ist hier die Mühe eine Freude, die man nicht dem
Dienstmädchen überlassen soll. Der bloße Pflichtbegriff ist giftiger
Mehltau für die Blumenpracht am Fenster. So etwas merkt man gleich.
Nein, die Blumenpflege gehört der Dame des Hauses zu. Dann wird das
Blumenbörtel zum Symbol, wo jede Pflanze von der Sorgfalt und Liebe der
gewiss liebenswerten Gärtnerin erzählt. Oft kommt man an einem Hause
vorbei, wo an einem der Fenster Hortensien stehen und Nelken und Rosen,
Pelargonien und brennende Liebe und je nach der Jahreszeit manche
andere schöne Pflanze. Die schönen weißen Hände, die sichtbar werden,
um mit so viel Liebe den Blumenstand am Fenster zu pflegen, zur eigenen
Herzenslust und zur stillen dankbaren Freude des Vorübergehenden,
geben ein sehr edles Beispiel. Eine neue Schönheit zieht in unsere
Straßen ein. Da und dort bricht aus den Gesimsen eine solche blühende
und duftende Blumenwildnis hervor. Und nun denke man sich diesen
Blumenreichtum über alle Fenster, an allen Häuserreihen, bis ins
höchste Stockwerk verbreitet: er müsste die Stadt in einen reizenden
Garten verwandeln. Es müsste ein Segen sein fürs Auge und fürs Herz und
auch für die Gesundheit. Die lebt ja bekanntlich vom Schönen, ebenso
wie das Gute.
[Illustration: Mädchenzimmer von Arch. Franz Exler.]
[Illustration: Mädchenzimmer von Arch. Franz Exler.]
[Illustration: Blumenkübel. Prag-Rudniker Korbfabrikation.]
[Illustration: SALONKASTEN UND DIE DAZUGEHÖRIGE EINLEGEARBEITEN.
Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Aber nicht nur nach außen hin würde der Wandel eintreten, sondern
auch nach innen. Eine Revolution hat die Blume in den Wohnungen
hervorgebracht. Der Fall ist typisch: Ist in irgend einem Hause
die Blumenfreude intensiv geworden, dann spürt man die Woltat der
Blumenherrschaft in allen Räumen. Die schweren Stoffgardinen, welche
die vordem so beliebte Rembrandt’sche clair-obscur-Stimmung erzeugen
sollten, werden entfernt. Luft und Licht strömen nun in vollen
Fluten herein. Nun zeigt es sich auf einmal, welch’ ein lichtscheues
Gesindel von Nippes und lächerlichem Aufputz die Wohnung verunstaltete,
vom Makart-Bouquet angefangen bis zu den japanischen Schirmen und
Photographieständern, wie viel unkontrollierbare Staubwinkel allen
Wänden und Möbeln entlang vorhanden sind. Die Umwälzungen, die von
der stillen selbstgenügsamen Blume ausgehen, füllen ein lustiges
Kapitel. Wir wollen uns einmal flüchtig daran erinnern, daß unsere
Großeltern eine solche feine Kultur besaßen, zu der wir jetzt erst
wieder den Anfang machen. Treten wir in die Tür unserer Großväter,
dann finden wir ein helles Gemach mit weißen Gardinen, einfarbigen
oder weißen Wänden, hellgelbe Kirschholzmöbeln, und als Herrscherin
und Hüterin dieser einladenden, traulichen Stimmung die Blumen, unsere
heimatlichen Bauernblumen in weißen Töpfen, lieblich anzuschauen. In
der Blumenliebe liegt etwas sehr Edles. Der Anfang von Kunst liegt
in ihr. Was die Blumenpflege für die Kultur bedeutet, mag man in der
ausgezeichneten Schrift »Makartbouquet und Blumenstrauß« von Alfred
Lichtwark nachlesen. Von den Blumen der Heimat muß man ausgehen, sie
passen zu unserem Dasein. Wir finden sie in den beliebten Blumenstücken
der früheren Zeit, in den Vorgärten der alten Landhäuser und in den
Bauerngärten. Nur die Modesucht hat sie verachtet. Darum sollen sie zu
Ehren gebracht werden.
Blumenkörbe.
[Illustration: SALONKASTEN UND DIE DAZUGEHÖRIGE TREIBARBEIT
Arch. Max Benirschke.]
Das wissen alle Hausfrauen ganz gut, daß die reichlich verwendeten
Blumenkörbe fast immer absolut geschmacklos und unpraktisch waren. Daß
Niemand in seinem Hause einen praktischen und ästhetisch befriedigenden
Blumenkorb aufweisen konnte, hatte einen ganz einfachen Grund. Es gab
keinen also beschaffenen Blumenkorb. Was bislang für geschmackvoll
galt, war ein Blumenkorb mit einem aus imitiertem Astwerk gefertigten
Gestelle, womöglich braun gestrichen oder gar bronziert oder sie
waren geflochten und hatten Voluten und andere stilvolle Ornamente
aus Weidenruten und Flechtwerk aufgesetzt, die als wahre Staubfänger
in kurzer Zeit ein scheußliches Aussehen bekamen und ob ihrer
augenscheinlichen Zwecklosigkeit in das Gebiet des lächerlichsten
Unfugs gehören. Künstler und Kunstgewerbler haben sich in letzter Zeit
mit den Formen des Blumenkorbes befaßt. Soweit diese Lösungen bekannt
geworden und in den Handel gekommen sind, läßt sich ein bedeutender
Schritt zur Zweckmäßigkeit und wohltuenden Einfachheit konstatieren.
Formen sind im Handel, die aus Pfefferrohr und Flechtwerk hergestellt,
die Ansprüche des guten Geschmackes wohl erfüllen. Aber es liegt
immerhin noch ein weites Feld für die Erfindung schöner und praktischer
Formen, sowie für die Anwendung geschmackvoller Farben offen. Der
große Anreger auf kunstgewerblichem Gebiete, Alfred Lichtwark, erzählt
in seinem Buche »Blumenkultur« (das jedermann lesen sollte, ebenso wie
alle seine anderen Schriften), daß ihm berichtet wurde, in Hamburg
hätte man früher statt der Blumentöpfe vor jeden Fensterflügel einen
langen, eckigen Korb gestellt, als Hülle für vier oder fünf Töpfe.
Diese Körbe wären innen und außen gestrichen gewesen. Gesehen hat er
sie nicht mehr.
[Illustration: Zusammenlegbares Buffet einer Offizierswohnung v. Arch.
Exler.]
Diese Einrichtung ist schön und praktisch und Lichtwark knüpft daran
die Erörterung der Farbe. »Es ist nichts im Wege, daß man neben dem
Grün auch Weiß -- was sehr günstig ist -- und unter Umständen auch Rot
verwendet oder Weiß mit grünen, Grün oder Rot mit weißen Querstreifen.
Auch Blau, Purpur, Orange und Gelb sind denkbar, aber schwieriger zu
verwenden, sobald man es mit mehr als einer Blume zu tun hat. Für
größere alleinstehende Zimmerpflanzen sind Topfhüllen in Gestalt schön
bewegter und geschmackvoll gefärbter runder Körbe -- Korbvasen --
ausgezeichnet zu verwenden. Sie sehen gut aus und haben den Vorzug,
nicht zu zerbrechen«.
Die Offizierswohnung.
Die Frau des Offiziers beginnt heute einzusehen, daß es für ihre
Wohnung nichts unpraktischeres geben kann, als den billigen Prunk und
lächerlichen Zierrat, der in den durchschnittlichen Stadtwohnungen
einen täuschenden Schein von Luxus und Eleganz erwecken soll. Der
Begriff: standesgemäß, für den militärischen Beruf bindender, als für
jeden anderen, hat in Bezug auf die Offizierswohnung eine seltsame
Umwertung durch das Beispiel jener bürgerlichen Wohnungen erfahren, die
von einer gedankenlosen marktlichen Massenfabrikation beherrscht, einen
nicht mehr zu unterbietenden Tiefstand des Geschmackes bezeichnen.
[Illustration: Offizierswohnung von Arch. Alois Hollmann.]
Standesgemäß, das sollte ursprünglich wohl heißen zweckgemäß, lebt
heute nur der ledige Offizier. Er hat die typische Offizierswohnung
ausgebildet, die in ihrer Einfachheit und Mobilität auf das Zelt
zurückweist. Da steht sein eisernes Bett, ein Bücherbrett, ein paar
Feldstühle, ein großer zusammenklappbarer Tisch, darauf er bequem
Pläne, Skizzen, Bücher und Schreibzeug ausbreiten kann. Ordnung und
Nettigkeit geben dem Raum den einzigen, aber auch wirksamsten Schmuck.
Sobald der Offizier verheiratet ist, verliert seine häusliche Umgebung
in der Regel ihren typischen Charakter. Die Frau des Hauses, welche in
der Wohnungsfrage zu entscheiden hat, hält sich an das Beispiel, das
die Masse gibt. Sie richtet die Wohnung so ein, wie sie Geschäftsleute
und Beamte haben, die nie oder nur selten in die Lage kommen, ihren
Wohnsitz zu wechseln. Dann sieht man an den Möbeln jene schleuderhaften
Schmuckformen, deren Daseinszweck nur darin besteht, die unsolide Mache
zu verkleiden und ein Übermaß täglicher Reinigungsarbeit zu verursachen.
Man kann sich leicht die Verwirrung vorstellen, wenn die Notwendigkeit
eines Garnisonswechsels eintritt, auf den der aktive Offizier gefaßt
sein muß. Trotz der ungeheuren Verpackungsmühen und der erforderlichen
unverhältnismäßig großen Anzahl von Transportwägen, welche die
Transferierungskosten enorm erhöhen, ist das Mobilar, das einer
solchen Inanspruchnahme nicht gewachsen ist, schweren Beschädigungen
unterworfen.
[Illustration: SPEISE ZIMMER
Offizierswohnung von Arch. Alois Hollmann.]
Man mußte sich erst über alle Unzulänglichkeiten klar werden, um
wieder die Möglichkeiten einer standesmäßigen, das heißt, zweckmäßigen
Offizierswohnung auf Grund einer klaren Erkenntnis der Bedürfnisse zu
finden.
Das praktische Möbel ist selten teuerer, meistens sogar billiger,
als die schleuderhaft und gedankenlos fabrizierte Marktware. Raum,
Zeitersparnis und Bequemlichkeit muß die Möbelkonstruktion für die
Offizierswohnung gewähren, vor allem die Möglichkeit kompendiös zu
packen, so daß vier Zimmer in einem Transportwagen ohne die Gefahr der
Beschädigung gut untergebracht werden können. Zusammenlegbarkeit nach
Art der amerikanischen Missionärmöbel oder der einfache Kofferstil
werden in diesen Fällen zu den besten Lösungen führen. Auf Schmuck
kommt es beim praktischen Möbel nicht an. Er ist auch keine Bedingung
der Schönheit.
Schönheit entsteht hier nicht durch die äußerliche Zutat von
Schmuckformen, sondern kann im Wesentlichen nur aus der Zweckmäßigkeit
entwickelt werden. Auch die übrige Dekoration des Zimmers mit Vasen
und Kleinplastik müßte sehr zurückhaltend, aber so gediegen als
möglich sein. Was nicht den prüfenden Blick aushalten kann, hat keine
Berechtigung im Raum zu existieren. An Stelle der Schmuckform würde die
edle, feinempfundene Farbe treten. Diese einfachen, geradlinigen und
augenscheinlich gediegenen und praktischen Möbel würden, koloristisch
behandelt, im Verein mit weißen, waschbaren Gardinen und einigen
Blumen am Fenster in jedem Raum, der nur weiße, kalkgeputzte Wände
hat, die traulichste Stimmung erzeugen und zugleich ein Beweis für den
höheren Geschmack der Offiziersfrau sein, die ein auf den besonderen
Berufserfordernissen beruhendes Studium der Möglichkeiten nicht
gescheut hat. Von einem modernen Architekten, den sie etwa zu Rate
gezogen, unterstützt oder im persönlichen Kontakt mit dem Handwerker,
dem sie Angaben macht und dessen Arbeiten sie wachsam verfolgt, müßte
sie zu einer Einrichtung gelangen, von der man nicht behaupten dürfte,
daß sie paßt, wie schlechtsitzende Kleider. Sie würde ebenso wie bei
den Kleidern auch das Maß der Stühle und Tische bis auf den Millimeter
durchprobieren und den Bedürfnissen des Körpers anpassen lassen. Der
gute Stuhl in ihrem Hause müßte alle Bequemlichkeiten bieten und
den darauf Sitzenden dennoch elegant erscheinen lassen. Querleisten
zwischen den Beinen würde man an diesen Stühlen nicht finden, weil
sie überflüssig und unpraktisch sind. Denn erstens will man die Füße
unter den Stuhl bequem einziehen können und dann kommen Sporen mit den
Querleisten leicht in Kollision. Überall würde darauf geachtet sein,
daß nicht mehr Material zur Verwendung kommt, als unbedingt nötig ist,
um den Formen keine unnötige Schwere zu geben.
[Illustration: SCHLAF Z.
Offizierswohnung von Arch. Alois Hollmann.]
Bei Stühlen, die an die Wand gerückt werden, müßten die Hinterbeine
weit ausladen, damit die Lehnen die Wand nicht abschrammen können.
Auch bei dem Tisch sind die Querstangen zur Festigung nicht nötig und
daher nur dort zu dulden, wo ihre Abnutzung nicht stört, wie etwa in
der Bauernstube, wo das Holz gewaschen werden kann und das Aufstellen
der Füße keinen Schaden anrichtet. Die Reise um das Zimmer ließe sich
bequem fortsetzen und von Gegenstand zu Gegenstand der Beweis führen,
wie unpraktisch das für die Bedürfnisse der Massen hergestellte
Marktmöbel in jedem besonderen Falle ist. Die Offiziersfrau, die sich
in jedem einzelnen Falle darauf besinnt, was ihrer Wohnung zum Vorteil
gereicht, wird keine Einrichtung haben wie eine Krämersfrau, auch
nicht wie eine Banquiersfrau. Sie wird ein Heim haben, das sich von
allen anderen unterscheidet als die standesgemäße Offizierswohnung.
Und sicherlich wird jeder, der eine solche Wohnung sieht, anerkennen
müssen, daß es eine tapfere und geschmackvolle Dame ist, die den
Mut hat, durchaus zu scheinen, was sie sein soll, nämlich wahrhaft
standesgemäß. Dazu gehört sicherlich eine vornehme Gesinnung und ein
selbstbewußter Charakter, der an all der erborgten und verlogenen
Eleganz, die man heute sieht mit einem Lächeln der Geringschätzung
vorübergeht und tut, was seiner Art gemäß ist.
[Illustration: Offizierswohnung von Arch. Alois Hollmann.]
Die Arbeiterwohnung.
[Illustration: Einfache Wohnung. Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Auf meiner Suche nach einer wahren Volkskunst innerhalb der
ausgestalteten Häuslichkeit stieg ich tiefer hinab zu jenen breiten
Volksschichten, denen nicht um den Schein, sondern um das Sein zu tun
sein muß, um die bloßen Kräfte, die in den Mauern, Bögen, Fenstern,
Pfeilern, wirksam sind, also um den nackten Zweckbegriff, um das rohe
Gerüst praktischer Schränke, Tische und Stühle, denen als einziger
Schmuck die natürlichen Eigenschaften des Materials, die Struktur
des Holzes etc. zugute kommen, zu jenen Volkskreisen also, die nicht
Zeit und Geld haben, ihr Leben mit Schmuck und Tand herauszuputzen,
sondern die auf das Gesunde, Primitive, Einfache losgehen. Dort
dürften Anregungen und die Offenbarung einer wahren Volkskunst zu
erwarten sein. Mit diesem Gedanken kehrte ich beim Kleinbürger ein,
bei jenen besseren Handwerksleuten, die überhaupt Anspruch auf ein
geordnetes Hauswesen erheben. Nichts von dem, was ich erwartete,
habe ich dort gefunden. Alles wollte mehr scheinen, als es wirklich
war, mit einem erborgten Schein über die grinsende Nacktheit und
Armseligkeit der Wohnräume hinwegtäuschen. Bei Leuten war ich, die sich
neu eingerichtet hatten. Kalt und hart standen ein paar Möbelstücke im
Raum; fabriksmäßig schleuderhaft gearbeitete, vom Händler um schweres
Geld gelieferte Betten, Tische und Stühle, in diesem oder jenem »Stil«,
neuestens gibt es auch solche im »Sezessionsstile«. Der Stolz der
Leute hing an ihnen, sie saßen in der Küche, um das einzige schöne
Zimmer zu schonen und lauschten am Abend ängstlich auf das mörderische
Krachen des zerlechzenden Holzes, wobei es ihnen jedesmal wie ein
Dolchstoß durchs Herz fuhr. Die Ärmsten waren gewiß am schlimmsten
daran; sie hatten am teuersten gekauft und konnten an ihrem Heim keine
rechte Freude haben. Da lobe ich mir die ärmste Bauernhütte, wo man
Blumen im Fensterrahmen stehen sieht. Hier offenbart sich wenigstens
die Liebe zur Natur, welche gleichzeitig die Liebe zur Heimat und zum
Heim ist und der eigentliche Anfang aller Kultur und Kunst. Mehr als
aller Trödlerkram ladet ein solcher Raum den Gast zum behaglichen
Verweilen ein, wenngleich seine Geräte, Tisch und Bank nur aus blankem
Holze roh gezimmert wären.
[Illustration: Einfache Wohnung. Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
[Illustration: Einfache Wohnung. Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Ein Begriff beherrscht die Anschauungen aller Klassen, der die Lebens-
und Wohnverhältnisse bis in die tiefsten Schichten der arbeitenden
Bevölkerung herab, vergiftet hat, der Begriff: Luxus. Es ist im Vorigen
wiederholt dargelegt worden: Luxus, als das schlechthin Überflüssige,
und darum eigentlich Schädliche. Das Wort und die Sache, die es
deckt, kam eigentlich dadurch auf, daß eine reiche Lebenshaltung auf
Kreise übertragen wurde, die keine Bedürfnisse in dem angemessenen
Maßstabe besaß, und die sich der übernommenen Dinge nur bedienten, den
Anschein von Vornehmheit und Größe zu erwecken. Die Sache ward Mode,
und wer sich nicht mit kostbaren Dingen umgeben konnte, begnügte sich
mit billigem Kleinkram und den rohen, effekthaschenden Zierraten,
die man sogar an der erbärmlichen Trödelware entdecken kann. Dieser
uneigentliche »Luxus« brachte die gesunde Anschauung, die auf das rein
Zweckliche ausgeht und in deren Erfüllung alle Schönheitsmöglichkeiten
liegen, zum Verfall. Die ganze moderne Bewegung bezweckt letztenendes
die Wiedererweckung jener gesunden Grundsätze. Die große Menge, die
sich zu kalt anstauendem Besuch in unsere Ausstellungen drängt,
verharrt in ihrem Heim gewöhnlich in den kulturwidrigsten Verhältnissen
und verbarrikadiert sich gegen alle Sanierungsversuche mit dem viel
verbreiteten Vorurteil, daß die moderne Einrichtungsfrage sich
lediglich auf die Formel zuspitze, »Thu’ nur Geld in Deinen Beutel!«
Die große Masse, die sich heute noch aus Oekonomie mit dem vom Trödler,
Ratenhändler oder Möbelfabrikanten gelieferten, roh ornamentierten
Plunder begnügt, ist nicht zur Einsicht erzogen, daß die solide,
zeitgemäße Ausgestaltung des Heimwesens durchaus mit keinem Mehraufwand
verbunden sein muß. Der Luxus mag sich dann je nach der Börse und den
persönlichen Ansprüchen richten und kann der Hauptsache nach nur in
der Verwendung von mehr oder weniger kostbarem Material bestehen. Im
Prinzip aber werden alle in den vorigen Kapiteln dargelegten Grundsätze
auch für die Arbeiterwohnung gelten müssen und eine Verschiebung nur in
Bezug auf größere Schlichtheit und beschränktere Wohnungsräumlichkeiten
eintreten können.
[Illustration: Einfache Wohnung. Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Auch die Arbeiterwohnung kann ein Schmuckkästchen sein, was Nettigkeit
und Ordnung betrifft, ein trauter Raum, in dem man gerne verweilt,
der nicht nur bewohnbar, sondern auch wohnlich ist und dem Kneipen
und Tingltanglwesen wirksam entgegenarbeitet. Der Andrang in Kneipen
und Tingltangln, die rohe Duzbrüderschaft lassen unfehlbar auf ein
zerrüttetes Hauswesen schließen. Soll man also die arme volkreiche
Stadt, wo sich die Wohnungen aneinander und übereinander bauen,
zahllos wie die Zellen eines Bienenkorbes, wohnlich finden und das
Gefühl der Heimatlosigkeit verlieren, so muß von dem Innern der Häuser
her, aus den Wohnungen der Eindruck verschwinden, daß fast alle, ob
arm oder reich, Fremdlinge im eigenen Heim geworden sind. Nun bilden
die erfreulichen Bildungsbestrebungen der modernen intelligenten
Arbeiterschaft freilich die sicherste Gewähr dafür, daß sich der
Ausbau einer inneren Kultur langsam vollzieht, der sich denn auch nach
außen hin in höheren Geschmacksanforderungen da und dort geltend macht.
Im Allgemeinen aber sieht es noch ziemlich schlimm aus. Aber auch
dem einfachsten Manne, der von diesen geheimen Triebkräften berührt,
Aufklärung sucht, wie er es in seiner Wohnung anfangen müsse, kann
geholfen werden. Aus den Andeutungen der früheren Kapitel müßte sich
eigentlich alles ableiten lassen, was der kleinen Wohnung des Arbeiters
oder Handwerkers frommt. Die Wände des Zimmers und der Kammer werden
jedenfalls ganz weiß getüncht sein, ein einfaches Fries tragen und
jedes Jahr mit wenig Kosten nachgetüncht werden können. Einfaches,
helles Zeug hängt als Zuggardine, seitlich aufzuziehen, in schlichten
Falten von den Fenstern herab, wo Blumen stehen und dem ganzen Raum
eine freundliche Stimmung geben.
[Illustration: Einfache Wohnung. Arch. Prof. Joseph Hoffmann.]
Die Möbel sind ganz einfach, aus weichem Holz, gut und sorgfältig
gemacht, in geraden Leisten und Brettern zusammengefügt. Reines,
einfaches Tischlererzeugnis -- ohne Künstelei. Die Farbe kann an
solchen Möbeln, wofern sie nur in guten und richtigen Verhältnissen
hergestellt, alle Schönheit hervorbringen. Überhaupt müßte die
Schönheit des Raumes zum Teil in der farbigen Wirkung gesucht werden.
Das weiche Holz läßt sich auf verschiedenartige Weise beizen und man
könnte zu dem Weiß der Wände einen graublauen Holzton oder einen
dunkelblauen oder kirschroten vorteilhaft verwenden, von zahllosen
anderen Abstufungen nicht zu reden. Man vermeide durchaus, irgend
ein Zierrat anbringen zu wollen. Schönheit kommt aus der zweckvollen
Durchbildung, aus der schönen Proportion der Masse und endlich aus der
glücklichen Farbenwirkung. Nur ein paar Haupttöne sollen vorherrschen.
Nebst dem Weiß der Wände irgend ein kräftiger farbenfroher Ton an den
Möbeln, der auch die einfachsten Stücke bedeutsam macht und den Sinnen
näher rückt. Man ahnt für gewöhnlich gar nicht, wie leicht die Sinne
auf die farbige Erscheinung reagieren. Weißlackierte Möbel, wie die
hier abgebildeten, sind das Kennzeichen einer ganz feinen Kultur. Für
billigen und echt künstlerischen Wandschmuck hat der Verlag Teubner und
Voigtländer, Leipzig, in vorzüglicher Weise gesorgt.
In allen Städten sind die Künstler am Werke, auch dem kleinen Mann
zu geben, was des kleinen Mannes ist. Eine wesentliche Aufgabe aller
Jener, die am Ausbau der modernen Kultur betätigt sind, ist es, das
Interesse des Volkes auf die Dinge zu lenken, die sein eigenes Wohl
betreffen und zur Mitarbeit an diesem Kulturgedanken anzuregen. Jeder
kann an der Schönheit der Erde und des Lebens mittun und Kulturarbeit
verrichten. Jeder tut es, der sein eigenes Feld wohlbestellt und bei
seinem Hause, bei seiner Wohnung, seinem Heim anfängt. Im Sinne dieses
Kulturgedankens wolle auch dieses Buch verstanden und als Freund und
Führer benützt werden.
Druckfehler-Berichtigung.
Seite 22 statt: „wie der“ zu lesen: wieder
„ 23 „ „Krimkskrams“ „ „ Krimskrams
„ 25 „ „Artelierstils“ „ „ Atelierstils
„ 28 „ „künstlich“ „ „ künstlerisch
„ 28 „ „die“ „ „ diese
„ 31 „ „trübe“ „ „ liebe
„ 36 „ „Künstlerschulen“ „ „ Kunstschulen
„ 56 „ „Falche“ „ „ Falke
„ 59 „ „Hellmann“ „ „ Hollmann
„ 63 „ „Förderung“ „ „ Forderung
„ 64 „ „Dekorationssteller“ „ „ Dekorationsteller
„ 122 „ „mehr als“ „ „ wie ein
„ 122 „ „durchans“ „ „ durchaus
„ 128 „ „betrachten“ „ „ zu betrachten
„ 129 „ „dem“ „ „ den
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